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yasminawayne · 23 days ago

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PART II. 100 Object Boyfriends vs One Ex-Boyfriend

SYNOPSIS: Your ex is coming at 7:00 AM to pick up his stuff. Your object boyfriends have other plans.

TAGS: GN!Reader, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Protective everyone, Hurt/Comfort

tw. emotional abuse, gaslighting, physical violence, threats, controlling behavior, toxic relationship dynamics, implied past trauma

W.C: 7.4k | CHARACTERS: Dorian, Dirk, Hanks, Cabrizzio, Hector, Cam, Tony, Dante, Volt, Daisuke, Timothy/Timmy!

PART I

AO3: yasminwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

"…Who is that," Curt muttered, the curtain rods creaking as he leaned forward, squinting through the window glass. "Tell me that is not who I think it is."

There was a lazy shuffle from the sun-warmed ledge, where Rod was curled. He cracked one eye open, lifted the curtain with two fingers, and blinked slowly.

"Who we peepin’?"

Curt’s arms folded tight. "That dude."

Rod didn’t even lift his head. "What dude."

"Him!" Curt flailed a hand toward the street. "Tall, dark, emotionally constipated. That one."

Rod tilted his head, squinted. "Man…Nah. Noooope."

Curt thumped the windowsill with his palm. "Ain’t no way. That ain’t him… Oh, hell no! Not the motorcycle. He still riding that loud-ass tin can like it don’t got three recalls and a damn parking ticket?"

Rod finally leaned in, catching sight of the figure. A wheezy laugh escaped as he shook his head. "And look! He still got them damn glasses!"

Curt frowned, leaning closer for confirmation. "Them glasses ain’t even prescription. Man out here choosing to see blurry. Blind to red flags, blind to closure, blind to everything but his own bullshit."

Rod kept watching, head tilted. "I still don’t get how he pulled them."

"I know, right?" Curt threw his hands up. "Our baby. Sweet, hot, emotionally competent baby. And him ?"

Rod snorted. "Still managed to score. Got more game than you, apparently."

Curt turned with mock offense. "Wow. So I’m catching strays now?"

Rod raised both brows. "If the shoe fits, Casanova."

Curt glared at him, then looked back out the window with narrowed eyes. "But come on. You think it’s the cheekbones?"

Rod huffed. "Fuck no."

“Yeah, me neither.” Curt’s grin spread slow, mischievous. He gave his turquoise drapes a flick. “Think if I whip these open fast enough, I could smack him with ’em? Like—shmack! Right across the nose?”

Rod grinned too—lazy, mean. "You try it, I’ll drop the curtain rod. Straight to the dome. He won’t even know what hit him. We’ll blame it on Hector. Say it was a gust of fall air, tragic freak accident."

Curt opened his mouth to reply—then yelped.

"OW—hey! Buddy, off!"

Curt glanced down, already wincing, just in time to catch the culprit red-pawed—Sprite. Mateo’s little wire-made cat was pawing mercilessly at the hem of his beloved drapes, one thread already snagged and dangling loose.

Rod barked out a laugh and bent down, scooping up the wiry little menace like it weighed nothing. Sprite’s legs wiggled in the air, metal paws still swiping at the fabric like it had unfinished business.

Holding the squirming cat midair, Rod called over his shoulder, “Hey, Mat! One of your little goblins is acting up again!”

In the living room, Mateo didn’t look up. He was still kneeling by the couch, a folded blanket resting across his arms.

"Sorry, guys! I’ll come get her in a bit. She’s just exploring."

Mateo stayed focused, quiet in that way he always was when he was being careful. He folded the softest blanket twice over, smoothing it across the couch, checking the corners and tugging it gently into place.

He didn’t say much, but it was obvious what he was doing. He was getting the space ready, just in case your ex ended up coming inside.

Because if that happened, if you were going to feel even a little shaken, or small, or cold, Mateo wanted comfort to be waiting for you.

So he placed the blanket exactly where he wanted you to sit, right between Dante and Hector.

Dante was busy flickering softly behind the grate, nudging at his logs with gentle warmth. Hector hummed low from the vent in the wall, sending out soft, warm air. Together, they made a quiet pocket of comfort at the edge of fall.

He wasn’t the only one moving around the house. It didn’t take long after that. With your hurried footsteps and rushed breathing echoing through the house, the others caught on quickly.

Needless to say, news of your ex’s impending arrival spread fast. And they were worried.

You hadn’t told them everything. You didn’t need to. They saw it in the way your voice dipped when you said his name, in the way your shoulders flinched at sudden footsteps, in the tension that never really left your body.

Of course they noticed! They were made for you, after all.

That was the thing about being objects, they weren’t just things. They were yours. Your comfort, your routines, your love made real in whatever shape they could take.

Strange, not-quite-human companions tucked into the bones of your home. They’d long since adapted to their in-between state; Half here, half not, bound to objects. Not human, no. But still able to do things for you.

They could still offer what they were made for.

Mateo’s blanket is never far, always finding its way over your knees the moment the room begins to chill.

Daisuke’s cup seems to know when you're reaching for it, the handle quietly turning to meet your hand, like it’s been waiting all morning.

Timothy’s alarm softens on the mornings after a hard night, letting you wake slow and safe instead of startled.

Dorian opens a little wider when you come home late. He once told you that he can’t sleep until you’re inside.

Cabrizzio never lets you eat alone if he can help it. Even leftovers end up plated like fine dining.

Skips draws shadows across your room when it’s time for bed, like hands pulling sleep around your shoulders.

Volt and Eddie give the faintest zaps to your fingers when you get too close to the fuse box. Just enough to make you stop and think twice before you hurt yourself.

Cam rarely moves through the house, but he always manages to tidy up after you. Wrappers, receipts, stray socks, all scooped away before you even notice they’re gone.

Hector leaves notes near every vent, tiny curls of paper with scrawled affirmations or half-written love stories just for you.

They all move with the house’s old bones, like ghosts with warm hands.

They’d been shaped by you. By your routines, your comfort, your heart. Everything you needed, they became. And right now, what you needed was someone watching your back.

They couldn’t touch your ex. Couldn’t throw him out or bar the door, (though Dorian would’ve loved to try), but they were there.

You open the door slower than you mean to.

That early morning hush hangs thick in the air, the sky behind is still washed in that gray-blue blur just before the day begins. It’s the kind of hour where everything feels half-formed.

And Iseul is standing exactly where you hoped he wouldn’t be.

You look up, and for a breathless second, the sight of his face catches you off guard.

He’s too tall for your porch. Too sharply dressed for the quiet of your street. Too much, always too much.

And for a moment, all you can do is stare.

God—He’s still beautiful. Devastatingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw cut from diamond.

He hasn’t changed much. Or maybe that’s the problem. That same impossible elegance, untouched by time, untouched by your heartbreak.

Iseul smiles. Like your stunned silence is something he’d been waiting to hear.

"Oh," he says softly, like your appearance surprises him, even though it obviously doesn’t. "There you are. Finally, I was beginning to think I hallucinated the whole agreement."

You blink, voice dry in your throat. "You’re the one who scheduled this. For seven."

He grimaces in mock offense, placing a hand lightly over his chest like you’ve said something terribly cruel. "And already, I’m being punished. Deservedly, of course. Don’t worry. I’m not here to fight." A beat. "Well. Not with you, anyway."

You don’t respond to his joke. Just shift slightly, the weight of the box in your arms suddenly awkward.

He watches you, eyes dragging slowly across your face, over your hair, your clothes, your bare feet in the doorway. There’s nothing lewd in it, not exactly, but the weight of it lingers.

Then he exhales, soft and low. "You didn’t even get a chance to wake up properly. God, look at me, barging in like this. I’m such an ass."

You shake your head before you even mean to. "No, it’s… really, it’s fine."

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his weight, adjusts the set of his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, even though his presence is anything but.

‘"I didn’t sleep either," he says, almost thoughtful. "Kept thinking about how I left things. How I left you. Which…" He trails off, glancing down at the wood beneath his feet. A bitter little laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Not exactly my proudest exit."

You press your lips together, not trusting your voice. Because he’s right, and you hate how your chest tightens in response. How the ache of it feels familiar.

He looks back up, and his expression is so gentle it’s almost cruel. "I’ll be quick. You don’t even have to let me in. I just…" He hesitates. "God… Baby, I wanted to see you. That’s selfish. I know."

He reaches for the box, hands brushing against yours as he takes it from you. His fingers are ice-cold, visibly raw at the knuckles, skin flushed deep red from the cold and chapped enough to crack.

His hands, gloveless, tremble just faintly as he shifts the box under his arm. He says nothing about it. But he watches your face as you notice, his eyes catching the flicker of concern that passes through you like wind through a curtain.

A part of you wonders, not for the first time, if he did it on purpose.

That’s all he needs.

"…Unless you’d rather I wait out here," he says, adjusting the box slightly. Iseul makes sure to exaggerate the shaking of his hands. "I’d understand. Honestly. I mean—Look at me. Such a fucking mess."

He smiles, and it’s perfect. Crooked and bashful. His box of things is tucked neatly beneath one arm, but he makes no move to leave.

From the edge of your vision, you catch the faintest movement. Dorian’s hand settles slowly on the back of the door, his brows drawn in tight concern. Everything in him pleads for you not to let your ex in.

But then your gaze falls again to Iseul’s hands.

Skin too pale in the joints where circulation’s gone slack. He hadn’t even worn gloves. The sight of it hits you in the gut. That familiar, terrible pang, sharp and hot and blooming just beneath your ribs.

You know it’s a trap. You know how this goes. But guilt is already slipping past your guard, whispering that you can’t just leave him like this, not in the cold.

"…Okay," you murmur. "I’ll make you some coffee. But then…" your voice falters. "Then you have to go."

For a split second, Iseul’s mask slips. You catch the flicker of something triumphant just beneath the surface, just behind his eyes.

Then his smile spreads, slow and easy, all teeth and charm like a wolf who knows exactly where your throat is.

"Of course," he says brightly, as though your offer were the most natural thing in the world. "Lead the way."

You step back, and he follows, footsteps soundless. The second Iseul crosses the threshold, the front door slams shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack that rings through the house like a warning.

You flinch, the sound jolting straight through your spine, but you don’t turn around. You can feel the heat of Dorian’s anger behind you.

Iseul glances over his shoulder at the door, his expression soft with confusion that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, lips curving into something light, almost amused, as if none of it touches him at all.

"Huh," he says, the laugh he lets out thin and breathy. "Strong winds around here, I guess."

"Yeah," you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you turn on your heel and head for the kitchen. "I’ll, um—I’ll make you something to drink. You can warm up by Dan —by the fireplace!"

You nearly fumble, the syllables wobbling on your tongue before you smother them in motion, moving too fast and speaking too brightly. "Won’t be long!"

As your footsteps vanish down the hall, Iseul lets the act go.

The pleasant curve of his mouth disappears like mist in the cold. His shoulders settle, not from exhaustion, but from relief.

That mask, the careful arrangement of charm and softness, the version of himself that you could still stomach, takes effort to maintain. Even now, after all the wreckage he left in his wake, you still need him to be palatable.

He exhales through his nose and drops the box of old things to the floor with a dull thud, not sparing it a glance. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and feline. He doesn’t expect to find much. You were never good at hiding the things that mattered.

His gaze lands on the blanket that Mateo draped across the back of the couch, something heavy and hand-knit, worn soft with use. He steps closer and lets his fingers trail across the weave, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth.

The fabric is wrong. The texture, the color, the way it slumps, this wasn’t chosen with him in mind.

From the far end of the room, just past the curve of the armchair, Mateo stands still as stone, cradling Davi against his chest.

You told Mateo once, in the lull between conversations, when you still couldn’t quite meet your own eyes in the mirror, that Iseul had hated soft things. Fuzzy blankets, plush rugs, anything that looked too lived-in or too comforting. He said they made your apartment feel cheap. You’d stopped buying soft things after that. Stopped keeping anything cozy within reach. Curated your home to keep him calm, polished it smooth so nothing could catch and spark.

That blanket, the one in Iseul’s hands now, doesn’t belong to that past. You bought it the week after the breakup. You wrapped yourself in it that first night alone and wept into its threads until the shape of you pressed into the fibers.

And that’s why Mateo loves it. Because it loves you back.

Davi shifts faintly in his arms as if the little creature can already sense the air turning heavier. Mateo sighs and soothes a hand along the top of his head.

"Stay calm, cariño," he whispers, voice warm with love and low with knowing. "Don’t worry. They’ve been through worse than this… and they’re not alone anymore."

Iseul continues to drift through the space, his gaze sweeping lazily over the familiar angles of the room. When he reaches the coffee table, he pauses.

A tea set rests there, simple and carefully arranged. Two handmade teacups sit side by side, slightly uneven, imperfect in shape. They’re not expensive, not delicate bone china, but they carry a quiet kind of care.

He lifts one cup between his fingers, turning it toward the light. The surface is smooth with no cracks and no chips. It’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. And maybe that’s why it irritates him.

His grip tightens, just slightly.

CRACK.

A hairline fracture splits along the handle. A satisfied smile creeps on his lips and he sets it back down too gently, like nothing happened.

From across the room, Daisuke flinches. His hand lifts to his upper arm, where a thin line now splits the surface of his form. He draws in a sharp breath but doesn’t cry out. Instead, his eyes snap to Iseul, dark with something quieter than fury. It isn’t the pain that gets to him. It’s the intent.

The cups hadn’t been expensive. They weren’t part of some matching set. Just a pair of handmade pieces from a pottery class you took during one of the rougher months. One handle sat crooked, the glaze had pooled too thick at the base. But Daisuke had loved it from the moment you handed it to him.

On the mantle, Dante watches closely as Daisuke retreats into the kitchen, his posture rigid, every movement clipped with restrained anger. The faint clink of a glass being set down echoes from beyond the doorway.

Iseul shifts a step closer to the fire and Dante’s eyes narrow. A low, warning scoff crackles in his chest, the sound dry and sharp as ember-crushed charcoal. No warmth rises to meet the man. The flames in the hearth flicker once, then shrink, curling in on themselves.

