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#million dollar man
aurora-doll-333 · 2 months
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red, white, blue is in the sky 💋 summer’s in the air and baby, heaven’s in your eyes
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pinkragdolly · 10 months
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matt with lana is literally heaven
all credits to the tik tok editor <3
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rahabq · 9 months
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jupitercomet · 9 months
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One for the Money
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summary - When it comes to relationships, Jake Seresin is hardly conventional. He exchanges money for company and stress relief. He clears out a Tiffany's just because he can. He gives you everything you want like it's his job. But the one thing Jake Seresin doesn't do is fall in love - no matter how badly you wish he did.
warnings - sugar daddy au, ceo au, grumpy x sunshine, language, brief mention of drugs, mentions of drinking, themes around sex work and objectification, not edited I'm sorry I'm tired, Jake is 6'7" because I said so
word count - 5.3k
million dollar man masterlist
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Company.
That’s what Natasha had called it.
“You could use the company, Jake.”
Jake’s finger taps absentmindedly against his desk table, following a rhythm he only vaguely recognizes as a song he heard playing on the radio on his drive to work. It was something catchy, the kind of pop he’s sure some of the temps listen to. Jake hadn’t cared for it when he heard it and he doesn’t care for it now, but it’s stuck in his head and he taps along to it anyway.
He lets his eyes travel over the smooth business card on his desk. The numbers on it, in their crisp, clean font, almost seem to mock him. (619) 458-2764. They stand out against the cream colored card, printed boldly in a charcoal gray. It’s a well put together business card, Jake thinks, better than some of the ones he’s seen from establishments far more professional than this one.
Again his finger taps against the table and he pinches the inside of his cheek between his teeth. It’s a habit he needs to break, he knows. But Jake always reasons that he could have worse vices. He could smoke. He could fall into drinking and drugs like many of his compatriots. Though he supposes prostitution isn’t far off, and here he is debating it. Despite it all, he’s winded up just like all the men he likes to think he’s better than. Just with a few more canker sores. 
“You could use the company.”
Did Jake really need that? He likes to think not. He’s got a successful and fulfilling career, genuine friendships, and more money than he knows what to do with. What use did he have for company? He has company. Natasha didn’t know what she was talking about and even if Jake did need a deeper level of companionship, he knows that surely an escort agency isn’t the place that he’ll find it.
No. No, he doesn’t need this. 
And yet he can’t bring himself to lift the business card from his desk and throw it away.
Jake’s finger stills against the mahogany wood of his desk and his eyes dart quickly to his phone. Maybe he’s just curious. In his mind, Natasha is the last person he’d expect to hire an escort and, though he can’t even picture it, she seems happy in that arrangement. And Natasha’s just as much of a workaholic as Jake is, having little time for much else and not wanting to spend it on much else either. Maybe there’s some level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs that this filled in her life—and that Jake’s life is distinctly lacking.
That little, cream colored business card is still mocking him, and now Jake’s been staring at it so long that he can still see its imprint even when he closes his eyes. He’s sure he has the numbers memorized by this point. (619) 458-2764. Jake clicks his tongue. He’s wasting time with this.
He moves suddenly, fingers curling around the handset of his office phone, his other hand punching in numbers on the dialer with perhaps more force than necessary. The phone begins ringing as Jake holds it to his ear and he lets out a small breath, his finger resuming its tapping on his desk. That shitty pop song is still stuck in his head.
“Hello?”
The voice startles him slightly and Jake straightens, clearing his throat and wetting his lips quickly. “Hi, Laura. Has the architect arrived yet?”
“No, Mr. Seresin.”
Jake’s jaw ticks and he glances down at his watch. Almost as if it’s trying to aggravate him, the minute hand ticks another minute later. Typical. Jake closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. 
“Mr. Seresin?”
“Just—” Jake lets out a deep breath. “Please call him and ask when I should expect him.”
“Of course, Mr. Seresin. I’ll do that right away.”
The phone hangs up promptly and Jake sets it back down on its rest. That’s something he likes about Laura—she always knows when to end a phone call. Jake can think of five of his employees that have to audibly hear him say the word “goodbye” before they even attempt hanging up the phone, and that’s just off the top of his head. Jake doesn’t like that. 
He runs his business like he runs his life, precise and clean, there’s no room for pleasantries or “Have a good day!”s. Why waste time with something both parties actually care nothing about? Jake doesn’t do feelings, he doesn’t cater to people or make space for them. You have to fight for what you want, earn it. The world is cutthroat and, to be the best, you have to be entirely merciless.
Jake Seresin is the best.
It’s how he pulled his father’s company out of the pits. It’s why he’s number one on Forbes 40 under 40 list. Jake will do anything to succeed and he expects the same from all his competitors. And the reason all of them have stepped up to the plate and failed is because they aren’t as good as Jake. 
He knows what people call him. Hangman. That, if you cross his path or get in his way, you're as good as dead. He comes off cold and manipulative—ruthless. And despite that stellar personality review, Jake still has everything he could ever want. Because business doesn’t care about feelings, and neither does he.
