#adan driver x reader

[driverwaltz]

Precipitate

Manager!Kylo Ren x Singer!Reader

Summary: Taking up late night gigs downtown at the Starlight Lounge was always just a way to earn some extra cash. Most days you’d bartend or bus tables, but on some special days your boss, Michael, would let you act as the live music feature of the night. It was one of those nights when you met him. The dark brooding man in the corner of the dimly lit bar caught your eye and promised opportunity, but nothing could have hinted towards what he had planned for the future.

Rating: Mature. This part is tame though.

Warnings: Unfair power dynamics, age gap, eventual smut, dub-con, drug use, slow burn

Words Count: 1.7K (Ik I went overboard)

Notes: This is my first ever fanfic so pls be nice 🥺. I took the inspiration for this from a couple of songs by the band Interpol and might make a playlist to go along with each chapter. If you guys have any suggestions or constructive criticism on my writing it’d be much appreciated (and needed lol). Also, this moves REALLY slowly in the beginning, but I promise I’ll start to pick up the pace.

Part 1: Meeting place

It broke again.

The only thing that alerted me this time was Michael's voice, booming from the back end of the bar from the kitchen to where I stood near the glassware.

"The third fuckin' time this month that I gotta replace the damn martini glasses 'cause of that hunk-of-shit washer!"

It's an easy fix, he could just replace that "hunk-of-shit" once, and that way he could spare us $65 every time a set of glasses break. It would also save the poor man on the end of the line every time he calls the distributor, demanding a new dozen and a discount. I could remind him this was an option again, but I know better. No matter what I say, I know his pride will go against any sense of better judgment. So, I stay quiet. Let him go on his little tirade while I do what he pays me to do: Act sweet to an array of old drunkards who plop themselves down on the same barstools every Saturday night. After they all get comfy, I make a point to ask about their wives and how their bitch of a boss made them work overtime. At the same time, I whip up concoctions of tequila, salt, and lime for them to hurriedly gulp down and offer me gratitude. However, it's only ever through words, never an extra 15% on the tab.

Kindness in strangers. That's what I was taught. Mama kept a stack of old scripts in a wicker basket near her nightstand, and I remember rummaging through them on static summer days when it was too hot to go outside. Mama never believed in failures. She'd always tell me, "you're constantly learning and improving. Never failing, just falling — stagnant." I like to believe that's true, but I was also raised to be honest. And, In all honesty, I can't deny that Mama was a failure. She moved out to California from Georgia without telling a soul the night she turned 17. She had nothing but her new hand-me-down car, some spare cash she got from waitressing, and a small suitcase full of clothes and essentials. Her dream was to become a performer, an actress, a starlet of her generation. She tried. I know she did, but things don't work out for a reason. So, I too, was born and raised in Georgia. However, unlike how Grandman brought up Mama, I was raised off stories of Mama's journey to Tinsel Town and the people she met rather than Grimms' Fairytales. I learned how to fall asleep to softly hummed show tunes rather than lullabies. Mama never wanted to buy new children's books; instead, she would recite one of her scripts to me. When I got a bit older, I fell in love with The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams, and that's when Mama told me: "Always depend on the kindness of strangers."

I blame Mama. I believe personality is a sort of genetic trait, and I definitely got all of that from Mama. I can never say no to Michael. Not because he scares me or that I'm in full agreeance with him all the time, but whenever the word threatens to leave me lips, it chokes me. Then, I swallow it back down and resume whatever I was doing. No is never an option. It was never an option in the schoolyard or in the house, and especially not during my music classes. Mama wanted me to continue whatever legacy she had crafted for herself, and much to her disappointment, I was not much of a talker, but I was a hummer. So, Mama forced me to turn my quiet hums into fully supported singing. That was the start of it all. I took up guitar after that, and stole my dad's old records and tried to replicate what I would hear. I guess that's how I started writing music, as for what I did with that music...

"(y/n), Lucy said she comin' to take o'er you're shift in a few. If you want, you can clock out for tonight," Michael grumbled from the back in a shout.

"It's only midnight. I've only been working for about four hours, and I need the money this month, so I'm okay working for a little bit more. I can help you out in the back if you'd like," I responded. I really did need the money though, Martin's been on my ass about my lease.

Michael peered at me through the kitchen doorframe for a second, "You got your guitar in your car?"

"Yeah."

