#I think the optional protocol would be

[wandixx]

GIW made a lot of mistakes and the biggest one was going against Young Justice part 2

part one is here

@whimsicalchaosgarden you asked to be tagged, sorry it took so long

Trigger warnings: mentions of experimentation and dehumanization (tell me if there is more appropriate way of phrasing it)

“So,” Robin started, taking the voice recorder out of his utility belt. “It'll probably be best if we get an explanation while making an accident report. This way we get it all over sooner”

Everyone agreed with this idea, standing in the loose circle in the debriefing area to make it all feel more serious. They had limited time before the next batch of cookies needed to be taken out of the oven and there was no way they all wouldn't devolve into chaos when it happened. M’gann knew from experience. 

To make sure they wouldn't take too long and cookies wouldn't turn on the fire alarm (again) both she and Danny set a timer.

In the meantime they had to learn who actually attacked them earlier.

“Phantom do the honors”

Danny froze for a moment, looking like deer caught in the headlight before he asked in a bit squeaky voice:

“How do I make an accident report?”

“Just say what happened but make it sound fancy,” Artemis explained. 

“Make a mission report and we'll fix it along the way,” Kaldur proposed.

“Answer ‘When? Where? Who was involved? What happened? What have you done about it?’ without excessive use of puns to avoid Bat-lecture” Robin helped, already in handstand.

“Bat-lecture? Really Rob?”

“So it's like lab report lite” Danny said before Robin did anything more than squawk indignantly “Alright, I can do it. Do you have any set phrase to start? And which accident report is it, in the database?"

“44th… How about ‘[Hero name], report’? Sounds serious enough.”

Everyone agreed, so after a moment of silence Kaldur did the honors.

“Phantom, report”

Danny straightened, rolling his shoulders back and locked his eyes in the middle distance. It was a bit eerie how fast he went from relaxed and goofy to almost emotionless statue. M’gann wished to never encounter it again, thank you very much.

“Incident report no. 45 made by Young Justice member Phantom, regarding an attack from earlier today, 26th April 20XX. The Young Justice Team, later referred to as the Team, went on a trip to an amusement park staying currently in the city of Happy Harbour. It was an activity meant to strengthen interpersonal relationships within the Team, previously green-lit by Red Tornado. Every member was in civilian attire as per protocol. Around 3:15 PM, after two and a half hours, the Team were disturbed by a group of ten armed people, recognized by member Phantom as belonging to Ghost Investigation Ward, colloquially known as GIW or Guys In White because of their uniforms. Later in the report the organization will be referred to as the GIW. Two shots were fired by the assailants, targeting but not reaching member Phantom. Members of the GIW were hostile but with use of humor and threat of legal actions, the Team managed to diffuse the situation before it endangered passerbys. Despite direct attack, none of the Team members’ identities were compromised. Assailants left the confrontation with belief that Phantom left his ectoplasmic signature on an unrelated civilian. Agents refused to admit they were working for the GIW since its operations break a couple of laws of the state Rhode Island. Because of that, their appearance was reported to local law enforcement and taken care of. No injuries or damage to the city infrastructure were sustained other than two burns in the asphalt in the place of confrontation. Required follow-up with local law enforcement in civilian attire as victims of assault. End of report” Danny sighed, easing back into a more natural position. “This good?” he asked, with a sheepish smile.

“Perfect”

“How are you so good at reporting? You didn’t even know what to do a second ago? That’s just unfair”

“I used to write my parent’s lab reports. It’s pretty similar in form”

“Lab-”

“Follow-up to the report only, Kid-Flash,” Robin interrupted “Phantom. elaborate on who were the assailants”

Danny stepped back from himself again.

“GIW is a ghost hunting organization supported and accredited by the state government in Illinois, legally operating also in states Wisconsin and Ohio. Their goal is to catch and examine ecto-entities to learn more about their biology and ways to obliterate them. Obviously their plans for experimentation don’t include consideration of ghosts’ well-being”

“Damn, that’s messed up”

“They wouldn't catch a blob ghost if they tried,” Danny shrugged, though something was wrong with the gesture. She wasn't sure though, so she moved on.

“Then why were you scared?” M’gann pressed on instead.

“My parents… are, you know, prominent ghost hunters so when GIW opened we all got a tour around the whole building. The lab was… it made me imagine things I wished I had never thought about”

“They have labs? Like evil labs?” Robin perked up like a kid who just heard that Christmas came early. “How could you hide it from us?!” he added, falling to hang on Danny's shoulder. He twirled a bit to catch the left one even though before he stood on halfa’s right side. Dramatic as always “Conner, we have a birthday gift for you!”

“What does GIW’s lab have to do with my birthday?”

“The potential!” Robin yelled, straightening for a better effect.

Everyone started laughing. Well, everyone other than Conner who just looked at them confused.

“He probably wants to storm another lab, bring up nostalgia of our first meeting,” Kaldur calmed down just enough to explain.

“Tell me you wouldn't like to punch an evil scientist,” Wally added, almost dropping to the floor. 

“This does sound nice”

“And THIS is exactly the reason why I haven't told you all. Thanks for spoiling my surprise Rob,” Danny lied, though he did his best to sound truthful. He even projected some false mirth.

It would take much more to trick M’gann though. She abruptly stopped laughing.

“You're lying. Why actually haven't you told us?” she demanded maybe a little too harshly, but she was worried. Everyone froze for a moment, before turning to look at Danny.

“They're all bark no bite, and aim worse than Stormtroopers’, so I haven't considered them important enough to report”

Other's didn’t know, of course, but M’gann knew just how terrified Danny was during the confrontation and how echoes of that fear soured air around him even hours later.

Everyone did realize this explanation was a tone of bullshit though. 

Apparently incredulous stares were enough of the response.

“You and the Justice League have more important things to deal with than some shitty local laws”

“Bullshit again,” Artemis burst her lips “This is exactly what Justice League is for”

“I already found people to help me lobby against them”

“And why aren't we on the list?” 

Danny fell silent, not looking anyone in the eyes, which was quite a feat considering they had him in a half circle. M’gann considered moving to his side to show her support. Stare down like that had to be quite stressful.

Why not actually. She stepped closer, and drew him in the loose side hug. Danny tensed, which wasn't abnormal for him. He usually relaxed in about thirty seconds, if he didn't, she'd let go.

“I didn't expect them to breach the containment…”

“Each of these lies is worse, you know? Like, insulting our intelligence level of worse,” Artemis interrupted once more, pinning him with her eyes alone “Give us truth or stop talking”

Danny raised his head to look back at Artemis and mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing the key away. 

“Really?”

Boy just shrugged, not breaking eye contact.

“Alright, let's move on to the next question, how did it get approved in the first place?” Wally interrupted, waving his hand between them. They both shook off like dogs fresh out of water.

“Couldn't you wait five more seconds until I won?” 

“Ha! You wish Artemis. Though you could give us a moment”

“I gave you literal ages”

Danny snorted “Sorry, I keep forgetting how impatient you are”

“Oh shut up, my brain is just faster than yours, you slowpokes”

“Sure, sure”

“He made a good point,” Kaldur said “This shouldn’t even pass. And even if, you’re legally a Meta”

“Normal ghosts aren’t and halfas being a thing is not exactly common knowledge among the living”

“I’ll never get used to this distinction”

“I believe in you, Rob”

“What about ‘Extraterrestrial, extradimensional and otherwise previously unincluded’ Optional Protocol to the ‘International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights’?”

“Oh my god Conner, you’re the only person to say the whole name ever”

“Hey!”

“It all comes down to the definition of the ghost and the fact that Alien addition uses sentience and sapience as a ground to give anyone said rights. And also, US signed it but didn’t ratify it so…”

“Isn’t it same thing?”

“Nope. I thought so too, but apparently signing anything means nothing unless it’s also ratified, so I’m kinda fucked. Can’t even get the UN to frown at them disapprovingly, because officially, nothing was agreed to. And you know, even if they ratified it, ecto-scientists conducted enough research to prove we aren’t sapient enough to have these rights anyway. Just most of the states didn’t need to make a law out of it”

“That’s rough buddy”

“Are you really quoting Avatar at me right now? Really Artemis?”

“Yes”

“Wasn’t Avatar this movie with blue people? I don’t think they said that there”

M’gann wasn’t quite sure why human members seemed to be appalled by the question.

“We’re going to fix that later-”

“What exactly is there to be fixed, because I feel like we’re talking about to different things”

“- but for now can we go back to the whole ‘ghosts have no rights in Illinois’ thing” Robin continued, completely ignoring Conner’s questions.

“Illinois, Wisconsin and Ohio. There are portals to the Zone in two of these states. GIW already tried to send nuke through one of them”

“How Americana of them,” Kaldur muttered.

“If you have another insane tidbit about them, please share it all now. My mind can’t utilize any more revelations like that”

“I handled it, don’t worry”

“Someone tried to nuke literal Afterlife…”

“Yup, get on the schedule Kid Flash. You’re supposed to be fast”

M’gann knocked her arm into his, kinda as a ‘don’t be mean’ message. Danny kinda tensed, but soon relaxed back and moved his head as if he wanted to lay it on her shoulder. Excitement of the day was clearly catching up to him.

M’gann wouldn’t be mad if he did laid his head there.

“Why do we learn about it just now?”

“I wrote the report, not my fault you haven’t read it”

“Can’t fault us for assuming we’d know every important thing from your endless bitching!”

Danny straightened and laughed, in this horrible humorless way that made M’gann want to claw at her brain until she couldn’t hear or sense any of it.

Instead, she brought her other hand up and just held him tighter.

Thankfully the whole spectacle didn’t last long.

“It’s cute that you think I bitch about anything important”

“Phantom…”

“Don’t Phantom me right now. Even if by some miracle they managed to send the missile to the Zone, it most likely wouldn’t have worked. They’re mostly just a joke.”

“They managed to shot you. Right upper arm or shoulder”

“Don’t deny it, we’ve seen you wince when I leaned on you and when M’gann hugged you”

Martian tried to let go hearing that, but Danny held her in place. She stayed where she was but carefully moved her hand away from the slightly damp area on his shirt. She suddenly caught on everything that was wrong with him, now that she knew to look for it.

“I got worse from the hand of my house’s security system”

“You… understand that it’s… like… way worse, right?”

“You don’t know life until you hear threats of dissection against your alter ego after stopping death ray with bowl of cereal,” he said, relaxing more into her side again. He sounded absolutely exhausted.

“Do you want to move in here? Until we deal with this whole GIW and assorted mess?” she said instead. Conner nodded, surprisingly eager to share the space that he considered somewhat sacred.

“Nope, I’m good, I’m needed there”

“You could Zeta- yeah, no, nevermind, it wasn’t good idea. But we could make it work”

“You still should-”

“It’s fine. I mean, I have it handled and it doesn’t affect that many people. And we’re working on it. It’s fine”

“It really is not,” Conner growled.

“You need your arm patched up” M’gann demanded, ignoring previous conversation, with eyes still fixed on the blood that stained her forearm. She should’ve destroyed at least Operative K.

“I bandaged it up”

“It soaked through then. Let’s go to med–”

Loud shrill interrupted her, because of course it did.

“Oh, look, convenient distraction! Let’s take the cookies out before they get burned!”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” M’gann stated in a way that allowed no argument “You’re getting away for now only because I’m holding most of your weight right now”

“Sure we will. And I can stand on my own, thank you very much”

“I’ve heard many lies today and this might be the worst of them. We’re going to Medbay as soon as the cookies are out”

“You’ve got it boss”

[trees-to-meet-you]

Listening to MAG Season 5 Q&A - Part 1 and hearing Jonny talk abt how if he were to write more Magnus stuff he’d probably do a prequel but it would undermine parts of the original story and writing so he’s not very interested in writing spinoff stuff is kinda fun while knowing full well that Magnus Protocol exists

[formulafanfics13]

finding out the condom broke 🔥

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉

Current grid

Lando Norris “Wait, what?” He freezes. Like full body tension, brows furrowed, eyes locked onto you like you just told him he’s starting P20 in the rain. He pulls out, inspects the damage, and immediately spirals. “You’re on something, right? Like the pill? Anything?” You shake your head. His face drops. He paces naked with one sock on, talking to himself. “No no no this is fine. It’s okay. We’ll handle it. We’ll handle it.” Fifteen minutes later he’s back in the room with three versions of Plan B, a thermometer, a fucking calendar, and a half-eaten granola bar. He keeps repeating, “We can’t tell anyone. No one can know.” Like you're carrying state secrets.

Oscar Piastri His face goes pale. Just sits there, dick still out, blinking. “Right. Okay. Good to know.” He stands, gets dressed in complete silence, calmly grabs his phone, and you assume he’s calling for help or booking a pharmacy visit. But no, he’s opened a Google Doc titled Emergency Protocols. He hands you water, asks how long it’s been since your last period, and starts setting silent alarms on his Apple Watch. You try to joke that he’s treating this like a pit stop and he just looks at you like, “Would that make it easier if I did?” You’re not sure if he’s okay. He’s definitely not sure either.

Charles Leclerc “Merde.” It’s soft at first. Almost a whisper. Then louder. “Merde, merde, merde.” He goes full Monaco dramatics - hands in hair, pacing the room like it’s the last lap at Spa and Ferrari just botched the strategy again. Lays on the floor like the world is ending. You’re still half-naked. He’s already running through baby names. “Do you think I’d be a good father? No, never mind. That was a stupid question.” It takes you twenty minutes to calm him down. He doesn’t sleep that night. He just lies there holding your stomach like it might start growing immediately.

Lewis Hamilton Unfazed. Scarily calm. The kind of calm that suggests he’s either been here before or has already accepted the consequences. He kisses your shoulder, reaches for water, and says, “Alright. First thing tomorrow, we’ll sort it out.” Then he starts listing options like he’s reading off a race strategy plan. “We can go to the pharmacy. Private clinic if you’d prefer. I’ve got a driver on call. Don’t worry.” You wake up at 3am to find him meditating with crystals and ordering prenatal supplements ‘just in case.’ He doesn’t fuck around. He’s already built a future, just waiting for you to sign off on it.

Max Verstappen His head snaps around like you just said “DNF.” “You’re kidding.” You are not. Max goes completely still. Stares at you. Then stares at the condom like it personally insulted him. He stands, mutters “unbelievable” under his breath, and disappears into the ensuite. You hear drawers opening, bottles rattling, the clatter of his phone on the marble. When he returns, he’s holding a boxed set of pregnancy tests and muttering about switching brands. “I knew something felt off. I should’ve known. I knew it.” He refuses to sleep until you’ve peed on at least two sticks. Then watches you sleep like you’re a ticking time bomb. Doesn’t say a word, just keeps watch.

Yuki Tsunoda Immediate panic. No buffer. No processing time. “WHAT THE FUCK!” Fully yells. Throws the broken condom like it’s a war crime. “NO. NOPE. NO FUCKING WAY.” Storms around the room butt naked, grabbing at his hair, screaming at nothing. “WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN TO ME? WHY DO I HAVE SUCH BAD LUCK?!” Then suddenly quiet. Dead serious. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” He crouches by the bed, still panting. “Like, seriously. Are you okay?” You nod. He nods. Then screams again.

