#it's been this way for like six months to two years

[orellazalonia]

Off Limits, Barnes

Summary: You’re Sam Wilson’s longtime best friend who has been crashing at his apartment for a while. But much to his dismay, Bucky Barnes starts falling for you and flirting in secret to avoid Sam’s constant threats. (Flirty!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.7k+

A/N: This fic is dedicated to this comment/conversation from @eeveedream and everyone who’s been requesting fluff nowadays! I absolutely love this story and it’ll be a good buffer to some angst coming up soon. Happy reading!!

Main Masterlist

You’d known Sam since college. Well, technically since the fire drill where he saw you hauling your art portfolio and three half-finished canvases down six flights of stairs and took pity on you.

After that, you were just in. Friends. The kind that could go months without talking and still pick back up with inside jokes and shared eye-rolls.

You’d crashed on his couch more than once over the years during bad breakups, cross-country moves, or “temporary” life pauses. This time, it was supposed to be just a week or two, long enough to get settled and figure out the next steps.

You hadn’t planned on staying longer than that. And you definitely hadn’t planned on Bucky Barnes.

But the first time you met him was after Sam dragged you along to some post-mission get-together. You’d shown up in jeans and paint-splattered sneakers, balancing a tray of cookies you made as a thank-you for Sam’s team. You didn’t expect to be introduced to an actual super-soldier who looked like he'd walked out of a noir film.

“This is Bucky,” Sam introduced. “He’s… well. He’s Bucky.”

Bucky gave you a once-over, subtle but obvious. His gaze lingered on you, not in a sleazy way. It was more curious, like he was trying to figure out what exactly he’d just stumbled across.

You offered your hand. “Hi.”

“Hey,” He said, slow and warm, and ignored your hand completely to take the tray from you instead. “Let me help with that.”

Sam narrowed his eyes like Bucky had just proposed marriage.

That was three days ago since you’ve been staying at Sam’s apartment, took over his kitchen, and used his good conditioner without remorse. That was before Bucky Barnes started hovering.

And it wasn’t subtle either.

Not when he “just happened to be jogging by” every morning at the same time you went out to drink your morning tea. Not when he invited himself over under the guise of helping Sam with some mission reports, but never once looked at Sam’s laptop. And definitely not when he started flirting.

“Can I ask you something?” You said to Sam one morning, stirring coffee with the spoon you used to flip pancakes because his kitchen was chaos.

He looked up from his phone. “Please don’t.”

You ignored that. “Does your friend Bucky have… a thing for baking?”

Sam frowned. “No?”

“He asked me if I had a favorite kind of muffin yesterday.”

Sam let out a noise halfway between a groan and a whimper.

You weren’t stupid though.

You knew what flirting looked like. You also knew the difference between harmless, one-off flattery and the kind of focused attention that felt like gravity. The kind where someone lingered in a room a little longer than necessary. Where they asked questions just to keep you talking. Where they looked at you like they were memorizing your laugh.

It continued with a glance here, a comment there, him helping carry things you didn’t ask him to, or sitting beside you even when there were five other empty seats in the room. It was him genuinely laughing at something stupid you said, the kind of laugh that sounded like it surprised even him.

The worst part? You liked it.

The actual worst part? Sam noticed.

He knew the way Bucky looked at you when he thought no one was watching. And worse, he knew exactly what that look meant. It wasn’t just a passing crush or a one-time occurrence. It was Bucky Barnes leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching you laugh like it was the only sound that mattered. It was the way his jaw relaxed when you entered a room or how his eyes tracked your movements like he couldn’t help it. It was… annoying.

“You’re not slick,” Sam muttered to Bucky one night while you were in the kitchen trying to fix his unreliable blender with the end of a fork and more optimism than sense.

Bucky raised a brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re about five seconds from writing poetry about my best friend, Barnes.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Would she like that?”

Sam squinted like he was doing mental math on how far he could launch a grown super-soldier out the window without causing a citywide panic. “Don’t test me.”

Now, it was the fifth morning in a row Bucky showed up at Sam’s place under some other flimsy excuse, "forgot my phone charger," "needed to talk about logistics," "just in the neighborhood"; when Sam finally snapped.

“You don’t live in this neighborhood,” Sam exasperatedly pointed out while watching Bucky lean against your side of the kitchen counter, far too interested in how you flipped pancakes.

Bucky just smiled. “Neighborhood’s growing on me.”

You tried to stay focused on pouring batter, ignoring the buzz in your stomach.

Sam dragged his palm down his face. “What are you even doing? What is this energy?”

“I’m being friendly.”

“You don’t even like pancakes.”

“I like watching her make them.”

You almost dropped the bowl.

Sam stared at the two of you like he was trying to will time to rewind. “Oh, come on. You asked her about muffins. What’s next? Croissants? Scones? Should I just send you a spreadsheet of her entire pastry hierarchy?”

“I’d actually really appreciate that,” Bucky said, without missing a beat.

You didn’t mean to smile. You really didn’t, but it snuck up before you could stop it, and Bucky saw. You felt him see it too in the way his gaze dropped for just a second to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, and that grin of his turned slow and sharp, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Sam caught it too. And that’s when he groaned: loud and theatrical, like a man who had just seen the train wreck coming but couldn’t stop it.

“Do not fall for him,” He said, stabbing a finger toward you without looking away from Bucky. “He’s like one of those stray cats that shows up all mangled and broody, and then suddenly it’s living in your house and you’re buying it furniture.”

Bucky looked utterly unbothered. “Furniture sounds nice.”

“I swear to God, Barnes–”

Later that evening after Bucky finally left, after Sam made sure to escort him to the door and linger dramatically to make sure he left like a sitcom dad, you curled up on the couch with your tea while Sam dropped beside you with a grunt.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment as he simply stared ahead. Then:

“I know that look.”

You blinked. “What look?”

“The ‘I might like him’ look. You had it last time before that disaster with the musician who couldn’t commit to a city, much less a relationship was around.”

“Hey, he was talented.”

“He played a kazoo, and you cried for three weeks.”

You let out a quiet snort. “Bucky’s not a kazoo guy.”

“No. He’s a hundred-something-year-old supersoldier.”

You sipped your tea. “Better resume, honestly.”-

Sam didn’t laugh.

He just stared at you for a long moment like he was trying to Jedi mind trick the feelings out of your system. Then he mumbled something under his breath about “cleaning his knives in front of people” and got up to go brood in the kitchen.

After that night, things got weird.

Not between you and Bucky; no, that got more interesting. But Sam? He went full protective-big-brother mode.

At first, it showed up in subtle, small ways. He started inviting other people over whenever Bucky was around. Made sure you were never alone in a room together for too long. Talked louder than necessary when Bucky so much as looked at you across the room. You’d catch him squinting at Bucky during casual conversation like he was watching a lion pretend to be a housecat.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, but he started shifting tactics. He stopped being obvious. No more flirting over pancakes. No more charming smirks while standing too close. No. Instead, he got… stealthy.

Sometimes it would be a glance across the room when Sam’s back was turned, a brush of fingers when he passed you something, or a low comment murmured too close to your ear when no one else could hear.

For example, you were sorting through some of your art supplies in Sam’s living room one day when Bucky leaned over your shoulder and said quietly:

“You know, you always get paint on your hands when you’re focused. I like watching what you make.”

You froze, paintbrush in your hand. “Bucky…”

He smiled, too innocent. “Sam’s in the shower.”

Then he walked off like he hadn’t just set your pulse skipping. You didn’t even notice Sam coming back into the room until he cleared his throat sharply.

“You two good?”

You turned quickly, too quickly. “Yep. Fine. Great.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. Bucky was suddenly very interested on the plant near the window.

After that, it became a game.

A terrible, wonderful game of secret smiles and low-voiced compliments, hidden under Sam’s ever-watchful eye. If Sam left the room? Bucky found a reason to be at your side. If you both reached for something at the same time? His fingers brushed yours, lingering just a little too long.

You weren’t sure if it was more fun because it was secret, or if it was just Bucky. Probably both.

But eventually, it got to the point where Bucky started getting more bold.

Like the time you were out with both of them for tacos and Bucky leaned across the table with a warm, playful look and asked if you wanted to try the salsa. It wasn’t a big deal, really. He just scooped some onto his chip and held it out to you. But it was soft somehow, gentle in a way that felt uncharacteristic for the man who regularly punched things for a living.

You met his gaze, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“This a trick?”

“Maybe.”

Still, you took the chip and still, you ate it.

Sam watched the entire exchange like someone who had just discovered mold growing in his favorite hoodie.

“I will bury you in the desert,” He told Bucky flatly, chewing.

“I’m just sharing,” Bucky said innocently, licking a bit of salsa from his thumb.

“That’s not sharing. That’s foreplay.”

Bucky coughed. You nearly choked on your taco.

Later that week, Bucky caught you alone on the back fire escape, curled up with a sketchpad and a cup of tea. The city buzzed below, but up here it felt distant, quiet. You didn’t look up when you heard the sound of boots behind you. You knew it was him.

“You’re brave,” You said calmly, flipping a page.

“How so?”

“Sam told me if he caught you flirting with me again, he’d replace all your shampoo with glitter glue.”

There was a pause and then a quiet chuckle as he sat beside you.

“That explains why he handed me a Target bag this morning and told me I ‘might need a new hair routine soon.’”

You grinned. “He’s ‘subtle’ like that.”

You felt his gaze more than you saw it; heavy, focused, and thoughtful. You turned a little, looking him over in the soft orange haze of the sunset.

“You gonna keep doing this?” You asked.

He tilted his head. “Doing what?”

“Waiting until he leaves the room to flirt with me?”

He hummed, gaze flicking to your lips and back to your eyes.

“Only if it keeps you curious.”

You blinked. “What if I already am?”

This time, he didn’t answer right away. He just smiled, slow and secretive, the kind that made your breath catch.

And when Sam opened the window behind you and shouted something about needing help with a stubborn light fixture, Bucky stood without a word… but as he passed, he let his fingers brush yours again.

Barely there, but enough. Enough to keep you thinking.

And then came the fateful day where it all fell apart.

It wasn’t like you and Bucky had planned to get caught.

If anything, you’d been careful, ridiculously careful, thanks to Sam and his constant hovering, his random walk-ins, his overly casual “just checking in!” texts whenever Bucky was over for more than fifteen minutes and he wasn’t there to supervise.

But this particular afternoon, Sam had gone out. Grocery run, he said. Be back in an hour, he said.

You and Bucky lasted twenty-seven minutes before you found yourselves tangled up in your own personal storm cloud on Sam’s worn-out couch; laughter breathless, limbs intertwined, and his hand cupped gently at the back of your neck while yours tugged at the collar of his shirt like you couldn’t quite get him close enough.

It wasn’t scandalous really. No clothes had been removed, but the tension was unmistakable. Warm, quiet, and crackling. You’d just pulled back from a kiss that made your knees weak when–

The door opened.

And Sam Wilson walked in with a paper bag of apples and immediate betrayal on his face.

You and Bucky both froze. Sam didn’t.

He shut the door slowly, set the bag on the counter, and stared at the two of you with the expression of someone watching his car roll off a cliff in slow motion. There was about five seconds of silence before he exhaled and pointed accusingly.

“On my couch?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Bucky looked like a kid caught sneaking out past curfew, but with far less shame.

Sam walked over in three deliberate steps and leaned down toward Bucky like he was about to deliver the wrath of God himself.

“I told you,” He said slowly, voice dangerously low. “I warned you repeatedly. Threats were made.”

Bucky blinked. “Technically, there was no formal ban on kissing.”

Sam stared at him, mouth open.

You tried to help. “We weren’t— I mean, we were, but not in a—it wasn’t—” You stopped and sighed. “Okay, yeah. I got nothing.”

Sam shifted his focus onto you, eyes narrowing.

“I trusted you,” He stated and began pacing to the other side of the room. “I let you in my kitchen, I shared my Netflix password, and this is how you repay me.”

Bucky crossed his arms, calm as ever; but you stood up, heart still thudding, and cheeks warm. “Sam.”

“No.”

“Sam, come on–“

“I don’t need the visual,” He snapped, turning around and pointing between the two of you. “I don’t need that visual burned into my brain. You were on the couch.”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s a good couch.”

You smacked his arm.

Sam looked to the ceiling like he was asking the universe why it hated him personally. “This is like if your best friend starts dating your sister while you’re in the room. No warning. Just–bam. Tongue action.”

Bucky tried and failed to stifle a laugh.

Sam turned to him, glaring. “You,” He began. “Are lucky you’re not six inches shorter. Because if you were, I’d knock your metal ass out on principle.”

Bucky tilted his head, amused. “You could try now if it’d help.”

You stepped between them before Sam could launch into a full big-brother tantrum. Your hand touched his arm, and to your surprise, he deflated just a little at your touch.

“Hey,” You said softly. “I’m not some kid you have to protect from boys with bad intentions. I’m not fragile. And Bucky’s not–”

“…Trying to hurt you,” Sam finished with a sigh. “I know. I know that.”

There was a pause. You waited.

“But I swear, if he breaks your heart,” Sam continued, looking Bucky square in the eye, “I will make it my personal mission to invent new ways of non-lethal pain.”

Bucky’s face softened a little. “Fair enough.”

Sam finally looked at you again. “And maybe next time don’t let him charm you on the couch I take naps on?”

You smiled, sheepish. “Noted.”

There was another long beat.

And then, like the dramatic sitcom character he absolutely was, Sam waved a hand and headed toward the kitchen.

“I’m gonna go make tea and pretend I didn’t walk in on that. You two figure out if this is real or just hormonal chaos.”

As he walked away, Bucky leaned close, his voice low in your ear.

“That went better than I expected.”

You snorted. “He threatened to invent new forms of pain.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t throw me out the window.”

You gave him a look. “Yet.”

Taglist: @yasmin12312 @herejustforbuckybarnes @wingstoyourdreams @figtreesandmoonlight @happygalaxymilkshake

[lvnleah]

zoo adventures | mary earps.

first mary fic, specifically for @earpskeeper 😌

Dating wasn’t what you expected it to be but when it came to Mary, things just came effortlessly. She accepted you for you and didn’t care, she loved you and that’s all that mattered. 

But what mattered even more was the fact that she didn’t care that you had two young kids. Dating as a mum was hard. You’d been on endless dates and when the topic of your kids came up, the conversation quickly became uneasy but with Mary, it wasn’t like that. 

Your little boy, Noah, was five and your little girl, Ivy, was one and a half. They were your whole world. Your wife carried Noah but you carried Ivy. Things don’t go to plan during your pregnancy. 

When you were six months pregnant, your whole world came crashing down. Maya had gone out one day to do a food shop but because of a drunk reckless driver she never returned home. She got in a car crash, her car was run off of the road and she died instantly. 

It ruined your life. 

You became a single mother, something you had never imagined you’d have to do. Now, just over two years later, you felt ready to start dating again. 

You had met Mary when Ivy was six months old. At first, you were just friends, you didn’t want to dive into anything too soon after Maya’s death. It had been almost a year since Maya had passed that you and Mary made things official. 

You felt the happiest you had in a long time. 

Mary never tried to erase Maya from your life, in fact, she encouraged you to talk about her and keep her memory going. On your first date, she didn’t shy away from the topic of your kids. 

In fact, she was the most interested in you being a mother than out of any of the girls you had been on dates with. Mary loved to hear about your kids, she loved to see the way your face lit up when you got to talk about your babies. 

Mary had never met your kids. You’d kept that boundary firm for a long time, not because you didn’t trust her, but because your children had already endured enough. You needed to be sure. Not just of Mary, but of yourself, of your heart, of the space you were finally ready to let someone into.

But recently, the conversation had shifted. You and Mary had been together officially for nearly a year now, and it felt right. It felt natural. The way she made you laugh, the way she let you cry when the grief still hit too hard, the way she never flinched when Maya’s name came up in passing. She never asked for more than you could give. 

So, you brought it up with Noah.

He knew Mary as “Mummy’s special friend.” You hadn’t hidden her. She was just a presence in your life he was aware of but not fully involved with. When you sat him down and told him Mary might come to the zoo with you one day soon, his eyes lit up.

“She likes football, right?” he asked immediately, bouncing on the sofa.

You smiled. “She does.”

“Can I show her my new boots? I got the red ones. Like Saka. She likes Arsenal, yeah?”

“I don’t know if she likes Arsenal, bubba” You laughed. “But she’d love to see your new boots!”

Noah was sold. He was five which meant he was curious, clever and endlessly chatty. You knew if Mary could handle even half of what came out of his mouth, she’d do just fine.

The day at the zoo quickly arrived. That morning, Mary flooded your phone with texts. It was anything from what she should wear to how the kids were and if they’d like her. You’d never seen her so nervous.  

You tried to send reassuring texts between wrangling Ivy into her high chair for breakfast and trying to get Noah to narrow down what toys to bring with you.

When you arrived at the zoo, Mary was already waiting by the entrance, pacing slightly and checking her watch in that way she always did when she was overthinking something.

You spotted her instantly, and your heart did that familiar little flutter, the one that still caught you by surprise, even now. She had her hair pulled back, sunglasses perched on her head, and a tote bag slung over one shoulder that looked suspiciously overstuffed.

You had Ivy in the pram, chewing on a teething toy, and Noah walking beside you with one hand clutching yours and the other gripping a small toy car. His chatter had quieted as soon as the zoo came into view, nerves setting in. As you got closer, he slowed down, then slipped behind your leg, peeking out at Mary from the safety of your side.

Mary noticed immediately, her smile turning softer as she crouched down slightly without getting too close.

“Hello! You must be Noah,” she said crouching down to Noah’s height, “Your Mummy’s told me a lot about you!”

Noah just hid behind your leg, slightly peeking around it as he curiously looked at Mary. He looked up at you, as if he was looking for permission to speak to Mary or to find out if she was okay or not. 

“It’s okay, bubba,” You said, crouching down beside him with your hand on his back, “You can say hello to Mary, remember I told you she was coming with us to the zoo?”

He shyly smiled, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, “Hi Mary.” He said with a small whisper.

“Hey, little man!” She smiled back, reaching out to tickle his stomach which drew a laugh from him. “Do you wanna know a secret?”

That caught Noah’s attention and he finally pulled his head out from the crook of your neck, “Yeah, I wanna know!” He smiled, his voice a tiny bit louder. 

Mary grinned and leaned in like she was about to share the biggest secret in the world. “I brought jelly babies,” she whispered, like it was classified information. “But you’ve got to help me eat them before the penguins find out!”

Noah’s eyes widened. “Penguins eat jelly babies?”

“They might,” she said with a wink, “I heard they’re sneaky like that!”

He giggled, looking up at you for confirmation. You just smiled, brushing his curls back gently. “I told you she was funny, didn’t I?”

Mary stood up slowly, giving Noah a moment to adjust, and then reached into that overstuffed tote bag hanging off her shoulder. 

“Actually,” she said, glancing at you quickly as if to make sure this was okay, “I brought something else too. For you both.”

Noah watched curiously as she pulled out a small, soft football-shaped Jellycat teddy. It was red and white with tiny stitched boots and the cutest, most ridiculous little eyes.

“I saw this and thought of you,” she said, crouching again to hold it out to him. “Think he might like watching the giraffes too!”

Noah looked at you again, uncertain for a moment, and you nodded gently. “It’s okay, bub. You can take it.”

