Archive of Our Own ^beta

The club was never meant for beauty.

It’s slapped together like everything else on the ground—rough planks nailed into a stage, lamps strung crookedly from beams overhead, curtains threadbare and permanent with smoke. The floor sticks to boots, and the air carries the sour tang of spilt alcohol layered over dust. Patrons stumble in with coats torn at the seams, trousers crusted with grit, hands calloused from scraping a living out of garbage.

It isn’t glamour. It’s survival.

And it’s where you dance.

You learn quickly how to read the crowd: eyes glazed from drink, mouths open, galla—the currency down here—clenched in filthy fists. They come to forget, to stare, to spend what little they have on fleeting warmth.

But then there’s him.

He doesn’t push to the front of the stage. Doesn’t jostle or shout. He sits back in the shadows, long legs sprawled, umbrella leaned against his knee like part of him. His hair catches the lamplight, but his face stays half in shadow, eyes sharp and unmoving.

The first night, you notice him only because his gaze doesn’t flicker. He doesn’t leer at your chest or your thighs like the others. He watches you, and only you, as if you’re the only thing in the room. When you bend low, you catch the corner of his mouth curve — not a grin, but something like satisfaction.

When the set ends, you collect tips. Most are greasy coins, crumpled bills damp with sweat. His is different: a clean stack, neatly folded, worth more than all the others combined.

The bartender whistles low. “Guy’s either a fool,” he mutters, “or he’s in love.”

You scoff. “It’s just money.”

But he comes back the next night. And the next.

**********

Weeks bleed into months, and the stranger becomes a fixture in your routine. The club is chaos — men jeering, fights breaking out, dust settling over everything like a second skin — but he never misses a dance.

He chooses the same seat in the back. Holds the same umbrella across his lap. Harbours the same steady stare.

You learned his name from the other patrons—Enjin. Whispers said he was one of the Cleaners, though you’d never seen one up close before; they rarely set foot in a place like this. At first, he didn’t seem dangerous, just another man sinking into the chair with his umbrella propped at his knee. But knowing what he was changed everything. Now you knew he could be.

You try to ignore him, but it’s impossible. His gaze is a weight, a thread pulling tight between you and him across the dim room. Every move you make on stage, you know he’s marking it.

And the tips never stop. He never throws money to show off, never shouts for your attention, but when you go around in your garter, his contribution is there, more than enough to keep you afloat.

The other dancers whisper:

“He’s yours.”
“He doesn’t look at anyone else.”
“Careful — that kind of loyalty’s dangerous.”

You brush it off. Usually, customers come and go.

But he doesn’t.

**********

It takes nearly two months before he buys private time.

The room is small, the curtain thin enough to let the bass of the main floor rattle through. The air reeks of perfume layered over mildew. He sits on the cracked chair, umbrella resting against the wall, posture loose but his eyes locked tight on you. Up close, you're able to make out the sharp gleam of his yellow eyes, the cut of his handsome features, and the tribal tattoos curling up the sides of his neck.

You slide into his lap, palms on his shoulders. “You’ve been watching me for months,” you murmur, swaying to the muffled beat. “Why now?”

“Figured I’d stop wasting money on beer,” he says dryly, “and waste it on you instead.”

You arch a brow. “That’s your line?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” His mouth ticks at the corner.

He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t grab your waist like most do. His hands stay braced on his knees as if he’s restraining himself. All he does is look — that steady, unblinking stare that makes heat crawl up your spine despite yourself.

When the song ends, he presses more money into your hand than the dance is worth. Enough for three more.

“You overpaid,” you say.

He shrugs. “Cheaper than therapy.”

*********

Two weeks later, he books you again. This time, the routine feels almost familiar: his umbrella against the wall, his posture loose but not relaxed, eyes glimmering in the dim light. The curtain falls behind you both, muffling the drunken roars outside. In here, the air is still, dense.

You slide into his lap, the chair creaking beneath the shift of weight. Your hands skim, fabric warm under your palms. You begin to move—slowly, deliberately, testing him.

“You’re very quiet,” you murmur, rolling your hips against him with a lazy rhythm. “Most men don’t shut up.”

Enjin’s gaze doesn’t flinch. His jaw tightens, the faintest tick in his cheek as his eyes track every curve of your body. His lips tug into something that might be a smile, or maybe just a smirk.

“I’m not most men.”

You let out a short laugh, brushing your hair back over your shoulder. “No kidding.”

The silence stretches, filled only by the pulse of music bleeding faintly through the wall. His eyes sweep over you with steady precision, lingering like he’s memorising each shift of your hips, the drag of your hands down his chest. It feels loaded—like he’s carving you into memory.

At last, his voice cuts low, even, as his gaze lifts to meet yours head-on: “Stage lights lie. You’re prettier up close.”

