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leriexoxo · 13 days ago

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Angry Boys - Seungmin

Lessons In Obedience

Tags: Degrading praise, dom!Seungmin, punishment, forced counting, spitting, orgasm denial, spitplay, slight dumbification, tutor kink, sarcastic dirty talk, no aftercare, smut MDNI.

Word count: 3k

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

ANGRY BOYS MASTERLIST

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You didn’t think tutoring would feel like detention.

But that’s exactly what it felt like under Seungmin’s eyes—sharp behind his wire frames, arms crossed, sitting so upright and composed it made your back ache just trying to mimic him.

“Third mistake,” he said flatly. “Do it again.”

You blinked at the page.

“But—”

“Don’t speak. Write.”

You bit your lip. The pen trembled in your hand as you tried to redo the equation, brain fogged from more than just math. It was the way he said it. The way he always said it.

Low and cold, like he already knew you were going to fail him. Like he enjoyed watching you try.

And maybe… maybe he did.

He never touched you. Never even raised his voice. But Seungmin didn’t have to. His control came in the pauses, in the rules, in the way he could make you feel utterly pathetic just by arching an eyebrow.

“I told you not to wear skirts this short when we study.”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice how distracted you are today?”

“If you want to keep this arrangement, you need to prove you’re worthy of my time.”

It was never overt.

But it made you squirm.

And you never broke the rules—because deep down, you knew the moment you did, Seungmin wouldn’t just scold you. He’d ruin you.

—-

You were already five minutes late.

Not enough to seem completely careless—but enough to make him notice. And of course, he did. He always did.

Seungmin didn’t say a word as you walked into the study room, textbook clutched to your chest like a shield. He just glanced at the clock on the wall, then down at his own perfectly written notes. His jaw flexed once. Disapproval. Barely visible—but you knew it was there.

You closed the door quietly, heart pounding.

“Sit.” One word. Sharp.

You obeyed instantly, dropping into the seat across from him. He didn’t look at you, not even once, just pushed your worksheet forward and tapped his pen against the header. “You left three questions incomplete. Again.”

“I got stuck on the second one,” you mumbled.

“I didn’t ask for an excuse.” His eyes flicked up now, dark and unreadable. “You had time.”

You flushed, lips pressing together.

Seungmin reached forward, dragging the worksheet toward him and circling the mistakes with methodical precision. Then he folded his arms, leaned back, and stared at you for a beat too long.

“You’re wasting my time.”

The air left your lungs.

“I—I’m sorry, I—”

“You think this is a favor? I don’t give out favors.”

His tone was still calm. Controlled. But that only made it worse. Made you shift in your seat, thighs clenching on instinct. He noticed that too—his gaze dipped for half a second, then returned to your face like it never left.

“You know what your problem is?” he said, voice almost thoughtful. “You come in here hoping I’ll go easy on you because you bat your lashes and say sorry with that little pout.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Your breath caught.

“You like playing dumb,” he said, standing up now, coming around the table slowly. “But you’re not dumb, are you? You just want attention. You want mine.”

He was behind you before you could respond, hand gripping the back of your chair.

“You’ve been slipping for weeks,” he murmured by your ear. “Sloppy, unfocused, distracted… I think it’s time you learned how serious I am about rules.”

You froze.

“I’m going to give you a choice.”

His hand slid down to your shoulder, squeezing once, before moving away again—like he was holding himself back.

“You can leave now. Pretend this session didn’t happen. And I won’t waste another second on you for the rest of the semester.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes wide.

“Or…”

He leaned closer, lips just ghosting your ear.

“You stay. And learn the hard way what it means to disappoint me.”

Your mouth was dry.

You didn’t move, didn’t blink. Seungmin hadn’t touched you in any real way—just words, tone, the shift of energy so potent it made your spine straighten like he’d commanded it to.

But you didn’t leave.

He waited, watching your breath stutter in your chest, and when you didn’t move, he clicked his tongue once.

“Figures,” he muttered. “Of course you’d stay.”

He walked back in front of you, sliding his chair closer, so the distance was just enough to make you squirm. You could smell his cologne now. Clean and sharp, just like him. His eyes raked over your face.

“Let’s test your obedience then.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Hands on your thighs. Back straight. Eyes on mine.”

You did it. Immediately. Like muscle memory.

“Good,” he said—flat, clinical. “Now. Don’t break eye contact.”

He waited, silence stretching heavy between you. Your pulse raced. The way he stared, without blinking, without softening—it made your skin itch. Made your thighs tense under your skirt.

Seconds passed. Then a full minute.

You shifted.

He raised a brow. “Problem?”

