#Trucker Cap Custom | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

littlenightma · 10 months

Text

Warm Hands | Rusty Nail x Female!Reader | Part 1

Author’s Note: This man has me giggling and kicking my feet. Thank you @peyton-peyton for the recommendation because I am obsessed. By the way, I know my requests are closed (I have quite the backlog) but if anyone wants to send me any headcanon requests regarding Rusty, feel free to. I can’t get enough of this man 💕

Warning Tags: Older man/younger woman, size difference, possessive behavior, dubious consent, smitten at first sight, Rusty is doting on reader, and a lot of smut (in part 2).

Winter had finally settled in your small town. A fine layer of frosty snow blanketed the ground, keeping most off the roads and inside their homes, tucked safe and sound in their beds.

The convenience store parking lot was vacant besides a few stray cars, most likely belonging to the store workers, and a black Peterbilt truck. With the exception of a light post flickering noisily above you, the world was quiet.

The door ringed when you entered, announcing to the cashier, who was currently reading a magazine, that a customer was here. You politely nodded as you quickly pass, skimming past a man idling by the lighter display.

Knowing the store by heart, you had gathered what you wanted in less than a minute. You took your place behind the man where you realized just how tall he was because you barely came up past the middle of his back.

Geez, dude, what the hell did your mother feed you when you were a kid?

Must have been the owner of the Peterbilt. His attire screamed trucker with his thick, brown coat, worn jeans, and work boots. Curling just beneath his dirty baseball cap was dark, graying hair.

“Pack of Malborros too.”

The deep baritone caused a chill to go down your spine. You hummed it out, shaking your head to keep your thoughts from straying. He pulled out a black wallet attached to a long, silver chain that hung from his hips. Grabbing his lighter and smokes, he gruffly thanked the worker and headed for the door.

Beneath the glow of the store’s fluorescent lights his ruggedly handsome features weren’t able to hide the strong jaw covered in stubble, plush lips set in a grim frown, or baby blue eyes that reflected just how tired he was.

He walked by you to the front door and you sucked in a breath when his hand lightly brushed yours, sending an electric shock to your heart that felt like it had stopped beating. So subtle, the contact, yet it left your mind reeling. Both you and the cashier watched him walk to his truck. While she couldn’t tear her eyes off his ass, you couldn’t keep your eyes off his hand.

She made a noise. “He sure was a tall drink of water.”

You blinked. “Oh, yeah, I guess.”

She inclined her head. “You know he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

Even though you rolled your eyes, your heart skipped a beat. “Stop it.”

She scanned your drink, eyes bulging. “I’m serious!”

“I was only up here for two seconds.”

“Baby, he had his eyes locked on you the moment you stepped through the door. You’ll be lucky to make it out of the parking lot without him nippin’ at your heels.”

He’ll be long gone.

You glanced out the display window. His truck was still there.

Or not.

She finished scanning the rest of your things. “Fine, don’t believe me. But I’ve been around the block a few times. I know when a man wants a woman.” She slipped the receipt into the bag and slid it across the counter.

“Prepare to be disappointed.”

She smirked and winked. “Have a nice night, sweetheart.”

The wintry air nipped at your nose. You shivered and stuffed your hands in the pockets of your jacket. The truck camouflaged perfectly against the black night. The light post that still flickered illuminated just enough where you could see inside. The trucker sat hunched over in the driver’s seat with a lit cigarette dangling loosely out his mouth.

You had to pass the truck to get to your car. Sucking in a long breath to calm your nerves, you slowly walked to your car. As you came closer, the driver’s side window slowly winded down.

His deep voice pierced the silence like a freshly sharpened knife, “It isn’t safe for a young woman to be out here by herself.”

Your heart thumped loudly in your ears. “Why do you think I’m alone?”

“I’d hate to think any man would allow their lady to walk themselves to their car in the middle of the night.” He took the cigarette out of his mouth, cushioning it between two fingers. “I know I wouldn’t allow mine to.”

The way he elongated the word mine was not missed and neither did was the way he peered down at you from beneath his hat, watching your reaction. Your cheeks felt warmer than the rest of your body and you knew you must have been blushing from the attention he was giving you.

“Maybe I have a shitty boyfriend?”

“Would be quite the shame. Pretty thing like you deserves someone who will treat her right.”

It was a good thing you weren’t made of snow because you were melting beneath his scorching stare and flirtatious words.

Stop it. Tell him you have a boyfriend.

Your mouth betrayed your thoughts, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He took a long drag, inhaling deeply, the corner of his lips curling. “Good, means I don’t have to teach the boy a lesson about respecting his woman.”

He tapped the end of the cigarette out the window. Ash fell onto the ground causing small, random holes to form, ruining the undisturbed beauty of the freshly fallen snow.

“I don’t often do this, but it would be nice to have some company for the night.”

And there it was. Part of you knew this is where the conversation was heading. Truckers stayed on the road for days, even weeks at a time, usually without anyone to talk to except for other haulers. It wasn’t unheard of for them to pick up a woman along the way, but you weren’t looking for a one night stand.

“I’m sorry but I need to get home before the storm gets worse. Have a nice night.”

The cigarette bounced between his pink lips, lips that looked so kissable that it was a crime that the next words that came out of them froze you worse than the chilly night. He blew out a puff of smoke before dousing out what was left of the tobacco end. He flicked it off somewhere in the distance and his gaze then settled back on you.

“That wasn’t exactly a suggestion, little one.”

“What?” You stepped back. “Look, whatever you’re looking for, you’re not going to find it with me. Like I said, I need to get home.”

He chuckled low. “You won’t make it far, believe me.”

You shook your head, not believing this was happening. “There are plenty of women who will happily make your night.”

He sighed heavily and hopped out of the truck. “Don’t make me have to ask again. I hate repeatin’ myself.”

The ice made it difficult to move quickly without skidding and he grabbed you before you could move out of his reach. Not hard, not roughly, just enough to keep a hold of you. He pulled you around and opened the cab’s passenger door, waiting for you to climb the steps.

“I ain’t going to hurt ya, darlin’. Get on up there.”

Even though his words were reassuring like the large hands resting on your shoulders, he had you caged between the truck cab and his body. He nudged you up the steps, following closely behind until you were settled in the passenger seat. The cab rattled and so did your nerves when he slammed the door shut. As he walked around the front, you pulled the door handle.

It was locked.

#rusty nail #rusty nail x reader #slasher community #slasher x reader #mark gibbon #joy ride 2 #joy ride 2: dead ahead (2008)#rusty nail the trucker

275 notes · View notes

cakesunflower · 6 months

Text

lovelorn (and nobody knows) [rafe cameron au fic] chapter 2

Summary: Isla Carrera had planned for the summer before college to be focused on three things: helping out at her family’s restaurant (the helpful daughter), preparing for college (the good student), and having fun with the Pogues (the loyal friend). But one fateful night, where her car breaks down and her rescuer is none other than Rafe Cameron, seems to send her summer down a path she didn’t see coming–one teeming with a secret, illicit romance with the last person she expected. And if her friends and sister found out, Isla isn’t sure they’ll be so understanding, no matter what her feelings are.

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The Saturday afternoon lunch rush keeps Isla on her toes, weaving around tables and balancing trays of plates and glasses as she serves those seated in her section. The weather is beautiful out, so lots of customers snagged tables in the outdoor section, the air a delightful scent of salt and wood. Music plays through the speakers of the restaurant, but it’s drowned out by the constant chatter and clinking of utensils.

“Want a refill on that Dr. Pepper, Charlie?” Isla asks one of their regulars, an older man who always dons the same Budweiser trucker cap.

He gives her a kind smile, looking up from his sudoku book. “I’d appreciate that, Isla.”

She grins at him as she picks up the last of the dirty plates from a nearby table, piling them on the tray before carrying it over towards the kitchen window, dropping them off so they can be taken care of. Isla makes quick work of getting Charlie a fresh glass of his soda before going around the counter where Kie is putting in an order in one of the monitors. Before Isla can get started on the other one, the kitchen bell rings.

“Order for pickup!” comes Earl’s shout, and Isla turns to grab the paper bag to put it on the table behind the counter designated for pickup orders.

When she goes to the other monitor to put in the order for table seventeen, Kie says from her left, “The guys are planning a party tonight at the Boneyard.”

Isla cracks a smile, unsurprised by this. As summer rolls around, she knows they’re in for a lot of parties and boat days. “Any special occasion for this one?”

Isla can sense Kie’s hesitation, and when she glances at her sister—younger than Isla by eleven months—she sees Kie pressing her lips together before meeting Isla’s gaze. “JJ’s dad’s in jail again.”

Isla’s eyes widen, jaw dropping. Luke Maybank getting arrested is never new news, but Isla knows every time he gets out, he takes out his anger on JJ. Her best friend is too prideful to talk about it, but she doesn’t miss the bruises, the cuts. Neither do the others. But JJ isn’t the talkative type, so they show their support in other ways. Always.

“What the hell did he do now?” Isla asks, frustration coloring her voice. If there’s one person in this world she hates, it’s JJ’s dad, simply because of the abuse he inflicts on his son. It’s why JJ always stays at John B’s, whether his dad is in jail or not.

“Drunk and disorderly and resisting arrest,” Kie answers with a roll of her eyes. But Isla doesn’t miss her sister’s own anger, sees it in the way Kie clenches her jaw. And why wouldn’t she? JJ is one of her best friends, and if there’s one thing Isla loves about her sister, it’s Kie’s fierce loyalty to the people she loves, her protectiveness over them. Especially where JJ is concerned. Their whole group keeps an extra eye on the blonde, whether he likes it or not. “I think he might be in for six months this time.”

