#i should be studying but we’re doing this instead

[moonlightandromache]

flying in the friendship ship

post 8x11 | buck & ravi | 1036 words | also on ao3

“Hey man,”

Ravi stiffens, he had thought he had successfully avoided having to talk with Buck about their—albeit cut very short—night together at the bar, having gone a whole shift with Buck only acting his usual sort of weirdness. 

He was not so lucky; Buck’s waiting for him outside the locker room. 

Man, he knew he should’ve waited to change and gone straight home, mysterious stains on his pants be damned. 

“I, uh,” Buck pauses again, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Ravi shifts his duffle bag over his shoulder, preparing to make a break for the parking lot should this interaction, once again, exceed the normal level of weirdness he had gotten used to working at the 118. 

“I wanted to, uh, I wanted to apologize to you—for the other night.”

Ravi can’t do anything but blink at Buck, brain struggling to process his words, because— “what?”

Buck rubs at the back of his neck again—a nervous tick, though Ravi can’t imagine why Buck would be nervous talking to him. 

“It wasn’t cool of me—what I did, inviting you out with the pretense of friendship and then just spent the whole time talking about—someone else. I didn’t even really let you get a word in edgewise, did I?”

He phrases it as a question, and Ravi wonders if Buck got even more wasted that night than he had thought. Ravi had had a hard time keeping track of all the shots Buck had ordered for them, but he had left the bar only a little buzzed and had definitely thought he had drunk at least as much as Buck had, considering how many times he lost the stupid quarters game. 

It takes Ravi a minute to realize Buck is waiting for him to reply, Buck’s hand no longer rubbing at his neck but instead both hands are shoved into his pockets, and he’s just—standing there, watching Ravi with his big pathetic blue eyes. 

“Uh, no, you really didn’t.”

Buck grimaces, looking, for his part, genuinely bad about it. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Ravi repeats, not quite a question but not fully a statement.

“Yeah, it was a dick move.”

Ravi ponders this for a moment. “I used your ex as an escape route, I think that also counts as a dick move.”

Buck’s face does something weird at the mention of Tommy, but relaxes again just as quickly, shrugging his shoulders. “Call it even, then?”

Ravi raises an eyebrow, he almost wants to ask Buck if he wants to talk about it, but decides better of it before the words can leave his mouth. 

“I’m still holding that time you chased me with a chainsaw against you.”

Buck sputters, “I wasn’t—that—I didn’t—” 

“Bet you never did that to Eddie.” 

Ravi’s not really sure why he said that part out loud, but it certainly gets Buck to shut up, the man’s face turning a suspiciously pinkish hue. 

“I…might have a tendency of over reacting in certain situations.” Buck says finally, hand once again at the back of his neck

Ravi actually snorts at that, because—understatement of the year. 

“Look, I really am sorry about the other night—and all the other pranks and hazings. I’ve never been very good at making friends, which is not an excuse, but uh, I would really like to be friends—with you.” 

Ravi studies him for a moment, all six feet whatever and solid muscle, somehow looking bashful despite it all. He almost can understand what people see in Buck, aside from the obvious physical attraction aspect.

“I mean,” Buck continues when Ravi goes on not saying anything, “we’re gonna be working together, as—as partners—”

(Ravi definitely pretends he dosen’t see the look on Buck’s face when he says that.)

“—and I don’t want things to be…uncomfortable between us? As much as I—as much as the situation bringing you back to A-Shift isn’t…my favorite thing, I prefer that it’s you and not some—stranger trying to replace—I’m just glad it’s you. And I would like it if we could maybe try again at being friends—if you’ll give me another chance.” 

Ravi is, as he has been, he feels, many times in this conversation, stunned. 

“Yeah, man, alright,” he says finally, “just—no more bars? They’re really not my scene, aside from when it’s drag night at the local queer bars.” 

Buck blinks at him, expression almost confused for a moment before morphing into something resolved and nodding his head. “Yeah, uh, no more bars, although maybe we could, uh, go to drag night together sometime? Or—I could play some disc golf with you?” 

Ravi raises an eyebrow, “you’d play frolf?” 

“Well, I’m not calling it that, but, it can’t be as bad as basketball?”

Ravi winces, a memory of Eddie being out for a week at the firehouse because of a sprained ankle flashing in his mind. “God, I hope not.” 

“I’ll be on my best behavior, scout's honor.” Buck raises a hand in a mock two fingered salute.

“You were a boy scout?”

“Well, no. But I did try out to be a Navy Seal—though I, uh, didn’t last very long with that.”

“Right, sure,” Ravi decides not to try to process that particular statement, instead taking a deep breath and really hoping he doesn’t come to regret his next words, “listen, the group of people I play with meet up every Saturday, I only go when my schedule lines up—which usually ends up being once or twice a month—but I was planning on going tomorrow since we have the next 48 off, so uh, I can tell the group to expect one more, if you’re serious?” 

Buck honest-to-god beams at him. “I’ll be there! Just, uh, name the time and place.”

“10am, we rotate between a few different places so I’ll text you the details later once I’ve confirmed with them.”

Buck hauls his own duffle bag over his shoulder. “Sounds great, I’m looking forward to it!”

“Yeah,” Ravi nods slowly, “I’ll…see you tomorrow then.”

“See ya tomorrow, Ravi.” Buck gives a half salute half wave, still grinning as he turns and makes his way out the firehouse doors. 

Ravi exhales slowly, really, really hoping he isn’t going to regret this. 

[ennyshifts]

my perspective on why shifting is not about the effort, but about the mindset. if shifting back is effortless, why isn’t getting there?

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

the reason why shifting doesn’t require effort is because it’s not a physical action. we’ve always been told that effort is the key to success, whether that’s working hard to get good grades or simply just cooking your own food. think about studying for good grades. it’s not enough to just want to study. you have to physically sit down, focus, and actively put in the effort. but in my opinion, shifting is different.

it was never about working hard for it to work, because if it was, we’d all have shifted by now, yeah? if shifting truly required effort, wouldn’t all those hours you’ve spent trying to make it happen have done the trick, if effort was all it took? you’re not measuring your effort on some shifting scale to see if you’ve done enough to let you shift. no, it simply doesn’t work like that. effort comes in different forms, yes, but shifting was never about your amount of effort or how intensely you’re focusing on your reality. because quite frankly, the reason why you haven’t shifted is not because of your lack of effort. it never was and it never will be.

if I can share my honest opinion, there’s without a doubt, something deeper at play as to why you’re not shifting and I think we all know exactly what that is. it’s not about working harder, it’s about fixing that damn mindset (‹𝟹). you’ve probably heard this countless of times before, but why not actually listen for once? I’m not saying your mindset should be in a way where everything is cupcakes and rainbows with toxic positivity, but in a way where you allow yourself to accept whatever you’re feeling, without thinking it’ll stop you from shifting.

let yourself feel negative emotions and still shift. let yourself say one single affirmation and still shift. let yourself fall asleep and still shift. let yourself get distracted and still shift. stop telling yourself that these things are barriers, because they are not. you are your only barrier, not anything else.

so how do you change your mindset then? simple. repetition. not falling back into old habits. old habits might seem comforting, but did they do you any good? nah. also, don’t give a single damn about what you feel. you have doubts? doesn’t matter. the only reason they seem important is because you constantly make them the biggest deal of the world. like they’re above the positive ones. spoiler. they are not. they’re just thoughts. nothing more than that.

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

I need to mention something that actually made me sit down and type all of this. yesterday, I told myself I wanted to fix my nails, but I kept putting it off. thoughts about wanting to fix my nails kept popping up, but I didn’t act on them. then, I reminded myself that my nails won’t fix themselves. I have to do something about it, which pushed me to get my supplies. but then, another thought came up that made me think for a second. isn’t this exactly what I’ve been doing this whole time with shifting? telling myself I want to shift, but then not doing anything about it? I stopped myself there, because what do you mean you’re not doing anything about it?

this is what I mean by effort. the belief that we have to do something to get where we want. just like with my nails, I had to take action instead of just thinking about wanting to fix them. because where is thinking about wanting to fix them getting me? well, nowhere. I had to put in the effort to do it, but, here’s where shifting is different. read carefully.

we inherently know that shifting back to this reality doesn’t require effort. when we want to wake up here again, all we do is intend to or say our safe word (which, by the way, is rooted in intention) and then it happens, just like that. no long methods, no meditating, no subliminals, no void state, no signs telling us we’re close, no extreme motivation or excitement.. we just decide to return whenever we’re ready, and we do.

why is shifting to other realities treated so extremely differently? like it’s harder to achieve? why have we convinced ourselves that one requires effort while the other doesn’t? what purpose does that belief even serve? wouldn’t it feel so nice to simply know where you want to wake up, fall asleep, and then actually wake up there? no effort needed? well, you can. you just won’t let yourself.

the reason why I’m even typing all of this is because I realized I’ve been comparing shifting to something that actually requires my effort. but they’re not the same. they never were. it’s like comparing a cat to a dog. they’re both animals, but still completely different things. you can try as hard as you want, put in hours of effort, do every method perfectly, and still not shift. why? because it was never about the effort! it was always about the mindset. ‹𝟹

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

[evesmascarade]

this is what i do to self-medicate when i should be studying — just look at them :,)

[nonovyabuisness]

*Kicks down the door*

IMAGINE IF DREAM RIDDLE END UP BEING HIS BETA-DESIGN VERSION ?!

Hear me out !

In his beta design, Riddle was supposed to be the COMPLETE opposite of what he is now.

He was going to be a spoiled brat that hated studying, a selfish demander that always broke the rules and his promises. The only thing that was kept was that no one dared to go against him because he had strong magic.

( Info taken from RoseEmber ‘s video on YouTube, GO CHECK THEM OUT).

Spoiler alert for Diasomnia Book !

We saw how different the Dreams can be especially for those with a great imagination (which seems to have been strong mages and Dorm Leaders as of now).

THIS is especially visible with the Overblot cases.

Vil imagined an entire new career path with Neige being his servant (assistant).

Jamil imagined himself being in Kalim’s Place and even created a new school.

Azul changed HIS ENTIRE CHILDHOOD in order to become someone completely different. The others were still different but they kept some of their original aspects. Azul became a fan of sport and a even bigger bully. And he also never developed his Unique Magic.

All of these stemmed from the fact that the dreams controlled by Malleus can never lead to sadness/anger and the like. (Floyd being the odd one out in this case).

So in order for Riddle to have a happy dream, his overbearing mother must not be in the picture. Or she acts completely differently.

This means that he could do as he always wished ! He could play with Trey and Cheny’a as much as he wanted ! He could eat as many strawberry tarts as he wants !

Naturally that would mean that his temperament would greatly change just like with Azul and the others.

Imagine him becoming what he was supposed to be in the Beta Version. A spoiled brat that did as he wished without caring about rules or promises.

THAT would be something.

Side Notes :

I imagine Trey’s version of Riddle in his dream would be very similar.

Also it would be extremely funny to see Savanaclaw’s reaction to Riddle having a best friend from RSA (especially Leona and Ruggie).

Ps:

This is what Riddle’s Beta-Design was like !

(This was written on October 16th 2024).

Good day/evening/night everyone !

( 1st Screenshot taken from the video I mentioned before, GO WATCH IT )

[novelconcepts]

Had this screencap living on my phone for art purposes, and I just lost like twenty minutes staring at their hands. These are some of the gayest hands in human history. An entire Pride month could be dedicated to these hands. Put this shot in the MoMA, dude.

[victory-cookies]

girl help I have am exam on Saturday and I’ve done like. 1 hour of studying for it so far. I’m so fucked

[i-get-obsessed-fast]

Under Watch

.・゜✭・. Spencer Reid x Hotch’s Daughter .・゜✭・.

Summary: A string of murders on your college campus brings your estranged father and his team to investigate. To keep you safe, he assigns Spencer Reid to watch over you.

A/N: this takes place in the season 6, I just wanted glasses Reid to be in the pics, also not proofread I will come back and correct it later :) xoxox

BYR(b4 u Reid): babysitter Reid, Strict Hotch, Murder, guns, knives, SA, semi-detailed murder description, cuss words, talks of alcohol, kidnappings, stalking, and detailed make out sesh. | hopefully I don’t forget anything!

“I’m free tonight. We can start working on the project.” You tell the guy walking beside you as you both step out of the lecture hall.

“Yeah, that works. How’s seven?” He asks, holding the door open for you.

“That should be fine.” You say with a small smile

You don’t know him well, barely noticed him until today when he’d ask if you’d be his partner. But before the conversation could continue, a voice cuts through the noise of campus.

“Y/n!”

You turn, scanning the crowd until your eyes land on him. Your father stands in the middle of the quad, his team beside him. The weight of their stares settles over you.

Your brows furrow as you step toward them.

“Why are you here?” The words come out sharper than you intend, but you don’t back down.

Your father’s expression hardens. “You don’t know? Do you not stay informed on what happens around you?”

His tone makes you stiffen. “Mr. Hotchner.” The dean interjects carefully, stepping forward. “We’ve chosen to keep things as contained as possible. We don’t want to incite panic among the students.”

“Not warning them is more dangerous.” Rossi counters, unimpressed.

The dean exhales. “I understand your concerns but unless you’ve run a college campus, you don’t understand the position we’re in.”

You glance past your father at his team. Faces you recognize from home but haven’t seen since you left Virginia. They watch the exchange closely, some with sympathy, others with quiet apprehension.

“What’s going on?” You finally ask.

Your father doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for your arm, his grip firm but not forceful. “Come with us.”

You were led into the campus security building, where case files are scattered across tables. Your eyes flick to a white-board in the next room, crime scene photos pinned in a neat but unsettling arrangement.

“Shut that.” his voice is sharp, and when you glance back at him, his expression his unreadable.

“We were called here because there's been a series of murders on campus. Young woman.” he says, locking eyes with you.

For the first time, you see it, the fear beneath his controlled demeanor.

You don’t know how to respond, but when he lays down three photographs, fear settles in your chest.

“Sarah Johnston, Abigail Smith, Elizabeth Adam’s.” He lists “Do you see a pattern?”

Your stomach twists. Hair color, similar build. Even the way they smiled in their photos. You and these girls resembled each other.

“Could be a coincidence,” you murmur, though you don't believe it.

“It’s not, he has a type.” he firmly says “You can't be alone on this campus. Travel in groups, carry your pepper spray, and you are not to be alone with any male students.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “I have a project to do with a guy from my class-”

“Meet in a public space, surrounded by people.” Rossi interjects.

“The library is packed, and the study rooms are booked.”

“Cancel.” your father orders. “Tell him you're sick, do it now.”

Your eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

Your father stares. That look, the one that's ended entire arguments without him saying another word. You hesitate, but your fingers move, typing the message before holding up your phone for his approval.

“Good.” he nods, then turns to Reid. “Take her to her dorm, please.”

“I can walk myself.”

He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Why can't you just listen for once?” his voice rises, frustration creeping in.

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut.

“What about everyone else?” you challenge, voice tight. “The girls who aren't getting warnings? The ones who don't have an agent escorting them to their dorms? This isn't fair. I'm just a student like the rest of them. I don't need your protection.”

“You don't understand, and right now, I don't care if you do.” he says, his tone final. “My only concern is getting you to your room. And you're staying there for the rest of the night. Reid, take her.”

“If it helps.” Emily adds gently, resting a hand on your shoulder. “A statement is going out today. The school is setting up hotlines, resources, and people will be warned.”

You let out a slow breath. It doesn't make you feel better. Not really.

“Fine.” you turn on your heel, heading for the door. Spencer Reid following right behind you.

The walk back to your dorm is quiet, not awkward, just silent.

When you step inside, you toss your bag onto your bed and gesture toward the other one. “You can sit there. My roommate dropped out a while ago, so no one uses it.”

Reid hesitates before sitting. “Does your dad know?”

You glance at home, confused. “Why would he?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought that’s something a father would want to know.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our relationship is… complicated.”

“Yeah.” He says, nodding slightly. “I get that.”

You eye him for a second. “You and your dad close?”

Reid shifts in his seat, before you can take it back, he says. “He left my mom and me when I was a kid.”

You frown. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t affect me anymore.”

There’s a moment of quiet before you decide to change the subject. “I have some games. Do you like Jenga?”

That earns a small chuckle from him. “Yeah.”

You kneel beside your bed, pulling out the game. There were probably better things you could be doing, like assignments or your project, but this seemed like a better way to pass the time.

As you both set up the blocks on the floor, you smirk. “Usually when I play, my friends and I have a rule. Whoever knocks it over takes two shots.”

Reid gives you an amused look. “Are you even legal to drink?” You raise an eyebrow. “What, are you gonna tell my dad?”

He tilts his head. “Should I?”

You laugh. “I don’t think it’ll surprise him, I’m pretty sure he expects worse.”

