Description: You haven't been working at Lennox Club for long, but somehow you've ended up with the job of kitchen runner. You're fetching Blue's dirty dishes at the end of the night when you make a mistake. (1.1K~ words)
*Fem-presenting Reader
Warnings: "prickly" Blue Jones, Swearing, pet names (ex. "doll"), innuendo.
**Originally published on AO3; posting here for FeBLUEary.
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"I'm so sorry, Blue! I'll clean it up right away!" You feel your face flush as you crouch over the shattered remains of his empty dinner plate you just dropped on the floor. You glance up at him and notice the frown forming, along with his tightly-closed eyes. You rush to pick up the pieces with your bare hands, stacking smaller bits onto the largest piece as quietly as you can.
The scrape of his chair on the floor makes your heart pound even faster, and you fold in on yourself even further, instinctively making yourself as small as possible. You can feel how close he is to you even before you see the points of his shiny shoes stop next to the mess.
"Get up," he barks.
You stand up immediately, not even stopping to put down the small pieces of glass you had collected in your hand. Despite the adrenaline running through your body, you do your best to stand still, eyes trained down on the floor.
Blue clicks his tongue at you, clearly displeased. He uses one foot to shift a small trashcan over between the two of you.
You flinch as his fingers grip your wrist, but you don't fight his hold. Blue brings your hand over the trashcan and carefully rotates it, letting the pile of broken glass fall into the bin. You keep your eyes on the floor, praying that whatever punishment he gives will be swift. You flinch again at the feel of his well-manicured nails trailing down your palm lightly, carefully removing any smaller shards of glass still stuck to your sweaty palm. Something warm ghosts over your fingertips; you steal a startled glance up. Blue's face is so close to your hand that you can feel his breath on your skin. His dark eyes scan your palm, then he traces his fingers along the same path. A shiver zips down your spine from the feeling; the tremor flows down to your arm where he grips it.
Blue looks up at you without moving his face away. His eyes meet yours, and he kisses your palm gently, smirking at your answering shiver.
"The next time you clean up broken glass, I want you to wear gloves," he murmurs over your fingers.
You wince at his words. Of course you should have worn gloves. You could have cut yourself and bled all over his office.
"Yes, Blue; I'm sorry," you answer quickly.
He smirks a little wider. Blue rubs his thumb in slow, hypnotizing circles over your hand. "I know you are, sweetheart. That's been your catchphrase since you got here. I've tried to give you some time and space to adjust, come out of your shell a little bit, but that's not happening, is it?"
The purr of his low voice almost lulls you enough to relax, but you know better. His accusation freezes you in place. You quickly look down and swallow hard, then tightly nod your agreement.
Blue tuts at you. "What is happening in that pretty head of yours to make you so timid?"
"I'm sor-"
Your apology turns into a squeak of surprise as he yanks your body towards him and wraps a strong arm behind your back. "Stop that. I don't want to hear another apology from you for the rest of the night. Is that clear?"
You nod quickly, body tense against his.
"Good girl. Now, I'm going to sit at my desk, and you're going to sit on my lap while we chat."
Tears start in your eyes, but you swallow past the tightness in your throat. "Yes, Blue."
He gives you a slight squeeze before stepping back and leading you to his chair. Once he's sitting down, he pulls your hand until you're standing sideways, then guides you down to his lap by your hips. His hands move over your body to mold you against him, urging your head down to rest your cheek on his shoulder.
"That's it, sweetheart. Just like that." Blue slides one arm to support the middle of your back, fingers wrapping over your elbow in a loose grip. His other hand cups your hip, keeping you close with just the weight of it resting on you.
"Take a deep breath, and when you let it out, relax against me," his orders rumble through your chest where it's pressed close to his.
You take a shaky breath in and let it out, releasing some of your tension with it.
"Good. Again," Blue commands softly.
Your next inhale is smoother, and you relax against him enough to feel each rise and fall of his chest move you.
Blue lets out a deep sigh. "Good, sweetheart. That's perfect, just like that. I don't want you to move, alright?"
You almost nod but stop yourself. "Ok," you whisper instead.
