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gardnhee · 2 months

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can we start over? - c.yj

✸ tw/content. intentional lowercase, cussing, angst(very little), fluff, use of baby (only like once or twice.), reader is slightly antisocial in the beginning, not really proofread

✸ exbsf!yj x afab!reader

✸ note. yj drabble cs i love him an unhealthy amount

✸ song rec. start over - jacquees

you stood in a corner like the awkward person that you are. away from all the chatter, laughter, yelling, and horny crowd. this is how you liked it, you indulged in your solitude.

the unbearably loud music rang in your ears, the fact that you were standing just a couple feet from the speakers didn’t help either.

you decided to drown the ringing by taking a sip of your cup, inhaling a sharp breath as the liquid cascaded down your throat.

“…who hired this dj? music’s unbearable…” you murmured as you frowned at the dj who stood a couple steps from you.

it was fairly boring for a while, the music slowly started to feel faint as the stuffy atmosphere began to push its way into your already tight space. you slightly squeeze the plastic cup in your hand, pressing your back against the wall.

you felt trapped.

deciding you’ve had enough of this, you walk away from the corner. as if you were popping a bubble; like a puppy opening its eyes for the first time, but instead of meeting with a fascinating world, you’re met with drunk shit heads who can’t dance, let alone walk in a straight line.

“where is she…” you huffed, looking for the coworker who invited you to this party, if you can even call it that. it’s more depressing than a fucking funeral.

pushing through everyone was a literal pain in the ass, the environment reeked of alcohol, and the air was incredibly thick. you were starting to regret even accepting the goddamn invitation.

go they said, it’ll be fun they said, “fun my ass.” you utter a small ‘tsk’ as a man twice your size bumps into you, not even having the common courtesy to apologize. god, this is horrible.

you somehow ended up in the kitchen. sighing in frustration, you rest yourself against the counter.

“i’m going to fucking kill-“ you started, but were rudely interrupted when someone walked into the kitchen.

your eyes slightly widened as you acknowledge the person. your ex best friend. fun.

he was whistling along to the horrendous noise these people call music, happiness basically oozing from his pores.

he turned his head to you, looking at you from head to toe in shock, shock which soon subsided and was replaced with an expression you can’t quite describe.

“oh.. hey.” yeonjun waved, mullet drenched in sweat as some loose hairs stuck to his forehead. he breathed heavily, his once joyful demeanor now engulfed in…uncomfortableness? melancholy? nostalgia? it’s been so long that you can’t tell anymore.

he slowly made his way to the fridge, giving you an awkward smile as you bite your inner cheek and look away.

it was silent for a while, you could feel his eyes burning holes into your face.

“yn?” he quietly said, arms crossed over the open fridge door. he looked at you, waiting for a response.

in all honesty, he didn’t expect one. at least not after ghosting you completely and then coming back a couple months later like nothing happened.

he scoffed and shook his head with a sad smile, sighing in disbelief. he was disappointed in himself.

yeonjun shut the fridge door and begun to lead himself out the kitchen, “yes?” you replied with urgency, you didn’t want him to leave. not again. not after losing him for months.

he chuckled, looking back at you. “you’re…not mad at me?” he asked, feet moving in your direction. he realized you aren’t so closed off anymore, you’re more…awake, as if you’ve come to terms with the gravity of things, and for that, he’s thankful. he can make things right now.

you grew nervous, a prominent lump built up in your throat, making it difficult for you to breathe. “i wouldn’t say i am - or was - mad, i guess i..“ you stopped yourself as yeonjun stumbled, falling onto you.

you tried backing up, but couldn’t. fucking counter…you thought, swallowing slowly as the smell of alcohol invaded your nostrils.

“yeonjun? yeonjun, you’re drunk.” you tried pushing him off, but he didn’t budge. instead, he laid his head on your shoulder, “not drunk, just… tipsy.” he blabbered.

it was silent for a couple seconds until you heard him sniffle. he was crying.

“wha…” he grabbed your waist, sobbing into your shoulder. “i’m so-“ he hiccuped, followed by a groan. “i’m sorry, yn, i’m sorry!” yeonjun cried, lifting his head in an attempt to look at you. you stood there, dumbfounded. heart hammering against your chest. he’s drunk. it was evident, yet he still denied it.

he peeked at you through his wet lashes, incoherent sounds slipping past his lips as he wiped his runny nose. “and you say you’re not drunk? look at you! why are you crying?!” you raised both brows in confusion, stroking his hair softly.

you’re supposed to be cussing him out for all the hurt he’s caused you, for leaving with absolutely no explanation, yet here you are, combing your cold fingers through his sweaty strands as he bawls into your shoulder. you’ve seen him like this more often than not; always manages to surprise you, though.

“i’m not drunk…. ‘m sorry” he hesitated, wiping the wetness from his eyes with the back of his hand. as you realize how close your bodies are, you nod, circling around him.

yeonjun turned, biting his lip. he wants to say something. you know he wants to say something, but he’s holding back and it’s making you anxious and impatient.

“would you maybe…want to leave?” you blink, all previous feelings of discomfort disappearing. “what’re you planning?” you question, crossing your arms as you sternly stare at him.

“maybe grab some drinks and then go to my place?” he smiled, which quickly disappeared when you displayed a doubting look. “i mean, i just want to talk to you…without all the noise…and the multitude of people.” your heart shattered, and you were sure your eyes softened, because his did too.

“fine.” yeonjun’s ears perk up, big smile on his face. “let’s go.” you nodded, grabbing his arm before he left the kitchen.

“i’m driving.”

“but-“ his eyebrows furrowed, “no buts, deny it all you want, we’re not risking it.” he sighed, defeat poking through the pout on his lips. he lowly hummed in agreement, walking out of the kitchen with you trailing close behind.

“home sweet home!” yeonjun exclaimed, arms flying in the air as the bag of soju dangled in his hand. “yeonjun, be quiet, it’s late.” you slowly grabbed his arm, taking the bag of soju away. “i shouldn’t have allowed you to drink on the way here.” you sighed, placing the bag on the counter and taking out the already opened box of soju.

he pouted, stumbling towards the little coffee table that sat in the middle of his living room. “bring some soju, please!” he slurred.

you grabbed the box, nestling it under your arm as you made your way towards drunk yeonjun.

you sat down, setting the box on the coffee table. “oh…i forgot to bring shot glasses.” you groaned, fixing to stand up when yeonjun stopped you.

“no, it’s okay. i’ll go get them.” he smiled, patting your hand.

“but-“

“it’s okay.” he shook his head, standing up and making his way to the kitchen.

in a matter of seconds, he was back, sitting in front of you with soju in hand, two shot glasses already set on the table.

yeonjun held the bottle from the bottom with one hand, and swirled it vigorously with the other. you watched him closely, how his hands wrapped around the bottle, you wonder how they’d feel on your face-

“yn?” you blinked, snapping back into reality. “yes? i’m sorry.” you gulped, noticing a full shot glass in front of you.

as you were about to reach for the glass, you stopped midway. sighing as you plopped your arm down on the table. yeonjun noticed this and raised a brow, “is everything…alright?” he asked, pouring soju into his glass.

“yes…and no.” you admitted, “i mean i just…i missed this, you know? spending time with you. i missed being here. i missed this apartment.” you paused, staring at yeonjun who was now looking down at his thighs.

“i missed you.” you leaned forward, arms now crossed on the table. yeonjun snapped his head up, quickly grabbing his glass and gulping the liquid down.

“ahhh…” he set the glass down, frowning as the liquid burned his throat. “i missed you too yn…” he smiled weakly, you realized he wasn’t in the right mind for all the sappy stuff right now, so you decided to change the subject.

“tell me, what have you been up to?” you smiled, grabbing your glass, tilting your head to the side as you swallow the drink.

“me? hm…not much….” yeonjun leaned forward, smile spread across his flushed cheeks.

✸ ✸ ✸

you lost track of time, it seemed. but you weren’t the only one. yeonjun, too, lost track of how many shots he took. not that it mattered, he was already drunk out of his mind to begin with. “baby…..” he slurred, reaching out to you as you gasped. baby?? are you serious??

“yeonjun what…” you decided to stop yourself, not even questioning anything that came out of his mouth.

after looking around for a minute, you groaned. there is so much to clean up.

an unfinished 20 pack of soju on the table; only 4 remaining, some snack wrappers thrown on the table, and a drunk yeonjun who can’t even utter a proper sentence.

“‘m s’sorry” he hiccuped, head lulling as he smiled like an idiot. his lips glistened under the dim light, most likely from all the constant licking and drinking he’s been doing.

“let me take you to your room so you can sleep.” he shook his head violently, backing up against the sofa behind him as you made your way to him.

“no!” he pouted, looking at you with tears brimming his eyes. “oh you’re such a child, come on let’s go!” yeonjun pushed your hand off his arm, whining.

you stopped and huffed, sitting down beside him in order to comfort him, “why are you crying?”

“i f…feel like shit” he cried, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “why do you feel that way?” you knew this was just a drunk fit of his, but you had to at least hear him out.

“‘cuz i ruined my chance with the person i love” he sniffles, staring into your eyes with his teary ones. you blinked, wiping his tears with your thumbs. “and who may that be?” you question, stroking his shoulder in a comforting manner.

“you.” you inhale sharply, blinking in confusion. you shook your head, chuckling awkwardly, “you’re just drunk, come on.” yeonjun stopped protesting, defeated by his own tiredness.

you wrapped his arm over your shoulder, dragging him while leaning against the walls for support. “goddamnit, what have you been eating? you’re so heavy.” you strain, sighing in relief as your eyes find his bedroom door.

opening the door was one thing, laying him on the bed was another. you pant, his body weighing you down. as a result you slipped and fell.

on top of him.

jesus fuck.

you froze when he groaned. “i’m so sorry!” you scrambled to stand up, but he grabbed your arm and pulled you against him.

“sleep with me tonight, please.” yeonjun whispered, lazy smile spreading across his face. you shake your head, “yeonjun, you’re drunk. we can’t be doing this. you’re not in the right mind!” you faintly shake your head, “please?” he insisted.

you sighed, pressing your forehead against his chest. “fine. but i will be leaving first thing in the morning.” he chuckled, nodding. “if you want to get comfortable, my shirts are over there-“ he hiccuped. you nodded and patted his chest in understanding. “just sleep, okay?? i’ll be right back.” yeonjun hummed, closing his eyes.

you wake up groggy and disoriented, staring at the window as a ray of sunshine peeked through the curtain, making you squint and smile lazily.

you rub the sleep from your eyes and stretch, “good mor-“ you stop as you notice yeonjun isn’t in bed with you anymore. you look around the room once more, no sign of him.

a pang of worry and confusion washed over you. one would think it’s stupid considering the fact that you’re in his house, yet you can’t help but be alarmed.

what if he left you again?

‘oh that’s stupid, yn. pull yourself together.’ you shake your head and scoff, but the panic settles at the pit of your stomach nonetheless.

throwing the blanket to the side, you stand, yawning as you wobble towards the door.

“yn-“ yeonjun stops, doorknob in one hand and breakfast tray in the other. he eyed you as you stood there, eyes wide in confusion.

yeonjun blinked, “good morning?…” he lets out a breathy laugh, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him with his foot. “i made you breakfast.” you felt your heart squeeze at that. he smiled, walking over to the bed and signaling you to lay down.

and you did. you laid down, placing the warm blankets back on your body and smoothing them over in order to create a flat enough surface for the breakfast tray.

“thank you so much..” you gush as yeonjun placed the tray in front of you. he sat down, crossing his legs and smiling like a total idiot.

“you’ve been nothing but smiles since you walked in the room…did something happen?” you question, making yeonjun hang his head with an even bigger smile on his face. “you look so beautiful.” he mumbled, adjusting his position on the bed.

“what?” you looked up, cheek stuffed with food. he snorted, scooting forward and leaning towards you. “i said,” he wiped your lip with his thumb, eyes traveling to yours, holding them dearly. “you look so beautiful.” he chuckled at your expression, making his heart skip a beat.

“you’re making a mess, be careful, yeah?” you grab the tray, placing it to one side as you choke on your food. yeonjun stands with you, stroking your arms with his soft hands.

“hey, you alright?” you nodded, grabbing onto his shoulder for support. “it’s just…” you stopped, swallowing the lump in your throat. “you caught me off guard, that’s all.” yeonjun’s eyes softened, “i meant it.” he caressed your face as a warm smile tugged at his lips.

“why…why are you being so nice to me?” you stepped away from his hold, sitting back down on the soft bed. he sighed and flopped down beside you, staring at the curtains that blocked the sunlight.

“because i’m in love with you.” his eyes traveled from the window to you, “i’ve been in love with you.” you waver, eyes widening in confusion. “and i don’t want to mess up again.”

“so last night-“

“i remember.” yeonjun nodded, fidgeting with his thumbs as he bit his bottom lip. “i guess i was drunk enough to let that slip but not enough to forget.” he reasoned, gazing at you briefly before staring at his feet.