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the plush fabric before gripping it properly and pulling it into his chest like it was something rare and precious. “Thank you,” he said, soft but clear. “I love it!”

Mary smiled so wide you thought her face might split. “I’m glad.”

Then she turned to Ivy, who was now sitting forward in her pram, her eyes big and fixed on the bag, as if she instinctively knew something else was coming. Mary chuckled and reached in again, pulling out a pastel pink dragon with shimmery wings and soft felt horns.

“And for you, little madam,” she said, crouching once more. “A dragon to guard your snacks!”

Ivy let out a delighted squeal and kicked her legs. Mary held it out and, without hesitation, Ivy snatched it from her hands and immediately stuffed one wing into her mouth.

“She loves it,” you said with a smile, a little lump forming in your throat. “It’s not often that little miss is pleased easily.”

Mary reached forward and tickled Ivy’s tummy gently, drawing a happy babble from your daughter, and then stood to face you. “I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”

“You could’ve shown up with just yourself and they still would’ve loved you,” you said honestly, your voice quiet enough that only she could hear it.

She gave you a look. It was soft, grateful, a little overwhelmed and then nodded once. “Still… wanted them to know I thought about them.”

You smiled, brushing your hand briefly over hers before nodding towards the zoo gates. “Let’s go then. We’ve got goats to meet.”

As the three of you made your way inside, Noah still holding Mary’s hand and his new teddy under his arm, Ivy chewing on her dragon’s wing like it was made of gold, you felt something shift. Just a little. Just enough.

Inside the zoo, Noah clung tightly to his new teddy, chattering about penguins and lions while you pushed the buggy up the gravel path toward the farmyard area. Mary walked slightly ahead with Noah’s hand in hers, reading the signs out loud in an animated voice for Noah’s benefit. 

She pointed out the “Tractor Trail” and “Cow Corner,” making exaggerated gasps that earned shy giggles from your little boy. When you reached the pen where the goats were, Noah’s eyes widened in awe while Ivy immediately let out a quiet, uncertain whimper from her pram.

Mary clocked it instantly. “You okay, little miss?” she asked gently, crouching to Ivy’s level. 

Ivy looked at her, then at the goats, then back at you and whined, holding out her arms in that tired, overwhelmed way she did when she wasn’t sure of something.

“She’s not the biggest fan of goats,” you said, scooping her into your arms as she nuzzled into your chest. “Noah’s the braver one.”

Mary grinned and turned toward him. “Think you’re brave enough to feed them, superhero?”

Noah looked up at you, then back at Mary, his face all nerves and excitement. “Can I?”

Mary nodded. “You bet! Hang on.”

She jogged over to the little machine near the pen and came back with a small paper cup filled with feed pellets. She held it out for him but stayed close, careful not to overwhelm him.

You stood just back from the fence, bouncing Ivy gently on your hip as Mary showed Noah how to hold his palm flat. He giggled the first time a goat’s tongue brushed against him, then squealed when another one tried to climb the fence. 

Mary laughed too, steadying the cup for him and making funny commentary about each goat’s name and what ridiculous things they probably ate for breakfast. You watched quietly. Ivy clung to your shirt, her dragon tucked under one arm and a thumb in her mouth, but her eyes stayed fixed on Mary and her brother.

Halfway through the zoo, the novelty began to wear off.

The midday sun was making Noah pink in the cheeks, and the crowds were getting busier. You were pushing the buggy with one hand while the other held Ivy, who’d started squirming, overtired but stubborn. And then came the voice.

“Mummyyyyy,” Noah whined at your side, dragging his feet. “I can’t see!”

“I know, baby, I know. It’s really busy.”

He tried to edge in beside you, but the buggy and your full arms made it impossible. He started to huff, his little body tense, and you knew what was coming. You saw all the songs from the crumpling face to the wobbling lip.

 A full meltdown was seconds away.

Before you could say anything, Mary stepped in. “Hey, buddy. Want a better view?”

Noah looked up at her, uncertain. His fingers gripped the football teddy tightly.

She crouched slightly, eye level again. “I could lift you up, if you’re okay with that? You’d be able to see everything from up there.”

He looked at you, wide-eyed. You nodded gently, smoothing a hand over his curls. “It’s okay, bubba. If you want to but you don’t have to.”

After a pause, he gave the smallest nod.

Mary smiled, “Alright! Hold on tight, yeah?”

She hoisted him up onto her shoulders with a small playful grunt, steadying his legs and gripping his ankles lightly. “Look at that view!” she said, spinning in a slow circle as Noah laughed, the whine gone completely.

He beamed down at you from his perch. “I can see the giraffes now, Mummy!”

“I told you she was strong,” you said, grinning up at him.

Mary carried him like that for the next hour. Through the aviary, past the lemurs, around the edge of the chimpanzee trail. He pointed things out to her, leaned down to whisper animal facts he half-remembered from school, and by the time you found a shaded bench to stop for lunch, he’d completely forgotten how to be shy.

You sat the kids down for sandwiches. Noah dove into his, telling Mary about the time he got chased by a goose at a park. Ivy, however, wasn’t having any of it. She rubbed her fists in her eyes and whined from the pram, twisting her body toward you.

“She’s done,” you sighed, crouching to unbuckle her. “Too tired to sit, too stubborn to sleep.”

“Want me to take her for a bit?” Mary asked, “You could eat your lunch then, I’m done with mine.”

You hesitated for a second. Not because you didn’t trust her, but because you knew how particular Ivy could be. She could go from cuddly to chaos in under thirty seconds if the hold wasn’t exactly right.

But you were exhausted. And your arms ached. And Mary just looked so calm.

“Sure,” you said softly. “If she lets you.”

Mary reached over the table, arms open. “Hey, little miss. Wanna cuddle?”

Ivy blinked sleepily, then leaned into her. Just like that. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You watched, a little stunned, as Mary settled her onto her lap. Ivy’s head dropped almost immediately to her chest. Two minutes later, she was asleep, a soft snore escaping past the thumb in her mouth.

You looked at Mary, wide-eyed. “How did you do that?”

Mary shrugged one shoulder, careful not to jostle her. “I'm a baby whisperer.”

You laughed, full and honest. You sat back, watching your little girl sleep in Mary’s arms, your little boy beside you finishing the crust of his sandwich, and for the first time in so long, the future didn’t feel like something to fear.

After lunch, the zoo was less busy. You’d found a quiet bench near a duck pond where Noah ran up and down, pointing at all the ducks. Mary was still holding Ivy, this time though she was strapped to Mary’s chest in the carrier. 

You smiled, watching the rise and fall of your daughter’s chest as she settled into the carrier like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like Mary had done it a hundred times.

“She’s fussy about who holds her when she’s tired,” you said, almost to yourself.

Mary just smiled. “She knows who’s a good cuddler then.”

You began walking again after lunch, the path looping around toward the elephants. Noah insisted on leading the way, bouncing a few feet ahead as he narrated every animal fact he could remember from the posters. But by the time you got halfway there, the excitement had worn off and the heat had caught up with him.

You saw it happen slowly, the dragging feet, the little frown, the way he started trailing behind rather than ahead.

“Mummy,” he whined, tugging at your arm. “My legs hurt.”

He didn’t argue, but his lip started to wobble, and you knew a full tantrum was about ten seconds away.

“I know bubs, I know,” you sighed, “Do you want to get into the pram?”

He nodded with a tired frown, “Okay then, hop in.” You smiled. 

He tiredly climbed into the pram, a little pout on his face. As you continued around the zoo, past the elephants, the lions, the monkeys swinging like chaos, it didn’t escape you how natural it all felt. 

How Mary chatted to Noah when he perked back up. She knew when to leave you to handle a fussy moment, and when to step in gently. How Ivy, your clingy little girl, hadn’t even stirred once in Mary’s arms.

By the time you made it to the gift shop at the end of the trail, Noah had perked up enough to climb out of the buggy again. He walked beside Mary this time, not in front, asking her questions about animals and telling her about his football boots again.

“Ivy needs something too,” he said seriously once you got inside. “She didn’t see the lions!”

“She was having a lion nap,” Mary said with a grin, shifting Ivy slightly in the carrier.

Eventually, Noah picked out a soft yellow duck for Ivy. “It’s like the ones at the pond. She likes ducks.”

You ran your hand over his curls. “She’s gonna love it, baby.”

Ivy remained out cold against Mary’s chest until you gently transferred her into the car seat, her duck tucked beside her. Noah climbed into his seat without protest, one hand still holding the red and white football teddy from earlier.

You shut the car door gently behind you before turning to Mary, “Thank you for giving them such a good day.”

Her hands made their way down to your hips as you leaned against the car, “Anytime, they’re great kids.”

You smirked before reaching up to place a kiss on her lips, one which lingered longer than usual, “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all day.”

Mary smiled softly against your lips, “Well, maybe we should do this more often,” she teased, brushing a stray curl behind your ear.

“I don’t think Noah or Ivy would mind either,” you murmured.

For a moment, the world around you, the tired kids, the sticky heat, the lingering day, slipped away, and it was just the two of you.

Then, with a little sigh, you straightened and glanced back toward the car. “I should get these two home before they both crash completely.”

Mary nodded, fingers still entwined with yours. “Yeah, but next time? Let’s make it a whole weekend. Maybe a little camping trip?”

You grinned, “Deal. But only if you promise to deal with the tantrums, you seem to be a baby whisperer.”

Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Only if you promise to keep kissing me like that.”

[suliigwp]

YOU'VE BEEN—GETTING TO ME LATELY

max verstappen x reader | fluff?, part two

SULI: Part two is here! Omg suli writing adults acting like adults?🙀 Hope you guys like this and the next fic I post will be tronabs next chapter🫶🫶🫶

SUMMARY: You and Max find that the world didn't end when you were nineteen and dumb. Part one here!

WORD COUNT: 6,904

WARNINGS: little swearing, tiny mentions of sexual acts, y/n usage.

The email came at 9:42 AM.

She was halfway through her second coffee, a pencil between her teeth, red ink bleeding across a contract in her lap. Her phone buzzed once — then again — then lit up with the subject line:

Welcome to the FIA Legal Counsel Program – Assigned Placement: Red Bull Racing.

She blinked.

Once.Twice.

Then she slowly lowered her coffee to the desk, rereading the words.

Red Bull Racing.

Red.

Bull.

Fucking. Racing.

The same team she used to watch at seventeen. The same garage she once stood outside of when she was nineteen.

The name still sat bitter in the back of her throat, like the taste of old smoke.

When she arrived at the paddock for the first time, everything felt too loud.

Her heels clicked against the concrete walkways, her team lanyard bounced against her tailored blazer, and the world of Formula 1 swallowed her whole in a matter of seconds.

She kept her gaze forward. Poised. Confident.

Because she didn’t come here to chase ghosts.

She came to do her job — clean contracts, keep the media in check, ensure no dumb lawsuit turned headlines during a championship year.

“You must be the new legal rep,” someone said, offering a hand. “Y/n, right?”

She shook it firmly. “That’s me.”

“We’ve had... a few characters in this role before. Hopefully you’re not another one.”

She smirked. “I bite back, but only when bitten first.”

They laughed. She didn’t.

By mid-afternoon, her badge was cleared, her email connected, and her files organized on a Red Bull–branded tablet. She was already scanning through NDAs when she heard a familiar voice outside the makeshift media room.

The Red Bull garage smelled the same.

Burnt rubber. Warm metal. Engine oil and heat and tension laced into the walls like wallpaper.

It was louder than she remembered. Or maybe she was just more aware of the noise now — the radios crackling, the air compressors hissing, the drone of dozens of conversations happening at once.

Y/n stood just off to the side of the garage’s back offices, tablet in hand, arms folded neatly, blazer sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her badge sat against her chest on a Red Bull–branded lanyard. She hadn’t touched this world in years — not since she was nineteen and too tangled in it to see straight.

Now, at twenty-five, she was here again. Not as a guest. Not as someone’s problem.

As counsel.

FIA Legal Counsel Placement Program. A six-month rotational internship across several F1 teams.

She’d applied thinking she might end up with a midfield team. Maybe Sauber. Maybe Haas.

She hadn’t expected this. Red Bull. His team.

Of all the garages in the world.

She stood perfectly still. Professional. Controlled.

A laminated folder was tucked under her arm — onboarding notes, contact sheets, release forms. The screen of her tablet glowed faintly in the afternoon light, displaying a digital contract. Simple clause addition. Routine. The kind of formality they barely blinked at.

“Driver's on his way,” someone called over their shoulder as they passed. “Media release clause needs signing before press.”

She nodded once. Crisp. “It’s ready.”

And then she heard it — not his voice, but the way the air shifted. Like gravity adjusting. A silence beneath the noise.

He stepped through the back garage entrance, towel slung around his neck, Red Bull polo slightly damp from sim training. Head down, talking to a race engineer — until someone pointed.

“There. She’s got it.”

Max followed the motion.

And his eyes found her.

Still. Sharp. Hesitation locked between his brows for just a moment.

Then he walked forward.

The last time she’d seen him in person, they we're yelling at each other like it was the only thing keeping them alive.

Now he was coming straight toward her with a signature to give and no reason to speak.

“Legal?” he asked, voice flatter than she remembered. Neutral.

“Y/n,” she corrected calmly. “FIA Legal Placement. Assigned to Red Bull until Singapore.”

She didn’t offer her hand.

Just extended the tablet toward him, already preloaded to the clause in question.

He reached for it — paused for a heartbeat — then took it.

She watched as he skimmed it.

“This is the revised media clause?”

“Yes. Covers third-party publication rights and image reproduction, effective immediately. It’s standard.”

He nodded once. Didn’t say anything. His thumb hovered over the e-signature box.

Then he signed. Clean. Precise.

He handed the tablet back.

“You’ll need copies?”

“They’re automatically sent to team PR and the FIA archive,” she replied. “I’ll flag you if anything new gets added.”

A pause. Just long enough to register.

Max looked like he might say something else. But then — he didn’t.

His mouth opened slightly, then shut.

Y/n cleared her throat gently. “Is there anything further you need from legal before media?”

“No. That’s it.”

“Understood.”

She took one step back. A formal nod.

“Have a good session, Mr. Verstappen.”

His expression twitched.

“Max is fine.”

She gave the smallest smile — the kind people use in courtrooms when they’re winning.

“Noted.”

And then she turned and walked away — her steps quiet, controlled, like she couldn’t feel the burn still pulsing just beneath her skin.

…

The paddock had quieted by evening.

Most of the staff had cleared out after post-session debriefs, the lights in the Red Bull garage dimmed to standby mode. Outside, the sunset bled gold across the concrete, casting long shadows over empty pit boxes and tire stacks.

Y/n was still at her workstation — a temporary desk set up inside the operations trailer, stacked with contracts, review notes, and a cold coffee she’d forgotten to drink. Her blazer was draped over the back of the chair, heels kicked off under the desk.

She was halfway through redlining a sponsor clause when a knock rapped softly against the doorframe.

She looked up. Her heart didn’t race — not visibly. But her hand paused mid-line.

Max leaned one shoulder against the door. Black hoodie. Joggers. His hair damp, probably from a shower after sim debriefs. There was something strangely casual about it. Like he wasn’t still the most talked-about man on the grid.

“Hey,” he said. “You busy?”

She blinked at him. Then flicked her eyes toward her screen, then back.

“Kind of.”

“It won’t take long.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just stepped in and closed the door behind him with a soft click. The tiny space suddenly felt smaller.

She sat straighter. Cleared her throat. “Is this about the media clause?”

“No. It’s... kind of related.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”

Max scratched the back of his neck. A familiar tic. One she used to call out when they were kids playing at love.

“You mentioned something about third-party rights,” he said, avoiding her gaze just enough to make it obvious. “Is that like... photo tags? Or just licensing?”

Her mouth twitched. He knew what it meant. Of course he did. He’d signed hundreds of these. But she didn’t call him on it.

“It’s about usage rights,” she said. “Any footage or photos the team captures can be sold or repurposed — ads, promos, stuff like that. It’s standard.”

He nodded. “Right. Thought so.”

She let the silence hang.

“Was that all?”

Max shifted his weight. Looked around the trailer like he’d never been inside it before. His eyes landed on the open file beside her.

“You’re really organized,” he murmured.

“You’re bad at pretending this is about legal questions.”

That made him smile — small, lopsided, surprised.

She hated how familiar it still felt. How warm it used to make her chest.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe I didn’t come just for that.”

“Shocking.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t know you were coming here,” he said quietly.

Y/n closed her laptop lid with a soft click. Leaned back.

“Neither did I. It was a placement. They assigned me after Silverstone.”

“You think they knew?”

“Probably.” She gave a dry laugh. “But I signed the contract anyway. Didn’t seem like a good enough reason to say no.”

“Still,” he said. “Kind of a weird reunion.”

She folded her arms. “Weirder than you showing up at my desk asking about image rights?”

That earned a quiet chuckle. “Fair.”

There was a moment then — not long, but not short either. Where he looked at her and she looked back, and neither of them said what they were clearly thinking.

Then—

“You look good,” he said, almost like it slipped out.

Her pulse kicked. She looked at him, he kept her gaze.

Y/n exhaled slowly. Her voice, when it came, was level.

“You too. The championships suit you. Congratulations, by the way.”

He nodded in silent thank you.

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t sit heavy on his shoulders some days.

“I saw your name on the bar results last year,” he said. “You trended for a bit.”

She tilted her head. “You googled me?”

“No. Someone sent it. Couldn’t miss it if I tried.”

“Right. Must’ve been awful for you.”

His smile tugged again, crooked. “It wasn’t awful.”

“Hm.”

Another silence. This one... gentler.

He stepped forward just slightly. Not close enough to cross a line. But enough to notice. To remind her that they used to stand a lot closer than this. In darker rooms. With a lot fewer clothes.

“This is weird,” he said.

“Very.”

“But not as bad as I thought it’d be.”

“Same.”She nodded once, slow and quiet.

“We’re older now,” she said. “A little less reckless.”

Max let out a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She looked over at him, and for a second, neither of them said anything. There was something there, buried in the silence — not anger, not regret. Just history. The kind that doesn’t ask to be named.

Then, softer:

“I’m not angry anymore,” she said. “Haven’t been for a while.”

Max didn’t respond immediately.

But when he looked at her, it was different this time — more direct. Like he finally let himself acknowledge what he was looking at.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”

The pause that followed wasn’t tense. It just… was. Heavy with what they didn’t say. What they weren’t ready to revisit.

“We were young,” she murmured.

“And stupid,” he added.

She gave the smallest nod. “You especially.”

That made his mouth twitch — barely. But he didn’t argue.

“We handled everything wrong,” she said after a second. Not accusing. Just honest.

“Yeah,” he said. “We did.”

No apology. No explanation. Just mutual recognition. Like survivors of the same wreck.

Something shifted then — not closure, but maybe something close to calm.

Max pushed away from the desk, straightening.

He glanced at her desk again. At the open folder, the legal pad covered in scribbles.

“Well. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Appreciated.”

He moved toward the door, hand resting on the handle — then stopped.

“If it ever gets... I don’t know. Too weird. Let me know.”

She met his eyes. “You too.”

He nodded once.

Then pushed the door open, the hallway light spilling across the floor.

“Good night, y/n.”

“Night, Max.”

And just like that, he was gone.

She didn’t let herself move for a few seconds.

Didn’t let herself think too hard about the way her name sounded in his voice again.

Then she opened her laptop and went back to work — as if her hands weren’t shaking.

