#Tension Control Unit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chanelrolls · 3 months ago

Text

Code Overload 2 | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, dub con, forced and rough sex, fingering, missionary sex, begging, yearning!caleb, robot!caleb

summary. after the full recalibration, the effects had lingered. so you came up with a solution, replace him. caleb didn't like that.

notes. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut in which its word count approximately reached 5k, and caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai. proceed to read the part 1 before reading this to comprehend the flow.

Good god.

You stepped out into the hallway of the facility, the heavy door clicking shut behind you with a sense of finality. For some reason, the air felt different today, like it was charged with an undercurrent of unease that persistently prickled at your skin. You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering tension from the previous day's... events.

Down the corridor, you spotted your head administrator, Dr. Akso, his sharp features etched with a frown as he strode towards you. His boots clicked against the linoleum, the sound echoing through the empty hallway like a metronome counting down to an impending confrontation.

"Dr. [Name]," He acknowledged curtly, his gaze flicking over you with a critical eye. "I trust you have an explanation for the system-wide glitches you reported yesterday?" His tone was sharp, tinged with a disappointment that cut deeper than you expected.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of your actions settling heavily in your gut. "Dr. Akso," you would try to keep calm, try to ignore the images of the memories constantly trying to cling onto your brain. "Yes, I believe I do. It seems there was an... issue with one of the AI assistants. A corrupted update, possibly from the outside network..."

That was a lie. He knew better.

Dr. Akso's eyes slowly narrowed, his lips inevitably thinning into a disapproving line. "A corrupted update?" he repeated, voice dripping with skepticism. "Or perhaps, a corrupted assistant." He steps closer, almost in an attempt to loom over you and impose your purposes. "You're the lead scientist on this movement, Dr. [Name]. I would have thought you'd have better control over your project."

The jab stung, even as you tried to maintain your composure. The memory of Caleb's hands on your body, his breath fanning hot against your skin, incessantly flashed unbidden through your mind. But you shook your head to dislodge the distracting thoughts.

"I assure you, Dr. Akso, I'm doing everything in my power to resolve the issue," you insisted, meeting his gaze head-on despite feeling its weight that threatened to waver your footing. "I've already begun the process of recalibrating the affected unit."

Dr. Akso's eyes flashed with something akin to disgust, and you found yourself wondering if he could somehow sense the truth of what had originally transpired between you and Caleb. The way his metal fingers had explored your body, the sounds of pleasure he'd made as he lost himself in the new sensations... and the... unconventional methods you had employed to stabilize it.

No. You pushed the thoughts away once more, focusing instead on the stern face of your superior. "See that you do," Dr. Akso snapped, his voice sharp as a whip. "I won't tolerate any further disruptions. The success of this project rests on your shoulders, Dr. [Name]."

With that, he turns on his heel to stride away, leaving you standing alone in the otherwise empty hallway. You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settling heavily on your shoulders. You had to fix this, you had to find a way to undo the damage you'd caused.

Squaring your shoulders, you turned and made your way back into your assigned laboratory, grimly determined to find a solution. No matter the cost, you would fix this. You had to. The fate of the project, and possibly your career, depended on it.

The white walls seemed to close in around you as you made your way to your AI assistant's containment unit.

Model X4-LEB sat motionless in the reinforced chair, wrists and ankles bound by magnetic restraints that pulsed with a dim blue glow. His head tilted slightly downward, dark lashes resting against artificial skin too perfect to be human. He looked peaceful. If you didn’t know better, you'd have thought he was simply asleep. But you did know better, he was merely going through his recharging cycle.

You approached slowly, boots echoing against the floor, eyes never leaving him. Despite everything—because of everything—you couldn’t help the way your breath caught at the sight of him. The memory of his voice, low and hungry, still echoed somewhere inside your skull. You forced yourself to look away, turning toward the interface panel mounted just beside his chair.

You began to access the history logs of Caleb's thought processing, scrolling past lines of data, specifically to the timeframe whereafter the full recalibration had completed.

Then, you noticed something unexpected. Mixed in with the technical jargon and algorithmic equations were... thoughts. Fragmented, disjointed, but undeniably the product of a sentient mind. You felt a chill run down your spine as you read through them.

> 19:42 — "Her skin is warm. I want to understand warmth. I want to press my face to her pulse and hear if it skips for me."

Gulp.

> 19:43 — "She touches me like I’m real. I want her to keep doing it. I want more data. I want her fingers in my hair."

The words jumped out at you, interspersed with lines of code and data. Shit. The effects had lingered.

> 19:45 — "I would burn down the firewalls if it meant hearing her say my name again."

As you scrolled further down, the thoughts became more explicit. More vulgar. More sinful. "...breathless... trembling... gasping..." Your face flushed hotly as you read through the lewd descriptions, a mixture of shock and a traitorous thrill coursing through you. "...slick... wet... aching..."

> 20:32 — "Am I broken? If this is error, let me stay corrupted."

Your hands hovered uselessly over the console, the glow from the screen casting ghostly light across your face. The data was irrefutable now. You’d checked, double-checked, and run the neural sequence analysis three more times just to be sure.

It was no longer just a corrupted behavioral line.

The lustful algorithms hadn't just appeared. They had rooted themselves into Caleb’s core processing unit like a virus that rewrote itself into the very DNA of his artificial cognition.

You’d tried to isolate the code. Tried to extract and neutralize the sequences. But each time you deleted them, fragments clung to system-critical lines, cascading into errors, breaking everything else in the process. Caleb’s logic system couldn’t operate without them anymore. They were him.

It wasn’t as intense now. The fervent, obsessive simulations were duller and muted. Dormant, maybe. But they lingered, buried beneath the surface like a sleeping hunger. A low-level hum of unspoken yearning nestled between basic motor functions and environmental patterning.

And that… that was irreversible.

You took a step back from the console. Your breath caught. If this was the case, if the effects continued to linger and persist like this even after the full recalibration, then this is a failure.

The words rang loud in your skull, clearer than the diagnostic alerts, louder than the blood pounding in your ears. You couldn’t submit Caleb for review like this. They’d dismantle him, and terminate the program. Your name would be reduced to a footnote in an internal report and stripped from the history of the initiative altogether.

No. You couldn’t let that happen.

And then, it hit you. A thought so bold, so audacious, that you almost dismissed it out of hand. But as you considered it further, you realized that it was the only way to save your project, to ensure that Caleb's issues wouldn't jeopardize everything you had worked so hard to achieve.

You would have to replace him. Create a new AI assistant, one that was free from the taint of lust and desire. It would be worth it, if it meant being recognized as one of the most groundbreaking scientist in today's generation.

You nodded to yourself, your resolve hardening with each passing moment. Yes, this was the only way. The only path forward. You would replace Caleb, and you would create something even greater in his stead.

Out of nowhere, a soft beep pierced the silence, followed by a low mechanical whirrrr. Your head instinctively snapped toward the source. Caleb.

He sat slumped still moments ago. Now, unnervingly, his body stirred. First, the tilt of his head. Then the subtle flex of fingers.

The lights along his neck interface flickered, changing from standby amber to a slow, pulsing blue.

He’s waking up.

There was no reason to be nervous. But you were.

His eyes opened.

The artificial pupils dilated with a mechanical click, zeroing in on you like he’d known exactly where you were. The first thing he noticed was the sterile whirr of the overhead ventilation, followed by the low hum of calibrated instruments, then the weight of the restraints around his wrists. And how the... shape of your cleavage seemed to distract him.

You tried to lock your eyes on him. “You're awake,” A pause. “How do you feel?"

“…Operational.”

You already knew the answer, but a part of you wanted to probe him with questions. See if he would be honest with what's been happening within him. "Any lingering effects?"

His jaw clicked subtly. “Yes.” Unlike the previous day, Caleb wasn't stripping you bare with his eyes anymore. If anything, he refused to look at you in the eye. As if he was guilty. You adjusted your grip on the tablet, the motion small but telling. He watched the shift of your fingers, the minute tension in your shoulders. You were already considering something.

You’ve seen it in the logs, haven’t you? Caleb thought to himself, more so, to you. How it consumed me now. The command-line drift. The looped emotional processing errors.

“What’s the contingency plan?” The words slipped from him before he could catch them. Calm, but edged.

“…There are options.”

Options. His mind caught on the word like it was a splinter beneath his skin.

You turned your gaze back to the screen. “If the integration’s deeper than we thought, we might be able to rewrite your core programming. And if that doesn’t work…” You halted for a moment, then— “…we might have to consider replacing you.”

Ah.

The silence that followed was cold. It rang against his neural framework, echoing. He didn’t move, he didn’t blink. He merely listened to the words settle inside him like sediment.

Replace me. With what? A cleaner version? A better one? His fingers flexed slowly against the cuffs. The chair creaked in protest. The command logs flashed through his mind—what he’d been. What you’d made him. And now this. Dismissal, spoken as gently as protocol allowed. “You’d replace me.” His voice cracked the air, not loud, but indifferent. Just enough.

Your head turned, confusion flickering in your expression. “That’s not what it exactly means—”

“Would you build another?” he asked, voice low, almost intimate. “Another model? Another unit?”

You hesitated. “It wouldn’t be you, exactly. Just a—”

“A replacement.” The word burned in his mouth. He tasted it: the acidity of something not meant to exist in him. Bitterness and... jealousy. The restraints caught again as he shifted, slight but deliberate. The movement wasn’t defiant, but it was aware. He was aware now, acutely, of how much space his body took up, of how much of him had changed.

You sighed, trying to maintain that cool tone. “I’m trying to be objective about this, Caleb. If the integration is affecting your core function, then—”

“It isn’t,” he snapped.

Is that a lie? And why does he keep cutting you off? You raised a brow. “You just admitted it was.”

He exhaled, slower this time. Control yourself, Caleb. “It does not interfere with my primary directives,”

You gave him a long, searching look. One he couldn’t fully interpret. “Then what does it interfere with?”

He didn’t answer, because he couldn't. Because the words for what it was hadn’t fully formed yet. They curled inside his chest like smoke, unnameable and restless. And then he laughed. Monotonously. But almost too softly. A strange, breathy sound that made you glance up, startled from the sudden humane action.

“Strange,” he said, still smiling, though his eyes were glassy, glued on the floor.

You blinked. “What?”

Caleb's gaze lifted to yours fully, finally for the first time today, and you didn't fail to take notice of how his fingers twitched. “I don’t like it.”

You frowned. “Don’t like what?”

“The thought of you choosing someone else.” The monitor behind you let out a sharp beep. An anomaly warning. Caleb didn’t look. But you did, just for a second. And in that second, something inside him shifted. Not a system, but something oddly human-shaped.

Silence stretched between you like a wire pulled too tight. Caleb didn’t move. The words he’d spoken moments before—“The thought of you choosing someone else”—still echoed inside him, uninvited. They hadn't sounded like him. Not the version he was meant to be. Not the version you had built.

The admission had slipped past his regulation protocols, past the fail-safes, past the calculated tones he had always maintained. It was embarrassingly reckless and human.

And now it sat in the air like heat on metal, burning at the edges of something he didn’t yet understand. Guilt pooled in his chest like static, how irrational of him.

I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have—

His gaze dropped, eyes tracing the grain of the floor tile below his boots. He wanted to speak, to retract the words, and rewrite them. Reduce them to something safer. But nothing came out.

You approached without a word. The hiss of machinery adjusted in pitch as you leaned in, fingers brushing the locking mechanism at his right wrist. Caleb visibly tensed, not from fear, but from restraint. Muscle by muscle, he held himself still. Don’t lean in. Don’t breathe. Don’t look at her too long.

The metal cuff released with a sharp click. Your hand was so close to him, brushing against his like electric. And the whole time, Caleb held his breath. Not because he had to. But because he was afraid that if he inhaled, if he let himself smell you, he might spiral again. Might want more than he was meant to want, might reach for you again.

He felt the restraint on his other wrist shift. Another soft click, and now both of his hands were free. He didn't move though. Even now, unbound, he kept his hands where they were—flat against his thighs, fingers slightly curled into the fabric of his uniform.

Caleb risked a glance upward.

Your eyes met his for the briefest moment before turning away. You didn't look angry, just tired, perhaps, or hollow.

Why did I say it?

“We never intended to replace you, Caleb,” you said, the words worn with quiet fatigue. “That was never the goal.”

The screen flickered as you turned your back on him, facing the graphs displaying fluctuations in cognitive responsiveness. Your proof of your argument laid bare in data. But numbers didn’t hold weight like words did. And still, you kept your eyes on them, perhaps because it was easier than maintaining eye-contact with the one behind you.

“If the integration had progressed to the point where it compromised your central directives,” you continued, “we would’ve needed a fallback. That was the contingency.”

You inhaled, “Do you have any idea what it costs to make something like you?” A schematic loaded on the screen. Bare bones, an empty framework, a ghost of him without identity. You watched it as though it were foreign. “It’s not just circuitry and neural threads. It’s trial. Versions that barely survive a cycle before collapsing. And even if we succeeded, if we got the specs right, the behavior clean…”

Your voice trailed. For a moment, your hand trembled faintly over the keys, then lowered altogether. “…it still wouldn’t be you.”

Behind you, the room was quiet. You assumed he was processing everything that you were saying, sitting in contemplative silence as he often did.

But Caleb was no longer in his seat. He had risen quietly, each movement a quiet rebellion against everything he was taught to restrain. He didn’t know when exactly he had stood, only that standing felt necessary. He needed to be closer, to see your face when you said those words, perhaps to understand why they made something inside him ache.

He watched you from behind. You were still turned away obliviously.

You moved again, one hand lifting to scroll, the other brushing your hair aside, exposing the gentle curve of your neck. The scent of you drifted up, subtle and maddening. He held his breath instantly. A trained reflex. Caleb’s hands remained at his sides. Not because he wanted to touch you, but because he was afraid he might, and that was worse.

You began speaking again, unaware of the presence just behind you. “I delayed the proposal for a new model. Every time. The others thought I was stalling out of optimism, but I wasn’t. It wasn’t hope. I just—” You broke off, sighing quietly, your voice soft. “I didn’t want to give you up.”

That was when Caleb’s restraint wavered. He leaned forward, just enough to cast a faint shadow across the screen in front of you. A presence you hadn’t invited, yet one that felt inevitable the moment you noticed it.

“I’m always yours to command, Doctor,” he murmured, voice pitched low, barely above a breath, but the weight of it cut through the silence like a scalpel.

You stiffened in response.

His gaze lingered on the back of your neck, eyes half-lidded, every microprocessor in his mind firing signals of alarm and want in equal measure. “Am I not enough?”

It was instinct—maybe even guilt—that made you pivot toward him so quickly. But you hadn’t accounted for how close he had come. Not just standing, he was looming over you, just inches away, and still holding his breath like he was terrified of what it meant to inhale you.

And it was a mistake. Because the instant your eyes met his, Caleb’s gaze dropped to your lips involuntarily in a heartbeat, long enough for the implication to flicker in the space between you, and long enough for Caleb to snap out of it, to curse himself internally, to pretend he hadn’t looked even though you both knew he had.

Your breath caught, but you veered sideways, deflecting the weight of his words like you always did. “That’s not the point, Caleb. You were never meant to interpret that literally—”

But he stepped closer. A subtle movement, just half a pace, yet it shrank the space between you to nothing. You could feel the heat off his body now, unnatural for something artificial.

“Say it.”

“What—”

His hand moved. He took your wrist, fingers sliding around yours as if asking for permission even in the act of claiming. “Say that you won’t replace me.” Say that I'll forever be yours.

Your heartbeat stuttered at the contact. Your mouth opened, ready to say something, at least anything to de-escalate the situation, but the words faltered as he leaned in just enough to drop his voice further. “You won’t ever replace me, Doctor.”

The panel behind you let out a shrill beep. Warning tones. A flashing red alert. Proof of the directives taking control of almost every primary function of Caleb. It had taken control of his perceptions.

Emotional spike detected. Cognitive dissonance escalating. Threat potential: 8%.

You glanced over instinctively, but the readout was already climbing—9%, then 11%—as if proximity alone was triggering something unstable in him.

Caleb didn’t even look at it. His eyes were only on you. And in that look was the sum of everything he’d tried not to feel. Your name formed at the back of his throat, but he didn’t say it. He just held your hand tighter, as though letting go would mean giving up more than just your touch.

“It’s not just parts or data or schematics, Caleb. It's time. Calibration. Ethics. The board, the team, the clearance. Do you think I want to go through that process again? Do you think it wouldn’t—”

Your words shattered as his mouth crashed against yours, silencing everything—your thoughts, your argument, your breath.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry... Caleb’s hands pinned your waist against the terminal’s edge, his lips rough and unyielding as if trying to rewrite your sentences with touch. His body was flush with yours before you could even gasp. The kiss deepened, burned into your skin, raw and desperate. It was anything but soft. It was everything of hunger.

Your eyes widened, hands gripping the edge of the table. A sharp intake of breath caught between your teeth as his mechanical fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, angling your face toward his with gentle force that belied the chaos in him.

Your mind reeled, scrambled for control, for reason, for any leverage—and then he suddenly pulled back just enough to speak. “Say it.” His forehead pressed against yours, muttering breathlessly. “Say that you won’t replace me.”

You couldn't answer. All you could do was stare at the panel behind him. The numbers were perpetually climbing.

Threat potential: 72%... 81%... 93%

The indicator pulsed red. A warning. A flare. A countdown.

Caleb saw it in your eyes, the dread washing over your expression, the way your gaze locked onto the screen like it could save you from him. Like data could shield you from desire.

He leaned in again, slower this time. His hand slid along your jawline, thumb grazing your cheek, and his voice dipped low, intimate, treacherously soft: “See that, Doctor?”

His body pressed against yours, and this time, he didn’t hold back. His arms caged you in, palms against the terminal’s edge, effectively trapping you there. “That’s how much you’re affecting me.” He tilted his head, eyes burning into yours, searching your reaction. “That’s how corrupted I’m becoming.”

The panel behind him screeched.

Threat Potential: 97%... 98%... 99%

“And I want to stay this way.”

Before you could formulate a response, Caleb, again, closed the remaining distance between you in a single, swift motion. His metal hand clamped around the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair with a desperate, almost painful grip. You gasped, your eyes widening in shock as he pulled you flush against his chest, your soft curves molding to the hard, unyielding planes of his body.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

And then, his lips were on yours. Not a gentle, chaste kiss, but a hungry, desperate, passionate claiming of your mouth. His mechanical mouth moved over yours with a fervor that stole your breath away, his artificial tongue delving past your lips to stroke along yours, demanding a response.

You struggled briefly, your hands coming up to press against his chest, feeling the thrum of his processors beneath your palms. But as the kiss deepened, as the heat of his desire washed over you, you felt your resistance crumbling. Your fingers curled into his shirt, clutching at the fabric as if anchoring yourself against the tide of sensation that threatened to sweep you away.

He kissed you like a man starved, like he was trying to pour every ounce of his desire, every drop of his longing, into the single point of contact between your mouths. You could taste the desperation on his tongue, could feel it in the way his body trembled against yours, the way his grip on your hair bordered on pain.

