hasil x reader and she’s the mayors daughter so she’s a small town princess and they meet late at night when she’s walking home from the bar. That’s kinda all I got but I do think in her head it’s like a “oh my dad would hate this” type of vibe but obviously she does actually like him
oh hasillll my sweetest sweetheart babykins who has never done anything wrong in his entire life (he has done a lot wrong actually but whatever it's fine) thank you for the request!! if y'all have anything you want me to write for you, make sure to send me an ask! :))) wc: 4.8k, tags: fem!reader, THERES SMUT IN THIS ONE MINORS DNI!!, drinking, classism re: farrells (but you deconstruct that one pretty quickly), flirty!hasil, desperate!hasil, it's so obvious how horny hasil makes me like u can very much so tell, smut isn't crazy explicit but it sure is there, p in v smut, use of protection isn't mentioned but like always wrap it before you tap it, oral sex (f!receiving) / make sure to follow @babybluebex-writes to get updated whenever i post a new story!
If there was one thing you knew about growing up in Blackburg, Kentucky, it was to stay away from the Farrells. They kept to themselves up on their mountain, so it was pretty much just an empty threat, some sort of horror story you were terrified with as kids, but it was still a potent horror story. You weren’t supposed to talk to them, smile at them, extend any sort of niceness or Southern hospitality to them— absolutely nothing whatsoever. The Farrells were bad news, your father told you. Stay away from the hillbillies.
Whenever they did descend from their ancestral home on top of Shay Mountain, it was never hard to spot them. They were all unkempt, messy. They looked… Well, feral. The name matched the vibe. As you got older and older, every rare sighting of one of them struck fear into your heart, worried that they were the mean savages that you had been taught they were. The breaking point was, the summer before you left your little home of Blackburg to go to nearby Lexington for college, a band of Farrells came raring off the mountain on ATVs and robbed a grocery store. You were nowhere near the scene, but it terrified you to no end. You went to Lexington with no hesitation, glad to escape the looming threat of encountering one of the mountain men.
There were other advantages to leaving Blackburg. In a town of hardly a thousand people, everyone knew your name. Your dad had just been elected into office when you were young, and you were hailed as ‘the princess’. Your father managed to hold onto his mayoral position for your entire life (you supposed he was a fine politician who had a knack for really using the ‘single dad of a teenage daughter and I’m here to serve you, Blackburg’ image to his benefit), which led to damn everyone in town knowing who you were. In Lexington, at college, the friends you made were real and genuine, who liked you not because your dad was well-known, but liked you for you. With the excitement of college and new friends and an extended leave of absence from Blackburg, you almost forgot about the Farrells.
Almost.
Every year at the beginning of summer, Blackburg had a parade. You hated the summer parade, and, truthfully, any event where you had to smile and be The Mayor’s Daughter. Every year you could remember, your dad and you sat in the back of some classic red Ford truck owned by one of the older gents of the Kiwanis Club in town and waved at people, tossing them little beaded necklaces or whatever bullshit re-election shlock your dad’s office had ordered. This summer, as you fanned yourself with your hand, a small bucket sat by your feet, full of blue beaded necklaces and tiny lapel buttons that simply said REELECT FOR MAYOR! You wanted to roll your eyes, but you knew people were taking pictures, so you refrained. God forbid the princess be rolling her eyes in the picture added to the small blurb in the Lexington Gazette.
Instead, you smiled at the little kids as the truck inched down the main strip of town, listening to the high school’s piddling marching band play out in front of you. Per your dad’s request, you had affixed your graduation cap to your head, the tassel swinging in your peripheral. It was a big deal for him that you had graduated college from a state university; thankfully, you had been able to talk him out of wearing your honor society stole around your shoulders with the university’s logo big as hell right on your chest. The cap was essential, though, and no argument would hit his ears that would stop you from wearing it. A bobby pin dug into your scalp as you turned to grin at a little girl standing with the crowd, and you tossed her one of the beaded necklaces. She looked a little timid, white dress with the scraggly uncombed sweaty-kid hair— she was cute. But barefoot. That was weird.
“Daddy,” you started. “You see that little girl off on my right? White dress?”
