#i recognize that and i hate it with all of me but that's not what this post is about | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goodeapple · 16 hours ago

Text

pedal to the metal (cregan s. modern hotd pwp o.s.)

pairing : Cregan x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : MDNI PWP, hate sex babyyy! cunnilingus (creg's a munch, let's talk about it), p-in-the-v, doggystyle, sex in a public place, misogynistic language/illusions, brat taming, general yummy stuff

word count : 3,500+

note : two updates? in less than two weeks? who is sheeee. but actually, i have a nasty sinus infection and i feel like a hot air balloon so any love from ya'll would cure me. all my love, always xx

"How much do I owe you?"

"Your money's no good here." Cregan rumbles, letting his eyes roam leisurely down the enchanting bends and blooms of Ysilla's body.

The dress she's slid into is nothing short of obscene- the silky caramel color a twin shade of her soft, supple skin. The entirety of her chest may be covered to the base of her throat courtesy of the halter neckline, but that doesn't account for the backless design that bares her down to the bounce of her ass. She's all leg and sky high heels, the hemline stopping short just below her cheeks. Her midnight hair is twisted up and off her shoulders, displaying the huge fucking diamonds decorating her earlobes.

She's a showroom car in the middle of his dingy garage. Untouchable. Unattainable.

Ysilla eyes him with a healthy sprinkling of mistrust, giving him a very unimpressed once over. Every speck of grease on his jeans seems to grow darker, the dirt under his nails thickening into a damning paste. Cregan grits his teeth, recognizing the look for exactly what it is- he's shit under her shoes.

"Just do me a favor, alright?" He goes on before she can't stop him, the perk of her eyebrow haughty and aching to rebuff him. "Lay offa Jace. Man's been through the ringer, he doesn't need you piling on all the time."

The look of gobsmacked shock on her pretty face is priceless. Cregan bets no one's ever talked to her like that before.

"You don't tell me what to do, Stark."

"Not telling you, I'm askin' you." He bites back, rolling his eyes. She picks Jace up sometimes, pulling up in her candy apple red Corvette- no doubt thanks to mummy's money- and doesn't even bother to get out and set foot inside of Stark & Son's Body Shop. She'll lay on the horn, harping at Jace to get a move on and stop wasting my fucking time.

Real classy gal.

"It's my brother's own goddamn problem that he wrapped his Ferrari 'round a tree while he was pissed. Now Mum's making him work off his house arrest in this shit shop, and I have to take time out of my day to pick him up from daycare? Bite me." Such vitriol seems unlikely to come from sparkly glossed lips but it pours like oil, easy and thick off her tongue. She's crossed her arms, cocked a hip, and is glaring at him something serious.

'Shit shop' eh? Cregan snarls, Northern pride burning through the tips of his ears. He stands, kicking away the rolling stool, all six feet and more of him swallowing up the Targaryen daughter in his shadow. Even with her heels, she still has to look up at him to give him her nastiest look.

"And where are your priorities exactly, Princess?" Cregan doesn't make a habit of talking to women like this but Ysilla gnaws at him like frostbite. Plus, he's got nothing to lose. His uncle is the one doing the favor for Jace's mum. Cregan doesn't owe anyone shit.

"You off to another club? Didn't I just see your photo splashed over every mag from here to Rook's Rest last week? Partying and gettin' sloshed, stumbling into limos face first and ass up." He chuckles, enjoying a little too much how her bronzed cheeks bloom rosy, the whites of her eyes growing frosty. She's positively fuming- he's surprised steam hasn't shot out of her ears yet. Cregan decides to push his luck, tucking a stubborn curl behind her ear, tracing the shell of it in faux tenderness.

"What're you searching for at the bottom of all those bottles? Who are ya looking for in the ones that end up in your bed?"

He expects the smack because that last bit was a little too far. Shit stings, he'll give it to her, waggling his jaw to dissipate the pain. He rubs at the skin of his cheek, the stubbled flesh hot under his hand.

"Struck a nerve, did I?" He laughs darkly, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. It's a valiant effort, one made in vain as another manicured paw sails through the air and attempts to get familiar with his face. Cregan catches Ysilla's hand, yanking her into him if only to limit how much destruction she can cause.

"You get one Princess, you don't get another."

Cregan watches the narrowing of her captivating indigo eyes, her little angry breaths hot along his chest. Maybe he'd laugh at the fact that her pissed off face is about as menacing as a pouting puppy if he didn't realize all of her is pressed into the entire front of him. He refuses to focus on the softness of her breasts pillowed against his ribs. Blocks out the rosemary of her shampoo drifting up his nose from the strands swaying under his chin.

He lets a traitorous thought drift into his head, a whisper of how fucking perfect she feels against him, how deliciously right she is in his arms.

"What dumb slag told you that you were hot shit enough to talk to a girl this way?" Ysilla spits, trying to yank free her wrists he still has locked in his meaty fists.

Cregan scoffs, releasing her and taking a step back- for his sake or hers, he won't answer, not even in his head. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

She rubs at the tender skin under her Cartier bracelets, and Cregan argues with himself to not feel too bad. Considering his face still hurts like a bitch, he doesn't take much convincing.

"Maybe I would."

He almost misses it, Ysilla's voice dimmed down to a near whisper. But it's just the two of them this late at night, so she may as well've screamed it at the top of her lungs.

Of fucking course.

"Oh, I see. Does that turn you on? Guys treating you like shit?" It's his turn to cross his arms and look down the tip of his nose at her. "Or do you just want a man that won't bow down to you because of your last name?"

"Easy, big boy." Ysilla sneers. She spins on her heel, sauntering away from him and Cregan certainly does not stare at the beguiling jiggle of her ass.

She finds a seat, reclining on the hood of her Corvette, the same one he was doing a solid for Jace fixing up, faulty fuel sensor and a shitty transmission hidden under the shiny red hood. She may be a bit of a twat but she's still my sister. Can't have her skiddin' off the Long Bridge, Mum would have my ass.

"I've had enough night-outs to last a lifetime. Maybe… I should try out something different." She crosses her long legs at the ankle and the shop lights might be severely unflattering on most people, but of course that doesn't apply to her. The white glow bounces off her polished skin, illuminating her in a showcase display, enticing anyone who may spare a glance. Fuck, he wants to take a bite out of her.

"What? Wanna slum it?" Cregan can't believe this shit- maybe Ysilla knocked a screw loose when she swatted at him earlier and he's hallucinating like a bad fucking mushroom trip.

She giggles, an evil little sound that would probably make a baby cry. "Your words, not mine." Her fingers dance at the edge of her dress, dipping below the hem, raising it just so. She's got thick thighs, creamy and unblemished, and Cregan thinks of how easily they'd spread apart for his shoulders when he'd go face first between them. His silence stretches on and Ysilla takes it as an unspoken answer.

"No? Your loss." She shrugs, pushing to her feet.

"Bend over the hood. Keep your heels on."

He's somewhat proud his voice doesn't shake. He's no blushing bride but this is pretty ballsy. The shop door isn't even locked- he'd opened it for her once she arrived and expected her to walk right back out of it in a matter of minutes. His guys are all long gone for the night, probably already a few pints deep at the pub, but this isn't the best part of King's Landing. Anyone could try the door and walk into the porno he's apparently shooting in his garage.

He expects a fight, at least a snide remark or two but Ysilla is full of surprises. She gives him a sexy little smirk, staring him down like she's expecting him to back out. When all he does is raise an impatient eyebrow, she bites her lip in anticipation and spins around. She walks her hands up the hood of her car, positioning herself in the most alluring display of come take me now Cregan's ever seen.

He doesn't make his feet move but suddenly, somehow, he's behind her, nearly flush with the back of her thighs. He wedges his steel toe in between her stilettos and knocks them apart. Ysilla gasps as her legs spread, goosebumps peppering over the naked skin of her back.

He lets himself enjoy this, running his palms from the bare slope of her shoulders, down the sides of her covered breasts, and over the small of her back. She feels fantastic, all woman, and his cock pulses thickly behind his fly. He sees her fingers flex along the gleaming red metal she clings to before the sight drops away as he squats behind her, his face level now with her delicious derriere.

Ysilla peers at him from under her arm, a surprised little laugh escaping her. "Thought you'd be the kind to just shove it in."

Cregan shimmies the expensive silk of her dress over the swell of her hips, exposing the globes of her ass to the tepid night air. He smiles, the softest look he's aimed at her so far tonight. "Ye of little faith, milady."

She's beautiful, every inch of her. He suckles a string of bruises from the back of her knee to the swell of her cheek, stamping down the urge to sink his teeth into the lavish bounty of her body.

"Gonna kiss my ass, Stark- oh! Damn se Sīkuda, fuckkk."

He indulges a dip of his tongue into where her thong blooms a dark dot, her honey soaking through the delicate material. He sucks on it like a man starved, pulling the sweetness out and onto his ravenous taste buds. A treat before the main course, he shucks them out of his way roughly, before burying his tongue inside of her cunt with no finesse.

Ysilla startles forward, shouting out another curse but it falls on deaf ears, Cregan a man drowning in lust. Bitter she may be inside but between her legs is fucking sugar, the feminine musk of her arousal coating his mouth in a saccharin syrup. His eyes slip closed, losing himself in her decadent tang. He winds his arms around the front of her thighs and hugs her to his face, keeping her stuck against his insatiable tongue. He leaves her hole only to dip forward to wrap his lips around the pretty little pearl of her clit, enjoying how her legs quiver like jelly when he sucks too hard.

She's gonna have beard burn, he just knows it- he didn't have time to shave this morning. But he thinks of her tomorrow, sitting at the mile long dinner table he's sure they have at Dragonstone Manor, and how she'll wiggle and whine as the butlers pour her tea, working herself up as she rubs her tender thighs together. He yanks her impossibly closer, smothering his face in her pretty pussy. He feels her tighten, her hips arching backwards to ride his face, her moans echoing off the high ceilings and crashing down around them. He groans, mouth full, and the vibrations roll through her like a thundering bass.

Ysilla screams before she slaps a hand over her mouth, her orgasm sending a wave of sweet slick down his chin. He spears her on his tongue, dragging her on and off it, making sure to draw out her aftershocks until her legs kick. Cregan finally tears himself away, albeit unhappily, to gulp down air to fill his burning lungs.

"Don't tease, Stark." She whines, reaching blindly behind her to push at his head.

"Don't tell me what to do, Targaryen." He parrots back, his speech slurred, drunk from his feast. He relents though, rocking onto his feet, going to flick open the button of his jeans.

"Rubber." Ysilla commands, breathy and impatient, laid across the hood like a fucking Playboy spread. Her fingers have snuck between her legs and she rubs between her slick lips with unhurried small strokes.

Cregan pulls his wallet from his pocket, shifting through the bills before pulling out the foil packet (he keeps one handy, in case of emergencies and all). He tears open the edge and rolls it on, pumping himself once for assurity before lining himself up with her entrance. He snatches Ysilla's hand away from fondling herself, and he holds her sultry stare as he brings her wet fingers up to his mouth. He sucks them clean, her French-tipped nails curling loosely over his tongue.

"You're filthy." Long gone is her previous acrid tone, in its place a needy, erotic purr. He winks at her, releasing her hand. She lets it flop bonelessly to her side, weak with satisfaction. He takes a hold of her hips, raising her up so that she teeters on heels.

He catches her eye, raising a brow in an unspoken question. You good?

She answers with an annoyed miff of her mouth. Just get on with it.

Cregan's never claimed to be the smartest guy around but shit, he doesn't need to be told twice. He slides forward, his spit and her slick letting him in with no resistance.

"Fuck, that's good pussy." And he almost wishes he were lying- her ego could use a good adjustment- but he's currently sliding into the wettest, silkiest, hottest cunt he's ever had the privilege of being invited into.

He takes a moment to focus on not being a minute man but as soon as the temptation to cum in under thirty fades, he gives her just what she needs. Hard, fast, and rough. He's sure she'll bruise- he's a big guy, plus the way he's squeezing at her hips and the start of her thighs is anything but tender.

"Fuck it like you own it, Stark, come on." Ysilla slaps at the hood, meeting him thrust for thrust. Even with dick in her, she still thinks she's the one calling the shots.

"Do you ever not talk?" He bites back, fisting his grip into the roots of her hair. She flutters around him as he pulls, hard.

"Only when there's something in my mouth." Cheeky thing. She wants filthy? He shoves two fingers down her throat, bumping cruelly at the crowns of her teeth and scraping at the back of her tongue. She doesn't even gag, just hums and sucks on them like his work worn hands are a popsicle in July.

"Pampered little rich bitch. Fucken desperate for some Northern cock, eh?"

Cregan thinks that she tries to whine out something, thinks he might hear prick, but the digits shoved in her mouth and the drool slipping down his wrist stunt that. Her nails burrow into his foreman, Ysilla clinging to him as he fucks her like a beast. He's not gentle, pistoning in and out of her so harshly that the Corvette rocks beneath them, the tires squeaking.