You swallowed. “N-No, sunbaenim.”

“Speak up.”

“No, sunbaenim.”

He smirked. “Then stop fidgeting.”

You tried. God, you tried. But when he rolled his sleeves up exposing his veiny arms and smooth skin—and fixed his glasses with that same meticulous flick—you bit your lip, and your gaze flickered down.

“Ah.”

Your head snapped back up—but it was too late.

Seungmin sat back with a sharp breath. “I see.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shut up.”

Your mouth slammed shut.

“You want to act like a dumb little brat in heat? Then I’ll treat you like one.”

He stood again, shoving the chair back with a scrape against the floor. You flinched.

“Up. Bend over the desk.”

You stared at him.

“Now.”

Your legs wobbled as you stood. The desk dug into your hips as you bent forward, hands flat on the surface. The position was humiliating, your skirt riding up, your breath hitching in anticipation you didn’t dare name.

He stepped behind you. You could feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze.

“No noise unless I say so. No moving unless I allow it. And if you dare break another rule…”

His hand pressed against your lower back, firm.

“I’ll remind you exactly who’s in charge here.”

Your cheek was pressed to the desk, breath fogging the wood as you braced for whatever Seungmin had planned. He hadn’t spoken in nearly a minute—and that was the worst part. The silence. The cold, calculating way he seemed to study you like a specimen beneath him.

“You really thought you could flinch at my rules and still have me?”

His voice sliced through the air like a blade. You shuddered.

“You’re not even worth the time it takes to correct you.”

The sting of those words made your stomach drop—but your thighs clenched tighter.

“Say it,” he said.

You blinked. “W-What?”

His hand curled around your neck—not choking, just grounding. Holding.

“Say you’re not worth it.”

Your throat bobbed as you whimpered. “I’m… not worth it, sunbaenim.”

“That’s right. You’re just a pathetic little distraction. A dumb girl who can’t even keep her grades up without making a show of herself.”

His hand slid down, lifting your skirt with casual, cold fingers. You gasped when he exposed you fully, no shame in the sound.

“No panties?” he scoffed. “You wanted this.”

You bit back a whine.

“Don’t make a sound.”

Then came the first sharp slap—right between your thighs. You jolted, a quiet cry slipping out anyway.

“I said no noise.” Another slap, harder this time.

“You’re failing at every command. Do you even want to learn?”

“Y-Yes—!”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sunbaenim—!”

He leaned in close again, hand gripping your hip now with bruising pressure.

“Then prove it. Make yourself cum. Right here. Right now. While I watch.”

You froze.

“If you can do it without making a single noise, maybe—maybe—I’ll let you keep coming to our sessions. If not?”

His fingers trailed the curve of your ass.

“You can go beg another tutor to put up with your pathetic neediness.”

You trembled. Your hand slid between your legs slowly, fingers hesitant—but you did it.

And Seungmin watched.

Watched as you touched yourself under his cruel gaze. Silent. Shaking. Desperate.

He crouched beside you, whispering poison in your ear as your body started to shake.

“Look at you. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Not tutoring. Not grades. Just me. Standing over you. Making you feel small.”

You whined, dangerously close, your hand a blur.

“Pathetic. You’re not even doing it right—”

He shoved your hand away and slid his fingers over you in one brutal swipe, just enough to feel how wet you were.

“Disgusting. You got this wet from nothing.”

“Please—” you gasped, voice finally breaking.

“You don’t even deserve release.”

He stood again, pulling away completely. Cold. Dismissive.

“Fix your clothes. And rewrite the entire worksheet before tomorrow.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide, breathing wrecked.

He looked down at you like you were beneath him.

“Earn the privilege of being beneath me again.”

—

You were early.

Of course you were. You hadn’t stopped thinking about the last session for a full week. It played on a loop in your mind—the burn of his words, the feel of his hand, the way he made you touch yourself like you were nothing. And then the way he left you with a cold stare and an impossible assignment.

But you turned that worksheet in flawless.

Because maybe, just maybe, he’d see it. A silent plea buried in the margins. A desperate request for more.

You waited at your desk like a schoolgirl with a secret.

When he finally walked in, tall and calm, every part of you tensed in anticipation. He barely looked at you. No smirk. No flicker of memory from last week. Just cold professionalism.

“So,” Seungmin said, adjusting his glasses, “today we’re reviewing your syntax from chapter six.”

You stared at him. Nothing?

He set your worksheet down between you. “Better than last time. Barely,” he added, eyes scanning the page. Still no recognition of how you’d fallen apart in front of him. Like you hadn’t begged for release, like he hadn’t humiliated you in the most addictive way.