Your dad turned to look, and he waved in their direction. “The one without shoes?” he asked, and you nodded. “I see her.”
In an instant, every question you had about the girl was answered. The people behind the little girl parted to allow someone to push up to her, and your voice died in your throat. A man, wearing a tank top stained with sweat, his sunburnt arms covered in tattoos, his hair curling at his shoulders, adorned with braids and feathers. You could tell in an instant— he was a Farrell, and so was the little girl. Your heart thumped hard inside your chest, and you shoved your tassel back away from your eyes to get a better look at him. A real Farrell! You almost felt like you were gawking at a zoo animal. You watched him put his hands on the little girl’s shoulders and say something down at her, and she passed him the plastic necklace you had tossed to her. She said something else to him, then pointed at you, and his eyes flitted up, following her finger.
And suddenly you were making eye contact with a Farrell. He looked nice, or at least, as nice as someone could look from so far away. He smiled at you, but it wasn’t a smile like he was just acknowledging you. It was a smile like he couldn’t believe you were even noticing him, almost a little relieved? Maybe he was relieved that you weren’t immediately raising alarms at their presence. It confused you, but you smiled back at him all the same.
“Now, what’s a goddamn Farrell doing off the mountain?” you heard your dad scowl, and you turned to him. Oh, he had that look on his face, the kind that you often said made him look like a cartoon villain, beady eyes and deep-set wrinkled frown. Bad, no, shut that down.
“Maybe he just…” you started softly. Why would he be there? You wanted to see it as kindness, that the Farrells’ presence meant nothing, but the deep-rooted fear of the family inside you made your hands shake a little. “I’m sure it’s fine. She looks like she’s having fun.”
Your father hummed in distaste, but he turned back to the parade in front of you, paying no more mind towards the Farrells. You, though, stole one more glance over your shoulder at them. The little girl was excited, now waving at the float in front of her, some older ladies from the church, but the man— was he her father? He looked awful young to have a daughter her age. Maybe her brother? Or cousin?— was still looking after you. His eye contact, even from so far away, made your skin ripple, and you quickly turned back around.
The memory of the Farrell man needled at your brain for the rest of the day. You watched out for him as you traversed the streets of Blackburg, the same ones you had walked your entire life. You did the classic Southern pastime of ‘visiting’, stopping to talk to anyone who stopped you. Mostly, it was older people who knew your father or had worked with him, oohing-and-ahhing that you had gotten “so big!”, congratulating you for graduating and asking what was next. You shrugged; you had a job lined up in nearby Virginia, some entry-level answer phones and remind people of meetings secretary job, and even though you claimed you were excited to start in August, honestly, you dreaded the thought. All your life, you had been a cog in a machine, The Mayor’s Daughter, and you despised the idea that you were leaving one machine for a different one. You didn’t know what else to do with your life, though, so you supposed a stagnant life with a half-decent paycheck was better than nothing.
Eventually, as the sun was setting, your visiting led you to one of the bars. For such a small town, Blackburg had more than a few watering holes, and, even though you were only used to the bars in Lexington, made with the express purpose of luring college students, this bar would do. The summer evening had made a sweat break out on your back, and you could do with a drink. Even there, you couldn’t escape the People’s Princess image, and it almost pissed you off when you tried to close your tab and was told it had been ‘taken care of’. “Well,” you started with an icy tone, pushing your twenty dollar bill into the bartender’s hand. “Consider it a donation, then.”
You hadn’t had a lot to drink, just two cocktails that were maybe mixed a little heavier than usual, and you dug into your purse for your cigarettes as you walked. You could walk everywhere in Blackburg, and you admired the night sky. As much as you hated that town, there were a few nice things about it, one of which being how far away from a big city you were. There was almost no light pollution, and you could see the stars against the inky night. You didn’t get that in Lexington.
“You like the stars too?”
You startled at the sudden voice, and your head snapped in the direction of it. Who was talking to you? You had never heard that voice before, a little high, a little raspy, a heavy accent. Leaned up against a streetlight, his arms crossed in front of his chest, was the Farrell you had seen at the parade. Fear struck you, your cigarette hanging limply unlit between your lips, and he seemed to understand your reaction. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, swear.”
