#pulse modulator | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cipheress-to-k-pop · 4 months ago

Text

baby daddy (j.t.)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: Some blood and stuff

Word Count: 7.1k

A/N: I'll be so honest, this was way better in my head lol my execution needs work because aint no way this is 7k words and im still not satisfied perhaps this would be best as a series? but tbh i dont think i can write much more than this

It's based on this post from @batbusiness-schooldropout

"Alright, who the hell snitched?"

Jason stormed into the Batcave, helmet tucked under his arm, pissed.

Tim barely looked up from the Batcomputer, "What are you talking about?"

Jason gestured wildly, "I just had a fun little run-in with a couple of GCPD officers who very politely informed me that I have an outstanding legal matter that needs my attention. Which is news to me because I don’t exactly file taxes or have jury duty, so what the hell are they trying to pull?"

Tim blinked, "You have a warrant?"

"That’s what I’m asking you!" Jason snapped.

Tim, now curious, spun back to the screen, "Alright, let’s check."

He typed in Red Hood and cross-checked it with Gotham’s legal system. A few minor infractions came up—nothing serious—but then…

There it was.

Tim frowned, "Huh."

Jason narrowed his eyes, "What?"

"It’s… not a warrant," Tim said slowly, "It’s a summons."

Jason crossed his arms, "For what?"

Tim clicked on the file. A scanned document popped up, the words 'LEGAL NOTICE' at the top.

"Looks like someone filed you as a legal guardian," Tim muttered, "Gotham’s courts have been trying to notify you for a while now. They probably flagged it to GCPD just to get it on your radar."

Jason scoffed, "Guardian? Of who?"

Tim clicked again, "A kid named Aria (L/N)."

Jason frowned, "That name means nothing to me."

Tim went still.

Jason’s stomach sank, "...What?"

Tim very slowly turned the screen toward him.

Jason stared.

Child’s Name: Aria (L/N) Mother: (Y/N) (L/N) Father: Red Hood

His brain just stopped working.

Dick, passing by with his coffee, glanced at the screen, "Oh, damn. Jay, you finally settling down?"

Jason whipped around to glare at him, "I don’t know this woman! I don’t have a kid!"

"Legally, you do." Tim pointed out.

Jason turned back to the screen, rubbing his temples, "Why is my life like this?"

Tim scrolled further, "Looks like the mother put your name down instead of the real father’s. And since Gotham courts don’t do DNA tests without permission from both parents… that guy got screwed out of custody."

Jason clenched his jaw, "And now they’re trying to find me because I’m on record as the dad."

Tim squinted at the file, then choked.

Jason looked at him warily, "...What?"

Tim covered his mouth, trying so hard not to laugh, "There's a comments section."

Jason leaned over his shoulder, eyes scanning the document. Then he saw it.

Additional Comments: "He kept the helmet on the whole time."

The Cave went dead silent.

Jason stared. Tim bit his lip. Dick was turning red trying not to lose it.

Then—

Tim wheezed.

Dick howled.

Jason smacked his forehead against the Batcomputer, "I hate everything."

He then exhaled sharply, cutting off his mental breakdown before muttering, "Okay. Fine. I’ll go find the mother and figure this out."

Dick snickered, "Tell Aria Daddy’s coming home."

Jason threw a batarang at him.

***

"Hi, honey, I'm home."

The distorted, robotic voice from his helmet made you freeze in place. Your pulse thundered in your ears, dread settling like a stone in your stomach. You knew exactly why the Red Hood was in your apartment.

You turned slowly, keeping your hands in sight as if that would make a difference, "Please, don't. My daughter is in the next room. She only has me."

"Don't you mean our daughter?" He bit out, sarcasm cutting through the voice modulator.

Despite whatever anger he held toward you, he hesitated, feeling pity. You must have looked terrified.

"I'm not here to hurt you," He said after a beat, "I just want an explanation."

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay calm, "Her father is an asshole. I couldn’t let him have any rights over her, so I wrote your name down on all her documents. Gotham has no way of verifying, so they just had to take my word for it."

You met his gaze, your voice steady despite the situation, "I’m sorry if I made things complicated for you, but this was the only way I knew to keep his hands off her."

Jason exhaled sharply, shifting his weight, "How long did you think this would go unnoticed?"

You hesitated before answering, "Well… 'our' daughter turned five last month, so I figured you weren't going to find out anytime soon. Guess I was wrong."

You knew of Red Hood. You knew what he stood for. No matter what, he would never hurt a child. Ever. And if the rumors about him were true, then he would realize that you had only been acting in Aria’s best interest.

He studied you, the lenses of his helmet unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his scrutiny. This was an invasion of privacy—probably illegal, even—but instead of anger, he seemed... intrigued. You weren’t what he expected. You were clever, maybe even reckless, but clearly devoted to your daughter.

And—if he was being honest—pretty. Definitely pretty.

"Why me?" He finally asked, "Why not any of the other Bats?"

You shrugged, "Of all of them, you seemed like the least likely for civil court to track down." That much was true—any time someone tried to drag Red Hood into Gotham’s legal system, he either ignored it or laughed in their face before firing a warning shot.

"You're also the scariest, aside from Batman. And I didn’t want him getting any ideas about recruiting Aria for his next child vigilante project once Robin retires again." You smirked, "Lastly, having a baby daddy without a no-kill rule seemed like a great way to keep that deadbeat asshole far, far away from us."

Jason flat-out laughed at that. The sound, even through the voice modulator, carried warmth.

"You make an excellent argument," He admitted.

You relaxed slightly, "I am sorry. If I knew it was going to bother you, I never would have done it."

He shrugged, completely unbothered, "Doesn’t bother me. You were doing right by your kid. I can respect that."

Relief washed over you, and you smiled. You didn’t push the conversation further—if he wanted to be taken off her documents, he’d ask.

Instead, he surprised you.

"Can I meet her?"

Your breath caught, "Who? Aria?"

"I mean, legally, she’s my kid, right? That means I have visitation rights."

Apprehension prickled at the edges of your mind. Had you just swapped out one danger for another? You had gone to great lengths to keep Aria safe from one man—had you unknowingly invited another into her life?

Jason seemed to sense your hesitation. "You can say no," He said, almost gently, "But I just found out I have a daughter today. I’d like to meet the girl who made you pull a stunt this reckless and brave."

You could say no. You probably should say no.

And yet, as you looked at the masked man standing in your too-small living room, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

"...Okay," You said at last, "But you might want to take off the mask. She scares easy."

Jason chuckled, low and amused. You half-expected him to refuse, to make some offhanded comment before declining the invitation and leaving, but instead, you heard the soft click as he unlocked his helmet and pulled it off.

Dark, slightly messy hair with a single white streak. Stormy blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones and full lips.

"Wow," You breathed before you could stop yourself.

He raised a brow.

You cleared your throat, cheeks warming, "I can see where our daughter gets her good looks from."

Jason snorted, shaking his head.

"Aria, honey!" You called, turning toward her room, "Come out for a second, please!"

The door creaked open, followed by the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet. Aria emerged in a pink tutu, a plastic wand in her hands, and a sparkly tiara perched on her head.

She blinked up at Jason with wide, curious eyes.

"This is Mommy’s friend, Red Hood," You told her, "He wanted to say hi."

Aria beamed, "Hi, Mr. Hood!" She grabbed the edges of her tutu and curtsied, just like the princesses in her favorite cartoons.

You glanced at Jason. His expression had softened, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. For a man who had probably seen the worst the world had to offer, he looked completely in awe.

Jason, the Red Hood—the most terrifying name in Gotham’s underworld—cleared his throat, gripping his helmet a little tighter.

"Uh. Hi there." He said, voice definitely shaking.

You bit your lip, looking down to hide your smile.

This huge crime lord, who had probably seen more murders tonight than you had in your entire life, was nervous talking to a five-year-old.

Aria giggled, "You talk funny."

Jason blinked, "I do?"

She nodded, "Your voice is all rumbly! Like Batman!"

Jason made a very undignified sound, "I am nothing like Batman, princess."

Aria gasped dramatically, "You know Batman?!"

***

Jason didn’t know exactly how he ended up in this position.

After that first meeting with Aria, he’d been more than ready to let you both get back to your lives. You had only put his name down as Aria's father to scare off her real father; he had no place here.

And yet.

When he found himself alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling, or in the rare moments of silence while working on cars, his mind drifted. He’d think about Aria—her wide, innocent eyes staring up at him, the way she had curtsied like a damn princess, completely unafraid of the man Gotham whispered about in fear.

An unfamiliar squeeze tugged at his heart.

He had a daughter.

And the more he thought about her, the more he wanted to protect her—to keep that innocence untouched, to make sure she was safe and happy. He wanted to be a father.

Then, inevitably, his thoughts turned to you.

You hadn't spoken for long, but somehow, you’d managed to stick in his mind. Despite it being the end of the day, exhaustion tugging at you, there had been a light in your eyes—something warm, something alive. He found himself drawn to it.

The confidence in your posture, the way you had no trouble meeting his eyes, the sheer sass you had thrown his way despite knowing exactly who he was. And above all, the love and protectiveness you had for Aria.

You were nothing like anyone he had ever met before.

A couple of days later, he found himself knocking at your door again.

He had told himself it was just to check on Aria after a Joker attack. That was reasonable, right? He had to make sure she was safe. That’s all it was.

You had offered him dinner. He declined.

Then, a couple of days after that, he found himself there again—this time after a Poison Ivy incident.

You offered him dinner again.

This time, he obliged.

That night, he sat at your dinner table with you and Aria, listening as she excitedly told him about school. He learned about your job, about the little details of your life, and—much to his amusement—was introduced to what Aria called the greatest meal in the entire world.

Hello Kitty-shaped pasta.

He raised a brow at you.

You shrugged, "It’s expensive, but it makes her happy."

Jason huffed a small laugh, "What’s the special occasion?"

Aria beamed, practically vibrating in her seat.

"I got made line leader today!" She announced proudly.

You glanced at her with a mix of amusement and pride, eyes warm, "It’s a big deal."

Jason turned to Aria, his chest tightening at the way she puffed herself up with pride. Without thinking, he reached out and ruffled her hair like it was second nature.

"Good job, princess," He murmured.

Her entire face lit up.

And just like that, Jason Todd was done for.

It had been two months since Jason first met the both of you, and now, sitting at the dinner table, he was experiencing his first real parental crisis.

It was obvious that Aria was in a bad mood.

She barely touched her food, half-heartedly pushing it around her plate. Even when you suggested ordering takeout—usually a foolproof way to lift her spirits—she just shook her head. You and Jason exchanged a concerned glance over her head.

Something was clearly wrong.

You sighed, resigning yourself to the hope that she’d tell you before bed or at least over breakfast tomorrow.

"I'm just gonna go take a shower, do you mind?" You asked, gesturing toward Aria.

Jason didn’t hesitate before nodding.

You smiled gratefully, pressing a kiss to Aria’s crown before leaning over and doing the same to Jason.

A month ago, that would’ve made him jump out of his skin. Now, after two months of shared dinners—some planned, others happening more naturally—he only sat there, heart racing in his chest, pretending that wasn’t the highlight of his day.

When he heard the shower turn on, he turned to Aria with a mischievous grin.

"Okay, Mom’s in the shower. What do you say to ice cream for dinner?"

Jason liked to pretend you had no idea whenever he and Aria snuck ice cream together. But ever since he convinced you to let him make homemade ice cream with protein shakes and sneaky healthy ingredients, you had stopped putting up much of a fight. Besides, he wasn’t exactly subtle. If he didn’t outright tell you, the dirty dishes in the sink were more than enough of a giveaway.

More than anything, though, he just wanted Aria to eat something.

But tonight, instead of the excited little gasp she usually gave, Aria just frowned.

"Mommy doesn’t like that."

"Princess," He said more gently, shifting in his seat, "is something wrong? You love ice cream. And Mom made one of your favorites tonight, but you’re not eating, and…" His voice softened, "That makes me sad."

Aria hesitated for a few seconds before pushing her plate away and sliding off her chair. Jason tensed, heart thudding slightly faster. Shit, did I upset her? Is she about to cry?

But she didn’t.

Instead, she ran off, returning moments later with her pink Barbie backpack. She unzipped it and rifled through its contents before pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of paper and handing it to him.

Jason smoothed the paper out.

And felt his stomach drop.

Daddy-Daughter Day!

"My teacher told us to give it to our parents," Aria said quietly, her lip trembling, "So our daddies can come visit one day."

She fidgeted, looking down at her hands.

"But… I don’t have a daddy."

And just like that, Jason Todd’s heart broke in two.

***

When you came out of the shower, towel-drying your hair and now dressed in your pajamas, you immediately looked around for Aria.

"She didn’t really want to eat, so I just put her to bed," Jason informed you.

You sighed, sinking into a chair at the dining table, "Do you think I should call her teacher tomorrow and ask if something happened? Maybe someone was being mean to her at school?"

Wordlessly, Jason slid a folded piece of paper across the table toward you. You furrowed your brows and picked it up, unfolding it to read.

Your face immediately darkened.

"This can’t be right!" You hissed, voice sharp with anger. "I thought schools had outfashioned practices like this! What happened to inclusivity and all that crap? What about kids with two moms? Or no parents at all? I’m calling up the school. I’m gonna be a full-blown Karen. I’m gonna—"

"(Y/N)—"

"No, Jason, this isn’t okay!"

Despite your fury, you kept your voice down for Aria’s sake. Jason wasn’t sure if you were about to explode or just strain your vocal cords with your whispered screams. But then, just as suddenly as your anger had flared, you seemed to fizzle out.

You slumped back into your chair, rubbing your face with trembling hands.

"I’ve done everything I can to make sure Aria never feels the absence of a father," You murmured.

"I’ve tried. I’ve—" Your voice cracked.

You let out a shaky breath and shielded your face with your hands, "My poor baby. I can’t believe she held onto this all day without telling me."

Jason think twice before he pulled you into his arms, letting you rest your head against his neck as you composed yourself.

After a moment, he spoke, "Look, I know it might not be the same, but… I was thinking. What if I attended the event with Aria?"

You stiffened, then slowly pulled back, meeting his eyes. Your expression wasn’t hopeful—it was guarded.

Jason’s stomach soured.

"Jay, I know we’ve been having a good time lately, but you can’t do that to Aria," You said, shaking your head, "If you go to this event as her dad, she’s going to see you as that. And you can’t—you can’t do that to her."

Jason swallowed hard. His voice was quieter when he asked, "What if I wanted to? To be seen as her dad? Would that really be so terrible?"

You didn’t answer.

You just stood up from the table and walked away.

Jason almost would have laughed at how much you resembled Aria in that moment if he didn't feel his stomach sinking to his feet.

But just like Aria, you also came back.

Clutched in your hands was a camera. You placed it in front of him, watching as he stared at you with unsure eyes.

"I record all of Aria’s school events," You said softly. "Don’t miss a second of it."

Jason blinked. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

Before you could react, he grabbed you and twirled you around the kitchen.

You let out a surprised squeal before bursting into giggles, clinging onto his shoulders. But then, realization hit.

You were definitely not wearing a bra.

Your giggles faded, and Jason froze as well, both of you suddenly very aware of how close you were. You stared at each other, identical blushes creeping up your cheeks.

You cleared your throat.

"You can—um—you can put me down now."

***

It was almost comical how small the classroom was.

Jason had to duck his head to step inside, barely squeezing through the low doorframe. The room was packed—about fifteen other dads crammed into tiny plastic chairs that looked like they could barely support one ass cheek. Jason didn’t even bother trying. Instead, he just lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs as he settled in.

The dads around him nodded politely as they all waited for the teachers to finish setting up and taking attendance.

"I don’t think I’ve seen you around before," A man beside him said, shifting his son in his lap, "I’m David."

"Jason," He replied, shaking his hand with a firm but polite grip.

"This is Harry," David continued, gesturing to the little boy who peeked up at Jason shyly before quickly burying his face in his dad’s shirt. Jason chuckled.

"So, which one’s yours?"

Jason glanced across the room, "Over there, in the book corner."

David followed his gaze. In the far corner, a little girl in denim dungarees rifled through a stack of picture books with a very serious expression, clearly determined to find a specific one. Jason had picked out her outfit today—he’d even let her wear the tiara she refused to take off, despite your insistence that it was an inside toy.

No doubt, she was making a mess that her poor teacher would have to clean up later.

David frowned, "Who?"

"The one with the tiara," Jason said.

David's confusion deepened, "Aria?"

Jason’s brows furrowed, "Yeah."

"Aria (L/N)?"

"Yes."

David blinked, "I—I didn’t know you were—I thought (Y/N) was single."

Jason’s expression darkened. A phantom of a scowl flickered across his face before he forced himself to relax. He wasn’t about to scare off the other parents at an event that was supposed to be important for Aria.

"She isn’t," He said simply.

David paled, "Oh. Uh—sorry." He quickly bowed his head, clearly embarrassed.

Jason smirked, barely hiding his haughty attitude. So what if he told a little white lie? It wouldn’t do any harm for Dave—or Dan, or whatever his name was—to keep his sights off you.

Really, you deserved better than some average, boring guy who probably filed his taxes early and grilled chicken without seasoning. Someone like that wouldn’t know how to handle you. He wouldn’t know how to make you laugh when you were stressed, wouldn’t know how to handle your sass, wouldn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.

No, you needed someone confident. Someone strong. Someone who could protect you and Aria. Someone with a soft side, sure, but also someone who wasn’t afraid to fight for you. Someone who would go to hell and back if it meant keeping you both safe.

Someone like…

Oh.

Jason's smirk faltered for half a second before he recovered, clearing his throat and forcing himself to focus on Aria, who was still knee-deep in her book hunt.

Well. That was something to unpack later.

***

"Now, all together, everyone! On the count of three—one, two, three!" the teacher announced cheerfully.

A chorus of tiny voices rang out.

"I love you, Dad!"

It was loud, chaotic, a jumble of high-pitched shouts that somehow blended into something warm and sweet. Parents chuckled, kids giggled, the room filled with laughter and joy.

But Jason’s heart sank.

While the other kids beamed up at their fathers, Aria clutched the handmade card in tight fists, her knuckles white. She kept her head down, lip wobbling, shoulders trembling as she struggled to say the words.

Jason knelt in front of her, his heart twisting. God, she’s so small. Both of her tiny hands barely covered his palm as he gently took them in his own.

"You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to, Aria," He told her softly, "I’m not going to force you to do anything. Just know that I love you very much, princess. That’s enough for me."

She finally looked up at him, somehow seeming even smaller despite the fact that he was kneeling. Her big, glassy doe eyes searched his face.

"You really love me?" She asked in the quietest whisper.

"More than anything, baby."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, before he could think about the weight they carried. About what it might mean for a little girl who had spent her whole life without a father.

For a moment, she just stared at him. Jason barely had time to register the emotion in her eyes before she launched herself at him, tiny arms wrapping tightly around his neck. She burrowed against him, her small frame pressing against his chest as she whispered into his ear—

"I love you, Daddy."

Jason felt his breath catch in his throat.

Oh. Oh.

He squeezed her tighter, pressing his face into her soft curls, "I love you too, princess," He murmured, voice thick with something he wasn’t ready to name.

And for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd felt like he belonged.

***

Aria had been absolutely beaming after Daddy-Daughter Day, her excitement carrying her through the evening—especially since Jason had taken her to the park afterward. She had barely managed to get through telling you about her day, slurring her words sleepily as you tucked her into bed.

You pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, smoothing down her hair before stepping away, only to find Jason waiting for you in the doorway.

You smiled at him, reaching for his hand and leading him back to the living room. Without a word, you poured him a glass of wine, knowing that, even though he wouldn’t admit it, the day at her kindergarten had probably exhausted him. The proof was in the way he let out an almost comically heavy sigh the second he sank onto the couch.

You settled beside him, resting your head on his shoulder like it belonged there, both of you staring at the very much off television in comfortable silence.

“She has a lot of energy, doesn’t she?” You murmured, amused.

Jason huffed out a laugh, “Yeah. I like to think I’m somewhat athletic, but Aria put me to shame today.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly to look up at him, “Thanks for going today. It meant a lot to her. And to me, too.”

There was a beat of silence before Jason reached for your hand, his fingers threading through yours like second nature. His grip was warm, grounding.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

***

Living in Gotham, you considered yourself one of the lucky ones.

Sure, you weren’t immune to the constant calamities that plagued the city, but you had managed to avoid being caught in the worst of them. Your bank had never been robbed while you were there. You had never been held hostage. You were one of the few people left who had never fallen victim to Joker venom.

Sure, your house had been broken into before—before Aria—but you were never home when it happened.

Really, you should’ve known your luck was going to run out eventually.

You had gotten too comfortable with Jason’s late-night visits, so when the knock came at your door, you didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t check the peephole. You didn’t ask who it was. You just…opened it.

Rookie mistake.

The man standing on the other side was a stranger. Tall. Built. And he made no effort to conceal the gun in his pocket.

Your blood went cold.

A smirk curled at his lips, sending goosebumps crawling up your skin. Your throat tightened.

“Hello, sweetheart. Did your baby daddy stop by?”

Your voice barely came out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man tsked, stepping forward, making you instinctively press yourself against the doorframe.

“Now, now. Don’t lie,” He murmured, “It won’t end well for you—or the little runt back there.”

Your heart stopped.

Aria.

Terror clawed at your chest, your breath shuddering. Tears burned your eyes.

“Please,” You whispered, “Don’t hurt her. She’s just a child.”

“The child of the infamous Red Hood.” He tilted his head mockingly, “You can’t possibly think that means nothing.”

You shook your head violently, “She doesn’t know anything. I don’t know anything. Please.”

Your hands were iron on the doorknob, but it meant nothing.

With a single sharp shove, he flung the door open.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

***

Jason had been having a good night.

He had just finished his patrol and was on his way to your place, eager to see you and Aria. Maybe he’d bring her some hot chocolate, tuck her into bed, and spend the rest of the night with you, pretending—for just a little while—that the world outside didn’t exist.

Then he saw the door.

Wide open.

His blood ran cold.

Jason didn’t think—he moved. Gun drawn, he stormed inside, heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal. The second he stepped into the apartment, his stomach dropped.

The place was trashed.

Aria’s toys were scattered across the floor, your coffee table overturned, and the framed pictures on the wall had been knocked down, the glass shattered.

There had been a struggle.

Jason’s throat tightened as his eyes landed on a streak of blood smeared across the hardwood floor.

His world tilted.

No. No, no, no, NO.

His hands shook, but his grip on his gun only tightened. His pulse was pounding in his ears, deafening, drowning out everything but the rage that ignited in his chest like an explosion.

His vision blurred with fury.

Someone took you. Someone took Aria.

His family.

Jason turned sharply and stormed out of the apartment, his movements lethal and precise. He going to hunt down the bastards who thought they could take his girls and live to tell the tale.

They were going to pay.

***

"I need you to find two missing people."

That was the first thing out of Jason’s mouth the second he entered the cave. His urgency didn’t seem apparent enough to anyone, judging by the way Dick and Bruce didn’t even look up from sparring.

Tim, who didn’t bother glancing away from the Batcomputer, simply asked, “Who?”

“(Y/N) and Aria (L/N).”

At this, Dick perked up, “Your fake baby mama and kid? She might not be missing, Little Wing. Maybe she’s just at Superman’s baby shower.”

Dick wasn’t expecting boisterous laughter, but at least a huff of breath or a chuckle would have been appreciated. Instead, he suddenly found himself grabbed by the collar, yanked forward until he was forced to look Jason in the eye.

Jason’s expression was thunderous—fury on the surface, but something even more unsettling lurked underneath.

“The mother of my child and my daughter are missing, and you want to make jokes?”

Dick raised a brow, forcing himself to stay calm, “I thought you didn’t know them?”

Jason’s grip tightened for a second before he let go, stepping back. His voice was low, unwavering.

“I do now.”

***

The world felt like it was spinning in slow motion. Every breath was a struggle, your head pounding from the blow you’d taken earlier, your body screaming in pain with every movement. You tried to focus, tried to tell yourself it was going to be okay—that Aria was okay—but you weren’t okay.

You had been firm in your resolve, refusing to reveal anything about the Red Hood, willing to die on the hill that you knew nothing. But you didn’t know how much longer you could keep it up. So far, they had only hurt you—because when they had turned to Aria, demanding answers, she had wailed and sobbed until she peed herself. The memory made tears well in your eyes.

Your poor girl might walk out of this untouched, but she wouldn’t leave unscathed. This would haunt her for years to come.

And you knew—the second they turned back toward her, the second they so much as raised a hand in her direction—you would break. It didn’t matter how much you loved Jason. You couldn’t, wouldn’t, ever put anyone above Aria’s safety.

Her terrified little eyes stayed locked on you, watching as a trail of blood ran down the side of your face.

Then the door slammed open.

The sound echoed in the empty space, sharp and deafening. Your body tensed, your breath catching in your throat. The man holding you captive turned toward the entrance, a sneer curling his lips.

“Well, well,” He drawled, his voice sickeningly amused. “Looks like Daddy's finally joined us for the party.”

Your heart leaped in your chest. But you couldn’t show it. Not when Aria was still in danger.

With the momentary distraction, she crawled into your lap, and despite the blinding pain searing through your body, you pulled her in. She trembled against you, clutching onto you as if her life depended on it—and in a way, it did. You shielded her, wrapping your arms around her tiny frame, covering her eyes with your bloody hand.

You whispered sweet nothings into her ear, pressing weak kisses to her temple, hoping—praying—that it would be enough to comfort her.

Then came the first gunshot.

You didn’t dare look. You knew what was happening. You could hear it in the crack of bone, the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor, the sharp gasps of dying men. Jason was swift. Merciless. Tearing through the people who had dared to lay a hand on you and his daughter.

He was here.

He was going to save you.

Another body collapsed nearby, and your breath hitched. You felt yourself slipping, your limbs numb, your eyelids growing heavier by the second.

Then, his voice cut through the haze—low and desperate, but still gentle.

“Sweetheart?”

You wanted to look up at him, to reach for him, but your body was betraying you. Your vision blurred, the pain making it impossible to move.

His hand cupped your face, his warmth seeping into your skin, grounding you. You tried to focus on that, tried to hold on.

“Talk to me, baby,” He murmured, his voice tight with worry.

But you couldn’t. You could barely breathe. The only thing keeping you tethered to consciousness was the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder—the scent of Jason, of safety, of home.

You felt him shift, carefully lifting you into his arms, cradling you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You instinctively leaned into him, letting his presence surround you.

Aria clung to him just as tightly, her tiny voice muffled against his chest.

“Daddy!”

Despite everything, despite the agony consuming your body, your heart swelled at hearing her call him that. When had she started calling him Dad?

Then Jason’s fingers brushed against your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. His voice was softer now, almost breaking.

“Stay with me, sweetheart.”

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his—those intense, unwavering blue eyes that had pinned you to your place the first time you had met in your apartment.

That day you had been apprehensive at best when he had asked to meet Aria, second guessing every choice you made but in the end choosing to follow your gut when it said it had a good feeling about him.

Now, you were sure of it.

“Jason,” You rasped, barely above a whisper. His head snapped down toward you instantly, his grip tightening as if he were afraid you might slip through his fingers.

“I need you to promise me something,” You murmured, your breath shallow, your chest tight.

His brows furrowed. “Anything,” He said, but the hesitance in his voice told you he already knew where this was going.

“I need you to promise…” You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to keep going, “If something happens to me… you’ll take care of Aria. Promise me, Jay.”

He froze.

For the first time since he’d stormed in, tearing through your captors like an avenging angel, he looked terrified.

His lips parted, but no words came out. You could see the battle raging inside him—the part of him that refused to believe he could lose you and the part that was too afraid not to make that promise.

“Don’t you dare say that,” He finally whispered, voice trembling, “I’m not losing you. I won’t—”

“Promise me,” You urged. You barely had the strength to grip his jacket, but you pulled weakly at the fabric anyway, needing him to understand.

His eyes glistened with unshed tears, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. But he wasn’t crying. Not yet.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he swallowed hard and nodded.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” He swore, his voice breaking. “I won’t let her grow up without you. I promise.”

The relief that washed over you was instant. Even as your vision darkened at the edges, even as your body started to give out, you felt… safe. At peace.

With your last burst of strength, you reached for Aria’s tiny hand, wrapping it in your weak grasp. You gave her a faint squeeze, managing the smallest of smiles.

“I love you,” You whispered, barely loud enough to be heard, “Both of you.”

Jason's breath hitched. His grip around you tightened, as if he could physically keep you here, tethered to him, to Aria, to the life he couldn't bear to lose.

“No, no, sweetheart—stay with me," He pleaded, his voice cracking, raw with panic. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, "You don’t get to say that like it’s the last time. You don’t—Please (Y/N)—" His voice broke completely, and for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd was afraid.

Because he knew what loss felt like. Knew it too well.

And he couldn't—wouldn't—survive losing you too.

Aria let out a whimper, squeezing your fingers with her tiny hand. "Mommy?" Her voice was so small, so scared, and it shattered something inside him.

He shifted you in his arms, holding you closer, keeping you upright even though your body was limp.

“I love you too, sweetheart," he whispered, but the words felt hollow, like a plea rather than a promise.

Aria began to sob loudly, little hands grabbing at your sleeve, trying to shake you awake, “Mommy, wake up! Please!”

Her wails were raw, desperate, but Jason had to hold her back, had to keep her from accidentally hurting you any further. His grip on her was gentle but firm, even as his own body trembled with barely restrained terror.

He buried his face in her hair, biting back the sob threatening to claw its way out of his throat. He held you tighter, as if he could physically keep your soul tethered to him, as if just holding you close would stop the light from fading from your eyes.

He had never felt this helpless.

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, the man who had clawed his way back from the grave, who had survived horrors most people couldn’t even imagine—he was useless when it mattered most.

He was holding the broken pieces of this family.

A family that had been good, that had been safe before he came into the picture. A family that had welcomed him with open arms, treated him as though he had never been missing in the first place.

And what had he done in return?

He had ruined it.

He had brought his war, his bloodstained hands, his cursed existence into your lives, and now you were paying the price for it.

If he had never been selfish enough to stay, to want this, to think—even for a second—that he could have something good, that he could deserve you, this never would have happened.

This was his fault.

It was always his fault.

His mother’s betrayal. His death. His resurrection. The people he killed. The people he couldn’t save.

And now you.

Jason clenched his jaw, his breath coming out in ragged, uneven gasps. His heart slammed against his ribs as guilt and fury warred inside him. His hands, hands that had broken men, hands that had torn Gotham’s underworld apart, could do nothing but hold onto the only two people in the world who had ever made him feel like he was worth something.

But what was he worth now?

What good was he if he couldn’t even protect the people he loved?

Jason let out a shaking breath, pressing a kiss to Aria’s head, squeezing his eyes shut as he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

He never should have stayed.

***

Jason kept his head down as he exited your hospital room, feeling his heart break under the weight of his own resolve—to stay away from both of you.

He spotted his father waiting at the reception, handling the paperwork and payment. As much as Jason felt like the lowest he had ever been and didn’t want anyone to see him like this, he was a little relieved. At least Bruce was here. At least he could leave knowing you were taken care of. He could go home, lock himself in his apartment, and spend the next few weeks trying to forget you. Trying to convince himself that he had been an idiot for ever thinking he had a place in your family.

Because thanks to him, your family had almost been destroyed.

With his head down, he walked up to Bruce, hands stuffed in his pockets. His father gave him a sympathetic pat on the back, but Jason didn’t want to talk. If he opened his mouth now, if he let himself breathe wrong, he knew the lump in his throat would break, and the tears would come pouring out.

"Daddy!"

The sound of Aria’s voice snapped his head up just in time for her to crash into him, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck in a desperate grip. Before he could even think, he was holding her, hugging her tight, feeling her little body shake.

"Daddy, don’t leave! Mommy and I need you! Please don’t go!"

Jason looked at her tear-streaked face and felt something deep inside himself crack. He beat himself up for even considering walking away. How could he? How could he leave while you were still lying in a hospital bed? How could he abandon Aria when she needed him most?

His baby girl.

She needed him. And the truth was—he needed her just as much. He needed both of you.

Right then and there, he made a promise to himself. He would protect you both more than anything. He would love you both more than anything. And he would stop at nothing to make sure you were happy and safe.

Pressing his nose against Aria’s wet cheek, he kissed away her tears, "I’m not going anywhere, princess. Daddy’s not going anywhere."

He stole a glance at Bruce, who gave him a small smile and a nod. With a steadier heart, he carried Aria back to your hospital room.

The second she saw you, Aria gasped, "Mommy!"

You gave Jason a tired smile from your place on the bed, the cut on your lip making it painful to do so, but you still reached out for his hand.

"I thought you would’ve left, wallowing in your guilt. Your masochistic streak and all that," You teased softly.

Jason let out a shaky breath, giving you a glassy-eyed smile before pressing another kiss to Aria’s temple.

"Our girl knows how to keep me grounded."

You grinned at that, exhaustion clear in your features but warmth shining in your eyes.

"She’s her father’s daughter, alright."

***

State of New Jersey Department of Family and Child Services Official Adoption Certificate

This document certifies that on 17/03/2025, Jason Peter Todd has legally adopted Aria (L/N), hereafter known as Aria Todd, and is recognized as her father with all parental rights and responsibilities.

Adoptive Parent: Jason Peter Todd Child’s Name (Amended): Aria Todd Birth Mother: (Y/N) Todd Previous Father Listed: Red Hood (Alias) — Amended

Additional Comments: "I’m not the stepdad. I’m the dad who stepped up." — Jason Todd

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

DC Taglist:

@tchatso

@p--e--a--c--h--e--s

@sometimeseverythingsucks

@sokkas-honour

@unstable1902

@lostgirlheart

@missdisapear

@tadpole-san

@isawachickeninatree

@uxavity

@battlenix

@capricorn-stark

@evermoore580

@dumbbitchgalore

@fuckingjinkies

@some-lovely-day

@that-one-fangirl69

@el-hrts

2K notes · View notes

pesura · 2 years ago

Audio

ep stream: Peverelist - Pulse Modulation EP (Livity Sound, 2023)

#peverelist #pulse modulation #minimal #techno #bass #ep stream #livity sound #bristol

0 notes

basementcoffee · 10 days ago

Text

underdog / chapter 1 ghost x f!reader / cyberpunk au / masterlist

cw: extremely dubious consent, power imbalance, alcohol, reader is in over her head, antagonistic ghost, everyone has ulterior motives, liberties taken with the cyberpunk 2077 lore/universe - full tags in masterlist

Stars flare above the crown of your head.

The bottle in your hands sweats beneath the heat, condensation running in rivulets over your fingers as you hoist it high. The show dazzles the men crammed into the sticky booth, the light scattering across their sweat-glossed skin and the dark, thumping walls. The arms unoccupied by dates welcome you into the mix.

Their ringleader, a man in green, beckons with the click of his tongue. You tuck yourself between his spread legs and perch passerine on the edge of the low table. He leans in to get a better look, and you meet his gaze with an obliging smile as he presses a glass into your hand.

You chat. You entertain. His hand finds your knee, and you let it sit. You laugh at all of his jokes and nod when he rambles on about securities. It’s all part of the game: constructed intimacy, scaffolded by clever flirting and veiled detachment. Roleplay.

Everyone knows why they are here. It’s another night at Prism.

You get a name. Win. Short for Winston, as though that should mean something. The smile plastered to your face holds, miracle of miracles. Corny nickname aside, he’s not terrible company. A smooth-talker, sure, but you’ve endured worse. An hour passes, and somewhere between bottles three and four, he draws out the shorthand of your life story.

It’s the same tired song every transplant sings: a kid from a struggling town runs away to Night City with no backup plan. Men with money love an underdog.

When he asks what you ran for, you brace for condescension: fame and fortune. Cliché. Naïve. You rattle off your meager resume of adverts on vending machine and elevator screens, and a demo reel stitched from a handful of microbudget horror films. Painful dialogue and dated effects, but you scream like hell and look good doing it. And, being devoid of all extraneous cyberware, you’re a novelty on sets. It’s your thing. It makes directors want to cut you up.

That gets a grin.

“So you’re all natural?”

What a line.

You smile, aiming for sultry, and sweep the backs of your nails up the chrome along his jaw. You push a stray lock of hair behind his ear, quip ready—

—and a massive gloved hand snatches yours in a painful grip.

You yelp, hauled to your feet with such alarming ease it’s as though you float to the toes of your high heels. The rest of the arm seemingly materializes from shadow, and a body follows.

Big.

It speaks, low-pitched and slightly modulated. Two words scrape the air.

“That’s enough.”

A pale, hulking man looms. A brutal silhouette swathed in clothes whose tailoring can’t even hide the reinforced bulk of his frame. An expressionless, matte-black mask sculpts tightly around the lower half of his face, and above it, a thick, lowered brow hangs like a mantle over a pair of dark, depthless eyes tinged red.

Head razored down to the skin, a nasty scar rides along his hairline—a fleshy welt that begins near a temple and arcs around the skull’s curve like a failed autopsy. Crude, stapled shut with dermal rivets. A network of thin wires disappearing into ports behind his ear and snaking beneath his collar.

He squeezes. An invisible choke chain demanding your wandering focus. His optics contract, and an iridescent eyeshine shimmers for the briefest instant.

Violation pulses in your gut.

Win rises to his feet. “Hey, Ghost–”

“Do we have a problem?” Irina’s rasp purrs like a revving engine in your ear. There’s well over a foot of height between her and this Ghost.

Win grabs Ghost’s wrist, and you inhale sharply the speed at which his eyes snap to the offending appendage. He glares at the ringed fingers as if they’re slathered in shit.

“C’mon, buddy. Be friendly.” Win chuckles nervously, oblivious. “Sorry about that. Bodyguard. A mite overprotective.”

You snatch your wrist back once the shackle on it loosens, and gently rub. Bodyguard. Between his build and his spendthrift employer, he’s probably packed with implants. Probably could’ve pulverized every bone in your hand. That alone makes you a little dizzy.

Irina herds you with the crook of her arm. “Excuse us.”

You resist instinctually, chin tilting to catch her ear, “Our tips?” You can’t afford to forfeit an enny.

“Don’t worry. Go ice that, and tell Mal.”

At the booth’s edge, she pats you on the ass with a wink. There’s no arguing.

You glance back at the edge of VIP. Win’s shoulders quake mid-tirade, laying into his bodyguard, but Ghost’s not paying attention. His gaze is locked on you. Sweeping down and up in study.

Creep.

Finding your overworked manager is a chore. You wade through bodies in stinking, perfumed air, fastening a cryopatch to your wrist with a pair of nylons as you go. It’s worth the hassle, though, Mal barely blinks before slapping a service surcharge onto the tab, no questions asked.

