#gregor lbc

ᥫ cw: pet names ᥫ wc: 2618 ★ WRITTEN AS PART OF THE PJM GOTCHA FOR GAZA (@PJMaction on twitter) cross posted on ao3

— THE MAGIC TOUCH, THE MAGIC WORDS. BLINK AND YOU'LL MISS IT.

[♡]: it was quick; a thrill of adrenaline that shakes your spirits wide awake, a rush that floods your senses and leaves you blind, craving more. gregor knew what he was doing, he was well aware of the effect he had on people. you, my dear, were no exemption; you were the rush he had been dying to chase.

CHATTER, CLINK, RUSTLE, CHATTER, the typical noise from the bar; grown from a chaotic haze familiar to a familiar warm buzz in your ear. In your time working there, you had come around to love the noise, even found a sense of peace in it; a stillness within the complete and utter disruption around you. It would've been strange for most people, who might've come up to you where you stand working at the bar to complain (just as many have before), but to you, it would be your own slice of serenity, a piece of home. The chattering, the clinking, the rustling, and the yelling.

Right, the yelling.

That, you could live without. The drunken arguments from one man, the slurred and tasteless comeback of another. Really, your patrons didn't fight much, you thanked God they didn't, but alas, they were only human, just men. There were nights, though scarce between your regulars and far more common whenever a new face would pass by, that a fight would break out, some alcohol-clouded crude argument that would inevitably lead to punches being thrown and guns being drawn. Those nights were the worst. All the broken glass, all the threatening to kill, all the yelling. God! You could really, really live without the yelling. Especially now as one of your regulars (who happened to typically be involved whenever a fight would break out) violently grabs onto the collar of another patron (one who typically kept quiet and calm). The people around their booth were doing their best to calm down both parties, gingerly trying to pry them away from each other with the gentle pleas and the sweet promise of more booze, though it was obviously, very much, ineffective. You sigh, hanging your head a bit lower as you place down the glasses you had been wiping dry. If things got more physical— which you sensed would happen sooner than you liked —you were definitely going to be expected to intervene.

Now, you weren't the strongest guy, though definitely able to keep yourself out of trouble when needed, and you weren't the most intimidating one either, however (more so, unfortunately, for you, at least) you were one of the two men that worked at the bar, the rest of your coworkers being girls. And as much as you hated trying to stop fights (and ultimately physically having to drag or kick them out when they had absolutely refused to stop fighting), you hated even more the idea of having your coworkers do it instead. They were all such sweet girls, they didn't deserve to go through all that trouble because you didn't like doing it.

You picture in your head how things would go, already feeling the potential accidental punches that would be thrown at you just because you were doing your job and stopping the two from ripping each other apart. You sigh again, as you walk out from behind the bar, rubbing your nape dejectedly, earning looks of sympathy from your coworkers. You smile at them, small and gentle, as if to say that there wasn't anything to do to help it. Whatever happens, happens.

You saunter over to the commotion, allowing your feet to drag across the beer stained wooden floor. The yelling got louder the closer you got, the more it did the more dread you felt bubbling in the deepest pits of your gut. You kept your head low, involuntarily for the most part, focusing your eyes on the floor, the feet, anything to keep your mind off of your impending doom. Bracing yourself in case they would turn their aggression towards you, you muster up your courage, mentally preparing yourself for what's to come.

As your feet land at the edge of the booth, you notice the shift in the mood; the stillness. Chatter, clink, rustle, chatter— no, yelling. What?

Your gaze trails upwards, puzzled and curious, and lands on a scene that makes you draw a quick and quiet gasp. At the table, the second customer, the quieter one who wouldn’t typically pick fights, backed up further into the booth, hands up in surrender and he tried to play things coolly; adjacent to him, pulled up to his tip toes, was the first customer, his collar bunched up in the big hands of a handsome stranger.

Dumbfounded, you stand there stupidly for a second before shaking things off. The stranger— now that you’ve looked at him a bit longer, you realize he isn’t actually a stranger, but in fact, one of your usual patrons. He was one of the quieter ones who sat alone in some tucked away corner of the bar —glanced at you from the shadow of his hat, a big dark red thing that sat comfortably on his head and framed his messy brown hair around his face. He had the other patron caged between his body and the end of the table, causing the poor man to bend backwards at an uncomfortable angle as the hatted man leaned forward. A smirk graced his handsome features, for a moment directed at you, before he turned his attention to the man in front of him.