…

The van was cramped.

It always was during race weekends — a rotating mess of PR reps, engineers, comms staff, and whoever else needed to be shuttled between the paddock and the track hotel. Today, they’d crammed seven people into a vehicle made for five. Middle seats squished, bags tossed under legs, knees bumping, elbows tucked awkwardly to avoid full-on war.

Y/n slid in last, her blazer folded neatly in her lap, laptop bag clutched tight to her side.

She took the far left of the third row, back seat. Pressed up against the window. She’d assumed the empty space beside her would stay that way.

Then Max climbed in.

He didn’t say anything — just nodded once, gave a polite enough smile to the intern sitting near the door, and wedged himself into the spot next to her like he hadn’t once had her legs over his shoulders.

Their arms brushed immediately. There was no avoiding it. His thigh pressed against hers every time the driver took a turn too sharp.

Y/n shifted. Just slightly. Enough to create the illusion of space without making it obvious.

He didn’t move.

She stared ahead. At the back of the headrest in front of her. She could feel him glance sideways once or twice, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

Ten minutes into the ride, someone up front cracked a joke — something about one of the Red Bull mechanics and his “mystery blonde from Monaco.” It spiraled quickly into a string of stories. Flings. Exes. Drunken regrets.

“Tell me you saw Nico sneaking out of La Rascasse with that mystery blonde in Monaco!”

The middle-row engineer barked a laugh.

“Mystery? She was filmed on three fan cams. Nico’s doomed.”

PR manager Jen chimed in:

“Guys, if there isn’t an NDA, I don’t want to hear it.”

Nico, somewhere in the middle seat, groaned:

“No NDA, Just pain.”

Laughter filled the van. Someone launched into a competition of worst situationships:

“I once ghosted a girl and found out she was our tyre rep’s niece.”

“Please, I ended up at a wedding seated next to my ex’s new fiancée.”

“Top that? I accidentally texted my ex a voice note rant—meant for my therapist.”

The stories rolled on—names omitted, embarrassment shared.

“Okay, wait—” someone in the middle row cut in, laughter still bubbling, “I’ve got the worst one. Listen.”

The whole van went quiet, waiting.

“It was uni. I hooked up with this guy for like... eight months. We weren't dating, we weren't friends. Thought I was over it until we both showed up working the same internship two years later.”

A collective groan rippled through the van.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she replied, grinning. “Same office, same meetings, same everything. And of course, he walks in like it was all ancient history and I’m sitting there pretending I don’t remember exactly what he sounds like at 2 a.m.”

Laughter again. Someone muttered, “That’s criminal.”

She added. “Just said, ‘Nice to see you again,’ like we hadn’t ruined each other’s sleep cycles for an entire semester.”

More laughter.

But in the very back row, Y/n didn’t laugh. Neither did Max.

At the same time—like muscle memory—they both turned slightly. Eyes met.

Just for a second.

And then just as quickly, they looked away.

She refocused on the raindrops racing down the glass.

He looked down at his hands.

Laughter echoed all the way to the back row.

Max exhaled through his nose. A quiet huff. Amused or annoyed — she couldn’t tell.

“You’d think PR would stop talking like that when there’s a lawyer in the car.”

His voice was casual, low enough not to carry forward. But it was meant for her.

She didn’t even glance at him.

“You’d think a three-time world champion would stop needing legal cleanups.”

His lips twitched. The barest hint of a smirk. She caught it in the reflection of the window — quick and crooked and too familiar.

Silence followed.

A pothole hit. Not hard, but enough to jolt the frame of the van. Their knees knocked.

Neither of them shifted.

She pretended to read something on her phone. He ran a hand through his hair like the movement might burn some of the tension off.

Outside, the rain started.

Inside, it was warm. Too warm. His shoulder brushed hers again when he adjusted his position. She could smell his cologne — faint, sharp, still the same brand he’d used when they were nineteen and stupid.

Another bump. Another contact.

Still, no one moved.

The conversation in the front row shifted to pit lane rumors. Max leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His voice was lower this time, meant just for her.

“This doesn’t have to be weird, you know.”

Y/n didn’t look at him.

“It’s not weird.”

“You’re gripping your phone like it owes you rent.”

She eased her fingers — only a little.

She looked away again. The van slowed, pulling into the hotel drive. The end of the ride couldn’t have come sooner.

Still, for one small, loaded second, neither of them made the first move to get out.

…

It poured.

The kind of storm that made even the paddock feel slow. Media was postponed. FP1 delayed. Mechanics leaned on carts, PR staff checked forecasts they couldn’t change, and drivers lingered inside hospitality trying not to look bored.

Y/n sat near the back, tucked on a bench by the window. Her laptop was open on her knees, though she hadn’t typed in ten minutes. Her shoes were off. Her coffee was cold. She stared out at the rain as if watching it fall would tell her when it would stop.

Then Max sat down across from her.

No announcement. No dramatic pause. Just him, damp curls under his hoodie, elbows on his knees like it was any other conversation. Like they hadn’t spent weeks politely orbiting each other without ever making real contact.

She looked up. No smile, no scowl. Just… acknowledgment.

“Still working?” he asked after a moment.

“Always.”

He nodded, eyes flicking to the laptop, then back out the window.

“You used to fall asleep the second you sat still.”

A flicker of something — not a smile, exactly, but close — tugged at her lips.

She didn’t look at him.

“I don’t do a lot of things I used to.”

He leaned forward a little, elbows resting on his thighs.

“Like me?”

That made her pause.

Her fingers stopped hovering above the keyboard. She looked at him — really looked — and something about it softened her face. Not fond, not forgiving. Just… real.

“I don’t think either of us knew what we were doing.”

Max gave a quiet huff of agreement.

“We really thought we had it figured out.”

“We were arrogant as hell.”

“And stubborn.”

“Still are.”

He smiled — small, self-deprecating.

A few seconds passed.

Outside, the rain came down harder. Inside, the quiet felt oddly warm.

“I think about it sometimes,” he said.

She didn’t ask what “it” was. She didn’t need to.

“I try not to,” she said, still watching the rain. “But yeah.”

He shifted again, like the bench didn’t quite sit right.

“I wish I’d handled it better. I was shitty to you,” he said. “I know that.”

She tilted her head, gaze fixed on a droplet racing down the window.

“I wasn’t exactly easy to love, either.”

That pulled something in his expression — not guilt, but something adjacent to it.

Her head tilted, eyes meeting his again. Calm. Measured.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But I still could’ve done more.”

There was something honest about that. Not performative. Not looking for forgiveness. Just… saying it, because it was true.

He looked down at his hands, thumb tracing a line along his palm. Then—

“I don’t know. Maybe I could still make up for it.”

She inhaled slowly. Held it for a beat.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “That’s not what this is.”

“What is this?”

She gave a small shrug, gaze drifting back to the window.

“I think… it’s just now. This moment. And that’s okay.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then:

“Okay.”

No fight. No argument.

Just that.

He stood after a moment, stretching his legs. His hoodie was damp at the shoulders. He looked down at her, something unreadable in his expression.

“If the rain clears, I’ll see you in the garage.”

“Yeah. See you there.”

She didn’t watch him go.

But her fingers didn’t quite settle back on the keys for another minute.

…

The garage was winding down.

Post-race cleanup was mostly done, the main lights dimmed to low, and the air smelled faintly of fuel, metal, and old coffee. Radios buzzed quietly on a shelf near the front, and someone’s leftover Red Bull can rattled across a rolling cart as it passed by.

Y/n was still at her desk in the back corner — the folding one they’d set up next to the tire data screens.

She’d long since taken off her blazer, now draped over the chair’s back, and the cuffs of her white shirt were pushed up to her elbows. A quiet, focused kind of tired hung over her —

She didn’t look up when she heard him.

His footsteps were slower than they’d been during the day — post-debrief, post-shower, post-whatever internal engine he turned off only after the garage had emptied. He stopped a few feet from her desk.

“You’re still here.”

She tapped at her keyboard. “So are you.”

“I don’t have to be. You look like you’re still rewriting half the team contracts.”

“That’s because I am.”

She didn’t smile. But the edge in her voice wasn’t sharp. More like… dry. Familiar.

He took a step closer. Arms crossed loosely over his chest. He was in a hoodie again — same grey one from earlier — with the hood pushed back, hair still damp like he hadn’t bothered to dry it fully after showering.

“Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

“You should.”

“I’m aware.”

A short pause.

He leaned a hip against the worktable across from her, eyes scanning the mess of highlighted printouts. “You always did like burying yourself in this stuff.”

“Better than being bored.”

“You’re not bored.”

She looked up at him, just briefly. “You think you know that?”

He didn’t answer. Just let a small smile pull at the edge of his mouth — not cocky, not smug. Just Max. Still Max.

The silence stretched.

He shifted his weight slightly, and then, voice lower now:

“Would you wanna grab dinner sometime?”

The words landed softly.

Not forced. Not rehearsed. Just there — like he’d been thinking about it and didn’t feel like pretending he wasn’t.

Y/n didn’t react immediately. She closed the tab she was in. Sat back slightly in her chair. Her eyes stayed on him.

She didn’t frown. Didn’t laugh either.

Just… considered him.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Why now?”

“Because it feels like the first time I could ask without it blowing up.”

She let out a breath. Not quite a sigh.

“Max.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“It’s not just dinner, and you know that.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking if you want to sit across from me at a table and eat something that doesn’t come in a plastic container.”

She didn’t answer that right away.

Instead, she looked down at her laptop. Ran her finger slowly along the edge of the space bar. Then:

“Maybe after the six months are up.”

He was quiet.

“Because of the job?”

She nodded once. “Because it’s complicated enough. And because it’d look bad for both of us. Especially me.”

“Yeah. Makes sense.”

“And because I want to know it’s not just nostalgia or boredom or…” She stopped herself.

“I get it.”

There was no frustration in his voice. No push. Just honesty.

He stood there for another moment before shifting off the table.

“So, ask again in… five and a half months?”

She finally smiled — small, reluctant, a little tired.

“Something like that.”

He took a slow step backward toward the door.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

She didn’t reply.

He didn’t wait for one.

He just gave her a nod — quiet, sure — and turned to go.

She listened to his footsteps fading into the hallway before she let out the breath she’d been holding.

Then she turned back to the screen, reopened the tab, and started typing again.

Week 1

Her name on the team chat thread.

His name in her inbox.

Every reply brief. Polite. Not cold. Just… professional.

Max passes her in the hallway the day after that late-night dinner invitation. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does she.

Week 3

A sponsor dinner. Too many forks. Assigned seating.

She ends up next to Max.

He makes a dry joke about being underdressed. She surprises him with a comeback that makes even Christian stifle a laugh.

Later, she catches him watching her across the table, thumb pressed to his wine glass, half a smile tugging at his lips.

She doesn’t smile back. But her ears burn.

Week 5

Rain delays the race. Everyone’s stuffed into the hospitality suite.

Max is sitting on the floor with a few of the engineers, arguing over a card game. She walks past, coffee in hand, tablet tucked under her arm.

He glances up, says nothig.

Week 7

A team photo day. Chaos. Laughter. Someone brings props.

Y/n stands behind the photographer, clipboard in hand, making sure no one forgets the media waiver.

Max tosses a Red Bull bucket hat on Christian’s head. She snorts, unguarded.

He looks over. That same crooked smile appears — only this time, she doesn’t look away so quickly.

Week 9

A mechanical delay strands half the team on the tarmac in Bahrain.

She ends up sitting next to Max on the shuttle to the hotel.

They talk about anything but the past — the food, the weather, how many suitcases their press officer travels with.

She laughs at one of his jokes. Real, not forced.

He blinks, surprised. Like he hadn’t meant to make her laugh, but likes the sound of it.

Week 11

She catches a cold in Monaco.

Not dramatic. Just enough to keep her wrapped in a scarf and living off throat lozenges for three days.

Max passes her a mug of tea in the garage, no words, no look, just sets it on her desk and walks away.

Week 14

He wins. Again.

The celebration is loud, champagne everywhere. She ducks the worst of it, tucked in the back with legal paperwork in a Ziploc sleeve.

At some point, Max finds her. A little tipsy. Still grinning.

“You gonna fine me if I pour this on you?”

“Try me.”

He doesn’t.

But when he passes, his fingers brush hers just a little longer than they need to.

Week 18

Carlos makes a crack about Max’s “lawyer crush” at a press dinner.

Max kicks him under the table so fast no one notices. Y/n arches a brow across the table but doesn’t comment.

Week 21

A late-night flight home.

They’re both in row 3. Separated by the aisle, but close enough that when turbulence hits, they both glance up at the same time.

He gives her a look — brief, unreadable.

She gives one back — tired, amused, resigned.

She falls asleep. He watches her for a minute longer than he should.

Week 22

She’s sitting alone in the back of the paddock lounge — headphones in, blazer folded neatly beside her, laptop open on the FIA careers page. Her screen shows a half-finished application form.

Max walks past. Stops. Doubles back.

“You applying for the full-time role?”

She pulls one earbud out. Doesn’t answer immediately.

“Thinking about it.”

“You should.”

She glances up.

“You don’t think it’d be... weird? You and me. Same circles again.”

Max shrugs, leaning one shoulder against the frame of the glass wall.

“It’s already weird.”

That earns the barest smile from her.

He watches her for a beat.

“You’d be good there.”

She looks at him — properly this time. Not like a colleague. Not like an echo of what they were.

“Thanks.”

He nods. Pushes off the wall.

“Good luck with it.”

“Thanks, Max.”

He turns to go, but before the door closes behind him, she glances back at her screen — and starts typing again.

Week 24

The final briefing. Six-month mark.

She hands off her badge. Max doesn’t speak to her during the whole meeting.

Afterward, as the others drift out, he finds her in the hallway. Quiet. Tired. Braced.

“So… six months.”

“Yeah.”

“Does that mean I can ask again now?”

She looks at him.

The corner of her mouth tugs upward.

“You can.”

…

The restaurant wasn’t fancy. That’s why he chose it.

Tucked on a quieter street in Monaco, it was dimly lit, warm, tucked-away — the kind of place locals liked and tourists didn’t know. No cameras. No team personnel. Just wine, good food, and quiet.

Y/n arrived just after seven. Max was already at the table, scrolling through his phone, a half-full glass of water in front of him.

He looked up as she approached — and stood.

“Hey,” he said, with a half-smile. “You found it.”

“Wasn’t hard.”

“Glad you came.”

She gave a small nod as she took the seat across from him. He sat down again, a little too fast, like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing with his hands. For a second, they both fiddled with their menus like they hadn’t already stalked the place online and picked what they wanted.

She was the first to speak again.

“So… how does this work?”

“We order food. Try not to insult each other. Hope nothing ends in public scandal.”

“Sounds safe.”

“Safe’s a nice change.”

The waiter came. They both ordered the same wine. Smiled at each other awkwardly.

It stayed casual — to start. Light conversation. The race schedule. Summer break. That ridiculous argument in the garage last week over whether the Red Bull hospitality had better cookies than Ferrari’s. (Max, of course, had been insulted anyone even entertained the debate.)

But somewhere after the starters, the silence started filling with more than just leftover conversation.

She played with the edge of her napkin. Max leaned back a little in his chair, watching her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually say yes,” he said eventually.

“You waited until my contract ended.”

“Still could’ve said no.”

“I thought about it.”

“And?”

“I figured I’d regret not finding out.”

That quieted him for a second. Not in a heavy way — just thoughtful.

“Same.”

The waiter brought mains. Her fork clinked against the side of her plate. She caught Max watching her again and finally met his gaze straight on.

“This feels weird.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But not bad.”

“No,” she agreed. “Not bad.”

She smiled without meaning to. He smiled back — slower, like he hadn’t let himself fully relax until just now.

They didn’t talk about the past. Not really. Just referenced it in passing. The old versions of themselves. How different everything was now.

He told her about sim days that ran too long. She told him about FIA contract nightmares and how she missed having a coffee machine that didn’t scream.

Somewhere near the end, she reached for the wine bottle just as he did. Their fingers brushed.

They both paused — just briefly. But neither pulled away.

Max didn’t say anything right away. Then—

“I’m not trying to pick up where we left off,” he said. “I just want to see where it goes now. If that’s something you want too.”

She considered that.

Not just the words. The way he said them. No pressure. No games. Just... him.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “Ask me again. After the second date.”

He blinked. Then grinned.

“Fair enough.”

He didn't let her pay her half even after she almost yelled at him.

They left the restaurant slowly. No rush. No awkward ending. Just a walk down a quiet Monaco street, side by side.

He glanced sideways.

“That wasn’t terrible.”

She smirked. “High praise.”

“I meant it.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just kept walking, the pavement smooth beneath her heels, the lights of the marina reflected in the water below.

Then — without thinking, without planning — she reached out.

Just slightly.

Her fingers brushed the back of his hand. He paused.

Looked down.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it hadn’t taken years to get here, he laced their fingers together.

Their hands fit differently now. Bigger, older, steadier. But it still felt the same — that quiet hum of something familiar, something unfinished.

Neither of them looked at the other.

They just kept walking, hand in hand, like maybe this didn’t have to be complicated anymore.

Maybe it could just be.

…

It wasn’t a restaurant this time.

It was a tucked-away bookstore café in Nice — her choice. Max hadn’t even questioned it. He’d just said, “Send me the address,” like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to trade a race sim day for almond croissants and lattes in cracked ceramic cups.

He got there first again.

Y/n spotted him through the window, slouched on a wooden bench in a grey hoodie, scrolling through his phone with a half-drunk coffee beside him. He didn’t look up until she opened the door.

“They have those little cinnamon rolls you like,” he said without a hello. “I told the guy you’d probably want three.”

She laughed — an actual laugh, light and surprised.

“You remember that?”

“You used to steal mine. It’s not hard to remember trauma.”

They sat across from each other near the back, tucked between overstuffed shelves and quiet couples. The playlist was soft jazz and the lighting warm, golden from the morning sun.

She did order three cinnamon rolls.

Max didn’t comment — just slid one onto his plate like he was claiming his tax.

“You always eat like this before you go over contracts?” he asked, halfway through his espresso.

“Only when I didn't sleep that night.”

“Nothing says adrenaline like sugar and mergers.”

“Exactly.”

They talked like that — playful, unhurried. About nothing important. About books they pretended they’d read. About how he still hated planes and how her new apartment had a window that leaked every time it rained.

She teased him for still using wired earbuds. He pointed out that her phone was at 8% with no charger in sight.

“I function on chaos,” she said, licking sugar off her thumb.

“No kidding.”

At one point, she laughed so hard she snorted into her coffee. He just grinned, leaned back in his chair like it was the best thing he’d seen all week.

“You’re different when you’re not trying to win an argument,” he said after a while.

“You’re different when you’re not trying to piss me off.”

“We’re evolving.”

They left hours later. It wasn’t even supposed to be a long date — just coffee, maybe a walk — but the afternoon had crept up on them.

Outside, the sky was soft with clouds, the breeze lifting her hair from her shoulders.

Max shoved his hands in his jacket, but not before she reached for one, he took her hand inside his pocket, warming it.

No hesitation this time.

They walked down the narrow street, hand in hand, fingers warm.

“This felt... easy,” she said.

“It was.”

“That’s new.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly. “Let’s not mess it up.”

“You’re assuming we will.”

“I’m assuming we’re us.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t disagree.

