#it was real to me in that moment. i remember these feelings. i remember them warmly. those little aliens destroyed me i tried so hard

[starkeyslibrary]

The Bachelor - Episode 1 | Limo Arrivals

the bachelor masterlist

pairings: rafe cameron x female!reader

words: 5.0k

The villa glowed like a dream under the night sky, golden light spilling down the grand staircase, flickering against the perfectly manicured hedges. It looked like something out of a fairytale or a reality show. Which, you reminded yourself, it very much was.

Inside the limo, the energy had shifted. The jokes were quieter now, nerves humming in the space between the women seated shoulder to shoulder, careful not to wrinkle dresses or smear lipstick. You sat with your hands folded in your lap, pretending to be calm, eyes fixed on the window as the mansion grew larger with each turn of the tires.

“I can’t believe he’s actually waiting out there.” One girl whispered, breathless. “What if I blank out and forget my name?” “What if he’s not even cute in person?”

A few of them laughed too loud. One girl was already reapplying gloss for the third time. You just breathed in slowly and tried to quiet your heartbeat.

This wasn’t supposed to be real.

You hadn’t imaged it going further than a funny story between you and your best friend. But then came the callback…. and the second one… and the whirlwind that brought you here. And now, you were about to step out of a limo and meet a man the rest of America would be watching you fall in love or fail with.

Your name was called.

The door opened.

The air hit your skin first, cool, slightly floral from the rose arrangements lining the path. The mansion towered in the distance. But all you saw was him.

Rafe Cameron.

He stood at the end of the driveaway in a tailored black suite, his posture relaxed but solid. Not trying too hard. Not posturing for the camera. And somehow, that made it worse.

Your breath hitched.

And when your heels hit the driveaway, his head turned toward you instantly.

Your pulse kicked up, but you smiled as you approached, keeping your stride steady. Shoulders back. Voice ready.

“Hey there,” you said, letting your eyes meet his and hold.

“Hey,” he replied, eyes not leaving yours. “I’m Rafe.”

“I know,” you teased, with a quick grin. “Kind of hard to miss the guy everyone’s here for.”

That earned a smile from him real and fast in the best way.

“And you are…?”

“Y/N. From Staten Island.”

“Staten Island,” he repeated, a flicker of surprise in his expression. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

“That’s the fun part,” you said, stepping a little closer. “I’m full of surprises.”

“Good,” he said, a little slower now. “I like surprises.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward, just charged.

You pulled back just a hair, still smiling. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it. Thirty-one more names to remember.”

Rafe grinned. “Something tells me yours won’t be hard to remember.”

You paused at that, feeling the weight of the moment shift. You weren’t expecting that, not so soon. But there it was.

You glanced over your shoulder as you turned toward the mansion. “We’ll see if you still remember it later.”

“I will,” he said quiet, certain, just loud enough for you to hear.

And you believed him.

Because as you walked away, you could feel it. The unmistakable heat of someone still watching.

Inside the villa, the energy was electric, almost humming. Twinkling lights wrapped around beams, champagne flutes lined the trays of perfectly dressed servers, and soft lounge music played underneath the buzz of whispered nerves.

You stood just off to the side of the grand foyer, heels planted, fingers curled loosely around a glass of something bubbly. A producer had gently nudged you into your mark, then disappeared, leaving you with nothing but your thoughts... and a wide-open view of the driveway.

The limo door opened again.

“That’s Samantha Jamerson,” someone whispered behind you. “She’s the model. From Dallas.”

Samantha stepped out like she was walking onto a runway — head high, hair glossy under the lights, dress clinging in all the right places. She wore confidence like perfume.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself. “Not intimidating at all.”

Another girl followed just moments later — Evalin Rossio, the makeup artist from Burbank. Her entrance was bolder, more theatrical. She strutted up to Rafe in sparkling heels, handed him a lipstick tube, and said something you couldn’t hear… but whatever it was, it made him laugh.

You exhaled through your nose. Lightly. Casually.

Then came Daisy Cameron.

She stepped out of the limo with the kind of grace that made the air feel quieter for a second — all smooth lines and timeless beauty in a butter-yellow satin gown. She didn’t rush. Every step felt intentional, like she’d been here before in some other life.

In her hands, she held a single white gardenia.

When she reached Rafe, she didn’t say anything right away. Just offered him the flower, eyes locked on his in a way that was soft, but piercing.

“A gardenia,” she said finally, voice low. “It means ‘secret love’... or ‘a new beginning,’ depending on who you ask.”

Rafe smiled slowly, clearly taken off guard. “Which one are you offering me?”

She leaned in just close enough for the cameras, not close enough to make it desperate.

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

And just like that, she turned and walked toward the mansion without another word.

There was a beat of silence. Even from a distance, you could see the way Rafe looked after her, a little surprised, a little intrigued.

“Okay, wow,” someone muttered behind you.

You didn’t respond, just took a slow sip of champagne and glanced at the doors as they opened for the next woman. Because it was clear now:

Every girl here had their version of “memorable.” The real question was, would it last?

The living room of the villa was warm with light and filled with too many beautiful women to count. Glittering dresses caught the glow of chandeliers, laughter buzzed softly in every corner, and champagne flowed like nerves — constantly and without warning.

You stood near the edge of a sitting area, fingers curled around the stem of your glass, quietly taking it all in. A few cameras hovered, not too close, but always there. You were still trying to ignore them.

“This place is insane,” a voice said beside you — low, friendly, with a quiet kind of warmth.

You turned and found a woman already smiling at you. She wore a soft mauve dress, her hair pulled into a loose braid. There was something open and real about her — the kind of presence that calmed you, not challenged you.

“Daniella,” she offered. “ICU nurse. From Minnesota. And currently trying to keep my blood pressure under control.”

You gave her a smile back. “Same. I mean, not the nurse part. Just.. all of this.”

“I feel like I’ve been holding my breath since I got out of the limo,” she added, laughing lightly. “Is it weird to admit I keep forgetting there are cameras?”

“Not weird. It’s either that or pretend they’re part of the furniture.”

Daniella laughed again and just like that, you felt your shoulders relax a little.

A third woman joined you moments later. Tall, sleek, confident but not in a way that made you feel small. She had a designer look and a warm smile to match.

“You two look like you’re actually enjoying yourselves,”

“We’re faking it well,” you replied.

“Good. That’s basically the job tonight.” She extended a hand. “Kayla. Interior design. L.A. You?”

“Y/N,” you answered. “New York.”

“Daniella, from Minnesota.”

The three of you stood there a moment longer, sipping drinks, trying to act like the cameras weren’t tucked behind potted palms and over shoulders. Laughter echoed from somewhere near the fireplace as a cluster of women posed for photos and took turns casually peeking at the front door.

“Do you think he’ll come in and grab someone right away?” Daniella asked softly.

“Maybe,” Kayla replied. “If he’s smart, he’ll start with someone unforgettable.”

They didn’t say it, but the unspoken words hung between you; and we’re all hoping that’s us.

You stayed quiet, letting their voices drift around you, eyes flicking once toward the front entrance.

The final woman had made her entrance. You couldn’t even remember her name, just that her gown shimmered like glitter under a spotlight and her laughter carried through the driveaway like she was already winning.

Inside the mansion, the air had shifted.

Everyone knew what was coming.

A hush fell over the room when Jesse Palmer stepped into the center of it all, dressed in a dark suit, face calm but with that unmistakable glint of drama in his eyes.

“Ladies,” he said with a warm smile, “welcome to night one.”

A few soft cheers and nervous laughs through the crowd.

“Tonight, you’ll each have a chance to spend one-on-one with Rafe. Make the most of it. He’s here to find something real. And at the end of the night…”

He paused for full effect.

“.. Rafe will be handing out the first roses of the season.”

Your stomach twisted slightly. You knew it was coming, but hearing it out loud made it hit different. It wasn’t just nerves anymore, it was pressure.

Jesse gave a small nod along with a soft smile, then stepped aside.

And then, Rafe walked in.

He looked sharp, dark jacket, shirt unbuttoned just enough to keep it relaxed. But it wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the way he moved through the room. Calm. Confident. Collected. His eyes scanned the space, landing briefly on each woman, but when they passed over you, they paused.

Just a beat longer than everyone else.

It wasn’t dramatic, and you were sure half of the room didn’t notice.

But you did.

He picked up a glass from a nearby tray, and the rest of you followed. Flutes clinked together softly.

“Thank you all for being here,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “I know how much courage it takes to put yourself out there like this and I don’t take that for granted. I came here because I’ve spent most of my life building something. A company. A future. But I want more than that now. I crave more.”

His gaze moved through the crowd.

“I want to build something real. With someone. I don’t know how this will unfold. But I’m here with an open heart.. and I hope you are too.”

The group murmured softly. Glasses lifted.

“To something real,” Rafe said.

“To something real,” the women echoed.

You sipped your drink, heart tight in your chest.

And just like that, the cocktail party really began.

Time passed like it was both racing and crawling. Rafe was pulled almost immediately. First by Zoe, a fiery brunette from Miami who wasted no time claiming her spot. Everyone pretended not to notice. No one succeeded.

You hovered near Daniella and Kayla, watching as one by one women made their move. Some subtle. Some not at all. There was laughing. Playful touches. A few over-rehearsed lines that landed like a scripted TV.

Then Zoe returned.

Her lipstick was smudged just lightly. Her smile? Smug.

“You guys,” she announced, fanning herself with her hand. “Let’s just say… first night magic is real.”

Gasps and squeals rippled through the group. You watched the reactions more than you watched her.

“You kissed him?” Someone on the couch asked, eyebrows raised.

Zoe shrugged, like it was no big deal. “It just happened.”

You turned your face away slightly, hiding the sudden knot of anxiety bloomed in your chest. You didn’t expect to feel… this. Not yet. But you did. And it was real.

So when the timing felt right after another girl returned, giddy and breathless – you stepped away from the group.

You spotted him near the edge of the patio, half in shadow, glass in hand, eyes scanning the lights twinkling in the distance like he was trying to slow the night down.

Maybe it was bold, maybe it was overdue. But your heels clicked against the stone like a quiet declaration as you stepped toward him.

He turned to face you, and there it was again. That small shift in his expression when he saw you. Like the air had changed.

“I was hoping you would,” he said.

He placed his drink on the railing behind him, then stepped closer his hand grazing lightly across your bare back as he guided you forward. The gesture was effortless, almost instinctive, but it send a hum down your spine.

He led you to a quieter corner of the terrace, where fairy lights dangled over low-hanging vines and the music from inside was just a whisper. It felt like your own little pocked of the night.

You sat beside him, just far enough not to touch, but close enough to feel the tension humming in the space between.

“So, Staten Island,” he said, smiling as he leaned back. “I’ve been thinking about that all night.”

“You say that like I’m a rare species.”

“Maybe you are,” he shot back, grinning. “Okay, let’s trade,” he said, turning slightly to face you. “One thing you actually like about where you’re from?”

You paused for a second, then nodded. “The honesty. People don’t pretend much. What you see is what you get.”

“That explains a lot about you, actually.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Definitely.”

You smiled at that, ducking your head a little. “Alright, your turn. Tell me something about you that no one probably expects.”

He leaned in a touch, not enough to close the gap, but enough to feel intentional.

“I go off-grid once a year. No phone, no emails. Just me and the woods. Camping, hiking, chopping firewood, the whole thing.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Wait, like actual camping? In a tent?”

“Tent, hammock, sometimes just a sleeping bag if I’m cocky.”

You laughed. “I pictures you more… five-star hotel with a view.”

“I do like a view,” he said, eyes locking on yours for a second too long. “Just depends on the company.”

Your breath caught slightly. You leaned back, your gaze steady on his. “Alright, Mr. Off-Grid. My turn again.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Hit me.”

“What’s your biggest red flag?”

He grinned. “What, you mean besides agreeing to date thirty-two women on TV?”

You raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “I said red flag, not suicide mission.”

He laughed low, “Fair, I guess.. I like control. More than I should, probably.”

“Ah,” you said, swirling your drink. “So you’re a bit of a menace too.”

“Maybe,” he said eyes narrowing slightly in mock suspicion. “But not in broad daylight.”

You smirked. “Coward.”

He mirrored your expression. “Okay then. Same question. What’s your red flag?”

You shrugged, unapologetic. “I know what I want. And I say it. Some men find that… unsettling.”

Rafe’s eyes glinted. “Sounds like clarity to me.”

“Dangerous word,” you said. “People say they want honesty, but they really want reassurance.”

He studied you for a beat, “And what do you want?”

You tilted your head, keeping him in your sights. “Someone who can keep up.”

He chuckled under his breath. “That sounds like a dare.”

“It might be,” you said, your tone light, but your gaze unflinching.

A beat of silence passed between you. Not awkward, not expectant, just charged.

He leaned in slightly, enough to blur the line between playful and something more pointed. His knuckles brushed the bench between you.

You held his gaze, not flinching. “You always stare like that.”

“Only when someone’s making it interesting.”

You smiled slowly. “And how am I doing?”

He opened his mouth like he was going to answer, but then;

“Hi,” came a voice from a few feet away. Soft, but clearly practiced. One of the other women, stepping forward with a polite-but-not-really smile. “Sorry to interrupt.. would it be okay if I grabbed you for a minute?”

Rafe turned to her immediately, respectful, gracious even. “Yeah, of course?” Then back to you. “I owe you a rematch.”

You gave him a lazy smile, playful but grounded. “Good. I wasn’t finished winning.”

He laughed under his breath, and with a parting glance.

You leaned back, lips still curved, the buzz of the conversation lingering on your skin like static.

Confessional – Rafe

He sits on the velvet chair, jacket unbuttoned.

“She’s… sharp,” he says, almost to himself first. Then he looks up at the camera. “Y/N’s not trying to impress me. It’s like she showed up and decided to see if I was worth her time.”

He laughs, shaking his head.

“And that kind of honesty? It’s rare and bold. And yeah I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already thinking about the next time I get her alone.”

Back at the Cocktail party

You made your way back toward the main crowd, heels clicking with a little more ease than when you’d walked out. As you approached the couches near the fire pit, Kayla spotted you first and raised an eyebrow.

“Well?”

You dropped into the cushion between her and Daniella, crossing your legs slowly. “We talked.”

Daniella leaned in. “That’s all we’re getting? You were gone for, like, twenty minutes.”

“I mean… it was a good talk,” you said, playing it cool but the edge of your mouth betrayed you. A hint of smile. Just enough

“Oh my god, you like him,” Kayla gasped, pointing at you.

You held up a hand. “Relax. I don’t even know him.”

“Mm-hm,” Daniella said, sipping her drink. “But you’re thinking about it.”

You let out a breath and looked toward the patio, where Rafe was now laughing with someone else.

“He’s… sharp,” you finally said. “Smarter than I expected.”

“And hot,” Kayla added helpfully.

Daniella nudged her. “Let her pretend she’s deep.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s more than just charming. That’s rare for me.”

There was a pause, then Kayla said, “So.. do you think you’ve got a shot?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you swirled the ice in your drink and glanced at the cluster of women still waiting their turn.

“If I want it?” you said. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Daniella raised her brows. “Damn.”

Kayla grinned. “Guess we’ll all just try not to take it personally.”

You gave her a look. “Oh, come on. You think I’m scared of a little healthy competition?”

Daniella raised her brows. “You’ve gotten way too calm. Like suspiciously calm.”

You shrugged, the ghost of a smile playing on your lips. “I’m here to make a connection, and if he sees it too, great. If not? His loss.”

Kayla let out a low whistle. “Okay, cool girl. Coaching session, please.”

You glanced out toward the patio, where Rafe was still talking to a blonde girl, laughing at something she’d said, charming. As always, too charming.

“Honestly?” you said, shifting to face Daniella. “You should go next.”

Daniella blinked. “What? No, I’m not even sure what I’d say. I was gonna wait till it felt more natural.”

“Natural is a myth on this show,” you said, gently but firmly. “You think anyone’s first rose comes from waiting around to be noticed? If you want time, go take it babe.”

“She’s right,” Kayla added.

“I just don’t want to be that girl,” Daniella said.

You leaned forward, voice softer now. “That girl gets to figure out if she actually likes him, not just the idea of him. You deserve that chance.”

Daniella looked between you and Kayla, then out at the patio.

“You’re sure it won’t come off… pushy?”

“You’re not interrupting a marriage proposal,” you said. “It’s five minutes of conversation. Go claim your five.”

Kayla reached over and gave Daniella’s shoulder a squeeze. “Honestly, the way he looked at you when you walked in earlier? I’d bet on you.”

That earned a small, nervous smile from Daniella. But it grew into something steadier.

“Okay,” she said, standing and brushing invisible lint off her dress. “Okay. You’re right. I’m gonna go.”

You raised your glass to her like a salute. “Make him forget his own name.”

Kayla laughed, and Daniella tosses you both a grateful glance before walking toward the patio with quiet determination.

Once she was out of earshot, Kayla leaned in and whispered, “You’re dangerous when you go into hype mode.”

You just smirked and sipped your drink. “I like knowing the right women are getting in the room.”

Kayla gave you a sideways look. “So what happens if it comes down to all three of us?”

You didn’t blink. “Then may the best woman win.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with understanding — not rivalry, but respect.

Then, clinking glasses again, Kayla said, “To playing smart.”

You grinned. “To playing well.”

Not far off, pockets of women had formed. Clusters of sequins and bare shoulders catching the firelight. Laughter rose and fell in waves, paired with the occasional anxious glance toward the patio.

Near the charcuterie table, two women stood shoulder to shoulder, nibbling nervously on crackers more out of habit than hunger.

“I swear I blacked out the second he looked at me,” one said with a laugh, covering her face. “Did I even speak? I can’t tell.”

“You smiled. A lot.” The women next to her assured her, nudging her gently. “And you didn’t trip. That’s already a win.”

Across the way, three women lounged on a circular couch, shoes kicked off and tucked beneath them.

“I keep telling myself I’m not going to spiral,” one was saying, twirling the straw in her drink. “but then I see another girl walk off with him and it’s like okay, I’m spiralling.”

The girl beside her hummed in agreement. “Same. But also, like.. how do you even stand out without being that girl?”

The third gave a half-shrug. “You just be you. The right energy finds its match, right?”

They nodded, and for a moment, the conversation settled into a quiet kind of calm nerves shared out loud always seemed a little smaller.

At the edge of the group, someone pulled out a tube of lip gloss and offered it around. Another handed over blotting paper, small but familiar rituals. The kind women learn to perform for each other in rooms like this.

“I think Daniella’s out there with him now,” someone murmured.

A few heads turned. One girl smiled. “Good. I liked her vibe. She deserves her moment.”

“Totally. She’s sweet. I hope she kills it. But like... also, I hope I get my moment too.”

Someone raised a glass. “To our own damn fairy tales.”

They clinked glasses gently, not as a toast to rivalry, but to resilience.

And just like that, the night moved on. Full of eyes watching doors, hands smoothing dresses and hearts trying not to hope too loudly.

You were curled into one of the velvet sofas with Kayla and Daniella when the room shifted.

The conversations dimmed. The posture of every woman sharpened.

Jesse Palmer stepped through the open archway, carrying it.

The First Impression Rose. It sat atop a sleek white marble platter.

You sat up straighter. Everyone did.

“Ladies,” Jesse said, glancing around the room. “Rafe has made a decision.”

A pause just long enough for tension to ripple across the group.

“He is ready to give out the First Impression Rose.”

He placed the platter down on the marble coffee table, the rose bright against the glass surface.

And then, without another word, Jesse walked out, leaving the rose in the center of the room like a lit fuse.

The quiet buzz that followed was unmistakable. Nervous laughter. Crossed legs uncrossed, then crossed again. Someone sat up, smoothing her dress without realizing it.

“Is he coming in here to give it out?” one girl whispered.

But before anyone could answer, Rafe stepped into the room.

Tall. Composed. Smile relaxed, but unreadable.

“Evening, ladies,” he said smoothly.

A few voices returned his greeting. Most just watched.

He walked toward the rose with even steps, paused, and looked down at it. Then, without saying a word, he picked it up.

And turned around.

He left the room.

For a second, no one moved.

Then –

“Wait, he’s not giving it to someone in here?” “Awch.” “Oh my God. Who is he going to?”

