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skzophreniic · 2 months ago

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⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. dirty talk. oral (fem receiving). fingering. degrading language. spit.

⍣ ೋ notes: thank you for being our first guest here at skzotel! it means a lot to me and definitely means a lot to the staff :) below you will find your detailed investigation report along with an internal service memo in the form of our leaked group chat texts. enjoy <3

INTERNAL INVESTIGATION REPORT Filed by Concierge Aeryn Subject: Staff Conduct – Front Desk / Early Check-In Encounter Staff Member Under Review: Seungmin Requested by: Guest (Room 706) Requested Resolution: Formal Investigation & Internal Service Memo

[Location: Front Desk, 7:08 a.m.]

Aeryn’s heels clicked crisply over the marble floor as she approached the front desk, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable save for the tiniest upward quirk at the corner of her mouth.

Seungmin didn’t look up from his monitor. “If this is about the bathrobe shortage again, tell Jeongin to stop pocketing them.”

“Not robes,” Aeryn replied smoothly. “You, actually.”

Now he looked up. “Excuse me?”

She handed him a copy of the complaint, neatly printed on SKZOTEL letterhead. His eyes skimmed it—then narrowed. “I didn’t ogle anyone.”

“Oh? Because the guest certainly believes otherwise. Said they were too flustered to catch your name tag, which, as I recall, is attached to every suit you own.”

Seungmin leaned back in his chair. “Tall, dark hair, working early at the front desk? Could’ve been Hyunjin.”

Aeryn smiled, dangerous and sweet. “It wasn’t.”

“How would you even know—?”

“Because Security Officer Han very helpfully reviewed the security footage for me this morning.” She paused, then added with a deliberately raised brow, “The full footage. Including the angles he installed without my permission.”

Seungmin winced. “Of course he did.”

“I saw it,” Aeryn said, coolly. “You watched them walk in. Your eyes followed. You lingered. You brushed your fingers across theirs. Twice.”

“That could’ve been—”

“Twice, Seungmin.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Then: “...Fine. Maybe once. Not twice.”

Aeryn didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she tucked the clipboard under her arm and folded her hands neatly in front of her. “You’ll be heading to Room 706. Apologize. Be charming. Fix it.”

“And if they don’t want me there?”

“You’ll know very quickly,” Aeryn replied, stepping away with a ghost of a smirk. “But given the tone of the request, I’d say your odds are promising.”

[Location: Room 706, 7:12 a.m.]

Seungmin stood outside the door, one hand in his pocket, the other hovering just above the knocker. He exhaled slowly.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, then knocked twice.

The door opened.

And there you were. Robe tied loose. Hair still damp from your shower. Surprised—but not displeased.

He cleared his throat, expression unreadable.

“Guest of 706,” he began, “I’ve been instructed to apologize for... perceived impropriety during your check-in. I may have—allegedly—been too forward with a key pass-off. Or made eye contact longer than protocol allows.”

Your brow lifted, just slightly.

He sighed. “Look. I don’t do this often.”

You stepped aside without a word, letting the door fall open.

He hesitated.

You tilted your head. “Well? Don’t leave a guest waiting.”

Seungmin stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that didn’t match the easy calm on his face.

The room smelled faintly of bergamot and steam—like you’d just stepped out of a long, indulgent shower and hadn’t quite come back to earth yet. There was still condensation on the bathroom mirror, still warmth in the air, and you watched with interest as he surveyed the space like he was taking mental notes for a report.

Typical.

“You have a nice view,” he said casually, nodding toward the open curtains. His tone was professional, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

“I’d say the same,” you replied smoothly, adjusting your robe—but not before letting it fall open for just a second longer than necessary. His gaze flicked down, caught it, then returned to your face without flinching.

Of course he didn’t flinch. He was too composed for that.

Too composed… for now.

“I assume this is the part where you offer me complimentary wine and a fruit basket as compensation for my emotional distress.”

“That’s standard protocol,” he said, stepping further into the room. “But I had a different resolution in mind.”

You raised a brow, pretending to mull that over. “A personal apology?”

“Personal, yes.” He stopped in front of you, close enough now that you could smell the faint hint of spice on his skin, some luxurious cologne no doubt mandated to all staff.

His voice dropped slightly. “Sincere? Not exactly.”

You smiled, slow and amused. “You’re not very good at apologies, are you?”

“I don’t do them often,” he murmured again, echoing himself from earlier.

Your fingers lifted, brushing his lapel. “So you said. And yet, here you are. In my room. Under direct order.”

His breath caught, just briefly, when your hand drifted from his lapel to the first button of his shirt. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t lean in either. Just waited, patient and still, like he wanted you to make the next move.

You popped the button open slowly. “How does the guest know it’s genuine? Your apology, I mean.”

He tilted his head, ever so slightly, and then—his hand found your waist.

Not harsh. Not rushed. But firm. Intentional.

“They don’t,” he said simply. “Unless I show them.”

Your breath hitched.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that asked for forgiveness. It was the kind that demanded silence. Claimed space. Took its time.

Seungmin’s lips were warm, soft but certain, coaxing yours apart without pressure. He kissed like someone who thought things through. Every movement had a purpose. Every flick of his tongue was measured—until you whimpered, barely a sound, and then something inside him snapped.

His hands dragged you forward, robe loosening with the motion, and his mouth deepened against yours with a hunger you hadn’t expected from the picture-perfect front desk boy. Your fingers found his shoulders, digging in. His hands—God, his hands—palmed your hips, your waist, your ass, dragging your body flush to his.

When he pulled back, he was breathing hard. His hair slightly out of place. His lips pink from the kiss.

“You’re not going to file another complaint, are you?” he asked, voice thick and a little breathless.

You blinked at him, dazed. “That depends.”

“On?”

“How thorough your apology is.”

He laughed once—low, dark, sharp. “I can be very thorough.”

He didn’t ask for permission before pushing the robe off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor like a discarded secret. He took a slow, indulgent second to admire you—then pressed another kiss to your collarbone. Then your throat. Then just beneath your jaw.

Each kiss got slower. Deeper. Each pause dragged heat through your skin, made you ache in anticipation.

When he dropped to his knees in front of you, the look he gave you wasn’t reverent.

It was dangerous.

Seungmin looked up from between your thighs like a man about to ruin someone—and document it for internal records.

He didn’t speak when he pushed your thighs apart—just watched.

Watched as you shifted under his gaze, robe forgotten on the floor, heat prickling across your bare skin under the scrutiny. His hands were cool on your knees, thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles like you weren’t already trembling.

"Look at you," he murmured, almost bored. "One little complaint and now you're desperate to be on my tongue."

You opened your mouth to answer—but he was already dragging his lips up the inside of your thigh, so close, and then pulling away just as fast.

"Did I say you could speak?"

Your breath caught. The look in his eyes had shifted—no longer professional, no longer cautious. This wasn’t an apology. This was punishment disguised as indulgence.

"You think I didn’t notice," he muttered, voice low against your skin. "You wanted me to look. Wanted it so bad you put it in writing. Complained about me like it was some scandal when you were dripping through your panties the second I handed you the keycard."

You whimpered, body jolting when his tongue flicked over your crease just once, cruel and shallow.

"Yeah," he smirked, hearing it. "There it is. Filthy little liar. Filing paperwork like you didn’t want this. Like you wouldn’t beg."

One hand hooked under your thigh, pulling it over his shoulder with casual strength. The other? Slid between your legs and—fuck—he didn’t tease this time. Fingers spread you open, dragging through the slick heat of your cunt like he already owned it.

"God," he breathed, almost laughing. "You’re soaked."

You nearly choked when his tongue pressed in—slow, mean, licking you like he had all the time in the world to unravel you. No pattern, no rhythm. Just long, luxurious passes, licking up everything you gave him without a word of praise.

Because Seungmin didn’t do praise.

No. He licked like he was testing you. Tongue curling just inside, pulling back before you could grind down. Holding your hips still with one brutal grip, tongue replacing his fingers, letting his nose nudge your clit but never giving it the pressure you needed.

"Don't squirm," he said flatly. "You're here to take what I give you. Nothing else."

And you tried—God, you tried—but when he spat onto your cunt, using his fingers to rub it in like you were something messy beneath him, you keened, hips rocking up involuntarily.

Wrong move.

Suddenly, his hand was on your throat.

Not tight. Not dangerous. Just enough to still you.

Enough to make you listen.

"You wanted something to complain about,” he growled. “I'll give you something to report."

Then his mouth was back on you—focused now, tongue flat against your clit, lips sucking just hard enough to make your legs shake, and his hand didn’t leave your neck. Not until your moans got breathy. Panicked.

"You're gonna cum," he said, not asking. "Right on my face. And then I'm going to make you thank me for it."

You nodded, frantically. Mindless.

"No," he snapped, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. His mouth was shiny with you. His voice was filthy silk. “Ask.”

Your voice cracked. “P-please. Please, let me cum—”

He went back in with no mercy.

This time, he didn’t stop. Tongue relentless, fingers slipping back inside, curling, punishing. Your orgasm hit like a wave dragged over marble—sudden, loud, and humiliatingly hard. Your thighs clamped, your body jerked, and Seungmin held you down and fucking ate it.

He didn’t pull away when you came. Didn’t even slow down.

If anything, he got meaner with it—tongue flicking over your clit in tight, practiced circles while two fingers stayed buried deep, fucking you through the aftershocks like he was trying to draw another one out of you. Like your first orgasm was a proof of concept and now he had something to perfect.

“Sensitive?” he asked, way too casual for a man kneeling between your thighs, wrist working in and out of your soaked cunt. “You gonna cry about it?”

You whimpered, hips twitching, thighs trying to close around his head—he shoved them apart again without ceremony.

“Thought so.”

His mouth found your clit again, more deliberate now. Tongue flat, wide, slow at first—then faster when your hips tried to squirm. He held you still, firm and patient and infuriating, dragging another wave of pleasure out of your wrung-out body like it was owed to him. Like this was all part of his process.

You came again, louder this time. Less controlled. Less pretty.

He licked you through it, chin wet, lips wet, eyes half-lidded like he was bored of your reactions but still hungry underneath it all. And when he finally stood, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then dragged that same hand along your cheek. Not rough. Not sweet either.

Just… a mark. A reminder.

You should’ve been dizzy. Humiliated. You were still trembling, legs weak, heart rabbit-fast in your chest.

But you smiled up at him, slow and sly, voice still ragged as you asked, “Is this the part where I tip?”