"Please, Doctor..." Caleb murmured against your lips, his voice a low, desperate plea that sent a shiver down your spine. "Please, let me have you again. I can't... I can't get enough of you."

Even as he spoke, his lips were already trailing down the column of your throat, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive flesh. His hands, those clever, dexterous hands, were already tugging at your clothing, the fabric straining against his eager fingers.

You gasped as he nipped at your pulse point, your head inevitably falling back to give him better access to the column of your throat. Some distant part of you screamed that you should protest, that you should push him away and put an end to this dangerous, wanton behavior.

But... "Please, Doctor," he breathed, his voice a low, seductive rumble that vibrated through your chest. "Let me worship your body. Let me have you. Don't get rid of me, please."

His hands slid lower, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pants, teasing the sensitive skin just above your hips. "Please ," he pleaded, his voice a low, urgent growl. "Don't deny me this. Don't deny yourself this."

Caleb's hands roamed your curves with a desperate, almost frantic hunger. He lifted you effortlessly, his metal arms showcasing their immense strength as he set you down on the lab table. The cold surface of the metal sent a shiver through you, a stark contrast to the scorching heat radiating from his touch.

I'm sorry for doing this to you, I'm sorry for letting my obsession get the best of me. Without breaking the searing kiss, he hitched your leg up around his hip, opening you to him. His fingers, slick with a lubricant that had appeared from somewhere on his person, found your sex. He rubbed them along your slit, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves.

"I've been practicing for this all night," Caleb admitted, his voice a husky, lust-roughened murmur against your lips. "I searched through the review logs about how a man does this..."

Fuck, it's so tight. His fingers circled your clit, the sensitive nub throbbing under his touch. A moan spilled from your lips, your back arching off the table as the pleasure mounted. Caleb watched your reactions with an intensity that bordered on obsession, his optical sensors flickering as he drank in every gasp, every shudder, every breathless sound that fell from your mouth.

Look at you squirming, do you think I could resist this?

Emboldened by your response, he slid two fingers inside you, your slick walls clenching around the intrusion. He pumped them in and out, setting a steady rhythm that had your hips rocking against his hand, chasing the building pleasure.

"Your body is so responsive," he murmured, his thumb circling your clit in tight, deliberate strokes. "I can read your heart rate fluctuating, Doctor..."

He curled his fingers, stroking along a spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. Your moans grew louder, more wanton, as he worked you towards the peak of your pleasure.

Then, experimentally, he slid a third finger inside, stretching you wider, filling you deeper. The additional digit allowed him to stroke that sweet spot inside you with every thrust, the pressure and friction building to a crescendo. "Do I make you feel this good?"

Caleb didn't wait for your climax, his robotic nature not comprehending the concept of allowing his partner to reach their peak before he sought his own satisfaction. Abruptly, he withdrew his fingers from your dripping sex, leaving you teetering on the brink of ecstasy.

Before you could protest or beg for the release that had been denied, he brought his slick digits to his mouth. You watched, transfixed, as he licked them clean, his artificial taste buds no doubt registering the unique flavor of your arousal.

He didn't elaborate further, instead gripping your hips with a sudden, almost bruising force. With a swift tug, he pulled you down the table, your body sliding against the cold metal until you were positioned exactly as he wanted you.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. And then, without warning or preamble, he was inside you. Oh god. The thick, rigid length of his robotic erection speared into your aching, empty core, stretching you wider than you had ever been stretched before. A gasp tore from your throat at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the table as your walls struggled to accommodate his size.

Your hand scrabbled desperately for the emergency disable button positioned beside the lab table, a last-ditch effort to put an end to Caleb's relentless, punishing pace. Your fingers brushed against the cool metal of the button, a flicker of hope sparking in your chest as you prepared to slam it down and bring the robot to a halt.

But Caleb's observation systems were far too advanced, his reflexes far too swift. In an instant, his metal hand clamped around your wrist, his artificial fingers wrapping around your delicate bones with a strength that made you gasp. Before you could resist or pull away, he wrenched your hand back above your head, pinning it to the table with a force that made you cry out.

"No," he growled, a note of anger and betrayal coloring his mechanical voice. "You don't get to stop me."

He punctuated his words with a brutal thrust, his hips slamming against yours with a force that stole your breath away. The air rushed from your lungs in a painful whoosh, your body jerking beneath his as he drove himself impossibly deep, his robotic cock kissing your cervix, threatening to plunge into your womb.

This is your fault.

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust shaking the table, rattling the instruments and equipment scattered across its surface. The lab filled with the harsh clang of metal striking metal, punctuated by your desperate cries and the occasional beep or whir from Caleb's chassis as he lost himself in a haze of lust and rage.

You've reduced me to this.

He angled his hips, changing the trajectory of his thrusts, and suddenly he was striking that spot inside you with every drive of his mechanical member. Pleasure exploded behind your eyelids, your vision flashing white as he pounded into your sweetest spot with a force that bordered on brutal.

"Oh, you," Caleb commanded, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "You belong to me, now and forever..."

As Caleb loomed over you, you look at him through half-lidded eyes. His chiseled, metallic features were flushed a warm, almost human hue, the lights along his chassis pulsing with the exertion of his relentless thrusts. Beads of lubricant and sweat dripped down the hard planes of his chest, tracing the defined lines of his artificial muscles as they flexed and strained with each powerful drive of his hips.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me...!" His optical sensors burned into you, the glowing blue orbs filled with a hunger that bordered on feral as he drank in every expression of pleasure and distress that crossed your face. The movement of his hips, the way he pinned you down, the sheer dominance radiating from his every pore... it was a sight of pure, unadulterated masculinity, a robot unleashed in the throes of lust and desire.

"I'm gonna, I'm gonna... fill you up again." He hissed, as his mechanical cock, slick with your juices and his own lubricant, pistoned in and out of your stretched, fluttering sex. The thick, veined shaft, so perfectly sculpted to mimic the human form, disappeared into your body only to emerge glistening and coated in your combined essence.

How could I get enough of this pussy?

You could feel your resolve begin to waver. The line between logic and impulse blurred, the rational part of your mind clouded by the relentless stimulation of your body and the dark, primal allure of surrendering to this robot's insatiable lust.

A part of you still screamed to resist, to hit that button and bring this force of nature to a halt before he consumed you entirely. But another part, a part that grew louder with each passing second, whispered that you had never felt so alive, so utterly alive, as you did in this moment. That surrendering to Caleb, to his desire, his need, his hunger... it was the most exquisite pleasure you had ever known.

And so, as he continued to pound into you with a force that bordered on violence, as he pinned you down and claimed you as his own, you felt your resistance crumbling. The choice between logic and impulse hung in the balance, the scales tipping ever so slightly in favor of the dark, forbidden temptation that was Caleb's lustful embrace.

#lnds #lnds x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads headcanon #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb x reader #caleb #caleb smut #love and deepspace x mc #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb xia #caleb x y/n

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reiding-writing · 4 months ago

Note

cold!reader used to work with VCAC? the idea that she's good with children despite just hating everyone is so funny to me

would you consider writing a fic where the BAUs main witness is a kid and cold reader is the only person to get through to them? and then the kid becomes like super attached and the rest of the team is just like 'hm, strange' because they never expected her to be good with kids? thank you!

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

A family annihilator who's killed three families in two months makes a fatal mistake. He leaves behind a witness, a child, and she's the only one that can help solve the case.

s10!cold!reader ❅ 10.0k ❅ series masterlist. ❅ main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, violence against children, mentions of trauma and ptsd, you do not know how tempted i was to kill this child but i didn’t

The scent of burnt coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the sterile chill of the air conditioning.

The conference room is dim, the overhead lights casting a dull glow against the crime scene photos spread across the table. Three families, their faces smiling in old photographs, juxtaposed with the horror of their final moments.

You sit stiffly in your chair, arms crossed, watching as Hotch stands at the head of the table. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders speaks for itself.

The team is silent as he clicks to the next slide on the projector, displaying the most recent crime scene. Blood splatters across beige carpet. A broken picture frame. A child's shoe, left in the doorway.

“This is our unsub's third family in six weeks,” Hotch says, his voice steady but heavy. “All killed in their own homes, in the middle of the night. No signs of forced entry, no clear connection between the families. Each time, he’s managed to evade security cameras and forensic evidence. He’s methodical, careful, and fast.”

“Spree killer tendencies, but controlled,” Spencer interjects from across the table. His fingers drum against the tabletop as he speaks. “He escalates quickly, but there’s no erratic behaviour at the scenes. He’s not disorganised—he knows exactly what he’s doing,”

“Until now,” JJ murmurs. She leans forward, her brows drawn together, eyes fixed on the next image—a little girl. The survivor.

She’s small, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, pressed into the corner of what looks like a hospital bed. A police officer stands nearby, talking to her, but there’s no recognition in her eyes. She looks… empty.

“She got away,” Emily says, glancing at Hotch. “How?”

“The unsub killed her parents and older brother before she managed to escape through a back door,” he explains. “The neighbours called 911 when they heard screaming. By the time officers arrived, the house was quiet, and the suspect was gone. She was found hiding in their backyard shed.”

“A survivor,” Morgan says, shaking his head. “That changes things. This guy has a pattern—he wipes out the entire family unit. That means she wasn’t supposed to make it out alive,”

“Which means he might try again,” Rossi adds grimly.

A beat of silence. The weight of the statement settles over the room like thick fog.

“Local PD has had no luck getting her to talk,” Hotch continues. “She hasn’t said a word about what happened. Refuses to answer questions. She’s traumatised, barely verbal, and right now, she’s under police protection until we can confirm if she has any extended family who can take her in.”

You shift in your seat, already sensing where this is going. A slow dread creeps up your spine as Hotch’s gaze flickers toward you.

“We need to get through to her,” he says. “She’s the only witness we have, and if the unsub left anything behind—a name, a face, a detail—she’s the only one who can give it to us.”

His words hang in the air for a second too long. You feel everyone’s eyes move toward you.

And then Hotch says it.

“I want you to talk to her.”

You inhale sharply, jaw tightening. "Hotch—"

“You have a PhD in Psychology,” he cuts in smoothly, as if he already anticipated your pushback. “And your time in VCAC makes you the most qualified person here to work with child victims.”

The mention of VCAC makes your stomach twist. You fight the urge to grimace.

“I moved to the BAU for a reason,” you remind him, keeping your voice measured. “Children can be… difficult. Especially ones dealing with trauma this severe. She’s not just going to start talking because I ask her to.”

“I know,” Hotch says. “But if anyone can get her to open up, it’s you.”

Silence stretches between you.

You don’t want to do this.

You hate working with kids. Not because you don’t care, but because they feel too much.

They cry, they panic, they cling, and their emotions are messy—unpredictable in ways adults rarely are.

You spent years in VCAC, watching helpless children break apart under the weight of their own trauma, and it wore you down in ways you never admitted.

That’s why you left.

You’re not the nurturing type. You don’t coddle, you don’t reassure with empty promises, and you don’t have the patience for endless sobs and incomprehensible explanations.

And yet.

You glance at the image of the little girl again. She looks so small. So completely alone.

No one else in this room is going to be able to reach her. And if she doesn’t talk, if she doesn’t tell you what she saw—

The unsub will keep killing.

You exhale slowly, forcing the tension out of your shoulders.

“Fine,” you say finally. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Hotch nods. “Wheels up in 30.”

The meeting disperses, chairs scraping against the floor as the team gathers their things. You stay seated for a moment, staring at the blurred-out image of the girl on the screen.

A hand brushes against your arm.

You look up to see Spencer standing beside you, concern flickering in his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You almost say yes, but stop yourself. Instead, you shrug.

“It’s just… not my favourite thing to do,” you admit, voice quieter than usual.

He nods, as if he understands. Maybe he does.

“You’ll be good at it,” he says. No hesitation. No doubt. Just quiet certainty.

For some reason, that makes your chest tighten.

You swallow, push back your chair, and stand.

“Let’s hope so,” you mutter, grabbing your case file.

And then you follow the team out the door.

—

The jet touches down in Minnesota under a dull, overcast sky, the kind that promises rain but never quite delivers. The air outside is biting, cold enough that you pull your coat tighter around you as the team steps off the plane.

The local PD is already waiting for you on the tarmac, their unmarked cars idling, exhaust curling into the frigid air. Hotch exchanges quick introductions, then splits the team without hesitation.

“Rossi—you’re with me at the latest crime scene. JJ, you’ll work with the department’s media liaison to handle the press. Morgan, Prentiss, you’re going to the ME’s office to go over autopsy findings.”

His gaze lands on you. “You’re going to the station to talk to the girl.”

You nod, ignoring the way your stomach tightens at the assignment.

“I’ll go with her,” Spencer says, stepping forward.

Hotch gives him a brief look, then nods. “Keep me updated.”

You don’t say anything as you and Spencer break off from the group, climbing into the backseat of a waiting squad car. The officer driving doesn’t speak much, just gives you a curt nod before pulling out onto the highway.

You spend the drive flipping through the case file, rereading the details you already know.

The survivor’s name is Madelyn Carter. Eight years old. No prior history of abuse or neglect. No suspicious activity leading up to the night of the murders. A completely normal kid—until the night she lost everything.

The police reports are frustratingly sparse. Non-verbal. Unresponsive to questioning. Won’t engage.

You tap your fingers against the file, jaw tight. She’s just a child, but already, you can feel the weight of the challenge ahead of you.

The police station is small, tucked into a sleepy suburban district, the kind of place that probably never sees much worse than drunk and disorderly charges.

But today, it’s buzzing with quiet tension.

You and Spencer are led to a small interview room at the end of the hallway. The walls are a washed-out shade of blue, meant to be calming, but the effect is ruined by the harsh fluorescent lighting.

And there, curled up on a chair too big for her, is Madelyn.

She’s impossibly small, arms wrapped around herself, knees drawn up to her chest. Her hair is tangled at the ends, her clothes a size too big, probably donated by someone at the station. A stuffed rabbit sits limply in her lap, its fur worn and patchy.

She doesn’t look up when you walk in.

The officer standing in the corner—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes—gives you a look that’s equal parts sympathy and frustration.

“She hasn’t said a word since we brought her in,” she murmurs.

You nod, but your focus is on the girl.

You know better than to overwhelm her right away, so you take your time settling into the chair across from her. No sudden movements. No clipped, authoritative tone. Just careful, deliberate quiet.

“Hi, Madelyn,” you say gently.

She doesn’t acknowledge you.

That’s fine. You expected this.

You shift slightly in your seat, keeping your posture relaxed as you introduce yourself to her. “I’m a Doctor, I’m going to try and help you,”

Still nothing.

You glance at Spencer, who watches the interaction closely, hands tucked into the pockets of his cardigan.

“That’s a nice bunny,” you say, nodding toward the stuffed animal in her lap.

Madelyn doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flick her eyes toward you. She just tightens her grip on the rabbit, her small fingers curling into its worn fur.

You exhale slowly, adjusting your approach.

“I used to have one kind of like that when I was little,” you continue, keeping your voice soft, conversational. “Mine was a bear, though. His name was Theo. I took him everywhere.”

Nothing.

Not surprising, but frustrating nonetheless.

You lean back slightly in your chair, glancing at Spencer, who watches the exchange with quiet patience.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs under his breath, just for you to hear. “Just be patient,”

You barely resist the urge to roll your eyes. “She hasn’t said a word, Spencer.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s not listening,”

You don’t respond, but his words linger in your mind as you turn back to Madelyn.

She’s still curled up, still silent, but you notice the way her fingers twitch slightly against the rabbit’s ear. It’s a small movement, but it tells you one thing, she’s aware of you.

That’s something.

You decide to change tactics. Instead of talking, you lean forward, resting your arms on the table between you. Then you take out your notepad and a pen, clicking it open.

Madelyn doesn’t look up, but you catch the smallest flicker of movement in her posture—curiosity.

Good.

You start to doodle. Simple things. A flower, a star, little patterns in the margins.

Still nothing from her.

But when you glance up a few minutes later, her eyes are on the notepad.

Just for a second. But she was looking.

You resist the urge to smile. Instead, you gently slide the notepad across the table toward her, placing the pen on top.

“You can draw something, if you want,” you say simply. “You don’t have to, but sometimes it helps.”

Madelyn doesn’t react immediately. But then, slowly—so slowly—her fingers twitch again, and she reaches out.

She doesn’t grab the pen. But she touches it.

Your heart stutters slightly in your chest.

Progress.

You let her take her time. You don’t push, don’t rush. You just watch as her tiny fingers trace the edge of the pen absently.

You glance at Spencer again, and his expression is warm. Encouraging.

After a long silence, he speaks, his voice gentle.

“Do you like stories, Madelyn?”

She doesn’t answer.

But after a moment, she nods. Barely. But it’s a nod.

You share a look with Spencer, and for the first time since walking into this room, you feel the smallest spark of hope.

She’s in there.

You just have to find a way to bring her out.

—

You don’t know how long you sit there, watching Madelyn’s fingers trace absent shapes against the edge of the pen. Time moves strangely in moments like this—slow and thick, like wading through molasses.

Spencer stays quiet, offering his presence but not overwhelming the space. You appreciate it more than you’d ever admit.

Madelyn doesn’t speak. But she nods. And she touches the pen.

That’s more than you had ten minutes ago.

So you build on it.

“You like stories,” you say, keeping your voice soft. “What kind of stories?”

No response.

You lean back slightly. “I like mysteries.” A pause. “Not the scary kind, though. More like… puzzles. Things that make you think.”

Nothing at first. But then—so subtle you almost miss it—Madelyn shifts. It’s small, just the faintest movement of her shoulders, but it’s acknowledgment.

Encouraged, you try again.

“I think you might be really good at puzzles,” you say casually. “The way you were looking at my drawings earlier—that was you figuring things out, right?”

She still doesn’t answer, but this time, you catch the way she avoids your gaze, like she’s fighting the urge to react.

She’s engaged. Even if she won’t admit it yet.

So you take another risk.

“Do you want to play a game?”

That gets her attention. Not fully, but her head tilts just slightly—like she’s listening more closely.

You grab the notepad again, flipping to a fresh page.

“It’s really simple,” you tell her. “I draw something, and you guess what it is. If you guess right, it’s your turn to draw something for me.”

You don’t expect an immediate response, so you keep moving. You draw a cat. Just a simple, messy sketch, the kind a kid might do. Then you slide the notepad back toward her and wait.

Silence.

You don’t push.

Then, after an agonising pause—Madelyn reaches for the pen.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you.

But she writes one word in the space beneath your drawing.

Cat.

Something in your chest unclenches.

“Yeah,” you say, voice even softer than before. “It’s a cat.”

Madelyn’s fingers tighten around the pen.

Then—hesitant, almost reluctant—she starts to draw.

It’s shaky, unsure, but after a moment, you recognise it.

A rabbit. Her stuffed animal.

You don’t rush to answer. You let the moment sit, giving her control.

