Chapter Two-Hundred Twenty-Nine: Darker Desires

Chapter 229

Darker Desires

Tristan stepped into Percy’s manor that afternoon. He wore a double-breasted Italian-cut suit, a light purple pressed shirt, a dark purple tie, and black wingtip Oxfords. He noticed the place was in a chaotic disarray.

Tristan: “Percy?”

He called his name as he looked around.

Percy came downstairs and tied the sash around his robe. He looked disheveled and worn out.

Tristan: “Is this a bad time?”

Percy smiled.

Percy: “For you, my ice prince? It’s never.”

He said softly and pulled out a stool for him. Tristan sat down.

Tristan: “Percy, this isn’t like you. Is everything okay?”

Percy laughed bitterly.

Percy: “How very like you to notice everything… unlike some people.”

He said with a growl. Tristan raised an eyebrow.

He started to make a drink for Tristan. He placed his cocktail shaker before him, filled it with ice, and added one and a half ounces of vanilla vodka, two drops of vanilla extract, one ounce of half-and-half, and two ounces of white chocolate liqueur. He shook it vigorously until it was chilled and frothy. He poured it through a strainer into a cocktail glass and garnished it with a single rose.

Percy: “Code White…”

He said softly.

Tristan: “Thank you.”

He sipped it and hummed.

Percy rested his head on his palms as he gazed at him.

Percy: “You’re always so grateful, Tristan… So kind, gentle, and consistent.”

Tristan quirked an eyebrow.

Tristan: “Consistent?”

Percy nodded.

Percy: “Yes, you don’t flake out or change your tune when things don’t go your way.”

He said bitterly. Tristan surveyed him for a moment and sipped his drink.

Tristan: “Are you speaking of Jaxon?”

Percy smiled sadly. Tristan pursed his lips.

Tristan: “Percy, I don’t mean to intrude…”

Percy took Tristan’s hand and kissed it.

Percy: “Never think that, my ice prince…”

He said softly. Tristan nodded.

Tristan: “Whatever you and Jaxon had seemed one-sided. You were always doing for him, but what has he done for you?”

He asked him. Percy paused.

Percy: “...Was there anything he should do?”

Tristan nodded.

Tristan: “A relationship is about deposits and withdrawals. If you make too many withdrawals and no deposits, you have nothing left in the bank to use an interesting metaphor.”

He explained softly.

Tristan: “Jaxon could have done for you, after everything you did for him, but are you really surprised? He blew his chances with Steel Axe… as well as his relationship with Celeste and Fabien.”

His voice trailed away. Percy smiled and traced his finger over Tristan’s palm. Tristan shivered and laughed, pulling his hand away.

Tristan: “Did Jaxon tell you he wanted to be with me?”

Percy threw his head back and gave a harsh bark of laughter.

Percy: “No. This is the first I heard of it.”

Tristan nodded. He raked his fingers through his hair.

Tristan: “I turned him down. I told him to sort through his feelings for Fabien and Celeste, and we can reevaluate after he does.”

Percy laughed and shook his head. He spread his arms out.

Percy: “Why am I not surprised?”

Tristan: “Your relationship with Jaxon always seemed one-sided. You were always doing for him, and he contributed nothing, except those videos on Fu’s Feet Links, but he didn’t do those willingly.”

He cupped his mouth.

Percy gazed at Tristan.

Percy: “You truly are kind and gentle, my ice prince.”

He sighed.

Percy: “What I wouldn’t give to have you as my partner.”

Tristan nodded.

Tristan: “I am flattered.”

Percy: “But your feelings for Deimos still linger.”

Tristan paused.

Tristan: “They do not.”

He said tersely. Percy smiled at him.

Percy: “I don’t believe that, darling…”

Tristan looked away.

Percy: “Jaxon seems to have taken to Jordi’s little sister. It seems she returns the sentient.”

He tilted his head to gaze at Tristan.

Tristan: “Is that so?”

He drummed his fingers on the counter.

Percy: “Something wrong?”

Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “No, nothing at all.”

He drew a breath.

Percy: “You seem… somewhat relieved.”

Tristan waved his hand.

Tristan: “You’re reading too much into this.”