Seungmin snorted. Just once. Then he leaned down, kissed your cheek—mockingly soft—and murmured:

“You couldn’t afford me.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt again, dragging him closer by the collar. “Maybe not. But I could file another complaint.”

That got a look out of him. One brow arched. One corner of his mouth twitched like he was suppressing a grin.

“You want to be punished again?”

You tilted your head, lips brushing his. “What if I said yes?”

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. Just held your chin in one hand and whispered, “Then next time, sweetheart, you’re going to be the one on your knees.”

______________________________________________________________

🗒️ INTERNAL SERVICE MEMO From: Concierge Aeryn To: SKZotel Staff – All Departments Subject: Incident Debrief – Room 706 / Front Desk Conduct Classification: Staff Eyes Only / Group Chat Archive

Team,

Per request of the guest in Room 706 and in accordance with our transparency protocols (and Chan’s insistence on “team bonding”), the following is a transcript of the internal staff group chat from this morning, shortly after certain actions were taken by Front Desk Staff in response to a formal complaint.

Please note: This conversation has not been edited for professionalism, grammar, or good taste. Proceed accordingly.

– Aeryn Concierge, SKZotel

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soapysoapysoapysoapy · 2 months ago

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The file dropped into Ghost’s hands by accident.

Wrong data stream. A legacy terminal still syncing classified logs from a burned CIA server in Munich. He wasn’t even looking for it. But the name stopped him cold.

“Lockjaw – Subject 09” “Adler, R. – Directorial Override” “Post-maternal death trauma event: Execute Tier-Zero Memory Cleanse.”

He didn’t believe it. Not at first. But the DNA tag confirmed it.

Father: Russell Adler Daughter: [REDACTED]

He sat with it for three hours before saying a word.

You were cleaning your sidearm when he approached—calm, surgical, still humming something low and tuneless under her breath.

Ghost dropped the file onto the table in front of you. Didn’t speak.

You looked at it. Then at him. “What is this?”

“Your past.”

You froze. Slowly peeled open the file. Skimmed. Then stopped. Then stared.

“No.”

Ghost didn’t move.

“I would remember something like this.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You wouldn’t.”

Silence.

Your hand curled into a fist at the bottom of the page. “This is a lie. Someone forged this.”

He didn’t answer.

Your eyes moved again, line by line. Then you reached the end of the document.

A scanned image of a transfer order—a single-page CIA internal memo authorizing a complete neural wipe. One signature at the bottom.

You blinked. Your throat closed. “Who signed it?”

Ghost didn’t answer.

You read the name out loud, voice tight, barely audible.

“Russell Adler.”

It felt like glass cracking in your skull.

Something moved behind your eyes—something old. A flicker of warm light. A woman’s laugh. A hand brushing through your hair. A man’s voice: “You don’t need to remember. You just need to obey.”

The breath left your lungs. You stood up so fast that the chair slammed backward. “This is a setup.”

Ghost stood, too—calm. Controlled.

“Lockjaw—”

“Don’t call me that.” Your voice snapped like wire under tension.

You backed up, running into the wall, dragging your nails down your jaw like you could claw the memory out.

You grabbed the file. Threw it. Pages scattered. “I don’t have parents. I never had parents.”

Ghost didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to touch you. Just stood there.

You dropped to a crouch. Hands gripping your hair. Breathing like you couldn’t get enough air into your chest.

You whispered, “Why would he do that to me?”

And Ghost, quiet, heavy: “Because he knew you’d be the best if you didn’t have anything left to lose.”

#cod #cod fanfic #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost

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aeruia · 3 months ago

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✦ ․ blue lock

𝜗ϱ — he's (not) my man !

umemiya hajime x reader .

♡ . you always used umemiya’s name and faking that he's your boyfriend whenever someone tries to hit on you and it always works! what happens if he finds out about it?

⟢ . word count : 1.1k

✶ . warnings : harassing & a lil bit of swearing .

memo : this has been rotting in my notes. i finished this when i finished the chigiri fic but lazy to post it ! also changing my theme since i switched on doing this on pc hehe

꒰wbk files . files ꒱

it was a typical day for you, going to school, hanging out with the girls after school and going home. sighing as you adjust the bag strap on your shoulder walking away to the cafe where the friend group was hanging out for the past twenty minutes after dismissal.

looking down at your shoes while you take a step at the ground, thinking about what you’ll do for the rest of the day. sleep, eat or hang out with your other friends? groaning internally as you wipe your eye with your hand.

your train of thought was interrupted when someone stood in front of you. clearly your first thought was maybe this person needed some help so you asked him if he needed help. he declined making you look to the side before answering him.

you were about to walk away when the stranger blocked your way once more. a frown formed into your face, looking at the man straight in the eye. “ mind moving away? ” gesturing for the guy to move to the other side. “ you’re a pretty girl. can i get your number? ” the guy straightforwardly said as you stood there with a straight face.

he’s one of those weird guys. was the first thought you had on him now. raising your hand and smiled politely. “ er.. no, thank you. ” going into the other side as you walk faster than before. “ come on, even if you got a boyfriend, he won’t know! ”the guy said as he runs up to you.

the weird guy — that’s your nickname for that man now, what he just said goes in one ear and out the other and... he catches up to you! just, great. you thought, turning around to face him. ” can you leave me alone? ” eyebrows furrowed as you pray that your voice was firm enough for him to leave you alone.

it wasn't. he walked towards you — backing away taking a step back and ready yourself to run away if he took one step closer. “ I swear, if you don’t leave me alone my boyfriend umemiya will beat you up! ” you shouted at the man. the guy can only scoff not believing it and has taken another step.

“ shit! ” was the first thing that came out of your mouth, about to run away when someone stood (again) on your way. you closed your eyes thinking you are fucked and that this is a man and he was with the guy that is trying to take your number.

you had said your prayers above, opening one of your eye to peek who was the other guy. your eye were now open as you catch a glimpse of the white haired “ umemiya?! ” both eyes opening with your eyebrows raised in shock. you look back and forth to the man and umemiya. the weird guy stopped in his tracks. “ oh, dude. you weren’t lying that your man is the leader of bofurin. ” he stated glancing at the both of you as he run away.

you end up kotoha’s café with umemiya sitting beside you. “ you’re telling me you are using umemiya’s name and telling people he’s your man? ” kotoha asked, leaning into the counter. “ kotoha, i don’t go around telling people umemiya is my man! ” you defended, your ears turning red. the girl can only shrugged as she glanced at umemiya. “ clearly, what umemiya said otherwise. ” she deadpanned as you huff in disagreement.

after that encounter with the weird guy, umemiya told you that he heard someone — you — shouting the lines of " my boyfriend umemiya will beat you up " he found the source of that voice, it was you ready to run away while a guy was walking towards you. luck wasn’t on your side today — umemiya finding out you use his name to get out weird/creepy situations and kotoha finding out about it.

he was fine with it. if using his name and pretending that he’s your boyfriend can get you out of weird interactions then there’s no problem at all! umemiya can understand how scary it can be.

“ you know, if that what keeps [name] safe from the bad guys then it's fine. ” he said, joining the conversation you and kotoha were having. you were unaware of the smile creeping up in your lips as you look away covering your face. kotoha gave umemiya a thumbs up as she nodded in agreement.

kotoha was closing up the café and at that moment you were planning to go home now since you have been outside for who knows how long and you might have just broke another made up record of yours. “ i will go ahead, thank you for today. ” kotoha stopped you, arching an eyebrow at her. kotoha looked at umemiya as she pointed her head at you and umemiya got the signal as he walked towards you.

“ uh, i’m about to go home too — you don’t mind me tagging along do you? ” umemiya awkwardly said from the start but quickly collected himself. a little company wouldn’t hurt right? so you agreed, making umemiya grin as he goes to walk beside you.

the brown haired girl snicker to herself as she stopped whatever she was doing and stare at the both of you walking away as she watched you two disappear on her sight before she continued on what she was doing shaking her head with a smile.

the sky is now painted with orange hue as clouds pass by slowly. the walk was peaceful and comfortable as the noises you can only hear are people talking from a far and wind rustling the leaves.

“ by the way, i’m still so sorry for using your name out of the blue like that. ” you started, apologizing for using his name like that as you know that he’s kind of well known in town.

umemiya brushed it off saying it was fine so you thanked him again as you both reached your house. the white haired male only stood there as you continued to walk to get in the house.

you waved at him as goodbye smiling as he did the same, raising his hand and smiling back. you felt your face go hot as you turned around quickly, grabbing the key that was under the mat, inserting the key as you opened it, going inside your house.

the boy chuckled as he left when he sees you disappear on his sight as he walked back to the café to go home with kotoha.

the brown haired girl saw umemiya walk towards the café as she grinned, running towards him, hitting him on the shoulder as she wiggled her eyebrows making him raise and eyebrow as he shook his head.

“ Don’t get the wrong idea we are staying as friends. ” he said making kotoha boo him as she left, umemiya following.

date posted : 03 . 18 . 25

#wind breaker x reader #wbk x reader #wbk fluff #umemiya hajime x reader #wind breaker fluff #umemiya x reader #umemiya fluff

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jeszrosse · 6 days ago

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🧬 “Deviation”

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

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

🧬 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;>)

#fanfiction #x reader #fanfic #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker #albert wesker smut #possesive love #stalker au #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil albert wesker #albert wesker x you #albert wesker x y/n #x you #x you smut #smut fanfiction #minors dni #minors do not interact

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juneyjubilation · 10 months ago

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Peter Parker x Reader

jealous + first kiss :) At the Daily Bugle, you and Peter are a reporter and photographer, and form a strong working relationship while exposing corruption. Betty, a new reporter, creates tension between them as she flirts with Peter. Your jealousy surfaces, leading to an tense argument. but y'all makeup and kisth.

. . .

You and Peter sat across from each other at your shared desk, going over the latest scoop. The room was dimly lit, the only sound was the rustling of papers and the occasional clacking of a keyboard. As you and Peter Parker worked late into the night at the Daily Bugle, the tension between you thickened with each passing moment. The story you were working on was a big one, exposing corruption within the city's police department. The pressure was tangible, and it wasn't just from the deadline.

The tension between you had been building for days, fueled by the constant proximity and the way your eyes met whenever you thought no one was looking. But the daggers that Betty Brant, the newest reporter and former secretary of J. Jonah Jameson, threw your way didn't help matters.

"Peter, I think we should focus on this angle," you suggested, trying to maintain professionalism.