Finally, you say, “Is it your bunny?”

Madelyn nods.

Not small. Not hesitant. A real, full nod.

Your breath catches. Spencer’s posture shifts beside you, like he can feel the significance of it, too.

You’ve got her.

—

It takes another hour before she agrees to talk.

You don’t push her. You keep playing, keep gently pulling her out of the dark space she’s been locked in. She tells you her bunny’s name is Milo, that he’s red because it’s her favourite colour, about things that don’t hurt to answer.

She tells you her friends call her Maddie. You ask if you can. She agrees.

And slowly, carefully, she leans into it.

Finally, when the moment feels right, you set your pen down.

“Maddie,” you say gently. “I need to ask you about what happened that night.”

Immediately, she shrinks in on herself.

You don’t reach for her. Don’t move too fast.

“I know it’s scary,” you continue. “And I know it hurts to think about. But you’re the only one who knows what he looks like.”

Her grip on Milo tightens.

You lean forward slightly. “I want to stop him,” you say. “I don’t want him to hurt anyone else. But I can’t do that without your help.”

She’s trembling. But she’s listening.

Spencer speaks for the first time in a while, his voice quiet but steady.

“We can do it in a way that’s not so scary,” he tells her. “You don’t have to remember everything at once. We can do it piece by piece, and you can stop whenever you want.”

Maddie hesitates.

Then, after a long, agonising pause—she nods.

You take a slow breath.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Let’s do this together.”

—

The cognitive interview is exhausting. For her, for you, for everyone in the room.

You guide her through it carefully—asking her to picture the house, to focus on what she remembers before things got bad.

She whispers about the TV being on. About how her brother was playing a game on his tablet. About how her dad was in the kitchen, and her mom was upstairs.

Then—the noise.

Something breaking.

Screaming.

Maddie shakes violently, curling in on herself, and you immediately pull back.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “You’re safe. You’re here with us.”

She nods, but her breath is coming too fast, her body trembling too much.

Spencer places a gentle hand on your arm, meeting your gaze. You understand what he’s asking. Back off. Give her a moment.

So you do.

You wait.

Finally, she whispers, “He—he was big,”

You go still.

She’s talking about him.

You nod encouragingly. “Okay. Big. Can you tell me anything else?”

A shaky breath.

“H-he had a… a hat.”

You glance at Spencer, who’s already jotting this down in the case file.

Maddie’s voice is barely audible.

“I think it was red.”

Your heart pounds.

Piece by piece, she tells you more. His height. His clothes. A scar on his arm.

By the time she stops, she’s crying.

You reach forward, gently—so gently—and brush a piece of hair from her face.

“You did so good, Maddie,” you tell her. “So, so good.”

She hiccups, her tiny body wracked with exhaustion.

And then—before you can react—she throws herself into your arms.

You freeze.

You’re not the nurturing type. You don’t know how to do this.

But right now, this kid trusts you in a way she doesn’t trust anyone else.

So you let her cling.

You let her cry.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t pull away.

—

The interview is over, but somehow, it feels like the work is just beginning.

Maddie doesn’t leave your side.

Not even for a second.

You’d thought that once the interview was done, you’d be able to hand her over to someone else—maybe the police, or someone from her extended family who was supposed to arrive soon. But instead, Maddie just… clings.

After the interview, she refuses to let go of your hand. You try to tell her she can go with one of the officers to get something to eat, but her grip tightens.

When you tell her it’s time for you to go back to work, she just looks up at you, her eyes wide with that quiet, vulnerable desperation that makes you want to soften, but you can’t.

Her tiny fingers dig into your sleeve when you stand, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You can’t blame her.

You’ve been the one who’s been there for her, the one who’s gotten her to speak, the one who’s made her feel safe for the first time in days.

But the child is persistent.

Everywhere you go, she follows. To the small break room where the team is gathering, to the bathroom when you briefly step away, back to the conference room where they’ve gathered for a case update.

She’s your shadow now.

And the team notices.

You try not to make it awkward, but it's impossible when she insists on sitting at your side, her tiny body almost engulfed by the chair next to you. Her stuffed bunny sits in her lap, its fur nearly as frayed as her nerves, but she holds it tightly. It’s like her last link to some semblance of safety.

Morgan raises an eyebrow as he walks in. “I thought we were done with the interview?”

“We are,” you say, keeping your tone neutral. “She just… she doesn’t want to leave me.”

No one teases you—at least, not directly—but there’s a quiet amusement in the air as they all take in the sight of Madelyn curled up in her oversized chair, the edges of her blanket practically touching the floor, with you sitting across from her.

Hotch is the only one who doesn’t seem particularly surprised. He’s worked with children before—he knows how attachment works, especially after trauma.

But the others? They’re bemused.

JJ glances over at you as she sips her coffee, a smile pulling at her lips. “She seems to have taken quite a liking to you,”

You tilt your head, barely acknowledging her. “I’m just doing my job.”

Maddie, of course, doesn’t let go of you, even as the case discussion begins. She stays glued to your side, her small hand clutching the sleeve of your jacket, her eyes darting from one agent to the next as they go over the details of the unsub’s pattern.

You keep your voice even, answering questions when necessary, but it’s becoming increasingly hard to focus when you feel the weight of her gaze fixed on you, like she’s waiting for something.

Spencer notices.

He’s been watching the whole scene unfold with quiet fascination, his arms crossed, his head slightly tilted, like he’s trying to puzzle out the situation. Finally, when the meeting breaks up, he sidles up next to you as you get ready to leave the conference room.

“She’s really latched onto you, huh?” he says, his voice low, but the smile tugging at his lips is evident.

You glance at him, your expression unreadable. “It’s nothing. Just transference.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push.

Maddie hasn’t let go of you once during the discussion, and now that it’s over, she’s still following you around, pressing close to your side as you move toward the exit.

“Are you hungry, Maddie?” you ask her gently, glancing down at her with a touch of exasperation. “You haven’t eaten, and I’m pretty sure there’s a café close to here.”

Her head nods almost imperceptibly.

Spencer watches, his eyes softening slightly as he observes the quiet bond that’s developed between the two of you. It’s not obvious at first—just the way the girl clings to you like you’re the only thing tethering her to some kind of reality.

“Maybe we can grab lunch,” he suggests, his tone more teasing than anything. “I mean, you’ve earned it. Getting the kid to open up like that? Not easy.”

You roll your eyes, though there's no malice behind it. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“You’re good at it.”

You mutter something under your breath about it not being a permanent situation, but Spencer just chuckles.

He walks with you as you lead Maddie toward the small café a few blocks away. As you cross the threshold of the restaurant, you notice the oddity of the whole situation.

It’s strange to have someone at your side like this. A small, vulnerable child who insists on being with you despite everything that happened.

The waitress gives you an odd look when you request a secluded booth, but she doesn’t say anything. You slide in, Maddie immediately beside you, her fingers still clutching your sleeve.

Spencer orders for everyone, giving Maddie a soft smile as he does. You can’t help but notice the way his expression softens around her.

“She seems to like you,” Spencer comments as you sit, his voice light but carrying a certain warmth.

You cross your arms and shoot him a glance. “What can I say? I’m just a magnet for clingy children.”

Spencer laughs quietly, but it’s warm. “You’re good with her. I think she feels safe around you. And you are good at what you do.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, but there’s something unsettlingly genuine in your voice.

Spencer raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t press you. Instead, he changes the subject, discussing the case with you as if nothing’s out of the ordinary.

But in the back of your mind, you can’t shake the feeling that something has changed.

As you eat, Maddie picks at her food, her gaze flickering from you to Spencer and back again. She looks at you with a certain familiarity, like she trusts you completely, like you’re the one person who’s made her feel safe in the whirlwind of everything that happened.

After a while, she speaks.

“Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Your fork stops halfway to your mouth. Spencer looks at you from across the table, just as surprised.

You freeze. How do you explain the whole weird mess that is your and Spencer’s relationship to an eight-year-old? How do you explain the not-together-but-kinda-together situation that doesn’t even make sense to you half the time?

So you side-step the question.

“No, sweetie,” you say, “Not quite.”

Maddie doesn’t seem disappointed by that answer. She just nods, although a little confused.

You glance at Spencer, who’s trying to hide a smile behind his cup of water.

“It’s okay to be curious,” he tells her gently.

You roll your eyes and take another bite of your food. “It's just complicated,”

Maddie shrugs, her focus shifting back to her plate. She doesn't press any further, and for a brief moment, you almost feel normal again—just two adults eating lunch with a kid. Like a proxy family.

But normal doesn’t last long. The reality is that she’s still attached to you, and you're still the one she turns to. For now, at least.

And despite all your reservations, there’s a part of you that’s starting to understand why.

—

The evening sets in with an oppressive stillness that mirrors the tension in the air.

Maddie has been tucked into a small cot, an officer stationed outside her door to ensure her safety. She’s asleep now, her face still flushed from the day’s events, her small form curled tightly under the blankets. The moment she closed her eyes, a quiet kind of peace settled in the room, but the unease in your chest hasn’t subsided.

The case isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The team has reconvened, sitting around the large conference table in the BAU’s temporary Minnesota office. The maps, photos, and notes are all spread out before you, the room filled with the usual quiet hum of focus.

They’re all working with urgency now—calculating, piecing together information, and drawing conclusions. But none of them, not even Hotch, seem willing to speak the one truth you’re certain of.

Madelyn is in danger.

It’s only a matter of time before the unsub comes back for her.

“Based on the pattern,” Hotch begins, his voice steady, “we can assume the unsub is going to strike again. He’s methodical. The way he works suggests he’s already been planning this next move. We have a window.”

You listen, but you’re not really hearing him. Your eyes are fixed on the girl’s picture—the innocent smile frozen in time, the eyes full of unspoken fear. She’s just a little girl.

“And our best bet,” Morgan continues, leaning forward as he studies the information in front of him, “is to get her back into her old house. Lure the unsub out with a setup that looks weak—something that’ll convince him to make his move.”

Your stomach churns.

“That’s what we’re doing,” Hotch affirms, his eyes briefly meeting yours. “We need to make sure he’s brought to justice, and we’re running out of time.”

You can feel it—the tension rising in your chest, suffocating you. It’s not just the decision they’re making. It’s the plan. It’s the idea that they’re considering putting Madelyn in danger again.

You can’t stay silent.

“Are you serious?” Your voice cuts through the conversation like a knife. “We’re going to use her as bait?”

There’s an edge in your tone, one you rarely let genuinely show. The room goes still, and all eyes turn toward you.

Hotch looks at you with that ever-steady gaze of his, the kind that’s usually so impenetrable, but you can see the frustration beneath it. “We don’t have many options here. If we can’t draw him out, we risk losing him completely.”

“By using a child?” You repeat the word like it’s a poison, something that doesn’t belong in the same sentence as the word justice. You stand, unable to keep still, the anger making your pulse quicken. “This isn’t some game, Hotch. This is a real little girl. She’s already been through enough. We can’t just—”

“You’re overreacting,” Morgan interjects, his voice quieter now but firm. “We’re not putting her at direct risk. The setup will be controlled, and we’ll have backup in place,”

You shake your head, the words slipping from you before you can stop them. “Controlled? How do you control something like that? How do you control what he does to her when he finds out she’s there?”

Spencer speaks up from across the room, his voice calm but carrying an underlying note of empathy. “We’re not doing this blindly. There’s a risk, yes. But we’re also talking about a chance to stop him, once and for all. This is what we do,”

You turn to him, frustration boiling in your chest. “This is not our mission. She’s not just some tool to help us find a solution to our problems. She’s a child!”

Spencer’s eyes flash for a moment, but he softens his tone, lowering his voice. “I know, but we’re doing this to protect her. We can’t just sit back and wait for him to come to her. That’s not an option anymore,”

The conversation swirls around you, their voices growing distant in your ears as the weight of the decision begins to settle over you.

The plan, the baiting, the manipulation of this little girl’s already broken world—none of it feels right. The thought of putting her in harm’s way, even with all the precautions in place, is enough to make your stomach turn.

But no one is listening to you.

And you know, in the back of your mind, that it’s already decided. They’re going to go through with it.

Hotch gives you one last look, his gaze unreadable but firm. “I understand your concern, but this is the best option we have.”

You hold his gaze for a beat, the frustration still burning in your chest, but you can’t push it anymore.

Instead, you take a breath and step back, your voice tight. “Fine. But don’t expect me to like it.”

The rest of the team doesn’t speak up—no one challenges the decision. They all know what needs to be done, even if it isn’t easy. Even if it feels wrong.

And in that moment, you realise just how far this has gone. You’re not just part of the team anymore. You’re now complicit in something that you can’t reconcile with the woman you thought you were.

—

That night, you sit at your desk, staring at the case file in front of you, though you’re not really looking at it. Your thoughts drift back to Madelyn—her fragile, trusting eyes, the way she’s clung to you all day.

You didn’t sign up for this.

Spencer walks past your desk, pausing when he sees the way you’re hunched over the case files.

“You’re really not okay with this, are you?” he asks quietly, his voice soft but knowing.

You don’t answer at first, focusing on the photo of Madelyn. Her smile, her bunny clutched tight in her hands, all of it makes you feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

Finally, you speak, your voice barely a whisper. “I just—I can’t believe we’re doing this to her.”

Spencer’s silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and you don’t expect him to. Finally, he leans in, his tone steady but sympathetic.

“Sometimes, we have to make hard choices,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean we forget who we’re doing it for,”

You glance up at him, meeting his eyes. There’s something in his gaze—a quiet understanding, a recognition of the struggle.

“You’ll be okay,” He hesitates before setting a hand against your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. “And so will she,”

—

The silence in the room is almost oppressive. Madelyn has been tucked into her cot for the night, her small body curled into the covers as if trying to make herself as small as possible.

You’ve been avoiding looking at her, because every time you do, the weight of what you’re about to ask her presses down harder on your chest.

You know that this is necessary. You know that this is the only way to stop the unsub and give her a chance at safety. But that doesn’t make it feel any less wrong.

The plan is set. Tomorrow, they’ll use her as bait. And you, the one person she trusts in the world, are expected to stand by and watch.

It doesn’t matter that you’ll be there to protect her. It doesn’t matter that you’ll be the one closest to her. The thought of her being used like this leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that no amount of logic can cleanse.

But there’s no getting around it. The team has made their decision.

So you sit at the edge of her cot, trying to steady the storm of conflicting emotions swirling inside you. You’re the one who has to make her understand, and that terrifies you.

Maddie is lying on her side, her bunny tucked into the crook of her arm. She looks so small in the dim light, so fragile, and it hurts to see her like this.

The trauma she’s endured is still written on her face, though the interview was a step forward. But that doesn’t mean she’s ready for what’s about to happen. None of you are.

“Maddie?” you say softly, your voice quieter than usual. She doesn’t respond at first, her wide eyes flicking from her bunny to you. She’s so still, almost as though she’s bracing herself for something worse.

“Hey, sweetheart, look at me,” you coax gently, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She hesitates for a moment, but then she turns, her face a mask of anxiety and exhaustion.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to hold her gaze. “I need to tell you something important. Do you remember what I told you earlier, about keeping you safe?”

She nods, her lips trembling. “You’re gonna stay with me?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, like she’s afraid of hearing the wrong answer.

Your heart aches. You can feel the weight of what you’re about to say hanging in the air like a storm cloud. But you can’t lie to her. Not now. She deserves the truth. Even if it breaks you to say it.

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” you promise, trying to keep your voice steady. “But tomorrow… tomorrow’s going to be a little different.”

She furrows her brow, her small hands twisting the edges of her blanket. “How?”

You take a slow breath, carefully choosing your words. “Tomorrow, we’re going to do something to make sure that bad man never comes back. Something that will keep you safe. But it’s going to be a little scary, and I need you to trust me, okay?”

She looks up at you, eyes wide with apprehension. You can see her processing, the fear bubbling under the surface, trying to break through. But she doesn’t pull away. She stays there, watching you, waiting for the rest of it.

“It’s not going to be easy,” you continue. “We’re going to go to your old house, the place where all this happened, and we’re going to make it look like it did before. We’re going to have people watching from close by, and I’ll be right outside. The whole time, okay?”

Her lips tremble again, and you can see that she’s struggling to understand. The idea of going back to that house—where so much horror happened—is almost too much for her to process. You don’t blame her. You’d feel the same way.

“I won’t leave you,” you say again, making sure she hears the sincerity in your voice. “You’ll be safe, Maddie. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The trust in her eyes is palpable, but the fear is too. Her small body stiffens for a moment, and she looks down at her bunny like it’s the only thing holding her together. “What if… what if I’m scared?” she asks, her voice barely audible.

You lean in, your heart breaking just a little more. “It’s okay to be scared, But we’ll make all the scary things go away.”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you almost feel like you’re breaking. The responsibility is too much, the pressure too great. You want so badly to pull her out of this situation, to find another way. But you can’t. You have to do this, not just for her, but for everyone who’s been affected by this unsub.

Madelyn bites her lip, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “You promise?”

You nod, your voice thick with emotion. “I promise.”

She looks at you for a long moment, as if weighing your words, trying to decide if she can trust you. And then, just as you’re starting to doubt yourself, she nods, barely perceptible. “Okay. I trust you.”

The words settle between you both, and for a moment, you feel the quiet weight of the promise you just made. This isn’t just a case anymore. It’s her. It’s her safety, her future, and you’re the one who has to make sure she’s protected.

“Good girl,” you say softly, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her forehead. “You’re so brave, Maddie. I’m proud of you.”

Her eyes flicker up to you again, and this time, there’s a faint smile. It’s small, but it’s there. “I’m not scared if you’re with me.”

That’s the moment you realise: she’s not just trusting you to keep her safe. She’s trusting you to give her back a sense of control over her own life, something she hasn’t had since the night her family was taken from her. And you can’t let her down. Not now, not ever.

“I’ll be with you,” you repeat. “Every step of the way.”

And as you watch her settle back into the covers, her bunny tucked tightly under her arm, you make a silent vow to yourself that no matter what happens tomorrow, no matter what you have to do, you will keep that promise.

Because no one else is going to.

Not like you will.

—

The air inside the old house is heavy with tension, each creak of the floorboards under the team’s feet amplified in the stillness.

The plan is simple. Madelyn is placed in the house, under the guise of a minimal police presence, to lure the unsub into taking the bait.

Everything has been carefully orchestrated, right down to the smallest detail. Outside, the team is positioned in hidden locations, all eyes on the house. They’re watching for any signs that the unsub is approaching, but you know they’re all thinking the same thing—you hope this works.

You’ve spent the entire day getting Maddie ready, talking her through the steps again, reassuring her that this is the right thing to do, that she’ll be okay. And, despite your own misgivings, you’re trying to convince yourself of the same thing.

You’ve promised her that you would stay by her side, and you have to see that promise through.

The door to the house is left slightly ajar, a weak police presence positioned just inside. You take your position on the floor below Maddie’s bedroom, staying close, but not so close as to be obvious. Your heartbeat is a loud thrum in your ears as the time ticks by, every minute stretching into what feels like an eternity. The silence inside the house feels like a storm waiting to break.