"You up to play a few songs tonight? We've got a bit more business tonight."

I felt the muscles in my face pull up and tighten against my will. I hate to admit that sometimes Michael can make me smile, and he was right. I turned to the entrance and slowly, one-by-one, people started coming in and settling down.

"Yes, sir! I'll bring it out." I exclaimed while grabbing my keys from behind the counter and making my way out to my car parked at the back.

After retrieving my case from the trunk, I quickly checked my reflection on the left-hand mirror and smoothed out my hair and touched up my lipstick. I saw a man pass by through the corner and make his way into the bar. I better make tips tonight doing this.

I waltzed back into the bar and headed for the small stage in the front. It's not really a stage more than it's a glorified black stool, but I like to think it's charming and adds character. You know, mask up the patheticness of it all. I plugged in my Fender to the worn-out amps and strummed to make sure it was in tune. There were a lot of people tonight. Well, a lot more than usual, at least. Quickly, I scanned the room for comforting faces to focus on and calm my nerves. Most of our customers were gruff men, so this trick usually didn't work, but tonight was different. In the corner by a little bust made by a local artist sat a man with thick black hair. He was by no means soft. Much like the patrons, he harbored a hard look on his face, but he struck me differently. It was intense and cold. Georgia's a hot place, so I didn't mind his gaze. It was cooling and made me freeze over.

I don't know why, but I want to impress him. Plus, looking down, I saw he was wearing a polished pair of dress shoes, so I assume he's got some money on him, maybe he'll spare me a tip. I'll just play a cover. Can't go wrong with a cover.

My fingers dragged across the guitar strings and drew out the alternating chords of D7 and Am in a back and forth pattern.

"It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta day... Mama said she got some news this mornin' from Choctaw Ridge... She said Billie Joe McAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge..."

Bobbie Gentry was one of dad's favorites. I know the country wasn't a popular choice for many people, but this is the South, and Ode to Billie Joe is always a classic, and I think the dreariness of the song perfectly compliments the tone of the bar.

I played a set and earned a couple of measly tips from it. Nothing I could complain about, I guess. It was nearly 1 am, and I was getting tired. Overtime is only worth so much, so I decided it was best to go back home. I packed up my guitar and walked to the bar counter to ask Lucy to clock for me, but before I could even rest my case against the counter, I felt a man slide into the seat next to me.

"You've gotta nice voice," he drawled out while staring at the wall in front of him.

"Thank you. I perform here almost every week."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah..." I couldn't really think of how I could continue this conversation. And, trust me, I really want to. The man was wearing a black button-up shirt, grey trousers, and that impressive pair of dress shoes. His hair was long and gelled back, and his profile was exquisite. He looked strong, and his voice was deep and rich like marmalade.

"You could work on that guitar a little bit," he deadpanned as he took a swig of whiskey. I looked at him even more intensely then and scoffed.

"Really? Can you do better?"

"I never said that. I just think, with a voice like that, the guitar should match up," he said with a playful glint in his voice as he finally turned his head towards me.

Now, I really don't know how to continue this conversation.

"Alright, you caught me. I'm not that great at the guitar, but hey, I'm a bar singer, not Paul McCartney, or something," I laughed out. He smiled, and then I felt all the blood in my body rush to my cheeks, it's a miracle I didn't fall flat on my face.

"I guess I was just expecting more," he said.

"Well, I didn't promise you anything, did I?"

He looked like he was in his late 20s, probably.

"No. No, you didn't. But, maybe you could start... for next time."

"That depends. Are you gonna give me a tip."

"Yes. When I think you deserve it," he said as his face fell flat and his voice authoritative in an odd way.

"Well, I'll probably be here next Saturday so you can decide then."

"Will do," he smirked.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Kylo," he replied in a gentle voice as he once again held his glass of whiskey up. He then raised his eyebrow, and I knew he wanted an answer.

"(y/n)."

He gulped down his whiskey, turned to me, and smiled. I wanted to say something more, I had to say something, but he stopped me before I could by getting up and walking towards the door.

"I gotta be somewhere tomorrow, doll. I'm expecting a show on Saturday," he exclaimed as he stepped out the bar.

"Don't worry... I can put on a show."

He grinned one final time before escaping out of the bar, leaving me alone with his empty cup of whiskey and a smile that doesn't leave my face the entire night.