He catches the business card in his peripheral. 
“You could use the company.”
Jake doesn’t know why he’s still so hung up on this. It’s something he’d never consider, so why is it so hard for him to stop thinking about it? Paying someone to have sex with him? Jake doesn’t need to do that, he just needs to walk into any club in San Diego and give it five minutes. 
It would be nice to have someone to take to all his business events though. The jokes at his expense about still being a bachelor are getting predictable and annoying. And having someone with him would discourage all the up-and-comers from trying to network with him. You don’t network with a man like Jake Seresin. He’s the top of the network.
But he wouldn’t have to think about any of that if someone else was occupying his attention. The thought of not coming home to an empty penthouse doesn’t sound awful either. Maybe Natasha was right—not that he’d ever tell her—if he did it on his terms, he could possibly see it working. Jake picks up the business card between his fingers.
“Mr. Seresin?” There’s a short knock on his door. “The architect is here to see you.”
Jake drops the card back onto his desk. “Send him in.”
The business card—and all its meanings—drift to the back of Jake’s head as the oak door of his office opens. Large, muddied Carhartt boots dirty his floor as they step inside, connected to the long, stocky legs of a mustached man already grinning with no regard for the flecks of dried mud he’s littering the carpet with. He plays with the cap on top of his head, his unruly curls only just stuffed behind the brim. All and all, he does not appear to be acting like the kind of man who is 15 minutes late to a meeting. Jake expected as much.
“By all means,” Jake gestures to the chair that Bradley still has yet to sit in. “Please, continue to waste more of my time.”
Bradley laughs off the jab—which makes Jake’s jaw tick—still walking leisurely to Jake’s office desk. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Seresin. I never waste your time.” Finally, he plops down in the upholstered leather, that stupid, smug grin still on his face.
Jake trains his features to not reveal his agitation. He clears his throat, folding his hands on the desk. “Did you bring the blueprints?”
As a response, Bradley pulls the rolled up paper from his bag. “I think you’re gonna like this,” he turns to Jake excitedly, smoothing out the blueprint as he unrolls them. “I finally found a workaround for the land issue.”
He moves to lay his papers out on Jake’s desk, but pauses when a slip of paper catches his eye. Jake clocks it quickly, hand snapping out to swipe the business card from the mahogany wood, but it’s too late, as Bradley’s eyes light up mischievously. His lips stretch out into a grin, blueprints now forgotten as he flicks his gaze to Jake’s already unamused expression. 
“Is someone feeling lonely?” And Jake wants to roll his eyes because this is now the second time someone has assumed he’s needed company and the fact that Bradley thinks that he has any sway in Jake’s life is downright insulting.
He flips the card over in his fingers. “It was Natasha’s idea.” He could bring up the point that Bradley had not looked at that card nearly long enough to read it and the fact that he recognized it instantly means he’s probably spent more time looking at it than Jake has, but he doesn’t because ultimately he doesn’t care that much about Bradley’s personal life.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” Bradley holds his hands up teasingly, the blueprint between his fingers making the sound plastic makes when you wiggle it as he lifts them. “If I had your money, I’d be interested too.”
Jake wrinkles his nose. “You’d be interested in having an escort?” Jake can hardly reason what need he’d have for that kind of companion, let alone someone like the mustached man in front of him. He’s also not quite sure what to make of everyone’s oh so casual admittance of seemingly needing to pay for sexual and romantic affection.
“Not just an escort, but one of Penny’s girls? Fuck yeah.”
Jake’s eye twitches at Bradley’s lack of professionalism and normally he’d spend the next several minutes chewing the inside of his cheek as he tries not to roll his eyes at everything Bradley says after, but his words catch him off guard and Jake pauses. “What do you mean?”
“I swear to God, they’ve got to have, like, cocaine running through their veins or something,” Bradley hardly elaborates. “I’ve seen the stingiest assholes in the business just about hand those girls their life savings on a silver platter. One of my buddies even heard that Penny had to put something in their contracts because all the guys kept trying to propose.”
Jake furrows his brows. Maybe it was his immense distaste for socialization—especially with the kinds of people in his circle—but when Natasha had first suggested Penny Benjamin's Escort Agency, it hardly sparked any recognition in Jake. He certainly didn’t know that it was renowned enough for his architect to have heard of it.
The cream colored card suddenly feels heavier between his fingers, as if to draw attention to itself once more. (619) 458-2764. At this point it’s embarrassing. And it’s not a conversation he should be having with Bradley Bradshaw of all people.
Clearing his throat, Jake wordlessly put the card away in one of his desk drawers. “What was your workaround to the land issue?”
Unsurprisingly, Bradley scoffs with a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Right.” He stresses the word. “If you don’t want to talk about how lonely you are, I guess we can move on.”
This time Jake can’t suppress his irritation as Bradley moves to once again unroll his blueprints on Jake’s desk. Why does everyone keep saying that he’s lonely?