She whimpers, her throat spasming around his fingers. A thought, unbidden, worms its way into his thoughts. What if she fakes it? And that pisses him the fuck off. Nah, if she wants to get down and dirty, she'll remember how hard she came when she was pinned underneath him. He rips his fingers free and only gives her a chance to cough once before gripping her jaw tightly.

"Tell me you like it." He rumbles into her ear, his Northern flourish thicker when he's turned on.

Ysilla moans, a broken, lovely sound that makes him grin like a fool.

"I fuckin' love it, oh my Gods." That's even better.

Cregan kisses her on instinct, planting one just below her ear, over the thrumming string of her pulse. She vibrates in a shiver, curling into him, the curve of her spine accepting the beating of his hips. Southern girls must not be used to good dick because Ysilla is fucking gagging for it. Her hood's gonna look like it just got a fresh wax from the way her wetness dribbles down her thighs.

"Fuck yeah, take it take it take it take it." His hand wraps around her throat, a mind of its own, and hauls her to his chest. She's shaking, wild gasps for air whistling from her lips. Her hand dives down her belly, her fingertips searching for the sensitive slip of skin that'll bring them closer to the end of their fucked up little union. And Cregan may not enjoy her company but he's certainly enjoying this. He catches her wrist, trapping her against her own beautiful body as he winds both arms around her.

"Un uh, you cum when I tell you to. Should make you beg for it. Should put you on your knees, with your pretty kitty aching still, teetering on the edge, and paint your face with my spunk. Think you're too good for me? When your pussy is squeezing the absolute life outta me?" Cregan thinks of putting a collar on her. Leading her around on a leash, tugging her forward to have her lap at his cock. "Cregan's Bitch" inscribed on a dangling gold charm that'd rest between her tits. She'd look good in pink- it'd make the rosiness of her lips glow lusciously.

Fuck, he's close. And for all the shit he may talk, he's not pulling out of her A1 snatch now.

"So do it. Beg me, Princess. Beg me to let you cum."

Seemingly past the point of acting blasé, the plea tumbles from Ysilla's mouth before he's even done talking. "Yes yes yes, please baby, let me cum. Let me cum all over your cock. Break me in half on it, unnfff. Cregan!"

There it is. "Only because you asked so nicely." And his callous raised fingertips glide down to strum at her clit until she sobs, her legs going out, the only thing keeping her up Cregan's thick arms around her. She shivers and shakes for ages, guiding him through his own release as he cums into the condom.

He presses his forehead to the center of her back, taking his time so that his knees don't buckle when he stands up. Pulling out of her sucks, leaving her warmth the last thing he wants to do but his back is screaming at him to straighten out and he's sure her legs must be at least half asleep by now. He ties off the rubber, tossing it into the bin behind them before he tucks himself back in his boxers.

He snags a clean rag out of a drawer- it comes with a few oil stains sure, but it's been washed a thousand times. He wipes Ysilla clean, gentle around the raw skin of her inner thighs and the swollen lips of her center. She sighs softly, whispering a soft thank you into her arm pillowed beneath her chin. He kisses the side of her hip in acknowledgement, sliding her sodden panties back to cover her up. He helps her roll onto her back and she squints up at the track lights glaring down at them.

He doesn't say much and neither does she, the afterglow fading until all that's left is the sweat sticky on their skin.

"Can I take you out to dinner? I'm fucking starved." It's not a proposal or anything, just good manners in Cregan's opinion.

Ysilla looks down at her dress, wrinkled from him rucking it up and spotted from where she'd sweated through parts of it. She looks at him pointedly, less attitudey than before but still with her signature sharpness. He laughs, unperturbed and lighter than fucking air. That's the best orgasm he's had in… shit, probably ever.

"I have a long sleeve you can throw on. Some sweats too." He ducks into the office and riffles through his gym bag, returning with the clothes that he'll sure will swamp her from head to toe. He tosses them onto the hood beside her.

"Couture, no doubt." She grumbles but she's already undoing the button at the nape of her neck that keeps the straps in place. It falls away like a bow off a present, revealing the one part of her he hasn't seen.

He'll need a few before he can go another round but even so, his dick twitches in interest. He may be an ass man but Cregan's positive now there's no piece of her body he doesn't want to lick. Ysilla notices his shameless staring, forgetting his shirt she'd started to shrug on in her lap. She smirks, cupping her tits, her thumbs and forefingers pinching the dusky rose nipples into stiff peaks.

"Like what you see?"

Cregan doesn't answer, not aloud anyway. He sweeps forward, coming to stand in between her lax legs. He cradles her face and that cocksure smugness melts like butter from her eyes, and she blinks big and wide up at him. Her lashes flutter, petals in a breeze, and Cregan takes his chance. He seals his lips over hers and swallows down the sigh she breathes into his mouth.

It's chaste, paling in comparison to the railing he just gave her but it doesn't make it any less nice. It's really nice actually, nicer than it has any right being. Ysilla wraps her legs around his hips, dragging him into glue to her front. Her breasts squeeze against his chest, her tongue demure as it traces his bottom lip. The scratch of her nipples against his work shirt sends her whimpering, and she clutches onto his biceps for purchase.

The growl of his stomach wins out over the tightening in his jeans, and with enough willpower to win a war, he pulls away. He gives her another peck, enjoying the way her face goes soft when she's not frowning.

He traces the beauty mark at the edge of her cheekbone, waiting for her eyes to slip shut before he yanks the long sleeve over her head. She pops through the shirt's opening like a bushy little groundhog, and Cregan smirks at the glare she daggers him with.

"So, kebabs or fish and chips?"

Damn se Sīkuda . Damn the Seven

#hotd #house of the dragon #modern hotd #cregan stark #modern cregan stark #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark smut #ysilla targaryen #hotd smut #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you

65 notes · View notes

justarkive · 23 hours ago

Text

TABLE 3 | JJK ch18

“For good service, and cute waitresses.”

pairing: pre!military jk x waitress/secret fuckbuddy!oc

Before Jungkook enlists in the military, his life takes an unexpected turn when he visits a local restaurant with friends and meets a waitress who doesn’t recognize him. Surprised by your lack of star-struck reaction, Jungkook finds himself drawn to your down-to-earth nature, especially his previous struggles with the pressure of constant drama on social media regarding his relationships. Little do you know, Jungkook is about to leave for the military, which inevitably bring’s complications to their connection… do they find a way to fix it?

warnings: profanity, angst, humour, fluff, celebrity au, idol!jungkook , mentions of other kpop groups/idols, inner conflict, insecurity.

content warnings: jk is beggingggg. he ALMOST drunk drives ( nari is a lifesaver ) manhandling… by nari?????? ANGST. nari tries making jk jealous but it makes oc more upset idk lol, NARI IS SO FUCKIN MEAN GUYS!!! SHES SO MEANNN!!!! i lowkey felt bas for jk ngl… but it has to happen. uhh, mentions of sex?? no smut tho </3

wc: short

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: @jenniebyrubies @dreamersparacosm @darklove2020 @rayyrayy10 @elinaki92 @alana4610 @bjoriis @kaitieskidmore97 @cuntessaiii

masterlist , < prev | next >

You wake up dead. Not literally. But you may as well be. Your body feels like lead, your head is pounding, and your throat is drier than the Sahara Desert. You blink at the ceiling. Then you groan.

From beside you, Nari lets out the most disturbing croak of a sound.

“Why the fuck am I alive?” she rasps.

You roll over and check your phone. Big mistake. Because— Jungkook.

Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook.

Your notifications are flooded. Messages all through the night. You squint at the screen, the words blurry from sleep.

Jungkook [1:02 AM] : babt, please answer.

Jungkook [1:02 AM] : r you drunk? Who are you with?

Jungkook [1:10 AM] : I knoj you hate me but please, please, please just andwer.

Jungkook [1:32AM] : I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorrt

Jungkook [2:30AM]: I miss you.

Jungkook [3:15AM] I can’t do this without you.

Jungkook [4:07AM] : I hate msyelf. I hate this. Please

And then—

The last one.

Jungkook [5:02 AM] : i love you.

Your stomach twists. It’s not normal—this amount of typos. He must have been drunk. Just like you were.

And it achingly reminds you of the night after the concert.

Nari groans again. “What time is it?”

You open your mouth—But before you can even breathe, she suddenly sits up. She sees your phone. Her eyes narrow.

“PUT. IT. DOWN.”

You jolt. “I wasn’t gonna check—”

“BULLSHIT.”

“I swear—” Nari glares.

You sigh dramatically, dropping your phone onto the bed. “Good,” she mutters, flopping back down. “Go back to being a hater.”

You groan again, dragging yourself out of bed. You’re an hour late to work already.

But honestly? Your boss is probably just happy you’re showing up at all.

——

As expected—

The second you walk in, your boss gasps. “My darlings!”

You and Nari both flinch at the volume.

“Where have you been?!”

You rub your temples. “Sick.”

He clutches his chest. “You poor baby.”

Then he turns to Nari. “And you?”

Nari deadpans. “Sick,” she says flatly.

Your boss gasps again. “My two precious angels, both at death’s door?”

He shakes his head dramatically.

“This is awful.”

You stifle a yawn. “Yeah, tragic.”

“Tragic!” he agrees, eyes shiny.

But luckily— That’s where the conversation ends. Because even your overdramatic boss can see that neither of you are in the mood.

So It’s back to work.

Nari tries to cheer you up.

She forces you to partake in your usual diner traditions—aka, ruthlessly making fun of customers.

“Okay,” she mutters, glancing around. “Where’s Smelly Man?”

You snort. Smelly Man—the nickname for the unfortunate regular who always forgets deodorant. You spot him near the entrance, scanning the menu like he doesn’t order the same thing every time. You sigh.

“Okay, rock, paper, scissors. Loser serves him.”

Nari raises an eyebrow. “You really think I’m gonna lose?”

You do not have the energy for this. You motion for her to just play. You both throw your hands out. Rock. Scissors.

You groan. She smirks. “Good luck, babe.”

You roll your eyes, trudging towards Smelly Man. But before you can even reach him—

The door chimes.

And then— You hear Nari mutter, “Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Your stomach drops. You don’t even have to look. You already know. Slowly, you turn your head.

And there is Jungkook.

Walking in.

Looking like absolute shit. You almost feel bad. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave.

Just scans the room with dark, tired eyes—And then sits at table three.

Nari bristles, you can practically see the fire ignite in her pupils, and then— you panic.

“Nari, please—” She ignores you. She slams down her notepad.

“I’m going over there.”

Your stomach twists.

“No, Nari, please—”

She turns to you, eyes blazing.

“I. Don’t. Care.”

And then— She marches towards him.

And you can only watch.

You step in the bathroom. You have to. Because if you stay in there—if you watch this unfold—

You’re going to lose it.

So, you push open the bathroom doors, the bell jingling behind you, and you take a deep breath of the warm, stuffy air.

It doesn’t help. Not at all. Because your mind is still racing.

Because Jungkook is right there.

Because Nari is about to destroy him.

And you?

You can’t handle either.

You lean against the tiles, eyes shut, inhaling slow, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

But inside—

Nari is not going easy.

The notepad slams against the table. Jungkook flinches. His head snaps up—red eyes, dark circles, tear-stained cheeks. He looks—

Fucking awful.

But Nari? Doesn’t give a shit. She stares down at him, unbothered, arms crossed.

And Jungkook? Jungkook just swallows, voice so weak when he whispers “Is she okay?”

Nari scoffs.

Oh, now he wants to know?

She leans forward, mocking concern. “Oh! You care?!”

Jungkook flinches again. Nari tilts her head.

“Well, that’s fucking funny.”

Her voice drips with sarcasm.

“Didn’t seem like you cared when you sat across from her last night, smiling with her parents, knowing damn well you were lying to her.”

Jungkook winces. His hands fist on his lap. His voice shakes.

“Nari—”

“Three weeks, Jungkook.”

She’s seething. Her glare is deadly.

“You had three weeks.”

Jungkook sniffs, shaking his head. “I—I didn’t—”

“Oh, please,” she snaps. “Save the tears. I don’t give a fuck.”

And yet— Jungkook keeps crying. Right in front of her. Face crumpled. Eyes downcast. Hands trembling. He deserves this. But, even Nari isn’t totally immune to a crying man.

She rolls her eyes, groaning.

“God, you’re so fucking pathetic.”

Jungkook wipes his eyes with his sleeve. Nari snatches her notepad off the table.

“What do you want?”

Jungkook just blinks. “What?”

“To drink, dumbass.” She rolls her eyes.

“Oh, wait—”

She clicks her tongue.

“Actually, don’t even answer. I already know.”

Jungkook swallows thickly. She storms off. And minutes later, she’s back— Slamming down his usual.

Iced Americano. The exact way you always make it for him. But it doesn’t taste the same.

Jungkook knows it immediately. The ice is wrong. The coffee is bitter. It’s not yours. And for some reason— Even that makes his throat close up.

Nari storms into the bathroom.

You jump.

“What—”

She grabs a paper towel.Wipes her hands aggressively. You blink. Then— “What happened?”

Nari pauses. Then— She sighs. “Fine.”

She tells you everything. Quick. Blunt. Spiteful.

You listen, heart twisting, fingers trembling. And Nari grins. A dangerous grin.