He shook his head in mock disappointment. “You folk should know better than to give pretty boy over ‘ere any more trouble he wants.” He said, voice deep, thick, velvety. You swore he was intentionally making it deeper than usual. He nods his head in your direction when he says “pretty boy”, and you aren’t quite sure whether you should blush or be worried.

The other man raised his hands in surrender, his face ridden in panic. You notice just now the shining glint of metal discreetly pressing against the man’s rib, hidden by the tattered cloak of the cowboy in front of you. Instantly, you recognize what it is and take an instinctive step forward, causing both men to turn towards you.

You muster up your courage, feeling your heart hammer against your rib cage and the blood slowly drain from your face. “Put… Put that thing down.” You say, as calmly and sternly as you can, trying your best not to let your voice falter.

The man in the hat looked at you with furrowed brows, opening his mouth to speak before he glanced down at his other arm. He let out a small huff that seemed as if he was amused. He stood straighter, still keeping the other patron’s collar firmly in his hand as he twirls his gun around and slots it in the holster on his side.

“My ‘pologies, darlin’.” He said, playfully, which ticked you off considering how worried he just had you a few minutes ago. His eyes flicked towards you for a second, causing him to smile slightly at your expression. “Wasn’t g’nna use the nasty thing, don’t worry. Just to scare the fella, is all.” 

Somehow you weren’t entirely reassured, but you let out a small sigh of relief regardless. The other patron seemed somewhat relieved as well, surely the poor guy was regretting picking fights now. He glanced between you and the man pinning him against the table, a silent plea for you to intervene further.

“Could you let him go too?” Your voice hard, but polite. Guy had a gun after all, you couldn’t go around scolding him haphazardly, though a small part of you felt like he meant it when he said he wouldn’t use it.

He glanced at you for a bit, as if taking your request into consideration or sizing you up (you hoped it was the first), then let out a small exhale, deciding he was amused by your words. He shrugged lightly, slowly loosening his grip and letting the fabric slip out of his grasp.

“Better behave, boy,” what seemed like a warning, felt more like a command as the other patron nodded profusely and carefully scurried away from the man. He adjusted his hat with a small amused smile. His mouth opened to speak as he turned to you, but he was quickly met with your irritated expression. He definitely didn’t expect you to have such a sour look on your face, it was obvious how his smile immediately dropped and how his eyebrows raised, wrinkling his forehead.

You point your index finger at him. “What the hell was that!” You chided, brows furrowed, nose wrinkled. 

He looked nervous, a drastic juxtaposition to confident demeanor earlier. “I was just… Was just tryin’ ta’ stop ‘em, dar—”

“It doesn’t matter! A fight’s a fight regardless of your intention…”

“Samsa. G-Gregor Samsa...”

“Mister Samsa—”

“Could… Could call me Greg—”

“Mister Samsa.”

As you scolded him, the more he lost his footing, his confidence. You watched as Gregor Samsa tried to discreetly hide his face under the shadow of his hat, scruff lined cheeks tinted a very light shade of pink. Gregor Samsa, who had just carried himself with such a suave aura, who had without a second thought had threatened to shoot a man, reverted into a sopping wet kitten, pouting and trying desperately to explain himself as you continued to rat him off. It was almost impressive, this sudden switch in demeanor; how a dog could bark but couldn’t bite. It was like he was a different person really, you might’ve dwelled on it a bit more— wondered which side was how he truly was —if you weren’t busy chiding the poor man, who very much looked like he was going to shrivel up like a raisin.

At this point, the audience that had been eyeing the booth had died down, finding you scolding some poor cowboy infinitely less interesting than a potential fist fight. Most people had gone back to their previous musings, drinking and laughing as if nothing had happened at all. Gregor seemed to notice, the quiet air only adding to his awkwardness.

He pouts at you, looking pathetic as ever. “Just wanted to help…” He mutters quietly.

You sighed, defeated. Part of you began to feel a bit bad for the guy too, plus he looked really sorry at the moment. You held back your tongue despite wanting to say a few things more and ultimately just shook your head and made your way back to your post behind the counter, mind already returning to all the glasses you had to dry and also to do a quick inventory check in the stock room.

