Fic: Breaking It Up - Iron Man
Okay, so yeah. This is possibly an AU. Or not, your choice. It's certainly plausible. It's also a first for me. Um, adult content. This is apparently what comes out when I'm stuck on Sentinel. Check out this pic for visual cues, with added bonus playlist.
eta: sorry, that post is locked.
Breaking It Up
This is how she dances: with her whole body, long hair flying, whipping over her face, sticking to her cheeks, to her forehead, to the sides of her neck.
She's twenty and in a new city every week and everyone who knows her is thousands of miles away. A year ago she swore with more than a little condescension she'd never stalk the runways again, never put herself out there like a brainless automaton; but then her scholarship doesn't cover as much as she hopes and she's faced with taking time off from school to scrounge up tuition and rent. And what other options are there? Coffeehouse barista? Perpetual office temp? So she tamps down on her pride and signs a contract and hops a flight to Europe in time for the fall couture shows.
At first it's as bad as she knew it would be, being prodded and made up like a doll, being seen and never heard. But after a while she finds a certain freedom in it. No decisions to be made, no responsibilities other than showing up and doing as she's told. And then it finally hits her -- no one knows her.
For the first time, no one expects anything from her but a pair of long legs and a vacant smile. She starts playing with it, a little. Starts pushing the boundaries of the person she thought she was. And a month after she arrives the shell she's always worn cracks open and a creature she doesn't recognize in the mirror steps out.
Tonight she's white blonde, her eyes smeared with Kohl and silver glitter. Her lipstick smudged. Sweat pooling in the small of her throat.
All she knows is the beat, the beat, the beat. Her hands lift and glide through the muggy air of the club. When she dances, she is separate, separate, alone, though bodies surround her on all sides. No one touches her, she doesn't touch them, and she likes it that way.
Until she catches the guy staring at her from across the room. Alone, like she is, though she's pretty sure she'd noticed him chatting up a tall Somalian knockout an hour or so ago. He's not dancing. She hasn't seen him here before, and he doesn't look like the dancing type. For one, he's in a suit. And even from a distance she can tell the suit cost more than most of these people will see in a month. She's been in the business long enough to know that much.
It's not off-the-rack, that suit.
Later, in another lifetime, she'll recognize the look in his eyes. She'll be able to read what's underneath the naked desire. Now, though, the desire is all she sees.
This is what she doesn't know: He's Tony Stark. He's been the C.E.O. of a multi-million dollar corporation for five years. He's been the darling of the media since he was four. He's twenty-six and he already has an ulcer. In another four years he'll burn out, and three months after that she'll be his personal assistant, hired on when Obadiah Stane recognizes that the head of Stark Industries, the source of its most cutting-edge technology, is weeks from driving one of his cars into oncoming traffic.
This is what she does know: He wants her.
She ignores him for an hour. He doesn't go away, doesn't move, really, just leans back against the bar and nurses a martini. It should look ridiculous, a man in a suit like that in a place like this, but instead he wears it all with an arrogant kind of familiarity. His tie is just the slightest bit askew, the top button of his shirt pulled free, and it's hard to tell what color any of it is from here, under the swirling lights, but the color isn't really important. It's the attitude. The attitude kind of pisses her off, but somehow the cocky posture doesn't quite match his eyes, the way he looks at her, watches her move.
It's not a new thing, being watched. It's how she pays her bills, when you get right down to it. Just because no one ever touches her doesn't mean she's not selling her body. The male gaze, yeah, it's putting her through school, and she's smart enough to know that's what it is, even if it will be another year before she reads any feminist theory.
They look, but they don't touch, and she's getting kind of tired of that.
So she decides she's thirsty. Decides he's going to earn his stare. She pushes through the crowd, through the bodies pressing in on every side, and when she makes it to the bar he's still got his eyes on her. He's younger than she'd thought, with an unlined face that doesn't match the suit at all. He's in black: black shirt, black pinstriped suit with some kind of detailing on the lapel. Pale gold brocade tie. Dark hair, curling behind his ears, falling messily over his forehead. Dark eyes, black in this light. Scruff like he hasn't bothered to shave in a day or two.
He should look out of place, but he seems more comfortable here than she does. And that annoys her, too.
When she reaches the bar she has to lean in close to his ear, the music is so loud. Syncopated, like her heartbeat. Her shoulder presses into his. "Whatever you're having," she says, "I want one."
