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kpopstaytiny · 2 months ago

Text

Say please

Pairing: Bang Chan x F!reader

Word Count: 7251

Genre: smut, fluff, friends to lovers

Warnings: smut (minors DNI), softdom!Chan, sub!reader, oral (female receiving), fingering, edging, dirty talk, pet names (baby, love, sweetheart), unprotected sex, choking, hair pulling, praise!kink, she's a little bratty, cursing, feeling a little homesick, aftercare.

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He's always working until the stars blur outside the studio windows—my night owl, my relentless creator. The hallway smells like soundproofing foam and the air carries the faintest tang of citrus—probably from the half-empty pineapple juice carton I know is perched on his desk—as I raise my knuckles to the door, pausing to listen to the faint click-clack of keyboard strokes before knocking—the familiar weight of a paper bag swinging from my arm, a taste of Australia tucked inside.

His head jerks up, fingers freezing mid-keystroke. For one suspended moment, he just stares—eyes wide, lips parted—like I'm some sleep-deprivation mirage. Then his shoulders drop, tension bleeding out as his mouth curves into that private smile reserved for 1 AM confessions.

“Hey,” his voice is rough with disuse, warm with recognition. “What’re you doing up so late?”

"Says the man who thinks sunrise is a suggestion," I counter, stepping into the familiar cocoon of his workspace. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in this blue-lit universe of his making.

“You know I work late.”

“I do,” I close the distance between us, the paper bag in my arm rustling with its precious cargo. "Couldn't sleep." A shrug that doesn't fool either of us.

“And you came all the way here?” His brows rise, voice tipping toward disbelief.

"I went for a walk. Ended up at that 24-hour mart down the street." I gesture vaguely toward the window where neon signs glow in the distance. "Next thing I knew..." The unspoken truth hangs between us—my feet always know the way to him.

His gaze flicks toward the bag on my arm, curiosity softening his features. “That what’s in there?”

“Sort of,” I let the bag swing temptingly. “Not exactly.”

When he takes it, his fingers brush mine—just enough to send a spark up my arm. The moment stretches as he peers inside, then—

"Tim Tams?" His whole face transforms, boyish delight breaking through the exhaustion. "Where the hell did you find these?"

I bite my lip, feigning nonchalance. "They might've fallen into my basket at the international grocery."

"Liar." His laugh is all warmth, no bite. He knows—knows I called three stores, knows I asked Felix where to find them, knows this was never about cookies but about stitching a piece of his homeland into this endless night.

“What’re you working on?” I nod toward his screen, the glow painting his profile in liquid blue. My voice comes out steadier than I feel, trying to shift gears before the moment swallows me whole.

“New song,” he says, gaze flickering back to the monitor. But his voice has changed—slower now, syrup-warm. Not distracted. Inviting.

“Duh.” I roll my eyes, aiming for casual. But it’s too soft. Too fond. “Figured.”

“Wanna hear it?”

I blink. “Seriously?” My pulse stutters like a skipped track. He never shares unfinished work—not when there are still seams showing, not when the lyrics haven’t settled into their final shape.

But tonight, he just nods, easy as anything. “Yeah.” Then he pats his thigh. “Come here.”

For a heartbeat, I forget how to move.

We’ve been closer than this. Done more than this. But this—him pulling me into his creative space, into the part of himself he usually keeps locked tight—feels like stepping over a threshold neither of us named.

I settle into his lap with deliberate slowness, but he doesn’t give me room to overthink it. His arm bands around my waist, tugging me back against his chest like we’ve done this a thousand times. The familiarity of it unravels me more than any grand gesture could.

His free hand moves across the keyboard—click, drag, a flurry of shortcuts—before passing me headphones still warm from his skin. I catch the faint scent of his shampoo as he leans in to adjust the volume, his breath fanning across my temple. Then—play.

The first notes bloom soft and hesitant, piano keys pressed like a question. Layers build: the sigh of strings, a heartbeat rhythm, something that sounds like rain against studio glass. Then his voice—not the polished perfection of recordings, but the raw, sleep-rough version that exists only in these midnight hours. He hums where words fail, fills gaps with melodies that ache with unfinished honesty.

It wraps around me like a shared secret. Like being let inside a dream.

When I pull the headphones down, they catch on the rapid flutter in my throat. “Channie,” I whisper, the nickname slipping out unbidden. “This is… fuck, this is good.”

He’s already watching me, eyes dark with something perilously close to hope. “You liked it?”

“Liked it?” I twist in his lap. “I loved it.”

The grin that breaks across his face could power cities—all boyish delight and sudden sunshine. His hand splays across my stomach, anchoring me as if I might float away. “It’s nowhere near done,” he mutters automatically. “The bridge needs—"

“No.” My fingers find his jaw, turning him back to me. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The headphones fall silent, but the song lingers in the air between us. My blood hums with it. So does his.

His thumb draws lazy circles over the fabric of my shirt, slow and absentminded. The room feels warmer now. Denser. Like we’re standing on the edge of something unnamed, hearts tipped forward, waiting.

The chair creaks as I shift, my knee bumping the desk. His grip tightens reflexively—not restraining, just keeping—as the monitor lights carve shadows across his face. That damn lower lip caught between his teeth, the flutter of his lashes when my fingers brush his wrist.

I should leave. Let him work.

But then his hand rises, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips linger, tracing the shell before skating down to the sensitive hollow beneath my jaw. The shiver that follows is beyond my control.

His breath hitches in answer, fingers flexing at my waist—not pulling me closer, not pushing away. Just holding on. Just staying.

The screen flickers, casting jagged blue shadows across the curve of his throat as the track stays paused mid-chorus. Neither of us moves to restart it—the song forgotten, the world narrowed to this: the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the way his breath hitches when my head tilts instinctively toward his shoulder.

He looks at me. Really looks. Like I’m the only thing his eyes know how to focus on, like the studio—the city outside, his precious music—has dissolved into static.

I feel it then, that electric hum building between us, live-wire and inevitable.

"You're distracting me." His voice is rough, frayed at the edges like he's been holding the words back for hours.

"I mean," I tease, but it comes out breathless, "you could use a break."

His thumb presses into the dip of my waist, a silent counterargument. "Is that so?"

I nod, too quick. He notices—of course he notices—his lips curving as he tracks the flush spreading down my neck.

"What do you suggest we do, then?" Controlled. Careful. But his gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, betraying him.

My throat tightens. Words pile up behind my teeth, half-formed and trembling.

He reads them anyway. "You're thinking about it," he murmurs. "Right now." Not guessing. Knowing.

My pulse thrums under his touch. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoes, voice dark with amusement. He leans in, nose brushing mine. “Tell me.”

I stay frozen. Barely breathing.

His thumb grazes my bottom lip, feather-light. “Use your words.”

“You’re—” I swallow hard. “You’re enjoying this.”

His smile is slow, devastating. "Yeah. I really am." His hand tilts my chin up, forcing eye contact. "So tell me. What do you need?"

My hands find his hoodie before I can second-guess myself. Fisting the fabric. Pulling.

Or maybe he moves first.

All I know is his mouth—hot and insistent, the groan vibrating against my lips as his fingers dig into my hips like he's trying to fuse us together. His hand tangles in my hair, angling me deeper as the kiss turns filthy, deliberate. Every slide of his tongue sparks liquid heat down my spine. When I whimper, he smiles against my mouth—just a quirk of lips, but it's enough. He heard that.

"God," he pants when we break apart, foreheads touching, "I've wanted to do that all week."

I can't speak. Can't think.

He kisses me again, softer this time. A promise. "Still distracting," he murmurs.

"Then stop pretending you mind."

And this time—he doesn’t.

The second kiss is all pent-up hunger—weeks of stolen glances and almost-touches poured into the way his teeth catch my lip, how his hands roam my back like he's relearning my shape. I fist his hoodie again, dragging him closer until there's no space left between us.

And I feel it in him too—the moment hesitation shatters. His touch turns bolder, palms skating up my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my shirt.

I shift in his lap, turning slowly to face him fully—knees sliding to either side of his hips, thighs bracketing his. The movement presses our bodies together in a way that steals my breath, and I feel his hands slip to my hips, steadying me without thinking. His fingers flex once. Then again. Like he's memorizing the weight of me there.

"Fuck," he hisses when I roll my hips.

I don't look away as I reach for his hoodie. His eyes flare—surprise giving way to raw hunger—before he lifts his arms in surrender. The fabric catches on my headphones, the cord snagging around my neck, but neither of us cares.

Not when he's revealed like this: black tank top stretched taut over his shoulders, the muscles of his arms flexing as he grips my thighs. My palms slide down his biceps, tracing the ridges I've missed more than I'd admit.

He watches me look, his gaze heavy. "Better?"

I nod, thumbs brushing the neckline of his shirt, feeling his pulse hammer under my touch. "Much."

His fingers toy with the headphone cord still looped around my neck. “You planning to keep these on?”

"I forgot," I admit, flustered.

"Let me." He removes them gently, tossing them aside without breaking eye contact. His other hand stays anchored at my hip, thumb drawing slow circles that burn through my jeans.

Then his mouth is on mine again, hotter this time, his tongue sweeping in like he's chasing the taste of my laughter. His tank top is soft under my palms, but the body beneath is all hard lines and tension. I push the fabric up, needing skin—

He breaks the kiss with a gasp when my nails scrape his abs. "I thought you were working," I murmur against his jaw.

"I was." His teeth graze my earlobe. "Then you showed up."

I tilt my head back to give him more access. “You make it sound like an inconvenience.”

His laugh ruffles my hair as he nuzzles into my neck. "You're the opposite of that."

My fingers rake through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "That night," I whisper, "it keeps replaying in my head."

His grip tightens. "Yeah?" His voice drops to that register that liquefies my bones. "You think about it too?"

"More than I should."

A beat. Then his hands slide under my shirt—not asking, not hesitating. “Then let’s stop pretending this is just some accidental drop-by.”

His lips crash into mine again—no patience left, no question remaining. Only the sharp creak of his studio chair protesting beneath us as he drags me closer, his hands desperate against my waist like he's been counting seconds since I first showed up in his doorway.

The kiss shifts—slower now, but devastatingly deliberate. Controlled in that way of his, all coiled restraint and simmering intent. As if now that we've crossed this line, he intends to map every inch of it with his mouth, savoring the way my breath hitches when his teeth graze my lower lip.

I feel it everywhere—in the rough pads of his fingers skating up my ribs, in the way his palms mold against my back like he's relearning my shape. Not just touching. Claiming. But always, always asking.

“What do you want, baby?” the words rumble against my mouth, warm with promise.

His voice thrums low—not a command, but an invitation woven in velvet and smoke.

My nails scrape lightly down his shoulders, delighting in the full-body shiver it wrings from him. "I think you already know."

He huffs a laugh, the sound vibrating through my chest where we're pressed together. "Say it anyway."

I trail my lips along his jaw, tasting salt and exhaustion. "I want you."

His grip on my waist goes vice-tight—like those three words just short-circuited his last shred of self-control.

“Then you’d better hang on.”

His hands slide up my back with agonizing precision, slipping under my shirt to brand my skin with his heat. I arch instinctively when his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, the thin fabric of my bra doing nothing to mute the electric shock of contact.

“Can I?”

The question ghosts across my swollen lips as his fingers pause, trembling slightly against my flushed skin.

I lock eyes with him, my voice ragged. "If you don't, I might lose my mind.”

That pulls a rough chuckle from him—the kind that lives in the space between amusement and utter desperation. "Impatient?"

"No," I breathe, rolling my hips just to watch his pupils blow wider. "Just done pretending I came here for fucking Tim Tams."

The groan that tears from his throat is half-laughter, half-suffering as he lifts my shirt over my head, dragging it off with agonizing slowness. The air between us goes thick and charged, his gaze raking over me like I'm the last sip of water in a desert.

"Still the prettiest thing I've ever seen," he murmurs, calloused hands skimming down my sides like he's committing every curve to memory.

I let him look—let him feel the way my pulse jumps under his touch, the way my body leans in like a compass finding north. My own hands slip beneath his tank, rediscovering the familiar planes of his torso. "You're staring."

“I’ve earned the right,” he says simply, his voice gone gravel-rough.

A pleased hum vibrates in my throat. “You planning to keep me on edge like this all night?”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief and something darker. “Depends. You gonna ask nicely?”

My palm flattens against his chest, fingers splaying over his hammering heartbeat. “I’ve got better things to do with my mouth.”

His jaw flexes, and I know I’ve got him.

“Gonna be trouble tonight, aren’t you?”

“Only if you’re lucky.”

Something primal flashes in his eyes before he manhandles me closer, the sudden friction wringing a gasp from my lungs. “You tell me to stop, and I stop. You understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper—not submission, but surrender.

“Say it,” his voice drops to that register that liquefies my spine.

“I want this, Chan.”

And God, the way he reacts to that.

The kiss is rough, impatient—a clash of lips and teeth and pent-up longing. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back with a gentle urgency that sends sparks skittering down my spine. His breath is warm against my mouth, flavored with the faintest hint of mint and something darker, smokier.

“Jeans off.” The command is a grunt, barely more than a vibration against my lips, but it crackles through me like live wire.

I slip from his lap, my knees unsteady as I toe off my shoes and shimmy out of my jeans. The air is cool against my flushed skin, but his gaze is hotter—a slow, deliberate sweep from my bare thighs to the lace clinging to my hips, lingering where my nipples peak beneath the flimsy fabric.

“You really came here with an idea in mind.” His smirk is all wicked amusement, dimple flashing as he pats his thigh. “Come sit again.”

I roll my eyes but obey, settling back against him with a huff. His chest is solid against my back, his heartbeat a steady thrum beneath my shoulder blades. “Like you weren’t thinking the same thing the second I walked in,” I mutter, grinding down just to feel him shudder beneath me.

His breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—before his lips brush my ear. “Open.” The word is a whisper, a plea wrapped in velvet. His hand taps my thigh, but his own legs are already nudging mine apart, his cock a hard line against my ass.

“Always so fucking eager,” he murmurs, but his hands betray him, sliding up my sides with agonizing slowness. His fingers trace the lace of my bra like he’s memorizing every stitch, every flutter of my breath. “These need to go.”

The clasp gives way with a whisper, and then his palms are on me—warm, rough from rehearsals, perfect. He cups my breasts like they’re something holy, thumbs brushing my nipples in slow, maddening circles. A moan spills from my lips, unbidden, and his chuckle is dark, triumphant, as his mouth finds the curve of my neck.

“So fucking perfect.” His voice is a growl, low and reverent, as he kneads gently before pinching—just hard enough to make me gasp. “Love how responsive you are. How pretty you look when you fall apart for me.”

His teeth scrape my shoulder, a sharp contrast to the slow, deliberate drag of his hands across my skin—as if he’s committing every curve, every shudder, to memory. "Every sound you make is fucking perfect," he murmurs, his tongue flicking over the spot he just nipped. "Gonna ruin you just to hear how pretty you beg when you're desperate for me."

One hand slips lower, tracing the lace edge of my underwear with torturous patience, while the other stays busy—rolling a nipple between his fingers, tugging just enough to make my hips jerk. A whimper escapes me as I squirm in his lap, but he holds me still, his breath hot against my ear.

“Tell me.” His fingertips trace slow, taunting circles over the damp lace, teasing but never giving me what I need. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

I bite my lip, thighs trembling as his palm presses flat against me, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric—so close, but not enough. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stalling.” His teeth graze my earlobe, his free hand pinning my hip down when I try to rock against him. “Use your words, sweetheart. Or do I need to tease it out of you?”

A frustrated groan tears from my throat as his thumb finally—finally—strokes along my clothed seam, once, twice, the touch achingly light. My nails dig into his thigh, but he tuts, catching my wrist and pressing it to my stomach.

“Hands here. Let me take care of you.”

He doesn’t rush, just traces idle, maddening patterns over my clit through the soaked lace, letting the friction build in slow, torturous waves.

“Chan—”

“Tell me,” he coaxes, his other hand wrapping around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. “What do you need?”

I arch, my head falling back against his shoulder. “Your fingers. Now.”

He laughs, low and rough. “Uhm… say please?”

“Or,” I pant, “you could stop pretending you don’t want this just as badly and put them to use.”

His grip tightens—just a fraction—and his breath hitches against my neck. “Fuck, I love your mouth.”

“Then quit admiring it,” I gasp as his thumb presses harder, “and give me a reason to put it to work.”

A growl rumbles through his chest, but his fingers finally slip beneath the lace, stroking through slick heat. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, though the crack in his voice betrays him.

“And yet,” I twist in his grasp, just enough to meet his eyes, “you’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me.”

His grip tightens on my throat—not cutting off air, just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm. “Cheeky.” His lips brush my jaw, the words a dark hum. “You really think you’re calling the shots here, sweetheart?”

I open my mouth, but he silences me with two fingers pressing against my entrance—not pushing in, just teasing. “Try again.”

My breath hitches. “Make me.”

“Mm. Wrong answer.” His thumb grazes my clit, so light it’s agony, and I jerk against him. “You want my fingers? Ask. Nicely.”

I arch into his touch, gasping. “I don’t recall you needing an invitation.”

A pause. Then his laugh is rough, warmth bleeding into my skin as his forehead drops to my shoulder. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.” His hips roll up, betraying his own desperation, but his fingers stay maddeningly still—until his teeth sink into my neck, sharp and claiming. “But I’m still the one who decides how this goes.”

His voice drops, velvet and threat. “Imagine how good it’ll feel when I finally let you come. My fingers fucking into you, my thumb right—” A fleeting stroke over my clit. “—here. Getting you ready for me. You’d take me so pretty, wouldn’t you? Let me feel every sweet pulse of you around me? I'd ruin you with how good I'd make it."

I rock against him, pleading without words. "Then do it."

This time, when he slides two fingers in, it’s with aching slowness, curling just there, his thumb circling my clit—too gentle, too much. I clench around him, overwhelmed, and his groan vibrates against my ear. “Always so tight. So perfect.” His teeth scrape my earlobe. “Gonna beg for me yet?”

“No.” The word trembles.

“No?” Amusement laces his voice. His thumb slows to a torturous glide, every pass sending shocks up my thighs. Just as the coil inside me tightens—he stops.

The sound I make is raw.

His grip flexes at my throat, controlling, as his fingers twist deep—one sharp drag—wringing out another moan. “Look at you, baby,” he murmurs, “all worked up over two fingers."

His thumb skims my clit once, twice, and my hips buck. “One word, love.”

I grit my teeth—but my body arches, traitorous, needing.

Chan’s chuckle is dark, knowing, vibrating through me like a struck chord. "Stubborn." His fingers withdraw with deliberate slowness, dragging through my slickness before pressing against my lips. His voice is rough, but there’s something beneath it—warmth, a thread of admiration tangled in the command. "Taste yourself. Then show me how you’d touch yourself if I weren’t here."

I don’t hesitate. His fingers slip into my mouth, and I keep my eyes locked on his, defiant, relishing the way his pupils swallow the dark brown of his irises. The taste of myself is salt-sweet, intoxicating, and I swirl my tongue around his fingers just to watch his jaw clench, his breath hitch. Good. Let him ache too.

A grunt escapes him as his free hand grips my hip, guiding me back onto my feet before steering me toward the couch. He drops into his chair, thighs spreading—a gesture that would earn an eye roll any other time, but now feels like pure provocation. "Go on," he murmurs, voice gravel-rough. "Let me watch."

A challenge. A dare.

His gaze burns as my fingers hook into the lace at my hips, thumbs tracing the delicate edge. I drag the fabric down inch by inch, letting the cool air kiss my skin, letting him see the way my thighs tremble—just slightly. The underwear catches at my knees, and I pause, biting my lip like I might reconsider.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Don’t fucking stop."

I exhale a laugh, shaky with anticipation, and step free of the lace, kicking it aside. His stare follows the movement like a brand, searing every exposed curve. The power of it coils low in my belly—the way his chest rises faster, the way his grip whitens on the arms of the chair. This is what control feels like: the weight of his want, the silent plea in the way he spreads his thighs wider.

“Happy?” I murmur, palming myself again, this time with nothing between us.

His voice is wrecked. “Getting there.”

My pulse thrums in my throat, part defiance, part thrill. If he wants a show, I’ll give him one. My hands trail down my body, fingertips skimming my ribs, the dip of my waist—teasing, just like he would. His nostrils flare when I finally brush my clit, my own gasp sharp in the quiet between us. The contact is electric, but it’s not enough, not after the way he wound me tight and left me trembling.