Peter, his eyes locked on the documents, hesitated before nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I think you're right," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

You could feel Peter's gaze on you as you typed away, your fingers flying over the keyboard. You knew that he had feelings for you, and the same was true for you. But the presence of a new reporter, the sultry and alluring Betty Brant, had thrown a wrench into your burgeoning relationship.

Peter couldn't help but notice the way Betty flirted with him, the way she leaned in close, brushing her chest against his arm. But at least for now, you had him all to yourself.

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your eyes as you scrolled through the latest batch of documents Peter had sent over. "Okay, let's see here," you muttered, your voice low and thoughtful. "The mayor's office is definitely involved in this cover-up. But we need to find a way to link them directly to the police department."

Peter leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement. "I think I can help with that," he said, pulling up a file on his laptop. "I managed to get my hands on some internal memos that show the mayor's office was pressuring the police to keep quiet about the corruption."

You leaned forward, your heart racing. "That's fantastic, Peter," you breathed. "But we need to be careful. If we publish this without concrete evidence, we could be in for a world of trouble."

Peter nodded, his jaw set in determination. "I know. But I think I can help with that too. I've been going over the financial records, and I found some discrepancies that could link the mayor's office directly to the corrupt officers."

You reached out, your hand brushing against Peter's as you took the laptop from him. "Let me take a look," you said, your voice low and husky. "I want to make sure we have everything we need before we go to print."

As you scrolled through the files, your fingers brushing against Peter's for a moment, you couldn't help but steal glances at him. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck.

You and Peter were in the midst of a heated discussion about the latest developments in your story. The tension between you was palpable, and you could feel the electricity between you as you worked together.

Just as you were about to make a breakthrough, Betty Brant's voice cut through the air, shrill and insistent. "Peter Parker, can I see you in my office for a moment?" she called out, her voice dripping with sweetness.

Peter's eyes flickered to you, and for a moment, you saw a flash of annoyance. But he stood up, brushing off his jeans, and followed Betty out of the room. You watched them go, your mouth tightening in annoyance.

You waited for a few moments, tapping your pen against the desk impatiently. Finally, you heard the door open again, and Peter walked back in, a look of irritation on his face.

"What was that about?" you asked, your voice low and even.

"I don't know, she just needed to talk to me about something," Peter shrugged, his voice dismissive. "Don't worry about it."

You narrowed your eyes, your annoyance simmering. "About what?"

Peter frowned, clearly not understanding your sudden anger. "I don't know, she didn't say. It was just a quick conversation."

You crossed your arms, your eyes flashing. "Did she say anything about me?"

Peter blinked, confusion etched on his face. "No, why?"

"I thought so," you muttered in a huff, turning back to your work.

Peter's confusion deepened. "What's wrong?"

You didn't respond, your jaw clenched. Peter sighed and walked over to where you were sitting, his hands on your shoulders. "Hey, what's going on? You're acting really weird all of a sudden."

You shrugged him off, your frustration boiling over. "Just drop it, Peter."

Peter's hands fell away, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. "No, come on. Talk to me. What's going on?"

You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak. Peter's face fell, and he looked at you with a mixture of confusion and worry.

"Look, I know we've been working really closely together, and I know there's something between us," he said, his voice gentle. "But I don't understand why you're acting like this. Did I do something wrong?"

Peter's words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You couldn't meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. Suddenly, the tension between you seemed to crack and crumble, leaving only raw emotion in its wake.

Peter stepped closer, his eyes searching yours. "Vienna, please," he whispered. "Talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

Your breath caught in your throat as his lips brushed against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You felt the heat of his body against yours, the strength of his arms as he pulled you close.

"Peter," you breathed, your voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry. I...I didn't mean to snap at you."

Peter's arms tightened around you, holding you close. "It's okay," he murmured. "I know you're stressed. But please, tell me what's going on. I want to help you."

You bit your lip, trying to find the words. "It's just... I don't know, being around Betty all the time, the way she looks at you, it's..." You trailed off, shaking your head. "I don't know, maybe I'm just tired or frustrated."

You kept going, your voice trembling as you spoke, "I mean, this story is important, and we're under so much pressure. It's just a lot, and I guess it's getting to me.” You continued to ramble, your words spilling out in a jumbled mess. "I mean, I know it's not fair, she's just doing her job, but... I don't know, maybe I'm just tired and tense from work. I've been putting in a lot of long hours, and I'm probably just imagining–!”

Peter's lips crashed against yours, his hands moving to cradle your cheeks. The kiss was tender, yet insistent, as if he was trying to reassure you that everything would be alright. You melted into the embrace, your thoughts scattering as your heart raced.

For a moment, everything around you faded away. The dim lights of the office, the sound of the city beyond the walls, all of it ceased to exist. All that was left was the two of you, sitting at your stupidly small desk in the middle of the empty newsroom.

Your hands were still on the edge of the desk, and Peter's hands were still on your face, but it was as if the rest of the world had disappeared.

You could feel his breath on your lips, hear the slight catch in his chest as he pulled away. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. I just couldn't help myself."

Your heart was still racing, your skin flushed with heat. You could feel the warmth of his body against yours, the strength of his arms as he held you close. It was as if you were the only two people in the world, lost in a moment of pure emotion.

Peter leaned in again, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, sweet kiss. You could taste the salt of his tears on your tongue, the hint of coffee and chocolate on his breath. It was a kiss that spoke of longing and desire, of two people who had been dancing around each other for too long.

As you pulled away, you could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the raw emotion that you had never seen before. It was a look that told you that he was just as lost as you were, just as unsure of what to do next.

But at that moment, it didn't matter. All that mattered was the two of you, standing in the middle of the Daily Bugle, lost in a world of your own making.

. . . bonus! . . . “so… betty huh?” “oh, shut up.”

#juneywrites #peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x reader

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dostoyevsky-official · 4 months ago

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Trump administration disbands taskforce targeting Russian oligarchs

A memo from the attorney general, Pam Bondi, issued during a wave of orders on her first day in office but not previously reported, said the effort, known as Task Force KleptoCapture, will end as part of a shift in focus and funding to combating drug cartels and international gangs. The taskforce brought indictments against the aluminum magnate Oleg Deripaska and TV tycoon Konstantin Malofeyev for alleged sanctions busting, and seized yachts belonging to the sanctioned oligarchs Suleiman Kerimov and Viktor Vekselberg. It also secured a guilty plea against a US lawyer who made $3.8m in payments to maintain properties owned by Vekselberg.

Trump Green-Lights Bribery and Corruption With New Executive Order

President Donald Trump has instructed Attorney General Pam Bondi to pause prosecutions of companies that bribe foreign government officials to win business. The Foreign Corrupt Practices Act has been “stretched beyond proper bounds and abused in a manner that harms the interests of the United States,” hurting American competitiveness, Trump wrote in an executive order signed Monday. [...] The order’s legality was not immediately clear. Generally, the Constitution requires the president to “take care that the laws” passed by Congress “be faithfully executed.” Presidents do have some enforcement discretion, but they cannot override laws, according to the ACLU. Major companies such as Goldman Sachs, Glencore and Walmart have all come under FCPA scrutiny, according to Reuters.

///

"It's going to mean a lot more business for America," Trump told reporters while signing the order in the Oval Office on Monday. Trump wanted to strike down FCPA during his first term in office. He has called it a "horrible law" and said "the world is laughing at us" for enforcing it. Anti-corruption watchdog Transparency International said FCPA made the United States a leader in addressing global corruption. (x)

///

“It sounds good on paper, but in practicality, it's a disaster,” Trump said. “It means that if an American goes over to a foreign country and starts doing business over there, legally, legitimately or otherwise, it's almost a guaranteed investigation indictment, and nobody wants to do business with the Americans because of it.” [...] Gary Kalman, executive director of Transparency International U.S., said Trump’s order “diminishes—and could pave the way for completely eliminating—the crown jewel in the U.S.’s fight against global corruption.” [...] In one of its most significant victories, the Justice Department announced Oct. 16, three weeks before Trump’s election victory, that mega-defense contractor Raytheon Company of Virginia would pay over $950 million to settle foreign bribery and related charges in a scheme to help foreign governments purchase PATRIOT missile systems and operate and maintain a radar system. In one of the schemes, Raytheon engaged in a campaign from 2012 and 2016 “to bribe a high-level official” within the Qatar government’s military “in order to assist Raytheon in obtaining and retaining business” from it, the DOJ said, citing admissions and court documents filed in the Eastern District of New York. [...] Raytheon’s “criminal schemes to defraud the U.S. government in connection with” the contracts “erodes public trust and harms the DOD, businesses that play by the rules, and American taxpayers,” Deputy Assistant Attorney General Kevin Driscoll of the Justice Department’s Criminal Division also said at the time. (x)

this is the most relentlessly pro-corruption administration in american history. the guiding animus seems to be how much corruption can we do, how can we help others get away with corruption, how can we halt justice, etc

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saywhat-politics · 4 months ago

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As part of the Trump administration's ongoing efforts to shrink the federal workforce, the General Services Administration eliminated its technology unit, CBS News learned Saturday.

The GSA's tech unit, known as the 18F office, employed a team of researchers, website designers and product managers. It's unclear exactly how many workers were impacted.

The office was responsible for helping build the Internal Revenue Service's free tax-filing service and updating other government agency websites.

GSA Administrator Thomas Shedd announced the elimination of 18F in an internal email that was sent early Saturday morning. In it, Shedd wrote that the team had been identified as "non-critical," and that the cuts had been made "in alignment with the President's Workforce Optimization EO and the recent memo from GSA per the Trump Administration requiring cutting 'non-essential consulting' functions."

"The decision was made with explicit direction from the top levels of leadership within both the Administration and GSA," the message read.

#donald trump #second term #elon musk #doge #general services administration

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antipersonal · 8 days ago

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TO: John Walker FROM: Dr. E. M. Kessler [Consultant, OXE Behavioral Oversight] SUBJECT: Compliance Protocol – Psychological Oversight & Reintegration

John,

As discussed during your intake interview, participation under the Thunderbolts initiative is conditional on your active participation in behavioral oversight. This is not negotiable. You're not under detainment, but you are under scrunity. As much as you might dislike the process, this is the only option on the table if you're serious about getting off the bench.

Effective immediately your weekly routine will include the following:

One mandatory virtual session, logged for compliance.

A weekly minimum of two structured self-reports via written entry (typed or handwritten, your choice) submitted by 0000 hours. You may also choose to record them as audio files, if you like!

