Jun 13
DEACON PHILLIPPE via Instagram stories
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DEACON PHILLIPPE via Instagram stories
Born To Die
Summary:
At a drag race, Christian and the new girl connect, leading to a night charged with tension and honesty.
Pairings: Christian Maddox x Female Reader
18+ MINORS DNI!
Warnings: Smut, Oral F! Receiving, Violence, Unprotected Sex, Fingering, Soft Dom Christian.
The night was thick—so thick you could almost taste it—saturated with the deep, steady hum of engines idling, and the sharp, acrid scent of burnt rubber curling up into the heavy air like a whispered dare. The kind of heat that clings to your skin, sticky and restless, pulling you in despite every warning in your head. I shouldn’t have come here, not to this drag race, not to this gathering of hardened leather jackets and restless souls. It wasn’t my scene. But then the black ’55 Chevy tore down the strip, its roar cleaving through the night, and suddenly the world sharpened around me. Everything else faded — blurred, distant — except for that one raw, pulsing presence.
He killed the engine with a slow, deliberate ease, the growl fading until only the quiet hum remained. The door swung open and he stepped out, tall and sure. Blonde hair slicked back, shining like gold wet with sweat, every strand in perfect, effortless place. The leather jacket hugged the broad lines of his shoulders, creasing just so as he moved with a predator’s grace. A cigarette dangled lazily from the corner of his mouth, the glowing tip pulsing softly, casting flickering light across his sharp jawline. His hands, long-fingered and strong, slid casually through the pockets of his jeans, but the rings gleamed at his knuckles—silver bands etched with small, intricate symbols, catching every stray light.
And then those eyes—blue as a storm-tossed sea—found mine, locking me in place. The noise around us dimmed, the crowd’s distant shouts and cheers fading into silence. It was like the whole world held its breath. I felt it in my bones: something was shifting.
Christian’s POV
The rush of adrenaline still thrummed in my veins from the race, that familiar burn that sharpened every sense. But then I saw her. New girl. Hair pulled into a high ponytail, loose strands framing her face just so, the soft fabric of her sundress moving with the light breeze, catching the faint moonlight like spun silk. Her eyes—wide, curious, but guarded—stood apart from the usual girls who hung around these parts. Not like the others.
The guys around me nudged each other, low bets starting to fly—fifty bucks says I can’t get two words from her.
I laughed, a low, rough sound, tossing back without hesitation, “Double it.”
A hundred bucks on the table. The gamble was on.
I stepped forward, cigarette smoke curling in lazy spirals as I exhaled into the cool night air. The scent was sharp and familiar, mingling with the leather and gasoline.
“I’m Christian,” I said, voice gravelly, just on the edge of a growl.
She crossed her arms, posture tight and unreadable, as cool as ice.
“I’m not interested.”
“Good girls usually aren’t.”
She turned away, but the challenge was set — and I was already hooked.
Y/N’s POV
The next day, the diner was quiet except for the clinking of dishes and low hum of conversation. I wiped down the counter, hands moving mechanically, when I felt it: his gaze. Like a wave of heat pressing into the back of my neck, coming from a booth near the window.
Later, outside, the chain on my bike snarled stubbornly under my fingers. I twisted and cursed under my breath, the metal refusing to give.
Before I could curse again, he was there.
Strong hands, sure and confident, took the chain from me. The muscles beneath his jacket flexed as he worked, steady and practiced. His fingers moved with a patient grace, the veins running just beneath the skin visible in the soft light. There was something soothing in the way he handled it—like the weight of the world could rest on those hands and never falter.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, watching his jaw flex as he smiled—a slow, crooked curve that sent a surprising warmth through me.
He shrugged, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes darkening with something unspoken and raw.
“I wanted to.”
He wiped his hands on his worn jeans, the motion casual but charged.
Days later, the bonfire crackled beneath a blanket of stars, the smoke curling like lazy ghosts through the sticky night air, thick with the scent of cheap perfume and woodsmoke. I was laughing with friends when someone idled up beside me.
“Hey, new girl,” he murmured, "I'm Luke." “Wanna walk down the beach?”
I smiled politely, careful and firm.
“No thanks. I’m good.”
He stepped closer, persistent.
“Come on, the waves are really beautiful at night.”
The sand was cool beneath my bare feet, the ocean whispering secrets as the tide slipped and pulled. He followed closely.
