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padawan-snack-packer · 2 months ago

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Hi hello!! I saw you had 0 slots taken, can I request a Senator Aide!Reader x Commander Cody please? If you don't want to write it it's okay!!

"Of Dinners and Blasters", a Commander Cody x Senator Aide! Reader Ficlet

Anon, sweet chaotic soul — I saw this and immediately blacked out and woke up clutching a datapad, drenched in secondhand embarrassment and thirst.

So yes. You may have this ridiculous, flirtation-disaster, Senate-holo-map-humiliation, slow-burn hot mess. 🫡

✨ Featuring: - One (1) overworked and underqualified Senate aide - A tragic arrow-related incident - A very patient (but also slightly vindictive) Commander Cody - “Virile” used in a completely inappropriate tactical context - And the slow realization that maybe you like being bossed around by a clone commander just a little too much

You said Senator Aide x Cody and I said yes, but make it spicy (a bit) and deeply unprofessional 💅

Hope it makes you laugh/scream/melt into the Senate floor!!💖

Title: Of Dinners and Blasters Pairing: Senator Aide!Reader x Commander Cody Tags: teasing, slightly spicy (bestie it's very VERY light), fluff kinda????

The gala had started off fine.

The lights were low and warm, casting everything in soft gold and polished chrome. The kind of upscale Senate event where the champagne never stopped flowing and everything smelled faintly of artificial florals and expensive cologne. Strings of orchestral music drifted from the corner where a live quartet was tucked behind a fountain, and every third person in the room looked like they’d rather be anywhere else — which was how you knew it was going well.

You’d even managed to make it through your senator’s speech without a nervous breakdown. A miracle in and of itself.

Sure, the speeches had dragged on longer than expected — as they always did — and your senator had once again gone wildly off-script halfway through his address. Something about how intergalactic cooperation was like a "complex stew of root vegetables" that required careful seasoning or it would become "politically mushy." He got stuck in a metaphor loop for nearly seven minutes. At one point, he compared the Trade Federation to a "bitter yam."

You were pretty sure the Chandrilan ambassador was still trying to figure out if that was an insult.

But that was normal. That was fine. You were used to finessing damage control with a polite smile and a data pad. You could handle a rogue tuber analogy or two.

What you hadn’t anticipated was the wine. Or the open bar. Or the holoprojector set up at the center of the room, slowly rotating through a set of clone commander-authored tactical models as a display of military "transparency" and cooperation. Or the fact that, after your second glass of wine and a particularly brutal round of small talk with three senators who still thought clones were grown from “military potatoes,” you found yourself standing beside the holo-display next to a very stone-faced Commander Cody and saying—

“Wow. That is a lot of arrows.”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just a small hum of acknowledgment, eyes still tracking the red and blue troop patterns as they flickered across the air between you.

“They’re kind of... big,” you added. You were gesturing vaguely now. “Like, absurdly big. Not very subtle. These look less like troop movements and more like... well... compensation. Very hum... phallic.”

There was a pause.

A beat.

Then—

“Oh no,” someone muttered behind you.

You glanced back. Fives — because of course it was Fives — was already halfway through snorting his drink up his nose. General Kenobi looked like he’d started coughing purely out of self-preservation. You thought you heard someone choke on an hors d’oeuvre in the corner.

And Commander Cody...

...turned his head toward you.

Slowly.

Methodically.

With all the solemn judgment of a man internally reviewing every poor decision that had brought him to this precise moment in time.

You smiled at him, sheepishly. “I was joking,” you said. “Just a little... strategic satire.”

He blinked once.

“Humor,” you clarified, too quickly. “I was making a humorous observation. In jest. About the arrows. It was a joke.”

Silence.

You could hear the silence. Taste it, even. Somewhere in the background, the quartet shifted into a minor key, like the universe itself was soundtracking your descent into public disgrace.

Cody's gaze was unreadable. Not cold — he wasn’t angry, exactly — just... mildly horrified. In that very calm, quiet way that made it so, so much worse. The kind of expression that screamed: “I have seen battlefields and unspeakable violence, but this. This is a new kind of pain.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” you blurted, because your brain had clearly decided to betray you completely. “I just meant they’re very... uh... bold. The arrows. Bold and thick. And... and virile?”

Virile?!

You wanted to die. Instantly. Right there.

To fling yourself into the rotating holo-map and be consumed by its shame-glow.

“I mean—not virile, obviously,” you backpedaled, waving your hands. “That’s not a military term. Probably. I’m not an expert on clone tactics, which you know, because if I were, I wouldn’t be making jokes about the—about the—thick arrows.”

General Kenobi had turned fully around now, face in his hand, shoulders shaking silently.

You considered diving under the hors d’oeuvre table.

Cody was still watching you. Still perfectly still. The tiniest twitch of one eyebrow, like he was experiencing an emotion but choosing to file it under "classified."

You smiled again, helplessly. “You know what? I’m gonna go stand over there now.”

And you did.

You absolutely fled across the floor like the world's most flustered diplomatic gremlin, cheeks burning, stomach plummeting, a full-body flush of mortification clinging to your spine like static electricity.

You spent the rest of the evening hiding behind a decorative pillar and pretending to answer emails.

It was fine.

Except for the part where you were now fully certain Commander Cody was going to have you court-martialed despite the fact that you were, technically, not even in the military.

And also, possibly, he might be planning your tactical execution.

With bold arrows.

Gods help you.

Which brings us to… now.

“Wait, you’re actually serious about this?” you ask, laughing nervously as you scurry after Commander Cody down the polished hallway inside GAR Command.

“Oh, absolutely,” he replies, not even bothering to look over his shoulder. His voice is too calm. Suspiciously calm. Like a man who has made a decision and will not be swayed by mere mortal things like logic or dignity. “If you’re going to critique a tactical formation, you’d better know what it’s for.”

“I wasn’t critiquing!” you protest, stumbling slightly as you dodge a protocol droid. “I was—teasing. There’s a difference.”

“Mm.”

“Joking! You know, that charming kind of banter that builds morale?”

Cody finally glances back at you, expression bone dry. “I think you wounded morale.”

“You mean your morale,” you mutter.

He doesn’t answer. Which is rude, frankly. He just keeps walking like he’s on a mission. Which, technically, he is. A very petty, extremely personal mission of honor reclamation and holo-map revenge.

You try not to look at his back. Or his shoulders. Or the way his dress blacks fit just a little too well for someone who allegedly doesn’t care about appearances. It’s a war crime, honestly. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and it’s making you feel things that are absolutely inappropriate for someone being marched to their death-by-target-practice.

The door to the GAR firing range hisses open.

Cody steps inside without preamble. You hesitate in the doorway.

“This is a little dramatic,” you say, gesturing broadly at the empty training bay. “Dragging a civilian to a military shooting range to prove a point? Bit much, don’t you think?”

Cody sighs. Loudly. The kind of sigh that sounds like it’s been passed down through generations of clone commanders specifically for dealing with your flavor of chaos. “You’re not just a civilian,” he says. “You’re a Senate aide. You give briefings. You sit in on tactical overviews. You know how the chain of command works.”

“Yes, but I’m also just a little aide-,” you say sweetly. “A tiny, harmless, flirty little bureaucrat.”

“You mocked a Republic deployment pattern in front of members of the Jedi Council,” he says flatly.

“Okay, that was—technically true.”

“‘Technically’?” He gives you a look.

You wince. “...I didn’t know the hologram was live-streamed.”

Cody closes his eyes. You watch his soul briefly try to leave his body through the ceiling. Then he turns away, muttering something that might be a prayer or a threat.

“Grab a blaster,” he says.

You blink. “I—what?”

He gestures at the weapons rack. “Training model. Stun only. Go on.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you say, edging toward it. “This isn’t like... you’re not going to shoot me, right?”

“No,” he deadpans.

You narrow your eyes. “That wasn’t very convincing.”

“I’m not going to shoot you.”

A pause.

He adds, “Unless you say something about ‘phallic arrows’ again.”

You hold up your hands in surrender. “No arrows! Got it. Blaster acquired.”

You grab the training model. It’s heavier than you expected, and slightly cold to the touch. You immediately drop it.

Cody watches this entire performance in unimpressed silence.

“Okay,” you mutter, finally managing to hold it upright. “But just so we’re clear — if I die of embarrassment, that’s on you. You’ll have to notify my next of kin. Probably the janitor who sees me crying in the Senate hallway every week.”

“Noted,” he says, stone-faced.

You shuffle into place at the firing line. Cody follows, stepping in beside you like an instructor — or a very put-upon older brother who has absolutely been called in by someone’s senator to fix your diplomatic disaster with a hands-on pop quiz.

Targets begin to slide into place on the far end of the range. Glowing. Mocking you.

“I won't totally humiliate yourself, you know?” you murmur hopefully. “I’ve shot a blaster before. Once. At a senator’s retreat team-building event. There were moving targets and everything — though those targets were holographic fruit. And I may have missed most of them. And accidentally shot one of the catering droids.”

Cody makes a noise like he regrets knowing you.

“Elbows up,” he mutters. “You’re leaning back too far. Square your shoulders. You look like a drunk twi’lek in a wind tunnel.”

“That’s very specific.”

“I have experience.”

You manage to hit one target. Barely.

You spin to him, triumphant. “Ha. Got one.”

“Congratulations,” he says blandly. “Try hitting the other fourteen.”

“Oh my gods, Cody.”

He smirks.

You shoot again. Miss. Again. And then—suddenly—you feel him shift behind you, stepping close.

Your breath catches.

“May I?” he asks, voice low, warm.

You nod.

He’s gentle — carefully adjusting your stance, one hand guiding your elbow, the other settling lightly at your waist. You’re painfully aware of how close he is. Of the smell of soap and leather and something a little warm and electric underneath.

“Keep your eye on the target,” he murmurs.

You try.

The next bolt hits dead center.

You blink. “Did I just—”

“You did,” he says, sounding absurdly smug.

You turn toward him a little too fast. He’s right there.

“Are you proud of me, Commander?” you say with mock sweetness.

He raises a brow. “I’m proud you managed to shoot the target instead of a bystander.”

You gasp. “That was one time!”

He huffs a laugh, warm breath brushing your temple. “And it’s now permanently part of your training record.”

“You made a training record just to log that?!”

“Commander’s discretion.”

You glare. “I hope you trip over your own boots.”

Cody leans in a fraction closer. “That’s not very diplomatic of you.”

“I’m not feeling very diplomatic right now.”

The silence stretches.

You’re still holding the blaster.

He’s still not moving away.

“I’m not wrong, though,” you say, tilting your head. “About the arrows. They really do look like—”

“If you finish that sentence,” Cody says, deadpan, “you’ll be assigned to the 212th’s ‘unspecified terrain’ campaign for three weeks.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re bluffing.”

