#and both of them are down bad for each other

[lastoneout]

Oo speaking of stationary...y'all wanna hear the actual best ADHD hack I've ever figured out??

You know these things?

Big fuck off pad of paper that's like the size of a small TV? They're usually intended for teachers and offices and such, but you can buy one for relatively cheap and then hang it up on your wall in a place where it's hard to ignore, and then write all your important shit on it. I used to use mine for writing down doctor's appointments and my shifts at work and my budget and things I needed to buy, whatever I needed to remember, and it was a life-saver.

It's also massive so it's harder for your brain to blend it into the background, you don't have to worry about something getting erased like you would with a dry erase board, and tbh it's just really fun to write on them. And you can put little doodles in or get some fun marker colors or stickers to cross things off, you don't have to find new sheets of paper and juggle pins like you would with a cork board, it makes remembering things fun instead of stressful, I genuinely cannot recommend it enough, this thing was the only reason I managed to survive despite having unmedicated and undiagnosed ADHD. I'm planning on buying another when my fiancé and I move and I'm going to put it in the living room by the door so we both can use it and remind each other of things.

They are a little pricey sometimes but the pages are big enough I rarely needed more than one a month, and some also function as giant sticky notes so if you do run out of writing space you can put the previous page on the wall next to the notepad, so imo they are so very worth the price tag. If you try it I hope it helps, they really were the only reason I got shit done when I was using it and I miss having one so bad. 100/10 cannot reccomend enough.

[nanenna]

Focus is shot, brain won't let me work on any of my actual wips, have more of this instead.

---

Tim let himself be dragged by this strange boy who didn't look any older than himself and was dressed more like a hero than a king. Then again Wonder Woman was a princess and Aquaman was a king, so there was no reason this guy couldn't be both a hero and a king.

The king, who hadn't even introduced himself yet, suddenly stopped and looked Tim up and down. "Right, normal human." He turned on his heel and started dragging Tim in a completely different direction. After a while of being dragged they arrived back at the room Tim had first… materialized in? Teleported to? He wasn't sure how to word it, but it was the first room again. The king dragged Tim back over to the pile of blankets and pillows. He picked up the fluffy fur blanket and started wrapping it around Tim's shoulders.

"Uh… is this necessary?" Tim asked.

"Yes."

There was a long moment of silence as Tim waited for the king to continue, but he never did. "Why?"

"Because we're going to the Far Frozen," the king said as if that should be obvious.

Tim had no idea what (or where) the Far Frozen was, but so long as this wasn't a Greenland-Iceland situation the fur blanket made a lot more sense. The king had stepped back and was now frowning down at Tim's feet.

"My boots are waterproof," he supplied. He didn't mention he'd used the suit designed for heading into unknown wilderness. It wouldn't keep him as warm as the suit specifically for subzero temperatures, so he was grateful for the blanket. He wrapped it more firmly around himself and held it close.

"Okay, we shouldn't be out in the cold long, it's just a formality to approach from the outside, yanno?"

Tim did not know, but he nodded anyway. He had no idea what ghost politics were like and frankly he hoped he wouldn't have to worry about it for a long time.

The king nodded back, then he pulled Tim in close and wrapped an arm around Tim's middle. Before Tim had time to process, the king ripped open a hole in the air and shot through it.

If Tim weren't already used to being carted around by flying heroes he probably would have gotten whiplash, as it is he had to swallow down a sudden welling of grief. He missed Conner, he missed Bart, he missed Cassie. He blinked furiously, the biting wind causing his eyes to sting. That's all it was, the cold.

The king slowed to a sudden stop. Tim finally got a look at his surroundings that wasn't just blurs of white and frosty blue. They were on the outskirts of some kind of village that was bustling with large, furry creatures.

"Great One!" one of the creatures greeted with a large, toothy grin and a wave of their giant paw.

"Hello," the king replied cheerfully, "I've come to visit Frostbite."

"Great One!" A new voice boomed. Tim looked over to find a new creature, this one with one arm made of ice, bounding towards them.

"Frostbite!" The king zoomed into Frostbite's open arms, seemingly forgetting he was still holding Tim.

Tim had to admit, the hug was very warm and firm.

"Great One, it is good to see you." Frostbite smiled down at them, then blinked down at Tim in confusion. "And who is this?"

"Ah, right. Introductions!" The king didn't move though, just stayed in Frostbite's hug. "Frostbite, this is Robin, he's Batman's sidekick. Robin, this is Frostbite, chief of the Far Frozen."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Tim said politely.

"Well, let us get somewhere warm first, then you can explain your visit."

---

The king was terrible at explaining things. Tim couldn't tell if it was malicious incompetence or he was actually just that bad, but either way Tim had to jump in and re-explain everything himself. To keep things simple he treated it like any other brief, being sure to give as much context as necessary.

Frostbite nodded along to Tim's brief from where he'd sat down in some kind of office, the two teens each in their own chair. "And why did you come to see me?" He asked after Tim finished. "Would not this be something to ask Clockwork about?"

"Ugh," the king groaned, slumping in his seat. "I hate talking to Clockwork, it's always some stupid riddle I can't figure out. Can't we just borrow the Infi-map?"

Frostbite rubbed at his chin in thought, "I suppose that would work just as well."

"Right?" The king asked eagerly. "And Clockwork's a busy guy, being the master of time and all that, we shouldn't bother him for every little thing."

Frostbite gave the king a knowing look, "Certainly."

"Welp!" The king slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. Tim scrambled to stand as well while Frostbite just gave a chortle as he stood at a more sedate pace.

"Come along, I'm more than happyt o lend you the infi-map, Great One." Frostbite lumbered from the room. Tim caregully wrapped his fur blanket back around himself as he and the king followed.

DPxDC Prompt #17

There is a room Danny's Keep he set up shortly after defeating Pariah Dark. It became necessary when the broader magical community realized Pariah had be defeated and therefore a new King took his throne. Danny found himself briefly bombarded with waves of attempted summonings.

Which, the summonings themselves, wouldn't have been so bad. Turns out people can't just drag the King of Ghosts to themselves on a whim. Danny has to actively accept a summoning to get pulled to it. And if he just decides "No," the pull and whispers go away. No problem there.

No, the problem is the offerings. And sacrifices. The things that people put in the circle as payment for even attempting to summon him. Like having to put a quarter in the payphone just to listen to it ring and ring and ring as the person on the other end of the call doesn't pick up. Since the summoning magic regarded these things as belonging to Danny even if he rejected the summons, they usually ended up just materializing in front of him if he didn't go to them.

Which, okay. It was funny that time he got to end a fight with Vlad very fast when a whole gold bar materialized and dropped on his head. And the food was nice sometimes when it was late and everywhere was closed and his parents had left samples in the fridge to contaminate everything into animation again. But the goat head dropping from the ceiling onto his desk during on of Lancer's English tests was not appreciated. Even if it did get the test rescheduled and the whole school shut down for a few days to investigate the "potentially satanic activity."

So, yeah, it was a bit of a problem. Fortunately, it was a problem with a relatively simple solution. Danny set up an inbox. With a bit of help from Tucker and Pandora, and a couple tips from Clockwork; all summoning offerings and sacrifices would now go straight to the dedicated room in the Keep.

And! As a special touch, the summoners would also get a chipper, automated voice saying, "The Ghost King you are trying to summon has more important things to do than answer you right now. Please leave a message in the circle with your name, date, location, contact information, and reason for summoning. The Ghost King will get back to you at his earliest convenience." Sam's stupid fancy girl gala voice had been perfect for that little message.

It was the perfect solution. Danny no longer had to deal with randomly materializing offerings putting his secret identity at risk. Pariah's skeletons, who had been antsy for something to do now that they were no longer bent under the thumb of a cruel tyrant, were instructed to take care of all the offerings; making sure everything was always cleaned up and put away. And all Danny had to do was stop by periodically to check in and "Officially respond" -ie, write a fuck off note- to the summoning messages (Clockwork's insistence).

A perfect solution. Up until Danny checked in one day to find the skellies pampering a whole ass boy. No. Not just any boy. Danny recognizes that costume.

"Why is Robin here?"

[demonic0angel]

Dan is sulking because none of Dick's friends fear him. He's just "Dick's grumpy/asshole boyfriend"! He hates them all! Except Beast Boy. All the Phantoms vibe with Beast Boy.

(Changed up the ask a tad bc I had an idea lmao)

"So?" Dick asked hopefully. "What do you think?"

His friends had just met his boyfriend, Dan, and he was hoping that they would like him. However, he was disappointed as they all made various faces, most of it negative. Dick wilted as Garth spoke first.

"He seems... fine. Kind of rude and standoffish though."

Rachel frowned. "His soul is even darker than my father's. I think he’s stronger too. I can tell that he didn’t like any of us.”

Vic nodded. "They’re both right. He felt really hostile.”

“Are you sure he’s nice to you? He treats you well, right?” Donna asked, a sharp glare on her face as she looked at her wonder twin up and down. “If he doesn’t, I’ll get rid of him and knock you out of your brainwashing. You’ve been hurt enough, we don’t need another creepy jerk disturbing your life.”

Roy snorted. “He better treat Dick well. Even if he’s stronger than Trigon, we could definitely take him down, right, guys?”

Everyone nodded as Dick sighed in exasperation, although he was smiling a tad. “I promise that he treats me really well. Gar? Kori? What do you two think?”

“Seems chill,” Gar said with a shrug. He stretched out in his kitty form, where he had been curled up and loafing on the sofa. “He gives really good chin scratches and he didn’t hurt me at all. Or any of us. He was really gentle. I can smell he likes Dick a lot too.”

He looked at Kori with a kitty smile, tilting his head. “Kori, you agree with me?”

Kori nodded and everyone looked at her in shock. She smiled and said, “I thought he was quite friendly. Perhaps it was while you all were distracted with the food? He is familiar with Tamaranean customs and was very polite. I can sense that he feels deeply and I can tell that he loves Dick very much.” She looked at Dick with a smile and continued, “As long as you’re happy, I approve. Although his attitude definitely needs work.”

Dick blushed. “Thanks. I like him a lot, though I’ll definitely talk to him about being rude to you guys. He’s kinda… well, maybe not kind of, he’s extremely traumatized, so we’ll work on it. But he isn’t too bad, right?”

He looked hopefully at everyone and they all sighed, looking at each other with looks that promised a team-up if Dick got his heart broken again, before they looked back at him and nodded.

Dick beamed. “Thanks, you guys!” Then he paused and looked at Gar and Kori curiously. “Though I wonder why you two got treated the nicest by him?”

Kori and Gar shrugged, also a little confused. No one had any answers for that either.

Later, as Dick called up Dan to ask him about what he thought, Dick asked, “So… why were you treating Kori and Gar the nicest? Gar said that you were really gentle to him.”

Dan’s response was almost comically bland.

“They’re cats.”

[studioeisa]

we both 🐚 joshua x reader.

you're stuck in a car with a beautiful boy, your glorious history, and eight hours of road. what else is there to do but talk about the deepest of truths?

🐚 pairing. exes!joshua x reader. 🐚 word count. 12.9k. 🐚 genres. romance, friendship, light angst. 🐚 includes. mentions of food, death; cussing/swearing. alternate universe: non-idol; joshua is a marine biologist. bad-at-being-exes/exes to ???, breakup dynamics, road trip shenanigans, dialogue heavy. loosely based on a musical (title lifted from there, too), synopsis references richard siken's you are jeff. one scene parallels tlfy's goodbye until tomorrow / i could never rescue you. 🐚 footnotes. when i joined caratblr, @chugging-antiseptic-dye was the very first friend i made. i would not have it any other way. a: i will adore you for as long as there are waves pulling to the shore. shubho jonmodin ‹𝟹 much gratitude to my beta readers: @heartepub for her eye, @chanranghaeys for her wit, and @lovetaroandtaemin for her kindness. my masterlist 🎵 when i am with you (i am real)

You find him in his element—knee-deep in saltwater, sleeves rolled up, clipboard tucked precariously under one arm as he gestures toward a tank brimming with juvenile stingrays. 

You wait behind the glass where the public is meant to stay. Leaning against the railing, you watch him without meaning to. It used to be that this was your favorite version of him: ocean-brained and utterly focused, calm in a way most people aren’t allowed to be in their everyday lives. It still is, you suppose, though now there’s a knot of something bittersweet twisted through the feeling.

It’s been five months since the breakup.

Two months since you moved most of your things out of the apartment. And four days since you both agreed that, yes, you still needed to drive down the coast and meet with the landlady to finalize the lease termination in person. 

She doesn’t do email. She barely does phones. You’d considered cancelling, asking a friend to go in your place, but the truth is: the car is his, the rent is in both your names, and the landlady likes you best.

So here you are.

Joshua’s hair is darker than you remember, still damp from a rinse or maybe the ocean itself, curling slightly where it clings to his neck. His voice carries over the burble of pumps and the low hum of fluorescent lights. 

He’s explaining something to a group of interns. Something about migration patterns and how the moon affects spawning cycles. You can’t hear the details, but you recognize the rhythm of his teaching voice, the way he softens facts with metaphors, how his hands move like punctuation marks.

When Joshua finally steps out from behind the staff door, he looks surprised to see you already waiting. He does that thing. That thing, with his eyes and brows—an upward arch, a spark of recognition beneath the doe-like brown. 

“Hey,” he says, wiping his hands on his khaki pants. He doesn't hug you, doesn't reach out, but his smile is familiar. A little tired. A little sad. “You came early.”

You shrug. “Was in the area. Figured I'd save you a text.”

He nods, like that makes sense, like there’s no undercurrent tugging beneath the ease of it. Like this isn’t the first time you're seeing each other outside of grocery store collisions or terse text threads about forwarding addresses.

“Car’s in the back lot,” he says. “I just need to clean up. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.” 

You follow him down a hallway that smells like seawater and bleach. He walks ahead, and you let your eyes fall to the way his shoulders move, broad and careful. You still know the shape of them beneath your palms. You wonder if he still sleeps on the right side of the bed, if he still keeps his entire body under the covers because he’s scared something will pull at his feet while he’s asleep. 

It’s going to be a long drive.

You both know it. Neither of you says a word about it.

Joshua’s office is tucked just off the wet lab, behind a sliding glass door smudged with fingerprints and the unmistakable trail of saltwater. You slip inside while he ducks into the locker room to change, the lingering scent of ocean and coffee grounds curling in the air. 

It’s a cluttered little box of a room—papers stacked like tiny towers, annotated marine maps tacked to the walls, a few photos of past dives and coral surveys pinned up like trophies. There’s even a Polaroid of the two of you on the shelf beside his monitor, buried halfway behind a half-drunk bottle of electrolyte water.

You don’t move it. But you don’t look away either.

“Hey, stranger.”

You blink, turning toward the voice. Seokmin’s already grinning at you, his damp curls flattened beneath a backward cap, a towel slung around his neck. Behind him, Jeonghan lounges in the doorway with all the idle elegance of someone who’s been doing absolutely nothing for the past hour.

“Hi, Seokmin,” you say, mustering a polite smile. “Jeonghan.”

Seokmin bounds in with too much energy for someone who’s allegedly been tagging sea turtles since 4 a.m. “Wow, it’s been a while. You look great. Seriously. Like, breakup glow-up levels of great.”

You blink, startled. “Thanks?”

Jeonghan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He doesn’t say anything right away—just folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head, like he’s studying you. You don’t like it. That look. Like he knows something you don’t. Like maybe he knows everything.

You’d been friends with them once, although it was probably more out of association than anything. They were Joshua’s co-workers. You were the girl he brought to company events; the wallpaper of his phone once you got past the lockscreen of Dolphy the dolphin leaping into the air. 

When you and Joshua broke up, you figured you might never see the duo again. Until now, that is. 

“Are you two really going to drive all the way to the coast together?” Jeonghan asks, voice light. “Sounds... cozy.”

“We’re saving gas,” you say. Too quickly. “And rent affairs don’t settle themselves.”

Seokmin nods far too earnestly, eyes wide with some strange sympathy. “Right, totally. Very environmentally conscious. That’s great,” he babbles. “And practical. And—wow, honestly, I just think it’s so mature of you both.”

You glance at Jeonghan, but he’s looking at you like he can read between every word. Your mouth goes dry.

“It’s not like we’re sharing a hotel room or anything,” you add, heat prickling your neck.

“Of course,” Jeonghan says, a little too smoothly. “Of course not.”

You open your mouth to say something—what exactly, you’re not sure—but the locker room door swings open, and Joshua steps out, shrugging a hoodie over his shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing that faded t-shirt you used to sleep in on cold nights. It’s the smallest detail, and it punches the air from your lungs.

“Guys,” he calls, eyes flicking to his friends, then to you. “Are you hounding her already?”

“Never,” Seokmin says, scandalized.

“We were just saying she looks great,” Jeonghan adds innocently. “Glowing, really.”

Joshua rolls his eyes and crosses the room, not bothering to hide the way his hand brushes the small of your back as he stops beside you. It’s not quite possessive, not quite apologetic. It’s almost like a habit, even, and that somehow makes it infinitely worse. 

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping away from Seokmin’s saccharine smile and Jeonghan’s knowing smirk. “Ready.”

Joshua gives his workmates one last look. “Try not to make it weird next time.”

“No promises,” Jeonghan calls.

You don’t look back. You can still feel their stares long after the office door swings shut behind you.

The walk to the parking lot isn’t awkward, not really, but it sits heavy on your shoulders like a coat you forgot you were wearing. Joshua doesn’t fill the silence with small talk the way he used to. You’re grateful and uneasy about that in equal measure.

When you reach the car, it’s like stepping into a memory. The same beat-up Hyundai with the faded blue paint and the bumper sticker that says, Protect Our Oceans— slightly peeling at the edges now, with the art faded. The salt air and the sun hasn’t been kind to it, but it runs fine. Always has. You remember that stupid sticker because you bought it at an aquarium gift shop on a whim, and Joshua had kissed you breathless when you slapped it onto his car without asking.

He unlocks the doors and, like always, walks around to open the passenger side for you.

You blink at him. “Still doing that, huh?”

Joshua glances up at you, a wry little smile playing on his lips. “Muscle memory.”

“Chivalry,” you correct, sliding into the seat. “Or remorse. One of those.”

He huffs a soft laugh and closes the door behind you.

Inside, the car smells the same—like lemon air freshener and something slightly sulfury. His dashboard is still cluttered with receipts and paper coffee cups. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched haphazardly on the dash. One of the little rubber sea creature figurines you used to collect is still wedged in the air vent.

You reach out and flick the tiny plastic octopus. “Wow. Can’t believe you still have this. I figured you’d Marie Kondo everything I left behind.”

Joshua settles into the driver’s seat, buckling in. “It didn’t spark rage, so I kept it.”

You snort. “I think you’re misusing the philosophy.”

The GPS clicks on, a familiar robotic voice announcing the route. Estimated time to destination: eight hours and seventeen minutes.

You glance at Joshua. “Still time to turn back. We can Venmo the landlady and call it a day.”

He shakes his head, pulling out of the lot. “You know she refuses to use the app,” he grumbles. “Thinks it’s a government tracking device.”

You lean back in your seat and sigh. “Perfect. Just what this trip needed: more analog bureaucracy.”

Joshua laughs again, softer this time. You both stare straight ahead, the road stretching long and wide before you. Somewhere in that space, the heaviness begins to lift.

You think the first hour will be easy.

Of course you do. You’ve done long drives before, with less than eight hours of fuel between you. And besides, this is Joshua. 

You’ve survived all sorts of terrain together—coastal roads with the windows down, long drives through the mountains while his hand rested on your thigh, that one disastrous trip to Jeju where it rained so hard he missed a turn and the GPS rerouted you onto a cliffside road you’re still convinced was cursed. That one ended in tears. And a kiss. And a long night spent in a guesthouse where the power went out twice.

But this is different.

Now, you’re in the passenger seat of the same car, the leather warmed by the late morning sun, and Joshua isn’t even humming. You keep your eyes on the road or your phone or the shifting landscape outside the window. Anywhere but on him.

He drives the way he always does—left hand on the wheel, right hand fiddling with the AUX cable when the Bluetooth fails (as it often does). You’d always liked that about him. That he never filled silence just for the sake of it, that he gave it space to stretch out, to become something sacred. 

Now, it just feels like distance.

“You okay?” he asks in an even voice.

You glance at him. The highway curves, and so does his mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” you lie. “You?”

He nods, then looks like he regrets it. “Yeah,” he echoes, but you know he’s lying, too. His nose scrunches up for a half-second. It only ever does that when he’s faking.

Another few minutes pass. The GPS chimes a reminder about your next turn in 112 kilometers. You both pretend like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

You used to talk about everything in the car. Plans, dreams, where you’d want to settle down when Joshua got a more permanent assignment. You’d nap on the longer drives, and he’d let you sleep, stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t catch him. 

Sometimes, he’d narrate the scenery just to hear you groan about how sentimental he was. There’d be music, sometimes arguments over the playlist. But even the fights were better than this new, tentative silence that makes your lungs feel tight.

You wish the GPS had a button for: Take me back to when it was easy.

“Want some music?” you ask finally, reaching for the console.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s all.

You put on a playlist and settle back, biting the inside of your cheek when the first few notes of a familiar song play. One he used to sing absentmindedly while driving. One that used to make you smile.

He doesn’t sing now.

The song ends. 

The road stretches on.

Joshua doesn’t say much for the next half hour, and neither do you.

You try not to count how many times you look towards him. You lose count anyway. The GPS announces that there are six hours and thirty-nine minutes left in the trip. That’s plenty of time, you think, for things to get worse.

When Joshua speaks again, it’s so civil that you contemplate getting off at the next stop and walking the rest of the way instead. “There’s a diner up ahead. You wanna stop for lunch?”

You know the place—he’s taken you there before. Vinyl booths, terrible coffee, and pancakes that somehow taste like grilled cheese. It had always been charming in a very Joshua kind of way.

But a sit-down meal feels intimate. Too intimate. Like pretending nothing ever ended. You don’t have the energy to put on a show, to act like a couple, or friends, or strangers who were forced to be there together for the sake of a meal. 