Iseul pauses in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow as he watches the way the flames flicker and pull away from him, guttering low. For a moment, one flame flares sharp and fast. It looked almost like a face, twisted and bared.

Dante feels the heat surge, that old instinct to lunge, to reach out and scorch the skin clean off the man who once hollowed you out. But he pulls it back, swallows it down, chains it to the pit of his fire.

The flames gutter. Iseul blinks, and the snarling flare is gone.

"Right," he mutters to no one. "Losing it already."

He assumes the fireplace simply hasn’t been stocked and turns to look for a heater, anything that might explain the biting chill still hanging in the air. His gaze catches on a vent tucked high near the ceiling, and just below it, three sticky notes cling to the wall. The edges are curled, the paper yellowing slightly, as if they’ve been left there long enough to become part of the room.

Without thinking, he reaches out and peels one free. The handwriting is careful, pressed deep into the paper like the words had weight.

"If I am to haunt this world, let it be only in your shadow. Let me linger on your skin, let me rot behind your walls so long as I am near you still." —H.

Iseul’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t mean to pick up the next one, but his fingers move before the thought can catch up.

"I loved you before I had the words for it. I will love you long after language or the air I give you to breathe fails me." —H.

His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.

Of course. You already had someone else.

You always were starved for affection. The kind of person who’d fall in love with anything that looked at you too long. A sad little sponge, he thinks, soaking up the first drop of attention like it was holy.

Another note waits beneath the vent, edges folded inward, like it wanted to stay hidden. He unfolds it anyway.

"You are my first thought. The one I bleed into morning, still tasting you on the cusp of sleep. And my final sin at night, when the vents groan and the air turns too still with the silence thick with the ghost of your warmth. I ache where you once pressed your name into me. A lie I forgive with trembling hands, because I cannot bear the truth of a house where even the air refuses to forget you." —H.

This one, Iseul crumples.

Behind him, unseen, Héctor grips the edge of the vent with both hands. His knuckles bleach bone-white from fury held tight beneath his skin. The metal groans in protest like it might tear away from Wallace just to mirror the rage building in him.

Frost begins to spread across the grille in delicate, violent veins, blooming outward like rot in reverse. A sudden current tears through the room and hits Iseul square in the back.

The man shudders at the sudden drop in temperature but doesn’t turn around. Instead, his eyes fall to the space beside the armrest of the couch. An open book lies face down, its spine creased with use.

A romance novel. Its title in Italian, the cover soft and worn at the edges. He picks it up slowly, brows drawing together in mild confusion. You never liked this genre.

But as he flips through the pages, he finds margin notes scribbled in looping cursive. Passages are underlined. Tiny hearts, faintly highlighted, bloom in the corners of certain lines. The handwriting isn’t yours. The language isn’t one you speak.

His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "Some European lover boy, huh?"

He lingers on the page, thumb digging into the spine. “You always did bend yourself into whatever shape someone else found beautiful. Guess it only took the loudest voice to drown out the rest of you.”

Before he can read any further, a cabinet door slams somewhere in the kitchen. Iseul lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he sees you shuffle past the doorway, heading toward the sound. You disappear from view, but your voice carries low. It sounds like you're comforting someone.

Interesting.

With a hum, he slides the book back into place, just slightly off-center from the pillow beside it. Then he straightens his coat, adjusts the lay of his collar, and exhales through his nose.

So your new boyfriend is hiding in the kitchen.

Noted.

He’ll be sure to pay a visit later.

Cabrizzio was still buzzing, tight and coiled like a kettle seconds from screaming. His hip slammed against the counter as he helped Daisuke ease into the chair.

“Che bastardo,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Breaks you like you’re nothing.”

Cam rolled in from the sink, arms folded like steel. “Please. You know him. Give that guy anything good, and he ruins it—just to see what crawls out of the wreckage.”

Daisuke said nothing at first. He sat motionless, the fine crack down his arm gleaming like a scar etched in porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm as ever yet edged.

“He has not changed. Still rot beneath a fresh coat of paint. Still, I am… displeased he laid a hand on me.”

“Displeased?” Cam’s brow shot up. “Displeased is what you say when someone scuffs your finish. This?” He scoffed. “If I had fists, I’d be swinging.”

Cabrizzio circled behind Daisuke, movements gentler now. “Coward with a poet’s mouth and a spine made of string. Twists words into honey, then watches you choke on it. That’s why they stayed. That’s why they still tremble.”

The soft scuff of feet drew their attention. You stood at the threshold, teetering. Red-eyed, hollowed, holding yourself like something fragile. And tucked just behind you, Tony, carrying a repair kit in one hand, a bottle of ceramic-safe glue in the other.

"Don’ you worry, baby," Tony said, one gloved hand running firm and slow down your back. "I’m gonna get him fixed up real nice. Betta than new, eh? You’ll see. Like he never even chipped."

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just that look. That quiet guilt spilling out of your posture, pooling in the space between you and Daisuke.

Cam clocked it instantly and made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. If you apologize for that shitstain’s tantrum, I swear."

"I should’ve—" you tried, voice cracking.

"No."

Daisuke’s tone was soft but absolute. "You should not have had to."

Tony pressed a kiss to your head as he passed, then knelt beside Daisuke with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. He set the repair kit down and began sorting through his tools.

" Hey. This ain’t on you, alright ? You didn’t break nothin’. You just—" he gave a sharp sniff, working the cap off the glue, "—got stuck cleanin’ up after a stronzo who ain’t got the balls to own what he ruins."

Daisuke inclined his chipped side slightly toward you. "I am fine. Please. Let us not make too much of a fuss about this. You are already shaken as it is. There is no need to add to the pile."

You opened your mouth to protest, but Cabrizzio was already stepping in, holding a tray in both hands. His eyes found yours gently, earnest and sure.

"Here," he said. "Vai, amore. You have what it takes to get him out of here. Of this, we are certain."

"The blue mug, it is yours," he continued, gesturing lightly. "The other…" He gave a little, almost theatrical shrug. "That one is for him . It’s one of Kopi’s—how you say—special blends. Very strong. Very… unique."

You arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder to see Kopi stifling a laugh, steam coiling up around her like a mischievous spirit.

"What?" she said, grinning. "You think I wouldn’t doctor the brew? Please. That man needs something stronger than coffee."

Cam muttered from the corner, dry as ever. "And maybe a boot to the head."

Tony, still crouched by Daisuke’s side, didn’t look up. "Save the boot. I need both hands for the glue."

The tension, brittle just moments ago, had begun to thaw. Cabrizzio shifted closer and gently set the tray into your hands. His voice dropped, sincere beneath all its velvet.

"Va bene," he said. "We hold the line here. But you… you go face your ghost, tesoro."

By the time you return, the tray balanced carefully in your hands and the mugs of coffee cradled in both palms, your expression is already betraying you. There’s guilt in your eyes poorly hidden beneath the thin mask of a smile.

"Sorry," you say, voice too light, too rushed, as you set the mugs down on the coffee table. "The coffee machine was acting up. Took forever to heat."

Iseul nods, faintly, but his attention isn’t on your words. He’s watching you. The twitch in your fingers. The way your shoulders won’t quite relax. The way you avoid his eyes.

He hums like he’s listening, but he’s not.

His gaze drifts, catches on the mark just beneath your jaw. A bruise, dark and fresh, blooming where someone else had their mouth on you. It lingers there a moment, unreadable, but too still to be nothing.

Last night. Maybe this morning. Someone else got close. Close enough to touch, to make you laugh. The way you used to laugh for him.

Then his eyes land on the jacket draped around your shoulders. Oversized, deep green, a bold stitched H on the chest.

His jaw shifts.

In his pocket, his fingers close around the crumpled love note he swiped earlier. He doesn’t need to unfold it—he remembers the signature.

His eyes narrow. He feels it now, that familiar heat building in the back of his throat. A greedy kind of ache. The sick, sour taste of something being taken from him.

"Iseul…?"

He blinks slowly, shoulders rolling back as he forces out a breath and smooths over his reaction with something charming, almost bashful.

"Trouble with the machine, huh?" he says, eyes still locked on the bruise like it’s the only thing in the room. "That happens. You always did have a complicated relationship with appliances."

You can’t see many of them right now — the dateables. Not fully. Some seem to be giving you space, hiding just outside your field of vision, not wanting to crowd you. But their presence is still here.

You laugh, awkward and light, trying to fill the space. "Yeah… never really did get along with them."

You hear the soft rustle of a curtain shifting in offense, the faint clink of a teacup being set a little too hard on wood. You catch low murmurs, indistinct but annoyed, a collective grumble of affectionate protest.

You bite back a smile. They heard that. They didn’t like your little self-drag. And as always, they’ve got your back.

After handing Iseul his mug, you sink into the spot Mateo so clearly prepared for you, the cushion still warm, the blanket tucked and draped just right, soft as breath against your skin.

Kopi’s coffee steams gently in your hands. You take a slow sip and exhale through your nose. It’s perfect, of course. She always knows exactly how you take it.

Isuel takes a sip of his own drink, eyes still fastened to your throat like he’s trying to memorize the bruised skin. His expression twitches, the blend clearly not to his taste. The bitterness punches through first, and his lips pull into a faint grimace.

You giggle at the look on his face, and almost on cue, the room begins to warm.

A quiet hum stirs from above, followed by the low, comforting sigh of heat drifting from the vents — Héctor. At the same time, the fireplace flickers to life, a lazy, gentle flame rising without fanfare. Dante, as always, never needing to be asked.

Only then do you realize how cold the room had been when you first came in.

You glance toward the hearth, searching for answers, but Dante pointedly avoids your gaze. You hide a small smile behind your mug.

Yeah. They don’t like him. Not one bit.

It’s been thirty whole damn minutes.

You’re tense, shoulders tight, knees drawn close, as you watch Iseul take his goddamn time with the coffee. He swirls it like a food critic, savoring it as if it’s aged wine and not a rushed brew from a coffee machine.

He glances over the rim of his mug at you.

"So," he starts, voice low and falsely casual, like this is just any other day. "Still living on your own?"

He takes another sip before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. Shifts on the couch. Something about it clearly doesn’t sit right with him. After a beat, he stands.

A slow step forward.

“You always said you liked the quiet,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your grip on your mug tightens.

He steps even closer, and the heat of him creeps into your space. "But too much quiet? That starts to feel lonely."

Your body pulls back before you even realize it. Your spine presses deeper into the couch, legs curling tighter, breath caught in your throat. The moment’s too close, too familiar. His words feel like fingers trying to pick a lock in your chest. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wishing you could disappear into the fabric.

Then the window slams open.

BANG.

A gust of wind bursts through the room like a thrown punch. Curt’s turquoise curtains fly up, sharp and sudden, catching the draft like sails in a storm. They whip straight into Iseul’s face with the kind of precision that feels personal.

"Ow—what the hell?" He stumbles back, arm flailing, mug sloshing dangerously. The curtains wrap and slap around his head like they’ve got a score to settle.

You jolt upright, clutching your own mug as you watch the scene unfold. Just as Iseul manages to peel one curtain away, the rod above gives up entirely. It tears loose from the wall and crashes down with a sharp, metallic thunk.

Right on his head.

He yelps again, the sound half-muffled by fabric, as the rod bounces off his shoulder and clatters to the floor.

Silence follows.

You glance over at Curt and Rod. Rod was still sprawled out on the floor, and Curt was still draped over Iseul, both of them laughing like idiots. Clearly proud of what they just caused.

And even with the knot still tight in your chest, their laughter is infectious. You feel it bubbling up before you can stop it. You duck your head behind your mug, trying to swallow it down. But it’s there, warm and bright at the back of your throat. You laugh. Loudly.

Iseul hears it.

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve had it!”

His mug slams down on the table, coffee sloshing out in a sharp arc. The crack of ceramic on wood snaps. Then he’s moving, crossing the space with all the weight of a storm breaking loose.

You barely set your cup aside before he’s on you.

Strong fingers twist into the front of your tank top. He yanks hard, dragging you upright. Your spine jars against the couch. Your breath catches. And suddenly, he’s right there. Face contorted, jaw clenched, eyes no longer pretending.

“You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice rising. “That what this is? One taste of someone giving a damn and suddenly I’m beneath you?”

“Iseul—” Your voice trembles. “You’re hurting me.”

He leans in. Sneering.

Your hands push against his chest, trying to create space, but he doesn’t budge. His grip only tightens.

"Only thing you were ever good for was serving someone else . Smiling real nice, keeping quiet, doing what you were told. That’s what he likes, right?" His gaze drops to your neck, to the bruise there. His mouth curls. "Bet you make it easy for him. Real easy."

His grip tightens again, and you cry out, short and sharp.

"You think you’ve got power now? You think this is yours ? You think this quiet little house makes you strong?"

The light above flickers once. Then again. Then again.

The air shifts. Thickens. The hairs along your arms stand up. The room hums in energy. But Iseul doesn’t notice.

"I fucking built you!" he shouts, spit flying. "I was the only one who saw you when you were nothing! You’re useful. That’s all you are. And when he’s done using you, you’ll come crawling back just like you always do—"

SNAP.

The lamp beside you explodes in a shower of sparks.

A searing bolt of electricity arcs from the socket and strikes Iseul directly in the shoulder. The sound is blinding, a sizzling pop followed by the sharp smell of burning fabric and ozone.

Iseul screams, a real scream this time as his body jerks from the force. His hand rips from your shirt and he stumbles backward.

Smoke curls from the seams of his jacket. His fingers twitch, convulsing slightly. His mouth works soundlessly for a second before breath finally claws its way out of him.

You're frozen, heartbeat hammering in your ears, until you feel a hand, Mateo’s, press gently against your back. A blanket falls over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as he eases you away from the couch. His voice is quiet in your ear, his hands snaking up to cover your eyes.

He guides you out of the living room just as Curt and Rod snap the blinds shut, one after the other. A moment later, Dorian turns the lock on the front door with a click.

Iseul’s head snaps upward.

His eyes flick wildly across the room, darting from shadow to shadow, searching for something that makes sense of what just happened. But nothing answers.