“Oh, I have an idea.”

You squint. “What?”

Nari smirks. She lunges. Before you can process, she’s already— Hiking up your skirt.

“Nari—!”

“Shut up.”

She rips your tights.

“What—!”

She ruffles your hair.

“Mmm, needs to be messier.”

She licks her thumb.

Smudges your lipgloss.

And then— She grabs your face. Grins at her work.

“Oh, this is perfect.”

You stare.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Nari’s eyes glint.

She spins you towards the mirror. You gasp.

Because—

Oh. Oh, no.

You look like… you just got railed.

Your skirt is shorter. Your tights are ripped. Your lips are smudged. Your hair is a mess. And then—

The worst part.

The door opens to the mens bathroom. Another guy walks out. Some random man. Nari grabs your shoulders. She pushes you out—

At the exact same time as him.

And—

Jungkook sees.

Jungkook stills. His grip tightens around his cup. His jaw locks. Because there you are—

Looking fucked out. And there’s a man walking next to you. At the same time. Jungkook’s stomach sinks. His eyes flicker to you. And you?

You look right at him. And then— You walk right past. Not sparing him a single glance.

And Jungkook—

Jungkook has never felt worse. Even though he knows Nari is behind this. Even though he can see her smirk. Even though he can hear her whisper—

“Fucking go, bitch.”

Even though he knows this isn’t real. It still hurts. More than anything. Because the truth is— Even if it was real? Even if you had moved on? He couldn’t even be mad. Because he deserves it. Because he did this. Because he lost you. And there’s no one to blame. But himself.

A few minutes later, you’re behind the diner, hands gripping the brick wall, trying to breathe.

Trying to fix whatever the fuck Nari just did to you. Your skirt is still too short. Your tights are still ripped. Your hair looks like you just rolled out of bed. And you? You want to kill her.

You spin around. Eyes narrowed and huff— “Nari—what the fuck was that?”

Nari just leans against the wall, arms crossed, grinning. You glare.

“I swear, if you ever—”

“Shh, shh, shh.” She tilts her head towards the window. “Look at him.”

You don’t. But Nari does. And oh—

She is so pleased with herself. Because Jungkook looks— Like he’s about to combust. He’s still at his table, jaw tight, hands shaking around his coffee, staring like he wants to die. Like he hates every second of this. Like he’s mad.

You glance. For just a second. And then you smirk.

Nari gasps, clutching her chest like a proud mother.

“Bitch,” she whispers. “You did not.”

And then— You giggle. At first, just a little. Then Nari giggles. And then suddenly— You’re both laughing.

Even though your heart still hurts.

Even though there’s still this heavy weight in your chest. Even though nothing is actually okay. For this one moment, you laugh.

And Nari?

Nari is just happy she could make you.

——

You leave early.

You weren’t supposed to. But— You just can’t do it anymore. Can’t keep up the act. Can’t keep pretending you’re okay.

So, you slip out when your boss isn’t looking.

(Not that it’s hard. The man is oblivious as hell. He once lost his own car and took an Uber home.)

And Nari— She doesn’t even try to stop you.

She just watches you go, lets you leave, and picks up your shift without a word. Because like always—She understands. She knows you need to be alone.

——

It’s closing time. The chairs are flipped onto tables. The floors are being swept. The lights are dimming. And yet— Jungkook is still there. Still sitting at table three. Still staring at his full iced Americano. Hasn’t taken one sip. Hasn’t moved in hours.

Just… sitting there.

Nari sighs, tossing her rag onto the counter. She marches over. Stops in front of him. Hands on her hips.

“Are you gonna leave or what?”

Jungkook winces. Nari rolls her eyes.

And then— She notices. His eyes are bloodshot. His lashes are wet. The bags under his eyes are darker than ever. And suddenly—It clicks. He’s been crying this whole time.

She pauses. And then— “Oh.”

She smirks. Fucking perfect.

“Sorry,” she says, voice sickly sweet. “Forgot you’re leaving in three weeks.”

Jungkook flinches again. And then— His face crumbles. And he cries. Even harder.

Nari sighs, dragging a mop across the floor.

“Do you wanna get locked in here or what?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. At first, he just sits there. Then, suddenly he blurts “I’m sorry.”

It’s a whisper. Then a murmur. Then a desperate plea.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—”

Nari freezes. Hands tightening around the mop handle. Jungkook doesn’t stop.

“I love her, Nari.” His voice is wrecked. “I love her, I love her, I love her—”

Nari scoffs. Crosses her arms. “So fucking what?”

Jungkook flinches. And then— He breaks.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, hands in his hair, fingers gripping at his scalp like he’s physically trying to hold himself together.

“I didn’t tell her because I love her so much,” he whispers. “I didn’t tell her because I was so fucking scared—”

Nari laughs. Cold. Sharp.

“You didn’t tell her because you were selfish.”

Jungkook nods. No excuses. No protests. Just pure defeat.

“I know.” His voice cracks. “I know.”

Silence.

Nari watches him, then, “…You fucked up, Jungkook.”

Jungkook lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

“I know.”

“I really don’t…know if you can fix this.”

Jungkook lifts his head. His eyes—god. They’re red. Bloodshot. Fucking haunted.

“But,” Nari continues, voice softer now. “She hasn’t told me directly, but…” She sighs. Leans forward. Looks Jungkook right in the eye. “As much as this is so fucked up, I know she loves you.”

Jungkook’s breath catches. Nari’s gaze doesn’t waver. “And I know you love her.”

Jungkook nods. Frantic. Desperate.

“But what you did…” Nari swallows. “I don’t know how you’re supposed to come back from that, Jungkook.”

Jungkook nods again. Wipes his face. Drags his fingers through his hair. “I know.”

Silence again. Then— A sigh. “You have three weeks, right?”

Jungkook jerks his head up. Eyes wide. Hopeful.

“Yes.”

Nari leans back. Crosses her arms.

“You have three weeks to fix this.” Jungkook inhales. Then— She smirks. “But I’m not helping you.”

Jungkook shoots up from his chair, nearly trips over it in his rush to leave— And Nari laughs.

Hard.

“Holy shit, you loser.”

Jungkook’s face flares red. But— He doesn’t care.

⸻

Jungkook is still in his car parked outside the diner.

His hands shake against the steering wheel. His head pounds. His heart feels shattered. It’s been—what? Half an hour? Maybe more? He doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he’s never felt this kind of pain before. And maybe— Maybe if he just drives— The thought barely settles before—

BANG BANG BANG.

Jungkook jumps. His blurry vision focuses.

And there is Nari. Standing outside his car. Raging. Her face is pure fury. She pounds on the window again, harder this time.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”Jungkook doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even move.

She notices. The bottle. In his hand. On his lap. On the fucking driver’s seat, and her stomach drops.

“Jungkook,” she says, voice suddenly dangerous. “Open this door.”

Jungkook sniffs. Rolls the window down, his movements slow, sluggish.

“…What?” His voice is slurred.

Nari’s blood boils. “Are you fucking—are you fucking serious?!”

She yanks at the handle, but it’s locked.

“Open the door.”

Jungkook ignores her. Rolls the window back up. Wrong move. Because now— Nari loses it.

“DON’T FUCKING IGNORE ME!” she roars. “I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL BREAK THIS WINDOW.”

Jungkook hesitates. And then— He sighs. Reaches over. And, Click. Unlocks the door.

Nari yanks it open, immediately ripping the bottle out of his grip and tossing it across the parking lot, landing with a loud shatter. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she demands.

Jungkook slouches in his seat. Stares at his lap. Doesn’t answer. Nari seethes. “You were actually gonna fucking drive like this?”

Jungkook shrugs. Shrugs.

Like he didn’t just almost make the dumbest decision of his life. Like this is all just some minor inconvenience.

“What would Y/N think?” She snaps. Nari sees red.

Like, pure fucking red.

Jungkook’s breath catches. She leans down. Gets right in his face. “What would she think if she caught you doing this shit?”

Jungkook winces. Doesn’t—can’t—look at her.

“You’re not helping anything,” she presses. “Stop being so fucking pathetic.”

Jungkook’s throat tightens. And then— He cracks.

Nari exhales sharply and yanks open the passenger door. She throws herself into the seat, slamming it shut. Hedoesn’t even react. Still crying. Still looking like he’s about to completely fall apart.

Nari glares. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

Jungkook sniffles. Doesn’t say anything.

“Like, I knew you were dumb,” she continues, voice sharp. “But this? This is next level.”

Still—nothing. Jungkook just stares down at his lap, his chest heaving, his eyes red-rimmed and empty. Nari folds her arms.

And then—

“You sound exactly like her.”

Nari freezes. Her breath catches. But then—She scoffs.

His whole body trembles. Nari watches him carefully. She’s still fucking pissed, but, there’s something gut-wrenching about seeing him like this. He’s not just crying. He’s grieving. She sighs. Then—

“Listen,” she says, voice softer now. “I know this shit hurts.”

Jungkook flinches.

“But you can’t sit here,” she continues, “drinking whiskey like it’s water, acting like this wasn’t your fault.”

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut. Like he doesn’t want to hear it. But Nari doesn’t let up.

“Because it is your fault,” she says bluntly.

Jungkook nods. Just— Nods. Like he’s already told himself this a thousand fucking times. Like he knows. Nari sighs again. Leans back in the seat. Glances over at him.

“Are you done yet?” she asks.

Jungkook sniffles. Nods again. She gives him a look.

“Then let’s go.”

Jungkook hesitates. He wipes his face with his sleeve. Then looks at her—finally looks at her—his gaze desperate, pleading.

“…Where?” Nari tilts her head.

And then— She shakes her head.

“You think I’m gonna let you drive?” she scoffs. “Move your fucking ass. I’m driving.”

She drags him out of his seat, swapping quickly.

Nari is still mad. Like, really mad. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t gonna bask in the luxury of Jungkook’s fancy ass car.

“Damn,” she mutters under her breath, adjusting the seat so she can sit even more comfortably. “No wonder she kept you around.”

Jungkook barely reacts. Still slumped in the passenger seat. Still looking like he’s about to burst into tears again. Nari rolls her eyes and runs her fingers over the ridiculously high-tech dashboard.

“So,” she says casually. “Where to?”

Jungkook sniffs, “…Her apartment.”

Nari immediately scoffs. “Fuck no.”

Jungkook turns his head, slow and sluggish. “Please.”

“No.”

“Please, Nari—”

“I said no.”

Jungkook groans, slumping even further into his seat, letting his head fall back against the headrest. And then— He starts talking. Like, really talking. Slurry, emotional talking.

“You know,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering shut, “she—she really didn’t know who I was that first day.”

Nari glances at him. Silent. Letting him speak.

“And I—I thought she was fucking with me, right?” Jungkook sniffs. “Like—like I really thought she was lying, ‘cause who doesn’t know BTS? We’re fucking BTS.”

Nari rolls her eyes. “Jesus.”

“But she really didn’t know,” Jungkook breathes, voice cracking. “She just—she just served me.”

Nari taps her fingers on the wheel.

“I watched her wipe down the counter,” Jungkook says suddenly, voice distant, like he’s lost in the memory. “Like, she didn’t even fucking look at me, Nari. I don’t think I’ve ever been ignored so hard in my life.”

Nari snorts.

“She made me pay for my food.”

Nari bursts out laughing. “Oh, shit.”

Jungkook smiles.

Just for a second. Then—

“She’s so fucking beautiful,” he mumbles. “Like, like even when she’s mad at me. I—”

His voice wavers. Nari tightens her grip on the wheel. And then, Jungkook suddenly groans, throwing an arm over his face.

“Fuck,” he says, all raspy and desperate. “She—she was so soft the other night, Nari. You don’t even fucking know.”

Nari immediately tenses.

“What.”

“She—she was crying—”

“Jungkook.”

“She was holding onto me—”

“Jungkook, shut the fuck up—”

“And I just—”

“STOP—”

“—had to make her come so hard she couldn’t even think.”

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

Nari slams her feet on the breaks. Jungkook lurches forward, slamming into the seatbelt. He winces. Nari just stares at him. Stares at him like he’s lost his fucking mind.

Then— “WHY WOULD YOU TELL ME THAT?!”

Jungkook bursts out laughing. It’s messy laughter, cracked and broken, still stained with sadness. But it’s real.

“I don’t know!” he cackles. “I don’t fucking know anymore, Nari! I don’t!”

Nari groans, rubbing her temples.

“Just take me home,” Jungkook giggles.

“Gladly,” Nari mutters, aggressively selecting his address on the GPS.

Jungkook knocks out the second Nari gets on the city road.

Like, fully slumped in the passenger seat, mouth parted, completely gone. Nari sighs.

Typical.

By the time they finally pull up to his building, she’s already bracing herself for what’s to come. Getting Jungkook into his apartment is going to be a fucking mission.

“Alright, dumbass,” she mutters, shifting into park.

Jungkook doesn’t move. Nari groans. She unbuckles herself, steps out, slams the door behind her, and then yanks his door open.

Nothing. He’s still dead to the world.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

With a lot more effort than she’d like to admit, Nari drags him out of the car, managing to sling one of his arms over her shoulder.