Isla’s eyebrows shoot up, pausing in her work to look at her sister. “Seriously?” She whistles. “That’s his longest stint in a while, isn’t it? Is JJ gonna crash at the chateau?”

Kie nods. “He’s playing it off like he doesn’t care, but I know he’s sick of his dad’s shit.”

Nodding, Isla huffs out a breath. “Yeah, we all are.”

“Yeah.” Kie also lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I just want—oh, what the hell is he doing here?”

Isla glances at Kie, but her sister is looking past her, towards the front door of the restaurant over Isla’s shoulder. Kie’s features are hard as stone, dark eyes blazing with a kind of contempt and anger she saves for a select few people. Her jaw works, and Isla turns her head towards the door to see who she’s looking at—only for her to feel her stomach drop at the sight of Rafe strolling towards them.

He’s in a dark green, short sleeve collared shirt and navy blue cargo shorts that his hands are shoved into the pockets of. Isla presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth because his gaze seems to find hers instantly even in the crowded restaurant, muscles tightening until she straightens where she’s standing. Something stirs in the air as he draws near, his walk infuriatingly confident, and then he has the gall to smirk as he reaches the counter, standing on the opposite side in the space between where Isla and Kie stand.

“Kie,” Rafe greets, leaning forward with his arms resting on the counter, looking up at them with bright blue eyes. Kiara doesn’t say anything in response, her expression practically a sneer, but Rafe pays her no mind as his gaze shifts to the older Carrera. “Isla.”

Maybe she’s crazy, but she swears he says her name differently. As if it’s a secret shared between them. It sends a tickle down her spine she doesn’t dare to acknowledge. The crowd of the restaurant can’t be held accountable for the heat that spreads across Isla’s skin. Damn it.

“What do you want?” Kie demands, her tone unfriendly as always, where Rafe is concerned.

And, as always, he isn’t deterred by her tone. He shoots her an easy smirk and says, “Picking up my order.”

Exhaling sharply through her nose, Isla turns towards the trolley behind her, reaching for the bag Earl had handed over. Reading the name on the receipt, Isla confirms it’s Rafe’s, already paid for, and turns back to the counter, placing it in front of him. “Thanks,” he says with a too friendly grin as he straightens, reaching for the bag. His eyes then meet Isla’s and he arches an eyebrow. “You get your car fixed?”

Isla’s eyes widen slightly at his question, especially when she feels Kie’s gaze suddenly on her, hot and questioning. But she doesn’t dare meet her sister’s stare, and instead glares at Rafe. She sees that glint of mischief in his eyes, deliberate in his question in front of Kie, and Isla has to resist the urge to grab his bag of food and hit him with it.

Isla’s fingers curl into her palms as her hands rest on the counter, bracing herself, though she’s trying not to lose it because by Rafe asking that one question, she knows she’s in for a lot more from Kie.

“Uh, yeah, it’s in the shop,” Isla answers stiltedly, throat tightening. “Should be good as new.”

Rafe’s smirk is antagonizing but attractive at the same time, and she wonders if she would’ve thought that before last night. Hell, it’s concerning that she’s thinking about it again now. This is the same guy her friends hate, who hates her and her friends, who has gotten into more than a few fist fights with her boys. Isla is pretty sure just thinking that Rafe Cameron is handsome is a betrayal to the Pogues.

“Good,” Rafe says with a dip of his chin, grabbing the top of the brown paper bag as he smoothly pushes away from the counter. He winks at her, then, and says, “One night of playing hero was enough for me,” before turning while grabbing his sunglasses that hang from the neckline of his shirt, putting them on as he heads out of the restaurant.

Isla clenches her jaw as she watches him go, because she knows he knows he just opened a can of worms in front of Kie and left Isla to deal with it by herself. Because, no doubt, as soon as he’s walking away, Kie is stepping up next to her with a hand on her hip and a demanding, “What the hell was that about?”

While Isla is older, Kie is the taller one, having a good four inches on Isla with her five-foot-nine height. So Kie stares down at her, eyebrow raises and a determined look on her face that tells Isla she won’t be dropping it until she gets the answers she wants. “Um—”

“How’d he know about your car?” she pushes, brown eyes searching Isla’s.

Isla had told her about her car breaking down last night, having no choice but to confess because one, Kie noticed her car wasn’t in the driveway and two, Isla needed a ride to work this morning. But Isla had told her and their parents the same thing—that the car broke down, and she stayed in it until an Uber showed up to pick her up. She completely omitted the part about those two creepy guys, and her running away and right into Rafe’s arms—literally.

It seems, though, her evasion of the truth was for nothing, all thanks to Rafe. What a dick.

Kie’s questioning gaze is incessant and makes Isla’s body tighten with anxiety, until she finally drops her shoulders and throws her head back in defeat. “Okay, fuck, fine, but you can’t tell Mom and Dad,” Isla says hastily, turning to her sister. The busy restaurant seems to be on the back burner for now.

Kie looks even more confused. “Can’t tell Mom and Dad what?”

Nervously tightening her ponytail, Isla quickly tells Kie about last night’s events. About the car breaking down, those guys pulling up, pepper spraying one of them and making a run for it until she ran into Rafe and he, surprisingly, helped her out by giving her a lift home instead of having Isla wait for a ride. Kie’s expressions go from confused, to horrified, to bewildered and freaked out all at the right times, her jaw dropping lower and lower by the time Isla finishes her story.

When Kie doesn’t say anything right away, Isla blows out a breath. “Just—don’t tell Mom and Dad about those freaks, okay? And don’t tell the others about Rafe. They’d all try to skin me alive.” With a one shouldered shrug, Isla adds, “Except maybe Sarah.”

Kie is shaking her head, lips parted. “I’m sorry, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Rafe Cameron actually helped you.”

A dry chuckle escapes Isla. “Yeah, you and me both. But, you know—” She spots the hostess, Lara, seating someone in her section. “It was a one time thing. Wrong place, wrong time type thing,” she says with a laugh, though it sounds forced even to her own ears because despite the weirdness of it all, Isla is grateful to Rafe for helping her last night. Despite what she said, she hadn’t really wanted to stick around and wait for an Uber, or her friends or dad to pick her up. She wanted to be out of there as soon as possible, and Rafe had been the most viable option.

Before Isla can respond, Kie scoffs and adds with a roll of her eyes, “Of course, he’s gonna be a smug asshole about it, too.”

Isla snorts. “Are we surprised?” she says as she walks around the counter. “I’ve got a table.”

The rest of her shift goes by uneventfully, though Isla can admit that she feels like some weight has shifted off her shoulders after telling Kie about last night. The two of them tell each other everything, so NOT telling her, though for good reason, felt like a huge weight had landed on her shoulders. Now that she knows, some of it is off, though Isla knows the rest is because of the truth hidden from her friends. And while Kie’s reaction was far more understated than Isla had feared, she knows the same can’t be said for her friends.

Pogues don’t keep secrets from each other, but this might have to be an exception.

******

The Boneyard is a mixed crowd, as it almost always is whenever there’s a party thrown here. Music pumps through the night, accompanying the water crashing along the shore and continuous chatter from everyone gathered. The weather is perfect, and the knitted cropped top Isla wears over her bikini top keeps her comfortable as she sips her second beer of the night. JJ has been nice enough to let her sip from his flask, the vodka a sharp lingering taste in the back of her throat as she tosses the ping pong ball, high-fiving Cleo when it lands in a cup.

“You’re gettin’ smoked,” Cleo laughs at Pope and Kie on the other end of the table. “I thought you were gonna make it challenging for us!”

“Alright, alright, stop the celebration. You haven’t won yet,” Pope calls back before turning to his partner. “Come on, Kie, you got this.”

Kie holds up her free hand to silence Pope, her dark eyes fixated on the table between them. “Don’t pressure me.”

Pope holds up his hands in defense, but his dark, keen eyes watch the scene before him. Isla just knows his razor sharp brain is calculating the physics of it all as Kie prepares to do her throw. Unfortunately for her, the ball bounces off the rim of one of the cups, glaring at Isla and Cleo without any real heat when they cheer at her expense. Pope simply laces his fingers behind his head as he shakes it, pursing his lips in disappointment as Kie flips him off.

As Cleo does her turn, Isla sways her hips side to side to the bear of the music, arms crossed as she sips her beer. Her gaze wanders around the party, taking in the plenty of familiar faces that surround her, as well as ones she doesn’t know but figures are the kids from families who are staying in Outer Banks for the summer. Other than them, Pogues and Kooks alike are spread out around the Boneyard; some mingling, others keeping to their friend groups. It’s always been like that, really.

There are a few bonfires lit up, the smell of smoke mixing with the salty air in a combination that tickles Isla’s nose with familiarity. She spots JJ sitting on one of the logs by one of the fires, animated in whatever story he’s telling to the group of people entranced by him. But she also notes how he keeps glancing in this general direction, and Isla knows exactly who he’s looking at. She smiles into her next sip of beer, subtly shaking her head to herself and wishing that JJ and her sister would just get out of this limbo they’re stuck in and finally get together.

The beer pong game ends with Isla and Cleo winning, the two high fiving as they shift over to let the next group play. Peering into her cup and the remaining drink inside, Isla tells her friends. “I’m almost out. Gonna head to the bathroom and get another.”

They nod their acknowledgements before Isla turns and wanders off. She’s not that drunk, but she smiles at anyone who calls out to her as she heads to the edge of the party where a row of three porta-potties are lined up. Isla hates using them—drunk people are so disgustingly messy—but when you gotta go, you gotta go.

