Chapter Text
"You are such a loser."
Monroe glared at Roddy, who was leaning against one of the DVD stands, looking supremely unimpressed.
"Shouldn't you be stocking?"
The teen waved an insouciant hand.
"It'll take, like, five minutes. I'd much rather watch you moon pathetically over Pretty Boy over there."
Despite himself, Monroe glanced across the way, where 'Pretty Boy' was straightening absolutely hideous jackets on a metal rack. The man glanced up, as if sensing someone watching him and Monroe quickly looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the general catalog.
Roddy tsked and shook his head.
"Such a loser." His voice dripped with saccharine sympathy and Monroe was very tempted to show him some fang. For a damned rat, the kid had an attitude on him. As if knowing what he was thinking, Roddy smirked then finally left to go do his actual job.
"Alphabetical order! You do remember your alphabet, right?" he shouted after him and Roddy flipped him off without turning around.
*
Monroe was not meant to be a clerk. He was going to be a clockmaker. He was a clockmaker, technically but technically didn't pay the bills. And who knew? Clockmaking was a hard business to break into. You had to build a reputation, gather clients, prove you knew what you were doing. So Monroe had filled out applications and told himself to take the first job offered and the first job offered was for Mad Marvin's Music.
He had secretly wondered if the reason he got the job was because of the store owner's obvious obsession with the letter 'm' but hey, a job was a job. And that was how Monroe found himself spending eight hours a day in the mall, the hang out of teenagers, old people and various other types who had horrible taste in music. In fact, everybody except him had horrible taste in music and after the fifth time of trying to convince someone to buy Bach, the manager had taken him aside and forbidden him from doing so again.
The things Monroe did for a paycheck.
Roddy had been hired on a little while later, replacing the slack-jawed twenty year old who never showed up on time. Monroe could admit, grudgingly, that at least Roddy was better than that guy, showing up prompt and on time. He got bonus points for playing the violin and playing it well even if he was a sarcastic little monster.
He and Roddy weren't the only workers in the store, even if it felt like that sometimes. There was the absentee manager who hired him, of course and who Monroe was fairly certain was lying about his hours to corporate. Then Lisa, the mother of two preteens who worked most mornings with him. Monroe liked her because she always brought cookies. A few other part-timers Monroe didn't bother to learn the names of. Roddy was just the one he seemed to always get stuck with. Goddamned violin prodigy. At least Monroe only had to deal with him from four to closing and the occasional weekend.
It had been awkward the first couple of days, rat and wolf eyeballing each other warily but what the hell. Monroe didn't care about hierarchies and he wasn't the big bad wolf of his ancestry. 'Sides, while he might fantasize about killing some of the more annoying customers, he didn't actually do that kind of thing.
At least not anymore.
But whatever, he did his pilates, ate his vegetables, worked on his clocks, worked in this store and spied on the guy who worked in the clothing store (Cool Threads, what a terrible name) across the walkway. So that was four good things versus one morally questionable thing, really he was practically a saint. He hadn't ever spoken to the guy or even made any eye contact now what he thought about it, he just looked. And looked and looked because the guy was hot, pretty mouth, pretty eyes and Monroe had never been so glad of stocking because it meant the guy bent over a lot, showing off that pretty ass.
And if, every now and again, Monroe felt like some sort of creepy old man pervert, well, he waved that aside. He had to take his kicks were he could these days. It was healthier for him. Besides, the guy was two or three years younger than him at most. It wasn't like he was contemplating robbing the cradle. He wasn't going to rob anything. A relationship was the last thing he needed as long as his libido was not allowed a vote. The lone wolf; that was what he was these days. Yep. Lone wolf.
Roddy shouted at him for help because the stocking that was going to take "like, five minutes" ended up taking a lot longer. Rolling his eyes, Monroe went over anyway. It'd help pass the time till closing.
There'd only been a handful of customers throughout the evening, buying awful music while Monroe had done his best not to roll his eyes and Roddy had hid in the stacks because he was kind of an anti-social bastard. At last, however, it was closing time and Monroe had sent Roddy home thirty minutes ago because he could close all by himself. No point in both of them suffering. He zeroed out the register, put every thing away and hit the lights. The gate was last to go down, Monroe on the other side and he locked it, pocketing the keys. Lisa had her own set that she'd use in the morning to open up.
The mall was eerily quiet and dim, most stores already closed up and nearly all the workers gone. Cool Threads still had its lights on, though, and Monroe could see movement inside, the guy moving about and cleaning up. As he made his way past the store front (very slowly so he could get one last glimpse) the guy was at the register, frowning down at it. Then he glanced up and he and Monroe locked eyes for a split second before Monroe ducked his head and scurried the hell out of there.
