Hungry Heart

by hunmie

Summary:

Stan needs to get to Oregon. You need to get to California. He has a car. You have a cunt.

(Avril voice) Can I make it any more obvious?

Don't worry. He'll take you out to dinner first. (But he's not paying)

---

(Or Pre-Postcard Mullet Stan meets you in a bar and you find out you’ll never need anyone else. Except it’s never that easy)

Chapter 1: Burt Muscle after a Really Bad Year

Summary:

So a guy with a mullet walks into a bar...

 

Your arms stick to the bar top. It’s sticky enough on its own. It smells like fruit cocktail and jaeger and all the other sickly sweet mixings that bar tops get coated in, with a lovely note of pissy beer over it all.

But it’s also sweltering, even with the door kicked out and the flies starting to buzz inside. There’s a sheen of sweat over all your bare skin, sticking your thighs uncomfortably to your wooden stool. Your jean shorts are too short, and the high waist is digging into your ribs. 

You hate Dallas.

Stupid bartender cut you off two songs ago.

You hate this stupid bar, too.

You weren’t drunk. Not really. Just buzzed enough to tell him to shove a broken bottle up his ass when he snapped your bra strap from across the bar.

But he let you sit at the bar anyways. He was sweet like that. You feel pitiable, alone like this. Maybe he can tell. Maybe he hopes that if he lets you stay and no one else picks up the slack, you’ll let him take you home.

You’re not drunk enough for that. Thank God. And you can afford to be choosy. Thank genetics. Daddy always said you were a pretty girl. He told you to kill yourself before you weren't, but that was besides the point. 

You look at the stained mirror backing the bar. Dark circles under your eyes. Your hair is a mess. Your eyeliner is from three days ago, a dark stain under your bottom eyelashes. You're young, but you don't want to guess how much longer you'll have left by dear old dad's measure. Not the way you're living. You wonder if it’s as clear to everyone else as it is to you that you’re at rock bottom.

You're not drunk, you're just reminiscing. 

“Got a wife and kids in Baltimore jack—“

You snap over to the juke box, playing the same fucking song again for the fifth time. Some mulleted asshole with sweat and beer stains on his white t-shirt croons along poorly, drunkenly leaning against the wall beside it.

“I go for a drive and never come back—“

“Not a-fucking-gain,” you groan, head in your hands. 

“What? Who’s got a problem with Summersteen?” He barks. The mellow rock continues without him.

You don’t turn. You’re not drunk, just a little on edge from the heat. You slide off your stool painfully and stumble. And okay, you’re drunker than you realize.

You point an accusing finger at the blurry man who stomps toward you. 

“If I wanted to hear someone butcher Truce Summersteen songs, I’d toss quarters at the poor bastard with the chipped cup outside. At least he knows the god damn lyrics—“ 

You blink as he comes into focus. 

Dammit. 

He was cute, in a bring-me-home-and-disappoint-your-parents kind of way. Or if Burt Muscle had like, a really bad year. Square jaw. Scruffy chin. Bulbous nose, broken at least a few times. Beer gut. Big, broad shoulders. God. Is he wearing fucking football gear or something? 

His lips stay parted like the mouth-breather he is. He looks you over too. Your loose tank top has a fallen strap, the hem hangs low over your chest. With your arms crossed, your tits look better than they are. His eyes fall to the bit of lace on your bra peeking out. It’s fine. That’s what it’s there for. Your sour face doesn’t matter if they can see what else you have to offer.

You swallow thickly, feeling sweat crawl down your neck. 

“You played the same song five times in a row. Don’t you know the fuckin’ lyrics by now?” You mutter quietly, just enough to make him lean in and listen.

You feel his hot breath against your ear, trying to talk over the music. It smells like tequila and cheap cigarettes.

“You wanna teach it to me, Sweetheart?” 

You huff with amusement. A Jersey dirtbag just like you, so far from home? What are the odds. 

He stands over you.

You imagine your thighs around his big dopey ears for a second, but the idea of his stubble tearing up your already irritated inner thighs feels unappetizing.

“Nah. Learn it yourself.” You turn. His meaty hand grabs your arm. 

“Can I buy ya a drink?”

“I don’t know.” You tilt your head. “Can you?” It’s a genuine question. You both glance at the bartender who curls his lip.

“Hermano! One for the lady, por favor!”

Surprisingly, the bartender nods. You both cling to the bar, like the railing of a ship tipping over.

“He’s Italian.” You mutter under your breath, watching the bartender mix you another vodka-soda.

“Huh?” He leans his elbow on the bar beside you, his other hand coming around your other side. He’s like a furnace. You are sweating out his beer through osmosis. 

You nod to the flag hung behind the bartender and fan yourself with a damp coaster.

“It’s an Italian flag. The Mexican one has an eagle.”

“I know. I did time in Mexico.” He says it like he’s proud. Like you should care. Stupid cute smug grin. 

“Small world!” You turn towards him.

“Gettin’ smaller.” He looks amused and he coils a strand of your hair around his finger, now leaning his arm on your shoulder. “You serious? You got locked up there?”

“No,” you say, deadpanned. He laughs. You feel it, tucked against his chest.

“You’re funny.” 

“And you’re just an asshole.” You say as you sip your drink, faster than you should. 

He shrugs one shoulder dismissively. “So, you from Jersey?” He asks, knocking back a shot of tequila with only a grimace. “You sound like my Ma.”

“Born and raised. You?”

“Born and raised. Small world. Why’d you ever leave Jersey?”

“To leave Jersey.”

He sucks his teeth. “Ain’t you got a family or somethin’?” 

“What, are you gonna kidnap me?” He laughs again. His laugh is stupid, loud, makes you wanna laugh with him. Maybe just at him. You shrug. “Followin’ my old man out west.”

“New family?”

“New everything.”

“Lucky guy. It’s harder than it sounds, starting a new life.” He sighs bitterly, nodding as the bartender refills his shooter. “Some fuckers have all the luck.” 

You hold your glass out to him. You've long since drained it of alcohol, but the ice remains. You suck on one melting cube in your cheek and crunch it between your teeth. “To the unlucky bastards, then.” 

He tuts his tongue and takes the empty glass from your hand, replacing it with another shooter.

“That’s better. To the unlucky bastards.” 

You hate tequila. 

But you love free liquor.

“Salud.” You wince as it burns down your throat, shutting your eyes tightly for a moment before you open to see him watch you with his elbow on the bar top.

“Love seein’ a beautiful chick knockin’ back tequila like a champ.” He smirks.

“Love it from a distance. You’re in the splash zone.” You groan, setting back down the glass and snagging a lime from behind the bar to suck against your teeth. 

“I don’t scare easy.” 

You narrow your eyes. “You want me to yak on you?”

“If you would do me the honors.” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lose his easy smile.

You smirk briefly. “Freak.” 

“I get that a lot.” The smile loosens. Just a bit. He swallows and you watch his adam’s apple bob. His voice gets surprisingly soft.

“Can I take you home?”

“You kiddin’ me?” You spit out the ruined lime slice. ”I thought you were a bum. What home you gonna take me to? Lovely spot under a bridge?"

“I got a motel room.” He adds defensively. “It’s somethin’.”

“Livin’ large.” You draw out the vowels condescendingly. As if you’re any better. “You ain’t worried I’ll rob you blind in the night, big shot?”

“Don’t got much. And if you can sneak it past me, I figure you deserve it.”

You look him over again.

You consider it, you really do. He could have been worse. You’ve had worse. Half the nights you spent on your way west were spent banging for room and board. Or at least picking guys drunk and rich enough to pay for the taxi home and pass out before they remembered to touch you. 

You should be dead. A dozen times, you wished you were. Easily, you could have been. And no one would go looking for you.

You have a feeling he understands what that’s like. Poor bastard.

But tonight, you paid for a room. And for the love of God, clean(ish) beds to yourself were in short supply. The TV in your room was busted and the liquor store was closed. You came here for polite conversation.

“Sorry. Not tonight, buddy.” You avert your eyes. “But thanks for the drinks.”

He frowns and nods, not happy with the rejection clearly but respectful enough to accept it anyways.

“Well, I’m in town a couple more days. If you need somethin’, give me a call, okay sweetheart?”

He fishes out a business card from his front jean pocket. It’s wrinkled and damp with sweat. 

The Loveshack the card says.

You pick up the card and turn it on both sides. 

“Cute.”

“I’m in room eight.” He eyes the card nervously. “Or ask for Lee.”

“Lee.” You repeat. “Thanks, Lee.” You hold your hand out to shake and give him a fake name. He holds your hand and your eyes. 

“I mean it. Give me a call.” He pleads.

You huff with mirth, sticking the card in your pocket. You haven’t heard a boy beg for a call like that since highschool.

“Alright, alright.” You slide off your barstool again, slightly more graceful than the first time. 

“Goodnight, Lee.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Stupid.” You smirk at eachother as you step back towards the exit. You know he’s waiting for you to turn so he can stare at your ass.

Truce Summersteen croons you out as you leave the bar. You hear Lee belting along. 

“Everybody’s got a hungry heart. Everybody’s got a hungry heart.”

Notes:

See you next thursday? Same time same place ;)

Comments n kudos r very appreciated ❤️ they fuel me

Edit 9/9/24:

I made you a (era compliant) mixtape if u want :)

Or u could check out this (spoiler-y beware) contemporary inspo playlist here.

Chapter 2: You'll Run Out of Luck Soon

Summary:

Sorry you didn't get fucked yet. Wanted to get you dinner first.

 

The street light buzzing is so loud you can’t hear yourself think.

You can feel it between your shoulder blades, tense as the dry night air hits the sweat pooling down your back. The light casts a dark shadow beneath your feet as you stroll through the middle of the street trying to keep your feet on the faded yellow divider lines. You don’t. 

You’re still in Dallas. You think. 

You had a bed to sleep in tonight. Or maybe a couch, with the guy passed out across the covers like he did. You had already cleared out his pockets, peeked through a few drawers. 

You found a tiny gun. Fit right in the palm of your hand. Like it was left in that drawer just for you.

Then the poor fucker’s wife came home. 

When you heard the shotgun cock into place, you started running and didn’t stop, pockets considerably heavier. In the chaos, you forgot you nabbed the gun.

You’re glad you nabbed the gun. 

Now you don’t know where you are. As if you ever really knew anymore. Back streets like this all kind of blended together, no matter where in the U.S. you were dragging your sorry ass around. 

Empty dirt lot with a single bench, a sun shade and a bus stop to the left. Shit-hole liquor store, piss stained parking lot to the right. Food. Shelter. Pisser.  Who could ask for more.

If only you had actual cash instead of valuables you needed to pawn.

You have a small gun now.

Stupid looking little revolver. Three in the chamber. Poor fucker couldn’t be assed to fill the thing? No wonder his wife wanted to kill him.

Your stomach growls. It wants to kill you.

Do you have it in you to stick up a place just to get something to eat?

You stop. 

Under the brilliant neon Open sign of the liquor store, in bright yellow, peeled-paint glory stands a pay phone. Handset intact. You suppress a cry of joy. You would fall to your knees in praise if you didn’t think you’d catch a disease on the rusted bolts holding it to the cracked concrete. One of the bolts is loose. It wants to leave too.

You feel in the change slot for a spare quarter, sticking your tongue out through the side of your mouth. Your fingertips brush against the ridged edge.

Holy shit.

If you’re not careful, you’ll use all your luck up in one night.

The miraculous quarter slips into the slot. You wait for the dial tone to buzz into your ear, white-knuckle-gripping the handset. 

Shit.

Who the fuck are you supposed to call in Dallas? A taxi? They don’t take gold chains. A shelter? They’re all closed. Did you want to get robbed?

You still couldn’t get to one even if you wanted to.

You hit the return button. Clink. At least you can pocket the quarter. 

As you slip it into your rear pocket, you feel the fuzzy, frayed edge of a business card. Why would you keep a business—

The Loveshack it says.

Why did you have a business card for The Loveshack? What even is The Loveshack?

You don’t know what possesses you, but you sniff the card. It smells unholy. Like beer, and sweat, and man-stink and— you need to sniff it again.

Why are you thinking of a mullet? 

It smells so familiar. Why does it smell familiar? And you feel like gagging, you hate tequila. 

Oh.

You slip the coin into the slot again, bouncing your heel as you wait for the other line to pick up.

“Front desk.” Crackles through the shitty speaker in the handset.

“Hi! G-Good evening—” Your old hostess voice possesses you. High and clipped and waiting to be reprimanded. An old reflex. You haven’t had a regular job in at least a year. You remember no greasy, stinking manager is breathing down your neck to sound pretty when you pick up the phone, so it returns to it’s deep natural state. 

“Hello?” The voice on the speaker croaks again.

“Patch me through to a room, please?”

“Which room?”

Shit. Which fucking room? You turn the card over. Nothing written anywhere. You don’t even remember the guy’s name. Maybe he didn’t know how to write. Honestly, all you remember is Bruce Springsteen and a mullet and thinking that his beefy hands might fit nice around your—

“Hello? Miss? Which room?”

“Uhhhh— don’t remember. He’s a guy, you know?” Of course they know, are you stupid? “Tall, big shoulders, shitty mullet—“ You motion to the top of your head as if the operator can see you.

“Patching you through.” 

The line goes quiet. You’re too anxious to bounce your heel anymore so you stand frozen, hunched over the pay phone box.

You hear heavy breathing on the line. Then a gruff voice, saying a woman’s name, in a vaguely familiar Jersey accent.

“Who?” You question, confused.

“That’s your name, ain't it?” 

Oh. You gave him a fake name, you remember.

“It’s Lee.”

“I know! Lee!” You draw out his name overly-affectionately. “How the hell are ya?”

“You called.” 

“I did!” 

“...I didn’t think you would call.”

“I said I would call, didn’t I?” You shrug your shoulders, tucking the phone beneath your chin and leaning back against the phone box. 

You hear him scoff. “I don’t think ya did.”

He’s probably right, it doesn’t sound like you to promise something like that.

“ 'S fine. I wanted ya to call. I’m glad ya did.”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s quiet on the line too, drowned out by the white noise. The plastic static of the handset against your ear makes you shiver even though it’s pushing eighty-five.

“Look, Lee… I’m sorry to call you like this, but I’m in a bit of a bad way—“

“What’s wrong?” He asks quickly. His concern is cute. He doesn’t know you. If he knew you he’d know something’s always wrong. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” You aren’t. There’s a pit growing in your stomach because you remember the last time you said those words to a semi-concerned party over the phone. About a year ago. You weren’t fine then, either. “You don’t have a car by chance, do ya? Or maybe just cab fare?”

“Where are you?” 

“Uh—“ You look around. The sign on the liquor store is missing letters. It's in a language you don't recognize. You aren't as worldly as you think.

“I got wheels. I’ll pick you up right now, sweetheart. Where are you?”

You silently cheer. You crane your neck and narrow your eyes to read a street sign, murmuring it into the receiver. You cross your fingers, bite your lip raw, and pray he heard you right. You can barely understand him through the crackling line.

“Give me twenty minutes, toots. An hour, tops. Don’t go nowhere.”

“I’ll be here!” You have nowhere else to go.

The line goes dead.

The hook is broken. You leave the handset on top of the box, swallow back your false cheerfulness and sit on the curb.

The street light buzzes above you, a spotlight on your failed state. You cannot hear yourself think. You are grateful.

You don’t have a watch. Giant, tacky bracelets hide your wrists well enough. So who knows how long it’s been once cars start pulling over and hollering at you to hop in. 

Cutting your jeans into daisy dukes seemed like a good idea once you got south of Memphis and the nights regularly cracked ninety. It felt less so now, while rough concrete and gravel dug into your seat, sticking to your skin from sweat. 

You ready an empty glass bottle, aiming to launch it at the dark red convertible that slows beside you next.

“Easy there, sweetheart. Watch where you throw that thing. Can’t afford to replace the window again.”

You stand up so you can see past the half-rolled window.

“Lee?” You peer inside. 

It is Lee. He greets you with a wide smile, sliding out his door and moving in to hug you until he sees you flinch back. He blinks and freezes before nodding his head to himself and crossing behind the car. 

“After you, Angelface.” He cracks open the passenger door for you.

“What a gentleman.” You wheedle for him, grateful for the cushioned seat. You keep your eyes on him as he slams your door shut and gets back inside. A bit of caution was healthy. You shouldn’t trust him. He definitely shouldn’t trust you.

The front seat is clean. Vaguely. There’s a couple full trash bags sitting in the back seat. And a few beat up boxes of some bright blue towel thing, dye seeping everywhere it touches, and other assorted brand new junk headed straight for a landfill. It was like he raided the world’s shittiest truck load of useless crap. Why was he lugging around all this stuff?

It still reeks like cheap cigarettes. But at least it didn’t smell like tequila. You crack open your window anyways. 

“Where to?” Lee asks, smiling nervously as he shifts the car into gear, hand staying on the shifter knob between you. 

God, his arms. He’s punishing the thread around the sleeves, rolling them up like that. He put on a clean shirt for the occasion. And gas-station bathroom cologne. How sweet.

He shaved, too. You’re a little disappointed, though his jaw is nothing to be ashamed of. You wanna run your hand over his skin, mourn his five o’clock shadow. For the love of god, the man has dimples. Is he Catholic? Would he smack you if you use the lord’s name in vain? You kind of hope he does. Maybe you'll let him borrow one of the rings you 'found'.

You know you look like shit. You can see the outline of your tangled, frizzed hair in the dark in passenger side mirror. You’re never teasing your hair again.

If you pass by a street light, you know you’ll see the rest of yourself in the dirty yellow glow, looking haunting as ever. You angle the mirror away. No need for another reason to bum yourself out before your— whatever this is— with Lee.

You sigh and relax back into the seat, closing your eyes with relief as the rough road jostles you. Almost rocks you to sleep, right there in the passenger seat. 

He says your fake name again as you’re drifting off. 

“Sorry.” You yawn and smack your lips.

He waits for your answer. He can't go nowhere, after all.

You sigh.

“I’m gonna be honest, Lee. I got no idea where to go.”

He nods as he drives with his eyes forward. You already caught him glancing down at your chest after a particularly bad pot hole. He was on his best behavior now. You get to study his silhouette.

“Ain’t ya stayin’ anywhere?”

“Nah. Got kicked out of my room this morning. Had a place lined up, but it fell through.” 

You hope he doesn’t ask more. He doesn’t. Good man.

Your stomach grumbles and you hunch over, desperate to subdue the sound. You were used to that by now.

“How about we get you somethin’ to eat, huh? That sound alright?”

“You sure?” You look up at him, your hand cradling your empty stomach.

“Hell yeah. Been dyin’ to take you out since you first glared at me. Dressed up for the occasion—thanks for noticin’.”

“Is that so?” You huff out a laugh. “Color me flattered. You clean up nice. But you’re full of it. I wasn’t glarin’ at nothin’.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Cos I liked it, you know. I thought you were makin’ eyes at me. I like when pretty girls make eyes at me.”

“You’re blind, bud.”

“Nahhh. ” He grins wider. “You like me. Think I’m handsome.” 

You neither confirm nor deny, but you smile as he turns away. You see him blinking and narrowing his eyes at the road signs as he drives. He’s probably blinder than you are. Maybe he regrets telling you to call him, now with your mess close enough to see.

“Pretty girls must be in short supply if you’re settling for me.” You mutter under your breath and lay back again. If he heard you, he doesn’t reply.

He pulls into a 24-hour diner. 

It’s like he read your mind. You could kill a breakfast combo right now. And however many coffees you can drink before they kick you out for not paying, unless Lee is more liquid than he looks.

You doubt it.

You spin around on your plastic-y little dinner stool, your busted heels hanging off your toes as you kick your feet around. The coffee is good . You would have preferred a booth for privacy, but this is fun too. 

Lee watches you with amusement over his coffee. He looks different when he’s well lit. Older. More worn. Especially with his hair slicked out of his face, so you can see how deep the bags under his eyes are. You prefer it messy.

He's a good time. Funny, but stupid. You didn’t know it was possible to fit a sausage link up one’s nose. It shouldn’t be, it was fucking gross. You stick your tongue out in playful disgust when he eats it anyways. He laughs like a boy.

He’s got nice teeth. Mom would be happy, if that kind of thing mattered now. You wonder if he’s Catholic. You don’t think you are anymore.

He makes you laugh ugly. It makes your cheeks hurt, the kind where you have to massage them for a while after. It feels good to laugh ugly.

He doesn’t ask about anything that matters. You like that.

You both check out the same waitress. You ask her for sugar free sugar, the real kind (whatever that means), and you both watch as she stands on a stool to look at the top shelf, her teeny uniform not covering much of anything. She’s probably eighteen. Doesn’t know any better.

Now you’ve been on both sides. It’s a rite of passage.

He tells you you’re prettier than her, but you pretend not to hear, flicking a folded up napkin towards the trash can behind the counter. Daddy always said you were a pretty girl. You used to hear that a lot more often. You’d believe Lee if it were a couple days ago, when you were within twelve hours of a hot shower. 

The napkin misses the trash can. You meet his eyes. He smirks.

You have an unspoken agreement with Lee.

You chew your soggy, jellied toast silently and without alarm while he pockets another customer’s tip.

He shovels scrambled eggs into his mouth and doesn’t mention anything as your fingers slip into the lady beside you’s pocket book. 

God bless 24-hour diners.

Combined, you probably have enough to pay for your food. You’re still a little short, not that the waitress would notice until you left, if she could count at all. But why leave it to chance? 

You both stand up at the same time, offering compliments to the chef, the lovely waitress—

“Where do you think you two are going?” A grimy hand wraps around your arm. It’s the cook. Or else he just smells like bacon grease. You feel less satisfied with how the food sits in your stomach, suddenly. “You ain’t paid yet.”

“Alright, keep your paws to yourself, pal—“ Lee knots his hand in the cook’s greasy shirt. Meaty fucking hand. God, the size of those fingers.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey—“ You hold your hands up in surrender. “We’re cool. No need to freak out. We’re cool, aren’t we?” 

“Still gotta pay for your fuckin’ food.” 

You have a small gun now. Your fingers itch to hold it again, to squeeze the grip made for your small hand.

You glance at the laminated menu another customer ducks their head behind. Quickly you stand beside Lee, pressing your chest against his side with your hand on his sternum. He’s warm. Solid, beneath the softness. It’s nice when he’s not damp with beer sweat. You try not to think about it. 

“Are you serious ? You—you think Mr. Denny pays at his own restaurants?” You motion to Lee with your hand. 

The cook balks at both of you, and Lee puffs out his chest. You try not to laugh.

“Bullshit you’re Mr. Denny. He’s gotta be like eighty or something.”

“J-Junior! Mr. Denny junior, obviously!” You take Lee’s jaw between your thumb and forefinger and aim his face at the cook. You’re suddenly grateful Lee combed his hair back. And that he knows when to keep his mouth shut. “See this? Spitting image!”

The cook glances at a blown up photograph hanging on the wall. White hair, beady eyes, the kind of jaw that recedes back into a neck. About the only thing similar to Lee was that they were both human. Maybe. 

Damn. You almost made it, too.

A giggle bubbles out of Lee’s throat as he catches sight of the photograph and the cook’s face goes red, burn-calloused hand reaching for Lee’s throat. A busboy with a tray full of dishes passes by at the wrong moment and you swing your hand up and knock the entire tray back against the cook. 

You leave behind a calamity of broken porcelain and gasps in your wake as you pull Lee by his hand out of the diner. He throws down a few chairs on his way to muddle the path to follow you both as you run. 

Even in busted heels, you’re faster than Lee. 

His huffing, red face would be entertaining if he wasn’t the one with the keys. 

“Drive, drive, drive!” You hollar, grin plastered to your cheeks as you smoosh your face and hands against the passenger window, watching in amusement as the cook and the waitress scramble outside and look around for you.

Lee’s braying laugh fills your ears as his car pulls out of the parking lot. You’re laughing too, content with wherever he sees fit to take you. You feel safe. You shouldn’t, but you do.

You have a small gun now.

Notes:

So i lied. I just haven't stopped writing. I'm riding the renaissance wave, it's been inspiring me too. I didn't wanna wait too long and lose it :(

It's gonna be once a week uploads AT MINIMUM but maybe... i upload extra sometimes

the kudos and comments did sufficiently fuel me. Thank u so much everybody ❤️❤️❤️ But keep em coming, I'm starving.

Also, thank you for being patient. I wanted to get to know you better. We’ll fuck next time ;)

Chapter 3: I Can Be Intimidating When I Wanna Be*

Summary:

Don't get into cars with strange men, kids.

Notes:

TW Dated views on sex and consent and relationships. playful mention of antisemitism
Also to be clear, Reader is not a reliable narrator. But it's okay, they're both stupid.

 

The Loveshack Motel is on the far outskirts of Dallas. You like it for that. If it has to be in Dallas, at least it’s trying to escape. Just like you.

You lay your head on your arms, resting on the passenger door rim and head hanging half out the window of Lee’s Diablo as he drives, low folk music drifting in and out whenever you’re within it’s signal. The magnolia-sweet breeze feels good through your scalp. The way heat-wilted flowers meld with the cigarette stench in the car is strangely beautiful. Like a pretty southern lady in a dingy whorehouse. 

Your hair whips around, little stings on your face keeping you awake. It’ll make the tangles worse but at this point you’re debating cutting off the length of your hair to save you the trouble. You doubt Lee keeps a brush.

You imagine traversing the woods on the side of the road on your own. The trees are thicker out here in the boondocks, practically impenetrable by your eyes. Pure black sky hangs above, dotted with pin prick stars and only a sliver of moon left to light the oak leaves swaying in the hot, dry wind. The copses are interrupted every so often by dark wooden shacks and farm houses half swallowed by the tall grass. Out there you wouldn’t know North from South. Up from down. 

You’ve never seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre. You saw enough blood covered tits back in Jersey at Greystone Park, when your roommate got too excited with a shard of glass from a broken window she found. She wasn’t your roommate after that. But seeing the old dirt road exits to nowhere lit up by Lee’s headlights every so often, you get the idea.

Lee is slow. You can always trip him and keep running if you have to. 

You hope you don’t have to. 

Lee turns down the radio and calls your fake name to get your attention.

“Is that cash burnin’ a hole in your pocket like mine is?”

You smirk. “You gonna shake me down or somethin’? Help me take it off my hands?”

“Shaddap .” He grins. His accent is thick when he says it, and you feel younger and less burdened. “I’m not some goon.”

“Coulda fooled me. That cook was gonna piss his pants when you grabbed him.” 

Men like Lee appreciate flattery. Mom taught you that. You don’t mention the angry scratch down his neck from the cook when you both scrambled away. 

Lee doesn’t question it, just shrugs one shoulder and smirks. “I can be intimidating when I wanna be.“

“I’ll bet, Capone.”

The rumble of the engine fills the space, like a third party to your conversation. 

“There’s a liquor store open late by the ‘shack.“ Lee’s voice cuts through the drone. It’s rough. He smokes too many cigarettes, you think. You haven’t seen him light a single one yet. “Unfortunately my room is drier than the Samara.”

“It’s the Sahara.” You correct him. 

“What, you think you’re better than me?” 

“Yeah.” You fire back jokingly, corner of your lip curling up.

“Probably.” He replies too quickly, shrugging and facing the road again. He’s smiling, but not the right way. “You got that kind of face.”

You chew on your thoughts.

“What kind of face?”

“Better than me.”

You sigh. “What the fuck are you talking about, Lee?”

“Nothin’.” He glances at you. “Shut up. What are you talkin’ about?”

His motel room is quant. Painted cement blocks for walls. Yellow, flickering light on only half the room. Stained, not dirty. 

He cleaned up for you. Or, tried, to the best of his abilities. You spot yellow tinged socks peeking out from under a bedsheet, draped over an unintelligible pile in the corner. He stands in front of that corner to block your view, arms outstretched.

“Welcome to Chez Pine— Pineroni! Chez… Pineroni...” His voice audibly deflates. You raise your eyebrows at him and offer a pitying smile. It’s better than the dirt lot bus stop. 

You set a clanking collection of chilled bottles on a bedside table coated in chipping paint. Jack. Coke. Tequila for Lee. 6-pack of beer for you. 

You don’t say anything about the couple packs of cheap cigarettes he sticks in his back pocket, advertised to be ‘mostly trash free’. They’ll kill him one day. You won’t be around.

“What the fuck is a chez? ” You say with a smile, twist open a beer bottle and sip. You make yourself comfortable on the shoddily-made bed. It creaks. Poor neighbors.

“I dunno, damn.” He whines, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was hoping you would.” 

He sits next to you on the bed. Hand on the covers beside your bare thigh. His fingertips brush against you. You don’t move. 

“Why the hell would I know?” You ask. 

“You’re smart.” Not true. You dropped out of college after a year.

“And pretty.” Maybe. There were opposing schools of thought on that one. Namely yours and his. 

You watch his adam’s apple bob. He probably thinks you’re looking at his lips.

At the same time, he leans in and you brace your hand against his chest, holding the distance between you. You can feel his heart pound against your palm. 

You make his heart race. 

Huh. 

Is your heart racing?

Is that what the pounding in your chest is? You could have sworn he was just punching you with some small third fist you didn’t notice before.

His eyes are closed. Should yours be? Would that help? Probably not.

You’re too sober for this. 

You don’t remember the last time you had sex sober. You don’t, generally. You’re too aware of everything. How do people do this? Do people do this? Have sex sober?

You can’t do this.

Your hand is still on Lee’s chest. He says a name. It’s not yours. 

That’s not his fault. It’s the one you gave him. 

Fuck Denny’s and their alcohol-soaking-up pancakes.

“You okay?” His voice is soft. So is his chest. You want him to hug you but you’d rather die than ask. 

“Mhmm.” Breathe. Breathe you stupid fuckin’ idiot. 

You breathe. It’s manual, but it works. 

“Look—“

“—Can I take a shower?” Your voice is high, it doesn’t sound like you. He doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know you .

You don’t think you know you anymore. 

Lee pulls away finally. Your palm is still in the air, where his chest was. It closes on the open air.

“Yeah, if you want.” He croaks. “No problem.” 

Lee stands stiffly and turns his back to you, slamming his pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand before he pops one between his teeth.

“Do what you gotta do, kid. I’ll be outside if you need anything.” He mumbles around the cigarette. He snags one of your beers before he leaves. It’s fine. You didn’t help pay for gas. He didn’t even ask. He’s a good guy. A real gentleman.

In the shower you squeeze a fat dollop of conditioner into your palm. Off-white and semi translucent. It looks foul. Makes you feel sick about Men for a second. You should probably not think about that before you plan to have sex.

You are planning to have sex, after all.

Lee’s a good guy. Or has been to you so far. Probably because he was expecting to get laid. You want him to get laid, too. He made you laugh. You didn’t realize how much you needed it. The guy deserved to get laid.

You massage the conditioner into your hair. Finally you feel the tangles coming loose. Thank God . You can’t imagine fucking while being worried about the rat’s nest consuming your hair. Now you can run your fingers through it again. 

You used up the complimentary mini conditioner bottle. It’s probably fine. It was the only unused thing in this little shower anyways. 

Lee cleaned up for you. He’s a nice guy. You couldn’t even be bothered to shower before meeting him, extenuating circumstances be damned.

So tonight he’ll get laid.

Then you’ll be back on the road, on your own. Heading west. And he won’t have to care if you’re stranded out somewhere you don’t know anymore, because he’s fucked you already.

You’ll miss him, you realize.

Shit. 

Shut up and wash your hair already.

You ring out as much water from your hair as you can and pat yourself dry. Your skin is rubbed raw, but you feel clean finally. It won’t last.

You try to down a beer, it comes back up. You burp— not a good idea. You pull from the bottle of tequila next. A worse idea, frankly. You hate tequila. But it pays off.

Your jaw already feels slacker. Your shoulders relax. The familiar burn in your stomach spurs you on to follow Lee outside, white-knuckle-gripping the bottle by its neck.

He flinches in the flimsy lawn chair he’s sitting in outside when you burst out the door. 

He whimpers your fake name as he looks up at you with wide eyes, properly startled. You want to laugh. You’re only wearing a spare t-shirt of his. It barely covers your thighs. You don’t have any clean clothes, after all.

The wall lantern outside the room sheds a sick green light over everything, casting dark shadows across Lee’s face. You can barely see his eyes underneath that Neanderthal brow ridge, but you can tell he’s putting in a fierce effort in only looking you in the eye and nowhere lower. As if you deserve his respect. You want to laugh again. You don’t think he’d find it funny.

His adam’s apple bobs again. His mouth sets.

“You don’t have to sleep with me, you know. I don’t wanna fuck nobody that don’t wanna fuck me.” Lee says bitterly, looking away and polishing off his beer. 

You cross your arms and stare down at him.

“Who says I don’t wanna fuck you?”

He gapes back at you, eyebrows knitted in confusion, and not so subtly scoots his chair to angle away, keep his back to you. “I says. You pushed me away. Hint-fuckin’-taken.”

He waves his hand, trying to dismiss you. 

“Just go back inside, alright? Take the bed. Watch the TV. Enjoy yourself. Just… leave me alone.” He leans against a shitty plastic outdoor table, hiding his face with the hand holding the burning cigarette. 

The pack sits abandoned on the table. You take a seat beside Lee and cross your bare legs. Closer than you need to be. The tequila already makes your head feel that good kind of fuzzy. You stick a cigarette between your lips and start lighting it. Your lips already buzz from the chemicals.

“So you wanted to fuck me that bad, huh?” You mumble around the moistening filter. 

He flinches when he hears the click of the lighter. It stands out in the silence of the night, only crickets calling out to each other. It's quiet out here in the boonies. You two might be the only tenants at Chez Loveshack tonight.

“Shut up.” He grumbles. He sounds like a stupid kid. Beneath the dark circles and smoker lines, he still is. You’re sure of it. You wonder if he ever got to be a kid or if he came out gristled and pissed off.

You’ve never smoked before, so the cigarette doesn’t light the first time. 

“What? It was nice, spending time with you. You’re a good time, Lee. I feel good around you. You should feel good too.” You try to light it again, successfully this time, and only breathe in to blow smoke at the back of Lee’s head. At his stupid, cute, giant ears. 

“Cut it out.” He warns again, turning just enough that you can see how ruddy his face turned. He’s blinking hard, not looking at you. His hand keeps trembling and knocking ash onto the plastic table. And he’s shifting his hips in his seat. 

“Lee.” He doesn’t turn. 

The crickets are so loud.

“Lee .” He doesn’t turn. 

Your patience is limited by the tequila.

“For fuck’s sake, I can see your hard-on from here, Lee. Just–” Lee spins and braces both meaty hands on your chair’s armrest, jostling you and your cigarette. Your lawn chair screeches against the floor in protest. 

The cherry on your cigarette falls. It lands on your inner thigh and you hiss from the surprising pain. Lee’s hand dives down to squeeze your thigh, digging his thumb and twisting into the still-burning cherry. You bite your lip to stifle a pained whimper.

“I don’t want your pity fuck .” Lee growls in your face, just inches away. You can feel his spit on your lip. “I’d rather cum into my hand every night for the rest of my life than let some broad looking down her nose at me throw me a fuckin bone just because she felt bad for me.”

You don’t flinch. You hold his gaze, as much as you want to crumple beneath him or run. 

You suck in a breath, careful not to change your face one way or another and set him off. You’ve already learned this lesson. When you've felt one fist you've felt them all.

You find your voice again, trembling somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Well– good thing I wanna fuck you because I wanna fuck you. Not because I’m throwing you a fuckin’ bone, asshole.” 

You watch his eyes flicker between yours, trying to read you. His thick eyebrows hang low. Guarded. Doubtful. Afraid. He looks younger somehow.

What the fuck does he have to be so afraid of?

He digs his thumb deeper into your thigh, ember still burning against your skin, and you squeeze them together. The burn sings to your cunt and you bite your tongue to hold back another whimper.

You feel his hard cock, strained against his jeans and pressing into your knee as he leans over you in your chair. It twitches. You thought it was his hip. Jesus Christ. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” His frown makes his dimples more prominent. Do the cigarettes make his lips tingle too, or is he used to it by now?

“Why would I lie to you, Lee?” 

Because he could hurt you. Because you feel like you owe him. Because in all honesty, you don’t want him to feel like it’s a pity fuck. He’s a good guy. You think he deserves more than that. 

What’s gotten into you? You used to know better.

His eyelids lower. You feel his hot breath against your neck, still damp from the shower. 

“Say it again.” He rumbles. 

You blink at him a few times in confusion, until it clicks in your messy mind.  

“I… I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes keep flickering between yours, searching for hesitation. His nostrils flare.

“Again.” 

You lower your eyelids and tilt your jaw up, more sure of yourself.

“I want you to fuck me, Lee.” 

Crickets. You read somewhere their song was a mating call. Horny fucks.

“Shit—“ He breathes, and smashes his lips against yours, clumsily cupping the back of your head to keep you close. You close your eyes this time. It does help. 

He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the air. He wants to breathe you in. Let you swirl around in his lungs with the cigarette smoke and invade his bloodstream. 

His thumb gently rubs the skin in front of your ear, like he’s making sure you’re real beneath him, and you feel the wetness of his tongue against your lips. You let him in. You remember you have hands of your own and you cup that square jaw of his with both of them, feeling the soft, dry skin, the old acne pits, the dimples that your thumbs fit into. He still smells like maple syrup from the diner. And salty sweat. The back of his neck is wet with it when you drag your fingernails against it. 

He groans appreciatively, heavy handedly dragging his grip on your thigh up to your hip and pulling you to the edge of your chair. You’re flush against him when he falls to his knees between your legs, kissing up at you and not letting his lips leave yours. Your arms are pinned to his chest. You couldn’t run if you wanted to. 

You don’t want to. 

His hand behind your neck slides down your back, fingers grazing over every crease of his shirt stuck to your shower-damp skin like he was flicking through a stack of cash. Like you’re priceless.

He says the name he thinks is yours again as he trails worshiping kisses up your jaw. Down your neck. You feel his hands hesitate on your ribs, just beneath your breasts, then he palms them both over your shirt, gentle the first time. 

You moan. You love his hands, you think. Your nipples are diamond hard against his warm hands.

Validated by your apparent enjoyment, he trails his lips down your sternum, into the valley between your breasts, and smooshes them against his face, breathing you in deeply through his nose. 

“Fuuuuck.” He groans into your chest. The vibration tickles, spreads through your ribs. “You’re wearing my shirt, sweetheart.”

Your fingers slip under the hems of his sleeves, digging your nails into his hard shoulders. “Want me to take it off?” You ask, just trying to be helpful. You want him to take his off and stuff it in your mouth—

He laughs breathlessly against your skin, shaking his head, his thumbs lazily playing with your nipples over the fabric of your shirt. 

“No. Not yet.” 

You whine. You feel him smile as he mouths aimlessly over to your left breast, nodding his head against it before he gently closes his teeth around your nipple. You moan loud and deep again. He drags his tongue over the tender bud now and leaves a wet spot on the shirt. He’s fucking salivating. You are too. You wonder if he’s picked a favorite already.

But he’s an equal opportunist, apparently. He rolls your other nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, grinning as you press your chest into his hand. 

“Looks way better on you.”

“Lee–” You’re panting like a fucking dog against him, thighs pulsing, aching to grind against anything. You’re soaking into his clothes now, you’re sure. You drag your nails down over his front and start to fumble with his belt buckle but he grabs your wrist to stop you. He squeezes it hard and freezes for a moment with his eyes shut tightly. He’s muttering something into your lap. 

“— Sugar Ray. Thirty four to one. Holmes. Forty eight ‘n two. Tyson. Thirty Oh—” 

He forces out a hasty breath and guides your hand to the back of his neck again while he presses kisses down your stomach.

“Not yet, sweetheart.” He murmurs against your shirt. “Be patient. Please. ” 

Not yet? Not yet? Some assholes had given you a slap to the ass as foreplay before, if you got any warning at all before they shoved in. Now your cunt had a heartbeat and he hadn’t even touched it. What the fuck did he mean not yet?

You open your mouth to protest but he slides your thighs over his shoulders, pulling you further over the edge of the chair so he can latch his lips around your clit. He sucks against your folds like a lime wedge, loud and wet. Drinking your mess in. You pull him in by his hair in retaliation.

“Fuckin’ Hell, Lee!” You cry.  

He laughs against you again. Shit eating laugh. Cunt eating laugh. 

“You taste–” He bobs against you, flicking your clit with the tip of his nose while his tongue drags hard and flat up your slit. ”–So fuckin’ good, sweetheart.”

You squeeze your thighs around his ears when he thrusts his tongue inside you. It feels a little like deja-vu, but your brain can’t handle much thinking right now. There’s an aching, coiling spring somewhere hiding in your pelvis, waiting to fire off as Lee’s thick fingers rub circles around your clit, and he devours you like a man starved. His eyes don’t move from your face, so hot and flushed it almost feels numb. 

His thick finger tip rests against your core, and stops. 

Your breath hitches. Why the fuck did he stop?

“Ahh, I can’t fuckin’ wait anymore–” He groans against your thigh.

You close your eyes for a second and you’re thrown over Lee’s shoulder, only the view of his sweaty back and the ground to greet you. You’re suddenly aware of the way the cheap plastic bands in the lawn chair bit into your bare skin, leaving angry lines across your ass. Lee runs his fingers over them, cursing under his breath in appreciation as he squeezes and spreads your flesh like dough. 

He kicks the door closed behind him and lets you down on the bed, pulling back so he can hastily tug his own clothes off. He glances down at you and snickers to himself while he focuses on his belt.

“Take that fuckin’ thing off.”

You‘re still drunk on lust and liquor, but you feel like you’re missing something. For the first time you examine your shirt.

 It’s Lee’s head, winking, with StanCo written over top. Confused giggles bubble out of your lips as you pull it off and hold it up for him to see. 

“What the fuck is—” You are distracted when the fat, pink, weeping head of his cock pops out of his jeans. Is he Jewish? Mom wouldn’t like that. Wouldn’t like anything about how you live now. 

You smirk as he leans over you and rips the shirt from your grasp, tossing it to the side of the bed.

“–Shaddup.” Lee kisses you again, his tongue invading your mouth and forcing you back to supine as he slides a condom over himself. You taste yourself on his tongue. He lingers too briefly, a string of saliva breaks and limply falls between you when he pulls back. 

He stands silently between your knees at the foot of the bed and looks over you with his lips parted, smile slowly falling. His hand reaches out to run over your abdomen, but it just hovers in the air, like he can’t bring himself to touch your bare skin. Like he’ll dirty you.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you are beautiful.”

You are confused and speechless looking up at him, broad shouldered, older than his years, and still frightened. Like when he blinks, you’ll be gone.

“Why are you lettin’ me do this?” He whispers. He can’t meet your eyes.

Your eyebrows knit together. Why wouldn’t you?

“Shut up ‘n come here already.” You murmur softly. You reach for him like you’re welcoming him home.

His hand grips your forearm tightly, tethered back to you. He lines himself up over you, at the mess of slick between your legs, forcing aside your folds. He’s so fucking hard he has to hold his thick cock down against you so it doesn’t swing back up against his gut. How flattering. 