And when they paused at the corner, waiting to cross, he looked at her like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — that they were here, again, but without all the wreckage.

“What?” she asked, catching him.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“Just—” he shrugged. “You’re really here.”

She squeezed his hand.

The sky had deepened by the time they reached her building.

It wasn’t far from the café — a quiet walk through cobblestone streets, shoes tapping gently beneath conversation. The kind of evening that felt suspended in time, where the world went slow, soft around the edges. Every moment hummed with something unspoken but not urgent. They didn’t need to name it.

Max stopped with her at the front steps.

He didn’t let go of her hand until she gave the gentlest tug.

“You taking the train back tonight?” she asked, turning to face him, one foot already on the first step.

“I was gonna call a car.”

“You don’t have to.”

She said it easily. Like it wasn’t loaded. Like it wasn’t the first time she’d said those words in years — and meant something entirely different now.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at her, quiet. Not hesitant. Just making sure.

She held his gaze, keys already in her palm.

“It’s just tea,” she added. “Or water. Or coffee. You don’t have to—”

“Okay.”

He said it before she finished.

“Okay?”

He nodded once. Stepped up beside her. Not rushing. Not pushing.

“Tea sounds good.”

Her apartment was quiet when they stepped in.

Clean, warm, lived-in. Books stacked on the side table. A hoodie draped over the back of the couch. A half-finished legal pad on the counter. The scent of the café still lingered in the air — cinnamon, sugar, and something that was probably her perfume.

Max glanced around like he was seeing the inside of her head. Noticing things without commenting.

“You can sit,” she said, toeing off her shoes. “I’ll make the tea.”

“You still drink that weird herbal stuff?”

“It’s chamomile. Grow up.”

“Sounds fake.”

She tossed a smile over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen.

He didn’t sit. Not right away. Just wandered. Hands in pockets. Taking it in.

She returned a few minutes later with two mismatched mugs — one blue, one plain white.

He took the blue one without asking. Sat beside her on the couch, a comfortable arm’s length away.

They sipped in silence for a while. The streetlight outside threw soft yellow lines across the rug.

“Thanks for today,” he said eventually.

She glanced at him. “It was a good day.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Not heavy. Not awkward.

“You’ve changed,” he added.

“So have you.”

He turned his mug between his palms. “Maybe we had to.”

“Definetly.”

She didn’t say more than that. Didn’t need to.

She curled her feet beneath her, leaned back into the cushion, her mug resting on her knees.

Max looked at her again.

Not like he had something to say.

Just like he didn’t want the moment to end.

And for once — neither did she.

…

a month later

She was here as a guest — Max’s guest.

She hadn’t stepped foot in the paddock without work responsibilities in over six months. It felt strange. Loose. Unanchored.

The Red Bull hospitality still smelled the same: coffee, tire rubber, sharp citrus diffused through the air vents. But she sat differently now — not behind a laptop, not squinting at contract lines.

Just one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, an untouched espresso in front of her.

She got the call just after noon.

And then she froze.

The voice on the other end was official. Warm. Congratulatory.

"We’d like to offer you the role, effective post-season."

She blinked at the papers in front of her, words suddenly blurring.

“I—sorry, could you say that again?”

They did. Slowly this time.

She nodded, whispered a stunned “yes,” scribbled a shaky signature on the digital acceptance form they sent through minutes later.

The trailer was too quiet after.

For a second, she just sat there, fingers still on the trackpad, chest rising and falling like her lungs had only just caught up. Then—

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

The door opened behind her before she could stand.

“You good?” Max asked, stepping halfway in. “One of the techs said you looked like you saw God or an FIA fine.”

She turned.

Just looked at him.

He paused, sensing it immediately — the energy, the stillness, the shine in her eyes.

“What?” he asked, a little softer.

She lifted the tablet in her hands. Held it up without a word.

He stepped closer to read.

His eyes scanned the message, then flicked up to hers.

“You got it?”

She nodded once. Smiled.

“You’re looking at FIA’s newest regulatory legal officer.”

Max blinked. Then let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“Holy shit.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Wait—you got it.”

“I got it.”

She barely got the last word out before he closed the space between them.

No hesitation this time. No second-guessing.

He cupped her jaw and kissed her — soft, sure, with the kind of care that came from waiting too long and not wanting to ruin it now.

She melted into it.

There wasn’t fire behind it, not like the old days. No anger. No desperation. Just warmth. Familiarity. A kind of knowing.

When they pulled apart, her hands were still holding on to his wrists.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured.

“To kiss you or to congratulate you?”

“Both.”

He smiled — small, crooked, and real.

“You earned this. All of it.”

She looked up at him — the same eyes she used to hate for how well they read her, now soft and proud.

“You’re gonna kill it,” he added. “I’m serious.”

“You planning to follow all FIA rules now just because I’ll be writing half of them?”

“Hell no.”

She laughed.

“Guess I’ll see you in court.”

“Can’t wait.”

@angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress @suibianupyourass @panicattgegrandprix @landosbabe4

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[ikeu05]

MY FIRST MY MIDDLE ✮ MY LAST MY FOREVER

𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 。 why do stars fall down from the sky every time you walk by? just like me , they long to be close to you

series 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ── jay x fem!reader 2.3k fluff suggestive established relationship! au ─ jay and yn are married yipee :3 they get freaky in between but it's really nothing ── play𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ᢉ𐭩 track 31 to track 35

[they’re sitting close — jay with one arm slung lazily over the back of the couch, his other hand gently grazing her knee. he looks calm, content, already watching her with a small smile. yn is practically bouncing beside him, cheeks flushed, hands twisting in her lap like she physically can’t contain the joy in her chest.]

[they don’t look at the camera first — they’re already looking at each other. she’s laughing at something he just whispered, cheeks pink, while he watches her like he’s memorizing her face all over again.]

[finally, the camera crew prompts them gently.]

camera crew “alright, let’s start with introductions?”

[yn perks up instantly, turning to the camera with the brightest smile, as if it’s instinct.]

yn (cheerily) “hi! i’m yn, and i’m married to him—” (gestures proudly at jay with both thumbs, still grinning) “—which is still wild to say even after two years, but also not because i knew i’d marry him from, like, month six. don’t tell him that, though.”

jay (smiling, without missing a beat) “she said it out loud at month six.”

yn (gasping) “jay!”

jay (grinning wider, to the camera) “i’m jay. i’m her husband. and i’ve been in love with this woman since she tripped over my shoe and said ‘sorry, your foot was in the way.’”

yn (laughing again, flustered) “it was in the way!”

(someone from the camera crew just quietly whispers “she’s cute”, sounding mesmerised but jay caught it.)

jay (without missing a beat, totally deadpan but fond as hell) “so true.”

yn (giggling, nudging his shoulder) “stop! i’m trying to be professional.”

jay (still looking at her, low and soft) “you’re literally glowing. be unserious.”

yn (laughing even harder now) “i can’t help it! i get to call him my husband. like—legally. isn’t that so crazy?!”

jay (leaning in just slightly, voice warm) “craziest part is i get to call you mine.”

question 1: what’s something your spouse does that still makes your heart flutter?

jay (turning to the camera, calm but so certain) “she does this thing…”

(he glances over at her, and she’s already squinting suspiciously at him, smiling.)

jay (soft laugh) “…when she thinks no one’s watching. like, we’ll be at a café or walking down a street or something, and she’ll get distracted by something small — a window display, a dog, a kid laughing — and her whole face lights up. like she’s discovering joy for the first time.”

(he pauses for a beat, eyes still on her.)

jay “and in those moments, it hits me all over again. that she’s mine. that i get to keep loving someone who sees the world like that.”

yn (clutching his arm now, face redder than the red dress she was in) “honey—stop it. i’m gonna cry, you menace.”

jay (grinning now) “i warned you.”

yn (still flustered, bouncing slightly in her seat) “okay okay my turn.”

(she faces the camera, trying very hard to focus, but it’s obvious she keeps peeking back at him like he’s gravity.)

yn “he does this thing with his hand—like, when i’m nervous or rambling or just being a little too me, he just… slides his hand onto my back or squeezes my fingers. it’s so small. so simple. but it grounds me.”

(her voice softens. she’s not grinning now, not entirely — more like she’s speaking from her chest.)

yn “and it’s the kind of touch that says, ‘i’m here. i’m listening. you’re okay.’ and every single time he does it, my heart goes all stupid.”

jay (low, teasing) “stupid how?”

yn (throwing her head back) “jay!”

jay (leaning in, whispering to the camera with a smirk) “she means obsessed.”

yn (fake gasping) “he’s cocky, but he’s not wrong.”

[they both laugh, leaning into each other as the next card fades in quietly on screen.]

question 2: what’s your go-to strategy when you’re losing an argument with your spouse?

jay (glances at her first, already smiling) “ladies first?”

yn (grinning wickedly) “oh no, honey. you go ahead. i need to hear your delusional little answer first.”

jay (chuckling as he shifts slightly to face the camera) “alright, alright. so…”

(he laces their fingers together and rests them on her thigh, voice going soft but certain.)

jay “when we argue, it’s usually over something small. like me forgetting to take the laundry out or her leaving the oven on. nothing serious. but when it does happen—when i know she’s starting to get actually annoyed? i get quiet.”

(he looks over at her, eyes warm.)

jay “i just… look at her. i let her finish what she needs to say. and when she’s done, i go, ‘baby, i love you. i hear you. and if it matters to you, then it matters to me.’”

(yn is fully red now, biting back a smile as she hides her face behind her hand.)

jay (grinning softly) “and nine times out of ten, she melts right there.”

yn (muffled) “because you say it like that, how am i supposed to keep yelling at you?!”

jay (smug now) “exactly.”

camera crew (swooning a little) “that’s… honestly really smooth.”

jay (shrugging casually) “i married her. i better know how to keep her.”

yn (finally lifting her head, eyes twinkling) “okay, my turn. you ready?”

jay (grinning)“not even a little.”

yn (to the camera, straight-faced but mischievous) “i just start stripping.”

(the entire crew breaks into loud laughter, and jay chokes on his own breath, eyes going wide.)

jay (half-laughing, half-dying) “baby—”

yn (smiling sweetly) “no no. let me finish, honey. you said your nice little therapist-approved answer, let me have mine.”

“if we’re mid-argument and it’s not going well for me, i’ll just start taking things off. slowly. casually. maybe the hoodie first, maybe a little stretch to go with it. a well-timed yawn where i pull my shirt up a little too high, you know?”

(she shrugs like it’s obvious.)

yn “before he can even finish his sentence, he’s like—”

jay (mimicking himself, flustered) “‘wait, are you—? baby. my love. that’s not fair.’”

yn (giggling) “and then i win. instantly. because he forgets what the argument was even about.”

jay (shaking his head in mock defeat) “she weaponises her entire existence. it’s a dangerous game.”

yn (grinning brightly) “dangerous? please. you eat it up.”

jay (laughs lowly, eyes gleaming) “i do. i absolutely do.”

(he tugs her closer by her waist, pressing a kiss to her shoulder as she giggles, proud of her very effective seduction tactics.)

jay (murmuring) “but one of these days, i am going to finish my point, you know.”

yn (tilting her head, smug) “you think so, honey?”

jay (sighing dramatically, forehead on her shoulder) “no. not even a little.”

[they laugh together, tangled in warmth, and the camera fades to the next card.]

question 3: what’s something your spouse does that no one else ever notices — but you love it?

jay (leans back slightly, eyebrows lifting) “you sure you want me to go first on this one, baby?”

yn (smirking, chin tilted up) “you’re literally incapable of being subtle.”

jay (low laugh) “and you’re not denying it.”

(to the camera, voice dropping a notch)

“she has this thing she does when she’s turned on.”

(yn immediately starts laughing, burying her face in his shoulder with a loud “jay!” but he just keeps going, calm and absolutely smug.)

jay “no one ever catches it. not even our friends. but i always know.”

yn (muffled into his shoulder) “i hate you.”

jay (grinning) “she’ll get real quiet. like deceptively quiet. but she’ll start fidgeting with her rings, or the hem of whatever she’s wearing — usually one of my shirts, because she’s a menace — and she’ll keep glancing at me from the corner of her eye like she thinks she’s being slick.”

(he turns to her, gaze soft but electric.)

jay “and i always know.”

yn (peeking up at him, cheeks flushed but smiling) “you always know.”

jay (mock serious) “i could be on a work call. we could be hosting game night. i’ll see her do that little shift in her seat, that exact look she gets when she’s trying so hard to keep it together…”

(he leans in closer, brushing his nose against her temple.)

jay “and i’ll spend the rest of the night trying not to pull her into the nearest room.”

yn (voice still a little breathless, but recovering) “okay. okay. my turn.”

(she turns to the camera, squinting like she’s trying to phrase it just right. jay watches her, already biting back a grin.)

yn “he does this thing with his voice. when he’s just woken up? it’s lower, and raspy, and a little rough like he’s still in that half-sleep state. and he always pulls me into him, murmuring ‘morning, baby’ with his lips against my neck or my shoulder or whatever he can reach first.”

(she pauses, eyes flicking toward him, now softer.)

yn “and no one hears him like that but me. no one gets that version of him. the sleepy, handsy, totally unfiltered jay who won’t let me out of bed for like an hour.”

jay (low chuckle) “you’re the reason we’re always late.”

yn (grinning, unbothered) “you never complain.”

jay (gravel in his voice now) “never.”

[they share a look. one of those looks. charged and warm and crackling under the surface — like they’re having an entire conversation without saying another word.]

the camera crew clears their throat softly behind the lens. jay doesn’t break eye contact. he just smirks.

jay (teasing) “we can take a break if you need to reset the cameras.”

yn (laughing, shoving his shoulder) “jay! oh my god—”

question 4: what’s the most surprising thing you’ve learned about each other since getting married?”

yn (takes a breath, nudging his knee with hers) “okay. i’ll start this one.”

(jay leans in a little like he’s curious, but he doesn’t interrupt. just watches her like he’s already in love with whatever she’s about to say.)

“i always knew he was calm. like, that was kind of the dynamic. me being chaos, him being peace. but i didn’t realize how… steady he’d be when it actually mattered.”

(her voice dips into something more thoughtful. she’s not as bouncy now — still warm, still light, but gentler.)

“like, marriage came with some scary stuff. we moved, merged finances, got sick at different times, argued about dumb things. and through all of it? he’s been this rock. no matter what happens, i look at him and i know i’m safe. i didn’t know someone could make me feel that just by walking into a room.”

jay (quietly, smiling) “baby.”

yn (still looking at the camera but clearly fighting back a grin) “don’t. i’m emotional.”

jay (soft laugh) “too late.”

(turning to the camera now, calm and easy)

“for me? i think it was how domestic she is.”

(yn gasps dramatically, already bracing herself.)

(grinning but serious underneath)

“no, really. i thought she was gonna burn down our kitchen. and don’t get me wrong, she’s a little chaotic. but she’s also the one making grocery lists on her notes app, color-coding our spice rack, and tucking warm laundry into my drawer like she’s nesting.”

yn (half-grinning, half-mortified) “i am not nesting.”

jay (smiling sweetly) “you made a ‘sunday mood’ playlist and play it every time you clean the bathroom. baby, you’re nesting.”

yn (groaning, but clearly loving it) “i married a snitch.”

jay (reaching out to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear) “i just didn’t expect the girl who used to survive on instant noodles and sarcasm to become the one who hums while folding my hoodies. it’s cute. kinda makes me fall for her all over again.”

yn (melting) “jay…”

jay (smirking) “don’t cry. i just did your eyeliner.”

question 5: what’s a habit your partner had that you hated at first but now find kind of cute?

jay (snorts immediately, looking at her sideways) “only one?”

yn (gasping dramatically) “wow. coming for me on the last question? is this how we’re going out, honey?”

jay (trying not to grin) “you said it was kind of cute. so i’m being honest.”

(sits up a little straighter, hands gesturing)

“she talks to inanimate objects.”

yn (deadpan to camera) “do not act like the lamp doesn’t have a vibe.”

jay (laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender) “exactly! that! that right there!”

(he turns to the crew, amused but affectionate.)

“the first few months we moved in together, i thought she was on the phone all the time. like i’d come home and hear her go, ‘you did so good today, little guy!’ and i’d think she was talking to a pet. or a plant. no. it was the rice cooker.”

yn (giggling) “he made perfect rice!”

jay (laughing, still watching her) “now i walk in and go ‘how’s the blender, baby?’ like i’m in on it.”

yn (smug) “and the blender’s doing great, thanks for asking.”

jay (gently) “but it’s cute now. she makes the house feel alive. warm. like nothing’s ever just a thing — it’s hers. and i kinda love it.”

(he presses a kiss to her temple without even thinking. she blushes immediately, nose scrunching as she hides in his shoulder.)

yn (muffled) “okay, my turn to expose you.”

(she pops back up, ready.)

yn “he breathes like a dragon when he sleeps.”

jay (groans into his hand) “baby, please.”

yn (grinning) “no, like full-on open-mouthed, dramatic inhales, like he’s been training for this in his dreams. the first time i stayed over, i actually thought something was wrong.”

jay (laughing) “you could’ve left.”

yn “didn’t. stayed. suffered. now it’s oddly comforting. like if he’s not doing his monster breathing beside me, i can’t sleep.”

(she shrugs with a lovestruck little smile.)

yn “turns out the beast is my safe space.”

jay (soft, teasing) “your words, baby. not mine.”

[they both lean in, giggling, foreheads nearly touching as the camera lingers.]

camera crew “that’s a wrap, lovebirds.”

yn (beaming at jay) “you still breathing like a dragon tonight?”

jay (smirking) “only if you talk dirty to the rice cooker again.”

thank you for reading <3 — yn & jay, my first my middle my last my forever.

nessie 🗯️ last installment and with that we come to an end to the have you ever been… series!!! thank you so much for much love and i love y’all always <3

tag𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 @jaysguitarstring @wenomakiluvr @luvchaew @xoseraphinaa @loverbyfate @seungsoftly @in-somnias-world @i-peachesandstrawberries @zoe1love

[grandline-fics]

Immune To Your Charms

DESCRIPTION: Soulmates are incapable of harming the other in any way. Normally that would be a good thing but not when you're meant to be enemies.

WARNINGS: It's Doflamingo so he's his own warning. Don't read if he's not someone you enjoy reading fics about. Depictions of injury and threat of violence. Enemies to Lovers. Soulmate! AU

This chapter contains sexual themes MDNI

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 3,779

A/N: It's been a while and I needed my fix of Doffy again. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long to come out. Next month(August) will mark one year since I posted the very first chapter of Immune To Your Charms which is just crazy to me. I want to thank you all for your support and love shown over this story and I hope this chapter is just as enjoyable for you all. 💕

Dividers made by the amazing @physics-of-one-piece

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen (here) |Chapter Nineteen(coming soon)

“Who called earlier?” You asked from your place against Doflamingo’s chest. Your head rested against your arm lazily folded on the broad expanse of sweat-sheened muscle. You watched as Doflamingo tilted his head slightly at your question. Your lips curved slowly into a teasing smile. “Hope you didn’t abandon your duties by getting distracted.” 

“Distracted? Is that what we’re calling it?” Doflamingo chuckled, his shade covered eyes looking you over. He could see the tiredness in your gaze but still you weren’t giving in to sleep, not yet. Softly you laughed and stared at him, waiting for an answer. “Just a minor situation on another island. I sent Pica to handle it.”