Chairs shifted. A few girls leaned toward the windows.

You turned your head just in time to catch a glimpse of him outside, walking across the patio, rose in hand.

And there, near the string-lit reflecting pool, stood Sierra.

She turned as he approached. And you didn’t need to hear the words to know exactly what was happening.

He held the rose out. She nodded. He smiled.

It was clean. Quiet.

A flicker sparkled low in your chest. Not jealousy, not really. Just that quiet, steady drumbeat of not this time. You sipped your drink. This was only the beginning.

Confessional - Rafe (after handing out the First Impression Rose)

Rafe is seated comfortably, bowtie slightly loosened, hand still resting loosely on his knee like he hasn’t fully come down from the night.

“Giving that first rose... it’s a weird pressure. You want to trust your gut, but you’re also very aware that thirty-one other people are watching.”

He smiles slightly, thoughtful.

“Sierra felt grounded. There’s something warm and steady about her energy. That stood out.”

A pause. He glances off-camera, then back.

“But there were other moments tonight… ones I’m still thinking about. There’s a lot I haven’t figured out yet.”

The clinking of glasses quieted the moment Jesse Palmer stepped into the villa, dressed in a sharp black suit and wearing the kind of practiced calm that only came with hosting this exact moment many times before.

“Ladies,” he said, voice even but charged with gravity. “I hope tonight brought you clarity, connection… and hopefully a little fun.”

A few soft laughs floated through the room some sincere, some strained. Eyes darted from one face to another. Makeup was still fresh, but nerves had started to show.

Jesse’s gaze swept the room before continuing. “As you know, Rafe has already given out the First Impression Rose.”

You didn’t need to look, you already knew where Sierra was standing, her rose pressed to the front of her dress. She smiled gently as a few girls glanced her way. You couldn’t blame them.

Production had gathered all thirty-two of you together now. A single room, no more movement, no more distractions. This was it. The waiting was done.

Jesse turned slightly, angling toward the open doors behind him.

“And with that,” he said, “it’s time for the next step.”

Outside, Rafe stood just past the threshold, tall, steady, hands clasped loosely in front of him. There was a subtle shift in the air the second his eyes scanned the room, like the weight of the evening had finally settled on everyone’s shoulders.

“This journey starts fast,” Jesse said, voice steady, “and it starts now.”

He turned to Rafe with a small nod.

“Rafe, I’ll turn it over to you for your second decision of the night — the First Rose Ceremony.”

A few girls straightened their spines. One adjusted the hem of her dress. No one breathed too loudly.

“Rafe,” Jesse said, “whenever you’re ready.”

“Hi, everyone,” he said, voice smooth but a little tentative.

A chorus of voices replied all at once: “Hiiiii.”

It came from all corners of the room soft, sweet, slightly sing-song. The kind of collective response that only thirty-two women standing in full glam under a chandelier could produce.

Rafe let out a short laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I’m still not used to that,” he said. “Not sure I ever will be.”

A few girls giggled. The room relaxed. Just a notch.

Then he took a small step forward, glancing around the room letting the quiet settle for a moment.

“I know this was a long night,” he said, his voice a little more grounded now. “And I just want to say thank you. I don’t take any of this lightly. The time you’ve all put in, the nerves, the conversations, everything.”

His eyes scanned the faces across from him.

“You’re all incredible in your own ways. And I’m really sorry if tonight doesn’t go the way you hoped. Just know that I see you. And I appreciate you.”

A beat passed. Then he turned toward the pedestal and reached for the first rose.

The first name called:  “Talia.”

A brunette in a crimson dress stepped forward, visibly relieved.

“Talia,” Rafe said gently, “will you accept this rose?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling only slightly.

“Selene.”  “Will you accept this rose?”  “Yes.”

A few names later:

“Y/N.”

Your name settled into the room like a bell struck once: clear, resonant, and undeniably real.

You stepped forward, pulse steady despite the anticipation crawling over your skin.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low but sure. “Will you accept this rose?”

You didn’t blink. “I will.”

The rose was light in your hand. The meaning behind it, not so much.

You returned to your place in the line, careful to keep your expression composed, but your fingers curled just slightly tighter around the stem than necessary.

Confessional – Y/N

The camera cuts to Y/N, sitting in the velvet chair. Her heels are off, tucked beside her. She’s calm, but her eyes are sharp.

“I’d be lying if I said the First Impression Rose didn’t sting a little. It’s not jealousy… it’s just this weird feeling of ‘okay, so this is how it’s going to go.’”

She breathes out a laugh, small but real.

“But I got a rose. And I got time with him. Real time. So I’m not worried. If anything, I’m just more... curious. Because I think he sees it too. He just doesn’t know what to do with it yet.”

Present

“Kayla.”

She let out a soft breath and walked up with a confident, steady step.  “Will you accept this rose?”  “Absolutely.”

Confessional – Kayla

Kayla sits comfortably, legs crossed, one hand fidgeting with a ring on her finger.

“Tonight was… intense. It’s easy to forget how fast it all moves until you’re standing there waiting to hear your name.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, glancing up like she’s replaying something.

Present

“Daniella.”

Her smile bloomed genuinely hopeful.  “Will you accept this rose?”  “Yes. Thank you.”

Confessional – Daniella

Daniella sits forward in the chair, her rose still in her hand like she hasn’t let herself fully relax yet. Her hair is slightly looser, but her smile is calm, earned.

“I almost didn’t do it. I kept waiting for the right time  like it would just open up perfectly for me. But this place doesn’t work like that. You either step in… or you watch someone else take the shot you wanted.”

She glances down at the rose, then back up with a quiet kind of pride.

“He saw me. Not just physically like, actually saw me. And that five-minute conversation? It changed the whole night.”

Back to the Ceremony

One by one, the roses were handed out. Gratitude, nerves, hope, each layered thick in the air as the room slowly thinned.

The final rose sat alone on the pedestal when Jesse stepped forward again.

“Ladies,” he said, “this is the final rose tonight.”

Everyone stilled.

It was offered.  Accepted.  And just like that, it was done.

The women who hadn’t been called; Samantha, Jess, Rachel, Erika, Olivia, Evalin, Christen, Whitney, Holland, and Allie were gently escorted aside. Hugs exchanged.

You glanced sideways, finding Kayla and Daniella among the crowd.  They each held their roses like little promises.  And somewhere behind your ribs, something softened, then sharpened again.

This was only the beginning.  And you were still standing.

authors note: i'd love to hear what you all think of this first episode. your feedback means so much and is always appreciated! I hope you enjoyed it. please feel free to send me your thoughts on what you'd like to see in this series—specific date ideas, slow-burn romances, potential drama, anything you’re craving!

fun fact: I’ve only seen one season of The Bachelor years ago, so this is just as much of a wild ride for me as it is for you. thanks so much for all the love!

important note: if you’d like to be added, please send me a message or comment under this post! please also make sure you follow, comment and interact so you can get tagged and stay tagged. 💖

the bachelor taglist: @xoxo4chrisss @serendippindots @akobx @wandabillywrites @drewsephrry @justdamnpeachy @thewackywriter @drewsphswife @astridwisp @carisd @itsamusical4lifee @ts1mp0ne @fairyjinn @chaotickittenanchor @sophiesmovingcastle5 @saviorcomplexrry

[pedgito]

ORBIT YOU ⋆⭒˚.⋆ CHAPTER THREE: MERCURY

↝ series masterlist | joel miller masterlist | full masterlist

summary — summer break begins and you end up crashing on joel's couch, luckily he's more than willing to accommodate.

author's note — this one make me want to SCREAM, i'm sorry in advance lmfao.

content warning — 18+ MDNI, dbf!joel, virgin!reader, age gap (20s/40s), birthday parties, plenty of miller family time, sweet ol' tommy, age jokes, ellie being a little shit, the daddy issues are big in this one, pussy worship, copious amounts of oral, inappropriate use of alcohol, joel isn't wasting his damn beer (is this safe idk, i also don't care), little angst and mostly fluff

word count — 5.5k

He forgot, again.

Your father wasn’t even home, either.

Your bags had slumped to your feet as you stared into your room.

It was full of boxes, labeled and unlabeled—there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that some of these belongings were your mother’s that she had left behind, but also an amalgamation of mindless junk and collectables your father wasn’t willing to part with.

Piles and piles of boxes, dirtying your white sheets and collecting a thick layer of dust.

It was clear that it had been this way for a while.

And even after the handful of reminder texts, he hadn’t bothered to put an ounce of effort into allowing you to feel comfortable in a place you once used to call home when you weren’t fleeing to the Miller’s.

He’s a ghost, nowhere to be found, but you remember his old Nissan in the driveway and Joel’s truck parked on his own across the street, suspecting that if wasn’t here, he would be there.

The last time you spoke to Joel was a couple days prior—he was busy with a new client and more short with conversation than usual, you couldn’t blame him, but it made you antsy for the conversation to follow now that you wouldn’t be divulging your passions behind a screen, if he wasn’t geared to push you away again.

You were almost expecting it.

You drag your bags back outside and heave them onto your closed trunk before walking across the street to Joel’s house, noticing the passing shadows behind the curtain that led to his living room—one of them definitely Joel, but the other unlikely to be Tommy.

And they’re arguing about sports.

Football, to be precise.

Fucking football.

He was invested enough to have a passionate conversation about men throwing around a ball but he couldn’t remember when you were supposed to arrive in town despite your numerous reminders.

It seemed Joel had finally gotten over the hump of avoiding your father for his own moral ambiguity.

They hadn’t even noticed you walk in and loudly close the front door, too warped by the conversation until you’re clearing your throat with a defiant cross of your arms.

“Hey,” you interject, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace, crumbling beneath the weight of disappointment that pressed down on your chest. The familiar scent of Joel’s house—the mix of warm wood and something sweet, like vanilla—should have brought comfort, but in this moment, it didn’t.

“Oh, hon’,” your father replies with a genuine look of shock, “you’re early!”

Your lips pull together in a thin line and you shake your head slow, “Mmm—nope,” you begin to clarify, briefly looking over at Joel, “I said Saturday…today is Saturday,”

“I thought you said you were drivin’ down on the seventeenth,” your dad replies and Joel can see your irritation stretching thin, the slightest twitch in your jaw giving him a clue.

“It is,” Joel tells him, “....it’s the seventeenth,”

Joel can see the way you’re eyeing your escape, wanting to flee, so he saves you.

“Oh, kiddo, I almost forget—Ellie left a gift behind a couple weeks ago to give to you,” Joel explains, snapping his fingers as he points at you, “she wasn’t sure if she’d catch you, but uh, I can show ‘ya real quick,”

You eyed him suspiciously but obliged with a determination to escape your father’s gaze, still remaining utterly confused that he had mixed up his days.

You trail Joel quietly, watching him glance back over his shoulder before he disappears into Ellie’s bedroom at the end of the hall, beckoning you inside with a gentle gesture of his window before closing the door when you were both inside.

“What’s botherin’ you?” Joel asks immediately, voice quiet but serious, “I mean, other than the obvious—”

“My room is packed with shit,” you gripe, “old boxes, shit that has been sitting in the garage for months and suddenly my room has become a personal storage,” 

Joel shifts uncomfortably, a slight frown creasing his brow as he leans against the door. “I get it, really,” he murmurs, glancing at the floor where the scattered remnants of childhood linger, old drawings that his girl had scribbled taped on the wall of Ellie’s bedroom, “But I’m guessin’ maybe it’s not just about your room.”

You scoff, folding your arms tighter, trying to find some semblance of control over your rush of emotions—it felt ridiculous, miniscule in your mind as you spoke, but Joel was listening intently, like he always had, “I’m trying, you know? I always think coming back home will magically fix whatever I’ve done to make him so dismissive or that shit would begin to feel semi-normal again.”

Joel nods slowly, careful to not interrupt and let you breathe, looking up at him sadly, eyes averting briefly to wrangle your emotions back, “All I see are reminders of what I wanted to escape from. I can’t even breathe in that place anymore, Joel.”

“You’ve always got a place here,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice that suggests he’s hesitant, knowing how dependent your connection had grown and in turn, his own, unwilling to admit it, “Ain’t much, but our couch is pretty comfortable.”

“That’s an entire summer in your house, Joel,” you remind him, “I feel like you can’t stand to look at me for more than a few hours, like I’m getting under your skin.”

“You are,” Joel admits candidly, but it was laced with intention and it makes your breath catch, “did you break my rule?”

There it was.

“Maybe,” you decide to offer and Joel isn’t believing it, “does it matter?”

Truthfully, you had listened. There wasn’t a moment within that span of time where you thought about touching yourself, driven by the motivation to please him.

It feels pathetic, but it was true.

You watch as the corner of Joel’s mouth twitches, a mix of intrigue and mischief dancing in his eyes, narrowing as he sees straight through your lies.

“Fine,” you sigh finally, “no—I didn’t.”

You’re both interrupted by the shout of Joel’s name by your father, snapping you both back to reality as Joel had begun to let his eyes roam, curious what your definition of no touching consisted of, wondering what loopholes you had created to bypass him.

Though, he would come up empty.

When you both resurface to the living room, your father is jutting his finger toward the door, expecting you to follow with his arm lingering on the open screen door as he holds it open, but you remain stilled in place.

“I think I’m gonna crash on Joel’s couch for a bit,” you admit, “all the boxes in my room don’t leave me much choice, anyways,” it takes a moment, silence blanketing the conversation before the realization stuns your father into thinking, cursing to himself.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, too late for sincerity in your mind, “I wasn’t even thinking, reorganizing the garage and all, tryin’ to throw out some of the stuff your mother had left behind,” but it didn’t explain the mountain of her belongings he had stowed away, for whatever reasons, he presence lingering in the house like an oppressive shadow, “give me a couple hours, I’ll get it all cleaned up so you can keep outta Joel’s hair,”

“She’s alright,” Joel assures, “Sarah and Ellie are supposed to be comin’ soon to visit, I think they’ll be overjoyed havin’ her ‘round—ain’t gotta be long term, but—”

“Yeah, don’t….rush or anything,” you tell him, “and don’t worry, I’ll mind my manners.”

“If she gives you any trouble, Joel…” your father adds and Joel nods with a smile that turns down the corners of his mouth, getting the gist of what your father was implying.

“She’s a good girl,” Joel offers, the admission making your head snap to look at him, “always has been, she’ll be alright,”

Your father doesn’t put up much fight beyond that, leaving you in Joel’s hands.

The moment the door clicked shut behind your father, a charged silence settled between you and Joel.

“Are you really okay with it?” you asked straightforwardly, “Me crashing here?”

He stepped closer, closing the distance between you, his breath warm against your skin, like an entirely different man—though one you had come to recognize—now that it was only you, “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t,” he murmured, his voice low, wrapping around you like a warm hug, “You won’t give me any problems, right?”

“I am such a good girl afterall,” you reply with a faux sweetness that is quickly broken by your inability to believe his words to your father, “—the fuck was that about?”

“Well, you listened—” he offers plainly as your gaze trails toward your bags still resting on the trunk of your car, eager to grab them before night crept it, unwilling to face the sweltering Texas humidity beyond evening hours, but as to grab your attention he adds, “and I think you like it, being told what to do—‘least, by me, anyways.”

You scoff weakly and shake your head, “So, what is my reward then?”

Joel chuckles to himself and touches you for the first time since the camping trip months prior, though it felt like eons ago now, a simple swipe of his thumb over your chin as he tilts your head up.

A shiver raced down your spine at the contact, a familiar warmth spreading through you. 

His eyes darkened as they lingered on your lips, your heart beginning to race, each beat echoing the unspoken tension that had grown between you since then.

“Reward?” he echoed, voice low and soft like velvet, “Who said anything about a reward?” His thumb swept across your bottom lip again, and just like that, any irritation you had been holding in from earlier dissipated in seconds.

You found yourself leaning closer, instinctively drawn to him like a moth to a hot flame. 

“Joel…” you breathed, barely able to form coherent words as he’d pressed himself closer, inevitably backing you up against the front door your father had closed minutes ago, taken aback by Joel’s sudden willingness to confront you with both physicality and his words, underestimating how strong of an effect he had on you. 

“Be patient,” Joel responds, it doesn’t satisfy you at all, but Joel’s expression left little room for argument, if anything, “I’ll grab your bags, getcha set up here, alright?”

You nod slowly, eyes locked on him as he finally stepped away, releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding until he was gone.

Joel had plenty of tricks up his sleeve it seemed.

–

The reward does come, but it isn’t until the weekend of your birthday.

And it wasn’t the arrival of Joel’s daughters, despite how much instant joy it brings you to see their faces again, thankful they weren't addressing the giant elephant in the room of why you were crashing on Joel’s couch.

Admittedly, your dad had cleaned up the mess in your old room, but it took longer than a few hours and the peacefulness that staying away from the house had brought was far more valuable than a space that had become your panic room.

While Sarah gushes over her photography major and the classes she had taken, Ellie seeks you out in the quiet of chaos in the house, reluctantly watching Joel and Tommy prepare for a small party to celebrate your birthday.

Ellie shared a similar love for the celestial life, heading toward an Astronomy major with little doubt in her mind and an end goal to earn an internship at NASA—she had big dreams but the confidence to match and it was heartwarming.

The sound of laughter bounced through the house, wrapping around you like a cozy blanket, watching as they all seemed to move in tandem, carrying on conversation amongst their work, refusing to let you help as you sat restless on the couch, leaving over the back as your senses were invaded with the smell of freshly grilled food.

You watched as Ellie and Sarah teamed up, shuffling in and out of the kitchen.

Their excitement was palpable as they prepared decorations. Streamers hung from the ceiling, and balloons bobbed playfully against the walls, fussing over the cake as they showed two candles into the center to read out 21. 

Tommy cracks a joke about how stupid he had been at that age and the egregious amount of times that Joel had to bail him out of bad situations, but reminiscing fondly on the time.

“Okay, grandpa,” Ellie interjects, “you’re like triple that now,”

“I’m fourty, the fuck are you tryin’ to say?” Tommy asks his niece accusatory as he snapped a stray rubber band in her direction, watching her dodge it with precision before promptly flipping him off.

“Well, dad is only five years off from a senior discount,” Ellie points out and you can see the instant Joel’s expression turns sour, looking at you for a brief second that lingers before he slips outside, amiss to the ongoing conversation between Tommy and Ellie as you watch him silently, face pensive and emotionless. 

“You’re a shithead,” Tommy teases Ellie with a vague fondness as he nods over his shoulders, “and now you hurt his feelings,”

You refuse to sit around much longer, slipping through the kitchen and into the backyard as you pull the glass door shut behind you—it was mostly the same; the same furniture they had for years, a grill they had gotten a lot of use out of, and an old tire swing that definitely should have snapped by now.

“Should be inside,” Joel tells you, “unless I need to go and tie ‘ya down,”

“Easy old man,” you tease him gently, crossing your arms as you step closer and watch him place the layers of meat onto the hot grill, “I might be into that,”

Joel pauses for a moment, looking up but not at you, staring out into the expanse of his backyard with a subtle smirk that bubbles into laughter before he quickly steels himself.

“You heard from him?” Joel asks curiously, though his tone is more hushed as Tommy brings Joel another bowl of food to grill.

“He’s been working,” you remind him, “but knowing him, he probably forgot anyway.”

“Come on, kiddo,” Joel supplies, trying to urge some sympathy even though he isn’t sure how much your father deserves, “I’m sure he’ll say something,”

“It’s fine,” you shrug, “I’d bet you money he doesn’t even know how old I am—he thought it was my fifteenth birthday for a couple years,” you sigh, pushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear as you lean in closer, feigning looking over the grill, “I’d rather be here celebrating with you, anyways.”

Joel looks at you briefly, something indecipherable in his gaze but he quickly snaps out of it as Sarah joins you both, pulling his daughter in for a hug before she dove for you.

Everything was so much easier like this, with them.

-

“I’m telling you, he forgot,” you argue to Joel who’s holding a chunk of your birthday cake and a leftover plate of food, attempting to prove a valuable point to break through your stubbornness, “last time, it was over a month before he realized.”

“Give it a chance, kiddo,” Joel tries to argue in a casual manner, standing on the final defense he had for your father, praying he wouldn’t disappoint you again—not now, not today.

