#bone trucker

[witchinatree]

"sometimes you gotta change, even when you dont want to. even when it hurts" - trucker in a81 left of the dial 'trucker's atlas' god im so sick of having the most hard hitting lines come out of nowhere like guys i was not ready for that!! i was not ready for the sentient truck that i barely understand to say the deepest shit ever!!!

[thethinkingman]

#dashcam #baddrivers #louisiana #oversize #heavyhaul #trucker #trucking #travels #travel #truckdriver #lifeofatrucker #cdl #cdllife #bluecollar

[bedrockbones]

In trucker au, what does technos truck deliver? Ngl I have no clue how or what trucks deliver but yeah. Also hiii o/

Bread? >:)

uhhhh Illegal Things. Drugs. Bad Stuff

i have no idea

techno isnt normally a trucker he just got put on the job while he recovers from an injury but he does indeed haul for the Syndicate

[pricegouge]

Haul

Part Three MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: noncon nudity, noncon touching, graphic depiction of injuries

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.   If you survive this indeed, though.

You count distance in the taste of fabric on your tongue. As hours and miles pass, the cotton fades from heavy copper, to salt-lick piquant. The trailer heats with the rising sun, metal hull hotboxing you in. The tight space you're kept in is padded, probably for sound proofing though you're almost grateful for it, given how it prevents you from burning yourself on the corrugated siding.

It's hard to guess how much time passes. It feels like days, but the trailer does not go through a cooling cycle, nor do you die of dehydration, so you assume only a handful of hours pass. You spend them drifting in and out of consciousness, wishing you had enough wherewithal to try escaping. Unfortunately, with the heat and the dark comes exhaustion, and with the adrenaline crash comes intense pain so you do little more than catalog injuries when you can concentrate enough to do so. 

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.  

If you survive this indeed, though.

Poor Ash. She may have been a pain in the ass, but no one deserves to go out like that. It's hard to stop the tears when you think of her but you try anyway, knowing full well that further inflaming your face isn't going to do anyone any good. You wonder why they kept you alive - why Ash didn't make the cut. Or, did, you suppose. Maybe they felt two victims would have been too difficult to deal with. Maybe they thought Ash, who was still able to get around quite well, would've been too much of a handful. 

Maybe you're trying to reason with hurricane season, as it were, find rationality where there was none. These men were motivated by something you'd never understand and perhaps it was best not to waste your efforts on it. Still, it's hard to move past Simon and Gaz's brief exchange. 

'For cap?'

'For all of us.'

The thought of being shared by them made your stomach turn, but the thought that there was another one - one they evidently often brought victims back home to - that was even worse.

'Captain,' you sneer. You can't help but picture some old geezer who couldn't pull his own victims anymore; real Texas Chainsaw shit. The boys would probably have to hold you down so he could wax poetic at you about what a good hauler he used to be, help him lift a tire iron so he could get his rocks off. It would be enough to make you laugh, if it didn't feel like the tire iron was already whaling on you.

Still, you suppose knowing your fate lies with an old man and his lackeys is better than the alternative; even in your current state you know a truck with a soundproofed false back generally spells human trafficking for anyone with the misfortune to find themselves stuck in one. Your prospect doesn't make you happy by any means, but you suppose the enemy you know is better. Even if that enemy is a group of known killers. 

It's not too long after the trailer starts to cool that the quality of the roads changes; long, smooth interstate giving way to potholed, winding highway. You grit your teeth each time you're jostled, groan every time you remember your jaw is actually your biggest source of pain. 

The passiveness with which you wonder about our whereabouts surprises you, but you're so exhausted you don't hold yourself too accountable for that. It's not until the truck slows to a stop that you sit up straighter, heartbeat hammering when the back up alarm confirms your fears that you have arrived at your destination. They let you sit for a while after. Long enough to get cold. There's the occasional sound of air brakes firing and you figure you're in some sort of lot. You try yelling for help a few times, but between the gag in your mouth and the soundproofing around you, your cries go unanswered.

At least you hope that's the reason. Otherwise this entire lot is filled with people who are in on this potential trafficking ring and Simon's words echo even more ominously in your ears. 

A quiet rattling form the end of the trailer tells you when they open the doors hours later. The truck engine roars to life seconds after, backing up the final few feet necessary to slam into the loading dock hard enough to make a gruff voice from within yell. 

It's unfamiliar, makes you steady yourself harder against the unknown quality of it. You figure this must be Cap, feel some small sense of satisfaction when the old, ragged voice matches what you'd pictured. You listen intently as pallets are cleared away, the loud clatter of the jack ringing even through your soundproofing. There's a lower murmur of laughter, the boys regaling the older man with a story you can't quite hear but can definitely infer. When the truck is fully unloaded, their heavy boots tread the short runway - Johnny's truck, then; you'd wondered who you'd been riding with -, their voices coming clearer as they draw near. 

"- banged up, but mostly from the crash," you hear Simon rumble. 

Johnny's next, his grating brogue echoing within the trailer, "Well, except her nose. We can thank Gaz for that one."

"She can thank herself for it," Gaz snarks back, and you would bite your tongue if you could. There's a beat of silence. You can almost feel the heavy gaze their silent captain turns on Gaz, prompting him to elaborate, "She ran. Not very fast. When I caught up, she tried bite me so I headbutted her a little."

"A little!?" Johnny cries, but is cut off by a gruff scoff.

"No way to treat our new guest, Kyle. Go on, make it up to her. Bring her out here."

You expect something dramatic, like a flood of blinding light or strong hands reaching in to yank you out. Instead, when the panel is pulled back, the indirect light from the building is mostly blocked by the row of bodies in front of you, and Gaz squats off to the side, body language friendly and inviting despite the coldness you can feel radiating from him. This man hates you, you can feel it. You remember how he wanted to kill you, wish you could tell him the feeling was mutual. Rather, you stare at him loathingly until he tires of your inaction, leans in to grab you by the zip ties that bind your feet and cuts them with a knife you didn't even see him pull. When he grabs your wrists and pulls, you resist as much as you're able but in the end you're no match and he pulls you from your hideaway with little more than a grunt of pain and annoyance when you elbow him in the ribs.

"Feisty one, is she?" the captain's low growl observes and you turn to the newcomer with fury in your eyes which stalls out when you take him in properly for the first time.

You're disappointed to discover he's not as old as you'd been expecting. Nowhere near, in fact. Mid forties most likely, early fifties at absolute most. And densely built enough to speak of a physicality far younger. None of them were small, but the captain still managed to look big among them - nearly as tall as Simon and just as broad as Johnny, though it looked a little leaner on him given his height. You think the worst part about him is how genial he looks. Like Gaz, he's a brand of handsome that comes with charm and approachability, and you wonder how long it will take for that facade to crack like Gaz's did. Worse, if it ever will.

Certainly, his voice is disarmingly sweet when he greets you, coos and calls you a dove. "Weren't lying were they, love? Did a number on the poor girl, Ghost."

Simon - Ghost? - grunts in acknowledgement, motions for you to step closer. You don't, of course, and get a sharp shove from Gaz which sends you stumbling toward the larger men, caught by a firm hand on your bad shoulder. You yelp, breath heaving behind your gag as Cap adjusts his grip, studying you by your hip instead as his eyes dart to Simon.

"Shoulder. Maybe collar bone. Happened when she flipped her car." When you flipped it. Right.

The older man tuts dissapprovingly. You try to swat his hands away but stumble without his support. He ignores you anyway, hand returning easily while the other reaches up to carefully grip the edge of the duct tape. "Can't be easy to breathe in there, can it doll? Not with that poor nose. Let's get this off, shall we? Easy," he soothes, voice a low pur. His task hurts like hell anyway, the sticky strip pulling your tender, swollen skin. He's gentle about it at least, murmuring sympathetically when you can't contain your whimpers. You don't judge yourself too harshly when a few tears slip through, but do very much so when his thumbing them away twists your stomach unexpectedly. 

It's just because you haven't seen tenderness all night, you reason, and resolve yourself against him, even as he removes the gag with utmost delicacy.

"That better, dove?" he asks when your breaths come quicker, deeper. It's like resurfacing after being submerged for too long, clarity coming to you like a cold breeze on soaked skin: this is a calm meant to put you at ease, but you will die here if you become complacent.

So when Cap tells you to call him John and asks what your name is, you spit at him, blood and mucus staining his shoes.

The boys go quiet, like a record scratch moment in an old b-movie. You stare up at John defiantly, waiting for him to scream at you, hit you - anything.

Instead, he just pulls a pocket knife from his pants, grabs your bindings when you go to flinch away. "You've had a long day, love," he starts as he slips the thin blade between your wrists. Your skin is tender there, rubbed raw from the tight binds. The cool blade feels sharp despite the care he takes to aim the edge away from you, never once letting it touch your skin. "You've had a long day, so I'm going to let you get away with that this time." When he pulls against the zip ties, they cut into your skin briefly before giving with a sharp twang. He pulls one of your wrists into his free hand, rubs the raw skin there with a calloused palm before taking the other wrist in his grasp and giving it the same treatment. "But the next time you misbehave will not go well for you. Understood?"

Of course, you don't listen. Fuck this guy for real, you figure. What's the worst he can do? Kill you?

This time, when you go to spit at him, he catches it against his palm, wide hand slapping over your mouth so hard you're breifly concerned for your good cheek. You gasp in shock and pain, nearly choking on your own spit. John steps closer, one boot knocking your foot wide to let himself between your legs. He's so close, if he moved his palm you'd be breathing the same air.

As it stands, you can barely breathe at all, nose flush against the fat side of his hand. His own breath fans across your skin, heavy and hot as a bellows. The quality of it is thick, humid. You're glad you can't smell anything because it feels like it reeks. 

"Simon, she give you a name?"

Ghost's uncomfortable movement is obvious in its silence. "Took to calling 'er Betty."

"Betty," John repeats, lips curling in amusement. "Like an old timey, proper little wife. That you, pet?" You wanna shake your head, fear for your sinus cavity if you do. "Not yet, eh? Gonna have to train you up first. Ease you into it." As if in demonstration, his body sags into your own, presence oppressive. "That's okay, pet. We'll start you off easy. Get you nice and clean, get you fed. In the morning, Kyle will help with your injuries and when you feel more like a proper lady, we'll try again, hm?"

You can't say anything, so you don't.

"But in the meantime, I can't let that kind of behavior go unchecked. Boys," he calls, eyes still boring into you. "Which one of you wants to help our guest clean up?"

The general din of excitement makes you flinch, eyes going wide as if pleading with the man who holds you so cruelly will do any good. When Johnny suggests they play rock paper scissors to decide who gets the honors, it's suddenly, belatedly clear to you that your murder would almost be a kindness. No, the worst thing this man could do for you would be to keep you. John sees it the moment you realize this. His grip eases, eyes softening in some gross perversion of kindness. He strokes your cheek soothingly when Simon goes out in the first round, smiles condescendingly when you flinch at Johnny's crow of victory. John tuts at you, but says no more as he turns you toward the Scot.

"All yours, Soap," he rumbles, pushing you not ungently toward the other man. "Spic and span, you hear?"

"Aye, sir. Thank ye, sir." Johnny's hands are much harsher than John's when he guides you from the trailer, giving you no sympathy when you flinch under the harsh warehouse lighting. You try to take stock of your surroundings as you're pulled along: spare, dusty racking; a forklift in need of repair. There are multiple loading docks, most of the viewports obscured by backed up trucks. One sits vacant and you briefly wonder if there's even more of these monsters waiting in the wings before you're pulled past a dank little office. You catch sight of outdated equipment - a rolodex, a CB - but it's the shadow boxes full of military honors that your eyes lock on the longest.

Of fucking course.

The door Johnny leads you out through is tucked off the side of the building. You stumble when he pulls you down through the door, feet unsteady where they kick up dirt. It's cold outside, colder than it had been in the dankness of the trailer. You can't help but shiver, bite your tongue as best you can when your companion takes that as invitation to draw you in close and rub a big, solid hand up your arm. 

"We'll have ye warmed up in no time, lass," he promises, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. This man murdered your friend with a crowbar and dragged her around like a slaughtered animal. You expect no kindness from him. 

He orders you to strip before turning to a small station built into the side of the warehouse. You do not strip, electing instead to take off running in the opposite direction, cursing as the gravel churns loudly under your shoes. Soap swears, his own heavy boots following at a pace you didn't think his burly body capable of. Your breaths burn your chest, each pull coming labored in your blind panic but you refuse to slow or relent, ignoring the flaming pain in your shoulder every time you swing your arm forward for propulsion.

Well, you ignore it until the ground comes tilting up to meet you, your body crushed beneath the considerable weight of one grunting, cursing Scot. You sob at the pain, or maybe the fear - hard to tell. When he levers himself off you, he wastes no time grabbing your ankle as he stands up, towering over you. If you were capable of stringing two thoughts together, you'd wonder if this was the last thing Ash saw: pale blue eyes gleaming in the low light, the cruelty that twists his face. Instead you wonder how likely your arm is to maintain full mobility after a night like this. 

Not very, you decide, sobbing in pain as he drags you back to the warehouse. He's muttering something above you, but you can't hear him over your own cries. When you kick at him futilely, he yanks on your ankle until you fear for it and you don't try it again. Not even when he gets you where he wants you, back under the wan outdoor lighting of the station he'd turned to before, crouching down next to you to rip at your shoelaces.

"Please, don't," you murmur instead, fear churning in your belly as he continues to strip you. You'd known it would come to this, known the moment the captain had mentioned something about a wife. It doesn't make it easier, doesn't make the prospect of the gritty sand underneath you any more comfortable, or your repulsion for the man above you any less sharp. "Please, please, please let me go. I could -."

"What? Suck me off?" Soap laughs harshly, "Think ah'm gonnae ge' tha' anyway, hen."

You were going to say keep your mouth shut, but you suppose that never works anyway.

The sound you make when he pulls your pants off is wretched, but the shriek he earns when he pulls a knife on you is worse. His laugh is mean, reveling in your fear for a moment before cutting your shirt from you with one deft movement. He's pulling you to your feet before you can really process why and shoving you against the metal siding of the warehouse.

"Stay there," he warns and you're unsure if his tone or the throb in your shoulder is a more effective threat. When he walks back toward the station he'd been after earlier, your gaze turns to follow until you catch sight of your own shoulder at the bottom of your field of view and you draw short, taking in the severe swelling there. You prod at the edges of the mottling, wincing at your own ministrations. 

Absorbed in your own injuries, you don't notice when Soap turns on the spigot, or when he aims the nozzle of the high pressure hose at you. He calls for you to hold your breath, but gives you no more time than that which is necessary to look up, confused, before he's spraying you down.

It's freezing, the flow hard enough to bruise where it jets against the fatty bits of you; feels like it might sheer straight through hide where your skin thins around joints. You gasp, get a mouthful of aerated hose water. Spluttering, you try blocking the stream with your hands despite it feeling like your palms are being struck by a thousand rulers.

"S'wha' we use tae wash the trucks!" Soap calls, cackling loud enough to be heard over the spray that engulfs you. You can't get away from it no matter how much you fold into yourself, catching the jet alternatingly on your hip, your ribs, your ass. It does a better job of indexing your injuries than you did, the blooms of pain where you accidentally turn a bruise toward it letting you know that the hip which took the brunt of the collision is sore, that there's a spot on your good shoulder where Gaz tackled you which smarts. Your knees and elbows are all scuffed up, dirt grinding in before being stripped away. You feel like you're being sandpapered down; buffed until you're gleaming despite knowing how the dirt he kicks up clings to your skin wherever the hose isn't actively being pointed.

Soap keeps it up for another minute or so, only turning it off when your shaking gets so bad you think you're like to fall apart. "Quit yer whinging," he warns, creeping closer as he adjusts the nozzle to another setting. "Jes' havin' a laugh, bonnie, no need tae get all bent outta shape."

You want to tell him you're not laughing, but a small voice in your head says you should be grateful he didn't turn that hose on your face, so you keep quiet to prevent him getting any ideas.