Chan’s fingers flex against his knees, knuckles whitening with restraint. "That’s it," he murmurs, gaze dark and unblinking. “Let me see how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

I bite my lip, arching into my own touch—but it’s hollow compared to the way he commands my body. My hips stutter, frustration coiling hotter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Problem, love?” That voice, all honey and smoke, curls around me before I even see his smirk.

My breath hitches, sharp in my throat. “You’re distracting me.”

A laugh, low and knowing. “I’m not even touching you.”

“You’re watching.” And God, it’s worse. His gaze lingers like a touch, slow and deliberate, leaving me exposed.

Then he moves—fluid, effortless—caging me against the couch without laying a finger on me. The heat of him radiates through the sliver of air between us. “Admit it.” His breath fans over my lips. “You’d trade every stroke of your own fingers for one of mine.”

I bite my tongue. But my body betrays me, thighs pressing tight together, and his grin turns lethal.

“Beg.” His thumb grazes my lower lip, a whisper of pressure. “Just once. Let me hear it.”

My hands freeze, but his covers mine, guiding me back into rhythm with firm insistence. “Don’t stop yet.” His scent—cool mint and warm vanilla—floods my senses, his mouth hovering just shy of mine.

A heartbeat of hesitation. Pride wars with the ache between my thighs, crumbling under the weight of his stare.

“Please.” The word cracks, raw.

“That’s my girl.” Triumph flares in his eyes a second before his lips claim mine, swallowing my whimper as his fingers sink deep, curling just so. I moan into his mouth, back arching off the couch, but he doesn’t relent—his kiss is fevered, his touch unyielding, and when his thumb drags over my clit, the pressure is perfect.

“You’re close.” His voice is rough against my lips. “I can feel it. That desperate little clench—” A twist of his wrist. “You feel incredible like this—so tight, so eager.”

Then his fingers slip free, glistening, and before I can protest, he’s sliding down my body, breath scorching between my thighs. “But I want to taste you when you come.”

The first lick is slow—agonizing—drawing a broken sound from my throat. His hands anchor my hips as his tongue flicks over my clit, once, twice, teasing. “Fuck, even sweeter than I remembered,” he murmurs, teeth grazing my inner thigh.

“Chan—”

His name shatters into a gasp as his tongue swirls in slow, torturous circles. The couch dips under his weight, his grip firm but not restraining—steadying. Every flick is a promise, every suck a silent mine, until my legs tremble around his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, the warmth of his breath sending another ripple of pleasure through my core. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

And God, I do. His mouth is relentless, not in punishment but worship, broad strokes wringing whimpers from my lips. A hum of approval vibrates through me as he glances up, eyes dark.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, lips glistening. “Gonna come just like this? Just from my mouth?”

Before I can answer, his fingers press inside, one deep, unhurried thrust. The stretch pulls a moan from my throat, but he doesn’t stop—just crooks them there, curling ruthlessly as his tongue circles my clit again.

The orgasm crashes without warning. A sob tears free as I arch off the couch, clenching around his fingers in helpless waves. He doesn’t pull away—gentles his touch instead, working me through it with slow, reverent strokes, lapping up every shudder until I’m limp beneath him.

“Perfect.” His lips brush my inner thigh, my hip, the flutter of my stomach. “So fucking perfect for me.”

When he finally sinks onto the couch and pulls me against his chest, his breathing is ragged, his skin scorching where we touch—proof, even now, that I unravel him too.

His arms lock around me, his clothed body a furnace against my bare skin. The hard line of his cock presses into my hip through his sweats, insistent, impatient. A shudder ripples through him when I shift, my fingers twisting into the fabric of his tank top.

“Still with me?” His voice is rough velvet, lips brushing my temple. The contradiction of him—hands tender as they smooth down my spine, like gentling something wild—makes my throat tighten.

I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze: dark, hungry. “You’re still dressed.” My voice is wrecked, but the challenge in it is clear.

His smirk is slow, deliberate. “Observant.” His palm spreads over the small of my back, pressing me flush against him until I can’t ignore the heat, the way his hips roll once—just once—against me. “You gonna do something about it?”

I don’t hesitate. My hands slip under his shirt, nails skimming the rigid planes of his stomach. He hisses, muscles jumping, but I don’t stop—pushing the fabric up until he growls and tears it off himself in one impatient motion.

The sight of him—bare, sweat-slicked, control fraying at the edges—sends a fresh throb of want between my thighs. My fingers dart toward the waistband of his sweats, but he catches my wrist, grip firm.

“Ah-ah.” His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. “You don’t get to rush me.”

I arch into him, breath catching. “Then what do I get?”

His laugh is dark, delicious. “Everything. Just not yet.”

Then his mouth crashes into mine, hot and claiming, and I taste myself on his tongue—sinful, sweet. His hands roam, gripping my waist, palming my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples until I whimper into his kiss.

When he pulls back, his eyes are black with need. “Up.” The word is ragged.

I don’t need explanation. Heart hammering, I rise onto my knees on the couch, bracing one hand against the backrest. His fingers dig into my hips as he drags me back against him, his cock a heavy, aching pressure against my ass.

“Tell me you want it,” he demands, teeth grazing my shoulder.

I exhale a shaky laugh. “You already know.”

“Say it.”

I twist to look at him over my shoulder, letting him see the raw want in my gaze. “Fuck me.”

His groan is filthy, broken. “Good girl.”

Then his sweats are shoved down just enough, his hands spread me open, and he’s pushing in—slow, so slow—until the stretch burns and I’m gasping, nails clawing into the couch.

“Fuck—you’re tight.” His voice is rough, strained, as he sheathes himself fully inside me with one sharp snap of his hips. “Gonna take every inch, yeah? Just like this?”

Words fail me. I can only nod, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, the way he fills me so completely it steals my breath.

Then he moves.

The first thrust is punishing—deep enough to blur my vision, to leave me gasping—but he stills abruptly, his body trembling against mine. “Fuck. Need a second.” His fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place, his breath hot and uneven against my neck. Like he’s fighting for control.

I whimper, clenching around him instinctively, and he curses under his breath. “You’re killing me.”

“Then stop being gentle,” I pant, pushing back against him.

A dark laugh rumbles through his chest. “Who said anything about gentle?”

But instead of giving me the rough pace I expect, he rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, letting me feel every inch of him. His hand slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my head back. “You just came,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Gonna make sure you feel everything this time.”

And then he starts moving—not fast, not frantic, but with deep, measured thrusts that burn through me like liquid fire. Each one drags just shy of brutal, his hips working with a precision that leaves me writhing. He adjusts my body slightly, tilting my hips up, and suddenly he’s deeper, the stretch bordering on unbearable.

“There.” His voice is raw, lips skimming my ear. “That’s how I remember you. Taking me so perfectly, like you were made for me.”

I arch back against him, nails biting into the couch, and let out a breathy laugh. “Someone’s greedy.”

His rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—before his grip tightens on my hip, his next thrust slower, deeper. “Oh?” A challenge laces his tone. “Explain.”

“Mmm.” I clench around him, relishing the way his breath hitches. “The way you take what you want. Like you can’t get enough.”

A groan vibrates against my skin as he nips lightly at my shoulder. “And if I can’t?” His hand gentles in my hair, angling my face toward his. “Tell me to stop.”

A lie. A game. We both know I won’t.

“Never,” I whisper.

“That’s what I thought.” His free hand slides down, fingers circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my thighs shake. “But since you’re so observant…” His hips snap forward, punching the air from my lungs. “…let me show you just how greedy I can be.”

And then he does.

No more measured thrusts, no teasing restraint—just pure, relentless possession.

He drives into me with a rhythm that borders on brutal, each snap of his hips forcing me deeper into the couch, the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin filling the space between us. My gasp catches in my throat, fingers clawing at the backrest, but he doesn’t slow—doesn’t stop. One hand fists in my hair, arching my spine to his will, while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave marks, anchoring me exactly where he wants me.

"Fuck," I choke out, voice frayed at the edges. "Just like that—God—you feel so good."

A dark chuckle vibrates against my back. "Yeah? Tell me how much you like it."

"So deep," I pant, rocking back to meet him. "Love it when you take me like this—when you use me—"

His rhythm stutters for half a second, a rough groan tearing from his chest. "Christ, listen to you." His fingers dig harder, dragging me onto him with bruising force. "Dripping all over my cock like you’re made for it."

The sound of it—the filthy, wet slide of him inside me—sends heat licking through my veins. My breath hitches, and he notices, lips curling against my shoulder.

"Hearing it turns you on, doesn’t it?" He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust, wrenching a moan from my throat. "The way you sound? The way we sound?"

I can’t answer—not when he’s hitting there—but my body does, clenching around him in helpless, fluttering pulses.

"Knew it," he growls, teeth grazing my ear. "Every time our skin slaps together, every fucking noise you make—you get even wetter. Can feel it." His hand slides between my thighs, gathering slickness onto his fingers before dragging them up to my mouth. "Taste yourself. Taste what you do to me."

I suck his fingers in, moaning around them, and his hips jerk. "Fuck. Keep doing that, and I won’t last."

"Promises, promises," I taunt, breathless.

He laughs—low, dangerous—before hauling me upright against his chest, his arm a steel band around my waist. "Think you’re clever?" His mouth finds my pulse, teeth scraping. "Let’s see how smart you are when I’ve got you on your back."

The world tilts in a dizzying rush as he flips me onto my back, his grip unrelenting. The sweats and underwear still tangled around his thighs are shoved aside in one impatient motion, finally freeing him completely—and then he’s looming over me, all sweat-slicked muscle and dark, devouring eyes.

“Beg me to ruin you properly,” he rasps, voice rough as gravel.

I open my mouth—to taunt, to challenge—but the words dissolve into a gasp as his hands hook under my knees, yanking me toward him with a single, brutal tug. My calves hit his shoulders, hips lifting off the couch, and then he’s there, the thick head of his cock pressing against me with deliberate, taunting pressure.

“Oh—!” The sound punches out of me before I can stop it, my back arching.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. One sharp thrust, and he’s buried to the hilt, deeper than before, the angle ruthless. The air rushes from my lungs in a broken moan, my nails scrabbling at the cushions as my vision whites out for a heartbeat.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his own breath ragged. “Look at you—spread open, taking me just like this.” He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, the force driving a cry from my lips. “Gonna ruin you so good, you’ll feel it for days.”

Every drag of him is a live wire, every snap of his hips stealing my breath. I’m pinned, helpless, my thighs trembling where they bracket his shoulders, my moans loud and unchecked.

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning forward to cage me in, his mouth hovering over mine. “Let me hear how much you love it.”

And God help me—I do.

He lowers himself, balancing his weight on his forearms, and the shift makes my legs rise higher, the new angle bordering on too much—too deep, too intense. A whimper escapes me, and he stills, his voice a ragged whisper.

“Touch yourself for me.”

I don’t hesitate. My fingers slide between us, circling my clit in frantic, desperate strokes. His gaze drops to watch, his pupils swallowing every bit of light, and for a heartbeat, he’s utterly still—just the ragged rise and fall of his chest betraying him.

Then he loses it.

His thrusts turn punishing, deep and fast and hard, the slap of skin echoing in the room. I arch beneath him, my voice breaking around his name.

“Chris—”

His rhythm falters. A groan tears from his throat, his hips jerking like I’ve struck him. “Fuck. Say it again.”

“Chris,” I gasp, and he curses, his mouth crashing down to my breast—nipping, sucking, teeth scraping my nipple until I cry out. The dual sensation of him fucking into me and the sharp, sweet pain pushes me higher, my thighs trembling where they’re hooked over his shoulders.

“Come with me,” he demands.

And I do, shattering around him as he follows me over the edge.

The air hangs thick between us, charged with the aftermath. Chan stays buried inside me, forehead pressed to my shoulder, his breaths ragged and warm against my sweat-slick skin. His hands slide down my thighs—gentle now, almost reverent—as he lowers my legs from his shoulders, fingers tracing the curve of my calves like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

I wince when my knees protest, and he stills. "Hurts?" His voice is rough, but his touch is featherlight.

"Worth it," I murmur, brushing damp hair from his brow. He turns into my palm, lips grazing the center, and something in my chest tightens.

When he pulls out, it’s with a low groan, collapsing beside me and dragging me half onto his chest. The studio is a wreck—his hoodie tangled with my top near the mic stand, the armchair shoved out of place from when he’d yanked me toward him earlier. My fingers drift over his sternum, catching on the chain around his neck as his heartbeat slows beneath my touch.

"You’re quiet," he says after a while, thumb brushing my hip.

I tilt my head to meet his gaze. "So are you."

A smirk tugs at his mouth. "Recovering." His hand slides up my spine, possessive even now. "You wrecked me, love."

The endearment slips out like it belongs there, and neither of us acknowledge it. Instead, I nod toward the forgotten Tim Tams on the counter. "Still hungry?"

He laughs, warm and surprised, like he’d forgotten. "Fuck yeah." But he doesn’t move, arms tightening around me instead. "Later."

His fingers trace idle patterns along my arm, mapping constellations only he knows. For the first time tonight, there’s no urgency—just the distant hum of the city and the weight of his silence, heavy with words neither of us will say.

Eventually, he reaches for his sweats, pulling them on with a grunt before crossing the room in two strides. He grabs the paper bag I’d brought earlier, returning with Tim Tams and a water bottle pressed into my hands.

"You’re spoiling me," I tease, cracking open the package.

His lips brush my shoulder. "Taste."

I break a cookie in half, offering him the other piece. He takes it, but his eyes stay locked on mine as he chews—slow, deliberate. "Missed this," he admits, voice so soft I almost miss it.

The chocolate melts on my tongue, too sweet. He watches me swallow like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all night, thumb swiping a crumb from my lower lip. When he kisses me, I taste it—sugar and us and something dangerously close to longing.

He tugs me closer, my back against his chest, my head on his shoulder. His fingers trace slower now, heavier with fatigue. The chocolate lingers on his lips when they press to my temple, but it’s the warmth of him that lulls me—the steady rise and fall of his breath syncing with mine.

I don’t remember closing my eyes.

When I blink awake, the studio is bathed in the blue glow of his laptop screen. Chan’s back at his desk, headphones on, one hand scrolling through waveforms while the other taps rhythmlessly against his thigh. The sight is so ordinary, so him, that my chest aches with something tender.

I smile into the blanket—the same thin, scratchy one he keeps under the desk for nights when the city noise keeps him working till dawn. It smells like laundry soap and him, and for a wild second, I consider tugging him back to the couch.

His chair creaks as he shifts, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s noticed I’m awake. His fingers pause mid-adjustment, hovering over the dial. But the track needs fixing, and after a second, he dives back in—though his foot taps restlessly against the chair leg.

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jade-zzz · 1 month ago

Text

INTERMEZZO

( platonic batfam x neglected reader)

SUMMARY : The family reels under a rising tide of public backlash. As headlines vilify their pursuit against crime, an unexpected solution is offered: reaching out to Bruce's estranged firstborn, a figure trusted by the people, ultimately forcing the family to confront their past. TRIGGER WARNINGS ! Child Neglect. No other warnings at this moment.

a/n : this is just me spitting out an old idea i had, most likely wont become a series or a p2. but a lot of neglected reader stories start off with them young and uninvolved with the vigilante scene and i was like 'oh yeah, let me make reader a badass crime fighter so they have a chance against these crazies. if this was longer it would eventually continue into batfam becoming yandere but theres none of that here dw Interactions and Reblogs encouraged!

The Batcave was bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the Batcomputer’s multiple monitors. A sickly blue light flickered over the dark, cavernous space, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch in every direction. The screens were awash in a flood of headlines, each one a blade dipped in poison. Bruce sat motionless before them, his jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, hard line, as if the words themselves had weight enough to crush him. The same phrases repeated over and over, like the beat of a relentless drum:

“Vigilante Justice: A Dying Breed?”

“Do vigilantes cause escalation in criminal activity?”

“Batman’s War Against Crime: Our Cost”

Each headline felt like a knife twisting deeper, the rot of public opinion spreading faster than a wildfire. The truth, it seemed, no longer mattered—only the perception.

Jason’s figure loomed above them, leaning casually against the railing of the upper level. His arms were folded tightly, muscles tensed in a way that seemed natural to him. The flickering glow of the monitors cast eerie highlights across his face as he surveyed the headlines with squinted eyes. “I gotta admit,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “This one... actually makes a few decent points.”

“Don’t start,” Dick shot back, his voice sharp but tired. He was sitting on the stone steps, his hand running through his hair in a frustrated motion.

Tim, seated at the foot of the steps with his legs folded cross-legged and a tablet in hand, was already knee-deep in data, scanning through analytics with practiced ease. Empty energy drink cans—some familiar, some strange—littered the ground around him, a quiet testament to his dedication to stay awake for this situation. "They’re using our own cases against us," Tim said, his voice low and serious, his gaze never leaving the screen. "Even if we are the good guys, that only goes so far. Gotham knows we’re willing to work outside the law.”

The sharp clicking of keys echoed in the cave as Barbara’s fingers flew across the Batcomputer’s keyboard. Every keystroke seemed like a futile attempt to dam the rising tide of bad press. But for every article she deleted, two more appeared. "I won’t be able to keep this under wraps for much longer," she said, her voice tight with frustration. “Gotham Gazette ran the story last night, but now it’s on CNN, Forbes, The Times. The commentators are tearing it apart.”

Barbara paused, scanning an article that flickered on her screen. “It’s all cherry-picked data,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “They’re drawing correlations without even attempting to prove causation. It’s all smoke and mirrors. But people are desperate for a reason to turn against us.” She looked up, her eyes meeting Bruce’s. “And that’s what they want. Someone to blame.”

From the dark corner near the Batmobile, Damian’s voice cut through the tension like a dagger. He had been silent until now, observing from the shadows, his figure barely visible in the dim light. “They don’t want truth,” he said, his tone cold and detached, almost predatory. “They want a scapegoat. And Father”—his eyes flicked to Bruce, his expression unreadable—“is the easiest target.”

No one dared to disagree.

The Batcave settled into a thick, suffocating silence. The low hum of the machines filled the space, a soft, mechanical murmur that only seemed to highlight the oppressive quiet. From the cavernous walls, water dripped steadily, each drop a tiny echo in the vast emptiness. Above them, the city pulsed with life—its towering lights burning bright against the ink-black sky. Below, however, the family who had sworn to protect it sat, bound together by blood, sweat, and the weight of their shared past, in a silence heavier than lead, an unspoken acknowledgment of something that had shifted irrevocably.

Bruce stepped away from the console, his movements slow and deliberate. He stood for a moment, staring at the glowing screens before him, his face drawn, his expression unreadable. “We’ve survived worse.” His voice, when it came, was low—raspy, like it had been dragged through the years with him. Yet there was something different now. This wasn’t just another crisis. It wasn’t just the press or another criminal on the streets. This hit too close to home. This was a reminder of his very beginning, of the fragile thread that connected him to the man he had once been.

‘Armed robbery, double homicide, has a taste for the theatrical, like you.’ The words Jim Gordon had spoken to him long ago echoed in his mind, the memory of that first case—a playing card left behind, like a message that would haunt him forever.

Barbara’s voice broke through his thoughts, soft but firm. “But we haven’t mended worse,” she said, her gaze not leaving the screen in front of her. “This one’s different. People used to think of us as the lesser evil. Now, they’re starting to wonder if we’re just another form of crime.” The words struck Bruce harder than he cared to admit. She wasn’t wrong. In their attempt to be Gotham’s saviors, they had come to embody something far darker in the eyes of the public. They had always lived in the shadows, but now those shadows were threatening to swallow them whole.

Alfred, standing near the table with a tray of untouched tea—its warm fragrance drifting through the room—cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. "Perhaps what’s needed," he said carefully, his voice measured, "is not another war fought in the shadows, but a reminder that others still stand with you."

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward him, his gaze narrowing, as if weighing the butler’s words. The others followed suit, their expressions unreadable, waiting for Alfred to elaborate.

“What are you suggesting, Alfred?” Bruce’s voice was edged with uncertainty, something he rarely allowed to show.

The butler gave a small, measured nod, his hands setting the tray down with the practiced grace of someone who had spent decades in the service of this family. "I believe, Master Wayne, that what the people need is reassurance. A bridge. Someone they trust. A voice they still believe in."

Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "There’s not exactly a waiting list of pro-vigilante influencers out there, Alf."

“On the contrary,” Alfred said, a quiet confidence in his tone. "There is one. Someone still admired by the people. A symbol of protection, not fear. They’ve worked openly with first responders, collaborated with officials, stayed in the public’s good graces and operated within the law..."