“Good.” You hummed with a small nod, stifling a yawn and forcing your eyes to stay open. 

“You should sleep.” You blinked at Doflamingo’s words and after a moment you pouted slightly. “What?”

“Do I look that bad?” You asked with a small huff.

“Not bad, just completely fucked.” Doflamingo grinned smugly when you rolled your eyes and your pout deepened.

“And you look completely fine.”

“It’s not my fault my stamina is better than yours.” He chuckled, looping his arm under you to pull you closer. Doflamingo settled you to lie against his shoulder and kept his arm loosely around your waist. You stubbornly clicked your tongue but still settled into the new position without any hesitation. You knew your lack of energy was the only reason you’d both stopped.

“My stamina was better than this though.” You grumbled, watching as he used his strings to pull the covers closer. Absently you reached out, your finger lightly skimming the nearly invisible thread. It seemed as long as it wasn’t directly being used as an attack against you, it would remain tangible and soft yet strong; not bladed like when it had cleanly cut through the hand of the man who’d foolishly tried to touch you. “Even before I got sick…I haven’t trained in so long. I’ve gotten lazy.”

“Stop worrying needlessly, okay?” Doflamingo told you, watching you idly play with the string. You would slowly curl your fingers around it and release it, lightly pluck it to make a soft, dull sound before going back to toying with it. “Remember the doctors told you your energy would still take time to recover.”

“Yeah, they also said nothing ‘too strenuous’ remember?” You laughed before tilting your head back to smirk at him. “Don’t think they’d approve of breaking the bed.”

“That’d just be their jealousy talking.” Doflamingo grinned, arching his finger to make the string you’d been absently playing with to weave in-between your fingers and finally loop around your wrist. Curious about the extent his power would be allowed on you, he twitched his fingers again and watched your limp, unresisting hand lift into the air. You could have pulled your arm back had you wanted to but it seemed you were just as curious as he was. He zeroed in on how the thin creation of his Devil Fruit pressed against your skin without biting into it or slicing it. When you let out a small yawn Doflamingo lowered your hand once more to settle again on his chest, the string still looped around your wrist. “You should still maybe consider sleeping though.”

“Careful, if people hear they might think you’re concerned.” You teased but despite your words the truth was you were thoroughly drained and only fighting off sleep through sheer willpower. Your eyes were getting heavier by the second.

“Nah, purely selfish motivations, I promise.” Doflamingo chuckled before whispering low in your ear. “I need you fully rested mi alma, because I’m not finished with you yet. Not by a long shot.”

When you woke the next morning you rolled onto your back and yawned, stretching out your limbs lazily. Without any further prompting or warning your hands were captured on either side of your face and you slowly opened your eyes to meet Doflamingo’s grinning face. You stared at him with a lazy smirk shaping your lips. Slowly you lifted your leg to hook it around his waist, pulling him closer. Your lips lightly brushed against his as you asked. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Of course I did,” Doflamingo grinned down at you. “But because of you I had to suffer so many filthy dreams.” Your smirk grew and he captured your lips at last. Just like last night and the previous kisses shared the immediate pull and hunger for each other took hold. Before you could deepen the kiss any further Doflamingo teasingly pulled back, biting your lower lip to draw a soft moan from you. “Just torture.”

“If it was so awful, why didn’t you wake me?” You asked, pulling your hands free with ease. Locking one hand into the hair at the base of his neck you settled the other on his chest, fingertips barely grazing against the defined muscle, slowly traveling lower while keeping your gaze locked on the gleaming red of his glasses.

“Would have loved to but I made a promise, remember?” Doflamingo explained smoothly, drawing his hands under your thighs and pulling you closer before lowering his head to bite along your jaw until his lips stopped at your ear. “But you’re awake now and I can’t wait anymore.”

Neither could you. Together you both closed the last amount of distance between your bodies, Doflamingo thrusting into your welcoming body once more. The night before still rang sharp and seductive in your mind and body but feeling it again only seemed to heighten what you were feeling now. The raw, unbridled and addictive pleasure that Doflamingo brought you was unlike anything you ever experienced before and coursed through your blood, consuming everything until it was the only thing on your mind. 

Doflamingo wasn’t faring any better than you. The more your warmth enveloped him, the more your moans and pleasured breathy words of praise and encouragement filled his ears, the more you drew him to you and made him shut out everything else. Now though he felt his selfishness and conflicting thoughts begin to surge; he wanted more of you, more of this but at the same time he hated the feeling of his control and mind being so clouded and at risk. Still even with that in his mind, he was not going to stop, not now, not when you felt this good and cried out his name so sweetly. Doflamingo continued to drive into you, with you continuing to match his thrusts. Groaning out, Doflamingo anchored his hands firmly against your thighs and pushed your legs forward, driving them closer to your chest to reach even deeper causing you to clench tighter and moan in his ear, eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

Your high crashed over you hard with Doflamingo’s following immediately after, the two of your riding out the aftershocks in sync. Breathless you blinked and focused on Doflamingo’s face and smirked. “That enough to tide you over?”

“Tide me over?” Doflamingo repeated with a chuckle while you relaxed against the sheets comfortably. His fingers skimming lightly against your jaw.

“We can’t stay in bed all day and I certainly don’t want to stay in this particular bed or estate any longer than we need to. Do you?” Doflamingo laughed loudly at your question and looked around at the shattered remnants of the bed. You did have a point. Even though it was relatively early in the morning he knew the others in the family would still be sleeping off their hangovers. Last thing he wanted was to make any more conversation with the host of the party. Though he was still definitely going to destroy that ugly fucking statue on the way out.

You leant against the railing of the Numancia Flamingo watching as crates were loaded on board, apparent gifts and shares of profit for Doflamingo from your ‘esteemed’ host but truly you assessed they were given in thanks for not merely killing him. Some of them you saw were originally for the host but hastily re-gifted in order to gain some sort of additional favour with the temperamental Warlord. A lot of it looked to be a luxurious mixture of items but you definitely heard the clink of coins and jewels from a couple boxes. Some looked to be too securely closed to be anything other than weapons. Finally the last two boxes came on board, a small crate of premium vintage wine from the North Blue and then largest was the crate containing the severed head of the golden statue. 

Your lips quirked in amusement as you recalled the host’s rapidly paling face at Doflamingo’s loosely veiled request for it to ‘remember a stellar party.’ With a sigh you cast a final glance at the island. You didn’t know what to expect to find when you were arriving at the island and a lot of the party’s offerings had been just what you imagined and also exceeded your expectations-both in good and bad ways- but the development between you and Doflamingo had definitely not been on the cards. You looked down at your wrist, your fingers gently skimming over the string still secured around it. As you absently continued to do it you overheard the calls that the ship was finally leaving the dock and you glanced up, catching yourself by surprise to find yourself excited to be returning to Dressrosa after your short time away.   

Noticing the clouds overhead were changing a dim grey you anticipated that the rain wouldn’t be too far away and decided to go inside to the family’s group room. As you stepped into the room you saw the others already opening the crate of wine from the North Blue and settling in for the first day of travel. Doflamingo took the first glass and took his seat on the sofa. As you moved to take a seat beside Doflamingo you paused in surprise to see Diamante pour the second glass and offer it to you without any hesitation or snide comment. You quickly recovered and took the glass. “Thanks.”

Clearing your throat you sat down beside Doflamingo, immediately settling against him as his free hand was placed firmly on your hip. You took a sip of the wine and licked your lips as the sweet, indulgent taste flooded your mouth. Everyone was of the same sentiment in relishing the drink. “This brings back memories, huh Doffy?”

“Yeah, lost count of how many bottles of this brand we’d shared over the years there.” Doflamingo chuckled as the nostalgia hit him. “North Blue seems a lifetime ago.”

“You started in the North Blue?” You asked curiously, turning your head to look at the man you were lounging against. Apart from the many rumours and gossip that had circulated in the Marine base and the small hushed whispers in Dressrosa’s palace there was still a lot about the man you didn’t know. Doflamingo was always upfront with you when you’d ask about his criminal activity but it was never in your thought to ask him anything personal. Mostly because you didn’t feel like it was anything you needed to know.

“I was just a kid but yeah that’s where we started, way back when.” Doflamingo answered casually before taking another sip while you softly laughed, catching his attention. 

“It’s strange but the only thing I can think of for the kid version of you is with a gun. It’s oddly cute.”

“You’re not far off.” Diamante laughed, the only one in the room who had the memory of Doflamingo as a child. Baby 5 and Gladius didn’t come along until much later. “Cute yes, but he was still our fearless leader.”

For the next while you listened to stories of different adventures from the Family that they shared with Doffy. You couldn’t tell for certain if everything was completely accurate or if they were embellishing certain aspects in order to keep their King in a positive light. Then again, this was Doflamingo they were talking about so it could have been told with every detail unchanged. Then the enjoyable atmosphere broke when Baby 5 was in the middle of her story and the wine in her system had hindered her awareness of what she was saying. “- and then Cora-”

The second the word was out of her mouth she gasped, hands clamping over her lips as if trying to force the words back inside. Her eyes widened and terror shone in her frozen gaze locked on Doflamingo. At the same time Diamante and Gladius tensed, panic and uncertainty shaping their features. You frowned slightly. You’d never heard ‘Cora’ mentioned before and you’d certainly never seen the others react so viscerally in their fearful anticipation of Doflamingo’s reaction to something before. 

Everyone in the room refused to so much as breathe or blink as they watched and waited. The sweet taste of the wine that lingered in their lips turned cold and sour the heavier the air felt. Except you. You remained patient and relaxed, gaze steady and curious as Doflamingo swiftly drained the remaining amount of wine in his glass. He swallowed and with a sharp flick of the wrist the glass shot across the room-purposely whizzing a hair’s breadth passed Baby 5’s cheek- and smashed against the wall. In the same motion, Doflamingo was on his feet and leaving the room, the door shutting with a click but had the others flinching like it was a crack of a whip. You blinked once and finished your own drink before calmly setting it to the side and got to your feet. With a sigh you walked to the shared room you had with Doflamingo and entered it to see him standing at the drinks table, jaw heavy set and shoulders rigid. 

You slowly shut the door behind you as you stepped further into the room, keeping your eyes firmly on Doflamingo, calmly assessing him and taking in his movements no matter how small. He didn’t look your way but he knew you were there but right now he was only fixated on the two bottles in his hands. You walked until you stood beside him and reached forward. “Don’t.”

The single word was uttered like a low growl and you cocked your head to the side, the only visible acknowledgement to his voice and without any hesitation you continued to reach out until your fingers wrapped around the bottle in his left hand and pulled it from him. With the cool glass neck in your hand you turned and walked to the plush sofa, dropping yourself into it and taking a sip. Doflamingo turned his head to finally look at you. “You’re not going to ask?”

“Just like you told me the other night,” you began simply while licking a stray drop of sharp alcohol from your lip as the memory of your nightmare came back. “Talk about it if you want or say nothing at all. It’s your choice.” 

Doflamingo gave a noncommittal hum, undecided about what option to pick. With a sharp sigh he looked to the bottle you left him with and brought it to his lips, gulping the sharp, burning liquid down until the final drop. 

With a harsh breath, Doflamingo slammed the empty bottle onto the table with a bang and roughly rubbed his face. He shrugged off the feather mantle on his shoulders and let it fall against   the armchair before taking the short strides until he was at the sofa you lounged silently on. His hand reached for the bottle but you moved it out of his reach. Your eyes slowly slid up to meet his heavy stare still shielded by his glasses and you smirked at him. Doflamingo’s fingers arched and the string around your wrist tugged lightly, trying to coax your hand into offering the bottle to him. Slowly you moved your hand towards him but quickly changed your mind and brought the bottle instead to your lips and took a plentiful drink.

Doflamingo’s grin stretched and he stooped down, settling on the sofa in front of you and caging you in. Bracing one hand beside your head the other reached for the bottle once more, his head tilting in curiosity on what you’d do next. You stared at him with only the steady calm that you were capable of. Your fingers curled around his wrist beside your head and the other hand finally offered the bottle to him by lazily tilting the lip of the bottle forward but keeping the bottle itself closer to you. If Doflamingo wanted it he’d have to move closer. The grin on his face grew and he indulged you, drawing closer. 

At the same time your fingers around his wrist began to move across his forearm in absent patterns. Tiny movements coupled with playful smile, it seemed like nothing but Doflamingo knew what you were doing. It all seemed light and simple but under the surface, under your silent, unwavering stare it was all calculated. It wasn’t about the bottle or the teasing fight over it, it was all a distraction. You were a distraction for him, offering him something else to turn his attention to. Doflamingo’s face hovered over to yours, closed his hand over the bottle and pulled it from your unresisting hold. For a second you expected him to take a drink of the liquid but instead he used his strings to set it back on the drinks table. His fingers trailed up your now empty hand, over your arm and shoulder until it finally tucked under your chin, leading you to close the gap just a little more. 

Your lips ghosted over his and you leant in to peck a quick and by far the most civilised and boring kiss against his lips. Doflamingo grinned and shook his head. Your eyebrows rose and leaned in once more, pressing another kiss to his lips, a little longer than before. When you pulled back Doflamingo chuckled and shook his head once more. With a playful huff and roll of your eyes you sat up, settling your hands on Doflamingo’s chest and gently pushing him back. You settled on Doflamingo’s lap and kissed him once more. 

Your lips still held the sweet taste of the North Blue wine and sharpness of the random bottle of whisky you’d plucked from his hand but underneath it all Doflamingo tasted that earlier addiction stir in his blood. Settling his hand on your lower back and threading into your hair, he kissed you back and deepened it while pulling you flush against him. Doflamingo allowed your warmth, touch, and touch to envelop him. Only this morning he’d worried about the risk to his sense of control but now he let it go, and let it pull his mind away from the thoughts and memories he’d pushed so far deep into the dark he’d almost fooled himself into believing they couldn’t touch him anymore. For as long as you could hold out for, for as long as you were physically able to distract him and keep those deep, looming, heavy shadows in his head at bay he’d take all you could give. Then, just like before he’d force them back down into the depths and bury them where they could never touch him again. 

That had been the plan anyway. As Doflamingo slept that night the images that flashed in his mind struck him again and again. All making his muscles coil tighter and tighter until every fibre of his mind and body felt like his own strings, tight and sharp enough to cut the air itself. Doflamingo’s mind flickered through the memories like a tormenting picture book, each image of one person and one person only, every time the picture changed it was laced with the sound of a gun cocking and firing, the bang of the shot echoing. The final picture was of that bloodied snow, black feathers and his brother’s pain filled glare and the smile painted on his face. The final shot rang out and Dofalmingo snapped awake. Body tensed and chilled with a fresh sheen of sweat he didn’t get from the more enjoyable time he’d spent with you just hours previously. 

His body felt heavy and he stared at the ceiling in the dark. Silently he cursed Baby 5’s uttering of his brother’s title, cursed his own mind for betraying him and allowing it to have become so weak as to allow himself to feel haunted by his brother’s spirit after all this time. His fingers trembled before he fisted them tightly against the sheet under him. Doflamingo looked at you as you lay sleeping beside him, no longer lying on his chest. He must have subconsciously pushed you away in his sleep in reaction to his plagued dreams. For another moment as he let his breath calm again he studied your peaceful but exhausted face. Slowly he reached out.

You woke suddenly and disoriented. Blinking with a frown you shuddered as you suddenly felt the cold creep along your bare skin. A heavy yawn built in your chest as you blindly reached out while your eyes tried to fight off the haze of sleep and adjust in the dark. “Doffy?”

Your tired voice mumbled out his name and you frowned to not hear any response or sense any movement. With a sleepy groan you rolled onto your side and managed to push yourself up to see the bed was empty. Rubbing your eyes you sluggishly dragged yourself out of bed and grabbed Doflamingo’s shirt from the floor. Quickly you pulled it on for some sort of cover as you left the room and went to the shared lounge. Leaning against the doorframe the last of your sleep-heavy daze fell away to see it was empty. Confused you climbed out onto the deck and approached the subordinate of the Donquixote pirates currently at the helm. You watched the man flinch in surprise at your appearance. “Where’s Doflamingo?”

“Um…not here.” The helmsman reported, shifting nervously and keeping his gaze solely on your face. “He didn’t tell me where he was going because um…I don’t need to know. But he flew off about thirty minutes ago. Don’t know when exactly he’ll be back but he did say something about seeing us in Dressrosa.” You listened with a blank expression. After a few seconds of heavy silence you nodded once and turned, heading back to bed. As you closed the door behind you, you let out a scoff. “See you in Dressrosa.”

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[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part Eleven

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

It was early December.

The city was cold, but your soul felt colder.

Six months. Half a year since the accident. Four months since your last surgery. And finally, the crutches were gone.

You should have felt free. Lighter.

But you didn’t.

You were still dragging an invisible weight behind you, one that medicine couldn’t fix. The pain in your leg still pulsed after hard sessions, and some mornings you woke up feeling like you’d made no progress at all.

Rehab was your new routine, but it wasn’t life. Not really. Life was the game, the team, the pitch, the adrenaline. And you were nowhere near that.

Everyone around you moved on and you stayed still.

Your teammates fought for trophies in the league, the cup, the Champions League. You cheered from the sidelines, plastered on a smile that didn’t feel real anymore.

You tried to be happy for them. For Alexia.

Barcelona had once felt like home. A fresh start, a dream.

But the truth was: you felt disconnected.

From the team. From your girlfriend. From everything.

Now it felt like a reminder of everything you were missing.

You hated the way you lashed out. The way your voice rose when Alexia tried to help. The way guilt clung to you afterward. But you couldn’t stop it.

She hovered. Always hovered.

You knew she meant well—her love came from a place of fear, of wanting to protect you from breaking again.

But she didn’t understand that sometimes, her love suffocated you.

She wasn’t your mother. You didn’t want to be wrapped in cotton.

You wanted to fight again. To move, to struggle, to bleed for this.

You wanted to be you again.

But every step felt like walking through fog.

This morning had been rough.

Your leg flared up after the first exercise at the facility. The physio told you to stop. To go home and rest.

So you did.

But “resting” never sat well with you.

Now you sat on the floor of your living room, stretching, ignoring the ache in your muscles, forcing your body to do something. The silence around you was maddening.

When Alexia walked through the door and saw you, her face darkened immediately.

“You’re supposed to rest.”

“I am resting. This is nothing.”

“You’re not listening to anyone—again. You’re going to make it worse.”

You didn’t even try to hold back the frustration this time. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“I’m just trying to help—”

“You don’t know how this feels! You’re out there living your life—training, playing, winning. You don’t know what it’s like to sit here and watch.”

She stepped back like you’d slapped her.

“I’m trying to be here for you.”

“You’re too much, Alexia! I can’t breathe. Every day it’s questions, reminders, rules. You don’t listen! I’m not made of glass—stop treating me like I’ll break!”

And then she broke too.

“You’re being ungrateful,” she snapped. “You push everyone away. I give you everything—my time, my care, my love—and you just throw it back in my face.”

Your eyes filled with tears, anger blurring into heartbreak.

“I didn’t ask for any of this!” you shouted. “I didn’t ask to be stuck in this nightmare, I didn’t ask to be your project. I just want to be left alone!”

The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

Both of you stood there, breathing heavy, shaking. And then you turned.

You walked out the door.

You didn’t know how long you wandered the streets of Barcelona. You didn’t care. The cold air bit your skin, and the ache in your leg worsened with every step, but it was still better than going back.

