I like this one but I don't think it's as much Tim Riggins as it could be (if that makes sense). anyway, enjoy (prob not grammatically correct but idrc) 0.7k
enjoy this pos ;)
Frustration and anger coursed through your body as you stormed towards the Riggins house. The cool air of the night balanced the rising angry heat in your body.
His need to push anyone away who cared about him was growing tired. You refused to allow him to do so. You’d finally accepted your feelings for him and he was gonna have to accept them too. He was gonna have to accept the love and nurturing you planned on providing him. There would be no more brooding, “selfless” Tim Riggins. For once he would accept the love you know he deserves and not the bullshit he takes, and you were gonna make sure he knew it.
You breathed a calming breath before banging on the door. It was the middle of the night, but he was going to hear what you had to say. Your mind gathered the words as the door opened to reveal a groggy Tim. He wore gym shorts and a cut open tank top that showed his physique in the best ways possible.
Your breath hitched as you took him in. Your last name on his lips snapped you from the trance he seemed to always put you in. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.” He croaked.
“I have to tell you something.”
His hands raised in protest. “Can’t this wai-“ His sentence was cut short by your hand on his chest as you pushed him into his messy living room.
You slammed the door behind yourself as you began to speak, “No. I have something to say and you—“ You shoved your pointer finger into his chest, “Are gonna shut up— and listen.”
Tim’s jaw clenched and his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His muscled arms dropped in surrender as you spoke, “I care about you. I care about you and I am not letting anyone, not even you change that.” Your hand went up, crossing your face. “There is not one thing about you that can turn me away from that, do you understand that? I love you— I love all of you and I am ready to take on every single one of your flaws and perfections.”
His face relaxed at your words, his hands instantly reaching for your shoulders and pulling you into his warm body.
Emotion flooded your face as one of your hands went around his waist but the other stayed on his chest, “I am tired of you pushing me away, Tim.” You sniffled, “So fuckin’ tired.” You dropped your head into his chest and wrapped your remaining hand around his waist as his lips kissed the crown of your head and his hand rubbed comforting circles on your back.
“I know, honey,” His pet name for you on his lips calmed your body like nothing else could. “I know. And I’m sorry.” He pulled away slightly to get a good look at your face, his heart clenching and his body cringing once he did. A few tears stray from your eyes and an anguished look decorated your features as you avoided eye contact.
His hands went to your face, the rough pads of his thumbs wiping away the few tears that fell. You closed your eyes as his lips began to kiss away any tears that threatened to fall and relaxed into his hold.
He never wanted to make you cry, ever. Of all people— he never wanted it to be you. And it tore him apart that he did. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” He pleaded as he peppered kisses across your soft skin.
Your body warmed as he pulled you into him again, his lips pressing into the crown of your head before he spoke again. “I just- fuck. You’re perfect, absolutely perfect. And you’re going places— I’m not.”
Your voice was muffled as you interrupted, “Don’t say that. It’s not true, it’s not true and you know it.”
His sigh was heavy, “I don’t want to be the one to hold you back.”
Your head lifted from his chest and your eyes made contact as you spoke, “If I’m going places, Tim, I’m taking you with me. We’re in this together, you’re never leaving me again.”
An affectionate smile graced his features as he gazed down at you, his beautiful green eyes piercing your heart. “Never.” He took hold of your chin, tipping it up and placing a delicate kiss on your lips and spoke through it. “I love you.”
Your smile brightened through the kiss, pulling away to look at his features, “I love you, Riggins.”
AN: I wrote this like almost a year and a half (?) ago forgive me I just needed to post something I fear
🧸 Authors Note: Why are there like no FNL fanfics!!!!
I wrote this one about 3 years ago so please let me know your thoughts and if you would like to see this story continued!
Requests are always open.
Summary: When Tim Riggins falls off the wagon and stands up Y/N after a big promise, she demands total radio silence and real effort before agreeing to the ultimate test: a sober day trip to the Hill Country where one wrong move means losing her forever.
· · ─────────────────── · ·
The heat radiating off the packed bleachers under the massive stadium lights of the Dillon Panthers field felt like a tangible thing. Heavy, humid, and full of the buzzing, desperate energy of Texas football. Y/N knew this feeling intimately. She had spent every Friday night of the last four years in the same spot: halfway up the visitor side, close enough to the action to feel the earth shake when the boys hit the line, but far enough from the main student section's chaos.
She was here, always, because she loved the game, and because it was the only place she could watch him without having to talk to him.
Tim Riggins. Number 33.
He was a hurricane of muscle, long hair, and defiant swagger - the kind of beautiful disaster that Dillon High was built on. Tonight, he had just scored a touchdown that broke a third-quarter tie, a vicious, powerful run that left two opposing defenders sprawled on the turf. The crowd erupted, but Y/N only allowed herself a tight, proud smile.
When he jogged back to the sideline, Riggins immediately scanned the stands. His eyes, usually half-lidded with boredom or the promise of a hangover, cut directly to her spot. He offered a quick, triumphant nod, a silent claim on the energy she gave off.
Y/N didn't nod back. She simply pulled the collar of her shirt higher and looked away, focusing instead on Coach Taylor pacing the sideline.