He turns his head before she can pull away. His lips brush her cheek, his breath hot against her neck. "I'm having you."
"Not yet, you're not," she says.
"Hmm." He turns around and signals the bartender.
In the end she takes two sips of her drink, barely tasting it, before she sets it back on the bar and takes off for the exit. She doesn't look back to see if he's following.
They make it as far as the men's bathroom. The music fades to a dull thumping but they don't talk. She backs him up against the wall and palms him through his pants. Fine wool against her hand, and he's hard underneath.
This isn't something she does, but here she is doing it. His hands tangling through her hair, he lifts his chin and peers at her down the bridge of his nose. Studies her. Like she's a foregone conclusion. So she gives him a squeeze and he tugs on her hair and then one of his hands slides down to grasp at the small of her back. Pulls her closer so that she can't get a grip. Grinds his hips into hers, her hand trapped between them. The hand in her hair twists at the nape of her neck and pulls her forward.
He's not smiling. She hasn't seen him smile once, not even at the gorgeous Somalian girl at the bar. She isn't smiling either. Because this isn't something she does -- fuck a stranger in the bathroom of a shitty German club. She wants to, though. Yes, she does. In no time at all she'll be back at Bard, back to being just Virginia, and there won't be time for anything like this. Not that she'd do anything like this back home. No.
He hums in the back of his throat when their mouths meet. It's sloppy and languid and he licks at the corner of her mouth so she ducks her head and runs her tongue over the spot where his jaw curves up to meet his ear. He bucks against her, pulls at her hair, so she bites his neck and gets his pants undone while he's distracted.
And then she loses track of everything for a moment because his free hand has rucked up her short silver skirt and before she can retaliate he presses his fingers past her thong and sweeps them over her, curling just them slightly inward, and his mouth locks onto hers and he swallows down her gasp of surprise.
She runs her hands up under his shirt, traces his ribs with her nails. His head falls back and he lets out a kind of choked moan so she does it again, digs in a little this time. His hand begins to move between her thighs, works up a little friction, just enough to make her press into him, take him deeper. He's still watching her, eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth half open. So she kisses him, hard, her teeth plucking at his lower lip.
The hand in her hair loosens, finds another grip. He keeps trying to take control. Most of her wants to let him. The part of her that still resents the fact that she had to take a year off to pose in clothes she'll never be able to afford in order to make enough money to supplement her scholarship, to pay rent on her crappy one room studio -- that part is a little angry. Because this guy? If his suit is any indication, he's never had to work for anything. She bets it all falls into his lap, like she did tonight.
She yanks at his tie until it's hanging around his neck in a loose loop. Finds the pulse point on his throat with her lips and tongue. Grazes his skin with her teeth until his breath catches. He even smells expensive -- no Old Spice here. She can't help it, she giggles against his collar bone and she can feel him tilting his head, trying to see her face. His hand, the one not in her hair, slips away, trailing wetness over her thigh. Curves around her ass. Bastard.
This is what she doesn't think about: What her mother would think. The tiny hotel room the agency has put her up in for the week, without even a private bathroom. Her milk-crate bookshelves back home. The minimum-wage campus job she'll have to take when she gets back, because modeling hasn't quite paid as much as she'd hoped. The fact that if she'd only settled for a state school she might not be in this situation at all.
This guy, he's never had to think of any of these things.
The fingers in her hair tug a little, and the slight pain brings her back to the matter at hand, so to speak. She steps back to give herself enough room to reach for him again through his open pants. Pulls him free and he's hot in her hand.
"Wait," he rasps.
"No," she says.
He pulls her hair so that she has to look up at him. "I don't have anything."
"What do you--"
"A condom," he says. "I wasn't expecting--"
She searches the bathroom, but apparently condom vending machines are an American thing, or this club is behind the times.
"You sure acted like you were expecting something," she says, giving him a squeeze.
"Jesus," he says, his voice gone thin. "Look, I just stopped in for a drink."
She tilts her head. "You stopped in for a drink. Here." This isn't exactly your friendly neighborhood pub.
"I like the noise," he says. Noise, not music. It's a weird thing to say. "It drowns out my brain, you know?"
Yeah, she does. It's why she's here. She dances and in the mornings she's tired enough that she can do what she's told without thinking too hard about it. But she didn't want to know anything about the guy. Didn't want to have anything in common with him, that's for sure. And now she can't even fuck him. It must be all over her face, because he gives her a funny half-smile.