When he's close enough to touch, Soap reaches out and grabs your wrist, spraying your pebbled skin down with a softer shower of water that would set you at ease, if not for how cold it is. From your arm, the stream moves up over your head, mussing your hair beyond recognition before trickling down your battered face. Here, the cold water feels good against heated skin and despite yourself, you heave a sigh of relief, tilting slightly into the unexpected relief. 

"Like tha' hen?" he asks, and you hesitate briefly, wondering how much satisfaction you want to give him. He doesn't give you a chance to decide, ruining your brief moment of reprieve by reaching out and tweaking one hard nipple.

You squawk, swatting at him. Johnny laughs long and loud, letting the stream from the hose fall dead as he watches you fume, shaking.

"Look like one ah them wee doggies, lass," he chuckles, "angry cause ye cannae even bite properly." The bastard flicks your cheek, feigning a sympathetic coo when you flinch away. "Tha's righ', bonnie, nothin' ye can do tae fight back," he murmurs, gliding his fingertips against your cheek in a move he probably thinks is soothing. "Ye jes' remember tha', eh? Might keep you alive."

You swallow back the lump in your throat, eyes boring a hole into his shoulder because you can't stand to look him in his terribly cold eyes. When Johnny moves again, his touches are back to the easy, soft caresses from before as he hoses you down. He's surprisingly good at it, despite being armed with only a shammy and a gnarly looking bar of soap. At least he knows to avoid your hair once he realizes he'll need conditioner. That damage is already done, but you appreciate him not dragging his fucking fingers through it on top of everything else. You try taking the soap from him once but he just tuts at you warningly so you go back to shivering, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to preserve body heat and keep yourself marginally modest. You can't decide if he's being obstinately particular just to torment you longer or if he's genuinely just like this until he raises your good arm above your head and finds your armpit overgrown.

He grins, sending you a delightfully scandalized look. "See Ghost chose well. Cap's gonnae love ye," he chuckles, and you feel your panic heighten when you think of the threatening older man again. Soap notices. "No need tae worry, hen. You jes' keep bein' good fer us and Cap'll be good tae ye."

For some reason, you don't trust this man's definition of being treated well.

After getting you all washed up, Johnny marches you back into the warehouse where the other men gather around a small, dingy breakroom table pecking at microwaved burritos. They're laughing uproariously as you arrive, Gaz talking animatedly about a loading mishap back in Arizona. The noise drifts off when they spot you, eying you over like a scrap of meat. There's no covering everything and despite yourself, you're almost grateful when John stands, bringing you a blanket he had folded on the seat beside himself. 

"Feeling better, doll?" he asks, patting you dry with a gentleness you didn't expect from the big man. He frowns at the swelling of your shoulder, eyes darting between you and it with an exaggerated level of concern that makes you want to hurl.

You avoid his gaze, your own flickering around the room as you ignore John, trying to gather your resolve enough to appease him. It's a struggle until your eyes find Simon's, apathetic as always despite the disapproving set of his scarred mouth. 

"Yes, sir," you murmur, watching raptly as Simon disguises a quick nod as a glance at his plate. Your heart rate picks up, an impossible tendril of hope slithering up your aorta when John hums contentedly at your words.

"That's a girl, love," he starts, warm palm falling heavy on your back as he starts to guide you back through the warehouse. "Gaz, bring the soup. You're hungry, right pet?"

You are, but Gaz doesn't wait for confirmation, falling in stride as John guides you toward the quaint office you'd caught a glimpse of earlier.

"Now, one day, you'll be able to stay up here with us," John promises, gesturing magnanimously across the dingy warehouse as if it contained all the gold of El Dorado within its rickety racking. "But until then, we're going to have to keep you below." 

Gait faltering, you glance up at the older man fearfully but he pays you no mind at all. "Don't worry honey, only temporary. And I'll have the boys visit you daily to keep you nice and stimulated, hm? Gaz," he barks before you can reflect too much on his choice of words. Kyle, evidently knowing exactly what's expected of him, places the soup bowl he's been carrying on the cluttered desk before moving some chairs, rolling the rug back enough to reveal a cutaway door in the cement slab.

You still, every muscle in your body tensing up when John tries to coax you along. "'S'not so bad, sweetheart, I promise. Come look, yeah? Think you'll have a nice little time if you just give it a try."

Like hell you'll give it a try, knees locking up so tight you look like a GI Joe when John guides you first down the stairs. It's cool, the descent marked by the wet gradient of the cement slab as you pass further underground. It's deeper than you'd expect, the dug dirt bottom damp under your feet when you alight on the landing. There's a short hall ahead, braced by rotted-looking timber. A lone door on the opposite end, braced on one side with a long line of bolts and locks. A single light hangs from the short ceiling, low enough you could smack your forehead off of it if you're not careful. 

"Had Simon come down while you were out, get it nice and ready for you," John brags. You doubt the room on the other side of that door could be made live-in ready even if Simon had been given three years to work on it, but you know better than to say as much. 

This time, when John prods you forward, your legs don't obey. "CanIsleepwithyou?" you blurt, a last ditch effort you're not sure you want him to accept.

But John just chuckles. "Eager, eh pet? Don't worry, you'll earn that right soon enough. Now go on, I'm sure you'd like some nice new clothes to put on, hm?"

Damn him, but you do, so you slink forward, ducking under the hanging light as you pass. The door creaks when you pull it open, weight heavy despite how meager it looks. It feels solid, unbreakable, and you notice quickly that you won't be able to barricade it if you have to pull it open. John does not notice your hesitance, following you into the room with a proud little smirk on his mustached face.

"Well, what do you think?" 

Not much. The floor isn't finished, just cold tile pressed into the dirt. The walls and ceilings are, though, and you briefly feel grateful for it until the batting on the door registers and you realize it's for soundproofing purposes. There's a bed in the corner, larger than you need yourself and made up in cutesy sheets with a strawberry motif. A pile of heavy quilts sits folded at the foot and despite yourself, your fingers twitch eagerly at the prospect of sleeping soon, warm and snug under all that weight. 

"We've got some clothes for you here," John continues. You get the feeling he doesn't need a lot of input so you stand there quietly as he opens a foot locker for you, tattered and olive green. Inside sit two neat stacks of clothes, battered looking but approximately the right size. You remember Johnny's comment about the Captain liking your pits and wonder if they always bring him back a certain type.

And if so, where they are.

"G'on love, pick out something you like," John leers, and you realize you won't be able to get away with waiting until he and Kyle leave to get dressed. 

There's a marked efficiency to your movements. Grabbing the first top you see, you briefly check the tag before doing the same with the bottoms at the top of the pile. Close enough for rock and roll, you figure, dropping your blanket to the cold floor and pulling the clothes onto yourself as quickly as possible. Kyle's eyes are heavy, John's heavier. Your skin crawls, the goosebumps which never really went away after your little bath returning with a vengeance. To your immense displeasure, John has to help you pull your bad arm through the sleeve and he tuts sympathetically when you whine.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'll bring you down some button ups tomorrow, yeah? You nod when he pauses too long, realizing you're not going to be let off the hook without a proper answer. You creep toward the bed when he hums in acknowledgement, but he tuts in warning again, nodding toward a little desk shoved off to the side of the room. You sit obediently, thanking him with a little murmur when he ferries the bowl of soup from Gaz to you. He hovers, watching raptly until you bring a spoonful of the room temperature meal to your mouth. 

"Good, right?" he asks, before you can even get a proper taste of it. 

You take your time swallowing, playing up the pain in your cheek as you try to suss out a good response. It's just microwaved soup as far as you can tell, but you figure saying as much won't garner you any favors. Instead, you hum appreciatively and shovel in another bite before John can ask you any more questions.

It works, mostly. John takes a quick lap around the room instead of standing over you, sighing now and again at whatever he finds while Gaz continues to stand in the doorway, evidently unamused. 

"It needs work, I'll give you that," John eventually concedes as you slurp at your meal. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until that sweet sweet MSG hit your tongue. "It needs work, but if you're good, we can spend some time down here fixing it up for you. Would you like that?"

You stall, spooning through some of the chunkier bits at the bottom of your bowl. It was kind of them to give you soup, you registered belatedly. Solid foods would have undoubtedly fucked up your mouth. Instead of answering, you ask John what would happen if you were to be bad and watch as his genial nature flips like a switch.

"Got a couple of news articles upstairs if you'd like to read 'em and find out."

Next>>

[familyvideostevie]

it's your turn for choosing

this was born out of a prompt request from my dear, dear, @softlyspector. this is for you, becca!

getting asked out via a smudgy scribble on a coffee cup | valentine's day prompts

joel miller x reader

summary/warnings: joel stops by your coffee shack every day. it's not your fault you're a little in love with him because of it. | modern au, fluff, flirting, jesse and cat and ellie cameos, game!joel in my head. i have not been a barista so sorry to all baristas if this reads wildly off-base. | 5.6k

a/n: it's giving rom-com! happy valentine's day. a bit different from my usual fare but hopefully it makes your heart warm. love u. thank u always to @macfrog and @bageldaddy for your eyes.

___

7:32 am. It’s helpful in this line of work to know exactly when you’re fucked. 

The espresso machine has been on the fritz all week and despite how much you want your current method of fixing it to work – banging a fist on the top until it stops wheezing – all signs point to today being a very bad day indeed. 

You’ve only been open for two hours. 

Here for three, awake for four. God, you’re tired.

Anyway – you’re fucked. And there’s nothing you can do about it. 

You call the time of death on the machine and search for something you can write on.

The Zone – a stupid name, but you can’t be bothered to change the sign that came with the place – is a coffee shop that sits between towns. 

Your coffee shop. 

It's more shack than shop, not really a zone of anything, just an order window and a five-drink menu. It's the kind of place that appears like a mirage for tourists right before they get on the highway at an ungodly hour and serves as a quick stop for everyone else. You open earlier than any other place around to get the truckers and the farmers and close when you stop being able to keep your eyes open.

The faded brown clapboard building is no bigger than an RV. The paint is chipped and the roof is a too-bright shade of green and you serve your drinks and the occasional sweet treat when you can get a good deal off of the baker two towns over through a window. It’s not a fancy chain, it’s not a drive-thru. You’ve got a bathroom and a few rickety cafe tables and chairs and no fucking common sense since you like it. 

You even love it, some days.

And the craziest part is that it works. Even on mornings like this one, when your espresso machine breaks during the lull between rushes and your part-time help calls in sick and you’ve spilled coffee all over your apron twice – it works. 

You tear off the lip of a cardboard box and write in big block letters: NO ESPRESSO TODAY. Maybe Tess, the baker, knows someone who can fix it. She knows everyone.

“Fuck you, you piece of junk,” you say. You give the machine another smack for good measure. 

Someone clears their throat and you whirl around, makeshift sign in hand. 

You’ve been doing this long enough that a handsome customer doesn’t phase you, but the man standing at your order window makes your stomach swoop for just a second.

“Morning,” you say, summoning your smile. “Hold on a sec, let me just –”

You lean out the window and wedge the piece of cardboard against the napkin holder on the ledge.

The man’s gaze drops to read. You take the opportunity to look at him. 

He’s tall and broad – if you had to guess, you’d say he works on one of the farms around here. He’s tan, dark hair threaded through with grey. His arms are crossed and you wish he wasn’t wearing a jacket so you could see his forearms. His denim shirt is undone at the top and you fixate on the chorded column of his throat, on the teasing glimpse of chest hair underneath.

The guy looks tired. 

Bone-tired, the kind of exhaustion you see when you look in the mirror. It comes from hundreds of early mornings and late nights, from hours on your feet and plenty of worry. He’s got lines at the corners of his eyes and a few around his mouth and you find yourself hoping they’re from laughter. 

“No espresso,” he reads, slow and unhurried. His drawl fits in with most of the folks around here, but you’re sure you haven’t seen him before. You’d remember. 

“Hope that doesn't scare you off,” you say. “Still got everything else.”

“Everything else being…” He glances at the chalkboard that serves as your menu.

DRIP COFFEE. LATTE. CAPPUCCINO. TEA. HOT CHOCOLATE. All written in your blocky hand in white paint. 

“Three options.”

Trial and error have taught you that simple works best. You’ll make anything people ask for, so long as you know how and have the supplies, and if they’re nice about it you won’t charge too much extra.

“Can I get you one of those three options?”

You’re not trying to rush him, but the next wave of people is bound to show up any minute.

“Black coffee will do,” he says. His mouth tugs up at the corner into a smirk that makes your face feel hot. “If you have that.”

“Thank you for taking pity on me,” you say, going for teasing and missing the mark by a mile. You just sound tired and genuine. “You just made my morning.”

He looks amused and you turn from him, unable to hide your grin. You pour a steaming cup and snap the lid on.

“Pretty shit morning if this is makin’ it,” he drawls.

You hand him the cup and your fingers brush. 

“You have no idea.”

He eyes the sign again and then your stained apron. “I got some notion.” He tugs his wallet from his back pocket and pulls out a $5 bill. “Keep the change,” he says.

You want to refuse, to thank him, but a few more cars pull up and Mr. Black Coffee just raises his cup to you and heads back to his truck.

Well, shit. You hope he comes back. A tipper like that, and hot? You sure wouldn’t mind if he became a regular customer. __

You call Tess that afternoon and she does know a guy, so the espresso machine gets fixed and things go back to normal. Your part-time help returns in the morning and nothing else breaks. 

Today is uncharacteristically warm for the season. The inside of The Zone is almost stifling, always at least 15 degrees warmer than outside, and you keep wiping your sweaty hands on your apron as you make espresso after espresso for the lunch crowd.

Cat, a spunky girl who likes to practice her latte art when it’s slow, takes orders at the register. You keep half of your attention on her and half on the four drinks you’re working on. 

“Black coffee, please,” someone says to her. Someone whose voice you recognize. 

“Can I get a name for that?” Cat asks. It’s busy enough that calling names is easier than calling orders, no matter how small your menu is.

“Joel,” he says. You let the milk steam on its own and pour the black coffee before Cat can do it.

“I’ve got it,” you tell her. “Can you finish up those drinks?”

She shrugs and you swap places. You know you’re sweaty and coffee-stained but you smile at him and hand over his coffee.

“Hot coffee on a day like this?” you tease. He – Joel – is sweaty, too. The collar of his work shirt is dark with sweat and his hair is a mess. He must be here on his lunch break. He takes the cup from you and slurps a long sip as a reply to your question. 

You laugh. Joel looks pleased. 

“Operatin’ a full menu, I see,” he says, pulling out another $5. “Glad you got it fixed.”

“It’s still a piece of junk,” you shrug. “Just don’t tell anyone I said that.”

He waves off your offer of change and raises his cup at you, taking a few steps backward towards his truck.

“Thank you,” he says. He eyes the tag on your chest and tacks your name on at the end. It sounds good from his mouth.

“Bye, Joel,” you say. His lips twitch but you barely have time to think about it before you have to take the next few orders. 

The line dies down and you step away from the register to help Cat with some cappuccinos – your least favorite drink by far due to all the damn foam they require – and she eyes you.

“Dude,” Cat says. “What the hell was that?”

If it wasn’t already a billion degrees in here you know your face would feel hot. 

“What the hell was what?”

She can’t reply for a few seconds while you grind beans for some espresso.

“I didn’t even know you knew how to flirt,” she muses, tapping a frother full of milk a few times. “That was pretty bad flirting if you ask me –”

You turn the grinder on again to drown her out.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you yell. She rolls her eyes at you until you turn off the machine.

You tamp down the grounds and slot them into the machine.

“I mean, not my type at all, for like, so many reasons,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Way too old for me, for one. Man, for another. But I see the appeal, I guess. Seems like he likes you. And was that a five-dollar bill? Black coffee is two bucks, last time I checked –”

“Can we get back to steaming milk, please?” you snap, more embarrassed than mad. “I am not taking flirting advice from a teenager.”

“I’m twenty!” she sputters. “Wait, so you admit that you like him?”

“Milk.”

Cat is right, though, and you know it. You just don’t see any harm in having a crush on some guy who comes to your coffee shop. Running this place means you see hundreds of people every day. You know their names, you ask them about their kids and their pets and their jobs, and you smile at them even on your bad days. It’s just part of the job. The daily interactions keep you afloat, make you feel more solid in your own life. People see you, they recognize you, they know you – even if it’s just because you make them coffee. 