A cigarette’s clamped between your lips when Irina finds you in the alley. She kisses your cheek, then your wrist. The tenderness is a balm. Short of a housemother, more akin to an older sister. She’s been where you are.

“Your friend asked for you. Says he wants to tip you himself.”

You snort. “Of course he does.”

“Mm, he gave me a stack. Imagine what he has for you, pretty girl.”

Your neck cracks from the speed at which you turn, searching for the joke.

“You’re serious.”

“I would never lie to you.”

Her soft laughter chases you indoors. You slow as you return to the main floor, not wanting to appear too desperate. Irina didn’t even speak to Win aside from rescuing you from his brute. You spoke to him. Touched and fawned over him. If he wants to apologize by paying your bills for a month, who are you to protest?

The booth’s quieter, thinned out. Most men have migrated to the rail to survey the crowd writhe below. Win clocks your approach, his money clip gleaming like bait on a hook. You check the corners. Ghost is gone.

Win stands with a lacquered smile. “So, she found you. I was hoping you didn’t bolt.”

Not with a month’s rent possibly on offer. “Of course not.”

“Brave. Ghost’s intense. Wouldn’t be the first girl to run.”

You’ve met your share of monsters. Been chased by them on camera, for money or exposure. “I don’t scare easy.”

Win’s tongue glides over his teeth, and he thumbs through the wad of cash. Your pulse jumps in your throat. Eyes up, like the money isn’t there at all.

“Maybe I’ll have to replace him,” he muses. “Half his job is being scary.”

With the watchdog gone, you walk your fingers up Win’s arm and squeeze his bicep. “Let’s not talk about him,” you murmur. “Let’s toast to you. One more round. My treat.”

He tilts his head at that, smile tightening. For a second, your stomach knots—you’ve misstepped.

“Oh, babe, you really don’t know who I am, do you?”

His fingers close around the money.

Fuck.

You scan him again. His hair. The suit. The rings.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he winks. “The name ‘Goforth’ ring a bell?”

Double fuck.

Goforth. As in, The Goforth Agency.

The agency behind half of Night City’s elite—icons, influencers, politicians, idols. They don’t merely build careers—they launch them into orbit. They pluck hopefuls from anonymity and remake them into household names. Manufacture stars the way All Foods cultures meat. Their reach is long, their clients and business spotless. At least, on the surface.

Beneath that veneer? The rumors are endless. Blackmail. Extortion. Trafficking. Murder. The kind of power that doesn’t just protect its assets, but erases threats wholesale.

Any family with that many zeroes to their name has their fingers in unsavory pies, and you’ve been flirting with an apparent scion.

All your flirty bravado dissolves as realization washes over you. He’s not some run-of-the-mill spoiled kid spending daddy’s money. He’s pedigree. Legacy. Stands so tall because there’s a pile of bodies beneath his feet courtesy of his family.

“Does it?” he repeats.

You nod.

“Tongue-tied, baby?”

You force a breath, light-headed, bubbly with panic and too much cheap champagne. “I had no idea.”

He chuckles. “I see that. Well, I don’t advertise it. Don’t want to attract the wrong type of attention, you know?”

Your smile wavers. Yeah, you fucking know.

It really makes sense now, why his huscle’s a chromed-out, hand-crushing titan.

“That’s why you have Ghost.”

The money finally slips into your palm.

“Exactly. Everyone wants a piece once you’re worth something.”

After a shared smoke and no small amount of cajoling on his part, you flick him your demo reel. He watches it there and then, cigarette burning down to the filter, and by the time you’ve crushed it under your heel, he’s calling himself your agent.

On the ride to his place, he drops your robo-agent, and in the morning, you sign paperwork in his bed. No need to step foot in a Goforth office when you have direct access to the future CEO. Non-disclosures, exclusivity contracts. Things you don’t fully understand, but initial anyway. Industry standard, he explains.

That night, in the afterglow, he presses his teeth to your neck and murmurs a promise: I’ll make you a star.

And like that, you’re in. Folded into his world—and beneath him—as though you’d belonged there from the start.

Weeks pass in a blur.

The time funnels into an eight-week intensive—scene study, cold reading, and dialect. You wake early to attend classes, and crash late after work. The confidence built hustling in Prism is laughable, stripped bare under the scrutiny of instructors and a gaggle of other ambitious hopefuls. Failure, though, isn’t a luxury you can afford. You dig in. Rebuild.

Your wardrobe flips. Third and fourth-hand clothes cycle out for fabrics you’ve never worn before—silks, cashmeres, synthetics engineered to shimmer like liquid. Cuts that hug and drape right. Win parades you around to his friends, arm snug around your waist. Introduces you as the next big thing. To remember your face.

Appointments multiply—salons, spas, clinics. No mods, though. Win’s adamant. What was once something you joked about, your ‘organic integrity’, becomes your edge. Your brand. The only exception is your optics. Top-shelf Kiroshi, in any color you want. Preloaded with a trimmed-down version of his own contact net—names, affiliations. Everything you’ll need to navigate the circles he moves you through.

You jump from a ten-second clip for Budget Arms to an Avante microfilm. No lines, visage buried under makeup—but when your image appears on the side of a Westbrook tower, it almost bowls you over. Your coworkers whistle when you clock in.

It’s a high like nothing else.

Despite everything Win gives, there are lines you’re not allowed to cross.

You learn not to pry. You don’t challenge the boundaries he draws on the city map, districts you’re to avoid unless he’s with you. Don’t protest your dismissal from conversations and meetings. Don’t question why he requires that you report any strange cars or customers that idle at the club. Don’t press when he vanishes without warning, unreachable for days, only to return with gifts and no explanation.

You don’t ask, because deep down, you already know. And knowing the wrong thing, knowing anythingat all, can get you killed.

Still—when Win’s around, things are good. Even if it means Ghost is, too.

Win repeatedly tells you to ignore his turret on legs. Easier said than done.

To Ghost’s singular credit, it is his job—hypervigilance, threat assessment—but you find yourself the subject of his near-constant surveillance. Unapologetically, unashamedly. Not an ounce of professionalism in how he stares. Dissecting like he’s visualizing how to peel you open and study whatever softness hides inside. As if you’re the biggest threat in every room.

When you meet his gaze, daring him to look away first, he doesn’t. He holds it. Leans into it. It sears, lingering even after you drop your eyes and pretend to listen to Win’s laugh. A hot, needling thing that slices clean through whatever butterflies Win manages to stir.

You catch Ghost watching from doorways, mirrored surfaces, the rearview. Especially when you’re in Win’s lap, his tongue in your mouth. He glares, repulsed as if you’re shit to scrape off his boot.

It gets worse when Win starts sending him with you on jobs.

Suddenly, he is your shadow. Your unwanted chaperone. He makes it clear he believes the assignment’s beneath him. He’s mean about it.

Grumbles when you lag behind, sighs loud enough for all to hear. He skulks about during meetings and auditions, draining the air from every conversation. At shoots, he posts up out of frame—arms folded, jaw clenched. When stylists fix your hem or photographers adjust your posture, his brow sinks in open contempt.

You learn fast: every time Win—or anyone else—touches you, Ghost finds a way to remind you he saw.

Which is rich, considering how little he respects your space.

Booths. Bar stools. Car seats. He spreads out. Takes up all the room he can, leg pressed against yours, arm draped behind your head, elbow brushing your ribs. And when you try to squeeze past, he stays exactly where he is—forcing contact, your body dragged along his like static cling.

He doesn’t leer. Never says a lewd word. He doesn’t need to.

One night, the belt jams in the Caliburn, and you wrestle with it uselessly. Ghost watches for maybe two seconds before sighing like you’re a dense child.

“Ever ride in a fuckin’ car before?”

You bristle, poised to snap back, but he leans across you without warning. One big hand grabs the belt, yanks it into place. He pulls back, knuckles skimming your waist, your belly, your hip—deliberate and utterly unnecessary.

He slaps your thigh after, like a mechanic shutting a hood. Hard enough to sting. You yelp, more startled than hurt.

Ghost laughs. It coils in your belly and stays there.

“So I take it I’m not going to Palm Springs.”

“What? Baby, no, no. I told you last week, it’s all business—you’d be bored out of your mind.”

A slice of pain. You worry at a hangnail, peeling it until blood beads. Your thumb finds your mouth, teeth closing gently around the torn cuticle, tugging it like a loose thread. You’d hoped he might change his mind, but after losing the Jinguji Spring-Summer campaign, you had an inkling.

“Maybe, but I’d be bored out of my mind by a private pool.”

Win steps out of the ensuite, monogrammed toiletry bag dangling from his hand. He grins, finding you perched expectantly at the bed’s edge. He chuckles, tossing the bag into his suitcase before crouching, warm palms landing on your bare knees.

“Trying to make me late?”

“Maybe. Is it working?”

He pushes your dress to your thighs, unhurried, clearly weighing the pros and cons of rearranging his scheduled AV in real time. His eyes flicker, that peridot gleam catching the light as he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Not going to work this time, Stella.” He teases, sorting through a stack of shirts. Stella. His nickname for you, the one that stuck—vintage, all tied up in your inevitable stardom. It’s not great, but it’s better than—

“Princess.” Ghost flatly intones from the doorway. “Your carriage awaits.”

You don’t look, instead grabbing Win’s sleeve. “Fine. Why don’t we plan a trip for when you’re back? Just the two of us? How about Seattle—”

“Stella,” Win breezes your name through his perfect, clenched teeth, and his hands stall. “I can’t make any promises. We’ll see if our schedules allow for that, okay?”

You release his sleeve, staring at the silver in his skin. There’s a balance here, one you can’t afford to upset.

A finger lifts your chin, and for a fleeting moment, guilt flits across his features before he kills it stone dead. “Hey, I love the excitement, baby. Really. But I’ve got a lot riding on this trip, okay?”

Nothing new there. The future always hinges on some deal.

Another chance to put your recent education to work. You smile. Silly you, sticking your nose into your not-boyfriend’s business. “Yeah, of course. Say hello to your dad for me, and call me.”

He pauses, glancing past you. “I will, baby.”

The kiss he steals is abrupt and consuming, too much tongue and enough to siphon air from your lungs. His hands close over your thighs, possessive, rings biting into flesh hard enough to mark.

Ghost clears his throat. Win doesn’t seem to hear it, but you do. A crystal clear reminder.

When he pulls away, you whisper again, creaky, “Call me.”

He nods, guiding you to your feet and nudging you toward Ghost. “Make sure she gets to the car.”

Ghost drums his fingertips boredly on the rail. You regard the floor counter as a countdown. A fuse.

You hate being alone with him. It isn’t enough for him to invade your personal space, he must always come armed with some cruel barb to stick you with. Every word’s a test, a tripwire. Designed to keep you constantly bracing for the next snap of his teeth at your heels. It’s suffocating. A loaded gun pressed to your skull.

More than once, you’ve begged Win to dismiss him. Told him the man makes your skin crawl, but it doesn’t matter. He’s blind to his guard’s behavior. Ghost’s safe. Ghost’s vetted. Bullshit. It doesn’t account for the way Ghost looks at you. His talent for backing you into corners, physically or otherwise.

Even now, it’s a matter of time until he—

“Shame about the trip,” he sneers. “Sunshine, little umbrella drinks, sunning your arse by the pool. That what you thought was gonna ‘appen?”

You stiffen. He needs no reply to continue.

“‘ate to break it to you, but Junior’s never gonna bring you home to ‘is daddy. Never was. Thought you’d’ve caught on by now.”

Forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight.

“You’re eye candy when ‘e’s got downtime. You’re not on the itinerary. You’re a piece of meat on the menu.”

That one flays to the bone, because you can’t deny it. Because you’ve tried not to believe it. Shoved every creeping doubt down, smothered them in excuses and daydreams, wrapped them in every sweet, flattering thing Win’s ever said. You’ve clung to the idea that you matter. That you’re more than another client to manage and a warm body to enjoy when it’s convenient. That he keeps you at arm’s length from his business because he cares. Not because he’s ashamed or following some cold-blooded family playbook you wouldn’t even know how to begin reading.

But Ghost? He doesn’t share your delusions nor will he entertain them. He cuts straight to the ugly truth, and what’s worse—

You’re not sure he’s wrong.

Your shift leaves you dusted in glitter. Steeped in cologne and stale cigar smoke. You swear Muttonchops and his buddy were deliberately testing your patience. Dragging out their stay, trading smug looks over their glasses like you couldn’t hear their crude commentary. Irina nearly backhanded the younger one after the third time he called her Bonnie.

At least the commute home was painless. With Win and Ghost both out of town, you’re flying solo. Cabs aren’t a luxury you can afford every night, but tonight you indulged. Worth every eddie.

Your feet throb, your head’s pounding. All you want is a shower. The elevator hums softly, coaxing you into a stupor as it inches up the tower, floor by floor, until finally, you’re home.

But something’s off the second you step into the corridor and find it empty.

No neighbors loitering. No one passed out on the floor. No muffled music or screaming. It’s as if everyone’s abandoned ship, but you know that’s not true. The lobby was bustling when you walked in.

Then, you see it, halfway down the hall.

Your door’s ajar.

No—not just ajar. The edge of the metal slab is crumpled. Peeled back and then slammed shut again, bent and twisted like foil. You see it clearly in the dim hallway light: four deep gouges in the frame. Finger-sized.

Your stomach drops. Déjà vu strikes, raising goosebumps with a memory from a space horror you were cut from last-minute.

For a moment, you stand there, pulse rabbiting in your ears, then reach down slowly to slip off one heel. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s the only thing in reach. You hold it tight, and nudge the door open.

Silence.

You tiptoe in—and there’s no one. No scavs. No psycho.

But the place is wrecked.

Your studio’s been torn apart. Every drawer gutted, every surface overturned. The tiny space you kept so meticulously neat is unrecognizable—your vanity-slash-dining-table a messy sprawl of open perfume bottles, the scents mingling in a sickly, cloying mist. Combs and brushes fanned out like tools. Even the bathroom’s been ransacked, med cabinet doors yawning wide, contents obviously rifled through.

You cross the room in stiff steps.

The bed’s a ruin. Pillows and duvet shoved into a corner, sheets completely gone. The wall beside it, once a carefully curated shrine of posters—movie stars, idols, your own small pantheon—is stripped. Torn down, scraps left fluttering.

The worst of it, the very worst, awaits by the wardrobe.

You move like a ghost, detaching piece by piece. It’s easier to pretend you’re watching this unfold instead of living it. Stepping over the heap of clothes tossed carelessly across the floor, your gaze locks on the open drawers.

Your underwear’s been pawed through.

Hands trembling, you count—at least three pairs of panties. The silk slip you bought with your first real paycheck. Sheer and impractical, but you cherished it.

All gone. Nothing else is missing.

Violation.

Whoever broke in didn’t come looking for valuables. They came to touch. They wanted you to see their work and for you to know they’d been inside.

The heel slips from your hand to the floor. Behind you, the door collides with the warped frame. Tries to shut, unable to latch. Thud. Again. Thud. Then it gives up.

When the fog lifts, you call Win—tears bubbling and spilling fast. He doesn’t ask, only promises Ghost will pick you up. Take you somewhere safe.

Thought this might happen. Stalkers, baby. You get used to ‘em. Sickos get obsessed. It’s time anyway, you’ve outgrown the place, Stella.

You gather the essentials. When you pull back the shower curtain to grab shampoo, you shriek.

There, wadded and soaked at the bottom of the tub, are your sheets. Half-heartedly washed and stained.

You turn away and puke.

It’s a small mercy that Ghost doesn’t say anything awful when you slip into the passenger seat, sniffling and hugging your bags.

“I thought you were in Palm Springs.”

“Clearly not.”

He’s damp, a sheen to his skin. Soap clings behind his ear, suds drying around the edge of his neuroport. His knuckles are pink, scrubbed raw along the joints and plating. There’s a gym bag tossed in the backseat, and for a brief moment, guilt twinges hot in your chest.

This clearly wasn’t how he planned to spend his night.

When he reverses, one hand braces behind your headrest, and it stays there.

It takes a few red lights before you notice the touch: a single finger brushing the back of your neck, tracing through the gap in the seat. Featherlight. Absent or intentional, you can’t tell with him.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look your way.

You let it happen.

Strangely, it helps—though whether that’s despite him or because it’s him, you’re not sure. It disarms you, comfort arriving from a man so typically merciless. It unsettles even as it calms. By the time he pulls up to a hotel, your breathing’s evened out. The trembling in your limbs gone.

You’re caught off guard when he accompanies you inside, that same hand migrating to your lower back to guide you through the lobby. You move in a fog, not fully grounded in your own body, allowing yourself to be led like a skittish animal. The unexpected gentleness soothes—until his palm glides north and curls possessively around the nape of your neck.

He tilts your head with enough pressure to shatter that fragile calm.

“You call mefirst when there’s trouble. Understood?”

You nod tremulously. He doesn’t let go.

“Say it.”

“I’ll call you,” you stammer, nodding harder. “I’ll call you first.”

Satisfied, he grunts. Taps a knuckle to your chin in odd punctuation.

“Good girl.”

The next night, Prism’s slow. Not unusual for a weekday, but it lands you in the stockroom, elbow-deep in crates of bottles. A fresh-faced barback chattering nonstop beside you.

You made the mistake of venting to Irina about the break-in, and now the whole staff knows. Every other person’s offered their own horror story, or reminded you—so helpfully—that you were lucky not to be home.

Home invasions go hand-in-hand with scav kidnappings. Which leads to organ theft and implant harvesting. Which leads to no one ever finding your body in a garbage heap.

Really sets a positive tone for the day.

You beg the universe for distraction. Anything to drag you away from the kid babbling about where secondhand Kiroshis come from.

As if summoned, Mal rescues you.

“Small party. Upstairs. Garnet booth.”

You’re already brushing past with thanks as she flicks the details over. You check your hair, grab the selected bottle, fasten the sparkler, and head for the stairs.

You pick up speed, double-timing it as the sparkler sputters, warming up to its full show. Slowing only near the top, you adjust your grip and smooth your expression, pulling on your brightest smile. You’ve got a lost rental deposit to recover.

Small group, indeed. No overlapping voices, no bodies spilling out of the edges of the private crimson booth. Maybe it’s a promotion or deal. Whatever it is, you’ve got your lines ready.

Then you see who it is. Ghost.

Sprawled in the booth with one leg kicked out, the other propped up lazily. His arms drape along the backrest, a jacket folded neatly beside him. The top buttons of his shirt hang undone, and the ambient light catches the silver veins of wiring tracing from his temples beneath the fabric.

You hesitate. Briefly entertain the idea of tossing the demi-sec straight at his smug face.

You know he’s smirking under the mask when he crooks two fingers, beckoning you closer.

“Champagne’s shit.”

Ghost mentions for the fifth time. Sat between his legs on the table’s edge, you find yourself staring at the faint outlines of panels beneath his shirt. The champagne flute in his mitt looks more like a test tube.

“I can get you another drink,” you repeat, also for the fifth time.

The sum of his visit: you, trying to do your job, and him, a useless asshole. Whatever ounce of kindness he showed last night, he seems determined to wipe it clean from your memory.

“No.”

You glare as he turns away to pull his mask down for a drink, then look over your shoulder. The club’s still solidly dead.

“If you don’t want anything, can I at least go—”

“No.”

Your patience frays more by the millisecond. “If I’m just going to sit on my ass all night—”

“You’re getting paid. You’re comfortable.”

