im-not-a-pleeb - Tumblr blog

im-not-a-pleeb · 6 hours ago

Text

Scarlet, Starlet (1)

Masterlist

[John Price X bar singer!reader]

He’s retired now, on the wrong side of forty, on a too big homestead, and a big empty bed he’d love to fill. So it’s fate really when he finds you— pretty singer in a downtrodden jazz bar.

Cw: implied stalking,kidnapping

Forced marriage AU?

A motel lounge .

Cecil’s had been past it’s prime for ages now; Smoke stained hand painted wallpapers, teak and oak furniture, cracked leather seats, dated mouldings with chipped paint on the edges, dusty crystal chandeliers that illuminated the bar in low amber light, and thick sapphire velvet curtains—

Antiquated waiters in slouchy tux’s served whisky, bourbon, gin and tonic or maybe a manhattan to patrons— who either were nostalgia laced ; youth spent in the same leather seats, which were now worn, buffed and cracked, or wanderers passing through the once gilded town.

The place has it’s charms, John supposes—one of the only remaining places that doesn’t fuss when he lights up a cigar , serves him his whiskey in old school hand etched crystal glasses, a decent stake, rare.

Though, that is not why he has been driving here, an hour and a half, one way from his homestead for better part of the two months like clockwork.

Every weekend, Friday, Saturday, 10:00 PM to 12:00 AM, regimented, on the dot.

Oh, no. Tucked in the corner of the lounge, propped on a little wooden stage, next to a black lacquer baby grand piano—

it’s you.

He’s familiar with your act now, cherry red lips, cherry red nails wrapped around the mic, little wiggle dresses, lace trimmed skirts, blouses that unveil just the soft line of your clavicle, a touch of cleavage, coy smiles, an arched eyebrow, a hint at something demure, plucked straight from a starlet in the 50’s—

And, you are young, perhaps too young for a place that started falling apart before you were even a blip in the universe.

yet still you stand there, putting on a show—

And, It fucking irks him, a thorn in lodged inside his skull when he see’s your kittenish smile, double entendre jazz tune on your lips, something duplicitous in your expression; girlish, an innocent farse.

Like tonight, the hem of dress grazing just the above your knees, lace trimmed, those same fucking red lips that have been tormenting him , imprinted behind his eyes—

gentlemen, I apologise, but my shoes are killing me, you wouldn’t mind if I take them off, would you —you say, with a coy blink, syrupy sweet before bending down, taking of your kitten heels—the soft arch of your foot, as you balance on your little manicure toes, the curve of your calf jutting out just a little, doused in the amber light—the prettiest thing he has ever seen.

He takes a swig of his whiskey— the heat burning his throat; sugar, wild spice, oak—letting the acridness melt onto his tongue, to wade at least some his appetite for you, cotton candy of a girl, a bloody tease at that.

“you can take anything off darlin”— a slurred voice heckles, the inebriated patrons irrupt in rambunctious cackles—a shriek of a whistle slicing through the smoke tinged stale air of the lounge.

A chant, take off, take off , take off

And he see’s it in your eyes.

The sudden flicker of unease, fawn like stillness, a simpering breath to pace yourself, fill up the crack in your farse, before you give a puckish toothy grin and wrap your manicured fingers back around the mic.

His palms itch, the thorn in his skull lodges deeper—fucking open mouthed vultures, circling you (his fucking bride) like you are a fresh piece of meat, dirty claws all sharp waiting to sink into you, and god what he wouldn’t do to crack their fucking skull open with the heel of his boot this very moment, viscous hot blood on his leather soles leaving a trail behind as he drags you home—

Yet still, you sing for them.

And, For what? The little aluminium tip box stuffed with 5’s and 10’s, that he’s sure you share with your decrepit pianist, half, 50–50. Cannot be more than a few hundred dollars each week.

Is that all you need darling?

He grits his teeth, knuckles blanched white around the glass of whiskey, an itch crawling up his spine, the beast in his belly snarling —

His pretty girl, his his his, don’t you know you don’t have to do this darling, sing for these limp wristed mutts, let daddy take you home, take care of you honey, let him take you to his bed, and sing for him baby—

(Just close your eyes sweetheart when you see the fences getting build taller and taller, a collar getting clipped around your pretty neck, a ring slipped on your finger—just sing baby don’t worry when you can’t find a way out.)