You knock against the door with a heavy hand, shifting quietly from foot to foot, aware of Joel’s worrisome look when your father finally answers the door almost a full minute later, rubbing at tired eyes and still dressed in his work uniform, aware of the distinct stench of alcohol that you had become familiar with.

Your eyes drag to Joel immediately, a frown growing.

“Shit,” your dad exclaims lazily, “it ain’t my birthday but I appreciate it.”

Joel’s eyes narrow, almost in disbelief. 

He’d grown close to your father over time, knowing he had his faults but unwilling to see how far he had deteriorated after the split from your mother, attempting to put on a valiant front that fell from time to time—Joel had hoped for you, it wasn’t this bad.

But, it was.

“Yeah, uh,” you interject with a softer, level tone that disguised whatever emotion was building in your chest, “because it’s mine—Joel was going to invite you but you were working,”

“Whaddya mean?” your father inquired, taking the plate Joel offered, “Your birthday ain’t until August—”

He was confusing you with your mother—it doesn’t even shock you anymore.

“No, that’s mom,” you tell almost dismissively before you turn to Joel and throw an arm up in defeat, “can we go?”

Unfortunately, you don’t wait for Joel’s response.

You’re already at his front door before the short conversation between Joel and your father commences, unwilling to give him any leeway for an excuse, quickly putting on a half-efforted smile as Ellie and Sarah are shoving their gifts into your hands.

Joel arrives soon thereafter, garnering the tailend of your reaction to the small planet shaped keychain Ellie had gifted you and a shirt brandishing your favorite band from Sarah, feeling a faint swell to your heart as Tommy watches with a smile.

“I figure we could all enjoy a night out,” Tommy suggests, “they’re doing a Curtis and Viper rerelease that Ellie won’t shut her trap about—I know you girls loved those movies,” Joel’s footsteps are quiet as he moves into the kitchen, silently cleaning up,

“I’m, uh, a little tired,” you admit, but Tommy wasn’t clueless—something was bothering you, but to what extent he didn’t have a clue, though Joel did—but he didn’t push or pry.

“Oh, well, we can always try next weekend,” Sarah decides and Ellie looks only slightly disappointed, but nods nonetheless.

“No, seriously, go enjoy it,” you assure her, “I’ll survive–plus, I can drag Tommy to take me and see it next weekend if he feels guilty enough,”

“Sure can,” he relents with a chuckle before moving in for a hug that allows everything to fade away for a brief moment, rubbing his hand over your arm in a comforting gesture, “keep an eye out for the old man, alright?”

You nod quietly before moving to join Joel in the kitchen as the rest of them depart, cleaning up beside him as you chew at the inside of your cheek, stacking plates up to carry them to the sink, setting them down gently before you feel Joel’s hand wrap around your bicep and you freeze, looking down at his hand,

“Sit down,” Joel orders, nodding toward the couch—he should have expected some defiance, but you do listen, just not in the way he expects—instead, you push yourself up onto the clear side of the counter and watch in silence as he cleans the kitchen.

“I get it,” Joel admits after a while, the house having gone silent and his hands curled over the edge of an empty sink, “—didn’t think it was that bad, but I’m startin’ to understand.”

“Joel…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, the weight of unsaid emotions hanging thickly in the air. “I really don’t want to feel this way, not today.”

He turned to face you, his expression a mixture of concern and understanding, stepping closer until he was almost within arm's reach, but not touching. You could feel the heat radiating off him and drawing you in.

“S’alright, sweetheart,” he replied gently, eyes steady on yours. “this shit ain’t easy to let go,” His gaze flickered briefly down to your lips before returning to your eyes, and you could feel your heart race in response.

“I just need a distraction,” you suggested with a sad, soft smile.

Joel extends his hand quietly and you eye it cautiously, like it was a live wire.

“I spent the last few weeks following your stupid rule,” you remind him, “if you touch me, you’re breaking it on your own, not me—”

“Grab my damn hand,” Joel demands, “and stop bein’ a smartass.”

You hesitate for just a beat, but something in his tone pulls you closer. Your hand slides into his, and the warmth of his palm against yours brings an immediate comfort.

“Good girl, she can listen,” he murmurs, the praise igniting a thrill in your chest as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, coaxing you off the counter. He steps back, creating a slight space between your bodies as he swipes his half drank beer off the counter before tugging you down the hall, pointedly turning toward his own room.

“Alright,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes as he moves you through the open door before he’s closing it shut “how ‘bout we find a way to keep your mind off things?”

You’ve never been here before, inside a space so personal to Joel.

His bed is haphazardly made and his dresser is covered in clutter, but somehow it still seemed put together, thriving in chaos. You take a slow seat at the edge of his bed, feeling your heart race in your chest at how real this had become.

There wasn’t a screen to divide you or reluctance to keep your distance.

Joel stepped closer, and instinctively you tilted your chin up to meet his gaze—a smirk danced on his lips as he took in your expression. “Is this my reward?” you ask.

“Can be,” Joel offers, “or your birthday gift, whichever works.”

His thumb splits your lips apart and you suck in a soft breath as his thumb curls over your bottom lip and teeth, into your mouth to press against your tongue. Without asking, your lips curl around his finger, sucking the digit inside and you can see the subtle twitch in Joel’s lip, staring at you in a mix of amusement and disbelief.

His breath hitches, the sound barely a whisper as he watches you, his eyes darkening with something primal. 

“Always under my goddamn skin,” he murmurs, pulling his finger from your mouth before it curls around the back of your neck and guides you back, face pushing up as you gasp at the slight sting of his grip, “I’m gonna take care of ‘ya, alright?”

You nod jerkily, watching as he gestured for you to lay back on the bed, scooting further until you reach his pillows, thighs spreading instinctively as he pulled off your shoes and toed off his own, beer still cautiously in hand as he moved toward you on his knees.

He takes a slow sip as he reaches around the thin, malleable band of your flowy shorts and tugs them down and off, panties caught alongside them as he tosses them aside, leaving you exposed as his hand immediately presses against your thigh to keep them spread open.

Joel's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, laid out before him, exposed and shivering with anticipation, his gaze looked as he lewdly stared at your wet folds, glistening in the dim light. 

He wanted you so badly he thought he could combust at the mere thought, but he was patient, he had been, much more so than he ever gave himself credit for. He had set the same rule for himself, having controlled himself over the thought of this happening in his eventual future and you peering up at him so wantonly.

You had never been a burden, truthfully, and Joel could list about ten things morally wrong with what was happening here, but you had broken him and he needed you to put him back together, too.

“Hold this for me,” Joel hands his beer over before spreading out on his stomach, immediately latching his mouth on the inside of your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as you balance the cold bottle against your pelvic bone as Joel shoved your thigh higher, kissing around your cunt in an effort to work you up.

He places a gentle kiss against your mound as you glance down at him when the ceiling wasn’t spinning overhead with a pleasure that made you dizzy, “So pretty,” Joel speaks to you—but not at you, whispering compliments against your pussy in a way that makes you squirm, gasping as his tongue licks between your folds without warning.

Your legs trembled with anticipation as Joel continued to explore your folds with his tongue, tossing aside every ounce of restraint you both had built up over the past few months.

His words were like a caress on your frayed nerves, broken moans escaping your lips, as he deftly traced the edges of your entrance with his tongue, dipping his tongue inside testingly, "Fuck," you gasped, arching your hips upwards in an effort to get closer to him.

Joel chuckles, proud of himself, his tongue dragging up to flick over your clit, teasingly circling it before taking it into his mouth as he hummed, the vibration of his mouth sending a shock up your core.

"This alright with you?" Joel asks, feeling the vibrations of his tone against your cunt, nodding quickly in response.

Your moans echoed in the room, vibrating through your chest as you arched your back, surprised at how swiftly your body had gone from warm to hot, hand gripping the glass bottle tight as your opposite hand squeezed the sheets tight, embarrassed at how eager your body was to fulfill his desire.

And he doesn’t stop, not even as your body jerks with the sudden wave of your orgasm, feeling the gush of sweetness hit his tongue as he drank you in, working you gently through your aftershocks with his mouth and calculated touches, coming up briefly to nod toward the beer in your hand and you can’t help but laugh through your euphoric haze, tipping the bottle to his lips as he takes in an a small amount of liquid.

You lean up on one arm, staring at him with a curious expression before he looks you directly in the eye and dribbles the beer down the center of your cunt, quickly gathering up the liquid before it wet the sheets, slurping lewdly as your eyes had begun to roll back at how oversensitive you had become, your breath quickening as he hand pressed over your stomach, attempting to keep you still.

“Came too fast,” you say breathlessly, “your—fuck, your fault,”

Joel makes a show of his tongue dipping the center of your folds and dragging pointedly over your clit, “It’s cute,” Joel admits, “couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“Feels—” you sigh breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut as your head falls back, “feels too good—oh, mmph—” you muffle your words as your teeth bite into your bottom lip to silence your sudden cry, legs shaking at Joel’s attempt to coax you into a second orgasm.

“She’s so damn sensitive,” Joel notes, pausing for a moment as his fingers curl around your inner thigh and hold your legs apart, watching the way you pussy spasms around nothing but the cold air he blows against you, earning a soft slap to his arm.

“Stop it,” you warn through gritted teeth, breath catching at the introduction of his fingers—thick fucking fingers that did nothing to soothe the growing ache, your cunt squeezing the digit in greedily.

“What? Didn’t it feel good?” Joel inquires with a cockiness in his tone, watching enraptured at how your body reacts so well to his touch, “You want more?”

You gasp at how his finger curls inside of you, beer almost spilling over your stomach before he catches your grip as it slips, “No one’s touched me like this,” you admit, “you know—fingers and st—stuff, fuck—”

The admittance makes something in Joel snap, his entire goal now to wipe your mind of any other thought than him, “Look at me,” he demands, waiting until you respond as you lean up, your fucked out expression driving him into near madness, “you still thinkin’ about earlier?”

“A little,” you shrug, watching his fingers curl around the hand that was holding the bottle of beer as he nods, actively listening but attempting to distract you.

“Never asked you if you liked the cake,” Joel remembers, “spent an hour stressin’ over which one to get for you,” it was a sincere admittance that drove something home within you, curious why someone would take the time for such a thing, but it was Joel.

He slowly tips the bottle until the liquid begins to trickle out, “It was g—good,” you stutter, gasping softly at the cold liquid as it trails toward Joel’s waiting tongue, finally releasing your hand as you continued to pour the remaining liquid, “you know, m—moist, sof—soft, and uh,”

His eyes drag up to look at you, the bottle emptying as he tosses it aside with a deft thump, his nose bumping against your clit as his tongue pressed inside of you, using the friction to your advantage as you selfishly grind against his nose, “and uh—real s—sweet,” you continue, voice cracking toward the end.

“Yeah?” Joel asks, muffled against your cunt as your body curls up, hand fisting into his hair, “Does it feel good?”

You nod immediately, lips parting as you stare down at him with a half-lidded, lust filled gaze, “So good,” you admit and Joel smirks into your cunt.

“What’re you thinkin’ about now?” Joel asks after a moment, pausing his actions briefly as you recollect the question before he’s diving back in, dialing up his efforts immensely.

You couldn’t even string together words as he ravishes you, words coming out jumbled and incoherent, “I—I’m, uh—huh, I’m—” is all you manage before you orgasm makes your body go hot, a momentary blackout as you cry out suddenly, hearing Joel grunt as your hand twists into his hair harshly, riding out your orgasm against his face as your cunt rocks against his tongue.

Joel gives you the proper time to rest, his touching comforting despite your drifting consciousness, body lying limp against his sheets as his hand searches for your own, intertwining your fingers quietly as he slumps his head against your thigh, his other hand trailing mindlessly up your shirt, your fingers curling around his wrist to keep you anchored to reality, wondering how he had managed to scramble your mind so effectively.

“You still in there?” he asks jokingly and you force out a weak laugh.

“I don’t know,” you answer indecisively and Joel grins, pressing a kiss against your thigh.

“Happy birthday,” he says, as if he hadn’t told you it a handful of times earlier in the day, but this one held weight.

“Thank you,” you reply earnestly, “do…you think we could still make the movie with them?”

Joel glances at his watch, squinting before he gives up and crawls up the bed to reach for his glasses, pushing them onto his face to see clearer, “Probably not,” he decides, “you know—we’ve got the discs here, both of ‘em, if you wanna watch,”

“Could we?” you ask, perking up slightly.

“'Course, sweetheart,” Joel answers, pushing himself off the bed slowly as you watch him palm at the front of his jeans, adjusting his erection under the denim and he can see the way your eyes track the movement, tongue wetting your bottom lip as you instantly lean and begin to crawl forward.

A spark of mischief ignited within you as your fingers grazed the front of his jeans, feeling the solid outline of his cock, imagining it in his hands in front of you instead of over a video call. Joel looked down at you, surprise flickering in his eyes before it settled into something darker, more fervent.

“Easy now,” he warned playfully

“What?” you challenged, your pulse racing as you grinned up at him. “It’s my birthday.”

He grabbed your wrist lightly, but it was enough to send a thrill through you. 

“You’ve been doin’ good,” Joel compliments, “I don’t need you worryin’ about me when this day should be about you, you got that?”

You frown slightly and nod, feeling his grip on your wrist loosen.

“Do you wanna know my wish?” you ask suddenly, a mischievous grin on your face as Joel hands you the discarded clothes with a look of confusion, “Like, when I blew out my candles—”

Joel senses your energy and agrees with caution, slipping your shorts back on with a snap of the band as you press into his space, face mere inches from his own.

“A mind-blowing orgasm,” you offer genuinely.

Joel had delivered, clearly.

“And here I was thinkin’ you had wished for good health or some shit,” Joel jokes.

You shrug, “Same thing, good for the body and mind or whatever, right?”

“Sure,” Joel agrees easily, grinning slightly at your obvious change in emotion from earlier in the day.

“Oh,” you say suddenly, tapping your palm against the center of his chest to stop him as he turns, “are we gonna talk about the beer?”

“I ain’t wasteful,” Joel explains easily, “—besides, I think you enjoyed it a little more than I did,” he finishes, a playful smirk curling at the corners of his lips.

He’d caught you red-handed.

You smile with a faint hint of embarrassment before you quickly move past him, escaping from the bedroom and his pointed gaze.

“I’ll grab the popcorn, you start up the movie,” you voice trails.

Joel couldn’t deny how easily he followed your direction.

The hold you had over him was enchanting.

-

previous chapter | next chapter

-

divider credit: @/saradika-graphics

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Close Enough

They became roommates sophomore year…not entirely by accident, but not exactly planned either.

It started with an email about water damage in Nika’s dorm. A busted pipe, a soaked mattress, and a two week relocation notice during the first week of the fall semester. You had an off campus two bedroom with a month to month lease and a roommate who had just backed out last minute.

The solution had been so obvious, so easy.

“Just stay with me,” you said. “There’s room, and the rent gets cheaper. It’s not a big deal.”

Nika remembered blinking at you across the locker room, your hair still damp from practice, your smile open and so effortlessly kind. She hadn’t even thought about it. She just said yes.

That was eleven months ago.

Now, there are two toothbrushes by the sink. Your shampoo is her shampoo. Your laundry mingles with hers. Your class schedules are taped to the fridge, side by side, under a magnet that says “Hot Girls Don’t Do 8 A.M.s.”

You’re roommates.

Close ones. Best friends, even. You finish each other’s sentences, bring back snacks without asking, share clothes like it’s second nature. No one questions it…why would they? It’s college. Girls are close. It’s normal.

But for Nika, it’s anything but normal. And definitely not casual.

Because somewhere between shared grocery runs and 2 a.m. ramen on the kitchen floor, she fell in love with you.

She tells herself it’s fine. That it’s manageable. A harmless little crush. The kind everyone gets…fleeting, easy, something you grow out of by graduation.

But it doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens. Grows roots.

It’s in the way her heart stutters when you laugh at something she says. The way your arm brushes against hers when you reach past her for a cereal bowl. The way you hum to yourself in the shower, off key and soft and completely unaware that she’s standing in the hallway, back pressed to the doorframe, trying to breathe through it.

Tuesday morning starts like most of them do: with the smell of coffee and your voice drifting down the hallway.

Nika wakes slowly, eyes heavy, sheets tangled around her legs. She blinks into the soft morning light filtering through the blinds and listens to the small, familiar sounds of you moving through the apartment.

Cabinet doors. The clink of a spoon in your mug. Bare feet on the cold kitchen tile.

And humming. Some melody she can’t place, low and breathy, the kind that lodges itself in her chest like a secret.

She doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t want to break the moment. There’s a strange peace in this…the comfort of proximity. Of knowing you’re right there. Alive. Moving. Hers, in this weird, unspoken way that isn’t real but feels like it could be.

Eventually, she drags herself out of bed, pulling on the hoodie you always borrow…the worn gray UConn one with the fraying cuffs and her number still half visible on the back.

She shuffles into the kitchen, eyes squinting against the light, hair sticking out in five different directions. You’re standing by the counter in pajama shorts and a sleep shirt that hangs off one shoulder, pouring coffee like you don’t even notice the way her stomach flips at the sight of you.

“Morning, sunshine” you say, not turning around. “You want a cup?”

She rubs her face with one hand, trying to keep her voice casual. “Only if you love me.”

“Tough luck,” you grin, finally glancing back at her. “But here.”

You hand her a mug without asking how she takes it. You already know. You always know. It’s a stupid little thing, but it hits her all the same…this soft, intimate shorthand the two of you have created without even realizing it.

She sips the coffee and leans against the counter beside you, eyes half lidded, heart racing in that frustrating familiar way.

“You snored last night” you say, nudging her with your elbow.

She raises an eyebrow. “Did not.”

“I have audio.”

“You’re a menace.”

You just laugh, bright and easy. She wants to bottle the sound, keep it with her always.

Later that week, she hears the door rattle as you come in juggling groceries, a smoothie cup clamped between your teeth, your keys barely hanging on your pinky. Nika bolts up from the couch before she can stop herself.

She opens the door wide and reaches for the bags, her hand brushing the small of your back as she steadies you. You gasp a little, winded.

“I swear” you say breathlessly “this is the third time I’ve almost died trying to surprise you with food.”

“I’d die for a smoothie,” she replies, and it’s too easy…too reflexive. It lands with more weight than she meant it to.

You just laugh and hand her the cup. “Strawberry banana.”

She stares at it for a beat too long, and then at you.

“You remembered.”

“Duh. I live with you.”

Right. You do. You live with her.

You live with her and call it friendship. You steal her hoodies, leave your socks everywhere, sleep with your body curled into her during movie nights and never once ask what it does to her. You smile at her like she’s safe, like she’s never once given herself away with the way she looks at you.

That night, it’s late when you both crawl into your respective beds after a long study session. The apartment is quiet, lit only by the soft, gold glow of the kitchen light left on by habit. Rain taps gently against the windows. The kind of night made for sleep.

Nika’s just settled under the covers when she hears your door creak open.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice soft and scratchy. “My room’s freezing. Do you mind if I crash in here?”

Her heart stutters violently in her chest.

You don’t wait for her to answer…you never do…you just slip under her comforter like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like it’s always been yours, too.

You smell like lavender conditioner and dryer sheets. You’re warm. Tired. Barely even conscious by the time your head hits her pillow.

Nika lies perfectly still.

Your arm brushes hers. Your leg shifts and presses lightly against her calf under the blanket. You’re practically curled into her side, breathing deep and slow, completely unaware of the storm you’ve just started inside her.

She stares at the ceiling. Her hands tremble under the covers. Every nerve ending is screaming.

She should move. She should say something. But her body won’t listen.

You’re so close.

You’re always so close.

She turns her head just slightly, eyes catching the soft curve of your cheek in the dark. Your eyelashes flutter in sleep. You’re mumbling something…half a word, maybe her name. Maybe not.

She presses her knuckles against her mouth, trying to keep the ache quiet.

This shouldn’t feel this good.

This shouldn’t hurt this much.

She lies there all night, wide awake, next to the one person who makes her feel the safest and the most afraid.

By morning, you’ll be gone. Back to your own room. Back to normal.

And Nika will go right on pretending that it didn’t mean anything.