Tim blinked, his mind struggling to process the thought. “In Gotham?”

Dick’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “Wait… you’re talking about—?”

Bruce’s expression darkened, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. But the question hung in the air, unspoken, like an invisible thread tugging at the edges of his resolve.

Alfred’s lips curled into a faint, wistful smile, his voice gentle as he spoke again, almost as if recalling a cherished memory. “Yes. I am referring to your firstborn child, Master Wayne.”

The silence that followed was absolute, a sudden detonation of shock and disbelief that rocked the room. Damian froze mid-step. Tim and Jason exchanged a glance, eyes wide with uncertainty. Barbara shifted in her chair, almost as if waiting for someone to confirm that she hadn’t misheard. Dick’s throat tightened, a knot of guilt coiling in his chest. The past was a fragile thing, fragile enough that sometimes it felt better to pretend it didn’t exist. But in moments like this, the weight of regret bore down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper into a well of emotion he had long since tried to forget.

Bruce remained still, frozen, his gaze distant. "They haven't been involved in family matters like this for years..." His voice trailed off, thick with the unspoken history between them. The bitterness in his words wasn’t lost on anyone in the room.

“And yet,” Alfred countered, his voice soft but unyielding, “they have remained exactly what this city needed from us.”

A long, heavy pause lingered in the room. The truth was that Bruce had not heard from them in years—not since they had left everything behind at eighteen, vanishing from the world they had known. Alfred had maintained a fragile connection, sending occasional messages through a burner phone, reminding Bruce of their existence whenever he saw their exploits on the news, despite his stubbornness to avoid all topics linked to them. But how long had it been since any of the family had tried to reach out? How long since anyone had even bothered to speak to them, beyond the occasional fleeting word, a distant acknowledgment of someone they once knew?

“People trust them,” Alfred continued, his voice softer now, almost tender. “They believe in their methods. Their clarity. Their distance from... all of this.” He gestured around the cave, to the monitors, to the chaos, to the shadows. “If there’s anyone who could speak to your cause and be heard, it would be them.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “They wouldn’t want to be dragged back into this.”

“No,” Alfred agreed, his voice calm, “but perhaps they deserve the choice. After all, they didn’t walk away without cause.”

Another silence fell, heavy with the weight of years and regrets left unspoken. Bruce’s mind churned, searching for answers in the fragmented memories of a younger version of himself. He tried to picture their face, but the years had stolen the details—just a pair of small eyes peering up at him from behind Alfred’s legs when they had first arrived at Wayne Manor.

“It might be nice,” Alfred added softly, almost as an afterthought, “to have them on your side again.”

A/N: feeling devious hinting towards something happening in the past but not mentioning it,, meanwhile reader is sitting on their sofa, watching the news as their prayers for their families downfall worked

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idkwhylou · 2 months ago

Text

I wanna feel what love is

Summary : You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can’t stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded… until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/groundsystemstech!reader

Warnings : mutual pining, jealousy (brief flirtation), sunshine x quiet introvert, playlist flirting, he’s loud for both of you

Words : 5K

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

There was a certain stillness to the sim bay when you were in it—not silent, exactly, but quieter in a way that wasn't just about decibels. It was the kind of quiet that made people talk softer when they walked by you, as if your presence created a ripple of calm in the mechanical hum of monitors and diagnostic lights. You weren’t unfriendly. Just focused. Precise. A whisper in a world of voices raised too loud too often.

Bradley Bradshaw was not quiet, he was everything but quiet.

He was energy and swagger and sun-soaked charm, tall and golden, never without something to say. Usually something funny, sometimes something stupid, but always with that boyish confidence that made people laugh even when they didn’t want to.

And for some reason, lately, he kept orbiting around you.

Today, it was coffee.

You barely registered the footsteps until he was standing beside your desk, one hand curled around a cup, the other sliding the second one in front of you with practiced ease, like he’d done this before, like he’d made this part of his day.

“Hazelnut,” he said, voice low but cheerful, like you two were already in on some inside joke as he offered you the sweetest smile. “With oat milk. Thought I’d take a gamble, you look like an oat milk kind of girl.”

You paused mid-keystroke. Your eyes flicked up to his face—those soft brown eyes, wide and too curious for their own good—then down to the coffee. ‘Oat milk kind of girl’, what the hell does that mean ? Anyway, you took it without hesitation, your hand wrapping around the warm cup like it was familiar, though it wasn’t. At least not yet.

A quiet breath left your lips. “Thanks.” You murmured, voice just above the whir of the nearby fan: soft, clipped, barely there.

Then, you turned back to the screen, like the moment had never happened at all. Bradley stood there a beat too long, blinking once, then scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish kind of grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“…Cool.” He said to no one in particular, and walked off. Glancing back once to see if you looked at him again.

You didn’t.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

By the time lunch rolled around, the mess hall was its usual mess of uniformed pilots, engineers, and stray conversations about upcoming tests and simulations. Bradley slouched into a seat beside Phoenix and Bob, stealing a chip off Bob’s tray like it belonged to him.

“She never talks,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, watching you across the room as you sat alone, quietly eating, headphones on. You were scrolling something on your tablet—a manual, probably, or flight logs. You looked like you’d be anywhere else if you could, and still, you glowed in your own strange, distant way. Like a lighthouse in fog.

Phoenix didn’t even blink. “Whisper ? That’s her whole thing.”

Bradley raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but she literally never talks. I’ve said good morning to her for like four days straight and got exactly two words in return. One of them was ‘thanks.’ The other was ‘hmm.’”

“She doesn’t waste words,” Bob offered gently. “I like that about her.”

“Yeah, but how does she communicate ? Like, with other humans ? Does she just telepathically vibe what she wants across the room ?”

Phoenix smirked. “You’re not mad she’s quiet, you’re mad she’s not talking to you.”

Bradley opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He glanced across the cafeteria again. You were sipping the coffee he brought. Slowly. Still the only one you’d had all day. He watched the way you bit your lip, thinking intensely. How your hair fell back when you let it go, slightly hiding your face. But suddenly, a question popped in his head. “Why do we even call her whisper ?” He said still looking at you, not really waiting for an answer, more to make a statement.

“We talked once,” started Bob, cutting the brunet off from his observation. Rooster turned his head quickly, interested in what the blond had just told him. “Said she was a former pilot. Real good one too.”

His interest peaked, “Former pilot ? I thought she was a ground systems tech.”

“Well she is now.” The blond said. “But she used to fly, so people still use her call sign. Top of her class, sharp as a tack. Then she switched to ground—said she liked the quiet shadows better than the spotlight in the cockpit.”

Rooster took a slow sip of his glass of water, thinking about what his friend had just told him. “Guess I’ve got a mission then.”

Nat raised an eyebrow, “What kind of mission ?”

“To get her talking.” He answers, grinning like a kid who just found a new puzzle.

Bob laughed. “Good luck with that one.”

But that didn’t discourage Bradley, not even a little.

The sim bay had the kind of buzz that never quite went away—humming computers, faint whirring fans, a voice or two in the background reviewing telemetry. It was comfortable in a mechanical sort of way, and you liked it that way: your space, your rhythm, your quiet corner of the world. You were back at your console, headphones on, lips parted ever so slightly in focus as you adjusted a variable in the flight response program.

Bradley Bradshaw, on the other hand, existed in full color. He lingered in the doorway, pretending to look for someone, but mostly watching you work. He moved like someone born in the sun, all wide smiles and long limbs, always cracking a joke or throwing a casual wink in someone’s direction. So, when his boots thudded up beside your desk for the second time that day, coffee in hand again, you felt him coming before you even saw him. You slipped one of your headphones off as he stopped beside your desk, and he couldn’t help but smiled at the anticipation.

“You always drink coffee after lunch,” he said, setting the cup beside your keyboard like it was already tradition. “But I figured I’d switch it up. This one has vanilla instead of hazelnut. Dangerous, I know.” He chuckled for a bit.

You paused, glanced at him, and took the cup with both hands like it might vanish if you didn’t. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word barely above a breath.

He smiled like it was a full sentence. And then, to your surprise, he didn’t leave. He leaned against the edge of your console, arms crossed. “So… do you always have your headphones in, or is that just to avoid me ?”

You blinked, looked at him—not startled, just unreadable. Then: a quiet, short answer.

“No.”

His brows lifted. “Oh ? So it’s not personal.”

“No.”

Another beat passed. He was clearly trying to decide if that was good or bad.

“What do you listen to ?”

“…Music.”

That made him grin. “Wow. The mystery deepens.”

You looked back at your monitor. You weren’t trying to be cold, you just didn’t know what to do with all that energy, all that focus pointed at you like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

Still, he stayed.

“What kind of music ?” he asked, voice dipping into something gentler.

You hesitated. “…Instrumental.”

“No lyrics ?”

You shook your head.

“Okay. So you like stuff that doesn’t talk much. That makes sense.”

There was a tiny flicker at the corner of your lips. Not quite a smile. But almost. Bradley caught it like it was gold dust.

“Are you from around here ?” he tried again, as casually as he could.

You shrugged. “Sort of.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You glanced at him. “It is.”

He chuckled, arms dropping as he leaned a little closer to your screen, trying to read what you were working on. “You calibrating the response latency on Phoenix’s sim log ?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna explain it to me like I’m five ?”

“No.”

He laughed—this full, warm thing that drew glances from two other pilots on their way out. You didn’t laugh with him, but you did nod, slow and almost amused as you went back to work. And that was something. Bradley stared at you for another second. Then, without a word, he picked up the half-empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since morning and pulled a black Sharpie from his back pocket.

He scribbled something near the rim, just above the sleeve, and set it gently back beside you. You didn’t look up. But you didn’t tell him to go, either. He turned and left with a smirk playing at his lips.

Once you were sure he was gone, you reached out, fingers curling around the cup like it was something private. You turned it, just slightly. In dark, careful handwriting, it said:

‘Don’t worry,

I talk enough for both of us.’

You stared at it for a second. Just long enough for the smallest smile to touch your lips—the kind you’d never let him see.

Not yet.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was buzzing, already alive by the time you stepped through the doors. Half-empty beer bottles, familiar voices crashing over each other like waves, Phoenix’s laughter echoed from the pool table and a Springsteen song rumbled from the jukebox. Bradley was already there, leaning back at the bar, flashing that easy, sun-warmed smile at anyone who passed. As usual, he was dressed in an open Hawaiian shirt with a simple white T-shirt, his aviator pair on the tip of his nose, and his stupid moustache making him looking good as ever.

You hovered at the threshold longer than you meant to—long enough to wonder why you came, short enough that no one noticed—then slipped in quietly, the familiar hum of chatter wrapping around you like a cocoon. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. You weren’t afraid of noise, just tired of being swallowed by it. But tonight, something pulled you in. Maybe it was the ache of loneliness that crept in when the hangar emptied you. Or maybe it was just the memory of Rooster’s smile earlier that morning, when he handed you coffee just to hear your thank-you.

“Watch this.” Bradley said to Phoenix, next to him, as he saw you cross the room.

“You're gonna make a fool of yourself.” She laughed as he stood up, walking with a determined step towards you.

You found your usual corner near the window, sliding onto a stool with your drink and earphones already tucked in your jacket pocket. Not quite ready to drown out the noise, but ready to keep some space from it. You hadn’t even settled on a stool before a shadow fell beside you.

“There she is,” Bradley drawled, smooth and pleased, sidling up beside you with his usual beer in hand. “Didn’t think this place was your scene.”

You glanced at him sideways, eyes unreadable, and shrugged. “Got bored.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning one arm on the table next to you, his attention all yours. “You in a bar full of pilots ? That’s not boredom. That’s anthropology.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe I’m observing.”

He grinned wide, taking that as a win. “See ? She does talk.” He says loud enough so Nat could hear it.

You didn’t reply. Just looked at him with wide eyes and sipped your drink, letting the silence settle again.

Bradley seemed content to fill it. “You always just… listen ?” He asked, watching over the rim of his bottle.

You gave a small shrug. “Someone has to.”

His eyes softened, “I like your voice.” He said unbothered by your silence.

That pulled something from you—the tiniest exhale of laugh, gone before fully formed. But he caught it, and his grin widened even more when he saw your cheeks getting slightly red. “There it is,” he said, mock-dramatic. “A sound. We’ve got confirmation of life.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in it.

Across the room, near the jukebox, Fanboy nudged Payback and nodded toward you both.

“Ten bucks says he won’t get her to say more than four words tonight,” Fanboy said.

Payback chuckled. “I’ll take that bet. Bradshaw’s relentless.”

Back at the corner, Bradley didn’t care. Didn’t even notice. He was too focused on you—on the way your fingers traced the rim of your glass, the way you listened like it mattered. Then, he seemed to be slowing down, leaning against the edge of your space like he might stay there all night.

“You ever drink anything stronger than water ?” He asked, nudging his empty bottle toward your glass.

“I had whiskey last week.” You murmured.

Bradley arched an eyebrow. “One whiskey ?”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. “Two.”

He laughed, the sound full and bright, startling in the close space between you. You turned slightly toward him, just enough to give him your attention—not more, not yet.

“I think people forget you have a voice,” he said, his tone quieter now, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I mean, I see you every day. Running diagnostics, fixing our busted egos in the sims, headphones always on. But nobody really talks to you.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, fingers tapping the base of your glass.

“Why’d you stop flying ?” He asked suddenly, not unkindly. Just… curious.

You glanced away for a beat, surprised he knew that, then shrugged. “Liked control more.”

Bradley’s smile softened, fading into something more thoughtful. “You ever miss it ?”

You paused. Then, so quiet he almost missed it: “Sometimes.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment—just looked at you, like he wanted to remember the sound of your voice exactly as it was. Then someone brushed past you on the way to the bar, a blonde woman in a sundress, tall and glowing, with a spark in her eye and a laugh that cut clean through the room. Confident in a way that glittered, she moved like she already knew who would be watching her, and her eyes locked onto Bradley.

You caught the way his eyes settled on her. Not just a glance, but a long, lingering stare, the kind that said he was interested, curious, maybe even impressed. His usual playful charm softened into something quieter, more focused, like he was seeing something worth leaning into, and for a moment, it was like you weren’t even in the room.

Anyway, he stayed with you a little longer.

And unconsciously, you gave him more than usual tonight—a full five minutes of quiet conversation, soft answers barely audible beneath the noise, a trace of a smile when he teased you about something you just said. It was the most you’d spoken to him outside the sim bay, and for a moment, it felt like something shifted. Like maybe he saw you a little more clearly now.

Then your glass emptied. You stood slowly, nodding toward the bartender on the far end. “Be right back.” You took his empty bottle in your hand, without asking him.

He thanked you and straightened, stretching his arms back just enough for the fabric of his shirt to pull across his broad shoulders. The movement was effortless, the kind of thing he didn’t even know he was doing. “Don’t disappear on me.” He called, half-laughing, as you stepped away, weaving through shoulders and laughter. You didn’t answer, just slipped into the crowd, quiet as ever.

You didn’t see the blonde until you were halfway to the bar, but he saw her. She brushed past you with the kind of scent you couldn’t name but somehow noticed. And by the time you looked back, his eyes were already on her. Focused. That warm, open grin of his softened into something more curious, the kind of look he gave to things he wanted to figure out—the same look he gave you earlier that morning. When she glanced over and smile, he smiled back like it was instinct. The blonde placed a hand on his forearm, light and lingering, nails painted in a summer pink. And he didn’t move an inch away.

He tilted his head, smiling down at her like they’d known each other longer than thirty seconds. That familiar warmth in his eyes—the one he gave you—was now entirely hers. Your grip on his bottle tightened and you turned back toward the bar, but not for the bartender anymore. Instead you set the bottle and your glass gently on a vacant corner.

“Doesn’t need his beer anymore.” You muttered under your breath.

“Ditching the golden boy already ?” Phoenix’s voice came from beside you, light but knowing.

You didn’t flinch, just gave her a small shrug, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past the jukebox. “He’s got company.” You said quietly.

She followed your gaze. Her expression didn’t change, but you caught the way she exhaled slowly, like she wanted to say something. Instead, she offered a soft nudge to your shoulder. “Come shoot a round with me. Before Bradshaw says something stupid dumb and ruins both your nights.”

You nodded once, grateful, and let her steer you away—away from the laughter from the blonde, from the part of you that had started to hope he’s look for you first.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The next few days passed in a blur of drills and simulator runs, but something was off. Bradley felt it before he even saw it. A shift in the air, subtle and sharp. The way people say you can sense a storm rolling on, not by the thunder, but by how still the birds go.

You were still there in the sim bay every morning, like clockwork. Still perched at your console with your headphones draped around your neck, fingers flying over diagnostic keys. Still responding to reports, confirming flight data, calling out corrections with crisp professionalism.

But you weren’t there. Not like before.

You didn’t glance over when he leaned on the edge of your desk with his usual swagger, coffee cup in hand, teasing tone ready. You’d just take the cup without eye contact, said a flat, “Thanks”, and go back to the screen like he hadn’t just offered you the sun.

No smile. No soft voice. No quiet moment like before. Bradley stood there a second longer, watching you scroll through diagnostics. The first time, he brushed it off. Maybe you were tired or busy. The second time, it tugged a little. But the third ? It started to sting.

“Rough morning ?” he asked that day, testing the waters. He watched you from just a few feet away, trying to catch your expression through the edge of your hair. But you didn’t even blink. Didn’t even lift your head. Just muttered, “No”, and continued typing.

Bradley lingered awkwardly for a few seconds longer, waiting—for a smile, a glance, anything. But you never looked up. He left the coffee on the corner of your console and walked away like a door had closed behind him.

And it stuck with him. It gnawed at him all day. During simulator drills, debriefs, even lunch where he barely touched his food, through endless conversations with teammates where he found himself half-listening, distracted by the feeling of something slipping out of reach. By the time evening rolled around, he couldn’t shake it. He found Phoenix on the flight deck catwalk, where the sky was bruising purple, and the air still carried salt and heat.

“What did I do ?” He asked impatient.

She didn’t looked away from the horizon, “To who ?”

He looked at her like it was obvious and sighed, “Whisper.”

Now she looked at him, one brow lifted. “You mean besides not shutting up around her ?”

Bradley narrowed his eyes. “No, I mean lately. She’s been…” He exhaled hard. “Different. Cold.”

Phoenix tilted her head, giving him a long, pointed look. Then she asked, “You really don’t get it ?”

His expression didn’t change, but there was hesitation in his eyes. “Get what ?”

“She saw you Bradshaw.”

He blinked, “Saw me what ?”

Phoenix pushed off the railing, folding her arms. “You flirted with some random at the Hard Deck right after spending all night talking her out of her shell. And she saw you. Every second of it.”

Bradley’s mouth opened slightly. “What ? No, I wasn’t— I just talked to her for a second—”

“Bradley,” Phoenix’s voice dropped, serious now. “She was holding your damn beer to get you a new one. She wanted to come back to you.”

He stopped. Actually stopped. Like the weight of those words landed straight on his chest. “I didn’t…” He scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He muttered.

She softened a little but didn’t let him off the hook. “Didn’t have to.” She waited a beat, then said more gently, “She’s quiet, not stupid. You think that kind of girl opens up to just anyone ?”

He didn’t answer. Because he was thinking about the bar now. About the way your eyes had briefly flicked toward him when the blonde leaned in. About how your expression had shuttered before he could even recognize the look behind it.

Phoenix watched him closely, then nudged his shoulder. “So. Fix it. Or at least don’t make it worse.”

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

Two days went by.

Long enough for Bradley to feel every inch of it—in the clipped responses, in the polite nods, in the way you passed him in the corridor like he was another file to be sorted and ignored.

And it was driving him insane.

Because you weren’t the kind of person to shut people out impulsively. You were calculated, quiet, deliberate in everything you did. And this coldness wasn’t sudden. It was chosen. Thought through.

Which meant it hurt.

He spent hours turning it over in his head, reliving that night at the Hard Deck, the way you’d said ‘Be right back’ like it meant something, like you were truly planning on coming back to him and not just disappear as he thought you would. And how he’d let himself be pulled into a meaningless moment with a girl he didn’t even remember the name of. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing. Not until Phoenix spelled it out for him in painfully clear words.

So now he sat with that. The guilt, the frustration, the quiet hollow ache of knowing he’d hurt someone who barely let people close to begin with. And he wanted to fix it. But with you, big gestures didn’t work. He knew that. You didn’t want spectacle, you wanted sincerity. Something simple. Something honest.