This was their routine: Tim gave everything he had on the field, often performing his most spectacular feats when he knew she was watching, and Y/N gave him her attention, but never her access.
She knew his reputation like she knew the Dillon playbook. The midnight drives, the cheap beer, the bar fights, the constant proximity to self-destruction. Her own life was built on careful plans and sobriety, and she refused to be another casualty in the beautiful wreckage of Tim Riggins’ short-lived Texas kingdom. She didn't just see the Friday night hero; she saw the bleary-eyed slump he carried into class on Monday, the defensive shrug when someone mentioned his brother's growing list of troubles, and the reckless abandon that was less about fun and more about evasion.
Tim was persistent. He didn't understand the word 'no,' mostly because few people, especially women, ever used it with him. His initial attempts were loud and public - a stolen kiss after a big win, a handwritten note left on her car, invitations to parties she knew would end with him passed out by the pool.
Y/N deflected all of them with practiced ease, but her resolve was constantly tested by the quiet moments he created.
The most brazen attempt came after the Westlake game. Tim, still in his muddy uniform, cornered her by the concession stand, fueled by adrenaline and victory. "We're heading out to the lake," he murmured, his breath warm and smelling faintly of stale Gatorade and grass. "Come on, Y/N. Don't be boring. I want you there." He’d reached for her hand, but she had slid it into her pocket.
"I'm sure you do," she'd countered coolly, making sure her voice carried. "But I have work in the morning, and unlike you, I can't afford to call in sick because I drank too much cheap beer down by the water. Maybe focus on your post-game recovery instead of your next hangover." The rejection was sharp, public, and undeniable, and he’d retreated with a wounded look she knew was only temporary.
One Tuesday after practice, she was waiting outside the field house for her ride when a familiar truck pulled up, the engine rumble low and steady. Tim leaned against the passenger door, smoking a cigarette, not looking at her.
“Car trouble?” he asked, his voice low and raspy from a hard day of hits.
“No, just early,” she replied, not moving closer.
He took a drag, the orange glow illuminating his intense eyes for a moment. “Coach said you’re tutoring Saracen now?”
“Math. He’s smart, just needs confidence.”
“You’re good at that,” Tim mumbled, exhaling smoke towards the darkening sky.
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Tutoring?”
“No. Giving people confidence. You sit there every Friday and don’t cheer, but you watch every single play. If you weren’t there, I’d probably run out of bounds more often.”
The honesty, unvarnished and unexpected, momentarily lowered her guard. She walked closer, leaning against the bed of the truck, the shared space feeling charged.
“Tim, you don't need my confidence. You need to focus on your scholarship and keeping your head clear,” she said, her voice gentle but firm.
He flicked the cigarette butt onto the pavement and crushed it with his boot. “Always a lecture, Y/N. Never a date.”
“There’s a reason for that. I don't date projects.”
He flinched. The word project clearly stung. He looked vulnerable, stripped of the Riggins armor. “I’m not a project. I just… I need someone to watch the sidelines. Keep me honest.”
“And you think I can do that from the passenger seat of your truck, with a beer in your hand?” she challenged.
He said nothing, only ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. He knew, deep down, she was right. His attempts to court her were always framed by his recklessness - it was the only way he knew how to live.
The real turning point came not on the field, but at the little coffee shop where Y/N worked weekends. Tim started showing up - not in the evenings, but early Saturday mornings, smelling faintly of soap instead of stale beer. He wouldn't hit on her; he just ordered black coffee, paid his tab, and sat in the corner booth reading a borrowed copy of Lonesome Dove. He was trying.
One chilly evening in November, after a tough game loss, she found him waiting outside her apartment complex, leaning against the cinderblock wall. He looked defeated, his shoulder taped and his jersey missing. He wasn't drunk, but he was worn down.
“We lost,” he stated plainly.
“I know. I saw it,” she replied.
“I wanted to be better. For you, maybe,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on the pavement.
“You were amazing, Tim. You always are,” Y/N said softly. “That’s not the issue.”
He finally looked at her, his expression raw. “Then what is it? Because every time I think I get close, you pull back like I’m going to burn you.”
Y/N sighed, leaning her head against the cool brick wall. This was the moment for the line in the sand. “My father, Tim, he was a good man. Worked the oil fields, loved the Panthers. But he loved the bottle more. I spent my whole childhood watching him promise to be at my recitals and watching him fail. The smell of whiskey, the sound of glass breaking… that’s not romance to me. That’s a home falling apart.”
She looked him straight in the eyes. “You’re really good, Tim. You could have everything. But you use the drinking, you use the partying, as a safety net so you have an excuse when you fail. And won't not love someone who's already planning his own failure.”
The silence that followed was crushing. Tim Riggins, the untouchable star, looked like a kid who'd just been told Christmas was cancelled.
“So you’re saying… if I could… stop?” he managed, the words catching in his throat.
“I’m saying that until you can build something real that doesn’t smell like a dive bar, don’t talk to me about anything but the field.”