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Your shoulders feel stiff, almost dangling from your ears like earrings as Beau’s hand gets comfortable on your hip. He hadn’t touched you in the car—he barely even looked up from his phone—but now you’re in the lobby of a hotel as he leads you towards whatever outrageous ballroom is being used as a venue for tonight’s party. You’re not entirely sure what the party is for, but you’re not surprised about that. Beau doesn’t like talking business. Not with you anyway.
All you know is that you’re wearing a dress that probably made its debut on a runway in Paris and that Beau’s hand is now comfortably on your hip. 
You fiddle with the pendant on your necklace, being mindful not to gnaw on your lip like you usually do when you’re feeling this anxious. You don’t want to ruin the nude stain on your lips before you even say your first hello. One of your hands reaches down to gently lift the trail of your dress, the sheer yellow fabric brushing dangerously close to your Prada heels.
Beau glances at you, and maybe he notices the strain in your breathing because he squeezes your hip with a gentle firmness. “You look fine. Don’t worry about it.”
You nod, trying to muster up a reassuring “mh-hm” but it doesn’t come out audibly. You look fine. Your cuticles itch and your eyes dart down to the painted acrylics on your fingernails as you try to ignore the urge to pick at them. Fine. 
You suck in a deep breath, giving the clutch in your right hand a quick drumming of your fingers before Beau pushes open the doors of the hotel ballroom you’re walking into, ushering you inside with that hand on your hip. You’re almost too overwhelmed with the chatter, and outfits, and decor to be nervous anymore, and Beau doesn’t give you the chance to either as he catches eye of someone who must be important—if the length of Beau’s stride is any indication. You fumble a bit on your heels to keep with him.
“Mr. Reynolds.” Even Beau’s smile is serious and he holds out his hand to give the older man a firm handshake.
Mr. Reynolds looks like exactly the kind of man to belong where he is, you think. An appearance of importance so powerful that you don't even have to know his name to respect him. Looking at him—his clothes, and his hair, and the way he stands in front of you—you realize that Beau almost looks like an imitation in comparison. Everything Mr. Reynolds is, but less refined. You didn’t know that Beau could be less refined than anyone.
“Beau Simpson,” Mr. Reynolds shakes his hand before turning his gaze to you. His icy blue eyes have you itching to pull the top of your dress up, but you force your hands to stay where they are. “And this must be?”
Beau introduces you before you can open your mouth.
Mr. Reynolds is also accompanied by a woman—Scarlet, Mr. Reynolds informs you—and you try to smile at her warmly. She looks younger than you. Her dress is prettier too. Probably better than fine. Much like you, she doesn’t say anything either, only smiling politely at Beau and locking eyes with you occasionally as if speaking some silent language.
“—And this hotel,” Mr Reynolds’ laugh pulls you from Scarlet’s eyes as he gestures around the extravagant ballroom. “Can you believe Seresin’s built another one?”
“It’s quite impressive.” Beau clenches his jaw, his words coming out somewhat strained, and you manage to piece together that this new hotel must be the reason for this party. 
The small talk lasts just a minute longer before Mr Reynolds excuses himself, taking Scarlet with him, and Beau leads you on to the next group of guests. It’s like a song and dance—accompanied by the quartet in the background—of greeting people, and smiling politely, and listening as Beau talks before he’s managed to introduce you to nearly everyone in the room. Your feet are starting to ache slightly, but you know your night is far from over so you grin and bear it when you feel Beau’s hand on the small of your back.
“Why don’t you get yourself something to drink,” he suggests, not even looking at you as he juts his head up to try and catch where Mr. Reynolds had wandered off to. Even though he’s not paying attention to you, you still nod, shifting your clutch to your left hand before carefully making your way over to the bar. 
You nod politely to the people you only vaguely recognize as you pass them, lifting your fingers up for a wave once or twice. You don’t stop to say hi though, that’s not really your job right now. Your lips are pulled into a small smile because your mother always said that happiness looked good on you. In a way, you think she was right, you could see it in practice anytime you looked at her—the way she would glow, that effortless twinkle in her eyes. Your mother said that happiness looked good on you. 
Pete Mitchell said that you’re a pretty crier.
Pete came into your life at a time where it felt like all you did was cry. And something about that was comforting - that he still found you pretty at your absolute lowest. He took care of you when no one else would, introducing you to a lifestyle that you only ever used to dream about. You needed Pete and he knew that. He told you that he needed you too, that you came into his life and gave him purpose. 
He cared about you in his own way, you suppose. He bought you pretty things and he always let you have the window seat whenever you traveled in his private jet. He cared about you, but he didn’t care if you were happy. You still think about Pete sometimes, though it’s been a while since you’ve seen him, you just can’t help yourself. Unlike Beau, he always wanted to keep you talking. He wanted you to talk about your mom… your dad - all the sad things. He didn’t seem to care much about the mundane though, like the pretty dress you found at the mall or the fun brunch you had with a friend. It was only ever the stuff that made you cry.
You’re a pretty crier.