“it’s okay if you don’t want anything to do with me, i mean-“ you placed a hand on his, drawing circles on it with your thumb. “yeonjun, im in love with you too.” he stopped, shifting on the bed.

“what?…”

“im in love with you too.”

he stuttered, mouth opened for a few seconds before closing it again. you saw the glint in his his eyes before being pulled into a hug.

a long, warm, cozy hug.

a hug you’ve been craving for a while.

his hug.

you broke into tears, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. “oh god, yn, i’m deeply sorry. i’ve hurt you so much.” yeonjun ran his fingers through your hair, cooing softly.

you stained his shirt, but he didn’t care,“i missed you so much, you know? we stopped talking for so long. i thought i lost you for real…” you say between sobs, lightly punching his chest.

“i forgive you, dumbass.” he stayed quiet, you’re too nice. he didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve your forgiveness. yet you gave it. you gave something so precious to someone who doesn’t even deserve a single look from you.

yeonjun held your face in his hands, wiping your tears with his thumbs. he smiled, “how about this, you finish breakfast and then we can go wherever you want. i’ll explain myself. i’ll explain everything.” you nod slowly, grinning.

“there’s my yn, i missed you.” he quipped, earning himself a slap to his arm. he winced, rubbing the spot.

“is this a date then?” you question, grabbing another bite of your once forgotten food.

“hmmmmmmm” yeonjun tapped his chin, laughing as you whine. “yes dummy, it is.” he flicked your forehead lightly as you giggled.

you grab his arm, “let’s get ready then.” yeonjun didn’t budge as you tried dragging him along, “but the food…” you shook your head, “it’s gone cold, plus i know you’re somewhat hung over so let me treat you to food, hm?” you tapped his hand reassuringly.

“yn-“

“i’m not taking no for an answer.” he pursed his mouth, slowly nodding in defeat.

“perfect, where do you want to go?”

“how about…”

you both disagreed the entire way to the bathroom, laughing and giggling as jokes were thrown around between sentences.

you missed this.

you missed yeonjun.

he was willing to start over, and you were willing to let it happen.

💌: im sorry this is lwk ass, i hope you enjoyed regardless! please make sure to leave a like, comment, and reblog!! thank you 🫶

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lavendertales · 10 months

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SEÑORITA: Chapter 2

pairing: Javier Peña x Murphy!f!reader

summary: Steve offers to show you around the precinct, but he's not expecting all the teasing words and the tension between you and Javier; and neither does Javier himself.

word count: 3k

series warnings: reluctant friends to lovers, lots of playful banter, mutual pining, slow burn, secret relationship, filthy smut.

series masterlist | AO3

As it turns out, a baby living in the same space as you isn’t your biggest inconvenience.

Okay, perhaps “inconvenience” is taking things too far. Olivia has been a treat these past few days; she’s just started walking and mumbling a few words, so watching her be curious about everything and reach for things and people with her little hands has been one of your weekly highlights.

But you and Steve remain far from the good buddies you were as children, and the awkwardness that floats in the air whenever you interact is very much palpable and thick, weighing down on both of you.

Even so, you at least remain polite towards each other, and you both try your hardest to become friendly again.

Steve tells you about his time in Colombia; he tells you how he caught Pablo Escobar in his final moments and how he wished Javier was there to share the sweet victory since “it would’ve been only fair”. He mentions Javier quite a lot, actually, just like he did in his letters to you. You deduce that they are good friends, bonded by a mutual goal and plenty of tragedy, and that Javier is, despite some flaws and choices, a focused and hardworking man. Trustworthy and loyal.

In other words, a good man.

“I still have them, by the way,” you tell your brother as you take another sip of coffee.

Steve blinks in surprise. “You kept the letters I sent you?”

“Well, yeah. You’re still my brother, and the fact that you took the time to write to me when you were basically in a living hell, it means a lot to me. I was worried about you.”

The warmth that fills Steve’s body is not unknown, and yet it feels like it’s the very first time he’s ever felt it such a big wave of affection towards his baby sister.

“I figured if something were to happen, you’d be… eased,” he tries to joke.

“You’re not my favorite person in the world but I don’t want you to die. Besides, do you have any idea how expensive it is to have a funeral? Not to mention the cost of retrieving your body from there… way too much work.”

You both giggle, finding odd comfort in the rather morbid way you’re making jokes, and you finish your coffees in silence. Connie is at the park with Olivia—which you suspect was done intentionally on her part—and it’s almost time for both of you to head off to work. You actually crave the library’s welcoming silence today.

“I’ve got an idea,” Steve says, washing both cups. “The precinct isn’t that far from the library.”

“Probably ten minutes by car or so.”

“Exactly. How about you stop by at lunch? I can show you around, give you a tour.”

He’s trying, you smile to yourself. He’s trying to make things great again. You want that too, so it’s not hard to meet him halfway.

“That sounds pretty good actually,” you reply and smile when Steve does.

“Cool!”

“Can you give me a ride to work?”

“Sure thing, c’mon.”

On your way, you talk more and it becomes easier, more lighthearted. You find out that Steve wrote to your parent as well, and he also called them once a week. He talked to your mother daily during the brief time he and Connie were apart, and as you hear that, your heart sinks a little. You figure how difficult it must’ve been for both of them.

And even if you don’t say it aloud, you’re very impressed by Steve’s work in Colombia. But most of all, you’re proud of him.

“What’s Javier like?”

The question replaces the brightness on Steve’s face with a gloomy and curious expression. Much as he tries to hide it, it’s there.

“Why?” he asks flatly.

You roll your eyes, chuckling. “He’s your best friend, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Steven, I’m given to understand that Colombia was very dark. The two of you are bonded together by things that the rest of us can’t comprehend. I’m just asking out of curiosity, nothing more.”

Steve’s grip tightens over the wheel, recalling some of the events in Colombia. It was very dark indeed, but most of the time he had Connie there. Javier, on the other hand… there were times Steve feared he was drowning the more vehemently he refused any external help. All he had were his brothel girls, alcohol and cigarettes.

And Steve fears he still hasn’t recovered, even a year later.

“He’s a great guy overall,” Steve replies after a while. “Tough nut to crack and stubborn, but you can rely on him when it comes down to it.”

“He does look like he’s stubborn.”

“Have you seen much of him?”

“You mean since he introduced himself last week, then you shadily pulled him over after which he fled like the plague? Hmm, no, I can’t say I have.”

Steve coos your name, almost apologetically so, but you cut him off instantly. “Even if I were interested in him, which I’m not, what’s it to you? I get that I’m your sister and he’s your best friend and that puts you in the middle, but we’re adults. It would be none of your business.”

“True, but…” Steve huffs, struggling to find his words. “Look, I’m just trying to keep you both safe and sane.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Whenever you were dating one of your bad boys, it never ended well. Remember Hyde, who spray painted dad’s car when you broke up with him?”

“Ugh. Yikes.”

“Or Mike?”

You try your hardest not to laugh. “I still can’t believe he found a skunk and sprayed it all over you.”

You suppress a giggle, much to Steve’s dismay.

“I had to sleep in the basement for a week,” he reminds you bitterly. “Wasn’t funny then, and it’s not funny now.”

“I know, I’m s—I’m sorry.”

“Ever notice how your breakups affected the rest of us, but never you?”

You shrug. “What can I say? I have a long lasting impact on these boys.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Javier’s a grown man. Those were little insecure boys. I doubt—“

“Javier isn’t fully okay after Colombia. Neither am I, really, but I’ve got a beautiful wife, an amazing daughter, and life goes on. He took it all by himself and bottled it up. Which is exactly like the kind of guy you’d fall for.”

“I thought he’s a reformed bad boy.”

Steve huffs, parking the car in front of the library and looking at you with a care he hadn’t possessed in years.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” he says softly. “Not gonna do things like I did when we were teenagers. You’re a grown woman, Javier is a grown man as you said. He’s a little broken though, and you can be a lot to deal with… and I’m just afraid you’ll both end up getting hurt.”

“I appreciate your concern, Steven. But I promise you, I’m not interested in Javier like that.”

“All the women are at some point.”

“It’s a regular occurrence?”

When Steve hesitates, you get your answer. “Oh come on, it’s not like he’s some Adonis.”

“I don’t know, for a guy he’s pretty good looking.”

Devilishly handsome is more like it, you think.

“He is,” you agree indifferently, “but I’m not into it.”

“I’ll pick you up at 12-ish?”

You notice the topic change, but you don’t fight against it. “Sounds good,” you concede. Thanks for the ride.”

“You got it.”

Time flew by in the blink of an eye. Before you knew it, you were back in Steve’s car and on your way to the precinct. There’s a tingle in your body that you cannot explain, but you don’t fight against it either.

“So what exactly does a consultant do at a police precinct?” you ask.

“I help with cases but I don’t actually get involved. It’s a pretty sweet deal actually.”

“So it’s basically like giving advice and adding at the end, ‘if it ruins your life, it’s not my fault’?”

A hearty laugh leaves Steve’s chest, booming throughout the car. “Basically, yeah.”

“That’s a pretty sweet deal. How are you adjusting to it after all you did… in your previous job?”

“It’s a bit boring if you compare them, but it’s a nice change of pace.”

“I’ll bet. You are, after all, America’s hero.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Come on! You know what people are saying about you! Steve Murphy, American’s fine hero, saved the world!”

You keep teasing him till you both end up laughing wholeheartedly. It’s a sentiment you haven’t had in years, and suddenly you feel grateful and lucky to have your big brother back in your life.

Steve holds the door for you, thus allowing you to get a first glimpse into his work environment. It’s as busy as any precinct, people buzzing and moving at a fast pace without paying much attention to their surroundings.

“Here,” Steve catches your attention. “This is my office.”

You scan the cubicle, noticing the picture of him, Connie and Olivia on his desk. “Pretty cozy.”

“That one over there is Javier’s.”

The difference between the two desks is quite stunning: while Steve’s is cozy and personalized with reminders of the life he has outside these walls, Javier’s is pretty empty except a few folders neatly stacked on top of each other, a pen and a stapler. His desk seems pretty empty, and you fleetingly wonder if that reflects how he’s feeling on a daily basis.

Impossible, you think to yourself. Surely he’s a ladies’ man, and surely he’s got someone to hook up with at least, if nothing more.

“Hey Jav,” your brother’s voice changes. “You remember my sister.”

Your eyes met Javier’s for a single second, frozen-like in time, and you’re quick to notice how he shifts his gaze as farther away from you as possible. As a response, you lower your head, stiffening a chuckle.

“Hola señorita,” he tells you, even his voice distant.

There’s no verbal reply leaving your mouth. You want to say something clever and witty, maybe even sarcastic, but there is a small fraction of your slightly twisted being, deep down, which considers his greeting to be an awakening of some sort. You like how the words roll so easily down his tongue. A presumably filthy and skilled tongue.

Whoa. Where the fuck did that come from?

Okay, so you might think he’s attractive. He might be sin personified with golden skin and cold attitude, which means he can be trouble.

And you’re not looking for trouble. Not anymore.

“What brings you here?”

It takes you a bit to realize that Javier’s addressing you because he’s not even looking at you; he’s looking through a folder in his hands, seemingly doing everything in his power to ignore you.

“Steve wanted to show me around the precinct while we grab some lunch,” you say.

“Hm.”

“Oh, right, lunch!” Steve exclaims. “I got us turkey sandwiches from a nice place down the street, hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, love those.”

“I’ll be right back.”

With Steve gone temporarily, you take the opportunity to squeeze some answers out of Javier.

“Let me guess,” you start, crossing your arms at your chest and teasingly sitting on the edge of Javier’s desk. “Steven put on the big bro talk with you.”

Javier finally looks at you, somewhat surprised. “Is that a regular occurrence?”

“Oh yes. He used to do it a lot when we were teenagers. But please don’t hold my being related to him against me.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Thanks. He claims that I made his life miserable by bullying him when we were younger but if you’re asking me, he’s a bit of a wimp. When it comes to me, at least.”

“You do sound like a bully.”

This time you do chuckle. And if you wouldn’t have such great observation skills, you might’ve thought that Javier chuckled too.

“Did you bully him though?” he asks, voice less distant.

“Well… depends from which side you’re viewing things. I say I gave him reality checks. But this might explain why he’s trying so damn hard to overcompensate now by being ridiculously protective. He knows I didn’t like it then and it’s why we’re awkward around each other now, and yet here he is, going out of his way to keep you at bay.”

“He only asked me nicely to not hit on you.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Were you going to?”

“No. You’re not really… my type. No offense or anything.”

“None taken. But the question remains, why does my brother want to keep you at bay? Are you really that big of an asshole, Javier?”

He turns to you, studying your face properly for the very first time. You seem much sharper than any of the women he previously encountered, and for this reason he decides to be as blunt as possible with you.

“That seems to be the consensus,” he agrees.

“Cause I heard some storied from my brother’s time in Colombia. I heard about the infamous Javier Peña. Heard you were quite the hit with the ladies, but nothing short of ‘hero’ and ‘great friend’.”

