#Encrypted file transfer

[filehulk]

Rclone for Windows

Rclone is a powerful command-line tool for cloud storage management that allows users to sync, copy, move, and mount files across a variety of storage services. Supporting over 70 cloud storage providers, including Google Drive, OneDrive, Dropbox, Amazon S3, and Backblaze B2, Rclone is often referred to as the “Swiss Army knife” of cloud storage due to its versatility and extensive feature…

[daxisyzz]

Close encounters

Pairings: avenger!bucky barnes × avenger!reader

Summary: On an undercover mission, you and Bucky pose as a married couple to infiltrate an illegal weapons auction—but when a stolen kiss becomes part of the plan, the line between duty and desire starts to blur.

Word count: 1.2k+

Tags: Flirty Bucky, fight sequence, undercover mission, teasing, kissing.

A/n: I had posted a grumpy Bucky fic but hated it. So I deleted it. I think I like this better. If u ever want grumpy Bucky lemme know. Requests are open. Enjoyyyy!!

Part 2- Double-Edged

The mission was simple: extract intel from a black-market arms dealer, stay undetected, and get out before things went sideways. Simple—until Steve decided to pair you with James Buchanan Barnes.

You stepped out of the limo, adjusting your dress as you scanned the sketchy building for exits and weak points. Bucky stepped out after you, his sharp gaze sweeping over the area before turning toward you. He leaned down, voice low.

“You clean up nice, doll,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear as he adjusted the clasp of your necklace. His fingers skimmed the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse picked up.

“Try to focus, Barnes. We have a job to do.”

“I am focused,” he said, smirking.

“On my wife.”You ignored him.

The mission had led you both to an underground auction, where dangerous people gathered to bid on illegal weapons. Your cover: a wealthy couple looking to expand their business.

The plan: Bucky would distract the seller while you slipped into a secure backroom to steal classified files.But first, you had to sell the act.

As you entered the venue, Bucky’s hand found the small of your back, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your dress. The casual possessiveness of it made your breath hitch—just for a second.

“Relax, doll,” he murmured, voice smooth as ever.

“Gotta make it look real.”You forced yourself to ignore the warmth of his touch, keeping your focus on the room instead.

“Just don’t overdo it, Barnes.”

He smirked. “Too late.”

You took your seats near the auction stage, scanning the crowd for your target. Anton Markov sat in a private booth, surrounded by bodyguards.You turned to Bucky.

“I’ll need five minutes alone in that backroom.”His gaze flickered with something unreadable.

“Then we’ll get you five minutes.”

The auctioneer began presenting rare weapons, but you weren’t paying attention. You were focused on Markov, waiting for an opening.Bucky, however, was focused on you.

You wore a satin dress that fit in all the right places. The ring Steve had made you both wear to sell the act glinted under the chandelier’s warm glow, bringing a smirk to Bucky’s face.

“Stop staring,” you muttered.

“I’m your husband,” he said, leaning in.

“Gotta make it look real.”You shot him a glare.

“You’re enjoying this.”His lips twitched.

“A little.”

Your eyes flicked back to the target as he finally left his booth, heading toward the bar. Now was your chance.You stood, brushing a hand over Bucky’s thigh as you did. The touch was fleeting, unintentional—except for the way he tensed ever so slightly.

“I’ll be back, honey,” you said, keeping up the act.

“Wait for my signal,” you murmured before slipping away.

You moved stealthily through the crowd, unnoticed by the guards.The backroom was locked, but you made quick work of it with your hairpin, slipping inside. Rows of servers lined the walls, buzzing with encrypted data. You approached the main computer, pulling up the classified files. Plugging in a drive, you watched the transfer bar crawl forward. Almost there…

Then—footsteps.

Your stomach dropped. You barely had time to pull your gun from the thigh holster beneath your dress before the door opened.Two guards stepped in.

“Boss said to check the servers,” one muttered.

You held your breath, staying out of their line of sight. The download wasn’t complete. If they noticed…

Before you could form a plan, the door burst open again—and in walked Bucky. His scowl was murderous, jaw clenched tight.He moved fast. One guard barely had time to react before Bucky knocked him out cold. The second reached for his gun, but Bucky grabbed his wrist, twisting until there was a sickening crack.The room fell silent.You exhaled.

“That was not the plan,” you said, stepping out.

“They got suspicious,” Bucky replied, scanning the monitors.

“Had to improvise.”You rolled your eyes.

“You just wanted to be dramatic.”

“Did it impress you?”You ignored him, yanking the drive free just as an alarm blared.

“Time to go.”

Security flooded the halls. Your only escape? A side door leading to a back alley. You sprinted toward it, but a guard rounded the corner—gun raised.

Before you could react, Bucky grabbed you by the waist, spinning you so your back hit the wall, his body shielding yours. His hands found your face, and then—His lips crashed against yours.

Your mind blanked.

He kissed you slowly, deliberately, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.It took a second to register what was happening. Then your hands gripped the lapels of his suit, the fabric creasing under your tight hold as you kissed him back.A deep sound rumbled from his throat—something between a groan and a satisfied hum.

The guard hesitated, taking you for just another couple sneaking a moment away from the bustling crowd.The second the guard moved on, Bucky pulled away, eyes dark with something unreadable.You swallowed hard.

“What the hell was that?”

“Had to make it convincing,” he said smoothly.

You didn’t get a chance to argue before more guards closed in. Bucky grabbed your hand, pulling you down the hall and out the door.By the time you reached the safe house, your heart was still racing—but not from the escape.

Inside, the chaos of the mission faded into a quiet that felt both relieving and… unsettlingly intimate. You dropped onto a worn couch, still feeling the buzz of adrenaline, while Bucky leaned against the table, a roguish grin playing on his lips.

“Not bad for a ‘just undercover’ kiss,” he said lightly, eyes dancing as he regarded you.

You shifted uncomfortably, trying to mask the quickened beat of your pulse. “That was a necessity, Barnes. Don’t read more into it than you have to.”Bucky stepped closer, his tone teasing.

“Oh, come on. I got a kiss out of you. It was… unexpected, sure, but pretty damn effective.”

You rolled your eyes, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips despite your best efforts. “Effective for the mission, maybe. I didn’t exactly plan on playing into any romantic script.”

He brushed a hand lightly along your arm, the contact sending an undeniable shiver through you. “Maybe you didn’t plan it, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me want to see more of that fire—even if you’re all business most of the time.”

You tried to keep your tone steady, though your cheeks betrayed you. “Barnes, you’re unbelievable. One minute we’re dodging guards, the next you’re flirting like we’re off-duty.”

“Off-duty or not, you did kiss me back,” he replied with a wink. “And honestly, that might just be worth the risk.”

For a long moment, you stared at him, flustered and momentarily at a loss for words. Finally, you cleared your throat. “Maybe. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m here to get the job done—nothing more.”

Bucky’s smile softened, though the playful glint in his eyes remained. “Sure, doll. But if you ever do decide to let a little distraction in, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, shaking your head. “Keep dreaming, Barnes. Just stick to the mission next time.”He chuckled, leaning in just enough that you felt the warmth of his breath.

“No promises,” he murmured.

“After all, I like finding ways to keep things interesting.”

In that charged, easy moment, the safe house became more than just a hideout. It became a space where even a well-timed kiss could blur the lines between duty and desire.

[orellazalonia]

What He Finally Learns

Summary: As the Avengers prepare for a mission that will bring them closer to your location than ever before, Bucky secretly clings to a video you unknowingly left behind; your quiet heartbreak revealing how unseen and unimportant you always felt.

Word Count: 3.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

The compound was quiet, dim with the stillness of too many unanswered questions.

The previous mission had been a failure. At least, that’s what the report would say. No sign of the enemy. No confrontation. Just an empty base scrubbed clean, with every hard drive wiped and even the dust disturbed like someone had intentionally unsettled it. The only thing left behind was a quiet sense of absence. Something had once lived there. Not anymore.

Bucky stayed behind after the others finished the debrief. Something didn’t sit right. It wasn’t tactical, it was instinctual. Like walking through a ghost’s memory.

So he went to your old desk, the room he stepped in was small. Office-like. Not messy, but functional. Two mugs were still on the shelf with one having lipstick faded on the rim that you didn’t bother bringing. He also recognized a sweater folded neatly over the chair’s back, the same one he’d seen you wear sometimes with your sleeves always tugged past your knuckles.

He moved slowly and carefully like he didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile pieces remained.

There was a small tablet hidden away in the desk, screen faintly scratched. You probably forgot about it. It was locked, but it didn’t take him long, he had skills for this. Accessing encrypted drives used to be a job. Now it was just muscle memory.

It wasn’t a mission file. It was a video. No timestamp. No label. Just… your name in the corner. And the faint hum of low light.

Bucky hesitated but hit play.

You were seated in frame. Slightly off-center, like you hadn’t meant to record anything formal. Your hair was tied back and your eyes were tired. No makeup, no pretense. Just you. You didn’t speak at first. Just looked somewhere off-camera, blinking slowly, like trying to hold yourself still enough to not feel something.

And then you started to talk.

“I think there’s something broken in me that just wants to be useful. Like… if I’m helpful enough, I’ll matter. Like maybe I’ll take up enough space where someone would finally notice.”

You smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one. Just a tug of the lips, wry and sad..

“I don’t know why I’m doing this. I heard it helps to journal. But I used to think that if I worked hard enough, stayed out of the way, then someone might see me. Not as a teammate or even as a friend. Just… see me. Recognize that I was there.”

Bucky’s hands clenched slowly at his sides.

“But I guess people don’t notice the lights that stay on, only the ones that flicker. And I just so happened to be always steady, always silent. The background to their brilliance.”

There was a pause. You rubbed hands together nervously, looking down.

“Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just stopped showing up. If anyone would ask or if they’d just assume I transferred. Or died, quietly, in the middle of some file update.”

The silence afterward was brutal. He could hear your breathing; shallow, steady, and controlled.

“I don’t blame them. Not really. I just… wish I had been someone worth remembering.”

The video cut out. No goodbye. No signature. Just that last, unbearable sentence echoing like a gunshot.

Bucky sat in the silence it left behind. Not moving. Not breathing. Just staring at the still frame frozen on the screen. Your face. Your words. Your pain.

He hadn’t seen you, not really. Not when you were around. Not when you were quietly doing your job, never needing thanks. Never asking for notice.

But now? Now, your absence was louder than most people’s presence. And he hated that he only realized it after you were gone.

After another failed search for you, the ride back to the compound was filled with static silence.

Bucky didn’t speak. Didn’t hand over the tablet. Didn’t mention the video. But he kept it tucked in the inner lining of his gear, close to him like some part of him thought the words might bleed into his bones if he kept them near long enough.

No one asked what he found before. Maybe they assumed there was nothing. Or maybe they could read the way his shoulders held the weight of something they weren’t ready to carry.

Steve debriefed quietly with Natasha and Sam. There was no victory to celebrate, only confirmation: the enemy was ahead of them. Smarter. Faster. One step further every time.

The woman, Bucky’s someone, floated in and out of the war room with the same serene detachment she always had. She brought them tea. Lightly teased Sam when he scowled at another dead lead. She leaned a hand on Bucky’s shoulder as she passed, offering him a soft, wordless smile.

He didn’t return it. Not this time. He didn’t shrug her off, either, just let her touch pass like water, something that could no longer reach him fully.

Her words echoed faintly in his head, like smoke: “She didn’t really fit in here anyways, did she? Kind of kept to herself. I always assumed she’d move on.”

And then yours, not long after:

“I used to think that if I worked hard enough, someone might see me…”

The contrast burned.

The next mission was set with alarming speed. A new location. Another “hidden” base identified by Bruce, picked up in the tail of an encrypted ping. Something you might’ve caught weeks ago, if you were still with them. If they’d been paying attention.

Steve moved with purpose, but his eyes were more tired than before. Natasha reviewed formations, sharp and professional, but quieter than usual. Sam asked about escape routes twice as if he didn’t trust any of this to go clean.

And Bucky, he checked his weapons. Reviewed the maps. Ran recon. But in the silence between, he replayed the video. Not for pain. Not for guilt.

But because it was real. The only honest thing he had left about you.

They hadn’t found any new footage of you. No confirmed sightings. No sound bites, no intercepted comms. Just dead ends and wiped drives and the echo of your absence in places you used to sit.

You were out there. Alive, changed, and maybe not on their side anymore. But never just a ghost.

He closed the tablet and tucked it back inside his vest.

And when Steve said, “We move at dawn,” Bucky only nodded once.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t tell anyone what he saw. Not yet. Because something in him whispered, worried that if they saw that recording too soon, they’d see you as a weakness.

And for the first time in months, Bucky wasn’t sure what side of the line he stood on. Not when it came to you.

The hours before a mission were always the quietest.

The hangar buzzed low with the whir of prep of gear checks, last-minute uploads, suits being sealed and weapons aligned. Natasha stood by the monitors, her gaze cold and sharp. Sam reviewed the aerial scans Bruce had fine-tuned just an hour before. Steve kept pacing near the Quinjet, arms folded, and eyes flicking to each of them like he could hold them together by willpower alone.

Bucky kept his distance like usual. He strapped his knives into place. Loaded his sidearm with meticulous focus. Checked his earpiece, then checked it again. He hadn't spoken more than a handful of words all morning. No one asked why.

No one noticed how he hadn’t been sleeping. How he double-checked the route three times last night, long after the others went to bed. How his fingers lingered over the inside pocket of his jacket, where the tablet still rested, untouched by anyone but him.

The girl who had once been his comfort entered in mid-morning with her usual warm smile and a thermal mug of coffee for Steve. She handed it off with a soft murmur, her other hand brushing Bucky’s arm in passing.

“You don’t have to carry everything, you know,” She said gently, a faint tease in her voice. “You’ve got people.”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t answer. And for the first time… she noticed. There was a flicker of pause in her face. The briefest narrowing of her eyes. Then her smile returned, unfazed.

“Well,” She said lightly, glancing over at Steve. “If you all need anything before you go, just let me know. I’ll be around.”

Steve gave her a polite nod. Sam murmured a distracted thanks. She left the hangar as quietly as she came in. But Bucky watched her go, something unreadable in his stare.

He didn’t trust her. Not anymore. He didn’t know if he ever truly had or if she’d simply fit into the gaps where life had left him hollow. She had been sweet. Soothing. Gentle in the way soft lies often were.

But you had never tried to be that. You had simply been honest. Quiet, yes. Awkward, maybe. But never fake. But he had never tried to acknowledge any of that till now. And now the only traces of you he had were clipped recordings buried in a stolen file and the phantom silence of the seat you used to occupy across mission tables. The longer they chased shadows, the more he feared it: that they had lost you to the wrong side and that they had pushed you there themselves.

“Five minutes,” Steve called out, snapping everyone back to focus.

Bucky stood, weapons in place, and jaw tight.

Whatever this mission held, whatever base they were headed for next, he had a feeling it wasn’t just about cutting off a head of the organization anymore. There were pieces still missing. Threads pulled tight around something deeper. And though no one said it aloud…

They all felt it. You were at the center of it. Maybe you weren’t the enemy, but you weren’t one of them anymore either. And Bucky didn’t know which outcome he feared more.

The alarm started low. Just a pulsing tone beneath the hum of overhead lights, like the building had a heartbeat and it had suddenly quickened.

You didn’t look up at first.

You were seated at the edge of a long metal table, eyes scanning one of Maren’s latest handoffs of network logs, patterns, and reconnaissance models that you were quietly, and more skillfully than anyone else here, picking apart. Another screen flickered with footage. Not of the Avengers this time, but of a smaller SHIELD outpost. One the organization had eyes on.

A quiet shift of balance. A new target. The second tone came louder. And this time, red light blinked across the top corners of the room.

You turned in your chair just as Maren came in through the steel door, less casual than usual. There was tension in her shoulders, but she hid it beneath a small smirk.

“Well,” Well said lightly, “Guess we’re having fire drills now.”

You stood slowly. “What is it.”

She waved a hand toward the glass pane. Down the corridor, you could see a few others moving quickly. Some with urgency, but not panic.

“Surveillance sweep caught something weird,” She said. “Signal bounce matched one of your old frequency ranges.”

You blinked. “The Avengers?”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Intel says it’s likely. But it could also be someone pretending to be them. Either way, leadership wants to shift locations again. They don’t want to risk exposure, not now.”

You glanced toward the window again. The air suddenly felt thinner and colder, like the walls were remembering how to hold you again.

Maren stepped closer.

“They’ll want you in the second caravan,” She said. “It’s less attention that way until we’re sure we’re not compromised.”

You didn’t respond at first. Because something sat twisted in your stomach. Not fear, exactly, not even guilt. Just… the awareness that this place you had started to grow into, the first place where your mind had felt seen, was still a fortress.

Still temporary. Still ready to disappear the second anything real drew near.

You looked at Maren.

Her smile softened, more careful this time. “You’ll be alright. We’ve got you.”