Reid’s expression shifts slightly. “You know, your dad talks about you a lot. He’s very proud of you.” You freeze for a second. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Reid nodded.

You swallow, shifting slightly. “Huh. Didn’t know that.”

He doesn’t say anything else, instead gestures to the game. “You go first.”

The game begins, each turn making the tower more unsteady. Eventually, Spencer study’s the blocks carefully, trying to find a safe one to pull.

“This is getting difficult.” He mutters, eyes narrowed.

You laugh, watching as he finally picks one and pushes it, only for the entire tower to collapse.

“Shit.” He murmurs under his breath causing your eyes to widen. “Did you just cuss?” You teased.

Reid shakes his head with a smirk, while you get up and dig through your closet. When you return, you hold up a bottle. “Two shots?”

His eyes practically pop out of their sockets. “I’m working.” You scrunch your face. “Is it really called working when you’re watching an adult?”

“I’m still on duty.” He argues. “Your dad would fire me.”

You roll your eyes. “My dad loves you. But fine Spencer, be lame.” Before he could reply, there’s a knock at the door. You both glance at each other.

“I got it, " you say, heading toward the door forgetting there was a killer on the loose and Spencer Reid wasn’t in your room to play games.

Spencer moves ahead of you. “I’ll get it.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. You step back as he opens the door.

Standing there is Eli, the guy from your class.

“Oh, uh… is y/n here?” Eli asks, looking past Spencer. You step forward going to the door. “Eli? What are you doing here?”

“I saw your message. Just wanted to check on you.” He says, then glances at the bottle in your hand. His lips twitch into a smirk. “Having a party?”

You quickly lower the bottle. “No, I was just-no.” You stutter.

Eli raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look sick.”

You sigh. “Yeah…I’m not. I just can’t do the project tonight. I’m sorry.” Eli glances between you and Reid before nodding slowly. “Yeah, I get it.”

Silence lingers between the three of you. It’s awkward.

“Wait.” You ask suddenly. “How did you find my room?”

“Lisa.” He answers quickly. “I asked her.”

You nod, but something about it feels… off. You glance at Spencer, who’s watching Eli closely, brows drawn together like he’s analyzing something.

Eli clears his throat. “Well, I’ll let you guys be. Let me know when we can start the project.”

“Yeah, I will.” You say, before shutting the door.

You turn to Spencer. “That was awkward.” He nodded. “Is that your friend?”

“No. Barely know him. Just a project partner.” You say.

“Hmm.” Spencer’s eyes narrow slightly, his expression unreadable. You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” He says, but there’s a trace of suspicion in his voice. “You just can’t be too sure about people.”

You nod. “Do you think the unsub will be caught tonight?” He exhales, his lips pressing together in thought. “I’m not sure. So far, he hasn’t left much evidence behind.”

“How does he do it?” You ask, curiosity outweighing your nerves. Spencer hesitates. “I don’t think your dad would appreciate me telling you.”

You cross your arms. “Well, I don’t think that’s my dad’s choice.”

He sighs, clearly understanding your frustration. After a moment, he finally gives in.

“He stalks them.” Spencer says, his voice lower now. “He waits until they’re alone, takes them somewhere secluded. He hurts them… bad. And then he.” His jaw tightens before finishing. “He assaults them. It’s brutal y/n. That’s why Hotch is so worried.”

Your breath catches. His gaze is firm, searching yours, waiting for a reaction. And for a second, you don’t know what to say. You had meant what you said to your dad about it not being fair, but hearing this… it makes you feel something else.

“If he stalks them, does that make his killings far apart?” You ask, your voice quieter now.

Spencer nods. “He’s projected to strike again in a few days, but we are trying to prevent that. He only keeps his victims for a few hours, but he takes his time choosing them. He studies them.”

Goosebumps rise along your arms, and suddenly, the walls of your dorm feel too close. “I need air.”

Spencer watches you for a moment before offering. “Well can walk around?”

You nod.

The two of you walk with no destination, the sky shifting into soft oranges and purples as the sun starts to set. The air is cooler now, and the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable.

“So.” Spencer finally says, breaking the quiet. “How are you liking college?”

You glance at him, appreciating his efforts. “It’s been good. A lot of people to meet, a lot of things to do.”

He nods. “When I was in college, I didn’t really… do much.” You let out a small laugh. “Weren’t you, like, fourteen?”

He smirks. “Yeah. That might have had something to do with it.” You tilt your head. “What’s it like? Being that smart?”

Spencer thinks for a moment before answering. “Uh- I don’t know. Sometimes it’s good. Other times it feels like… too much. Even for myself.”

“Must be exhausting.” You murmur

“Can be.” He admits.

The wind picks up slightly, and you shiver without meaning to. You mentally curse yourself for not bringing a jacket.

Spencer notices. without a word, he shrugs off his own. “Here. Take mine.”

You shake your head. “What? No, it’s cold. You need it.”

“I was starting to feel hot in it anyway.” He says, holding it out to you. You narrow your eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Spencer.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he just steps closer and drapes the jacket over your shoulders himself, his hands brushing against you for just a second longer than necessary.

You blink up at him, caught off guard.

“Now you have to take it.” He says simply.

You huff but pull it tighter around yourself, the fabric warm. “Fine.” Spencer smirks, satisfied.

You glance down, smiling softly. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He replied, giving you the same soft smile, and with that you both continued walking.

The conversation mostly consisting of Spencer throwing out random facts.

Just as he finished explaining why flamingoes stand on one leg, you glanced down and noticed your shoelace had come undone.

“Damn.” You muttered

Before you could react, Spencer crouched down without hesitation, his long fingers grabbing the laces. He tied them quickly, but his movements were gentle, careful.

You swallowed, feeling a rush of warmth crawl up your neck. It was a simple sweet gesture.

“Thanks.” You murmured.

He looked up at you, his eyes catching yours for just a second too long before he stood back up. You cleared your throat, motioning toward a nearby bench.

The two of you sat down, silence setting over for a brief moment before you turned toward him. “So, Spencer, do you have a girlfriend?”

The question clearly caught him off guard. His capture stiffened slightly, and he glanced at you, one eyebrow raised. “Uh-no. Why?”

You shrugged. “Because you do all these nice little things. Feels like there has to be a girl.”

He shook his head. “No girlfriend.”

“Hmm.” You tilted your head, studying him. “That’s surprising.” Spencer gave you a skeptical look. “Why?”

“Because.” You said simply, “You’re sweet. You’re smart.” Then, without much thought, you reached up and lightly brushed your fingers through his hair. “And you’re pretty good-looking.”

The reaction was instant. His whole face turned red, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Even his ears betrayed him, turning an adorable shade of pink.

“I-I just… I don’t know.” He stammered. “I’m busy, I guess.”

“Yeah.” You hummed, leaning back against the bench. Then, he smirked slightly, his confidence suddenly returning. “Why do you care?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Spencer. I’m just nosey, must be genetic.”

“Right.” He said, nodding as if he didn’t believe you for a second. You narrowed your eyes at him, amused by his boldness. Before you could stop yourself, you turned the question back on him.

“Well, do you think I have a boyfriend?”

He tilted his head, considering you for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“Yeah.” You answered casually, watching as his smirk faltered for just a second. His expression was unreadable, but you caught the small shift, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers curled slightly against his lap.

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” He said

You let the silence hang for a bit too long before grinning. “I’m joking, Spencer. I don’t have one.”

He exhaled, shaking his head as he turned toward you, unimpressed. “Yeah, I think I can see why.”

You gasped, shoving his shoulder slightly. “Wow. Sassy.”

Spencer just laughed, and you found yourself staring at him a little too long, watching the way his smile softened his features.

Then, almost instinctively, the teasing faded. The space between you seemed smaller. His gaze flickering to your lips, so quick you almost thought you imagined it.

Your heart picked up speed.

“You know.” You said, your voice lower now. “For someone who’s never had a girlfriend, you sure don’t suck at flirting.”

Spencer’s eyes darkened with amusement. “Who says I’m flirting?” You arched a brow. “Oh, so you just tie everyone’s shoes for them, and hand out your coat?”

He smirked but didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted just slightly toward you.

Neither of you spoke, but something was different now, he was watching you in a way he hadn’t before, like he was debating something.

And then, before you could overthink it, you leaned in first. He met you halfway.

The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, like neither of you wanted to acknowledge it was happening. But then Spencer’s hand found your jaw, his touch delicate, and suddenly, it wasn’t hesitant anymore.

Your fingers curled around the fabric of his button up, pulling him just a little closer, feeling the warmth of him against you.

Spencer’s lips moved against yours with surprising confidence, his fingers firm against your jaw as he deepened the kiss. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, pleading for entrance, and you don’t hesitate to grant it.

A quiet sigh escaped you, your hands instinctively tightening around the fabric of his shirt.

“Spencer.” You breathed between kisses, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His lips left your mouth only to find the curve of your jaw, then lower, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along your neck. The contrast was dizzying.

The Spencer you knew, the one who rattled off statistics and fidgeted when people stood too close felt miles away from the one currently leaving a trail of heat against your skin.

Had you really been gone that long?

Deep down, a part of you had always wondered about him.

You’d always thought he was cute. He was different from you in almost every way. Careful where you are reckless, and logical where you are impulsive.

Maybe that was why you found yourself so drawn to him.

His hands moved from your jaw to your throat, his fingers grazing lower, trailing down your body until they landed on your waist. His touch was warm, grounding.

You weren’t sure if you were pulling him closer or if he was the one doing it, but the space between you two was practically nonexistent.

Then, suddenly, he stiffened.

Spencer pulled back so fast it left you breathless, his wide eyes darting around. “Did you hear that?”

You blinked, still dazed. “What?”

“I think I heard something.” His body tensed, one hand instinctively resting on his gun as he stood, scanning the area.

You quickly straightened, glancing around. The campus was quiet, the only sound being the distant hum of crickets and rustling leaves from the breeze.

“Maybe we should head back.” You suggested, still trying to catch your breath.

Spencer nodded, but not before his gaze flickered back to you, his lips slightly swollen from the kiss you’d just shared.

“Yeah.” He said, his voice quieter now. “It’s late.”

The both of you walk back in silence, both thinking about the actions that took place a moment ago.

As you finally reach your dorm, something on the floor catches your eye. A pink envelope.

Spencer notices it too, his sharp gaze narrowing. Without hesitation, he bends down to grab it. “It just has your name.” He says, his voice low. He hands it over, and you take it.

You open it without thinking much, assuming it’s some harmless note. But the moment you pull out what’s inside, a wave of fear washes over you.

“Oh my god.”

Your voice trembles as your fingers clutch the two Polaroid photos. The first is of you and Spencer kissing. His hand cupping your jaw, the image capturing the undeniable intimacy of the moment.

The second photo was when Spencer was scanning the area after hearing a strange noise, his hand on his gun. Someone had been watching. Someone had been right there.

You shove the photos toward Spencer. His expression hardens as he studies them, brows furrowing deeply. He looked furious.

“We have to give these to the team.” He says firmly.

“No, it’s probably just a prank.” You argue, though your voice is weak. You’re desperate to convince yourself, but even you don’t believe it.

Spencer shakes his head. “We can’t be too sure. I’m sorry.” He apologizes as he slides the photos back into the envelope.

You swallow hard, the weight of it all crashing down. “My dad’s going to be upset.”

Spencer steps toward you, his fingers brushing the strands of your hair behind your ear. “It’s going to be alright.” He assures you.

Your eyes scan him, and you can see guilt flashing across his face. You know he feels responsible, and you can’t help but feel the same.

Without another word, he pulls out his phone. “We have something that might be connected.” He says into the receiver, his voice clipped. “Alright. We’ll be on our way.”

The walk to campus security is silent, the dread growing heavier with every step. When you arrive, your father is already there, his signature stoic expression barely concealing his concern.

“What is it?” He asks, striding toward you both.

You and Spencer exchange a quick, uneasy glance. Spencer hands him the envelope.

Your father opens the envelope, his eyes flickering over the contents. The tension in the room is unbearable. You swear you can hear Spencer’s heartbeat.

“What is this?” Hotch’s voice is low, but the restrained anger is clear. His gaze shifts to you, demanding answers.

“They were taken of us… not too long ago.” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn't respond immediately. The weight of his silence is crushing.

“So, I send an agent to watch over you, and instead, you make him go against orders. You kiss him while a murderer is on the loose, on your campus, targeting girls.” his words cut through you.

“I-I know. I'm sorry.” you stammer, instinctively glancing at Spencer. “It was my fault.”

But Spencer immediately shakes his head. “No it wasn’t. I’m the one that didn’t follow orders, it’s not her fault.”

“I don’t care whose fault it is. You both had orders, and you failed to comply.” He looks directly at Spencer. “Reid, join JJ. Now.”

Spencer hesitates, clearly torn, but nods. He gives you one last glance before walking away.

“Y/n.” Your father’s voice lowers. “We need to talk.”

You follow him into an empty room, the door clicking shut behind you. The air is thick with unspoken words. You brace yourself, expecting the worst. But when your father finally speaks, it isn’t the scolding you anticipated.

“Do you think you might know who took these?” His tone is calm, but his eyes remain sharp.

You’re caught off guard. “No. I don’t.”

“Think y/n. Is there anyone - someone you’ve been seeing? Someone who might have been watching you?”

You rack your brain, the panic making it hard to focus. “There’s… Eli. The guy I’m working on a project with. He came by to check on me, but that’s really the only person I’ve talked to.”

Your father nods, processing. “And your roommate, do you think she seems like the type to give out your whereabouts? Does she seem untrustworthy?”

You shake your head. “I don’t have one.”

His jaw tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I didn’t think it was important.” You admit, your voice small.

“You didn’t think it was important to tell me you were alone in your dorm? That was the one thing I take comfort in while you are away, knowing there was someone else there.”

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

His expression softens just a fraction, but the frustration is still evident. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, I need to question Eli. What class?”

“Psychology.” You say

He gives you a short nod and turns to leave. You follow him out, but the tension lingers.

“Garcia can you look through the schools files for an Eli, a class he takes is psychology with y/n.” He says on the phone.

“I don’t think it’s him.” You say quietly. “I’ve barely seen him around.”

“And that.” Derek interjects, stepping beside you, “Makes him even more suspicious.”

Emily nods in agreement. “If he’s the unsub, he could’ve been targeting you. Sudden appearances aren’t always coincidences.”

You sigh, and take a seat in one of the chairs, the weight of everything pressing down on you. Despite the hum of voices around you, exhaustion wins. Your eyes fluttered close, and before you realize it, sleep over takes you.

“Okay, Garcia gave me the location of Eli’s apartment.” Your dad’s stern voice snaps you awake. “Morgan and JJ, come with me. Prentiss and Rossi, stay here and keep an eye on them.”

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you sit up. “What’s going on?”

Your father doesn’t answer, already halfway through to door. Emily steps closer, her expression a mixture of concern and relief. “They found Eli’s apartment. But, y/n … Eli was never enrolled in your class.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“He’s been sneaking in.” She says softly. “Pretending to be a student. We think he’s been watching you for a while.”

You stare at her, the words sinking in. Your pulse races as the realization hits. “Oh my god.”

“It’s becoming clear that you were most likely one of his next victims.” Rossi joins in, their eyes both full of empathy.

“But he seemed so…” you trail off, struggling to find the right word. Normal doesn’t feel right. Not now.

“I know.” Emily says, nodding. “It’s difficult. But we’re close to figuring this out. You’re safe now.”

You swallow, the reassurance barely easing your nerves. Rossi lays a reassuring hand on your should giving it a gentle squeeze “It’s going to be okay kid.” He says you nodded and watched as he walked away.

You sit back down, gathering the information you’ve just been told.

Just as the heavy silence settles in, Emily tilts her head, smirking slightly. “That’s a nice sweater.”

Confused, you glance down. It’s only then you remember, Spencer’s sweater. The sleeves are a little long, the faint scent of his cologne lingering.

“Oh. Uh it’s not mine.” You mumble, tugging at the hem. Emily’s smirk deepens. “I know.”

Without another word, she stands and walks toward one of the other rooms, leaving you with your thoughts. You let out a long breath, rubbing your hands over your face. The stress is unbearable.

“Here.” Spencer’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. He holds out a cup of coffee, his fingers brushing yours as you take it.

“Thank you.” You murmur, the warmth of the cup grounding you, he gave you a soft warm smile. “I’m sorry Spencer.” You apologize.

His eyes scan your face. “You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

You blink at him. “You’re acting as if I didn’t kiss you back.” He says. Heat creeps up your neck. “I just feel like this is my fault.” You admit, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re stuck here instead of searching Eli’s apartment. Emily having to babysit now. And all because-”

“Because we went for a walk?” Spencer finishes, raising an eyebrow. “And kissed? You do realize that without that walk, and that kiss, we probably wouldn’t have gotten this close to catching him.”