She uses the toilet quickly and carefully, but it’s not until she’s exiting the bathroom that Isla ends up bumping into someone. A gasp rips through her when the remaining contents of her drink spill on her white crocheted top. Isla freezes, staring down at the beer stained top in shock; not a lot of her drink remained, but enough had been in the cup to dirty the middle of her top, cringing at the stickiness of the beer clinging to her skin as well.

“Oh, fuck.” Her gaze snaps up and the shock only intensifies into disbelief at the sight of Rafe standing before her, staring at her with guilt surprisingly swimming in his blue eyes.

A sharp breath escapes Isla, her shoulders tense as she gapes at him. “Seriously?” she demands, pinching the front of the damp top and pulling it away from her wet skin.

His guilt melts into annoyance, eyebrows pulling together as he tells her, “Excuse me, but you’re the one who bumped into me—again.”

Isla knows he’s right, but she can’t bring herself to care at this moment. Why him, of all people, to bump into twice in as many days? “Thank you for the recount,” Isla huffs, flapping her top in a feeble attempt to dry it. “And thank you for completely soaking my top.”

Rafe purses his lips as Isla turns back into the bathroom and rips off some toilet paper, soaking it in the sink before stepping back out and trying to clean the beer off of her skin, at least. The top needs to be washed and hopefully that’ll get the stain out, but Isla can’t stand the sticky sensation of her skin.

She can feel the weight of Rafe’s gaze on her as she slides her hand under her top and wipes at her chest and stomach, her black bikini top peeking through the holes of her knitted top. Heat pools in her cheeks and she tells herself it’s from annoyance rather than anything else, letting out a quiet huff as she balls up the tissue paper because although she’s not sticky anymore, she isn’t entirely keen on walking around with a stained top, even if others will be too drunk to notice. Or care.

When she looks back at Rafe, Isla blinks in bewilderment as she watches him unbuttoning the plaid button down he’s got on, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Uh,” she drags the word out, and the heat in her skin only intensifies when her gaze locks in on his fingers deftly undoing the buttons, the gold ring on his index finger glinting against the light of the bathroom behind her. “What are you doing?”

Isla’s lips part when Rafe completely unbuttons the shirt, leaving him in a white tank underneath that proudly shows off muscular biceps as he shrugs off the button down and holds it out to her. “Wear this.”

She blinks. “What?”

Rafe cocks an eyebrow while Isla stares at him, no longer even registering the party behind him and instead looking back and forth between him and the shirt he’s holding out to her. Did she hit her head? What is happening? “You wanna walk around with a stained shit? Be my guest. Figured I’d give you a cleaner and drier option.”

This is so weird, and her extreme confusion pushes her to ask, “What are you even doing here?”

Rafe rarely shows up to the Boneyard parties. Unlike the other Kooks who make an appearance, Isla and her friends always figured Rafe thought he was too good to be seen here. The Kook prince liked to throw ragers at his own place, so why bother coming out all the way here?

If Rafe is surprised or bothered by her question, he doesn’t show it. “Top dragged me against my will. Now are you gonna take the shirt or not?” he asks, giving the clothing a little shake as he holds it out.

Isla doesn’t want to necessarily walk around in her bikini top or her stained sweater, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she runs a debate in her head. Her friends will question her on whose shirt she’s got on, and she can lie and say some random guy instead of giving Rafe’s name, but what are the odds that Sarah recognizes her brother’s shirt? This guy seems to come to her rescue when she doesn’t have many other options; it’s not like she can borrow anything from one of her friends. Pope’s got a shirt, JJ’s in a muscle tee, and John B’s got his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to show off his chest.

God, maybe she should just go home.

Instead, though, Isla finds herself untying the front of her knitted cropped sweater before shrugging it off, keenly aware of Rafe’s gaze on her as she stands in front of him in her bikini top and daisy dukes. Yet, his stare doesn’t feel unwanted or uncomfortable, and Isla can’t look away from him, either. Suddenly, they’re locked in a kind of staring contest, to see who will look away first, as Isla shrugs off her sweater without breaking eye contact.

The air is electric, the smell of smoke adding a kind of sensuality to how close Rafe stands, offering his shirt. The material is surprisingly soft when Isla grasps it, putting her arms through the sleeves, and the air hitches in her throat when she sees that the shirt is practically a dress on her, stopping way past her shorts around her mid-thigh. Isla doesn’t bother buttoning it up, suddenly engulfed in that familiar scent she smelled last night when Rafe had been standing so close to her, and when she’d been on the back of his bike. A scent she would catch faint whiffs of whenever she was at the Camerons’ home, hanging out with Sarah.

Now, it wraps around her too pleasantly as she rolls the sleeves of the shirt up to her elbows before tying her sweater around her waist, making sure Rafe’s button down isn’t tucked into it. She smooths it down with a huffed, “Good?”

There’s a shift in Rafe’s eyes, a gleam that stirs something to life in the pit of Isla’s stomach as she watches his blue eyes trail down the length of her. The movement of his gaze is slow, purposeful, almost as if he’s committing the sight of her in his shirt to memory and despite the summery balm of the night, goosebumps pimple her exposed skin in response to the touch of his stare. She can feel her pulse pick up speed, a dangerous realization as Rafe parts his lips and rubs the corner of his bottom lip with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he drawls with a slow nod, blue eyes once again locking with her brown. The air is charged between them, as if only a few more seconds need to pass before it sparks something into a fire.

Isla tries not to shift on her feet, doesn’t want to show the sudden nerves that tickle her that have never existed when she’s been around Rafe—until now. She gives a gentle shake of her head to get her hair out of her face, keeping her voice as even as she can when she says, “Guess your one good deed of the month became two.”

A huff of a laugh escapes his now smirking mouth, hinting at dimples. Isla can’t look away despite all of the reasons she should. Especially when he coolly replies, “Guess you’re the exception.”

Isla presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, warmth pooling into her cheeks as his words have an effect on her that takes her by surprise. But she remembers herself in time to force a sardonic smile to match her equally sarcastic response, “Lucky me.”

It pulls a chuckle from Rafe, glancing away as he rubs his jaw before he nods at her cup. “Let me get you another drink.”

His offer once again shocks her. Isla lifts her eyebrows and presses her hand to her chest in exaggerated melodrama. “Another good deed?” Rafe rolls his eyes, but that signature smirk remains. “I can get it myself, thanks.” She doesn’t want to risk her friends and sister seeing her even walking next to Rafe, knowing how they’d react. “And, uh, thanks for the shirt,” she adds almost begrudgingly. Though, she is grateful—even if he’s the reason the drink spilled on her.

And maybe Rafe can sense the conflict and confusion that brews inside of her—that has been since last night—because his smirk widens as he takes a step back, his eyes trailing down the entire length of her. His shirt suddenly feels heavy on her frame, like he’s just branded her, and her reaction should be to take it off and shove it back in his arms.

But Rafe is already walking backwards, hands in the pockets of his pants as he says to her, “You wear it well,” before turning and walking off without waiting for a response

Not that he would get one, because all thoughts eddie out of Isla’s head, gaping at his back as he walks away with those damning parting words. In moments like these, she wishes she had her sister’s smart mouth; Kie is an expert in snappy comebacks and witty comments, meanwhile Isla is left a flustering mess only regretfully coming up with her responses long after the conversation is over.

“Fuck’s sake,” she mutters to herself, forcing her feet to move as she approaches the party.

She stops by at the keg, getting a refill on her drink before walking back to where her friends are. Her steps are slow, though, nervously fiddling with the rolled up cuff of the shirt as she takes a deep breath and hopes that Sarah doesn’t recognize the shirt. Hell, it could belong to anyone, couldn’t it?

Her friends are all gathered around one of the fires, just the group of them, and as Isla nonchalantly sits down on the log next to JJ, he does a double take and takes in the sight of her new piece of clothing. “Whose shirt is that?” He pinches the material of the shoulder between his fingers, and Isla swats it off as she feels the others’ gazes on her. “Looks very Kook-like.”

Isla suppresses a groan—and fights the urge to glance at Sarah. Instead, she decides to give them half of the truth. “Some guy accidentally bumped into me, spilled beer on my sweater. He felt bad so he gave me his shirt to wear.”

Honestly, she’s kind of proud of herself for sounding very blasé about it, like she’s got nothing to hide. As she takes a sip from her beer, Pope snorts, “What kind of dude wears a button down to a beach party?”

There’s a pregnant pause before every single one of them, including Isla with a sigh, answers, “A Kook.”

66 notes · View notes

joelswritingmistress · 11 months

Text

Last Halloween: Chapter 12

Summary: After a tragedy involving Joel happened on Halloween one year prior, the town now shuns him while ignoring the details of the now closed case. You are seemingly the only one to offer empathy to a man the town is making out to be a monster.

Pairing: Joel x f!reader

The atmosphere was exactly as you had hoped. The late afternoon brought an unexpected chill to the air as you and Joel strolled around the little farm, hand-in-hand.

The place had its own unique trait in that half of it was in your town and half was in the town over. People often took pictures at a sign beside the brewery side of the farm that showed off the invisible town line.

You walked by to see a man taking a picture of the woman he accompanied with one foot in one town and one foot in the other. It was silly fun but you thought it was still nice.

As Joel held a giant, wooden door open that lead into the cider brewery called, Far From the Tree, you looked right at him and tugged lightly on the bill of his trucker-style baseball hat.

"This is a good look for you," you told him with a smirk. "I haven't seen you in a hat before."

Joel tugged on the front of the orange beanie cap you wore, "This is a good look for you," he countered with a grin. "It's cute."

You kissed him as you strolled into the big, open room, feeling him link up his fingers with yours again as you passed by.

Wooden tables, some high tops and some low, were scattered about neatly in the oversized space. A fireplace was roaring near the far side where people had already claimed the three leather couches in front of it.