But as you followed her out of the room, walking past people who now nodded when you passed, who sought your opinion, who used your analyses like gospel, you had that strange feeling again.

You didn’t want to run. Not this time. Because if it was them. If they were coming now, after all this time, after leaving you behind, after forgetting you; you wanted to see who they were now. If they were just as hollow as they made you feel.

And if they had finally come… to save you. Or just to stop you.

The hallway continued to pulse with red light and clipped orders.

Boots on concrete. Quiet urgency. Controlled withdrawal. People packed crates with precision, hands practiced in the rhythm of disappearing. You walked among them unnoticed but not out of disregard, but because you weren’t expected to panic. You were useful and trusted. The kind of asset who got escorted second not because they didn’t care, but because they assumed you’d already figured a backup plan if things went sideways.

And you always did.

You reached the loading bay just as the first caravan started to move. There were trucks. Two armored vans. A trail vehicle. All headed for an off-grid location you’d helped locate last month, buried beneath so many encryption layers it would take even Stark months to trace it.

Maren was by the gate, tablet in hand, and brows furrowed in concentration.

She glanced up when she saw you. “Van two in the back left. There’s a seat with your name on it.”

You moved to step past her then paused.

“Are you coming?”

She gave a small smile. “Not yet. Last-minute patchwork. They want eyes on the rear systems until we’re sure it’s not just a scare.”

You hesitated enough for her to notice.

“We’ll see each other again,” She reassured softly. “Don’t look like that.”

You didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, then stepped into the van’s shadows and sank into the corner seat. The door shut behind you. You kept your eyes on the window, watching the lights flicker and twist as the base began to purge data in real time. Mainframes going dark, terminals blacking out one by one. The signal was clear:

Whoever was coming was already too close.

Outside, not far beyond the mountain pass, the Quinjet cut low through clouds.

Steve’s voice was steady over comms. “Final sweep, no obvious heat signatures. We keep it tight. If they’re there, they know we’re coming.”

“They’re there,” Natasha said. Her tone wasn’t a guess, it was certainty.

“Or they were,” Sam muttered, eyes flicking over the monitors.

From the back, Bucky checked his gear one last time. He hadn’t spoken much since departure. Just silent and focused, eyes darker than usual. He hadn’t said your name, but it sat heavy behind every breath.

Natasha glanced over from the bench across. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered. Then, more quietly: “I just want answers.”

The Quinjet slowed.

“Approaching target zone,” FRIDAY announced. “There are signs of recent movement. Base is no longer cold.”

Steve stood and signaled them. “We move on foot and we go fast. Don’t break formation.”

They touched down five minutes later.

The moment Bucky’s boots hit the ground, he felt it.

Not heat. Not threat. But… presence.

Like you were still here. Like this place remembered you.

Steve gave the order. They breached the perimeter fast through reinforced side access. The air inside was stale, but not undisturbed. Computers still hummed. Floors were clean. Not a drop of dust. Not like last time.

“They left in a hurry,” Natasha observed, crouching beside a freshly yanked power cable.

“Then they knew we were coming,” Sam replied grimly.

Bucky’s eyes tracked along the corridor. Doors left half-open. Screens still flickering out final traces of wiped data. A mug. A file left behind. He stepped toward it then stopped.

On the desk was a clipboard. Just one. The name at the top? Yours.

He exhaled slowly.

“You were here,” He whispered.

Not just involved. Present. Maybe only minutes ago. Too close. Too late.

Steve pressed his fingers to his comm. “Everyone sweep east, this wasn’t abandoned. They’re still moving.”

“They’re not just moving,” Sam called from the upper ledge. “They’re evacuating. I’ve got heat signatures heading into the lower exit tunnels, northbound. At least two armored vehicles pulling out now.”

Bucky was already moving. “Can we cut them off?”

“Negative,” FRIDAY replied sharply in his earpiece. “They’re on an off-road route and cloaked. They’ll be buried by terrain in sixty seconds unless you launch a drone now.”

“I’ve got it,” Natasha said, already deploying the small drone. It zipped through the air like a hornet. On the screen, the visuals sharpened as it locked onto the second vehicle.

That was when they saw you, barely a frame.

Just the curve of your shoulder, the side of your face half-obscured by the angle of the armored window. You weren’t panicked. You weren’t restrained. You were seated. Eyes down, calm, and still so unmistakably you.

Bucky leaned closer to the screen, throat tightening. “That’s her.”

Steve cursed under his breath. “They moved faster than expected.”

“Which means they’ve done this before,” Natasha muttered.

“They’re organized. Too organized,” Sam added. “And she… she didn’t look like a hostage.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Because that still frame was seared into him. Not just because it was you. But because of how different you looked from the girl he remembered in the compound.

Not hurt. Not scared. Just… far away.

Meanwhile, you felt it before you saw it. A hum in your bones, sharp like pressure. Something familiar. Familiar in a way that made your pulse catch without rising.

You didn’t look out the window, but you knew. They were close.

You kept your hands folded in your lap, steady, while the others in the van double-checked the rear systems and confirmed their routes.

Maren’s voice came over the comm, calm and professional. “Exit route confirmed. Units dispersed. No direct pursuit.”

You could hear the faint smile in her voice.

“They missed us.”

You didn’t reply. Not because you were relieved. But because the truth hit you harder than you expected: They came and You were right. But it didn’t change anything.

You were still in a moving van, heading deeper into the folds of a world they didn’t understand. And they were behind you, too late, standing in the echo of where you used to be.

Part of you wondered if any of them had seen you. If they recognized the back of your head through bulletproof glass. If Bucky did.

You didn’t look back to check. You just sat with the heavy truth nestled in your chest like something warm and rotten at the same time:

They came, but it didn’t matter anymore.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @avivarougestan @saoirses-things @itsmejen

[wandascrush]

Traitor

Warnings: angstttt, betrayal, arguments, romantic tension, very stressful situations, lying, toxic Nat ngl, allusions to sex

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x f!reader, Wanda Maximoff x f!reader, Avengers x f!reader

A/N: Part 6 of my DIWK series! Summary: The truth always has a way of coming out- and todays the day

Fast forward four months 

   The wind blew fiercely against your window as you awoke, sensing an unusual tension in the air—a buzz, as if nature itself was angry. You fluffed your shaggy h/c hair and swung your tired legs out of the warm bed, extricating yourself from the comfortable embrace of a woman’s arm wrapped around your waist. Not just any woman, but Natasha Romanoff—the world’s greatest assassin, a highly skilled martial artist, and your girlfriend. Well, kind of. She didn’t want to label it, and you’d gotten used to that. Things with Wanda had fizzled out, and she was now one of your closest friends. Stability was slowly but surely creeping back into your life.

Just then, your phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling you from your morning trance. An encrypted message from Agent Hill: another file to drop off at the HYDRA data server and report back. No pleasantries, no reassurances. The anxiety that once clouded your mind about this operation had dissipated over the months. You had grown confident in your skills, so close to the finish line now. You just needed one more piece of information about a new serum they were developing—something about a super-soldier project. Deliver that, and you would be officially done with HYDRA, Samantha, and all the vile people who worked there. A free agent—literally.

You pulled the file from its folder, reviewing the intel they provided this time. Not bad, surprisingly.

You dressed slowly, your legs sore from prior activities with your “girlfriend.” Natasha’s sleeping form rustled in the sheets before settling, a gentle huff of breath escaping her lips.

At the base, you navigated the winding corridors, each step echoing louder than the last. The data server room was buried at the heart of the building, and each doorway you passed felt like a checkpoint in a prison. Fluorescent overhead lights buzzed, casting a stark, sterile glow that complemented the coldness of the place. Reaching the server room, you slid your ID across the panel, entering as the heavy door hissed shut behind you.

The space was mostly empty, save for the hum of servers and the dull glow of screens casting eerie shadows. A lone technician glanced up at you, nodding in acknowledgment. You were well-known by now—both for your envied operation and proximity to HYDRA’s high command.

You approached one of the terminals, connected your encrypted drive, and waited as it loaded the contents onto their system. But as you watched the file transfer, doubt crept in. How many more lies before they caught up with you? Were they already catching up, and maybe you didn’t know it?

The file finished transferring. You removed your drive, pocketing it quickly. Turning to leave, you caught the technician watching you from the corner of your eye, his gaze lingering a moment too long. You met his eyes and offered a quick nod, concealing the flicker of alarm you felt as he turned back to his work.

Returning to the compound that afternoon felt like a relief. As you stepped into your hall, orange shadows of the sun creeping in through the glass walls, the quiet was broken by a familiar voice.

“Back so soon?”

Natasha’s slid into your view like silk. She was leaning against the wall in the corridor, arms crossed, her expression unreadable—as per usual.

You tried to keep your face neutral, but her sharp gaze seemed to peel back every layer you’d carefully constructed. “Mission ended earlier than expected,” you replied.

She arched an eyebrow, gaze narrowing slightly. “Right. Just strange. Fury usually sends the rest of us a notice when someone’s out. And you leave me a note. Or text.”

“It was classified,” you shrugged, trying to deflect, hoping she wouldn’t probe further.

Natasha’s smirk softened, but her gaze didn’t waver. She stepped closer, her presence intense. “You’ve been slipping away a lot lately, honey,” she murmured, her tone low. “Everyone’s noticed.” Her beautiful green eyes bore into you, calculating your every expression.

There was no accusation in her words, only an edge of curiosity. But the weight of the lies began to press down, your chest tightening with the guilt you’d tried so hard to ignore. “It’s not like that, Nat,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

She reached out, her fingers grazing your arm—a touch that felt like both an anchor and a pull. “Then what’s it like?”

For a heartbeat, you wanted to tell her. Instead, you swallowed the words, your throat tightening. “You know how this job is, Tasha. It’s complicated.”

A flicker of something—hurt, maybe—crossed her face before she masked it, letting her hand fall away. She stepped back, crossing her arms again. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

She scoffed, “Doesn’t seem that way.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it.” You squeezed past her, accidentally bumping her shoulder as you did.

Her hand caught yours. “You know I can help, right? Whatever it is.”

You forced a half-smile, “Not this time, honey.”

Natasha held your gaze for a moment longer before nodding, though the air between you felt strained, taut with the things left unsaid. She turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the dim corridor, the weight of her words lingering.

You stared at the ceiling, Natasha’s words looping in your mind. Everyone’s noticed. You wondered if that included Wanda. The thought of her finding out, of her piecing together the truth, was terrifying. She’d already uncovered your family’s past—if she found out everything else…

You didn’t want to think about it.

About twice a week, Natasha would come and sleep in your room, especially after tough training days or a bad mission. Tonight? She didn’t so much as text you. Ouch.

The cold floors at 3 a.m. felt soothing as you walked to the kitchen to grab a drink, catching sight of Wanda curled up on the couch, staring out the window.

Her expression was unreadable.

“Wanda?” you asked, the surprise clear in your voice.

“I couldn’t sleep again,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze was intense, searching your face as though trying to read every unspoken thought.

You grabbed two juices from the fridge, crossing the room to sit beside her. For a moment, neither of you spoke; the silence was thick.

“It was two years yesterday that I held his,” she began, her voice hesitant. “I… I didn’t even remember.”

You glanced down, your hands twisting together as you gathered your thoughts. “I know,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to remind you, since you didn’t mention it.” Wanda adored her brother, and you adored her. You didn’t want to worsen her pain by adding a reminder. 

    Her hand reached out, covering yours, her touch warm and steady. “I visited his grave earlier,” she swallowed, “left a small baby’s breath bouquet.” “It’s always only one bouquet, but today when I visited him- there were already flowers there.”

  You didn’t know if you should also mention that you left flowers, but when you looked up, Wanda’s eyes were already staring into yours. Her gaze softened, and you felt the pull again, that magnetic connection that made your friendship feel impossible sometimes.

“Wanda…” 

She gingerly brushed a strand of hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. 

“Now your hair is perfect.”

“It’s always perfect, witchy.” 

Her cheeky white smile glowed in the darkness. 

   The next few days most of your training was done with Peter, Clint, or Steve, completely ruling out the possibility of any more relationship messiness. The tension with Natasha, the fragileness you held with Wanda—it was all starting to pull at the threads of your mind once again.

You will never forget that day. That was the day your life changed forever. You often think of what might’ve been, if you hadn’t joined the avengers and all. Just stayed as a high level SHIELD agent. 

Maybe it all would’ve been fine, if not for that Thursday. That stupid fucking Thursday. And for Nick Fury. But you didn’t know all that yet. 

   You swiftly moved through the hallways on your way to meet Bruce in the lab, your mind elsewhere, when a familiar rasp called your name. 

“Y/N.”

You turned to see Natasha, her gaze sharp, expression unreadable. She nodded toward one of the empty conference rooms. “We need to talk.”

You followed her inside, the silence between you thick with unspoken words. You felt like a little kid in trouble with the principal. When the door shut, she turned to you, her arms crossed, her stance tense.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked, her tone steady but laced with frustration.

Your heart pounded, every instinct screaming to deflect, to lie. But standing there, facing Natasha’s intense gaze, the walls you’d built felt paper-thin.

“I…No.”

She took a step closer, her voice soft but firm. “Y/N, I don’t know what’s going on, but I will find out.”

The intensity in her gaze, the determination, left you breathless. She was offering you an out, a lifeline, but taking it would mean unraveling everything. You were practically at the finish line. 

Just as you opened your mouth to speak, the compound’s alarm blared, cutting through the tension. Natasha’s gaze flickered to the door, her expression shifting to frustration. 

“Of course,” she muttered, looking back to you. 

She turned and left the room, leaving you standing there, your chest tight and burning. 

    The mission had been going well until you were cornered in a tight hallway by a mercenary, his face hidden by a tactical helmet and wielding a blade that gleamed under the dim light. You threw up an arm to block his initial swing, but he was relentless, landing a hit to your side that knocked the breath from you. Blood trickled from a cut on your arm, but you pushed through, angling for a counterattack.

    Before you could make another move, a blast of red energy hit from behind, sending the attacker flying into a wall. Surprised, you turned to see Wanda, her hands crackling with energy. She stepped between you and the mercenary, red tendrils floating around his head before he fainted. 

“Thought you might need a hand,” she said, her tone light, but her eyes betrayed the worry simmering beneath.

You forced a smile, though your pride ached at her interference. “I had it under control.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t push it. She held your gaze a moment longer, “Sure you did, L/N.” 

Before you could answer, Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms. “Y/N, Wanda—stop messing around and regroup. Now.”

Her tone was clipped, cold, and even through the comms, you could feel the chill.

You two shared a quick, slightly guilty glance before moving back to rejoin the others. Throughout the rest of the mission, Natasha barely looked at you, and when she did, her expression was hardened, her gaze flicking quickly between you and Wanda with a disapproving edge.

Back at the compound, you found Natasha in the common area, gathering her gear with sharp, precise movements. You hovered nearby, hoping to talk, to get a hint of what was going on, but she barely acknowledged you.

“Nat,” you started, your voice soft.

“What?” Her tone was harsh, her eyes narrowing. “Something you need?”

You faltered, caught off guard by the bite in her voice. “I… I just wanted to check if you were okay.”

She scoffed, a cold smirk pulling at her lips. “That’s rich. Last I saw, you were the one who needed backup. I didn’t realize Wanda was your personal rescuer.”

The words hit like a slap, the sting of her jealousy clear. You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off, grabbing her bag and shouldering it without a glance in your direction. You tried to lighten the mood, “A little jealous, Romanoff?” Although you were teasing, the joke came out so soft, genuine. You gently touched the small of her back, gazing at her with worried eyes. 

“Let’s not pretend this is anything more than a job, Y/N,” she said, voice low and unyielding- she shifted out of your touch. “That way, you won’t get distracted.”

“I think we should continue our conversation from earlier-,” you were cut off before you finished your sentence 

“And what if I don’t want to talk? Ever thought about that?” 

“Earlier you said you were here for me, that I’m not alone. I don’t understand, you know I care about you. Just talk to me-,” you hadn’t anticipated the crack in your voice at the end, catching Natasha’s attention, but of course, only for a second.

She packed her bag faster. 

“Natasha please-”

“Enough!” Her loud voice bounced off the walls. 

“So what are we then? We sleep together, we share a bed, you care about me- I know you do. So what is this?”

Natashas jaw clenched, and when her eyes looked at you, they held something you’d never seen, “It’s just sex, Y/N.  Grow up. It’s what adults do.” 

She rushed past you, shoulder bumping yours, leaving you standing there. Wounded and more confused than ever- the Romanov specialty. 

As you entered a new log into your journal that night, spilling your heart about HYDRA, Wanda, Natasha, a knock sounded on your door. For once, you just wanted to be left alone. You threw the journal under the covers, running to the bathroom.

You poked your head out of the door, “In the shower, can’t talk!” You hoped it was loud enough for whatever guest to go away. It wasn’t. 