His words sink in. The guilt that’s been gnawing at you lessens, just a little.

“So in some weird, messed-up way.” He continues, his voice softer. “It’s a good thing.”

You manage a small smile. “I guess.”

Spencer’s grin grows, and for a second, the tension in the air lightens. “Well, I should get out of here before Emily comes back.”

“Probably a good idea.”

With one last lingering look, he turns and heads out. The warmth of the moment fades as the waiting continues. Minutes pass, then thirty. You sip the last of your coffee, anxiety prickling beneath your skin.

The sudden sound of the door opening draws your attention. Your father and Morgan stride inside, and between them, handcuffed and smirking, is Eli.

“Prentiss, Reid.” Hotch says, his voice sharp. “Join JJ at Eli’s apartment. She’s going through it now.”

Spencer and Emily don’t waste a second, slipping out of the building. You barely register them leaving, your focus locked on Eli. He walks past you, and despite the restraints, his presence feels suffocating.

“It’s not over.” He evilly smiles as the words left his mouth, your blood runs cold.

“Don’t speak to her!” Your father snaps, his voice booming. In an instant, Hotch has Eli shoved against the wall, his face pressed hard against the surface.

You flinch, heart stammering. Eli only laughs. The sound sends a shiver down your spine.

“y/n.” Morgan’s voice is calm but firm as he steps closer. “If you need anything, we’re here. Don’t go anywhere alone. Got it?”

You nod, barely able to find your voice. “Got it.”

Morgan gives you a reassuring nod before following your father into the makeshift interrogation room. You’re left there, your mind racing. Emily’s words from earlier echo in your head.

“You’re safe now”

You want to believe that, but with Eli’s words burned into your memory, it’s hard to feel safe at all.

After what felt like hours, you made your way to the restroom, you splash cold water on your face, the droplets sliding down your skin as you brace your hands on the sink.

The reflection staring back at you is pale and exhausted, the weight of everything visible in your eyes. You close them for a moment, willing the lingering feeling to disappear.

But then, the sound of a lock clicking behind you jolts you awake.

Your heart leaps as you whip around. A man stands in the front of the door, his expression twisted with excitement. He’s holding a gun, the metallic glint catching the harsh bathroom light.

“We’re going to do this the easy way, okay Claire?” His voice is disturbingly calm, like he’s rehearsed these words a thousand times.

“Claire?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m not Claire.”

But he doesn’t listen. He steps forward, his grip tightening around the gun. You instinctively back away.

“It’s okay.” He soothes, though his eyes are wild. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want you with me.”

He’s closing in now, his body looming. You can feel the panic rising, your chest tightening. Every part of you screams to run, but the barrel of the gun hovers dangerously close.

“Let’s go home, Claire.”

The words send a chill down your spine. You open your mouth to scream, but before you can make a sound, the gun is at your temple. The cold steel sends a shock through you.

“We’re going to be quiet, okay?” He growls, his lips brushing against your ear. “Don’t make me shoot you, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Your pulse pounds. You can feel his erratic breathing, the tension in the air thick and suffocating. Every instinct tells you to fight, to scream, but you don’t.

“Okay.” You force out, your voice trembling.

He grabs your arm, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you towards the door. Each step is slow, calculated. He cracks the door open, peering down the empty hallway. You silently pray that someone will come, your dad, Morgan, Rossi, anyone.

But the hall remains empty.

No one sees.

No one hears.

And then, he’s dragging you through the exit.

——

Back in the interrogation room, Eli sits slouched in the chair, a smug grin plastered across his face.

“You’re making a mistake.” He taunts, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

Rossi narrowed his eyes. “A mistake?”

Eli nods, chuckling to himself. “I knew you’d come. That’s why I was home. You’re too predictable. And while you’re all in here wasting time on me…” he leans forward, savoring every word. “No one’s watching your daughter.”

The room shifts in an instant. The air turns cold. Hotch’s face darkens, fear flashing through his eyes.

“Morgan, Rossi. Stay here.” Hotch orders, his voice sharp. Without another word, he storms out. His movements are frantic, searching every corner of the building. Empty chairs, empty hallways. The tension grows unbearable.

“Where the hell is she?” He demands, slamming his fists on the table when he returns. The sound echoes through the room.

Eli simply smirks. “I don’t know.”

——

The van jerks violently as the man speeds through the dark streets. Your wrists ache from the rope biting into your skin, and the duct tape over your mouth muffles your desperate pleads.

He’s erratic, mumbling to himself as he drives. You pray for the sight of flashing police lights, for anyone who might notice how reckless he’s being. But the roads remain empty.

After what feels like eternity, the van screeches to a stop.

“We’re here.” He announces, giddy like a child on Christmas morning.

He yanks open the back doors, his rough hands grabbing at you. You scream, the sound muffled and desperate. You kick, pounding your fists against his back as he hauls you over his shoulder. But it doesn’t faze him.

The air shifts as he carries you inside. The stench is unbearable, a rancid mixture of mildew, rot, and something metallic. The walls are stained, rust creeping across the cracked concrete. Water pools around the floor, dark and slick.

He dumps you onto the ground, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Before you can react, he pulls a heavy chain from the corner, the rusted links clinking together.

“This is so you don’t try and leave like the others.” He sneers

The chain clamps around your neck, the padlock snapping shut. The weight is suffocating, restricting your movements to only a few feet. You twist and pull, but it’s useless.

He crouches in front of you, his grin wide with satisfaction. “We’re finally together, Claire. Just like I promised.”

Tears burn your eyes as you stare at him, your heart continues to pound violently. The panic threatens to consume you, but you fight it. You have to stay calm. You have to find a way out.

But as he watches you with twisted delight, the truth sinks in. No one knows where you are.

The tape rips from your mouth, the sting sharp against your skin. You gasp, your chest heaving, but before you can speak, the man crouches in front of you, his eyes wild and desperate.

“Before we continue, Claire.” He says, his voice low and deliberate “I need you to be truthful.”

Your glare sharpens, every nerve in your body screaming to fight. “I’m not Claire, you psycho! Let me go!”

The words barely leave your lips before his hands snap to your face, gripping your chin tightly. The veins in his neck bulge with fury.

“You are Claire!”

His trembling hand digs into his pocket, pulling out a worn photo. He shoves it into your view. “This is us, Claire! Before you decided to leave!”

The woman in the photo has your face, or almost. The same features, the same hair.

“That’s not me.” You whisper, shaking your head.

“You always like to lie!” He growls, his voice cracking. He finally lets go, pushing you back against the cold wall as he paces, running his free hand through his greasy hair.

Then he stops.

“Who was that guy?” His voice drops, seething. “The scrawny agent. Why were you with him?”

You blink, confused. “What?”

His teeth clench. “Why did you let him touch you?” He snarls. “Why did you let him look at you like that?!”

He’s talking about Spencer.

“No, no.” You stammer, your pulse racing. “He’s no one. You don’t have to worry about him.”

But it’s too late. The idea is planted, festering in his mind. He shakes his head, a bitter grin twisting his lips.

“I need him here.” He says, his voice trembling with conviction. “I’m going to bring him here.”

“No!” You cry, panic lacing your voice. “You don’t need him! You have me!”

“You need to help me, Claire!” He pleads, crouching down once more. His eyes are wide, frantic. “You have to get him here.”

Tears burn your eyes as you shake your head. “I can't do that.”

He reaches forward, his rough thumb swiping a tear from your cheek. “Don’t cry, darling. It's going to be okay.”

But it won't be.

“Tell me the number.” his voice cracks, dangerous edge creeping in. “I wont.” you whisper.

His hand snaps to his belt, pulling out a small knife. The light catches the dull blade.

“Why are you making me do this?!” he roars, the knife flashing. Before you can move, the cold steel slices across your arm. The pain is immediate, searing. You scream, clutching at the bleeding wound.

——

“Y/n is missing.”

JJ’s words hit like a bullet. Spencer’s heart drops.

“What?” He breathes, his voice sharp. “How? Someone was supposed to be watching her.”

“We don’t know, but Hotch needs us.”

Without another thought, they leave Eli’s apartment and rush back to campus. Spencer’s mind races, his breath short. This can’t be happening.

Emily and JJ make their way into the building but before Spencer reaches the door behind them, his phone rings.

His hands fumble as he answers.

“Hello?”

“Spencer.” Your voice quivers on the other end. “It’s me.”

His chest tightens. “Y/n! Where are you? Hold on! Let me get Hotch.”

“No!” Your voice cracks. “Spencer, don’t. Please… just come. He wants you here, and he says he’ll hurt me if you bring the team.”

“Y/n.” Spencer runs a trembling hand through his hair, panic gripping him.

“Come unarmed.” You whisper. “The address is 3840 Cherry road.”

The line crackles. And then-

“Don’t come, Spencer! Please!”

A sickening thud enters through the phone, your muffled cries follow.

“y/n!” Spencer shouts, his voice breaking. But there’s no answer.

The line goes dead.

His hands shake as he scribbles the address onto a scrap of paper, dropping it where someone will find it. Without another word, he bolts for the SUV.

——

The building looms ahead, rotting, desolate. Spencer moves quickly, his steps silent. The walls are damp, stained with water and time. The stench of mold lingers.

Then he sees you. Sitting against a wall, your head hanging low.

“Y/n.” He gasps, rushing to your side. Blood stains your lips, your nose, and a fresh cut marks your cheek. You’re barely conscious, your head lolling.

“Spencer?” You murmur, your voice weak. But as your eyes adjust, terror flashes across your face.

“No.” You whisper, your hands weakly pushing him away. “Why did you come? I told you not to.”

Before Spencer can respond, a voice rings out.

“Stop touchin’ her.”

Spencer freezes. You both turn, dread pulling in your stomach. The man stands, his eyes blazing with fury.

He lunges, grabbing Spencer and shoving him to the ground, he then pulls out a gun.

“You don’t want to do this.” Spencer says, his hands raised. “We can talk.”

“Why were you with Claire?” The man’s voice booms, echoing through the building. “She doesn’t want you! She wants me!”

“Claire?” Spencer asks cautiously, trying to keep him talking. “Don’t say her name!”

“You want the truth?” Spencer’s voice is steady now, his eyes never leaving the gun. “She doesn’t want you. She never did.”

You stare at him in shock, wondering if he’s gone crazy.

“She wants me.” Spencer presses, his voice low “She doesn’t want you.”

“Do you want me to explain more of what we did?, what you didn’t get to see?” Spencer asked. “What is he talking about?” The unsub asked as he made his way towards you angrily. “You slut!” He spat in your face, but before he could strike you a gunshot echos.

The man in front of you crumbles, blood stains his chest. His eyes go wide, and the life drains from him.

You gasp, and look to see Spencer standing, his gun drawn, chest heaving.

He rushes to get the keys out of the pockets of the dead man, then to you unlocking the chain from your neck, and untying your wrists. The moment you’re free, you collapse into his arms.

“It’s okay.” He whispers, holding you tightly, his hand going up and down your back. “You’re safe now.”

You cling to him, sobbing. “I was so scared.”

“I know.” Spencer breathes, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

The sound of footsteps echo. “They’re in here!” Morgan’s voice rings out.

Hotch bursts through the doors, his eyes locking onto you and Spencer. You let go of Spencer and make your way towards your dad, stumbling, but he needs you halfway and catches you in his arms, tightly pulling you against him.

He was scared to let you go, scared you’d disappear.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispers, his voice thick with guilt.

You shook your head not wanting to hear his apologies, you were just thankful to be able to see him again.

“I want to go home.” You whisper, your tears soaking into his shirt.

Hotch’s hand gently cups your face, his fingers tracing the cuts. He nods, his voice trembling.

“We’ll go home, baby.”

——

1 month later…

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and stepped into the familiar hum of the BAU office. Jacks small hand gripped yours tightly while the other held a plate of cookies, still warm from the oven. As you passed through the glass doors, a wave of familiar faces greeted you, their smiles wide with excitement.

“Y/n!” JJ’s voice rang out first, her arms already reaching for you. She pulled you into a tight hug, swaying you slightly before Emily joined in.

“I was wondering when we’d get a visit!” Emily grinned, her dark eyes bright.

“Yeah, I would’ve come sooner but-”

“But I told her to stay home and rest.” Your dad cut in, his voice warm as he appeared beside you. Jack immediately wiggled free to run into his arms.

“Makes sense, recovery is important.” Rossi added, his fatherly tone laced with relief.

“Yeah, but it could’ve been worse.” You said, shrugging. “I’m just glad I healed up so quickly.”

“We all are, kid.” Derek said, squeezing your shoulder. His easy grin was one you’d miss.

“And what do we have here?” Penelope asked, her bright eyes locked on the plate in your hands.

“Cookies.” You answered, holding the plate up. “I wanted to thank you all. For everything. For helping me.”

A chorus of “Aww’s” and “Yay’s” echoed through the bullpen, and you set the plate on the nearest desk as the team eagerly grabbed a treat. Your father’s arms wrapped around your shoulders, his grip, strong and steady.

“Thank you.” He said softly, his voice just for you.

you met his gaze, the tension that had once existed between you now barely a shadow. “Thank you, dad. I wouldn’t be here without you. I’m sorry for how things were before. But I’m glad we’re…better now.”

His eyes softened, and he kissed the top of your head, a rare display of affection that made your chest ache in the best possible way.

As the others laughed and chatted, you scanned the room instinctively. And there he was.

Through the glass walls of an office, Spencer Reid stood, his tall frame slightly hunched as he watched you. His eyes met yours, warm and hesitant. Without thinking, you smiled. He moved towards you, his steps quick.

“Y/n.” He said

“Spencer.” The way his name left your lips felt far too easy. “How are you feeling? Are you- are you okay?” His voice was careful, but the concern was evident.

“I’m good. Really good.” You reassured him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Better than ever, actually.”

His smile mirrored yours, though his eyes lingered on you like he was still checking for any sign of pain. “That’s…that’s good. I’m happy to hear that.”

“You should grab a cookie before Morgan eats the whole plate.” You joked, tilting your head toward the group. “yeah, I probably should.” He laughed softly, but he didn’t move.

His gaze held yours, something unspoken passing between you.

“How about you? How’ve you been?” you asked, shifting slightly closer. “Oh, you know. Same old routine,” he said with a small shrug. “Books. Cases. A lot of facts no one asked for.”

You grinned. “Still no girlfriend then?”

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Uh, no. No girlfriend.”

“Shame.” You teased. “I finally turn twenty-one tomorrow, you know. So if you’re free we can finally have that drink you denied me last time at my dorm.”

He blinked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” You grinned. “And now you don’t have an excuse.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I’d like that a lot.”

“Good.” You lingered on the word, savoring how his cheeks turned reddened.

“I could pick you up.” He offered quickly. “If you want.”

“Perfect.” You nodded. “I live with my dad now, so just come by.”

“You moved back to Virginia?”

“Yeah, I transferred. It’s… nice being here. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I came back.”

“I’m glad you’re back.” Spencer said softly. “Maybe we can, uh, hang out more.”

You tilted your head, biting back a grin. “I’d like that. A lot.”

“Cool.” His voice cracked slightly, and the way his eyes flickered down to the floor only made him more endearing.

“Cool.” You echoed playfully, reaching for his hand. “But first, cookies!”

You tugged him gently, his hand gently squeezed yours, neither of you said anything, but the warmth lingered.

You and Jack stayed a bit longer, but the team eventually had to get back to work. With a few more laughs and lingering hugs, it was time to go.

“Well, it was nice seeing you guys,” you said, gripping Jack’s small hand. “Don’t be a stranger!” Penelope called with a wide grin.

“You’re always welcome,” Emily added. “And next time, bring cupcakes,” Rossi teased, flashing his signature smirk.

You laughed, the warmth of their affection lingering. “I will. Promise.”

After waving goodbye, you led Jack through the glass doors and out to the parking lot. Once you reached your car, you carefully buckled him into the backseat, ensuring he was comfortable.

“y/n.”

You froze, the sound of your name stirring something electric inside you. Turning, you saw Spencer walking toward you, his long strides closing the distance quickly. Before you could even process it, his hands cupped your jaw, fingers tracing the delicate lines of your face. And then, his lips were on yours.

It was sudden, desperate. His mouth moved against yours, soft and warm, but the urgency behind it set your skin on fire. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp air, and the world seemed to blur around you.

You pulled back, breathless, your wide eyes meeting his. “What was that?” you asked, though your lips still tingled from the kiss.

“I-I don’t know,” Spencer stammered, just as stunned as you were. His thumb brushed your cheek as if trying to memorize the moment. “I just felt like… I needed to do that.”