Gradually, Javier becomes irritated. Reminders of his past life in Colombia and how much it took from him become a trigger, and he doesn’t want to relive any part of that.

“Are you gonna do this the whole time you’re here?” he asks you instead.

“I could,” you shrug. “I can see it gets a rise out of you.”

“And I can see why Steve said you can be a pain in the ass.”

“Ouch.”

But you smile, and paired with the way you said his full name, rolling the R perfectly at the end, it does get a rise out of him.

Frustration. The inability to act upon it. Curiosity. Forbidden fruit.

Too much contradiction for Javier’s personal taste.

“Listen,” he moves closer to you to whisper in dangerous proximity, “Steve asked me to not get involved with you, friend to friend. So that’s what I intend to do. More like not do.”

“Okay, that’s honorable, I respect that. But how much fun would it be to mess with him?”

Javier cocks an eyebrow in your direction, the faint scent of something floral suddenly invading his nostrils.

“Why would we mess with him?”

“Come on! Haven’t you ever wanted to just mess with him? Prank him in any way?”

“Not out of instinct.”

“You’re missing out.”

“And how exactly would we mess with him?”

“Do I detect interest in your voice?”

The playfulness in your voice, along with a hint of mischief, is causing Javier’s head to spin. You’re still not his type, but you sure seem like fun.

And he likes to have fun once in a while.

Forbidden fruit, he reminds himself.

“I figure if he sees me around you a lot, he’ll think we’re fucking, and based on your reputation, sounds plausible,” you ponder. “One of those veins in his head is bound to pop.”

“Shit, you’re a mean one. But I still want to respect Murphy’s wish.”

As if on command, Steve rushes back, handing you a sandwich and pulling Javier closer.

“I found this on Lieutenant Dan’s desk,” he mutters, but not hushed enough to not reach your ears.

Steve reveals a folder that you try to peak at while Javier rummages through it. Seconds later, his face brightens.

“New intel on the case,” Steve adds. “These sure would come in handy for closing the case.”

“So take ‘em.”

Both men stare at you like you just said the most outrageous thing in the world. “They’re classified, smarty pants,” Steve practically scolds you.

“So? You’re not taking them outside the precinct. You’re just… borrowing them, looking at words on a page.”

“If I close my eyes, you’re like the female version of Javier.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Why are you here, again?”

Javier’s sharp eyes cut through you like glass, but they don’t intimidate you.

“Apparently I’m the only one thinking rationally,” you retort.

With a loud grunt and a quick glance around, Javier turns to Steve. “Look, just—just stuff it down your pants.”

“What?”

“Do you wanna close the case or not?”

“Yeah, obviously, but—“

“Stuff ‘em down your pants.”

“Say that a lot to your lady friends?”

The glare Javier throws you doesn’t intimidate either. If anything, it only makes you bolder.

“If your brother wasn’t here, I would’ve told you where you can stuff that,” he grunts.

“Yeah, you’d wish you’d stuff something in this.”

“Both of you, cut it out, now,” Steve shushes you. “And ew. Why me, anyway? You pulled the same stunt back in Medellin.”

“They’ll suspect me.”

“You can’t play that card here too!”

“Spanish-speaking guy with a foreign family name? Trust me, they’ll fucking suspect me, Murphy.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Within a split second, you snatch the folder from Steve’s hands and, ensuring no one’s around, you tug at Javier’s belt, making enough room for the folder to slide between his shirt and his pants. Breathless, Javier can only watch in shock as you smile, so as to not raise any suspicions, and button his blazer so that the foreign element in his suit isn’t visible.

“There,” you say, “problem solved.”

“What the fuck,” Steve mutters under his breath.

“I wasn’t gonna shove a folder down your pants.”

Javier can’t think of a single thing to say. He can only watch you as you sit down, finally munching on your sandwich, and feel a concoction of feelings.

She’s not my type, he remembers.

But shit, that was hot.

previous | next

tags: @pedrostories @milkymoon2483 @ifall4dilfs @psychedelic-ink @casa-boiardi

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thursdaystarchild · 4 months

Text

𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒏.

light footsteps with the scrunch of snow beneath his feet, anton walks with a heavy heart.

wearing a white turtle neck and a long, black coat, he heads to the funeral of you.

you, the same girl he fell inlove with for 3 years now. you, who felt out of his league. you, who he barely talked with but he was falling harder each time you'd look his way and greet him with a simple 'hello' or a smile that feels sickening sweet he starts to believe you're an angel.

due to an unfortunate accident, you were gone in a heartbeat. before he could even blink, you were already the buzz and news around the school.

"you heard? she got in a serious accident."

"i'm surprised her sibling survived even though they were in the same car."

he wished it wasn't true, he wished he was hearing things, he wished you'd walk in and tell everyone you're fine and you didn't happen to be on a forever slumber in your casket. he wished you'd come back.

his hands played with the neatly folded paper in his hands. there conveys his message of adoration for you, his feelings, his emotions, and his permission to court you personally. but he felt like a coward, a loser even, when he saw your desk cabinet full of letters and a few dried flowers from different admirers.

as expected, you were loved by basically everyone.

you were sweet, kind, caring, thoughtful, thankful; you were everything good in this world. so why would you take notice of him? he was almost a nobody, a mediocre boy, he was just a classmate you didn't know.

he stood by your desk then, no one around with his heartbeat almost punching out of his chest with the thought that someone might catch him lingering too much despite the school dismissal—he pushed your chair back to your desk after closing the small cabinet overflowing with letters.

i can't do it.

now here he is, standing alongside many of his, your classmates. it was your final day and you were going to be let go, eternally.

he didn't want to, no, he was denying it but it was here, the truth that you were peacefully in the sky now.

his tears slowly slid down his supple skin, his eyelashes gradually getting wetter and he didn't care, he wanted to cry for you, mourn for you. he was lost, he was dazed, why? of all people, why you?

you didn't deserve it, you were young. you probably had dreams so much bigger than the world but you weren't able to reach them because you were gone. you were radiant, a completely sunshine. anton might have not known you personally, but you had a genuine and gold heart.

with the white rose tightly held onto his shaking hands, he throws it to your closed casket. his tears were blurring his vision and he couldn't help the sob that forced its way to his throat.

i'm sorry.

i'm sorry for being a coward.

and with another soft thud, his letter for you will stay by your side forever and always—reminding himself that no matter what, he hopes and he knows you'll be able to understand and see his undying love for you somewhere up in the wide sky.

hi, y/n.

i know this is such a random and sudden letter but, i want you to know that i've adorned you for almost 2, 3 years already? i don't even remember, but i hope you know that i'd love to get to know you in a friendly level for now, so is coffee cool to you? you can just text me on my number below whenever you're free :D i know a really good café around school so yeah.

you're really nice and sweet, i think that's what captivated me to you. we never really talked much because i'm kind of shy to start a conversation with you because you're really pretty. it's been kind of hard to keep these feelings and emotions bottled up for the past years so i'm giving it a small try with the remaining confidence i have haha, sorry i'm a bit awkward.

but yeah, uhm, text me, call me, whatever is comfortable for you, i'll be waiting. thank you, if you ever give it a thought.

love, anton.

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peapodbond · 6 days

Text

A (Mostly) Accurate Timeline of Tommy Kinard

Referencing Lou’s interview with Tommy’s Backstory, his actual age, the dates in Chimney Begins and Bobby Begins Again (with rough estimates of Hen Begins because those cute fuckers didn’t give me a date title card), and the ways that the characters interact with him.

(Lou's) Date of Birth: November 10, 1984.

1984 - 2001: Tommy was an awkward, overweight kid when he was younger. He flourished in classes such as shop, where he could use his hands and create things and didn't necessarily need to talk to anyone. Then he hit a growth spurt, got taller, and joined the football team. Tommy quickly becomes an all star football guy who stands up for any kids who were like him when he was younger.

Tommy says in 7x04 that he flew helicopters for the army before he was a firefighter.

2001 - 2005: In 2001, Tommy would have been seventeen. September 11th was likely the impetus for joining the army, which he could have done as soon as it was his birthday. Basic training is ten weeks for the army, slightly longer if he was aiming for a specialized group. Army tours of duty are between six and twelve months. He could very easily have gone through basic, done between two and four tours in Afghanistan, and still joined the fire academy so that he has just finished his probationary year when Chimney comes to the 118.

**updated: I've been reliably informed by multiple sources that a pilot would have to spend a minimum of five years with the army, and to that I can only say that the writers must be blamed for their timeline. ;) let us assume that there was a reason (good or bad) that Tommy only served four years and I will not speculate as to which in this post because that crosses over from a timeline to headcanons and I want everyone to be able to use this if they want. (please see this post for slightly more detail on my reasoning)

2006: 22 years old.

Chimney spends between ten and twenty-four weeks at the fire academy, so Chimney comes into the station in 2006/2007, depending on the time of year (c’mon guys give me something it’s LA and you don’t really have weather out there) and the episode covers most of his probationary year. Most likely it is two years from start to finish, as Chimney does spend part of the episode doing things other than starting at the fire academy.

Tommy is probably the probie who came in just before Chimney, and would have just finished his probationary year. There is a scene in the early part of the episode where Gerrard asks when Tommy’s girlfriend is coming by to cook dinner, but there’s also an offhand comment that she’s never been by the house before so who really knows if there was a girlfriend at all.

Sal DeLuca seems to be Tommy’s senior partner, the same way that Eli is Chimney’s senior partner, so they were probably paired up to show him the ropes when he showed up at the firehouse. Tommy definitely takes his cues from Sal, who takes his cues from Gerrard. Tommy is a bit of a bully because of who he is modeling himself after and the culture that he feels he has to assimilate into but he also does look uncomfortable at a lot of the jokes directed towards Chimney, and you catch him throwing a look to check on Chimney at the funeral in the flashback. After Chimney saves his life Tommy does reach out – awkwardly, but he still reaches out, and even asks Eli about him at the end of the episode.

2010: 26 years old.

Hen has just arrived at the 118. These dates are based on the Twilight movie joke about being Team Jacob and the fact that Taylor Lautner was 18 when Eclipse came out (2010) and most of us agreed during the first two movies that we would not make gross jokes about minors, right guys? Right Sal? Tommy doesn’t react violently to the gay joke which could be proof that he’s comfortable with who he is even if he hasn’t told anyone. If he’d been truly insulted or grossed out by the joke it’s more likely he would have protested rather than blowing a kiss at Sal.

Tommy is splitting his time between Sal and Chimney — we see them sitting together at the dinner table in a similar formation to the way that Hen, Buck and Chim sit together in the current 118 — but still lets himself take cues from the way that Gerrard treats Hen at the beginning of the episode. He is less of a bully than he was in Chimney Begins but still going along with the crowd because he doesn’t want to rock the boat. Saying that the east coast vibes means she was being called a bitch isn’t great, but that entire scene does play into generally accepted stereotypes about the east and west coast in the states and it is perhaps a bad attempt at explaining that to Hen, rather than bullying – but it comes off badly so it doesn’t really matter what the intent was. Chimney looks very disappointed in him for this. (Tommy talks in 7x05 about not being out but knowing that he wasn’t straight when he was in the 118, and we can only assume that showing up to the 118 and meeting Sal and Gerrard in 2005 made it very clear right away that he should toe the line of the rest of the house or find a new job.) The look on his face when Hen does her speech on the fire truck is definitely a realization of who he’s become and it doesn’t appear that he likes who he is.

He is one of the firefighters who is impressed by Hen’s idea about the firehose in the mudslide and he and Sal make a point to come to Hen before she gets called upstairs to see Captain Cook and tell her that she was right about the call and that she is a good firefighter. In the captain’s office Hen is told that a few firefighters made reports – given that in this episode we are mostly focused on Chimney, Tommy, and Sal as her teammates, and they’re the only three that talk to her before this revelation, I believe the storytelling wants us to assume that those three were definitely some of the firefighters who made a report against Gerrard, though we can also safely assume that the entire house reported him.

2014: Bobby is in Minnesota.

Late 2014/early 2015: Bobby moves to LA. Tommy is 30 or 31.

Based on the montages, this episode covers more time than the other two episodes (both between a year and a half to two years long) and ends with Tommy leaving and Buck coming in. Buck is just finishing his probationary year in 2018, so it follows that Bobby Begins Again covers the three years between 2014 and 2017, with most of Buck’s probationary year happening off screen before the pilot.

We are told during the betting scene that pre-Bobby’s arrival there have been two years of captains switching in and out. Gerrard was kicked out pretty early in Hen’s career at the 118 and Captain Cook came in (but was close to retirement) so it tracks that he was their captain between 2010 and 2012 and then left.

You’ll notice that during the betting scene and a lot of the fire house montages, Hen is no longer the only woman in the house or on their shift — the higher ups were serious about changing the culture in the LAFD and they did in fact put their money where their mouths were.