But, he’s a patient man, now , and luckily for you a better man than he used to be—has no particularly concrete plans of scruffing you by the nape of your neck, shoving you in the back and his truck—it’s certainly not why he has been carrying a rope these days (bamboo silk, only the best for you sweetheart).

It’s also not why he watches you slip out of the back door, every time, 12:15 am, sharp. Wrapped in an oversized coat—your little car, all dented up, chipped paint, comically on it’s last leg. The door creaking a pent up scream when you open it, engine groaning low and slow, sputtering little coughs before running, every time it manages to start seems like the last time.

And it’s fate really, that tonight, when the itch under his skin is all consuming, impenetrable— he watches you fuss just a little more with your dump of a car—frantic movements visible from the window, a swing of your arm coinciding with strained sputter of the engine, stopping and re-starting—

It takes three times, before it finally starts, skittering away like an upside down beetle who finally managed to flip over.

He follows you, something he often does—can’t let you go out in the night all alone now can he darling—have some dirty mutt sinking his claws into you while he’s waiting for you to ripen.

It won’t be very difficult��he knows that; pretty little thing, expansive never ending circuitous roads, pine forest on either side, wooded farm lands—

And a fickle dump of a car.

It’s not a question of if it’s a question of when, it breathes it’s last breath and leaves you stranded on the road all alone, for anyone with worse intentions to snatch up—The very thought makes his blood curdle red hot, the ugly snarl of possession reverberating through his chest—no, he can’t let that happen, non-negotiable.

(Fate or slicing the fuel line of your car, semantics really—after all he’s never been the man to submit to fate, and is it really interfering with it when he is just racing to his destiny)

It’s cute, the way you pop open the hood of the car, the little pucker of your red lips, the perplexed look on your face—a pensive squint, eying him blinded by the headlights of his truck.

He timed it right too, arrives a good few minutes after—can’t have you thinking that he followed you here,can he now.

“Hey, you alright there” he calls, arm hooked on the window of his truck, parking his truck leisurely as you eye him.

You look younger, small, wide eyed like a skittish animal, all sweet now that you have shed the little act like second skin—just you bare-bones and all.

“Umm it kinda just stopped—but should work” you look down at the engine, hand braced on the hood, little manicured fingers haphazardly prodding the around the engine, hoping it’ll fix itself—“I think”.

He steps closer, not quite crowding you yet but towering over you, arms crossed, palms tucked under his armpits. “Hmm tough luck—Want me to have a look”—

And, he doesn’t have to really guess what’s going on in that little head of yours when it’s apparent through your eyes—wide eyed, shifty, searching his face for a sign that you should turn around and run away—it’s fear, something he has witnessed plenty.

“It’s okay umm actually I will just call—” you fish out a phone from your coat pocket, breath immediately deflating as the screen lights up—

“No service?” He questions.

(He is anything if not meticulous,baby)

You nod, and he can see the panic slowly setting in, a trip of your heart, toes curling inside your kitten heels, chest visibly heaving, breath off kilter—

(His poor little bride, didn’t mean to scare you honey)

“I’ll have a look hmm—go sit and wait inside the car sweetheart”

You give him one last dubious look, weighing out your options like you have any, mumbling an okay before climbing inside your car and sitting pretty on the drivers seat.

Good girl.

He puts on a good show, he reckons— fishes out some tools from the trunk of his truck, fiddles with a few screws, spark plugs, even makes you try to rev the engine a few times—the little flicker of hope in your eyes is extinguished every time the engine sputters before inevitably dying—

A pang of guilt, a chimera of it perhaps bubbles up faintly inside of him, scuffled down by the part of him that made him into the man be is today—the part for which the ends justify the means, always.

“Open the door” he steps towards the drivers side of your car bending over so he’s eye level with you, hand braced on the top of the car.

“Can’t be fixed?” you question rhetorically, to get a final confirmation, a nail in the coffin.

“No.” He chuffs “Sweetheart—the engine’s as good as dead, it’s a miracle that it was still working”— he speaks softly, voice a low rumble like he is trying to placate a skittish doe—“I will you give you a ride home hmm”

You look at him for a moment, eyes softer, perhaps burgeoning with trust.