Maybe Joel will keep coming back. Maybe he’ll become one of the regulars you know things about.

And if you have a crush on him? 

No harm done. He’s nice to look at.

And he tips well.

__

Joel stops by again. 

And again. 

And again.

He comes in every morning – sometimes at lunch – and orders the same thing. You learn the rumble of his truck by ear alone, the crunch of his boots on the gravel. Sometimes people in line say hi to him and a smile works its way onto your face on instinct when his voice reaches your ear. It’s never slow enough to have a proper conversation but he smiles at you, tells you he likes the flowers, your new apron. 

All of it is flirting but maybe not flirting. 

Maybe he’s just being polite.

Also, he keeps overpaying. 

One day, almost a month since you first saw him, he doesn’t come in the morning.  When you don’t see him in line at lunch, either, you’re a little disappointed. The weather is perfect – not too hot, not too cold, the sun shining – and you want to see him in the sunlight.

The day crowd is long gone and you’re only an hour or two from closing when his truck pulls up.

“I was getting worried,” you call as he walks over. Usually, he’s got some kind of dust or paint or something on them – Joel is a contractor, you’ve learned through your brief encounters, not a farmer – but today his clothes are clean and un-ripped. 

“I’m honored,” he says. 

You have his cup ready by the time he reaches the window. 

“I’m just surprised you can get through the day without a cup of coffee.”

He snorts and hands you his cash. 

“I can’t,” he says. “Had shitty home brew this morning.”

He takes a sip of your coffee and sighs. Your heart picks up and you don’t hide your grin.

“What’s with the schedule change?” you ask. 

He smirks. “Miss me?” 

You scoff and cross your arms. Heat rises in your chest and you feel almost giddy. 

“Just curious,” you say. “Don’t let it go to your head, but you’re my favorite customer.”

Joel laughs and scratches the back of his neck. 

“Reckon that’s the tip.”

“Actually, ordering a cup of black coffee is the way to any barista’s heart.”

Joel’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. 

“Ah,” he says. He takes another sip, his eyes dancing with mirth. “‘Course.”

“Nah,” you say with a teasing smile. “I’d never be so shallow.”

There’s no line behind him but you expect him to go back to his truck, anyway. But here he is. Talking to you.

You grab a rag and wipe down the counter to keep your hands busy. 

“I’m, uh. Meetin’ one of my kids here,” Joel says. The sudden shyness that accompanies his admission is a surprise. 

Your eyes dart to his hand but you see no ring, nor the pale shadow of one. 

“Both of ‘em moved to the city recently. Ellie – she’s comin’ up for the night.”

“I’ll bet you miss them,” you offer. You’re not sure why he’d want to bring his daughter to your coffee shack, but you’re not complaining.

Joel smiles at you. It’s a sad smile but still a good one. The affection in his eyes is raw. 

“Sure do,” he says. He tucks one hand in his pocket and takes another sip of his coffee. “But it’s good for them. Sarah – she’s a little older – is in school and Ellie is workin’ on her music and whatever else she’s into these days.” The pride in his voice is clear. 

“Well, I’m honored you want to bring her here.” You gesture to your slightly sad sitting area and the empty lot behind him. 

Joel looks ready to argue with you when a faded, older version of his truck pulls up. Music leaks from the open windows and the driver bops her head to the beat a few times before shutting it off and hoping out, thumbs flying on the screen of her phone. 

“That’ll be her,” he says drily. “Hey, kiddo.”

Ellie looks up from her hands, tucks her phone in her back pocket, and grins at Joel.

She doesn’t look a thing like him, but the connection is obvious. She moves like him, her shoulders set like she’s ready for a challenge at any moment. Joel sets his coffee down at the window and meets her halfway for a hug.

You look away and busy yourself with restocking whatever you can get your hands on.

“Dude, you come here every day?” Ellie asks. “Joel, this is so far from –”

Joel talks over her.

“Drive go okay? Sarah said they’re doin’ shit on the 35 –”

Ellie huffs.

“Yeah, yeah, some traffic getting out of the city ‘cause of the fucking lane closure, but otherwise fine.”

“Good.”

You turn to face them, a genuine smile firmly in place. 

“Hi,” you say. Joel picks up his coffee again, which Ellie eyes with a scowl. You introduce yourself to her. “You’re Ellie, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Ellie frowns. Behind her, Joel’s mouth twitches but he says nothing. It’s a lie, obviously, but something tells you he doesn’t mind and she believes it.

“Really?” She throws him a glare and then rolls her eyes. “You gotta stop telling strangers about me, man.”

“Someone’s gotta warn ‘em,” he says. 

She laughs. “Hey, fuck you!”

“Only good stuff,” you say. You like her. “Joel says you’re working on your music?”

Ellie’s eyes light up. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “I’ve got an audition next week.” She turns to Joel. “I brought my guitar ‘cause I have a fuck ton of songs to play for you.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder and she settles a little.

“I bet they’re real good.”

Ellie flushes and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well. You have to hear them first.”

You feel a little off-balance again, like you’re on the fringes of something you shouldn’t be seeing. The love on Joel’s face is clear as day. 

“Do you want some coffee?” you ask her.

Joel winces. Ellie gags. 

“No offense,” she starts, eyes darting between you and Joel. “I know Joel is fifty percent coffee on a good day, but it’s not my thing.” She looks at the menu and narrows her eyes. “I had a mocha the other day and didn’t hate it. Do you make those?”

“Look at that,” Joel says. “You’re convertin’.”

“Am not,” Ellie says. “It’s got chocolate in it, dude. No shit, I like it.”

“Yeah, give me a few minutes,” you laugh. “I’ll put lots of chocolate in it.”

They sit at one of your tables and you hear their laughter in the background as you make her drink.

It’s strange to see Joel like this – to build up on the man you’ve imagined him to be in your mind. Father never occurred to you. It makes sense, though, like a missing piece of him slotted into place. But it also makes the crush feel a little more real. Now that he’s more than your favorite regular customer. Now that you know a piece of him, of who he really is. 

It makes you want to know more.

You finish her drink and call Ellie’s name. They both stand and Joel digs in his wallet again.

“Don’t you dare pay me, Joel,” you say. You direct your next words at Ellie. “Really. I’m just honored you stopped by.”

She eyes Joel and he eyes her right back with the same look. She must have learned it from him.

“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.” She grins at you with all of her teeth. “Joel loves this place. Talks about it all the time.”

She takes a sip of her mocha and her eyes go wide.

“Wait, this is fucking good. Man, I see why you drive –”

Joel clears his throat.

“We’re off,” he says. “Thank you, as always.” He sounds softer than usual as if being nice to his daughter is the best thing you could do for him.

You suppose it is.

“You’re welcome, as always.” 

Ellie knocks her shoulder with Joel’s as they head back to their trucks. She must be whispering something to him because he swats her away with a groan and she cackles. 

They both wave at you as they drive away. 

__

Joel keeps coming in the mornings, and your conversations return to their fleeting cadence. Even so, it’s hard to deny that your crush on him has kicked into high gear.

You try not to let your gaze linger on his lips, on his throat. On his hands when he takes the cup from you, how your skin brushes and it makes you warm all over. You think about how he laughed, how relaxed he was around Ellie. You want to know what he’s like outside of your small daily interaction. You want to know what he eats for dinner, how he spends his weekends, what he listens to on the radio.

You want him.

Business is busy, which helps. A kid from a few towns over – Jesse, he’s called – signs on to work part-time, mostly for the second half of the day. He’s been a barista before so the training is minimal, but it still changes the flow of things. He’s a charming guy and the regulars take to him easy enough.

It’s you who is distracted. 

One morning, Joel comes in as expected. Jesse is working, too, trying to clock some extra hours this week.

Joel is on the phone in line, his attention somewhere else. He’s frowning, a deep crease between his brows as he waits in line. All it would take to smooth it away is the press of your thumb. 

You try not to stare and probably fail, but manage to take and make the orders ahead of him without making any mistakes, though your whole body feels alight.

He hangs up right as he gets to the window and sighs, giving you a tired smile.

“Howdy,” he says. You set his coffee down in front of him and he pulls out a ten-dollar bill instead of a five.

“Joel –” you say, but he interrupts you.

“My brother called and said he needs breakfast,” Joel grumbles. “Y’got any of Tess’s bear claws?”

Right, they work together, you remember. He’s mentioned Tommy in passing. 

“I think so, just hold on a sec.”

“Take your time,” Joel says. It sounds like he means it, even though there’s a line behind him and he probably needs to get to work. 

You do find a few bear claws in the box Tess gave you early this morning when you stopped by the bakery.

“You’re in luck,” you say, putting it in a paper bag. “Well, Tommy is.”

“Savin’ my ass,” he tells you when you hand it to him. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

The word sends a jolt of lightning through your whole body. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s said it but your world shifts slightly on its axis. Sweetheart.

He turns on his heel before you can give him change for his cash, his phone ringing.

“Jesus, Tommy, I said I’d –”

You let him fade into the distance and smile at your next customer.

“How can I help you?”

A few orders later you end up next to Jesse making some lattes.

“Was that Joel Miller?” Jesse asks. “Before. The guy with the black coffee and bear claw?”

You startle. “Um. It was. How do you –”

“I didn’t know he was a customer here,” Jesse says. “Does he come in a lot?”

You unpack a few more cinnamon buns that Tess gave you this morning. “Yeah, every day.”

“Damn,” he says. “He must really like your coffee.”

“Are you trying to say it’s bad coffee, Jesse?”

He huffs a laugh. “No, boss, ‘course not.” He grinds beans for a few seconds but continues once he’s done, steady hands tamping down the results. “I just know he lives like, a half-hour away. And that there are plenty of coffee shops there, too.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you know him, Jesse?”

“His daughter, Ellie, is a friend of mine,” he shrugs. “Went over to their house plenty of times in high school.”

“Well. He’s a contractor, right? I bet he has a job out here.”

Jesse clips the espresso into the machine and starts on some milk. 

“I’m not saying he doesn’t,” he muses. “I am saying that it takes at least 30 minutes to get here from where he lives.”

It’s silly. You’re half-flattered, half-confused. Yeah, you like Joel, and yeah, you’re pretty sure you’ve been flirting every day for over a month. But you figure it’s convenient for him. Coffee and an ego boost all in one. 

But if he’s going out of his way to come to The Zone? Well, maybe it’s not just for the coffee.

“Your coffee is good,” Jesse stresses, seeing the gears in your mind turning. It looks like he’s trying to hide a grin. You need to stop hiring young people who have keen eyes and big mouths.

“I think the ice needs a refill,” you say, snapping back into focus. 

“He might be here for something else, too -”

“Go refill the ice.”

He throws up his hands with a smirk. “I’m going!”

__

7:24 am. You’re on your own again and you’re fucked. 

The espresso machine is working perfectly and the early rush has ended. The weather is beyond shitty. Rain falls in sheets and the sky is so dark it feels like the sun didn’t bother to rise. It pounds on the roof and blows in the window every time you open it. The awning does nothing to shield customers as they shout their orders over the wind at you. Your fingers are going numb and your front is damp enough to set your teeth chattering. 

Joel’s truck pulls up and – well. You’re fucked. And he’s why.

You’re fucked because you can’t stop thinking about him. You can’t stop thinking about what Jesse said. What Joel said. Sweetheart.

A harmless crush turned into something more intense, something heavy in your stomach. You want him earnestly, fully, with every piece of you. 

And you still barely know him. But you want to. 

Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s the fact that you’re damp and cold and frustrated with your own heart and brain. But you see his truck and you decide to do something about this stupid crush.

You write your phone number on a cup with steady hands and set it aside for Joel. You scrawl on it as neatly as you can: Want to get a drink somewhere else sometime? 

It’s a bit of a coward’s way out. You should just ask him, say how you feel to his face. He’d probably like that better, anyway. But, well, this just feels safer. He could ignore it, he could throw it out, he could see it and decide to never come back. 

Sweetheart.

Somehow you don’t think he’ll do any of those.

The rain lashes against the window so hard you don’t open it until you see the lonely figure approach. The morning rush has been a morning trickle, a few brave souls venturing out for something from you.

Joel, it seems, is one.

You open the window and are greeted with a spray of mist.

“Gimme a sec,” you tell him. It’s so windy he leans in close to hear you. He’s wearing a jacket that’s ill-suited for the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. Your fingers twitch with the need to brush it back. 

You quickly fill the cup you’ve set aside and pass it to him with two hands so it doesn’t blow over.

“Brave of you,” you say. He’s in the rain and you’re both getting soaked but you want to talk to him desperately. It’s a buzzing need at the front of your brain. “Thought the weather would get you, too.”

“Told you,” he all but yells over the wind with a flash of white teeth. “Shitty coffee at home.”

“Drive safe, Joel,” you tell him. He nods at you and jogs back to the truck, cup in hand. You won’t be able to see if he reads it from here, but you hope so. All you have to do is wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The rain stops.

You’re still waiting, phone silent.

Sunshine peeks through the clouds with a slightly surreal post-storm glow. A few more folks have made their way to The Zone but today has been slow. The clock ticks slowly towards 3 pm and your phone does not ring.

“Don’t be stupid,” you mutter. “He’s working.” 

You step out of the shack and into the slightly humid air, the gravel under your feet shifting wetly. The tables you’d set out this morning are, mercifully, still there, though they’re spattered with rain. You might as well close up now.

You’re bent over the last of the chairs, wiping them down with an old rag. You’re focused, so much so that you don’t pay much attention to the hum of an engine and the crunch of tires behind you.

A door slams but you don’t turn around.

“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “We just closed.”

“Shame,” he says. 

You whip around and find Joel, hands in his pockets. He’s in a different shirt than this morning and his jeans don’t look soaked. You’re still damp, water stains on your pants and shirt.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Hi, Joel.”

He smirks. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you outside of that window,” he says, before jutting his chin towards the tables. “Can I help?”

You’re very aware of your whole body all at once. He’s looking at you, drinking you in like you’re his morning cup of coffee.

“Uh, sure,” you say. You want to ask why he’s here but the words won’t come. “They go in there, in the little closet on the right.” You point to the open door to the shack.

He dips his chin low just once and then crosses the distance between you in three big strides. He grabs the chair closest to you. The t-shirt he’s wearing shows his arms and you feel what he’s just said – it’s weird to be in the same space like this. You’re outside but he feels so big.

Joel’s arms flex and you swallow, following him with another chair. He stacks his in the right place and holds a hand out for yours.

“What did you write on it?” he asks, casually. 

The words don’t totally register. “What?”

He doesn’t answer. His arms are crossed, brow furrowed. Your mouth goes dry.

“On my cup. This mornin’.” He keeps his gaze on yours and for some reason, you can’t look away.

“Oh – you, you didn’t see?” 

He shakes his head. “Was rainin’, remember? Got smudged before I got in my truck.”

“Right.” 

You tear yourself away and leave him standing there. Maybe you should just lie.

But then you think about the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when you make him laugh, and how he asks you how you are and how he brought his daughter here and how he tips and how he drives all this way for your – for you.

Joel waits, his footsteps the only indication he’s followed you.

You turn around.

“I wrote my phone number,” you say. “And I asked you on a date.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up and you think he’s…blushing?

He rubs a hand over his beard and you hope he’s hiding a smile. Your heart is in your throat, beating so loud you worry that he can hear it. All of your bravado sinks into the damp ground at your feet. Maybe you’ve read this totally wrong. Maybe he’s just a nice guy, maybe your coffee is just really good and your employees are fucking with you. He’s here to let you down easy, to tell you he’s not even available, not interested, not –

“Alright,” Joel says. He walks towards you and tugs his phone from his back pocket. “I’ll take that number.”

Oh.

He hands it over and you type it in, heart jackhammering in your chest. But you watch his face, see the quirk of his mouth and his blush and it makes you brave.

“And the date?” you ask, giving it back. Your fingers brush and your heart keeps pounding but your nerves take a sharp turn away from doubt and towards excitement.

“Well, you gonna ask again?”