Something snapped.

You reached beneath the desk.

He noticed the movement but didn’t look up.

Until you spread your legs.

His eyes flicked to you sharply. You could see it—something shifting behind the frames of his glasses. Still, he said nothing.

So you took it further.

You slid your hand beneath your skirt, fingers brushing right over your bare heat.

“I didn’t wear panties again,” you whispered, voice breathy.

Still, nothing.

So you moaned—quiet but intentional.

“Are you going to punish me again, sunbaenim?”

That did it.

The pen in his hand stopped. He placed it gently on the desk like it offended him.

Then, without a word, he stood and locked the door.

Your heart leapt.

He walked back, slower this time. Measured. Like a man approaching something he already owned.

“You think this is a joke?” His voice was low, clipped.

You smiled sweetly. “I think you liked it last time.”

He yanked your chair back from the desk and you gasped as he pulled you up by the arm, dragging you toward the professor’s table at the front of the room. He bent you over it in one swift move, your cheek hitting the cool surface.

“You want me to punish you again?”

You nodded, breathing hard.

“Say it.”

“I want you to punish me, sunbaenim.”

“Then don’t move.”

You heard the metallic sound of his belt unbuckling.

“I gave you one chance,” he murmured, dragging the leather slow between his hands, “to walk out with dignity.”

You clenched around nothing, already throbbing.

“You chose this instead.”

He pulled your skirt up—no hesitation this time—and let the belt fall on your ass, sharp and sudden.

You cried out.

“Quiet.”

Another strike.

You whimpered.

“You don’t even know what you’ve invited.”

His hand slid between your thighs again, two fingers swiping through the mess you’d already made of yourself.

“Disgusting.”

He pressed the wetness to your lips.

“Lick it.”

You obeyed instantly, licking his fingers like a starved girl.

He finally growled low, something snapping in his tone.

“You want to act like a slut in my sessions? Then you’ll learn what it costs.”

Your cheek was pressed to the desk, the wood grain imprinted on your skin, your breath coming shallow and shaky.

Seungmin stood behind you, cold and precise. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“You came in here thinking I’d fuck you just for spreading your legs like a desperate little bitch?” he asked flatly.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged gently—just enough to make you listen. “I asked you a question.”

“I—no, sunbaenim,” you choked, thighs trembling.

“No?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Then what the fuck is this?”

You gasped as he slapped your ass again, the sting landing perfectly where his belt had already reddened your skin.

“Maybe I need to remind you what you’re here for. Education first. Pussy second.”

You bit your lip, nodding quickly.

“Good girl,” he said. “Now, let’s start simple. Spell ‘embarrassed.’”

Your eyes widened.

“E–M–B–A–R…” you paused, blinking, trying to remember.

Wrong.

The belt cracked again.

“Start over,” he ordered.

You whimpered. “E–M–B–A–R–R–A–S–S–E–D…”

“Mm.” He hummed approvingly. “Next. Define ‘submissive.’ Use it in a sentence.”

Your mouth went dry.

“Submissive,” you breathed, “is… someone who gives up control willingly. Um. Example… ‘She was so submissive, she let her tutor bend her over the desk and—’”

Another slap, harsher.

“I said educational sentence, not slut monologue.”

You sobbed, back arching, wrists gripping the edge of the desk. Your thighs were soaked. His voice alone had you dripping.

“And what’s the formula for passive voice in English grammar?”

You were shaking. “Object… verb… subject…”

“Louder.”

“Object, verb, subject, sunbaenim—!”

“Wrong tone.”

He leaned forward, voice a razor’s edge beside your ear.

“You can’t even obey basic instruction. What makes you think you’re worth my time?”

That broke something in you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, trembling.

“I don’t want your sorry.”

He grabbed your hips roughly, yanked you back into place.

“I want your obedience.”

And then—without warning—he slid inside you in one brutal thrust.

You cried out, knees buckling, hands scrabbling for purchase on the desk.

“You wanted this, right? Wanted to see what happens when you fuck with your class president?”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

He snapped his hips forward, every thrust sending a filthy sound echoing through the classroom.

“You’ll answer every question next time. Even if I have to beat it into you.”

You moaned, completely gone.

“I’ll make you smarter,” he grunted, “if it’s the last fucking thing I do.”

“Your punishment’s not over,” Seungmin said, voice low and glacial as he gripped your hips tighter, keeping you bent and helpless over the desk.

You were a mess—hair tangled, cheeks wet, lips swollen from biting back moans. The desk under your chest trembled slightly from every hard thrust, each one precise, punishing, and deliberate.

