Hands 🔨🩸

The dingy bar was as it always was—dim, smoky, and stinking of sweat and stale beer. The smell of cheap bourbon clung to the air like a bad memory, mixing with the acrid stench of cigarettes. The neon sign outside flickered half-heartedly, casting a sickly green hue over everything within, like the place itself was on life support. Hands McNamara, sitting at the far corner of the bar, was a fixture here. He wasn’t the type to make friends or indulge in idle chit-chat with the regulars. He preferred his own company, a bottle of whiskey, and the occasional brawl to keep himself sharp.

Tonight was no different. Hands sat slumped over at his usual table, his broad frame hulking over the half-empty glass of cheap whiskey. He was zoning out, as he often did, letting the alcohol numb the rough edges of his mind. His hair, wild and scruffy, fell over his brow as he lit another cigarette, the faint orange glow flickering in the gloom. His sharp, hooded eyes stared blankly ahead, not really seeing anything—until you walked in.

You were a sight that didn’t belong in a place like this. The moment his eyes locked onto you, the haze in his mind cleared, if only for a moment. You were young, too young for a place like this, your innocence practically glowing in the middle of the filth and grime. Everything about you was at odds with this place—your soft features, the way you carried yourself. You were a diamond in the rough, and Hands couldn’t tear his eyes away from you.

He didn’t even try to hide it. He looked at you with no shame, his gaze searing as it traced every curve, every movement. There was something about you that stirred something primal inside him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t a man given to sentiment, but seeing you here… it made his blood hum in a way the booze never could.

Hands took another long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling from his lips as he watched you like a predator sizing up prey. What the hell were you doing in a place like this? You didn’t belong among the drunks and the scum. In his mind, you were too pure for this world, too delicate for a place where men like him roamed free.

But then he showed up—the creep. Hands noticed him instantly, his instincts kicking in. The man was sleazy, his hands too eager, his eyes too hungry. He watched as the guy sidled up to you, invading your space, his hands getting a little too familiar. Something dark and dangerous stirred in Hands' chest. His grip on the glass tightened, knuckles going white as he watched the man’s fingers brush your arm, the way he leaned in too close, murmuring something into your ear that made you tense up.

Hands’ lips curled in disgust. His thoughts were muddled, the whiskey and smoke clouding his mind, but one thing was clear—this bastard was about to have a very bad night.

He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor with a loud screech that cut through the low murmur of the bar. His massive figure loomed as he made his way over. Every step was heavy, deliberate, his boots thudding against the grimy wooden floor. The weight of his presence alone was enough to make people part in his path, casting wary glances in his direction. The air around him seemed to thicken with menace.

When he reached the creep, Hands didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, towering over him, casting a long shadow. His eyes, cold and sharp, were fixed on the man’s hand, which was still on you. The smell of whiskey and sweat clung to his clothes, and his breath reeked of stale cigarettes as he growled low in his throat.

“Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself,” Hands rasped, his voice deep and guttural, dripping with barely contained rage. His Southern drawl made the words sound even more menacing, like the warning of a rattlesnake.

The creep, either stupid or drunk—or both—looked up at Hands and sneered. He straightened up, puffing out his chest like he thought he had something to prove. “You wanna mind your own business, pal?” the man slurred, his words dripping with false bravado. “I ain’t scared of you.”

Wrong answer.

Before the man could even react, Hands swung. The crack of his fist meeting the guy’s jaw echoed through the bar like a gunshot. The creep staggered back, spitting blood, but Hands wasn’t done. He grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him up like he weighed nothing. His grip was iron, his muscles taut and straining beneath his leather vest as he slammed the guy into the wall with a sickening thud.

“Shoulda listened,” Hands growled, his voice low and dangerous.

What followed was brutal. Hands wasn’t just beating the man—he was obliterating him. Each punch landed with bone-crunching force, blood splattering across the walls and floor. The guy’s face was a mess of broken bones and torn skin, his body limp and crumpled under Hands’ relentless assault. But Hands didn’t stop until the man was nothing more than a barely-conscious heap on the ground, a puddle of blood and broken bones.

Hands stood over him, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He didn’t feel the pain in his fists—just the cold satisfaction of putting the bastard in his place. His mind was still foggy from the booze, but there was a clarity in his purpose. Protecting you.

He turned his head then, his eyes locking onto yours. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts. You were his now. In his whiskey-soaked mind, he’d claimed you the moment he laid eyes on you.

Without a word, he reached down, his massive hand wrapping around your waist. His grip was firm, almost possessive, as he lifted you effortlessly, slinging you over his broad shoulder like you weighed nothing at all. People in the bar watched, wide-eyed and too scared to intervene as he walked right out the door, his boots thudding against the floor with each heavy step.

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