Pete ended up finding a woman he could see himself marrying—a woman he could see as an equal. (Though he didn’t use those words, you knew it was true.) And he decided that he didn’t want you anymore. So you said goodbye to Pete Mitchell and his pretty things and private jet and said hello to Beau Simpson. 
Beau was rougher than Pete had been. He really only wanted you around for appearances and, when you weren’t hanging off his arm at a party, he had little use for you otherwise. He’s nice enough to you—he gives you his black card and your own driver so you don’t spend your days pent up in his house. Sometimes he takes you out somewhere nice for dinner. Unlike your mother and Pete, Beau doesn’t really think that anything looks good on you. You always look fine. 
You try not to let it bother you, Beau Simpson is impressed by very little. But you want him to be impressed by you and your pretty dress and the fact that you can always smile at parties even if you don’t always want to. You want to be better than fine.
The bartender greets you warmly—albeit quickly—responding to your drink order with a simple nod before walking to the other side of the bar to tend to someone who looks far more important than you ever could. To his credit, the bartender makes your drink first, setting the glass down in front of you with another nod in response to your quiet “thank you”.
For a moment you make no move for the drink, simply watching the condensation roll off the glass. You watch a droplet of water roll all the way down to the dark granite bar below. At Beau’s house you always use coasters. Beau Simpson values very little, but he does value the usefulness of a coaster. Part of you wants to ask for one, just out of habit, but that’s silly and you’re sure Beau wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment. 
You only watch the water roll down your drink for a couple more seconds, before you can no longer stop yourself from snatching the glass into your hand. There’s a ring of water where your cup once was that reflects off the soft light of the chandelier hanging above and you wipe it away with your bare forearm quickly. 
“Excuse me.” A gruff voice speaks up suddenly, causing you to jolt. It all happens so quickly that it almost feels like it didn’t happen at all, but you stumble back in your surprise, knocking into the large chest of another person and tangling your legs with their own. More importantly though, your hand jerks and you manage to spill your drink all over yourself.
You look down at the dark splotch on your bodice and chest, the smell of alcohol playing at your nostrils. “My dress,” you say simply.
Calloused hands come to your bare biceps, holding onto them to stabilize you while they gently turn you around to face the body they belong to. Already your skin feels sticky, but that thought is only fleeting when you lock eyes with the man in front of you. 
His piercing, green eyes are looking down at you almost analytically, scanning over your facial expression as his hands continue to hold you by your arms. He’s dressed in a simple dress shirt and slacks—that almost appear to be a size too small for him with how his biceps and thighs bulge through the fabric—with a fitted suit jacket that must have been unbuttoned slowly but surely throughout the course of the night. Your eyes travel to his hair that’s slicked back against his head, but only enough to keep it out of his face, and he wears an expensive watch on his left wrist. It’s silver you note—you’re not really sure what to make of it, but you’ve learned that a man’s preference between silver and gold tells you a lot more about him than it should.
“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t entirely sound sorry, but he hardly seems like the kind of man that ever feels apologetic. His eyes trail down to the spill and you feel your skin crawl a bit, but for whatever reason this man has a way of making his intentions clear with his eyes alone. He’s not looking at you, just the spill on your dress. “There’s a bathroom somewhere outside if you want to clean up.”
You can only muster up a small nod, watching owlishly as the man releases your biceps and begins to effortlessly weave his way through the crowd. He doesn’t look back to check if you’re following him and you wonder if you should leave without telling Beau, but then you realize that you probably look absolutely ridiculous just standing there in an alcohol soaked dress and you follow after the stranger hastily.
It’s silent as he leads you out of the crowded ballroom and into the quiet hall, navigating his way towards the bathroom with a certainty that would make you think that he’s been here before. You want to say something, the silence making you uncomfortable, but he’s also quite an intimidating man. He looks like he doesn’t like talking.
“Um—”
“Here it is.” 
And then the stranger blinks in mild surprise at the sight of your open mouth, like he hadn’t expected you to start talking. The sharpness of his features soften just a bit at the sight of you—something akin to a scared, rain soaked kitten you’re sure. You think he might just ignore the fact that you’ve spoken at all and just gesture to the bathroom, but he instead looks at you expectantly. 
“I, uh.” You really don’t know what to say and the last thing you want to do is fumble through your words to a man who hardly looks like he cares. “Do you… think it will come out?”
The man’s eyes flick down, genuinely inspecting the fabric of your dress. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and your gaze lingers on it for a moment before the slight cock of his head pulls you away. “Not with just water. I’ll pay to have it dry cleaned.”
“Oh, that’s not—” Your eyes widen and you hold your hands out hastily. “That’s not necessary. You don’t have to— I can, uh… get another one.”
The stranger’s eyebrows raise just slightly and you wince once you register the way your words sound. Instead of responding, he sniffs, wiping at his nose with his thumb as he does a quick look around the empty hall. “Does Simpson always leave you like that?”
“Sorry?”
“I saw you come in with him,” he clarifies. For some reason, the man doesn’t seem the least bit sheepish asking something relatively personal. “Why let him take you to these things if he always ditches you?”