A slow smile spread across your face. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

And before he could respond, you pulled him back in. This time, it wasn’t rushed. Your hands slipped around his neck, fingertips tangling in his hair as his lips met yours once more. He responded instantly, his body pressing closer, the kiss deepening. Your tongue traced along his, and a soft, quiet groan escaped him, a sound that made warmth coil low in your stomach.

You could’ve stayed like that forever. The way he held you, the way his mouth tasted like coffee and something distinctly Spencer, it all felt intoxicating.

But then you remembered, the kid you’re responsible for in the back of your car.

“Spencer,” you murmured against his lips, reluctantly pulling away. “I have to go.”

He nodded, his forehead resting against yours. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You smiled, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “If you’re free tonight… I’d love to come over. Maybe we can pick up where we left off.”

His eyes darkened just slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “I’m free.”

“Good.”

He stepped back, but not without stealing one last lingering glance. Ever the gentleman, he opened the car door for you, waiting as you slipped inside.

“Drive safe,” he said softly, his hand still resting on the doorframe. You gave him a playful wink. “I will.”

As you pulled out of the parking lot, Jack’s voice piped up from the backseat.

“Eww.”

You caught his grin in the rearview mirror and brought a finger to your lips. “Shhh.”

He burst into laughter, and despite the embarrassment, a giddy warmth settled in your chest. . .

hope you guys love this, it took so long to write but I’m glad it’s finally finished! Lmk your thoughts<3

Thank you to everyone who reposts, and leave kind messages, you guys are the reason I continue writing! I appreciate it so much!

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⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼 wc. 590 🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“You skipped school so you could hang out with my parents?”

Mark stands in the doorway of the kitchen, his expression a cross between bewilderment and betrayal, as pretty brown eyes remain fixated on where your flour-dusted hands continue to roll various clumps of dough, your expression purely unapologetic and he watches the crinkle appear at the corners of your eyes.

“We’re making bread.”

“Oh, you’re making bread?” Mark repeats after you, his tone mocking and he lets out a huff, upper lip curled in distaste as he shuffles into the kitchen, taking a seat on one of the stools, elbows rested on the granite countertops as he watches you move around his kitchen with ease.

“How was school, Mark?” Debbie presses a kiss against Mark’s cheek, her hands dusted with flour, the scent of yeast and dough clinging to her skin, alongside a floral perfume.

“It was fine.” He hums, gaze focused on your back, watching the way your shoulder blades move beneath the constricting fabric of your T-shirt. “Why’re you making bread?”

“Your mom found a recipe and she didn’t wanna try it alone.” You respond, glancing over your shoulder towards Mark who simply lets out another hum, before shifting in his seat.

“Where’s dad?” “Perfecting his bread in his study.” Debbie snorts. “She kept evil-eyeing the dough.”

“I wasn’t evil-eyeing the dough.” You huff, almost defensively. “I was just looking and he said I was ‘sucking the flavour out of the bread’.”

And Mark snorts.

“What kind of bread are you making?” He lifts himself from his seat, hands pushing the sleeves of his sweater up, coming to stand beside Debbie. His chin rests on her shoulder, and he watches the way her hands continue to knead at the dough.

“Uyu Sikppang.” She hums softly. “Your father’s making Dutch bread.”

And Mark glances towards where you’re sprinkling chocolate chips onto your dough, your eyes twinkling deviously and Mark doesn’t really enjoy the way his belly knots when he watches the way you catch his glance from the corner of your eye, your lashes fluttering and your lips curl so prettily at the corners.

“And you?”

“I’m freestyling it.” You state proudly. “Vanilla extract, a pinch of salt, sugar and a few other things. And before you can even say anything, I’ve got faith in this bread.”

And Mark snickers, moving away from his mother, instead, plopping in the seat beside you, and he looks up at you from beneath stupidly gorgeous lashes.

“Remember when you freestyled that Math test, had faith and still got a D?” Mark’s voice is low, almost conspiratorially so and you glare at him. But goddamn, that shit-eating grin looks so good on him. Lips curled, eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples in his cheeks.

“Better than failing an English listening comprehension because Amber’s wearing shorts.”

And Mark hisses.

“I told you that in confidence.”

“You should never do that.”

And heavy thudding steps travel down the stairs, and Mark glances towards where Nolan holds a tray, its contents obscured from eyes (most likely yours).

Blue eyes crease at the sight of Mark, a smile raising his full moustache.

“How was school, champ?”

“Same old, same old.” Mark moves towards his father, attempting to lift the bowl that obscures the dough and Nolan swats Mark’s hand away.

“Not in front of her.”

“Mr Grayson, I didn’t—”

“Silence, witch.” Nolan interjects. “I know what your people do. I’ve seen ‘Hocus Pocus’.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“Your bread’s just a giant cookie.”

“I know. Isn’t it beautiful?”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420

[natsaffection]

Redline. Pt 4 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!Racing!Driver! Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), sexual tension, intentional crash

Word count: 10,3k

A/N: Okay…just 2 more chapters to go! Today, we’re focusing more on the dynamics between everyone. Aaand..don’t come at me for the ending!🧎🏻‍♀️

Part 3

The heat from the track still lingered in the air as you walked beside your father, the gravel crunching under your boots with every slow step. Neither of you spoke at first. The pit lane was behind you now, the silence stretching between you, heavy with everything unspoken.

Your hands were shoved deep into your fire suit pockets, your pulse still uneven from the confrontation with Natasha, her words, her touch, her smirk still lingering like a brand on your skin. You glanced at your father, jaw tight. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze stayed on the track ahead, the smooth asphalt, the sharp curves, the very place that had nearly taken you away from him once. “I wanted to see you race.”

Your chest tightened. “Dad-”

“Your test race was good.”

That stopped you. Your brows furrowed slightly, your steps faltering. Of all the things you expected, that wasn’t it. You turned to him, your voice careful. “You think so?”

His lips pressed together, his expression unreadable, Romanoff-like in his control. Then, after a moment, he nodded. “Very good.” The words should have made you feel proud. But there was something else beneath them. Something heavier. Something hesitant.

Your stomach twisted. “But?” His sigh was slow. Controlled. Measured. “But I still have doubts.”

The honesty stung more than it should have. You swallowed, looking back at the track, your fingers curling inside your pockets. “You don’t think I should be here.” It wasn’t a question. Because you already knew the answer.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his jaw before finally looking at you. “It’s not about what I think, Y/n. It’s about what this does to you.”

Your throat tightened. “I can handle it.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes studying you, seeing through you like he always did. “Can you?” The words hit deeper than you wanted them to. Because even after everything, even after clawing your way back, after surviving the rehab, after proving to the world that you were still here, there was still that one small part of you that wasn’t sure.

You blinked hard, looking away before he could see it. “Mom doesn’t think I can, does she?” His jaw tensed. That was all the confirmation you needed. “She hates it.” The words sat between you, heavy and unmoving. You exhaled sharply, your fingers flexing at your sides. “Of course, she does.”

He sighed. “Y/n-”

“No, I get it.” Your voice came out flat, bitter. “She spent a year watching me relearn how to fucking walk. She spent a year seeing me break down because I couldn’t even lift my own body weight anymore. She was there when the doctors told me that my career was over.” You swallowed hard, the memory of it clawing at the back of your mind. “So yeah. I get it.”

Your father sighed, stopping in his steps. You followed suit, keeping your gaze locked on the track ahead, refusing to let him see the way your hands were shaking. “She was scared.” His voice was softer now, edged with something tired. “She still is.”

“So are you.” He didn’t deny it. That said enough. Another long silence stretched between you, the weight of everything unspoken pressing hard against your ribs. Then, his voice changed. “Romanoff.”

You blinked, turning toward him. “What about her?” His gaze was unreadable again, calculating. “She’s difficult.” You huffed out a humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jacket. “Is she treating you right?” The question made your breath hitch. Not because it was strange. But because it was the first time he had acknowledged Natasha at all.

You looked away, exhaling slowly. “She’s…” You hesitated. Because how the hell were you supposed to explain Natasha? The woman who pushed you to your limits. The woman who made you want to scream and fight and prove her wrong every second you were on the track. The woman who, despite everything, had kept you here. “She’s tough.”

“Tough isn’t the same as fair.”

You clenched your jaw, voice quiet. “She’s fair enough.” Your father hummed slightly, unconvinced. Then, he exhaled, looking at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Be careful with her.”

Something in your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t talking about racing anymore. You knew that. And so did he. Looking back at the track, at the curve ahead, the stretch of asphalt that had nearly ended you once. Then, you exhaled, forcing the tension in your shoulders to ease. “I will.”

——

The moment the call came, you didn’t hesitate. You were in Natasha’s office within seconds. Not a second early. Not a second late. You weren’t going to give her another reason to tear into you.

The confrontation from the track still burned in your mind, the fire in her eyes, the way she had dragged you out of the car, ripped into you with the kind of rage only Natasha Romanoff could wield. You had pushed back. But she had pushed harder. And now? Now, you weren’t about to give her another excuse to throw you around like a chess piece.

You knocked once and firm, “Come in.” came through the heavy wood. Stepping inside, you braced yourself for another heated lecture, another round of Natasha pushing you to the brink. Instead, you stopped. Your brows furrowed as your eyes landed on the sleek leather couch, where a row of carefully curated outfits lay waiting. Dresses. Suits. Something in between. Sleek. Expensive. And entirely unexpected.

Natasha stood behind her desk, arms crossed, watching you like she was waiting for a reaction. You exhaled, tilting your head. “Are we throwing a fashion show now?”

She didn’t blink. “Try them on.”

It wasn’t a request. Your lips parted slightly, but before you could ask, her expression hardened, not angry, not quite daring, just expecting. So, you swallowed down the million questions burning at the tip of your tongue and moved toward the outfits. You weren’t stupid. You did what you were told.

The first outfit was too stiff. The second? Too formal. The third? Too boring. But the fourth? That one was perfect. Sleek black fabric hugged your form in all the right ways, polished, sharp, clean. It wasn’t a suit. It wasn’t a dress. It was somewhere in between. Powerful. Something that made you feel like you could stand next to anyone and not be overshadowed. You turned toward the mirror, adjusting the sleeves slightly before stepping back into the office.

Natasha was still at her desk, eyes scanning through a document. But the second she looked up, she stood. Green eyes flickered over you, sharp and unreadable, the weight of her gaze making your skin prickle.

“Can I touch you?”

Your breath caught slightly at the way she said it.. low, direct, careful. Your fingers twitched at your side. You nodded once. “Yeah.”

She stepped closer, movements effortless, controlled. One hand lifted, fingers barely grazing the fabric at your shoulder, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle. Then, she tugged the hem slightly, adjusting the fit. Her touch was warm, steady. Not rough like before. Not burning with frustration or anger. Just precise. Her fingers brushed along the edge of your sleeve, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

You swallowed, voice quieter than intended. “What’s this about?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned, walked back to her desk, slipped her pen into place with slow precision, then met your gaze again. “We’re leaving in an hour.”

Your stomach twisted. “Leaving?”

“Family dinner.”

The words settled heavily between you. You blinked, processing, feeling your pulse tick up slightly. The Romanoffs?? Everyone knew them. They weren’t just a wealthy family, they were a dynasty, a legacy built on power, wealth, and absolute control. And now, you were about to walk into their world. Natasha watched your reaction closely, smirk deepening slightly. “You know them.”

It wasn’t a question. You hesitated, keeping your voice careful. “Everyone does.”

Her head tilted slightly, amusement flickering across her face. “Are you a fangirl?”

Your jaw locked. “No.”

Her smirk widened, slow and knowing. “Hesitation says otherwise.” You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to keep steady. “Should I be worried?” Natasha considered that for a moment, then smiled. “That depends.”

You swallowed, hating the way she always made you feel like she had all the cards, like she had been three steps ahead of you since the moment you walked in. She picked up her phone, already moving toward the door, already in control of the next move. Then, just before stepping out, she glanced back at you, something dangerously amused in her eyes.

“Don’t be late.” she murmured. “Wouldn’t want Mommy to think you don’t belong.” Your breath hitched. She saw it and she loved it. Then, she was gone. Leaving you standing there, pulse hammering in your ears, knowing full well that this wasn’t just dinner.

The car ride was tense, but not in the usual way. This wasn’t the quiet before a storm, the steady focus before a race. This was heavier and charged with something deeper, something unspoken.

You sat in the back of one of Natasha’s luxury cars, the engine purring smoothly as it cut through the night. The interior smelled of leather and something distinctly hers. She sat beside you, legs crossed, posture straight, eyes fixed on her phone, the soft glow illuminating her features. She hadn’t spoken much since leaving the city, only issuing short, clipped commands to the driver.

Across from you, Yelena was the only one who seemed completely unbothered. She stretched out in her seat, arms folded behind her head, feet casually propped up against the console like this was just another errand. But it wasn’t. You were on your way to meet the Romanoffs. Not just Natasha. Not just Yelena. The whole dynasty.

Their empire stretched across industries that mattered. Finance. Defense. Technology. Racing. There wasn’t a single major sector that didn’t have a Romanoff signature buried somewhere in its foundation. And Natasha? She wasn’t just part of it. She was born into it.

You exhaled slowly, fingers twitching against your knee. Yelena caught the movement instantly, smirking. “Nervous?”

You met her gaze, forcing a casual shrug. “A little..”

She let out a short laugh. “If you screw up, they might not let you leave.”

Your stomach dipped. Natasha didn’t react, not outwardly. But the corners of her lips twitched slightly, like she was holding back amusement. Yelena grinned, clearly enjoying herself, but before she could respond, Natasha finally spoke. “Enough.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath, but didn’t push further. The car continued its smooth ascent, winding up the private road leading to the estate. The further you drove, the more surreal it became. The Romanoff property was massive, gated, guarded, the kind of wealth that didn’t just sit pretty but protected itself. Pristine landscaping stretched for miles, leading up to the mansion itself. A fortress of glass and steel, sleek and modern, an architectural masterpiece.

When the car pulled up to the entrance, the doors were already open. Natasha moved first, stepping out smoothly, slipping her phone into her pocket as she approached the woman waiting at the entrance. Melina. Natasha’s mother.

You had seen pictures of her before, but seeing her in person was different. She was graceful, poised, elegant, but there was something colder beneath it. Something sharp. A woman who had built herself into something untouchable. She spoke to Natasha first, her voice low, unreadable. Then, her gaze flickered to you.

For a second, she said nothing. Just studied you. Her eyes swept over you like she was calculating something, measuring. Then, a smile. Melina’s lips curved slightly, gaze sharp but not unkind. “Ah. So you’re the one who’s been giving my daughter so much trouble.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Natasha exhaled quietly, a breath through her nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite amusement. Before you could scramble for a response, another voice cut in “Ah! There she is!”

You barely had time to react before a broad, shouldered man emerged from the house, grinning widely. Alexei. Natasha and Yelena’s father. You recognized him instantly, not just from pictures, but from history. A legend in his time. Ex-Racer. A force in the business world. A man who had built part of the Romanoff empire with nothing but sheer, stubborn will.

And yet, this was not the intimidating powerhouse you expected. Because the man was smiling. A full, wide, beaming smile. Like he had been waiting all day to meet you. He stepped forward without hesitation, eyes gleaming. “So! You’re the one who thinks she can handle my Natasha!”

Natasha’s exhale was louder this time. Melina took a long sip of her wine. Yelena, standing beside you, was grinning like a damn idiot. You scrambled for words. “I..uh-”

Alexei clapped a massive hand against your shoulder, nearly making you stumble forward. “She is small, but she looks tough! I like her!” You blinked. Natasha muttered something in Russian under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Melina sighed, already turning toward the dining room. “Come, before Alexei scares her off.”

The dining table was massive, stretching across the length of the room, its polished surface reflecting the warm glow of the chandeliers above. The entire setting felt surreal, like stepping into a world you weren’t meant to belong to, but here you were.

Seated between Natasha and Yelena, you could feel the weight of the Romanoff name pressing in from all sides. Melina sat at the head of the table, poised, watching. Across from you, Alexei cut into his steak with the ease of a man who had nothing to prove.

“So,” Alexei started, taking a massive bite, speaking around it like it was just another casual topic, “the championship race is coming up. You’re up against Walker, yes?”

You swallowed, gripping your fork a little tighter. “Yeah.”

Melina sipped her wine, tilting her head slightly. “Dreykov will be watching closely.” Natasha didn’t even look up. “Let him.”

Yelena smirked, leaning on her elbow. “I heard Walker’s already pissed about the competition.”

Alexei snorted. “Good! He should be worried.” Then, his sharp eyes flicked toward you. “Do you think you can beat him?”

The table went silent. Your pulse ticked up. Everyone was watching you. You met Alexei’s gaze head-on, steady, unwavering. “I know I can.”

Silence stretched, thick and expectant. Then, Alexei grinned. “Good answer.”