“This isn’t about pleasure,” he snapped, slamming into you again, deep and mean, “so stop moaning like a fucking porn star.”

You tried to stay quiet, biting your lip hard, but the way he stretched you, the pace of his thrusts—slow enough to make you lose your mind but hard enough to bruise your hips—it was impossible to stay composed.

Your body was betraying you. The slick sounds echoing between your thighs were obscene, soaking everything beneath you. And Seungmin knew it.

“Slut,” he muttered, watching the way you clenched around him, “you don’t even deserve to study under me, the way you act.”

You whimpered, shame and arousal twisting in your stomach like fire.

Then he pulled out suddenly, and you gasped at the loss, clenching around nothing. He grabbed your chin and forced you to look up at him from over your shoulder.

“You wanna cum?”

You nodded fast, eyes wide.

“Then earn it.”

He grabbed your arm and dragged you up from the desk, flipping you and pushing you to sit right back on the edge, legs wide, your cunt glistening in the dim light of the classroom. His cock, hard and flushed, slapped against your inner thigh as he stepped in.

But instead of fucking you again, he handed you the little stack of flashcards from your previous session.

Your breath hitched.

“Read them,” he said flatly.

“W–What?” you blinked.

“You have sixty seconds. Get them all right, or I walk out and leave you like this.”

You stared at him, flushed and trembling, desperate to be filled again, to cum. And he just stood there—arms crossed, cock twitching, jaw clenched—watching you suffer.

You grabbed the cards with shaky fingers.

“Define ‘syntax,’” he ordered, tone icy.

You stammered, “The arrangement of words and phrases—into sentences—”

“Wrong. Full definition, you know better.”

You started over, voice desperate, your thighs trembling from the ache of being left empty. Seungmin didn’t blink. He just watched you squirm, eyes dark, hungry, and hard.

When you finally got through five definitions without messing up, he stepped forward, gripped your throat gently, and whispered, “Say ‘thank you, sunbaenim.’”

“Thank you, sunbaenim,” you breathed, eyes glassy.

“Now,” he growled, lining himself up again, “extra credit.”

He thrust back in with no warning, one hand on your throat, the other pressed to your stomach as he fucked up into you with teeth-gritted restraint. No mercy. No breaks.

Just raw, primal dominance.

Your head lolled back as you cried out, finally allowed to fall apart. He didn’t slow down.

“You’re going to cum for me like a good little student,” he whispered into your ear, “and when I’m done with you, you’ll be studying everything I give you. No hesitation. No mistakes.”

You came with a sob, body arching, unable to hold it in.

And only then did Seungmin stop—pulling out, breathing hard, not even spilling inside. Instead, he dragged his hand across your thigh and smeared your own mess back between your folds.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, tucking himself back into his pants. “You’ve got three chapters to read before next session.”

And with that, he walked out—leaving you trembling, soaked, and breathless on the desk you used to call a study table.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: 😈 i know you liked it 😂 so just drop me that like and comment! And stay tuned!!!!!! Other members on the series are coming up

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @imagine-all-the-imagines

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demon-country · 5 months ago

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Man, no wonder Stolas got literal heart eyes after Blitz did this. This was his "Harriet! Don't get on that train!" moment, the big gesture he so desperately wanted just so he'd know that Blitz really did care about him enough to want him to stay. He had been so sure that that was going to be the last time he ever saw Blitz, that the last thing he ever did would be saving Blitz's life, and Blitz's response was to fight against the chains dragging him away just so he could run to Stolas with a desperate, heart-wrenching plea not to sacrifice himself.

Blitz had thought for sure that he'd never be able to give Stolas the kind of dramatic romcom moment Stolas longed for, but the joke's on him and us, because even though we all knew he would inevitably end up giving Stolas one and were eagerly awaiting it, no one expected it to be like that. And yet, the writers pulled through for us once again, because there really could not have been a more meaningful and moving way for him to have done so.

Anything where Blitz actually said something along the lines of "don't get on that train", could have been misconstrued by both Stolas and irl media illiterate viewers as Blitz just saying what Stolas wanted to hear without actually meaning it (assuming Stolas even remembers that conversation). But there was nothing contrived about this, there was no time for him to have possibly thought about any potential romcom moments at all; he just saw that he was about to lose Stolas for good and fought as hard and as frantically as he could, just to beg Stolas not to take the fall for him. To not love him so much that he'd think Blitz was worth protecting with his very life.

And I don't even think he realizes just how much that meant to Stolas, to know that the man he loves would fight for him with such fervor, despite knowing that it was a fruitless effort. Blitz, without knowing it and without even realizing just how much raw, earnest, desperate love he was displaying, gave Stolas exactly the kind of overt and undeniable proof that he was loved and wanted that he had always needed.