You pulse inside in anticipation. He drags his head over your clit again and you keen, but he isn’t doing this to tease you anymore, just preparing himself. Coating himself in you.

He presses against your entrance and slides in slowly, grimacing as he does. 

“F…uck.” He mumbles, bracing one arm against the bed while the springs scream in protest. 

You whimper as you feel him stretch you, inch by fucking inch. He rests his face against your neck as he buries himself in completely, his forearms on either side of your head. You are panting, adjusting to his weight on your chest and the all-encompassing fullness between your legs.   

“Bonecrusher Smith. Twenty-eight and oh. Spinks. Twenty four to–”

“Lee.” You breathe. He’s too still, even though you feel ready to split in two. “Please.”

He catches his breath against your neck. You don’t lift your head, but you meet his eyes. 

“Stanley.” He says.

“Huh?”

“My name’s Stanley. Don’t call me Lee no more.” He still doesn’t move, watching you. Waiting for outrage or–

“Stanley.” You nod gently in approval and close your eyes for a second. He twitches inside of you. “Fuck me good, Stanley.”

You don’t need to tell him twice. 

He pulls his hips back slow, almost all the way back out, and you gasp at the way he scrapes your insides. You feel empty. Wanting. Desperate. Your nails drag down his back. You don’t want to feel empty. 

He thrusts into you. Again. And again. And again. You are filled and your insides are on fire, spread and stretched along his cock. Deliciously painful. His stomach presses down against yours, and you are even tighter around him.

Fuck your mom. You don’t care if he’s Jewish, you want him to fuck the gentile out of you. 

Your thighs tremble around him as he slams his hips into you so recklessly. Every bit as forceful as his arms hint that he can be. He exceeds your expectations. You ache inside and threaten to break open around him.

You are throbbing from the friction, from his skin slapping against yours, from his fingers knotting in your hair. 

You are drowning in creaking bed springs, in heavy breathing through gritted teeth and the statistics of heavyweight boxers.

You are suffocating in his arms, and you do not care. 

You know he cums when his stomach clenches against yours, his cock twitches deliciously inside you and a strangled moan muffles in the crook of your neck. 

Your insides convulse as he pulls out of you. The ball of seed at the end of the condom is spat out and he watches longingly as you twitch from his absence. You feel empty again.

He falls onto his back beside you, slowly catching his breath and staring blankly up at the stained motel room ceiling. You don’t know what makes it so interesting when you’re here and still naked.

You nestle yourself in the space between his arm and body, resting your head against his chest and swinging your thigh over his stomach. His eyes flicker down to you and then drink you in gratefully. Now you understand. He thought you had rescinded permission to look at you. 

You lean up and kiss him this time. He still kisses you like he’s drowning. 

Slowly he returns. His hand cups your thigh, thumb gently circling a tiny angry mark. The ember from earlier.

“I’m sorry about the burn, sweetheart.“ There’s a weakness in his voice. “About everything, earlier. I don’t know what got into me.” He smirks, and a laugh half consumes his next words. “I guess I really did want to fuck you that bad.”

“Shut up and kiss it better, dummy.” You mumble, your eyelids growing heavy. 

You feel his eyes on you. On your flushed skin and kiss bruised lips, still tender. He presses his lips against the top of your head. “Whatever you say, Angelface.”

You comb your fingers through his chest hair sleepily, weaving patterns in the waves. 

He gave up telling you to stop a while ago. But he was nice about it. Most guys wanted to throw you off after they came, as if you weren’t already pulling away. He keeps his arm around your shoulders, silently asking you to stay. You do.

“So. Stanley Pineroni, huh?” You look up at him. He glances down at you lazily. “More like Pepperoni , you–”

“It’s Pines.” He chuckles. “Just Pines.”

Notes:

I said I'd wait til thursday. Couldn't, also the Ao3 blackout forced me to write. Thanks for all the love everyone <3 Always, ALWAYS cherished, appreciated and very motivating. (please don't stop <3)

See u in a couple days <3

Chapter 4: You Ask For Too Much

Summary:

When you wake up in Stanley Pine's arms, you stay in bed. That's just math, or something.

Notes:

Tw more sex also sexworkers referenced with negative connotations

Not always gonna do this but for this chapter I recommend the song "I'd like to walk around in your mind" by Vashti Bunyan.

Your face is cold when you wake up. Only your face. The rest of you is comfortably warm. Downright cozy. 

When you were young you used to love sleeping under a thick blanket in a cold room. It made you feel held. You’d leave the windows open on brisk nights even though Mom used to yell at you. But she’s rotting in the dirt somewhere fifteen hundred miles away and this is not your room. You haven’t had a room of your own in a long time.

The hum of the struggling A/C is loud. You wonder how you ever fell asleep with it on, then again, you don’t remember the last time you felt this comfortable.

Your daisy dukes don’t bite into your waist or chafe around your thighs. In fact, you don’t know where they are. Somewhere among the other scattered, dirty clothes along the floor probably. With your underwear and everything else you’ve discarded about yourself for the sake of having a place to stay for the night.

Your eyes slowly focus on the light filtering softly through busted blinds, casting illuminated stripes across the water-stained ceiling and making the dust in the air above you glow. It’s needlessly soothing, and you know if you wake yourself any further, this dreamy spell will be broken. You pray the spell doesn’t break.

You ask for too much.

A loud muscle car roars by on the wide road outside the motel room, making the window panes tremble in its wake. Bright light reflects off the chrome and races across the room. You are blinded for a moment when it crosses your eyes and the snoring beast behind you stirs slightly.

This is not your room, you are reminded. It’s someone else’s. It’s always someone else’s.

There is a thick, hairy arm with a bad farmer’s tan wrapped around your shoulders, tucked under your chin. It’s heavy, but in its loose grip, you can still turn. 

The great beast snoring behind you is Stanley. He used to be Lee, but he kindly corrected you while he was inside of you last night. As if you were offering the credit of a good fuck to someone else somehow. It makes no difference to you but to know that he lied to you. It’s fine. You lie to him too. 

Stanley sleeps with his mouth open. His snoring could wake a corpse.  You avoid his breath as much as you can, even though you can hardly blame him for anything. You were his dinner. You drag your tongue over your own fuzzy teeth and frown. You don’t want to know how yours smells.

His warm brown hair has escaped the slicked back style with your assistance last night, sometime between pinning you to a lawnchair and fucking you to sleep. It now curls and waves over his forehead, into his cheeks, around his neck. His stubble is growing back already, poor bastard. You want to run your fingertips over it, feel your nails catch on his skin. You don’t want him to catch you. 

This is the least burdened you’ve ever seen Stanley. His face is relaxed for once, forehead unwrinkled, lips not frowning or wolfishly grinning like he knew something you didn’t. He fell asleep spooning you, hairy chest pressed tightly against your back and your legs slotted with his. Cute. Like a sleeping bear with its maw still bloody. 

Your mind still flickers with snapshots from last night. Stanley grinning at you when he opened the passenger door to let you in. Stanley looking so nervous when he first leaned in to kiss you, and you held him back. Stanley staring you down as he digs an ember into your thigh.

You were afraid last night. Of him briefly yes, but also of what you could convince yourself to do just to feel a welcome embrace for a night. The decent sex was just a plus. Well— it was more than decent, even if you didn’t cum. It was great . He was generous, and seeing him struggle to hold himself back gave you a heady, superior feeling like never before. You probably dreamt about his hands in your sleep, his fingers prodding against new wounds. Or squeezing your throat. 

How deeply entwined is your fear with your arousal, you wonder. And where does pain fit in? How much of it is genuine enjoyment and whats just…cognitive dissonance?

You are still deciding if you should be afraid of him. He’s had every chance to hurt you and he hasn’t. Every chance to take advantage and he hasn’t. But what did it say about you that you saw him sleeping and peaceful in front of you and thought him foolish for being vulnerable?

Maybe you weren’t so obviously capable of bodily harm, but you could be if you wanted to. You were more than willing if cornered. You felt cornered more often than not these days.

You wonder how many others have gotten the chance to study Stanley up close while he sleeps like this. You are grateful for the view. The blanket is low over his hips, but pulled up to your shoulders, shielding your naked body from the chill of the room. His doing, not yours. Does he tuck in all his escapades? It’s unexpectedly sweet. 

Your eyes linger on his expanse of bare skin, where the flesh is tethered to masses of muscle beneath the softness. You want to see him shirtless while he carries something heavy, see his muscles flex for you. Maybe he could just carry and fuck you in front of a mirror. 

But not now. Now you want to cocoon yourself in him for a while longer and fall back to sleep. You try, resting your head on the swell of his bicep. His chest hair tickles your nose. And his cock twitches against your leg, half hard.

You freeze when he pulls you closer, closing your eyes when you feel his chin pull back to look at you. 

“You awake?” He whispers.

His voice is rougher in the morning, if that’s even possible. His soft speaking sends shivers down your neck. His warm hand follows them, trailing over your spine on top of the covers. 

You are still deciding what you want. Daddy always told you that you made terrible decisions, were prone to impulsivity and poor choices. You would hate to prove him right. 

So you shift in his arms, like you’re still asleep. You’ve done this before. You make for a convincing unconscious body. It’s easier this way.

With your eyes closed, you feel him drag his thumb across your cheekbone, following the shadow from the hollows under your eyes. You definitely look like you need sleep, you always do. Maybe he’ll let you.

He leans closer, you feel the heat radiating from him. Hot air leaves his nose, like a bull. It tickles your face. He holds himself there.  

You expect him to kiss you. To do what men do to women who aren’t all there to witness their need for intimacy and connection and power. To take what is not freely given. 

He doesn’t.

He only welcomes you deeper into his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head. It’s warm there.

Maybe he knows you’re awake. Maybe what you’ve already given is enough. Maybe he feels regret for something (whatever that might be, you have no idea). Either way, you are impressed. You lament that the bar is so low. It is learned.

His hard cock now digs into your stomach and he sucks air harshly up his nose. You feel it in your cunt, resting warm against his thigh that’s still between your legs. Well fuck, your body’s decided for you.

He breathes shakily. You can feel him swallowing thickly with your forehead against his neck.

“Tubbs. Twenty three and two. Berbick. Thirty two and five…”

He’s whispering as softly as he can into the quiet room as he holds you, trying to kill his erection. You are surprised. It’s so fucking sweet you have a toothache. It’s so fucking hot, you’re melting against his leg. 

You can’t let him go to waste. You press yourself against him. His cock head slides past your belly button and he whimpers and stiffens around you, as if caught.

Curtains up.

You groan wantonly and stretch, arching against him and freeing your arms before they wrap around his neck, and you nuzzle your face against his. The light stubble is rough against your cheek, but it makes your skin come alive. 

“Mornin’.” You murmur, your own voice raspy and weak. 

He angles his hips away from you. You resist pouting. You can still see the shape of him disturbing the sheets out the corner of your eye.

“Mornin’ yourself.” His eyes glance down at you too briefly before staring across the room. You don’t like it. You want his eyes back on you. You want to feel held again. And you want to make his cock twitch.

Was he trying to think of a way to tell you to leave? Is that why he didn’t touch you?

You will leave if he asks. You ponder making him regret it.

You hope he doesn’t ask.

“Did I wake ya?” He murmurs. 

You make a negative noise in your throat and kiss his cheek. His jaw. His lips. You linger on that kiss, slow and sleepy. His lips are dry and soft. He groans against you and you run your tongue over the seam of his mouth.

Don’t tell me to leave.

You say it with every languid smack of your lips against his. With your hand sluggishly gliding down his chest, reaching down to palm his aching cock, hot and velvety smooth in your grip. He takes your hand away and for a second you want to cry. 

Stanley pins your hand to the bed above your head. He leans over and stares down at you. You feel your eyebrows creasing together, the corners of your mouth tugging down in anticipation.

You wait for him to tell you to leave. 

He doesn’t. 

His fingers lace through yours above your head and he meets your lips again. Heavy, hungry kisses where you can feel his teeth. Like he’s considering biting a piece of you off to keep with him. He gasps with you when his thick fingers slip down against your wet folds, coating themselves in you.

“Jesus fuckin‘ Christ.” He murmurs hoarsely against your cheek, his forehead pressed hard against yours as his fingers lazily circle around your entrance. You would be embarrassed by the feeling of him testing the stretch in your arousal if it wasn’t fogging up your head so much. “What the hell did I do to deserve this?” 

“Be here.” You answer, raking your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck to pull him back into a kiss. “The stubble ain’t helping.” 

“You like me all scruffy, do ya?” He grins, prodding his nose against yours. His voice is still all soft and croaky, makes gooseflesh erupt over your shoulders. “Duly noted. What else do ya like? I wanna give ya what ya like.”

“Your fingers.”

Your quick response surprises you both. You are rewarded for your candor by him slipping one fat fingertip into your core, just to the first knuckle to tease you, and you whimper against his lips as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit. 

Your eyes fall closed and your mouth falls open with haggard breathing. Lost in bliss.

“Ah, fuck. Look at ya. I could watch ya like this all day.” 

He trails kisses down from the underside of your jaw, sucking down the side of your neck. “I meant it when I called ya Angelface, y’know. Ain’t sayin’ it for nothin’.” 

You feel his teeth grazing against your skin and you press up into him. You are a lamb desperate for slaughter. He obliges, leaving dull, aching bites down your neck that only leave you wanting more. 

”And these fuckin’ tits—“ You cry out when he latches his mouth over the peak of your breast. You feel his teeth, teasingly surrounding your nipple while he drags his wet tongue over it languidly. He pulls his lips away with a wet pop. “—are God’s fucking gift. God dammit .”

He slides his finger deeper inside you, to the last knuckle, watching you arch up off the bed with a dazed look in his eye. 

“Let me fuck you again.” He leans in and watches you lose yourself, slipping in a second digit and spreading his fingers, stretching your insides. He groans at the sight of you. His words are half caught in his throat. “You gotta let me fuck you again.” 

His fingers make a convincing argument. Your hips buck helplessly against his hand as you drip with pleasure. “—yes, yes— ”

“Yes what, sweetheart?” He doesn’t let up, pumping his fingers into you at the perfect angle while you come apart around him. 

“Oh fuck off , Lee—“ Your hands pointlessly wrap around his forearm, stiff and veiny with its purposeful rhythm. You want to stop him, reclaim some of your sense as it it drains from between your legs, but it’s pointless. His will is like a battering ram, and you are splintering under its force.

Where was the man whispering boxing statistics to preserve your modesty? You miss him. But not as much as you want this one.

“It’s Stanley, remember angel? Or did I fuck yer brains out too hard last time?” Your eyes are shut tight, but you can hear that shit-eating grin. 

You gather all the anger you can muster. 

“Then shut up and fuck me already, Stanley.”

The barely subdued whimper in his throat is all you need to hear to know you’ll get exactly what you want.

You are folded against the bed so quickly it knocks the wind out of you. Your own knees are on either side of your head, feet dangling in the air over Stanley’s shoulders as his thick cock slides against your cunt.

He spits between your legs and slicks it over his condom covered cock. Your breath hitches and your body clenches beneath him. His face glows red as he pants from the sight of you. 

“You like that?” His voice drains of bravado. Your brain does that stupid thing where it short circuits when he looks weak. “Y-You like when I—“

He shuts his eyes and squeezes his hand around the base of his cock tightly, breath shuddering. You are jealous of his cock. You are jealous of his hand. 

“Stanley?” You call out to him, high and worn. You want to play coy, like you aren’t desperate to be fucked, but he’s right. Fucking. There.

He nods his head, forcing his breathing to even out as he drinks in his view, of your sloppy cunt waiting beneath him. 

His adam’s apple bobs, and his cock head prods against your core.

You watch yourself stretch to accommodate his size, your mouth hanging open with wanton moans. There’s a sick pride that you are getting better at taking him when he is no better at taking you. You can feel it from the hesitation in his hips, the coiled power waiting to unleash and wreck you. It’s less painful this time after his helpful fingers but no less fulfilling as he sinks himself deep inside of you.

You cling to him in relief as he sheathes himself in you. This feeling is addictive. Like a barrier around you both, expunging all thoughts but of him. His lips, trembling against your neck. His hands, one squeezing the meat of your arm while the other still pins your thigh to your chest. His cock, forcing out all your doubt and leaving little room for anything but hot, blinding need. Here you are only a hole, and you do as holes do.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy, baby.” He growls into your ear.

You whimper as he finally pulls back, teasing every nerve you have. You wonder for a moment if people have died of pleasure from sex. 

He thrusts into you, again spearheading space inside for himself to fill, and you feel your brain sizzling and popping behind your eyes as they roll back. Yes, definitely possible. This angle, foreign and debilitating as it is, has your soul leaking out of your blubbering mouth with every punch of his hips. 

It only takes a few more and that strange sting seeps down your insides, splintering through your inner thighs, soaking into the throbbing mess Stanley has carved into you. You cry out to him, digging your nails into his fleshy back while your body contracts and you feel yourself weakly twitching around him. The bed beneath you is soaked in your orgasm.

He fucks you faster now, with your body cum-loose and welcoming. He kisses you while he fucks you. Unfocused, uncoordinated mouths seeking eachother out. You white knuckle grip your concentration. You cannot be the only one to fall apart.

You want him to want you to stay. You want him to need you, so you’re not thrown away. You pull back to meet his eyes, as much as you can when they still want to roll back with every thrust.

“Stanley—“ 

You pull your voice back from your shared chorus of soft moans. He opens his eyes.

“You feel so fucking good in me, Stanley.” You cup his cheek as you coo for him. You dig your nails into his attention. You watch his eyes lose focus before he shuts them and his body tightens around you again. You pull him further into you. 

“F—uck,” He whimpers against your neck while you hold him and his hips buck weakly into you. You memorize the curve of his shoulders as they rise and fall from his heavy breathing. 

You giggle when he falls off of you, laying on his back at your side again. He laughs too, covering his eyes with his hand.

“Mother fucker! You did that on purpose, didn’cha? Ya fuckin’—“ He sucks in air, stopping himself.

“Did what?” You dare him to admit his weakness. Admit your power, fractional and meaningless as it might be, over his orgasm. 

He just stares pensively at you, chewing on his bottom lip. “What the fuck are you doing out here alone like this?” 

He still thinks you’re alone? He still thinks he is?

“Alone like what?” You blink at him.

“Like that.” His hand whips open towards you, motioning down to your body, front hidden in the rumpled bed sheet. 

“You’re a fuckin’ knockout. What the hell are you hangin’ around a guy like me for?” He says it softly, then sighs and laughs bitterly to himself. “Do I owe somebody money now?”

So you are still alone.

Your smile falls and you feel flames on the sides of your face. He seems to understand the gravity of his mistake as he gapes at you, but the damage is done.

“Wait, I didn’t mean—“ 

“Real fuckin’ nice, Stanley.” 

You whip a pillow hard at him and rise from the bed to start searching for your clothes. 

“Oh come on—“  He catches the pillow and follows you up off the bed. “What am I supposed to think?” 

You feel his eyes on you when you slip on your underwear, your back to him.

“Don’t know. Don’t give two shits what you think. But maybe you should, since you think the only time you can get laid is if you fuckin’ pay for it. Some shrink will have a fucking field day with you.”

You find your shorts and fall to your knees on the beaten motel carpet, dumping the contents of your pockets out in a heap between your legs and quickly hiding your gun. It’s all there still. A men’s wallet. Gold and silver rings. A couple sparkling jeweled earrings. A modest string of pearls and a few gold chains. 

“Wow.” He raises his eyebrows as his eyes flicker over your array. “You know I thought your ass looked a little lumpier than usual last night, but I was gonna be a gentleman and not say anything—“

You’re unamused. You toss Stanley’s lost pair of boxers at his face.

“Kiss my lumpy ass, Lee.” You grumble. At least he didn’t ask where it came from. Judging from the crap hiding in his backseat, he knows it isn’t his.

“Gladly! It’s a hot ticket item, isn’t it?“ He sneers and hops on one leg to pull his boxers on. “Aren’t you snappy in the morning? You got something stuck up there too?”

You whip his shirt at him now. 

“Yeah. A fuckin’ cash register. Up yours.” You tug up your shorts, tucking your gun in your waistband and you steal one of Stanley’s plain white tees. 

You still don’t have anywhere to go. Or any means of getting anywhere. 

There’s nothing out the door but cattle fields and oak thickets and long, long roads. You can’t throw rings and chains to the wind and hope it blows you where you need to go.

You sigh as you pull your messy hair from underneath your shirt. “I need a pawnshop. You know any?”

He sits leaning down against his knees on the bedside with his head in his hands. “Do I look like a map to you?” 

You frown as you look him up and down. He must have thrown on his clothes from last night. He looks frumpy and wrinkled, like he looked back at the bar. It’s too early to feel nostalgic.

“You look like you’re gonna sell me drugs in an after school special.”

He scoffs, running his hand up through his hair. “Well that’s just good advertising.”

You freeze where you stand, mouth open and poised to laugh. Stupid asshole, still making you want to laugh. “You’re joking .”

“Now you’re callin’ me a fuckin clown?” His voice gets high but he shoots you a boyish grin.

An incredulous laugh spills from your throat. Stupid asshole, making you reconsider leaving. Regretfully, you know better than to stay any longer.

“Would you prefer if I call you a whore?” You mutter back.

His face crinkles with regret under your hard stare. “I didn’t mean to call you a whore.”

“Golly, aren’t you sweet?” You offer with a sardonic smile. 

“I’m sorry, alright? It’s not what I meant!” He raises his voice and looks up at you. You see his shoulders raise and fall from his labored breathing. His body is big but the way he holds his palm out and up makes him look small. Supplicating.

You remain silent, knowing it stings more than words, but also because you don’t know how to respond. You sting too. How are you supposed to admit that you agree? And when did you let what these strange men think of you matter so much? You never cared before.

You‘re not making it any easier for yourself. You wait for him to tell you to leave.

He stares up at you with his lips parted, mouthing words he seemingly can’t decide on. 

“Look, I—I’ll take you to a pawn shop. Will ya let me do that? Come on—“ You watch him as he grabs his keys and opens the door for you, holding it open and waiting. 

“I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”

Notes:

We passed 1,000 views!!!!! And 150 kudos!!!! I'm so grateful for yall. The comments and kudos inspire me. I am not too proud to beg for more 👀
Love yall, thank u for reading <3

(if anyone can help me write a better summary pls let me know :')

Chapter 5: Ya Ain't Gettin' Nowhere No Quicker

Summary:

Opinions are like assholes. Everyone's got one and they all stink.

 

Your eyelids glow orange under the hot, Texas summer sun. Even with your eyes closed, you can’t escape its insistent burn.

Stanley had graciously offered to put the top down on his Diablo, like if he impressed you enough with a semi-functional car, you would forget all about his ill conceived comment. You admire his optimism as he struggles to fold down the fabric top. He smiles back at you like it works. 

He mumbles something of an apology once he starts driving and your hair whips so hard around your face you can’t see. You’ve seen these roads before. You aren’t missing anything now. And you are all too willing to have your ears assaulted by whipping wind instead of suffering through awkward conversation.

You certainly had nothing left to say to him.

Your brief time with him was coming to a rather pathetic close, and much faster than you expected it to. Faster than you wanted it to. He was racing towards it. You had thought he was sweet. Maybe a little thick headed sometimes, but just self aware enough to still be reasonable. You thought you would be allowed to enjoy his company just a little longer.

And he thought you were a whore. Far be it for you to disappoint and stick around if he wasn’t paying. 

Eventually the wind calmed to gentle and cooling while you drove back down the country roads, as if it were giving you time to mourn. 

And still, it abandoned you all together once you hit traffic closer to the town center and your speed hit single digits. Now all you had was stale, burnt gasoline stench in your nose, honking in your ears, and your own boring game of counting the dirty gum spots that freckle the sidewalk while the Diablo creeps ever forward. You are overstaying your welcome.

The sprawling, dingy city street looks like it never ends. The car keeps jerking forward through the traffic like it doesn’t want to go. You can picture, miles down the line of cars, the street meeting up with the smoggy grey-blue sky, leading straight up to the afterlife that all the billboards seem to think is so close. 

Then you spot it, the flickering yellow beacon, your salvation from this purgatory.

E-Z-Pawn: Cash for Gold.

God is real and he speaks to you through humming neon signs.

As the brakes of Stanley’s Diablo squeal to a stop, you throw open his door and jump out. The sidewalk is hot against your soles. Some old line about frying pans and fires persists in your mind.

“Hey, hey! Where the hell are you goin’?” He tries to grab your wrist but you slip just out of reach.

“…Pawn shop.” You hike your thumb back at the storefront nonchalantly, as if your stomach wasn’t clenching with anxiety. As if this isn’t goodbye.

“No shit. Get back in the car.”

“You don’t gotta come with, Stanley. I’m good now. You took me to the pawn shop. Thanks for every—“

The car behind Stanley honks as the space in front of him widens and he lets his car jerk forward a few more feet.

 “No, wait—“  Another car honks and he turns back to face the long line of angry drivers. “Give me a second! Ya ain’t gettin’ nowhere no quicker!”

You oogle the sight of him leaning back to yell curses at the driver on his rear. Your eyes follow his scruff down his glistening neck as he cranes over his seats, one muscled arm extended towards the passenger side, the other tense against the wheel. Did you want this to be your last memory, or the sleep-hazy embrace, back before you both said too much? Decisions, decisions. 

You close your eyes and sigh, committing it all anyways. You aren’t wasteful, and this is your last good view.

“Stanley, I’m good. You can go.”

“I—I can getcha a better deal. I’m a haggler, y’know? I can double your money.” He flashes you a smug grin. If this was a negotiation you might fold, but your mind is hard set this time. You almost feel proud of yourself.

“I don’t need you to double my money.”

“Let me do this. Let me help you!” He begs before glancing back again as the next car jerks towards his bumper and lays on the horn. “Shut the fuck up—!” 

“Stanley!” You stomp your foot to get his attention. You hate doing this in front of your growing audience. It was a childish habit you were still trying to lose, but so often it was still the only thing that worked.

“Go, already.”

He looks like a kicked puppy and the unwelcome pain in your gut returns. Then a determined frown wrinkles his chin. 

“You stay there, you hear me?” He points a thick pointer finger at your feet like a pissed-off-parent. “I’m finding parking! Don’t leave without me!”

He speeds away, his engine thundering down the open street before him and hurting your ears. 

“You can’t tell me what to do!” You call out after him, as if he could hear it over his screeching tires. As if it were true.

Why was he making this so hard? You were trying to leave. You were doing him a favor, ridding him of a freeloader who’s only value lay between her legs. He was smart to see you as you are, as much as it hurt. But for some reason he was only digging his heels in more. You wished he would stop. 

You’d feel better if he unapologetically called you a whore at this point. If you didn’t have to entertain ignorant delusions that you could be more than that. Realistically, what did you do for him that his own hand couldn’t? You weren’t giving him a ride in your car, taking him out, calling him pretty. He wouldn’t even let you help get him off. He was always trying to do something for you . 

Why? It made no sense. You already slept with him. What more could he want? Is he that desperate for company? 

He hasn’t mentioned any friends. No family, besides his Ma . He wasn’t drinking with anyone at the bar. He sounded like he was waiting for your call last night. 

Was he as lonely as you?

Pathetic. Pathetic to be anything like you . 

You don’t wait for him.

Its as hot inside the pawn shop as it is back on the street, and twice as stuffy. At least the clerk behind the counter of E-Z-Pawn is a sleazeball. You feel better about trying to sell him stolen merchandise as he stares openly at your tits. 

“Fifteen hundred. Take it or leave it.”

You suck in air and try to look anywhere but the clear color differential between the speckled grey hair at the sides and the deep black on the top of the man’s head as he sucks his chewing tobacco.

You don’t know enough about gold or gems to argue but as you stare at your little collection, all neatly lined up on a square of cushioned black velvet, you frown. 

“Two thousand.” 

You hold your breath, trying not to appear so nervous. You don’t know how to negotiate. Not looking desperate for cash was probably an important factor. 

“Fourteen hundred. This shit’s probably stolen. This is a legitimate business here, you can’t just throw around chains and rings willy-nilly and expect going rates.”

“Fuckin’ hell, fine. Fourteen hundred.”

“Thirteen hundred now, sugar tits. No more swearing. This is a family establishment.” You feel your face heat up again. You hate assholes like him, taking advantage because they know they can.

“Fine!”

“Good girl.” He drags it out so that he can really enjoy it. You want to vomit. Would he knock you down a couple hundred dollars more if you get it on his pretty, pressed button down? It’d be worth it. 

He throws his head back as he laughs, giving you an eyeful of silver molars and leaving to the back room for your payment. You lean against the glass display counter in defeat.

You should have waited for Stanley. Maybe he did know a thing or two about haggling. Surely anyone could do better than you in a place like this.

Faded dark wood paneling along the walls, crooked shelves claustrophobically lined with civil war memorabilia (the loser side), miniatures and models, and dust-caked electronics a couple decades out of date. One wall was scattered with innocuous instruments, banjos and tambourines.  And along the back, an extensive collection of guns.

Shotguns. Sniper rifles with long sights attached. A red pail full of shells unattended on the glass display. The shells are long and thick, bright orange with a bronze looking bottom, and at least the size of your thumb. You fish one out and it sits heavy in your palm. 

You do need bullets. Three can only get you so far, and you still have half the country to go before you ever step foot in California.

“Put that back.” The clerk barks at you. You drop it like it burns and it clatters against its fellow shells.

“… Do you carry revolver ammo?” You caution. You aren’t eager to have him pull any more from his offer just because you annoy him. You don’t even know what size to buy. Was it like girl clothes? Maybe every brand fit a little different.

“Of course I do.” He starts laying cash on the glass display, counting the bills in front of you. “—but I’m not selling to you. I’m not helping you fund your little acquisition business. Buyin’ this off ya’s already weighing on my conscience.”

The vintage Barely Legal! skin mags framed on the wall make you doubt he’s in line for sainthood.

You flip through the cash yourself while he watches, arms crossed.

“Now we shake hands—“ He starts condescendingly, holding his grimy palm out to you which you gingerly shake. 

“—and then you get the fuck out of my store before I call the cops.”

You feel your lips twitch into another frown as you stare each other down. You want to launch at him from across the glass cabinet. You want to shove his head into the glass, break it on his stupid thick skull and spit on his wounds for good measure. 

You’ve done a lot to be hated for. You’re quick to anger, quick to hate and blind, violent fury. You’re just as quick to bouts of helplessness, of whiny pathetic entitlement and desire for attention. You know yourself, you hate yourself and you’re right to.

But this asshole doesn’t know anything about you. And you haven’t done anything to him. Not yet. 

Your breath shudders in your chest. Daddy isn’t here to hold you back. To invite the local beat cop who brings you home to Sunday barbeque after church, or to lock you in your room until you stop sobbing so hard you can’t breathe. You’re responsible for handling the consequences of your actions.

So you manage to only shove your small stack of cash into your pocket and turn on your heel, turning back one last time to shout “Asshole!” before you slam his door shut.

Your chest is still heaving as you make it back onto the street, your eyes already blinded by the bright light outside after exiting the dank shop. Stanley’s Diablo is nowhere to be seen. 

You feel like crying. Surely because that clerk was being such a dick, not because you missed Stanley and you hadn’t even ditched him longer than thirty minutes by now. Well, maybe you missed his car. It was pretty cool, and the seats were soft and even if it was this hot, your soles wouldn’t burn against the tan carpet floor. And maybe you miss his room, with the A/C and the mini fridge you just stocked with beer, and that warm, comfy bed with warm, comfy arms that wrap around you.

You sigh and lean back against a brick wall, hiding your face in your hands. The droplets of sweat sticking down hair at the back of your neck do nothing to cool you.

You’ll be fine on your own, you know that. But for a little while you didn’t have to be.

You push off the wall and start walking before you look, and you run into someone’s chest. They smell too much like expensive, screechy cologne. You pull back, muttering your apologies and shaking off your thoughts about a certain broad-shouldered asshole and his gas station polo.

“It’s you.”

You try to blink the stinging sweat out of your eye until whoever it is can come back into view, but things are no clearer. You don’t recognize the man in front of you. His cropped hair and shitty suit make him indistinguishable from any other yuppie asshole on the street.

“Sorry?”

“It’s you.” He repeats more aggressively this time. “You came home from a bar with me and robbed me fucking blind! ”

Oh. Yeah. It is you. 

You see him start to raise his right hand and you fucking run . You run as fast as your legs can take you in shitty three inch heels. And when your heel sticks in a gunk-filled seam in the sidewalk and your ankle rolls and screams at you, you keep running. Sans heel. 

You can hear him huffing behind you as he chases, cursing when he trips over your discarded shoe. Your stomach jumps in joy at the idea you may yet escape. 

Then his fingers tear into the fabric of the shirt you stole from Stanley as he pulls and tosses you into an alley. 

Asshole. You liked that shirt.

You yelp when he throws you into a brick wall, the jagged edges scraping your elbow, cheek and palm as you crash against it.

Through squinting eyes you throw your hands out randomly, nails bared and praying you reach anything, or just keep him away. You feel your nails catch, and hear him hiss in pain.

When you open your eyes he has three long scratches across his face, already beading with blood. 

“You fucking bitch!”

Before you can register anything you feel his fist hitting heavy across your cheek. He hits so hard, more than the dull aching pain throbbing along half of your face, you feel ringing in your ear and the world dividing into two as you fall back and to the ground. 

Your vision goes weird, tilting endlessly as if you’re trying to crawl through the old swirling tunnel at the Boardwalk Fun-House. You catch yourself from falling completely against the floor with your elbow –fuck does it sting– blinking as you try to count the men standing in front of you. It’s one, then two, then four. Two of that yuppy asshole and two more of—

Stanley. 

Your eyes focus again on Stanley’s scuffed up boots shuffling around in the dust and dirt around the polished sharp-toed dress-shoes of Asshole. You look up just in time to see Stanley’s fist connect with Asshole’s jaw. The unbridled rage on his face might be the sexiest fucking thing you’ve ever seen.

One. Two. Three times Stanley lands a wet, bone crunching punch before Asshole pushes Stanley away, free from Stanley’s grip on his shirt.

Stanley. That’s a name for sainthood.

“Mind your fuckin’ business, man!” Asshole cries, touching his fingertips to his leaking mess of a nose.

“You piece of shit —“ Stanley lands another punch and you watch crimson splatter back onto Stanley’s white shirt.

The arc of his arm through the air is extraordinary to see. You know nothing about boxing, but you can feel the solidity of his stance, the cognizance of his dodge, the tenacity in his uppercut. 

“—don’t you ever fucking touch her again!” Stanley growls as he follows Asshole to the floor, wailing down punch after punch after punch. 

“She hasn’t fucked you over and ran, yet, huh?” Asshole flashes blood stained teeth up at Stanley. 

What the fuck is he talking about? He doesn’t know you. He wished you would fuck him over.

Stanley is curious too, holding his fist in the air ready to strike, but looking confused down at the pathetic puddle of a man.

“You’re useful to her now, and as soon as you aren’t she’ll take you for everything you have. What do you have to your name, bud? Don’t look like much. You ready to lose it?”

You feel the corners of your lips carving down into your face again. You recognized Asshole now. 

You remember finding Asshole at a bar. Listening to him complain about his job, his wife, his life. You told him he deserved more, that he deserved whatever he wanted. He took you at your word, the idiot.

You seek out comfort in familiarity. It’ll cost you things you can’t get back. Let go. Live a little.

That’s what you told him when he started hesitating, remembering his vows. And you didn’t care, because it stood between you and a bed to sleep on. He had said his wife was out of town, so what did it matter? You got what you wanted, and by the end of the night you ended up with Stanley.

That’s what your dad told you when you wanted to go to a local college instead of the out of state university you had earned yourself a scholarship to. He said you were an idiot to watch your mom waste away when there was nothing you could do to help her. And you took him at his word then too. And you didn’t come home until she was dead. Closed casket, because Daddy didn’t want anyone to see how disgusting his pretty wife looked when she died.

It was like Daddy possessed you, made you selfish, like him. Maybe you could get him out with a few more good blows to your head. It was worth a try.

You see Stanley glance at you. You see his doubt flickering in his eyes as he leans over the human bruise beneath him. It's well deserved. You can't refute any of Asshole's claims. You don't even try. 

In Stanley’s hesitation, Asshole smashes a found empty bottle against Stanley’s head. He manages to toss Stanley to the floor now, sitting high on his chest and locking his hands tight around Stanley’s thick throat. The sound of Stanley gasping desperately for air and finding none is one that will stick with you. You never want to hear it again.

You expect Stanley to throw him off, to turn the tables and win and brush the dust off his shoulders like a hero. But you see the lack of focus in his eyes, the blood blinding him as it pools in the hollows of his face.

Stanley wanted to save you. And look where it got him. 

What was there of you to save? Your wasting looks? Your smart mouth? Your fickle interest? You don’t have much to call yours, none of it good. 

But you do have a small gun now. You feel it digging into your hip. You fish it out of your waistband with trembling hands and aim it square at Asshole.

He doesn’t notice. You don’t register as a threat. 

You’re so fucking tired of that.

You fire. 

The gunshot echoes loudly in the alleyway and your ears are ringing again. You’ve never fired a gun before. You are surprised that even in the middle of the day, in an alley sandwiched between busy city streets, the world falls silent after.

The bullet missed, but it tore a hole through the shoulder pad of his shitty three piece. You register as a threat now .

You try to still the trembling in your hands as you get to your feet, gun still aimed at Asshole. You look like the world’s least intimidating mugger, but somehow you manage to spit out a threat.

“I know where you live, motherfucker. Forget my face and walk away or I’m shooting off one of your balls and letting your wife finish the job again.”

Asshole holds his hands up and slowly rises off of Stanley, who only lifts his head from the ground a couple inches to watch you.

Asshole’s moving too slow. You don’t want to see his face anymore, proud as you are of Stanley’s handiwork. You flick your gun back to the street. 

“Fuck off already!” You shout at him, and he does.

You reach for Stanley, trying to leverage your weight enough to pull him back to his feet. You doubt you really did much, but he lets you think you did.

His cheekbone is split, there’s blood caked in his hair, and spilling from his eyebrow, and seeping into his shirt. His nose looks like it might be broken again. Its swollen and purple and flowing over his lips. When he smiles there’s blood in his teeth. He runs his tongue over them to clean them. You are jealous of his tongue.

He tries to clear his throat, but it’s still sore and thick with blood and pink saliva. 

“Look at you, my little knight in shining armor. Remind me to stop getting on your bad side.”

You flinch when his hand comes roughly down on your head and ruffles your hair. 

You shake your head. You can’t look at his face anymore. You keep your eyes on the sight of his chest expanding, slow and even. He’s breathing. You aren’t. 

“I’m sorry.” You croak. The deep frown carving into your face doesn’t leave much room for mouth movement. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

“Shh, hey. It’s fine. I’m fine. Are you fine?” His voice goes soft like the morning again. Your knees want to buckle beneath you. He knows the answer to that question.

“Come on.” His hand on your back guides you, solid and grounding, as he leads you deeper into the alleyway, where his Diablo waits parked around the corner. “You don’t wanna stay out in the open after firing a gun in the middle of Texas, sweetheart.”

You both sit silently in the front seat for a moment. With all the windows closed, it muffles the sounds of the city outside. It’s just you two in this bubble. What’s left to say when it’s just you two?

You squeeze the gun in your hand. The tip is cold against your lap. You didn’t expect it to be cold. 

“I didn’t know you had a gun.” Stanley murmurs.

“It’s new.” 

“From the pawnshop?”

You scoff. “No. Guy at the pawnshop was a prick. It’s from that asshole in the three-piece.”

You see Stanley’s nod of acceptance in the corner of your eye. You feel him watching you. 

“You gonna steal my car?” 

“No.” The corners of your lips twitch up. “I can’t even drive stick.”

You finally meet his eyes. He has a weak smile, apparently grateful for the little things. You liked him for that. 

But your frown returns, and your eyebrows knit together.

“You gonna call me a whore again?”  

You feel childish as you say it out loud, that simple name calling could lead you to try and abandon the kind of man who would fight so hard for you. For needing reassurance. But even saying it again feels like lead in the pit of your stomach. Probably because it hits so close to home.

“No.” He shakes his head, waiting for your spirit to lift before he grins and continues.

“Not unless you want me to.”

It breaks the tension. You laugh sounds more like a whimper when you whack your fist against his arm. “Shut up!”

“Easy, killer!” He laughs. Even bloody and bruised the sight of him laughing sets you at ease.

You whack his arm again in playful outrage. “I still have two bullets you know, one for you and one for me!”

“Oh yeah? You got shit aim, sweetheart. I don’t think you could hit me if you held the gun to my head. Come here, try it.”

He manages to wrestle your hand with your gun between both of his hands while he holds your gaze. You hear the metal clinking together, popping out and back in and loading for the next shot before he holds the tip of the barrel to the middle of his forehead. 

You can’t breathe again. You’re caught in the vice grip of his eyes, brown and honey gold where the light hits them. And your thighs clench.

He is at your mercy. This mountain of a man, placing his life in your hand. One squeeze of the trigger and his brains can be blown out against the windows of his treasured car. 

He smirks at you and releases you from his grip, opening his palm for you. Two bullets. You didn’t even notice he removed them. In your shock, he takes the gun back. You can breathe again, though with that strange feeling that stirred in your pelvis, you don’t know if you should be allowed to.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d pull the trigger or not. I didn’t wanna risk it. But now I know.”

He loads the bullets back in the gun and clicks it back in place, setting the safety back on and looking proud of himself. 

“You like me too much. You’re in love with me cos I beat the snot out of that creep.”

You giggle and bite your lip, trying to suppress how amused you really are. “Uh huh. If I don’t blow your brains out I must be in love. I thought I was your knight in shining armor?”

“You’re a lot of things.” He says wistfully, proud smile fading. “Whore’s not one of ‘em.”

He lowers his eyes, staring at the revolver as he turns it in his hands. 

“I’m sorry I was such a jackass.”

You shake your head and let it fall back against the bench seat. “Still not the biggest jackass today.”

“Who? Yuppie son-of-a-bitch with the three piece?”

You shake your head again. 

“Asshole behind the counter of the pawn shop. I don’t know who spit in his fuckin’ coffee but if I ever see his stupid face again I’m putting my fist through it. And stealing his toupee.”

You rest your eyes, but Stanley’s silence is worrying. He’s staring at you, narrowing his eyes. 

“Stay here, toots.”

You open your mouth to ask why, but he’s already gone, slamming the door shut and stalking away. 

You sigh and rest back against your seat again. You’ll listen to him this time, God knows you don’t want to walk around anymore with your single shoe on the hot concrete. 

You flinch back to the present when Stanley returns, sliding quickly into his seat with a wolfish grin, revving his engine and speeding down the rest of the alleyway and back onto the street. While you’re stunned, he empties his hand onto your lap. He found your shoe, heel hanging off, about a thousand dollars in wrinkled bills, and a toupee.