No unsupervised field assignments until a minimum of four consectuve weeks of participation without incident or noncompliance.

This isn't a punishment. This is protocol. You've crawled through mud most people never get out of. But functional isn't the same as stable, as your last deployment proved. You need to operate on more than just your instincts. Session one is scheduled for Tuesday at 09:00. Don't be late, although you never are! :-)

— Dr. Kessler

RE: COMPLIANCE PROTOCOL FROM: Walker, J. TO: Dr. Kessler

Roger. I’ll show up. You’ll get your goddamn report. But I’m not unpacking my childhood, and I’m not going to sit around talking about feelings while my teammates do real work. If you want me operational, then let me operate. You’ve got people on this team who’ve done worse things with less protocol. Just remember that.

— Walker

Walker glared at his phone in the dark, screen painfully bright even at the dimmest setting-- the email was still open on his cracked screen, words clinical and cautious like the doc had anticipated him fighting back. Maybe he was getting predictable.

Reports. Logs. Like he was a broken piece of equipment they were running through diagnostics. Walker's lip curled, but he found he couldn't muster the energy to really get angry. Instead he let out a breath, scrubbing a tired hand down his face.

(The broken windows in the tower's common room were still covered in dropcloths. The whole building reeked of paint and drywall, and half the team wouldn't speak to him unless it was over comms. Not exactly a return to form.)

Still, he thumbed a reminder into his phone. He'd play along. Not for some redemption arc, just… because he already said he would.

Or maybe because he didn't know what else to do.

#file: internal memo #(( hope this is an okay setup for the framing device of this blog LOL i am so rusty w writing ...... ))#(( it's a way to easily still make IC posts between threads + his real entries will start off way shorter cuz he doesn't wanna lmao ))

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 21 days ago

Text

Weaponized | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part Six

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Words: ~4,100

Series Tags/Warnings: Violence, Trauma, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian, Auror!MC, Modern AU, Female Reader Insert, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Ancient Magic, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Betrayal, Reconciliation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Divergent

Beta: @dreamy-gal-30 <3

Auror Division Headquarters, Operations Wing – London

Sebastian stepped into the administrative wing just past nine, the air still sharp from the morning chill. He carried the satchel containing the secured artifacts and a concise mission report tucked neatly into the fold of his arm. He hadn’t slept well. Not because the mission had gone poorly—it hadn’t. If anything, it had gone too smoothly.

He blamed you. Or, more specifically, the version of you who had slid so seamlessly into the role of his wife.

Don’t think about that.

He rapped once on Hale’s office door, and when her voice called out, he stepped inside.

“Report,” he said simply, handing the folder across, along with the artifacts.

Hale didn’t look up right away, just took them with a nod. “Anything notable?”

“Contact was guarded but cooperative. Sale was clean. Warden held character.”

That earned him a glance. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

Hale’s office was messy as usual, documents scattered across the desk, memos stacked haphazardly, and a single mug of coffee half-drunk sitting precariously on the corner. But just beside her elbow, Sebastian spotted a folder. A thick one.

He didn’t mean to look, not really. But his eyes landed on the open page anyway. The heading was clear: Service Record – Canadian Magical Enforcement Division.

Sebastian blinked. “That her file?”

“Part of it. There’s more locked up. Why?”

Sebastian hesitated. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he asked, “Can I see it?”

Hale leaned back in her chair, eyeing him. She seemed to weigh the request against some internal scale, then, with a sigh, she lifted the folder from the stack.

“I suppose it only makes sense since she’s on your squad. But keep your mouth shut and don’t remove anything. Technically this is above your clearance level, Sallow.”

He nodded. “Of course. I’ll have it back after lunch.”

“See that you do,” Hale said, already returning to her paperwork.

He stepped out into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind him, and made his way toward the shared office space at the end of the west wing.

Inside, Sebastian dropped into his chair and set the folder on his desk. For a moment, he just stared at it. Then, slowly, he opened the file.

Canadian Ministry of Magic – Division of Magical Enforcement Operative File: Major Warden [REDACTED] Security Clearance: Tier 6, Active

A photo of you on the page stared back at him, unsmiling, your short black hair even more severe than usual, and below it, the sheet was marked with numerous stamps and official seals from magical law enforcement divisions far outside Canada.

France. Germany. Argentina. Japan. South Africa. Australia. Each bore an embossed date and clearance notation, the most recent ones only months old.

Sebastian’s brow furrowed. You were rotated constantly, and from the looks of it, you hadn’t had a proper home base in over three years.

He turned the page.

Health and Wellness Protocol Blood Type: [REDACTED] Wand Hand: Ambidextrous Baseline Vitals: On file (see Medical Subfolder B) Allergies: Dragon Dander, Billywig Stings Prescriptions: Contraceptive Regimen, Iron Stabilization Potion Psych Evaluation Status: Required bi-weekly during active rotation Post-Op Debrief Compliance: Mandatory questionnaire submitted immediately after each mission

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. He flipped through several of the attached forms which included countless physiological checkboxes, each page signed with your initials. He scanned a few at random.

Tactile Disassociation: No Auditory Hallucinations: No Hypothermia: No Head Laceration: Yes, Minor Menstrual Cramping: Yes

He paused at that one and blinked like he’d misread it. But no, there it was. A single checkmark inside the box. Matter-of-fact. Clinical.

Something about it made his throat go tight.

Some post-mission reports indicated mild bruising. Others flagged exhaustion or spells of dizziness. One from last winter even had “Localized Frostbite, Fingers” checked off.

He flipped further.

Pages and pages of mission reports followed, including redacted summaries, field evaluations, and threat assessments. Yes, there was brutality, death, and blood. Some of the operations listed over 30 hostile casualties, all by your hand. And yet... that wasn’t the pattern that emerged as he read.

Again and again, the same phrases appeared:

“Civilians prioritized.” “Engaged hostiles only after extraction secured.” “Refused to evacuate until final hostage accounted for.”

It wasn’t violence for the sake of violence. It was violence in service of something else—containment, extraction, survival.

There was one entry from a mission in Quebec where you’d been dispatched to track a colony of wendigos that abducted six children. The first time around, only four were recovered alive. But in your notes, the handwriting tight and slanted at the bottom of the page, you’d written: “Two still unaccounted for. Will revisit location post-recovery.”

On the very next page was the mission report of that return trip.

Op#403-C: Recon & Retrieval – Wendigo Colony, Quebec Status: Complete Deaths: 0 Injured: 1 (operative: moderate) Extracted Targets: 2 juvenile civilians (previously presumed deceased) Threat Level: Class IV Operative notes: Major Warden returned alone against recommendation and located secondary nest. Engaged three entities without backup. Operative sustained puncture wounds and hypothermia. Prioritized civilian retrieval over neutralization. Both children returned in stable condition.

There was a scrawl in the margin, likely from a commanding officer: “Above and beyond operational mandate. Exceptional.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, the folder spread open in front of him, the reports blurring slightly at the edges. You went back. No one had ordered you to. The mission was already marked complete, but you saved those kids. And all this time, he’d thought—

He shook his head. Sebastian had seen what you could do firsthand in Whitechapel: the devastation you could unleash when pressed, the way your expression didn’t change even when bodies hit the ground, and the cold, clinical detachment you seemed to wear like armor.

He’d bitched about it to Ominis. To Garreth. Hell, even to civilian friends over drinks, calling you a Ministry-controlled weapon. But your file showed a career of endurance, not apathy. A record of someone who didn’t pull back, not when it mattered. Someone who dove headfirst into fire, into frost, into hell again and again because someone needed saving and no one else would do it.

Then Sebastian glanced up at the clock.

Shit. Twelve o'clock.

Sebastian swore under his breath as he snapped the file shut. He already late for lunch at the pub.

He hesitated at the door. He was supposed to return the file. Hale had been explicit. But the idea of leaving it behind, of parting from it without finishing the last few pages…

He’d bring it back after lunch. It’s not like anyone would notice.

The Hex & Hops Tavern, Diagon Alley – London

The pub was warm compared to the wind-swept street outside. Sebastian shook off his coat just inside the door and glanced around, spotting them immediately.

Ominis and Garreth were already seated near the back, tucked into a corner booth beneath one of the frosted windows. Ominis nursed a pint while Garreth was already halfway through a basket of chips, gesturing animatedly as he spoke.

As Sebastian approached, Garreth glanced up and grinned. “Look who finally decided to join us.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all,” Sebastian muttered, sliding into the seat across from them.

Ominis tilted his head slightly. “That sounds ominous.”

“Sorry,” Sebastian said, running a hand through his hair. “Got caught up at the office, that’s all.”

“Caught up?” Garreth echoed.

Sebastian reached for the menu even though he wasn’t planning on reading it. “Got my hands on an… interesting file.”

Garreth leaned forward with immediate interest, abandoning his chip mid-air. “Don’t tease. What kind of interesting? Scandalous? Embarrassing? Please tell me it’s Hale’s.”

Sebastian huffed a laugh, more out of exhaustion than amusement. “Not Hale’s.”

Ominis set down his pint. “The Warden.”

It wasn’t a question.

Sebastian gave a tight nod and folded the menu shut, pushing it aside.

Garreth whistled. “You stole her personnel file?”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Sebastian said. “It was just… open. Hale let me look.”

Ominis’s voice was quiet. “And?”

Sebastian’s fingers drummed on the table. “Technically, I’m not even supposed to be telling you I read it.”

Garreth grinned. “Which means, obviously, you’re absolutely going to tell us everything.”

“I’m serious,” Sebastian warned, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Classified.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Garreth pointed out, waving a chip at him. “Don’t dangle a classified carrot and expect us not to bite.”

Ominis raised an eyebrow. “You brought it to the pub, didn’t you?”

Sebastian winced.

Garreth cackled. “Of course you did.”

“I just… wasn’t done reading it.” Sebastian muttered.

Ominis rolled his eyes. “You’ve already broken about 50 rules bringing it here, so are you going to show us or not, Sallow?”

Sebastian huffed a quiet breath through his nose and glanced around the pub, scanning for anyone who might be watching. Just locals, a few Ministry types he vaguely recognized—no one close enough to eavesdrop. Still, he lowered his voice.

“Fine,” he said, reaching into his satchel and drawing out the folder. He set it on the table and, with a subtle flick of his wand beneath the table’s edge, cast a charm to obscure the contents from any onlookers.

“There,” he slid it into the middle of the table. “Skim. Quickly.”