"What are we thinking here?" Joel asked, heading toward the bar where two men and a woman were busy pouring their showcased ciders for customers.

"Hmm.." you rested a finger over your lips as you scanned the chalk boards above. The atmosphere, oddly enough, reminded you a bit of the coffee shop. "I love honeycrisp apples so that one looks good." You pointed to the board. "But the Granny Smith one looks good too."

"Oh, you're a honeycrisp girl." Joel made a face that left you chuckling.

"Is there a problem with that?" You asked, playful narrowing your eyes at him.

"I don't know. I heard the honeycrisp apples are kind of the snobs of the apple world."

"Snobby apples?"

"Oh yeah. They're like a dollar more than the rest. I feel like the honeycrisp people look down at us Gala and Macintosh lovers."

You began to laugh out loud. "Well maybe you just need better taste in apples."

Joel grinned and you leaned in to kiss him again before leaning against him as you both continued to take in the menu.

"I might do s flight," he said, "Try a handful of them and then decide what I like best."

"Good idea." You nodded and then looked over at him. "Are you boycotting the honeycrisp cider?"

"I definitely am." He chuckled and then the two of you put in your orders, sampling as many as you could between the two of you. Joel handed over his debit card, practically swatting your hand away as you tried to give the bartender yours. "You can leave the tab open," he told them.

"Joel Miller!" You said his full name in a motherly fashion. "It's supposed to be my treat."

"Nope." That's all he said, still grinning as you grabbed your little trays of beer. "Inside or outside?"

You glanced around the room. As cozy as it was, you wanted to feel the chill of autumn. Through the windows you could see some vacant seating by the outdoor fire pits.

"Outside," you decided.

Joel trailed you through the room and the chill made you shudder as you exited, leaving the warmth of the indoor area behind. Just beyond the patio was a haunted corn maze. Children and adults, alike, were handing over tickets to take on the challenge of making it through.

You sat down with a content sigh in a wooden Adirondack chair and Joel sat beside you. You both places the flights down on the ledge of the firepit and reached for one of the four little glasses.

Joel sighed even louder than you did. "This is the most relaxed I've felt in awhile." He sipped on his first cider and smacked his lips together in approval. You followed his lead.

"Oh that's good. Very sweet," you said.

"Do you want to carve a pumpkin?" Joel asked, motioning to a giant pumpkin patch fifty or so feet away.

"Those are honestly the biggest pumpkins I've ever seen," you said with a laugh. "I bet they're like twenty-five dollars."

"You know I've kind of been dreading Halloween," Joel said to you. "This whole Halloween season, actually. I had always enjoyed October before everything that happened last year."

You gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze.

"But you're making it all feel alright again." Joel had a half-grin on his face. "So, let's spend the twenty-five bucks and get one. Or two."

"I love seeing you happy," you told him. "It bothered me to see you come in to the shop sitting alone and just.." you shrugged. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm even bringing that up."

"No, it's okay. I was a little surprised when you asked me to do something that first time." Joel seemed to cringe a bit. "I probably came off as an asshole, huh?"

"Not at all." You shook your head. "You have every right to react the way you did."

Joel made another face and you grinned. "Does it matter what happened to lead us up to where we are now?"

"I guess not," he agreed.

You leaned in and touched your lips to his once and then sat back in your chair. "I love the fall."

Joel reached into his pocket a removed a twenty dollar bill. "After the cider we could always do the haunted hayride; or is that too cliche?"

You downed the first little glass of cider and smirked at Joel. "We better finish before the six o'clock shuttle takes off."

He looked at his phone and took one of his ciders like a shot. "One down, three to go."

"We have fifteen minutes," you challenged, reaching for your next mini glass.

"I don't think you're supposed to take these like a shot," Joel told you with a laugh. "Like other things.." he raised his eyebrows, "You're supposed to savor it."

Purposely, Joel took a slow sip from the second cider glass while making eye contact with you and then drew a finger across his lips. It made you smirk at him.

"I guess.. like other things," you echoed his words. "We aren't on a timed schedule."

"There's always another hay ride."

"Mmm.." you raised your glass and tapped it against his.

Taking your time was the best bet. You didn't make the six o'clock ride but both of you were just in time for six thirty.

Joel helped you up into the back of a wagon littered with hay bales and the two of you sat near the back.

There were some older children of maybe thirteen or fourteen on board, some kids were closer to twenty and the rest were adults.

After the warnings about the ride being too scary for children under thirteen, the bumpy hay ride started. You were perfectly buzzed from the cider and beaming with the feelings of new love amidst the most cliche but perfect fall evening you could imagine. That amplified as you laughed, but hid against Joel's shoulder when the headless horseman appeared from behind the trees on your ride through the woods. He whipped his sword, making 'woosh' sounds as he sliced through air.

"That was a real horse!" You exclaimed with a laugh.

Joel secured his arm around you and you both laughed.

The bumpy ride over a bridge to "get away" from the horseman was a nice touch. It lead the way through a zombie-infested graveyard, a werewolf den and more trick-or-treat specialties.

"These kids did a great job," you concluded at the end, still clinging to Joel's side as you made your way off of the back of the oversized wagon.

"Scared?" He teased, looking over at you as you squeezed his hand.

"No." You laughed and kissed as you walked your way to the pumpkin patch to retrieve a pair of pumpkins. "I say we have a contest."

"A contest?" Joel laughed lightly. "What kind?"

"Whoever carves.." you tossed a giant pumpkin up onto you shoulder. ".. the best pumpkin."

"Gets what?" He took one step closer.

"Whatever they want." You raised your eyebrows.

"Okay," Joel agreed, glancing around for the perfect pumpkin. "You got yourself a deal."

The two of you roamed around a bit more, grabbed a growler of cider for the road and paid for the pumpkins before heading back toward Joel's house.

"Are you going to put the jack-o-lanterns out on Halloween?" You asked, reaching for his free hand as he guided the steering wheel with the other. "You know.. after I beat you?"

Joel laughed. "I'm pretty creative."

"Yeah?"

"Don't underestimate me."

You chuckled and let out a sigh as he pulled the truck into the driveway. Right away your car and his motorcycle came into view.

"You wish we were on the bike, don't you?" Joel suspected.

You giggled. "No, I liked the truck. It has character."

"It's a piece of shit." Joel looked to you as he parked it and killed the engine.

"Well, I like it."

Joel stared at you for a second with a smirk on his face and then popped open the door. The two of you retrieved the pumpkins from the bed of the truck and then headed inside.

"Are we really doing this right now?" He asked, prompting you to nod.

"Of course!" You nodded eagerly and he agreed, locating oversized plastic, garbage bags and a short stack of newspapers piled at the edge of the counter.

You decorated the kitchen table with enough to protect it from the pumpkiny mess that was to come and then placed down the the pumpkins on top of it.

Joel retrieved a pair of kitchen knives and handed you one. "I don't have any of those fancy, little kits they sell these days."

"Well, I guess it's the traditional eyes, nose and mouth scheme, then." You grinned. "I like those better anyway."

"Good luck." He plunged the knife into the top of the pumpkin. You followed his lead and the two of you faced off, beginning with the circular cut around the stem before forming triangular eyes and a nose.

You arched your neck to look at Joel's but he spun it so you couldn't see. You then gave a second attempt and he chuckled and moved his pumpkin out of your view again. After a simultaneous laugh, you flung a handful of pumpkin seeds at him.

Joel began to laugh out loud. "Are you mad you're going to lose?" He grabbed a handful of pumpkin guts and tossed it back in your direction.

You let your mouth drop open, smiling at the same time, as you looked down to where the stringy, orange substance clung to your plaid shirt.

"You started it," Joel joked, maneuvering out of the way as you tossed another handful of the pumpkin's innards at him. This time the seeds bounced off the wall and the handful of guts stuck to it.

"Ohh!" You laughed out loud. "I'm sorry." When Joel threw a handful back at you, you ducked and watched as it smacked against the glass of the patio door.

Joel chased you around the table as you laughed wildly now, reaching for more pumpkin guts with your left hand. You breathed heavy when he finally got his hands on you.

"Okay, okay.. truce." You smiled wide and held a hand out to shake.

As Joel looked down to accept your offer you plopped the other hand of pumpkin innards onto the top of his head and attempted to run again. He laughed and quickly caught up to you again, pulling you back by the arm.

The image of him with pumpkin all over him continued to make you cackle until your sides hurt. When you finally caught your breath you placed a slimy hand on his cheek.

"I'm sorry," you told him, still unable to completely hold back on your laughter.

Joel grinned and then snickered. "No you're not." He pulled the orange, stringy substance from his hair and draped it off the edge of your nose.

"We even now?" You asked, looking back at him, knowing you looked equally as silly as he did.

"Okay," Joel agreed.

You held out your hand and asked again, "Truce?"

He pushed your hand away and leaned in to kiss you. "Truce."

CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER 13

@untamedheart81 @amyispxnk @grogusmum @ghostwritesthings @strawbunnyx @ayamenimthiriel @noisynightmarepoetry @jiminstinypinky @tuquoquebrute @pedr0swh0r3 @runningmom94 @mellymbee

96 notes · View notes

whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

Passenger / Chapter 1

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter One: Vermont

[ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 3.3k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, violence, swearing, truckers

Notes: Heeeeyyyy buddy. Rated explicit because the whole series is just gonna go under that umbrella, I don't care to get into nitty-gritty of rating systems with each chapter lmfao but it will eventually be explicit. I made a Spotify playlist for the series and cross-posted on AO3 (un: glitter_deity), links to both are on the masterlist! OK BIG KISSES HAVE FUN!

Charlie’s Rules for Living on the Road, RULE #3: Keep your wits about you.