The next few weeks were the longest of Tim’s life. He started small. He kept the truck parked on Friday nights. He showed up at the coffee shop every day, reading the books she suggested (starting with Moby Dick, which he confessed was "too much ocean"). He avoided the usual hangouts and instead spent his afternoons working extra drills with Coach Taylor or, surprisingly, fixing things around his brother Billy's trailer.
He wasn't perfect. She heard rumors of close calls, moments of weakness. But he hadn't fully broken.
The last game of the season was a freezing, grueling affair. The Panthers were out of the playoffs, but they played with fierce pride. In the final seconds, Tim laid a hit so clean and loud that the sound echoed off the empty goalposts.
After the game, Y/N waited by the stadium exit, bundled in a heavy jacket. She knew this was the moment of truth. He walked towards her, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, his movements tired but steady.
“We won,” he said, his breath fogging the air.
“You were incredible,” Y/N said, meaning it.
He stopped right in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, but far enough that it felt respectful.
“I haven’t had a drink since that night,” he said quietly, his gaze steady. “It’s hard, Y/N. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, harder than carrying the ball through the whole defensive line.”
“I know, Tim,” she whispered. “I see you trying.”
He took a slow, deep breath, and for the first time, he didn't try to charm her or demand anything. He simply offered.
“My cousin needs help fixing up his porch this weekend. He pays in cash and barbeque. No beer. Just work. Want to supervise?”
Y/N felt the wall around her heart finally crumble, just a fraction. This wasn't an invite to a party; it was an invitation into his efforts, into his attempt at a stable life. It was a true effort, grounded in labor and sobriety.
She looked at the most beautiful disaster in Dillon, Texas, and saw a glimmer of the man he was fighting to become.
“I’ll bring the thermos,” she conceded, a slight, hopeful smile touching her lips. “But you have to bring the power tools. And the honesty.”
“Always,” Tim Riggins promised, and this time, she finally believed him. It wasn't love yet, but it was the start of something solid, built brick by careful brick, and maybe, just maybe, it would last.
Saturday was glorious. The porch at Tim’s cousin’s small house outside Dillon was a wreck, but the work was honest and physical. Tim, stripped down to a sweat-damp t-shirt, was focused and efficient. He handled the saw with an intense precision Y/N had only ever seen him apply to football. He didn't look at his phone, he didn't joke about girls, and he didn't complain about the exhaustion.
Y/N, true to her word, supervised. She held the level, ensured the cuts were square, and brought the industrial-sized thermos of black coffee. She talked about college applications, her plans to go to UT to study nursing, and he listened, his head bent, occasionally wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a dusty hand.
He wasn't performing; he was just present.
During the mid-afternoon, when the sun was highest and the work was grinding, he paused, leaning on the railing they’d just installed.
“You’re good at this, Y/N,” he said, genuinely impressed. “You know how to build something that lasts.”
“It’s a different kind of strength, that’s all,” she replied, her voice soft. She caught herself staring at his steady hands and quickly looked away, but the damage was done. Her guard was dissolving. She had spent the entire day focused on a version of Tim Riggins she hadn't dared to believe existed: reliable, dedicated, and kind.
When they were finished, sitting on the newly completed, stable wooden deck eating barbecue from greasy paper plates, Tim looked over at her, his eyes clear and full of a vulnerable hope.
“I want to take you out,” he said, the request sounding far more important than any touchdown celebration. “A real date. Not the lake. Not a party. I want to take you to the Blue Star tonight. Nice place. We’ll eat something that isn’t burgers and watch the sun go down. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Y/N felt a giddy panic, but she pushed her fear down. She had seen him succeed today. She had earned the risk. “Seven,” she agreed, meeting his gaze. “And Tim? Don’t mess this up.”
He reached across the table, covering her hand with his calloused one, the contact electric. “I won’t. I promise.”
Y/N spent two hours getting ready. She chose a dress she’d been saving for an event that mattered, doing her hair carefully, a little nervous and a lot excited. At 6:58 PM, she was standing by her window, looking down at the street, feeling a flush of anticipation.
Seven o'clock came and went.
At 7:15, she checked her phone, finding no messages. He's Riggins, Y/N. His truck probably broke down. Give him a minute.
At 7:45, the giddy anticipation had curdled into a cold, heavy disappointment. He wasn't late; he hadn't called. This was the failure. This was the familiar pattern of his life intruding on hers. This was the whiskey smell and the sound of glass breaking.
She didn't cry. She didn't let the anger take her. She just drove.
She drove straight to the beat-up trailer where the Riggins brothers lived. The front yard was a mess of rusty tools and tall grass, and Billy’s old pickup was gone. Tim’s truck, however, was parked haphazardly half on the lawn.
Y/N got out of her car, the elegant little dress feeling horribly out of place on the dusty, dark road. The trailer door was slightly ajar. She didn't knock. She didn't need to.
The air inside was thick and heavy, smelling of stale smoke, something spilled, and cheap, undeniable alcohol.
Tim was sprawled on the couch, face down, one arm dangling toward the floor. An empty six-pack of beer was scattered on the floor by his head, and a cheap plastic cup lay overturned beside him. He wasn't asleep; he was gone. Incapacitated.
The sight hit Y/N harder than any public rejection. It wasn't the broken date that hurt; it was the broken promise.