That it didn’t mean everything.

[charmac]

Prevv tags, @sunnykeysmash

#this isn't an inherently wrong post but i really feel like one simply Cannot discuss or dissect anything from FvR -#unless they keep in mind the continuous push on dennis having a 'double life' and how he wants to move on from that and is trying to#but mac is completely and utterly deaf to it. very much shown in inflates#in fact i dont think dennis is keeping mac at arms length at all. they literally slept on the same couch. i think dennis#was trying to reach mac the entire season#and it's mac who can't exactly cope with this sudden... shift and doesn't really get it. like willfully in denial

#we also have to remember sunny is a show about people letting each other down and macdennis doesn't do that onesidedly#dennis is very much pissed that mac Won't Hear that he is johnny no matter how obvious he makes it#in fact i believe dennis has been ''sending signals and implications'' to mac the entire time. but they communicate and operate differently#on a purely PURELY meta sense dennis speaks in subtext while mac operates on the surface. to me. they're not resonating in FvR#not in the way they were in s15 ep1 when theyre playing music together. and i could get into an entire thing there bc the meta is massive#i actually already wrote about this i think. i dont remember all my points. they're out there on my blog somewhere#god in heaven i really dont think macdennis is interpretable without acknowledging the entire meta layer of their narrative#even and especially when discussing an episode like gets romantic. which is so immersed in its own metatext it forgets itself

#actually mac prefers a distant detached love so much that dennis could only reach him by pretending to be johnny. it's also all a dance for#control in a sense.in a different sense. in a Chokes sense. like dennis pretending he calls the shots but mac has the wheel (den wants)#dennis wants mac to take control and woo him and he has Desperately been trying to hint at it since s14. IMO#and mac is wonderfully oblivious to it because he's still stuck on the TEXT that Dennis rejected him (times up etc)#AND THERES EVEN MORE I COULD SAY BUT IVE ALREADY TALKED ABOUT ALL THIS AT GREAT LENGTH 😭😭😭 but yea idk#anyway mac has a lot more control on dennis than some think. please reflect on this#meta#analysis#Jumper was a crazy episode in dennis trying to send hints tbh#i fucking love sunny meta i dont even care ... real ones oomfs know#wait i actually do have more to say. because there is a constant implication that mac doesn't actually really get dennis.. AND he Does too#at the same time. it's shown kinda well in tends bar i think. he misunderstands dennis the entire episode but in the end he Gets it right#thats kinda what they have going on. dennis is always waiting for the moment mac Gets it but. well it almost never comes#they both know parts of the other but not the full picture. never that. and i think it's also because of the mask#neither of them particularly likes themselves. they are content playing a part of someone else... sort of.#theyre also opposites in that. mac wants to 'define his true self' at all costs. Dennis runs from it. but uh... uhm.

I don't think we talk enough about what Mac falling for Johnny means in terms of his perception of love and his relationship to Dennis. I mean, we talk a lot about Dennis catfishing and e-dating him and the sexual component of it —which gives us plenty to unpack about Dennis' psyche, so it's understandable— but my favorite aspect to dissect is Mac's willingness to "fall in love" with a ghost.

In the episode, Dennis mentions there being texts between them so we know Mac wasn't just talking to a wall the whole time, but he's been stood up by Johnny so many times.. yet he keeps at it, keeps going on errands and to motels just in case Johnny decides to actually meet him this time. He's constantly waiting for someone who never shows up for him, and that's reflective of Mac's entire character. He keeps searching for love and validation from his mom, his dad, Dennis.. and when he doesn't get it, he just keeps on pushing, putting in more effort because maybe this time it will be enough. He holds so tightly onto his faith in god, a being he can't even see or hear, but that represents a hope for eternal love if you do everything right and conform nicely to its supposed expectations.

Mac isn't a stranger to loving distant beings, so of course he fell in love with Johnny. He's so desperate for someone to love him back but the only form of "love" he recognizes is a distant kind. That's why he can't give his date from the episode a chance, and why he doesn't want anything to do with uncle Donald. Easy and earnest love isn't something Mac knows. Hell, it isn't even worth it. Love, in his experience, requires work and sacrifice, otherwise what's the point?

This also plays a lot into his dynamic with Dennis, and why Mac will never let go of it. Sure, we saw him kind of trying to move on in 'The Gang Gets Romantic' by fabricating a love story for himself with Greg, and a more genuine attempt in 'Frank vs. Russia' by dating Johnny, but all roads eventually lead back to Dennis. A part of it can be attributed to Dennis not letting him move on —keeping Mac at arm's length while giving him just enough to keep him hooked— but that's not all. At this point I don't think there's anything Dennis could do or not do to put a definitive end to Mac's obsession with him, because he's exactly the type of person Mac craves in his life. As mentioned before, Dennis is someone that makes him earn his love and respect, and Mac can't find that in other potential romantic partners. He already tried looking for it online, where you can meet all kinds of people from all kinds of places, and who did he find? Dennis.

Obviously, the Johnny thing being orchestrated by Dennis means that Mac "found him" on purpose, but the point here is that Mac didn't know that. From his perspective, it was a fresh start with someone completely new, a guy that met his subconscious requirements. It just so happens that his requirements are Dennis. Because as mushy and gooey as it sounds, at the end of the day Mac is irreversably in love with him. He loves Dennis so intrinsically that he falls for him a second time, without even being aware of it. And I suspect he always will, no matter how many times he tries to move on.

[wchswift]

── 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐲?

pairing! dean winchester x fem!reader

→ summary! Dean Winchester is your best friend and you're so in love with him that you can't even tell if it's just in your head or if maybe he feels the same way. (Inspired by Guilty as Sin from taylor swift) I recommend listening to it while reading. → contents! some angst, pining, unrequited love but not really, best friends who are in love but are too afraid to do something about it, open ending. (idk what I did with this one. not sure if I liked the way I wrote this but while I was listening to this song it kind of just flowed out of me.) → word count! 773

You don’t remember when the line got blurry. Only that now, you trip over it every time you breathe near him.

Dean.

You say it in your head more than you ever do aloud — because when you do say it out loud, it sounds dangerous. Like a gun cocking back. It was like throwing yourself in front of a moving train, knowing what would happen next.

He’s your best friend.

Your person.

Your almost.

And you’ve never touched his skin, but you dream about it anyway.

You dream of cracking locks — tossing your life to the wolves for just one moment where it’s not wrong. Where it's allowed. Where there’s no Sam in the backseat, no case hanging over your heads, no hellhound of guilt pacing behind your ribcage.

Just him.

Just you.

Just the crash of skin and sin and finally.

But instead, you wait.

You smile.

You laugh too loud when he says something stupid, you pretend it doesn’t melt something in your chest when he calls you sweetheart like it doesn’t mean anything.

You’ve kissed him in your mind.

Hard.

Soft.

Messy.

Teeth and tongue and vows unspoken.

You’ve written his name in the fog of your bathroom mirror, like a teenage girl watching it vanish like the chances you never took.

You wonder if he knows. If he feels it too — the slow-burn ache of never letting it slip, even though it’s right there. Teetering on the edge of a look held too long, a touch that lingers at your lower back when he’s guiding you through a bar, the way his eyes always drop to your mouth before snapping back to safety.

You keep recalling things you never did.

How his hand would feel cupped around your throat, not to hurt you — but to hold you in place.

How it’d feel to fall apart under him.

For him.

In your mind, it feels he's already written mine on your upper thigh. Even if not real.

God.

It would be easier if you weren't sane and didn't know that this was just an entertaining dream.

Because you talk to him like you’re fine.

You joke.

You spar.

You watch him talk about other women and roll your eyes as if it isn't making you bleed inside.

You sit beside him on motel beds, knees brushing, and you swallow your desire down like it won’t choke you eventually.

You wonder if you’re bad. Or mad. Or just fucking in love with a man who keeps you close but never close enough.

And you want to ask him — not directly, but maybe in a whisper, maybe in a joke that isn’t a joke:

Am I allowed to want you like this?

Am I allowed to cry for something I never had?

If it's just in my head, why does it feel like a sin?

Does this already feel real to you too?

You lock these longings away in lowercase. Soft, silent letters in the vault of your heart.

You don’t dare write them down in ink. You don’t speak them.

You just carry them.

Because someone told you once — bad thoughts aren’t real. Only your actions matter. Only your restraint.

But you’re so tired of pretending.

You catch yourself staring at him across diner tables, half-listening as he talks about hex bags or whatever hunt you’re chasing. You imagine kissing the sugar off his lip from the pie. Just a little taste. Just once.

You wonder how many other girls he’s kissed like that.

How many of them he touched without thinking.

How it would feel if you were one of them.

But then he looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And something in his eyes feels like a promise you were never meant to hear.

It feels like he knows.

Like he’s just as guilty.

Like you’ve already done it in his head too — a thousand different ways, with a thousand different endings, and none of them ever quite end.

You wonder if he lies awake like you do.

Fingers clenched in sheets.

Breath tight in his chest.

Your name on his tongue, never spoken.

You wonder if he’s ever whispered please to the silence like you have.

If he’s ever played the part of the sinner for a sin he never touched, only imagined.

And what a way to die — never having him, always wanting him.

You’re already damned.

So why do you still feel hope when you look at him?

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

𖤐 main masterlist.

taglist: @rositaslabyrinth @bettystonewell @blossomingorchids @maddie0101 @deansbbyx @sapphic-destiel @lyrarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @tinas111 @multiversefanfics @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @freeluigihesbae @fuckedupfate @bejeweledinterludes @jaredpadonlyyyy @littlesoulshine @sunsbaby @soldiersgirl @losers-clvb @deansbeer @starzify @h8aaz @vmiina @deansmisha @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @bruisedfig @sacr1ficialang3l @angelicjackles (I really need to make a decent taglist lol, let me know if you want to be added or remove)

[f1girliefics]

Through His Lens

Zhou Guanyu x Reader

Summary: Zhou is passionate about photography. You’re camera-shy, always avoiding the spotlight.

You never liked being on camera.

There was something about having a lens pointed at you that made your skin crawl, like being studied, exposed.

You preferred your place behind the scenes. Low light. Soft voices. Spaces where no one looked too hard or asked too much.

That’s why you liked working for Stake.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. Stable, quiet. Familiar.

And then there was Zhou.

Zhou Guanyu. The rising star.

Sharp jawline, polished charm, impossibly good in photos—of course, he was.

But he wasn’t just the face on the posters or the easy smile during press days.

He was kind. Patient. Gentle in a way that felt rare in the racing world.

He remembered things, your favourite tea, how you liked your notes colour-coded, the playlist you always played in the garage when things got too tense. He remembered you, even when you did your best to blend into the background.

You didn’t know he had a camera until much later.

It started small.

You’d catch him fiddling with something between media sessions or off-track events. A sleek little film camera, always slung over his shoulder or tucked into a side bag.

He never made a big deal out of it. Sometimes he asked his teammates if he could take a photo—mostly scenery, fans, and mechanics in motion. But you? You never asked.

And yet somehow, you kept seeing flashes of your reflection—too fast to be certain.

A click when you were tucking your hair behind your ear.

The soft whirr of the lens when you were laughing at something Bottas said. You never saw the photos, and you never asked.

Until one day, you found a print left behind in the hospitality tent.

A black-and-white image, beautifully composed.

A woman—you—standing with her back to the window, the light soft on your face as you looked down at a page of notes.

Candid. Honest. Beautiful.

Your heart stuttered.

You tucked it back before anyone could see.

You didn’t bring it up until weeks later, long after the photo had been burned into your memory.

It was late during the Monaco weekend.

A warm breeze rolled through the empty paddock, and the sea stretched out just beyond the fences, dark and shimmering.

Zhou was leaning against the pit wall, camera in hand, scrolling through shots under the overhead lights.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, hugging your arms across your chest.

He looked up, smiled easily, boyishly. “Of course.”

You hesitated. “Why me?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You take pictures. Of the team, the track, everything. But I feel like… I don’t know. I feel like I’m in more of them than I should be.”

He blinked, caught off guard.

And then—he didn’t look away.

“I like taking pictures of things I don’t want to forget,” he said, voice soft, almost reverent. “And you’re… always there. You look like peace.”

You swallowed hard. “Zhou…”

He handed you something.

A small, leather-bound photo album, warm from his hands.

You opened it slowly.

There you were, again and again, laughing at the back of the garage. Sleeping on the flight to Canada. Watching a sunset in Barcelona with a look in your eyes, even if you didn’t recognise it.

Every shot was careful.

Thoughtful. Intimate, in a way that made your breath catch.

“You didn’t even tell me,” you whispered, flipping through the pages.

“I was scared,” he said quietly. “You always flinch when someone pulls out a phone. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I couldn’t help it. You just… You make things feel softer. Easier.”

There was silence between you. Heavy, but not unpleasant. A kind of waiting.

He exhaled. “I think I started falling for you the moment I took the first one.”

You looked up.

And there he was.

The same Zhou, just a little more vulnerable than usual. Just a little more real.

You stepped closer.

“I think I’ve been falling for you this whole time,” you said, placing your hand gently over the album. “Even when I was trying not to.”

He smiled, small and earnest, and you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, heart thudding.

The wind rustled the edges of the pages.

Neither of you moved to stop it.

[blasphemyandbackshots]

Wait! That one anon got MILF lover Shig and Dabi in my head now! 😳

I had to. I’m sorry, but I had to 😔

Dabi ;;

Dabi isn’t just into MILFs. He craves them. There’s something about a woman who’s lived a little. A woman who knows exactly what she wants, who doesn’t giggle and blush when he looks her up and down like he’s going to eat her alive. No, she meets his stare and raises an eyebrow like, you think you can handle this, kid?

And that makes him go feral, crazy and everything in between.

He likes her older. Likes her ripe. He wants her with hips that could cradle his waist. He wants soft thighs that wrap around his ribs, a body that remembers pleasure. Stretch marks? Scars? Maybe a kid? Dabi’s jaw just clicks into place, turned on by every reminder that she’s a real woman.

“You got any idea what that does to me, sweetheart? Watchin’ you walk around all put-together and fuckin’ lethal? While I know exactly how you sound when I’ve got three fingers in you?”

He loves corrupting that poise. Fucking her against her kitchen counter while dinner’s half-cooked. Fisting her hair after PTA meetings. Cumming in her and then smirking when she says she has errands to run.

“You’re so good at pretending you’ve got your life together. Lucky for you, I love wrecking shit.”

He doesn’t want to raise hell with a girl who’s figuring herself out. He wants a woman who already has a fire burning inside her. He just wants to fuck it higher.

Shigaraki ;;

Shigaraki has mommy issues and it shows. But we’re not talking wholesome healing. We’re talking dark, twisted, primal obsession with mature women who look at him like he’s something dangerous but irresistible. He’s a fucking pervert for it.

He wants her older, commanding, powerful. He wants someone who has lived, who might even pity him a little until she realizes he’s unhinged and hungry for her.

He fantasizes about women who’ve already had a life. Maybe she’s got a kid. Maybe she’s been married. He doesn’t give a fuck. She could be ten years older and still out of his league, and that turns him on more.

“You think I care how old you are? You think I don’t get off on it? Fuck, I like knowing how many men failed before me. You’ll never want anyone else after I’m done with you.”

He’s obsessed with how experienced she is. With how she teaches him how to touch her until he snaps and flips the script, because the moment she moans for him like no one else ever made her feel that way? He’s addicted.

He’ll get on his knees for her and lick her thighs like a man starved. Then fuck her until she’s shaking and whisper, “Not so in control now, are you, Mommy?”

Shigaraki’s into the contradiction of it all. Power and surrender. Age and obsession. Her perfectly ordered world being ruined by a man who wants her so badly he’d burn it all down just to have her again.

[jungkoode]

FUCK ME UP | FRAGMENTS

˗ˏˋ polaroid memories ˎˊ˗

"It’s not like Taehyung meant to go looking for ghosts—he just wanted his damn charger back. Funny how the past never waits for an invitation."

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: HIDDEN MOMENTS (FMU)

wordcount: 3k

content: slice of life / character study, emotional intimacy, bittersweet nostalgia, found family undertones, quiet vulnerability, heavy emotional themes (childhood trauma, parental emotional neglect, implied domestic violence, implied emotional abuse and manipulation in past relationship), non-linear memory recall through photographs, friendship depth, character study on Taehyung’s perspective of Jungkook’s history, swearing, accidental emotional exposure, post-Mia timeline, roommate and found family references, charger theft as a plot device (lmao), soft but heavy tone with moments of reluctant humor

✧ author's note ✧

Hi hi hi!

Random drop of the week! I had this half-finished for a while now and I decided to sit my ass down and finally give it the closure it deserved. So here we are! I know I just made the public PSA about the unfortunate unvoting wave that took place recently, and how that pushed us into having to patiently rebuild towards Chapter 21’s original vote goals on WP again and Chapter 22’s current vote goal. I meant what I said when I promised I wouldn’t leave Kikizens hanging while that happens. I do have a few drabbles and smaller pieces planned while we climb our way back—this is the first of them. Consider it a little something to hold you over while we get back on track.

As always, Fuck Me Up isn’t an easy story to read, and it was never meant to be. It’s messy. It’s quiet when you want it to be loud, and loud when you wish it would just shut up. It sits in your chest in a way that’s hard to swallow sometimes, because that’s what trauma does. It doesn’t scream all the time. Sometimes it lingers in small things—a shoebox under a bed, a picture you didn’t mean to find, a moment when you realize you’ve known someone for so long that their past feels heavier in your hands than it does in theirs.

This is one of those pieces. It doesn’t give you the big emotional breakdown. It doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t even really explain itself. Because that’s how memory works. It’s fragmented, it’s incomplete, and it rarely comes with all the context you wish you had.

So please read carefully. This one is soft in tone but heavy in weight. It’s not graphic, but it is deeply uncomfortable if you sit with it long enough—and that’s exactly the point. It’s meant to make you sit. To notice the silences. To feel the weight of the things Jungkook never says.

Thread carefully, take breaks if you need them, and remember: FMU has never been about rushing to the answers. It’s about sitting in the questions long enough to feel them for real.

⋆｡°✩ read more ✩°｡⋆

main story: fuck me up

read on ao3

read on wattpad

The box wasn't supposed to be there.

Taehyung glared at the battered shoebox tucked beneath Jungkook's bed, unearthed only because he was searching for that stupid charger his friend had ‘borrowed’ three weeks ago and never returned. 

Just like Jungkook to take his shit without asking. 

It shouldn't have caught his attention—just another cardboard casualty in Jungkook's chaotic unpacking system—but the faded marker on its side made his breath catch: ‘Before.’

He shouldn't touch it. Definitely shouldn't. 

But his fingers were already tracing the edge of the lid, that instinct from fifteen years of friendship telling him exactly what lay inside. Polaroids. The physical evidence of a childhood shared, preserved in chemical development rather than filtered Instagram perfection.

Whatever, he thought, sliding the box from its hiding place.

Jungkook had been living in his apartment for seven months—invading his space, eating his food, leaving windows open—so Taehyung had absolutely zero qualms about invading his privacy now that he'd finally moved out. 

Plus, Jungkook wouldn't be back for hours anyway—Thursday meant dominoes with that old lady downstairs he'd randomly befriended, which meant Taehyung had plenty of time to snoop before he'd hear footsteps in the hallway.

The lid came off with a soft scrape of cardboard. Inside, messily scattered (because of course Jungkook would never organize anything), lay dozens of polaroids. Different sizes, different eras, different cameras—but all carrying fragments of history.

He picked up the first one, sneering slightly at their younger selves. Two boys with chocolate-smeared faces, arms thrown around each other's shoulders. 

Taehyung remembered that day. 

His mom had taken them for ice cream after Jungkook's piano recital, the one where he'd played that Mozart piece perfectly but still looked like he might throw up from nerves.

"Such a neurotic kid," Taehyung muttered, tossing it aside to pick up another.

This one made him snort—thirteen-year-old Jungkook with that ridiculous bowl cut his mom had insisted on, looking ready to commit murder while Taehyung posed beside him with an exaggerated thumbs-up. They'd been at summer camp, three weeks of mosquito bites and midnight raids on the counselors' cabin and swimming in that lake that always smelled like something had died in it.