“Hardly. Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be with Win? Umbrella drink in hand?”

Ghost stares flatly, then slowly leans forward, forcing you to duck awkwardly to avoid contact. He sets his empty glass near your hip.

This close, you can’t help but peer down his open shirt at the exposed cyberware of his chest. At the protruding veins and cords. The champagne in his breath mingles with smoke and a twist of mint. You’d scrunch your nose if he wasn’t technically a guest and you weren’t on the clock.

“Never left,” he mutters, finally leaning back and giving you space to breathe. “Junior’s old man got plenty of security.”

“So you were bored and decided to stalk me at work.”

He snorts. “Ain’t exactly ‘ere by choice. I’m babysittin’ on account of your place gettin’ tossed.”

“That’s a terrible demotion.”

“We’re agreed.”

Your thoughts unwillingly circle, returning to your apartment. The sheets. Your missing panties.

“Guess it’s sweet of Win to care enough to send you, though, after the break-in. Did he say when—”

Ghost knocks a knee against yours. “Aren’t you supposed to dance?”

You clench your jaw so tight you might crack a tooth. “No.”

“Seen others do it, and more.”

“It’s up to the individual, and I don’t dance.”

“So, what, you just sit here?” His chin dips. There isn’t a trace of red in them tonight, only a dark, cold brown. “And if I gave you…dunno, five grand? That get me somethin’?”

Your lungs empty in a silent rush. You stare, waiting for a sign. The twitch of a brow. A tell that this is another of his sick tests or pranks. That’s all it is, a ploy to catch you out. He doesn’t want anything like that from you. Not really. He wants to watch you squirm.

The thought creeps in anyway, uninvited. You picture it. The narrow space between his legs, the roll of your hips, teasing him. Skimming your hands up his thighs and chest. His hands on your waist, gripping—

You swallow the fantasy down, seeing for what it really is, a product of his mind games.

“No way.”

“Took a second,” he murmurs. “You think about it?”

You clamp your mouth shut.

“Oh, Princess,” he chuckles. “You did, didn’t you? Bet you played it out start to finish in that pretty little ‘ead. Poor thing. Sellin’ yourself so short.”

Drawing his legs in, he rises to his full height. The glass topples with a clink as you scramble backward. He shrugs on his jacket.

“I’d tell you not to let it keep you up tonight, but we both know it will.”

Then he jerks his chin toward the stairs.

“Go get your things. Taking you ‘ome. Got a surprise.”

‘Home’ doesn’t mean the hotel, as it turns out.

Ghost only stopped there long enough for you to grab your things before hauling you off to Win’s place—then disappearing without a word. No instructions, simply disappeared to his wing of the penthouse.

So much for the surprise.

You curl into one corner of the massive sectional, legs tucked, water in hand. You absently scroll the newsfeeds with a glazed stare, mentally adding review lease terms to your ever-growing list.

Heavy footsteps from the hall draw your attention. You double-take.

Ghost emerges from the corridor wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung shorts.

He’s patchwork. Hardware and skin fused and sewn together in layers. Stripped of his usual gear, there’s nothing to distract from the sheer force of him. Where his arms meet his torso, there are visible seams—gaps an inch wide, metal meeting synthetic tendon and wire, connectors and open ports exposed. His forearms are massive, encased in pale, durable polymer and synthskin toned to match his face. Even his knees have been replaced, joints fortified all the way to the ankle.

You can’t look away.

The familiar cables of his neck trail like roots into the panels across his chest. They disappear into the ridges and seams of plating. The scars on his skin there are more precise and cleaner than the one circling his head. But he’s littered with others clearly left by way of violence. Warped, jagged patches that he, for whatever reason, never buffed out.

From this distance, he resembles the surface of the moon. Pitted, cratered, shaped by impact after impact.

And even now, in private, he wears a mask. Plain fabric looped around his ears. Dressed down.

You snap back to the feed the second he pivots toward the living room, and feign disinterest. When he stops in front of you, you glance up like you’ve only just noticed him.

“You’re in my spot.”

You bite your cheek and shuffle over without fuss. Ghost drops into the vacated space with a groan, and sinks into the cushions. He kicks up a leg and the massive screen that dominates the far wall powers on.

He scrolls through endless titles in silence. You try not to stare, but your eyes drift anyway to his hand. The long, thick fingers curled around a beer bottle, one finger easily twice the width of yours.

“You think about it?”

A sip goes the wrong way, and you choke, coughing hard. In the corner of your eye, Ghost twitches as if to clap you on the back, but he lets you fight for your life.

“First time?” he deadpans once you’ve finally sucked in air.

“Asshole,” you croak, wiping your mouth.

“Not very nice when there’s a surprise on the line. Could decide not to give it to you.”

“If it’s from Win, you don’t get a say.”

“Maybe. I think I’ll ‘old onto it ‘til mornin’ all the same.”

You roll your eyes, but he shifts, angling himself slightly toward you, one hand resting on a thigh.

“I am willin’ to negotiate.”

The unspoken implications quarter your thoughts, wrestling them in different directions. You’d call it another stupid test, but he doesn’t look like he’s kidding around. Twice in an hour? He must be in the mood to break something. And without Win around as a safety, you’re the obvious target.

His eyes drill into you, brown irises tinged with a boiling red, dying coals hungry for a spark.

Nerves swallow you whole. You shake your head. “I’ll wait.”

He huffs, the red dulling. “Shame. Sure we could’ve worked something out.” He gestures lazily at the screen, unbothered. “Ever see this one?”

During the final act of Psycho, your eyes spot a dark splotch on the couch.

At first, you don’t understand what you’re seeing—then you spot the curve of an earloop and freeze. Your gaze darts up to confirm it. The film fades in the background.

Ghost remains as he was, locked on the screen, one knee bouncing idly. The light from the film dances white-silver over his skin. Not synthetic, not chrome, not painted and molded polymer. Flesh.

It’s the first time you’ve seen his whole face, and it’s not what you expected.

Pale lines crisscross the bridge of his nose—surgical, maybe another full replacement or reconstruction. Scars litter his chin like buckshot, interrupted by one that cuts through his upper lip. Another traces the line of his jaw.

More than the damage, it’s the humanity of his face that rattles you most. All that modification, and he’s still so plainly a man.

“Lookin’ at me a lot tonight.” He says suddenly, still glued to the film.

You jump, stutter. “Your face—”

“Yeah? Good work, isn’t it,” Amusement pulls the scar at the corner of his mouth up as he twists to set his glass down, and with that, you get a clearer view of the other side.

Fibrous burn scars mottled with white and pink cover his cheek. A deep gouge, long healed but brutal, cuts a half-moon-shaped hollow beneath his cheekbone from what looks like a failed excavation of his mandible and molars.

“Like what y’see? ‘ave I made an impression?”

It’s unlike any prosthetic or monster-of-the-week mask you’ve seen. It’s real. Gruesome. Alluring in its own strange way.

You look away, ignoring the confusing heat tickling your neck. “An annoying one.”

He chuckles, settling back. “So you say.”

Win gives the surprise away when you call him later. His friend owns a building downtown, and wouldn’t you know it, there’s a unit free. A massive, sun-drenched loft. Partly furnished as the last tenant skipped town after she fell behind on rent. Steep discount on the rent, too, if you want it.

You scroll through the listing while he talks, near-hyperventilating at the sheer size of it. High ceilings, tall windows, polished concrete floors. The location’s perfect. One NCART stop from Studio City. Within reach of work and Win. And with the discount, it’s affordable.

No more thin walls, broken fixtures, or loud neighbors. No more non-existent security.

“Win, this is—this is incredible. Are you sure? I-I mean, I want to say yes…”

He chuckles, shooting you a wink on the screen. “Then say yes. C’mon. You think I’m gonna let my girl keep living in a busted shoebox? Nah, Stella. You’ll learn. You protect your best assets.”

Morning finds you humming as you shimmy on your day-old clothes. Your skirt’s rumpled, the glittery tights split when tugged on, and your feet protest as you shove them into heels—but none of it dims your mood. You skip breakfast, too eager to get going.

When you smugly mention that Win spilled the surprise, Ghost doesn’t say a word, just grunts. Grips his coffee a smidgen tighter. You don’t let it spoil your excitement, either.

On the drive over, you buzz with anticipation. You picture where the bed will go, how the morning light will flood the room. Rugs, colors, textures—maybe splurging on a new couch instead of another dumpster find. A window nook. Real plants. Real art.

It’s more than an apartment. It’s a leap. More tangible proof you’re making it.

“Got a tear.”

“What?” You blink, breaking from your own little world.

Ghost shifts his arm where it’s draped over the center console. Not quite touching, but near enough to edge into your space, causing you to shrink closer to the window.

Then it moves.

Two fingers extend, and for a second, you assume he’s just pointing out the tear—until they land on it. High on your thigh, beneath the hem of your skirt. They press firm, then slip beneath the nylon.

Before anything else registers, you think: his fingers are cold.

“All tha’ money, and you wear this cheap shite?”

“Ghost—what—”

The tear widens with a whisper-soft sound as he hooks his fingers, tugging. The fabric parts without resistance. You suck in a breath, struck dumb by the sensation, the casually invasive creep of his knuckles against bare skin. His touch trails along the curve of your thigh, stoking heat in its wake despite their chill.

“Fuck, you’re soft…”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. A disconnect, a short circuit. It stutters, looping again and again, unable to bridge the gap between his shitty mood all morning to this.

“Sloppy girl,” he murmurs. “S’posed to keep up appearances, ain’t ya? Wearing tights with runs in ‘em. What would Junior say?”

His hand glides a fraction higher and drags every nerve to the surface, burning like live wires. His pinky ghosts along the inside of your thigh. Testing.

You gulp, horrified to feel your heartbeat sink low into your pelvis. “Ghost—”

“What?” His hand flexes, pressure ticking up by a degree—just enough to make the implication clear. There’s not a thing you could do to stop him, not really. “You got somethin’ to say, Stella? ”

That stupid name again—drawled like a leash being yanked taut.

Your body finally comes online. You shove his hand away hard, and to your relief, he lets you. He retracts, humming, like you’ve done exactly what he was waiting for.

“Touchy,” he finally looks your way, the faint red glow of his optics simmering. “Relax. Curious is all. Haven’t touched real skin in ages.”

“You didn’t even ask,” you manage through a stutter, fixing your skirt and pressing your knees together tight. Willing the uninvited want, slithering under your skin and burrowing deep, to die.

“Tryin’ to figure you out.”

You turn on him, near apoplectic. “Figure me out?”

The audacity floors you.

“Yeah,” His arm returns to the console. A threat. “You wanna run in the big leagues, but you fall apart as easily as those cheap tights, don’t you?”

The words hit like a slap, flummoxing you into another bout of speechlessness. Rage and shame twist together inside you so tightly they grow indistinguishable.

“S’not worth it.” he mumbles, an afterthought drowned beneath the wail of a passing horn.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

You don’t chase it. Can’t tell if he meant for you to hear it at all. It wouldn’t matter if he had. He clearly thinks you’re an airheaded piece of arm candy. A dumb girl who’s bitten off more than she can chew.

The car finally stops outside a sleek, mirrored high-rise. You try to hop out immediately, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching your bags, but the lock won’t budge. It forces you to look at him again.

“In a rush?” Ghost eyes you for a moment, then his attention drops to your hemline. His chest rises with a deep breath, and for a second, you think he might do it again. Instead, he looks up, and hits unlock. “Don’t let me keep you.”

You hesitate too long, and of course, he catches it.

“Unless that’s what you want?”

That’s your cue. You’re out of the car in a blink, the door snapping shut behind you. But the window rolls down.

“See you soon, Princess.”

You don’t look back. The run in your tights unravels past your thigh and to your knee. The morning air bites at the exposed skin, chasing off his touch.

#ghost x reader #hell on earth getting this off the ground and then mega hell trying to name it #but this is dedicated to early and early likes it so we are GOOD #sy writing

475 notes · View notes

carnalcrows · 1 month ago

Text

WHITE COAT, RED HANDS

pairing: chishiya x top male reader

content warnings: 18+, chishiya is a sociopath, hearts game, major character death, blood, ftm chishiya, oral (reader receiving), p in v, general AIB warnings.

word count: 2.4k

You meet Chishiya in a game called “Karma.”

No one knows the full rules until they’re already inside — typical of the Borderlands. You only know three things when you walk into the rust-colored warehouse where it’s held: the game’s a Hearts suit, it’s for pairs, and you’re stuck with the blond guy who’s barely said a word since you got scanned in.

“Looks like we’re partners,” you say, offering a hand.

Chishiya glances at it, then at you. “Lucky me.”

His voice is flat, clinical. Doesn’t take the handshake.

You drop your hand. “You a doctor or something?”

“Used to be.” He keeps walking, hands in his pockets like this is an errand he’s annoyed to be running.

There’s something unreadable in his expression — or maybe that’s just his face. He’s got this quality like he’s always three steps ahead, but can’t be bothered to tell you what’s coming. The kind of guy who might let you drown just to see how long you could hold your breath.

You follow anyway.

Because there are only two kinds of people left in this world: the ones you can use, and the ones who’ll use you first. And you’ve learned the hard way it’s better to be close to the former — even if they look like the latter.

“Cool,” you mutter under your breath. “Stuck with the cryptic type.”

“Better than the loud type,” Chishiya replies dryly.

You glance at him. “You always this charming, Doc?”

He twitches an eyebrow. Just one. “Only when I like someone.”

That makes you laugh, unexpectedly. “So I’m fucked, then.”

He looks at you, slow and sideways. “Not yet.”

Then he keeps walking, as if he hadn’t just said that.

You hate the way that line stays with you.

The warehouse door slams shut behind you both with the kind of finality that makes your stomach tense. A countdown lights up on the far wall in blood red:- 00:59:59. One hour. No instructions.

You both scan the room — crates, high catwalks, and a flickering overhead light that casts shadows like they’re watching.

“I hate Hearts games,” you mutter.

Chishiya hums. “People usually do.”

You shoot him a look. “You sound like you’ve played more than a few.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just wanders toward the nearest crate and pops it open like this is a casual scavenger hunt.

Inside: two vests. Black, fitted. One for each of you. You pick one up and notice the red LED embedded in the chest and shaped like a heart.

“Not ominous at all,” you say.

Chishiya’s already sliding his on. It hugs him close, snug around the ribs. You try not to stare, but he catches you anyway.

“Like what you see, or just trying to figure out where to stab me later?” he asks, voice too casual.

“Can’t it be both?”

That earns a small smirk. Not quite a smile, but the kind of curve at the edge of his mouth that feels like a reward. You kind of hate that it makes your pulse jump.

Once you both suit up, the LED lights flicker to life. Yours flashes red. So does his. Then a metallic clunk echoes from above, and a screen buzzes on.

“Welcome to Karma.”

The voice is male, modulated, and void of any emotion.

“You and your partner share a life. Your hearts are linked. One dies, both die.”

A pause.

“But to win… only one may remain.”

You look at Chishiya. He’s unreadable again. As if he didn’t just hear a death sentence wrapped in a riddle.

“The game begins now.”

Then the lights go out.

You draw your knife on instinct.

Somewhere in the dark, Chishiya says softly, “This part’s always fun.”

Your voice drops. “You know how to win this, don’t you?”

A long pause. Then:

“I might.”

That makes your grip tighten. “Planning to share with the class, or are you just gonna play puppeteer until it’s convenient to let me die?”

There’s movement. A footstep behind you. You spin — knife raised — and feel a hand close around your wrist, steady but not aggressive.

“I’m not going to let you die,” he says in that same flat voice. “Yet.”

“Yet,” you echo.

The light flickers on for a heartbeat. Long enough to see his face close to yours, half-shadowed. Then dark again.

“You’re enjoying this,” you murmur.

His hand slips from your wrist. “You’d be surprised how few people are fun in the dark.”

You move in silence for a while. The kind that pricks your skin because it’s not truly silent — the warehouse breathes. Vents rattle. Metal ticks. A slow, mechanical hum pulses beneath your feet like a heartbeat that isn’t yours.

Chishiya doesn’t seem affected. He walks beside you like he’s on his morning commute. Calm. Controlled. The picture of someone who doesn’t flinch even when the building itself feels like it’s watching you.

You glance over. “How the hell are you this calm?”

“I’m used to being hunted.”

The way he says it — flat, without ego — should sound like bullshit. But you believe him.

“And you’re a doctor?” you ask.

“Was.” He pauses. “Still am, technically.”

“Right. Doctor of hearts, huh?”

That gets a proper smirk. Just a flicker. “Clever.”

You snort. “You know, most people don’t look smug after admitting to possible homicide.”

“I didn’t admit anything.”

You’re about to respond — some sarcastic quip already loaded — when the warehouse shifts. The floor jolts with a loud hiss, and metal walls snap up from the ground, boxing you into a corridor that didn’t exist two seconds ago.

“What the—?”

“Maze,” Chishiya mutters, already walking ahead. “Figures.”

“Wait—” You grab his shoulder instinctively. He stops. Looks down at your hand. Doesn’t pull away.

His gaze lifts slowly. “You don’t trust me.”

“No,” you say. “I don’t.”

He tilts his head. “But you want to.”

That shuts you up for a beat. The hum beneath the floor ticks louder. Red lights blink at the corners of the ceiling.

“You gonna tell me what you meant earlier?” you ask. “About not letting me die yet.”

“I mean exactly that,” Chishiya says, voice soft but cold. “I need you. For now.”

You laugh once, low and bitter. “You’ve got a real way with words, doc.”

His eyes flick to yours again. “You’re still here.”

You don’t have a response for that.

The next corridor is narrower. Walls dripping with condensation. Your shoulder brushes his once, twice, until neither of you bother stepping aside anymore. It’s stupid — the smallest contact — but it feeds something between you. A tension that feels almost like a test.

“You’re not afraid of dying, are you?” you say.

“No.” Chishiya’s gaze is forward, steady. “I’ve made peace with it.”

“And killing someone else?”

His eyes flick sideways. “That’s not the question you want to ask.”

“…What’s the question, then?”

“You want to know if I’d kill you.”

You swallow. “Would you?”

He stops. Turns to face you in the dim corridor. The blinking red lights give his face a flicker—soft, then sharp.

“If I said no,” he says, “you’d be stupid to believe me.”

Then he leans in just enough that you feel his breath, calm and infuriatingly even. “But if I said yes... I think you’d still follow me.”

Your heart thuds, traitorous and loud. You don’t know if it’s fear or want or both.

You mutter, “You always this cryptic with people you plan to backstab?”

“Only the ones I like.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’re insufferable.”

“I know.”

You lean a little closer — not thinking, just moving on instinct now — and mutter, “Do you always flirt in murder mazes?”

His gaze drops to your mouth. “Only with idiots who flirt back.”

Then his hand grabs the front of your vest and drags you forward, not gently. Your back slams against the wall, and his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not romantic. It’s rough and hot and too fucking much — all the tension, the danger, the push and pull of not knowing who’ll betray who — and it unravels in seconds. His tongue parts your lips without hesitation. You groan into it, hands gripping his hips because it’s the only part of him you can grab that doesn’t feel like a trap.

Chishiya’s kiss is strategic and brutal. Not gentle. He bites your bottom lip and pulls just enough to make your cock twitch in your pants. Your hips rock forward, involuntarily, and he smirks against your mouth like he expected it.

“You’re really hard,” he murmurs, low and flat in your ear. “Impressive.”

“You’re really fucking annoying,” you breathe.

“And yet, you want me to keep going.”