She walked over to the couch, standing over him, her chest tight with sorrow and fury. She reached down and gently nudged his shoulder. He groaned, a slurring, unintelligible sound, and rolled onto his back, his eyes remaining shut.
“Tim,” she said, her voice low and dangerously controlled. “Wake up.”
He squinted, his eyes barely opening, struggling to focus on the figure standing above him. He didn’t recognize the dress, the careful makeup, or the devastation in her expression. He just saw a shadow.
“Y’N,” he mumbled thickly, a half-smile trying to form on his lips. “You came to the party, huh? Late.”
Y/N felt a terrible, sick finality settle in her stomach. She stared at the man who had worked so hard, so purely, just hours earlier.
“You asked me to trust you,” she stated, her voice shaking slightly but holding firm. “You promised me honesty. You showed me a man today, Tim, who could build something real. And then you chose this.” She gestured to the empty cans and the filth of the trailer.
Tim tried to sit up, confusion clouding his face as the cold reality of the situation failed to penetrate his fog. “Wait. What… what time is it? I was gonna—”
“You were going to pick me up at seven,” Y/N finished for him, her eyes burning with disappointment. “But you didn't, because you couldn't. You chose the safety net, Tim. You chose the failure so you don’t have to risk being the man I saw today.”
She took a slow, deep breath, pulling her purse strap tighter over her shoulder. “My dad chose this over me every time. And I told you, I won’t go through that again.”
She turned, walking toward the door, not looking back at the defeated figure on the couch.
“I told you I don’t date projects, Tim,” she said, pausing at the threshold. “But I made an exception for the boy who was trying. And you didn’t just let me down tonight. You let him down.”
The sound of her car door slamming shut was the last thing Tim Riggins registered before the blackness of his drunken stupor finally claimed him completely. He had traded a future for a night, and he had shattered the one thing that was finally grounding him.
Tim woke the next afternoon to the familiar, punishing crash of a world he’d actively chosen to destroy. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry, and the memory of Y/N’s face - not angry, but devastatingly disappointed - was a sharp, physical pain in his chest that overshadowed the hangover. He wasn't just sick; he was ashamed.
He found the elegant, dark smudge of mascara on the shoulder of his dirty white t-shirt, a ghost of the evening he had ruined. Billy, who had come home much later, simply gave him a tired, knowing glance and walked past.
For the next four days, Y/N was an impossible fortress. She didn't answer his calls or his brief, desperate texts. She had changed her routine. When he drove by her apartment, the parking spot was empty. When he showed up at the coffee shop, she simply clocked out early, handing her apron to a co-worker with a neutral expression, refusing to even meet his eye as she walked past him toward the back exit. She was actively, deliberately denying him the audience he craved, and the silence was more torturous than any shouted argument.
He finally caught her on Thursday afternoon outside the library, books stacked high in her arms. He blocked her path, truck abandoned carelessly by the curb.
“Y/N. Please. Just talk to me,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse, his eyes bloodshot, though clear of alcohol.
She stopped abruptly, adjusting her stack of books, and looked him over with a cool, clinical detachment. The usual spark of pride or challenge was gone, replaced by a weary indifference that chilled him to the bone.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Tim. You made your choice. I don’t deal with broken promises. The deal we had, that you were building something real, is off the table.”
“I messed up. I know I messed up,” he insisted, running a hand over his face. “I got scared. We had a great day, and I started thinking about the Blue Star, about what that meant, a real date, and it just… it felt too big. I panicked. That’s not an excuse, but it's the truth.”
Y/N lowered the books slightly. “Panic is when you freeze, Tim. You didn’t freeze. You called someone, or you went somewhere, and you bought a six-pack. That’s a choice. You chose the easy pain of a hangover over the hard work of trust. And you chose it knowing exactly why that matters to me.”
“I’m still trying,” he whispered, desperate now. “I’ve been back out at my cousin’s, putting in hours. I went to the field house today, I ran extra drills until I thought I was gonna to throw up. I haven’t touched anything, I swear.”
“That’s good,” she said flatly. “That’s what you should be doing anyway. That’s your career. It has nothing to do with me.”
“Everything has to do with you,” he countered, the intensity flaring in his eyes. “You’re the reason I even tried to stop in the first place. You’re the reason I saw that deck built and thought, ‘Maybe I don’t have to be a walking pile of junk forever.’”
She looked at him, searching his face, looking for the lie. She only saw raw, miserable sincerity. The sadness in his eyes was almost too much to bear, but she hardened herself against it.
“You don’t get to hang your choices on me, Tim,” she finally said, her voice shaking slightly. “You do this for yourself, or you don’t do it at all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a paper due.” She stepped around him and walked quickly into the library, leaving him staring at the curb.
For the next week, Tim's attempts shifted. He stopped chasing her. Instead, he would leave a single, unopened can of black coffee and a small, folded napkin with one word written on it: Sorry. He left one outside her apartment door on Friday. He left another on the counter at the coffee shop Saturday morning, paid for with a twenty, which he left for the tip jar.
On the following Tuesday, Y/N finally found him in the same corner booth he used to occupy, reading Lonesome Dove. He was clean-shaven, and the desperate look had been replaced by a quiet, determined exhaustion.