He said firmly. Percy smiled.

Percy: “Am I reading too much into that Deimos doesn’t deserve you?”

Tristan sighed.

Tristan: “So I’m told.”

Percy: “You know my door is open if you want to rule this kingdom together.”

He kissed Tristan’s hand. Tristan smiled.

Tristan: “I will bear that in mind.”

Percy leaned over and kissed his cheek. His stubble tickled Tristan’s neck.

Tristan: “AahahahahahaAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

He laughed. Percy gazed lovingly at him, wishing he could have him, but enjoyed his company, nonetheless.

~

Tristan, Celeste, Deimos, and Fabien were in Lazaros’ backyard. Celeste wore a black studded bustier, a leather skirt with chains draped across her waist, a spiked collar, black nylons, and black ankle strap boots. Deimos wore a Helloween tank top, torn jeans, and cowboy boots. Fabien wore a white Western shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. Monica laid out the colored plastic plates on the buffet table and dished up the food Lazaros had made. When she finished, she left to return home.

Fabien: “Is this all for the butter fairy?”

Deimos: “No, it’s for us.”

He said dryly, rolling his eyes.

Deimos: “Of course, it is! Lazaros only cooks for me so that I won’t put his head through a fucking wall. Otherwise, you can all go fuck yourselves.”

He huffed.

Tristan: “He said this was a big event.”

Deimos: “What isn’t a big event?”

He asked wryly.

Lazaros stepped out wearing his mother’s bridal gown. It was far too big on him, and he looked as if he were wearing clothes made for a fat person. Fabien burst out laughing. Deimos glared at him and felt his ire soar.

Fabien: “What the fuck is this?!”

Celeste scratched her head.

Celeste: “So I guess Madelyn will wear a groom outfit and they’re getting married?”

Tristan laughed awkwardly.

Deimos: “What the fuck is this bullshit?! Why are you wearing Mom’s wedding gown!?”

He rasped.

Lazaros: “I felt like it!”

Fabien snorted.

Fabien: “Sure.”

Lazaros marveled at the variety of food.

Lazaros: “Well, I can’t wait for you guys to watch Madelyn eat this delicious cooking!”

He smiled.

Deimos: “What the fuck were you doing down in the basement last night?!”

He barked.

Lazaros: “Nothing, Deimos! I can’t go back into my childhood home?”

He laughed and shrugged. Deimos narrowed his eyes into dark, sinister slits.

Celeste: “Uh, Laz, if you wanted to wear a bridal gown, why not buy one? Why are you wearing your mom’s?”

She asked. Fabien roared with laughter.

Lazaros: “Less questions about my attire and more questions about how Madelyn will eat all of this!”

He stroked his chin.

Fabien: “Easy! With this!”

He held up a shovel.

Tristan: “In any case, when is Madelyn showing up?”

He smiled.

Fabien: “I don’t feel the ground shaking, unless she’s floating because she’s like a balloon.”

He snorted.

Lazaros: “Aren’t you the comedian, Fabien?”

He laughed.

Lazaros: “She should have been here before you guys and made a grand entrance!”

He nodded.

Deimos: “Madelyn is now the invisible woman, huh?”

He folded his arms across his chest.

Fabien: “You’re not gonna miss that big ass, Deimos.”

Lazaros smiled dumbly.

Lazaros: “He’s not wrong!”

Tristan awkwardly laughed.

Tristan: “It’s getting late, and the food is getting cold.”

Lazaros: “I know you’re getting frantic, Tristan, but you can rub her tummy!”

He nodded. Deimos glared hotly at him. Tristan laughed awkwardly.

Lazaros: “Frantic… Why isn’t she here?”

He knit his eyebrows.

Fabien: “You didn’t make enough food, I guess?”

He shrugged.

Lazaros: “I DID, FABIEN! STOP TELLING LIES!”

He barked at him. Fabien laughed.

Tristan: “Did you call her, Lazaros?”

Lazaros: “WHY ISN’T SHE HERE?! WHY AREN’T YOU ALL DOING ANYTHING?!”

He cried. Fabien laughed loudly.

Lazaros: “WHY ARE YOU ALL HERE?!”

He bawled.