He drops to his knees.

He’s on his knees like he’s done it before. Like it’s second nature. No hesitation, no reverence — just a methodical slide of fingers to your waistband, popping the button open with practised ease.

You watch him through shallow breaths. One hand braced to the wall behind you, the other twitching with the urge to grab his hair. But he’s not looking up at you for permission.

He’s looking at your cock. And when he pulls it out, already hard and leaking at the tip, he hums — a quiet, pleased sound, like you’ve passed another one of his secret tests.

“No complaints,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your chest rises with something between pride and disbelief. “You always do this with people you might kill?”

Chishiya glances up then, eyes half-lidded. “No. You’re special.”

Then he licks a slow stripe from the base of your cock to the tip.

Your breath stutters. Your head tilts back and hits the wall with a dull thunk.

His tongue is warm, deliberate, not rushed. He wraps his lips around the head and takes you into his mouth in slow, steady inches. His hands are cold on your thighs, anchoring you as he sucks you in deeper — not messy or desperate. Just efficient. Intentional. Like he’s cataloguing every sound you make.

“F–fuck, doc…”

His lashes flutter at the nickname. His throat tightens around you as he swallows a little deeper, and your fingers tangle in his hair without thinking. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t fight the grip. If anything, he leans into it. Uses it to go deeper.

He sets a brutal pace after that — not fast, but intense. Hollowing his cheeks, flicking his tongue under the head, teasing and then swallowing you whole again. Your knees buckle once, and he presses harder into your thighs to steady you, like he knew it would happen.

“Shit—Chishiya, I’m—”

He hums again, sending vibrations through you just as you come, heat spilling down his throat. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break eye contact. Just swallows like it’s nothing and pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You sag against the wall, heart pounding, still trying to catch your breath.

You’re still panting when he stands, wiping the corner of his mouth like nothing happened. Like your orgasm was a minor detour.

But there’s a flush in his cheeks now. A flicker of something in his eyes.

Want.

You spot it the second he pushes you back against the wall again, fingers ghosting along your jaw. “Can you keep going?” he asks, low, almost clinical.

You snort, a breathless sound. “You kidding?”

Chishiya doesn’t smile, but there’s the barest twitch in his mouth. He steps in and kisses you, finally, open-mouthed and quiet, tasting faintly of you. It’s softer than you expect. Almost gentle. But it only lasts a beat before he turns, and without a word, walks toward one of the crates behind him.

You watch as he shrugs off his hoodie and shirt, tossing them over the metal edge. And when his pants go next, what’s left between his thighs leaves no questions. There’s a harness strapped tight to his hips, black and minimalist, but you can see it clearly when he turns and walks back to you, slick already glistening between his folds.

You blink.

He tilts his head. “Problem?”

You step forward without a word, grab his hips, and kiss him again.

He presses into you without hesitation, one hand finding your cock and guiding it between his legs. He’s wet—hot, and when you slide into him, he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to maintain control.

“Fuck—” you mutter, grounding a hand on his lower back. “You’re soaked.”

“Of course,” he says. “You’re the first person who’s made it this far.”

You want to ask what he means by that. But then he tightens around you, rolling his hips with expert precision, and your brain short-circuits.

The rhythm is fast, deliberate, but not frantic. You pin him to the wall now, bodies flushed, your cock buried inside him as he works you with movements that feel almost mechanical in how precise they are. Every grind pulls a sharp gasp from your lips. Every twist of his hips feels calculated — like he’s memorised exactly what it takes to keep you right on the edge.

He lets you manhandle him. He lets you bite at his neck, groan against his ear. But he doesn’t moan. He doesn’t beg. He just watches you, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable — like he’s processing your every reaction, filing it away for future use.

You grab his thighs and lift him. He wraps his legs around you easily, arms hooking behind your neck. You fuck up into him harder now, slamming into that wet heat over and over, the lewd sounds of skin and slick echoing off the walls.

He finally gasps — one sharp, ragged breath that punches from his lungs — and that’s what undoes you. You curse, burying your face into his shoulder as you come deep inside him, warmth flooding his cunt, your whole body twitching as you ride it out.

Your grip on him tightens.

You don’t even feel the knife slide in.

It’s only when your breath catches in your throat, sharp and wrong, that you realise what happened. Blood fills your mouth. Your legs falter. You both sink to the floor.

He stays straddled over you, cock still inside him, as your body collapses beneath his. His chest rises and falls evenly. His hands are warm against your jaw as your vision starts to fade.

“I wanted to wait until after,” he murmurs.

You gurgle something. His face softens.

“I wasn’t lying. It felt good.”

Your blood is everywhere now — on his hands, his stomach, pooling beneath your spine.

He leans down and kisses you again.

Soft. Warm. Almost apologetic.

“Only one survivor.”

And then he slips off your lap and rises to his feet, walking toward the blinking green light at the end of the hall. The blade, slick with your blood, swings loosely in one hand.

GAME CLEAR.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @seomn

536 notes · View notes

electricgg · 3 months ago

Text

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 4: Don’t You Find It Strange? The Only Thing We Share Is One Last Name

Masterlist

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 (Here!) / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 (Part 1) (Part 2) /

Water is meant to be clean. Its main purpose is to sustain the human body, which cannot survive without it. People have also given water many meanings and symbols throughout the centuries.

Purification. Life. Transformation. Change. Fluidity. Nurishment.

Water is meant to be something that heals.

Which is why Jason Todd felt unsettled by the dark brown pool in front of him.

Oracle had sent him the coordinates she managed to find from the police report Chief Gordon had given her later that night. He had found her near Grant Park, walking out of an empty alley and without a phone or a schoolbag. Confused, out of it, uniform drenched and ruined, and wound on the head.

He kicked a crushed soda can out of his way, landing in the murky water and making ripples on the surface.

The nauseating feeling of disgust clawed at his stomach the more he looked at the pool.

It brought back memories. Memories he would rather keep buried.

‘She crawled out,’ he analyzed, flashlight pointed at the dried footsteps, wandering from the huge water print and towards the hole in the wired fence.

The flashlight was moved around, viewed on the ground, and over the bushes.

A sparkly glint that clashed with the light between the unkept leaves caught his attention. Crouching in front of the bushes, he reached out. Grabbing and pulling out the item so he could see it up close.

A purple, drenched schoolbag with silver charms hanging from its zipper. By how heavy it was, Jason figured out that the books and contents inside it were drenched as well.

“The bag fell into the pool as well.” he stood up, bag in hand, and looked back at the pool.

“But she didn’t fall with it. It was thrown after.”

His boots crunched over broken glass, making him look down. There were two head bottles laid near the mess. They were probably thrown or fell by accident. It was recent, too, by how clean the glass looked.

“Somebody came back…” he muttered to himself, moving what was left of the bottles with the front of his boot.

He lifted the bag, noticing how it still dripped heavily with water. It was too wet to have been taken out around the time of the event.

The bag had been taken out later. Way later. Probably a few minutes before he reached the place, if his instincts were to be trusted. It made his blood spike up underneath his veins, a heavy grunt pushed out of his modulator.

Someone had waited hours to get rid of the evidence.

Someone tried to get rid of her.

Someone tried to kill-

A distant voice interrupted his dark musings. Then, the sounds of shoes slipping and footsteps running off.

Jason didn’t hesitate to drop the bag and take out his gun, sprinting and jumping over the fence. Taking off towards whoever was trying to escape from him. Pulse palpitating, a dark feeling invading his chest as the thoughts of what he was going to do once he caught the bastard that dared to even look at her way.

It didn’t take long for gunshots, a body slamming against a metal dumpster, accompanied by grunts of pain, to be heard on a dark, blocked alley.

The person, a boy not older than eighteen, tried to crawl back as he yelled and cried from the pain in his leg. His jeans were turning dark from the blood and other fluids as the tall, imposing figure of Red Hood walked calmly towards him.

“Ple-please,” the boy whimpered out, body trembling, and a high-pitched noise escaping from his mouth once the vigilante crouched right by his side.

“It was just a prank! We swear!” he tried to cover his face, but Red shoved the gun in his face, making him stop.

“We? So there’s more of you?”

The boy went pale. Lips shaking. His head moved from different sides as if he couldn’t say yes or no to the questions of the masked man.

The gun was then shoved in his mouth, making him choke out a scream.

“Better start talkin’, boy.”

“Because you just made my night a fuckin’ hell.”

• • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

From the moment she woke up that morning, she should have known fate had it out for her.

And given that it was also her first day in a new family, she should have been prepared for the absolute madness that went down that morning.

She knows someone down in hell had it out for her and was laughing their ass off.

Let’s divide the events so it can be easier to understand.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

Falling back to sleep turned out to be a chore.

She was exhausted; that was given. And the soup and tea had been more than enough to put her in a very sleepy state. And she was knocked out the moment her head hit the pillow!

But, for some bullshit reasoning, her body decided that five hours of sleep was enough for her to regain her strenght after the whole thing that happened.

And to top it all, she felt alright. Even energized, to her shock!

Her skin was strumming with adrenaline underneath, making her walk around the bedroom in circles to burn off some of the restlessness inside her body. It felt like a need, even. Just to do something with her legs.

Walk. Jump around. Bounce them while sitting down. Even try to jog in the same spot.

She tried to run around, but the limited space and almost knocking down the bookshelf put a quick stop to that. It was becoming annoying to the point that even her fingers drummed against the hardwood floor as she lay all sprawled out while staring at the ceiling. Soaking in the coldness so the uncomfortable sensation would calm down.

And why lie on the floor instead of walking around the halls where there was more space, or exploring her bedroom more thoroughly? Simple answer.

Number 1: Because ain’t no way she's walking in the dark in a very obvious haunted house. She ain’t that dumb.

And number 2: It didn’t feel right to search someone’s belongings without permission. Even when that someone was no longer among the living.

Inhaling deeply, her gaze moved towards the stained glass window. Its colors painted across the room as the rising sunlight shone through the glass. Small particles of dust, changing between the colors as they floated around the air.

‘For such a lively room, it feels so lonely here…’

Her mind mused, a sudden sense of calm coming over her, and taking off some of the intensity of the restless feeling. She could feel like breathing again, eyes sliding closed slowly.

The sensation of hands caressing her hair made her slip under more quickly.

Sweet sleep, finally…

Then her stomach decided to growl as if a freaking bear was inside of it.

2. Walking on dark halls should count as a sport.

Remembering her way to the kitchen wasn’t hard. Alfred had given her different clues on how to tell apart the halls, but he told her that he would fetch her the next morning for breakfast, and he would continue to do so until her head healed.

‘Well, too bad, Alfred. My stomach ain’t waiting any longer.’

Her thoughts complained, eyes bouncing from portrait to portrait. Arms wrapped around herself to keep the cold out. Because somehow, even while still wearing the thick sweats from the police station (they were comfy and she wasn’t touching the wardrobe unless she got some divine permission), the manor still managed to chill her to the bone.

Going back to the warm room was very tempting. Truly. But her stomach was almost eating itself in hunger. It was almost painful.

Why was she so hungry? She ate a few hours ago, and it feels like ages to her stomach.

Grumbling under her breath as she took a turn to the left, her body froze on the spot once her stare landed on the end of the hallway. Her heart almost going between coming to a stop or dropping to her feet.

There, in the hall, a tall, hunched figure walked slowly with a thick cloth over them. They were holding something between their hands, close to their chest. Pale hands standing out amongst the dark hallway.

She took a slow step back, wincing too loudly when the floor creaked under her weight.

Their head snapped toward the noise. Cornflower blue eyes with heavy, dark bags underneath and a very exhausted stare.

They stared at each other, neither moving nor even breathing. Until a male, confused voice came from the cloaked figure.

“You are not supposed to be up yet.”

His words snapped her out of the sudden scare, cold sweat going down her neck as she let out a heavy sigh. The cold hand of last night gripped her shoulder as she calmed down her heart palpitations.

Empty words. Ignored questions. Double-handed comments. Sarcastic answers. So much doubt. Condescending tones. Feeling dumb and stupid, and it hurts so much. You must have thought so hard about that. And why would I care? God, leave the thinking to someone else. Are you even trying? Surely you aren’t that stupid? I don't have time for that. Maybe if you used your head every once in a while, you wouldn’t be such a pain for us. Stupid. Dumb. Slow. Stop taLKING-

Cold lips whispered in her ear.

“Timothy. Know-it-all. Cold. Sarcastic. Condescending. And a coffee addict.”

Don’t let down your gaze

The cold hand slipped off slowly from the shirt, and then she was back in the hall with the freaking guy that almost gave her a heart attack on the spot.

Something akin to anger invaded her body. Sinking right through her back.

She straightened up and just stomped down the hallway, shaking her head as she muttered angrily under her breath. Her hands curled into fists on her sides. Her stomach growled in agreement for the first time since she stepped out.

“Not supposed to be up. Looking in the fucking mirror for once and then you can talk,” she said between her teeth as she passed right by him and taking two stairs at a time and disappearing by taking the hall to the left.

Anger, hunger, and fear ran through her blood. Anger from somebody else. Hunger that was becoming starvation. And fear, well, she was angry from getting scared like that by a dude with eyebags for his eyebags.

‘Fuck this house. Can’t normal people live under this roof?!’

Meanwhile, Drake just stood there. Eyes wide and mouth forming words, but no sound coming out. He was pretty sure he was having a hallucination from his lack of sleep.

“...since when does she move so fast?”

3. And then, the kitchen, her only salvation. Now turned into a gathering point.

Not only did she not find Alfred in the kitchen, but the little gremlin was having breakfast already at the dinner table.

He was wearing a school uniform, very similar to her own. Or what she thought her uniform used to look like. His schoolbag sat on the chair next to him, all pristine and expensive-looking. His plate was almost empty, just some scrambled eggs and untouched bacon strips that were snatched up by the smiling man sitting in front of him as they talked.

A man who left a sinking feeling on her suddenly quiet stomach.

The man had black hair and sparkling blue eyes, bright with joy and fondness as he listened to Damian complain about something she couldn’t bother to tune in as her ears started to ring. He wore a thick black jacket, a bluish grey shirt, and jeans.

Before she took another step as quietly as possible (because she had convinced herself that if she moved as quietly and as fast as possible, she wouldn’t have to even interact with another random guy so early in the morning.), a youthful voice that felt like nails on a chalkboard to her called for her attention.

“Hey! You’re awake early!” The cheery tone made goosebumps break out on her skin, making her hiss under her breath.

Turning her head towards the man, she took notice of how he was already standing up and walking towards her. An easy smile on his face.

It irked her, for some reason. That smile.

“Here I thought you were sleeping in until late in the afternoon after what happened yesterday.”

With every step and word that came out of him, the more her shoulders moved up as an upsetting feeling churned inside of her.

Why is he smiling so much? And this early, too? It’s unsettling

Then, he put his hand on her shoulder. It felt so wrong and odd. And when her gaze found his, the only emotions she could find on his stare were pity and something similar to concern. But mainly pity. It made her feel cold and heavy.

“Did you rest? You need to-”

Sorry excuses. Soft avoidance. Pitiful glances. Forgotten recitals. Empty promises. So many empty chairs in recitals. Photos of her alone. Unanswered calls. Unseen messages. I can’t today, I’m too tired. Sorry, gotta go help with a case. Sure, I’ll see if I can go. Sorry, I’m going out with Damian. I promised Tim that I would help him with something. Can’t you ask Bruce? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’T. I CAN’TIMSORRYICANTIMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRY ARE YOU SORRY-

“Can you not?” she snapped, pulling her shoulder away from his grasp. Almost as if his touch burned her.

He recoiled, startled at the sudden action. Eyes widening in confusion and surprise. He put both of his hands up, trying to look defenseless.

“Oh, um, sorry. I didn’t think-” he tried to talk, but she just brushed him off and moved towards the fridge to look for something to take away the head-shattering migraine that was pounding between her ears.

Except the whispers were back. Again.

‘Can you also not? Let me at least eat something, Jesus.’

She complained to herself, feeling a bit crazy while doing so. But the coldness settled for a moment. And the headache, too.

‘So maybe I am not going that crazy…’ She thought as she picked up a crystal jug filled with what she assumed was orange juice and some protein bars she found on the fridge door before closing it with her knee.

The man had not moved from his position, still staring at her as if she had grown a second head. His hands were even still up in the air, frozen.

Even the gremlin was staring at her with a calculating glare. But something was assuring her that it was just his face.

She didn’t say a single thing to them, sticking to serving some juice to drink. Finding a cup wasn’t so hard, just taking a clean one from the drying rack as she muttered under her breath. Maybe staying a few more hours holed up in a dead girl’s bedroom wasn’t such a bad idea if it meant she could have avoided meeting the ghost of the hallways and Mister touchy feelings over there.

“Richard Grayson,” The sudden cold lips at her ear made her almost choke on her juice, but she managed to hold it back.

‘What’s up with your fucking timing?!’

The ghost on her shoulder ignored her (because she was 100% sure it was a ghost, fight her on that).

“Liar. Pitiful. Avoidant. Fake. Liar. Liar. LiaR. LiAR. LIAR-”

“How hard did you hit your head to be acting like a savage animal?” the snobbish gremlin said with his nose turned up, glaring at the empty cup in her hand.

Looks like she downed it so fast that she didn’t even notice it. A small hiccup left her throat, making her flush a bit in embarrassment.

“Now, Dami, that’s not nice,” the man, Richard, said as he walked towards her.

But she moved away from him with a grimace, avoiding his extended hand again. He probably intended to pat her back or something, but she wasn’t feeling like it. So she took a sharp curve to the left and put the cup in the dishwasher to wash it.

Richard looked almost offended at that, staring at her with a hurt look and looking down at his hand. Did he do something wrong? Are his hands dirty or something?

Why is she avoiding him? Why won’t she let him hold her? She used to even preen over a simple pat!

“So,” he clapped his hands awkwardly, trying to disguise a bit the tense situation. “How’s the wound? Heard it wasn’t pretty.”

Such a smooth move, Dick.

Both Damian and her turned to look at him in disbelief.

She scoffed, a sarcastic laugh as she slammed down the now clean cup in the drying rack. Her eyes gave a bit of a maniacal glint that made him click his mouth shut.

That was… new.

“Yeah, having my head cracked open on the pavement is not a pretty sight. Such an outstanding observation!”

Her tone made him wince, and even Damian looked a bit surprised at her biting answer. But he mostly seemed entertained by the drama unfolding in front of him.

Richard sighed deeply at that, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was digging a deeper hole.

“I didn’t mean like that,” he uttered out before gesturing towards her. “You’re just so sensitive today, and I’m-”

“Excuse me, the fuck you mean by ‘I’m being sensitive’?”

Suddenly, Damian’s empty plate looked a lot more interesting to him.

Pure irritation and indignation were oozing from her body, making Richard lift his hands up and close and open his mouth like a gaping fish. He took a few steps forward, slowly.

“Wooh, I meant that you-’

But she was not having it.

“You just waltz back in here, acting all concerned, and tell me how I’m supposed to be acting like it’s something kind of play? Is that it?”

“No! Is just that you are not reacting-”

“Reacting like what? Like I should be sooo glad that you are cutting some of your time to show you care?” Her face was twisted in a snarl. So much indignation was bubbling from inside her chest and making her fists shake by her sides.

His expression was similar to as if he had gotten the air punched out of him. Those words hit a bit too close.

“Hun, that’s not what I-” his hand went to grab her forearm. But it got slapped away.