Carlos Sainz “Joder.” That’s it. That’s his whole response for the first five minutes. One word. Over and over again. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s walking in circles, muttering “Joder, joder, joder.” Eventually stops. Stands in front of you, stark naked, hands on his hips like he’s about to give a post-race interview. “Okay. So. What do we do?” You suggest a pharmacy. He’s already halfway out the door before you finish the sentence. Later that night, you catch him googling “how to know if sperm is strong” like he’s trying to psych himself out of being fertile. He starts calling you "mama" jokingly and then gets quiet when it makes him feel weirdly emotional.

Alex Albon Laughs. Actually fucking laughs. “Oh my god. I knew something felt off!” You stare at him, waiting for panic. Nothing. He’s still laughing. “Of course. Of course this would happen to me.” Then he looks at you, eyes wide. “Wait. You’re not like… gonna have a baby now, right?” You shrug. He stops laughing. Thirty minutes later, he’s bought ten tests and is trying to manifest infertility. “My swimmers are slow. I know it. There’s no way. I’ve had Monster energy drinks every day for like a decade.” You tell him to shut up. He says, “Yeah okay fair.” But then googles “caffeine and sperm count” anyway.

George Russell Gasps. Like actual Victorian fainting couch gasp. “Oh my God.” Immediately spirals. “This isn’t in the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He’s pacing, calculating conception rates, asking if you’ve taken folic acid, and already emailing a fertility specialist he knows. “I’ll book us both in. Just to be safe. Might as well check the system.” You suggest sleeping on it. He sits upright in bed with a notebook. You glance at it. It’s titled Post-Coital Crisis Management. There’s a colour-coded flowchart.

Kimi Antonelli He says nothing. Like, nothing. Just sits there. Still inside you. Frozen. You touch his arm. He blinks. Pulls out. Stands up. Leaves the room. You hear a door open. A drawer slam. Then silence. Five minutes later he returns with a Plan B box, three bottles of water, a banana, and a cold pack. Says nothing as he hands them to you. Then sits at the end of the bed like a soldier awaiting orders. You ask if he’s okay. He nods. “I think so.” He’s not. But he’s trying so hard not to show it.

Lance Stroll Sighs. Not even panicked. Just tired. “Damn.” Leans back against the pillow and rubs his face. “Of course. Of fucking course.” Looks over at you and shrugs. “You alright?” You nod. “You?” He shrugs again. “We’ll survive.” Orders two smoothies and a Plan B on delivery. Later offers to fly in a private doctor. You refuse. He shrugs again and says, “Honestly? If something happens… I wouldn’t freak out.” You stare. He shrugs again. He’s on a fucking loop.

Fernando Alonso Raises an eyebrow. “Interesting.” You’re already panicking. He’s still inside you, smiling like he knows a secret. “It felt good though, didn’t it?” You throw a pillow at his face. He dodges, gets up, and pours you a glass of wine. “Too late for prevention. We plan now.” You ask what the fuck that means. He says, “You’d look beautiful pregnant.” You scream. He says, “I’m just saying.” Ten minutes later he’s showing you schools in Switzerland and calling someone he knows about fertility testing.

Liam Lawson Blinks rapidly. Face turns red. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re serious?” You nod. He covers his face with both hands like a teenager getting caught by their parents. “I am so fucking stupid. Why didn’t I check it?” He’s spiraling. Checking the floor for evidence. Rechecking the wrapper. Pulling up articles on his phone. You try to calm him. He blurts, “I’ll support you. Whatever happens. I’ll be here.” You remind him that you're probably fine. He texts you four times that night just to make sure.

Isack Hadjar “You’re lying.” You’re not. He knows you’re not. But he still says it three times. “You’re lying. No you’re not. Fuck.” Then: “Okay. Okay. Okay.” Stands up. Walks in a circle. Then says, “So... what now?” You tell him you’ll handle it. He nods like you just told him to prepare for battle. Two hours later he’s bought baby shoes online just to see what they’d look like. He shows them to you. “Cute, right?” You threaten to block his number. He says, “You’d miss me.”

Nico Hülkenberg Looks down. Then looks up at you. “Well… that’s not ideal.” He’s so calm it’s unnerving. You ask if he’s worried. “I mean, I’m German. I’m always worried. But I’m also prepared.” Opens drawer. Pulls out Plan B. Opens another drawer. Pulls out calendar. Then just sits beside you, totally nude, and asks if you’d rather take the test in the morning or evening. Says something weirdly philosophical like “Life finds a way,” and goes to make coffee. You’re still sitting in bed, in shock. He brings you coffee and says, “Just in case, we should pick a name. I like Max.”

Gabriel Bortoletto “Wait... what do you mean it broke?” His voice cracks. He looks down. Then at you. Then back down like he can actually see the mistake if he stares hard enough. Goes from cocky to terrified in 0.2 seconds. “No no no. This is not... this is not happening.” Starts muttering in Portuguese. Full-blown panic mode. Pulls a pillow over his face and just screams into it for a solid ten seconds. When he resurfaces, sweaty and wide-eyed, he says, “I’ll take responsibility. I swear. But also I’m still a baby myself. Like mentally. Emotionally. I don’t even own an iron.” Proceeds to google ‘how to raise a child’ while pacing the room in just socks and a chain.

Ollie Bearman Freaks the fuck out. You say, “The condom broke,” and he says, “What? Like… broke how?” You show him. His face goes white. “Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.” Paces. Pulls his shirt on inside out. Slams a water bottle down. Stares at you like you’re about to explode. Then gets really quiet. “I’m sorry. I should’ve checked. This is my fault.” You try to calm him down. He brings you a protein bar and a juice box. Offers to take a pregnancy test with you. You say that’s not how it works. He says, “Yeah… yeah, okay. Cool cool cool.”

Esteban Ocon Stares at you like you just told him his telemetry failed. “…It what?” He gets up, completely naked, walks calmly to the bathroom, turns on the light, and examines the condom like it’s a cursed object. “That’s not possible. It didn’t feel like—” Then his eyes go wide. “Fuck. No. Shit.” Immediately starts tidying the room while asking questions like a crisis manager. “What’s your cycle like? When was your last period? Have you eaten today? Do you need electrolytes?” You tell him to stop moving. He says, “I can’t. I’m spiralling. But like… productively.” He later texts Pierre just in case he dies from anxiety in his sleep.

Pierre Gasly Gasps. Audibly. You: “The condom broke.” Pierre: “BROKE? Like… fully? Like we were going raw and I didn’t even know?” He jumps out of bed like it’s lava. Begins inspecting it like Sherlock Holmes with a murder weapon. “Look at this. Look. This is sabotage. I’ve been betrayed.” You ask him to calm down. He deadass says, “We might’ve just made a human. I will NOT calm down.” Then he looks at you. Eyes soft. “Are you okay though? Because I’ll handle this if you want me to. All of it.” He’s somehow both spiralling and romantic. Buys three types of Plan B and kisses your forehead like you’re on your way into war.

Franco Colapinto You say the words and he just blinks. “…What do you mean it broke?” You show him. He physically recoils. Like the latex committed a crime against humanity. Then he says something terrifyingly sincere like, “We just created something sacred, maybe.” You threaten to throw a pillow at him. He looks genuinely panicked now. “Wait no, I’m joking. Or not. I don’t know. I’m panicking.” Sits down on the floor, legs crossed like a schoolkid, googling fertility stats and pregnancy symptoms on his phone. Eventually looks up at you and says, “If you need me to marry you for legal reasons, I’m available.” You: “What the fuck?” Him: “Just letting you know!”

Others

Sebastian Vettel Immediately looks like you just told him you crashed an endangered bee. “Shit.” Sits up and runs both hands through his hair, naked, thoughtful, deeply German about it. “That is… not good.” You try to play it cool, but he’s already calculating the environmental impact of raising a child. Pulls out a pen from somewhere and starts scribbling on the back of a hotel notepad: dates, timelines, probability of ovulation, German pharmacy locations. He doesn’t panic. He over-prepares. Also asks if you're okay about seven times in a row. You end up wrapped in a duvet watching him map out a 10-year education plan for a child that doesn’t even exist yet.

Kimi Räikkönen Looks down. Looks at you. Grunts. Gets up. Pours vodka. Drinks it. Sits down. Lights a cigarette. Still butt-naked. Finally says, “Could be worse.” You try to talk. He holds up a finger. “Don’t panic. It’s boring when people panic.” You sit in silence for a full ten minutes while he drinks and stares at the wall. Then he mutters, “We use different ones next time.” Next time?? You blink. He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t flinch. Sleeps like a baby that night while you lie awake wondering if he’s immortal or just completely detached.

Mick Schumacher Eyes wide. Immediate concern. “Oh no. Wait. Oh no no no no.” Rushes to inspect the damage, as if staring hard enough will fix it. Then he looks up at you like a puppy caught chewing on something forbidden. “Are you okay? Are you mad? Did it hurt? I didn’t notice, I swear—” He’s panicking. Pulls out his phone, starts Googling faster than you can stop him. Orders Plan B and three pregnancy test brands. Later that night you find him on his Notes app planning a gender-neutral nursery. You say nothing. He blushes. “It’s just in case!”

Jack Doohan Blinks. “…Did it actually break or are you messing with me?” You show him. His soul leaves his body for a second. “Holy shit.” Then it kicks in. “Holy fuck.” Then he starts laughing. Not because it’s funny. Because he’s mentally imploding. “My dad is gonna kill me.” You ask if he’s okay. He lies face down on the bed, muffled groaning into the sheets. Fifteen minutes later he sits up, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, and says, “I’ll raise it on a fucking ranch if I have to.” You honestly believe him.

David Coulthard “Ah. Well then.” Very British about it. Like you just spilled tea, not cum. He sighs. Looks down at the broken condom. Shakes his head like a disappointed headmaster. “It’s always the good ones that go first.” Gets up, cleans himself, puts on silk boxers like nothing happened. You’re panicking. He pours scotch. “We’ll handle it. You and me. Adults.” You ask if he’s done this before. He sips the drink and mutters, “Several times.” Doesn’t explain. Refuses to elaborate. Winks at you across the bed and says, “Worst case, we raise a beautiful little bastard.”

Jenson Button “Oh bloody hell.” Sits up immediately, panic washing over his face like a safety car announcement. Starts apologising profusely. “I should’ve double-checked. That’s on me. That’s completely on me.” You say it’s fine, but he’s already halfway to his phone googling ‘can you get pregnant if the condom breaks even if it’s been less than 60 seconds’. Texts his assistant asking for a “discreet, high-quality pharmacy rec.” You ask if he’s okay. He gives you the softest look. “We’ll be okay. But also, I might never sleep again until I know for sure.”

Toto Wolff Freezes. Absolutely still. Doesn’t breathe for ten seconds. Then turns to you with terrifying Austrian control. “Are you alright?” You nod. “Are you alright?” He stands up and calmly removes the broken condom with surgical precision, like he’s dismantling a failed rear wing. “I will fix this.” Twenty minutes later, he’s called a doctor, ordered you a care package, emailed someone from the team a warning just in case this turns into an HR nightmare, and has a full plan. Also randomly mutters, “This wouldn’t have happened with Pirelli.” You don’t know what that means. He doesn’t explain.

James Vowels Immediate British panic. Like red-alert nuclear panic in a three-piece suit. “Oh my God.” Rushes around naked but still wearing a watch. “I need a calendar. Where’s your calendar?” Starts scribbling on a hotel notepad while muttering to himself about cycle tracking, probabilities, ovulation windows, and high-speed risk management. You try to joke. He says, “This is not funny. This is my life.” Accidentally cries a little. Apologises for crying. Tries to hug you but knocks over a glass of water. You end up holding him and whispering, “It’s gonna be okay,” while he resets his entire five-year plan in real time.

Paul Aron Young. Hot. Full-body panic. “…Wait. What? What do you mean it broke?” You show him. He goes pale. “Like, broke broke?” Starts pacing. “Okay okay okay okay okay.” Sits down. Head in hands. “You’re not gonna… like… get pregnant, right?” You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Paul. Want to flip a coin?” He chokes. Then mumbles, “If you do, I’ll like… I’ll step up.” You nod. “That’s good.” He panics again and says, “But let’s not, okay? Like let’s not let that happen?” He buys out an entire pharmacy’s Plan B stock just in case.

Arthur Leclerc Physically flinches. Like he feels the consequences crawling up his spine. “Oh no.” Covers his mouth. Sits on the edge of the bed looking like he just crashed out of quali. “Do you think it’s okay?” You shrug. He starts listing every potential pregnancy symptom even though it’s been 4 minutes. Goes online, orders Plan B, two types of herbal teas, and three books about parenting. You ask him if he’s always like this. He says, “No. Only with you.” Then blushes, realises he said that out loud, and dives face-first into a pillow.

Pato O'Ward “Holy shit.” Jumps off the bed like it’s on fire. Looks at the condom, then at you. “No no no no no. That was NOT part of the plan.” He’s pacing in loops. Pulling at his hair. Muttering something in Spanish too fast to follow. Then suddenly stops. Looks at you. “Do you want a baby?” You: “Right now? No.” Him: “Cool. Cool cool cool.” Buys five pregnancy tests, brings you a Gatorade, then says, “If it happens though, we’re calling it ‘Turbo.’” You slap him. He grins. Still sweating.

[reasonsforhope]

Given the misinformation that's been going around and will be going around, thought this might be helpful to some people

For a lot of reasons, I'm very good at this/at searching, to the point where I have worked as a professional fact-checker for two different publishers. So, here goes:

My Article Fact-Checking Protocol

Thorough Version

Read the full article. Keep an eye out for emotionally loaded words, and all-or-nothing language

Keep an eye out or anything that sounds too good to be true, and in contrast, anything that sounds so awful it must be true

Run the website/source through the amazing Media Bias/Fact Check. They'll tell you about a publication's bias and history of accuracy

Go to the website's home page and read through the headlines. Look at what topics they cover/prioritize, sensationalist headlines, and whether they're framing anything in a way that feels odd/off to you

Do a search related to the topic. This can be keywords, a question, or even just copy-paste the article title (Recommended: use DuckDuckGo so the results don't change based on what Google thinks they can sell you)

If multiple highly credible sources that say the same thing pop up, and there's no major societal biases that might affect the coverage of the topic in those sources (e.g. anything related to the Israel-Palestine conflict/Palestinian genocide, no matter which side), then I'm done!

If there are major societal biases, or I can't get a consensus of sufficiently credible sources, then I do some combination of:

(1) search the topic again + the words "controversy" and/or "fake"

(2) search the opposite of the topic, or do some sort of other filtered search

(3) look up a sufficiently credible news outlet with the opposite point of view of my source, and see what they have to say

(4) if it's a big enough topic, start by looking up 2 of the top national papers and 1 major paper for your region (I usually do the ones in the US, because that's where I am In the US: the LA Times, the Washington Post, and the NY Times)

Adjust "news" to "relevant type of source, e.g. tech, environmental" as relevant for all of the above options

If no red flags come up, and it's a topic I understand enough to smell huge bullshit,

Then I'm usually done!

