#motel brochure
Text
love on me
iv. you're exciting, boy come find me. (di!leon x fem reader)
author's note: yayyyyyy, fourth entry !
cw: NSFW MDNI. love hotels. p in v. oral (f receiving and m receiving).
part 4 of ree's leon valentine's advent
If he had been born under different circumstances, Leon swears he'd surely become a beach bum. Better an idle man rather than get smacked by bioweapons day in and night out, not only that, but have the top brass of good ol' U.S of A breathing down his neck constantly. Yet, he's a man who has seen things, he'd already vowed to protect whatever and whoever he can. Cold and cruel this life may be.
So he loves the warmth of the sun on him, lying down on a sun lounger sipping on dry drinks. Enjoy the view in the tropics of crystalline beaches and white sand on his feet, letting loose and relaxing himself.
Unfortunately, after the events of Alcatraz, maybe he's had enough of the sea for now. He gives himself a pat on the back, takes out a chunk of his savings to go to Japan because you've been eyeing it. You said you were interested in the food, culture, and sights.
So here he is, you in hand, his cute girlfriend clinging onto his bicep like a bunny that hopped in excitement at every interesting thing you see because you're adorable to him like that.
You were extra flirty too, Leon had chalked it up to you being over the moon because you were finally in Japan after so long of dreaming it, he's smug and pleased with himself, he likes the good boyfriend brownie points, but you had other things in mind.
"Bunny, aren't you cold?"
Leon cocked his head to the side to take a look at you, in your skirt, crop top, and cardigan combo. He's not the type of man to control women and their clothing. Come on, don't people listen to Beyonce? Girls run the world. He doesn't really know who the fuck Beyonce is but he does know Sherry listens to the song.
"Nope."
You give him a cheeky grin, shaking your head.
"Besides, you'll warm me up anyway."
You say this with a wink as you both card through the busy streets of Tokyo as Leon gives you an innocent grin, oblivious to your intent.
"Of course I would bunny. I take care of my pretty girl."
He coos, before giving you a chaste kiss on your forehead, you giggle at how he missed your innuendo before smirking.
"I wanna go somewhere."
You reply as you slide your hand to lace both your fingers together, his calloused ones enveloping your own as you all but drag him to the busy streets.
You turn him around to an alley, google maps pulled up on your free hand as you show him, what seems to be a rather flashy building illuminated by red neon lights and blinged up signs. It was like the establishment wanted to be purposefully flamboyant.
"What am I looking at bunny?"
You flash him a toothy grin, Leon knows that glint of mischief in your eyes as you reply.
"A love hotel."
Leon is floored.
"A what now? A motel? Bunny, if you were horny I'd be hauling your ass back to the hotel room right now."
He breathes out, smoke escaping from his lips as he quirks an eyebrow at you, but you giggle.
"This is different!"
No shit.
Leon thinks inwardly as sapphire eyes scan the building once more. Motels for sex used to be inconspicuous during his time. He really is getting old.
"You wanna check in bunny?"
You nod your head quite excitedly with a huge grin on her face, there's no mistaking it. Your eagerness, and Leon relents. Of course you would want a vacation and his cock. No surprise there.
Leon sighs and squeezes your hand, being the gentleman that he is, leading you inside of the garish establishment. He'd be lyin g if he says he isn't the least bit interesting, you were always the more exciting and free-spirited one.
On the reception counter, he waits for the key, with you standing just beside him, hands still entwined. As Leon grew curious, you grew embarrassed. The lobby was decorated with red. Red hearts, mirrors, sensual posters, and oh god, the brochures on a nearby rack that had photos of toys and costumes
You're fairly aware that love hotels are popular, but now that you're gonna experience this for yourself, bashfulness and your own eagerness had you blushing.
Leon could see you, feel how you'd gone and overheated in his arms and you both aren't in the room yet. He chuckles, squeezing you. You got him going now, as a shiver runs down his spine.
"Are you interested in a specific suite? You can take a look on our brochure here."
The receptionist asks and Leon shakes his head.
"We're fine with anything."
The receptionist nods, handing Leon the key as he cooly leads you to the designated room. Despite his laidback demeanor, Leon is already briskly walking, adrenaline in his veins.
As you both reached the designated room, he eases the key in the lock as it opens with a low clicking sound. He leads you inside first, following behind but not before locking the door while you turn the lights on. Another clicking sound, the lighting is a kind of low red and Leon blinks as he follows in, you both inspect the room with amusement and fascination.
There inside the center of the room is a queen round bed, with a heart-shaped headboard, covered in satin sheets and what seems to be a confetti of hearts on the foot of the bead, even the pillows were heart-shaped, and the most ridiculous part were the mirrors. Everywhere. Mirrors on the wall, on the ceiling, mirrors of various shapes and sizes at each of the walls. Red, heart-shaped lounge chairs and a faux tiger rug. Gaudy as the room is, it certainly looks like a place to fuck alright.
Your eyes slowly adjust to the light, but you were beaten by Leon, who is certainly not the least bit captivated by the interior choices. He did, however, wanted to fuck you in it. He's already dropped his coat on the floor before proceeding to toss his shirt away as he stares at you with an amused smirk while you stood speechless.
"You embarrassed now?
He asks while putting his hands on your waist before turning you around to face him. Face his smug face smirking at you.
"Who? Me?"
You reply with a cocky tone.
"Nah."
You wink at him and he chuckles, he takes your hand pulling you to him as he strides to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Figures," he shrugs "You always wanna fuck me. Don't you, bunny?"
He coos before kissing your palms, your fingertips brush across his lower lip, and he kisses your fingertips one by one, the small act only making you shiver.
"Is that a problem?"
You ask him as that familiar warmth pools in your stomach, he had just finished unbuckling his belt and is now rubbing his hands on your thighs, before peeling your skirt off of you.
He gives you that same handsome grin, there was a sparkle in his eyes and you blush. You take off the rest of your upper clothing to help him before Leon pulls you to sit on his lap, his pretty bunny.
He presses his lips into yours in a sweet kiss, before sweeping his tongue on your lower lip, a cue to open your mouth, proceeding to stick his tongue inside your mouth, tasting you and you sink into his lap. The kiss a passionate tango and as you both part for air, his lips connects to yours with a thin strand of saliva. He swipes it with his thumb before chuckling.
"You're so fucking pretty."
He breathes out before lifting you up, only to place you gently on the bed. Leon's eyes roam over your voluptuous figure, smirking at the dampness on your underwear, he kneels down, peeling that last pesky article of clothing off of you, already admiring how swollen your clit is already.
"So fucking hot too."
He murmurs against your skin as he trails kisses on your ankle, your knees, and up your thighs.
Your breath hitches on your throat, you feel yourself soaking the sheets with every kiss.
Your blissed out face doesn't escape Leon and he smirks, he presses another kiss on your pelvis, before he presses a kiss on your clit. It was like a greeting, in his silly mind.
His cold breath against fans against your skin before he takes a long, languid lick on your pussy.
Your hands immediately reach down to grip fistfuls of his dark hair, pulling him closer as he licked over your slit, lapping at your essence.
"Fuck, Leon."
You whimper, tossing your head back and Leon smirks against your pussy. He always liked seeing you coming undone with his mouth. His tongue dips into your entrance, the wet appendage flicking and curling inside you.
He presses his thumb on your clit while his mouth still worked on you, relishing in your sweet taste and breathy moans while you could only shut her eyes closed and sob his name helplessly.
He doesn't let up, he pulls his tongue out to wrap your clit in his warm mouth and sucking it, inserting two fingers inside your sopping wet pussy. Scissoring and curling inside you while his tongue flicks and sucks on the hood of your clit. It doesn't take look that you gush around his fingers in an orgasm and he smirks. He let's you breath, admiring your flushed face as he stood up. Takes his boxers off and his thick cock springs out, already erect leaking with precum. He stands beside your face.
"Suck."
Despite his domineering voice, he looks at you with soft eyes and you turn your body to his direction, you sit up on the bed. With a lick of your lips, your fingers trail over his abs, before your tongue sweeps across his slit, swiping it clean with his precum and he grunts, his body tensing in your touch.
"Fuck yeah."
He hisses through gritted teeth as your tongue swirls around the head before engulfing his dick with your mouth. You dip your head, swallowing him deeper as your hands grab his waits, until his length reaches the back of your throat, knowing he was looking, you don't break eye contact and you suck his cock, thick on your tongue and rolling your eyes while he looks.
"Shit, bunny. So pretty sucking cock like that."
Leon's voice is throaty and you know he likes what he sees, his dick practically jumped in your mouth and you moan. The vibrations make him shiver violently, and he grunts.
"Goddamn."
He breathes, patting your cheeks, A signal for you to stop and you peels yourself off him with a pout like he had just taken your favorite lollipop. Which is true, he is after all, your favorite lollipop.
"Don't be upset now. You suck cock so good, I won't last long."
You both laugh in unison as he breathes in to calm himself, while stroke his cock, he twirls a finger around.
"Turn around for me, bunny. On your fours if you wanna be good."
You hum in response, turning your back to bend over for him. You arch your back, with your ass perked up against him. In that moment, you understand why Leon wanted to fuck you from behind. The image of you bent over and him standing up, his dick plush on your ass is reflected in all of the mirrors on the walls and you let out a scandalized gasp while Leon only chuckles, sensing your embarrassment.
"Wanna see you moan while I pound you into that fucking mattress."
Leon winks at you from the mirror and you see his smug expression reflected everywhere. He kisses your ass cheeks, he's too horny out his damn mind now. He's inside you with one strong thrust, his thick cock all the way inside and he shuts his eyes close. Stilling for a moment to let you adjust to his sized as you close your eyes and whimper.
"Jesus Christ… no matter how many times I fuck this pussy."
He groans, sweeping his auburn strands before steadying his grip on your waist.
"It never gets used to me. Poor little thing."
The fullness makes you squirm and he savors the addictive feeling of your walls clenching on his cock desperate to get him to just fit. You're pressed against the mattress, your pathetic moans muffled by the sheets.
When he starts to thrust, finding that rhythm, your body jerks forward with every rock of his hips. His body moves to cover your own.
"Watch us baby."
He whispers, his tongue sweeping on the shell of your ear and you could only whimper. Clutching the sheets as he finds his rhythm with his hips rocking against yours.
"Look. Don't hide."
He raps before tugging on your hair to forcibly lift up your face while his free hand tug on your arms. You find yourself feeling small with Leon's muscular body covering you. The muscles on his arm flex as both his hands are now grabbing your arms and your hair. The way his muscles pulled and flexed as his hips slams against her ass, the way your ass bounced on him, the thin layer of sweat that coated his torso, the way his mouth hung open in ragged breaths, the way your breasts bounce at every thrust. You feel so turned on at the sight it was crazy. It looked so erotic. This only elicits louder moans from you, while you move back against him, meeting his thrusts.
"Shit!"
Leon groans, clenching his jaw. This positions and rhythm was blowing his mind, coupled with how your face twists into pleasure and the heat that coiled in his stomach. This was so fucking hot, he really wouldn't last long.
"Come here"
He whispers, planting a kiss on your shoulder, before pulling out which makes you whine in displeasure. He chuckles, both his hands grab you, picking you up. Manhandling your ass to pin you down the mattress.
"Shh," he coos. "Not done with you yet bunny."
He chuckles before kissing your nose, guiding himself back inside your pussy. You chuckle as you look at the mirror on the ceiling.
"You've always had a nice ass."
You tease, despite the breathlessness of your voice and Leon only cocks his head to the side in confusion before following your line of sight, remembering that there was a mirror atop the ceiling and he chuckles, a rush of desire running through his veins with the sight of tangled limbs.
"Yeah, so?" His tone full of sass as he smirks. "Jealous much?"
You laugh as he places his fingers under your jawline, bringing your face close before crashing his lips down yours in a sloppy kiss, before moving inside you again. His pace rougher and faster, cock slamming down your pussy like a freight train as you lock your legs around his waist tight, bringing him close before you bite down on his shoulder and Leon hisses a curse.
He peels your legs off of him first before hooking your legs above his shoulders. He growls, this position slips him in deeper, and you squeeze his cock tighter.
"Holy fucking shit!
He exclaims, it's no secret that you both are vocal in the bedroom. You both love verbally assuring each other that the pleasure is mutual, you were always the louder one, but this time it was Leon. Completely pussy whipped with every clench of your walls.
"Got me drunk on this tight fucking pussy."
He grunts and your hands reach out to grab his hips, slamming down on you rougher with every thrust. Your nails digging on the flesh of his waist and he moans. His jaw slacked, sweat dripping down.
"I'm gonna cum inside yeah? Gonna fill this tight pussy up for making me this rabid."
He laughs as his thrusts become erratic. He knows you're close, just like you know that he's close as well.
"Goddamn, got me addicted to pussy."
He moans and your toes curl as he slams into you one last time. His body tensing up, shooting ropes of his cum inside you as you both climax together.
"Yeah, bunny. So good for me. Creaming on this cock like a good girl."
He soothes you, kissing your forehead as you tremble beneath him in the intensity of your orgasm, he looks at you intently. Rubbing your body gently. Not pulling out yet as you gush around his cock.
"You're so pretty when you cum."
He hums. You both cuddle up for a minute to calm down before he pulls out.
Much to Leon's surprise, you whine.
"Lovey… don't pull out yet…"
Leon chuckles, pulling you into his arms to cradle your body.
"Yeah? Give me a minute. Have mercy on the lil guy."
You giggle softly, you were feeling fuzzy and the throbbing in your pussy suggests you were not fully sated yet, and with the way Leon looks at you like a hawk, he wants another too.
"There's nothing little about that."
You retort, giving his chest a little slip and he has a proud look on his face.
"Yeah? Maybe I'll compare it with those next time. Gonna use it on you."
He winks, pointing at the assortment of toys just neatly placed on the bedside table that went unnoticed in the heat of your lovemaking, as you both share a hearty laugh.
#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy#leon scott kennedy#leon s kennedy#leon kennedy x y/n#leon kennedy x you#leon x reader#resident evil#resident evil x you#resident evil x reader#leon kennedy smut#leon s kennedy x you#leon s kennedy x reader#leon s kennedy smut#leon smut
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La Concha Motel, 1969. Photos for a brochure by Hank DeLespinasse.
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Passenger / Chapter 5
Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust
Chapter Five: Wyoming (Part Two)
[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ Spotify Playlist ]
Chapter Summary: Charlie and Din test the waters.
Rating: Explicit (18+ only)
Word Count: 7.8k+
Content / Warnings: yearning, horny thoughts, anger problems, crying, food mention, handcuffs, hi yes the only one bed trope is alive and well, unlike the Titanic (it's relevant I promise), small town, lying, fictional town, sorry to Wyoming-ites if I got WY all wrong, (Bernie Sanders voice) I am once again talking about The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Notes: Howdy, howdy. We are balls deep in the yearning with this one, folks. Thank you @frannyzooey for proofreading and being the literal best, I appreciate you endlessly.
Just like Paul promised, The Jackalope Motel is conveniently located straight across the county road from Giddyup Auto.
The single-story, L-shaped motel, whose faded roadside sign advertises low weekly rates and color TV, shares a gravel parking lot with a two-pump gas station. Its brick exterior is painted a pallid shade of yellow, all ten room doors varnished with this glossy teal finish.
Nestled into the elbow of the building sits a white screen door with the words MOTEL OFFICE printed on the front.
Din departs from your side to hold the door open, an action you assure yourself is rooted less in chivalry than it is him not wanting to turn his back to you. A loud creak sounds from the battered door and announces your arrival. The dog charges through the threshold, pulling his leash taut in your grip as you step inside the cramped, wood-paneled office.
An elderly woman perks up on her barstool behind the front desk. She stubs out her lit cigarette in a nearby ashtray and calls in a husky voice, “Howdy, howdy.”
“Hi there,” you smile, glancing back at Din to determine who will take the lead in this interaction.
He does, taking three wide strides past you to the counter. As he moves through the room, a thick sea of smoke parts for him, churning and dancing in his wake.
“We need a room. Two nights for now.”
The gray-haired woman pulls the glasses hanging on a chain around her neck onto the bridge of her nose, “Let me see here…”
At your feet, the dog sniffs his surroundings. He follows an invisible trail to a tattered plaid couch. You follow, listening to Din and the motel manager discuss lodging arrangements.
“I got a couple two three rooms open, I can stick you in one away from the rabble rousers. Somethin’ more private,” she winks at him.