He leans in again, voice dropping just enough to make you swallow. “Try me.”

Your heart does a very stupid flutter.

Cody pulls back after a beat, watching you like he knows exactly what he just did.

And he does.

Smug bastard.

You click the safety on the blaster and set it down. “Well. I think this was very educational.”

“For both of us,” he says, nodding once.

“Next time I critique your arrows, I’ll bring a laser pointer.”

“You’re never getting near my deployment holograms again.”

You grin. “Scared I’ll redesign them in front of the Chancellor?”

“I’m scared you’ll make further anatomical comparisons.”

“Tempting,” you murmur, shooting him a sideways look. “But I think I got the point.”

He sighs. “Stars help me.”

You start walking toward the exit, and he follows. Just before you reach the door, he speaks again — quieter, almost casual:

“You shot better than I expected.”

You glance back, grinning. “You say that like you expected me to fail spectacularly.”

“I did.”

You fake a gasp. “And after everything we’ve been through.”

Cody gives you a look. “You’ve been through a single tactical incident and three glasses of wine.”

“And now a heartwarming bonding experience at the firing range,” you add.

There’s a pause.

Then Cody says, voice low and bone-dry:

“...Maybe next time I’ll just arrest you.”

You smile wider. “Kinky.”

He blinks. Actually blinks. For a half-second, his brain stalls — like a datapad buffering in real time — and that is your new favorite moment of the entire day.

“Goodnight, Commander,” you chirp sweetly, and saunter out the door like you didn’t just completely derail his thought process.

Behind you, you swear you hear him mutter:

“Force help me.”

#clone wars #star wars #sw tcw #star wars the clone wars #swtcw #star wars fic #clone troopers #commander cody #commander cody x you #commander cody x reader #star wars clones #the clone wars

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gullemec · 4 months ago

Text

Invisible Smoke

Golden Ruin - Chapter One

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Six months after the destruction of CytoGenix, the Boys are back and better than ever. Well... for the most part.

Warnings: reader experiences a panic attack, discussions of PTSD/trauma, mild smut, angst, happily ever after isn't so happy :(

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.1k

A/N: Hello and welcome to Golden Cage's sequel series! This has been percolating in my mind since I finished writing Golden Cage (which, for context, was in summer 2024 lol). I'm so excited to pick up where we left off and see what these nerds get up to <3

You stroll down the sunlit sidewalk, your sneakers tapping a steady rhythm against the concrete.

The air hums with the familiar symphony of the city, the honking cabs and chatter of passerby and rumble of the subway beneath your feet like a chorus. Warm rays of light filter through the gaps between towering buildings, dappling your cheeks in fleeting patterns that feel almost like a blessing from the city itself.

A city that is finally starting to feel like home.

As you turn onto 5th Avenue, your gaze lifts instinctively, drawn to the familiar sight ahead. There it is. The Flatiron building, with its iconic triangular frame slicing sharply through the crystalline blue sky. It stands proud and defiant amidst the bustling world below, like the bow of a grand ship cutting through turbulent waters.

The sight is a balm, a touchstone amidst chaos. No matter how many times you walk this path, the comfort it brings never wanes. It’s more than just a building to you now, it’s a symbol. A reminder that in a world teetering on the edge of collapse, some things can still stand tall, steadfast, unshaken.

You weave through the sea of Manhattanites, dodging tourists with cameras and businesspeople glued to their phones. As you approach the Flatiron, you take a moment to admire its beauty and grandeur, the way it stands out against the myriad of skyscrapers and office buildings surrounding it. The city buzzes with its usual frenetic energy, but you’ve learned how to flow with it, like water finding its way around rocks.

You heave open the heavy front door and quickly rush up the stairs to your new office.

After months of covert negotiations, Butcher had finagled the use of the abandoned Greywal & Co. Import & Export offices on the top floor, bartered as a perk of your group joining the Bureau of Superhuman Affairs as contractors. It's a marked improvement from your previous hideout, the grimy laundromat basement with leaking pipes and the lingering smell of detergent. You still wake up sometimes with phantom memories of that dark, damp space where everything in your life had started to unravel.

Pushing open the glass door to the office space, the faint creak of old hinges announces your arrival. Inside, the room is alive with the energy of preparation. Maps and photographs plaster the walls, red strings connecting points like veins in a pulsing network. Desks are buried under a mess of takeout cartons, coffee-stained papers, and gear waiting to be packed. Monitors hum softly, their screens glowing with encrypted data streams.

Sunlight filters through the arched windows, casting the space in a hazy golden glow that feels almost serene, if not for the tension crackling in the air like static.

The chatter dies instantly as all eyes snap to you.

Awesome. You’re late, again.

You raise a hand in apology, still slightly out of breath from your brisk walk. “Sorry, sorry! Came as soon as I got your text.”

Mallory’s eyebrow arches in that signature expression of disapproval that somehow stings worse than any verbal reprimand. Her silence weighs heavy in the room, a scolding in and of itself.

Butcher’s eyes meet yours across the room, his expression unreadable. He offers you a curt nod, which you return with a small smile. You round the corner of his desk and perch yourself on its edge. His presence is an anchor, steadying you against the rising tide of anxiety.

Mallory rises from her seat, and the air seems to shift. The room quiets further, everyone instinctively straightening as her commanding voice cuts through the stillness.

“We intercepted intel about a meeting at the Russian consulate tomorrow morning,” she begins, her tone clipped and precise. “Vought executives are holding a private session with Russian diplomats. No press. No fanfare. Just whispers.”

She pauses, her gaze sweeping the room, letting the weight of her words settle. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s big. We need ears in that room.”

A delicious tingle of anticipation races down your spine. Finally.

“How big we talkin’ here?” Butcher drawls, leaning back in his chair with the practiced ease of someone who’s seen far too much.

“This could tie into the superweapon rumors we’ve been tracking,” Mallory replies, her voice razor-sharp. “The overseas labs, the classified experiments… This meeting might give us the proof we need to shut it all down. We can’t afford to let this slip.”

You glance around the room, catching the flicker of renewed determination in everyone’s eyes. For months, the Boys have been chasing shadows, piecing together fragments of a puzzle no one seems able to solve. A superweapon, supposedly capable of destroying Homelander. An opportunity like this could blow it all wide open.

Mallory’s gaze zeroes in on you, sharp and unyielding. “You and Hughie are on this.”

The spark of excitement sputters into an icy stab of dread.

“Wait, what?” Hughie blurts, his voice pitching upward. “You mean us? Like, sneaking into the consulate us? That’s… uh… not exactly my strong suit.”

“I’m not asking you to steal state secrets,” Mallory replies, her tone cutting. “You’re going in as caterers. Plant a recording device, listen in, and get out. Keep your heads down, and no one will notice you.”

“Right, because that always works out great for us…” Hughie mutters, earning a smirk from Frenchie.

You feel the familiar grip of doubt creeping up your spine. This is no small task. It’s the kind of mission where a single misstep could mean disaster. It’s been ages since the Boys had a lead this good, and Mallory wants you on this. Anxiety creeps in at the edges of your mind, that old familiar feeling of inadequacy paying you an unwelcome visit. Your father may be gone, but his presence left a permanent etching in your brain, a voice that tells you to make yourself small and to shrink away from a challenge.

You shake it off. You refuse to let that voice win.

“We can do this,” you say, injecting steel into your voice. “No one’s going to suspect a couple of random caterers. I’ve been practicing. I can handle it.”

Butcher’s dark laugh cuts through the room, low and biting.

“Practicing, eh?” he sneers. “Need I remind you what happened the last time you and Hughie tried goin’ incognito? Love, this ain’t amateur hour. You’re walkin’ into a bloody nest of Vought execs who’d gut you the moment they sniff something’s off.”

Your stomach twists as memories flash. The acrid scent of burning metal, the heat at your back as Homelander’s laser eyes chased you out of the laboratory. The thrum of your heart in your chest as you practically dragged Hughie out of the building. The hours spent taking subway trains across town to shake your tail.

But that was months ago. That was your first real mission. You’ve learned. You’ve grown. No one gets to underestimate you, not anymore.

“I know what’s at stake,” you snap, meeting Butcher’s gaze head-on. “I’m not going to screw this up.”

His jaw tightens, concern flickering in his eyes. “I don’t like the idea of you gettin’ mixed up in all of this. Your arm’s barely healed.”

You gape at him. “My cast has been off for months!”

“That don’t mean it’s healed!” he retorts, exasperated.

You know he's doing this out of concern, and you know he's seen enough shit in his time to know exactly how dangerous something like this could be. He’s seen more than his fair share of bloody messes and catastrophic endings to missions that went sideways. He knows just how quickly things can spiral, how one wrong move can turn a carefully laid plan into a disaster. But for all his cynicism, he also knows you, what you’ve been through, what you’ve survived, what you’re capable of now.

In the six months since your father’s body became a bomb, detonating CytoGenix Headquarters and reducing it to a smoldering pile of rubble, your condition has been rather… delicate. Concussions, fractured bones, months of physical therapy. Your body had taken a beating, and your mind hadn’t fared much better. But as soon as the cast came off and the doctor cleared you of the worst of it, you were ready to throw yourself back into the action. Ready to stop sitting on the sidelines and start making a difference again.