If there are red flags, or I actually need a certain amount of detail/understanding, then it gets more complicated, but that would be a whole other thing to break down and such

or

tl;dr

Quick Version

Read the full article. Keep an eye out for emotionally loaded words, and all-or-nothing language

Keep an eye out or anything that sounds too good to be true, and in contrast, anything that sounds so awful it must be true.

If I don't know the website:

Run the website/source through the amazing Media Bias/Fact Check. They'll tell you about a publication's bias and history of accuracy

If I trust the source, but something else pinged my radar:

Do a quick web search to verify anything that sounds suspicious or too good/bad to be true (Recommended: use DuckDuckGo)

[iamthatonefangirl]

Hii, I wanted to ask for some "boys being boys" kind of one-shot. The setting is: Sam, Tony, Bucky and Bruce were arguing about how they could make the Winter Soldier some safety protocol for Bucky's gf since she's also a fighter and go with them in the missions (All of this happening while they were drunk, so OF COURSE IT DOESN'T SEEM LIKE A BAD IDEA.) Bucky also doesn't know that the WS knows gf and is already very protective of gf, so when Steve and Reader (who is Bucky's gf and some kind of Steve's little sis) appear, things get a little… weird with WS being a possessive bf.

(Can I be annon ✨🐍/sparkilin snake?)

~✨🐍

bad luck - nsfw bucky barnes/winter soldier

word count: 1.9k disclaimer: mentions of homicide, bucky turns into the winter soldier obviously, fully consensual smut by both parties although not explicitly stated. *please note: this is NOT correlated with my pre-existing winter soldier series. a/n: hey anon I love the emoji combo omg. I went a slightly different direction from your ask but this is my interpretation of it :)

part 2 - part 3

~~~

you'd only seen the winter soldier emerge twice, so far.

one time in a hydra base on a mission.

a second time in an ambush he wasn't prepared for.

~~~

you were with him the first time it happened.

in the case anything had gone wrong and somehow it happened, you'd been briefed ahead of time to make a run for it, not to engage the soldier. they would be able to find Bucky later and subdue him.

Bucky gave you a different set of instructions.

if somehow he turned, he instructed you to shoot him on sight. don't hesitate, don't wait. do what you had to in order to stay alive.

"goddamnit, Bucky, I'm not going to fucking kill you," you hissed at him, wishing you could just smack him upside the head. "there's a million other options before that."

"listen to me," he pled with you, "if it comes down to it, you shoot me. you do not hesitate. do you understand me?"

you were appalled.

"I'm not going to-"

"no," he interrupted you, voice stern. "either you promise me you'll do this, or I'm telling Steve to send someone else with me."

you almost felt like crying.

you thought about it. you thought about saying hell no, have him send someone else.

but you didn't trust anyone else to not shoot him if it came down to it.

so you lied.

"I'll kill you if I have to."

~~~

you didn't think it would actually happen. no way in hell.

you were roaming the base, trying to find the information you'd been sent for. you separated from Bucky in the attempts of getting in and out quicker.

after a few minutes, you heard a stark cry of your name from the distance, and your heart fell to your stomach.

you ran as fast as you can, hoping to stop it, do anything at all-

you run up to him, grabbing his arms and shaking him.

"Bucky? goddamnit, Bucky, look at me!" you yell at him.

you're met with those cold, dead eyes that you were told meant run for your goddamn life.

you're too late.

so you began to back up, following the orders you'd been given, trying to run. they could save Bucky, they could, but you had to get the hell out of there. you started to back away, ready to turn and bolt.

it was just your luck that you tripped and fell flat on your ass, all while the soldier was stalking towards you ominously.

you didn't have time to get up.

so you unholstered your gun, pointing it at him, tears coming to your eyes. you held it shakily, trying to make the split second decision,

what do I do? what do I do?

this was not supposed to fucking happen. you weren't about to kill the love of your life.

you were met with the greatest surprise of your life when he didn't rip your arm off, or reach out to choke you to death with his bare hands, or anything of the like.

he grabbed the gun from your hand with ease, and threw it to the side, then reaching for your hand and hauling you to your feet.

you stood there, face to face with him, wondering what the hell was going on. why didn't he immediately attack you?

the sound of gunshots filled the room. someone knew you were there, whoever was left of hydra, surely operating under the assumption that the soldier would kill you and then they could take back their precious asset.

you scrambled for your gun, but he picked it up first, pushing you behind him while he easily decimated the agents running at you.

you were stunned. Bucky never killed anyone, he wouldn't do it. but you had just watched him, not him, kill a dozen people without a second thought.

you prepared for him to turn around and shoot you, but he didn't. he looked you up and down for injuries, saw none, and his face relaxed.

you scrambled for what to do next. "the team, they'll come running at the sound of gunshots. you have to go, they can't know you're..."

you trailed off. your thoughts were a mess.

"I have to go."

he let you make a run for the exit.

~~~

obviously, you lied.

you told everyone that you never saw him. all you saw was the mess of dead, bloodied bodies, and no Bucky. which pointed to the obvious: he turned.

no way in hell were you going to admit anything.

a few sleepless nights passed without Bucky by your side, and with each passing day, you worried more and more that you'd never get him back. that by lying, you'd somehow messed up, and that it was somehow your fault you'd never see him again.

when your apartment window opened in the middle of the night a few days after the incident, you grabbed your gun and watched as the dark figure made its way into your apartment.

Bucky, finally.

"fuck, oh my god, you're okay," you say, running towards him, putting down the gun. you bring your hands to his shoulders, taking in his disheveled appearance.

"you've got to be starving," you comment, but then you look back up at his face.

it's not Bucky.

he's staring at you, looking into your eyes so intensely you'd think it's all he knew how to do.

"are you hungry?" you ask tensely, unsure what else to say. he says nothing in response, but reaches out to you for the second time, this time gripping your waist tightly in both hands as though he owns you.

"mine," he growls.

your breaths become shallow, and you debate your options.

he didn't hurt you last time, he protected you. he let you go. he hasn't hurt you this time.

mine?

you don't fight him when he pulls you into his arms and hauls you to your bed.

you would never admit to a single soul that you were eager, that you were excited when he started to yank at your clothes and began to suck at the skin of your neck.

"no marks!" you exclaim in a panic. you can't have Bucky see it, he'll freak. you're most certainly not sure how you're supposed to explain this to him, but you will.

eventually.

clearly, your request pisses him off, but he lets up on his ministrations, running his mouth across your chest without leaving a single bruise in his wake.

his hands are more firm on your skin than Bucky's. he's not giving, he's taking. he's going to do what he wants.

you moan at the realization.

his hands yank your sweatpants off, not wasting any time as he shoves his hands in your underwear, only to find you absolutely dripping for him.

you hear him grunt at the discovery, quickly pulling his own pants out of the way, not wanting to wait another minute to fuck you.

you've taken Bucky a million times, only a few of them this quickly, with this little prep.

you don't let yourself think about the fact that you've never gotten this wet this quickly before.

he tolds you tightly by the waist underneath him, pinning you to the bed, taking what he wants. he's careful not to leave any marks, just as you asked.

"mine," is all he says, over and over again, the whole time he fucks you.

all the while, you're sobbing out with how fucking good it is, prepared for the neighbors to bang down your door the next day and demand you shut the fuck up.

you don't care. right now, all that's on your mind is that you're his.

~~~

when you wake up the next morning, you're not sure what to expect. you see him laying there next to you, dead asleep. at some point, you both must have stripped off the rest of your clothes to sleep.

you slip out of bed, pulling on your pajamas, telling yourself to not think about how you're going to explain this to him until after you've had coffee.

you're looking out the window above the sink, sipping your beverage, when you hear a familiar voice say your name from behind you.

you whip around, lukewarm coffee sloshing over the sides of the mug, to see him standing there.

"Bucky," you say in relief and run to him.

when he begins to ask questions, you lie. you shouldn't lie to him, but now isn't the time to tell him. you have to wait until he's come to terms with the fact that he was turned again.

you'll tell him when he's ready.

you feed him the same story you fed the rest of the team. you never saw the winter soldier, you only saw the mess he left. when he came in the window last night, you were asleep.

you never saw the winter soldier.

and that's what you told everyone when you brought Bucky in to show everyone that he was alive and himself again. that's the story you stuck to when everyone began arguing over what they were supposed to do, how they were supposed to deal with this. they fought over how to keep you safe going forward, assuming that you would be the first person on the winter soldier's kill list.

you bit your tongue as the anxiety of keeping the secret broiled in your stomach.

~~~

the second time it happened, you weren't there to stop it.

he was only a few blocks from the compound, going for a run around the city, when the ambush happened.

another handful of rogue agents grabbed him, this time intending to set him loose on everyone in the compound. surely they could prevent what happened last time, that they could direct him to kill whoever they pleased.

they were wrong. in the same fashion as the time before, he killed them all without hesitation, the only thought in his mind: you.

you were alone in the fifth floor kitchen, thinking about how it was long past time for you to tell him. it'd been weeks, and he deserved to know.

you just hoped he wouldn't leave you when you told him, that he wouldn't try to convince himself you were better off without him, safer without him.

suddenly, you hear the door slam.

you turn towards the noise, having scared the living daylights out of you, when you see Bucky walking in.

"fucking hell, don't do that, you scared me," you say, tending to your food on the stove, building up the courage to bring up the subject weighing heavy on your mind. "I made lunch. I was hoping we could talk."

he doesn't say anything in response, walking up behind you and wrapping his hands around your waist in the same manner as the time before.

"mine," he whispers in your ear, and you freeze.

not Bucky.

you barely flick the stove off before he's grabbing you all over, a metal hand running up your shirt and his other hand dipping into your pants.

"fuck, how did you-" you begin to ask him, but you know he won't answer you. he probably won't even know the answer.

you lean back against him, letting him carry your whole body weight as he gropes at the flesh of your breast and begins to rub circles over your clit.

"mine."

you almost wonder if it's the only word he knows with how much he repeats it to you.

"yes. yours," you affirm, spurring him on.

this time, he leaves a mark on your neck.

"yours, fuck, I'm yours," you whine as you come too quickly, giving yourself over to him willingly.

"you belong to me," he growls in your ear, wrapping a metal hand around your throat and gently squeezing. the unspoken implication of "not him" is not lost on you.