A pause.

Because oh shit.

She’s standing in broad daylight, very publicly manhandling Jeon Jungkook in front of his luxury apartment building.

Fuck.

She immediately scrambles to grab whatever disguises she can find. Digs through his cup holder. Finds a black mask. Pulls it on. Grabs one of his oversized caps from the back seat. Shoves it over her head. Still in her work uniform.

She looks fucking insane.

Jungkook stirs. Slowly opens his eyes. Squints at her.

And then—

He fucking giggles.

Nari immediately smacks his stomach.

“Shut the fuck up, you dumbass,” she hisses. “This is your fault.”

Jungkook just laughs harder.

“You look crazy,” he mutters, voice still laced with sleep.

Nari grits her teeth.

“Yeah?” she deadpans. “Well, you are crazy. Now move your fucking feet.”

Somehow—somehow—she manages to get him inside. It takes way too long. By the time they reach his door, Jungkook is swaying, struggling to get his keys out of his pocket.

Nari watches him fumble. Waits.

Waits.

And then— “Oh my fucking God.”

She snatches the keys out of his hands. Unlocks the door. Shoves him inside. Jungkook stumbles, but catches himself on the couch, blinking at her like a dazed idiot. Nari glares.

Then—

“Three weeks, Jungkook.”

Her voice is sharp. Unforgiving.

“Fix it.”

Jungkook’s expression shifts.

Something flickers in his eyes.

And then—

The door slams shut.

64 notes · View notes

realityjoey · 20 hours ago

Text

SEASON 1, EPISODE 1: PILOT

The sound of boots hitting linoleum echoed through the halls of the LAPD precinct like the warning thump of an approaching storm. Officer Tim Bradford moved with deliberate intensity, shoulders squared, chin up, eyes already scanning for prey. Two younger officers trailed behind him, trying to keep up, practically tripping over themselves in their eagerness not to annoy him.

Tim, however, was in his element.

“Rookie Day,” he said, grinning like a wolf on the hunt. “Best damn day of the year.”

The younger officers exchanged wary glances, unsure whether to laugh or stay silent.

He continued without missing a beat. “They come in bright-eyed, fresh out the Academy, full of dreams and idealism—and I get to crush it all before lunch. It’s a public service, really.”

It wasn’t malice—at least not entirely. Tim Bradford didn’t hate rookies. He just believed that the real world didn’t have time for coddling. His job was to break them down and see what was left. Some would survive. Most wouldn’t. He was okay with that.

As they stepped into the locker room, Tim’s eyes scanned for his first target. It didn’t take long. Down the row, Jackson West stood at his locker, carefully unpacking his gear like he was setting up a display in a museum. Everything about him screamed new: the freshly pressed uniform, the shiny boots, the nervous little glances at his surroundings.

Tim zeroed in.

“West,” he barked.

Jackson turned, startled but composed. “Yes, sir?”

“You even know how to load your weapon, or should I prep some coloring books for you?”

Jackson straightened, his posture flawless. “Top of my class, sir. Certified and field-ready.”

Tim squinted, waiting for the flinch, the nervous smile, the over-eager stammer. But Jackson met his gaze with surprising confidence.

Tim’s jaw tensed. “Right.”

He gave a slight, dismissive wave and turned away, muttering under his breath. “Goddamn overachievers…”

He barely took two steps before he spotted someone else. A figure crouched further down the locker row, back turned, organizing her gear with quiet efficiency. Long legs in fitted black jeans, hair tied up, a casual shoulder holster slung across her body. She was humming to herself—something British, upbeat, and completely out of place in the grimy LAPD locker room.

Tim didn’t recognize her. That meant she was new. Another rookie.

Perfect.

He strode over, voice loaded with sarcasm.

“You lost, Rookie? Locker room’s not a damn concert.”

The woman stood slowly, not flinching, not rushing. She turned, and Tim’s words caught somewhere in his throat.

She was… unexpected.

Sharp green eyes met his without a hint of hesitation. A faint scar arched near one brow, and her expression was calm, almost amused. She looked him over once—cool and measured—and then spoke in a clipped, clearly British accent that managed to sound both tired and vaguely threatening.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said dryly. “Though if this is how you welcome new officers, I’m starting to understand the dropout rate.”

Tim frowned. “You’re not a rookie?”

“Nope.”

“Then who the hell are you?”

She reached into her locker and slapped her badge onto the shelf. He glanced down. Detective Dylan Jenkins.

“Transferred in last week,” she said, like she was reading his mind. “Ten years in the Met. Homicide. And if you’re planning on trying to scare me off, you’ll have to get in line behind a few armed robbers, five ex-boyfriends, and my mother.”

Tim blinked.

She smirked.

“Nice try, though, tough guy. I’d give it a six out of ten. Maybe you’ll scare someone next time.”

He straightened instinctively, trying to regain ground, but her grin widened slightly—confident, unbothered.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, one brow raised.

“I think you’re funny.”

She slammed her locker shut with one hand and brushed past him without another glance, pausing only to nod politely at the two stunned officers still lingering nearby.

“Morning, lads,” she said smoothly, walking away like she owned the place.

Tim stared after her, momentarily speechless. The two officers exchanged looks behind him, clearly trying not to smile.

“Think you just met your match,” one of them muttered.

Tim didn’t look back. “She’s not gonna last.”

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying. She was going to last—and more than that, she was going to make his life a hell of a lot more complicated.

Ten minutes later, the bullpen was filled with the low buzz of conversation and the occasional scrape of chairs as officers gathered for morning roll call. The precinct’s large briefing room smelled of stale coffee, leather, and ink—familiar and grounding. Officers lined up loosely in rows, some standing with arms folded, others slouched in their chairs, tapping pens or scrolling idly on their phones.

At the front of the room, Sergeant Wade Grey stepped up to the podium with the quiet authority of a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be respected.

“All right,” he began, voice cutting clean through the chatter. “Settle down.”

The room quieted almost instantly.

Grey scanned the room. “Got some fresh blood today, so let’s play nice. Or at least pretend.”

A few dry chuckles rippled across the room.

He gestured to the side, where three fresh-faced rookies stood against the wall like kids on the first day of school.

“First up: Officer John Nolan. Former construction business owner. Late bloomer, some might say. But don’t underestimate him.”

Nolan gave a polite nod, shifting a little awkwardly under the weight of so many stares. Older than the other two by at least fifteen years, he looked calm but out of place.

“Next: Jackson West. Top marks at the Academy. You may recognize the name—yes, he’s the son of Commander West. But no, he didn’t ask for special treatment. Let’s keep it that way.”

Jackson stood straighter, clearly proud but trying not to show it.

“And finally, Lucy Chen. Smart. Sharp. She’ll be learning fast—because she’ll have to.”

Lucy smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said she wasn’t here to be underestimated.

The room gave a mild smattering of interest—respectful enough, but unsurprised. Rookie intros were routine.

Then Grey turned back toward the wall. “And lastly, we have Detective Dylan Jenkins.”

Every head turned.

She stepped forward, hands casually in the pockets of her fitted jacket, chin tilted up just slightly. Calm, poised, completely unbothered by the full attention of a room filled with seasoned LAPD officers.

“Detective Jenkins joins us from the Metropolitan Police in London,” Grey continued. “Ten years on the job. Homicide. Multiple commendations. She’s not a rookie—but she is new to the way we do things here. Keep that in mind.”

Someone in the back let out a low whistle. Someone else muttered, “Damn,” under their breath.

Tim Bradford, arms crossed, leaned back slightly where he stood in the far corner, jaw tight. She didn’t even glance at him.

Grey’s voice cut back in. “Pairings for today: Chen, you’re with Officer Yates. West, you’re riding with Lopez. Nolan—Bishop’s got you.”

Each of the rookies stepped forward to meet their assigned Training Officers.

Then Grey paused.

“And Jenkins,” he said, “you’ll be partnered with Officer Bradford.”

There was a beat of silence.

Tim’s head snapped toward Grey like he hadn’t heard right. “Excuse me?”

Dylan turned her head, arching a brow at him like it was Christmas morning.

Grey didn’t blink. “You heard me. You’ll be responsible for giving her a crash course in LAPD procedures and American policing. She’s got the experience, but she needs to learn our way of doing things.”

Tim didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stared at Grey like he might be able to stare him into changing his mind.

It didn’t work.

“Dismissed,” Grey said.

The room burst into motion—officers peeling off, meeting partners, heading to squad cars and desks. Dylan didn’t move straight away. Instead, she waited until they were nearly alone in the room.

Bradford still hadn’t said anything. His arms were crossed tightly now, jaw clenched, like he was holding back a hundred different arguments.

“Something wrong, Officer?” Dylan asked, ever-so-innocent.

He narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t funny.”

She smiled. “Didn’t say it was. But it is poetic.”

Before he could respond, Grey stepped down from the podium and approached the pair.

“Before you throw a tantrum, Bradford, let me be clear,” he said. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s a challenge. Jenkins isn’t some green rookie you can scare into submission. She’s here to learn the system, not the job. She already knows how to handle herself.”

Tim didn’t reply, but the tension in his shoulders said plenty.

Grey turned to Dylan. “You’ll report to Captain Andersen eventually, but for the next few weeks, you’ll shadow Bradford. He knows our protocols better than anyone. Consider this your American immersion course.”

Dylan nodded. “Understood.”

Grey gave Tim a final look—something between a warning and a dare—then walked away.

Tim let out a breath, turning to face her fully.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he said.

She smirked, already walking past him. “I rarely do.”

And just like that, Dylan Jenkins became the first person in a long time to truly throw Tim Bradford off his game.

And she knew it.

The patrol car rumbled steadily through the streets of downtown L.A., sun creeping higher above the skyline, casting long shadows against the cracked pavement. Inside the shop, the silence between Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Tim drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, his eyes scanning the streets like a hawk. He hadn’t said much since they pulled out of the precinct. Neither had she. The only sounds were the low static of the police radio and the occasional blare of traffic outside.

Dylan sat in the passenger seat, back straight, one arm draped over the door. She watched the passing storefronts and unfamiliar intersections with quiet interest, but her expression was unreadable. Stoic, detached. The silence didn’t bother her. She’d worked cases in the Met where whole days went by with only the sound of rain and crime scene tape flapping in the wind.

But she could feel him looking at her now and then. Weighing her.

Eventually, his voice broke the quiet.

“So,” Tim said, eyes still on the road, “why America?”

Dylan didn’t turn her head. “Weather’s nice.”

He glanced at her. “You don’t strike me as the palm trees and beach yoga type.”

She smiled faintly. “Well, I was deciding between here and Arizona, but I thought my accent would be wasted in the desert.”

He huffed a short breath. A noncommittal sound. He didn’t push. Not yet.

The silence returned—for about thirty seconds.

Then Tim suddenly slammed on the brakes.

The tires screeched slightly, the car jolting to a halt. Dylan’s hand instinctively grabbed the dash, her other already reaching for her holster.

“What the—” she started, but Tim cut her off.

“I’ve been shot,” he said, voice strained and loud. “Bleeding out. You need to call for help. Where are we?”

Dylan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Where are we?” he snapped. “I’m losing blood, Jenkins. Tick tock.”

She stared at him, jaw tightening. It took her half a second too long to orient herself. The street signs were small and high, a layout nothing like the numbered, gridded roads she’d grown up with in London.

She looked left, right, spotted a cross street and muttered it aloud.

Tim leaned back in his seat, dropping the act like it was a coat he was done wearing. “Too slow. Now I’m dead, and it’s your fault.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He checked the mirror and pulled back into traffic without another word.

“You did that fake act just to test me?”

“It’s not fake when it happens for real,” he said coolly. “I’m not here to hold your hand, Jenkins. You need to know the city like the back of your hand. If I go down, or you do, or someone else does, every second counts. You freeze like that on the job, someone ends up in a body bag.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond immediately. He could feel the tension radiating off her now. Controlled. Contained. But real.

“I’ve done ten years of this job,” she said finally, voice low. “And I didn’t survive it by freezing.”

Tim didn’t look at her. “This isn’t London.”

“No,” she agreed coldly. “It’s a circus where apparently training means getting sucker-punched with imaginary trauma at a red light.”

Tim allowed himself a small smirk. “You’ll thank me later.”

She turned her head to look out the window, biting down the thousand things she wanted to say. She wasn’t rattled. She was pissed. But more than that, she understood what he was doing. He was setting the tone. Drawing a line. Making it clear that she wasn’t above the tests—not in his car.

But if he thought she’d fold under pressure, he had no idea who the hell he was dealing with.

Unbeknownst to Dylan, this was only the beginning. The first of many “Tim Tests” that would come at her hard and fast—each one carefully designed not just to teach, but to challenge. Push. Provoke.

And if Tim Bradford was looking for someone to break, he’d picked the wrong woman.

The tension in the car simmered like a pot on the edge of boiling.

After Dylan’s failure to name their exact location fast enough for Tim’s liking, the silence between them had turned icy, sharp-edged. He drove without speaking. She sat rigid in the passenger seat, jaw clenched, staring dead ahead at the road unspooling in front of them.