  As the scent of vanilla and citrus soap slid down your skin, rubbing any grime away and relaxing your muscles, Wanda walked into your room. She figured she’d just wait to talk with you once you got out of the shower, plopping herself down on your bed. However, as soon as she sat, something hard and stiff was felt under her, something very uncomfortable. Wanda slightly lifted herself off of the bed, blindly moving her hand around for the stiff object- finding a small journal. It was a dark red, canvas cover. Your initials were etched into the bottom right corner. 

As you stepped out of the bathroom, the sight of Wanda sitting on the edge of your bed, her hands trembling, sent a chill down your spine. Your journal lay face down on the floor, its secrets exposed. Droplets from your wet hair trickled down your back, the cold seeping through your pajamas and onto the wooden floor. The room was thick with silence. 

Wanda’s eyes, wide and glistening, locked onto yours. Her voice, barely above a whisper, broke the tension. “How long?” The weight of her question pressed heavily upon you.

Your heart raced, each beat echoing in your ears. The walls seemed to close in, the air growing thin. You opened your mouth, searching for words, but found none.

Wanda’s gaze hardened, a mixture of hurt and betrayal evident. “All this time… ” Her voice cracked, the pain palpable.

You took a tentative step forward, hands outstretched in a plea. “Wanda, I can explain—”

But she recoiled, as if your very presence burned. “Explain? How can you possibly explain this?” She gestured towards the fallen journal, her movements sharp and erratic, “It’s you. You’re the traitor, you’re the mole,” she glared at you accusingly. The red glow in her eyes grew with each second. 

Desperation clawed at you. “I  was told to lie. Ask Fury he put me—”

“Fury? Are you serious?” she interrupted, her tone dripping with disdain. “Was any of it real? Or was I just another pawn?”

You shook your head vehemently, “No, Wanda, you have to believe me. My feelings for all of you are genuine.”

She stood abruptly, red wisps crackling from her fingers, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.” 

   Before you could utter another word, the door swung open with a resounding thud. Natasha stood in the doorway, her face a mask of cold fury. Behind her, Steve and Tony loomed, their expressions grim. Natasha’s voice was icy, each word laced with venom. “Is it true? Have you been feeding information to HYDRA?”

Your knees threatened to buckle under the weight of their collective gaze. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stand upright. “It’s not what it seems. I was working undercover, on Fury’s orders. I was a SHIELD agent before an Avenger, you guys know this.”

Tony scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Convenient excuse. Got any proof?”

You reached into your pocket, fingers trembling, and producing your phone. “Call him! Ask him. Fury will tell you everything, promise.”

Steve stepped forward, grabbing your phone out of your hand- crushing it. His eyes, usually filled with warmth, were now cold and distant. “Your promises mean nothing to us anymore, Agent.”

Tony stepped further into the room, all of them cornering you, “Besides, Fury’s off grid with Maria. We just got the call.” He sucked his teeth, “But if  you two worked as closely as you say, you would’ve known before us.” The bite in Tony’s words wasn't missed. 

Fuck. 

As they turned to leave, you dove for your notebook on the ground, picking it up and practically shoving it toward Steve, “This! Read this!” ragged breaths left your mouth, “everything that’s been going on is in it. From the first day.”

Steve glanced at you warily, looking back at Natasha, “Can we trust this?” 

The redhead’s gaze toward you was icy, completely void of emotion. Your eyes pleaded with her. She didn’t care. 

“Absolutely not.” 

[jeszrosse]

🧬 “Deviation”

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MANIPULATIVE!Albert Wesker x Reader | One-shot AU | Reader Unaware | Deep Psychological Control | Obsession-Slowburn

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⚠️ Possessive behavior • Surveillance • Delusional Justification • Isolation tactics • No reader realization • Smut • Stalking

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🧬 1. [Observation]

It begins, as most things do with Wesker, in silence.

Your first day on the team, you barely warranted a glance in the surveillance feed.

Another lab technician. Another replaceable assistant. Another insignificant moving part.

But then you lingered.

Stayed late. Came early.

Read the case files beyond your clearance level and didn’t flinch at the corpses.

You passed the first test.

Not that you knew there was one.

You thought it was coincidence that no one sat beside you in meetings.

That your access card opened doors you never requested.

That the intern who made a joke about your smile was transferred within the hour.

It wasn’t coincidence.

It was calibration.

He was isolating the variables.

And you, you became an anomaly worth noting.

He began compiling minor reports on your behavior, tucked into encrypted files labeled with meaningless acronyms—justifications for your existence in his system. He logged your arrival times, the hesitation in your speech, the way you handled scalpel trays with a certain… reverence. Clinical on the outside, but with the sharpness of someone who wanted to understand.

You weren’t like the others—those limp, nodding bureaucrats or ambition-hollowed researchers. You read between lines. You saw things. You didn’t ask for approval.

It should’ve been threatening.

But instead, it was fascinating.

---

🧬 2. [Containment]

Wesker doesn’t trust easily.

He trusts data.

Outcomes.

Silence.

But you unsettled the metrics.

You moved differently. You saw things. You questioned protocols he didn’t authorize you to read.

And he watched.

The way your fingers hovered over a scalpel you didn’t need to touch.

The way your reflection lingered in the biohazard glass.

The way your laugh, rare as it was, made low-ranking guards look up.

So he changed the guards.

Restricted hallway access.

Reassigned co-workers.

Built your world to orbit only him.

And still—still you never noticed.

Not when your new desk faced his office.

Not when your login synced with his terminal.

Not when your lunch orders began arriving, already paid.

You thought it was protocol. Efficiency. Company structure.

It wasn’t.

It was obsession.

Even your chair was adjusted—replaced with one designed to support your back based on posture data from security footage. Your lighting changed imperceptibly across weeks, tailored to prevent eye strain and keep you awake longer, sharper.

He scheduled briefings when you were most alert.

Redirected minor crises to ensure you'd report directly to him.

He watched the way you blinked when you were confused.

Memorized the twitch of your mouth when you were about to ask something risky.

Your coworkers left one by one. Transferred. Fired. Reassigned.

Those who got too familiar? Disciplined. Quietly.

You didn’t wonder why your inbox felt so clean.

Why no one interrupted your concentration anymore.

Why the company started feeling like a corridor, narrowing around you.

---

🧬 3. [Degradation]

It got worse.

Or—closer to the truth.

He found himself pausing the security feed just to watch the curve of your spine as you bent over notes.

He rewound your voice recordings, cataloguing the inflections in your “Good morning, sir.”

He deleted the word sir from your tongue in his mind.

He didn’t want your respect.

He wanted your obedience.

Your trust.

Your presence, constant and unrelenting.

You belonged in his space, like air belonged in lungs.

He just hadn't told you yet.

Sometimes, you left behind small things—sticky notes, paperclips, coffee cups. Harmless. Forgettable. But he kept them all.

The mug with a faint mark of your lip balm.

The pen you once clicked while reading virology samples.

A typed memo, crumpled, with a single word scratched out and replaced. "Necessary."

He examined them not with sentiment but calculation.

These were not keepsakes.

These were proofs of proximity.

You were slipping under his skin molecule by molecule, and he needed evidence of your presence in his domain.

But there were moments—dangerous ones—when calculation gave way to something darker.

Moments when you reached for a dropped stylus beneath the lab table and the hem of your coat pulled taut across your thighs.

Moments when you tilted your head to read something over a microscope and exposed the soft column of your neck.

Moments when the feed from the surveillance cameras caught just enough.

He knew every angle of your body from security footage.

The way your blouse sometimes gaped slightly when you leaned forward.

The way you stretched without thinking, unaware of how it framed you.

Unaware of the man watching—memorizing.

It was a weakness.

A flaw in his design.

But sometimes he would watch the footage at half-speed, eyes burning, jaw clenched, and tell himself it was for behavioral monitoring.

That the brief tightening in his chest wasn’t arousal, but concern.

And yet—when you bent to pick up a file one night, alone, late, and the back of your skirt lifted just slightly—

—his fingers had twitched.

Not from irritation.

From restraint.

From the raw, silent thought that he could take you. Right there.

Not in fantasy. Not in dream. But in brutal, clinical, breathtaking reality.

He could fuck you against the sterile counter and no one would stop him.

No one would even know.

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He was control. Discipline.

He filed the footage.

Encrypted it.

And watched it again the next night.

Hands behind his back.

Jaw locked.

Throat tight with the sick, hungry coil of desire he refused to name.

You didn’t know.

Didn’t see.

Didn’t feel the weight of a man who no longer saw you as a subordinate or asset—

—but as something already his, simply awaiting the correct time to be claimed.

---

🧬 4. [Denial]

You never caught it, but he looked away first.

Every time.

Every instance your gaze met his, however briefly.

You assumed it was deference. Coldness. That clinical thing he wore like a second skin.

But it wasn’t.

It was containment.

Because the sound of your voice—the precise cadence in which you said “Understood, Doctor Wesker”—lit up some dormant, vile thing in him.

Something untested.

Something monstrous.

He was not above temptation.

He was simply better at dissecting it.

The way you smiled at your coworkers, never at him?

He noticed.

The way you stood just a fraction closer when anxious, fingers tightening at your sides?

He filed it away.

He let others believe you were isolated by accident.

But he'd engineered that loneliness. Curated it.

Suffocated anything that threatened to pull your attention elsewhere.

You never got that offer for project co-lead.

Never received the anonymous gifts left at your desk by interns.

Because Albert intercepted them.

Silently. Strategically.

You didn’t know it was his hand pulling you toward him, only that every direction seemed to fold inward until he was the only constant.

The only man who saw you.

Who understood you.

He watched you trace your notes, watched your lips form silent syllables, and all the while he denied himself.

Denied the heat pooling in his abdomen.

Denied the cruel ache behind every “Goodnight, sir” you uttered.

Denied the nightly compulsion to run simulations of what you would sound like begging.

And when he couldn't sleep, he listened to your voice on the lab’s intercom archive.

Just to hear it.

To pretend.

To substitute control for contact.

And still—he told himself he had not crossed the line.

Not yet.

Because you were still untouched.

Still pure, in the way only someone unaware of their ownership could be.

---

🧬 5. [Possession]

He began to see it in everything.

The way others looked at you—a threat.

The way you spoke about your family—a liability.

The way you said “thank you” when he passed you reports—intolerable.

You didn’t thank him.

You didn’t understand him.

You couldn’t.

But that was fine.

Understanding would come later.

He started curating your tasks more delicately.

Steered you away from field ops, too dangerous.

Assigned you exclusively to him, citing “performance optimization.”

You didn’t protest.

You thought you were being promoted.

But in truth, you were being drawn in.

Woven tighter.

Placed carefully, perfectly, exactly where he wanted you.

In his office.

In his world.

In his reach.

Your name was embedded in his daily reports. Your security log-in pinged his terminal every time you swiped a door.

The other researchers stopped referencing your work without Wesker’s express permission. He had erased your reputation as independent—you were his now.

And no one questioned it.

Not when his gaze burned through the glass walls of the lab.

Not when he stood beside you in meetings like a shadow wearing a tailored suit.

Not when his hand briefly brushed yours while reviewing samples, and he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t need to pull away.

He had already claimed what he wanted.

---

Now, his fingerprints existed on more than your reports.

He’d rewritten your schedule to end near his. Aligned your meals. Synced your lab hours. Even your breaks were subtly shifted, your elevator stops timed perfectly with his descent.

You didn’t see it.

But he did.

Every day you returned to your workspace slightly adjusted—your chair moved back in, your pens restocked, your personal mug rotated exactly one degree counter-clockwise.

“We’re optimizing,” he’d say.

“For your convenience.”

He'd begun accompanying you to biometric checks. At first, a coincidence. The second time, an excuse. By the third, he was inputting your medical logs himself.

His voice was always calm. Always formal. Always patient.

But his gaze lingered.

His presence loomed.

And his hands—always gloved—brushed against the small of your back far too often for protocol.

---

And he watched.

From behind glass. From dark monitors. From still frames and slow replays. When your blouse sat a little too low. When your eyes wandered where they shouldn’t.

You were careless with your innocence.

But he would be careful for you.

He adjusted the brightness of the surveillance feed. Zoomed in. Studied the way you leaned too close to your keyboard.

Imagined your breath fogging the screen.

Imagined how easily that breath could hitch. Could falter. Could beg.

You have no idea, he thought.

But you will.

Not yet.

But soon.

Understanding would come later.

---

🧬 6. [Infection]

The final stage was the most dangerous.

You said his name once.

Not “sir.”

Not “Wesker.”

Just:

“Albert…?”

His gaze snaps up from the report.

You’re standing in the doorway of his office, the heel of one shoe slightly kicked back, as if you weren’t sure whether to enter. The folder in your hand trembles slightly—an involuntary twitch you don’t even notice. But he does.

He notices everything.

The breath that stutters in your throat after the name escapes.

The flicker of hesitation in your pupils when his expression doesn’t immediately soften.

The way you shift—defensive, unsure—before you correct yourself:

“I mean—sir. Sorry, I meant—sir.”

But it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

You spoke it aloud.

Not in passing.

Not as a slip of protocol.

Not with bitterness or irony.

But with concern.

Soft. Tentative. Almost gentle.

And that… that is what undoes him.

You don’t know he has a file buried six levels deep into a server no one else can access—labeled with your name, storing every image of you captured on internal footage.

You don’t know he’s wiped out four internal transfer requests that would have pulled you from his floor.

You don’t know he personally selects your meals for team events—ensuring your preferences are always met, even when no one else notices.

You don’t know he’s kept you here, orbiting him, perfectly placed, under the illusion of promotion.

And now you’ve said his name like it belongs to you.

Like he does.

“Sir,” you try again, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Apologies. I—I didn’t mean—”

He stands slowly, measured, the desk separating you like a fragile boundary he’s had to respect for far too long.

“No need to apologize,” he says coolly. “You simply… surprised me.”

But inside? His thoughts are nothing but static.

He replays the syllables.

Not just the sound, but the shape of your mouth when you said it.

He files it into memory. Deep. Permanent.

And he knows—sooner than even you do—that this is the beginning of the end for the illusion.

Because from this moment on, you’ve stopped being a project.

Stopped being a subject.

You’ve become a trigger.

A fixation.

An opening he hadn’t anticipated—but cannot ignore.

You said his name once.

You won’t realize until it’s far too late:

You’ll never say it the same way again.

Because you didn’t know what you’d done.

You didn’t hear it the way he did.

Like it was already yours to say.

Like he wasn’t a god.

Like he was a man.

A man who had already rewritten every security protocol to keep you near.

A man who eliminated colleagues who made you uncomfortable.

A man who—if you ever truly looked—might shatter the illusion of “normal” with one cold sentence:

“You’re not here by accident.”

“You’re here because I designed you to be.”

But you don’t know.

You smile politely.

You offer your reports.

You drink the coffee that arrives on your desk precisely how you like it.

You go home.

You live your life.

While he rewatches your day in full.

While he listens to your voicemails and deletes names from your inbox.

While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

While he reminds himself that love is irrelevant.

Control is what matters.

And he already has it.

---

He’d timed every entry and exit.

He knew how long you took in the restroom.

Which hallway you paused in to check your phone.

What time of day your voice grew tired.

He saw it as clearly as he saw cell degradation under a microscope.

That slow unraveling.

That quiet compliance.

You were adapting.

Your posture had shifted. Subtly. You walked faster when alone. Slower when near him. You dressed differently—more reserved, perhaps without realizing. You avoided eye contact with male superiors.

Wesker approved.

He didn’t speak of it.

Didn’t need to.

The conditioning was holding.

You had stopped asking questions.

Stopped challenging schedules.

Stopped requesting to work from other wings.

You had folded into the environment he designed—one where he was a constant hum beneath your daily routine. Where his name lingered at the back of your tongue. Where his voice set your pace and his silence set your nerves.

---

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he muttered to himself, watching the security footage replay. While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

There you were again. That exact moment. Your eyes soft, confused, lips parted: Albert…?

He paused the video.

Leaned back.

Let the sound echo in the sterile quiet of his office.

It was not an accident.

Not some sweet slip of tongue.

No.

It was the infection taking root.

Your body catching up to what your environment had long accepted.

Dependence.

Deference.

Attachment.

He could work with that.

Love was messy. Emotional.

But dependence—he could mold.

He could reinforce it, reward it, create just enough tension to keep you needing his approval.

To keep you needing him.

---

(A/N: should I make a part 2??? I mean- I already have it. I just wanna hear it from you dirty sluts;>)

[troutfur]

If you have books purchased on your Kindle library download them now and learn how to remove DRM encryption from them.

As of February 26th, Amazon will no longer allow you to download the files locally, except to physical Kindle devices. You will only be able to read them from now on through an internet connection.

This is a direct affront to consumers everywhere who fucking BOUGHT these books. These tech monopolies want to keep you reliant on their little neo-feudal realms, forever paying them a tax (sorry "subscription fee") and will stop at nothing to erode your ability to truly own your digital goods.