Garreth practically pounced, tugging the folder toward him like it might vanish if he hesitated. Ominis, for his part, simply leaned in, lifting his wand to read the contents.

“Sweet Merlin,” Garreth breathed as he flipped to the first page. “She’s been everywhere. Look at these stamps—Australia, Japan, France… how many departments has she worked under?”

Sebastian hummed. “She hasn’t had a home posting in years.”

Garreth turned another page, his eyes scanning a mission summary. “Says here she neutralized thirty-two hostiles in a single op. What the hell do they feed the Warden Corps?”

Sebastian pulled the folder back toward him. “That’s not the part that matters.”

“Oh?”

Sebastian tapped a page with the back of his knuckle. “That same op? She refused to leave until every civilian was safe. Put herself between a detonation curse and a hostage. Nearly lost her arm. And that’s not a one-off. It’s a pattern.”

Garreth went quiet after that. He pulled the folder even closer and began flipping through the pages in earnest now, brow furrowed, mouth slightly parted as he skimmed report after report. Every so often he’d murmur something low—“damn” or “bloody hell”—without looking up.

Ominis, meanwhile, sat with his usual quiet poise. He didn’t react much to what he read. No dramatic exclamations or slack-jawed disbelief. Just a slow unfolding quiet, like he was putting together the final pieces of a puzzle he’d already mostly solved.

Sebastian watched them both, arms crossed.

Eventually, Garreth leaned back, closing the file slowly. He blew out a breath and scratched at the back of his head. “I mean... I knew she was intense, but this is something else.”

Sebastian nodded.

Garreth looked down again, expression uneasy. “She’s still kind of terrifying, don’t get me wrong, but—” He winced. “I feel bad now for calling her a cyborg behind her back.”

Ominis snorted softly. “Good. You should.”

Garreth gave him a flat look. “Not helping.”

“I’m not trying to help,” Ominis said mildly, folding his hands. “I’m pointing out that maybe your instincts are worth questioning from time to time.”

Sebastian tilted his head. “You’re not surprised.”

“I’m not,” Ominis said simply. “She’s methodical, not cruel. Disciplined, not indifferent. People confuse the two all the time. Especially when they’re threatened.” He added pointedly.

Sebastian leaned back in the booth. “Look, I’m not saying she’s not capable. Obviously she is. That file makes that clear.” He paused, jaw tight. “But her detachment still bothers me. I mean I get that she’s been through hell, but it’s like there’s no—” He waved a hand vaguely. “No normal human baseline. And the Ministry dropping her into my squad without so much as a heads-up? That’s insulting.”

Garreth nodded, mouth twitching downward. “They're treating the Auror division like we’re kids who can’t handle our own assignments.”

Ominis looked between them with the kind of cool disdain that usually preceded a verbal scalpel. “That’s your ego talking, both of you.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “Excuse me?”

“You’re insulted that someone more qualified got sent in to help with the smuggler cases.”

Garreth shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly interested in the condensation on his pint glass.

“And as for her detachment?” Ominis went on. “Frankly, you should be grateful she’s not more emotional. Considering all the shit the officers put her through, I’d say she’s showing remarkable restraint.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Garreth flinched. Ominis blinked, genuine surprise flickering across his face. “You don’t know?”

Sebastian’s expression darkened. “Know what?”

Garreth cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Sebastian. “Mate, uh… there’s been some stuff. Around the barracks. You know, stupid shit. Missing gear, cold water jinxes in the showers. I didn’t think it was serious, just some friendly… hazing.”

Sebastian turned slowly to stare at him. “Hazing?”

“It was just the usual stuff we all went through. Nobody thought it was—”

Ominis shook his head. “She’s not a recruit, Weasley. She’s a decorated operative. And you think it’s funny that the officers treat her like shit just because wasn’t born in Britain?”

“…Don’t get me wrong, alright?” Garreth said hastily. “I didn’t hex her robes or mess with her kit. I just… knew it was happening.”

Sebastian stared at him. “And you didn’t do anything about it?”

Garreth grimaced. “I thought it would blow over! She didn’t say anything, didn’t report it—hell, half the time it didn’t even seem like she noticed!”

“She noticed,” Ominis scoffed, gaze fixed on his half-finished drink.

Sebastian turned on him. “And you? You knew too?”

Ominis raised his brows like the answer should have been obvious. “Of course I did.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I considered it,” Ominis said evenly. “But if I’d so much as suggested the officers back off, you’d have taken it as a personal attack. And more than likely you wouldn’t have given a damn what they did to her, anyway.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

“You already hated that she was here,” Ominis continued, calm but pointed. “You questioned her instincts, consistently undermined her in front of the others. If I’d stood up for her you’d have assumed I was taking sides, and not yours.”

Sebastian looked away. Ominis was right, and he wasn’t proud of it—how territorial he’d been, how quickly he’d judged you, how easy it had been to pretend you were nothing more than an outsider sent to babysit his team.

“I didn’t know,” Sebastian said finally, voice low. “If I had—”

“You didn’t want to know,” Ominis said. "You only care now that you've read her file and realized she’s not someone you can write off.”

The silence that followed was long. Uncomfortable. Then Sebastian stood.

“I’ve got work.”

Garreth blinked. “What? Now? You didn’t even eat!”

“Yeah,” Sebastian muttered. “Someone’s gotta fix this shit.”

Auror Division Headquarters, Training Wing – London

The dueling ring echoed faintly with the sounds of boots on concrete, scattered laughter, and the thrum of spellfire as Sebastian stepped inside. Multiple squads of officers were already assembled, stretching or chatting while they waited for training to start.

Conversations quieted the moment he stepped into view. Sebastian was never loud when he was angry. He didn’t need to be.

He stood at the center of the room, hands behind his back, gaze sweeping across the gathered faces. “Form up.”

They did.

Sebastian let the silence drag just long enough to make their skin itch, walking between the rows, circling them like a predator sizing up its prey. His boots echoed with every step. No one dared speak.

He finally stopped near the front, hands still clasped behind him.

“So nobody was going to tell me, hm?”

The officers exchanged weary glances.

“Cold water charms. Hexed boots. Sabotaged gear. I don’t know who started it, but I know damn well none of you stopped it. And before anyone tries to give me some speech about tradition or ‘toughening up the new recruit’—she’s not new. She’s not yours to break in. She’s a decorated Warden from the Canadian Ministry with more frontline time than the lot of you combined. And you treat her like shit.”

Sebastian took a step forward, voice razor-sharp. “You lot are lucky she hasn’t filed a single report. Not one complaint. Not one request for disciplinary review. Because if she had, over half this room would already be on probation.”

He took another step. “When you humiliate your own teammate, you don’t just make yourself look incompetent, you make this entire base look incompetent. And if even one more incident happens under my watch, I swear on every curse I’ve ever broken, I will personally escort your ass out of this division. Is that fucking clear?”

The silence thickened. A few officers glanced at each other. Most looked at the floor.

“Good. Now here’s what’s going to happen,” Sebastian said coolly. “You’re going to run. Full perimeter of the base, east wall to north gate and back. And you’re going to keep running until I say stop. If you collapse, you keep crawling. If you so much as whine, I’ll have you reassigned to waste disposal duty with no field clearance for six months.” He gestured sharply. “Move.”

There was a beat of hesitation, then the squad scattered, boots thudding across stone as they poured out into the yard. You moved, too, automatically. One foot forward, then the other, your posture already shifting toward a sprint.

“Not you,” Sebastian said quietly.

You stopped, mid-step, turning slowly to face him. “Sir?”

“You’re not going with them.”

“...I can run,” you said.

“I know you can,” he said. “That’s not the point.”

The silence between you stretched.

You didn’t argue again, but you didn’t agree either. You just stood there, shoulders drawn taut like a bowstring, bracing for another judgment. Another order. Another quiet humiliation masked as discipline.

Sebasrian sighed. “Look… I didn’t know what the other officers were doing, but I should’ve seen it sooner. That’s on me.”

You didn’t respond. But your eyes flicked away, and that said enough.

“I can’t undo what’s already happened,” he added. “But I can make damn sure it doesn’t keep happening.”

Still nothing, but you were looking at him again. And for the first time, Sebastian met your eyes—not in passing, not through the cold filter of suspicion or rivalry—but directly. He’d expected them to be cold, reflective of the way you moved through the world, but they weren’t.

Not even close.

There was a depth there he hadn’t prepared for. Not warm, exactly, but… honest. And striking. Beautiful, even.

Sebastian exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And… look, I’m sorry about how I acted.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowing. “...Which time?”

Sebastian winced.

He’d yelled at you in front of the whole squad after Whitechapel, blamed you for disobeying him even though it saved his life. He’d grilled you harder than anyone else during drills, nitpicked your tactics, doubled your sparring rounds. And the rest of the time, he ignored you entirely.

His throat tightened. “All of them.”

Your expression didn’t change but he saw the way your jaw tightened and the way your fingers flexed slightly where they hung at your sides, like you were resisting the urge to cross your arms again. Or punch him. Which he probably deserved.

“Are you apologizing because you mean it,” you said slowly, “or is there an angle I’m missing? Some Ministry directive I haven’t been briefed on? Maybe a note that says ‘build rapport with the unstable Canadian before she snaps’?”

The bitterness in your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean like it had been sitting there for weeks, just waiting for an opening.

Sebastian knew he deserved it.

“There’s no directive,” he said quietly. “I’m not playing politics. I just... realized I was wrong about you. I… yeah, I was pissed when they assigned you to my unit,” he admitted. “Didn’t want the interference. Didn’t want someone watching my team. I thought you were there to babysit us, or spy on us. Or me. But..." Sebastian cleared his throat. “Hale let me read your file.”

“...So you read a bunch of sanitized mission summaries and decided I was worth basic human decency?"

He flinched. “That’s not what happened.”

“No?” You finally looked at him again. And god, there was steel behind your eyes. Not anger, just a sharp, measured resolve. “Then what did happen, Sallow? You needed a dossier to tell you I wasn’t the enemy?”

He didn’t have a defense. Not one that wouldn’t make him sound worse.

You shook your head, a short exhale passing through your nose. “You know, you could've just, I don't know, asked me about myself when I got here if you were so damn curious.”

Sebastian swallowed. “I—”

“You didn’t need my file to know I was qualified,” you cut in. “You just needed to pay attention.”

He winced. “I know.”

“This happens everywhere I go,” you said flatly. “A foreign name on the roster, some fancy clearance from a different Ministry, and suddenly everyone’s territorial. Suspicious. Insecure.”

