I have my admittedly very harsh opinions on double exposure, but one thing I'm happy is coming out of it, is pricefield artists drawing adult pricefield happy and in love in spite of the game
Fine I guess I have to do everything myself. NSFW, gn!reader, you're a dancer
Gwen sat, the round tablecloth's tassels brushing the thighs of her crossed, denim bound legs. On the table, a naked, pretentiously thin candle rattled to the thumps of the performer's feet, vibrating powerfully through the stage and into the ground. It sent sawdust shooting through the empty first row and, most likely, splinters into their bare soles.
She'd already been avoiding breathing too deeply, of course. There's only so much mold the incense and amber could mask. Instead, she lifted her wet glass to her mouth — the cheap whiskey burned on the way down, but at least she wasn't breathing.
"Another drink, ma'am?"
"Huh?" Her head snapped around. "Oh. No. I'd... better stop here for the night."
"Tough day?" The waiter said.
"Something like that."
She turned back towards the stage. A moment later, he spoke again:
"Stunning, aren't they?"
"You think so?"
"Definitely," he said. "I'm no dancer, but that type of elegance? That presence? That's talent if I've ever seen it."
"Hm." She chewed on her lip. "Get me a shot of espresso, will you?"
When she looked back, the dancer was wearing considerably less than before, experience seeping into even the smallest of movements for the one-person crowd. Like hypnosis, their body moved from the core, low and heavy like a tree, anchored and swaying in the wind.
They locked eyes with her, eyes cast in shadow while hers dilated in the candlelight, frozen until they disappeared behind the dusty velvet curtains. Even so, their presence left a haunting imprint, like they had somehow crawled inside her and left a piece inside.
"Your coffee, ma'am."
The waiter put down a small, white cup and a single rose.
"You're a bit young for me, don't you think?" She quipped, taking a bitter sip.
He laughed. "It's not from me."
She raised a brow.
"The dancer. They want to see you in their dressing room."
"And they sent a rose," she said.
The dressing room was about as big as expected, floors covered in pearls, lace, satin, dried flowers, and feathers. A stick of incense burned by the mirrors.
"A little cliché, isn't it?" She chuckled. "A rose."
"And what do you call a woman in a leather jacket leaning on my doorframe?"
"Reversal of gender norms."
You snorted. "Groundbreaking, doc."
She pushed the costumes out of her path, sitting against the seat next to you to watch you rub and pull at your face in your reflection. Her eyes creased with a smile in spite of her exhaustion.
"You're still... beautiful," she said.
"Why are you here, Gwen?"
"Why not?" She moved behind you. "You are."
"Because I work here," you said. "As a hooker."
"Oh, honey. You're not hooking anyone."
She looked around the room. Devoid of life, save for that shrivelled orchid in the corner.
"Fuck off, Gwen." You shrugged her hands off, pulling your robe tighter. "You don't need to tell me that."
"...you don't perform anymore," she said.
"I performed just now."
"If a tree falls in the forest and no one's around to hear it..."
You scoffed. "But you were."
"You know what I mean," she said. "Does anyone even come here anymore?"
You shrugged, silently picking at the dried wildflowers left on your vanity.
"Stripping is stripping. I'll do it anywhere for come cash," you finally said.
"Don't give me that," she snarled. "What happened to you? You used to be so... so fucking passionate. Now you're just..."
"Washed up?" You cracked a smile. It didn't meet your eyes.
It was like you were a husk of yourself. Like your soul had just... abandoned your body.
"It's been hard. No one's been coming since 2011," you said. "I guess no one wants to see an old stripper rattling their flaps onstage."
She narrowed her eyes at you. "Why do you insist on saying things like that?"
"Like what?"
"You used to be so much more confident. All... starry-eyed, rambling about being the next Betty Page, or Liza Minnelli, or some other big star."
"I was twenty," you said.
"So? Liza Minnelli's, what, seventy?"
"Eighty," you corrected. "But I'm not her."