You were quick to regain at least a little bit of your composure, and you plucked your cigarette from your mouth. “You were at the parade,” you said softly; yeah, only a little bit of your composure was regained, but not nearly enough so that you didn’t feel like a massive idiot talking to the Farrell, stating the absolute fucking obvious.
He smiled and huffed out a little laugh as he nodded. “Sure was,” he replied. “One’a my little cousins was beggin’ to come down and see it. Nobody wanted to come with her, so I volunteered myself.”
“That’s nice,” you said gently. You still felt incredibly off-kilter at him even speaking to you, and he seemed to understand that.
“I told you I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he repeated, raising his eyebrows at you.
“I-I know,” you nodded. “I’m just…”
“You ain’t ever see one’a us up close,” he said. He sounded completely certain of his analysis, and, good for him that he was correct. You nodded quickly, and he laughed again, sounding more rueful this time. “Hmm. Y’all’ve got some stories ‘bout us, huh?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “Like, um, I guess it’s a lot of how… Bad y’all are. Hardly better than animals. Gonna hurt us. All kinds of stuff like that.”
“Right,” he nodded. “Well, I ain’t hurt ya yet, have I?”
In an instant, your eyes zeroed in on his belt. You were almost a little amused at how stereotypically Mountain Man he was dressed, his tank top and kilt (is that what it was called? It didn’t feel right to call what he wore a skirt) and muddy boots. His belt, though, helped cement the look: a little bag on his waist that you wondered what it was full of, pelts and tails of little creatures tacked on. Trophies? Just little decorations he liked? The thing that caught your attention the most, though, was the sheathed hunting knife hanging just at his hip, the perfect height for him to grab in a single second. “Not yet,” you breathed.
He knew what you were looking at, and he shook his head with a click of his cheek. “That ain’t for you,” he told you. “Ain’t even big enough to hurt ya too bad.”
“‘Cause that’s comforting,” you huffed. “Hurt me ‘too’ bad…”
“How ‘bout this?” he started, shifting his weight off the streetlight to stand. “My name’s Hasil. If I hurt you, which I won’t, but if I do, you can go cryin’ to everyone that Hasil Farrell did it, and they’d rightfully come for me. My clan don’t take to violence of that kind too good. Know I’d be punished right bad for hurtin’ a lostie girl.”
You were a little speechless at him. That was shockingly forthcoming, and it did a lot to make you doubt what you thought about the Farrells. Truly, Hasil’s behavior altogether was contradictory to how you thought the Farrells were meant to act. He seemed very nice, and you weren’t sure what to make of that. “Why’re you talking to me?” you asked. “N-Not that you aren’t allowed, but, like… Why do you wanna talk to me?”
From your distance, you could see so much more detail on Hasil Farrell than before. His hair hung in curls and waves, a sort-of golden hay color, his bangs pulled back of his face by a strip of leather. He had freckles galore, adorning his shoulders and tanned forehead and nose. His mustache was a little ginger-tinted and matched the smattering of hair on his chin. The tattoos on his arms and hands were thin lines, artfully done, birds and runes; you even saw some ink inching out the neckline of his shirt from his chest. But the focal point, the part you couldn’t stop watching, were his eyes. Big and blue, they did a lot to soften the hardened image that the rest of him cultivated. Surely, someone with gentle eyes like his wasn’t capable of meanness and cruelty. His eyes went all soft at your question, and he rubbed his knuckles against his palm, almost like he was nervous. He wore a black bandage around his left hand, and you saw that it was covering the last two fingers. It almost looked like he didn’t have his ring and pinkie fingers.
“I can’t lie to ya,” Hasil started. “I think you’re ‘bout the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
You gave him a tired smile. “Thanks, but— ” you started.
“I know you likely want nothin’ to do with me or my kind,” Hasil said quickly, cutting you off. “And I really ain’t askin’ for nothin’, I just… I saw you on top that truck, smiling and waving like some sorta princess, and I… S’like when you get a critter in a trap, you just wanna look at it, y’know?”