Her voice wasn’t bitter, but it wasn’t forgiving, either.

“And now that you’ve read my file,” you continued, “you know this isn’t my first rodeo. You’re not the first superior who didn’t want me on their team. Trust me, I’ve seen worse. At least this time no one hexed my mattress or tried to steal my wand.”

That landed harder than you probably intended, if the twist in Sebastian’s gut was anything to go by.

“I’ve done this song and dance before,” you said. “And I’ll do it again somewhere else when they reassign me.”

Sebastian didn’t know what to say. All he could hear was Ominis’s voice echoing in his head.

For weeks, he’d tried to tell Sebastian in that patient, exasperated way of his, that you weren’t cold, you were trained. That everything Sebastian took as detachment was just discipline, and that you didn’t have a choice in any of this either.

And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? You’d just been doing your job. It was him who’d made it personal.

Because ever since he was a teenager—since Solomon—Sebastian had clawed his way toward competence like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He’d fought to be better. Sharper. In control. He’d built himself up as someone who knew how to run a unit, someone whose instincts could be trusted, someone who mattered.

But then you walked in.

A decorated Warden, your rank above his own yet ordered to work under him. But in his gut, it had felt like a correction. Like someone upstairs had decided he wasn’t good enough. That the squad he built wasn’t good enough.

And maybe they weren’t.

But that wasn’t your fault.

Sebastian ran a hand down his face. “You’re right,” he said softly. “You're completely right. And again, for what it’s worth, I’m… I’m sorry. I really am.”

You studied him for a beat longer, unreadable. Then your arms slowly uncrossed.

“Noted,” you said.

Not forgiven. Not forgotten. Just… noted.

Sebastian shifted his weight, glancing toward the window where the squad was still running in the yard, sweat-soaked, winded, regret etched into every heavy stride.

You followed his line of sight. “…How long you going to make them run for?”

Sebastian glanced at you, a huff of air escaping his nose—half a laugh, half sigh.

“Until I stop being angry.”

You tilted your head. “So… another hour?”

“At least.”

You nodded like that seemed fair.

“Also,” you continued, sounding somewhat hesitant. “I read your file too. On the plane here.”

Sebastian blinked. “You what?”

“It’s standard protocol when assigned to a new unit,” you explained. “Fields record. Mission logs. Including the one with the photo where your hair looks like you lost a fight with a wind charm.”

Sebastian opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Look, that mission was in Wales. The wind practically had a vendetta.”

You didn’t smile exactly, but the corner of your mouth twitched, and he couldn’t help it—his mouth curled at the edge, too.

“Alright then,” he said, crossing his arms. “What’d you think of it then?”

Your eyes cut sideways, voice dry as bone. “Your’re clever but reckless, have poor impulse control, you’re allergic to authority, and your handwriting’s shit.”

He laughed before he could stop himself. “So you think I’m smart?”

You gave him a flat look. “I think you’re a headache.”

Sebastian grinned. He didn’t know what this was—this strange, careful warmth threading between the sarcasm—but he knew better than to push it.

“Alright,” he said, tipping his head toward the ring. “Well… you’re off the hook for the run, but don’t think I’m going easy on you during drills.”

You arched a brow. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

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skzophreniic · 2 months ago

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🗂️ SKZOTEL: Guest Relations Masterlist Filed by: Concierge Aeryn Classification: Public Access – For Approved Guests & Voyeurs

Welcome to the official SKZotel Guest Relations Masterlist. Below you’ll find formal investigations, incident reports, and internal service memos pertaining to staff interactions with select guests. All documentation is archived for transparency, accountability, and... entertainment purposes.

Please remember: ✦ All guests involved have provided enthusiastic consent. ✦ All staff members remain under close supervision ✦ Any further concerns may be submitted directly to Concierge Aeryn.

📁 Case Files

➤ Case #001 – Room 706 / Front Desk Incident ✦ Involved Staff: Seungmin Kim ✦ Requested: Formal Investigation + Internal Service Memo ✦ Filed by: VIP Guest at Room 706

➤ Case #002 – GM Office/ Unauthorized Use of Executive Amenities ✦ Involved Staff: Christopher Chan Bahng ✦ Requested: Custom Drabble + Internal Service Memo ✦ Filed by: Guest at Suite 801

➤ Case #003 – Room 1706/ Misconduct During Welcome Assistance ✦ Involved Staff: Felix Lee ✦ Requested: Formal Investigation + Internal Service Memo ✦ Filed by: Guest at Room 1706

➤ Case #004 –Room 814/ Evening Turndown Service ✦ Involved Staff: Hyunjin Hwang ✦ Requested: Formal Investigation + Internal Service Memo ✦ Filed by: Guest at Room 814

➤ Case #005 –Room ???/ Spa Incident ✦ Involved Staff: Jeongin Yang ✦ Requested: Formal Investigation + Internal Service Memo ✦ Filed by: Spa Attendee

➤ Case #006 –Room 630/ Press for Service ✦ Involved Staff: Felix Lee ✦ Requested: Formal Investigation + Private Follow up report. ✦ Filed by: Guest At Room 630

➤ Case #007 –Room 325/ Missing Panties ✦ Involved Staff: Hyunjin Hwang ✦ Requested: Formal Investigation + Internal Service Memo ✦ Filed by: Guest At Room 325

➤ Case #008 –Room 704/ Officer Voyeur ✦ Involved Staff: Jisung Han ✦ Requested: Custom Drabble + Private Follow up report. ✦ Filed by: VIP Guest at room 704

➤ Case #009– Room 101/ Car Inspection ✦ Involved Staff: Changbin Seo ✦ Requested: Formal Investigation + Private Follow up report. ✦ Filed by: Guest at room 101.

➤ Case #010– Room 330/ Missing Number ✦ Involved Staff: Christopher Bahng ✦ Requested: Formal Investigation + Internal Service Memo ✦ Filed by: Guest at room 330

➤ Case #011–TBD ✦ Involved Staff: ✦ Requested: ✦ Filed by:

New entries added as investigations proceed. Thank you for choosing SKZotel.

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justinspoliticalcorner · 8 months ago

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Robert Tait at The Guardian:

Republicans are already laying the ground for rejecting the result of next week’s US presidential election in the event Donald Trump loses, with early lawsuits baselessly alleging fraud and polls from right-leaning groups that analysts say may be exaggerating his popularity and could be used by Trump to claim only cheating prevented him from returning to the White House.

The warnings – from Democrats and anti-Trump Republicans – come as Americans prepare to vote on Tuesday in the most consequential presidential contest in generations. Most polls show Trump running neck and neck with Kamala Harris, the vice-president and Democratic nominee, with the two candidates seemingly evenly matched in seven key swing states. But suspicions have been voiced over a spate of recent polls, mostly commissioned in battleground states from groups with Republican links, that mainly show Trump leading. The projection of surging Trump support as election day nears has drawn confident predictions from him and his supporters. “We’re leading big in the polls, all of the polls,” Trump told a rally in New Mexico on Thursday. “I can’t believe it’s a close race,” he told a separate rally in North Carolina, a swing state where polls show he and Harris are in a virtual dead heat.

An internal memo sent to Trump by his chief pollster is confirming that story to him, with Tony Fabrizio declaring the ex-president’s “position nationally and in every single battleground state is SIGNIFICANTLY better today than it was four years ago”. Pro-Trump influencers, too, have strengthened the impression of inevitable victory with social media posts citing anonymous White House officials predicting Harris’s defeat. “Biden is telling advisers the election is ‘dead and buried’ and called Harris an innate sucker,” the conspiracy theorist Jack Posobiec posted this week. GOP-aligned polling groups have released 37 polls in the final stretch of the campaign, according to a study by the New York Times, during a period when longstanding pollsters have been curtailing their voter surveys. All but seven showed a lead for Trump, in contrast to the findings of long-established non-partisan pollsters, which have shown a more mixed picture – often with Harris leading, albeit within error margins.

[...] Trump, who falsely claims that Joe Biden stole the 2020 election, is also paving the way for repeating the accusation via legal means. He told a rally in Pennsylvania that Democrats were “cheating” in the state, and on Wednesday his campaign took legal action against election officials in Bucks County, where voters waiting to submit early mail-in ballots were turned away because the deadline had expired. A judge later ordered the county to extend early voting by one day. There is no evidence of widespread cheating in elections in Pennsylvania or any other state, and mail-in ballots are in high demand in part because Trump himself has encouraged early voting. Suing to allege – without evidence – that there has been voting fraud is part of a well-worn pattern of Trump disputing election results that do not go his way. In the aftermath of the 2020 election, his team filed 60 lawsuits disputing the results, all of which were forcefully thrown out in court. Anti-Trump Republicans have expressed similar concerns to Democrats about Trump’s actions. Michael Steele, a former Republican national committee chair and Trump critic, told the New Republic that the GOP-commissioned polls were gamed to favour Trump. “You find different ways to weight the participants, and that changes the results you’re going to get,” he said. “They’re gamed on the back end so Maga can make the claim that the election was stolen.”

[...] Trump-leaning surveys have influenced the polling averages published by sites such as Real Clear Politics, which has incorporated the results into its projected electoral map on election night, forecasting a win for the former president. Elon Musk, Trump’s wealthiest backer and surrogate, posted the map to his 202 million followers on his own X platform, proclaiming: “The trend will continue.” Trump and Musk have also promoted online betting platforms, which have bolstered the impression of a surge for the Republican candidate stemming from hefty bets on him winning. A small number of high-value wagers from four accounts linked to a French national appeared to be responsible for $28m gambled on a Trump victory on the Polymarket platform, the New York Times reported.

Republicans prepping to be sore losers by rejecting the results if Donald Trump loses.

#Donald Trump #Election Denialism #2024 Election Polls #2024 Elections #2024 Presidential Election #Kamala Harris #Tony Fabrizio #Jack Posobiec #Trafalgar Group #Polymarket #RealClearPolitics

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profeshyearner · 2 months ago

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Humdrum

Chapter 4

Homelander x reader slow burn that loosely follows the events of the series. The reader is an NYC transplant working as an archivist at Vought.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, stalking, brief smut

Tracklist:

It’s Happening Again - Agnes Obel

I Don’t Smoke - Mitski

The End - LLow

The day Stan Edgar was arrested, no one said anything.

There was no announcement. No internal memo. Not even a leak to the press—which was strange, because Vought lived on press. But this was different. This wasn’t the kind of scandal they could spin with a black-and-white press release and a smile. This wasn’t someone cheating on their taxes. This was rot at the root.