Alexia called once. Then again. Then three more times.

You couldn’t answer.

You were too raw, too tired, too… done.

When your phone finally rang with Ingrid’s name flashing across the screen, you hesitated.

But you answered.

“Where are you?” she asked softly. “Alexia’s worried. She said you two had a fight. A bad one.”

You tried to respond but choked on a sob instead.

“Hey,” she murmured, “I’m here. Just breathe.”

You couldn’t stop crying. The pain, the guilt, the exhaustion—all of it crashed over you in waves.

Ingrid didn’t rush you. She just stayed on the phone, her calm voice anchoring you until the storm passed.

“I’m at the beach,” you whispered finally.

“I’m coming.”

Ten minutes later, you felt her presence beside you. She didn’t speak—she just opened her arms.

You fell into them.

You didn’t need words. Just this. Warmth. Steadiness.

You cried until your body was empty.

And only then did she ask, gently, “What happened?”

Everything spilled out. The loneliness. The pressure. The guilt. The hovering. The helplessness. The feeling of being stuck while the world spun on without you.

And how maybe you’d made a mistake coming to Barcelona. How maybe, you didn’t belong anymore.

Ingrid listened. Just listened.

When you finished, she took a deep breath and said, “You need a break.”

You frowned. “From what?”

“From all of it,” she said. “From the team, the noise, the pressure. When Mapi hurt her knee, she packed a bag one day and left. Went home. Spent two weeks with her family. No training, no football talk. Just time to breathe.”

You looked out over the dark water.

Maybe you needed that too.

Maybe you needed to go home.

Not forever. Just… to reset. To remember who you are away from the injuries and expectations. To be around people who knew you before all this.

To heal.

To find yourself again.

Not just your leg.

But you.

[legendaryskyscale]

Announcing Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity

by The Guild Wars 2 Team on July 15, 2025

Today we’re thrilled to announce our next expansion, Guild Wars 2®: Visions of Eternity™ and its release date! Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity launches on October 28, 2025, and, like the previous two expansions, will bring with it a year of story chapters and three major content updates. You can get an overview of what to expect from our sixth expansion on the official page, and we’ll be sharing tons of additional details between now and launch.

Adventure on an Unknown Island

Tyria’s leaders are anxious about rumors of covert Inquest voyages launched in search of Castora, an island so remote that it’s long been thought to be inaccessible—or even nonexistent. The risks involved prevent all but the most tenacious (and perhaps foolhardy) of pursuers from investigating the Inquest’s plan.

Your race to discover the Inquest’s plot will lead you across two new open-world regions at launch, each filled with magical energies and strange creatures. Two additional maps will open as the story continues over the course of a year. For Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity, we’ll be releasing story chapters differently than we’ve done for the previous two expansions. To read about this and other insights, see our Guild Wars 2: Janthir Wilds™ retrospective blog from last week.

Expansion Features

New Elite Specializations

Elite specializations are back! Influences from members of the Tyrian Alliance bring new ways to play each of our nine professions. In Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity, you’ll experience new trait lines, profession mechanics, and healing, utility, and elite skills, adding many new ways to play your characters.

From August 20 to 27, we’re holding an in-game preview week for you to beta test all of the elite specializations. When that preview arrives, we’ll ask for your feedback to help us take each elite specialization through the polish phase and into launch. All players with a Guild Wars 2 account in good standing may participate in the preview.

We’ll be back next week to kick off a series of blogs and livestreams to talk about the elite specializations in great detail. Stay tuned!

Skimmer Mastery

In Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity, the skimmer mount will be featured with new and updated mechanics. Hover, dive, and soar faster than ever before as you explore the dangerous and beautiful environments of Castora!

Raids and Combat

In 2026, raids and strikes will be unified under the same structure, improving access for new players and streamlining rewards. We’re also investing in systems that help facilitate group content, which we’ll talk about more in the future.

Two new raid encounters (including challenge modes and a legendary mode) will be added in the major updates to Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity next year. In addition, a new Convergence and fractal with challenge mode will also release in the final expansion update next year, giving players lots of obstacles to tackle and overcome!

Legendary Treasures

Over the course of the expansion and its subsequent content updates, players can pursue six new legendary items: three new weapons, a ring, an accessory, and the long-requested aquabreather!

A New Homestead

Players who own both Guild Wars 2: Janthir Wilds and Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity will get to unlock a whole new homestead map! You’ll also be able to save your decoration layout and freely swap between the Janthiri and Castoran maps with the new layouts feature. We’ll share more information about the new homestead and layouts in the coming months.

Other Rewards

The Wizard’s Vault will continue to offer new seasonal rewards for players to earn as they play through the expansion. New relics will bring players more options for their builds and combat capabilities. And, of course, you’ll also be able to earn new armor, weapons, recipes, emotes, and more!

Prepurchase Bonuses Available Now

Prepurchasing any edition of Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity before the expansion launches at approximately 9:00 a.m. Pacific Time (UTC-7) on October 28, 2025, comes with three rewards: the exclusive Plumed Commodore’s Hat helm skin, the exclusive “Eternal Alchemist” title, and a box with your choice of one Chromatic Resin weapon skin.

Visit the official store page for full details on the Standard, Deluxe, and Ultimate editions. You can prepurchase the expansion through the official store or from the in-game store, Steam, EGS, or official retailers.

Fashion Forward

We have one final feature that will launch in one of the major updates to Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity next year and will be available to all players regardless of expansion ownership: fashion templates!

Fashion templates function similarly to build and equipment templates, allowing players to save a template of the aesthetic features for their armor, trinkets, back item, and infusions. We’ll share more information here in the future about fashion templates—and all the other features coming with Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity!

You can read more details about the full contents of Guild Wars 2: Visions of Eternity on the product page. It’ll be a busy summer as we prepare to set sail for Castora, so stay tuned for more information!

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: “The Breaking Point”

You had been there through it all.

Through the late nights when you’d hear the telltale sound of pills rattling in the bathroom cabinet. Through the empty stares when his daughters’ laughter barely pulled a smile out of him. Through the overdose, when your heart nearly stopped as his did, your whole body shaking while the EMTs worked to bring him back. Through the hospital stays, the cold sweats, the anger, the hollow apologies, the grim promises.

Through the first six months of recovery… when he was so raw it scared you more than his addiction ever had.

You had stayed.

But the house was too quiet tonight. Not peaceful—haunted. Like the walls remembered all the times you sat by his side, praying to a God you weren’t sure you believed in, begging for his heart to keep beating.

Marshall was asleep upstairs, for once breathing soft and even, and you stood in the kitchen at 2:43 AM, clutching the edges of the marble counter like it was the only thing tethering you to the floor.

Then it hit you.

The nightmare you couldn’t shake. The one where you woke up and he wasn’t breathing. Where no amount of screaming or shaking him made a difference. Where the ambulance didn’t make it in time. Where you came home to an empty house because he was gone. Forever.

And you realized…you didn’t want to wait for that nightmare to come true.

Your palms were damp. Your throat tight. Your heart breaking itself inside your chest in slow, inevitable cracks.

You didn’t go upstairs.

Didn’t wake him.

Didn’t lean over and press your lips to his temple like you had a thousand nights before and remind him, "You’re okay. You’re here. You’re fighting."

No… tonight, you let the silence keep him safe in his sleep.

You packed a single bag—just enough clothes for a few days, your phone charger, your keys. No note. No explanation.

Because if you saw his face, you wouldn’t be able to do it. You wouldn’t be able to leave.

But you needed to leave.

The garage door sounded deafening in the stillness, every step to your car ringing in your ears. You drove through Detroit’s sleeping streets with no destination. Just away.

Away from the ghosts in that house. Away from the fear that you would spend the rest of your life wondering which day would be the last day.

Your phone vibrated once—an automated text from the hotel you used when you were on the road with him years ago. A hotel on the outskirts of Lansing, two hours out. A place you knew he wouldn’t think to check.

You pressed “book now.”

Checked in under a fake name.

Turned your phone off.

The room was bland, impersonal. A queen-sized bed with too many pillows, a broken TV remote, and curtains that wouldn’t fully close.

You stood there for a long time, your bag untouched, your knees weak.

You had stayed through the overdose. Through the sickness and the nightmares. Through the withdrawal and the anger and the shattered glass and the broken promises.

But tonight… tonight you couldn’t stay.

Not because you didn’t love him.

But because you did.

Because you couldn’t love him back to life.

And you were so, so scared of watching him die anyway.

So you laid down on a bed that wasn’t yours, in a room that didn’t smell like him, closed your eyes—

—and cried yourself to sleep.

---

The first few days were a blur.

You didn’t leave the room. Didn’t open the curtains. Didn’t shower. The world shrank to the four bland walls of the hotel, the buzz of the mini fridge, and the weight in your chest that made it hard to breathe.

You thought you’d feel lighter after leaving.

You didn’t.

Every day you sat on the edge of the bed with your phone in your hand, your thumb hovering over his name in your contacts.

Marshall.

But the thought of hearing his voice—the roughness of it, the way he’d plead your name—made your stomach twist into knots.

You knew if you heard him, you’d cave. You’d be home by sunrise. Right back to the waiting, the watching, the quiet fear that never really went away.

So you turned the phone off and shoved it into the bottom of your bag.

Day ten, the guilt got to you.

You hadn’t called anyone. No family, no friends. And as much as you tried to shut it out, you couldn’t stop wondering if he was tearing the whole city apart looking for you… or worse—if he’d relapsed.

That thought nearly made you throw up.

So you called the one person you trusted to keep it together.

You found the grimy hotel phone, pressed the buttons one by one.

Paul answered on the second ring.

“Hello—?”

“It’s me.” Your voice cracked. “I just—” You swallowed. “I just wanted someone to know I’m… alive.”

There was a beat of silence, and then a sigh of pure, audible relief. “Jesus Christ. Where are you?”

“Safe,” you whispered. “Not ready to come home yet.”

“Do you know what you’ve done to him?” Paul’s voice wasn’t angry—it was tired. Worn down. “He’s losing his fucking mind, [Y/N]. He hasn’t slept since you left. He thinks you’re gone for good.”

Your throat tightened. “I can’t… I can’t talk to him. Not yet.”

Paul exhaled again, quieter this time. “Okay… okay. Just… I’ll let him know you’re safe. But he’s gonna come for you. You know that, right?”

You closed your eyes, pressing your fingers into your temples. “I know.”

The next few days you drifted. Ate when you could. Took hot showers that made you feel even lonelier. Watched old sitcoms on the TV with the broken remote. Stared at your phone, but never turned it on.

You counted the days by the way your chest ached. How much less you cried. But the ache never went away—it just dulled.

Then came day fifteen.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, picking at a stale bagel from the continental breakfast cart you barely touched, when it started.

A bang.

Then another.

Heavy fists against the door, rattling it on its hinges.

Your heart seized. You scrambled to your feet.

“Open the fucking door!” A roar through the wood. “I swear to God, [Y/N], open it or I’ll break it down!”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You stumbled back, tripping over your own feet.

You knew that voice. You’d heard it soft, broken, begging. You’d heard it spitting venom at the world. You’d heard it during the worst nights of his addiction.

But you’d never heard it like this.

“[Y/N], I fucking know you’re in there!” More pounding, the doorframe cracking from the force. “You think I wouldn’t find you?! You think you could just disappear and I wouldn’t tear this fucking city apart?! Open the door! Now!”

Your hands shook.

You should’ve called. Should’ve told him you were safe. Should’ve let him know you hadn’t left forever.

Now…

Now he was here.

And he was pissed.

You swallowed, stepping toward the door, your hand hovering over the lock.

You had no idea what waited for you on the other side.

But you knew this—

He had found you.

And you weren’t going to be able to hide anymore.

Your fingers trembled on the door latch.

You heard the hallway go still for a moment—no more fists, no more shouts, just this sharp, terrible quiet. And then—

Another brutal bang, his voice like sandpaper dragged over steel.

“OPEN. THE. DOOR.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. You just unlocked it with a shaky twist and stepped back, heart in your throat.

The door slammed open so violently it bounced off the wall, and then he was there.

Marshall.

Not the version the world saw. Not the cocky smirk or the smooth swagger. Not even the man you nursed back to life.

This… this was something feral.

His hair was a mess, jaw clenched so tight you could see it tremble, eyes bloodshot and wild like he hadn’t slept in a month—because maybe he hadn’t. His chest heaved under the hoodie you hadn’t seen in weeks. He didn’t look like your husband.

He looked like something torn out of his own skin.

Your mouth opened but no words came.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. He stepped inside, chest to chest with you, and slammed the door shut behind him without even looking.

“You fucking left me.” His voice cracked, hoarse and brutal. “You—fuck—” His throat bobbed like he was swallowing back bile. “You left me. Like I was nothing.”

You shook your head, stumbling back a step, eyes wide. “No—I—”

“Shut up.” His voice was a low snarl. “You think you get to leave me? After everything? After I died and you brought me back and you—you fucking stayed through all of it and then—then you just—” He let out this vicious, broken laugh, hands flying to his hair like he wanted to rip it out. “You left without a goddamn word. No fucking note. No phone call. I woke up and you were gone.”

Your chest squeezed so tight it hurt. “I just… I couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t what?” His whole body shook as he cut you off. “Couldn’t fucking stand me anymore? Couldn’t stand the house? The pills? The way I ruined everything? You think I don’t know what I’ve done to you?”

Tears burned your eyes but you couldn’t let them fall. Not yet. Not when he was still pacing like a cage animal, like if he stopped moving for too long he’d snap in half.

“I thought—” your voice cracked, soft and desperate, “—I thought you were going to die on me. I thought… if I stayed… I’d wake up one day and you’d be cold in our bed and I’d just— I couldn’t live like that anymore.”

Marshall’s jaw flexed, his breath hitching, and then the anger surged back tenfold.

“So you fucking left first?!” he roared, loud enough to make the walls shake. “You left so I couldn’t hurt you?! You don’t get to fucking do that, [Y/N]! You don’t get to save me and then leave me like I’m some lost fucking cause!”

You flinched, every inch of you trembling, but he kept coming—louder, closer, like every step cracked something inside him wider open.

“I have fought every goddamn demon in my head. I fought for my fucking life. I fought because you stayed. Because you never gave up on me when I wanted to die. And you wanna know what fucking broke me?” His chest slammed into yours, forehead nearly touching, his voice suddenly wrecked and raw. “You leaving. That’s what broke me.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks now, silent and hot, your lips parting on a sob. “I wasn’t trying to break you…”

Marshall let out a ragged breath, chest caving as his fury finally gave way to something uglier—something more desperate.

His hands fisted in your sleeves, hauling you forward until your body pressed flush to his. His voice cracked when he spoke next, just a whisper but somehow even more brutal than the shouting.

“You don’t get to leave me,” he rasped. “I don’t care how fucked up I am. I don’t care if I’m a disaster, or if I scare you, or if you hate me some days— you. don’t. leave. You’re the only reason I’m still breathing.”

You sobbed, your hands flying up to grab the front of his hoodie like it was your only anchor. “I’m sorry… I just got so scared…”

His forehead slammed down to yours, eyes closing, voice breaking open.

“I am scared. Every fucking day. I wake up scared. I fall asleep scared. But I can’t— I can’t do this without you. You don’t get to leave me, [Y/N]. Ever.”

Your knees gave out but he caught you, crushing you into his chest, fingers digging into your back like if he let go you’d vanish.

And maybe you would’ve…

But not now.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie like it could somehow hold you both together, but it was useless—you were already unraveling. Both of you were. Pieces scattered across the cheap carpet of the hotel room, jagged and bleeding.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, but it didn’t sound like enough. It didn’t sound like anything.

Marshall’s chest heaved against you, his whole body wound so tight you could feel him shaking. His breath was ragged, like every inhale burned.

“Sorry?” he hissed, head pulling back just enough for his bloodshot eyes to crash into yours. “You disappeared on me. I woke up and you were gone. I tore that house apart looking for you like a fucking lunatic, thinking maybe you’d just… I don’t know… gone for a walk or to clear your head but no. You packed your shit and vanished.”

You flinched, the shame sinking deep into your ribs.

He didn’t give you space to step back. If anything, he pressed you closer, his fingers digging into your waist like a vice.

“Do you have any idea what that did to me?” he rasped, voice raw and shaking. “Do you even— I almost fucking used.”

Your knees buckled again, a guttural sob ripping through you, but he wouldn’t let you fall. His grip only tightened.

“You… you promised you’d tell me when it got bad. You promised me you wouldn’t let me crash like that,” you whispered, the words thick with guilt. “And then you crashed anyway. And I stayed, Marshall. I stayed through all of it. Through the hospital, through the withdrawal, through every nightmare— I stayed through all of it. And then I had a nightmare of my own and… and I just…” You wiped at your cheeks, uselessly trying to stop the tears. “I just… I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Marshall shook his head, a grim, almost bitter laugh ripping from his throat. “You think I didn’t know you were drowning? You think I didn’t see it? Every time you looked at me like you were waiting for me to drop dead at your fucking feet?” His hand flew to his chest, fist pressing hard against his sternum. “And you know what? I almost gave you that. I almost let go. But I didn’t because you—because you stayed. And you leaving…” His words faltered, breaking off into a harsh, cracked sound. “You leaving made me realize—there’s no rock bottom after you. There’s just… fucking nothing.”

You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t handle the way his voice kept splintering, how his anger was laced with something worse—something like devastation.

“I was trying to breathe,” you choked. “Trying to find space where I wasn’t… waiting for you to die.”

“Then you should’ve said something!” he exploded, stepping back just enough to slam his hand into the wall, the sound thunderous in the small room. “You should’ve screamed at me, hit me, anything—anything but just leaving me there, wondering if you were dead in a ditch somewhere or if you finally decided life was easier without me.”

Your whole body flinched with every word, every crash of his fist, every bitter accusation you couldn’t even deny. Because they were right. Every single one of them was right.

You forced your head up, your voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t think you’d come looking for me.”

His jaw dropped, eyes wild with disbelief and something close to betrayal.

“You—” He cut himself off, scrubbing his hands down his face before he paced, like his own thoughts were strangling him. “You think I’d let you disappear? You think after everything we’ve been through I’d just… let you go? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Tears blurred your vision. You wanted to collapse, to sink into the floor and disappear because it hurt—everything hurt. His words, the truth, the exhaustion. All of it pressing down until you couldn’t stand straight.

“I didn’t want to be the reason you stayed alive,” you whispered. “I wanted you to stay alive because you wanted to.”

Marshall stopped dead in his tracks, chest heaving, eyes wide and sharp like a blade to your throat.

His voice was low, dangerous, almost a growl. “Too fucking late for that. I already lived for you. Every goddamn day.”

You pressed your hand to your mouth, shoulders shaking, the guilt pressing down until your knees hit the floor.

And for the first time… he didn’t catch you.

You were crumpled on the hotel carpet, sobbing into your hands, and he just stood there—fists clenched, breathing ragged, too broken to hold you together this time.

Too broken by you.

You stayed there on the floor, choking on every sharp, broken sob while Marshall stood above you, chest rising and falling like he was barely holding himself together. You couldn’t even look at him—you didn’t deserve to. Not after the way you’d left, after the way you’d broken him more than all the pills and poison ever could.

When your voice came out, it was wrecked. Quiet but jagged, like glass slicing your throat on the way out.

