Bad Vampire Jokes Can Really Turn You Batty.... @fxngsfxgxrty - Tumblr Blog

— ✦ I WISH I WAS YOUR GIRL

tags: no use of y/n, femme!reader, older!Baran, sugar baby!reader, lingerie, smoking, swearing, allusions to sex, severe mommy issues but you're nonchalant about it, commitment issues from both parties, Baran's lowk mean in this but we like it w/c: 3.1k a/n: Siri, play "I wish I was your Girl" by Lana Del Ray I had tremendous writers block doing this but nonetheless, still pumped it out for you heathens... Also would you guys want a short fic about what happened in that gala 👀

Ring. “You have reached Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi. I am unable to attend to the phone right now, please leave a message after the beep.” Beep. You twiddle the hotel phone chord around your finger. The soft patter of rain against the large window panes should be enough white noise to lull you to sleep if it wasn’t for the scratchy lace rubbing against your thigh–a simple black two-piece that was already laid out for you on the bed when you entered. “Hey, it’s me again. I don’t want to be the one to blow up your phone with notifications but I just want to know if you’re still coming? I’ve been here for like three hours, but I mean no rush! I just-” lightning flashes through the glass followed by a roar of thunder. The room suddenly feels too big for it to be this empty. You suck in a deep breath, trying to focus on anything other than the white walls that surround you. “I just miss you. Call me back when you get this.” Beep.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. ‘Bored’ is the main adjective you would use to describe the state you are in. The sixteenth-floor suite is boring. The personal hotel room service is boring. Fuck, everything in a 20-mile radius is fucking boring. You sit up from your place on the bed. Okay, maybe you’re being a bit biased. In fairness, you have been stuck in this room for three hours and forty-eight minutes (not that you’re counting) waiting for a thrill that might not even come. You glance at the clock, ‘1:49 AM’. Surely, there are better ways to spend your early twenties than whatever this is.

The pads of your feet touch the cold tile as you walk towards the view of the city skyline. The scenery of Pittsburgh from up above has become a sight you’ve gotten accustomed to. Same bridge, same skyscraper, same dark blue water below. Room 212 has become a place of solace every time you’re called because God forbid you are seen anywhere else with her. ‘Too scandalous’ she would say. The design almost feels inhumane, as if the color gray was already too bold. Even the choice of furniture is somehow aggressively minimalistic–devoid of any signs of use besides your belongings scattered on the couch.

You can see the outline of your college building from here. A harsh reminder of your term exam tomorrow morning that you have yet to study for (though technically it is already the next day). In the corner of your eye, PTMC. In all honesty, it wasn’t supposed to become this complicated. A quickie in a cramped bathroom stall during a corporate gala should have been the end of it. Though was it really your fault after you saw her at a bar all alone a few weeks later? Baran is addictive. All teeth and nails. Skin to skin, but oh so gentle. Maybe that's why you wait; to scratch an itch that only she can reach. A primal, unbridled lust.

You don’t love her, not really, and you assume Baran thinks the same. It’s simply a transactional arrangement. She has a personal stress toy while your college loans get paid, so why are you this worked up? You gnaw at the tip of your thumb, almost hard enough to draw blood—an outlet for your overthinking before you recall the better alternative inside your purse. The cigarette slides out of the box after a few taps on your palm. The walk towards the closed balcony door is brisk as if your mind would explode if this stick of tobacco isn’t set alight by the count of three. The door slides open and the cold air hits your skin all at once; now reminded of the lack of clothes you have on. With an annoyed groan, you retreat back inside to retrieve the comforter hanging off the edge of the bed and wrap it around your body.

The familiar burn hits the back of your throat and you exhale out smoke. The last time both of you talked was around 11 AM while you were in the middle of a cognitive psychology class. “Meet at 10?” was all she said. You agreed and that was the end of the conversation. Now, judging by the fifteen unread messages and twenty-three missed calls, you’ve come to regret that decision. It's a desperate look, you're aware, but it's so hard to stay away. Your phone vibrates on the table and you feel a slight flutter in your stomach. Anticipation. Not love. Never love. The screen light fades and you take the last drag of your cigarette. A faint sizzle exudes as it squashes on the balcony railing, ash and raindrops mixing into a murky, charcoal-like fluid.

She probably knocked while you were outside thus opting to text, right?It’s the reason you have chosen to believe, because you are without a doubt certain she's there. She was the one that set this whole thing up for fuck’s sake. The phone almost slips out of your hand from how fast you grabbed it off the table only to be met with a wave of disappointment.

“Roommate: Hey! Just got back from the club. Are you coming home tonight or spending another ‘study lesson’ with your doctor??”

You stare at the notification and scroll up to check if there's anything else other than radio silence. You bite your lip and open Baran’s contact. The last message was still the one you sent this morning–read with no reply and the reality check hits you hard. Fuck this.