Except that, as Stolas has already found out, that's not enough. He made his big gesture to Blitz and Blitz made one to him, and that's a great start, but love's not just shown through grand gestures and they're not what'll help you pick up the pieces when your world falls apart.

The smaller, softer, quieter gestures of love are what Stolas will need most going forward, but for someone who has received as little love in his life as Stolas has, who has suffered from depression for ages, and who has just lost almost everything (including his antidepressants!), it might end up being hard for him to tell the difference between what is done out of love and what is done out of mere obligation to repay a debt. Not to worry, though, because he'll learn how to spot it soon enough.

He'll see that sometimes love is shown by taking care of someone when they don't have the strength to do it themselves

And by taking them by the hand and giving them a place to rest when it all becomes too much for them to bear

And by catching them when they fall, even when you're upset with each other

And by being so comforting that they feel safe falling asleep and leaving themselves vulnerable next to you without any hesitation.

Perhaps the greatest injustice the world has dealt to Blitz is by convincing him that he ruins lives, when the truth is that the person behind his walls has a way of loving people that is so incredibly healing. Simply by being his real, honest self, he manages to give the people he cares about the kind of love they need the most, without even trying. Without even noticing how much his words and actions have affected them for the better.

And now that those walls have started to drop, his loved ones have been able to start showing how much they love and want to support him as well. I have faith that once Stolas has cottoned on to the little ways Blitz has been showing him that he cares, that he'll start reciprocating those gestures. The man is such a romantic and in the song Just Look My Way he even says "I can give you everything you need" as well as "and no matter what in this world I could give, it's not enough"; there's no way he won't eventually try to provide for and take care of Blitz once he's well enough to. He just needs some time to heal, and until then Blitz will be there, giving him the love and care that he needs to keep his head above water.

Tl;dr: all the people who said that Blitz would never be able to give Stolas what he needs in a partner have just been proven dead wrong on all counts, and will continue to be proven so.

#helluva boss #stolas goetia #blitzo #text post #meta #my post #stolitz #helluva boss spoilers #long post

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that-ineffable-devil · 1 year ago

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Charles' jealousy at the Cat King is obvious and overt. But he can feel justified in being upset with him because he's trapped them in Port Townsend and keeps interrupting their cases. And of course nobody else would really stop to think about it, because everyone thinks the Cat King is shady as hell.

His jealousy at Monty is more subtle--enough that the characters don't really notice it, but the audience has their attention drawn to it.

The way his smile fades when he watches the two of them together and thinks no one is looking.

The way his nose scrunches up in anger or frustration when he watches Monty show Edwin his astrology reading and Edwin not even acknowledge him leaving.

The way he tries to draw Edwin's attention away from the book Monty gave him and then, when he fails, directly addresses the time he's been spending with Monty, forcing Edwin's attention.

#he cheerfully responds to what he thinks is Edwin saying he has feelings for Monty #and part of that may be him being happy for his friend sure #but it's also peak Charles #he has no real reason to dislike Monty #unlike the Cat King #so he puts on the happy Charles face to make sure Edwin sees that and not anything else #dead boy detectives #charles rowland #edwin payne #edwin paine #payneland #paynland #paineland #painland

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1982grapejuiceblues · 22 days ago

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The Space Between

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Stranger Lanes Part 5

Summary: The night after their grocery run, Harry and Y/N settle into a softer, slower rhythm—one that neither of them tries to define, but both of them feel. What begins as cozy banter over groceries stretches into something deeper as they fall asleep side-by-side and wake the next morning still wrapped in quiet closeness. As the house wakes and the group’s dynamics shift, the change between Harry and Y/N becomes noticeable—visible in the space they share, the glances they hold, and the ease with which they orbit one another. Through small moments and slow conversations, they begin to realize they’ve been noticing each other for far longer than they thought. And now? They don’t want to stop.

Warnings: Emotional intimacy and physical closeness, Subtle group tension / awkward dynamics with exes, Unspoken jealousy (not graphic), Long stretches of slow-burn tension and silence, Extended quiet/physical vulnerability between characters, Strong mutual awareness / noticing / emotional softness, Vibes: soft, domestic, loaded eye contact, blanket warmth, “we’re not saying it, but we’re saying it”

A/N: You guys. The amount of messages that I've received these past two weeks asking me to update Stranger Lanes is insane, I'm so glad you love it! Without further ado, here we go! As always, comment or reblog to be added to the taglist! Love ya! <3

Word Count: 9.8K

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

By the time they got back to the lake house, her cheeks ached from smiling. Not the kind of smile you pull out for photos or to make small talk palatable—but the kind you forget you’re wearing, the kind that curls at the corners of your mouth because of something dumb someone said or the way someone looked at you across a narrow grocery aisle with too much toothpaste and too little judgment. Harry made her laugh. Not just polite, I-guess-that-was-funny laughter, but unfiltered, belly-deep laughter that left her leaning on the cart and pretending to scold him for making a scene when she was the one cackling in the cereal aisle.