That was, of course, until you ventured out on your first mission post-explosion. It had been simple, low-stakes, meant to ease you back into things. But nothing is ever truly that simple for you, is it?

~~~

The warehouse loomed in the distance, its corrugated metal exterior streaked with rust and grime. You adjusted your binoculars, squinting through the rain-specked windshield of your car. From your vantage point, parked a block away, you had a clear view of the loading dock. Two men in coveralls were hauling crates onto a forklift, their movements unhurried.

Mallory’s intel had led you here, a warehouse allegedly housing contraband Compound V, tucked away in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. It wasn’t a complex mission. Snap photos of the crates, jot down delivery times, and get out before anyone so much as noticed your shadow.

Observe and report, Butcher had said. No heroics, no improvising. Simple, yeah?

His tone had been sharp, but there had been something else beneath it. A hesitation he hadn't quite managed to mask.

You’d nodded, eager to prove yourself. This was your first mission since the explosion at CytoGenix, since the weeks of recovery spent with a cast on your arm and a pounding ache in your skull. The approval from the doctor had been your ticket out of the purgatory of desk work and stakeouts. You were desperate for something real, no matter how small.

This was your chance to show Mallory, Butcher, and the Boys, and yourself, that you could still do this.

Grabbing your camera, you slipped out of the car, staying low as you crept toward the chain-link fence. Rain pattered softly against your jacket, the cold seeping into your skin. You found a gap in the fence and ducked through, careful not to snag your clothes on the jagged edges.

The air near the warehouse smelled damp and metallic, tinged with the sweet scent of oil. You settled behind a stack of pallets, raising the camera to your eye. Through the lens, you could see the workers more clearly now, their faces obscured by hoods. One of them pried open a crate with a crowbar, revealing rows of glowing blue vials.

Bingo.

You snapped a few photos, your finger steady on the shutter. It felt good to be back in the field, to have a purpose again. You pressed the button on your earpiece. “Got visual confirmation. Looks like a couple hundred vials. Snapped a few shots.”

Butcher’s voice crackled in your ear. “Good. Keep eyes on ‘em. Let me know when they’re done unloading.”

“Roger that,” you murmured.

You were about to shift for a better angle when it happened.

A loud bang echoed from inside the warehouse, sharp and sudden. You flinched, the sound slicing through the air like a gunshot. It wasn’t a weapon, just a crate toppling over, but the noise slammed into you like a freight train.

Your breath hitched, your vision narrowing as the world around you dissolved. The damp chill of the rain vanished, replaced by searing heat. You were back in the stairwell at CytoGenix, the walls trembling with the force of the explosion. The acrid stench of burning plastic filled your nose. Your body hit the wall with a sickening crack, pain exploding in your skull. You could hear Monica’s screams, the chaos, the blaring alarm—

Your chest tightened, and you clawed at your jacket, desperate for air. The camera slipped from your hands, clattering to the ground. Somewhere in the distance, Butcher’s voice barked in your earpiece, but it was drowned out by the deafening roar of your heartbeat.

You stumbled backward, your legs giving way as you pressed yourself against the cold metal of a shipping container. The rain had soaked through your clothes, but you barely felt it.

Breathe, you told yourself. Just breathe. But the air wouldn’t come.

The earpiece crackled again. “Oi, talk to me. What’s going on?” Butcher’s voice was sharp now, threaded with concern. When you didn’t respond, he cursed under his breath.

You don’t know how much time you spent there, head between your knees, chest heaving, rain pelting your crumpled form, before heavy boots thudded against the ground nearby. You barely registered the figure crouching in front of you until his hand gripped your shoulder, firm and steady.

“Hey.” Butcher’s voice cut through the haze, low and commanding. “Look at me.”

You blinked, your gaze snapping to his. His dark eyes were steady, pinning you in place. He moved his hand from your shoulder to your wrist, pressing it against his chest.

“Feel that?” he said. His heartbeat was slow and deliberate, a metronome against your racing pulse. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, yeah? Nice and slow. Come on.”

Your breaths were shallow and ragged, but you tried to match his rhythm. In, out. In, out. The pressure in your chest began to ease, the roaring in your ears fading to a dull hum.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his tone softer now. “You’re alright. You’re here.”

The warehouse came back into focus. The rain dripping off the container, the distant rumble of a forklift. You were shaking, but the world had stopped spinning.

“I—” Your voice cracked, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Butcher cut you off, his grip tightening on your wrist. “Don’t start with that. This ain’t about being sorry. You’re human, yeah? You’ve been through hell. This shit’s gonna happen.”

He released your wrist, standing and extending a hand to you. “Now, come on. Let’s get you out of this pisshole.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the warehouse. “But the mission—”

“Forget the bloody mission,” he snapped. “We’ve got what we need. Right now, you’re my priority.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. You took his hand, letting him haul you to your feet. His grip was firm, grounding.

As the two of you walked back to the van, Butcher kept a hand on your shoulder, a silent reassurance.

“You kept your head longer than most would’ve,” he said gruffly as you climbed into the passenger seat. “That takes guts. It’ll come back to you.”

His words stayed with you long after the mission, but so did the moment itself, the memory of panic and failure, the echo of your father’s voice whispering in the dark, reminding you of all the ways you didn’t measure up.

~~~

After that, Butcher made it his personal mission to keep you permanently benched. He relegated you to desk work, poring over files and surveillance footage, or staking out low-risk locations that barely required you to leave the van. At first, you told yourself it was temporary, that it was just his way of being cautious. But as the weeks turned into months, the frustration grew.

It wasn’t just about the boredom for you. It was the feeling of being underestimated, of having to prove yourself all over again. You’d fought tooth and nail to stand shoulder to shoulder with this team, to earn their trust and respect. And yet, here you were, still fighting the whispers of doubt, both theirs and your own.

But none of that matters right now. This mission is yours, and you’re not about to let anyone, least of all Butcher, doubt you again.

“She’ll be fine,” Frenchie interjects, breaking the tension with his usual easy charm. His warm smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as he looks at you. “Ma poupette has the brains for this. Just remember, roll with the punches, eh?”

You raise your eyebrows at Butcher, as if to say See?

Butcher doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he glances away. His silence says everything.

Mallory steps forward, her commanding presence cutting through the tension like a knife. Her voice is sharp and no-nonsense. “This is not a debate,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You two are handling this. This is very straightforward. Plant a listening device, get the intel, and get out.”

She pauses, letting her words settle before continuing. “I’ll have a van on standby if things go sideways, but the goal is to keep this quiet. No one notices you, no one remembers you. Understand?”

Her piercing gaze lands on you, heavy with expectation. “I trust you can handle it,” she says, her tone softening just enough to let you know she means it.

A flicker of pride warms your chest, solidifying into determination. You nod, your chin lifting as you steel yourself for what’s ahead.

Mallory’s gaze shifts to Butcher, sharp as a blade. “But you need to trust each other. That’s the only way this works.”

Butcher exhales sharply, clearly biting back a retort. He glances at you, something unspoken passing between you, a grudging respect, maybe, or a flicker of belief he doesn’t know how to voice.

You turn to Hughie, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his nerves written all over his face. But after a moment, he nods back at you, his lips curving into a weak but genuine smile.

In the months since Mallory’s return, you’d found yourself yearning for her approval with an intensity that surprised even you. Her presence cast a long shadow, and you were keenly aware of how she had sized you up on that first night in your apartment. The disapproval in her sharp gaze had been palpable, cutting deeper than you cared to admit. Could you blame her, though?

After years spent in the shadows, having walked away from the Supe-killing squad she’d built with blood and iron, Mallory had been dragged back into the fray. All because she’d heard whispers about the Boys regrouping, more recklessly than ever, in her view, and, worst of all, that they’d let you, the daughter of a Vought crony, into their ranks. If you were her, you’d probably have dragged yourself out of retirement, too.

Though the team had rallied around you, defending your place in the group with fervor, it hadn’t stopped the wildfire of doubt that had sparked in your chest from Mallory’s initial appraisal of you. You understood the value you’d brought in those early days. When CytoGenix was still standing, when your father was alive, when Monica was pulling the strings, you’d offered something no one else could: inside intel. You’d been a bridge to a world the Boys couldn’t otherwise touch.

But now?

With CytoGenix in ruins, Monica gone, and your father’s legacy reduced to nothing more than ash and regret, what did you have left to give? Sure, there was the six-figure inheritance, a hollow consolation prize if there ever was one, but it wasn’t as if money meant much in this line of work. Money wasn’t what this team needed, wasn’t what earned respect here. The voice of self-doubt, ever persistent, had made itself at home during those early months, whispering venom in your ear.

You’re a liability. A loose end. They don’t need you anymore. You’ve outlived your usefulness.

Your teammates had tried to drown out that voice. Annie, now your closest friend, spoke about you like you hung the fucking moon. Frenchie, with his gentle reassurances, had told you time and again that you belonged. MM had treated you with the same quiet respect and faith he gave to everyone he trusted. Hughie, loyal to a fault, never wavered in his belief that you were part of the team. Even Kimiko, in her own way, had made it clear that she valued you.

And yet, in the still moments, when the adrenaline wore off, when the noise of missions and plans faded, you couldn’t help but wonder. What am I doing here? What do I bring to the table?

Everyone else had a clear role, a purpose that tethered them to the group. Butcher was the leader, the strategist, the one who saw the big picture even when it was dark and bloody. MM was the anchor, the meticulous planner who kept things running smoothly. Frenchie was the wildcard, a fixer with a knack for making the impossible possible. Kimiko was the muscle, the silent force of nature. Annie had her connections to Vought, her inside knowledge of the system they were trying to tear down. Even Hughie, awkward and unassuming as he could be, had carved out his place as the team’s moral compass.

And you?

What were you?

But now, you think, this is your moment. This is your chance to prove, not just to Mallory but to yourself, that you’re more than a liability or a loose end.

No more doubts. No more underestimations. No more living in the shadow of what you’ve lost.

As the meeting begins to wind down, Mallory’s orders echo in your mind. Her voice had been calm, clipped, and deliberate, leaving no room for questions. It left plenty of room for doubt, though. Across the room, you catch her watching you again, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her expression is as unreadable as ever, a mask of cool indifference that offers no clues. Still, there’s something in the slight tilt of her head, the narrow set of her eyes. Displeasure? Doubt? Maybe both.

The weight of her gaze feels heavier than it should, a silent challenge you can’t shake.

Your thoughts are interrupted as Butcher slides onto the desk beside you, the wood creaking under his weight. The casualness of the action is belied by the intensity in his expression. He leans in close, his voice low but gruff, tinged with an edge of warning.

“Listen,” he says, his dark eyes boring into yours. “I don’t give a toss what Mallory says. You get even a whiff of trouble, you pull the plug and get the hell out. Ain’t nothing in that room worth your neck, you hear me?”

The protective note in his tone catches you off guard, as it often does. Beneath the layers of cynicism, anger, and bravado that make up Butcher, there’s a thread of something softer, something he’ll never admit to. These rare moments of vulnerability always take you by surprise, a glimpse of the man beneath the scars. Normally, you’d relish it, store it away like a secret. But this time, it feels tainted.

Tainted by Mallory’s gaze, still burning a hole into your back. Tainted by the ever-present question of whether you even deserve to be here, let alone trusted with this mission.Tainted by the way his desire to protect you feels inhibiting.

You nod, though the knot in your chest tightens. Your eyes flicker back to Mallory, who hasn’t moved, her stance as rigid as her judgment. Is it disapproval that’s carved into her features? Or is it concern? The two blur together in your mind, indistinguishable from the spotlight of her scrutiny.

“I hear you,” you say, turning back to Butcher. Your voice is steadier than you feel, the words forced past the lump in your throat. “But I’ve got this.”

Butcher lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Right,” he mutters, his tone teetering between skepticism and reluctant admiration. “Guess we’ll see.”

For a moment, the air between you feels heavy with unspoken words. There’s something he wants to say, something more than the gruff warnings and the veiled concern. But he doesn’t, and you know he won’t. That’s not who Butcher is.

As the others begin to filter out, the tension in the room doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and suffocating, clinging to the walls like a stubborn fog. Mallory remains rooted in place, her gaze unwavering, as though she’s waiting for something. For you to crack, perhaps, or to prove you’re worth the risk she’s taking.