Notes:

This took me a while my apologies I hope is worth the wait. Sorry no pengis this time <3
All the lovely comments make my brain feel fuzzy thanks y'all (pls don't stop)

Just puttin feelers out, how would we feel about Stan pov? Or does that kind of ruin the immersion?

Edit: thank yall for confirmation❤️ I have a Stan POV Chapter set immediately after this chapter posted as a oneshot bc I don’t know how often I’ll have his POV in the ongoing narrative but it’s in a collection w this one! Enjoy!!

Chapter 6: easy shallow intimacy*

Summary:

This is great. I am going to win at sex, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve.

Notes:

hihihi thank y'all for waiting. if ur interested I posted a Stanley POV one shot that takes place in between chapters called Drown Me Out. And if ur interested, I have a contemporary inspo playlist here if ur interested

Enjoy <3

 

You didn’t think a guy like Stanley would be so… vocal. 

The man is a fucking safe, one you're lucky to hear click on the once in a blue moon when you accidentally hit the right number with the dial. But when you press against the bruises on his chest, see the way the flesh turns white when you displace the pooling blood on his chest, God, the man sings. It fills you with the kind of hair raising shiver you only feel when the choir sings in gospel music. 

And you are his subject of worship. Halle-fucking-lujah. 

You only meant to tend his injuries, show a little gratitude for everything he had done. He had gotten roughed up pretty badly in that back alley with Asshole, getting that bottle broken against his head. He drove back to the motel with the wound still weeping into his hair. 

You wanted to clean him up, sanitize his wounds, and maybe some over the pants stuff. You could play coy, and remain in control of yourself. So you thought. 

You knelt before him as you sat him on the bed, untied his boots, still dusty from the alleyway, one by one. You devoured the sight of him, beaten and bloody and half-lit by the flickering static of the motel TV. And you resisted dragging your tongue up his salty neck, where splattered blood is carved into by his dripping sweat. You were being good. So good, so focused, so coy.

Then he kept sucking down the tequila. And weaseling his fingers under your clothes. And pressing his alcohol-flushed face against your neck, whispering against your skin how cute you look, how he wanted to kiss you. And he looked down at you all misty-eyed like he meant it. After everything.

You dare anyone to try and act coy after that.

Now you’re kneeling between his legs while he sits on the bed, unbuckling his belt and unable to decide whether to drool at the sight of the blooming hickies you left on his neck or at the way his tongue is practically fucking wagging above you. Your attack dog, devoted to a fault. 

“You don’t gotta do this for me, you know. Ain’t punching people just to get in your pants, toots.” This again. His voice is rough from the tequila. And the fight. So sexy you forget to roll your eyes. You wonder if his bite is harsher than his bark.

“I know.” You resist scoffing at the absurdity of his humility. As if you would be so eager to slobber on his cock just because you thought you had to. 

He let you hold a gun to his head. He made you hold it there. Even if it wasn’t really loaded, the power of it all still runs heady through your veins. Honestly you found it hard not to rip his clothes off as soon as you got him home, but you were demure. You had waited. 

“I want to, Stan.” You say it simply.

You want to reward him. Devotion like that isn’t easy to come by. You won’t let it go to waste.

You breathe heavy against his happy trail while you unbuckle his belt. The hair dances for you. His cockhead is leaking, dampening through his straining boxers. You haven’t had him in your mouth before, haven’t tasted him yet. Not like this anyways. 

You drag your tongue over the wet spot, sweet and salty. He whimpers again, and his fingers comb into your hair. 

Those deserve to be rewarded too. You marvel at his hands, at his calloused, boxer’s knuckles, angry and red and scabbing over. So rough, but so gentle with you. You kiss his knuckles, kiss his palms, and rest them against your cheeks. 

You hear him whisper your name, or at least what he thinks it is still, and you look up at him through your eyelashes. He’s staring at you, good. But he still looks all anguished. Not good. 

Was this too much? He knows what you are now, how you use and discard. 

His hand is on your cheek. If he wants to push you away, he can. You keep your eyes on his, waiting for his guidance, for signs of discomfort, for him to admit, Hey, actually you’re a little too crazy and you’re fucking scaring me. Get the fuck away from my dick–

He closes his eyes and brushes his thumb over your cheekbone. 

“Please?” He asks.

He’s begging you. You’re on your knees before him and he’s begging you . 

Your head feels foggy. You’d do just about anything for him. 

You’ll start by making him cum his brains out.

You nip at him through his boxers, mouthing up his length, feeling the ridge around his head with your tongue. He shudders beneath you, but doesn’t move except to card his fingers into your hair. Good boy.

You take him out of his boxers, fixating on that pretty pink head, still beading at the tip. You run your tongue over to collect it before you take the head into your mouth and hum appreciatively, letting your tongue lay flat against his frenulum. 

“God–” He whines, strangled through his gritted teeth as he bucks into your mouth, tightening his grip in your hair. You ha-rumph as his cockhead bumps against your soft pallet. God isn’t giving him a blowjob, you are.

You start to sink your mouth farther on it, suppressing your gag reflex by focusing on your fingertips digging into his thighs. It was harder to do than you expected. He’s so goddamn thick your jaw is already sore. 

Good things don’t come easy (except for Stan). You press on anyways, coating his cock in your saliva before you wrap one of your hands around his base and start to pump him, twisting your wrist. He’s quieter now as you suck him off, and that confuses you. 

You look up at him again and see the heel of his thumb between his teeth, all flushed and screw-faced as he watches you. Not fair. You earned those sounds of praise, you deserve to hear them.

You pull your lips away from him, leaving a long line of drool to fall from your tongue to his cock as you keep your eyes on his. 

He can bite his hand trying to muffle it all he wants, white-knuckle grip the bed sheets and pray the poor fuckers in the next motel room don’t bang on the walls to tell you both to shut up. But if you want to hear him, you’re gonna hear him. 

You want to hear him. 

And when you sink your teeth into the meat of his thigh and suck until you leave indents in his skin, oh, you hear him. 

“Fuck!” He growls. He almost sounds angry, but his grip on your hair gets no more painful. You wish he would tug it just a little.

“Angel, please —“

The pet name makes you grin against his thigh. Of all his little nick-names, you like that one the most. You reward him by dragging your tongue over the darkening imprint of your teeth and you feel him tense his muscles in response.

“Please what, baby?” You ask, sickeningly sweet as you slowly rise from your knees, discarding your own clothes and straddling Stanley back on the bed. You glide your wet heat along him, slow and calculated just to feel him buck into you again.

You don’t care what he wants, he’ll get what he’ll gets and he’ll enjoy it. But knowing is helpful.

“You on me. Around me. Anything. You. I want you.”

You’re soaking against him.

You’re amenable to that. You lean over him to grab the condoms from the bedside, he groans as your breasts hang above him. With him distracted by your chest, cupping and massaging your tits with his rough hands, you rip open the condom wrapper with your teeth and roll it over him, squeezing him tightly as you do and enjoying the gasp he lets out. 

You lean over him, resting on his chest, and meeting his hungry gaze with your lidded eyes.

“You feel good, Stan?” 

You can feel his hot breath hitting your face, he nods his head and rests back on the bed.

“It’s like fuckin’ heaven between your legs, sweetheart.” 

Stupid man. He’ll give you a big head if he keeps talking like this. You laugh breathlessly and angle your hips so he’s lined up against your entrance.

You press your lips against his, deep and lingering. He still tastes like copper. “Nothin’ I wanna do to you will let me see heaven.” 

He whines softly from the pressure on his busted nose, but kisses you back, seeking you out. You feel proud. How lucky you are to find a man as charmingly hopeless as you are.

You start to take him. You whimper in his ear as you feel him start to stretch you, just his head in so far. You could have let him work you open with his fingers like before, but you were far too impatient. You weren’t really concerned about yourself right now. You just want to be above him.

You try to keep your breath even as you slowly ease yourself lower, laughing softly at the sight and sound of Stan beneath you, trying to muffle his gruff grunts by biting down on his bottom lip. You hate it when he tries to silence himself. You ask for so little.

You can’t reach his face anymore, so you lean forward and bite the next best thing, his chest. He gasps in pain and bucks up into you.

“Fuck! You toothy little–” His beautiful little whimper, hitched by his laugh, is all you needed to slide home. You giggle and slide all the way down against him with a wet smack. His cock head hits your cervix like a pinball machine, flashing lights in your vision and you cry out against the meat of his chest. 

You start rocking your hips into Stan’s salaciously, working for the slow ascent to your orgasm and dragging your clit against him for relief. You can see him watching your little performance, the rolling of your hips, the arching of your back, a quick snapping movement to see the rebound of your ass against him.His eyes are dark and clinging to you, drinking you in. You’re his heaven on two legs. You’re the kind of girl a man wants to die for. You’re in control.

And then his stupid meaty fucking thumb starts rubbing wobbly circles around your clit, and his hands help raise and slam down your hips in time with his thrusts.  His fingers dig into the softness of your hips, splintering your focus. You mewl as your power is drained out of you. To his credit, even from below, he still fucks like a machine.

You’re losing control of the encounter. Your thighs are twitching around him. 

“Stanley–” You moan, resisting going boneless above him and letting him have his way with you. It’s splitting hairs. You’re losing. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Stanley is eager to catch you when you fall, starting to sit up and run his hands from your hips up to your back. He welcomes you into him with open arms, trying to catch your lips with his. You're so glad you drank the tequila too, or you'd be too ashamed to cling back to him. 

But you can’t lose. You brace your arms solidly against his shoulders and rip control away again, spelling his name out with your hips. You let your mouth hang open and bleat loudly as every one of his thrusts forces you too, for his benefit. You take his hand and interlock your fingers with his, shoving your connection in his face. 

You tighten your abdomen around him and roll your hips against his with wanton abandon. You reign in your leash on his attention, on his satisfaction. He’s your devoted dog. You need to win.

And you win. 

You win with his arms around you, with your fake name moaned loudly into the room as he holds you in his lap and catches his breath against your chest. Your interlocked hands are stuck between the two of you, damp with sweat and held so tightly your fingers feel numb. You catch your breath against the cold open air. 

He presses his lips to your chest for a moment, just under your collarbone, then he rests his face flat against you, humming softly as he breathes out.  

You didn’t expect winning to make you feel so… guilty.

You want to force away the feeling. You press a kiss to his damp hairline, easy shallow intimacy. You’re happy to avoid his eyes, always warmer than yours.

You won. Why does it still feel bad? 

“You alright?”

Stanley’s voice puts your mind back in your body. It’s tired. All this time in his arms and you’ve resisted relaxing against him. You’re sitting up, stiff, like you have a rod up your ass.

Your jaw hurts too. And your hips and knees, too long spent on them. You swallow back your discomfort and nod your head.

“Mhmm.”

He pulls back finally. You want to look away, hide your face. You don’t have it in you to perform anymore. Winning is costlier than you realized.  

He lets you look away, but he’s still there. Waiting. His hands hesitate over your arms before he starts rubbing them gently, applying deep pressure, keeping you in your body.

“So.” He starts. You don’t look up. “You still headin’ for California?”

You smirk bitterly for a moment. You’ve been heading there for so long you don’t really remember what for anymore. Even if you do find your father, that doesn’t mean you’ll ever land in the same room as him. 

But you do have a gun now.

You scoff. That was the childish kind of thought that plagued you at night when you were young. You’re grown now. Daddy can’t bail you out if Daddy’s dead.

“I guess. Nothing really concrete. It’s not like I’m gonna miss an appointment…” You laugh bitterly to yourself. “Just don’t really know where else to go.”

“Will ya let me take you?” 

Your eyes flash at him. Why?

“Why?” You sound a lot more suspicious than is deserved, still naked in his arms, but he doesn’t flinch. He just smiles softly and shrugs. 

“Got nothin’ better to do.” His hand travels up your shoulder, tracing over tan lines from your old tank top. “You’d look killer in a bikini. I think maybe that’s reason enough fer me.”

“You’re stupid.” You don’t have it in you to really laugh yet, but with him grinning at you like that, you’re close. “You want me in more clothes? That’s insulting.”

“I’ll take you in anything, sweetheart.” Stupid big mouth. Stupid sweet big mouth.

“What about the StanCo shirt?” You’d seen it, balled up in a corner, separated from the rest of the dirty clothes. You were half sure you’d seen him huffing it when he thought you weren’t looking.

You feel more at ease in his arms now as he slides back against the bed and lets you lay on his chest. You watch the love bites on his chest play hide and seek under your fingertips and he trails his hand lightly over your bare back. Pushing him away anymore is a lost cause.

“I think I can be convinced to let ya borrow it again.”

Notes:

hihihihi thank y'all for waiting for this chapter <3 Idk why smut takes so long for me to write but I hope is worth it. Got more planned! Next chapters should roll out a bit quicker. The stanley POV took a little more braincell from me than i expected. I hope y'all enjoy <3

as always thanks for comments and kudos everyone!!!! <3 I love y'all

edit: I need somebody to freak out about Tarmac by Blondshell with me because it’s reader in this chapter so fucking bad and I can’t stop listening to it.

Chapter 7: How the hell are we gonna bake a cake now?

Summary:

realistically, what else can you do with two cups of flour?

Notes:

TW animal death. somewhat gory. (I know the stanleymobile is called the stanleymobile, give me a couple chapters)

 

You were dreaming. Old, meaningless things like pastel dresses and backpacks with stolen liquor bottles sloshing beside hardcovers of Jane Eyre , and Mom standing beside Daddy at the head of the dinner table. Dreamlike, only because it’s been years since you’ve seen a proper Sunday supper where Mom could stand on her own two feet and Daddy wasn’t looking down his nose at you, because at some point, you became a hysterical, flawed woman instead of his beloved, well-behaved daughter.

You are ripped out of sleep by loud banging on the front door. It’s bittersweet to visit memories of home when your waking mind forgets how tainted they are. How in your mind now, behind your parents, the wallpaper peels like your skin in the sun. Abandoned.

You don’t have time to feel it sting. 

The banging starts again and your heart is racing in your chest, skin thrumming as all the blood speeds through your veins to help you run.

Your eyes are still tight and sore from sleep, but you can see silhouettes peeking between the half-broken blinds, breaking the light that burns your eyes. You feel exposed. You try to pull the bedsheets over your still-bare chest, as if it would be any help as your last line of defense.

“Lee!” It’s an unfamiliar voice calling as it slams against the door, deep and pissed off. The cheap particle board creaks, threatening to give. You don’t have much time. 

You lean over the bedside, seeking out your clothes to throw on, inside out or not.

“Lee, you piece of shit, get out here right now!” 

Your head snaps towards the door again, then a soft, quick whistle calls for your attention at the other side of the bed. 

Stanley winks at you when you meet his eyes. His hair is wild, his jaw is scruffy. He’s tugging on his dark wash jeans, kicking one leg out to get them up. If you weren’t scared out of your mind, you’d be ripping them right back off of him. 

He leans across the bed quickly, bracing himself with one arm to peck your cheek. 

“Mornin’ sweetheart.” He grins at you, as if this is somehow amusing. Maybe rude awakenings are his version of coffee. “Up and at ‘em. We gotta go .”

“ What did you do?” You whisper harshly at him, but he continues throwing things half-hazardly into pillowcases. There wasn’t much out in the motel room, most of his junk stayed in the trunk of his car. Was he planning for this?

“Sold the motel owner’s kid drugs.” He murmurs. 

“You what?” 

You spin quickly to face him and knock over an empty bottle, causing it to shatter against furniture. You freeze as you face the mess, but you don’t exactly have time or reason to clean it.

“I know you’re in there Lee!” 

They heard you.

Stanley winces and ducks his head. You fish your gun out from your back pocket and he rolls his eyes.

“Relax! They weren’t real or nothin’ . Come on!” 

As if that clarifies anything . He grabs you by your wrist and tugs you toward the tiny, high bathroom window, supporting you by your thighs to crawl out. 

You land hard on the cracked gravel outside, feeling the shock in your ankles as you pad barefoot over the busted patches of dirt, overgrown with weeds. You scramble to catch the pillowcase sacks as he tosses them out of a window, and briefly wonder if getting caught with his drugs, ‘fake’ or not, was worth the trouble. 

But you don’t have enough time to think, because you have to clear room for Stanley to scramble out the window himself. It’s impressive seeing him squeeze through. He didn’t look to be a very flexible man by any measure, but maybe experience makes up the skills of an escape artist more than size does. He had weaseled himself into your life, hadn’t he?

You can still hear the motel owner hollering and pounding against the front door, snot-nosed son in tow as Stanley races to his car with you.

He slides over the bumper while you toss the sacks into the backseat, and the Diablo roars to life. Stan plunges the gas pedal, kicking up dust clouds as his wheels spin in the loose-gravel parking lot of the motel. The motel owner screams incoherent threats while Stanley howls with scornful laughter.

The tires screech when they meet the asphalt and you brace yourself against your seat, neck craned back to see if they’re following. Besides the two ant looking creatures playing in your old dust cloud and growing smaller with every passing second, you’re safe.

You try to settle into your seat. Your stomach feels all funny with anxiety-nausea, as if you forgot to take it with in all the chaos. And your heart is still racing, like it knows you left your stomach behind.

Beside you, Stanley looks happier than a clam, enjoying the breeze of his open window with one arm hanging out, the other loosely holding the steering wheel steady. 

Your body aches from lack of sleep, of draining adrenaline. Your eyes twitch and narrow as Stanley reaches for the dial to turn up the radio.

“What the fuck was that ?” 

He flinches back as you yell, car swerving over the median line.

“Jesus! Will ya relax? What was what?”

“The whole—“ You’re caught on your words, as if you’re the unreasonable one for being confused. “— everything . Why did we just get run off?”

“Never hadta make a quick getaway before?” 

You haven’t, not like this. You don’t usually get to relax around your escapades. This time you were relaxed, content, safe. Until you weren’t. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” You brush off his question just like he did to you. “Are you really a—“ You lean in as if your parents can still hear you, still judge you. “—a drug dealer? ”

Laughter bubbles up from Stan’s gut as he tosses you a wry smile.

“Did ya think I was joking, angel face?” Anxiety wrings out your stomach again. 

Is this really where you draw the line? Maybe. You can’t help what you’ve been taught. As if you’re some saint with money from pawning stolen goods in your pocket. 

“Yes ! When was the last time you said anything serious?” 

He lifts an eyebrow at you. “I’m serious as a heart attack, baby. I do really think I could take Mayweather in a fight—“

“This is serious, Stanley!” You don’t know what you’re doing. There isn’t exactly an instruction manual for life on the wrong side of the law. If there were one, you would have read it forwards and back about a hundred times.

“I know!” He throws his hand in annoyance, mirroring your outrage. “Now I’m out two cups of flour, how the hell are we gonna bake a cake now?”

You’re primed to yell back at him, and then the words process. He smiles as he sees it dawn on your face.

“You sold the kid flour? ”

“Heh, yeah. For a good deal too. Kid was gonna make a fortune reselling little baggies of the stuff. Not my fault it took him a couple days to try it himself and realize it wasn’t doin’ shit.”

Relief floods through you and you hold your face in your hands. You can’t help it, delirious laughter bubbles out of your throat. 

“Hey— yer scarin’ me laughin’ like that, toots.”

“Oh bullshit. Be scared. I was freakin’ terrified.”

“Me too. How am I supposed to tell the motel owner his kid’s addicted to pot—s and baking pans?”

“Shut up!” You giggle and punch his arm, which he pouts and rubs at sardonically. “That was bad.”

“Ya still mad at me?” Stan sticks out his lip and pouts at you in between glances at the open road.

“I could be.” You cross your arms, eager to see how he’ll try to impress you with his hands glued to the steering wheel.

“What if… I teach ya how to drive stick?” He looks hopefully over to you, like a child playing coy about showing off some cool trick.

You bow your lips in consideration. If he wanted to trust you with wrecking his car… well, you would try to indulge him.

 

---

 

It feels weird to sit in the driver’s seat. Wrong. 

The steering wheel hinders your vision of the long, unending stretch of country road before you, sandwiched by rolling, yellow-green fields. It’s ridged, white leather handles are warm against your palms with Stanley’s lingering body heat. You can see the little, overfilled ashtray littered with butts spilling over beneath the dashboard. You should still be wrinkling your nose from the smell, but you’re going nose blind to it already. Maybe he’s already seeped into your pores.

“Alright, toots. You got this.” Stanley leans over you, smiling hopefully for you as he keeps his eyes on your feet. 

“Now hold down the clutch and the brake pedal. All the way.”

You follow his instructions. You were always a good student, you can do this, right? You fight the desperate craving for him to tell you how good you are, how smart and good at following orders. 

“Feel this?” 

His hand covers yours on the gearshift, and he rests his other arm over the back of your seat to lean closer. He wiggles the gearshift, it bungles loosely in the middle space. 

“See? It’s not catching on anything. You’re in neutral.”

“Mhmm.” You should be remembering this, not smiling wistfully at Stanley, appreciating the focus in his eyes, the curl in his lips. 

“Hey.” He snaps his fingers and you look from his lips to his eyes again. Why is that so hot? He smiles like he knows how hot it is. “ Focus. You’re gonna learn how to drive stick for me, right?”

“I can drive your stick. Is that not enough?” You lean into him again, shoulder brushing against his chest.

He leans in with you, like he’s going to kiss you, but he just shakes his head with a proud smirk. 

“ No. No freeloading. If we’re driving to California, you’re gonna take some shifts behind the wheel, sweetheart.” 

You sigh dramatically and look down at the gearshift, sticking out your bottom lip. What happened to your devoted dog? He wanted to put you to work? How cruel.

“Fine. What now?”

“Shift to first gear—“ He moves the stick shift up next to the little embossed 1. “Now ease up on the clutch. Gently. Go slow so you can feel it catch.” 

He moves his hand to your left thigh, the one slowly releasing the pedal. He squeezes your thigh when he feels the soft clunking of the gear catching on the clutch.

“ There… She’s nice and easy, huh?” 

You feel your stomach lurch as the car starts rolling forward, slow but not stopping. You suck in air, whole body tensing. 

“Nothing about this feels easy!”

He puts a calming hand on your arm.

“Woah woah woah, don’t hit the brakes. It’s okay. This is good. Give ‘er a little gas.” 

You suck in another deep breath and slowly apply pressure to the gas pedal, the Diablo gently rumbling as it crawls forward.

“Good.” His voice wavers as you both bounce in your seats from the rough terrain of the dirt shoulder. “Now yer gonna give ‘er a little more and peel back onto the road.”

You look into the rear view, half praying something would come to stop you from getting back on the road and other half knowing you would flip out if anything did. But you hadn’t seen another soul on this road for at least thirty minutes now, just you, Stanley, and his Diablo under the setting sun. 

The Diablo wobbles and shakes you both as it struggles onto the asphalt, but she makes it. You are in one piece, and you’re driving stick shift.

“Now what?” You mutter, white knuckle gripping the steering wheel and not daring remove your eyes from the road.

He moves your hand back to the shifter, covering it with his.

“When you’re up to thirty, we’ll hit second gear. You’re gonna hold down clutch, shift to second, release, and then you’re golden.”

“I can’t do that.”

“It’s easy.”

“It’s not easy.”

“It’s easy.”

“It’s not easy—!“ 

A small tan flash darts across the road.

“—Shit!” 

You slam on your breaks and try to swerve out of the way, the Diablo screeches against the road in rebellion. 

Off into the dirt you go again, praying you don’t have the soul of some little creature staining your conscience. As if you don’t have enough to regret. 

You sit in the driver’s seat, thumping your head against the steering wheel as Stanley exits the car and examines the damages. He circles the car, hand rubbing the back of his neck, offering you pitiful smiles.

“Debby’s fine.” He slaps the hood. He calls her Debby? You’ll ask him if you should be jealous later. “She just stalled out. We can just flag someone down to give us a jumpstart, then we’re square.”

“If that thing doesn’t come back and ghost-murder us first, yeah. Sure.”

“Don’t be dramatic, it’s probably fine—“ He leans over to see past the Diablo and cringes. “Okay, maybe not. Don’t come outside.”

“Is it bad?” You pop open your door before he can stop you.

It was bad. 

And you were stupid to come look. You knew animals weren’t stuffed with sprinkles and powdered sugar. 

It was gore. A six foot stretch of viscera and limbs following the winding trek of good ole’ Debby’s wheels as you swerved her back onto the dirt. You could see the dashed white lines of the median where the skull was supposed to be. You really put the road in roadkill.

“Oh.”

Your stomach is upset, and your mouth starts to salivate in preparation for upheaval as your eyes follow the lines of entrails. It really was like being back in school. Once upon a time when you were young and blindly ambitious, you had considered being a veterinarian. Then you were forced to dissect a cat.

And yet, the strangest thing about the poor animal, a tawny-furred hare, was that there were antlers growing out of its skull. One of them snapped off on impact, and you take it between your trembling fingers. A jackalope ? Seriously? You killed a fucking jackalope?

“Don’t panic—“ He holds his palms out at you and you can tell he’s holding back snickers.

“It’s just the circle of life. It’s not your fault you killed your first time behind the wheel—“ He breaks a bit, that high boyish giggle crackling between his words, but he squeezes your shoulders to comfort you still. “They don’t hold back your license just for that.”

“I don’t want a license! I didn’t wanna drive, I didn’t wanna learn stick—”

He hushes you and wraps his arms tightly around you. With the air squeezed out of your lungs, you can’t mumble incoherently. “Alright. I’m sorry. Not the time. Come on, deep breathes–”

You do as he asks, slowly letting your arms come around him, hang by their grip on his shirt. You nuzzle your face against his chest, breathing in against the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Get back in the car. I know something that’ll help ya relax. Find a paper for me.”

He swats your ass as he releases you, and you dive back into the Diablo through the passenger side, half considering kissing the upholstery and promising to never stray from your proper place again. You pop open the glove compartment and are met with a verifiable fortune of paper scraps. 

Receipts. Motel memo pads. Coffee-ring stained napkins. All of them, littered with sketches. 

Some were simple. Cartoony, like newspaper funnies. Others were elaborate. Detailed shading of a beer bottle, the way the light bent through the glass. More than a few renditions of Ole’ Debby which confirmed, yes, you should be jealous. And Motels. Diners. Jukeboxes. Kids on the street. A thousand little snapshots. 

It was like you were looking through his life through his eyes. Reading his diary, or something equally intimate. It felt exciting. And a little wrong. 

You’re caught with many of the papers spread out over his dashboard, on the seats, on your lap. You want to see them all. And in a slightly narcissistic way, you’re looking for yourself. You just want to know how he sees you, is that so wrong?

“Whatcha got there?” 

He slides into the driver’s seat, popping a button to flash the hazard lights on the car. You’re frozen, knowing it's too late to hide your nosy tendencies. 

“Picassos. Look at this stuff, it’s fuckin’ great. Did you do all these?”

The corner of his mouth twists and his cheeks look a little pink. He can’t meet your eyes. Of all the things to be bashful about, his art shouldn’t be one of them. They were beautiful. 

“Nah, I’m stalking a deranged man with a compulsion to draw on paper scraps.”

“Well, that deranged man is talented! I mean, all of these. You see the detail in this one?” 

He takes the paper you hand him, running his thumb over the indented lines in the paper from hard pressed tools. 

You handed him your favorite so far, a somewhat familiar scene of a bar top, with the bartender cleaning a glass, and a fully rendered view of the rest of the bar through the mirror behind him. You had taken a class or two, though you were still shit. You understood the technical prowess to draw something like this, especially on such a small scale as the back of a wilted old cardboard coaster proudly displaying Coors Light on the printed side. 

He smirks. 

“You really like this one?”

You nod your head, scooting closer so you can keep looking at it, discovering more little details with every pass of your gaze. You rest your chin on his shoulder. He hums with amusement.

“This is where I met you .” 

You narrow your eyes and study the sketch closer, recognizing the set up, the Italian flag hanging loosely in the corner, the shiny bald spot on the top of the bartender's head. It was the bar you met him in. How could you forget?

You feel warm inside and drape your arm over his shoulder. “You sketch every bar you go to?”

“Just the ones where I meet hot, unstable women.”

Your smile fades. “There’s a lot of bars in there, Stanley.”

He raises his eyebrows and grins. “I’m a busy man.”

You punch his arm and he laughs, holding your hand against him. “Jokes. It’s all jokes. Find a blank one for me.”

You do as he says, searching until you find a fresh notepad from some place called ‘Dead End Flats’. You rip off the blank page and hand it to him, watching curiously until he curls it with his fingers and fishes a tiny plastic baggie from his pocket. 

The smell hits your nose. Marijuana. Stan expected you to smoke weed with him.

You try to hide the apprehension cooling your blood. You’d never smoked weed before. You never even touched a cigarette before Stan. Being from Jersey, that makes you the odd one out and you know it. But you were content with alcohol. It was predictable. Regulated. No matter how safe your old friends tried to convince you reefer was, you were too chicken shit to try and always weaseled out of it. 

“C-cool.”

“Ah, I forget. Yer not a big fan of smoking, are ya?” He rolls the little weed cigarette tightly, holding the open flap out for you. “Lick it.”

That interests you. You love a fun little activity with your inebriation. You tilt your head and look up at him through your eyelashes as you stick your wet tongue out and drag it up the exposed edge. He keeps his eyes on yours as he rolls it, plainly dropping his eyes occasionally down to your mouth. 

“Why ya lookin’ at me funny?” He mutters, finally looking away to light the weed cigarette between his smirking lips. 

“Cause you’re funny lookin’.” 

He takes a long inhale and shoots out a big puff of smoke from his nostrils. In the light of the sunset it glows a vibrant pink. 

“Ya like funny lookin’ men?” He holds the weed cigarette out to you between two thick fingers. 

Your eyes lock on the weed cigarette, on the cherry leaking out more earthy smoke into the car and fogging up your vision, even though the windows are down. Your mouth feels dry just looking at it.

“I–I like you.”

Stanley grins wide at you. He looks boyish again. You feel ready now. 

You reach for the weed cigarette, and he pulls his hand back. 

“Come here.” 

You crawl over to him, and try not to oogle him lifting his hips as he scoots closer and makes room for you to straddle him in his seat. You link your arms around his neck and gasp softly when his fingers take hold of your chin. 

He turns his head away just to pull from the weed cigarette again before he faces you. “Open up.”

You part your lips, not removing your eyes from his for a moment. He pulls your chin closer and tilts his head to hover hips lips over your own. 

“Breathe in.” He whispers, and you feel his soft lips brushing against yours. You appreciated him telling you to breathe, if he didn’t, you might just forget to. 

You take his breath and feel it fill your lungs. Its softer than regular cigarette smoke like this. It feels like he beat it down himself to make it more acceptable to you. You hold it in, and plunge your lips harder against his, taking the real kiss you deserved, with teeth and tongue.    

You feel dazed already when you breath out, smoke surrounding you like real steam from the heat in your head.

It doesn’t matter that you don’t have a bed. You can fall asleep and dream in Stanley’s arms. New, meaningful things like diner receipts with little sketches of familiar bars, a lucky hare’s antler, and you in the driver's seat of the Diablo. Dreamlike because Stanley will probably never let you drive it again. But you don’t mind. You’re happy to be in his lap. It feels a little like home.

Notes:

hihihihi somewhat abrupt end, I'm sorry! Chapter was supposed to be short but just would. not. end. Blessing and a curse. Thank u for reading see u next timeeeeee

Chapter 8: You know what they say about crazy girls*

Summary:

Anyone afraid of bunnies has good reason to be. Probably.

Notes:

TW dated ideas about mental illness + suicide reference. Mild gore, I think.

Also big thank u and much love to user Little_Miss_Emotional who made this awesome movie soundtrack kind of playlist for the fic. Thank u so much <3

“Again.”

You are made into a needy child begging to be spun in the air. To feel the head rush, and your stomach and all your blood being pulled to your feet by gravity in the safety of trusted arms that your young life revolves around.

“Say please.”

“Please?”

Trusted arms circle your waist, hold you steady even though your head still spins. Trusted lips place a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth, a gentle way to add friction, slow you down, before he pulls back and takes another drag from the weed cigarette. You don’t wait for Stanley this time. Still breathless, still dizzy, you lean in. You latch your lips to his and suck the smoke out. You steal his air. He groans in surprise, and trusted hips buck up into yours.

The taste of him is heady. Is it the marijuana, or are you getting high on the fact that he is breathing just for you? 

He gasps for air against your lips. 

“Greedy fuckin’ thing, ain’tcha?”

You press needy kisses from his mouth back to his ear, feeling his stubble rub your lips raw like a grater. You want to leave parts of you everywhere.

“You don’t like bein’ wanted or somethin’, Stanley?” You roll your hips down against him and feel his trusted cock, firm against your ass through his blue jeans.

“Gah—“ His face screws up and he buries it against your neck, dragging his nose hard into your skin. “I do like it. I like it plenty.” 

“Good.” You grin against his cheek, pressing your body flush against his and pulling him deeper into your neck, shivering as he licks a line up to the underside of your jaw. It draws a soft mewl from your lips. 

“I like you plenty, Stanley.”

He groans into your skin again, and the sound reverberates through your chest. You squirm, but his hands find your ass, and he squeezes it tightly and traps it down against his hips.

"God. Tell me what you like again.” 

You laugh breathlessly and pull away to look over the whole of his face, stretching his skin beneath your fingers. Both of you are grinning, eyelids heavy from the smoke. You trace the defining line of his eye bags, where blood still pools into a deep, eggplant bruise from the fight. 

“I like how you punched that asshole, no questions asked. Very sweet.”

“I’d do it again, sweetheart.” He lays back against the headrest, closing his eyes and letting you trace over his face. “And again. And again. And again…”

You litter sweet kisses along his square jawline as his words trail off, then you take the weed cigarette into your hand to pull from it yourself. It’s harsher than a cigarette without a real filter (does that make Stanley your filter?) but you like the looseness that trickles down your scalp through the rest of your body as you exhale. 

You hum as your eyes rake over him again, down his scruffy jaw, over his bobbing Adam’s apple and incredible shoulders. Your eyes settle over his chest, plush and straining through his white undershirt. Whore.

“I like your, um—“ You can’t rip your eyes away. Your tongue is tangled. It’s not your fault you have to show him what you like. Giddy laughter forces it’s way out of your throat, like little soldiers marching through. Your body is rebelling against you and you are enjoying it. 

You paw at his chest over his shirt like a grabby teenage boy, reveling in the softness. It’s only fair. You’ve been on both sides now. 

Has Stanley grabbed at other chests like this? He had to, right? To play with yours so well? Focus. Stanley’s tits. Stanley’s tits. Stanley’s tits. No one else's.

He gasps softly, flinching backwards. Maybe you’re the first to grab him. You’ll take it. 

“Shit—“ Stanley flinches back, voice cracking in that way you love so much when he’s caught off guard and all flustered by your touch. You’re learning how to tease him. Heaven help him.

But he’s learning too. He’s learning that when his hands trail up your sides and his thumbs slip beneath your bra to flick over your nipples, you whine and buck your hips down against him.

“I like yours too, doll.” He murmurs as he pushes them up and together.

His hands feel so heavy on you, grounding and comforting and warm. You feel heavy. Like your bones are made of lead and syrup crawls through your veins instead of blood. Some side effect of the weed, maybe. Or just because Stanley makes you feel all lust drunk when he kneads your breasts.

He latches his mouth over the swell of one of them, sucking hard enough to burst the vessels just under your skin, as if he can taste the syrup too. 

You tilt your head back and lay yourself out like a dinner spread for him. The weed cigarette calls to you, smoke trail dancing past your eyeline, and you take another puff. Your shoulders relax, guided by his lips along your collarbones. 

You pull for as long as your unpracticed lungs can manage (not very long). He sits back to watch you, eyes glued to your lips until you tap his with your fingertips and blow it back into his lungs. Favor returned. The feeling of him sustaining his lungs from you is intoxicating.

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip as he grins. “It tastes sweeter from you, angel face.”

“Liar.” 

You hold the weed cigarette to his lips now, only to replace the cigarette with you again, resting your body limp against him. You let the smoke drift away, you don’t want to stop kissing him.

But he does.

“I ain’t a liar, sweetheart. I’m a conman. There’s a difference. ‘M very careful with my words.”

“Is that right, Lee?” You try kiss him again but he cranes his neck back.

“Yeah, it is. Lee’s a common nickname, ain’t nothin’ wrong with usin’ it.”

“Stanley, it’s fine.” You try to smile and tide him over, brushing off imaginary dust from his shoulder. “You make lies sound good. I don’t mind it, I know better than to take a guy like you at your word.”

“Ah ah ah, a guy like me only has his word. I’m not above scammin’ and evadin’ and twisting words around but I don’t lie. Not to anyone I give a shit about.”

“You sayin’ you give a shit about me?” You sound like your mother. It’s bittersweet to hear her voice from your throat, the same voice that defended you from people hiding in the walls. 

“Yeah. You sayin’ ya doubt it?”

“Right. That’s why I get to wake up to bird sounds and pounding on the door ‘cause you’re getting caught up dealing fake drugs.”

“It never came up! Do ya need to know every time I hock a dime bag or pinch a wallet?”

“No, I just—“

“Ya think i’m some big, bad guy, like you don’t steal from your johns—“

“He wasn’t a john! I don’t lie and steal from everyone I meet, I’m not like you—“

His eye twitches and he slowly nods his head.

“Oh, I fuckin’ know, kid. You’re a Benny brat. I can smell the yuppie in your blood and you’ve had your nose turned up at me from the second we met. I know you’re nothin’ like me, that’s why I can’t figure out why you’re here.”

Your frown is so deep it hurts your cheeks. The steering wheel digs into your back. At some point a cloud of pressure sunk in around your head like a lead dunce cap two sizes too small. Maybe it’s just ‘cause you hate it when Stanley yells at you with good reason.

His mouth is set in a straight line as he holds your gaze with his burning eyes, like cigarette embers that sting your thighs again. He scoffs and shakes his head, speaking soft and crackly again.

“Why are you here, kid? You ain’t made for this kinda life and I know ya got somewhere better to go home to that ain’t California. I don’t get it.”

“I don’t.” You murmur.

“You do.”

“I don’t. I don’t, Stanley!”

You really do feel like a child again. The same thickness sits in your throat and chokes you, leaves you unable to defend yourself, like when Daddy wanted to lock you in your room for breaking his favorite decanted bottle of scotch. 

But it wasn’t you. It was the people in the walls. Long limbed, paper-skinned creatures that put your dolls into naughty positions and spooked your mother when she tried cooking dinner and hid back in the walls whenever they heard Daddy’s thundering footsteps. 

It wasn’t you, but how else do you prove that as a child? When Daddy yells at you for trying to peel back the wallpaper and show him where they hide, what else can you do but cry it wasn’t me?

Mom believed you. She had seen them too. But the cries of a nine year old and her schizophrenic mother do nothing to persuade a jaded lawyer like Daddy. He made you and Mom spend that summer cooped up in the house as punishment for your lies. So you both shared iced tea and made friends with the strange creatures in the walls instead of talking to all your old school friends. That’s why none of them looked at you when you went back to school in the fall.

The ash of the weed cigarette falls on your thigh. It isn’t lit anymore, but in your agitated state it makes you flinch. You can move, you remember. A slow step is still a step. And after throwing open the driver side door of Debby and stumbling out onto the asphalt, you get to stepping. 

You hug yourself and keep stepping bare-foot on the asphalt, leaving a distorted, long-limbed shadow reminiscent of your childhood friends ahead of you from Debby’s headlights that stare unyielding down the black asphalt. As the sun starts to set on this rolling country road, even in the summer, you catch a chill. 

You hear Stanley call your fake name. You’re half sure there’s some unrepeatable curse mumbled after, but you couldn’t care less. You’re too high. Your mother would be disappointed. 

That’s why you aren’t sure if the sets of beady red eyes you see through the grass are real or not.

They blink one at a time. It unsettles you even more. But you’re just high, right?

You step a little faster, the asphalt softly crunching beneath your bare feet, surprisingly sharp and pitted. It’s still sun-warm. 

You hug yourself, to brace against the spine-tingling breeze and because you don’t know what else to do with your arms. You’re walking funny. Are you walking funny? Is it the weed or because you left without shoes? 

Stanley would make fun of you. Fuck Stanley, what does he know? He doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know what you’ve been through. He doesn’t even know your real name. 

But you like it when he calls you those sweet pet names. You never liked your real one anyways.

You stop.

Is it really so wrong if he knows how pathetic you really are? That you aren’t hot shit. That you can’t drive stick and never touched pot before and get spooked when motel managers come knocking on the door. You like being praised by him, sure. To double wrap his leash around your hand and feel the power even though it digs painfully into your skin too. A rope burn from a dog too big and powerful for his owner. 

But isn’t it enough that he wants you to be taken care of? You don’t have anyone else anymore, can’t it be him?

You hear your name being called again. Again? No. It wasn’t your fake name that you heard. And it wasn’t Stanley’s voice.

You turn around to find the source. On one side, the sky is dark and the field is darker. On the other, the burnt magenta sky harshly silhouettes the tall grass, making it look nearly black except for some of the tallest swaying stalks. And antlers. And beady, red eyes in the grass. 

You see the tall grass shift and sway. Something is moving through it. Fast. 

You’re scared to breathe, to crunch the loose gravel beneath your feet and alert it of your presence. 

It stops before it reaches the open space before the tall grass. The absence of its feet hitting the beaten dirt ground feels worse than hearing it stampede towards you. You hear something smacking its lips, a tongue too large for its mouth, dripping with saliva. Your skin crawls.

It peeks out.

Antlers. Long ears. Beady little eyes. A cute pink nose. Two buck teeth. And long, sticky lines of saliva slowly dripping to the dirt ground. 

It’s a jackalope.

But it’s too tall. Its little face stands five feet above the ground. You can’t see its body. Should jackalopes be able to smile? That’s not something you had ever heard about them before. It’s only a poor imitation of a smile anyways, closer to a grimace. 

And then the cracking of bone starts. First, like popping knuckles, just loosening joints as it opens its jaw wider and wider. Then the bone grinds against bone, wet and squelching, and the skull splits beneath it’s furry forehead, and its pelt splits soon after. You see skin beneath. And hair. Hair like yours.

And your face, bathed in blood and birthed from behind the fragmented skull of the ‘jackalope’. 

It whispers your name. 

You don’t want it anymore. That thing can have it. 

You run as fast as your bare feet can take you, back to Debby’s headlights like a lighthouse in a storm. You whimper as you hear the feral breathing behind you, a poor imitation of your voice. 

“Stanley!” You cry out, and from behind the blinding headlights you see his tall shadow peeking out from his cracked open door. 

“Stan-leeee.” The thing croaks through a freshly hewn throat, still shaping itself. 

“Let me in!” You sob, feeling your eyes sting from the tears, from the wind rushing at your face, from you being too afraid to blink. You run to his side, the door that’s open, and you crawl inside all the way across the bench as he follows and slams the door shut behind him. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, and in response Debby shifts as if rammed into on the drivers side, the suspension squealing in protest as it settles. 

