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Title:Do It Like A Whore (Just Business) Chapter 3
Author: war_of_ataraxis
Pairing: Ville/Bam
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, NC-17 later
Summary: Ville is a street whore, running low on business for the night, when a cute guy in a nice car offers to pay him for his company. Ville accepts, and goes home with him - how much does this cute stranger have in mind, and how much is Ville willing to give?
Disclaimer: Do not own, don't sue me, I have no money, and god knows the RIAA wants me more for the 13,000 songs on my computer...
Previous chapters and writing archive found at love_sex_angst
Background info on Ville in this chapter. Yay for angsty self-hatred?
The dingy apartment was something I was used to, a kind ‘customer' was not. So it wasn't the large pile of trash and eviction threat taped to my door that filled my thoughts, but the man who had picked me up's gentle ways and the way that I had completely turned him away.
Why do you keep thinking about him, Ville? He was just a nice guy. Chances are, you'll never see him again.
I walked into the dirty kitchen, pulling a glass from a peeling shelf and filling it with water that should have been filtered but wasn't. The tainted water hit my throat and did not quench my thirst or calm my mind. I threw the glass down into the sink from sheer frustration, watching as the shards of one of my last glasses glistened on the tarnished metal surface.
If only I was a fucking girl, I wouldn't live like this...
I sighed and pulled out the few bills Bam had given me while I was in his company. The fifty would have to go to my boss, the twenty I guessed I could keep for myself, so I tucked it away in a dirty jar, laying the fifty on the table in anticipation of Maxwell's visit the next day.
I wouldn't call him a pimp; he had no want of me but took control anyway; and since he was not the type of guy to be fucked with, I gave him most of what little money I received on that barren stretch of road that decreased my chances of a pick up even more than the dick that hung between my legs. But I had his protection. And gods knew I needed it.
My bed did not call for me, but I took it anyway, pulling a rather old quilt up and around my body, attempting to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy mattress.
Is this the kind of life you planned for your son when we came here, Dad? Is this the kind of life that you would have been proud of me living?
The questions were cynical and bitter, stinging my mind as they would have stung my throat if spoken aloud.
If wasn't my father's fault that he had been denied access to the United States for reasons I didn't understand when I was five, and couldn't remember now. It wasn't my fault that my mother was killed in this profession that I now worked to hardly pay the bills. It wasn't his fault I was deserted at age fifteen to work the streets under a man who ‘adopted' me into his work force because of debts my mother had supposedly owed him.
It wasn't his fault that I wasn't destined to be better.
I sighed and turned over, staring out the window at the brick wall across the street.
Why had I refused that money Bam had offered me? I would surely be unable to pay the amount of dues Maxwell would have expected at the end of the week as it was, and then I declined money when freely offered from a stranger I would never see again.
Why hadn't I just taken it and climbed out of the car, thankful that I had not had to give up even more of my dignity for his quick wishes.
Because he was too good to do that to...
I don't even know him... but I could sense it. His blue eyes were just so alive, the way he moved, spoke, seemed to think.
He was a good guy...
So much better than I could ever hope for.
My vision blurred as my eyes clouded over with tears of self-misery.
I could never hope for anybody because of the way I looked and worked. Men picked me up all the time; they didn't care who I was, or how ugly I was inside and out, they only cared for a warm hole that I offered their hard-ons. My mirrors were never used to stare at myself; I scarcely wanted to look at my own face as I applied my makeup to give the illusion of feminity that would hopefully make a pick up easier.
I hated everything I saw when I looked at myself. My eyes were dead, my hair was getting too long and dirty, I was too skinny, my mouth never worked in the way that I wanted it too, everything seeming disportioned. I hated all that I could see, I avoided looking at myself, closing my eyes as customers rolled down their passenger windows so I didn't have to view my own monstrosity in the reflection of the glass.
There were the usual passing comments about beauty but I ignored them. I knew the truth.
I was so sick of thinking these things every day, I was so sick of dragging myself out of bed to the knock of my boss or my landlord on the door, or somebody else demanding money and looking down on me for being the scum I was.
I can't help what I am!
I'm destined to be this person... I'm destined to be this piece of shit you throw away. A piece of trash.
The tears streaked vertical lines across my cold cheeks; my apartment had no heat, and I was in no place to get it any time soon, just like my life wouldn't get any better any time soon either, no matter if there were a thousand men like Bam that picked me up.
This is how I'm destined to be for the rest of my life, or until I'm too ugly for even the dirty old men... I better get used to it.
A/N: Wow, I keep writing all this angsty shit. Background info on Ville there. ;) Tell me what you guys thought.