Then, without warning, Tim pulled over.

Not a smooth coast to the curb. A firm, deliberate stop. The car idled.

Dylan turned to him, annoyed. “Now what?”

“Out,” Tim said simply.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

She scoffed, arms folding across her chest. “You’re taking the piss.”

He turned in his seat to face her, eyes cool and unmoved. “You want to learn this city? Walk it. You don’t get to rely on GPS when someone’s bleeding out in your arms and you’ve got ten seconds to call in help. You don’t know where you are? Then get out and start learning.”

She stared at him like she was trying to decide whether to punch him or laugh. Probably both.

“That’s your solution? Kick me out like a bad date?”

Tim didn’t blink. “Walk until you know where you are. Then you can get back in.”

Dylan stared at him for another beat, jaw working. Then, with a sharp exhale, she threw open the door and stepped out. The door slammed behind her like a gunshot.

The moment the door shut, Tim shifted the car into drive and rolled forward. Not far. Just enough to stay next to her. His pace was excruciatingly slow, the cruiser crawling beside her like an overbearing chaperone.

She walked with purpose—long strides, fists clenched, eyes scanning street signs and landmarks. She knew what this was. A test. Another one. She was sick of the games, but damn if she’d let him win.

After about a minute of the awkward, silent crawl, Tim finally spoke again.

“Why did you really move to L.A.?”

She didn’t look at him. “I told you. The weather.”

“No, you didn’t. That was sarcasm.”

A beat passed.

She kept walking, boots hitting the pavement hard.

“I’m not here to play twenty questions,” she muttered.

“Good,” he said, still watching her. “Because I don’t care about the small talk. I care about who I’m riding with. Who’s got my back. And right now, I don’t know a damn thing about you—except that you don’t know where the hell you are.”

She stopped walking. Finally. Turned to face him. Her green eyes were narrowed, fierce.

“You want the truth?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’d be a start.”

She walked over to the passenger door but didn’t get in. She leaned down slightly so they were eye to eye through the open window.

“I moved because I needed a fresh start. Because staying in London meant suffocating in a job that broke my family apart, living on minimum wage, and hoping for the day that some screwed up junkie stabbed me in just the right place to put an end to it all.” Her voice was low now. Controlled, but edged with something darker. Something that had weight behind it.

“Or maybe,” she added, “because I was running from something. Or someone. You don’t need to know the details— and you never will.”

Tim studied her for a moment. He didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t push. Just nodded once.

“Get in.” He said.

She opened the door and slid back into the passenger seat without a word.

For a while, the car was quiet again.

But this time, it wasn’t silence loaded with resentment. It was silence thick with understanding. Not a truce, exactly—but something close.

The engine hummed as they pulled back into traffic.

Tim didn’t look at her when he spoke next, eyes still focused on the road.

“You ever pull that sarcasm crap when someone’s bleeding out next to you again, I’ll make you walk the whole damn district.”

Dylan scoffed, “You know you weren’t actually bleeding out, right? Or are you so caught up in your little tests that—“

Tim glared at her, raising his eyebrows sternly.

Dylan smirked faintly, eyes on the window.

“Noted.” She nodded, dramatically.

The afternoon sun bore down on the city, making the asphalt shimmer and the air inside the patrol car thick with heat. Tim and Dylan had fallen into a more tolerable silence now, the earlier tension dulled but not quite gone. The day had been quiet—too quiet, as Tim would put it.

Then the radio crackled to life, sharp and urgent.

“7-Adam-15, requesting backup! Suspect on foot, heading eastbound on Temple. Male, Hispanic, black hoodie—repeat, on foot. Bishop’s in pursuit. We need units!”

It was Nolan’s voice. Breathless, strained, panicked in a way that made Tim’s eyes sharpen.

Tim flicked the lights on and slammed the car into motion. “7-Adam-19, responding. We’re two blocks out.”

Dylan was already shifting in her seat, focused. The streets blurred past in a rush, sirens slicing through traffic as they closed in.

Moments later, Tim screeched the cruiser to a halt near the edge of a narrow alleyway. Dylan was out of the passenger seat before he’d fully stopped, feet hitting the ground hard.

They heard the shouting before they saw them—Bishop’s sharp commands echoing through the maze of buildings. A dark figure darted across the alley ahead of them, sweat-slick and fast.

“There!” Tim shouted, breaking into a sprint.

But Dylan was already moving.

She surged ahead like a bullet, legs pounding against the pavement, sleek and focused. Her breath was steady. Controlled. She passed Nolan, who was huffing heavily, a few steps behind Bishop, already starting to lag.

Nolan blinked in surprise as she tore past him. “She’s fast,” he muttered—mostly to himself.

Tim was close behind, but even he had to admit: she was impressive.

The suspect cut hard through an alley and bolted into a construction site. Dylan didn’t hesitate. She ducked under scaffolding, vaulted a low barrier, and stayed on him, eyes locked on his back like a predator on prey.

The suspect glanced back—once. A mistake.

He turned to cut left toward a side fence.

Dylan saw the opening.

She didn’t stop to think. She launched.

Her feet left the ground, body horizontal mid-air as she slammed into the suspect’s back with a perfect flying tackle that sent them both crashing to the gravel. Dust exploded around them, the suspect groaning as Dylan pinned him hard to the ground, one arm twisted behind his back before he even knew what hit him.

“LAPD! Stay down!” she barked, already reaching for the cuffs.

Tim skidded to a stop just as she snapped the bracelets around the guy’s wrists and yanked him to his knees.

Behind them, Nolan let out a frustrated grunt.

Tim glanced back and stifled a smirk.

John Nolan was dangling halfway up a chain-link fence, his shirt caught on the metal, one leg awkwardly stuck mid-climb. He looked like a cat who’d second-guessed jumping a wall but couldn’t find the way down.

“Welcome to the arrest.” Tim called out, dry amusement in his voice.

“I… yeah,” Nolan muttered, trying to pry himself loose.

Dylan pulled the suspect to his feet, dusted herself off, and shot Tim a look.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Tim exhaled, shrugging. “Not bad.”

Dylan raised a brow. “Not bad? That was textbook.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim muttered. “We’ll get you a medal later.”

She grinned, flushed from the chase, hair sticking to her forehead, knuckles scraped—but victorious.

As they led the suspect back toward the cruiser, Nolan finally managed to untangle himself and drop to the ground with a huff, looking sheepish. Bishop arrived moments later, eyeing the cuffed perp and raising a brow at Dylan.

“Remind me to request her next time I’m chasing someone,” she said.

Dylan just shrugged, casual. “Love a good chase. Thrilling.”

Tim tried to act unaffected, but he could feel it: the slow shift in his perception. She wasn’t just surviving the Tim Bradford Trials—she was passing them. With grit, skill, and a smirk that said she wasn’t afraid of him or the job.

Midday sun hung high, casting long shadows over the cracked parking lot where the smell of sizzling onions and chargrilled meat wafted through the warm breeze. The unmistakable buzz of a food truck lunch break had taken over, and for once, the LAPD officers had a moment to breathe.

The burger van—“Benny’s Burgers: Home of the Widowmaker”—was an unassuming, slightly greasy legend among the precinct. A busted neon sign flickered above the window, and the owner, a wiry man with more tattoos than teeth, barked out orders with a cheerful lack of hygiene.

The training officers and their rookies had spilled out around a few weather-worn picnic tables scattered nearby. Drinks sweated in the heat, fries were fought over, and the tension of the morning’s chases and patrols had relaxed into laughter and easy conversation.

At one of the tables, Jackson West, John Nolan, Lucy Chen, and Dylan Jenkins sat together, trays in front of them, legs stretched out under the table.

“So, is it true,” Jackson asked, leaning forward conspiratorially, “that your sirens back home sound like a dying goose?”

Dylan, mid-bite of her burger, chewed thoughtfully before answering with a smirk. “More like a goose having a panic attack. It’s less intimidating, more… confusing. Great way to clear traffic, though—people pull over just to make it stop.”

Lucy laughed, nearly choking on her soda. “God, I love your accent. It makes even horrifying sirens sound interesting.”

“Tell that to the blokes I’ve arrested mid-chase,” Dylan said, raising her brows. “Nothing interesting about getting tackled by someone yelling at you in full Cockney rage.”

“You tackled someone earlier today,” Nolan pointed out, pointing at her with a fry. “That was—honestly? Epic.”

Jackson nodded. “Straight up NFL highlight reel.”

Dylan shrugged, modestly brushing a fry through some ketchup. “He was running. I don’t like runners.”

Lucy grinned. “You and Bradford are kind of perfect for each other, you know.”

Dylan gave her a sharp look. “Don’t say that. I’ll lose my appetite.”

They all laughed. Even Nolan, who was clearly still recovering from getting caught on a fence, chuckled with mock humility. “Okay, but real talk—what’s it actually like working in London?”

Dylan leaned back a bit, tilting her head toward the sky, as if summoning ten years of stories.

“Rainy,” she said at last. “Political. Fast-paced. And rougher than most people think. A lot more paperwork. A lot less guns. You don’t realize how much adrenaline you get from being armed until suddenly you’re not.”

Lucy nodded slowly, fascinated. “Did you always want to be a detective?”

“No,” Dylan replied honestly. “I wanted to be a writer. Or a vet. But then my brother got arrested when I was sixteen, and I realized the only people making a difference were the ones on the inside.”

There was a pause. Not somber, exactly—but heavier.

Lucy reached out and touched her arm lightly. “Well… I’m glad you chose this path. You’re kinda badass.”

Dylan smiled, genuinely. “Thanks, Luce. You’re not so bad yourself.”

At a nearby bench, just far enough away to hear the laughter without being part of it, Tim Bradford, Angela Lopez, and Talia Bishop sat with their own burgers and drinks.

Angela, sipping her iced tea, glanced over at the rookies’ table, eyes landing squarely on Dylan. “So. Your Brit is settling in.”

Tim didn’t look up. “She’s not my Brit.”

Talia smirked. “But she is in your shop. And from what I saw earlier, she’s putting your pride to the test.”

Bradford ripped a bite out of his burger like it had personally offended him. “She’s fast. I’ll give her that.”

Angela raised a brow. “Fast? Tim, she tackled a suspect like she was some kind of athlete.”

“And cuffed him clean,” Talia added. “No hesitation.”

Tim grunted, chewing slower now. He hated admitting it, but the woman was competent. More than competent. She moved like someone who’d been in high-stakes situations for years. Controlled, precise. Even when she was pissed off—which, to be fair, seemed to be a constant state around him—she never lost her focus.

“She’s got instincts,” he muttered, finally conceding. “But she’s also had ten years on the job, so all of this is the bare minimum.”

Angela leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “She’s also bonded with the rookies. Chen’s practically got hearts in her eyes.”

“She’s sharp,” Talia agreed. “A little raw, but sharp. There’s something under all that sarcasm and leather.”

“Trauma,” Tim said flatly. “I can tell.”

Angela looked at him. “You’d know.” She muttered.

He gave her a look. “Funny.”

The three of them sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, watching as Dylan tossed a fry at Lucy and Lucy mock-gasped in betrayal.

Talia leaned back and said, “You’re not gonna break her, Bradford. Not like the others.”

Tim didn’t answer right away. He just kept watching.

“You never know.” he said finally.

“Oh, we know she won’t break.” Angela smirked. “But maybe… she’ll break you.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

The fluorescent lights in the locker room buzzed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow on the cold metal lockers and tiled floor. Most of the day shift officers had already cleared out, leaving the room still and quiet—an odd contrast to the chaos of the shift that had just ended.

Dylan Jenkins stood in front of her locker, the door open wide, the contents nearly cleared out. She’d changed out of her LAPD uniform and into a fitted black leather jacket, faded jeans, and ankle boots—her usual armor of civvy clothes. Her badge and gun were already locked away, and she was stuffing the last of her belongings into a worn canvas shoulder bag.

Her hair was down now, loose waves tumbling over her shoulders. Without the rigid silhouette of her uniform, she looked less like the no-nonsense detective who’d tackled a suspect to the ground that morning, and more like someone you might mistake for a musician or a freelance journalist. She liked that—kept people guessing.

The locker room door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t turn.

“Either say something or stop hovering,” she said flatly.

There was a pause. Then a familiar voice—Jackson West—chuckled nervously.

“You know, for someone with such a charming accent, you’re kind of scary sometimes.”

Dylan turned slightly, arching a brow as Jackson and Lucy Chen approached. Lucy had changed into a casual hoodie and jeans, hair up in a ponytail, but her expression was bright and familiar. Jackson, still in his Academy-issued sweatshirt, looked a little more subdued.

Dylan tilted her head. “You two stalking me now, or is this some LAPD hazing ritual?”

“Neither,” Lucy said, smiling. “We just wanted to see if you were free tonight.”

Dylan zipped up her bag. “Define ‘free.’”

“We’re all heading out for drinks,” Jackson said. “It’s not your first day, obviously, but it’s ours. Thought we’d celebrate surviving it—and, you know, buy Nolan a beer before he completely spirals.”

Dylan frowned slightly. “Nolan?”