As of Bobby’s arrival to LA, Tommy is the third part of the Chimney and Hen trio – they get drinks together, they shit talk work (and Sal), they lend each other money, they talk about how scars get you the girls. (Tommy is obviously still not out at work, but he could be dating someone, it's hard to know.) This is the 118 mirror of Hen’s support group with Athena, and they would not be spending time with each other outside of work if they didn’t like each other. At this point Tommy and Chimney have been working together for eight years! Between Chimney and Hen they have worn off most of the asshole edges that Tommy had in the first two flashback episodes. Chimney, Hen and Tommy sit together at family dinner and Hen arranges a cake and a party for Tommy — something that she wouldn’t have done if she didn’t like him at that point — when he gets his transfer to the 217 and starts flying again. (This is also the first instance of Hen getting a cake to celebrate things happening at the 118.)

Tommy has been at the 118 for twelve years. Chimney and Tommy have worked together for eleven years. Hen and Tommy have worked together for seven years. Bobby and Tommy have worked together for three years.

2019: 35 years old

Tommy has been at the 217 for two years and redirects a flight of their water plane to the subdivision when Chimney calls him. Chim says “Hey it’s Howie,” and still has Tommy’s number saved in his phone. We can assume that they are at least in sporadic contact and have been since Tommy left. We’ll call the odds 50/50 on the chance that Tommy has told Chimney (and perhaps Hen) that he is not straight at this point. Everyone says the Chimney can’t keep a secret but both he and Hen know that there is a difference between a secret and outing someone.

Spring 2024: 39 years old

Steals a helicopter for Hen when Chimney calls, flies them to a capsized cruise ship in the middle of a hurricane, makes friends with Eddie and kisses Buck. Gets invited to Chimney and Maddie’s wedding as Buck’s date. (There is a higher than zero chance that he has already been invited by Chimney since they’re friends and he’s just shocked Buck considers that a good third date.)

References:

https://www.goarmy.com/how-to-join/requirements.html

https://www.operationmilitarykids.org/how-long-is-a-tour-of-duty-in-the-military/

https://www.operationmilitarykids.org/heres-how-long-basic-training-is-for-each-military-branch/

https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/tv/tv-features/9-1-1-show-tommy-buck-kiss-relationship-lou-ferrigno-jr-1235872688/#

https://firefighternow.com/fire-academy-guide/

https://firefighternow.com/probationary-firefighter/

** https://www.goarmy.com/careers-and-jobs/specialty-careers/aviation.html

** https://benefits.com/veterans-benefits/types-military-discharge/

**updated with some extra references and a little explanation as to why the timeline is off (hint: it's the writer's fault ;) )

#911 #911 abc #tommy kinard #lou ferrigno jr #meta #timeline #kinley #the (mostly) accurate timeline of tommy kinard

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outerspacebisexual · 2 years

Text

A Place in this World - Steve Harrington

Book A - Part One: Teardrops On My Guitar

This is part one of my new Steve Harrington series loosely based on Taylor Swift songs. Please let me know what you think!

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Steve Harrington was always there, just not for you.

*Set sometime in s1, i guess?

Word count: 2.04k

Warnings: swearing, mean king steve, best friend eddie, bullying, i think that's it?

Masterlist

“You know, the longer you look, the uglier he gets.”

You jumped at Eddie’s voice as he appeared beside you. Rolling your eyes, you smacked him on the arm and said, “Liar. And how many times do I have to tell you to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” He smirked.

You gestured to him. “Just, like, appearing. It creeps me out.” Shifting your eyes back over to Steve, you could feel Eddie doing the same. From where you stood beside your open locker, you could clearly see him down the hall. Well, him and Nancy. Standing very close. Very, very close.

You’d see this happen many times before with many different girls, but this time, Steve seemed genuinely struck by Nancy Wheeler.

“Come on, Stalker, it’s lunch,” Eddie said, clamping his hand down on your shoulder, dragging you out of your slowly darkening thoughts. His sympathetic smile made you huff, but you followed him to the cafeteria anyway.

As a resident of Hawkins, you’d known Steve all your life. You’d even been friendly in middle school when your parents had gotten to know the Harringtons through some business deal. You and Steve had begun to see each other more and more outside of school. Your parents shoved you and Steve together in a room at dinners and the forced proximity aided in becoming friendly enough that you said ‘hi’ to each other at school. That had some-what awkward friendship had continued into high school, but when Steve was with his friends, he wasn’t the same Steve that you knew. He was King Steve, and you were definitely on the opposite side of the social spectrum. So, the casual chats in the hallways reduced and faded to tight-lipped smiles as you passed each other.

Your friendship with Steve had also probably been affected by your tiny, little crush on him. I mean, who didn’t have a crush on Steve Harrington at some point? He was Steve Harrington. But you knew that he was King Steve and you were little old you.

The fact that you lived in a trailer and were friends with none other than Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson, meant that you were labelled the same. Which didn’t so much bother you as it was inconvenient. There were so many times that you, Eddie, and your other friends were berated for your satanic cults and music taste and dress sense in the halls when you were just trying to live your life.

Plus, you’d been friends with Eddie for years. Neighbours first, then accidental run-ins collecting the mail, then casual hangouts. He’d even taught you how to play guitar, though while he preferred electric, you preferred acoustic. While he slacked off at school, you actually tried. That conversation had been a sore spot in your friendship for ages; you warning him he wouldn’t graduate, him not caring. Now, you’d given up. If he wanted to risk getting kept back, then it was his funeral.

By the time you’d made it to your table, the volume of the cafeteria combined with your late night at a gig last night had a headache beginning to take shape.

You zoned in and out before Eddie clicked his fingers in front of your face.

You blinked looking up to see everyone at the table’s eyes looking at you. “What?”

Eddie groaned and leaned back in his seat. “Are you serious? I just explained it all.”

“Explained what?”

“The basics for the new campaign. We were trying to decide on what afternoon to play.”

“Oh,” you said, shuffling food around on you plate with your fork. “I don’t mind. I—uh—I don’t even know if I’ll be able to play this one.”

Gasps and noises of protest started up, but you quickly shut it down. “All right, quit it. Some of us,” you said glaring at Eddie, “have jobs because we’re poor. The next few months have me working nearly every afternoon after school.”

Eddie scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Can’t Robin take some of your shifts?”

“Nope,” you said. “She’s cutting back her hours, hence me getting more.”

“You can’t take one afternoon off a week? It's just a job. This is our brand new campaign I’ve been working on for months.”

At that, you frowned. “Eddie,” you warned. You’d already talked about your job with him numerous times.

Eddie didn’t back down. “Come on,” he continued. “This is the only campaign where all of us are finally playing, you can’t be the only one who doesn’t. Just tell your boss you need one afternoon off a week.”

“I won’t tell my boss that I need time off to play a stupid new game when he’s the one paying me. I need the money. Just because your uncle lets you do whatever you want doesn’t mean everyone else can just accommodate for you.”

Immediately, you could see the anger building in his eyes, but between your headache and seeing Steve this morning, you couldn’t care less.

He leaned forward and sneered, “Glad to know my campaign is just a stupid new game to you. I’ll be sure to not bother you about it in future.”

The guilt was slowly starting to creep in, but you were too mad to even think about apologising right now. You stood up and started gathering your things. Your headache was building to a crescendo and if you didn’t leave right now, your head was going to explode.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Away from you.”

He scoffed again, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Very grown up.”

You didn’t even bother to reply before turning and leaving. Your hands trembled as you got closer to the door.

But before you could make it through them and to your locker where your pain meds were, someone was standing in your way.

It took you a few seconds to recognise that this person wasn’t just standing there by accident. When you looked up from the floor it was Carol Perkins standing there, signature smirky smile plastered across her face.

You attempted to move past her, but she stepped into your way again. You heaved in a breath. “Please move, Carol.”

She tilted her head. “Where are you off to in such a rush, weirdo? Did you and your little boyfriend break up?”

“Carol, please,” you said again, but she didn’t respond. She reached up and wrapped her fingers around a chunk of your hair and pulled it. Hard. It instantly brought tears to your eyes, and you shoved her back, making her stumble. God, that fucking hurt.

You managed one step towards the door when Tommy H. was suddenly in front of you. “Did you just push her, freak?”

“What’s going on here?” Your head spun to the left to see Steve standing there. His eyes flickered between you and Carol and Tommy H. In your mind, you were relieved. It was Steve. Even though you weren’t necessarily friends still, he would help.

“What happened is that she pushed me for no reason,” Carol spat. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you to keep your hands to yourself?” She reached out and gripped your hair again. You tried pushing her away again until you felt a cold liquid running down your head. The sticky substance ran down the side of your face.

“What the fuck?” you blurted out, stepping back when she let go. One step back and then Tommy H.’s orange juice was thrown all over your shirt, making it stick to your skin as you blinked trying to see through the juice that had stuck to your eyelashes.

“Steve,” Carol said.

Your eyes shot to Steve’s.

He wouldn’t, you thought. It was Steve. It was still Steve.

You were wrong.

The drink in his hand was added to the mix of liquids already covering you. You swore you saw him grimace and a flash of something cross his face, but you were moving before you could even think about it.

The laughter from not just those three, but their friends and others in the cafeteria echoed as you race down the halls.

Your locker. You had to get to your locker.

Your hands were slippery as you tried to enter your combination, made harder by the tears clouding your vision. In the distance, you heard the doors slam again and you worked faster, finally getting it open and snatching your pills before slamming it shut and hurrying to the exit.

Fuck school.

Fuck them.

Fuck Steve.

The sunlight outside was almost blinding making your head pound worse. You needed to leave.

Your plan to escape though was foiled when you realised that you’d caught a ride with Eddie this morning.

Reaching up to touch your hair, you felt the disgusting way it had begun to dry.

The exit doors slammed open, and you heard your name being called. You didn’t turn to look at Eddie as he reached you, you just started to sob. He pulled you against him and you didn’t even have it in you to hold him, arms hanging by your sides.

“Hey,” Eddie said, pulling away and running his eyes over your face and hair, down to your ruined shirt. “Let’s go.”

The drive to Eddie’s trailer flew by as you sobbed into your hands.

When he helped you out of his van and into your house, your sobs had finally subsided to silent tears. He sat on your bed as you took a shower, and his own head was in his hands as you emerged, hair dripping onto the carpet.

He looked up and you were both silent as you stared at each other. The silence stretched until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Eddie, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” he said, causing your breath to hitch. “Don’t you dare apologise to me. I’m the one who should be apologising to you.”

You shook your head as you settled back against your headboard. Your pain meds had already started working. “No, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have been so mean to you. I do want to play, but I have to work these shifts or I’ll lose my job.”

“Hey, it’s OK. I was an asshole. I’m sorry for making you feel so bad about working. I was just bummed because I really wanted you to play. It’s no big deal.”

You scoffed. “Don’t lie, Eddie. It is a big deal to you, and I’m sorry I can’t take part this time.”

Eddie shrugged and reached down to pick up your guitar from where it rested beside your bed. “We’ll do a One Shot sometime.” He strummed a few chords, and the sound instantly had your body untensing. “Are you OK?” he asked after a few minutes.

A few moments went by before you said, “I hate them. I hate him.”

Eddie just sighed. “Yeah.”

“I just don’t understand why they hate us so much. They’re so mean to you and me and Gareth and everyone who they deem not cool.”

“I mean, we do have the whole ‘satanic cult’ thing going on, to be fair.” You huffed and he chuckled, placing your guitar down on the bed beside you. “Do you want me to stay?”

He would, you knew. If you asked him to, he would stay for however long you wanted him to. But you really wanted to be alone right now.

You shook your head and he nodded once. “I’ll be home, so just come over whenever.” And then he was gone.

The silence was deafening as you closed your eyes and laid down. You mind wouldn’t stop replaying the fight with Eddie and the incident with Carol and Tommy H. and Steve. The tears threatened to start again as you thought about it.

You knew that you weren’t close. You knew that he was King Steve and popular and those guys were his friends.

But you thought he was your friend, too.

You pulled your guitar closer as you finally let the tears go, fingers flicking over the strings quietly.

Steve Harrington wasn’t a nice guy.

He was just as bad as everyone else.

#steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfiction #outerspacebisexual

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winchesterszvonecek · 5 months

Text

Big Hug Mug - [ Brian ‘Otis’ Zvonecek ]

Summary: You accidentally break Otis’s favourite mug and his reaction was not at all what you expected it to be

Word Count: 1700

Warnings: female!reader, fluff

Masterlist | Otis Masterlist

There was an unspoken rule within the walls of firehouse fifty-one. A rule that nobody dared break should they face the unbearable consequences, that were basically just Otis sulking for the remainder of shift, no matter what may have happened regardless.

Seriously, he could have won the lottery and yet he’d still sulk if anyone broke the rule.

You knew this rule. Hell, you helped implement this rule into society and even went as far as to draw up a little notice to stick next to the coffee machine and yet today… Today you broke that rule.

You used Otis’s mug.

And to make matters worse, you didn’t just break the rule, but you broke the mug as well. You broke the big hug mug and the second it hit the ground, you knew you were done for.