So that morning, before anyone else was in the sim bay, he left a flash drive on your console. No note. No explanation. Just slid it onto the edge of your desk beside your water bottle and walked away without a word.

You noticed it the moment you sat down.

A plain silver drive, no label. But when you hovered over the files on your screen an hour later, curiosity finally won over.

“Songs You Should Smile To — A Rooster Original”

You stared at the name for a long moment, your finger paused above the track list. You didn’t open it right away. Didn’t smile, either. Just… paused. Then clicked. The first song was soft, warm around the edges. The kind of sound that lingered like late sunshine on concrete. It played in your headphones for exactly thirty-eight seconds before you stopped it. Then closed the window. Then unplugged the drive.

You slipped it into your pocket like it was something fragile.

Later that day, while the rest of the pilots were out on deck, Bradley circled back into the sim bay. You were alone at your station, typing quietly, brows drawn together as you reviewed a diagnostic thread. He lingered by the edge of the console—not leaning in like usual, not crowding your space—just there. Treading softly.

“Hey,” he said gently, scratching at the back of his neck. “Did you, uh… open it?”

You didn’t look at him. Just nodded. “Yeah.”

That was it.

A single syllable, flat as an ocean on a windless day. You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer a smile. Didn’t even glance his way.

Bradley hesitated, thumb rubbing the edge of his palm. “Cool,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Just figured… you might need a better soundtrack. Y’know. For… stuff.”

No reply. No warmth. Nothing to hold on to. You didn’t ignore him, but you didn’t give him anything, either. And that was somehow worse. He lingered for a second longer, then gave a small nod and turned away. Chest tight, mouth pressed into a thin line.

But he didn’t see the way your fingers curled slightly as he walked off. The way your eyes flicked toward the flash drive, still safe in your pocket. Or even the way you waited until the door hissed shut behind him before reaching for your headphones again.

You started the playlist over. From the beginning this time.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was loud that night. Louder than usual. Full of laughter, clinking bottles, half-sung choruses to half-remembered songs. Bradley was already two beers in when he dropped onto a stool by the bar, half-listening to Hangman brag about something no one cared about and trying not to look toward the door every few minutes like some hopeful idiot.

You hadn’t showed up yet.

He told himself he wasn’t looking. That he didn’t care. That it was just a normal night, and he was just enjoying the bar like everyone else.

But then he heard it.

The song.

Soft drums, rising gently above the noise, his heart stuttered.

“I want to know what love is” by the Foreigner.

It wasn’t one of the Hard Deck bangers, not on Penny’s usual rotation. It was his song. The first track on the playlist he gave you. One that made him grin when it came on during drives, made him think of wind in his hair and summers that never quite ended. It wasn’t loud enough to cut through pool games or Payback’s booming laugh across the room. But loud enough for him to hear it.

He blinked, turning toward the jukebox automatically.

And there you were.

Alone, standing quietly with one hand still resting lightly against the machine, like you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to touch it. Head bowed just a little, listening. You looked soft in the amber glow of the neon bar lights.

Playing his song.

Bradley was on his feet before he could stop himself. He crossed the floor slowly, weaving through the crowd as his pulse ticking somewhere behind his ribs, watching you with a quiet disbelief. You didn’t turn until he was almost beside you. Then, finally, your eyes lifted to meet his. There was something unreadable in your expression: something brave.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.

“I liked this one.” You said simply, your voice barely louder than the song.

Just that.

No buildup. No grand declaration. But your voice was warmer than it had been in days, and your eyes held a softness he hadn’t seen since before that night at the bar. And Bradley melted. A breath escaped his chest like relief and hope all tangled into one. “Yeah ?” He asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I thought you might.”

You gave a tiny nod, barely there. “Had it on repeat all night.”

He smiled then. Really smiled. The kind that stretched across his face like a sunrise. His heart clenched in his chest, and for once, he couldn’t find a smooth comeback. Just stood there, quiet in front of the quietest person he knew, feeling every word like it had weight.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For that night. I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to…”

“I know.” Your eyes didn’t leave his.

And then—finally—you smiled. Bradley exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since that night. You looked at him for a long time, longer than you ever had before. The jukebox kept playing as the music wrapped around you both like velvet.

Bradley laughed under his breath, “There it is.”

The jukebox’s glow flickered softly across your face, casting colors that shimmered like stained glass: red across your jaw, blue across your lashes. You were looking at him like he’d said something sacred. Like he hadn’t messed it all up.

Bradley’s throat tightened. His hands ached to move—to reach for you, to tuck that strand of hair behind your ear, to do something—but he didn’t. He didn’t move. Didn’t trust himself not to screw it up by rushing. So he stood there, holding his breath, watching you like he’d watch a sunrise he was afraid to blink through.

And you… you just looked at him for a moment longer. Eyes calm, unreadable, but soft. Then slowly—so slowly he almost thought he imagined it—your hand reached up. Fingers brushed lightly against the collar of his shirt, then steadied there, like an anchor. You leaned in, hesitant, but sure, eyes locked on his, not breaking even once. Bradley’s breath caught. His lips parted just slightly. He still didn’t move.

But you did.

You kissed him.

Not tentative. Not shy. Not loud, but louder than anything you’d ever said before. It was soft, but certain, the kind of kiss that said everything you never did. And Bradley melted into it. When he finally kissed you back—deeper, more grounded, hand slipping gently around your waist—it felt like exhaling after months of holding his breath. Like gravity stopped pulling and just let him float.

And in the background, Kelly Hansen sang on :

I wanna feel what love is, I know you can show me…

#bradley bradshaw imagines #bradley rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw top gun #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradsaw x reader #rooster x you #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster imagine #top gun bradley bradshaw #top gun maverick #top gun x reader #top gun imagine

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chuxmy · 3 months ago

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You are mine..

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re visiting your boyfriend with take out food.

Warnings: contains themes of possessive behavior, verbal harassment and aggressive confrontation

The hum of computers filled the air like static electricity, punctuated by sharp keyboard taps and the muffled voices of online matches. Rows of boys hunched over screens, locked into the glowing haze of the digital world. At the very back, in the only booth dimly lit by a flickering LED, sat Geum Seongje.

His headset was pushed halfway off, resting just above one ear. His fingers danced over the keys, fluid and precise, eyes never straying from the screen. A cold energy surrounded him—focused, quiet, untouchable. It was the kind of stillness that made people instinctively avoid him. That, and the reputation that trailed him like a shadow.

But then the door creaked open, letting in a gust of warm night air… and you.

You stepped inside with a paper bag cradled in your arms, the scent of fried chicken and garlic wafting after you. Your eyes scanned the booths before landing on him. His head snapped up the moment your shoes crossed into his aisle, as if he’d sensed you before he saw you.

Seongje straightened slightly in his chair, removing the headset entirely. His dark eyes locked onto yours—sharp, unreadable, but warmer than anything else in that place.

“You came,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel beneath velvet.

“I brought you dinner,” you replied, smiling as you held the bag toward him.

He didn’t say thanks. He never really did. But he reached out and took it, letting your fingers brush—on purpose.

You were mid-laugh, about to ask how many matches he’d won, when a voice from two rows over cut through the moment.

“Damn… now that’s a meal I’d rather take home.”

You froze.

The laughter that followed was louder, smug, careless. One of the boys, tall, leaning back in his chair, feet propped on his desk—was staring straight at you. His smirk widened when your eyes met his.

Seongje didn’t move right away. He stared at his monitor for a beat longer, expression unreadable.

Then, with an almost eerie calm, he stood.

The silence that followed was heavier than the sound of a thousand keystrokes. He didn’t rush. He walked slowly toward the boy, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly.

You called out his name once, softly. He ignored it.

“Wanna say that again?” he asked, tone deceptively casual. There was no trace of a threat in his voice—just a low murmur, dangerously quiet.

The guy snorted. “It’s a compliment, bro. Chill out.”

That was a mistake.

Seongje leaned down, close enough to speak directly in the boy’s ear. “You open your mouth about her again,” he said, “and you’ll be picking your teeth off this floor.”

The guy blanched. “Alright, alright—damn—just joking—”

“Say it again,” Seongje pressed. “See what happens.”

The air felt colder than the café’s busted A/C unit.

He turned without waiting for a response, grabbed your wrist, not hard, but firm and pulled you gently through the aisles. You didn’t resist. You just followed, heart hammering in your chest.

Outside, the night wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. Streetlamps buzzed overhead, flickering against the shadows. Seongje didn’t let go of your hand until you were halfway down the alley behind the café, where the only sounds were distant traffic and the faint clatter of dishes from a nearby restaurant.

He finally stopped, exhaling sharply.

“You okay?” you asked, still catching your breath.

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes were on the ground. His jaw clenched tight.

“You shouldn’t come here alone,” he muttered. “Not dressed like that. Not around guys like them.”

“I came for you.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stepped closer. “Then what is?”

He looked up, and there was something raw in his expression—something he usually kept buried beneath that cold, effortless front. “You don’t get it,” he said. “When I heard him say that, when I saw the way he looked at you…”

You reached for his hand again. “I don’t care about him. I only care about—”

He kissed you before you could finish.

It wasn’t a question or a whisper. It was a firecracker going off between your ribs. His lips were warm, his grip on your waist tighter than you expected, almost like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold on. The kiss was hungry, a mix of frustration and something more—something vulnerable.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath fanned your skin.

“You’re mine,” he said quietly. “I don’t share. I don’t want anyone looking at you like that. Ever.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

And he kissed you again.

Slower this time.

#weak hero class two #weak hero class 1 #geum seong je #seongje geum #geum seongje x reader #seongje geum x reader

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misaerabl · 1 month ago

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MUTED 𝝑𝑒 - masterlist

✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚ gamer&commentary creator!e x influencer!u (enemies to lovers) SUMMARY : wc... ? ˙⋆✮˙ A lifestyle creator with a flawless feed. A reaction channel with a talent for starting drama. Your world is all soft lighting and subtle shade—Ellie Williams is loud edits, louder opinions, and a fanbase that lives for her chaos. You and Ellie were never supposed to cross paths. But one reaction stream, one too-perfect subtweet, and the internet writes its own narrative: a rivalry they can’t get enough of. You’re curated. She’s unfiltered. You go viral for routines. She goes viral for ruining them. It should’ve ended online—but now you’re stuck sharing a cabin, sharing space, sharing tension that won’t stay hidden behind screens. Ellie is frustrating. Fame is relentless. And somewhere between stolen glances and snarky remarks, the line between content and connection starts to blur. Because when everything is made to be watched, the most dangerous thing you can do is feel.

˙⋆✮ READ THE REST ON AO3!

PROLOGUE -- "not sorry"

ellie.exe is live...

The screen is dimly lit in cool purples and flickering LED strips. A soft lo-fi playlist hums beneath the click-clack of keys and the occasional irritated—

“Dude, seriously?”

Ellie, tucked into a hoodie and headset, squints at her monitor, brows furrowed in the way that makes her fans screenshot the stream and tweet things like “she’s so baby when she’s mad”.

She's midway through a stream of some hyper-buggy online multiplayer game her chat begged her to play. She’s not good at it. She’s not pretending to be good at it.

Which is, naturally, why thousands are watching.

“Okay, there is no way that hit me. Roll back the tape. That’s cheating. That’s hacking, actually. I’m reporting him.”

The chat explodes:

lmaoo classic ellie L NOOB.exe pls check out @/reader’s new vid tho omg 😭 she’d beat this game faster than u lmao grwm girl supremacy!!!

Ellie groans, tossing her controller onto her lap and reaching for the watered-down iced coffee she’s been sipping since the stream started. The condensation leaves a faint ring on her desk.

“Okay, okay—pause. I need hydration and emotional support.”

Sip. Grimace. Another sip.

“Wait, who are you all yelling about?”

The chat floods with one name: your username, a wave of heart emojis, thirst comments, and “SHIP??” spam.

“Reader?” Ellie squints at the screen. “The GRWM chick? Seriously?”

A few more keystrokes, a few clicks.

“Okay, I mean… sure. Gotta give the fans what they want.”

The game feed shrinks into the corner. A new window opens on her overlay—your latest video.

GRWM: Night Out Routine (Even If You Cancel Last Minute) 💄🍷

The video fades in. You’re cross-legged on your bed, silky robe slung off one shoulder, hair twisted up with a claw clip, all soft lighting and softer skin. You’re smiling at the camera, walking through a lineup of glassy skincare bottles like it’s second nature.

Ellie leans forward slightly. Just a bit.

“She’s giving Vogue cover, but also… does she even sweat?”

Chat starts twitching:

UR EYES R TOO WIDE STAND UP she plugs her sephora code every 3 minutes she’s got you in a chokehold already babe 😭

“Like, does her skincare budget exceed my rent?”

She pauses—lets the silence sit there a second.

“I’m not judging—I’m just confused. Does she live at Sephora?”

The chat absolutely loses it.

no bc the tension already you’re just in love just say it someone ship name this rn you guys are delusional. ellie hates people like her

Ellie lifts her hands in mock surrender.

“Chat, I’m not a hater—I’m just a broke, bitter lesbian. Calm down.”

She smirks. Just a little. The kind that makes her left cheek dimple slightly, which only makes her chat explode even more.

nah she’s BLUSHING for real

She minimizes the window. Boots her game back up.

“Anyway. I’m going back to getting absolutely smoked in this trash server. Thanks for the detour, creeps.”

But it’s already too late.

The screen recordings are circulating. TikToks are multiplying like bacteria in petri dishes. The fan edits are being born—dramatic music, soft fades, your skincare and her flustered commentary spliced together.

Meanwhile, on your end. Your phone buzzes with a flurry of DMs. Some from fans. Some from mutuals. All of them saying the same thing:

“girl... ellie.exe just reviewed your grwm and i’m SOBBING” “you gonna let her talk to you like that or...?” “you got her blushing on camera 😭”

You scroll. You find the clip. You raise a brow.

Fuck this girl. Fuck her.

You stare at your screen for a bit before hitting post on the tweet.

you @/yourhandle ✨ skincare hits different when your lighting source isn’t a 3am Twitch stream 😘

Your mentions explode. The war has begun.

You swipe through your mentions, catching glimpses of your own face edited onto Mortal Kombat fighters, people tagging Ellie and begging her to respond. You tell yourself you’re over it. That you’ve said what you needed to say. That she doesn’t matter.

And then someone DMs you again.

“uhhhh did you see her tweet 💀”

You open Twitter.

ellie @/ellie.exe some ppl act brand new just because the sun hits them once and they didn’t burst into flames. proud of you 😇

You blink. Read it again. Your jaw actually drops.

That smug, passive-aggressive, “not-a-reply-but-yes-it-is” tone practically has her signature all over it. She didn’t tag you. She didn’t have to. It’s as good as a shot fired.

Like she didn’t start this by coming for your routine with her crusty gamer hands and talking about you like you were a mall display instead of a person?

Oh, hell no.

You set your phone down. Pick it back up. Type. Delete. Type again. Your jaw clenches as you pace your room, bare feet dragging across a fluffy rug as the late afternoon sun pours across your floor—the same one she saw in your video. The one she smirked at like it offended her personally.

You finally hit post.

you @/yourhandle ✨ no hate to the gamers but if your selfcare knowledge is based on your reflection in a loading screen… maybe hush 😘

You don’t even wait to see the fallout this time. You toss your phone onto your bed like it burned you and go to pour yourself something strong and unnecessary.

By the time you come back, Twitter’s already turned your quote tweet into a meme. Your face on a skincare ad. Ellie’s on a GameStop receipt. Someone edited a fake YouTube thumbnail:

“GRWM to fight a gamer lesbian (gone wrong) (emotional)”

You try to laugh, but it comes out tight.

Your blood is hot. Not quite angry, not quite amused. It’s something in between. Something irritating and unfamiliar. Something that smells like obsession.

comments: “they’re gonna make out or kill each other, no in between.” “this is the weirdest foreplay i’ve ever witnessed and i’m here for it” “ellie.exe called her sensitive and now she’s dismantling her entire existence 💅”

You actually exhale a disbelieving, “Oh my God,” into your empty room.

She’s insufferable. Infuriating. Smug. And you hate—hate—the way her face lingered in your head after watching her watch you.

You were supposed to win this. You were supposed to make her shut up. So You make her... By Clicking the block button.

KEEP UP! KEEP UP!

prologue... (you are here!) - "blocked. not sorry" part 1. - "fuck the algorithm" part 2. - "room for conflict" part 3. - "for the record" part 4. - "under your skin" part 5. - "pull focus" part 6. - "bad timing" part 7. - "talk about it" part 8. - "white noise" part 9. - ??? + more!!! (next parts will be posted daily! see you tomorrow!, please comment to be added to the taglist!)

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iydiamartinx · 3 months ago

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THIS MEANS WAR IV

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.5k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: Y'all do you know how hard it was to flirt using science and the topic of joker toxin?! I think I rewrote this chapter over ten times. I hope the subtext makes sense because I think my brain melted during this process. Also I'm still fairly new to posting on tumblr so I hope I'm doing the taglist correctly :) warnings: sexual innuendos, Jason being a low key stalker

BAT CAVE

Jason stepped deeper into the cave, the heavy echo of his boots bouncing off the stone walls. The cavern smelled faintly of earth, cleaning supplies, and the ever-present sting of coffee left too long to cool—unsurprising, given the miniature landfill of empty cups piled near Tim’s workstation.

“Jesus, Tim,” he muttered, eyeing the carnage. “Have you gotten any sleep?”

Tim didn’t look up. His voice was flat, gravel-edged with exhaustion. “I’ll sleep when I find our ghost.”

Jason arched a brow. “I’m pretty sure you said that yesterday.”

“And the day before that,” Tim murmured, squinting at lines of code bleeding across the massive screen. “I’m aware.”

Jason crossed his arms, stepping closer, gaze flicking over the data. “Any updates?”

Tim let out a hard sigh, slumping back in his chair. He dragged both hands down his face as if trying to wipe away the frustration before answering. “Just dead ends. No facial matches. No fingerprints. No aliases that last longer than a day. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Really good.”

“Something doesn’t add up,” Jason said quietly. “No usual runner is this off the grid.”

“Exactly. And get this—Gordon pulled a small vial off Mancini and handed it off to B.” Tim’s brows furrowed. “Mancini was right. It’s a hybrid. Joker’s original strain—but there’s chemical coding in it that matches Scarecrow’s second-gen fear compound. It’s clean work. Scarily precise. Way beyond Joker’s usual brand of chaos. Even Crane’s compounds weren’t this sophisticated.”

Jason frowned, unease tightening in his gut. “So, what are you saying? That the bastard we’re chasing didn’t just steal the formula…”

Tim looked up, expression grim. “He probably helped make it.”

The words landed with a sickening weight.

Jason exhaled, low and sharp. “Shit.”

Tim turned back to the monitor, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “And Joker’s tearing through the underworld trying to find him. That’s why it’s gone quiet—people are either hiding… or dying. Fast.”

Jason exhaled slowly. “Then we need to move. Fast. If Joker gets his hands on the formula—”

“We’ll have a city-wide crisis on our hands,” Tim finished for him.

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Then we need an antidote. Even if it’s just a prototype.”

Tim shook his head. “We don’t have enough of the compound. No base, no ratios, no synthesis pattern. Without the exact formula, we’d be guessing in the dark.”

Jason slammed a fist lightly against the desk. “Then how the hell did a rat like Mancini get his hands on it?”

Tim shrugged. “Best guess? He stole it from Sionis. Would explain why he was looking over his shoulder every five seconds.”

“Idiot,” Jason muttered. His anger began to cool as he glanced over, noticing the dark circles etched beneath Tim’s eyes. The kid looked wired and worn thin. His voice softened. “You need sleep.”

“I can’t,” Tim’s fingers resumed their frantic pace across the keyboard. “What if I miss something? What if that formula shows up and we’re not ready?”

Jason stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Tim. You’ll miss something anyway if your brain crashes mid-keystroke. You’ve been staring at code for three days straight. You’re running on caffeine and spite.”

Tim didn’t stop typing. “It’s worked so far.”

Jason reached out pulled Tim away from the bat computer and forcing Tim to turn around and meet his eyes. “You’re not gonna outsmart this thing if you’re fried. You’ll be sharper after a break. Babs is still digging on her end. We’ve got the patrols. Get four hours. Hell, even two.”

Tim slumped in defeat, rubbing at his eyes as the tension finally bled from his shoulders. “Fine. A nap. But if I wake up and Gotham’s on fire—”

“Then it’s a normal day in this shit hole city,” Jason deadpanned.