His back straightens and he holds up a hand, “Do you have anything with two beds?”
The mischievous look on her face flattens and she raises her eyebrows, looking down at her books with a frown, “‘Fraid I don’t.”
Din looks over at you, his face blank, eyes inscrutable behind his aviators, then turns back to the woman and gives her a nod, “Anything you have is fine, then.”
He takes out his wallet as she starts getting paperwork together. You gravitate towards a wall of faded, dusty brochures that advertise Western Wyoming’s finest tourist traps, including, but not limited to: a cowboy-themed amusement park, guided tours of mountain ranges and caves, horseback riding expeditions, and hot springs.
“What brings y’all to town?”
When you turn to Din, he gives you a mild, one-shouldered shrug, so you tell her, “His rig broke down about an hour from here. Paul—do you know Paul?”
She chuckles and nods, “I’ve known Paul since he was in diapers. Used to watch him for his momma while she was at work.”
“No kidding?” you approach the tall front desk, propping your elbows up on the counter, “He’s fixing the truck. Really nice guy, referred us to this place ‘cuz we don’t know how long it’ll take.”
“Can I get your ID, hun?” she asks Din, who complies without comment, then she glances up at you while jotting down your companion’s information, “He’ll get y’all fixed up good. We got a few things to do ‘round here if you get tireda bein’ holed up here. A few parks, some trails. There’s a fella that has a ranch just on the outskirts of town, he does horseback riding, if that squeezes your lemon. Downtown, we got some bars, coupla places to eat ‘n’ all that,” she hands the ID back to Din, sighing, “Nothin’ fancy, but better ‘n nothin’ at all.”
“We don’t need fancy,” you grin at Din, who does not return the sentiment, then ask the motel manager, “What’s your name?”
“Annie.”
“I love that name,” you smile, “Annie Get Your Gun.”
She smiles, too, toothy and wide, revealing her too-perfect teeth–obviously dentures–and says, “You know, I was actually named after her. Annie Oakley.”
“That’s awesome. A fantastic namesake, she was a true badass.”
“She sure was,” Annie nods and takes the glasses off her face, letting them drop around her neck from the glasses chain, “Well, the room comes to $59 per night, plus taxes and fees, ends up runnin’ closerta $75. Do you wanna settle the tab for two nights now, or see if you needta tack on more and take care of it at checkout?”
You look over at Din, who answers, “We can settle at checkout.”
“Fine with me,” she swivels on her little stool and stands to grab a key off the wall behind her, “We got an ice maker and vending machine outside the door here, don’t be too loud, and pick up after yer dog. Any questions?”
She slides a key across the counter, whose big turquoise keychain reads 10 in metallic gold, and glances between you and Din. He grabs it, and you respond, “No ma’am.”
“Alright, well, let me know if y’all need anything.”
“Will do, thank you, Annie,” you give her a polite wave before following Din outside, pulling the dog along behind you.
The room smells of bleach and water damage.
Much like the office, its walls are all wood-paneled with a dull oak finish. A framed painting of a bunny with deer antlers hangs above the queen sized bed. As you try to untangle the leash from your guitar and backpack, you nod at the painting and chuckle, “A jackalope.”
Din grunts in response. He tosses his backpack on the bed, then turns to the dog, crouching down to unclip his leash from the collar. The dog reacts like he’s hit with a cattle-prod and goes zooming around the motel room in a lop-sided oval.
You start giggling as he tears over the bed, to the bathroom door where he makes a U-turn and speeds past the dresser, then your feet, then Din’s, then does it again, around and around until he runs out of steam. He comes to rest on the fireproof, floral bedspread, circa 1984, and leans back on his haunches, panting and out of breath, tongue hanging out of his jowls, glancing between you and his person.
“Feel better?” Din asks him, and he sneezes.
You go to the window, pulling the top pane down to let crisp October air spill into the room, carrying with it the earthy scent of organic decay. When you close your eyes and inhale, you see piles of raked-up maple leaves, those big mosaics of orange and red and yellow and brown, hiding rot underneath. It reminds you of home.
You turn to your captor, who seems to be inspecting the bathroom. He flicks the bathroom light on and peeks inside while you release an exaggerated sigh, “So, Din.”
He brings his attention to you and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows in question.
“That is your name, right?”
“It is.”
A smile spreads across your face.
The fact that you’re able to put a name to this man, brings you a surprising amount of joy. He seems less like a force now, and more like a person. Which, you suppose, is probably why he didn’t formally introduce himself before shoving your face into a trailer door and abducting you.
“Great, well—Din, it’s nice to actually meet you,” you cross the room and extend your hand to him. All he does for a moment is stare at it, until you tease, “Aw, come on. I don’t bite.”
“Maybe I do.”
Your lips part and you blink at him. When the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, your face transforms into a heater. This whole situation would be a lot easier if he wasn’t so handsome.
RULE #3: Keep your wits about you.
“Funny guy,” you snort, rolling your eyes in feigned annoyance, but continue to hold your hand out to him.
He takes it and gives it a firm shake. His palm is warm and calloused and his grip seems to swallow yours. Even though he’s wearing those stupid sunglasses, you can tell when his eyes meet yours because a jolt shoots through the middle of you. Your throat tightens and your cheeks get even hotter.
Before he can tell how flustered you are, you take your hand back and retreat to the bed, plopping down to scratch the dog as you ask, “What now? Do you wanna go explore this podunk town?”
“No. We’re staying here. The less we’re seen, the better.”
You groan and throw yourself back onto the bed. There’s a yellow-tinged water stain on the ceiling that almost looks like a face if you squint and tilt your head a little. It brings to mind this short story of a woman slowly losing her sanity while on “rest cure” to treat her depression. She’s forced to do absolutely nothing, and starts to see figures in the yellow wallpaper of her bedroom.
Granted, your situation is much different than the one Charlotte Perkins Gilman penned, but you still feel a sense of solidarity with her protagonist’s captivity. You feel antsy. Cooped up. The thick layer of grime on your skin becomes hard to ignore, and you remember it’s been a week since you last bathed.
“Can I at least shower?”
When he hesitates to respond, you can’t stop yourself from sitting up and scowling at him, “Seriously?”
“There’s a window in the bathroom.”
You stare at him blankly, “So, what, you think I’m going to—”
“Yes.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you get to your feet and stomp past him into the very retro, very pink bathroom, yanking the shower curtain open to inspect the window.
In all fairness, you could climb out of it if you really wanted to, but you still roll your eyes and tell him, “Probably can’t even fit through there.”
He just stares at you, unmoved.
Frustration simmers in your stomach. All that’s standing between you and the sweet relief of a shower is his lack of trust. There has to be a middle ground.
“What if—” your mouth clamps shut. You shift your weight from one leg, to the other, then shrug, “Would it make you feel better if you were in here while I showered?”
Din’s lips part, stunned for a moment before he carefully says, “Better isn’t the right word—”
“Ok, well, feel free to substitute ‘better’ with ‘more secure,’ or ‘reassured,’ or whatever. You know what I mean.”
He studies the window for a moment, the muscles in his jaw wiggling as he considers the compromise, then looks back at you and nods, “Sure.”
“How long will this take?”
From behind him, Din hears you wrestle clothing off your body into a pile on the floor as you say, “Five minutes, tops.”
The faucet squeaks, then the water comes to life with a stuttering hiss. Twin metallic swooshes signal the shower curtain being pulled open, then shut, then you moan, “Fuuuuck that’s so good.”
His imagination bucks out of his control, and for a moment the only image in his mind can conjure is his body pressed up against yours, skin on skin. How soft and warm you must be. How those words would taste on your lips. All the ways he could make you utter them again and again.
He thinks of your stubbornness, your defiance, and wonders what it would be like to break you. Would you like it?
I am not a good man.
Din squeezes his eyes shut and tries to flush out the deviant thoughts, reminding himself of the handsome bounty he’ll collect when he turns you over. The peace that financial security will bring him. He won’t have to live job-to-job with a white-knuckle grip on existence. He’ll have room to breathe. Maybe he’ll even be able to live a little.
Your honeyed voice pulls him out of his tail-spin.
“Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”
Din opens his eyes and stares at the bathroom door, shaking his head in amusement, thinking, Of course you sing in the shower.
It’s sort of nice, though. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of likes it.
Grogu, obviously feeling left out, scratches at the other side of the door, then lets out a disgruntled whine.
You stop singing and ask, “Is that the pup?”
“Yeah.”
The shower curtain rings squeak, then your voice is right next to him, “Let him in.”
Without thinking, he turns to you and scoffs, “No.”
Water drips off the ends of your sudsy white-blonde hair onto his boot. Your features pinch into a scowl, dark eyes searching his face, “What, why not?”
His gaze flicks to the blur of skin barely concealed behind the shower curtain, then to the pink tiled floor as heat rises to his face, “He’s just gonna jump in there and get wet.”
“So?”
“He’ll stink up the room.”
You snort, “You’re already doing that.“
Din goes to glare at you, but corrects himself and glares at the ceiling instead, “Sure that’s not you?”
You let out an exaggerated gasp that quickly dissolves into laughter, “You asshole.”
He looks down at the doorknob and shakes his head, stifling a chuckle.
“So rude,” you tease as you slide the curtain closed and step back into the steaming shower stream, “Come on, big guy, let the pup come in. He can’t possibly stink more than I did.”
Grogu scratches at the door again, this time letting out a sharp bark instead of a whine.
“Awww, listen to him,” you say, the pout evident in your voice, “So lonely, he just wants to be with us.”
Din rolls his eyes and twists the doorknob to let him in. The dog barrels into the room, skittering across the shiny, bubblegum pink ceramic into the empty garbage can. It goes toppling over, and he uses it like a bumper to correct his course towards the tub. He stands on his hind legs and peaks behind the shower curtain, then woofs for your attention.
“Hello handsome boy!”
Grogu starts panting with excitement, his nails clacking on the floor and the porcelain tub.
“Oh my goodness, do you want to come in here with me?”
He barks.
Din protests, “Don’t—”
“Ok, ready, here we go.”
Both you and the dog groan a little when you lift him, then Din hears clattering and splashing as he lands in the tub and starts flailing around in the water. A sharp giggle pierces his eardrums, making him wince, but there’s such an abundance of joy in your laughter and the dog’s playful growls, Din catches it secondhand and ends up smiling like an idiot.
“Look at you, happy pup! You love the water, don’t you?!”
Grogu lets out a low bow-wow and sneezes, which you respond to with a squeal of delight. Something tender and warm blooms in Din’s chest. Just as soon as he realizes its fragility, he stomps it out, snipping over his shoulder, “Are you almost done?”
The water shuts off with a loud clunk from the faucet and you respond, “Yep.”
Din ends up trying to dry off the wet, rowdy dog while you dig through your backpack.
“Do you think there’s a laundromat here?”
He glances up at you, eyes briefly trailing along the outline of your body beneath the fluffy white towel before he clears his throat, then says, “I don’t know.”
You sniff one of the sweatshirts from your backpack, shrug, and toss it onto the dresser.
“We should check. Everything in here is fucking rank,” you mutter while inspecting a pair of dark pants.
The dog zooms past, drawing Din’s attention, and he manages to scoop him up into a towel, “Gotcha!”
Whining and throwing his weight around like a fish out of water, Grogu tries to escape as Din dries him off. You turn and snort at the dog, “Good luck, I’ve been trying to do that for days,” then pad across the faded, low-rise carpet to the bathroom.
Din glances up at the oval-shaped mirror mounted to the wall, catching a glimpse of your reflection as you drop your towel. Stunned, he fumbles the task at hand and the dog flies from his grip like a bat out of hell.
“Shit,” he mutters, propping his hands on his hips, watching the little white dog torpedo from one end of the room to the other.
“This probably feels like wide open spaces to him after being cooped up in the truck, huh?” you chuckle from the bathroom.
His eyes betray him, flicking to your reflection again. At least you have pants on this time, the waistband of tight black leggings nestled into the dip of your waist. He studies the curve of your spine up to a compass tattooed between your shoulder blades. You pull a baggy maroon sweater over your head and spin around before he can look away. Shame creeps hot up his neck and makes him drop his gaze.
If you caught him staring, it doesn’t show. You just trot past him and throw yourself onto the old, squeaky mattress, stacking one foot atop the other as you stretch out.
Grogu breaks out of his orbit to hop up onto the bed and climb in your lap, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth. A giggle chirps up your throat, and you scratch between his ears, “Do you two have a home base, or just the truck?”
“Just the truck,” Din answers, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.
“Oooh a coupla rubber tramps,” you grin, “It’s fun, right? Nomad life?”
He tilts his head at you.
Is that why you do this? Because you think living on the road is fun?
His lack of response tugs at the arch of your brow. You look around the room, releasing a sigh through slack lips, making a pfpfpfpf sound, then ask, “Well, whaddya wanna do?”
Din pushes off the wall and starts towards an armoire that looks heirloom or at least second-hand, swinging open its solid oak doors to reveal an old tube TV. A shelf at the top of the cabinet stores a VCR and a few tapes.
“Finding anything fun?”
He reads movie titles off the faded VHS sleeves, “The Wedding Singer, Titanic, Pocahontas, Men in Black.”
“Anything you like?”
“I’m not much of a movie person,” he admits in a murmur, and casts a glance over his shoulder, “Do you have a preference?”
“Not really,” you shrug, “I’m not much of a movie person, either. You pick.”
Din swings his gaze back to the armoire, wrinkling his nose at the options, then pulls out the double-barreled VHS of Titanic and pops in the first tape.
After feeding the movie into the VCR, your captor goes to the little two-person dining room table in the corner of the room and grabs one of the chairs, carrying it over to the opposite side of the bed. You watch him the whole way, eyebrows raised, blinking with annoyance when he sits in the chair and kicks his feet up onto the bed.
“You’re really gonna watch a movie like that?”
He glances over at you, crossing his arms over his chest, “Like what?”
“With your whole,” you circle your wrist around your ear, “Incognito thing. Plus, boots? You can like… be comfortable, did you know that?”
His mouth flattens into a line. A few awkward seconds go by before it clicks and you nod in understanding, “But you can’t be comfortable around me, can you?”
He doesn’t answer. Not that you expect him to.
You grab the remote control off the nightstand and turn up the volume. With previews still running on the TV, you sigh and pull a pillow out from the cheap bedspread, plumping it up and adjusting yourself into a more relaxing position.
“I get it,” you mumble at the screen, “You think that in order for you to maintain this power dynamic, you can’t show belly.”
“Is that what I think?”
When you look over at him, he seems to be studying you through the tint of his aviators. You ask, “Isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer. Probably because he doesn’t want to admit you’re right. Better than him giving you some bullshit contrarian retort, you suppose, but his silence still burrows gritty between the layers of your skin.
“Whatever, man,” you scoff and roll your eyes, “If you wanna sit way over there in your stupid getup, that’s your decision, but it seems pretty fucking miserable for no good reason.”
His jaw gnashes back and forth a bit before he sits up and takes off his hat, tossing it onto the nightstand, then his sunglasses. His dark eyes meet yours, “Better?”
You look at his black leather boots.
He sighs and drops his feet to the ground, bending over to remove the boots one at a time. When he returns to his previous position, arms crossed over his broad chest, socked feet propped up on the bed, you suppress a grin and turn back to the movie.
"I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."
Beneath the thick, curved glass of the TV, the first VHS runs out of tape. Out of the corner of his eye, Din sees you sit up and throw your legs off the bed. Grogu croaks out a sleepy sound from beside you, rolling onto his back. You rise to your feet, asking, “Can we get something to eat before starting the second tape?”
Din glances down at his watch. 4:30. His stomach rumbles. Given the unpredictable twist this day has taken, food has largely remained at the back of his mind until now.
“We could walk further into town and see what we find. I bet the pup has to go potty, anyway. We could take him with us. Maybe Annie can give us a recommendation—”
He looks over at you to respond, but finds himself momentarily tongue-tied. You stretch your clasped hands skyward, pulling the hem of your sweater up to expose a generous slice of your midriff. You’re still distracted as rambling he stares, unable to stop his thoughts from returning to how soft and warm you must be.
His hungry skin aches, deep and throbbing, down to the marrow. An infection festering for years. Or longer. Decades, really.
He tries to recall how long it’s been since he felt the heat of another person. It was snowing, he remembers that much. She was one of those women that made her way around truck stops selling pleasure to lonely guys like him. Lot lizards, some of the truckers called them.