The tiny bar you’re in is shabby and crowded. All-American beer signs reflect red white and blue off the nicked-up mahogany bar top that’s so sticky and rich it reminds you of maple syrup. Fitting, considering you’re in Vermont, of all places.

It reeks of expired hand sanitizer. A strange combination of rubbing alcohol and rotting fruit that your nose doesn’t really know how to sort, but you just know you hate it. Thought it would be worth gagging through, but apparently not.

Despite how crowded the small dance floor was during your set, the tips were a fucking joke. Sixteen dollars.

Anyway, Rule #3.

The Paul Bunyan-esque bartender who agreed to let you play for tips must recognize that his patrons are cheapskates, because he approaches you from behind the bar and says, “Tough luck. Want me to make you a drink?”

“I’ll take some water.”

“Can make something harder if ya want. On the house,” he offers, pressing his wide palms against the bar.

“How about,” you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, then tilt your head at the hard plastic menu display standing erect between his splayed hands, “some mozzarella sticks?”

He raises a thick reddish-brown eyebrow at you, “Sure.”

A satisfied smile spreads across your face and you lean against the bar, propping your chin up on your fist, “You’re a lifesaver. What’s your name?”

“Jim,” he scoops ice into a tall glass and sprays water into it.

A man wearing tawny carhartt overalls and a blaze orange stocking cap approaches the bar. Jim tosses a cardboard coaster in front of you and sets your water glass down, then ambles over to take his order. He tends to a few more customers and you surreptitiously size up their wallets.

Once the demand for his attention wanes, Jim slides a parchment paper-lined basket of sizzling mozzarella sticks across the bar to you.

“You’re a fucking saint, Jim, thank you,” you crack one open, revealing the gooey, cream-colored innards. Steam bursts from the chasm and scalds your fingertips.

When you hiss and drop it, Jim chuckles, “Careful, they’re hot.”

“Thanks for the warning,” you tease, flashing a playful smile.

He pulls up the sleeves of his heavyweight green and black flannel, “So what’s your deal, where you from?”

“I’m from everywhere, and nowhere,” you sigh, then meet his unamused dark eyes and explain, “Kind of a roamer. I’ve been tramping around the country for a while.”

“All by yourself?” Jim raises his eyebrows, and when you nod he frowns, “Ain’t that kinda dangerous?”

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. Get to meet all kinds of people, see all kinds of places. Always an adventure. It’s real living.”

“And how long you been doin’ this?”

“A few years now,” you answer, poking at the busted mozzarella stick to test its warmth, “Are you from the area?”

“Born ‘n’ raised,” he looks around the bar, surveying the faces he must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

“Do you like it?” you pinch off a piece of the fried food and pop it into your mouth.

“Ain’t too bad,” he shrugs, “It’s familiar, ya know. It’s my home.”

You hum in acknowledgment as you swallow your food, then press your elbows into the bar and lean forward, “Ever think of leaving it all behind? Seeing what’s out there?”

Jim shakes his head and chuckles, “No ma’am, that’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“You’re just a curious thing, ain’t ya?”

Before you can retort, Jim is flagged down by another thirsty patron. You scarf down the greasy, scorching hot mozzarella sticks as he makes more drinks, then you push the bar stool out and call over to him, “Hey, can I leave my stuff here while I use the bathroom?”

He glances up at you and nods in the affirmative.

On your way back to the bar after your bathroom break, you stroll by a stack of heavy winter jackets sitting unattended at a table. It’s been on your radar since a group of four tossed them down about an hour ago. Since then, the jackets have only been revisited when their owners found their beer pitcher dry and in need of a refill. You couldn’t help but notice the sea of green inside one woman’s wallet before she returned it to its (terrible) hiding place.

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

You squint up at a sign on the wall while your hand plunges into the pile of jackets. Your fingers brush up against the metal clasp of a wallet. You unfasten it and feel around for two bills, slipping them up your sleeve before walking away.

Adrenaline thuds through your heart, flooding your body with a weightless, buzzing energy. No matter how many times you’ve stolen, it’s still a rush.

When you return to your seat, you heave your rucksack over your shoulders, then your guitar strap, adjusting it until the guitar is safely fastened at your back.

“Taking off?” Jim asks as he clears your empty food basket from the bar.

“I suppose,” you meet his gaze and flash him a cordial smile, “Gonna see if I can find a place to set up camp.”

“You’re not sleeping outside, are ya?” he frowns, “Gonna drop below freezing overnight.”

You shrug, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aww hell, I can’t let you do that,” he protests, then ushers you closer, “Tell ya what—There’s an empty apartment upstairs, why don’t you sleep up there? No furniture, but I figure you have a sleeping bag or something, yeah?”

You search his face, trying to read his intentions and determine whether or not this is a safe offer to take.

He must recognize your hesitation, because he adds, “I’ll give you the key, you can deadbolt it from the inside. Just leave it unlocked in the morning, ok?”

“Really?” your eyebrows press together, “That would be… fucking amazing, actually.”

He tugs a key ring from his front pocket and wrestles one of the keys off, then slides it across the bar to you, “First unit around the corner. Don’t make me regret it, ya hear?”

Din slides his pen into the logbook’s spiraled spine and tosses it onto the empty passenger’s seat. He taps the tablet mounted on his dash and pulls up the load board, surveying available pickups in the area.

After factoring in fuel prices and time on the road, he determines that none of them have a particularly high net gain. Not enough to take his 1999 Peterbilt 379 in for the repairs it so desperately needs, anyway.

With a dissatisfied sigh, he pulls the cell phone from his pocket and dials Karga.

“Din, my old friend, to what do I owe the pleasure?” the man’s jovial voice booms through the speaker.

“Do you have anything in New England?”

Karga hums to himself. Din hears a few computer mouse clicks and the rapid clack clack clack of a keyboard, then Karga responds, “Let’s see here, I have a few bail jumpers, nonviolent offenses, in Maine, New Hampshire…”

“How much?”

“Five thousand for Maine, ten thousand for New Hampshire.”

“Anything bigger?”

More humming, some clicks, then, “Ah! Look here, there’s a private bounty, last seen along I-89 in Vermont. Deliver dead or alive to Portland.”

“Portland, Maine?”

“Oregon.”

“That’s too far.”

“It pays one-hundred fifty thousand.”

Din raises his eyebrows. He’s silent as he considers this. His truck is in a tenuous state, but if he can make it there, he could get every repair needed. Hell, he could buy a whole new truck and still have excess money to donate to The Academy.

“I’ll take it.”

After hanging up, Din gets a new email notification on the mounted tablet. He leans forward and opens the message from Karga listing the details of the bounty.

Name: Charlie Wanderlust DOB: Unknown, assumed to be aged mid-to-late twenties Race: White Sex: Female Height: Estimated between 5’0” and 5’4” Weight: Estimated between 130 and 160 lbs Hair color: Blonde Eye color: Brown Last known location: Near Williston, VT, Travel Plaza of I-89 10/14. Prior possible sightings: near Londonderry, NH, RMZ Truck Stop off I-93 10/12; near Newburgh, NY, Pilot Travel Center off I-84 10/8.

Included are blurry CCTV stills of a petite woman, dressed head-to-toe in black, face mostly concealed by a bandana, stringy white blonde hair spilling down her back from beneath a beanie. The stills appear to be taken in some kind of warehouse, and show the subject pointing a handgun directly at a man whose hands are raised behind his head.

Another collection of photos, much clearer than the shoddy CCTV stills, show the target on her tiptoes, talking to a trucker through his rolled-down window. The snapshots depict them trading a plastic baggie and cash. A bloated dark green rucksack hangs off her back, and an acoustic guitar strap spans her chest, leaving the instrument hanging upside down, flush against one side of the sack.

Din observes her profile and notes the pointed chin and hooked nose as distinguishing features that will make her easy to spot. He surmises that she’s using an alias, because there’s no way that’s a real name. Her posture and trigger discipline in the CCTV stills tells him that she boasts familiarity with gun safety, and is probably armed. She’s backpacking, likely hitching rides with, and selling drugs to, truckers.

When he pulls up a map on the tablet’s screen and traces the path between the sighting locations, he notices she’s trending north. Probably trying to cross the Canadian border, considering most bounty hunters won’t find the difficulties that would come with re-entering the United States worth it. Try explaining to the border patrol why a pretty blonde woman is being held against her will. That will go well.

He zooms in on truck stops and gas stations further along I-89. The stretch of road he wants to search is approximately 200 miles away. It will take 3 hours to get there, maybe less. She doesn’t seem to be moving at a particularly fast rate, but her trajectory indicates she’s close to Canada. Probably only needs to hitch one or two more rides to get to the border.

Din glances over his shoulder into the sleeper cab, at the wrinkly, white, satellite-eared French bulldog sitting at attention on his bed, “What do you think? Should we go catch a bad guy?”

The dog tilts his head in response.

“Come on, boy,” Din pats the passenger’s seat, then the dog hops off the bed in favor of the front seat.

At 7 AM, just as you’re rolling your sleeping bag up, a knock sounds at the door, then the doorknob jiggles.

You jump to your feet and approach the noise, hollering, “Yeah?”

“It’s Jim.”

You unlock the door and swing it open to find the lumberjack bartender standing there with a steaming styrofoam cup in each hand. He’s wearing a new flavor of flannel long sleeve, this one checkered black and red, tucked into his dark blue jeans. His reddish brown hair is damp and slicked back, pale skin tinged pink by the cool air. Or rosacea. Or both.

“Good morning,” you greet and step back to let him cross the threshold, closing the door behind him. The thuds of his heavy leather boots echo across the barebones efficiency apartment.

“I got you a coffee,” he says and sets one of the cups on the kitchen counter.