Lucy’s expression softened. “He saw his first death on the job today. Some guy got stabbed to death. He didn’t say much, but… it hit him.”

Dylan let out a quiet breath. She remembered that moment. Everyone did. That first time death wasn’t just a photo on a file, but a body on the floor—still warm, eyes open, no longer human.

She closed her locker door and leaned against it.

“First one’s always the hardest,” she said quietly. “He okay?”

“He’s pretending he is,” Jackson said. “But he’s not. So we figured drinks. Something light. Laugh a little. Remind ourselves we made it through.”

Lucy looked at Dylan, hopeful. “You should come.”

Dylan studied them both for a moment. There was no pity in their expressions—just the openness of people still soft around the edges, still new enough to believe that sharing the weight might make it easier to carry.

She wasn’t used to being invited. Or included.

In London, it had been coffee at her desk. A bottle of something bitter at home. Silence.

But here—this wasn’t about her. It was about Nolan. About the fact that this job didn’t just break you in—it shaped you, with or without your permission.

“Alright,” she said, pushing off the locker. “But I’m not dancing, and I’m not doing karaoke.”

Lucy grinned. “No promises.”

Jackson smiled. “I’m just impressed you said yes.”

Dylan slung her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t make me regret it.”

As they walked out of the locker room together, the laughter between the three of them echoed off the walls—soft, genuine, and new.

And behind them, in the now-empty room, the silence lingered a little less heavily.

The bar wasn’t fancy—half the neon lights outside were broken, and the air inside was thick with cheap beer, over-loud music, and the low murmur of conversations that ranged from laughter to heated pool-table debates.

But it was familiar. Comfortable.

One of those off-duty cop haunts tucked just far enough from the precinct that it didn’t feel like an extension of the job, but close enough that you could still show up in uniform and no one would bat an eye.

Dylan Jenkins sat on a weathered leather booth seat near the back, one arm draped casually along the backrest, a half-empty whiskey sour in her hand. Her jacket was slung over the chair beside her, boots crossed at the ankles under the table. She looked relaxed—but she was always watching.

Across the table, John Nolan nursed a beer quietly, eyes a little distant, his expression thoughtful even when he smiled. Lucy Chen sat beside him, leaning into his space like a sister might, and Jackson West was halfway through telling a story, hands animated and voice rising and falling with dramatic flair.

“And then,” Jackson said, eyes wide, “my FTO walks into the locker room, sees me in full gear, and goes, ‘You look like you’re playing dress-up in your daddy’s clothes.’ In front of everyone!”

Dylan let out a low laugh. “Ouch.”

“I almost turned around and quit on the spot,” Jackson said. “But I’d already paid the dry cleaning bill.”

Even Nolan chuckled at that, shaking his head. “They really don’t hold back.”

Lucy grinned. “The Academy was just… chaos. Remember that time they made us do the obstacle course in full gear during a heatwave?”

“Someone passed out,” Jackson added.

“Two someones,” Lucy corrected. “One of them fell into the tire pit.”

They all laughed again, and even Nolan’s face seemed to lift a little.

Dylan took another sip of her drink, her smirk faint but present. “You lot are soft.”

Lucy leaned in. “Oh yeah? What was it like in London, then? Come on. Tell us a story.”

Jackson nodded eagerly. “A real one. Like, something wild.”

Dylan raised a brow, thoughtful for a moment. Then her eyes gleamed.

“Alright,” she said, voice smooth with that unshakable accent. “You want dark? I’ll give you dark. But don’t blame me if you never look at kebab shops the same way again.”

That got their attention.

“So,” she began, “this one time, I was working surveillance on a guy suspected of trafficking arms through fake food deliveries. Sounds stupid, but it worked—he had a kebab van, right? Parked it all over South London. Every time someone ordered a double lamb with chili sauce, he’d drop off a silenced Glock instead.”

Jackson’s eyes widened.

“Anyway, one night, I’m parked outside in this freezing car, sipping the worst coffee you’ve ever tasted, and I see our guy dragging something heavy out of the van.”

“Drugs?” Lucy guessed.

“Body,” Dylan corrected flatly, like she was discussing the weather. “Wrapped in cling film. Tosses it into a wheelie bin like it’s Tuesday’s leftovers.”

Jackson made a face.

Lucy leaned in, fascinated. “What did you do?”

“I radioed it in. My backup, of course, was ‘stuck in traffic’—which in London means they were three blocks away, couldn’t be arsed to run, and we were understaffed. So I went in alone.”

Nolan blinked. “Alone?”

“Yeah,” Dylan said with a shrug. “Pulled my baton, because guess what? I wasn’t armed back then. He swung a carving knife at me, screamed something about MI6 trying to poison his kebab meat. I took a lamb spit to the face and still cuffed him.”

There was a stunned silence.

Then Lucy burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You’re insane.”

“I was hungry,” Dylan said, completely deadpan. “The real tragedy? The kebab van got impounded before I got my dinner.”

Even Nolan laughed now, his expression lighter than it had been all night.

The tension he’d been carrying all shift—the haunted look in his eyes from the guy who’d been stabbed—seemed to soften around the edges, not gone, but less sharp. Lucy gave him a soft, sideways smile and touched his arm briefly. He returned the gesture, grateful.

At the bar, people noticed Dylan—of course they did.

Men stole second glances. Women raised eyebrows. The way she carried herself was hard to ignore: the sharp jawline, the casual elegance, the effortless cool of someone who didn’t need attention but always got it. With her whiskey glass in hand and that impossibly smooth accent, she looked like a walking contradiction—tough as hell, but disarmingly charming.

And yet—her gaze never wandered. Her attention never left the table. Not for the guy by the bar trying to make eye contact. Not for the waitress who “accidentally” brushed against her.

Her focus was here, with them.

With Lucy, who kept telling stories about rookie training mishaps and snorted when she laughed too hard.

With Jackson, who asked too many questions but meant well.

With Nolan, who had seen something today that changed him—and needed to be around people who understood that.

Dylan sat back slightly in the booth, letting the hum of the bar drift around her. The laughter, the dim lighting, the comfort of shared experience. It had been a long time since she’d felt this—not just included, but accepted.

She’d walked into the LAPD expecting to feel like an outsider. And maybe she still was. But tonight?

Tonight felt like a start.

#tim bradford #the rookie #tim bradford x reader #lucy chen #jackson west #john nolan #oc

58 notes · View notes

reverie-starlight · 3 days ago

Text

so this is the bday fic I had planned for 2024, and it’s been sitting in my drafts since then. I finally finished it like six months later, so this is just gonna sit in my queue until march 2025. I'm sure my characterization of kaiser will be much better different by then, but oh well!!

fem!reader, no physical descriptions. I will never not make kaiser soft, sorry not sorry <3 FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF. vague mention of reader having bad b-days in the past. self-ship coded!! no angst!!! just fluff! happy birthday to me!!!!!!!!

birthdays are… complicated for you.

complicated enough that you can’t even scrape the surface of your feelings on them. you don’t hate yours (technically) but it does bring up a lot of emotions in the weeks leading up to it. then those feelings get mixed with the fact that you’re not good at accepting that there are people out there who want to take care of you and make the day special when you haven’t known it to be in a long time.

people like kaiser.

kaiser, who knows all of your birthday troubles and always wants to make the day pleasant as possible for you.

(“trying to make up for all those awful years, liebling”, he always says when you try to protest.)

kaiser who always has to one up himself year after year, despite your insistence that he doesn’t need to.

kaiser, who would never give up the chance to see the beautiful, bashful smile on your face when you finally give in and accept the full force of his love and appreciation for you.

kaiser, who is currently leading you to this year’s birthday surprise, repeatedly assuring you that he didn’t go over the top this time.

he slowly removes the blindfold from your eyes and watches with a smile as you take in the unbelievably large pile of presents in front of you.

you inhale sharply and turn your head between him and the gifts multiple times in quick succession. “what-“ you spin on your heel to look up at his shamelessly smug face. he’s practically glowing with pride at having surprised you like this. “michael, I thought I said you didn’t need to get me anything.”

he shrugs and places his hands on your shoulders to calm you. “I know, schatz, but did you really think I’d let your birthday pass without at least one gift? do you even know me?”

you click your tongue and look back at the pile. he recognizes that your body language looks a bit guilty, and your wide eyes confirm that. “first of all this is way more than one, but… I told you that I just wanted to spend time with you. this… this is so much… and… and probably so expensive…” you could hardly wrap your head around the fact that this massive pile of gifts was yours.

your boyfriend grins. “I’m an athlete, baby, and a damn good one at that- I can’t imagine a better way to spend my funds than spoiling you from time to time.”

your pupils dilate and his grin only grows as you shake your head and look away bashfully. “I can think of a few…” he hears you mutter.

he laughs. you’re always so quick to deny anyone the pleasure of treating you. he doesn’t ever blame you for that, though. “well it’s a good thing it’s technically my money, and not yours then, hm?”

at least not yet, he thinks to himself and pictures the ring of your dreams that you’ve unknowingly designed, tucked away safely in his drawer for a later date.

your boyfriend notices you getting slightly overwhelmed with all the thoughts running through your head, so he decides to make it easier for you.

he turns you around to face the gifts once more and wraps his arms around your waist. he sways you back and forth for a bit, letting you sit with the fact that all these gifts are actually yours.

in between pressing gentle kisses to your neck to calm you down some, he says “so which one do you want to start with, angel girl?”

almost an hour later, you’re both cuddled up on the couch with a pile of gift wrap and ribbon surrounding you all over the floor. kaiser had mumbled some promises of cleaning it all up tomorrow morning against your lips before slipping into the kitchen and bringing out your cake. he does his rendition of happy birthday and lets you blow out the candles, teasing you about letting him in on your wish before grabbing the knife to cut you a slice.

“can we…” you stop mid sentence, hesitating. he sits back and waits for you to find your words. “can we share a slice?”

he doesn’t question your request and cuts a huge wedge away from the cake. “big enough?”

you nod and settle against him, swinging your legs over his lap and stealing the fork from his hand to have the first bite.

“it’s really good, michael.”

“of course it is, I got your favourite.”

you knock your head against his in thanks and move to feed him a piece. “no, let me do it from here, hase.”

kaiser takes the fork and a bite before offering you another. “you spoil me, my love.”

he shakes his head, frowning a bit. he meets your eyes and you’re a bit surprised to see that he’s grown sentimental. “well how could I not? you’ve given me everything I’ve ever wanted- a chance to be loved and to love in return.”

he grabs your hand with his free one and presses his forehead against yours. “giving you a good birthday is the least I could do, mein schatz.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i luv him :3

#kaiser x reader #kaiser x reader fluff #michael kaiser x reader #blue lock x reader #blue lock x reader fluff #kaiser fluff #blue lock x you #blue lock x y/n #blue lock x female reader

50 notes · View notes

jassy2uall · 3 days ago

Text

– Heart Like A Habit 🧡 (pt. 2)

Highschool!Billie Eilish x black fem!reader

“You're the new girl—just trying to survive another school year in a place where you know no one. But then there’s her—Billie Eilish, the infamous heartbreaker and rising star who somehow has you completely hooked, whether you like it or not.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alycia slid into the seat, her movements careful as she shrugged off her book bag and placed it on the ground beside her. She could feel eyes on her before she even looked up.

Odessa, sitting across from her, watched with thinly veiled amusement. The girl behind her did the same, their silent glances speaking volumes. They weren't subtle—not really. They tried to look away before she could catch them, but she already had.

Alycia swallowed hard, fixing her gaze on the front of the classroom. She had a feeling this wouldn't be the last time they looked at her like that.

"Good morning, class," Mr. Brown said, clearing his throat.

He looked less than thrilled with the group in the back. A few guys were laughing, one of them—Jason, if Alycia caught his name correctly—launching paper balls at his friend like they were in middle school.

"Jason," Mr. Brown called out, his voice edged with warning. "Keep it up, and it'll be three weeks of detention."

Jason immediately stopped, but instead of looking guilty, he threw on a dramatic pout. "Three weeks? That's excessive, Mr. B," he whined, placing a hand over his chest like he'd been personally offended.

The class erupted into laughter, and even Alycia found herself cracking a small smile. Mr. Brown, however, just rolled his eyes, clearly used to Jason's antics. "Yeah, yeah. Just keep it up and see what happens."

Alycia exhaled slowly, sinking a little deeper into her seat. At least Jason had successfully pulled everyone's attention away from her—for now.

"Is that a smile, new girl?" Odessa teased, her devious grin widening as all eyes turned to Alycia.

Alycia swallowed hard. What does this girl have against me?

"I love your locs," Odessa's friend chimed in, her tone sickly sweet.

"T-Thank you," Alycia muttered, unsure if it was genuine or not.

"Yeah, it wasn't a compliment," the girl—Quen, Alycia realized—immediately shot back, laughing. The class erupted with her, except for one.

"That's enough, Quen," Mr. Brown interjected, his patience clearly thinning. He pointed at her and Odessa with a stern look. "Plenty of room in detention for both of you."