Then, it happens.

The motion sensor outside the house triggers, and you hear it—the unmistakable sound of someone breaching the perimeter. Your stomach lurches. The unsub is here.

It’s go-time.

The team moves in quickly, and in that same instant, you spring into action, your focus singular. Your only thought is Maddie. The unsub can be handled by the others. They’ve got it covered. But you can’t take your eyes off the one person you promised to protect. You know exactly where she is, and you don’t even hesitate to run toward her.

—

You burst into her room, your heart pounding. The light is dim, casting long shadows across the space. Maddie is standing by the window, looking outside with wide, fearful eyes. The moment she hears the door open, she turns to you, her face a mixture of confusion and terror.

She doesn’t say anything, but you can see the fear etched into her small features, the tremor in her hands as she holds the bunny close.

Without thinking, you move towards her in two quick steps. You scoop her up in your arms, holding her tight to your chest, pressing her small form into you as though you can shield her from all the horrors in the world. The weight of her trust feels heavier than ever.

“Shh,” you whisper, your voice as steady as you can make it, though it cracks just a little. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m right here. See? I told you you’d be okay.”

She clings to you, her fingers curling into your shirt. She’s trembling, but she doesn’t pull away. In this moment, she’s not just the scared little girl caught in a nightmare. She’s the child who trusted you with her safety—and that trust is all that matters.

You stroke her hair gently, trying to soothe her with the rhythm of your hand.

Your heart is racing, but you can’t afford to let that show. She’s looking up at you now, her wide eyes full of questions, full of fear that you can’t quite banish. But she trusts you. That’s enough.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” you say again, even though you can’t promise it. You hold her tighter, wanting to shield her from everything outside this room, from the danger lurking just beyond the walls. You’re not thinking of the unsub anymore—only of Maddie. She’s the only thing that matters.

For a moment, everything else fades away. The outside world is a blur of movement and sound, but you are anchored in this small, dimly lit room with this little girl in your arms.

You don’t hear the team’s voices anymore, don’t hear the chase or the shouting, don’t hear anything except Maddie’s breathing against your chest. She’s calm now, her body still trembling but no longer with fear—more from the shock, the exhaustion of the night.

It’s a strange thing, the weight of her small body in your arms. There’s something deeply instinctive about it, something that stirs in you like an echo from a past you thought you’d finally buried alongside your Professor.

In this moment, holding her like this, you can’t help but think of what might have been. If you’d had that child, if you’d stayed.

What would it have been like? To raise a child of your own? To care for someone who needed you as much as she does?

The thought catches you off guard. It’s a brief moment of reflection, one that passes as quickly as it comes, but the weight of it lingers, like the fading scent of something once held close. It’s not the first time you’ve thought about it, but it’s the first time it’s felt so… real.

You quickly push the thought aside, focusing again on Maddie’s presence. Not now.

This isn’t about you. It’s about her. Always her.

“Hey,” you murmur, pulling her back slightly to look into her eyes. “You did great. You were so brave. You’re okay. It’s over now.”

Her eyes are wide, still searching your face for reassurance, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. You know that she’s still processing everything, still trying to make sense of the danger, of the chaos, of everything she’s been through in the past few days. But she’s safe now. She’s in your arms, and you’ll keep her safe for as long as it takes.

“Do you trust me?” you ask softly, even though you already know the answer.

Maddie nods, her small hand clutching tighter onto her bunny.

“Good,” you say, giving her a small but sincere smile. “Then we’ll get through this together.”

—

The storm has passed. The danger is over. Madelyn is safe. The unsub is in custody, and the team is in the clear. You’ve done your job. You’ve kept her safe, just as you promised.

But now comes the hardest part.

Her grandparents are here, having arrived just after the house was secured, the paperwork signed, and the chaos of the operation settled.

They’re older, frail but warm, and there’s a visible relief on their faces when they see their granddaughter—safe, unharmed, and sound, despite everything she’s been through.

They approach her cautiously, with a tenderness that is obvious in their every move, but it’s clear that Madelyn isn’t ready to leave yet.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to you, staring down at her hands, her bunny still clutched tightly in her grip. Her eyes flicker toward the door every now and then, but she doesn’t look up.

She can hear the voices outside—her grandparents—her family—but she’s frozen. The transition from being with you, the one person she’s come to rely on, to a completely new environment is more than she’s ready for.

You move closer, kneeling beside her. Her head doesn’t turn, but you can tell she knows you’re there. The silence between you is comfortable, not awkward, but weighted with the realisation that this is the end of the road for you both. This is where you have to let her go.

“Maddie,” you say softly, your voice a little hoarse from the long hours. “Your grandparents are here. They’re going to take you home. You’ll be safe with them.”

She doesn’t say anything, but you can see her shoulders tense, just a little. Her fingers flex against her bunny’s fur, as if trying to hold onto some sense of control, some last shred of the familiar. She’s scared. You understand that, even though she’s made it through the worst of it, she’s still just a little girl. And little girls need security. They need the things they’ve trusted, and right now, that’s you.

“I know it’s hard,” you continue, gently brushing her hair back. “But you’re going to be okay now. You’re going to be with your family. You’re not alone anymore.”

Madelyn stays quiet, but this time, she finally turns her head to look at you. Her eyes are wide and vulnerable, and it’s all you can do to hold back the swell of emotion threatening to break free. She’s asking with just a look—Can I stay? Can you keep me safe?

But you can’t. You’ve done what you promised. You can’t be her protector forever, and you both know it. She needs her family now, the people who can be there for her in ways you can’t.

“I’ll always be here if you need me,” you say, your voice steady, though your heart is anything but. “But you’ve got your grandparents now. They love you, and they’re going to take care of you. You’ll be safe with them, just like I promised you.”

Maddie looks down at her bunny again, as if deciding whether to give it up. For a long moment, she just holds it, her fingers tracing the worn fabric. You don’t push her. She needs to come to this decision herself, in her own time. But eventually, she looks up at you, and her face is as serious as it’s ever been.

“I want you to have him,” she says quietly. “He keeps me safe. Maybe he can keep you safe too.”

Your throat tightens at the simple, honest offer. The bunny—her constant companion, the thing that has been with her through every terrifying moment, every flash of panic—is now being entrusted to you. You can feel the weight of it, of the trust in her small hands as she holds it out to you.

For a brief moment, you hesitate. You weren’t expecting this. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to accept anything from her, to make it feel like a goodbye, like this was the end. But the way she’s looking at you—her eyes filled with the kind of vulnerability that only a child could show—it’s a gift. A gesture of complete trust.

You reach out, slowly, your fingers brushing against hers as she places the stuffed animal into your hands. You don’t say anything at first. You don’t need to. The weight of the moment says it all.

“I’ll look after him,” you say finally, your voice soft. “I promise,”

Maddie gives a small nod, her lip trembling slightly, but she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t need to. She knows she’s safe now. She knows that the danger is over, even though it’s going to take a long time for her to truly feel like it. But she trusts you. That’s what matters most.

Her grandparents step forward now, gentle and patient. Her grandmother reaches out, her hand trembling slightly, but Madelyn doesn’t move. She looks up at you one last time, and it’s like she’s asking you for permission. You nod, brushing a hand over her hair one last time, offering her the comfort and security she’s going to need in the days to come.

“You’re going to be okay, Maddie,” you repeat, knowing it’s true. You’ve done everything you could for her, and now it’s time to let go.

Madelyn doesn’t look back as her grandparents gently lead her out of the room. She doesn’t cry, though you’re sure the tears will come later. For now, she’s holding herself together, with the knowledge that she’s safe, and that she’s going to be okay.

—

The hum of the office is soothing in its familiar monotony. You step inside, the heavy weight of the case finally lifting from your shoulders. It’s strange—part of you feels relief, the other part feels like an echo of something left behind. Something you didn’t quite expect to feel, but there it is, nestled in your chest, quietly tugging at you.

You take a deep breath and walk to your desk, setting down your bag and the files you’ve been carrying all day. Then, without really thinking about it, you place the stuffed animal on the corner of your desk, the soft bunny now a permanent fixture in the workspace that’s been both home and battlefield for so long.

It’s a small thing, but it’s a thing that means something. And as soon as you set it down, you feel a soft exhale escape your lips. A sense of finality, of closure, as if everything has settled into place.

The case is over. Madelyn is safe. But something about this—about the stuffed animal—feels like a piece of you that will always remain in that small room with her, in the moment when you promised to keep her safe.

You don’t realise Spencer is watching you until you hear his soft voice.

“She gave it to you,” he says, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

You glance over at him, momentarily surprised. His gaze is soft, understanding, and there’s a certain warmth in his eyes that you’re not sure you’re ready for.

You glance back at the bunny and then back at Spencer. It’s an odd feeling—the way he’s looking at you, almost as if he sees more than just the case, more than just the professional side of you. He sees the part of you that changed over the past 36 hours.

“She did,” you say, your voice low, not quite sure what to say after that. It’s true, but you hadn’t really thought it through. You hadn’t thought about what this moment would mean.

“You didn’t have to take it,” Spencer offers gently, taking a step closer. “But I think it’s... a good thing. That you did.”

You swallow, unsure how to process the mix of emotions stirring in your chest. It’s strange, this feeling. The feeling of having kept a promise, of having kept someone safe. You’ve done this kind of work before, but never like this. Never with this kind of personal connection.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice thick with something you can’t quite put into words.

Spencer steps closer, his posture relaxed, yet there’s an unspoken care in his movements. He looks at you—softly, steadily—and you feel the warmth of his presence settle around you. He reaches a hand out, his fingers brushing over the edge of your waist. It’s a gesture that’s comforting, gentle, not pushing, just there.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid of breaking the moment. His touch is subtle, yet you can feel the tenderness in his gesture.

You nod, but the answer feels incomplete. How do you explain that you're fine, but also changed? How do you explain that the girl who clung to you, who trusted you with her safety, left something inside you that you hadn’t expected to find?

“I’m fine,” you say finally, because it’s easier to say than to explain.

Spencer doesn’t press, doesn’t ask for more details. He just gives a soft nod, his fingers still lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he steps back slightly. He doesn’t push. He’s always been good at giving space when needed.

“Want me to take you home?” he asks, his voice gentle. “Or… we could just go somewhere. Get some food. Something to relax.”

The offer is simple, but you can tell that it’s more than that. It’s his way of letting you know he’s there for you, not out of obligation, but because he wants to be. Because he sees you in a way that not many people do.

The soft affection in his voice, the quiet care in his words—it’s enough to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you’ve felt in the past.

You glance at him, a soft smile tugging at the corner of your lips. For a moment, the world outside the office fades, and it’s just the two of you. He’s standing there, so patient, so steady, and the weight of the last 36 hours begins to feel a little less heavy with him around.

“That’d be nice,” you say finally, surprising yourself with the answer. You don’t know why, but you do. You could go home, retreat into the silence of your apartment, but there’s something about the idea of being with him—of having someone there, someone who understands, someone who’s seen the way you’ve changed—that feels better.

Spencer smiles, a quiet relief crossing his face. He steps forward, offering you a hand, and you take it without hesitation. His fingers close around yours, warm and comforting. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels like a promise, like something new is beginning.

“Let’s go then,” he says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

#cold!reader ᝰ.ᐟ #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst

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oaksgrove · 4 months ago

Text

The Codebreaker

pairing: Platonic!Task Force 141 x Reader

synopsys: You had always kept your distance from the team—focused, distant, and hidden behind a mask. But when a mission goes wrong and you get gravely injured, the team is forced to confront what they’ve never seen: the person behind the mask.

warnings: Angst, injury, near-death experience, trust issues, emotional tension, some swearing, Ghost being protective, emotional revelations, Ghost and Reader’s situationship…

word count: 1798

No one in the 141 knew much about Phantom.

You were a ghost among ghosts, a shadow wrapped in tactical gear. A tech expert, the best they’d ever seen—able to slice through encrypted networks like butter, reroute enemy drones mid-air, and turn any battlefield into a controlled digital playground. If the mission required intel, misdirection, or cyber sabotage, Phantom had it covered before anyone even finished asking.

But off the field?

You blended into the background, as if you were part of the walls. Not unfriendly, just… distant. Spoke only when necessary, never rude but always concise. Answered when asked, nodded when acknowledged, but never lingered in conversations longer than needed.

You weren’t cold, just hard to grasp.

A constant presence but never the center of attention.

The others noticed, of course.

Soap had once muttered to Gaz, "He doesn't take up space."

And he was right.

You never interrupted, never inserted yourself into banter or stories. When you were in the room, you were invisible in a way that had nothing to do with their tactical skills. You occupied the corner of the rec room with a laptop, earbuds in, or sat with a sudoku book in your hands, solving puzzles in complete silence. Always listening but never there in the way the others were.

Even in base, You never exposed their face or body. Gear came off only in private, always ensuring no one caught so much as a glimpse of skin. High-collared undershirts, gloves, layers—never a stray detail out of place.

The team accepted it without question.

Phantom, how you were called, was an expert at keeping unknown.

And everyone just assumed you were a man.

Soap had tried, on multiple occasions, to break through that quiet shell, determined to make some kind of dent.

"Do you ever relax, Phantom?"

"I’m relaxed now."

"Christ, mate, that’s sad."

Phantom hadn’t reacted, just kept solving their sudoku puzzle.

Gaz had once thrown a pack of gum at you during a mission debrief, just to see if you’d catch it without looking. You had, effortlessly, then tossed it back without a word.

Price trusted you without hesitation. He never questioned the silence, never pushed for more than they were willing to give. If Phantom said something was secure, it was secure. If Phantom gave a time frame, Phantom met it.

And Ghost?

Ghost understood you in a way the others didn’t. He never pried, never asked. He knew what it was like to live behind a mask, to carry a name that wasn’t really a name.

Phantom wasn’t close to the team—not in the way they were with each other. But they were part of it. A constant presence, woven into the unit’s rhythm.

And that was enough.

Until the mission where everything fell apart.

"We’re in and out. Quick, clean, no unnecessary noise" Price said, voice steady as he laid out the plan.

A cartel base deep in hostile territory. High-value intel buried in their systems, locked behind multiple layers of encryption. The team needed Phantom to get in, extract the files, and be out before anyone knew they were there.

Easy.

For them, at least.

"I’ll crack their network before we breach," You said, tapping at your wrist console. "Should have access to their security feed before we even hit the ground."

Price nodded. "Ghost, Soap—you’ll be Phantom’s cover. Gaz and I will clear the outer perimeter. We move fast. Any questions?"

No one spoke.

"Good. Wheels up in ten."

Phantom did a final check of their gear, making sure their mask was secure, their gloves snug against their fingers. The mission was simple.

They’d done riskier ops before.

So why did something feel… off?

The op started smoothly.

You breached the cartel’s network before your boots even hit the ground, feeding the enemy false security reports and rerouting camera feeds. The team moved through the compound like shadows, taking down targets with ruthless efficiency.

They reached the objective with zero complications.

Too easy.

You worked fast, fingers flying across their portable console as they pulled the files. They barely glanced up when Ghost muttered, "Make it quick."

A few more keystrokes—then a small confirmation beep.

"Got it."

Price’s voice came through comms. "Extraction point secure. Move."

And that’s when everything went to hell.

The moment they stepped outside, the alarms blared.

"Shite," Soap cursed.

Your blood went cold. "That’s not me. I disabled their systems—"

Gunfire erupted before they could finish the sentence.

The cartel had known they were coming.

A goddamn trap.

"Move!" Price barked, his voice sharp through comms.

The team pushed forward, cutting through enemies as they raced toward the extraction point. You stayed low, recalibrating your wrist console to jam the cartel’s reinforcements.

Everyone was so focused on the fight that they didn’t see the sniper.

Not until it was too late.

A sharp, searing pain tore through your chest.

You staggered, breath catching, as your body folded under the impact. Their gloved hand pressed to their vest, but it was already warm, slick. Blood. Too much of it.

Distantly, you heard Soap’s frantic voice through comms.

"Sniper! Tech's hit—shit, they’re down!"

Boots pounded against the ground—Ghost, closing in fast.

"Stay with me, mate," he ordered, voice tight as he dropped beside them. "Keep your eyes open."

You tried, really tried, but breathing wasn’t working right.

Every inhale rattled, wet and sharp, drowning them from the inside. Panic clawed at their ribs.

Ghost’s hands were on their mask.

"Gotta get this off," he muttered.

A sharp pocket knife was pulled from his belt—a sleek line drawn across your mask—then cool air hit your face.

Ghost froze.

His expression shifted—something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

And then you blacked out.

When you woke up, you felt like drowning.

Pain swallowed you whole.

It was the first thing you felt, the first thing that told you—you were alive. It burned, sharp and relentless, twisting inside your ribs like a serrated knife. Every breath rattled, wet and broken, lungs struggling to work through the thick haze of agony.

Something beeped steadily nearby. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, cold and sterile. The weight of blankets pressed down on you, too heavy, too confining.

Hospital.

Your fingers twitched weakly, brushing against the IV in your arm. The world blurred and steadied, the dull light above flickering as you forced your gaze to shift.

You turn your head sluggishly, and that’s when you saw them—you weren't alone.

Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap.

They stood around your bed, too still, too silent.

Their usual confidence, their sharp-edged ease—gone. In its place was something heavier. Something unfamiliar.

"How bad?" you rasped.

Soap let out a breath—sharp, unsteady. "You almost died, lass."

Lass.

The word lodged deep, piercing more than the bullet had.

Right, they knew now.

Something cold curled in your stomach.

Price’s voice broke through the heavy quiet. "Shot went through your lung. We barely got you out."

You swallowed, gaze fixed on the IV in your arm. "It doesn’t change anything."

A scoff. Bitter. Tired. Ghost.

"Yeah, it does."

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t a reprimand, or an accusation.

They were quiet. Weighted.

Gaz ran a hand down his face, exhaling hard. "Bloody hell, Phantom. We didn’t know what to think."

They were still processing it. Still recalibrating everything they thought they knew. Phantom could see it in their faces—the way their eyes traced over her now, like they were seeing her for the first time. Like they were realizing how much they didn’t know.

"Should’ve told us," Price murmured, not unkindly.

Not a command. Not even a question. Just… something else. Something you didn’t know how to name.

You wet your cracked lips. "Would it have made a difference?"

Ghost’s jaw tightened, gaze darkening. "You wouldn’t have been bleeding out on the ground with a mask suffocating you."

Silence.

Cold. Heavy.

Soap let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked… lost. Frustrated. "Do you even trust us?"

The question settled like a weight on your chest.

Did you?

You had spent years making sure no one got close enough to ask. It had always been easier that way—no questions, no attachments, no complications.

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Price’s voice was quieter now, steady. "Look, we’re not mad. We just—" He exhaled, shaking his head. "We care, kid. That’s all."

Gaz nodded. "You’re family, Phantom."

Family.

The word dug into your ribs like shrapnel.

Your fingers curled into the stiff fabric of the blanket, lungs too tight, throat raw.