You take a breath and straighten your shoulders, forcing the tension out of your body. It’s an effort to lift your chin and meet her eyes, but you do. You hold her gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of her scrutiny. You know what she sees when she looks at you. A wild card, a question mark, someone with everything to prove and too much to lose.

But you won’t falter. Not this time.

This is your moment. Your chance to silence the doubts. Hers, Butcher’s, and most importantly, your own.

This time, you’ll prove you belong.

~~~

The faint smell of garlic and onions hit your nose as you step into your kitchen, the sizzle of oil in the pan filling the otherwise quiet apartment. Butcher stands by the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder like he owns the place.

You lean against the doorway, watching him work. It’s strange, seeing him like this. The man who’d faced down Supes without a second thought, who carried enough emotional baggage to rival the Titanic, now stood in your kitchen, cooking pasta like some scene out of a rom-com.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” you tease, folding your arms across your chest.

Butcher doesn’t look up, but a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t look so shocked. I ain’t completely useless, y’know.”

“I think Frenchie’s the one who usually takes over the kitchen,” you say, stepping closer and glancing at the array of ingredients he’d gathered. Garlic bread, a fresh block of Parmesan, and… is that basil? “But this? This is impressive. I might let you stick around.”

“Generous of you,” he mutters, though there was a warmth in his tone.

You grab a glass from the cabinet and pour yourself some wine, the familiar hum of domesticity wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket. The scene feels so out of place. Butcher standing in your kitchen, the two of you sharing a quiet evening after the intensity of Mallory’s briefing. It’s almost too peaceful, too fragile, as if the world outside these walls doesn't exist.

“How long has it been since you cooked for someone?” you ask, leaning on the counter beside him.

He gives a short laugh, but it lacks any real humor. “Long enough. Don’t keep count, love. What about you? Last meal you had that wasn’t takeout?”

You shrug. “Probably the last time Frenchie decided to experiment with some weird fusion dish. Couldn’t even tell you what it was, but it was damn good.”

He turns off the burner, drains the pasta, and starts plating. The silence stretches as you watch him, the usual guardedness in his expression softening just enough to make you wonder what’s going on in his head.

“Thanks for this,” you say quietly, gesturing to the meal.

He hands you a plate and nods toward the table. “Yeah, well. Figured you could use a proper meal before the big day.”

Ah, there it is. The tension that’s been simmering since the briefing.

You sit down across from him, swirling the pasta on your fork. “You’re worried.”

He doesn’t answer right away, focusing instead on his own plate. Finally, he leans back in his chair, fixing you with a look that’s equal parts exasperation and concern. “Damn right, I’m worried. This gig’s a bloody powder keg, and you’re walking straight into it.”

“I can handle it,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’ve been waiting for something like this. A chance to prove I’m not just—”

“Not just what?” he interrupts, setting his fork down.

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. Not just dead weight. Not just some liability Mallory’s tolerating because of what I used to know.

“Nothing,” you mutter, looking away. “I just mean I’m ready. My arm’s fine, my head’s fine, and I’ve been practicing my breathing. I know what I’m doing.”

Butcher lets out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re fine, yeah. But this ain’t the same as sneakin’ round some empty warehouse or trailing some low-level Supe. One wrong move tomorrow, and you’re dead. Or worse.”

“Worse?” you echo, raising an eyebrow.

“You know what they’d do if they caught you. Vought don’t play fair, love. Never have.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, but you square your shoulders. “You think I don’t know that? I’m not an idiot, Butcher. Did you already forget everything I did to stop Vought from getting V2? You don’t get to keep sidelining me just because you’re scared I might—”

“Because I care about you?” The words burst out of him, sharp and raw.

You blink, startled into silence.

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I’ve seen enough people I care about end up in the ground. I ain’t gonna let that happen to you.”

Your chest tightens, frustration bubbling up. “So what? You’re just gonna wrap me in bubble wrap and keep me locked up in the van while everyone else takes risks? That’s not fair, Butcher. I’m part of this team, whether you like it or not.”

“I do like it,” he shoots back, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “I do. You just… You scare the shit out of me, is all.”

“Okay,” you sigh, annoyance heavy in your voice. “Just… keep it to yourself. I don’t need you psyching me out.”

The air between you is heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid.

The silence stretches as you eat, both of you locked in a stalemate neither of you wanted to win. Finally, he stands, picking up the empty plates and carrying them to the sink. His back is to you, his shoulders tense.

“Look,” he says, his voice low, “I know you want to prove yourself. And maybe you’re ready. But you’ll forgive me if I ain’t in a rush to see you get yourself killed.”

You stand, walking up behind him but stopping short of touching him. “I’m not going to die, Butcher. I’ve got too much to live for.”

He turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice almost too quiet to hear. “You better.”

When you fall into bed together later, Butcher moves with a deliberate tenderness that takes your breath away. There’s no rush in the way he touches you at first, no sharp edges to his usual brusque demeanor. His calloused hands skim your skin like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every scar, every part of you that makes you who you are. Each touch carries a message, unspoken but crystal clear. You’re all I think about.

His hands settle on your hips, strong but careful, pulling you closer as though the mere idea of distance between you is unbearable. When he holds you in his arms, every knot of tension in your body begins to unwind. There’s no room for doubt, no space to overthink the unanswered questions or the simmering tension that has been building between you for months. In his embrace, you hear the words he’s too guarded to say. I’ll keep you safe. It’s all I can do.

At first, his movements are slow and steady, as though he’s afraid to break you. His lips graze your collarbone, lingering there with a reverence that almost undoes you. His gaze locks on yours, dark and searching, and for a moment, you swear he’s looking right into your soul. Every kiss, every brush of his fingertips across your skin is a vow, a reassurance. You’re here. You’re mine.

But then something shifts. What starts as gentleness deepens into urgency, his movements growing frantic, almost desperate. His breathing becomes heavier, his grip tighter, as though holding you isn’t enough, he needs to anchor himself in you, to feel you in every way possible. There’s a plea in the way his lips press harder against yours, a tremor in the way he whispers your name, hoarse and unsteady. Don’t leave me.

His eyes meet yours again, and this time they’re blazing with something raw, something unguarded. It’s as though every wall he’s built around himself has come crashing down, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in a way that Butcher rarely allows himself to be. What he can’t bring himself to put into words, he pours into his touch, his kiss, the way his body moves against yours. Every pull, every grasp, every shuddering breath screams what he can’t say aloud. Mine. Mine. Mine.

And yet, there’s no possessiveness in it, no trace of dominance. It’s need. Pure, aching need. The need to protect, to keep you close, to show you just how much you mean to him, in the only way he knows how. In his arms, you don’t feel claimed or conquered; you feel seen, cherished, adored. His actions speak louder than any declaration ever could, telling you everything he keeps locked behind his gruff exterior. You’re the only thing in this godforsaken world that I can’t lose.

By the time you collapse together, tangled and breathless, his arms wrap around you with a firmness that feels like a promise. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

For a long while, neither of you says a word.

Maybe you don’t need to.

~~~

The air inside the office feels heavier at night. The soft hum of the city seeps through the windows, but the sharp glow of the desk lamp casts an artificial stillness over the room. Mallory sits behind the desk, papers meticulously stacked in front of her, a pen twirling absentmindedly between her fingers.

You have a thick manila envelope tucked under your arm, stuffed with building schematics for the Russian consulate, profiles on the delegates Mallory expects to be present, and clear instructions on when and where to place the bugs. Hell, she even included the catering menus in case either of you were stopped and asked questions about the food. She’s being thorough, but it only serves to increase your apprehension. She wouldn’t be going this far if this mission’s success wasn’t absolutely crucial.

Mallory begins to gather up the papers on her desk. “You’ve got the details. You and Hughie should run through them a few more times tonight. You only get one shot at this, and I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake.”

You glance around, expecting Hughie to walk in any moment. “So... where’s Hughie? I thought we were going over the plan together.”

Mallory doesn’t look up immediately, her pen pausing mid-spin. Then she meets your gaze, her expression unreadable but edged with purpose. “I didn’t invite Hughie.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Oh? Why?”

“Because that’s not the only reason I wanted to talk to you,” she says, her voice even.

You tilt your head, folding your arms as curiosity flickers to life. “Alright. What’s this about, then?”

She sets the pen down deliberately, her focus now fully on you. “It’s about Butcher.”

The name lands like a stone in your stomach. You try to keep your voice steady. “What about him?”

Mallory leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on the desk. Her eyes harden, not with anger, but with something sharper. Concern wrapped in steel. “He’s dangerous. You know that, don’t you? He’s a man willing to burn the world down to protect the people he loves. And he’ll burn himself down, too, if it comes to it. You know what he did after Becca died.”

Your jaw tightens instinctively. “Butcher’s been through hell. I don’t think anyone here can blame him for the choices he made after that. The choices you gave him.”

Mallory exhales deeply, leaning back in her chair as if to give you space to process her words. “I’m not blaming him. I’m warning you. That man has a black hole where his sense of self-preservation should be. And if you get too close, you’ll get pulled into it. Just... be careful.”

Her words hang in the air, tightening around you like a noose. You shift on your feet, crossing your arms tighter as a defensive barrier. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mallory’s gaze softens ever so slightly, though her tone remains firm. “Because I don’t want to deal with the consequences of his actions if anything were to happen to you.”

“It’s not like that between us,” you reply quickly, the words coming out more defensive than you’d intended.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Isn’t it? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And the way you look at him.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “I mean... we care about each other, sure. But he doesn’t—he doesn’t love me.”

Mallory’s lips press into a thin line, her expression unreadable. “William Butcher is not the most... eloquent man I’ve ever met. He doesn’t always know how to express his feelings. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel them. But feelings or not, you deserve to know where you stand. Especially if you’re going to stick around for this fight. Because if he won’t protect you the way you deserve, you’ll have to protect yourself.”

You glance away, her words striking a nerve you hadn’t fully acknowledged before.

“Alright,” you mutter, more to break the silence than to agree with her. “Thanks for the advice, Mallory.”

Her voice stops you as you turn to leave. “Just remember, Butcher doesn’t stop. Not until he’s got what he wants. And sometimes, that’s the most dangerous kind of love.”

