The convention. (The Corinthian x Reader)
Warnings: Implied bad ending for reader
Summary: Working at a hotel during a Serial Killer convention turns out about as well as you'd expect.
Note: Wrote this before Sandman S2.
Georgia was cooler this time of year, light breezes beginning to seep in right as the summer months melted into fall, and October began to rear its head. You’d been picking up extra shifts at the Royal Empire Hotel, knowing slow season would start in November, and well, some extra money in your pocket couldn’t hurt.
Working the reception hadn’t been the worst job you’d ever had, not by a long shot, and the hotel itself was clean, pretty nice, and only a 15-minute drive from your childhood home. You were one of the employees living closest to the hotel, by a long shot, so when your manager called, asking for extra help, you gladly obliged. Nothing seemed wrong when you pulled into the parking lot for work that morning and saw the banner on the awning. “Welcome Cereal Convention,” it read, and you’d shrugged, pushing through the heavy glass door, beelining to clock in at the front desk.
The convention-goers were odd, you’d initially thought, but never mind. The hotel usually attracted a slightly seedier crowd, despite being nice as far as hotels in the middle of nowhere go, be it cheating husbands sneaking around with their (much) younger mistress or travelling “salesmen” with burner phones and fake names, you knew to only ask for a name and proof of reservation. You weren’t in the business of asking questions, or learning more than you’d like about the guests.
When the guests for the Cereal Convention began to check in, you knew this would be one of your odder shifts, but you put on your uniform, with a pretty little patterned scarf tied neatly around your neck, and smiled at the guests. “H-hi,” the first guest had mumbled, only able to look at you in short lapses before shooting her gaze to the floor or the faux greenery surrounding the entrance. “The room’s under the name Mar-... I mean, Serpent Sister.”
You hadn’t commented on the odd name or cared for the most part, only checking your log, handing her a nametag, and the key to room 304. As the hotel filled up, all the guests seemed to have quirks and odd reservation names. But the thing that had stuck out most of all was how they talked with each other, in your overheard conversations. Two guests had been lounging on the faded plush couch next to the first conference room, making the strangest allusions. “Have you been to the new bakery on 8th street?” The first had begun, adjusting his small-framed glasses off the edge of his nose. “I’d kill to try their soufflé again for the first time.” The other had disagreed, shaking his head in fast, sharp motions. “No, no, no, I wouldn’t be caught dead there.”
The day had continued like this, guest after guest, and you’d been eager for the second you could go on break. The line to your desk was long, and you’d had a lot of customers waiting to check in. You hadn’t had time to properly look at the guests much, or process the small talk they’d attempted to make with you, until someone, a few guests behind, caught your eye. Waiting in line, just like everyone else, he sported a tan suit, white button-down, and darkened sunglasses. Well-groomed, blonde hair, attractive. Sure, he had a swagger about him, but there was something else you liked a little better. There was an air about him, something slightly off. Something that made your heart pound a little, and shiver, danger. And to you, that made him all the more attractive.
Standing at about 6 foot 1, the blonde leaned over to rest his elbows on the counter and smiled at you, revealing a dazzling set of teeth. ‘Well, hello there,” He said slowly, with a tinge of a southern drawl. Making eye contact with this beautiful stranger, you blush and look down for force of habit. “Checking in?” You’d asked, forcing yourself to provide some semblance of good customer service. Get a grip, you hissed at yourself. “Yes,” The blonde replied, shielded gaze under the sunglasses still seemingly fixed on you. “What’s the name on your room?” You asked, forcing yourself back to an air of indifference. There’d been plenty of good-looking guests in the past, but you knew they always came with some sort of unresolved baggage or skeletons in their closet. That’s what you could say about the single ones, at least.
Besides, no guest was worth endangering your job, no matter how handsome or charismatic they were. “Name should be, The Corinthian,” The man said in that oh so charming accent. Turning around to grab his key and name tag, you felt a soft tap on your shoulder, and quickly turned around to face that soft grin again. “Now,” The Corinthan said, “I don’t want to hold this line up too much, but I was wondering, sugar, what your name is.”
Internally reminding yourself that you shouldn’t let this go on too long with a guest, you gave a quick smile and pointed to the nametag pinned on your chest. “Mmm,” The Corinthian responded, wetting his lips. “Well, …..” The use of your name in his mouth sent a little tingle down your spine. “I hear the hotel bar’s open pretty late. Would’ya like to join me for a drink there later tonight?” You winced a little internally, knowing you’d have to turn him down. “Or,” He mused, seemingly picking up on your discomfort. “If you’d rather get out of this hotel, I can find you later tonight. We’ll go on a drive and talk somewhere a little quieter.”
You gave him your nicest, most polite customer service smile and shook your head. “I really shouldn’t be interacting with guests in that way, sorry.” Your answer didn’t seem to faze the blonde in the slightest, and he kept that little smile dancing on his lips. “I’ll see you at 11pm. Parking lot.”
You’d never know what possessed you that night. What made you pack up your work bag a little early, why did you put on some of that old red lipstick you’d had forever, rolling around in the bottom of your purse? God, what was wrong with you? Whatever it was, there you were, as the old clock facing the receptionist desk hit 11, rushing out the door, and sitting on the curb of the lot. At 11:02 pm, a beautiful blue vintage car rolls up right next to you, and in it, that dazzling man, still in the same fitted tan suit.
“Well, hello again,” He greets you, door to the car flinging open. “Come on in, sweetheart. I won’t bite too hard.” You give a small wary smile and enter the vehicle, unaware of the night of horrors soon to follow you. The door clicks behind you, and you won’t remember shutting it.
