The Jaws of Letch [x Reader] (NSFW)

0☆ - prologue

A job's a job. People can pretend all they like; there's nothing serious about a job. You get your part done and the check comes in.

You can't decide if it's because you don't care enough, or have a fear of commitment. Either way, you aren't that upset over losing that clerk job. You're a good tenant, your landlord isn't going to punch up the price anytime soon.

You clear out your locker, wave off those few good companions and go on home like any other day.

Already munching on your takeout, you notice just how many pink papers cover your neighbor's doors, and now that you're standing in front of it, your own. You plop down your stuff and read:

"Rent is going up 30% as of the 15th. As you know, I've been short on cash myself and can't make the time for a side hustle. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Any tenants unable to make rent come to my office ASAP."

... Inconvenience? That 30% is going to split your head in two if you keep trying to rationalize it.

You're sweating, fumbling with your keys as this takes its sweet time processing. You pace around your room, the one you fight your laziness tooth and nail to maintain, the one you can't provide for anymore considering your lack of employment. The stress consumes your body. So unlike yourself just a half hour ago.

It's fine. You'll just take a self care check; you're not going to be tired for your concert tomorrow... that maybe you shouldn't have indulged in. You smother yourself in your blankets to rub away your indignity and short-comings in a pathetic little way, and forget all about that check.

{°◇•◇°}

It's the day. You throw on your scrappy but fitting costume and work away at your makeup. You gotta hurry if you'd like to beat traffic.

Actually, the drive was a nice breakaway. You spotted many of your fellow party-goers blasting Gwar out of their windows and breezing by in exotic cosplays. Perhaps you'll like this band after all, even if it's true they're here to destroy us all.

Maybe if they do, you won't have to scrub floors anymore.

You have no idea what band is playing, but the openers are on. So many bright blues and purples have vomited on the crowd you're finding difficult to navigate. It's a sea of clammy, non-deodorized 40 year olds who are itching to slam someone.

Ugh, you can't take it anymore; you push your way through the crowd, avoiding faces and jeering from the people around you. This was such a bad idea.

You find what turns out to be a real nice bathroom and shove your face in the sink, bending far out. As you're practically drowning yourself, the stall directly behind you swings open. Sturdy clanks, kind of like a horseshoe hitting tile, follow up right behind you. How heavy are those heels?

You wipe your eyes as a loud yet scrawny voice shakes your body:

"Oh thank god, I really didn't wanna show you my peehole."

The combination of that strange comment and the voice saying it only confused you for a heartbeat. The next told you that it wasn't a person standing behind you.

An indescribable fear enters your body as you're met with this tall being. A centaur, half-teeth, with tattoos covering its toned, red-tinted body. Spikes jutted out from this creature's shoulders, its fur coat hanging over its breasts. You tried to see if it was angry, but again, teeth obscured any possible facial investigating.

Something took over your body. A quiver. A rattling, gripping concern wallows in a pit within your stomach. What is this thing? Why did I have to present myself as a snack?