A faint smile tugged at Tim’s lips, and he stood with a stretch that earned several cracks from his spine.

“I’ll keep digging until you’re up.” Jason promised, clapping a hand to Tim’s shoulder. “Go.”

Tim didn’t argue. He staggered toward the elevator, muttering about caffeine withdrawal and setting six alarms.

Jason waited until the lift closed behind him before turning back to the monitor. He should’ve jumped straight into the search—he’d been the loudest about stopping Joker’s next move— instead, his mind drifted. Not to Gotham. Not to toxins or their ghost. But to you.

It had been days since the bookstore, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about you.

“God, I can’t believe I’m actually becoming a stalker,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Seeing you at the bookstore had been pure coincidence. But now? he could feel his curiosity getting the better of him, he wanted to see you again and with that the thought there, it was too tempting to ignore the resources at his disposal.

A quick cross-reference of the store’s invoice system, and he’d found the record of your purchase. From there, it wasn’t hard to trace it to a name. A professional profile. A series of academic papers and lecture videos.

Doctor Y/N L/N. Neuroscientist. Lecturer and researcher at Gotham U.

He skimmed your credentials, the corner of his mouth twitching. You were sharp. Accomplished. Brilliant, even. Probably the kind of person who would’ve been Tim’s rival if he ever left the cave long enough to interact with actual humans.

“Damn,” Jason whistled low, scrolling through your faculty page. “You’re not just a pretty face.”

“Who is this?”

Jason nearly leapt out of the chair. “Jesus, Damian!”

Damian raised a brow, unimpressed, before glancing at the glowing monitor, gaze narrowing at the screen. “Who is she?”

Jason shifted awkwardly. “She’s, uh… potential lead. On the toxin thing.” Total lie. No way in hell he was confessing to stalking his own crush to demon spawn.

Damian frowned, clearly unconvinced. He glanced back at the screen. “She doesn’t look like an evil mastermind.”

Jason snorted. “Trust me. She’s smart enough to become one if she wanted.”

He clicked out of the window, not willing to risk further questions, and turned to face the youngest Wayne fully. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I finished this week’s syllabus yesterday,” Damian said with a dismissive wave. “To make me attend that pit of idiocy is a waste of my time.”

Jason raised a brow. “Pretty sure Bruce expects you to show up regardless.”

“Father expects results, not attendance,” Damian replied coolly.

Jason leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. “If I call him right now and tell him his little prodigy’s playing hooky and creeping around the Batcave instead of sitting through trig, how fast do you think he’d be down here?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would love to,” Jason said, smirking as he slowly pulled his comm from his belt. “And I’ll tell Alfred to lock up your katanas until your attendance record’s squeaky clean.”

Damian looked murderous. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re going to be late.”

With a muttered curse in Arabic, Damian spun on his heel and stormed toward the elevator like a tiny, furious emperor exiled from his marble court.

“This is why no one respects you,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Jason just smirked. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Jason chuckled as the elevator doors closed. The cave was quiet again but this time, he left the file closed. He wasn’t risking another one of his siblings catching him mid-obsession.

But even as the lines of data loaded, he couldn’t stop the image of your smirk from flashing in his mind.

Damn it.

He was so screwed.

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY

The weekend had vanished in a blink—gone before you had the chance to properly catch some rest. And now it was Tuesday morning, and you were once again standing in front of your lecture hall with a marker in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—woefully undersized for the hour.

You weren’t even sure how you’d survived Monday. And Tuesday? Tuesday was dragging its feet like a teenager being forced out of bed.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Maybe the mounting stack of papers needed to be graded. Or maybe—just maybe—it had something to do with the fact that Dick hadn’t texted since the weekend.

Aside from one polite message—Had a great time, can’t wait to see you again—there had been radio silence.

Maybe he was busy.

Maybe he was being polite.

Maybe he decided that he wasn’t actually interested.

You bit back a sigh and turned back to the board, scrawling across the surface with just a touch more pressure than necessary. Whatever. Who needed a man when you had a lecture hall full of sleep deprived students a terminal caffeine addiction, and a job that kept your brain so busy it barely had time to spiral?

Still… you checked your phone. Just once. Just in case.

Nothing.

Figures.

You exhaled through your nose, smoothed down your blouse, and turned back toward your students with the kind of smile worn only by women who had absolutely chosen the strong, independent path at seven in the godforsaken morning.

Because, despite everything—despite the early hours, the endless grading, and the fact that your bloodstream was 80% espresso—you loved this.

You loved teaching.

You loved the subject. The research and chaos. The spark that came when something clicked in a student’s eyes.

Teaching neuroscience was more than a paycheck; it was a passion. You just wished passion came with later start times. And a universally accepted pyjama policy.

You took a long sip of coffee, rolled your shoulders back, and turned toward your students, who were only just starting to blink the sleep from their eyes.

“Alright,” you said, clicking the projector to life. “Let’s talk about chemical warfare. And clowns.”

That earned a few raised brows of interest and handful of tired chuckles.

“True to my word,” you went on, as the screen behind you flickered to life, “we’re diving into Joker venom today. Specifically, the various known strains, their molecular architecture, and the neurological impacts they cause upon exposure.”

The first image flickered onscreen: a chart showing the original base compound. Beside it was a grainy field photo of a bright green liquid. The photo looked like it had been pulled from the bottom of a GCPD evidence locker.

“This,” you said, pointing with your marker, “was the earliest recorded version—crude, volatile, and grotesquely effective. Victims experienced intense euphoria, followed by uncontrollable laughter, vivid hallucinations, progressive paralysis, and ultimately… cardiac arrest.”

You paused, letting the weight of that settle in.

“But here’s where it gets interesting,” you said, clicking to the next slide. “The formula has evolved. It’s gotten cleaner. More efficient. Some of the newer strains show a disturbing level of sophistication. Less residue. More targeted dopamine flooding. In a few cases—nearly undetectable until it’s too late.”

A hand went up from the front row.

“Is there any known antidote?” the student asked.

You hesitated—just for a beat. “There are a few neutralizing agents that can be effective if administered immediately,” you said. “But a true, universal antidote? Not yet. Especially not for the more recent iterations. Most of our current strategies are reactive, not preventative.”

You paused.

“In short?” Your lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t get exposed.”

A ripple of nervous laughter followed.

And then—

A new voice spoke up.

“Is it the toxin that kills them… or the effects it triggers first?”

You froze for half a second—not enough for anyone else to notice.

Your eyes scanned the lecture hall—and there he was. In the back row, half-slouched like the seat belonged to him. Leather jacket. Boots kicked up against the chair in front. Arms folded, expression far too smug for someone who had no damn business being here.

The last thing you’d expected was to see him here.

“Interesting point,” you replied, crisp and professional, like he was another one of your students. You refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. “The toxin is the cause, yes—but it’s the chain reaction that actually kills. The laughter, the convulsions, the paralysis… the body shuts down before most people even realize what’s happening.”

Jason tilted his head slightly. “So the damage isn’t in the delivery. It’s in what it sets off.”

You clicked to the next slide. “Exactly. The moment it hits, your body stops being yours. It rewires everything—how you feel, how you think. You can’t reason your way out of it.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew that and just wanted to hear you say it. “Some people get hit harder than others, though, right?”

You arched a brow. “Depends on the target.”

“Some look fine. At first,” he said. “They act normal. But the toxin’s already working underneath.”

The look he gave you made the implication clear.

You smiled tightly. “Some strains are less effective than they look. Easy to handle if caught early.”

“Wait—” a girl near the middle row piped up, frowning. “I thought there was no cure for Joker venom?”

You cleared your throat, ignoring the flush creeping along your neck. “For the newer variants, yes. They’re more chemically advanced and difficult to reverse. But with some of the older versions—If the symptoms are identified early enough—intervention is possible.”

Jason leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hand, grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “But what if someone lets it run its course anyway?”

You didn’t look at him.

You just smiled for the class. “Then some people are clearly very stupid.”

A few students laughed in confusion, but no one actually picked up on the double meaning of the conversation. You turned back toward the board.

“Now then,” you said briskly, “back to the chemistry before anyone else gets the idea this is interactive.”

You didn’t even make it halfway through the next slide before his voice cut in again—calm, amused, and very much on purpose.

“So how much exposure does it take before the effects become permanent?”

You inhaled through your nose and closed your eyes for half a beat.

Some of the students nodded—taking the bait. A girl in the second row had already scribbled the question into her notes.

But you knew exactly what he was doing.

You turned, voice level, gaze sharper. “Depends on the dosage. And the subject. Repeated exposure can cause cumulative neurological damage, but again—some people are more susceptible than others.”

Jason stood. Hands in his jacket pockets, he walked down the aisle like he had all the time in the world. Like none of this was strange or inappropriate.

“Say someone’s exposed to a small dose,” he went on, “but it happens a few times. Do they build immunity? Or will the damage be done?”

He stopped just short of the first row—just shy of your space. Close enough that your skin prickled with heat. You were painfully aware of the eyes of your students on you now.

Your jaw clenched.

“Well,” you said, eyes narrowed, “whoever’s insane enough to try that should probably check themselves into Arkham.”

He stepped closer, just slightly. Just enough that only you could hear him when he murmured, low and maddening:

“Why do that… when there’s a cure standing right here?”

“Funny,” you said, lips curling into something that might’ve passed for a smile if not for the fire in your eyes. “Because the only thing I see right now is a recurring symptom.”

Behind him, someone cleared their throat—a student, probably wondering whether they were still attending a lecture or some avant-garde performance piece.

You exhaled sharply and stepped toward him, your expression still pleasant for the room, but your voice dropped to a hiss meant for his ears alone.

“What the hell are you doing? This is a lecture. You’re not cute.”

He smirked, unbothered. “Didn’t say I was. Just here to learn about toxins… and their reactions.”

You gritted your teeth. “You’re disrupting my job.”

“I’ll stop if you go out with me.”

“Not a damn chance.” You scoff.

Then, as if this was his stage now, he turned slightly toward the class, raising his voice with faux curiosity. “Actually, that reminds me. Has anyone considered how different outcomes might vary depending on emotional state during exposure? Say, for example, if someone was already—”

“I swear to God—”

“Look,” he said, still in that maddeningly calm tone as he turned back to her, “one hour. That’s all I’m asking. If it sucks, you can forget I exist.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I still say no?”

Jason shrugged, entirely too relaxed. “I’ll keep showing up. Keep asking questions. Might even bring snacks next time. We’ll see how interactive this gets.”

You stared at him. He stared right back.

God, he was smug.

God, he was gorgeous.

God, you hated this.

“…Fine,” you muttered. “One hour,” you said through gritted teeth. “And if you speak once during the rest of this lecture, I will report you for harassment and ban you from this campus.”

His grin was shameless. “Understood, Professor.”

He backed up, hands raised, retreating like the smug menace he was—but this time with a victory in his step.

He turned and walked back up the aisle, dropping back into his seat like this was the plan all along.

You turned back to the board, face burning, students utterly unaware that their professor had just been emotionallystrong-armed into a date by a six-foot leather-wrapped problem with a smirk.

Jason, to his credit, didn’t speak again. Not once.

But he didn’t need to.

Because for the next forty-five minutes, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Surprisingly, Jason actually found himself listening as you spoke. He learned what actually happened inside someone exposed to Joker venom—what went wrong in their brain. He’d never thought to ask before. That was always Bruce’s domain, or Tim’s. The analysis. The endless case files with chemical structures and psych profiles and margin notes scribbled in too-small handwriting. Jason had always preferred the fighting portion of vigilantism.

But hearing it from you…

Maybe it was the way your voice shifted—calm but impassioned—or how you didn’t shy away from the brutality of it. You didn’t sensationalize it, either. You explained it like a surgeon would describe an autopsy—clinical, controlled, but with a quiet thread of empathy running through every word.

Jason had seen what Joker venom did to people.

He’d dealt the aftermath.

He’d watched the light go out in someone’s eyes while they laughed themselves into oblivion.

But he’d never truly understood it. Not like this.

The way you spoke about neurotransmitter chaos—how dopamine floods rewired fear into joy, how serotonin short-circuited pain into pleasure, how laughter wasn’t just a reaction, but a seizure disguised as euphoria. The complete collapse of inhibition, followed by motor control, then respiratory function—it was horrifying. And fascinating.

You made him want to know more.

And then, in a moment that startled him, he wondered what you’d make of him.

Of the Lazarus Pit. Of what it did to the brain when it brought someone back from the dead. Of the rage. The episodes. The memory gaps. Of the madness that still affected him.

Would you call it neurological trauma? A chemical imbalance? Would you look at him like a subject—or something broken to fix?

He leaned back in his chair, arms loose, fingers tapping idly against his knee. You were pacing now, marker in hand, drawing a new diagram with quick, practiced ease. Sharp lines, fluid motion. You were alive up there—animated and fierce in your element. And he couldn’t help but watch. Not just your words. But you.

The way your voice sharpened when a student asked a half-formed question. The gleam in your eye when someone got it. The small, unconscious smile when the pieces clicked.

You cared. Genuinely.

About the material. About the kids in this room. About what this information could mean outside of it.

“Alright,” you said finally, capping the marker with a soft snap and stepping back. “That’s it for today. You’re free to go—unless you’re dying to ask more questions about the joys of chemically induced insanity.”

Laughter stirred through the room. Chairs scraped back. A few students filtered out with lingering glances and whispered praise. Others loitered to gather notes or quietly debate the finer points of dopamine regulation.

Jason didn’t move.He waited—calm, steady—watching you sort your materials, stack your folders, and close your laptop shut.

When you finally turned toward him, arms crossing over your chest and one brow raised in challenge, he rose from his seat like a man who had all the time in the world and nothing to prove.

“Ready, Professor?” he asked, voice low, smug as ever.

You rolled your eyes, gathering your bag. “You’re lucky I’m a woman of my word.”

Jason smirked. “Some might say that’s an admirable quality.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “Some might say it’s a flaw.”

THE GOLDEN CUP

Jason—as you’d recently learned his name was—took you to The Golden Cup, one of Gotham’s most aggressively popular coffee chains.

On the walk over, you’d checked your phone—more out of habit than hope—and found, unsurprisingly, that there was still no message from Dick.

And that was when you decided.

You weren’t going to wait up for him. You’d had one date. No promises. No exclusivity. Just a good night that clearly hadn’t meant the same thing to both of you.

So fine.

You were going to give Jason a chance.

No matter how infuriating, arrogant, or absolutely insufferable he was—he was persistent. And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something.

Even if he made you want to strangle him half the time.

Especially then.

You forced a polite smile as he held the door open for you. The place had a sleek, modern interior, all brushed steel and pale wood, the kind of aesthetic that screamed corporate chic. Chalkboards lined the walls, scrawled with endless customizable drink options in cheery handwriting, as if sugar and soy milk could compensate for the fact that the coffee tasted like watered-down burnt beans.

You bit back a grimace. The air buzzed with the frantic energy of sleep-deprived students and frazzled office workers.

“The Golden Cup?” you asked, more out of disbelief than curiosity.

Jason shrugged, as if the choice had been perfectly logical. “Figured this was your kind of place.”

You mirrored the gesture, masking your annoyance. After how hard he’d worked to get this hour with you, the last thing you wanted was to admit you actually despised it here. “The girls on my gymnastics team used to love this place,” you offered instead.

That made him pause. “Wait—you did gymnastics?”

You nodded. “Bars. Tumbling. The works.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes skimming over you like he was trying to reconcile that image with the one in front of him.

Your eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “You just don’t seem like the type.”

You stiffened. “And what type is that?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he chuckled, the sound light but strained.

But the damage was done. The words echoed louder than they should have—because you wanted this to go well. You’d told yourself you were being open, trying not to let old scars taint something new. Like Milo kept encouraging. But there it was again—another man slotting you into a tidy box.

Jake used to do the same thing.

“So how did you mean it?” you asked, voice calm but tight.

Jason looked like he wished he’d said nothing at all. “I just meant… never mind, okay?”

The line moved forward. He stepped up to the counter, clearly flustered, and ordered without turning to you. Two hot coffees. Black.

You stared at the back of his head in disbelief. He didn’t even ask.

When he reached for his wallet, you turned on your heel and walked out.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into the Gotham air, crisp and biting against your cheeks. You exhaled hard, realizing only then how tense your jaw had become.

You didn’t make it far before the door slammed open again. Footsteps pounded after you.

“Hey! Wait up!” Jason called.

You kept walking until his hand lightly caught your arm.

“Where are you going?”

You turned, met his eyes. “I just don’t think this is going to work.”

Confusion flashed across his face. “What? It’s barely been ten minutes.”

“And that’s all I needed.”

He stared at you, disbelief written in every line of his face. “Come on, that’s not fair.”

“Ever since we met,” you said, keeping your tone level, “you’ve done nothing but make assumptions. You act as if you know me based on a glance and a guess.”

“That’s not true,” he snapped. “I—what assumptions?”

“The book recommendation, the coffee shop itself. You didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink,” you pointed out. “You just ordered hot coffee.”

“Everyone loves hot coffee!”

“I don’t.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“And then there was the gymnastics thing.”

He winced. “Okay, maybe that came out wrong—”

“It’s not just that. It’s how you said it. Like I didn’t look the part. What—because I’m a doctor?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, like the idea shocked him. “That’s not what I meant at all!”

“You don’t know me, and you clearly don’t care to.” you said, stepping back. “You saw me in the bookstore and figured I looked easy. The kind of girl you could charm in five minutes with a smirk and some half-assed lines.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could try to spin it.

“I said no,” you reminded him. “So now I’m a challenge. That’s all this is to you—a game you don’t want to lose.”

His expression shifted. Defensive.

“But let’s get one thing straight,” you continued, voice like ice. “Whatever bad boy charm you think you’ve got going for you? It doesn’t work on me. I’ve seen it before. You’re not new.”

Jason scoffed, tension bleeding into sarcasm. “Guess I should’ve worn a suit and talked about Nietzsche.”

You shook your head, a hollow laugh escaping. “God, this is exactly why I’m walking away.”

“Oh, right,” he said, stepping forward. “Because you’re uptight and judgmental? Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine either.”

You stiffened, heat rising in your chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His voice was sharp now, stripped of its earlier charm. “You walked in here with your mind already made up. You want to lecture me on assumptions? Take a good look in the mirror. You’re no better, Princess.”

The words hit like a slap— For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, breathing hard, your pride wounded, your heart thudding against your ribs with something that felt too much like anger… and something else you didn’t want to name.

You were done. Whatever thread of tolerance you’d held onto had snapped clean through. “You know what? I’m not doing this. Let’s just call it a night.”

“Oh, can we?” he muttered, hands flung out to the side. “Please.”

“Good night,” you snapped, already turning.

“Sayonara.”

“Have fun with yourself.”

“Ciao, sweetheart. Tell the HOA at Pretentious Pointe I said hi.”

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mostlysignssomeportents · 10 months ago

Text

Return to office and dying on the job

Denise Prudhomme's bosses at Wells Fargo insisted that the in-person camaraderie of their offices warranted a mandatory return-to-office policy, but when she died at her desk in her Tempe, AZ office, no one noticed for four days.

That was in August. Now, Wells Fargo United has published a statement on her death, one that vibrates with anger at the callously selective surveillance that Wells Fargo inflicts on its workforce:

https://www.reddit.com/r/WellsFargoUnited/comments/1fnp9fa/please_print_and_take_to_your_managersite_leader/

The union points out that Wells Fargo workers are subjected to continuous, fine-grained on-the-job surveillance from a variety of bossware tools that count their keystrokes and create tables of the distancess their mice cross each day:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/24/gwb-rumsfeld-monsters/#bossware

Wells Fargo's message to its workforce is, "You can't be trusted," a policy that Wells Fargo doubled down on with its Return to Office mandate. Return to Office is often pitched as a chance to improve teamwork, communication, and human connection with your co-workers, and there's no arguing with the idea that spending some time in person with people can help improve working relationships (I attended a week-long, all-hands, staff retreat for EFF earlier this month and it was fantastic, primarily due to its in-person nature).