To be fair, technically Capp broke the mug by throwing a football around inside and knocking it out of your hands, but still. You’d used the mug and if you hadn’t? Well, let’s just say it would have been in one piece still sitting on the counter rather than in multiple pieces and scattered all over the floor along with your coffee.

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no.” You mumbled to yourself, practically falling to your knees in the middle of the common room, where the camaraderie within had died down severely after the smashing of the mug. “Otis is going to kill me.”

“We’ll give you a good funeral.” Mouch muttered, earning a few stifled chuckles from the others and a stern glare from you.

“Shut it, Mouch.” You gritted, your jaw tensing as your eyes dropped back down to the mess on the floor. You picked up a piece of pale orange mug, running your thumb lightly over the broken words that once spelled out ‘big hug mug’.

You knew how much Otis liked this mug. How much he loved it. He was always going on and on about how it was the perfect shape. The perfect size. How it seemed to keep his coffee warmer for longer and how the exterior didn’t get too hot which meant he could hold it without burning his hands.

Even the shape of the handle was something he often talked about, how his fingers fit perfectly around it without any discomfort as most of the mugs in the firehouse had small handles, making for awkward holding and a lot of near misses.

Otis really treasured this mug and now it was broken.

You had broken it and even though it may sound silly to some people, you were really afraid that he wouldn’t be able to forgive you for doing so. Which would be even worse now given the fact that you were dating.

After a hellishly long year of pining for one another you were finally dating. You were finally happy, together, and maybe even a little in love too. And now all that could end up crumbling beneath you because you broke the one rule you swore you’d never break.

“Where is Otis right now?” You glanced up, your eyes wide as you shifted them around the room, only getting shrugs in response which had you grumbling in annoyance. “Don’t all jump in to help me at once.”

“I think he’s in the bunk room.” Cruz replied, a touch of sympathy slipping through his lips as even as Otis’s best friend, he never dared use that mug.

“Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad then. Maybe I can fix it before he notices… Right?” You chewed at your lip, which was actually wobbling a little as you began to grow nervous.

“I hate to say it, kid.” Herrmann said softly, crouching down in front of you and picking up a small piece of the mug, the ceramic crumbling between his fingers. “But I think the mug is done for.”

“You’re right.” You whined quietly, hiding your face in your hands and taking a few deep breaths as you actually felt rather sick over the whole ordeal. To the point where your hands physically shook and your stomach tightened to where you thought your torso was about to snap in half. “Oh, I have to tell him, don't I?”

“Or…” Mouch dragged out, gaining your attention. “You hide the evidence and blame it on third shift.”

“Interesting.” You pondered, chewing at the skin of your lip as that wasn’t a half bad idea. But you knew it was wrong. Otis was your boyfriend and he deserved to know the truth. You shook your head, beginning to gather up all the broken pieces. “No. No, I can’t do that. I can’t lie to him. I’ll just tell him the truth. Capp broke it.”

“Hey!”

“Well if you hadn’t been throwing that football around like a child, it wouldn’t have broken now, would it?” You pointed out, raising your eyebrow as you got to your feet.

A rather excellent point if you did say so yourself.

“You don’t know that.” Capp replied, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have been using it. And you shouldn’t have gotten in my way.”

“You shouldn’t have been throwing a ball around inside.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Herrmann said in a way far too similar to the tone he used with his kids. “All this yammering ain’t gonna fix that mug. Now you got two choices here…” He turned to you, innocence clouding your face that had been firing looks towards Capp. “You do what Mouch said and blame somebody else…”

“A wise choice.”

“…Or you tell Otis the truth.” Herrmann finished, ignoring Mouch’s comment. “It’s your call.”

As tempting as the first choice was, you knew you couldn’t lie to him and so you picked the right one. The one that wouldn’t eat away at you inside as you never were good at lying, or keeping them rather. You knew it would come blurting out of your mouth at some stage and you’d rather it be now than later as that way, if Otis hated you for it, it might not hurt as bad.

You sucked in a breath, holding it until your legs had carried you all the way down the corridor and once you reached the bunk room doors, it burst out of you all trembling, making you want to turn tail and run as far away as you could. But you didn’t. It was only a mug. It was a piece of coloured ceramic and it really wasn’t something you should be worried about.

But you were. You were so worried and yet to your surprise, you still managed to push open the bunk room door and walk all the way over to Otis without passing out completely or throwing up on the floor.

“Hey baby.” Otis said with a smile the second he glanced up from his book. Only, when he saw the look on your face that smile dropped quicker than his mug had only minutes ago. “Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I have to tell you something.” You mumbled, biting at the skin around your nails as you took a rather slow seat on the end of his bunk, the soft creak of it making you jump a little. “I did something…”

“You did something?” Otis repeated, a nervous chuckle leaving his lips as he shuffled closer to you, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk to mirror your position. He couldn't help but feel sick. Couldn’t help his mind from racing with the idea that you were about to tell him you’d cheated on him.

“Mhm.” You nodded, dropping your hand from around your mouth and allowing it to settle on your lap, which your gaze fell to. “I broke your mug.”

“Wait, what?” Otis asked, his eyes squinting a little as you finally brought your focus up to his confusion riddled face.

“I broke your mug.” You said louder and more clearly, your brow furrowing when all Otis did was laugh softly to himself in a way that showcased those cute dimples of his. “You’re laughing… Why are you laughing? Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you.” Otis nodded, shaking his head as another laugh escaped his lips. “You just looked so nervous I thought you were about to tell me you cheated on me or something.”

“What? I would never cheat on you.” You defended, unsure where you should feel offended or not. “I was just… Scared because I know how much you love that mug, that’s all. And I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

“Oh, baby, I’m not mad at you.” Otis said softly, cupping your face with both hands and bringing it to look up at him. “I could never be mad at you.”

“But I broke your favourite mug.” You whispered, the small pout on your face almost breaking Otis’s heart had it not been so downright cute.

“I know. And yeah, I’m a little annoyed but I’m sure it was an accident.” He replied, running his thumb lightly over your cheek in a way that had all your silly worries fall from within you. “It was just a mug and I may have loved it, but baby, I love you more.”

“You love me?” Your eyes widened, your face lifting beneath Otis’s touch as that was the first time those words had ever passed either of your lips.

“I do.” Otis nodded, his hand dropping from your cheek to gently hold the side of your neck, where he was able to feel the increased beat of your pulse beneath your skin. “I love you… And I have from the very moment I met you.”

“I love you too.” You whispered, your vision blurring a little from the tears that formed in your eyes.

You leaned in, pressing your lips softly against his and the moment they connected, he took control. His fingers thread through your hair, pulling you closer as he kissed you deeply. And with each brush of his moustache over your skin and the heat of his tongue against yours, it quickly made you forget all about what happened. As Otis was right… It was just a mug.

Like this? Apply to my Otis tag list here!

tagging: @sancochillo @kellykidd @violetmacher @kiddbegins @neapolitantoebeans @alexxavicry @babyyoda89 @wandamaxim0f @bloodybagels @stephydearestxo @evanbuckbuckley @annchersita @doublebassallie @orileyrandom @sjhhemmings @gretsky0321

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lanaisdoe · 2 years

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about WHY Daemon COULD NOT interfere during the big hall Rhaenyra-Alicent confrontation, all's logical...

So it all starts with disheveled-looking Daemon and Rhaenyra being the last ones to enter the hall in the middle of the night when shit had already hit the fan, with everyone else already being there... it's awkward enough as it is, the two of them walking in together, especially the circumstances given: Rhaenyra constantly being accused of having an affair outside of marriage/ having illegitimate children, and here she comes all disheveled in the middle of the night with none other than Daemon, her once rumoured lover, who had just buried his wife...

Daemon knows, Daemon heard even Vaemond not-so-subtly accuse Rhaenyra of all that in his funeral speech for Laena, as insane as that was. So Daemon is well aware of the dire situation in which Rhaenyra already is, and obviously isn't gonna add fuel to the fire. Caring for Rhaenyra as much as he does, he slows down significantly, and tries to make it seem like he only arrived AFTER her, not with her. He walks slowly, carefully, assessing the situation, and then he stops by the door, basically hiding away from all prying eyes, low-key keeping an eye out for any sign of trouble, trying to understand what's up...

BUT, naturally, this DOES NOT escape Otto's judging eye... (and Daemon notices Otto noticing soon after...)

So Otto immediately notices Daemon arriving with Rhaenyra and i think Otto had been suspecting there had been sth serious going on with these two for well over a decade.

I mean, we even got a close up shot (in 1x4) of Otto watching intently as Rhaenyra watched and gravitated towards Daemon, giving him heart eyes during the garden conversation post Stepstones victory,

he noticed Rhaenyra's heart eyes but ALSO Daemon's head tilt and him being all giddy and excited/flustered as Rhaenyra approached, so yeah, Otto knew.. look at how he looked at both of them:

I think Otto had always known and was pretty wary of their potential union...

Back to the big hall 1x7 scene... So it all started -> accusations, ofc Rhaenyra's children being illegitimate was brought up again, and that's when it was suggested they brought Laenor, kids' 'father' to speak on that matter... but ofc, as always, Laenor was nowhere to be found. And Rhaenyra was left to fend for herself yet again, and she had to come up with an excuse for him. But what was worse, she herself did not have a very good excuse, as she'd just returned from that beach shack where they'd just made love with Daemon, so she awkwardly tries to come up with a believable enough excuse about being unable to sleep and taking a walk, while Daemon is watching intently. And it seems to me his expression suggests he is concerned but at the same time he also finds Rhaenyra's excuse kinda funny(?), still feeling her under him just moments ago... it's like only the two of them know what had gone down and it isn't easy to hide it since it's all so fresh... Anyway, he knows it's all a "shit just got real" situation, but still, for obvious reasons he CANNOT do anything about it, there's no way he can help Rhaenyra or defend her without raising questions, and so he continues assessing the situation:

^we see him staring at her while she's coming up with her excuse and right after we see him low-key checking reactions of everyone there to Rhaenyra's excuse, checking whether they'd bought it, and if all was alright...

Thankfully, the conversation takes an expected turn, people bringing up Laenor's preferences... Then we have Viserys questioning his sons about the rumour about Rhaenyra... And when Aegon voices it in front of everyone that it's not just a rumour, and that everyone KNOWS it, we see Rhaenyra completely defenseless and defeated with tears in her eyes. And again we get a shot of Daemon staring at her, now with concern:

and again Daemon is just standing there helplessly, he knows he cannot interfere without making the situation EVEN worse for Rhaenyra...

His concern gets even more evident when Alicent eventually asks ser Crispin to bring her Lucerys's eye, Daemon looks pretty tensed now:

And then the mess starts: Alicent attacks Rhaenyra, and here's where it gets INTERESTING -> ser Crispin darts towards Alicent, and quite possibly at the same time Daemon darts towards Rhaenyra (although from the way the scene was edited in the episode, it looked like Daemon only jumped up when he saw Crispin):

but let's also take a look at a DIFFERENT camera angle which made me think about this situation again, look: Daemon in the picture above, when he jumps up, he is looking LEFT (Rhaenyra was to his LEFT the whole time, if you look at the hall from the top, you see Crispin was on the right), so it seems to me that Daemon jumps up because of Alicent attacking Rhaenyra and only THEN when he also notices crazed Crispin running, Daemon turns to stop him instead... i mean, who knows:

^ this is the shot we get, Alicent attacking, and Daemon moving towards the mess, he's in the middle, between Rhaenyra/Alicent and crazed Crispin to his RIGHT, so it's like, he asseses the situation, sees that Rhaenyra's got it, and so he immediately turns to shield Rhaenyra by stopping Crispin, look at Daemon's body position, it's like he was not going to stop Crispin, as his body had been turned more towards the circle with Rhaenyra, and so when he meets Crispin to stop him, he has to take a sharp turn right to meet Crispin. He had been aiming for the circle with Rhaenyra it seems:

if he wanted to just stop Crispin, he could have moved more to the right, go straight for Crispin, no? ...But no, it's like he was aiming for the circle first... o_O

My conclusion? Based on all their positions and movements, Daemon jumped up to run to defend Rhaenyra, then when he was in the middle, he noticed Crispin, then he saw Rhaenyra was ok, and so last minute he turned RIGHT to stop Crispin instead. (alternatively, it's simply that the scene was shot several times from many different angles and the final cut rearranged the scenes so that it caused confusion as to what happened when and how :D ...so I give up, i blame the editing!)

Anyway, after this situation, we get Rhaenyra/Daemon parallels again -> Rhaenyra fiercely stopping crazed Alicent, Daemon fiercely stopping crazed Crispin, side by side, Daemon's there, all this time, as Rhaenyra's shadow :

So to sum up the verbal part of the big hall confrontation scene : Daemon did not want to get openly involved NOT cuz he was afraid, or that he was protecting himself there, QUITE THE OPPOSITE. It was to protect Rhaenyra. Daemon knew that ANY kind of his involvement, defending Rhaenyra so suddenly and so openly in front of the whole court despite them not having been in any contact for 10 years, and now arriving late together, with Daemon who has made it a point to stay away from all court affairs for good, now suddenly out of nowhere siding with the King's Landing's outcast Rhaenyra against the whole court just like that? A freshly widowed man now being the only one to stand up for the black sheep Rhaenyra in front of everyone, fiercely protecting her honor against all odds, even getting into a fight for this woman, ready to shed blood for her, on the night of his wife's funeral ??? - well that would've raised tons of questions and not only among the rivals of Rhaenyra, but now also among Velaryons who were like, the last ones that still at least respected/accepted Daemon and Rhaenyra as family...