“What the fuck?” He shouts, pressing his face and hands to the windows to look for the thing. You see it bolt around the front, peeling flesh draped behind it as it flashes before his headlights over to the passenger side and slams into Debby again. 

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” You cry, legs in the air as you scramble to the floor of the car in search of your little revolver. It slid beneath your seat, and with trembling hands you hold it to your chest as you right yourself and lean back against Stanley. 

“Give it to me.” He whispers, his hand heavy and soothing on your arm. You nod and let him take it from your hands, watching him check the cylinders and aim outside, scanning for whatever that thing was. 

“Did it hurt ya?” 

You take a deep, regulating breath before you press your face against his arm and shake your head. 

“No. It just chased me.” 

Stanley nods his head, glancing down at you to be sure before he continues scanning the dark fields around, the last bits of sunlight fading quickly. It's only navy blue sky around you now, stars glittering without the light pollution of the moon. It’d be pretty if you weren't still so terrified. 

“What was that thing?”

“It was a jackalope at first–”

“Jackalope? You found one around here?” His voice lifts, like he’d go follow the thing if he didn’t have you shaking like a leaf beside him. 

“I also hit one earlier, remember? With Debby?” You can’t help but say her name a little bitterly.

Stanley laughs loudly, you can feel it shaking his stomach. The warmth in it starts to balm your anxiety. 

“So what, you was running from a bunny? A wittle wascally-wabbit? Maybe yer too straight laced for weed.” He looks around. “Can’t believe you got this worked up over a goddamn bunny.” He huffs with laughter again, stretching his arm out over the bench seat backrest. 

You shift away and debate arguing with him. You did not get worked up over a bunny. You’d like to see his reaction to seeing his own face emerging from behind a split skull–

“Whatever it takes to get ya back here.” He murmurs under his breath. 

You sigh and close your eyes. You were tired of the fighting for one night, of the suspicion and defensiveness you both clung onto out of fear. There were more dangerous things to be afraid of, sulking out in the darkness. 

“I ain’t lyin’ either, Stanley.” You start, meeting his eyes when he looks down at you. 

“How’s that?” His voice is soft and croaky and any will to hide yourself from him still is gone.

“I don’t got nowhere else to go.”

Stanley nods quietly in acceptance, lips set in a regretful line. “Me neither.” He tilts his head, like he’s trying to soften the blow for you. Or apologize. “Wasn’t no Benny, I grew up on the shore. But my folks kicked me out when I was eighteen. Didn’t get to finish highschool, just took off. Haven’t seen ‘em since.”

You nod your head as he finishes. “I’m sorry.”

“ ‘S fine. Who needs ‘em.” But the confidence in his words doesn’t meet his eyes.

You weren’t sure what you expected his family to be like. He never spoke ill of his mom, but it always did seem to be wistful. And sad. 

“I ain’t from the shore, you got me.” You smile, somewhat somberly. “Daddy’s a lawyer. Good money. Mom was his pretty wife. When I was young she started getting a little crazy, not acting right. Not bein’ a wife right, I guess. That’s what pissed him off the most. She was still a good Mom.” You swallow, not anticipating the thickness in your throat. 

“Daddy got mean. And distant. And I didn’t care, I hated the bastard. He let me be ‘cause my grades were good. And when I graduated highschool, I got a scholarship to an Ivy league. I was gonna be an English major. Useless, but it was something Daddy could show off.” You shake your head bitterly. “I just wanted to stay local so I could look after Mom. He wasn’t gonna do it, ya know?”

You feel the prickling behind your eyes. Will this be the first time Stanley sees you cry? Is that something you care about anymore?

It’s too late to do anything about it now.

“He told me he’d look after her.” Your words sound waterlogged already. You sniffle hard. Mom would hate that. 

“But he didn’t. I came back a month before classes ended so I could be at her funeral because… she got into his guns.” You close your eyes hard. You told this story a million times to wastoid roommates at Greystone ‘cause it was easier than explaining that you tried to off yourself too. 

“I didn’t take it too well, so he threw me in the looney bin for being crazy like mom. And when they let me out, he was gone. House was empty.” You hinge your jaw and take a deep breath to steady yourself. “Even the wallpaper.” 

You stare blankly through the dashboard, just watching dirt and dust fly past Debby’s headlights ahead of you. Then his hand gently runs over the top of your head, feather light. You close your eyes, just to force out the last tear. 

“‘Your old man’s in California’.” He scoffs. “You told me that when we first met. I’m sorry, kid. I thought you were following a shitty boyfriend or somethin’.”

“Nope. Just a shitty dad.”

He shrugs. “Well… I hope you make him pay. God knows I’d like to take a swing at ‘im.”

You laugh softly. “You should. I would really like to see that.”

“My old man’s not so respectable neither, so I get it. My ma is— well, she might be a little crazy too. She’s a psychic.”

“No shit, at the shore? Maybe I met her. Mom was into psychics.”

The thought seems to make Stanley smile all sombre and wistful again for a moment, before the dirty grin is back.

“Say, ya think maybe you are a little crazy like yer Ma? Ya know what they say about crazy girls. Crazy hot se—“

You smack his chest with the back of your hand and grin. 

“I thought you said something about not getting on my bad side, huh? You wanna test a crazy girl like me?”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “By all means. Punish me for my wrongdoings, sweetheart. I’ll be repentant. I’ll be good for ya.”

You sit on your knees on the seat and lean over him, with your hand on his thigh as you bring your face to his to kiss him. But something makes you pull back and bite your lip.

“What are you getting out of this?”

“Besides a pretty girl with ‘er hand on my thigh?” His eyes flicker back and forth between yours. “Got nothin’ better to do. And it feels good. Like I’m doin’ somethin’ good for somebody insteada just bein’ a pest. Not alotta people ever come to me for help, mostly cause I ain’t a lot of help. But you did. So, if ya need me, I’m here.”

You just… look at Stanley for a while. 

You try to place him, a carefree kid on the shore, pimple faced and shit-grinned and running errands for his mom, the psychic. Maybe finding pretty rocks for her to sell to rubes along the beach. Maybe already pickpocketing to pay for dates at the boardwalk with whatever poor chick he had his eye on. 

Maybe you saw him around when you were a kid and just didn’t know it. When you’d swing by your hands between Daddy and Mom while they walked you to the cotton candy, so you wouldn’t be such a bother in line for the Ferris wheel. 

That life seemed so foreign. It’s like a fairytale to you now. After all, you were both a thousand miles and a thousand years away. But you were together. Just enough of home to feel safe. 

You lean in to kiss him, when another loud thud hits against Debby’s passenger door again and you hide against his chest.

He laughs and wraps his arms around you.

“Christ, kid. Are you still spooked? It’s just the bunnies, I swear.” He shifts back, stretching one leg down the bench, the other on the floor and letting you cozy up between them before he flicks the lock on the doors. “There. All safe. We’ll flag somebody down in the morning and get a jumpstart. Then we’re back on the road.”

“And you’ll drive?”

“—And I’ll drive.” He cranes his head back to look at your face, pushing your hair back. “Ya okay?”

“I miss my mom.” You whisper against his chest.

You feel him take a long breath before he nods.

“Me too.”

He kisses your forehead and rests his head back against the driver side window.

Your breathing slows already. You hadn’t done much today but sit in his passenger seat, you had no idea why you felt so tired. But in his arms, you forget about face-splitting bunnies and mothers. And you fall asleep.

Notes:

hiiiiiiiiii I'm sorry for the break, I don't really have excuses besides I just didn't sit down to write anything and I think my attention span is getting worse daily. But I cleaned up my outline and still feel inspired to finish. I think there's three parts to this story, the last one taking place in 2012, but don't hold me to it, might just be two. This part is... like not even halfway I don't even know. I have no business planning so much.

I also kind of look at this as a standalone to the show? Like, I don't want to be too referential or expect YOU the reader to be omnipotent and obv there will be some changes to canon and somewhat of establishing Reader and her backstory and individual motivations and is very much an MC in her own right. Also being a GF fanfic, it needs spookiness besides being all Americana bonnie and Clyde. And there will be. I hope that kind of tone isn't too weird for y'all. Sorry for yapping. Thank u everyone who's reading and enjoying and I hope I can keep ur attention <3 love y'all

Chapter 9: It was rigged! pt 1

Summary:

Do you guys know any good corn jokes?
Spill em, I'm all ears.

Stanley’s been quiet the past few days. Pensive.

You weren’t used to him looking like that. He tended to talk first, think second. But it was okay when his mood started. He looked kind of sexy with his eyebrows hanging low like that.

He wasn’t the most talkative guy in the first place. He can be comfortable in silence, and so can you. Except with Good Ole’ Debby rumbling beneath your feet, it’s never all that silent. It’s okay. She makes a good conversationalist when you don’t want to be. Maybe he’s been alone with Debby longer than you thought. 

It used to be every so often Stanley would have some stupid joke to make that he couldn’t resist barking, with an equally stupid grin. But since the last few days, he’s all stone. The Thinker, sitting in the cigarette-stenched bench seat of a ‘65 El Diablo. You can poke and prod all you want, he won’t budge. You can’t trick him into moving if you look away.

Just today there were at least three opportunities to make dirty jokes about saving horses and riding cowboys (the little Texas town off the I-10 you drove through was leaning into it), and he hadn’t taken a single one. He didn’t even smile when you both drove by an ill-thought out sign depicting a man in a ten-gallon hat, unfortunately looking like he was humping an overly-cheerful cartoon pig. He did huff to himself in a sort of amused way, but he didn’t share his crude thoughts with you.

So you were a little worried.

Of the two of you, the gloom was usually reserved for your dour, spoiled sensibilities. He was the carefree one. The one to brighten the room with his smile, even if his teeth were yellow. And the one to begrudgingly make you crack your own whenever he played the fool, because you both knew he was smarter than that. Maybe you should have done the same. 

Stanley pulls Debby into the driveway of a rickety, old shack of a convenience store, with a single rusty gas pump in the muddy lot sitting in front of it. The rotted wood frame looks like it would topple with a good gust of wind. Battered license plates line the doorframe, and a little brass bell rings as he opens the door to let you inside. He won’t look at you. 

You don’t want to prod him about this. You’re good at making him angry, not at making him talk. And typically when you two shared parts of yourselves it was spontaneous, and often painful, word vomit, brought on only by the strange circumstances you both seemed to be magnetized to. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you want to manually spur on, to jam your fingers down his throat to get the ill feelings out. He’ll live a little longer if it stays inside.

The spontaneity has worked for you both so far. Kind of. 

If Debby hadn’t broken down again and needed Stan to change the tire (there was an antler stabbed into the wheel somehow??), you would never have known that she was his last bit of home, that he would never give up on her. He told you that when his folks kicked him out at eighteen, all he had was good ole’ Debby. 

And if he hadn’t nearly hit another bunny crossing the road, lingering to stare at you just long enough to see its beady little eyes reflect red from the headlights before it scurried away into its burrow, you never would have come clean about what you really saw the other night. The too tall body and too wide grin and too familiar face peeking back at you from the splitting skull of whatever that thing was. He probably doesn’t believe you, but at least he’s not asking if it’s wabbit season anymore. 

Point being, you can’t ask him flat out. Yeah, he won’t ‘lie’, but he won’t be straight with you. So you just watch him. You follow close behind, shoes squeaking against the yellowed, speckled linoleum tiles as he paces down the refrigerated beer aisle. You try not to walk into him as he abruptly stops to examine the stock.

You finally got a dingy pair of leather boots for yourself to replace your broken heels, second hand, and commandeered a button down of his that had grown too small for him. You wear it loosely over your skimpy top so you can still catch him staring. 

You found a small satisfaction in looking like you actually belonged at his side. He found satisfaction in you bearing his name for him on the pocket of that old bowling button up. Alright, it said Stetson Pinefield. You didn’t know the relation, but he said it was close enough.

He stops at the end shelf, at a little hanging display of birthday candles with dust covering them. But he just grabs a twelve pack of Lone Stars from the fridge beside it and lugs it up to the cashier, a sweet old thing smiling so cheerily you can’t see her eyes. She looks a little like a pug, with enough extra crepe-y skin to fit a whole extra skeleton. The red of her cheeks makes the electric blue in her tiny eyes that much more striking. 

“Ten on the pump if ya don't mind, Ma’am.” He mumbles, fiddling through his wallet for cash. So polite. Did Ma the Psychic teach him his manners? Or is that where he learned how to charm his way so folks don’t notice when he’s got his fingers in the change jar?

“Why yessir!” The woman nods like a bobble head and rings up the case of beer with it. “ID?”

You smile politely and quickly fish yours out, holding it to the woman who runs her fingers over the raised numbers and nods. You’ve learned to expect it, you’ll feel insulted once they stop asking you.

“And you, Sonny?”

Stanley glances at the woman with a confused expression.

“Flatterer.” He smiles softly down at her. “You hittin’ on me or somethin’? You don’t gotta see that. I’m old enough, believe me.”

“Oh, you silly thing—“ The sweet old lady waves her hand at him, her whole body bouncing with her belly laugh, and the thin skin of her cheeks burning red. “I still gotta see it, my boy. My old peepers ain’t what they used to be.” She holds her wrinkled, trembling hand out to him expectantly. “Don’t let it be on my conscience to get a young, strappin’ boy like yerself drunker than a skunk ‘fore his time. Lord knows if I’ll have enough time to repent ‘fore he takes me!”

Honestly, her ears might be going too if she thinks a guy like Stanley, voice like crunching gravel, could be any younger than twenty one. You wonder if Ma the Psychic let him teethe on cigars.

Stanley sighs exaggeratedly, still half smiling, as he fishes out his ID for her to see. “Yer killin’ me, sweetheart.” 

Are you really going to be jealous over an old woman, in addition to a car? What’s next, his wallet, warm and secure in his pocket? His cigarettes, loyally resting between his lips? God, you don’t have any shame left.

You notice him try to angle his back to you to cover it, and that makes you even more suspicious and keen to look.

You see the old lady run her fingers over the raised digits again, but you catch the quickest glimpse of him. Baby faced, rounder jaw, short and pushed back hair. The kid from the shore, you think. Did he sound like he gargles glass shards back then too?

“Well, I’ll be. Happy birthday, kiddo!”

Happy Birthday? Is that what this is all about?

“Clam up, lady. Yer gonna get me in trouble—“ He whispers, not quietly at all. Like keeping things from you is all part of some game to him and not what’s been driving you crazy with worry the last few days. The woman covers her mouth with her hands like she’s in on it. And yeah, she’ll be to blame when he goes missing for being so stupid as to hide his birthday from you. You thought you were closer than that.

You try to quickly weasel your way under his arm and pluck the ID out of his fingertips, but he’s too quick, and the card vanishes with the flick of his hand before your eyes. You can’t even follow where the damn thing disappeared to for sneaking a peek at it later, after you’ve bound and gagged him, or something equally punitive for hiding his birthday from you.

“Not so fast, kid. Yer too nosy for your own good.”

You pout and cross your arms. Curse your bumbling fingers. And his talented ones.

“Oh, let the poor doll treat you!” The old woman coos, her hands clasped over her heart. “The county fair’s in town, just down the highway at the cornfields. You two should go have some fun!”

“Yeah, Birthday Boy . Let the doll treat you!” You elbow him. 

“It’s got everything! Corn dogs. Corn field mazes. Deep-fried Corn—“

“Sounds pretty corny—“ Stanley huffs.

“You are the corniest guy I know.” You mumble for him to hear while the old woman continues rattling off the fair’s attractions.

Stanley snarls his lip at you in jest before he hikes the pack of beers over his shoulder and leans into the old lady’s frame of view for a last playful wink. He places the cash in her hands so she doesn’t have to grasp for it. 

“Yer a bad influence.” 

“You silly thing!—“ She heehaws to herself, bouncing with laughter on her little wooden stool as you follow Stanley out. “Enjoy your birthday, honey!”

Are you really jealous of an old woman?

“Enjoy it for me!” He calls back.

You are. You are jealous. Maybe you’re the corniest. Somebody shuck you and turn you into swine feed before you choke out an octogenarian.

The bell hanging from the door rings with your departure, and you follow Stanley back to good ole’ Debby, tires sinking into the mud beneath the gas pump.

“So.” You try not to let your bitterness read through your voice so much. It still lingers on your tongue as you stare Stanley down over the top of Debby as he holds the gas pump to her tank. “You mad at me ‘cause I forgot your birthday?”

“I’m not mad at ya — “

“But it is your birthday.”

“I—“ He frowns at you and replaces the pump in its holster. “So what if it is? It don’t mean nothin’.” 

“It means it’s your birthday, Stanley. You didn’t tell me.” You pout, following him inside the car before he can leave without you.

“I ask again. So what? ” 

He throws Debby into gear and mud sprays from the back tires before it gains traction and screeches out the lot of the gas station, back onto the country road. The engine roars in your ears, and you see his white knuckle grip on the steering wheel as he glares at the stretch of asphalt ahead of you both.

You’re not letting his bad mood sour yours. It’s just a birthday after all, you’ll get over it. And you can keep your jealousy separate. 

Birthdays were something to celebrate, especially in the summer. It was always so cold during yours. And you were absolutely not giving up a chance to make Stanley feel special. Because he is special, grumpy and gravel-voiced or not. And it was the least you could do with all he’s done for you.

“So what are you, a gemini?” Maybe if you act like everythings okay, it will be. You’re cool. You’re nonchalant. You’re not jealous of a woman four times your age or a car with more tears in its upholstery than unmarred leather. If you are, he doesn’t have to know. 

“A what-n-i? ”

“A gemini. It’s your zodiac. Your star sign.”

“What the fuck’s that ‘sposedta mean?”

“Something about your personality, I think. Gemini is… Castor and Pollux. The twins.”

He glances over to you, the engine beginning to mellow out as it settled in high gear. “That sounds like a venereal disease.”

“You familiar with lot’sa venereal diseases?”

“No. I’m very clean.” He stiffens his posture and puffs his chest out proudly. “Yer a lucky gal. You could eat off my junk.” 

You slide over to his side of the car again, leaning against your elbow on the seat.

“Is that what you want for your birthday?”

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, his adam’s apple bobbing again before he relaxes back into his seat, shifting his hips, and he stares forward again.

“I’m good. I don’t need nothin’ for my birthday from ya, sweetheart.”

The rejection prickles your skin. Two whole days of this. Two days since you’d had more than a friendly touch of the arm, more than accidentally brushing your shoulders against his lips when you sleep beside him. Two days since the first genuine smile you see on his face is meant for that old woman, who got to know it was his birthday before you.

You take a deep breath to calm yourself before you start acting like your feelings hurt just because he doesn’t want a blowjob from you. Even though that is very much the case.

“Really?” You say sweetly. “You could—you could be creative, you know. I’ve been told I’m decently flexible.”

“Kid, it’s fine. We got driving to do. California ain’t a brisk walk away, it’s still on the other side of the country.”

You pout and sink low into your seat. A small board advertising the Cornton County Fair passes by on the roadside.

“But it’s your birthday.” You mutter under your breath.

Stanley huffs and his nostrils flare. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about my birthday. We’re getting you to California, we’ll stop for pissing and food and that’s it.”

“…Are you that eager to get rid of me?”

You said it before you can think not to. To your credit, you aren’t trying to be manipulative. You can’t help what goes through your head. But you aren’t proud of it.

Why are you doing this? Poking and prodding and trying to get him to make you leave. Forcing him to bend until he snaps, so you can feel right to be wronged again. Your stomach feels like it’s waging a war against itself as you sit silently in your seat.

“No.”

Your eyes flicker over at him, never for very long. You might cry if you see his eyes, and then you’ll feel even more manipulative. 

“I just—“ You whisper. The static tension in the air makes the hair at your neck stand on end. Every pothole in the road that jostles the cab of the car makes you feel like you’re phasing out of yourself.

“I just wanna celebrate you. Do something fun and… thank you for everything.”

He rolls his eyes. If he weren’t driving you think he might strangle you. You would like it if he did, but he’s too sweet. There’s something to be said about him continuing to bend for you. He will snap eventually. It’ll hurt. And you’ll deserve it.

“Fine . We can go to the god damn corn festival thing or whatever.”

---

The Cornton County Fair is busier than you could have imagined. You didn’t know a backwater town like this could have so many people, then again, there probably wasn’t much else to do besides tailgating each other down the highways until they reach some end, so they can turn around and trade positions endlessly.

That’s not really being fair to them though. There’s obviously a culture to the town here that your city-girl eyes are unable to properly capture. It’s charming. For a day, at least. 

Everyone at their little booths are so grateful to see you. They’re excited that their wares are good enough to attract outsiders, not just pitying neighbors on the same committee, church donations passing back and forth until the bills dissolve. 

There’s kettle corn, still hot and fresh and sticky to the touch, sold under hand painted signs boasting about old family legacy recipes. Homemade husk dolls, personalized for an extra dollar with charcoal ink. A caricature artist who keeps glaring at you as you walk past, boasting corn-based pigment in his pastels, according to his sign. Will it smell like corn meal if you take one home?

Stanley is drawn in by the home-made, corn grain alcohol. He holds up one of the largest sizes, his thick finger barely fitting in the little glass loop handle.

“See this? Take a whiff—“ he holds the uncorked lip of the bottle to your face, and even though you hold your hands up and try to dodge, you still feel it singe off the hairs in your nostrils. 

“Jesus fuck—“ You brace your hands on your knees, trying to hold yourself up as you hack out the vapor that lingers in your lungs. Your old highschool friends would be disappointed in you. They all thought if alcohol wasn’t strong enough to burn your eyes, it wasn’t worth drinking.

“It’ll double as a drink and gasoline, just in case we run out. I’ll take ten!”

A familiar hooting laugh brings your attention back to the modest little booth selling the moonshine.

“Ain'tcha a smart young thing? See there, I oughta add that to my sign!”

It’s your favorite, alcohol peddling, attention-stealing old lady. Again. How the hell she managed to not only beat you both to the County Fair and set up a whole booth is beyond you.

Stanley leans into her booth, charming smirk at full wattage down at her as she creaks back and forth on her little rocking chair.

“I am an enterprising individual. A businessman, you could say. I could take a small commission—“

While she laughs and holds her wrinkly hand over her chest, you lean into Stanley. Your newfound territorial behavior is a mystery to you, unfamiliar and off putting even to yourself, but you aren’t embarrassed enough to stop. 

“Good to see you again! You’re so right, the fair is just a blast!” You stand chest to chest with Stanley, awkwardly half hugging him.

The old woman narrows her already beady bright blue eyes. 

“I’m sorry, honey. Have we met?” 

You blink at her. “I— yeah. At the convenience store. You sold us some beer and told us about the fair. Remember? It’s his birthday—“

“Bless your heart! It’s your birthday, honey?” 

Again, you are invisible. Well, you don’t really have to be invisible if she’s blind. 

“Go on, take another bottle!” She pulls a different bottle out from under her display, holding it out in the air for Stanley to take. It’s slightly blue tinged, and so clear it nearly glows as it slinks around the corked glass bottle. Maybe she had just taste tested a little too much to remember.

“Don’t mind if I do! Would you look at that?” Stanley uncorks the bottle and sniffs the opening, whistling in appreciation. 

“You must be an angel, sweetheart. Hooch this fine is heavenly. ”

This, you do not take kindly. Angel is your pet name. And it’s not just the vapor from the bottle that makes your eyes sting. 

Why is everyone but you able to make him enjoy his birthday?

“Great. Thanks.” You offer a forced smile to the woman before you tug Stanley away by his arm, speed walking anywhere you can go to get away from the old lady’s booth. 

“Hey, shit—“ Stanley grumbles as the clear liquid splashes from the bottle before he can cork it. You swear the grass it lands on dries up and turns yellow. 

“Where’s the fire, kid? I thought ya wanted to slow down.”

“I do. I just think it’s a little easier done without the poison that lady’s peddling as liquor.”

“On the contrary, nothin’ helps me relax more.” Stan manages to swallow a mouthful of the stuff. “Can’t panic if I’m not awake.”

“Panic? Why panic?”

“Who said panic? Yer hearing things.” He quickly ruffles your hair and scopes the fair again, pointing out a small ring set up and surrounded by old men in overalls shouting over hog-squealing. “What’s that?”

His comical attempt at subtle distraction does nothing to settle your nerves. Your shoulders fall in disappointment before you follow him to the ringside. Again, you have to try and peer over his shoulder to see anything. This time at least, he pulls you to the front, leaning into you occasionally when he sways. You can smell the moonshine off him as he breathes. 

Okay, maybe you’ll cut the old lady some slack, if she got him to forget whatever stupid reason he had for keeping his distance from you. You settle between his arms and try to decipher the strange display before you. 

Pigs. Pigs dressed in silly little corn costumes. Pigs racing while wearing silly little corn costumes. 

“Go!” Stanley shouts, nearly in your ear, and you flinch so hard you have to catch yourself on one of the barrels. “Go lil’ Sixty-Five!”

You find lil’ pig number Sixty-Five. He’s a large, spotted thing, huffing and puffing and trying to keep up with the rest of the crowd through the thick mud. The other pigs are smaller, fresher, younger. They have the energy to clamber over each other, Sixty-Five barely manages to touch his snout to the closest stragglers at the back of the pack. The poor thing was obviously struggling. Past it’s prime for such a thing, if he ever had one. 

“Come on buddy, you still got this!” Stanley cries, and you can hear the cracks in his voice forming. 

“Stan,” You coo. “Maybe we oughta go–”

“No , lil’ Sixty-Five can still pull ahead, I know it! He’s got good years left, I got good years left–”

“Stan.” You turn and face him, all six feet of him. Mud stained jeans, ratty white t-shirt beneath a rolled-up, threadbare flannel. There’s heavy shadows under his eyes still. His hair’s a mess and his wide chin’s all scruffy again. Just how you like it. You wouldn’t change a thing. 

“Is that what this is about?” 

He glances down at you for a moment, and you can see the gloss in his eyes before he looks up at the racing pigs again, grimacing as he watches the pigs head for the finish line. A flare gun is shot into the air. Hell, you’re in Texas, it’s probably real, and you ought to shield your head in case it wants to make a home in your eye. 

“No!” Stanley cries, loud enough to make you flinch again, and he drops his thick glassed hooch bottles to the soft dirt ground beneath you to hold his face in his hands. 

“He coulda made it! I know he coulda!” 

You sigh and shake your head, running your hands over his arms. 

“I know… They were probably cheating. Sixty-five was clearly the strongest racer.”

“It was rigged!” 

“Yeah!" You offer sympathetically. "Obviously.”

 

Notes:

Thank yall for being patient again. If you see typos, no u didn't (still need 2 proofread properly forgive me)
Also, little_miss_emotional made a sick playlist based off reader if ur interested <3 Thank u so much again I rlly dig the cover picture. Thank u all again for reading and engaging yall make me so very happy <3

Chapter 10: It was rigged! pt 2

Notes:

CW: recorded sounds of animals in pain

Your cheeks hurt from forcing a smile for so long. It’s not that you haven’t started enjoying yourself. You are now, you just don’t usually show it with your bared teeth. This is for Stanley. 

Your arms are sore too, more than your cheeks. You’re lugging around those jugs of moonshine for him as he bounces between faded, primary color booths already half-eaten up by weeds, showing you how he knows all the tricks of the trade. He points out the over inflated, sun-bleached basketballs, the heavy weights in the cracked-paint milk bottles. You hmm and hah every time he tells you how rigged they are, and how he could still win anyways with his incredible knowledge of physics and statistics. If I toss the ball at the corner of the table and it bounces back and hits the worker-kid in the schnoz, you can grab the Eldritch Presley Inflatable Guitar and run. 

Graciously, you accept his every offer to hand-feed you sticky kettle corn. As if it’s not an excuse to look up at him with goo-goo eyes and stick your tongue out for him, even if he takes one look at your eyes and quickly turns to hide his face. Stupid cute big blushing ears. 

Atlas is a coward. He’s never been responsible for making sure a sad, drunk, Jersey boy like Stan enjoys himself at the county fair on his birthday. 

Except you haven’t asked about the birthday thing. Or the pig thing. As much as you are itching to say something, to ask why he’s upset, or to blurt out something stupid and impulsive by asking directly if it’s your fault, you hold it in. 

This is for Stanley. You’re trying your best to just let him enjoy what he can. 

You’re learning to be good to him, or at least try to. You just want to stop adding water to an oil fire and turn off the gas for once. Today you are his keeper. Leave yourself on the back burner. Haven’t you been selfish enough?

Stanley was a hard sell for anything fun at first. Lil’ sixty-five’s loss was hard on him and so Cynic-Stanley brushed off the Ferris Wheel and the Drop Tower fair rides. He wasn’t a fan of the House of Mirrors either, but in passing, you were entranced by it. 

You used to love them. Back at home, or at least back in Jersey at the boardwalk. You liked making faces in the fun-mirrors, pulling the corners of your lips with your fingers and flashing the new gaps in your teeth. Daddy still thought you were cute, still let you get dirt on your knees. Mom still— well. It was around that time that she started showing.

Her hair was a rat's nest beneath the smooth outer layer you had finagled into a low bun at Daddy’s request. You licked your thumbs and helped rub away the old mascara that collected under her eyes so it looked like a wing of eyeliner again, so she could walk around looking semi-presentable, even if she only acted like a walking post for Daddy to attach your hand to while he chatted with the teenage girls spinning the cotton candy. You didn’t know any better, you just wanted her to be able to come with. And there in one of the dead ends, surrounded by fractals of herself from every angle, your mother’s long, chipped nails dug into your little hand. Her grip was so tight it trembled. She had gone catatonic as soon as her eyes met her reflection’s.

You always wondered what she saw then, when her lips moved a mile a minute but no sound came out. What did she see after, when she looked down at you and cried?

Maybe this is what she saw.

The funhouse mirror you stumble in front of warps your limbs, makes you stretched out and lopsided. Your legs are too long, your abdomen too short, one of your knuckles almost reaches the ground as your reflection limps closer. It’s not so scary. If anything it feels honest. You’ve always felt a bit warped. Like you grew up crooked.

You come closer, You haven’t touched an eyeliner in weeks, so your eyes look a little brighter, wider. Dinners have been slightly more regular after the pawn shop, so your cheeks have more color, more fullness. Maybe it’s Horny Old Coot’s hooch. You’ve both still been sipping heavily, washing down the burn with country lemonade. Stanley only turns however-the-hell-old once.

For Christ’s sake, you’re smiling. Is Stanley all you needed to bring a little life into you? 

And ugh. Is that really what it looks like when you smile? You look pained. Your grin is too wide. The corners curl up so high your cheeks crease against the underside of your eye, but still they are so open. Why are your pupils so small? Where did you get bunny ears?

“Kid, I ain’t really feelin’ this place no more—“ 

You turn to Stanley when he calls to you, just in time to see him walk straight into a plexiglass panel, nose leaving an oily imprint on the glass. You bite your lip to suppress your laugh but it only works for so long before you’re bracing a hand against one of the columns so you don’t fall forward.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yuck it up.” He makes it around the plexiglass barrier, grinning with you, and pushes you forward with a warm hand on your shoulder. “Yer leadin’ the way now, toots. I wanna see you smash your face next.”

“Wait,” You giggle. “I wanna see you in—“ You point back to where your warped visage was, only to tap on more plexiglass. Your smile slowly drops. “Huh?” 

You tap on it again. Where did you go? Or… it ? There’s nothing staring back from behind the panel anymore. You can peer through to the other side, through the shadow you cast that stops reflecting the room you’re in with Stanley. It’s just the other side of the pathway through the hall of mirrors. 

“Gotta go the other way, that’s back to the entrance. This place is so tricky. I hate these things— oof!” Another thud. Another laugh. It’s so easy for him to make you laugh.

You take him by the hand to lead him back out, the drunk leading the drunker. 

Both your eyes adjust to the sunlight glaring between the spokes and carriages of the Ferris wheel as the sun starts to dip lazily towards the horizon, out past the cornfield that borders the fairgrounds. The monumental thing casts a long shadow over the lines of booths and rides, chilling the wind to make you shiver once you step out from the stuffy air of the House of Mirrors attraction.

“Hey big ears!” 

You both turn to see whatever obnoxious voice is calling out at Stanley (it is… very clearly about him). Some jerk-off in a pair of too-small swimming trunks and a sweat-stained wife beater sits above a clear tub of water, beside some pimpled teenager stacking soft-balls in a pyramid. Two balls for a dollar.

“Yeah, you! You gonna keep standing around like an air-head or you gonna try and sink me?”

It’s tempting Stanley. You can see the decision bouncing around his head as he plants his feet in front of the barrier and squares his shoulders, narrowing his eyes at the shitty bullseye painted on the mechanism.

“Two for a dollar? It’s a rip-off.” Stanley mumbles and fishes out his wallet.  

“What’sa matter? Can’t afford it?” 

“You can’t even afford a decent bath, dickweed—“ You shout back. You will be damned if you let this piece of shit undo all your hard work cheering Stanley up.

“Easy, kid. Guy’s just doing his job.” Stanley smiles smugly. “It’s the perfect business model, sit up high and insult people, watch the cash roll in… I’ll take two.”

“Take the two-for-five, buddy. Yer gonna need it.” Jerk-off sneers at Stanley.

You stand back with your arms crossed, allowing yourself to revel in the sight of Stanley’s back muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he winds his arm back, readying to throttle at the target. What you wouldn’t give to see him dripping wet.

You never thought of yourself as particularly sex-obsessed, and then friendly neighborhood drifter Stanley Pines started filling a need you didn’t know you had. And now that he had stopped you really can’t think of anything else. Maybe you’re just being dramatic, and you’ve had a few too many sips of Horny Old Coot’s Magical Hooch.

But this is getting ridiculous. Don’t you have any shame? Are you really that desperate for a man who sells fake drugs, sleeps in his car at night and puts smokestacks to shame with how many cigarettes he burns through—

Stanley launches his first throw. It whistles through the air and ricochets off the mechanism and into the plexiglass tank, a crack splintering across the front.

“Watch your aim there! You usin’ your favorite hand or somethin—“

Stanley looks back to see your mouth still hanging wide open. His eyebrows are high and a hesitant smile breaks over his lips. He’s as surprised as you are. And so fucking cute grinning like that. And yes. You are that desperate. 

“Come on, babe! You got this!” You call out to him, reveling in the way the tops of his ears tint pink. You ponder what else turns pink when he flushes.

He throws the ball again. Bullseye. Down into the tank sinks Jerk-off, splashing the water over the rim like a grimy killer-whale at a water park as he tries to find his footing.

You cling to Stanley’s arm and squeeze, all solid beneath the soft layer. “I’ve never seen anyone actually win one of these things!” 

You’re laying it on a little thick, sure. And it’s selfish. You want Stanley to feel better so you have a better chance at being held by him again. He forgets that he doesn’t like you anymore when he’s in too good of a mood to keep his hands off. And if it works, does it really matter?

He’s all smug. Proud. He’s puffing his chest and looking down at you with his chin held high. “Ask me how many back windows me ‘n Poindexter busted throwin’ rocks at cars after school.” 

“Poindexter?”

He stops, mouth half formed around his words, then shakes his head briefly. “Just… Some nerdy kid I knew then. Forget about it. Keep cheerin’ for me like that and I’ll clear out the whole place for ya.” He only meets your eyes for a second before he’s looking around for the next carnival game to play. “You got yer eye on anything?” 

“Um—“ You look around the fair as people walk around you both, resuming their paths after the brief break to see Jerk-off get humiliated. Just because your brain stops doesn’t mean the rest of the world does. Your moonshine-soaked mind is still playing catchup from Stanley’s corn-fed physique when it settles on a bright red neon sign spilling bloody light over the crowd. 

HE SEES RIGHT THROUGH YOU.   

Your blood runs cold even before the words process in your head. You feel suddenly like spitting up all of Old Coot’s hooch. 

Your eyes lock on the sign, tracing the neon tubing over and over. You try to suppress the upset in your stomach as you slowly tread against the flow of traffic, brushing past kids and old folks, struggling to make headway while Stanley calls your fake name from behind you. 

Why would it say that? What the fuck kind of sign would say that? Who does it think it is? 

You ponder smashing the sign with one of Old Coot’s hooch jugs as you approach through the loud crowd, your mind filling with the buzzing drone from the sign. You make your way around the weathered wooden box that the sign decorates to rip a new one out of whoever’s bad taste was responsible. 

It’s a Xholtar. It’s just a stupid fucking Xholtar, one of those gimmicky, coin-operated fortune tellers with a flapping jaw and glowing yellow eyes. You groan and slap your palm against your face.

You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy and you’re going to ruin Stanley’s birthday by being so horny and psychotic that he abandons you in the middle of the corn maze. At least you won’t starve.

“You believe in these things?”

Stanley knocks on the glass with one of his knuckles. In the corner of your eye you see him fishing through the ratty little coin purse you share. He slipped it out of your pocket without you noticing again. Damn his talented fingers. You wish he’d use them on you.

“It’s fine.” You sigh. “I just– You don’t have to. These hokey things are probably just a scam–”

Stanley surveys the box, running his hand lightly over the rough wood where the paint was chipped away. The machine starts to croak through some ancient speaker. 

“Give Xholtar your treasure. I have much wisdom to share with you.”

Stanley huffs with laughter. “Maybe operating these things ain’t so bad. ‘Long as you get enough rubes to keep stuffing coins in.” 

He slips the coin into the slot and then the machine slowly comes to life, lifting its mannequin arm mechanically over the weakly glowing plastic orb. Then out pops an aged yellow card, back printed with an old looking art-deco stamp of a pyramid with an eye, like on the dollar bill. Very copy my work but change a few things so they can’t tell.

The machine fades again. The glow in the plastic ball is gone, the animated limbs rest, but the yellow eyes still glow. Stanley flips the card and reads it out to you. 

“An unexpected reunion stirs old emotions, offering both a chance to heal and the risk of reopening wounds. What unfolds will depend on how you face the memories it brings.”

Stanley flips the card again a few times. “Is that all? Fuck’s that ‘sposed ta mean?”

“I told you it’s a scam.” You shake your head dismissively. “They pass out the same wisdom to everybody.”

“I got plenty ‘a wisdom myself. Nobody’s payin’ me for it. Alls I gotta do is sit in a box and hold a ball, or what?” 

“Oh yeah? Where do I stick the coin?” You glance down at his belt playfully, then back up to his eyes. 

“Shut yer yap. I got yer coin right here.” He huffs through his teeth and pinches your waist to get you to move with him down through the lines of carnival games.

Your eyes pass over most of them. You aren’t really interested in anything at this point but getting Stanley into Debby’s backseat and seeing if all your efforts have been in vain or not. But at this end the booths looked more and more like a waste of effort. Rubber snakes. Oversized Foam Cowboy Hats. Stuffed pigs–

Wait. That has potential. 

There, at the shooting gallery lined with kids with sugar-sticky fingers and cotton-candy stained faces, hangs an assortment of stuffed pigs. Plain pink and spotted and dusky colored, including one in the spitting image of Good Ol’ lil’ Sixty-five. Perfectly overstuffed. 

You rush over to snag the free spot before another snot-nosed kid can get it, and Stanley grimaces as you pump a quarter into the slot, hands solid and grounding on your shoulders. 

“You feelin’ trigger happy or somethin’?”

Good. He hasn’t noticed yet. You pump the pellet-loaded shotgun, closing one eye to focus on the sight at the tip. 

“Hunt or be hunted.” Stanley murmurs from behind you. 

“Huh?”

“Hunt or Be Hunted. That’s what the sign says. Weird title for a shootin’ gallery with rabbits.”

“Rabbits?”

You lower your gun, and your eyes focus on the lines that chug against the backdrop. Bullseyes pop out at first, flattening back out with a short ting once they get hit by the pellets. Then, sporadically placed between them just like Stanley said, rabbits. 

Your mouth hangs open as you watch the kids beside you mow them down. You flinch when you hear the little screeches through rusted speakers for when the shooters hit their targets. The thing had sound effects for christ’s sake, played over the twangy banjo backtrack. 

“Your time's gonna run out, honey.” The teller murmurs, chewing her gum and inspecting her fingers as she leans back in her chair. "Only thirty seconds a pop."

You take a deep breath, squeezing your hands around the barrel and grip instead of around her throat. This is for Stanley. 

You try to aim at one of the rabbits, following it as it twitches down the line, then some other kid hits it square in the eyes. The rabbit’s cry sounds through the speakers and you’re back behind the wheel of Debby, screeching down the country road. At least these ones don’t have antlers. 

You aim for just the targets this time. Miss. Miss. This time you hit the corner, and only a laugh plays. 

“Fuck! I can’t do it.” You drop the pellet gun.

“It’s no big deal sweetheart, so what ya need lessons? It’s not like Daddy Warbucks was given’ ya tips or nothin’.” Stanley smiles graciously at you, only for you to slowly turn to him with a glum expression and he hold his hands out in surrender. “Forget I said anything.”

You breath out of your nose and step before the teller, pulling out your coin purse. 

“How much for a pig?”

The teller doesn’t even look up at you, flicking some dirt from under her nail. 

“Not for sale.” She murmurs with the kind of California girl accent you only get from watching too many John Hughes movies. 

“Come on, be serious. How much you want for it?” 

“Not. For. Sale.” At least she graces you with some brief eye contact this time. “Win it if you want it so bad.”

“What does it take to win one?”

“Fifteen bunnies in thirty seconds.” Her eyes disappear behind her knock-off Ray-bans again. “Good luck.”

“I’ll hit fifteen of you in thirty seconds.” You grumble as you step back over to the gun again, Stanley busying himself trying to uncork some of the hooch. He was probably assuming this was going to take a while. 

You manage five your next try, your hands starting to shake from the repeated playbacks of the screams. You catch your breath. Your next try only gets you two.

You kick the wooden booth with anger and glance at the teller to see if she’s bared witness to your childish antics. She’s flipping through an issue of Sev’ral Beatz. 

You hesitate as you hold the next quarter to the coin slot. You’ll never get fifteen bunnies in thirty seconds. But you will get that goddamn stuffed pig. 

Jerk-Off over at the water-tank beside the shooting gallery found his footing a while ago and set up again, hair still damp from Stanley’s victory. But the crack was still present, weeping with foggy water. Would the teller care? Guess you’ll find out.

You slip the quarter in and cock the pellet gun. This is for Stanley.

Tink.

Tink.

Sploosh.  

The tank collapses as the crack widens, and the water carries all the way to the stool that the teller is leaning on its hind legs. It rips it out from beneath her and she’s down.

As soon as the teller disappears from view, you’re grabbing Stanley by the wrist and running, jumping to catch the pig and rip it from its hook as you make a break for it. 

This is for Stanley. 

Notes:

thank yall for being patient and all the comments, i stg they still fuel me i just get in my head 2 much <3

little political rant. It's come to my attention a lot of people are engaging with nostalgic americana lana del rey ethel cain (she deserves better than to be reduced in the same way but i digress) kind of romanticisation of 'the good old days' without thinking critically and understanding that voting in favor of facism in some delusional attempt to align yourself with that is fucking stupid. Living under Ronald Reagan would have been a fucking nightmare. I want to have some faith that anyone engaging in the same circles I do understands that you can still enjoy this kind of content like I do and not think that way, its fucking fanfiction, but I know I could be wrong. I just want to make where i stand clear here on my anonymous high horse. Free Palestine and fuck donald trump. if u voted for him Alex Hirsch and Stanley Pines hate u <3

Chapter 11: It was rigged! pt 3

Notes:

!!!! user Idiany has done some art of reader and Stanley!! Check it out here, here and here!! they're so talented!!! Thank u so much again<33 I'm so geeked u have no idea its very lovely hugs and kisses to the artist :3

In and out. It’s all your brain is capable of focusing on at once. 

In.

Your shoulder bumps hard against some teenager. You don't apologize.

And out.  

 “–Watch where you’re going! Asshole!” 

You are watching. Tunnel vision can only take you so far.

In.

Your boot smashes a melting ice cream cone and you lose your traction against the ground. All you can do is stare wide-eyed as your face plunges towards the asphalt.

And out.

Stanley catches your arm before you tumble to the floor. Always saving you. Always cleaning up your messes.

You pick up speed again. He follows.

You always feel better knowing he’s trying to keep up with you, like you’re worth the trouble.

In.

“What the fuck are we doin’, kid!” Stanley shouts.

You don’t really know how to answer that question.

And out.

“Just run!” You shout back at him. 

“I’m tryin’!”

You swing around a pole and turn a corner, Stanley skidding on one leg to make up for the change in direction before he can catch back up to you. 

You hear the voices of security over crap walkie-talkie speakers, reading out your location past the corn-dogs and cotton-candy stands like some high-stakes police chase, as if your hostage isn’t just a stuffed pig. 

Apparently they really look after their own.

It crosses your mind that running away suspiciously after the mysterious breaking of a water tank was not your smartest escape plan. What you wouldn’t give to consider that five minutes ago.

It’s a little late to take it back now. 

They’re closing in. Mentally, you’re banging your head against a wall. You’ve planned bathroom trips with more forethought than this. 

You’re running past a wooden pen. Between the pickets you see the dirt-packed hay strewn along the floor, the mud pits, and a delightfully round creature tossing and turning in them. Biding his time. Lil’ Sixty-Five, in the flesh. 

He’s growing on you. There’s something to be said about underdogs. Feels a little bit like you’re all on the same team. And maybe you have a weakness for the charmingly overweight ones who just need the right opportunity to shine. 

So when you spot the metal latch at perfect arms length, you rip it open. 

Stanley just barely makes it past the gate before the rest of the animals in the petting zoo start to stampede. Goats. Chickens. Some of the smaller, sprier piglets. Just appetizers of a show, for Lil’ Sixty-Five to come trudging through and knock down the post that holds the lock. That pen won’t be able to close anytime soon. 

And now you have a good thirty seconds while your pursuers are caught in the chaos, sidestepping clucking chickens, braying goats. Thirty seconds to put more distance between you, thirty seconds to think about what to do next.

Thirty seconds to think is great. But only if you can actually think. And with your brain still hopelessly steeped in moonshine, you’re having difficulty.

You’re hitting a fork in the road. Or a dead end. It’s all about how you look at it. It’s all about how it ends, really. Do you want to be tackled to the overworked ground in front of the bathrooms or in the mud beside the water log attraction? The choice is yours.

The Ferris wheel overhead spins imposingly down at you. It’s ticking down the moments you have left. You don't think you can enjoy Jeopardy anymore.

Something in you speaks . Not in a language you understand, but by impulse, electric shocks in your nerves. Your brain? No, the pilot’s cabin is empty when you drink. Your bones? You can hardly feel them at all right now. All you know is your heart is racing, your lungs are screaming— is it your blood?

Your blood tells you to take the Ferris wheel. 

If your brain isn’t working, at least your blood is trying to pick up the slack. Maybe you ought to let moonshine do your thinking for you more often. Then again, maybe not.

You grab Stanley by the wrist, guiding him behind the winding line of people. His eyes are glued to your pursuers, slowly escaping the prison-break of farm animals. He’s a good man. He trusts you to lead him to safety, poor thing. 

It’s sweet. You’d probably follow him off a cliff. If there is a god, you'll find one nearby. 

A chorus of disgruntled, would-be riders shouts at you in anger as you commandeer the next carriage.

“Don’t ferget yer seatbelts, sweet things!”

A familiar hooting laugh beckons your attention back towards the ride operator. Horny Old Coot. 

She’s smiling so wide her eyes are only slits. Her hand waves up at you like it’s on a hinge, too smooth and regular to be anything but mechanical. For a moment, you feel like you left your heart down at ground level as the carriage slowly ascends into the air. 

But then you stare down at the security guards below, lost in their pursuit, and growing smaller with every inch that you crawl higher into the sky. Relief floods through your chest, makes you feel light. You’re practically floating.

So what if Horny Old Coot still makes you uneasy. You escaped.

“Ho-ly shit.” You turn to Stanley with a grin. You want his confirmation. You want a mutual win. You want to suck face on the Ferris wheel. “Holy—“ 

Stanley does not share your enthusiasm. 

“Why—“ He wheezes between words. “In the sweet hell—“ His hands are white knuckle gripping the lap bar, eyes locked on the ground. “Would ya run here!?”

“Why?” 

You don’t have an answer for that question, not one he’ll like. 

But your blood is singing with pleasure in your veins, ushering you into that perfectly loose, euphoric state of drunkenness where everything just feels so good you don’t care that the world is spinning. You’re safe. And it’s just part of the ride, isn’t it?

“You okay?” You slide closer on the bench, lifting your hand to rest on his arm, and the carriage starts to swing back and forth.

“–Don’t move!” He shouts and shuts his eyes tightly. “Sweet Moses. I’m gonna yak.“

You can’t help the nervous laughter that bubbles out your mouth. You try to keep your voice soft and soothing for him. “Fuck—I’m sorry, Stanley. I… I didn’t know you were afraid of heights.”

“I ain’t afraid of heights, they just make me sick. It’s an allergy is all.” He grits his teeth. Right. He also has an allergy to paying tips and following speeding limits. “Don’t beat yerself up about it. Never came up. Just— talk to me. Say somethin’. Distract me.”

 You are too drunk for this. Poor Stan.

“… Talk about what?”

“Anything!”

You swallow dryly and try to look around for inspiration. The string lights that line the fairgrounds are lit up below, leaving a hazy glow around the booths, one that pulsates in tandem with your heartbeat. As much as you enjoy it, maybe the ground isn’t the best topic for someone too afraid to open their eyes. 

Off in the distance, past the expanse of cornfields, the sun is starting to dip below the horizon.

Maybe it’s the moonshine, but you swear you see odd pattern out in the field, giant concentric circles marring the corn stalks just past the maze. 

The sky is a warm purple, growing deeper the farther away from the sunset you look, and dark enough above to see the stars twinkling into view. You can make out a few constellations from here. Libra. Cassiopeia. Ursa Major.

You face Stanley, his mouth stuck in a deep frown, his back all stiff and his chin up high as he tries not to rock the carriage. He’s been there for you in your times of stress. Half-crazed, cornered, rabid. He’s talked you down, beckoned you back in with his kind, open arms. You want to do the same for him. 

“... Do you know how to find the Big Dipper?” You ask carefully, your words stumbling their way over your liquor soaked tongue.

His eyes glance over at you, just for a second before they close again. 

“No. I mean, I been taught before. Just don’t remember.”

You nod upwards and lean closer, just slow enough to keep the carriage steady. Then, with your face close to his, you point up.

“See those two bright stars with the smaller one in between?” 

Your outstretched arm wavers as you hold it above, and he has to squint hard to see. You can hear him holding his breath.

“Yeah. I see ‘em.”

“That’s Alkaid and Alioth.” You introduce them like old friends. For all intents and purposes, maybe they are. You have precious little else from your childhood thesedays.

“That little one in between is Mizar. They make up the handle.”

“Mhmm.” His breathing is starting to even out, eyes relaxing as they search the rest of the sky. “Sounds like a rowdy bunch… Is that the bowl next to it?”

“Yeah! Yeah good! That’s it there. And the two at the end—“ You trace Merak and Dubhe up to Polaris. “If you follow the line they make up just a bit, there’s the North Star. The brightest one in the sky. That’s part of the Little Dipper—“

“Where’s Casper and Potluck?” 

“Who?” You look back down at him, though he won’t look away from the stars.

“The twins.” He frowns. “I don’t see ‘em.”

You laugh softly. “It’s Castor and Pollux .” 

“Quit jerkin’ me around. You know what I mean.”

“I know.” You rest your head on his shoulder. It’s chilly up so high, the wind cold against your hot cheeks. But he’s warm. He’s always warm. What you wouldn’t give to crawl on his lap like a cat and fall asleep right now.

“Don’t be mad at me,” You continue. “I didn’t make up the rules– But you can’t see ‘em at night right now. They’re only up there during the day.”

“Of course.” Stanley whistles in disappointment. “...What the hell did a couple knuckle-head twins do to get a whole constellation?”

“It’s Greek mythology. I’m a little rusty, but from what I remember… they were born to one mother, but with two different fathers. One was mortal, and the other was a god.” You pause to see if Stanley’s following.

“Poor mortal schmuck.” Is all he says.

“So the son of the god, Potluck–” You grin at Stanley, who seems to return it in earnest, however slight. “–grows up all powerful. Basically, he’s half god, so he’s like a step above everybody all the time. But he sticks with Casper anyways. They’re like always together, getting into hijinks and stuff. Sailing around with the other big dogs of the day. They’re both fightin’ on the same side of this big war in Ancient Greece, when Casper bites the dust.

“Potluck is all broken up about it. They were inseparable. They’re the twins. Like… Day ‘n night. Sun ‘n moon. Two halves of a whole. So Potluck brings Casper’s body up to his dad, the king of the gods, and he tells him he doesn’t wanna live forever without his brother—“

You see Stanley’s eyes starting to glisten, and your words start to catch in your throat. You’re making him sad again. You’re supposed to be distracting him from the big mess you got him into, and now you’re going to make him cry–

“What’d he do?”

“Huh?” 

“His dad.” Stanley swallows something back in his throat. “What’d his dad do? When Potluck wanted to stay with his brother?”

“He um—“ You look back up at the sky. “He let Potluck share his immortality with Casper by puttin’ them up in the sky together. Gemini. Watchin’ over sailors who pray to them for safe passage. Together forever.”

Stanley scoffs, but his voice cracks. 

“So what— The screw-up twin gets himself killed and the other one just gives up everything, immortality, rubbin’ elbows with the gods, just to be with his stupid brother? Willingly?”

You shake your head. “Casper wasn’t a screw up just ‘cause he was mortal. He had his own strengths. He complimented Potluck. They both thrived in what the other lacked. And you know, in the end, what sets Potluck apart from other demigods at the time— his dad got around— was his love for his brother. Real, pure, eternal love. He gave up everything to stay by his side.”

Daddy’s the one who told you that story. He might have been priming you for a little sibling at the time, but you never got one. For a while though, it made you wish you had someone else around to be in your corner with you. At least, until you understood no one else should have to grow up in that house.

“Well that’s why it’s fuckin’ make believe.” Stanley’s lip curls and he shakes his head. “It ain’t real life. Just a myth. Brothers don’t give up shit for their brother, no matter how close you think they are. In real life, brothers are selfish.”

You can hear his fitful breath, the buckling in his chest even though he hides his face from you. 

“In real life, brothers don’t give a damn if you end up dead.”

If there was a competition for always knowing when to say the wrong thing, you’d win first place. 

“I… I’m sorry, Stanley.” 

You know that, and yet you can’t shut up. You ache to tend to the mess you’ve made, even though without any tools of your own to help, it’s more like just brushing broken pieces around. You’ll cut yourself on the sharp edges though, as long as it helps.

You squeeze his arm, trying to lean closer over the stuffed pig nestled between you. 

“I uhm—“ Your mouth salivates. It’s the spontaneous word vomit, your lack of impulse control. You’d do anything for him. You’d burst a water tank, set free a stampede of farm animals. You’d say:

"I’d follow you up to the stars. God knows I don’t have anything else left for me down here.”

Stanley finally faces you, mouth opening to respond, but choking on his own words. You register surprise on his face. Disbelief. 

And then anger.

“You don’t quit, do ya?”

You flinch as points his finger harshly against your sternum. The carriage screeches in protest as it swings.

You open your mouth to reply, to apologize, but he shakes his head.

“You don’t think. Ya don’t think about the consequences of yer actions. Ya don’t think about how I gotta be the one cleanin’ up all yer messes. Beatin’ up dudes you steal from, Runnin’ away from security with ya ‘cause ya get sticky fingers, tryin’ to be normal after you say shit like that!”

“Stan, I’m–I didn’t know–”

“I know ya don’t know . That’s the whole point! Ya can’t just say those things if you don’t know what you’re talking about, and ya don’t! Ya don’t know shit!” 

Your eyes sting. Your gaze bounces around Stanley, anywhere but his eyes that you can see the tears collecting in, reflecting from the growing blue light coming from beneath you.

 “—Ya know about the Greeks, and the stars, and how to spell , good for you! But ya don’t know how to shoot a gun,” He starts counting in his fingers. “Ya don’t know how to steal without gettin’ caught, and ya don’t know me!”

You’re reaching the apex of the Ferris wheel, and the light emanating from the inside surface of your carriage is starting to hurt your eyes, the once cool metal getting hot under your touch. You feel your hair stand on end, not just fear, but from the static in the air lifting the strands, billowing out Stanley’s too, in a fan around his head.  

“Stanley—“ You whimper.

“What —“

The atmosphere crackles in your ears. A sound as loud as thunder rumbles in your chest and your eyes burn with the intensity of the light surrounding you. 

The last thing you think about was that the sky was cloudless.

---

The next thing you think about is that your skin hurts. 

It feels dry and taut and crackly, like it’s the dead of winter and you fell asleep in front of a space heater. Your knuckles sting as you curl your fingers, just testing if you still have fingers to curl.

Your throat feels dry and sore. Like all the air heated up and expanded when you couldn’t let it out. Your chests still aches with it. You try to speak, to croak out some exclamation of pain, but you can only cough.

You hear Stanley groaning beside you. “...What happened?”

You crack open your eyes, slowly, because the world is so bright around you. Even the handlebar holding you to the Ferris wheel carriage reflects light back into your eyes.

“I don’t–” You look up. 

The sun is on the other side of the sky from where it set. Its rising from the east. 

It’s morning time.

It’s been hours. You lost hours. 

“I don’t know.”

You’d be more freaked out about it, honestly, if only you had the wherewithal to be. But at this moment, you can hardly hold yourself upright.

You and Stanley are still in a daze once the Ferris wheel brings you back down. You feel terrible, and you probably look worse. Or at least, you’re assuming you do from the way the ride operator jumps in fear when he sees you and Stanley stumbling your way back onto solid ground, as if you had come out of nowhere. 

You can’t stop picking at some bump behind your ear, solid and sharp under your skin. Stanley has one too. The scar looks… cauterized.

You look around the fairgrounds. It’s still early morning. The fair doesn't even look open.

The people in the booths are counting their registers, refreshing their prize stocks, heating up their cooking implements in preparation for the day. 

And You and Stanley are getting escorted off the Cornton County Fair premises, stuffed effigy of Lil’ sixty five tucked under the elbow of some poor teenager bearing a security patch on his back.

You weren’t as nice as you could have been. Poor kid was just doing his job, not letting you keep your hard-unearned loot. Then again, that defense has failed before. 

Stanley has to drag you kicking and screaming out the security gate, while you holler unholy things about the stuffed pig. He was my first time! And Don’t touch his snout unless you plan on getting an STD panel! And In some countries, we’d be considered married!

Stan releases you at a shaded picnic table, apparently having decided you wouldn’t put up the effort to crawl back to the gate and keep accosting security. He’s your keeper again.

You rest your head on your crossed arms. Stanley just slumps against the table, his cheek squished against it. How he managed to carry you when you were both suffering from such a monumental hangover is beyond your comprehension. 

“I feel like I got hit by a truck.” He groans, eyes lazily seeking you.

“I feel like shit.” You reply hoarsly.

“Heh, you look like shit–” You kick him under the table. “– Ow. Tough crowd.”

“You’re such a dick.”  You smile weakly at him before it falls. 

“I know.” He says.

You meet his eyes. He doesn’t refute you at all. Like he’s apologizing for it. 

Under the table, his hand finds your knee and he squeezes it. 

“I’m sorry for yellin’ at you like I did. That was out of line.” 

You huff softly and bury your face in your arms. If you cry there, he doesn’t have to see it and feel bad. He doesn’t deserve to feel bad when he’s right.

“No.” Your words are muffled in the space carved out by your arms. “I deserved it. I’ve been bein’ stupid. Should’ve just listened when you said you didn’t wanna celebrate.”

“No. Ya ain’t stupid. And ya didn’t deserve it. Ya did good, kid. All said and done, I had a good birthday. And that’s all ‘cause of you.” He reaches across the table and pets your hair, gathering it gently between his fingers to move it away from your face. “It’s been my sour ass that’s ruining it.”

You peer up at him. The grate of the table left an imprint on his cheek. You want to kiss it. Or just feel it under your fingertips.

But you don’t want to ruin a good thing, so you just close your eyes and enjoy the feeling of his nails against your scalp.

“It’s just," He continues. "With the birthday, and the you… It’s been reminding me of my brother.” 

Brother?

You open your eyes.

 “—it ain’t yer fault or nothin’, just makes me a little testy, I guess—“

“You have a brother?” You blurt out. 

His grinning mouth is frozen mid sentence, and he averts his eyes. “A twin.”

You feel all the blood drain from your face.

“You’re joking.”

“Nah.”

“You’re fucking with me!”

“I wish I was.” He laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “I know I’m a unique individual and all, but there’s another man walking around somewhere with the same ugly mug. I’m the prettier twin, obviously.”

“Obviously.” You grin for a moment before you narrow your eyes at him, kicking him softly under the table again. You didn't just go against an aging man's wish to forget about his birthday, you smashed it against the ground and rubbed his face in it.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me! You let me go on and on about goddamn twins when you’re really —“ You sigh and hold your face in your hands, pushing back your hair and trying to remember all your poorly thought-out comments.

You can hear him huff softly in amusement. If nothing else, maybe your embarrassment can be funny to him.

“You want the real kicker?” He says.

You do want to know. But if you’ve somehow made an even bigger ass of yourself by referencing something painfully fitting, you might run off and dunk your head in a deep fryer. 

You nod your head hesitantly. Stanley takes your cue, sitting up on his forearms.

“He’s my Potluck.” He starts wistfully. Your stomach drops.

“He’s the smart one. And I mean, freakin’ genius. Always has been. Our parents were real proud.” Stanley stares down at his hands, curling his pinkies. “I think maybe he got all the brains when we were in the womb or somethin’. Which is fine, ‘cause frankly I wouldn’t wanna be a nerd like him. Someone had to beef up and keep the bullies off our backs, and it was not gonna be him. 

“Like you, I’d consider him book smart, and street stupid.” He quirks his eyebrow at you, waiting for you to laugh at his joke. You do. The best comedy is rooted in truth.

"We were good to each other though, real dynamic duo material. Didn’t have much in terms of friends or whatever, besides eachother, so we made plans to sail around the world together lookin’ for babes and treasure and whatnot.

“When we were seventeen, he was gettin’ looked at for a scholarship to some fancy-schmancy college across the country.” He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, his chin wrinkling. “I didn’t want him to go. I wanted him to stick around, make good on his promise. So we could both get outta New Jersey… and I—I fucked it all up for him.” He swallows a thickness back in his throat.

“…He didn’t get the scholarship. Pops blamed me, said I cost our family potential millions or whatever. So, Pops kicked me out. My brother didn’t stop him, he blamed me too. And I haven’t seen either of ‘em since. Just been on my own.”

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. With his shoulders drawn in, the broken look on his face, you see the kid from the shore again. Not carefree. Not carefree at all. Just trying desperately to hold onto the only friend he’s got. 

You move to his side of the bench and wrap your arms tightly around him, resting your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn't pull away. 

Part of you is screaming in excitement that you get to hold him. Part of you aches deeply for him, that he could be abandoned by his entire family for something so small. That it could snowball into the man before you, drifting aimlessly with nothing to his name but an old car. Their apathy feels violent.

But then he rests his head against yours, and so you stop thinking about anything else.

“I am a dick,” He mutters. “And a screw-up. And when I yell, sometimes I hear my old man’s voice. And when I look at you—“ 

He turns to face you, eyes burning as they glaze over your features. “—I see another smart kid I could be rippin’ away from a good future. A good college. A good life. And I don’t know if I can do that to you. I don’t know if I want to.”

Your eyes sting.

Who does he see when he looks at you? The child nurse-maid? The bright eyed academic? The inheritor of her mothers illness? None of them would recognize you now. You preferred it when he thought you were a whore.

“What are you trying to say, Stanley?” You whisper, your lips setting in a hard line.

A frown is breaking across his lips. His voice is thick, caught in the back of his throat.

“I think you should go back home.” 

You stare him down without responding, as if your glare could force the words back into his mouth. 

It can’t. 

You shake your head.

He just wants you to leave, right? That’s what he’s too afraid to say out loud? What he’s been ruminating over for the past few days, refusing to touch you. Refusing to look at you. And you were non the wiser.

That’s a lie. You knew.

“You could go back to school, ya know? Maybe it wouldn’t be Ivy League or whatever, but it’s better than sleepin’ in cars and getting into trouble all the time, ain’t it?”

“Why do you keep bringing this up?” You choke out. 

You need to breathe.

How does that go again?

“Cause you’re smarter than this. You got a good brain rollin’ around in your skull. And you’re young, you still got a chance to not end up like— like me. Stuck like this. Nothin' to do and nowhere to go. I’m gonna mess things up again, I know it.” He reaches to touch your cheekbone, at the scabs still left from back when Asshole shoved you into a brick wall. He thinks he’ll ruin you. As if you weren’t living like you were already six feet below before you met him. 

You can’t even remember how to breathe. Shows what Stanley knows.

“Hey!” You bite back, pulling away from his hand. “Quit jerking yourself off! You don’t get any credit for my fuck ups, me bein’ this way doesn’t have anything to do with you! I lost out on any kind of future like that a long time ago.”

He grabs your hand. 

“You’re not listening to me. I want you to be safe, I’m trying to help you, kid—“

“You’re being a fucking coward!” You cry, pulling your hand back, pulling him back to you. “You’re not helping me if you just leave! You want me safe? I need you. You want me to have a future? I need you. So stop bullshitting me. If you want me to leave, just fucking say so!”

He looks at you in stunned silence, a knot budding between his eyebrows. He pities you. He has to. 

Because you’re pitiful.

Tears spill from your eyes, burning their way down your cheeks. You force them shut. You don’t want to see him pitying you anymore. 

“Say it!” You sob.

You wait for the other shoe to drop. 

“… I don’t want you to leave.”

It doesn’t.

In.

You gasp for air, as much as you can get before Stanley pulls you into his chest. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” He murmurs against your ear, voice rough and wavering.

“I don’t. I wanna keep you. I want you to stay. I wanna make plans and celebrate your stupid birthday–” He laughs. You feel it, tucked into his chest like this. “I wanna take you to California and kick your old man’s ass. I just… I can’t let myself make those plans with you if you don’t wanna keep ‘em. I can’t keep holding my breath. I can’t get my hopes up again.”

“I do wanna keep ‘em.” You breath against his chest, your fingers digging into his body wherever they land. Hooking in. Never letting go.

“I do. I promise.”

And out.

Notes:

woof. county fair arc was NOT supposed to take three chapters, and I've cut prob two chapters worth just in it cos I wasn't happy with it and i needed to get to the meat and potatos HERE. THANK YOU MR HIRSCH for making them geminis. he did it for me personally to use for silly indulgent fanfiction i think. thanks everyone for holding on anyways <3 hope yall enjoy cheese :3
Edit: forgot to say, I listened to Silver by Wunderhorse on my way home before finishing this chapter and I was screaming along, it’s Stanley’s song so fucking BAD I need someone to talk about it
EDIT EDIT: MY HOMIR BBAMBIMBO MADE THIS MOST BEAUTIFUL HEARTWRENCHING COMIC FOR THE GEMINI SCENE AND I COULD CRY CRY FOREVER GO LOOK AT IT

Chapter 12: I ain’t sayin please on my birthday*

Summary:

Tw: slight exhibitionism or something. Siri play birthday sex by Jeremih

“Ya mean it?” 

Stanley whispers it against your crown. His fingers dig into your sides. Your nails dig into him too, just as desperate to hold him, just as ready to fall apart if you have to let go.  

You’re breathing out of your nose, your mouth and most of your face is still smooshed against his chest, so “ mhmm” is all you can manage. You hope it’s enough.

“Don’t say it if ya don’t mean it.” He huffs. You feel him frown against your scalp.

You can hear the thickness in his throat, the short, shallow breathing, the barely-there tremble in his grip. You try to swallow your hesitation.

Do you mean it?

You say a lot of things you don’t mean. You act impulsively. You lack forethought. You’re easily swept along by the current when you feel valued enough. You know these things about yourself. 

Fuck, even Stanley knows that about you and he still still wants you to stay. Why the fuck does he want you to stay?

Do you mean it when you tell him you want to stay?

You want to. You can say with certainty that you’ve never wanted to stay by anyone’s side so much. No one beside your mother. Not friends, not a boyfriend, not school, not even your father. It never felt like dying when facing the prospect of losing them. 

Isn’t it cruel of you to say so if you don’t know you can stay?

Do you mean it?

His body feels stiff under your touch. His adam’s  apple bobs. He probably thinks you’ll say no.

Don’t say it if ya don’t mean it.

You can’t say no. Not to him. Not to someone who needs you as much as you need him. 

Because if you say no, you won’t mean that either.

---

You don’t really remember how you got Stanley back into Debby’s backseat. Maybe it was the adrenaline of thinking you were going to lose him. Maybe it was the relief of finally knowing you wouldn’t.  Maybe your exhaustion made your brain efficient, allowed you to focus on just the important parts.

Stanley’s arms around you, solid and warm and delightfully suffocating. The most comfortable cage in the world. Stanley’s hands cupping your cheek and running down your back to rest in the dip of your waist. Sizing you up, holding you against him. Cradling you. Stanley’s lips worshiping your skin. You soak in the praise and devotion and return it tenfold.

Somewhere between the sweat and the tears and the prayers, you got on your knees on top of him and laid him down along the backseat. The early morning light blinds you through the windows, but as long as you’re craned over Stanley, you can see him. And that’s all that matters. 

“I thought ya were tired,” He laughs as you pull off his chest to start unbuckling his belt. 

“Yeah, well that was before I thought I had a chance at getting some after you held out on me for so damn long.” You pull at the denim waistband with two fingers, wordless pleading. “Things change.” 

He laughs again, breathlessly, and lifts his hips to help you pull down his jeans so you can straddle against his straining boxers. He’s at half-mast. You’re half-way to ripping through his boxers with your teeth.

“You think yer gettin’ lucky? ‘S my birthday, don’t I get a say?” He teases, leaning up and sitting chest to chest with you so he can mouth down your neck. 

“I don’t know…” You grind your hips down into him again, reveling in the hardness from within his boxers and the thick seam of your denim shorts tribbing against your clit. “I feel pretty lucky.”

Dry humping is so underrated.

It’s a lost art. Yeah, you could weasel out of your little daisy dukes, climb into his lap and sink down onto his stupid fat cock. Ride him until Debby’s tires sink half a foot into the mud. But where’s the anticipation? Where’s the romance? 

Stanley put you through hell the last few days. The least you can do is return the favor. You’re owed this. You’re owed every pitiful, half lidded glance from those warm brown eyes, every needy graze of those chapped lips against your jaw, every desperate pestering of his fingers up past the raw hem of your shorts. 

He should be itching to touch you. You’ve been bursting at the seams for him. Fiending for him like a junkie. Sustaining yourself on furtive glances and lingering touches like some beaten up Jane Austin novel. This is the 80’s! If you want to fuck that man, you’re gonna fuck him! Or at least make him beg to fuck you. That’s the romantic thing to do. And that’s one thing Stanley does deserve. Romance. 

“For the love of— Will you get those fuckin’ things off?” Stanley growls, fingers fumbling around the button of your shorts. 

“Say please .” You tease against his temple while you palm heavy against his weeping dick, pre-cum seeping through this boxers. Stanley gasps, hips grinding helplessly up into your hand.

“Oh, fuck off.” He grabs your wrist.

You squeeze him. 

“Say please—“ 

You yelp as he wraps one arm around your waist to hold you against his lap, so he can flip you both and pin you to the backseat. He silences any arguments with his lips against yours. 

You let your eyes fall shut, and limply drape your arms around his neck as he eases you deeper and deeper into the mind numbing kiss. He trails his hands down the undersides of your thighs until he has your knees hooked, so he can pull them up around his hips.

“I ain’t sayin’ please on my birthday.” He says it, raspy and smoldering against your lips.

Your brain is so fogged up with want for him you just stare, slack jawed, as he starts tugging the denim off your hips. 

“These? Are coming off.” He says it like a fact.

That dark tone sings straight to your cunt. You’re flushed with endorphins, drunk on heat. You're lifting your hips without thinking when you remember you wanted to punish him.

“Wait, no—“ You start prying at his fingers. “Hey!”

“Off. Or I’m rippin’ ‘em off.” 

“You wouldn’t!” You gasp, only for him to smirk and hook his finger into one frayed leg, pulling until you hear the fibers starting to snap. Your jaw hangs open in surprise at his mounting control over you. Honestly you’re surprised it took him this long.

“Dick.” You bite as you help him slip your shorts off your hips, letting them hang loosely around your ankle.

“Oh .” He scoffs, playfully offended. “On my birthday, Sweetheart?”

“Your birthday was yesterday.”

He huffs against your neck, peppering kisses over your collarbone, down to your sternum, and he grins up at you dismissively.

“What are ya, a cop?” 

You’re panting beneath him, watching him trail his tongue against your skin and prod your shirt down and out of the way with just his chin so he can bite the softest flesh. He always goes for your chest, eager to play with you like a stress ball, to knead the softness, or to tease your sensitive peaks until you’re a mewling mess in his hands. 

“You’re lucky I’m fresh outta handcuffs.” You murmur, tugging up against his shirt. But he catches your wrists again.

“Some of us just learn to make do.”

You crease your eyebrows in confusion at him when he pins your wrists above your head, and then you feel the worn leather slipped around them. His belt. Pulled taught, just enough to bite into your arms and hurt in a delicious way that you won’t feel in a couple minutes.

The only thing that distracts you from them is when you feel Stanley slide one fat digit down your wet slit, soaking through your underwear. He prods your hole through the fabric, achingly teasing, and grins down at you as you gasp and tilt your hips against him desperately.

“Look at ya. So fuckin’—“ He presses his forehead to yours and groans appreciatively. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”

It enrages you. 

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ wet! I’ve been waiting for you to touch me for days, panting and begging for you like a fuckin’ dog—“ 

He silences you with his fingers in your mouth. You whine at the loss of pressure against your core, but stuffed by his fingers still you have little to complain about.

“Shut that smart fuckin’ mouth for once, alright? Just nod.” His lips part hungrily as he watches your mouth wrap around his two digits with half-lidded eyes. He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly, and you nod. You’ve never been happier to shut up for once.

“You’ve been waiting for me to touch you?” He asks.

You nod your head, flickering your gaze back and forth between his eyes in anticipation. He laughs softly to himself, almost in disbelief.

“Ya want me that bad?”

Your eyes are burning up at him. Everything feels hot and aching. You itch to pull his hair, bite his lip, stroke his cock, sweet anything , but he still has your arms pinned above your head and going numb. You feel helpless. Fuck if it doesn’t make you need him more.

Just weeks ago you were reveling in your supposed power over him, addicted to his worship. Concerned with winning some arbitrary fight for control. And now you surrender without him even asking. More pathetic still? You like it.

“Need to hear ya say it.” He says, starting to drag his fingers over your tongue, pump them in and out and coating his fingers in your spit. Your thighs tense around his hips, your cunt is agonizingly untouched. “I’ve been driving myself crazy the last few days and you, ya fuckin’ tease, haven’t been helping.”

He drags his fingers out finally, watching the drool cling from his fingertips back to your tongue.

“Say it.”

You’re panting beneath him. You’re so full of need your skin is buzzing. It drowns your brain. It’s so loud you can’t even hear your own thoughts. 

“Want you. Need you. Miss you .” You swallow the taste of his fingers and eagerly tilt your head up closer to his. “Miss your fingers—“

You gasp again as his thumb hooks your underwear, tugs them off so you’re bare and ripe for enjoyment. And his fingers find where you miss them most, warm and slick with your spit. 

Your head snaps back and your moan fills Debby’s cabin as he sticks those saliva coated fingers between your legs and curls, hooking into your arousal while he circles your clit with his thumb. You’re content to lay back, lose yourself in bliss, let him fingerbang you until you explode. 

He’s watching. You can feel his eyes burning holes in your flushed skin, at your glistening neck, and your chest, expanding with every breath, at your stomach tensing and contracting while he brings you closer and closer with his fingers. 

Until he’s sick of just watching. Until he curses your name through gritted teeth and wets his cock against your dripping cunt. 

You can’t just lay back and lose yourself anymore. Stanley watches you cry in pleasure as he buries himself in you, completely, welcoming you to do the same. 

“That’s my girl.” He breathes as his hips sink all the way against yours, basking in your sounds of enjoyment. His forehead falls against yours.  “Fuck, I missed this.”

You catch your breath too, somewhere from beneath Stanley’s crushing weight on top of you. You rest your bound arms behind Stanley’s head, keeping him close.

“Me too. God, I missed you.” You cling to him, as his breath stutters against your ear. 

You missed losing yourself in him. Breathing in what he breathes out. Mistaking his heartbeat for yours. Twisting together like rotting roots. You can’t stand up right without him.

You like yourself the most in proximity to him. Held by him, cherished by him, needed by him. A trellis, full of holes for you to weave yourself into, to help you seek sunlight instead of crawling along the dirt and getting trampled underfoot. You will grow around him. Your thorns will endeavor to protect him. You will snap if he leaves. 

But he doesn’t leave. He fucks into you with purpose, cock splitting you open, splintering your core with heat, carving you into his perfect home. 

That’s exactly what you want to be to him.

Pathetic, wanton moans slip from your lips with every thrust. You strain your wrist to wrap his long hair around your fingers, a harness, so that you can’t fall away. 

And then he stills, head swiveling off toward the front of the car. You gasp, head spinning from the sudden absence of friction and the rush of cool air around your sweaty neck as he faces away from you.

“Somebody’s coming.” He mutters.

Your body clenches around him, thighs locking around his hips as he tries to pull away. Cruel man. That should be you.

“Don’t stop,” You whine. “ Please.”

As weak as your core feels, still impaled, still leaking against him, you curl up as much as you can to try and pull him back. Your pleadings against his rough cheeks, his jaw, his lips falls unanswered against his stupid cute big ears, and he still refuses to move against you, keeping terribly still between your legs.

“Stanley. Stanley. I need you.” Finally, he meets your eyes. “I need you—“ 

One pump. That’s all you get. You’re stretched wide and then left hollow as his cock waits at your entrance, and you’re a whimpering mess.

“I hate you—“ You sob. As if.

“Be quiet or I can’t keep fuckin’ ya.” Shit eating grin. He knows you don’t mean it. 

You squeeze your legs around his hips tighter, trying to pull him back. For a moment, he buckles and gives in, a few shallow thrusts. 

You moan a little too loud in response. Even you know that, writhing beneath him. But it’s worth it for that doofy, wide-eyed, anxious look he gives you as he clamps his hand over your mouth. 

You whimper against his palm, huffing and puffing and still grinding your hips against his, anything to draw him in again. He winces as footsteps pass by outside.

You’re still panting into his hand, staring up at him as he leans closer.

“I mean it,” He murmurs darkly against your temple. “Shut yer fuckin’ trap if you know what’s good fer ya.”

Your breath stalls, and you can only look up at him in silent resignation. He has won, and you couldn’t be enjoying it more. Your eager eyes follow him, watch him look around for more passersby. When he’s satisfied, he returns your warm gaze with a soft, pleased sigh and his forehead against yours. 

He trusts you, and so his hand moves from over your mouth to cupping your jaw. A loving embrace if you’ve ever known one. You feel precious in his grip.

“You are a fucking menace .” 

You think he’s going to smack you. Alright, maybe it’s wishful thinking, and you’d deserve it. 

But he kisses you. With his palm under your chin, his fingers digging into your cheeks, you are cherished. Bathed in his tender kisses, rocked by the languid pace of his hips. He holds your body closer to him, as if preparing for the bench beneath you to fade away and leave you in free fall. 

He pulls away, just enough to offer you a chance to breathe. Enough for him to look down at you with his eyebrows knitted together so desperately. His thumb brushes over your pouted lips, catches itself on your teeth. 

He doesn’t slow his pace. He drives into you harder, as if he could spear through your heart and reach your brain. 

“Tell me you’re gonna stay.” He whispers, like the sound of Debby creaking beneath you could drown out his pleading. 

He doesn’t want you to say it if you don’t mean it. But he’d do anything to hear it fall from your pretty lips now, whether you mean it or not. He’d grit his teeth and fuck into you until tears collect in your eyes, until your nails dig into his shoulders, until your mouth can’t form anything but his name.

He wraps his arms around you, buries his face against the side of yours. His fingers dig painfully into your skin.

You’ll mean it. 

Maybe not in every way, for now. Maybe it’s the moment blinding you. Maybe in a couple more weeks, you’ll think you were stupid to try and make such a promise. But in all the ways that matter, your mind, your heart, they won’t ever leave this car. This embrace. 

You’ll stay. 

Notes:

Stan fandom dying drop a comment if ur a real stanker

Chapter 13: But I was having the greatest dream

Summary:

pool episode go brrr

Notes:

yurrr thank u user Mistubav for beta'ing. we made It folks :3

Stanley Pines whistles after sex. 

He’s not the first man you’ve known to do that, but he certainly is the most endearing. He stands a little straighter, squares his shoulders, puffs out his chest. It’s so cute you’re fawning. It’s so silly you can’t stop smiling. You walk a little taller too. Making him feel good makes you feel good. You’re his pick-me-up. 

Every day he understands a little more that you want him. That you like him. That you care about him. Of course, he’s still pretty bad about seeking out affection on his own. He’s childish. He’s probably as inexperienced with this kind of thing as you are, and twice as stunted. But he still craves the contact. Good thing. So do you. 

Sometimes he pinches your soft spots, just enough to make you jump or hike up your shoulders. He’s addicted to watching you react. Or he puts you in a headlock when you aren’t looking, pulling you flush against him, his chin resting on your crown, arms across your shoulders. He never hurts you, it’s just an excuse to touch you without saying that’s what he wants. It’s fine. Because you play back. You weasel your fingers back into his nooks and crannies and invade his space. You bite his arms and lean back into his embrace. 

After that, he’s not shy about pinning you against the passenger side door to kiss you. Or pulling you into his lap. Or picking you up, hiking you over his shoulder to take you to bed. Because no matter how it ends, you started it and that means he gets to finish it. Or at least you both pretend. 

Stanley whistles as he cleans the bugs off his windshield. You smooth down your mess of hair and leave Debby’s door open as you wander into the convenience store to pay for gas, closing your eyes in appreciation as the fan aimed at the entrance cools down your sweat-slick neck, not caring if anyone sees the latent love bites. 

You toss a cold water bottle and a twenty dollar bill on the counter.

“Change on pump five, if you don’t mind.”

You glance up at the fisheye mirror behind the cashier, just enough to know he won’t see you pocket a cherry red nail polish while he’s distracted. You need the practice. But when you see another customer lingering in the aisle behind you, half-hidden and oddly still, you pull back your hand. A hand hangs down just in view, only a foot off the floor. Too low, you think. You try to ignore the way the hair at the back of your neck stands on end. 

You turn around briefly. You see no one. One of the cardboard candy displays has bunny ears sticking out from the top. The mascot is mocking you. You grit your teeth and face forward again. As if you don’t have enough to be paranoid about. 

NEED TO CLEAR YOUR MIND?

You tilt your head in confusion at the bold text on the poster plastered against the window behind the cashier, then you narrow your eyes to read the rest of it. It’s an ad for a motel with a pool. At least a decade old. It’s sun-bleached to shades of turquoise so that it all looks underwater. You wonder if you could afford a night there just for the chance of a cold dip, if it’s still standing. Behind it, you can see the heat waves rising from the black top of the highway, dark against the bone-white, packed earth beside it.

Poor Debby does the hard work for you, taking the brunt of hot road. You can feel the burning asphalt through your thick soled boots. 

It’s a miracle you have good ole’ Debby to travel you through the desert. Left to your own devices, you might go crazy like those old cowboy stories, hallucinating from the mirages. Sometimes you could swear you see yourself standing on the roadside, like a bad ghost story. And then when you try to focus, it’s just the heat haze. Like how the road disappears off in the distance, mirroring the sky. You only see what you want to see.

It’s early July now. The A/C’s crapped out. And with the sun beating down on the top of your skull for ten hours a day, putting the top down is quickly losing its only appeal of keeping you cool. All the same, you slide back in beside Stanley and angle away the side mirror, head lulling back against the seat as he pulls out of the gas station.

You hold the cold water bottle to your chest, condensation dripping around your neck, pooling in the planes of your décolletage. You feel more tired than you should feel with Stanley doing all the driving. You’re desperate for a real bed again, since it had been a few days since you’d shared one. You’d settle for anywhere flat that you can stretch your legs out. You try Debby’s front seat for size, kicking off your boots and socks in the passenger foot bay.

There’s really no comfortable position in the passenger seat. Each one is worse than the last. Trust, you’ve tried them all by now. Eventually the leather sticks to your salty skin, your ass goes numb, the door handle digs into your side. 

“You keep floppin’ around like a fish out of water and I’ll hog tie ya.” He says as he catches your bare foot before it can kick the steering column. You feel childish for wriggling around so much beside him, but you were growing antsy. 

This feels better though. As much as you yelped when he tickled the bottoms of your feet, you’re finally at rest with them in his lap, your arms behind your head. He kneads your calves mindlessly. You’re his worry stone. 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” You grin. “You think we could pull over anytime soon? I think I saw a spot with a pool back at the gas station.”

“Ya know, if ya wanna see me with my shirt off, you can just say so.”

“I wanna see you with your shirt off.” You say without missing a beat. He smiles bashfully and squeezes your foot until you yelp again. 

“I thought you wanted to go to California. Why do ya keep putting it off? We were off course three days last week ‘cause you wanted to see StoneHenge Two.”

“And now we can say we’ve been to StoneHenge! I’m not seeing a problem. Is it not enough to simply enjoy your company with a fun backdrop instead of—“ You hold your hand out past the window. “—dirt, dirt and more dirt?”

The sprawling green fields and magnolia trees of central Texas were gone, replaced by coarse yellow sand, mesas, and tumbleweeds. You might have seen a strategically placed cow head skull hanging out by a classic cactus a few miles back. The wild west has never seemed more tame and lifeless.

“It’s nothin, I just—“ Stanley sighs and glances down at you for just a moment before he’s back to glaring at the road like it called him a dirty name. “I kind of thought we’d be farther west by now.”

You frown. 

“I’m sorry. You got somewhere to be?” 

His mouth hangs open, though he doesn’t grace you with any answer. He just hinges his jaw and stares forward again. 

Of course he has somewhere to be. Did you think you’d get to enjoy your hedonistic, vagrant lifestyle with him forever? Maybe. Actually, like an idiot, of course you thought so. You were learning the ropes, so you thought they’d be content to stay in your hands. Stanley was teaching you, wading with you deeper and deeper into moral muck, and Foolish You thought he’d be there to hold your hand forever. Metaphorically, of course. He doesn’t hold your hand in public. 

Last night, with Stanley’s go-ahead, you chatted up a lonely gentleman at the bar. Sit there and look pretty was the one thing he was confident you could handle. You scored a few free drinks and some taxingly boring conversation while Stanley picked his pocket and slipped away unnoticed. A wallet packed with cash and loyalty cards hangs heavy still in his jeans pocket. You’re his decoy. But you’re still too wet behind the ears about all of this to be of any real use. You know that even if he won’t say it. 

Stanley looks down at you again. He has that soft look in his eye, all regretful, like he kicked a puppy. 

His eyes drift down to your frowning lips. “Nah. Forget I said anything. Sorry. Don’t worry.” 

He reaches over and plugs your nose between his thumb and forefinger, making you snort and smack at his knuckles. He laughs as you wriggle away from his pest of a hand again. 

Stanley peels back across the road, tires screeching and carving skid marks against the asphalt.

“We’ll hit a pool, kid.”

---

Stanley insists you sit on his shoulders in the motel pool. You know it’s a trap. You do it anyway. 

You hold your breath when you feel his grip shift from the top of your thighs to the front plane of your hips. He slams you backwards down into the water, and all you can do is tighten your thighs around his head to make sure he goes down with you. He’s the captain, and you’re his sinking ship.

“Dick—“ You whine as you clear out your nose and wring your hair of the chlorine. He surfaces again, a shark smelling blood in the water.

“So quick to place blame, sweetheart. I just tripped is all.” He coos as he hugs you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You ain’t mad at me, are ya?”

You huff and cross your arms. You aren’t really mad, but you know you could be. And you do like when he knits his eyebrows together and looks like a chastised puppy. 

“...No”, You settle, relaxing into his arms. He’s holding you too tightly.

“Good.” He hums. So innocent. So coy, when you know he’s anything but. 

This time you don’t have the chance to hold your breath when he pulls you under. Your feet are swung forward out from under you and you don’t know which way is up. But you do know his lips are clumsily seeking out yours while your face is tickled by air bubbles. 

Once you breach, he stares at you with his bottom lip sucked under his teeth, waiting for your next tactic for revenge. He’s braced against the plaster wall, holding tightly onto the lip from the pool, as if you were capable of the same kind of brute force. 

You approach him, gently bobbing as you wade closer with your nose just above the surface. 

“Now, sweetheart—“ He smiles nervously.

What he doesn’t expect is for you to embrace him. You wrap your arms around his neck and displace all the water between you, so you can feel the heat of his bare chest against yours instead of the cool water. He catches an eyeful of your breasts, soft and full and directly in his eyesight. His lips are parted in suspense. He’s holding his breath, poor thing.

“I told you,” You murmur, drawing out your words and speaking soft so he has to lean in and stare at your lips instead. “I ain’t mad.”

What he doesn’t expect now is for you to pull his pants down around his ankles  and kick off from the wall to scramble away. He’s playfully outraged, calling your fake name while he tries to get ahold of his shorts again. 

“What? I tripped!” You call back to him, silly grin plastered to your face. 

You’re holding your bra over your chest preemptively. You know how quickly he can unhook it. You squeal like a child as he hikes his knees high to run after you in the shallow end, moments away from his hand locking around your ankle. 

Your salvation comes when a mother and her young kids open up the gate to the motel pool. Stanley is stuck making himself proper in the deep end while you climb out and make yourself comfortable on one of the sun bleached lounge chairs. But when you turn around, instead of following, Stanley’s busy with the kids. He’s chasing after them with his back hunched over and his arms out like claws, tossing both of them back into the pool one after the other while they scream with laughter. One of them, the little girl, looks alot like you. 

Stanley’s a master with them. Who knew?

You had never really considered skill with children one of those so-called sexy traits like some of your friends gossiped about back in school, always cooing about the cutest professors being the ones who had out photos of their own kids, like breaking up a family was hot somehow. But now? You kind of get it. Something about seeing Stanley with those kids made you want to give him one. 

You fall asleep there while they’re playing. You were drifting in and out of consciousness, but Stanley holding a little girl still persisted in your mind. Foggy scenes play in your head, skipping together like a scratched record. Stanley coming home from work to kiss you, hand on your swollen stomach. Stanley hacking together a bassinet, cursing when he pinches his fingers but letting you kiss them better. Stanley taking the training wheels off of a proud little girl’s bike, watching her ride it with his hands on his hips. Dreamlike, if only because you can’t imagine a world where you manage to claw your way back into a white-picket fence life. You once thought it was so stifling. How things change.

You wake only when the warm blanket of sunlight is eclipsed, letting you shiver from the night-cold breeze. Stanley stands over you. Behind him, the sky is hot pink with the impending sunset.

“That’s enough beauty sleep for ya, princess.”

You yawn and stretch your arms above your head, arching your back. Your eyes are closed, but you know he’s watching. 

“You think so? But I was having the greatest dream,” You groan. 

“Oh yeah?” He pulls you to your feet. All the high points of his face, the tops of his shoulders and arms and chest, all glow pink with sunburn. God, he looks cute all flushed like that. You want to leave your fingerprints all over him. “What was it, somethin’ sexy?”

“I’ll say. You were in it.” You wrap your arms around his neck when he slides his arms under your knees and behind your back. The man is princess carrying you back to your motel room. Good thing he’s holding you, if you stood right now your knees might buckle beneath you. 

“If you say somethin’ stupid about goin’ at it with twins, I’ll drop ya.”

“No! God no, one of you is more than enough.” That puts him at ease. “It was–” You bite your lip. You’re crazy to even consider saying it out loud. “Just forget it.”

“No skin off my back.”

Stanley sets you down on the bed, following you down and laying between your legs. He buries his head in your chest, sunburnt face warm against your chlorine-taut skin. He breathes you in, huffing the chemicals. You’re his pillow.

Even through the new sunburn, you can see the deep farmer’s tan he’s getting from always driving with his arm resting along the car door. Pale on his shoulders, then dusky and peeling on his arms. This man’s never thought of sunscreen as anything other than something to rub along a woman’s back. 

“There’s a hole in the ozone, you know. You gotta be careful.” You tell him while you trace the tan line with your finger. You’re his newspaper. The stacks of them in Debby's trunk are a few years out of date. 

“What do I care? I didn’t do it.”

“Sun gets through the atmosphere. It’s bad for you.” 

Stan scoffs and buries his face further between your breasts, words tickling against your sternum. “Yeah, and ya know who says so? The people tryin to sell ya stuff to quote-unquote protect ya from the sun . When I was growing’ up, sun was good for ya.”

“Right, old man.” 

It’s a low blow. He isn’t old, you know that. But he thinks so. You’ve caught him doing pushups in the morning when he thinks you’re asleep. 

You’re pretty sure he just doesn’t want you to hear him struggle. He thinks that at thirty-whatever, he’s old. You know it’s young. Tragically young. Your mom only made it to thirty-five.

Would Stanley get the chance to be a father before he dies?

You feel his eyebrows crease against you, before he turns his head to the side and whines. “Who you callin’ old man–”

“It’s nothin’. I don’t mean it.” You sound panicked. Probably because you are. Stanley only wears his seatbelt half the time. He has no problem pickpocketing or hustling men with guns and knives hanging from their waistbands, even though he’s just showing off. And then of course, he’s always around you. Whether you mean to or not, somehow you always get him hurt. You remember him holding your gun to his head. It made you feel proud. Now you just feel sick.

All it takes is the thought of losing him and your heart is racing. You’re a goner. You cup his face and hold your forehead against his. The back of your eyes sting. He studies you with his eyebrows all creased together high on his forehead, a little frown on his lips.

“Pretty shit apology.” He whispers roughly, brushing under your eye with his thumb. “ ‘specially if it’s got you all torn up inside.”

“I’m sorry.” You flash him a smile, but it’s forced. You’re trying to brute force your way back to light and breezy, as if mortality isn’t carving a hole in your stomach. You’re not very good at it. 

His eyes bounce between yours for another moment. He can read you well, you know that. He can read anyone. He doesn’t need you behind the other poker players in the dive bars, tapping your nose when they bluff, he can win on his own. He just lets you feel involved. 

But he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, he just lowers his eyes. Then, his fingers dig into the corner of your neck, forcing a squeal from you as your shoulder hikes up in defense. 

You try to scramble away, crawling along the bed on your hands and knees and broken with giggles, but he catches you. He’s grinning as his hands find your hips, anchoring you back to him. Your back flush against him like this, you can feel his growing intentions. He kisses the back of your neck with teeth, hot and wet. 

His lips drag up to your ear as his hands slip between your legs, up the insides of your thighs. “C’mere, sweetheart. I’ll show you sorry.”

---

It’s quick. It’s dirty. It’s an appetizer. Stanley’s appetite is not satisfied easily, not if he can still have you. But he can be patient. On the other side of the bathroom door, Stanley’s whistling again. You’re taking advantage of the hot water and free soap, watching the mirror fog over with steam. 

You’re still not a fan of mirrors. Not just because of the jackalope from so long ago, though you can’t even sit down through a single revolution of White Rabbit anymore. It’s because you really don’t recognize yourself. You don’t know who the girl is staring back at you. And you haven’t in a long time.

You know what you are at Stanley’s side, or at least it’s easy to think so. You trade out the titles like pins. His pick-me-up. His worry-stone. His decoy. But it still leaves you with all sorts of questions. 

Who does he see when he looks at you? Who does he want you to be? Which one of you was he so desperate to keep when he was breaking down at the fair? Are you still the girl at the bar, cool and aloof and unknowable? Or does he look at you and see the Benny girl who wouldn’t give him a second glance back at home? 

You lean into the mirror, run your fingers along your jaw. They drag clumsily on your skin. You’re giving yourself stage fright. It’s like you don’t remember how to be a person. 

He somehow saw potential in you. Potential for what, you still had no clue.

You don’t see potential. You see a scared, lonely little girl, or at least the shell of one. Because you're floundering. You don't know how to navigate this road you're on. You don't know how to anything but keep crawling forward. But if that’s what he wants, he can have you. You’ll be his confidant. His partner-in-crime. His biggest supporter. Maybe someday you could be–

No. Don’t put it into words. You ask for too much. 

You’ll be whatever he wants, and that will be enough. That’s the best part of being empty. You can fill yourself up with anything.

The shower is quick. You really are desperate to slip back into his arms. They silence your thoughts, make the only question in your head, do i kiss him, or wait for him to kiss me? You tuck the towel in your armpits and crack open the door. 

He stopped whistling.

“—I told ya, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a couple days. Don’t even sweat it. You know I wouldn’t lie to ya.”

You freeze, holding your breath. He’s on the phone, hunched over the side of the bed with his back to you and fidgeting with the coiled cord. You don’t mean to eavesdrop, but you can’t undo what’s been started.

“Am I alone? No. No, I ain’t alone— It’s not like that. Just a friend. Some broad I picked up. Nobody to worry about.”

You let the door click closed again, as softly as you can manage. You can’t move. You just stand there, with your forehead against the door. 

You hear the receiver click as Stanley hangs up the phone. Then the bed creaks. He’s just making himself comfortable.

The air in the bathroom grows cold. The water beads down the mirror as the steam condenses, carving out clear lines for you to avoid as you turn and rest your back against the door. You need it. Your knees feel like giving in beneath you. 

Your chest should hurt. When something devastating happens you usually hurl into the nearest toilet, but you just feel numb.

Your eyes flicker up to the mirror. The only thing still blurred by water droplets is your face. It could be anyone. You could be replaced with anyone. 

In the back of your mind you already knew this about yourself.

You’re his nothing.

Notes:

hieee sorry for lil wait. if u wanna yell at me to post or just hang out im decently active on tumblr simpstantruther I've been doin some gf art if u wanna check out :3 send me requests,, I like diddling stan

Edit:

There will be no financial compensation for any pain suffered in this chapter,, but if u wanna see a lil sunburnt Stanley check out my lil doodle 👉👈

 

see u next week <3

Chapter 14: Fuck!*

Summary:

totally reasonable response tbh

Notes:

thank u thank u lovey Mistubav for beta'ing <3

I just wanna say,, the tag "Alexa play Casual by Chappell Roan" has been there waiting for yall from the beginning.

“Sweetheart?”

You’re still standing with your back to the door, leaning against it to hold yourself up. The doorknob twists, but with your resistance, the door stays closed. 

Warm droplets fall from your chin and splash against your chest. You look down. Not blood, so it’s fine. You’re fine. This is fine. You sniffle louder than you mean to and it echoes around the tiny, damp bathroom.

Stanley tries the doorknob again.

“You alright in there?”

“Yeah!” You shout back flatly. Your voice is waterlogged. You rub your leaking eyes and nose with your fists. “Chlorine’s still burning my eyes is all.”

“Oh.”

You hear him sigh. 

“ ‘s probably my fault, then. Sorry, sweetheart.”

He’s apologizing for the chlorine in your eyes? Your chest buckles. It might be a sob, it might be a laugh. You rest on the fence between. 

You’re tired. You don’t want to fight. You don’t want to word vomit, make yourself sick with all the vile things that could spill from your lips because you’re hurt and you don’t really have anyone to blame but yourself. That’s your MO, after all. But you’re nothing. Stanley doesn’t owe you anything to deserve your ire. And you owe him everything.

You take a deep breath to steel yourself before you open the door and smile tight-lipped for him, avoiding his eyes. 

“It’s fine, Stanley.”

He’s staring at you, fingers twitching at his side. You flinch when he reaches for you, only to pick at something on your face.

“Ow, stop it—“

“Relax , you got a booger—“ He grins and takes your jaw between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your face closer for inspection. Your face feels hot. 

“Gross,” You whine and try to pry his hand away. It doesn’t work, and you’re just cupping his hand, cheeks heating up under his scrutiny. He knows all your tells.

“I know. Cut it out, I’m helping ya. Look at me, I’m a hero, sparing you a lifetime of humiliation.” He’s smiling at you while his fingers dig into your cheeks, puff out your lips.

“You got somethin’ right… here,“ He leans in to kiss your lips but you turn away so it lands on your cheek. In his shock, he lets go. Now you can nurse your cheek and your pride in peace.

“Thanks a lot.” You say darkly. You try to hide your bitterness, but it’s a lost cause. 

“Moses—“ He rubs the back of his neck and watches you kneel before the duffel bag you both live out of. “You got a funny way of expressin’ gratitude, you know that?” 

“Sorry .” You spit back, facing away from him as you pull from his stash of wife beaters and clean boxers, letting your towel fall to the floor.

“Did I do somethin’ to piss you off? Where’s this comin’ from? Freakin’ Crazy.” He mutters under his breath. If he only knew. 

As much as you resent it, he isn’t wrong. You are crazy. You overthink and don’t think enough. You listen in on his words that aren’t meant for you, and don’t accept the ones that are. You’re nothing. And you ask for too much. You’re his goddamn punchline.

You wince as you pull the ribbed fabric over your chest, and finally see your angry skin in lamp light, flushed and red. You match him now, and you shot your stupid high horse in the foot. At least you have a decent excuse for your poor attitude, although decent is admittedly too much credit. But if he doesn’t owe you loyalty, you don’t owe him honesty.

“I’m just grumpy from the sunburn. That’s all.” You mutter softly, keeping your back to him. 

Without you noticing, he’s behind you. And he’s running his fingertips down your shoulders, featherlight. 

“Oh.” He says softly, tracing the tan lines from your bra. “Yeah… You’re all red. Does it hurt?”

You swallow thickly. He’s giving you goosebumps. With the sunburn, you just feel inflamed. 

“Just my ego. I’ll be fine.” Still, you don’t look at him. “I’m just gonna take a walk. Get some cool breeze on my skin.”

He gives you space finally, just enough to seek out a spare shirt of his own. “I‘ll come with—“

“No. ” You say too sharply, and now you look at him wide eyed and apologetic as if you insulted his mother. He frowns at you like you did. “I mean, you’re probably tired from the pool and everything, I just wanna stretch my legs. I shouldn’t have fell asleep like I did. You rest.” 

You push at his chest lightly, and Stanley gives and falls back on the bed, watching you slide on your boots without lacing them. 

“You’ll be back though, right?” 

It’s so soft you look back to see if it really came out of the emotionally-stunted meat mountain, Stanley Pines. It’s so gentle your chest hurts. 

You nod your head.

“Yeah,” You croak. “I’ll be back.”

You smack your forehead with your open palm endlessly as soon as the door clicks closed behind you.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid– Ugh!” 

Fuck Stanley for making you feel like that. The whiplash of it all was making your head spin. Feeling held. Cared for. Lov— losing your mind. What little of it you have to spare. Because he made you feel full, you just didn’t realize it was bullshit. Fuck you for letting yourself fall for it. 

You pace down the hallway outside of your motel room, feeling like you’re falling every time the sickly yellow hallway light flickers and bathes you in darkness. The ice machine is buzzing so loud you can’t hear yourself think. Your thoughts keep getting interrupted. 

You keep focusing inadvertently on that look in his eye as he watched you leave. Like he was worried or something. Ha! What’s his deal, worrying about losing nothing? Should feel like nothing too, right? He shouldn’t be looking at you like a puppy you kicked. 

The ice machine kicks on again and rattles your eardrum with its bassy drone.

“Shut up!” You cry, and slam your fist into the aluminum panel on the side. It warbles. And your fist aches. 

“Fuck—“ You whimper. Your knuckles are expanding before your eyes, red and swollen. It’s not the first time you’ve pointlessly slammed your fist against an immovable object, but it’s the first time you’ll have a boxer in all-knowing viewing distance of the aftermath. At least this time your impulsivity only hurts yourself.

You never should have eavesdropped on him. You never should have let yourself get so comfortable and reliant on a man who by all means can abandon you at the snap of his fingers, when the next adorably desperate girl makes her way to his passenger seat. You never should have come outside alone after nightfall at this shady motel, where rustling in the hedge bushes steals your attention away from your inner spiraling. Fucking rude .

Your eyes scan the darkness for movement. Its hard when the light is strobing worse than a seedy, back-alley disco. You creep closer, moving as silently as you can manage and picking up a stray stone from the dirt with your unaffected hand. The dirt is unforgivingly dry and crunchy beneath your boots. 

Then you see it. A hand, too low. Just a foot off the ground, hanging loosely, as if it were there for decoration. And your heart is in your throat. 

Your eyes trail up, past sinewy hind legs with hairless skin stretched so thin you can see the pulsing veins beneath. Past fleshy, boneless hands and arms that hang limply, swaying as the thing stalks closer. Past tiny, receding limbs that tuck against its bare chest. And up past its hunched back and sloped shoulders, your face.

Or at least, an odd attempt at it. The face is stretched thin over the thing’s skull, gaunt and inhuman. It bares its teeth at you. Two on top, two on bottom. And then the corners of it’s mouth curl upwards. It’s trying to smile at you. Or mock you. 

It can’t be real. This can’t be real. How can it keep following you? How can it keep finding you. And why?

You whimper, your breath coming out in strangled fits. Your frown digs hard into your cheeks.

Then the thing’s maw twists down into a frown. It’s mimicking you. Poor thing. You don’t know how to be a person, either. 

You scoff quietly. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

The whisper slips past your lips before you know what you’re saying. Before you realize you’re being sympathetic to— well, you don’t really know what you’re being sympathetic to. You shake your head and hike the stone up in warning. 

“Just cut it out, alright?” You try to sound intimidating, but your voice shakes from your chest. “Go copy someone else.”

It flinches back and its face contorts into fear. Seeing your own face, or at least this disturbing version of it, makes your throat thick. Is it really afraid, or is it just copying you?

“Fucking stop it !” You cry again, voice shrill in your own ears. 

It looks pitifully down at you. And then its limbs start cracking. Those with bones, anyway. The snapping of the joints, popping limbs backwards and contorting makes you feel sick to your stomach. You know you shouldn’t turn your back on it, but you just can’t watch. 

Then you hear the sick, wet sound of its skull splitting again, and you open your eyes.

It’s the little girl, the one from the pool. Or at least, the most fucked up effigy of her that you can imagine. The eyes bulge out a little too far, the skull too small to house them, and the long front teeth still hang out over its bottom lip. Its face is still shiny and orange-tinted with its blood, freshly birthed. 

“Fuck off! Leave me alone!”

You let the stone fly. 

You don’t watch it land. You hear it thud. And the cry of what sounds like a dying animal, hoarse and feral, and heavy thudding footsteps. The stone ricochets and cracks against the concrete behind it.

When you open your eyes, you are alone. The light still flickers. The ice machine still drones off in the distance behind you. And a cracked stone sits on the concrete walkway before you.

It’s hardly proof of anything. Your heart is racing, your fist still throbs, but in the back of your mind you still don’t believe your own eyes. You need to start carrying your gun with you again. 

You’re still shaken when you get back to your motel room. Maybe you should be grateful. It did get your mind off of Stanley and your nothingness for a while, whatever it was. And no matter what that thing was, this motel had heavy locks on its doors. You weren’t going to think too hard about why.

As soon as you get back into the room, you lock the door and draw the blinds, still peeking through them to see if you were followed.

“You okay, sweetheart? You look… spooked.” 

You glance back to meet Stanley’s eyes, regretting another entry in the running tally of how batshit crazy you are. But he’s just standing by the side of the bed. The lamps are dimmed. A towel is laid down along the mattress. And one of the pillows sits at the foot of the bed. 

“Come lay down. I got some uh—“ Stanley reaches to the bedside table to shake one of the motel ice tubs, you can hear chunks of it slosh around inside. “You know?”

“I know we ain’t got medicine or whatever, but I figure it can’t hurt to get a little rub down… Might even feel good.” He shrugs his shoulders but still watches you expectantly with his chin tilted down at his chest. He’s playing coy. It’s fucking adorable. Sick bastard. 

Your eyebrows knit together and you hug yourself, trying to gather your thoughts. You haven’t forgiven him. He doesn’t know that you have anything to forgive him for . 

You shake your head. “You don’t have to do that.”

His shoulders fall ever so slightly, and his lips bundle up into a slight frown.

“Let’s not pretend I’m bein’ all altruistic or somethin’ by offerin’ to rub you down. Come on.” He sits and pats the bed, offering you a toothy grin again “Do me a favor and let me feel like I’m helpin’ you.”

“You’re always helping me, Stan.” You say with a tight lipped smile. His falls. But his lips stay parted, eyebrows raise. Cautiously hopeful. 

You approach him, raking your fingers through the top of his hair as he sits beneath you. He closes his eyes appreciatively. 

He rests his hand on the shelf of your hip, thumb finding its way under the hem of your borrowed wife-beater. 

“You gonna make me beg?” He murmurs. Oh, how you’d like to hear him beg. Beg you to stay. Beg you to care for him. Beg you to— Quit being so delusional, more like. You can’t beg for nothing. You swallow back your ruminations. The ever present heat in your burnt cheeks wins over. 

“It’d be nice.” You tease, but you give him a coy smile and tug your shirt off, holding it over your bare chest before laying prone on the bed. You watch Stanley from the side as he smiles and rises. He gathers ice in his fingers and plants one arm on your other side as he leans over you. 

You hiss softly and tense your body as Stanley sets the ice on your skin, dragging it gently across your shoulders. It’s already melting, glazing your hot skin. You fidget just slightly under his unrelenting course, over your stinging shoulders, drifting up to your sensitive neck. You shiver. He chuckles.

“Too cold?” He asks.

You release your breath from your mouth, relaxing your body against the bed. You bury your face against the pillow. You don’t want to reward him with your reaction. It’s too a lot of things, but nothing you’ll say out loud.

“No. It’s fine.” You say muffled into the pillow.

He snorts faintly in response, and leans down to press his lips against the top of your shoulder. “Whatever you say, babydoll.”

Your permission to continue granted, he takes a new ice cube and trails it down your spine, smiling as your shoulders hike up to your ears. He circles the ice around the divot in your lower back, until it’s just a shallow puddle of the melted water. He leans down again and gathers it into his mouth with his tongue, faintly sucking until he drains the last drop. His hand is tight around your arm, squeezing consolingly as you whimper.

“You taste good, you know that?” He rasps against your back. You feel goosebumps prickle up the back of your neck. Your thighs roll around on the bed and squeeze together, eager to do anything to satisfy the mounting heat collecting between your legs. 

“You alright? Want me to keep goin’?” His touch is easier this time, his hand warm and adoring down your side. It’s his lips that are the problem, stamping his lingering kisses down your shoulder blade, the bottom of your ribs, the swell of your hip. You can feel his eyelashes brushing against your skin. And the gentle tug of his already growing stubble making its return. You’re moments away from grinding against the bed for some satisfaction. You will be the puddle beneath him if he keeps this up. Maybe he’ll lap you up with his tongue— 

You are your own worst enemy. Haughty and smug and teasing at your own self-inflicted agonizing. You huff again, creasing your eyebrows together but nodding your head in agreement. His thumb traces the tan line across the back of your hips as he waits for your answer. 

“Mhmm,” You manage.

He snorts again. You can feel the way it makes his stomach tense against you. You want to be trapped beneath him. You want him to force out the thoughts again. 

“Oh come on, don’t I deserve a little more than that? Yes, Angelface. Tell me yes.” He pleads condescendingly. Cockily. He knows you need it. His hands. His lips. He can wring you of your woe, collect it all, and leave you to soak in it again. 

“Yes please.” You breathe. 

He laughs now, and tuts his tongue. His fingers slip into your waistband. “Wish I could. These are in the way.” 

You shoot him a scathing look, lifting your hips so you can tug down your bottoms. He grins like this is all some joke. You aren’t laughing.

“Always with that sour little look on your face, sweetheart. When I’d rather see—“ His cold, slick fingers slide beneath you, right up your seam, to gently circle against your clit. It’s so cold it nearly burns, and you wince, jaw falling open and eyes screwing closed. You run hotter against him all the same.

“Yeah. That’s what I like to see, sweetheart.”

As he shifts behind you on the bed, springs creaking, you feel his erection hot and heavy against your leg. For fucks sake you don’t know where you want it more, your mouth, or your cunt, so hot and eager that it’s thawed out his curling fingers already. 

Then his mouth latches against your core, tongue determined to unwind you, one hard drag through your folds at a time. You’ve never needed him to fill you so bad. 

“Stanley –” You whine. He groans into you. The vibration is intentional and evil. He pulls away, but not before lapping at you and sucking away your juices, like the last drops of a bowl of soup.

You hear the snap of his boxers’ elastic, and the crinkle of his condom wrapper. And then his blissful sigh as his eyes rove over you, arched and aroused and eager for him. He runs his hands down your sides appreciatively the way he always does, reminding himself that you’re there. That you want this. That you want him. 

He’s grown ever more confident with you. He rarely hesitates, questions your desire, because you’re always more than accommodating. When he sinks his cock deep into you, you cry out his name like you’re welcoming him home.

He is home. You’ve made yourself soft and inviting for him. You wanted to keep him safe and warm and content. To convince him nowhere else can fit him so well. Even though your foundation is rotted. 

Your whole body flinches and tenses when he smacks your ass, when he curls over you and tucks his arm under your chin. Your nerves are on fire, you’re being split in two, and your mind is empty and sated.

“All this attitude today—“ He punctuates his words with another clap against your ass. Again, you tighten around him, hear the hitch in his breath. “Was starting to think ya didn’t like me anymore.” 

You whimper into the pillow again, eyes watering. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you just like his dick. Or his hands. Or his car. Maybe you just like that he has everything you need. 

He embraces you completely, cages you in his arms and his suffocating presence. He fucks into you with a vindictive pace, angling his hips to elicit the loudest cries of pleasure he can rip from your lips. You are splitting at the seams. You are leaking, from your cunt, from your lips, from your eyes. You are lying even to yourself. 

“Hey ,” He stills, for some godforsaken, unknown reason, and wretches your jaw towards him. So you can meet his eyes, so you can see the burning need for you in them. That same old desperation lingers there, never fully doused. You want to be mad that he’s dangling an orgasm like a carrot on a stick, but even holding your climax hostage, you couldn’t feel more satisfied. 

“Look at me when I’m fuckin you.” He begs, his chest rumbling against your back. He wants an answer, you can tell. Even in his arms like this, caught like a fish on a spear, he needs your validation. Oh how lucky you are, you hold his ego in your vengeful hands. 

One of his fingers hooks into the corner of your panting mouth, fingertip brushing against your molars. The rest of his fingers lay across your throat. You can’t pull away until you answer. Your tongue moves clumsy around his thick digit. 

“—Still like you.” You offer. It’s not a lie. Certainly parts of you do. Your hands like his hair. Your skin likes his hands. Your lips like his teeth. 

His eyebrows knit together, and he grits his teeth. He grants you only a single thrust, the rush of his cock head dragging against your insides, in, and then agonizingly back out, makes your legs tremble.

You mewl high and heavy, the kind that grows gritty in your throat. If it’s any consolation, Stanley isn’t unaffected. You can feel his shakey breath from his face smooshed against your back. His grip on your hips is so tight he may as well be leaving fingerprints on your bones. 

This is what you provide for each other. This hollowing intimacy, carving space to rest in each other's ribcage. It isn’t tender. It’s needy. It's desperate. It’s basal. It’s more than enough, right?

Because you love it. Your skin loves his teeth, that’s why the blood always rushes to the surface to kiss him back so eagerly. Your hands seek him out in the early morning before your mind is awake enough to stop them. 

You love him.

“Fuck!” You cry, feeling your insides twitch and convulse around him. He grits his teeth as you milk his cock with your insides. He breathes out and swallows your cries with a messy kiss. Your eyes spill, and you bury your face in the pillow beneath you, hiding it with your haggard breathing.

Stanley finishes with a strangled groan and falls at your side, pulling you against his chest. 

“I don’t know what I did to piss you off, but uh— I’m glad you came back.” He says, nose burying against your scalp. As if he could dig into your thoughts if he looked close enough. 

Your chest still hurts. Is he lying to them, or lying to you?

You turn in his arms and sigh. “I told you I’m not leaving. I meant it.”

“Yeah, I know. But still .” He sounds small. He sounds like a little whiny teen, maybe like the one from that out of date ID, with the slicked back hair, the acne, the boyish jaw. 

He’s only this tender under the covers with you. This young. Like you peeled back the crispy, rotten layers. This is the only place he can pretend he isn’t the tough-talking, calloused survivor. When he’s in your arms, a faraday cage from the world that expects him to be hard and jaded. 

“I’m glad you stayed.” He whispers, so soft you aren’t sure he intended you to hear. 

“I just wanna keep you safe, you get that?” That you might believe, if only because he’s the kind of big burly man that thinks it’s all he can do. 

“Safe from what?” You scoff. 

“Everything but me.”

Chapter 15: Everything works out

Summary:

Trust no one, not even ur situationship.

You jump when Stanley throws Debby into low gear and rounds the gravely curve of an empty parking lot. You’re in that foggy, just-woken up place where your body tingles with adrenaline, as if somehow you’ll be ready to attack whatever’s targeting you when all you’ve had to eat for the past twenty four hours is greasy, cold fries from your last dine and dash.

You look around and try to find your bearings. It’s hard to peg when you’re looking at nothing. Even more when you’re looking at nothing at night, but from what you can tell, it’s still bum-fuck desert as far as the eye can see. Even the highway is half withered by the sand, like someone tried to excavate it and gave up halfway when they found out it wasn’t worth the effort.

“Where are we?” You grumble as you try to rub the sleep from your eyes. Debby’s hood is bathed in pink light, but from the angle of the roof you can’t make out the neon sign flashing above. Some kind of club, maybe? You can hear a meaty bass line leaking through the cracked plaster walls.

“Nowhere.” Stanley answers. “Don’t worry about it, alright? Just let me get this over with.”

He’s frowning as he inspects his face in the rearview mirror, pushing his hair back from his forehead, clearing the crud from his eyes. He’s cleaning himself up. Primping. For fucks sake, he shaved his face before you left the motel, and you know he didn’t do that for you. So who the fuck is he primping for? 

He finishes off by smoothing down his wrinkled button down, reaching deep into his pants to tuck the bottom of his shirt. He glances at you briefly before turning his eyes to some random spot on the dashboard.

“How do I look?”

Oh, you are so not helping him look good for somebody else. You lean back and cross your arms, letting your bitter frown answer for you. Except, you’re still gonna answer. 

“You look like you’ve been marinating in a car for the past eighteen hours.” 

“Great. Wonderful. Very helpful input, thanks.” He mutters as he drags his fingers a last time back through his hair. “Whatever, just stay in the car, alright?” 

You scoff. “Why, coyote gonna eat me? I’ll come with,” you sit up and roll your neck. “Gotta stretch out my legs—“

“This ain’t up for debate, Sweetheart. Be good for me? Just stay in the car.” It sounds more like a plea this time. His lips press into a thin line, a weak barrier for all his secrets. All the things he doesn’t trust you with. It’s hard to blame him. Level-headed-and-reasonable-with-delicate-information is far from your MO. “I’ll handle it. Trust me on this one.”

Of course, you prod him anyway.

“On what, exactly?” You tilt your head and lean closer. “You haven’t told me anything. You haven’t trusted me with anything. But I’m supposed to trust you?”

You stare holes through Stanley’s temple as he hangs his head, tensing his jaw and tapping on the steering wheel with his thumbs.

“I’m telling ya, you don’t need to know. It’s safer if you don’t.”

“In what world?” You shake your head. “Explain to me how the hell me knowin’ less possibly serves you more?”

“I can’t, alright?” He grows more flustered with every sentence. “I can’t explain it, I can’t tell ya anything. I just need ya to listen to me when I say stay in the goddamn car .”

“Or what–”

Stanley slams his hand into the seat beside you, staring you down. The rest of your snappy reply is caught in your throat.

“This ain’t a fuckin’ game.” 

He’s never taken that kind of tone with you. Through all the little arguments, the foolish comments, all the accidental landmines you’ve both triggered in each other, his bark has never sounded so close to biting. You can practically see his scruff standing on end. 

“Matter of fact—“ Stanley leans over you and pulls the recline lever for your seat, the backrest falling from both your weight and almost knocking the wind out from under you. He’s leaning over you, cloaked in shadow. Intimidating. You don’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away. 

“—stay down. Don’t let anyone see ya, alright?”

He’s hiding you. He’s hiding you? Your eyebrows pinch together and you settle on pushing him off. He hardly moves by your force alone, but he does pull back. You laugh, if only because this all seems like one bad joke. 

“What the fuck, Stanley? What the hell’s going on? What do I gotta hide for?” Your words come out fast. Your hands wave them out just like your mom used to do. Your mind races with a million and one reasons for his deflection. Meeting another girl. Meeting another girl with bigger boobs. Meeting two other girls with bigger boobs. If anything, it’s most insulting that they wouldn’t let you join—

“Ya won’t understand!” 

“Try me!” You rebound immediately. Just as much as he begs you to trust him, you want him to trust you. To think you can help him in some way, even just as a listening ear. To be something to him. “I can handle it! Whatever it is. Whoever it is.” Your voice cracks but you shake your head and right it. “I just wanna know what to expect.”

He rolls his eyes and covers his face with one hand. “You shouldn’t have to handle it. That’s the whole point.”

Your face burns and you look him square in the eye again, daring him to continue. To prove you wrong in your belief that he thinks you’re a liability. Or to prove you right. “Now’s not the time to get all philosophical again, Stanley. Just tell me why I can’t come with.”

He purses his lips again, his chin wrinkling. He chews on the words for a long time before he answers.

“It’s… it’s bad people. And I don’t want you getting involved, capisce? You wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for me.” 

You blink at him. 

“What do you mean bad people? I thought you were dealing flour? Sellin’ fake shit to stupid kids—“

“Well I’m not, alright?” He raised his voice. “Come on, are you really that fuckin’ blind? You think I make enough hustling poker at dive bars to keep us in motel rooms every night–”

Your mind flickers back, to all the nights he spent letting you ‘help’ him score extra cash. All minor offenses, so you thought. Inconvenient, but not life ruining. If a guy loses his shirt gambling, he’s the one who bet it in the first place. But drugs? 

Was he dealing under the table? Passing dime bags as he shoved chips to the center, winking when the right person noticed? All while you were busy keeping your eyes on the cards. You’re so naive. It only worked because you let it.

“T-They’re shit motel rooms. I didn’t really think–”

“Yeah, I know ya don’t think. You don’t know how any of this works cause you never needed to. You don’t know how dangerous this world is, the kind of price you gotta pay just for bein’ here. You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

He thinks you’re a burden. It feels worse than being nothing.  

Your eyes sting. You feel stupid. You are stupid. What’s that your Daddy told you? Believe a person when they show you who they are? You’re supposed to be smarter than shoving your head under the sand and sticking your fingers in your ears. Stanley’s shown you. He’s shown you all over.

“Fuck you.” You whisper back. 

“Yeah, yeah, fuck me. I’m a liar and a cheat or whatever. Everything you thought about me, you were right.” Stanley slams the door shut. “Yell at me about it later, just stay in the fuckin’ car.”

“Whatever it is, I’m not letting you go alone—“ You follow him out, hand on the gun in your pocket, jogging to catch up with his quick stride. 

“Go back to the fuckin’ car. I’ll be right out.”

“Stanley–”

“I said go back to the car. I don’t want you gettin’ involved with—“

“Who’s this little firecracker?” 

Stanley stiffens immediately, like a rat in a trap. Standing beside the club entrance and flicking off the dying ember of his cigarette, the owner of the voice steps into the hazy yellow reach of the streetlight.

He’s just a few inches taller than you, tan skinned, and curly dark hair slicked into neat waves. His mustache twists neatly at the ends. Beside the scar on his forehead, he looks like a clean-cut business man. He looks like the kind of guy Daddy would associate with. So he looks dangerous.

“This your old lady, Stanny-boy?”

“No. She was just leaving.” Stan says pointedly through gritted teeth. 

The skin at the back of your neck bristles. You feel like a little girl again, your father parading you around his dinner parties, cooing about how well you take orders with your adorable little serving tray, how happy you’ll make some other man someday. And the way they all looked at you once everyone was served. Awestruck at why you would dare expect to stay. 

You stay now. Stanley doesn’t know shit about you. About what you can do. About who you can be. You’re not a burden. You’re a blank slate. You learn. You adapt. That’s what you’re best at. 

“I’m just some broad he picked up. Nobody to worry about.” You smile. If the man recognizes the words you picked from Stanley’s mouth, he doesn’t show it. You can feel Stanley’s eyes boring into the back of your head. But if he’s going to treat you like you don’t matter, you’re going to show him just how much you do. 

You hold your hand out to the stranger to shake. He kisses it instead, the heavy nicotine on his lips leaving your skin tingling. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr…?“

“Well mannered little broad you got here, Stanley.” He keeps hold of your hand. “Name’s Rico. No mister. Pretty girls don’t have to call me mister.”

You flash a smile at him. You’re basking in Stanley’s discomfort.

“What’s your name?” There’s a golden tooth peeking out under his dark mustache.

Your tongue hesitates. It’s the first time in a long time you’re allowed to tell someone who you are instead of being disappointed by what they chose for you. You give him your favorite nickname instead. Demeaning. Sanitizing. Anonymous. He wouldn’t remember your real one anyways.

“Well…” His voice drags on your given name, like he has a few other names he’d rather call you. Nothing that would be out of place called by the DJ in a strip joint. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please, come inside.”

Rico holds the door open for you, his calloused hand resting on your shoulder as he guides you forward under the dim lights and smoke-filled air. You glance back at Stanley, grim faced as he catches the door from hitting him and stalks behind you both with his eyes burning. The music is louder in here, and the smell of cigarettes and cheap champagne burns the inside of your noses, clinging to you with every sticky step down the hallway to the main room. 

The room is dotted with small tables, reflective of all the technicolor spotlights that dart around the stage. Your eyes can’t help but fix on the girls dancing on stage. Beautiful, in every sense. The light bouncing on them through the smoke almost makes their skin glow.

One crawls like a panther towards the crowd lining the catwalk, shoulders and hips circling expertly, a machine made for viewing pleasure. The other spins on a pole, tossing her hair around and holding her body at the kind of poised angle that puts a ballerina to athletic shame. Experts in their field, the both of them. And deserving of all the eyes they’ve stolen through the room. 

“Like what you see?” Rico leans closer to whisper in your ear. He smells earthy and sweet. You know his cologne will seep into your skin until you scrub it off. Part of you sickly anticipates Stanley smelling it off of you. 

“Ain’t no spot in the choir, but if you’re lookin’ for a job—“

“She can’t dance for shit.” Stanley blurts out. You can see the sweat collecting on his face. Part of you feels guilty for stressing him out like this. Then again. Part of you is singing in vindictive pleasure.

“You’ll lose more money than you’ll make if you put her on a stage. Folks’ll be beggin’ for a refund.”

Rico purses his lips, eyes drifting down your silhouette, sticking to your chest, your hips, and frowning like it’s a shame. “Is that true, Mijita?”

As pissed off as you are at Stanley, you don’t wanna call him a liar to his boss’ face. You do have some pity for him.

“Yeah.” You agree. “Got two left feet, I’m afraid.”

“I am very saddened to hear that. I’m sure you would make for a lovely dancer.” He spins and dips you in time with the slowing baseline. When you come back up, his hand cups the back of your neck. The appreciation in his gaze feels like a noose, tightening every moment that you don’t pull away. 

“–But, I could always use some help with house cleaning, if you are interested.“ Rico offers. At that, Stanley raises an eyebrow in interest. It feels safer.

Rico smirks at the silent approval. “Yeah. Ain’t so bad. Girls in the laundry room’ll show you the ropes. Tell ya what, you work there for me and you and Pines can split a room at my motel, free of charge.” He claps Stanley on the back a few times, who gives him a nervous smile. “—I need big guy in town for a couple days, so everything works out, eh?” 

You glance at Stanley, your mutual nothing. Something in you craves his approval still. You want him to be proud of your procurement of a bed to stay in. For your enterprising nature. For you. But when he meets your eyes, all you see is his jaw tightening, his gaze hardening on the spot on your shoulders where Rico’s hand rests. 

“Yeah.” He mutters. “Everything works out.”

“Wonderful! This is wonderful news. Welcome to the team, eh?” Rico kisses your hand again, meeting your eyes and smiling so wide the skin crinkles beneath them. Goosebumps start to prickle your arms. 