This hurts particularly as someone for whom purchasing ebooks was a favorite way of supporting authors without having to deal with the exorbitant prices and import taxes that come with buying physical books in Guatemala.

I taught myself how to de-DRM my Kindle library using an old Android tablet and very minimal Windows tech literacy with this guide. I recommend anyone with a Kindle library to follow suit and going forward to BOYCOTT Amazon and any storefront using proprietary DRM technology to prevent you from transferring your own files from outside their ecosystem.

[errorid-mt7lt7k7unfr9ttfua5]

me when companies try to force you to use their proprietary software

anyway

Layperson resources:

firefox is an open source browser by Mozilla that makes privacy and software independence much easier. it is very easy to transfer all your chrome data to Firefox

ublock origin is The highest quality adblock atm. it is a free browser extension, and though last i checked it is available on Chrome google is trying very hard to crack down on its use

Thunderbird mail is an open source email client also by mozilla and shares many of the same advantages as firefox (it has some other cool features as well)

libreOffice is an open source office suite similar to microsoft office or Google Suite, simple enough

Risky:

VPNs (virtual private networks) essentially do a number of things, but most commonly they are used to prevent people from tracking your IP address. i would suggest doing more research. i use proton vpn, as it has a decent free version, and the paid version is powerful

note: some applications, websites, and other entities do not tolerate the use of VPNs. you may not be able to access certain secure sites while using a VPN, and logging into your personal account with some services while using a vpn *may* get you PERMANENTLY BLACKLISTED from the service on that account, ymmv

IF YOU HAVE A DECENT VPN, ANTIVIRUS, AND ADBLOCK, you can start learning about piracy, though i will not be providing any resources, as Loose Lips Sink Ships. if you want to be very safe, start with streaming sites and never download any files, though you Can learn how to discern between safe, unsafe, and risky content.

note: DO NOT SHARE LINKS TO OR NAMES OF PIRACY SITES IN PUBLIC PLACES, ESPECIALLY SOCAL MEDIA

the only time you should share these things are either in person or in (preferably peer-to-peer encrypted) PRIVATE messages

when pirated media becomes well-known and circulated on the wider, public internet, it gets taken down, because it is illegal to distribute pirated media and software

if you need an antivirus i like bitdefender. it has a free version, and is very good, though if youre using windows, windows defender is also very good and it comes with the OS

Advanced:

linux is great if you REALLY know what you're doing. you have to know a decent amount of computer science and be comfortable using the Terminal/Command Prompt to get/use linux. "Linux" refers to a large array of related open source Operating Systems. do research and pick one that suits your needs. im still experimenting with various dispos, but im leaning towards either Ubuntu Cinnamon or Debian.

[echoreconcrew]

Stolen Imperial Files - Valérie Glie

SUBJECT FILE: #7746-VG-RYL STATUS: AT LARGE THREAT LEVEL: HIGH DESIGNATION: GLIE, VALERIE (“Val”)

AGE: 26 SPECIES: TWI’LEK EYES: SILVER HEIGHT: 5'6" ALIAS: DESERT SARAD  HOMEWORLD: RYLOTH TRAITS: DISPLAYS A CHARISMATIC AND ENGAGING PRESENCE—OFTEN FEISTY AND FLIRTATIOUS, THOUGH MARKED AT TIMES BY A SURPRISING EMOTIONAL RESERVE. TENDS TO MASK VULNERABILITY WITH SHARP WIT AND HUMOR, USING LEVITY AS A DEFENSE MECHANISM. WELL-LIKED AMONG PEERS, WITH A NATURAL ABILITY TO COMMAND ATTENTION AND NAVIGATE COMPLEX SOCIAL DYNAMICS. AFFILIATIONS: CHAM SYNDULA’S FREEDOM FIGHTERS

BIOGRAPHY: Valerie Glie is a known insurgent, former member of the Free Ryloth Movement, and biological sister to Gobi Glie (see file #7745-GG-RYL). Glie is classified as a Tier-1 fugitive by the Imperial Senate following her implication in an attempted assassination of Senator Orn Free Taa (see incident report #OFT-RYL-03-19).  While conclusive evidence remains classified, Glie’s specialization in long-range weaponry and guerrilla tactics strongly suggests her involvement. Subject evaded initial detainment following the incident, reportedly with assistance from rogue Clone CT-7569 (designated deserter; current status: MIA). Glie disappeared from all known Imperial tracking channels shortly thereafter. A confidential report filed by Admiral Rampart (see ISB Inquiry #RMP-7569-GL) suggests CT-7569 and Glie may have shared an unprofessional and possibly romantic relationship during the Ryloth occupation. The nature of this connection, if verified, may explain the clone's deviation from standard programming and continued loyalty to Glie. Further inquiry suppressed under Imperial Directive 104-C due to potential embarrassment to command. Later, Glie was confirmed captured and processed through Zygerian slave intake channels, a rare point of recovery. During a scheduled transfer, the facility experienced a breach carried out by unidentified clone deserters (see ZYG-ESC-17-CLN). Subject escaped during the chaos. Subsequent raids on Imperial communications have traced encrypted data fragments believed to be linked to Glie, suggesting reactivation and resumption of insurgent activity. PROFILE NOTES Combat Role: Designated marksman / sniper; advanced training in stealth, infiltration, and asymmetrical warfare. Temperament: Uncooperative, highly disciplined, ideologically radicalized. Psychological Evaluation: Subject displays advanced emotional compartmentalization; demonstrates capacity for prolonged isolation, likely contributing to operational longevity. Linguistics: Fluent in Ryl, Galactic Basic, Zygerian dialects, and multiple black-market ciphers.

THE HUB

Ask to join the Tag List!

[pleaseletmeinibeg453]

Paper cuts

|Jelsa, Modern AU, Enemies with Benefits, Fake dating, Forced Proximity|

Agent Elsa Stenford [NID-SO-ES-07] — Operation Report Upload Log

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-08

—Time (UTC): 23:16

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet

—Report file: OP_SILENTRAVEN_AAR.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A5-7C9B)

—Recipient(s): Jack Frost, Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), National Intelligence Directorate

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0525-2214)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access.

---------------------------

Operation Silent Raven is an ongoing mission targeting a covert illicit arms trafficking network operating primarily in South Carolina. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Delete ‘ongoing mission’ — this is filler from someone unfamiliar with concise reporting. Vague and redundant.] This report details recent operational progress, intelligence collection, and actionable recommendations. [Flag—Acting supervisor: You clearly do not understand report structure. This useless sentence wastes time and space.] 

The primary objective is to identify, monitor, and dismantle the arms trafficking chain responsible for the flow of small arms and light weapons through various transit points in the region. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Restating obvious without any specifics or measurable targets reflects poor understanding of operational goals. Omit.] HUMINT sources have verified the existence of a new maritime transit corridor utilizing the seaport. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “HUMINT sources” is lazy projection. You apparently cannot be trusted to identify sources properly. Brackets demonstrate careless drafting.] SIGINT intercepted encrypted communications that suggest coordination between traffickers and local facilitators. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Suggest’ is weak speculation, unbefitting a professional intelligence report. Either confirm or remove this guesswork.] 

Financial forensics have traced suspicious funds transfers totaling approximately $8 million USD linked to traffickers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Provide specifics or this bland, meaningless statement reveals superficial analysis.] Technical surveillance detected multiple covert meetings in [Urban Centers], corroborated by photographic evidence. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Using placeholders signals either incompetence or utter disregard for accuracy.] On 2022-06-21, interdiction team, operating with local law enforcement, seized 250 illegal firearms at the port city warehouse. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Poorly structured sentence; the muddled passive voice further obscures the facts you apparently cannot clearly present.] Two principal suspects were detained, providing critical intelligence that identified higher-level facilitators. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Passive construction and vague attribution further demonstrate your failure to take ownership of this data.] 

Informant “Falcon” supplied actionable intelligence regarding a planned arms shipment scheduled for early June. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Finally, a clear statement, but unfortunately, it’s buried among verbosity and filler.] Operational security protocols were heightened after detecting possible surveillance by hostile intelligence actors. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Possible’ surveillance indicates your uncertainty and it undermines the entire assessment and betrays inadequate situational awareness.] The network disruption has temporarily halted major arms transfers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Temporarily’ suggests you lack the insight or confidence to forecast outcomes. Such ambiguity is unacceptable.] 

Surveillance and intelligence collection continue focusing on secondary facilitators and financing channels. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Non-specific, passive phrasing again. You appear unable to report with decisiveness or clarity.] Coordination with allied intelligence agencies is ongoing to leverage broader interdiction efforts. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Allied intelligence agencies” — weak and meaningless. Omit.] Risk assessment indicates elevated threat levels against NID assets involved in this operation. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Without elaboration, this statement is worthless. The absence of detail is either negligence or incompetence. I’m leaning towards the latter, although the first one also seems to be your defining trait.] Approve expansion of covert operations targeting secondary facilitators and financiers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Recommendations lack essential resource planning and rationale, further exposing your inexperience.] Request additional SIGINT and counter-surveillance resources. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Additional’ is meaningless without quantification. This sloppy request reflects poor operational understanding.] Initiate an inter-agency task force to address cross-border financing and logistics. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Unsubstantiated recommendation with no defined objectives — this is amateurish.] Continue monitoring and protection of key HUMINT sources and operatives. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Failing to specify protection protocols reflects a dangerous oversight on your part.] Attachments include interdiction team after-action report, financial transaction analyses, SIGINT intercept summaries, and photographic documentation of seized arms and facilities. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Referencing attachments without actual inclusion indicates either incompetence or disregard for proper reporting. Which one is it?]

Flag—Acting supervisor: This report is miserably inadequate and reflects a disturbing lack of professionalism and capability. The careless placeholders, vague assertions, passive voice, and speculative language betray your failure to grasp even the basic standards of intelligence reporting. Such work not only wastes time but actively hampers operational efficiency. REWRITE. 

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost 

[Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Agent Elsa Stenford [Code:NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Report Review – Operation Silent Raven

Classification: TOP SECRET // EYES ONLY

Agent Stenford,

Your submitted report for Operation Silent Raven is wholly inadequate and reflects a concerning lack of analytical rigor, operational discipline, and professional attention. The presence of unresolved placeholders, vague assertions, speculative conclusions, and critical data gaps is unacceptable at this operational level and wastes valuable time and resources.

This level of oversight is incompatible with the standards expected from an intelligence officer assigned to this unit. You are to:

1. Eliminate all placeholders and provide verified, cross-checked intelligence.

2. Remove speculative or assumptive language; include only confirmed, actionable data.

3. Rewrite sections for clarity, precision, and direct accountability — passive formulations are unacceptable.

4. Deliver detailed, concrete descriptions of sources, operational locations, timelines, and outcomes without ambiguity.

5. Ensure all referenced materials are attached, properly labeled, and internally consistent.

6. Strengthen recommendations by specifying exact resource needs, operational impacts, and executable directives.

7. Fully address risk assessments with defined threats, probability ratings, and specific mitigation strategies.

The supervisor-annotated version of your report (File ID: SR-Report-Rev1-JF) has been uploaded to the secure review system. You are to address all marked corrections and resubmit the fully corrected report no later than 1800 hours today. No further extensions will be granted.

Jack Frost 

[Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

---------------------------

Agent Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07] — Report Upload Log (Revised Submission)

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-09

—Time (UTC): 17:38

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet 

—Report file: OP_SIENTRAVEN_AAR_v2.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A9-7C3B-R2)

—Recipient(s): Jack FrostJack Frost (NID-SO-JF-01), Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), National Intelligence Directorate

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0525-2316-R2)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4, Revised Submission Folder)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access. Revision flag registered under Audit Protocol 4B.

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01] 

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code: SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Secure Directive – Operation Silent Raven Report (Revised Submission)

Agent Stenford,

I have completed my review of your revised report on Operation Silent Raven. The annotated document is attached under:

Attachment: SilentRaven_Rev2_ES07_JFcomments.secure

To be precise: this submission remains below acceptable operational standards. Your continued use of speculative phrasing, unsupported assertions, and vague recommendations demonstrates a concerning lack of analytical discipline. This is not a matter of inexperience. You are not a trainee, Agent. At your level and position, you are expected to understand and apply the standards of rigor, precision, and clarity required in all agency reporting. That expectation is not optional.

Your report exhibits repeated failures:

1. Speculative language where concrete analysis is required;

2. Lack of referenced source attachments, despite multiple directives;

3. Unquantified risk assessments, absent methodological support;

4. Action recommendations devoid of operational specificity.

This is not a learning exercise nor is it a second chance, Agent Stenford. I should not be required to remind you of the foundational protocols governing intelligence reporting. You are expected to deliver work that reflects your clearance level, your operational rank, and your assigned responsibilities — without need for remedial oversight.

You are hereby directed to produce a final, fully compliant, actionable revision and submit it under secure protocol no later than 1300 hours tomorrow. Failure to meet this directive will result in formal escalation to the Division Office for immediate performance review. There will be no further instructions, no extended clarifications, and no tolerance for repeated submission failures.

Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

*

Operation Silent Raven: A report

1.⁠ ⁠Executive Summary:

—The target group’s network activity has intensified in the last 72 hours, with encrypted communications suggesting a planned operation within the capital region. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Suggesting” is a charming euphemism for “guessing.” Precision is not your forte, is it?]

—HUMINT sources indicate the possible involvement of an external actor, potentially destabilizing regional security. [Flag—Acting supervisor:  “Possible” and “potentially” — a truly inspiring display of hedging. I applaud your commitment to ambiguity.] While these indicators warrant heightened surveillance, conclusive evidence regarding the exact nature and timing of the planned event remains unconfirmed. [COMMENT: I look forward to the day when ‘unconfirmed’ is replaced by ‘confirmed.’ Continue taking baby steps, we’re all here to babysit you and instruct on every level, not to do our job.]

2.⁠ ⁠Intelligence Sources:

SIGINT: Intercepted encrypted transmissions on frequencies 8.1 GHz to 8.3 GHz, believed to originate from multiple cell towers in the downtown sector. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Believed.” A masterclass in non-committal language. Bold. Yet, it fails to meet the minimum standards of verification.] Metadata analysis aligns with previous hostile activity patterns.

[Flag—Acting supervisor: Please specify the parameters of your analysis. Otherwise, it reads as a hopeful suggestion rather than intelligence.]

HUMINT: Confidential informant reported unusual meetings near industrial sector 4. Reliability assessed as moderate; corroborating SIGINT incomplete. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Moderate’ is an imaginative way of saying ‘I’m not sure.’ The agency appreciates your creativity but prefers facts.]

IMINT: Limited satellite imagery from 23-25 MAY shows increased vehicular movements near potential staging areas, but imagery quality insufficient for identification of personnel or equipment. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Including non-identifiable imagery is an excellent way to fill pages. Whether it aids operations is another matter. But who cares?]

3.⁠ ⁠Operational Assessment:

The convergence of SIGINT and HUMINT suggests preparatory steps for an operation targeting critical infrastructure. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Suggests’ again. I see a pattern. Perhaps next time try ‘confirms’ or ‘demonstrates.’] Risk assessment places the likelihood of attack at moderate (probability 0.55), with potential impact categorized as high due to target significance. [Flag—Acting supervisor: : Quantify your methodology. Numbers plucked from thin air are less useful than no numbers at all.] Recommended actions include intensifying electronic surveillance, deploying field assets for direct observation, and liaising with allied cyber-intelligence units to monitor digital footprints. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Vague directives are the hallmark of an inexperienced analyst. Details and accountability please.]

4.⁠ ⁠Recommendations:

Immediate deployment of SIGINT intercept teams in the identified frequency bands. Enhanced HUMINT debriefings with source ES-27 to confirm meeting details. [Flag—Acting supervisor: The lack of specificity here suggests an admirable level of trust in the reader’s imagination.] Coordination with Cyber Ops for real-time network traffic analysis. [Flag—Acting supervisor:  Nomenclature alone does not constitute a plan. Flesh this out.]

Notes [Acting Supervisor] : 

—Formatting inconsistent with NID operational report guidelines. You’ve transformed a simple formatting standard into an elusive art form. Bravo.

—Failure to attach referenced supporting materials AGAIN. This recurring omission hinders operational efficacy. Consider attaching documents next time.

—In conclusion, REWRITE.

---------------------------

Agent [Code: NID-SO-ES-07] — Field Report Upload Log (Revised Submission)

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-10

—Time (UTC): 13:00

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet

—Report file: OP_SILENTRAVEN_AAR_v3.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A9-7C3B-R2)

—Recipient(s): Jack Frost, Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), NID

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0710-1300-R2)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4, Revised Submission Folder)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access. Revision flag registered under Audit Protocol 4B.

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost [NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code: NID-SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Secure Directive – Operation Silent Raven Report , Revocation of Field Authority and Immediate Reassignment

Agent Stenford,

I was informed last afternoon that due to shifting operational priorities, the report in question [Ops Silent Raven] is no longer required. 