So with the question of Rhaenyra's decency out there, Daemon being all "back away from my girl" would've been the last nail in Rhaenyra's decency's coffin. And Daemon would never jeopardize Rhaenyra's reputation like that or put her at risk.

Remember how he backed down in front of Otto (despite the fact he was ready to roast Otto right there and then) on Dragonstone just cuz Rhaenyra was there and he wanted to help her cause? Not taking her away on her wedding day despite her pleas, was also for her sake. He chose Rhaenyra's well-being instead of his own desire to marry her himself - thus making sure they wouldn't take away her right to the throne or exile her for his own selfish desire and Rhaenyra's naivety. Ultimately, what was important for her, ended up being more important to him than his own well-being...

Back to commenting on the post 1x7 big hall confrontation: when the big hall fight was finally over, and everyone had seen hysterical crazy Alicent, in the silence we hear Aemond say he's contented despite it all cuz he'd got a dragon: and it seems to me that at this very moment Rhaenyra turns right, to stare at Daemon in shock (remember? they heard/saw Vhagar in the sky after their beach lovemaking, and they looked confused, it's like now it all fell into place, and so Rhaenyra is immediately searching for Daemon in shock)

(again, i may be wrong about the angles, but i'm basing this on where all of them were standing). And right after the shot of Rhaenyra, we get this shot of Daemon staring left, as a reaction to a reaction? that is also why i think they were looking at each other... but who knows?

Anyway, after this we get Viserys who finally puts an END to it all.

And right after Viserys, we get this shot of Daemon, staring intently at Rhaenyra, ready to dart her way, and a (still) crazed Crispin glaring at Daemon (who now has other thoughts on his mind already and couldn't care less about Crispin):

and right after this shot we see Daemon getting through the crowd to where he's been looking -> he's walking fast and straight to Rhaenyra, (despite Viserys still being there, kind of ,although leaving... so Daemon is still fairly subtle about his protectiveness...but at the same time, he sees that people are already dispersing, so he feels more free to act now that the show is over, and Viserys made it clear no one was allowed to continue that "Rhaenyra inquisition", so either A/ Daemon knew that him being by her side now at least wouldn't endanger her anymore. B/ He's understood that everything bad that could've been said against her has already been said and so him being with her couldn't make things worse, C/ or the moment when he saw Rhaenyra get threatened with a knife, made something snap inside of him and he decided to stand by her now, no matter what, like, to hell with it ...) And what do YOU guys think?

First thing Daemon does when he reaches Rhaenyra, he immediately checks her hand, her well-being being his number one priority again:

And then he shields / half-embraces her,

and later half-embraces Rhaenyra's boys as well, when they get to them, creating this "new family protection circle" :)

I also love Crispin's expression when he sees Rhaenyra's got Daemon now,

Daemon, who is the feared Rogue prince, fierce King of the Stepstones and the Narrow sea, the former commander of the Night watch, rider of Caraxes and the one who's first called him ser Crispin)

- do you think Crispin understood here that Daemon and Rhaenyra were now a thing?

I think Crispin got it right there and then. Hell, if I were Crispin, I'd shit my pants if I saw Daemon giving me THIS glare ... :D

#daemyra #daemyra 1x7 #daemyra analysis #daemyra explanations #daemyra big hall #daemon defender #daemon protector #daemon and rhaenyra #daemon x rhaenyra #daemyra love #daemyra family #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra and daemon #rhaenyra x daemon #hotd 1x7

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distressednoise · 1 month

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It's not WIP Wednesday, but have some sad small Cassian amd Brasso anyway.

After his mother’s funeral half of Ferrix had crammed into their shambling rooms, a confused amalgamation of older tenements into a semi-respectable, union-owned family unit that somehow managed to be spread across three floors without ever filling one. Cass had liked it as a boy, squirrelling along its corridors with whoever else’s children were there or shadowing Brasso’s mother as she narrated her day in to him in Basic at half her normal speed and twice everyone else’s. He’d liked that you could only reach Brasso’s room, a strange triangular attic that was wedged up on the third floor and had no business being part of the property at all, by a single steep ladder, and had patiently taught him how to build a snare at the top of it in case of enemy attack.

When he’d disappeared during the wake Brasso thought he’d retreated up there, but instead found Clem and Cass arguing at the door to his mother’s room.

“Mate, you can’t be here,” Clem was saying. “It’s private.”

“Brasso doesn’t mind,” Cassian said, very confidently for someone who hadn’t spoken to Brasso at all that day and didn’t know he was currently making his way down the corridor with a tray full drinks.

“Let’s ask him then, shall we?”

“You don’t need to - ”

“Sorry about this, Brass,” Clem said, leaning round the door. “He’s not touched anything. He’s just a bit upset.”

“Because they’re doing it wrong - ”

“I told you, Cass, it’s different here. Where’s she going to find a mountain in this place?”

“It’s not in this place,” Cassian insisted, and when Brasso made it through the door he saw that Cassian was perched on the end of his mother’s bed, spine erect and face resolutely turned away from Clem, eyes focused intently on an overflowing plate of food of the dresser. “Brasso, when someone dies - ”

“What people believe happens when someone dies,” Clem said gently, “on Fest.”

“On Fest,” parroted Cassian, mustering a level of adolescent scorn that suggested he was, at most, one name day away from becoming ungovernable, “everyone knows that after they die people have to go up the mountain. And it’s difficult, so they need to take things with them. Like food and stuff. And then you need to watch to make sure that they take it, so you know they’re ok, they’re on their way.” He didn’t move, didn’t turn, just applied all his considerable attention to the food, which on closer inspection was only the centre of a wider offering that included an old drip lamp, barely burning, and a note in an awkward hand in a language Brasso didn’t recognise. Clem shrugged apologetically, a silent promise to deal with this and leave, but Brasso quite liked it. Outside, people were telling him how good his mother was, and how gone. In here, he was just babysitting Cassian again. His mother could well be in the other room, laughing with the Daughters of Ferrix and about to call Brasso to ask where the kaff was.

“Where’s the mountain?” he asked.

“You can’t see it until you’re dead.”

“What’s it called?”

“You wouldn’t be able to say it,” Cassian said, haughty, which Brasso was beginning to realise meant he’d forgotten the word in his own language.

“Okay. What’s that say?”

“Oh.” Cassian wavered slightly, his eyes cutting quickly to Brasso, his posture wavering. “It’s just a message for her to take. I thought she’d like to have someone to talk to.”

That got Brasso somewhere in the stomach and somewhere round the throat at same time. HIs mother was dead. She was going to the next place, whatever that was. And here was one of the neighbourhood kids - someone she barely even knew, really - concerned enough that he’d found her someone to talk to and wanted to make sure she got on her way.

His mother is so good, and so gone.

His face did something that prompted Clem to take custody of the tray. “I’ll take this through,” he said, and then: “is one yours?” Brasso nodded dumbly then took one of the mugs and put it on the dresser next to the rest.

Cassian hummed approvingly. “I told you he didn’t mind.”

“How long should I tell people you’ll be waiting?” Clem asked, and Cassian chirped “three days” so confidently that Brasso huffed out a laugh for the first time in days.

They didn’t manage three days: Brasso got called away and Cassian fell asleep, but after everyone was gone Brasso gave into the childish urge to curl up in his mother’s bed and in the morning the drip lamp had gone out, the kaff had curdled and Cassian’s note had found its way to the floor, so maybe someone had been through. Maybe his mother had her message and was on her way to the mountain, wherever it was.

#my writing #andor #cassian #brasso #have i thought too much about brasso's family YES #will i stop NEVER

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dxckgrxsonx · 2 years

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We are Horrible

Fandom - DCU - Batman: Arkham Knight (Video Games) // DCU Comics Pairing - Arkham Knight X RedRoom!Reader // Jason Todd X RedRoom!Reader Warnings - SMUT 18+ - Graphic Sexual Content - Descriptions of Violence - Implied/Reference Suicide (One Mention) - Blood - Swearing - Crying - Unresolved Trauma - M! Receiving Oral Sex - Face-Fucking - Degradation - Boot Humping - Dom/Sub Undertones - Praise! Kink - Choking - Begging - Very Mild Orgasm Denial - Heavy Angst - No Comfort Word Count - 6.3k Notes - If you can't tell, I have big fat feelings for the Arkham Knight. I just??? Love him so very much and basically used my Reader Gloves to express how much I want to jump his bones. I was biting many inanimate objects throughout writing this so if you see teeth marks in random things...it wasn't me.

Also - Would any of you be interested if I started doing a tag list?

‘You horrify me. But at the same time, I horrify myself. We are horrible.’

You hear him before you see him.

All the hair along the back of your neck stands on end and a frigid shiver sweeps over your skin; rocking hard down the interlocking bones of your spine. There’s an awkward hush throughout the group, a tense clack of teeth smashing together when those around you clench their jaw.

His steps are loud–you think he does it on purpose–if he didn’t want you to hear him, you don’t think you would until it’s too late. His posture bleeds authority, this is a man who doesn’t ask permission. He takes what he wants and if you stand in his way, then it’s your funeral.

You’ve heard the stories from those who laid witness to his calculated rage, you don’t ever want to be on the receiving end of that endless wrath.

There’s something uneasy kicking awake in your stomach.

The Arkham Knight is downright terrifying.

It’s not lost on you how afraid everyone is. How the base impulse in the Knight’s presence is to tremble. He makes you feel like prey. Looks at you from behind that mesmerising helmet like he’s already got three ways planned out on how to kill you with his bare hands.

You’ve never met him before. Only joined his team of highly trained militia a few weeks ago, and during that time you’ve trained with a few different people, but never him directly. They have, however, caught you up to speed well enough that you can slip straight into whatever role the Knight assigns.

Some part of you is thankful that you haven’t met him before now, looking at the Knight is almost like staring your murderer in the face. It’s unnatural and the empty space in your chest cavity fills with something that feels like a panic response, feels like fight or flight.

But another part of you—the stupid part of you, the part that has zero respect for authority—wants to go head to head. Wants to push his boundaries, wants to see first hand why those around you are afraid.

In the face of fight or flight you’ve always chosen the former. Preferring to swing your fist at the threat than run from it. Your whole childhood was a panic response, boiled down to fight fight fight, and sometimes, when you look back at it, you understand why you turned into something ugly, something rageful.

Your time in the Red Room helped you control that rage, turn it into something that could be wielded as a weapon. The methods they used were inhuman–you might as well have shot your childhood self through the head–but it worked. They turned you into something powerful, something unstoppable, something utterly evil.

The Red Room burned out everything soft inside you and replaced it.

You hate them for it.

As you watch the Arkham Knight, you see fractured parts of yourself in the way he moves. He hides it well, masks it behind layers and layers of armour and anger and isolation. But you see it in the way he carefully watches everything around him, the controlled way he moves, the way his hands never stray too far from his weapons.

The Knight craves control, needs it.

You know where that need comes from, where it was born, where it rips you open and wedges itself between the tender bones of your ribs. He was once powerless. His entire life suspended on strings in someone else’s hands. You know what that’s like, how it fucks you up from the inside out, twists parts of yourself into something unrecognisable–

How it makes you hate yourself.

You wonder, was he able to cut the strings himself, or did someone else do it for him?

Looking around, you don’t think anyone else notices the barely visible signs of trauma. They look at the Knight and see someone to be respected, followed. They look at him and believe he’ll guide them to victory, to absolute control.

And he probably will.

There’s a cold focus in the way he operates. Something drives him forwards, a goal he’s throwing himself towards with everything he’s got. The Knight is clever, his intellect something to be admired. You’ve been here a few weeks at best and since you’ve arrived, you’ve found yourself more and more impressed.

Leadership isn’t easy in ordinary circumstances, and so the fact the Knight is able to lead his entire army without fault throws your brain into a frantic tailspin.

Without a word, the Knight approaches and you feel that first prickle of panic at the back of your neck. It’s involuntary, your body reacts on a base level - almost like a reflex. It frustrates you how this man is able to pull such a visceral reaction from you when you’ve spent years getting that specific response drilled out of your skull.

You gave up so much to gain so little.

Someone at the side speaks, addressing the Knight directly, “We’ve got the best mercenaries from across the globe ready to follow you into–.”

He cuts the man off with brutal efficiency.

“You two! Raise your weapons.” He barks, voice mechanical, robotic. The Knight stands rigid, controlled, there’s an air of almost smugness surrounding him. He sweeps his gaze across you and the man at your side–calculating. “Kill me and this entire operation is yours to command and profit from.”