“Can we just get takeout?” you ask. “Eat in the car?”

Joshua glances at you, brows lifting. “You don’t wanna sit down? Stretch your legs?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your neck does that thing when you’re annoyed.”

“It’s not annoyance. I just don’t think lunch should feel like a date.”

That lands a little too sharply. Joshua blinks at the road ahead, exhales slowly through his nose. “Wasn’t trying to make it one,” he murmurs, the edge of his petulance in his voice reminding you of days where you might’ve willed his upset away with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Silence stretches between you, taut and cold. You rub your hands together in your lap.

“I just think,” you say more carefully, “eating in your car is a good compromise. Halfway point.”

Joshua doesn’t respond at first, but then his lips twitch. “Halfway point. Like everything else with us.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You make it sound poetic.”

“It kind of is.”

The tension eases just a little. Enough that when he pulls into the diner lot, you go in together, order your usuals with barely a glance at the menu. When the cashier asks if it’s for here or to-go, Joshua looks at you before answering.

“To-go, please,” he says, smiling faintly.

Back in the car, you pass him the paper bag and slide the drinks into the cupholders like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe you have. He gives you your fries without asking, and you split the last onion ring exactly like you used to—right down the middle, no more, no less.

“We’re ridiculous,” you say through a mouthful of burger.

Joshua leans back in his seat, chewing. “Speak for yourself. I’m extremely dignified.”

“Right,” you say with an eye roll. “That’s why you ordered a chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream.”

He lifts it like a trophy. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of diabetes?”

Joshua laughs, full and bright, and for a second, you forget that you’re not supposed to still be in love with him.

For a second, it feels like that chapter never ended.

Joshua wipes the last of his fries against the inside of his sauce carton before tossing it back into the paper bag, eyeing your half-eaten sandwich like he’s tempted to finish that, too. You don’t point it out. He’s always been the type to clean plates, especially yours, when you left food untouched for too long.

The silence feels less sharp than the last one, but not yet comfortable. It’s the kind that sits in the middle seat like an awkward chaperone.

He slurps down the rest of his milkshake, the straw giving an annoying little gurgle. Then, just as you’re debating how soon you can ask to queue up a podcast without it sounding like a lifeline, he speaks.

“We can’t spend the rest of the trip like this.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Joshua lifts his gaze to meet yours, pointed and unflinching. “Like we’re walking on eggshells. Like we didn’t share an apartment, a bed, a life for two years.”

He’s right, of course, but who were you if you weren’t arguing for the sake of it? “I’ve told you everything that’s happened to me since the breakup,” you shoot back. “If you want the weather report from last Tuesday, I can give that too.”

“I don’t want the weather report.” He levels you with a stare, then softens. “I want more than just a status update.”

You open your mouth, but before you can speak, he leans back with a little sigh and an even smaller smile. “Do you remember our first date?”

You do. 

Too well, in fact.

An indie cafe with too many hanging plants and not enough tables. You’d sat across from each other with your knees knocking and your drinks forgotten. He’d suggested the list, half-sincere, half as a joke. You had humored him because his eyes crinkled so sweetly when he grinned, and you liked how he said your name like a song he already knew the melody to.

“Pull it up,” he says now. “Let’s revisit it.”

Your mouth curls into a grimace. "Joshua—"

“Pull it up,” he repeats, firmer. He’s already gathering up your trash along with his, crumpling napkins and squashing cartons, as if taking away your excuses along with the waste.

“This is stupid,” you huff, not bothering to hide your exasperation. 

“Probably,” he shrugs, stepping out of the car. “But so are we.”

As the door shuts and he heads toward the garbage bin, you pick up your phone with reluctant fingers. It takes only a few taps to find it again. A New York Times article, a psychologist’s experiment, a curated path to intimacy in less than 40 questions.

The title glares up at you, both a threat and a promise. 

The 36 Questions to Fall in Love.

Joshua merges back onto the highway, one hand steady on the wheel, the other fiddling with the A/C knob until the air turns from too cold to just bearable. You hold your phone in your lap, glaring at the list he told you to pull up.

“You’re impossible,” you say flatly.

“Come on,” he grins, eyes now on the road. “It’s been four years. Think of it as a science experiment. Research question: Have we changed? Independent variables: us, circa year one.”

You exhale slowly, scrolling down to the first question. “Fine. But if I cry, I’m blaming you.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

You read: “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

He hums. “Still Adam Levine.”

“You said that last time.”

“Yeah, and I still want him to serenade me over dumplings. What about you?”

You pause. “I said Robin Williams.”

“You did.” He glances at you briefly. “You still would?”

Your voice softens. “Yeah. More than ever.”

Joshua nods, not saying more. The next question: “Would you like to be famous? In what way?”

“God, no,” he answers. “The idea of people knowing my grocery list terrifies me.”

“You said that exact sentence before.”

“Then I’m nothing if not consistent.”

You consider. “I think... maybe a little. Not movie-star famous, but like, niche-famous. Someone kids cite in their thesis papers.”

“I always said you’d be a terrifying cult classic.”

“And you’d be the first of my followers.” 

He just laughs.

You ask the next question. “Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

Glancing over at Joshua, you sound almost accusatory. “You said no.”

“Still true.”

“Still sociopathic,” you mutter. “I rehearse everything. Even pizza orders.”

“You did. And you still turn red when they ask if you want extra cheese.”

You try to glare, but he looks too pleased with himself. That’d been his role, way back when. Designated orderer, designated caller, designated voice at the counter saying We asked for no pickles. ‘We’, because he never threw you under the bus when it mattered—every time else was fair game.  

You read on. “What would constitute a 'perfect' day for you?”

Joshua’s voice mellows out. “That one I might change. Used to be pools, no tourists, good weather. Now... I think it’s waking up late, coffee with someone I like, doing nothing important.”

You stare out the window. “You said hiking and tide pools,” you recall, tone just a little too wistful. 

“Yeah. That was when I thought I had something to prove.”

“Mine’s the same. French toast. Blankets. A book.”

His smile is small. “Still easy to please.”

You persevere. “When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”

“I sang to the clownfish this morning. They’re judgmental bastards.”

“That counts. And to yourself?” 

He falters. A beat. Another. “I don’t remember,” he says, like singing was now something he could only give to others and not to himself. You try not to overthink it. He goes on to accuse you, “You used to sing in the shower. Loudly.”

“Still do. But I sang to my niece last week. She made me do six rounds of Baby Shark.” 

“A timeless classic.”

You grin despite yourself, heart ticking a little faster. You knew this would be strange. You didn’t expect it to feel so oddly comforting.

He breaks the quiet. “Told you it wouldn’t kill us.”

“We’re only five questions in,” you warn. “Plenty of time to implode.”

He just smiles, knuckles brushing the gearshift.

“Onward, then.”

Questions six and seven are easy. Your answers to those haven’t changed much. You would rather live to the age of 90 and retain the mind of a 30-year-old; Joshua’s secret hunch about how he might die would always be something about the water, knowing how he could never stay away from it. There’s a pang of something in your chest. This sinking feeling caught between disappointment and relief, over the fact that there were still some things that stayed the same. 

You stall a little at question eight.

“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”

Your phone screen lights up with the prompt, and you roll it over in your palm like it might yield an easier answer if you look at it long enough. Next to you, Joshua keeps his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel slackens.

He must remember, too.

The first time you answered this question, you were strangers seated across from each other. A mutual friend had sworn you'd get along. There had been no pressure—just coffee and curiosity, laughter over things neither of you really understood yet.

“We both like documentaries,” you had said then, too quickly, a little flustered.

“We’re both good listeners,” he had added.

The third one had taken a while. You remember biting into your food, chewing slowly, the hum of the café’s playlist blending with the chatter around you.

“I think,” Joshua had said, after a beat, “we both really want to be understood.”

You remember the way your gaze had lifted then, meeting his across the table. You hadn’t said it, but you’d thought it: That’s not a guess. That’s a direct hit.

Now, four years later, a breakup and a road trip between you, the question lands differently.

“We both like silence,” you say eventually, to break it.

Joshua lets out a small huff of a laugh. “You used to say that was a bad thing.”

“It was. When we didn’t know what the silence meant.”

A nod from him. “But now?”

You glance sideways, catch the way his profile is lit by the late afternoon sun. “Now, I think we know.”

You don’t have to expound. He knows. You know. Silence is not your enemy, the same way you are not each other’s enemy. 

“We both overthink everything,” he adds next. “Especially what the other person is thinking.”

That makes you grin, despite yourself. You always thought of yourself to be a bit of a people pleaser, while Joshua just so happened to lack a proper brain-to-mouth filter. You tap your finger against the phone, as if tallying it up. “Documentaries still count?”

“You tell me.”

You think about the way you’d fall asleep to David Attenborough narrating sea creatures. How Joshua would shake his head, but stay up beside you anyway. The way your conversations would spiral into philosophical debates over conservation, ethics, humanity.

You had learned to love the things he loved, learned to love him by seeing the world through his eyes. And he had loved you back. Loved the intent, loved the work, loved the way you overstayed your welcome every single time. 

“Yeah,” you decide. “Guess so.”

Silence laps at the car again, but it’s softer now. Not a chasm, just space.

Then Joshua speaks again, voice low and steady.

“If it doesn’t count,” he says slowly, as if each word is a minefield to navigate. “We could just say we both still care for each other.” 

You don’t protest. You don’t need to.

You both go through the next four questions with twin wavering resolves. 

You ask, For what in your life do you feel most grateful?, and you do your best not to flinch when he squeezes your name between mentions of waterproof dry bags and mechanical pencils. 

When you read out If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?, you tell him about wishing you had better examples for love—but you don’t quip that maybe it would’ve saved your relationship. 

The two of you sidestep and navigate like your lives depend on it. Joshua’s tapping the steering wheel like he’s in rhythm with a song only he knows. A comfortable lapse hovers for the next few minutes as the miles disappear into the road behind you. You think you’re in the clear. That the minefield is behind you. 

Then, the GPS voice gently announces a turn. A new fork, a new direction.

The second set of questions. 

You scroll down the list, phone warm in your hand. “Thirteen,” you say. “If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, or anything else, what would you want to know?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

You look towards him. He’s biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes still trained on the road. He exhales slowly, the sound more tired than thoughtful.

“If I made the right call,” he says. “About us.”

It twinges like a pinched nerve.

You wish you had something eloquent to say, some wry comment about him never trusting the scientific method, but all you manage is a short, “Oh.”

Oh, because the breakup is an unwelcome third guest chaperoning you in the car. Oh, because you had both told your friends it was mutual—but if you were to get technical about it, Joshua was the one who brought it up. Oh, because that would have been your answer to the question, too. 

Instead, you choose to say, “I think I’d want to know if I’ll ever feel like I’m doing enough.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything to that.

“Fourteen,” you try again. “Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”

“You already know mine,” he says. “Marine biology, living near the coast, helping with coastal restoration programs. I did it.”

You nod, expecting the conversation to move on, but he doesn’t let it.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. “Same answer as before, I guess. I always thought I’d do something with my psychology degree. Make something that helps. You know. But money talks.”

Joshua snorts, but this isn’t like the small, amused sounds of earlier. No, this is preemptive of the Joshua you’d always loathed a little bit. The one who could be derisive, the one buried underneath the gentleman.

“You said the exact same thing two years ago,” he points out, and the tone of his voice grates. 

You bristle. “And your point is?”

“My point is,” he says, voice sharpening, “you keep talking like you’re stuck, but you’re the one who won’t move."

The air tightens between you. He takes one hand off the wheel, gesturing vaguely.

“I’m not judging. I just don’t get it. You said you wanted more.”

“And you wanted me to upend my entire life for an ideal,” you shoot back.

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. The words are more pointed than they needed to be. This is too familiar—this twisting spiral of disappointment and miscommunication, the way your arguments always started from a flicker and turned into a full blaze.

Joshua exhales. “I just want you to be happy. You used to talk about doing something meaningful with your life.”

“Well, maybe I changed my mind.”

He looks like he wants to challenge that—but just as he opens his mouth, the car jolts.

Hard.

Something thumps beneath you, loud and jarring. Your body lurches forward with the sudden stop, but before you can react, Joshua’s arm darts across your chest, steady and instinctive.

The car groans. You both freeze.

“What the hell,” Joshua breathes, flicking the hazards on as he pulls over.

You’re stunned, held in place by his outstretched arm. It’s only when he turns to look at you, concern overriding the tension in his expression, that you realize he’s still bracing you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and urgent. 

You nod, lips parted but unable to speak.

Because even now, after all this time, his first instinct is to protect you. 

Five hours away. That’s how far you are from your destination. 

It’s nothing major. Something about the floor of the car, something that will need repairs so Joshua can drive safe. But the nearest repair shop isn’t going to open until seven in the morning, and Joshua bitches about sleeping in the car for 15 minutes before you finally agree to a motel. Which, of course, has only one room available. 

The door creaks open with a wheeze of rusted hinges, revealing a room that looks like it time-traveled straight out of a 70s crime thriller. You both pause on the threshold, blinking at the single bed in the center of the room. The comforter is a paisley fever dream, the walls painted a suspicious shade of beige. A ceiling fan wobbles threateningly above.

And then, as if on cue, you both burst out laughing.

You lean against the chipped door frame, wiping tears from your eyes. “Jeonghan cursed us,” you proclaim. “I knew it. He saw us in that hallway and whispered some old-timey hex under his breath. Probably used sea salt and seashells.”

Joshua drops his bags with a thud and grins, running a hand through his hair. “You’re giving him way too much credit. If anything, this is God. This is Him writing fan fiction. You know—slow burn, exes to lovers, only-one-bed trope.”

“Ah, right,” you say, nodding solemnly. “God’s on AO3 now. What’s next? Coffee shop AU?”

“Don’t tempt Him,” Joshua laughs, flopping onto the bed with a bounce that makes the entire frame groan. “He might give us matching aprons tomorrow morning.”

You look around and spot the world's saddest mini fridge and a TV that probably doesn’t work. There’s a vending machine outside humming like a chainsaw. The neon sign of the motel glows red through the thin curtains, bathing the room in a faint hellish light.

If this was hell, it wasn’t all that bad. 

“Well,” you say, toeing off your shoes and sitting at the edge of the bed. “At least it’s clean.”

“That is a bold assumption,” Joshua mutters, inspecting a mysterious stain on the carpet.

Another beat passes. You're both still chuckling softly, disbelief softening into something warmer. Something easier.

You lie back beside him, careful to leave a healthy, polite distance between your bodies. “You know, for all the fights, I missed this part. The chaos. The way the universe used to screw with us.”

Joshua turns his head, gazing at you with a tenderness that nearly knocks the air from your lungs. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a while, you both just lie there, listening to the ceiling fan squeal and the cars woosh pasts on the highway. Laughing quietly at the impossible, fanfictional mess you’ve found yourselves in yet again.

Loving Joshua had felt a bit like that. A fairytale. A song. And so the ending of it all—the last chapter, the final notes—had left you feeling cheated. There was a time where you believed the love might have lasted; it sucks to be proven otherwise. 

Joshua pulls himself up, socked feet nudging yours underneath the yellowing duvet. He looks up at you with something reverent in his eyes, the kind of look that used to come just before he said something dumb and sincere all at once.

“You know we can’t stop now,” he says. “It’s not every day we get to be stranded in a town with population thirty and a single bed between us.”

You shake your head, still smiling from earlier. “You’re really pushing the limits of what counts as a romantic setting.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues. “We made it this far. Might as well keep going. Question fifteen.”

What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

You settle into the other side of the bed, cross-legged, careful not to brush against his knee. “Finishing grad school while holding down a full-time job. That, or not screaming at that one VP during our quarterly meeting.”

Joshua laughs. “Oh, I remember that guy. You hated him with the passion of a million suns.” 

“That hasn’t changed. You?” 

He thinks for a moment. “Publishing my research paper last year. The one on coral regeneration. That felt big. Like it could actually change something.”

It’s a good answer. You nod. “Alright. Question sixteen. What do you value most in a friendship?”

Joshua leans back, hands behind his head. “Loyalty. The kind that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.”

You hum. “I get that. And maybe the ability to sit in silence without it being weird. Just… coexisting.”

You both fall quiet. That used to be the two of you. Afternoons of independent hobbies, evenings of parallel play. You were both perfectly fine, fully functional people outside of your relationship. You were not two halves of a whole. 

A part of you wonders if that’s where you went wrong. If completion was precedent to a proper romance. But you also know that’d been your strongest suit—letting the love guide, not consume. Letting it linger, not fester. 

“Question seventeen,” you say, scrolling down your phone. “Most treasured memory.” You steal a glance. “Back then, yours was that beach day with your mom, right?”

Joshua nods slowly. “Still important. But… I think it’s changed.” 

He looks out the small motel window, takes a deep breath like he’s getting ready to plunge into the deep end of something. “Remember the time we got caught in that summer storm in Jeju?” he muses. “We were soaked, freezing, and the only place open was that sad diner with the flickering lights. You looked miserable. But you laughed anyway. God, you laughed so hard. I think I knew I loved you then.”

Your throat tightens. You hated that night. Everything went wrong, and you thought it was a sign this new boyfriend of yours wasn’t meant for you. But Joshua had been an even bigger diva than you—enough to make you forget your misery, to have you giggling despite the fact you were borderline pneumonic, showering in ice-cold water. 

“That was a good night,” you say. 

He offers you a half-smile, one that communicates just how aware he is of your indulgence. He knows you complained to your friends, that you logged the entry into your diary with notes of Never again!!! and The Jeju curse is real. But he also knows you loved him, even then, even with your shoes full of water and your lips too chapped to press against his. 

“Your turn,” he urges. 

You shrug, suddenly aware of your hands in your lap. “There’s a lot. But… that one birthday you surprised me with the rooftop dinner. I had the worst week, and you just… knew.”

Neither of you have to expound. Not on the work week that had wrung you dry, not on the chocolate chip cookies he had learned to bake especially for that evening. You had burst into tears when you saw the candlelit dinner and the monstrous bouquet of mismatched flowers; Joshua had cooed reassurances into the top of your hair, whispering sweet nothings like Pretty girls shouldn’t cry on their birthday. Come on, love, smile. 

“Question eighteen,” you continue, because dwelling on the way he looked then is almost enough to have you relapsing. “Most terrible memory.”

You don’t answer right away.

“Back then,” you say slowly, “it was something stupid. Failing my first stats exam. But now…”

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you.

“It was the night we decided to end it,” you admit. “The part where I packed up and left. Closing the door. That part hurt the most.”

Joshua exhales. “Ditto,” he says, and you don’t call him a cop out. You don’t accuse him of not being as hurt as you. You just—you let him have that, too. 

It’s a terrible memory. 

The room is quiet again. Outside, the neon motel sign flickers. Inside, two people who once knew each other like the back of their hands try to find their way back through questions that are starting to feel like maps.

Joshua doesn’t hesitate to read out question nineteen.

“If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?”

You shift slightly on the edge of the bed, knees curled toward you like you could fold yourself into a simpler version of this night. “I’d probably quit my job,” you say slowly. “Travel. See my parents more often. Start writing again. Not wait for the perfect time to do everything.”

He hums. “I’d probably take a few sabbaticals. Go diving in the Galápagos,” he says. “Set my mom up with a good house. Maybe... I don't know. Make a documentary. Something that puts all the little things I love in one place.”

You glance at him, watching the way he fidgets with a corner of the blanket between his fingers. He’s leaning against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent. A familiar pose, from when he used to read in bed. The memory tugs, and you almost say something—almost add what neither of you have said.

You’d want to call him. One last road trip, maybe. One last laugh over something ridiculous. 

A kiss, if he were feeling particularly generous. Not to see if it could salvage, but just to remember the way it’d made you feel alive. 

But you don’t say it. And neither does he.

Instead, he offers you a smile that doesn’t look real at all. “You tired?”

You nod. You lie. “A bit.” 

Joshua pushes himself up from the bed, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright. You get the bed. I’ll take the cockroach-infested couch chair.” 

You glance at the lumpy thing in the corner and raise an eyebrow. “You’ll get scoliosis.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a chiropractor,” he quips. “I’ll survive.”

You roll your eyes, already pulling the blanket over you. “Fine. But if you wake up tomorrow and can’t feel your back, I’m not driving.”

He chuckles. “Forever a passenger princess.” 

As he dims the lights, he adds, “The experiment continues tomorrow.”

You don’t answer. You let your eyes fall shut, the room quieting into the rustle of sheets and soft motel noises. Since the breakup, you’ve been having trouble with sleep. The melatonin gummies have helped somewhat; you don’t have any on hand, though, after expecting the two of you would make the trip a one-and-done. 

Now, though, your breathing slows quicker than it has in weeks. You have a fleeting thought that it has something to do with Joshua being in the same room—as if your body is fine-tuned to relax and uncoil in his presence, so used to the notion that he would always keep you safe. 

In your dream, you are somewhere coastal. 

The salt air clings to your skin. Joshua is there, too. 

Older and sunburned, wrinkled and still yours. He’s smiling at you like nothing ever hurt between you, his eyes curled in those crescents you were always so weak for. 

Knee-deep in the water, he reaches out a hand. 

You take it without thinking.

The mechanic gives Joshua the all-clear just before nine in the morning. The two of you make do with a gas station breakfast—powdered donuts and hot coffee that taste vaguely of cardboard—and then you’re back on the road. 

The sky is clear, and the early morning light softens the world around you in a way that makes it feel like yesterday’s sharp edges never happened.

You think, maybe, that Joshua’s forgotten about the questions. Maybe last night was a fluke. A relic of nostalgia mixed with insomnia. Maybe the two of you can ride the rest of the way in companionable silence, listening to acoustic playlists and the occasional podcast.

Except Joshua is a bitch who never forgets. 

“Okay,” he says, fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. “Where were we?”

You sigh dramatically. “We’re still on that?” 

“Of course,” he replies cheekily. “We’re in too deep to give up.”

You scroll back on your phone, eyes scanning the familiar list. You breeze through questions 20 and 21—both of you agreeing that you value honesty in relationships and sharing that you talk to your family almost every week. It’s easy. Almost comfortable.

Then comes question 22.

“Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.”

You remember how this went the first time. How clumsy and awkward you both were, strangers trying to map out the shape of each other with vague guesses. You’d said something like, You seem like a good listener, and Joshua had commented on your style. 

All surface.

Now, there’s too much underneath.

Joshua clears his throat. “You go first.”

You consider calling him a narcissist, but you opt out. “Okay. Uh,” you start. “You’re—steadfast. Once you decide something matters to you, you stay. Even when it’s hard.”

He hums. “You’re perceptive. You always notice the things no one else does.”

“You’re thoughtful,” you go on. “You remember things—like people’s favorite snacks or how they take their coffee. It’s never loud, but it’s there.”

“You’re funny,” he says, a little more quickly. “In a smart way. You don’t always say the joke out loud, but when you do, it lands.”

You laugh. “That’s the first time you’ve called me funny.”

“I call you funny in my head all the time,” he replies.

You don’t quite know what to say to that, so you look down at your phone.

“You’re earnest,” you offer. “Even when you try not to be. Especially then.”

His grip on the wheel tightens for a split second before relaxing again. “You care deeply. About people. About doing the right thing. Even when it tears you up.”

Joshua drives just a little below the speed limit, as if trying to stretch this moment out. You don’t say it out loud, but you both know you’ve passed five.

You wonder if that’s the point.

The hum of the car is soft under the quiet that settles again between you. The GPS chirps—still three hours to go. Still three hours of pretending it doesn’t sting to sit this close to him. Still three hours of pretending like this is just a ride and not a slow unraveling of everything you’d packed away.

You read the next prompt aloud, your voice only slightly more confident now: “Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘We are both in this room feeling...’”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Three each? That's excessive.”

You shrug. “Take it up with Dr. Arthur Aron.” 

Joshua rolls his shoulders. “Okay. One: We are both doing our best to not make this weirder than it already is.”

“One: We are both extremely bad at not making things weird,” you counter.

He laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that softens something in your chest. “Two: we both care more than we probably should.”

You hesitate. Then, “Two: We both don’t really know what to do with all the leftover feelings.” 

Joshua exhales like you had punched the air out of him. 

So far, everything has alluded to this. To the eventual conclusion that you both had things you still wanted to say. Joshua was never slick; you know why he’s insisting on playing this game. 

He’s hoping to find closure—some twisted semblance of it—in between questions one to thirty-six. Or maybe he’s hoping to find something else. A hint. A reason. An opening. You don’t know for sure, but you know Joshua Hong is the type of person that always has a motive.

Leftover feelings is just a nice way to put it. 

“Three,” he goes on, as if he physically can’t bring himself to address your second statement, “We both remember everything. Even if we pretend we don’t.”

You look at him. His hands on the wheel, that little crease between his brows that forms when he's thinking too hard. You say, quietly, “We are both still here. In this car. On this trip. That counts for my last one, right?”

He doesn't answer right away. Then he says, voice lighter than it’s been all day, “Are you still okay with all this?” 

It feels like the first real question he’s asked you—not part of a list, not pulled from a script, not something rehearsed. It’s a moment of benevolence, an offer for an out. If you told him your heart was cracking open, he’d find one of his own playlists and you would throw in the white flag at the start of set three. 

You turn toward the window. “I’m okay if you are,” you say, because it’s true, because you’re indecisive, because you kind of want answers, too. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him nod. “Okay.” A pause. “Then we keep going.”

You move on to question twenty-six.

“Complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share…’”

Joshua shifts his grip on the wheel. The road outside blurs into long stretches of beige and green, but neither of you is looking at it.

He exhales. “...small wins.”

You think of the refrigerator in your shared apartment, the one with fish-themed magnets and Joshua’s accomplishment reports pinned up like kindergarten drawings. You think of his evening prayers, the sleepy mumbles of Hey God, it’s me, Joshua, and the gratitude for no traffic or healthy corals. You think of the crumpled look on his face when you couldn’t quite understand why he was so happy over something, the way his shoulders would fall when you couldn’t share in his small but certain happiness. 

You give your own answer. “...my fears.”

It lands heavier than it should. There are notebooks full of pages upon pages of writing, words you should have probably divulged to Joshua but chose not to. There are sweaters, and hoodies, and jackets with loose threads around the sleeves, from all the times you’d gotten scared but took it out on yourself instead of saying something. There are memories of Joshua—on his knees, slamming the door—asking for you to give him an inch. You never did budge. 

The car suddenly feels small. Too small for the weight of things unsaid.

“Twenty-seven,” you announce, voice wavering. “If you were going to become close friends, please share what would be important for him or her to know.”

You look at Joshua. His jaw tenses. It’s a query that works best in the context of the study. The questions are a first-date gig, meant for strangers looking to be friends or friends praying to be lovers. 

Not exes. Not you and Joshua. 

“That I get quiet when I’m overwhelmed,” he responds. “That it doesn’t mean I’m shutting people out. I just need space to think.”

You give a jerky nod, then answer, “That I overthink most things. That I’ll ask for reassurance even when I know the answer.”

He glances at you. “You still do that?”

“Yeah.”

The silence this time is different—not the awkward kind from the first hour of the trip, but something rawer. Tension prickles at the base of your neck.

You tap the GPS map. “Can you pull over at the next gas station? I have to pee,” you say, even though your bladder is the furthest from full. 

Joshua grunts his approval.

A few minutes later, he turns off the road. You murmur a quick thanks before slipping out of the car.

The restroom is fluorescent-lit and smells faintly of soap and old tiles. You grip the edge of the sink and lean forward, staring into the mirror.

“You’re fine,” you tell your reflection. “You’re fine. Don’t go there again.”

You splash cold water on your face, the shock of it grounding. You know what this is starting to feel like. A ledge, a pattern, a memory dressed up like something new. 

You’re not sure if you can fall again and survive the landing.

Behind your reflection, the bathroom door creaks open. You dry your face and brace yourself to step back into the heat of the day—and into a car that feels more like a confession booth with every mile.

Joshua drums his fingers along the curve of the wheel, elbow resting by the window as highway signs blur past. Your hair is still slightly damp at the edges from where you splashed your face. The radio hums low between you, some soft indie band murmuring about lost time.

“Two more hours,” he informs you. Not quite a warning, not quite a relief.

You nod, thumbing through the article on your phone. “Eight more questions.”

He exhales a laugh. “Maybe space it out? Take your time with the hard ones?”

“I’ll take a break after the next one,” you say. “Number twenty-eight.”

There’s a half-smile on his face, like he remembers the first time twenty-eight was posed. “The big one.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time.” 

You both laugh, maybe a little too hard. You’re thinking of the first date—how you’d nervously said you liked that he was punctual, how he’d said he liked your jacket. Neither of you were very brave, then, or honest. 

Will you be now? 

“Okay,” he says, tapping the wheel in rhythm to the Billy Joel song that has started to croon. “I’ll go first.”

You don’t stop him.

He speaks slowly, at first. As if he’s the weight of each word. You had expected maybe one or two big things, but the fact that there’s an upcoming break seems to embolden him. 

He says he likes how you read people before they know they’re being read. He says he likes how you tilt your head when you’re thinking too hard. That you always ask baristas how their day’s going. That you cry during movies, but always pretend it’s allergies. That you never half-listen to someone when they talk.

Each word feels like it’s making the air between you warmer. Thinner. More charged.

He goes on, and on, and on. Some things, you already know. Some things, it’s the first time you’ve heard. 

Some things, you thought he had hated—only to find out it was the complete opposite. 

Some things, you’re surprised he even noticed.

When he patters off, he looks a bit sheepish, like he hadn’t expected to ramble. Neither of you steal a glance at the car’s analog clock. There’s no need to check, to confirm he spent perhaps a little too long extolling your virtues and waxing poetics you no longer felt like you deserved. 

You inhale.

“I like how you look like you’re trying not to smile when you are,” you start. “I like that you leave voice memos instead of texts when you’re tired. That you care about fish more than people sometimes, but you’ll never admit it. That you always carry two chargers. That you know the scientific names for all your favorite corals but still call them ‘little guys’ when you talk about them.”

Your list goes on, and on, and on. You like the calluses on his fingers from the years of guitar-playing. You like the soothing cadence of his voice when he’s reading something out loud. You like the slightly absurd way he sits, and the empathy he gives out as easily as one gives out gum, and the expressions he makes when somebody does something questionable. 

You stutter to a stop, knowing you’ve said as much—maybe even a little more—as him. The entire time, you’d kept your eyes on the road, but now you dare yourself to look. You regret it immediately. 

He’s gnawing at his lower lip, fighting back a smile. You don’t know how long he’s been trying to hold it back, but from the ruddiness of his cheeks, you’d say it’s been a couple of minutes. “Don’t say all that,” he manages. 

“Why not?” you say defensively. 

“Makes me want to kiss you,” he says outright, so softly it folds itself between the cracks of your ribcage. “And I’m not supposed to want that anymore.” 

His eyes flick over to you. You meet his gaze for half a second longer than is wise.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Hong,” you say, voice steady even as your pulse wavers.

He does as he’s told, but the smile on his face still tries its damnedest not to break.

The silence between you now is lighter, almost companionable. The kind that doesn’t need filling. You’re both tired, but not from each other—at least not in the same way you were when the drive began. 

There’s still an ache, a wariness, but it’s no longer sharp. Just an awareness of proximity and time passed.

Outside the window, the highway begins to bleed into coastal roads, winding through the kind of sleepy seaside towns that barely show up on a map. You catch a whiff of salt in the breeze when Joshua cracks the window open. The air is briny and cool, and your landlady’s city can’t be more than ten minutes away now.

“Bring up the next one,” Joshua prompts. “Question twenty-nine.”

You unlock your phone and read aloud, “Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.”

You think for a second before answering. “One time during a client pitch, I said ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’ Completely straight-faced. No one corrected me. I didn’t even realize until hours later.”

Joshua barks out a laugh. “That’s… incredible.”

“Corporate girlie era. Not my best work.”

The road narrows, bending toward the sea. Then, he says, “A few weeks after the breakup, I accidentally called you during a team meeting. Like, I butt-dialed you. I was underwater a lot at the time, so I’d listen to your old voicemails whenever I could. Guess my phone got confused. Everyone heard it. The voicemail. You were talking about soup.”

You blink. “Soup?”

He nods solemnly. “Tom kha kai. You were mad I ate yours.”

You stare at him. He tries to act like it’s nothing, like the voicemail wasn’t from very early into your relationship, but his ears are pink.

“That’s…” You want to say sweet, or something else foolish. “Embarrassing. Yeah. I get it.”

He nods, but doesn’t meet your eyes.

Neither of you speak after that. The silence returns, soft and warm. The car turns down a familiar street, and the ocean gleams in the distance like it remembers you both.

Your landlady—sorry, ex-landlady—Minjung lives in a cheerful, sea-salted bungalow at the end of a sloping road. The pavement gives way to pebbles and gull cries. It’s the type of house you and Joshua once joked about retiring in. 

There’s none of those jokes today. 

The two of you pull up just after one in the afternoon, both exhausted but trying not to show it. The air smells like fried dough, and there’s a breeze that tangles your hair the second you step out.

Minjung opens the door almost as soon as you knock. She’s wearing her usual floral house dress, grey hair pinned up in a neat bun, and when she sees you both standing side by side on her porch, her eyebrows lift so high they nearly disappear into her hairline.

“Oh, you both made it,” she says. Her voice is kind but pointed. “Together, even.”

You and Joshua smile politely, murmuring greetings as you step inside. The living room is exactly how you remember it: mismatched furniture, a faint smell of liniment, crocheted doilies covering every available surface. She ushers you in, offers you barley tea you both politely decline, and sits with a huff in her favorite armchair.

The conversation is short and mostly administrative. Paperwork is signed, keys are handed over, deposits are discussed. She asks if you've found new places to live, and you both assure her you have. When the last form is signed, she takes a long look at the two of you.

“I’m surprised,” she says plainly, “that you two didn’t make it. I had a good feeling about you.”

You glance at Joshua, whose smile is tight but not insincere. “We had a good run,” he says, voice gentle, and that’s somehow the part of this whole endeavor that tears you up the most.

Minjung hums, not quite convinced. But she pats your hand and says she wishes you both well. You thank her. 

It’s done. After everything, it’s finally done. 

No more shared bills or split chores. No more arguing about groceries or laundry schedules. Just clean breaks, and quiet endings, and another eight hours back home you’ll probably sleep through.

You’re on the porch again, about to step off the last stair, when Minjung opens the door behind you.

“By the way,” she calls out. “You two didn’t have to come all this way, you know. I have a—what do you kids call it? Van-me? Venmo? Yes, that. I have that now.” 

She shuts the door in your faces before either of you can respond.

You and Joshua stare at each other. For a beat, silence. 

Then, laughter. Real, deep, absurd laughter.

You double over, hands on your knees. Joshua leans against the porch rail, laughing so hard he wheezes. Your cheeks hurt, your eyes blur, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re laughing with him like you used to—like nothing ever changed.

“I hate us,” you manage between giggles.

“She really let us suffer through all that,” Joshua gasps. “An eight-hour drive, a motel with one bed, all for... this.”

You can’t stop laughing. Not for a while. And when you finally do, breathless and dazed, you’re not sure what the ache in your chest means anymore.

Joshua invites you to the beach after Minjung’s door shuts behind the both of you. He says it casually, like he’s not asking you to walk across a tightrope of memory, but just to sit, to rest, to let the waves be the only thing talking for a while.

You agree. Because it’s the least you can give him, considering the fact he’s in for another long drive. Because Joshua said that nothing in the world made him happier than the beach, and you. 

“We should finish the questions,” he says, already headed toward the shoreline. “Might as well. Before we have to get back in the car.”

You follow him. It’s easier to, now.

The wind’s picked up, but not so much that it makes the air cold. Just enough to push your hair around your face and coat your skin with salt. The two of you find a smooth stretch of sand near the water, a small incline that gives you a view of the waves curling back on themselves. The city behind you is quiet and gray, the kind of place where time seems to wait a little longer between minutes.

You settle in beside him, knees pulled up to your chest. Joshua stretches his legs out in front of him, leans back on his palms.

You open your phone and pull the list up again. “Alright,” you say, trying to make your voice light, “question thirty. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”

He hums. You think he's stalling, but when he answers, it’s immediate.

“By myself? Last month. One of my undergrads turned in a paper about the death of coral ecosystems and how they linked it to their relationship with their dad. It hit me. I cried in the breakroom.”

“And in front of someone?”

He glances at you. “Right now doesn’t count, right?”

You smile. You don't answer.

“You?”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “By myself, probably... a couple weeks ago. Work stuff. And in front of someone?” You give him a look. “When we broke up.”

He nods like he remembers, and you know he does.

Question thirty-one. “Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”

Joshua chuckles. “This is like the third time they’ve asked this.”

“Reinforcement is key.”

He looks at you. Not in the way he used to—hungry and open—but with a quiet sort of affection, like he's memorizing without needing to possess. Really looks at you.

“I like how you look when the wind hits your hair. Like you're always on the verge of something. Running or staying,” he says. 

You roll your eyes, but your heart doesn’t get the memo.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You used to like that about me.”

“Still do,” you mutter.

Joshua doesn’t press it. You give him your answer—something about the way his eyes light up when he’s watching the sunset. He takes it with grace, angling his face a little more towards the horizon like he’s trying to remind you of what you love about him. As if you’d need a reminder. 

Question thirty-two. “What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”

You take longer with this one.

He answers first. “Grief. Not because it can’t be joked about, but because not everyone gets to laugh about it. You have to earn that.”

You look at him.

“What?” he says.

“That was... insightful.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a clown.”

You huff out a laugh. Your chest is tight, and your heart is full, and your throat is dry with words you shouldn’t say. 

Not now. Maybe not ever.

You tell him you agree with him, and he doesn’t claim you’re trying to field the query. He knows you’ve earned the right to say the same thing. 

The waves crash in slow rhythm, and the sun slips further down the sky. Joshua turns his head slightly toward you, just enough for the breeze to tousle the hair at his temple.

“We doing all thirty-six today?” he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.

You shrug. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

The wind answers for you both. 

It tugs at your sleeves and hair, but not enough to be cruel. Just enough to remind you where you are: a little too far from home, and closer to something else you can't quite name.

“Alright,” you murmur, tapping into your phone. “Thirty-three. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”

You expect him to hesitate. Instead, he answers softly, “That I forgive my dad.”

You glance at him. He stares out at the water, eyes glazed over and jaw tense, but his voice is even. “I kept waiting for the right time. For him to earn it, maybe. But some things... you give, not because they deserve it, but because you need to let it go.”

You nod, even though he isn’t looking. You don't ask questions. You don’t press. It feels sacred, what he said.

He turns to you. “What about you?”

You think for a long moment. The waves come in, and the waves go out.

“That I’m proud of myself,” you say, eventually, your voice cracking around the confession. “That I spent so long trying to be someone worth loving, I never stopped to tell myself I'd made it.”

Joshua’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m proud of you, too,” he says. 

He says it not because it’s some concession, not because it’s a consolation prize he wants to give you in the face of your honesty. He says it because he means it, the same way he probably meant it when he said he was proud of you for starting your corporate job, proud of you for opening a jar without his help, proud of you for this, and that, and simply existing. 

You smile at him. He smiles back. It’s the moment you will carry in your pocket when it’s all over, the one you’ll replay when the morning comes and no trace of Joshua is left. 

“Question thirty-four.” You clear your throat. “Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?” 

“This feels like a game show.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Final answer, Hong?”

He grins, but it fades quickly, as if he’s realizing just how serious the question is. “There’s this box,” he says, “in my closet. Letters, ticket stubs, Polaroids. I guess I thought I’d forget otherwise.”

You know the box. You’d added to it once. Movies you had watched. Grocery receipts. Post-Its with crude drawings of sea animals that he deemed worthy of keeping despite your disgruntled protest. 

That had always been Joshua’s way—loving every part of you, every scrap and morsel, even the ones you didn’t think deserved love. Especially the ones you didn’t think deserved love. 

You turn back to the sea, silence stretching between you. You’re not sure what your answer to the question is. Everything you own feels replaceable lately. 

You open your mouth. Then close it. 

And then, softly, “There’s a necklace. My mom gave it to me before college. It wasn’t worth much, but... it made me feel safe. Like I was tethered to someone.”

He knows the necklace. He’d fixed it once. You were hysterical when it broke, and he painstakingly gathered every broken charm, every loose bead. He watched three YouTube videos and treated the necklace with such care that it came back to you good as new. 

You stopped wearing it shortly after, though, out of fear that it would snap again. That Joshua might some day not be around to fix it one more time.

Joshua reaches across the space between you and takes your hand, gently, as if asking permission without words. You let him.

For the first time in months, you feel tethered again.

The question lingers between you like sea mist: soft, hazy, impossible to ignore. Joshua is still holding your hand, thumb barely moving, but the warmth of it spreads up your arm like it's been waiting all this time to find a home there again.

You read out loud thirty-five. “Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?” 

You share a look, then, simultaneously—the same way you had when you first encountered the questions—you both say, “Skip.” 

“Thirty-six,” you go on, voice a little thinner than you'd like. “Share a personal problem. Ask for advice. Then—”

“—have the other person reflect back how you seem to be feeling,” Joshua finishes for you. His smile is faint but real. “I remember that one.”

The tide hums its low lullaby, and for a while, you pretend to be thinking.

You both stare out at the ocean instead of each other, even as the last question hovers between you, even as his fingers shift—no longer just clasping, but sliding between yours, interlocking like they used to. 

Like it’s the last time he'll get to do it. Maybe it is.

Then, you crack. Partly because the entire trip has been absurd, because thirty-six questions got you here in the first place and was now bringing you back.

Partly because you think it’s the last time you’ll have this, too. 

You laugh. It escapes like air from a balloon, breathless and tinged with disbelief. “I have a personal problem,” you admit, looking down at your joined hands. “It’s really serious.”

Joshua tilts his head toward you, brows raised.

You meet his eyes. The world around you fades into pale sand and blue waves. “I really, really want to kiss my ex right now.”

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away.

And then, softly, like it's the simplest thing in the world: “I can fix that.”

He leans in, and you meet him halfway.

His free hand slides to your cheek, yours to his chest. His heartbeat—usually so certain and steady—hammers underneath your palm. There is nothing scientific about the way it undoes you.

Whatever comes next, you’ll figure it out later. For now, the question has been asked.

The answer is this.

Four years ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart on your sleeve. 

After running through the thirty-six questions, you had asked him between giggles whether he was in looove with you now. He had looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe. 

You got some ice cream for dessert. You had felt like you were floating, as if your feet weren’t touching the floor, and the feeling only worsened when he tried and failed to be cool about holding your hand. 

At the door of your dormitory, he had kissed you good night. A proper kiss. And when he’d leaned in, you put a hand to his chest and told him to leave the night clean and quiet. Leave it at that, you had said against his lips. 

That one, perfect kiss. We’ll have more, you had promised, and he responded with I’m going to collect. 

You had watched him turn the corner and go. Right before disappearing, he glanced over his shoulder and flashed you a giddy smile. 

The ocean gives— 

Five months ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart in his hands. 

The conversation ended with less than thirty-six questions. There is only so much times you can argue, and compromise, before the spats threaten to spill into resentment. In a small voice, you had asked him if he still loved you. Yes, he had said breathlessly, but you and I both know love isn’t always enough. 

In the freezer, a tub of his favorite ice cream waited. One you had picked up in the grocery store, remembering him. It would remain there, cold and sweet and untouched, because the argument started mid-dinner and ended with you feeling like you were an astronaut jettisoned into space. One that would never come back down to Earth. 

At the door of the apartment, he had kissed the crown of your hair with quivering lips. You were the one with a friend nearby, the one with a place you could stay at before the two of you had to figure out the shared apartment. Joshua had tried to kiss you properly, but you shook your head wordlessly. 

Clean and quiet.

All Joshua could do was love you hard. All you could do was let him go. 

You had gotten into a cab. Right before you turned the corner, you twisted in the seat to look in the rear window.

Joshua had been by the gate, watching you leave. 

The ocean takes away—

It was easier than you thought, quitting your job. 