Gregor followed behind you, like a little puppy to his owner. “H-hey, hang on!” He called, trailing a couple of steps behind you as you continued to walk back to the bar, ignoring him as his footsteps grew louder.

As soon as you were stationed back at the counter, Gregor appeared in front of you, hastily seating himself on a bar stool and nearly slipping as he did. His hands extend in front of him in some sort of pleading manner.

“L-Lemme make it up to ya’, darlin’!” His voice faltering, but you could tell he was slowly regaining his previous confidence. 

You quirked an eyebrow at him before returning to your work, picking up the glasses you had washed earlier and gently running a cloth to dry them.

“I mean it, sugar!” He said with a nervous smile.

You hum in response, setting a newly dried glass on the space beside you before you pick up the next to give it the same treatment. “You’re quite insistent, Mr. Samsa.” You said with the slightest hint of amusement. He seemed to have picked up on it, his shoulders relaxing slightly and his hands finally settling against the hard wood of the counter.

His smile gains its confidence, growing a bit wider as he watches you work. “Just want yer attention.” Gregor shrugged as if it were no big deal (though with the sorry state you had him in earlier, you doubted he was as nonchalant about it as he presented himself to be).

Another hum from you as you allow your thoughts on the guy to process. You’d have to admit, your shift could’ve gone worse. Having an attractive man follow you around as you worked was better than how most of your nights went (and, to be completely fair, he did stop that fight from getting any worse, as much as you disliked how he did it). With your attention still focused on your work, you could feel his gaze on you, watching you like a cat about to pounce, like a puppy waiting for your praise. It was like he was tunnel visioning into you the way his brown eyes followed your every movement, how they seemed to study your hands, your face, your hair. Honestly, it shocked you a bit how enamored he seemed with you. On a typical night, he’d only come up to you and order his typical drink and sit in silence at the counter or on some dark corner of the bar. Tonight was so different; like he had been stalking you, studying you, and tonight he was finally ready to pounce.

After a good while of silence, you finally speak again. “And how exactly do you expect to make it up to me, Mr. Samsa?” You asked, keeping your voice as nonchalant as possible despite the bubbling excitement that caused your heartbeat to accelerate.

Gregor perked up at your response, sitting a bit straighter. His lips twitch slightly before forming a content smile on his face. “How’s dinner sound? Someplace fancy ‘n stuff?” He’s testing the waters, walking himself on thin ice.

You glance sideways at him, momentarily pausing what you’re doing, cheeks growing the absolute lightest shade of pink as his proposition sinks in (plus with how your mind quickly replays the way he called you those silly pet names). You shake the thought away just as quickly as it came, turning back to your work and setting the newly dried glass on the side before you put your attention to Gregor. Your arms settle a few inches away from his as you lean closer to him, using your arms to support your weight.

“You’re asking me out,” you said matter of factly; a statement, not a question.

“Been wantin’ to for a while.” Gregor replied, leaning towards you. His smirk grows as he moves. “Been interested in ya’ for a while too, sugar.”

Your face grew warm, making him smile a bit wider. His hand moves from its place on the table, reaching over to gently graze your chin, index finger comfortable curled against your skin, gingerly coaxing you a bit closer. Now your face is really, really warm.

“What d’ya say, darlin’?” He asked, voice thick and rich like caramel. You were certain now more than ever that he was intentionally making it deeper than usual.

You swallow your spit, eyebrows cinching together on instinct as you directly into his eyes. Your heart hammers against your chest as you feel adrenaline shoot through your veins, it makes you feel like you’re hypersensitive to your environment; your skin where it meets his tingles. His warmth seeps into your flesh and it sends a rush straight through your heart. You felt like you were burning.

He has-

a pattern of almost killing himself and his coworkers with a faulty chainsaw

a crippling addiction to caffeine

no apartment, no patents, no self-destruct update on his arm, no screws, no beard (accidentally burned off with flamethrower arm)

a dislike of being alone

a crippling addiction to nicotine

a job that is very obviously sucking the life out of him to fuel a capitalist system that couldn’t give a shit if he dies, which he’s aware of completely but believes he may still escape it all if he makes enough money, further fueling that cruel system

a crippling addiction to the previously mentioned faulty chainsaw

Verdict: