- Some candy
- A kiss on the cheek
- A hug
- A pie in the face
- Mouth-to-Mouth candy
- A jump scare
- A halloween date night out
- Scary movie night
- A kiss on the lips
- Your muse gets pantsed
- Your muse pantses mine
- Tickle fight
- Passionate kiss on the lips
- Bite mark
- Mun decides!
[Still here, still alive. My prolonged inactivity is merely due to the fact that I lack all initiative and the thought of asking someone to RP is terrifying, even after all this time.
I’m tagging this with various things in the hope that perhaps someone out there in ye old RPing community will decide that I’m worthy of their time and their beautiful words.]
Clint raised an eyebrow at her sudden need for a false name to hide behind, but then he reminded himself that she was on the run. Shaking his head, he told her “I don’t have any painkillers, but.” He unzipped his duffle bag and pulled the neck of a bottle of whiskey (half-drunk) out of his bag to show her before tucking it back in. “I have that and sweetheart you look like you could use it.” he smirked at her and went back to antagonizing the poor teen at the counter, barking orders at him and giving him an unimpressed look when he finally held up two keys for the same room.
There was only one available and Clint shrugged at that. He could always sleep on the floor if there was only one bed. As long as there was a roof over his head, because as he looked out the window it looked that rain was almost certain. The kid showed them to the room, fighting with the door before Clint got fed up and did it himself, jerking the door open with a gruff professionalism. The room was just as B-Movie Horror Film as the lobby had been. The floors creaked slightly, the fixtures were covered in a slight grimy rust, hard water stains and scum in the tub and sinks. Cobwebs covered the walls, there was a heavy stench of cigarette smoke and something Clint was pretty sure was urine in the air. The walls were thin, he could detect the sounds of someone turning a trick in a room somewhere to the left. He gave a click of his tongue in disgust and threw his bag to the ground next to the door. “Like I said before.” he said to Allison. “Fucking five stars, this place is.” he closed the door on the kid, letting him get back to his nap at the desk, and observed the room.
When she gave it some thought, Alison decided that a strong drink would likely suit her better in the current predicament, though she had never been a drinker of the sorts. Her smile of gratitude had lingered as Clint gave his commands like the soldier he was, and she may have held more sympathy for the boy behind the desk had it not been so long since she had last slept. Apparently, exhaustion rendered her void of most kindliness toward strangers, though Clint had seemingly been an exception thus far, given that she was agreeing to share a room with him for the night.
The room, rather unfortunately, lived up to the standards of the lobby and no further, which did absolutely nothing for her state of mind. It was all she could do to blink tiredly around the indecent space as she cast her bag aside. Perhaps she could have maintained the pretence that the room was not quite so bad as one might initially think, had the stench not percolated in her direction several moments after crossing the threshold.
Her eyes widened and lips tightened reflexively, before a heavy pink flooded to her cheeks upon hearing the activities of the guests next door. At this rate, she would not be getting much sleep tonight, either.
"I’ve seen jail cells homier than this," she told him, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and jumping immediately back up in alarm when the springs screeched. "You know what, my good man? I’ll take the floor. I’m a restless sleeper, and that noise is ungodly."
He laughed at the kitten comment, but hoped that she hadn’t had experience in that area.
“Yes, well. I do have to say that I’m not very fond of dogs. I do have two children, though one is grown now.” He flicked his hand, “Though he shouldn’t be. That’s also a long story.”
"Ah, the old ‘aging too much too soon’ quandary? Or is it just a parent thing? You’re not allowed to grow up because you’re my child.”
Alison shrugged her shoulders absently and offered him a look which was halfway between apologetic and sheepish. “Of course, I don’t know anything. I’m not a mother, and likely never will be.”
Clint glanced over at the women as well, a low flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks as he too slung his bag over his shoulder and handed something to the waitress. He offered quietly to help her with the dishes, but was instead shooed out. He found himself back in the cool night air, and automatically looked up at the stars with a satisfied sigh. Then, looking to his side, he smiled at his newfound traveling companion. “Alright, let’s move out.” He said. Thinking about it as he moved down the road to the motel he realized how very military it had sounded, even a tinge of his old commanding bark in it, though that was well hidden behind the self-teasing.
The soldier sighed, this time less satisfied, as he saw the hotel. It wasn’t very nice of a hotel, but it would do. Like he said, he had slept in worse places. A bus in Israel had been a particularly thrilling experience, as had been the time his men had thought it would be funny to dump him on a pile of fire ants. He hadn’t woken up. Opening the door to the hotel and rousing the greasy haired teen that was ‘manning’ the front desk, he went about getting a hotel room, though the service was unbearably slow, and the kid didn’t really even know how to do his job. Leaning on the counter, Clint rolled his eyes in the direction of Alison. “Best damn service in Tennessee.” He drawled sarcastically, as the kid fumbled about.
Alison squinted around what she believed was supposed to serve as the front lobby, eyes roaming and halting every so often upon dusty and decrepit artefacts that may have once been sofas and potted plants in their prime. Unfortunately, any attempt for homeliness or comfort had been entirely wasted on the place, and it looked more like an ironic set of a horror film. No matter, she decided to ignore the scarce amenities she was certain it had to offer, and cast a bright smile in the direction of the adolescent behind the desk.