It had been easy with him today. Maybe a little too easy. And now, as they unpacked bags of food in the warm yellow light of the kitchen, that same easy rhythm had followed them back like a soft hum beneath the surface.

He was beside her at the counter, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair a little tousled from running his hands through it all evening. He kept brushing against her, not in any overt way—just enough that their elbows collided when they both reached for the same bag of granola, just enough that his knee nudged hers when he stepped around her to grab a mixing bowl that wasn’t even in use yet. She should’ve minded. She didn’t.

The others were scattered throughout the house, drifting in and out of the kitchen to grab a snack or comment on something they’d forgotten. Ali had passed through twice just to eye the Doritos with suspicion, and Ben had made a barely veiled comment about “coordinated grocery store showmances” that Claire tried—and failed—to smooth over with a joke that landed with all the subtlety of a brick. But Y/N didn’t really care. Not in the way she used to.

Because Harry was leaning over the counter with a bag of apples tucked against his chest, humming some obscure tune under his breath, tossing her a look every time she opened a cabinet and couldn’t find what she needed. And every time, she found herself holding his gaze a little longer than necessary.

It had become a silent game, this exchange of glances. One she didn’t remember agreeing to play but now found herself reluctant to stop. He’d glance at her with those stupid green eyes and that crooked half-smile like he was in on some secret she hadn’t figured out yet, and it made her chest tighten in a way that felt suspiciously like wanting.

She reached for the bread and he reached for the peanut butter, and for a second, their hands brushed, fingers curling back reflexively. She felt it like static—quick, sudden, warm.

Harry looked at her. Not away. At her.

Y/N swallowed, but didn’t step back. “You gonna hoard the snacks or share with the class?”

His mouth twitched, amused. “You calling this a class?”

“I’m calling it a democracy. And I think I deserve equal access to the pretzels, at the very least.”

Harry leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice lower now. “Didn’t realize I’d been elected to office.”

“You haven’t,” she said, lips quirking. “You’re a temporary appointment at best.”

“Wow. Brutal.”

“Democracy’s ruthless.”

He looked at her for a beat longer, and then passed her the pretzels without breaking eye contact. “Here then. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “I’ll file it for future reference.”

It was nothing. It was everything. The quiet exchange. The ease. The small flickers of humor folded into something warmer.

And it didn’t stop there. Every time she moved, he was there—not in a suffocating way, but in that rare, magnetic kind of proximity that made her feel like they were orbiting the same sun. That sun, lately, was shaped suspiciously like a grocery list and the way Harry grinned at her like he knew she was about to say something sarcastic before she’d even opened her mouth.

And worse—she’d come to like it.

More than like it.

The hum of the refrigerator filled the space between them, layered beneath the soft shuffle of feet on tile and the occasional thump of a grocery bag being set down. The rest of the house had grown quieter now—Claire and Ben had retreated to the back porch with a couple of drinks and the unearned air of smugness that still made Y/N’s stomach twist, while Ali, ever the perceptive guardian angel, had claimed she was going upstairs to “sort out the towel situation,” which Y/N knew was code for I see what’s happening here and I’m giving you space. Everyone else had followed suit, either drifting to their rooms or settling into the den, and for the first time that evening, the kitchen belonged to just the two of them.

Y/N stood barefoot near the sink, sleeves pushed up, organizing the pantry with something that vaguely resembled purpose. But her brain had long stopped caring about where the almond butter went. All she could think about was the way Harry had started humming again—some bluesy guitar riff that didn’t quite belong to a real song but had enough shape and rhythm to stay stuck in her head. It matched the tempo of the evening: a little loose, a little unexpected, but easy to fall into.

He was crouched near the fridge now, rearranging produce with more care than anyone who had just launched a pineapple into the cart an hour earlier had any right to possess. And when he stood and glanced over at her, catching her mid-stare, his brows lifted as if to say you good? with nothing but the arch of his face.

She nodded, too quickly. “I was just—thinking about how weird it is that you’re good at this.”

“Organizing groceries?”

“Being useful. Functional. I feel like I need to recalibrate my entire impression of you.”