After the roadtrip, that seemed like Joshua’s parting gift. The realization that you had wanted to do something meaningful with your degree, that running or staying was always a choice you could make. 

And so you put in your two-week notice, and looked up Master’s programs, and got a part-time job at a non-government organization with an advocacy you believed in. You had been looking for an excuse to change your life, anyway, and here it was. 

It was not like anything happened after the kiss by the beach. Somehow, it had reminded you of that first night—how you had advised Joshua not to push his luck. 

He knew, you knew, that the kiss was perfect as is. To try and steal another would do neither of you any good. 

He hadn’t answered question thirty-six. The kiss took away that opportunity, and so the two of you simply got back into his car without another word. 

You slept the entire ride back and woke up to Joshua listening to some podcast about investigating subtidal zone organisms using a light source. He dropped you off at your apartment, wished you well with a one-armed hug, and drove off into the night. 

It’s not like you’d been expecting a follow-up text, but it sure would have been nice. 

You don’t dwell on it. You transition your replacement and tie up all loose ends. On your last day in the office, you pack up your desk. Whale-themed calendar, coral-shaped push pins, blue Post-It’s. 

“I’ve always loved that about you,” a co-worker says in passing as you rearrange your belongings like a perverse Tetris game. “All the sea stuff.” 

It hits you, only then, that you’d been a walking, talking documentary for all the things Joshua Hong loved. You could almost cry at the realization. Instead, you laugh politely. 

You’re logging out of your work computer for the very last time when the Mail app pings. You’re inclined to ignore it, to just open it up on your phone and be done with everything, but the preview in the notification has your brows furrowing. 

You open the email. 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: hong.jisoo@mabik.kr Subject: RE: My personal problem

I never got to answer thirty-six. It’s because my ‘problem’ is this: I have a couple of questions I want to ask you. 

For your reference and kind consideration. 

Have you eaten today?

Did you remember to water the plant on your windowsill?

What time did you wake up this morning?

Are you sleeping okay lately?

Did you bring your jacket today like I told you to?

What song have you been listening to on repeat?

Is your favorite mug still the blue one with the chip in it?

Did you ever replace the broken lamp in your room?

When was the last time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt?

Are you still drinking your coffee with too much sugar?

What’s the last book you finished reading?

Do you still cry at that one movie you always cry at?

Have you called your mom lately?

Do you still keep emergency chocolate in the freezer?

What’s the newest dream you’ve had for your life?

What do you miss the most about living with someone?

Do you ever think about our old kitchen, and how the faucet always leaked?

Are you still scared of thunderstorms?

When was the last time you let someone take care of you?

What’s the one thing you wish you could say without it sounding like too much?

Do you remember how we used to dance in the living room when it rained?

What memory have you been holding onto lately?

Have you forgiven me for the words I didn’t say when I should have?

Do you think it’s possible to love someone differently, but just as much, the second time around?

Do you think timing is a real excuse, or just a convenient one?

What did I do that hurt you the most?

What did I do that made you feel safest?

What was your favorite version of us?

What do you think we did right?

What do you think we got terribly wrong?

What did you learn about yourself when we were apart?

What made you fall in love with me, back then?

What did you fall out of love with?

What’s something you wanted to ask me, but never did?

What would you do differently, if we had a second chance?

Could we have a second chance? 

– J. 

[hedwig221b]

Hi! I would love to ask if you know any fic where Stiles and Derek are childhood friends/grew up together, but their pack is absolutely clueless and blind about that fact? Thank you <3

P.S. Love your works so much!

Oh, thank you! ❤ Here you go!

This Has Always Been Real For Me… by SunflowerQueen (Always_MimiTs)

Childhood best friends Derek and Stiles fell apart after the fire, but as canon begins things change, they find their way back to each other. Five times they have to pretend to date to get them out of uncomfortable situations and the one time they admit to each other and themselves that it's always been real for them.

Secret Life of Stiles & Derek by thebigoblin

A couple minutes pass by, the world on the screen the only noise, but then Stiles turns around again. He doesn’t say anything, but Derek understands anyways and feeds Stiles. It makes him satisfied in a way he’s both thrilled and concerned about, which basically sums up his life. But in this moment he focuses on Stiles, and the intimacy of their trust, the way Stiles allows him to provide for him. The way Stiles trusts him with these small things, and when it matters, with the big things. Like Stiles’ life. This time, a murmur kick starts between the betas. Mainly Isaac and Erica, who are trying to tamp down their curiosity but are unable to do so. Boyd isn’t into the gossip, but Derek sees him watching them a couple of times. On the other hand, he can smell Scott silently fuming, and Allison’s gentle scraping along his scalp, his arms. Trying to control him. Anchoring him. Derek smirks, unable to help the way his chest expands with possessive pride.

Lead You Home Again by GotTheSilver

The first time Derek meets Stiles, the kid’s brown eyes are wide, and he’s staring up at him with a mischievous grin as he tugs at the arm of Derek’s first ever Batman figure like he’s trying to separate it from Batman’s body. An alternate take on Teen Wolf, wherein Stiles and Derek are childhood friends, and things unfold from there.

Hear The Wheels As They Roll by crossroadswrite

"You can’t be here. This is private property,” someone calls out and for some reason that voice sounds painfully familiar. When it hits him why, Stiles almost chokes with the realization, “Derek Hale,” he says, unbelievably happy because he remembers Derek when they were young. Derek looks grumpier, sadder, angrier. Stiles can’t really fault him for that. He also looks surprised that Stiles knows who he is. He squint/glares suspiciously at him, his nostrils flare for a second before he widens his eyes almost dramatically. “Stiles,” he says quietly, like he can’t really believe it. Stiles beams, “Yeah, you remember me!”

Wild Ones by dragontreasure26

At fourteen years old Stiles Stilinski said goodbye to his best friend Derek Hale as he left Beacon Hills for good; he never expected never to hear from him again, but now Derek has returned to track down the Alpha responsible for his sister's death and Stiles once again finds himself immersed in the dangerous world of the supernatural. This is essentially a re-write of Season 1 as if Derek and Stiles knew each other from childhood). This fic has two stories interwoven one set in the past and one set at the time of Series 1 events. It's also an epic slow burn/friends to lovers … because I just love that sort of thing!

Until I Wrap Myself Inside Your Arms (I Cannot Rest) by EvanesDust, flymeofftoneverland

It’s been two years since Derek returned and, so far, he’s kept his promise. He's never left again. But, as far as Stiles is concerned, he might as well have never come back.

Other fic recs: angsty fics + pt2 + pt3 | possessive Derek | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | smut | mafia | hurt/comfort | magical!Stiles | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | BAMF!Stiles + pt2 | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles + pt2 | oblivious Stiles | oblivious sterek | bad friend Scott | pack mom!Stiles | unrequited love | werewolf!Stiles | dark sterek | single parent!Stiles | feral Derek | feral Stiles | arranged marriage | Stiles is underestimated | mpreg w/o abo | accidental knotting | jock!Derek | jock!Stiles | alive Hales | spanking | royal abo au | longfic | void!Stiles | sheriff dissaproves | Stiles doesn't know about werewolves | soft fics | hales love stiles | somnophiIia | secret relationship

[yrenesbrainrotss]

A/N: YOU GUYS FINALLY ITS HEREEEE!!! I was literally grinding all night to write this and i had to wake up in the morning and slept only 3 HOURS bc i got a horrible throat irritation AND THE WHOLE WAY, TO AND BACK FROM THE TRIP WITH MY MOM I WROTE THIS. I THINK IT TOOK ME LIKE 9 HOURS TO WRITE BUT ITS WORTH ITTTTTT!!!!!

Im literally rubbing my hands like and evil fly rn even tho i got a cold too😔

ENJOY FREAKS, IT’S REALLY FUCKING LONG TOO.💘

•summary: part two of hungover!Ena x reader

•warnings: straight up nsfw from the start,mentions of war and all that.

•reader pronouns: FEMAAAALLEEE!!!

****************************************************

You don’t know how long you’ve been lying there, your eyes heavy and your thoughts looping like a film reel stuck on the same frame. Ena’s breath is warm against your neck now, her fingers gently curled against your stomach. You can feel the slight tremble in them, like even in sleep, she’s unsure if she’s allowed to be here.

You turn slowly, barely shifting the blanket between you, and her hand follows like it knows you. She’s awake. You can tell by the way her breathing skips, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks.

“Are you cold?” you whisper, and it’s the softest thing you’ve said in weeks.

She shakes her head, just the faintest movement, then opens her eyes. They’re glassy in the dim light ,wide and scared, eye bags visible and a ever present tiredness,like something in her is breaking open and she’s letting you see the cracks.

“I didn’t mean to… take your bed,” she murmurs. “I just—felt safe here.”

Your chest tightens.

“It’s okay,” you say, brushing a stray raven lock of hair away from her pale cheek. “I didn’t mind.”

You stare at each other, neither saying anything, the sound of both of your heartbeats intertwining, filling a small portion of the silent dorm room.

Then she reaches up, tentative, and touches your face. Her knuckles graze your cheekbone, then stay there, like she’s trying to memorize you through touch.

“I don’t know how I ended up here..” she asks, her voice barely a shaky whisper.“I don’t know what place I stumbled upon..”

You don’t have an answer,you linger onto her pale chapped lips,tracing their heart shaped outline and lift your hand allowing the tip of your index finger to touch her lower lip, slowly drawing it down from the center, slightly exposing her white sharp teeth. Her warm exhales hit your cold fingers and without a second moment wasted away on pondering you lean in.

Halfway though, you get a sudden flash of realization but you aren’t able to acknowledge it properly because Ena’s already pressed her just as cold lips to yours. It only lasts a second, and when you part she brushes her mouth against yours with a teasing gentleness, only to connect them either yours again, more forcefully—desperately.

She rests her left palm on your cheek bringing you closer,and you grip the red straps on her chest, just as desperate as her— if not more than. Her teeth catch you lips in a painful but pleasurable bite, and you gasp quietly,she sees this moment as an opportunity to slip her hot tongue under your upper lip, just barely caressing it, then hungrily explores your inexperienced cavern.

Your brain is fuzzy and your whole body is tingling with a feeling long forgotten.How much time passed since you did something like this? You didn’t know, or care at this point. You wanted her bad and you didn’t even know her— that’s precisely what made it more enticing.

In this heated moment she suddenly stops as if she remembered something,you lift your body weight with your elbows and she lightly pushed you back with her palm against your chest. She sits in the old creaky bed kneeling,pondering and before you can ask her what’s wrong she speaks:” I don’t even know your name..”

With a raspy voice you whisper it to her but she catches it and mumbles it like a mantra until she kisses you again, pushing you back down on the bed,lifting her leg and swinging it between your thighs, straddling you. You switch places, lifting her by the curve of her hips,and letting her back bounce on the mattress,her head hitting the white pillows you previously rested on.

You curl the corners of your mouth mischievously and grip the edge of your T-shirt, lifting it up slowly in a alluring way, revealing bit by bit more and more skin until you just yanked it over your head, throwing it somewhere in the darkness. Ena supports her body weight on her forearms, savouring every inch of you body, she reaches out caressing your skin from your hips to your chest, gripping the soft plush there.

You gasp and like a feline close the distance between you once again,tucking a strand of your messy hair aside. You slide her red straps off of her shoulders and, still in a feverish kiss, you unbutton her short sleeve shirt, sliding it off of her pale body and thin arms. “You’re so pale.. perfect for leaving markings…” She flushes pink, and you pinch her warm cheeks.

Then in a sudden motion your mouth finds itself a home on the underside of her jaw, biting softly, kissing and licking slow cat-like stripes until your lips reach her chest, lingering longer. Your right hand caresses her thighs, sinking your nails into the softness of her bum, eventually reaching the zipper in front of her green shorts. Ena relishes in the way you touch every part of her body gasping and arching into your working mouth that is also muttering small words of praise and encouragement .

You lips distance themselves from the brunette’s body, and you straighten yourself, admiring the love bites left behind and hurriedly unzip her shorts slipping them off and before you reach for the knee socks you decide against it, loving the way they sunk into her flesh. You set your hands on her lower abdomen , tapping your fingers against her skin impatiently and locked eyes with her for consent.

She nods and you don’t wait another minute. Peeling the last black lacey piece of clothing, you cooed at the fluids sticking to it “God…now I’m not even going to blame you for being that impatient..” you chuckle, she covers her face with the back of her palm but you put it away, closing the distance between your bodies ardent with want, pressing your chest against hers and at the same time brushing her inner thigh, before settling on the sticky spot between them.

Ena rose her hips into your hand, instinctively as your its fingers part her with a care that borders on worship. She’s warm and slick and pulsing, her body already trembling like she’s been waiting for this longer than she’s willing to admit. Your name falls from her lips like a prayer, choked and breathless.

A raw emotion floats in the air,the steady unfolding of touching breathing and tangled legs ever present, your figures stuck like puzzle pieces.Your middle and ring fingers plunge into her core deep in a steady rythm that makes her toes curl and leaves her mouth agape, a small bead of drool forming on the corner of her mouth. You stick your tongue out to catch it and meet her awaiting,parted lips. She lets a shaky moan slip into your warm mouth when you reach the bundle of nerves with your thumb. Her fingers tangle in your silky hair and grips it—harshly.

You press your forehead to her sweaty one ,your sharp lustful eyes bore into her teary, glassy ones,enjoying in the way she bounces against the soft cushion pillows as you slid your fingers even deeper into her warm gushy walls. Ena moaning into your mouth once more is enough confirmation that she’s enjoying this,even more than you do.

Your mouth finds her collarbone, then her shoulder—biting just enough to make her brain go numb with tingling pleasure.

And you know that feeling. The aching loneliness. The long nights staring at the ceiling, aching to be touched, held, known. You’ve buried that need beneath textbooks and test scores, convinced yourself you could live without it.

But now—her fingers dig into your back, her thighs trembling around your wrist—and you remember. You remember what it feels like to be wanted.

You curl your soaked two fingers deep inside her, your thumb circling that spot that makes her cry out and cling to you. You now move fast, relentless,sending to that place between pain and pleasure she so desired to feel.

Her mouth is on your shoulder, biting down to muffle her sounds, her body breaking apart in your arms.

And when she comes,it’s as if the whole world shatters around the both of you. Her legs shake and tremble, her leaking heat contracts and sucks your fingers inside up to your knuckles, her back arching off of the mattress and you slide the hand that isn’t working between her legs under her lower back,sticking your cheek against her abdomen now covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Her trembling form grips your back with the last drops of energy it has left, chest heaving up and down, trying to regulate her breathing.You lift your head from her abdomen and wipe her sweaty forehead with the back of your palm “Are you alright..?” you question, she just nods through heavy breaths and closed eyelids.

You don’t realize when she shifts.

One moment her trembling body is with its back set on the mattress, still coming sown from the high you’d just given her and the next,her hand is only your chest—pushing you back slowly— and her eyes half lidded,dark and unreadable.

“Lie back,” she says, voice lower now, more certain. You obey without thinking, heart hammering as your own back hits the mattress, mimicking the position she was just a few minutes ago.

Ena slides on top of you with a perverse motion,like serpent luring its prey,slithering around it before it reveals its fangs and devours it—she needs to devour you right now.

As you lay back your hands glide from her abdomen to her soft plump curves,squeezing and kneading it like dough.

Her thighs straddle your hips, her hands splayed across your chest. And for a moment, she just looks at you. Like she’s never seen something so raw, so vulnerable, so hers.

Her fingers trail down your body—over your perky nipples,ribs,stomach, the curve of your hipbone—until they reach the waistband of your underwear. She watches your face as she slides them down and off onto the floor now covered in your clothes, her gaze never wavering.

“You’re so beautiful..” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss the edge of your jaw, her breath hot. She stares into your eyes and the tip of her tongue teasingly parts your lips further “Can I have this? With you?”

You nod, unable to form words.

She moves low,leaving traces of kisses , until her mouth hovers over you—and when her tongue touches you, everything else in your mind goes quiet.

She’s gentle at first. Teasing. Her plum coloured lips wrap around you with maddening slowness, sharp teeth grazing your sensitive bundle,her warm,wet tongue flicking in soft, precise movements that make you roll your eyes in the back of your head, sending shivers down your core.Your hips twitch, but she presses a hand to your pelvis—stay still—and you try, even as your body begs to buck into her pretty face.

She hums against you, and the sound vibrates all the way up your spine. Her pace picks up—sloppy and wet gushy sounds filling up the dorm room once again —and you find yourself gasping her name, jaw falling open.

You tangle your fingers in her dark locks of hair for some kind of support,gripping it but not too harsh to hurt her. You want to feel her closer, to crawl under her ribs and make a home for yourself there,to feel her pulsing heart beating for you in this very moment.

Ena continues to send you into oblivion ,inserting her wet muscle inside you, tasting you with an unsatisfied hunger and need to just feel you— feel that your real, that this is real. You let out a high pitched moan, trapping her head in between your squishy thighs,bringing her as close as possible to your aching ,needy heat.She slurps and drinks all of you,feeling your warmth contract and gush around her pink tongue.

But then she looks up—eyes locked on yours, mouth full of you—and it unleashes whatever is left of your lustful self.

Your thighs clench, your stomach tightens, and with one more strong suck of her lips and tongue, you fall apart. You moan her name, your voice cracking, your body shaking as the world blurs at the edges—you quite literally see stars in that moment. Ena,amused, licks your dripping juices from her lips, savoring the taste and letting out a soft satisfied hum as if she never tasted something so good before.

When it’s over, she climbs up beside you and tucks herself into your side like she belongs there,listening to your heavy breaths.

She kisses your shoulder, barely a breath of contact. “Are you up for a bath? I can’t sleep all sticky like this.” she asks softly,her lips slightly curving upwards.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

Only the sound of small stray droplets of water hitting the half-fulled tub can be heard. The steam rises from your skin, dancing in the air before it vanishes completely. Ena’s cheek smushed against your warm chest,covered in a mix of both yours and her sweat, you push aside her wet bangs sticking to her forehead and kiss the spot,she hums, her just as empty eyes peering at you from under her long lashes.

She bites the inside of her cheek before she speaks—“You know.. it’s been wonderful..you are wonderful but I have to tell you something..” Your brows raise in curiosity and now it’s your turn to open your eyes from their relaxed state and return her gaze—“what’s wrong?”.

She then tells you a few things about her past, how she has done terrible things and took part in a war long ago. You listen to the methods she used to survive,to fight on. The hunger,thirst and cold brought the soldiers to the point of insanity.You don’t recognize any of the events she talks about,something about a bland grey realm with an abandoned shipwreck and forgotten events like auction day and hourglass dogs.

You almost don’t believe her but her seriousness makes you wonder if its all real. Her current realm is more of a dusty desert now, changed, and all its residents hate her for what she’s done—you don’t ask anything further than what she lets you in on,it seems painful enough for her to remember those times.

She tells you that her actual form—the one you see her with at the moment— is not her usual one, her description of her supposed “original form” resembles a half pale polygonal side and a half red side, both with different personalities but inhabiting the same body. When she finishes,she lowers her head and stares at the droplets of water falling from the faucet.

You hug her tightly, running your fingers across her spine,not saying anything—you were at loss of words—should you trust her? “I know you might not believe me but please-“ you cut her off before she ends the sentence: “Its okay—I believe you.” and you take the chance, even if it puts you at risk.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

Now in the warm bed again you hold her close, her presence a familiar one.

In the dark of the night you tell her that she’s the only thing tethering you to the earth—and you actually believe she is. She says that she doesn’t know what this “earth” you talk about is but you think that your previous actions might have messed with her brain so much that she doesn’t know what she talks about.

In the stillness after, her hand traces lazy shapes on your back, and your face is tucked into the curve of her neck relishing in the smell of the rose scented shampoo impregnated in her damp locks.You’re not sure when you’ll wake up, or if this is even real—but her heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek, and for now, that’s enough.

In the morning, she sunlight peeks through the curtains, slashing the room in two.It hits your closed eyelids and your nose scrunches in discomfort—you reach for her,on the other side of your bed, wanting to bury yourself in her chest. However you frown—your hand searches upwards and it reaches the end of your bed—it’s empty,cold.

You sit up in distress,your brain mushy with sleep but you acknowledge the empty space next to you. You clutch your head and sigh,as tears bubble in your eyes threatening to spill on your withe sheets—but you see a flash of green from the corner of your eyes, her green cap.

You pick it up by the front part with your pointer finger and thumb, setting it in your lap. The smell of rose invades your nostrils and you inhale the scent imbued in the material—a mixture of nostalgia embracing you. You search for your phone from underneath the pillow,tapping your code in and searching her name—nothing. Not a trace of her on the internet or any social media,not even a phone number registered anywhere or some kind of profile to prove her existence.

You open your “photos” app and scroll down until you see it— a blurry picture of you two snapped at exactly 3:30 AM. You are asleep on her chest, hand gripping her bare skin,and you know it’s her because no one has such vibrant neon purple irises and the familiar empty eyes that you would recognize anywhere.