you don't have it in you to disagree.

~~~

part 2

masterlist

join my tag list

bucky tag list:

@clavedelune @starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @mrsnikstan @sleepysongbirdsings @sapphirebarnes @bananababygirl10 @multiversefanfics @winchestert101 @andziabarnes @chrisevansleftnipple @daisydark @luckyhornet @maryevm @avengemepercy @starstruck-cowgirl @doubledizzy22 @yvespecially @shereadzzz @flow33didontsmoke @blaineandergel @iiamlynn @tellybearryyyy @belovedmoony @doilooklikeagiveafrack @analovesmarvel @izzy698 @ketchumid24 @annabethboleyn @luv4koo @uh-buckybarness @buckyseternaldoll @planetzeidy @thegirlfatherr @mandoloriancookie @cieraboobear

[reiding-writing]

Heyyyy, I think it would be soo cool if you could write a scenario where cold!reader actually works a case like idk but yk the typical talking w witnesses or family members.

I also would loveee to know what her interrogation style is like, morgen was always pretty aggressive and Hotch was always so straightforward etc. so I would love to know how she interrogates suspects.

Have a nice one, ly and ur work sm !! ^_^

THE REID TECHNIQUE. /spencer reid/

you volunteer to interview a middle-aged woman suspected of kidnapping a little girl.

cold!reader 4.2k series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | had this one in the works for a few weeks after learning about the reid technique in my forensic psych lecture ✊

The clock above the whiteboard marks every second with an unforgiving tick. It's been twelve hours since the child, eight years old, brown hair in braids, green jacket, was last seen.

You know too well how thin the margins are.

“Local PD has brought in a suspect. Margaret Ellery. Lives four streets over from the family. No hard evidence yet, just circumstantial.” Hotch discards his phone in his pocket.

You push off the table, the movement casual, but inside something sharp and certain slices through the haze. Margaret Ellery. The name means nothing to the others yet, just another possibility. To you, it burns.

“They've got CCTV placing her car near the park at the estimated time of abduction,” Emily says, flicking through images on her tablet. “No witnesses saw the actual snatch, but...” She hesitates. “It’s something,”

“Something," you echo, voice flat.

You can feel Spencer’s gaze flick towards you from his desk. You don’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—the thing coiling under your skin, the certainty you can’t explain.

You know it was her.

The others begin discussing who should lead the interview, voices overlapping—Emily suggesting herself, Morgan arguing the woman might respond better to a softer touch—and for a moment, you let them talk.

Then, calmly, you speak.

“I’ll do it.”

The words drop like stones into the room.

The conversation stalls. Morgan frowns, one eyebrow lifting. Hotch studies you, impassive. Spencer’s pencil stills in his hand.

You don’t volunteer for interrogations. Everyone knows it. You only step in when everything else has failed—the nuclear option. The last resort.

You have built your reputation on results, not likability. You dismantle people, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but the truth. It's not pretty. It's not kind. It's necessary.

But this time, without waiting for anyone to fail, you want it.

Hotch’s mouth tightens into a line. He doesn’t like it, but he also knows better than to argue when you make that face—the one you wear now, cold and still, like a weapon waiting to be drawn.

“Are you certain?” he asks.

You nod once. Precise. Final.

“She’s guilty,” you say. Not a question. Not a theory. A statement of fact.

“How do you know?” Emily asks, cautious.

You flick your gaze to her, then away again. You don't explain things like this. You never have. You just know.

Hotch’s brow furrows. “You’re sure?”

You nod once. Crisp. Certain.

“I can get her to talk.”

He hesitates. You don’t blame him. It’s not just that they’re worried about the woman cracking under your methods, it’s that they’re worried you will push too hard, dig too deep, and leave something broken beyond repair—something in her, something in yourself.

But there’s no time for cautious sensibilities. There’s a child missing. The longer they dither, the colder the trail gets.

Hotch considers for a beat longer, then relents with a sharp nod. “On your lead.”

Morgan shifts his weight, clearly cautious. “I’ll second,”

“No.”

Hotch exhales slowly, measuring you with a look that’s half reluctant approval, half silent warning. “You know the protocol.”

You incline your head with a sigh of exasperation. You know it backwards.

“I work better alone,” you say calmly, before he can open his mouth to suggest otherwise.

That’s non-negotiable. You’ve explained it a thousand times—too many cooks spoil the broth. Too many variables ruin the interrogation. One misplaced glance, one ill-timed question, one unspoken judgement radiating off a team member— it can destroy hours of work.

No one interrupts you when you’re working. No one even breathes too loudly.

Hotch nods once. Reluctant but resigned.

“Room Three,” he says. “She’s waiting.”

You turn sharply on your heel, the heels of your boots clicking lightly against the floor, and make your way down the corridor without looking back.

Behind you, the team watches you go in silence.

Spencer’s gaze lingers the longest.

He understands. Not completely—no one ever could—but enough.

Enough to know that once you step into that room, you’ll become something else. Something sharper. Harder. Merciless in your precision.

And God help the woman on the other side of the glass.

—

You pause outside the interrogation room, hand resting lightly on the door handle. Through the one-way glass, you see her: hunched, fidgeting, a picture of nervous innocence.

She’s shorter than you expected. Plumper. Her hands twist nervously at the hem of her cardigan.

She looks like someone’s kindly aunt. To the untrained eye, she might seem harmless. Sad, even.

You don’t let it fool you.

You close your eyes for a moment. Centre yourself.

This is not about rage. Rage clouds the senses. This is about control. Subtlety. Precision.

When you open your eyes again, you’re a blank slate.

The woman jumps slightly at your entrance. Good. She’s on edge already. You file the information away for later use.

You close the door with a soft click and cross to the chair opposite her, sitting down with a deliberate, unhurried grace. You say nothing for a long moment, simply studying her, letting the silence stretch taut between you.

She fidgets again, clearing her throat. Her eyes flicker up to meet yours and then away, unable to hold your gaze.

You watch her, utterly still.

Already, you can see the cracks beginning to form.

You offer a thin, perfunctory smile.

“Good afternoon,” you introduce yourself, voice low and even. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, alright?”

She licks her lips nervously. “I already told the others— I didn’t do anything,”

You tilt your head slightly. Not a challenge, not an agreement. Just an acknowledgement.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “We’ll go over everything again. Just to be thorough.”

You slide a thin manilla file onto the table between you. The movement is calm, almost lazy.

In reality, every microexpression, every twitch of her fingers, every catch in her breath — you’re cataloguing all of it.

You see guilt. Not the guilt of a wrongfully accused woman, but the heavy, aching guilt of someone who knows precisely what they’ve done and is terrified of the consequences.

You suppress the flicker of satisfaction that rises in your chest.

This will be easier than you thought.

You fold your hands neatly on the table.

“Let’s begin.”

You watch her closely, noting the way her shoulders stiffen under your gaze. She’s nervous.

“I’d first like to briefly remind you that you don’t have to answer any question that you’re uncomfortable with, and you have the right to an attorney if you require one,” You keep your tone measured, almost conversational, as you begin. “This interview is being recorded, and can be submitted as evidence if needed in court,”

Margret’s response is nothing more than a brief nod, and you quickly move on.

“We’ve spoken to several people who know you, Margaret,” you say, glancing briefly at the file in front of you for show, though you don’t need to. You know the contents backwards already. “Your neighbours speak highly of you. Friendly. Involved. Always ready to lend a hand.”

She swallows, nodding a little. As if being agreeable will somehow absolve her.

You continue, letting the words come slowly, giving them weight.

“You knew the Hartleys quite well?”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, hands twisting harder in the hem of her cardigan. “We… we live near each other, yes. I used to babysit for them sometimes, when Claire was first back at work,”

You incline your head, as if pleased by the admission. You knew that information already of course, but the fact that she’s supplying the truth to you early is a good sign.

“And you’ve stayed in touch since then?”

Her mouth twists slightly. “Not really. They… they got busy. New friends. Things change,”

You let the silence settle for a beat, as if considering that. Then you lean forward, just slightly, enough that the space between you shrinks.

“The thing is,” you say, voice still calm, almost gentle, “we have several witnesses who say they saw your car near Westwood Park yesterday afternoon.”

You watch her stiffen, the flicker of fear crossing her face before she can mask it. You press on, smooth and relentless.

“That’s the park where Elsie Hartley was last seen.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. She shakes her head, a tight, jerky movement.

“I must have been passing through. I had errands— the shops—”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “At four-thirty in the afternoon?”

She falters. You don’t need to press the point yet. Just plant the seed. Let it fester.

You sit back again, steepling your fingers lightly.

“We’re not here to attack you, Margaret,” you say, voice dropping slightly. Softer. Sympathetic. “We just want to understand what happened.”

Her eyes dart to the door briefly. You catch the movement, file it away. Already thinking of escape.

You won’t allow it.

“Things happen to people,” you continue, letting your voice thicken just slightly with understanding. “Painful things. Things that change how we see the world.”

You see the way she flinches, barely perceptible. A tiny tell, but enough.

Good. She’s listening now. Feeling now.

“Tell me about your daughter,” you say quietly.

Her face crumples before she can stop it, a raw flash of grief, there and gone.

She tries to cover it up, sitting up straighter, forcing a small, brittle smile.

“She… passed away. A long time ago.”

You nod slowly. “Nine years.”

Her hands clench into fists in her lap.

You lean in again, lowering your voice further.

“Grief can… distort things,” you murmur. “It can make you see injustice where there is none. It can make you desperate to fix something, to make up for what you lost.”

Her breathing has quickened. You see the pulse hammering at her throat.

“Sometimes,” you continue, “it makes people do things they never thought themselves capable of. Good people. Kind people. People who were simply… overwhelmed by sadness.”

She’s trembling now. Just slightly. You act as though you don’t notice.

“You saw Elsie playing in the park,” you say softly. “Maybe you thought her parents didn’t appreciate her enough. Maybe you thought you could give her the love your own daughter never got to fully experience.”

Tears are brimming in her eyes now, but she’s fighting them. Fighting herself.

She shakes her head weakly. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

You don’t argue. You don’t contradict her.

You simply sit back, offering a small, understanding nod.

“Of course you didn’t mean for things to get so complicated. You just wanted to make things right.”

The denial is there, trembling on her lips, but you ignore it.

You pivot neatly, seamlessly, back to the facts.

“You said you were running errands,” you say, as if returning to a mundane detail. “Tell me about that. Which shops?”

She stares at you, panic flickering behind her eyes. She wasn't ready for the shift. That’s the point.

“I— I went to 7-Eleven. And then… the pharmacy. I had a prescription,”

You scribble something meaningless onto your pad, nodding slowly.

“The pharmacy?” you echo. “Do you have the receipt?”

She freezes.

“No,” she says after a moment. “I must have thrown it away,”

You don’t react. You just jot down another line.

“Which 7-Eleven?” you ask, tone still mild.

She blinks. “The one on Briar Lane,”

You hum thoughtfully, making another note. She’s lying. You know it. And she knows you know it.

You give her another moment to stew in her own fear before steering the conversation back.

“Funny thing, Margaret,” you say, lightly conversational, “we pulled CCTV from Briar Lane yesterday. The store, the pharmacy, the petrol station.”

You look up, meeting her eyes directly for the first time since you sat down.

“You’re not on any of it.”

The colour drains from her face.

You don’t press. Not yet. Let her feel the walls closing in. Let her suffocate on the inevitability of it.

She shifts in her seat, wringing her hands.

“I must have got the times wrong,” she mutters weakly.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “It’s easy to get confused. Especially when you’re upset.”

She clings to the lifeline you’ve thrown her, nodding desperately.

“Yes. Yes, I was… distracted,”

You offer her a small, almost pitying smile.

“I understand, Margaret. Truly. No one’s here to judge you.”

Another beat of silence. You watch her, patient and unblinking.

“I can see how hard this is for you,” you say after a moment, voice softening again. “Reliving yesterday. Remembering what happened.”

Her mouth trembles. She presses her lips together tightly, like a child trying not to cry.

“I didn’t… I didn’t take her,” she says, almost whispering.

You nod thoughtfully, as if weighing her words.

“Of course,” you say again. Calm. Unthreatening.

Then, without warning, you steer the conversation right back to the beginning.

“Tell me again what you were doing between three and five yesterday afternoon.”

Her face crumples. She wasn’t ready for the cycle to start again.

But you are tireless. Patient. Merciless.

That’s the thing about interrogations — it’s not the dramatic threats or slammed fists on the table that break people. It’s the relentlessness. The subtle erosion of certainty, the slow dismantling of lies.

She tries again.

“I was at home, actually. I remembered— after the pharmacy I went home. I didn’t feel well.”

“Hmm,” you hum noncommittally. “Your neighbour said they saw your car leave around two, and you didn’t return until gone six.”

You tilt your head, watching her carefully.

“They must be mistaken,” she says quickly, too quickly.

You don’t argue. You just let the inconsistency hang there between you, a slow, toxic drip of doubt.

The denials come more frequently now, growing more desperate with each cycle.

“I wasn’t near the park.”

“I don’t even know where she disappeared from.”

“I just… I was having a bad day.”

You let each one slide past you without reaction, without resistance.

Each time she throws out a denial, you seamlessly redirect — not forcefully, not aggressively, but subtly, like water flowing around a stone.

Back to the CCTV.

Back to the witnesses.

Back to her tangled, faltering story.

You give her a moment to stew in her latest denial. Watch the way she clutches at the hem of her cardigan like it’s a lifeline. Her breathing is shallow now, you can almost hear it hitching every few seconds.

She’s trying to believe her own lies. Trying to build walls faster than you can knock them down.

You lean back slightly in your chair, as if relaxing, as if you have all the time in the world. Then you let your voice slip into a more analytical register.

“Let’s review what we know,” you say, tapping your pen lightly against the table.

The soft sound makes her flinch. Good.

“Your neighbour saw your car leave at two o’clock sharp. CCTV from Briar Lane shows you were not at the pharmacy or the store, as you claimed. In fact—” you pause, leafing slowly through the papers on your clipboard, letting the moment stretch, “—your car was picked up again. Not in Briar Lane. But parked a block from Westwood Park.”

You place a printed image on the table between you: the grainy still of a pale blue Volvo estate. Her car. The timestamp in the corner reads 4:14 p.m.

Margaret pales visibly, staring at it.

“That’s not me,” she whispers, voice breaking.

You arch a brow, slow and sceptical.

“Registration plates don’t lie.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her eyes are wild now, darting across the table, as if searching for some unseen escape hatch.

You press the advantage mercilessly, but with a surgeon’s precision.

“You told us you were at home,” you say calmly. “Yet your vehicle was a block away from the site of a child’s abduction.”

You let the words hang heavily in the air. They don’t need dressing up. They’re lethal enough.

“I just— I just parked for a bit. I wasn’t feeling well—”

You shake your head, slow and deliberate.

“No pharmacy visit. No store. No proof of you being anywhere else.”

You place another sheet on the table, another CCTV still, this time capturing her figure, blurred but unmistakeable, moving across the park entrance at 4:20 p.m.

“Witnesses place you in the vicinity. Cameras place you there. Your alibi doesn’t hold.”

Her lips tremble. You can see the walls crumbling now, piece by piece.

You don’t drive the knife in yet.

Instead, you shift your posture — lean forward, just slightly, closing the space between you by mere inches.

Subtle, calculated.

Not enough to threaten. Just enough to pull her attention inward, to focus it entirely on you.

You keep your gaze steady, non-threatening but utterly unwavering.

Your body language speaks louder than your words. I am your only way out of this.

Margaret's eyes flicker between your face and the photographs, her breath hitching audibly now.

You watch as the fight starts to bleed out of her.

Still, you’re careful. She’s fragile now. One wrong move and she’ll retreat into full panic, barricade herself behind the last reserves of her denial.

You soften your expression by degrees. Let the razor edge dull into something gentler. More… understanding.

Margaret sniffs loudly, wiping at her eyes with trembling fingers. Her composure is breaking apart under the sheer, relentless weight of the truth pressing down on her.

“I just—” she chokes. “I didn’t— I didn’t plan anything—”

You allow a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not agreement. Just… acceptance.

You lower your voice, pitch it softer.