After review of your latest submission — the revised report you provided earlier today — I must formally acknowledge that the material remains below acceptable operational standards. While I did not realistically anticipate any significant improvement, it is nonetheless disappointing that even after detailed corrective input, your output failed to meet the basic analytical and procedural thresholds expected of an intelligence officer at your level.

However, the time I was forced to expend personally correcting and annotating your repeated errors constitutes an unacceptable diversion of supervisory resources. You have now occupied more of this division’s time and attention than your current role warrants.

Accordingly, effective immediately, your independent field authority is revoked. You are reassigned to trailing support under Intelligence Officer Logan Parrish [CODE: NID-SO-LP-33], Team Blue. While Officer Parrish holds the same formal rank as you, his superior reliability and competence justify his lead role in this arrangement.

You are to operate strictly under Officer Parrish’s direction, with no independent decision-making or external communications without prior clearance. This corrective assignment will remain in place until further notice and serves as a necessary intervention to address the persistent deficits in your performance.

You are to report to Team Blue at 07:00 hours tomorrow, prepared and fully compliant. Written acknowledgment of this directive is required by 16:00 hours today. Noncompliance will result in immediate formal disciplinary action.

Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

---------------------------

Elsa Stenford read the message over and over again, because she knew it wasn’t serious. It must be a mistake. A joke. That’s what it was. Maybe if she read it again, it would change, it would shift and it would fix itself. So she read it, the words physically burning her, over and over again, but it stayed the same. She just stared at it, mouth hanging open, eyes wide with shock, unblinking. 

“Elsa?” Merida’s voice shattered the silence in her head. “Are you—”

“THAT MISERABLE FUCKING BASTARD! THAT FUCKING—” She stopped herself, but there was just too much rage and hate in her, enough for her to combust and paint the walls red. "FUCKING PIECE OF SCUM! I FUCKING HATE HIM, THAT USELESS, ARROGANT, SLIMY RAT!"

---------------------------

[nxzz-skz]

Bound by contract (a bangchan x reader series)

Chapter 6

ᯓ★arranged marriage between nonidol!bangchan and fem!reader

ᯓ★ warnings: none rlly

ᯓ★ note: send an ask or comment to be added to my taglist!

chapter 5 - masterlist - chapter 7

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

Three weeks later, you found yourself sitting across from Minho in a private lounge. He didn't know you were coming. Chan had made sure of it.

"Y/N," he greeted, looking amused as he sipped his whiskey. "To what do i owe the pleasure?"

You smiled sweetly, acting innocent, though your heart pounded in your chest. "I thought it was time we had a little chat."

His eyes flickered with a hint of curiosity. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Oh? And what's on your mind, sister-in-law?"

You kept your face neutral, kept your tone light. "Loyalty," you said. "Your, specifically."

His grin faltered just a little. He tilted his head. "Loyalty's a fickle thing. It shifts depending on who holds the power."

"That's true," you admitted, leaning forward so that only a sliver of space separated the two of you. "But here's the thing about power, Minho." You lowered your voice, almost whispering. "it doesn't belong to you."

For the first time, his eyes darkened. The smile dropped completely.

"Be careful, Y/N," he warned, "You're playing a very dangerous game."

You leaned back in your chair, eyes never leaving his, slight smirk forming on your face. "Then you should be the one afraid, Minho. Because I only play to win."

He stared at you for a moment longer, his grasp tightening around hi glass. Then, without another word, he stood up and walked out.

The second he was gone, your phone buzzed. One new message.

Chan: You did good.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

Things worsened quickly after that.

Minho was more careful now, but he didn’t back off. If anything, his moves became bolder. Chan caught wind of a fake transfer request that nearly drained one of the company’s foreign accounts. Minho’s signature was on it, but it wasn’t enough proof to take him down.

That’s when you got involved.

Felix was surprisingly useful. With his help, you gained access to the company’s internal messaging system. Every encrypted message Minho thought was private was no longer private.

“You don’t know how deep this goes, Y/N,” Felix had warned. “This isn’t just about business. If you get caught, he won’t go easy on you.”

You didn’t care. If Minho wanted to play dirty, so would you.

And one night, you found it. The smoking bomb. A message from Minho to an offshore client about the “file” he’d stolen. It wasn’t just company intel — it was financial leverage.

“Got him,” you muttered, staring at the message on your laptop. Your heart raced with adrenaline.

You called Chan immediately.

“It’s over,” you said, breathless.

On the other end of the line, Chan let out a low, satisfied chuckle.

“You did it, Y/N,” he said softly. “We did it.”

And for the first time, you felt like a real team.

But something about the quiet in his voice sent a chill down your spine.

Something’s coming.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

ᯓ★ Reblogs appreciated!

ᯓ★ taglist:

ᯓ★ perm taglist: @cafffeineconnoisseur @skzbiasot8 @candyquokka @idiotmaterial @backseat-serenade-dizzyhurricane

[baggebythesea]

I'm a big proponent of the concept that after the war, everyone in the cast has their own bullshit to deal with, apart from the shared drama.

Adora is a hero for all of Etheria - ALL of Etheria. She is regularly called in to deal with everything from a breaking dam to a rampaging monster to the theft of the biggest pumpkin of Plumeria. She happily accepts every quest, no matter how big or small.

Swift Wind is a central figure in the Glorious Horse Revolution. No one else is quite sure how it's going, but apparently there is a lot of splinter factioning going on.

Glimmer has her plate full with machieavellian Space UN politics. On a good day she gets to beat up space pirates, but mostly it's meetings.

Catra runs a private little black-ops operation to sort out "problems the princesses do not need to know about." Many a wanna-be-assassin has decided to leave Brightmoon under unexplained circumstances that Catra knows nothing about at all, I'm sure.

Bow - friend guy that he is - keeps all the REST of the disasters safe and functional, so he has little time for shenanigans of his own. He does however, run away to do pirating with Sea Hawk at times.

Sea Hawk deals with exactly the kind of drama we saw in the show - burning people's ships and occasionally having to run away from his ever-growing list of exes

Mermista is a pirate queen, or like she puts it "she deals with some boring Salineas politics or whatever". Any given day might be treasure hunt, naval battle or mutiny.

Perfuma handles the power balance of Plumeria, which is far more cutthroat than anyone else wants to realize (if yet in a very passive aggressive way).

Scorpia has very mild social drama, like angsting over flower arrangements or table placement on the upcoming dinner.

Frosta is deep into fandom drama for her favourite shows, and defend the honours of her OCs with gusto and cool ice powers.

Entrapta deals with social melodrama among the robots, which is completely incomprehensible for everyone except her.

Entrapta, crying her eyes out: "...but then Emily changed the file transfer protocol to base 124 without giving Darla the new encryption key. Why didn't she give her the encryption key?"

Hordak, deadpan: "There, there."

People straight up try to murder Hordak on a regular basis. He is completely understanding about it, doesn't defend himself with more force than strictly needed and see no need to ask followup questions.

Imp chews on cables.

Wrong Hordak is involved in multiple high-level tax fraud schemes.

Micah does Indiana Jones style adventure-archeology quests. Sometimes, to her great relief, Glimmer gets to come along. After a long day of meetings, fleeing for her life from slobbing monsters is a great way of unwinding.

Casta has almost as much relationship drama as Sea Hawk.

Double Trouble is Double Trouble.

[gyupinkys]

FOUND YOU

Yandere Jihoon x fem reader.

WC: 3.8K

Jihoon was never one for relationships. His stoic behavior tends to bore the ladies, but he's had is fair share of flings. However, when some low life hacker tries to access his files; he cant help but look into you more, and some more, and a little more until he becomes obsessed. Jihoon makes it his mission to find you.

WARNINGS: YANDERE, stalking, DUB CON, phone sex, spying, unconsented filming, use of sex toys, fingering, mention of kidnapping, sugar daddy Jihoon, bratty reader.

A/N: i love this fic and I love you woozi.

One semester left… just one. Why on earth would they raise your tuition by $5,000? Are they forgetting both of your parents are dead and you have no job? The financial aid office is no help and you're already about $10,000 in debt. How nice. You look at your computer, contemplating. There's always that option… no it’s not safe. But damn you need money,  you need your degree, you need to get out of this fucking city and start over. You look down at your cat Bruno sitting at your feet. 

“Should I?”

He just gives you a judgemental look and walks away. This fucking cat…

You have no other choice. You pull out your spare laptop, not risking your pc getting any viruses. A few months ago you drunkenly stumbled upon a website on the dark web that gives you access to IP addresses of major company computers. You very easily figured out how to access their files, you can see everything; their expenses, investments, and payments. It would be so easy to transfer money to an offshore account and cover your traces. Scrolling through the list of companies you try to find one you’ve never heard of. More popular companies tend to have more security. 

“Universe factory?”

Hmmm. Doesn't ring a bell. It’s located about fifteen miles from your apartment so you aren't worried about them finding you. Weirdly, you can't find any bank accounts linked to this company. Scouring through some files, this seems to be a music company of sorts? You find samples of songs, lyrics, beats, and oh shit.. Drug shipments? Why is this in the music files? You try to dive deeper only for your connection to completely cut off and your computer blue screens. Fucking hell. The computer won’t turn back on and you won't have a chance to cover your tracks. So much for being computer savvy…

“Fuckkkkk” youre actually fucked. These people are clearly good if they are able to shut off your computer so they may have  already found your address by now. You're hoping your vpn and security walls help you. You get up and start to pace. Why on earth did you think this was a good idea? Of course you somehow chose the shadiest fucking company on earth. There's nothing to do now but stress and wait for your likely impending death.

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

“The fuck?”

Jihoon’s studio is his safe space. He’s lucky Cheol lets him pursue his passions on the side, this mafia thing tends to take up a lot of his time so being able to unwind in his own space is a treasure. But when he returns to his computer he senses something is wrong. Someone’s gone through his files. Now, Jihoon wouldn't be too worried if all that was on this computer was his music, but recently he’s been using the Universe factory as a coverup to store documents from past business deals. Now this couldnt have been the work of some amaetur, in order to get past all his security takes some real skill, and to be able to do it without a trace? Hm…

Jihoon looks through his files, trying to catalog all the incriminating evidence.

“Tiger’s super wicked diss track?” he speaks in disbelief. When the fuck did Soonyoung get in his studio? And record a fucking distrack? 

Jihoon runs a program to see the location of the last user to access his encrypted files. Nothing? Hmm… This is too random to be a coincidence, this person must've found his IP address and started from there. He decides to be bold and search his IP addresses on his self made database, it wouldn't hurt. 

 “ “FoundYou.com”? What the fuck?”

Well he hit the jackpot. He was able to look at who accessed this website in the past 24 hours and who interacted with the universe factory link. He traced the computer to a rural part of antarctica… ok that's definitely not the real location.  He digs a little deeper finding layers and layers of security. He’s starting to think this may not be some silly hacker and could be a rival mafia pulling at strings. After an hour he’s confident he’s found the real address and hacker. About fifteen miles from him lives a Y/N L/N, full time student, studying in computer science, $10,437.76 in debt and an orphan… hm. He looks up your instagram and woah. He wasn’t expecting you to look like that. He sees your friends, finds their instagrams, just to see more pictures of you cover his bases. Your college friends speak highly of you, your highschool friends love you, oh wow even your elementary school friends still hang out with you. He digs a little deeper, just to know who he’s dealing with. You adopted a cat a year ago, a cat who visits the vet very often. Gestational blockages, broken arm, not eating, bladder infection… This cat seems like a handful. 

“Bruno? Like Bruno Mars or Bruno from Encanto?” he whispers to himself. 

You visited the hospital last year from a broken pinky, your dermatologist keeps increasing the strength of your acne medication, you take very strong pills for your cramps. Car accident when you were 7, therapy for 10 years and dead parents?… Figures. 

Your credit card statement says a lot about you. $7 matcha lattes three times a week despite being in debt. $15 chipotle bowls and 12am Mcdonalds. You really like shopping at Adam and eve… freaky. You bought $100 worth of things from amazon yesterday. You sure do buy a lot of cat toys on amazon, this cat is spoiled. Hair dye, batteries, water bottles, 12 pound bag of skittles? 

“Woozi, what are you doing?” Soonyoung whispers in his ear.

Jihoon jumps, “When did you even get in here?”

“You get too immersed in your work, but why are you on amazon?”

“None of your business get out! AND WHEN DID YOU RECORD A DISS TRACK IN HERE.”

Hoshi’s eyes widen and he quickly makes his exit leaving Jihoon alone again. He knows he’s being a creep but he doesn't have it in him to care. You’re just so interesting.  

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

“Bruno there's no one at the door stop growling.”

You open the door to show him no one is outside, but low and behold sitting outside your apartment is a large bouquet of hydrangeas… your favorite flower. 

“The fuck?”

You further inspect the flowers, seeing a note in the center.

“My precious little hacker, I’ll be seeing you soon. P.S check your bank account - Woozi’s Universe factory.”

You drop the flowers. Oh my god.You figured something like this would happen but now that it's happening you're freaked out. God, you should have minded your business. Now the little money you had is probably gone as some sort of twisted revenge. As you login to your bank app you're sure you've lost your mind and you're seeing things. $20,000 was wired to your savings account.

“What the fuck.”

You know better than to touch this money. It’s too good to be true. But, this would pay off your debt and get you a better apartment… fuck. You check your email to see what time the money was wired only to see an email from your school saying there were changes made to your account. Can this day get any worse? But it somehow gets better, not only is your tuition paid but all your debt is cleared… you must've suffered a head injury and you're making all of this up while in a coma. 

“Bruno, I might be killed in the next 7 days… Then you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

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

“Bruno, I might be killed in the next 7 days.. Then you’ll have to fend for yourself.” your sweet voice rings out. 

Jihoon had to see your reaction to his gift. He’s glad you didn't notice the green dot on your mac as he watched you through the webcam. He loves the way you talk to Bruno like he’s a human.

It took a lot of digging to figure out your favorite flower, it was one of your security questions for your bank app. He hopes you appreciate his generosity, it’s not everyday that he goes out of his way to spoil someone. He sees you looking absolutely bewildered and he can’t help but smile. But this smile quickly drops when you turn to your computer and your eyes widen, presumably seeing your camera is on.

“YOU FUCKING CREEP!” you scream as you power off your computer, leaving him staring at a blank screen.

He just smiles in response. He’s gonna have so much fun with you.

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

The gifts don't end. Everyday at 4pm you arrive home and on your doorstep is  something new, perfume, jewelry, bags, clothes, cat toys. This person must be rich. Though today the bell never rings. You even stand in your hallway looking for the delivery but it never comes. 

“Well isn't that weird?” you say to yourself as you unlock your door.

“Bruno?” Usually he comes running up to you when you unlock your door.

You see Bruno inspecting a bright red gift box sitting on your kitchen counter. You stop dead in your tracks. How the fuck did they get in your apartment? 

“Bruno! Move away from that.” you say and scoop him up. 

Oh god. This is getting insane. Leaving the gifts on your doorstep is one thing but coming inside? 

You stare at the gift for an hour. You're too afraid to open it. That is until it starts to vibrate. Is this a fucking bomb? You jump and open the box, seeing a brand new phone… Um Ok? The phone is receiving a call from an unknown number and obviously you don't answer it, setting the phone back down only for the same number to call again. You hesitantly answer. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, my love.”

“Who is this?” 

“Don’t worry about it, yet.”

“Ok, I’m gonna hang up.”

“Y/N, I wouldn't do that f I was you.”

“Stop being a fucking creep and sending shit to my door step.”

He just laughs.

“I left one more gift for you, why don’t you go look.”

You sigh and walk to your door, looking out the peephole first and opening it, picking up the large box.

“Are there killer wasps in here?” you sarcastically say.

“No, there are no wasps,” he laughs.

You open the box and pause, turning your head to your computer to see your camera is on.

“Are you watching me?”

“I’m always watching you, love.”

“God, youre a fucking creep, I should call the cops.”

“And tell them what? You tried to hack me and steal money from me? That you're a dirty little hacker and a thief?”

You’re starting to get upset, this is fucking insane.

“Open the box, love.”

You look at the computer and flip him off before opening the box. You gasp. This fucker sent you sex toys? 

“ALL YOU DO IS SHOW ME HOW MUCH OF A FUCKING PERVERT YOU ARE!” you yell into the phone.

“Is it so bad I want my baby to feel good?”

“I’m not your baby! I don’t even fucking know you.”

“I know you don’t know me but I know you. I know everything about you. Your favorite color is blue, your favorite food is Japanese curry, though you eat kimchi fried rice the most. You adopted Bruno because you needed something to keep you company since you don't really date. Your best friend moved away eight months ago and you two don't really talk anymore. Should I continue?”

“What the fuck.” you say with wide eyes.

“Baby, don’t get scared. I’m just so in love with you I need to know everything.”

“Um.” What do you even say to this?

“And don’t pretend this isn’t your darkest fantasy. I’ve seen your tumblr search history.”