You feel his low hum more than hear it. "Thank you, doll. I like it much better when you're calm like this. It lets me calm down, too."
You consider his words for a moment, turning over his gratitude in your mind, looking for a catch and not finding one. "You're welcome," you finally murmur.
He shifts underneath you.
"I'm not…too heavy, am I?" you ask tentatively.
Blue scoffs quietly. "No, you're not too heavy, and even if you were, do you think I'm the kind of guy to sit here in pain without saying anything?"
You tense against him and have to consciously relax again. "No, you're not," you agree.
"See, you already know me so well, don't you?" He squeezes your hip a little. "It's not you, just this old chair. This would be more comfortable in a bed, but I don't want to move right now."
You suck in a sharp breath. "Are you going to ask me that later? Ask me into bed with you?" You can't keep the anxiety out of your voice.
"No, honey. Not that I don't want to, but if I ask you now, you might say yes just to appease me. You'd probably shake the whole time, like a scared little bunny," he explains quietly. "I keep people in line all day; I don't want any drama at this time of the night."
"So…I'm not in trouble?" you venture the question.
"Oh, you're in trouble," he draws out in a sing-song voice, "but you're already being punished. So be a good girl and take it. We'll clean up the mess later." Blue punctuates his words with a heavy sigh and shifts down further on his chair.
You breathe a sigh of relief. "Yes, sir."
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Tag List: @have-you-seen-my-sanity @ierofrnkk @mylittledelulucorner @ruegoreos @beloved-by-the-moon @moonknightly @iolaussharpe-24 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction
Description: Blue is always the first to notice when something is wrong in his club, but you still try to hide your migraine from him. (1.8K~ words)
*Gender Neutral Reader. Reader is a dancer at the Lennox Club.
Warnings: Blue Jones. Migraine symptoms, fluff, hurt/comfort. Swearing, pet names ("doll"), innuendo. Not Beta read. (Please let me know if I missed any.)
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Rocket watches as you stagger a little in the dressing room. “You barely got through the last number; what's going on?” she asks conspiratorially.
“I don't feel so good; my head hurts."
She puts a hand on your forehead. “You don't have a fever. Think you'll be ok until Blue dismisses us? I can tell Madame Gorski you're too sick for clients tonight.”
You nod slightly, closing your eyes. You try to block out the noise of the other dancers milling around, getting ready. Blue's voice crackles through the speakers as he thanks the audience and tells his special ticket holders to stick around for the next event.
The thought of having to do a “next event” in your current state makes your stomach flip. You hope Rocket is right about Gorski letting you skip tonight. You sit down at your dressing table, pull out a bottle of painkillers and take a couple. Then you rest your forehead on the wooden surface, gripping your hands in your lap.
A few minutes later, you jolt awake as Rocket puts a hand on your shoulder.
“It's ok; it's just me,” she soothes. “I talked to Gorski-”
Her words are cut off by a flurry of activity as Blue enters and everyone stands to face him. You slowly stand up, too, gripping the table behind you for support as dizziness rolls through you.
“Good show tonight, girls!” Blue says, smiling broadly. “We have lots of new friends visiting us tonight, so confirm your assignments with Madame Gorski before you welcome them.”
He nods to the assembly, then turns to speak to Gorski. Their voices are too low to hear.
The other dancers start to move to their next jobs; the noise makes your head pound. Suddenly, your name rings out from across the room. Gorski is still talking to Blue in hushed tones, obviously trying to explain that you are sick.
“…with me tonight,” Blue says in a tone that doesn't allow for argument.
Your heart sinks. There's no way you can do whatever he will ask of you, not with the way your body threatens to give out on you at any moment.
Blue calls your name and catches your eye, flashing his salesman smile. “Come over here, doll.”
You walk over slowly, trying not to fall as your vision spins.
Gorski shoots you an apologetic look as you reach them. Blue looks you up and down.
“We have some business to discuss in my office,” he says smoothly.
You nod carefully.
Blue turns to Madame Gorski. “You know where to find me if there are any issues you can’t handle,” he says with a grin, then kisses her on the cheek.
His hand finds your lower back and guides you in front of him. “This way, sweetheart.”