“Thank you so much, Jim,” you smile and meet his eyes. In the bright light of morning, they gleam a rich golden brown that feels warm and inviting. You drop your gaze and tuck a long strand of blonde hair behind your ear, then clear your throat before returning to your sleeping bag.

As you roll it up, he tells you, “Figured I’d stop by and make sure everything went ok last night. You takin’ off this morning, then?”

“That’s what it looks like,” you tie your sleeping bag tight with practiced efficiency, shove it into your pack, then zip it closed while muttering, “On the road again.”

“Need anything else before ya go?”

This man’s kindness and generosity is almost overwhelming. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s smitten with you. A concept that curdles your heartstrings.

“Um… well,” you sigh and raise your eyes to meet his, “If you’re offering, I could use a ride to the truck stop off I-89.”

“Sure thing,” he grins, the apples of his cheeks pushing his eyes into crescents, “Ready to go now, or you wanna get some breakfast first?”

“I’m ready,” you stand with a grunt and pull on your coat. He watches you do this, and when you glance up at him, he looks away and strokes his bushy beard, then takes a sip of coffee.

Jim insists on carrying your bag out to his black pickup truck. You follow behind him, coffee in one hand, neck of your guitar in the other. The ride to Jolley Truck Stop is accompanied by a Sunday morning country music segment dedicated to Christian songs of the genre. The trees are all ripe with autumn colors, their leaves a gorgeous array of reds and oranges.

“It’s so beautiful this time of year,” you comment as you watch the scenery go by, “Look at that foliage.”

Jim chuckles, “We have a name for the types of folks comin’ around here to look at the trees in fall.”

“What’s that?”

“Leaf lickers.”

You swing your head over to look at Jim, who’s sporting an amused grin, then start laughing, “Leaf? Lickers?”

He snorts and nods, “Yes ma’am.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you shake your head and look out the window again, “Have any exciting plans for the rest of the day?”

“Church, then a Patriots game,” he answers, “Where do you think the day’ll take you, Miss Charlie?”

“Hopefully to Canada,” you murmur, “But we’ll see. Rule number six of living on the road: Embrace change.”

“Good rule to live by,” Jim responds, flicking on his blinker to turn into the truck stop, “I’ll have to try that out for myself.”

“You should, Jim,” you cast a warm smile his way, “Really, I mean it. There’s more to life than Milton. I think you’d like it out there.”

When his truck comes to a stop, he shifts into park, keeping an eye on you as you open the passenger’s side door and hop out.

You grab your rucksack and guitar, then tell him, “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I wish you the best of luck on all your future journeys, Jim.”

“It was nice meeting you, Charlie,” he nods and gives you a wistful smile.

With this, you slam the door shut and approach the sidewalk next to the truck stop, then take a moment to organize your belongings. After verifying you have all the things you need in the most accessible locations, you secure your rucksack and guitar on your back. Jim’s truck rumbles in idle for a while, but you don’t turn around until you hear him pull away.

RULE #9: Do not get attached.

Din is 5 miles out from the last place on his list, Jolleys Truck Stop, when the CB radio crackles to life.

A voice cuts through, “Anyone see that blondie wandering around at Jolleys? Rusty Crawler, Over.”

“With the guitar? Interstate Blackbeard, Over.”

Din’s heart skips and his spine straightens.

“Aye-firmative, Blackbeard. She a lot lizard er what?”

“Negative, Rusty, she has party favors.”

He picks up his mic and asks, “Do you have eyes on her, Rusty Crawler? 38-91, over.”

“Do I ever, 38-91, wheeew,” the man jests.

Din looks over at the dog, who was jolted awake by the radio. He starts panting, his buggy black eyes darting around the cab, little nub of a tail wiggling with excitement.

“Are you ready?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in question to his companion.

“Boof.”

“Good,” Din chuckles in response, then turns his eyes back to the road.

You knock on the red Freightliner’s window and squint up at the driver as he rolls his window down, “Hey there. Are you looking for a west coast turnaround?”

He grins and shakes his head, “No, darlin’, but I reckon I’m lookin for a friend if you’re offerin’ your company.”

“Not on the table, I’m afraid,” you crinkle your nose and wave, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Same goes for you, pretty girl,” he hollers at your back as you walk further down the row of idling rigs. An intuitive shiver runs down your spine; you suspect the man’s foul vibes are at fault.

There’s a newcomer in the lineup: an old, silver Peterbilt, shiny with chrome details. The driver is wearing a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, but seems to be looking in your direction, so you wave.

He waves back.

As you draw near, he opens the driver’s side door and hops out of the cab. He’s broad-shouldered and tall. The sleeves of his black crewneck sweater pull taut around his chest and biceps. His posture is impeccable, his steps metered, and you’re immediately struck by the assertive energy radiating off him in waves.

Another shiver creeps along your backbone. And it’s just an off kind of feeling that gives you pause, but you stop in your tracks.

RULE #2: Listen to your gut.

He puts one palm up towards you in a gesture of peace and says, “Charlie Wanderlust—”

“How do you know my name?”

Your eyes flick to your distorted reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. The hair back of your neck stands at attention. You take a cautious backwards step.

“I can bring you in warm,” he slides a gloved hand to the back of his cargo pants, “or I can bring you in cold.”

Static booms in your chest. Your stomach plummets to the asphalt beneath your feet, and you scoff, “Fuck you, man, what the fuck are you talking about?”

He tilts his head, as if to mock your feigned ignorance.

A dog barks.

It pulls his attention away for just a second, but it’s long enough for you to turn and bolt in the opposite direction.

All you can hear is your ragged breath and blood whooshing behind your ears and boots pounding against the pavement.

Not just your boots.

His, too.

They get closer with every beat.

A tug on your rucksack makes your heart gallop. You yelp and duck between two semi-trucks, pushing yourself as hard and fast as your legs can go. You reach the end of the rumbling trailer corridor and glance over your shoulder, only to find he’s not there.

That moment is enough to blind you.

It’s like you hit a wall, he’s just that fucking solid.

You bounce off of him, and before you realize what’s happening, he’s slamming your face against a trailer door. His thick fingers tangle in your hair and close into a fist.

“Fuck, that fucking hurts! What the fuck is your problem?!” you wail, thrashing in resistance as he rips off your guitar and tosses it to the ground with a twangy thunk that breaks your heart.

“Hey!” you bellow, “Be fucking careful with that!”

The man strips your rucksack off next, dropping it at your feet. He grabs one wrist, pinching a handcuff around it, then the other.

“Stay there,” he pants, then picks all your worldly possessions off the ground and slings them onto his shoulders.

He yanks the chain of the handcuffs, sending you stumbling back a few steps. You steady yourself, only for him to push you forward and throw you off balance again. Your vision goes red with anger.

“Fuck you,” you spit through gritted teeth, “Fucking asshole.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just presses his hand between your shoulder blades and prods you onward.

Rage bubbles between the layers of your skin. Every single insult in the book simmers at the back of your throat, but all that comes out is a strained growl.

Then you put one foot in front of the other and let him lead you to your fate.

[ Next Chapter ]

#passenger #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x you #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #trucker!din djarin au #modern day au #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian au #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic

126 notes · View notes

theknightmarket · 2 months

Text

Act 1 | Scene 3 - Pick Your Poison

Your hand swept across the counter as you opened up the bar. It wasn’t dusty or cluttered or holding a single speck of something to be removed, but you liked doing it. It made you feel accomplished. Proud of yourself. Over the last week, you’d taken the first hour after opening to think about where you were. It helped to ground you, you thought. It was never busy at one o’clock, so it was just you and the music in the front room of the Astral. You felt giddy, maybe too much for a fully grown adult, but you definitely enjoyed the feeling flowing through your veins. You didn’t think it would ever wear off. The early stage of an addict’s high.

You peeled back from the counter just as your first group of the day pushed through the doors, all of them stepping on the human behavior plank – your cherished pet that had you stifling a chuckle – and making their way over to you. You smiled as you took their orders, smiled as you directed them to a booth, smiled as you turned to get the various bottles that held the alcohols. Another good thing about it being early was that you got nearly no troublemakers. Of course, there was once or twice when someone came in looking for the hardest thing you could legally make them, but they would never stay long, and you learned over a few conversations that it was the brutality of a nightshift that drove them to it, not a brawler personality.

The people who came in for the early hours had one thing in common; they were tired. You ended up investing in a coffee machine for the number of people who requested the caffeine mixed with bourbon or vodka. It always made you grimace as you combined the drinks, but business was business, and you wouldn’t reject a customer over a moral disagreement, no matter how much the smell made you want to.

The similar tiredness of your patrons let you take everything slow. You served a couple who quickly shuffled over to a double seat table, and then you took to people watching.

Red flannel shirt, trucker cap, varsity high school jacket that was well past its prime – that was the first group. The second pairing had a flowery dress and a purple cardigan, probably on a date if their lovesick stares were anything to go by. Aside from that, just in time for your inspection, another three people walked through the doors. White vest, sunglasses, and—

Wilford?

Or was it Dark?

One seemed as impossible as the other. The former had come in three times since he’d introduced you to Dark, and he never wore anything less fanciful than the first time he had come in. A simple shirt and leather jacket didn’t fit his aesthetic, but neither did it Dark’s. Once was he dragged through the doors with Wil and he wore the exact same suit before, not to mention his skin was as gray as a corpse.

As the group came closer, you realized the not-Wilford-not-Dark guy wasn’t associated with the pair. The one in the vest ordered two gin-and-tonics and then settled themselves in a booth. You expected to see that familiar face behind them, but he had seemingly disappeared into thin air after you typed in the drinks. Were you hallucinating?

Your gaze shifted slightly to the left.