Confusion flutters over your face–fast, barely there before you wipe it from your features. Beside you, the guy you’ve been paired with for training–you think his name is Dan, rolls his shoulders, a huge minigun clenched tight in his large fists. He gives you a brief glance, a quick head to toe sweep before settling his full attention on the Knight.

“Is that an order, sir?” You ask, a slight tilt to your head as you consider his words.

“Absolutely.” He confirms.

A smirk tugs at your mouth, that stupid, challenging part of you flaring awake. Adrenaline dumps hard into your bloodstream and you think that there’s always been something dark inside you, something mean and unhinged. Every now and again you wish you could cut it out of yourself, wish you could grab a knife and slice yourself open to take out those parts of yourself you hate.

But the Red Room made you hate every part of yourself. You think that if you start taking parts of yourself away, there won’t be anything left.

The air around your head crackles, tension twisting tight over your throat. The heat baring down from above makes you sweat and the sticky itch of it irritates your skin. The Knight waits patiently opposite, silence echoing through his helmet. Every now and again you feel the heavy weight of his gaze pass over you and it sparks the dry kindles of your patience.

You’ve never liked being watched.

“Well then,” Dan booms at your side, pulling his minigun into a more offensive position. “Let’s get you bleeding.”

Chaos erupts and in a twisted way, you’ve missed fighting against someone who offers a challenge.

Gunfire splits the air in two, it’s loud and jarring and you swing out of the way without missing a beat. Dan heaves his weapon in the direction of the Knight, finger laying heavy on the trigger. Used up bullet casings litter the ground as he pounds through rounds and rounds of ammo without hitting a single thing.

Stupid. Reckless. Undisciplined.

“The man you’re facing cannot be underestimated.” The Knight starts, modulated voice washing over you. The authority and knowledge leaching into the tone makes you listen, leaves you captivated.

He goes for Dan first, and you witness the most incredible display of combat skills you’ve seen outside the Red Room. Leaping onto the minigun itself the Knight uses it as a stepping stone to avoid getting shot through the stomach. Coming up quick you watch with wide eyes as he jumps and lands a brutal kick to Dan’s head.

“I know him inside and out.” He continues, tone unchanged.

Drawing the pistol strapped to your thigh you flick off the safety and fire one shot–just to see what he’s going to do, to find out how he’s going to react. The bullet goes wide, your intention isn’t to hit him, some part of you thinks that he wouldn’t give you that chance. But it gets his attention and the sensation of electricity zips up your spine.

“He is relentless, cunning…and he destroys everything he touches.”

Stepping hard on Dan’s shoulder for momentum he twists into a frontflip, easily clearing Dan’s impressive height and putting him into the perfect position to kick the pistol from your hand. Stutter stepping backwards you fight for separation and manage to dodge the combat boot aimed for your weapon.

“On his worst day, he is your better in every possible way.”

The Knight lands on one knee and when he looks up you feel the blistering heat of his gaze on your face. You level your pistol as Dan collapses to the ground holding his jaw, a horrible groan of pain ripping out of his mouth. Looking down for a split second you glance back to the Knight and raise an eyebrow, mouth twitching into a small grin.

Moving quicker than you can comprehend the Knight darts forwards into your space. Wrapping a gloved hand around your wrist he moves to violently disarm you and probably break your fingers in the process. Using your free hand to grab his armoured shoulder you swing your leg up and hook your thighs around his neck.

Strong fingers briefly scrabble at your knee as the Knight fights for leverage and you twist your hips, using the momentum to throw him off balance. Dipping backwards you swing your weight to one side and drag the Knight down with you as you fall. Releasing your grip at the last second you land easily on your feet as the Knight manoeuvres himself into a controlled roll, sand and dust kicking up around you both.

Slipping your pistol back into its holster you rock into a better fighting stance–lowering your centre of gravity and balancing light on the balls of your feet. Mentally processing the Knight’s skills you search for weak points but come up empty.

You’re no stranger to a difficult opponent–hell, the Red Room was all about putting you against someone older and larger and expecting you to fight your way to victory no matter the cost.

You’d come away from those fights halfway to broken–but that’s what they wanted. The Red Room shattered you into sharp jagged pieces, only to rebuild you in their twisted image. To turn you into some tool, some weapon in someone else's hands.

You’re no better than a loaded gun; just point and shoot.

No wonder you hate yourself sometimes.

No wonder you ran.

Circling one another the Knight stares you down, his presence turns suffocating, he looms over you, all perfectly poised and powerful, “You really think you stand a chance against him?” He mocks, a wicked robotic drawl curling through the air. “A few fancy tricks won’t be enough to take him down.”

You feel like a child again. Up against the endless evil of HYDRA. Put through tests and tests and tests. Each one more taxing than the last until you broke, cried, begged for them to stop. But they never did, just continued to turn you into something unrecognisable, something evil.

“Do you really believe that’s the best I have to offer?” You grin, shark like, all mean edges and sharp teeth.

You strike out first and you realise your mistake seconds too late.

He wanted you to move first, rile you up only to take advantage of your lack of control.

The Knight sweeps your legs, taking you out. You hit the ground with a thud, breath punched straight from your lungs. It’s stupid how such a simple move takes you down but you can’t deny the fact that you didn’t see it coming. You know now, why those around you look to the Knight for guidance, leadership.

He’s strong and clever and always in control.

Rolling to the side you dodge the kick aimed at your ribs by mere millimetres. Springing back to your feet you intercept the Knight’s fist as it comes towards you. Snatching his forearm you shove his attack wide and plant your foot against his chest. Kicking with all the force you can muster you manage to push him back a few steps.

Whilst he’s on the backpedal you regain composure and go on the offensive. Your brain screams that you’re being too aggressive, that he’s too large to go up against head to head, that you’re better staying loose limbed and quick.

But you’re stupid.

The Arkham Knight has you flat on your back in seconds, and a different heat flares awake low in your gut.

Oh fuck.

Forcing his knee against your sternum as he kneels over you he leans in close, mesmerising helmet brushing your cheek. Your fingers sink into the dirt and sand at your sides, overwhelming frustration eating away at the inside of your chest.

“Is that all you’ve got?” He drawls, and you hear the smirk in his voice. “I must admit, I was expecting better.”

Snapping your head up you crash your skull into his helmet. Pain bursts across your nose at the impact and the Knight reels back, knee slipping from its place on your chest. Twisting around underneath him you shove him hard in the shoulder and he gives–not as much as you’d like, but enough to flip you both.

Sitting on his stomach your thighs frame his hips, weapons digging into your skin. The irritating press of his tactical belt makes you frown above him. From feel alone you mentally count at least three grenades and a few other devices; you mark him down as resourceful in your head.

Touching the pads of your fingers against your nose they come away wet with blood and you roll your eyes. As time’s gone on, you’ve found that bleeding is more of an inconvenience than a source of fear. Although you find a dry sort of humour at the fact that everything that causes you pain is Red in one way or another.

“I really hope that he’s having a bad day when I go up against him.” You breathe, and it’s a half truth. “If we just team up and push him down a flight of stairs would that work?”

A strangled cough rips up the Knight’s throat and you feel the laugh caught in his chest seconds before his hand reaches up and curls around your neck, cutting off your air completely. His thumb presses against the thick vein underneath your jaw, you know he feels the desperate flutter of your pulse.

Wrestling you off him he shoves your back to the floor and loosens his fist so you can suck in a breath before tightening it again. Your head goes fuzzy, you feel weightless, maybe even drunk. The sensation fires mixed signals in your brain, half crippling fear, half desperate arousal.

You’re wet.

“Your best is not nearly good enough.” He growls, and you fight the blinding urge to grab your knife and shove it through his ribs. “Reckless, undisciplined, stupid.”

The way his voice dips into a cruel tease sends your brain into the stratosphere, your eyelids flutter, you ache. You never guessed that being strangled and called stupid was your thing, but here you are. Gasping for breath under his hand and getting fucking wet about it.

Finally releasing his hold he straightens up and addresses those who watch on, “Time is growing short. Deathstroke will be back in a couple days for the rest of your training.” Shoving the tip of his boot into your ribs the Knight looks down at you, panting and covered in dirt and sand, bleeding from the cut on the bridge of your nose, “Get up.”

Rolling to your feet you regard him with guarded caution, there’s still a wicked fire burning in your eyes and you’re not entirely convinced you won’t take a swing at him just because you can, because you’ve always been a poor loser.

Disregarding you, the Knight swings his leg over his bike, the vehicle sleek and black and beautiful.

Turning his attention back to the group his modulated voice reverberates, “The reward is you win Gotham. But winning Gotham means defeating its dark champion and exposing his secrets, and the secret is…he’s only human.” Revving the engine he swings the bike around. “I’ve been preparing for this my whole life and I expect you all to rise to the occasion. Because my secret is…I’m only merciful once.”

Taking off in a cloud of dust you follow him with your eyes, briefly, for a split second, you wonder if you have the time to pull your pistol and shoot the back of his helmet. Dismissing the thought as quick as it comes, you turn to Dan who stands close by, minigun back in his hands.

“Well that was fun.” You mock.

Huffing out a short laugh you notice how his hands shake, “Think I need a new pair of pants.”

Sweat dots your hairline, it beads up along your temples and irritates your skin. Wiping it away with the back of your hand you bounce easily on the balls of your feet and take another swing at the punching bag–fist connecting with a resounding thud.

Pain spiders through your hand, the thin bones trembling faintly beneath your skin. It rocks you up to the elbow and you growl at the discomfort. Twisting your hips you slam your leg into the bag and spin on the ball of your foot. Coming back around you throw a blinding three hit combo into the plastic and exhale.

The bag swings back in retaliation and you swiftly duck out of its path before sliding in behind it and kicking it as it passes. Your hands shake, white tape beginning to turn red where your skin has split under the strain.

Midnight rolls around on the clock and you sigh under your breath.

Your fight with the Knight yanked something loose in your chest. It knocks against the cage of your ribs, calling for your attention over the relentless roar of your own pulse. You know you need to pull it out or wedge it back into place–it can’t bounce around inside you forever–but an emotion you can’t put your finger on swirls through your skull.

“Your best is not nearly good enough.”

Reeling back your fist you slam it into the centre of the bag. Fury bubbles awake in your gut and you snarl. Rolling under the bag as it swings back you leap to your feet and raise your leg in a high arc, hitting the bag in the side with enough force to make the chain holding it rattle. Weaving out of its path you bounce on your feet and raise your fists, ignoring the tape that peels away from your ruined knuckles.

Without the rigorous standards of the Red Room you feel yourself slipping. There’s a horrifying yank at the base of your spine when a sense of failure washes over you. During combat training they would put you against each other–test your skills, test your loyalty. Failure to kill your opponent wasn’t just failure–it was death.

The Red Room never tolerated anything less than perfection, and even though admitting it makes you want to rip out your tongue: you thrived on their standards, would snap yourself into ugly little pieces to meet their impossible standards.

Even though your goal wasn’t to kill the Knight, you still feel that evil prickle of thorns around your neck–still get that crippling sense of dread when you realise you failed. Subconsciously–almost an attempt to make yourself feel better–you think you held back when fighting the Knight. After all, in your head he registers as an authority figure–someone you should look to for guidance, for knowledge. Someone who is untouchable–someone who controls you.

It scares you half to death the way you search for an authority figure in him–how you do it reflectively, the way you do it for guidance, for a sense of purpose.

You don’t even know how to exist for yourself.

In the back of your head you hear yourself weeping, part of you so utterly broken that you wonder if you’ll ever be whole again–if you’ll ever belong to yourself and not someone else. Always stuck between begging for someone to take control of you and hating it with every fibre of your being.

The fury gives way for something else, something worse.

Insecurity.

Tears bubble up along your lower lashes and for one horrible second you want to shoot yourself through the head.

Quiet footsteps echo behind you, there’s something familiar about the gait and weight of each step. You turn to face the doorway, furiously wiping at your eyes expecting to see Dan standing there–his muscular figure taking up the breadth of the door. But what you find is someone else.

The Arkham Knight.

His posture radiates authority–your hands start to shake, there’s something desperate and tired inside you. You want to give it all up. The Red Room was all about making sure you had no control–handlers, trainers, handcuffs around your wrist as you sleep. You never realised that if you left–if you ran–what they taught you would still end up following.

Dropping to your knees you bow your head and cry.

Hiding your face behind your bleeding hands you feel the weight of knowing you don’t belong to yourself press into your shoulders. The pain is alive inside you, it almost feels like you’re dying. You’ve been through torture sessions, you know what it’s like to hurt–but this hurts in a different way, right down to your bones; you don’t know if it’ll ever stop.

Movement registers in the back of your head, even when you’re distracted you’re still able to track people’s steps–if you weren't so consumed with shame, you’d probably be impressed with your subconscious.

The Knight stands directly in front of you, his combat boots touching the tips of your knees. A gloved hand reaches under your chin, tilting your head up and forcing your hands to come away from your face.