Taehyung sorted through them quickly, impatience mixed with reluctant nostalgia. There they were with their first skateboards, knees already scraped raw from failed attempts. There was Jungkook passed out on Taehyung's family couch, drooling onto the cushion during one of their weekend movie marathons.

Some polaroids were less innocent—sixteen-year-old versions of themselves flipping off the camera at that punk show they'd snuck into with fake IDs. Seventeen, passing a joint between them on Taehyung's roof, Jungkook's eyes squinted nearly shut as he laughed at something now forgotten.

"We were such little shits," Taehyung muttered, fighting the smile tugging at his lips.

But then his fingers closed around a polaroid shoved deep into the corner of the box, partially hidden beneath the others as if intentionally buried. 

It was older, definitely older—the colors slightly faded, its edges more worn than the rest. 

Eight-year-old Jungkook stood stiffly in what Taehyung recognized as the living room of the old Madison Avenue apartment. 

That pristine white couch. Those gleaming hardwood floors.

Unlike the others, there was no smile on young Jungkook's face. His expression was blank, controlled in that unnatural way children only adopt when they've been told very specifically to behave. 

Standing behind him, his father's hand rested heavily on his shoulder, fingers visibly digging in. The man's smile was perfect—white teeth, successful businessman, Upper East Side perfection—but there was something in his eyes that made Taehyung's stomach clench even now.

Mrs. Jeon stood slightly apart, smile equally practiced but eyes focused somewhere off-camera. 

The sleeve of her cashmere sweater rode up just enough to reveal the edge of what might have been a bruise on her wrist.

Taehyung's throat tightened. He remembered visiting that apartment exactly once. 

The way Jungkook had shown him around with rehearsed politeness, like a museum docent rather than a child in his own home. 

The hushed way they'd played, Jungkook constantly glancing toward the hallway whenever footsteps approached. 

The way Mrs. Jeon had flinched when Mr. Jeon came home early, the sound of his heavy shoes on the hardwood announcing his arrival.

He turned the polaroid over. On the back, in a child's careful handwriting: Family portrait, 2008.

Beneath it, in ink that looked more recent: Before.

"Fuck," Taehyung whispered, something heavy settling in his chest.

He set the photo aside and continued digging, finding more from that era. 

Nine-year-old Jungkook at Taehyung's house for a sleepover, wearing pajamas that were slightly too large—borrowing Taehyung's clothes because he'd arrived with nothing but the outfit he was wearing. Ten-year-old Jungkook with a black eye that his mother had explained away as a baseball accident, though Taehyung couldn't remember Jungkook ever playing baseball.

Then, a polaroid that made his breath catch. 

The two of them, maybe eight years old, sitting on Taehyung's bed. 

Normal enough, except for what was happening in the image. 

Jungkook was crying—not the dramatic tears of a child's tantrum, but the silent, shaking sobs of someone trying desperately not to be heard. Taehyung had his arm around him, looking young and scared and completely out of his depth.

Taehyung remembered that night with painful clarity. It was the first time Jungkook had told him, in halting, confused words, what was happening at home. 

‘Daddy hurt Mommy again. He said it was my fault for making noise during his meeting call.’

He hadn't known what to do except hold his friend and promise not to tell anyone because Jungkook had made him swear. 

‘Daddy says nobody would believe us anyway. He says everyone knows he's an important man and Mommy's just emotional.’

Who had taken this photo? 

Taehyung frowned, trying to remember. His own mother, probably, thinking she was capturing a sweet moment of childhood friendship without realizing what was actually happening. She'd always been annoying with that old polaroid camera.

The next few photos tracked the subtle changes as they approached adolescence. 

Jungkook after the divorce, the relief evident in his looser posture, his more genuine smiles. 

The day they'd painted Jungkook's new bedroom in the downtown apartment his mother had rented—both of them splattered with blue paint, grinning like idiots. 

The new skateboard Jungkook had saved up for, the first major purchase that was entirely his own choice.

There were gaps, of course. No photos of those months when Jungkook had withdrawn completely, refusing to answer texts or phone calls. Nothing from the year his mother had considered moving them to Seattle, a plan Jungkook had fought with uncharacteristic ferocity until she agreed he could stay in New York to finish high school, living with his aunt.

Taehyung set aside another image—sixteen-year-old Jungkook playing guitar for the first time, fingers awkwardly positioned on borrowed strings—and paused at what lay beneath it. 

This polaroid was different, taken with one of those newer instant cameras that tried to mimic the vintage look.

College-aged Jungkook in the early days with Mia. Her arm was wrapped around his waist, her smile dazzling as always. 

Jungkook looked...happy? 

No, that wasn't quite right. 

He looked pleased to be photographed with her, definitely, but there was something weird about it.

Taehyung hadn't noticed it then. Too caught up in his own freshman year chaos, too impressed by Mia's confidence and beauty, her senior status and the way she seemed to know everyone worth knowing on campus.

But looking at it now, he could see the warning signs. The way Jungkook's body angled slightly away from hers even as she pulled him close; the way his eyes sought the camera—sought Taehyung behind it—as if looking for reassurance.

More photos from that period followed, documenting the slow erosion of his friend. 

Jungkook getting thinner, shadows appearing beneath his eyes. Jungkook with Griffin for the first time, the tiny orange kitten cradled carefully in his hands, Mia's manicured fingers visible at the edge of the frame. Jungkook at some party, Mia kissing his cheek while he stared at something off-camera, his expression unreadable.

Then the photos stopped. 

A gap of nearly two years—the belly of the Mia era—before picking up again with what Taehyung recognized as the aftermath.

Jungkook on Taehyung's couch, Griffin curled on his chest, both of them asleep in the gray February light. 

The healing cut on Jungkook's cheekbone visible, a souvenir from that night they never discussed directly. 

Jungkook in the kitchen of Taehyung's apartment, attempting to make sourdough for the first time, flour dusting his black t-shirt. 

Jungkook and Yoongi in the campus recording studio, heads bent together over some project.

The newest photos were from the move to the current apartment. Jungkook and Yoongi hauling furniture up three flights of stairs, both red-faced and sweating. Jungkook assembling IKEA furniture with an expression of intense concentration. Griffin exploring the empty living room, his orange tail held high like a flag.

Nothing with you; the new roommate—sharp-tongued English major with the surprisingly good taste in music that Jungkook had been complaining about non-stop for the past month. The one who apparently gave as good as she got, based on the brief encounters you two had had. 

Taehyung sat back on his heels, looking at the scattered timeline of his best friend's life. 

The before. The during. The after. 

And now, whatever unnamed period they were in currently.

He picked up the family portrait again, studying the stiff posture of that eight-year-old boy. The same boy who had grown into the man who spent seven months sleeping on Taehyung's couch, who still sometimes woke up gasping from nightmares he refused to discuss, who used charm and physical attraction as shields against anything that might actually matter.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Taehyung's head snapped up. 

Jungkook stood in the doorway, his expression shifting from surprise to annoyance as he took in the scene: Taehyung surrounded by scattered polaroids, the family portrait still in his hand.

"Looking for my charger, asshole," Taehyung replied, making no attempt to hide the evidence. "The one you stole. Found these instead."

Jungkook's eyes darted from the photos to Taehyung's face, then back again. 

For a moment, Taehyung thought he might explode—might demand he put everything back, might refuse to acknowledge what Taehyung had seen.

Instead, Jungkook just exhaled heavily, dropping his backpack by the door and crossing to sit on the edge of the bed.

"You're back early," Taehyung said, more to fill the silence than anything else.

"Dona wasn't feeling well." Jungkook's voice was flat.

Taehyung nodded, filing away the name of this mysterious old lady Jungkook had apparently adopted. 

Another stray, like Griffin. 

His friend had a habit of collecting the vulnerable, though he'd deny it if confronted.

"I haven't looked at these in years," Jungkook continued, reaching down to pick up one of the polaroids—the one of them at the punk show, middle fingers raised defiantly. A small smile tugged at his lips. "Remember how that bouncer almost caught us?"

Taehyung snorted, relief washing through him. "You pulled some parkour shit over that fence. I thought for sure I was getting arrested while you escaped."

"But I came back for you," Jungkook reminded him, his smile growing a fraction.

"Yeah, after letting me panic for ten minutes," Taehyung shot back. "Asshole."

Jungkook's eyes drifted to the family portrait still in Taehyung's hand. His expression shuttered again, but he didn't look away.

"You know," Taehyung said, trying to sound casual, "you should get a new camera. One of those instant ones. Start filling in the gaps."

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. "Gaps?"

Taehyung gestured to the photos. "You've got nothing recent. Nothing with the roommie."

"Why would I want photos of her?" he snorted. "She would probably throw the camera at my head."

Taehyung rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right after calling you something in Shakespeare-speak that you'd have to Google later."

A reluctant smile tugged at Jungkook's lips. "She does that thing where she takes off her glasses first. Like she's preparing for battle."

"Wait, she wears glasses?" Taehyung perked up, filing this new information away. 

Jungkook rarely shared details about people unless they'd made an impression.

"Only for reading. Or when she's trying to look extra judgmental." 

"So basically all the time," Taehyung quipped.

"Pretty much." Jungkook started gathering the scattered photos. "She was reading something the other day—some poetry book—and I swear she quoted the entire thing from memory just to prove me wrong about a line."

"Sounds like she keeps you on your toes."

"More like keeps me from getting any peace in my own apartment," Jungkook paused, holding a photo of them as teenagers, all gangly limbs and bad haircuts. "You know what she did yesterday? Used the last of my coffee. The expensive stuff from that place on 6th. Then left a note that just said 'thanks for the donation to the cause.'"

Taehyung snorted. "What did you do?"

"Hid the coffee grinder, obviously."

"Mature."

"She started it," Jungkook said, sounding so much like his twelve-year-old self that Taehyung couldn't help laughing.

"What's her deal anyway?" Taehyung asked, trying to sound casual. "You've been texting complaints about her for a month but I still don't know anything except that she's an English major with—what did you call it?—'a vocabulary that could flay a man alive.'"

Jungkook shrugged, but Taehyung noticed he took a moment too long to answer. "I don't know much about her. She keeps to herself when she's not arguing with me about the thermostat or the dishes or Griffin sitting on her books."

"Griffin likes her?" 

Oh. That was interesting. The orange menace was notoriously selective.

"Traitor sleeps on her bed when I'm not home." Jungkook's tone suggested this was a personal betrayal of the highest order. "She denies it, but I find his fur on her comforter."

"You've been in her room?" Taehyung raised an eyebrow.

"To get Griffin," Jungkook replied too quickly. "She’s a freak, sometimes gets home late because she’s been studying or something, so. I have to rescue him when she's not home."

"Mmhmm." Taehyung didn't bother hiding his skepticism.

"It's not like that," Jungkook insisted, shooting him a warning look. "She's just temporarily living in the same space. Sharing a bathroom. Touching all my stuff. Using my coffee."

"Sounds terrible," Taehyung deadpanned.

"It is!” Jungkook tossed a balled-up sock at him, which Taehyung dodged easily. "It's just weird, that's all. Living with someone who's not you or Yoongi."

"Does she know?" Taehyung asked, gesturing toward the box of polaroids, particularly the ones from the darker periods.

Jungkook's expression closed off immediately. "Why would she? It's none of her business."

"Just asking."

"Well, don't."

They sat in silence for a moment. Taehyung knew better than to push when Jungkook put up those walls. More than fifteen years of friendship had taught him when to back off.

"You're good, though?" he asked finally. "Living there? With her and Yoongi?"

Something in Jungkook's posture relaxed slightly. 

"Yeah, it's fine. Yoongi's barely around between classes and studio time. And Phoenix—" He caught himself using the nickname, looking momentarily annoyed with himself. "She keeps to herself most of the time. Except when she's stealing my coffee or lecturing me about leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor."

"The horror," Taehyung said flatly. "How do you survive such trauma?"

"Fuck off." Jungkook's mouth quirked up. "Not everyone can be as perfect a roommate as you, with your extreme gratitude of allowing me to sleep on your couch."

"I was a delight to live with and you know it."

"Not even an inflatable mattress? Seriously?”

“You literally said you’d be crashing for two weeks max!”

Jungkook snorted, carefully placing the last of the photos back in the box. 

Taehyung watched as Jungkook slid the box back under his bed, noting that he didn't push it quite as far back as it had been before—leaving it just visible enough that someone might notice it was there. 

A small change, but potentially significant.

"Hey," Taehyung said, suddenly remembering. "We're still on for Saturday, right? That show at Mercury Lounge?"

Jungkook nodded. "Yeah, I'll be there. Might be a little late though—got a project due for Film Production."

"Cool." Taehyung hesitated, then added casually, "You should bring her."

Jungkook looked up sharply. "Who?"

"Y/N. Unless you're afraid she'd actually have fun and ruin your whole 'she's the bane of my existence' narrative."

"She wouldn't want to come," Jungkook said dismissively. "Besides, she's probably working or has some literary thing or whatever."

"So ask her." Taehyung shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. "Or don't. But she’s somewhat fun to be around, and I like seeing someone apparently capable of driving you even crazier than I can."

Jungkook rolled his eyes. "No one drives me crazier than you. You've had too many years of practice."

"And I'm very proud of my accomplishments." Taehyung grinned, tucking the recovered charger into his pocket. "So bring her Saturday. What's the worst that could happen?"

"She could murder me in my sleep after I make her listen to your terrible taste in music."

"Please, my taste is impeccable." Taehyung stood, stretching dramatically. "And if she murderers you, at least Yoongi and I can split your vinyl collection."

"Touch my records and die," Jungkook threatened. "And get out of my room."

"This is the thanks I get for letting you crash on my couch for half a year?"

"I brought you food. And cleaned your disgusting bathroom. We're even."

Taehyung flipped him off as he left, but there was affection in the gesture. 

Some things never changed, even after more than a decade. 

index

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) - bonus part three

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader; past carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers, tbd

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons or events

series: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii. part viii, part ix, part x, part xi, part xii, part xiii, tbd.

bonus: one, two

author's note: This is a bonus part, and not a regular update! I just wanted to celebrate Lando getting P2 in Imola + me feeling a lot better after this weekend.

author's note 2: Did I look up how to spell Montréal (with or without the accent aigu) on the website of the Canadian government? ... Yes, yes I did.

author's note 3: also, remember when I said these bonus parts would all be lando's pov? I lied :D This one is all y/n. The remaining two will be his, though. Hope you enjoy!

June 14-15: Montréal GP 2025

There’s nerves fluttering around your stomach when you rush over to congratulate him after qualifying. They’re certainly not butterflies, you tell yourself. It's just because you shouldn't be here, but you are, anyways.

“Oh my god – congratulations!”

He grins, hugging you back when you fling your arms around his neck. “Pole position baby! I told you!” Lando yells, laughing in your ear. It’s unfiltered and pure, and you close your eyes for a moment just to bask in the sound of joy.

When you open them, there’s someone from McLaren wearing a headset hovering nearby, looking on in what seems to be a mix of both amusement and impatience. You instantly let go of Lando. All of a sudden, you realise that it's nost just the one employee. Everyone's crowding around the two of you it seems – not out of the same sense of euphoria you felt just seconds ago, but out of business mode.

They all need something from him, and that trumps your wants.

Because, shit. You want.

Maybe Coco was right.

Maybe Montréal and New York aren’t really that close, and maybe returning a ‘lucky’ bucket hat doesn’t fully justify making the trip to someone who’s in the midst of a championship battle with his teammate and could use the support, even when he is adamant that he is not superstitious.  

Maybe you’d been a little too easy when offered an opportunity to spend more time with him before you’re off playing grass and he’s on summer break.  Maybe, just maybe a part of you likes Lando more than you’re allowing yourself to acknowledge.

It’s a terrifying thought.

“He did good, eh?” Max nudges your shoulder, inadvertently keeping you from spiralling on the spot as Lando gets swept up in debriefs and media and what all else. “S gonna make it so much easier,” he continues as he settles into a chair, then waves at where Lando’s dad is sitting with his manager.

“Yeah, he did,” you echo absentmindedly. A replay of his best lap comes on a nearby screen. “He is good,” and you mean it in more ways than one.

Adam walks over now, big smile on his face as he first squeezes Max’ and then your shoulder. “You must be so proud,” you smile.  

“I’m always proud. But he finally seems comfortable in this car. I’m just happy that he is happy,” Adam replies. “Plus, he is always happier when you’re around.”

He says it like it’s obvious, without looking at any of you in particular. All of you, then, you think. Max, you, Keegan.

His roots. His support system. His friends. Plural.

It’s not meant to rattle you, but it does.

Because Lando thrives on friendship and connection, and he loves being supportive in return. He gives like his heart won’t ever run out of room. It’s never conditional, never something that must be negotiated. And it makes you feel so lucky, but it isn’t a singular experience. You’re one of his close friends, and you’re happy he has Max, and Keegan, and Ria, and Carlos. And it’s always been fine. You didn’t need to be singular. Never wanted or needed to hear Adam saying something like that about just you.

Except now you don’t know where friendship ends and feelings begin, and for the first time ever, maybe you want there to be a singular you, not a plural one meant for his friends in general.

And that? That might be a problem.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So you try and detach for a little. It’s easy to avoid Lando when he’s the race winner, and you can entertain yourself by hanging with Carlos and Rebecca for a good while. Besides, the hotel rooftop bar is crowded, completely filled with F1 crew and guests. It somehow makes it easier to blend into the background, observe from afar as the clock ticks down on your impromptu stay.

Lando has been drifting around the room, saying hi and accepting congratulations or doling them out in return. But he always ends up looking over at your corner. Checking if you’re still there, knowing just as well that time is running out.

When he finds his way back to you, there’s relief evident on his face. “For a second I was afraid I’d have to celebrate without you. Pole and a race win! Maybe it’s not the pasta, or the bracelets, or the flowers. Maybe it’s just you,” Lando says breathlessly, cheeky smile on display. As if he knows he shouldn’t have, but couldn’t help himself and let the words escape him anyways.

His smile only widens when you roll your eyes at him. “Sure, or maybe it’s Max, or Keegan, or your Quadrant cap, or the way in which you put your socks on the other way around when you got in the car today.”

His eyes crinkle and he giggles, cheeks still a little ruddy from the exertion – or maybe from laughter or the earlier champagne.

You feel stupid the second the words come out your mouth. “You have such a nice smile,” is absolutely not a normal thing to say to your best friend. You know this, and yet here you are, spilling your guts as if trying to expel all the butterflies that have taken up residency there as of late.

Lando’s smile turns blinding at the compliment, his pleased reaction clear in the way his voice goes up the octave as he answers with a bashful “really? Thank you”. Like he can’t quite believe you’d say those words to him and mean them.

Which is actually awful, because he does have a nice smile. The nicest. When he smiles, he beams, his entire face scrunching up in delight. No, Lando Norris doesn’t do pure happiness in small doses. For a millisecond, your treacherous brain conjures up a vivid image of what it’d feel like to trace his lips with your tongue – to steal the laughter right out of his mouth as it bubbles up from deep inside his chest, and to commit the shape of his smile to memory. Especially the small gap between his front teeth, and everything else that makes him so frustratingly handsome. Everything you’ve maybe always noticed, but not like this. Never like this.

“You look pretty, too. You always do,” he says, belatedly. His hand reaches up all of a sudden, softly cradling your cheeks that have gone hot from the earlier embarrassment of confessing how much you like his laugh. His fingers are cool against your skin, and your eyes track the movement for a beat, then flick back to watch him instead.

There’s something in his gaze you haven’t seen before. Affection, sure, but there’s something else. Something deeper. Heat, you think. His lips part, and your gaze involuntarily drifts downwards to witness just how his tongue peeks out to wet them.

For a moment, you consider leaning in. To give in to whatever weird pull you’ve been feeling today. But it’s gone just as quick when Carlos thrusts a drink in both your hands, only belatedly realising that he’s perhaps interrupted something. “Here’s your – oh.”

Spell broken, Lando’s hand falls away and you look anywhere but at him. “Thanks, you’re the best for this,” you say as you take a sip from your Coke Zero, hoping it’ll cool the sudden heat crawling up and down your skin.

“To champions,” Carlos raises his drink, Lando following with his own. “May we be them, may we befriend them, may we beat them.”