Was he in Colorado? Or was it Ohio?
He remembers the excruciating quiet as she stripped off her snow-clotted outer layers, revealing a petite brunette with wary eyes and a businesslike attitude. Not that he holds those things against her. It’s understandable. Advisable, even, given her line of work and clientele.
Her company didn’t do much to quell his hollow yearning for intimacy, but it was a release nonetheless.
“—So, what do you think?”
Din snaps out of the trance and meets your eyes, all warm and hopeful.
Goddamnit.
“You stay right next to me the whole time.”
“Do I get a treat if I’m good?” you smirk, one eyebrow raising in challenge.
The question bubbles hot at the base of his spine. He tries to keep his countenance neutral when he says, “We’ll see how you do.”
Grogu waddles over to the side of the bed closest to him and yowls for attention. Thankful for the diversion, Din reaches over and scratches the dog between his big ears, “Both of you.”
The dog sniffs the sidewalk a few feet ahead of you and Din, tethered to his owner by a leash. He zig-zags back and forth, completely engulfed in the sights and smells of this brand new world.
You find yourself in a similar state of awe and appreciation. Tilting your face up to the big cotton candy sky, you inhale two lungfuls of the most refreshingly crisp air you may have ever been blessed to receive. Yellow Seed was built in a valley, and it seems like everywhere you look there are mountains in the distance, dark and evergreen and ominous. A stark contrast to whatever magic is happening in the atmosphere.
The world feels so infinite and beautiful that if you let yourself, you could cry about it.
Too caught up in the moment to pay attention to your gait, you knock hands with Din. The impact makes your heart jump. You hear yourself stammer out an overreaction, “Oh shit—sorry, I um, didn’t mean to—”
“Might help if you stop daydreaming.”
“What’re you, my mother?” you scoff under your breath, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“What’s that?”
You glance over at him.
His smug smirk draws your attention briefly before you shake your head and change the subject, “Have you seen Titanic before?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“What made you pick it?”
He shrugs, “Long run time.”
“Shut up, that’s not the only reason, is it?” you laugh, “It’s not because you get to see Kate Winslet’s tits or anything, right?”
His head jerks back a little and his ears turn all red, “What? No—”
“I’m just giving you shit,” you snort.
He exhales an airy chuckle, and a few seconds go by before he asks, “What about you? Have you watched it before?”
His cadence is halting and rusty. Out of practice. You can tell he doesn’t make conversation often, but he’s trying and that’s… sort of sweet, actually.
“I have, but it’s been years. I think I was a kid, maybe six or seven, when I watched it with my grandma at her house,” you smile fondly at the memory, kicking a rock along the sidewalk, “She made me cover my eyes during the nudity and sex and stuff, but I totally peeked.”
“So you’ve always been a troublemaker.”
“I guess so, huh?” you chuckle.
The conversation dies a natural death, and for a while, the two of you just walk alongside each other, following the sidewalk further into Yellow Seed.
The houses you pass, like motel, auto shop, and gas station, all seem to have been built in the 1950’s with few updates since the 1990’s. Mid-century ramblers outfitted in white trim and chipped pastel paint—so much canary yellow. Neat lawns and landscaping and tattered American flags flapping in the wind. As the sidewalk brings you closer to the heart of the town, structures get older, more homes with front porches and earth-toned exteriors.
Downtown Yellow Seed barely occupies two city blocks. The businesses stand shoulder-to-shoulder, all of them constructed of brick or lumber, none of them within the last century. When you turn down the main drag, you squint and blur your vision so that the pickup trucks look like buggies, and you can picture exactly what it looked like when the roads were dirt paths carved out by wagon wheels and horse hooves.
“Outlaw Saloon,” you nod to the sign on an upcoming building and grin at Din, “Sounds like the place for us.”
“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, stepping up onto the sagging floorboards of the porch and starting towards the door.
The dog follows his suggestion, suddenly very interested in this change of direction, his ears perking up into high-alert. Din plucks him off the ground, then pulls the squeaky door open for you to enter, releasing a cacophony of noise: country music and clinking glass and the low murmur of conversation.
As you walk past him into the establishment, you tell Din, “That’s your problem, big guy, you know that? You think you’re so much better than me, but you’re not.”
All you hear in response is a grumble, then the jarring crack of the spring-loaded door slamming shut behind him. When he saddles up to your side, you feel his hand press into the small of your back.
It surprises you a little. Both the action itself, and the way your pulse jumps in response.
You don’t move, but look over at him and find you’re close enough to see his eyes behind his aviators. They flick around the bar as if searching for potential danger in the two dozen locals occupying the saloon. He holds the dog firm and close to his chest and he doesn’t move his hand and you realize that he is protecting you both. Subconsciously, probably, but he’s doing it nonetheless.
Something happens inside you.
A brief but sudden free-fall that flips your stomach and gelatinizes the cartilage in your joints. Your throat struggles to swallow around your thudding heart.
RULE #9: Do not get attached.
Ignoring the warning, you bring yourself closer to him. Just an inch or so, intending to be subtle, so that maybe he won’t notice. You don’t want him to think you like or need his protection, because you don’t.
Need it, that is.
Liking it, however…
If you can glean anything from the steady thrum of heat between your thighs, it’s that you do like it. That is, unfortunately, too blunt a force for you to ignore.
An unamused looking waitress approaches your little trio, grinding a wad of gum between her molars, “No dogs.”
“Oh—he’s an emotional support dog,” you tell her, softening your features into a non-threatening, winsome expression. You put your hand on Din’s arm and explain, “My friend has horrible agoraphobia. The only way I can get him to go out is if we have the dog with us.”
Her eyebrow raises and she blinks at Din, “That true?”
He nods once, “It is.”
She glances between the two of you for a moment, eyes flicking in time with the smack smack smack of her chewing gum, then shrugs, “Alright, come with me.”
As you follow the waitress, he stays by your side, with his warm, wide palm held flush to your spine.
He’s just making sure you don’t bolt. It doesn’t mean anything.
This little voice inside your head makes you feel so foolish, your cheeks start to flush. She’s right, though. You’re making something out of nothing.
But then his thumb moves. Only slightly, and just once, this gentle wiper blade motion—a fucking caress if you’ve ever felt it.
Your face heats even more.
The waitress stops at a wooden, high-back booth and pulls two menus from her apron, placing one on each side of the table. Only when you slide into the booth does his hand depart your body. He sits across from you, placing the dog down beside him.
“Can I get y’all somethin’ to drink?”
“Could I get a water, please?” you ask, flashing her a polite smile.
She nods, then looks at Din.
“I’ll have the same.”
“Two waters, anything else?”
You glance up at Din, trying hard not to drop your gaze when you feel his eyes meet yours. He shakes his head slightly, and you tell her, “No, I think that’s good for now, thank you.”
“Be right back.”
Once she’s out of earshot, Din asks, “Agoraphobia?”
“Pretty slick, huh?” you grin.
He smirks and shakes his head, looking down at the menu. The dog wriggles his way under his owner’s arm. Din allows it, absentmindedly petting him while evaluating food options.
Letting out a sigh, you turn your attention to the menu, too. Burgers, chicken, basic sandwiches, fried food. Standard bar fare. It doesn’t take you long to decide on a grilled cheese, leaving you to study the innards of the Outlaw Saloon.
The place is cavernous. Tin ceiling tiles two stories above the ground stretch much further back than you expected. Everything else, from the walls to the furniture to the floors, all appears to be made from the same dark, lacquered wood.
Predictably, the décor is an homage to cowboy lore. Taxidermized livestock, paintings of horses, and antique farm equipment have been mounted on the walls. Among them hang wanted posters of infamous Wild West gunslingers, such as Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. Sort of camp, but in an endearing way.
The bar bustles with activity, much busier than you thought it would be. In a small town like this, you weren’t expecting to see more than a handful of regulars out on a Wednesday evening, but there are at least 20, maybe 30, other patrons scattered about the venue.
As you look around at the strangers, you think to yourself, “Not one of these people would look out of place at a rodeo,” which is to say that the crowd looks to be a mix of ranchers and other working class folks. At least half are strapped with a handgun, which isn’t particularly alarming, especially in a rural Western town like this, but always good to note. Occasionally, people mutter to each other while shooting dirty looks at your table. Probably because you’re out-of-towners who had the audacity to bring a dog into their beloved saloon.
“Damn, if we were carrying, I bet we’d fit in a little better,” you comment mildly.
“Who says I’m not?”
You look over at him and tilt your head, “Are you?”
“I am.”
This interests you. You fold your legs up into a pretzel and lean your elbows onto the table, “Whaddya have?”
With his expressive eyes concealed, it’s hard to read what his silence means, but you guess trying to determine your question’s intent.
Before either of you can say anything else, the waitress approaches your table carrying two glasses of water. As she slides one in front of you, then the other in front of Din, you ask her, “Do you guys ever have live music here?”
“Sure,” she shrugs and plants one hand on her hip, “Nothing this weekend, though.”
You glance over at Din, who’s shaking his head slowly, as if to say, “Don’t you fucking dare,” but ignore it and ask, “Do you want live music this weekend?”
“I take it I do not get a treat?”
Din clenches his jaw, glaring up at you from his crouched position as he unhooks Grogu’s leash. He hasn’t said anything to you since you coaxed your way into a gig at the Outlaw Saloon, blatantly disregarding his wishes to lay low in this town.
If he wasn’t so goddamn hungry, and if it wouldn’t have roused the attention of the already suspicious locals, he would have hauled you out of the restaurant the second you inquired with the waitress about live music.
You must have felt the anger radiating off him in waves, because your attempts at conversation since have been few and far in between.
For that, he’s grateful.
The red glowering beneath his skin feels unpredictable. That familiar loathsome beast. Something he believed extinct inside him, eradicated through years of training, now awake and growling.
He rises to a standing position and starts pacing, trying to keep calm.
Meanwhile, you take your doodle-ridden acoustic guitar, plop down on the bed, and start strumming a tune.
Heat wells up in his chest.
“It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Gives us something to do,” you tell him, watching your own fingertips move skillfully along the neck of the instrument, “Plus, I could rake in a decent amount of money, which could help us—”
“Stop it.”
The music cuts immediately.
He takes off his hat and sunglasses, tossing them onto the chest of drawers, then turns to face you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze with too much vitriol.
“There is not an us. This is not a team. I do not want or need your help.”
Your shoulders sag. You furrow your brow, searching his face, and your lips part to protest, but he cuts you off hard.
“You are nothing to me but a payload. An annoying, entitled payload. Do you understand?”
You react as if he slapped you across the face. Your head jerks back and you drop your gaze to the floor, face getting all red.
He stares at you, awaiting your counterattack, but all you do is let out a choked sob.
The sharp tip of this noise pierces the over-inflated balloon of his anger, bursting it instantly. In its sudden absence, an ache starts in his chest. He looks back at the situation from this calmer state of mind, cleared of red haze, and feels ashamed of himself.
Grogu jumps onto the bed to sit at your side, and whines up at you. Inhaling a wobbly breath, you reach out and scratch his head, then mumble a damp, “It’s ok, pup.”
Some time goes by with only your quiet sniffles to break the silence, then you ask, “Where am I sleeping?”
As soon as the mention of sleep hits him, his bones turn to lead, heavy with exhaustion. How long has it been since he’s slept? It feels like days. Nothing last night, barely a few hours the night before that.
“You have options,” he responds. At this, you let out a sad, soft chuckle that he ignores, continuing, “There’s the bathroom, your sleeping bag, or the bed.”
“I assume I would be restrained in each of these scenarios?”
He folds his arms over his chest and nods, “In the bathroom, I would cuff you to the toilet. The other two, I…” he grimaces, “It would be to me.”
“Wow, ok,” you take the guitar out of your lap and prop it up on the nightstand, “A toilet or the man who thinks I’m a piece of shit.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to.”
He meets your gaze, holding it steady for a few seconds before saying, “Charlie, I…”
The apology gets all tangled in his throat. You wait a while for him to finish the thought. When he doesn’t, you move past it, your voice void of emotion.
“Do you have a preference?”
“No.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to sleep in the bed.”
Din nods in acknowledgment. He glances down at his watch, finds it’s barely past 6, and asks, “Are you tired now?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
As if to confirm, you suck in a shaky breath and yawn, stretching your hands above your head. It spreads to him.
“Give me a few minutes,” he tells you.
In response, you tug at the bedspread and wriggle your way between the sheets. Grogu grumbles for a moment at the adjustment, then turns in a few circles and plops down beside you with a hmph.
You’re probably exhausted, too, given the ups and downs of this week. Being taken captive. Sleeping in the same room as Din when you cannot trust him. Spending all your time with someone whose explicit intent is to turn you in for a pretty penny.
It must take an emotional toll, even if you don’t let it show most of the time. Even if you have that rule to… how did you put it?
Live in the now.
To your credit, you have been trying your damnedest to follow that rule. By getting to know people whose paths cross yours, bonding with Grogu, writing and drawing in your notebook, playing music, suggesting ways to squeeze as much experience as possible out of what little time you have left.
Din likes that about you. Your relentless optimism. It’s admirable.
He likes a lot of things about you, he realizes. Your cunning, and your curiosity, and your ferocity. Your gap-toothed smile. The skillful way you play the guitar. How you curled into him ever-so-slightly when he placed his hand on your back earlier.
It occurs to him then that you may feel it, too. That gooey electric current when he touches you, or when his eyes meet yours for longer than a second.
His own words echo back to him: “You are nothing to me but a payload.”
He wants to take it back.
It’s not even true, he just wishes it was. He wishes he looked at you and saw a bad person who’s going to get what she deserves. The truth couldn’t be more contrary.
While your captor goes about his nighttime routine, you sulk.
It’s all you can do, really, since he’s made it abundantly clear your presence is a nuisance. Worse than that, even. You are nothing but an asset to him.
Ironically, it makes you feel worthless.
You think about how pathetic your burgeoning crush on him is. Were you imagining the chemistry between you?
Of course you were.
You were making things up—“Living in LaLa Land,” as your mother used to say.
Din pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed. The mattress shifts under his weight, and he groans as he stretches out. Every nerve ending in your body lights up when you feel the heat of him. The distance between you is exactly the width of a French Bulldog.
“Hey, kid,” he murmurs.
His voice is low and syrupy. Warm.
Your throat works in a slow bob before you roll on your back to look at him. Your eyes meet his, and your stomach flips. When whoever said that thing about the eyes being the window to the soul, they must have been talking about him. You can see it all right there, written in bold print: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.
Or maybe that’s just what you want to see. Fuck, but why? Why do you even care?
You should fucking know better.
This is only temporary. Din. His dog. The truck. This room. Tonight. Life, really, if you wanted to get existential about it.
“Do you want to watch the rest of that movie?”
You frown as you consider this for a moment, then nod.
He gets out of bed and walks over to the big armoire. As he pops in the second Titanic VHS tape, you study the broad span of his shoulders and biceps stretching his t-shirt taut.
God, he looks solid and strong and just so fucking good.
This guy robbed you of your dignity and all you can think about right now is what his lips would feel like on yours. If he would be a greedy lover, or a generous one, or both. Would he be intuitive or clumsy with your body? Would he be rough?
He would be with me.
Heat blossoms on your cheeks and deep in your center. You don’t know how you know, but you do. He just seems… pressurized. Combustible. Especially towards you.
On his way back to bed, while the tape rewinds, Din rummages through his backpack and piles some of its contents into one arm. He sits down at the edge of the mattress and hands you a bottle of water, then holds out two candy bars and says, “Pick one.”
“Is this an apology?”
“No, it’s chocolate.”
You blink at him and cross your arms.
His features soften. He shakes his head, “What I said was not kind. You didn’t deserve that.”
“No, I didn’t,” you agree, keeping your gaze stern, “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
You search his face. There’s such earnestness there, you believe him.
A mechanical click sounds from the VCR, then the TV lights up as Titanic starts where it left off.
Your gaze drops to the candy bars, and you pluck one from his hand. The one that advertises a peanut-buttery crunch. Peeling off its yellow wrapper, you smirk, “Apology accepted.”
Din climbs all the way into bed, stuffing the flat hotel pillows behind his back, then opens the shiny silver wrapper of his candy bar. For a while, it’s quiet except for the warbled audio from the TV and the crunch of your chewing.
You get that feeling again like sunshine on your skin or God or whatever, and you laugh out loud.
“What?” Din asks.