From the corners of the room, shadowed tendrils begin to unfurl along the walls, crawling slowly. Electricity crackles wildly through the air, lightbulbs pulsing in rapid flickers. The vents scream to life, spewing blasts of blistering heat. At the same time, the fireplace surges upward, flames roaring with such intensity they seem desperate to claw their way free from the stone.

Then the voice comes. One thAT does not belong in any human throat.

It is low and massive as if spoken through bone and ash. The sound slithers through the room with a crushing weight that makes the walls creak.

"You dare lay hands on my penumbra?"

The words strike Iseul like a blow. His chest seizes. His breath falters. His feet scramble for purchase, slipping on his spilled coffee and the mess of his own panic.

From the darkest stretch of shadow near the hearth, something begins to rise.

Claws drag against the floorboards as the figure pulls itself upright. It straightens slowly, body is nothing but thick, writhing shadow, built like smoke given mass, trembling at the edges where reality tries and fails to reject it.

Horns curve back from its head, the bone chipped and darkened with time. The creature��s jaw hangs open in a twisted grin, and beyond it lies nothing but blackness, cavernous and unnatural, rimmed with glinting teeth that don’t belong to any animal that ever walked this earth.

It steps forward once.

Iseul stumbles backward, mouth open, lips shaping a scream that never comes. It dies somewhere in his throat, strangled by fear.

The voice returns, softer now.

"You think this house is yours to haunt?" it rasps, almost gently, though the fury hasn’t left. "You think they are yours to hurt?"

Then, from somewhere else, a second voice cuts in. “Oh, dear… you’ve really done it now.”

A crack of blue light splits the ceiling, blinding as a camera flash. Electricity tears through the air, hissing like a live wire. It strikes without warning, snapping at Iseul’s feet, then coiling up his limbs in spiraling arcs of white-blue light.

Then the shadows come. They pour in fast, fluid and wrong, slithering out from corners, crawling from beneath furniture. One clamps tight around his ankle. Another coils around his wrist, then his throat, then his chest—Iseul is yanked upward an inch from the floor.

Then, everything goes black.

You’re nestled in Mateo’s arms, wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and his warmth. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling against your back, and every now and then he leans down to press gentle kisses to your cheek.

Betty and Dirk are curled up beside you, equally content. Betty snores lightly at your other side, her arm twitching every so often in some lazy dream, while Dirk is sprawled across your stomach. He lets out a little grunt when you shift but doesn’t move.

The Hanks have claimed every inch of your room that isn’t bed. The boys are stretched across the floor, perched on chairs, hanging off the dresser. At least two of them are attempting to build a fort using your laundry.

They’re loud and ridiculous and refuse to let the heaviness settle too deep. Jokes fly across the room. Laughter spills over itself.

Downstairs, the sounds change. You hear Volt’s low, crackling growl, Eddie’s deeper rumble, Skip’s voice cutting through every now and then, and under it all, Dorian’s voice echoes.

A sudden shout erupts and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Mateo notices and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple.

His voice is soft in your ear. "Don’t worry, mi vida. They’ve got it."

You just nod and let your head rest back against Mateo’s shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you in a way that nothing else can right now.

"Babe, watch this!" one of the Hanks calls out and when you glance over, you see Hank 4 trying to do a handstand in the narrow space between the dresser and the door.

He manages to hold it for maybe two seconds before toppling over in a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into Hank 2 on the way down.

"Bro!"

You shake your head with a quiet smile, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite everything. Absolute idiots.

You must have drifted off at some point, but when you wake, there’s a stillness to the house. There are no more raised voices echoing from downstairs. No snarls. No low growls vibrating through the floorboards.

Then, the door creaks open, quiet and cautious.

You lift your head from Mateo’s shoulder to see Curt and Rod stepping in. They hover in the doorway for a moment like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. Curt offers a small, tentative smile as he approaches.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than usual.

Rod trails behind him, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw set tight.

“We just came to say that we screwed up,” Curt says at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We never meant for it to get that far.”

Rod nods, stepping forward slowly. "We thought pissing him off would throw him. Knock him off balance so he wouldn’t try anything. But it backfired. He zeroed in on you." His voice wavers. "And you got hurt. Because of us."

Curt sits on the edge of the bed beside you and gently brushes his knuckles across the back of your hand. "We love you, okay? We were trying to protect you — in our own dumb way. We didn’t think he’d snap like that."

You shake your head, not in anger but in exhaustion. "Guys, it’s okay. Really. I’m just glad it’s over. Iseul has a temper — you didn’t make him like that."

"You’re too good to us, baby," Rod says quietly, a guilty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a slow breath, then tilts his head toward the hallway, listening.

"Um. So... what’s going on down there?" you ask, hesitant, a twist of anxiety in your stomach.

Rod’s lips twitch into a smirk. "Oh, they’re jumping him."

“ Were jumping him,” Curt mutters, elbowing Rod sharply before glancing at you with a flash of guilt.

“It’s fine now, though!” he adds quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “They’re just doing cleanup. Hoove, Kopi, Wyndolyn—everyone’s on it. They’ve got it handled.”

“And he is not coming back here again, baby,” Curt says firmly as he strides across the room. With a little flourish, he yanks open the bedroom curtain. “See for yourself.”

You twist in Mateo’s arms and peer out the window. Down on the street, Iseul is scrambling across the lawn, blood on his collar and panic in his step. He throws one last look over his shoulder before kicking his motorcycle into gear. The engine screams as he peels away, tires skidding across the pavement before disappearing into the night.

Behind you, Curt mutters, "That’s what I thought," under his breath.

You exhale, slowly, like the last of the tension is finally allowed to leave your body.

Rod flops down onto the foot of the bed with a familiar, lazy grin. "Anyway, there’s a lot of people asking for you."

You groan, burying your face deeper into Mateo’s arms. "Let me guess. House meeting?"

"You bet," Rod says. "Mayor Celia’s already planning it. Full agenda and everything."

You sigh again. "Everyone’s going to treat me like I’m made of glass."

"Well, duh, babe," Hank 5 says, raising his eyebrows like it’s obvious. "You almost got hit by your nerd ex. We’re not just gonna not worry."

"Facts," Hank 1 calls from the closet, digging through a pile of hoodies. "You're the house baby now. Minimum of five check-ins a day from us!"

"They’re already our baby," Hank 3 grins, popping his head up from behind the couch. "I’ve just been waiting for everyone else to catch up."

You roll your eyes. "You’re all idiots."

Curt smirks, flopping beside Rod. "Certified, baby. But we’re your idiots."

Mateo chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. "I swear this is all coming from a place of love. You’re not alone in this. Not for a second."

From your stomach, Dirk snores loudly.

"See? Even he agrees, babe."

thanks so much for the love you all showed! sorry i couldn't include everyone :( next chapter will, however, be full on comfort! each datable will have their own little scene with you! i will try my best to add a lotta them!

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moondustbaby · 3 months ago

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Backseat Confessions

bsf!Rafe x bsf!Reader

cw: smut, piv, oral (f. rec), unprotected sex

mdni 18+

Summary: A late-night drive with your best friend turns into something filthy and unforgettable when years of tension finally snap in the backseat of his truck and Rafe makes it clear he’s done pretending you’re just friends.

⸻

The truck was too quiet.

Engine ticking softly in the heat-soaked silence, windows cracked just enough to let in the summer air. My thighs stuck to the leather of the passenger seat as I shifted, trying to ignore the way Rafe kept glancing at me every few seconds — like he was waiting.

Like he knew.

We hadn’t even planned to go anywhere. Just ended up driving around after the bonfire like we always did, the two of us laughing too loud, avoiding the weight of everything that hung heavy in the pauses. His music low, my feet on the dash. Same routine we’ve had since we were sixteen.

But tonight was different.

“Why’re you all quiet now?” Rafe’s voice cut through the stillness, low and cocky. “You were talkin’ my ear off ten minutes ago.”

I glanced at him, heart ticking faster. “I’m not quiet.”

He smirked like he didn’t believe me. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console — close enough to touch. “Yeah, you are. You only get quiet when you’re thinking about doing something you shouldn’t.”

I swallowed hard. “Do you always have to say shit like that?”

He leaned back in his seat, turning his head to look at me fully now. That lazy grin. That look in his eyes — like he was already inside my head and had no plans of leaving.

“What, am I wrong?” His voice dropped. “Tell me I’m wrong, baby.”

I hated the way he said that. Baby. Like it meant nothing and everything at once. Like it was some inside joke between us and I was the only one laughing nervously at the punchline.

I looked out the window. “You think you know everything.”

“I know you.”

The air thickened.

“You been squirming in that seat since we left the party. Wearing that little dress—” he dragged his tongue over his bottom lip. “Knew I shouldn’t’ve let you leave the house lookin’ like that.”

I turned to him slowly. “Let me?”

His smirk widened. “You know what I mean. All those guys staring at you and you still ran back to me the second it was over. Wonder why that is.”

I hated how much I loved hearing it — the me in his voice, all cocky and territorial. I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

Rafe leaned closer, voice low and dirty. “Bet you’re soaked, aren’t you?”

I choked on my breath.

His hand slid across the seat and landed on my bare thigh, hot and possessive. “C’mon, don’t lie to me now. You been sittin’ over there all quiet, all flustered — got that look on your face like you want me to do something about it.”

“You’re not serious.”

His hand crept higher.

I shivered when his fingertips brushed beneath the hem of my dress. He raised a brow, daring me to stop him — knowing I wouldn’t.

“You gonna make me check for myself?”

God, he was filthy. Shameless and smug, and I loved it. Loved the way he looked at me like I was his even if we’d never said the words out loud. Not just friends, not yet lovers. Just two people tangled in something too hot to name.

“You’re all talk,” I muttered.

That did it.

Rafe shifted fast, climbing over the console with zero hesitation, forcing me back against the door as his mouth crashed into mine. Hot. Desperate. Possessive.

I gasped when his hand cupped me over my panties, his thumb pressing right where I needed it. “Yeah?” he growled against my mouth. “Still think I’m all talk now?”

“Fuck—Rafe—”

His fingers moved with purpose, slow and taunting. “You wore this little dress just to tease me, didn’t you?” His lips trailed down my jaw. “Knew you weren’t wearing a bra the second I looked at you.”

I whimpered when he pinched my nipple through the fabric, making me arch into his touch.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Always actin’ like you don’t want me, then you let me touch you like this. So fuckin’ easy for me.”

“You’re such an asshole,” I breathed.

He smirked. “Still lettin’ me feel how wet you are, though.”

He slid my panties to the side and dipped two fingers into me in one slow, slick motion. I gasped, nails digging into his arm.

“That’s it,” he murmured, curling them just right. “So fuckin’ tight. Been thinking about this for months. You have no idea.”

“Then why didn’t you do something?” I whispered, breath shaky as he fucked me slow with his fingers.

“Didn’t wanna ruin it.” His mouth found my neck, tongue dragging over my pulse. “Didn’t wanna fuck it up.”

“You already did,” I moaned. “The second you touched me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I breathed.

He pulled his fingers out and sucked them clean, slow and filthy, eyes locked on mine the whole time.

“Backseat. Now.”

My whole body jolted.

I scrambled clumsily into the back as he shoved the front seats forward, watching me with hooded eyes and a grin like he’d won a prize. By the time I sat back against the door, he was already between my knees, tugging my dress up, dragging my panties down and tossing them somewhere in the dark cab.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, pressing open-mouth kisses to the inside of my thigh. “How fuckin’ long I’ve been dreaming about this exact moment.”

I bit my lip as he licked a stripe up my center, slow and possessive. “Rafe—”

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’ve thought about it too.”

“I have,” I gasped. “God, I have—”

“Say it.”

“I think about you all the time,” I confessed, panting. “When I’m alone. When I’m—fuck—when I touch myself, it’s only ever you.”

That made him snap.

He dove in, tongue working me over like he was starved, moaning against me like the taste of me was his new religion. I cried out when he sucked on my clit, when his fingers slid back inside me and curled just right.

“I’m gonna come—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t let up until I was shaking, legs clenching around his head, hands fisting in his hair as I came hard against his mouth.

When he pulled back, his face was flushed and wet and smug. “So fuckin’ pretty when you come for me.”

He undid his belt with one hand, the other stroking himself slow as he watched me come down from it. He was thick. Hard. Leaking at the tip.

“C’mere,” I whispered, already reaching for him.

“You sure?”

“Rafe,” I breathed. “Please.”

Instead he pulled me onto his lap, my knees bracketing his hips as I lowered onto him inch by inch. The stretch made me gasp, made him groan.

“Fuck—so tight—so fuckin’ wet for me—”

When I sank all the way down, our foreheads touched, breath mingling.

He didn’t move right away. Just held me there, his hands on my waist, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispered.

I kissed him soft, slow, until he started to move — thrusting up while I rode him hard enough to make the whole truck rock. The windows fogged. The air turned thick with moans and skin and gasped confessions.

“Fuck—fuck, you were made for me,” Rafe grunted, fucking up into me harder. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else touches you like this, you understand?”

“Yes—Rafe—please—”

He pulled my dress down to free my tits, sucking one into his mouth, then the other, moaning around them like he was worshipping me.

“Gonna fill you up,” he gasped. “Gonna come so deep inside this pussy you’ll feel me for days.”

“Do it,” I whispered, clawing at his shoulders. “Come in me, Rafe, please—”

He growled and fucked me faster, rougher, until my vision blurred and I was coming again, crying out his name as he spilled inside me with a curse and a moan that sounded like ‘mine’.

We stayed like that, panting, trembling, stuck together in the heat and sweat and quiet.

Then he kissed my shoulder. My collarbone. My mouth.

“You ruined me,” he whispered. “There’s no going back now.”

“I don’t want to.”

He smiled against my lips. “Good. ‘Cause you’re mine now.”

And I knew — with the way his arms locked around me and his come still dripping down my thighs — that I’d never belong to anyone else again.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: this fic is brought to you by sexual tension, a hot truck, and the complete inability to act like normal best friends. rafe went feral and honestly? good for him. if your bsf isn’t fingering you in the passenger seat while saying insane shit like “you’re mine now,” what’s the point. thank you to my brain for cooking this up at 2am and thank YOU for reading my backseat filth.