You walk silently to Blue's office with a pit growing in your stomach. The smell of his cologne is stronger than normal; it fills your nostrils with each breath, another distraction for your pained head. A small part of your brain screams to run, but the warmth of his hand on your back is a reminder of how pointless that would be. The distance seems much shorter than you remember, and before you know it, Blue is unlocking the door to his office and ushering you inside.
“Sit down,” he orders as he closes and locks the door behind you. You let out a relieved sigh at how quiet it is in his office. Even Blue's voice sounds more quiet than normal, but that could just be the calm before the storm.
You quickly sit on the couch and squeeze your eyes shut as a sudden wave of nausea washes over you. Blue's shoes click on the floor, moving around his desk and eventually stopping right in front of you.
“Show me your eyes, doll,” he demands, voice soft but clear in the silence.
You hesitantly open them and look up.
Blue leans close to you as his dark eyes stare into yours; you try not to flinch. After a moment, he straightens and looks you up and down again. “Do you know why you're here?” he asks, removing his suit jacket and tossing it over a chair.
You nod slowly, trying to ignore the pain that shoots through your head. You wince and drop your gaze a little.
Blue grabs your chin and tilts your head up, making you gasp. “You're one of my good little dolls, right?" His voice is still soft, but with that terrifying undercurrent of danger. "You wouldn't accept gifts from friends that you're not supposed to? Extra attention, drugs…” Blue raises an eyebrow and waits.
“N-no, sir, I didn't. I'm not on drugs.” You tense as a shiver runs down your spine. He's going to think you're lying.
Blue releases your chin. You can't tell if he believes you or not. He starts to remove his tie as he speaks. “Your dancing was off tonight, sweetheart. Not by much; most people wouldn't notice.”
“I know, I'm sorry-”
“Shhh,” he cuts you off, resting his hand on your shoulder. His face shows pity, perhaps mocking you. “Lie down; close your eyes,” he commands quietly.
You shut your eyes and lie back slowly, heart pounding in anticipation. Maybe you can manage this, if all he wants is for you to lie still while he fucks you.
You feel him lift your legs, then a dip in the couch as he sits, dropping your legs over his lap. You can't stop the gasp that falls from your lips as he runs one hand over your calf muscles. He holds your leg still as he unbuckles your shoe and slides it off. It hits the floor with a soft thud, and the other follows soon after. Blue massages your legs as you swallow hard.
“When did your migraine start?” Blue asks quietly.
You go as still as possible, shocked that he knew. Did Gorski tell him?
“You're ok. Relax." His low, soothing voice washes over you as his hands keep moving gently over your legs.
Much to your own surprise, you do start to relax under his touch…until his hands move above your knees, sliding your skirt up as he goes. You tense and raise up on your elbows, watching anxiously as he unbuckles your sequined stage stockings, then carefully pulls them down your legs and off, one by one.
“There. Now you won't feel so itchy." Blue meets your surprised stare with a smirk. He gently moves your legs off of him. “Sit up for a minute,” he orders, holding out a hand to help you. When you take it, he pulls you upright and angles you to sit sideways on the couch, facing away from him. You shudder as his fingers crawl down your spine. He pulls at the laces on the back of your stage costume, loosening it just enough for you to breathe easier without taking it off completely.
His hands move to your shoulders, and he leans you back until your head rests on his lap. Blue huffs in amusement at your wide-eyed confusion.
He tuts at you. “You still got your pins in your hair, sweetheart. Look at the desk,” he orders. You turn your head sideways, facing out into the room, and rest your cheek on his thigh. “Good doll; now hold still for me.”
You freeze stiffly against him. There's no way he knows how to take bobby pins out without it hurting.
Blue's fingers slide against your scalp gently as he moves locks of hair to find the pins. It feels so good that you let out a small whine.
His fingers stop moving. “Did that hurt?” He asks.
“No,” you say slowly. “No, it felt…kind of good,” you confess.
Blue starts moving his hands in your hair again. “That's good, doll. I'm not trying to hurt you, so tell me if I do.” He deftly removes a bobby pin from your hair, then another. You let out the occasional relieved whimper as he works; you hadn't realized just how tightly some of them were secured. Your eyes droop closed again as Blue rubs a hand down the back of your neck and against your shoulder, massaging deep circles into your muscles with his thumb. You cry out as he hits a particularly sore spot.
