all i ever knew (eren jaeger x fem!oc)

the evening shift

author's note:
so this ended up being longer than i thought. but i'm finally backkkk. aha, enjoy! 

content warnings:
drug abuse. alcohol. light smut.

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"Well aren't you just sunshine in a ball," my co-worker for the evening jests as she wipes down a glass with a fluffy black towel.

Her hair is the colour of sand dunes glistening under the heat of the blazing sun, lush locks rippling ever so gently along their subtle curves.

I aggressively slap down my helmet and keys on the bar counter. "A golden fucking retriever in human form," I reply dryly, dragging my stuff along the oak surface as I trudge toward the back room, earning an ear-wrenching screech as the plastic helmet meets the hardwood.

In comparison to the location I left behind in Marley, the joint I now stood within could barely be acclaimed to the restaurant chain's enterprise. It was as if the building came to life strictly through the messy scribbles of an architect attempting to be rid of this project as quickly as possible, to move on to more alluring endeavours within the big city–not ones of small towns.

The type of place that would accumulate a sheen curtain of bronze dust if left unattended for more than three days time.

Trost Brewhouse was a franchise created from the egotistical son of a millionaire set to combine his two loves of alcoholism and fragile, young women somehow still banded under the 'family friendly' term. The company combined sub-par bar food served by waitresses along with a full bar itself.

Due to its now expansive hold across the nation, each brewhouse held a unique layout and design specific to where they were located. Some were modern and chic, well others were more rustic and inclined to invite brawls. Ours is the latter.

Divided at the front entryway, Paradis' location splits immediately between restaurant and bar, the kitchen dividing the barrier at the back of the area. The restaurant was filled with booths and bright coloured paintings slapped to cover the holes of the failing walls, while the bar seemed like it belonged within an old-western stand-off sitcom.

The bar counters were crafted from vintage oak with a sleek varnish to keep their cleaning process a bit easier. All appliances were standard industrial, rust beginning to bead at their sides. Backless stools were stationed at the counters, facing directly into the glass-encased walls behind us that held bottles upon bottles of liquor within mirror shelves.

From the barstools to the high-rise tables, none of the furniture was stationary, which to my point, feeds directly into the brawls that can occur. Furniture clashing against the walls, shattering corners of windows.

The new location in which I am set up here in Paradis has been around for decades. Probably last inspected 20 years ago. My old location was like a second home to me, but I knew I needed to move on to other places when I started to discover the answers I had been looking for all along resided back in Paradis. With this, the shift to the new location came quickly.

My thoughts are cut short at the sound of a clatter behind me.

Bouncing around in her grand gesture and surely knocking over a few glasses, my co-worker continues the running joke. "Ladies and gentlemen, my dearly beloved–"

"Shut the fuck up, Hitch," I remark, swinging the back door shut right as I hear her yell back–

"Well at least don't punch a hole through the walls in your fit like a fucking privileged middle school child!"

I let out a breathy laugh at her comment.

Though my definition of what one would call a friend has become quite loose over time, she comes closest to what I would consider one to be. An acquaintance, really. A human accompaniment to my hollow shell of a being. She's like the melodic orchestra beating to the tune of a novel's empty soul, uprooting the lifeless terrain to seek the shred of hope left in a needle of grass behind.