Fabien: “Oh, you invited me on Bungle! You said, ‘You are invided to Madelin and my eating party were you can wash her eat my amazzing cooking! Be their!’ Holy shit, Lazaros, you spell fucking horribly!”

He laughed. Tristan looked away and stumbled over a laugh. You don’t have to correct his spelling for his cookbooks, he thought.

Tristan: “Lazaros, did you invite Madelyn?”

He asked slowly. Lazaros gaped at him and turned to Deimos, Celeste, and Fabien.

Lazaros: “I don’t think I did! I forgot, and it’s your fault, Tristan! Why didn’t you do it?!”

He cried. Tristan drew a long breath. Deimos glared at him.

Deimos: “It’s not his JOB to invite her! It’s YOURS! And why the fuck are you wearing Mom’s wedding gown?!”

He thundered.

Lazaros: “I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO WEAR, DEIMOS!”

Celeste, Fabien, Tristan, and Deimos gaped at him.

Deimos: “The fuck do you mean?! You have a wardrobe of clothes!”

He snapped.

Lazaros: “They’re all dirty and smelly! I have nothing else to wear!”

He bawled. Fabien threw his head back and laughed. Tristan embraced himself and laughed awkwardly.

Celeste: “Uh, Laz? You have a washer and dryer in your house, and if you didn’t, the city has tons of laundromats.”

She scratched her head.

Lazaros: “I CAN’T USE THOSE!”

He cried. Fabien threw his head back and laughed hard.

Tristan: “You could have… taken your clothes to Monica, Lazaros.”

Lazaros: “I didn’t want to get Deimos angry with me!”

He bawled. Deimos glared at him.

Deimos: “Too fuckin’ late for that, huh?!”

He rasped and lunged at him, socking him repeatedly. Fabien slapped his knees as he laughed at the scene unfolding.

~

When Fabien arrived home, he logged onto Bungle and clicked on his server. He saw a notification on it.

Fabien: “Someone mentioned me or used the ‘everyone’ function… and it’s Blair.”

He laughed. He burst out laughing at what he read.

BlairDonati: @Everyone, I’m going to be 100% honest.

This break will be… long, very long. I’m having way too much on my plate even to work on anything. My real life has been eating me up, and I can’t work on art. My time is precious, and I need to lose my virginity before I die… But I want to die because of my current situation… I’m not all well… I can barely smile or laugh. I am 22 years old, and I have never kissed a girl or made love to her. I thought I had that in Ashley, but they used me to be with Lazaros, and now they did the same to him to be with that fat loser, Jordi.

I’m taking a hiatus from Bungle. Mental health comes first, and if I’m at the point of considering killing myself, then it’s time to stop everything and walk back a little.

Hell, even writing this, I feel no one watching will care, but I’m just gonna say it anyway because I need to get it out there. I will be available, but you need to reach out to me first; that's all I ask if you really care.

Also, if you’re a single lady between the ages of 18 and 22, don’t be shy. Must be non-smoking, not into gross fetishes, and loves a kind gentleman who is a child at heart.

Jaxon leaned over his shoulder. He wore a black button-down shirt with two golden dragons on each side, black jeans, and black Chelsea boots.

Jaxon: “Still laughing at his bullshit, huh?”

Fabien turned to him with a sneer.

Fabien: “I don’t recall asking you to come in.”

He hissed.

Jaxon: “I need to talk to you and Celeste.”

Fabien drew a long breath.

~

Fabien and Celeste sat out on Jaxon’s backyard patio with him. Jaxon lit up a cigarette.

Jaxon: “I’ve been wanting to talk to you since last night.”

Fabien rolled his eyes.

Fabien: “I bet. Couldn’t take your eyes off Jordi’s sister, could ya?”

He fielded scathingly. Jaxon drew a long breath.

Jaxon: “I talked to Tristan last night…”

He began.

Jaxon: “About Seashell Cove.”

Celeste turned to him.

He cleared his throat.

Jaxon: “I had feelings for Chelsea.”

Fabien gaped at him. Celeste looked away.

Celeste: “I knew it… I fucking knew it.”

She huffed.

Celeste: “I wish you had told me then instead of wasting my time with your ‘Green Queen’ bullshit!”

