Tronnor One-Shots

A Name of Kings

Trigger warning: racy themes, (inexplicit) sexual assault, (minor) violence. This one-shot is fairly inexplicit, yet if the concept of sexual assault is triggering to you, I advise that you read with discretion. 

Okay, first off, I'm not a stripper. I know it looks like it, what with the nudity and the suggestive dance moves and all the glitter, but I will repeat for the rest of my days: I am not a stripper. It's not that there's anything wrong with strippers--you do you, I'm definitely not one to judge--but my night job has a tad more to do with theatrics, on top of the obvious sex appeal. Namely, I'm a dramatic dancer, utilizing my talents at a workplace with a particular tease and spice.

Okay, to better explain it, have you ever watched the movie Burlesque? You know, the one with Cher and Christina Aguilera? Well, it's kind of like that. I don't do poles. I don't do tips in my pants. I don't do anything less than briefs unless I'm covered. I don't do dirty, I do sexy. There's a difference, but sadly some men don't see that. Especially the older ones, who have probably spent the majority of their lives making love to women, and come into my club in search for some young male meat to screw their way through age-old horniness.

Why not quit, you say? Well, I need this job. Like, really need it, as the Ivy League is a palace to a poor man, the poor man being me. I'm smart enough--nobody ever told me I was, though my collection of high-profile university acceptance letters say otherwise--but, when it comes to my dream law school, Harvard, my scholarships are pennies and lint in my pockets. My parents blew all my college savings when I was in my early teens, so now I work my ass off to fill the hefty quota, even if it means being harassed night in and night out.

They're an obstacle I face nearly every night, the nasty men. When I'm not performing, I'm a waiter, and that can be a very precarious thing in an environment like mine particularly. One night in specific, I was relatively covered up, compared to usual--wearing leather shorts, tennis shoes and a slouchy cotton sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder--and got caught up in a rather squirmy situation.

I was delivering booze to a table of greying men, the usual bourbon and whisky of the middle-aged attendees, and felt a tough skinned hand touch my knee.

When we are waiting on the guests, the club owner tells us to place a makeshift name-tag wherever we find suitable. That night, mine was written on the outside of my thigh, nearing the back; my fleeting, capital letters in purple glitter paint. Not the best choice on my part.

"Connor." The man purred my name, bumping his callouses lazily, seductively across the letters. "I once had an affair with a man named Connor. Factual chap, told me it comes from the Irish word, Coachuhhar, meaning high desire. I can see why."

My internal alarm went off immediately. This was creepy. So creepy; his hand was still on my thigh, inching further up to the first swatch of leather on my body. My eyeliner began to feel stale on my face, and I calmly removed his hand from my skin. "Yes, however Connor also means strong-willed and wise." I explained with curt politeness, placing his drink delicately in front of him. "And I, as a strong-willed man, ask you to please not continue with your advances. This is not a brothel, and I have a personal policy against fraternizing with guests. Enjoy your drink, sir, and have a good night."

With that, I turned to serve the remaining drinks to his comrades. However, he refused to let me ignore him, grasping back onto my thigh, squeezing it harshly. "Oh, you're a fiesty one." He growled as if his roughness could possibly seduce me, pulling me nearer to him by the flesh of my leg. "Good thing I like my men with some fire in 'em."

His hand was gripping me to almost a painful extent, fingers near to tucking themselves under the hem of my shorts, and I felt a churn of antipathy in my gut. "I'm not sure you heard me correctly." I retorted, hardening my face and making direct eye contact. "I do not care if you're attracted to me. I don't like you touching me like that and I demand that you stop."