“You’re… you’re not supposed to need me like this,” you whispered, fingers curling uselessly against the carpet. “You’re supposed to want to get better for yourself… not because I’m there… not because I stayed…”

That was what every counselor told you. Every pamphlet, every late-night article you’d read when you couldn’t sleep, every doctor looking at you with tight-lipped pity. They have to want it for themselves. You can’t be the reason they stay alive.

Marshall didn’t move for a moment. The silence stretched long and suffocating… until a sound cracked through it.

A low, bitter laugh.

You dragged your swollen eyes up just in time to see him tilt his head back, that dark, hollow sound echoing in the tiny room.

And when he looked down at you again, his jaw was tight, his face wrecked, but his eyes… they were desperate. Wild. Like he’d already accepted something in himself that you were too scared to name.

“Oh, it’s a little too late for that, baby,” Marshall rasped, voice thick, mouth twitching like a grin that never quite made it to his lips. “Way too fucking late.”

Your heart kicked painfully in your chest as he crouched down in front of you, dropping to his knees like gravity just yanked him there. His hands—those big, scarred hands—reached out, cupping your face with more force than gentleness, palms rough and fingers trembling.

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to apologize, maybe to say don’t do this, but it didn’t matter.

Marshall crashed his mouth to yours like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was bruising, unhinged, teeth clashing, his whole body pressing into yours until your back nearly hit the dresser behind you. Like if he kissed you hard enough, long enough, he could brand himself into your bones so you wouldn’t dare run again.

You whimpered into his mouth, your fingers flying up, grabbing at his hoodie, holding him back, pulling him closer—both at once.

His lips dragged over yours, messy and raw, his breath mixing with yours, jaw moving like he was starving for you. Like your mouth was oxygen after two weeks of suffocating.

He only broke the kiss when you were gasping, your head lolling back against the wall, tears still wet on your cheeks.

His forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed, breath shaking.

“You don’t fucking get it, do you,” he whispered, voice cracking like everything inside him was shattering piece by piece. “I need you. I need you more than I need any fucking thing in this world. I don’t care if it’s wrong, I don’t care if it makes me weak, I don’t fucking care. You’re it for me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, more tears spilling over, your throat closing.

He cupped your jaw tighter, forcing your head up, his thumbs pressing just under your ears, grounding you, trapping you in place.

“You hear me?” His tone dropped lower, broken, deadly serious. “You’re it. You leave again, you don’t leave me a note, you don’t tell me you’re safe— next time, I won’t be the one breaking. I’ll fucking burn everything down looking for you. Don’t make me do that again, [Y/N]. Don’t… don’t fucking do that to me again.”

Your breath hitched, your lips still throbbing from his kiss, your chest caving in.

“Okay…” you whispered, voice wrecked, lips quivering. “Okay… okay, I won’t… I swear.”

But even as you said it, you didn’t know if you were swearing it because it was right… or because you were too broken to fight him off.

And maybe that was the most terrifying part of all.

Your head was spinning, chest tight and throat raw from crying, but none of it seemed to matter—not when his hands stayed on your face, rough and unrelenting, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go for even a second.

You were still trying to catch your breath when he kissed you again.

No hesitation this time. No slow build. He just leaned in and claimed your mouth like it was his goddamn right—like you were his to take back, his to break and put back together however he wanted.

You whimpered, the sound trapped between your lips, your fingers curling into his hoodie again. But it only made him kiss you harder, his lips moving with something desperate and angry and aching.

Then his hands slipped lower—down your neck, across your shoulders, palms dragging over your ribs, thumbs pressing into your waist like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was hungry. Territorial. Branding.

Your back hit the wall, a soft gasp tumbling from your mouth, but he swallowed it whole, pressing his body flush to yours, like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and never leave.

His lips dropped to your jaw, scraping along it, his breath hot and ragged.

“You left me,” he growled against your skin, his teeth scraping the curve of your neck before sucking a bruise into it, one hand sliding up under your shirt, fingers dragging across bare flesh. “You fucking left me, and you think I’m gonna let you go that easy? You think I’m not gonna make sure you feel me on you… every second you’re breathing?”

Your hips arched into him before you could stop it, a broken sound spilling out of you.

“Marsh—” you tried, but it dissolved into a gasp when his palm splayed across your ribs, pushing your shirt higher, his thumb rubbing over the soft dip just under your breast.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he hissed, his teeth nipping at your collarbone. “You don’t get to tell me how I’m supposed to need you. You don’t get to leave and think I won’t come tear you apart just to put you back where you fucking belong.”

His hand shifted lower, grabbing your thigh, pulling it up around his waist, forcing you open for him while his mouth kept devouring your neck, sucking fresh marks onto your skin, raw and visible—proof that you were his.

His voice dropped to a dark whisper, lips dragging over your ear.

“You ran,” he murmured, thumb pressing bruisingly into your hip. “Now you’re gonna stand there and take it while I remind you who the fuck you belong to.”

Your head dropped back, pulse roaring in your ears, every nerve ending on fire under his hands.

Because no matter how broken you were—no matter how much you thought you couldn’t take it anymore—you wanted this.

Wanted him.

Wanted the ruin.

Wanted the possession.

Wanted to belong to something again.

Even if it destroyed you.

Your breath stuttered as Marshall pressed into you, his body hot and solid, muscles straining under his hoodie, his hands greedy and everywhere at once. His mouth crushed against yours again, tongue pushing between your lips with no patience, no softness—just raw, unfiltered need.

You gasped into him, nails digging into his chest when his hand slid down, under the waistband of your sweatpants, fingers slipping beneath your panties to cup you—hot, bare, wet.

A guttural groan rumbled in his chest. “Look at you,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to glance down, his hand flexing between your legs, middle finger gliding through your slick folds like he’d been starving for this. “Fucking running from me… crying yourself to sleep in some shitty hotel… but you’re soaked the second I touch you.”

Your hips rocked into his hand without thought, a desperate whimper breaking free. “Marshall—”

“Nah,” he cut you off, his tone sharp, brutal. “You don’t get to make excuses now, baby. You left me,” his fingers pressed in deeper, circling your clit in tight, messy strokes that had your knees buckling, “—and now you take me… however the fuck I need to have you.”

He grabbed your thigh, hiking it higher around his waist, pinning you there with bruising force while his hand worked you open, two fingers slipping inside without warning, dragging a broken gasp from your throat.

“Fuck, you missed me,” he snarled, biting at your jaw, his fingers pumping hard and deep, knuckles pressing into you with each thrust, thumb never letting up on your clit. “You fucking missed me so bad you couldn’t even keep your legs closed.”

Your head dropped back against the wall, mouth falling open as his pace quickened, filthy sounds echoing in the cramped room, your body already spiraling embarrassingly fast, muscles clenching around his fingers.

“P-please…” you whimpered, desperate and drowning, your nails raking down his sides, your chest heaving.

“Please what?” Marshall growled, his free hand yanking your shirt up, shoving it over your chest, mouth instantly latching onto your nipple, sucking, biting, tongue swirling while his fingers fucked you mercilessly. “Please fuck you like I hate you? Please ruin you like you ruined me when you walked the fuck out?”

You cried out, your body jerking under his hold, your orgasm crawling closer, heat coiling so tight it hurt.

“Gonna make you fucking feel this, [Y/N].” He sucked another bruise into your skin, releasing your breast with a wet pop, dragging his mouth up to your ear. “I’m gonna take you right here. On the floor. On the fucking bed. Until you forget what it feels like to not be mine.”

Your vision blurred when his fingers curled just right, pressing into that devastating spot inside you, thumb never letting up, mouth bruising your throat.

“Come,” he hissed, biting your earlobe. “Right now. You come all over my fingers like a good fucking girl.”

You shattered with a loud, broken sob, your body shaking against him, cunt pulsing hard around his fingers while he worked you through it, holding you up when your legs gave out.

Your whole world narrowed down to his voice, his hands, his mouth—his body caging you in and refusing to let you go.

And you knew, somewhere in your soul, that you’d never outrun this man. Not his love. Not his rage. Not his need.

You didn’t get to run from him.

And you didn’t fucking want to.

Your body was still trembling, thighs twitching as Marshall dragged his fingers out of you, slow and filthy, coating your skin in your own slick before gripping your jaw hard, tilting your head up to look at him.

His lips were parted, pupils blown wide, sweat beading along his brow. He looked feral. Like holding himself back was physically painful.

“You think this is enough?” he panted, voice low and shaking with rage and want. “Think I’m done with you just because you fucking came once?”

You barely had time to whimper before he grabbed you under your thighs, hauling you off the ground like you weighed nothing, carrying you across the small hotel room. The back of your knees hit the bed, and he dropped you down flat, your body bouncing once before he was peeling your sweatpants off, yanking your panties down so hard the waistband snapped.

“You ran…” he snarled, jerking his hoodie over his head, revealing the hard lines of his chest, the scattered scars, the tattoos stretching over tense, flexing muscle. “You left me in that house, thinking you were dead in a ditch or worse… thinking you were done with me.”

You tried to speak, but your mouth wouldn’t work, your breath caught in your chest as you watched him shove his sweatpants down, cock springing free—hard, leaking, angry-red and throbbing.

His eyes never left yours as he climbed over you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them down by your head, forcing your legs open with the weight of his hips.

“I should fuck you until you can’t stand. Should fuck you until you’re too fucked-out to even think about walking away again.”

You whimpered, chest arching into him, thighs parting wider, your body aching to take every brutal, punishing inch of him.

“And I will,” he whispered, tone dropping into something dangerous, his tip dragging through your soaked folds, pressing against your entrance without pushing in. “I’m gonna ruin you tonight.”

Your lips parted on a soft, desperate moan, and that was all it took.

Marshall slammed into you in one hard, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt, knocking the breath out of your lungs. The stretch burned, overwhelming and addictive, your back arching off the mattress as your fingers clenched uselessly in his hold.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head dropping to your throat, hips drawing back and driving in again, rough, steady, brutal. “You feel that? How you take me? Like your pussy missed me… like it’s been fucking waiting for me to come tear it apart.”

You cried out, body rocking under him as he set a ruthless pace, hips snapping forward, dragging you up the bed with every punishing thrust.

His hands let go of your wrists only to grab under your knees, pushing your legs up, folding you in half, forcing himself deeper until you sobbed his name.

“That’s it,” Marshall growled, sweat dripping from his temple, muscles flexing as he drove into you, balls slapping against your ass, the sound obscene. “That’s it, baby… you take it… you take everything… you don’t run from me. You hear me?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, tears streaking your cheeks, nails clawing at his back now, scratching over old scars, marking fresh ones.

He groaned, dropping his mouth to your lips, kissing you like a threat, like a promise, like an apology that tasted like salt and sweat.

“You don’t get to leave me… you don’t get to disappear… you fucking stay,” he snarled, every word punctuated with a devastating thrust, his cock battering into that perfect, sensitive spot until you were spiraling again, toes curling, legs shaking.

“Yours… I’m yours,” you sobbed, eyes rolling back, overwhelmed, broken, destroyed and completely his.

“That’s fucking right.” His teeth sank into your neck, biting, bruising, marking you again as his hips stuttered, pace getting sloppier, the veins in his neck standing out as he growled your name like a prayer. “You’re mine… you’re not going anywhere… gonna fucking breed you right here… make sure you feel me every time you move.”

Your orgasm hit hard, brutal, a full-body quake that ripped through you, thighs locking around his waist as you cried out, pussy clenching so tight around him he hissed, losing himself inside you with a raw, ragged groan, hips grinding deep as he spilled into you, hot, thick, endless.

Marshall collapsed onto you, forehead pressing into your sweat-slicked chest, his body heavy and grounding, his breath still wild and ragged against your skin.

And through the tears and the wrecked sobs… you realized something.

You couldn’t outrun him.

You never wanted to.

Your chest was still heaving, body twitching from aftershocks, skin damp from sweat and tears, when you shifted—just a little. Just enough to try and slide your leg out from under his weight, maybe adjust yourself so you could catch your breath, get your bearings, anything.

But the second you moved, Marshall’s whole body tensed. His hands, which had gone loose on your waist, suddenly clamped down like a vice, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.

“Where the fuck you think you’re goin’?” he muttered, voice gravel-rough and dangerous in your ear.

Your muscles locked, lips parting on a shaky inhale. “I—I wasn’t… I just needed to—”

“No,” he snapped, his body pressing down harder, hips shifting just enough to make his cock—still thick, still half-hard—grind against your oversensitive cunt, dragging a strangled moan from your throat. “No, you don’t get to fucking move. You don’t get to pull away. You don’t get to leave. Not now. Not after this.”

You squirmed, trying to catch your breath, but it only made things worse—he groaned low in his chest, cock twitching between your legs, already swelling back to full hardness inside your still-throbbing pussy.

“See that?” he rasped, dragging his hips in a slow, filthy grind, his half-hard length forcing itself back into the mess he’d made inside you. “You fucking move, and this dick’s ready to go again. You know why? ’Cause my body doesn’t know how to stop wanting you… doesn’t know how to fucking let go.”

Your body clenched around him without permission, another soft, wrecked sound falling from your lips as your hands fisted in the sheets.

“I—Marsh, I just needed—” you tried to gasp, overwhelmed, but his mouth was already back on yours, swallowing the words, kissing you with that same frantic, desperate energy like he hadn’t just fucked you to tears minutes ago.

His hips jerked, working himself back inside, thick and hot and hard, the stretch brutal against your overstimulated walls, slick from your release and his.

“Uh-uh,” he whispered, breaking the kiss to bite down your throat, sucking fresh bruises. “You wanted to leave? Go ahead, baby… get up… walk away… except you can’t, can you? Can’t even move without this fucking dick pulling you back.”

Your nails scraped down his back again, a weak sob catching in your throat when his hips began to move, slow at first but deep—deep enough to make your eyes roll back, your cunt spasming already from the overstimulation.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he snarled, fucking into you harder now, the bedframe slamming against the wall with every brutal thrust. “Gonna fuck you again and again until you forget what it felt like to run… until all you can fucking remember is how full I get you, how deep I get, how fucking wrecked I leave you.”

“Please…” you whimpered, not even knowing what you were begging for anymore—relief, mercy, more. Maybe all of it.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” Marshall panted, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head again, his weight pressing you down into the mattress, claiming every inch of you. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

His pace turned savage, unrelenting, fucking you into the creaky mattress, your body nothing but a mess of overstimulated nerves and desperate sobs, stretched around him, owned by him.

You couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t leave.

---

Hours later, the room was suffocatingly hot—bodies tangled in damp sheets, your skin sticky with sweat, your thighs slick and raw from the brutal way Marshall had taken you again… and again… and again.

You lay half-limp on top of him, your face pressed to his chest, his arm locked tight around your waist, keeping you glued to him even in the haze of exhaustion. His cock was still soft inside you, keeping his come right where he wanted it.

The air barely stirred.

Your eyelids grew heavy.

Finally—finally—your breathing evened out.

Your muscles shifted on instinct, hips rolling sluggishly as you tried to ease the ache in your legs, shifting slightly off his chest to get comfortable.

Big mistake.

His whole body jolted beneath you, muscles seizing up tight, breath catching like a live wire had sparked through him. His hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw, holding you in place.

“No,” Marshall growled, voice low, deadly, sending a chill down your spine despite the heat.

You blinked blearily, head still fuzzy from exhaustion. “I—I wasn’t—”

His eyes were wide, wild, the kind of panic that didn’t come from logic but from something primal, something that had been festering since the minute you left him. His grip tightened, fingers pressing bruises into your hips again as he pulled you flat against his chest, cock twitching back to life inside you.

“You don’t fucking move,” he snarled, the broken edges of his voice turning sharp again, all softness obliterated. “Not now… not fucking ever.”

You whimpered, your already sore cunt clenching instinctively around him as he shifted his hips, forcing himself deeper, length swelling again inside your oversensitive, used-up body.

Marshall rolled, flipping you onto your stomach in one rough jerk, his weight pressing you flat into the bed. His chest crushed against your back, his mouth at your ear, hot breath ragged.

“You roll away from me in your sleep like you’re gonna sneak off again?” His teeth grazed your jaw, his cock fully hard again, heavy and thick as he rocked his hips, grinding against your swollen pussy, dragging a broken moan from your throat. “Nah, baby. I’m not fucking done with you.”

You panted, body arching weakly beneath him even as you shook your head, half-crying, half-moaning. “Marsh… I can’t—”

“You will,” he bit out, reaching down to shove your thighs apart again, already slick and ruined, forcing himself back inside you in one relentless push that made your whole body jolt forward. “You can. You’re gonna take it ‘til I decide you’re done. Until you know you don’t get to leave me, not even in your fucking sleep.”

You gasped, clutching the sheets, tears prickling again as he bottomed out inside you, the brutal stretch making your whole body twitch, nerves fried but desperate for more.

His palm flattened against your back, keeping you pinned while his hips started to piston, hard and fast, no buildup, no teasing—just sheer possessive force.

“You’ll sleep in my arms. You’ll wake up with me inside you. You’ll remember exactly where you fucking belong.”

Your head dropped forward, lips falling open, the room echoing with the slap of skin on skin, the sound of his hips slamming into your ass, the guttural growls in your ear.

You couldn’t run.

You couldn’t hide.

You couldn’t even move.

And fuck, it wrecked you—because you never wanted anything else.

---

The next morning came slow, dragging itself in through broken hotel blinds, filtering over the disaster of a room. The wrecked bedsheets tangled around your legs, your whole body aching in ways you’d never felt before—your thighs sore, your neck littered with bruises, your core a pulsing, overstimulated mess that clenched weakly around nothing every time you shifted.

Marshall didn’t let you shift much.

You barely managed to roll halfway onto your side before his arm locked tighter around your waist, pulling you back against his chest like he could sense even in sleep you were trying to put space between you.

And the moment you stirred, his breath was at your ear.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re goin’?” Low. Dangerous. Possessive in a way that made your pulse throb between your legs despite the ache.

“I just… I was gonna get dressed… maybe grab a coffee,” you whispered hoarsely, trying to ease out of his grip.

His palm flattened against your stomach, pinning you in place as he nuzzled into your neck. “Not happening.”

You swallowed thickly. “I have to drive my car back—”

“No,” he snapped instantly, cutting you off before you could finish. His grip flexed on your hips, his voice dark and sharp against your skin. “You’re not driving. You’re not leaving my side. You’re not doing shit without me.”

Your heart stuttered. “Marsh—”

“I already called Paul,” he said, tone final, pressing a kiss just under your jaw like it softened the words. “They’re towing your car back to the house. You’re not even stepping outside this room without me attached to you, baby. Not after what you pulled.”

You twisted slightly to look at him, but the intensity in his eyes was unwavering—feral, focused, like every second away from you had carved something brutal into him and he wasn’t letting that happen again.

“It was just—” you started, guilt creeping up your throat.

“Don’t care what it was,” Marshall cut in, lips brushing your temple, his voice steel under velvet. “You left. I had to tear through this whole fuckin’ city just to find you. You don’t breathe without me knowing where you are.”

You shivered beneath the weight of his words, your body still tender from the night before, from how thoroughly he’d claimed every part of you. You should’ve been overwhelmed, but it wasn’t fear that settled in your chest—it was that dark, twisted comfort you only ever felt with him.

“Bathroom,” you whispered weakly, testing your luck.

His lips curled against your skin, that same dangerous grin from last night returning.