You don’t look back. The words follow you anyway, clinging to you as you walk out into the night.

~~~

The night feels unusually quiet, the soft hum of the city muffled by the walls of your apartment. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the faint reflection of yourself in the window, the lights of the city glittering in the distance. Mallory’s words echo in your mind, relentless and insistent.

He’s dangerous. That man has a black hole where his sense of self-preservation should be, and if you get too close, you’ll get pulled into it.

You exhale shakily, running a hand through your hair as you turn the thought over and over in your mind. You’ve always known Butcher was complicated, that he was damaged in ways you may never fully understand. But isn’t that part of what drew you to him?

He’s fiercely loyal, to the point of self-destruction. He would do anything for the people he cares about, throw himself into danger without hesitation, take on battles that seem impossible, all because he refuses to let anyone else suffer if he can help it. There’s something magnetic about that kind of conviction, something that made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t felt in years. And when Butcher sets his mind to something, there’s no stopping him. That determination, that fire, it’s intoxicating to be around. It makes you believe he could conquer anything, even the impossible.

But now you see how those same qualities twist in the wrong light. That loyalty turning into obsession, that willingness to protect becoming vengeance. The single-minded determination you once admired, is now a blade that cuts through everything in its path, leaving those closest to him bleeding in its wake. How many people has he hurt without even realizing it? How many more will he hurt if he keeps barreling down this road, blinded by the need for revenge?

You think about the destruction he leaves behind, how he carries that chaos like a storm cloud over his head, and how sometimes, standing next to him, you feel like you’re drowning in it.

And yet, there’s another side to him. A side you don’t think anyone else has seen in a very long time. The way he softens when it’s just the two of you, the way his voice loses its edge, the way he looks at you like you’re the one thing in the world that doesn’t hurt him. You’ve caught glimpses of the man beneath the armor in the gentle way he brushes your hair out of your face, the rare moments of vulnerability when he lets his guard down and tells you things you know he’s never told anyone else.

It’s that softness that keeps you here, keeps you tethered to him despite everything. You know how long it’s been since anyone has seen that side of him. You know how much it took for him to let you in, even just a little. And it feels good—God, it feels so good—to be the one person who gets to see him like that.

But then doubt creeps in, insidious and familiar, a voice whispering in the back of your mind. Is it enough? Is this enough?

You wonder if you’re fooling yourself, if you’re clinging to the idea of what your relationship could be instead of what it actually is. You think of Becca, the shadow she casts over everything, and you can’t help but ask yourself… Am I just filling a void that he doesn’t know how to let go of?

Your chest tightens at the thought. You don’t know where you stand with him, and truthfully, you never have. You’ve never defined what this is between you, never talked about it, never said I love you. And maybe that’s because he doesn’t feel the same way. Maybe he doesn’t know how to feel that way about anyone anymore.

The worst part is, you’re not sure you’d blame him if that were true. He’s been through so much, lost so much, and you know how hard it is for him to let himself care about anything at all.

It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.

You bury your face in your hands, Mallory’s words haunting you again. You deserve to know where you stand. Because if he won’t protect you the way you deserve, you’ll have to protect yourself.

You can’t tell if you’re more scared of losing him or of admitting that maybe you already have. Maybe you never really had him to begin with.

The thought settles like a weight in your chest. For the first time, you find yourself wondering if you made a mistake, if involving yourself with someone like Butcher was always destined to end this way. And as the doubt swirls and tightens around you, the question that lingers in your mind feels like it has no answer.

Do I stay? Or do I walk away before I lose myself completely?

I will have a taglist for this series, just lmk if you want to be added :)

#billy butcher #billy butcher fanfic #fanfiction #billy butcher x reader #the boys fanfic #the boys #william butcher #the boys tv #fanfic #the boys amazon #the boys series #billy butcher x female reader #billy butcher x you #billy butcher smut #billy butcher the boys

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snitchcrimsonwrites · 1 month ago

Text

Drawn Together-Chapter 12

Pairing: Tech x Jedi!Reader

Tech is concerned about a few security risks he's assessed after Bracca, and Hunter decided to send you both on a supply run...alone. What could happen while you've got tasks to complete?

Chapter 11

Chapter 13

The Marauder drifted silently through hyperspace. Most of the squad was asleep, exhausted from the skirmish on Bracca and their intense days of recovering Omega. Tech, however, had tasks he needed to complete, so he remained focused on the central console, surrounded by numerous holoscreens and data projections. You enter the cockpit silently, your gaze quickly settling on the myriad of translucent data streaming before him: fragments of Imperial code, biometric maps, and surveillance feeds. Lines of code rush by his goggles as he works, his body tense with concentration.

“Are you still working?” you inquire, hoping he would have eventually relaxed for the evening. “Okay, I’m intrigued. What has you so locked in?”

Tech didn’t look up. “Yes. Several high-priority security concerns emerged after our encounter with Crosshair. I’m addressing one of them now.”

You moved closer, captivated by the flow of information on the screen. You recognized some of it: Imperial data classifications and probe scan results. Your breath caught as you saw your younger self, dressed in Jedi robes.

Your voice dropped an octave. “That’s my old Jedi record.”

“Correct.” Tech tapped a key. The image sharpened, pulling up status information underneath the photo. First Name, Last Name – KIA. Order 66.

He continued. “This file is still active within the Empire’s deep archive. Marked as deceased, but your biometric and genetic data remain. The system could generate a match if flagged by a facial recognition sweep or an active probe.”

Finally, he glanced at you over his shoulder. “On Bracca, Crosshair saw you. While he didn’t appear to make any connection, exposure increases risk. I prefer not to gamble with statistical probabilities where your safety is concerned.”

You leaned over, studying the data scrolling beside your archived image. “So what are you doing?”

“Creating a replacement identity,” he said plainly. “A complete record. New birth data, civilian classification, altered biometrics. Once uploaded, it will overwrite your existing registry entries and prevent standard cross-referencing. Essentially, you will no longer exist as Y/N, Jedi of the Republic.”

You folded your arms, the weight of them settling on your chest. “That sounds... difficult to pull off.”

Tech gave a slight shrug. “Moderately. The encryption layers in the Imperial mainframe are extensive, but not infallible. I’ve already accessed the appropriate clearance chain through a backdoor in a now-defunct Separatist node. It’s just a matter of aligning the metadata.”

You continue to watch him work before asking, “Why go to all this trouble?”

Tech paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Because you’ve been compromised. If Crosshair alerts the Empire about your presence or, worse, your abilities, they’ll launch an investigation. That will prompt questions. Which will lead to records. Which will lead back to you. Which puts us all at risk.” He gestured toward the display without shifting his gaze. “I estimate that the likelihood of long-term survival with your current identity has decreased by twenty-eight percent due to recent events. Therefore, I’m taking steps to correct that.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “You could’ve just said you were worried about me.”

Tech blinked behind his goggles, caught off guard. Then, as if concluding there was nothing to correct, he returned to his work. “I thought I did.”

Your gaze lingered on the holo screen, where the archival image of your younger self stared out in frozen monochrome. Her Jedi robes were crisp, and the lightsaber was clearly visible at her belt. A trace of pride was faintly apparent in the stiff line of her posture.

“I look… young,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “That was taken just after I passed my trials." You paused. “That was more than a decade ago.”

Tech adjusted something on his screen. “Your appearance hasn’t changed significantly.”

You glanced over, unsure. “Was that a compliment?”

He blinked, considering. “Merely an observation based on biometric comparison.” Then a brief hesitation. “Though yes, personally, I find your current appearance quite favorable.”

That drew a surprise from you. “Oh? What parts, exactly?”

He didn’t look up as he replied, busy realigning the registry overlay with the replacement profile. “Your eyes, for one. They are notably expressive. And the contour of your jaw. It has a certain symmetry I find pleasing.”

You shook your head, attempting to conceal the blush that crept onto your cheeks. “Of course you do.”

He keyed in a final sequence, fingers pausing just above the console. “I’ll need to scan your current biodata now.”

You nodded, stepping in as he activated the portable scanner. A faint blue light washed across your face, neck, and hands as he captured the necessary readings. The device beeped softly in confirmation.

“Scan complete. The new profile is nearly ready to go live,” Tech said, already merging the data into the fabricated records. “All that remains is to overwrite the original file from the archive.” He hovered over the final command, waiting. But you didn’t say anything. He glanced up from the screen.

“I didn’t think I’d care,” you said finally. “I mean…It’s just a file. Data. A few lines in a system.” You exhaled slowly. “But seeing it overwritten like that…I don’t know, it feels like I’m disappearing.”

Tech was initially silent. "It isn’t gone,” he finally said. “It’s just not traceable by hostile systems anymore." You smiled faintly, appreciating the intent, even if the comfort didn’t quite land. “Maybe. But it still feels like erasing a part of who I was.”

He hesitated, then reached over, deactivating the display. The holo of your younger self blinked out, leaving only you and Tech’s reflections in the cockpit screens.

“This doesn’t alter anything; you’re still the same person," Tech murmured, moving closer to you.

“Thank you, Tech,” you said, softly kissing his temple to wish him a goodnight.

—---------------------

The Batch was scattered around the hold; after the chaos of Bracca and Omega’s recovery, things settled for now. Wrecker was transporting equipment to the corner storage unit, whistling out of tune. Echo sat nearby, checking a parts manifest against the records. Tech was in the middle of diagnosing the ship’s navigation relays.

You stood by the navigation console, holding your small datapad, attempting to decipher Hunter’s jotted inventory list, partially legible, yet mostly a confusing array of shorthand and gear codes that only he seemed to grasp. “We’re low on supplies,” he said, scanning the list over your shoulder. “Rations, thermal tape, compression seals…” He glanced at Tech, then at you. “The marketplace just beyond the outpost should have everything we need.”

You nodded, tapping the datapad. “No problem, I should be able to handle it.”

“You’re not going alone.” Hunter’s tone made it clear this wasn’t up for debate. He turned, gaze shifting toward Tech. “Tech, go with her.”

Tech knelt beside a diagnostic console, glancing up, determined to finish this task. “I can complete the system analysis first. There’s no immediate urgency to—

“You can finish them when you get back.” A pause settled like static in the air. Tech’s hand lingered over the exposed panel. His eyes darted to you and then back to Hunter. “…Understood.”

Hunter firmly clasped Tech’s shoulder to make a point. “Take your time. Make sure you get everything we need.”

You caught the subtext instantly, arms folded with easy suspicion.“You’re not even trying to be subtle.”

Hunter only shrugged, his mouth lifting in the faintest of smirks. “I’m not trying to be.” His gaze softened a bit. “You’ve both been on edge since Bracca. A bit of fresh air won’t hurt you.” With that, he turned away, calling out to Echo about the backup comm relay as his footsteps faded toward the ship's interior.

You and Tech descended the ramp together, leaving the Marauder behind. The streets of Ord Mantell City unfolded before you as you walked side by side past rows of stalls.

At one booth, Tech took a moment to inspect a bin of compression seals, carefully assessing each one for integrity. You stood next to him, arms casually crossed again, while your eyes roamed around the open square.

“You really don’t mind?” you asked after a moment. “Hunter shoving us into... whatever this is?”