He didn’t look up as she approached, only closed the book on his finger.
“The library copy of that is overdue,” she said, her voice neutral.
He looked up, meeting her eyes. He didn’t smile, he didn’t plead. He just held her gaze.
“I bought it,” he said, pointing to the worn cover. “I figured I need to read the whole thing.” He slid a small, folded map across the table. It was a tourist map of the Texas Hill Country, and a small area near a state park was circled in sharpie.
“What is this, Tim?”
“It’s a place. About two hours out. I looked it up. It has hiking trails, no bars, and a good view. I haven't messed up in eight days, Y/N. I’ve been working on myself, for myself. But I can't do the rest of the year in silence.” He paused, his expression grim. “I miss talking to you. I miss being… accountable to you. Not romantically. Just human.”
He pushed the map closer to her. “I want you to be the accountability I need. That’s all. I want to try again, just as friends. Lunch hour at the DQ isn’t good enough anymore. I need you to trust me with time and space. I need you to come with me to the Hill Country next Saturday. We talk, we hike, we come back by dinner. No expectations. No promises beyond staying sober and keeping my word. You set the rules.”
Y/N picked up the map. The desperation in her chest warred with the deep desire to see that reliable, focused man from the porch-building day again. This was a bigger risk, a full day, but it showed greater effort than anything he’d done before. He wasn't just offering a friendly lunch; he was offering proof of his control, a test of his commitment, far away from Dillon's temptations.
“If you're late, if you have one single drop of alcohol on your breath, if you try to make a move on me - we're done, Riggins,” she stated, her voice icy and final. “If I feel uncomfortable for one second, I turn around, and you never see me again. Do you understand?”
Tim nodded, the movement sharp and decisive. “Thank you. I understand. Fully. Next Saturday. Seven a.m. I’ll bring the breakfast tacos.”
Y/N slid the map into her purse. “Don't thank me,” she warned, finally stepping toward the counter to start her shift. “You have a week to earn the ride there.”
Tim watched her go, a small, painful victory warming his chest. He knew the risk was astronomical, but the potential reward, the chance to earn back a sliver of her respect was worth fighting the entire world for.
🧸 Authors Note: Another Riggins one I wrote years ago
Requests are always open x
Summary: Y/N finally confronts the self-destructive man she’s always loved, forcing both of them to face the messy, painful truth of their feelings and the damage they’ve done to each other.
· · ─────────────────── · ·
The air in the cramped farmhouse reeked of stale beer and cheap cologne, vibrating with bass so heavy it rattled the condensation on the window panes.
Tim had found a relatively quiet corner near the kitchen, leaning against a doorframe with a bottle of lukewarm Shiner in his hand, but he wasn't drinking much. He was watching her.
Y/N was usually the definition of contained chaos. She was funny and sharp, the only person who could look at Tim and see past the number 33. But she was always, always braced for impact, perpetually guarding her heart against the inevitable fallout of his next bender. The unspoken love between them was a thick, suffocating thing, everyone at this party knew it was there, except maybe Tim and Y/N themselves, who kept pretending it was just close friendship cemented by years of proximity and shared exhaustion.
Tonight, however, the guard was down.
She was dancing on a card table next to a stack of empty pizza boxes, and she was already past the point of being tipsy and well into being completely drunk. Her hair was flying, her laugh was loud, and she moved with a desperate, reckless abandon he’d never seen from her before.
Tim was used to this scene. He was used to being the reason for the scene. He knew the look of a party gone wrong, and he usually loved the freedom of it. But watching Y/N, the wildness wasn't joyful; it felt like a silent scream.
She stumbled on the edge of the table, arms windmilling, and a collective gasp went through the crowd. Tim was off the wall instantly, navigating the throng of sweaty bodies.
He reached the table just as she regained her footing, swaying dangerously. The music faded momentarily between tracks, and the abrupt silence made his voice sharp and clear.
“Y/N. That’s enough, baby. You’re gonna fall.”
She looked down at him, her eyes bright and unfocused, but the way she saw him, the instant recognition, still hit him like a punch to the gut. The smitten feeling was immediate, overwhelming the worry. Even messy, drunk, and wild, she was the only beautiful thing in the whole house.
“Tim Riggins,” she slurred, giving a dramatic, drunken curtsy. “The cavalry has arrived people! Too late, cowboy. I’m having fun.”
He reached up, grabbing her arm gently but firmly. “Yeah, you’re way past fun. Let’s go. I’m taking you home.”
She jerked her arm away. The momentary tenderness vanished, replaced by sudden, startling fury. She pushed a beer bottle off the table, where it shattered loudly on the wooden floor.
“No! You don’t get to do that!” she yelled, the music starting up again, but not loud enough to drown her out. She pointed a shaky, accusatory finger at his chest. “You don’t get to show up and be the savior tonight, Tim!”
The surrounding partygoers started shifting nervously, sensing the sudden, intimate public fight. Tim just stared at her, the usual flippant dismissal caught in his throat by the raw, exposed hurt in her eyes.