You both seem to have found your footing with whatever this is. The flirt in him is back full force, and he’s looking at you in that way of his. You want to know all of his expressions. There is so much to learn.

“Are you going to say yes?”

“S’why I came back,” he admits. “Figured you’d be closin’. Hoped you’d be free.”

“So you could read the cup?”

Joel takes the other two chairs and heads for the door again. You trail him. God, his arms are distracting. 

“Most of it,” he says. “Couldn’t make out the last few numbers, though.”

“Well, once we’re done here, I’m free. If you wanted to go on a date with me.”

Joel turns and you’re in the small space at the same time, your chests almost pressed together. You must smell like sweat and stale coffee but you watch as Joel inhales, eyes on yours.

“I do,” he says. 

It would be so easy to kiss him, a quick, chaste press of your lips to see what he tastes like.

His pupils dilate and you sway into him for a breath before you realize what you’re doing and step back outside.

You take a deep breath of fresh air. “Great.”

He rubs the back of his neck with one hand and you head for the tables. 

“Y’know,” he says. “Ellie’s been on my ass about this.”

You laugh, high and bright. “Has she?”

“That girl ain’t capable of missin’ an opportunity to stick her nose in,” he grumbles, but it’s affectionate. 

“Well, I think she’s smart,” you goad. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Reckon she is.”

Joel’s brows furrow and he takes a few quick steps into your space, so close the tips of your shoes almost touch.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Hi.”

“Hold still,” he says. He reaches for your face slowly, slow enough that you could pull away but you don’t. He brushes something from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Grounds.” His voice is a little hoarse.

“Thanks,” you breathe. 

He smirks but the flush creeping up his neck tells you he’s not wholly unaffected. It makes you feel…it just makes you feel. 

Joel Miller likes you.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” you say.

His eyes widen slightly and he leans in just a little but you slide out of his space with a grin.

“The sooner we finish up the sooner I can buy you a drink.”

Joel laughs, loud and full. “Oh, how generous of you.”

“You’re very lucky,” you say.

“I agree,” he drawls. He taps your chin with one knuckle.

His eyes sparkle and he smiles, looking luminous in the post-storm sunshine. You see a flash of a future – watching him drink coffee in a kitchen instead of through the window of The Zone. Your hands meeting over a shared table, fingers tangling, that smile directed at you in the morning light. 

Giddiness rises in your throat and spills out of you in a delighted laugh of your own. Joel just grins.

“So,” he says. “Where’re you takin’ me?”

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

[podcastenthusiast]

My personal rating of jobs I've seen Geralt have in modern AU fics:

Military: 3/10 - I get it in the sense that his work is his life and he's Seen Some Shit, but I just can't picture Geralt taking orders consistently enough.

MMA Fighter/Wrestler: 5/10 - It's got the violence! I could see it. I enjoyed the fistfighting quests in the game. Just not my favorite tho.

Bodyguard: 7/10 (10/10 if he's protecting Jaskier) - He is a big tough-looking boy! Likes to keep people safe. But I think he would get bored long-term.

Personal Trainer: 7/10 - A solid choice. We know he's qualified.

Regular Office Guy: 2/10 - Very funny to imagine but I don't think he'd actually make it past the interview.

Mechanic: 6/10 - I could kinda see it if you think of a car as like a modern horse.

Criminal/Gangster: 3/10 - Admittedly I haven't read one of these but I have trouble imagining it.

Lawyer: 8/10 - Saw this once or twice and honestly I'm here for it. Geralt is a huge nerd with a strong sense of justice.

Animal Control Guy: 9/10 - I picture this like that quest in W3 where Geralt had to save that goat except it's his entire job.

Trucker: 10/10 - God tier. Got the traveling, the isolation, the way the job gets in your bones. Perfection.

Anything With Horses: 10/10 - Yes! Geralt is absolutely a horse girl in every universe.

Still A Witcher Somehow: 10/10 - Love these fics with my whole heart. Geralt probably living in his car, wandering the city with a sword and protecting people (like Jaskier) from monsters nobody knows about/believes in? Fuck yeah.

[octuscle]

Howdy, Support! I'm a 22yo twink working at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere. Only good part about my job is uh..."servicing" the passing truckers. One of 'em is a real beast of a man; late thirties, tall, burly and hairy, with a big, solid beer/roid gut that's always straining against his filthy tanktop. Everytime he stops by, we have a beer shotgun contest right in front of everyone. Loser blows the winner in the stalls. I normally enjoy losing (not that I have a choice), but this time, I want him to meet his match...literally! I want to drink him under the table, and with each beer I down, I want to feel my gut grow heavier and larger as my work clothes turn into a stained tanktop and I gradually transform into a hulking, hairy trucker that stinks of sweat, just like him. I've programmed all the relevant settings for height, muscle, hair, BO, attitude and clothing, but I just realized I don't know how to sync the transformation to an event trigger like shotgunning the beers, much less on how to make it gradual! Please help me, he's due today!

I love challenges… First of all, I'll add one more skill to your traits. "Stable up to 3.5 per mille". I don't know how much your crush can take. But now you've got a damn good chance of drinking the guy under the table. However, you should manage at least 2.0 per mille. Because your transformation will take place in parallel with your blood alcohol level. Linear, until you have reached 2.0 per mille. At 2.0 per mille, the transformation is complete.

It's around 8 p.m. when your buddy finally comes in the door. Like you said: a beast of a man. The fist bump he gives you almost breaks your forearm bones. Beast of a man? You're miles or 2.0 per mille away from that. You are cute. But a twink. Not a man.

The regulars know what to expect. They chant "Booze! Booze! Booze!" One of them shouts that you're in desperate need of a protein shot. The others roar. Your buddy orders 20 cans of beer. He shouts to his colleagues that there will definitely be some left for them. He looks at you, winks and licks his lips. He has no idea.

The first can of beer. It really hits you. 0.3 per mille. One seventh of your way gone in one go. You feel a bit dizzy. You've been king of the highway for two years now. Well, maybe prince of the highway. You haven't put much weight on your ribs yet. But the good food at the truck stops and the hard work loading your truck are already having a bit of an effect. Your arms are no longer as thin as twigs.

The second beer. It didn't go quite so quickly. You have to burp loudly. Your buddy follows your example. 0.56 per mille. You've been driving your 7.5-ton baby through the countryside for over three and a half years. Does you good. Not as skinny as you used to be. You look healthy. Maybe a little red in the face. Drunk.

After the third beer you have over 0.8 per mille. Another burp. You need a piss. You stand with your legs apart in front of the urinal to avoid peeing on your boots. You take out your cheesy beauty from your dirty jockstraps. And empty your bulging bladder. Wash your hands? That's for twinks. You simply wipe your hands on your dirty Wranglers.

Janet brings you some onion rings with your beer. Good idea. After the toilet break, you finish your fourth beer almost in one go. Your buddy has noticeable problems. Your blood alcohol level is over 1.0 per mille. This competition between you and your colleague has been going on for about seven years. In the trucker scene, your competitions are small highlights. As soon as it is clear when and where you will next get drunk under the table and then disappear to the stalls, new routes are planned. Service stations know that you'll bring in good sales and are keen to host the competition. There used to be a lot of betting on winning and losing. Your buddy has been unbeaten for seven years. There's not much betting anymore. The odds on you winning are huge. But nobody expects that anyway.

The next beer. At 1.26 per mille, you start to falter. Your buddy weighs a few more kilograms than your 100. Maybe you're already a little over 100 - you broke that magic barrier a few weeks ago on your 30th birthday. Eat, work hard and lift iron in the evening. That shapes your body. And beer. Lots of beer. To the delight of the audience, you interrupt your drinking contest for a short burping contest. The landlord actually has a device to measure the volume. You lose. That's clear. You lack the resonance body…

The next beer is a big miss for both you and your buddy. Your dirty tank tops are now wet from the beer. But that was a quick round of drinking, so it happens. You feel a bit dizzy. Your buddy is already looking extremely glassy-eyed. A murmur goes round the room. Should you really stand a chance?

After the seventh beer, you both have to go for a piss. Shit, why are you doing this to yourselves? So that one of you can blow the other? You do that as often as you can see each other anyway. And luckily your paths cross from time to time. "Dude, has your beast grown?" slurs your buddy as you stand swaying in front of the urinals and can no longer aim and hit the target very well. "You bet your life, get ready for a lot, bro," you slur back. "And now give me a kiss, I can't wait any longer."

You're too drunk to remember to turn your caps backwards. You push his cap off his head and it falls into a puddle of urine. Damn, it's seen worse. You stagger back to your beer cans. After the eighth beer, your first goal is achieved. 2.0 per mille blood alcohol. Spread over a proud 120 kilograms of your 35-year-old body. A passionate trucker for 13 years. Your 36-ton beast is basically your home and your family. Hehehe, there are a few other people in the family too. Mike here next to you, for example. You rip open the ninth can and empty it almost at record speed. Shit, you're going to be sick. Mike opens the can, takes a sip. And stumbles towards the toilet. He can't reach the toilet bowl. But at least he throws up in the sink.

When he comes back, he looks at you with glazed eyes. He falls to his knees in front of you to the loud roar of the audience and tries to open your trousers with his drunken head. You have to laugh. "Not here, not now, Buddie" You pull him up. Let him sober up a bit first. You should both enjoy the moment when he sucks you off for the first time!

[purelyfiction]

stars in a line - robert 'bob' floyd x f!reader

Word Count: 1,207 words

Summary: Chicken's in the skillet, ice in the drink, head's in the clouds, diamond's in the rough, he's in a Chevy and I'm in love // Tips in the apron, hair's in a braid, Mercury's all in retrograde // He's in a T-shirt all cleaned up, Good lord almighty, mama don't wait up // Chills down my spine, hearts on the line, He's all mine and I'm in love

Content Warning: fluff!! also note of animal abandonment

Author Note: another round for @ohtobeleah 's galentines writings :))))))

the familiar rumble of the older engine makes your features split with a smile. when bob had told you he was gonna drive his truck from montana to california you thought he was losing his mind.

then he'd explained why he was so insistent.

that he'd taken you out in that '87 Chevy all those years ago. after weeks of coming into the diner you worked in after school, dozens and dozens of milkshake and fry basket combos (and subsequent heartburn) just so he could hang out with you. he'd gotten up the nerve to finally ask you out. that truck had been your front row seats at the drive in watching a rerun of some old army movie his dad had recommended.

he'd taken the two of you to prom in that truck. to high school graduation, your college graduation. when the engine died on you while he was stationed in atlanta he'd taught you how to fix the thing via facetime.

beverly the chevy had been there for so many of your big moments. she'd been the reason why bob ended up buying the house that you stood contently in.

'bev is gonna need a place out of the elements if she's gonna stay top notch.'

this house had been the only one with a two car garage. one side for bev and one side for your car.

now when the engine rumbles echoed in the garage and made the older house vibrate, you couldn't help but grin. the sizzling of chicken in a skillet on the stove greets bob when he steps into the kitchen. he's greeted with the smell and a bottle of wine in a pile of ice in the sink. the door to the garage shuts, and you glance over your shoulder. when you do, you're witnessing the brown paper bouquet in his hands, white t-shirt on his shoulders, levis hugging his waist, trucker cap right where it belongs. he knows what this does to you. it's a simple look, nothing more than the basics but that's what does it. it highlights him. the man you love, bare bones and all.

the same man you fell for in that truck bed all those years ago.

he slides his boots off and wraps his arms around you from behind you, showing off the flowers he carried in. "happy flowers to you," he's humming now, making you giggle as his arms tight around you start bouncing you back and forth as he sings to the tune of 'happy birthday', "happy flowers to you, happy flowers, happy flowers, to my valentine youuuuuu" he punctuates the end of the song with a sloppy kiss to your cheek as you ease the weight of the florals from his hand.

"these are stunning, bo." you grin as he lets go, letting you turn to face him fully as he smiles.

"i know, i picked 'em cause they remind me of you." bob grins before pressing a quick kiss to your lips, barely pulling back when he speaks again, "happy valentines, sweet girl." you repeat the sentiment before he takes the arrangement and starts to get them into water.

you can't help but stare as he begins trimming the ends of each stem, easing them into the vase. you can smell the freshness of his body wash, having showered on base before he came home to you. couldn't waste time on your night together - and he knew it. the combination on him is near lethal to you. if you weren't actively cooking dinner, the counter would have been supplying a different kind of heat to the kitchen.

"i bought you something!" you nearly startle him with your sudden announcement, the reminder of your gift hitting you as you watch him. running down the hall causes the pup in the living room to chase after you, causing you and bob to both laugh.

shadow had been an unplanned addition to your lives because the poor pup appeared on your back deck one night. the collar on his neck held your current address. the previous owners had barely been involved with the process of the sale, so you didn't have their contact information to tell them hey assholes, you left your dog.

so, you and bob joked that the house came with a guardian, a black lab and german shepherd mix (bob got his dna tested out of infuriating curiosity). he quickly clung to the two of you - thus 'shadow'.

you lug the box into the kitchen, where bob has kept an eye on the meal you had recklessly abandoned. looking at you he huffs a gasp. "sweet girl, this is unnecessary." he laughs, taking the wrapped gift from your arms and sliding it onto the counter. still, he tears into it and reveals the milkshake maker, making him laugh, looking over at you with a grin. "that why you got your hair all done like this?" he grins, his fingers moving over the braid you'd plaited this morning.

"maybe." you hum, kissing his cheek as he looks over the box holding the machine. that diner the two of you met in had closed not long after you moved to san diego. you'd spent hours there and he'd once complimented the ribbon in your hair when it was woven into the braid on your head. recently, bob had mentioned how he'd missed those milkshakes they'd always made him.

he grins, before tucking his hand into his pocket. "hold out your hand." you hold it out as he asks, palm up. what he sets into your palm catches you off guard.

you'd been expecting something small, likely a jewelry box or something, like the years before.

instead a little metal circle is dropped into your palm. shining and glimmering. diamonds along it like stars in a line. your spine is electrified with chills, as your jaw drops as you look at him in awe. "bob, what-you-"

"i can get on my knee if you want, i'm just- i'm so in love with you. i'm truly in awe of you and how valid you make me feel. how valued and cherished i feel - how you listen," his head nods to the machine on the counter, "and you care and you never fail to be the best. just simply the best. i hope that i am for you-"

cutting him off you speak, "and you are," he laughs.

"then i wanna continue being that for you. for forever." you're sliding the new piece of jewelry onto your ring finger before he can get the words out, your arms slinking around his shoulders and linking your lips with his.

when you pull back, you grin.

"you're mine. i'm all yours and i'm in love. i'm so in love with you. with our life and the path we're on." you whisper. his hand takes a hold of your arm before the two of you jump at the sound of a smoke detector, both of you scrambling to clear the kitchen of smoke.

when the alarm is off and the burnt chicken is tossed, you smirk as you pull ice cream from the fridge.

"ice cream for dinner?" you try. bob grins.

"how about milkshakes instead?"

[thesillygoofyjester]

Angel dust was not having a good day.  

He was locked in his dressing room, with a furious Valentino,  

“-DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH YOUVE COST ME? YOU’RE LUCKY I DONT KILL YOU FOR THIS!” 

The reason for Valentinos rage? Angel had fucked up and pissed off an important business partner Val had been working with, the slimy shark demon had stormed out and lost Val's deal 

Val grabbed his hair roughly and pulled his face up to look at him.  

“you’re going to pay for this one Angel dust”  

His voice was low, with sharp rage hidden right in front of his eyes, his glowing red-hot eyes and sharp teeth. 

-SMACK-! 

Valentino hit him, hard, he fell to the ground, he tried to hold himself up with his elbows, but his arms shook, and his cheek stung. He felt a single hot tear drop into his fur, burning him like a brand, Valentino loomed over him, whispering darkly 

“Once I'm done with you, you're going to go out there, and earn back every dollar you lost me, I don't care how many greasy truckers you have to fuck, or how long it takes, do you understand-” 

“VAL!” 

Valentinos eyes narrowed as his head shot to the doorway, Angel slowly looked over- Vox. 