“Yeah, you can go to the bathroom,” he murmured, voice low and patronizing. “But I’m standin’ right outside the door. Don’t even think about shutting it all the way.”

You swallowed, throat tight, every part of you thrumming with the reminder—he wasn’t going to let you out of reach. Not today. Not for a long time.

And as he dragged you out of bed, helping you dress only to keep his arm locked around your waist, you realized something simple and inescapable:

You’d come here to disappear.

But now you were never getting away.

Not from him.

Not from this.

And maybe you didn’t want to.

---

The ride home was suffocating.

Not because of silence—Marshall wasn’t silent. He was the opposite. One hand gripping the steering wheel tight enough his knuckles were white, the other possessively planted on your bare thigh, fingers flexing every couple of miles like he needed constant confirmation you were real, that you were right there beside him. His jaw was tight, his expression carved from something dark and unforgiving.

You sat there, small in the passenger seat, legs tucked up awkwardly because your whole body ached, sore from where he’d held you down, from where he’d forced you open, from where you’d let him take and take until you were too wrecked to think about running.

His hand slid higher on your thigh, pushing under the hem of your oversized hoodie—his hoodie—fingers pressing into the inside of your leg where you were still tender. You hissed softly, shifting in your seat, and his grip just tightened.

“Don’t squirm,” Marshall said lowly, eyes fixed on the road but his voice sharp enough to cut you in half. “You don’t get to squirm away from me.”

You swallowed, fingers twitching in your lap.

“Marsh… it’s just uncomfortable—”

“You’ll deal with it,” he muttered. “You’ll sit there and take it, because you made me think I lost you. You made me crazy. I haven’t even started making you pay for that, so don’t start complaining now.”

Your breath caught, legs pressing together on instinct, but his fingers forced them apart, keeping his hold firm.

“And don’t even think about clenching your legs shut on me either,” he warned, throwing you a sharp glance. “I got all fucking day, and you’re not gonna forget that you’re mine. You think I care if it hurts? You think I care if it’s too much? After what you did, you’re lucky I don’t keep you locked in our fuckin’ bedroom for a week.”

Your throat was dry, and you didn’t dare speak again—not when you could feel his possessiveness crawling over your skin like a second layer, tightening every time you shifted.

When the car rolled up to the house, your car was already parked in the driveway, a fresh tow sticker slapped on the window. Marshall killed the engine and leaned over before you could so much as reach for the door handle.

“You’re glued to my side, you hear me?” His voice was gravel, dark and demanding. “You don’t leave the room. You don’t shut a door between us. I’m gonna be on you like a fuckin’ shadow.”

You nodded quickly, pulse skipping. “Okay.”

His jaw flexed. “Say it.”

“I won’t leave you,” you whispered, heat crawling up your throat. “I won’t go anywhere.”

His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you close until your foreheads touched, his breath ragged against your mouth.

“You fucking better not,” he whispered, more like a threat than a promise.

Inside the house, it got worse. He didn’t let you get more than a few feet from him. If you tried to head to the bathroom, his footsteps followed right after you, hovering outside the door. If you grabbed a bottle of water, his hand was already wrapping around your hip, pressing his chest to your back. Every time you flinched or shifted uncomfortably, it only seemed to set something deeper off in him.

You were suffocating. You were trapped.

And yet—underneath the anxiety, underneath the exhaustion—there was a part of you that warmed from it. From the possessiveness. From the way he’d decided you were never going to get far enough to run again.

You knew the look in his eyes when he followed you down the hall.

You knew you weren’t done being punished.

And you knew you wouldn’t ask him to stop.

Because this—this was how he forgave you.

And you weren’t sure you’d survive it, but you weren’t going to fight it either.

---

The following days stretched long and heavy. You hadn’t left the house once—not that Marshall would’ve allowed it. You barely made it from one room to the next without his hand finding you, gripping your hip, brushing your lower back, tugging you into his side. He touched you constantly, but not once since that night at the hotel had he fucked you.

And it was driving you insane.

It wasn’t gentle, either—there was nothing soft about the way he grabbed you, nothing light about the way his fingers pressed bruises into your waist when you walked past him, or how his palm smacked against your ass when you bent to grab something. There was heat in every touch, something volatile simmering just beneath his skin, but every time your body leaned into it—every time you gasped, pressed your thighs together, looked up at him with those desperate eyes—you were met with nothing but silence and a dark, satisfied smirk.

He knew.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

By the third day, you were practically vibrating, desperate, restless. The ache between your legs hadn’t let up since he brought you home. You’d gotten used to being wrecked by him, ruined until you could barely walk. Now you were restless, needy, pacing the walls of your own house because he wouldn’t touch you the way you wanted.

The way you needed.

That rough, feral night had cracked something open inside you. You weren’t just craving him—you were starving. Starving for the weight of him pressing you down, for his hand locked around your throat, for his voice low and cruel in your ear while he made you take every inch until you were sobbing for him.

Now, every lingering brush of his fingers, every press of his palm, every cocky little grin felt like torture.

And he fucking knew it.

You caught him watching you while you did dishes, while you walked around the kitchen in one of his old shirts. His eyes were heavy on your thighs, on the tightness of your nipples pressing through the thin fabric, but he didn’t budge. Not even when you shifted closer, not even when your lip caught between your teeth, not even when your hand slid down your own hip slow enough to make it obvious.

He leaned back in his chair, spread his legs wider, and smiled.

“Gettin’ restless, baby?” he asked, voice low, amused, smug as hell.

You bit the inside of your cheek and didn’t answer, because you’d learned by now—giving him your need only made him stretch the game out longer.

By day four, you snapped.

You followed him down the hallway, practically tripping over your own feet trying to stay close. Your fingers dug into his wrist, pulling at him, tugging him to turn around.

He did—quick and sharp—crowding you up against the hallway wall with a raised brow, looming over you.

“What?” he rasped, voice sharp.

Your chest heaved, shame burning in your throat, but you didn’t care anymore. “You haven’t—” you swallowed, heat crawling up your neck. “You haven’t touched me. Like you did at the hotel. Not once.”

His jaw flexed, his hands staying firm on your hips, keeping you pinned there.

“And?”

“And—” you hated how your voice cracked, hated how your thighs pressed together like you couldn’t help it. “You ruined me,” you whispered, meeting his stare. “You made me like this. Now you’re just—just walking around like you don’t know what you did to me.”

His grin was slow, wicked, dark.

“Baby,” he said, dragging you in close, lips brushing your temple, voice low enough to make your knees weak, “you have no idea what I did to you yet.”

Then—just like that—he let you go, turned, and walked off, leaving you pressed to the wall, legs trembling, need coiling so tight you thought you’d snap.

Because now you knew.

He wasn’t just going to break you.

He was going to make sure you begged for it first.

And you already knew you’d give it to him.

---

By day six, you were wrecked.

Every touch that didn’t lead to more made you ache worse. Every little glance, every territorial hand on your hip when you passed him, every growled “stay close” when you moved too far—all of it sank into your bones until you were a mess of restless nerves and raw need.

You tried everything.

You wore his shirts and nothing else, letting the hem ride high up your thighs. You bent in front of him deliberately, stretched when you caught him looking, made sure your soft, needy little sounds filled the room when you cleaned, cooked, walked. You brushed your hand up his thigh while he sat at the kitchen table. You leaned over him during movies, lips hovering by his neck, letting your chest graze his arm.

Every single time, his hand would catch your wrist or your hip or your jaw. Firm. Controlling. Possessive.

And then—nothing.

He didn’t fuck you.

Didn’t pin you down.

Didn’t give you that brutal, feral part of him you were now desperate for.

It was like he was immune to you.

But you saw it—oh, you fucking saw it.

The dark flash in his eyes.

The tick in his jaw.

The way his fists tightened when you moaned too pretty.

The way his cock tented his sweatpants when you pushed too close.

But he was waiting.

Waiting for you to snap.

Waiting for you to break.

Waiting until you didn’t just want it—you needed it so badly you’d beg for it.

And by the sixth day, you did.

Late afternoon, the house quiet except for the TV in the living room. He was sprawled on the couch, watching football, one hand resting loose on his thigh, the other flipping channels, all smug indifference like he didn’t know you were pacing your cage.

You didn’t even think. You just acted.

Climbing into his lap, straddling him in nothing but his shirt, your bare heat pressed flush to the rough fabric of his sweatpants. He barely reacted, didn’t even blink, just kept his hand on the remote like you weren’t losing your mind.

You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his jaw, lips dragging soft and slow down to his throat, biting just enough to make him grunt under his breath, feeling his cock throb beneath you.

You rocked your hips into him, grinding down, moaning shamelessly into his neck, whispering against his skin.

“Please…” you gasped, fingers knotting in his shirt, body moving with desperation you didn’t care to hide. “Please, Marsh… I can’t— I need it, I need you— I need you to ruin me again.”

His jaw tensed, and for the first time all week his hand grabbed you rough, sliding up your thigh, fingers pressing bruises into your skin.

Your hips stuttered. Your head dropped, breath shaky. “I want it like the motel,” you whispered. “I want it worse. I want you to break me.”

For a second, nothing moved—just the sound of the game in the background, your breath heavy in the space between you.

Then his head tipped back, a slow, dangerous smile curling on his mouth.

“That’s what I was waitin’ for,” Marshall said, voice dropping, all smoke and venom and dark, dark hunger. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for, baby.”

You whimpered, rolling your hips down again, voice cracking. “I don’t care.”

His hand slid up to your throat, tilting your head back until your lips parted.

“You’re gonna wish you’d been patient,” he whispered, eyes black with need, muscles flexing beneath you. “Gonna fuckin’ ruin you all over again.”

And this time… you were going to love every second of it.

You didn’t have time to blink before Marshall’s hands clamped down on your thighs, lifting you off him like you weighed nothing. The remote clattered to the floor, the game forgotten, and the only sound left was the sharp rip of fabric as he yanked his sweatpants down just enough to free himself—hard, angry, leaking, already pulsing with everything he’d been holding back.

“You think you can act like a little fuckin’ brat all week and get away with it?” His voice was nothing but a growl now, his mouth against your ear as he slammed your back down into the couch cushions, your knees forced up instantly by his grip. “You think you can grind all over me, moan all pretty, beg for it, and I’m just gonna let you off easy?”

Your head lolled back, thighs falling open as his cock pressed through your folds, rubbing against your soaked entrance.

“I’ve been letting you feel safe,” Marshall snarled, dragging the fat tip through your slick, watching the way you clenched and whined underneath him. “I’ve been letting you breathe… letting you walk around this house thinking you had any control left.”

He gripped the base of his cock, lining up, not even warning you before his hips snapped forward, splitting you open on the first brutal thrust.

You choked on a cry, legs kicking uselessly before his hands grabbed your knees, pinning them wide apart as he bottomed out, his cock punching deep into you with unforgiving force.

“This is what you fuckin’ wanted, right?” His voice was vicious, teeth bared, the rough slap of skin on skin already filling the room as he dragged his hips back and slammed into you again—harder, deeper, brutal enough your whole body jolted up the couch. “Wanted to be wrecked, ruined… wanted me to break you.”

Your back arched, lips parting on a gasped sob, hands fisting into the couch cushions as his cock hit so deep it hurt, angle punishing, pace relentless.

“Marshall—oh—fuck—” you sobbed, eyes rolling back, body seizing under him.

“Shut up,” he hissed, grabbing your throat, forcing your head back against the armrest. “You don’t get to say my name like that… you don’t get to beg like some needy little slut and then cry when I give it to you.”

His other hand shoved under your shirt, grabbing your breast in a bruising grip, twisting your nipple until you gasped and writhed.

“You wanna be treated like you were at that motel?” he rasped, hips snapping, cock slamming into you so ruthlessly you felt every sharp drag along your walls, every slap of his hips against your ass. “I’ll do you one fuckin’ better—gonna make sure you can’t sit without remembering me… can’t think without feelin’ me.”

Your body convulsed, overstimulation already blurring your vision, your orgasm building too fast, too hard, your walls fluttering around him like you couldn’t hold it back.

His grin was wicked, hair falling in his face as he fucked you deeper, rougher, mercilessly, his balls slapping your ass, the couch rocking beneath you.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he panted, fingers tightening on your throat until your breath caught. “You take it… you take every fuckin’ inch like the mess you are.”

You couldn’t stop it—you came hard, sobbing through it, your pussy clenching like a vice, nails raking uselessly down his arms as he growled and fucked you through it, never letting up, thrusts brutal and unrelenting, cock dragging you open over and over again.

“You don’t move from this couch until I’m done with you,” Marshall snarled, biting your jaw, fucking you through every twitch and cry, chasing his own release with brutal desperation. “You wanted ruined? I’ll keep you ruined, baby.”

You shattered again when he came, hips snapping forward, burying himself so deep it felt like he reached your fucking soul, hot and thick, spilling inside you, marking you, owning you.

You stayed there—wrecked, used, pinned open beneath him—while his breath heaved against your neck, his cock softening inside you, but his grip never loosening.

And you knew… this was just the beginning.

---

You didn’t get up from that couch.

Not after the first round. Not after the second when Marshall pulled you up by the back of your neck and bent you over the armrest, fucking you so hard your legs shook. Not after the third, when you were a mess of slick and come dripping down your thighs, your mouth slack and your body limp, sobbing into his chest while he whispered things you were too gone to even understand.

You didn’t leave his sight.

You didn’t leave his touch.

And you definitely didn’t leave his cock.

By the time he was done with you, your body wasn’t yours anymore. It was his—marked, bruised, claimed in a way that was physical, visible, permanent. You couldn’t close your legs without feeling him. Couldn’t take a breath without tasting him.

The sun had set by the time he carried you upstairs, your body limp in his arms, head resting against his shoulder. You were wrecked down to the bone—muscles boneless, brain empty, just soft, pliant, completely and utterly his.

But that was when it shifted.

The possessive fury melted into something else. Not softness, not exactly—but something terrifyingly tender in how he tucked you into bed, in how he wiped between your thighs with a warm cloth even while you whimpered, in how he kissed your hair after every little sound you made.

You weren’t running.

You couldn’t even crawl.

And Marshall—he stayed close, hovering, watching, eyes dark with something deeper now. He wrapped himself around you in bed like he could stop the world from pulling you away, like his arms alone were the cage keeping you grounded.

“Never leaving me again,” he muttered, mouth pressed to your temple, his voice low but steady. “I don’t care if I gotta keep you chained to this bed… you’re mine. You fuckin’ hear me?”

You nodded, too wrecked to do anything else, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist.

The next morning, it was different.

You felt it in the way he helped you sit up even though your legs shook and your thighs screamed. You felt it when he made you drink water first thing, when his palm rested on the inside of your thigh at the kitchen table—not teasing, not just possessive, but anchoring. You felt it in the way his whole body stayed tuned to yours—every time you shifted, every sound you made, every tiny wince or twitch, he was there, soothing and claiming all at once.

Marshall hadn’t just broken you down.

He’d broken himself wide open, too.

That rough motel night? It didn’t just wake something in you—it gutted something in him. The need to have you like that. To be the only one who could handle you like that. To destroy and rebuild you until there was no version of you that could survive away from him.

And now… it wasn’t a game.

It was how things were going to be.

Every glance, every small protective touch, every quiet order—it was a constant reminder. You didn’t get to leave. You didn’t get to distance yourself. You didn’t even get to pull away when things got too intense.

You belonged with him. To him. Under him.

And deep down… as much as it wrecked you, you craved it.

Because this wasn’t just punishment anymore.

It was devotion. Raw, fucked-up, undeniable devotion.

And now there was no going back.

---

The first time you left the house after everything, it wasn’t freedom.

It was a field trip. Supervised. Controlled.

Owned.

Marshall hovered like a shadow, his palm pressed to your lower back as he guided you through the grocery store like a dog on a leash. You barely had time to glance at shelves before his hand tightened on your waist or a firm, quiet, “Keep up, baby,” snapped you out of it.

You felt it in every inch of you—every muscle still faintly sore, every bruise hidden beneath the oversized hoodie he’d insisted you wear, every raw ache between your thighs when you took too long walking.

It wasn’t punishment anymore.

This was just… Marshall now.

You didn’t get a cart. He carried everything in his arms because it meant you stayed close. Every time you drifted more than a few feet, his eyes darkened, his jaw flexed, and his fingers dug into your hip.

“You ain’t wandering off again. I don’t care if it’s fuckin’ produce or the bathroom. You stay in arms reach,” he muttered low in your ear when you tried to trail toward the bakery section.

It didn’t stop after the store.

It was every day.

You tried to do laundry—Marshall was behind you, body flush to your back, hand possessive on your hip while you folded towels. You tried to clean up the living room—he was tugging you onto the couch halfway through, needing you pressed against him. You wanted to cook—he stood behind you the entire time, chin hooked over your shoulder, fingers slipping beneath your waistband, touching you because he could.

You noticed the glances too—every time your phone buzzed, every time you scrolled too long, every time you so much as looked toward the front door. His stare sharpened, his attention doubled, like your need to leave before was something he could sniff out if it got too loud in your head.

“You don’t need anyone else,” he told you that first night back home after errands, voice rough while he sat you in his lap, thighs spread over his. “You don’t need out there. You got me. That’s it. That’s all you fuckin’ need.”

And the scary thing—the messy, tangled, undeniable truth—you did need him. You needed his mouth in your hair, his arms around your waist, his possessiveness sinking into your skin like a brand. You’d left once, thought you could survive it. But now… now you could barely breathe without feeling the loss of his touch.

You weren’t sure you liked it.

You were absolutely sure you wouldn’t change it.

Because the leash didn’t come off.

Not anymore.

Not ever.

And maybe that was exactly what you wanted.

[ceaselessims]

it does make me laugh a little bit that stolas made this deal about the full moon, but once they were actually hooking up both he and blitz start blurring the lines of what that means almost immediately 😭

By the harvest moon festival (s1e5) they're already having sex outside of the "normal" schedule for the deal. And in truth seekers (s1e6) they're having sex because they want to, without even considering the full moon. Of course after Ozzie's, Stolas stops asking Blitz to hook up at all. When he finally reaches out again, Blitz is genuinely excited to hook up and plans for it the whole month (evidenced on his calendar) and then packs for the night with stolas all day in Full Moon

blitz really said the sex is too good and i'm catching feelings but it's for work rn so i can't really think about that :-)

[apocalypticdemon]

man. antidepressants.... good

[cachexiacomplication]

Soulmate broke up with me. Gonna stab myself in the eye

[venusiancarbondioxide]

i actually think we need to stop telling unhappy children that the kids who are mean to them are going to have shitty lives and that their own lives are going to be great and that it'll even out when they grow up. it's perfectly possible that you'll be an unhappy child and then grow into an unhappy adult! and the kids who were kind of mean to you and who you were very jealous of? they could very well in grow into happy people who are meeting societal standards of success. and then you have to cope with that reality at 25 as depression kicks your ass into the ground AGAIN even though you've had a depression diagnosis for THIRTEEN YEARS and SHOULD BE OVER IT BY NOW and your former classmates are like, getting married and hanging out in brazil.

[thedvilsinthedetails]

goodnight tumblr

Fair warning the ramble in the tags is long af

[phagodyke]

omg.... my new nearest audiology department actually has an EMAIL TO CONTACT!!!!!!! we're so fucking back baby

[savethepinecones]

so so sick of being yelled at for being depressed

[fridayyy-13th]

siiiiiigh.