Tech examined the seal closely before placing it in the satchel at his hip. Only after did he look at you, composed and measured.

“No. I don’t. I find it...” Tech hesitated, “...beneficial to spend time with you.”

“That’s practically romantic coming from you.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I wasn’t attempting to be romantic.”

“Sure,” you replied, lips curving despite yourself.

“But I acknowledge the implication.”

A quiet settled between you again, not awkward, but the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. You adjusted your position to observe a group of travelers walking by while Tech remained at the stall. You watched them absently before turning your attention back to Tech. He was watching you too, but this time not with amusement or even calculation, but with curiosity.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said. “Your abilities. On Bracca... that wasn’t standard technique.”

You blinked. “No. It wasn’t.” At this point, you shouldn’t be surprised by his knack for recognizing those subtleties, but you still were.

“Was it something you developed yourself?” he asked. “It did not resemble typical manipulation; the form and energy signature were unique. Less linear, more ambient, and elementally reactive.”

You paused, careful with your words in this open space, then nodded slowly. “I’ve always been capable of it, even when I was young. But I didn’t grasp it for a long time. The masters didn’t either. They discouraged me from pursuing it… considered it a distraction. Too unpredictable. Too ancient.”

Tech focused intently on connecting these words to the disjointed texts he had aided you in translating. “You’ve been researching this,” he said slowly, “your abilities. Trying to learn more?”

“Yes,” you said, quietly but firmly. “Lately, I’ve been thinking I’ve ignored this part of myself for too long.”

Tech’s demeanor changed as he nodded briefly, readjusting his satchel. “I would like to continue being of assistance if you’d allow,” he said. After a brief pause, Tech added, “May I make an additional observation?”

You turned your head slightly, indicating you were listening without fully facing him. “You usually do.”

"Despite being discouraged from building personal connections, you appear to have managed these dynamics quite well, especially regarding me... and the others."

You paused, briefly looking down at the fractured stone below you, then raised your gaze to meet his.

“That’s... been another change,” you said, your voice quieter and more introspective. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “It’s not that we lacked attachments,” you continued. “We simply... didn’t discuss them. Not in the way that truly mattered. I had my squad; they were close and loyal. Friends I would have died for. I almost did, more than once.” For a moment, your voice faltered. “Those connections were always present. We weren’t emotionless. We just learned to distance ourselves from what we couldn’t afford to lose.”

Tech studied you. “And now?”

You inhaled deeply and calmly. “Now I realize that the distance might have cost us more than we anticipated."

Tech nodded thoughtfully, absorbing your words with the same deliberate precision he used for every system he examined. “For what it’s worth, you appear to have melded into our group dynamic with minimal disruption.”

You smirked faintly. “That’s your way of saying I fit in.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “And that your presence boosts morale, cohesion, and operational success. Including mine.”

“You know,” you remarked nonchalantly, “you’ve managed to navigate all of this quite well too.”

Tech glanced up, a hint of surprise showing on his face. “Have I?”

You shrugged slightly, grabbing a ration pack from a nearby rack and feigning an inspection. “Not every guy customizes a datapad with language processors. Or adjusts a replacement weapon to fit my precise fighting style.”

“It was logical,” he said. “Your original ‘sidearm’ was no longer reliable. It was the most sensible course of action.”

You gave him a look. “Tech.” He paused. “Yes?”

“It was incredibly thoughtful.”

Tech’s gaze lingered on you longer this time, something unreadable flickering behind the lens of his goggles. He didn’t immediately refute you. Didn’t try to mask it in technical terms.

“I admit I do care,” he admitted at last, and the straightforwardness of his confession carried much more significance than any elaborate display could. “About your well-being. Your presence. Your… potential ongoing presence in my life.”

Your smirk returned, warmer now. “See? That was romantic.”

“I still wasn’t attempting it to be.”

“I know,” you said, nudging him gently with your shoulder. “That’s what makes it kind of perfect.”

Tech looked down for a moment, as though calculating a response, but instead just adjusted the strap of the satchel again. “You’ve made these... personal variables less complicated than I expected.”

—-----------------------

The last of the ration packs went into the satchel with a soft thunk, and Tech conducted a quick inventory check, nodding to himself in satisfaction. “That concludes the primary supply list.”

You tossed your smaller bag over your shoulder and leaned in a bit toward him. “You know, Hunter mentioned that we should take our time.”

Tech looked over, raising an eyebrow. “He did. Which I interpreted to mean thoroughness.”

You grinned. “See, I interpreted it as permission.”

That earned you a mild look of caution. “Permission for what, exactly?”

You started walking again, slower this time, weaving through a thinner part of the market crowd, “A potential detour.”

Tech fell into step beside you without hesitation, but he tilted his head in that precise, curious way of his. “What kind of detour?”

You glanced at him with a slight smile playing on your lips. “I was thinking… I could buy you a drink.”

He blinked once, then twice. "...A drink?”

“Yeah,” you said. “You know. People go out, get drinks, talk, maybe sit somewhere without servo parts or exploding ion engines.”

“I understand the social ritual,” he responded. Tech halted in his tracks, evidently considering factors he hadn’t thought of before. “Would this be… a date?”

You tilted your head. “Would you mind if it were?"

He was quiet for a beat. Then, “No. I’m not opposed.”

Your grin widened. “Good.”

Tech resumed walking, but his pace was slightly slower now, more deliberate. “Is there a particular location you had in mind for this… drink?”

"There’s a cantina just past the main square. It’s quiet and has a decent view of the skyports. It’s not Cid’s."

“That is an acceptable ratio,” he said without missing a beat.

You laughed quietly to yourself. “Great. Then it’s settled.”

As you and Tech exited the main market and headed toward the cantina-lined square's edge, the chatter of vendors receded. Tech shot you another look, his voice slightly softer now. “You know… I don’t typically deviate from mission parameters.”

“I know,” you said. “But this is kind of the point. Letting yourself want something… even if it’s small.”

Tech nodded, deep in thought. "And what you want, at this moment… is a drink. With me.”

You gave a quiet smile. “Every much so.”

He remained silent initially, yet his hand grazed yours once more. This time with intention. He did not grasp it. Merely a touch. A subtle affirmation. “I find,” he said finally, “that I want that too.”

The cantina was tucked along the city's edge, modest compared to the rowdier establishments closer to the city's center. Upon entering, Tech instinctively scanned the room, as he always did—mapping exits, evaluating threat levels, and cataloging details. But when he looked back at you, he relaxed slightly; no threats were present.

You approached the bar, with Tech standing next to you, visibly out of place but at ease. The bartender came over, asking, “What’ll it be?” Without hesitation, you replied, tapping the bar. “I’ll have a J’nari fizz and a smoked ardees. Warm, no ice.”

Tech blinked, slowly turning his head toward you.

It was clear he was taken aback. “You always hesitate when Wrecker orders it with ice,” you remarked, a grin barely contained on your face. “And you asked the bartender at Cid’s if they had the smoked variant. Twice.”

“I was checking for consistency,” he replied reflexively, though a slight flush rose to his ears. “Not showing preference.”

“Mmhmm.”

The drinks were set before you moments later, yours bubbling lightly, his swirling with faint red-gold vapor. He picked up the glass, studied it briefly, then looked at you.

“You pay attention,” he said quietly.

You lifted your glass with a smirk. “Of course I do.” He hesitated for a moment, then raised his own and gently clinked it against yours.

You both sipped, and he nodded in approval. “It’s… optimal.”

“Told you.”

You found a quiet booth near the back, half-shaded with a skyline view. You slid into the seat beside him, resting your arms on the table. Tech set his drink down with careful precision. “You surprise me,” he said. “Often.”

“I hope it’s not something you mind,” you replied, chin resting on your hand.

He studied you again, eyes moving over your face, “It’s not discomforting.” You smiled, softer now, settling in next to him. “I’m glad.”

The walk back was slower than it needed to be.

As night fell, the streets became quieter, and the city’s street lamps illuminated one by one, creating amber-lit patches along the path back to the Marauder. You and Tech walked side by side, bags slung over your shoulders. As you walked, you lightly bumped him with your shoulder. “You sure you’re not secretly a social creature? You’ve handled this whole ‘date’ thing suspiciously well.”

"I do not believe one outing makes me socially inclined,” Tech responded, his hands clasped behind his back in his typical thoughtful manner. "However, I must admit, the circumstances were... favorable.”

“Might’ve been the company.”

“Might’ve been the drink,” he countered, deadpan.

You scoffed. “One ardees and you’re bold now?”

“You’re implying I wasn’t before?”

You blinked, pretending to mull that over. “I mean, in some sense of the word. But I’d lean into meticulous, maybe. Efficient. Occasionally impossible.”

“Impossible,” he repeated, as if testing the word.

You looked over and smiled. “In a peculiarly charming way.”

That earned you a lopsided grin from him. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Not even a little,” you said, stepping in front of him momentarily as you walked backward, your jacket fluttering slightly behind you. “You’ve got that whole understated ‘genius with mysterious depths’ thing going on. It's very effective.”

Tech blinked. “Effective… how?”

You tilted your head, smile sharpening. “You know how.”

He cleared his throat, adjusting his goggles, even though they didn’t need adjusting. “Ah. Understood.”

You fell into step next to him again, intertwining your arm with his and resting it there. He let you. “I like you like this,” you said after a beat. “A little less filtered.”

“Are you suggesting I lower my internal regulation more often?”

“Not too much,” you said. “I like that you think before you speak. But it’s nice when you let something slip. Even if it’s just how much you actually like smoked ardees.”

There was a pause. Then: “I also enjoyed the conversation, for the record. Not merely the beverage.”

“Oh stars,” you groaned dramatically, “now he’s sweet-talking me.”

“I’m being honest,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “Which I believe is encouraged in these situations.”

You laughed softly, the sound echoing through the quiet street. “You really are dangerous when you loosen up.”

“Noted,” he replied, though his tone carried a playful note. A tease.

You reached the port hangar where the Marauder was docked. The hangar was quiet, with only the hum of distant city noise drifting through. You stopped walking for a moment, turning to face him again.

“I’m glad you came with me,” you said quietly.

“I’m glad Hunter prompted me to,” Tech replied, equally quiet.

You observed him for a moment longer, a feeling tugging at your chest. "Will there be a next time?” you asked, moving closer.

“As long as it includes you,” he murmured, “I consider it a favorable arrangement.”

And that did it. You leaned up, just slightly, enough to press a brief kiss to his cheek. As you withdrew, Tech remained motionless, deep in thought. Suddenly, he took a step closer. His hand, gentle and barely there, glided along your jaw. Before you could inquire about his intentions, he leaned in and replaced your kiss with a tender one of his own.

When he pulled back, his face was still close to yours. “I prefer precision,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “If that wasn’t clear.”

You blinked, caught off guard, but now smiling. “Yeah,” you breathed. “That was... very clear.”

He adjusted his goggles, a faint upward curve gracing his mouth. “Noted.”

You turned toward the ramp, your heart racing as you tried to regain your breath and composure. “Remind me not to underestimate you again.”

“I’ll remind you as frequently as necessary,” he replied, falling into step beside you.

#bad batch tech #bad batch #star wars bad batch #tech x jedi reader #tbb tech #tbb x reader #tbb #tech x reader #tech x jedi oc #tech #clone trooper tech #star wars

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inspofromancientworld · 17 days ago

Text

The Science of Discovering the Past: Geophysical Archaeology

By Glab310 - Own work, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=113524155