The media demon himself was standing in the doorway of his dressing room, posture tense, arms crossed, eyes narrow, and cold 

“I'm a little busy vox” Val ground out, a growl deep in his throat 

“What the FUCK Val! I've been looking for you everywhere!” Vox stalked into his room, glaring at Val, blind to angel dust on the floor, staring at two of the most powerful overlords in hell, having an argument in his room. 

he sucked in a tight breath, making himself as small as possible and backing away, crawling backwards on the floor, until Valentino swiftly moved his boot, digging the heel into his hand, subtle, but a clear message “don't move unless I tell you to” 

“DID YOU SPEND THIS?” vox shoved a receipt in Vals face, electricity buzzing between his antenna “yeah, so? I splurged a bit, what's the problem?” Val shrugged it off 

Vox's hackles raised, and his voice glitched “G-G-GODAMNIT VAL WEVE BEEN OVER THIS, you can't spend this kind of money, from our bank account, without telling ME-” 

-SMACK-! 

Angels un-swollen eye widened, as he stared at Vals raised hand, and vox’s cracked screen 

Val had just hit vox. It was almost laughable, if it hadn't been so terrifying, vox, the tv demon, the media overlord, and even more terrifying, he hadn't fought back, he had just taken it? 

Vox looked up at Val through fingers covering his cracked screen “Val-” 

-SMACK-! 

-SMACK-! 

“VAL!” vox had caught Vals wrist, the rings in his eye pulsing. Val glared at him, “You ungrateful-!”  

“Oh, so I'm the ungrateful one?”  

Vals eyes widened, as Vox's screen cracked itself into a grin “do you need a reminder of why you’re here?” vox grabbed vials face with his other hand, squeezing until his claws pierced skin as Valentino tried to pull away 

“have you forgotten that I made you? You'd be N-N-NOTHING without me!” 

“I'm sorry voxxy, i-i-” vox slammed Valentino into the floor, pinkish blood pooling around him 

“don't call me t-that, I have put up with your SHIT, for too long” vox planted his boot on Vals chest, pressing on it 

“I have let you hit me, c-c-rack my screen, scream at m-me, waste my money on your ch-cheap w-w-whores, and I have been loyal to you the whole GOD-D-DAMNED TIME” 

Angel looked down and saw the blood getting on his hands and in his fur, he crawled back quickly and silently, before freezing up as Vals eyes shot to him 

Vox put even more pressure on Vals chest with his boot, before bending down to grab Vals face, and forcing him to look into vox’s hypnotic eye, “I l-loved you once Val, you ruined me, I'm s-s-sorry for ever being foolish enough to fall for y-you”  

Val wheezed, voice weak, “f-fuck you... vox” 

Vox pushed his heel through Vals chest, the sound of bones crunching under his boot echoing through the room, he silently lifted his foot, and angel caught a glimpse of the iconic silver-white glow that came from angelic steel. Vox had planned this. 

Vox stepped away from the corpse, looking around the room, angel froze as vox’s eyes caught his 

“... you weren't supposed to be here” is all vox said, looking mildly surprised. 

Angel tried to let out a laugh, but it just came out as a dry sob “it is my dressing room after all” 

Vox stepped toward him, and angel shrunk back, vox paused, before offering his hand, angel delicately took it, hand trembling. Vox grabbed it, and pulled angel up, angel swayed on his feet, vision blurring and dancing in front of him. 

Vox looked down at angels blood-matted fur, and his own blood stained shoes, “let's get you cleaned up, hmm?” Angel nodded, dizzy, and relaxed by Vox’s suddenly calming voice 

Vox lifted up the much slimmer demon into his arms and carried him bridal style down the hall, he was lucky it was night, and most of his employees had already gone home. When he finally got to the penthouse, he felt angel stiffen in his arms, but instead of heading to the bedroom, like angel expected him to, he headed straight for the bathroom.  

Upon entering he gently placed angel on the floor, angel swayed for a moment before regaining his balance and turned to face the tv-faced demon 

Vox had already turned away from him “clean yourself up, and feel free to use whatever's in the shower, I'll get you something...” he eyed the messy, revealing, outfit that angel was wearing “...decent, to wear” And with that, he shut the door behind him, leaving angel alone with his thoughts 

The water was still hot, one of the perks of being rich, angel supposed, it ran down his body, soaking his fur as the pink tinged blood ran down into the drain. Valentinos blood  

He supposed he must've still been in shock, because he was crying, crying because Val was dead. Isn't this what he had wanted? Hadn't he been praying for Vals death? Shouldn't he be over joyed right now? So why did his heart ache? 

Vox... why had he killed Val? Everyone knew that their relationship was the most brutal on-again off-again in all of hell, but had it really gotten enough to the point that vox felt the need to kill him? Remember? A small voice in the back of his head whispered Val HIT vox. He broke his screen, he was being abused the voice whispered just like you 

Except vox wasn't like him, because vox had the power and resources to get out, he had just taken it, done whatever Val wanted him to, because Val owned his soul – his soul. Was he still under contract? Was he going to lose his job? Oh god, how was he going to get his fix? He needed his job! His breath started speeding up, his chest rising and falling as he gasped, his eyes flitting wildly around the room 

What if vox killed him for seeing Vals death, what if he-! 

“ANGEL DUST!” he flinched, quickly responding “y-yeah?” he heard vox sigh outside the door “thank Satan... I was starting to think you had drowned yourself!” vox let out an uncomfortable chuckle, before he heard a faint shuffling, as though someone was placing something right outside 

“there's clothes outside for when you're done, I-... take as long as you need” angel waited until he heard the tell-tale sign of someone walking away before turning of the shower and stepping out. Opening the door just a crack to make sure no one was outside, he took the neatly folded towel and clothes and held them close to his chest. 

Towel first, he quickly rubbed his fur dry with what may have been the softest towel he had ever touched. Next, the clothes, they were fairly simple, a pair of navy sweatpants, and a neon teal t-shirt emblazoned with the bright red vox-tec logo. 

After double and triple checking to make sure he looked good, he stepped out of the bathroom into the dimly lit apartment, “Mista Vox!? Ya here?!” a door shrouded in shadows opened, and there stood vox, in a clean version of the suit he had been wearing before, no longer stained with blood, the other new thing about him, was his screen, it was no longer shattered, instead, all that remained was a small crack in the corner. 

“you’re out, good.” vox walked towards him, his movements, calm and practiced, as if he hadn't just murdered his boyfriend. Angel just nervously fidgeted with his hands, watching vox until he arrived at the door, and opened it. “Well? You coming?” vox asked, a slight teasing lilt in his voice. Angel felt his shoulders relax marginally, he didn't want thanks for saving angel. Angel gave a pained smile  

“Y-yeah...” 

As they walked into the elevator, angel stood awkwardly next to vox, who seemed wholly uninterested in the entire ordeal, this vox was nothing like the friendly charismatic one you saw on tv, or the bitter, vengeful, short tempered one he saw in the dressing room, this one seemed cold, and tense, and... anxious? 

“Why’d you do it?” the words left his lips before he could stop them, vox turned to him, raising one eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about” 

“Valentino? You kill-” vox’s hand shot over his mouth “Valentino, hasn’t been seen, in 2 hours, hardly a reason to say he’s dead” his face went cold and stoic “unless you want to be the one who killed him” 

Angel dust wasn’t stupid enough to not get the barely concealed threat “stop talking unless you want to be framed” he looked down at his feet, “Sorry Mista vox” 

Vox looked down as well, “but I suppose if someone was to kill him, it might’ve been because they realized he was growing too powerful, perhaps they thought him a threat to their power... or perhaps they were just done with taking his shit.” 

Angels eyes widened, he hadn’t expected vox to actually tell him anything, he opened his mouth to say something, but in that moment, the elevator dinged, and the doors opened in front of them, he sighed as vox strode out in front of him, he quickly followed as vox stalked through the halls of the studio. 

After a solid 10 minutes of walking, they arrived at a small side door, vox opened it and held it for angel dust, he stepped through the door, to see a sleek navy limousine, a small, heterochronic, aquatic demon quickly opened the door for him and vox, before getting in the driver's seat. Vox looked at him, raising an eye brow 

-oh 

“The hazbin hotel please?” 

The demon looked at vox, who nodded, the limo pulled out, and peeled off down the street 

Angel took this as an opportunity to see the limo, it was simple, a black interior, with cyan led stripes down the sides, none of the fluff or haze that Valentinos limo had. At least the seats were comfortable. Angel felt his eyelids droop, surely vox wouldn't mind if he rested his eyes for a minute, right? Right... 

Vox was incredibly tired. Today had been one of the most exhausting days of his life, between having 4 separate interview's, today was also the day he had decided to act out his plan, and murder Val. But one variable he hadn’t accounted for was Angel dust being there. The lanky spider knew what he had done, and he shouldn’t be risking him even being alive. 

But when he looked in the demons terrified eyes, his swollen cheek, and his fur stained with blood... he saw himself 

Which of course was how he ended up with the spider in question asleep on him He turned to look at angel dust, sleeping so... well certainly not peacefully. He was... shivering? Trembling? Both? He heard the demons breath quicken as he thrashed. “n-no please I'm sorry, I won't do it again please stop, Valentino!”  

Vox sucked in a breath at the vulnerable display, the logical side of his brain said it wasn’t his problem, but looking at this soul, tormented by the same demons he was, he couldn't help but feel a bit of pity. 

 Sighing, and knowing he was probably going to regret this, he shrugged off his suit jacket and laid it over him, his fingers lingering on angels back, he gently pressed his hand flush to the demons back, softly rubbing it until he felt the spider under him begin to relax, he ceased his circular movements, but let his hand rest on angels back, he sighed looking out the window at the hotel on the tall hill in front of them 

Charlie was freaking out, angel dust had been out for 4 hours past curfew, and hadn’t texted them once, everyone in the hotel (sans Alastor) had tried calling and texting him, to no avail 

“w-what if has dead! What if he got kidnapped! What if!” “Babe.” Charlie turned to her girlfriend, Vaggie, who was gently holding her by the shoulders “angels an adult, he can handle himself” Vaggie smiled comfortingly, but it did little to sooth Charlies nerves  

“But what if he's hurt!?” Charlie asked, desperation tinging her voice 

“Then that's on him kid” husker tiredly interjected “he aint your responsibility” 

“But-! wait what's that?” Charlie pulled herself away from Vaggie and went to go look out the window, a sleek navy limo was pulling up the driveway, far too nice for this side of hell 

Charlie stepped outside, Vaggie and husk behind her, Alastor was already outside, his trademark grin was tight, and his eyes were narrow  

“al... What's going on?” Alastor's grin sharpened “it appears our arachnid friend has caught the attention of another overlord!” 

At that moment, the car door opened and Vox, leader of the Vee’s, media overlord and tv demon, Stepped out. But he wasn’t the only one, because in his arms, unconscious, was angel dust. 

Vaggie lunged forward, spear pointed straight for vox’s throat, directly under his tv “what are you doing here” she growled 

He lifted his head, looking rather uninterested in her threat “well I was trying to return this to you” he said, motioning to angel dust, “but since you clearly don't want him ill just...” he stepped away, a sly grin on his face 

“you’d be smart to hand angel dust over” Alastor ground out, his teeth grinding together, his smile tense and forced.  

Vox's smile relaxed just a fraction, and he extended angel dust out to Alastor, who tried to pick up the delicate spider demon, but Angel simply curled into vox, holding him tightly, and whispered a single word to him

“stay”

vox whispered back “I can’t” and angels whisper was so quiet he almost missed it “please” 

So vox did 

[justicefor]

Do you know this woman?

These are some reconstructuions of what shr may have looked like in life.

She was the passenger in tractor trailer that was in an accident on I5 in Cowlitz County, Washington, on May 14, 1991.

The driver, a trucker, was known to pick up hitchhikers. He had driven through Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, Idaho and Oregon before arriving in Washington, and he was headed to Portland.

She:

Wore a black cowboy vest, gray top possibly with pink in it

Had high cheek bones

Had a tattoo with an S in it on her left chest

Was estimated to be 5 feet tall and weigh 115 pounds

Was Native American or Alaska Native

Was 20 to 29 years old

Namus ID: #UP10449

If you think you know who she is, please contact Washington State Patrol at (360) 596-4000.

[theodork]

Ticci Toby X Reader

A/N: there is no use of Y/N or any gender so yee..

Summary: You return after going away without saying goodbye to your best friend. You run into Toby and he is pissed.

Warnings: Girl Idk nothing to bad tho lmao, a little cursing and poor baby toby is mad asf. a little angst.

It was early January in Colorado; the biting cold nipped at my exposed skin, sending shivers down my spine. The frigid air felt like sharp needles pricking at my fingertips even with gloves, leaving them numb and tingling. Even through layers of clothing, I could feel the intense cold seeping into my bones, causing my body to tense up. Every breath felt like it was freezing my lungs as I exhaled, creating a visible cloud of vapor in the air. The sky was clear and the sun shone brightly. The snow sparkled and shimmered, outlining the landscape. It was a peaceful and beautiful sight. The snow and leaves crunched under my boots as I walked back to the Slender Mansion. It had been a full year since I left. I had gone to the city under Slender's orders and now I was back, even if it wasn't for very long.

A low whistling sound, like something metal and heavy was thrown at full force flashes past my head, barely grazing my loose hair. The heavy thud of a hatchet hitting a tree causes me to turn. Behind me stood a lifeless tree, its decaying branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. And there, lodged firmly in the rough bark, was a weathered hatchet. I looked back in front of me, a scowl plastered on my face. It was Toby, he stood about 50-ish feet in front of me. He looked different. He no longer had his raggedy brown and blue hoodie. It had instead been replaced by a grayish blue jacket accompanied with a trucker hat. One thing that did stay the same, or rather two was his muzzle and his orange goggles. I looked back at the hatchet, I hadn't even recognized who they belonged to. My scowl was quickly replaced by a smile.

"I missed?" his voice sounded, it seemed shocked.

I take off my mask, I had changed it since I last saw Toby. My new mask has little doodles and other graffiti all over it, making it fit my style more. "Is that any way to treat an old friend?" I chuckle, walking forward a bit. He walked forward, his eyes a bit wide.

"What? no welcome back?" I say, a small smile plastered on my lips. His initial shock of seeing me wears off. He glares at me, his eyes are like sharp daggers. "Why t...he hell are you back?"

"I missed you, Besides, Denver was boring." I say. I'm back at the behest of Slenderman, but I did miss Toby, and Denver did get boring when I missed him. Toby narrows his eyes, skepticism etched into every crease of his face. He takes a step closer, his breath visible in the freezing air, the vapor seeped through the open crevices in his muzzle. The chilly mist emanating from his mouth hangs in the air for a moment before dissipating, creating a ghostly effect. As he moves nearer, His gaze then sharpens, transforming into penetrating daggers that reflect his discontent. He huffed.

"Why? It’s not like we’re friends or anything.” He said in a harsh voice. I frown.

"We are" I said, titling my head a bit. I cant blame him. Afterall I didn't tell him I was leaving. Not even a goodbye. I deeply regret it, but I couldn't change that.

"I'm sorry for not telling you I was leaving or even telling you goodbye, I really should have" I said my voice was soft.

"yes...y..es you should have," He huffs again. He was angry and I did not blame him "actually it's whatever It not like I cared." I paused for a moment, my heart sinking at his dismissive words. It hurt more than I thought it would, hearing him say that. But I couldn't dwell on my own hurt feelings. I reach my hand out to touch his.

"It doesn't sound like you don't care." Toby recoils slightly at my outstretched hand. His eyes flicker with a mix of emotions.

"Don't touch me." He barked, slapping my hand away.

"Sorry-Right... sorry" I said. Toby is quiet for a moment.

"It was boring here without you." His voice and eyes soften.

"It was" I smile. As angry as he was he missed me. Toby let out a frustrated growl, his gloved hands gripping his hatchet tightly. His slender frame tensed, and it seemed like he was struggling to keep his emotions in check.

"Yeah" He grunts, his tough guy persona comes back.

"I am really really sorry I didn't at least say goodbye" I apologize again. 