“Want me to stop, doll?"
You shake your head slightly against his leg and gasp when his thumb presses slowly against your neck again.
“You never answered my question,” he says in a low voice, trailing his hands over your skin.
His question? When did he ask you…oh yeah, the migraine.
“It started about thirty minutes before the end of the show,” you explain.
“What set it off? The noise or the lights?”
“I'm not really sure. Maybe both.”
“This tension in your neck didn't help, I bet.” You melt into the couch as his fingers keep massaging away your aches. “Did you think you would be able to take clients like this?” he asks, too sweet to be anything but dangerous.
Your stomach drops, but you take a shuddering breath in. “I would have pushed through,” you assure him.
“Maybe,” he concedes, “or maybe you would have gotten sick all over a paying customer,” Blue admonishes.
Maybe it’s the sleepiness rapidly overtaking you, but you don't catch any real venom in his tone this time.
“Some of them might be into that,” you dare to joke back.
Blue lets out a quick laugh. “They might, sweetheart, but let's not find out the hard way. The next time you feel bad like this, you come tell me, alright?”
You yawn, jaw popping against his leg. “Ok, Blue.”
He moves a hand to your shoulder and pulls until you roll over onto your back. “Feeling better, doll?” He asks.
You're not sure exactly when it happened, but the pounding in your head has stopped. You grin sleepily up at him. “Yes, Blue. So much better.”
Blue cups your cheek and smirks. “Good. You're going to sleep here tonight, and if anybody asks, you tell them I fucked you stupid all night, understand?”
You watch his face closely. “Are you not…” you swallow nervously, “...going to do that?”
“No,” he says slowly, smiling down at you. “Believe it or not, I need some rest too.”
He lifts your head up gently and scoots out from under you. You're still processing his words as he slides one of the throw pillows under your head. You've heard stories from the other dancers about what Blue does with them alone in his office. Now that your migraine has ebbed and you've felt Blue's undivided attention firsthand, you find yourself wondering what more would feel like.
Blue grabs a blanket from behind the couch and settles it over you. He catches your perplexed expression and tuts, tracing your cheek with his thumb. "Don't look so sad, doll; I won't let you leave tomorrow without a smile on your face," Blue promises with a wink.
Description: Blue is sick, and you help him get ready to go on stage. (2K~ words)
*I tried to write Reader as gender neutral. Reader is a Stage Manager at the Lennox Club.
Warnings: Blue Jones. Fluff/ light sickfic (no emeto), hurt/comfort. Swearing. Not Beta’d. (Please let me know if I missed any.)
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You sigh quietly when one of the guards tells you that Blue Jones wants to see you in his office. It hasn't been very long since Gorski hired you as a stage manager at the Lennox Club, but you've already gained a reputation as a fixer. To you, most of what you are doing is just common sense, and ninety percent is accomplished with safety pins and duct tape. You're used to dealing with the egos that so many performers have, and you're pretty good at judging when to use a soft or firm voice with people to get them to listen.
Even with all that experience, you're still nervous as you head to Blue’s office. His is the only ego that really matters around here, and he's notoriously hard to read. He's also observant and short-tempered, so he's probably going to notice and get pissed if you use any of your persuasion techniques on him.
You resolve to treat him like you would anyone else here. Worst-case scenario, he fires you…right?
You knock on the office door, and a very muffled voice says to come in. As you close the door behind yourself, you scan the room quickly. Unsurprisingly, it's full of status symbols befitting the owner of a successful nightclub, like the pool table off to the side and the jukebox just past the door, but the paint on the walls is cracked and peeling. The strong punch of Blue Jones' cologne barely covers the musty old building smell, familiar to you from other corners of the theatre. Like everything else here, Blue's office is all for show and not maintained properly underneath.
Blue sits behind his desk, already in his shiny show costume but looking like death warmed over. He's paler than usual, eyes heavy with exhaustion. The skin around his nose is red, no doubt from using the many tissues you see in a haphazard pile on one side of his desk.