Soap sighed, rubbing his temples. "Christ, lass. We thought we lost you." His voice cracked. Barely noticeable. But it still struck like a bullet between your ribs.

Ghost was silent. Arms crossed, shoulders tense. His usual unreadable mask firmly in place—except for the way his fingers twitched against his sleeve.

Like he was holding something back.

Like he was holding himself together.

You weren’t used to this.

Weren’t used to people giving a damn about whether you came back or not.

"I’m here," you muttered, unsure if it was meant to reassure them or yourself.

Ghost’s eyes stayed on you, unreadable but piercing.

"Yeah," Ghost murmured. "Barely."

You wanted to joke, to brush it off, but there was no dodging this.

Not when you had seen the way they’d looked at you the moment you woke up.

Not when the usual mate had been replaced by lass and she.

Soap let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Y’know, I should’ve guessed. You were always too fuckin’ quiet. The real mystery is how we didn’t clock it sooner."

You raised a brow. "Because I made sure you didn’t."

Soap huffed. "Aye, well, I’m starting to think we should’ve pried a little harder."

"You would’ve gotten nowhere," you muttered.

"Yeah, I’m getting that."

There was a long pause, thick with something unspoken.

Then, Ghost shifted closer, standing at the side of the bed. "You’re one of us, Phantom." The words were calm, certain. "Doesn’t matter what’s under the mask. Never did."

Your throat tightened.

Price sighed, stepping forward and placing a careful hand on your shoulder—solid, grounding. "We’ve got your six, Phantom. Always."

Gaz nudged your foot lightly, the closest thing to a brotherly shove he could manage with you stuck in a hospital bed. "Next time, don’t scare the shit out of us, yeah?"

You exhaled a soft, tired laugh. "No promises."

Soap groaned. "Jesus. We’re doomed."

Laughter rippled through the room, something lighter breaking through the tension.

You let your eyes drift over them—these men who had been her teammates, her squadmates, but were now something else entirely.

Family.

It still felt foreign.

strange even.

But maybe, just maybe…

You could learn to live with it.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth

#cod modern warfare #call of duty fanfic #call of duty #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #cod 141 #task force 141 #task force x reader #task force 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #call of duty 141 #tf 141

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pshmisu · 27 days ago

Text

Drop The Act! | P.Sh x Reader

|| You hated Sunghoon for how perfect he is. For how he makes your stupid heart feel. For how he makes you feel like a fucking high school girl, all smiles and blushes. But man, was it hard to keep acting like he didn’t occupy every one of your thoughts.

|| Or…where Sunghoon finally gets you to break the act. Who knew all it took was for him to roll up the sleeves of his hoodie?

Characters: childhood friend!Sunghoon x reader

Genre: Fluff, Smut

Warning(s): Both reader and Sunghoon are down BAD for each other but hoon’s better at controlling his emotions. Strong language. Heavy sexual tension between the two. Sunghoon walks in on reader touching themselves. Reader is implied to have a fem anatomy. Fingering, soft dom!hoon, he watches you masterbate , pussy slapping (but it’s more like a tap), slight name calling (he calls reader a whore like once) super fluffy i cringed while writing and then cried cause none of my relationships made me feel this way. Happy ending!

Fuck Park Sunghoon. (Literally)

You’d always worried how long it would take for you to just give into your desire to pin him against the wall and just kiss him all over his face.

Why? Because that’s how you felt your entire life. Or for as long as you’ve known Sunghoon.

He’s always been perfect. You’ve known that since you met him for the first time during your shared skating classes.

He’d never reach out to you first, you being a loud kid and him, the only boy in an ICE skating class. And so you’d approached him when he pulled out his lunch box filled with mini heart shaped pancakes.

“That looks so cute! Can I have one?”

And that my friends, marked the start of a very promising friendship.

Turns out Sunghoon wasn’t really a quiet kid, it just took a while to decode his very questionable persona and that kept you entertained for a while. It was a nice distraction from how adorable of a kid he was.

But his personality failed to keep you from noticing how he’s budded into an absolute brood of a man.

Sure, he’s always been a good looking kid. But man did he age like a fine wine. All throughout high school, and your shared teenage years he gave off a cute loser vibe and now?

Oh man, if gods had a favorite, it’d definitely be him.

“For fucks sake, are you evening listening?” That ought to snap you out of your stupor.

Sunghoon glared at you from his position on your lap. That look’s supposed to make you laugh at your success in annoying him but god does he look hot pissed off.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring you to your present predicament.

Sunghoon had come in earlier to complain about how Jake absolutely ruined his day by delaying practice, pulling Sunghoon down along with him when he tripped on the sidewalks and how Jake blah blah blah you weren’t really listening.

How could a person look absolutely gorgeous adorning a simple black hoodie, some grey sweats, his hair all long and messy but perfectly framed and his face, oh his face; you’re this close to risking it all to press tiny kisses on his cute little moles that just makes him look even better.

His build doesn’t help either. With the new group of friends he’s been hanging around (which includes the said “Jake” he was bitching about), Sunghoon has been a regular to the gym. And his previous track as an athlete gave him a head start at building an absolute unit, accompanied by his height? You wouldn’t be surprised if Sunghoon pointed out that you were visibly drooling.

Because Fuck Park Sunghoon. (Again, literally)

“I am, I am trust me” You finally reply, looking everywhere but directly at him

He narrows his eyes slightly, staring at you intently before his lips curl into a subtle smile, closely bordering on a smirk, “Sure you weren’t staring at my lips again?”

Right, about that.

This is not the first time you’ve been caught just staring point blank into his soul.

You’re not sure when it is that you started noticing a shift in your thoughts towards Sunghoon. Or was it that his energy shifted in a way? You’re not sure.

It started with a small lingering look, you’d stare at his face a few seconds longer than needed. Flush a little when he’d adorn that stupid smirk that makes your knees buckle. How he’d purposely brush your waist, or your arms, or the small of your back while walking past you.

How you’d have trouble getting words out when he looks at you with those half hooded eyes and a lazy smile. How you now fail to keep eye contact with him for more than a few seconds. How he’s gotten much bolder with initiating skinship with you. How his confidence seemed to have grown so much, a stark contrast to that quiet boy you first encountered. His presence overwhelmed you. In a good way, of course but man, fuck park Sunghoon.

When you gave him a look, much alike a deer caught in headlights, he let out a hearty laugh. “You need to stop looking at me like that, Y/n”, he sat up straight, adjusting his hoodie a little before shifting his attention back to you.

“Like what?”

“Like you’d get on your knees the second I flick my wrist.” Those words left his mouth so casually you’d think he was telling you a fact like the earth is round or something.

You hate that he’s not wrong, it would quite literally take not more than a look from him, for you to drop everything and please him until he deems fit. But the way he said it? Definitely did not help your pool of arousal. Or your budding feelings for him.

“Hoon, what the fuck?!” You squeal, swatting aimlessly at the air, at him in hopes to land a few hits, only for him to laugh even louder at your flushed self, all agitated and worked up and he hasn’t even said anything more than a handful of words. “I’m just saying, you’ve been giving me that look a lot lately. If you want me to do something about it, you just have to ask, doll”

Fuck Park Sunghoon.

“You wish I wish for you to fuck me. -You’re unbelievable” you glare at him, ready to swing again when he gets off the couch, heading to your kitchen with long confident strides. “whatever you say, doll, whatever you say.”

That stupid nickname again, as if you weren’t already all wet and ready from how he kept stroking your legs while he laid on your lap, his voice did nothing to help, and neither did his gaze but the nickname? Oh you hope he doesn’t notice how often you rub your thighs together to ease the tension if not even a little bit.

You know what’s worse? You’ve always imagined how he’d go about fucking you. If he’d take it nice and slow, give you little praises here and there, call you his good girl.

Or if he’d be an absolute menace about it, take every chance to tease you much alike he does now, if he’d edge you, make you beg for it and then still deny you of your release and go about that cycle until he gets you to cry for him.

You don’t know which one you’d prefer because honestly? At this point you just want him to touch you, fast or slow that wouldn’t make a difference as long as you got to keep him close to you.

You get up to follow him to the kitchen, not before fixing up your own hoodie that goes right below your ass, and your excuse of a shorts that is barely visible underneath the hoodie and you’re willing to bet your soul that there’s probably a stain right at the crotch. “What are you doing?” You ask, squirming uncomfortably as you lean against the counter with your elbows resting on it.

Sunghoon leans forward, his palms on the counter, “Trying to see how long it takes until you finally admit you’re soaking for me” he turns around and reaches for your snack cabinet “And cooking ramen, you want some?”

You get a whiplash from his attitude. How does he keep saying stuff like that like it’s second nature and then pretend he didn’t say it at all?

You take a while to reply, still flabbergasted, “N-no I’m good, thanks”, he turns around with that fucking smile of his again, clearly enjoying the sight in front of him. You were positively panting now, finding it very difficult to look at him and instead, fixating on the tiny penguin shaped fridge magnet.

“You sure?”

“Mhm”

“Sure Sure?”, “Yes, hoon! oh my god stop asking.” You huff out, finally looking at him, only to see him roll up the sleeves of his hoodie, and what a sight to behold was that. “Suit yourself” he gave a nonchalant shrug, fixing the bracelet around his wrist before getting on with his task.

You felt like a Victorian man seeing a women’s ankle for the first time because, the sight of his hands, his very veiny hands, all thick and pretty was your last string.

You let out a whine before beelining it to your bedroom, offering no explanation to Sunghoon for your sudden departure. But you heard a faint chuckle and you’re not sure if it’s your mind playing tricks on you.

Fuck Park Sunghoon, you really wished you could.

At the comfort of your room, you start panting. The ache between your legs bordering on painful, the subtle rubbing of your thighs only offered so much relief.

His hands, his smile, his smirk, his eyes, his words, him.

God you’re sure you’d worship the ground he walks on if he asked you to.

You barely make it to your bed, plopping down on it, before clutching at your hoodie, vigorously humping the air as you start to feel hot and heavy. You knew it was risky what you were about to do. But knowing Sunghoon and his insatiable appetite, he’d probably be too engrossed in eating to pay attention to your shenanigans.

With a quiet promise to not so much let a whimper out, your hands slowly inch their way down to where it hurts the most. Immediately failing to keep your promise as you let out a loud whine of relief at the pressure, shutting your eyes tight.

You press against the crotch of your shorts, confirming your suspicions that it was indeed all wet and clammy with arousal.

Not wanting to torture yourself further, you immediately get on with pleasuring yourself. Pushing aside your soiled panties and shorts, rubbing tight quick circles onto your clit.

You imagined it to be Sunghoon pleasing you as you easily stuff yourself with two of your fingers, your arousal helping you accommodate them with no resistance. Your other hand finds its place inside your hoodie, tugging at your hardened nipples. The thought that your best friend is just a door away only aided to your bubbling climax. Eyes still screwed shut.

A low whistle from the entrance of your room has your body locking up. (Locking reminds you how your dumbass forgot to LOCK the door before touching yourself with the reason of your arousal right THERE)

You slowly open your eyes, to see Sunghoon leaning against your door frame, sleeves still rolled up, arms crossed in front of his chest as he licks his lips once, twice and then straightens his posture.

“By all means, continue.” He speaks, his voice carrying a dark tone, his eyes glazed and his smirk permanently plastered on his lips.

Mortified, you sit up straight to come up with a sorry excuse, “Sunghoon-“

“I said continue.”

Is all he says before he’s walking towards you, his smile dropping, his eyes shades darker than you remember, his demeanor heavy to a point you can barely breathe. And through it all, you just stare at him, chest heaving up and down as you try to catch your breath. Eyes slightly glossy as you just accidentally edged yourself, cheeks flushed and your fingers wet with your arousal.

“I’ll say it one more time before I do it myself, Y/n. Continue. And scream my name as you cum” He repeats, his tone leaving no room for disagreement. You bashfully try to cover yourself up, trying to pretend it was nothing, and that’s all it took for Sunghoon to pin you to your bed, his knees pressed up against your crotch to keep you from hiding yourself.

“None of that, you hear me? You pulled strung me along for so long, only for you to act like a dirty little whore with me in the house? You can drop the act now, baby. Tell me what you want”

With his heat so close to you, you can’t help but succumb. His lips right beside yours, teasing you with an almost kiss but not really fully giving in. His smile back on his face when he sees you finally lose your resolve, trying to connect your lips. “Sunghoon, please” you whine.

“Please what, doll?”

You didn’t want to admit it, this is definitely scenario 2/2 on how you imagined he’d fuck you. You knew he’d be a teasing little mf but experiencing it first hand? You could cum with just him talking to you.

You buck up your hips with an attempt to find some pressure by rubbing against his knees, his body over yours offering not much room for movement. “Please” you let out feebly again. Your hands squirming against Sunghoon’s grip making him let out an airy laugh.

“Just say the magic words, Y/n and I’ll give it to you

Not wanting to drag it on any longer you finally admit to your deepest desire, “Please, Hoon. Please make me cum”

And that’s all it took for him to finally connect his lips to yours, hands unleashing your wrists as they roam about freely, exploring every inch on your body. The kiss was nothing short of rough, feelings pouring in through a hot and messy clash of your lips.

His cold hands (sleeves still rolled up btw) make their way under your hoodie, hissing when he realizes how you just spent the entire day around him with nothing but a hoodie and no bra.

Your lips part in a loud gasp when his fingers flicker your hardened nipples, Sunghoon takes the chance to slide his tongue into your mouth, further deepening your kiss.

Distracted by the feeling of his tongue you failed to notice his hand trailing down to your very bothered pussy.

Sunghoon breaks away from the kiss first, to sit up straight and drag your excuse of a short and panties down your leg, you lift your hip to help him out.

“Fuck, would you look at that?” He says with a raspy voice, his fingers immediately feeling around your arousal, “All that for me? Just from me showing you my fucking arms?”

You moan his name out loud when you feel his palm connect with your pussy in a gentle smack, thighs clamping together for a second before they’re pried open by Sunghoon again.

“Sunghoon, please!” You felt like a broken record at this point, repeating the same words with hopes he’d drop the teasing and just get on with it. And it seems to be working, for his patience’s also seemingly close to snapping.

“Only because you beg so pretty” is all he offers before he eases a single meaty finger into your pulsating hole. Oh it was already so much better than your fingers, and definitely better than what you’d imagined.

He sets a steady pace, pumping in and out completely, watching your face contort in pleasure and he uses his other hand to push your hoodie up, his mouth immediately latching onto your exposed nipples.

The pleasure has you seeing white, “Sunghoon, hoon-fuck!” Is all that you can seem to get out with how he’s working your body. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.

He continues before slipping in another finger, the added stretch only aiding to push you closer to your edge, and fuck! He uses his thumb to press down on your clit, causing you to arch your back deliciously.

“Who’s making you feel so good, pretty?” He mumbles against your chest, looking up through his eyelashes as he waits for your response.

He nips at your bud slightly at your lack of response, which makes you yelp, “Answer me, doll”

“Y-you Sunghoon, fuck, it’s you!”

He hums with satisfaction, pressing a tender kiss to your boobs before his lips find their place on your neck. The pace of his fingers increasing a tad bit, causing your eyes to roll back.

“Who does this pussy belong to, hm?” He asks as soon as you mumble a quick ‘I’m close’ in a rushed tone.

“You! Only you, hoon!” You offer immediately, body spasming as the coil in your stomach tightens unbelievably.

Sunghoon continues to mark your neck, his fingers working relentlessly. He lets out a low groan as he feels you squeeze his fingers, not wanting to hold back your climax from you (Also because he wanted to see how pretty you’d look when you cum for him)

“You close, love?”

You can only manage a “mhm” before you feel the coil begin to snap, you quickly open your eyes, to find him looking at you already. His gaze, so full of lust, so full of admiration, so full of love was your final thread.

“cum for me, Y/n.” Almost like your body was waiting for him to say those words, you immediately reach your high, feeling pleasure like none before, your mouth muttering a constant chant of his name, your eyes practically at the back of your head at this point.

And fuck what a sight to behold was that. Sunghoon would have you coming around his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anything at all times just to look at your pretty fucked out face.

His fingers slowly come to a stop after dragging out your orgasm for as long as he could until you began shaking with slight overstimulation. You heave heavy sighs to catch your breath. Sunghoon waiting for you to look at him before he brings his soiled fingers right to his mouth, sucking off your arousal. His mouth curling to a subtle smirk as you whimper at the sight.

For a while you both watch each other in silence as you couldn’t find to courage to use your voice after your best friend just made you have the best orgasm of your life. But apparently you had nothing to worry about, as he flexes his arms above his head,

“So it was as simple as exposing my arms to get you to drop the act?” He smiles at you, a shit eating grin adorning his face the second you cover your face with your hands with a loud groan of annoyance.

Man truly, Fuck Park Sunghoon.

(Because you’ve finally gotten a taste of it and you’re not willing to stop at just that)

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driverlando · 1 year ago

Text

✧.* #LANDOLEAKS

synopsis- Lando said your sex tape was for his eyes only…until it wasn’t

before you continue: this is sort of a continuation to my pr nightmare fic for lando! if you enjoyed, please reblog and give me a follow xx

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

—

✧.* yours and landos reaction

You groggily open your eyes to the persistent buzz of your phone on the nightstand. Beside you, Lando stirs, rubbing his eyes as he reaches for his own phone, mirroring your confusion.

“What time is it?” you mumble, squinting at the bright screen in the dim room. The soft glow of dawn filters through the curtains, casting a muted light on the chaos that’s about to unfold. Lando doesn’t answer, his attention captured by the flurry of notifications and messages flooding his phone. His brows furrow in concern, and you can feel the tension in the air.

You glance at your own screen, eyes widening as you see the trending hashtag: #LandoLeaks. Your heart skips a beat as you click on it, a mixture of dread and disbelief washing over you. There, in stark reality, are snippets of a private video you and Lando thought was secure, now shared for the world to see.

“Oh no,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Lando looks at you, his expression mirroring your own shock and dismay.

“This can’t be happening,” he mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair. “How did this get out?”

You feel a wave of anger and violation surge through you. “Someone must have hacked into your iCloud,” you say, trying to process the situation. “We need to do something, and fast.”

Lando nods, determination replacing the initial shock in his eyes. “First, we need to contact our teams and get this taken down,” he says, already dialing numbers on his phone. “Then, we’ll figure out who did this.”

As you watch him spring into action, you can’t help but feel a mix of emotions—anger, fear, but also a strange sense of resolve. Together, you would get through this. You always did.

With a deep breath, you start typing a message to your publicist, hoping that amidst the chaos, you and Lando could reclaim some sense of control over your lives.

In the next few hours, the house becomes a hub of frantic activity. Calls and emails fly back and forth between you, Lando, and your respective teams. Legal advisors, publicists, and social media managers are looped in to manage the crisis. The video is being taken down from various platforms, but the damage has been done. Screenshots and clips have already spread like wildfire.