“It’s probably really weird that I’m happy right now, right?”
“Are you?”
You peek over at him and chuckle, “Yeah, I mean… I’m eating my favorite candy and watching a good movie. Laying in a bed with a cute dog and…yeah,” you shrug, turning back to the TV, “I don’t know. I like it.”
He hums in acknowledgment, then asks, “Do you have your knife?”
“Why, you gonna take it from me so I don’t kill you in your sleep?” You let the question hang in the air for one whole second before continuing, “I’ll be real up close and personal, wouldn’t even have to sneak, just,” you drag your thumb across your throat, “Blech, dead.”
“I’m not taking it from you,” he tells you, pulling out his handcuffs, “But if you want to get it or use the bathroom, now’s your chance.”
You take the opportunity to relieve your bladder and change into your comfiest (and least offensive smelling) clothes.
Before tucking your pocket knife into your sleeve, you stare at it for a minute and consider actually using it to get the fuck out of here. Something you’ve considered dozens of times, if you’re being honest, but this time the idea weighs a million pounds.
When you open the bathroom door and step into the motel room, Din looks up at you from the bed. His gaze wanders briefly down your body as you climb into bed, then correct its course back to your eyes, “All set?”
You nod and hold your right arm out to him.
His touch is gentle when he closes the cuff around your wrist. Clicks sound from the apparatus until it’s clear your hand won’t be capable of wiggling free.
He secures the other cuff around his left wrist, settles his arm next to yours, and asks, “How is that?”
“It’s fine,” you nod, your voice too high, then swallow hard and chuckle, “Well, I guess as fine as being handcuffed in a bed can be. Probably not the best it could be, but not the worst, um, either.”
You wince at yourself and look at the TV, where Rose is wading through thigh-high water, carrying an ax. Thankfully, he doesn’t respond, but turns off the light on his nightstand. You do the same with yours. Aside from the TV, only a faint glow comes in through the window. Daylight’s last gasping breath.
You close your eyes and fondle the cool metal of your pocket knife in your left hand.
RULE #8: Take care of yourself.
Din shifts a little, and the back of his hand butts up against yours. Neither of you go to move. Warmth branches out from the spot, expanding and taking root deep in your belly.
RULE #2: Listen to your gut.
With this, you tuck the pocket knife under your pillow and roll onto your side facing him. You think about how nice it would be to rest your head on him, but resist the urge. The edges of consciousness start to fold in on themselves, and you murmur, “Sweet dreams, big guy.”
“Goodnight.”
#din djarin#din djarin x you#din djarin x ofc#din djarin fanfiction#the mandalorian#the mandalorian fanfiction#the mandalorian fic#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal fanfiction#passenger
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Stop the World and Melt with You (p. 2)
Eddie Munson x Fem reader
Summary: You're starting to realize you might not be in Kansas anymore, so to speak. You meet Claudia Henderson, the woman who owns the motel, and Eddie's boss tells him that getting to know you might not be a good idea.
Series Masterlist
Confusion//memory loss//lots of cats//time travel//universe travel//there will be eventual smut but not for a while//reader and Eddie are in their mid-20's. Word count: 2k
A/N: this story has been on my mind for a while, but I've never attempted a series on here, so it should be fun. This is also very heavy on 80's nostalgia.
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The Grove Motel was owned by a woman named Claudia Henderson, and there were several resident cats in the lobby; big, and beautiful, lounging around in the front window, on the desk, and in one of the chairs by the rack of brochures. Inside was warm, making your cheeks flush immediately; the smell in the air was a mix of Glade floral room spray and the lingering twang of tobacco smoke. The carpet was orange shag, and there was a famed piece of velvet kitten art above the self-serve coffee station against the mustard yellow wall.
To put how you were feeling in that moment into words would be to betray the core of it, to make minimal the deep sense of familiarity and confusion that you felt.
The bell above the door dinged when you walked in and the woman Eddie had told you about came around the corner holding a ginger tabby with a bell on its pink color. She was a middle aged, jolly woman who always had a bit of tight concern behind her eyes, even when she was smiling.
“Claudia?” You stepped forward, holding your luggage in front of you. You felt like an Anne of Green Gables orphan dropped off alone at a train station. “Eddie, down at the garage, said that you might have a room available for the night?”
The cat in her arms twisted and yowled and she put it down with a yelp. “Sorry,” she flapped her hand in the air and fixed her hair. “I’m just trying to trim the nails on this beast.”
She opened a big appointment book in front of her on the desk and ran her ringer down a row, her brows knitted together. You looked around, recalling that there had only been one vehicle other than yours in the parking lot. Hopefully they weren’t in the middle of a renovation or something, because the clock on the wall said it was after 6, and you didn’t want to have to sleep in your truck, or drive back to wherever you came from, because you didn’t know where that was.
Another cat jumped up on top of the appointment book she was looking at, and she had a whispered conversation about manners with him before lowering him to the ground. Behind her on the counter you see a few license plates in a stack and wonder if someone had used them as payment.
“Well, you can have practically any room in the motel, including mine,” she gave a self-deprecating laugh as she closed the book. “We haven’t had many...visitors lately. It’s been pretty quiet around here.”
You hesitate, not sure what to do with that information, wondering if she wants you to pick a number or…
“Room 8, how about that? There’s a nice TV in there and the carpet was just cleaned.” She looks down, opens a drawer, and you can hear the jangling of keys. She raises her eyes to you, waiting for an answer: “Do you like the number 8?”
You’d never considered having favorites as far as numbers went. “Does that room have a phone?”
“Oh, sure, sure,” Claudia holds up a blue key fob with a single metal key hanging from it. “All of the rooms have phones hunny, we aren’t living in the dark ages here.”
--------
Sitting on the bed in your motel room, you stare at the phone on the nightstand. It’s big, heavy, vintage, pea green, and it had a clear rotary dial on it; a circle for each number. You remember playing with a plastic one as a kid, but you can’t say you’ve ever used a real one. Your grandmother had a wall mounted landline in her kitchen with a long, spiral cord that would stretch, enabling you to take the receiver with you into the living room or to the bathroom. You saw a similar one at an antique store once, and someone had gutted the inside and made it into a planter with succulents growing out where the rotary dial had been.
Your breath catches for a moment, trying to seize that memory on the fickle breeze of your mind, but then it’s already gone. Were those your memories or did they belong to someone else? Did that wall phone you remembered belong to your grandmother, or was it from a movie you saw?
“Dial 9 to get out,” Claudia told you, as she turned the ledger around for you to sign, and you were too embarrassed to ask her what that meant. You’d ask Eddie later, but for now—you needed to wash your face and get ready.
The carpet at your feet was the same dark orange shag from the lobby, but the bedspread was a blue and green floral; the green being a perfect match to the rotary dial phone. There was a modest, round table by the window with two tan, wicker back chairs that matched the wicker of the TV stand and the dresser. The bathroom though—the bathroom was pink. The sink and the tub and the tile on the floor were a pepto bismol pink, and you smiled to yourself at how retro it was as you put your makeup bag on the Formica sink top.
You realized you didn’t have time for a shower, but you cleaned up as well as you could. It occurred to you as you were making your mouth into an “O” shape to apply your mascara, that it should be a pretty terrifying thing to not remember where you came from or where you were going. Most people would be hysterical. Why weren’t you? If there was one thing you were good at, it was dissociating and compartmentalizing when life became overwhelming. But why did you have this gut feeling that this is where you were headed, and there was nothing for you in the place that you had come from?
Then next, and most obvious thing you asked yourself was: am I asleep? Is this a dream? But everything was too real, the only thing cloudy was your memory. You finished one set of lashes and put the tube of mascara down as a gentle fear rose in you---was there a chance that you were dead, and this was some kind of afterlife? But, if that were the case, why did you just start your period and stain the fresh pair of undies you just put on? Please, no, please at the very least—make the afterlife be a place where you didn’t start your period unexpectedly and ruin another piece of clothing.
Thankfully, there were a few tampons at the bottom of your overnight bag, but you’d have to buy more. Or, trade for more, or whatever the hell it was they did here in...in…
What was the name of the town you were in?
You remembered seeing a notepad by the phone with the name of the motel on it, and you stopped what you were doing to go over and look at it closer.
It said, ‘The Grove Motel’ under an orange and brown rainbow, and then under that in smaller lettering said: Hawkinsgate, Indiana.
Indiana? You dropped the notepad to the nightstand, backing up from it as if it were about to detonate.
You knew, in that moment, that wherever you came from before was nowhere near Indiana. But, there had to be an explanation.
You stepped to the window and pulled back one side of the tan curtains, looking out at the street and the horizon beyond. There was a residual purple glow from the sunset, and you watched a few of the cars go by, realizing with a dry mouth, that all of the vehicles were older; not a single one had been new since the 80’s. You got up closer to the window and put your head to the cool glass to look down at the only other car in the lot, parked at the far end. It was a blue and white Chevy Blazer from 1983 with ‘Hawkinsgate Police’ written on the side.
You stepped back from the window, letting the curtain fall, pressing your tongue against the back of your teeth to make an unconscious whistling noise as your brain threatened to cave in on you.
Turning the TV on seemed like the next best move. By then, it didn’t shock you to find that the TV was a vintage, 20” box style with only two dials on the side and no remote. Bent over in front of it, you turned the top knob as it went ‘klunk klunk’ making its way to each of the 4 channels between bursts of snow static. On one of the channels was an episode of Murder She Wrote, and Jessica Fletcher was getting to the bottom of a crime like only Jessica Fletcher knew how. You were worried that maybe the show would be different, like perhaps Lucille Ball played the main character instead of Angela Lansbury—but thankfully, the casting was still the same. At least you had that to hold onto.
---------
Eddie got his hands all foamy with the green bar of soap, getting under his nails with an old toothbrush he kept there for that purpose, and dried them on a towel that looked like it had been hanging there for weeks. He pulled the orange towel off of the metal hook with a grunt so that he could take it home and wash it, as it was always something he forgot to do. There were paper towels in the bathroom too, but he hated using them.
Gary was leaning against the wall, waiting with his hands in his front pockets when Eddie walked out.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?”
Eddie threw him a dirty look, only because he hadn’t expected him to be standing there, but then his face softened as he threw the old towel over his lunch box.
“A man’s gotta eat, Gary,” Eddie took his bandanna of and smoothed his hair back behind his ears with a sigh.
“You know what I mean,” Gary—unarguably the older, wiser, and bigger of the two---was blocking Eddie’s path to the exit. “You just never know about these visitors. They come and they go—it’s not a good idea to get attached.”
Eddie rested his hip on a countertop next to a wall full of tools on hooks and a poster of a swimsuit model sitting on a Corvette.
“Who is getting attached?” Eddie cracked a smile but lowered his head. “It’s just dinner. I didn’t want to eat alone again, that’s all.”
Gary just looked at him, and shifted his weight to the other foot.
“You ever think that maybe this one is different?” Eddie looked into the empty garage, asking the question to himself more than anything. “Some of them do end up staying.”
Mona, the resident black cat, crawled up on the table next to Eddie for some love, and to get to her food and water dishes. She arched her back and curled her tail as he moved his hand along her spine, pausing to rub her ears.
“The problem is, she won’t be able to choose---it’s not a choice for them, or for you. One day, you will wake up and she will be gone, son, and you will never see her again.”
“You don’t know that,” Eddie’s eyes snapped to his. “You can’t know how it works or where they go.”
Gary gave a high, long shrug, acknowledging that what he said was true.
“Besides,” Eddie put his arms out to his side, cracking a smile again. His rings were in a metal dish on the table and he slid them on one by one. “I barely know the girl, I’m just going to eat with her at the same table.” He bent down to pick up the towel and his lunch box, and under his breath he said, “I’ll probably scare her off, anyway.”
Gary watched Eddie get in his van and drive away, thinking about time and age and how he envied the hope that was eager to wage the war against reality in the hearts of young people. The night was gathering into a dark purple gloom as the fog settled in and the mist from the rain on the cement made the air smell like metal sparks. Mona came over to weave at his feet, wrapping her tail around his calves as she went. He thought about Eddie, how he was like a son to him, and how much that kid had already been through in his young life, and he prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that he was wrong to feel so afraid for him.
#eddie munson#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson series#stranger things#stranger things au#eddie munson x fem reader#stranger things series#fem reader#1980s nostalgia
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10: Motel Hell
(previous)
desperate to get out of nelton, you make a risky decision and find somewhere to stay along the road.
->contains gore, graphic description of corpses.
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Home is west. Northwest now, so far away it feels like the edge of the world.
You’ve tried to get there a few times. Every now and then, you’ll get lucky. The Drift will have mercy and you’ll end up so close you think you can taste it, the pull urgent but not so taut and uncomfortable. Somehow, it’s always eluded you. You get turned around, your inner compass spinning haywire. The road spits you out just east, too far north, not at all where you mean to go. Lost—that’s what you are. But you never feel that way until you try to find home.
And even if you ever reached it, would it be worth the trouble? Would anyone see you as kin, or would it be a town full of strangers? You don't try anymore. Home is best left abstract and distant.
Night is falling. The shadows grow. The sign seems to lunge through the fog, sudden and vicious. “DRIFT INN. NEXT EXIT.” It’s not close enough to spot off the highway, but you do see a spatter of streetlights and neon. Not enough for a town, just a small place between things for the unlucky and desperate. Anything is good enough for you now. The exit is an uphill zigzag, a silent intersection with a light that takes too long to change.
You see two long gray slabs with red roofs. Nothing around but concrete and tufts of hardy grass growing in the cracks. The parking lot is sparsely occupied, a couple windows aglow behind drawn curtains. Still, you hesitate. Your recent misfortunes have left you somewhat wary. You consult your map. You’ll make the final push for the University tomorrow, get there by dusk. South, then east? Or start heading east now? For once, you find yourself hoping there’s no town in that vast distance, no unexpected detours.
Something flits past the window as you’re planning your morning route. It’s gone when you look up but you were sure, for just a second—
And then you see it. Another, drifting silently into your windshield. Landing on the glass and melting to nothing. The sky is the color of a coming storm. Your heart starts to race.
[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: SATURDAY NIGHT BY THE MISFITS]
The automatic doors wheeze open. A single fluorescent tube buzzes overhead. The floor is grimy-looking tile and the walls are off-white. Nobody’s sitting behind the check-in desk. All you can hear is the whirr of an electric fan in the corner and a crackling radio on the counter.
A tiered shelf against the wall displays travel brochures coated in a fine layer of dust, advertising the orchards and public gardens of Green Valley. These must be old. There is no Green Valley anymore—it’s been called the Stillwoods since before you were born, although the occasional antique road sign marooned along the highway might still bear the old name.
The doors open again behind you. There’s a woman standing there, hands in the pockets of a gray peacoat. She’s wearing heels and her hair is meticulously pinned into a neat bun.
She gives you a quick, appraising look. “Hey there,” she says. “Checking in?” You nod and she slips behind the check-in desk, noticeably keeping her distance and never turning her back towards you. She doesn’t give you a price or ask how you’ll pay, simply reaching for a room key off the back wall and setting it on the desk. You don’t think there was a courier sign on the door. Your visible apprehension makes her grin. “So…I don’t actually work here. But I saw you pull up and thought you might appreciate a hand. There’s four of us here tonight.”
You take the key, the plastic tag attached reading 108. “Is the place abandoned?” you ask. That wouldn’t surprise you. This motel was clearly attached to the Stillwoods once upon a time, but now it’s out here in the middle of nowhere. That happens sometimes, during a particularly violent shift or an anchorware malfunction. That’s how the University became its own city, too.
The woman makes a noncommittal sound. “Not exactly. At least, it wasn’t when I got here. It’s like this, see?”
She leans back and turns the handle of the door behind the desk. As soon as it’s cracked open, the smell of blood comes rushing out. She opens it just far enough for you to glimpse the back room and the body inside: head so badly bludgeoned that you don’t realize it’s lying face-up for a while, jaw broken and wrenched open so wide the mouth is more like a gaping wound of teeth. There’s blood pooling on the floor and arterial sprays arcing on the walls. Fresh enough to drip.
The woman yanks the door shut again. She looks unbothered, you think, unusually cheerful considering the situation. She adjusts her small, rectangular glasses on the bridge of her nose. “See what I mean? Kind of a mess. I’d have taken off by now if not for how the sky looks. Rather take my chances here than out in a Drift storm.” The snow is heavier already, a thin layer blanketing the pavement outside. “Anyway, wanna get settled in? 108’s right with the rest of us. Gotta keep an eye on each other, after all. Hard to say who’s a mimic and who’s not.”