“Sweet Pea said you helped her when she was sick, got her back to normal long enough to do her set,” Blue says through his stuffy nose.
You nod.
“Is it cough syrup or something?” He prompts. “I’m on stage in an hour.”
Oh shit. Blue wanted you to help him. Your stomach drops with anxiety. The whispered stories about Blue’s temper when things don't go his way…
No, fuck that. It's not reasonable for him to expect you to magically fix this. You can do what you did for Sweet Pea, and if that's not good enough for him, that's his problem.
You take a deep breath, swing your bag off your shoulder, and throw it into the chair.
“Ok, what have you got?” You ask as you rifle through the pockets. “Nasal congestion? Headache? Sore throat?”
“All of that,” he says with a nod.
“Are you coughing yet? Can you take full breaths, or is it in your chest?”
“No, no cough. I can breathe, just not through my nose.” Blue shifts in his chair, obviously surprised by your rapid-fire questioning.
You pull out a shiny foil packet and pop out two tablets for him.
“Take those,” you say, sliding them across his desk.
Blue reaches for an open bottle of gin. Your eyes widen in alarm.
“Don't drink that! That will make it worse!” you exclaim.
He stares at you with annoyance but leaves the bottle where it is.
You glance around his office. How can he not have any water in here? Whatever, there's a spare bottle in your bag. You pull out the water and set it on the desk for him.
He looks at it disdainfully.
“It's new, not opened,” you say, thinking he’s grossed out by the thought of drinking after you.
He scowls as he opens the water and takes a sip.
You pull a plastic bag out of your pack.
“What kind of tea do you like?” You ask him. “Black, herbal, peppermint?”
“Coffee,” Blue says firmly.
“No, the caffeine will dehydrate you, especially with how strong they brew it on the floor,” you reason. “What about juice? It just needs to be something I can warm up and melt some honey into, to help coat your throat.”
Blue huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes. “Apple cider, then. They just unloaded a shipment in the kitchen.”
With a nod, you grab your bag and head for the kitchen.
It takes some time for you to prepare the cider and get back to Blue’s office. When you open the door again, Blue has his torso slumped over the desk with one arm extended to pillow his head. The pills are still on his desk where you left them.
Shutting the door quietly, you move closer. His eyes are closed, but you can't tell if he is asleep or not.
“Blue?” Your voice is gentle as you set the mug on the desk.
“I'm awake,” he says thickly, voice muffled by his arm.
“Good. You need to sit up and take these pills.”
He groans but lifts his head up. Blue raises the warm cider to his lips and takes a tentative sip. When it doesn't make his throat feel worse, he takes a bigger drink. A quiet hum escapes him as his shoulders sag with relief. Looking over the mug, he shoots you a glance that you might call grateful if you saw it on someone else. He closes his eyes and drinks his cider slowly.
“Better?” You ask with a satisfied grin.
Blue's eyes meet yours coolly. “Yes,” he says simply. “What else you got?”
“That medicine needs time to work in your system, so you need to take it now,” you remind him.
“I'm not going to take those,” he declares with a dismissive wave of his hand.
You stare at him, the beginnings of panic starting in your chest. He's not going to feel much better if he doesn't take medicine, and you don't want to be blamed for it.
“Why? Are you allergic or something? I can read you the ingredients, if that's what you’re worried about.”
“No! I…I can't take pills,” he says quietly.
Your eyes grow wide with surprise. “Oh? You mean... no one has ever taught you how?” you ask, trying not to sound condescending.
He looks down at his desk, face flushing with embarrassment.
You consider Blue carefully as you walk around the desk to stand next to him.
“You've had oysters before, right?” You ask. You already know that he has; you spotted him last week knocking them back with a client.
“Of course,” he says with annoyance.
“Same concept. Put one on your tongue, get some water in there, and swallow it all together. And tuck your chin before you swallow.”
He takes a deep breath and blows it back out silently, then reaches for both of the pills.
“You might want to do them one at a time,” you caution.
He gives you a withering glare, but he puts one of them back. Blue follows your instructions with a look that tells you he doesn't think it's going to work, and he will make sure you suffer when it doesn't.