Natasha, beside you, didn’t react. But you felt her shift slightly. Like she had just gotten her answer too. Melina set her wine down with quiet precision. “You do realize this race isn’t just about you.”

Your jaw tightened. “I know.” She studied you, expression unreadable. “Do you?”

Alexei leaned forward, voice dropping just slightly. “If you win, Dreykov loses control of the narrative. If you lose? He buries you.”

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “She’s not losing.”

Melina remained still, unreadable. “You’re in a unique position, Y/n. Most drivers only fight for themselves. You? You’re carrying a legacy that isn’t even yours.” Your fingers curled around your napkin. “Then I’ll make it mine.”

Silence. Natasha finally looked at you. Really looked. Like she wasn’t expecting that answer. Like she might have just decided something. Like she saw something shift in you, something she wasn’t sure was there before.

The weight of her gaze settled deep, assessing, considering, then she leaned back, just slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing. And she smirked. Not just amusement. Not just approval. Something more. Something like certainty. Like she was finally seeing what she needed to see.

As the meal continued, you found yourself answering Alexei’s now more benign questions, he asked about your hometown, clearly trying to be friendly. It was awkward, but well-meaning. In return, you posed a timid question or two of your own, asking Melina how long they had owned the estate. Her answer involved a brief, fascinating tale of an old friend from the KGB days. With each exchange, the initial fear in your chest uncoiled a bit more.

Natasha eventually rejoined the conversation, albeit in a mild way. When you complimented the stew, saying it was delicious, she interjected quietly, “It’s Melina’s special recipe. We had it a lot when I was young.”

You glanced over, surprised to hear Natasha offer personal information so easily. Her lips twitched in a faint semblance of a smile, perhaps at a memory. Melina tilted her head, giving Natasha a fond look. “Natasha used to help me chop vegetables for it.” she added.

To your astonishment, Natasha didn’t scowl or roll her eyes. Instead, she let out a small huff that might have been a very reluctant laugh. “Only because you made me.” she protested under her breath, but there was no real heat in it. The tension that had clouded her features had ebbed away, replaced by something almost approachable.

You witnessed this shift with quiet amazement. The dinner that had begun with your stomach in knots was slowly turning into something you never expected: an insight into Natasha’s world, into a family that was far more complex than the intimidating facade they projected.

They aren’t all like Natasha. In fact, Natasha herself wasn’t even always like the stone-cold version of her you had seen out in the field, not here, not with her parents tempering her.

Melina caught your eye once more and gave you a nod paired with that small, reassuring smile. It silently said, you’re doing fine. In that moment, you felt a rush of gratitude and something almost like belonging. You straightened up a bit, no longer curled in on yourself, and even dared to genuinely smile back.

Finally, as plates emptied and the evening air settled coolly around you, the dinner came to a close. Alexei pushed back his chair, satiated and in high spirits from the meal and conversation. Melina began stacking a couple of plates, and you automatically stood. “Oh, let me help with that.” you offered, ever polite, eager to show you weren’t just a burden.

Melina shoed you away gently. “Nonsense, you’re our guest!” she insisted, but her tone was kind. Natasha stood as well, collecting the remaining glasses with efficient movements. “I’ll help.” she said, giving you a brief nod, not quite warm, but not cold either. Something more neutral. Maybe even respectful.

Alexei chortled. “I’ll escort our guest to the sitting room.” He looped an arm (carefully) around your shoulder to guide you out, treating you now like a comrade rather than a suspect.

As you left the dining room, you glanced back over your shoulder. At the end of the table, Natasha and Melina stood quietly stacking dishes, mother and daughter in a rare moment of stillness. Melina leaned in, saying something low to Natasha. You couldn’t hear the words, but you saw Natasha roll her eyes, and then smile. An actual smile. Small, fleeting, but real.

Melina chuckled softly in response, bumping her shoulder affectionately against Natasha’s. The sight stayed with you: Natasha Romanoff, so cold and fierce in the field, standing there allowing herself a moment of lightness with her mother.

You turned forward again as Alexei led you down the hall, a multitude of new impressions swirling in your mind. I was wrong about them, you thought with a mixture of relief and wonder. The Romanoffs aren’t an unbreakable wall of ice; they’re a family, with warmth sparking in unexpected places.

The drive back to Natasha’s track was silent, the weight of the evening pressing down on you like a storm cloud. The Romanoff estate faded into the night behind you, the dark road ahead stretching endlessly. Eight days. Eight days until the first real race, the one that would determine your starting position for the championship. The thought settled uneasily in your chest, coiling like a slow-burning fire.

Yelena hummed along to some song playing softly on the radio, seemingly unbothered by the tension lingering in the air. Natasha sat in the passenger seat, silent as ever, fingers scrolling across her phone, but you knew she wasn’t distracted. She never was. She was thinking, calculating, already planning your next move before you even took your next breath.

The faint glow of the track’s floodlights appeared in the distance, growing brighter as the car pulled into the lot. The closer you got, the heavier your limbs felt. The test race still lingered in your muscles, your body stiff with the memory of every sharp turn, every acceleration, every mistake. The second the car came to a stop, you reached for the door handle, desperate for fresh air, for movement-

“Not so fast.”

Natasha’s voice cut through the night, sharp and unwavering. You froze mid-step, turning to see her already out of the car, arms crossed, gaze locked onto you with that same unrelenting intensity. The air around her was different now. Heavier. You straightened instinctively. “What?”

She stepped closer, closing the space between you. “Training starts tomorrow. Six a.m.”

Your jaw tensed. “Tomorrow?”

Her brow lifted. “Did you think you were getting a break?” Exhaling through your nose, you clenched your fists at your sides. “No.”

A quiet hum. Head tilting slightly, Natasha’s expression remained unreadable. “Good. Because you don’t get one.”

There was something about the way she said it, like a warning and a promise all at once. Eight days until the race. And Natasha wasn’t wasting a single second. She turned on her heel, already walking toward the garage, leaving you standing there, pulse thrumming in your ears. Yelena strolled past, patting your shoulder with a smirk. “You should probably set an alarm.”

Day One: 5:59 a.m.

The alarm had barely registered before a hard knock echoed through your door. “Training started a minute ago.” Natasha’s voice was sharp as a blade. “Move.”

There was no time to think, no time to hesitate. You threw on your gear, barely pulling your shoes on before being dragged into the gym. It wasn’t just a warm-up. It wasn’t just conditioning. It was a full-throttle, no-mercy assault on your body.

Natasha stood in front of you, arms crossed, while one of the team’s personal trainers pushed you through a relentless circuit, strength, endurance, core. Every time you thought you could catch a breath, her voice sliced through the haze.

“Too slow.”

“Your reaction time is pathetic.”

“You think you can keep up with Walker like this?”

By the time you collapsed onto the mat, sweat dripping down your face, Natasha crouched beside you, looking far too composed for someone who had just watched you suffer. “You’ve got seven days left.” she murmured, eyes dark. “If you want to survive, stop acting like a rookie.”

Day Two:

Six a.m., and you were thrown onto the simulator. Split-second decision-making drilled into you until your reflexes burned. By noon, you were out on the track, repeating the same sector over and over. Every mistake? Restart. Every hesitation? Restart. Natasha’s voice cut through the radio like a blade. “You missed the apex.”

“Too aggressive, back off.”

“Again.”

Again.

Again.

Your body moved on autopilot, muscles screaming, exhaustion creeping in. When she finally called you back in, you pulled into the pit, stepping out of the car, legs trembling. Natasha barely glanced up from her tablet. “Get some sleep.” Even. Unmoved. “You’ll need it.”

Day Three:

The training room was dim, the only light coming from the massive screen flickering with images of drivers. Dreykov’s team. Rivals. Threats. Natasha stood in front, hands on the table, voice measured. “Know them. Study them. Every habit, every weakness, every mistake they’ve ever made. Learn their tells. If you don’t, they’ll rip you apart.”

She turned, gaze flicking toward you. “You want to be better than Walker?” Her voice dipped lower, deadlier. “Then you don’t just beat him on track. You get inside his head. Make him doubt. Make him hesitate.” You swallowed hard, nodding. Natasha’s lips curled, just barely.

Day Four:

Tires screamed against the asphalt as you pushed through another lap, the track lights blurring into streaks of color. Natasha stood on the pit wall, headset on, arms crossed. Watching. Tracking every movement, every sector time. She saw it now. The shift. The way you moved. The way you didn’t hesitate anymore.

The radio crackled. “Better.”

Not praise. Not exactly. But something. And from Natasha? That was enough.

Day Five:

A miscalculation. A slight overcorrection. One second, you were flying through the straight, next, the car twitched. The back end stepped out. The world tilted. Your breath hitched, flashes of your past crash slammed into your skull. You hesitated. And that was your mistake.

The car skidded onto the run-off area, tires screeching. You caught it, but by then, it was too late. Lap ruined.

“Get back in the pit.”

You swallowed, bringing the car in, already bracing yourself. The second you stepped out, Natasha was there. She wasn’t yelling. That was worse. “You hesitated.”

Your mouth went dry.

“Do that in the race, and you’re done.” Her voice was sharp, but there was something else beneath it. Something almost…dangerous. “Fix it.”

Hours later, your body felt like lead as you walked back to your room, exhaustion sinking into your bones after another brutal day of training. Every drill, every lap, every order had been pushed to the extreme by Natasha, like she was determined to break you. And now? You could barely move. You had one thought in mind, collapse into bed and sleep for the next century. But before you could open the door, her voice cut through the silence.

“Be ready by nine.”

You stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing. Natasha stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, looking completely unaffected by the relentless day she had put you through. “For what?” you asked, already dreading the answer.

“Photoshoot.”

You blinked. “…You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I joke?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Please tell me this is just a few shots for the team.” Her lips twitched. That was never a good sign. “FIA. Sponsors. Press. Magazine covers.”

You exhaled sharply, head tilting back. “I can barely stand, Natasha. How do you expect me to pose for a camera?” She stepped forward, stopping just in front of you. Close enough that you could feel her heat. Her eyes flickered over you, assessing, calculating.

“You’ll manage.” And with that, she turned, walking away without another word, leaving you standing there, completely and utterly trapped.

Day six:

The next morning, you found yourself in a massive, high-end studio. Bright lights. White backdrops. Rows of expensive cameras and flashing bulbs. Everything screamed control. And in the middle of it all, Natasha, commanding the entire room. She stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching every single detail.

Every movement, every adjustment, every pose, she dictated all of it. When the crew hesitated, she fixed it. When the angles weren’t perfect, she adjusted them. Her presence was everywhere, in everything. And you hadn’t even stepped in front of the camera yet. This wasn’t just a photoshoot. This was a fucking mission.

Your first set was classic, controlled. You stood against the sleek backdrop in your race suit, arms crossed, chin high. The photographer and Natasha called out instructions.

“Look strong. Confident. Eyes sharp.”

“Fix your posture.”

Natasha’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Your jaw tightened. She was standing just off-camera, her gaze laser-focused on you.

“Shoulders squared.”

You adjusted. “Chin up.” You exhaled slowly, adjusting again. “Now hold it.”

You held it. The cameras flashed, one after another, capturing every angle. You could feel her watching you. Not just monitoring. Not just observing. Watching. Studying.

Next came the full team shots. You stood in the center, surrounded by the entire Romanoff Racing crew, mechanics, engineers, strategists. A wall of power. A force. The Romanoff insignia blazed behind you. The photographer adjusted his lens.

“Closer together. Stronger stance.”

You stepped forward, shoulders squared. The flashes erupted, capturing everything. You could feel the weight of it. The responsibility. The legacy you were now a part of.

Now, it was Natasha's turn and Jesus Christ. She stepped onto the set, a black suit, tailored to absolute perfection. She didn’t pose. Didn’t adjust. She just existed. And the entire room bent to her. The camera didn’t just capture her, it obeyed her. Her stance was effortless, natural, lethal. Her eyes sharp, lips pressed together in a look of absolute control.

And when she leaned against the car, one hand resting on the frame, the other tucked into her pocket, expression unreadable, you had to look away. Because holy shit..

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Your stomach flipped. And suddenly, you weren’t breathing right. You forced yourself to focus on something, anything else. The camera flashes. The set crew. But your eyes kept drifting back.

And then, she turned her head. And caught you. Your breath hitched. For one unbearable second, neither of you moved. She didn’t smirk. Didn’t say anything. Just looked. And then, she moved on. Leaving you standing there, heart pounding.

Then came the part you weren’t prepared for. You. And Natasha. Together. The photographer waved you forward. “Alright, side by side. Look strong, look dominant.”

You took your place beside her. And immediately, something was off. “Closer.” the photographer instructed.

Natasha shifted beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. Your breath caught. Your muscles tensed. The camera clicked. Natasha glanced at you, brow furrowing slightly.

“Break. Ten minutes.” The team scattered. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to move. Before you could step away, Natasha’s voice stopped you. “What’s wrong?”

You froze. Your back was still to her, but you knew she was watching and waiting. You rolled your shoulders, forcing a casual shrug. “Nothing..” you muttered. “Just exhausted.”

Lie. Natasha wasn’t stupid. She saw right through you. Her eyes flickered over your face, searching, calculating. You knew you were caught. So you wiggled your shoulder slightly, brushing it off.

Natasha’s lips pressed together. She didn’t believe you. But she didn’t push. She just watched and something in her expression..something unreadable, something almost amused, made your stomach twist.

The photographer called you both back onto set, your stomach tightened again. “Alright, last round of shots. This time, we go for dominance!” the photographer instructed, adjusting the lighting. You swallowed hard. Natasha stepped up beside you. Close. Not too close. But close enough. “Cross your arms.” the photographer said.

You did. Natasha did too. Side by side. Like two weapons, locked and loaded. Another click. Another flash. “Now turn toward each other slightly.”

You’re kidding..You hesitated, just for a second. But Natasha didn’t. She shifted, her posture unwavering. Her sharp green eyes locked onto you, steady and unreadable. You mirrored her. Straightened your spine. Tilted your head slightly. The camera flashed again.

“Alright, I want something more intense. Y/n, look straight at the camera. Natasha, glance at her.” Your pulse jumped. But you did it. Held your stance. Held your breath. Just a few more minutes..! You were sweating at this point.

Natasha turned her head slightly, just enough to follow the instruction. The way her gaze landed on you, like she was assessing. Calculating. Waiting for you to break.

The shutter clicked. The camera caught it. And suddenly, you felt it too. This wasn’t just a team photo. This was a power move. A statement. The air between you was too charged. You could see it now. And so could everyone else in the room.

The photographer stepped back. “That’s the one.”The crew murmured in agreement. You exhaled slowly. “Alright.” Natasha said, stepping away first. “That’s enough.”

And just like that, the spell was broken. The crew started packing up, cameras shutting down, the studio buzzing with movement. Natasha, as always, was already ahead of everyone. She stood at the monitors, scrolling through the raw images with the lead photographer.

You were halfway through unzipping your race suit when you heard her voice. “Y/n, come here.”

You hesitated. Took a breath. Then walked over. The screen displayed a row of thumbnails, hundreds of photos from the shoot. The first few were standard. You in your race suit, alone. The team standing beside you. You adjusting your helmet. You leaning against the car.

Then came Natasha’s. The black suit. The sharp gaze. The effortless power. You looked away but when Natasha clicked on the last image. The one with both of you. Your stomach tightened. It was..intimidating. You stood tall, shoulders squared, your expression unreadable. And Natasha? She was beside you, turned slightly, looking at you instead of the camera.

It wasn’t a casual glance. It was calculated. Deliberate. Like she was analyzing every move, every breath, every inch of control you had. It looked… powerful. More than that, it looked like something else. Something dangerous.

You swallowed. Natasha didn’t look at you. She just studied the screen, tapping her fingers against the console. “This one.” she said simply.

Your voice was quieter than you intended. “…Yeah.”Natasha finally turned her head, just slightly. Your eyes met. And for a moment..just a moment, it was too much. Then she smirked. “Good.”

She clicked the screen off. And just like that, it was over. But the image? It stayed with you. Long after the photoshoot ended. Long after the cameras shut down.

And long after you left the studio. The car was quiet. Too quiet. The low hum of the engine was the only sound filling the space, but you barely heard it. Your mind was somewhere else.

Still stuck on the photoshoot. On the way the camera had captured everything, the power, the intensity, the control. On the way Natasha had looked at you in that last shot. It wasn’t just a glance.

You stared out the window, barely blinking, your thoughts spiraling as the scenery blurred past. Natasha was speaking. Something about the schedule for tomorrow, about things you should have been listening to.. But you weren’t. You couldn’t. Your chest still felt too tight, your breath too shallow. “Y/N.” Your name snapped you out of your daze. You blinked, turning your head.

