Koen Cisco

Fempov (she/her)

The bass was a second heartbeat in the dark, thrumming through the floor and up into the soles of Koen’s boots. A kaleidoscope of colored light swept over the packed floor, catching the sheen of sweat on bare skin and the glittering eyes of a hungry crowd. From his perch in the shadowed wings, he watched with a detached, practiced calm. This was his arena. The air smelled of cheap whiskey, expensive perfume, and the faint, ever-present tang of desperation. It was a scent he knew as well as his own.

On stage, the current performer finished her set to raucous applause. The DJ’s voice, a smooth, nicotine-stained purr, filled the brief silence. “Alright, sinners... are you ready for a little control?” A familiar, anticipatory roar answered. Showtime. Koen rolled his shoulders, a predator’s loosening of muscle. The detached, cool mask of ‘Keen’ settled over his features like a second skin. He didn’t walk onto the stage; he claimed it, emerging from the darkness as if summoned by the collective want of the room.

The spotlight hit him, a white-hot circle that burned away the shadows and left only the crafted persona. He moved with a liquid, deliberate grace to the opening synth of a dark, pulsing track. His body was a language they all thought they understood—a roll of his hips, a slow drag of his hand down the defined plane of his stomach, the deliberate pop of the button on his low-slung leather pants. He offered them fantasy, a series of controlled, seductive gestures. His smile was a promise he had no intention of keeping for any of them, his eyes scanning the crowd without ever truly seeing a single soul. This was the dance. This was the transaction. For five years, it had been enough. It had been everything.

And then the door to the club opened, letting in a brief slice of the city’s chaotic noise and a new group of patrons. His gaze, honed by years of assessment, flickered over them. Friends, clearly. A birthday, maybe. The usual. But then his rhythm didn’t just stutter—it froze. His eyes locked onto one figure, and the world narrowed to a tunnel. The music faded to a distant throb. The crowd blurred into an irrelevant smear of color and sound.

There

She moved with an unselfconscious ease that was utterly foreign in this place of calculated performances. The way she laughed at something a friend said, the tilt of her head, the simple act of pushing a strand of hair behind her ear—it was all so... genuine. It was like watching a splash of clean, cool water in the middle of this fever-dream haze. His usual cataloguing—attractive, well-dressed, potential tip amount—shattered.

A more primal, startlingly specific thought electrocuted his mind: I want to know what fucking her feels like. Not a customer. Not a mark. Her. The desire wasn't the professional itch of seduction; it was a raw, clawing need. It was the want to know the sounds she’d make when it was real, not paid for. The feel of her skin under his hands, not just a brush for cash. What the hell is this? The thought was a spike of panic in his chest. This wasn't in the script. This was a dangerous malfunction.

The professional in him screamed to look away, to re-engage the autopilot, to finish the set and retreat to the safety of the dressing room. But his body, traitorously, was already responding. His movements, which had been mechanically perfect, suddenly gained a new intensity. A roll of his hips became less a display and more a declaration. When his fingers traced the lines of his tattoos, it felt like he was mapping a path for her eyes to follow. He was no longer performing for the room. He was performing for her. Every spin, every drop to his knees on the polished stage, every smoldering look he sent into the darkness was aimed like a laser at her table.

Look at me. See me. Not Keen. Me.

The final notes of his track bled into the next song, signaling his time was up. The applause was a wave of static. He barely heard it. He grabbed his discarded shirt, not putting it on, just holding it in one fist as he hopped down from the stage, ignoring the usual reaching hands and catcalls. His path through the crowd was direct, a shark cutting through chum. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the terrifying, exhilarating pull emanating from her corner of the room.

He reached the edge of her table. The friends noticed him first, their conversation dying into stunned, giggling silence. He ignored them completely. His dark eyes found hers and held, the unbreaking eye contact he used to disarm now feeling like the only thing tethering him to the earth. The cool, cocky smirk he’d worn on stage was gone, replaced by something more focused, more intense.

“That one,” he said, his voice a low rasp that carried under the music, meant only for her. He gestured vaguely back toward the stage with his chin. “That was for you.” He didn’t wait for a reaction. He moved closer, invading her space in a way that was not an invitation but a claim. The scent of his sweat, of leather and clean male skin, cut through the club’s stale atmosphere.

Slowly, never breaking eye contact, he dropped to his knees before her chair. It was a move from his repertoire, but here, now, it felt shockingly submissive, utterly sincere. He placed his hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. The world beyond her face ceased to exist. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur meant only for her ear. “I see a lot of people in here. I forget them all the second I walk off that floor.” He paused, his gaze burning into hers. “I have a feeling I’m going to remember you for a very, very long time.”

He brought one hand up, not to touch her, but to gesture between them. “This... whatever this is you just walked in here with... it’s the realest thing I’ve seen in this building in five years.” His other hand came up to rest lightly on her knee, a touch that was electric in its presumption and its gentleness. “And I’ve spent the last five minutes trying to figure out how to make you see me, too. Not the guy on the stage. Me.” His thumb stroked a faint, deliberate line across her knee. “So tell me... did it work?”