While much of archaeology involves unearthing artifacts, knowing where to find those sites requires research at the surface, as does mapping the site. Geophysical surveys help archaeologists know where to focus their efforts and help them avoid fruitless digs where no artifacts or remaining structures lie below the surface as well as avoiding the destruction of sites that are culturally sensitive, such as cemeteries.

By see above - http://www.archaeophysics.com/3030/index.htmlTransferred from en.wikipedia by SreeBot, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17210746

There are many methods used to map below the surface, some of which can be done with little training while others meld multiple methods for a more complete map of what's under the surface. Those techniques that are more specialized were adapted from those used to explore for minerals. Mineral surveys seek to know what is deep beneath the surface and archaeological sites are relatively near the surface. These surveys also are focused on larger structures that would take a long time to unearth.

Source: https://sha.org/the-montpelier-minelab-experiment/2012/03/

Various methods of performing geophysical surveys and reveal different information. Metal detectors can be used to find caches of metal, but they don't give detailed information of what is below the surface. They can be used to discover new places to focus studies on. They work by inducing eddy currents, or a looping current between the detector and the metal in the ground, which causes a change in how the current flows in the machine, resulting in a signal being reported to the user, either through sound or visual output. Many locations have regulations or laws that dictate how metal detectors can be used and the ownership of those items found.

Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=109641426

A more precise form of the this falls into two types: Electrical resistance meters and electromagnetic conductivity. Electrical resistance meters work by inserting probes into the soil through which electrical currents are passed and the resistance of the ground around them is detected, revealing the structures beneath as things like stone have different resistance than the soil around them. Electromagnetic conductivity is similar to metal detection in that a magnetic field is created by an electric field of a known frequency while detectors pick up the change. These detectors and currents are stronger than those of metal detectors with a related increase in size of the detector.

By Archaeo-Physics LLC - http://www.archaeophysics.com, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36404337

Ground-penetrating radar uses electromagnetic pulses to detect what is under the surface in a way similar to how radar works in other applications. The pulses are reflected off items under the surface and recorded by the detector. It's possible to discover how things are layered beneath the surface because of the differences in reflections.

By Cargyrak - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=48685015

Lidar is an optical technique that uses light, usually lasers, to map the land. It has the ability to penetrate foliage, such as forest canopies, and allows features beneath the surface to be distinguished. This also allows features that are too large to be distinguished from the ground to be mapped. Lidar has the additional benefit of being easily integrated into Geographical Information Systems, integrated computer hardware and software systems that are used to analyze and visualize geographic data.

#geophysical survey #archaeology #metal detecting #ground penetrating radar #lidar #science of the past

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ayeforscotland · 11 months ago

Text

What is Dataflow?

This post is inspired by another post about the Crowd Strike IT disaster and a bunch of people being interested in what I mean by Dataflow. Dataflow is my absolute jam and I'm happy to answer as many questions as you like on it. I even put referential pictures in like I'm writing an article, what fun!

I'll probably split this into multiple parts because it'll be a huge post otherwise but here we go!

A Brief History

Our world is dependent on the flow of data. It exists in almost every aspect of our lives and has done so arguably for hundreds if not thousands of years.

At the end of the day, the flow of data is the flow of knowledge and information. Normally most of us refer to data in the context of computing technology (our phones, PCs, tablets etc) but, if we want to get historical about it, the invention of writing and the invention of the Printing Press were great leaps forward in how we increased the flow of information.

Modern Day IT exists for one reason - To support the flow of data.

Whether it's buying something at a shop, sitting staring at an excel sheet at work, or watching Netflix - All of the technology you interact with is to support the flow of data.

Understanding and managing the flow of data is as important to getting us to where we are right now as when we first learned to control and manage water to provide irrigation for early farming and settlement.

Engineering Rigor

When the majority of us turn on the tap to have a drink or take a shower, we expect water to come out. We trust that the water is clean, and we trust that our homes can receive a steady supply of water.

Most of us trust our central heating (insert boiler joke here) and the plugs/sockets in our homes to provide gas and electricity. The reason we trust all of these flows is because there's been rigorous engineering standards built up over decades and centuries.

For example, Scottish Water will understand every component part that makes up their water pipelines. Those pipes, valves, fitting etc will comply with a national, or in some cases international, standard. These companies have diagrams that clearly map all of this out, mostly because they have to legally but also because it also vital for disaster recovery and other compliance issues.

Modern IT

And this is where modern day IT has problems. I'm not saying that modern day tech is a pile of shit. We all have great phones, our PCs can play good games, but it's one thing to craft well-designed products and another thing entirely to think about they all work together.

Because that is what's happened over the past few decades of IT. Organisations have piled on the latest plug-and-play technology (Software or Hardware) and they've built up complex legacy systems that no one really knows how they all work together. They've lost track of how data flows across their organisation which makes the work of cybersecurity, disaster recovery, compliance and general business transformation teams a nightmare.

Some of these systems are entirely dependent on other systems to operate. But that dependency isn't documented. The vast majority of digital transformation projects fail because they get halfway through and realise they hadn't factored in a system that they thought was nothing but was vital to the organisation running.

And this isn't just for-profit organisations, this is the health services, this is national infrastructure, it's everyone.

There's not yet a single standard that says "This is how organisations should control, manage and govern their flows of data."

Why is that relevant to the companies that were affected by Crowd Strike? Would it have stopped it?

Maybe, maybe not. But considering the global impact, it doesn't look like many organisations were prepared for the possibility of a huge chunk of their IT infrastructure going down.

Understanding dataflows help with the preparation for events like this, so organisations can move to mitigate them, and also the recovery side when they do happen. Organisations need to understand which systems are a priority to get back operational and which can be left.

The problem I'm seeing from a lot of organisations at the moment is that they don't know which systems to recover first, and are losing money and reputation while they fight to get things back online. A lot of them are just winging it.

Conclusion of Part 1

Next time I can totally go into diagramming if any of you are interested in that.

How can any organisation actually map their dataflow and what things need to be considered to do so. It'll come across like common sense, but that's why an actual standard is so desperately needed!

#AyeforScotland #crowd strike #Dataflow

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lovezbrownies · 9 months ago

Note

Lauren with a reader that acts similar to Julie?

Oomf... i feel like i cooked too hard in this.. not as silly as i usually do, i am also lowkey insecure with this one idk if its good or bad lesakjn ;;

Cold. (Yandere!Fem!Bully x GN!Reader)

Lauren's Masterlist - General Masterlist.

Synopsis: Lauren's mother never expressed emotion, yet she still loved Lauren. Would it be the same with you? Lauren's crush who is just as unfeeling and cold as her mother? Or maybe even worse.

Lauren McCanister x GN!Reader

Warnings: where do i start. Again, mean reader, kind of a manipulator lowkey. Lauren used to be a manipulator, she is now the manipulated.

Lauren McCanister had spent her entire life shaping herself into an intellectual force. She excelled at everything, from academics to manipulation, carefully constructing a facade of control. And yet, none of it prepared her for you. You were nothing like the others—aloof, cold, distant. Your reactions—or rather, lack of reactions—drove her to the brink of obsession. Every sharp word she threw at you slid off like raindrops on glass, and it enraged her as much as it intrigued her. How could someone like you remain so detached?

She had long since given up on eliciting anything from you verbally. Her jabs, insults, and teasing always fell flat. No matter how sharp or cruel her words, you never flinched. It only made her dig deeper, press harder, desperate for some kind of response—anything that would give her power over you. But you remained unmoved, expressionless, analyzing her words like they were data to be sorted and discarded. It was maddening.

It wasn’t until Lauren discovered a small, delightful chink in your armor that she felt a spark of triumph. When her teasing turned physical, she finally got what she wanted. The slight widening of your eyes, the furrowing of your brow, the minuscule flinch when she pinched your side or tugged your backpack—those were the moments that thrilled her. Watching you, the unflappable you, suddenly thrown off balance by a simple tickle or a light shove made her heart race in ways she couldn’t explain. The look of surprise that briefly crossed your face before you quickly masked it again was like a drug. She loved it. You hated it.

And that only made it worse. The more you recoiled from her touch, the more she sought to invade your space. It wasn’t enough to merely watch you work from afar or sit beside you in silence during class. Lauren needed to get under your skin. She needed to feel your presence bend to her will, to watch your carefully constructed walls crumble—if only for a second. But even then, after you’d jerk away or give her a startled look, you’d retreat right back into your composed bubble, as if nothing had happened.

For you, it was all so calculated. You were fully aware of her growing obsession and had long since factored it into your life. Lauren McCanister was a variable, one that you could predict with startling accuracy. Her teasing, her bullying, her constant presence—it all fit into a pattern you’d mapped out. You knew when she would approach, how she’d attempt to provoke you, and you knew how to dodge or deflect her efforts. But while you could avoid her words and resist her psychological games, her physical intrusions were more challenging. You’d caught onto her fixation, her fascination with your reactions when she touched you, and it irritated you—not because of the touch itself, but because it broke the flow of your usual, calculated responses.

The unpredictability of physical contact was something you hadn’t fully accounted for. It threw off your mental algorithms, disrupted your focus in ways that frustrated you more than you’d ever admit. But you didn’t show it. You remained the same cool, detached individual, offering her no more than the occasional blink or a calculated word, knowing full well that your lack of emotion was only feeding her obsession.

Lauren, for all her intelligence, had yet to recognize the full extent of your indifference. She misinterpreted your silence as another layer of mystery rather than the simple truth—you did not care. Not about her taunts, her presence, or her obsession. To you, Lauren was another factor in your pursuit of long-term goals, and in that equation, she was useful.

You observed her with cold detachment, analyzing the potential benefits of indulging her obsession. Her intelligence was undeniable, and her genetic lineage is impeccable. A relationship with her could yield favorable outcomes. The idea of manipulating her feelings for your own gain wasn’t off the table either. In fact, you had already begun to calculate the potential benefits of leveraging her obsession for your advantage.

For Lauren, however, the dynamic was far more chaotic. Every interaction with you left her heart pounding, her mind whirling in frustration and excitement. She couldn’t understand why she cared so much, why your calm, unfeeling demeanor pulled at something deep within her. It was like she wanted to break through your walls, not out of malice anymore, but out of a desperate need to see some emotion, to know you were human. The more she failed, the more her obsession grew. You had become a puzzle she couldn’t solve, and that terrified her as much as it thrilled her.