“I know, Margaret,” you say quietly. “I believe you. You were overwhelmed. You weren’t thinking straight. You saw a little girl alone, vulnerable—”

“She was sitting by herself!” Margaret blurts suddenly, anguished. “Just swinging on those stupid swings— and no one— no one was watching—!”

The confession hangs there, raw and shaking.

You don’t react. Don’t let the triumph show. You simply soften further, offering a small, almost maternal tilt of your head.

“You wanted to keep her safe,” you murmur. “Like any mother would.”

Margaret’s face crumples. Tears spill over at last, fat and helpless.

You fold your hands neatly on the table. Stay calm. Stay steady. Be the lighthouse in her storm.

—

“She’s using phased psychological reinforcement,” Spencer says quietly, almost in awe. Like you’ve never quite been so alluring.

Emily glances at him. “In English, please?”

Spencer shifts slightly, tapping his fingers against the glass in a subtle rhythm.

“She’s employing the Reid Technique,” he explains. “It has nine stages that are worked through in order to achieve a state of psychological comfort that elicits more honesty from the suspect,”

“The Reid technique?” Emily raised an eyebrow.

“It’s uh, named after John Reid, he was a police officer in Chicago during the 1950s. It revolutionised formal interviewing, although it’s actually very difficult to implement in practice, because if the suspect catches on then they’re likely to shut down,”

He nods towards you, still composed, still relentless inside the room.

“She’s between stage four and stage five right now— Addressing why the suspect hasn’t confessed, and using mirroring tactics to keep the suspect engaged,”

Morgan hums low under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Sounds scientific,” he goads.

—

Margaret hiccups through her tears, twisting the sleeves of her cardigan into knots.

“I didn’t—” she whispers again.

You make no move to comfort her. You don’t offer tissues. You don't even shift your posture.

You simply remain present. Solid. Reassuring by your very stillness. In her shattered mind, you are the only constant left. Exactly where you want her.

You let the silence stretch just long enough for Margaret to drown in it, her sobs the only sound filling the sterile room.

Then, softly, so gently it’s almost a caress, you push the conversation where it needs to go.

“Margaret,” you say, voice low but firm, threading compassion through every syllable, “I’m not here to judge you.”

She drags her tear-reddened eyes up to meet yours, desperate and wide.

You offer the smallest of smiles. Not kind. Not cruel. Just human.

“You loved your daughter, right?”

Her face crumples. She gives a broken little nod, a whimper catching in her throat.

You lower your voice even further, until it's barely above a whisper. “And now there's this... ache. This emptiness. It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”

She presses her sleeve to her mouth, trying to smother another sob.

You let the moment hang there, let her sit in the shared understanding you’ve carefully, ruthlessly constructed.

“Were you trying to cause trouble, Margaret?” you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly, as if puzzled. “Or were you simply trying to give that little girl the love you never got to finish giving your daughter?”

It’s everything.

It’s everything she’s been trying to make sense of for the last twelve hours.

And you’ve handed it to her, neatly gift-wrapped, an explanation she can live with.

Her face crumples entirely.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she wails, folding in on herself. “I just— I just saw her— all alone— they weren’t even watching her! She was just sitting there, swinging by herself, and I thought—”

She breaks off, hiccupping on a sob.

You remain silent, giving her the space to pour it out.

“I thought— she deserves better. Someone who’d see her. Someone who’d love her properly. I could— I could do that. I could give her what she needed.”

Tears stream down her face now, unchecked.

“She’s happy with me,” Margaret insists desperately, as if trying to convince herself as much as you. “She’s smiling. She’s laughing. I’ve never— I’ve never seen her laugh like that. Not once when she was with them.”

You allow yourself a single, careful breath.

But you’re not finished yet.

You shift your tone again, turning almost maternal, gentle and firm.

“Margaret,” you say, leaning in just a fraction, letting her feel the sincerity. “I believe you care for her. I do.”

It’s not a lie. Margaret does care. In her own warped, desperate way. “But she’s scared. She misses her family. She needs to come home.”

Margaret sobs harder, hands shaking so badly she nearly knocks the water cup off the table.

“Help me bring her home safely, Margaret. Please.”

For a long, fragile moment, she just cries.

And then, brokenly, she nods.

“She’s—” she mumbles through the tears. “12A, Eversham Court… I made up the spare room for her, I got her toys and clothes—”

She’s rambling now, stumbling over herself to spill every detail she can think of.

You don’t interrupt.

Outside the room, you know Hotch will already be sending officers to the location, moving fast but discreetly.

Time still matters. Every second counts.

Everything has been recorded. Every word, every sob, every admission captured, preserved, incontrovertible.

You stand slowly, gathering the papers with smooth efficiency.

As you move towards the door, Margaret’s voice breaks behind you, small and shuddering.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” she says again, voice thick with tears. “Tell them that. Please. Tell them I just wanted to love her—”

You pause, hand on the doorframe, and glance back over your shoulder.

Your face gives away nothing.

“I’ll tell them,” you say simply.

It’s not a promise. Not really. But it’s enough.

The door opens with a quiet click. Uniformed officers step inside, moving with trained efficiency.

Margaret doesn’t fight. She’s too broken to resist. She sobs helplessly as they read her her rights, the words barely cutting through her cries of apology. “I’m sorry,” she gasps as they cuff her. “I’m so sorry—”

You watch silently for a moment as they lead her away.

She’s still crying. Still apologising to no one in particular.

You feel no satisfaction. No triumph. Just the faint, hollow weight of inevitability.

You step back into the corridor, letting the door swing shut behind you.

The others are waiting. Hotch nods once at you, brisk and approving. Emily looks grim but relieved. Morgan mutters something under his breath that sounds like "damn," but you don’t linger on it.

Your gaze flicks automatically to Spencer.

He’s watching you the way he always does after you work. Not with fear, not with pity, but with something quieter. Something sharper.

Admiration. And something almost akin to academic attraction.

“Seven minutes, twenty two seconds,”

You don’t smile. You don’t say a word. You simply walk past him, your boots clicking steadily down the hall.

New record.

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 3

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy, seizures and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lizzie’s books were doorstoppers. Literally. So thick that Lando just about managed to shove all three of them into his backpack…and nearly broke the zipper while doing that.

He just hoped that him buying these books wasn’t gonna show up on social media any time soon but he didn’t have much trust in that.

He could already imagine the field day that people would have with seeing him of all people buying romance and fantasy books. (Or romantasy as Lizzie had called them…)

The cashier at the bookstore had checked him out with a slightly puzzled look, and she almost seemed to be holding back a grin.

And it wasn’t like Lando hadn’t already started listening to the dramatised audiobook version either…he just figured he should have options, y‘know? 

Especially when that Ciaran guy with the wings was voiced by some Scottish bloke with a voice like gravel. Meanwhile, Astrid had the lilting accent of Wales in her voice… and then there was the fact that some of the…scenes sounded rather… they were definitely not appropriate for…company.

Still he thought that he could probably listen to another few hours of that on the flight…or he would just like…skip…the…some of the stuff that Lizzie had apparently written and that made him think about things that he probably shouldn’t be thinking about…especially not with a Race coming up and the fact that the girl he had gone on two dates with was an ocean away. 

Still, thank god for private flights. It was just gonna be him and Oscar and Max, who would come along to Miami.

Maybe Lando should have known that it was a bad idea. He had imagined it so easily. Put on head phones, put on the audiobook and zone out for a little while…

Instead Lando managed to not actually pair his headphones with his phone… And seconds later his phone was blaring “A Spring of Secrets and Thorns” for Oscar and Max to hear, including a particular… intimate scene he had reached…

His wings spread wide as he pulled her closer, the heat of his body enveloping hers as they shared a heated kiss. Ciaran’s hand traced the curve of Astrid’s back, his wings brushing her skin as the tension between them grew unbearable…

Oscar and Max simultaneously turned their heads toward Lando, eyes wide, their expressions somewhere between shock and amusement.

Oscar's eyebrows were raised so high, they almost touched his hairline. He looked like he was barely holding back a fit of laughter. Even Max looked amused.

Lando just slumped back in his seat, feeling his face grow hot. He didn't need a mirror to know that he was turning bright red. He fumbled with his phone, desperately trying to turn it off.

“What the hell is that?” Max finally choked out.

“Are you listening to racy audiobooks now?” Oscar demanded.

Lando's fingers finally closed around the power button on his phone, cutting off the sound. He avoided their eyes, knowing he looked guilty as hell.

"It's nothing," he mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant.

Oscar just burst out laughing. "Oh yeah? Sounded like it was definitely something, mate."

Lando felt like he could melt into the seat, his face practically glowing.

“Wait,” Oscar said suddenly. “I think I know that book. Is that the Astrid and Ciaran book? Lily’s been going on about it for months. That’s her favorite series. I didn’t know you were a romance guy, Lando.”

Lando's eyes widened in horror. Of course, Oscar would know what book it was. There nearly never ended a day without Oscar being texted by his girlfriend about whatever new book Lily was currently reading. 

"I am definitely not a romance guy," he protested, trying to save what little dignity he had left.

But Max was grinning now, clearly enjoying the situation. "Oh, so you just happen to have a romance/fantasy book on your phone for... for what reason, exactly?" his best friend asked him, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s Lizzie’s favourite,” he blurted out. “I just wanted to see what the fuss is about.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was..well. He wasn’t about to tell Oscar and Max that Lizzie was the actual author of that book series…he would probably neer live down the teasing for reasding her books then…though now that Lando was thinking about it, he wasn’t quite sure that telling them that he was reading her favourite books was much better. 

“Lizzie?” Oscar asked curiously.

“Hasn’t Lando told you? He finally managed to ask out the cafe girl,"Max said drily. “You know the one he has been crushing on for months.”

Max's words hung in the air for a moment, and Lando shot him a poisonous look. Max just smirked back like the cocky bastard he was, clearly enjoying throwing Lando under the bus.

Oscar looked surprised, eyes wide as he turned his gaze to Lando. "Wait, seriously? You managed to ask her out?"

Lando sighed, knowing there was no going back now. He should’ve known better than to let Max in on his relationship with Lizzie in the first place. And now, of course he would go and blurt it out in front of Oscar. “Yeah, I did, okay?” he admitted, though his tone was defensive.

“Finally,” Oscar said with a shake of his head. “It was getting depressing.”

Lando shot him a glare but didn’t argue. 

Max was, predictably, trying not laugh.  “It was kind of pathetic,” he said with a grin.

“Piss off, both of you,” Lando grumbled. “I didn’t know what to say to her, alright? It’s complicated.” Lando defended himself.

“Mate, you spent three months buying pastries you didn’t even like in a cafe so you could stare at a random girl. That’s not complicated, that’s obsessive. And then you pawned off said pastries to every poor unsuspecting McLaren engineer you could find,” Oscar said with a laugh.

“Lando, please tell me you didn’t actually do that?” Max asked, sounding like he was holding back a laugh.

Lando felt his face grow hotter. He’d hoped Oscar wouldn’t mention that particular fact.

“I mean …” he hedged, but a look from Oscar shut him up real fast.  “Okay, yeah, maybe I did,” he admitted, reluctantly. “But it’s not that big a deal, alright?”

“How did you even finally manage to ask her out?” Oscar asked with an unbelieving laugh. “You did ask her out, right? You didn’t like…stalk her and found out her favourite book some other way?”

“Of course, I asked her out, you jerk,” Lando shot back, feeling his embarrassment turn into irritation. “And no, I didn’t stalk her. I just asked her.”

Max laughed, clearly still finding this whole thing highly amusing. “Her dog finally took pity of him,” he quipped to Oscar. “She got a service dog that alerted to Lando, then he somehow managed to get her number. How was that dinner by the way?”

He could feel his cheeks heating up again as Max reminded him of that part.

“It was…nice,” he muttered, hoping they would move on from the topic.

Oscar was watching him with an amused gleam in his eyes. “And now you are trying to impress her even further by reading books you would normally never touch?” he teased.

Lando huffed. “It’s not like that,” he said defensively. “I’m just…trying new things. Broadening my horizons.”

“Reading romance books is broadening your horizons?” Max asked, clearly trying not to laugh again. “That’s a new one.”

Lando gritted his teeth, his temper flaring. He knew they were just winding him up, but it was starting to get annoying. “You know what, forget it,” he snapped.

“Fine by me,” Oscar said, still grinning like the bastard he was. “But I’ve got a feeling that you’re gonna get hooked on those books.”

Lando rolled his eyes but didn't respond. He had no intention of telling them that he was already a fourth of the way into the first book…and that actually, he really wanted to know what happened between Ciaran and Astrid. And what the heck was going on with Quinn? He didn’t trust that guy at all…

“And who knows,” Oscar continued. “Maybe reading all those romance books will help you woo your cafe girl. You know when the dog needed to help you ask her out…”

“Don’t you dare say a thing about Mara,” Lando snapped. “She’s a wonder dog! Do you know how important service dogs are for people with epilepsy?”

Oscar stared at him, blinking twice, clearly surprised by his outburst. 

“No need to be so touchy about it,” Max said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But still, you’re a world-class racing driver, and a Labrador had more game than you,” he teased, clearly enjoying Lando’s increasing irritation.

“She has epilepsy?” Oscar asked curiously. “One of my mates from boarding school has that.”

Lando nodded, his irritation easing slightly. “Yeah,” he said, trying to rein in his earlier irritation. “She can have seizures without warning. They can be really bad, so the dog is trained to let her know when one is coming...She had another seizure a day before we were supposed to go out to dinner, so we had dinner at her home instead."

Oscar grimaced in sympathy. "That sucks, man," he said sincerely. "Is she doing alright, though?"

Lando nodded. "Yeah, she's doing fine now," he said, his tone noticeably softer. "They just leave her feeling like garbage, but she's mostly fine. It's just...it freaks me out, you know," he said with a grimace. "She can't control her seizures obviously, but they leave her feeling so shitty and there is nothing that I or anybody else can do to make her feel better."

“Sounds pretty rough,” Max said, now sounding sincere as well. “But it’s nice that she has a service dog,” he added, nodding at Lando. “That’s gotta help.”

Oscar watched him with an unreadable expression on his face. "Don't bite off my head, alright?" He said carefully. "But...have you thought about what that is going to mean in your relationship going forward? She will always have epilepsy, Lando. That's not going to be an illness she will ever grow out of or get healed from. Even when they find a medication that makes her mostly seizure free...she will still always have it. Will you be able to deal with that?"

Lando tensed at the question. He had thought about it before, of course, how could he not? "It's not like I'm going to dump her because she has epilepsy," he snapped, though there was a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "I'm not an arsehole."

"That's not what I meant," Oscar said drily. "I mean, that she is probably not going to come along with you on one of your night clubs night outs, with flashing lights and plenty of alcohol. She's also not one of the random super model girlfriends that you date for three weeks and then dump and never talk to again."

Lando bristled at the mention of his "supermodel girlfriends", but he knew there was truth to what Oscar was saying. Lizzie was different, and he had known that from the start.

"I know that," he said, his tone a little bit more defensive than he intended it to be. "I'm not an idiot. I know this is different than what I'm used to. But it's not like she can't go anywhere just because of her epilepsy. She can still have fun."

"Yeah, she totally can," Max agreed. "And I'm pretty sure no one is saying that she can't, man."

Oscar nodded in agreement. "Of course she can, I'm not questioning that. But what I'm trying to say is...if this is going to become serious, do you think that you can deal with it? It's not just going to be the epilepsy, I know that. She's going to have other issues and problems and things that are going to affect both of you. Are you going to be alright with that?"

Lando exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. He knew they weren't trying to be assholes, but they were throwing a lot of hard questions at him.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice quiet. "I've never had anything like this before. But...I like her, alright? Like, a lot. And it feels different...and like...like it's going to be worth it. Nothing that is worth fighting for is going to come to you easy," he said seriously. "I am not afraid of a challenge."