He grinned, slow and smug, and leaned a hip against the counter like he’d just won a bet. “See, this is why it’s fun to keep expectations low. Then when I’m actually helpful, it’s a revelation.”

Y/N scoffed, tossing a box of pasta into the pantry without looking. “You act like that was some kind of elaborate strategy.”

“Who says it wasn’t?”

She narrowed her eyes, but the amusement curled in her chest before she could try to stifle it. He made her feel off balance, but not in a way that felt dangerous. It was… disarming. Like he’d quietly invited her into a different version of the week than she thought she’d be having, and she’d somehow agreed without realizing.

And maybe she wasn’t mad about it.

“Why are you so chipper tonight?” she asked finally, watching him move toward the paper towels like they hadn’t shared the same exhaustion earlier in the car. “You were grumpy all day yesterday. Fully brooding. Brood-y. Broodman.”

Harry barked out a laugh as he tore into the plastic. “Broodman?”

“It was that or The Grumble Knight.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alright, Shakespeare. Let’s calm down.”

“You say that,” she said, leaning against the pantry doorway now, her shoulder brushing the frame. “But the Harry I drove here with would’ve had at least four sulky comebacks by now. And he wouldn’t have bought the marshmallows.”

“Those marshmallows were a peace offering,” he said, pointing at her with a dishtowel like it was a gavel. “I’m trying to be the bigger person.”

“Interesting choice of words coming from a man who tried to body-check me into the cereal aisle.”

“I guided you,” he said, nose crinkling as he tried not to laugh. “Gently.”

“With your hip. Like a hockey player.”

Harry grinned. “You stayed upright.”

“Barely.”

They paused again. A beat of stillness that felt a little too thick to be casual. Y/N’s eyes lingered on his face longer than they should’ve. She noticed the way his lashes caught the kitchen light, the faint trace of sun still warming his cheekbones, the softness of his mouth as he fought another smile. He was infuriating and charming and deeply annoying in the way people are when you’ve accidentally let them matter too much.

She wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

Then Harry broke the moment, eyes flicking toward the pantry. “You still gonna tell me where you want this stuff, or should I just start hiding peanut butter in weird places?”

“Try it,” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “I dare you.”

He smirked and stepped forward, closing the space between them just slightly—enough that she had to tilt her chin to keep her eyes on his.

“Don’t tempt me, Y/N,” he said quietly, playfully, but there was something behind it now. Something that felt just a little heavier. Just a little more loaded.

Y/N’s breath caught for half a second. Then, just as quickly, she broke eye contact and turned back to the shelf. “You’re exhausting,” she muttered, trying not to smile.

“Don’t pretend you’re not thriving off the chaos,” he said, stepping away, but his tone was lighter again, teasing, like he’d sensed the shift and knew just how far to push it. “You practically instigated a three-minute argument over oat milk. You like the chaos.”

“Chaos,” she said, pulling a snack bag from the bottom of the tote and turning it in her hand, “is the only way to survive in a house this full.”

And maybe, she thought, setting it down, it’s also the only way to fall into something new without realizing you’re falling.

He watched her for a second longer than he should have—watched the way her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the counter, how she leaned her weight into her hip like she was trying not to lean into him instead. The overhead light wasn’t particularly flattering, too yellow and dim in the way lake houses always were, but it caught on her skin in places that made him stare anyway. The curve of her jaw, the side of her neck, the slight tilt of her mouth as she sorted through bags of trail mix like it mattered.

He told himself he was just tired. That was why his chest felt a little warm. That was why he kept noticing the little things.

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

The truth—uncomfortable, clear, and increasingly undeniable—was that something between them had shifted. Somewhere between the grocery aisle detour into cereal warfare and the way she’d leaned into him, laughing too hard to stand straight, something had cracked open. And now that it was out in the open, he didn’t know how to tuck it back in.

It had been easy to keep things distant before. She was smart and quick and had a mouth that didn’t quit, and he liked that about her—liked sparring with her, testing the edge of her wit. But earlier today, when she’d thrown her head back laughing about his passionate Wheaties speech, something had tightened in his chest. And when she hadn’t looked away afterward—had just stood there, watching him like she was seeing past something—he hadn’t wanted her to.

That was the problem now. He liked being seen. Not the easy kind of attention. Not the casual glances or forced conversations. But this—this quiet, offhand familiarity she offered. Like he didn’t have to perform around her. Like he could just be.

And now, with the kitchen emptied out and the hum of the fridge giving way to soft, companionable silence, that realization pressed heavier on his ribs.