Suddenly, he had a pointed finger up in his face and a fuming teenage girl glaring at him from hell and back.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” She spat out. Turning around and picking her protein bars, she stomped towards the entrance of the kitchen and yelled over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

“ Ever Again! ”

The uncomfortable silence reigned over the kitchen for a long time. Neither of the two people there said a thing until the butler of the family made his way into the room, carrying some plastic bags from the grocery store trip he had made to make something more nutritious for the young lady, which would help her get some more energy. But the tense air made him raise an eyebrow, taking notice of the grieving expression on Master Dick’s face and the thoughtful expression on Master Damian’s.

“Everything alright with breakfast, Masters?” he asked while putting away the groceries.

Damian picked up his dishes and began to wash them in the sink, not paying any attention to Grayson’s obvious crisis.

“I think Embarrassment is going through her rebellious stage… or puberty.”

“...I see.”

Dick just started sobbing against the counter.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

And that would summarize the hellish morning she just had.

Nobody had come to bother her, thank God. Alfred even brought her a complete breakfast to her room and didn’t ask any questions about why she lay on the floor while glaring at the ceiling as if it had offended her in the worst way possible. If only the people around were more like him, she wouldn’t have gone all berserk on the touchy guy.

She felt a bit bad over snapping that way, but he wouldn’t stop trying to touch her. And let’s say that the odd vibrating sensation under her skin was not helping with receiving touch.

It hurt. It honestly hurt. It felt like burning branding, and it hurt.

Even her clothes felt like needles against her skin. It was very uncomfortable, and it was driving her insane. The only thing that could soothe it was the coldness from the ghost that followed her everywhere.

Oh, right. The ghost.

She had a few impressions of who it could be, since she had made it pretty obvious with all the clues she had been getting from way back at the police station. And all those memories and feelings and outbursts (okay, the outbursts were all her own, but she certainly gave the push), it wasn’t that hard to put two and two together.

The real (Y/N) Wayne was haunting here in the most unconventional way possible.

Unlike the men of the family (except Alfred), the actual spirit wasn’t trying to scare the hell out of her. Which gained a thousand brownie points in her favor. As for why said ghost was still here and helping her out instead of throwing a fit for getting her literal body stolen from her, that was still a mystery.

“Can you only talk to me? Is that not boring to you?” she asked the empty air beside her on the bed, fidgeting mindlessly with the seams of an old lilac blanket.

After getting quite harshly shoved into the bed and having throwed at the weighted blanket over her, she had gotten the message that the ghost didn’t mind her being in her space.

And she didn’t even know if ghost girl was actually beside her. It was just a random decision, so she didn’t feel she was going as crazy as she was.

Then a round of unanswered questions began to pass the time. There was no way she was gonna venture around the manor and run the chance of encountering another annoying guy related to her.

“I wonder, does your dad just have a hobby of picking up the most entitled guys as his son, or is it pure coincidence?” That got her a tickling sensation on her nose similar to a pinch.

It wasn’t exactly an answer, but she would take it as a yes.

She snorted and sighed deeply, letting her eyes slip close. That weighted blanket was doing wonders to calm her down.

She wondered if Billy was doing all right, wherever he was.

Is he too far away? (Of course, he is; she can’t feel him in her head. She always felt him there. No matter how far apart they were from one another.)

Is he going through the same thing? Adapting to a new body? (Some odd feeling told her he wasn’t going through it exactly like her. But she couldn’t figure out why.)

Is he eating? Is he alone? Does he also have a ghost companion like her? Where is he? God, where is he-

A sudden clattering and crashing sound startled her out of her trance thoughts. Sitting up on the bed and looking around the room for the source of the noise. As she slid to the edge of the bed, the creaking door of the wardrobe opened slowly.

…She gave a dead stare to the empty air.

“If you want me dead, just say so. No need for spooky shit.”

As if on sync, the door opened completely. It was filled to the brim with scarves, coats, dresses, and shirts in the same aesthetic and colors as the room. From deep purple to soft lilac, black, and dirty green. And scattered over the floor, a cardboard box open with what she could identify as cassettes.

The blanket slid off of her, and a small shove on her shoulder had her standing up and walking over to the mess on the floor. Grumbling as she crouched to clean up.

“Y’know, being your eternal maid is not exactly on my plans, so how about we keep your stuff cle-” her ranting stopped once the label on one of the cassettes caught her eye.

‘Diary Entry: Year 6’

She sat down on the floor, noticing how all the other cassettes had different numbers written on their labels as she picked them up. There were a total of ten cassettes, the number one being in such a deplorable state that indicated someone had thrown it around and pulled out the tape on purpose.

A dragging sound behind her made her look away and over her shoulder.

A cassette player, very well taken care of, stood out by the edge beneath the bed. She looked back at the old box and the destroyed cassette in her hands, her fingers gently running along the sticky recording tape.

Well, time to listen to a ghost’s podcast.

She preferred that over getting out of the room.

A win is a win.

• • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Author's Note: I Keep on saying I won't make long chapters, better stop believing me fr. So, a small update about what's gonna happen in the next two-three weeks. Next week, I'll be entering the last weeks of the semester and I'm locking in completely. I'm also going on a weekend trip by the end of this week, so next chapter will be published after that trip and then focus on finals. I'll try my best to publish weekly, could early or late but always expect towards sundays. That would be all for now! Let me know your thoughts on this chapter and give it some love! Lots of hugs,

GG✨

Tag List:

@bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild @devotedlyshamelessdetective @shycreatorreview @nirvanaxx1942 @soulsire @ryuushou @rinkydinkythinky @lithiumval @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @cssammyyarts @lordbugs

Bonus Memes:

#platonic yandere #yan batfam #yandere batboys #neglected reader #platonic batfam #yandere batfamily #mutant reader #x-men #mutants #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam #platonic yandere batfam #ancient dreams in a modern land #yandere batfamily x reader #batfam x neglected reader #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #yandere #Spotify

485 notes · View notes

matcha3mochi · 17 days ago

Text

GLASS BETWEEN US | II Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: tyy for all the love and support on the previous one! ive decided to write a second part to this! maybe a third part? who know :)))) anywho pls enjoy!!!

wc: 4,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Dr. Havers was already waiting when your shift ended.

He stood just beyond the junction outside Lab C, posture rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest. The dim security lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting bluish reflections across the glass walls of the corridor. You recognized the look on his face before he spoke—not disciplinary, not furious—but exact. Measured. Like the outcome was already decided and the only remaining task was to deliver the verdict.

“Walk with me,” he said.

You nodded, once. Your hand tightened slightly around the edge of your tablet, knuckles pale under the harsh fluorescents. Then you fell in beside him.

The two of you moved through the east hall without speaking. The air was too cold, dry from over-filtration. Every footstep echoed with sterile finality against the polished epoxy flooring. On your left, the wall-length display of Lab C showed only system diagnostics now—no live feed. The camera feed had been blacked out. You knew what that meant, and your stomach turned with quiet dread.

Havers led you through a security door you hadn’t passed since your orientation weeks ago. It closed behind you with a sound that echoed louder than it should’ve.

The briefing room was stripped bare—no windows, no active terminals, no live data displays. Just one heavy-duty table bolted to the floor and two brushed metal chairs. The walls were lined with sound-dampening panels disguised as blank white boards. Even the air inside felt different—stiller, heavier, like the pressure in a room seconds before a thunderstorm hits.

He gestured to the seat.

You didn’t take it.

He didn’t, either.

Instead, he pulled a slim black tablet from the inside pocket of his lab coat and tapped the screen. You heard a soft tone as the screen lit up. He turned it toward you.

It was paused on a still image: your hand against the tank wall, Rafayel’s claws mirrored against yours on the opposite side. His eyes locked to your face with unnatural focus. The background lighting bathed everything in a soft, immersive blue, as if you had both been submerged together in water.

Your breath caught—shallow, involuntary. You recognized the moment instantly. Not just the scene, but the feeling of it. The density of the air. The quiet vibration against the glass. The sense that the entire lab had narrowed into a single point of contact.

Havers didn’t speak. Not yet. He pressed play.

You watched yourself step forward on-screen, watched Rafayel respond—slowly, precisely, his body language unmistakably attuned to yours. The alignment wasn’t coincidental. It was intentional. He was echoing your movement with a kind of quiet precision that felt more human than instinctive. More conscious than reactive.

Then he spoke—his lips moved on the recording, though the volume was muted. You didn’t need audio to know what he said.

Free me.

The moment hung there, pixelated but real, hovering between you and Havers in silence.

When he finally stopped the video, he didn’t look up.

“This is not a reprimand,” he said.

But your muscles had already gone stiff. Your pulse was climbing, quick and uneven beneath your skin.

“Then what is it?” Your voice came out low, steady, but with a thread of static in it.

He swiped across the tablet again, this time bringing up a full behavioral overlay—sensor data logged over the last two weeks. Heart rate. Neural markers. Tail velocity. Cortisol-like stress proxies. All plotted in tight, color-coded patterns.

All tied to your schedule.

“He rises the moment you enter,” Havers said. “Activity levels stabilize within forty-five seconds. Sedation thresholds drop. Neuroresponse modulation increases. Mirror behaviors are precise, even anticipatory. Eye contact is sustained longer with you than any other observer by a factor of four.”

He paused.

Then, more quietly: “He doesn’t respond to anyone else now. Not even to direct provocation.”

You stared at the data, eyes scanning the peaks and troughs, remembering how those moments felt—not just as data points, but as experiences. As connections.

“I didn’t intend for any of this,” you said quietly.

“I believe you,” Havers replied. “But intention isn’t the problem.”

He finally looked up from the screen.

“The problem is attachment. One-directional. Immediate. And escalating.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the argument. Your body tensed instead—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, fingers digging slightly into the base of your tablet.

“He’s not mimicking anymore,” Havers said, as if reading your mind. “He’s focusing. Every behavioral marker suggests a fixation, not a response pattern. When you’re gone, he doesn’t shift to baseline—he withdraws. When we attempted to replace your observation window with controlled stimuli, he ignored it. The tank systems detected a full physiological shutdown cycle.”

You swallowed hard. Your breath fogged slightly in the cold air.

“What are you doing to him now?”

“We’ve begun sedation rotation. Carefully dosed. Enough to keep him compliant while we recalibrate protocol.”

Your voice cracked without warning. “You’re drugging him to make him forget me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said, “We’re preserving containment integrity.”

And then, with quiet finality:

“You’re being reassigned.”

The world tilted slightly in your vision.

“What?”

“You’ll report to Neural Indexing, Sublevel 2B. Starting tomorrow. Your clearance to Lab C has already been revoked.”

He picked up the tablet and powered it off.

You stared at him. You could feel your chest hollowing, breath going thin.

“This will break him,” you said.

He hesitated—just for a breath. Then he said, “If it does, it proves he was never stable to begin with.”

And that was it.

You were dismissed.

No further discussion.

The first night in your new quarters, you didn’t sleep.

The room was a concrete cube, one meter shorter on each side than your old assignment bunk. The cot creaked when you breathed. The walls sweated faint condensation. No simulated day-night cycle. Just harsh fluorescents that flicked off at 2200 and left you in complete grayscale. No one spoke when they handed you the keycard. The silence had the flavor of punishment, even if they never called it that.

You turned over the same sentence in your head:

“You’re being reassigned.”

And the second one, delivered even colder:

“Your clearance to Lab C has been revoked.”

Your tongue kept finding the shape of it in your mouth. Revoked. Like a limb amputated with a signature. The moment the door sealed behind you that night, the silence was more than absence—it was separation. You could still feel the residue of the tank glass against your fingertips, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up to what was gone.

They said the reassignment was for “containment stability.” That the connection between you and Rafayel had grown too strong. Too unpredictable. Too disruptive to the scientific objectives of the project.

But you knew what it really was.

Control.

They couldn’t control him anymore. Because he had started responding not to data, but to you. And that terrified them.

You had expected the transition to be clinical. Procedural. A clean severing.

It wasn’t.

The new lab in Sublevel 2B bore none of the atmosphere that defined Lab C. There was no subtle dimming of lights to mimic marine depth. No soft thrum of oxygen injectors syncing with the artificial current. No hum in your bones that came from proximity to something ancient, breathing, and alive.

This place—Neural Indexing—was quiet in the worst way.

The kind of silence that didn’t make room for thought but pressed against it. You sat in front of rows of stimulation modules and feed monitors, reviewing endless neural scans: meaningless loops of synthetic cognition, shallow patterns designed to imitate thought, emotion, response.

There was no presence in the data here.

No gaze tracking yours across a pane of reinforced glass.

No ripple of bioluminescence in response to your voice.

You were surrounded by function but starved of connection.

The others in your department didn’t speak much. They had the tired, hollow eyes of people who lived too long with screens instead of subjects. You were the new variable now, a name without a narrative—transferred in the middle of a cycle, given no debrief, carrying a silence everyone had been instructed not to ask about.

At first, you tried to adapt. You told yourself this was necessary. Sensible. Safer—for everyone involved.

But the rationalizations peeled away by day four.

That’s when the dreams returned.

They started faint, like echoes.

Just fragments: salt on your tongue, the pressure of water folding around your body, the low vibration of something massive swimming just out of reach.

Then the fragments sharpened.

In the dreams, you stood before the tank again. But this time, the glass wasn’t there. Rafayel floated just a breath away, watching you with stillness so complete it felt like gravity. His eyes were brighter than you remembered—wide, expectant, but solemn. No words passed between you.

He didn’t need them.

But some nights, the dream changed.

You weren’t in the tank room. You were on a beach, barefoot, the water dark and glimmering as it crawled across the sand. The sky above was violet and streaked with long golden clouds, as if lit by a sun that had never belonged to this world. The shore stretched endlessly in both directions, flanked by black cliffs heavy with overgrown moss and deep blue vines. Strange constellations flickered in the sky overhead, unfamiliar and ancient, like stars from a memory long buried.

The surf was gentle, but its song was heavy—carrying something old, something mournful.

You stepped into the water.

And the moment it touched your skin, the dream transformed.

You were no longer on the shore, you were beneath it.

Submerged in a vast, tranquil ocean bathed in blue light. Columns of sunlight filtered down from above like cathedral beams, illuminating silt and floating motes of golden plankton. The water was cool but welcoming, dense with reverberant silence. All around you were ruins: ancient stone arches overgrown with bioluminescent coral, broken statues of sea kings swallowed by algae and time.

And then—he was there.

Rafayel.

He emerged from the shadow of a collapsed temple gate, his form luminous against the gloom. His hair flowed behind him in an ethereal halo, purple-mauve, drifting like silk ribbons. His body moved with impossible grace, every motion effortless as he cut through the water. His tail gleamed with streaks of cobalt and opal, curling around him protectively.

When he saw you, he stilled. As if time had paused. And then he came to you. Not with urgency. Not with hesitation.

With knowing.

You drifted forward to meet him, arms parting the water like a slow tide. Your clothes floated weightless around you, strands of hair suspended in the soft current. You reached out. So did he.

When your hands met, everything else disappeared.

The moment your palms pressed to his, you both inhaled. The water shimmered. Light flared from his chest and from your fingertips. You drew closer, your bodies aligning instinctively. His tail curled gently around your legs, not to trap but to anchor. His claws traced your waist, reverent, uncertain if you were real.

He pulled you closer, as if sensing your doubt. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips brushing your brow, not a kiss—a promise.

He would not let you go.

You rose slowly the next morning, the weight of the dream still heavy on your shoulders like wet silk.

There was something about that beach—those ruins—that felt impossibly distant and unshakably close. You told yourself it was just the brain pulling symbols from subconscious grief. But that was a lie.

It felt real.

Not just real. Remembered.

You couldn’t explain the familiarity of his hands on your face. The exact shape of his breath, the warmth of his chest against yours, the way your fingers had threaded together like you had done it countless times before.

There were moments in the day—quiet, disarmed moments—where you would touch your own wrist or collarbone and expect to find him there. As if some trace of him should remain in your skin. As if he had once been stitched into the very rhythm of your body.

The more time passed, the more the dream solidified, not as fantasy—but as truth.

The day passed in pieces.

You reviewed three sequences of neural pattern recognition, sat through one impersonal systems check, and responded to zero messages. Your hands performed the motions, but your mind lagged behind, half-anchored to that sunken city beneath your thoughts.

And then you heard it.

Two lab techs stood just around the corner of the central corridor, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

“Still not responding.”

“Nothing since the last handler shift. He’s not eating. Not even moving.”

“He’s never been like this. Even when agitated, there was still... something.”

“Now? It’s like he’s just... stopped.”

You didn’t breathe.

Your hand hovered over the touchscreen you were pretending to use. The hall hummed with fluorescent lighting, the air too dry, the walls too close.

You stepped back, slowly, unnoticed.

You didn’t know how.

But you knew it was something you were not meant to forget. And it led you to a decision you never voiced aloud.

You stopped trying to make sense of the protocols. You stopped rationalizing the transfer. You stopped pretending he was better off without you.

Because the ache that filled your chest when you woke—the ache of almost losing him again—was worse than anything the facility could do to you.

The decision to access the archived feed wasn’t a conscious one. It wasn’t premeditated. It was something your body decided before your mind could catch up.

It happened on the ninth night.

You hadn’t planned on stopping at the terminal. You had intended to walk the long way around, avoid the side corridor near the equipment maintenance bay, bypass temptation entirely. But your feet slowed as you passed it. Your gaze flicked sideways. The hallway was empty, as always. The low hum of the wall consoles and the faint click of pressure valves were the only sounds.

And the screen was there. Dark, waiting.

You approached without realizing it, your hand already reaching. The screen lit up at your touch, a soft glow blooming in the dim corridor. The system prompted for access. You entered the override code. The one no one knew you still remembered.

A few seconds passed. Then:

ARCHIVED VISUAL LOG — LAB C TIMESTAMP: Day 9 – 01:46 HRS

The footage loaded.

And the ache in your chest returned full force.

There he was.

Rafayel.

At first, he was barely visible, curled in a shadow at the base of the tank. The lighting in the room was reduced to emergency-grade, flickering low blue and violet hues. Most of the central overheads were offline. The water itself was so still it looked like tinted glass.

He lay against the curved wall of the tank, his long body wrapped inward. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, tail looped twice around his torso. The sight was almost fetal in its stillness—too still. Not relaxed, not conserving. Withdrawing.

His head rested on one arm, turned slightly in the direction of the observation deck. His hair drifted gently in the motionless current, no longer radiant or alive with light. His gills fluttered faintly—shallow, slow. One flick every few seconds. Barely enough to sustain him.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t hibernating.

He was fading.

The vibrant shimmer that once pulsed across his body like underwater lightning had dulled to the color of bruises—indigo near his spine, violet near his chest, and something close to black along his lower limbs. The glow that had always signaled awareness—of you, of presence, of thought—was fragmented. It gathered dimly near his heart and left the rest of him in darkness.

There was no motion in his shoulders. No twitch of his claws. Not even a tail flick.

Stillness had taken him.

Then the camera angle shifted slightly.

And you saw his eyes.

They were open. Only half-lidded, but open. Just enough to confirm what you already suspected: he wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t sedated.

He was aware.

And he was waiting.

Even now—silent, unmoving, forgotten by the staff rotating around him—he was still facing the same section of glass.

The place you had always stood.

Your throat closed. Your fingers curled tightly against the edge of the console as you leaned closer. The impulse to reach for the screen was overwhelming, but there was nothing there. No heat. No pressure. No connection. Just pixelated light and silence.

The feed time-stamped forward.