“You’ve already said that” Toby rolled his eyes 

“I tried to write to you when I was away.” I said, “I never sent them but I wrote a lot…I guess the gesture is useless because I never sent them” I spoke. My voice was a little sad

 Toby's gaze softens, a flicker of warmth passing through his eyes. He hesitates for a moment before speaking, his tone losing some of its harshness, though it there laced into each word, "So?"

As I reach into the inside pocket of my jacket, my fingers curl around a bundle of letters. Pulling them out, I reveal a collection of folded papers, varying in size and color. The letters are neatly stacked, each one bearing the marks of time, with edges slightly frayed and corners softened. Some envelopes are worn and discolored, while others appear crisp and new. The sight of the numerous letters emanates a sense of both curiosity and nostalgia, hinting at the stories and emotions contained within each one.

His eyes dart to the letters, he looks like he wants them, but he's fighting himself.

"You can have them, read them if you want..." I offer them to him,  His gaze lingers on the letters for a moment. He scoffs.

"I don't want them."  I feel my heart sink once again, but this time it's a pang of disappointment mixed with resignation. I had hoped that he would take the opportunity to glimpse into my thoughts, to understand the depth.

"Alright" I put them back in my jacket "that's a problem , good, I wrote some pretty embarrassing and sappy stuff in those"  Toby's eyes widened for a moment, his curiosity piqued by my sudden revelation.

He snorts. “You think I’d actually read them?" It's obvious he's trying to convince himself he doesn't want to read them.

"Yeah I forgot you can't read" I joke, playfully teasing him. Toby scoffs, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. He lightly slaps my arm "Who says I can't read? I just choose not to."

"I only jest, I know you can read" The tension starts to ease between us.

"Why did you come back anyway? Why did you really come back" Toby asked again, taking off his muzzle. revealing his mouth. The scar on his cheek looks a bit rougher and his chin has a bit more hair on it. I look down at his fingers to get a better look at them. They look a bit rough too. He must be chewing on them. Afterall I wasn't around to remind him to stop.

"Well it's like I said. I missed you" I answered.  Toby's face contorts into a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. He shakes his head, clearly not satisfied with my response.

"That's it? You just missed me? Bullshit"

"I did."

He glares. “Like hell you did.”

"What the hell Toby, I did"

“And I don’t believe you.” He crosses his arms. “And why didn’t you say bye, anyways? Why’d you just disappear?”

“Goodbye are hard, I thought maybe I'd I just left it be less hard"

 I sighed, feeling the weight of my past mistakes and the strain of the current conversation resting heavily on my shoulders. I had hoped that my return would bring some semblance of peace and understanding between us. Toby went silent for a minute. The silence was a bit deafening. Even the trees seemed to stop rustling as the air went heavy. 

“Well, you were wrong.” Toby finally says with a huff.

“I know, I'm really really sorry.”

“Do you expect me to forgive you?” He scoffs, pulling his goggles off his face. 

“No, I don’t, But I hoped maybe you could?”

“Well I am not.”

“That’s okay. Like I said, I don't expect you to,” Toby held grudges, and he was good at it, “But I promise when I leave again, I’ll tell you and I’ll say goodbye.”

"When you leave again?!” His eyes go a bit wide. His voice is more shocked than angry. “When you leave again?” He repeats. 

“Is that a joke?” he asked.

"Why would it be a joke?" I ask and tilt my head to the side.

“You’re leaving again? I thought you were staying.” He’s disappointed, as much as he tries to hide it he wants me to go.

"I'm staying for a week," I admit.

“Why? Why bother coming back at all then?” He starts to pace. “No you know what, You’re not important to me. I don’t care. You’re just a waste of time, a burden you should have stayed in denver.” He spat, venom laced his words. I knew he was just talking out of anger and hurt, but it didn’t make the impact of the words any less harsh.

“You don’t mean that,” I said.

“Oh, but I do!” he barks.

“Well, don’t worry then. I’ll leave after I check in with Slenderman.” I shake my head. I start to walk in the direction of the Slender Mansion.

“Good” Toby mutters, another sharp thud hits the dead tree from earlier. Toby threw his other hatchet at the tree in frustration. 

[small-sinclair]

Holiday Gifts

Hc of what slashers got you for Christmas and what they do.

Ft: the Sinclairs, Brahms Heelshire, Johnny Slaughter, Rusty Nail, Reggie Morgan, Thomas Hewitt, Billy Lenz

Bo Sinclair:

Holiday Sex

He’s not one to get you much, but if you two been together for at least 6 months- 1 year, he’ll get you something nice.

He’ll help get the tree and hang lights, but you’re decorating the tree. He’ll move some of the ornaments.

Chocolates because why not.

A Promise Ring

Fried chicken, rice, and red potatoes for dinner.

Vincent Sinclair

An oil painting of you and him.

Making tree decorations from some dollar tree wood ornaments.

Cooked meal.

A dance.

He’ll clean the main area, dust it, sweep. He’ll have candles lit and the record player playing Christmas music.

Lester Sinclair

He’ll cook you good stew.

A jacket for when you come with him on drives.

A necklace made out of raccoon bones.

A holiday photo: Jonesy with reindeer antlers, Bo wearing his Christmas tree tie, Vincent wearing his Santa hat, Lester in his light blue suit with snowflakes on it, and you in a holiday sweater with a penguin on it.

Brahms Heelshire

He’ll probably would want to make cookies with you and put up the tree.

A colored picture of you and him.

He’ll play you a song on his violin.

Christmas Cuddles.

Holiday Sex

Johnny Slaughter

He really doesn’t like giving gifts, but he’ll make an exception for you.

A necklace made from human bones. If you’re not into that, he’ll go around to Nubbins’ collection of jewelry he gets off the victims and will take the best one for you.

He’ll take today to be a good human towards you and be a real gentleman.

Rusty Nail

The truck driver has the holidays off because he wants to be home to his little candy cane.

He’ll drive around in his pickup truck and go see the town lights and decorations.

He’ll give you one of his trucker hats.

Reggie Morgan

His little camper off the farm is decorated with Christmas kangaroos.

He got you a camera so you can take photos.

A puppy! You’ll get an Australian Shepherd!

Holiday Sex

Thomas Hewitt

He’ll make you ornaments made of bones and leather (non-human)

A little carved wooden tree.

You’ll get to see his face, too, so be nice to him. He’s not comfortable with his face. Give him little kisses over his scars. Call him handsome.

Billy Lenz

Classical Christmas movies, too. Pillow fort and some blankets.

He has a tree in the attic that you and him decorate.

He’ll get tied up in the tree lights, so give him a lil kiss.

Billy didn’t get you anything.

But he got his cat in a sweater! And it’s cute!

[according2thelore]

okay so your es/ls verse is making me lose my mind omg!! I check everyday and every little snippet heals a part of my soul I am not even kiddinggg! This last one about es!sam missing was so so so on point, I finally have the courage to send you an ask - what if es!sam or dean or both at the same time see ls!sam and dean uhm...um...doing what they are yearning for, kissing or spooning or straight up boning...what happens then? Does ES!Dean freak out and bolt? Does ES!Sam feel hopeful about the future for the first time since coming? Do ES!Sam&Dean evade each other forever?????? Do they accept it or try to play up their wtf reactions as if they havent been dreaming of this forever???

PS - odd detail but I love how adorably you write "kisses you on both cheeks" - english isnt my first language so forgive me if this comes as weird but this phrase of yours always me laugh because it is so cute haha?! I hope ES!Sam kisses Cas on both cheeks? Did I use it right???

EEK! thank you, anon! MWAH MWAH!

and please send me all the asks in the world! i cradle all of these asks in my hands like a duckling, lol!

OKAY ANON LMAO I TOTALLY READ THIS WHOLE THING COMPLETELY WRONG!!!! i read it as: what if LS!Dean&ES!Sam walk in on LS!Sam&ES!Dean kissing, and wrote this big long terrible thing about it!!!! my mistake!!!!!!! i was about to click publish then read it again and realized my error! if y'all ever want that lesson in angst and torture, lmk lol.

but GAH!!! your BRAIN!!!! i had to write a narrative little thing about it, i hope you enjoy!

sam doesn't know where the hell anyone is.

he checks the kitchen. nope. the armory, no one. the library? empty. he checks everyone's bedrooms, the garage, the war room, the dungeon (still can't believe there's a future where he owns a dungeon), and they're all completely empty.

sam is starting to suspect that they all went out without him, despite the fact that sammy had immediately established the ground rule that no "same" winchesters can go out together without a pretty extensive disguise.

that rule had been established when they all went out to the bar to drink their collective problem away (with the younger winchesters in big-billed trucker hats) and a drunk girl had stumbled straight from older dean's unwilling arms into younger dean's infinitely-more-willing arms and did a double-take. then a triple-take. then she saw The Sams, and they got the hell out of dodge before things could get ugly.

twins exist, for sure, but identical twins separated by 10+ years? not really.

sam's walking down another of the infinite hallways when he spots dean--his dean.

he had given up on finding anyone and gone to do some more archiving work. it was one of the only things that kept him sane in this new reality, and he enjoyed the quiet, satisfying work of logging complicated artifacts in his older self's laptop.

it was outside on of these rooms that he finds dean.

sam is positive there's nothing on these floors but dusty, mostly unopened rooms full of non-sharp, lore-heavy papers and gadgets and pottery, so he's confused why dean is here at all.

(and another, more bitter part of him is surprised to see him here without his precious sammy)

dean's pressed against a door, and sam's steps slow, because he's seen this exact scene in that one movie about the blair witch that terence made him watch at stanford. they had all jumped and laughed and rolled their eyes, but sam had sat straight as a board, beer sweating and unopened in his hand.

dean is clearly not looking at him, face pressed into the doorcrack like he's trying to smell or something. sam creeps forward, listening, but can only dean's quick breathing.

is he hurt? sam picks up his pace.

when he's directly behind him, he leans his head in close. he can smell his own shampoo in dean’s hair.

“dean!” he says suddenly, because it’s his big brother, and sam is legally obligated to be a little shit about it.

dean jumps like he just took a bullet to the kidney, and he slams both hands over his mouth. he whips around with glaring eyes, but he’s clearly shocked by something. something not-sam.

“what the hell?” dean asks, sharply, voice barely above a whisper.

“what are we doing?” sam asks, lowering his voice, too. is something wrong? what’s in the room? sam makes a step forward, but dean reaches a hand out to sam’s chest, keeping him there.

dean raises his other hand to his lips, motioning for sam to be quiet. sam hunches instinctively, and creeps forward quietly.

he and dean are sharing space next to the door, and sam presses even closer so dean’s back brushes his chest with every inhale. there’s a few-centimeter crack in the door, just enough for light to come through, but they can only see a sliver of a shelf from here.

there are voices, sam realizes. behind the door. they’re faint, but one is getting steadily quieter and louder, like they’re pacing back and forth from the door.

"--leave, already?"

a soft laugh. "you don't mean that."

a groan. "yeah, sammy, i kinda do. i don't like this. that we have to hide this."

sam knew it was their older selves, but the confirmation of it shoots a spark of nerves all the way down to his toes. why are they here?

“we’ve hidden this before. we hide literally everywhere. all the time.”

“but it’s us, y’know?”

“even more reason. could you imagine telling dean that this is how we end up?”

“kid’ll wet himself in glee, promise you that.” a silence. “what?”

“nothing. just…”

“d’ah, stop lookin’ at me like that.” dean grumbles. and his voice stops moving back and forth.

“or what?” challengingly. sam flushes, because he knows that tone of voice. he flirts with that voice. keep it together, man, he wants to scream to his older self. dean shifts in front of him.

“or i’ll come over there and make you,” dean says, and sam can feel the dean in front of him tense up.

there’s silence in the room for a second, and sam can feel the ragged inhales of the dean in front of him. sam’s palms are sweating.

“how long have they been here?” sam asks quietly, and if he didn’t know better, he would say dean shudders as his breath hits dean’s scalp.

“i don’t know. i just found them a few minutes ago. they’ve been talking about us.”

sam can feel dean’s voice rumble, and he closes his eyes, tight.

the silence reigns, and sam leans forward even more,

“what are they doing?”

sam reaches forward to push the door open. dean makes a wordless hushed sound of protest, but sam has already knocked the door open an inch. it’s silent on its hinges.

sam leans over dean, and his blood runs cold.

sammy is sitting on a table, facing the door. dean’s waist is pressed between his thighs, and one foot has hooked around dean’s calf to hold them close.

they’re kissing.

they’re kissing.

sam can hear the wet sounds their mouths make as they part and connect. tongues flash in the yellow over-head lights.

the dean in front of him makes a noise, shocked and…and something else.

“hate that i have to have you here, sammy. want to fuck you on the kitchen table, make them watch.”

sam watches his own face contort into a groan, watches older dean bite kisses down his throat. sammy’s lips are swollen and wet, and sam flushes hot because oh my god oh my fucking god—

“you like that idea, don’t you? spread you open for me, make your little favorite hear what a slut his older brother is? make him know you’re mine?”

younger dean’s hand flies to his mouth. sam desperately has to press a hand to his cock, and does so, praying that dean doesn’t turn around.

“no bites.” sammy pants, and tangles his hand in dean’s hair, pulling him away.

sam is shocked by the pure want and adoration on his older self’s face, and aches down to his very bones.

“can’t believe we wasted so much time.” he says, voice rough. his eyes are soft. older dean’s hand bunches in sammy’s shirt, and sam can see the tips of his ears go pink.

younger dean stumbles back, and slams into sam. sam jerks back with a yelp, throwing his hips away because he is terrified that dean is going to feel the hard swell of his dick in his jeans.

dean is panting, and his hand shakes on his mouth.

“oh my god,” dean whines. “they’re—together—they—“

“they’re fucking.” sam confirms, nodding and not knowing why. “they fuck. they fuck each other.”

“stop saying it!” dean whisper shouts, bending at the waist and standing up again, pacing in frantic little circles.

“together,” he’s muttering. “they’re—they—holy shit.”

sam’s heart is pumping in his ears. he can’t help it—he can’t—his eyes fall to dean’s crotch. there’s a bulge in his jeans. sam’s mouth goes dry. his whole body goes hot.

does…does dean—

“i don’t—“ sam says, but he doesn’t know what he’s going to follow that up with.

“yeah, i know.” dean says, laughing breathlessly. then his eyes get wide and he grabs a fist of his hair. “oh fuck. what are we gonna do?”

“pretend we didn’t see anything?” sam suggests.

“we were going to—y’know! to you!!! y’all!” dean says. he’s panicking. sam’s hope starts to curdle.

“say it—fuck. they’re fucking!” sam hisses. dean groans like he’s going to be sick.

dean put his hand over his mouth and starts muttering again. sam catches a few words. “kiss—how could he do that—little brother—we promised—can’t believe—“

something strange shifts in sam’s chest. since he was freshly 11—hell even before that, when he found out his kindergarten teacher was engaged, and sam found out what “marriage” meant, he had grabbed dean’s hand excitedly when he came to get him from the classroom and elatedly told him “we’re gettin’ married! i’m gonna marry you!” dad had later disabused him of that, and dean had crawled into their bed later that night and kissed sam’s tear-streaked cheeks. “it’s okay sammy,” he said, “i’m gonna be at your weddin’ anyway. standin’ right behind you.” sam’s stomach had curdled. “but if you’re really, super old—like 29–and you’re still not married, we can talk about it.”

sam had thought about it when he was 13 and watching dean press the girl of the month against the side of the impala from the motel window. 16 years to go, he had thought with all the tone and life of someone counting down the years of a terminal diagnosis. he had been rotting with this for years.

and they—future they—did it! are doing it? they…they’re together. in all the ways. in every way.

“i gotta go,” dean mutters, and sam catches one look at his overwhelmed expression before dean takes off. sam blinks after him, still processing.

together. he and dean together.