"Come back to my suite," he offers. The hand on her ass shifts, pulling her against him.
"No," she says. Leaving would require thinking about this, acknowledging that she's doing it. That's not what she wants.
"Let me make it up to you, then," he says.
And he does.
Before she can answer one way or the other he herds her until her back meets the wall, the chill from the concrete bleeding through her thin camisole, and then he's on his knees on the bathroom floor in his tailored suit, pinning her in place with his hands on her hips and the weight of his body against her thighs. He's taken control again but this time she lets him. Yeah, she lets him. He runs one hand up her inner thigh, just petting her for a long moment until she squirms impatiently and he laughs against her, hiking her skirt up, crowding her into the wall. And when some strung out club kid comes stumbling through the door and takes a piss in the urinal not three feet away she hardly notices, because there's a thumb holding her thong out of the way and he's got his mouth on her, his tongue sliding through her, wet on wet, and oh this guy has had some practice.
Oh. She's pretty sure she's the one making those noises, the little edged pants, because his mouth is a little busy right now. His fingers join his tongue, one and then two, pushing up inside her, kneading her until all that's holding her up is the wall and the hand that's moved to press against the plane of her belly just below her ribs, skin on skin. His cheek rasps her inner thigh as he strokes her inside and out, then there's a brush of hard teeth and her hips move to meet him, her heart pounding in time with the flick of his tongue.
And now she's got her hands in his hair, ghosting over the back of his neck, and his fingers are rough and calloused - she hadn't noticed that, not until now, and it doesn't make any kind of sense to her, doesn't fit with anything else about him, but it's not like she has the focus to think about it, not when his breath is hot and damp on the inside of her thighs. He does that humming thing again, and this time she can feel it all the way through to her core.
Most guys... yeah, most guys don't know how to do this. Not the guys she's used to, anyway.
She gets a grip on his hair again but lets him do whatever he wants. Her fingers tighten in time with his movements, and like she's given him a signal he speeds up and his tongue presses into her and he's sucking just a little at her clit and his fingers are curling inside of her, pressing rhythmically at a spot that makes her vision white out and the back of her head hits the wall, hard. She can feel herself clenching around his fingers as his free hand slides down and around to squeeze her ass and she can't breath and she's jerking back like she wants to get away from him but that's the last thing she wants and then her knees are buckling so he holds her up as she curls over him, bracing herself on his shoulders, shuddering.
When she can breath again, she can hear him panting, too. He plants a sloppy kiss on her belly, right above the waistband of her skirt. Then he stands up, dragging her with him, steadying her with one hand damp on her hip and the other back in her hair. Shoves her into the wall, thigh to thigh, and kisses her mouth, urgent now, all his languid ease gone. Comes in her hand with a low voiced, wordless sound, with barely a touch, his eyes closed and his mouth open against hers.
"That hardly seems fair," she manages. Her heart is still fluttering in her chest and she'd probably slide to the floor if he wasn't still pressed up against her. His forehead drops to her shoulder and he laughs into her neck.
"I'm not complaining," he says.
When he takes a step back the cool air feels good against her bare belly, her damp thighs. It takes her a moment but she finds her sea-legs and pushes off from the wall. He gets her a wad of paper towel, helps her clean up a little. She pulls her skirt down and when she turns back to him he's all tucked up, his tie back to where it had been before, but there's a smear of lipstick on the edge of his jaw. She wipes it away and he gives her a smile.
"Come back with me," he says. "You can return the favor."
"No," she answers. "But thank you."
His lips quirk and she realizes that it was a stupid thing to say, under the circumstances. It doesn't belong to the person she is right now -- it's too much that other person, the one with a full class load and responsibilities and bills to pay.
And now they're in the awkward spot of nothing left to say. She's out the bathroom door first, and she only looks back once she's on the dance floor, surrounded by strangers. He settles back at the bar with a drink and watches her dance, and there's nothing smug about him, not at all like she expects. Instead he still looks hungry, and she can't help but think about taking him up on his offer. But after two songs she almost forgets him, almost forgets herself again, and by the next time she needs a drink he's gone.
She doesn't know it, but he comes back to the club the next night, looking. Spends two hours at the bar, then leaves.
She stays in. Curls up on her bed in her hotel room and gets a head start on her reading, because she's already a semester behind.