Another sip. Your skin still burns.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is maybe 30 minutes later when you start slowly making the rounds, dropping in and out of conversations to say bye or see you soon. Max notices the backpack and weekend bag first. He frowns. “Are you leaving now? In the middle of the party?”

“Yeah. Don’t want to miss my flight. Literally playing and touching grass tomorrow,” you wink. He snorts and pulls you in for a quick hug.

“Good seeing you today, Fewtrell. And don’t forget to send me the link to that bag,” you nod at Pietra, pointing at her clutch. “I love it.”

She nods, stepping closer to hug you next. “I can do that. Have a safe flight, text us when you land.”

Then there’s Lando. Somehow, the interaction feels heavy all of a sudden. Uncomfortable. The rooftop feels too small. He’s too close, there’s too many people around, and you’ve got a plane to catch right back to reality.

In an attempt to get it over with, you rush forward to give him an awkward hug. “Thank you for coming,” he whispers, breath warm against your neck. “It meant a lot to me.”

His grip on your waist tightens briefly, but then you pull away from him and flash a quick smile at the rest of the group. The corner of his mouth pulls downward. You try not to notice as you give Keegan a side-hug, before all but running out.

It’s weird, having left with just a wave and a nod. Your stomach’s all up in knots about it, and you can’t quite explain to yourself why everything had felt wrong all of a sudden. So when not even three minutes later Lando texts you, it feels a lot like relief. Because whatever that goodbye was – it clearly left both of you wanting.

You can't help but grin when you cancel your Uber, and grin even wider when Lando pulls up with a car that’s way too expensive but looks sleek and powerful in the dark. The window rolls down. “Get in birdie,” he smirks, then jumps out to open the door for you and stow your luggage away.

It’s familiar, sitting in a car next to Lando whose eyes are focused on the road. You’ve done that a thousand times before. But it’s different all the same. Because you’re both quiet, and the air is thick with tension that only seems to build, instead of dissipate over time. So you find yourself tracking the way his fingers flex around the wheel, how his arm rests on the console, how his necklace sometimes flickers when the street lights hit it just so.

“Y/N? We’re here,” Lando seemingly repeats as he turns off the engine. Right. It’s been forty minutes since he left his own celebratory party, just to spend more time with you. Time you spent in total silence, trying to ignore what it is that you want.

“Were you even paying any attention? You were so quiet,” he asks, his elbow jabbing your arm jokingly.

You grab it, pretending the only reason you’ve encircled his wrist is to keep him from moving. “Stop assaulting me, and let me have a look at the time on that expensive watch of yours.”

He huffs out a laugh but quiets, allows you to manoeuvre his arm just so.  “S not that late yet. Think an Uber driver could’ve done that?” Lando comments triumphantly, and your lips twitch.

He pulls away.

“C’mon. I’ll walk with you. I know you get antsy if you're not extremely early.”

Once you step out of the car, and your weekend bag is slung over Lando’s shoulder, the silence descends once more. The parking lot is quiet, and while the car might’ve drawn attention elsewhere, it’s easy for you both to hide in the shadows now.

You try to suppress the urge to fill it with rambling, but there’s also not much else to say. There was no reason for him to leave his own celebratory party, just so he could spend another forty minutes with you.

But here he is.

Here you are.

Stretching whatever time you have.

Lando breaks first, starts talking nonsense about the people he’s happy to avoid by being here with you instead. His empty hand is flying through the air as he gesticulates wildly, and you can’t help but giggle.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” He questions, and you don’t even pretend otherwise.

“Your hand’s so distracting, it’s telling its own story.”

Lando stops walking, turns fully to you as he frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You talk with your hands. They’re always moving,” you muse, but then his expression falls even further.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you rush out in an attempt to fix it, “it’s actually kind of sexy.”

Too much, you think immediately. Why would you say that out loud, when you hadn’t even really formed an articulate thought about it?

“Sexy?” Lando questions almost disbelievingly as he stares down at his own hand.

You nod hesitantly. “Yeah. I can say that, right? Cause we’re best friends. And I can find my friend’s hands sexy. Objectively.”

It feels like playing with fire, saying these things. Allowing those thoughts to live out there, instead of in your head. Waiting with bated breath for whatever Lando might say in return. If he’ll draw the line, if he’ll let you blur it a bit more. If he’ll confirm that you are friends.

Best friends. Just friends.

Fuck, maybe you don’t want to be just friends.

“Right. Yeah,” he clears his throat. Pauses for a second. “Maybe you should hold it then. So I won’t move it and you won’t get distracted.”

For the first time that evening, you wish for more lights – just so you could read his expression. It’s hard to know if he’s being serious. Then again, how serious are you? You don't know that either, but you do know that you’re in it now, and with feigned bravado you smile at him.

“Maybe I should,” you repeat, then slot your hand into his. Perhaps it’s the fact that you’ve accidentally held hands just the other day, or maybe it’s muscle memory from nights spent at crowded clubs. But somehow, holding hands with Lando feels entirely ... natural.

As if you've always done it. It’s just that your head is spinning from how normal it feels.

And yet it also feels fragile, fleeting. As if the second you’d try to capture this, it’d be gone. So you don’t talk, instead allow his thumb to ghost over your hand – just shy of a caress, and pretend everything's normal until you reach the Departures terminal.

Lando comes to a halt then. You retract your hand and he lets you. You almost wish he didn’t. But then he pulls you in a tight hug instead, lips close to your ear as he confesses how much it sucks that you’re leaving already. How much he’s going to miss you, especially at Silverstone. “I’m gonna miss you too. And I’m gonna miss these hugs,” you say with a small laugh.

Your hands are around his neck, and it would have been so easy to reach up and tug on his curls. But he’s cut them recently, so all you find is smooth skin and the touch of cold metal when your fingers skim his necklace.

Heat creeps into your face as you realise all of a sudden that this is, once again, far too much. The moment's run away from you, and now you're hugging too long, the smell of him is too comforting, and the touching too familiar.

It’s like quicksand. The moment you try and resist it - when you start to struggle, the sand will pull you straight back in even further.

And the moment you pull away from Lando, is the moment you realise just how close your faces are. You can feel his breath on your lips, the flutter of his eyelashes as he blinks, gaze flickering between your eyes and lips for just a second. Your heart is beating in your throat, and you wonder briefly if Lando might hear it, if he might feel it if he’d position his hand just right. Your own eyes fall to his lips, see the way his tongue darts out like he always does when he’s nervous, and all of a sudden the world around you fades away while you move to close the distance altogether.

His lips are soft, and he tastes like pineapple and his stupid cinnamon mints. It makes you smile into the kiss, because it’s good and delicious. It’s so familiar and it’s so Lando to be eager yet demanding all at once. He tries to pull you in even closer as the kiss turns heated, his tongue licking into your mouth, hand sliding further down your waist.

Impulsive as it is, you’re also immediately greedy. Because you might not allow yourself to ever have this again, even when it’s quite possibly the best first kiss you’ve ever had.

You have no idea how long you stand there, on the corner of a parking lot and the airport entrance – just out of sight, making out like a bunch of teenagers and zero clue as to what it means. His other hand has slid up to hold your face and push some loose strands of hair behind your ear. It’s such a sweet gesture, but it has you gasping into his mouth at the startling realisation that you’re kissing your best friend, and you’re going to miss your flight if this continues.

With heaving chest and a final quick kiss to his now swollen lips, you slowly pull away. A whine almost escapes you when you catch sight of just how thoroughly kissed Lando looks. His pupils are blown, cheeks ruddy, hair all over the place, and he’s smiling that gap-toothed smile of which it’s almost a shame that you can’t see it when you’re kissing him.

God, you know what it’s like to kiss him now. You know what he tastes like. What his hands feel like when they’re grabbing onto you, trying to find purchase so he can pull your body straight into his. And you can’t stop yourself from wanting to do it again. And again. And again.

His hand comes up to once more push back those annoying hairs you always have to fix with a clip when you’re playing tennis, but never bother to do off court.

You fight a smile. “Thanks.”  

“These keep falling in your face,” he points out needlessly, hand lingering to cradle your jaw. He looks so pleased with himself, and you want to kiss the stupid smirk right off his face. But then the time on Lando’s smart watch glares up at you, and while a small part of you feels incredibly satisfied at the increased heartrate on display, it’s also a harsh reality check.

“They were my break-up bangs,” you murmur, trying hard not to let the panic take over, as the weight of what you’ve just done comes crashing down on you.

Fuck.

You’re so fucked. This is your best friend, that you’ve just kissed out of impulsive desire. And you don’t have the time to even talk about it, because you’ve wasted it all making out like a couple of fucking idiots.

“Shit. I have to go.”

Lando’s eyebrows draw together as he prepares to say something in response. It’s then that another wave of panic hits you. Maybe it would actually be worse to talk about it. You take a step back and out of his reach, focusing instead on your weekend bag that he'd set down on the ground earlier.

“Like. Now. Fuck.”

Because as long as you don’t mention this, it will be like it didn’t happen, and you don’t need to think about the consequences. Maybe this flight’s boarding time isn’t a curse, but a blessing in disguise.

As you hoist the bag onto your shoulder, he reaches out – wordlessly fixing the position of the strap for you so it sits comfortably across your chest and back.

He knows you’ve run out of time, too. There’s no point in addressing the elephant in the room now. So he just gives a strained smile, hand moving down from your shoulder before landing at your hand again. He squeezes it once. “Text me when you’re there, yeah? Have a good flight, birdie.”

If only you were less of a coward, less afraid of your own heart jumping out of your chest, you’d have squeezed back. Instead, all you offer is another nod and wave, and then you're gone - hand pressed to your lips all the way to your gate.

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting and hearing your thoughts! ♥

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[arkaiveofurown]

you confessed while drunk—he didn’t believe you

Pairings: Ace x Reader, Sabo x Reader, Law x Reader, Zoro x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000 - 1,500

tags: fluff

my masterlist here ♡

----

a/n: if you’re wondering why i keep writing about these four, well, they’re my favorite op characters (esp sabo) hence i'm more familiar with their personalities so it's easier for me to write them compare to others. but i'm up for a challenge and kinda wanna improve too so if you’ve got ideas for another character, feel free to request! i just can’t guarantee that i can make it right away ><

----

Ace

The bonfire cracked loud enough to rival the crew’s laughter.

“You’re drunk,” Marco observed, raising an eyebrow as you swayed dangerously while dancing with Thatch.

“I’m alive,” you shot back, sloshing whatever was left in your cup onto your boots.

Ace was grinning on the other side of the firepit, watching the chaos unfold. When you stumbled over and plopped down beside him, he leaned back on his hands.

“You good?”

“I'm fantastic,” you said, cheeks flushed. “And you...”

“What about me?”

“You're so—like, unfairly good-looking, you know that?”

Ace blinked. “Huh?”

“Like criminally. Stupidly. I’d kiss you if my mouth could remember how.”

He coughed. “Okay, maybe you’ve had enough—”

“I’m serious, Ace. I like you. Like, actually like you. Like-want-to-cuddle-your-face-like-you.”

“You’re... drunk.”

“Drunk brave, yeah. But not wrong.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling nervously. “C’mon. You’ll wake up tomorrow and pretend none of this happened.”

You leaned in, eyes soft. “I won’t.”

He looked at you—really looked—but his smile faltered just a little.

“Okay,” he said. “Then you can tell me again. Tomorrow. When you’re sober.”

You gave a wobbly nod, then flopped onto the deck beside him with a sigh.

“Deal.”

----

The morning after, you found him leaning on the upper deck railing, arms folded as he gazed out over the calm sea. The sunlight hit your face, clear-headed and sober now, and you stepped closer.

“I meant it,” you said.

Ace didn’t turn. “I know you think you did.”

“I do. Stop acting like you know better than me.”

“Then why now?” he asked. “Why after months of treating me like a crewmate and nothing more?”

“Because I thought you wouldn’t want me back. You’re Ace. I’m just—me.”

He finally turned to you. “You think I don’t see you? The way you fight. The way you keep everyone sane. The way you pick me up when I fall asleep on watch.”

You crossed your arms. “Then why are you brushing me off?”

“Because if I let myself believe it, and it’s not real—”

“It is.”

He stared at you.

“I like you, Ace. I want you. Not just the flashy fire-fist. You.”

“…You’re serious.”

“I wouldn’t be saying it again if I wasn’t.”

His voice dropped. “I thought I imagined it. You being into me. I thought if I got my hopes up—”

You stepped in, resting your forehead against his chest. “Hope anyway.”

He exhaled. His arms wrapped slowly around you, warm and safe.

“…You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You stayed like that a moment longer, the quiet between you full of unspoken things. When you finally pulled back just enough to look up, the corners of his mouth curled into that familiar, easy grin.

“No sake this time?” he asked.

“Stone-cold sober,” you confirmed.

He tilted his head. “So if I kissed you now, you’d remember?”

You glanced at him, coy. “Maybe.”

He leaned in—slow, hesitant.

The kiss was soft. Hesitant, then certain.

When you pulled back, he smiled against your mouth.

“You’re still unfairly good-looking,” you whispered.

“You’re just now realizing that?”

You laughed.

“Hey,” he said, pressing your forehead with his. “I like you too.”

----

The sun hit too hard. Your brain screamed.

You squinted through your fingers, groaning on your bunk. Bits of last night drifted back—sake, firelight, the kiss, Ace’s arms.

You grinned into your pillow before dragging yourself up.

When you shuffled into the galley, Ace was already there, laughing with Blamenco. His eyes lit up when he saw you.

“Morning.”

“…Morning.”

“You look like you lost a fight with a barrel.”

“Still won, though.”

He chuckled, then nudged a cup toward you. “Tea. Not sake. I’m a responsible boyfriend now.”

You paused.

“Boyfriend?”

He gave you a tiny shrug. “Unless you’re taking back last night.”

You slid into the seat beside him, barely holding back your grin.

“Not a chance.”

He leaned close. “Good. I like the sound of that.”

You let your hand rest over his, warm and steady.

“I told you I wouldn’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

Ace squeezed your fingers. “And I told you I’d believe it... if you said it sober.”

----

Sabo

The campfire crackled, and the camp was alive with laughter and music as the Revolutionary Army unwound after a long day. You sat among the group, sake cup in hand, the warmth spreading quickly through your chest.

Sabo was nearby, talking quietly with Koala and Hack, but you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. The courage burning inside you finally spilled out.

You raised your cup, slurring slightly, “Sabo… I like you. Like, really like you. More than just a comrade or a friend. I—”

Before you could finish, the entire camp fell silent.

Ivankov’s eyes bulged behind his dramatic lashes, his hand flying to his chest. “What was that?!”

Sabo froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening, and for a moment you thought he might say nothing at all. But then he slowly turned, eyes narrowing, an unmistakable flush creeping over his cheeks.

“Y/N,” he said carefully, voice low and unsure.

You waved a hand dismissively, “I’m drunk, but I mean it! I swear, I’m serious.”

Ivankov jumped to his feet, clapping gleefully. “Finally! About time someone said it! Sabo, you lucky devil!”

Koala elbowed Ivankov to quiet him, but Ivankov just grinned wildly, not caring.

Sabo looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks burning hotter by the second. When he met your gaze again, there was a softness there — a vulnerability rarely seen.

“You’re bold when drunk,” he muttered, voice rougher than usual.

You grinned, leaning closer. “Only when it’s true.”

Ivankov started chanting, “Love in the air! Revolutionary love! Drink up, comrades!”

The camp exploded into cheers and laughter, some teasing you both, others raising cups in your honor.

Sabo’s gaze softened, and when he reached out, his hand brushed yours, fingers lacing just slightly. His touch was gentle, hesitant, but it sent a jolt through you.

“Tomorrow, when you’re sober, we’ll talk,” he said quietly, “but for tonight... enjoy the chaos.”

You squeezed his hand, heart pounding—not just from the sake.

He cleared his throat, still blushing faintly. “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy, Y/N.”

You laughed, warmth flooding your chest. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Sabo shook his head with a soft smile, the usual fire in his eyes replaced by something more tender. “Damn, you’re trouble.”

----

The morning sun warmed the camp, but you could barely enjoy it. Everywhere you went, the Revolutionary Army’s eyes seemed to follow — smirks, knowing glances, and not-so-subtle whispers. You caught Koala nudging Hack, Ivankov grinning wide, and even Dragon shooting a rare amused look your way.

Every time you tried to approach Sabo, a chorus of cheers erupted:

“Lovebirds alert!” Ivankov sang, twirling a fake bouquet of flowers.

“Hey, look! The brave drunkard who told Sabo how she really feels!” they added loudly, flinging an arm around Koala, who snickered.

“Someone got bold after one too many cups,” Hack chimed in with a grin.

You groaned, cheeks burning hotter than the campfire from the night before.

You spotted Sabo watching you quietly, his usual calm replaced by a faint blush and a guarded smile. You tried to approach him, but just as you took a step forward…

“Oi! Lovebirds! Don’t forget to save some love for the rest of us!” Ivankov interrupted, blocking your path and twirling his fake bouquet like a flamboyant gatekeeper.

Koala elbowed Ivankov, whispering, “Let them have their moment already.”

But the teasing didn’t stop. Every time you and Sabo got close, the crew’s cheers and laughter blocked you, leaving you both frustrated and blushing.

“Don’t forget to invite us to the wedding!” Koala teased, elbowing a blushing Hack.

You groaned again, sinking behind a crate, cheeks flaming. Sabo gave you a sheepish smile from across the camp but couldn’t get close without the whole crew joining in.

One time, near the fire, you finally caught his eye and tried to say something, but Ivankov jumped between you both, arms outstretched.

“Not so fast! This is a Revolutionary event—we celebrate in numbers!” they declared, grinning wildly.

Sabo just shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly amused but frustrated.

As the sun dipped low and the camp began to quiet, you caught Sabo’s gaze from across the way. He motioned subtly, a serious look in his eyes.

You slipped away from the crowd, heart pounding.

When you reached the river’s edge, he was already waiting, arms crossed, but his eyes soft.

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” he asked quietly, his voice low and searching.

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling the weight of everything you’d been holding in. “I was scared. And embarrassed…”

Sabo's brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face. “Is it because what you said last night... wasn’t real?”

You froze, eyes widening at the question. He already knew. You’d been hoping—maybe even expecting—he’d ask that, but hearing it out loud hit you harder than you thought it would. “I… I knew it,” Sabo murmured to himself, looking away for a moment, the hint of a pained smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

Your chest tightened. “No,” you rushed to say, your voice shaking slightly. “It’s not like that. It was real. Every word. I just... I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way, and the thought of ruining what we have scared me.”

Sabo shook his head, the small smile that had almost faded coming back, his usual calm reasserting itself. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly, his voice almost too reassuring. “You just made things clearer.”

You met his gaze, relief flooding through you.

“I like you too,” he admitted softly, voice low. “Drunk or sober.”

You smiled, the weight of the day lifting.

Sabo’s expression grew serious again, fingers twitching nervously. “I’ve been watching you. Wondering if this—” He paused, “if this feeling was real, or just a trick of the moment.”

You reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “It’s real. I mean it.” Sabo’s eyes held yours for a long moment, steady and serious. Then, slowly, a small, genuine smile tugged at his lips.

“Good,” he said quietly, as if a weight had been lifted. His tone was calm, but there was something undeniably tender in it.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his fingers intertwining with yours. “Now, it’s time,” he said, his voice low and determined, “Let’s face the crew—together.”

You squeezed his hand in return, feeling the steady warmth of certainty in his touch. “Together,” you echoed, your heart finally feeling lighter than it had all day.

The distant laughter and teasing from the camp drifted through the air, but in that moment, by the river’s edge, it was just you and Sabo—no jokes, no distractions—ready to step forward and embrace what was real between you.

And for the first time that day, you felt ready. Ready to face the chaos of the crew, the teasing, and everything else that came with it.

----

You and Sabo made your way back to the camp, the soft murmur of the river fading behind you as the laughter of the crew grew louder. As you neared the fire, you could already hear Ivankov's unmistakable voice booming through the air.

"Well, well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with their presence!" Ivankov called out dramatically, their eyes twinkling mischievously. “Did you two finally have a heart-to-heart? Or were you just waiting for the right moment to announce the wedding date?”