You frown. A mimic wouldn’t waste that much food.
The woman is friendly, at least, and endlessly talkative. She’s a University graduate. She’s been living in Splitrock Junction for the past few years, testing the water and soil for “intrusional particles,” but she’s looking for a career change. “Anchorware! That’s where the money’s at,” she tells you. “That’s the future of the Drift, you know. It’s caught on in all the major industries but it’ll get more affordable later. The lab where they build that stuff makes the University look Stone Age. God, if I could get my hands on some of that equipment…”
You barely say a word as she leads you outside and across the parking lot to the adjacent building. Four rooms are occupied in a row, lights on, muffled voices coming through the doors. You walk up in time to catch part of a conversation—an argument, more accurately. They’re talking about mimics.
“So you’re telling me the one that’s see-through and foggy like frosted glass isn’t called a glass mimic?”
“Glass mimics are literally made of glass, man. Or something kind of like it. It shatters if you hit it hard enough.”
“Kind of like it? So they’re not actually made of glass. They don’t even resemble glass.”
“I didn’t name them, okay?”
The woman pauses to knock on 106. “We’ve got another,” she says.
106 opens just slightly, the door halting on a chain lock. The face that peers out at you is obscured by a surgical mask and a pair of sunglasses. “Shit, Chatterbox made it back in one piece,” he mutters. “So either it left you alone or you’re the mimic.” The doors on either side of him creak open. A man pokes his head outside of 105, looking nonplussed. Nobody comes out of 107 but you hear a quiet huff, a quick exhale of laughter.
“Well, this is all of us,” the woman says. “We’re a little short on trust right now so you’ll have to settle for nicknames. That’s Newbie in 105. He’s from outside. Like, outside, you know?”
“Outside the Drift?” you ask, startled.
Newbie frowns. He’s blond and clean-shaven, wearing an open suit jacket and loosened tie. “Couldn’t we have picked our own nicknames? God, it’s freezing all of the sudden.”
“This totally normal, not at all suspicious guy lurking in 106 is Glasses.”
“Bite me,” Glasses snarls. “Half the mimics out here copy faces. You’re not getting mine.”
The woman rolls her eyes. “Shrug is in 107. He’s kinda quiet. Second most likely to be a mimic, if we’re making accusations.”
107’s door opens slightly wider. The man standing there doesn’t show his face, keeping his head down and his hood up, hands stuffed in the pockets of an oversized sweater. He’s on the shorter side. “Hm,” he says, and shrugs.
“And I guess I’m Chatterbox.” The woman laughs. “I’m in 104. The walls are really, really thin, we mostly just yell at each other. Nobody else around so it’s not like we’re bothering anyone.”
You unlock 108 and find a small, musty-smelling room. There’s stiff, crusty carpet, a single bed with sheets that feel like packing paper, and a closet-sized bathroom. You put your backpack on the bedside table and add the Drift Inn to your map.
“So what are we calling you, stranger?” Chatterbox yells. She’s right, the walls are really thin. Four rooms down and you can still hear her fairly clearly.
“Courier,” you say back.
The wind picks up outside, growing from a whisper to a vicious howl. You peek through your curtains and find your footsteps in the snow have nearly been filled in already as more blows across the motel parking lot. You scan the row of cars parked out front apprehensively. The one you saw in the blizzard was an SUV, you think. Silver. Hard to make out in the haze and all the white. You don’t see it out there now. You’d like to tell yourself that those two things can’t possibly be related, but there’s a corpse behind the check-in desk, beaten so badly the face barely looked human.
You don’t want to think about it. You let the curtains fall back into place and sit on the edge of the bed. “Newbie, you’re from outside the Drift?” you ask. “What made you decide to come here?”
You hear him clear his throat nervously. “I’m doing market research, you could say. There’s a lot of interest in developing the Drift, getting it connected to the rest of the world. You guys are missing out on a lot of things. Phones are only local, right, so you can’t call Prismville from the University. And mail takes forever since you don’t really have a reliable delivery service. Uh. No offense, I mean.”
“Didn’t some outsider company already try getting a foothold here a while back?” That sounds like Glasses. “Like a decade ago or something. Putting all those cables in the ground, then acting surprised when they got fucked up after a couple shifts.”
“Ohhh, that’s right! They started growing skin and then they all slithered off,” Chatterbox says.
“Is that what those are?” you ask. “I’ve seen those before. They’re farm pests, mostly. They really like eggs.”
“Mhm,” Shrug adds.
“Can I ask about that? What’s up with the eggs?” Newbie says. “Why are they everywhere? I keep seeing people eat them raw, shell and all.”
Chatterbox laughs. “So those aren’t actually eggs.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“No, I mean, they look just like eggs, right? So we call them eggs.”
“Oh, so these get called by what they look like, huh?”
“Okay, look, there are different kinds of shifts, right? Depending on how things are intersecting, or if they’re intersecting at all, and sometimes—”
The wind shrieks and the windows shake in their frames. Snow drifts under your door, melting on the carpet. Through the space beneath the curtains, all you see is white. “It’s getting bad out there,” Glasses says quietly.
“I, ah, thought the Drift didn’t get snow?” Newbie asks.
“It doesn’t,” Chatterbox says. “Unless the Road Ripper’s around.”
There’s a pause. You’re holding your breath. Glasses is the first one to speak up again, scoffing, “That shit’s an urban legend. Nobody could live out on the road that long.”
“Hm,” Shrug agrees. Or maybe disagrees. You’re not sure.
“What if he doesn’t, though? What if he does come into town sometimes, drifts in and out before anyone realizes who he is?” Chatterbox insists. “It’d be easy. He could slip out with some couriers and nobody’d know. Maybe he is a courier.”
There’s another, longer pause. “Wh—really?” you say, incredulous. “I’m not a serial killer.”
Chatterbox makes a thoughtful sound. “Well, a serial killer would probably say that.”
“I was the last one here! How could I have killed somebody?”
“Not saying you did it, just saying maybe you should leave first in the morning,” Glasses mutters.
The idea of falling asleep here unnerves you, but your car won’t be warm enough. You consider shoving a chair under the door. It’s flimsy, certainly nothing that’ll deter somebody hellbent on killing on you—somebody with the kind of strength you saw—but you’ll hear it fall over at least. You take a quick shower and crawl into bed, too tired to care how stiff the mattress is. The others are loud but the wind drowns them out after a while and the conversation dies down.
Maybe you won’t sleep, you think. You’ll just lay here on your side, facing the door and the windows. Listening for footsteps in the snow, or a car pulling up. Just a few hours, you think, checking the clock. A few hours until dawn, at least. Maybe the blizzard will have moved on by then. You try to keep yourself moving, shaking your foot or tapping your fingers. The room is frigid, the heat barely able to keep up with the cold air seeping under the door, but exhaustion is slowly gaining on you. It becomes a struggle to keep your eyes open.
“…I heard that’s a thing he does,” Chatterbox is saying, sounding muffled and far away. “He picks somebody and follows them around for a while, but he lets them go a few times before he actually kills them. And it’s not like he just leaves other people alone, but that’s kind of different. It’s like he’s whetting his appetite or something. Picks off other people so can hold himself back from whoever his main target is. Maybe it’s a mimic thing? Do you think he shapeshifts? I had a friend back at University who specialized in mimics, I think some of them do similar stuff…”
Your eyelids flutter. Just a few hours, you remind yourself. A few hours and then…
You can’t breathe.
It’s dark, a deeper black than night in every direction, and you can’t breathe. There’s something—something around your neck. Squeezing too tight. Wanting to split you open, wanting to tear into the soft flesh of your throat. It wants to, yet it never does. But even when it lets you go, uncoiling slowly, slinking out of sight, your lungs are on fire. You heave and you choke and you try to scream but you can’t get any air, can’t breathe. You can’t remember how.
There’s something in this darkness with you. You can’t see it but you can hear it breathing in deep, echoing sighs. You can sense its vastness, the crushing weight of its attention. You’re trying to run but your legs are weak and sluggish, flailing, going nowhere. The air ripples and it’s here, above and all around you. Silent. Observing. Your neck throbs where it touched you, skin tender and throbbing with your heartbeat, and still you can’t breathe.
There is a dark moon above you. It’s a misshapen pearl, a silvery stone with a hole punched through its center. It’s growing as it sinks from the sky. It’s bigger than you, bigger than your car, so close you think you could reach out and touch it.
It blinks.
You gasp and jolt awake. It must be morning. Weak light trickles under the curtains. You’re cold, but not as cold as you were last night. The stench of blood is thick and cloying. Your door is open, the chair you wedged under it knocked aside.
You sit up slowly. The room is red. Every breath draws in the smell of rust and rot. There’s hardly a surface in the room that hasn’t been spattered in gore. The walls are glistening with it. There are dark red puddles hardening into the carpet. The bedspread is soaked through beside you because there is a body there, posed atop the sheets as though it climbed into bed with you. It doesn’t have a face, just a head so badly bludgeoned that it could be a split pomegranate, soft and gooey and oozing chunks of meat through cracks in its skull.
It’s wearing a peacoat, gray wool spattered with blotchy red stains.
You scramble out of bed, lunging for your shoes. The carpet is so saturated it squishes wetly under your steps. There’s another body curled up at the foot of the bed in the same unsightly condition, intact except for the gristly paste where a head should be. Blood and brain matter spill across the floor in a pinkish smear, bits of vertebrae poking through the taut, torn flesh of the neck. Newbie’s tie is half-submerged in the slurry, tightened into an uncomfortably small knot.
The third corpse is propped up against the door, seated with its back against it. You shove it aside. You try not to look. But you see red, you see a scalp split apart and a broken shell of skull fragments underneath, little white slivers floating in a soupy clot. A gush of thick, partially coagulated fluid spurts out when it thunks against the ground in your haste to leave, dislodging the sunglasses folded neatly in its lap.
The morning air is crisp. It’s just cold enough that some of the snow has stayed, the shallow layer left revealing the spotted prints of snowboots, a trail of blood, and smooth drag marks. Every door is wide open, a mess of red slush inside. The gruesome trail wanders out of your room and then rounds the corner, vanishing into a section of the parking lot you never thought to check. Nothing is parked there now but you still feel nauseous with fear.
Strangely, 107’s snow is clean. You notice as you’re leaving, starting your car, headlights flashing into the open rooms. Everything else is slick and splattered, dark red puddles frozen to the bed, except 107—the room right next to yours. The footprints, you notice, come out of that room clean. They go only in one direction; only leaving.
You try desperately to remember Shrug’s face but you never saw it. He was careful, keeping his head angled down and his gaze lowered. Maybe it’s just hindsight, fear coloring your memories, but thinking back, you thought he might’ve had a small smile on his face when you looked at him.
(next)
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maxiel 7
maxiel 'things you said while we were driving'
Max wakes up slowly with the jolting of the car. His head judders where he’s leaned it against the window. The orange lights of the street lamps flash across the car, across his vision, warm and orange over the dashboard and down the seats.
He can hear the radio faintly, an indistinct voice talking about an awards show or an artist or something— he’s too tired to try and parse it out properly.
Daniel’s humming something under his breath, a low comforting noise that has Max closing his eyes again.
He breathes in the smell of the cheap rental, mint air freshener and the crisp seat against his neck. He doesn’t know where they are— somewhere in the middle of nowhere, faded white stripes shooting past on cracked asphale, inky black in the night.
Max feels blurry still as he shifts, tilts his head to the other side to look at Daniel from between his lashes; his eyes struggle to focus, making out his dark curls, the shadow of his eyes in his face, the curve of his nose.
Daniel slants a look over towards him— always catches it when Max wakes up like this, like he’s in tune with his breathing, his heartbeat. His hand comes over, off the wheel, pats at the inside of Max’s knee, thumb fitting in the curve of his kneecap.
Max shifts, opens his legs and blinks slowly at Daniel, puts his hand over his.
He can hear the soft rumbling of the car as it eats at the road, big tires rolling over asphalt steadily through the night. It’s a hybrid, makes it strange and quiet in comparison to Max’s childhood memories of road trips and caravans and puttering engines with his dad stood on the side of the road hands on his hips.
He’s watching carefully as Daniel’s jaw cracks as he yawns, wide, like a cat.
“Do you need to stop soon? We can swap.”
He sounds a bit off kilter— but they have red bull in the back if Max needs to perk himself up. He can jog on the spot in the cool night air if he needs to.
Daniel shrugs, fingers patting a rhythm on the leather of the wheel.
“Nah, s’alright we’re about 5 minutes away from the motel anyway.”
“Are you sure?”
Max sits up further in the seat, brows coming together. He squeezes Daniel’s hand in his lap.
“I don’t want you to be too tired— I can take over. And, of course, it’s dangerous to drive tired.”
More dangerous to drive tired than drunk; Max remembers his mum telling him strictly when he and Daniel had first been planning the trip. She’d pressed a brochure into his hand about it and everything and he’d laughed said ‘we’re professional drivers.’ She’d scoffed, said that didn’t even count if they barely drove on real roads, taking their fancy planes everywhere.
This is Max’s first road trip.
Daniel had been horrified when he’d first told him he’d never gone on a— he called it a ‘roadie.’
“You know,” he’d been trying to explain why it was so essential, and appealing, “you drive from place to place, you drink — not while you drive — you set up at beaches and shitty motels, it’s like, the life.”
Daniel answers him, in the present, makes Max snap out of his drifting memory.
“I’m all good. I promise,” a squeeze around his fingers, “thanks for checking in babe.”
Max nods, flops backwards into his seat. He looks out through the window in front of them, flat landscape, and there in the distance, buildings. The sign for a motel like a beacon, buzzing neon lights, a red glow around VACANCIES.
There’s a crinkled bag of chips and a soda in the compartment beside him and he digs around for the last few crumbs of chips, salty and comforting.
The crunch of gravel as they pull into the drive, and Max slaps himself lightly on the cheeks to wake up properly, stretches until he feels his shoulders pop. He looks over to see Daniel watching him, eyes soft with— something.
They’re only staying at this place for the night, off again bright and early. Daniel had already marked out tourist-y spots that they were covering— ending it all at the grand canyon. A grand finale.
“You ready to go in?”
Max leans over, presses a kiss onto his sleepy soft mouth, feels their beyond 5-o-clock shadows scrape as he nudges into Daniel’s cheek. Opens his eyes in the middle just to see Daniel’s closed, the blur of his face too-close.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
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「eddie munson X gn!reader • roadtrip!AU」
3k words | prev | masterlist | ao3
warnings: all the touristy informations were taken from this amazing video. if stuff changed between 1980, when the video was made, and '86, well, we'll ignore that!
songs of the chapter: the last in line - dio • the first day in august - carole king
author's note: it's over :( i had the best time writing this fic, it's my baby, has been my main focus since the beginning of this year and i'm so very proud of having written, posted and finished it. thank you so much to everyone who liked, reblogged and commented. this fic means the world to me. love you all and see you soon!
Friday, August 1
Eddie took you to Seattle.
As you and him had gone to sleep early the day before, after all the activity tired you out, you both woke up naturally before the sun had even risen. Eddie thought it was a good idea to go ahead and get going to your next destination so you could arrive extra early and enjoy the day better.
He was saying that based on the thought that you’d move on after that, head to another new place; but the minute you passed Bellevue and crossed the first bridge to Mercer Island, the soft drizzle cleaning the dusty van and cooling the weather, you looked at Eddie and his face seemed different. He had a new glow to his eyes that you hadn’t seen before so far, a smile was slowly pulling his lips upwards as he stared at the city around him in awe.
And you just knew, somehow.
He wasn’t going anywhere after that.
He drove around for a good while before finding a neighborhood that didn’t look so expensive and a motel that you could afford with the rest of your government money. You still had a nice portion of it, but you knew his was running out, and the prospect of staying in Seattle indefinitely just grew with that. The drizzle had stopped by the time you found a place to stay, and the two of you took turns showering before deciding to go out and see more of the city.
He wanted to explore by foot again and you couldn’t say no to his big pleading eyes so you agreed. The motel reception offered tourist brochure guides just like the one in Sioux did, so you grabbed one on your way out. You and Eddie walked some blocks hand in hand before getting in the first bus headed downtown, and you memorized the number so you’d know how to get back later. Seattle was the biggest city you’ve been to so far in the trip, and the chances of getting lost were higher so you had to pay attention. It wouldn’t stop you from encouraging Eddie’s exploring, though.