She said with hurt in her tone. Jaxon lowered his head.

Fabien: “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Now what?”

Jaxon: “I don’t want Ichiro to do that again!”

Fabien: “Okay?”

He glared at him.

Fabien: “What about how you acted with Jordi’s little sister, Lena?”

He asked sharply. Celeste turned to him.

Celeste: “So you never really wanted a girl like me. It’s okay, Jax. Not many men do. They want one like Ivy and Chelsea. I should have known.”

Jaxon knit his eyebrows.

Jaxon: “That’s not true, babe!”

Celeste: “Don’t call me that, Jax!”

She hissed. Jaxon drew back.

Fabien: “You fucking goddamn flake! You’re as bad as Craig! You flit around with Percy, tell us you did feel something for Chelsea, and are here after you hit on Lena! You fucked your chances with Steel Axe and everything you do! I give Deimos shit, but he always chased Tristan’s ass! That never changed!”

He rasped. Jaxon rolled his eyes.

Jaxon: “What about you?! You sit around smoking weed and trolling a loser!”

He fired back.

Fabien: “Yeah, and I own that… but I meant it when I told Celeste I love her.”

He glowered at him. Celeste looked away.

Fabien: “I dunno, Jiro. Why did I ever think we’d be in a poly relationship when you can’t get your head out of your ass?”

He huffed.

Jaxon: “I don’t want to be in a relationship with YOU! YOU TOOK HER FROM ME!”

He angrily rose to glare hatefully at him. Fabien glared back. Celeste rose to stand before Fabien.

Celeste: “NO! No, he didn’t! You pushed me away! I always liked him, but you insisted we had something and you lied!”

She cried. Jaxon knit his eyebrows.

Jaxon: “That’s not true! I still do, but you’re with HIM!”

He pointed to Fabien. Fabien clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

Fabien: “Oh, fuck me sideways. Here we go again. ‘It’s someone else’s fault that I failed; it’s never mine!’ Christ, you sound like Lazaros.”

He snapped.

Celeste: “YOU developed feelings for Chelsea, Jax! It’s not Fab’s fault! It’s YOURS! You and I are over! We’re done! I don’t want to be in a relationship with you!”

She cried. Jaxon gaped at her and looked away as tears welled in his eyes.

Jaxon: “Okay, Celeste.”

He nodded.

Fabien: “Why are you crying?”

He asked sharply.

Jaxon: “GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

He bawled. Fabien threw his hands up.

Fabien: “Whatever, Jiro! You want to have your cake and eat it, too.”

He rolled his eyes.

Fabien: “I’m done. Enjoy your life, Jiro.”

He angrily rose and stormed away, slamming the patio door.

Jaxon heaved a deep sigh and gazed at Celeste. Celeste looked away, angry with tears in her eyes.

Jaxon: “I’m sorry, babe. I fucked up.”

Celeste: “You did more than that, Jax!”

She snapped. Jaxon drew a long breath.

Celeste: “When you got me, you stopped fighting for me! You got all mopey, and you could have told me sooner, so I wouldn’t have wasted any more time!”

She snapped through hot tears and pounded on the chair. Jaxon sank into his seat.

Jaxon: “I’m sorry, babe.”

Celeste: “I’m sorry I believed you and let you take my virginity!”

She sobbed. Jaxon’s eyelids dipped.

Jaxon: “We could have had it great if it were not for HIM!”

He rasped.

Celeste: “STOP BLAMING FAB!”

She bellowed. Jaxon shrank in his seat.

Celeste: “He was there for me! You weren’t!”

Jaxon furrowed his eyebrows.

Celeste: “He didn’t make you spend all your time with Chelsea, Jax!”

Jaxon hung his head.

Jaxon: “Well, don’t keep him waiting then.”

He folded his arms over his chest.

Celeste: “I’m not. We’re done. Fuck you!”

She toppled over his table, where it shattered upon impact with the ground. She leaped over the fence and landed in front of Fabien’s, entering his house.

Jaxon wiped his eyes and sobbed.

Jaxon: “What’s wrong with me?”

He shook his head and rose from his seat to go back into his house.