♥️ lani

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technofeudalism · 3 months ago

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I'm driving five miles across the city to check out a tip that there's an ICE rendition ongoing. I've got the scanner on the car stereo as I'm about to pull onto the street in question. It’s a quiet neighborhood, small houses on small lots, people walking dogs, the mailman waving, the lawnmowers running, and I hear the dispatcher: "We have an ICE officer over there who's allegedly being surrounded." "On our way," the officer responds. As a local reporter for a decade now, I've learned that you can hear the cops at their most honest on the scanner. And as I'm hearing that “surrounded” comment I remember what the city's police chief told the city council in January: "We do not do civil detention arrests," Police Chief Paul Saucier said at the time, reassuring them that they wouldn’t be party to the ICE assault Trump was about to unleash. The police, he said, "do not have the authority to affect a civil arrest." What he didn't say is that if you try to stop the civil arrest, the police will stop you from stopping it. This morning a few dozen of us here in Worcester Massachusetts got to see that unstated fine print in action firsthand. A woman was led by federal agents in cuffs away from her family, through a throng of community organizers trying to stop it, and into an unmarked car. The local police arrived to prevent the community from protecting their neighbor from an unlawful kidnapping. They succeeded, and in the process arrested two of the people who tried to stop it. I park my car on the edge of the scene and all I can hear are the screams—the deafening desperate screams, from a mother, from her daughter, from the woman holding the daughter's baby. Wordless screams. And then I see the mother, a young woman in a green shirt, wailing, crying, held on either side by menacing white men in tactical vests, black neck warmers pulled over their noses in the style du jour for our secret police forces. Surrounding them are a few dozen community members who were tipped off about the ICE raid and got to it before the police did. Before I arrived, they demanded to see a warrant. The ICE agents refused to provide one, so they created a human chain, which the ICE officers eventually broke through.

[ ... ]

Maydee, still confronting the officers, says "Where is the warrant?" Officer Lugo, according to his nameplate, says "Ma'am we are trying our best but they are federal." Morales again asks for the warrant. "They're federal." "They still need a warrant." Another officer, frustrated, says "They don't need a warrant." Finally, one of them tells the truth. Due process is not a matter they're concerned with. The deportation must proceed. Trying to stop it is the unlawful thing. At this point an ICE agent starts pushing me away, but not very hard. Lazy jabs, his mind elsewhere. Too many people, too much pushing to be done. I return to my pre-push position. I keep filming. I don't know what else to do. A cop pulls his cruiser behind us—we're boxed in now—and from the intercom says "This is the Worcester Police Department. This is an unlawful assembly, I'm warning you to disperse right now or you will be subject to arrest." On the other side of me, a crackle of the scanner from an officer's vest-mounted radio: "Do I have a car to escort the marshals out of here?" They don't need a warrant but they do need an escort.

i am reposting this without the video because i feel like it needs a post on it's own. look at the images, read the article and then go here to see the videos which are heartbreaking and violent and almost made me sick. this is horrifying in every way imaginable. the community tried to stop this and the police (as expected) straight up stopped them from doing so. this is full blown fascism on your streets.

#immigration #united states #us politics #politics #massachusetts #worcester #la migra #fuck ice #us immigration #due process #mass deportations

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lonerslug · 1 month ago

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Can you make a fluff fic about sevika comforting the reader after watching a horror movie?

It’s Not Real

a/n: omg it’s 4 am, i randomly woke up and decided to post this

You knew you shouldn’t have watched that movie.

The second you saw the trailer, a creepy little kid whispering into the dark, a shadow moving behind a mirror, the jump scare at the end that had Sevika flinching (though she’d never admit it)… you knew you were making a mistake.

And yet, you insisted.

“I can handle it,” you said.

“It’s just a movie,” you said.

“What, you think I’m gonna cry?” you had smirked, arms crossed on the couch, a blanket already in your lap.

Sevika didn’t say anything. Just raised a brow, tossed a kernel of popcorn into her mouth, and hit play.

Now? Now you’re paying for it.

You’re standing in the doorway of your own dark hallway like it’s the entrance to hell. The bathroom is right there, just ten steps away. But your brain is already filling in the blanks, the flickering light above the mirror, the faint creak behind the shower curtain, the sound of little feet running across the tile when you turn your back.

You squeeze your eyes shut and groan softly. “I’m such an idiot.”

Behind you, Sevika’s voice calls out from the couch, lazy, amused, but gentle.

“You stuck back there?”

You peek over your shoulder and find her sprawled like a smug cat. Her legs are stretched out, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded as she watches you.

“I’m not scared,” you lie.

“Didn’t say you were.”

“I just don’t feel like getting up.”

“Mhm.”

You huff, still frozen. “…You think if I ran fast enough, I’d make it to the bathroom without dying?”

That gets a chuckle out of her. It’s low and raspy and warm, the kind of laugh that always makes you feel a little less stupid.

“You want me to come with you, baby?”

You hesitate, pride vs survival battling in your head.

She sees it. Grins. “I’ll even check the mirror.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Only a little,” she says, already rising from the couch and stretching, joints cracking. She tosses the blanket off her lap and pads over to you in her loose joggers and tank top, towering and sleepy and undeniably safe. “C’mon. Gimme your hand.”

You grumble but slide your fingers into hers anyway. Her hand is warm and solid and not haunted. “You better not leave me in there.”

“I’d never,” she murmurs, squeezing your hand. “You think I wanna sleep next to a scared little gremlin who screams every time I breathe too loud?”

“Hey!”

She laughs again, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Kidding. You’re cute when you’re scared. All clingy and small.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

She leads you to the bathroom like it’s no big deal, even flipping on all the lights without being asked. She makes a dramatic show of pulling back the shower curtain and checking the mirror. “No murder babies. Just your toothpaste and that expensive-ass face wash.”

When you finally pee, Sevika leans against the sink with her arms crossed, like your bodyguard. You catch her watching you in the mirror. fond, a little smug, but soft around the edges.

Back in the bedroom, she lets you crawl into her side of the bed without comment. When you curl up against her, she wraps her arms around you without teasing.

You bury your face in her chest and mumble, “If I see that kid from the movie in my dreams, I’m waking you up.”

“I’ll knock her out for you.”

You snort, and it feels better. “You’d punch a ghost for me?”

“Any day.”

She starts stroking your back, slow and steady, her big hand moving under the fabric of your shirt, warm against your skin. “You’re safe,” she murmurs after a while. “You’re with me. Nothing’s gonna get you.”

“…Not even the mirror demon?”

“Especially not the mirror demon.”

You press a kiss to her collarbone, eyes fluttering shut. “Thanks, sev.”

“Go to sleep, gremlin.”

taglist: @shanesevikasfuckdoll @sapphicstrawcore @sevikas-whore @riotstemple29 @shxdy0ariia @illbecanon @georgiahs-stuff @thehoneybeestings

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yuutryingtowrite · 7 months ago

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Yandere!Chef x Vampire!Reader

A/N: If you wanna know more about the levels, check this post :)

Warning: Not nsfw, but suggestive. MDNI. Chef calls reader "Madam"

Danger level: ★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆

Submissive level: ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♡

~Your First Dinner with Him~

Yandere!Chef who is really oblivious. He has been staying at your castle for a while now and yet, he still doesn’t know that you are a vampire. You did try to tell him on his first day here that food is not substantial for you, but he had politely interrupted you with a “I insist, Madam. Please go rest, the food will be ready in a moment” and even guided you to the living room, by gently pushing on your lower back with his large, rough hand. You were too flustered by the gesture to continue arguing.

Your second attempt was during dinner. You thought about striking when he would go sit down after putting both plates on the table, but, much to your dismay, after that, he remained standing beside you instead. Confused, you looked up (realllllly up. How tall was this guy??) and found him nervously watching you. You were weak to his puppy look. You took a bite: “Hm! It is really good”. A smile broke on his face, his eyes turning into tiny crescent moons. “I am glad you think so, Madam! Please let me know if you have any special requests. I want to properly take care of you”, he enthusiastically, albeit a bit sheepishly, replied. Ugh, his expressions, his demeanor…way too cute. New hobby acquired: eating human food.

~His Favorite Dinner (?) with You~

Yandere!Chef, who you rarely see with a frown, who usually wears that soft and kind smile of his, looks rather uneasy today, some would say even depressed. The truth is: he can’t stand his body. Seeing it in the mirror this morning completely killed his mood. He was not aware of it before, as the change was gradual; however, it seems like he gained weight while working here as your personal chef. A number of his big, hard-earned muscles from years of underground fighting, like his pecs, his abdomen and his butt glutes, currently have a squish to the touch. They aren’t purely solid anymore. His form strayed from bulky to a bit more beefy.

Why is that a problem? Well, ladies don’t find this attractive. At least, the ones from his village didn’t. He had witnessed it before. Had he stayed there, he would have been the subject of their disapproving and disgusted stares. Even among the regular folks, chubbiness was written off as being lazy and unreliable. You are too kind to think or do something like that, but he doesn't want your politeness, he doesn't want your open-mindedness, he wants your love.

Lost in thoughts of new workout routines, he doesn’t notice his cut finger until blood starts to drip onto the vegetables. Ah…if he had dog ears, they would have flopped on his head. He already ruined his body, he doesn't need to ruin your dinner too.

Turning around, it would appear that the person on his mind is right behind him.

“M-madam! How did you get ther-", which is a very valid question; prior to this, there were no sounds owned by your footsteps nor by the kitchen’s door opening and closing. Yet, instead of answering, you just abruptly…grab his wrist and…put his finger in your mouth? At the contact, the broad-shouldered man makes a little noise. You don’t mind him as you begin to suck the blood out of the injury.

He is very confused, he doesn't understand why you are doing this. The feel of your tongue on his skin, how you both are standing so intimately close to each other; it doesn’t favor his thinking either. It is actually making him lightheaded. Like is this sensation akin to pleasure that keeps building up the more this situation goes on. He lets out another whimper when your hand slides under his shirt to squeeze at the small fat of his stomach.

As this snaps him out of his haze, he begins to weakly plead instead, without real conviction, to let go of his hand; he doesn’t want you to get sick. He could easily overpower you, but he can’t get his body to stop trembling. All he can do is bring a shaky hand to his mouth to muffle the sounds that keep spilling out since the feeling from earlier is now more intense, more delightful.

Before this could escalate, you finally release his finger with a pop. You look up and find your poor chef completely flushed, his eyes unfocused, taking heavy breaths.

Guess you owe him an explanation, huh?

~H̶̝̿i̸̭̓s̴͉̿ ̷͉͑b̴̒͜e̶͊ͅs̴̠͋t̶̮͆ ̵̡̀d̴̟́ĩ̷̦s̷͛ͅh̶͍͛ ̵̣̃ ~

Yandere!Chef who now feeds you proper food.

“From which animal is this blood from? It tastes exquisite! I never had something like this before”, you excitedly ask him.

“Oh, you know Madam, just ventured deeper into the forest than usual”, he answers vaguely.

He doesn’t want to worry you by saying it actually belongs to the rude asshole who pushed you the other day.

Isn’t that sweet?

…

Drink well, darling

949 notes · View notes

gyubakeries · 27 days ago

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𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗼𝘆 𝘃𝘀. 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 | k.mg

a/n: i have a lot of emotions rn. that's showbiz, baby! is my first collab ever, and i've had the most wonderful 7 months in this collab. starting off with the new year, tara ( @diamonddaze01 ) and kae ( @studioeisa ) invited me to their collab, and im so grateful that they gave me a place to make good friends (i love u all sm), be myself with no one judging me, and have some of the best caratblr writers i have interacted with helping me plan, plot, and execute several fics.

this fic, right down to the title and the main premise, wouldn't have existed if it weren't for rie ( @okiedokrie-main ) and his genius brain. bennie ( @miniseokminnies ) made this BEAUTIFUL banner, and i am in love with the way their brain works (hi actor vernon. looking at u.)

calli ( @hhaechansmoless ) and rae ( @nerdycheol ) were my emotional support beta readers, and i love you guys for encouraging me to overcome my writing block <3

this is only the first part of the fic, which feels anti-climactic, but the full story WILL come to you guys!! i promise. for now, please enjoy, loserboy vs. hatergirl.

this fic is a part of the that's showbiz, baby! collab. check out the main masterlist -- here <3

word count: 3.2k contents: kim mingyu x f!reader , social media intern!mingyu , IT specialist!reader , grumpy x sunshine trope , clumsy mingyu (because its canon) , mingyu is down bad here too. (is this canon) , featuring haechan and jaemin because they're the evil twins of nct

You like your job, you really do. Sure, you hadn’t envisioned yourself working in the IT department of Sebong Corp, one of South Korea's most popular media companies, but you were satisfied, somewhat, with the way you had put your computer science degree to use.

However, there were a few moments that really made you question your job, life, and entire existence.

One of those moments being this:

It’s 9:05 A.M., and you’re not even close to reaching the office. You just got off the subway and you’re booking it down the street to reach work before your department head launched off into another lecture on how ‘today’s youth is late to everything in life.’

Behind all the cafes, shops, and people on the crowded streets of the commercial hub of the city, the tall, glimmering glass building of Sebong Corp. comes into view. An eager tourist might stop to take a few pictures of the sight, but all you can focus on is entering said building in time for your meeting.

You swiftly avoid bumping into most pedestrians taking a lazy stroll down the street, and only when the doors of the building are in front of you, you let your guard down and reduce your sprint to a brisk walk.

Big mistake.

After you swipe your ID card at the main entrance, thereby triggering the large glass doors to open, you stop in the office lobby to catch your breath. You’re just about to wave at Sunjae, the new receptionist, when all of a sudden, you hear someone curse loudly behind you, and get abruptly pushed forward, and feel a strange wetness on your back. It smells a lot like coffee.

You’re not one for cursing in the workplace. Xu Minghao from HR is slightly terrifying when you see him deal with interns who forget to lower their voice while speaking in language inappropriate for work, and you like to remain in his good books.