You struggled for words for a moment, and you finally laughed lightly as you shrugged. “Sure, I guess,” you said. “I don’t hunt, so I don’t know that feeling, but, um, that’s nice.” A beat passed where you watched his eyebrows crease ever so slightly, and, quickly, you added, “I, umm, was pretty intrigued by you too. I’ve never seen a Farrell up close like that before… Like this… You’re, um, pretty good-looking too. Do you know that?”
“Know what?” Hasil laughed. There was the relief you had been waiting for. “That I’m good-lookin’?”
“I mean,” you started, shifting the strap of your purse higher on your shoulder. You became acutely aware of how public you were— even though nobody was milling the streets by this hour, it still could be incredibly easy for someone to walk out of their house or the bar and see you chatting with a Farrell under the street light. They would report it straight back to your father, and the idea of that made electricity pump under your skin. “Y’all have mirrors up on Shay Mountain, right? You know how you look.”
“Well, sure,” Hasil shrugged. “That ain’t ever really been somethin’ I pondered on too hard, though. I look the way I look; who cares ‘bout that?”
“Yet, you care how I look,” you countered, and you watched Hasil’s smile start to grow, his pink cheeks rounding up all sweetly. “You ever consider it might go the other way too?”
Hasil lifted his chin a little bit playfully. “So she thinks I’m handsome,” he mused. “Ain’t that somethin’?”
You laughed at him. Finally, you felt your anxiety melt away, and you said, “C’mon, you can walk me home.”
“Oh, can I?” Hasil said, and you nodded. “What an honor. Lead the way, little lady.”
“So,” you began, starting your journey, and, sure enough, Hasil stepped in time with you by your side. “You saw a pretty girl in a parade, wanted to talk to her, so you… What? Followed me to the bar and waited for me to leave?”
“I tried to come in to talk to ya,” Hasil admitted. “But… ‘Fraid it’s obvious why that didn’t happen.”
“Sure,” you nodded. “We don’t take too kindly to Farrells down here.”
“Y’know, for all you losties talk ‘bout how we’re crazy,” Hasil began. “Judgin’ us for being different than y’all seems real strange. Can’t y’all just not care ‘bout us? We ain’t hurtin’ nobody.”
“What is that?” you asked. You were intentionally disregarding his question about why Blackburg regarded the Farrell family so lowly. Your fingers finally wrapped around your lighter inside your purse, and you were quick to pull it out and strike at the plate to light it up. You watched Hasil’s eyes widen at it, and you wondered exactly where the bounds of the Farrells’ technology ended. You knew that they at least had electricity on the mountain, having heard stories about how they’d steal gasoline for generators, but the little things like lighters, did they have that? “You called me that earlier too. A ‘lostie’.”
“S’what we call people who ain’t in our clan,” Hasil explained. “We say they ‘lost their way’. We all came from down the mountain, right, some’a y’all just decided to stay gone.”
“Makes sense,” you mumbled, lighting your cigarette up. “Y’know, we got a word for you guys too. ‘Hillbillies’.”
“What’s that mean?” Hasil asked.
“Well,” you started, breathing out a mouthful of smoke. “It isn’t exactly nice, I guess. It’s meant to mean, like… Not smart. Poor, and uneducated, really country, like, in a bad way. I guess hillbilly and lostie aren’t exactly a one-to-one comparison…”
“Ah, no, I’d say so,” Hasil chirped. “We mean it in a real not-nice way too. Like we’re better than y’all for not leaving the mountain.”
“Insulting me as you try to flirt with me?” you asked, and you watched Hasil’s face fall for one second as you maintained the offended face before you gave it up with a smile. “I’m joking.”
Hasil sighed in relief, shaking his head. “Oh, she’s a joker, huh?” he smiled. “You got a boyfriend, honey?”
That made you laugh unexpectedly, and you coughed out a lungful of cigarette smoke. “God!” you smiled. “You’re really funny, Hasil, like, seriously.”
“Why’s that funny?” he asked earnestly. “I wanna make sure I ain’t tryna court no other man’s lady ‘fore I get myself started.”