“dean,” sam calls. he’s shocked by how breathless he is, and clears his throat. “wait up!”

he follows his brother, like he’s been doing since he was six.

but for the first time in his life, his chest swells with a tentative, frantic hope. he’s afraid the weight of it—of them—will choke him. he doesn’t know what’s going to happen. dean probably won’t talk to him. but sam—he—it’s starting. this could go either way, but whatever this is—love, family, whatever—is starting.

and he can’t wait to find out.

~~~

“do you think they’re talking about it?” sammy asks later, washing his face before bed. dean is sitting on their bed with a cleaning cloth, freshly showered. “do you think it was enough of a kick in the ass?”

“knowing us, not a fucking shot.” dean says blandly, cleaning his gun. “at this rate, i think i will actually have to suck your cock in the library four times a day to get it to sink in.”

sam rolls his eyes, and dryly says, “romantic.” he adjusts his collar and his eyes land on a couple of splotchy bruises on his neck. “hey!” he leans out of the bathroom. “i think you actually left bruises.”

dean looks up, face purposefully placid.

“whoops. let’s hope pipsqueak doesn’t see those.”

sam scowls.

“you’ve got issues.”

dean lifts one shoulder up in a coy shrug and tilts his head.

“aw, baby. only for you.”

“you’re an ass!” sam calls as he steps back into the bathroom. he looks at his and dean’s toothbrushes sitting side-by-side.

he smiles. yeah.

they definitely got them.

~~~

PS - aw! thank you so much!!! it’s not weird at all! and yes, that's completely correct, haha! ES!Sam is for sure kissing Cas on both cheeks!

LS!Dean is the guy running up and trying to stop it but the poor fool is too late! they are embracing!

(I DO NOT KNOW WHY THE ONLY OTHER EXAMPLE OF THIS IN TUMBLR'S GIF LIBRARY IS FROM GABRIEL'S INFERNO, PLEASE IGNORE THE CONTEXT OH MY GOD AHAHAH)

anyway!!!

i am kissing you on both cheeks! so now we're both laughing! thank you for this ask, anon, it made me giggle! have a great day! <3

-lizzy

[josephtrohman]

how in 20+ years of consistently wearing hats, many of them baseball/trucker hats, has patrick never been photographed (to my knowledge at least) wearing one backwards. does he know the kinds of things that would do to people with terrible taste (me). like please throw a dog a bone already

[gxdsfavgal]

Cowboy Take Me Away

Pairing: Cowboy!Bob Floyd x Cowgirl!fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, thumb sucking, oral (male receiving), face fucking, slight overstimulation, it’s dirty... but its also short, not edited

A/N: cowboy!bob... orgasm! anyways, this is inspired by Cowboy Take Me Away by The Chicks

-

-

Bobby just got back from deployment earlier this week and with the problems all around the property, I haven’t been able to welcome him back.

His family and mine have been neighbors since before we both were born.

“Hey hun, it’s our turn to feed the horses. I gotta get to town, can you do it?” my dad asked as he was looking around the house for his truck keys.

“Umm sure I guess.” I shrugged my shoulders as I slipped on my boots and putting on my trucker hat.

“Thanks! And maybe go say hi to Robert, i’m sure he’d like to see you.” he pushed the bill of my hat and left the door with a chuckle.

I quickly headed to the garage starting up the quad, my dog Boomer running in circles ready for the ride.

I hopped on and drifted out of the drive way and onto the acres of grass, Boomer running behind me as his ears flopped repeatedly.

Five minutes later, I parked in front of the wooden and brick stable. The doors already fully opened, I walked in making sure to check all of my sides.

Boomer running ahead of me, taking a sharp turn and barking. There was the mystery man, getting ready to wheel out the food for the stallions but petting Boomer with one hand.

“Bobby?” I called out to the man in a tight shirt, Wrangler jeans, and a cowboy hat.

He turned around, squinting to see who it was. As I walked closer, I can tell by his facial expressions that he realized it was me.

“Y/n!” he dropped the barrel of alfalfa and took long strides at me with a big smile on both of our faces.

I welcomed him with open arms, his arms hugging tight and his body warm against me.

He steps away and places his hands on his hips. “Booms almost had me in the bone orchard.” he bent down, scratching behind my furry companions ear.

“What are you doing here? I was gon come by and visit you.” I playfully scolded him as he began wheeling the food out to the aisle.

“I was gon take Pilot on a ride but saw that they’ve done ate all their food.” he was talking more like he was from California, his drawl barely there.

“Mind if I join?” I asked, hoping he gave the okay.

“Of course you can.” he smiled, opening up the gate of stall and scooping the pellets.

I helped him feed all eight horses in the herd stables that’s shared amongst our two families and the two across from us.

We both grabbed our separate horses and readied them up, putting on their head piece and saddles.

We pulled them out of the stables and mounted.

“Where to Bobby?” we slowly galloped as we decided on where to ride to.

“Cubby?”

My eyes lit up and my cheeks hurt from smiling when I heard of our childhood treehouse our fathers partnered up on building for us.

We signaled our rides to trot and head towards the playhouse.

Once we arrived, we tied up our horses to the base of the tree then we climbed on up. The wood was rickety, yet steady and sturdy still after all these years.

We walked around the small house, looking at all our old toys and carving, opening up the windows to see the view of our neighboring lands.

“I haven’t been up here in like 8 years” I whispered, swiping my finger along the dusty plastic table.

“I forgot this even existed until I saw you.” he chuckled. I can feel heat creep up onto my the apples of my cheeks.

I saw down onto the old plastic table that my dad added when we were younger, Bob leaned against the railing of the window with his back towards the view.

“How's umm uh.. Jeremy? That's his name right?” he squinted his eyes are the possible mistake of the name.

“Oh I broke up with him.” I went straight to the point of my past relationship.

“Really?” he asked, his eyes wider than before.

“Yep, I finally realized that he was just using me” his eyebrows furrowed from heading what that son of a bitch did. “Didn’t like him that much anyways.”

I shrugged my shoulders and Bob chuckled quietly.

“How about you? Any lucky Navy lady?” I asked, kicked my feet up onto the table and holding them to my chest.

“Nope.” he popped the ending of the word.

“What?” I yelled out in surprised. “You? Robby? Robert Floyd doesn't have a Navy Lady?” 

I was in literal shock, my mouth open and jaw on the floor. 

“Robby, please don't tell me you didn't fuck someone at least once while you were deployed.” I looked at him with wide eyes, waiting for his answer.

This was a typical conversation between us, it’s been like this since he told me about his first time jerking off in middle school.

“I just used my hand and pillow.” his hands rubbed across his face, normal signs showing that he was embarrassed.

“You're joking with me!” I had my hand covering my mouth, my feet now dangling off the little kiddie table.

“I’m not.” now rubbing at the nape of his neck. 

“How about I help you and you help me?” I outed, keeping my eyes on him to see his reaction.

“What’d you say?” he crossed his arms.

“I haven't gotten off since I broke up with Jeremy a month ago, and well you were deployed for like 8 weeks without a proper orgasm.” I told him our struggles.

I can tell by the look on his face that he thought I was absolutely going mad. His face also looked like he wasn't opposed to the idea.

“I- I don't know about this.” he stuttered out, his eyes flickered all around the room.

“Bobby, we’ve been best friends since we popped out of the womb. You’ve seen my naked a handful of times.” I looked at him with darkened eyes.

His demeanor changed, his back straightened up and lips curled into a smirk. He was deep in his thoughts, thinking about everything we can do, every position, and everywhere we could do it.

I knew that Bob had a crush on me when we were in high school when we both started to mature and get horny. We never had sex, but those many parties that I forced him to come with me to turned into something. Little make out sessions in the corner of the parties to dry humping on the nasty couch until one of us came. He always made sure I didn't drink much because he didn't want to haul my ass back into the truck.

I would be lying if I said that I was never attracted to Bob and that I never fantasized about him. Bob has it all, the brains, the look, the charm, and he’s my best friend.

“Look, I don't want to fuck if you're just using me to get over Jeremy.” he was stern, his arms crossed and legs spread apart. I couldn't tell if I was drooling or not.

I was taken back by his words. “Robert, you know I would never use you. I would never treat you the way that son-of-a-bitch Jeremy treated me.” I jumped off the kiddie table and made slow steps towards his figure.

His chin was down but his eyes were watching every step I took. 

“Im gonna be honest here Bobby.” I stopped with a foot between us. “I was happy to hear that you didn't touch another gal. Happy that no other girl has made you cum.”

The way he leaned against the window, his jeans tight against his spread out legs, his shirt tight in all the right places. He looked like a God.

“You got a dirty mouth.” he mumbled out.

My head tilted to the side with dumb little smirk. “Im sorry what’d you say?”

His hand came up to my face, his warm thumb against my bottom lip. “I said that you got a dirty mouth.”

His eyes were eyeing my lips, watching his thumb rub against my lips as my eyes watched him. 

“You gonna shut me up? Huh Robby?” I whispered out before he put his thumb between my lips, dragging on the edge of my teeth.

“Oh I’m gonna shut you up hun.” He grumbled out. My lips wrapped around his thumb, sucking on it and tongue moving around.

His tongue rolled against the inner part of his cheek, chuckling at my action.

He removed his thumb from my mouth, rubbing my saliva on my lips and cheek as he used his other hand to lower me down to my knees. I looked up at him with big eyes, my bottom lip caught in my teeth, and my hand palming him through his jeans.

His groans were heaven. The way he reacted even though there’s two layers between my hand and his cock.

His hips bucked into my hand, telling me to get a move one. Both of my hands fumbled with his belt, the big buckle making it harder so he had to take over as my hands sat on the back of his knees.

Once his jeans hit the floor, my hands immediately reached up to the elastic waistband of his boxers that showed his prominent bulge. I brought my lips down to his adonis belt, leaving a wet peck as I pulled down the cloth. His cock grazed my cheek as it slapped against his stomach.

I whimpered at the sight of his dick. Red pulsing tip with the pearls of pre-cum on the tip. The thick vein on the bottom and just the right amount of little hairs.

I was hungry for his cock. I wanted to taste him. I was eager.

My hand wrapped around the base and the tip passed my lips. My tongue getting a taste of him which made me hum, sending vibrations up his body.

“Lookin so pretty, doll.” he said with a little fight to his voice, trying not to be so loud.

I took him further into my mouth, my tongue trailing the thick vein as his tip hit the back of my throat. I gagged around him which made his moan out.

The noises he made were fuel.

“F-fuck! Doing s-so good for me!” he praised as my hand and mouth worked together to have him reach the edge.

His hands were holding my hair, trying his best to not push my head down. I didn't want that.

I brought my hand to his on the back of my head, showing him that he can take control. He understood and immediately started pushing my face into his pelvis as his hips thrusted to my lips.

I was a gagging mess with tears staining my cheeks and my saliva running down my chin and neck.

I can tell he was close by his contorting face and the stutter of his lips.

I hallowed my cheeks and sucked on him, my hand cupping his balls. Giving a little pressure as he thrusted into my throat.

“Im gonna cum! Fuck!” he held my face against him, his cock fully down my throat as I was gagging and breathing through my nose.

He shot his cum down my throat, rubbing my scalp with his fingers.

He pulled out of my mouth, my lips sucking his harder and following him trying to get more from him. Trying to milk him but he kept hissing from how sensitive he was.

His cock was soft in front of my face. He looked down at me with his hair sticking to his forehead as his chest fell and rose. His smirk still plastered on his face.

I opened my mouth to show him that I swallowed all of his cum. He threw his head back with a groan, his cock getting hard again from my action.

He looked back down at me, his hands cradled my jaw as he pulled me up onto my feet. His lips attacked mine, tasting himself on my lips and tongue. 

My hand reached his dick again, stroking him and paying attention to the tip. He was moaning into the kiss.

“Fuck baby!” he pulled my hand away from him. “Im too sensitive right now.” 

We both chuckled as we kissed again, tucking him back into his boxers.

“Next time I got you.” he mumbled into my lips.

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 3

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Three: IL -> WY

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Chapter Summary: Charlie graduates to the front seat. Din reluctantly buys donuts. They both continue to think they're way smarter than the other.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 4.2k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, drug mention, being held captive, swearing, lack of privacy and autonomy, animal neglect mention, tip-toeing around having to take a dump, food mention, death threat, knife mention, gun mention, police mention, playing guitar and singing, targeted extermination (crimes against humanity??) mention, deathwish

Notes: You look cute today. Hope you like it, thanks for reading!

For almost half his life, Din woke up in his rig alone each morning. The bray of his alarm started at 7:00am, saws against his bones jolting him conscious.

Since the dog has joined him on the road, Din’s alarm has been preceded by whines for attention, sometimes even before the sun rises. If he tries to ignore the noise, it escalates to wet laps against his face, which serves as a pretty effective snooze button.

Today it’s not the alarm or the dog that wakes him, but the mellow resonance of an acoustic guitar. It creeps at the edge of his sleeping state and gently nudges him out of dreamland, back into the driver’s seat of his truck. His eyes blink open to find the world outside still steeped in blue left over from nighttime. It suits the melancholic chords you strum from behind him. 

You start to sing in a voice so quiet, he’s not sure whether you’re singing actual words or just vocalizing. Either way, his chest sinks. He lays there, heavy-limbed and fuzzy-headed, watching wispy, dreamsicle clouds suspended in the atmosphere. 

The dog joins in with a drawn out, dramatic groan, which you react to with bubbling laughter, asking, “Are you trying to sing, too?” 

“Boof.” 

“What a lovely singing voice you have, little pup,” you coo. The strumming ceases and there’s a hollow thunk as you set the guitar aside to give all your attention to the dog. 

Din looks at the tablet on his dash and reads the time as 6:12am. He sits up straight in his seat, stretching his frustrated spine before sliding on his sunglasses and turning to the sleeper cab. 

The dog is nestled into the cradle of your crossed legs, happily accepting belly scratches. Your glowing, rosy-cheeked smile falters a little when you glance up and see Din rising to his feet, and you remark, “Look at that, we made it through the night with no bloodshed.” 

He nods in response, unsure what to say. 

The dog notices his presence and starts flopping around until he successfully makes it onto all fours, then jumps onto the floor and starts pawing at Din’s boots. When he crouches down to pet him, the dog jumps up and starts licking his face. 

“Hey now, four on the floor,” Din grumbles, pushing him back until he resigns to a sitting position with a huff. He rewards the dog by scratching between his big ears, “There we go. Good boy.” 

“Where we headed today?” you pick your guitar back up and absentmindedly play a gentle melody, “My certain fate?” 

When he doesn’t respond right away, you just keep talking. 

“How long does it take to get to Portland? That’s where you’re taking me, right?” 

This time, you stare at him and wait for an answer. He meets your gaze, then drops it to your guitar, reading a few of the sharpied signatures on its face as he says, “Nebraska to deliver this load. Then head West, see where we end up. We won’t get to Portland until tomorrow or the next day.” 

“Ah,” you wince down at your guitar, then sigh, “Well, rule number five.” 

“Rule number five?” 

“Live in the now.”

Din stands there, expecting you to say more, almost wishing you would say more about what you mean by rules and your certain fate. But you don’t. 

So he shifts forward onto his knees and reaches under the bed, typing the key code into the safe while you twist the little knobs at the head of your guitar and give each string a few test plucks. 

You start a new song, and a dim sense of nostalgia creeps up his neck. 

He pictures the apartment he lived in as a kid. Windows cracked open to release the lemon-scented cleaning solution fumes. This song broadcasting out from a record player, his mom singing along from the kitchen as she scrubbed the floor, the same lyrics you sing now: 

“Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door—”

“That’s enough,” he snips.

The music stops abruptly. 

“Not a big Guns ‘n’ Roses fan?” 

He grabs his keychain from the safe and slams it closed, “Bob Dylan.” 

“Touché,” you watch him as he stands and turns to unlock the ratchet strap, “You know, that’s actually the version I was playing, but I figured you’d think—“ 

“Look, I just want some quiet, ok?” 

A few moments go by before you scoff and mutter under your breath, “Not a morning person. Noted.” 

Well.

There’s good news and bad news.

The good news is your captor let you keep your notebook and pen. You were also able to play your guitar and sleep in a bed. And while this man’s mattress is not a luxury by any means, it sure as hell beats sleeping strapped into an adult-sized booster seat. 

Which brings you to the bad news. 