“I’m always cleaning up after you! I’m always listening to you swear you’ll quit, I’m always wiping the damn beer off the floor, or covering for you with Coach, or waiting for your truck to pull into the driveway so I know you didn’t wrap it around a goddamn tree! I’m the one who’s always on guard!”
She was crying now, the tears mixing with sweat and smudged eyeliner.
“Tonight, I want to be the mess! You want to be a hypocrite and tell me to slow down? Fine! Be a hypocrite! I’m finally letting loose and I don't have to clean up after me! I’m always here for you, always telling you to stop, and you never listen! Tonight, I’m the one who doesn't listen! You can clean up the mess for once."
Tim looked up at the broken, beautiful girl screaming at him from atop a sticky table. He knew every word she said was true, and he knew it was the truest thing she’d ever let him hear. He felt his protective instinct war with the crushing guilt and the deep, terrifying love he had for her.
He didn't move. He just stood there, letting the chaos wash over him, knowing he’d finally broken her and she was doing her best to break him right back.
The music was loud again, blurring the edges of the room, but Y/N’s face, tear-streaked and defiant on the table, was horribly clear to him. The pain of her words, every single one of them true, hit him like a physical blow. He didn't have a defense left. He simply gave a slow, curt nod, an acknowledgement of every single accusation.
"You're right," he muttered, the confession barely audible above the bass. He wasn't playing the hero tonight. He was the problem.
He turned his back on the card table and the screaming girl, shouldering his way through the cluster of gawkers. His expression was fixed, cold, and utterly defeated.
He spotted Matt Saracen watching from the edge of the kitchen, looking small and overwhelmed. Tim didn't stop moving, but he slammed his hand down hard on the doorframe as he passed, making a dull thud that caught Matt's attention.
Matt flinched. Tim stopped just short of the exit, looking over his shoulder at the younger quarterback, his eyes dark and holding a desperate urgency.
“Saracen,” Tim said, his voice rough and low, stripped of its usual bravado. “Get her down. Get her home safe. Don’t let anyone else touch her.” He glanced quickly at Y/N, then back to Matt.
Tim didn't wait for Matt's nod. He pulled the door open and disappeared into the cold night air, leaving the entire mess, Y/N, the broken glass, and the awful, crushing truth, behind him.
Y/N watched him go, the anger draining out of her instantly, replaced by a sickening, sober wave of regret. She swayed, her vision blurring, the sight of his broad back disappearing the worst pain she'd felt all night. She didn't want him to leave. She just wanted him to fight for her, to choose her over the bottle.
Matt, looking completely overwhelmed and miserable, slowly walked toward the table. He stood below her, looking up awkwardly.
“Y/N,” Matt said softly, looking over his shoulder at the empty doorway. “C’mon. I gotta take you home.”
Y/N woke up to the kind of headache that felt like a drill bit was boring into her skull. Worse than the physical pain was the memory: the card table, the shrieking, the look of profound, defeated hurt on Tim’s face before he turned away. Matt had dropped her off without saying much, just a quiet, "He was serious about you getting home safe, Y/N."
She didn't wait for coffee or painkillers. She pulled on a pair of jeans and one of Tim's faded football t-shirts (one she'd stolen months ago and never returned) and drove her own beat-up sedan straight to the Riggins brothers' place.
The air around the property was still and quiet, smelling like damp earth and pine. Tim was outside, wrenching something heavy off the engine of his old truck. He had his back to her, and the morning sun glinted off the sweat on his neck and shoulders. He was already working hard, probably trying to outrun his thoughts.
Y/N paused, watching him. He looked like the world - rugged and beautiful and totally unreliable.
She cleared her throat. "Tim."
He didn't jump, didn't even flinch. His wrench slowed, then stopped. He pulled his arm out from under the hood, wiping grease on his jeans, and slowly turned around. His eyes, usually bright with either mischief or amusement, were flat and tired. They looked right through her.
"Saracen got you home?" he asked, his voice low and impersonal.
"Yeah. Yeah, he did." She walked a few hesitant steps closer, stopping near the edge of the dirt driveway, the distance between them feeling vast. "Look, I... I need to apologize."
She waited for a reaction - a shrug, a smirk, a cynical comment. But he just leaned back against the fender, crossing his arms over his chest, waiting.
"I shouldn't have done that," she continued, her voice tight with shame. "I shouldn't have gotten that drunk, and I definitely shouldn't have... I shouldn't have yelled at you like that, especially not in front of everyone."
She swallowed hard. "It was cruel. And I made a huge scene. I was being exactly what I hate. I'm so sorry, Tim."
He looked down at the grease under his fingernails. "You weren't wrong."
His quiet agreement was worse than any rage.
"It doesn't matter if I was right," she insisted, shaking her head. "I was out of line. I was trying to punish you for being you, and I used your habits and struggles to hurt you. That wasn't fair."
Tim finally looked up, fixing her with that heavy, weary gaze.
"You said you want to be the mess," he stated, his voice flat. "You were. And I left. You told me to, and I did. You don't owe me an apology for the mess, Y/N."
He pushed himself off the truck, walking toward her with a slow, deliberate pace that made her heart pound. He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she could smell the gasoline and sweat on him.
"You owe me an apology for the truth you made me hear," he murmured. "Because I can't unhear it. And you can't take it back."