“He doesn’t ditch me,” you bristle slightly, crossing your arms over yourself though they almost stick to the soiled fabric of your dress. “And I don’t mind anyway.”
The man lets out a breath of a laugh. “You sure seem to like him, huh?”
“He’s nice to me,” you defend.
“Is that all it takes?” The stranger shoves his hands in his pockets, straightening slightly like he’s challenging you. “Someone’s just gotta be nice to you for you to like them?”
You know he’s trying to be condescending, but you don’t see anything wrong in his claims. Why shouldn’t you like someone who’s nice to you? Still, he’s making you feel silly so you only give him a small nod of your head.
To your surprise, the man only quirks his lips up at your admittance. It’s not a smile—more like the edge of a smirk. “Well then,” he leans his weight against the cream colored wallpaper. “You think if I insist on paying for your drycleaning, you’ll like me?”
You wet your lips, shifting on your heels as your fingers curl around each of your elbows. “It’s a possibility.”
The man seems amusedly impressed at your response. He stares at you for a moment, letting his eyes trail over the goosebumps littering your bare arms from the cold air conditioning in the hotel hall. He removes his hand from his pockets, letting them trail up to his lapels.
“I guess I’ll have to try harder then,” he shoots you a look that has your face heating, thighs clenching, saliva thickening. “Because I really want you to like me.”
Before you can muster up a feeble response, his jacket is sliding off his arms and he’s wrapping it around your shoulders. The charcoal fabric falls to your mid thigh, causing your stomach to stir at the realization. His hands find your biceps again and he looks at you with a lopsided smirk.
“How’m I doin’ now?”
There’s chills on your skin for an entirely different reason and you blink up at the man with a whispered “Good.”
He nods, looking at you for a moment longer before taking a step back. His jacket stays around your shoulders, shielding your only somewhat drying chest from the harsh A/C. The empty arms of it stay limp at your sides and your fingers tighten the fabric around you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you need to get back to Beau, but you can’t seem to pull away from this stranger. 
“What’s your name?” You ask feebly and then spit out your own name when you realize that you should probably introduce yourself first.
The man licks his lips almost thoughtfully. “Jake Seresin.”
In your head you see the glowing lights outside the hotel, the impressive font that catches your attention as Beau’s driver pulls the car into the valet, the numerous people tonight that have referred to him in your conversations. “This is—”
“My hotel?” Jake nods, his eyes still somewhat unreadable. “Yes, it is.”
“Oh, I’m… sorry.”
Jake’s nose wrinkles slightly. “Why are you sorry?”
“This is your party, I mean, don’t you want to be inside with everyone?” You gesture hesitantly to the way the two of you came.
“If I wanted to be inside with everyone, I would be,” Jake says like it’s simple. And maybe it should be that simple, but you’ve been around this lifestyle long enough to know that it isn’t. His face morphs into a somewhat blunt expression. “And don’t apologize if you have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Sor— I mean, okay,” you amend hastily. Jake nods in approval, making no move to continue the conversation. You shift on your heels. Your ankle almost buckles before you catch yourself. 
“Why— Why don’t you want to be inside with everyone? Aren’t we all celebrating the opening of this hotel?”
You’re worried you might have overstepped, said something you shouldn’t have—maybe you shouldn’t have spoken at all. You’ve learned that lesson fairly quickly with these types of men. You’re almost positive you’ve messed up when Jake turns his watch to look at the face.
“This hotel took three years to build,” he says suddenly when he looks up. He’s not looking at you though, turning so his back is leaning against one of the hall walls and he’s staring at the other one. “And you know what I did as soon as I finished it? I started plans to build another one.” He wipes a tired hand over his jaw. “I guess I just don’t really care about this kind of thing anymore.”
You look up at him hesitantly. “Well… What do you care about?”
Jake lets out a huff of a laugh. “You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”
“I don’t normally meet someone who answers them,” you say softly.
There’s a beat of silence where you know that both you and Jake can feel the weight of your words. “Tell you what,” he pushes off the wall to face you again. “I’ll tell you, but you have to admit that Beau Simpson isn’t nice.”
Your mouth falls open slightly. “I’m not saying that!”
“Why not?” Jake grins at your fluster. “Just say he’s mean. Come on, sweetheart, I know you don’t actually think he treats you right.”
“I do!” You protest, shaking your head to physically refute his words. “And I don’t think Beau’s mean!”
Jake ignores what you’re saying, gesturing around the empty hall. “No one else will hear you, I’m the only one here. Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” he teases.
Your lips pull into an uncontrollable pout and you tighten your crossed arms. “Why do you even care if I like Beau or not?”
For the smallest of seconds you feel like you’ve cornered the man, but Jake takes on your question with the ease that only a man like him would have. “I guess I just can’t believe that Beau Simpson could be liked by such a beautiful woman as yourself.”
Beautiful.
“So just humor me,” Jake continues and you seem to realize suddenly that you're standing in an empty hallway, with a stranger, in an alcohol stained dress and his jacket around your shoulders, and he thinks you’re beautiful. “What did he do to get you to come with him here tonight?”