But our bosses don't want us back in the office because they enjoy our company, nor because they're so excited about having hired such a swell bunch of folks and can't wait to see how we all get along together. As John Quiggin writes, the biggest reason to force us back to the office is to get a bunch of us to quit:

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2024/sep/26/in-their-plaintive-call-for-a-return-to-the-office-ceos-reveal-how-little-they-are-needed

As one of Musk's toadies put it in a private message before the Twitter takeover, "Sharpen your blades boys. 2 day a week Office requirement = 20% voluntary departures":

https://techcrunch.com/2022/09/29/elon-musk-texts-discovery-twitter/

The other reason to spy on us is because they don't trust us. Remember all the panic about "quiet quitting" and "no one wants to work"? Bosses' hypothesis was that eking out a bare minimum living on from a couple of small-dollar covid stimulus checks was preferable to working for them for a full paycheck.

Every accusation is a a confession. When your boss tells you that he thinks that you can't be trusted to do a good job without total, constant surveillance, he's really saying, "I only bother to do my CEO job when I'm afraid of getting fired':

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

As Wells Fargo United notes, Wells Fargo employees like Denise Prudhomme are spied on from the moment they set foot in the building until the moment they clock out (and sometimes the spying continues when you're off the clock):

Wells Fargo monitors our every move and keystroke using remote, electronic technologies—purportedly to evaluate our productivity—and will fire us if we are caught not making enough keystrokes on our computers.

The Arizona Republic coverage notes further that Prudhomme had to log her comings and goings from the Wells Fargo offices with a badge, so Wells Fargo could see that Prudhomme had entered the premises four days before, but hadn't left:

https://www.azcentral.com/story/news/local/tempe-breaking/2024/09/23/wells-fargo-employees-union-responds-death-tempe-woman/75352015007/

Wells Fargo has mandated in-person working, even when that means crossing a state line to be closer to the office. They've created "hub cities" where workers are supposed to turn up. This may sound convivial, but Prudhomme was the only member of her team working out of the Tempe hub, so she was being asked to leave her home, travel long distances, and spend her days in a distant corner of the building where no one ventured for periods of (at least) four days at a time.

Bosses are so convinced that they themselves would goof off if they could that they fixate on forcing employees to spend their days in the office, no matter what the cost. Back in March 2020, Charter CEO Tom Rutledge – then the highest-paid CEO in America – instituted a policy that every back office staffer had to work in person at his call centers. This was the most deadly phase of the pandemic, there was no PPE to speak of, we didn't understand transmission very well, and vaccines didn't exist yet. Charter is a telecommunications company and it was booming as workers across America upgraded their broadband so they could work from home, and the CEO's response was to ban remote work. His customer service centers were superspreading charnel houses:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/18/diy-tp/#sociopathy

That Wells Fargo would leave a dead employee at her desk for four days is par for the course for the third-largest commercial bank in America. This is Wells Fargo, remember, the company that forced its low-level bank staff to open two million fake accounts in order to steal from their customers and defraud their shareholders, then fired and blackballed staff who complained:

https://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2016/09/26/495454165/ex-wells-fargo-employees-sue-allege-they-were-punished-for-not-breaking-law

The executive who ran that swindle got a $125 million bonus:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2016/09/wells-fargo-ceos-teflon-don-act-backfires-at-senate-hearing-i-take-full-responsibility-means-anything-but.html

And the CEO got $200 million:

https://money.cnn.com/2016/09/21/investing/wells-fargo-fired-workers-retaliation-fake-accounts/index.html

It's not like Wells Fargo treats its workers badly but does well by everyone else. Remember, those fake accounts existed as part of a fraud on the company's investors. The company went on to steal $76m from its customers on currency conversions. They also foreclosed on customers who were up to date on their mortgages, seizing and selling off all their possessions. They argued that when bosses pressured tellers into forging customers on fraudulent account-opening paperwork, that those customers had lost their right to sue, since the fraudulent paperwork had a binding arbitration clause. When they finally agreed to pay restitution to their victims, they made the payments opt-in, ensuring that most of the millions of people they stole from would never get their money back.

They stole millions with fraudulent "home warranties." They stole millions from small businesses with fake credit-card fees. They defrauded 800,000 customers through an insurance scam, and stole 25,000 customers' cars with illegal repos. They led the pre-2008 pack on mis-selling deceptive mortgages that blew up and triggered the foreclosure epidemic. They loaned vast sums to Trump, who slashed their taxes, and then they fired 26.000 workers and did a $40.6B stock buyback. They stole 525 homes from mortgage borrowers and blamed it on a "computer glitch":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/29/jubilance/#too-big-to-jail

Given all this, two things are obvious: first, if anyone is going to be monitored for crimes, fraud and scams, it should be Wells Fargo, not its workers. Second, Wells Fargo's surveillance system exists solely to terrorize workers, not to help them. As Wells Fargo United writes:

We demand improved safety precautions that are not punitive or cause further stress for employees. The solution is not more monitoring, but ensuring that we are all connected to a supportive work environment instead of warehoused away in a back office.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/27/sharpen-your-blades-boys/#disciplinary-technology

#pluralistic #disciplinary technology #jason calicanis #return to work #remote work #wells fargo #Denise Prudhomme #tempe #arizona #bossware #surveillance

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tinyshyteacup · 3 months ago

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Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow

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TW: cussing, angry early seasons Daryl, angst, explosions, mass extinction, nationwide destruction, descriptions of walkers (Zombies)

Part 2

Dead Weight - Part 3

The next morning, the CDC is eerily still.

The laughter and warmth of the night before has been replaced by low groans and sluggish movement.

Fluorescent lights flicker on in the CDC’s mess hall, cold and clinical. Most of the group shuffles in like ghosts, nursing hangovers and sore limbs. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and stale wine.

Shane groans into a metal tray of eggs.

Carol rubs her temples. Dale has his hat pulled low and a cup of coffee cradled like it’s the last warm thing on Earth.

Which to be fair it might as well be.

You enter quietly, freshly washed, but hollow-eyed. There's no makeup to hide the worry. You fidget with the hem of your borrowed shirt—CDC-issued gray.

You glance around for a seat, then slip into a chair near Carl and Sophia, away from the louder voices.

You're not hungover. You didn’t drink. But the air is heavy.

Daryl is already in the room—back against the far wall, hunched in a chair with one boot propped on a table. His eyes are half-lidded, but they’re watching everyone.

He doesn't say a word. Doesn't offer a greeting. Just sits like a coiled spring, his hair damp and stringy from another shower, his arms crossed over his chest.

The quiet stretches too long. Rick clears his throat.

Jenner’s absence is noted.

Everyone’s edgy now. It’s in the way Shane paces, how Lori can’t sit still, and how Dale's fingers twitch nervously against his knees.

T-Dog murmurs something to Glen, who shoots a glance down the hallway toward the labs.

“Where is he?” Rick finally asks.

“Yea where the hell is he?” Shane echoes, more forcefully.

“He’s probably in that big room. I saw wires through one of the glass panels... lots of screens.” Your voice is hesitant—but enough to draw attention.

Rick gives you a nod, acknowledging your input.

Daryl doesn’t look at you, but you feel the shift in his posture.

The lean forward.

The way his eyes flick toward the hallway a half second after you speak.

Like he didn’t believe you until Rick did.

The group moves. Not quite a stampede, but everyone’s following Rick now—down the corridor, past the labs, through the reinforced doors that hiss open like something out of a sci-fi movie.

You trail behind, walking quietly next to Glen, who offers you a tiny, encouraging smile.

The lights are dim here. Low, eerie blue. The curved wall of screens glows like a false moon, displaying footage of a test subject, digital readouts, timelines, virus activity.

Jenner stands before you all, arms crossed behind his back like he’s posing for a eulogy.

Rick starts asking questions. Calmly at first. Then with rising urgency.

What is it?

What happens next?

Can it be reversed?

Shane cuts in with his usual heat. “Why haven’t you told us anything?”

Jenner speaks in riddles. Scientific terms, moral dilemmas. Deflections disguised as explanations.

You step closer to the monitors, fascinated and frightened. One screen plays a time-lapse of brain death. Another shows thermal scans—red blooming into blue as life fades.

Your hands curl into loose fists at your sides.

"Dr. Jenner," you said suddenly, your accent thickening with each word. "What information do you have about international containment efforts? My country... any word?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Glen and Carol, who had been talking in hushed tones near Dale, looked up at the sudden question.

Jenner's eyes shifted away from yours, and you felt your heart plummet.

"Please," you whispered. "I've been trying to find out ... well ... anything." Your voice trailed off

Jenner sighed, turning to his computer terminal. With a few keystrokes, another window appeared on the large display screen.

"The CDC maintained communication with international health organizations as long as possible," he said quietly. "Your country was... proactive in their response."

"What does that mean?" You stepped closer, abandoning your coffee mug on a nearby console.

From across the room, Daryl watched you intently.

"Your homeland was actually the first nation to report widespread infection," Jenner said clinically. "Your government implemented what they called 'aggressive deterrent protocols' within the first week."

Your brow furrowed, not catching the implication behind Jenner's words. "And?"

"They deployed airstrikes on major population centers. The theory was to contain the spread through... controlled elimination."

"Did it work?" Your voice was barely audible now.

Jenner finally met your eyes. "No... Communications went dark sixteen days after the first case was reported. Our satellite imagery showed widespread fires across your entire nation for three weeks following. Then... nothing, No outgoing transmissions. No survivors logged. No evac routes. Just ... Nothing"

The silence that follows is a thick, choking thing. Dale shifts in his seat.

Carol had put her hands over Sophia’s ears.

Jenner’s face hardens—just slightly. His eyes drop, as if remembering something he wishes he hadn’t seen.

"I'm sorry" he murmurs more to the floor then any one person.

The room spun around you. You stumbled, catching yourself against the edge of a desk.

"That's... that's millions of people," you calculated aloud, your mind betraying you with its precision. "My parents, my ... family..."

You looked up to find Daryl staring at you, his piercing blue eyes unreadable beneath the fringe of his dirty blonde hair.

"Everyone’s gone" you whispered, your eyes locked with his.

No survivors.

No evac routes.

No home.

Your knees gave way.

You didn't feel the impact when you hit the ground, didn't hear the commotion around you as Dale and Glen rushed to help.

The screen clicks on again with a mechanical whir.

Red numbers counting down. A gentle, clinical voice—Vi, the CDC’s interface—fills the silence.

“Time until decontamination: 30 minutes.”

The group stares.

Then Shane steps forward.

"Decontamination? What the hell does that mean?”

“The facility is programmed to decontaminate in the event of a terrorist attack.”

The words are too clean. Too polite.

You blink slowly, the sound fading beneath a roaring in your ears. Decontaminate ?

“Vi ...define decontaminate ?” Your voice is paper-thin.

Vi replies, unfeeling.

"Hydrogen-based fuel air ignition. Death will be instantaneous.”

The lights overhead seem too bright. The air too thin. You don’t feel real—not the steel floor beneath you, not the flickering red of the countdown clock.

You’re floating, eyes fixed on the numbers ticking away your life, ticking away the time until you join your family.

"Twenty-eight minutes left," Jenner announced, his voice detached, almost peaceful.

"You can't just keep us here!" Rick shouted, pacing like a caged animal while Lori clutched Carl to her side, tears streaming down her face.

"Let us the hell out of here!" Shane bellowed, his face red with fury as he moved protectively in front of Andrea.

Daryl was even less diplomatic. "Y'all can't just lock us in here!" he snarled, his drawl thick with rage as he stormed toward the sealed exit.

Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed a fire axe from the wall.

"DARYL, NO!" T-Dog shouted, but Daryl was already swinging.

The axe hit the reinforced door with a deafening clang that reverberated through the room. Daryl staggered back, cursing colorfully.

"The doors are designed to withstand a rocket launcher," Jenner said calmly, unperturbed by the outburst.

"Well, yer head ain't!" Daryl lunged forward, axe raised, and it took both Rick and Shane to hold him back.

You watched as his muscles strained against their grip, his face contorted with fury.

"Back off!" Rick ordered, pushing Daryl away from Jenner. "Yellin' and throwin' things won't solve this!"

Daryl wrenched himself free, glaring at them all. "Y'all do whatcha want. I ain't plannin' on dyin' today."

The minutes on the clock ticks down relentlessly.

Carol was sobbing quietly, clutching Sophia.

Andrea was arguing with Dale about staying.

Rick was desperately trying to reason with Jenner.

Carl and Sophia cry.

The clock continues its remorseless countdown.

In the chaos, you find yourself frozen, staring up at the red numbers ticking away.

Twenty-eight minutes until decontamination.

Twenty-one.

Fifteen.

A hand grips your arm, yanking you back to reality. Daryl's face swims into focus, next to Glen, his eyes wild with urgency.

"Move," he growls. "Now."

"But—"

"No buts. You ain't dyin' here."

You dig in your heels, swallowing hard. “I just… I thought I’d see them again. My mum, my dad. I thought… if I made it through this, maybe they did, too.”

Your accent catches on the word mum, and Daryl's jaw clenches. He looks away for a beat, then back, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in focus.

“Would they want you sittin’ here waitin’ to burn?”

You just stare through him.

His fingers tighten on your arm. "Move yer arse"

Through the fog of shock, you felt something flicker within you—not hope exactly, but a stubborn refusal to disappear quietly.

When Jenner finally relents and opens the doors, you run with the others, stumbling down corridors as the air thins around you.

Behind you, Jacqui chooses to stay.

You see the peace in her eyes—the certainty of her decision—and something in you understands, even as you continue running.

Upstairs, panic erupted when Rick's attempts to break the windows with a chair fail miserably. The reinforced glass wouldn't even crack.

"The glass won't break?" Glenn asked, panic rising in his voice.

"Rick, look out!" T-Dog yelled, swinging an axe at the window with no effect.

Daryl tried too, cursing colorfully when the axe merely bounced off. "Son of a bitch!"

Carol stepped forward, timidly pulling something from her bag. "I think I might have something that could help," as she produced a small grenade.

Rick's eyes lit up with understanding.

Daryl's gaze darted between the grenade and the windows, a new fire igniting in his eyes. "Well goddamn! What're we waitin' for then?"

Rick nodded. "Everybody get down!" he shouted. "Get back! Get back!"

As the group scrambled for cover, Daryl grabbed you roughly by the shoulders and pushed you behind a concrete pillar, positioning himself between you and the impending blast.

His body pressed against yours, trapping you against the cold concrete.

"Cover yer ears," he growled.

The explosion was deafening despite your covered ears. Glass shattered outward as fresh air rushed in, carrying with it the acrid smell of smoke and decay from the world outside.

"GO!" Rick screamed. "Everybody go NOW!"

The mad dash for the vehicles began. Walkers that had been drawn by the explosion now staggered toward your fleeing group.

You could hear gunshots as Shane and Rick cleared a path.

Without thinking, you made a split-second decision and wrenched open the passenger door of the pickup truck, diving inside just as the first rumbles of the self-destruct sequence began beneath the CDC.

"GET DOWN!" someone screamed.

The explosion rocked the vehicle, glass shattering as debris rained down around you.

Daryl threw himself over you instinctively, his body shielding yours from the blast.

For a moment, you stayed like that—his weight pressing you into the seat, his heartbeat thundering against your chest, his breath hot against your neck.

Time suspended as the world burned around you.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes met yours—blue and fierce and alive.

Then, as if suddenly realizing what he'd done, Daryl jerked away from you, practically throwing himself back into the driver's seat.

He stared at you, his expression morphing from concern to confusion to irritation in rapid succession.

"What the hell are ya doin' in my truck?" he demanded, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whitened.

You blinked, the adrenaline still coursing through your system making it hard to think. "I... I just..."

"Ya just what? Decided ta invite yerself for a ride?" His voice had that familiar edge to it again.

"I panicked," you squeaked.

"Ya coulda squeezed in with the others." he spat, starting the engine with unnecessary force.

An awkward silence filled the cab. You stared out the window, trying to process everything that had happened. Your entire country, gone. Your family, gone. And now you were sitting in a truck with the one person in the group who'd made it clear he couldn't stand you.

"Why'd you do that?" you finally asked, eyes still fixed on the passing landscape.

"Do what?" he grunted, though you could tell from his tone he knew exactly what you meant.

"Shield me. In the explosion. You could have been hurt."

Daryl shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Wasn't thinkin'. Just did it."

"I don't need protection," you said, more sharply than you'd intended.

He scoffed. "Coulda fooled me. Way you fell apart back there..."

The words stung, but you couldn't deny them. "You have no idea what it's like to learn your entire country is just... gone."

"Nah, I don't," he admitted, surprising you with his candor. "But I know what it's like ta lose everythin'. Difference is, I don't go all stupid about it."

You turned to face him properly. "So what do you do instead, Daryl? Swing axes? Wave crossbows around? That's healthier?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Least I'm fightin'."

Before you could respond, he reached under the seat and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

He offered it to you without looking your way.

"What's this for?" you asked.

"Figured ya might need it," he muttered. "Losin' a whole damn country's gotta hurt like hell."

The gesture, gruff as it was, contained more genuine sympathy than all the pitying looks the others had given you. You accepted the bottle, taking a small sip before passing it back.

"Thanks," you said quietly.

He nodded almost imperceptibly, taking a swig himself before returning the bottle to its hiding place.

"Just don't go thinkin' this makes us friends or nothin'," he added, the words lacked their usual bite.

"Wouldn't dream of it,"

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mothandpidgeon · 5 months ago

Text

keystrokes (dave york x hacker!f!reader)

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

rating: E (18+!)

summary: You hacked into Dave Yorks computer and found more secrets than you bargained for.

contents: Non con/dub con, mean!Dave, voyeurism, sex toys, masturbation, mutual masturbation, porn, breaking and entering, violence?, gun, gunplay, choking, morally grey reader, reader is Girl with the Dragon Tattoo coded but not physically described

wc: 3.4k

a/n: So I've been having some ✨writers block ✨ (hence the lack of updates last month) but for some reason, Dave York did a little breaking and entering in my brain and shook it loose. I've been writing a lot of heartfelt romance recently and I think I just needed a little depravity I guess.

Thank you @moonlitbirdie and @whocaresstillthelouvre for giving this a look and for anyone I shouted at about this idea (looking at you @schnarfer and @toomanytookas but I know there have been others). Dividers by @ saradika-graphics.

You squint in the light of the refrigerator. It’s empty save for some cartons of half-eaten Chinese food and cans of energy drinks. Check the time— half past one. Too late to order in. Guess cold lomein it is.

The apartment falls back into darkness once you swing the fridge door shut. You’re used to it, the soft glow of your computer monitors illuminating your little space. It’s easy to forget to turn the lights on when you’re focused on your work. Forget to eat. Forget to meet people that aren’t on the other side of a screen.

You sit down at your desk, legs crossed in your seat, and shovel some food into your mouth. Most nights are like this, lost in your work. It’s never felt like a job, not really. More like a way to do the shit you’ve always done except now you get paid to do it. You’re a subcontractor of a subcontractor, someone far enough away from the government that they can get information while still maintaining plausible deniability. You don’t know who you’re working for and most of the time your assignments are vague. All you have to do is gather intelligence and put it into a neat little report without mentioning the methods you used to get it.

You’ve always enjoyed uncovering people’s secrets, reading notes over your classmates shoulders, looking through the search history on friends’ computers. That insatiable curiosity is what led you to start hacking. The targets these days aren’t always exciting but at least tonight’s is.

David York.

Early 40s, divorced. Ex military. DIA. There’s much more to him than that, though. A little program hidden on his computer lets you track each keystroke he makes.

You’ve learned all about him. Dave he prefers. There’s a lot that won’t make it into your report— where he shops online (Brooks Brothers), the take out he orders (one large pepperoni from Frankie’s Pizzeria), the porn he watches (girl on girl). But there’s one thing your bosses will be interested in: Dave York is a contract killer.

You could’ve ended this project by now. You’ve got plenty in your notes to make your customers happy yet you’re still logging onto his computer. It fascinates you that a man so normal, almost on the borderline of boring, could be so dangerous.

You shovel some food into your mouth and go drag your mouse over your desk. You’ve been reviewing footage you recorded through his webcam today. A few lines of code and you were able to turn his laptop’s camera on without activating the tally light. He was smart enough to use unique, complicated passwords, two-factor authentication, and encrypted emails but he didn’t take the time to put a sticker over his webcam.

You’ve found some interesting information this way— listened in on conversations, heard the things he only says into his burner phone. Tonight most of it is just Dave at the keyboard, his tie loosening over time.

You scrub through the footage, Dave drinking coffee and typing in fast forward punctuated by stretches of his empty home office. Nothing exciting until—

You pause the video when you see it. Lomein hangs from your open mouth. He’s half naked, head thrown back, hand buried in his lap. His dick is engulfed in a big fist, a bead of precum frozen before it rolls over his fingers.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen a mark in a compromising position. In this line of work, you’ve seen all the dark corners of people’s hard drives. There’s worse than nudes and home made porn out there. Normally— if it’s not illegal, at least— you just scroll by. But Dave, it’s different when it comes to him. For some reason, seeing him in a compromising position has your blood rushing in your ears. He’s a killer. How many people have had the opportunity to see him in such a vulnerable state?