Edgar had been the center of the web. With him gone, the threads snapped one by one.

Meetings got canceled. Floors got shuffled. Entire departments went dark without warning. The cafeteria stopped serving hot food. HR stopped returning emails. People started whispering about contingency plans, but no one knew who was in charge anymore. Not officially, anyway.

And Homelander? He didn’t show up.

That was the worst part. He didn’t yell. Didn’t grandstand. Didn’t march into the boardroom and demand the corner office. No, he simply wasn’t there. Not on the 99th floor. Not on the news. Not even in the building.

You’d think his absence would’ve been a relief.

But it felt worse.

Because absence can be strategic. Absence can be a warning. Absence can mean: I don’t need to be here to control you.

It started small. You’d pass by the glass walls of his penthouse office—always dark, always empty. The elevator dinged like a ghost arriving, but the doors opened to no one. Security started avoiding eye contact. Lower-level analysts left in silent waves. And everyone started watching each other. Like if they just stared hard enough, they could figure out who was next.

You began to unravel quietly.

No breakdown. No scream. Just… a slow drip.

You stopped going home some nights. Stayed late under the cold fluorescence of your office, hunched in front of footage you’d already archived. The tapes played on loop—grainy lab cameras, the same boy, the same voice, the same screaming. You memorized them without meaning to.

You ran on the treadmill in the company gym until your lungs burned. Until your legs gave out and your body felt quiet. You didn’t know why. Maybe you were trying to feel control. Maybe you just wanted to feel anything that wasn’t dread.

You started smoking again. At first, on the rooftop. Then the stairwell. Then your office with the window cracked open, like the smoke might carry your thoughts out and away from you. One morning you woke up with your face pressed to your desk and your fingers stained yellow.

You stopped caring about your appearance. Late to meetings. Hair tangled. Wrinkled blouses pulled from the bottom of drawers. Once, you wore mismatched shoes and didn’t notice until hours later. No one said anything. Maybe they were afraid to.

Sister Sage showed up more.

At first, she lingered in the background—clipboard in hand, eyes flicking from her tablet to you and back again. But then she started sitting. Right there in your office. Watching you work in total silence, like you were part of some behavioral study.

She never told you why. Never gave a reason. She didn’t have to.

Occasionally, she’d speak. Short, clipped observations, usually at the exact moment you felt like unraveling:

“You’re not sleeping.”

“You accessed the same archive file thirty-two times this week.”

“You’re dissociating more frequently. Fascinating.”

You started dreading the sound of her shoes in the hallway. The way she never really blinked. The way she stared at you like she was already three steps ahead of your brain.

One day, you snapped.

“What do you want from me?”

Sage tilted her head, just slightly.

“Data,” she said.

And smiled.

But even she wasn’t the one haunting you.

Homelander never returned. Not in person.

But he was everywhere.

At night, your apartment felt wrong. You swore you’d locked your windows—but one was cracked open when you got home. A coffee mug was moved half an inch to the left. You left a drawer slightly ajar on purpose. The next morning, it was closed.

You told yourself it was exhaustion. That you were imagining things. That the smell of aftershave in your hallway was a coincidence. That the faint shape you thought you saw in the reflection of your television—tall, still, watching—was a trick of the light.

But you started muttering to yourself. Saying his name aloud just to hear it. Just to feel like you had control over it.

You unplugged your television. Removed your phone battery. Started checking every room when you got home. Once, you found a single fingerprint on your bathroom mirror. Another time, you smelled blood, faintly, on your sheets.

And every night, every night, you dreamed of the shower.

Of the red water. The heat of his body behind yours. His voice—low, broken, terrible. The way he held you like you were his.

You woke up gasping more than once. You bit your own hand until it bled just to stay grounded.

You began to miss him. You hated yourself for it.

One night, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You closed your computer without shutting it down. Left the lights on. Walked out of Vought Tower without telling anyone where you were going.

You found a bar on 9th and Halstead—dim, quiet, full of people who didn’t care where you worked. You ordered something strong and fast. Then another. Then something you didn’t ask the name of.

You weren’t celebrating. You weren’t grieving.

You were trying to drown something. Or maybe chase it out.

He wasn’t there. He hadn’t been. Not since the shower.

But it didn’t matter. Your skin still remembered the way the steam clung to his shoulders. The way he stood too close. The broken rasp in his voice. That look—not love, not lust, but need, raw and predatory and childlike all at once.

He hadn’t touched you since. Hadn’t spoken to you. Hadn’t even looked at you.

So why did it feel like he never left?

You drank more. Flirted with a stranger. He had brown eyes and a soft laugh and the kind of hands that weren’t meant to break anything.

You told yourself that was what you wanted. Something human. Something harmless.

You took him home.

You let him kiss you on the elevator. Let him follow you through the door. You smiled when he took off his coat. Tried to feel anything when he touched you.

But everything about it felt… thin. Off. Like wearing someone else’s clothes.

He kissed you like he was grateful. You kissed him like you were hoping it would stick.

You undressed each other in the dark.

When he was inside you, you closed your eyes and tried to imagine it felt like his weight. Like his heat. You tried not to picture the way Homelander looked at you in the mirror. The way he smelled when he was soaked in blood. The way he shook when he spoke your name like he wasn’t supposed to know it.

The man came with a soft groan and whispered something you didn’t catch.

You turned your face away.

—

He left without asking for your number.

You lay on your side, staring at the wall, not blinking. You didn’t bother changing the sheets. You didn’t bother pretending it helped.

It didn’t.

Your apartment used to be quiet.

Now it felt watched.

You started checking the locks three times instead of two. Then five. Then eight. You set up a doorstop under your bedroom door and jammed a chair against the knob. You kept the hallway light on. Slept with your keys clenched in your hand.

But it never felt like enough.

Because things kept moving.

A spoon left slightly askew. The closet door nudged open. A towel, still damp, when you hadn’t showered. Once, you came home to find your favorite mug turned around—handle facing the opposite direction. You knew you hadn’t left it that way.

You told yourself it was stress.

But your hands shook when you unlocked the door.

You started talking aloud just to hear a voice.

Just to prove you were still alone.

Sometimes, you’d come home and smell something faint but familiar. Warm. Sharp. Metallic. Like ozone.

Like blood.

Like him.

You told yourself you were imagining it.

But your cat—who usually hid from guests—started meowing at corners. Sitting in front of empty doorways. Hissing at nothing.

You threw out the flower. The one left on your pillow. You told yourself it had always been there. That maybe it fell out of a book.

But the petals were fresh.

And you didn’t own any white flowers.

You stopped inviting people over. Stopped answering the door at all. Every knock felt like a threat.

You unplugged your TV. Covered the camera on your laptop. Slept in clothes in case you had to run.

Once, you caught yourself whispering his name like a spell, his real name, the one from the tapes

Like saying it might keep him away.

Or bring him back.

You didn’t know what this was.

Not love. Not longing.

It was a cage being built around your mind one quiet hour at a time.

But that didn’t make it easier.

Didn’t stop the fear from curling under your skin like wire.

Because paranoia is only paranoia until you’re right.

You opened your closet and found your drawers rifled through.

Nothing taken.

Just… touched.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run.

You sat on the floor and stared at your open sock drawer until sunrise.

And when you went to work the next morning, Sage was waiting outside your office.

“You really should stop leaving your windows unlocked,” she said without looking up from her tablet.

You stared at her. Blinked.

She smiled.

—

The next morning, your supervisor called you in.

She didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t mention the dark circles under your eyes or the fact that your shirt was buttoned unevenly. Just said:

“You need to pull yourself together.”

You nodded.

“You’ve been off for weeks. Whatever’s going on with you—fix it. Fast.”

You nodded again.

She waited for you to say something. You didn’t.

Eventually, she sighed and looked back at her screen.

You left her office without another word.

That night, your apartment was quiet.

You moved through it like you weren’t there. Like it wasn’t yours.

You washed a glass in the sink.

You stared at the tile. You checked the window latch again. And again.

Then you saw it.

Not in the living room. Not in the mirror.

In the kitchen.

In the sink.

A single strand of blonde hair, curled against the steel basin. Pale as snow.

—————

Homelander’s Perspective:

There was no announcement.

Not from Edgar. Not from him.

Homelander didn’t need to make one. His silence was enough. Silence carried weight. Power. Fear. He’d learned that in the lab—how silence could make even grown men piss themselves.

So he stayed quiet, pulled back from showy public appearances. Let Vought rot from the inside out.

He knew the workers felt his absence, but he was watching everything.

The glass walls of the bullpen stayed dark. The seven didn’t deserve to see him, the public didn’t deserve to see him. They’d stared too long already. They’d looked at him like a weapon, a freak, a thing to be managed. Edgar had made sure of that.

Now Edgar was gone, out of the picture.

And you—you—you were still here.

You sat in your little office like a soldier bleeding out. Quiet. Unnoticed. Beautiful.

He watched you fall apart in real time. Watched the way your shoulders curled in, how your hair stopped getting brushed, how your eyes stopped shining. It was like watching a candle melt.

And he loved you like that.

Not the way other people love. Not messy or loud. His love was silent. Holy. You were something sacred when you were broken. Fragile. Soft. Yours was a kind of pain that didn’t whine or scream—it endured. And it made him feel clean just watching you suffer.

You were good, then.

Pure.

When you played those tapes—his tapes—he watched the flicker of the screen on your face and imagined crawling into your lap, curling there like something small, something helpless. Maybe you’d run your hands through his hair. Maybe you’d say his name like it meant something. He liked imagining the way his name—his real name—would sound falling from your lips.

John. John. John.

You were the only one who’d seen him—really seen him. And you hadn’t turned away. Not yet.

Sister Sage was just a tool. She thought she was studying you. Observing your decline like data points in a lab. But he didn’t care about her notes. He only cared about what you whispered when you thought you were alone.

Wounded. Perfect.

Untouched.

He went to your apartment when you weren’t there.

At first, he told himself it was for protection. To make sure you were safe. That no one else was watching you the way he was. But that lie didn’t last long.

He memorized your schedule. Knew which days you stayed late at Vought. Which coffee shop you stopped at on the way home. How long you lingered on the sidewalk before unlocking your door.

That was when he’d slip in.

Through the window. Or the balcony. Or the front door.

The first time, he didn’t touch anything. Just stood in your bedroom and listened. The hum of the refrigerator. The faint buzz of the streetlamp outside your curtains. The softness of your sheets, still shaped to your sleeping form.