She barely suppressed a chuckle at Clint’s words, opting for a quick bow of her head to hide the grin tugging at her lips. Alison was typically in no position to be questioning the competence of others, but it a long while had passed since she had last been graced with a good laugh.
A sober look crossed her face when she was asked for her name, and she spared a hasty sideways glance toward Clint before replying, “Evelyn. Evelyn … Evans.”
No two seconds later had she closed her eyes in disbelief at her own lack of creativity, rubbing her temples to be rid of an ache that was not there; it was in spite of this that she asked Clint, “I don’t suppose you happen to be carrying any painkillers, do you?”
He shook his head a little. “Oh, no. She left because she was insane and ran off with our ex-boyfriend.” He shrugged his shoulders, “It was a bit of a mess.” He nodded as she explained, “I see. It does seem mutual. However, I could not go without human companionship.”
"I’d say a little less messy, a little more kittens in a tumble-dryer." She paused, thoughtful, then asked, "I’d imagine that maintaining amiable contact with an ex would be difficult enough without, you know, a third party."
With an idle shrug of her shoulders, she gave a sigh. “Well, there are plenty of wonderful substitutes. You could get a dog. They’re basically hairy humans on four legs, but without the deception. And they wag their tails when they’re happy. Humans just wag their tongues.”
That wasn’t creepy. At all. Clint’s face showed that he was slightly perturbed not really by her answer, but more the way she had delivered the almost grave statement. When she went on to say she hadn’t killed anyone he simply raised an eyebrow at her.
He let her speak her piece, knowing he wouldn’t get anything other than what she decided to tell him out of her. He wasn’t one to pry, really, just get a general feel for whoever he was talking to. He calmly ate the last of his meal, already done with it, and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, one leg over the other, a scrutinizing gaze trained on the girl.
“Well whatever the fuck you did it must have been twisted, sister.” He said bluntly after a long, pregnant silence. “But I think the hotel will be alright. Never been one I can’t handle.” He’d lived in the Middle East for 10 years, often on cots with bugs swarming around him. He’d learnt to camp with the creepy crawlies when he was only a lad, not even five yet. Bugs didn’t bother him. Except centipeds. Those things were creepy as all hell. “When you’re done we’ll go over.” he smiled. “Can’t have any Pulp Fiction shit happen to a pretty lady such as yourself.” he yawned.
Alison gave a derisive snort and continued to drink her coffee. Whilst she was in no position to argue that she was anything other than mayhap a trifle twisted, it seemed to her that the “Pulp Fiction shit” had already begun with the chase around Manhattan. It was the single time in her life when she had even been remotely pleased to be surrounded by such a large amalgamation of people; one as small as she was could make a quick escape.
Upon drinking down the last of the coffee she returned her attention to the sandwich, then halted when she caught sight of the waitress who had allowed them in, glaring at them from behind the counter and tapping her watch impatiently. A feeling of guilt turned in her stomach, as she realised that the woman would likely be in trouble with the manager for serving them after closing hours.
"I can finish this on the way," she told Clint, standing to her feet. "It would appear that we’ve overstayed our welcome." Collecting her belongings from the floor, she cast an apologetic look over to the waitress. "Thank you. Here’s a—ah—tip for your trouble.”
Thereafter she headed for the door, and waited for Clint to join her.
Clint noticed her blush, and realized how blunt his last statement had been, and how that might effect a girl traveling alone. Sometimes he simply didn’t think that what he said could actually effect people. The soldier looked away uncomfortably as she spoke, his face emotionless enough that it didn’t actually show his embarrassment except for perhaps a low flush. Hopefully she would take that as the coffee heating him up.
Her words didn’t make sense to him at first. She hadn’t planned well? Clint himself didn’t actually plan, just showed up with his passport, military ID, and his duffle bag and picked an arbitrary destination. Yet the way she explained it…it sounded like she had left in a hurry. Running away from something. Or someone, he couldn’t rule out some sort of failed relationship or the police. He knew nothing of the woman across from him. Swallowing, he asked “You ran away?”
He watched her cough, taking another large bite of sandwich, and nodded his emphatic agreement. Knowing she probably didn’t want to see a mouth full of masticated food-stuffs, he waited a moment before adding with a smile “Hope they have two. My car’s several states away.”
Alison pondered a reply for several moments, unable to muster words which would perhaps serve as both beguiling and truthful; it seemed impossible, and she was certain that no oxymoron would scrape past the observations of a soldier, for as tired as he appeared, he was undoubtedly attentive in each and every waking state. Instead, she offered him a smile — a smile to preach a bright and amiable innocence in light of what she was going to say.
"When one makes a grave error of judgement," she began, "one must sometimes do their best to avoid any austere consequences."
It all sounded very sinister, in fact, made only more so by the smile she dearly hoped would not unsettle the man opposite her. So as not to risk fostering any other potential belief that Alison was deluded or homicidal, she amended, “For the record, I didn’t kill anyone. Nonetheless, I would very much appreciate some discretion on your part. If you are ever approached by anyone who happens to look as though they’ve just stepped out of a Tarantino film, I wouldn’t recommend that you say anything about Alison Munro, should they ask.”
She paused, taking a few solid bites out of her sandwich before looking back up at Clint with a small smile, and saying, “I do hope this motel is a sight better than the last I had to stay in. There are only so many cockroaches you can have crawling on the bathroom floor before you begin to question the credibility of the last health inspector to visit the place.”