And in this empty hallway, with a stranger who thinks you’re beautiful, in an alcohol stained dress and his jacket around your shoulders, you find yourself admitting something you hadn’t once told anyone the entire time you’ve been with Beau. 
“He paid me.”
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I don’t have a taglist but feel free to follow my library @jupitercometgold​​ if you want to be notified when I post
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hanxoxo111 · 3 months
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Me n who???
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suraemoon · 5 months
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one for the money, two for the show, i love you, honey. i’m ready, i’m ready to go.
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itzmeraven · 6 months
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“You're screwed up and brilliant, look like a million dollar man, so why is my heart broke?”
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beardedmrbean · 5 months
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pinkrosesdoll · 5 months
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BORN TO LANA
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miss-daytona24 · 8 months
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Lana del Rey - Million dollar man at ITunes festival (2012)
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lanaknowsitried0 · 2 years
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This is my fav performance from her <33
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dollkisses05 · 2 months
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She’s my personality at this point
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you’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million dollar man ୨୧
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jupitercomet · 5 months
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Two for the Show: Act I
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summary - When it comes to relationships, Jake Seresin is hardly conventional. He exchanges money for company and stress relief. He clears out a Tiffany's just because he can. He gives you everything you want like it's his job. But the one thing Jake Seresin doesn't do is fall in love - no matter how badly you wish he did.
warnings - sugar daddy au, ceo au, grumpy x sunshine, language, brief smut, reader has a somewhat toxic relationship with sex, themes around sex work and objectification, Jake is 6'7" because I said so
word count - 3.0k
million dollar man masterlist
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Your body bounces slightly on the firm mattress, the bed sheet already sticking to your perspired skin. It’s almost uncomfortable—like hotel bedding—and it rubs up against you in a way that has you arching to get away from it. Your hand falls limply next to your head and you extend it downward to grab a grounding handful of the sheets under your raised thighs. 
A pillow slides under your tailbone, keeping you propped up, and then he’s sliding back in and continuing his pace. A large hand grabs at your breast, squeezing it lewdly as the new angle has gentle moans leaving your lips and your eyes fluttering closed. His head drops to your chest, following his hand and biting and nipping at the skin roughly. In your head, you can see him looking at you, those green eyes teasing and lustful as he covers you in hickies. It feels good.
“Fuck,” he groans, raising his head suddenly. “You’re so tight.”
You preen, feeling saliva cool on your skin, and pat blindly for his hand. You want to hold his hand. But suddenly both his hands are holding on to the meat of your hips, fingers squeezing into you so hard you know it’ll leave bruises in the morning. You take it though, it almost feels good, your body bouncing as he thrusts into you harder.
Grunts fill the room, deep and masculine, overpowering your soft gasps. Eyes cinched closed, you let a hand trace up sweaty, muscled skin, your fingernails digging into his tough shoulder when a particularly rough thrust has you shifting against the mattress.
Still shrouded in darkness, your fingers trail up the soft skin of his neck and tangle in blond strands. They’re soft and just slightly wet against your skin. They remind you of something, it stirs in your belly like a kindle of recollection. You know the feeling and you’ve felt it before. Something so familiar, but so long ago you’ve almost forgotten.
It hits you suddenly. 
A feather boa. 
His hair almost feels like a feather boa against your palm and fingertips. But not just a feather boa, no, a purple one. The purple one your mother had that she’d whip out every Halloween, laying it out on her shoulders on top of her black dress. She wore the same thing every year, a black dress, a pointed hat that she’d always take off at some point during the night, and a purple boa. “I’m a witch,” she told you when you asked. And you wanted to argue that the costume hardly made her a witch and that she couldn’t just dress up as the same thing every year, but then you couldn’t really imagine her being anything else.
She’d hand out candy and the pointed hat would slip down to her eyes as she leaned down to drop chocolate bars in pillow cases—that was part of the reason she always took it off so quickly. She’d gasp softly at the costumes she saw, complimenting them and playing along with whatever they were dressed up as.
“Oh! Good evening, your majesty.”
“Batman… you probably want dark chocolate, right? No? Good choice.”
“A witch! I’m a witch too! Here, you get extra candy.”
When the night got later and the trick-or-treaters were few and far between, your mother would put on festive music on her old portable speaker. She’d dance in circles around your living room, playing with the boa and tickling your cheeks with it as she tried to convince you to dance with her. Being a tween, you never agreed easily, rolling your eyes and ducking away in embarrassment. But she’d get you eventually and then the two of you would be a dancing, laughing mess of purple feathers.
“Yeah, that’s right. It feels so good you’re crying, huh?” Large thumbs wipe your wet cheeks and it’s enough for your brows to cinch together. You hadn’t realized you started crying.
Your hand falls from purple boa hair, wrapping around that firm shoulder as his thrusts become more intense. A dominant hand wraps around your thigh, holding it open as you feel as though the air is being pushed from your lungs. There’s a stretch you feel, though it’s a familiar one, right in your pelvis and you let your grip on his shoulder tighten.