He entered the quiet living room and entered his bedroom. He clicked on Fabien’s Bungle server and saw Blair’s message he sent to everyone. He drew a long breath. Am I… sounding like that? He wondered. He rose from his seat and went back to the living room. He picked up the newspaper and thumbed through it. He saw an ad in the newspaper for an adults-only nightclub.

The logo, mounted in gilded relief against the deep, obsidian-textured wall, seemed to pulse with a life of its own in the low, ambient light. At its heart, two bronze-toned male figures stood in a tense, muscular embrace, their silhouettes framed by an ornate, crest-like shield that suggested both strength and forbidden intimacy.

Above them, a flickering flame motif—delicate yet sharp—crowned the ensemble, while a small, regal crown perched delicately atop the entire composition, hinting at a hidden hierarchy of pleasure. Beneath the figures, the words DARKER DESIRES were etched in a sweeping, elegant typeface that bled from burnished gold into the color of dried wine, anchoring the name's weight. Below that, the establishment’s lineage was immortalized in clean, understated lettering: MALE REVUE & LOUNGE followed by: EST. 1941.

It was a design that didn't just mark a location; it whispered of a legacy built on years of secrets and long, shadowed nights.

Beneath the picture of the logo was “Now Hiring Dancers. Must be attractive and captivating.”

Jaxon tapped on the ad, rose from the couch, grabbed his car keys and cellphone, and then dialed a number.

~

Jaxon drove through downtown Pink Top City. His car slowed down to a crawl when he approached the club. The corner building stood as a silent, seductive sentinel against the deepening indigo of the Pink Top City twilight. Clad in midnight-hued stucco and accented with rich, dark woods, it looked less like a venue and more like a whispered secret carved into the cityscape.

The entrance, framed by imposing double doors, was crowned by the club's crest—a gilded emblem that caught the warm, amber glow of the surrounding streetlamps, promising an experience untethered from the mundane.

Neon, in a muted, elegant violet, pulsed softly overhead, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement. A pair of velvet-roped stanchions guarded the threshold, and the soft, bass-heavy thrum of music leaking from within hinted at a world of refined indulgence waiting just beyond, a legacy solidified by the understated, timeless lettering of EST. 1941 etched above the door, as if the club had been quietly claiming this corner of the night for decades.

~

The cavernous room was bathed in neon purple, a landscape of plush shadows and neon highlights. At the center of this artificial midnight sat the stage, twin circular platforms polished to a high sheen, their surfaces waiting like silent altars beneath the watchful gaze of complex overhead lighting rigs.

Framing the scene, a colossal marquee glowed with the stylized cursive script of Darker Desires, casting a stark white glow that cut through the haze. Beyond the stage, the floor was a labyrinth of intimate, velvet-lined booths and low-slung tables, partitioned by decorative gold railings that shimmered under the shifting pulses of the spotlights. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of quiet anticipation, as if the room itself were holding its breath, waiting for the music to swell and the night to finally descend.

The air inside Darker Desires smelled like expensive cologne, floor cleaner, and the heavy, sweet scent of desperation. It was 4:00 PM—the club was dark, the neon lights off, and the floor was sticky with the remnants of last night’s chaos.

Jaxon stood by the edge of the stage. “You’re late,” a voice rasped.

Jaxon turned. An Italian man in a sharp, grey suit—Marco, the club manager—was leaning against the bar, nursing a lukewarm espresso. He didn’t look like he’d slept in days. Marco stood behind the bar like a gargoyle carved from cynicism, his presence anchoring the stagnant, stale air of Darker Desires. He was a man composed of sharp edges and deep shadows, dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit that fit with the precise, suffocating authority of a tailored cage. His face was a map of hard-won experience, etched with deep, permanent creases that rendered his expression permanently unimpressed, as if he had spent decades watching the world fail to meet his expectations.

He didn’t just hold his espresso cup; he wielded it like a shield, the ceramic rim pressed between fingers adorned with heavy, tarnished rings that caught the dim light of the empty club. His dark blue hair was pulled back, slicked into a severe, thinning line that emphasized the hollow, world-weary intensity of his gaze. When he checked the gold watch gleaming on his wrist, the movement was practiced and cold—a constant, rhythmic reminder that in his club, time was not spent, it was sold.