Club Kid Pepper is a creation of The Hivemind, and I just borrowed her for my own uses. Special thanks to
quigonejinn and
dafnap for encouragement while I was writing it, and to
besyd for the beta.
eta: sorry, that post is locked.
Breaking It Up
This is how she dances: with her whole body, long hair flying, whipping over her face, sticking to her cheeks, to her forehead, to the sides of her neck.
She's twenty and in a new city every week and everyone who knows her is thousands of miles away. A year ago she swore with more than a little condescension she'd never stalk the runways again, never put herself out there like a brainless automaton; but then her scholarship doesn't cover as much as she hopes and she's faced with taking time off from school to scrounge up tuition and rent. And what other options are there? Coffeehouse barista? Perpetual office temp? So she tamps down on her pride and signs a contract and hops a flight to Europe in time for the fall couture shows.
At first it's as bad as she knew it would be, being prodded and made up like a doll, being seen and never heard. But after a while she finds a certain freedom in it. No decisions to be made, no responsibilities other than showing up and doing as she's told. And then it finally hits her -- no one knows her.
For the first time, no one expects anything from her but a pair of long legs and a vacant smile. She starts playing with it, a little. Starts pushing the boundaries of the person she thought she was. And a month after she arrives the shell she's always worn cracks open and a creature she doesn't recognize in the mirror steps out.
Tonight she's white blonde, her eyes smeared with Kohl and silver glitter. Her lipstick smudged. Sweat pooling in the small of her throat.
All she knows is the beat, the beat, the beat. Her hands lift and glide through the muggy air of the club. When she dances, she is separate, separate, alone, though bodies surround her on all sides. No one touches her, she doesn't touch them, and she likes it that way.
Until she catches the guy staring at her from across the room. Alone, like she is, though she's pretty sure she'd noticed him chatting up a tall Somalian knockout an hour or so ago. He's not dancing. She hasn't seen him here before, and he doesn't look like the dancing type. For one, he's in a suit. And even from a distance she can tell the suit cost more than most of these people will see in a month. She's been in the business long enough to know that much.
It's not off-the-rack, that suit.
Later, in another lifetime, she'll recognize the look in his eyes. She'll be able to read what's underneath the naked desire. Now, though, the desire is all she sees.
This is what she doesn't know: He's Tony Stark. He's been the C.E.O. of a multi-million dollar corporation for five years. He's been the darling of the media since he was four. He's twenty-six and he already has an ulcer. In another four years he'll burn out, and three months after that she'll be his personal assistant, hired on when Obadiah Stane recognizes that the head of Stark Industries, the source of its most cutting-edge technology, is weeks from driving one of his cars into oncoming traffic.
This is what she does know: He wants her.
She ignores him for an hour. He doesn't go away, doesn't move, really, just leans back against the bar and nurses a martini. It should look ridiculous, a man in a suit like that in a place like this, but instead he wears it all with an arrogant kind of familiarity. His tie is just the slightest bit askew, the top button of his shirt pulled free, and it's hard to tell what color any of it is from here, under the swirling lights, but the color isn't really important. It's the attitude. The attitude kind of pisses her off, but somehow the cocky posture doesn't quite match his eyes, the way he looks at her, watches her move.
It's not a new thing, being watched. It's how she pays her bills, when you get right down to it. Just because no one ever touches her doesn't mean she's not selling her body. The male gaze, yeah, it's putting her through school, and she's smart enough to know that's what it is, even if it will be another year before she reads any feminist theory.
They look, but they don't touch, and she's getting kind of tired of that.
So she decides she's thirsty. Decides he's going to earn his stare. She pushes through the crowd, through the bodies pressing in on every side, and when she makes it to the bar he's still got his eyes on her. He's younger than she'd thought, with an unlined face that doesn't match the suit at all. He's in black: black shirt, black pinstriped suit with some kind of detailing on the lapel. Pale gold brocade tie. Dark hair, curling behind his ears, falling messily over his forehead. Dark eyes, black in this light. Scruff like he hasn't bothered to shave in a day or two.
He should look out of place, but he seems more comfortable here than she does. And that annoys her, too.
When she reaches the bar she has to lean in close to his ear, the music is so loud. Syncopated, like her heartbeat. Her shoulder presses into his. "Whatever you're having," she says, "I want one."
He turns his head before she can pull away. His lips brush her cheek, his breath hot against her neck. "I'm having you."
"Not yet, you're not," she says.