“No, no,” you started, tapping your cigarette to let the ash float to the sidewalk. “That’s a very thoughtful thing to do, like… What’s funny is that you think I could get myself a boyfriend.”
“Why’s that funny?” Hasil asked. He stepped forward a little bit, moving in front of you, and he walked backwards with an expert gait. In this light, you admired the look of him, broad shoulders and muscled arms, and you smiled. “You’re obviously real smart, finishin’ up whatever school ya went to. You’re pretty, and you’re funny, and you’re plum nice. Any man would be lucky to have you on his arm.”
You widened your eyes. Oh, God, this poor guy. You already knew that the Farrells knew so little about the real world, but being confronted with it like this was a little heartbreaking. In his world, all of that was more than enough to make a match. “It’s complicated,” you started. “I don’t wanna get into it right now.”
“I reckon,” Hasil started. “All that’s good enough to get you a boyfriend, and it’s you that don’t want none of that.”
“Oh, you ‘reckon’?” you scoffed.
“I’m right here, aren’t I?” Hasil asked. “Asking if I could court you, and it seems like you’re begging for reasons to say no.”
You wanted to rebuff him, try in any way to refute what he said, but you just couldn’t. No, he had well and truly figured you out. “Okay, maybe,” you huffed. “You don’t have a girlfriend up on the mountain? What’s wrong with you?”
“Truth be told, honey,” Hasil started. “Everyone back home is my kin. That’s the way of the world up there, but… I wanted to expand my horizons. Never had any interest in any woman back home.”
“I see,” you nodded slowly. “So, you… What? Wanna take me on a date? Wanna sleep with me? What’s the end goal?”
“Whatever you want,” Hasil replied easily. “I’ll accept whatever you wanna give me. I know you’re ‘boutta leave Blackburg again, so… Whatever you’d be willin’ to give me, I’ll be happy with.”
You reached a hand out, pressing your palm to Hasil’s chest, and your fingers itched closed in the neckline of his shirt. His skin was so warm against your fingers, and you pulled him just a bit closer to you. Even though you were hardly using any strength, he stepped towards you as if you alone were compelling him. It felt dangerous to even be in the same space as him, and you loved it. You weren’t far from your house now, and you bit your lip as you examined him. “How about you come home with me?” you asked softly. “You’ll have to leave before the sun comes up, but…?”
“Come home with you,” Hasil repeated slowly. His voice was quieter now, only meant for you, and his raspy accent felt thicker, laying over you and your senses like a warm blanket. “And do what, honey?”
“You know what,” you told him gently, and you tried to nervously look away from his chest and throat, but his hand, all bandaged up, came to cup your cheek and force you to look at him. His eye contact was intense, and your skin felt like it was catching fire as his gentle thumb stroked your cheekbone.
“I do know,” Hasil told you. “But I think I wanna hear you tell me what you want. I’ll take good care of you; I just gotta know what you want.”
“You…” you breathed, and your face went hot. He was really going to make you say it out loud. “You’re evil, Jesus Christ—”
“Oh, I’m evil?” Hasil chuckled. “You’re the one torturin’ me with those big ole doe eyes you’re givin’ me, your little dress cut so low I can damn near see your breasts, breathin’ all heavy… Think of what you’re doin’ to me, honey. Have mercy on a simple man.”
You surged forward, yanking Hasil in by his collar to kiss him hard, and he matched your energy instantly. He was hungry for you, and the thought that, at any moment, any of your neighbors could poke their heads out of their front doors and see you kissing a Farrell emboldened you. Maybe they’d call your father and rat on you. You could only hope.
You broke to speak to him, but Hasil was quick to silence you, slipping his hand down your front and under your dress, cupping you between your legs. You gasped, and he took the opportunity to lick into your mouth, claiming you in the animal way that you had expected from him from the very beginning. “Hasil,” you whimpered. “Anyone could see us.”
“Oh, that’s no good,” Hasil whispered, taking our bottom lip between his teeth and gently biting, just enough to make your lip throb. “You wouldn’t want nobody to see the princess ‘boutta fuck one of them… What d’ja call us? Hillbillies? How shameful for you.”