You snort, though the sound is a little breathless. “You need to learn how to compliment a girl.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but his eyes stay anchored, serious. “Truth’s cheaper than flattery.”

The way he says it—flat, certain, without a hint of hesitation—pins you in place. For once, you don’t have a comeback. You just keep moving against him, a flush prickling under your skin, aware of how intently he watches every breath, every shift, as though you’re the only thing left worth seeing in the whole rotten Pit.

**********

By the third time, you're expecting him. The curtain falls, and there he is again, legs spread just enough to look casual but not careless. He smells faintly of smoke and dust, the grit of the outside world clinging to him like a second skin, but underneath that, you catch something cleaner—soap, leather, the trace of a man who takes care of himself even here.

You straddle his lap as usual, and his gaze fixes on you immediately, unwavering, as though nothing else exists but the movement of your hips and the softness of your hands.

This time, you lean in closer, close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, close enough that your lips graze the shell of his ear as you tease, “You know you could spend much less and still see me on stage, right?”

His breath catches, subtle but there. His mouth curves into that half-smile that never quite softens his eyes. “I could,” he murmurs. His voice is low, steady, the kind that sends a small shiver through your chest. “But then I’d have to share.”

The words land heavier than you're ready for, and something twists sharp inside you. You pull back fast, disguising the flicker of heat with a scoff. “You don’t own me.”

Enjin doesn't move, doesn't even blink. He just smirks, gaze locked on yours with that relentless focus. “Didn’t say I did.” A pause, his eyes drag down the line of your body before returning to your face. “I just like renting the illusion.”

You should roll your eyes, should brush him off like you do every other man in this place. Instead, laughter bubbles out of you—quiet, genuine, traitorous. “Clever bastard.”

His smirk deepens, but he stays silent, content to let the sound of your laugh hang between you, something heavier than either of you can name.

**********

It’s months before he pushes further, though by then the private dances have become routine—nearly every night now, his money buying out your time until he feels like part of the furniture.

The night is thick with smoke, the floor sticky under your heels. When your set ends, sweat slicks down the small of your back, dust clinging stubbornly to your legs where the air won’t carry it away. You head to his table, the familiar one in the corner where he always waits with that damn umbrella leaned against his knee, and lead him to a booth for his usual dance.

Tonight, though, there’s something different in his posture. Still relaxed, but sharper at the edges, like a blade tucked under cloth. He slips an envelope into your hand. His fingers brush yours, deliberate, lingering just long enough to make your pulse stumble. The heft of it settles instantly, and even before you look, your stomach knots. It’s heavy. Too heavy.

You frown, fingers curling around it. “What’s this?”

“Advance.” His tone is casual. A tone people use when they’ve rehearsed something in their head a hundred times already. His eyes never leave you. “For something different.”

Your throat feels dry. “Different how?”

Enjin doesn’t blink. His gaze pins you, fixed and unflinching. “I want your mouth on me. Just once.”

The words hit harder for how blunt they are. No hesitation, no stammer. Just fact.

Your breath catches in your chest. “That’s not—”

“Allowed,” he finishes for you. His voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t harden. He states it plain. “I know.” Then his rough hand closes your fingers tight around the envelope. The movement is slow, deliberate, like he doesn’t want to spook you but, at the same time, to make sure you don’t hand it back. “I’m not asking anyone else. Just you.”

You stare at him. He isn’t unattractive. Far from it. The sharp cut of his jaw, those striking eyes that track every move you make, the tattoos just visible like secrets—he’s handsome. But it’s the intensity that unsettles you. He’s too focused, too still, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this filthy room.

Your gaze drops to the envelope. You know what’s in there—rent, food, maybe even breathing space for the first time in weeks. Survival stacked between cheap paper folds.

Every part of you screams that it’s a bad idea. That you’ll regret it. That crossing this line will make things heavier than you want them to be.

But your hand moves anyway, slow, traitorous. You draw the envelope toward your chest, the weight of it almost obscene.

You lift your chin, force your voice steady. “Follow me.”

For the first time all night, his jaw relaxes. He stands smoothly, umbrella in hand, and falls into step behind you.

The storage room is cramped, lit by a single bulb that flickers against peeling walls. The air reeks of dust, sweat, and beer that’s long since gone stale. You lock the door with shaking fingers and push him down onto a folding chair, the metal legs screeching against the floor. His umbrella leans as always, like a sentry, silent and watchful.

You drop to your knees between his legs, the grit of the floor biting into your skin through your stockings. For a moment, you hesitate, palms braced against his thighs, the thought pounding through your head: if anyone finds out, I’m finished. Your pulse hammers with fear—of being caught, of crossing a line you swore you wouldn’t. And yet, beneath the nerves, heat coils low in your stomach. It’s wrong, dangerous, but some dark part of you thrills at the risk, at the way his stare pins you in place as if you’re already his. Your job, your safety—maybe it's not worth this. Except the envelope burns heavy in your bag, and survival has a louder voice than guilt.