Now, however, you feel every drop of that restraint leave you as you shout loudly, for even Minghao’s ancestors to hear, “What the fuck?”

—

“Y/N, I’m sure you know why you’re here,” Minghao sighs, and you bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying something to worsen your situation.

“Was it the cursing? Are you going to write me up for it?” You ask innocently, and it’s clear from Minghao’s raised eyebrow that he’s not in the mood to tolerate bullshit.

“Cursing? Do you think that’s what I called you in for?” Minghao asks incredulously. “Y/N, you could go swear in front of the CEO if you’d like, but maybe we should address the fact that you, in the middle of the building’s lobby, deliberately dumped a glass of water on someone’s head?”

“What kind of idiot isn’t careful while carrying four cups of hot coffee?” You retort. “Only someone who lacks any sort of hand-eye coordination, which even toddlers possess, could be so foolish as to—”

The door to Minghao’s office swinging open interrupts your rant, and in walks a six foot tall man, with his shoulders so drawn up with tension that it makes his frame look broader than it already is. His hair is damp with the water you dumped on him, and his face is scrunched up, as if being in this situation physically hurts him, and that makes you laugh, considering that you were the one that just had hot coffee poured on your back.

“You’re Kim Mingyu, yes?” Minghao asks, and the man, Mingyu, nods, not daring to make eye contact. “Mingyu, please, have a seat.” Minghao says, gesturing towards the chair placed next to you.

Mingyu sits down next to you, positioning himself so close to the edge of the seat it makes it look like he’s preparing to sprint out of the room at any given moment. That’s when you notice a brown paper bag clutched in his hands.

“Mingyu, this is Jung Y/N, Sebong Corp.’s IT Specialist,” Minghao introduces you, and Mingyu hesitantly turns to the side to face you.

“Hi,” He gulps nervously. “I’m Kim Mingyu, the new intern at the—”

“Look, Kim Minju or whatever,” You cut him off. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having my time wasted, and that’s exactly what you’ve done. You could have a million reasons to explain the fact that you spilled coffee all over me, but I don’t care for a single one, because I have other important things to do. So please,” You turn to Minghao as you finish your sentence. “Don’t bother with any apologies or introductions. If HR needs me to compensate in any way for my behaviour, please let me know via email.”

Mingyu stares as you push your chair back and stand up to leave the room. He looks at Minghao, wondering if the man had anything to say, but he just sighs as your heels click against the floor when you walk out.

“I hope you didn’t mind the way she spoke,” Minghao asks, sounding almost sympathetic.

“I think she hates me, and I haven’t even started working here,” Mingyu winces.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Minghao shakes his head. “She really just doesn’t care enough to. Y/N’s one of the best employees here because of her no-nonsense attitude, so don’t think it’s personal. If you do have any complaints though, you can always let me know.”

“Yes, of course,” Mingyu nods, and Minghao smiles.

“That’s all, then,” Minghao says. “You can head up to your department now. I’ve asked another colleague to make sure you get settled in comfortably.”

“Thank you, Mr. Xu,” Mingyu bows after getting up from his seat.

“Please, we’re the same age,” Minghao laughs. “Just call me Minghao.”

“Got it, Minghao,” Mingyu chuckles, turning to leave the room, when Minghao speaks again. “Mingyu, remember to not take anything Y/N said personally, okay? She’s nicer when you get to know her, so don’t be disheartened. She’s probably already forgotten about the whole thing, so don’t think too much into it, yeah?”

Mingyu nods and then leaves the room, but he can’t help but remember the way you left the office, with your shoulders hunched. Your posture looked uncomfortable, and Mingyu deduces that it must have been that way because of his own mistake. He glances down at the paper bag in his hands, and makes a decision.

“You can do this, Mingyu,�� He encourages himself, before heading for the elevators. Once he’s inside, he presses the button for the 5th floor, two floors above his own department. When he gets off on the floor, he asks the nearest person where the IT offices are. After being directed, he quickly makes his way to your office. Minghao’s colleague will have to wait for a while.

“Ms. Jung! Trying out new fashion?” Jaemin, the new intern in your department, calls out when you enter the break-room. The already droopy shoulders of the blazer you’re wearing seem to weigh down on you even more at his comment.

“Uh, yes…?” You reply, shooting him an awkward smile and immediately heading for the coffee machine afterwards.

“I’m all for the oversized clothes trend,” Jaemin goes on, stirring his ‘death juice’ that contains a concerning number of espresso shots. “Baggy jeans? Whoever brought them back is a genius. But, isn’t your blazer a little too big on you?”

You’re glad your back is facing Jaemin, because you’re sure he’d sniff you out within seconds if he saw your terrible acting. “I ordered it online, and I got the wrong size, so….”

“Ah, the mishaps of online shopping,” Jaemin tuts, shaking his head. “What about that new cologne you’re wearing? Is it another online purchase?”

Your eyes widen when you realize that the clothes you have on are sprayed with a cologne completely different from the one you wear on a regular basis. You curse your bad luck before schooling your expression into a more calm one before turning to face Jaemin.

“Jaemin, I understand that I asked you to submit a report to me before lunch,” You say, hoping your voice didn’t shake too much. “How is it coming along?”

It’s Jaemin’s turn to look flustered as he hastily grabs his coffee. “It’s going great! You are definitely going to see it on your desk before lunch! Have a great day, boss.” With that, Jaemin is running out of the break-room, and you heave a sigh of relief.

“God, I wish this stupid day was over already,” You mutter, tugging at the sleeves of the blazer that completely engulfs you in it. You do, however, take the time to appreciate the soft material of the blazer, and the admittedly soothing fragrance of the musky cologne emanating from the fabric.

It smells all too familiar, and it takes you a moment to realize why it does.

“Kim Mingyu, I’m going to kill you.”

. . . . .

A knock on the door of your office makes you pause in the middle of taking your coffee-stained blazer off. You grit your teeth at the uncomfortable sensation of your wet clothes sticking to your back as you put the blazer back on and call out, “Come in.”

You had expected one of the new interns to be walking into your office with yet another complaint about their employee IDs not working, but surprisingly, it’s Kim Mingyu who walks in, looking like a kicked puppy with his sad expression.

“Uh, hi,” He says, closing the door behind him and keeping at least a six-feet distance between himself and your desk.

“Hi,” You reply, and the conversation falls flat. After an awkward minute of Mingyu making eye contact with every object in the room and you trying (and failing) to maintain a neutral expression on your face, you break. “Did you need something?”

That’s when it strikes you—Minghao did mention that Mingyu was a new intern. Was he possibly in your department?

“Wait, are you my new intern?” You ask, unable to keep the mild terror out of your voice as you break the question.

“What? No, I’m joining the Social Media department,” Mingyu shakes his head vigorously, and you sigh with relief. “I just—I wanted to give you something.”

Before you could even ask what he needed to give you, Mingyu hesitantly shuffles forward and places a brown bag on your desk, which you recognize as the one he was holding in Minghao’s office earlier.

You scoff. Over the last six years of working at Sebong Corp., you’ve been hit on multiple times. There have been many hopeful interns and ex-employees who have tried to shoot their shot, but you’ve always shut their advances down. Now, a man who doesn’t even know you and has soaked you in coffee, has the audacity to flirt with you?

“Look, Mingyu, I’m flattered,” You chuckle, your tone lacking any mirth. “But I’m not interested in you that way, and I think it’s way too early to—”

“It’s just dry clothes,” Mingyu cuts you off, and you wonder why he didn’t do it before you made a fool out of yourself. “I had an extra set of clothes with me, and I noticed that you looked uncomfortable, so I got you these. If there’s any other way I can help you out, please just let me know.”

You’re too mortified to even give him any kind of reply, and Mingyu seizes the opportunity to slip out of your office, saving you from any further embarrassment.

“I’m such an idiot,” You mutter to yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose. The combined shame from your hasty conclusion and the growing stickiness on your back makes you give in and open the paper bag in front of you.

Inside, there’s a neatly pressed blazer and a white formal shirt, which makes you nearly leap with joy. Without wasting a second, you head for the bathrooms to change into the fresh clothes.

It’s only after you exit the bathroom stall that you see how idiotic you look in a blazer and shirt three times your size. You had failed to consider that Mingyu’s frame is much bigger than yours, which meant that his clothes would look comically large on you.

Still, there’s no denying the comfort of wearing dry, clean clothes, so you decide to ignore all the possible consequences of wearing clothes that clearly aren’t your size all around the office and exit the bathroom.

You just hope no one asks you about it.

. . . . .

“I wasn’t expecting the new intern to be this cute,” The new voice makes Mingyu look up from his laptop to see someone unfamiliar. He’s spent a week at Sebong Corp. already, but he’s yet to meet the head of his own department, who was apparently on a week-long break in Bali.

Once he takes in the stranger in front of him, and the orange lanyard that hangs around her neck, he’s quick to realize that his boss was finally back from break.

“Good Morning, Ms. Shin,” Mingyu says, standing up from his seat to bow deeply. “I’m Kim Mingyu, the new intern.”

“Yes, Jaemin has told me all about you,” Ms. Shin smiles, stretching her hand out, which Mingyu gingerly shakes. “It’s time this department gets some fresh ideas, and I was impressed by your work. How about I have my assistant set up a quick briefing for the team and you can introduce your ideas to us?”

“Yes, of course, ma’am,” Mingyu agrees instantly. Ms. Shin gives him another dazzling smile before walking away to her office, leaving Mingyu buzzing with excitement at his desk. The company he used to work at previously had never given him much room to experiment with their social media pages, having preferred a more traditional and conservative approach to publicity. The lack of creative liberty had thrown Mingyu into a slump, which is when he came across Sebong Corp.

They were relatively a new name in the entertainment industry, and upon further research, Mingyu found out that the company was run by people who wanted to hire fresh faces and young, creative minds. Without any hesitation, Mingyu quit his old job the day he received an interview call from Sebong Corp.

The chance to share his ideas with people willing to execute them excited Mingyu to no end, which is why he doesn’t waste any more time before preparing a presentation for the briefing.

“Our promotions with Actor Hansol Vernon Chwe are starting soon, so I centered most of my suggestions around Mr. Chwe himself.”

“I think that’s a great idea, Mingyu,” Ms. Shin nods, gesturing for Mingyu to continue.

“Okay, so I did my research, and Mr. Chwe’s fans love him for how unintentionally funny he is,” Mingyu starts. “When he appears on variety shows, his delayed reactions, blank expressions, and comedic timing is what makes him attractive to most people.” He flips through viral tweets and clips about Vernon’s unique personality to enhance his statement.

“To make sure our promotions really reach our target audience, we need to emphasize on humor and comedy. Short-form content, like Tiktoks and Reels are also much more likely to grab attention from more viewers, so that should be our main focus. To make the content more relatable, we should also try to incorporate elements from current trends, even for our own company’s promotions.”

There’s silence in the room after Mingyu finishes his presentation, and there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach. Did I go too far? Do they hate me now? Maybe I should have gone a little more traditional—

“Kim Mingyu, you are exactly what this department was missing,” Ms. Shin interrupts his internal monologue. “I think this is perfect, and the team would be more than happy to implement your suggestions as soon as possible.”

“Wait, really?” Mingyu asks, surprised that his ideas were received so openly.

“Yeah! I think I can come up with some really good scripts for videos,” Yena, the team’s writer speaks up. “And Donghyuck is really good at editing videos and making them funny.”

“You should see the video we made for Ms. Shin on her birthday last year,” Donghyuck boasts, smiling smugly. “But yes, I agree with everyone else. This is new and fresh, and our audience will love it.”

“That’s that, then,” Ms. Shin claps her hands together. “Mingyu, lets take this week to develop on your ideas a bit more, and—”

The door of the conference room swinging open abruptly cuts Ms. Shin’s sentence short. Mingyu wants the ground to swallow him whole when he sees you walk in, brown paper bag clutched in your hand.

“Kim Mingyu, here are your clothes, which I never asked for, washed and dry-cleaned,” You say, thrusting the bag into his hands, when you realize that you just interrupted a meeting. Your mouth falls open when you see most of the Social Media department seated in the room, looking at Mingyu and you with utmost interest.

“I knew it! The clothes weren’t yours!” Jaemin speaks up from the back, and you squint your eyes at the mop of platinum blonde hair peeking out from behind Donghyuck.

“Jaemin, why are you here?” You ask, crossing your arms. “Have you forgotten which department you’re in?”

“Here for purely IT-related concerns,” Jaemin shakes his head. “No one here could get the projector to work, so I had to help out.”

You sigh when you don’t find any appropriate response to give Jaemin, which makes you finally realize that the Social Media department, combined with Jaemin, are the most effective channel of communication in the office.

Two years ago, when an ex-employee had spilled ramen all over Ms. Shin’s laptop and was spotted by Donghyuck, the entire office knew about it within 2 hours of the incident occurring. The thought of everyone finding out that the new intern was now lending you clothes made your head hurt, and you don’t waste a second before apologizing for the interruption and exiting the room immediately, heading up to your office to grieve the loss of your privacy.

Back in the meeting room, everyone files out soon after your exit, muttering to each other about everything that had happened. Donghyuck and Jaemin are the last ones to leave, and they walk up to Mingyu with twin smiles of mischief glinting on their faces.

“Say, Mingyu, you’re quite the gentleman, aren’t you?” Jaemin asks, and Mingyu blushes out of what he hopes is embarrassment.

“There’s nothing to it,” He denies. “I lent her my extra clothes because I spilled coffee on her because it’s the least I could do. I didn’t expect her to actually wear them.”

“I gotta say, the blazer looked nice on her,” Donghyuck adds on. “Maybe you should let her borrow from your wardrobe more often.”

Before Mingyu can even respond, the two men wink at him in sync and leave him alone in the meeting room, heart fluttering at the thought of you wearing his clothes.

Get a grip on yourself, Mingyu, he tells himself, trying to shake the strange feeling off him. It’s too soon for you to catch feelings for someone who probably hates your guts.