You walked around a few more blocks before deciding to follow the brochure’s hint of getting a monorail ride. The monorail made no stops as it was a short ride to the Space Needle, and you and Eddie weren’t the only tourists on it, pointing at the windows to the pretty views of downtown Seattle.
Of course, you caught the elevator to the top of the Space Needle, embracing your tourist selves, and almost lost track of time at the observation deck. The weather had cleared out completely, and you marveled at the almost perfect view of Mount Rainier. It felt like the clouds left as you arrived just so you were able to see it.
“I’ve been to Chicago and Indy, and I know they’re both bigger, but this looks huge,” he said as you were staring at the buildings. You asked him when he’s been to those cities. “I went to Indy last year, a concert. And Wayne took me to Chicago on his last work trip as a truck driver before he settled at the plant when I started living with him.”
You hummed at his answer. “My grandma took me to Chicago too. The month before she passed away. It makes me have mixed feelings about the city because it was so weird and twice as heartbreaking how well she was during our trip, and how fast she got sick and died. But it’s also the place where I made a lot of my happiest memories with her.”
Eddie didn’t answer you, and you honestly didn’t expect him to. But he stepped closer to you and his shoulder pressed to yours as he intertwined your pinky finger with his. He smiled at you, a sweet comforting thing, and you rested your head against his shoulder as the two of you watched the city for a few more minutes.
Eddie wanted to visit the Science Center after you left the Space Needle, so you headed there next and occupied the last bit of your morning. The ticket fees weren’t cheap, but there were so many interesting exhibits inside that it paid off. Eddie was jiggling with excitement, and you walked behind him at all times as he admired and contemplated everything. He couldn’t get you tickets to the planetarium, but you promised him that you’d go another day, and he looked radiant — maybe catching the undertone that you’d be staying in Seattle longer.
You left the museum headed east until you ended up at a park at the southernmost point of Lake Union. You wandered around and there was a huge History museum, the ticket fees cheaper than the Science Center ones and Eddie actually liked History more than he liked Science, so you convinced him to get inside that one too.
And, what a great idea that was.
The Museum’s core exhibit was a full, detailed story of Seattle and you watched closely as Eddie got enthralled with everything about The Emerald City. As he read and learned about the Fire of 1889, and how so many things were destroyed and rebuilt, he touched the scars on his jaw, and you understood how that story got to him personally. Someone passing by saw it, saw him, and his scars, and stared openly and rudely. Eddie was too engrossed still reading the exhibit’s panels to realize he was being stared at, but you glared at them from behind Eddie’s back until they left.
The Museum visit took up the first couple of hours of your afternoon, and you left it and started searching for a place for a late lunch. Eddie told you all about what he had learned, retold you everything the exhibit taught him about Seattle, and you honestly weren’t as enamored with it as he was, but you didn’t mind him rambling about it for hours. Actually, for as long as he wanted to talk, you would happily listen. You might’ve not been that much enamored by Seattle, but you were definitely growing enamored with Eddie Munson.
Your belly swirled by that thought alone.
After some good walking, you ended up closer to the bay and found a place to eat, somewhere with Seattle specialties. It was a small restaurant, not as expansive as the ones by the docks, and you and Eddie tried a few different options of fish, salmons specially, he even tried a sample of oysters.
You left the restaurant and walked towards the waterfront, to the docks and the pier, and Eddie looked amazed to see the bay. You wanted to take him further west, to the sea, watch his reaction to the ocean — but you figured you’d have plenty of time in the future to get there.
The touristy attractions in that area were all alluring, and you chose and paid for a ferry tour. It lasted a little bit over an hour and took you to Bainbridge Island and back. Eddie kept growing mesmerized by the hour, observing the water, the other ferries, the people. And you kept observing him.
A few seagulls surrounded the pier as you returned, and Eddie looked amazed even by them as if he was under a love spell for everything about Seattle.
“Thought you were terrified of all kinds of wildlife?” you teased him, poking him with your elbow and he cackled.
“Guess I lost my fear of many things in the last ten days,” he answered when he finished laughing, throwing his arm around your shoulder as he pulled you back downtown.
You went to a local coffee shop, a funny looking logo that Eddie explained to you, with all his fantasy knowledge, was a two-tailed siren. Got your coffees to go, sat on a bench in a random park and kept people-watching in silence as you drank your beverages.
Eddie spoke up after a few minutes. “I don’t want to go back,” he admitted.
You turned to look at him, but he kept looking forward. The fingers of his free hand were pulling at a loose thread in his jeans, his feet tapping repeatedly. You knew he was nervous. At your reaction, maybe? You almost thought it was funny.
Didn’t he know you’d follow him anywhere by now?
You placed your free hand on top of his, stopping him from ruining his pants further.
“Then you don’t go back,” you assured him.
You almost said we, but all of a sudden you were hit by a wave of uncertainty if he wanted you with him. You didn’t want to assume, or impose, bother him with your complications. So you just comforted him, put your bad thoughts aside.
He smiled widely at you, though, so your chest felt less constricted.
“I’ve always wanted to leave Hawkins, but even more so after Spring Break.” He looked around again, contemplating the buildings. “I feel like I get to start over now.”
You nodded, hummed, and tightened your grip on his leg, rested your head on his shoulder. He let out a deep, relieved sigh, and you were content to be there with him, even if it didn’t last forever. It had been good enough. It had been amazing.
Once you were done with your coffees, you went back to walking around. Eddie acted as if he had never left his house before, and you thought it would become annoying at some point, but his happiness was contagious. You couldn’t be mad at him for finally feeling free. It was the whole idea behind his runaway plan in the first place, wasn’t it? The road trip had no destination, but Eddie arrived at his own destination anyway.
He dragged you inside a bakery for a dessert treat, dragged you inside a bookstore for a new fantasy novel now that he’d have time to read one, dragged you into a quirky little shop for a tiny rainbow pin he promptly attached to the collar of his battle jacket, dragged you to a guy selling postcards — you’d have a lot to tell your friends on your next stop at a post office, you thought.
He dragged you to a new record store. “Think we need more tapes,” he said, and you laughed at his enthusiasm. Neither of you needed new tapes, definitely. Your collection was big enough, but once again you couldn’t deny him.
There was a good number of different tapes there, new music for both of you to discover and enjoy. Eddie, almost completely out of the shell he had created after March, made friends with the other shoppers and the metalhead employee. You stood back and listened to their conversations.
“You’re going to The Central tonight?” the worker asked one of the shoppers leaning on the counter, a friend of his it seemed. “That band you liked will be playing again, I heard.”
The guy seemed excited by it and turned to talk to Eddie about it as the worker rang Eddie’s tapes. “You should go check it out. Those guys are a crazy thing, never heard anything like it.”
“As if punk and metal were smashed together and came out better somehow,” the worker added and his friend nodded, laughing.
He wrote down the place and time to the tavern gig and handed the note to Eddie with his bag full of tapes.
“I’ll see you there,” Eddie said as you both left the store.
You looked at the note over his arm and told him you’d probably have the time to go back to the motel and get ready before coming back for the gig. He agreed and asked a passerby about the bus, you provided him the number, and the local told you where you should catch it.
It wasn’t too long before you were back in your rented room, taking turns showering and getting dressed. Eddie really spruced himself up, found an eyeliner at the bottom of his bag, a beautiful leather jacket and amazing combat boots. He looked so confident, radiant. Gleaming bright, and you were a mere spectator to all of his blinding glow.
You got your best accessories and clothes to wear too, not to stay too far behind him as you dressed to the nines.
The receptionist at the motel called you a cab and when you arrived at the Central Tavern, there was a little crowd of people already waiting in line to get inside. Good thing you and Eddie both had fake IDs to show the bouncer, and you drank a couple of beers before the band went up the stage.
Not even two minutes into their music, you saw it happen. You thought you’d seen the last of that sparkle in Eddie’s eyes, you thought you’d seen the peak of it, but he kept surprising you. It had happened first when you crossed the bridge that morning, it had happened again in the History Museum, but neither of those times it was shining as bright as it did when Eddie felt the music.
The songs were, one after another, gloomy, melancholic, desperate, bitter. The lyrics told of running, of being hunted, of crying and screaming, of pleading and criticizing, of trying and failing, of trying and flying and leaving and feeling free. The words, the heavy basslines, the loud drums and the slashing guitar solos — they all ran through your ears and straight to your gut.
Eddie’s eyes were glued to the band and your eyes were glued to him.
His mouth was hanging open in awe, a few tears wetting his cheeks as the songs kept playing, his hand grasping yours in the tightest of grips, he was almost shaking.
You knew it, then.
You knew he had found whatever it was that he’d been searching for.
Eddie was truly, undoubtedly, unquestionably at home.
The gig ended and he clapped the loudest. Went ahead and talked to the musicians for a good while. You backed away to the bar again, watched him in his element.
When he got back to you he was smiling wide and his eyes were still wet. He was overwhelmed with emotions and you smiled as he hugged you tight for a couple of minutes before gripping your hand again and pulling you towards the door.
“Wanna walk a bit,” he said.
“Aren’t you tired?” you asked, your own feet aching a little from all the walking you’d done through the day. He just shrugged, still smiling.
He was silent as you walked to the waterfront again, north until you reached the piers. The last few ferries of the night were the only thing you could see in the water, tiny little things in their slow paces. It was beautiful, you could admit it.
Your head was spinning.
You could feel he had something to say, was preparing for it, and you were afraid of what it could be. At the end of the pier, Eddie leaned against the metallic fence and stared ahead at the water, still quiet. You were trying to give him the time to process his emotions, cause you knew he just had what was probably a huge realization, but your mind was spiraling.
“I want to stay here,” he finally said after what felt like hours of silence.
“Do you want me to go back?” you asked immediately. His head snapped to face you so fast you were afraid he sprained his neck.
“What?” he asked, searching for something in your eyes. You could feel them burning.
“Do you want me to go back?” you repeated.
Do you want me to leave you?
Or do you want me to stay with you?
Where do you want me? Point me to wherever, and I’ll follow.
“We gotta talk, right?” you asked instead. “We don’t wanna complicate it, right, so we gotta talk. I’m talking, I’m asking: do you want me to go back to Hawkins?”
Eddie stared at you for a long minute. “Why would I want that? Do you want to go?”
You shook your head furiously. “I don’t want to go. I want to give you space if you want it, to settle in, to find yourself.”
His eyes softened. He turned to face you fully, and you mirrored him. He grabbed your hand again, cupped your jaw and caressed your cheeks.
“I don’t want space. I want you.” He smiled and wiped away the lonely tear that escaped your eye. “Nothing with you, nothing about you is complicated. There’s no complicating this, no complicating us. We’re as simple as breathing. You make it so. I’m so glad you invaded my van and came with me, baby. You’ve no idea how glad I am. We’ve been through so much, we’ve come so far and I’m not talking just about all the miles we’ve traveled.”
You let out a wet laugh. The knot in your chest loosened and you couldn’t hold in a sob. He smiled wider, knowing it was happy crying. He brought you closer, touched his forehead to yours.
“We had so many adventures and experiences and I feel- I know there’s still so much waiting for us out there,” he pointed to the city to your side, before grabbing your hand again. You didn’t take your eyes off of him, though. “The whole world is ours now, it can start right here, and I want you with me. Our adventure just began.”
“There’s many more to come, right?” you asked.
“Many more to come, baby,” he answered, leaned in to kiss you, smiling against your lips and you knew it, then. You knew you had found whatever it was that you’d been searching for.
You were truly, undoubtedly, unquestionably at home.
Eddie was your home.
You couldn’t wait for all your tomorrows with him.
taglist: @amira0303 @rupsmorge @wyverntatty @inourtownofhawkins
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fluff#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fic#lui writes#ifligh
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Hi! Can I request a Zoot/Lips romance/fluff fanfic where they have a date in a 50s style diner?
Of course! Thanks for being my first requester! A specific diner came to mind for this! Hope you like it!
It was a cool, rainy afternoon in New York City. Spring was only a few short weeks away though the cool air showed no sign of it. The Electric Mayhem was scheduled for a gig in a small venue there in Times Square and had arrived the day before. They were staying at a cheap, very old, motel right outside of the city. Floyd and Janice shared a room, Teeth with Animal in another, and Zoot with Lips in another. It was the only option, given that the available rooms only had one bed.
Zoot was tired from all the traveling they'd done and laid down for a nap. Lips laid beside of him, wide awake from all that coffee, looking over the brochure he grabbed from the check-in counter of the motel. That was when he saw the advertisement for a diner called 'Soho Diner'. He blushed a little at an idea, glancing over at the sleeping Zoot beside him.
An hour and a half went by. Lips was still laying there wide awake, just waiting for his boyfriend to wake up. That wait came to an end when a pounding on the door woke him quite abruptly. Lips got up and went to the door, opening it to Janice.
"Hey. So like, we're all going to this rully cool place down to the road fer dinner. You two coming?"
Lips glanced at Zoot, who was fighting to stay awake and more than likely didn't catch what Janice had said. Lips returned his focus to Janice and spoke softly. "We actually, uh..."
Janice looked at him funny.
"I mean, I was going to take Zoot to another place. J-Just the two of us."
Janice smiled widely. "Ooooo like, have fun you two. We'll see you later then."
Once she walked away, Lips closed the door and returned to Zoot who was nearly asleep again. "Zoot? Zoooooooot."
"Huh?" Zoot woke up again.
Lips smiled softly. "Damn, you're such a cutie."
Zoot smiled back. "I know you are, but what am I?"
Lips shook his head, still smiling. He slowly put his arms around him, Zoot doing the same. Lips took a deep breath. "I wanna take you out tonight."
"Where are we going?"
Lips grabbed the brochure from the nightstand and pointed out the advertisement for him to see.
Zoot nodded. "Well, what are we waiting for?"
Not quite half an hour later, they walked into the Soho Diner, hand-in-hand. Thankfully the rain had turned into a drizzle by the time they'd left the motel. Lips wasn't really sure what he was expecting the diner to be like, but he wasn't expecting it to be so bright. The ceiling was of light wood and the lights that hung down were yellow. The rest of the diner was full of burnt orange, bright turquoise, and neon red. It definitely gave a vintage vibe, for sure. The warmth that the diner gave felt nice after being in the cold. A waitress was quick to lead them to a booth and took their orders. Lips ordered the rigatoni and Zoot settled for the baked mac & cheese.
Lips finished first. Zoot was almost finished with his when they got the bill. Zoot glanced down at it, seeing the total as $43. He swallowed quickly to speak when he saw Lips counting his money. "Lips, no."
At that point, Lips had two $20s laid on the table and was counting out the $1s. "Yes! Zoot, I'm paying."
Zoot pulled out his wallet and was about to open it before Lips snatched it. "Hey!" Zoot reached for it, and Lips held it out of his reach.
"Zoot!" Lips gave him a stern look, though he was smiling slightly. "I wanted to take you on a date. I wanted to do something nice for you. So I saved my money for this. Let me pay."
Zoot kept quiet and just looked at him, lips pursed slightly. Lips put the last $1 needed on the table before grabbing Zoot's hand and pulling him out the door. During their dinner, the drizzle had turned into a very heavy rain.
The two ran, hand-in-hand again, full of laughter, to the edge of the street. They were quick to get into the taxi when it arrived. Lips gave the driver the name of the motel they were staying at through his panting before looking over at Zoot who was panting as well.
Zoot smiled slightly and shook his head. "I owe you, then."
Lips puckered his lips, like he was wanting a kiss. Zoot looked at him with confusion, but took his hand softly before leaning forward and giving him his wish.
When they pulled away, Lips cocked his head to the side and smiled at him. "There. Now you don't owe me."
#request#ask#the muppets#the muppets fanfic#the muppets zoot#the muppets lips#zoot the muppet#lips the muppet#electric mayhem#the electric mayhem#dr teeth and the electric mayhem#the muppet show#zoot and lips#fanfic request#fanfic#fanfiction request#fanfiction requests
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leaning toward my computer screen going, "what are the thematic implications of mirroring the scene when harrison and jeremiah first meet with this new scene where jeremiah meets a new man at a motel under similar circumstances what would happen then huh??"
(Moth Work - 2019, left, Changing States - 2023, right)
Transcript under the cut!