Koala, who was sitting nearby, smirked and gave a playful elbow to Hack, who looked thoroughly entertained by the whole spectacle. The rest of the crew, seemingly in sync, burst into laughter, their teasing only growing louder.

Sabo’s lips twitched upward at the corner, his usually calm demeanor barely holding back a smile. He gave you a quick glance, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as if to say here we go again.

But then, his eyes shifted back to Ivankov, and for the first time, his voice was steady but a little more pointed. “Well, if you’re going to make a spectacle of it…” He stepped forward, his gaze scanning the entire crew, and then he smirked.

“…just know that this time, it’s sober.”

Ivankov blinked, caught off guard for just a second, before bursting into even louder laughter, clutching their sides as if they couldn’t stop themself. The rest of the crew joined in, and even Koala’s face softened into an amused grin.

You blushed a little, but Sabo squeezed your hand, his smile more genuine now.

"Drunk or sober," he added, his voice quieter, but his tone was sure. "It’s still the same."

Ivankov wiped a fake tear from their eye, still chuckling. "You two are something else," they said, shaking his head but clearly impressed. "Well, if you're sober, then I guess we'll just have to make sure we celebrate extra hard tonight! Get all the alcohol and let’s make it a real party!"

The crew erupted into more laughter, and even Sabo let out a small chuckle at Ivankov’s antics. But as the teasing continued, the warmth of his hand in yours made the world feel a little less chaotic.

You shot Sabo a grin, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and relief. "I guess we’re in for a wild night then, huh?"

Sabo smirked, his usual calm returning. "Only if you're up for it."

----

Law

The dim light of the ship’s common room flickered as the crew celebrated a successful bounty. The clatter of mugs, the low hum of voices, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air. You, swaying slightly from one too many drinks, finally mustered the courage to approach Law.

He sat off to the side, calm and distant, quietly nursing a glass of dark liquor. His eyes, sharp and calculating as ever, flicked to you with a hint of mild irritation.

“Law,” you began, voice uneven but steady, “I—uh… I think you’re kind of amazing.”

He looked up slowly, brow raised. “Amazing?” His tone was flat, bordering on skeptical. “You’re drunk.”

You waved a dismissive hand, sloshing a bit of your drink onto the floor. “So? I mean it. You’re always so focused. Always… thinking. Not like the rest of us idiots.”

He set his glass down carefully, eyes narrowing. “Focus doesn’t make me amazing. It just means I get the job done.”

You grinned, leaning in closer despite your unsteady balance. “No, seriously. It’s more than that. You have this—this… presence. You’re not just the doctor or the captain. You’re…” You paused, searching for the words. “You’re the reason the crew works.”

He gave a short laugh, dry and humorless. “Sounds like you’re drunker than I thought.”

You reached out, fingers brushing his hand with a clumsy grip. “I like you, Law. Not just as crewmate. More.”

He withdrew his hand immediately, the coldness returning to his gaze. “That’s a mistake.”

“No, it’s not!” You tried to keep your voice steady, but the frustration slipped in. “I’m serious. I like you. And it’s not just the sake talking.”

Law leaned back against the bulkhead, arms crossed. “You say that now, but words spoken drunk mean nothing. What happens when you wake up?”

You looked down, biting your lip. “I won’t regret it. Not this time.”

He studied you for a long moment, the silence between you thick with tension.

“You’re asking me to believe something because you say it loud and slurred,” he finally said, voice low, “but I’m not blind. I’ve seen how you act around me when you’re sober. Like I’m just one of the crew. Nothing more.”

He paused, then added quietly, “If you really mean it, you’ll have to prove it.”

----

The night had cooled, and the ship was quieter than before. You took a deep breath and found Law leaning against the railing on the upper deck, staring out at the endless dark sea. It wasn’t the same night, not drunk anymore — just you, nerves settling, hoping for the right words.

You cleared your throat softly.

“I meant what I said,” you started, voice steady but heart pounding.

Law didn’t turn right away. His gaze stayed on the horizon, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. “You really meant that?”

You took a step closer. “I do. I wasn’t just drunk and babbling. I like you, Law. More than just as a captain.”

He finally looked at you, eyes sharp but softer now. “Funny. I’ve been thinking about it too. About us.”

You blinked, surprised. “You have?”

He smirked faintly. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m just saying… maybe I noticed more than I let on.”

You crossed your arms, trying not to grin too wide. “So, what? You were just waiting for me to say it first?”

Law shrugged. “Let’s just say I wasn’t in any rush. You’re… complicated.”

“Complicated?” You laughed, stepping closer. “I could say the same about you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean, you didn’t notice all the little things? The way I watch you during battle, or how you’re always the first to catch on when something’s off with the crew?”

You swallowed, heart racing at the honesty behind those words. “I noticed.”

“And?”

“And it meant something. I just wasn’t sure if it was something you wanted to admit.”

Law gave a low chuckle, shaking his head like you’d both stumbled into dangerous territory — but the danger was exciting. “Admit it? I’m a doctor, not a poet. But you… you make me want to say things I usually keep locked up.”

Your breath hitched a little. “That sounds promising.”

He studied you for a moment, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “I don’t do this often, you know. Letting someone in.”

“I’m not just anyone.”

He smiled then, a real one, quiet but full of warmth. “No, you’re not.”

You closed the distance, daring to reach for his hand again. This time, he didn’t pull away.

“I’m glad you said it,” Law murmured, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“Me too,” you whispered.

----

The ship was silent except for the soft creak of wood beneath your feet. You found Law alone in the captain’s quarters, sitting by the small window, moonlight painting his face in silver. His usual sharp gaze softened when he saw you.

You stepped inside, heart pounding but voice calm. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, that calm intensity in his eyes.

Slowly, he reached out—fingers brushing your cheek with a featherlight touch that made your breath catch.

“I’ve been thinking too,” he said, voice low. “About how often you cross my mind when I should be focusing on something else.”

Your hand found his, gripping it gently.

“I’m not good with words,” he continued, “but with you… I want to try.”

His thumb traced slow circles on your skin. “I don’t want just ‘complicated.’ I want you.”

Your breath hitched. “I want you too.”

For a long moment, you just stayed there, hands entwined, the world outside fading away.

Then, without hesitation, Law leaned in, lips brushing yours with the gentlest promise.

The kiss deepened slowly, building warmth that spread from your chest to your fingertips.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, smiles soft and real.

“No grand gestures,” he murmured.

“No need,” you whispered.

“Just this.”

You chuckled softly. “Stone-cold sober this time.”

He smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “Good. I don’t do well with drunken confessions.”

And with that, a quiet peace settled between you, warmer than any fire.

----

Zoro

The rest of the crew had long since passed out, the ship finally quiet except for the soft creaks of the wood and the faint splash of waves. You found Zoro sitting alone near the railing on the upper deck, a nearly empty bottle of sake resting by his side. The moonlight painted his sharp silhouette.

You approached quietly. “Still drinking?”

He glanced up, eyes heavy but alert. “It’s quiet. Helps me think.”

You sat down a little distance away, careful not to crowd him.

“Mind if I join?” you asked softly.

He shrugged. “If you can keep up.”

You smiled, settling beside him. For a while, neither of you spoke—just the gentle rhythm of the sea and the night around you.

After a while, you broke the silence. “You drink a lot.”

Zoro smirked. “Yeah? You wanna make something of it?”

“Just wondering. You’re usually so serious, but now…” You nodded toward the bottle. “Maybe this is how you unwind.”

He took a slow sip, then said quietly, “Maybe I like it better this way. No one bothering me.”

You glanced at him, catching the softer side behind the gruff exterior. “I don’t bother you.”

He shifted, eyes catching yours. “You do, though.”

You chuckled. “Only because I care.”

Zoro’s lips twitched. “You’re persistent.”

“Someone’s gotta be.”

A pause. Then, he reached over, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You sure you wanna be around someone like me?”

You met his gaze steadily. “Yeah. I want to.”

He laughed softly, low and almost teasing. “You really mean that?”

You nodded, cheeks warming. “Yeah. Even if I’m a little drunk right now.”

Zoro studied you for a long moment, like weighing something heavy. “You always this bold when you’re drunk?”

You smiled a little, heart pounding. “Maybe… but this? This is real. I’ve liked you for a while. More than just a friend.”

His eyes narrowed, a shadow of doubt flickering. “You expect me to believe that just because you say it now?”

You swallowed. “I don’t expect anything. Just telling you.”

Zoro exhaled slowly, shaking his head with a small smirk. “You’re messing with me.”

“No. I’m serious.”

He looked away for a beat, then back at you with a softer expression. “Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.”

You smiled, hope bubbling up inside. “So… what now?”

Zoro gave you a sideways glance, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “For now? Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

“But?” you pressed.

He shrugged, but his eyes held a hint of something warmer. “We’ll see.”

----

The next morning, the ship was alive with movement, but you kept your distance from Zoro, your cheeks still burning whenever you thought about last night. You remembered every word you’d slurred, every shaky sentence — and the thought of facing him sober made your stomach twist.

You tried to act normal, busying yourself with chores, hoping he’d just forget it too.

But Zoro wasn’t about to let it slide.

He found you by the mast, arms crossed, leaning against the wood like he was waiting.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but steady.

You froze, heart pounding, eyes darting away.

“Don’t tell me you already forgot what you said last night,” Zoro added, a teasing edge in his tone.

Your throat tightened. “I remember,” you admitted quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m… embarrassed.”

Zoro stepped closer, his gaze intense but not unkind.

“So you’re not pretending it never happened?” he asked.

You shook your head, biting your lip. “No. I just… I don’t want things to be weird.”

He gave a slow, knowing smile. “Well, it is weird. Because you said you like me. And I believe you.”

Your eyes widened, heart racing.

Zoro’s smirk softened into something almost gentle.

“But if you didn’t mean it, you’d be acting like you don’t care. Instead, you’re avoiding me.”

You swallowed hard, caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay.

“So, what now?” he asked quietly.

You looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time in a while.

“I’m scared,” you confessed, cheeks flushed.

Zoro nodded like he expected no less. Then, almost without thinking, he reached out and brushed a stray hair from your face. His fingers were rough, but the gesture was surprisingly gentle.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said quietly, eyes steady on yours. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed, heart pounding, but a small smile tugged at your lips.

He gave a soft smirk. “You said you liked me. I’ve felt the same for a while now. Didn’t think I’d say it, but yeah.”

You blinked, surprised but relieved.

Zoro’s hand lingered near your cheek for a moment before he pulled back just a bit. “We don’t have to rush. Just… be real. That’s enough.”

You nodded, feeling the tension ease in your chest.

He cracked a half-smile. “So, no more avoiding me, alright?”

“Promise,” you said softly.

He gave a short laugh. “Good. Because I’m stubborn enough to stick around.”

----

The sun was dipping low, spilling a warm, golden light over the deck. You and Zoro sat side by side, the gentle sway of the ship beneath you and the endless ocean stretching out before you. The air smelled faintly of salt and promise.

He glanced over at you, that usual smirk softened by something quieter, something real. “No drinks tonight,” he said, voice low but steady.

You met his gaze with a small smile, feeling a calm settle deep in your chest. “Sober,” you said simply. “Figured it was time to hear things straight from the source.”

Zoro’s eyes narrowed just a bit, like he was studying you, searching for any hint of doubt or second thoughts. But all he found was sincerity. He shifted closer, the space between you shrinking naturally.

“You don’t need anything to say what’s on your mind,” he said quietly, his hand brushing yours. “I want to know you—the real you.”

Your fingers curled around his, steady now. “I’m right here. No pretense, no drinks, no distractions.”

He gave a small, almost shy smile, unusual for him. “Good. Because I’m tired of waiting for you to say what I’ve been feeling for a long time.”

Your breath caught just slightly. “Then don’t wait anymore.”

His hand tightened around yours, and he leaned in just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. “I’m here. Sober. Serious. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You laughed softly, the tension finally breaking, and leaned your head on his shoulder. The sunset painted the sky in colors that didn’t seem real, but the feeling between you—steady, honest—was as real as the ocean beneath your feet.

“Tomorrow’s a new day,” you murmured.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “One we’ll face together.”

And in that quiet moment, with nothing left unsaid, everything felt just right.

[fuckyeahisawthat]

I think the key to writing Viktor is remembering that we the audience see far more of him than any character in the show does. Including Jayce. "Emotional and super sensitive but very guarded" is the way Harry Lloyd described it, and I think that sums it up very well. The way you show that in a visual medium is by letting the audience see things that no one else does.

Viktor isn't shy or meek at all, but everything intense about him is so contained. He has an expressive face and big big feelings (like, canonically he comes to the conclusion that his problem is having too many goddamn feelings) but we get to see far more of that than he shows to anyone in his life. Seriously, go back and look at the blocking in his scenes and how often we can see his face when no one else in the scene can. Outwardly he can appear confident, calm, earnest, passionate, wryly funny--at least until he gets too sick to hide his exhaustion and pain. Meanwhile anything that might express a vulnerability, a need, is tucked away where no one can see it.

All those sneaky glances and yearning looks thrown at Jayce? Jayce doesn't see them. Usually there is no one else there either. All his interactions with the Hexcore--the frustration, fear, reckless determination; the apprehension and then triumph of running on the dock? He's alone. Crying over Sky, curled up in a ball on the floor? Alone. Everything in the astral plane--the open curiosity and wonder, the casual physical closeness with Sky's and Vander's astral bodies, the despair after Jayce rejects him? Alone. Astral Sky isn't real; she's a figment made up either by the Hexcore or by his own brain (I think either interpretation works) to make him feel less alone. I 100% believe that no one whose mind he looks into is allowed to look back at him, up until the few moments at the end where he allows Jayce to see him.

When he's angry--and he does get angry--it's a cold, still anger. Contained. He glares and his tone gets sharp but he doesn't so much as raise his voice. He doesn't shout or use big gestures. The one time we see something that might be considered an outburst (when he slams his fist on the desk and scatters his notes in frustration at trying to understand the Hexcore), he is (1) desperate and scared, (2) very clearly angry at himself, and (3) once again, alone.

A bit of a tangent but I think it fits here: this extends to his physicality with his mobility aids too. I realized that the reason "Viktor whacks people with his cane" always bumps me in fics is not just that Viktor isn't casually mean like that--although he's not. It's that when it comes to habitual, everyday movements, he never uses his cane or crutch for anything other than support. He doesn't gesture with it or use it to grab things or stick it out to stop a door from closing. (Which makes the rare instances when he does use it for something other than support really stand out.) It's not like he's hiding it, but he doesn't do anything to draw extra attention to it. He lets it fade into the background as much as possible, for as long as he's able to. Contained. It's a very specific physicality that I think says a lot about how he's trying to be perceived.

And like, to me, lover of wordless longing and isolated/self-isolating characters (which could mean nothing) all this is fucking catnip for fic material, because prose gives you such easy access to a character's interiority, and then you get to watch them hide things from other characters and deny things to themselves. (Love a character being confidently wrong in the privacy of their own head.)

When I'm writing a new pairing I am often trying to figure out, like, what's the tension? The tension on the relationship can be subtle, but if a smut scene is not popping off for me I often find it's because I haven't correctly identified the tension, or I've released it too early. Sometimes the tension is societal or interpersonal, but often (for me) it's internal. The main thing holding the characters back from uncomplicated enjoyment of each other is themselves, their own traumas or fears or insecurities.

I think something clicked for me with Medicinal where I was like, oh, the dynamic I like for them is when their natural state is to stick together like magnets, and they are constantly having to pull themselves back. Viktor doesn't shy away from Jayce's touch or his attention; he craves it and is constantly having to take that firehose of yearning and reel it back in, because he thinks Jayce doesn't feel the same way. Contain it. Yeah man that's the good shit.

P.S. I would be remiss if I didn't include the god tier example of the kind of Viktor POV I'm always striving toward, Uncover Him by spqr.

[gilbertscurls]

comparison — matt sturniolo

You heard about her through the grapevine.

A tagged photo here, a casual comment there. Matt had never outright told you, but he didn’t need to. The signs were all there—the soft smiles he no longer saved for you, the half-hearted replies, the way he started showing up less and pulling away more.

It was always going to happen. You just thought maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.

“She’s sweet,” Nick had said once, trying to tread carefully. “Like, really sweet.”

You nodded and smiled. Pretended it didn’t sting.

Pretended it didn’t feel like someone had reached into your chest and taken something you hadn’t realized you were still holding onto.

Now, you’re scrolling mindlessly, fingers hovering over a photo Matt posted: the two of them in some cozy café in Boston, her head on his shoulder, their coffees matching. Her smile was radiant. His was soft.

You knew she probably drank oat milk lattes. Did yoga at sunrise. Had perfect skin and knew how to French braid her hair without a mirror. The kind of girl who wouldn’t flinch at meeting his family. The kind who texted back fast and never made a scene. The girl who always fit, effortlessly.

You were the girl who cracked jokes at the wrong time. The girl who got anxious before phone calls, who cried during arguments even when she swore she wouldn’t. The girl who used too much sugar in her coffee and didn’t know when to walk away—especially from him.

You remember the time Matt told you his favorite movie line, word for word. You remember how his voice softened when he talked about his mom, and how he flinched—just slightly—when someone brought her up in public. You knew which hoodie he wore when he couldn’t sleep. You knew that he hated cilantro and loved thunderstorms.

Did she know those things?

Did she know how he liked the blanket tucked under his feet?

That his walls weren’t just high—they were thick and layered and built from years of pretending everything was fine?

That when he said “I’m good,” he really meant, “Please ask me again”?

Did she know he used to kiss you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth?

You sit in the dark of your bedroom, still wearing his old sweatshirt—one he probably doesn’t even remember giving you—and your mind drifts to the way he used to look at you. Back when the lines were blurry and the feelings were real but unspoken.

Maybe you were never meant to be his forever.

Maybe you were just a stepping stone on his way to her.

The messy chapter before the clean ending.

And you hate that she’s probably wonderful.

You hate that she probably gets along with his brothers. That she laughs with his friends and folds herself into his world without having to shrink herself down first.

You hate that she’s everything you tried to be.

There’s a part of you—small, bitter, still bleeding—that wonders if he ever thinks of you in the quiet.

Does he ever remember?

In the space between “good morning” and “goodnight,”In the way she tucks herself against him,

In the moments when she smiles just right but not quite like you did—

Do his fingers ever twitch, reaching for the ghost of your hand?

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, and for a second, all you can think is:

I’ll never be her.

Never the girl with the calm voice and steady hands.

Never the one with perfect timing and perfect boundaries.

Never the girl who gets the ring.

Just the girl who knew him before he knew how to love right.

The girl who taught him how to open up—so someone else could walk in.

You put down your phone and close your eyes.

Outside, it’s quiet. Inside, it’s louder than ever.

But you don’t cry. You can’t. You’re not even sure you know how anymore.

You just sit in the stillness, trying to make peace with the fact that sometimes, love doesn’t end with closure. Sometimes, it ends with comparison.

And the aching truth:

You loved him like he was everything. But he saved his forever for someone else.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I'm having a lot of fun with this.

Anyway.

"Alright," Ford said, moving around the bed and tucking Stan in, "that should do it. How do you feel?"

"Uncomfortable." Stan replied, glaring at the ceiling, "Annoyed. Why are we doing this?"

Ford moved to readjust the device he'd stuck to Stan's head, padding some pillows around it to try and help ease some of the pressure.

"To see if we can pin point how you're managing to dream walk, and hopefully boost your consciousness to give you some awareness."

"Alright, and why is he here?" Stan moved his head as much as he could to stare at Fiddleford, who was already snoozing away on one of the cots Ford had dragged into Stan's room along with all the fancy machines Ford was using to monitor Stan's brain or whatever.

"If this works, and you're aware," Ford said, going over to the computer hooked up to Stan's head and pressing some buttons, "then I'd like to see if you can link out dreams and explain what your doing. Maybe we'll finally get more than 'a big lizard said I could'"

Stan couldn't move his to glare at Ford, so he settled with a growl and the ceiling.

"I don't know what else to tell you. There was a big lizard, and it said I could!"

"Yes, and I believe you, it's just extremely unhelpful."

Stan huffed, then glared at Ford as he came into view.