Marco: “Are you Jaxon?”

Jaxon: “Yup, that’s me.”

Marco: “Do you have ID?”

Jaxon reached behind and grabbed his wallet, presenting his driver’s license.

Marco: “Your name is Jiro Tachibana?”

Jaxon nodded.

Jaxon: “Yeah, but I go by Jaxon.”

He rubbed the back of his head.

Marco gestured toward the stage with his chin.

Marco: “Let’s see it. The music’s already cued. Three minutes. If you’re boring, you’re out.”

Jaxon stepped onto the stage. He didn’t wait for Marco to signal. He reached up, tapped the microphone stand to get the tech's attention, and gave a sharp nod.

A heavy, bass-driven track started—a slow, grinding rhythm that filled the cavernous, empty room. Jaxon started to move. He walked the edge of the stage, his gaze locking onto the empty booth where the manager sat.

He started with a smooth, controlled spin. His movements were fluid, deliberate, and entirely lacking in hesitation. As he revolved, he caught the rhythm of the low-tempo bass vibrating through the floorboards. With a sharp exhale, he transitioned into a climb, his legs wrapping tightly around the pole. He moved with a calculated athleticism that turned the act into something more akin to gymnastics than mere performance.

When he reached the apex, he paused, holding the pose for a heartbeat—a display of finesse that finally made Marco uncross his arms.

Jaxon slid down, his back arched against the pole, his eyes locked onto Marco’s. He unsnapped each button on his shirt. With one fluid motion, he brushed it past his shoulders and tossed it aside, the fabric fluttering into the dark abyss of the stage. His chest rose and fell with a rhythmic, controlled exertion.

He circled the pole, his movements hypnotic now, predatory and precise. He reached for the buckle of his belt, his movements teasingly slow, prolonging the tension. The metallic click of the buckle echoed in the silent room. He let the belt drop, and then, with a sharp, synchronized movement, he unbuttoned his trousers.

He kicked the pants away, leaving him in nothing but form-fitting boxer briefs. He slid his boxer briefs past his hips, baring his sculpted member nestled perfectly against his ballsack. He pivoted, one hand anchoring him to the pole as he executed a seamless floor transition, his body undulating in time. He came to a halt on his knees, looking up at Marco, his expression neutral, his breathing steady, waiting for the verdict.

Marco leaned forward. He looked Jaxon up and down, taking in his lean figure.

When the music cut out, the silence that followed was deafening. Jaxon stayed in his final pose for three seconds before dropping his arms, his chest heaving.

He walked back toward the bar. Marco hadn’t moved. The manager squinted at him, setting the espresso cup down on the polished wood with a soft clack.

Marco: “You’ve got the look, and you know how to hold a room.”

He said, his tone flat, pulling a clipboard from under the bar. Marco shoved a thick stack of papers across the bar.

Marco: “Sign these. Your house fee is two hundred a night. You keep your tips, and if I catch you breaking house rules, you're gone before the lights come up. You want in?”

Jaxon looked at the pen, then at the dark, hollowed-out stage that promised him everything he needed to move past Celeste. He reached out and grabbed the pen.

Jaxon: “Yup, I’m in!”

He beamed and signed the papers.

~

The neon sign for Darker Desires buzzed with a low, electric hum, bathing the room in a sultry, purple haze that coordinated the glow surrounding Jaxon. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the rhythmic thrum of a heavy, bass-driven rock track that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

Jaxon moved onto the main stage with a languid, predatory grace. He caught the brass pole, his fingers tightening against the cold metal, and with a single, fluid motion, he swung his body around it. His boots left subtle scuff marks as he pivoted, his voluminous hair catching the strobe lights and turning the red highlights into streaks of fire.

He didn’t just dance; he commanded the space. Every transition was deliberate, a display of lean muscle and confidence. As the beat dropped, he locked his legs around the pole, sliding down in a slow, controlled descent that drew hungry gazes from the shadows of the booths.