*
He lived in a studio apartment, which Monroe was pretty sure was like living in a tenement hall. Because it wasn't like those studio apartments he saw on HGTV (hey don't judge, they had good shows), no, his apartment was a small box with a smaller box bathroom attached to it. He tried to liven the place up but posters felt too high school and paintings just made the rest of the place that much crappier in comparison. He had a pull out sofa bed that stayed a bed because what was the point of putting it up? He hardly ever had anybody over. A tiny television balanced on a dresser and a nightstand held a small lamp he used when reading in bed. His cello sat in the corner.
The rest of the space, as limited as it was, was dedicated to his clockmaking. A big workman's desk he got from his grandfather, god rest the man's soul. Actually, Grandpa was probably somewhere god couldn't get him, come to think of it. Anyway, the desk was his now and he cherished it because it was absolutely perfect for his clockmaking, plenty of space to lay all the delicate pieces out. He spent hours bent over that desk, hard at work. Creating something from scratch. It had been a couple of years since he started but that exhilaration that flowed through him from creating instead of destroying? That was the same and it was a reminder why he choose his current path, a little push to stay on it.
He cooked up some rice and veggies and ate it standing over the sink because some days Monroe embraced his inner loser to its full extent. Not like there was anybody to impress. The only person who ever came by was Hap and even if he was there right at this moment, Hap would still be impressed. Hap was kind of easy to impress. Wearing clean clothes everyday impressed Hap.
After dinner, he sat at his desk to work on a cuckoo clock. He had two already done, packed carefully away in boxes so they wouldn't get damaged. This clock was nearly finished, just needed some more detail work and a bit of shine. He'd take this one and the other two to that small shop on Barley Street in the morning before work. The owner there let him put up his clocks for a small flat fee. He'd only sold one but it was for two hundred and fifty dollars so, yeah. Not bad. The guy had also promised to shoot him any repair work if any came in.
Monroe worked till past midnight, until his eyes began to refuse to focus and if he kept going, he'd risk ruining the clock. He put everything carefully away, made sure his tools were clean and back in place, the clock set aside where it was in no danger of falling. Then he got ready for bed, yawning as he brushed his teeth and got into his pajama pants. Crawling into bed was a relief and he snapped the light off, ready to sleep.
Except for one thing.
Sighing, Monroe stared down at his erection. Seriously?, he asked it silently. I'm tired and you want to do this? His dick didn't answer. He kicked his pants off and spit in his palm. Best get this over with so he could sleep. He stroked himself easily at first, not thinking about anyone in particular, letting the pleasure build slowly as he worked his dick.
He rubbed his thumb over the head, gathered the precum to stroke down the shaft. Not nearly slick enough so he spit into his palm again and stroked some more, spreading his legs open, bending his knees slightly. He rubbed his fingers at the base of his cock, where his knot would swell up if he was pressed up snug inside someone.
He had knotted once or twice with an ex-girlfriend and gotten his ass kicked both times as soon as they managed to get apart. Angelina hadn't exactly been pleased with the whole idea of the breeding thing, even if she had been on the pill. Not really mother material. To be fair, Monroe wasn't too big on the breeding thing either, it was just sometimes when sex got particularly good and they happened to be in the right position, well. Some biological imperatives were just impossible to stop once they got going. He'd learned pretty quickly though, how being close to knotting felt and got pretty adept at pulling out before it happened. Mostly because Angelina was vicious when pissed and being naked in bed with an angry female Blutbad? That was what nightmare were made of.
That was the only time he had ever knotted, inside Angelina or just outside her, spilling what felt like gallons of come on the sheets. He tried to think of her now, her red hair and pale skin, the cruel curve of her mouth.
The image kept morphing, however, hair turning darker and shorter, mouth fuller and sweeter. The guy was gazing coquettishly at him from behind his eyelids and Monroe sighed and gave in to his subconscious. He'd want that mouth wrapped around him, rest the head of his cock on the cupid's bow of his lower lip. The guy would suckle him, pink tongue darting out and yeah, that was it, so good. He kept that image in his head even as he fucked into his fist, grunting on the upstroke.
The guy would let him fist his hands in his hair, let him be a little rough and Monroe would watch the flush rise in his cheeks, see blood stain them red/pink from the inside out. Oh the guy was just made for it, would take it and like it and-
Monroe came all over his belly with a gasp.
Once he calmed down, he felt a little guilty, using the guy like that. And he didn't even know his name! Seemed a little rude somehow. Sighing, he got back up to wash up and finally managed to get to bed.