Each garment of clothing you put on carries a weight of shame as it touches your skin. ‘Maybe it’s for the best’, you think while shoving your things into your purse. It was idiotic to assume that you would be somewhat of a priority in her life, right? Baran is a doctor. A chief attending. A mother. You’re a fling–something to pass her time. The slam of the hotel door echoes through the empty hallway. It doesn’t help that your friends rub it in your face. They tease and joke as if it was an accomplishment that you won the ‘rich and older’ category. A check in their ever-growing To Do List. You laugh along because they only know the context of your situation from the stories you tell them. It gives them the ability to fantasize about your life, and who are you to burst their bubble?

The elevator dings, announcing its arrival. Thankfully, you're greeted with an empty cabin while you enter the threshold. The doors close and you blankly stare at the metallic reflection: smudged eyeliner, messy hair, wrinkled clothes. It fills you with a sense of disgust not because of your actions, but because you let it happen every fucking time. You rub the edge of the keycard absent-mindedly and it feels like the one thing that’s keeping you away from bursting into tears.

The doors part and you have to squeeze through what looks like a bachelor party coming to an end as they enter the elevator without waiting for you to leave first. This night really can’t get any better. You push past one of them harder than intended and he looks back. A blonde and blue eyes stereotype with a plastic crown on his head and a sash that reads ‘Last Night of Freedom.’ You roll your eyes already mentally preparing yourself for whatever cringe worthy pick-up line he’s about to throw at your feet. “Woah there, pretty. No need to be in a rush, I’m right here.” The rest of his group laughs and you admire the woman that has to deal with this shit everyday. “Fuck you.” You don’t turn back.

You reach the front desk and press the bell. The sound rings through the empty hotel lobby as you wait for the concierge to appear. Your fingers tap idly on the table—a polished piece of mahogany worth about your entire college tuition multiplied by ten. A woman emerges from behind a curtain you didn’t even notice. She is dressed in a crisp burgundy red uniform accompanied with a matching-colored pencil skirt ironed to perfection. She sits down with a poise that makes you subconsciously straighten your posture as she takes in your appearance. She sighs and greets you with the same smile reserved for lost call girls who don't know what room their client booked.

Awkward silence fills the atmosphere as her focus drifts towards the computer. She types something, a symphony of clicks breaking the dead air. You stand there for a while before clearing your throat, ending her act of blissful ignorance. The receptionist, who you now know as “Nora” from reading her name tag, stops and looks up at you. “Yes?” Nora says, her voice carrying a pitch of impatience as if your presence is the most annoying thing in the world. You slide the hotel key towards her. “I’m just checking out. Room 212.” She inspects it front to back, looking for any signs of damage she can fault you for. Nora turns back to the screen. “Name under reservation?” You almost stutter out yours before correcting yourself. “Al-Hashimi. Baran Al-Hashimi.”

Her fingers glide across the keyboard before turning to you once again. ”Payment is complete but your check-out is not until 10 AM this morning, are you sure you would like to shorten your stay?” You nod, “yes.” She clicks and types and the sound has become the ticking time bomb for your patience. Nora’s hands clasp together and she smiles, “Thank you for choosing The Regal Horizon. Check out is complete and I hope you enjoyed your stay.” You force a smile and grab your purse off the table. “Thanks,” you mutter curtly.

The clack of your heels fill the empty streets alongside the occasional car passing by. You don’t mind walking, not that you have a choice. The last train left twenty minutes ago and there was no way you would spend another second in that desolate room. The rare silence of Pittsburgh feels peaceful until it’s not. Not until the collar of your stilettos start rubbing against your foot. Not until every crevasse of your body feels sticky from your sweat even if it’s freezing. Not until you hug your jacket tighter around you as you feel hot tears dripping down your cheeks. It’s peaceful, until it’s not.

It’s around 3 AM when you enter your apartment. A sliver of moonlight illuminates the small living area and you can faintly make out the outline of your roommate's arm hanging off the couch. You leave your heels by the door and rub the already forming blister before standing up. You move in silence around the flat with a kind of robotic grace programmed to turn off their brain after sensing the slightest rise of emotions. So you do what any mentally well person would do, ignore it; because if she can, why can’t you?

The cotton pad starts to fray from how hard you have been wiping your make up off of your face. It’s degrading, really, that it has gotten this bad. You twist the shower knob and wait for the water to heat while shimmying off your clothes. This isn’t even the first time Baran has left you in the dark. You were once stuck in that same room for hours until she called the next morning, muttering sweet nothings and a promise to buy you that new Chanel bag you’d been raving about for days. It was simpler back then, a quick apology from Baran and she would have you wrapped around her finger once more—blinded forgiveness. Now, a dull, relentless ache beats under your chest. The sensation is similar to when you were a child wondering what you did wrong. The feeling has been there for weeks, showing up whenever you get even a whiff of disappointment from Baran. It’s the feeling of needing to be praised by her, to please her, to do everything in your power to make sure she doesn’t throw you away.