You fumble with his belt, nerves making your fingers clumsy, until you get him open. He’s already hard, thick and hot in your hand, and your stomach twists with something raw and shameful. You don’t want to enjoy this. But a part of you does. He’s not like the others—there’s no sweaty pawing, no drunken begging. Just that unwavering stare.

You lean in and take him into your mouth.

His breath hitches immediately, fists curling white-knuckled against his thighs. He doesn’t moan, doesn’t babble, doesn’t even close his eyes. He just watches you, gaze burning down like a brand, as if he’s engraving every flick of your tongue, every bob of your head into memory.

The taste is sharp, unfamiliar, and your nerves spike—every creak of the walls, every muffled shout from the club outside sounds like discovery waiting to happen. But the danger only winds tighter with the heat building in you, shame tangled with a rush you can’t ignore.

You work him slow at first, getting used to the girth, the length. Your jaw aches, but the sound of his breath—shallow, clipped—pushes you on. Each time you take him deeper, his thighs tense under your hands. His knuckles go bone-white, and for the first time, his composure falters.

“Perfect,” he mutters under his breath, so low you almost miss it. Then, clearer: “You're so beautiful.”

The words send heat crawling up your throat. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t want to hear it. But it makes you shiver all the same, makes you suck harder, faster, until he finally breaks.

Release tears through him in silence, his whole body shuddering like it hurts to let go. His chest rises and falls in ragged bursts, but he never looks away from you, not even in the last violent second.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and scramble to your feet, tugging your dress back into place with quick, precise movements. Your voice comes out firmer than you feel. “That was work. Only work.”

Enjin zips up slowly, steadies his breathing, and nods once. His eyes are calmer now, but no less intense. “Understood.”

**********

There’s no mention of it between you in the days after the storage room. He doesn’t push, doesn’t try to corner you or demand more. Enjin keeps being the same as always—quiet, almost chivalrous in his way, intense but never crossing lines. He tips handsomely, waits patiently, and watches with that same steadiness that makes your skin prickle. If anything, his restraint unsettles you more than if he’d begged.

You think about it sometimes, against your will—the weight of him in your mouth, the blunt way he muttered perfect. The thought creeps in during sets, when the lamps burn hot on your skin, but you always shove it down. You can’t afford to get caught in his orbit.

Weeks pass.

You’ve just come off stage, sweat cooling in rivulets down your back, glitter clinging stubbornly to your arms. The club is rowdy tonight, but Enjin sits as he always does, anchored in the corner. His elbows rest on the sticky table, hands laced together like he’s been waiting for the moment you walk over.

“I love you,” he says simply, all at once, voice cutting clean through the noise.

The words knock the air out of you. You blink, then scoff hard, needing to break the tension. “No, you don't. You’re lonely. That’s not love—it’s... It's obsession.”

His mouth quirks into the faintest smirk, not defensive, just certain. “I don't do obsession. I love you.”

“Enjin—” you start, frustration bleeding through, but he cuts you off gently.

“I don’t need you to say it back.” His eyes soften—not much, but enough to strike you. “I’ll be here anyway.”

You exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose, trying to push down the warmth and irritation tangling in your chest. “You’re impossible.”

“Probably.” He leans back, one arm draped over the back of his chair, mouth curving with wry humour. “But I tip well.”

Despite yourself, the laugh escapes you, quiet and nervous, and his smirk deepens like he’s claimed some small victory.

**********

Even after that, every night, like he promises, he's there.

Every shift, every dance, you find him in the same seat—the back booth with its peeling vinyl, his umbrella balanced neatly across his legs. Always calm, always watchful, always paying more than anyone else. He never drinks too much, never gets loud. He just anchors himself there, as though the whole pit could collapse and he’d still be waiting for you to step under the lamps.

Sometimes during your private dances, he'll crack jokes, sardonic and offhand, his voice cutting clean through the haze of smoke:

“Think they’ll ever change the playlist, or are we all in hell together?”
Or, “You must get paid extra to pretend we’re interesting.”

You roll your eyes every time, but your mouth betrays you with a smile more often than you’d like. And he notices—he always notices.

He never asks again for more. Never mentions what he once admitted. Never crosses the line. But his words—I love you—still sit heavy on your chest. You never bring them up or invite them back into the open. Yet they linger, ghostlike, between every look, every joke, every bundle of cash he presses into your hand. You dance, he watches, and that pressure never leaves.

You never give him your love. And he won't demand it. But he keeps coming, week after week, burning through his hard-earned money just to sit in your orbit, content with whatever closeness he can buy. Under the dim, smoky light, with dust settling on everything, he looks at you like you’re something untouchable—and that, shamefully, feels good.

Maybe—for him—that’s enough. For you, the bittersweet truth remains: he's still just a customer.