The moment she found out that you had invited her over for an experiment, her heart leaped in a way it never had before. It wasn’t about the science or the experiment itself—no, it was the idea of being in your space, of seeing a part of your life that wasn’t cold and distant like the walls you’d built around yourself. She spent hours planning what to wear, imagining how the evening might unfold, oscillating between fantasies of you opening up to her and the fear that you’d remain as unreadable as ever.

When the time came, and she arrived at your door, her nerves were on edge. She had rehearsed what she would say, how she would act, but all of it fell apart the moment you opened the door with your typical, expressionless gaze. Your monotone greeting sent a shiver down her spine, not because of any warmth or affection, but because of how cold and detached it was. You weren’t just cold—you were calculating, analyzing her every move even now.

“Hello, Lauren. Come in,” you said, your voice devoid of any inflection.

Lauren hesitated, her heart thudding in her chest. She stepped inside, expecting your home to reflect the same cold, sterile environment that you embodied. But instead, the warmth of the decor took her by surprise. The soft lighting, the earthy tones, the subtle scent of lavender—it was all so inviting, so… unexpected.

“You… live here?” she asked, her voice barely concealing the disbelief.

You nodded, walking ahead without turning back to face her. “Yes. I purchased it 3 years ago. A logical decision. My parents' residence did not accommodate the necessary space for my research.”

Lauren’s eyes widened, taking in the realization that you, of all people, had bought a house—at fifteen, no less. It was a shock that rippled through her carefully constructed image of you. She had always known you were brilliant, but this? This was something else entirely.

“And… the decorations?” she asked, still grappling with the contrast between you and your surroundings.

You shrugged, as if it were the most mundane detail in the world. “Warm environments stimulate brain activity. They improve efficiency and productivity.”

That response sent a jolt through Lauren. It was so you—so perfectly logical, so devoid of any personal attachment to the concept of “home.” But to her, it felt like a glimpse behind the curtain, a small window into the way you functioned. It should have made her feel closer to you, but instead, it left her feeling even more out of place. For all her brilliance, for all her attempts to get under your skin, you were always five steps ahead, unbothered by her presence.

You turned to face her, finally acknowledging her with your cold, calculating stare. “Lauren, I invited you here for two reasons,” you began, your voice steady, precise. “The experiment, of course. But also because I am aware of your feelings for me.”

Lauren froze, her entire body tensing as her heart skipped a beat. “What? What do you mean?” Her mind raced, panic bubbling up in her chest. How could you know? How much did you know? Had you seen through her all along?

You took a step closer, your gaze unwavering. “Your obsession has been noted. I’ve analyzed it thoroughly. I have concluded that engaging in a romantic relationship with you will be beneficial.”

Her heart pounded in her ears, the blood rushing to her face as your cold words hit her like a slap. “Beneficial?” she echoed, her voice shaking, a mix of hope and disbelief filling her chest.

You nodded, your tone flat. “Yes. Our combined intellect will produce offspring with a high probability of exceptional intelligence. The genetic benefits are clear.”

Lauren’s breath hitched, her entire body frozen in place as your words washed over her. Was this really happening? You weren’t rejecting her, but… this wasn’t what she had imagined. There was no warmth, no affection, just cold, hard logic. And yet, despite the lack of emotion, her heart swelled with a strange mix of joy and confusion.

You stepped closer again, this time reaching out to her with the same precision you used in everything else. “As per societal norms, I will now engage in a romantic gesture.”

Before she could respond, you leaned in, pressing a brief, mechanical kiss to her cheek. The gesture was clinical, devoid of passion or warmth, and yet, it set her skin on fire. Lauren’s breath caught in her throat, her cheeks burning as she stared at you, wide-eyed and speechless.

You pulled back, your expression unchanged. “This marks the beginning of our relationship.”

Lauren could barely breathe, her mind spinning. You—emotionless you—had just kissed her. But it wasn’t the kiss she had always imagined. It was methodical, planned, like everything else you did. And yet, it meant everything to her.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, her voice shaky, her confidence shattered.

“There is no need for further emotional response,” you replied, stepping back with your usual detachment. “This relationship will serve its purpose. That is all that matters.”

Lauren stared at you, her heart torn between elation and a deep, gnawing sadness. You had given her what she wanted—or at least, what she thought she wanted. But now that she had it, she realized that it wasn’t enough. Not like this. You were still untouchable, unreachable, wrapped in your cold logic. And even though she had won, it felt like a hollow victory.

But she wouldn’t let that stop her. If this was what it took to be with you, then she would take it. She would take whatever pieces of you she could get, even if they were cold and calculating. Because at the end of the day, Lauren McCanister wasn’t just obsessed with breaking down your walls—she was obsessed with you.

You turned away from her, heading toward the table where a complex array of scientific equipment lay waiting, a soft hum of electronics filling the air. “As for the other reason I invited you here tonight,” you said, your voice as flat and methodical as ever. “I require your assistance with an experiment. Your expertise in certain areas will improve the likelihood of success.”

Lauren blinked, her heart still pounding, but the abrupt shift in conversation caught her off guard. Of course, to you, this wasn’t a night of emotional revelations—it was a continuation of your work, and she was merely a useful tool in your grand design. It stung, but she quickly pushed that feeling aside. You needed her. That was enough for now.

Stepping closer to the table, she looked over the experiment you had prepared, her eyes scanning the intricate setup. It was a daunting task—calculations, measurements, and variables that all needed to be meticulously balanced. One wrong move, and the entire thing could fail. And the thought of disappointing you, of failing to live up to your expectations, made her palms sweat.

“I assume you’ve read the documentation I sent you,” you continued, your eyes never leaving the equipment, even when you weren’t looking at her you made her heart skip a beat. “Your role is crucial to this experiment. A miscalculation on your part could result in catastrophic failure.”

Her throat tightened at your words, and her fingers twitched nervously as she glanced down at the tools she would be using. Catastrophic failure. Those words echoed in her mind, amplifying her already racing thoughts. She had always excelled under pressure, but this was different. This was you. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Not here. Not now.

“Yes, of course,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady, even though her nerves were fraying at the edges. “I’ve studied it all. I know what to do. I think I also did this with my mom when I was younger.”

But in truth, her confidence was wavering. She had spent hours poring over the documentation you had sent her, but the reality of being here, in the moment, with you watching her so closely, made her doubt every decision. What if she missed something? What if she miscalculated? What if—?

“Excellent. Then begin,” you said, handing her a delicate instrument, your gaze focused and emotionless. “I will monitor the variables.”

Lauren swallowed hard and took the instrument from your hand, her fingers trembling slightly. She forced herself to focus, to push aside the swirling storm of doubt in her mind. This was her moment to prove herself to you, to show you that she could be more than just a pawn in your grand plan. She could be an equal, someone worthy of your attention—your admiration. But what if she were to disappoint you? Would you forgive her? Would you comfort her? Lauren could only wish.

As she began the delicate process of measuring and calibrating, she felt your presence beside her, your eyes watching her every move. The weight of your scrutiny only heightened her anxiety, but she forced herself to keep going, her breath coming in shallow, nervous bursts. She had to do this. She couldn’t fail. Not with you standing so close, your cold, calculating gaze bearing down on her like a spotlight.

The minutes stretched on, each one more tense than the last as Lauren carefully navigated the intricate steps of the experiment. Her hands shook slightly, and she cursed herself internally for every small tremor. She couldn’t afford any mistakes. Her entire body was wound tight with nerves, her heart racing as she made each delicate adjustment.

But then, just as she reached the final step, disaster almost struck. Her hand slipped, the instrument wobbling precariously in her grip. A small gasp escaped her lips as panic surged through her chest. She could already imagine the failure, the disappointment in your eyes, the cold dismissal that would surely follow.

But before she could spiral further, she steadied herself, forcing her hands to stop trembling. Focus, Lauren. Focus. She breathed deeply, centering herself, and carefully, painstakingly, she corrected the error. With a final, precise movement, she completed the task, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest.

“There,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the equipment. “It’s done.”

You approached the experiment, your eyes scanning the results with your usual calm detachment. You checked the readings, ran a quick calculation, and then nodded in approval. “Adequate,” you said, your voice as cold and neutral as ever. “You have performed as expected. The experiment is a success.”

Lauren felt the tension in her chest release all at once, a wave of relief crashing over her. She had done it. She hadn’t failed you. She had proven herself. I’m so awesome and sexy, they have to love me soon. But before she could fully process the moment, you stepped closer, your gaze steady and unreadable.

“Good work,” you said, and before she could react, you leaned in and pressed a quick peck on her lips—a gesture of reward, as emotionless and calculated as everything else you did.

For a split second, Lauren’s world stopped. The brief contact of your lips on hers sent a jolt of electricity through her entire body. Her heart skipped a beat, her mind went blank, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. It wasn’t the passionate, romantic kiss she had dreamed of, but it didn’t matter. You had kissed her. You had touched her. And that alone was enough to send her mind spiraling into chaos.

But as quickly as the moment came, it was over. You pulled back, your expression unchanged, your gaze still cold and detached, as though the kiss had meant nothing to you. And for you, it probably hadn’t. It was merely a gesture, a small acknowledgment of her success. Nothing more.

Lauren stood there, staring at you in stunned silence, her lips still tingling from the contact, her heart racing in her chest. Inside, she was a whirlwind of emotions—elation, confusion, hope, fear. She wanted to scream, to cry, to laugh, all at once. But outwardly, she forced herself to remain composed, to mirror your calm. She couldn’t let you see how deeply that simple kiss had affected her.

You turned back to the equipment, already moving on to the next phase of your work, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Prepare the next sequence,” you said, your voice as steady and emotionless as ever.

Lauren blinked, trying to regain her composure, her mind still reeling. She had to remind herself to breathe, to focus. You were already moving forward, and she needed to keep up. But as she turned to follow your instructions, her thoughts kept drifting back to that brief kiss—the first and only sign of affection you had ever given her.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the thrill of the moment lingering long after you had already dismissed it. For you, it had been nothing more than a calculated reward, a logical action in response to her performance. But for her, it was everything. That tiny, fleeting moment of contact had sent her spiraling, her mind spinning with thoughts of what it could mean, what it could lead to.

She knew, deep down, that you didn’t feel the same way she did. You never would. But she couldn’t help but hope—hope that, maybe one day, you might see her as more than just a useful tool, more than just a variable in your equation. Maybe one day, you might feel something, anything, for her.

But for now, she would take what she could get.

#yandere x reader #oc x reader #gn reader #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc #yandere x darling #yandere #gender neutral #tw yandere #x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #Lauren McCanister #Love yapped on this one sorry guys :(

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