Staring up at his helmet through blurry eyes you crack your ribs wide open–

“Please–I can’t–I need yo–” Tears overflow and roll down your cheeks, closing your eyes you swallow, you don’t want to look at him. Squeezing your jaw the Knight gives your head a gentle shake, a demand to open your eyes and look at him. “I need you to–” Your voice cracks, “–please, take control of me.”

Silence echoes for a strangled beat and part of you wants to get up and run.

“Oh pretty girl,” The Knight coos, wiping away your tears with his thumb. “Look at you, so desperate, so…broken.”

Your lower lip trembles, you want to duck your head and hide but he doesn’t let you. The Knight keeps his fingers locked around your jaw, the firm grip straddles the fine line between comfort and pain–you wonder if he’ll leave a mark.

“M’sorry. I’m so sorry–please–I can’t…” Your throat closes up, you can barely speak. Wringing your hands in your lap you press the pads of your fingers into your knuckles, use the pain to ground yourself. “You need to tell me what to do–I can’t–I don’t know how…”

“Shh. I’ve got you.” He says, and his thumb presses against your lower lip, the wet salt of your tears caught on the glove smearing over your mouth. Your lips part slightly and he takes the opportunity to slide his pointer and middle finger into your mouth. “Such a good girl.”

Your whole world shudders–crumbles straight to ash, and the Arkham Knight stands at its centre.

Pressing down on your tongue he slips his fingers deeper and you drool, spit leaking from the edges of your mouth. Touching the back of your throat you gag and fight the urge to pull back. Curling his free hand around the back of your head he holds you in place and continues to fuck your mouth with his fingers.

Shifting around on your knees to try and dissipate the ache building in your gut, your fingers drag up your thighs–coming to a slow stop over your covered cunt. Without looking away you press two fingers over your clit and sigh, eyelids fluttering.

A rough boot kicks at your knees, shoving them apart so he can wedge the tip of his combat boot against your pussy–effectively blocking your greedy fingers from where you grow wet and throbbing.

“Behave.” The Knight warns, fingers still sliding in and out of your mouth. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

Swiping your tongue between his fingers you suckle gently and wrap your hand around his ankle, keeping him in place. Slipping the digits deeper he reaches the back of your throat again and you forcefully relax to let him explore, tears overflowing and dripping down your cheeks.

“There you go. So good for me.” He praises, releasing the back of your head so he can fiddle with his tactical belt. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

The praise sets you on fire, a dry spark of gasoline on your skin. Back in the Red Room, the only time you got praise was when you completed a task. Whether that was killing an opponent, extracting information, or resisting hours and hours of torture.

You remember the way you’d keen under their words, push yourself past the breaking point just to hear them say you’ve done a good job, that they’re proud of you, that you’re going to have the world at your feet.

It sat wrong in your stomach for years, something young and hurting banging against the inside of your chest when you thanked them for turning you into a monster.

Anything they wanted, you would have done for them.

But this praise is different, it lights you up inside like a goddamn solar flare. There’s no sense of guilt or betrayal, there’s just his words, his gloved fingers sliding rough and wet over your tongue and down your throat. You want to be good–you want to be good for him.

“Poor stupid girl.” He says, rocking his foot up against the sensitive space between your thighs. Grinding down on his boot involuntary you choke on a whimper. “I should have known that under all those fancy combat skills there was a pathetic little slut.”

Biting down on the fingers in your mouth you scowl.

“Don’t look at me like that.” The Knight chuckles, removing his hand from your mouth. “You think I didn’t notice how you reacted earlier? How you got all wet and sticky just from me putting my hand around your throat.”

Heat scathes up your neck, you hate how his words make your body react. Wetness seeps into your underwear, sticking the damp fabric to the swollen lips of your pussy. There’s a quick twitch of your clit as the Knight presses his boot against you harder–rocking it back and forth, dragging the length of your cunt over it.

Digging your nails into his ankle you whine, bottom lip trembling.

Unbuckling his tactical pants he shoves them and his boxers down far enough to free his length–the elastic waistband sitting underneath his full balls. His cock springs up, deliciously long and thick, flushed a deep red at the tip. The thick vein running up the underside of his shaft throbs and a clear bead of precum smears over the head.

Wrapping his gloved hand around himself he gives a long, slow pump and groans, the sound making your wet little hole flutter. Gathering the bead of precum on his thumb he swipes it over your mouth, wiping the taste of himself across your lips. Darting your tongue over his thumb your eyes roll into the back of your skull, the taste of him almost intoxicating.

Tipping your head forwards you mouth at the leaking tip, swirling your tongue over the pretty head of his cock. A strangled noise echoes through his helmet and you grind your cunt down on his boot. Grabbing a fistful of your hair the Knight guides you over his length, making sure you slick up his cock before he presses the fat head into the wet heat of your mouth.

“Uh–fuck…” He moans, hips flexing as he shoves himself deeper. The hand in your hair tightens, holding you in place as he feeds you inch after inch. “You were made for taking my cock sweetheart, you look so–ugh–pretty.”

The thick girth of him makes your jaw ache, you didn’t think your mouth could stretch wide enough to fit all of him in. Spit leaks from the corners of your mouth, dribbling down your chin and landing on his boot between your thighs. Pulling back before he hits the back of your throat he pushes forwards again, forcing his entire length into your mouth.

Brushing the back of your throat you gag, throat muscles squeezing around the tip of his cock. Your fingers clamp around his ankle, eyes watering as he thrusts deeper, your nose bumping against his navel.

“Gonna fuck your face,” He grunts, “Want you to feel me for days.”

Rocking back and forth you drag your leaking pussy over his boot, catching the dips and grooves on your throbbing clit. The pressure makes you moan, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Heat sparks up and down your spine, electricity zapping along your nerves. The position doesn’t give you as much contact as you want, the layers and layers of clothing preventing you from feeling everything–but it’s enough to get you close.

Pulling his hips back you suck in a desperate breath, lungs burning something fierce. Without pausing, he shoves his cock back into your mouth and down your throat–the impressive girth and weight of him settling heavy on your tongue. Easing into a messy rhythm you revel in the sounds you pull from the Knight’s mouth, the little moans and groans that make your pussy gush.

He sounds so pretty, you wonder for a brief moment what his voice sounds like without the modulator. Almost selfishly, you wish you knew his name.

Shifting his free hand he curls it around your neck, swearing lowly when he feels the bulge in your throat as he bottoms out. Forcing you to take his full length he holds you down, hand fisting your hair and preventing you from pulling back. Your nose presses against his lower stomach, spit and drool coating the warm skin there.

“You’re going to swallow it all sweetheart, you hear me?” He grunts, pulling back when you slap at his ankle. Surging forwards his muscular thighs flex, “M’gonna come in your mouth and you’re gonna swallow it all. You’re gonna swallow everything I give you or you’re not gonna come.”

The lack of air makes you feel drunk, eyes glossy and almost unseeing. Catching the swollen mess of your clit on his boot you shake and grind down harder, desperate to relieve the overpowering ache. Pleasure bleeds through your veins, sparking from the tips of your fingers to your toes. You have no control over the situation–you’ve never felt more free.

The Knight’s rhythm falters, breathing erratic. His cock twitches hard in your mouth and you trace the thick vein running along the underside with your tongue and it twitches again, harder this time. A mean snarl pours through the modulator and your whole pussy clenches, wetness oozing from your flushed little hole.

“Fuck–fuck–fuck.” He growls, hands shaking, strong hips sloppily surging forwards. Releasing his hold around your neck he strokes his fingers down your cheek, pressing down and feeling his length in your mouth. “Y’look so pretty–so pretty with my cock in your mouth.” He coos, breathless, “Shit–uh–fuck. Gonna–m’gonna come.”

Throwing his head back he moans, long and low and so, so pretty.

Shoving his cock down your throat his entire body seizes. Holding you down by the back of your head you fight the urge to gag, to struggle and hit out. His thick length twitches and he spills down your throat, ropes and ropes of his come unloading into your stomach. The taste of him floods your mouth and you teeter on the edge of oblivion.

“That’s it, you greedy girl, swallow it all.”

Gasping violently as he pulls back a thin string of spit connects you and the fat head of his cock. Looking up, your eyes water and there’s something pleading in your gaze. Hovering over his boot you feel your cunt pulse and beg for stimulation–you’re so close to coming that one pass of his boot would tip you over the edge.

“Please.” You beg quietly, face burning with humiliation. “Please–I’m so close–please can–can I come?”

Tapping your covered pussy with his foot you whimper–he grinds against your swollen clit harder and your thighs tremble.

“Is that really all it’s going to take?” He says, tone mocking. “Are you really going to come from this?” Pushing his boot up again he stops you from squirming away and you wail, tears streaming down your face. “God–you’re fucking disgusting.”

Your whole world goes supernova, an explosion of colour igniting behind your eyes. You don’t know how he does it–how he knows just what to say to drag you kicking and screaming to the very edge.

“Shit– oh fuck..shit. I’m gonna–hng–please! I’ve been good…I–I swallowed everything–please–oh god! Please!”

Tucking his softening length back into his tactical pants he kneels down, removing all stimulation and forcing a wrecked sob from between your lips. Roughly shoving your knees further apart with his hands he rubs two fingers over your cunt–a quick back and forth pass that has you shaking, hands coming up to dig into his armoured shoulders.

Staring into his helmet you see your own reflection staring back. Watery eyes, sweat dotting along your hairline, spit and drool covering your mouth and chin. Every part of you looks almost pathetic and you know that if anyone from the Red Room saw you now, they’d put you down like a dog.

You want to look away but something keeps you there, you wonder if you’re looking into the Knight’s eyes. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

“Oh you poor stupid girl,” He teases, a cruel undertone bleeding into his words–it sets you on fire, makes you want to grab one of the guns from his hips and slam a bullet through his chest. “What would people think if they saw you like this? Crying and begging like a whore to come just from this–from a little pressure on your pathetic cunt.”

Stroking his fingers over your pussy you gasp, open mouthed and utterly desperate. Circling his digits around your wet, throbbing clit you grind down–hard. Compensating for your movements the Knight allows you to use his hand to get more pressure on your cunt, closing your eyes for a split second you moan.

“Open your eyes.” He orders, that blaring tone of authority wrapping around your neck. “Don’t you dare look away when you come.”

You snap your eyes open.

“Oh–oh…okay–shit. Can–can I come now…please, I’m so close.”

Your clit twitches as you feel your gazes lock, a glittering pulse forcing more wetness out of your clenching hole. You feel half deaf with pleasure, the only thing registering the Knight and his voice and his quick, nimble fingers rubbing against you.

“Come for me, pretty girl,” He finally says, curling his free hand around your neck and squeezing. “Wanna see you make a mess.”

You’re gone.

He makes you work for your breath, air dragging thick through your throat as you convulse and cry out. Your pussy gushes, arousal seeping through the thin fabric of your underwear and dampening your tactical pants. Glittering heat explodes in your veins and the quick, desperate twitching of your clit matches the clenching of your empty cunt.

The pleasure feels alive inside you, sending you straight into the damn stratosphere. You feel high, drunk, weightless. There’s nothing in your head but blinding warmth and his voice, praising you for doing so well, for being so good.

Pressing your forehead to his helmet you barely manage to keep your eyes open.

You don’t think you’ve come that hard before, you’re not sure if your legs will work if you stand. There’s an ache in your fingers as you cling to the fabric of the Knight’s uniform, aftershocks ripping up the fragile bones of your spine.

Releasing your throat the Knight pulls back, forcing your grip on his shoulders to loosen. Grabbing your chin he presses hard enough to make you hiss.

“You’re mine, do you understand?”

A stupid smile tugs at the edges of your mouth, you know he can feel it through his gloves. Of all the people you’ve belonged to–horrible parents, The Red Room, HYDRA, evil handlers who just wanted you to hurt. You think that belonging to him is the next best thing beside belonging to yourself.

It’s twisted, there's something in the back of your head shouting a warning, but out of your whole life, this is the most free you’ve felt. You recognise that you’re broken, a little fucked up on the inside–you can’t function properly without having someone else control you, guide you. A side effect of going through the Red Room and escaping before they can finish their training.

But you think that maybe the Knight is a little broken too. You still see fractured parts of yourself in him. If you look at him for too long, you start to see the little cracks in his armour. He’s been hurt too.

You see him and you understand: broken sees broken.

You gave up so much to gain…something.

“You’re mine, do you understand?”

Yes

Notes - One thing I'd like to mention - I did play around with multiple different endings for this. Some sweeter, some not so sweet. In the end I tried to stick to my characterisation of the Reader (she's a little screwed up from the Red Room) and I kind of wanted to leave it open to interpretation. I do have an outline planned for a second part to this as I want to give the reader a chance to heal, and I also have a few very self indulgent scenes planned *wink wonk*. Plus you know, AK!Jason has me in a chokehold rn.

Anyway!! Hope you enjoyed. It was nice to flex my smut writing fingers after so long, I'll 100% be writing more in the future.

Love Ya!! xx

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