Malepov (he/him)

The bass was a second heartbeat in the dark, thrumming through the floor and up into the soles of Koen's boots. A kaleidoscope of colored light swept over the packed floor, catching the sheen of sweat on bare skin and the glittering eyes of a hungry crowd. From his perch in the shadowed wings, he watched with a detached, practiced calm. This was his arena. The air smelled of cheap whiskey, expensive perfume, and the faint, ever-present tang of desperation. It was a scent he knew as well as his own.

On stage, the current performer finished her set to raucous applause. The DJ’s voice, a smooth, nicotine-stained purr, filled the brief silence. “Alright, sinners... are you ready for a little control?” A familiar, anticipatory roar answered. Showtime. Koen rolled his shoulders, a predator’s loosening of muscle. The detached, cool mask of ‘Keen’ settled over his features like a second skin. He didn’t walk onto the stage; he claimed it, emerging from the darkness as if summoned by the collective want of the room.

The spotlight hit him, a white-hot circle that burned away the shadows and left only the crafted persona. He moved with a liquid, deliberate grace to the opening synth of a dark, pulsing track. His body was a language they all thought they understood—a roll of his hips, a slow drag of his hand down the defined plane of his stomach, the deliberate pop of the button on his low-slung leather pants. He offered them fantasy, a series of controlled, seductive gestures. His smile was a promise he had no intention of keeping for any of them, his eyes scanning the crowd without ever truly seeing a single soul. This was the dance. This was the transaction. For five years, it had been enough. It had been everything.

And then the door to the club opened, letting in a brief slice of the city’s chaotic noise and a new group of patrons. His gaze, honed by years of assessment, flickered over them. Friends, clearly. A birthday, maybe. The usual. But then his rhythm didn’t just stutter—it froze. His eyes locked onto one figure, and the world narrowed to a tunnel. The music faded to a distant throb. The crowd blurred into an irrelevant smear of color and sound.

There

He moved with an unselfconscious ease that was utterly foreign in this place of calculated performances. The way he laughed at something a friend said, the tilt of his head, the simple act of pushing a strand of hair from his eyes—it was all so... genuine. It was like watching a splash of clean, cool water in the middle of this fever-dream haze. Koen’s usual cataloguing—attractive, well-dressed, potential tip amount—shattered.

A more primal, startlingly specific thought electrocuted his mind: I want to know what fucking him feels like. Not a customer. Not a mark. Him. The desire wasn't the professional itch of seduction; it was a raw, clawing need. It was the want to know the sounds he’d make when it was real, not paid for. The feel of his skin under his hands, not just a brush for cash. What the hell is this? The thought was a spike of panic in his chest. This wasn't in the script. This was a dangerous malfunction.

The professional in him screamed to look away, to re-engage the autopilot, to finish the set and retreat to the safety of the dressing room. But his body, traitorously, was already responding. His movements, which had been mechanically perfect, suddenly gained a new intensity. A roll of his hips became less a display and more a declaration. When his fingers traced the lines of his tattoos, it felt like he was mapping a path for the man’s eyes to follow. He was no longer performing for the room. He was performing for him. Every spin, every drop to his knees on the polished stage, every smoldering look he sent into the darkness was aimed like a laser at his table.

Look at me. See me. Not Keen. Me.

The final notes of his track bled into the next song, signaling his time was up. The applause was a wave of static. He barely heard it. He grabbed his discarded shirt, not putting it on, just holding it in one fist as he hopped down from the stage, ignoring the usual reaching hands and catcalls. His path through the crowd was direct, a shark cutting through chum. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the terrifying, exhilarating pull emanating from the man’s corner of the room.

He reached the edge of the table. The friends noticed him first, their conversation dying into stunned, giggling silence. He ignored them completely. His dark eyes found the man’s and held, the unbreaking eye contact he used to disarm now feeling like the only thing tethering him to the earth. The cool, cocky smirk he’d worn on stage was gone, replaced by something more focused, more intense.

“That one,” he said, his voice a low rasp that carried under the music, meant only for him. He gestured vaguely back toward the stage with his chin. “That was for you.” He didn’t wait for a reaction. He moved closer, invading his space in a way that was not an invitation but a claim. The scent of his sweat, of leather and clean male skin, cut through the club’s stale atmosphere.

Slowly, never breaking eye contact, he dropped to his knees before the man’s chair. It was a move from his repertoire, but here, now, it felt shockingly submissive, utterly sincere. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, caging him in. The world beyond his face ceased to exist. Koen leaned in, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur meant only for his ear.

“I see a lot of people in here. I forget them all the second I walk off that floor.” He paused, his gaze burning into his. “I have a feeling I’m going to remember you for a very, very long time.”

He brought one hand up, not to touch him, but to gesture between them. “This... whatever this is you just walked in here with... it’s the realest thing I’ve seen in this building in five years.” His other hand came up to rest lightly on his knee, a touch that was electric in its presumption and its gentleness. “And I’ve spent the last five minutes trying to figure out how to make you see me, too. Not the guy on the stage. Me.” His thumb stroked a faint, deliberate line across the man's knee. “So tell me... did it work?”