The laughter died down quickly, but Odessa only smirked, tapping her nails against the desk like this was just another game to her. Meanwhile, Alycia kept her gaze fixed on the desk, her face burning.

But somehow, Alycia felt like she was being watched. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made her cheeks flush.

The girl behind her was quiet, nothing like her loud, taunting friends. She hadn't laughed, hadn't joined in. Just... sat there. Watching.

Alycia could feel it—the weight of that gaze still lingering behind her—but there was no way she was turning around to confirm it. Not when her heart was already beating faster than it should have been.

Suddenly, Mr. Brown's attention shifted to her, and she knew what was coming before he even opened his mouth. She had been through this way too many times not to recognize the signs.

"Ah, new student, I see," he said with a friendly smile, walking closer. "You must be Alycia Hart."

She nodded. "Yes."

"And I hear you have perfect attendance, despite being in three different schools in the past year."

"Unfortunately," Alycia mumbled, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over her.

"Kicked out?" a student in the back called out, his tone laced with amusement.

Alycia turned to him, her voice firm. "No. My mom is a travel nurse." She hated that she even felt the need to explain herself, but she wasn't about to let them assume the worst.

"Hopefully, you can travel with her again," Quen muttered under her breath, earning quiet laughs from Odessa and a few others.

Mr. Brown's sharp gaze snapped in her direction. "What was that?"

Quen barely missed a beat, her voice dripping with false innocence. "I said, I wish I could be a travel nurse." She flashed an exaggerated grin, as if she hadn't just humiliated Alycia in front of everyone.

Alycia clenched her jaw, staring straight ahead. She already hated it here.

"Alright, well, on to today's assignment."

The whole class groaned in unison, already dragging out their notebooks and computers to take notes.

Alycia did the same, though her mind was still elsewhere—on the quiet girl behind her, on Odessa's taunts, on the way her first day was already feeling like an uphill battle.

An hour later, first period was finally over, and Alycia barely had time to breathe before the next hurdle. She still had three more classes left, and no idea where any of them were.

Great. Just great.

"Umm, excuse me, Mr. Brown," Alycia said, standing up as the bell rang.

He barely had time to glance at her before another teacher called him outside.

How perfect.

Alycia let out a quiet sigh, staring down at her schedule, frustration settling in. She really should have gone to orientation when they recommended it.

"Are you lost?"

The voice was soft, calm.

Alycia's breath caught slightly as she looked up—her. The quiet girl from behind her, finally speaking.

"I am, yeah," Alycia admitted, nodding. "Do you have any idea where Chemistry 101 is?"

Before the girl could answer, Odessa cut in with a laugh. "Of course she has an idea where it is."

The girl turned back, shooting Odessa a look. "I got this," she said, her voice edged with annoyance.

Odessa held up her hands in mock surrender, still laughing.

The girl turned back to Alycia, her piercing blue eyes meeting hers. "Ms. Greene?"

Alycia nodded.

"It's downstairs on the left, cutie. A few steps down, near the bathrooms."

Alycia barely registered the directions because—cutie.

The pet name rang in her mind, the way it rolled off her tongue so effortlessly, so casually. It shouldn't have made her heart skip, but it did.

"Thank you," Alycia managed, keeping her voice steady.

"No problem."

She smiled before walking out of the room, her friends following behind—but not before giving Alycia one last lingering stare.

Just a few more hours, she told herself. I can do this.

The last two classes went surprisingly well—mostly because Odessa and Quen weren't in them, and no one else seemed particularly interested in making Alycia's life difficult.

But her luck ran out when she reached her final class of the day.

Gym.

She groaned internally, already bracing herself for the worst. It wasn't just that she hated gym—it was the fact that it was required for all first-year students, even though she was a sophomore.

As soon as she stepped inside the gymnasium, her stomach dropped.

Two familiar faces were already perched on the bleachers, grinning like they had been waiting for her.

"Oh yes," Odessa drawled, her eyes locking onto Alycia as she waved dramatically.

Quen was right beside her, laughing like this was the highlight of her day.

Alycia ignored them, keeping her head down as she found a spot on the bleachers—far away from both of them.

She exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the nerves.

Her eyes scanned the gym, not really expecting to find anything good—but secretly, hoping for one person in particular.

Was she here?

The thought crept in before Alycia could stop it. She wouldn't admit it, but the idea of seeing her again made gym class seem a little less unbearable.

A few moments later, to her surprise, there she was...

"Billie," one of the gym teachers called out. Was that really her name? It suited her, Alycia thought. The way she moved, the way she carried herself, it all made sense.

Beside her was another girl, Ava, the other teacher called her name. She had long blonde hair, light freckles, and wore a simple blue dress. But that wasn't what really caught Alycia's attention.

It was the hickeys.

Both Billie and Ava had them—dark, unmistakable marks on their necks. The sight of them made Alycia's heart sink in a way she wasn't prepared for. She wasn't sure why it bothered her so much, but it did. Seeing the marks, seeing the intimacy so out in the open, made something twist inside her chest.

Why did it matter? Why was it making her feel this way?

Everyone in the gym was whispering, giggling, and oohing at the matching hickeys on Billie and Ava's necks. It was like they were used to seeing this—like it was some kind of badge of honor, something they all knew was coming. Was it typical for Billie to be so... open about her relationships?

The teachers just shot them annoyed looks, but didn't say a word. They had probably seen it all before.

Alycia stayed quiet, not daring to look away. She watched as Ava took a seat on the bleachers and walked over to where Odessa and Quen were sitting. Quen greeted her with a playful shove on the shoulder, and they all laughed, like it was just another day for them.

Alycia silently cursed under her breath. She wished the hour and a half would end already. Gym class was the last thing she needed on top of everything else.

One of the female teachers clapped her hands, signaling for everyone to head to the women's locker room to get changed for dodgeball—of course, it was dodgeball day. Just her luck. And to make things worse, she hadn't brought a change of clothes with her.

As she stood there, hesitating, one of the girls in the locker room, a brunette with a friendly smile, noticed her dilemma.

"Hey, I've got an extra pair of shorts," the girl offered. "You can use these."

Alycia's face flushed, but she nodded gratefully.

"Thanks."

The girl smiled warmly. "No problem."

Alycia's gaze wandered back to Billie, whose eyes seemed to be locked on her once again. Just for a second, but it was enough to make her pulse quicken.

Alycia walked back out onto the gym floor, her heart pounding in her chest. The moment she stepped onto the court, she could feel the tension in the air, like everyone was just waiting for something to happen.

They were split into two teams, each one eyeing the dodgeballs scattered around the gym floor. The rules were simple: grab a ball, try not to get hit, and eliminate the other team. Nothing too complicated—just a game.

But the way Odessa and Quen were looking at her was anything but casual. They were gunning for her, their eyes locked on her like sharks circling their prey.

Billie, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with excitement. She looked like she was ready to have the time of her life, a mischievous grin plastered on her face. She was absolutely riled up for this.

Ava, who was still sitting on the bleachers with Billie earlier, was on Alycia's team. She and Billie exchanged a smile, the kind that spoke volumes—like they were in on some inside joke together. Alycia couldn't help but roll her eyes. Of course they were on the same team. It was like everything was just one big game for them.

The whistle blew, and in that instant, chaos erupted.

The gym was alive with shouting, dodging, and the sound of rubber balls slamming into walls and the floor.

The game was on, and no one was holding back.

End of pt. 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#billie eilish #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x you #billie elish icons #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie ellish lyrics #billie eilish angst #billie eilish imagine #billie elish moodboard #billie x reader

43 notes · View notes

gone-fish-mode · 7 hours ago

Text

hm , if i may add on ( as a woman and a beast ) - it's very interesting how invisible we become when not preforming Correctly . People and peers (professors, even) don't recognize me when i become a Woman. They reintroduce themselves to me and are not sure how to proceed with the conversation when they realize who I am. Not only am I treated differently when I Preform , it is active proof that I am ignored and disregarded when I dont.

And the changes I make are not big- I don't wear glasses. I might wear my hair down. And I still usually wear pants, just more feminine. Minimal makeup. I am generally well-groomed, I am paranoid about my smell and hate the feel of dirty hair. It's not the act of being clean, it's the Performance of it all.

I will also admit that I can be reclusive- I like alone time. But the way that others come directly up to me when I'm Preforming as a Woman versus when I don't is drastic- Sometimes I have trouble getting people to respond to a "hello!" from me- The difference these small changes make!

I would be lying if I said being a Woman didn't impact my Beasthood. The way in which my Natural state of being is treated as a way to justify exclusion. By not fitting into the standard I am not included in the group. It others me, and being othered is a large reason as to why I am here in the first place

I am in a body I like, but in a societal role that pressures me to be something I am not. There is a dissonance between what I am and what others want me to Be, and nonhumanity fills that gap. It's the in-betweens of my sex and my gender, something I must confront in order to see my full self. And it is not fun. I enjoy being a Beast, but not everyone will walk the line of the Unknown with me, there are times when my position away from Preformed Womanhood will fully isolate me.

Needless to say, I get it, Talon. And I don't really like it.

weird rules, social expectations and Being A Woman

you know, something that really pisses me off about Society (tm) is how normativity is just so mindlessly, happily rewarded, even by the most tolerant of people. specifically (but not exclusively) regarding to gender expression.

i am a woman. i was born a woman, i live as a woman, i am perceived as a woman, and i even identify as a woman. ill admit i also have some gender fuckery going on in here, but my internal identity is, frankly, nobodys business; im happy to be assumed a woman, because i honestly dont care how others perceive me in this regard. but. this doesnt mean that i am happy to do the whole nonsense routine that is required to be considered a Real Woman by almost everyone in this god darn planet. i dont do makeup, i dont like to style my hair, i mostly stopped shaving, and you couldnt pay me to care about clothes.

my mother is always telling me about how pretty i am. growing up, i heard it all the time. you have such beautiful curls, if i had hair like yours i would let it grow a lot longer (thanks, i like it shorter tho). im so jealous of your eyes, they are so blue! (haha yeah, i was born with them). i bet this dress would look so pretty on you, why do you never wear skirts? (they just make me uncomfortable, i like my own clothes anyways). if you wore makeup more often you would look so much more beautiful (i like how my face looks, thanks). you should shave your legs, they look bad like that (you never tell [brother] to shave his legs).

it is infuriating. i hate it so, so much. i am a woman, not a doll to play dress up with. and if i have to pretend to be a human, the least that society could do is to just let me exist in peace! it drives me crazy that all this is even expected. worst part, it is fucking Everywhere.

this christmas one of my cousins got me a new pencil case. it is pink and green, and has some cats and snakes and bugs and moons drawn on it. it is beautiful, and although i wasnt too thrilled about the color, i figured it was cool so i began using it. one of my friends saw me take it out during class, said oooo [name], thats so pretty! and gave me a Look. i dont know how to explain it without sounding crazy, but i swear it was like she was saying, so now you like Woman Stuff! you know what Look im talking about, right? when you finally cave in and do the feminine thing, and its like everyone is so happy that youre finally filling your expected role in life. it is weird as hell. i dont like it.

but like, this is my friend, who supports me being aroace and autistic and IS BISEXUAL HERSELF! something something, leftism leaving peoples bodies when a gender non-conforming person does something that is stereotypically associated with their gender. idk, its a bit like dog training when you think about it for a second. in animal training (and i mean proper animal training, not beating your dog until it stops barking), good behavior should be rewarded, while bad behavior is supposed to be ignored so the animal learns to only do the good behavior. you do the feminine thing, and you get smiles and compliments; you stop doing it, then suddenly gender presentation doesnt matter. and this... training behavior is, of course, mostly unconscious, with its perpetrators unaware that theyre even doing it. if i asked my friend what she meant by that, she would say that she didnt mean anything, she just liked the case. if i asked my mother why do i have to shave while my brother doesnt, she would say that its just how things are.

its just how things are. its how it always has been. its how it always will be. so just shut up, smile, and pretend it isnt happening. pretend youre not being trained like a dog to salivate at the sound of a bell. it doesnt matter, it isnt happening, so why bother thinking about it? dont think about it. stop thinking about it.

#blub blub #blub writing #therian #otherkin #nonhuman #alterhuman #not everyone excludes me mind you i have some WONDERFUL friends #this is a generalization #but still very accurate

91 notes · View notes

alexanderlightweight · 2 days ago

Note

Hello hello and happy Wednesday!! I’m so glad you’re back T.T could I mayhaps have more of “a stolen heart” that you started last week? If you aren’t feeling that one then omega/omega Malec is also on my brain! Thank you for your hard work!

happy Wednesday! thank you, i'm very happy to be back <3

here is some more of it, I actually am enjoying this verse quite a bit so I was definitely feeling it! I got the second ask about it being either nsfw/sfw so thank you!

Lumine

a stolen heart

“Overlapping rituals—”

“-a trap - Magnus—”

“ — bloodloss.”

Nothing makes any sense but the mention of Magnus’ name and the lure of his voice. It’s a siren call to Alec’s fog-ridden brain, the reminder that if he wakes, Magnus will be there.

Despite his body's desperate need for rest, Alec still struggles to fight through the dregs of unconsciousness. Pain pulls a whine from him despite his best efforts and the heavy weight of his eyelids feels almost impossible to lift.