Nope, he was just sitting down at a table. You almost kicked yourself for jumping to that conclusion so quickly, but you distracted the impulse by making those orders.

It didn’t take long, the simple request that it was, but you stuttered over pouring the gin into the glasses. The man caught your eye again. If he didn’t look like something straight out of a certain 1950s youth subculture musical, you would have guessed he was nervous. His hands were splayed out in front of him, exposing the myriad of boxy tattoos he had, while he pulled back his fingers in turn. The fiddling only stopped when he looked up at you, an expression of shock splattering over his face.

You waved him over after you placed the glasses on the counter. Both him and the man who ordered them arrived at the bar, but only the lookalike remained.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you offered.

Your thoughts almost drifted back to that hallucination theory. He looked surprised, but that couldn’t have been right. You had a bad habit of judging books by their covers, you recognized that, but it didn’t stop you from wondering how a guy with muscles big enough to throw an ox also managed to put up the front of a deer in headlights.

He scrambled to reply, “Oh, uh- what do youse have?”

Ah. You knew that tone well. The nervousness made sense if he’d never been out before. From your days working at other bars, you were no stranger to, well, strangers to bars. Your mind was made up within the next few seconds that you would give him a helping hand for his first experience.

“Well,” you started, “what are you in the mood for? It’s pretty early, so I wouldn’t recommend a heavy alcohol content.” You thought for a moment. Tattoos, leather jacket, what you recognised as a box of cigarettes tucked under one of his sleeves. Everything pointed to classics. “You could go for a beer or a vodka-and-soda?”

“Yeah, a beer sounds good.” Inwardly, you congratulated yourself, even if the guess was obvious. Outwardly, you waited for him to tell you what kind, but he didn’t continue. He just stared at you, a light blush struggling to show on his face under the red lights.

You kick-started him with, “I have Budweiser, Coors Light, Corona…?”

His uncertainty wasn’t clearing up. If anything, he looked worse than when he’d sat down. “The first one?” He sounded like a game show contestant who hadn’t even been told the question.

Gently, you chuckled. More blood rushed to his face, but you didn’t dwell on it, for his sake. “Okay, Budweiser it is.”

If you hadn’t already figured he wasn’t used to bars, his standing and staring straight ahead would have given it away. His eyes were locked on the rows of wine bottles on the shelf while you fixed him a pint glass from the tap. Once it was all done, you slid it to the stool he was next to.

“Tell me if you like it.”

“Will do.”

Gently, as someone would when taking a piece of meat from a wild cat, he brought it to his lips and took a sip. If you were being honest, you had never liked the taste of beer. It was always so overwhelming, and you could smell it as much as you could taste it, but a lot of people used it as their drink of choice. Like you said, it was a classic.

Yancy seemed to be one of those people, though. He coughed once, thought for a second, and then took another swig of it. You guessed it being cold made it better, that had been your mistake the first time you’d tried it and the memory stuck with you every time you tasted that bitterness. You also guessed that he would sit down when he decided he liked it.

Which he did not.

He liked it, yes, but he stayed standing as he took another sip. You stared blankly at him, waiting for him to take a seat, but he didn’t, he just met your gaze.

He was somehow confusing you more than Wilford had.

To quench some of that confusion, you gestured to the row of stools in front of him. His eyes widened as he realized the awkwardness of the situation, and he quickly slipped onto one with a hesitant, little chuckle. “Right,” he muttered into the glass.

To give him some space, and also because you were still working, you went to ask the original tables if they wanted refills. It would give him time to destress himself and to hopefully stop him from bowing his head like he was committing some crime just by sitting there.

There were two trains of thought that streamed through your head: on one hand, military. The straight back, the adherence to orders, the out-of-place demeanor despite his outward experience. They pointed towards him having been kicked out of the army. You assumed a fight from his tattoos and his youth. If that theory were right, he wouldn’t have been there long enough to be broken in.

But, on the other hand, there was prison. It made the most sense out of the two, and that displacement added to this one, too. But he didn’t have the school of life quality to him. You’d had your fair share of ex-criminals and convicts, and none of them would have sat down with a wave of your hand. With them, you were more likely to lose it.

In fact, both of the ideas you had were negated by his sheer awkwardness. Being unused to public life was one thing, but he looked like he was going to implode if someone brushed against his back. It didn’t suit a prisoner or a soldier, and it didn’t suit him.

You were back behind the bar, after serving another tray of drinks, when you struck up another conversation. Maybe it would help him relax, and, more selfishly, maybe it would get you some answers.

“For someone who looks how you do, I’m surprised you’ve never been in a bar before.”

You briefly thought about going in subtly, but direct confrontation was a recent freedom for you, and you were getting your money’s worth, or lack thereof.

“What do youse mean?” Luckily, he didn’t sound offended, just interested, with his head cocked like a puppy’s.

“The tattoos, the hair, the scratches. I’d think you’d been in your fair share of bar fights, but you seem nervous.”

“Ain’t the saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’?”

You put your hands up in the air for a placating, if joking, gesture. “You got me there. I apologize.”

“Nah, nah, youse’s good—” A question about that accent floated to the forefront of your mind, but you weren’t going to stop him when his shoulders were lowering and his tiny grin was widening, “—They weren’t bar fights, but I’ve tousled with guys before.”

That was to be expected. That damage on his arms wasn’t from a cat, after all. “Oh, yeah?”

“Prison.”

In the space of the next few seconds, you could only blink. You tried to be a straight-forward person now, even if some considered it a new bad habit, but it was still slightly flustering to meet someone that up front, and he was the first to openly tell you of their conviction. Despite that, you still inwardly applauded yourself for getting it semi-right. Military was the weaker of the two options.

When you recovered from the surprise, you nodded. “How long?”

“Huh?”

It felt good to confuse him as well. Eye for an eye, and all that jazz.

“I know what you said about judging, but you don’t look that old to me. I’ve met people who’ve been in and out of prison for years, and they’ve definitely been to at least one bar before.”

“Oh, well, I… uh…” he trailed off. One of his fingers trailed around the rim of his glass, and you were suddenly aware of how invasive that question was. Damn it, and you had just gotten him out of his shell. You were terrible at this.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” It didn’t matter how much you tried to keep your composure; your words flooded out of your mouth anyway. “All my questions are completely optional. I won’t take offence if you don’t tell me.”

“No, it’s just- well,” he replied, that jovial tone gone, “I think I’ve spent more time in prison than I have out.”

He didn’t look that old. Of course, skin care routines and plastic surgery existed, and some people just tended to hold onto their youth, but you would guess he was sometime in his early thirties. And, if he was, that was troubling.

He cleared your suspicions up soon after seeing your furrowed eyebrows. “Got put in when I was sixteen,” he explained, “and just got out a couple months ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank youse.”

Your smile returned, the quiet conversation returned, and the easy-going atmosphere, thankfully, returned. Surprisingly, you were having fun talking to the ex-prisoner, but you were still on shift. Between his questions of your favorite drinks and what else you would recommend, you flitted to other patrons who arrived. An hour had passed with your chatter, and it was high time for the bar to start filling up. It was a curious detail you noticed that very few people liked to sit at the actual counter. It wasn’t only because of the guy who looked very capable of punching their lights out; it happened on other days, as well, but you never questioned it. If people squished themselves into booths or that couch near the bathrooms, you didn’t mind, as long as they paid for their drinks.

Still, when you returned to the bar from someone finalizing their bill, your ex-prisoner was the only one sitting there. Not that you thought it was a bad thing. With you being the only bartender, you had very few people to talk to in the interim of serving drinks and closing tabs. This was a nice turn of events.

“How are you finding it so far?” you asked, placing an empty glass into the sink.

“Stressful.” His answer was immediate but that diminished none of its truth. “I mean, in prison, youse got everything sorted out for you. You don’t gotta think about bills, or working, or what youse’s eating during the day. You focus on what’s right in front of youse—” He gestured around the bar with a wide sweep of his arm, “—but out ‘ere? Everything matters so much, all the damn time.” His head dropped to the counter on his folded arms. “It’s exhausting.”

It was a sad fact of life that it was tiring. Expending energy on every little detail wasn’t a nightmare only because it was reality. You could get away from it in dreams, no matter the nature of them, but you’d eventually wake up and rise and repeat and rinse and repeat.

But you didn’t want to dampen his spirits too much. “If life weren’t exhausting, I wouldn’t be standing here serving everybody drinks,” you joked, as one of your hands reached for his glass and another patted the beer tap. Wearily, he nodded, though you were happy to say it was with a smile.

“Nah, guess not.”

He seemed easy to cheer up, although you knew his background. That was good for someone new to society. There were a lot of bad parts to it, you had experience in so many of them, but it was helpful when someone could see the bright side of it all.

You returned his glass to him, filled to the top without a spill you might add, never mind that it was just for your ego. He picked it up soon but didn’t drink. Instead, he tilted his head towards you. “But what ‘bout youse?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, youse.”

“I’ve been in custody four times.” If he had held off on drinking for another two seconds, he could have avoided spluttering, coughing and nearly choking on the beer. But his timing was poor, and you watched him helplessly try to cover his mouth in the midst of liquid seeping over his fingers. You couldn’t do much more than offer him a napkin when he had collected himself.

“That,” he managed to groan out, “that was not what I was thinkin’ of, but now I’m interested.”

You snapped your fingers underneath the counter. “Damn, I shot myself in the foot there, didn’t I?” You didn’t really mind sharing the story. After all, it was the part of your life that you chose. Your actions had consequences, and you were so glad that they did. That, and you were a firm believer in exchange, no matter what it was; being on unequal footing never sat right with you, and if this guy was nice enough, or uncaring enough, to offer up a story, who were you to leave him hanging?