“It’s far, like forty-five minutes from here”

(He knows that sweetheart, knows your address like the back of his hand, knows your day job, knows you live in a tiny little basement apartment , knows you get a latte and a cream cheese bagel for breakfast, knows, knows, knows)

“Not leaving you here, in any case” he says with finality “so get up, have a long way to go.”

“But—what—what about my car, just leave it here?” —

(What about it? won’t be needing it anymore darling )

“We’ll figure it out love, have a buddy who’s a tow guy, come on, up. Now.”

“Have seen you at Cecil’s” you remark matter of fact, cutting through the silence, the faint buzz of the engine, tires rolling on the smooth road. “go there for the steak mister”—

She’s back hmm, he doesn’t even have to look at you to know your expression—the slight squint of your eyes, a smirk just tugging the corners of your pretty mouth up—always so coy aren’t you sweetheart. And if he were a better man he would make a split second decision of driving you home, waiting at your doorstep till you make it inside safe, wine and dine you till your claws are buffed away, till he can keep you tucked away, for his eyes only,for his cock only, his his his—

“Good steak, inn’it” “been singing there long” he asks as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

“no—not really, like four months—just a side gig is all”

“Well aren’t you good for business —old man Ralph said that he hadn’t seen the place filled up like that since ‘95”

You chuff a breathy little laugh “They aren’t paying me nearly enough then, but—I don’t do this for money anyways”.

“What do you do it for” —he asks cocking an eyebrow, head turned just a little to the side to glance at you, relishing the last normal conversation you’ll have for a while.

“Hmmm” you slump against the door “isn’t much to do out here anyways—and I like to sing, little extra money doesn’t hurt either”

“Never does” —he knows that doesn’t he, blood on his hands that will never wash off, private contracts, dark missions all semantics really, bottom line he has more tucked away in off shore accounts, in real estate scattered around the world than he’ll ever know what to do with ,wasn’t it also why he bought his homestead, 160 acres in middle america, all cash, blood money off his hands and into another’s.

He’ll like to think that this is the last wrong thing he’ going do, not that he has any particular qualms about it—especially when not fifteen minutes into the ride you are slumped up against the door, softly breathing, body languid, boneless, fully asleep— it bubbles something ugly, red hot viscous anger inside of him at the thought that it would be this easy for any other man to snatch you up, defenceless little thing—all soft and pliant for taking.

(His pretty sleepy bride, his tired little bride, don’t worry baby, he’s got you now)

The car halts with a shriek.

It takes almost no force to restrain you, he’s gentle too, gentler than he thought he was capable of being—binding your little wrists together, holding them in one hand as he ties them up, gagging you, putting duct tape over your mouth, eyes wide, lashes wet pricking with tears.

“It’s okay sweetheart” “your okay hmm” “your okay”

He comforts you wiping away the tears streaking your cheeks, before driving one last time, an hour and half, from Cecil’s to his home.

Your home now too now.

47 notes · View notes

im-not-a-pleeb · 2 days ago

Text

Hi, this is very self indulgent but I actually had the energy to write for the first time in a year, hope you enjoy!

“Alright Love, time to turn in.” John says.

As a pre-school teacher, your day doesn’t end when your students go home. You have lesson planning, grading, annecdotals, evaluations, and many more tasks to complete in such little time. The holidays are finally over, but the kids have seem to become much rowdier with all the time spent at home. Any free time you get to do these tasks during the school day has turned into your own personal refereeing time, breaking up fights and arguments over such insignificant things you cannot even begin to explain. Not only do you have to worry about running the classroom, but also it seems your coworkers feel like it’s their personal duty to make your life even more difficult. From unnecessary drama to incompetence, unkind words and unappreciation, everything about your job is stressful right now.

It’s now 11:00 and John has officially been home for 2 hours, spending that time showering and cleaning the house all while his wife is in her office typing away at her computer and scribbling on papers. He even made dinner, which you ate at your desk, leaving him to eat in the kitchen by himself.