He stood there for twenty-three minutes.

Didn’t breathe.

The second time, he sat on the edge of your bed.

Ran his fingers over the comforter. Opened your drawers. Touched the silk of your underwear like it was sacred. Lifted a bottle of perfume and sprayed it just once into the air, closing his eyes like it was a prayer.

He found the clothes you wore the night of the shower. Still balled in the corner of your closet. Still crusted with blood.

He didn’t touch those.

He just stared.

The third time, he brought a gift.

A single white flower.

He left it on your pillow.

You never mentioned it.

He started visiting more often after that. When he knew you were out—at work, at the gym, out trying to forget him—he’d come and remind himself who you really were. Before you ruined it. Before you made him think of you with someone else’s hands on your skin.

But then came him.

The stranger. The man at the bar with the soft hands and boring eyes. He watched it all from above—your drink, your smile, the way your body leaned into something less. He thought you were grieving. Thought maybe this was how you mourned.

But when you brought him home, when you let him touch you, when you opened yourself up to him—

That’s when something broke.

He couldn’t look away.

He watched every second.

Not because he wanted to. But because he had to. Because if he turned his back, it might mean you were someone else. Someone unclean. And he couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t stomach the thought that you were like the rest of them—liars with soft skin and open legs and hollow words.

You weren’t supposed to be like that. Not like that. Not dirty.

He stood on your fire escape, hands clenched tight behind his back, heat rolling off him in waves that made the glass fog. He could hear the sounds from inside. The man groaning. You—silent.

Silent like guilt.

He wanted to tear the man apart. Wanted to rip through your door and leave nothing but blood and teeth and whimpers behind.

Homelander stared at the glass like he could burn through it.

Like if he focused hard enough, the heat from his eyes might pass through the distance, through the building, through her chest.

Pop her fucking heart like a balloon.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

He was imagining it too vividly.

Not just the kill—but how it would feel. Not just the blood, but the moment before.

That moment when she realized. When she looked up at him, startled, confused. Her brain not catching up to her terror fast enough.

And then—

His hands. Around her neck. Her nails slicing into his forearms. Her knees bucking against his hips. Her mouth open, her wide fucking doe eyes screaming why are you doing this?

But she’d know why.

She fucking knew.

He’d say it to her. Whisper it as she gasped and kicked and bled from her lip when he slammed her head too hard against the floor:

“You were supposed to be mine.”

“I let you see me. I let you touch me when I was broken.”

“And you gave yourself to him.”

Her feet would drag weakly across the floor, scraping hardwood. Her eyes would fill with tears, with blood. With him.

And still—still!—he knew there’d be a part of her that wanted him to stop. That believed he might. That believed he cared.

That’s what made him want to do it more.

To teach her what gods do to liars.

She should have worshipped him.

Instead, she invited some stranger in and let him forget her name while he came inside her.

And now Homelander would remind her who she belonged to.

Not just with fear. Not just with pain.

With total, annihilating clarity.

He’d leave her gasping on the floor, pupils blown wide, throat purpled and slick with his fingerprints. No words. No excuses.

Only silence.

Only truth.

And then, maybe then, he could let her go.

Maybe then he’d finally stop dreaming about her.

He blinked his thoughts away, focusing on you again. The very much alive you, laying there in the bed unmoving.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t call anyone.

You didn’t even change the sheets.

You just laid there. Quiet.

—

There were rules, at first, to his visits.

He wouldn’t take anything. Wouldn’t leave a trace.

One night, he found a wine glass in the sink. With lipstick.

Not your color.

His jaw clenched.

His vision blurred.

He shattered the glass in one hand and didn’t even feel the cut.

He scrubbed the counter with his bare palm until his blood soaked into the sponge. He left the pieces in the trash but adjusted the bag so it looked undisturbed.

After that, he wasn’t careful anymore.

He opened your bathroom cabinet.

Checked the expiration dates on your birth control.

Counted your razors.

Smelled your pillow.

He found an old T-shirt—yours, worn soft with time—and folded it into his pocket. Not to keep. Just for a while.

And when he left, he always did one thing:

He moved something.

A drawer. A magnet. A curtain.

Just enough to remind you that he’d been there.

That you weren’t alone.

That no matter how far you fell, he was always watching.

Waiting for you to be good again.

He came back that night. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood in your kitchen and watched the sink drip.

Listened to you breathing in the other room.

Taglist: @xxyaoi-nationxx @unnisumi

#homelander angst #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #homelander smut #the boys fanfiction #the boys fanfic #the boys #vought

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thornyfluff · 1 month ago

Text

Senator Soundwave and cassettes in childcare (or lack thereof) hell.

I'm trying something new... the comic strip will be posted tomorrow--- Stay tuned!

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Title: Soundwave: Signals of a Working Dad

( “Fine. I’ll Just Be Evil Then.”)

Cybertron’s towers shimmered in the golden light of Iacon’s energy grid, but Soundwave’s optic sensors twitched with mounting stress. His console pinged with diplomatic memos, classified updates, and worst of all—a rejection from yet another daycare center.

"RE: Application for Cassette Unit Supervision

We regret to inform you that your children are classified under 'military-grade espionage tools' and therefore ineligible for SparkSprouts Learning Core."

Soundwave’s vocalizer buzzed in frustration. He was a Senator, a pillar of Cybertronian law and order, yet no institution would take in his small herd of sentient cassette children—each of whom had enough destructive capability to warrant their own defense subcommittee.

Ravage had eaten through a file clerk’s desk last week. Laserbeak had imprinted on a data archivist and now refused to stop following him into the wash racks, chirping emotionally. Rumble and Frenzy had started a minor seismic event during nap time. The nap was canceled. The floor is still cracked... And the caregivers are still traumatized.

He couldn’t blame the facilities. But he also couldn’t keep dragging them to the Senate.

“Senator Soundwave,” crackled a panicked voice over the intercom, “your cassette units are in the ventilation system again. Rumble is—wait—Frenzy just launched himself out of an air duct. Is he—IS THAT A DETONATOR?”

He disconnected the call without comment, which was Soundwave for “I am internally screaming.” Then came the final straw. An emergency Senate meeting. High priority. High stakes. Attendance mandatory. No dependents allowed.”

Soundwave sat very still. Shoulders slumped. Optics dimmed. His spark ached in that slow, quiet way familiar to every working caregiver stuck in a system built by bots who clearly never had to wipe unidentifiable goo off the inside of a political briefing data pad.

Across his screen blinked another security memo: Civil unrest. Riots in Kaon. Broadcasts from Megatron again—raging about the elite and how the Senate catered only to the pristine few.

Soundwave wasn’t sure who the “elite” even were anymore. It definitely wasn’t him. Not forged in the Hall of Records. Not groomed by Primes. Not sipping high-grade energon from crystal flutes while somebody else took the spawnlings to enrichment programming.

He had clawed his way up from the shadow circuits, raised five cassette children while climbing the political ranks, and now? Now he couldn’t even get into an emergency session without a babysitter.

...Then came the final insult: An emergency Senate meeting. High alert. All Senators required. No dependents (OR CASSETTES) allowed.

He tried to reason. Briefly.

“Surely—there is a secure observation chamber—”

“Soundwave,” they interrupted, “we are on the brink of civil war. This is no place for... your cassette situation.”

“Senator Soundwave,” said the automated message, “Reminder: Today’s emergency Senate meeting is classified. No dependents allowed. Attendance is mandatory. Failure to appear will result in loss of voting privileges and probable disciplinary review.”

That was it. Not the clogged air vents. Not the Senate’s thousand-page parenting waiver forms. Not even Ravage getting banned from the cafeteria for hunting the microwave.

It was being told—once again—that his family was a “situation.”

He rage-quit the entire political infrastructure of Cybertron.

He stared at the screen. Slowly. Deliberately. He pressed a button. He activated his surveillance . system. It was the sound and sight of five cassette children screaming in unison while dismantling a vending machine.

He attached the file to his RSVP.

“Regretfully Declined. Kindly and collectively Eat My Entire Aft. Sincerely, Soundwave.”

Then, with the calm of a mech who’d just finally decided, “You know what? To the Pit with this,” he opened a comm line and dialed Megatron.

Megatron: “Soundwave. About time. You ready to rise up?”

Sondwave: “Negative. I’m ready to never fill out another daycare application form EVER again.”

M: “...You bringing the cassettes/children?”

S: “Affirmative. All of them. Rumble, Frenzy, Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, Ravage.”

M: “You know we’re starting a violent uprising, right?”

S: “They love those. It's Frenzy’s favorite. I am tuning out of the bureaucratic daycare hellscape that is the Senate.

S: You want me, you take them.”

M: “Can they follow orders?”

S: “Sometimes. It's hit or miss.”

S: “They come with snacks and skills.”

In the background: *Frenzy screaming into the vents for absolutely no reason while buzzsaw and laserbeak eat through the cabling in the wall they're destroying for a nest*

M: “That’s beautiful. Welcome aboard.”

S: “Do Decepticons have healthcare?”

M: “Not really. But we’ve got free refueling and a crying/napping room behind the munitions closet.”

S: “Acceptable. Are dependents allowed to attend meetings?”

M: “They can run HR, for all I care.”

S: “I’m in.”

That night, as the Senate descended into bureaucratic chaos over who was going to draft the Emergency Parking Zoning Act of 405-B, Soundwave reclined in a dark corner of the Decepticon base. Buzzsaw nibbled at Energon snacks. Rumble and Frenzy dropkicked a punching bag labeled “Sentinal Prime.” Ravage dozed atop a crate labeled "Explosives (Definitely Not Toys)."

Soundwave sipped from a cube of high-grade fuel. He’d had enough of trying to be the perfect Senator. Now? He was a Decepticon.

They had a bring-your-minions-to-work policy. And braver babysitters with ball-bearings here. War was hell. But so was parenthood. At least here, the snacks are free and the cassetes could finally be loud. He felt vindicated.

The Senate could keep its rules, panels, and its “no cassettes allowed” elitist energon nonsense. Soundwave was a Decepticon now, and honestly? It came with free dental and part-time daycare (health and safety not guaranteed but frag if he was worried about that on a single mom’s discount ener-mojito-gon night).

And that's why Mamawave became a Decepticon. Corperate and political Cybertron hates families and the working parent.

(much like another planet we know...😤)

I swear--- the older I get, the more I agree with IDW Megatron...

--- I say we start a movement! Like---

Moms And Megatron Against the System! (MAMAS) 🫡🫡🫡

The comic I made if it:

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