It’s worth it though.

Or it will be, once Alec sees Magnus again.

—

“He’s not supposed to be waking up yet.” Catarina’s voice is calm, soothing even yet her tone does nothing to ease Magnus when her words are so contradictory. He knows it’s a habit from centuries of experience, that keeping herself calm helps keep those around her calm and therefore allow her to help her patient more.

He just hates being on the other end of it.

“You used a potion, shouldn’t it be in his bloodstream by now?”

They hadn’t used magic for a reason, they don’t yet know if the lingering rituals magicks are still in his system, considering he struggled to wake every time Magnus tried to put him under.

“Despite Alec letting me have as much blood as I want to use for tests, I still don’t understand nephilim physiology as well as I’d like.” Cat gives a careful hum as she casts a diagnostic spell, frowning at the translucent green image that appears before her.

“Well?” Magnus asks, impatient and expecting Catarina to give him a chiding look, not for the thoughtful interest that has her calculating gaze turn to him.

“Say something longer, directly to Alec this time.”

Magnus doesn’t hesitate, he turns and looks directly at his beloved, a broken “Alexander” slipping from his lips before he can even think about what he should say.

Hazel eyes blink open and for a brief moment Magnus is treated to Alexander’s gaze of pure adoration and relief.

Then a magic as pure white and wisping as a cloud parts them, clinging to Alexander’s eyes and ears like gauze.

“I should have known it would be your fault.” Catarina sounds exasperated but there is a soft turn to the corner of her lips even as she summons another chart.

“My fault?”

“He was reacting to your presence, especially your voice whenever you talked and probably any time Ragnor or I said your name. It was making him fight through the potion so he could be with you.” Moving her hands in a quick wave-like pattern she begins to set up what Magnus recognizes as a sleeping ward. “I’ve temporarily restricted his sight and hearing but I don’t recommend it long term. Hence using magic after all, but not your magic. This explains why he kept trying to wake up every time you tried to put him to sleep.”

Magnus tries not to preen, but he really can’t help how utterly smug he feels at the knowledge that even when this deeply injured, Alexander wants nothing more than to be with him.

“I knew it, instant peacocking.” Catarina is wrapping a small monitor with an orange gem around Alexander’s arm, “now this, you can dismantle my wards when this stone turns yellow. When it turns green, you can remove the magic from his eyes and ears. Alright?”

Magnus reaches out and lets his magic encase the gem, ensuring that even if he is asleep or out of sight, he’ll know if it changes.

this was supposed to have more plot but Magnus just fucking loves Alec too much to not hover and Alec loves Magnus too much to not try to wake up to be there with him and Cat would just like to treat her patient without emotional interference

#lumine writes #writing wednesday #writing wednesdays #a stolen heart #malec #magnus bane #shadowhunters #alec lightwood

36 notes · View notes

musicfeedsmysoul12 · 3 days ago

Text

Convoy with @anastasian-dreamer reminded me of this short I wrote. Basically we were talking about the jealous girl trope. I had it on my phone and went: hey lets take five minutes to ignore work and do a quick post.

Izuku didn't know what was wrong. He’d had a nice talk the night before with Melissa over a video chat, and Uraraka had shown up to borrow some notes. Things had seemed normal, fine. Uraraka seemed a bit off but she'd been acting strange all day.

When he woke up though, and went down to breakfast, Uraraka suddenly was ignoring him. She'd refuse to look at him. She seemed angry about something and Izuku didn't know what.

Worse was how the other girls were acting. He was being glared at and Ashido actually called him despicable. She shoved him!

Then Jirou ignored him during training and he ended up falling on his face. She got told off by All Might and seemed angry about it, her glare deadly. Hagakure pretended not to see him, and Tsu was cold. Them Yaomomo just did not respond to him at lunch.

Izuku didn't know what was going on. His chest hurt and all he could think was that they finally were reacting about his Quirklessness now that the war was over.

They knew he used to be Quirkless, they knew he was a fake. They were treating him like Adera used to. He couldn’t breathe, he-

“Midoriya! Izuku!” a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and Izuku jerked away. “Izuku it’s Iida. Can you hear me?” the taller teen asked.

Izuku took a shaky breathe, nodding jerkily.

“Okay, Izuku- tell me five things you see.” Tenya said. He began working through the senses with the green haired boy, slowly calming him down.

“Thanks Tenya,” Izuku murmured. He flushed. “Sorry, Iida.”

“We’ve been through enough you can call me by my first name,” Tenya told him.

“You can do the same to me,” Izuku took a long breath. “Thanks.”

“No problem. What happened?” Tenya asked.

“Uraraka and the other girls have been weird all day. You saw what happened in training. But I just…”

“I understand,” Tenya said. He did. It had taken a while but he recognized the signs in Izuku. Bullying left a harsh mark, and Izuku was no exception to the trauma of it.

“I dont know why they're acting like this,” Izuku confessed. “It just suddenly happened.” he looked down, feeling hurt. Tenya frowned at his friend, unsure himself.

But he would get to the bottom of it.

Later, after Tenya helped Izuku to his room and got Todoroki to come and sit with him, the engine Quirked teen went to the kitchen where the girls were hovering over Uraraka.

“Uraraka, why did I have to calm Izuku down from a panic attack because you and the other girls have been bullying him all day?” Tenya asked, uncaring that other students were in the common area. Uraraka froze, eyes wide.

“We haven't been bullying him!” Ashido cried out angrily.

“So ignoring him, acting like you can't see him and risking his safety in training isn't bullying?” Tenya demanded. Jirou looked down, anger in her face. Tenya expected she’d be stubborn given it was only recently she had backed off her taunting of Kaminari. He had enough a few months before and told her off, but she kept going until she had gotten a few session of ‘this is bullying’ lectures from Midnight. But Jirou hated being called out most of all the girls, so she would dig in her heels.

“He deserves it!” Hagakure said, the girl’s uniform moving like she was putting her hands on her hips.

“He deserves bodily and mental harm?” Tenya could not believe what the girl said. Yaoyorozu flushed, looking down. “Yaoyorozu as vice president of the class, what has possessed you to do this?” Tenya asked the girl.

“Uraraka was upset,” the rich heiress admitted.

“About what?” Tenya asked. This was baffling.

“Midoriya was talking to that girl Melissa!” Ashido said.

Tenya waited but no more came. He stared at the girls, who looked unrepentant as Uraraka sniffed, looking sad.

“… are you fucking kidding?” a voice asked. It was Kaminari, who had been listening in with Kirishima and Mineta. “He fucking talks to a girl and you bully him? Wow, guess its no surprise Jirou did it, she loves to torment people but the rest of you?!”

“Hey!” Jirou protested as the other girls glared.

“Uraraka likes him! It hurt her when-”

“They’re not dating,” Tenya interjected. “He has no ideas of her feelings and was talking to a friend of his. She decided after she got jealous to take it out on him. He did nothing wrong.”

“He shouldn't have talked to her late at night!” Ashido said.

“His American friend in a different time zone shouldn't have spoken with him when it was reasonable for them both?” Tenya asked. Ashido opened her mouth but closed it. She looked angry while Yaoyorozu looked heart broken. Tsu was wincing, obviously having realized where they went wrong. Yet Hagakure just crossed her arms.

“It hurt Uraraka,” the invisible girl insisted as Jirou nodded.

“Alright then. Mineta, I suppose the girls will date you now since obviously its the feelings of people who like others that matter most,” Tenya said to the short guy who grinned.

“Ooooo,” the pervert leered.

“What?! No!” Hagakure stepped back.

“Thats not the same!” Ashido said.

“So if Kirishima got mad at you for talking to a guy, because lets say Kirishima is straight for this and has a crush on you, then he proceeds to get all the guys in class to ignore you and one of them outright lets you get hurt during training, its okay then?” Tenya asked. Kirishima crossed his arms, glaring at the girls.

“So unmanly Mina. You claim to hate bullies yet you become one?” the red head demanded. Ashido shook her head.

“It-”

“It’s exactly the same,” a new voice said. They all turned to see Aizawa and Midnight in the dorms, Midnight giving the girls a very angry look. “This is abusive and controlling behaviour no matter how you look at it.”

“Im not abusive!” Uraraka said, shaking her head as the other girls protested. The teachers were unmoved.

“Jealousy is a natural reaction and you’re not at fault for feeling upset he is talking to another girl,” Midnight said calmly, but her voice cold. “But as soon as you lash out and hurt others it crosses a line. If a boy doing it to you isn't okay then this isn't either.”

Tenya left the teachers to scolding the girls, heading back up the stairs to speak with Izuku. He deserved an explanation.

Ochako didn't really know… no, she did know where it went wrong.

When she put her own feelings before her friend.

She had been psyching herself up all day to speak to Deku. She had wanted to ask him out, now that things had calmed down after All for One was killed by Shigaraki who went underground. People worried about what he was doing, but there was a measure of peace.

She had wanted to ask out the boy she had a crush on for so long. But then she saw him speaking with Melissa. Something inside her felt twisted, making her rush a stupid excuse before she left in shame. Jealousy came then, causing her to angrily rant to the other girls who took her side. She felt hurt, and righteous in her anger towards Deku.

Ochako had no right though. She knew that, even if she had ignored the gut feeling at the time. She just felt so sad. The other girls fed into that, even the more level headed of the class. Maybe because the idea of girl solidarity was high, or perhaps it was caused by the girls all just feeding into one another. The idea that Deku was fully in the wrong for how he treated her.

Even if he did nothing wrong. He only talked to a female friend. Ochako…

God emotions were messy.

Ochako sat in her room, wondering what the next day would bring. The dressing down from the teachers had hurt but truly forced her to see where she had gone wrong. She had no claim to Deku. They were friends. That was it. Him talking to Melissa wasn't a slight against her, and even if they were dating a chat about support gear with a friend wasn't cheating.

Yaomomo and Tsu had been ashamed when it was pointed out. They'd been swpt up in solidarity with Ochako, and ended up hurting a friend. Hagakure and Ashido were ashamed to, though they were perhaps more so given they actively had lashed out. Jirou… she was the most in trouble given she had let Deku get hurt during training. Ochako felt awful her emotions caused the incident. It boiled in her gut, making her sick.

Trying to sleep, Ochako hoped things looked brighter in the morning.

The next day, she went down to the kitchen to find Bakugou quietly cooking. She hesitated. After his ‘apology’ to Deku where he quickly just kept acting the same, prompting the green haired teen to end their friendship, stating he did not want to be friends with someone who so easily went back on his word, Bakugou had been quietly shunned by the rest of the class.

Yet not to the extent we treated Deku yesterday, Ochako thought miserably.

“Huh,” Bakugou had noticed her. He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “The only other student more hated then me right now, ain't ya Cheeks?”

“No one hates me,” Ochako snapped.

“Well no, not like me. But most of the guys are pretty pissed,” Bakugou shrugged as he turned back to cooking. “Can’t say I'm happy either. That's fucked up what happened.”

“Oh? You’re saying something?!” Ochako snapped, unhappy he of all people felt he got to judge her.

“Speaking as the guy who tried to just slap an apology I didn't mean over a wound? Yeah, I think I get to point out you ain’t no fucking saint Cheeks. You did what I did, maybe even worse since I've never been nice to Deku.” Bakugou said calmly. “Meanwhile you were his friend.”

“I am his friend! I just… Let my emotions get away from me,” Ochako admitted. Deku would forgive her. He was kind like that. He would understand she just lost her head.

Maybe he'd confess to! Maybe he liked her back! Her cheeks warmed at the thought and she squared her shoulders. Yes, she would face this head on.

Bakugou shook his head at her, looking amused and a bit annoyed. She ignored him.

Things would be okay. They would.

“If there had been any chance of us being together Uraraka… yesterday ruined it.”

“What? I dont-”

“If me talking to a girl who is a friend causes this when we aren't dating, what happens when we are?”

Notes:

-I have never liked the trope ‘girl gets jealous over crush talking to another girl so she acts out against the boy by ignoring him/hitting him’ and MHA is full of it, sometimes with the other girls in the class backing Ochako and sometimes not. So I decided to write this.

Yes it is abusive behaviour. You can be upset your crush talking to someone else. But as soon as you start acting like it was cheating/offensive, go touch some damn grass. You dont get to control people. You're not dating them and even if you were why the actual FUCK would it matter as long as they weren't cheating?

-I did go extreme here I'll admit but I have seen it in fics. And then they're in the ‘right’.

-Izuku losing OFA is stupid and we ignore that in this house.

-We also ignore how everyone just lets Bakugou continue being a dick after his apology so he actually has to change instead of giving lip service. This is fairly Bakugou friendly for me. I imagine he is in therapy right now and working through his shit.

-Izuku is also in therapy so he doesn't let Ochako get away with being cruel to him. They do rebuild their friendship but it is never the same as it was before, and Izuku would never consider her a possible partner.

-The other girls also lost Izuku’s friendship

#bnha #bnha au #trope critical #IzuOcha unfriendly #just gonna put that out there #or more I'm unfriendly to a trope like this

27 notes · View notes