This close, you see nothing in his eyes. 

Notes:

happy holidays :)

Chapter 16: Denial’s just a river.

Summary:

Your husband is gay stream Alligator Bites Never Heal

Notes:

thank u thank u lovey Mistubav for beta'ing <3

Dawg. Dawwwgggg we got some more incredible fan art!!!! Pls check out artist mrdespondency who gifted this art of Angel and Stan!! Aaaa it goes so crazy, I’ve been stalking their art so long it’s so goood 🤤

The drive to the motel is quiet. As if you should expect anything else.

Your mind is still dissecting everything that happened. Every gold toothed sneer. Every suffocating blow of cigar smoke in your face. It felt less and less like the ticket to being your own woman, and more and more like becoming the kind of prey that sticks its neck ignorantly into a predator’s waiting, wide-open maw.

Then again, denial’s just a river.

Rico might not be so bad. What did you know about the guy, besides Stanley thought he was bad people? Stanley thinks he’s bad people and you still— don’t think he’s all that bad. 

But he is pissed. At you. More and more you’re deflating in the passenger seat, and feeling that he has every right to be. 

He pulls into a spot at Rico’s motel, Dead End Flats. It’s stupidly foreboding. You wonder if it’s Rico with the sick sense of irony or if the town settlers were just feeling melancholic when they came across and named this sad sand trap. 

Stanley probably knows. You could ask him, but he has that kind of look on his face like he’s tired of answering your questions. You know it well. Your teachers never bothered using the ruler on you, not with your dad being who he is. But they did tend to favor duct tape during lecture time rather than letting you derail the conversation by questioning the implications of their every word choice. 

For once, you don’t have any questions. Alright, you could probably come up with a couple. The  same clingy, obsessed thoughts that have been plaguing your mind ever since you eavesdropped on that phone call. Am I a burden? Am I still worth keeping around? Do I matter to you? 

But when he twists the key in the ignition and Debby falls silent, and his chest inflates to ready for the tongue lashing of a lifetime, all you can croak out is 

“I’m s—“

You’re silenced when Stanley bursts into laughter beside you instead. Tearful laughter. He’s doubled over, forehead against the steering wheel before he keels backwards with his hand on his chest as each booming laugh makes his stomach bounce.

Caught by surprise, all you can do is breathe out the air you had been holding. And when he doesn’t stop, a few nervous bleats of laughter fall from your lips too.

“Do ya—“ He stops to wipe tears away with his knuckles. “Do ya have any idea what the fuck ya just got yourself into?”

Smiles are still plastered on both of your faces, slowly falling, while both your eyebrows raise and pinch together.

“I uh…” You start. Stanley’s smile drops completely once you nod your head. “Yeah. I got an idea.”

“You know you stepped in some real shit , right?” His voice grows a hard edge. “This ain’t— this ain’t about stupid, after-school special, small time dealings, here. That guy owns this fucking town, alright? You step wrong to a guy like that, you end up in a body bag and the cops are lookin’ the other way to save their own skins, if they find ya at all.”

“I’m not stupid—“ Stanley raises his eyebrows in disbelief, and you roll your eyes and turn away, your hands circling around again. “I know not to run my mouth in front of a guy like that. I just wanted to help you. I didn’t know you were meeting up with a guy like that, I thought you were—“

You look back at Stanley to see a slowly realizing, lopsided grin on his lips.

“What?” You ask. 

“ You what,” The shape of the word just makes his grin wider. That and the way you’re so bashfully staring down at your lap. “Ya thought I was gettin’ ready to find some other broad? You serious?”

He laughs again, dragging his hand down his face. This is funny to him.

You pinch your lips together to try and smile back, however crooked it looks with the corners twitching down. Because it is funny. It’s funny that you sold your soul to this Rico guy because you were so paranoid that Stanley was going to replace you that you blindly jumped into whatever shady dealings Stanley was working on. It’s funny that you decided to steal the show because you’re so desperate for attention, you’ll go for Stanley’s drug lord boss when you’ve still never even finished a weed cigarette on your own. It’s so funny, Stanley is blurry through your tears.

You laugh a couple times, digging the heels of your hands against your eyes to dry them. You feel like a stupid, hormonal teenager again. 

“Maybe,” Your voice cracks. You sound like one too, all forced nonchalance while your throat is so thick with your upset. You sniffle hard and wipe your running nose with the back of your hand, forcing out a few more watery laughs as you punch his arm. “So what if I did?”

“Oh come on, snot monster. Don’t touch me with that!” Stanley flinches back, stupid grin splitting his face, trying to catch your fists with his palms while you dodge and try to land them. You’re both laughing for real now. He manages to take hold of your wrist and pull them back. You don’t let up, but neither does he. He’s pulled you close. You’re practically riding his thigh. Can you keep your panties on for one second?

When your face is just inches from his, you do pause. Your face is undoubtedly still shiny with tears, but your smile is genuine. Leave it to Stanley to bully you out of feeling sad.

“See?” His eyes bounce between yours, still studying your reaction. “This is why you could never be a dancer. Somebody’s gonna hurt your feelings and you’re gonna get all gross and snotty and try to fight ‘em about it. Just because it works on me don’t mean it works on anyone else.”

You want to be spiteful, but you can’t. Not when he looks at you like that. No, you’re tilting your head and smiling coyly, like you hadn’t just wiped snot along the back of your arm. 

“It works for you?” You ask.

“Yeah.” He says softly, brushing the back of his finger beneath your eye. “You’re real pretty when you cry. I feel bad, I kinda look forward to it sometimes. Like uh—” he bites his bottom lip and starts teasing the baby hair at the back of your neck. 

 “If I bite this part here hard enough, your eyes start to water.”

You punch his arm again trying to look displeased, as if you aren’t giggling so hard your cheeks force your eyes closed.

“But sometimes?” He cups your head and brings you forward to kiss one of your eyes, leaving you coiled in his arms. “Sometimes ya ugly cry. That’s when I start to feel really bad.”

This is the painful part. Where your chest feels so full you could split open in his lap and stain his only clean button down. Because with his lips against your skin, cradling you in his arms, you feel cared for. You feel cherished. You feel— delusional. 

It’s only skin-deep. The kisses. The compliments. The kind touch. None of it goes past the surface of what you are to each other. So you won’t either. 

You cup his jaw, brushing your thumb over his skin. It’s all smooth. Still freshly shaved. He can nuzzle you all he wants now without catching your skin on the pricks of his five o’clock shadow. 

“Don’t ever shave again.” You mumble and pull away, tracing down the curve with your fingertips. “Makes your jaw look soft. You got baby face now, how you gonna look tough with Rico if you got a baby face?”

He’s taken aback when you pull away, pinching his eyebrows together, but he recovers easily. Always does. The easy smile is back on his face. “What do you know about lookin’ tough, cry baby?”

“I’m tough. I’m tough all over.” You curl your arms up like a body builder, kissing your bicep before you start shadow boxing against his chest. 

“ Foreman! Twenty three and three! Ali! Forty nil—“

The tips of his ears go all red and he grabs your wrists. “Hey! Shut yer yap, you got no idea what yer—“ He stops when he sees the swollen purple splotches on your knuckles. You rip your hand back immediately but he grabs your wrist again to inspect the bruise again.

“What the fuck happened here?” The bass in his voice and sharp angle to his brows makes your guts cinch. 

“Nothing.” 

Except, you say it a little too quickly. And your voice squeaks a bit.

“ This ain’t nothing.” 

“It’s noth—“ His chin dimples and he presses his thumbs into the swell in your knuckles. “ OWW!” 

“Say it’s nothin’ again.” He taunts.

You just huff and stare down at his chest. Nice. Nice chest. That makes things easier.

“Hello?”

Nice chest. Soft. The world is so hard—

He snaps his fingers in your ear. “ Hello?”

You flinch when he does, and finally start your escape. “It’s nothing—“ You prod open the driver side door with your foot and slide out before he can stop you. 

“Hey!” He barks your name.

You ignore him, heading for the help desk beside the flickering red VACANCY sign. The blinds are down but you can see light in the room still. You tap the bell a few times and run your uninjured hand through your hair while you wait, pretending you can’t hear Stanley closing in down the crunchy asphalt of the parking lot.

A few moments pass and you tap the bell again. It’s still ringing when fingers peek through the blinds and a twangy voice clears its throat.

“What do ya want?”

You can barely see anything through the blinds, just the vague silhouette of a person staring back at you, something long wavers in the air behind them. Is that a tail?

“Uh— one room please? Rico told me I could have one as long as I worked housecleaning?”

“Oh… you’re the new girl?” Great. You haven’t even started yet and you’ve already disappointed them. “Just in time. Lost the last one earlier today. But, you sure you ain’t dancin? Rico don’t put girls like you in housecleaning.”

Lost the last one? What the hell is that supposed to mean? 

“I-I don’t dance.” You offer flatly. “What does that mean about the last girl—“

“ Good for you .” The voice says sarcastically, cutting you off. Clearly they didn’t intent on answering any questions. “See ya at eight.”

“Do I need a uniform? Am I just meeting you here? Hey—“ You’re interrupted by the sound of keys hitting hard into the metal well beneath the window. The NO lights up in the red VACANCY sign and the office lights click off. 

“Excuse me? Where’s my room?”

No answer.

“Hello? Excuse me?” You rap your uninjured knuckles against the window as you see Stanley’s reflection closing in, still nowhere closer to a good excuse.

“ You hello. I’m talkin’ to you.” 

You glance at Stanley’s reflection again, then hold up the key ring hanging on your index finger. 

“Got our room key.” You mumble defensively as you turn back. Stan just watches you silently with his arms crossed. He’s got the disappointed dad thing down pat already and he hasn’t even knocked you up yet— what the fuck is wrong with you?

“ What ?” You whine while you drag your luggage to your room, Stanley in tow.

“I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what ?”

“An explanation for the bruises on your knuckles. I know what shit form looks like when I see it. What the fuck happened?”

“ Who cares.” You take the locked door for the excuse that it is to keep your back turned to Stanley while you talk, so he can’t see how embarrassed you really are. Unfortunately the key is sticky and difficult to turn. “Ain’t this what we do? Keep shit from each other? It’s fine when you do it, right? What does it matter if I do it.”

His hand bumps yours out of the way as it finesses the key into the lock and twists, the door knocking forward with an ill-fitting groan along the doorframe. You skirt forward, eager not to get cornered into the room, but Stanley stays hot on your tail.

“That ain’t what we do.” He slams the door shut behind him, dropping your old rucksacks by the door. “I wasn’t hiding anything for the fun of it, I was trying to protect you.” 

“That’s rich! Don’t bullshit me, Stanley.” You hold your finger pointed at him as you back away, climbing back on the bed until you clear it so that it separates you. “I’m chronically nosy and you know that by now. You just didn’t wanna fess up about the way you get your hands dirty when you should know by now I don’t care. I just wanna know.”

Stanley’s face falls when he notices this distance you’re keeping between the both of you. He holds his hands up in surrender. 

“ Moses. Relax, will ya? I give.” His voice goes all soft and broody, and you let your accusing finger fall by the wayside. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “You’re right, alright? I shoulda said something. Shoulda told you more. But I do wanna protect you. And I can’t do that if you get scared and run—“

A deep line carves down from his nose to the curl in his frown. And his voice cracks. And he sniffles hard and tabs his nose with his thumb. “You can’t protect yourself neither if you don’t ice that hand and let me show you how to throw a real punch.”

God, he looks all tender, pouting like that. You could almost believe he meant it. You crawl over the bed to sit before him and hold your hand out, flexing your fingers. 

“Look, it’s not so bad, I can still—“ Again, he pinches the most swollen part and you wince. 

He half-smiles and runs his thumb soothingly over the rest of your hand. “Yer a bad liar.”

“Am not.” You protest. “I just don’t try very hard with you.” 

“How come?” He brings your hand up to his lips to kiss, all his remorse present in his lips, and your resolve is gone.

“I just—“ You stare at him, at his heavy lidded gaze from behind your hand. “I know it’s pointless. You can read me anyways. I just like giving you a hard time.”

It's more candid than you wanted to be. Christ, you’re not even done. 

“It happened yesterday. I punched an ice machine.”

He drops your hand, blinking his eyes at you in confusion. 

“Why?”

You curl in on yourself, roughly running your hands through your hair. “ Why? ‘ Cause it looked at me funny. Why do you think? I was pissed off.”

Stanley still wrestles with his thoughts, trying to put together the pieces, what little you’ve given him. You don’t want him to know any more. You don’t want him to know how much control he really has over your emotions, intentional or not. You’re kind of grateful he’s so stunted for once. 

“Pissed off at what ? I don’t understand. I know you’ve been actin’ off since then, I just don’t get where it came from. Everything was fine at the pool, I brought ya in, you cleaned yerself off—“

Stanley stops. You see the realization about his little phone call dawn on his face, the way he seems to pale. Your chest burns with embarrassment, too. As much as it’s his own faux-pas for saying it in listening distance, your reaction after the fact is twice as revealing. 

You want something from him. To be something. Something you’ve literally dreamed about, sure, but not anything you’ll admit with your own words. And by the state of things, the lack of any correction or apology leaking from Stanley’s lips, not something you’ll ever get to be. 

It’s just the way things are. The world hasn’t been so kind to either of you lately. You could have been kinder to each other too. But you weren’t. A forgivable offense, but not one that will be rectified completely anytime soon.

This isn’t a situation that can be fixed by either of you. Just one you can smooth over and ignore. So what if you’re unloved? You can still make money off his connection with Rico. You can still have a bed to sleep in and a dick to ride when you get bored. You can at least still be held. 

You rise to your knees on the bed and pull Stanley into a hug, holding him tightly in his silent stupor.

“I was just being stupid. Seriously. I’m… I’m over it. Don’t worry about it. Just forget it.”

You feel Stanley’s stupid sausage fingers digging into your back. 

“Sweetheart…” He pulls away to look at you. But you don’t want that. His pity is barbed. It buries itself in your skin, weighs you down and bleeds you until you’re empty. He doesn’t have anything to say now. The least he can do is let you hide your shame. 

You pull the rest of the way out of the embrace, turning your back to him as you toss off your outer clothes and settle under the covers. “I mean it. It’s fine. I gotta head to bed. First day tomorrow, and all.”

You feel the weight of the bed shift as Stanley sits behind you. Stanley’s hesitant hand creeps closer along the covers, just inches away from reaching you. He’s reaching out to you. Physically. Because you know he can’t say anything to bring you back.

But you don’t move. You sit in the heavy silence. You hold your breath, and listen to the sound of Stanley padding back to the front door. 

You finally breathe out when he leaves and the door clicks closed. Only then do you let yourself cry.

Notes:

Thank yall for waiting,, I am so sorry. I was on a roll, I was so proud, I was gonna have another chapter ready on New Year’s Eve and then mr hunmie gets me so fuckin sick I cannot Breathe on Monday and I’m down for the count all week. I am not immune to the curse, but I am recovering and trying to get back on my weekly shit thank yall for ur patience I hope everyone got to enjoy their holidays ❤️

Also,, Jesus fucking Christ, 15k views, 875 kudos, 600 comments (half mine), I am so geeked and very thankful for all of it. Sufficient to say nothing else I’ve created has been so seen and engaged with and I love interacting with everyone and talking about my plans and what’s happened so far and what could happen in the future. I am so sorry I’m not more interactive on ao3 but I am still def more on tumblr and would love to join any gf discords because by golly I love to yap if yall have any.

ALSO,, happy stanuary and it’s my birfday next week, drop a “I hate you. Next chapter word man” to celebrate 💕

Chapter 17: I feel right at home

Summary:

hope you washed your hands

Notes:

CW: Mentions of sex work and derogatory terms associated with. Blood. References to potential abuse and self harm.

Lovely lovely Zuleeky did some art of reader and their oc here. many many thanks, theyre so cute<3

At 7:50 am, you’re back to the motel office window. You lean back against the sharp, spackled wall with your arms around yourself.

It’s colder than you expected for a summer morning in New Mexico. You wish you brought a coat. Then again, it’s not like you even have one to forget back in your room.  You don’t want to think about what could be waiting for you when you go back.

You don’t look professional for your first day. You look as grubby and road worn as ever, but your skin is fresh, hair ungreasy by way of taking advantage of the semi-hot water available in your motel room’s shower, and it's not like they answered your questions about uniform anyways. But you’re here, ready to push away all the thoughts about what you aren’t to Stanley by virtue of working until your mind breaks. They should be happy to have you, however you come.

“New girl.” 

The same twangy voice from last night croaks through the cutouts in the window, still only peeking at you between drawn blinds. 

“You’re early.”

You snap towards the voice, leaning into the cutout as if you’ll finally get a look at the mysterious silhouette. “…I just wanted to be punctual.”

“Don’t come early. If people expect you at a certain time, don’t get there before they’re ready for ya. You could see somethin’ yer not meant to see.”

Right. That’s the kind of world you’re stepping into, you remember. You fall in line or you get cut, in a very literal way. You have a feeling questions will not be encouraged.

A door around the corner of the office clicks open, scuffing against the lifted gravel, and you peer curiously around the door frame. The office is dim, the blinds only allowing slits of daylight in across the wall, and furnished plainly with cheap particle board furniture. And, it’s empty.

“That’ll be yer first lesson fer today.” Calls the voice from down an open hallway off to the side. “Keep ‘em in mind, don’t tend ta repeat things ‘round here…” 

The voice bounces off the shiny plaster walls, bidding you to follow. Your boots squeak against the speckled linoleum, just as apprehensive to move forward as you are. Again, you swear you something slithering along the floor in the corner of your vision. 

You know it’s just your eyes playing a trick, having a little fun at your expense. But all the same, you let your thumb brush over the handle of your handgun through your jeans. Maybe you still don’t know how to aim, but no one else knows that. And in close quarters like this, does it really matter? 

You try to ease your breathing, and settle your shoulders. If you look as scared as you feel, you’ll get eaten alive.

A smell like hot metal and lingering dampness clings to the walls, condensing and pilling into droplets down the chipped white paint. The closer you step, the heavier the air feels in your lungs, thick with chemicals and vapor.

The silhouette stands at the end of the hallway, backlit by an ajar door that leaks steam down the hall. As they clear the way for you to enter, you spot it again. There, between their legs, an extra limb, thick and writhing in their wake.

Then you look up, to the rest of the workers in the red-lamp-lit laundry room.

Sideways, through thin slits in varying shades of yellow and green, several sets of eyes stare back at you. 

“Five bucks says she’s gonna hurl.” The yellow-green scaled one says through ridged lips that stretch from ear hole to ear hole. The spines that line down the peak of her head flex and curl back as she narrows her eyes at you.

“She ain’t gonna hurl.” Another one steps closer, reaching for your arm with a pale-orange, scale-covered claw. Her voice is so soft, but the bright yellow pupils blinking sideways at you make your stomach twist. “Are ya, sweetheart? You alright?”

The pointy ends of her claws scratch your skin, and even though the touch is gentle, your spine still tingles in fear. Those nails could rip your throat out in seconds. Your hand twitches back to the gun in your pocket, and in a moment, it’s out and aimed between the creature’s eyes. You don’t have any other claws or fangs to bear.

“Get back!” 

Those bumpy ridges around its eyes curl up, and it’s lips contort in fear. Good. Whatever the thing is, at least it’s still afraid of bullets. 

“Well that’s new.” The bitter green one calls from behind the other, crossing her arms.

“Shut it, Iggie.” The orange one holds her hand up, like you’re the cornered animal. “Calm down, sweetness. That ain’t necessary—“ 

“I said get back!” You cry, loading one of your last bullets into the chamber with the flick of your thumb. At least, you hope one is in place. You don’t remember how Stanley loaded it. “What are you? What’s going on?”

“That’s it—“ 

The world careens forward and you fall back, your legs swiped out from under you by something long and solid. Your head cracks against the linoleum and the sparse light in the room seems to bloom in the perimeter of your vision. 

You didn’t check behind you. Stanley would wring you out if he knew. 

“Torie, was that really necessary?” 

The three creatures lean over you, and finally you have a name and a face to put to that voice from the motel office. Torie is a deep tawny shade, with horn-like spines at the tops of her head, and patches of darker scales along her cheeks and arms. Her eyes are beadier than the others, barely visible beneath the dry wrinkled skin around them. Of course, she could also be glaring at you for pointing a gun at her friend. 

Torie kicks your gun away from your hand and speaks with a scathing tone back to the orange one. “I’m sorry, Chuckie. Were you really feidin’ for a bullet in yer brain today?” 

Chuckie, the soft-looking orange one, pouts, or at least her attempt at one. She resembles that felt frog puppet more than anything. “Ain’tcha got no sympathy? Rico’s always sendin’ these poor girls in here without a clue. It's like he gets off on freakin’ ‘em out.”

These are the girls Rico mentioned? The ones to show you the ropes?

“Mind yer tongue, Chuck. Last time I checked, ya ain’t got no tail left to lose. You’ll sweeten that tongue to him if you wanna keep it.”

Yeah. They definitely are.

Chuckie sighs and sticks her hands in the deep pockets of her house cleaning uniform. You study the rest of the strange women standing above you as you manage to get your arms beneath you to sit up. 

Below the reptile heads, the thick necks, the high sloped shoulders, they’re shaped like human women. If not for the rough skin peeking out from underneath their housekeeping uniforms, they would just look like extras in a chop-shop sci-fi horror. Extras with shockingly realistic masks. 

The last one, Iggie, crouches before you and holds her hand out for you to take. 

“Shut that gapin’ maw. I’ll catch yer stupid.” 

After clamping your jaw out of embarrassment, you take it. 

“I—I’m sorry. That was uncalled for, I just wasn’t expecting—“

“Lot lizards.” She finishes for you bitterly. 

“Iggie!” Chuckie chastises. 

Iggie shrugs. “Just the truth. ‘Cept we ain’t wandering lots no more, thanks to Rico. It’s decent here. Safer.” 

She points her nail into your sternum. It draws blood. “—Long as everyone keeps in line. No funny business, alright? No more swingin’ guns around like you’re ready to fire. Look’it yerself.” She withdraws her hand and shoulder checks you as she passes, as if she’s daring you to fight back. “We both know you ain’t.” 

Chuckie offers you a pitiful smile and tosses a uniform your way. You dutifully slide it over your shoulders and button it down your front. It fits over your clothes. You try not to worry about why they have the spare. About the role you’re filling. About the last girl that they ‘lost’.

---

The lazy wheel at the front of the cleaning cart keeps catching on the concrete seams. It makes the whole cart jostle to a stop, and then the raw edge of the bottoms slams into your shins so you have to stop and double over to hiss the pain away. It’s certifiably the most embarrassing, mundane way to end up with bruises down from your knees.

You’re down to the last room of the second floor, eager to finish and head downstairs to gorge yourself on vending machine snacks to fill your tank, as long as you can manage to keep it down.

You don’t really have an appetite, honestly. The rooms you had cleaned so far were nothing short of foul. Soiled yellow sheets, sticky surfaces that clung to your gloves like flypaper, a verifiable ton of stale, spent cigarette butts. And to clean it all, rags as thin as paper, gloves three sizes too big, and lime-sol so diluted you could drink it. You don’t think your nails will ever feel clean again.

You snap on a new pair of gloves, your last shoddy defense against any of the diseases you plan on trying to scrub off with lye at the end of the night, and rap your knuckle on the last door.

“Housekeeping.”

You wait, listening for some straggler tenant who waited last minute to check out. Iggie told you some of them might be trouble, and not to be afraid to spray anyone in their eyes if they looked at you funny.

Nothing. You wriggle your master key in the lock, and shove the door open with your cart. A few paces inside, you hear a thick squelch under the sole of your boot. 

It’s blood. 

You stepped in a puddle of cold, congealed blood. It’s smeared, streaky, like someone tried to pool it together to clean and decided it was too much trouble to do themselves. 

Just enough trouble to leave for you, though. And that’s their prerogative. This is what you signed up for, right? As if housekeeping would be as simple as turndown service when you’re working for a guy that Stanley was so opposed for you to meet. Did you think he was bluffing? Maybe a little. 

But you weren’t. 

You said you could handle this, so you will. You learn and adapt, because that’s what you’re best at.

You won’t be a burden anymore, and you’ll never be one again.

You move robotically, wetting your paper-thin rags under cold water before dabbing and soaking the blood up from the carpet on your hands and knees. Your nostrils flare at the copper-scent once you lean in so close, but your stomach doesn’t turn. You haven’t learned a thing.

Because this isn’t new. Nothing about this is new to you. It’s old. It’s almost nostalgic. If you close your eyes, you could be back home, retracing your mother’s bloody footprints after a bad night. It was your fault, forgetting to lock up all the sharps. It was lucky your dad spent the day before telling one of his clients loudly and in detail how to hide a ‘mess’ from their wife.

This is easy. This is nothing. You’re on autopilot when you spray the carpet in peroxide and enzyme eater. Then it’s back to business while it foams and soaks in. You’re righting all the overturned furniture, wiping down all the surfaces, clearing out the garbage, evidence or not, into your jumbo trash bags. After turning down the bed with fresh linens, you’re all but done.

On your last once over, you spot something sticking out from under the bed. A sharp black point. A weapon? Maybe. You drape a rag over your hand and pull it out. No sense in getting your fingerprints on anything they don’t need to be on.

It’s not a weapon. It’s just a shoe. A shiny red heel, stiletto, with a pointed toe. It’s in your size.

Your stomach drops past the floor. 

It’s not yours. You know that much. Yours were in pieces somewhere across a state line, beaten to hell and not worth repairing. There’s no way it’s one of yours.

But next time, it could be. 

This is what you signed up for.

This is what happens if you fall out of line. 

God speaks to you through neon signs and scuffed stilettos. Evidence. Omens. You just have to be smart enough to take the hint.

---

The girls in the laundry room are riled up about something again when you make your way back. You are grateful. A distraction is exactly what you need.

“What’s all this for! Ain’t no way this is for us— New girl!” You hear Iggie calling out as your squeaky wheels announce your presence. 

Standing at the entrance is Stanley, looking flustered and fawned over by the girls who flank him on all sides. He took their… Lizard-ness a hell of a lot better than you did. And he brought presents instead of a gun, so they like him a whole lot more, too. In his hands, there’s a bright pink pastry box.

“Does this feller belong to you? Ya ain’t told us you come with perks. What gives?”

You offer Stanley a pitying smile, since you don’t know what to tell Iggie that won’t spawn a million regrets. This distraction suddenly offers a lot less relief. 

He sets the box down and rubs the back of his neck. You don’t miss the rust stained rags wrapped around his knuckles. He’s too much like you.

“I didn’t know I came with perks, either.” You force out, as lighthearted as you can manage. It’s particularly energy sapping when you have some poor stranger’s blood under your nails. You anxiously rub at your hands with the last clean rag you have, praying he doesn’t see. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Stanley sets the box down at the center counter, popping open the box to display for the girls. It’s a dozen donuts, warm and yeasty and sticky sweet. 

“Rico sends his regards to his favorite girls.” He says in that deep, cajoling tone. “Couldn’t do any of it without you.”

“Ha! I’d sooner believe it came from the devil’s own kitchen.” Chuckie barks, stabbing a jelly filled one with her finger. “Won’t hold it against ya though, not ‘less ya ask. Do you come with the donuts, mister?”

Iggie shoulder checks Chuckie out of the way to get to the box herself. “Will you give it a rest? Ain’t sellin’ yer pelt no more, quit actin’ like it—“

“Iggie! I’ll tan that hide so quick—“

Torie side steps any blows, nodding her head at Stanley and speaking over the increasingly violent bickering. “I ain’t anticipatin’ Rico sendin’ his appreciation gift-wrapped all that often, but all the same, please give ‘em our thanks. I’ll be back with his package.”

Stanley meets your eyes for a moment when she says that, biting his lip and nodding. “Thanks a mil’, Torie.”

As soon as she does leave out the back, Stanley slips past the girls to lean against the counter at your side. He bumps into you lightly, just enough to make you bounce back. It’s not enough to make you feel like a person again, but almost.

“Knew you didn’t just come for me. What are ya picking up?” You ask.

“I’m a busy guy now. Can’t I get a little credit for checking up on ya? How’s your first day? Everybody treatin’ you alright?”

He sidesteps your questions, to no surprise. You bite your lip. What should you clumsily avoid bringing up first, going postal before you’ve even started in earnest? Or how when you close your eyes, you see your body shoved under one of the ancient, stained mattresses in this dump? Dead End Flats indeed.

“It’s not so bad.” You tell him. “My feet hurt though. Not used standing upright this long. You’ve spoiled me.”

He smirks proudly. “Can’t help it.”

Stanley brushes your hair behind you ear, and the smile drops. He brushes something off the skin behind your ear and pulls back to show you.

“What’s this?”

There’s blood on his fingertips. 

You purse your lips grimly and weakly shrug one shoulder. “It’s not mine.”

He looks at you hard, eyes trailing over your dingy uniform, like he’s wondering how he’ll identify your body. A frown carves into his cheeks, and takes your hand. He speaks low, so the rumbling dryers hide his voice from the girls, and he holds your fist to his lips.

“You okay? Really?”

You squeeze his hand and offer him a weak smile.

“I feel right at home.”

Notes:

thank yall for waiting again I AM SO SORRY!!! I got bit with drawing bug and have been posting nonstop on my gf tumblr simpstantruther if ur interested :3 I post a lot of Stanley 🤤

Chapter 18: This is as good as it gets. But it’s still good.

Summary:

We’ve all had those kinds of customers, right?

Notes:

✌️ heyyy,,, how yall doing

Cw: violence and some cross bodily fluid/mild gore type shit,, hh typical so far I would argue

“So.” 

Iggie sets her giant orange eyes on you as she picks rainbow sprinkles and pink icing out of her sharp, tiny teeth. It makes the nicotine stains look twice as yellow. You didn’t know lizards could smoke. Ha. As if that’s something you ever wondered before. 

“How big is he?” 

You choke on the last bit of donut you’ve shoved into your mouth, flakes of the glaze crumbling onto the wrinkled inventory sheet you were half-way through correcting for the girls. You lost count. You’ll have to start over. You don’t mind. 

This is easy work. Keeps your mind busy when the linen folding gets repetitive. Reminds you of keeping your dad’s old client invoices together, reconciling what was paid over and under the table, even if the hot, steamy laundry room with its weak flickering loose bulbs is a little more stifling than dads old fancy-pants, air conditioned office.

No one asked you to do it, but after the third supply delivery passed and you were still relegated to topping the same mildewy cleaning bottle with water, you took a look at the order logs yourself. Torie was grateful that you finally had enough supplies in the next few weeks once properly ordered shipments started coming in, or there was just one less stick up her ass. Imagine that. Cleaning supplies really do clean. 

The motel is almost breaking even, and there’s a lot more downtime, something you consider a real feat when half the rooms are comped for Rico’s oh so generously benefited employees.

And Rico kept showing his gratitude. Almost every day, Stanley came by to drop off treats and pick up special shipments. Hollow detergent bottles, unlabeled bar soap, cases of toilet paper rolls that weighed as much as lead. Whatever Rico was selling, business was skyrocketing. Good for him. You’re still too spooked to open the wrong cardboard box and have god knows what fly up at your face and into your bloodstream. Huffing bleach is only half as fun when you already feel like you’re vibrating out of your skin. 

But you’re happy to help with whatever the girls need. You have a place here. Something they rely on you for. It wasn’t their fault they didn’t even know their times tables. You assume Rico doesn’t typically prey on the highly educated.

Iggie’s still waiting on your answer like it’s gospel, slitted pupils following the tap of your pen along the clipboard. 

It’s been a while since you’ve engaged in any locker-room banter. It’s fun, speaking low with your head down when you’re trying to look busy. Seeing Iggie’s grin makes you want to snicker twice as hard when Torie’s only a few feet away, folding bedsheets on the cracked linoleum countertop in that sharp, practiced way that could take your finger off if you got too close. 

You have peers here. Cell-mates, in the same no-other-choice boat as you. But more than that, maybe you have friends.

Under the scales, these girls are as bitter and hedonistic as you are. Every colorful insult is said with a smile, knowing it cuts both ways. Every shift ends with a celebratory swig from a lousy bottle of tequila, because this is as good as it gets. But it’s still good.

You fit in here, with the cold blooded girls that nap on top of the dryers to stay warm, cuddling an empty bottle under the red bulbed heat lamps when they drink too much. You like it here. 

“Mind that tongue!” Torie sneers through yours and Iggie’s giggles, whip-snapping her tail against the backs of Iggie’s ankles when she passes. Iggie hee-haws and tries to jump away. 

“Foul-mouthed thing you are…” The tawny lizard mutters as she loads the open industrial washing machine. Fresh linen scented steam floats over to you and Iggie, cloaking you both.

Iggie leans forward with a smirk, curling her hand around her mouth conspiratorially.

“Yer either quiet ‘cause yer really wonderin’, or ‘cause you don’t have to. Which is it?”

Despite your best efforts, the corner of your lips curl up and betray you.

“Don’t have to.”

She squeals in excitement and lines up plastic bottles of various sizes in front of you. She holds one of the empty complimentary shampoo bottles between her thumb and forefinger to start.

 “Oh spill. We talkin’ uh… performance based or…” She slides the incredu-loso bottle to the center of the counter. “My favorite, the, eye-bigger-than-your-cooch variety—“

You are thankfully ripped away when poor Chuckie rushes in behind you, breathless and clinging to your arm and screeching your name. You’ve gotten used to her flighty ways. Her sharp nails, not so much. 

“I think filthy girls like you prefer imagining. Reality’s always disappointing.” You tease Iggie and flick over one of the empty bottles before you turn in your stool.

“Honey,” Chuckie offers you that syrup sweet tone and you can feel any resistance seep out of you. “Would’ya mind terribly doin’ a room check with me? The tenant was only paid up to last Wend-sy but he won’t leave. Keeps barkin’ at me to screw off, piece ‘a work—“

”Chuck,“ Iggie warns. “It’s your turn. Can’t keep skippin’ out on it just ‘cause ya get a little spooked.”

”Ain’t a big deal, is it?” You turn back to Chuckie to offer a sympathetic nod. You never turn down a chance to be useful. To be used. 

“Not doin’ cleanup for you, but it’s no problem just coming with.” You tell Chuckie.

“No. Nuh uh .” Torie slams her hamper on the center counter, her horns flaring up behind her like they do when she gets all up in arms. “Don’t be stupid. You don’t know who’s in there, Lord knows nobody leaves their real name. Just call Rico.”

You swallow. Just the name puts a bitter taste on your tongue. 

You’ve managed to avoid calling Rico this far, heeding what little warnings you’ve gotten from Stanley. Even in the privacy of your room, the motel room, Rico’s room, he won’t tell you much. But by now you understand. There’s really very little you have to know. 

The less Rico does for you, the better. 

Iggie knows your hesitation. She understands. She refuses to even say his name.

“Maybe we could just call Stanley.” She offers. 

Oh, but that isn’t any easier. Not that you’ve been the most transparent about your not -relationship. But with girls like these, it’s better if they think he’s a claimed man. That means they don’t know that you don’t ask Stanley for help anymore. You don’t ask him for anything. 

At the end of a rough day, you will limp back to your room and rinse off the daily grime. The lukewarm water will run over your skin, under your nails, through the folds in your brain. 

You hold yourself up on your sore feet, not touching the soap-scummed shower walls. You won’t lean on anyone but yourself. You won’t be a burden anymore. 

Stanley will be waiting there when you’re done, wrinkling the made bed as he kicks his boots off, just off work with Rico himself. He will ask about your day again. “Better now with you around”, you always tell him, kneeling before him to help. You’re sure his day was harder, whatever happened. Not that he ever shares with you either. 

You will lay against him under the covers, skin to skin, his heavy, hairy arm over your shoulders, and listen to him weave his story for the day. You will listen to the names he says, wonder about the ones you don’t hear anymore, bite your lip when he skips over taking care of business too fast. You will want to ask him more. You won’t. 

You’ve found blood on him too, on his clothes, on his face, in his hair. Not his, he says. He’s too much like you. The things you both have done for Rico have calloused parts of you that you didn’t know were still soft.

You will thread your fingers through his, running your thumb over the healed skin on his knuckles. This is as good as it gets. But it’s still good.

Torie offers you a pitiful look when you stay quiet. She’s gotten softer since you proved your usefulness. Your head isn’t sore anymore from cracking against the tiled floor, so you have too.

“If he ain’t here already… he’s busy.” She offers carefully.

Your chest falls. She doesn’t have to say with what.

“Look.” Torie continues. “Ain’t that serious, Rico’ll just send some spare muscle our way and we’ll be done with it—“

“No.” You put a little bass in your voice. That's what works on Torie, you learned. She also flinches whenever you move your arm or turn too fast, odd for such a stoic individual, but still something that makes your stomach turn. 

“We don’t need to get him involved. I mean it.” You pass the counter and seek out the old wooden bat the girls keep by the back door, the one they hold behind their back anytime the delivery drivers get a little too friendly for comfort. “What’s the point? If they’re busy, they’re busy. We can handle it just fine. Wouldn’t wanna add anymore to their plate if they’re already swamped, right?”

Torie looks at you with her mouth set in a hard line, eyes flickering between the bat and Chuckie trying to psych herself up with breathing exercises off in the corner, to Iggie’s amusement. Torie leans close, and fishes something heavy from her uniform pocket to slip into yours. The weight is familiar. 

It’s your gun.

“Only needs ta look like ya can fight back.” She says, knocking open the chambers down in your deep pocket. Six bullets. She blesses you with six bullets. “But if it ain’t enough, don’t miss.”

You swallow and nod your head. She trusts you not to.

So you won’t. 

 

---

 

You wince when the cleaning cart clips the back of your ankles again. The sting hikes your shoulders up to your ears and you bite back a curse. 

“Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry—“ Chuckie babbles. When she stops, all that’s left is the drone of the room a/cs, the muffled tv’s through the thin windows, the rumble of engines racing past the parking lot and washed out motel sign. They soothe you. 

It’s not the first time. Won’t be the last. You don’t even sigh, because you know it’s your fault for dragging your feet so hard when you’re supposed to be taking the lead. So much for putting on a brave face.

“Chuck,” You sigh. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

“Oh,” Chuckie mumbles. “You’re just too gracious. Take it all on the chin, poor thing.”

“Oh, I do not . Trust me.” You scoff. It’s so wrong it’s funny. Stanley would definitely think so. “I’ve got grudges old enough to drink. I just know it’s an accident.”

“Well… I never see ya complaining.” 

She says it like it’s some virtue. As if you deserved to complain. Now that’s a joke. But you don’t laugh. You hesitate and plant your feet on the polished concrete in front of the offending motel room door.

What would you complain about? The laughs shared with the girls over the odd things left behind in the motel rooms? The sore knuckles from practicing punches against calloused palms with boxing-coach-Stanley? You somehow go to sleep satisfied with yourself every night. You almost feel whole. That’s not something you’ve ever experienced before.

And it’s all thanks to Stanley. Every god damn thing. What does it matter if he doesn’t love you? This is enough.

You have a life in and outside of him now. You won’t let anything threaten that. Not your selfishness. Not your shit decisions. And not some motherfucker holed up in one of your motel rooms, thinking he can raise his voice at your Chuckie. 

You slam your fist against the door.

“Housekeeping! ” You shout.

You hook your thumb in the pocket where your gun lies. You don’t want to bare it if you don’t have to.

“I’m good. Go away.” A voice calls, muffled through the thin particle wood of the door. You want to laugh. You glance down at the ‘do-not-disturb’ placard hanging from the door and flick it off the handle. 

“Piece of shit.” You mumble under your breath. 

You knock again and force a complacent voice, if only to tell others that you at least tried to be reasonable. 

“Housekeeping! Just checking in on you sir. You know, checkout was a few days ago and we’re very busy–”

“I said go away!” 

You knock harder. 

“ House! Keeping!” You keep your tone sugar sweet, but raise your voice. You’re having fun. Drunkenly yelling with your friends? Awesome. Yelling curses at a customer ? Fucking life changing. “Open the fucking door or I’ll knock it down, sir! ”

“It says do not disturb –” You hear the deadbolt on the door unlatch as his voice grows closer. In seconds, his greasy, red, fleshy face glares at you through a crack in the door. “Can you stupid bitches not fucking read–”

Fuck-face freezes when he sees you. With the setting sun right in his eyes, his pupils should be pinpricks, but you watch as they expand instead. His irises shrink into nothing. He’s afraid.

Thrown off as you are, you know you won’t get another chance. With him still frozen, you shove your shoulder against the door and into his nose, splitting the skin at the bridge of it before he falls back against the bed. You follow him in. 

The heat smacks you in the face. Everything has been cooking in here for too long. You slam the door open anyways and scan for anyone else, but apart from the sheet covered windows, glowing like eyelids from the burning sunlight, you can’t make anything out. It’s all blurry. Your eyes are watering already.

You try your damndest to blink back the sting, but then the stench is finally hitting your nose, putrid like old dead skin and sweat, and you’re doubled over to gag. If you’d have had any breakfast, you’d be adding to the mess right about now.

“Lord almighty…” Chuckie mutters, her shadow cast against the brassy late afternoon light stretching across the floor littered  in dark patches and heaps of rags. 

Dried blood. Pus and sweat stained clothes. Bile. 

The room is filled with rot. And that man, Fuck-face, is the source. There’s a yellow-stained bandage wrapped around the perimeter of his face and neck. Plasma and rust bloom through the strips of cotton like mold.

“Jesus christ–” You whine, hiding your nose beneath your shirt. It doesn’t help. 

“Watch your tongue, Baby. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with Him–”

You keep your back to Chuckie. You don’t have it in you to hide the bitter look on your mug. Luckily, you don’t have to.

You’re caught by surprise when Fuck-Face rolls off the other side of the bed and bounces back up with a tire iron, pointing it out at you like a rapier.

“You don’t fool me.” He sneers, grinning triumphantly. You can see his cheek twitching. He looks deranged. Rabid. How long had Chuckie said he was cooped up in here with an injury like that? Two days? Three? 

“Ain’t gonna fool me twice— ain’t like these things, do ya? Iron?” 

He swings it through the air, as if it’s an open flame you should be cowering from. His smile fades when you only look confused.

He shakes his head. “Ain’t foolin’ nobody. Not this time. I don’t care if you sniffed me out. You can hide the horns, those stupid little ears, but I know what you are!” He raises his voice. You narrow your eyes. That sounded too familiar for comfort. You draw the line at shared delusions.

“Be careful!” Chuckie cries.

With the hand you aren’t holding out at him, you feel the cold metal handle of your gun fit into your palm. You want to ask him so many questions, but anytime you so much as blink he swings the iron again. 

“Ain’t need to be careful, that’s a fuckin’ demon! A— fuck!” Fuck-face’s eyes widen once they find Charlie, silhouetted in the doorframe and yeah, a bit frightening to the unfamiliar.

“Both of you are!” His breathing accelerates. You see his boney chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the loose collar of his ratty t-shirt. “ Monsters !” 