You almost miss it but it’s there— inside of her cap you see a note. After carefully unfolding it the rose smell is present okce more and blue messy writing saying— “I’ll be back soon, my love”

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

[v6quewrlds]

what was meeting the parents for the first time like for both joe and wifey?

love this series btw 🤎

thank you so much babe! that's so sweet of you <3

she met joe's parents pretty early on in their relationship. if my mental timeline is correct, she would've met them completely by accident. like joe was in the middle of the preseason, so he was suffering from major football brain.

they hadn't seen each other in a few weeks. between the preseason and her residency, they were starved for some face-to-face time together. she was so starved, she decides the four-hour drive down to cincinnati wasn't really that bad.

even if she has to settle for a handful of hours together ,mainly spent sleeping, at least she'd be sleeping in his bed, in his arms, and waking up to his touch, kisses, and love before she'd make the four-hour drive back to cleveland. so she texts joe in the morning before she goes into the hospital, packs an overnight bag just in case.

joe, suffering from horrible football brain, sees her proposition on his way into the facility and immediately responds, "please do. i need to see you." and that's that.

what joe didn't take the time to consider, however, was the fact that his parents would be stopping by to see him as well. they had some business to attend to in cincinnati on joe's behalf. their permanent guest room was waiting for them, so of course, they'd be staying the night at his.

she's mildly confused by the car she doesn't recognize in joe's driveway, but shrugs it off, assuming it's a teammate stopping by late at night. joe has responsibilities as a leader, she rationalizes, so one of his guys losing track of time talking plays, concerns, and strategy doesn't bother her.

except it's not one of his guys, it's robin and jimmy burrow in their son's kitchen listening to his review of where the team is at going into the last game of the preseason. wifey has a key, so she lets herself in and almost cries when they turn around and see her.

it goes well, really well. robin fixes her a plate to eat, doting on her immediately, "oh, you poor thing getting here so late after a long day." jimmy is all smiles, taking shots at joe's football brain, and asking wifey about herself, assuring her that they've heard so many good things about her and have been looking forward to meeting her.

joe is smug because of course he is. even when they curl up together in his bed, wifey still upset with him not remembering the very important detail of his parents staying with him, joe's all, "i told you so" and "at least that part's over?"

as for joe meeting wifey's parents. he got a proper heads up. her sister and her family were coming back to the states for a week and she decided it was a good time to bring joe along to meet everyone all at once. he was not amused with this idea but after being reminded of how he ambushed her with his parents, he sucked it up with a begrudging smile.

wifey's family in general is very impressive. her entire family drips with success and pride, and the realization that he'll have to officially meet them kind of drives joe to the brink of insanity. especially with his knowledge that her father is generally not a fan of the nfl or football as a sport.

he secretly studies up on her family, maybe even stalks their facebook pages late at night when he can't sleep because he's crawling in his skin. on the way over to her parents' house, he all but forces her to quiz him.

"what's my mom's favorite show?"

"dynasty. too easy, next."

and he's so cocky in the car. he's feeling good, and she can see that, thinks it's so attractive that he's taken this much time to study up on her family and learn all their preferences and what they do. he's got an oversized bouquet of flowers for her mom, a bottle of her dad's favorite rum, chocolates for her sister, a signed jersey from ja'marr for her brother-in-law, and stuffed animals for her niece and nephew.

then they cross the threshold of her childhood home, and he switches. it's not obvious to her family, in fact, they don't even pick up on it. but she does. she recognizes joe cool in action. he's studied well, cracks little jokes, indulges the kids, but she sees right through him.

she sees the way his adam's apple bobs, the restlessness of his knee, the way he nervously swipes his tongue over his lips. she doesn't comment on it, doesn't make a big deal out of it but she tries her best to ease him. places a hand over his heart, tells him he's doing such a great job, stills his knee when it starts bouncing, and looks at him with those eyes that make him breathe just a little lighter.

when he asks her how he did, she holds his worried face in her hands and kisses him so softly, so gently, and that's all the confirmation he needs.

[stzrgirl4norris]

My Kink Is Karma

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After a turbulent break up, Max left you all alone, dealing with the pain from his poisonous words. He was thriving, having the time of his life, and you were determined to see his downfall.

Word count: 9k

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex (don't do that), degradation, Mean!Max, Mean! Reader, they are both toxic to each other, revenge sex, hate sex. All the good stuff

I'm on my Max kick later, specially since the last race. Hope you guys can enjoy my freak with me!!

Three months, twenty eight days since he left.

Actually, since you left. No, even worse, since you were kicked out of his stupid cubicle of an apartment. Why is every goddamn apartment in Monaco so small either way? It's like millionaires have a kink for minimalism or something. There were still a couple of his t-shirts hanging around, shoved down the back of a drawer you never opened. You contemplated burning them down, one by one, or selling them on e-bay, you would probably make a lot of money with it. However, the anger was still boiling hot in your bones, opened. You contemplated burning them down, one by one, or selling them on e-bay, you would probably make a lot of money with it. However, the anger was still boiling hot in your bones, picking up anything with his scent on it would cause world war three, and you didn't want that.

Not because you don't hate him, you do, wholeheartedly, but you would rather see the universe handle it, slowly, sadistically, because you always believed in karma, plus, he didn't deserve any type of reaction from you.

However, almost four months is a whole lot of time of waiting for Max Verstappen to get something bad coming his way. Somehow, that blue eyed man is always on top. McLaren had the fastest car and he was still dominating, pole position, podiums, even fucking won a race against all odds. Max Verstappen not only defied your beliefs around love, but your beliefs in general. He tested your faith. Because in this wednesday afternoon, sitting on your plane sit, next to a crying baby and an exhausted mother, you were wondering if the universe gave a flying damn about how much that man hurt you. Gods Are you listening over there? He left me with no direction, no sense of belonging, stole my pride, joy and clothes. I was left empty. So why the fuck is he the one thriving?

That's why you decided to make matters with your own hands. Karma isn't real? No problem. You would create karma and shove it down his throat. Max Verstappen is not going to hell when he dies? Then, you will make sure he lives through hell while you are around. And the plan starts with a suitcase and an economic class ticket to Bahrain.

The city was scalding. The complete opposite of an early spring in Monaco. Too many people, a legion of tourists who were there for the Grand Prix. You looked around, analyzing the environment, but he was everywhere. In t-shirts, flags, posters, dolls. "The flying dutchman", "The Dutch Lion". That was the worst one. A lion? That motherfucker was just as coward as a toddler being confronted by their angry parent.

Hey. Just landed. Where was the place / was supposed to wait for the driver?

Max: Gate seven. He's already there.

You don't answer. He doesn't deserve an answer.

On the other hand, if the plan was going to work perfectly, you needed him to believe you were desperate for him. Because Max has an ego, he craves the attention. It's Machiavellian, but any current pain is worth the final result. What even is a single text message compared to seeing Max Verstappen’s downfall live and in bright colors?

You walked towards gate seven. Sure enough, the man was there, holding a little white plank with your surname written on it. As if it was needed, since to his left, there he was, wearing his stupia red bull cap, white t-shirt and dark blue jeans.

Classic Max. You weren't taken by surprise, at the end of the day, Verstappen was as predictable as playing chess with a child, at least to you. You knew he was going to be there, just to torment you, prove, somehow, that he never left, his scent, manners, soul, were all surrounding you, everyday since that rainy tuesday when all hell broke loose.

As you approached both men with a confidence acquired from whatever cheap wine they offered on the flight, you could swore you saw a glimpse of relief in his arctic blue eyes.

Max was relieved. Seeing you, full shape, materialized in front of him like a dying man's last vision, as beautiful as ever, maybe even more, left him with a feeling of immense relief. Because ever since the break up, he never saw or spoke to you.

He didn't even understand how the hell that was possible, considering Monaco was just a big gated commune. He had no idea, however, that for those three months you barely left your bed, purposefully avoiding him. The funny thing is, Max could've swore on his career that he saw a different type of glimmer surrounding you, because as you gave him a shy kiss on the cheek, shivers went down his neck, all the way though his spine. There was uncertainty in his mind if, at that moment, you were a salvation from heaven or his worst nightmare.

"I didn't actually think you would come?" He couldn't control the excitement in his voice. To you? Pathetic.

"You know Bahrain has always been my favorite circuit." Lies. "Plus, I really wanted to talk." More lies. Oh, weren't you just the best pretty little liar?

'I agree"

Max had no idea of what you planned. With all the innocence of a little boy in love, who fucked up, he believed that you wanted to try again, that you were able to give him another chance. If for three months you were crying underneath the shower steam, he was begging via text messages, voicemails, red roses and handwritten notes to talk to you and sort things out. In his mind, his words were bad, a disaster. "Your career isn't important, you can't keep crying over this shit." Actually, the words were bad, but the context was even worse. To be fair, you were crying over a minor problem, a grain of sand in the midst of long beach, still, that was the result of a build-up that lasted weeks, days having to suffer countless abuse in your job, burnout was imminent. Haven't you been breaking down, releasing every tension from the stress of your career, you could have actually forgiven him. In contrast, the coldness and nonchalant in his voice when saying "your career isn't important" was what actually got to you. "So, I can't cry over my boss raging at me from mistakes he made, but you can cry whenever your stupid little car isn't 0.5 seconds faster than another car? Why? Because being a Formula 1 racer is the only job that matters? Huh, Max?"

That whole argument spiraled to a rabbit hole of pointing fingers and repressed emotions. Deep down, you knew you hated your job, you wanted to leave every time you stepped a foot in that building, but Max didn't need to know that. And he had no right assuming that it wasn't important.

Arriving at his hotel, the boy next to you handled a room key. 405.

"It's right next to mine"

You gave him a look, the one that said "well, obviously." Another predictable move. God, if any other driver paid enough attention to him, you were convinced he wouldn't be called Mad Max at all, because, in reality, Verstappen was as clear as a crystal glass.

The whole way up to the room, Max was a gentleman, carrying bags, hands on your lower back, guiding the way, walking in front. Just like you never stopped being his girlfriend. Maybe, in his mind, you never did.

The room was brightened with yellow lights, contrasting to the cold of the atmosphere between both ex-lovers. Even though you were trying your best to not give anything away, Max wasn't stupid, he could read you with eyes closed, he knew there was an unsettledness in your movements, he just couldn't point exactly why or what is going on.

"Do you want me to leave? Or do you just want to get it out of the way?" Max didn't quite know what he meant with "it", whatever it was, it has been filling his lungs with deep anxiety. And you knew he was suffering. For a man who was used to get anything he wanted, whenever he wanted, being completely lost in the matters of the heart, hurt his pride and gave him tremendous affliction.

"I was hoping we could catch a nice dinner, properly talk with some good food and wine. What do you say?" The words came off of your tongue spontaneously, as if you didn't rehearse them 300 hundred times during that 11 hour flight.

"Sure, yeah, fine. Even better with people around... That way you won't have the courage to kill me." You could hear the tension in his words when he joked, and he could hear the mockery in your chuckle just as well.

"Pick me up at eight?"

The fact that you made no comment around his stupid joke bothered him to his core. Which is the reason he just nodded and left the room without saying anything else. Just as soon as that door closed, you rushed to the bathroom, kneeling in front of the toilet. You couldn't say what the fuck you were feeling, nausea, pain, anxiety, shame, guilt, rage. You should just open the door, go to his room, throw things around, break glasses, throw his suitcase on the hotel pool, tell the press he is leaving red bull and get on a plan, never look back. Having to wait for revenge to be served cold is what drives everyone insane, and no one talks about that.

Countless of hours later, after two long crying sessions, and screaming, and burning pages of your journal, you were ready. Dressed up casually. You wouldn't give him too much, because you knew he was expecting to show up as beautiful as ever, Lady Di in her revenge dress, so the fact that you were just dressed as his Y/N, raw, honest beauty, broke his heart. Because when he opened the door to your room, he was taken by your perfume and your pure self, just like he did for three years every time he came home from a race weekend and you were waiting for him on the couch.

"Come on, Max, you don't need to give this look." You were surprised by how effective flirting was in maskaring hate.

"What look?"

"Like I'm your long lost childhood love you encountered 20 years later." He shook his head, slightly.

"You're something like that."

Something like that. What the fuck did he mean?

"We should go." You said a little bit more desperate than you hoped. Maybe due to the fact that you were dying to leave. "Lead the way."

*

God. Wasn't middle eastern food the key to all your problems? Maybe if the scent of blended spices and dates filled your nostrils before, there would be no reason for any of this.

For the past couple of hours, you were focused on trying to enjoy the delights Sakhir had to offer.

Notice the word trying. Because with Max Verstappen looking like a god sent angel in front of you, no amount of cloves and cinnamon would be able to erase the scent of wanting that was emanating from him.

Max was paying extra attention to you. Every time you looked excited about whatever you were tasting, he could catch a proper breath. However, one look into your eyes later and he has filled with thousands of questions in his head.

"So, what is the strategy for this weekend?"

"Do you actually want to talk about my racing strategies for the weekend?" Yes. You did. How were you supposed to ruin his life if you had no clue what was going on with the only thing that mattered to him. "You said you wanted to talk, Y/ N."

"We are talking." He raised his eyebrow. You sighed, stomach twisting in ten thousand knots.

"Fine..."

Before you could select which carefully constructed phrase you compartmentalized for this very moment, Max, with his usual quickness, took the upfront.

"Please, come back to me."

It's not that you weren't expecting that he would say something like this, you just weren't expecting how much your internal organs would fire up as a response. In that particular moment, you could swore you forgot all of the lines of the plan you spent one month obsessing over. He broke your character, for just a slight of a second, a fraction.

"You really hurt me." For the first time in this whole entire trip, you were being honest.

"I know. I am truly deeply sorry. I fucked up."

You just stared. Contemplating if you were going to let him talk a little more. The dark twisted part of your brain was enjoying seeing him act as pathetic as you once did for him. That same side of your brain was already collecting ideas. Screw that one month evil plan, Max was giving everything you need to do even more damage than you anticipated.

"Let me show you how much I regret it. Let me make it up to you." The phrase was constructed as if he was asking for permission, but both of you knew, deep down, that he wasn't backing up any soon.

"These past few months were hell to me, Max."

The words were true, but there was no emotion in your voice to actually reflect the pain you went through. Max had no idea. He would never guess.

It seemed to him that you were giving something, but a weird feeling in his gut was sparking a doubt that you were hiding something.

"I will fix this up."

His legs under the table were shaking like the first time he stepped out of a Formula 1 car. Max was speaking as he was walking barefoot on shattered glass. There is no way for you to fix this up. Only me. You wanted to answer. You couldn't.

"Are you excited for the race?"

The deviation of the subject showed Max you were uncomfortable, which is why he decided that was enough of pushing. He didn't know there was a strategy underneath your tongue.

"Are you?" He fired back, letting himself taste a bit of the wine that you chose. It was bitter, dry, unlike the sweet rosés you'd usually go for.

"Thrilled." Your lips curled into a smirk stained with maroon liquid. Something shifted in the tone of your words. It was malicious, Max could sense it, but he was a man after all, guile and sexiness go hand-in-hand, specially coming from a girl holding a glass of wine.

ready to head back, whenever you want to go."

"Are we not going to order dessert?"

Nope. He wanted to leave. Matter of fact, as soon as possible. He wanted to take you to his room, or your room, whichever one is closest to the elevator door, and peel off every lying secret you were hiding behind your sore, tired eyes.

"Do you want dessert?"

You looked at his eyes, then his lips, then his neck, back at his eyes. Licked your lips, the bitterness of the wine reminding you of pure sex.

"Maybe not from here."

You knew you had control over him by the way he looked at you, like a puppy begging for food. Max didn't even try to hide how much he was longing to just touch you in any way, shape, or form. God, men were so easy.

A few formalities and street lights later, you were back to the golden architecture of the place you were staying. It wasn't your first time in the country, but it was your first time in this hotel, hadn't it been the circumstances of your visit, you could have actually enjoyed the experience.

The elevator door shut, fourth floor was a short ride. Helped to ease the tension. Not too much, but just enough.

"I can't find the key to my room."

Max knew it was inside your purse, you knew it too, obviously. There was just no reason to bother looking it up.

"Hm. Thankfully, I got you." He held the white car between his fingers, flashing them with a teenage boy smile.

"My hero,"

For the first time during this night, you felt the tension leaving with the winds of Sakhir. Sex was not on your plan, in fact, quite the opposite.

However, you forgot there was no such thing as a plan when it came to Max Verstappen. Specially not when it came to desire and love. Plus, a girl is allowed to enjoy herself, it's not like you were going to get soft on him now, right?

The closing door blocked all the noise. Suddenly, the room was carried with heavy air, lost faith, gained hope, misery, all at once. If you listened closely, you were able to hear Max's heart beating irregular beats. It felt to him like he was about to have a stroke, a heart attack, a breakdown, or all of the above. You were danger, your presence was too powerful. He needed to get control back, or he would just spiral.

But you would not let him. Not right now.

Just as quick as you left him that night, you were pulling him by his neck. Lips connected like they were never meant to leave each other in the first place. Looking for each other's air because the room was getting smaller and smaller. This was the point of the night in which you didn't need to perform. You were not doing it for the plot, the revenge, you were doing it because you desperately craved him.

Max had only a few times seen you this way. It was unusual, but he wasn't complaining. He didn't quite like the fact that if you asked him to kneel down and bark, he'd do it, however. And he was afraid you'd notice it and just torture him the whole night. The boy was just a little too late.

"You said you wanted to make it up to me." Max didn't know how you managed to get a full sentence out in the middle of what was going on, if he opened his mouth all that would leave his throat were pathetic sighs and moans. "Then prove it."

You pushed him away, slightly. Max's chest underneath his navy blue t-shirt didn't hide his erratic breathing.

"I am proving it to you."

He leaned in, but was met with another slight push. This time, mixed between his confusion, was frustration. Just as much as you wanted him, he wanted you. No, he needed you. Needed to be close to you as if there was a war going on outside and that was the only way to keep both of you safe.

"No." No? What the hell no meant? "Kneel."

Your command was firm, imperative. You were no stranger to take charge in the bedroom with Max, but it usually lasted around five minutes, a way to spice things up or push him to the edge until he finally broke. In a way, it was fake-control, because you knew it was just a matter of time until you were at his mercy. But not this time.

"What?" He heard you well, the question was put there simply as a way of making you change your mind.

"You heard me, Verstappen. Kneel and beg for me."

Max didn't have a chance to respond or brush it off with a scoffed laugh, your hands were already on his shoulders, applying force to bring him down. It wasn't gravity the one who put Max Verstappen to his knees, it was the magnetic force of your words and the torment of his desires for you.

"Schatje, come on."

"Hm. That all you got?"

The truth is, Max was running out of protests. You knew it took him a lot to put his pride to the side.

He wanted you back, but there was no way he was going to beg for it. Max Verstappen doesn't beg, for anyone. Actually, he never needed to, he always got what he wanted. But his resources were coming to an end, because your posture and the way you were demanding the room, left him with no choice.

With the gentlest touch, like you were made out of the rarest crystal, Max's hand came to the back of your calves, slowly making their way to the back of your knees. He stopped there, didn't dare going further up. His hands were big enough to almost wrap around it completely, and he applied pressure. It was a simple gesture, but goddamn it you missed his fingers touching you, you didn't care where.

You looked down, right hand travelling to his hair, fingers intertwining between some strands, making a mess. He always looked beautiful with messy hair.

"Please." A kiss on your right knee. "Please, forgive me." A kiss on the left knee. "I will do anything for you."

The hand that was on his hair made its way to his cheek. Your thumb brushing the soft skin underneath his eyes. Max was flushing, the blood was rushing everywhere through his veins, heart pounding, maybe after this he should cancel his weekend, because there is no way he would make it out alive.

Then, all of the sudden, your gentle rub became a slap. Not a rough slap, in fact, only a couple of taps, to call out his attention. And, damn, maybe a hard slap would be less humiliating than this. And it didn't help when you had a devilish grin in your lips.

"Come on, pretty boy, just a little bit more. You're almost there. Look at me."

He was. Like a puppy. Like a dog starving. His pupils were so dilated you couldn't tell his eyes were pale blue. You were hell. That wasn't you. Looked like you, wore your clothes, the same old vanilla perfume, but if his whole life Max saw you as his sweet girl, this time he was seeing you as a mythical creature, completely transformed into something else.

"I fucked up. I can't live without you. Please, Y/N, I am about to go insane. I fucking love you, just come back to me, please. I can't make it without you." His chin rested somewhere on top of your legs.

You smiled. Humiliating Max sexually was not a part of the plan, but it was so satisfactory you could go straight back home with fulfillment in your bones.

"Good enough."

You backed out and walked straight to the door. In a sudden movement, Max got up, his legs felt like jelly, his head was spinning. There was no time for him to catch up, you had already left. He heard something like a see you tomorrow, but wasn't completely sure. In that particular moment he was out. Interpreting his feelings wasn't always easy, and right now it sure as hell was the hardest thing for him to do, considering there was a mix of everything inside his guts.

It took all of your strength to not go back, just to get a glimpse of how Max Verstappen looked completely desolated, alone in his hotel room, frustrated, confused. Exactly like you were that afternoon, three months ago. If you suffered, he was going to suffer the exact same thing, but ten times more.

*

"Max, you good? Looks like you're about to throw up."

Sitting in a round table, his salad was untouched, his cup still filled with water. The voices were mushy, he couldn't tell which driver elaborated that question. Truth is, he wasn't paying attention to anything else, too busy looking around, searching for any glimpse of you. Anything to demonstrate that you were still there, because you could probably be back home by now, laughing while sitting on your sofa, seeing his misery on live television.

He was brought back to the real world with Charles' voice commanding his attention, because finally, for the first time during that stupid lunch, someone said something that actually mattered.

"Mate, what is Y/N doing here? I thought you two broke up."

"Where is she?" His voice sounded so desperate, so pathetic, Lando couldn't help but chuckle.

"Just saw her talking to Honer when I passed the Red Bull garage. Could've swore I was seeing things, but it was actually her. Are you two back together?"

Midst sentence Max was already gone, rushing through the crowd as fast as he could before it was too late. He looked desperate, like he was looking for water in a desert island.

The meters to the garage seemed like the distance to the moon. His eyes were filled by the sigh of Horner, talking to someone else, not relevant, nor for him, because the someone else wasn't you. The conversation seemed important, and it would be rude to interrupt, but Max couldn't care less.

"Christian, where is Y/N?"

Horner turned around to look at his driver, bright fake smile. A little annoyed that he interrupted, but there was no way he was going to show Verstappen any annoyance.

"Well, hello to you too, Max. I was meaning to ask, what is she doing here? Thought you left her."

"Where the fuck is she?" Max asked again, this time his tone showed little to no patience.

Horner narrowed his eyes, if anyone else in this world talked to him like this, God would feel sorry for them. But again, the golden boy could do anything he pleased.

"If I'm not mistaken, she was looking for you. My guess is that she is waiting on your driver room."

The boy left. No thank you, no sorry, just simply vanished like dust.

The fragile door was opened with violence. This time, Max was quicker, not giving you a chance to play your game.

Eventually, after two days of deep contemplation, torture and screaming into his pillow, Max decided that he had enough of your games. Now, both of you were going to play things his way. Or so he thought.