He doesn’t think that warning himself is effective, not when his heart never listens to him before falling for anyone.

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natsaffection · 1 month ago

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Redline. Bonus 6 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), Mention of sex, fluff, fluff, fluff

Word count: 8,7k

A/n: First of all, I added Yelena again! Totally forgot her in the last bonus :,) Second, I wish you could see the thoughts/pictures in my head while writing and rereading those scenes. And third? I want a marriage. Immediately.

The sheets were a mess. The pillows were barely holding shape, pushed to opposite ends of the bed like casualties. Somewhere on the floor was your sports bra, one sock, and the remote that Natasha swore she wasn’t going to lose again.

And she was grinning. Natasha shifted slowly, lifting herself from between your legs with the unhurried satisfaction of someone who had definitely proven a point. Her hair was a mess, strands clinging to her cheekbones, and her lips were still a little swollen, glistening just slightly with a kind of shine that wasn’t from the lotion.

And you groaned. A soft, wrecked sound. Not from pain. From everything else.

Your arm fell lazily across your stomach, your chest rising and falling in the afterglow of something that had burned slow and deep, like it always did with her. Natasha was climbing up the bed, moving slow like she had nowhere else to be. She nudged your thigh with her knee as she crawled over you, her smirk lazy and knowing and a little proud, even.

You let out a tiny laugh, breathy, exhausted. Your fingers reached weakly for her, as if even the strength to pull her close had been…extracted.

“Hey.” she whispered, pressing her lips gently against your temple.

You made a noise that could have meant hi, I love you, or please let me die peacefully right here. She smiled again.

“You’re unbelievable..” she murmured, dragging her fingers lazily along your arm. “You know that?”

You barely moved. Maybe nodded. Maybe not. “Fast on the track..”she said softly, her voice almost smug, “but this…this is where you really shine.”

Your body jerked, just slightly, in something like laughter. Or embarrassment. Your lips moved but you didn’t form words. Your lashes fluttered once, twice, then stilled. Natasha kissed your bare shoulder. Let out a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding.

You didn’t need to say I love you. It was stitched into the air between you. Into every breath. Into the way your legs stayed tangled, the way your nose brushed hers in the dark, the way your body turned toward hers even in sleep.

She kissed your jaw, then your temple. “Sleep.” she whispered, voice like silk now. “You’ve done enough for tonight.”

And you did. You melted into her, mouth slack with peace, fingers loose over her ribs. And Natasha held you until morning.

The light broke slow and quiet over the horizon, filtering through pale curtains that hadn’t been drawn fully shut. Outside the window, the paddock was already waking, distant engine testing, someone shouting about a torque wrench. But up here, in bed, the world was still.

Natasha stirred first. Her body shifted against empty sheets, the absence of warmth beside her immediate and noticeable. For a moment, her muscles tensed, not fear, not alarm, just that deep-seated instinct to look, to check.

But then, from behind the half-cracked bathroom door, she heard the soft rush of water.

She exhaled, and relaxed. Her hand slipped beneath the pillow automatically, pulling out her phone. The screen glowed bright in the half-dark.

7:42 am.

Her calendar buzzed softly.

9:00 – Sponsor call (Zoom)

12:30 – Fitting (Race jacket)

15:00 – Strategy meeting with Willow + trackwalk

20:00 – Dinner with Y/n? (optional - ask)

She added a mental note next to that last one: Definitely. She smiled, thumbed the phone off, and turned onto her side to face the bathroom. Moments later, the door creaked open.

And there you were. Hair up in a messy bun, one of Natasha’s old team shirts hanging halfway off your shoulder wrinkled, oversized, clearly slept in too many times. Your legs bare, skin soft with fresh lotion. A toothbrush sticking out the corner of your mouth, and that squinty, just-woke-up look still clinging to your expression.

You stopped when you saw her awake. She didn’t say a word, just smiled, slow and warm, like you were the first sunrise she’d ever seen.

You mumbled something that sounded like “morning.” around your toothbrush, disappearing again into the bathroom.

“Come here.” she called softly when she heard the faucet shut off.

You reappeared, sleepy but obedient, and padded over to the bed. “Still got foam in my mouth..”you muttered.

“Don’t care.” You crawled up onto the bed, and Natasha pulled you in the second you were close enough, an arm around your waist, a hand at the back of your thigh, guiding you into her body like it was muscle memory. You fell against her chest with a sigh, your forehead pressing under her jaw.

“Gonna fall asleep again..” you warned, mumbling into her skin.

“You better.”

She kissed your temple again. Ran her fingers down your spine. You let out a tiny, happy sound. She smiled into your hair, her other hand smoothing lazy circles over your hip. She could feel your breathing begin to slow again, your body going heavy, limp in that exact way it only did when you trusted her completely.

She closed her eyes too, content, but then- The door flew open.

“Well!” came a too-familiar voice, “I leave the country for four months and this place smells like sex and sleep deprivation.”

Natasha groaned. Yelena was standing in the doorway, suitcase still in one hand, eyebrow raised. You flinched violently and tried to sit up.

“No..!” Natasha muttered, dragging you back down with a grumble. “Ignore her. She’s a fever dream.”

“I’m a gift!” Yelena shot back, stepping inside like she lived here. “I came to see if anything changed while I was gone.”

Her eyes swept the room, the messy sheets, the tangled limbs, your shirt (her sister’s shirt), your sleepy face tucked into Natasha’s neck. A grin spread across her face.

“Nope.” she said. “Still filthy.”

Breakfast happened the way it always did the morning, quiet, slow, and mostly carb-based.

You moved around the kitchenette barefoot, still in Natasha’s shirt, flipping pieces of toast one-handed while yawning so wide your jaw cracked. Yelena had made herself at home already, slouched at the table in an old hoodie, tearing through the box of cereal she found in the cabinet with zero shame.

Natasha leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a mug of black coffee cupped between her palms. Her eyes didn’t leave you once.

Not when you burned your finger on the pan and hissed. Not when you leaned over the counter to grab a plate and the hem of her shirt lifted almost too high. Not even when you caught her watching you and rolled your eyes with that dopey, affectionate half-smile she’d come to love.

You moved like you belonged there..Because you did. She watched you set a plate down in front of her and brush your fingers across her shoulder as you passed behind her. Something about the way you touched her in passing, without thought, without fear, made her chest ache in the softest, cruelest way.

You were just there. Always. And lately…she couldn’t picture anything without you in it.

“Eat, Romanoff.” you said over your shoulder, grabbing your own coffee.

It was maybe twenty minutes later when your phone buzzed on the table. You glanced down, read the message, then stood up.

“That’s Willow.” you said, already downing the last of your coffee. “Track run starts early. She wants to warm up before the trainers get there.”

Yelena lifted an eyebrow. “It’s Sunday.”

“She’s got a competitive streak.” you said, stretching your arms over your head. “And apparently, so do I.”

Natasha caught your wrist as you passed her. You paused, turned, leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Back by lunch.”

“Wear sunblock.” Natasha murmured.

You gave her a look. “Yes, Mom.”

She smacked your ass lightly as you walked away. Yelena made a dramatic gagging noise. The second the door clicked shut, Yelena spoke, flat, direct, amused.

“You’re planning something.”

Natasha looked up from her coffee. Blinked. “What?”

“You’re planning something.”

“I am drinking coffee and existing.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her face like she was reading engine telemetry. Natasha stared back, blank and unimpressed.

“Natasha.”

“I’m serious.”

“You haven’t blinked since she left.”

Natasha opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked down. Yelena tilted her head. “You’re so obvious. You’ve been staring at her like she’s made of diamonds since I walked in.”

“She is made of diamonds.” Natasha muttered.

Yelena’s face broke into a wide, knowing smile. “Oh, my God. You’re in love love.”

“I’ve been in love love.”

“Yeah, but now you’re..wait. Wait. Wait.” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “Are you proposing?”

Natasha jerked like she’d been slapped. “What?!”

Yelena gasped, fully standing now, pointing like she’d caught her red-handed. “You are!”

Natasha groaned. She stood abruptly and walked toward the kitchen door. She locked it. Then turned around slowly. Yelena was watching her like a cat who’d cornered a bird.

And for the first time that morning, Natasha’s shoulders dropped. Just a little.. She leaned against the door, silent for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “…I’m thinking about it.”

Yelena blinked. Then slowly, slowly grinned. “Holy shit.”

“I haven’t told anyone.” Natasha said, voice low. “Not Willow. Not Mom. Not the team.”

Yelena placed a hand on her heart. “I feel so honored.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

A beat passed. Then Natasha said, “I was watching her this morning. She wasn’t even doing anything. Just making toast in my shirt. Talking to you. And I just…I couldn’t stop thinking about how there’s no one else. Ever.”

Yelena softened a little, finally. “You’re sure?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been about anything.”

“Then do it.”

“I want to.” Natasha said quietly. “I just…want to do it right.” Natasha just smiled, staring off into the middle distance, already planning.

The day burned fast under the late-afternoon sun, laps, drills, strategy sessions, hydration reminders barked over headsets. Heat shimmered off the asphalt like water. The trainers looked ready to drop by hour five.

You didn’t. Neither did Willow, who had started pushing the pace in your second run just to see if you’d flinch. You hadn’t. You’d smirked and gone faster. Somewhere between the second cooldown and the post-run debrief, Natasha had shown up.

Silent at first. Leaning against the fence, sunglasses on, black polo hugging her shoulders like it was designed just for her.

She hadn’t spoken much, just corrected Willow’s hand placement during turn 7 corner drills, nodded once when you passed your time mark, and pointed silently toward the brake zone when you clipped it too late in the simulator review.

Classic Natasha, no fanfare..just presence. By the time the sun dipped behind the last of the temporary paddock structures, the track was empty again. Lights buzzing. Water bottles half-drunk. The air smelled like rubber, sweat, and the wind-down of something intense.

You made your way through the garage and up the stairs to her office, muscles aching, tank top clinging to your back, sun just barely kissing your shoulders.

You didn’t knock. You never knocked anymore. Natasha was at her desk, glasses on, typing something into her laptop with one hand and scrolling through telemetry with the other. The light from the screen painted her in soft gold and navy, the faint shadows under her eyes more from focus than fatigue.

You leaned your shoulder into the doorframe. “Day’s over.”

She didn’t look up, just tapped one last key, then reached forward and shut the laptop in one clean, casual motion.

You blinked. “You don’t even want to save that?”

She shrugged. “Autosaves. And I trust the system.”

“Liar.” you muttered, stepping inside.

She was already watching you now, elbows on the arms of her chair, legs slightly parted, expression unreadable except for the faint, quiet pull at the corner of her mouth.

The kind she saved just for you. You crossed to her without thinking and slid around the desk. And then, like you’d done it a thousand times before, you climbed onto her thighs, knees bracketing her hips, hands coming to rest on her shoulders. Her palms found your waist instantly. Like gravity.

You sat like that for a second. Breathing the same air. Then you dipped your head slightly to meet her eyes. “How was your day?”

Her hands flexed a little against your sides. “Better now.”

You smiled, warm and a little smug. “Sappy.”

“Accurate.” she replied, deadpan.

You leaned in and pressed your forehead to hers. She let out a breath, steady and long, like she’d been holding it all day. Like this was the only part of her routine that really made sense.

Your thumb stroked the edge of her jaw. “You showed up today.” you said softly.

“You noticed?”

“You didn’t say much, but I always know when you’re watching.”

She smiled again. This one softer. “I’m always watching.”

You kissed her. Once, slowly. It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t about the thrill. It was just there, true and quiet and deeply, completely familiar. Her hands moved from your waist to your back, then up, then down again, sliding under your shirt, just enough to feel your skin.

You let yourself relax into her body. The office was warm, and the hum of the vending machine down the hall was the only thing filling the silence. Eventually, Natasha murmured, “Come to bed.”

You nodded, curling closer. “Yeah.” you said, yawning into her neck. “Okay.”

She didn’t carry you, but she guided you, hand at the small of your back, thumb idly tracing patterns on your side as you walked side by side down the hall and toward her suite. Neither of you spoke much. There was nothing left to say tonight. At least not yet.. But Natasha’s hand didn’t leave yours for a single step.

The morning came like any other. You were standing in the bathroom, towel-wrapped, holding a toothbrush in your mouth while mumbling something about how if Willow made you run laps before 10 am again, you were going to rearrange her face.

Natasha watched you from the bed. She was already dressed, black slacks, clean white shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearm, hair down but combed neatly. There was something quietly put-together about her, like she was going somewhere important. But she didn’t say anything yet.

She just sipped her coffee. Watched you move around like you belonged in every inch of her space.

“You look nice today.” you called out, voice muffled by toothpaste. “Business call?”

Natasha didn’t even flinch. “Mm. Something like that.”

You popped your head out of the bathroom with a grin. “Tell the sponsors I’m cute and deserve a raise.”

“I’ll forward them your highlight reel.”

“Make sure it includes the clip where I lapped that Red Bull junior last season.”

“Obviously.”

You disappeared again, humming off-key. Natasha glanced down at her phone, checked the time. 08:19. Her GPS was already loaded, address blurred at the top of the screen. She’d spent an hour the night before staring at it, just…thinking. What if they said no? What if they didn’t trust her? What if she didn’t deserve to be trusted?

She swallowed that down now. No room for it. Not today. You reappeared a moment later in leggings and a cropped team hoodie, sleepy but glowing from your shower, eyes still a little soft at the corners. You leaned down to kiss her before pulling your shoes on.

“Track with Willow.” you said. “Want anything on the way back?”

“Just you.” Natasha said automatically.

You blinked. Then smiled, slow, crooked. “You’re being sweet.”

“I’m always sweet.”

“You’re always rude, and then sweet when you want something.”

She reached out to tug your hoodie down, smoothing a wrinkle over your stomach. “I already have what I want.”

You paused at the door. Then shook your head and grinned again. “You’re gonna make me late.”

Natasha watched you leave with something unspoken in her chest. When the door closed behind you, she finally let out the breath she’d been holding since she woke up.

The drive was quiet. Her playlist on shuffle. City traffic melting into suburban roads. She kept one hand on the steering wheel and one on her thigh, thumb tapping out an anxious rhythm that only got faster the closer she got.