When he reached the bottom, he didn’t stop. He turned his back to the crowd, his smirk widening as he reached for the buttons of his paisley shirt. With practiced ease, he unfastened them one by one, letting the fabric slide off his shoulders to pool on the stage, revealing the silver chains that rested against his skin. He caught the fabric and tossed it toward the edge of the stage, his movements sharp and precise.

He spun back toward the center, the pole a steady anchor in his gravity-defying routine. He transitioned into an inversion, his core muscles rippling as he held his body parallel to the floor, perfectly still for a heartbeat. The crowd held its breath. Then, with a sudden drop, he let go, catching himself just inches from the stage floor before pulling himself back up to standing. He unbuckled his belt, the metallic clack punctuating the beat, his gaze locked on the audience, enjoying the weight of every hungry stare. He was the center of their universe, and he knew exactly how to keep them there.

Jaxon stood amidst the dim light, catching his breath, his eyes scanning the club with that same mischievous, self-assured intensity. He hadn’t just put on a show; he had owned the atmosphere, leaving the room hanging on his every movement.

The bass kicked in with a guttural, driving rhythm, but Jaxon’s focus shifted. As he spun slowly, his gaze swept across the darkened room, cutting through the haze of the club. His eyes landed on a fat Chinese man sitting near the edge of the stage, slightly apart from the rowdier patrons.

It was Min, the guy who always followed Fen Huang around. Min was sitting perfectly still, his hands clasped, his gaze fixed on Jaxon with a hesitant, wide-eyed vulnerability that stood out in sharp contrast to the aggressive, cheering crowd.

Something about that shyness triggered a sharp, electric hum of interest in Jaxon. He loved a challenge, and there was something infinitely more rewarding about breaking through a quiet reserve than playing to the shouting masses.

Jaxon slowed his movement, transitioning from the pole with a deliberate, languid ease. He didn't look at the other regulars as he stepped off the stage; he kept his eyes locked firmly on Min, who was nursing a drink. He walked toward the edge of the dais, the stage lights catching his dragon tattoo on his chest.

He didn’t rush. He moved with the confidence of a predator who had already caught his scent. As he reached the front of the stage, Jaxon crouched down, bringing his face level with Min’s. The music felt like a distant background roar compared to the sudden, focused intimacy of the moment.

Jaxon tilted his head, a slow, playful smirk curling the corner of his mouth. He leaned in just close enough that Min would feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Jaxon: “You look like you’re having a hard time focusing.”

He murmured, his voice a smooth, low rasp that barely carried over the music. He reached out, his fingers grazing the edge of the stage near where Min’s hands rested, his eyes dark and daring.

Jaxon: “How about I give you a better view… up close?”

He winked. He stood up, offered a hand to Min, and waited with a cocky, expectant tilt of his head, daring the shy man to let go of his inhibitions.

Min froze, his breath hitching as Jaxon’s hand hovered inches from his own. The neon lights of Darker Desires caught the flush climbing up Min's neck, a stark contrast to the dark, crowded environment. He looked at Jaxon’s extended hand as if it were a live wire—terrifying, yet impossible to look away from.

For a heartbeat, the cacophony of the club seemed to drop away, leaving only the magnetic pull of the performer in front of him. Min’s chubby fingers twitched, his resolve crumbling under the sheer intensity of Jaxon’s gaze. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out, his skin brushing against Jaxon’s soft palm.

Jaxon’s smile widened, a glint of genuine triumph sparking in his eyes. He didn’t just pull Min forward; he guided him with a firm, possessive grace until Min was standing just off the main stage, tucked into a more private, dimly lit corner where the velvet curtains offered a sliver of seclusion.

Jaxon didn’t waste a second. He pressed his back against the curtain, pulling Min into his space until there was no distance left between them. He reached up, his fingers tangling into his own hair to pull it back, exposing the line of his throat as he leaned down, his lips hovering mere millimeters from Min’s ear.

Jaxon: “There.”

He whispered, his voice vibrating through them both.

Jaxon: “Now you don’t have to share me with the rest of them.”

He teased. He began to move, slow and deliberate, the music shifting into a heavier, grinding bass that dictated the pace. Jaxon kept his hands busy—one tracing the line of Min’s chin, the other guiding Min’s hand to his own bare waist.