His eyes dropped to the football jersey she was wearing, the one she’d stolen, the symbol of all the unspoken attachment between them.
"You're always cleaning up after me, Y/N. That's what you said," Tim whispered, almost to himself. "Tell me one thing. If that's the truth, why are you still here? Why did you come back here this morning?"
She opened her mouth, but the words—because I love you, because I can't imagine Dillon without you, because I'm scared I'll lose you if I don't check on you—died in her throat. She had no answer that didn't expose the terrifying, honest love they both refused to name.
"Clear eyes," he challenged softly, his thumb gently brushing the tear tracks that were still faintly visible on her cheekbone. "Tell me the truth, Y/N."
She choked back a sob. "Because... because I don't know how to not care about you, Tim. That's the only reason."
He pulled his hand away slowly, looking down at the dirt. The small, fragile moment of contact was over.
"Yeah," Tim said, a hollow sound in his chest. "Me neither."
He stepped around her, grabbed his wrench, and walked back to the truck engine. "Apology accepted, Y/N. Now go home. I got work to do." He didn't look at her again, his attention fiercely focused on the broken machinery, the kind of mess he knew how to fix.
She stood there, feeling the crushing weight of the emotional space he’d just put between them, a space that felt wider than the entire state of Texas.
Y/N watched the back of his head, listening to the metallic clink of the wrench against steel. He was trying to bury the conversation under oil and noise, hoping she’d just evaporate.
She took a deep breath, the dust and pine filling her lungs. She wasn't moving.
“I’m not talking about the truck, Tim,” she said, her voice steady, cutting through the noise. “You know that. You can tune out the world, you can tune out your brother, you can tune out Coach, but you are not tuning out me.”
The wrench froze. He kept his back to her, leaning heavily over the hood.
“I said go home, Y/N. I’m busy.”
“No, you’re hiding,” she retorted, walking right up to the passenger side of the truck and leaning her forearms on the fender, forcing herself into his peripheral vision. “You’re hiding in the one place you think I can’t touch you, your hands are covered in grease and you still can’t fix what’s broken between us.”
He dropped the wrench. It landed on the gravel with a heavy, final thud. Tim straightened slowly, turning his whole body toward her, his posture aggressive and defensive.
“There ain’t nothing broken between us,” he growled, the low heat back in his voice. “We’re friends. You were drunk, you said some things that were true, I was pissed you got hurt and you were pissed I didn’t listen. It’s over. You apologized. Done.”
Y/N didn't flinch. She just stared at him, refusing to let him define this with such casual indifference.
“Is that what you tell yourself when you steal my coffee mugs?” she challenged, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Is that what you tell yourself when you stay sober just so you can drive me to the game? Is that what you tell yourself when I fall asleep on your couch and you cover me up with your jacket?”
She stepped closer, closing the last bit of distance between them. She was almost touching the greasy front of his t-shirt.
“I came here because I don’t just care, Tim. I came here because I’m in love with you. I have been for years, and it is exhausting watching you burn down every good thing in your life before it even gets close to you. And that is the mess. That is the truth you can’t unhear. The hypocrisy isn’t you telling me to stop drinking; the hypocrisy is us pretending we’re just friends when everyone in Dillon knows we’re not.”
She waited, her chest heaving, her eyes wet but fierce. She had finally said the forbidden words.
Tim looked completely ambushed. His jaw worked silently, and the muscle in his neck twitched. He lifted a hand, covered in black grease, and hesitated an inch from her face, looking like he wanted to wipe the new tear sliding down her temple but knew he shouldn't touch her.
“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice cracking, the pain raw and exposed. “Don’t say that. Don’t do that to me, Y/N. Please.”
“Why?” she asked, demanding an answer. “Because you’re scared you’d have to fix yourself? Because loving you is harder than cleaning up beer stains?”
The question hit him, and the fight drained out of him all at once. His shoulders slumped, and his hand dropped back to his side, leaving the smudge of grease hanging in the air between them.
He took a rough breath, staring at the ground, and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely a defeated rasp.
“No. Because you’re right, Y/N. You’re right about everything. I’m not scared of fixing the truck. I’m scared of fixing me.”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes was almost unbearable.
“I love you” he confessed, the words tasting like ash and honesty. “I love you, and that’s the worst damn thing about all of this. Because when I look at you, I don’t see a mess. I see everything good I can never have. And after last night, seeing you like that - drunk, hurt, lashing out because you’re carrying my weight all the time, it just solidifies it.”
His eyes hardened, but not with anger, with a terrible, self-inflicted resolve.
“I got work to do, Y/N. You were right last night. I'm a mess. I've always been a mess. And I love you too much to make you clean up after this forever. The truth is, I am in love with you, and that's exactly why I can't touch you. That’s why you have to go home.”
Y/N stepped back, a small, choked laugh escaping her lips. It wasn't amusement, but profound, bitter disbelief.
“Oh, now you want to be the hero, Riggins?” she spat, shaking her head. “You want to be the martyr who saves the poor girl from the bad boy? That’s bull. That’s just a way to run without looking like a coward.”
She stepped forward again, her expression blazing with sudden, fierce resolve.