“That’s enough! Drop the fucking tire iron!” You snarl, aiming the barrel at him. Sweat beads over your top lip. Your hand shakes slightly as your thumb finds the hammer. It’s been a while since you had to aim at anyone. 

The world doesn’t care if you’re ready to fire. Not Chuckie. Not Torie. And definitely not Fuck-face.

So you fire anyways when Fuck-face mad dashes towards you, shoving you back into the stained mirror behind the motel dresser. The barrel of your gun digs into his shoulder, and the back of your head smashes into the mirror. Cracks web out before it shatters and shards tangle into your hair. It’s warm. You’re bleeding.

And Fuck-face is running.

Running past you. Running past Chuckie. She watches him go, holding the wooden bat to her chest.

At least he’s bleeding too. You see red streaking down the pale arm hanging limp at his side as he limps away. You both know there’s no point in trying to make him pay for the damage to the room. And you know he’s no good for any answers. You heard enough.

The Jackelope is here.

“Mother fucker!” Chuckie cries as she runs to your side.

“Listen to you, cursing your mama’s name. I think she’s rolling over in her grave.” You tease as she tilts your head from side to side to pick out what pieces she can manage with her claws. You smile a little too hard to hide the anxiety blooming in your chest. At least it just looks like you’re hiding pain. 

“Hush! These’r extenuatin’ circumstances! My mama’ll understand. She knows she raised me good.” Chuckie says proudly when she releases you.

You laugh softly, prodding the largest piles of rags aside with your foot. “What kind of mama are we talking’ about? Is she… you know…”

Chuckie shoots you a harsh look as she leans against the broom she had used to start sweeping mirror shards.

“What? What do I supposedly know?”

“I mean… you came out of an egg, right?” You chew your lip and kick aside a grounded pillow, narrowing your eyes and losing your smile when you see what was hiding beneath. 

“You don’t see me daydreamin’ about how you came out of yer mama wailin’ and pink as raw chicken— oh. Oh my.”

Maybe Fuck-face had been out in the last few days. Beneath the pillow, was a halved plastic carton. The kind that the motel industrial cleaners came in. The kind that half the time, Stanley took a truck load of, warning you not to get too close in case the packers got a little sloppy loading snow in the boxes and left you bouncing off the walls again. 

Fuck-face was skimming drugs from Rico.

 

---

 

Torie told you to go home early after that. Clean yourself up. Rest, if you were gonna be any use tomorrow. And that you had done enough. You were all too happy to go. 

Chuckie was singing your praises, calling you a hero, a genius, Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. And you, with your quickly draining adrenaline, were shutting down. 

She told them you scared off a thief. Yeah right. It was more like finally getting rid of a wasp stuck in your car. And it feels like theres a whole hive somewhere waiting for you, just out of sight. Buzzing in the back of your mind until you snap.

The back of your head still stings. But after scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing, the water cascading over your scalp is finally running clear. You can be fine. 

You’re sitting on the tub, under the stream. You got woozy when you tried standing up. This is easier. This is fine—

Debby rumbles into the parking spot by your room. You scramble to turn on the bath faucet instead. It might seem slightly less pathetic than a sit-down shower. You pray Iggie’s big mouth hasn’t reached him. He has enough to worry about.

“Hey sweetheart, you hungry? I picked up dinner.” Stanley’s gruff voice calls through the door. 

“Yeah… Thanks. Be right out.” You shout over the bubbling faucet. 

He cracks the door open anyways, leering at you and grinning like a schoolboy. It’s so stupid. Your chest already feels lighter.

“Couldn’t help myself.” He says as he shuts the door behind him. His meaty fingers untuck his work-wilted dress shirt and start unbuttoning it. “You look lonely in there. Want some company?”

“Mhmm. I’m desolate.” You rest your chin on your knees and watch him shed his shirt, belt, and pants into a heap on the floor. There’s that burly chest you want to burrow into and die in.

You sigh and offer him a teasing smile. “You got any cute friends you can call?”

“Shut yer yap. I’m friggin’ adorable. I’m all the cute you need.” He says as he tosses his undershirt at your face. It smells like him. Bathroom polo and aerosol deodorant that stings your nostrils so good. 

“ Aaaaaaah,” He groans as he settles in behind you, sending waves of water back and forth through the tub. He tucks your hair over your shoulder to trace the old tan lines your tank top always left.

He speaks soft. Feeling yourself lulled into peace by the leaky drip, drip, drip of the faucet, you almost miss it when he says your name.

“You still need me?” He asks. 

You freeze.

Had you told him that? When? When did you expose your frail insides so plainly? When were you that stupid—

The fair.

You were that stupid then. 

Of course. Of course half-delirious and untouched, you begged for his attention, to stay at his side. You shouted and cried until your voice grew hoarse, promising him he was your last hope. Where you wrong then? Or are you wrong now.

The faucet is still dripping. 

Stanley is frozen behind you. He knows you heard him. He’s stuck in this moment same as you.

You wring out the damp washcloth in front of you and lather it in bar soap before turning between Stanley’s legs and dragging it over his chest. He exhales. You see him relax under your touch, but you still won’t meet his eyes. You keep yours low and on the sudsy curly-q’s that pop back up over your hand’s wake.

“Of course I do.” You say too fast. “Who else is gonna dirty my bath so I need another one?… Still can’t drive stick either, ya know. But now that I think about it, maybe I could use a new teacher—“

Stanley belly laughs and sends more water cascading over the side of the tub. His hands rest on your hips, bidding you to stay close. No new teachers for you. Good.

“Ain’t my fault I had a distractible student! I defy anybody to teach a girl so eager to drive my stick she can’t keep her eyes on the road.”

You laugh too, finally meeting his gaze with half lidded eyes. “It kinda sounds like you can’t appreciate when somebody’s only got eyes for you.” 

He catches your wrist, staring at you with his mouth hanging open. He always gets that stupid cute look on his face when you flirt so openly with him.

He sighs and shuts his mouth, smiling at you with a twinkle in his warm brown eyes. His thumb traces circles over your veins. You’re his worry stone. 

“Is that right?” He asks softly. His eyes flit between yours, looking for the lie. It’s true, unfortunately. But you don’t blame him. You lie so often, you don’t even know the difference anymore.

“How was your day today, sweetheart?” He asks.

In an instant, your lungs refuse any air. But you can’t show that. You can’t show anything.

He’s watching you, eyes six inches away from yours. It takes a liar to spot a lie, and maybe in this way and this way alone, you’re perfect for each other. 

“Good.” You finally tell him. “Split a pink donut with Iggie.” 

A spoonful of truths helps the lies down. For a moment you almost feel prideful, ready to return to the easy banter and maybe a little more water displacement. You sink further against him in the tub, chest to chest, but he doesn’t move.

“Nothing else happen? Nothin’ at all?” 

His voice is too careful. He is the good cop, and he still thinks you’re the nervous kid itching to sell themself out. 

“No.” You say with a cold tone to your voice. “Nothing.”

“Right.” He narrows his eyes. He’s disappointed. You hate the disappointed dad angle. And he has fucking perfected it.

“How’s your head?”

“Haven’t had any complaints—“ You respond in an instant, before his fingers comb up your scalp and brush against the seam of the fresh scabs. You whimper and jolt, the water between you rippling.

Stanley pulls his hand back, your water-thinned blood tinting his fingertips. He frowns down at them, then up at you.

Bullshit. As if he hasn’t come home with a million unexplained scrapes and bruises himself.

For a moment it looks like he’ll cup your jaw, hold your attention between his calloused fingers. Force an explanation out through your gritted teeth. Maybe that would work on you. But that wouldn’t be Stanley.

“What?” You ask, regretting the bite in your tone as soon as it leaves your mouth.

“Nothin’. Just… wish I could hear things from you. And not—“ His frown deepens and his eyes flit over the tub, avoiding you. “Rico.”

Your skin chills immediately. All at once, the bath is too cold, and your skin ripples over with goosebumps. He knows. Stanley knows exactly why that chills you so. Because he’s scared too.

He swallows. “Rico wants to take you out to dinner tomorrow. Wants to talk.” 

Notes:

thank y’all for your patience,,, I eat up every single kind comment I will be replying to them all and tattooing them on my body. I had a hard hump to get through this chapter but I think I can move forward quicker from here cos things are snowballing a bit.

In other news my homie bbambimbo made this most beautiful heart wrenching comic for a scene in chapter 11 and I need you all to look at it please and thank you.

Chapter 19: Friend to Friend

Summary:

You ever leave a fancy dinner and you're still hungry?

The fluorescent lights in the thrift store make everything look cheaper. The fool’s gold plated jewelry resting in black velvet in the glass cabinets. The dust covered suits, getting sun bleached in the display windows. The two of you, deciding what second-hand yuppie costume the cops will find your bodies in after Rico’s dinner tonight—the dinner you still don’t know the reason for. Is there a guide for dressing in this season’s casket-casual?

Stanley stands with his back to you, shimmying the suit jacket over those broad shoulders while he preens in front of the water-stained, ornate mirror that leans against the wall dividing the dressing rooms. 

He runs his palm over the top of his head again. His hair loses its curls when he brushes it back like this. It doesn’t spiral perfectly around your finger, wave up around the edge of your palm like his bowling-ball-head was made for you to cup. 

He looks nice though. He looks put together, even if the buttons bulge a bit, if he missed a belt loop. He’s still handsome. He just doesn’t look like your Stanley. Your Stanley. Ha. 

He turns towards you anyways, smoothing down the old, thin polyester straining around his middle nervously with those sausage fingers of his that you like so much. You’d rather see them tossing Debby into high gear and taking you somewhere far, far away from here.

But they don’t. They curl into paws, suspended in front of his chest, twitching like they’re imagining flicking through a stack of cash just to soothe himself. And you are digging your malnourished roots ever deeper into Dead End Flats. You’ll stop six feet under.

“Whaddaya think? Lookin’ sharp?” He asks, and you snap out of your catastrophizing while you pick lint off the revealing, black velvet cocktail dress you found. It’s just dinner, after all. What’s the worst that could happen? 

You still don’t dare ask that out loud.

“Oh yeah.” Is what you say. You purse your lips and nod your head as you give him another once over, trying to look thoughtful. “You’re gonna give me a paper cut.” 

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” You suck your bottom lip under your teeth and smooth down the lapels over his full chest. You can see him presenting those odd, scammy inventions he told you about, all bravado and hope. It suits him, in an odd way. You just aren’t sure you suit him when he wears it. 

“You look like you’re goin’ to a funeral.” You pout comically, and start to shake him by his arms, as if beside yourself with grief. “Tell them all I had perfect tits. Tell them I put Doll-Face Martin to shame. Immortalize me.” 

He doesn’t laugh like you want him to.

“Aw, come on.” You wrap your arms around him instead. As if you can wheedle him into agreeing with you. Maybe you could have before, but even you can feel how you’re being swept up by something too large to control these days. No one listens to the frog in the pot, telling them jump in, the water’s fine!

“That ain’t as funny as you think it is.” Stanley grumbles. 

“It’s a little funny.” You insist. Maybe you need to work on what you think a punchline is, but to be fair, the only one you can think of is your shoe being the next one Chuckie finds in a bloody puddle under one of the beds. You’re not sure what the joke is. 

Maybe this could make him laugh, if only because it’s stupidly sentimental and only means anything to you. You find your discarded bottoms and fish your hand deep into the front pocket, down to the edge that always stuck out past the frayed edge. The metal is cold, and already the soft chinking of the chains gives you goosebumps. 

It’s a gold chain with a simple round pendant. Only gold plated , you’re pretty sure. Judging from Mr. Merkin’s dismissiveness of the piece back at E-Z Pawn, at least. But that was good enough for you. And hopefully, good enough for Stanley. 

 “Here.” You tell him as you reach around his tree trunk of a neck. “You need somethin’ for the graverobbers to pinch off ya.”

Stanley watches you with his lips parted. His breath reeks of his cheap cigarettes. You’re getting buzzed on his exhale, you think. 

His intake has upped lately. Stress, you’re sure. Does Rico get all the credit or did you help too? 

He slides his thumb over the front of the medallion, cleaning off your little thumbprint and staring down at it, as if he could see much more than a clear shot up through his nostrils. He obviously sees something you don’t, but you already know that about him by now. About everyone 

“Shit.” He swallows, and forces out a nervous laugh, all crackly like the Jersey boy he is. “Was I s’posed ta get ya somethin? I mean uh— give me a second, I can find somethin’ in the backseat—“ He squeezes your arm and starts to turn towards the exit, back out the big glass windows where you could see Debby waiting with her fresh wax coat. You feel a little breathless. Half of you knows he’s bluffing, but half of you feels uncharacteristically optimistic. How long had you been carving your own dent in his passenger seat? Three months? Four? It feels like forever. It feels like 10 seconds.

“ No,” The cynic wins. You laugh and hold him back by his bicep (as if you need a reason to hold it). He gives you a guilty smile, not satisfied with taking and not giving back. Your selfless dog. “It’s not for nothin’. Just don’t want you lookin’ any less like a proper drug peddler. No one’ll trust you if you don’t have any style.” 

Now the smile he gives is genuine. Affection soaked in insults is so much easier to get down.

“C’mere.” 

His big arm hooks your neck so he can pull you close and press an uncharacteristically smooth-jawed kiss to your cheek. And if together you look like you match, with the garish, out-of-date, gold loop decorating the low neckline of your dress, you dare anyone to call you out.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Never takin’ it off.” He murmurs against your cheek. It might be the most boring way his lips have ever touched you, but it still makes you flush the deepest.

 

---

 

The drive is quiet. After Stanley told you about the dinner, you confessed everything. How you went with Chuckie for a routine room-clean and ended up with glass in your scalp and one of your bullets in the runaway tenant’s arm. How, for the first time since you got the job, you’ve been cordially invited to dine with the devil. Lucky you.

Oh, and that tenant that got away? Stealing Rico’s goddamn drugs. Who knows how many of them. And apparently, the asshole knew exactly where to find him. You can’t even consolidate how much he lost. Not for nothing, but maybe if Stanley ever let you see any of the logs for those, you might have the slightest clue just how far in the hole you are right now.

Maybe it’s unrelated. Guess you’ll find out.

Stanley is trying to keep your spirits up, bless his heart. Trying to make you laugh. That’s what you love about him.You love him. He doesn’t love you. It’s fine. 

“How much you wanna bet the place serves food in a thimble?” He tells you as he elbows you, arm staying out until you link yours into the empty space. Your heels click and echo through the empty, asphalt parking lot, the same hesitant pace as his. The crickets seem to quiet, like they want to eavesdrop.

“Dinner at the diner after?” You smile back. That’s generally as far forward as you ever plan these days. You’re not guaranteed tomorrow anymore.

“I like those odds.” 

Stanley pins his smile in place as he faces the bodyguard waiting outside the entrance. You easily forget that Stanley’s only one out of a dozen of Rico’s hired muscle, and each one is as big and ugly as the last. Cartoonishly goonish.

This one is bald, pale skin cast electric blue under the buzzing neon above his head. La Ofrenda . Too on the nose. Or up it, judging by the twitch in the guy’s jaw. Rico doesn’t pay with petty cash.

“Evenin’!” Stan belts, all puffed chest and bravado. Like he’s not already sweating through his knock-off dress shirt. You keep adjusting your dress like it’s the problem.

“Two for Pines?”

Mr. Freeze doesn’t budge. He’s frozen with his arms folded in front of his chest. A solid wall would be more receptive.

Stanley’s shoulders drop. You love it when he plays the fool. But there’s no room for joy in a place like this.

“We’re here to see Rico.” 

Still nothing. The crickets resume their chorus.

“He uh… invited us to dinner?”

Mr. Freeze’s eyes roll over to you, and a chill chases down your spine.

“Not you. Her.”

“Excuse me?” You frown, finally finding your voice. Sweat beads down the small of your back, cold despite the desert heat. “What d’ya mean ‘not him’?”

You tighten your hand around Stanley’s arm. You’re not going anywhere without him. Your—

Your what ? Your fall guy? Your bodyguard? No. Not anymore. 

You got yourself into this, didn’t you? Promised yourself you wouldn’t drag him down anymore. You love him. He knows. He doesn’t love you. And that makes you feel numb when his hand squeezes over yours, and he offers you another pinned smile. He speaks under his breath, calming a cornered animal. 

“It’s fine, sweetheart. You’ll be fine. I’ll uh—“ His smile drops for a second, at the same time his eyes do, before its wider than ever. “I’ll stay right out here with my buddy over there. Keep him company. Save me your leftovers, alright? I like them little swans.”

Your skin prickles, even in the heat. You hate this— getting brushed and prepped for slaughter. You glance back at Debby. Maybe you can still drive. Maybe you can still get away. 

But he just traces his thumb over your knuckles. You hate this. Because it works. 

“You can do this, Sweetheart. You’re a good girl.” He says with another soft smile. “You’ll be fine.” 

You needed that. You needed him to tell you to be fine, or you couldn’t be. You couldn’t drag your heavy feet over hole-filled concrete. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Stanley as he stares, because if he blinks you’ll see the wetness spill over his freshly shaven cheeks. What a waste. You like the scruff. 

You suck in a deep breath and follow Mr. Freeze inside anyways, in past the heavy red door, down hard marble floors so well polished you could look up your own dress. Your mind is still stuck in housekeeping mode, all you can wonder is if it resists all the stains.

Relaxed cumbia drifts heavy like cigar smoke down the hall until you get to the grand dining room, filled with clinking silverware and overly affected serve staff, too afraid of their customers to raise their voice any higher. 

You could close your eyes and drift back to another time. You feel your fathers hand at your back, guiding you forward to show off to his next business partners what a great family man he is. How, even if his wife is deposed, he’s still got someone to shine his shoes. That was years ago. And thousands of miles. You’re not sure anything has changed. 

“Amorcita!” Rico greets you brightly. When he smiles, his gold tooth shines like it has its own spotlight. He takes you into a tight hug and you are once again suffocated by the sweet, earthy musk of his perfume. Sweat crawls down your back in the same path his hand follows. 

He pulls away to look at you, still holding your wrists. “Heaven must be missing an angel, you look divine. ”

“You’re too kind.” You offer back. The spirit of your old self fills you, shoulders held back, chin held high, well practiced smile on full display. Attractive and still wheedling. You let him pull out your chair and then he sits across from you, steepling his hands underneath his chin before motioning to the menu.

“Nothing is too kind for you, Hermosa. Thank you for coming. Please, order anything you like. Go off the menu, if you wish. I am good friends with the owner.” He snaps at the waiter who rushes to your side. “Here. Have a glass of wine.” 

“Thank you… Lucky guy. The owner, I mean.” You take the wine to your lips as soon as it’s poured, nearly draining it before you remember where you’re at. You set your glass back down and nod with embarrassment when the waiter offers to refill your glass.

You meet Rico’s dark eyes as the wine pours. “Anyone who can call themself your friend is very fortunate.”

Rico’s eyes narrow. His mustache shifts as he smiles. 

“You think so?” He takes his glass and swirls it, pointing it to you before he drinks. “You flatter me, hermosa.” 

He swallows and twinges his lips. “I would like to consider you a friend as well. Can I? Consider you a friend?” 

You blink. For all his clear posturing, the way he holds yours and Stanley’s and all the girl’s lives in his hands, you thought he’d want you on your knees. Not this. Fine dining and compliments. You’re already in his trap. Why bait it twice? 

You nod your head anyways, if for nothing else, to sate your curiosity. You know. Before you die.

“If I should be so lucky. Of course.” You raise your glass to him. “Friends.”

“Well, friend to friend.” Rico drawls. “What the fuck are you doing in the laundry room of my motel?” 

The question hangs in the air. You’re frozen, like it has you by your neck. 

A million excuses run through your mind, and nothing out of your mouth. You never thought of yourself as having a life to beg for, but the pit in your stomach, the fear of losing it all, that’s proof. That's all you need.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step on any toes, I didn’t know what that guy was doing and I just wanted him out. If I’d known —“

“Hey! Listen, mijita, it’s fine!” Rico laughs, and you are tugged deeper into him. He covers your hand with his, warm and soothing. It’s Pavlovian, exactly how Stanley calms you, too. Silently, you close your gaping mouth.

“You’re not in any trouble. Amor, this dinner is to thank you.” 

Thank you ? For what , losing his drugs? Letting that man get away? Butting your nose into places it didn’t belong—

“—You may not realize it,” Rico begins again. “But you have made me a very happy man. My motel is clean. Profitable. And still under the radar. You have a brilliant head on your shoulders,” he takes your hand from across the table and presses your knuckles to his lips. “It is very fortunate that you are also easy on the eyes, hermosa. I am a lot of things, but not ungrateful. I want to reward you for what you have done for me.”

Oh is that who he is? Mister My-penis-is-god’s-gift, let-me-bestow-you-with-his-grace—

“I want to offer you a job, mijita.”

Oh. 

Your mind blanks. 

Is it the wine? Or is it just you — bare, when you can’t figure out what kind of lie to spit.

“Why?” You ask.

You sound small. Stupid. You can’t come up with anything better to ask. Because you don’t understand him at all.

Rico smiles at you anyways, amused. “Stanley speaks very highly of you. Chuckie. Torie. They sing your praises. A few of my men as well. Said you growled at them when they called at you in the night.” He laughs. “ Loyal. I can appreciate this.” 

You blink again. You don’t go out at night. And there’s only one man you growl for, embarrassingly. You stay home with the blinds drawn. Picking at your nails. Staring at the wall. Until Debby rolls back into her parking space. Until Stanley comes home.

The girls had been pleading with you for weeks now to go with them to the only bar in town that wouldn’t scream in their face when they saw the girls’ scales. They call out to you. You don’t answer. And now Rico is scouting you for being loyal.

You grab your wine again, holding it with two hands. Your anchor. The wine almost chokes you going down. 

You cough and clear your throat, wiping your arm against your lips. It’s improper. You know better than to do it in front of this kind of company. But you do it anyways.

“What kind of job?” You rasp, wine still burning at the back of your throat.

“Nothing you don’t already know. Keeping books clean. Keeping staff in line.” Rico rests his elbow on the table, winding his hand as if it means nothing. “But let’s be honest, Amor. You don’t belong cleaning rooms. You have good instincts. You know when to open your eyes. And when to keep your mouth shut. 

“I’ve got business picking up down south. No more of this… small town shit . I have big plans. I need more than these people dragging their knuckles along the ground, verdad?” He raises his voice, his gold tooth flashing at you again. “I need family. I want people I can trust. And I want to trust you .”

You see a vision of yourself: your face, proudly biting the necks of those beneath you. Feeding. Growing into it. Into your skin. Your place. Finding out just how much you like the grime. Your teeth are sharp. And your horns grow tall.

You hate this. Because it excites you. 

But you could make sure the girls were safe, maybe. And Stanley. You could keep the ledgers clean, the funds high. You can warn folks and keep them in line. You’d be better. You’d be worse. You’d survive. 

Everything your father could ever want for you. 

You stare at your water glass instead of Rico’s burning eyes. At condensation, beading down from the edge. It might have been ocean once. A stormcloud. And now it was here. Trapped by gravity and circumstance. Just like you.  

“Well?” Rico’s smile looks more forced. Tired. He tries to laugh off your silence. Just another quirk of yours. Something to get used to, he thinks.

 “You are leaving me in suspense. I admit, I do not do well with this.”

“I’m sorry,” You say, smiling painfully. And his starts to fade. “This is an incredible offer. Seriously. I would just like some time to consider—“

“Time? All in the world.” He waves his hand again, like he’s letting you off a leash. He speaks softly through his teeth. Slow, so that you understand every word. The gold cap gives him a lisp. “There is no rush. Rico does not rush for anyone. You need to consider, yes. Very well. Consider. Consider… What your girls will have to do. To make up for what was stolen from me. Your Stanley … This happened under their nose, you know.”

Your skin prickles again, the same old dread clouding the corners of your vision. You set your glass down. You won’t manage to eat anything tonight. You’ll be lucky to keep the wine down.

“I had to waste so much time sending men out to try and find that man. Old friend of Iggie’s, did you know?” Rico tilts his head curiously, then shakes it. “But I don’t blame you. They disappointed me. Not you. Not yet. I want you to consider what I’ll do to people who disappoint me.”  

Rico looks off to the distance, nodding his head at one of the waiters who arrives with the fabled tin foil duck. Rico grins at you with tight lips and pushes the duck to your side with a single gold-ringed finger. 

“Go home. Do your considering. You know where to find me.” 

“Thank you.” You mutter, taking the duck with both your hands. “I mean that. I am very grateful for everything.” You duck your head. “I just need to think about it, talk to Stanley–”

“What for? He is not coming with you.”

 

---

 

You walk out in a daze. That kind of classic amnesia where you blink and you’re outside, blasted with the dry heat of La Ofrenda’s dusty parking lot. 

“There’s a sight for sore eyes.” 

Stanley plants his hands on his knees to stand up from his bench. Mr. Freeze looks like he wants to rip his ears out. You’re still holding onto the tin-foil duck, imprinting your fingers in its crumbling body. 

“Hey, you alright?” Stanley’s hands cup your elbows, offering his embrace. If you want it. Of course you do. His touch returns the feeling to your fingers. Like he’s curing you of frostbite. Like your heart still beats. 

You nod your head in a rush, knotting your fist in the fabric at his side. “Mhmm. Let’s go. Please.”

Stanley doesn’t ask any questions. Debby rumbles to life. You let the vibration shake the rest of the ice from your bones and you watch Mr. Freeze step back inside, no longer guarding the door. Keeping Stanley out, his only purpose. How pathetic. Apparently, you have at least a few.

What you don’t have, is anything to say. You’re sure Stanley is curious, but even you know you haven’t been an open book these days. You’re wet pages stuck together. Peeling away and losing parts of yourself with every attempt. 

“Guess I lost the bet then, huh? That’s a pretty fat doggie bag.” 

There Stanley is again. Bridging the gap. 

You smile. Only on the side Stanley can see. 

“Guess so. Gonna be a sore loser about it?” 

“Who me? Of course not. I ain’t the one who had to sit through a stuffy dinner.” He shrugs it off and takes one hand off the wheel, noodling his thick fingers into yours until he can hold your hand. 

 He was being sweet. It was working. You still force his hand anyways. Is there even any point in hiding anything from him anymore?

“What did happen at dinner?” He asks, after a few minutes of your nausea-induced silence. “What–he try to buy your dirty underwear? Bribe ya with a gold plated limo?”

“No.” You smile and shake your head. “He offered me a job.” 

“A job? Seriously? Not–” Stanley faces you fully now, well past distracted from the road. “Not hand, not blow–”

You rip your hand away. He lets you. 

“No.” You snap. “A real fuckin’ job, alright? Wants me to, I don’t know. Look over the rest of his books. Manage his bullshit operation when he takes it down south. Be a fuckin’ narc.”

“Down south? How the fuck are we supposed to get down south? He barely pays me enough to keep the gas tank full, he’s a fuckin’ clown if he thinks I’m getting Debby south of El Paso without a tune up–” 

“You’re not coming.”

You say it under your breath. As if it erases any of it. Like it’s any less true if he doesn’t hear you.

Tell that to Debby, swerving into the wrong side of the lane, just long enough to make your hair stand on edge before Stanley blinks and corrects the wheel. 

You swear you hear him whimper something, like Not again, but it’s hard to make out over screeching tires.

It takes a few moments for him to find himself. Sometime after you let go of the wheel, and after Debby’s engine slips into a comfortable gear again. 

“Well.” He scoffs. “Con-gradu-fuckin’-lations. You want me there for the send off? Smile and wave while you get cozy with Rico in his puddle jumper? And I’m left behind in the dust again—“

“Shut up!” You cry.

God, it stings.

No grace. No hesitation. He’s made his peace with you leaving already. You snarl. “I didn’t even say I’d go with him!”

Did he expect you to abandon him so easily? Is that who you’ve been this whole time? No wonder you’re in the dark. You put yourself there.

You let out a shuddering breath, trying not to raise your voice. “Stanley, listen. I don’t even want–”

“–Don’t even need a schmuck like me anymore.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Couple months ago you couldn’t make it two days without gettin’ yerself into some trouble. Clutched your pearls at a little pot.” He shrugs. “Now you got a job. Got people lookin’ out for you… So yeah. Maybe ya don’t.”

He won’t look away from the road again. His jaw set in stone. Like tar you stepped in and can’t get out of. Of all the loose threads you were strangling yourself with, you didn’t know this could be one of them. 

Is he fucking serious? 

Rico is threatening Stanley’s life. The girls. And he’s upset because you don’t need him? 

And you’re still upset because he won’t say he needs you. You start to laugh in your seat, bare shoulders shaking. The velvet darkens under each tear that falls in your lap. 

You’re both clueless. You’re both pissed off. 

You’re perfect for each other. 

“Yeah.” You murmur, unable to pull your gaze away from the tin-foil duck in your lap, leaking down between your legs. So much for dinner. 

“Guess not.”

Notes:

hihi. Thank you everyone for waiting, the kind comments seriously make my life and do inspire me to write again every time!! I am so sorry it's taken so long but!! Still here!! Still have more anguish to put them thru. <3

Also thank you thank you thank you insta user @ghostly_drawer who made some super delicious tasty hungry heart art and comics and the ao3 user Babydoll939 for letting me know about it!

Catch yall next time :3

OH!! OH!! BEFORE I FORGET! I think a stan pov chapter is in order :3 I'm gonna be annoying and ask yall if i should upload as the next chapter, upload as a oneshot or as a second chapter to drown me out... what do u guys think?

Update 8/18/25
The long awaited Stanley POV for anyone who’s still here

Chapter 20: The More You Say That, The Less You Believe It

Summary:

drop in everybody, lot lizard therapy session in five

Your arms stick to the bar top. You’re catching your breath, grinning and waving down the bartender for a glass of water. Your sweaty thighs cling to the ripped pleather bar stool, daring you to take it with you if and when you topple over. It’s worth it though. Iggie says your ass looks great in your old pair of daisy dukes. 

She’s just yanking your chain. Anything to keep you here tonight, on your first and last hurrah with those sweet, serpentine girls who helped make Dead End Flats feel like home.

And this place really has started to feel like home. You’ve memorized the cracked sidewalks. Watched the dandelions that blossom up through the seams from the more humid July days and crawl west. You’ve gotten used to the plastic taste from the coffee maker in the laundry room. You don’t even mind the burn of the New Mexico sun on your skin anymore. In the same way that you molded into the white leather passenger seat of dear old Debby, you’ve made a place for yourself here too. 

You will be sad to leave it behind.

It’s warm in here, just like your girls like. Almost too warm to dance, but you did it anyway, hand in scaly hand, listening to their claws tap the wooden floor in time with the fast-paced fiddling playing through the modest little jukebox in the place. Now, you huff and puff and rest, ignoring their playfully disgusted faces as they shake off the feeling of your sweaty palms. Except, you know your cold-blooded girl-friends are only teasing because they like you.

Isn’t that nice? They like you. 

How things have changed. 

You’re not drinking well water and tolerating dirtbag bartenders just for a place to waste time anymore. Your face isn’t smeared with days-old makeup. You’re not scooping your chest up to catch the eyes of easy prey. You’ve got friends. You’ve got prospects. You’ve got Stan. 

Kind of. 

You’re not really sure where you two stand anymore. Were you ever? You don’t even know where he is right now. And he probably couldn’t care less, too pissed with you to see straight. You’re… leaving. Right? What other choice did you have? You are leaving. It’s not a question. Not a choice. And whether he likes it or not, it’s for everyone’s good. His, theirs and yours.

But what about you?

Is this what you want? It is, isn’t it? You wanted to be self-sufficient. You wanted to be independent. You wanted to quit being a burden. 

Well? How does it feel? Flying so high you’re leaving everyone behind? Don’t look down, Icarus.

You rest your elbows on the sticky bar top and hide your face in your arms, your groan filling up your little excuse of a hideaway. You’re getting vertigo just thinking about it. 

Iggie kicks the leg of your barstool and you cover your mouth to hide your gagging.

“You gonna hurl or somethin’?” She asks. If only everything that was wrong with you could be spit out, so you could go back to enjoying yourself.

“I’ll live.” You breathe and turn to stare at her with your head still resting and on your arms, as comfortable and eager to stay where you are as a kid tucked in for a bedtime story. “How are you feelin’, Gorgeous? Lookin’ at you makes me feel better already.”

Iggie takes the seat next to you and smirks, tilting her shoulder up in a flirty way and smoothing hot rod red painted claws along the ruffled hem of her denim skirt.

“Feelin’ pretty good. Better’n you, clearly.”

She dressed up for tonight. All the girls did. Or maybe this was how they always looked out of the drab, faded powder blue uniforms you all were stuck in back at the laundry room. You try not to let it feel so much like a send off. 

Chuckie’s down by the jukebox, being her charming, bubbly self and hee-hawing loud enough to hear her from across the dance floor. Not two hours ago, she was sobbing into your arms about you leaving. Said she was so proud you were steppin’ up instead of fallin’ down the same hole what caught the rest of ‘em, and didn’t you know a girl like her can fit in a decent suitcase?

It’s amazing what just two lemon-sours can do. 

Iggie flags down the bartender for another tequila sunrise. You watch her, elegantly passing the bartender a bill between two slender fingers. 

“At least find a bucket,” She tells you. “We’re off the clock.” 

Iggie didn’t seem at all surprised when you told her the news. First thing she said was Don’t hit your ass with the door on your way out, but then she squeezed your arm and smiled through her own tears. Poor girl doesn’t mean a word she says. You always felt like she understood you the best. 

Difference is, you still haven’t cried. Should you have? You should, right?

You’ve been… numb, ever since you got out of Stanley’s car last night. What was there to say? It’s not like he even asked you what you were gonna do, just flipped out like you were rubbing it in his face. He made his mind up about what you thought, what you wanted, how you felt. You think those saucers behind his sideburns must have stopped working for all the ways your words went in through one big ear and out the other.

It’s almost funny. Like it never even crossed his mind to just ask you to stay.

You try and shake the thoughts of Stanley out of your head. Tonight isn’t about him. 

“I will when you find a shirt.” You say as you pop one of the buttons on Iggie’s tied up flannel top. “One wrong move and you’re gonna take one of my eyes out.” The girls are on display tonight. Chuckie’s old truck lot stories are suddenly all more vivid. 

She grins and swats your hand. “You’re just jealous. I got all the freedom in the world to be my beautiful self and you gotta go home and bounce on the same old dick.” Iggie pouts her lizard lips mockingly and squeezes your cheek. “Poor thing.”

“Yeah…” If only. 

You try to keep your little smirk up, but your cheeks already feel weak. You try to hide it by sipping your water. 

You feel like a stupid teenager again, clinging to the memory of a bad boyfriend-who’s-not-your-boyfriend holding you back from a scholarship out of Jersey. You didn’t really need any reasons to wanna ditch that clown, it was just an easy excuse. So why are you holding on to Stan so tightly? You shouldn’t. Let go, already.

“Not for long.” You say bitterly, but the words tangle on their way out from your hoarse throat. 

“What?” 

Iggie snaps so loud half the bar turns to look at you like you said her mom would make a better handbag. She leans into you, and kindly whispers this time. 

“Now what the hell do you mean by that? Don’t tell me you’re breaking it off with Man Meat?” 

Man meat. Oh, you wish he was just meat to you, that it didn’t hurt to see the sight of him weighing down his side of the bed, back to you, knowing you’re leaving. Not to mention, you gotta have something to break to actually break up.

You scoff in reply. “It’s not like we were ever really together.”

“What the hell’s that s’posed ta mean?” Chuckie’s attention has been caught and hogtied, much to the dismay of her little fan club back at the jukebox. She rushes to your side and leans in so close you can see one of her fake eyelashes falling free from its glue.

“You ‘n Stanley? Seriously? Don’t tell me you’re callin’ it quits! And for what? He jealous or somethin’?”

“I doubt it.” You shake your head and snag a lime from the behind the bar to suck on. “Rico just said I couldn’t take him with me, and just bringing it up to ‘im he totally flipped out! Swerved all over the road and yelled and pouted about me not needing him anymore.”  You laugh under your breath, even though the funniest thing about this all is how screwed you are. 

You mumble under your breath. “He’s probably just mad I’m leavin’ first—“

The hard smack you get on the back of your neck knocks your lime clear behind the bar top. Hopefully the bartender watches where he’s going. 

“Iggie!” Chuckie hollers. 

You hold your palm to the stinging skin and look to Iggie with bewilderment. “Fuck was that for?”

“Are yew fuckin’ stupid or you just like talkin’ like you are?” She leans in, narrowing her eyes. You haven’t thought about how sharp her teeth must be in a long time but you can see them, peeking out from behind her snarled lip. “You walk around with your head so far up your own ass, you don’t see anything outside ‘a you!”

You’ve never heard Iggie raise her voice like this before. And never against you or any of the other girls. 

“What’s your fucking problem?” You huff. You’d never consider raising your fist against any of them, but those two bright orange dinner-plates-for-eyes Iggie’s got are looking ripe for your fingers.

“What’s yours?” She points her hot-rod red claw into your chest and stands over you. “You got people who give a shit about you,— Me, Chuckie, the whole lot of us,—not everyone can say that, y’know! But we care! And all we wanna do is see you safe! Make sure you don’t run yourself to an early grave tryin’ to keep some bum motherfucker like Rico happy— and you treat us like a joke!”

“What the fuck are you talking about—“ You crack a bitter smile. “I do not treat y’all like a joke!” 

You almost laugh. All your vicious efforts trying to hold yourself together, take your weight off their shoulders and they want to wrestle it back? Hell, you’re only doing this for them! Would they change their tune if they knew?

“You think we’re too stupid to notice when you lie in our faces? Or are you—“ Iggie pushes her palm flat against your chest. “—Stupid enough to believe it yourself?”

You have to hold onto the bar to keep yourself from toppling sidelong off the stool. It feels like you’re stuck in the cheesiest day-time soap opera you’ve ever seen, except if you smack the nearest beer bottle over her head, it won’t be sugar glass. You don’t have a way out of this.

And you’re caught on all sides. 

Chuckie wraps a much kinder claw around your shoulder, shifting you back in place on your stool. Great. Now you can feel twice as shitty.

“Sweetheart… “ She starts in that twangy, honey-sweet tone. “It’s hard enough losin’ you as it is, but we thought it’d be alright ‘cause Stanley was goin’ with ‘n he just cares about ya so much. But alone…” Chuckie sucks in air and shakes her head, darting her eyes all over the surface of the bar. “It just ain’t safe.”

You scoff, like your eyes aren’t starting to water. You know Stanley cares, you do. Like a lion tamer cares about locking the cage at night. But you care too. That’s why you’re sneaking off with the keys, so when it all falls apart it’s on your shoulders. 

“What? Now I need your permission?”  You narrow your eyes. You’re louder than you mean to be, but vocal control isn’t your forte right now. “I can go alone. I’m not some stupid kid!” 

“You don’t gotta be a kid to act like such a jackass! Exhibit fuckin’ A!” Iggie horns in again. “It ain’t about permission, it’s about taking care of you—“

“I don’t need you to take care of me!” You cry.

The bar goes quiet. Just the croon of the speakers as suffocating heat crawls up your neck. You can look around to see if everyone can tell it was you flipping out at the bar, but they can. You can feel their eyes. 

“We know.” Chuckie says, humiliatingly calm in the face of your storm. “Don’t need anyone, right?”

You don’t move when Chuckie lets that venom seep into her voice. It’s like it paralyzes you. 

“You’ve made it real gosh darn clear what you think about us and our help. We get it. You can take care of yerself. Bully fer you.” She seethes. “But’cha ain’t bulletproof, sweetheart. And when yer drownin’ on your own, you ain’t any better than us just ‘cause you think yer too good to ask for a lifeline.” 

It does paralyze you, but you still feel the tears falling hot and thick down your cheeks.

To think you could ever stop kicking. Fighting against the cold pull of the water to drag you below. As if anyone else would be able to keep you afloat when your chest feels so heavy. Did Icarus cry out for help before he fell? 

“I—I know that.” You stammer. “I’m not stupid.” 

Aren’t you?

The more you say that, the less you believe it. Look at you, breaking down at a bar, like a child. You swipe under your eyes, more angry at your own tears than her words. Look what you’ve done now, made them worry about you.

You are stupid. And burdensome. And selfish. What’s that they said, that you think you’re above asking for help? 

In your head, if you didn’t really need it, you didn’t deserve it. If you can shoulder through by yourself, why shouldn’t you? You didn’t see yourself as above them. Never consciously, at least.

“I just wanted to take care of you.” You murmur. The irony isn’t lost on you.

“We know.” Chuckie repeats softly. She steps closer and brushes your tears away with a knuckle of her claw. “Yer smarter than that. Smarter’n all of us. And yer too smart to take that man fer his word ‘n go off alone with ‘im.”

“He makes a lotta promises,-“ She lowers her voice so the rest of the bar doesn’t hear and keeps her eyes locked on yours. “-And ain’t none of ‘em come through in earnest.” 

“You think he didn’t promise us things?” Iggie murmurs from behind you. “Say we’d have a whole goddamn town to ourselves? That we’d be safe from the fuckers who think they can toss us around to get off?”

She scoffs, but her ridged eyebrows curl low over her eyes, and she’s lost in thought staring into the stained wood of the bar. 

“Aint’cha ever wonder why Torie’s the last one of us ‘still got a tail?”

It’s not that you ever wanted to take Rico at his word. You don’t really take anyone at their word. But if you were going to listen to anything he said, it was his threats, explicit or not.

You sigh and run your fingers against your scalp, like you can comb your thoughts back into place.

“He said he’d hurt you.” You whisper. “All of you. And Stanley.” 

“Wouldn’t he anyways?” Iggie furrows her lip. “If not now, some other time. If not us, somebody else. He’s a bad man, honey. Don’t let him blame you for what he does.”

Chuckie curls her arms around Iggie’s shoulders, consoling her, and you notice the scarred stub peeking out from under her own pink lacy camisole. In those drab, shapeless uniforms, you’d never noticed. 

“If he’d never said that, about hurtin’ us, would you still go?” She asks. “Would you wanna work for him? Leave us ‘n Stanley behind?” 

“No.”

There’s no question about it. This is as close of a home as you’ve ever had, since way back before, when that white picket fence felt like a cage you had to free yourself from, before the whole damn thing could collapse on you. This is family. 

“Then don’t.”

Chuckie says that like it’s simple, as if you aren’t ripping out the only load bearing beam to uphold everything you’ve built. You know exactly what it would look like to say no now, the sight of those other discarded red heels from under the first bloodstained bed you cleaned at Che Flats still haunts your dreams. 

But it could always be. Rico could always hold something new over your head, some grand impossible task. There’s no need for a carrot when he’s got that whip snapping in your ear. 

All you really can do is run. 

Run straight to Stanley.

Stanley?

Either that’s him strolling up to bartender right now or your last drink is giving you the meanest beer goggles you’ve ever seen. 

Notes:

Just in case you missed it, Stanley POV Part Two

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of If you think you can save me (I dare you to try) - Hungry Heart Series