"You don't know that. You haven't even tried since the—"
"Don't," you said. "I know you're just trying to make me feel better, but I'm fine. Really."
"Are you?"
You sighed. "Yes, I am. Just... happy as a fucking clam at high tide."
You poured yourself a glass of wine, sipping it with the aftertaste of vodka that had yet to dry in the bottom of your glass.
"Are you upset?" She asked, leaning in closer to see your face in the dark. "Because I came?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
"You are," she pressed.
"I'm not," you argued back. "I could never be upset with you. Not for a second. I just..."
You shook your head, downing the rest of your wine. Seeing her face after so long made your chest ache with emotion.
"Fuck. I should've come to see you sooner." She felt like an idiot. "I'm sorry."
And then you were in her arms, just like old times. She could smell the intimately powdery jasmine of your perfume, the very same one you wore out of that stupidly tiny bottle you found ten years ago in a thrift shop.
She could remember the exact yellow of the aging label from all the times she watched you put it on, barely having time to close the clear lid before her nose was buried in your neck.
"Fuck, Gwen..." you laughed through tears. "I missed you so goddamn much."
"Yeah?" She smiled back. "Why don't you show me how much?"
And you did. Deeply, full of love you didn't even know you had inside you.
Her hands didn't leave your waist, holding you rigidly as if she feared your absence. With her hips flush against yours, it felt like you were melting into her, flesh straining through fabric to meet.
"Wait," you mumbled against her lips, insistently dragging along your jawline as you turned your head.
You reached for the drawer behind you, only to find it empty. Damn.
"Looking for something?" She asked. Her lips had now settled on your neck, sucking dark bruises into the tender skin.
"Protection. I think I tossed them last week because they were expired," you groaned. "Fuck me."
"I'm trying," she joked, sitting up and reaching into her pocket before tossing away her jacket. "Give me a sec."
Flicking through her wallet, she found what she was looking for in a matter of seconds, tearing the packet open twixt her teeth. Romantic.
"You always carry those around?"
"You never know."
You laughed breathlessly when she picked you up and gasped when she parted your thighs, pressing brick-toned kisses into the tender skin, the very same she left ten years ago when she used your lips to blot her new lipstick that you had picked out.
Props and bottles clattered on the ground around the two of you as you braced yourself against the vanity. She could see her body looming over yours in the mirror and your robe draped loosely between you.
"You're so fucking perfect," she muttered, eye following the curve of your neck to your shoulder, down with the silken hem, and stopping at the knot at your navel.
By the time you thought up a response, your lips were busy, expelling soft puffs of breath as her fingers toyed with your insides. At some point, her fingers became her, and your brain felt like pure silence, sparking alive with pleasure every time you connected.
She looked so goddamn gorgeous in the vanity's lights. With one hand on your hip to keep you steady, she used the other to unbutton her blouse, tossing her dark hair back to uncover smooth, tan skin. With your eyes, you traced the sweatdrops up her sternum and clavicles. How fucking sweet the angle of her jaw would taste on your teeth...
"Hey. My eyes are up here," she said, grinning down at you.
Fuck, her smile.
"Not what I'm looking for."
Her eyes twinkled with mirth as she pushed back her hair, sweatsoaked at the hairline. Then, she unbuttoned the rest of her shirt, tossing it in a heap with her bra.
"Better?" She said.
"Much," you responded.
She turned you over and bent you over to face the mirror. Your eyes burned a little at the sight. Mostly because of the lights, but also at the pure, unbridled joy in your lipstick-covered face; sweaty, panting, and so in love.
In that moment, ecstasy washed over you like summer rain, rolling through your body in waves and pulses starting at your core and travelling out. She must have felt them too, cursing like a sailor as she rode out the feeling.
"Tempest Storm," you panted, smiling brightly at her.
"Hm?"
"I'm gonna be the next Tempest Storm."
She chuckled, kissing your temple. "Yeah, you are."