Your eyes somehow widen. He got you there. Just the idea of having a clearly rich man obsessed with you would be enough to make you wet if he wasn't a pervert. 

“I want you to take out the shibari.”

You pull out a pretty blue vibrator. It’s even your favorite shade of blue. 

“Ok?” 

“I want you to use it for me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Baby, I wouldn’t want to do things to make you upset, but I need you to listen to me. I’m not above blackmailing you and I’m sure you wouldn't want me to come snatch you up.”

Your jaw drops. 

“Youre fucking crazy!”

“Baby, you just make me feel so many things for you.”

You groan, cursing yourself for ever being greedy and trying to steal.

“What do you want me to do?” you sigh out.

“Take off your pants and sit on your desk chair.”

“Do I have to?” you pout looking straight into the camera.

“Yes, baby. I want to see you.”

Why is this making you wet? God, you fucking hate that this is exactly the smut you would always search for. You groan at the situation, yourself, at this mystery pervert.

You shimmy out of your pants and sit in your desk chair. You put the phone on speaker and set it down.

“Now what?”

“Turn it on and rub it over your nipples.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’m sure the guys waiting outside your apartment would love to do it for you.”

Your heart drops to your ass and you turn it on, quickly putting it on your nipple.

Jeez, this thing is powerful. You let out a breathy moan disguised as a sigh.

“Run it down your body.” 

You slowly drag the vibrator down your body, your breathing becoming heavy. 

“Put your legs up on the chair and put it on your clit over your panties, I wanna see you soak through them.”

You put the head of the vibrator on your clit a little too hard making you jump.

“Slow your roll baby.” he laughs, making you roll your eyes.

This vibrator is on a different level from the shitty ones you have. It feels like you're being stimulated throughout your whole body, everything is vibrating and you feel yourself leaking. 

“I can see you getting wetter baby, fuck. I bet that pussy tastes so good.”

You moan, pressing the vibrator harder against you, feeling your toes curl.

“Does it feel good, baby?”

You close your eyes and nod, swallowing the shame. “It feels really good.”

��Move your panties to the side, let me see.”

You pull your soaked panties over and press the vibrator to your swollen clit. He lets out a deep groan. Jihoon can't believe his eyes, it’s like a dream come true. Your pretty pussy dripping wet just for him, you whining and moaning like all you can think about is cumming. He pulls out his hard cock, beginning to stroke himself, imagining he was fucking you. He would give it to you however you wanted, let you come as many times as you desired. No matter how bad you treated him, he would be on his knees begging to make you cum. The hold you have over him is unfathomable.  You’re truly like an angel sent to heaven just for him and he'll be damned if he doesn’t get his hands on you. He doesn't even have it in him to feel bad about watching you, listening to you, exploring you. In his mind you’ve been his from the moment he first saw you. His to worship, spoil, love until the end of time. You’ve become his muse, his lyrics flow out with only you in mind, he makes songs with the purpose of you hearing them. You’ve taken him over completely and he is so irrevocably in love with you. You don’t even need to love him back, he already has enough love for the both of you, and it's not like he wouldn’t be able to force you. A little isolation does wonders on the brain. 

“I need more,” you whine out.

“Tell me what you want.”

You just whine more in response, too embarrassed to speak. “You want to use your fingers?”

You nod furiously, opening your eyes to plead with him.

“Ok baby, slide two in for me. I want you to make yourself feel good.”

You listen and slide your fingers in, pumping them straight into your g-spot. You feel yourself on the verge of an orgasm, your moans becoming louder and more frequent.

“Turn it off”

Your eyes fly open. “What.”

“You heard me baby, turn it off.”

“No, no please I’m so close.”

“Y/N.”

You turn it off and throw it to the side, so insanely frustrated. 

“What is your deal!”

“You’re not cumming unless it's around my cock, baby.”

This man never fails to surprise you. “And what makes you think I’ll fuck you?”

“Trust me when I say that won’t be an issue.”

“What makes you so sure I just won’t finish myself off when I hang up?”

“I’m always watching, baby. It’s crazy how small they make cameras nowadays.”

“Fuck you Woozi’s Universe Factory.” you say not even able to take yourself seriously.

He just laughs. “I’ll be seeing you soon my love.”

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

“Is he named after Bruno Mars or Bruno from Encanto?” a deep voice rings out from your couch as you enter your apartment making you scream.

You turn to run out your apartment only to see two giants standing in your hallway blocking your exit. You groan and turn back around seeing Bruno sitting in the man's lap. Woah. Is this your stalker? Because if so, you have zero complaints. You’ve never been one to like guys with long hair, but his curls are just so hot and his lips.. How are they so plump? He’s wearing a tight black turtleneck and slacks with a gold chain. He looks so fucking hot, suddenly your not as pissed that he forced you masturbate for him. 

“Who are you?”

“You know exactly who I am, my love.”

“I don't know your name. Do you want me to call you Woozi’s Universe factory?”

He breathes out a laugh. “My name is Jihoon, love.”

“I’m sure you already know my name and give me my fucking cat.” you go to grab Bruno who hisses at you. You gasp.

“You little traitor.” you growl. “The real Bruno Mars would never treat me like this.” you say threateningly to the cat. 

“Ahh, Bruno Mars. I love that guy.” Jihoon says as he lifts the cat to look him in his eyes. “You want to stay with me don’t you?” to which the cat purrs. 

You’re more shocked at your cat's betrayal than Jihoon breaking into your apartment.

“Y/N, sit with me”

“No.”

He raises a brow at you.

“Fine, but not because you asked.” you pout and sit next to him.

“Are you not scared?”

“Honestly, you're too cute for me to be scared of you. Like look at these cheeks.” you say and squeeze his cheeks making him grab your hand and pull it away from your face.

“You don’t know who you're messing with, my love.”

“I mean if you were going to kill me you would've done it already. And I know you're not going to anyway because why would you waste all this money on someone you were going to kill?”

He smiles. “So smart, baby.”

Why is he calling you baby and love? This is actually kind of spooking you.

“What do you want Jihoon?” 

“I want you to come live with me.” 

Your eyes widen. The fuck? Your feelings must be visible on your face because he continues.

 “So, you just want me to get up and leave with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I come with you? You've done nothing but stalk and harrass me!”

“I’ve have not been stalking you, love. Everything I’ve done is a result of your actions. You decided to try to hack me which gave me access to everything.” 

“You're just trying to manipulate me!” you say and stand up.

He looked deeply offended by this. “Manipulate you? Tell me one thing in what I said that's not true.”

He has a point. You're just grasping at straw to be honest. “What If I don’t want to go with you.” you pout and stomp your foot looking like a child.

“Then I’ll take you by force.” he says with a straight face.

Oh. You weigh your options. Would you rather live in this hell hole remaining broke and sad or go with him and drain his pockets? You don’t even know where he’s taking you, he could be bringing you to a cabin in the woods to lock you up and kill you. But it’s not like you have an option and you would much rather do this the easy way.

“Ok fine. But not because you told me to” God, you sound like such a brat.

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

Six months later

“Jihoonnnnnnn.”

“Yes baby?”

“Can you buy me this?”

He groans. “Baby, what else could you possibly buy? You have it all.”

You show him your phone.

“Baby, you have this bag in three colors.” he deadpans.

“OK? This is my favorite color though.” You say like it's the most obvious thing on the planet.

Despite his grumbling he gets up and takes out his wallet, handing you his black card. Jihoon can never say no to you. Anything you ask for is yours, no matter what. Your life has completely changed since meeting him. You wouldn't say he’s your sugar daddy because you're equally as in love with him as he is with you,  but, lord does he spoil you. You moved into his high rise apartment and completely renovated it to your taste without a single complaint from him. He bought you a new wardrobe, new cars, bags, jewels, anything you could ever dream of. And the sex.. It’s just incredible. And Bruno is as spoiled as ever. He’s Jihoon’s baby despite Jihoon pretending to dislike him. You know what Jihoon does for a living, that's none of your business though. All that you care about is keeping him and yourself happy. You’ve grown more than accustomed to this lifestyle, not knowing how you functioned before meeting him. 

“Thank you Woozipoo”

“Stop calling me that” he groans.

“If you want me to stop you’ll get out this fucking studio and come to bed.”

He rolls his head to you. “Why would I do that?”

“So I can thank you for being so good to me.” you say into his neck making him groan. 

“God, baby don’t say things like that.”

“I can’t tell my man how much I want to fuck him?”

“Get your ass in the bedroom.”

[yuta-nakamots]

Nightwalker - Ten

Pairing - University!Ten x University!GN Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, Action/Thriller, University!AU, Purge!AU

Warning(s) - Mention of death and killing (obviously. It’s the Purge), violence, blood, description of injuries, manipulation, mention of crime and trafficking and attempted murder.

Summary - In a city where, one night a year, crime is unleashed without consequence, graduate student and meticulous killer Ten is drawn into a dangerous game when you catch his attention. As shadows lengthen and rules dissolve, fates intertwine in a tense dance of control and survival. 

Word Count - 6.0k

Author’s Note - This was the toughest fic for me to write recently. Between researching and balancing the mood in each scene, I felt like I  was going insane lol

Taglist - @cinneorolls (join my taglist!)

Written for the Hide If You Can Collab originally hosted by @127-mile. 

Now playing: Nightwalker - Ten, Dangerous - Ten, Tilt - Irene & Seulgi

Once a year, for twelve hours starting at 7pm, all crime, including murder, is legal. The government refers to it as a civic release, a necessary purging of societal aggression to maintain order. But behind the propaganda, the truth festers. It’s a system designed by the elite to eliminate threats, erase debts, and settle scores without consequence. 

Ten Lee is a top graduate student in behavioral neuroscience, known for his groundbreaking work on psychopathy and emotional regulation. Officially, he studies the Purge. Unofficially, he participates in it precisely, cleanly, and efficiently. Not out of hatred or desperation, but curiosity, control, the pursuit of understanding the darkest corners of the human mind, starting with his own. 

He moved like he thought in layers, composed and always two steps ahead. On the surface, he was a model scholar and the youngest to assist on the university’s federally funded Purge Neurology Project. His specialty? Mapping the emotional regulation patterns of those who had killed and lived to tell about it. He called it “clinical curiosity.” Others called it brilliance. 

His lab was cold, sterile, lit in shades of white and blue that reminded him of hospitals or interrogation rooms. Each subject he analyzed, hooked up to wires and hearts thudding in remembered violence, gave him more data and clarity. He saw fear, rage, guilt, or the absence of all three. Patterns emerged. Disorders, too. 

But no one ever mapped his mind.

Late one evening, while Ten was cleaning data scans from that year’s volunteer pool, a request came in. It was unofficial, encrypted, and slipped through a private network that should have been scrubbed clean. A meeting, arranged by a high-level donor, with no names in the calendar. Ten went anyway. 

The man was old money. He wore grief like a badge, but power like armor. He didn’t cry when he spoke of his brother. “Killed in last year’s Purge,” he said. “A tragic accident. The girl walked free.”

Ten sat back, saying nothing. The man reached into a folder, pulled out a photo. You. More specifically, a scan of your university ID card. 

“You know how things work,” the man began. “Her file says it was mutual violence. The police report was clean. But I know she lured him out. I know she helped his ex set him up. He wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve that kind of death.”

Ten studied the image. The card itself was newer than the case, meaning you were still enrolled, still walking the same halls. The donor pulled out more papers. Tuition payments, library records, previous class registrations, and academic history. Chemistry undergrad, average grades, quiet. 

“She destroyed our family…and no one paid the price.” The man slid an envelope forward. Inside was a transfer order. A clean purge clearance and a significant donation to Ten’s research, enough to secure tenure early, maybe even a private lab. “I don’t want to know how. I just want it done. Clean, quiet, the night of.” 

Ten didn’t take the envelope. But he didn’t push it back either. 

Later, alone in his room, Ten pulled up your student profile. You lived off-campus, alone. No family on file, no complaints, no infractions. On paper, you were nobody. But something didn’t add up. 

He dug deeper. That year’s Purge archives had been scrubbed, but he had access to supposedly locked repositories. Patterns emerged again. You were friends with a girl who had filed an abuse claim against the donor’s brother. The girl vanished that night, never confirmed dead. But you? You survived. 

There was footage of you being pulled from a half-burnt safehouse, blood in your hair and your eyes unfocused. It should have looked like trauma. But Ten paused the video.. 

You weren’t shaken. You were calm. Alert and watching. 

“You shouldn’t have survived,” he murmured, almost admiringly. 

And yet, you did. 

The next day, Ten’s eyes trailed you across campus for the first time, not as a curious researcher, but as a hunter. You were alone in a chemistry lab, methodically mixing compounds with a precision that echoed his own obsession with control. No fear, no hesitation. Just a quiet purpose. 

He approached casually, a slight smile resting on his lips like a mask. “You must be the elusive subject,” he greeted, voice smooth and disarming. “I’m Ten. Behavioral neuroscience graduate student.” 

You look up, steady and unreadable. “I’m just a chemistry student.”

“Right. But I’ve heard you have access to some…interesting substances,” he teased, watching for any flicker of reaction. 

You met his gaze evenly. “Science is about what you’re willing to handle.”

Ten liked that. Not scared, not apologetic. 

His eyes lingered on the way your fingers steadied the vial, the calm precision in your movements. “Why chemistry?” he asked, leaning against the counter. “Most people pick a major for jobs or prestige. What’s your story?”

You didn’t turn to him immediately, but when you did, your gaze was steady, challenging. “I like knowing how things fit together, breaking down chaos into patterns. It’s not so different from what you do, isn’t it?”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Maybe. But I work with brains, behaviors…emotions. Dangerous stuff.” 

You smirked, setting the vial down in a rack. “And what makes you so interested in danger?”

Ten smiled, a slow tilt that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let’s just say I prefer to understand what others fear.” 

You cocked your head. “Sounds like you’re hiding something.”

“I might be.” His tone dropped, serious now. “But enough about me. What about you? What scares you?”

You shrugged, indifferent. “Not much. Fear’s overrated.” 

Ten studied you a moment longer, sensing the wall you’d built but unable to breach it, at least not yet. The chemistry lab felt colder somehow, the hum of the equipment underscoring the quiet between you. 

“I see,” he said finally, stepping away from the counter with a deliberate calm. “Not much scares you. That’s…interesting.”

You met his retreating gaze, expression taut. “People who get scared don’t last. Or they don’t survive the Purge.”

He nodded once, as if acknowledging a truth too sharp to argue with. “Maybe you’re right.” Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, leaving the air thick with unspoken questions. 

That night, alone in his dimly lit apartment, Ten replayed the conversation. Your calm defiance echoed in his mind like a puzzle he was desperate to solve. You should have broken under pressure, even cracked a little, but you didn’t. You didn’t flinch at all. He scanned through your file again, noting every detail, every pattern that didn’t fit the profile of a survivor.

Exactly one week later, at the same time, same place, Ten was waiting. When you entered the lab, his presence was immediate. 

“Back so soon?” you asked, eyebrow raised, a hint of challenge in your voice. 

“I find consistency reassuring,” Ten said, stepping forward smoothly. “And I wanted to try again.” You smiled, curious despite yourself. “Come with me,” his voice was low but inviting. “I want to show you something. My lab.”

You paused, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

Inside the lab, the sterile glow of monitors and the soft hum of machines wrapped around you both. Next to you, Ten moved confidently, pulling up scans and data. “This is where I study what happens during the Purge, how people’ brains shift when morality blurs, when fear turns off.”

He glanced at you, watching for any sign of discomfort. Instead, you met his eyes coolly. “And what happens when the line between hunter and hunted disappears?”

Ten’s smile was a fraction slower this time. “Then the game begins.” He let the silence stretch, then added, “Tell me. If you were part of my research, what would I find?”

You tilted your head, looking up and humming as though thinking. “Someone who doesn’t break. Not easily.”

“Good,” he said softly. “I like that.” Ten lingered beside one of the computer monitors, its screen pulsing with red-blue brainwave readings, abstract but alive. 

He didn’t look at you as he spoke again. “I’ve found that in most cases, people’s neurological responses change during the Purge. Empathy drops. Inhibitions vanish. Violence becomes logical.” He finally turned. “Do you think that’s natural? Or learned?”

You studied the screen for a beat. “Survival is instinct. Violence is…selective memory.”

That made Ten pause. “You speak like someone who’s done more than survive.”

You smiled, slow and sharp. “You study the mind, right? Tell me, what do you see when you look at me?”

Ten took a step forward, just enough to invade the air between you. “A controlled subject. Which makes me wonder what happens when that control slips.”

You didn’t move back. “Maybe you should ask better questions.”

“Maybe I already know the answers.” His tone dropped. “You were there that night. When the donor’s brother died.” The air shifted.

Your lips twitched. “A lot of people died that night.”

“And yet you lived.”

“I had help.” You tilted your head. “What’s it to you?”