"Hmm." He turns around and signals the bartender.
In the end she takes two sips of her drink, barely tasting it, before she sets it back on the bar and takes off for the exit. She doesn't look back to see if he's following.
They make it as far as the men's bathroom. The music fades to a dull thumping but they don't talk. She backs him up against the wall and palms him through his pants. Fine wool against her hand, and he's hard underneath.
This isn't something she does, but here she is doing it. His hands tangling through her hair, he lifts his chin and peers at her down the bridge of his nose. Studies her. Like she's a foregone conclusion. So she gives him a squeeze and he tugs on her hair and then one of his hands slides down to grasp at the small of her back. Pulls her closer so that she can't get a grip. Grinds his hips into hers, her hand trapped between them. The hand in her hair twists at the nape of her neck and pulls her forward.
He's not smiling. She hasn't seen him smile once, not even at the gorgeous Somalian girl at the bar. She isn't smiling either. Because this isn't something she does -- fuck a stranger in the bathroom of a shitty German club. She wants to, though. Yes, she does. In no time at all she'll be back at Bard, back to being just Virginia, and there won't be time for anything like this. Not that she'd do anything like this back home. No.
He hums in the back of his throat when their mouths meet. It's sloppy and languid and he licks at the corner of her mouth so she ducks her head and runs her tongue over the spot where his jaw curves up to meet his ear. He bucks against her, pulls at her hair, so she bites his neck and gets his pants undone while he's distracted.
And then she loses track of everything for a moment because his free hand has rucked up her short silver skirt and before she can retaliate he presses his fingers past her thong and sweeps them over her, curling just them slightly inward, and his mouth locks onto hers and he swallows down her gasp of surprise.
She runs her hands up under his shirt, traces his ribs with her nails. His head falls back and he lets out a kind of choked moan so she does it again, digs in a little this time. His hand begins to move between her thighs, works up a little friction, just enough to make her press into him, take him deeper. He's still watching her, eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth half open. So she kisses him, hard, her teeth plucking at his lower lip.
The hand in her hair loosens, finds another grip. He keeps trying to take control. Most of her wants to let him. The part of her that still resents the fact that she had to take a year off to pose in clothes she'll never be able to afford in order to make enough money to supplement her scholarship, to pay rent on her crappy one room studio -- that part is a little angry. Because this guy? If his suit is any indication, he's never had to work for anything. She bets it all falls into his lap, like she did tonight.
She yanks at his tie until it's hanging around his neck in a loose loop. Finds the pulse point on his throat with her lips and tongue. Grazes his skin with her teeth until his breath catches. He even smells expensive -- no Old Spice here. She can't help it, she giggles against his collar bone and she can feel him tilting his head, trying to see her face. His hand, the one not in her hair, slips away, trailing wetness over her thigh. Curves around her ass. Bastard.
This is what she doesn't think about: What her mother would think. The tiny hotel room the agency has put her up in for the week, without even a private bathroom. Her milk-crate bookshelves back home. The minimum-wage campus job she'll have to take when she gets back, because modeling hasn't quite paid as much as she'd hoped. The fact that if she'd only settled for a state school she might not be in this situation at all.
This guy, he's never had to think of any of these things.
The fingers in her hair tug a little, and the slight pain brings her back to the matter at hand, so to speak. She steps back to give herself enough room to reach for him again through his open pants. Pulls him free and he's hot in her hand.
"Wait," he rasps.
"No," she says.
He pulls her hair so that she has to look up at him. "I don't have anything."
"What do you--"
"A condom," he says. "I wasn't expecting--"
She searches the bathroom, but apparently condom vending machines are an American thing, or this club is behind the times.
"You sure acted like you were expecting something," she says, giving him a squeeze.
"Jesus," he says, his voice gone thin. "Look, I just stopped in for a drink."
She tilts her head. "You stopped in for a drink. Here." This isn't exactly your friendly neighborhood pub.
"I like the noise," he says. Noise, not music. It's a weird thing to say. "It drowns out my brain, you know?"
Yeah, she does. It's why she's here. She dances and in the mornings she's tired enough that she can do what she's told without thinking too hard about it. But she didn't want to know anything about the guy. Didn't want to have anything in common with him, that's for sure. And now she can't even fuck him. It must be all over her face, because he gives her a funny half-smile.
"Come back to my suite," he offers. The hand on her ass shifts, pulling her against him.