From Moth Work:
The motel is named after a dead woman—The Greta Arquette. Harrison discovers this while absently thumbing through a brochure at the empty front desk. The lobby is decorated with vintage clocks and floral wallpaper and it makes sense—the woman it’s dedicated to died at 92. He’s on page six when a young man with an earring and a hair pick appears behind the desk.
Harrison shuts the brochure and slots it back into the display. “Can I get a room?” he asks, already fumbling for his wallet.
“Long ride?”
The clerk—Jeremiah, according to his nametag—smiles. His skin glows amber under the lanterns hung from the ceiling, and his hair looks too good for 2AM. The collar of his uniform pastes underneath his sweater, and it’s almost charming, this unnoticed mistake.
Jeremiah pulls out the guestbook from under the desk and sets it down with a thud “Where did you travel from?”
“Oregon.”
“Oregon? You there for the beaches?”
The headlights make his eyes bleary, Lonan’s hand limp and pressed against the window. In the rain, everything sparkles, and Harrison should walk out—he could drive another few hours exhausted, could find a gas station for coffee. He could make it work.
Harrison turns to Jeremiah, who smiles again.
“I like your earring,” Jeremiah says and points to his earlobe.
From Changing States:
When he enters the motel’s lobby, his backpack hiked over one shoulder, the first thing he notices is how much it looks like Greta. The same dense velvet curtains pulled taut over the windows, the same peeling floral wallpaper, the same clocks mounted everywhere, the same stand stuffed with brochures—a deal for boat tours, a map of the state, a Thai takeout menu. He lifts the latter to find a coupon that expired in ’98 inside.
“Can I help you?”
Jeremiah turns around. A man stands behind the counter, gnawing on a toothpick. His hair is gingery in the tungsten light, his face angular in a way that makes him look both agitated and handsome, but what catches Jeremiah’s attention the most is the drop earring swaying against his hair. It’s not the exact shade of cerulean and he wears it on the wrong ear though the minor coincidence should be startling or at the very least, uncomfortable. And maybe it’s the opalescent shift in the man’s eyes when he repeats his question, or the way he drums the toothpick across his teeth like a xylophone mallet, or that it’s too early in the morning or late at night or whatever phrase is more appropriate to describe this liminal space in time, but Jeremiah’s first thought is that this is the funniest thing to happen to him in a long while.
Like he’s possessed with the spirit of himself from what feels like a younger time, he lifts his thumb and index finger to his earlobe and tugs on his earlobe.
“I like your earring.”
#alternate title for the excerpt: HARRISON JUMPSCARE#lol i loved this tho there are so many moth work/bb easter eggs!!!!!#also there's something sprawling about jeremiah's voice in contrast to harrison's that I LOVE#like YESSS BABE THINK A LOT!!! that's fine by me!!!#changing states
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Trucker!Eddie x Landlord!Reader thing: (it's been sitting in my google docs drafts. It's just a unfinished opening scene. I wouldn't expect to see this fic posted soon. But to fill my inactivity, here is this.)
Hello, nobody ever told you how hard actually falling in love was going to hit you. Everything says it's like falling and you never really spot it until bam it happens. Love is as fast as Life is short, or that was the theory.
It was the sole thing you'd pinned for your entire life.
But you know what? Life is typically fucking long. And love?
It's slow. You're staring up a steep slope, watching that lumber truck grinding slowly towards your stalled little jalopy. That bad boy is carrying 40 short tons of lumber, its brakes are failing, and it's fresh out of fuel.
Love's great, but it will leave you feeling like roadkill that's seen the bottom of one thousand wheels.
Love comes with a name too, Eddie Munson.
"It took me fifteen years and an overdose to get you to admit it."
--- Eddie
He rolled into your shotty motel & weekly. Tracking all the mud and permanent stains right in with him.
"You know after all these years they finally pronounced that Munson guy as innocent." your cousin Marsha smacked over the phone.
She'd been going on for two hours while watching the local news, chomping on that stale piece of week-old gum. But even the smacking a popping of inhumanly hard, tasteless candy was better than night shift alone.
Shoving a yawn back down your throat, you sighed. "Seriously, Marshie? You're still following that old story?" You ask her.
The clouds thundered like an angry drummer, and the wind whistled with the sharpness of a referee. Your eyes struggled to stay open, lulled by the hypnotic rhythm of the rain beating against the ceiling.
"Of course! That was back in our hay-day _____!" Marsha cheered.
Her grin could be felt through the phone.
"Your hay-day, Marshie. Not mine. '86 was the worst year of my goddamn life." you murmur.
Marsha gave a jittered titter, "Oh you're so modest, and a drama queen. So what, it was the year you got cold feet and ran out of the wedding and-"
You tapped your black boots against the worn brown carpet.
"That wedding was bullshit, but that's not why it was the worst year of my life." Your words don't reach Marsha's ears, she's gone in her recounting of the event.
While you loved your cousin dearly, her jittered laughter was now picking at your nerves.
"skussssssh! Oh-oh no....mar-......marshie?" you stammered, recreating the sound of static with your vocal cords.
"I....skushhhh! I think the singal is - oh you piece of - skuuuussssh! sorry, Mars- I better call back - skuushhh-t-t-bzt-t - in the morning!"
Hanging up the phone, you slumped into the chair and covered your face with your hands.
In your grand act, you did not notice the shadow darting across the parking lot. Sopping wet with a drooping playboy mag for an umbrella.
You had not heard the door chime between the desperate hisses, and now you were blind to the wet rat of the man lingering before the front desk.
He watched you for a moment, his heart out, thundering the storm. Caught in that agonizing moment which for each of you, though for many different reasons, felt like an hour.
When his hand reached out for the golden bell next to the brochures, a bright 'ding' echoed past the whistling wind.
You hesitantly slipped your hands away from your face, your dry expression swiftly switching to a stunned gawk.
"Um... I saw that vacancy sign a mile down the road." said your guest.
A smile inched across his lips, "Boots!" he gasped after a good hard look at your face.
The force of the scowl, that contracted your brows, was received like a punch. Your guest quickly threw his hands into the air.
"Nobody calls me that and walks away without a mauling." you warned.
He laughed warm hum, "I remember well."
"That was an awful fake-out, by the way. You sounded like a dying robot from an early 1960s horror film." he added.
Your eyes thinned into a glare, but fixed on his smile. It was the eve of the anniversary to the worst day of your life.
"Says the Freak of Hawkins High and the only student in Hawkins history to fail Drama class. Twice."
Your words were sharp, but still he smiled, and for an awful minute your chest ached at the brightness of it.
"Eddie fuckin' Munson....of all people..." you sighed.
#i am description heavy-handed so sue me#trucker!eddie x reader#eddie munson x fem!reader#short intro thing#one-sided enemy to lovers#eddie's soggy playboy mag#sfw#got so many unfished scenes and bite sized blips of these two#rotting away in my docs like 'let me die or write me plz'
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If you were offered the same job, like hotel registration in general, but as far away from Florida as possible, would you take it?
If by "as far away" you mean "on Earth," then no, because I rather like living on land instead of at sea 1000 miles off the coast of Perth, Australia.
Honest answer, maybe. I don't think I could ever work for a big chain, because I hate company culture so fucking much. I have a lot of freedom at the little Mom and Pop motel I work at now, and I'd have to give that up if I got a job at a Marriott or Holiday Inn. The job itself is easy, it's just the clientele I hate with a burnimg passion; check out my tag "all tourists are bastards" for the greatest hits.
My boss doesn't care what I do or say as long as I get the job done. No uniform, no fake smile, no manager breathing down my neck. She understands that the customer is often wrong, and doesn't take shit from anyone. If someone complains about something beyond our control, she takes my side and tells them to suck it up or leave.
The absolute greatest part about my current job is that I'm not expected to do anything between customers. Sure, every now and then my boss will give me chores, but that only happens as they're needed
If FedEx drops off a package for a customer, I walk it to their room
If a customer smears their sweaty hands all over the office door, I clean it
If the brochure display runs low, I fill it
But that's all just part of the job. My boss never just finds shit for me to do to fill time. If there's nothing to do, I can go on my phone or read a book or draw, and she doesn't care. I have plenty of downtime, and it does wonders for my mental health. No other hotel on Earth would allow me such a privilege because most front desks are in a public communal area where I'd have to put on my Customer Service Face™ at all times, while the office door at my current job is locked 24/7 with a big neon PLEASE RING DOORBELL FOR SERVICE sign hung up at eye level. I don't have to stand all day, I only have to get up when they buzz so I can open the door for them from the inside. There's no stool at the desk, I stand for every customer, but once they leave I can go to the back room and sit in a recliner (though I'm not allowed to recline it; still comfy)
No Best Western manager would ever let me cuss out a customer who started shit. My boss lets me defend myself, and I appreciate that more than anything. Customers are liars, and she knows it. I love, love, LOVE when they start arguing with me and ask to speak with my manager, only for her to tell them exactly what I did, verbatim. Hell, it's gotten to the point that I offer to get her involved from the start, "oh, you don't like what I telling you? Do you want to speak with my boss, the owner?" We don't need their business, this place has been a community cornerstone for decades, no amount of entitled asshole reviews will ever tank it.
If I could find a nice Mom and Pop place somewhere up north, and if I could establish a mutually respectful relationship with the owner, I'd take the job in a heartbeat, but every time I google a state I want to move to I get met with dozens of horror stories telling me that it's not all it's cracked up to be. Everyone hates where they live, that's a given, but to someone living in Weimar Germany (almost Nazi), those places look like paradise in comparison. Oregon, Washington state, Vermont, Massachusetts, they seem like beacons of hope to lil ole naive me. Ideally I want to move to New Zealand, but that's beyond my budget (and probably always will be). Nowhere is safe from crazy, but some places are more tolerable.
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Chapter 1: Blackthorn
enter through the alleyway
past the invisible door
and all the way down the escher staircase in the underworld
it’s not the same as before
Six months later
Stetson was small for a university. “Intimate”, the brochure called it. Roman always assumed that Virgil, had it been up to him, would have preferred a sprawling campus where his dark, brooding, emo self could get comfortably lost in a sea of students. But Logan lived in DeLand, and Logan had been Virgil’s only option for staying hidden from his former faery master, Deceit.
So, after Deceit was dead and Virgil decided to finish his art degree after all, he’d come back to the one place he already knew. He was familiar with Stetson’s campus, on good terms with his teachers, and friendly with the local solitaries.
Roman understood that. He didn’t have to like it.
He cut the engine on his motorcycle and yanked off his helmet, flicking back sweat-damp hair. The campus seemed unusually empty; most students had probably gone home for spring break already. His bike was one of only five vehicles left in the University Hall parking lot.
Roman hung the helmet from the handlebars, stretched his arms, worked out the stiffness from his legs. Maybe biking all the way from Pennsylvania wasn't such a great idea. He told himself he'd ridden the bike so he could come and go on his own terms...but truthfully, he could have taken a bus just as easily. He’d brought the bike to show off, to possibly persuade Virgil to take a ride with him while he was here…
But he was getting ahead of himself, as usual.
Roman eyed Virgil’s dormitory in the deepening twilight, scrubbing a hand through his hair again.
Maybe I should find a motel room first. He fished his phone out and slung his backpack over his back. Just so he doesn't feel like he has to offer his space. Just so it's not awkward.
He could use a walk after all that travel, anyway.
By the time he crossed the dark campus, he'd successfully booked a room. His finger then hovered over Virgil's number. A warning would be polite, especially when it came to Mr. Doesn't Like Surprises. Roman had initially come unannounced so Virgil couldn't talk him out of it, but Roman also didn't want to ruin the progress they'd made since Logan's and Patton's engagement party.
He scuffed his foot as he walked, thoughts swirling like gnats in the streetlights.
He wanted to believe earning that art degree was the only reason Virgil left Philly and returned to a state he admittedly hated, to the one middle-of-nowhere town where a certain former crush happened to live. Sure, Virgil transferring schools in his junior year would have been a needless headache. He’d elected to live in the dorms instead of moving back into Logan’s and Patton’s apartment. He called Roman nearly every week, keeping him updated, claiming he’d been too busy to see anyone except classmates and coworkers.
At the very least, Roman knew Virgil believed his own words. And if I'm not over Virgil, after all this time, he thought bitterly. What right do I have to complain if he’s not completely over Logan?
“Changeling,” a voice murmured in wet-sounding Faery.
Roman realized his wandering had carried him to the fountain at the center of Stetson’s campus, lit up against the growing darkness. A long-limbed naiad lounged on the edge, watching him. She wore black clothes and fishnets like an ordinary human, but Roman’s changeling eyes picked out her waterfall of dripping white hair, bluish skin, and solid black Fae eyes.
Virgil had never mentioned any solitaries around the Stetson fountain. Roman casually brought his backpack around, unzipped it, and curled a hand around his sword hilt.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The naiad arched back, letting her hair spill into the water, where it undulated in the current like pale snakes. “You won’t use that.” She gestured languidly at the bag.
Roman gripped the sword harder. “Maybe I would. You don’t know.”
“Your steel has spilled our blood, but in moons long past. I can smell the difference. You brandish it now for bluster.” She sat up and grinned, showing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. “You do not frighten me.”
Fucking enigmatic solitaries. He hated the way they saw straight through any human lie, no matter how carefully constructed. What did it say about him, that she could tell he hadn’t had the stomach to hunt their kind for months? Roman reshouldered his bag and walked on, determined to ignore her.
“Beware pixie territory,” the naiad added as he passed.
Roman stopped but did not turn. “What?”
“Summer in the air. Death in the water.” She grinned again as he turned, eyes narrowed. “Watch your words.”
“What in the Arcadian hell are you talking about?” Roman snapped, fighting a chill.
But the naiad slid into the fountain with an eerie lack of splash and lay underwater, ignoring him, and Roman knew he’d get no more from her. He scoffed and trudged toward the edge of campus.
Virgil maintained that the solitaries on Stetson’s campus generally liked humans—which, in faery terms, meant the pranksters were mostly harmless and the rest kept to themselves. Plus, solitaries didn’t normally pop out of the metaphorical woodwork and talk to Smile hunters, even lapsed ones.
“Summer in the air. Death in the water. Watch your words.”
She’d meant to warn him.
Pixie territory. The hair on his neck lifted. Could she mean Painter’s Pond?
He bit his lip. This sounded like a hunt.
He considered going back to Virgil’s dorm first…but Virgil wasn’t Smile, and Virgil didn’t know he was here yet. Roman didn’t want their first reunion in months marred by faery drama. No, he would investigate the park and take care of the problem liked the damned hunter he was supposed to be.
Roman walked the few blocks to Painter’s Pond, slowing as he approached, his heart heavy with memories. Logan used to bring Virgil and Roman out here with Nic, and after Patton entered the picture, it became the four of them. He remembered chasing the dog and the pixies, Virgil laughing from the sidelines—when they weren't at each other’s throats. He could almost hear Virgil's low, gravelly voice saying "idiot," could picture him shaking his head with that maddening half-smile.
It occurred to him that Virgil might not necessarily be in his dorm; he could be at work, out prowling around downtown, or—Roman's heart skipped at the thought—right here on these familiar paths somewhere. Virgil's relationship with this park might be complicated, but surely he still visited his pixie friends from time to time.
Roman took a step onto the grass; his skin instantly prickled. The air felt…wrong, like the trembly hesitance he got before touching a staticky doorknob.
Oh, hell. That naiad did know something.
Roman had been a Smile hunter long enough to never ignore his gut. Faery magic was both insidious and nebulous; it wanted you to dismiss it as nothing, as imagination, as too much stress or not enough sleep. Arguably the most important lesson in faery hunting was learning to ignore that "reasonable" voice in your head.
The park looked empty, streetlamps spilling orange light in pools along the paths. But at the end of the park's low wall, one dark streetlight made a cradle of blackness, bordered by clusters of tiny, bone-white shrooms. A Court circle. Ambient streetlight glimmered off the white, white mushroom caps, especially when he looked out of the corner of his eye.
Roman stalked to the near end of the wall and ducked behind, letting his backpack slide off his shoulders. He opened the main flap and eased out his sword and scabbard, making as little noise as possible. He didn't draw it, yet—he didn't know what he was facing—but he did tie the scabbard to his belt loops.
He then drew in a careful breath and focused inward.