You’re strapped into the aforementioned adult-sized booster seat again. Also, the man has reverted to ignoring every single thing you say. And, of course, there’s the looming threat of Portland…

But you think you might have a way out. 

Your captor doesn’t seem to be as horrible a person as you thought. Which is to say that he hasn’t tried to sexually assault or murder you yet. A very low bar, but still. 

While it’s clear to you that his only goal is to complete the job he took by turning you in, he didn’t have to let you keep your switchblade. He didn’t have to let you sleep in his bed. In fact, you suspect he did those things because he felt bad for you being in this shitty situation.  

Which tells you one crucial thing about him: He has a heart. 

This is your way out. 

Getting strangers to trust you is a song and dance you have to perform frequently. The unbroken overnight truce between you and the man may only be a small building block of trust, but you think you can work with it. And you’re not sure where, or how, but you believe that if you can get him to trust you, even a little, the opportunity to escape will present itself. 

RULE #7: Keep your options open. 

So this time, when he backs up to the receiving warehouse to offload the trailer, you pull the switchblade from your bra and toss it into the open space between the driver and passenger’s seat. You show him you understand the rules and you’re willing to comply. 

The man gives you a nod of thanks before grabbing the blade and tucking it in his pocket. 

Pen to paper, you pass the time while he’s gone scribbling about your journey these past few days. The dog whines and ping-pongs from the driver’s seat to the passenger’s seat, his flat snout fogging up the windows. You try to soothe his worry by cooing reassurances to him and giving him scratchies when he comes within your reach, but he mostly ignores you. 

When the man returns from offloading the trailer, he shoos his excited friend over to the passenger’s seat and swings the door closed with a thunk. 

“How’d it go?” you ask.

“Fine.”

He pulls off his aviators and scrubs his gloved hands over his face. The dog jumps onto his lap and starts licking his mouth. The man grimaces and blocks the ambush, but laughs, “Ugh, yeah, hello.” 

This is the first time you’ve witnessed a smile across his face. It digs out dimples in his cheeks and brightens his features tenfold. And, as a result, you find yourself smiling, too. 

“He was nervous when you were gone,” you tell him, “Just ran back and forth between the windows trying to see where you were.” 

The man nods, dimming his smile a tad, but scratches the dog’s head and rubs his big bat-like ears. 

“Ok, that’s enough,” he declares, then plucks the dog off his lap and drops him in the passenger’s seat.

Certain things are inevitable in life. 

Included among these are: Death, change, failure… and, unfortunately for you, bodily functions. 

After lunch, while your captor pours dog food into a bowl for the pup, then starts to prepare the cabin for the next leg of its journey, your guts clench and twist. Heat floods your cheeks as its meaning dawns on you. 

“I have to go to the bathroom.” 

“Give me a moment,” he says, not looking up from the tablet mounted from his dash, “Then I can leave.” 

“I, umm… I don’t wanna go in here.“

Your voice comes out uncharacteristically timid, getting all high-pitched at the end. He glances over his shoulder and furrows his brow, while you just plead with your eyes for him not to ask more questions. It takes a moment before the lightbulb goes on over his head. 

“If you let me use the bathroom inside, I promise I won’t talk to anyone or try to take off—”

The man looks around the cabin, then sighs, “If you try anything—”

“Yeah yeah yeah, you’ll kill me,” you wave him off and tug on your harness, “I get it, can we go?” 

“Fine,” he concedes, “You’re not to leave my side except when in the bathroom, understand?”

Din walks at your side, hand grounded between your shoulder blades as he guides you through the gas station’s brightly lit aisles. 

“Do you like donuts?” 

He ignores you. 

“That’s a silly question. Everyone likes donuts, right? We should get some.” 

The women’s restroom draws near and you rush ahead of him to push through the door. He calls after you, “Be quick,” as it swings shut, then leans against the wall opposite the bathroom, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Doubt nibbles away at his nerves with each passing second. 

When you emerge, wiping your damp hands on your pants, he straightens and resumes his position at your side, palm pressed against your back, and starts walking. 

“Did I do good?”

He glances over to see you looking up at him, a bright smile dawning your face. Words get tangled in his throat for a moment, but he regains his footing and nods, “Yes.” 

“Good enough to get a donut?” 

He doesn’t respond, but as the two of you pass a donut display, you halt, “Please?” 

His jaw clenches. He looks between you, your big brown almond-shaped eyes all sparkling with hope, and the clear cabinet stocked with a variety of donuts, then sighs, “Fine.” 

“Yessss,” you clap your hands together and practically bounce over to the display, yanking a parchment paper bag from the counter before clicking the tongs a few times, “Which one do you want?” 

“I don’t want one,” Din props his hands on his hips. 

You pull the display’s clear plastic door open and raise an eyebrow at him, “I find that hard to believe. Look, they have long johns, cake donuts, apple turnovers, jelly-filled donuts, bear claws—”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” you roll your eyes, “If you don’t tell me which one, I’m gonna pick it for you.” 

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, trying to figure out why the hell he agreed to this as you nab a glossy, o-shaped donut. 

“These are my favorite: glazed. Sweet ‘n’ gooey on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside,” you drop it into the parchment paper bag and click the tongs at Din, “What’ll it be? Wait—Can I guess?”

Din throws his arms out at his sides, “Just pick one.” 

“Let’s see,” you narrow your eyes and tilt your head at him, “You seem like a ‘just the basics' kind of guy. No frills. Maybe a little repressed. And for that reason, I guess that you favor… an old-fashioned donut?”

You grin as you wait for his confirmation. He shakes his head and snatches the tongs from your hand, plucking a raspberry bismarck from the lineup. 

“Interesting choice,” you nod as if you’re impressed, “Huh. I had you pegged all wrong, big guy, my apologies.” 

Din smirks and drops the donut into a bag, “Let’s go.” 

After he pays, the two of you exit the gas station and start towards the rig. Din returns his hand to the space between your shoulder blades, watching for the telltale signs that you’re about to bolt. A frantic glance around, or a stutter in your pace. 

Sure, you’re being cooperative, but he’s not naïve. 

Considering how scrappy you obviously are, he has no doubt you’re still plotting to escape before he delivers you to Portland. Your temporary compliance means nothing. In the end, you’re going to fight tooth and nail against him, and you will fail. This is how it goes every time, and you are not an exception. 

You tear off a piece of the donut and pop it in your mouth, groaning as the pastry melts against your tongue, “Fuck, that’s good.” 

Something primal pulses inside him. 

Din shakes it from his head and stares up at the idling truck, pulling the door open for you to hop inside. You do so without protest. He buckles and locks you into the sleeper cab’s harnessed seat, then goes about finding a new work order. 

While your captor is hooking up the trailer and all that entails, you hum to yourself and doodle french bulldogs into the margins of your notebook. 

Your muse whines at the driver’s side window, then jumps down off the seat, onto the bed beside you. He stomps a few loops, then throws himself to the mattress  with a, “Humph.” 

“Preaching to the choir, pupperoni,” you mutter, “I can’t believe driving for over 10 hours a day isn’t the most boring part of trucking.” 

The dog blinks at you, which you consider an agreement on his part. 

“I wish I knew your name,” you pout, rubbing his velvety ear between your fingers, then sigh, “Well. Maybe it’s better I don’t know. Rule number nine: Don’t get attached.” 

It’s quiet for a while as you pet the dog, soothing his agitation. 

“Can you keep a secret?”

His eyes start to drift closed. He releases a deep breath. 

“I am terrified of what will happen when they take me,” you whisper, then scratch the top of his noggin and sigh to yourself, “Fuck.” 

The dire reality of your situation finally begins to sink down onto your shoulders. A dark blue ache pools in your diaphragm. For a split second, you think about the switchblade in your captor’s pocket and wonder how sharp it really is. 

The driver’s door swings open, and for once, you’re actually glad to see it. 

Beside you, the dog perks up, waiting until the black baseball cap and shiny aviators of your captor come into view before hurdling himself towards the front of the truck. The man pulls the door closed with a loud thunk and drops onto the driver’s seat. 

He tugs the gloves off his fingers with his teeth and tosses them on the dash, glancing between a packet of papers on his lap and the tablet, tapping the screen a few times before turning to the sleeper cabin. 

You follow his movements and ask, “On the road again?” 

The man grunts in response, kneeling down beside the bed to access his safe. 

Six little beeps ring out as you tap your fingers against your thigh, “Where to now?” 

“Utah,” he yanks the safe open, stowing his papers inside, then slams it shut. 

“Portland tomorrow?” 

He leans back on his haunches, digs in his pocket, and hands you your knife, “Yes.” 

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking it from him. While he rises to his feet and dusts off his knees, you frown in contemplation, then ask, “Can I sit up there?”

The man stills. 

You look up and meet your reflection in his sunglasses with a shrug, “I just wanna see the world a little more before… you know. I can’t.” 

His shoulders seem to slump the tiniest bit when you say this, but he corrects it quickly and says, “I’m still turning you in.” 

“Of course.” 

He studies you, jaw working from side to side, then sighs and crouches down again to unlock your harness. 

Din regrets the decision almost the second your seatbelt clicks into place beside him. 

All your little noises and attempts at conversation were subdued when you were in the sleeper cab. With you just two feet away, he can hear every hum, every question, every pointless observation, every single godforsaken tap tap tap of your pen keeping time on your thigh. 

He has considered throwing it out the window more times than he can count, but knows you would just resume the motion with your fingertips against all of your surroundings: notebook, window, legs, face, seat, door, anything, everything. 

Tap tap tap tap tap

Worse yet, he can see you in the corner of his eye, always moving. Always. Fiddling with your hair, twisting it into braids, undoing them, redoing them. Jotting things down in your notebook. Wiggling in your seat. Bouncing your leg. Every ten minutes he has to scold you to get your feet off the dash, and each time you scoff and roll your eyes like he’s the one being unreasonable. 

Your presence eats away at his nerve endings, leaving them frayed and hot. 

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. 

“Does your dog have a name?” you ask somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, where it seems like all that exists are cornfields. Dried out stalks, golden and ready to harvest, line the highway for miles on each side. Every once in a while, he spots monstrous combines, eating up rows at a time, spitting out beige clouds behind them. 

“Not sure.” 

The answer flees his mouth before he has time to consider the consequences. They are immediate. 

“How are you not sure, what does that mean?” 

Din sighs and keeps his eyes on the road as he tries to forge an explanation. You take his pause as him dropping the subject. 

“You can’t just say that,” you scoff, staring at him, “What, did you find him abandoned or something?” 

He shakes his head and parts his lips, but you push onward before he can get out a word.

“Did you steal him?” 

His mouth snaps shut and his traitorous throat gulps, thick with guilt. 

“You stole him?!” You gasp, “You hypocrite. Wow. Why would you steal someone’s dog?” 

He glares at you, “They didn’t take care of him.” 

“How do you even know that? Did you just assume you can do a better job—”

“They had him crated alone for at least a day before I got there to load their furniture—”

“What, is this thing a moving service too?”

“Christ, will you just shut up and let me explain?” he snaps. 

Your head jerks back and face pinches into a scowl. But you do as he asked, rolling your wrist away from your body as if to say: Proceed. 

“I do all kinds of jobs. Mostly this, long hauling freight for manufacturers and distribution centers, but sometimes, yes, I take moving jobs.” 

“And bounty hunting on the side?”

He shoots a sharp glance your way, and you mutter, “Sorry, go on.” 

“His owners hired me to move their belongings from Pittsburgh to Albany. The work order didn’t say anything about a dog, but when I got there, he was alone and scared. No food or water,” Din pauses and watches in the side mirror as a pickup truck swings out from behind him and speeds to get ahead, then he continues, “When I got to Albany, they weren’t too happy about my refusal to hand him over. I didn’t get paid, but I couldn’t leave him there.” 

You nod and stare out at the road, “So you’ll do that for dogs but not people?” 

The question jolts him. He swallows hard and shrugs, “Dogs are put in their circumstances and unable to escape. People have a choice.” 

“I disagree,” you look over at him and study his profile, “What are people supposed to do when the only circumstances that allow for their escape lead to something like this? Is that supposed to be a choice?” 

He wants to ask you to explain, but he knows the less information he has, the better. And he already knows too much. So he says nothing.  

You release a deep sigh and lean back in your seat, rolling your head to look at the passing cornfields. 

Your captor decides to stop for the night at a rest stop between sleepy Wyoming towns along I-80. 

As he did the night before, he locks the rig down like it’s Fort fucking Knox. 

There’s this whole system he has worked out, with straps and locks and keys and his little safe under the bed.

His vigilance seems to be the only thing he keeps in excess. Which you could relate to more if you weren’t the “asset” he’s so vehemently trying to secure. 

An asset. 

Your stomach churns as you realize that’s what you are to this man. Not a human, but a pawn to trade for cash. You hoped to garner his sympathy throughout the day, but seem to have gotten nowhere in that respect, while each mile brings you closer to Portland. 

After completing his nighttime routine and tapping around on his tablet a little, the man shuts off his overhead lamp and reclines the driver’s seat all the way back. 

The only light comes from a streetlamp outside, casting a green fluorescent glow across the empty passenger’s seat. You roll on your side and make way for the dog, who jumps up and curls into a ball against you. He lets out a content sigh when your nails rake the short, white fur along his ribcage. 

“Can I tell you about where you’re taking me?”

No response. 

“I know you’re not sleeping,” you say, “Don’t pretend.” 

“I would rather not know.” 

“Yeah, well that makes two of us,” you mutter, then shake your head, “But I can’t let this be buried with me. I need someone to know.”  

Nothing.

“Please.” 

A brief silence follows, but you wait, and eventually he says, “Ok.” 

“I was staying with my friend, Joey, in Portland for a few weeks while I did temporary work there. One night, he was biking back to the apartment and saw these cops stop and talk to an unhoused man, then put him in the back of the cop car. No lights or anything. Joey thought this was weird, so he followed the cruiser. It went into this warehouse, not back to the police station. They brought the guy in but left without him. 

“The next day, Joey talked to a friend, who looked into property records of the warehouse and told us it belonged to an LLC. We traced back to this guy named Tom Boucheron. Do you recognize that name?” 

“No.” 

“Oh. Well, he owns all these property companies out there. I thought it would have been him that put out the bounty for me.” 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“Anyway,” you frown at the now abstract green glow of the passenger’s seat, “We should have figured we were in over our heads. But, whatever was happening seemed shady and we wanted to check it out. A few of us broke into the warehouse. The place had a few security guards posted and, I don’t know, it got out of hand. Some of us—me, I—held them at gunpoint while the others looked around. They found pharmaceuticals and street drugs, large quantities of them.”

You pause for a moment and listen to the hum of the truck, then ask, “Are you still listening?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ok,” you take a deep breath, then say, “The cops showed up quick. They caught our lookout and arrested him, but the rest of us were able to get out. And…”

The words catch in your throat for a second. You shake your head, “And one of my friends… I mean, I didn’t see it myself, but… she said she saw people in cages. All fucked up and strung out, barely able to move. She thought some of them might’ve been dead.

“I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t even believe her at first, but a few days later, our friend who was arrested turned up dead from an apparent overdose. He didn’t use hard drugs. That was enough for me to get back on the road, but the others… Portland is their home, you know, they were insistent on staying to find out more.” 

A heaviness falls over you. It surrounds you on all sides, suffocating the flame of hope that kept you going all day. Your eyes burn like hell but you can’t seem to bring yourself to blink. The vague glow of the streetlamp holds you in a trance. 

When you speak again, you try your hardest to keep your voice steady. 

“So I just need you to know… that is what’s ahead of me. I will go missing. They will keep me in a cage like a fucking animal, drugging me and god knows what else, until I’m fucking dead. My grandma and brother, if they ever discover my death, will think I overdosed and died on the streets of Portland. They will think I died with no dignity,” you pause here and let out a sad, watery chuckle, “And they will be right.” 

Silence. 

You swallow the thickness of your throat and muster every ounce of courage in your body as you tell him, “If you have any mercy at all, you will kill me in my sleep tonight and hand them my dead body tomorrow.”

More silence. 

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” 

“Alright,” you breathe, “Well… goodnight, then.”