"Ready?"

"Are you? All I'm doing is-" before Stan could finish his sentence Ford held up his hand and blew pink powder into his face. Stan had just enough to cough and blink at Fords wheezing face as his brother accidentally inhaled whatever he'd just drugged Stan with, before he was out, falling into a sea of Stars.

Fords coughing fit followed him into his dreams, and he groaned. Hopefully he hadn't knocked over any of the equipment when he collapsed, or they'd have to do this tomorrow. Ford looked up at his twinkling mindscape, watching books flap in the distance.

This was new, usually he wasn't aware until Stan popped up and gave him a heart attack or interupted whatever he'd been dreaming about.

"Stanley!" Ford called, walking along a book path, "Stanley! Where are-Ah!"

Ford yelled as he was suddenly falling, stars and equations zipping past him as the books he'd been standing on disappeared. Before he could focus and create something to stop his fall he hit the ground hard, toppling over with a groan.

Then he yelled again, when something slammed on top of him. Whatever it was groaned too, and they laid there for a moment, groaning.

"What in- Stanford?"

Ford groaned at Fiddlefords voice, and the weight disappeared. Ford sat up, rubbing at his chest and trying to remember that this was a dream, and therefore non of his pain was real.

"Fiddleford," Ford said, looking over at his friend. They were on a dock, sticking out into an endless midnight sea. Above them was a green sky, with blue clouds, and behind them was a multicolored beach, a familiar if blurred waterfront going on in both directions. It looked flat, like the buildings would fall over or disintegrate if he touched them.

Fiddleford was wearing his pajamas, but Ford was wearing a roguish version of his normal outfit. His red shirt had the top buttons undone, his sleeves were rolled up, and he had a strap going across his chest with several buttons but not serving any purpose he could find. He looked like some strange combination of a pirate and adventurer.

"When we wake up," Fiiddleford said, pushing himeself to his feet and holding out a hand to help Ford up, "remind me to tear into your brother about how he goes about his dream round ups."

"I don't think it'll help," Ford said, dusting himself off and looking for Stan, "Most of the time he's not doing it on purpose, and now... well, that remains to be seen. Stanley!"

There was still no sign of his brother, much to his confusion. Before he could suggest heading up to the beach the ground started shaking and a set of stairs started rising out of the water, right at the end of the dock. Black water rushed off it as it came up, and small, multicored axolotl's scampered off it. They jumped back into the water, disappearing into the night sea.

Ford exchanged looks with Fiddleford, then snorted at the ruffed green floral shirt and brown poofy pants he was now wearing. There was a white lab coat on top, except it looked like tail coat. A pair of rainbow googles was on his head, and his banjo was starpped to his back, minus the string. He was Less of a pirate/adventurer, and more of a bard/nobleman/scientist.

Fiddleford grimaced at it, then sighed, "Remind me to talk about his sense of fashion too."

"Thats a lost cause i fear," Ford said with a shake of his head and a smirk as he led the way to the stairs, "Now lets go, hopefully he's waiting for us down there."

Fiddleford grumbled, but followed. The sound of their footsteps disappeared once they hit the first step, and the water felt like the barest of pressure once they hit the water line. Ford slowed down as it reached his knees, trying to find the next step with his foot so he wouldn't loose his footing and fall.

This turned out to be pointless, as once they were waist deep the stairs disappeared, turning into thousands of tiny rainbow axolotl. Ford shouted, then took a deep breath before his head hit the water and his vision went black.

He froze, before he realized he wasn't unconscious, just blind. The stars that had glittered on the surface were no where to be seen, and the only reason he knew he wasn't in some deeper sleep was beause he could feel Fiddlefords hands clutching his arm like a lifeling. HIs lungs started burning, and he kicked his legs and tried to swim back towards the surface.

"What are you doing?" Stan asked, and Ford whipped around to see his brother, floating right next to him. If it wasn't for the water pressing in all around him, Fords jaw would have dropped at the sight of him.

He wasn't an axolotl, but he wasn't himself either. His two forms had mashed together, resulting in his human shaped brother, with frills sticking out of the side his head, speckled skin, and a tail. He was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of boxer, but what really caught his attention was Stan's eyes.

They were pitch black, staring straight at him.

Ford made a questioning sound at him, and Stan tilted his head, like he did when he was an axolotl and Ford asked him a question. Then he blew a raspberry and maybe rolled his eyes, reaching forwards to grab Fords hand and probably Fiddlefords with the other.

He had no idea, despite how clear Stan looked, he still couldnt see his friend.

"You guys gotta stop using your brains," Stan said, dragging Ford forwards as he kicked his legs and wiggled his tail, "Its a dream! Why're you tryin' to breath?"

Ford glared at him then tried to scream when Stan suddenly let go and surged forwards, slamming his weirdly textured hands on the sides of Fords face, pushing the bubble out. The starange dream water flooded his mouth, and he coughed at the strange taste of hopes and never ending potential for a better future.

He bent over and coughed some more as it went down his throat and into his lungs, not burning like drowning but fuzzy like clouds.

Dreams were so weird.

He looked up to see Stan patting Fiddlefords back, then gasped.

The pitch-black void had been replaced, dazzling his eyes with starlight. Far below him he could see a blue and pink mist, with shimmering seaweed growing out and waving in an unseen current. The stars were all around them, darting around and twisting around like fish, swimming around the plants and going on endlessly in every direction.

"Stanley," Ford whispered, reaching out to run his hand over one of the starweeds, "This is beautiful."

"I guess," Stan grumbled, grabbing their hands again and swimming further along, "Too crowded for my taste. Its impossible to find what i'm looking for sometimes."

"What do you usually look for?" Fiddleford asked, looking around at the stars and kicking his feet, "Isn't this a dream? You can just make what you want."

"Pssshh" Stan said, letting go and doing a somersault, before twisting to swim around them, "Gotta find you, don't I? It was such a pain, look how many stars are out here! You ever try finding just one!"

Ford shot Stan a look of confusion, then examined a nearby star. It looked idencical to the rest, in a soothing blue color. He turned back to Stan before he let himself get distracted, focusing on his brother.

"Stanley," he said, getting his attention, "how do you feel? Do you remember who you are?"

"What kind of question is that?" Stan asked, twirling around and swimming over them, "Of course i know who I am, I'm me!"

"And whats your name?" Fiddleford asked, trying to swim closer to Ford. Ford reahed back, and they clasped their hands together as Stan circled them, not a care in the world.

"Easy," Stan said, "I'm Sssssss-"

"-tanley," Ford interupted, before his brother could keep making an 'S' sound, "That's your name, can you say it?"

"Hmm." Stan squinted at him, then shook his head, flopping the frills back and forth, "Thanks, but i know my own name, Suord."

"Suord?" Ford asked, bewildered.

"And anyway, this is a dream!" Stan spread his arms out, wide grin on his face, "Lets play some games! Go on an adventure! Have some fun! What do you want to do?"

Stan tilted his head, eager expression on his face. Ford sighed, then smiled back at him. While it seemed his awareness of himself was as gone as ever, this was the first time he'd actually asked them what they wanted to dream about. Usually Stan just did what he wanted, and either ignored or couldn't comprehend their complaints.

"I've been hankering for a robot dream," Fiddleford muttered next to him, "Seein' some folks obliterated that I can't very well do in the wakin' world."

"You got it Fiddlecube!" Stan shouted, grabbing their hands and dragging them back through the starlit sea. Fiddleford muttered about 'Fiddlecube,' but Ford ignored him, focused on Stan's strange hybrid form.

He'd have to ask Stan what he remembered, once they woke up. Hopefully their readings would be more helpful in determining the source of Stan's ability.

Until then he let himself enjoy their dream adventure, laughing with Stan as Fiddleford amassed a robot army, then set it loose on various annoying peers and fellow scientist.

It was only a dream after all.

The next day the readings, much to his annoyance, had configured themselves in such a way that everything showed an axolotl face, sticking out its tongue, and the words 'The giant lizard said he could'.

[a-universe-needing-rest]

I think 9-1-1 really messed up with the back half of this season (and by that I mean the last like 4-5 episodes). This season had so many things going for it in terms of character arcs, and potential future storylines, and they disregarded pretty much all of it.

Before lab rats they had set up almost all of the characters with something for the season, and after they just dropped all of them??? For example Eddie’s whole choosing joy thing, and learning how to stand up for himself and what he wants, totally lost in the last few episodes because he learned that what he had chosen to do to get his son back and repair that relationship was wrong. Which like yeah Eddie really should have moved them back sooner and he belongs at the 118 with his family, but he should have realized that for himself, with some input from Chris, so we really get to see how their relationship has healed and how choosing joy helps that. But we got none of that.

Also we get barely anything from Maddie or Hen in the back half even though Maddie was set up to be worried about her pregnancy and how her most recent NDE affected her. And with Hen, they did such a poor job in showing us anything about her grief over Bobby, and the only real character moment we got from her was her turning down Captain, something that has been set up for her for a long time. Don’t get me wrong I think Chimney has grown a lot since the last time we saw him as captain and I think he would be great as Captain now especially after the last episode, but to basically take the position from Hen, when that is where all the signs have been pointing for so long kind of sucks.

As for Ravi, while I am so glad he is finally a main it feels like they didn’t give him anything this last bit. The climax of his arc was obviously him going to commit treason for the 118, which I was ecstatic about cause he is so apart of the family, but after Bobby died we didn’t see any of him mourning, or really bonding with the rest of them to cement that bond, even though we know he is truly part of the family of the 118 mains. I just wish we had gotten more time with him outside of the emergencies.

Don’t even get me started on Buck. Buck is my favorite and it just feels like we were strung along this season in terms of anything to do with Buck and his relationships, especially concerning his bisexuality.

Next Athena. I love Athena and I hate how much hurt she has gone through, especially considering this is the third time we have seen her grieve a relationship, and her future with that person. There was no need to put her through that again. We’ve seen her figure out a new future with Bobby after Michael came out, and we’ve seen her grieve over Emmett, the loss of their future together, and the loss of their past. Obviously with each of these she grieved differently and each of her relationships here were different, but with the way this show works they don’t show that very well, so they are comparable because they don’t show all of the complexities when it comes to her relationship and how she grieved differently. It just feel’s reused. Not to say that Angela Bassett didn’t do an amazing job with her performance because she did, but the show itself was the problem here.

There are so many things I can say about Chimney here. I do like how in the last episodes they gave him the arc that will make him captain, even though as I stated previously, I think it should have gone to Hen, because I do think he has changed and grown since the last time we saw him as captain, and I do think he will be good for that. However, I still think they really botched him after Bobby’s death. Especially considering both he and Maddie had NDEs this season. That could have created such a good partnering arc to her about how they feel about that. That could have been something serious for them to consider, about their futures, and just an amazing point to see more of their relationship. I don’t really remember if they gave him a clearer arc earlier in the series that they just gave up on otherwise I would touch on that as well.

Now for Bobby. I hate that they killed him off, especially in a way where he sacrificed himself. They took a character who was suicidal for a long time, who was finally able to be ready to live and live happily and they killed him in a self-sacrificing manner. I cannot repeat this enough. It feels like such a slap in the face to both the character and to anyone who related to his character in this way. I’m so upset about it. I probably would have been upset no matter how he died, but this is bullshit. He was finally ready to live and be happy with his family that he built, and they took that away. There are other ways they could have changed to show go let him live while still moving some else into the spot of captain, because I agree l that I think the show did need a change in that way, because they arcs and the way the show has progressed was calling for it, but I think there were better ways. I know it would have been out of character for Bobby to step down, or to retire without something huge happening, but I think maybe if they had just made so he had no choice, like an extreme injury(I know what show I’m talking about here but still), or something, where he could still be there for his family, and be happy, and grow old with Athena would have been better instead of killing him off. Also his entire send off felt extremely rushed, disappointing, and disrespectful to both the character and the actor.

Didn't really touch on any of the side characters here, but I get why we didn't really see many in the back half cause there was so much going on, but I missed some of them, and would have loved to see more of them, and also show how they were effected by Bobby's death.

As for the fans, I think it was an entirely disrespectful end to this season. Breaking promises that have been made in the past about killing off mains, hyping up things they definitely did not happen this season to increase engagement, queerbaiting(because yes they did fucking queerbait with Buck and Eddie, and they know they did, having a full episode about how Buck feels about Eddie, putting them in Buzzfeed together, and literally calling them Buddie in tweets and promotional things). I can’t speak for everyone but I can say for damn sure that this has broken my trust in 9-1-1 forever. There is literally nothing they can do to regain my trust. I'm pissed as hell. At this point I don't think I will be watching season 9. There are a few things that might change my mind if I happen to see them when it comes out, however this will not be the same as regaining my trust. Honestly, if I do go back and they do pull more of the bullshit we saw this season, I will not be continuing the show at all, which is a shame considering this show has so much potential (that is unfortunately so often wasted).

[mintmatcha]

cw: death

Everything in your house is the same as it ever was. All of your dishes are stacked in the sink, your mail is piled on the hall, the floors need a good polish: Sero kicks off his shoes and quietly observes it all, soaking in the familiarity.

Because the second he sees you, things will no longer be normal.

The usual was thrown out the window months ago, when you strolled up to his apartment and announced you were dying.

"Terminal," you had said. "Less than a year, probably."

Neither one of you had cried in that moment. Nothing had been tangible yet. He thinks, maybe, he had even laughed at the thought. The idea of his longest friendship ending so abruptly, so early felt impossible.

Today, as Sero walks into your living room, it's real.

From your indent on the couch, it takes a moment for you to even process he's entered the room. You full body jump, scrambling to grab the television remote.

"Oh-" you throw a hand over your heart. "You can't scare me like that."

Sero cackles as he leans against the wall. A rerun of your least favorite show is playing. Turns out, even when your time is limited, you still like hate watching things.

"Did you think I was that fox again?" Sero asks and you gasp indignantly.

"Oh my--" You toss your hands up in the air with an insulted scoff. "I swear to god that actually happened. Cross my heart!"

The animation returns to your face when you laugh. It makes Sero's heart ache to see that you haven't faded, even as your body goes.

"I told you. I literally left my front door open to take out the trash and I turn around-" Sero's heard this story at least a fozen times, but he nods along like it's new. "That fox was in my doorway! Just looking at me like-"

Your eyes widen and bulge. It's a familiar lyrics good for impression, Sero thinks. He can picture it's red eyes boring into his.

"It just watched me and I watched it watching me. Then it turned around and calmly walked away, like it was no big deal." The spike of energy in your voice is fading. You settle back into the couch with a placid look, watching him with a passive interest.

Sero strolls over and joins you on the couch. You move your legs to give him room, but he pulls them back over his lap.

"You're so full of shit," he says. "I've lived in this city my whole life and I've never seen a fox."

The smile on your face splits wider. The two of you sit with it for a long while, watching the subtitles on the television flip by. Sero keeps his hands on your ankles, squeezing them as if it's a shape he needs to remember.

What are the things he should be holding on to now? Should he be having grand conversation with you, something kind of final, impossible talk that's going to make the inevitable easier?

"When I die-" you say suddenly. "I'm coming back as a fox and I'm going to sneak into your house."

"Really?" Sero asks. He's no longer playful, just genuine. "You're gonna be a fox?"

You shrug with one shoulder, never looking away from the screen. It's getting close, he thinks. There's nothing he can truly pinpoint, but there's something about you that's slipping away.

"Yeah, why not?" you muse. "There are worse lives."

"Okay." He squeezes your ankles again. "I'll keep an eye out for you."

Sero considers saying that he loves you, or that he can't imagine the world without you, or that the grief he's already carrying feels so ridiculous because you're still here, still in reach but all of it feels unfair to say. Instead, he holds it in until the corners of his eyes burn and his breathing hiccups.

"Or maybe an oarfish," you say. "That'd be sick."

Sero palms away his tears. "You just wanna play Animal Crossing."

"Busted." You crack a smile. "Can you grab another carton of ice cream for me? The last one melted."

Yesterday's container is half full and completely melted, sitting on your coffee table, but Sero gets up anyway. He tosses you your switch, then strolls to the kitchen.

"You can't just eat garbage, you know," he calls back. "It'll kill you."

Your guffaw rings throughout the whole apartment. "I'll eat garbage all I want."

.

It's three weeks later when he passes your place again. A big, red sign is in the window declaring it's for sale. Your parents had placed your furniture on the curb and the neighbors had already claimed all of the pieces, including your misshapen couch. Sero knows there is no piece of you in any of those items, but it feels cathartic, like spreading your ashes across the street.

There's one trash bag on the curb, filled with things your family didn't want. He wonders if you threw out your vibrator before you died, or if it's in that black bag, fully charged, never to be used again. An animal is picking at the plastic, rustling at the plastic.

"Pst," Sero calls out to scare it away. "Scat-"

A head peeks up and he catches red eyes, wide and bulged, boring into his. A fox, with bits of garbage stuck to its muzzle. It regards him for a long while, watching him watching it.

"Hey," he says. "You're supposed to be at my apartment, not yours."

The animal doesn't blink.

"I'll-" A wave of sorrow hits all at once. Every tear he didn't shed, every joke he didn't tell or story he didn't share, every little moment that'll never happen. It hits like a train, right into his forehead. It's the calm kind of cry, the one without gasps or sobs, but an abnormal amount of tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I'll keep the door open for you, okay?" he whispers. "Just visit soon."

The fox turns and lopes off into the dusk.

[honeyhotteoks]

serious spoilers for the next chapter of tnt so please click at your own risk here but i just have to rant about something and that includes revealing some future plot / future choices so please only click if you don’t mind that kind of thing.

okay so after the last chapter went up (literally almost a year ago i’m so sorry i didn’t realize it had been that long????) i felt weirdly stalled with the story. i had it fully outlined from the beginning, but made some decisions on the fly in chapter 15 that made me generally feel like hmm maybe i should rework things. then obviously i took a break and then worked on across stardust.

now that i’m working on TNT again… i realized the thing that was holding me up was the decision in chapter 15 to have yunho and mingi have a moment of intimacy between themselves that isn’t centered on reader. it’s something that in omegaverse outside of fan fiction i’ve noticed people are SUPER polarized on. in reverse harem in general, it seems like there are two camps of people, people who like “sword crossing” so to speak or m/m content and people who are very not into it. when i was writing the husband series, i remember getting a little bit of heat from people who didn’t like some of the scenes where yunho and seonghwa were hooking up explicitly on page… which is funny to me because at least in that fic i was extremely clear that they were married and lord do they be fucking… but people were still uncomfortable / would have preferred the guys to be fully focused sexually on the reader character.

when i set out to write TNT, initially i was never going to have yunho and mingi be intimate with one another, way more like two bro-y best friends and their girl….. but the more i wrote the more i just kept wanting them to have their moment, hence chapter 15. after that…. i just got super locked up trying to figure out where to go and how hard to push that because i was afraid of upsetting either one of the two camps of people who might be reading this fic.

and then i realized….. i don’t care anymore what you guys think. i mean i obviously want everyone to love it, but i guess what i’m trying to say is that i’ve always written the fics that i wish i could just read, and i personally enjoy m/m content in the context of a harem. i always find myself writing queer characters into my fics, and as a bisexual person who loves hot people of all kinds…. that’s the kind of fantasy i enjoy. so i was working on chapter 16 and i just decided…. fuck it. i don’t want to be afraid of upsetting someone anymore, i just want to write the thing and let it be what it will be.

the result of that is basically one of the hottest ideas i think i’ve ever had where yunho and mingi go down on reader together and end up making out and i know some people are going to hate that…. but i just don’t think i care anymore. i know enough people will be down for it, and i know at the end of the day i will love it more knowing i was honest about what i wanted for these characters.

anyways….. there’s a real dynamic shift coming in the next chapter, and it doesn’t completely change everything and isn’t this huge deal on the page, but for some readers who didn’t expect this i feel like it might be. i really hope everyone enjoys it and is happy regardless, but after some of the messages i got post-husbands series i’m not sure how this one will go. we’ll just have to see. i just wish it hadn’t taken me almost a year to figure that out because i love this fic and i know so many of you have been patiently waiting for its return.

okay sorry for the rambling i’m going back to writing these three be literally feral for each other i hope i can finish it up soon 🤞