"Why the fuck are you here? What the fuck do you want?"

You were sitting, legs crossed. His presence was dominating, but you didn't break character.

"What happened to good mornings? No one taught you proper manners?"

"Cut the fucking bullshit, Y/N. Why are you doing this?"

You got up, making your way towards him. Not too close and Max thanked God for that, because one more step and he would just break down again, crumble into crushed pieces of a boy. However, standing from a safe distance, his mind was taken by frustration, he wanted answers just as well as he wanted to rip your clothes off and make you pay for the little stunt you pulled two nights ago.

"I want to see you suffer."

You knew he would eventually caught up. It's Max, he is smart. And if anyone would understand the reasonings behind your feelings, it would be him.

So there was no reason to hide your true intentions anymore.

Max nodded, hands on his waist. He expressed some sort of laugh as a substitute for just yelling and screaming. He had done that already.

"How's that going for you?"

"Not nearly as close as the amount of suffering I am hoping for." Max was taken back by the cruelness and coldness in your words. "I want you to regret leaving me 'til the day you are buried six feet under ground. If you suffered ten times of what I did for those past months, still, wouldn't be enough.”

"I don't know how to break this to you, sweetheart. But making me kneel and beg, although I appreciate the effort, it was cute, isn't really close to the pain of getting dumped. You'll have to work harder than that."

Your lips curled into a wide spread smile.

"I know."

Up and close to his eyes, between your delicate fingers, a medium sized black piece of something he had an idea of, but didn't want to believe it was real.

"What is this?"

"You should get going, Maxie, quali is about to begin."

"You removed a piece from my fucking car?! Are you fucking insane?! This is psychotic, Jesus fucking Christ!" His eyes widened, his hands went through his hair in a desperate act. "How the fuck did you even manage to do that?!"

"A lady never tells."

Max thanked the universe when he heard a knock on the door, because God only knows what his next move was going to be, hadn't he been interrupted by GP at that second.

"Buddy, we have 10 minutes, you better come." He looked at the clueless man standing at the door, then back at you, who put on your best innocent smile, hands behind your back like you just didn't do the most devilish, disgraceful thing he has ever seen.

"Yeah, okay, give me two seconds.

As GP closed the door, Max took a step closer to you. He contemplated letting people know, snitching on you, but he held his anger and shoved the burning flames to the back of his throat. He wasn't going to play your game. If you were bad, Max Verstappen was worse.

Max's next move wasn't what you were expecting at all. With the gentleness of a first kiss, he brought his lips to your forehead, like he always did before stepping to his car, however, this time, taking a little bit longer, savouring the feeling of your skin beneath him.

"See you later, Schatje."

You were confused. Angry, even, by his reaction.

And then, when he finally left, you felt it. The shame, the guilt. You knew you went too far, but you were too blind by hatred, and too hungry for seeing him break.

On the other hand, Max walked into his car with the confidence and determination he hadn't felt in a while. It was Red Bull. This was a secure place, there were a innumerous amount of people there watching his fucking car. There was no chance that you, clueless girl, could just walk up there and steal a piece of whatever that thing was. God, you didn't even know how a Formula 1 car worked, how the hell were you supposed to remove an important piece? Max thought, hoped, wished, that you just took something he could manage to work without, and it was what gave him a little bit of relief stepping into the car.

Nonetheless, as quick as the relief came, it was washed away by a thought so much darker, what if you had help?

"Hey, Paul." Max called out for the man to his left.

"The car is good, yeah?"

"You tell me, mate." Paul joked around, not quite understanding the driver's question.

"No, I mean, the car is intact, right? Nothing missing?"

Paul arched an eyebrow.

"Of course, Max, it's all good."

The driver nodded and soon enough left with his car.

Qualifying started. You watched nervously through the screen in the garage. Maybe you crossed the line. On the other hand, you knew Max wasn't stupid, he made sure you knew with that ridiculous kiss. No other man could drive you insane. Two days later you were reading him like your favorite book, now, you couldn't tell a word inside his brain, except for, of course, how badly he was cursing you.

And boy... He was. Every time he made a turn and the car trembled he found a new name to curse you inside his mind. Thank God the FlA couldn't hear thoughts, at least twenty thousand fines were proffered only in the first five minutes.

The car was shit, unsteady. It was honestly scaring Max how unpredictable it was. Never in his entire career he felt so uneasy with a vehicle, not even in his rookie years.

"There is something really wrong with the car."

Max added in a frustrated radio message before firing back to his garage.

The crew was there, waiting for him. He stepped out of the car and let the engineers take a look.

You managed to catch a glimpse of him, even though his face was hiding behind the helmet, you knew he was contorted in desperation. You couldn't believe it. For better or for worse, your plan fucking worked.

The engineers cleared the way and Max tried again, completely incredulous on how you managed to ruin his entire race weekend. There was no way your relationship was going to make it after this. Max didn't even know if he was going to make it after this, he might just shove the car into a wall and die inside of it just to prove a point, watch you suffer with guilt until the end of your life.

By the last lap he was third.

Q2 was a bit better than Q1, that until someone crashed their car. Perfect, not only were you ruining his day, but the universe also decided to collaborate with your evil plan. Maybe you got Max's rivals to be a part of it. Maybe the whole entire team and crew were by your side.

By Q3 Max started to actually considering driving his car to the wall. The breaks weren't working. He couldn't break, at all. You fucking destroyed his breaks. You toyed with his car like it was a lego piece. At the end of that session, taking seventh place, Max stormed out of the car and threw his gloves on the floor. He just wanted to get everything off, his clothes, his helmet, his shoes. He wanted to go back home, to his cats, to his pillow, cry for hours.

Yes, the disaster of a bad qualifying hurt, but it was the heartbreak that got to him. Never in a million years he thought the love of his life would be capable of doing something so cruel and evil.

That wasn't normal. A normal thing would be for you to burn his hoodies or slash the tyres of his Porsche. You manipulated his car, possibly messing with his safety. You weren't the love of his life, you were a full blown psychopath. Which is the reason Max thanked that you weren't in his driver's room when he came back.

That being said, he wasn't so blessed when he opened his hotel room and found you sitting on his bed, wearing the same clothes as you were in the afternoon.

"Are you fucking for real? You have some guts coming into my room thinking that I would actually want to see you. I take everything back, I don't want you! I fucking hate you! I want you gone! I want to never look at your face again! You are the most terrible person I have ever met."

He was shouting, yelling, clenching his teeth and jawline. Stomping around like a maniac while the explosive bursts of verbal thunder left his mouth.

"Max, please, let me explain." You didn't raise your voice, you couldn't, you were wrong here.

"Explain what?! Huh?! How you manipulated my car?! Played around with my safety?! Almost killed me?! God, Y/N, I love you and you do this? This isn't normal, this isn't alright, this isn't something you fix with an explanation. There is no fixing this."

His voice became lower, not because he wasn't angry, he still was outrageous, but now the sadness of a heartbreak were too consuming, surpassing every emotion that was battling inside his mind and heart. There were tears in his eyes and they were the bluest you have ever seen. His lips were pink, trembling. His cheeks and nose were red. You felt an agonizing need to hold him.

"Max, you need to breathe." Poor choice of words, you could see it in his entire face as his eyes became shallow. "I didn't alter your car."

Max was about to lash out again, but he didn't believe his ears. As much as he hated you right now, you caught his attention. He didn't slow down, though, his chest was heavy, he was close to breaking down.

"Come again?"

"I didn't take any piece from your car!"

He could see you were crying now and he could swear you seemed honest, like a child trying to prove to their parents that they weren't the one in the wrong.

"Yes, you fucking did, you showed me! Do you seriously think I am going to believe your bullshit right now?"

"No, I didn't, this isn't anything! It's just a stupid piece of plastic!"

In a desperate attempt you held the black piece close to his face.

His vision was blurry, by tears, by confusion and hatred. He caught the piece and analyzed every corner of it. It didn't seem legit, it seemed, like you said, just a piece of plastic.

"What the actual-"

"-I just wanted you to believe I did. I wanted to scare you. I wanted to make you doubt yourself. I would never do anything that would actually put you in danger, Max, I love you. I wanted to prove a point." He couldn't believe it. In fact, he thought he was hallucinating the whole weekend and this was all a twisted nightmare, "Yes, it was selfish, I am wrong, I crossed the line. But I thought you were going to catch up to it. I didn't believe it was going to work, you are you, Max"

Now, add skepticism to the list of emotions inside his gut.

"But the fucking car was shit! The breaks weren't working! I couldn't drive that thing at all!"

"That has nothing to do with me."

Max couldn't tell if he was relieved by the fact that you didn't try to kill and you still loved him, or felt betrayed by how you manipulated his reality to the point he drove like shit just because he believed something was wrong with the car. Or maybe Red Bull just fucking sucks. Both later options were not respectful outcomes to him.

"Please, say something. I am so sorry, Max! I regret it. I should have never done it, I know. I am so sorry. I understand if you never want to see me again and, God, I'll even move from Monaco if that's what you like. I'll disappear, completely."

Your words hit him. He thought about them for a split second. The thought of you leaving his life, to him, was death. Sure, what you did was not okay, he was heartbroken, it would take time to heal. However, the more he thought about it, the more willing he was to try. If you were able to give him a second chance, he should give you the benefit of the doubt. You were taken by passion, by heartache and overwhelming sadness, Max wasn't a stranger to strong bursts of emotions and impulsiveness, which is why, deep down, he understood why you did what you did. Maybe, if he was in your shoes, he would've done worse.

"We are too old for shit like this, Y/N."

You could feel he was a bit more relaxed, which is why you felt an openness to just hold him. You didn't care if he wasn't going to hold you back, you just wanted to show him how much you regret your childish ploy.

"I know, baby, I am so sorry, I love you."

Fair enough, Max didn't hold you back. Instead, he pushed you away, another idea forming in the back of his twisted, unserious mind.

"You're going to work a little bit harder than this, sweetheart, if you want my forgiveness."

In his eyes, you could see there was still anger painted in the black of his pupils, but mixed with the gleam of his almost dried tears, you noticed a different kind of sparkle, one he saw in your eyes two nights ago.

"Do you want me to kneel and beg?"

Max took a step back.

"I want you to kneel, but I think your mouth can do better things than begging."

There was a feeling of delirium happening in the back of your mind, that carefully traveled through your veins as if you had take the most powerful drug available in the market. In just a matter of seconds you were down on your knees, hands playing with the hem of Max's shorts. You looked up, as if asking for permission to take them off. To Max, that was a vision out of the walls of the louvre, you, down, eyes sparkling with sultry glamour, mouth watering.

With an attentive movement, you pulled down his shorts, leaving a trail of kisses on the inside of his thigh, making sure you were scratching every inch of his skin, treating him as if he was the cure to all your worries and troubles. He might as well be.

"Get to it, my love, no teasing."

"Where's the fun in that?" You asked with a tint of playfulness in your voice.

"You're not really in a position to have fun. You either put those pretty lips to use or I will leave you here with nothing."

"Well, since you asked so politely."

You completely removed his boxers, facing his cock. Your mouth watered. You made sure you spread enough saliva around, licking every inch of him, paying extra attention to his sensitive spots you were well familiar with, before taking him with gluttony, tasting every bit he was giving.

Your hands were everywhere, scratching his thighs, caressing his balls, while you moved your head, feeling him in the back of your throat, around your lips.

Max was in pure bliss, his organs were electrified.

He swore you got better since the break up. Or maybe it was the absence that made it much more intimate, filthy, delicious.

"Jesus, Schatje, you're so dirty." He ran his fingers through your hair until he decided to guide your movements with his hands, slowly, making sure the pace was comfortable for both of you. "You look so pretty when you're doing what I want."

He went a bit further and you gagged in response, moaning right after. The vibrations coming from your throat sent Max into a frenzy. You swirled your tongue around his head, looking up through your eyelashes, exactly the way he liked. You loved giving Max blowjobs, it was as pleasurable for you as for him and he could tell, and there was nothing hotter to Max than seeing you get aroused by giving him pleasure.

Each time his cock hit your throat, he could feel he was getting closer.

"Don't stop, keep sucking me off, keep going." You just obeyed, feeling yourself get hotter by the second, you knew your panties were gone by now, yet you still craved more. You needed to taste him more, you needed to take back the time you missed. "Fuck-Y/N, fucking hell. Just like that.

You're so good."

The praise was everything, because you didn't deserve it. You didn't deserve him. Yet, here he was, giving you all of him, all of his time and body, the best parts.

One more deeper thrust and you gagged again, the reaction made you squeeze his thighs. Max shut his eyes tight, groaning and moaning a bit too loud, but he couldn't control himself, not when you were on his knees, taking him so well, doing your job like a freaking pornstar.

"Shit, I'm gonna cum." The liquid was everywhere inside your throat. He made sure he finished before removing his cock from inside your mouth, drops of drool spilling on the floor. "You better swallow every drop or we'll do it all over again."

You did as he asked, you wouldn't dare do it otherwise. You stood up, looking right into his eyes as you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out.

"Good fucking slut."

In a sinful act, Max spat in your tongue, holding your hair tightly in a knot between his palm. The move was so dirty, so filthy, you could come just by relieving the scene alone.

With desperate hands, you started to remove your top and then proceeded to his shirt. Meanwhile, Max was practically ripping out your skirt, abruptly removing every piece of fabric that dared touch your skin.

His kiss was demanding, hard, rough, thrilling.

There was a primal instinct awaken inside you, one that wanted to be with him and serve him for the rest of your life. One that could live in beds with him until you grow old.

Max pushed you to the bed, body towering yours.

Your hands desperately tried to grab his neck, his back, bring him closer, if it was any possible. You felt his hand sliding slowly between your thighs, until he reached your folds. He made sure to spread the wetness around, making a mess on your inner thighs and hip bones.

"Max, please." You pleated, voice cracking, there was no way you could form coherent sentences, your mind was hazy, no other thought inside your head except Max Verstappen and his hands.

"Look at you." His voice was dark, husky. "So wet just from sucking me off. Do you want more?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah? Then ask for it, use your words."

That man had you in the palm of his hands. If he asked you to go to war for him, at that moment, in your situation, you would.

"Please, Max, please." Your vocals were stuck down your throat, you were struggling to speak, the sensations of his hands rubbing your clit ever so slightly you could barely say they were in there was just too overwhelming.

"Pathetic, try again." He placed a kiss on your collarbone, then on the curve of your neck. His lips were wet and hot, a little bit swollen from the roughness of your kisses.

"Max, fuck me, please, stuff me, use me, do Whatever you want."

Max stopped every touch. Looked deep inside your eyes with a smirk on his lips that you just wanted to slap it off, or kiss it off, whichever one your reflexes allowed.

He scrunched his nose and giggle, it was a way of mocking you, you knew that. You knew you sounded pathetic, you didn't care. The humiliation was not crossing your mind, nothing to worry about, it wasn't worth it. He was. Max was worth it.

"Stupid little thing, trying to pull stunts on me, then begging me to use you like you were some sort of cheap whore."

You moaned in response, lifting your hips to meet his. In a firm movement, Max held your hips down with his right leg, applying pressure on your lower belly, making it unable for you to move.

"Stop lifting your hips like a goddamn whore, you're going to take whatever I decide to give you."

He wasn't treating you kindly, you knew there was still resentment somewhere inside him. Sure, there was. Max knew it too. At that moment he was using you, taking his frustration out. But it wasn't like you haven't done the same, only your way of torturing him was a bit less fun than his.

You felt yourself sinking into Max's cock, involuntarily you sunk your nails on his back, trying to fight back the scorching sensation filling you up, making you whole. Max's rhythm was slow, painfully slow, which was unlike him, he never fucked you like this, always fast, slamming, pounding. This was even more overwhelming than his usual desperation and roughness, because it wasn't hurting but it felt like you simply couldn't take it, the lack of pace was driving you insane.

Max knew it, it was taking every single tear of strength left in his tired body to keep it slow, because you felt too good, too perfect wrapped around him. He missed your feeling, he missed your whimpers and cries.

"You feel so good, Schatje, like you were made only for my cock. Nothing more. Too useless to anything else, couldn't even figure out how to take a piece out of my car." He laughed, replaying the scene back in his memory. "Stupid little thing."

You cried out because you felt that he, without thinking, went a little bit harder when remembering what happened. If you wanted him to give you what you needed, you would have to push him only a little bit. You lost the war, you know you did, but there were still some battles left.

"Come on, Max. Slow on tracks, slow in bed. You used to be better than this. What are you trying to do? Fuck me to sleep?"

He looked down on you, with contempt. How dare you talk to him this way? But it was a good try, he was close to snapping, making you regret the whole week, going too hard until you couldn't remember why you were on this earth for.

You were scared of his eyes, how dark they were, but your stomach flipped with the thrill of waiting for his next move.

"Oh, she can talk!" His voice was drenched in disdain. "Let's fix this."

Not even stopping, Max parted your lips only to shove the lace fabric of your panties into your mouth. Fucking bastard. You protested, but now even you had to admit the sounds coming from you were a joke.

"Much better."

Then, in a sudden, fierce movement, he flipped you. Stomach down the mattress, face pressed against the egyptian sheets, a luxury that only Bahrain could provide. Max's left hand was pressing your head further down as he started to pick up the pace, slamming hard and faster. He was, in fact, using you as a personal fucktoy, but you didn't mind it, the feeling was too good.

You felt euphoric, your blood was buzzing. You tried to hold the sheets, grab something, but there was no way for you to control your body. The sounds coming from your mouth were involuntary, so were the one's coming from Max.

It was too much for him, he knew he wouldn't last longer. He never used you like this before, it made him feel like a god. No amount of championship wins would come close to the feeling of being buried deep down inside you.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck- Look at what you made me do, fucking slut." You could feel the tears coming down. Good tears. The hot kind. "Are you going to cry on me now?"

You saw one of his hands coming to your mouth, removing the fabric and tossing far away to the other side of the room.

"Yes, Max, oh God, fuck."

He groaned, the wet noises were feeling the room.

The familiar sensation of fire pooling low in your abdomen started to show up. If he asked you to hold on, God forgive you, there was no way in hell.

You heard him moan a mixture of curse words and your name, but your senses were coming blurry, as if you were about to pass out.

"Max, 'm gonna cum."

"Gonna cum inside you, baby."

He pressed down, letting his weight fall on top of you, that's when you felt the tightness around your organs being released. The sounds coming from you were too much for Max to hold on any longer, not even seconds later he was breaking down. It was animalistic, filthy, pornographic, even.

He never took it out, he stayed inside of you for minutes after he was done. You were too sensitive to take any movement. That experience was whatever religious people were trying to reach with their existence. Who needed faith when you had Max Verstappen as a lover?

You barely noticed that his weight left the top of your naked body, only flipping back around when you saw him coming from the bathroom with a towel. He sat down next to you, breathing slowly, gently rubbing the fabric between your thighs.

"Are you okay?" You nodded, thinking you blacked out for a second. "Do you want a glass of water?"

"I just want you to lay down here."

He did as you asked, letting you wrap yourself around him. You could tell there were no bad feelings around, everything vanished into thin air.

It was just you and Max, same as ever.

"Do you forgive me, Max?"

He placed a long lasting kiss in your right temple.

"Is it bad if I said you should pull stuff like this more often just so that we could repeat this?"

You giggled, fingers tracing drawings on his stomach.

"I think we can figure another game that won't risk our relationship burning to ashes if something goes wrong."

"Fair enough." You felt him adjust his body. "And, yes, I do forgive you."

You needed the reassurance, Max knew that. He knew you. You were a melody from his favorite childhood song, one that he listened to it and it never left his mind.

There was no letting you go. It would always be complex and easy at the same time. But any complication was worth it if it meant you would never leave his side.

[peachesvault]

Sk8 after Eight

Situationship!Skater! Sero x Reader

⋆˚꩜｡ Late night adventures skateboarding with Sero Hanta

A/n: For my baby @bloomstream! sorry its not so good :( just wanted to get something out, but if the people want a part two I wouldn't be against it

"Pssst. Get up.”

Harsh knocking on your window woke you up. Grumbling, you groggily got up, throwing your windows open. You already know who it was.

Sero Hanta.

You sighed eyeing him.

"The fuck are you doing here at 2 in the morning?"

"We don't even have school tomorrow??"

"SO? I can still sleep on a Friday night dude, god forbid."

Chuckling lightly he pulled himself up onto your windows ledge, before inviting himself into your room, making sure to leave his shoes on the ledge. 'Manners' and all that. Manners your ass. Manners would be using the door at a normal hour instead of whatever the hell this is.

You let him in anyways.

Sitting on your bed like it was his, he leaned back, looking at you with that infuriating ugly lazy smirk that always-

"Took you a while to answer sweets. Tried dolling up for me?"

"I was butt ass naked. Don't get ahead of yourself" You replied dryly, eventually chuckling at his furrowed brows.

"Think your so cute hm?"

"The cutest."

You held his gaze, unfaltering even when he stared at you like that. Not the way a friend should stare at you. Neither of you had ever called it out, and you didn't plan on doing so anytime soon. His eyes dropped to your legs.

"Get changed. We're going out." He was staring you in the eye again.

"No. You're getting out and I'm going back to sleep" You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him as a challenge.

Sighing, he got up and made his way to your window, pointing down to where he climbed up from. You followed, your hipbone digging into the sill as you leaned over to see what he was pointing at.

His skateboard.

You side eyed him.

"Really?"

Your face softened. You don't know why but his dejected expression pulled at your heartstrings as he murmured a quiet:

"Look I couldn't sleep. Your normally up at this time so I thought-".

Huffing you cut him off, grumbling but already walking to your closet.

Sappy feelings were never your thing, either of your 'things'. Your whole friendship was built off of bullying each other out of bad feelings.

Turned away from him, pulling your shirt over your head you started to get changed. You knew he didn't care, but that he would turn around anyways since he was so 'mannerly'. You had both gotten over the weird 'opposite sex!' awkwardness a long time ago.

You had both bought matching outfits last time you went vintage shopping. Denim jeans with a red star on the back pocket and graf tagged across the crotch, a large black jersey and a large black zip up. Considering he was wearing it right now, you might as well.