"No," she says. Leaving would require thinking about this, acknowledging that she's doing it. That's not what she wants.
"Let me make it up to you, then," he says.
And he does.
Before she can answer one way or the other he herds her until her back meets the wall, the chill from the concrete bleeding through her thin camisole, and then he's on his knees on the bathroom floor in his tailored suit, pinning her in place with his hands on her hips and the weight of his body against her thighs. He's taken control again but this time she lets him. Yeah, she lets him. He runs one hand up her inner thigh, just petting her for a long moment until she squirms impatiently and he laughs against her, hiking her skirt up, crowding her into the wall. And when some strung out club kid comes stumbling through the door and takes a piss in the urinal not three feet away she hardly notices, because there's a thumb holding her thong out of the way and he's got his mouth on her, his tongue sliding through her, wet on wet, and oh this guy has had some practice.
Oh. She's pretty sure she's the one making those noises, the little edged pants, because his mouth is a little busy right now. His fingers join his tongue, one and then two, pushing up inside her, kneading her until all that's holding her up is the wall and the hand that's moved to press against the plane of her belly just below her ribs, skin on skin. His cheek rasps her inner thigh as he strokes her inside and out, then there's a brush of hard teeth and her hips move to meet him, her heart pounding in time with the flick of his tongue.
And now she's got her hands in his hair, ghosting over the back of his neck, and his fingers are rough and calloused - she hadn't noticed that, not until now, and it doesn't make any kind of sense to her, doesn't fit with anything else about him, but it's not like she has the focus to think about it, not when his breath is hot and damp on the inside of her thighs. He does that humming thing again, and this time she can feel it all the way through to her core.
Most guys... yeah, most guys don't know how to do this. Not the guys she's used to, anyway.
She gets a grip on his hair again but lets him do whatever he wants. Her fingers tighten in time with his movements, and like she's given him a signal he speeds up and his tongue presses into her and he's sucking just a little at her clit and his fingers are curling inside of her, pressing rhythmically at a spot that makes her vision white out and the back of her head hits the wall, hard. She can feel herself clenching around his fingers as his free hand slides down and around to squeeze her ass and she can't breath and she's jerking back like she wants to get away from him but that's the last thing she wants and then her knees are buckling so he holds her up as she curls over him, bracing herself on his shoulders, shuddering.
When she can breath again, she can hear him panting, too. He plants a sloppy kiss on her belly, right above the waistband of her skirt. Then he stands up, dragging her with him, steadying her with one hand damp on her hip and the other back in her hair. Shoves her into the wall, thigh to thigh, and kisses her mouth, urgent now, all his languid ease gone. Comes in her hand with a low voiced, wordless sound, with barely a touch, his eyes closed and his mouth open against hers.
"That hardly seems fair," she manages. Her heart is still fluttering in her chest and she'd probably slide to the floor if he wasn't still pressed up against her. His forehead drops to her shoulder and he laughs into her neck.
"I'm not complaining," he says.
When he takes a step back the cool air feels good against her bare belly, her damp thighs. It takes her a moment but she finds her sea-legs and pushes off from the wall. He gets her a wad of paper towel, helps her clean up a little. She pulls her skirt down and when she turns back to him he's all tucked up, his tie back to where it had been before, but there's a smear of lipstick on the edge of his jaw. She wipes it away and he gives her a smile.
"Come back with me," he says. "You can return the favor."
"No," she answers. "But thank you."
His lips quirk and she realizes that it was a stupid thing to say, under the circumstances. It doesn't belong to the person she is right now -- it's too much that other person, the one with a full class load and responsibilities and bills to pay.
And now they're in the awkward spot of nothing left to say. She's out the bathroom door first, and she only looks back once she's on the dance floor, surrounded by strangers. He settles back at the bar with a drink and watches her dance, and there's nothing smug about him, not at all like she expects. Instead he still looks hungry, and she can't help but think about taking him up on his offer. But after two songs she almost forgets him, almost forgets herself again, and by the next time she needs a drink he's gone.
She doesn't know it, but he comes back to the club the next night, looking. Spends two hours at the bar, then leaves.
She stays in. Curls up on her bed in her hotel room and gets a head start on her reading, because she's already a semester behind.
Club Kid Pepper is a creation of The Hivemind, and I just borrowed her for my own uses. Special thanks to
quigonejinn and
dafnap for encouragement while I was writing it, and to
besyd for the beta.