His hand slid over my arm — light at first, testing — until I pulled away sharply.
Suddenly, his demeanor shifted, darkening like a storm rolling in.
Before I could react, his hands were on my waist, his mouth hot and demanding at my neck, peppering kisses.
“Stop,” I said, voice trembling.
“Come on, just relax. You know you want it.”
“Get off me!”
Then Christian was there. Fists flying, muscles taut with rage, sweat and blood mingling in the heat of the fight.
“Get your hands off her.”
His knuckles were bleeding, raw and torn, but he didn’t stop—each punch a promise and a warning.
He finally let go of the guy, blood dripping from his knuckles like something sacred and angry. I barely had time to react before he grabbed my hand—not rough, but urgent—and pulled me toward the car.
“Come on. I’m taking you home.”
His voice was still ragged with fury, chest rising and falling fast beneath his jacket. He leaned against the side of the Chevy, eyes burning in the streetlight’s glow. I reached into my bag, hands trembling as I pulled out a bandage.
“Let me see,” I whispered, carefully wrapping the torn skin over his knuckles. The blood was hot, staining my fingers, but I kept them steady.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said quietly, not trusting my voice.
The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, the roughness melting away.
“I wanted to.”
That silence again. The kind where everything pulses beneath the surface—breath and heat and things unspoken. His eyes searched mine like i was something breakable.
“I’m so sorry that happened. No one should ever treat you like that.”
“I shouldn’t have gone with him. What was I thinking?”
“No, this isn’t your fault. You should never have to feel like that.”
My heart skipped as we pulled into my driveway.
“If you were mine, I would never let anyone touch you.”
Something took over me. I leaned in, breath catching, and tried to kiss him.
“I don’t want to do this—not like this. It should be perfect. Let me take you out tomorrow night.”
"I don't know"
"Please"
The look in his eyes told me to trust him.
“Okay.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
The next night, he picked me up at exactly seven. The Chevy gleamed like black chrome under the low sun, music already playing softly through the cracked windows. Elvis—of course.
He opened the door for me, one hand brushing the small of my back as I slid in. Even that touch made me feel like I might come undone.
We drove out of town, past the broken signs and whispering cornfields, until the drive-in came into view. It was tucked away behind a grove of trees, half-forgotten and perfect. The screen flickered with color as we pulled into a far corner, where no one would bother looking.
The movie was some old noir—moody and slow. His arm was draped across the back of the seat, not touching me but close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him in waves.
We talked. About nothing. About everything. Every time he smiled, I caught a glimpse of something underneath—soft and real, breaking through the leather and smoke.
The movie started to fade into the background. The sky had gone dark, stars stretching like dust across velvet. He turned to me, eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.
“You're quiet,” he said.
“So are you.”
I felt his breath before I saw the shift. And then I leaned in—barely thinking, just feeling. His lips met mine, slow and questioning at first. Like he didn’t expect it. Like he needed to be sure.
And then it deepened.
His hand came to my cheek, thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. The way he kissed me—gentle at first, then urgent, then something entirely his own—it left me breathless. His rings were cool against my skin when his fingers slid into my hair, holding me there.
When we finally pulled apart, hearts racing, he didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then, in that low voice that always felt like it was meant only for me, he said, “Will you come back to my place?”
I hesitated. My breath caught in my throat.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I won’t touch you unless you want me to,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “I swear. I won’t push you.”
He meant it. I could see it written all over his face. That steady, raw kind of honesty that somehow made me trust him even when I shouldn’t.
“…Okay,” I said softly.
His house was tucked behind a row of trees, a low, moody structure that looked like it had stories to tell. Inside, it smelled like motor oil and something faintly warm—like cedar and skin. He flicked on a low lamp, casting golden light over the room. There were records stacked beside the turntable, jackets draped over chairs, and a half-drunk Coke bottle by the sink.
I stood near the center of the room, fingers twisting in the hem of my dress.
He didn’t come close. Just stood across from me, eyes careful.
“You want anything?” he asked.
“No.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
But I could feel it between us. That charge. The gravity pulling me forward.
And I stepped toward him.
His eyes widened slightly. “You sure?”
Instead of answering, I reached for him. My fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping just under it to feel the warmth of his skin. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move. He didn’t push.
It was me.