A technician entered. She moved through the chamber with a clipboard and an ambient monitor, barely glancing at the tank. Routine. Impersonal. She stopped, approached the glass, and tapped once.

Rafayel didn’t move.

She activated a low-frequency stimulus from her control panel. The pulse made the water shift.

Still nothing.

She made a note. Paused. Looked up again, perhaps longer than protocol required. But even if she noticed the difference—how still he was, how wrong his glow had become—she said nothing. Just turned and left.

The lights dimmed further after she exited.

You were left staring at the footage. Alone again.

And so was he.

Something cracked inside you: you couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Your body understood what your mind had refused to fully face.

This wasn’t just a physiological decline. It was a psychological death spiral. They thought they had sedated him. Pacified him. Reduced risk.

But they hadn’t seen what you were seeing.

They hadn’t understood that his stillness wasn’t peace.

It was mourning.

And you knew exactly what it meant. Because you felt it too.

You pressed a hand to the screen, even though it couldn’t feel you. You sat there, shoulders rigid, stomach hollow, barely able to hold yourself upright.

He was suffering because they had taken you away. It was killing him.

You shut off the feed.

And for the first time in nine days, you stood up not as a staff member. Not as a researcher.

But as someone who was going back.

No matter the cost.

The tunnels were colder than you remembered.

Condensation clung to the curved ceilings, gathering in long droplets that slipped soundlessly to the metal grates beneath your feet. Pipes hissed softly with steam every ten meters, venting pressure from unseen machines. The walls were a patchwork of corrosion and riveted seams. Red emergency lights pulsed slowly along the floor, painting everything in alternating waves of rust and shadow.

The silence down here wasn’t the passive hush of the main halls. It was active. Watchful. Like something waiting to be disturbed. Every footfall sounded like an echo inside a steel drum. Every breath you took came back twice as loud in your ears.

The auxiliary entrance to Lab C was sealed, just as it had been for days. But the access panel hadn’t been wiped. Your code still worked.

The light on the console flickered, then shifted green.

The door groaned open, metal scraping metal, and cold, salted air rolled out to meet you.

You stepped into a room suspended in time.

The room was colder than you remembered.

Not by temperature, but by absence. The chill that came from a place left unattended too long. The tank’s filtration hum had slowed, its resonance no longer constant but stuttering every few seconds, like a faltering breath. A faint chemical tang hung in the air, sharper than before. The lighting had dimmed further—no longer the soft, ambient blue that mimicked ocean depths. Now the tank was lit from below, casting warped, ghostly shadows against the walls, like the inside of a body lit by its own flickering pulse.

And there he was.

Rafayel.

Floating in silence.

He was curled loosely, his arms hanging in front of him, palms relaxed and half open, the gesture somehow vulnerable. His tail hung like a long, unmoving ribbon in the water. His glow was barely there—a faint wash of violet through his chest, flickering intermittently like the last ember of a fire trying not to die.

The sight of him hit you like submersion.

It was too much, too fast, too familiar.

You stepped forward without thinking, boots echoing on the composite flooring. The air thickened with every stride, like pushing through static. Your heart drummed against your ribs, quick and uneven. You were afraid he wouldn't move. Afraid he wouldn't see you.

You reached the tank. Stopped.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, the word cracking in your throat like a fault line splitting open.

He didn’t respond.

But something shifted.

A flicker of movement along his spine. A ripple of light blooming faintly across his gills.

You held your breath.

Then—his eyes opened.

Slow. Bleary. At first unfocused, then… locked.

Right on you.

Recognition didn’t explode—it unfolded. Layer by layer, like thawing ice. His pupils narrowed. His chest lifted with a sharp inhale. The violet in his body surged brighter, edged with silver, crawling like veins across his arms and into the tips of his claws.

And then he moved.

Not swam. Not lunged.

He rose.

Weightless, effortless, he emerged in a slow, unfurling motion. The water parted around him in gentle folds. He drifted toward you, the sleek muscle of his torso shifting under the soft luminescence. He was broader than you remembered. Stronger. His body moved with the control of something ancient, practiced. But there was fragility under the surface—an ache in the way he carried himself, like a wounded predator willing itself toward the light.

When he reached the glass, he stopped just short, hands spreading flat against the transparent barrier. His palms trembled faintly. His claws clicked softly as they touched down.

You mirrored him.

Hand trembling, you placed your palm where his rested. A perfect match. Skin to glass. Heat to cold.

He blinked once, slowly, gills fluttering. Then his breath hitched, and a soft tremor ran through his shoulders. His face was unreadable—but in his eyes there was no question.

It was you.

He tilted his head slightly, hair drifting like a halo. You caught every micro-expression: the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched against the barrier. Not fear. Not confusion.

Emotion.

His voice, when it came, was a raw murmur.

“You came back.”

You nodded, a tear finally breaking loose and running down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

He leaned forward slowly, until his forehead pressed lightly against the glass. His eyes closed, and your breath caught.

You leaned in too, matching him, your own forehead meeting the cool barrier.

There was no sound but your twin breathing.

Then he opened his eyes again.

And they glowed.

Not violently, but with purpose. A steady, growing light. The silver along his ribcage rippled outward, trailing down his arms. The soft blue of his irises deepened to something oceanic, endless. His tail shifted behind him, wrapping once around itself like an anchor stabilizing him.

You stepped back.

His gaze tracked your movement, but he didn’t speak.

You turned toward the console. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands didn’t leave the glass.

The screen lit under your fingertips. The system had locked you out days ago, but you bypassed the prompt using the old maintenance override. The keys clicked too loudly. Your heart beat louder still.

MANUAL OVERRIDE: CONTAINMENT LOCK Confirm: YES / NO

You hovered over the button.

Thoughts pressed in all at once—about consequences, about duty, about what would come after. But none of it mattered more than this moment.

Not after what you’d seen.

Not after what he had become in your absence.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pressed YES.

A low mechanical chime rang out. Steam hissed at the tank’s base. The floor panels lit red and the water level began to fall.

And you turned—slowly—to meet his eyes as the locks disengaged.

He didn’t rush forward. Didn’t break the barrier. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

He simply watched you.

The moment stretched, suspended in steam and soft red light.

Then the tank opened.

taglist:

@orange-stars @flameo-hotman12 @paper--angel @vynn30 @lalaluch @wilddreamer98 @multisstuff

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #loveanddeepspace #love and deep space #love and deepspace fanfiction #lads x you #lads x reader #lads rafayel #lads imagine #rafayel merman #rafayel x you #rafayel x reader #rafayel lads #lads #love and deepspace rafayel #lnds

361 notes · View notes

takmiblog · 1 year ago

Text

パワー・エレクトロニクス分野における省エネ化の位置付け

　小型化と省エネ化は、現代のパワー・エレクトロニクス分野における最大のテーマでしょう。この二つの課題を克服するには、機器の中でもっとも消費電力の大きいアンプや電源を高効率化する必要があります。しかし、従来のリニア方式アンプは、消費電力が大きい、発熱が大きく大型の放熱器が必要、バッテリのもちが悪いなど、多くの欠点があります。

　この欠点を克服する電力増幅回路がD級アンプです。D級アンプは、パワーデバイスをスイッチング駆動することで、８０％を超える高い変換効率を実現します。この技術を利用すれば、放熱器の小型化や長時間のバッテリ駆動が可能になるのです。

　本書は、D級アンプの設計テクニックと製作事例を集大成したものです。D級増幅段の回路設計法から、LCフィルタ、負帰還技術、市販の制御ICの使い方まで、実践で役に立つ知識を実験を交えながらわかりやすく解説します。

ーーーーー

D級／ディジタル・アンプの設計と製作

高効率に電力を増幅できるパワー・アンプの作り方のすべて

本田潤＜編著＞

CQ出版社

#jun honda #class d #power amplifier #power electronics #pulse width modulation

0 notes

sharieb · 11 days ago

Text

Fragments of Her Light 1: A Cup Beyond the Fog

Synopsis: In the aftermath of a soul-shattering loss, he can no longer dream of her, only remember. Haunted by grief and consumed by obsession, he throws himself into a desperate search across rifts, ruins, and cosmic impossibilities to find the one he lost to the Overseer. With each dead end, his sanity frays, yet he refuses to stop. But just as all hope begins to feel hollow, a strange café begins to surface in whispers, its name echoing something once sacred. Drawn in without understanding why, he unknowingly takes the first true step toward her, a step that will change everything.

Pairing: LADS x Non-MC! reader

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort Content warning: Angst, mention of implied death, obsession, cosmic/divine interference

Music for the chapter: On the Nature of Daylight by Max Richter

youtube

Word count: + 1.1K Writer's notes: Hello, my lovelies. I'm so sorry for the delay. Many things have been going on all day today that I didn't get to post this as soon as I promised 🙇🏾‍♀️. For new readers who just stumbled upon this fic first, I would highly recommend that you read my Held in the Hollowed Fragments series first and then come back and read this sequel. But here it is. What you all been waiting for. I hope you all enjoy the first chapter of Fragments of Her Light.

He hadn’t slept in days. Not properly, not since the last time he held her body in the fog, still and cold in his arms. The scent of her still lingered in his chest, the memory of her warmth burned into his hands, and the silence she left behind had carved itself into the marrow of his bones.

He, who had once held her gaze and carried a piece of her soul, were unraveling in their own ways. Grief seeped into his days, etched into every hour, until the ache of her absence became indistinguishable from breath.

He searched.

But no dream had come since. Only fragments. Static. A chasm where her soul once tethered his to the other side. He keeps searching.

He had redirected nearly half of Skyhaven’s surveillance satellites to monitor dimensional rift activity. He analyzed cross-dimensional energy pulses, tracing the faintest disruptions in gravity wells and cosmic distortions for any sign of where she might have been taken. The data was inconsistent, barely coherent, but he refused to stop. He combed through thousands of archived dream recordings, fed them into predictive AIs, and layered every possible reading onto the orbital patterns around known and unknown rifts. Nothing concrete emerged.

He burned through every coded evolutionary theorem on soul resonance, refusing sleep even as his body shut down around him. He had taken over the quietest wing of Akso Hospital’s upper labs, surrounding himself with data filters, spiritual scanning drones, and discarded prototypes of resonance amplifiers. He mapped forgotten metaphysical equations into evolving spirals, trying to replicate the way her presence had once affected his vitals. It was madness disguised as science.

He tirelessly roamed the ocean’s deepest trenches and silenced ruins, scouring coral-encrusted temples and forgotten sanctuaries for any ancient relics or soul-bound artefacts that might guide him to her. When the currents quieted and the ruins offered nothing, he would surface and paint. Again and again. Sketches lined his walls: portraits of her in different lights, moods, and fragments of memory. He refused to forget her face.

He salvaged rusted circuits and shattered stabilizers from the broken remains of his old spaceship tech. He began rebuilding by hand. He reignited dormant starfield scanners, rewired faulty dream-broadcast modules, and manually recalibrated prototype signal receivers to tune into frequencies that defied regulation. Night after night, he tested each array against the backdrop of space.

He stopped being strategic. He was desperate now. Silent, sharp, volatile. He hunted down every lead with reckless determination, pulling favours, calling in old debts, and bartering both legally and illegally for anything that might help him locate her across the universe. Every black market relic or discarded wormhole theory was another shot in the dark he refused to ignore. He didn’t care about danger or cost; only the results. And if tearing through the underworld of space-time gave him one inch closer to her, he’d keep going until the universe bled.

She was gone. But not erased.

Taken by no other than:

The Supreme Cosmic Overseer.

Unlike Astra, the Overseer did not play games. They were not a trickster or a gambler of souls. They were something far older. A sovereign of balance and cosmic order. They had governed the rise and fall of galaxies without cruelty, but with unwavering precision. They did not toy with fate. They enforced it.

And when they took her, it wasn’t with malice. It was with purpose.

That was what made it worse.

So he continued to search blindly. Untethered. Grasping only at echoes. And with each dead end, each echo that dissolved into silence, each path that led nowhere, he became more and more frustrated and desperate. The calm resolve that once guided him gave way to a gnawing obsession; his thoughts looped endlessly around her, every moment without a lead like static screaming through his skull. His temper shortened. His sleep vanished. He snapped at those who tried to help, rejected rest like it was betrayal, and chased after even the faintest whispers of her with feral desperation. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Not until something, anything, led him back to her.

Then the rumor came.

It started small.

A passing comment. “There’s this weird new café downtown. No one saw it being built, but it’s... there. Like it always existed.”

Destiny Café

It had become something of a phenomenon.

At first, it appeared quietly, just another quaint little shop tucked between two buildings in a side street no one remembered existing before. But now? Everyone was talking about it. Review boards were flooded with glowing praise. Influencers posted aesthetic shots of shimmering drinks that changed color in different light. Every drink tasted exactly the way you needed. Every dish warmed something beyond the stomach. There was something timeless in its charm.

It wasn’t just the ambience, the low lighting, the scent of cinnamon and something sweeter, but the sense of comfort that settled deep in your bones the moment you stepped inside. The café made you feel... remembered. Known.

Most thought it was just a cozy refuge.

But it got under their skin. Friends started suggesting it, innocently, offhandedly, as if the universe was nudging him toward something he couldn't see yet.

Thomas had begged him to go.

"Sir, you haven’t been out of the studio in days. You’re twitching over paint thinner fumes. Go. Drink a tea. Find your soul or whatever."

His colleagues at the hospital brought it up during a rare lunch break.

"They’ve got a lavender honey espresso that’s been driving the nurses wild. It even helped Dr. Greyson sleep through a full night for once. You should try it."

He received three independent recommendations in one day. From his lieutenant. From Gideon. And, surprisingly, from one of his AI units, which had spontaneously updated its destination preferences to mark the café as a: ‘Mental Recovery Priority Site.’

He heard it from the twins.

"Boss, I swear if you don’t get out of this bunker for an hour, we’re staging a rebellion. People keep saying that this place is magic. You like creepy things. Go blend into the velvet wallpaper or something."

His field agent group chat wouldn’t shut up about it. One of them sent a picture of a menu item that simply read: For the Forgotten One A dessert that shimmered between shapes, never looking the same twice.

He unknowingly had the same thought as he stared at the café’s name, echoing back from messages, overheard conversations, and the subtle pull that had drawn him here:

Why that name?

Why now?

And why did it sound so much like her?

When he finally stood outside the doorway, alone, unaware of the others, he barely thought about it. To him, it was just an ordinary café, tucked away like hundreds of others, a small curiosity on a grey day.

He didn’t question the name this time. Or the timing. Or the warmth that radiated from the door as his hand hovered over the handle. Not yet.

He didn’t know this would be the first real step.

The first solid, undeniable step back to her.

#love and deepspace reactions #lads x non mc #lad x non mc #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #caleb love and deepspace #zayne x non mc! reader #xavier x non mc! reader #caleb x non mc! reader #rafayel x non mc! reader #sylus x non mc! reader #lads angst #lads hurt/comfort #Youtube

216 notes · View notes

velvetinks · 2 months ago

Text

Under the helmet

Pedro Pascal x f!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive language, shared dressing rooms, physical closeness, unresolved tension, soft touches

The first time you met Pedro on set, he smiled like he already knew you.

Not in an arrogant way — more like he’d been waiting for you, somehow. Like the moment had already played out in his head a hundred times.

“Hey,” he said, standing there in full Mando armor with the helmet tucked under his arm, grinning from behind his five o’clock shadow. “Guess we’ll be doing a lot of scenes together, huh?”

You were playing a rebel leader, smart, dry-humored, sharp-tongued, and rumor had it the writers had already started crafting more material between your character and his.

You didn’t mind. Not one bit.

Especially not with the way he looked at you when the cameras weren’t rolling.

The scenes started simple.

A briefing room. A tense standoff. A shared look across a battlefield.

But in the quiet moments between takes, Pedro was… different.

He lingered near your trailer with two coffees and that crooked smile. He leaned against the wall during blocking, just close enough that your shoulders would brush. He whispered lines to himself when he thought no one was watching, and you caught yourself watching far too often.

Once, during a fight rehearsal, he helped you adjust your stance. His hands wrapped around your wrist, slow and deliberate. He didn’t let go right away.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he said, eyes crinkling.

“So are you,” you replied, daring him.

His thumb brushed your pulse before he stepped back.

Your favorite days were the ones where he wore the helmet.

It was strange, you admitted it. But there was something about the mystery, the sound of his voice behind the modulator, the way he moved when he wasn’t relying on facial expressions. You knew it was him under the beskar — the way he tilted his head when you spoke, the pause before he responded. Like he was studying you.

“I can still hear you smile,” he said once during a long take where neither of you spoke, just sat across from each other. “Even with the helmet on.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

But your heart beat faster for the rest of the day.

One night, late after a shoot ran long, you found yourselves the last two in the costume trailer. His gloves were already off, his armor half-unzipped. You were tired, your makeup smudged, your voice hoarse from yelling over blaster fire.

Pedro looked at you, and for once, there was no helmet. No character. Just him.

“Long day,” he said.

You nodded. “Couldn’t tell if we were filming or actually in the middle of a war.”

He smiled softly. “You good?”

You hesitated then sat on the bench beside him.

“I am now.”

Silence stretched. Familiar. Comfortable.

Then he turned to you, his voice low.

“You ever think about how weird this is? Us. Doing this. Pretending to fight for the galaxy but actually… I don’t know. Waiting for something real to happen?”

You met his gaze. “I think something real already is.”

He didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But his hand found yours, warm and steady. His thumb brushed your knuckles, and for a long time, you just sat there. No cameras. No crew. Just the hum of the set settling into silence.

And in that moment, helmet off, guard down, Pedro finally looked at you like he was done pretending.

#star wars x reader #star wars #the mandolarian #mando fanfiction #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #mandalorian x reader

219 notes · View notes

vingtetunmars · 1 month ago

Text

Unlisted

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: Din Djarin accepts a bounty from Captain Teva to track down a mysterious fugitive hiding in the lower levels of Coruscant. Things took a left turn when his son took a liking to her.

Part 2 / Part 3

Tags: Enemies to Lovers-ish?, smut (18+) in later part, Grogu plays matchmaker, set after season 3, slow burn, pre-relationship, star wars content that may or may not be canon. I think both are equally emotionally unavailable. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Din Djarin have been plaguing my mind, and this turns out to be a longer fic than I anticipated, sooo...yeah.... 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: 4k

masterlist

You kept your head down. Not just metaphorically, either — the hood stays up, shadowing your face like a curtain drawn on a stage you no longer wish to perform on.

Down here, in the belly of Coruscant, the sky was a myth. The higher levels sparkled with hover traffic and clean storefronts, but the lower levels — Level 1313 and below — were where light came in flickers. Neon buzzed overhead, casting pale blue veins down crumbling walls. You slipped through the crowd like a whisper, unnoticed, which was how you like it.

Your boots splashed through puddles that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. A vendor hollered about fried mynock skewers behind you; someone screamed further down the street — no one turned their head. It was just another day.

You reached the alley behind the scrapyard, the one that still had an access panel no one’s noticed. A sharp knock in a three-beat rhythm, and the door opens — you’ve greased enough palms to keep that privilege. Inside, your makeshift workspace waits: scraps of old droids, power cells half-drained, a busted protocol unit whose vocabulator you’ve been repurposing as a signal jammer.

It's not pretty, but it works. And that's what matters.

You slid off your outer cloak, revealing the belt of tools at your hip. Plasma cutter, sonic wrench, home-built pulse bomb. You always carry more tricks than anyone expects. That’s probably the only reason you’re not in a cell. Yet.