“Well, I was fifteen, I think, the first time I got caught…”

It was a weird sensation to spin a yarn, as you’d heard members of your family call it. You weren’t much of an entertainer, nature or nurture, you had steered clear of that scene altogether. The closest you’d ever come was the few guitarists and singers who played in the old bars you once worked in, and the classical music from your jukebox. Nothing close to writing or acting, anyway. That was why you found it so confusing to be excited by your own words.

The story you told this practical stranger – of how you and your cousin had snuck out with a group of friends to neighbors’ pools, eventually getting shot at by a father with a gun and scattering like thrown dice or rats in the cellar – was fun. You knew the events, you knew the details, the ones you didn’t let slip, so you were certain that the actual content wasn’t what amused you. No, it was definitely his expressions. They rolled around his face, appearing at each turn of the plot. He laughed with you about your cousin flopping over the fence, as stiff as a rake, and matched your grimace when you described getting bailed out by your parents. It was a roller-coaster of emotions that you watched. From an outsider’s perspective, you might have thought the story more interesting than it actually was, considering his reactions.

When you came to a stop, you finished the tale with, “It was the start of my teenage rebellion, y’know. Hasn’t ended yet.” The glass was empty once again, but you didn’t jump to refill it this time. He looked distracted enough to not need another one quite yet.

“But youse’s never been to jail,” he asked. That motion from before, where he trailed a finger around the rim, returned. He seemed to be thinking.

You shrugged. “My parents always paid my way out. Sometimes I’d pretend I was an orphan just so that cops wouldn’t call them.”

“But it never worked?”

“But it never worked.” And it happened over and over again, until the police decided it wasn’t worth the effort and just stopped arresting you altogether. “By the third time, they knew what the number was, so it was off to the naughty step for me.”

This time, his laugh was full-bellied, deep and gravelly. It burned a blush onto your cheeks, though you were unsure whether it was from the sound or from the embarrassment. When he started trailing off, still with a few giggles, you decided it was both.

“Naughty step,” he repeated. He made it sound, strangely, more childish.

“Better than isolation, or whatever it’s called.”

You couldn’t figure out whether you liked his laugh or not – it was a nice sound, of course, like a bell echoing in a monastery, but it was beginning to mean you had a poor choice of words. This time, he corrected, “Solitary.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“I don’t know, the naughty step was pretty bad when I was growing up. I’d take solitary over it any day.”

“You’ve been?”

“Only a couple’a times.” He paused as if to collect his thoughts, or to decide what he was going to tell you. You understood that. On your first day working, you would have never expected to get this far into conversations with patrons, especially when it was his first time there. Exchanging more than one word with him was a feat in and of itself.

You waited patiently as he milled it over in his head. Eventually, he came to a conclusion, and you barely noticed your body instinctively leaning closer in interest.

“Actually, there was this one time,” he started, “I, uh, really messed up. Started one of ‘dose fights I were talking about with a newbie. Got knocked straight onto my ass in the first two minutes. The Warden, the guy who ran the place, he stormed out and chucked me in solitary. I didn’t see what he did with the one I hit after that, but they were back in their cell like nothing had happened the next time I saw ‘em.”

“What was the fight about?”

That made him freeze. His hand stopped and his eyes darted away from you, as far as his skull would let him.

“Nothin’. Nothin’ important, anyways.”

And that was the end of that. He brought the beer glass to his lips, made to take another sip, and then realized that it was still empty. Ever so subtly, he put it back on the counter, the clink only slightly deafened against the surface.

“Sorry, I’m treatin’ youse like a therapist, ain’t I?”

“No need to apologize.” You avoided telling him that this was the most conversation you’d had for the last three days. “I’m a bartender. That’s what we do. The only other people who get spoken to like this are hairdressers, and I would not trust myself with scissors near somebody’s eyes.”

The expression on his face made clear that he doubted you, his words solidifying that notion, “Dangerous, are youse?”

It happened more often than you’d like, people underestimating you for the outfits you wore and the aesthetic you perpetuated. You liked the finer things in life, obviously, given the surroundings you cultivated for yourself, but that didn’t make you any less hesitant to put up a fight. Hell, if he knew about that situation when you first met Dark… well, now that you thought about it, you could do with a little boasting.

You turned around to grab some more glasses at the sight of another group of patrons coming through the front doors, but you spoke vaguely over your shoulder, “I put a guy in a headlock until he nearly passed out a week ago, so you tell me.”

One, two, three, four – that should have been enough, and it was all that you could carry. With them all stable in your grip, you called back, “Another beer?”

No answer.

For a brief moment, you thought he had left, or he was stifling a laugh at some other mistake you made, but, when you shot a glance over your shoulder, you only saw him staring intently at you. Not a threatening one, as you might have expected, but just curiosity. That was becoming a theme with this guy.

You barely had time to take a step closer to the new customers before he was pointing a finger towards you with a shocked opening of his mouth. “I know who youse is!” he announced, as if he’d found the final piece of the puzzle that had fallen underneath the couch, “youse’s the- uh, the bartender!”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. In the midst of your own confusion, you took the group orders and let them sit down in one of the booths – of course, where else would they sit – while you started preparing them and tried to prepare an answer to that strange declaration.

The words fumbled around in your throat, you tried to imagine him wearing a suit but came up short without your brain automatically adding that ashen skin, before you gave up and replied, “Was that not obvious?”

“No, I mean… Wilford called you somethin’ – damn, what’d he call youse?”

Oh. Oh. That made too much sense now. You wiped all suspicions from your mind, clean slate, complete do-over. He knew Wilford, that explained it all.

“Dionysus?” you offered.

“Dionysus, yeah!” Of course he called you that. “This is the Astral, then?” And, of course, he only told him your nickname and not the name of the place you owned. You hadn’t known the guy for more than two weeks, even less if you factored in that he was a patron at your bar and the most conversation you’d had was over a martini, but this seemed par for the course. Important or helpful information, pfft, what was that? Oh, but the dumb name he’d assigned to you as a joke was the best thing to use to recognize you.

Though, you couldn’t be too annoyed with him. In fact, you had to try hard to ignore the swelling of pride that Wilford was telling people about you.

With a tired smile, you asked, “Did you not look at the name before you walked in?”

“Nah.”

“Okay, sure.” Weird guy with weird friends, you reminded yourself.

“Wilford took Dark here a couple’a days ago, didn’t he?”

And by extension, he knew Dark.

“Oh, yeah, that was the bar fight that interrupted it all.”

“Wil told us about it. Said the guy didn’t even get to call uncle.”

You were distracted by three things – one, that group came up to grab their drinks and give you a card, which was the tamer of them all – two, he sounded almost entertained by the image he had made for himself, but that made some kind of sense given the whole prison thing – and three was what you proceeded to ask him.

“Us?”

“The rest of the guys, and, uh, speaking of which…” His trailing off was punctuated by him rolling up his jacket’s sleeve and checking the watch on his wrist. Your bar didn’t actually have a clock in clear view, but you could assume enough time had passed for whatever break he was taking to run out.

“You need to go,” you filled in for him.

Sheepish was not a word you thought would fit him, but it did in that moment. A tilt of the corner of his mouth and a squinting of his eyes did wonders for making him appear shy to answer.

“Yeah, kinda—” He pushed the beer glass closer to you, which you then took to the sink, “—but I’ll definitely be back later.”

“I look forward to it.”

And you were. Genuinely. All three of the men you had met so far were ones you were hoping to see in the near future. If nothing else, they were useful to pass the time behind the bar.

He pushed back from the counter, the stool dragging along the wooden floorboards until he was able to slip out again. You had gotten used to tilting your head down to talk to him, so you hoped your glance up and down wasn’t taken in the wrong way. He brought one hand up in a wave as he turned to head towards the front door.

“Hold on.”

While he’d missed the human behavior plank by half a step, he wasn’t getting out of the rest of his bill.

“First of all, you need to pay—”

Your words were cut off before you could finish as he rushed to get his wallet from his pocket. “Oh, shoot, yeah, sorry ‘bout that.”

Understandable from his lack of experience out and about, and you would have liked to give him a drink on the house to celebrate his first bar experience, but you had these terrible things called taxes and your alcohols didn’t pay for themselves.

Well, technically…

A pile of crumpled up notes appeared on the counter before he went, again, to waltz out, and you, again, started to speak, and he, again, spun in a circle, like a penny on its side.

“And second of all,” you spoke, eliciting a hum from him, “what’s your name?”

It was a habit of yours to forget to ask people’s names, and you wanted a level playing field if this man was going to call you Dionysus while you could only latch onto ‘that greaser from the 1950s’.

But his laugh was just as shocked that he forgot to introduce himself.

He acquiesced with his arm leaning against the counter, oddly soft in his introduction compared to his prior words, “Yancy.”

“Have a good afternoon, Yancy.”

This time, he was able to make it more than a step forward towards the door, but he didn’t forget to call over his shoulder his own, “You too, Dion!”

A warmth spread in your chest with the click he left behind. Relaxation, amusement, a little bit of pride remaining from being a topic of conversation that you weren’t going to actively dissuade. Even though the nickname of a nickname was slightly cheap, you didn’t mind it. You didn’t mind it at all.

You ended up wiping down the counter again – with all the other patrons nestled in their booths or at their tables, you had space and time to yourself, which you used to come up with your own little theories as to why your most recent odd-ball customers were looking eerily similar.

But, hey, it was all probably just a coincidence, right?

AO3 Link - List

#theknightmarket #fanfiction #markiplier egos #writing #markiplier egos x reader #markiplier #x reader #bar au #bartender reader #yancy the prisoner #yancy x reader #iswm yancy #yancore #ahwm yancy #violence #crime

6 notes · View notes