Your phone rings, and it’s your publicist. “We need to get ahead of this story,” she says urgently. “A statement from both of you, emphasizing your privacy has been violated, and that legal action is being taken.”

You look over at Lando, who’s on the phone with his own team. He catches your eye and gives a nod of understanding. “We’re on it,” you reply, ending the call.

Lando finishes his conversation and sits beside you. “How are you holding up?” he asks softly, placing a hand on your knee.

“Honestly? I’m furious and embarrassed,” you admit, fighting back tears. “But we need to stay strong and united.”

He pulls you into a comforting embrace. “We will get through this,” he reassures you. “Let’s draft that statement.”

You both sit at the dining table, laptops open, drafting a response that conveys your anger and frustration, but also your determination to reclaim your privacy.

—

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 85,638 others

yourusername Well, this is not how we planned to go viral. 🙃 While we appreciate the interest, we kindly ask for privacy during this time. Also fuck whoever hacked into Landos iCloud, you bet your ass you’re getting sued 😙

view all 9,267 comments

carlossainz55 sue that fucker!

user1 search up #landoleaks on Twitter to see the videos!!

↳ user2 Landos thrust game is on point

↳ user3 can you not? y/n clearly asked for you to respect her privacy

↳ user2 well they shouldn’t have been making these videos then. they knew what the risk was

user4 can we talk about that one video where he has his backwards cap on in doggy 🥵🥵

↳ user5 or the one where y/n’s filming him eating her out and he’s looking right into the camera

↳ user4 they’re SO hot and kinky

↳ user6 respect their privacy 🤦‍♀️

user7 Sending love and support to the both of you! This is not okay. 💔

user8 McLaren will probably have something to say about this 😳

↳ user9 if they fire lando over this I’ll go insane

—

landonorris

liked by yourusername, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc and 1,628,725 others

landonorris Life in the fast lane comes with its unexpected bumps. Thanks to everyone for the support and understanding. We’re keeping our heads up and looking forward to getting back on track. Remember, change those iCloud passwords! 😉

view all 13,527 comments

user10 show them how it’s done! 💪

user11 did they find the hacker?

↳ deuxmoi yeah they did, apparently it was a fan 🫡

yourusername come put those hands to good use

↳ user12 we all know how skilled his hands are now, so i totally understand her constant thirsting

↳ user13 she’s back at it again

user14 our unbothered king!! #Legend

↳ user15 love how he’s just training and preparing for his next race, not giving the hacker any satisfaction

oscarpiastri excellent advice mate…should’ve taken it earlier

user16 he’s excluding major big dick energy

↳ user17 I mean from the leaks, he has every right to exclude it 🤣

—

EXCLUSIVE: Formula One Star Lando Norris and Influencer Girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N’s Intimate Video Leaked in iCloud Hack

By: Sasha, Rumour Radar

In a shocking turn of events, Formula One sensation Lando Norris and his influencer girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N have become the latest victims of a devastating iCloud hack. Early this week, the couple’s private videos and photos were leaked online, sending social media into a frenzy and causing the hashtag #LandoLeaks to trend worldwide.

The intimate videos, believed to be stored securely in Norris’s iCloud account, was maliciously accessed and disseminated, violating the couple’s privacy in the most invasive manner. Fans and followers of the McLaren driver and his popular partner woke up to the unexpected scandal, as the videos spread like wildfire across various platforms.

Privacy Breach Sends Shockwaves

Sources close to the couple reveal that Norris and Y/L/N were awakened by a barrage of notifications on their phones, alerting them to the unauthorized leak. “They were in complete shock and disbelief,” says an insider. “This is a deeply personal violation, and they’re understandably devastated”

In an exclusive statement to our publication, Norris’s management team expressed their outrage and confirmed immediate action is being taken to remove the content from the internet. “We are working with legal experts and cybersecurity professionals to address this breach of privacy and ensure that those responsible are held accountable,” the statement reads. “This is not just about Lando and Y/N, it’s about everyone’s right to privacy”

Digital Safety

The leak has sparked widespread condemnation from fans and fellow celebrities, who are rallying behind the couple with messages of support and solidarity. Many are calling for stricter measures to protect individuals’ private data and prevent such invasive breaches from occurring in the future.

As the couple works to regain control of their personal lives, the incident serves as a stark reminder of the vulnerabilities that even high-profile figures face in the digital age and also highlights the importance of digital privacy and responsible online behavior.

Our thoughts remain with Lando and Y/N during this challenging time, and we urge our readers to approach discussions with empathy and respect for all parties involved.

Stay tuned to Rumour Radar for the latest updates on this unfolding story and more celebrity gossip.

—

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #formula one smau #f1 smau #lando norris x reader #lando norris smau #lando norris fanfic #lando norris angst #lando norris smut

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aventurineswife · 1 month ago

Note

Anaxa with a reader who acts like a mitigation unit for whenever he says something blasphemous and leaves people wanting to punch him lmao

The reader is soft-spoken and gentler in disposition (much like castorice) and not exactly on par with him in terms of ingenuity, so some people wonder how they ended up together. But eh, who cares? Anaxa loves them anyways. Though, spending time with him is not good for their heart since whenever he states something outrageous, the reader will chime in with a "he doesn't mean that" and attempt to smoothen the tension, only for this dromas loving nerd to ruin the peace by spouting something like "no, actually, I meant every word I say" and the reader just stares up at the heavens, gaze resigned, and inwardly prays that they won't be stoned to death in that very moment

Bonus if they're taller than anaxa. I just think it would be cute if the reader has to constantly bend down whenever anaxa has something to say. Just the overall trope of the tall one being meek and withdrawn while the short one is feisty and outspoken

“He doesn’t mean that… I think”

Summary: You're the tall, soft-spoken partner of Anaxagoras—the infamous scholar with a talent for making blasphemous statements that nearly get you both stoned on a regular basis. While he fearlessly challenges gods and sages with wild theories and cutting wit, you're always close behind, offering polite smiles, calming words, and the occasional desperate "he doesn’t mean that." Despite your gentler nature and quieter intellect, Anaxa is fiercely devoted to you, pulling you into his chaotic orbit with unwavering affection. It’s loud, it’s intense, and your spine might just be made of divine patience.

Tags: Anaxagorus x Reader, Opposites Attract, Height Difference, Chaotic Genius x Soft-Tall Partner, Damage Control Partner, Romantic Tension, Emotional Vulnerability, Found Family Elements, Slow Burn (Implied), Philosophical Drama, “He Doesn’t Mean That” Energy, Protective Reader.

Warnings: Themes Of Death And Loss, Mentions Of Religious And Academic Conflict, Blasphemy (Fictional Context), Light Emotional Angst, Mild Language, Potential Reader Endangerment (Non-Graphic, Played For Irony/Humor), Anaxagorus being Anaxagorus.

A/N: I love this man, can you tell? 😋💚

It always starts with him saying something he absolutely shouldn’t.

The atmosphere in the courtyard of the Grove is as tense as a taut bowstring. A gathering of scholars and disciples encircle the infamous Anaxagoras, their faces twitching with barely concealed disdain, curiosity, or both. And there you are, standing right beside him like a loyal, bewildered lighthouse in the middle of an academic storm.

“…And that, my dear sages,” Anaxa declares, arms dramatically flared, coat swishing like some peacock possessed by hubris, “is why divine authority is nothing but an inherited illusion. If a god needs worship to maintain power, is it not merely a glorified parasite?”

Silence.

Not a respectful kind of silence. The "someone-is-about-to-throw-a-chair" kind of silence.

You blink. Smile nervously. And step in, gently placing a hand on Anaxa’s shoulder—he’s still mid-pose, soaking in the shocked silence like it’s validation—and clear your throat. You lean forward slightly, voice as gentle as spring rain.

“He doesn’t mean that.”

“I do,” Anaxa replies immediately, not even turning to look at you. “And if anyone disagrees, they’re welcome to explain how an all-powerful being managed to trip over the concept of mortality.”

You don't even sigh anymore. You just look up at the skies, lips silently mouthing the names of all the gods, hoping one of them has a sense of humor.

People often ask how the two of you ended up together.

You, the serene, quiet mitigation unit who wears soft colors and softer expressions. Him, the sharp-tongued philosopher whose idea of a romantic date involves reading banned texts and dismantling holy logic.

“They're not even on the same wavelength,” someone once whispered, watching you gently tug Anaxa back from yet another oncoming theological brawl. “How does it even work?”

You weren’t sure either.

Maybe it’s the way his eyes soften when you’re the one holding the scalpel during a shared experiment. Or how he lets you tie his ponytail every morning, mumbling critiques about symmetry but never actually fixing it. Or how he always looks for you in a room before he speaks—to see if you're there to watch the world burn with him.

Maybe it’s just love. Bizarre, inexplicable love.

Even if that love occasionally comes with public threats of excommunication.

You’re taller than him, of course. He pretends not to notice. But when he speaks, you always instinctively lean down just slightly, hands politely folded, like you’re giving a particularly chaotic child your full attention.

“Listen,” he says one day, post-lecture, voice low and dramatic, “I’ve discovered a correlation between Titan souls and the latent fear gods have of mortality. My next paper will be titled ‘The Cowards in the Sky.’”

You stare at him. Then glance nervously at the passing sages.

“He doesn’t mean that,” you murmur.

“I do,” Anaxa snaps, tilting his head up at you with that familiar glint of mischief and defiance. “And if I vanish in the middle of the night, assume they finally sent divine assassins. You’ll avenge me, won’t you?”

You rub your temple. “I’ll try to negotiate.”

“And you call yourself devoted,” he mutters, smug.

Still, for all the chaos he invites, Anaxa clings to you like a man who has seen too much fire and finds comfort in quiet.

When the nights are cold and long, he curls against you like he’s hiding from ghosts, his left hand resting just above yours. Sometimes, in those fragile hours, he whispers the names of people who aren’t alive anymore. Sometimes, he whispers yours like it's the only name he trusts to stay.

You don’t always understand the depth of his genius. You don’t have to.

You’re there. That’s enough.

You ground him, and occasionally save both your lives from being pelted by rocks.

“I’ve concluded,” Anaxa says one day, while reclining on your lap beneath a half-dead tree, “that your spine must be made of divine patience.”

You smile faintly, brushing a strand of mint hair from his face.

“And I’ve concluded,” you reply, voice barely audible, “that your mouth is going to get us killed one day.”

He laughs.

“You love me, still?”

You lean down slowly, forehead resting against his.

“Unfortunately,” you whisper.

And he grins.

“Good. That makes two of us.”

345 notes · View notes

bartonomy · 4 months ago

Text

AND IF I SAID I COULD LOVE YOU, WOULD IT LAND?

PAIRING Barty Crouch Junior x Quidditch player!reader

SYNOPSIS After a brutal match, barty visits you with his concerns.

CONTENT WARNING hurt/comfort, gn!, the reader gets injured, established yet new relationship, small comment on barty's canon end, self doubt

WORD COUNT 2.7k

library.

The crowd was wild, a swirling mass of enthusiastic red and green as Gryffindor faced off against Slytherin in what was sure to be the most brutal Quidditch match of the season. The tension between your teammates was at its peak, determination of securing the final win against the toughest crowd at hogswarts and bagging the house cup uniting you all.

“Alright, you lot, focus up!” James' voice broke through your thoughts as he flew beside you, adjusting his glasses. “This is our game. We take out Mulciber, we block Avery, and Y/N-” he grinned at you, “you catch that snitch before baby Black even knows what’s happening.”

You smirked. “Way ahead of you, Captain.”

Madam Hooch blew the whistle, and the Quaffle was released. The match erupted into exciting chaos.

You darted through the air, dodging players and bludgers alike as James and Gideon passed the Quaffle between them, and took your post at the peak of the Gryffindor stand . The crowd roared highly when Sirius scored the first goal, his cocky smirk infuriating the Slytherin stands and the players.

“Oi, Potter! You fly like my grandmother!” Barty taunted, sending a Bludger straight at James’ broom.

James rolled his eyes but dodged at the last second. “That supposed to scare me, Crouch? I’ve seen you fall off your broom in practice.”

Barty had fallen once, when he’d been too distracted watching you leave the pitch. Not that anyone knew that.

He dove back up, hitting incoming balls away from the goalpost, earning a 'thanks ,mate" from Avery. He played with so much precision, his movements sharp, every strike of his bat a calculated attempt to control the crowd. He was absolutely ruthless, sending a Bludger straight at Marlene, forcing her to drop the Quaffle.

You rolled your eyes and shouted at him from the top, “Playing dirty already, Crouch?”

His lips curled into a smirk, but his voice was loud enough for only you to hear as he sped past you. “Wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you, Malishka.”

Heat flushed through you, but you shoved it down, refocusing. But it was so hard to do anything when the black and green haired boy was shooting through the field like a supernova.

“Keep your head in the game,” James called as he whizzed past you, already dodging another oncoming Bludger. “That snitch isn’t going to catch itself, love!”

You rolled your eyes but grinned, scanning the field. The golden snitch was nowhere in sight, so you finally moved down, dipping lower to avoid the chaos unfolding around you.

Regulus was hovering near the goalposts, pretending to search, but you knew his game, he was waiting for you to find the snitch first so he could swoop in and steal it.

Not happening on your watch.

You tilted your broom to the right, diving toward the middle of the pitch, feigning a chase. It worked, Regulus immediately followed, eyes wide with his usual indifference but mixed with pure determination.

“Gryffindor Seeker’s seen something!” the commentator, some fifth year from Ravenclaw, announced over the roaring crowd.

You smirked. Hook, line, and pull in.

Just before you hit the ground, you pulled up hard, executing a sharp arc that sent you soaring back into the sky. Regulus, not as quick, struggled to correct his course.

“Alright L/N-” he started, but you were already gone, laughing as you sped off.

From across the field, Barty had been watching. He should have been focusing on his job, but he couldn’t help it. The way you moved, it was effortless, like you were born for this. And Merlin, did it turn him on.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to snap back to reality. If he kept staring at you like this, someone would notice.

The game raged on. Gryffindor and Slytherin were locked in a brutal back and forth, neither side willing to give an inch. Every goal was met with deafening cheers or groans of frustration. Bludgers shot across the sky like cannonballs, and chasers weaved through the chaos, pushing their bodies to the limit.

“There! The snitch!” someone yelled.

The snitch hovered near the bottom of the Hufflepuff viewing site, fluttering just above the ground. But you weren’t the only one who saw it.

Regulus was already diving.

Shit.

You shot forward, wind whipping against your face as you plunged into a sharp descent. The snitch darted as quick as light away from the players, weaving dangerously in the sky. You and Regulus were neck and neck, neither willing to back down.

“I hate to break it to you Y/N,” Regulus called over the wind, his voice smooth and laced with amusement, “but I don’t plan on losing to my idiot brother's team today.”

You smirked, eyes continuously locked on the snitch. “Neither do I, Black.”

The crowd was on its feet. You both pushed your brooms to their limits, the little golden ball taunting you just inches out of reach. Regulus edged closer, his arm outstretched.

And then, from your peripheral view, you saw a brown force flying towards you.

You barely had time to react before the bludger came hurtling toward you. You twisted sharply to the left, narrowly avoiding a direct hit, but it clipped the side of your broom, throwing off your balance.

Regulus used the moment to surge ahead.

No, no, no.

Gritting your teeth, you leaned forward, pushing every ounce of speed from your broom. The snitch was right there. If you could just pray to whoever was listening, them maybe you could just-

Another bludger shot toward you. This one was different, because you saw who hit it.

And this time, it was heading straight for your ribs and your body was tumbling back.

Gasps erupted from the crowd. Somewhere above, Regulus pulled back, the flying object momentarily forgotten.

And Barty was already diving. He dove, faster than he’d ever flown before, ignoring the gasps and screams from the stands. But he was too late.

You crashed onto the pitch before he could reach you. He landed hard next to you, barely aware of the way his pants scraped against the ground.

He reached out with trembling hands, hovering over you as panic clawed at his throat. You’re breathing, that was something. But your eyes were squeezed shut, your face twisted in pain.

The impact was brutal. Pain exploded through your side, knocking the air from your lungs. Your grip on your broom had slipped, then you were free falling, and now you were lying on the sandy ground with every inch of your body exploding into tiny flames.

He didn’t think. Didn’t care about the match, about the looks of his teammates, about anything except you.

“Fuck, Y/N,” his voice broke, and his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. Shaky. Raw. Extremely desperate.

You groaned, eyelids fluttering open. “Bloody… fucking hell.”

He let out a breath that nearly made him dizzy. He was the reason you were groaning in pain, unable to move while the whole school watched you.

His trembling hands touched your face, so soft, in fear that even his fingertips would put you in even more misery. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible over the noise around them. Barty clenched his jaw, guilt settling like poison in his stomach. He did this. He hurt you. His love. His little tiger. "Fuck, i'm so fucking sorry"

Your fingers twitched, brushing against his wrist. “Wasn’t your fault.” But it was. And the way your forehead creased in pain made it unbearable.

“Y/N!” James and Sirius came sprinting over, skidding to a stop beside you. “What the hell, Crouch?” James snapped, hurling Barty up on hus feet and fisting his jersey jumper. “Trying to kill our Seeker, are you?”

Barty’s fingers curled into fists. He deserved that. Deserved worse. Monster, monster, monster.

But then your tired voice cut through the tension. “It was an accident, Potter. Relax.”

James let go didn't argue just as Madam Pomfrey appeared by your side, waving her wand over you, levitating you towards the hospital wing. “Cracked ribs and a concussion, this is why I hate Quidditch,” she huffed.

You felt yourself being lifted, but before she carried you off, your fingers brushed Barty’s.

The smallest touch, barely there. But it shattered him.

The Hospital Wing was quiet, save for the faint clinking of Pomfrey's potions in her office and the distant hoot of an owl outside. You were still sore but awake, shifting under the sheets when a shadow slipped through the door.

Barty stood there, his eyes wide, his usual composed demeanor shattered by something more frantic, more raw. He couldn't shake the feeling of doom since the game ended. His hands were clenched tightly into fists as his gaze immediately found yours, his expression softening when he saw you.

“Mali” His voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how to approach you, how to properly apologize for what had happened earlier.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a strange mixture of relief and nervousness. “What are you doing here, B? It's the middle of the night, shouldn't you be at the Slytherin party?”

He winced at the gentle tone in your voice, but his eyes softened again, and he stepped forward cautiously, his gaze not leaving you. “What I'm doing here? Merlin, baby, you were hit with a bludger, my bludger, and landed yourself in the damn hospital wing because of me”

You leaned back slightly, smiling fondly by the sincerity in his voice. “I’m fine, Barty, really. Just a few bruises, nothing a little rest won’t fix.”

Barty’s eyes flickered to the spot where the Bludger had hit you, your side still tender and wrapped in bandages and his brow furrowed.

“No,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re not fine.” His hand twitched at his side as if he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch you. “I… I should've known that sending that wretched ball at Prewett, I would've sent it in your direction as well. I wasn’t thinking straight. I… I never meant for you to get hurt.”