Ten didn’t answer at first. He studied you the way predators admire strong prey, curious and almost respectful. “Maybe I like studying anomalies.”

Your laugh was quiet. “Or maybe you’re trying to decide if I’m dangerous.”

“Are you?”

You leaned forward, eyes gleaming in the screenlight. “Only if someone underestimates me.” The tension swelled, sharp as a scalpel. Ten’s breath left him in a slow exhale, as if he were recalibrating something inside himself. But you pulled away first. “I should get going,” brushing imaginary dust from your sleeve. “Wouldn’t want to disturb your research.” 

Ten nodded, masking the sudden, tight pull of disappointment in his chest. “Of course. Thank you for coming.” 

You reached the door, then glanced over your shoulder. “Next time,” your voice silk-wrapped steel, “ask a question worth answering.”

And then you were gone.

Over the next few days, Ten didn’t seek you out immediately, but he was always watching. Not just your movements, but the way you inhabited space. Alone, silent, unafraid. Your routine was precise, almost clinical. No wasted energy, no unnecessary contact. 

It made him restless. So when he saw you appear in his lab, at the same time as last week, a faint scent of antiseptic clinging to your sleeves, he was ready. “Back again?” he asked, glancing up from his tablet, already knowing the answer.

You stepped into the lab without hesitation, eyes scanning the walls as if cataloguing secrets. “You said something about brainwave changes during trauma. I’ve been thinking about cortisol levels under prolonged stress.”

Ten smiled. He hadn’t expected you to follow up. But then again, maybe he had. He gestured to the far monitor. “You want to see the scans?”

You nodded, brushing past him, eyes flicking to the data like you already knew how to read them. You didn’t flinch at the violent spikes, the jagged dips. Instead, you asked, “And what does this pattern tell you?”

“That fear is chemical,” Ten explained. “But control…that’s behavioral. You can train a mind to do anything, even forget how to be afraid.”

You hummed, a thoughtful sound. “Or maybe it never knew fear to begin with.”

He watched the curve of your mouth. “You’re not here for the science, are you?”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Neither are you, it seems.”

Ten felt something jolt in his chest. Fascination…or warning. 

The next time you showed up, a week later, Ten had prepared a different tactic. He let the door click open with a gesture and didn't bother to greet you. Instead, he nodded toward the stool near the microscope. 

“Do you want a hands-on experience?” he asked. “I need an assistant.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “That’s what this is now?”

Ten shrugged, already moving toward the tray of samples. “You’re consistent. I like consistency.” You slipped on gloves without a word. He handed you a thin slide with what looked like a clear smear, nothing extraordinary. “Prefrontal cortex slice. The donor was mid-Purge. High aggression, low inhibition. Find the anomaly.” And then silence.

He stood beside you, but said nothing. He waited. Watching, measuring. Minutes passed. 

Finally, you looked up. “This cell…here.” You pointed to a small cluster. “It’s partially necrotic. Almost as if something shut down mid-response.”

Ten nodded his head. “Exactly.” 

You placed the slide down. “So the question isn’t what activated them. It’s what stopped them.”

His lips pulled into a grin. “I could use someone who sees that.”

You crossed your arms, tugging the gloves off. “Is this an offer or another test?”

“Can’t it be both?” He looked at you, eyes unreadable.

You didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, you pulled your coat on. “I’ll be back next week. Same time.”

And then you were gone again, leaving behind silence and the faint hum of machines, the scent of sterilized air, and something harder to name.  

Ten didn’t tell anyone he had a new assistant. He didn’t log your visits, didn’t mention your name in his reports. You slipped in and out of his lab like a controlled variable, never early and never late. Always watching, always matching his tempo. It unsettled him how easily you fit into his space. 

And still, he let you in. 

You never asked questions he didn’t want to answer. But you noticed things. The unlabelled drawer in the back of the lab, the camera turned slightly toward the surgical table, the way his voice always calmed right before he said something dangerous. 

You never commented. And he never asked why you weren’t afraid. 

Five days before the Purge, he found you in the library, alone as always. The dim evening light cuts across your face in bars of gold and shadow. You didn’t look up as he sat across from you, sliding a worn notebook onto the table like a peace offering. 

“This Saturday,” he began, quiet and deliberate, “I want you to see something.” 

You met his eyes, calm and unshaken. “What kind of something?”

“Real data. In real time. I’ll be observing from a rooftop downtown. Neutral ground. Clear view.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Observation only?”

“For now.” He waited. 

You closed your book. “Give me the address.”

When you stepped out onto the rooftop of the hotel Ten had sent you the address to, it was 52 minutes until the start of the Purge. The sky was clear, too clear. A sterile kind of night. The wind curled over the edge of the rooftop like a secret. 

Ten had already set up his camera equipment, binoculars, and heart-rate monitors. Clinical and controlled. Though all of it was unnecessary. You both knew the real study wasn’t happening down in the streets.

You walked to the edge, gaze slipping over the city like you were trying to remember it. He joined you, close enough to feel the heat of you against the chill. “You came,” he murmured.

“I said I would.” 

He looked at your profile, sharp in the dark, untouched by fear. “Most people would’ve run.” 

You turned to face him. “You don’t pick easy targets.”

Ten’s smile flickered. “No. I pick the ones who don’t beg.” A silence stretched, then–

He stepped forward, closing the distance. Testing. Not with his hands, but with pressure and presence, the weight of who he was and what he might do. You didn’t move. He leaned in, just enough. “Tell me to stop.” But you didn’t.

Instead, you tilted your head, eyes gleaming in the darkness. “You won’t.” 

Ten froze, not because you were wrong, but because you were right. And it unraveled something. Something he couldn’t study, couldn’t replicate. 

In the half-second before he touched you, before he crossed a line that would turn this into something else entirely. You vanished. Not literally, but with a step and a breath, you were gone from his reach, standing just far enough that he’d have to make the next move. 

But he didn’t. Because suddenly, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure he could win. 

“I like to watch the city settle before it burns,” he said, voice soft like a confession. “There’s a…tension. The kind you don’t see during the chaos. Only right before.” 

You looked at him, the wind brushing your hair across your face. “Is that what you’re recording? Tension?”

“I’m recording everything.”

“Everything down there,” you clarified, nodding toward the flickering city lights. “Or everything up here?”

The corners of his lips twitched, almost impressed. “You’re very focused on the subject of observation.”

“I have to be,” you said simply. “Most of my life’s been spent figuring out which angle someone’s watching from.” 

A beat passed. “Does it bother you?” he asked, stepping toward the edge, gaze sweeping over the grid of buildings below. “That I watch?”

“No. I just wonder what you’re trying to see.” 

Ten turned toward you then, eyes sharp. “A reaction.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that all you want from me?”

“No.” His answer was immediate, firm. “I want accuracy, authenticity. The raw version people hide until the sirens start.”

“Is that what you think I am?” You took a step closer, mirroring him now. “A case study? A test subject that walks and talks and gives you something different to pin under glass?”

His jaw ticked. “You’re different from the others.”

“Because I'm not afraid?”

“Because you should be,” he countered. And for once, his voice lacked curiosity. It was low, almost bitter. “You don’t run. You don’t beg. You don’t even ask me not to touch you.”

You studied him, unblinking. “That’s now power, Ten. That’s a choice.”

And that word, it hit something buried beneath his calm. Because of all his data and for all his precision, choice had always been the illusion he offered others. It was never something that could be taken back. 

“Why did you come tonight?” he asked, voice quieter now, more careful. “Was it curiosity? Or something more…deliberate?”

You smiled, small and knowing. “To see what you’d do when you didn’t get to play predator.”

Ten’s eyes darkened. “I’ve never needed permission.”

“No,” you agreed. “But you like the idea of earning it. You crave control. And I…” You stepped closer, mere inches between you. “I think you’re terrified of what happens when you don’t have it.”

His breath stilled. Far below, people milled about. 44 minutes. Ten looked at you again, really looked, past the lines of your face, the quiet defiance in your eyes. Something flickered in him, low and primal. But he didn’t move. Not yet. 

Instead, he asked, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Would you?”

“I’m still deciding.”

Ten’s smile returned, slow and cold and pleased. “You’d be exceptional.”

“Don’t recruit me,” you spat, sharp now. “Not tonight. You invited me here, but don’t pretend it was about the skyline.” 

“I never pretended.” His eyes gleamed. “I just haven’t decided what kind of ending I want.” 

You breathed in. “That’s the problem with people like you. You think you can orchestrate the ending. You forgot that I can write half the story, too.” Another silence. Then–

“I want to see what you do when the sirens start,” he confessed. “When the world says it’s allowed.”

You met his gaze. “You’ll be disappointed.” 

He stepped toward you again, nearly closing the distance between you. “You keep saying that like it’s a threat.” 

“No,” you whispered. “It’s a promise.”

The minutes passed slowly, like they were being drawn out on purpose. At 39 minutes, Ten sat cross-legged near his equipment, adjusting the lens of his camera, though his eyes never truly left you. You wandered the perimeter of the rooftop, silent, fingers tracing the railing. Neither of you spoke, and yet the air between you buzzed with everything unsaid. 

At 33 minutes, he broke the silence. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

You didn’t turn around. “Which one?”

“Why you came.” 

“I already told you.”

“No.” He stood now, slow and deliberate, like every movement was part of a performance he’d rehearsed in his mind. “You told me what you wanted me to believe. There’s a difference.” 

You turned then. “Do you want the real reason?”

“I always want the real reason.”

You crossed the distance between you again, but this time, you stopped a little closer. Enough that he’d feel the calculation in your silence. “I wanted to see if you’d flinch.” 

Ten blinked, surprised. “And?”

“I’m still watching.” 

He laughed, short and dark. “You think you’re hunting me?”

“I think we’re circling the same cliff edge,” you replied. “And I’m just waiting to see who jumps first.” 

At 25 minutes, the city lights below dimmed in some blocks, a rolling blackout in preparation for the Purge. Far off, a sire test warbled once, then died, and you both turned toward the sound like animals tuning to an instinct. 

“Do you know what I used to believe?” Ten asked, almost conversational. “That people reveal their truest selves when they think no one’s watching. But I was wrong. It’s not solitude that reveals the truth. It’s permission.”

You looked at him. “And tonight gives you that?”

He grinned full-on. “Tonight gives everyone that. But not all of us know what to do with it.”

You cocked your head at him. “Do you?”

He was closer now. A few steps that neither of you marked until the space between you was negligible. “I think I do. But you make me question it.” 

Your voice lowered, words like silk over glass. “Because you can’t read me?”

“Because I don’t want to.” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your eyes. 

At 14 minutes, the wind picked up, whipping between you like it wanted to cut the tension. Ten reach up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, no permission asked, none needed. This time, you didn’t step away. 

“Are you going to kiss me or kill me?” you asked. 

“I haven’t decided. 

You leaned in, breath brushing his lips. “Then we’re the same.”

At 11 minutes, the camera clicked once. Neither of you looked toward it. The lens was no longer the most powerful gaze in the room. Ten’s fingers ghosted your jaw. “You know what I’m afraid of?” You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. “I’m afraid you’ll stay.” 

10 minutes left. The silence was held tight between you. The world below buzzed louder, preparing. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm wailed like a prophecy. You looked at him. His chest rose and fell, slow and deliberate. You reached for his hand. For the first time, Ten didn’t study at the moment. He surrendered to it.

9 minutes. Ten’s fingers curled around yours, not too tight, not too loose. Like he was still learning the weight of the moment, still deciding whether to hold on or let go. You said nothing. Neither did he.

8 minutes. Far below, a gunshot cracked. Premature and eager. The sound rippled across the city like a dropped match in a field of dry grass. Someone always jumped the gun. You turned slightly toward the noise. Meanwhile, Ten didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

7 minutes. “I always thought the sirens would excite me,” he said, barely audible above the wind. “But this part…the waiting…it’s worse.” You studied him, your head tilted just enough to make him wonder whether you pitied him or understood him too well.

6 minutes. “There’s no going back after tonight,” you murmured. 

Ten smiled faintly. “You say that like we haven’t already crossed a line.”

You didn’t disagree.

5 minutes. The city was almost silent now, as if it had taken one collective inhale, bracing. The camera behind you ticked once, then again. Still recording, still watching. Just like you.

4 minutes. Ten looked at you fully. “If you run, I’ll find you.”

You simply smiled at him. “That’s the point.”

3 minutes. Far below, the first fires lit, small and scattered. Controlled for now. But they wouldn’t stay that way, not for long. You touched his face then, brief and fleeting, like you were memorizing it. And maybe you were. 

“I’m not like your others,” you whispered. 

“I know,” Ten replied, a dangerous softness in his voice. “You’re the first one I invited.” 

2 minutes. Ten stepped back, not far, but enough. Enough to shift the power. Enough to say ‘choose now’. You didn’t move, your hand staying on his cheek. 

1 minute. A countdown began on one of his devices. The screen glowed faintly. 

60 seconds. 59. 58. You both turned toward the edge of the roof, toward the city, toward the war zone waiting below. “Final question,” Ten said, his voice dark velvet. “Do you want me to catch you?” You didn’t answer.

14 seconds. The wind howled now, threading between you like a warning. The city below was a heart mid-seizure, twitching with light and shadows and something darker creeping in. 

7 seconds. Ten’s eyes didn’t leave yours. And then–

4 seconds. He smiled. Soft, almost mournful.

2 seconds. His hand came to hold yours on his cheek, tight. 

1 second. “I hope you understand,” he whispered. 

The sirens wailed like a scream torn from the earth itself. Low, echoing, apocalyptic. The beginning of something wicked. The city erupted in noise. Glass shattering, voices shouting, metal clanging against concrete. Permission granted. 

And Ten moved. Fast. Brutal. One clean pivot and a shove, palms flat against your shoulders, force aimed low and precise. Calculated. A killer’s motion, not desperate, but designed. 

You didn’t fight it, didn't cry out, didn’t even flinch. Your feet left the roof. Wind tore past your ears, time warped, and for a moment, there was peace. Then you were gone. Over the edge. 

Ten stepped forward immediately, peering over the side. No hesitation. Not out of regret, not out of shock, but verification. 

The alley below was narrow, choked in shadow. A fire escape clattered in the distance. Movement flickered across a reflective surface, perhaps a windshield or a window. 

There was no body. Nothing. Just the gaping space where you should have landed. 

Ten’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He scanned again, still nothing. Not even the sound of impact. Not a single goddamn trace. 

The sirens still echoed as he stepped back from the edge, slower now. His mind was already racing. ‘She let me push her,’ the thought came. ‘She let me.’ And now she was gone. Behind him, the camera clicked again, watching and recording, witnessing the moment the hunter became the hunted. 

Your breath hitched as you crouched low behind a rooftop HVAC unit, one block over. The glide from the fire escape had been rough. Metal bit into your palms, and gravity had tugged too hard, but you were alive. Alive, and now unseen. 

The sirens still cried. The game had begun. And you weren’t prey. Not anymore. You reached into your coat, pulling out the slim black card with your lab clearance code etched in red. 

VOLUNTEER - BEHAVIORAL DEVIANCY DIVISION - PURGE NIGHT CLEARANCE A

Ten had read it once, filed it away, and assumed it meant safety. What he didn’t realize was that it meant access.

You slid the card back into your pocket and whispered into the comm embedded in your collar. “Subject One has initiated first contact. Attempted kill. Status: failed.”

Static. Then a reply crackled through. “Copy that. Begin phase two. Good hunting.”

You moved like a shadow through the city. The world had fallen into sanctioned madness, sirens, screams, fire, and blood, but you operated above the chaos. Every checkpoint was bypassed, every surveillance node looped. The city belonged to the wolves tonight, and you had already memorized the map of the forest. 

Ten’s lab, his real lab, was underground, far below the staged setup he showed you. Ten always liked being beneath things. Hidden, private, quietly watching. He had once told you that silence was his favorite kind of violence. Now you were listening. 

The lab was laughably easy to breach. His security system had a tell, an echo in the thermal pattern, a single node that pulsed too fast. You slipped through the blind spot like it had been waiting for you. 

1:16am. Inside, the lab was cold and perfect. The white walls were bloodless and sterile. You didn’t expect sentimentality here. This wasn’t where Ten felt. This was where he fed. 

You moved to the monitors, eyes flicking over the screens, fingers already inputting codes on the keyboards. You didn’t need to guess his passwords. You knew them. 

The footage was all there. Unfiltered, timestamped, catalogued. Victims. Movements. Patterns. Your face, your conversations, and your rooftop moments are already indexed under ‘Subject Six’. You smiled faintly. “Cute.” You didn’t delete the footage. That would be obvious. Instead, you altered it. Cross-referenced locations, changed timestamps, looped data points so subtly it would take him hours to unravel what was real. You left red herrings, evidence that implicated external buyers, higher bidders, corrupted files spliced with falsified security clearance tags. 