Every movement was a calculated study in seduction, designed to dismantle Min’s shyness layer by layer until the only thing that mattered in the world was the friction between them and the dark, rhythmic thrum of the club.

Jaxon watched Min’s eyes flutter shut, a soft, shaky exhale escaping his lips, and he felt that familiar surge of power. He knew exactly what he was doing: he was turning a shy spectator into a captive participant, and he had every intention of making sure Min wouldn't be able to look away again for the rest of the night.

The initial, panicked flutter in Min’s chest began to settle, replaced by a heavy, intoxicating heat that seemed to radiate from Jaxon’s very skin. Being this close, the sensory overload was absolute.

Min’s gaze traced the sharp, angular line of Jaxon’s jaw, moving down to the dragon tattoo on his chest. It was overwhelming—the sheer physical presence of a man who looked like he’d been carved out of shadows and neon.

But it was the scent that finally unspooled the last of Min’s defenses. As Jaxon pressed closer, a fragrance washed over him—something sharp and citrusy, grounded by a dark, smoky base of pink pepper and leather. It was sophisticated, dangerous, and entirely consuming. It clung to the air between them, grounding Min even as his pulse thrummed a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Min felt his fingers, previously stiff and trembling, slowly relax. He found himself uncurling his hand, his palm pressing hesitantly, then firmer, against the taut muscle of Jaxon’s stomach. He caught a waft of the refined, heady scent of Jaxon’s cologne.

A low, involuntary sound escaped Min’s throat, a half-gasp that sounded impossibly loud in the small, curtained space.

Jaxon caught the sound, his eyes dark with a mix of hunger and amusement. He felt the shift in Min—the way the shy man’s initial stiffness melted into a desperate, silent surrender. Jaxon dipped his head, his nose brushing against the shell of Min’s ear, intentionally letting his own scent envelop him further.

Jaxon: "Better?"

He breathed, the vibration of his voice buzzing through Min’s chest.

Min didn’t—couldn’t—speak. He only nodded, his eyes wide and unfocused, completely ensnared by the sight of Jaxon’s smirk and the intoxicating atmosphere he’d woven around them. He was no longer just a shy observer; he was drifting, pulled firmly into Jaxon’s orbit, and for the first time in his life, he didn't want to find his way back to shore.

Min: “C-Can we do the VIP room?”

He stammered. Jaxon felt the request land like a spark in dry tinder. He hadn’t expected the shy, wide-eyed man to find his voice, let alone to voice a demand—or at least, a very hopeful plea. The flicker of boldness in Min’s eyes was like a challenge, and Jaxon lived for the moments when the quiet ones decided to break their own rules.

Jaxon’s smirk deepened, shifting from playful to something sharper, hungrier. He didn’t pull away; instead, he leaned into the space, his chest grazing Min’s, his fingers tracing a lazy, searing line down the center of Min’s portly torso.

Jaxon: "The VIP room?"

He echoed, his voice dropping into a low, velvet purr that made the air in the small alcove feel even thicker. He tilted his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against his own shoulders, and looked at Min with an intensity that made the surrounding club noise feel like a thousand miles away.

Jaxon: “You’ve got expensive tastes, but I think you’re worth the upgrade.”

He stepped back just enough to create a tantalizing gap, then immediately reached out to lace his fingers firmly through Min’s. The contrast between Jaxon’s soft hand and Min’s steady grip was electric.

Jaxon: “Stay close…”

He commanded, the authority in his tone softened by an undeniable note of intrigue.

He didn’t wait for another word. Jaxon turned, leading Min away from the stage and through the shadows of the club. He moved with a confident, rhythmic swagger, his arm acting as a barrier, keeping the prying eyes of the other patrons away from the man he was pulling into his orbit. Every step they took, the scent of his cologne seemed to intensify, wrapping around Min like a promise.

As they neared the velvet-roped entrance to the private suites, Jaxon paused, turning back to pin Min with that smoldering, predatory gaze one last time before crossing the threshold.

Jaxon: “Once we're in there, it’s just you and me, and we shut the world out. Are you sure you can handle that?”

His thumb stroked the back of Min’s hand.

Min: “Y-Yes!”

He said breathlessly.