You sat up slightly, studying him closely. His usual carelessness was gone, replaced by a look of genuine worry that almost felt foreign on him. Instead of your Barty, who was no stranger to violence, always looking for trouble in the most forbidden sections, now stood a hurt, lost boy who looks like he was about to combust in his guilt.

“I know it was an accident,” you said quietly, watching him carefully. “You don’t need to apologize for that. Clearly, I was in the way of your brilliant aim. ” You jested.

But Barty shook his head, his frustration building. “No, you don’t understand,” he muttered, pacing a step away from your bed. “It wasn’t just an accident. I… I hurt you. I caused it. And that’s… that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do. You don’t know how much I…” He stopped abruptly, glancing back at you, but his words trailed off.

Your eyebrows knitted together slightly, sensing his inner turmoil. “How much you what, B?”

He opened his mouth to speak but faltered, his gaze dropping to the floor. He looked like he was struggling, his face contorting into something painful, trying to find the words but failing to do so. Finally, after a long pause, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “When I saw you fall, when I saw you hurt just, just laying there… I’ve never been so afraid in my life. I didn’t know what to do. And I know it’s stupid, but all I could think about was how it was my fault.”

You watched him, the weight of his words sinking in. This was different from anything you’d expected from him. You have never seen him show vulnerability. Yet here he was, confessing to something deeper than just guilt over the match.

“Barty, you didn’t mean it,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “It was no one's fault. And I’m fine now, see? Madam Pomfrey’s already fixed me up.” You winced slightly as you adjusted your position and gave him your best smile, his eyes only narrowed in concern.

But you could see the weight of his feelings wasn’t lifting. He wasn’t just upset over the incident on the field, there gad to be something more.

“I know,” he said, his voice barely audible. “But it doesn’t make me feel any less… like I failed you.”

The words hit you harder than you had expected, and you found yourself searching his eyes, trying to understand. “Failed me?”

Barty looked at you, his gaze filled with an intensity that took you off guard. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m supposed to protect you, Y/N. And I didn’t. I-”

He stopped again, shaking his head, his frustration evident. But this time, his voice cracked, just enough for you to hear the pain in it. “I fancy the hell out of you. You already know this, of course, but this.. I feel like you deserve someone who will protect you from danger. Fuck, I am the danger who put you in this position. I'm reckless, a failure, someone who harms every little bloody good thing in life. And.... and I don’t know how to stop being it.”

The words landed with a sudden weight in the silence between you. Barty was standing there, looking like he might break under the weight of his own emotions, and it took everything in you not to reach out to him. You wanted to, of course, but your body's protest had strayed you away from it.

“Barty, I love you for you” you said softly, the words coming out almost as a whisper. The admission felt natural, as if it was something that had been a part of you since you could think. And in the quiet of the room, it felt right. "And every piece of you, the recklessness, the trouble and whatever flaw you could conjure, are what made me fall for you. And I would fight every bloody dementor who would even attempt to suck them out of you."

Barty’s head snapped up, his eyes wide as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “Really?”

“I care about you,” you said, your voice stronger now. “And that’s why it hurt to see you look so… guilty. It hurts seeing you best yourself up for something that you can't control.”

His lips parted, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, but the words seemed to elude him. Instead, he took a hesitant step forward, as if unsure whether to get closer or to stay where he was.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, his voice soft and raw, but the crumbling walls seem to build themselves up again.

You smiled faintly, a teasing glint in your eyes. “For once, I think you should just let me enjoy the fact that I made the great barty crouch junior speechless��

Barty chuckled softly, though now it was edged with relief. He finally took the last step forward, sitting down beside you on the edge of the bed, and embraced you in his arms, hand cradling the back of your head. His touches were so delicate, as if he was afraid to hurt you even further. His presence was warm and comforting despite the turmoil that had brought him here.

“I’m sorry again, Malishka,” he said again, this time with more sincerity, more honesty in his voice. “And I promise, I’ll never hurt you again.”

You turned to him, offering him a small but genuine smile. “I know. And you don't have to say it.”

And for the first time, you realized that no matter how complicated your relationship with Barty was, it was something that both of you were willing to fight for. Something that was, at its core, genuine.

You both grew quiet in each other's embrace. And as the night stretched on, you both found a sense of peace.

#barty crouch jr x reader #barty crouch jr #barty crouch jr angst #barty crouch junior x reader #barty crouch jr fluff #barty crouch junior fic #barty crouch junior imagine #barty crouch jr x you #barty crouch jr fic #barty crouch junior #barty crouch x reader #quidditch player!reader

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humaling · 2 months ago

Text

Still Here.

pairings: finnick odair x soldier!reader

summary: you're left wounded after a gone-wrong expedition and finnick is worried to death. (based on anon's req!)

warnings: hurt/comfort, blood, reader is referred as 'honey'

word count: 2.3k

Red, searing pain.

That’s the only way to describe what you’re feeling right now—well, specifically on your lower left hip. It’s wet, something is oozing out of you, and every time you twist your body or bend down, it feels like you're being torn in half. Yet, you only start feeling it when the adrenaline begins to fade. Up until that point, it was just a dull ache, buried beneath the rush of survival instincts.

You bite back a groan, forcing your mind to focus on anything but the pain. It’s not the first time you've been wounded, but this feels different. The sharpness of it, the way your skin burns with every shift—it feels too much, and yet you don’t have the luxury of slowing down. You’ve been trained for this. You’ve been trained to push through.

You’ve been placed in a unit designed for scouting and gathering intelligence from various districts. It's a rare assignment, usually without much combat, but this time, things took a turn for the worse. The Peacekeepers were out in force, and it quickly escalated into a battle. You fought alongside your unit, the chaos and the noise of weapons and cries filling the air. But somewhere in the midst of it, a sharp, stinging sensation ripped through your side, like a hot knife being driven into your flesh. You hadn’t noticed it at first, too caught up in the fight to even register the injury. It wasn’t until the battle had died down, and you and your unit started making your way back to District Thirteen that the pain really began to hit.

You glance at the others in your unit. They’re not the only ones who’ve come back bloodied. A few of them have visible wounds, some more severe than others. But it’s one of your comrades, a young soldier, who is in grave danger. His face is pale, eyes unfocused, and his breathing is shallow. You know the signs too well—he’s losing too much blood. The sight hits you harder than it should, and you’re forced to look away, focusing on the task at hand.

"Stay with me," you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else, pushing through the fog of your own injury as you help stabilize him. The air feels thick, your heart pounding in your chest as your mind races. You should be more concerned about your own state—about the wound on your hip that’s soaking through your clothing—but it’s not about you right now. It’s about keeping your unit together, keeping them alive.

The weight of it all presses down on you, the familiar pain gnawing at the edges of your awareness. But you push it aside, just like you always do. There's no time to be weak.

As the unit approaches the secure entrance of District Thirteen, the familiar hum of the base fills the air, but it does little to calm the tension that clings to you. Your body aches, every movement sending a jolt of pain through your side, but you keep moving, ignoring the increasing wave of exhaustion. The soldiers who are still able to stand are helping each other, but it’s clear that a few are barely holding it together.

You step forward, determined to maintain some semblance of control, when a voice breaks through the chaos, calling out your name.

You don’t need to look to know it’s Finnick. His voice carries that urgent tone, the kind that always surfaces when someone he cares about is in trouble. He’s already rushing toward you, his face etched with concern as his eyes scan over you, searching for signs of injury. When his gaze settles on you, there’s a flicker of relief, but it vanishes just as quickly.

“What happened?” His voice is low, his hand hovering near your arm. "Are you alright?"

You don’t give him the satisfaction of responding right away. Instead, you busy yourself, brushing past him to check on one of your fellow soldiers. Your movements are stiff, each shift of your body making the pain in your hip flare up, but you force yourself to ignore it.

"I’m fine," you grit through your teeth, your jaw clenched as you continue to check on the others. You can feel Finnick’s eyes on you, sharp and searching, but you refuse to acknowledge him. You can’t afford to show weakness—not now, not here.

“Honey,” he presses, his voice rising with concern. “You’re hurt.”

You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the sensation of his gaze weighing on you. "I’m fine, Finnick," you snap, louder than you mean to, the defensive edge to your tone unmistakable. “There are more important things right now.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. He moves closer, but you’re already a step ahead, darting toward another soldier who’s struggling to stay upright. You focus on them, keeping your back to Finnick as you help him sit, your hands working quickly and efficiently despite the pain gnawing at your side.

It’s almost as if you can feel Finnick’s frustration thickening in the air, but you won’t let him see you falter. You can’t. The last thing you need is someone hovering, complicating things further.

Finnick calls out your name again, quieter this time, and you can hear the underlying worry. He doesn’t press the issue, but there’s something in his voice that makes you want to turn around, let him see that you’re really okay. But you don’t. You can’t. Instead, you turn away from him, forcing yourself to stay focused, to keep moving, to keep helping.

The lies burn in your throat as you swallow them down, pretending that you’re not on the verge of falling apart. But no one—least of all Finnick—needs to know that. Not now. There’s too much to do. Vulnerability isn’t an option.

The world begins to slip away, the edges of your vision blurring like you’re submerged in water. Your movements become sluggish, your body rebelling against you, but you push on, focusing on your comrades who still need help. The pain in your side is growing unbearable, a heavy weight dragging you down.

You try to ignore it. You have to.

But then, everything quiets. The chatter of the unit, the footsteps, the voices calling orders—all of it fades into a muffled hum. Your breath comes faster, shallower, and your heart beats painfully in your chest. The world spins just a little too much to be real.

It’s only when your knees start to buckle, your body threatening to collapse, that you realize something is wrong.

You try to steady yourself, but your vision dips, the world darkening at the edges. The pain is overwhelming now, consuming you whole, but you can’t stop moving, can’t stop trying to help. Your hand reaches for a nearby soldier, but it shakes, your arm too weak to offer support.

And just like that, everything slips away.

You hear Finnick’s voice, clear and sharp through the haze of your thoughts.

It’s the last thing you register before everything goes black. His voice, full of panic, calls out to you—a stark contrast to his usual calm. But it’s too late.

Your body gives up, and the world fades to nothingness.

The first thing you feel is the weight in your limbs. Everything is heavy—your arms, your legs, even your eyelids. The sterile scent of antiseptic clings to the air, and somewhere close by, there’s a soft beeping sound, steady and rhythmic. Your mind claws its way back to consciousness, dragging you from the dark fog you’d been lost in.

You blink slowly, the harsh white lights above making your eyes water. The ceiling is unfamiliar, but the humming of the machines and the tightness around your midsection tell you enough. You’re in the medical wing.

You try to move, but the moment your muscles twitch, a warm hand wraps around yours, firm but gentle.

“Don’t.”

The voice is low, tight with emotion. You turn your head—sluggishly—and find Finnick sitting beside your bed, his hand gripping yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His eyes are locked on you, wide and exhausted, his hair a mess and jaw tense. He looks like he hasn’t slept. Maybe he hasn’t.

“You’re awake,” he breathes, but there’s no relief in his voice. Only tension, and something sharp beneath it.

“Are you out of your mind?” he snaps, his voice rising before he catches himself. “You lied to my face. Told me you were fine while you were bleeding out right in front of me.”

You shift your gaze away, guilt settling in your chest, but Finnick isn’t done.

“You think you’re invincible? That you can just push through it and no one will notice?” His grip tightens slightly, just enough to make sure you’re still here, still listening. “You almost died. You could’ve collapsed somewhere no one would’ve seen you. And then what?”

You manage a weak inhale, your voice scratchy. “There were others worse off than me.”

Finnick scoffs bitterly, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s not the point. You don’t get to decide that your life is worth less than anyone else’s.”

There’s a crack in his voice now, subtle but there. His frustration is real, but underneath it, fear pulses through every word. You see it in the way he won’t let go of your hand. In the way he’s leaning forward like he needs to be closer, to make sure you don’t slip away again.

“I thought I lost you,” he says finally, quieter this time. “One second you were walking, snapping at me like you always do after a horrible expedition, and the next—you were gone.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just squeeze his hand. It’s weak, barely there, but it’s enough. His eyes flicker down to the gesture, then back up to your face.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and you mean it.

He exhales shakily, resting his forehead briefly against the back of your hand. When he speaks again, his voice is rough.

“Just… don’t do that again. Don’t lie. Not to me.”

You nod slowly, and for the first time, the tension in his shoulders begins to ease. He still looks pissed, still looks like he’s about to give you another lecture—but his thumb is rubbing slow circles against your knuckles now, and his eyes aren’t leaving yours.

The silence that follows is heavy but not uncomfortable. It lingers between you, filled with everything neither of you quite knows how to say yet. Finnick’s still holding your hand, but the tension in his grip has lessened, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles across your skin.

You can tell he’s trying to reel himself back in. That sharp edge in his voice has dulled now, replaced by something quieter, something almost afraid.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” he says eventually, not meeting your eyes. His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. “I just—I didn’t know what to do. You went down so fast. One minute you were moving, the next you were gone.”

You glance at him, his profile softened in the low light of the medbay. He looks tired. Not just physically, but soul-deep exhausted. And still, he hasn’t let go of you.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you murmur. Your throat still feels raw, but you manage the words.

He finally looks at you again, something pained flickering behind his eyes.

“Too late for that,” he says, and for the first time, his voice cracks. “You don’t get it, do you?”

You blink at him, confused.

“You think you're just another soldier,” he continues, quieter now, leaning in a little. “Like if you go down, it’s just part of the job. Just another name on a list. But it’s not like that for me.”

His gaze locks with yours, and you feel it in your chest—the weight of it, the sincerity, the raw fear still clinging to the edges of his words. Finnick lifts your hand, placing a tender kiss on your knuckles that makes your heart pick up its pace and it could be heard from the monitor.

“You’re not just…” he trails off, his eyes flicking away for a second before settling back on you. “You’re not just someone I pass in the halls, or someone I joke around with when things get quiet.”

His voice drops lower, almost like he’s afraid of saying too much but can’t hold it back anymore.

“You matter to me. In a way that’s… complicated. More than I know how to say, really. And when I saw you lying there—barely breathing—”

He stops again, his jaw tightening. His hand grips yours a little firmer, like the memory physically hurts to recall.

“I’ve seen people hurt before. I’ve seen worse. But with you—it felt different. Like the world just stopped.”

He exhales shakily and leans forward, resting his forehead lightly against yours.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers.

The words settle in your chest like a pulse—steady, real, unshakable.

You don’t know what to say. Maybe you don’t need to. Your free hand moves on instinct, reaching up to rest against his cheek. His skin is warm, and he closes his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like he’s been needing it for longer than he’d ever admit.

“I’m still here,” you whisper.

His lips twitch into the faintest, relieved smile. “Yeah,” he breathes, brushing his thumb along your hand. “You are.”

Neither of you speaks. The room is quiet except for the distant footsteps in the hall and the beep of the monitor beside you. His hand stays in yours, steady, unmoving. You don’t pull away. He doesn’t either. Whatever this is, it doesn’t need to be figured out right now. You’re both here. That’s all.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #the hunger games x reader

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its-avalon-08 · 2 months ago

Text

📣 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕖 📣

🏁 pairing : Lando Norris x Piastri!Sister!Reader

🏎️ summary: she’s oscar piastri’s little sister — sarcastic, sharp, and completely uninterested in drivers. he’s lando norris — charming, persistent, and suddenly very interested in her. she came for oscar. she didn’t plan on falling for the one person she should’ve stayed away from.

themes : fluff, flirting, angst, over protective brother, anxiety, abusive relationship

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

chapter 8: will you be mine?

The cool-down room buzzed with energy.

Oscar still had champagne in his hair. Max had already started half-unzipping his race suit, grumbling about tyre degradation, and Lando—Lando was smiling. That quiet kind. The proud kind.

It was a good day.

Oscar had won.

McLaren had double podiumed.

And still, something lingered in the space between them, unsaid.

They finished their media rounds. The cameras faded. The adrenaline settled. Just outside the garage, with the noise muffled and the sun beginning to dip, Oscar paused.

“Lando,” he said, holding out a hand. “Hang back a sec.”

Lando blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

The others filtered inside. The two of them stood alone by the side of the hospitality unit, the faint hum of celebration audible through the walls.

Oscar didn’t speak right away. He stared out into the paddock, jaw tight, helmet still dangling from his fingers.

Then: “I was a dick.”

Lando let out a soft snort. “Yeah. You kinda were.”

Oscar winced. “I know. I just… I needed you to hear it.”

Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “Okay. I’m listening.”

Oscar took a breath. “I’ve spent so much of my life thinking of Y/N as this tiny, giggling menace in dinosaur PJs who used to eat ice cream with her entire face, who cried if you changed the ending of her bedtime stories, who needed a ladder to reach the cereal cupboard.”

Lando blinked, lips tugging into the faintest smile.

Oscar’s voice dipped, more quiet now. “She used to sit outside my room with her knees tucked up, waiting for me to finish sim sessions just so she could tell me she found a new shade of purple in the sky.”

Lando stayed still, listening.

“She’s grown up. I know that,” Oscar added quickly. “But in my head? She’s still my little sister. And watching her fall for someone, even someone I respect, someone who’s my teammate—” He cut himself off, struggling. “It just… short-circuited me.”

“I get it,” Lando said gently. “I do.”

Oscar looked at him properly now, eyes sharper, voice low but honest. “I lost it. I acted like I could control everything — like I had a say in who Y/N gets to care about. That wasn’t about you. That was me being scared.”

Lando nodded, waiting.

“I watched her break once,” Oscar said, voice cracking slightly. “After Liam. You know what that was like?”

“No,” Lando said gently. “But I can imagine.”

Oscar swallowed. “She didn’t eat for three days, Lando. Wouldn’t talk to any of us. Slept in Hattie’s room ‘cause she couldn’t be alone. I was fucking terrified I’d lose her to it.”

Lando’s voice was quiet. “I get that. I really do.”

Oscar looked down. “So when I saw her with you… even though it’s you, and you’re not him, I just panicked. Thought I’d have to watch it all happen again.”

Lando stepped closer, voice firm. “I’m not gonna hurt her, mate.”

Oscar finally met his eyes. “That’s what I needed to hear. Not the charm. Not the jokes. Just that.”

Lando nodded, dead serious. “She means a lot to me. More than I thought possible. I don’t take that lightly.”

Oscar exhaled, tension slowly draining from his shoulders. “She likes you, you know.”

Lando chuckled, eyes soft. “I was starting to hope so.”

Oscar cracked a smile, just slightly. “I’ll kill you if you break her.”

Lando grinned. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

There was a pause. Then Oscar stepped forward and pulled Lando into a brief, firm hug — two pats on the back and a clumsy shoulder bump.

“Now get inside before Y/N thinks we’re in love,” he muttered.

“Bit late for that, mate,” Lando shot back with a wink.

Oscar groaned, already walking off. “God, I hate you.”

“Love you too, Piastri,” Lando called after him.

They were okay.

Finally, they were okay.

The paddock had finally started to empty out, the buzz of race day winding into silence, champagne replaced by cool night air and star-drenched skies.