“You don’t get to decide what I deserve, Tim,” she challenged, pushing her index finger lightly into his greasy chest. “I decide what risks I take. And I am willing to risk you. I am willing to risk your drinking, your running, your messy brother, and your broken truck, because I love you.”
Her voice was rising, desperate and clear. “You don’t love me enough to walk away, because if you did, you would have done it years ago. You stay because you need me, just like I need you. So don’t you dare stand here and tell me you can’t love me because I deserve better! That's just your excuse to stay broken! You don't get to run from me and call it selflessness. You stop running right now.”
The breath hitched in Tim's chest, and for a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the drone of a distant lawnmower and the ragged sound of his own breathing. He didn't pull away this time, didn't resort to deflection or silence. He just stared at her, seeing himself reflected in the fierce, stubborn clarity of her eyes. He saw the truth, and he saw his own cowardice exposed.
The final word, cowardice, was the one that broke him.
His eyes fell shut, a visible shudder running through his shoulders. He let out a low, defeated groan that sounded less like Tim Riggins and more like a wound.
Then, with a speed that stole her breath, he dropped the wrench, hooked his hands roughly behind her neck, and pulled her toward him.
The kiss wasn't gentle or romantic; it was hungry, desperate, and filled with all the self-loathing and love he’d been bottling up for years. He kissed her like a man drowning, finally giving in to the only thing that could save him. The kiss tasted like oil and pine and the sharp, clean honesty they had finally ripped out into the open.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, they were both breathing hard. The sun was hot on their backs, and the world had narrowed down to the small, greasy space between them.
He opened his eyes, which were wet and impossibly dark. "Don't you ever," he whispered, his voice rougher than sandpaper, "don't you ever run from me again."
She leaned back, her vision still blurry from the intensity of the moment, and blinked.
"Tim..." she started, her voice a little breathless.
She reached up instinctively to touch her face, and her fingers came away coated in thick, black motor oil and grease from his hands. Tim had kissed her so fiercely, his greasy hands had smeared dark stripes across both of her cheeks, up into her hairline, and left a print on her jaw.
She looked at her hand, then back at him. Instead of being horrified, a slow, genuine smile, the first real one he'd seen all morning, stretched across her lips.
"Seriously, Riggins," she said, pulling back slightly to inspect the damage. She used her clean thumb to wipe a spot on his cheek. "You ruin everything you touch, don't you? Look at my face."
hello hello!!! here's my first writing or wtv, its based off a writing prompt list i found months ago when i wrote this ... nevertheless! there are quite literally zero tim riggins x reader fics on this wretched internet so i decided to take things into my own hands-- so fnl fan girlies this is for you <3 (might be a bit ooc so sorry)
"You're a terrible liar." with Tim Riggins
You sat in some dark corner room of Dillon High, hiding from the noise… your peers, the staff– the noise. The stress of the day– of life was weighing heavy on your mind and the environment of Dillon High was not helping. Eventually, you’d have to leave this haven, but you weren’t ready yet.
It’s not like you could leave the school– you had to be at the game for Tim, you’d never dream of missing it. He clung to you like velcro– especially on game days. Usually, you guys would come to school together but a hangover became him, so you arrived alone.
And so you sat. The faint buzz of the dim overhead lights and the beat of your heart in your ears. A breeze from the open window kissing your arm and your head down on the desk you sat at, reveling in the quiet.
The rough rattling of the doorknob pulled you from the peace of the room. You reluctantly lifted your head from the desk expecting a teacher or a couple of students, but the tall, green-eyed boy in his blue Panthers jersey was a much better disruption. A look of relief washed his face, and a sigh left his mouth as he pulled his body into the classroom, letting the door shut behind him.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He breathed, and you forced a smile onto your face as he came towards you, dragging a chair behind him as if the desk that sat next to yours wouldn’t get him close enough to you.
He sat down on the open side of the desk, his legs touching yours as his hand grabbed yours, “What’s wrong?”
A sigh left your lips, “Nothing.” you said, shaking your head as you ran your hand over your head, “I’m fine.”
A scoff left him as his head slowly shook, “You’re a terrible liar, you know.” The words less a question than a statement. Like a reminder. A reminder of how well he knew you– better than anyone else, better than you yourself. You should’ve known you stood no chance lying to him.
“I just feel heavy– anxiety about I don’t know what. I just needed to find some quiet.” Your eyes dropped to your fingers intertwined, his rough and warm, “I’ll be fine, I promise.” You assured.
He scooted his chair impossibly close and pulled his hand to your chin, raising your head slightly and pressing a chaste kiss to your soft lips. “Okay.” He turned his chair in the same direction of your desk and sat back in it, draping an arm around your shoulders, leaving the other intertwined with yours, and pressed a kiss into the crown of your head. “Okay.”
Summary: When Tim Riggins falls off the wagon and stands up Y/N after a big promise, she demands total radio silence and real effort before agreeing to the ultimate test: a sober day trip to the Hill Country where one wrong move means losing her forever.
Messy Feelings
Summary: Y/N finally confronts the self-destructive man she’s always loved, forcing both of them to face the messy, painful truth of their feelings and the damage they’ve done to each other.