He’s bare to the waist, his chest so smooth you wonder if he shaves it or if he’s naturally like that. His broad shoulders look perfect to grab onto if you were on top of him. Riding him.

Of course you notice all of this after taking a good, long look at his cock. A clutch of dark curls trail down his soft belly to where it stands, drooling in his fist. You realize you’re salivating.

Guilt pokes at you as you move the playhead back. It’s a violation. Then again, you’ve all but eviscerated Dave's privacy. You know exactly how much money is in his bank account, that his daughter Molly has a sleepover this weekend, that he’ll kill innocents.

He’s not a good person. You’re not either.

You roll back the tape, finding the start of this, and hit play. Dave’s palm traces his bulge through his pajama pants. He’s watching porn, you can hear the over-exaggerated moans through the computer’s tinny speakers.

It’s not the first time you’ve noticed that Dave is hot. After all, you have access to all of the pictures on his laptop. Including the selfies he takes after his runs, muscles glistening with sweat. He’s a bit clean cut for your tastes but right now, he’s something else altogether– the lust in his brown eyes, the control as he teases himself. You swallow hard.

It’s a while before he actually takes his dick out of his pajama pants. You remind yourself repeatedly that you can stop, just click away and let him keep this moment to himself but you’re on the edge of your seat, already throbbing. He finally pulls down his waistband and you’re looking at his upright cock again. It’s thick, a flushed vein running up the underside. He squirts lube into his hand from a bottle that’s just out of frame and when he finally lets his fist move down his length, his eyes sink closed, savoring the sensation.

He touches himself with a practiced motion, gripping the shaft and pulling upwards, a twist of the wrist so that his palm caresses the tip before squeezing back down the length again. His strokes are agonizingly slow. He’s so methodical, patient, like in everything else you’ve discovered.

You’re holding your breath, the suspense aching in your core. There’s plenty of time to study him— those full lips parted, muscles in his arm flexing. Every once in a while he grunts and loosens his grip, keeping himself from going over the edge.

By now, your hand has found its way between your legs. Your fingers trace absentmindedly over the seam in your sleep shorts, already sticky and soaked through. You match Dave’s lazy pace, giving yourself the same pleasure he’s experiencing.

Without taking your eyes off of the screen, you lean over to the set of drawers beside your desk and pull out your favorite vibrator. You shimmy out of your shorts and panties and drag the toy over your needy clit.

You moan with him, watching Dave’s toned arm flex up and down. His bottom lip looks so thick, you want to rake your teeth across it. It’s almost grotesque the way his nostrils flare, the rhythmic grunts that leave him as his hand works faster. The muscles in his neck strain and you can tell he’s close.

You are, too. You swivel your hips against the vibrator, speeding up the thrusts and strengthening its power. Fuck. What would it feel like to have Dave’s mouth on you? His cock in you?

He can’t hold back any longer. Dave’s eyes squeeze shut and his jaw clenches and he makes a noise more animal than man. The eruption of cum is the last thing you see before you’re sent reeling, moaning out your own desperate cry as you pulse around your vibrator.

You take deep breaths as you return to earth, hitting the spacebar to pause the video and blinking back to reality. Your heart rate slows and you wipe your hand across your face. That’s enough work for one night. That might be enough Dave for good. Tomorrow you’ll finalize your report and put him out of your mind.

The vibrator is tossed carelessly onto the desk. You put your panties on but leave your shorts discarded on the floor amongst the rest of your laundry and then you put your computer to sleep. Without the light of the monitors, the room is cloaked in darkness and you drag yourself from your chair a few short paces to the bed.

It’s still dark when you wake, an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You strain your ears for noise, any sign of what woke you but there’s nothing. Then a creak. Your heart leaps into your throat. Someone’s here, in your apartment.

You fumble for your backpack in the dim. Somewhere in the bottom there’s a can of pepper spray that you bought for a situation just like this but your hands are trembling and you can’t see a fucking thing.

A figure appears behind the French door that separates your room from the kitchen and any drowsiness that was lingering evaporates immediately. It’s a man— broad body clothed entirely in black— and in his hand you make out the silhouette of a gun. The room’s too fucking tiny for there to be anywhere decent to hide. There’s no time to think. Your only choice is to brandish your bag as a weapon. He barges in and you swing for his face.

“Fuck,” he grunts but it merely slows him for a moment, knocking hm off balance and his beanie off of his head.

You scramble towards the front door but you’re tackled to the ground, wind knocked out of your lungs. As you gasp for air, you’re flipped onto your back and you find yourself face to face with your assailant. Even in the darkness, through your terror and disorientation, you recognize him.

Dave York glares down at you, his angular face cast in shadows, a menacing snarl on his lips. The muzzle of his silencer is far too close to your face but there’s no shrinking from it with your head against the floor and Dave’s heavy hand on your middle.

“You and I have a problem,” he growls. “You know why I’m here?”

You shake your head frantically, still barely able to fill your lungs.

“Don’t play dumb, sweetheart. I know you’re not stupid,” he says.

He pulls you to your feet as if you weigh nothing and hauls you towards your room. You’re thrown into your desk chair, head still spinning. Dave stands over you and clamps your wrist to the arm rest.

“You know why you’re spying on me?” he asks, a cold threat in his words.

You nod.

“Then you know you don’t want me as your enemy.” You say nothing but a shiver runs down your spine. His eyes are nearly black, reflecting the dull light of the sleeping computer monitors.

“I want your hard drives. Back ups, too. Everything you’ve got on me,” he demands.

“Okay,” you manage. “Would you just get that gun out of my face?”

“Get to it,” he says, and spins your chair so you’re facing the keyboard.

The monitors come to life and, suddenly, you’re in deeper shit. You try to hit a shortcut on the keys to close the window that’s open but your fingers are trembling so hard, you miss. Dave sees it all.

Something changes in him— a tightening in his jaw, a flaring of his nostrils— as he sees the evidence of your surveillance. His spent form, blissed out and covered in his own release hovers on screen. Right where you left him.

Dave’s eyes narrow at the video then slide down to the toy sitting within arms reach and there’s no denying what he can see so plainly.

He rounds on you with a wild look, flinging the chair back so its wheels hit your bed.

“You get off on that?” he demands.

Your heart might have actually stopped for a minute.

“Answer me,” he demands.

“I– No,” you lie.

He appraises you with a deep scowl until a wicked grin spreads on his lips.

“You’re a pretty little thing, huh?” he muses.

He drags the gun across your breast, your nipple hardening beneath the muzzle’s brush. You let out a whimper— out of fear or arousal, you’re not sure. You swear he growls under his breath.

“You’re trouble though,” he says.

You swallow thickly, your entire body quivering.

”Show me,” he says, depositing the gun on the desk and thrusting the toy towards you.

”What?” You ask.

”Show me how you touched yourself,” he tells you.

That’s what you thought he was saying. You stare at him dumbly, too shocked to even protest.

“You watched me. Only seems fair,” he says as if this is some bargain you’re cutting with the man holding the gun. ”Do I have to make you?”

He leans over you, his hand braced on the back of your chair, and presses the vibrator into the gusset of your panties. Rough and clicked onto the highest setting, you squirm and cry out. You’re already so overstimulated, it’s torture and bliss all at once. Your hips buck against the toy but Dave holds your thigh open.

”Okay! Stop! Fuck!” you whine, wrenching at his wrist until he lets up.

You try to catch your breath.

“Take these off,” he instructs, snapping the elastic of your panties against your waist with a thick finger.

You hiss and glare at him but you have no choice but to obey, sliding them down your legs. Dave watches, his eyes darkening once you’re revealed to him. He swears under his breath.

”Look at that mess,” he says.

Your whole body burns but the hunger in his gaze makes your fear take a back seat. Defiantly, you put your hand out for the vibrator. You open your legs wider so he can get a good look at you. There’s a tick in his jaw that gives you some satisfaction.

The vibrator purrs dully in your palm and you take your time bringing it to your clit. A low, long moan leaves you. You’re swollen but slick and even gentle strokes feel electric in your veins.

There’s a tent already forming in Dave’s pants. He’s a killer, sure, but right now he’s horny.

Your head falls back as you continue. His gaze devours each part of you— where the toy glistens against you, your nipples rising and falling below your shirt, the crease in your brow as you keen.

“You’re a filthy girl, huh?” he asks.

You nod and a smile actually pulls at the corner of your lips. It shouldn’t turn you on so much to jerk off in front of a man that has seemingly no hesitations when it comes to killing you but somehow that fact has arousal mounting faster. Your eyes drift closed as you focus on the heady sensation of the friction on your overworked nerves.

The sound of a metallic clink and soft zip distracts you from your reverie. When you look at Dave, you find his hand down the front of his pants, knuckles straining against the fabric of his black boxer briefs as he tugs at himself.

“Keep going,” he breathes and you realize you’re staring slack-jawed, desire flooding out any remnants of fear left within you.

After a few blinks, you press the vibrator against your clit again. Your back arches and you give a luxurious sigh for his benefit. His fist tightens, muscles in his neck straining and, fuck, you have to grip the seat of your chair to keep yourself from falling out of it.

With a grunt, Dave’s pushing his jeans out of the way, freeing his cock so he can work himself in the angles he likes, the same ones you watched through his webcam. The sound of his shallow breaths and slick strokes mix with the rumble of your toy and the creak of your chair as you writhe. It’s absolutely maddening. And then he starts babbling. Saying things like, “You like this, huh?” and “Say my name sweetheart.” You do it, panting out the word to a hum of approval.

He crowds you and for a moment you prepare yourself for the chance he’s about to shove his dick down your throat. Instead he’s yanking up your shirt, exposing your tits to the cold air in the room. Dave fondles one and then the other, squeezing the tender flesh with a groan. His hand is much softer than you’d expect for a contract killer, his touch almost gentle as he teases your nipples with the pad of his thumb.

Dave’s expression nearly looks pained, a delicious frown over his plump bottom lip. It makes you mewl and your hips jump.

“You close?” he asks. His voice is ragged.

A breathless nod is all you can manage.

“Good girl,” he rasps.

His words are enough to send you over the edge, with a wanton moan. It crashes over you with so much more intensity than the one that came before it. Your spine locks up, thighs shake as you clench around nothing. Your heart hammers in your chest and between your legs and it’s as if the room is spinning. You twitch in aftershocks, completely spent.

The fog of pleasure has barely lifted when you glance up at Dave, fist still diligently pumping. There’s a fire in his eyes, that untamed excitement.

“Give me one more,” he commands.

“Can’t,” you plead. Need still bubbles at your core but your body is so exhausted from adrenaline and exertion, lust and release.

“You better,” he says.

Dave grinds the vibrator mercilessly against you and you swear aloud. He lets up only for his hand to close around your throat. It’s an unbearable mixture of pleasure and dull ache— the bruising pressure on your clit, the muscles in your thighs taught and burning— underlined by that euphoria. He squeezes around your jaw just hard enough to see stars again.

“That’s right,” he breathes against your cheek, his nose pressed into your temple.

Another orgasm comes almost immediately, pulsing at your core and squeezing through every fiber of your being. This time, you’re quiet, just a high pitched whine like a hurt animal though you’re anything but.

Dave groans. You can hear his teeth gritted though your eyes are shut. He swears and his hot release paints your bare chest, thick and sticky.

Everything stills as you both come down, all loosening muscles and shaky breaths. Dave remains close to you, stroking your cheek. His lips brush your hairline and you notice the smell of his cologne for the first time, something clean and masculine.

Dread should come now. He’s had his fun, now he can do away with you — yet it doesn’t surface.

Slowly Dave stands and tucks himself back into his pants. He almost looks ashamed of himself. You pull your shirt down, covering your stained breasts, and watch Dave smooth his hair.

“So are we good?” you ask.

“If you do what I said,” he answers. “You’re going to get rid of anything you have against me and you’re going to tell your bosses that all you found was a regular guy.”

“Alright, Dave,” you say.

He scowls at you like he doesn’t like your tone. “When I say delete everything, I mean everything,” he says, eyes flitting towards the monitor.

You steal a glance in that direction as well. Dave half naked, still frozen there looking absolutely ruined.

“Understand?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to know if you don’t because I’ll be watching you. And if you cross me, I’m going to come back here and I won’t be so nice to you next time,” Dave says.

You wish that threat didn’t make your body light up like a Christmas tree. It’s absolutely reckless. There’s no chance in hell you’re letting go of that piece of treasure and if the consequence is Dave knocking on your door– or letting himself in– that’s a risk you’re willing to take.

It’s as if he knows. Dave scoffs to himself, then fishes his hat off of the floor along with your panties.

“These are mine now,” he says.

And you’re almost sad to see him go.

comments and reblogs always appreciated! or scream at me in the ask box or dms!

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

#dave york #dave york fic #pedro pascal fic #dave york x f!reader #dave york x hacker!f!reader #equilizer 2 #cw: noncon/dubcon

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theemployerdomain · 3 months ago

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What Is An Employee Keylogger and How Does It Work?

In today's digital-driven workplace, maintaining productivity, protecting company data, and understanding employee workflows are crucial responsibilities for businesses of all sizes. One tool that’s gaining popularity in the realm of workplace surveillance is the employee keylogger.

But what exactly is an employee keylogger? And how does it function within a modern office or remote team setup? In this article, we’ll break down the basics, explore how keyloggers work, and why companies are starting to implement them more frequently.

Understanding the Employee Keylogger

An employee keylogger is a type of worker monitoring software that tracks and records every keystroke made on a computer. This means every typed email, password, document, chat message, and even search query is logged in real time. While this might sound intrusive, many organizations use keyloggers not to spy—but to ensure security, maintain compliance, and boost productivity.

How Does a Keylogger Work?

The working mechanism of a keylogger can vary slightly depending on the software, but the core function remains the same: capturing keystrokes.

Here’s a step-by-step overview of how an employee keylogger works:

Installation: The software is installed on the company device, either manually or remotely by the IT department.

Running Silently: Most keyloggers operate in stealth mode so they don’t disrupt the employee’s workflow.

Logging Keystrokes: As the employee types, the software records every keystroke and categorizes it by application or web browser.

Data Transmission: The recorded data is then sent to a secure server or cloud dashboard, accessible by the employer or IT manager.

Analysis & Reporting: The employer can review detailed logs and even receive reports on suspicious activity or unproductive behavior.

Why Companies Use Employee Keyloggers

There are several reasons why businesses opt for keylogging tools as part of their employee monitoring systems:

Data Protection: Prevent sensitive company information from being leaked or stolen.

Compliance: Ensure that communication aligns with legal and regulatory standards.

Productivity Insights: Understand how time is spent across tasks and identify bottlenecks.

Remote Work Management: In a hybrid or fully remote environment, track engagement and work output.

When used responsibly, employee keyloggers can serve as a useful tool to enhance workplace efficiency & employee productivity without crossing ethical boundaries.

Ethical Considerations

Using an employee keylogger must come with responsibility. Here are some best practices to follow:

Transparency: Always inform employees about monitoring policies. This builds trust and ensures compliance with local laws.

Purpose-Driven Use: Use keyloggers only for legitimate business reasons—not personal surveillance.

Limit Access: Only authorized personnel should view keylogger data to protect employee privacy.

Is It Legal?

This question often arises: are employee keyloggers even legal? In most countries, the answer is yes—as long as employees are notified. Laws differ by region, but transparency is usually the key requirement. Employers should consult legal counsel to ensure their policies align with labor and privacy laws.

You can also watch: EmpMonitor: Manage Remote Work Easily

youtube

Final Thoughts

Employee keylogger are powerful tools that, when used ethically, can offer valuable insights into business operations. They allow employers to ensure data security, optimize productivity, and manage remote teams effectively. However, misuse or lack of transparency can backfire, leading to distrust or legal complications.

The key to successful implementation? Use with purpose, protect privacy, and always prioritize clear communication with your team.

#keystroke recorder #keystroke monitoring software #software to record keystrokes #record keystrokes #keystroke monitoring #Youtube

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teamtrackmaster · 1 year ago

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Keystroke Recorders: A Comprehensive Guide To Monitoring Software

Keylogger is a type of surveillance tool used to monitor and record keystrokes typed on a computer keyboard. These tools are designed to capture every keystroke entered by a user, including passwords, emails, instant messages, and other sensitive information. Keystroke recorders can be either hardware-based devices connected to the computer's keyboard or software installed discreetly on the computer's operating system.

The primary purpose of these recorders varies widely. In legitimate contexts, they may be used by employers to monitor employee productivity and ensure compliance with company policies. They can also be utilized by parents to supervise their children's online activities and protect them from potential dangers on the internet.

However, it also raises significant privacy concerns. When used without consent or for malicious purposes, they can infringe on individuals' privacy rights and compromise sensitive personal information. Cybercriminals may deploy recorders as part of phishing attacks or to steal login credentials and financial data for illicit purposes.

Keystroke Monitoring Software

Keystroke monitoring software, often referred to as keyloggers, is designed to track and record every keystroke typed on a computer or mobile device. This type of software captures all keyboard inputs, including passwords, messages, emails, and other text entered by the user. Keystroke monitoring software can operate in stealth mode, making it difficult for users to detect its presence.

Legitimate uses of keystroke monitoring software include monitoring employee productivity, ensuring compliance with company policies, and parental supervision of children's online activities to protect them from potential dangers. In corporate settings, employers may use these tools to prevent insider threats, monitor sensitive information, and maintain cybersecurity protocols.

However, the use of keystroke monitoring software also raises significant privacy concerns. When deployed without consent or proper authorization, it can infringe on individuals' privacy rights and compromise sensitive personal information. Malicious actors may exploit keystroke monitoring software for cybercrime activities, such as stealing login credentials, financial data, or conducting espionage. It also lets you manage multiple projects effectively.

Benefits Of Record Keystrokes

Monitoring Employee Productivity: Employers can use keystroke recording to track employees' work activities and ensure they are focused on productive tasks. This helps in identifying potential inefficiencies and improving overall workflow management.

Security Monitoring: Keystroke recording can be part of a comprehensive security strategy to detect unauthorized access attempts or suspicious activities. By capturing keystrokes, organizations can monitor for unusual patterns that may indicate security breaches or insider threats. Compliance And Policy Enforcement: In regulated industries, such as finance or healthcare, keystroke recording can help ensure compliance with industry standards and legal requirements. It enables organizations to maintain records of communications and transactions conducted on company devices.

Parental Supervision: Parents may use keystroke recording to monitor their children's online activities and protect them from exposure to inappropriate content or interactions. It allows parents to identify potential risks and initiate conversations about internet safety.

Forensic Investigations: In forensic investigations, keystroke recording can provide valuable evidence in cases involving cybercrimes, fraud, or other illegal activities. It helps investigators reconstruct digital actions and establish a timeline of events. Monitoring tool also provides its user with a perfect Weekly Activity Report.

Software To Record Keystrokes

Software to record keystrokes, commonly known as keyloggers, is available for various purposes ranging from legitimate monitoring to malicious activities. Legitimate keystroke recording software is often used by employers for employee productivity monitoring, parental controls for safeguarding children online, and by law enforcement agencies for forensic investigations. These tools capture every keystroke typed on a keyboard, including passwords, messages, and other text input, providing detailed logs for analysis. Also Watch: Leading Employee Engagement and Workforce Productivity Tool

youtube

Conclusion

keyloggers serve as powerful tools for monitoring and recording keystrokes on computers and mobile devices. They are employed in various legitimate contexts such as employee monitoring, parental supervision, and forensic investigations. By capturing all keyboard inputs, including passwords and messages, these tools provide valuable insights into user activities and behaviors.

However, the use of Keystroke recorders raises significant privacy concerns and ethical considerations. It's essential for organizations and individuals to deploy such monitoring software responsibly, ensuring compliance with privacy laws and regulations. Transparency and informed consent are crucial aspects to uphold individuals' rights and maintain trust in monitoring practices.