Humming to let him know you were done, you looked around for your fanny, putting your head through the loop to have it slung diagonally over your torso. It already had the basics inside; some wax, a silver skate tool for tweaks, A couple extra bearings incase any broke, a couple tissues, some snacks, a pack of gum and a silver paint pen if you found anything cool to do a throw up on.

Going over to stand next to him by the sill, you wrapped an arm around his neck, tucking yourself into his side as the other held your board. You felt his breath hitch, but chose to ignore it as he used his tape to lower you both out of the second story dorm room. When both feet touched the ground, you finally let go, albeit a bit disappointed but you started walking none the less.

Finally out of UA grounds, you dropped the board, letting it crunch over the gravel. You knew it was bad for the wheels but you were due for a change anyways. The two of you got on as you reached the main road, pushing them till the end of the road; just before the downhill. This was always the route you guys took to the skatepark, the steep decline exhilarating and nostalgic rather than the flat road round the other side that looped a million times to get to the same place.

You and Hanta lined up against the crack in the asphalt like you had done hundreds of times.

"Three"

"Two" You followed on.

"One"

Pushing off strongly at the count, you both barrelled down the hill, the wind blowing in your face making it hard to see as your hair whipped behind you and the chill of the cold night settled itself deep thin your bones. Looking to your right, Hanta was laughing, a manic crazed adrenaline filled laugh. You joined in, whooping and cheering as you only accelerated faster, just two kids who had the whole world to themselves with nothing to bother their undeterred joy. The moon shone brightly overhead, like an approving warm hug as you both prepped to stop as you approached the bottom.

Swinging your arms around to get the power for a powerslide, you clutched by kicking out with your backfoot and leaning back. Coming to a stop just centimetres from the tree, Hanta also stopped right next to you, following the same movements, but just as he skidded to a stop, he lost his footing, collapsing straight onto you.

"ge-roff me" You huffed as you pushed him off your torso. Your voice dripped of annoyance but maybe it was to ignore the way your breath had hitched when he first landed on you, the way you held his gaze for a split second and every cell in your body set alight and was hyperaware of every point of contact with him. Maybe it was an excuse as you brushed yourself off and tried to desperately push any lingering thoughts about his touch to the back of your mind as you offered him a hand and pulled him up. Maybe it was to avoid whatever the two of you are as you smirked lazily at him, taunting him.

"Didn't think you were such a rookie?"

"Maybe I did it on purpose hm?" He replied with identical inflection, a teasing lilt to his question.

Now it was your turn for your breath to hitch. Not sure how to deal with all the feelings swirling in your chest, you decided to just punch him in the arm before continuing to walk in the direction of the bowl, not turning around to check if he was following you.

You already knew he was.

© 2025 @Peachesvault - All rights reserved. Do not plagiarise/copy/post on other platforms. || Masterlist

[nemisuki]

𐔌✧.* ꜰʀᴇᴇᴢᴇ .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

ೀ⋆ || Eating some ice cream leads to stronger bonds, vulnerability and radiant smiles ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

. ♬ ݁˖ || inspo song : spotify version & yt version ᯓ★

ᝰ.ᐟ || shoto todoroki x f!reader, she/her pronouns, pure fluff, words of affirmation, 891 word count •°. *࿐

The young boy wasn't aware of how he found himself in such a position.

His bubbly classmate followed him around like a shadow — every second of the school day — practically glued to his side.

Shoto may be dense, but he's not completely clueless, he knew about her strong feelings for him.

Maybe because she's so unapologetically open about it but still...

He doesn't particularly mind her presence, often feeling more comfortable if she were at his side then not, growing used to the hyper melody — her voice — next to him.

Y/N is quite an enthusiastic girl, so he's not that shocked when she calls him to join her outside the dorms, the duo sitting on a bench as they share a cold snack together.

She smiles, easily breaking the joint popsicles, handing him half of it as he hesitantly accepts.

"I always think stuff tastes better when shared!"

He silently nods.

There's not much he has to say whenever they're together, after all, she seems to understand his quiet nature better than most people.

"Too bad I have no younger siblings, I ate these alone growing up."

She quiets down for a second — the gears already turning in her head — and proceeding to give him a mixed look of amusement and curiosity.

"Hey 'roki, are you also an only child?"

He meets her intrigued gaze, averting his eyes for a moment as he hums in thought.

Eventually deciding to spare her from the situation regarding his eldest sibling, maybe he'll tell the girl another time, but he'd much rather keep this moment light hearted.

As it always is with her — something peaceful — away from all the struggles of his life back home.

"I have two older siblings... a brother and sister," he softly mumbles.

Her eyes light up at the new information, tilting her head as she continues.

"Do you all look alike?"

His brows slightly furrow as he wonders — never really giving it much thought before — slowly recalling Natsu and Fuyumi's features, looking up to the starry sky as he remembers the similarities.

"Probably yes."

She giggles as her imagination runs wild, previously assuming he'd be an only child, given his stoic demeanor.

The confirmation only makes her questions multiply.

"Similar personalities?"

A family full of people just like him would sure be a funny site, if true. He shakes his head, re-meeting her fascinated gaze with a calmer expression.

"No, they are nice."

She immediately replies, as if bothered by his words, the subtle negative self-esteem catching her attention.

"You're nice too— I mean, you're nicer!"

His eyes soften, just barely, not saying anything in response as he takes a bite out of the popsicle.

Y/N seems to notice, her smile growing at the realization as she asks another teasing question.

"Which one of you is better looking?"

"Both of them are beautiful."

She playfully pouts, giving him a look of disapproval and nodding with confidence at her next words.

"No way! I refuse to believe it, you're the most beautiful 'roki."

Her gaze returns back to her cold snack, casually taking another bite like she was just pointing out the obvious, smiling at the delicious taste. Not even needing to know what his siblings look like to be sure of her answer.

He stares at her for a moment, processing what she just said.

A small smile slowly breaking on his face as he looked forward, a warm sensation felt in his chest, a feeling of much needed tranquility as they sat next to each other.

"You're probably the only one that says so..."

His smile was gone before she could catch it.

She hums.

"I don't think that's true, but even if it is, not only do I think you're better, I will always think that way."

Their gazes slowly meet, warmth filling both of their bodies despite a soft breeze passing by, heartbeats steadying in unison.

It was odd.

Nothing out of the ordinary was happening, yet the air around them felt different tonight, more intimate.

"If they're worth 100 marks, then you are worth 101. That special point will always be saved for you."

No other words had to be said, the sound of rustling leaves being long forgotten in the background.

Her eyes showed nothing but sincerity and affection.

It was him that broke eye contact first, looking straight ahead as another soft smile breaks out on his face, not even trying to hide it behind his walls anymore.

He doesn't visibly light up often but when he does... she's right — he truly is beautiful.

The fact that she had the power to make him feel at ease, made her more thrilled than anything else. She'd always offer him a place to be vulnerable; maybe that's why he likes having her around.

Have the urge to keep her just as close.

"The popsicle is good."

"Mhm?"

He looks back at her with a softened expression, making her heart jump at the sight.

"I'll buy you one, next time."

She shyly smiles.

"Okay, I'll be waiting then."

They weren't aware of how much time had passed, sitting together under the moon, having a small break from their rigorous training and studying — hectic student life in general.

But it didn't matter, not when they got each other, brought together by a pair of popsicles.

✦ ⎯⎯⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ masterlist || taglist || intro || socials ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⎯⎯ ✦

ᴀ/ɴ ||| hi my beautiful flowers! wrote a todoroki fic bc i got burnt out from bkg after his birthday fic lolz... also this was inspired by a scene in the c-drama 'when i fly towards you' bc the mmc reminds me so much of shoto! now time for me to go, plus ultra! ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ ᴛᴀɢꜱ ||| @leleyro (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)

[slut4megantheestallion]

can you do tribbing with chloe?

Pairings: Chloe price x fem!reader

Warnings ⚠️: smut, pure smut, soft dom!chloe, sub!reader, tribbing, public/truck sex, cunnilingus, begging, breast play, porn without plot, pussydrunk!chloe, dirty talk, overstimulation, oral fixation, pet names, rough grinding, slight exhibitionism.

Chloe's mouth was already on you the second the truck door slammed shut behind you. She didn't waste time, not even a moment. Her hands were under your shirt, tugging it up, baring your chest to the cool night air inside her beat-up truck.

"God, I've been thinking about this all fuckin' day," she muttered against your skin, voice already thick with want. Her mouth wrapped around one nipple, suckling slow and deep while her hand massaged the other breast, calloused thumb brushing back and forth over the soft peak until you whined.

"Chloe..." you whispered, arching your back into her touch. Your legs were already spreading without being asked, thighs quivering with anticipation, hips subtly grinding down against the truck's worn leather seat.

"Yeah, baby?" She grinned, dragging her tongue in a wet circle around your nipple before blowing cool air over it, making you squirm. "Tell me what you want. C'mon, you've been acting like such a good girl for me lately. You want me to eat that pretty pussy or ride it 'til you forget you own name?"

You breath hitched. "Both."

Chloe let out a soft, breathless laugh. "Greedy," she teased, slipping her fingers under the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down. "But lucky for you, I'm fuckin' starving."

You shivered when the fabric left your thighs, your panties sticking just slightly to your wetness as she pulled those off, too. Her gaze darkened the second she saw how soaked you were.

"Holy shit," she breathed, eyes locked between your legs. "You're dripping, babe. You need me that bad?"

You nodded frantically, cheeks flushed, but her hand gripped your jaw to make you look her dead in the eye. "Use your words."

"Yes," you whined, thighs trembling as her warm breath ghosted just above your mound. "Chloe, please. I need your mouth. I need you so bad, baby."

That was all she needed.

Chloe ducked down, groaning low in her throat as she licked a fat, slow stripe up your folds, then dipped her tongue between them, dragging it through your slick and sucking your slit into her mouth.

Your entire body jolted.

She moaned like you were her last meal, tongue lapping at you hungrily, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open as she buried her face deeper. You were already a mess, moaning, gasping her name, hips rocking toward her face while she tongue-fucked you, sloppy and unrelenting.

"Fuck-Chloe, fuck- please -"

"You taste so good, baby," she groaned, lips glistening. "Could eat you forever. Wanna make you cum on my face, then ride you till you're cryin'."

You whimpered, thighs shaking, and she kept going. Faster. Messier. Her tongue flattened against your clit while she slid two fingers inside, curling them just right.

Your climax slammed into you hard and sudden, making you cry out her name as your body bucked against her mouth. Chloe didn't stop, licking through it with eager little moans, addicted to the way you pulsed around her fingers, to how your thighs clenched around her face.

You barely had time to breathe before she was pulling herself up, straddling your lap. Her slick thighs slid against yours as she adjusted, eyes blown wide, lips swollen from kissing you and your cunt.

"Wanna ride you now," she whispered, grinding her dripping pussy down against yours, catching your clit with hers. You both gasped.

The friction was electric.

She started to move slowly at first, then faster, her hips rolling, clit grinding against yours in slick, wet strokes that made your toes curl. Your hands flew to her hips, gripping her as she worked herself on you, tits bouncing slightly with each motion, her face twisted in bliss.

"Fuck-you feel so good," she panted. "So soft- so fuckin' hot, baby- gimme more."

You thrust up to meet her, bodies grinding in rhythm, your clits brushing perfectly over and over until chloe's eyes fluttered shut and she started moaning nonstop, little desperate whines tumbling from her lips.

She leaned down, kissing you messy and deep, breasts pressed to yours as she kept grinding, her hips stuttering.

"Gonna cum- fuck, I'm gonna cum all over you, baby," she whimpered. "Say my name- say you're mine."

"Chloe-Chloe- yours, I'm yours -"

She shattered above you with a loud, broke moan, pussy grinding messily against yours as she came, slick soaking your thighs. You were right behind her, crying out into her neck, your bodies still rolling together, chasing every drop of pleasure until you were both trembling.

She collapsed against you, panting, her sweat-slicked body pressing you into the truck seat.

"Fuck," she whispered, nuzzling into your neck. "I'm pussydrunk, babe. Completely wrecked. You feel that?"

She shifted slightly, grinding lazily one last time against your overly sensitive pussy.

You gasped and jerked. "Chloe-too much-"

But she just smiled against your neck and whispered, "One more, baby. Just one more..."

Your thighs were twitching, overstimulated, and shaking, but chloe didn't back off. She sat up slightly, still straddling you, her hand trailing down beneath both your bodies to rub slow, circular strokes against your clit. You gasped- your whole body jolting.

"Chloe-wait, I-"

She leaned down and kissed your lips, soft and reassuring, but her fingers didn't stop.

"I know, baby. I know it's a lot. But you said both, remember? My mouth and hips." She smiled, her eyes dark and heavy. "Gotta give my girl what she wants."

You whimpered beneath her, your body so sensitive it almost hurt - but the ache melted into pleasure, and her fingers worked you again, slow and gentle at this time.

"You can take it," she murmured. "You're doing so good, letting me have this - letting me feel you like this. I love watchin' you fall apart."

You shivered, chest heaving as she eased her fingers back inside your soaked cunt. The stretch was deep, familiar now two fingers curling just right and then her thumb rubbed against your clit, perfectly timed.

"Your still so wet," she groaned, fucking you slow and deep. "God, you make me so fuckin' hard if I had a dick, I'd wreck you right now. But this..." She kissed your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "This is better."

You moaned helplessly, your hips rocking into every thrust. Her fingers were coated in your slick, every pump of them making lewd, wet sounds in the quiet hum of the truck cab.

"F-fuck, Chloe, I'm gonna -"

She bit your earlobe. "That's right. Cum for me again. Wanna feel you cum on my hand. Wanna see that pretty face when I break you." Your orgasm slammed into you harder than the first. You cried out, grabbing her arm, shaking beneath her as your body clenched around her fingers. Wetness spilled down your thigh- hot, sticky, messy.

Chloe groaned, pulling her fingers out and holding them up. They were dripping.

"Holy shit, baby- look what you did. You squirted all over my fuckin' hand."

You turned your face away, blushing hard, but she wasn't having it. She grabbed your chin and turned you back.

"Don't you dare hide," she whispered. "You look so fuckin' hot like this. All flushed trembling, dripping wet. Wanna ruin you a little more."

She brought her soaked fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean, moaning like she'd just taste heaven. "Fuck, I love how you taste. Sweetest fuckin' thing."

Your brain was swimming. You couldn't think, speak, but chloe wasn't done.

She moved off your lap for a moment, only to slide down the truck seat, lowering herself between your legs again. Your eyes widened.

"Chloe-baby, to sensitive-"

She gave your thighs a soft kiss. "One more, I promise. Gimme just one more. You'll let me, right? You're my good girl."

You nodded, breath hitching and then her mouth was back on you, hot and wet and devastating.

She licked through your foods like she was starving again, tongue flicking over your clit in quick, precise strokes while her hands pinned your hips down. You sobbed- loud, unfiltered, helpless.

Her tongue was relentless. Up, down, side to side, then slow, deliberate circles over your clit. You were jerking, crying out, squirming, but she just moaned into you like she needed your pussy to breathe.

"Fuck- I can't- fuck-"

"Yes, you can," Chloe growled, her voice wrecked. "One more. Give it to me. Be my good fuckin' girl."

Your third orgasm hit like a tidal wave, your back arched high off the seat, a silent scream ripped from your throat as you squirted again, soaking her face, thighs twitching uncontrollably.

Chloe moaned into you, drinking it all tongue sill lazily lapping at you until your body fully gave out.

Your chest heaving, sweat-slicked, utterly spent.

Chloe finally pulled away, lips and chin shining with your slick, pupils blown wide. She crawled back up to you, eyes glassy and wild with lust and adoration.

"You okay, babe?" She whispered, kissing your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips.

You nodded weakly, nuzzling into her shoulder. "So good, too good, fucked me stupid."

She chuckled low and smug. "You're lucky I'm obsessed with you."

She cradled you in her arms, pulling your shirt back down gently, her fingers brushing sweat-soaked hair from your forehead.

"Next time," she muttered against your neck. "I'm bringing a strap."

[parasolladyansy]

Hello, I hope you’re having a wonderful day/afternoon/night! I love your art style. It’s so cute >w<

Could you give any tips for beginner artists both in drawing for characters and Pokemon?

Hi-ho! I can try ouo;

⬆️ Made in 2010 - the oldest Pokémon drawing I have on file (though I have much older ones on paper!)

First tip I’d say is to practice! ✍🏻

I’ve been drawing since I was very little, & that included Pokémon fanart. There was a point where I was drawing every single day for years - I have all these journals where instead of writing through my thoughts & feelings, I just filled it to the brim with drawings & even little comics!

They don’t need to be perfect, or better than anyone’s - they just have to be yours. 🩵

⬆️ Made in 2016 - I started trying for a softer look with a lighter, blue line-art instead of the thick black one.

Getting into the more technical art stuff I learned in college, drawing just about anything becomes easier when we break them down into shapes.

Humans, Pokémon, or even shadows, ripples, & water patterns can be broken down into basic shapes that you build up with added details. Like here: we can see circles, ovals, semi-circles, & all kinds of angular shapes.

Take a look at the Pokédex, & try seeing the different shapes that make up each Pokémon. Even the most complex Pokémon in the ‘dex becomes less daunting when we break them down into manageable shapes. Same for human characters.

⬆️ Made in 2023 - from Sword x Shield

Another (less technical) tip I have is study other artists you like to help you find your style!

When I made the step to go line-less, I took a lot from my love for Impressionism (eg. Monet), & was also very much inspired by K. O’Neil’s Tea Dragon books, especially in Sword x Shield.

I think it’s safe to say just about every single artist to pick up a pencil was influenced by someone. The “father of manga” himself, Osamu Tezuka, was inspired by early Disney animations - if you look closely, you can see it in his earlier work. It goes both ways, as we see Disney emulate Tezuka (to the point of plagiarism >_> Lion King)

On that note, try not to feel bad if your style starts off looking too much like the original artist’s - I think that’s natural. After all, we artists emulate what we see, what we like, & how we see those things.

What matters is building on it, finding those personal touches to make it yours. ^_^ Like with Pokémon, you can go by the original art Ken Sugimori & the other official artists, or take your own spin on it (exaggerate features, play with color, etc).

⬆️ Made in 2024 - a little less than a year ago & I already draw Sora a little differently!

I think art is a journey, & you can only stand to improve over time & practice. I’m still refining my work, & sometimes that means crumpling it up & starting again.

Maybe the most important tip I have is: don’t give up.

There were a lot of people who wanted me to quit drawing. I’ve had my doodle ripped up by a teacher, told I wouldn’t amount to anything, told that no matter what I did someone will always be better than me.

Even through all that, I never gave it up, because it’s something I love. I could happily draw all day (though sometimes I have slow periods, like where I’m at right now), & drawing helped me get through the darkest times as well as celebrate when things were good. ^_^

So don’t give up. Take breaks if you need it, but don’t give up if it’s something you love & gives you life. 🩵

—

Ha…I realize that’s probably a lot deeper than what you meant to ask. I said I’d “try” lol 😂 I hope this helps you all the same 😅

[skyward-floored]

16 with legend and wind? (both had dream adventures)

16 in dreams

Wind and Legend shared dreams.

Neither of them knew why, at least, not at first. Wind figured it out pretty quickly once they heard more of each other’s stories, and he was certain Legend had as well, but they... didn’t discuss it.

The dreams they shared were never pleasant ones.

The first time it happened, Wind found himself in a sewer, rain pouring outside, the edges of his vision faded and uncertain. He’d turned around at a noise, and seen Legend crying silently over a body, holding a sword to his chest as tears dribbled down his cheeks. Wind, utterly confused and panicked about what was going on, went over and hugged him.

Until the dream suddenly broke.

Both of them startled awake, and when Wind saw the dampness reflecting off Legend’s cheeks, he resumed the hug in the real world, Legend too shaken to protest.

It happened again a few nights later, but with their roles reversed. Wind cried out as Ganon threw him backwards, his laugh echoing as water poured around Wind and Tetra, the two fighting for their lives. Except it wasn’t going well, it was going worse than before, they were losing—

But then Tetra was Legend, and Legend was gripping his shoulders and telling him to close his eyes and look away. That it wasn’t real. Even when Tetra came back and Ganon cleaved a sword through her chest, and Wind couldn’t help his scream.

The dream fell away right as Ganon swung at them, and Wind threw himself into Legend’s arms with a sob, Legend lightly rocking him as he cried.

Normal dreams never seemed to be shared between them, and sometimes several nights would go by between them showing up in each other’s minds. But whenever Wind or Legend had a nightmare, the other was witness to it, sometimes able to affect things, but not always.

But they were always there.

Wind replayed twisted versions of his adventures, bird talons and monster claws, tentacles that overtook people’s minds, all with Legend at his side, standing strong through his nightmares. And Wind had a front row seat to Legend’s as well, never the same twice. Someone screaming as she was snatched away, Ganon staring at the two of them with yellowed eyes, a trident piercing his leg, countless monsters and villains that flew by so fast that Wind couldn’t keep track of them all.

And a calm ocean, with a redheaded girl that Wind couldn’t see the face of no matter how hard he looked.

That one seemed to scare Legend more than any of the others, and after they woke from it, Wind sat up with Legend the rest of the night while he choked out the story of Koholint.

Wind told him of the Realm of the Ocean King in turn, and silently snuggled up to Legend when both of their words ran out, and the stars began to fade with the coming dawn.

Legend was shaking, and Wind might have been too, but he held Legend close, just like he would Aryll after a bad dream.

“I hate this,” Legend croaked, and Wind only held him tighter. He didn’t know whether he meant the nightmares, or the fact that they were each forced to be witness to them, but he agreed.

“Me too. But I’m glad we can at least help each other,” Wind whispered shakily back. “You... you help me know they’re not real. Not... not like the adventures were. That these are just nightmares.”

“I still hate it,” Legend rasped, and Wind squeezed him, not sure what to say, but determined to give him comfort nonetheless.

Legend silently hugged him back, faintly trembling, and neither of them said anything further the rest of the night.