Natasha was watching you. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, her gaze sharp even in the dim light of the car. “You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

You opened your mouth, closed it and Natasha sighed. “Alright. We’re done for today.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“You’re off until tomorrow. Go rest. Clear your head.” You blinked again, trying to process her words. You were so used to the pressure, to the relentless push, to her orders keeping you on edge. But this? This was unexpected.

“Don’t look so surprised.” she muttered. “You earned it.” Her words settled in your chest, but you didn’t know what to do with them. So you just nodded. And for the rest of the ride, you sat in silence, still thinking, still feeling, still stuck in that moment.

Day 7:

Every drill was brutal. Every lap was ruthless. Natasha barely spoke, except to push you harder. Every limit you thought you had? She crushed it. By the time night fell, you thought she was done with you. Thought you could finally sleep. But Natasha found you later.

Fast asleep on the team’s lounge couch, still in your fireproofs, completely knocked out from exhaustion. She had stood there for a moment, watching. Then, without a word, she grabbed a blanket from the other side of the room and tossed it over you before leaving.

Day 8:

Final day. Final test. One last session to prove you were ready. The team stood by the pit wall. The car hummed beneath you, waiting. You took a breath. Natasha’s voice came through the comms.

“Last chance. Show me what you’ve got.”

And then, you drove. Fast, precise and unforgiving. You felt it. The shift. The control. The instinct overriding doubt. And when you pulled in, stepping out, Natasha was waiting. This time, she didn’t criticize. She just gave you one long look.

“You’re ready.”

——

The paddock was electric, alive with tension and expectation. Mechanics moved like clockwork, final checks being done, engineers poring over data, and drivers locked into their pre-race rituals. The weight of the moment pressed heavy on the entire grid.. this wasn’t just another qualifying session. This was the moment that decided who would start at the front. The moment that separated the contenders from the pretenders.

You sat in the cockpit, fireproofs clinging to your skin, harness so tight across your chest it felt like it was crushing your ribs. The scent of burned rubber and fuel lingered in the air, the familiar hum of engines warming up in the background. Your fingers flexed over the wheel, every part of your body wired, ready.

Across the pit wall, Natasha stood with arms crossed, headset secured, her green eyes locked on the track, calculating every possible scenario before the race had even started. She hadn’t spoken much that morning, not because she wasn’t paying attention, but because she was watching. Waiting for the moment to set the tone. Now, as you sat on the grid, the lights glowing red above you, her voice crackled through the radio.

“Listen to me.” Everything else fell away. “Today, you stop thinking like a rookie. Today, you stop waiting for opportunities to come to you. You take them. You fight for them. You rip them from their hands, and when they push back, you push harder. Do you understand me?”

Your breathing slowed. Your grip on the wheel tightened. “Understood.”

“Good. Because no one is going to move aside for you. Least of all Walker. He’ll do whatever it takes to hold that front row. Don’t let him.”

Your jaw locked at the mention of Walker. Natasha’s voice sharpened. “And if he tries anything, you make sure he regrets it.”

There it was. That edge. That lethal promise in her voice. The engineers gave the final signal. Time to go. You pulled onto the track, engine roaring as you weaved left and right, warming the tires, feeling out the car. The formation lap passed in a blur.

Lined up. Heart pounding. The lights above flickered on. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Green.

You launched off the grid, every fiber of your being focused, locked in. The tires gripped, the engine screamed, and the car shot forward. Walker was already moving to cover the inside line, expecting you to challenge immediately. You didn’t. Not yet. The first few corners were chaos, cars battling, elbows out, everyone jostling for position. You stayed aggressive, ruthless, refusing to back down when the space got tight.

P6. P5.

The radio crackled. Natasha’s voice was controlled but firm. “You’re faster. Stop waiting. Move.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. The next car ahead made the mistake of defending too early into Turn Seven. You sold the dummy, flicked the wheel the other way, and sent the car down the inside, clean, fast, brutal.

P4.

Natasha’s voice hummed in your ear. “Good.” P3 came soon after, the overtake executed so smoothly it almost felt effortless. But nothing about this was effortless. Because now, you had Walker in your sights. And he knew it.

Walker had picked up the pace, trying to pull away, but you were there, suffocating him. Every time he took a defensive line, you mirrored his movements, staying just inside his blind spot, making him feel the pressure.

Natasha’s voice cut through, sharp and knowing. “He’s breaking. Give him a reason to make a mistake.”

Turn Nine. Walker braked late, too late. His tires locked for a split second, and that was all you needed. Inside line. Full send. You were alongside him. Natasha’s voice held its breath. Next corner was yours.

You braced..then impact. Walker clipped your rear tire, sending your car into a violent snap-spin. The world tilted. Gravel exploded around you as the car skidded through the runoff, the steering kicking back violently in your hands. Natasha stood up, “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Her heart slammed against her ribcage, blood boiling as she watched your car skidding through the dirt. The pit crew held their breath. The race officials didn’t say a word. The safety car was on standby, waiting to see if you’d move.

Then, your car jerked forward. The engine roared back to life. Natasha froze. Then, sharp—“Y/n, report.” A beat of static. Then, your voice, steady but burning. “Still here.”

She exhaled sharply. “Get back on track. Now.” You were back. But you were P8 now. Too far back. Too much time lost. Your hands gripped the wheel. “I have an idea.”

Silence. Then, slower. “What idea?” You exhaled.

“It’s risky..”

“Everything in this sport is risky. Talk.” Your breathing was sharp, pulse hammering, your grip locked onto the wheel so tight your knuckles ached.

“If I overtake three cars before Turn Ten, I can keep it flat through sector two and make up time. But I need to go off-line in Turn Six.”

The moment you said it, the radio went dead. It was only for a second, but the silence was heavy, suffocating. Natasha wasn’t answering. Not immediately.

You could picture her in the pit wall, headset tight around her head, eyes narrowed at the screens, jaw locked, fingers gripping the radio as she weighed the calculation in her mind. If you missed the move by an inch, if the grip wasn’t there, if the car snapped on you at that speed, race over.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

Lap 15

Turn Six approached like a wall, a barrier you either broke through or crashed into. You didn’t lift. You went wide, off the racing line, into the part of the track where no one dared to find grip. The car trembled beneath you, the tires barely holding, but they held.

The move was insane. The pit wall erupted. The commentators lost their minds. The entire grandstand stood up. You didn’t hear any of it. Because the second you pulled off the move, the radio clicked. Natasha’s voice cracked through, lower now, almost breathless. “…You’re insane.”

A grin pulled at the corner of your lips. “Told you.”

P5. P4. P3.

The radio clicked again. Natasha was fully locked in now. No hesitation. No restraint. She was with you. “Walker is 1.8 seconds ahead. Three laps left. Close it.” And you did.

Final Lap

Walker was right there and desperate. His lines getting messier, his defense more aggressive. He knew you were coming, knew you were faster. But you knew something else..He was afraid.

Natasha’s voice cut through, sharp as a blade. “If he tries to block, don’t lift.”

Turn 12. Walker braked early, too early. He was trying to bait you, to force a mistake. But you weren’t falling for it. You threw the car inside, right on the limit, the tires barely holding, but it was enough. Walker tried to squeeze you off, but it was too late. You were gone.

P1.

The checkered flag waved. The radio was silent. For a long, long moment..nothing. “Now that…” A pause. “Was a fucking statement.”

You leaned your head back against the seat, exhaling hard, body vibrating from the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the everything. You had done it. You had won. And Natasha..Natasha had trusted you. You barely heard her, too overwhelmed by the sound of your own heartbeat pounding against your ribs, the raw rush of adrenaline and exhaustion making your body tremble against the seat. The realization hit all at once.

Pole position.

You had fought for it, clawed your way from the gravel, risked everything, and won. The car slowed on the cool-down lap, but your hands were still shaking, your breathing still uneven. The reality of what just happened was sinking in, and for the first time in a long time, you felt it.

Pride. A slow, satisfied smirk pulled at your lips as you finally spoke into the radio, breathless but grinning. “P1, huh?”

A small pause. Then, Natasha’s voice, quieter now, something different in it. “P1.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, just letting the weight of it settle in. “Ha!!”

Natasha didn’t respond, but you could sense her smirk, even through the static. She let you have this moment. She didn’t cut it down, didn’t make a comment about how it was just qualifying, that the real race was still ahead. No, she let you feel it.

Because you had earned it. Natasha was already pulling off her headset, stepping away from the pit wall as the team erupted into cheers, shouts, and frantic celebrations. She had done her job. Now it was yours. And she wanted to see it. She moved through the chaos, eyes locked on the car rolling in. The mechanics were already lined up, waiting for you.

The moment you stepped out, adrenaline still coursing through your veins, they swarmed. Shouts, cheers, hands grabbing at you, pulling you into crushing embraces. You did it. You laughed, breathless, still high from the race, from the moment, from everything. One of the engineers grabbed your helmet, ruffling your hair before clapping you hard on the back. Someone else was already holding up the pit board. P1.

You looked at it, at the reality of it, and your chest swelled with something powerful. You turned, scanning the pit wall, searching. And then, you saw her.

Natasha stood a few feet away, arms crossed, just watching. She hadn’t rushed into the celebration, hadn’t thrown herself into the crowd of mechanics. No, she was just there, eyes sharp, lips pressed together in something unreadable. For a split second, you thought she was going to walk away.

Then, finally, she nodded. A small movement, barely there. But you saw it. And fuck..it meant everything.

——

The energy of the paddock still buzzed behind you as the car pulled away from the circuit, leaving behind the celebrations, the flashing cameras, and the press that would no doubt be dissecting every second of today’s session.

The atmosphere in the car was… different. Not tense. Not suffocating like usual. Lighter. For once, Natasha wasn’t drilling into you, wasn’t immediately picking apart every turn, every sector time, every moment that could have been improved. She wasn’t reminding you that qualifying was just the beginning, that the real fight was still ahead.

Sitting in the passenger seat, you sank into the leather, exhaustion finally settling in. Your body was still buzzing with adrenaline, muscles sore, heart still beating in the aftershock of what just happened. But this was the first moment you had to actually process it.

You had pole position.

You unlocked your phone, fingers instinctively scrolling through the flood of notifications. News articles. Tweets. Posts.

“Y/N Y/L/N Takes Stunning Pole After Dramatic Comeback.”

“Against All Odds—Romanoff’s New Signing Sends a Warning to the Grid.”

“Walker Struggles Under Pressure as Y/L/N Dominates Qualifying.”

That one made you grin. You scrolled further, seeing clips of your overtakes, of the moment you took pole, of the radio call with Natasha. People were already analyzing it, already picking apart the dynamic between you and her.

“Romanoff’s reaction to Y/L/N’s pole position is so telling.”

One clip showed Natasha standing on the pit wall, her face blank, except for the small, almost imperceptible nod.

The comments were relentless.

“That’s the highest form of Romanoff praise. If you know, you know..”

“She’s pleased. Trust me. She won’t say it, but she is.”

You had spent so long trying to prove you deserved to be back. Fighting against the doubts, the whispers, the endless questioning of whether you were still capable.

And today? Today, you gave them their answer.

You turned your head slightly, glancing at Natasha in the driver’s seat. She hadn’t said a word the entire drive, hadn’t given you that usual look like she was waiting to correct something. She was just driving. Calm. Focused. She caught you looking and raised a brow. “What?”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “You’re being…nice.”

Natasha exhaled through her nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she kept her eyes on the road. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your lips twitched. “No?”

“Not a chance.”

You chuckled, shaking your head, the tension that had always sat between you and her finally settling, not disappearing, but shifting into something else. Something you weren’t sure how to name yet.

Then, Natasha’s voice cut through the silence again, lower this time, like a warning. “Enjoy today.” A beat. “Because tomorrow?”

She glanced at you, and for a second, the warmth was gone, replaced by something else entirely. “The real war starts.”

The first race of the season.

You sat in the passenger seat as the team drove toward the circuit, headphones in, music drowning out everything else. The low hum of bass vibrated through your ears, steady, grounding. The world outside blurred past, flashes of the approaching grandstands, the towering banners, the overwhelming storm of people already waiting for the main event.

Your fingers tapped rhythmically against your thigh, muscles tense beneath your race suit. This was the moment you had spent years clawing your way back to. And today, you had one job.

The second you stepped out of the car, the onslaught began. Flashes. Cameras. The swarm of media surged forward, microphones shoved in your direction before you even had the chance to breathe.

“Y/N, a quick word before the race!?”

“How are you handling the pressure of pole position?”

“Walker says you don’t have what it takes to hold first place, any response?”

The voices came all at once, words overlapping, the chaos pressing in around you. Your fingers twitched at your sides, the air tightening-

“That’s enough!” Natasha stepped in front of you in an instant, her presence slamming into the conversation like a force of nature, sharp green eyes locking onto the nearest journalist, unflinching. The words cut through the noise like a whip crack. Then, she turned to you,

“Go. Get ready. I’ll handle them.” You hesitated for only a second before nodding, stepping away and heading toward the paddock entrance, leaving the storm behind.

The garage was alive with controlled chaos, engineers running final checks, the steady hum of the team speaking through headsets, the unmistakable scent of fuel and anticipation thick in the air.

You exhaled slowly, rolling out your shoulders as you made your way toward your race suit stand, where one of the crew members was already waiting with your gloves. “Helmet’s prepped.” another said, handing it to you.

You took it, fingers grazing the visor, feeling the familiar weight settle into your grip. Another mechanic helped with your strap devices, securing it into place while you adjusted your gloves, making sure every strap, every fastening, was locked in. The tension in your chest coiled tighter with every second.

“Radio check.”

You exhaled once, pressing the comms button on your wheel. “Loud and clear.”

Natasha’s voice followed instantly, sharp and precise. “Copy. Comms are stable. Crew, confirm status.”

One by one, the voices of your engineers came through, confirming everything was set. The team was ready. The car was ready. You were ready.

The pit lane outside was roaring with noise, the grandstands full, the grid already lined up with cars rolling into position. And you were about to join them. This was it. The pre-race ceremony had begun, but you barely processed it. The national anthem played, the teams stood by their cars, the broadcast captured the entire starting lineup.

Pole position. Your car, first on the grid. It wasn’t the final step. It wasn’t the win. But it was the beginning of something.

“Y/n.”

You didn’t turn your head, just listened. Then, smooth, like she already knew what the answer would be- “You ready to fight?” You exhaled slowly, letting the tension in your chest morph into fire. “Always.”

The engine roared beneath you, a low, guttural vibration that thrummed through your bones. The grandstands blurred into a sea of colors, the sound of thousands of fans mixing with the distant hum of commentary and static-filled radio chatter.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened. This was it. This was the real fight. You focused on the lights above you, glowing red, lined up like a countdown to war.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Lights out.

Your tires gripped hard, the acceleration pinning you into the seat as you launched off the line. Walker was already alongside you, his front wing barely inches from your rear tire, trying to force you wide into Turn One.

Not a chance. You braked late, hugging the inside, refusing to give an inch. The car behind you lunged forward, but you held firm, forcing Walker to the outside.

“Good start, Y/n. Hold the inside.”

Natasha’s voice was clear, sharp, cutting through the chaos like a blade. Turn One, clean. Turn Two: Walker tried again, but you covered it, forcing him back. By the time you hit Turn Three, you had defended your position.

P1.

Walker was relentless. He stayed glued to your rear wing, waiting for an opening, a mistake, anything. Your heart pounded, every nerve in your body locked onto every sound, every movement, every vibration of the car beneath you.

The radio crackled. Natasha’s voice, calm, but watchful. “Don’t let him push you. Control the pace. Make him react to you.”

You adjusted, shifting your lines slightly, feeling out the car, forcing Walker to mirror your every move. Turn Eight and he went for it. He dove inside, too deep, too aggressive. You saw it coming before he even committed. A quick switch-back, flicking the car to the outside as he overshot the apex, and just like that- He was behind you again. The pit wall cheered, but Natasha? She only said, “Nice. Now keep your head down.”

Lap 12

The degradation was kicking in. Your tires were screaming through the high-speed corners, the grip beginning to fade, every lap getting harder to hold. The radio crackled. Natasha again. “Box this lap. We’re switching to mediums.”

Your fingers flexed over the wheel. “Copy.”

Coming out of Turn 14, you peeled off the racing line, diving into the pit lane, the speed limiter engaging as you barreled toward the box. The team was already waiting. You rolled in perfectly, stopping on the mark. Four tires. Fresh set. 2.3 seconds. Fast

You slammed the throttle the second you were released, shooting back onto the track, merging just as a car flew past.

P5.

Natasha’s voice was back in your ear. “You’ll regain track position when they stop. Just keep your pace up.”

Lap 18

The car felt lighter, the grip returning, your confidence growing. P3. P2.

Walker was right there again. Natasha’s voice cut through the radio. “He’s losing grip. He’ll defend aggressively. Watch for a late move.”

Turn 11 and walker went defensive. You faked the inside, forcing him to commit, then switched lines instantly, diving outside instead.