Then, you found the backups buried deeper, files that Ten didn’t label. Payment records. Coordinates. Names. Deals struck with people he should have never spoken to. Mercenary contacts, international traffickers, names on the government’s silent kill list. Ten wasn’t just observing the Purge. He was monetizing it. 

“Subject One, status?” your comm whispered. 

You responded immediately. “Phase two complete. Initiating psychological destabilization.” 

You moved to the freezer vault, where Ten stored post-mortem samples. You opened it and began to paint. 

3:11am. You stood over your work, a replica of a victim from Ten’s third Purge, perfectly reconstructed in blood on the white tile floor, posed identically to the crime scene he thought only he remembered. It was a silent accusation, a perfect echo. By sunrise, there would be five more, each a replica, a message. ‘I know who you are. I see you. You’re not alone anymore.’

5:44am. Ten stumbled back into the lab, covered in soot, sweat, and doubt. The building was dim, lights pulsed erratically, motion sensor was confused by the tampering. He didn’t notice the security feed loop glitching on camera five, not at first. Then he saw the altered footage. His own voice warped, his own images rearranged. Someone had been inside his sanctum, and he hadn’t even felt it. He was unraveling. 

That’s when you stepped into the room. No grand entrance, just a presence at his back. He turned. You stood beside the monitors, your face half-lit by the glow of screens. Calm and composed. Like you’d never fallen, like you had never left. 

Ten looked at you like a man trying to decode his own reflection. “Why?” he rasped, voice frayed from hours of shouting into shadows. “Why are you doing this?”

“To see what you’d become without the lie of control.”

Ten took a slow step towards you. “You’re not punishing me.”

“No,” you agreed. “But I could be.”

He laughed, short and bitter. “Is this a test?” You did not answer. Ten stared at you for a long time. Something in his expression cracked, then flooded. He looked ruined, but hungry. “I haven’t tried to kill you since the roof,” he confessed. 

You nodded. “I noticed.” You were aware he could have tracked you, tried again to kill you, multiple times. 

“You’ve been painting ghosts with my sins. Leaving trails like bait.”

“Have you followed them?”

“Every single one.” 

Silence folded between you like a trap waiting to be sprung. Ten stepped closer. “You don’t want me dead. Not really.”

You didn’t move. “No. I want you to feel it.”

“Feel what?”

“What it’s like when someone sees everything you are and doesn’t run.”

His breath hitched. The lights flickered. Somewhere far above, the city burned. Ten looked at you like he’d already made his choice. “I don’t want to kill you,” he admitted. 

“I know,” you replied. 

“I want to understand you.”

“You can try.” 

He paused. “Do you want me to fail?”

You smirked faintly. “I haven’t decided yet.”

That morning, the sun rose slowly and indifferently. Ash floated through the light like confetti made of bone. Sirens had long gone silent, replaced now with the quiet hiss of emergency drones, the mechanical hum of recovery. A new day had begun, one that refused to mourn what had come before. 

You limped into the lab just after seven, body sore from the night’s events. The hallways flickered back to full brightness as you passed. Everything had been sanitized, except the things that couldn't be. You could still smell it. Smoke, copper, antiseptic, and him. 

Ten was already there. White coat, clean gloves, perfect posture. You knew the blood on his knuckles had been scrubbed off just an hour ago. He had bruises blooming on his arms, a faint cut below his eye, but his gaze was steady. Curious. Like he hadn’t spent the night trying to erase you. 

“Morning,” he greeted. 

You nodded once, slipping your own coat over bruises and scrapes you hadn’t bothered to bandage. “Lab notes?”

“On the desk.” 

You crossed the room, passing him. Too close. Deliberate. The kind of proximity that said ‘I’m still here. I remember everything.’

He watched you sit, watched the way your fingers danced over the keyboard. Then he spoke again. “You left something behind.”

You looked up. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out your lab clearance card, letters still etched in red, blood now dried along the edge like a signature. You didn’t flinch. “Keep it.”

Ten’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, more like the memory of one. “You want me to have access to you?”

“I want you to remember that I’m always watching.”

He paused. “We could’ve killed each other.” 

“We still might.” 

Silence, warm and tense, wrapped the room in a cocoon of shared violence. You typed a line of code into the monitor, then stopped. “You’re not going to ask what I changed?”

“I already know,” Ten responded. 

“Then why haven’t you fixed it?”

He walked toward you slowly, step by step, measured like a dance he’d rehearsed. “Because if I erase what you did, it means I’m afraid of what comes next.”

“Are you saying you’re not afraid?”

Ten stopped beside you, reaching out, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat radiating off of you. “I’m not. I’m something worse.”

You turned, meeting his gaze. “And what would that be?”

“Curious.”

Day after day, you both returned to each other. You sat on opposite sides of the lab’s long steel table. Always close enough to see the tremble in each other’s hands. Neither of you ever asked why. No one spoke of the night. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you played chess in silence, always starting with the same pieces. Sometimes you let him win, sometimes he lets you corner yourself. Once, he made a move that mirrored your rooftop feint. Knight to F5. A trap. 

You smiled, sweet and blood-deep. “Well played,” you murmured. 

He didn’t respond. Just watched you like he wanted to press his lips to yours and see if you’d let him. 

You weren’t in love, not exactly. But you were bound, wound around each other like two serpents sharing heat. The lab stayed cold, but inside, the two of you burned. You shared a bond forged out of blood and honesty. There was no confession, no guilt. Just the quiet, terrifying comfort of someone who knew what you looked like when you decided not to flinch, when you chose to stay. 

The truest parts of you didn’t live in daylight. They came out once a year, in fire and bone. Yet here you both were. Waiting.  

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like Shadow - L.Ten

[seniorpollinationtechnician]

Ethan spent the next three hours in his cluttered office, surrounded by stacks of old files and a mess of digital archives on his computer. Eventually, ISAAC's voice broke the silence. "Ethan, I have located several encrypted documents closely related to your search history. Shall I bring them up?"

After a vocal confirmation, ISAAC remotely accessed Ethan's computer and began displaying a series of decrypted files with some title variation of 'Chrysalis_2023'. Project Chrysalis had been one of his most secretive assignments while working with the government where he had been tasked with engineering a containment and analysis system for biological entities. The government's vague description alluded to 'non-terrestrial biological entities', which Ethan naively interpreted as some advanced biological research.

The digital files were heavily redacted but offered enough information to remind him that he had physical evidence as well. He eventually found a folder containing detailed schematics alongside his own annotations on the nature of the project. One document in particular, an incident report, caught his eye.

Entry Date: 04/12/2023 Subject: NTBE X-23 Humanoid organism measuring 1.8 meters (6 ft.) in height. Bipedal locomotion. Epidermis is a pale yellow tone. Facial structure similar to that of a human being but with eight black eyes arranged in a symmetrical pattern. Indecipherable markings around the eyes. Subject arrived unconscious and has not regained consciousness throughout the observation period. Subject X-23 was transferred from the recovery unit into the primary containment chamber at 1100 hours. Upon entering the containment unit, the subject's vital signs surged. Subject X-23 abruptly regained consciousness and exhibited erratic behavior. Witnesses claimed to have seen something move within the subject's skin. Vocalizations consistent with an unknown language were recorded (see audio log 0134-B1). Linguistic analysis is ongoing. The subject shortly underwent a rapid biological transformation. Epidermal surfaces split open, extruding long, vine-like protrusions tipped with bioluminescent nodules. The cranial structure split open longitudinally, revealing a maw lined with razor-sharp teeth. At 1400 hours, Subject X-23 initiated a violent attack on the containment unit. The material composition used proved insufficient. A containment breach occurred at 1405 hours. Specimen X-23 lunged at Dr. ■■■■, inflicting a fatal laceration to the abdomen. Security personnel were authorized to terminate the threat. Subject X-23 was neutralized at 1410 hours. Residual specimens are being collected for further analysis. The containment unit is undergoing repairs and biohazard decontamination. Further research is on hold pending reevaluation of containment protocols.

[kitkatt0430]

Free software recommendations for various things:

LibreOffice - A full home office suite comparable to Microsoft Office. Easy to use and you can choose the UI layout from several types; it can handle docx and other Microsoft Office document formats; it still does not include AI unless you specifically add that extension on purpose, so unlike other office suites it's not shoving AI down your throat.

Calibre - Ebook manager bundled with an ebook editor and ereader software. It can follow news feeds, downloading them into epub format. Convert ebooks from one format into (many) others. Run a server to make access your books from different computers/phones/tablets easier. And so much more... without even touching on the additional functionality that plugins can add. With plugins it can be used for DRM stripping (which can still remove DRM from even Kindle ebooks, if you have a kindle that you can download the ebook to and use to transfer to your computer). It can also handle downloading fanfics and their metadata using the FanFicFare plugin. (Which I've written tutorials about.) There are officially supported plugins (like FanFicFare) that are easy to install and unofficial plugins (like the DRM stripper) that take more work, so it's extremely customizable.

Syncthing - Want to host your own local file backup system? Have an old laptop that you can reformat with a linux distro? And maybe a spare hard drive? Perfect, you have what you need to set up a home file backup system. Reformat the computer with the new operating system, install syncthing on that computer and on the computer you want to back up files for and the two installations of the software can sync over your home network. Put it on your phone and back up your photos. The software is open source, encrypted, and you can turn it off so that your computer (or phone) is only running it on a trusted network. You control where the synced data lives, which computers on your network those synced folders are shared with (allowing for sharing between multiple computers) and even what type of file backups happen if data is, say, accidentally deleted. (File recovery!!!)

Plex or Emby - Both are free to install on any computer, point at any movie/tv show/audiobook/music files you've got sitting around, and bam you've got a home media streaming server. Both have paid tiers for more features (including tv tuner integration to act as a DVR), but what they can do for free is already impressive and well handled. Both have easy to use UI and it largely comes down to personal preference as to one is better than the other.

Notepad++ - A notepad type program that can also serve as a decent lightweight code editor. I use it for noodling around with code scripts and snippets, writing lists, and various other small tasks. It's not something I'd use for my professional code writing but it's great for just messing around with something on my own time.

[intricatechaosofyou]

The Right Wrong Turn

Pairing: Crosshair x f!reader

Fandom: The Bad Batch; Star Wars

Summary: A hiccup in the mission ends up with you on a rooftop with the Batch’s sniper. Using the prompt “This did not go the way I expected.”

Warnings: 18+!!!!, blasters, shootouts, cursing, some sexual tension, a couple of references to lines in season 3 but NO SPOILERS (tell me if you find my references though ;) !!)

Author’s note: Happy Bad Batch season my loves!! Our boys are back and I couldn’t be happier (or sadder). I had the privilege of writing for @urfriendlyneighbornightfury so I hope you enjoy this babe! I had so much fun writing it. Italics indicate small flashbacks. Also, please keep in mind that this is post-Echo but pre-Order 66.

The Bad Batch has meant so much to me over the years and while it feels like the end has come far too quickly, I’m grateful for everything it’s done for me and the rest of the Star Wars community! Thank you to @ghostofskywalker / @cloneficgiftexchange for putting on this event!! I’m so grateful to participate in this huge event!!

Sending everyone a Wrecker-sized hug and a happy season 3!! <3

━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━

You panted as you made a sharp turn down an alleyway, trying to lose your pursuers.

It was supposed to be a simple mission: sneak in while Hunter and Wrecker distracted the guards, download a few files, then Echo and Tech would pick you all up in the Marauder.

What you hadn’t planned for, however, was the heavy encryption on the files you needed.

———————

“Tech, I thought you said I just had to plug this data stick in and the files would download!” You whispered into your comm as a red screen appeared on the datapad.

“Theoretically, that should be all you have to do. However, I do suppose the encryptions on the files could prevent the transfer,” Tech replied, his static voice from the comm making you angrier by the second.

Your failed attempts at transferring the files had set off the alarm. You needed to get out of there, but you needed those files first.

“Keep the data stick in,” Tech requested. “I can undo the encryption from my end and transfer the files manually.”

A blaster shot fired right past your shoulder and you immediately ducked behind the large desk in the office. Sneaking a look, you counted three guards with their blasters pulled on you.

Kriff. You had to get out of there.

“Cross,” you hissed into your comm as you pulled your blaster from its holster on your hip.

You didn’t even have to finish your sentence before you heard the sniper’s voice crackle through the comm.

“I’ve got eyes on them. I take middle.”

You couldn’t see him on the next rooftop over, but you knew he was already lining up his shot through the large glass window behind the desk you were hiding behind.

“No fair. I wanted middle this time,” you answered, a smirk forming on your face.

Crosshair tutted. “Too bad, sweets.”

You rolled your eyes as you shifted your blaster in your hands, getting ready to fire.

As soon as Crosshair’s shot came through, shattering the window behind you and killing the assailant in the middle, you stood and shot the two remaining.

“Tech, how’re we looking?” You questioned.

“Files are transferred. Make your way back to the Marauder.”

You grabbed the data stick and booked it to the stairs just as another group of guards bursted into the office.

———————

You thought that they’d give up once you exited the building, but they were still managing to follow you through the busy streets of Bracca.

It was getting harder to lose the guards behind you as you dashed through the streets. One wrong turn and you knew you were in deep trouble.

As you turned down the next alleyway in hopes that you’d finally outpace the guards you heard someone hiss your name.

Looking up you found Crosshair, leaning over the roof of a nearby building, hand outstretched to you.

“Hurry up before those di’kuts catch up.”

You smiled and grabbed his hand, allowing him to hoist you up onto the roof.

“Could’ve used some help earlier, Cro—“

The clone’s hand covered your mouth before you could finish your snarky comment, pushing you to lay down the cold metal roof as he followed suit, laying halfway on top of you as the guards flooded into the alley in pursuit of you.

He lowered his head, sharp eyes watching the guards, ensuring that they didn’t spot the two of you.

But you? You watched him.

He had shed his bucket before helping you onto the roof, granting you full freedom to ogle at his face. You watched the way his eyes darted across the length of the alley, the way jaw clenched every time a guard spoke, the way his lips were parted as he took slow, steady breaths.

Suddenly, the chill of the night was replaced with a heavy heat and you were overcome with the need to move out from under him.

The hard plastoid of his armor dug into your skin as you attempted to shift out from underneath him. But your movement only caused him to hold you down harder, his free hand pressing your hips down to keep you from squirming.

You stifled a frustrated groan, going to shift again but the way he turned to look at you made you freeze. He stared you down, almost daring you to move again.

Unfortunately for him, you loved getting under his skin.

You tried to shift out from under him again, accepting the unspoken challenge from the sniper.

He retaliated, pressing his entire forearm against your hips to prevent your movements.

With a huff, you realized this might be one battle you wouldn’t win. You resigned yourself to watching him again as he took a glance back at the alley.

When his eyes found yours again, he finally took his hand away from your mouth but his arm across your hips stayed in place.

“You nearly got us caught,” he hissed.

“Yeah, well, this didn’t go the way I expected,” you replied, a sarcastic smile on your face as you once again attempted to get out from under him.

The way he put more weight on your hips told you he wasn’t letting you go that easy. “What did you expect? That I’d just let you stand around up here and let the guards catch both of us?” He questioned.

“Stow it,” you demanded, trying to ignore the way your face felt hot. “We need to get back to the Marauder.”

“Not until you answer my question, sweets.”

You huffed, letting your head fall back. Maker, this man was stubborn. “Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.”

“Hate what, sweets?”

“You calling me that!”

“Why, sweets?”

You bit back a snarl at the way he emphasized the name just for the sake of driving you crazy. “I said stow it.”

“What’re you gonna do about it? I seem to have the upper hand, sweets.”

You hated the way his lips curled up into his signature smirk as the nickname left his mouth. Your hands acted on their own accord as they grabbed his face and crashed his lips onto yours. His response was automatic, hands coming to cradle your face to bring you closer to himself.

The kiss was a mess of tongue and teeth, both of you still in an attempt to win an imaginary battle against the other. He pushed you and you pushed back harder against him. Around and around you two went in desperate attempts to put the other in their place…until Crosshair’s comm sounded.

The sniper let out a discontented huff as your mouth left his as you pulled the comm from the belt at his hips.

“We’re still on a mission, sweets,” you reminded him, reveling in the way his jaw ticked as you used the nickname against him before turning back to the comm and assuring Hunter that you and Crosshair were en route to the Marauder. “We gotta get going.”

Despite his groaning, he still shifted off of you and offered you a hand to help you stand up.

You brushed yourself off and took in Crosshair’s usual frown. “Cheer up, Cross.”

“I don’t like being interrupted,” he replied, pulling a toothpick from the pocket on his belt.

Shrugging, you grabbed the toothpick from his hand and put it in your own mouth. “Don’t worry. We’ll finish this later.”

The corners of Crosshair’s mouth ticked up at your insinuation. “I like that plan, sweets.”

Although you rolled your eyes, you couldn’t help the fond smile from growing on your face. Instead of granting him a response you simply turned and started the trek back to the Marauder with Crosshair right beside you, his hand resting on the small of your back. Yeah, you’d definitely be finishing this later.