She sat in the car for exactly thirty-five seconds before getting out. Her boots clicked against the stone walkway. The door opened before she could knock.

Your mom stood there in a sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back, eyes widening in pleasant surprise. “Natasha?”

Natasha cleared her throat. “Hi.”

“Oh my God, come in, come in.”

She stepped aside and Natasha entered, carefully wiping her boots on the mat like you always told her to. The house smelled like coffee and old wood and something warm in the oven. Your father appeared a moment later, smile already forming.

“This is a surprise.” he said, offering his hand.

“I hope it’s a good one.”

“It is. It’s just- what brings you?”

Natasha hesitated. She folded her hands in front of her for a moment. Unfolded them. Smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on her sleeve. Then looked at them both.

“I was wondering.. “she said slowly, “if I could talk to you…about something important.”

Your mother exchanged a glance with your father. Then gestured to the living room. “You want coffee?”

Natasha sat on the couch. Hands on her knees. She tried not to fidget. She was good at being composed in high-stakes situations. But this? This wasn’t business. This wasn’t strategy. This was you. And somehow, that made it harder.

So when your parents returned and sat across from her, mugs in hand, Natasha met their eyes and did something she almost never did: She let herself be nervous.

“I love your daughter.” She said. There was no preamble. Just the truth.

“I think you know that. I think maybe you’ve known it longer than I did. But I’m here because I want to do this the right way. She’s strong, and independent, and stubborn as hell, but…she still believes in things like respect. And tradition. And family.”

Your mom’s eyes were glassy already. Your dad didn’t speak, just watched. Natasha kept going. Soft now.

“I want to marry her. And before I ask her…I wanted to ask you.”

Your dad set down his coffee. Exhaled slowly. Looked Natasha in the eye. “She’s always been intense. Impossible to sway once she decides on something.”

“I know.” Natasha said.

“And hard to love, sometimes. But the right person…” He smiled faintly. “Makes it look easy.”

Natasha’s throat tightened. Your mom reached across and put her hand on Natasha’s.

“We’d be honored to have you in the family.”

The breath she let out wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t shaky, it was simply relief. Pure and honest.

“Thank you.” She said, meaning every word.

——

You were halfway through a breakdown of tire compound degradation when you realized Natasha hadn’t said a word in almost three minutes.

“I’m just saying..” you continued, hands flailing as you paced barefoot across the room, hair still damp from your shower, “Pirelli has got to be cooking something illegal because that soft compound today? Willow said it felt like she was skating on frozen yogurt.”

Natasha didn’t respond. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, phone held casually in her palm, thumb flicking upward in slow, deliberate motions.

Totally silent. You slowed a little, narrowing your eyes. “Are you even listening?”

“Hm?” she said without looking up.

You stopped mid-pace, towel still draped over your shoulder. “What are you doing..?”

“Nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ never looks that intense on your face.”

She tilted the phone slightly away from view, subtle, smooth, practiced. Which meant guilty.

You squinted. Natasha glanced up at you then, and for a split second, just one, you saw it. That little shine in her eyes. The slight pink at the tops of her cheeks. The way the corners of her mouth were tugging up like she was sitting on a secret the size of a small country.

You narrowed your eyes further. Stepped forward. “You’re way too happy right now.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. You’re, like…glowing.”

“I’m just sitting.”

“That’s the problem. You only sit like that when you’ve made a decision.”

She didn’t answer. You sat beside her on the bed, thigh pressed to hers, and leaned in to peer at her screen. She pulled it back slightly, but not too obviously.

Your brows lifted. “Nat…”

“Hm.”

“…What are you doing?”

She looked at you then, really looked at you, and the grin that threatened to take over her face barely made it to the surface before she smothered it like a match under water.

“Nothing important.” she said smoothly. “Just… planning.”

“Planning what?”

You were playful, curious. Almost a little suspicious, but not in a real way. And she didn’t lie. She didn’t say “email” or “strategy notes” or “logistics.” She just smiled, slow, unreadable, dangerous, and leaned in to kiss your cheek.

“I’ll show you when it’s ready. I promise.” she murmured.

You groaned dramatically, throwing yourself backward onto the mattress. “You’re so mysterious..” you complained, one arm flung over your eyes.

Natasha looked down at you. You, in your hoodie and bike shorts, legs still slick with lotion, hair damp, skin warm from the shower, heart beating in the same room as hers. She glanced back at her phone. There it was: the search bar still open, photos scrolled halfway down the page.

Custom rings, understated but personal.

Nothing was quite right yet. She’d seen diamonds, vintage cuts, silver, gold, even motorsport-inspired ones with carbon fiber edges, but none of them looked like you.

She’d know it when she saw it. And when she did, she was going to ask you a question that would change everything…But not yet. For now, she just smiled again, quietly, and set the phone down facedown on the bedside table.

Then she lay beside you. Her arm tucked beneath your neck. Your body curling into hers without hesitation. “Wake me when you’re ready to stop being mysterious..”you mumbled.

“I’ll keep you guessing forever.” she whispered back. And you didn’t see her grin as you fell asleep.

——

The lights above the track glowed red in sequence: one, two, three, four… And then the roar.

The engines launched forward in a deafening scream of velocity, tires burning against asphalt, two cars slicing through the opening straight like they were being pulled by gravity itself. You were already pushing. Willow was behind you, not by much, but enough to make it personal.

Natasha stood on the pit wall, arms crossed over her black headset, mouth set in a tight line of focus. Her eyes flicked between monitors, her voice low but sharp over the comms.

“Y/n, adjust your entry on Turn 6, your angle’s too wide.”

“Willow, settle. Let her take the corner. You’ll lose time fighting it.”

“Copy.” came Willow’s voice, crisp and unbothered.

“Got it.” you said, your voice tight with focus, breathing controlled, jaw locked. You weren’t losing this race to your own teammate.

The pit team scrambled behind her, the buzz of radios and tire updates filling the background. The pace was fast, clean, brutal. Everything was going according to plan. Until Natasha’s phone lit up on the pit desk.

Natasha’s eyes flicked down, barely a glance…and froze. She stared at the number for a second longer than she should’ve. “Yelena.” Natasha said, her voice sharp in her headset’s private channel. “You’re up.”

“Copy.” Yelena answered immediately from the control stand behind her. “Taking lead.”

No confusion. No hesitation. This was protocol. They’d trained for it. Natasha pulled off her headset, handed it off, and stepped back from the pit wall like a ghost disappearing from a battlefield.

You took the chicane tighter than you had all season, DRS humming behind you. Willow was still in your mirrors, but you’d started to gain tenths.

Then your radio clicked. Yelena’s voice came through, “Y/n, brake modulation is drifting into early lockup on sector three. You’ve got one, maybe two pushes before you burn the tires. Stay calm. Adjust on the straight.”

You blinked under your visor. It wasn’t the instruction. It was the voice.

“…Where’s Natasha?”

“Handling something. You’ve got me for now.”

“…She handed off pit command mid-race?”

“Focus, brat. You’re not that special.” That earned a tight smirk from you, but the unease didn’t fade.

Natasha never stepped away during race hours. Not unless someone was bleeding. Not unless something was burning. You kept driving, but your brain wasn’t fully in the cockpit anymore.

Meanwhile Natasha pressed the phone to her ear and turned away from the track noise. “Thank you for calling back.”

“I had a feeling it wasn’t a business visit when your assistant asked for a full day’s access to the main building.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. “I want it empty.” Natasha said. “No press. No drivers. Just a few quiet hours.”

“You’ll have it.”

She closed her eyes..and smiled. It wasn’t just a win. It was a statement.

You and Willow didn’t just take first and second, you owned the circuit. Her defending while you overtook on the inside of Turn 8 made the replay highlight reel within minutes. The crowd had been deafening when you crossed the line with a lead wide enough to start waving to the mechanics.

The champagne was still in your hair when Willow wrapped her arm around your shoulder and yelled, “One–two, baby!” into the camera crew’s mic.

Natasha hadn’t been in the post-race picture. Which… wasn’t that unusual. She hated media. But it still felt strange. You found her twenty minutes later, by the garage office, wiping something off her tablet screen like she hadn’t just watched her team win the day.

She looked up just as you approached, her face calm, but there was something in her eyes..an intensity you couldn’t quite read.

“We did it.” you said breathlessly, your fireproof suit half-peeled down, a medal swinging from your neck. “I mean..we actually did it.”

Her mouth twitched upward. “I know. I watched.”

You stepped closer. Noticing how her tablet screen was off now. Locked. Her headset on the desk.

“Why did Yelena take pit for the last ten laps?” you asked. “You’ve never handed it off before.”

Natasha paused..just a breath. “There was a call I needed to take.”

“Important?”

She met your eyes.

“Yes.”

That one word. Was Honest and final. But vague. You wanted to push, but didn’t. Not when she looked like that. Not when her hand rose to touch your back in the exact spot that always melted you.

“Okay.” you whispered.

And she exhaled like she was relieved you hadn’t asked more.

A Few Days Later

The air in Natasha’s office always smelled like iced coffee and motorsport stress. You were halfway leaned over Willow’s shoulder, both of you reviewing telemetry data from warm-up laps, while Natasha sat at her desk, tapping absentmindedly at her tablet, occasionally nodding along.

Yelena stood in the corner, flipping a pen in her hand, pretending to be uninterested while keeping an actual checklist in her mind of every bolt she’d personally tighten later.

“Alright.” Natasha finally said. “Start warm-ups in fifteen. Willow, check brakes with the new cooling setup. Y/n, monitor throttle feedback- if it jitters again, pull out. Don’t push it.”

Willow saluted sarcastically. “Yes, Coach.”

You threw her a smirk. “Race you to the garage.”

“Always.”

You both left laughing, arguing about who had the better turn-in last race, your voices fading into the hallway.

The door clicked shut, and Natasha waited one more second, then reached into the locked drawer of her desk. She pulled out a small, black velvet box.

Yelena stopped flipping the pen. She watched as Natasha turned it slowly in her hand…then opened it.

The ring caught the light, not flashy, not oversized. Sleek platinum. Matte center. A tiny diamond, pressed low into the band, like it belonged there, not showing off. There was something engraved on the inside. Yelena couldn’t see it from here.

Yelena whispered, “Holy shit.”

“I know.” Natasha said quietly. “I kept thinking I’d mess it up. That I’d pick wrong. But when I saw this one…I just knew.”

Yelena stepped closer, voice soft. “You’ve already rehearsed what you’re going to say, haven’t you?”

Natasha looked away, just slightly. “Sort of.”

“Oh, wow. You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I don’t fidget.”

“You’ve been blinking in threes.”

Natasha let out a low breath through her nose. “Yelena.”

But Yelena just grinned, tilting her head. “I’m serious.” she said. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you nervous and not holding a tablet.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and gently closed the ring box, tucking it back into the drawer with care like it was fragile.

“I’m not nervous.” she repeated, quieter now. “I’m just…ready. And I have to wait.”

Yelena’s teasing faded at the edges. “You okay with that?”

“I don’t have a choice.” Natasha said. “The track isn’t clear until next week. I’d propose tomorrow if I could, but-“

“You’re waiting for the right place.” Yelena finished.

Footsteps. “Hey, I left my-”

You stepped halfway inside before pausing, eyes flicking between them. Yelena froze where she stood, clearly mid-sentence before you’d entered.

And Natasha, without even looking, cut the air with a single word: “Don’t.”

Yelena’s mouth snapped shut instantly, blinking twice like someone had unplugged her. You raised a slow eyebrow, stepping farther into the room. “Should I come back?”

“No.” Natasha said smoothly, already recovering. She turned, leaned one hip against the desk. “We’re done here.”

Yelena’s hands shot up. “All I wanted to-”

Natasha shot her a look, and Yelena’s hands dropped. You eyed them both suspiciously, then pointed a finger in Yelena’s direction.

“You’ve got the worst poker face.”

“Disagree.” Yelena said, already backing toward the door. “I am the epitome of calm under pressure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Something’s going on.”

Natasha only smirked. Then crossed the room and kissed your cheek, cool, easy, perfect Natasha.

“Nothing yet.” she murmured into your skin. And Yelena, thankfully, kept her mouth shut.

The plan was set.

Track was cleared. The manager had sent a confirmation message. Yelena had helped prep the excuse: a “private team meeting off-site.”

The ring was in Natasha’s bag, tucked inside an old glove case, the same gloves you used to wear when working pit crew for scraps and long shifts.

Everything was ready…and Natasha was falling apart.

3 Days left.

She woke up before you. Lay there in the dark, eyes open, staring at the ceiling while you slept with your arm flung over her waist, your cheek pressed to her shoulder.

You shifted in your sleep, murmured something about Willow snoring in the simulator lounge. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t move. Her fingers twitched once. She thought about reaching for the ring. Just to hold it.

Instead, she exhaled and slipped out from under you. She made coffee and didn’t drink it. She sat in the kitchen with the lights off.

2 Days left.

You noticed. Not in a loud way. Not with suspicion. Just that slow, quiet sinking feeling when the person you love starts looking at you like they’re thinking too much.

Natasha wasn’t cold. She just wasn’t present. She’d nod at you during meetings, touch your waist when you passed, give you small, soft looks like she was thinking about something, but she wouldn’t say anything.

And that silence started to hurt. That night, as you stood at the sink brushing your teeth, you caught her watching you.

“Did I do something?” you asked, foam in your mouth.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You spit. Turned toward her. “I know when something’s in your head. And I’m not mad. I just..don’t want to feel like I’m losing you in it.”

That.

That almost cracked her. Natasha stepped forward, hands brushing your hips, lips finding your forehead.

“I’m right here.” she whispered. And for a second..you believed her.

1 Day left.

Yelena found her sitting in the simulator bay, lights off, helmet bag beside her. “You look like someone shot your dog.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Yelena stepped forward, leaned her back against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

“She’s starting to wonder.” she said gently.

“I know.”

“Why aren’t you telling her?”

“I want it to be perfect.”

“She doesn’t need perfect.”