Roman’s old master, who only permitted his changelings to call him Sir, used to hang beaded curtains around his cave lair: intricate patterns picked out in thousands of minuscule beads, strings of fist-sized glass balls that bruised when one crashed into them at a run. Their clacking featured prominently in Roman’s nightmares; some of his earliest memories involved running and putting curtain after curtain between himself and his master’s cruel experiments. That Unseelie had fancied himself a scientist…if careful butchery and elaborate torture could be considered science. And Roman happened to develop the one power guaranteed to drive such a master to unhinged fury: luck.
Roman learned to slip through those beaded strings like a ghost, disturbing them as little as possible so they wouldn’t clack and betray his passage. He often wondered if that stealthy sidestep he’d cultivated led to him gaining the ability to touch something as ephemeral as possibility. Drawing on his power felt like running through Sir’s lair, each bead in each curtain representing an outcome. Every decision, every movement, even his thoughts parted the strands in different ways. The trick to manipulating luck, he discovered, was to find the beads you wanted while not disturbing the rest.
Know where you’re going.
Sidestep.
I need to know what is going on, he chanted silently.
Keep the rest quiet.
I need to see and to not be noticed by unfriendly eyes.
Pass through.
I need to know.
The back of his neck tingled, hairs rising as the familiar warm sensation of possibility slid glassily over his skin.
“What are you doing here?” a voice chimed in his ear.
Roman startled and found himself face-to-face with a soot-skinned, flame-haired pixie, whose tiny eyes were round o’s of surprise. She landed primly on the hand he instinctively raised.
“Tourmaline?” he hissed. That was fast.
“I am not displeased to see you, Roman Princey,” she said. “But it has been some time.”
Roman hid a cringe. He knew she only called him Princey because Virgil did, but now that particular nickname reminded him a little too much of Johnny Prince.
“I got a weird warning from a weird naiad and came to investigate.” he said, gesturing at the mushrooms. “What’s with the Court ring? I thought DeLand was still unclaimed.”
Tourmaline’s face grew pinched. She had always been more polite and serious than Virgil’s favorites, Wren and Wrassey. Roman suspected that was why Logan preferred her company.
“I believe this is the work of a single Court Fae working alone, though I have not seen them. The ring grew several days ago, and of more concern, many of my clan have since gone missing.” Her chiming voice dropped to a soft echo of itself. “I cannot penetrate the mushroom barrier myself, but I suspect that is where my sisters are.”
Well, that didn’t sound good at all.
“Can I help?” Roman asked.
She cast him an appraising look, her gaze lingering on his sheathed sword. “Your appearance is auspiciously well-timed.”
“You know me,” he said with a wink.
“It so happens that my purpose in coming to the wall tonight was to seek the help of…ah.”
Her wings carried her over Roman’s head, and she buzzed hard enough for them to glow like a beacon. Roman followed the line of her gaze.
Oh, luck.
Logan Ursae, his straight-backed posture unmistakable even in the low light, crossed the grassy park and made a beeline for Tourmaline’s glowing body. Oddly, neither Patton nor Nicodemus were with him. The half-faery slowed as he noticed Roman crouched in the shadows.
“S’up, Nerdy Wolverine?” Roman shot him a jaunty salute.
Logan opened his mouth, shut it again, and sighed.
“In the interest of saving time, I will not ask the obvious question,” he said in his low, resonant voice. “Clearly your luck has carried you along as it usually does.”
“Nice to see you, too.” Roman rolled his eyes.
Just as well I hadn’t called Virgil yet.
Logan knelt, adjusting his glasses and peering over the wall. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked on his teeth.
“It’s still here?” he said to Tourmaline.
“You don’t sound surprised to see a Court ring in your stargazing park,” Roman commented.
“I have been monitoring it for several days now.” Logan scowled. “Normally, I would leave such things alone, as I try to stay clear of Court matters. But, if I have interpreted your message correctly”—he glanced at the hovering pixie— “Wren and Wrassey are now among your missing kin?”
Tourmaline nodded.
Roman’s heart sank; she’d meant “sisters” literally. “Does Virgil know? Those are his friends. Has he been here to see the ring?”
“I do not know.” Logan’s voice gave nothing away. “I have not seen him since he arrived in DeLand.”
Good, Roman’s mind supplied nastily, prompting a pang of guilt. “What are we gonna do?”
“I meant to attempt a crossing tonight,” Logan said. “Tourmaline, am I correct in assuming solitary Fae are still barred?
The pixie settled onto Logan’s shoulder and nodded.
“And any human would just walk from one side to the other like it wasn’t even there,” Roman added.
“You know how Court-laid rings work.” Logan shot Roman a contemplative look.
���May I remind you that I’m a Smile hunter, Pain in the Nexus Instrument?” Roman snarked, grinning when Logan pulled a confused face. “Earthside Courts love their little magical pockets where they can lure in unsuspecting humans, or do their dirty work unobserved.”
“Or merely live their lives, safe from humans and Arcadian kin alike,” Logan added with a frown.
Roman waved that off. “Whatever the reason, it never occurs to them that a barrier like this”—he gestured at the mushroom ring—“designed to be inaccessible to Fae and invisible to humans, might still be vulnerable to us. Most of the time, Smile changelings can slip right in.” He stood and drew his sword in one swift motion. “Which is what I’m gonna do right now.”
Blackthorn: boundaries
#sanders sides fanfiction#sanders sides#ts fanfiction#ts fanfic#roman sanders#ts roman#logan sanders#ts logan#virgil sanders#ts virgil#prinxiety#faery#fae#changelings#fantasy#urban fantasy
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A little idea that I had to write down. ❤️
Creature Comforts
On the run, the chance for a proper bath is like an oasis in the desert.
She sank down into the deep tub with an extremely contented sigh. White, foamy bubbles crackled as she closed her eyes and settled, the water so perfectly warm, she felt she could stay there forever.
How long had it been since she’d had a bath in a decent tub? She thought longingly of the claw foot tub in her apartment, with its many bottles of expensive oils and soaps, and she sighed again. How much she had taken for granted…
“Scully?” Mulder called, interrupting her thoughts.
Knocking twice, he opened the bathroom door as she opened her eyes and looked at him, the candle on the counter flickering. He grinned and she sighed with a small smile. “You good?”
She hummed in response, closing her eyes briefly and sighing.
“You need anything? There’s some tea in the kitchenette. I think it’s chamomile.”
“I’m good. More than happy to just lie here amongst the bubbles,” she said, moving her hands in the water, the bubbles crackling again.
“Okay,” he said, smiling and stepping closer to the tub. “Could I tempt you with…” She gave him a look and he shook his head, chuckling softly. “No. Not that. I know what this bath means to you.”
“Good,” she said emphatically and he laughed again.
“I found this in the cupboard above the coffee pot. Not opened, probably left by the last guest.” He took a bag of peanut butter m&m’s from his back jeans pocket and shook them sideways at her. “You want some?”
“Yes, please,” she said, smiling as she sat up slightly and stuck out a wet hand. He laughed as he ripped the bag open with his teeth and poured some into his hand.
“Here,” he said, stepping closer and offering them to her instead, placing them into her mouth, and bypassing her hand. “I’ll pour some into a mug and bring them back to you.”
“Thank you,” she said, crunching the delicious chocolatey treat.
“Be right back.”
She leaned back in the tub and sighed, closing her eyes again.
They had been on the run for six months now. Six months of living in the shadows, staying in dingy motels that charged by the hour or places that were quite run down, but also where they minded their own business and did not ask questions. They had also slept in cars and tents, showering at camping sites, always aware of their surroundings.
Driving through a small town in Iowa, snow covering the ground, they had stopped at a diner to pick up takeaway dinner. A brochure had caught Scully’s eye and she brought it with her to the car.
There were small cabins for rent a couple of miles from the diner. Pictures boasted small kitchen areas, breakfast nooks, a fireplace, cable television, and freestanding bathtubs.
Her eyes unable to leave the picture of the bathtubs, the decision was made. She had stopped at a local store and picked items they were in need of, along with some lavender scented bubble bath.
Coming into the cabin, she had gone straight to the bathroom and stared at the gleaming white tub. She had sighed happily as she touched it, ready to get in immediately, but knew they needed to tackle some tasks beforehand.
Now, she lay relishing the warmth of the water, the scent of the soap, and sound of the bubbles. They would be staying at the cabin for a week and she planned on taking a bath at least once a day.
Twice, if she could.
The door creaked open and she opened her eyes as Mulder came back in with a white mug, the m&m’s rattling inside of it. He smiled as he handed it to her, bending low to kiss her forehead.
“I’ve got a fire going and I think Indiana Jones is going to be coming on in a little bit.”
“Hmm, perfect,” she said, taking a piece of candy out and popping it into her mouth.
“Take your time. But maybe get out before you turn into a prune.” He kissed her again as she laughed and nodded. Walking out, he shut the door and she closed her eyes again, taking out another candy and eating it.
She stayed in the tub until it was tepid. Setting the mug onto the floor, she washed quickly. She stood up and got out as the water swirled down the drain. Wrapping a fluffy towel around her, she used another to dry her hair before wrapping it atop her head. Blowing out the candle, she opened the bathroom door.
Coming out into the open room of the cabin, she saw Mulder sitting on the small sofa. The fireplace to his left crackled, embers flying up the chimney. The television was on low, Indiana Jones playing on the screen.
She dressed hurriedly in underwear and one of his t-shirts, pulling her robe over them. Tying it, she put on a pair of socks and walked over to the sofa, laying her towel on a chair.
Sitting at the end of the sofa, she unwrapped her hair and lay down with her head upon his thigh.
“I was certain you had gone down the drain,” he said, rubbing her shoulders.
“And you didn’t come to check? And here I thought that you loved me,” she said with a hum and he chuckled as he moved his hand and ran his fingers through her hair.
“Next time I’ll be sure to check,” he assured her and she sighed, closing her eyes at his touch.
“Feels good in here,” she said, suddenly very tired as she stifled a yawn.
“I think we’ll let the fire burn while we sleep. Well, burn low anyway. Let it keep the room warm.”
“Sounds good,” she agreed, yawning again and wrapping her arm loosely around his calf.
“You want to go to bed now?” he asked softly, his fingers pausing in his massage of her scalp as he awaited her answer.
“Not yet. We’re watching a movie,” she breathed and he hummed out a laugh in response, his fingers moving once again.
She did not even make it through half of the movie and barely woke up when Mulder helped her into bed.
The fire gave off a warm glow as they slept holding one another. Outside, snow began to fall steadily, covering the ground and not melting.
The planned week would eventually turn into two, the snow trapping them in place.
But Scully, lying in a warm, lavender scented bubble bath, as thick flakes fell outside, did not mind one bit.
#the x files#xf fanfic#msr#love#on the run#forehead kisses#bubble bath#cabins#winter#snow#fire#snuggling on the couch#together
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In the 1970s, my family ran a motel in the Bible Belt. It was a nice, clean motel near a popular lake, and we had a new Bible verse on the sign out front each week. Some families came year after year; word got around.
One of the features not advertised in the brochure but quickly shared among parents was the existence of a room that could be used, upon request, by any parent in need of a private place to punish a misbehaving son or daughter. By which I mean, punish them in the old-fashioned way. Such disciplinary methods were still pretty much the norm in those days, at least among our main clientele, but motel walls are thin and not every family liked to have the event overheard by people in the next room.
This was especially true when it came to disciplining older teens, a less frequent but far more serious event in most families, as my own experience confirmed. In that era, such punishments were often saved up for the return home from vacation, their promise enough of a worry to cast a sobering shadow and guarantee better behavior until that time arrived.
This wasn't necessary at our motel; a father or mother could simply make a quiet inquiry at the front desk, often accompanied by an embarrassed and worried looking son or daughter, and be given the key. I myself handed it over many a time. Something, though, a young lady might be sent on her own to get the key, the embarrassment in doing so part of the punishment. If it was a pretty girl in Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt or a light summer dress who made the request, with eyes averted, for the key to ‘that, you know, room down at the end,’ I wouldn’t even look at her directly as I handed it over; I was as shy as she was, and I also didn't want to seem nosy.
Besides, I knew that it must have been obvious that if my parents had decided to make that room available to motel guests, they were firm believers in not sparing the rod themselves.
The room in question was set off by itself at the far end of the row of rooms, with a storage room between it and the nearest guest room. It wasn't uncommon for a mother to carry a hairbrush in one hand as she guided her daughter firmly with the other along the length of the walkway to reach its door. More than once I saw the girls emerge wiping tears from their eyes.
The boys would also go there, even more often, usually with their fathers, who were invariably either wearing a leather belt or carrying one. I knew just what they must be feeling.
But I still think about one girl who must have been about to go off to college on the day in question. I myself had already finished my first year. She was beautiful and blond, and was wearing a white dress when her mother and she came to the front desk to ask for the key on their way back from church one morning. Her mother was tall and slender and her face had such a stern, resolute look that it even made me feel guilty and a little worried when she looked at me to ask for the key. It was as if she could see right into my own hidden adolescent sins, I suppose. The girl and I caught each other's eyes for a brief moment, and I'll never forget that look.
I can still see the two of them walking together down the row of cabins to the door at the end, the girl in white waiting nervously as her mother inserted the key in the door. For years when alone at night in my bed I'd imagine what went on in that room. In fact, all these years later I still do sometimes...
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Henryville House dates back to 1837 and was mostly demolished in 2004, after being closed for over 20 years. One abandoned portion of it still remains, as well as 2 active motel buildings across the road. A 1970 brochure described it as, “the last of the great Pocono resort bargains.” Located in Henryville, Pennsylvania. Source
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I love your fics so much! I have literally scrolled through your AO3 works barely filtering, just looking for something new to read. I get so excited when I see you've posted something new in one of my fav fandoms. Your writing is just wonderful! I know you said you have a backlog of prompts, I just want to say that I particularly enjoyed your FWS fic "Ties that Bind" and I would love to see a sequel or prequel to that one :) I know you prefer Zemo, but I'll take anything with Bucky whump
Awwww, thank you! 💜 For you, very sweet anon, a little follow-up to that fic. :D
The original fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34736959
--
Sam honestly had no idea what he was going to come back to. Leaving Bucky and Zemo alone together was enough of a risk, especially with Bucky in less than great shape.
He slipped quietly up the steps to the motel balcony, and listened at the door. There was a lamp on inside—the light gleamed through the blinds—and no sound that he could make out at all. There could be anyone in there, or no one.
Sam took a deep breath. He was the one who'd agreed to this leap of faith, after all. He had to trust in Bucky, and, weird as it was, in Zemo.
Still ... he wished it was possible to open the door without making a sound. It would be nice to see what was going on in there without alerting anyone. But there was no way to do that, so he inserted the key and opened the door as quickly as possible.
He opened the door onto, not the scene of a crime, but a peaceful domestic scene. Bucky was fast asleep on one of the beds. A flimsy motel blanket had been pulled across him.
Zemo sat on the second bed, back against the headboard and a book in his hands. He looked up when Sam came in, and gave him a polite little nod.
On the nightstand between them, there was a gun that Sam had never seen before. He didn't think it was one of Bucky's.
Zemo made no moves. After a moment, Sam turned around to lock the door behind him.
"How did it go?" Zemo asked quietly.
"Oh, you know. Ditching a hot car. Just another day in our lives, I guess. How about here?"
"I'm on watch," Zemo said in a soft, polite voice. He reached out to pick up the gun—Sam tensed—and held it out, grip first. "Do you want to take a shift? I could use some sleep."
Sam looked at the gun, which Zemo very much wasn't supposed to have. He looked at Zemo, who had, apparently, been watching over Bucky while he slept.
And then he said, "Yeah, sure. Keep that, I've got one."
He went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Leaps of faith.
He took his time washing up. When he came out, the lamp was still on, but Zemo was now a lump in the second bed with just a tuft of brown hair showing under the edge of the covers. Bucky was still asleep. Sam checked on him and found that a makeshift compress made from a rolled-up damp towel had been tucked against his forehead. Sam carefully slid it out, dampened it, and replaced it.
The book Zemo had been reading was on the seat of the room's only chair. Sam removed the book and took the chair, then looked at what he had.
"Hey, is this one of those free Bibles that motels have?"
"Reading material is limited," Zemo said sleepily from under the covers. "There are also brochures."
One of them was marking his place. Sam opened it and glanced over the map of the surrounding town. That looked kind of useful.
He looked over at Bucky and brushed a hand across his sleeping partner's forehead, lightly brushing back Bucky's disarrayed spikes of hair.
"Thanks," he said, and he wasn't sure which of them he was talking to.
It was Zemo who said quietly, from under the covers, "You're welcome."
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