Oscar and Max were quiet for a moment, both of them looking at him with expressions of surprise and respect respectively. They clearly hadn’t expected him to express himself in that way.

“Damn, mate,” Oscar said finally. “Who are you and what have you done with Lando Norris?”

Lando rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the hint of a smile that curled at the corners of his lips. “Piss off, the both of you,” he said, though his words lacked any real heat.

Max snickered a little. “Okay, we’re going to let you continue listening to your racy audiobooks now.”

"Maybe I should actually read them too," Oscar said thoughtfully. "I mean, Lily loves them."

"Want the hardcovers?" Lando asked, rummaging through his backpack to throw them in Oscar's direction. "Knock yourself out."

Oscar caught the books and looked at them with a look of amusement. Then he gave Lando a smirk. "You sure you are not secretly a fangirl, Norris?"

Lando rolled his eyes again. "Shut up."

"It's even the special edition with sprayed edges," Oscar teased.

"The internet would just love a picture of the two of you reading romance books," Max said drily.

"Go and text Pietra and I bet you that she has heard of these books as well," Oscar said drily. "Seasons of Fate is seemingly what every women between the ages of 20 and 30 is reading right now."

[limethefirst]

UGH MY HEART— I READ THE FANFIC YOU WROTE WHERE THE READER REMINDED SHADOW OF MARIA AND IT WAS SO CUTTEE!! Can I request another one with the same concept? Maybe one where the reader gets hurt in some way connected to the movie’s story line, and Shadow’s scares of losing them? Like how he lost Maria!

Not again

pairings: Shadow the Hedgehog x reader [platonic]

warnings: sonic 3 spoilers, mentions of injury, G.U.N shoots a (implied) minor…when don’t they

summary: While trying to infiltrate the G.U.N headquarters, you get caught and are fortunately saved by Shadow after a rough encounter

a/n: this request was challenging for me to think on because I wasn’t sure how to incorporate the reader getting hurt in the story since I didn’t know any moments that made sense but here you go! I’m sorry if it’s not the best but I hope you enjoyed and tysm for supporting my stories!!!

The plan was simple, Robotnik and Gerald would get in and out, while you would infiltrate the GUN base. Unfortunately life had a way of throwing curve balls at you. As you hid behind a wall, opening your computer to try and deactivate some security protocols a stray guard managed to stumble upon you.

“Hey, you,” the guard somewhat yelled, making you quickly snap your head up from your small laptop. You definitely did not look like you belonged here, you were too young compared to most of the other people here who were in their mid 30s to late 40s, “Let me see your badge,”

Oh no, this was something you didn’t prepare for, you didn’t have a badge, you were stuck here. Quickly thinking you set a small distress signal to Stone from the small laptop still held in your grasp, letting him know of your situation.

Nervously you responded to the guard, “Uh I- uhm forgot my ID back home,” you patted yourself down, pretending to look for an ID that you obviously didn’t have. As you did you slowly put the laptop on the floor.

The guard, clearly not believing you, turned on his radio calling for backup. Your mind was racing, you knew getting caught was not an option so the only thing you could do at this point was run.

“You get back here!” You made a quick glance back, seeing as two other men, with actual guns started to chase after you, their weapons raised to you.

There was no way they’d actually shoot at someone, especially someone actively way younger than them.

Suddenly your arm stung, red began to seep through your fake uniform, oh god they were really shooting at you.

You quickly turned the corner running behind a wall, trying to get away. A small lab was close by, maybe you could hide in there and hope they would pass you by.

The door was open by some miracle; quickly slipping into the dark and empty room you made your way to the desk off by the far right and sat down there, covering your mouth holding back the scream you wanted to let out from the burning bullet wound on your arm. It wasn’t a massive wound, not by any means, it was a graze but it was still a gun shot and it hurt like hell. Tears were threatening to spill from your glossy eyes but the fear of making noise kept them at bay.

You heard the door creak open, light footsteps echoing in the room. They were nearing and you had nowhere to run, surely they wouldn’t kill you, that wasn’t morally right but they shot at you, well you were trespassing on government property so you weren’t sure what they’d do.

You heard a creak to your left; they’d found you. You saw the man reach for the electrical handcuffs but before he had the chance to grab them a sudden flash of red caught you by surprise.

Shadow had found you as well, you watched him take down the three men. He teleported throughout the room, confusing the men. He began to teleport between the men, going from one to the next, landing a hit on each before he did it again.

You sat there, your back against the wall, your breathing was heavy, your eyes wide, fear lacing your every feature.

Once Shadow had finally finished he turned back to you, his stoic and angry gaze quickly falling, his eyes widened as he quickly made his way over to you. He gently but urgently grabbed your bloody arm, his face a mix of anger and fear.

He was normally very neutral, the only thing on his mind revenge, but currently all he sensed was fear. This scene was all too familiar to him, it reminded him of those terrifying moments he had so many years ago.

As Shadow held a tight grip on your arm, the tears that were brimming your eyes had finally fell, you tried to choke the sobs but all the adrenaline had finally wore off. Shadow looked around the room, finding some gauze that he then used to wrap around the wound.

Once he had stopped you could no longer hold yourself back, you quickly grabbed onto Shadows torso as you sat on the cold dirty floor, your face red with tears and snot. Shadow stood still, he was enraged, long ago GUN had taken something he cared about, and once again they tried to take something else.

He slowly let his arms wrap around your shaking figure, he knew how to comfort people, he’d done it with Maria before, but it had been so long.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” Shadow quietly comforted, his words didn’t do much but you knew you could trust them. So you just sat there, as Shadow waited, remembering what it was like to care and comfort someone.

[itslifetreesworld]

My favorite Benthan looks in M: I (6/8): Fallout!

M:I 1-3

Ghost Protocol

Rouge Nation

Again the following would be some costume analysis and me explaining why I picked these and this time, I had a whole realization. So if you are interested here we go:

Mission Impossible: Fallout

This time I want to really put my thinking process here because the realization at the end was pretty shocking for me :0

When I tried to come up with some early options from Fallout, I could easily pick up some looks from Benji, such as the one with a cute braces and a green 3 piece suit in which he looks like he's going to a wedding:

But when I think of Ethan's, I only have a vague image of something black. It's the second time that I don't have anything particular in mind, the first time was mi2 but I have watched Fallout maybe 10 times more than mi2 so I am genuinely curious how none of the looks really gave me an impression.

At this point I've decided to just list everything he wore, and now, we can have a quiz time(?)

So, Ethan Hunt in Fallout has a total of 14 different costumes. How many of them are pure black?

8/14. From head to toe, pure black.

And how many of them are black/grey + white?

5/14. It's also worth noting here since we have all the grey suits laying out together, that in Fallout Ethan wears grey every time he pretends to be someone else (pretending to be a black market trader, pretending to be Lark, pretending to be a "civilian")

I don't think it's a coincidence, I think grey as a "lighter" black softens his features and leaves a blurry feeling, which is intentional for the idea of hiding true identity/nature.

Another thing that supports this theory is that (spoilers alert) Walker/Lark wears LOTS of grey throughout the film:

Basically in Fallout if Ethan's color is black, then Walker/Lark's is grey, as someone who's been lying and pretending to be someone else for half of the film.

Finally coming back to Ethan, if you are doing the maths... How many costumes did Ethan wear that ACTUALLY had any color?

1/14. Yep, only one. This blue-ish shirt he wore right after Walker escaped in London.

Damn, before doing this I already knew the color palette of Fallout is somewhat monochrome, but I have no idea it was so extreme.

So back to my choice; there wasn't that much to choose from, most of them are quite similar to each other. I do like the leather jacket in Paris with the riding gloves:

But I have done the braces Benji that pairs with this look a while ago and I don't really want a repetition...so sadly this one had to go.

I have also considered the wedding(?) Benji that I mentioned at the beginning, but this had only appeared in the film for about, 3 minutes and it doesn't really seem fair,,,

So eventually I picked the winter clothes when they were in Kashmir.

My favorites: 1. Ethan's turtle neck sweater 2. Benji's wearing a bowtie even in this situation and 3. The gloves!!!

Here are some close-ups of the gloves, I really like the gloves

Some other details:

Left: I did the drawing with Benji's vest being slightly green...but now looking at this I am not sure anymore... maybe it was actually black or grey???

Right: I am very surprised to find out Ethan was wearing shoes with laces in this. I'm just kind of worried considering he runs so much,,,

Finally I'm putting this Ethan in a soft grey sweater here for your comfort.

And that's it for Fallout! Phew I realized I've actually reached the maximum pics allowed in one blog, cutting it very close (wiping sweat away).

As usual here are the quick links to the previous (and the next) costume analysis, and thank you so much again for reading! Lots of love and see you next time!

M:I 1-3

Ghost Protocol

Rouge Nation

Dead Reckoning

The Final Reckoning

[bleulikedaylight]

Ms. Delinquent, Natasha

pairing: delinquent basketball captain! natasha romanoff x student council president! reader

synopsis: Y/N L/N, perfect student council president, gets paired with the school’s worst nightmare—rebel basketball captain natasha romanoff—for a major project. she’s late, annoying, and impossible to work with. but one unexpected moment makes Y/N wonder… is there more to natasha than the chaos she brings?

warnings: mentions of school fights and bruises (non-graphic) + tell me if i missed anything !! | wc: 2.3k | genre: romance, fluff, kinda enemies-to-lovers !! ;p

note: WOWOW, two posts in one day??? who is she??? (definitely not someone procrastinating her to-do list by writing about a rebel basketball captain and a stressed-out student council president falling in love—definitely not.)

anyway, hii !! i had way too much fun writing this !! >< also, feel free to send me messages, asks, or requests—i might (emphasis on might because I’m lazy, hehe) turn this into a series if you guys like it, aaa. ALSO, i really, really need to make a masterlist to keep my profile organized, but guess what? i’m too lazy. someone please bonk me with a pillow or smth. ����

part one ♡‧₊˚ part two ♡‧₊˚

Y/N L/N

Year & Section: 12 - A

Position: Student Council President

Vibe: Miss Goody Two Shoes, Walking Honor Roll, and A Literal Angel

Known For:

- Fixing everyone’s mess (including Natasha’s)

- Straight As, Complete notes, and a color-coded Google Calendar

- Always wearing her ID. Always.

- Literally the only reason the faculty hasn’t given up on this school

- Smiles sweetly while saying, “That’s against school policy.”

NATASHA ROMANOFF

Year & Section: 12 - A

Position: Captain, Women’s Basketball Team

Vibe: Rebel Without a Cause, Hotheaded Heartthrob, and Leather Jacket Energy

Known For:

- Cutting class but still scoring MVP

- Pulling up to school on a motorcycle (allegedly)

- Has a permanent seat in detention—but makes it look like a throne

- Once made a guy cry during a scrimmage... with just a glare

- Looks like she doesn’t care—until it’s Y/N.

What would you do if you got partnered with your polar opposite for a school project? Like... the girl who's practically allergic to rules, shows up late to every class—if she even shows up at all—and somehow makes your life as student council president ten times harder just by existing?

Well, I have... and here's how the story goes.

She's Natasha Romanoff.

If there’s one person on this campus who gives me a headache at least three times a week, it’s Natasha Romanoff.

Captain of the women’s basketball team. Standing at six feet of pure chaos. The type of student who thinks rules are suggestions and uniforms are optional. She’s the exact kind of person I swore I’d never get involved with. You know—the delinquent, the rebel, the walking red flag your mother warned you about.

She rarely shows up to class. And when she does? She’s either asleep, doodling in her notebook, or getting sent out for being a 'distraction.' Her file in the faculty office is thicker than the student handbook—and I would know, I helped revise it.

She picks fights like it’s a sport. She’s been banned from three different cafeterias for fighting in line. Her knuckles are always bruised, her lip usually split, and yet she still walks around like she owns the whole school—because somehow, she kind of does.

It drives me insane. I’m the student council president. I run this place on schedules, protocols, and peacekeeping. I solve disputes between orgs, approve event permits, and enforce policies like my life depends on it—which, sometimes, it kind of does. So imagine my horror every time her name pops up on my desk. 'Romanoff punched someone again.' 'Romanoff’s skipping classes again.' 'Romanoff's motorcycle is parked on the faculty lawn again.'

She's a walking nightmare for someone like me.

Worse, she seems to have no plans for her future. No goals. No ambition. Just… basketball. That’s all she ever thinks about. Practice. Games. Scores. Like the world outside the court doesn’t exist. It’s frustrating. It’s pathetic. And yet—she plays with so much fire, it almost makes you forget everything else. Almost.

Tip: don’t be fooled by her soft-looking face. Sure, she’s got those calm green eyes and a lazy smile that makes girls weak in the knees, but trust me—she’s all sharp edges underneath. Dangerous. Reckless. Untouchable.

Naturally, girls chase after her like she’s a rom-com lead in real life. I’ve seen love confessions on paper cups, flowers in her locker, and girls literally waiting outside the gym after practice hoping she’ll so much as glance at them. But you know what’s weird? Despite how egoistical she is—despite the arrogance, the swagger, the attention—I’ve never seen her date anyone. I’ve never even heard rumors of her with anyone. Not once.

And then came the groupings for our Humanities project. A randomized draw, they said. Fate, I’d argue.

It was one silly project. That’s all it was supposed to be. A one-time, two-week, half-grade assignment. But it led to the one thing I never expected...

Actually knowing her.

That was the day everything changed.

That was the day Natasha Romanoff looked at me like I wasn’t just the school president... but something more.

—

You hear your name and Natasha Romanoff’s in the same sentence and immediately feel the universe collapse.

“Group three… Romanoff and L/N.”

The room goes silent. A beat of stunned silence, and then—

“WHAT?”

“Oh my god.”

“No way.”

“Lord, this is my Roman Empire.”

You shut your eyes and exhale slowly.

“Y/N,” Wanda whispers, clutching your arm like you’re on a sinking ship. “Tell me I heard wrong.”

You stare at your teacher. “Miss, is there a mistake—?”

“No mistakes,” she says cheerfully. Too cheerfully. “I think this will be a… fun dynamic.”

Yelena is already cackling. “Good luck, president,” she sings. “You’re gonna need it.”

Behind you, Natasha Romanoff stretches in her seat like she didn’t just cause a classroom-wide scandal. She yawns, leans back, spins her pen between her fingers like a basketball. You lock eyes for exactly two seconds. She smirks.

And just like that, you know you’re doomed.

—

Later that afternoon

You’re pacing by your locker, chewing your lower lip. You don't have Natasha’s number. But Yelena does.

“I hate this,” you say, typing quickly. “This feels like betrayal.”

“Calm down, you’re literally texting her for school,” Yelena replies while eating fries. “Now go! Be a good president and go manage your delinquent girlfriend.”

“She is not my—never mind.”

You shoot her a glare, then copy the number. You stare at your phone for a full minute before finally typing:

You expect to be left on read. Or worse—no response at all.

But she replies.

You blink.

She does find you. Within ten minutes.

You watch her walk in like she owns the place. In her hoodie, earrings glinting under the warm light, one earbud in, backpack slung over one shoulder. She moves like a secret, like danger with a pulse.

She drops into the seat across from you. “Hey.”

You glance at the time. “You’re… early.”

She shrugs. “Skipped practice.”

Your jaw drops. “What?! Why would you—”

“To work on the project,” she says simply, like it’s obvious.

You gape at her. “You skipped practice. For school.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it, presidente,” she teases, resting her chin on her hand. “You messaged. I showed up. That’s the arrangement, right?”

You can’t even tell if she’s being serious. But her eyes are calm, and she actually opens the module you printed out. No complaints. No smart remarks. Just… reading.

You snap out of it and start discussing your plan. She listens. Occasionally nods. Offers surprisingly decent ideas. You make notes. You don’t notice that your voice grows more relaxed. You don’t notice how she’s been watching you the whole time—not the paper. Not the topic. You.

“You know,” she says once you finish outlining the draft, “you talk a lot when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Hmm,” she hums. “Cute.”

You nearly choke on your water.

—

Once you pack up

“Okay, I’ll message you updates after I type the outline,” you say, stuffing your planner into your tote. “Thanks for actually showing up, by the way. I didn’t expect you to.”

Natasha stands, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll walk you home.”

You pause. “What?”

“It’s late. You’ve got three books in your bag, and your tote’s heavier than Yelena’s sarcasm. Come on.”

You blink at her. “Are you… being nice?”