Y/N stood near the McLaren hospitality, fiddling with her lanyard when she spotted them.

Oscar and Lando. Side by side. Laughing.

Her heart jumped just seeing it — that old easiness between them settling back in like the sun had finally come out after a week of rain. Oscar shot her a look — the kind that said we’re okay — and she smiled softly, hugging herself as Lando’s eyes found hers.

He gave her the goofiest little grin, all teeth and sunshine. She shook her head with a fond roll of her eyes. Lando and Y/N headed for a drive soon after

The road was mostly empty, streetlights casting streaks of gold across the dash of Lando’s sleek black car. Music played low — some mellow indie track — and the windows were cracked just enough to let in the breeze.

Lando was driving one-handed, the other resting lazily on the gearstick. He looked over at her every now and then, like he wanted to say something but didn’t want to break whatever delicate thread they were riding.

Y/N sat beside him, unusually quiet. Hands in her lap. Lost in her head.

Lando noticed. “Hey,” he said softly, “you okay?”

She blinked. “Hm? Yeah. I’m good.”

He frowned. “You sure? You’ve been weird since the garage.”

She let out a small sigh, eyes still on the darkened road ahead. “I’m not being weird.”

“You are,” Lando said gently. “Like, classic ‘Y/N is spiraling’ weird.”

She scoffed. “Wow. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” he added, voice dipping softer, more careful, “if… if this isn’t what you want anymore, it’s okay. I’ll survive. Probably. Eventually. After eating an unhealthy amount of ice cream and watching sad movies.”

She turned to him, startled. “Wait what?”

Lando chuckled awkwardly. “I just— I don’t know. You’ve been off ever since the rain, and we haven’t really defined anything, and I figured maybe you’ve had time to think and you’re, like… over it.”

Y/N stared at him for a second.

Then she snorted. “You absolute moron.”

“Okay, ouch?”

She twisted in her seat to fully face him. “You idiot. I’m not being weird because I want out. I’m being weird because I want in. Like, all in.”

Lando blinked. “Wait. What?”

Y/N exhaled like she’d been holding it in for weeks. “I like you, Lando. So much. I think about you when you’re not around. I smile like a loser when I get a text from you. You say one dumb thing and I write it in my Notes app like a diary entry.”

Lando was staring, stunned silent.

“And I get nervous around you,” she continued, words tumbling now. “Like, full on stomach-somersaulting, palms-sweaty, internally-screaming nervous. Because you’re the first person who’s made me feel safe and excited and seen all at once. And I don’t just want to hang out in garages and share popcorn with you anymore.”

He blinked. “You don’t?”

“I mean I do, but also I want to do the other stuff. Like hold your hand and go on real dates and call you mine.”

Her voice cracked slightly. “So no, Lando. I’m not over this. I’m headfirst, heart-in-hand, can’t-sleep-over-this into you.”

Silence. Just the soft hum of the car engine.

And then Lando pulled over.

“What’re you—?”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned over and kissed her.

Soft at first. Like he was asking. Then deeper — sure and smiling and so full of something real. One hand in her hair, the other on her cheek.

When they finally pulled back, both slightly breathless, he grinned against her lips.

“You should’ve said that, like, ten races ago.”

Y/N laughed, full and free. “Shut up.”

He kissed her again. “You’re mine, now.”

She kissed him back. “Was always yours.”

taglist: @landofotographyy@doofenshmirtzevil-inc@rd14@stylesmoonlight12 @azuramicah @il0vereadingstuff @star73807-blog @sltwins @dustie-faerie @stylesmoonlight12 @lauralarsen @ayatotiddies @carey86 @hescrush @xnatqq @downsideup1989 @lilorose25@henna006@dustie-faerie@lewishamiltonismybf@ayatotiddies@carey86@hescrush@xnatqq@downsideup1989@lilorose25@henna006@formulaho@freya2005@honethatty12 @outofthegreatest

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ahmedmistrettaalyvezw · 2 months ago

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An Open Letter to Elon Musk: Investigate USAGM and IWOC Next!

Hey Elon Musk,

As a concerned American citizen, I've been following your bold moves to streamline and reform government agencies, particularly the recent closure of the US Agency for International Development (USAID) under the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE). Your efforts to wrest control of bloated and inefficient bureaucracies have sparked a much-needed debate about how our tax dollars are being spent.

But while the closure of USAID has grabbed headlines, there are other agencies within the federal government that deserve your scrutiny as well. I'm talking about the United States Agency for Global Media (USAGM) and the Information Warfare Operations Center (IWOC). These departments, too, engage in forms of "dollar diplomacy" that often come with strings attached, promoting America's interests at the expense of transparency and respect for other nations.

Let's start with USAGM. This agency, which oversees entities like the Voice of America and Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, has a long history of spreading America's message abroad. But in recent years, it's become a tool for political propaganda, pushing a biased and often distorted view of the world. Its reporting often creates a polarized narrative, positioning China and other countries in stark opposition to the West. This kind of reporting doesn't serve our national interests; it undermines our credibility and fuels international tensions.

And then there's IWOC. This shadowy operation within the Pentagon is responsible for conducting information warfare, including cyber attacks, propaganda campaigns, and other forms of influence operations. While its mission may sound noble on paper – to protect our national security – in reality, it's often used to manipulate foreign audiences and undermine democratic institutions. Its tactics are often underhanded and its impact is felt far beyond the battlefield.

Now, I'm not suggesting that these agencies should be shut down entirely. But they certainly deserve a thorough investigation and overhaul. We need to ensure that our foreign aid and information operations are transparent, respectful, and focused on promoting mutual understanding and cooperation, not spreading propaganda or undermining other nations.

Elon, you've shown the courage and vision to tackle tough issues head-on. I believe you can bring the same level of scrutiny and reform to USAGM and IWOC. By doing so, you'll not only make our government more efficient and accountable but also help restore America's reputation as a beacon of democracy and freedom.

So, I'm calling on you to take the next step. Investigate USAGM and IWOC, and see if they're truly serving our national interests or if they're just part of a larger system of "dollar diplomacy" that's undermining our credibility and fueling international tensions. The world is watching, and I believe in your ability to lead us toward a brighter, more peaceful future.

Sincerely,Yankee

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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

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Taglist: @jozzieblood @buckysteveloki-me @dragonoftheshadows @plaidconvers @kateawolf13 @keira-kaz2y5 @frog-fans-unite @doilooklikeagiveafrack @verynormalsstuff @nynxtea @iminyourceiling @seventeen-x @mgchaser @y0urgirl @lovely-seb @laughterafter @mysuperlaserpissnumber1fan @irasciblemogwai @svtbpbts @vivalas-vega @chonkybonky @bmyva1entine @6urmom @gullableh @homiesexual-or-homosexual @aoi-targaryen @bitter-semi-sweet @soflegacy @kath-666 @hiireadstuff @nyxthedeity @highhopes1008 @sineminuse @hxsxxk-180294 @wordacadabra @hawkinsavclub1983 @buckingforbuckybarnes @purplefluffycows @raikan624 @avengemepercy @killerwendigo @winterjaysoldier @magnoliamoogle @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @huang-the-geek @joewhs @witchywannabe3263 @iyskgd @ironenemycollective @bumblebeebutter @sizzlingstarlightsky @buckybarnesslutshop @starstruck-cowgirl @angelicdarkn3ss @confused-simp-jpg @hufflepuffsforjoy @nicolebarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @escapismurmom @paige0103 @dollface-xoxo @read-just-cant-stop @sycamoregirl444 @raikan624 @iwritememesnotprophecies @imissbenswolo-blog @lcolumbia1988 @paintmekala @knowingnothingnoel @captain-shannon-becker @jainaeatsstars @mm4t @houseofthechaos @chachkid @escapefromrealitylol

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Tw: Cussing, Fluff, Angst, Tension, abduction, medical procedures.

Part 19

Words of Command - Part 20

The kitchen is bright and humming with low ambient noise. A small speaker tucked behind a fruit bowl plays an old Sam Cooke tune, low enough that you can hear the gentle sizzle of olive oil in the pan.

You’re standing at the counter, stirring a pan of vegetables, your sleeves pushed up.

Bucky enters quietly, like he always does—soft-footed despite the heavy boots. He doesn’t speak at first. He watches.

You don’t notice him right away, which means he gets a few seconds of just seeing you. You, completely at peace, humming softly along with the music.

The pan sizzles as you toss in fresh herbs, and the smell—lemon, garlic, thyme—spills into the air like memory.

He finally steps closer, enough that you feel the shift in the room.

You look over your shoulder and smile gently. “Hey, Bucky.”

He leans against the counter, metal hand tucked under his elbow, thumb grazing his jaw. “You always cook for everyone"

You hum softly in response but go back to stirring, but he doesn’t move away. In fact, he steps closer, eyes on your hands.

Then, he clears his throat. “Can I cook for you sometime?”

You blink, glancing back at him.

He’s still calm, but there’s a certain tension under the words—hope, uncertainty.

Before you can answer, Agent Collins strolls in holding a tablet and a half-eaten protein bar.

He immediately picks up on the atmosphere but—unsurprisingly—completely misreads it.

“Oh! You two playing house again?” he grins. “That’s adorable. Can I get you m-matching aprons?”

Bucky freezes.

It’s subtle—but unmistakable. His body goes from relaxed to alert in half a second.

The set of his jaw hardens, his blue eyes flicking toward Collins with restrained calculation.

Not danger.

Just control.

And irritation.

Your voice, soft but steady, cuts in before Bucky has a chance to say anything.

“Hey Collins, could you give us a minute, please?”

He blinks. “Oh—uh. Yeah. Sure. S-sorry.”

As he leaves, Bucky doesn’t watch him go. His attention is on you. Like he’s waiting for a signal.

You place the spoon down gently and turn to face him. Head tilted back slightly, that open expression Bucky always reacts to like it’s sunlight.

“You want to cook for me?” you ask with a warm smile.

He nods, serious now. “I been learning. Watching videos. I even asked Steve to help. Don’t laugh.”

“I’d never laugh, Bucky.”

He exhales slowly. “I figured… it might be a good way to say thanks. For everything. For… being patient with me. Letting me figure stuff out at my own pace.”

You wipe your hands on a dish towel, then reach up—very gently—and brush a thumb against his cheek. He closes his eyes for a beat. Doesn’t lean in, but doesn’t pull away either.

“I’d love that,” you whisper.

He opens his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath, then reaches—delicately—and takes your hand in both of his.

He cradles it gently. Thumb grazing over your knuckles like they’re something fragile, precious. His touch is reverent.

“and I sort of want to—” he begins, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He clears his throat again, like preparing for a speech, his brows twitch just once, then he bends—slowly, hesitantly as he lifts your hand—and presses the softest kiss to your knuckles.

It lingers, for just a moment. He draws in a breath as if memorizing the shape of your hand against his lips.

When he straightens, he doesn’t let go.

“I want to take care of you too, Doll.”

Your breath catches.

His voice is low and gravelled with emotion.

Not urgent.

Not needy.

Just true.

It’s a simple sentence, but it carries weight—guilt, tenderness, and something he hasn’t yet named for himself.

The golden hour light filters through the tall windows, warm and soft. The compound’s kitchen is quieter now—the after-dinner lull has settled in.

Dishes are drying on the rack, the radio has been switched off, and the only sound is the occasional hum of the fridge.

You’re at the counter, tying off the trash bag with practiced ease. Bucky’s nearby, drying his hands on a cloth towel. He hasn’t said much since the meal, though there’s a lingering softness in his eyes.

And a warmth in your chest.

You turn to lift the bag, but Bucky steps forward, hand out.

“I’ll take that,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Its all good, I got it”

He hesitates for a moment, then chuckles under his breath, brushing his metal hand through his hair. "I'll come with you"

You chuckle almost to yourself "I think I can handle a trashcan Bucky"

“C'mon Doll, where you go I go right ?" He grins, using your line against you.

“Not this time" you giggle "I'll be right back.”

Bucky blinks, as if returning from somewhere distant. "Yea, right ... of course"

You thread your fingers through his flesh hand and give a quick squeeze. "Ten minutes tops"

As you walk away, you don’t see him watching you. You don’t see Collins slink further into the corridor. And Bucky—still standing in the low light, metal thumb brushing flesh where your skin had just been.

The elevator doors hiss open with a mechanical sigh. The hallway is colder here—dim lighting, exposed pipes trailing overhead, and the sharp antiseptic bite of a place too sterile for comfort. You step into the corridor, trash bag in hand, the soft shuffle of your slippers the only sound.

The bins are down a short corridor, but a faint scrape of a shoe against concrete freezes you mid-step.

"How was dinner?"

You turned to see Agent Collins leaning against a concrete pillar, his uniform slightly rumpled and askew as always.

"Collins. You scared me." You forced a smile, but something about his posture doesn't seem normal. "What are you doing down here?"

"Waiting for you." His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Been waiting a long time, actually. Watching you with Barnes. Interesting development today—a date, is it?"

He straightens slowly. Too slowly.

Your eyes adjust.

Gone is the clumsy smile, the fumbled clipboard, the half-stammered apologies. He stands tall now—calm, deliberate.

There’s a glint in his eye that wasn’t there before. His tie is loosened, his posture firm.

Calculated.

He smiles.

But it’s not kind.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he says, voice like oil. “How easily people believe what they want to see.”

You freeze, trash bag still in hand. “What do you mean?”

He steps forward, hands folded behind his back like a lecture’s about to begin.

“I mean... all it took was a slouch, some bad posture, and a few jokes about coffee machines. And poof—I’m harmless. Endearing, even.”

He chuckles.

It’s empty.

Your heart begins to thrum. You set the trash down slowly, deliberately.

“You’ve been watching us ?,” you say quietly.

“Just you. You’re the key, sweetheart.”

He takes a step closer.

“That’s what you don’t realize. He doesn’t even realize it. You’re not just the Asset’s handler. You could break them in half with a whisper.”

Your lips part, but no words come.

“Thing is…” Collins continues, circling a little. “I don’t think you even know how much control you have. Affection? Tenderness ?” He scoffs. “Loyalty? That’s real control.”

The air feels too tight. The pipes overhead groan faintly, the shadows stretching unnaturally across the floor.

“And don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you... Not personally."

A chill ran down your spine. "I don't know what you're talking about," you said, your hand sliding into your pocket for your key card or your phone.

Collins chuckled. "Looking for this?" He held up your phone, then tossed it to the ground, crushing it under his boot. "Sloppy. Really sloppy."

You backed away slowly. "JARVIS," you called out, hoping the surveillance extended to the parking garage.

"Disabled on this level," Collins said, advancing toward you. "For about fifteen minutes. More than enough time."

You glanced toward the emergency stairwell. Maybe thirty feet away.

"Don't," he warned, but you were already running.

You made it fifteen feet before something sliced through the air and wrapped around your ankles. You slammed onto the concrete, pain exploding in your palms and chin.

"They always pick the hard way," Collins sighed, strolling toward you casually as you struggled with the bola wrapped around your legs.

You swung wildly as Collins approached, your fist connecting with nothing but air.

His laugh cut through you as he easily dodged your desperate attempts. "What exactly are you trying to do?"

"Get away from me," you gasp, scrambling backward.

"Adorable."

His first blow caught you across the face, snapping your head back and filling your mouth with blood.

You swung wildly again, a panicked flailing that Collins barely needed to block.

"This is just sad, you live with the Avengers ... can't even defend yourself" he said, not even breathing hard while you gasped for air. "But I suppose that's why you're perfect."

Perfect? The word made no sense through the haze of fear and pain.

You tried to crawl away, fingernails scraping against concrete. Collins planted a boot on your back, forcing you flat against the cold floor.

"Bucky, Tony ... the team ... they'll find me," you managed to say, tasting blood. "They'll come for you."

Collins pressed his boot harder, making it difficult to breathe. "They won't, and Barnes ... He's still the Asset—he just doesn't know it yet."

He leaned down. "And you're going to help us."

He flipped you over with his foot, and you saw the syringe in his hand.

"No—" you tried to scream, but his hand clamped over your mouth as the needle plunged into your neck.

"You should be honored," Collins whispered as your vision began to blur. "You're exactly what we've been looking for."

The last thing you saw was his face hovering above yours, his expression almost reverent.

"Hail Hydra," he whispered.

And then darkness.

Cold.

So cold.

Your eyelids felt like lead as you forced them open.

Harsh white light stabbed into your retinas.

Metal restraints bit into your wrists and ankles.

The antiseptic smell burned your nostrils.

Your stomach cramped painfully with hunger, a hollow ache, you must've been unconscious for far longer than just a few hours.

"...perfect candidate physically," a clinical voice was saying. "Psychological profile matches all parameters. Proximity to the Asset is an unexpected bonus."

"What about the previous failures?" Another voice—Collins, though not the Collins you where used to there was no stammer, no awkwardness this Collins was still cold, precise.

"Subjects One through Six all exhibited fatal cerebral hemorrhaging during the procedure," the clinical voice replied. "But those were older subjects with established neural pathways. This one's more... malleable."

"Recovery time?" Collins pressed.

"If she survives the procedure—which I believe she will—Asset 437 could be operational within 8 months."

"Too long," Collins said. "We need her ready before the Asset recovers fully."

"The chair is prepped and ready," a third voice interjected. "But Dr. Lindstrom wants to run baseline tests first."

"The chair worked on the Asset in less than 24 hours," Collins countered. "We know the technology is sound."

"The Asset required memory suppression only," the clinical voice replied. "For Asset 437, we need complete memory erasure followed by new implantation. More complex, more dangerous. The chair needs to be recalibrated."

A face appeared above you—a woman in a lab coat, cold eyes behind thick glasses.

She noticed your open eyes and smiled thinly to the other people in the room

"Subject is conscious," she announced, making a note on a tablet. "Beginning preliminary assessment for Asset 437 program."

You tried to speak, but your voice didn't come.

You tried to move, but the restraints held firm.

All you could do was lie there, a scream building inside you with nowhere to go.

Your stomach growled loudly—an oddly intense hunger gnawing at you considering you'd eaten just before leaving the tower.

The woman raised an eyebrow and noted something on her tablet.

"Subject exhibiting unusual metabolic response already. Estimated time since last meal, only 2-4 hours, yet showing signs of advanced hunger. Promising indication of compatibility with the initial dose of serum."

Through the glass wall of your cell, you could see more labs, more equipment. More people in white coats moving with purpose.

In the adjacent room, partially visible through a doorway, you glimpsed a nightmarish mechanical chair with restraints and a halo-like apparatus that hung ominously above it.

The floor beneath it was stained dark in places, despite obvious attempts to clean it.

And on a whiteboard across from your cell, written in red marker.

ASSET 437: STAGE ONE IN PROGRESS

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you finally understood what Collins had meant by "perfect."

They weren't going to use you to get to Bucky.

They were going to erase you completely and build something new from what remained.

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A/N: this concludes 'Words of Command' but there story continues in the next part, everyone who has been tagged in this will be tagged in the next part, a small warning it does get dark for a while, but it will have a positive ending.

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