Red string (Houston X reader)
Greek philosopher Plato believed that humans had originally roamed the earth with four arms, legs and two heads. Two consciousnesses forever intertwined. That was until Zeus, fueled by jealousy, had split them in half as a punishment for their overwhelming pride, leaving the people to wonder aimlessly in search for their other half – incomplete. Not even knowing what or who they are missing. A tale with no true happy ending. Despite the decades of research on this, there’s no definitive answer for why soulmates exist. Just something we have to accept as a part of life. Soulmate bonds appear in different forms; identical markings, a faint (near invisible) red string or shared dreams are the most common form they manifest in. Not everyone will meet their soulmate within their lifetime, often never meeting their other half and settling or someone else.
Looking down to readjust your grip on the steering wheel, eyes lingering on the faint string around your pinky. Something so important yet so easily overlooked brushed off as a trick of the light to some. You were on the fence about the prospect of even encountering your soulmate if the opportunity ever arose. You were an underground mechanic that sold illegally modified stolen car parts; top tier marriage material.
You let your mind wonder as you continue down the street; a complete ghost town this late at night. Your mind completely occupied with future tasks and orders, you don’t even notice how the transparent string had became slightly more opaque.
Rounding the last corner on another barren street, you pull into your destination, a dilapidated, old warehouse. You pull up the handbrake, scanning the area while you exit the truck, back against the door. While your dominant hand rested on the holster of the firearm tucked into your waistband, your other hand fishes out your work burner to contact the client upon your arrival.
A moment or two passes before the sound of muffled voices started to emerge from within what should have been a condemned warehouse
“I just don’t see why we had to change suppliers,” a voice calls out.
A sigh follows before the other voice responds, “You’ve been complaining about how shit the last parts you got were,” the voices got more clear the closer they got, “Or how you’ve constantly had to fix those parts on top of that,” there was a brief pause before it continues, “I’ve had a few contacts recommend them and besides they’re already here so suck it up for a bit.”
The only response this seems to receive is an annoyed huff from the other party with a muffled reluctant agreeance. Any conversation that might have followed was muffled by the grumbling of the garage doors. This initially draws your attention before it was glued to a piece of string; splayed innocently on the cold cement leading underneath the old garage doors. A spool of red thread that, as your eyes continued to follow, was tied to your hand.
NO. FUCKING. WAY.
What are you supposed to do in this situation? Would it be too late to leave?
The grating noise from the old worn mechanisms fills what little space left in your head not occupied by panic. The cold air nips at whatever exposed skin it was able to. Time felt like it was stretched beyond what should have been possible, yet an eternity passed with every blink. Despite your reluctance, you knew it was too late to back out now.
It is said that fate will guide the willing and drag the unwilling. Right now it was dragging you, kicking and screaming the whole way.
You take a deep breath, and the door opens before you could even begin preparing yourself.
Behind the door stood two men in suits, both in masks.
--
The one on the left in a clown mask eyes you up and down, his posture clearly unimpressed, while the other in an American flag mask tilts to the side as if curious. You try to control your breathing as you see the red string pulsate erratically in time with your rapid heartbeat.
As you all step into the warehouse with the doors grinding shut behind you, the red strings tug at your finger, urging you towards the two men in a jumbled mess as you try to discern which one it was leading you to.
The one in the pink and white mask spoke first “you’re not what I was expecting.” He scoffs, "You sure you’re up for this?” The unimpressed clown almost drawled, you could feel how he began to appraise you
“This isn't my first deal, either keep your unwanted opinions to yourself or I leave,” You snap in return.
The clown with the American flag snorts and roughly nudges the other clown in response, “Yeah fuckin’ whatever. What’s with the string? Some sort of weird business shit of yours?”
“No idea what you’re talking about. We’re going to talk business or are we just gonna stand around doing fuck all?” You try to brush him off, hoping to distract him from the far too literal connection.
“Right, business, so we’re looking for….” The voice drones on and as it continues it becomes more incoherent to me while I zero in on the red string binding
The voice drones on as it leaves me behind.
That's when it happens: the string tugs again, a slow, deliberate pull, like someone giving it a sharp yank to get my attention. My eyes dart to it involuntarily, and I can't ignore the way it thickens, becoming more tangible and undeniably real the closer I get to him.
The pink mask tilts again, his head cocking to the side as if he senses it too. And maybe he does. Underneath the cold, impassive shell of a clown-masked professional criminal, there’s something more. Something that makes me feel naked and hyper-aware in a heartbeat. I swallow thickly, waiting for his next move.
"Yo, Houston," the one with the American mask grumbles, clearly too wrapped up in the nitty-gritty of the deal, "You paying attention, or what?"
Houston. So that's who he is.