“Oyster; it's an oyster,” you remind him quietly when he takes a drink of the water.
Blue closes his eyes and swallows. He gags once and shoots you a panicked look.
“Drink more, get it down,” you say urgently.
Blue drinks more water, swallowing loudly. His eyes widen in surprise.
“I think…I think I got it,” he says, sounding a little excited.
You nod at him encouragingly. “Think you can get the other one?”
He pops it in his mouth and drinks it down with the rest of the water.
“Nice! Good job!” You praise without thinking. You wince immediately; you sounded like you were cheering on a child.
Blue raises an eyebrow.
“Uh, sorry,” you say.
Something softens in his expression, amusement dancing in his eyes. “It's ok. What's next?”
You pick up the half-empty mug and close your fingers around the still-warm surface. “I can massage your face a bit, see if it helps loosen everything up?”
Blue pins you with an indecipherable look that seems to go on forever; finally he nods once.
With your fingers warmed from the heat of the mug, you set it back down. You lean into his personal space to gently rub your fingertips across his nose and over his cheeks. You can feel him staring at you intently, but you keep your eyes focused on your task. After a minute, Blue's shoulders relax again, and his breathing slows. If he was anyone else, you'd say he was enjoying your touch.
You move your fingers to the sides of his neck, where his lymph nodes are swollen. Blue winces and makes a small, pained noise in his throat. You break contact immediately.
“Here, you do this part, so I don't hurt you." You start to back up, but he grabs your wrists.
“No, you do it!” He yells. Seeing your eyes go wide with surprise, Blue swallows and continues more softly. “Your hands are warm.”
His dark, unfocused eyes move slowly over your face.
You nod at him, and he releases your wrists. You move your hands back to his neck, using the heel of your palm this time. Blue closes his eyes as your hands press carefully on the overworked glands. You watch his reactions closely. At one point he bites his lip, but he doesn't ask you to stop.
Technically you could be done now, but the way he's nearly moaning with relief and almost leaning into your touch makes you want to push a bit further. You move your fingers to the back of his head. Blue hisses in pain and bites his lip again, then sighs loudly and relaxes further into his chair as you massage away some of the ache.
“How's your headache?” You ask.
“Better,” he replies. His voice sounds clearer.
“Good." You make a couple more gentle circles on his skin, then pull back. “You should be ok to do your warm ups now,” you say with a small smile.
Blue opens his eyes slowly and looks at you quizzically. “Warm ups?” he asks, as if he has no idea what you're talking about.
Jesus, he really was not trained for any of this.
You realize with sudden clarity that Blue Jones only excels at making things look good for an audience. From this, the issues with the staff, and the lack of maintenance in the building, it's clear that he doesn't know how to really take care of anything or anyone, including himself.
“Errm, yeah, maybe you don't need vocal warm ups normally,” you say to cover his ego, “but since you are sick, it will help make sure your vocal cords are ready for the high notes.”
“Right, high notes,” he murmurs. Blue blushes a little and looks over at the wall.
If he was anyone else, you would think he's nervous.
“You're doing the same song you've been working on with Gorski, right?” you ask as you sling your bag over your shoulder.
He tenses a little bit. “Yes,” he says slowly.
You reward him with an encouraging smile. “Oh, you'll be fine, then. I've heard you rehearse, and it's well within your range. Just try to get more air on your breaths, so you can push your notes out without tearing up your throat,” you advise.
You reach your hand out to shake his.
He levels you with a stare you can't read and shakes your hand slowly.
“Break a leg, Blue Jones,” you say warmly and with a grin you don't even need to fake. Then you turn and slide out the door.
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When Blue gets back to his office after the show, there’s a box of water bottles waiting at the door with a note.
Drink water. Rest.
Blue scoffs as he scoots the box inside with his foot and closes the door. No way he’s skipping his usual after show drink. He flips the note over.
You sounded great. 🙂
Blue smiles to himself. It’s not carnations or kisses, but he likes the praise all the same. It’s been a long time since anyone did something for him without being asked to.
He picks up a bottle and opens it. Maybe drinking water before going to bed early wouldn’t be so terrible.