Your tires barely held, the car sliding on the edge of control and you were through. P1 again. The radio erupted with team cheers, but Natasha’s voice was the only one you focused on. “Good. Now put some distance between you.”

Lap after lap, you could feel Walker’s presence behind you like a shadow, clinging too close, pushing the limits of what was allowed. You knew him, knew the way he played the game, but this? This was different…

Something about the way he moved, the way he positioned himself right at your rear wing now, sent a flicker of unease through your chest. You gritted your teeth, forcing the feeling down as you powered through another turn, your car gliding over the asphalt like second nature.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter as you closed in on him, calculating your every move, your breath steady despite the heat in your chest. But Walker? He was too close. Too aggressive, as usual. You could feel him right on your rearview, waiting for a moment to overtake, but you wouldn’t give him that. Not now. Not today.

Then, in a blink, he made his move. You saw him inching forward, his car too close for comfort, and that was when the panic flashed across your mind. Why was he doing this? What was his game? You didn’t have time to think about it long before your tires lost traction, and you could feel the weight of the car shift.

“What the hell is he doing!?” Your voice was sharp through the radio, frustration rising as you saw him get closer, too close for comfort. But there was nothing you could do. Before you could react, before you could even process it, he hit you.

The force was hard. You didn’t even have time to brace. It came from behind you, the rear tires suddenly lifted off the track as your car was jerked sideways. You fought for control, your hands desperately working the wheel to correct it, but the back end of your car was already out of your control. The track seemed to tilt beneath you. The wall loomed ahead, too close, too fast.

Your breath hitched. No, no, no, you thought, your heart racing. “N-NO!” The impact was swift. Your car slammed into the wall with such force that it felt like your body was being thrown against the harness. The crash sent a sharp shockwave through your entire body, and the world went blank.

The sound of your desperate voice on the radio hit Natasha like a punch to the gut. She was already watching, tracking Walker’s every move, every inch of the track. But nothing, nothing could prepare her for the moment she heard you. The raw fear in your voice was unlike anything she had ever heard from you before.

Her body reacted before her mind could process the fear in her chest. She shot to her feet, the chair behind her crashing to the floor as if it didn’t exist. She grabbed the radio, her hands trembling as she slammed the button down.

“Y/n, come in!” She was breathless, her voice tight with panic.

Nothing.

“Y/N! Answer me!” She tried again, but the radio crackled with silence. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. She saw the monitors flicker, showing the image of your car crashing hard into the wall. The feedback from the telemetry was dead, and all she could hear was the commentators’ panicked voices.

“That was a huge impact! No response from Y/N!”

Her hands clenched around the radio, the sensation of fear crawling up her spine. Her eyes stayed locked on the screen, watching the wreckage unfold in real time, but her heart was somewhere else..in the car with you.

Her team tried to speak, but Natasha didn’t hear them. The only thing she could hear was the pounding of her own pulse in her ears, the sound of your voice echoing in her mind, and the image of you, helpless and not responding. She didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. The safety car was already on its way, and before she could even consider what she was doing, Natasha was already moving.

Part 5

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🏷️ Taglist: @l0nelyish @ayrtonwilbury @ima-gi--na-tion @whatthesnoodle @blackswanxzn @ivyasproperty @seventeen-x @wandanatlov3r @nebthetautora @casquinhaa @veroeuqin

[visenyaism]

Stuff about American election night that you should know:

We’re one week out! Crazy. So I know too much about US politics because I explain this for money, so I figured it might be helpful to talk a bit about what we should expect from election night. If you're not American, are new to our insane election system, or are anxious about what's happening next week, here's the deal with next Tuesday:

1. Most important thing: Do NOT expect to know the winner on election night. Different states have different laws about when they can start counting early/mail-in votes, which often slows down reporting time.

2020 took until the Saturday after to call because of the high mail-in vote count due to Covid, and while that isn't happening this time, it'll take longer than 2016, 2012, or 2008 because the polls are predicting that this one's going to be a lot closer than those. Consider just going to bed instead of staying up for the results.

2. Because of the Electoral College, popular vote doesn't matter as much as who wins each individual state does. Every state has a certain amount of electoral votes based on population, whoever wins a state gets all their votes, whoever gets to 270/538 wins. We know how most states are going to vote. The Electoral College puts the election in the hands of 7 "swing" states that could go either way. This time, that's Pennsylvania, Georgia, North Carolina, Michigan, Wisconsin, Arizona, and Nevada. These are the states to watch. Here's the map:

3. No one will know anything until polls close and states start reporting results. Doomscrolling is kind of pointless anyways, but it's especially pointless before 7pm. here's a map of closure times:

4. Data will shift throughout the night. Rural counties report results first because fewer people live there. This means the earlier you check, the more conservative the state maps might look. Do not look at the election results for any state with less than 90% reporting and freak out, especially if the state hasn't been called (deemed mathematically impossible for the other candidate to win) by multiple news outlets.

5. Voter fraud happens way less than you think it does. Pretty much never, actually. One study claims you're more likely to get struck by lightning than you are to witness actual, impersonation-based voter fraud in a modern US election. Be extremely skeptical of any voter fraud claims you might see.

6. Avoid getting news from social media accounts that aren't news outlets. There's a lot of disinformation out there, especially as AI/Deepfake tech is getting worse. Fact-check everything you might see. Anyone can make a destiel meme about the election. make sure it's true before you reblog it.

7. The electoral college sucks shit and does allow for a 269-269 vote tie. In this case, it goes to the House of Representatives, who are majority-Republican and will pick Trump. Some states might be within 1% (like 49.3%-49.7%) and candidates can demand recounts, which might delay official results by weeks or months. It HAS to be over by mid- December when the Electoral College officially votes.

8. take care of yourselves. if we're not going to know on election night, you may as well power down your phone and go to bed at a reasonable hour.

[evesmascarade]

early morning sunshine with my baes

[blossomarlia]

hi, could you write a drabble with reader x remus where she rlly struggles with getting involved or going to hang out with people without explicitly being invited (just feeling really worried about being rejected) and he kind of reassures her and looks after her?

hi, thanks for this request! hope you enjoy, i generally don't write school-aged drabbles but thought this fit the best.

summary: your fear of being rejected stops you from joining your friends, but remus reassures you

remus x fem! reader (implied early stages romance)

Sitting by one of the fireplaces in the Gryffindor common room, you’re wondering how many of the people around you have exchanged glances over the top of your head. You can almost feel judgement thickening the air, raised eyebrows and confused smiles that ask why is she even here? To be honest, the only reason that you haven’t moved away is that you were technically sitting here first, and the rest of them milled in and took their spots nearby- then again, was it purposeful, your taking a place on one of the sofas they often use? In hindsight it’s just embarrassing. They must be assuming that you sat down just so they’d have no choice but to talk to you. 

You know you’re expecting the worst of this group, none of whom particularly deserve it. The flock of seventh-years surrounding you are generally a good bunch; Lily, Sirius, Marlene, Mary, Peter, James, Remus, and Dorcas,. You want to be one of them more than  you want most other things, which is somewhat pathetic and completely obvious in the way you’re always hanging around. They may all be lovely, and your friends (to some extent), but you know how irritating it can be if there’s always someone not quite in the group hanging around.

You should leave. Get up and make some comment about homework, or whatever, and wait for absolutely nobody to stop you. It’s kinder to everybody. Isn’t it?

Lost in your thoughts, you miss what Lily says next, and then they’re all getting to their feet. You give what you hope is a casual smile, simultaneously relieved of your spiralling and disappointed that they’re fulfilling your expectations.

There’s a tap on your shoulder- Remus, your favourite, whose hair has grown out over Christmas and now curls over his ears. He seems to get taller and lovelier with every passing moment. It’s difficult to make eye contact.

“We’re heading to the greenhouses, did you hear?” He says quietly, hand stilling instead of pulling away. You press your lips together and nod, carefully hiding any sort of misplaced hurt. It’s not as if you’re entitled to an invitation.

“Alright, I’ll see you later!” Too enthusiastic.

His brows pinch together. “You’re not coming?”

You look up at the others, who are collecting scarves and bags on their way to the portrait-hole. How can you admit to Remus that you don’t think they want you along? How can you tell him, anyone, that you’re far too afraid of being made fun of, or becoming a joke within their tight-knit group, to risk it?

“Oh, I don’t know. I have heaps of homework.”

“You do?” He raises his eyebrows. You feel caught, despite not having been accused of any sort of lie. “I thought you finished it all yesterday.”

You’d been studying when he and Lily joined you, and all day you’ve been wondering why they chose to. You probably put a but too much value on people choosing to sit next to you in class or during study; it’s unlikely that it was more than an absence of other free tables.

“...Some, yeah. And I wouldn’t want to- you know, I wouldn’t…” You trail off and give an awkward laugh. Remus’ gentle expression is making the inside of your mouth hurt.

“What?” You’re not used to your excuses mattering so much. Mostly, you mutter something and disappear to your dorm in time to avoid any drama. Is he feeling guilty, awkward about having made plans as a group in front of someone else? You cringe at the notion of Remus realising how friendless you probably are, of his pity. 

You know it’s your own fault for being like this. You’ve had friends in the past- cool, funny, popular, attractive- who frequently left you out on purpose. A drunken conversation in fifth year revealed that you were tolerable at best, a joke at worst. Always pushing in and so desperate for invitations that to extend them could only be ironic. 

You think about that more often than you should. You’re constantly hyperaware of how tolerable you are, sure that you’ll say or do something which will make everyone else realise exactly why you’re not in any particular group. You can’t let that happen yet with all these people, so full of love for one another that even proximity to them feels like the experience of it. Still, they’re teenagers. Judgement is an automatic response, and Remus is clever in the way he jokes. He’ll retell this conversation to roaring laughter if you reveal too much- not that he’s ever unkind, but you sort of invite a bad impression, you think.

“It’s really fine,” You assure him. “I’m tired. It’s cold, too.”

“Right,” He nods, glancing downwards. You think you’ve won (as much as you can win, here) until he turns to James and Peter and says, “I think we’re going to stay here. Bit chilly.”

What?

James frowns, making a sound of protest. “Moony!” His eyes fall to you next, and you look away, guilty and embarrassed. You’d never even considered that pity would drive Remus to actually stay here, and now they’ll all hate you. Nice job, very well handled.

Marlene is next. “‘Cas has just finished growing the Alihotsy plant, though. We’re all going.”

“It’s been weeks since we all had the evening off- or at least, since Potter and Black didn’t have a detention each,” Lily reasons more kindly. She receives twin protests from the boys on either side of her, but remains unbothered, adding, “It’d be nice to spend a bit more time as a group.”

You’re awfully close to tears. All you’d wanted was to relieve them of yourself, to retreat to your room and wait until somebody explicitly invited you somewhere (if ever), and now you’ve gone and ruined everybody’s evening. You turn to Remus, more urgent than is likely normal. “Please just go with them,” You say softly, aware that your voice is all wobbly. “I’m just going to go to bed, I don’t want to interrupt all of you catching up. Please, it’s really okay.”

There’s a brief silence that spans the entire crowd. They’ve all heard, are all likely attempting not to laugh. Remus is giving you an awful look. 

“...Are you okay, lovely?” Mary asks. You can’t look at her, can’t look at any of them, but you’ve always been alright at masking emotion in your voice when you really try. You force something like a smile.

“Yes! Yes, completely fine, I’m only tired. Post-holiday blues, maybe.” You laugh and it sounds terrible. “I’ve really only got to go to bed. You all have fun!” Silence again. 

“We might join you all in a bit,” Remus says firmly. There are a few worried noises of assent, and they all head off. Now, you do see them looking at one another, frowning and looking upset. Poor Remus, you imagine them saying on their way to the greenhouses, stuck looking after her while we all escape.

Remus asks you to sit down again three times before you agree, still rather set on going to bed so you won’t cry in front of the entire common-room.

“What’s making you so upset?” He asks softly, once he’s finally detained you. You blink quickly and cast a glance around at the other students in the common-room, afraid to embarrass yourself more than you already have, but he’s quick to assuage the fear. “I cast a muffliato when James began talking about the Alihotsy prank- ages ago. Nobody’s heard anything, I promise.”

You swallow harshly. “Oh. Thanks. I’m sorry I’m being so- so-”

“If I could,” Remus says, firm but kind, “This will be a lot easier if we can get to the problem, here, rather than whatever you think you’ve done wrong.”

“I- right. Okay. Um,” You stammer. “They’re not really mutually exclusive.” “Why don’t you want to come? Did somebody say something hurtful?” You look at him, slightly startled. “What? It’s not that I don’t want to.”

Remus seems perplexed, looking the way he does when he’s working out a particularly difficult exam question. “No?”

“No.” You twist your fingers together so tightly that they hurt. “No, it sounds fun, it just… it’s not as if I’m going to demand to be brought along, am I?” The joke falls flat. You think you already knew it would, but it’s still a bit embarrassing to laugh and be met with a concerned frown.

 You take a few longer breaths. You can fix this. You have to fix this. 

“Look, it’s kind of you to stay here, but like Lily said- you all have the night off. It’s really not so bad not to spend it as a group. I want you to go, really.” The next smile is easier. You’ve done this before, convinced people not to feel bad for you. 

“Why would you need to demand to be brought along?” Remus asks. “We made the plans while you were right here.”

“You all made plans together,” You explain slowly. “You know, having an evening to yourselves and that sort of thing. There’s no need for- you know, I’m honestly just tired. That’s probably why I’ve reacted so oddly, it’s my own fault.”

Remus looks at you for a long while, so intent that your skin gets prickly and uncomfortable. Eventually, he speaks, quiet and considered. “...You haven’t acted oddly if that’s how you’ve been feeling.”

“Tired?”

“No, excluded.” He says gently. “You really didn’t know you were invited?” You don’t answer with more than silence, and he sighs. 

“You were. You’re always invited, dove, of course you are.”

Trying not to get to hung up on impossibilities, you shake your head quickly. “It’d be a bit rude to assume that.”

“It wouldn’t.” Remus replies immediately. Then, “Dove, what are we going to do with you?” Entirely too much to comprehend. You’re glad he goes on. “Would you look at me for a moment, please?”

You want to ask him why, or refuse, or run up to your dormitory, but you do as he says. You wonder if he knows that he could ask you to do almost anything and you’d say yes, if he’ll only keep looking at you with his coffee-coloured eyes.

“All of us- we want you to come along, wherever we are. You’re important to lots of people. Do you understand that?” “I- I just don’t want to push myself in.” You say, mortified.

“You aren’t. You’re being pulled, if anything, yeah?” His lips quirk. “When Lily said those things about spending time as a group, she meant you, too. If somebody said something that made you think otherwise, I’ll-”

“Nobody said anything,” You tell him feebly. This is all rather a lot to take in. “I think… maybe it’s more that nobody’s said I am invited, or a part of- I don’t know, it’s all sort of stupid.”

“No it’s not,” Remus disagrees. He pinches your chin quickly between thumb and forefinger, frowning again. Mary once commented that Remus would look sixty by the time you all left school, with all his worrying wrinkles. “Not stupid, but it’s not very kind to yourself, either. Why shouldn’t we want you around?”

You open your mouth and close it at his raised eyebrow. “Rhetorical question?” 

“Rhetorical question.” He confirms amusedly. “There’s no point arguing, because we do. I do. I wish you wouldn’t think otherwise.”

“I’ve only been friends with all of you for a little while, though. You’ve all been mates since first-year.” At that, Remus outright scoffs. “Have we, now?” 

You shrug. 

“James and Lily always liked each other, then? Dorcas didn’t only just start hanging around us as well?” You look down, and he sighs. “However long everybody’s known one another, the most important bit is that we all like each other, yeah? It wouldn’t matter whether we became mates at eleven or two days ago- we’re friends. Or- you know.”

You definitely don’t know, but you’re going red anyway. He was definitely talking about Lily and James- that’s all he meant by ‘you know’. Isn’t it?

Remus scratches the back of his head, quiet for another second. Then, “...Why don’t we go down to the greenhouses? We’ll stick together the whole time, you’ll not be sat by yourself again.”

“I don’t want to make you babysit.”

Remus tsks, expression becoming sterner for a moment. “Don’t think that way about yourself. I’m asking because I want you to come- it’s not worth going if you aren’t there.”

The long moment it takes for you to decipher whether he’s only being nice or if that’s the truth is enough for Remus to decide that you don’t really have a choice in the matter. Tugging you to your feet, and seeming taller than ever with your proximity, he winds his own scarf around your neck and pushes some hair behind your hear. You let him, mostly because you’re too surprised to do anything about it.

“Let’s go, before they all decide to try some of the Alihotsy themselves. Gloves?”

You manage a nervous giggle, putting your mittens on when he hands them to you. “Thanks.”