“Don’t ruin it,” she deadpans.

You roll your eyes but… follow her. She doesn’t ask for your address. She already knows it. (You don’t want to know how.)

The walk is quiet. She keeps her hands in her pockets, glancing at you every few steps like she’s making sure you’re still there. At one point, she slows down to match your pace. You pretend not to notice. But your heart’s doing cartwheels.

When you reach your gate, you turn to her. “Okay, um… thanks. Again.”

She shrugs. “Text me when you’re editing. I wanna see what it looks like.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You care about the final output now?”

She gives you a lopsided smirk. “You care. That’s enough reason.”

Before you can respond, she’s already walking away.

You stand at your gate, heart thundering, cheeks warm.

What just happened?

—

Meanwhile, the group chats are on fire.

—

Your phone buzzes again—more group chats lighting up, your friends collectively losing their minds—but you don’t check them right away. You’re still thinking about her voice. The way she said you care, that’s enough reason. It loops in your head like a song you’re not ready to skip. And for the first time since the semester started, you’re not thinking about deadlines, reports, or disciplinary forms.

Outside, your phone buzzes again.

You smile.

You think that’s it. But then…

Your jaw drops. You type furiously.

You let out an annoyed huff. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself it is. But deep down, you’re smiling like a fool under the covers, kicking your feet just a little—just enough to feel ridiculous.

Because Natasha Romanoff just told you sweet dreams.

Because she showed up. Listened. Skipped basketball for a group project.

Because somewhere between the chaos and the attitude and the teasing, you’re starting to realize something terrifying:

She’s not just a delinquent.

She’s not just trouble.

She’s kind of wonderful.

And she’s starting to mean something to you.

You’re so doomed.

You’re thinking about Natasha Romanoff.

You fling your pillow over your face to muffle the scream

You close your eyes, the ghost of her smirk burned into your mind.

Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.

Very, very interesting.

[peace-hunter]

Oh noooo!! Orion Optimus looking at the ghosts that are mentoring him fade away and thinking about D-16 Megatron and he must be thinking about how he keeps making pushing mechs away with his recklessness and loud mouth

god i love when people get things from my art i hadn't even thought about <3

but yes!! you are so right!!! i didn't call too much attention to it because i didn't think it was particular subtle but another reason OP lashed out at the Primes was because he was getting uncomfortably reminded of things Dee used to say to him Before

and honestly?? he's still grieving Dee! he's still hurt and upset at losing his best friend! and he still believes Dee losing it was partially because of him. if he hadn't been so reckless, if he hadn't dragged Dee everywhere, if he hadn't pushed him so much, if he had just "stayed on protocol" maybe he would still have his best friend.

so the Primes unknowingly echoing the very same things he feels are the reason he lost Dee plus the ever growing fear he's going to feel miserably at the task he was given make him lash out in anger and say things he never would've otherwise. it's pain and fear disguised as anger that make him snap like that, not him truly being resentful of their input.

but i hadn't even thought about him being afraid of also pushing the Primes away like he did to Dee! but it makes so much sense now that you've said it!

and in a way, now he's probably afraid he's being even more unfair with the Primes that he was with Dee. at least Dee had the option to leave. at least Dee made it clear he could always cut ties with orion if pushed far enough. but the Primes are bound to him.

their options are to be with him or go back to the Allspark and be cut off from the world. and even then, their sense of duty would probably not allow them to stop trying to help him, if not for him then for their people who they already failed once.

and it's as relieving as it is horrifying to him.

because on one hand he can't help but find some guilty comfort in that at least he can never lose them. everyone else may come and go but at least they will always be with him.

but on the other he's terrified they'll grow to resent him for it. that they'll start seeing it (him) as a burden, a duty they're all but shackled to. that they'll want to leave but unlike Dee they won't be able to. that he'll push them away too but they'll choke on the leash connecting them to him.

he's sooo fine and normal about it i prommy :)

haunted au

[serpenlupus]

I want Sentinel to suffer, and then to die in darkness.

I've been thinking about this line for a while now,

"No, I want to kill him! I want to put Sentinel in chains and march him through the mines so everyone can see him for the false Prime that he is! I want him to suffer, and then to die in darkness."

I find this sentence so revealing about the general Miner's state of mind.

Because, make no mistake, the movie is telling us in no uncertain terms, that the Miners are expected to die doing their job. And also, that they're punished if they don't accept this. Because the system views them as expendable, and tries its best to convince them as well.

The scene of the cave in shows this perfectly; protocol demands that a trapped miner be left behind, even if that means their death. Elita says it outright when Orion comunicates that Jazz is stuck: "Do not break protocol, EVACUATE" a.k.a, leave him. And maybe it's becase the only ones near Jazz at that moment were Dee and Orion, but the thing is, none of the other miners show any attempt to go in and help them. They remain still even when they see them near the exit while Elita does everything in her power to keep it open, to the point that it's D-16 the one that has to tackle her away from it when they're going out (also D-16 punching the walls of rock out of the way? Danm son).

The narrative is showing us that stopping to help is the exception, not the rule, and we can presume that if Jazz had been accompanied by different bots, he would have died. It took two of them to barely get him out of there. And man, you cannot tell me that Orion Pax never had to come to terms with the fact that if the one trapped in one of those tunnels was either him or Dee, one would have to choose between staying behind to save the other, possibly dying in the attemp, or leave their friend behind to save himself.

I want Sentinel to suffer, and then to die in darkness." - D-16.

We know that Orion could never live with this knowledge and do nothing about it. Because if he was in that scenario, he could not leave Dee, nor could he accept to be the cause of his end. So it gives additional meaning to his actions on the movie.

Because, sure, the movie presents Orion Pax as sort of bull headed and self centered (D-16 certainly calls those out as flaws), but his motives may not be so selfish as we're led to believe at first glance. He wants to find the Matrix of Leadership, not because he will be hailed as a hero if he does so, but because

"We will have to stop mining for energon" (We will stop having to die to find energon).

"We are meant for more than this" ( We are meant for more than to die in the mines).

"Don't you want to choose your own path, be able to do whatever we want?" (I don't want us to die)

It's always a "we". Because, after all, he doesn't want to see Dee die in the mines (or any of his friends, I dare say). This desperate desire to save D-16, and not just himself, is what puts the plot into motion. And he tries to save him by attempting to find the Matrix, but Orion also looks for ways to bring small joys to D-16 in the day to day, like bringing him the sticker, or participating in the race. Of course you could argue that he brought Dee to the race despite his protests because he wanted someone that he knew would watch out for him, I won't deny that, BUT, counterargument:

Look at his smile. This dude is having the time of his life participating in a race with his boyfriend and you can take that truth from my dead cold hands.

What I mean to say with all this, is that the movie tries to tell us in subtle ways that while both are trying to save the other, they're funtamentally different. D-16 is saving Orion from more inmediate problems, like hiding him from the guards, looking out for him in the mines and the race, etc. He has accepted the place they have in that society and he is resigned to it, because he thinks there's no other option. Meanwhile Orion is looking to save D-16 in a long term sort of way, by changing the Status Quo, because he refuses to accept that there are no other options.

They both cared so much for the other that they kept trying to keep the other safe in the only way they could fathom.

AND THEN THIS HAPPENS

This fucking movie

[tea-cuz-why-not]

Angel of Death strikes again(Villain Kore)

*the main cast fighting Romeo* *cars fly or something* *his bots manage to knock them away and out* *his phone/communicator rings* <<Hey there Rom-com>> ”Kore?”

<<in the flesh, or I guess not since we’re not face to face, you know, one really shouldn’t leave their home unattended>>

*his face falls* *he does some clicking**shocked face as he realises the system is down*

“Youre in my base? what are you doing there?”

*scenery change, Romeo’s base, The Angel of Death stands there*

“Well I came to visit but you weren’t home, the awful host that you are”

<<what did you do!?>>

“Oh nothing much, just dismantled your security system, broke in, made your bots break each other and now… I’m downloading all your data!”

<<WHAT!?>>

*there’s a moment of silence as Romeo considers his options, he is distracted*

<<why are you even telling me this?>> ”To distract you from the fight” :D

*a series of crashes is heard from the comms, scenery changes, fight scene* *owlette managed to get the rubble off of herself and attacked him*

Sorry for the wait everyone, got a little too invested in this random ass au(and also school)

anyways, here’s prompt 13: As a villain/gone rogue

I’ve been thinking, what could possibly have happened that Kore “I can’t leave cause my family would be in danger and everyone at GT would have to endure more pain” Faulkner went rogue, and I think it’s a mix of things

first, her family. Dunno if they would die or just get out of GT’s area of influence but they would need to be at least safe(or, well, dead)

secondly, something would have to force her out. Probably a big stunt that would push into motion the “you don’t leave GT in anything other than a coffin” rule. Also As I am currently obsessed w/ the Apothecary diaries maybe she faked her death( I will keep the way they’d do it secret cause spoilers) but then made it very known that she’s alive? I don’t know

anyways, now known as The Angel of Death(courtesy of my Philza Minecraft fixation) she puts her brain 100% into use, mostly acting as a hacker menace for GT and Romeo and stuff, working on Elodie Protocol- a programme meant to destroy all GT data at once, every experiment, every report, everything that makes it possible to run GT, and sometimes making appearances in person. Her implant is cracked because of whatever happened that made her leave, but I don’t know what that does to them.

anyways, thanks for your patience, if you made it this far, here is a potato 🥔

[moodymisty]

Author's note: Meep

Relationships: Mortarion/Fem!Reader (no pronouns just uterus implied)

Warnings: Tokophobia, Self deprecation, Dehumanizing kind of language about a fetus lol Morty is cursing his balls for actually working

The news to you, had begun as a bought of sickness.

Mortarion had panicked, worried that his strict decontamination protocol had failed and somehow you'd gotten a pathogen from him, or from something he'd given you. He'd cast suspicion to the new dress he'd gotten you as a gift, vowing to burn it for its perceived transgressions.

You'd quite quickly reassured him you didn't feel that ill, and that it came in waves; like a sour stomach more than a sickness. He still didn't relax, and likely wouldn't until he had a baseline medicae look you over.

He hadn't been there at the time, his men needed to update him on various things concerning his legion- a significantly more important task- and he left you to your check over with the promise that you would update him.

It had been a quick and easy endeavor; You had gotten your diagnosis after a few quick questions, and a blood test.

Pregnant.

It... You had never even considered the idea beyond the overly romantic and at times erotic wandering your mind would do. You don't know why you didn't perceive it as an option; Mortarion is a man, a human one, technically- but you'd never considered this risk. It surely didn't help that Mortarion treated and spoke of his body as if it was broken by various experiments and genetic meddling anyhow.

His return to his quarters was hasty, knowing you would be waiting with whatever news you were given in the time of his absence. When he entered, he soon saw you sitting on the massive bed underneath its canopy.

You insisted on adding it, and Mortarion allowed it after a short bit of pleading. He wouldn't admit it, but he appreciates it now; he enjoys the feeling of security the curtains give his bed as he lays with you surrounded by them. Like a den.

"What did they say?"

His voice was more worn, tired. He'd spoken a lot today. Multiple coughing fits and hours of conversation have rendered his voice more harsh than usual. The hesitation that you exuded worried him however, as you wrung your wrists. He was on a knife's edge before he saw your face soften a tad as you prepared to speak.

"I'm pregnant."

You could see the shock spread across his face, his eyes darting around your face as if somehow still confused. Once it settled more, sinking in his mind like debris in a lake, he stepped closer to you as his ruined throat whispered roughly.

He sounded... Dumbfounded.

"I didn't think..."

He seemed confused, almost upset- you were worried for a moment, until he spoke again a bit louder and clarified the turbulence in his mind.

"I... I am sorry."

"I did this to you, I put that in you, I- I didn't think I even could-"

He shocked you with the sudden overwhelming headiness of guilt he exuded. His hands weighed heavy in your lap as he sank to his knees in front of you. His head hung low looking at your belly, and ever since the word of your condition left your lips, he hadn't looked you in the eyes.

He spoke as if the child inside of you was a parasite, a disgusting abomination he had inflicted upon you.

"Please forgive me, I can remedy this. I promise you I will fix this, I won't have you suffer such a disgusting sanguisige for my own ignorance."

You slipped your hands into his thin hair, feeling it against your skin. He showed little reaction, consumed by his own prostration.

"Mortarion..."

Your brow furrowed, watching his face contort with self hated. His hands tightened on the fabric of your skirt but not enough to damage it.

"I had no intent to do this, to make you carry such a creature, I will f-" You dared to interrupt him before he continued more, the rasp of his dry throat roughing his words like the most course sandpaper.

"Tari, what is there to fix?"

He froze, looking at you confused. You tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear and smiled.

"Now that the surprise is over, i couldn't be happier." You lost that smile a bit, remembering snippets of things he's told you of his past.

"With the way you always spoke about your body, I," you made sure not to mention his name- Necare- and ruin the moment.

"I didn't know if it was possible. But," You laughed. "It is."

Mortarion looked at you wide eyed, hands still in your lap gripping your skirt. His prostrating ended as you kept talking, watching sheer disbelief cross his face. He seemed so shocked that you weren't sobbing, weren't crying for him to tear the embryo out of you before it grew and latched tighter to your body like a leech, and cursing him for the sheer gall of him to impregnate you.

In reality, you were excited.

"Recently, I've been thinking about having a baby. I wonder if it was fate. Or maybe someone telling me I'd gotten my wish and just didn't know quite yet." You brushed your palm against his cheek, watching his glassy, disbelief filled eyes gaze at you.

"I hope they look like you, Tari."

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Transferrable Skills Part 4

Transferrable Skills Masterlist

CW: POV depiction of anxiety and dissociation, How It's Made, reader character wearing a wig (positive, protective style), Soap (nosy), mention of sex toys, Simon Riley Is Honesty Just A Big Guy (TM),

Simon and Price are gone for less than a minute before you feel awkward. You’re almost done with the water, so you look around for the TV remote. It’s Gaz, absurdly pretty for some kind of international British SWAT team, who hands it to you with a half smile before wandering off, you assume to the bathroom.

That leaves you clicking through the TV while Soap does something on his phone. All of the local channels are in German, you know, so you look for something to stream. You chance a sidelong glance at Soap, but he’s already looking at you. He grins when you make eye contact.

“So yer LT’s girl, then?”

Fuck, that’s not a question you know how to answer. “Um.”

“Leave it, Soap,” Gaz says, returning from the bathroom. He smiles at you as he pockets his phone. “You don’t have to tell us anything you’re not comfortable with. Lieutenant Riley’s a private person, we understand.”

“That’s… it’s okay.” You tap into the PictureTime channel, since it’s not one you usually have access to. As you browse through the educational options - ooh, How It’s Built! - you say, “I think we’re both… a bit surprised to see each other here.”

“I can’t imagine,” Gaz says, sitting down at the other end of the couch. “Oh, I’ve not seen this one on puzzles and cheesecake.”

You tap into it, because you like puzzles, cheesecake, candles, and paintbrushes. Just in time to finish your water bottle. The armchair is a bit narrow and awkward, so you wiggle the cushion from behind your back so you can plop it, and yourself, onto the ground. You shuffle your legs to start your warm up as the theme song plays.

“How'd'ye come to answerin’ LT like yer military?” Soap asks. “’Acknowledge’, ‘acknowledged’, all o’ that?”

“Oh,” you answer, without thinking about it. “That’s just our protocol, to make sure I understand his directions.”

“’E’s givin’ you enough directions to need protocols?” He gives you a considering once-over. “Interestin’. Impressive that it held up in an emergency. That takes practice.”

Shit. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“’S he your, what’er they called? Dominant partner, then?”