He wasn’t upset with you, he understands. He knows what it feels like to be swamped with work, so many things to do with such little time. You can’t help but feel guilty, John is more than understanding and admires your dedication to your classroom. He took care of the whole house and you’ve barely even said hello.

“I have a few more things to do and then I’m all yours, John.” You say.

“You’ve been at this for a while Love, what time did you get home?” John’s hands rub at your shoulders, thumbs digging into your shoulder blades. You sigh at the contact, days worth of tension and stress melting away; John knew exactly what he was doing.

“I went into work at 6 in the morning and left at 5.”

“That’s a lot Honey, you’ve been working all day,” he pauses, “You need sleep, you are going to be a right mess tomorrow.”

“John-“ you cut yourself off with a sharp breath, pushing your glasses over your head and pressing the heels of your palm into your face.

“I’m not trying to give you hell, Love, I’m just worried.” He moves his hands to your chair, swiveling you around to face him. When you meet his eyes, and melt. He knows he’s a handsome fella, but when he gives you those soft eyes, he knows you can’t help but do whatever he tells you to. He stands up straight, peering down at you and lifting his hands to your face. He examines you, thumbs ghosting over your under-eye bags, lifts one hand to gently rub the tension on your brow.

“Are you gonna let me take care of you?”

You nod.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

In the few short minutes he’s gone you organize your papers, close your folders, and power down your laptop; making sure to save all of the important files you’ve slaved over all afternoon. Before you married John, you had a very hard time letting go and letting someone else be in control. John, a man who prides himself on being a provider in a sense of being the rock your family needs, has worked with you on giving yourself a break and letting him take care of you. He knows how hard being vulnerable is for you, which makes it all the more pleasurable to be able to do these things for you.

He comes back into the room with two towels. Throwing said towels over his shoulder, he reaches his hand out for you to grab, leading you to the bathroom. The shower is already running. John wordlessly undresses you, gently guiding your limbs and maneuvering you in the ways he needs.

When you step into the shower, he stands in front of you. Hands trailing up your neck to cradle the back of your head, he tips your hair under the stream of warm water. Your eyes flutter shut and your body feels heavy and pliant. He scratches the bottom of your scalp with his fingertips. Unwinding you was a task he doesn’t take lightly. John is a natural caretaker, he takes care of his men, he takes care of his things, the plants in his office, and most importantly he takes care of his girl.

He gets to work after a few minutes after your scalp massage, gently scrubbing at your scalp with shampoo. His calloused hands gently worked through your hair, rinsing and then doing the same routine with your conditioner. He worked his way down your body, washing and caressing you, putting you into a headspace where there isn’t anything on your mind but him. Once he’s finished, he pulls you into him, one hand behind your neck and the other on the small of your back. He holds you firmly under the warm spray of water. John is the first to break the silence.

“I love you.” he says, unknowing words so kind can break a person. Minutes ago John had made you melt, now he watches as someone he knows to be so strong, crumble under his touch. He holds you as you shudder and sob, releasing months worth of tension and hurt.

“I’m so- I’m so tired, John.” you plead.

“I have you, just let go.” He soothed.

After letting you cry in his arms, he guides you out of the shower and into your shared room. He dries you off with a fluffy towel, rubs lotion on your skin. He sits you in your chair in front of your vanity, blowdries your hair, knowing you can’t go to bed with wet hair.

His heart is breaking - watching the person he loves so dearly look so drained, and subhuman. He would rather be tortured to death than spend one minute enduring whatever this is, he has half a mind to send a few strong words to the department of education. He has been waiting to bring up that he wants you home, not in a misogynistic ‘I want my wife to cook and clean for me’ type of way. He wants you home in a ‘take care of yourself and maybe my kids if that’s what you want’ type of way. He puts the thought in the back of his mind and mentally tells himself to have a conversation with you this weekend.

Once your hair is dry and your nightly routine is done, he finally tucks you into bed. He slides under the covers next to you and tucks your head under his chin, one arm under your head the other holding your tummy. He strokes the soft skin of your stomach, trying to lull you to sleep. He ends the day with one final statement.

“Sleep Baby, put this day to rest yeah?” He isn’t expecting an answer. You give one anyway.

“I love you so much John.”

“I love you too, Bug”

78 notes · View notes