"Yeah," he answers. There's an odd stillness about him all of a sudden, like he's weighing a decision, feeling a gravity neither one of us wants to acknowledge. "Just… distracted."
Distracted? Try fucking connected.
I shift between my feet, feeling sweat along my brow despite the chill in the warehouse. I don’t know what to say. My hand twitches at the string tied to my pinky tied to him. Do I bring it up? Are we just gonna ignore it for the rest of our lives? Does he already have another in his life?
I stop in my tracks. Why would I even care about that? I don’t even know him
Fuck. I can't be the only one concerned
“You okay?” comes a voice. Not Houston, the other one. His tone is annoyed but concerned as he looks between us.
“Yeah. Let’s just get this over with,” I mutter, feigning disinterest, even though I feel like I’m unravelling the longer this goes on. I pull open the door to the truck bed with a bit more force than necessary and unloaded some boxes, showing the parts I was commissioned for in the deal. Houston shifts imperceptibly closer as I dump the parts onto a rusted workbench within the warehouse.
The string pulls tighter once more and, despite being already close, I almost crash into him
I glance up sharply to see Houston watching me through that mask, I can practically feel his eyes burning into me. Deliberate. Intense. Time slows down as we take each other in, as if something else, something deeper, is binding us here, now, in this moment. My legs uncooperative with me
Fuck.
“Parts look clean.” The other clown grunts, prodding at the metallic heap I just unloaded, pulling me briefly back to reality, though his voice still feels distant, as if I was under water. “We should-”
But Houston interrupts him. "Go wait by the van, Dallas" he says. There's a firmness to his voice that makes everything inside me freeze. The aforementioned man looks at him for a second, clearly about to argue but stops when they share a look.
“Fine. Don’t take too long.” He gives me one last once-over before heading toward the garage door. The grinding noise echoes again, filling the cavernous warehouse with sharp reverberations.
And then it’s just me and him.
Alone.
The air feels different, heavier, more oppressive. The tension pulls tighter than the string itself.
"So," I hear him say. His voice is lower now. There's something unreadable in it but not entirely cold. "How did you do this?"
I don't immediately respond. My entire body is wired, on edge, as if I’m torn between bolting for the door or staying exactly where I am. The string thrums between us, visible as daylight now, thick and binding my pinkie to his.
“How the fuck did you do this to me?” Houston repeats, taking a slow step toward me, and there’s a hidden demand lurking in his tone; something like suspicion, but something else... too.
My fingers twitch at my sides. God, I hate this whole soulmate idea. I wasn’t supposed to care. I wasn’t supposed to let myself get wrapped up in some mythical bullshit.
But here we are.
I take a breath, hoping it makes me look less rattled.
"I didn’t do this” I getsure to the string, “I was blindsided” I meet his gaze as much as I can, but it’s weird talking to someone fully masked. It feels almost too intimate, especially when talking about something like this. I wonder what those eyes of his look like under the hardened plastic stare. Are they cold or full of fire like the rest of him?
He didn’t respond, the silence stretched on
"You okay?" I ask, hating how much my voice betrays me too soft, too raw.
Houston takes another step closer. He’s fully up in my personal space now. My back is nearly against the workbench, cold steel digging into me. His hand reaches down and I flinch for a second but he doesn’t touch me. Not even close. He hovers, gloved fingers tracing the string.
“I didn’t know," he said quietly, thoughtfully. "Didn’t think you would have existed."
His words aren’t aggressive like earlier but they were loaded. I can sense the wheels turning behind his mask from the years of being a strategist, someone who’s never been taken by surprise. I wonder if this unsettles him as much as it does me. As if realising you have a soulmate even in a world like this wasn’t part of the plan. How the hell do you even plan for something like that?
We stand there, tension rippling between us, the palpable heat coming off him despite the chill in the old warehouse. I don’t know what else to say, and the silence is suffocating.
“How are we supposed to...?” I start, but I don’t even know how to finish that. How are we supposed to do any of this?
Houston chuckles, but there’s no humour in it, only something darker, something I can’t quite place beneath the smirk I can feel behind that mask. “Supposed to do what?” he says, reading my silence. “You tell me.”
His body’s close now. Too close. I want to back up but I have nowhere left to go.
“We should probably hurry up so we don’t keep Dallas waiting” I dare to suggest. I almost don’t know where the words come from. It’s like I’m possessed, floating between the reality of the situation and the pulse pounding in my chest.
Houston considers it for a long, painful moment, and in that time, I think I might’ve forgotten how to fucking breathe. Then he lowers his voice. “I think we have all the time in the world right now." The words settle between us. “And Dallas?,” he leans in, lips near the edge of the mask, “He can wait.”
My breath stutters. I can feel the string burning now, like the answers are crawling beneath my skin.
And Houston? He’s already unravelling me.