God, Simon, why didn’t you take this one with you? “I’m… not at liberty to say?”

“Leave her alone, Soap,” Gaz says, exasperated. He tosses a throw pillow at Soap’s head. “She’s in shock, Simon’s trying to keep her calm and comfortable.”

“Ghostie adopts a civilian an’ ah’m supposed to have nae questions?” Soap grins at you. “She’s got a signal if she dinnae want to talk. Four fingers, right?”

“Bother Ghost about it, later,” Gaz says. He turns to you. “Do you know what you want to eat? There’s a few places open.”

Soap doesn’t pester you, after that. The three of you settle on Mediterranean food, and then they summarily leave you alone. Gaz seems content to watch the show, though Soap watches you do your floor stretches curiously.

You could probably have moved to another stretch a while ago, but you’re still in your work slacks and blouse. You think longingly of the yoga pants you laid out on your bed before leaving for meetings. And then you cringe to think of Simon coming in to sweep through the room and pack up all of your things. You hadn’t packed a lot, but you’d unpacked into the space to make yourself comfortable.

You realize that your sex toy is charging in the bedside table and cringe. You hope he doesn’t notice it. It’s good quality, but you can always buy another one.

And then you start to worry about your phone. You’d left your personal in the room because of the time zone change slowing down all of your personal messages. You’d lost your work phone and computer today with… everything that happened. Were people trying to get a hold of you? Had news of the incident made it to the US? Would Simon see your embarrassing phone background?

You resist the urge to get up and pace. Instead, you settle into butterflying your legs.

“You need more water?” Gaz’s voice startles you, but you nod and he passes a bottle to you on the floor. “Cap says that they’re done with the official stuff, he’s grabbing food while Ghost grabs your things. Probably less than an hour before they get back.”

Your anxiety shouts that that isn’t enough time. But since you can’t definitively answer the question For what?, you take a breath and let it out slowly. “Okay.”

Maybe it’s because your heart is beating a little faster, muscles a bit warmer, but you have trouble settling Into the show. Your mind races. You have to remind yourself to relax, then have to clamber to your feet and shuffle off to the bathroom because you relaxed your pelvic floor a little too much.

Your eyes in the mirror are a little too wide. The wig - every time you wear a good one, you almost forget you’re wearing it - is holding up admirably, at least. It feathers around your face, a bit squished where you slept on it. But with the smudged eyeliner and mascara you can kind of pretend you’re in an action movie.

Thank goodness agent Ghost rescued me and the other hostages, you think to yourself, pouting your lips dramatically as you wash your hands.

The last time you washed your hands there was a dead body on the floor.

“Nope,” you say aloud, practically flinging yourself into the bedroom. “Nope. Nope.”

You pace in a tight circle, kicking the door closed when you catch Gaz and Soap looking at you with concerned eyes. Two circuits later, the room is too small, so you open the door again and shuffle out to sit in the armchair again, one leg pulled up for you to wrap your arms around.

Throwing your mind into action shots of specialty machinery, you try to force yourself to settle. Your whole body feels like it will shake apart if you pay too much attention to it, so you don’t pay it any attention at all. The episode ends and rolls into the next one, so you learn about bird cages and automated pharmacy drones. You hear Gaz say something soft, and Soap answers, the burr of his voice just as quiet, mixing pleasantly with the murmur of the narrator.

You must lose time, again, because the next thing you know, Simon is crouching in front of you again. Big hands smooth over your arms, and he shushes you as you jump.

“Got y’r stuff,” he says. “Where’s your head at?”

You open your mouth, close it. Hold up four fingers.

“Mm, day’s catchin’ up, again. Go into the bedroom, get changed. No zippers or clasps. Buttons okay. Acknowledge.”

“Bedroom, change clothes,” you confirm, heaving a big sigh. “Comfy. Acknowledged.”

He helps you stand, and you can’t help but tip forward to put your face into his chest. He smells a little. Like stale sweat and gunpowder. His arms stop yours when they come up for an automatic hug.

“Go change,” he whispers into the top of your head, “An’ I’ll get rid of the rest of ‘em, eh?”

The haze around you pops. That’s the only way to describe it. One minute, everything is distantly fuzzy, and the next thing you know you can feel the circulation of the air in the room and his heartbeat against your forehead. The TV is quieter, and you can hear Price and Gaz and Soap talking between themselves.

“Acknowledged,” you say into his sternum. “Gotta go change.”

He has to gently guide you around his bulk. But eventually you shuffle back into the bedroom. Your suitcase is waiting for you in the far corner, and it doesn’t take you long to dig out your lounge wear. Soft, thin pants with cartoon dogs on them and an oversized tee you got from a fundraiser. And then you take both off because that’s not sexy.

Why didn’t I pack nicer stuff? Can I play off these lacy panties as sleep wear? He saw it all and packed it, he probably clocked those as the only sexy thing I have. You shake your head at yourself. He said to wear something comfortable. He knows what you have. This is fine.

Your friend’s son’s basketball mascot grins up at you. You decide to compromise and switch the shirt for a black cami you usually wear under a nice blouse.

When you peek out of the room, Simon’s in the middle of the couch, and he’s blocked one end by dragging the table closer to where he’s sitting. His jeans have been traded for black sweats, but you can’t tell if his black shirt is new or not. Somehow, he looks bigger, but in a nice way. Softer. If a brick shit-house could look soft. A brick book nook.

“’Ey, pretty girl,” he says, leaning enough to put an arm across the back of the couch. “Come sit, we’re gonna eat and then we’re gonna talk.”

When you get close, you realize that there’s not enough room for both of you to sit unless you’re half on top of him.

You want to throw yourself entirely into his lap. But you can smell the food now, and you’re so hungry. So you perch as much of your ass on the couch as you can and swing your legs over one of his. You meet his eyes just as his arm comes down across your thighs. His hand cups the outside of your leg in a way that makes you remember what he said.

He’s not letting you go, now.

[shewroteaworld]

Unsub Bait

Premise: For the fourth time, brilliant sunshine!reader is asked to bait the unsub. For the first time, Spencer has a problem with this.

Word count: approx. 2,000

Tw: canon-typical discussions of violence

Author's Note: Welcome to the second installment of brilliant sunshine!reader (meaning highly intelligent sunshine!reader) x Spencer Reid! While you don't have to read my first brilliant sunshine! reader fic to understand this one, I would highly recommend reading it. It's titled "I'll Hold Your Weight When You Can't." Hope you enjoy! :) <3

“Here’s an overview of the first phase of the operation: (Y/N) will go undercover as a college student at Yale. She’ll get acquainted with the unsub at Speakeasy, the New Haven bar where he assesses potential victims. We’ll apprehend him in the act of attempted kidnapping.” Hotchner listed for the team.

You’d played unsub lure almost a comical number of times. Once? That’s a once in a million task required to capture a once in a million unsub. Twice? You’d only have two nickels, but it’s weird that it happened twice, right? But four times? 

You’d already joked to Hotch that you should add “professional unsub bait” to your resume. 

It would’ve been more comical if it wasn’t so scary. 

You took a deep breath as you stared at the photos of the victims on the mahogany conference room table. Melissa Grey. Audrey Bernstein. Alivia Johnson. You could see your 21-year-old self in their eyes. You remember being so young and full of anxiety; you were near graduating from MIT. You couldn’t sleep at night from worrying if you had already lived up to your potential and would spend the rest of your years a washed up gifted kid– an academic has–been. After graduation, you proved to yourself your worth.

The college juniors in the photographs had their lives cut short by the unsub before they had the opportunity to find out what amazing places their brilliant minds could take them. You were about to allow said unsub to nearly kidnap you. 

That is, if you didn’t blow your cover. Then, he would hold you hostage or attempt to kill you as soon as possible by skipping his usual "kidnap and torture" routine.

Rationally, you knew your field experience more than prepared you for this task. Also, you knew your team had your back. They always kept you safe and healthy. The one time you were put at serious risk, you had to fight to be left alone after the case closed. But, you’re not sure if all the facts in the world could adequately calm your adrenal glands.

“Is this necessary?” Spencer suddenly interjected.

You turned to Spencer in surprise. “It’s the quickest way. We have twenty-four hours,” You said.

The unsub had a pattern; a girl was dying once every two weeks, and, when the the local and Connecticut police force combined failed to contain the situation, the BAU was brought into the case 36 hours before the next killing. With his eidetic memory, you were certain Spencer couldn't forget the time restraints if he tried, hence why you were stunned by his sudden brazenness. However, given Spencer's traumatic relationship history and your budding romance, Spencer's behavior was a lot more likely.

You and Spencer had been dating for a couple weeks. Despite being certain the team had their suspicions, you kept your relationship on the downlow. Strong boundaries were a good thing to keep when your relationship was in its fragile, formative era. Plus, you both agreed it was best to keep a high level of professionalism. 

This was the first time Spencer broke protocol.

“I think there’s another way.” Spencer continued. “It’s unsafe and illogical to put anyone’s life into considerable risk if there’s another viable option.”

“Are you implying I’m being rash, Reid?” Hotchner asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Usually, Spence would look away and take a breath. He’d at least have the decency to act timid, especially given the fact the entire team pulled multiple all-nighters in an effort to catch this serial killer. Instead, he leveled with Hotchner’s glare and asserted himself further. “I just think we’ve gotten a little too comfy using (Y/N) as an unsub lure. The more we do, the more probable a disaster will occur with her in the line of fire.”

“Spencer,” Morgan cut in gently. There was sympathy in his eyes. “We’ve done this with (Y/N) before. We’re good at reading her. And she knows the drill. We’ll keep her safe.”

“Yes, because that’s something we can certainly guarantee when she’s 3 inches from a serial killer.” Spencer deadpanned. 

“Reid. A word.” Without waiting for Spencer’s reaction, Hotch left the meeting room. With a hard look in his eye, Spencer filed after Hotch. You were relieved he was still obedient despite being ornery.

For a few moments, the team sat in silence. 

Rossi broke the spell with the scrape of his chair. “Well, I for one, am going to take this impromptu intermission as an opportunity to grab coffee. Any requests?” Rossi asked. 

“I’ll take a barbajada.” You joked half-heartedly. 

“Very funny, (L/N). Any requests the office Keurig can complete in less than five minutes?” 

The team rattled off their go-to office drink orders, but it faded to white noise. During your friendship, Spencer would always care for you when you had to lure the unsub. He’d be more attentive on the jet ride in and out. He’d check in on your mental state directly after the unsub was arrested and always called you once you got home. Once, after the particularly stressful unsub encounter, he sent you links to PTSD articles and even offered to help you schedule an appointment with a specialized therapist through the FBI’s mental health services.

But he’d never once intervened with a plan for you to go undercover. You knew Spencer Reid was nothing if not rational. He knew Hotch valued every member of his team. He knew Hotch would never send you undercover if it wasn’t necessary to stop a killing spree before more young women became statistics. 

Therefore, you knew Spencer was thinking about Maeve. 

You stood. 

“Where you going, Beauty Queen?” Morgan asked.

“Just heading to the restroom.” You lied. 

You walked down the hall and crept up the stairs. You tiptoed down the east wing of the second floor to avoid clicking your heels against the concrete. 

You crept to the side of Hotch’s office. You pressed your back to the wall.

Hotch said something indecipherable. An angry Reid answered.

“And all I’m saying is, she is not a cat with nine lives! She has one life. One precious life, that I think we’ve been a little too careless with.”

“Reid, you know I would never risk putting (Y/N) in harm’s way if it wasn’t the best course of action. She’s experienced with this. The team is experienced with this.” 

A beat of silence passed.

“Promise me that if you have so much as an inkling her life is in danger–”

“We’ll do everything in our power to get her out of there.”

“That’s the thing! ‘Everything in our power…’ It’s not enough. How many times have we told families we did everything we could when all they have left is a body bag?” 

Your heart froze. Both of the voices lowered. You could only catch bits and pieces of Hotch’s speech. You were never an eavesdropper, but despite your better nature, you crept around the corner towards the door.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone to an unsub, Spencer. I know how it sticks with you. I know how it changes the job. But you have to trust us– the team. We’re going to protect her. And we’re going to be there for you,” Hotch said. 

Spencer sighed. "How did you do it?" Spencer's voice cracked. "After Haley, Hotch? I’m not sure if I can survive this.” He sounded seconds away from tears. 

At that moment, you knew you would not sleep comfortably at night if you continued to be a fly on the wall.  You tiptoed back down the east wing and waited for Spencer at the bottom of the stairs.

Ten minutes passed before Spencer appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Spencer?” You called. 

His hazel eyes were tinged pink. He walked down the stairs nonchalantly. “Hey, um, would you mind if we discussed part of the case file real quick? Privately? It could help, um…” He cleared his throat. “Develop your persona.”

“Yes, of course.” 

Spencer didn’t look at you as he power walked down the hall towards the janitorial closets. For the first time since you started dating, he didn’t adjust to your walking pace. 

He flung a door open and yanked you inside. 

Carelessly, Spencer slammed the door behind you. Before you could get a word in, he pulled you into a bear hug.

“Spencer.” You whispered. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He nuzzled his nose into your hair. 

You stood in the statue of a hug for two minutes.

“I can’t lose you.” Spencer whispered.

“You won’t.”

Spencer pulled away from you. He bent down to look you in the eye. He squeezed your shoulders. His eyes danced with emotion. There was a deep ache, a whirlpool of sadness that you knew a lifetime may never heal. What perplexed you was the hardness that you could only read as anger. 

“I…” He sighed. He hung his head. He dragged his palms down the slope of your shoulders to your forearms. It was like he was taking a cast of you with his hands. 

“I’m not dead on arrival. I’m still here. I’m coming back on that jet ride home with you. I’m going to be okay.” You reciprocated his shoulder squeeze. “You’re going to be okay.”

Spencer shook his head. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I care about you. It’s a part of the girlfriend package.” Spencer pulled you into another constricting hug. 

 “I can’t fathom how difficult this must be for you.” You whispered.

Spencer pressed his forehead to yours. “Promise me when you go out there, you won’t worry about me. I want you to only focus on you, your surroundings, and making sure you get out of there.”

“I promise, Spencer.” You said, though you weren’t sure if that would be the truth.

“And one more thing,” He said. His irises were so close to yours you could pick apart the layer of green and brown. “As soon as you feel unsafe, you call someone. If you have any inclination he’s going to overtake you–”

“I call the team.”

He took a step back and ran his hands through his hair. “I know you’re strong. I’m not trying to insult your field work.”

Your heart cracked. “Spencer, love, I know that. I’m so happy you care about me. I just wish this situation hurt you less.”

He dropped his hands to his sides. His brows furrowed. He stared at a random point to the left of your face.

“Can you do something for me? Before we leave?” He asked, still not meeting your gaze.

“What is it, Spence?”

He took a deep breath. He met your eyes again. “Dance with me.” 

“What?”

“Dance with me. I…” He inhaled deeply. “I never got to dance with Maeve before she…I barely even got to hold her. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” 

You closed the distance between you and Spencer. You cupped his face in your hands, and he instinctively leaned into your touch. His eyes shone with tears. “I’ll dance with you for the rest of my days, Spence.” 

He whipped out his phone. He turned on a slow jazz song you played for him last winter on an impromptu hot chocolate date. 

Your heart skipped a beat. You could go on that same date again, but it would have a whole new color to it. 

He slid his phone onto a cleaning supply shelf. He pulled you to his chest. Your head nestled right beneath his collarbone. You wrapped your arms around his mid back.

You danced, bodies pressed together like puzzle pieces, in silence until the song ended. The symphony of emotions didn’t cease with the final brush of the snare. 

Spencer continued swaying with you.

“I’m going to be okay.” You whispered.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You can’t promise me that.” He held you even tighter. “But I can promise you I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you come home to me.” 

Author's Note: Hello to all my new followers! I'm so glad you're here! I'm so grateful for the overwhelmingly positive reception to "I'll Hold Your Weight When You Can't." Hope you enjoyed this piece as well!

I hope you have a great day or night wherever you are in this crazy world.

xoxo,

shewroteaworld