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dxckgrxsonx · 3 years ago

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We are Horrible

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

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

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

You hear him before you see him.

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

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

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

There’s something uneasy kicking awake in your stomach.

The Arkham Knight is downright terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate them for it.

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

The Knight craves control, needs it.

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

How it makes you hate yourself.

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

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

And he probably will.

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

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

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

You gave up so much to gain so little.

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

He cuts the man off with brutal efficiency.

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

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

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

“Absolutely.” He confirms.

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

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

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

You’ve never liked being watched.

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

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

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

Stupid. Reckless. Undisciplined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No wonder you hate yourself sometimes.

No wonder you ran.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s strong and clever and always in control.

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

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

But you’re stupid.

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

Oh fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re wet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well that was fun.” You mock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your best is not nearly good enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fury gives way for something else, something worse.

Insecurity.

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

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

The Arkham Knight.

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

Dropping to your knees you bow your head and cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anything they wanted, you would have done for them.

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

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

Biting down on the fingers in your mouth you scowl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snap your eyes open.

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

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

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

You’re gone.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re mine, do you understand?”

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

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

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

You see him and you understand: broken sees broken.

You gave up so much to gain…something.

“You’re mine, do you understand?”

Yes

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

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

Love Ya!! xx

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