You were just about to reroute a power coupling when you felt it — not a sound, not a shadow, just presence. A change in the air behind you.

You turned, fast—

—and he was already there.

Silver beskar, unmoving. The T-shaped visor locked onto you. He hadn't made a sound, not a single footstep. You stumbled back a half-step.

"You're a hard one to find," the modulated voice said.

Your hand moved before your brain did. A flashbang slipped from your belt — you hurl it down, shielding your eyes as light erupts.

You didn't wait to see if it worked.

Your legs were burning, breath tight in your chest, but the alleys blur past in streaks of shadow and neon. You darted through steam vents, leapt a fallen droid chassis, and ducked into the narrow crawlspace between two shuttered stalls.

For a second, all you heard was your own heartbeat.

Then — the low, mechanical thud of boots on metal.

He was still coming.

You pivoted out the other end, slammed a panel shut behind you, and vaulted up onto a maintenance ladder. The climb was fast, practiced. You’ve done this route before — knew you’d need it someday.

Tonight was that day.

You reached the catwalk above, drew your sonic wrench, and twisted it until it whines with unstable energy. Footsteps hit the ladder behind you.

You didn’t hesitate. You turned and launched yourself off the catwalk — straight at him.

Mid-air, you jab the wrench forward. It connected with his pauldron and lets out a crackling burst that should’ve dropped anyone else.

But he wasn’t just anyone.

The impact staggered him, barely. He gripped your wrist mid-strike, wrenched your arm sideways, and you cried out — but you twisted with it, slammed your knee into his ribs, planted a boot against his chest, and shoved off hard.

You both hit the ground — you rolled, he lands heavy.

You sprung to your feet first, palm a smoke charge from your belt, and slammed it into the floor. White haze erupts.

You vanished into it.

You could hear him coughing behind his helmet — the charge is laced with an irritant, non-toxic but disorienting. It bought you seconds.

You moved fast, ducking under hanging cables, burst through a flickering doorway—

—and hit a solid wall of beskar.

He must’ve flanked you.

You striked first — a knife from your boot into your hand in a blink. You slashed low, aiming for the thigh joint.

He blocked it with his vambrace, grabbed your forearm, and swung you around. Your back crashed into a pillar. The knife clattered away.

You were gasping, arm pinned, struggling — and then you felt it. The snap of a cold metal cuff around your wrist.

You froze.

His grip tightens for half a second, then loosens — not out of mercy. Just efficiency.

“You done?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

But your glare could burn through beskar.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The walk back to the Razor Crest was silent, save for the shifting of your boots against the metal of the landing pad. You were still cuffed, and you’ve stopped struggling — but The Mandalorian doesn’t relax. Not yet.

He had enough runs to know that quiet didn’t mean safe.

You didn't say a word, just kept your hood low and your jaw set like you were chewing on the galaxy’s worst secret. He didn’t ask what it was. That wasn’t his job.

He got the puck from Captain Teva three rotations ago. No chain code, just a vague directive — female, human, operating out of the lower levels of Coruscant. Wanted alive. High payout.

“New Republic’s nervous,” Teva had said, crackling through the holocomm. “No official charges I can find. No open case file. Just… pressure from the top. Someone wants her quiet.”

The Mandalorian had asked the usual questions. What’d you do? Who are you?

Teva had shrugged. “I don’t know. Hell, they didn’t even give me a name.”

That was the part that stuck with him. No name, no record, no crime listed — but a full-system alert and credits on the table.

Which meant whoever you were, someone high up wanted you gone without questions.

He’d taken the job anyway. Credits were credits. And he had mouths to feed.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Razor Crest creaked as the ramp closes behind him. He tossed your gear onto a bench — gadgets, explosives, tools that look cobbled together out of junk and genius. Then he guided you toward the carbonite chamber.

You froze when you saw it. “Seriously?” you muttered, voice raw from running, but steady. “You’re freezing me?”

“It’s the safest way,” he said flatly.

“For who?” you snapped. “I won’t run.”

He hesitated. Not because he believed you — but because you looked him in the visor, and there was something behind your eyes that didn't match the bounty he was told to expect.

You look tired. Sharp, but worn down. And more than anything, angry. Not reckless — cornered.

“I’m not stupid,” you added, quieter now. “You’d catch me again. Just… don’t freeze me.”

The Mandalorian glanced toward the carbonite controls. It would be easier. Safer. Less complicated.

But he had already seen how resourceful you are. If you wanted to escape, you would’ve tried already. You could have blown yourself and half the alley apart with that last trick you never used.

“I’ll cuff you to the bunk,” he said.

You nodded once. No snark. No protest.

He almost preferred it when people are mouthy. It’s easier than silence like this — silence that carries weight.

He cuffed you to the narrow bed in the small bunk area and shuts the panel behind him. Then he climbed up to the cockpit and sets a course for Adelphi.

Grogu coos softly from his seat, eyes wide.

“I don’t know either, kid,” The Mandalorian mutters, sinking into the pilot’s chair. “Something’s off.”

He didn’t say it, but he knew: this is the kind of job that never stays simple.

The hum of the engines has settled into a steady rhythm — low, comforting, like a lullaby wrapped in metal. You sat cuffed to the bunk, legs stretched out, back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.

The Razor Crest was old, rugged. Not like the sleek, polished ships you used to know. It’s held together by care and stubbornness, and judging by the wear on the walls, it’s seen more battles than peace.

You breathed in slowly, finally letting your shoulders drop. You were not in a cell. Not frozen. That’s something.

Then you heard it — a soft patter, like tiny feet on metal.

You looked toward the corner, squinting.

A small green creature with wide eyes and bigger ears stands halfway down the ladder, blinking up at you like you’re the strange thing in the room.

“…What the kriff?”

He tilted his head.

You sat up straighter, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. He toddles down the last few steps, round eyes locked on yours. No fear. Just curiosity. And maybe… sympathy?

“I didn’t know he brought pets,” you muttered, watching him wobbled closer. “Or... children?”

He stopped just out of your reach, still staring. Then, slowly, carefully, he lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers.

You raised an eyebrow. “That a hello, or a warning?”

He cooed.

You blinked, a short laugh escaping your throat before you could help it. “Alright, you’re cute. That’s illegal.”

Before he could get any closer, the sound of metal boots clanking on the ladder echoed down from above. You glanced toward it just in time to see silver beskar descend — slow, heavy, with purpose.

The Mandalorian stepped into view just as the kid reached your side. He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Grogu,” he said sharply, voice low with warning.

The little one startled but doesn’t move.

“I told you to stay in your seat.”

Grogu looked back at him with the most innocent eyes you’ve ever seen on a living thing. You watched the standoff, entirely entertained.

“Kid has taste,” you quipped. “And a better sense of company.”

The Mandalorian didn’t answer you — he walks over and scooped Grogu up gently but firmly, holding him under one arm like a wayward satchel.

“You shouldn’t be near her,” he muttered to the kid, glancing at you.

“Her is right here,” you said, raising both brows. “And I’m not gonna hurt him. Honestly, didn’t expect you to have a soft side.”

His helmet turned toward you.

“He’s not part of the job,” he said simply, climbing the ladder with Grogu in hand.

You smirked after them. “Didn’t say he was.”

The panel slid shut behind him, sealing you in again. You let your head fall back against the wall and smile to yourself.

So the bounty hunter has a kid.

This just got more interesting.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You weren’t sure how long you’ve been in hyperspace. Time feels like sludge in a durasteel box, but the constant thrum of the engines and the gentle sway of the ship made it bearable.

What makes it better was the small, green creature who kept sneaking down the ladder like he owns the place.

The first time after the initial scolding, he was sneakier. You heard the soft squeak of feet before you saw the ears poke around the corner. This time, you didn't say a word — just gave him a little nod and a smirk. An unspoken truce.

Then came the second visit. And the third.

By the fourth, you were sitting cross-legged on the bunk, cuffs clinking quietly as Grogu sat on the floor in front of you, trying to mimic the motion of one of your tools using only the Force and a very determined face.

You glance toward the closed panel overhead. “He’s gonna come down again and scoop you up like a misbehaving tooka, you know.”

Grogu just gurgles.

“Right,” you sighed. “Rebel spirit. Should’ve known.”

The panel opened. Speak of the devil.

The Mandalorian climbed down the ladder, visor landing on the pair of you instantly.

“Grogu.”

It was the same tone as before — firm, quiet, expectant. Grogu’s ears twitch like he’d been caught drawing on walls again.

“He’s not doing anything,” you said, raising your cuffed hands. “Just hanging out.”

“He shouldn’t be near you.”

“Why? You think I’m dangerous?”

He didn’t answer. He just crossed the room and gently scooped Grogu up again. Grogu let out a protesting whine, tiny arms reaching toward you as he's lifted away.

“Maker forbid someone wants to be my friend,” you muttered, mostly to yourself — but you didn't miss the way the Mandalorian paused at that.

The visits didn’t stop.

Over time, Grogu got bolder. He sat on your lap. Tugs at your sleeves. Tried to mimic your expressions. You started talking to him in low tones — nothing personal, just stories. Jokes. The occasional grumble about hyperspace.

You learned quickly that he likes to coo when amused and tilt his head to manipulate you into silence. He was an expert.

At one point, you held up your cuffs and shook them lightly. “These really ruin the vibe, don’t they?”

He looked up at you with wide eyes, then turned to the ladder.

“Don’t even think about it—” you started.

A few moments later, you heard the Mandalorian climbing down again. He stepped off the ladder, helmet tilting in that what now way.

Grogu was standing beside you, one hand lightly on the chain of your cuffs. He looked up at the Mandalorian and lets out a pleading whine, eyes huge, gesturing with tiny fingers like he was explaining something very serious.

You shrugged one shoulder, as much as the chain allows. “I told you. He just wants a friend.”

A long beat.

You couldn't see his face, but something shifts in the air — maybe in the set of his shoulders, maybe in the way his helmet lingered on Grogu.

Finally, he sighed — that kind of sigh that sounds heavier than it should.

Then he moved. Keys in a code. The cuffs popped open with a metallic click.

You stared at him, rubbing your wrists. “Didn’t think you’d actually—”

“Don’t make me regret it,” he muttered, already turning back toward the ladder.

Grogu gave a pleased coo and nestled back into your lap like he’d just won a game only he was playing.

You glanced at the little guy. “You’ve got him wrapped around your tiny fingers, don’t you?”

He just blinked up at you, innocent as ever.

You leaned back against the wall, cuff-free, your first real breath in hours escaping you.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

It was a rocky descent.

You were strapped into the jump seat in the hold, with Grogu curled beside you in his floating pod, blinking sleepily as the Razor Crest cuts through the atmosphere. The landing thrusters groan in protest — this planet wasn’t exactly known for friendly ports.

The Mandalorian appeared at the top of the ladder, helmet reflecting the blue-green light of the planet below.

“Stay on the ship.” he added.

Grogu lets out a soft coo, like he disagreed.

You shrugged. “Fine. I like it here. Cozy.”

He paused at the top of the ladder. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt his stare. Measuring.

Then—

“You’re coming with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“There’s a bounty. Quick grab. I don’t want to leave Grogu alone.”

You glanced down at the kid, who seems entirely unbothered and was now nibbling on a snack he absolutely did not ask permission to eat.

“And I’m your trusted babysitter now?”

“If you run, I shoot you,” he replied evenly.

You sighed and got to your feet. “That’s fair.”

You were walking slightly behind Mando, hood up, hands tucked in your coat. Grogu floated between you, his pod humming softly. The outpost reeks of oil and sun-baked metal. A couple of locals eye you warily, but the gleam of beskar kept them at a distance.

“Who’s the target?” you asked under your breath.

Mando taps a puck. “Rolk Tenek. Rodian. Wanted for arms smuggling and ditching New Republic probation.”

“Aw. A real gentleman.”

The bounty’s signal led to a rust-stained scrapyard on the edge of the city. You spotted movement near one of the larger hulks — a Rodian hauling crates into the back of a shuttle. No guards. Sloppy.

“I’ll circle around,” Mando said.

You nodded but hesitated. “Wait. He’s powering up the shuttle. You sneak in, and he’s gone the second you step out.”

“I’m not asking for advice.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Just don’t get mad when I save your ass.”

He vanished around the right side of the yard.

Predictably, all hell broke loose.

You hear a crash, followed by blaster fire. You dart behind a stack of old droid plating just as a second Rodian — a lookout — emerged from the scrap with a blaster raised.

He spotted Mando and fires.

You were already moving.

Your hand dipped into your coat and pulls out a small, disk-shaped gadget. You twisted the edge — click — and rolled it across the ground toward the attacker. It hummed once, then popped with a bright burst of light and a short-range EMP pulse.

The Rodian’s blaster fizzled.

By the time he looked down, you were on him. A kick to the knee, elbow to the gut, and he went down hard.

You looked up just in time to see Mando haul the main bounty — stunned and grumbling — out of the shuttle. He freezed when he saw you standing over the unconscious lookout.

You lifted both hands, mock-innocent. “Didn’t run.”

The bounty was in carbonite. You were back in the hold, wiping dirt from your sleeves. Grogu was curled beside you, clearly impressed.

Mando descends from the cockpit.

“You had a clean shot at the door,” he said.

“I know.”

“You could’ve taken the shuttle.”

“I know that too.”

A pause.

“Why didn’t you?”

You shrugged. “Because that idiot had a blaster pointed at your head. And because I didn’t feel like stealing a junk pile with bad shielding.”

Another beat of silence.

You glanced up at him. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He didn’t say it. Of course he doesn’t. But after a moment, he crosses the hold and tosses something your way.

A ration pack.

You caught it one-handed, raising your brows.

“A meal and no chains? You’re really starting to spoil me, Mando.”

He said nothing as he walks back to the ladder — but you swear you hear the faintest huff of breath through the modulator. Maybe a laugh. Maybe not.

But it was a start.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The bounty was delivered. Fuel was loaded. Grogu was fed, and now he was curled up beside you on the floor of the Razor Crest’s hold, content and snoring softly.

You leaned against the wall, rolling a hydrospanner between your fingers. Mando sat across from you, still in full armor, arms resting on his knees, helmet tilted slightly downward like he’d been staring at you too long and didn’t want you to notice.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Who are you?”

You looked up. “That’s not a very nice way to start a conversation.”

He didn’t respond. Just waited.

You sighed, twirling the spanner. “If you ask me questions, can I ask you questions too?”

“No.”

You smirked. “Then I won’t answer yours.”

“Fine.”

Silence.

Then, after a long moment, he shifted. “This isn’t a game.”

“No,” you said, watching him carefully. “It’s not. But if you want something from me, you better be willing to give a little too.”

His visor stayed locked on you. And then— “One for one.”

You nodded, serious now. “Deal.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Why is the New Republic after you?”

“That’s two questions. You want motive or context?”

“Motive.”

You paused, glancing at Grogu’s sleeping form. “Because I found something I wasn’t supposed to. Something that makes them look very, very bad.”

His silence was all the answer you needed — he wasn’t surprised. Just curious.

“My turn,” you said. “What’s a Mandalorian doing babysitting a green gremlin?”

“He’s not a job.”

That was all he gave you.

You raised a brow. “So he’s what — your son?”

“…Something like that.”

That was more than you expected. You softened a little, eyeing the tiny creature curled up like a seed pod.

“Your turn,” you said.

“How’d you find it? The thing that got you hunted.”

You shrugged slowly. “It was a routine audit. I worked in records verification — nothing flashy. But someone filed a data-wipe request with all the wrong clearance codes. Sloppy.”

“You were a bureaucrat?”

“Please. I was a thinkerer in a sea of paper-pushers. But yeah, I had access to archives most people don’t. I followed the glitch and... found an encrypted list.”

“What kind of list?”

You hesitated. “A roster of old Imperial loyalists… still on New Republic payroll.”

That made him shift. Just slightly.

You leaned forward. “That’s when they came after me. Scrubbed my ID. Flagged my face. Marked me as hostile and told everyone I’d gone rogue. Leaked false charges — weapons theft, sabotage, conspiracy. All fabricated.”

He didn’t say anything.

“My turn again,” you said quietly. “Do you ever take that thing off?”

“No.”

“Not even to eat?”

He didn’t respond.

You stared at him a beat. “How do you brush your teeth?”

Still no answer.

You grinned. “I’m going to assume you just let Grogu do it for you.”

He leaned forward again. “What else did you do, besides ‘records verification’?”

You sighed. “Before the New Republic? I was a slicer. Not for the Empire — I wasn’t that dumb. But I made systems work for the people who needed it. Protected vulnerable data. Fixed supply routes. Rewired droids to stop attacking civvies.”

“So you were a criminal.”

“In the same way you are,” you said coolly.

Another beat of silence.

“…I know how to break things,” you added. “But I know how to fix them, too.”

He didn’t reply. But something in his posture had shifted — a touch more open, less stiff.

You looked at him. “My turn again.”

He didn’t stop you.

“How come you trust him?” You nodded at Grogu. “You don’t seem like the trusting type.”

There was a long silence.

And then — “He saved me. More than once.”

You looked at the sleeping child again. “Yeah. I can believe that.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. And neither did you.

Then, finally, he spoke again. “What’s your plan?”

“Plan?”

“If I let you go.”

You hesitated. “I… I don’t know. I was just trying to stay ahead of the bounty boards. Find someone who’d believe me. But nobody wants to admit the New Republic’s a mess. They just want to pretend it’s better than what came before.”

He was quiet.

You met his gaze — or the visor, at least. “You believe me?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Fair enough.

But something had changed. You could feel it in the air between you. Not quite warmth. But no longer cold suspicion either.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

“Neither are you.”

Grogu snored loudly, and both of you looked down at him.

You smiled faintly. “He’s not gonna let you keep me cuffed forever, you know.”

“…We’ll see.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Mandalorian sat motionless in the pilot’s chair, gloved hands resting loosely on the controls. The stars outside streaked by in endless white-blue trails — peaceful, in a way. Deceptively peaceful.

He hadn’t slept.

He told himself he was keeping her around to learn the truth. To weigh what was lies and what was fear talking. That was what a bounty hunter should do — verify the puck. Decide what to believe, who to hand over.

But he’d already made a mistake. He hadn’t put her back in cuffs.

He’d told himself it was temporary. That he’d lock her back up once the next stop came.

And then Grogu had started bringing her things.

He glanced toward the nav screen, though the course hadn’t changed.

She had her reasons. Her story. A believable one, if not convenient. And part of him wanted to write her off as just another fugitive lying through her teeth.

But he knew the type she’d talked about. The ones still walking free in shiny New Republic uniforms. He’d seen it himself — the Empire’s rot hadn’t been cut out. It had just been repainted.

If her story was true… if that list really existed…

He exhaled slowly. This wasn’t what he signed up for. Teva had only said she was a wanted slicer with a long list of tech-based crimes. That she was dangerous. That she’d run. Not a word about internal leaks or conspiracy.

Grogu would be asleep beside her by now. Again.

He should’ve carbon-frozen her. Should’ve done it the moment she stepped aboard. But something had stopped him.

And now?

Now it felt like the line he was supposed to walk — hunter and target — had started to blur.

He leaned back in the chair, the weight of the beskar pressing heavy against his chest.

She was still a bounty.

But he didn’t want to turn her in.

Not yet.

And he hated that he didn’t know why.

Part 2

—comment if you want to be added to this fic taglist

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #din djarin #pedro pascal #grogu #mandalorian fanfic #kar's fics ☆

182 notes · View notes