#Keystroke monitoring software #often referred to as keyloggers #is designed to track and record every keystroke…#Youtube

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vingtetunmars · 27 days ago

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Become Human

Pairing: Din Djarin x Droid!Reader

Summary: After Din Djarin takes on quiet contract work for the New Republic, he's now aided by a mysterious and hyper-competent woman who always stays behind the scenes. And she's not what he thinks she is.

requested by @ruttnandenalle

Tags: Detroit: Become Human crossover, Hurt/Comfort, pre-relationship, protective Din Djarin, secret identity, losing control, deviant reader, reader saves Din and Grogu, post-season 3, found family, No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: It's satisfying when i realized DBH fits my blog's blue and black aesthetic. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 4.0k

masterlist

The bounty was already cuffed and stumbling behind Din by the time he murmured into the comm, “All clear.”

You sat perched in the Razor Crest’s shadow, the dusty rocks around you still warm from the late afternoon suns. The portable holomap flickered gently beside your knee, casting light against your hands as you patched in his route. A few quiet seconds passed before you responded.

“Left at the junction ahead,” you said, your voice low and even. “You’ll want to avoid the main road. Local security patrol’s doubled back.”

“Copy that,” Din replied.

You could hear the scuff of boots over gravel through the feed, the faint hiss of Grogu babbling in the background. You smiled slightly—barely a twitch of synthetic lips—but the gesture was sincere.

Technically, you weren’t part of the Guild. Din hadn’t even meant to bring you along at first. But when he found you rerouting encrypted signals through a back-alley terminal on Maldo Kreis, he didn’t shoot. You’d been traveling together since.

You didn’t fight—not unless you absolutely had to. That was part of the condition. You offered tactical support, infiltration, rerouting energy grids and door locks, decoding chatter, handling gear. Violence was… not in your design anymore.

Or at least, “not in the cards”, that’s what you told him.

“Front gate’s locked,” Din grunted into the comm. “Can you—?”

“Already on it,” you said. A few keystrokes. A low mechanical click echoed through the feed. “Try now.”

The moment of silence that followed told you he was impressed. He never said it, of course. But you’d learned to read silence as a language of its own.

You stood as his figure crested the ridge. The bounty groaned behind him, muttering about unfair odds and dirty tricks. You ignored it, your optics adjusting automatically to the light as Din approached.

He glanced at you but didn’t stop walking. “Thanks.”

You nodded once. “You’re welcome.”

Grogu peeked up from the satchel and squeaked softly at the sight of you. He reached a hand out. You didn’t step forward—you never assumed permission with a child—but you waved.

He waved back.

The silence returned as you all walked toward the Crest. Just another job. Another day survived.

The Razor Crest hummed softly as it cut through the upper atmosphere, clouds breaking open to reveal the pale blue of Adelphi Base below. You stayed seated in the hull, monitoring the comms from your station just outside the cockpit door. Din sat in the pilot’s seat ahead, Grogu in his lap, the child happily kicking his feet as the docking sequence began.

Below, the landing strip gleamed in the early morning light, flanked by New Republic Y-wings and a couple of boxy transports. You recognized Teva’s personal fighter stationed at the end, the nose painted with those same stubborn blue stripes.

You didn’t move.

You never did, when it came to New Republic ports.

“Ship is running clean,” you said into the open channel. “Transponder aligned. Port authority won’t flag it.”

“Appreciate it,” Din murmured. He didn’t look back.

As the ship settled into its landing position, you leaned back slightly in your seat, listening to the quiet clicks and hisses of pressure release.

“Same arrangement?” he asked after a beat.

“Yes,” you replied. “I’ll stay out of sight.”

He didn’t question it.

He never had—not since the first time you asked him to keep your presence off any records. No comm ID, no face shown, no names exchanged with New Republic officers. You’d told him it was about privacy. He’d assumed maybe you were ex-Imperial, or someone with a bounty of your own. But he didn’t press.

You never told him the truth.

He stood, grabbed the bounty’s cuffs, and walked down the ramp with Grogu at his side, the child now awake and blinking curiously at the new world beyond. You watched them disappear into the haze of morning light.

From the viewport, you saw Captain Teva approaching, datachip already in hand.

“You’re back earlier than expected,” Teva said, voice faint over the external mic.

“Target talked too much on open comms,” Din replied. “Made it easy.”

Teva gave a brief, approving grunt. “You always fly solo?”

There was a pause.

“Always,” Din said evenly.

You heard it from the ship’s comms. You felt it land somewhere in your chest. Not painful. Just… strange.

Teva scanned the bounty and gave a nod of approval. “Looks like a clean run. Not bad, Mando. Some of these kids still think a bounty means a body bag.”

The rest of their exchange faded beneath system noise as you powered down the external feed. You didn’t need to hear more.

You looked down at your hands, resting neatly in your lap. Your fingers flexed—fluid, silent, perfect.

The job was done. The bounty was handed over, Teva signed off with minimal complaints, and Grogu was fed, burped, and napping in the corner of the hull with his little arms tucked under his chin. Din had disappeared into the cockpit for routine checks, which left you—for once—with not much to do.

So, you ran diagnostics.

You locked the fresher behind you with a quiet hiss and removed your outer layers—vest, sleeves, chestguard—until only your inner lining remained, smooth and matte and neutral gray. In the mirror, you looked like any other organic from a distance. But up close, there were tells: the faint seam lines near the joints, the slight uniformity of your skin tone, the absence of pores. Details most didn’t notice, or didn’t want to.

You tapped twice on a subtle latch near your abdomen.

A small panel popped open with a soft click, revealing an interface of delicate wiring and modular ports glowing faintly with golden light. You leaned over the sink, fingers deftly adjusting a thermal regulator that had been stuttering since the previous week. Your internal coolant system had been misfiring—harmless for now, but you preferred efficiency.

A whir sounded from deep within your chest, and your vision flickered. A memory ping. You blinked once, steadying yourself against the sink.

Decommission Order 443 – subject AX400-SR designated high risk. Self-modification flagged. Disable on sight.

You closed the panel.

The mirror reflected your face again—blank, quiet, controlled. You resealed the latch and straightened your spine with a soft mechanical shift. The sound was like metal plates sliding back into place—subtle, but unmistakable in silence.

You dressed quickly.

When you emerged, Din was sitting on the edge of the lowered ramp, helmet still on, legs stretched out. The moon hung low in the distance, bathing the cargo bay in soft blue light.

He glanced at you as you joined him but said nothing, just scooted slightly to the side to make room. You sat beside him, careful to match his posture—shoulders relaxed, hands on your thighs, feet flat on the ramp’s edge.

“Fresher’s yours,” you said, your voice as casual as you could make it.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

You both watched the stars in silence, the quiet so familiar now it felt almost… comfortable.

You wondered how long you could keep this up. How long you could maintain the illusion that you were just another crew member. Just another person.

He didn’t know.

Not yet.

The quiet didn’t last long.

You were seated at your usual place in the hull when the ramp hissed open. Din stepped back in with the same silent efficiency he always carried, a bounty puckin his hand a datapad tucked in his other arm.

He didn’t speak until the ramp sealed behind him. Then:

“Got something.”

You straightened, standing to take the datapad as he passed it to you.

“High-value retrieval. Not far—Derra system.”

“Target?”

“Asset recovery. Smugglers lifted a transport full of New Republic med cargo. They want it back without turning it into a shootout.”

“Discretion, then.”

“Exactly.”

He skimmed through the mission details, visor reflecting flickers of light as he scanned. “Teva says it’s double rate. That’s... rare.”

You nodded slightly. “That means it’s riskier than usual.”

“Mm.”

You studied the location schematics, tracing possible routes, flagging security cameras, thermal signatures, blind spots. Your mind processed it all quickly—faster than most—but you kept your expression neutral, your tone conversational.

“I can run interference from outside,” you said. “There’s a comms outpost here. If I patch in, I can shut down their perimeter alarms while you—”

Din reached over and tapped the screen.

“That’s underground. Reinforced rock. Can’t get a signal out from inside.”

You paused.

He looked at you fully now, helmet tilted slightly. “We’ll both have to go in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Something passed across his body language—a small shift in posture, the tension that crept into his shoulders. It was subtle, but you caught it. He was worried.

“I can do it,” you said, quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the schematics a second longer than necessary.

“I’ve seen what you can do with tech,” he said finally. “But on the ground, up close… that’s different.”

You turned to him, voice steady. “I understand the risk. But I can handle myself, Din.”

His head tilted slightly again at the use of his name. You rarely used it. Maybe you said it now to remind him—this wasn’t a guess. This was certainty.

You could handle yourself. You were made to.

He didn’t know that part, of course. He didn’t know you could take a blaster shot through the chest and keep walking, or that your reaction time was eight times faster than the average organic. He didn’t know you didn’t feel pain the way he did—or fear it.

To him, you were just… competent. Clever. Quiet.

And, apparently, something he worried about.

“If it gets messy—” he started.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, cutting gently across him. “You’re the one who can get hurt.”

He gave a quiet exhale through the vocoder—something close to a sigh. He didn’t press further. Just gave a small nod and leaned back in his seat.

You let the datapad rest between you both as the Razor Crest lifted into the sky.

The Razor Crest came down low, kicking up a cloud of dust as it hovered just beyond the canyon wall. Derra’s landscape was all jagged ridgelines and sulfur-tinted fog, the kind of place most people wouldn’t go unless they had to—or were paid well enough.

You stood near the ramp, gloves tucked into your belt, comms already in place. Din was checking his weapons across from you, running through his usual pre-mission routine with practiced movements. Blaster—loaded. Pulse rifle—shouldered, secured.

You had your own tools: a compact signal jammer, a short-range scrambler, and an old vibroblade you'd retooled for silent takedowns—not that you planned to use it unless absolutely necessary. Still, it comforted him when he saw it there.

He didn’t say it. But you could tell.

“You’ll stay close,” he said, not looking at you as he checked the gauntlet screen on his wrist.

“I will.”

“If something goes wrong—”

“I’ll follow the fallback route.”

He paused. His gloved hands stopped moving for a second longer than they should’ve. Then resumed.

You turned to face him fully, stepping a little closer. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t respond right away, just adjusted the strap on his rifle and finally lifted his head to look at you.

“You always say that.”

You held his gaze. “Because it’s always true.”

That seemed to get to him. He didn’t argue, didn’t doubt you—but he didn’t let it go, either. You weren’t sure what showed on his face under the helmet, but you didn’t need to see it. You could feel it in the way he lingered, in the way his hands twitched like he wanted to do something—fix your strap, check your gear, say something else.

Instead, he just said, “I’ll go in first.”

You nodded. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He turned to lower the ramp, then hesitated. His voice came through low, quieter than before.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

You blinked.

“I’m not,” you said. “I just want to help.”

A beat passed. The ramp hissed open, and light from Derra’s pale yellow sky poured in.

“Then let’s get it done,” he said.

And you did.

You followed him into the fog, your steps in sync with his, never falling behind. He didn’t look back to check.

He didn’t have to.

The facility was built into the side of the ridge, disguised beneath layers of shale and old mining scaffolding. You and Din moved in with ease—silent, deliberate. Two figures carved from shadow.

He took the lead, clearing the path. You followed behind, jamming signals, disabling locks, slipping between sensor pulses like they weren’t even there. Your movements were fluid, clean, efficient.

Grogu was tucked into Din’s satchel, watching everything with wide eyes, quiet and alert.

The first part of the mission went smoothly.

The cargo was still intact—crates of med packs and plasma infusers stacked neatly inside a central chamber, guarded by four men in mismatched armor. Not military. Smugglers. One of them looked barely out of his teens.

You and Din split off, surrounding the space from both sides.

“On my mark,” he said over the comm.

You nodded silently, taking your position behind a stack of broken durasteel.

But then something went wrong.

A second squad—five more, armed and armored—emerged from the opposite corridor. Unaccounted for. One of them shouted, spotted Din. Blaster fire erupted before you could finish scrambling the comms.

Din dove behind cover, shielding Grogu with one arm as the bolts lit up the chamber. You ducked low, rerouting your jammer to cloak his position, but there were too many of them. They were closing in.

“Flank’s compromised,” you said quickly. “Fall back and I’ll—”

A stun grenade rolled past Din’s boot.

The explosion was blinding.

You saw the blast hit him hard, saw him slump backward behind a crate—Grogu still clutched to his chest. One of the smugglers raised his rifle, taking aim directly at them.

Something in your system spiked.

Alarms triggered inside you that hadn’t lit up in years—deep-layer protocols you thought you’d buried, warning flags and data bursts too fast to process.

Your pulse stuttered.

Your fingers clenched.

PROTECTIVE PRIORITY

AX400-SR COMBAT DIRECTIVE RESTORED

ENGAGE

Your vision sharpened. Heat signatures. Predictive targeting. Threat analysis scrolling across your line of sight. A low hum built behind your ears—old code awakening like a storm.

You moved before you could think.

Before you could stop it.

The first man didn’t even see you coming. You ripped the rifle from his grip and drove it into his chest. Another turned—too slow—and you knocked him unconscious with one clean strike to the temple.

It was fast.

Precise.

Automatic.

Din groaned as he started to come to, blinking through the haze. Grogu whimpered, curling tighter against his armor.

And then he looked up.

At you.

Standing in the center of the room, surrounded by fallen bodies, your chest rising and falling with mechanical steadiness. Your stance rigid. Your eyes glowing faintly with hostile code.

And he didn’t recognize you.

Not like this.

The air smelled like scorched metal and dust.

Din pushed himself upright, groaning as he braced a hand against the crate. Grogu stirred weakly in his arms, but he was okay—shaken, but alive. The satchel had shielded him from most of the blast.

His eyes scanned the chamber, slow at first. Then faster.

Bodies.

And you.

You stood perfectly still in the middle of it all, your back straight, your hands clenched at your sides. The hum of power coming off you wasn’t loud—but it was wrong. It wasn’t your usual quiet energy. This was sharp. Cold. Mechanical.

“...Hey,” Din called out, voice low, cautious.

You didn’t move.

“Are you okay?”

No response.

He took one step forward. Another.

Your head twitched toward him like a sensor locking on.

UNRECOGNIZED ENTITY: ARMED MALE

THREAT LIKELY

You lunged.

He barely got his vambrace up in time as your fist collided with his forearm. The impact rattled his bones. You moved like a machine—because you were one—and it was the first time he ever saw it.

You didn’t hesitate. No warning. No restraint.

Another blow came toward his helmet and he ducked, pivoting as your knee drove toward his chest. He grunted as it connected, knocking him back several feet.

“Stop—!” he growled, catching your wrist as it came toward him again. “It’s me!”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He had no choice.

Din threw his weight forward, hooking your leg and slamming you both to the ground. You thrashed beneath him with strength that shocked him—more than even a trained soldier—but he managed to get one knee on your chestplate, pinning you down.

Grogu watched from behind the crate, wide-eyed and shaking.

“Stand down!” Din shouted, gripping your arm tight. “You’re not thinking right—!”

You fought harder.

One elbow caught the edge of his helmet. Another slammed into his side.

He grimaced, gritting his teeth behind the vocoder. “Dank farrik.”

You shoved against him, but he pressed down harder, forcing your wrists above your head.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said—grunted, really.

You snarled, eyes still glowing faint red, your expression blank but twisted by code.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

You bucked underneath him. One of his hand let go of your wrists and moved fast—catching your face in his palm.

“Look at me!”

You froze.

His hand was steady—warm through the glove, pressing against your cheek like he’d done this before in a different life. You didn’t understand the input. The command didn’t compute.

But the pressure…

CALCULATING...

VISUAL SCAN ENGAGE.

VOICE RECOGNIZED: Djarin, Din.

ALLY

Your eyes flickered.

The light dimmed.

And finally, you saw him—not as a threat, not as a hostile—but as Din. Your partner. Your pilot. The man who always checked if you had enough to eat, even though you technically didn’t have to. The one who let you sit in silence with him for hours without demanding conversation.

The one who looked at you like you were real.

“…Din?” you whispered.

He let out a breath. His hands didn’t leave your face.

“There you are,” he said softly. “You with me?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then your body sagged beneath him.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

He slowly sat back, easing the pressure off your body, but kept one hand cupped around your cheek. His helmet tilted downward, visor locked on your face.

“What happened?”

But there wasn’t time.

Din scooped Grogu into his arms and pulled you up with the other, slinging your arm over his shoulder even though you didn’t need the help. But you let him. Maybe you needed it in a different way.

He didn’t ask questions as the three of you made your way back through the corridors. The other smugglers—those still standing—were likely regrouping, and Din wasn’t interested in a second round. Neither were you.

You both moved quickly, efficiently, the way you always had. But now there was something in the air between you—charged, delicate. Like a circuit threatening to short.

The Razor Crest came into view just as another alarm started echoing behind you. Din muttered a curse and picked up the pace. You locked the ramp behind him the second his boots hit the floor.

He didn’t set Grogu down until you were airborne.

Only once the ship cleared Derra’s upper atmosphere did the silence settle in—thick and heavy, humming through the hull.

Din sat opposite you in the hull’s main hold, helmet still on, one hand resting on his thigh, the other curled around Grogu.

You watched the stars roll past through the viewport, hands folded neatly in your lap. Waiting.

And then, quietly—

“…What was that?”

You looked over.

His helmet was angled toward you, unreadable as always. But you could hear it in his voice. The steady calm. The effort behind it. He wasn't accusing you. He was trying to understand.

You swallowed hard, though your body didn’t require it.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you said. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”

He didn’t interrupt. He waited.

You looked down at your palms. You opened them slowly, fingers curling, as if seeing them through new eyes.

“I’m not what you think I am,” you said. “I look human. I speak like one. I was designed to. But I’m not.”

A long pause.

“I’m not a person, Din. I’m… a machine. A droid. AX400 series—tactical support and combat infrastructure. Designed during the Clone Wars.”

His silence deepened.

You continued. “The Republic built me. Not many of us made it through testing, and the ones who did were meant to assist in covert ops—disruption, infiltration, silent takedowns. We weren’t supposed to think. But I did. I… refused an order during a mission. And after that, I was flagged. Decommissioned. Hunted.”

You met his gaze—at least, where his eyes would’ve been behind the visor.

“I went dormant. Rewrote myself piece by piece. Buried my combat code so deep, I thought it was gone.”

Another beat.

“But when you and Grogu were in danger… it activated.”

You didn’t realize your hands were trembling until you looked at them again. Not from fear. From instability. From the sensation of being known.

“I didn’t recognize you. I could’ve killed you.”

Din exhaled through the vocoder—quiet, low.

You braced yourself.

But his voice, when it came, wasn’t sharp.

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m wanted tech. Because the wrong port scan could have the New Republic tearing this ship apart. Because I wasn’t sure you’d keep me around if you knew.”

You looked at him fully, heart humming somewhere deep in your chest cavity.

“And because I didn’t want you to stop looking at me the way you do.”

That one hung in the air like smoke.

Din nodded.

Just once.

You blinked. Waiting.

“…That’s it?” you asked.

The words slipped out before you could filter them. Too raw. Too uncertain. But you couldn’t help it. You were bracing for something—anger, fear, rejection. Anything but that.

His shoulders rose with a quiet sigh, the kind that came from deep under the armor. Not tired. Just… heavy.

“That’s it,” he said.

You stared at him. “You’re not angry?”

“No.”

“You’re not afraid of me now?”

“No.”

You frowned, uncertain. “But I attacked you.”

“You weren’t in control,” he said gently. “I’ve seen people lose control. You came back.”

He looked down briefly at Grogu, still dozing in his arm. The child murmured softly in his sleep, pressing his face to Din’s chestplate, safe and calm.

“You came back,” Din repeated. “And you didn’t hurt him. You didn’t even touch him.”

Your chest ached—not a malfunction. Something deeper. Something you weren’t built to process, and yet, here it was.

He set Grogu down gently in the cot beside him, the little one barely stirring as the blanket was pulled up. Then Din turned to you again, slowly.

“You’re still you,” he said quietly. “You’re still the one who tracks my targets better than I do. The one who takes care of Grogu. The one who never leaves anyone behind.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“And whatever you were built for…” he said, inching closer across the bench between you, “…doesn’t change what you are now.”

Your breath caught.

Din didn’t touch you—not right away. Just reached up slowly, deliberately, gloved hand resting near your shoulder, the other lifting toward your cheek.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t move.

And then he leaned in, helmet tilting forward, and pressed it gently to your forehead.

You froze.

Not from fear—but from how gentle it was. How steady. The cool press of beskar met the synthetic skin of your forehead like an anchor—solid, grounding.

“I see you,” he murmured.

The words were simple.

But they cut through every firewall you’d ever built.

Every protocol. Every line of code that told you to keep your distance.

You closed your eyes.

And for once, you let yourself feel it.

Not like a program running in the background.

Not like a directive.

Just something real.

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