I kissed him—deeper this time. My hands tangled in his hair, and he groaned low into my mouth like he’d been holding it back all night.
His hands came to my waist, cautious at first. When I didn’t pull away, he let his touch deepen—fingertips pressing in, warm and steady, mapping the shape of me like a promise.
His rings skimmed my skin as his hands moved under my dress, the cool metal making me shiver.
“You’re mine,” he breathed against my collarbone.
His chest rose and fell beneath his white tee, the veins in his forearms stark under his skin, rings catching the low light. There was something restrained in his stance—tense, like every muscle was coiled tight.
“I want you” I said softly.
He tilted my chin up, eyes searching, almost disbelieving.
“Are you sure, baby?” he asked, voice rough, low, already wrecked.
“Yes.”
He kissed me like he had all the time in the world.
But his hands said otherwise.
They were everywhere—ravenous and rough, the metal of his rings dragging across bare skin. One hand slid under my shirt, across the soft swell of my stomach, up to cup my breast. He brushed his thumb over my nipple until I gasped.
“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he muttered against my neck, voice low and frayed at the edges. His teeth scraped along my jaw before he kissed just below my ear. “Every look, every sound you make... You don’t even know.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He pushed my shirt up and pulled it off, his lips trailing heat down my collarbone. When his mouth closed around my nipple, I arched up into him, breath catching. He bit softly, tongue circling, and I whimpered.
Then he looked up at me—eyes blown, chest rising fast.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
I reached for his belt, fingers shaking with need. He let me undress him—his jeans shoved low, then kicked off—until he was kneeling between my legs. My lips parted as I looked at him.
Fingers wrapping around the waistband my underwear, pulling them down.
“Jesus, look at you. You’re so wet,” he muttered, dragging two fingers through my folds.
“It’s for you,” I whispered.
He groaned like he couldn’t take it. He pressed his fingers into me—slow at first, then deeper, curling just right. I cried out, hips bucking. His thumb rubbed tight, deliberate circles on my clit. His breath was ragged now.
“Look at me while I make you come.”
I tried, but my vision blurred. He kept his eyes locked to mine, watching every shudder, every twitch, every soft gasp that broke from my mouth as he played me like a song only he knew how to perform. I clenched around his fingers as I came, crying out his name into the warm, summer night.
Then he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean.
“Sweet,” he rasped. “Knew you would be.”
His tongue lapped at me, slow and deep, groaning into me like he was starving. He sucked my clit, then pulled back just before I could fall again.
“Please,” I begged, desperate.
He smirked. “Please what?”
“Please fuck me.”
He kissed the inside of my thigh. Bit down gently. “Good girl.”
Then he hovered over me, hand resting against the side of my face.
“Last chance,” he murmured. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I looked up at him, breathless, bare, and trembling.
“Don’t stop.”
And then he pushed into me—slow, steady, thick and perfect. I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He filled me completely, stretching me in a way that made me ache and burn and want more all at once.
“God, you feel good,” he groaned. “So fucking tight.”
He gave me a moment—let me adjust—then pulled back and thrust in again, a little harder this time. My legs wrapped around his waist, locking him in.
He set a rhythm—deep and steady, driving into me again and again, until all I could do was moan and cling to him. He kissed me as he moved, slow and rough, one hand slipping under my back to hold me close, the other gripping my throat—not to choke, just to feel. To own.
“Look at me,” he rasped. “I want you to remember who you belong to.”
I met his eyes—and almost came again from the look on his face alone. He looked ruined. Beautiful. Like I was breaking him in all the best ways.
His pace picked up—harder now, slamming into me with every thrust. I cried out, head falling back, body trembling. He leaned in and kissed me like he was drowning.
“Come for me again,” he whispered. “I want to feel it.”
I did—louder this time, stars bursting behind my eyelids, nails raking down his back as my second orgasm crashed through me. He wasn’t far behind—hips stuttering, breath hot against my neck as he moaned my name like a confession.
And when he came, it felt like the world held still for a second.
After, he didn’t move. Just lay on top of me, heartbeat thudding against mine, one hand still tangled in my hair.
"I've got you now baby, forever."
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DEACON PHILLIPPE Photographed by Alex La Cruz for King Kong Magazine (2023)
Deacon Phillippe
RYAN & DEACON PHILLIPPE Prime Video's "Motorheads" Red Carpet and Screening May 13, 2025