Author: war_of_ataraxis
Pairing: Ville/Bam
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, NC-17 later
Summary: Ville is a street whore, running low on business for the night, when a cute guy in a nice car offers to pay him for his company. Ville accepts, and goes home with him - how much does this cute stranger have in mind, and how much is Ville willing to give?
Disclaimer: Do not own, don't sue me, I have no money, and god knows the RIAA wants me more for the 13,000 songs on my computer...
Previous chapters and writing archive found at love_sex_angst
Background info on Ville in this chapter. Yay for angsty self-hatred?
The dingy apartment was something I was used to, a kind ‘customer' was not. So it wasn't the large pile of trash and eviction threat taped to my door that filled my thoughts, but the man who had picked me up's gentle ways and the way that I had completely turned him away.
Why do you keep thinking about him, Ville? He was just a nice guy. Chances are, you'll never see him again.
I walked into the dirty kitchen, pulling a glass from a peeling shelf and filling it with water that should have been filtered but wasn't. The tainted water hit my throat and did not quench my thirst or calm my mind. I threw the glass down into the sink from sheer frustration, watching as the shards of one of my last glasses glistened on the tarnished metal surface.
If only I was a fucking girl, I wouldn't live like this...
I sighed and pulled out the few bills Bam had given me while I was in his company. The fifty would have to go to my boss, the twenty I guessed I could keep for myself, so I tucked it away in a dirty jar, laying the fifty on the table in anticipation of Maxwell's visit the next day.
I wouldn't call him a pimp; he had no want of me but took control anyway; and since he was not the type of guy to be fucked with, I gave him most of what little money I received on that barren stretch of road that decreased my chances of a pick up even more than the dick that hung between my legs. But I had his protection. And gods knew I needed it.
My bed did not call for me, but I took it anyway, pulling a rather old quilt up and around my body, attempting to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy mattress.
Is this the kind of life you planned for your son when we came here, Dad? Is this the kind of life that you would have been proud of me living?
The questions were cynical and bitter, stinging my mind as they would have stung my throat if spoken aloud.
If wasn't my father's fault that he had been denied access to the United States for reasons I didn't understand when I was five, and couldn't remember now. It wasn't my fault that my mother was killed in this profession that I now worked to hardly pay the bills. It wasn't his fault I was deserted at age fifteen to work the streets under a man who ‘adopted' me into his work force because of debts my mother had supposedly owed him.
It wasn't his fault that I wasn't destined to be better.
I sighed and turned over, staring out the window at the brick wall across the street.
Why had I refused that money Bam had offered me? I would surely be unable to pay the amount of dues Maxwell would have expected at the end of the week as it was, and then I declined money when freely offered from a stranger I would never see again.
Why hadn't I just taken it and climbed out of the car, thankful that I had not had to give up even more of my dignity for his quick wishes.
Because he was too good to do that to...
I don't even know him... but I could sense it. His blue eyes were just so alive, the way he moved, spoke, seemed to think.
He was a good guy...
So much better than I could ever hope for.
My vision blurred as my eyes clouded over with tears of self-misery.
I could never hope for anybody because of the way I looked and worked. Men picked me up all the time; they didn't care who I was, or how ugly I was inside and out, they only cared for a warm hole that I offered their hard-ons. My mirrors were never used to stare at myself; I scarcely wanted to look at my own face as I applied my makeup to give the illusion of feminity that would hopefully make a pick up easier.
I hated everything I saw when I looked at myself. My eyes were dead, my hair was getting too long and dirty, I was too skinny, my mouth never worked in the way that I wanted it too, everything seeming disportioned. I hated all that I could see, I avoided looking at myself, closing my eyes as customers rolled down their passenger windows so I didn't have to view my own monstrosity in the reflection of the glass.
There were the usual passing comments about beauty but I ignored them. I knew the truth.
I was so sick of thinking these things every day, I was so sick of dragging myself out of bed to the knock of my boss or my landlord on the door, or somebody else demanding money and looking down on me for being the scum I was.
I can't help what I am!
I'm destined to be this person... I'm destined to be this piece of shit you throw away. A piece of trash.
The tears streaked vertical lines across my cold cheeks; my apartment had no heat, and I was in no place to get it any time soon, just like my life wouldn't get any better any time soon either, no matter if there were a thousand men like Bam that picked me up.
This is how I'm destined to be for the rest of my life, or until I'm too ugly for even the dirty old men... I better get used to it.
A/N: Wow, I keep writing all this angsty shit. Background info on Ville there. ;) Tell me what you guys thought.