“Ja—” It comes out a strained gasp, hardly the beginning of a word and more a garbled mess of sounds. Your back arches, your eyes rolling, and throughout it all the steady thrusts continue.
Finally, you let your body deflate, regulating your breaths as a guttural groan fills your ears and then the thrusts stop. You wince when he pulls out but say nothing, blinking your eyes open as his weight lifts from the bed. Goosebumps rise on your skin from the sudden chill and you delicately reach for the bed sheets, pulling them over yourself as Beau rolls the condom off and starts getting dressed.
You watch him from where you’ve propped yourself up on the pillows. How he buttons up his shirt quickly and pushes back graying brown strands from his face. It’s when he’s firmly situated in his slacks, fingers moving to zip up the zipper and adjust his belt that you finally build up the nerve to speak.
“Are you coming back tonight?”
Beau sniffs, not even looking up from where he’s sliding his belt buckle through the strap. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
He doesn’t expect an answer from you—he never does—but you give him one anyway. “Okay.”
Not another word is spoken between the two of you. Beau looks down at his phone, lets out a quiet curse, and leaves without even looking at you. The second he shuts your door behind him, you fall down to your mattress, fighting the way tears fill your eyes by shoving the heels of your palms into your eye sockets. You let out a shaky breath, ignoring the dull ache between your thighs as you lock your bottom lip between your teeth.
This is the third time you'd pictured Jake Seresin while you were getting intimate with Beau. The third time you imagined his olive green eyes and his rugged hands trailing all over your body. The first time had been an accident, it had happened almost immediately after you’d met him. Beau hadn’t liked seeing you so close with the successful hotelier—especially when he realized you were wearing Jake’s jacket. Beau had you in the back of his car, but your thoughts couldn’t help but drift to the handsome stranger who had spilled his drink on you and suddenly it was his voice that was groaning in your ear and his hands holding you firmly by your hips.
You felt guilty. Of course you felt guilty. It felt like infidelity. Regardless of what your relationship was, you did have a relationship with Beau and he certainly wasn’t paying you to think about other men while you were having sex with him. You swore to yourself that you wouldn’t think about Jake again. That he was just some man who paid attention to you and that’s why you feel this way about him. 
So the next time you had sex with Beau, you focused on him, and the way he spoke, and the way he touched you. And you couldn’t finish. You faked it—not that Beau could tell the difference—and you spent the night alone in bed wondering if you’d ever see Jake again. Finally you just gave up on trying to be a good person and went back to pretending that all the intimacy you were experiencing was at the hands of Jake Seresin. It was just easier that way and Beau never really seemed to care that you hardly ever opened your eyes—he probably preferred it if you're honest. It was just easier.
You hold your breath until you’re sure that Beau has left. The sound of the front door closing just makes it to your room and, after five minutes, you still haven’t heard it open again. Carefully, you get up, stretching out your somewhat sore limbs as you rock on your feet hesitantly. Beau’s gone, you know he is, but still you can’t help but wait for him to come back.
That’s how it was when you first started living with him, you felt like a new puppy. You’d spend your days just waiting for Beau to come home and your nights trying to hide your excitement when he did because he never had that excitement for you. In the beginning, you craved his attention. You reveled in the moments he’d take care of you, the moments where he was even a tad bit soft.
As time went on, you got a better sense of what Beau Simpson wanted from you. He wanted someone to fuck when he was stressed and someone to be beautiful and polite at parties so that people would think that Beau had finally settled down with someone high class. He didn’t want someone who waited on the couch for him to come home or someone to take to dinner just because. Beau Simpson was not often inclined to take care of you.
Eventually you stopped expecting him to. You took the morsels of comfort you could get from him and didn’t ask for anything more. You stopped waiting for him to come home and you stopped wishing you could change him.
Your legs are still a little shaky as you make your way to your closet. You drop down to a squat, pushing past the skirts of expensive dresses and the rack of even more expensive shoes. Patting around a bit blindly, you wait for the sound and feel of plastic under your fingers. You pull out the bag, sparing another glance at the door even though Beau is long gone.
That night, Jake had insisted that you keep his jacket and, after Beau had finished reminding you who you belong to, he didn’t give it another thought. It had been far too easy to sneak the jacket up to your room.
You don’t really know what compelled you to keep it, but something about Jake Seresin had taken over you obsessively. And it’s not like you’d ever see him again, not while you were with Beau at least. Sliding your arms through the sleeves, you wrap the large jacket around yourself. It still smelled faintly of Jake, cedar wood and musky vanilla, and you feel your body relax under the soft fabric.
And maybe it wasn’t such a mystery why you couldn’t stop thinking about Jake. He was the first person in so long to treat you like you’re a person. There’s something about that—your whole conversation with him and the way he spoke to you—that you just can’t forget.
Getting up, you make your way back to bed. Exhaustion hangs heavy on you and you know you should at least clean off first, but you’re too tired. Physically and emotionally. Jake’s jacket stays wrapped around you as you pull up the blankets and finally let your eyes droop. You wonder if he’d think you were human now—if he saw you like this. If he’d still call you beautiful and answer your questions like they’re worth answering. 
