going to bed but part one of my silver foxville fic is out now :D this and cowboy!knoxville are gonna be my two big overarching ones for now i think is my goal
humor me - older johnny knoxville x younger reader
1.1k words (part one of a longer series to come)
this was so fun to write! i'm excited to continue this one and get more freaked out
sfw, age gap (early twenties reader x mid fifties johnny knoxville), amateur writer, no beta reader, warning for emetophobia, protective!knoxville, alcohol use/drunk reader
the bar was beginning to inch on too much for you. one drink too deep, you suspected. heat streaming down your chest until it pooled deep in the pit of your stomach.
you came here alone.
it was an embarrassing endeavor, really, and you knew it. what twenty-something year old girl is going to the bar without her friends? much less getting overly-intoxicated alone? you tried to convince yourself it wasn’t so bad; it’s not like you meant get yourself in this predicament. the plan was to come, have a drink, leave. but one drink turned into two, turned into conversation with the bartender, turned into some guy buying you a shot because you “looked lonely”. you accepted it graciously and took it as your sign to leave the establishment.
you left a probably-too-generous tip, thanked the bartender for dealing with you, and walked out of the bar.
the brisk air bringing goosebumps to the surface of your arms reminded you just how badly you probably needed to go outside, and thus how drunk you were. you let your lungs fill with the breeze, something you felt like you couldn’t manage in the building, and close your eyes for a moment. your head falls back slowly until it reaches brick- anything to get your bearings.
a few deep breaths surprisingly helped a bit, if not soothing the buzz, then definitely helping the nausea subside a bit. enough for you to open your eyes back up, at least. you were cognizant enough to see a form in your periphery- someone standing a few feet away to your right, puffing a cigarette. the night had not been kind to you as it related to men, so you convinced yourself that if you stayed absolutely still, maybe he wouldn’t notice you were there.
your plans are interrupted when you feel a familiar tingle in your jaw and spit gathering under your tongue.
you lurch toward the corner of the wall, just out of sight, but you get about two hurried steps in when your stomach is forcing it out of you. your throat burns with alcohol as you paint the concrete in front of you with vomit.
“someone got too cocky in there, huh?”
you look up, still blinking away tears, your expression pointedly unimpressed. your eyes catch the cigarette first, then drift upward.
“what?” you haphazardly wipe the corner of your mouth with the side of your hand.
as the blur in your vision clears, it gives way to what’s in front of you- a sturdy man with stark silver hair pushed up in a wild fashion, thick glasses framing dark eyes. he’s older than his voice let on. he brings a hand to his mouth, taking one last drag, before flicking the cigarette to the ground.
he’s stepping toward you before you can register it. already pulling a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans. he doesn’t pay mind to the mess at your feet.
“here, let me.”
the next several seconds pass in an instant; he’s tilting your head toward him with one hand, dabbing at your mouth with the other, wiping one last dribble from your chin. you were too wrecked for the lingering smell of tobacco on his fingers to nauseate you any further. you considered stopping him, telling him you’re fine and to knock it off. the thought alone exhausted you.
he crouches to your level and you fight through half-lidded, dazed eyes until you can meet his gaze.
“think you can sit for me?”
you shake your head. “i'm fine.”
“you threw up,” he presses. his voice hasn’t wavered since the first time he spoke.
"i know.” you glare at him through your eyelashes.
"then humor me."
you want to argue with him. tell him you're perfectly capable of getting yourself home, that you don't need some stranger babysitting you outside a bar. the words die in the back of your throat.
he nods toward a weathered bench a few feet away beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp. "just five minutes."
with a sigh, you push yourself away from the wall. that task alone is laborious. the walk isn't more than a handful of steps, but it feels considerably longer, each foot carrying the weight of your whole body. he follows close enough that you catch him in your periphery, a hand hovering near your elbow without ever quite touching you. you sink down onto the seat of the bench. your legs are grateful for the respite.
“don't go anywhere.” it comes out more of a request than an order.
you let out a tired huff. “wasn’t planning on it.”
he takes in the sight one more time, as though debating whether to leave you alone, and then he’s making his way back toward the bar.
"be right back,” he calls over his shoulder.
the heavy door shuts behind him, leaving you alone with the quiet.
it settles strangely.
the cold replaces the space he'd left behind. your elbows find your knees, forehead dropping into your hands with a long exhale. god. you hadn't realized how much of your attention had been spent on the stranger, this random guy, until he wasn't standing beside you anymore.
for one brief, embarrassing second, you worry maybe he wouldn’t return. the door creaks open again before you can dwell on the thought.
silver hair catches the light first, followed by the familiar broad frame. he strides toward you from the bar; a bottle of water and a handful of napkins in hand as he approaches.
"here." the cap’s already off when he pushes it into your field of vision.
you murmur a reluctant thank you and reach for the bottle, only for your fingers to fumble around smooth plastic before finally getting a grip. your face burns. the corner of his mouth twitches- amused.
you lift the bottle anyway. the first sip never quite makes it, water dripping down your chin before you can swallow. you close your eyes with a quiet groan.
a soft sigh escapes him.
"here." before you can protest, he's crouching in front of you all over again, taking the bottle into his own grasp, tilting the front ever so slightly toward your lips.
"small sips," he instructs.
you really should be scolding him, telling him you can take care of yourself. but here you are instead, parting your lips without thinking, letting him administer bits of water like you’re some helpless animal.
the water is cold against your tongue. it tastes better than anything you've had all night.
realistically i know it was very unsexy but there's just something about thinking of the fact johnny knoxville essentially had to engage in sounding multiple times a day for 3 years
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