“I don’t care about that,” you told him, and your own hand slipped down his firm body to play with the buckle of his belt. You weren’t quite so bold as to ruck up his kilt under the light of the moon, but you knew your tryst would move into your bedroom quick enough. “But if someone sees us like this, they’d call the police on us. I dunno how you do things up the mountain, but fucking someone in public is pretty not-allowed down here.”
“Well, fuck, you think we make a habit of showin’ our kin this sorta shit?” Hasil laughed. “Nah, we’re private too, honey. I got no interest in anyone else seein’ what I’m ‘boutta see.”
“Me neither,” you agreed, and you smiled as you kissed him again. You lost yourself in him for a few more moments, his palm hot against your thin panties, his hot tongue so soft and heavy against yours, and your brain finally caught up with you, remembering what you had intended to say before he distracted you. “You gotta be gone by the morning,” you told him, your chest heaving as you panted, and he redirected his attention downwards. He had mentioned your breasts moments before, and he leaned down just a bit to lightly kiss at your collarbones. “I mean it, Hasil Farrell. By the time the sun’s rising, you gotta get out. Can’t be letting my dad find you in my bed.”
You regretted that as soon as it came time to act on it. You were careful sneaking Hasil into the house, thankful that your dad had already gone to bed; he had left you a note on the countertop, telling you that he had wrapped up your dinner in the fridge. You instructed Hasil to be quiet, as much as possible, and he smiled at you with a handsome, roguish crooked smirk as he stripped his shirt over his head. Just like his arms, his torso was covered in tattoos, covering his chest and stomach and winding around to his back and shoulders. You smoothed your palms up his skin, admiring the intricate inkwork, while he did the opposite, sliding his hands down your body to undress you. You weren’t sure why it surprised you so much that he was so gentle with you.
And gentle he was, in a way that made your hot skin ripple and thrum with life. Hasil took time to kiss every inch of you, his hands squeezing and caressing what his lips didn’t touch. It was torture to keep quiet to not let your dad down the hall hear, but Hasil knew all you wanted to say. With your thighs around his head, his whispers hit your wet flesh: “Next time, we can go somewhere where you can be as loud as you want… As I want you to be…”.
It was endlessly arousing, the way Hasil treated you, so much better than any boyfriend or hookup you had had thus far. He made you cum on his tongue, moaning softly into your pussy like the taste of it was all the pleasure he needed, giving a few soft grunts as you tugged on his curls. Then, once he was satisfied that you were as soft and wet and pliable as possible, he slipped his body between your thighs and began to undress in earnest.
You felt all fuzzy as you watched him, not drunk from any drink but drunk off of him, his whole body exposed to you. His tanned skin gave way to pale and freckled smoothness, and, as he sank inside you with a little gasp from his soft mouth, you dug your nails into his shoulders and matched him. Your breathing matched his, your heartbeat was in time with his, every sound he made was met with a complimentary harmony. You didn’t know sex could feel like that, and, as the knot inside you snapped and unspooled, white popping in your vision, tears pricked at your eyes.
“Please don’t go,” you whimpered in his ear as his arms gave out, and he settled himself to lay on top of you. His chest, sweaty and hot and sticky, rose and fell hard against your breasts, his cock going all soft inside you, and he hummed softly as his fingers started to draw circles on your thigh. “You have to stay, please.”
“Honey, you told me I gotta leave ‘fore the sun comes up,” Hasil whispered, and he landed a sloppy, wet kiss on your neck. “And look… She’s comin’ for us soon.” He lazily gestured to your window, and you craned your neck to see the inky black night just starting to give way to the dustiest blue right at the tops of the trees. Dawn was quickly approaching, and you frowned. Damn stupid dawn.
“Fuck,” you sighed. “You promise you’ll come see me again, though?”
Hasil cupped his hand to your cheek and angled your face to look at him, his flushed cheeks and blown-out eyes. He was just about the most handsome man you had ever seen at that moment. “You’re shit-crazy if you think anything could make me stay away from you.”
when will a long haired Kyle Gallner in a skirt come down the local mountain and fall in love with me instantly when he meets me working at my shitty retail job and then i fuck him in an abandoned house. when