“That’s alright. Come on,” He gives you a crooked sort of smile. It’s sometimes difficult to tell if Remus is aware how good-looking he is. 

The entire group are far too enthusiastic at yours and Remus’ arrival fifteen minutes later, given the fact that it’s hardly been half an hour since they left. Either way, you’re quickly pulled into a squabble between Lily and James about- as Remus predicted- the logic of trying some Alihotsy for themselves. 

“Thank Merlin you came, you’re the only one who won’t be completely daft about this!” Lily says, linking her arm in yours. You smile before catching Remus’ eye and looking down, feeling yourself flush. Smug bastard, you think fondly.

It’s an entire two hours before everyone heads back up to the castle, having thoroughly violated curfew but without (to James and Sirius’ chagrin) having tested any of the plant which would induce hysterical laughter. You find yourself walking beside the tallest of the group in comfortable silence, a few steps behind the rest.

“Thanks for making me come with you,” You say, perhaps a little more earnestly than you ought. “It was really nice.”

“‘Course, dove.” You look up at Remus to find he’s already looking at you. He clears his throat, glancing over at Sirius and Marlene where they’re pretending to push each other into the snow. It’s likely to end in one of them following through and the other swearing eternal hatred. “We’re all glad you came along. Could even make a habit of it.”

You exhale a laugh. “Maybe.”

He gives you a sideways look. “Oh, ‘maybe’, is it?” “...Conceivably?” You grin, darting away when he grabs at you and sort of wishing you’d stayed still just to see what he’d do. Remus fixes you with a teasing glare.

“Watch it, sweetheart.”

You blink, choking on words for a minute. Sweetheart? Sweetheart!? Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheartsweetheartsweetheartsweetheart-

“You alright?” 

“Yeah!” You say, too quickly. Remus misreads your flusteredness as something else and softens, taking hold of your sleeve and tugging you towards him. You go easily.

“If it’ll help,” He says thoughtfully, “You can ask me if you’re invited to things. Or I’ll just tell you. Then you won’t have to go to the trouble of assuming either way.”

You like him so, so much. “That’s really nice of you, Remus.”

“Eh,” He shrugs. “You know me.”

Now, it’s harder not to smile than anything else. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble. It’s really my problem, I shouldn’t-”

“Enough,” He interrupts gently. “Just say yes, dove, if it’ll help. I won’t be unhappy either way.”There are several places within you, the more unkind parts, that say accepting his offer would be like accepting pity. But there are also places that are warmed at the thought, that remember how people reacted when you arrived in the greenhouse, that can start imagining a reality wherein nobody hated your presence by the sofas tonight, and those bits win the argument for the first time in a very long time. You look up at Remus, his soft eyes and fluffy hair dusted with snow, and nod.

[beloveds-embrace]

So, someone may have already thought about this, but after reading the comments from other folks in the neglected!aus of the Dukedom, I'm looking for a sliver of hope for poor Duchess.

What if there is a newly-hired maid who actually gives a shit about Duchess's well-being, but also not one to take bs? When she notices the duchess being treated unfair, she's quick to ask the rest of the staff. They're no help, and John just turns a blind eye to it. "If you're so worried, then why don't you take care of her yourself?" says half-heartedly.

Challenge accepted (with the utmost diligence).

Because regardless of how things are, she's not gonna let The Lady of The House wither and waste away. Anything Duchess needs, Sweet Maid will be the one to take care of it, not accepting any help or pity from anyone. Plus, less problems means less rumors.

The manor was cold.

Not in the way that stone and drafty halls made a place cold, but in the way that loneliness settled into the bones of a home, making it hollow. You felt it in every ignored whisper of your name, in the meals left at your door but never shared, in the glances that once lingered but now flickered away, as if your presence was something to be endured rather than cherished.

You had learned to sit in that silence, to let the days pass with only the ticking of the grand clock to keep you company. No one seemed to mind that the Duchess of the house was wilting. Not the servants who barely acknowledged you, not the man who had vowed to be your partner in all things.

So it was a surprise when a sharp knock interrupted the monotony of your existence.

You barely had the energy to respond. “Enter.”

The door swung open, and in stepped a young woman dressed in the crisp uniform of the household staff. But unlike the others, she did not hesitate in the doorway, did not cast you a wary glance before hurrying off to complete some other, more important task- because you were at the bottom of the list of importance to them.

No- this one marched inside with purpose, hands on her hips, bright eyes scanning the room like a general surveying a battlefield.

“Oh, absolutely not!”

You blinked, fully looking at her. “I beg your pardon?”

The maid- Shirin, you would later learn- looked positively appalled, her gaze darting between the untouched vanity, the dust gathering in the corners, the discarded meal trays with barely a dent in them.

“This is unacceptable!” she declared.

You almost laughed. You had never heard one of the staff speak so freely before, but you didn’t mind. At least she was speaking to you.

Instead, you tilted your head, studying her. “And you are?”

Shirin straightened, her expression softening when her eyes met yours. “Shirin, Your Grace. I’ve just been hired, and let me tell you, I do not approve of how they’ve been treating you.”

Your lips parted, but before you could respond, she was already moving- striding toward the heavy curtains and yanking them open, letting sunlight pour into the dim room.

“Goodness, no wonder you look so sick! They’ve been keeping you in the dark like some tragic ghost.”

You winced at the sudden brightness, but you found yourself watching, entranced, as Shirin moved with swift efficiency. She gathered the abandoned trays and muttered under her breath about the nerve of leaving food for a Duchess like she’s a stray cat, shaking her head in obvious disapproval.

You frowned. “Why does it matter to you?”

Shirin turned, her brows furrowing in genuine confusion. “Because you’re you!” she said, as if that should be obvious.

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

With a huff, Shirin clapped her hands together. “Alright! First things first, we’re getting you properly bathed, dressed, and fed. No more arguments.”

You raised a brow. “I haven’t argued.”

“Oh, you will,” she said knowingly, already heading toward the bathing chamber. “But I’m terribly stubborn, and I always win, my lady.”

For the first time in ages, you felt something unfamiliar flutter in your chest. Something warm. And you weren’t quite sure what to do with it.

Within minutes, Shirin had the bath drawn- hot water steaming as she added fragrant oils with a hum. She returned to your bedside, hands on her hips.

“Well?”

You hesitated. You didn’t even know why- and yet tou hesitated.

She softened, stepping closer. “Your Grace,” she said gently. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

Something in you cracked, and without a word, you let her help you to the bath.

She was kind but firm, helping you undress without making you feel small, washing your hair with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. When you were clean and wrapped in the softest robe, she helped you to a chair before the vanity, brushing creams onto your face with careful strokes.

“See?” she murmured. “Not so bad, my lady.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “No,” you admitted. “Not bad at all.”

Shirin, and you found yourself helpless against the warmth of it. She squealed when she noticed your own smile.

By the time you were settled in fresh clothes, Shirin had already changed the linens, aired out the room, and brought in a meal that smelled heavenly. The warmth of the plate alone almost made you tear up.

She cut the food into small bites- not in a condescending way, but in a way that said she simply wanted to make things easier for you.

You took a tentative bite, and Shirin lit up.

“Oh, thank the stars, you’re eating!” she cheered.

You gave her a look, but there was no real heat behind it.

“I always win, my lady. I told you so!” She reminded you with a wink.

And for once, you didn’t mind losing.

Meanwhile, the rest of the staff had noticed Shirin’s warpath.

She was sweet with you- warm, chatty, the very definition of a doting maid. But with them?

“Oh, no no no,” she had scolded Johnny that morning. “You expect the Duchess to eat this?” She had snatched the meal away with a huff, muttering about standards before personally overseeing a proper one.

And when she had cornered John, her expression turning so positively icy, she hadn’t even pretended to be intimidated.

“If you’re so worried, then why don’t you take care of her yourself?” he had muttered, dismissive, too focused on his work to care about a singular maid taking pity on you.

Shirin had only grinned. Fine. She will take the very best care of you!

[prettieinpink]

WAYS TO LIVE SLOWER IN 2025

2024 was such a blur for me, and I feel like I wasn’t really taking in the present moments as much as I should have. I don’t want to repeat the same thing in 2025, here’s a little few ways i’m implementing living slower in 2025. 

SHOWER MEDITATIONS. Each time I’m in the shower, I just focus on rinsing, soap, rinsing then I get out. While its a small thing to consider, as someone who has a lot of thoughts especially during school mornings, it's a nice way to ground yourself. 

If you’d like you can start off with a little prayer, thanking him for access to clean water and a bathroom. Let the water take all the struggles and stresses you have down the drain, use soap to renew yourself of yesterday for the new day and focus on how the water feels on your skin. Then, you can end it off with a prayer as well. 

TAKE THE TIME TO BE IN THE SUN OR NATURE. Perhaps you can read a book, listen to a playlist or just soak that time spent in nature. It's completely up to you, but I wouldn’t do anything that's too distracting like studying or scrolling. 

SAY THANK YOU, FOR NO ONE. Each time you get to sleep in your bed, say thank you. Each time you eat a meal, say thank you. Each time you get to have access to water, say thank you. There are a lot more opportunities to say thanks, but it just allows for daily appreciation of things that we do without thinking. 

UNATTACH YOUR PHONE FROM TASKS. Certain tasks, you do not need your phone. For example, cooking. When you cook and perhaps you’re waiting for something to boil, wash some dishes instead of opening instagram. Sometimes it doesn’t even have to be a task, when you’re in a car, don’t look at your phone, look outside at the window and observe the people or the cars you see. 

NO SOCIAL MEDIA IN THE MORNING OR EVENING. Social media is meant for quick consumption, but because it's so quick, we underestimate the time that we spend on it. Only 10 minutes can easily turn into an hour. I would avoid using it during these times because this is probably when we’re the most easily influenced by fads, products or misinformation. 

REST IS A TASK. Take the time out of your day to rest, because you need it. It doesn’t have to be a singular session daily either, it can be regular small intervals throughout the day. Use this time to reflect on how you’ve spent your time earlier, then do whatever you consider to rejuvenates you. 

LISTEN TO YOURSELF MORE. While the self improvement community does perpetuate the idea of ‘following the plan, not the mood’, (and i agree to an extent) but being miserable while trying to be productive is not ideal. If you’re sad, take the time to calm yourself down. You’re angry, then channel it into something high energy but not necessarily productive. 

In a way, being able to recognize these feelings and acknowledge them is a skill that is developed overtime and will be useful. 

[glowettee]

✧˖° how to stop self-sabotaging your success (and finally commit to doing the work)

post 1 post 2

hi angel, mindy here. let’s talk. because i know you want this. you want to be that student who shows up for herself/himself. you want to stop making excuses. you want to feel proud of yourself when this is all over. so why do you keep putting up roadblocks in your own way? why do you keep pulling yourself away from the very thing you know you need to do?

self-sabotage is not laziness. it’s fear, it’s perfectionism, it’s comfort, it’s this deep, quiet resistance that whispers, what if i try and fail? so you never fully try.

but guess what? we’re breaking that cycle today. right now.

✧˖° the illusion of "i’ll do it later"

procrastination is a liar with a pretty voice. it tells you that you’ll do it when you feel more ready, when you’re in a better mood, when the circumstances are just right. but the truth? later is just a hiding place.

so next time you catch yourself saying “i’ll do it tonight” or “tomorrow is better,” stop. ask yourself: what makes later better than now? if you don’t have a solid answer, it’s just fear talking.

✧˖° you’re scared of what happens when you actually succeed

self-sabotage isn’t just about the fear of failure. sometimes, it’s the fear of what happens when you actually get what you’ve been working toward.

because success? means expectations. it means proving that you can do it again. it means stepping into a version of yourself that no longer has excuses. and that can be terrifying.

but here’s the truth: the version of you that’s waiting on the other side of this work? she’s not a stranger. she’s still you, just with more proof of what you’re capable of.

✧˖° your study habits are built around guilt, not discipline

if studying always feels like punishment, if your entire academic routine is built around the feeling of “i should be doing more,” of course you’re going to resist it.

so let’s shift this. instead of studying because you have to, start studying because you deserve to succeed. because you want to feel prepared. because the version of you who walks into that exam room with confidence? deserves to exist.

make studying feel like an investment, not a punishment. romanticize it. find ways to make it an experience you don’t want to run from. pinterest is your best friend, studytok is your motivator and me (@glowettee is your mentor 😉)

✧˖° you wait for motivation instead of creating discipline

motivation is like a guest who shows up unannounced. sometimes, she arrives when you least expect it, and sometimes, she ghosts you for weeks.

discipline, though? discipline is the friend who always shows up. she’s reliable. she doesn’t wait until she “feels like it.” she just does it, because that’s who she is.

so stop waiting for motivation to hit like some kind of magical burst of energy. instead, set up routines that make studying non-negotiable. that make it feel natural. like brushing your teeth, like making your bed, like second nature.

✧˖° self-sabotage is a pattern. patterns can be broken.

if you’ve spent years avoiding hard work, of course your brain is going to resist when you suddenly decide to commit. your instincts are wired to avoid discomfort.

but the good news? self-sabotage is a learned habit. which means you can unlearn it. every time you choose to sit down and do the work, even when you don’t want to, you are rewriting your patterns. you are proving to yourself that you are not the same person who gives up.

and eventually? showing up for yourself won’t feel like a battle anymore. it will feel normal. it will feel like who you are.

✧˖° this is the moment you choose differently

look, you can close this post and keep doing what you’ve always done. you can keep waiting for some magical day when it all feels easy. or you can make a decision, right here, right now.

you can decide that you are done getting in your own way. that you are done letting fear win. that you are done delaying your own success.

because the version of you who is already succeeding? she is not far away. she is right there, waiting for you to step into her shoes.

it’s time, angel. show up.

love you all sooo much <3 i hope this post can help you understand; self-discipline > motivation

with love, mindy

[channiesbakery]

study session —

prompt / request — “go on, baby. ride my thigh.” + “people who’re just friends don’t do shit like this, and you know it.”

pairing — reader + college fwb!hoshi

word count — 617

genre — smut [thigh riding]

when you and soonyoung were paired up for a project in one of your lectures, you never thought it’d lead to you becoming friends with benefits.

and you definitely didn’t think he was as needy as he is. soonyoung was never shy about letting you know how needy he was or how badly he needed you.

he never hesitated to tease you with filthy messages and photos during your lectures or to send you a “you up?” text at night. of course, you wanted him just as bad so you always responded.

but with midterms coming up, the two of you hadn’t been able to see each other. when soonyoung asked you to come over tonight, you told him you were busy studying and never got a response back.

twenty minutes later, he’s standing outside your apartment with his backpack and two coffees.

“i figured we could use some caffeine if we’re gonna be up all night studying. or you know, other activities,” soonyoung grins when you open the door.

“if you’re gonna stay over, then all we’re doing is studying,” you say, thanking him for the coffee before letting him set up his study materials in your living room.

surprisingly, you do get a lot of studying done. but your productive study session only lasts so long, until soonyoung decides that he’s done enough studying for the night, switching over to annoying you instead.

“i really need to finish this chapter,” you sigh when he moved to sit beside you. “you’ve done so much studying, baby. take a break,” he mumbles against your cheek.

“i can’t–” “you can. the exam’s not for another two weeks,” he argues, massaging your shoulders. “but i really need to–” he cuts you off again, taking your flash cards from your hands.

“i’ll quiz you on these. if you get most correct, you take a break. if not, i’ll help you study some more,” soonyoung says and you take the offer, letting him quiz you.

much to soonyoung’s delight, you get almost all the questions right. “okay but i really need to study the concepts for the ones i missed–” you start.

“nope. a deal’s a deal, baby. time for a break,” he pulls you to straddle his lap. “haven’t done this in weeks, i missed you,” he mumbled before kissing you.

as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you missed him too. you subconsciously start grinding against his lap as you lazily made out.

he shifts your position so you straddle his thigh. “c’mon, ride my thigh baby,” he mumbles against your lips.

soonyoung rests his hands on your hips as you grind against his thigh. “that’s it, good girl,” he praises.

you grip his shoulders, moving your hips faster as you try to find the right rhythm but you can’t. “soonie,” you whimper in his ear and he just chuckles.

“aw, poor baby needs my help?” he teases, his hold on your hips tightening. he guides your hips along his thigh as you whimper against his neck.

your thighs tremble around his as you reach your high. you relax against his chest as he loosens his grip on your hips, slowing you to a stop.

“so… i guess we should get back to studying?” soonyoung teases. “oh no. you’re gonna take me to my room and finish what you started,” you jab a finger against his chest.

“demanding and bossy. i like it.” he hums before kissing you. “and maybe i like you too,” he mumbles against your lips.

“careful there soonie, i thought we were just friends?” you tease, reminding him of your arrangement.

“people who’re just friends don’t do shit like this, and you know it.”