[izzih22]

them like having a tickle fight or like play fighting or something and paige bragging abt how she won

Winner Takes All

Note: some younger Paige and Azzi since y’all were begging😂

The winter sun was setting early outside the Bueckers’ house, casting the living room in a warm, gold haze.

Azzi was curled up on the couch in one of Paige’s hoodies, legs tucked under her, laughing at something dumb Paige had said — or maybe just laughing because Paige was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

They’d spent the whole afternoon goofing around — shooting hoops in the driveway, playing HORSE (which had, predictably, turned into an intense showdown), and now arguing over what movie to watch like it was a championship game.

“You just don’t have taste,” Paige said, smirking as she flopped down onto the couch next to her.

“Says the girl who wanted to watch Shrek 2 for the fifth time,” Azzi shot back, grinning.

“Classic cinema. You wouldn’t understand,” Paige said, leaning over dramatically like she was offended.

Azzi shoved her playfully, and Paige caught her hand easily, grinning wider.

Bad idea.

Because then Azzi tried to pull her hand back.

And Paige — competitive, stubborn, cocky Paige — refused to let go.

“What, you wanna start something?” Paige teased, tightening her grip just enough to challenge her.

Azzi narrowed her eyes, playful. “Maybe I do.”

That was it.

Paige lunged.

In a blur, she pinned Azzi sideways into the couch cushions, both of them laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

“No fair!” Azzi squealed, writhing under her, trying to get free.

“Life isn’t fair, Fudd!” Paige crowed triumphantly.

Azzi squirmed harder, trying to shove her off, but Paige was bigger — taller, stronger — and she used it, grinning wickedly as she straddled Azzi’s hips and trapped her wrists above her head with one hand.

Azzi froze, blinking up at her — cheeks flushed, chest heaving from laughing so much — and for a second, they just stared at each other, the air crackling between them.

Paige’s smile softened for half a second.

God, she was beautiful.

But then — Paige struck.

She let go of Azzi’s wrists just long enough to start tickling her sides mercilessly, fingers flying, grinning like an absolute menace.

Azzi shrieked, dissolving into helpless laughter, kicking her legs wildly.

“P-Paige! Stop! I’m — I’m serious!” she gasped, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

“You started it!” Paige said, gleeful, laughing so hard herself she was practically shaking. “Now you gotta face the consequences!”

Azzi twisted, somehow managing to get one hand free, trying to fight back. She managed to land a soft punch to Paige’s shoulder — not that it did anything.

“You’re evil!” Azzi cried, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out.

“And undefeated!” Paige yelled, finally flopping down next to her, letting them both catch their breath.

They laid there, tangled together on the couch, breathless and giddy.

Paige had her arm thrown casually over Azzi’s stomach, like she was staking her claim even in victory.

“I won,” Paige said after a moment, smug as hell.

Azzi groaned dramatically, covering her face with her hands. “You’re literally the worst winner ever.”

“Correct,” Paige said without shame. She turned her head to grin at her. “Say it. Say I’m the champ.”

Azzi peeked at her through her fingers, her smile helpless. “No way.”

Paige rolled onto her side, hovering over her, a teasing glint in her eye. “Say it, or I’m tickling you again.”

Azzi shrieked, trying to scramble away, but Paige easily caught her around the waist, dragging her back into her arms.

“Fine!” Azzi gasped between giggles. “You’re the champ!”

Paige beamed like she’d just won a gold medal.

“Damn right,” she said, dropping a kiss on Azzi’s lips softly before settling back against the couch, pulling Azzi tightly against her chest like she had no intention of letting her go ever again.

Azzi sighed dramatically but curled into her anyway, tucking her head under Paige’s chin.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered.

Paige chuckled, squeezing her waist gently.

“I know,” she murmured against her hair. “You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”

Azzi’s heart squeezed tight in her chest.

Because underneath all the bragging and messing around, there it was — that fierce, unshakable love Paige had been giving her from the very beginning.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

She just reached up and laced their fingers together, holding on tight.

And Paige held her right back, the biggest winner there ever was.

[hungharrington]

happy birthday hungharrington! and congrats on everything!!

i was wondering if i could request a little something with prompts from both lists! i was thinking maybe a little beach trip with The Gang (established relationship reader and steve) with the prompts “mutual masturbation because they don’t have the energy for anything else” + “shh, there are people in the other room.”

either or is also fine! i love your work <3

hi my love!! thank you so much 😚and also thank you for being here and coming to my beeday party <3 you're the lucky first one to arrive omg... i hope this is ok, it kinda got more plot than porn my bad <3 afab!reader, 2.2k, mdni this entire blog is 18+

how to beat the summer heat

Between the car engine droning lowly beneath you and the heat of Steve's leather seats, you could nearly be lulled off to sleep. Safe in the passenger seat of Steve's car, it's highly tempting.

You would let yourself too, if you weren't so close to getting back to Steve's house. That—and the racket that the baby teenagers in the backseat keep stirring up, their rustling non-stop.

"Can you keep to your side of the seat?" Lucas says, somewhat scathingly.

"Can you learn how to say please?" Dustin spits back.

"Oh my god, you're so obviously an only child."

"Um, only by blood. Steve is practically my brother. Right, Steve?"

Beside you, one hand draped over the front wheel to steer, Steve's face twitches closer to a smile. The sun has done wonders to him. His hair looks lighter, his skin tanner — there's a glow to his whole demeanour. You're willing to bet if you reached out and touched him, he'd be just as warm as when he was laying in the sun an hour before.

Steve's eyes move up off the road to look in the rearview mirror.

"Uh huh." He agrees glibly, his gaze drifting to you and your evidently sleepy, curled-up form. "Whatever gets you turds to be quiet."

Dustin makes a squawk of protest but whatever battle he's looking to pick next is lost, the car already pulling in to the Harrington driveway.

It's a full-house tonight with the trip out to the watering hole. It's not far to travel by car, but too far by bike — and what had started as a simple plan for you and Steve to beat the summer heat, quickly spiralled into a full babysitting gig. Including a sleepover.

"Christ, why did we agree to this?" Steve huffs a sigh, watching through the windshield.

The backseat had emptied the moment he parked, each rambunctious teen rocketing towards the door the moment they could. There's definitely a door left open in the back and they're already squabbling as they push through the door. They're multitaskers, you'll give them that.

You unfurl from your tucked up position, groaning at the lovely stretch you get, and grin over at your boyfriend. "'Cos we happen to love those little twerps."

Steve's gaze switches to you, softening in an instant. He reaches a hand out and rubs your thigh tenderly.

"Y'alright, honey? You gonna take a nap?"

He's got, what you've affectionately nicknamed, his boyfriend voice on — a little more gooey and doting than he would ever be around other people. You hum happily and lean into his touch, reaching down and placing your hand atop his.

"Maybe..." You say, dragging your finger idly across the back of his hand. It betrays the fact you might have other plans.

The two of you have had to be rather restrained today, given the company. But it doesn't mean you've stopped lingering touches when you can sneak them, nor your heavy gazes and kisses too close to lust.

Steve's grip on your thigh tightens slightly, the vein in the back of his hand prominent. You see his throat bob as he swallows.

"Better get inside first," You say with a smile, breaking the moment to crack open your door. Steve's hand slips off your thigh as you step out.

The pavement is hot enough you can nearly feel it through your sandals, the air bending in the heat. Its not quite heat of the day anymore, but it still lingers enough to make you sweat. You push your door closed, then nudge Dustin's door closed too.

Steve's quick to stick close by as you both wander back up to his house, closer than he needs to be. You have to press down your smile—he's incredibly obvious at times. It's something that endears you even more.

"Someone's keen," You tease lightly, looking over your shoulder at him.

Steve reaches out and gives your waist a quick squeeze. "Someone got no warning about your newest bikini." He murmurs accusingly.

You laugh at that. He's absolutely right and it was entirely by design, getting to slowly reveal the new set to him for the first time today.

He'd already gotten in the water, had shaken his hair out like a dog and was dotingly waiting for you to join him. And as you had eased your shorts down, the new tight red bikini bottoms revealing themselves, Steve had promptly inhaled a mouthful of water, then hacked it back out.

"So, I shouldn't have worn it?" You ask, already knowing the answer. The door's still ajar from where the kids have filed through and you step through, kicking your sandals off.

"Are you kidd—"

"Steve! Where's the pizza?" Dustin interjects, panting in the doorframe at the end of the hall. Steve's nose twitches, the only evidence of his displeasure at being interrupted.

"In the freezer!" He calls back. He looks down at you, eyes catching on the red stripe of your bikini top still visible.

"Hey, uhhh," Steve catches Dustin's attention just in time, focusing back on the kid. "Can I trust you can handle the oven? We're gonna take a nap, sleep off some the sun."

Wobbly start, but strong finish. Dustin's eyes squint for only a second, enough that you wonder if he can tell, before— "I'm literally so offended that you think I can't use an oven, Steve."

Then he turns and leaves, doorframe now empty. Steve blinks, turning to you, a coy grin toying at his lips. "Well, that was easy."

Rolling your eyes, you take the stairs quickly, knowing the way to Steve's room like the back of your hand. Steve follows dutifully. You hear him shed his shirt as he goes, throwing it over the banister to deal with later.

It's hotter up here, the warmth collecting in the roof and circulating down to keep temperatures high in all of the upstairs rooms. You push into Steve's room and then wrinkle your nose, heading straight for the window to open it. Fresh air rolls in and you sigh in relief, stepping back and flopping onto Steve's bed in a lump.

A moment later and Steve joins you.

"It might actually be too hot to have sex," He says, rolling his head in your direction. "And too tiring. That nap actually sounds like a good idea right about now." He pauses a moment, eyes cast to the ceiling, brow scrunched together. "Oh my god, are we old?"

You laugh, turning to be closer. "Maybe we are."

You kick off your shorts to remove the stifling fabric and your shirt follows suit, alleviating some of the heat. The bikini is still the slightest bit damp. You stretch out, unsure if you'll be napping or something else altogether.

Steve glances over, then groans, his hands coming up to cover his face.

"Not fair." He says, voice muffled behind his hands. "I just said—"

"I'm literally just lying here."

"Exactly!" Steve exclaims, pulling his hands away from his face. He rolls over onto his side, one hand holding up his head, his bicep bulging.

"You're just... laying on my bed..." He says, voice suddenly lower.

His free hand reaches out, slipping a finger beneath the strap of your bikini.

"In the most... delectable little number I've ever seen."

His pupils are wide and his lids low, his heavy gaze trailing across your body with a hunger you're well familiar with.

"And we're both too hot and tired to do anything about it." He finishes with a whinge, his head flopping forward into the bed, pressed up against your arm. You giggle, reaching out to card your fingers through his hair.

"What if we don't," You start, an idea forming in your head. The quick flashes of how it could unfold, the mere thought of Steve's hand pumping his own cock, right next to you, sends a hot pulse between your legs.

You look over at Steve who's perked back up, watching you with a furrow in his brow. "But we still do. Just by ourselves."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, the pinch in Steve's brows still there as he searches your face for what you mean. You can see it when it dawns on him, pupils blowing wider.

"What, you mean like-?" He makes a crude jerk off motion with his hand, eyes wide.

You blush and laugh at the same time, suddenly unsure if that's something Steve would like. Hesitantly, you nod.

Turns out, you needn't worry, given how Steve flushes so much, it travels up to his ears. He's nodding, an excited sort of grin on his face before he ducks in to steal a quick kiss from you.

"Yeah," He says shakily. "That's- yeah, let's do that."

He rolls back to lay on his back, the tightness in his swimshorts far more apparent now. You watch eagerly as he reaches down, tugging at the drawstrings to loosen them up. His hand disappears into them and you see the heavy swallow of his throat, the soft flutter of his eyelashes as he grips himself.

You're so transfixed that it takes Steve nodding to you, murmuring your turn, with his voice rougher than usual to snap you out of it. Heat from something other than the summers day thrums through you, the heartbeat in your cunt getting louder, needier.

It's easy to slip one hand beneath the stretchy fabric, Steve watching closely as his hand begins to move. You trace a finger down slowly, finding a well of slick waiting for you, your fingers dipping in gently.

Dragging the wetness back up, you begin to push lazy circles on you clit, a hazy, quiet sort of pleasure beginning to buzz beneath your skin.

It spikes up when you pull your focus back to Steve, and suddenly there's too many places you want to look. Your eyes are drawn to the movement in his shorts, to the slow way he fucks his hand, lazy and unhurried — but his noises are too enticing to ignore.

Bare chest rising and falling with his breaths, Steve groans lowly in the back of his throat, soft and throaty. You don't even know if he knows he's doing it, the little catch of his breath when his hand strokes up over the head of his cock where his groan gets louder.

You have this reaction practically memorised, from the countless times where it's been your hand gliding over his cock, pulling sweet sounds from his mouth.

"Feel good?" You whisper.

Your own voice is a bit breathier than usual, pleasure still slowly burning in your core. Steve's hand stutters at the sound of it, resuming at a slightly faster pace.

"Fuck, yes," He whispers back heavily, not quite as quiet. His eyes are ever moving, constantly undecided if he'd rather look at the sight of your hand between your thighs, rubbing away, or your face, so switching between the two rapidly. "God, y're so pretty."

You smile at his sweetness, even if it is wrapped in the filthy scenario. Your legs spread a little further, sinking into your comfort.

There's something about the whole scene — the warmth of the summer afternoon and the laziness of both of you, tired and barely chasing the pleasure, just dozing in it, that sets your desire burning.

"Yeah? You're not so bad yourself, pretty boy." You whisper back, voice more sultry this time. Your eyes hunt for that reaction too — the adorable flush Steve gets when he's called pretty.

You're not disappointed. You're rewarded even, with Steve's blush returning down his chest and his hand speeding up again. He moans this time, louder than before, and you remember abruptly that you're not without company.

"Shh," You murmur, your own fingers moving faster, a whine threading into your words. Heat blazes deep in your gut, building and building. "There are people in the other room, baby. We've gotta be quiet."

"I—ngh-" Steve cuts himself out with another soft moan, turning this time and burying his head against your neck, as if to smother his noises. His hand has abandoned any slow pretence, jerking up and down on his cock fast enough you can hear the slick sounds of his pre-cum.

"I'm not gonna—last," He pants, quieter this time. "Y'so fuckin' hot. This is- christ, the hottest thing we've done—"

His string of whiny moans and frenzied words sets you off, the hook in your tummy suddenly tightening without warning.

Your hand pushes faster, burning hot pleasure washing over you, as you turn and bury your own ragged moan in Steve's mouth. He takes it, capturing it in a messy kiss.

You hear the stagger in his breath when he cums, hitching up and devolving into a filthy moan you have to smother with a kiss. Steve's hand is still moving, same as your own, pulling every dreg of pleasure from himself.

It's a long minute of bliss, mouths pressed together, the ends of orgasms chased. You can feel your skin sweating where it's ended up pressed against Steve, feel the dampness between your thighs, the stickiness of the whole affair.

Steve kisses you again, more purposefully than his last, yet lazy and content. Drizzled with pleasure, he nips at your bottom lip, then soothes it with another kiss. You can't help but smile into the kiss, somehow already scheming of what round two might look like in the shower.

A cold shower, of course.

come join the celebration <3

[mewnewew]

sooo what if reader and shank,established relationship,and they keep their relationship pretty hidden for a long while until one day one of their crew m mates found them making out/kiss(?) by accidentally but that crewmate keeps that secret hidden but slowly teasers them during dinner(which made the others confused) but soon after they kind of reveal their relationship and the crew goes shocked or something

Hope ya liked this!!

Shanks x Reader: Affairs and affinities

Hongo was quite frustrated about this. He wanted to find the captain to ask him a question about their next stop. The thing was, he had relatives living in the island coming up, but there wasn't an official plan about actually stopping there. Finding Beckman, he asked, only for the gunner to shrug and direct him to find their red haired captain. "I don't see an issue. Best to just let the captain know, anyway. He wanted to go quickly to Lions plains island cause of someone he knows' wedding."

Nodding, the doctor set off to find their captain. The issue here was, he couldn't find the damn man. He had checked belowdecks, at the Crows Nest, at the front, in his cabin, in the gallery, in the drinks storage, hell, even his own clinic. How in the four seas could their captain disappear while they were at sea was beyond him, but the fact was ridiculous. Currently, he was just opening doors belowdeck, and as he opened the door to the cleaning closet he froze.

There, on an upturned bucket, sat the man he wanted to find, along with you on his lap, his hand on your ass. Currently there was spit connecting yours and his lips together, as you two froze and stared at him. Then he yanked the door shut with a "SORRY!" And a blushing face.

Not even a second later, you opened the door and caught the man's arm, yanking him in. "Hongo, listen-"

"Nope! My bad! I didn't see anything!" Yelped the now very prominently blushing man, hand over his eyes. Behind you, Shanks was laughing, hand slapping his knee.

"Would you quit it?" You snapped.

"Aw, c'mon darlin'. Someone was bound ta find out anyway." Crooned the man, now bearing a smug grin.

"Yes, but- Hongo, would you just look at me?" You looked at him now.

Peeking out between his fingers he gave you an unsure look. Sighing, you answered him. "Look, it's fine. No issues that you saw us. So don't freak out about it or whatever, okay?"

"Da-ha-ha-ha!" Laughed your (oh gods, thought Hongo) red haired lover.

"Shaaaanks" You groaned.

"Okay, okay" He waved you off. Then he looked back at Hongo. "Listen, just...keep this a secret okay? Me and darlin' ain't ready to just tell everyone just yet."

As Hongo listened to his captain, he watched you go over to Shanks, one hand in the hair at the back of his head and Shank's only hand sitting on your hip. Then it hit him. You both were comfortable with each other. Did that mean-?

"-ngo, Hongo! Buddy, you there?" Came Shanks' voice. Hongo blinked, shaking his head a bit, before looking back at the both of you.

"Sorry, it's just." He ran a hand through his hair. "How long have you two been dating?"

As if like Siamese twins, both of you blinked at the same time, then shared a glance, before looking back at him. "Uh, about 10 months?" Answered Shanks, and you nodded frowning. "Almost a year, yeah?" You looked back down at your captain.

He hummed, agreeing. "Seems about right."

Hongo's jaw dropped. Almost a year? How did none of them notice? Not even Yassop? Wait, that meant-

"Am, am I first one to know?" He sputtered out.

You gave him a sheepish grin, and Shanks, a more affirming one. "Yep."

Hongo looked down, feeling his head explode. "Holy..."

"Look just keep it a secret awright? Like they said, we ain't ready to-"

He waved him off, "Yeah, don't-don't worry. I'll keep my trap shut."

"Thanks, Hongo. Really."

Flashing them a reassuring smile, he left the closet, knowing he needed to get some air.

As they watched him leave, you turned to look at Shanks. "Baby."

"Hmm?"

"What if...."

🍶

Oh, he was going to die. He was going to fucking die, right here at this fucking table, in this damned ship, in the middle of the sea. Hongo's eyes moved side to side as you sat on one side, and the captain on another. The both of you. Were fucking flirting. AT THE TABLE. WITH HIM STUCK IN THE MIDDLE.

If he was still a first year student, and he saw his blood pressure, he was pretty sure that:

A. The blood pressure would be HIGH.

B. Younger him would probably faint out of shock.

The process of you two flirting with him the in the centre for some unknown, ridiculous reason, was: accidentally touching his legs, when one person wanted to touch the other's, or, passing things to and fro in front of his nose with comments. (Oh saints the comments.) AND HE WAS PRETTY DAMN SURE THAT THERE WAS SOMETHING GOING ON BEHIND HIS BACK. LITERALLY.

The product of all these shenanigans, was a visibly distressed Hongo, very confused crewmates, and two very smug (one being able to hide it well and the other....not so much. I'll leave it up to you which one was more smug here) people sitting on either side of the ship's doctor.

An exhibit of the "comments":

Shanks: Oh please pass the meat, would ya?

You: Oh of course! I'm so sorry.

Shanks: Don't be sorry! You're our beloved crewmate after all.

*Cue you laughing.*

To say that the others were baffled was an understatement. Their brows only rose higher, and their confused frowns grew deeper as you proceeded to include him in your banter as well.

You: Oh Hongo! Would you like some wine?

Hongo: Uh, I-

Shanks: Course he will! Our beloved doc gotta party when he ain't on the job, don't he?

Hongo: Now hold on a-

You, visibly having perked up: Exactly! Here why don't you pour it out for him.

You offered a glass on the other side of Hongo, causing Shanks to lean across, and giving Hongo a fantastic look at the many hickeys hidden under his collar.

Oh lords and ladies and angels of paradise what in the living hell did you drag me into. -Thought Hongo, mentally groaning.

"Uh....Captain?"

The three of you broke your little game and looked at Lucky Roo who looked back at you three, meat held in his hand, cheeks as usual full with food.

"Y'all are uh....acting weird."

Yes!!! Cheered Hongo internally, for once praising the speedster of Crew.

You looked behind Hongo, to Shanks, exchanging a glance.

"Well....the thing is-"

"Y'see boys-"

"Just say it at the same time" cut in Hongo, almost begging at this point.

"Alright, alright"

The pair of you looked at the rest of the crew, now all leaning forwards to see/understand what was going on.

"We're dating"

"WHAAAAAAT?!?!" Came the collective reaction.

"Finally!" Heaved Hongo, his hands in the air.

Next came the flurry of questions and reactions:

"Really? You can do better than the Captain" Waved Yassop dismissively.

"Hey! That's mean!" Interrupted Shanks, but half heartedly, smiling when he saw you laughing.

"How long have y'all been dating?" Cut in Beckmann.

"Almost a year-"

"Ehhh?!?!" Gasped Limejuice. "How did we-" then he glared at Yassop. "Yassop!"

"Whaaat?!" Yelped Yassop. "What did I do?!"

"Well you-"

Hongo now was grinning. Well, all's well that ends well. At least he didn't have to hide it anymore. But hold on. He took off his coat, to see what was at the back of it only to thump both the captain and you on the head. "WHY IS THERE FOOD STAINS ON MY JACKET?!"

"DAHAHAHAH-OW"

"HEY!"

Needless to say, the Red-Haired Pirates ship would be a lot more lively tonight.