You only get a few hours of sleep before your body wakes you again, but you blink your eyes open to find that you feel rested.
Letting out a breath, you gently peel yourself from bed. Delicately, you put Jake’s jacket back in the bag and hide it in your closet. You’ll take a shower, you decide as you pad to the en suite, picking up your phone from where it had been lazily discarded among your clothes on the floor. The device lights up as you lift it, two notifications revealing themselves once you get the item closer to your face.
Missed call from Penny
Penny: Call me when you have the chance.
Your nose wrinkles in confusion and you continue your walk to the bathroom. Penny had always been a notification you looked forward to seeing on your phone. She’s kind and was one of the first people in this life to actually care for you. She scooped you up where Pete had left you discarded and made sure you were always safe and comfortable with the men you were living with.
While she checked up on you occasionally, most of her texts came around the time your contracts were expiring and Beau still had several more months before that would ever become an issue. Fearing the worst, you click on her contact quickly—still standing naked in your bathroom as you bite at your nail anxiously.
“Hello?”
“Penny?” You check quietly. “You said you wanted me to call you?”
From the other end, Penny sighs and you feel your stomach plummet. “Honey…” She starts, sympathy heavy in her tone. “Did you ever have a conversation with Jake Seresin?”
You feel sick. She knows. She knows that you haven’t been able to stop thinking about Jake Seresin, that you sleep in his jacket, and want him to want you more than anything. She probably thinks you're pathetic and naive. Just some little girl who likes pretty things. She’s probably here to remind you what your job is and to whom.
“Honey?” Penny tries again and you realize you haven’t responded yet.
“I have,” you confirm quickly. “I did the night Beau took me to his hotel opening.”
Penny’s quiet for a moment and you take the time to swipe your bathrobe from its hook and throw it over yourself. Something in you tells you that this isn’t the kind of conversation you want to have naked in a bathroom.
“Did you tell him about your arrangement with Beau Simpson?”
Her words dump over you like ice water and you almost drop your phone. “What?” You lock eyes with yourself in the mirror and they’re wide and startled, you feel like a little kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar. Your chest starts rising and falling more quickly. Your throat feels like it’s constricting, like you can’t even bring oxygen into your lungs let alone keep it there.
“Honey,” Penny starts again slowly, a sense of knowing in her voice as she speaks to you calmly. “I need to know if you told Jake Seresin about your relationship with Beau—”
“It was an accident!” You confess finally, tears pricking at your waterline.
Penny sighs heavily. “I know that, I know. But apparently he came to Beau Simpson a few hours ago and revealed what he knew of the situation in a… less than private way.” Penny stops speaking for several beats. “Beau Simpson called me a bit ago and said that he no longer wishes to continue your arrangement. He— He requested that you be gone by the time he gets back tonight.”
“What?” You’re hyperventilating now, eyes darting around the bathroom. Everything's happening so fast. You just woke up. All you wanted to do was take a shower. Beau wanted you to leave? He didn’t want you anymore? That can’t be true, just a few hours ago he wanted you. He wouldn’t just discard you like that. “He can’t— I— We have a contract! He signed a contract, Penny!”
“You broke that contract, honey,” Penny tries to put delicately.
“But I didn’t mean to! Please, I didn’t mean to! I don’t want to go! Why is he making me go?” You feel hysterical, tears rolling down your cheeks as you sink to the floor of your bathroom. Except, it’s not yours anymore.
You just don’t understand. Mere hours ago he was having sex with you. And now he never wants to see you again? You know Beau Simpson doesn’t love you, you know that. But you thought he at least cared about you—he was nice to you in his own way and he bought you so many things. But suddenly you make a mistake and all that doesn’t matter?
No.
No, you may have made a mistake, but it was Jake Seresin who weaponized it. Because all he saw you as was a way to get back at his so-called rival. That’s the only reason he bothered talking to you in the first place—he saw you come in with Beau. And then you told him something that he could use against the older man and suddenly pretending to be interested in you and answering your silly questions was all worth it because he got what he wanted. 
You can’t believe you ever thought Jake Seresin was different. That he actually cared about you and your feelings and was the kind of guy who could make you feel so special. No, he’s just like everyone else.
“Honey, I know. I’m so sorry.” Penny pulls you back to the current phone call and the tears dripping down your chin. “But…” She trails off.
There’s more?
You sniffle. “What?”
“Because of how… unexpected this is, I don’t have another client lined up for you.”
You feel more tears well in your eyes. So you were stuck. All you can do is wait around, unpaid, and just hope that a client comes to you fast enough. “So that’s it?” You wipe at your cheek. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”
“Well,” Penny suddenly sounds nervous and you find that incredibly odd since you’ve never known Penny Benjamin to be nervous. “I don’t have any clients lined up for you, but there is a client who’s interested…”
You know the name before it even leaves her lips.
“Jake Seresin has asked to make an arrangement with you.”
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Jake taglist:
@dempy 
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