The warm water hits your skin and you silently pray it’s enough to wash away the sinking pit in your stomach. You try to think about anything other than her. Your exam, if the cat’s been fed, are the plants watered, God, anything. Your phone vibrates on the sink. Once, followed by silence, then twice, then thrice. You quickly wipe your hand on the nearby towel and reach for it.

“Hi Eshgham, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, there was an emergency at work and it was all hands on deck. Are you still at the hotel? I can pick you up if you went home and you’re still awake. I’m sorry again, I’ll make it up to you.”

“I’ll just go there now, I really can’t take it anymore. Need to see you Azizam.”

“Omw.”

You don’t really know how to react. You thought you’d been angry, angry at her for making you feel this way. For taking advantage of you. Her messages blur into a mix of letters as your mind rapidly thinks of a reply. You can break the cycle right now. All you have to do is tell her to leave you alone and move on with your life; block her number and find an ethical job instead of being Baran’s sugar baby until she gets sick of you and finds another twenty-something year old to prey on. You don’t. You can’t.

“Okay.”

Three dots appear seconds after you hit send.

“I’m here. Come down.”

You don’t remember putting your clothes on and grabbing your keys, or the walk down the four flights of stairs, but here you are, outside your apartment building with nothing but an old band shirt and a pair of sleep shorts you’ve been using since high school. The silver Volvo stands out like a sore thumb on the empty street. It’s parked beside a streetlight, the engine’s hum synchronizing with the surrounding cicadas. You walk towards it cautiously.

The window rolls down and you finally see Baran. Her hair is down, messy from what you assume is caused by the number of times her hand ran through it driving here, and pushed to one side. She’s wearing a cream button down from what you can observe instead of the usual scrubs she has on whenever she picks you up late at night. An inkling of her activities start to echo in the back of your mind. “Hi, Eshgham.” She smiles and leans towards you to open the car door. You hear the soft click of the mechanism and slide into the passenger seat.

The smell of alcohol wafts through the air the moment you enter. “Eshgham, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting. Really, I tried leaving the ER as early as possible.” Her words slur together and you can feel her hand slide down your thigh. You hate it. Hate her. Hate how your body instantly reacts to her touch. She leans over the middle console and takes your chin in between her fingers, tilting it towards her. “Are you mad at me? Please, say something, Eshgham..” Baran’s hazel brown eyes meet yours, flickering down to your lips. In the corner of your eye, you see a lipstick stain on the collar of her shirt and a mark on her throat that isn’t yours.

Her thumb caresses the bottom of your chin before reaching the edge of your lip. It stays there, asking for entrance. You can smell the perfume that isn't hers. “No, I’m not mad.” Baran grins at that, pearly whites flashing at you. Your lips open and her thumb slides inside. “I’ll make it up to you..” Baran watches you suck and circle her finger with your tongue, hypnotized by the act.

You grab her wrist and pull it out, only for it to be replaced with her mouth. It's bruising—a metallic taste fills your senses and you're not even sure if it's yours or Baran’s. You grip her wrist, crescent shapes start to form on her skin from how hard your nails are digging into it. She doesn't react, like she's allowing you to take control. It's obvious you want to prove a point, to prove that you’re needed. She just wants to see how far you take it.

You claw at her shirt and accidentally scratch her chest. Red streaks bloom on her skin and Baran hisses in pain and pulls away. “Fuck! That hurt,” she curses, and looks down at the irritated area. Your anger is replaced by dread and you stutter out, “I- Shit. I didn't mean to-” Baran waves her hand. “It’s fine, just forget about it,” she sighs out. It's not fine. You can see the furrow in her eyebrows, the tightness in her jaw. “I'm sorry, I really didn't mean it.” Baran leans back into her chair, “just stop, I said it's fine.” The sharpness in her tone makes you feel like a bad kid and you sink back into the leather seat.

A heavy blanket of silence drapes over the both of you before Baran speaks up, her voice now gentler. “It's late, I think you should go back inside.” Your eyes widen at that and you quickly look over to her, “no, really, I'm fine. I'll be good, I promise! Baran please-” She grips the steering wheel tighter, your name leaves her mouth and you stop talking. “Just go inside.” Your stomach drops to the floor and you can feel your eyes brimming with tears. Your hand shakes as you reach towards the handle, half expecting Baran to take it all back and drive you into paradise. She doesn't. Her eyes trained on the tiny droplets on the windshield smearing into one continuous line.

You slide out and shut the door behind you. She sighs and pinches her nose, before turning to you, “I'll call you tomorrow, Azizam. Get some rest.” You nod, afraid that if you speak your words would only sound like a broken record. You watch the window roll up and stare at the street until her car disappears from view. She's not going to call, you know it. Deep inside, you've come to terms with the fact that this is ending one way or another. Baran has discarded you, you're no use to her anymore and it leaves you with an emptiness you can't quite place.

You stand there for what feels like hours, thinking about everything and nothing at all. The sky slowly starts to change into a dark, blue-ish gray hue and the chirps of the morning birds signal you to retreat back inside. Morning will come eventually and then maybe, just maybe, you'll finally decide to let go.

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