La Tortura

Title: La Tortura
Author: Belah
Pairing: Read it and find out, ‘kay?
Rating: R.
Words: 895
Summary: Nothing from nowhere, I’m no one at all.
Disclaimer: I do not know, own or have any affiliation with the members of AFI. They are merely, a physical base for the characters that I create in my stories and I mean no slanderous or hurtful intentions towards them. This fiction is but that, fiction. It is a mere reflection of images produced by my mind.
Dedication: Syn. My little bitch. *heart*
Note: Forgive me, I don’t have a beta so I suck.


Long sinuous fingers twisted and turned working the muscles of the dancer’s arms in a steady rhythm to the song. Mark Stopholese, a frequent visitor to the Synesthesia, sat immobile as his eyes scanned over the newest employee of the club. A full mane of black curled hair spilled over sculpted shoulders and chest. The dancer’s body was perfection at it’s finest. Each inch of skin was pulled tautly over muscles and bones highlighted by heavy expanses of tattoos. He watched hollowed hips pop and twist in time with the thick Latin beat as the voice of Shakira spilled out and into the crowd, remixed with an underlying techno beat.

The dancer’s body turned and swiveled to reveal their back covered in a thick heavy tattoo of ebony wings. They detail of the art fluxed and flowed with the muscles, giving off an almost lifelike appearance. Mark could have sworn they wings would spread wide at any moment and the dancer would elevate from the stage and drift into the distance. He was entranced by the dancing, the fluid and liquid motions of the dance. He watched in rapt attention as once more thickly lined eyes turned back to face the audience and the dancer dropped those delicate fingers to their hip.

Mark’s breath caught in his throat as the dancer’s stomach rolled and chest rose and fell as if detached from the other muscles of the flesh. He’d been coming to Synesthesia for nearly three years. In all that time he’d never seen a dancer who could move in such a way, nor did he think any other would dare try. None of the other’s had the bodies capable of such lust inspiring elegance with the simple twist of their hips and arms. Now the dancer’s arms were held outwards as their body swayed back and forth to the beat of the music before crumpling forward onto hands and knees slumping forward on the stage as the beat stopped.

Swallowing several times Mark finally found his voice and blinked his eyes into focus. “Ladies and Gentleman, a round of applause for our newest dancer, Havok.” The crowd roared to life as whistles and cat calls ensued.

Joining the applauding crowd, Mark moved to the edge of the stage smiling at the blushing dancer. The two stood gazing into one another’s eyes for a long moment before Havok nodded and stepped to the side, attempting to walk past Mark. The dancer didn’t get far before Mark’s hand tenderly gripped the dancer’s shoulder and he spoke softly. “Could I buy you a drink?” he offered in a low voice, almost shy. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

The dancer nodded with a small smile. “We’re not supposed to…”

“I didn’t mean here,” Mark smiled sweetly, his brown eyes shimmering with mischievousness behind them. “There’s a little restaurant down the street.”

The dancer nodded and left Mark standing there gazing after the body he craved to make his own. He found himself lost in thoughts of himself and the dancer tangled and covered in sweat in the throws of heated passion. He’d been so engrossed in his imagination that he almost did not notice when Havok reappeared dressed in sleek pinstriped pants and a formfitting Blondie shirt. He slowly appraised his companions clothing and smiled approvingly.

He offered the dark-haired dancer his arm before exiting the Gentleman’s club and proceeding down to the restaurant he’d mentioned. He watched as Havok’s eyes glimpsed the interior of the place, drank in the swirls of smoke and the clash of the nineteen-twenty’s swing music.

The waiter seated them in a small, private set table far from the center of the restaurant. Mark ordered Brandy for them, and the pair sat in near silence sipping their drinks, watching the dancers from where they sat. The occasional attempt at conversation was made but quickly failed as one of them would turn flush and look aside. No one was able to hear their words, nor did any patron truly care to eaves drop. Several drinks later, Mark had finally learned the dancer’s birth name but chose to adhere to the name of Havok, finding it far more exotic and enthralling. Havok did not mind in the least, not when Mark led the way out of the restaurant and to his car. Havok did mind in any manner as Mark’s fingers tangled in the dancer’s long silken hair or when their lips met in a passionate kiss. The pretense of the exotic was maintained well into the night as the pair explored one another’s bodies. It was not until Mark’s eyes snapped closed and his lips parted to scream the name, “Davey!” into the night that the false imagery was shattered and reality washed over the pair. Havok, Davey, moaned and arched his spine for his love and came in a hot rush between their bodies.

The pair laid there for sometime, panting and relearning how to breath before disentangling their limbs only to embrace fondly. “I love you, Davey.”

“I love you, too, Marky.” The dancer smiled and kissed his lover’s nose before nestling his cheek to the warm chest under him. “And I’m not dancing on stage anymore; it was a one time only deal.”

Mark chuckled and nodded his head, pulling the other man closer. “I know, but wasn’t it fun?”