Natasha looked up. Her eyes were rimmed red, not from crying, just lack of sleep.

“She deserves it.”

Yelena softened. “You’re making her feel like you’re slipping away.”

Natasha closed her eyes.

“I know.”

Hours later, you curled up beside her in bed. She held you, arms tight, jaw resting on the top of your head.

You whispered: “Just talk to me.”

But she didn’t. And you fell asleep not knowing why your chest hurt. And she stayed awake listening to your heartbeat, counting every second she had left to fix it.

The day started too quietly for Natasha, which was dangerous. Stillness meant thinking, and thinking meant spiraling. So she planned every hour. She laid out the day like a race strategy: nothing left open, nothing unstructured. Not for you, and definitely not for herself.

You woke still curled against her side, warm and half-asleep. Natasha smiled against your temple, kissed your hair, and murmured, “Up. Big day.” You didn’t question it. Just smiled, rolled over, and reached for the nearest shirt like it was any other morning.

Breakfast was at a café she’d remembered you mentioning weeks ago, one you thought she’d forgotten. You lit up when you saw it, all soft surprise and sleepy joy, and she pretended like it wasn’t a big deal, even though your smile was the only thing keeping her breathing evenly. She picked at her toast while you ranted about tire data and Willow’s “cowardly” approach to cornering. She barely said a word, but you didn’t notice, not with jam on your cheek and sunshine on your face.

Midday, she roped you into a “gear review” with Yelena at the supplier garage. You were suspicious for about five seconds before Yelena started arguing passionately about zipper strength, and you gave up, laughing. Natasha just stood back and watched, arms crossed over her chest, every muscle tight with the effort of looking casual. When Yelena slipped and said “big day” Natasha shot her a look so sharp it could’ve stripped paint. But you were too busy trying on windbreakers to notice. Barely.

You noticed, just a little. The way she stared longer than usual. The way her fingers tapped her own arm when she thought you weren’t looking. But you didn’t push.

The day stretched into golden hour. You were brushing your hair out in front of the mirror, debating whether Natasha was planning a surprise dinner. She hadn’t said a word about your evening plans. And then your phone buzzed.

From Natasha:

“Meet me at my car in ten.”

You smiled. The answer was yes: she was planning something. Probably a dinner reservation or a rooftop or something ridiculous and romantic. You grabbed your jacket, a little bounce in your step as you took the elevator down to the private garage.

She was already there, leaning against the black SUV like it was a magazine cover shoot. Jacket clean, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses off. She looked calm. Effortlessly cool. But you knew her. Her shoulders were too stiff. Her jaw too tight. Still, she smiled when she saw you. That rare, quiet, completely yours kind of smile.

“Date night?” you teased as you approached.

She opened the passenger door for you, smooth and confident. “After you.” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re being suspiciously charming..”

“Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, but got in anyway. She shut the door behind you gently. You adjusted your seat, glanced toward the side mirror, and froze for just a second.

Yelena was standing by the car behind you, arms folded, leaning against the hood like she had no business being there. And when your eyes found hers, she grinned.

Then lifted both hands and crossed her fingers slowly. Your stomach did a slow, warm flip, turned toward the driver’s seat.

Natasha slid in beside you. You watched her hands on the steering wheel. She looked at you sideways, almost like she could feel your stare.

“…What?” she asked.

You shook your head, smile creeping up your face. “Nothing.”

But your heart was suddenly beating louder than before. And somehow, you knew, without knowing why- Tonight was going to change everything.

The drive started like any other. You were curled sideways in the seat, one leg tucked under you, gesturing wildly as you told some ridiculous story about Willow and a protein shake exploding in the locker room.

Natasha nodded occasionally, gave soft mhm’s, eyes focused on the road. Her hands on the wheel were steady, knuckles just barely flexing when the streetlights caught them.

You barely noticed. You were too busy rambling, laughing, reliving the way Willow had shouted. You were mid-sentence when something shifted. You frowned, mid-laugh, and glanced out the window.

“Wait.”

Natasha didn’t look at you. You sat up a little straighter.

“Did you just miss the turn?”

“Hmm?”

“To the restaurant. You just passed it.”

Natasha gave a tiny smile. “Did I?”

You blinked. “…Yes?”

“Guess we’re going somewhere else.”

You stared at her for a second, caught between confusion and suspicion. But she didn’t say anything else. Just flicked the indicator and turned onto a quieter road, the city slowly thinning behind you. You watched her out of the corner of your eye. She looked completely relaxed. Too relaxed.

“Nat..” you said slowly, “are you kidnapping me?”

“Wouldn’t be the worst date idea.” she murmured, eyes still forward.

You rolled your eyes. “Seriously, where are we going?”

She didn’t answer. You turned back to the window, half to check the road, half to fight the weird flutter in your chest.

Then you saw it. The building. And your breath caught.

“…Wait..” you whispered.

Natasha glanced at you just briefly, a flicker of warmth in her expression. You turned your whole body toward the glass now, heart starting to race for entirely different reasons.

“That’s-”

“Yeah.”

“My old track?”

She pulled into the narrow lot beside it, the tires crunching softly on old gravel. The buildings looked the same, faded, boxy, industrial and somehow still comforting. You could see the rows of open garage doors. The empty tower. The half-painted line where cars used to queue before testing.

You hadn’t been here in years. Not since before Romanoff Racing. Before Natasha. Before everything..

She cut the engine. You turned to her, breath catching just a little.

“…What is this?”

Natasha’s voice was soft. “Come with me.”

She stepped out, walked around the car, and opened your door for you like it was sacred. You blinked up at her, heart thudding, and took her hand without a word.

The moment your feet hit the pavement, the memories came back in waves. Sweaty days in overalls. Oil under your nails. The first time you adjusted a suspension without double-checking the manual. Your first test drive.

You followed Natasha toward the open garage. It was cleaner than you remembered, maybe freshly prepped for her. But the bones were the same. You could almost see your younger self crouched near the back, tightening something with your whole body, muttering under your breath.

“I used to live in here..” you whispered, eyes wide.

Natasha didn’t speak. She just looked at you. Let you take it in. Then gently reached for your hand and gave it a tug.

“Come on.”

You walked behind her toward the platform above the test track, the one overlooking the straight. You hadn’t stepped foot on it in years. She climbed the stairs first, steady and slow, and you followed.

When you reached the top, the breeze hit your face, light and familiar. You gripped the rail instinctively, eyes scanning the stretch of road. And then you turned.

Natasha wasn’t looking at the track. She was looking at you.

“This is where I first saw you.” she said softly.

You blinked. “What?”

She took a step closer. “I came here scouting test drivers. Just one random day. I didn’t know your name. I just remember watching you storm out of the garage, You were in the car. And the second you hit the throttle…” She shook her head, smile soft. “I knew. Right then.”

“Knew what?”

“That I wanted you on my team.”

Your throat went dry. You blinked again. “And then later..” she added, quieter now, “I realized I didn’t just want you on my team.”

Her voice almost broke there. “I wanted you in my life.”

You stared at her. She reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Her hand lingered on your cheek. You leaned into it without meaning to.

The silence wasn’t empty.. It was full. Your chest felt tight. “Natasha..” you whispered. “What are you-“

But she was already stepping back. Her fingers slipped from your face, and moved toward her jacket pocket.

You felt it before it happened.

The way her eyes softened. The way her hand hovered near her jacket, hesitant, shaking just a little, the kind of tremble no one else would ever notice, but you knew her. And in that flicker of silence, that split-second where the air pulled still and the whole world felt like it stopped moving- You knew.

“N-Natasha.” you breathed, barely a whisper.

She didn’t speak, her eyes didn’t leave yours. Her hand slipped into her pocket. Pulled out the small, velvet box. Turned it once in her fingers.

And then.. She dropped to one knee. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t planned for cameras or theatrics. It was real.

You covered your mouth with one hand, your breath catching so hard in your chest it almost hurt. Your knees went weak. Your heart jumped into your throat and refused to come down.

Natasha looked up at you. Her mouth opened, but nothing came for a second. She blinked, swallowed, and let out a tiny, self-conscious laugh, barely audible. Then she breathed, and started to speak.

“You’ve always scared me.”

You blinked, tears already stinging, but you didn’t look away.

“Not because you’re loud.” she went on, voice steadying. “Not because you’re fast. But because the moment I saw you, I knew. And knowing scared the hell out of me.”

She turned the box in her fingers once more-, still closed.

“I watched you work on a car like it was an extension of your body. Like the bolts were part of your pulse. You didn’t care who was watching, or if someone told you no. You did it anyway.”

Her voice went soft.

“And then I met you. And it only got worse.”

You laughed through your hand, trying not to cry.

“You are stubborn. Reckless. Beautiful. Frustrating. Brilliant. And you are the only person who’s ever made me feel like I could stop running.”

She finally opened the box. The ring wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t meant to be. It was yours. Simple, elegant, crafted like a racecar part, clean lines, sharp setting, engraved words just barely visible inside.

You always win.

Natasha’s voice broke, just a little as she looked up at you.

“I don’t want a life without you. Not as your team leader. Not just as your partner in this sport. But as your person.”

She held the ring like it was fragile. Like it might vanish if she moved too fast.

“I want to be the one who sees you first. Every morning. In every win. In every fall. I want to be the hand that never lets go.”

Silence.

You didn’t move. You were crying now, shaking, lips parted but no sound coming out.

And then..Finally- she asked.

“Y/n, will you marry me?”

It felt like the entire world had narrowed down to three things: the sunset bleeding into the edges of the track, the ring in Natasha’s steady hand, and the sound of your own heart thudding in your chest like it didn’t know whether to race or stop completely.

She was on her knees. Natasha Romanoff, your team principal, your partner, your anchor..was on her knees, holding everything she felt in the smallest, simplest gesture. And her eyes..God, her eyes. They didn’t just look at you. They searched you, waited for you, told you every unspoken thing she hadn’t been able to say for weeks.

And you…You were stunned. You turned in place slightly, like you were trying to ground yourself, eyes flicking to the track below, the garage behind, the platform beneath your feet. You remembered this place through grease-stained fingers and long nights. Back when you were just a name no one remembered and she was a rumor you didn’t believe.

Now she was this. Right here. Asking for forever. And all you could do was stare. “I…” you started, but it came out more breath than sound.

Natasha didn’t rush you. Didn’t speak. She just looked at you, still and open, like she’d stay in this moment as long as you needed her to.

You blinked hard, breath catching. Your knees wobbled beneath you and you lowered yourself slowly, instinctively, kneeling in front of her without even realizing you were doing it.

Still no words. Just your hands finding hers. You looked down at the ring, simple, beautiful, exactly right- and then back at her. The woman who terrified you with how deeply she knew you. Who made silence feel like safety. Who made love feel like a fight you wanted to win every day.

“I don’t know how you…” you whispered, your voice tight, almost breaking. “You did all this?”

Her lip twitched. She looked like she was about to smile, but didn’t want to break.

“I didn’t want perfect.” you whispered again, “I just wanted you.”

Natasha breathed in softly, like that one sentence was the only air she needed. You lifted your hand. Pressed your fingertips to her jaw. She closed her eyes for half a second and leaned into the touch like it hurt not to.

You gave a breathless laugh. It wasn’t disbelief anymore. It was joy. A kind of wonder that turned your whole face warm and wet and alive.

“…Yes.” you said.

Her eyes opened. You smiled, shaking, overwhelmed. You let it sit there, thick and true.

“Yes..” you whispered again, barely holding it together now. “Yes! Of course I’ll marry you.”

Natasha didn’t move for a second. Like she had to be absolutely sure this wasn’t something her heart made up. Then she reached for you.

Her arms came around your back as you leaned in, the ring still forgotten between you, and your bodies met halfway in a kiss that was slow and fragile and full of trembling, aching relief.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a movie scene. But it was yours.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against hers, and your hands slid up to cup her face. She exhaled through a quiet, shaky laugh. And for once, Natasha Romanoff looked like the most undone woman in the world.

“…I love you.” she said, so softly it almost broke you.

You closed your eyes. And said it back without hesitation, without fear, without air.

“I love you more.”

Forever had never felt so right. You stayed there a long time. Neither of you said a word. Natasha had tucked her arms around your waist, your body folded into her lap, the two of you pressed together on that platform like you’d never need to leave it. Her head rested against your shoulder. Your hands tangled together over your chest. The ring still sat between your fingers, catching the soft orange glow of the setting sun.

Her breathing had finally evened out. Her heartbeat was slower now, steadier, but still there, fluttering against your back like it was trying to believe this was real. She pressed her nose into your neck. Closed her eyes, and suddenly, she was somewhere else entirely.

“The blue car! Who’s behind the wheel?”

“I want to meet her.”

“Are you sure? She doesn’t look like she wants to be found.” Natasha’s gaze hardened. “She’s already been to hell.” she murmured. “She can handle me.”

The present came rushing back in, the warmth of you pressed against her, the faint smell of your shampoo, the tiny little sound you made when you yawned and tried to hide it.

“I was so mean when we met.” you whispered, not even looking at her, just smiling.

“You were terrifying.” Natasha murmured into your shoulder.

“I remember yelling at you...”

“You yelled at me several times.”

You turned just enough to meet her eyes. “Still picked me, though.”

She kissed your temple. “I never looked at anyone else.”

The sun was almost fully down by the time you pulled out of the lot. You were holding her hand on the center console, your body turned slightly toward her in the seat, that dopey, dreamy little grin still plastered on your face. Natasha glanced at you once, then again..and gave the smallest shake of her head.

“You’re staring.” she said.

“I’m admiring.”

“At what?”

You didn’t answer. You just held up your hand, the one wearing the ring, and wiggled your fingers with a soft gasp like it was still the first time seeing it.

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, clearly holding back a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m engaged to you. You made me a fiancée. I am going to be insufferable.”

She squeezed your hand. “Noted.”

“I need to call everyone. I need to call my mum, my dad, oh, my grandparents!!”

You giggled and stared at the ring again, gently pressing your lips to the back of her hand.

“I’m marrying you.”

She glanced over at you. Voice soft, and certain.

“You are.”

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