Introducing Apple!reader
You ainât gotta know my name to fuck me right. But you better remember my face.
Paired with Older!Trucker!John B
Content warning please read
This au contains strong age gaps if you donât like that i advise you to leave now stop reading and move on.
Request for this au OPEN/closed
Diver Credits @starfxkrinc ofc<3
He called her Apple, cause she never told him her real name.
And maybe he liked the mystery. Liked the way sheâd laugh through her teeth, legs slung over his dash, as if she knew every secret in the world and none of them were his to know.
She was sweet if you bit in the right spot. Tart everywhere else.
She was a dirty little dream.
All cutoff shorts and Budweiser crop tops.
One chipped nail always tracing the rim of his cup. Glitter in the creases of her thighs, motel soap behind her ears.
Sheâd peel herself out of his truck like sticky candy on hot leather seats, stretch like a cat, then sway through the gas station parking lot like she owned the damn world.
She never stayed. Not really.
But every time John B saw her, it was like getting hit in the chest with a freight train.
Sheâd appear at truck stops like a mirage glowing, some bruises healing, others brand new. She never explained how she always seemed to know his routes.
He never asked. He just opened the door and let her climb in. She always knew he would.
John B was 43, body thick from years behind the wheel.
Broad shoulders, soft belly, calloused hands. Nothing like the skinny teen he used to be.
He wore flannel half-buttoned, dirty jeans, and a sweat-stained hat.
But Apple liked that. She liked the way his stomach pressed into her when he pinned her in the back of the rig. Said she felt safe like that. Said she liked a man who could handle her.
Apple was 19, all legs, lips, and low-rise sin.
Brown skin glowing from the sun, thighs thick with a little jiggle when she walked
she moved like she knew people watched. Hair wild, always a little messy, like sheâd just rolled out of someoneâs truck bed or a strangerâs motel room.
Sometimes she smelled like smoke. Other times like cheap cherry body spray and bad decisions.
She wore ripped shorts that barely covered anything, tube tops clinging to her tits, and old cowboy boots that had seen more states than most.
She had a chain around her neck and chipped polish on her nails her middle finger always painted red.
But John B liked that. He liked the way sheâd crawl into his lap like she owned it.
Said she liked older men with soft bellies and hard hands.
Said she needed someone rough enough to grab her by the throat but gentle enough to kiss her bruises after.
She was sweet in the mouth and mean when she wanted to be.
Said things like, âYou ainât gonna leave me like the rest, are you, old man?â
Then ride him so slow in the back of the rig heâd swear she was trying to ruin him.
She was everything he didnât know heâd been aching for and he was the first man who didnât try to fix her.
Just kept a room ready. Kept the engine running.
Just in case she needed him to take her home.
She had a mouth like sugar and venom.
Sheâd flirt with the gas station clerk just to make John B clench his jaw. Sit on the motel sink in nothing but his old shirt and smirk, âYou gettinâ soft on me, old man?â
But the second he grabbed her by the waist and bent her over the motel dresser, sheâd whimper his name like a prayer low and breathy and desperate.
He always got them a motel room.
Every time he saw her. Three nights, max.
Never longer. He told himself it was so she could shower, sleep, eat. But they both knew the truth. Sheâd bounce on the bed in her underwear, throw beer cans at the wall, ride him slow with the window open like she wanted the whole world to hear.
Sometimes he caught her crying in the bathroom at 2 a.m., but sheâd swear it was the shampoo in her eyes.
John B was thick, older, worn down by years on the road.
He had that belly that softened when she curled up on it after sex, arms like tree trunks, and a voice like warm diesel smoke.
He was strong, solid. She loved the way he filled her up physically, emotionally, completely. Sheâd dig her nails into his shoulders, grind down on him hard, and say, âAinât no one ever made me feel like you do, big boy .â
But she always left.
Every single time.
Heâd wake up to empty sheets and the echo of her perfume. Sometimes she left a cigarette burning in the sink. Sometimes her bra on the floor.
Never a note. Just gone. Heâd sit there on the edge of the motel bed, chest hollowed out, wondering if she was dead or just done with him.
Until the last time.
The motel AC was humming. She thought he was asleep snoring on his side, one hand still warm from touching her.
She tried to slip out of bed without making a sound, got her boots on, halfway down the motel stairs, whenâ
âYou runninâ again, baby?â
She froze. Heart in her throat. He was leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, his eyes burning into her like fire.
âNot this time,â he said. âYouâre coming home with me.â
And she did.
He took her to the Outer Banks.
Back roads and country songs. The truck rattling over gravel.
His hand on her thigh the whole way, thumb brushing that spot she liked behind her knee. She didnât cry.
But she looked out the window like maybe someone had finally chosen her. Finally meant it.
Now, at the stops, sheâs in his passenger seat. Legs on the dash. Big sunglasses and cherry cola lips flavored lips.
She still doesnât tell strangers her name.
But she wears a necklace with an apple charm.
And she sleeps through the night.
Because heâs always there when she wakes up.