“Okay,” Y/N said finally, reaching up to adjust a shelf like she had any intention of organizing anything. “We’ve got a suspicious amount of granola, and I’m blaming you.”

He walked to the other side of the counter, resting his forearms against the surface as he watched her. “I stand by my granola choices.”

“Of course you do. They’re chaos.”

“They’re curated.”

“They’re evidence of a man who doesn’t know what he wants.”

Harry tilted his head, amused. “That supposed to be some sort of deep metaphor?”

“Maybe.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, but he could see the way her lips twitched as she spoke. And something in his chest flipped.

He wanted to say something about it—about the way she noticed him, about the way she kept giving him these small openings and trusting he wouldn’t take too much. But he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Didn’t want to name it too early and watch it evaporate.

Instead, he opened a cabinet and started stacking cans, letting the moment breathe.

The quiet between them stretched again, long and comfortable, until Y/N broke it with a laugh that came out of nowhere.

He turned toward her. “What?”

She held up a small, crumpled receipt from one of the tote bags. “You bought a single kiwi.”

“I did,” he said, nodding solemnly. “It was calling to me.”

Y/N blinked at him. “You bought one kiwi.”

“Correct.”

“No other fruit. Just… the lone kiwi.”

“Don’t kiwi-shame me.”

She stared at him like she was trying to figure out if he was joking. “What were you going to do with it?”

Harry shrugged. “Bond with it. Maybe name it. Maybe slice it open dramatically at a key plot point later in the week.”

“You’re unwell.”

“I’m a man of simple needs.”

Her laugh was soft but full, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made his chest tighten again. She tossed the receipt at him without thinking, and he caught it midair, tucking it into his pocket with a grin that felt too easy for how tightly wound he actually was.

He didn’t say what he was thinking—that the grocery trip hadn’t really been about the food. That maybe the whole thing had just been an excuse to be near her longer. That he’d kept finding reasons to slow their pace, to prolong the wandering, to hold onto the moment before they had to come back to the house and face the rest of the world again.

But she knew. He could see it in the way her eyes softened when she looked at him again. In the way she let herself stay near him even after the last of the groceries were put away, even after the last bit of banter had faded. They were standing in the kitchen like neither of them had anywhere else to be, and maybe they didn’t. Maybe they didn’t want to.

He looked down at her hands, then back up at her face. “We did good.”

“With the groceries?”

“With… all of it.”

Her breath hitched just slightly—barely perceptible—but she nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “We did.”

When they finally stepped out of the kitchen, the house felt different. Not silent, but settled. The low murmur of the others had dulled to a comforting hum in the background—faint music from someone’s speaker upstairs, a door clicking shut, the rhythmic tick of the ceiling fan in the front room. The kind of quiet that only comes after a day has been lived fully and completely. And somehow, she and Harry had outlasted it.

Y/N moved toward the living room without saying anything, brushing her hand over the worn wood of the banister as she passed. She half-expected Harry to head upstairs, maybe say goodnight with that lopsided smile and a parting joke, but when she turned slightly, he was still following her. Quiet. Calm. As if it was obvious he’d go wherever she went.

The moment settled into her like warmth. Like gravity.

She tucked herself into the corner of the wide, overstuffed couch, legs folding beneath her, a throw blanket tossed absently over the armrest as if someone had abandoned it mid-afternoon. The lake outside the window was completely dark now, just a shimmer of moonlight off the glassy surface visible through the trees. She felt it—the shift. The almost sacred hush of a summer night when you’ve laughed too hard earlier in the day and your body remembers it in the best possible way.

Harry dropped down beside her a second later, but not too close. Not the way Ben or someone like him would’ve—overconfident, presumptive. He stayed a few inches away, elbows resting on his thighs, head tilted slightly back against the cushion. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now, something lazy and loose threaded into it.

“You tired?”

She shook her head. “You?”

Harry hummed in response—noncommittal. But he didn’t move to get up.

The lamp in the corner buzzed slightly, its golden light catching on the curve of his jaw and casting his eyelashes in long, soft shadows. Y/N leaned her cheek against the back of the couch and just… looked at him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so comfortable doing nothing with someone. Not just silence for the sake of it, but silence that felt like it meant something.

He glanced over a beat later and caught her watching. And instead of looking away, he held her gaze.

“What?” he asked, his mouth teetering up at the corners.

She shrugged, but her lips parted into the beginnings of a smile. “Just surprised you haven’t tried to start another cereal debate.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, shifting slightly toward her now. “I still think your take was objectively wrong.”

Y/N let her smile widen. “You’re just mad I had better arguments.”

“Better marketing. Not better arguments.”

“Marketing is half the battle.”

“You’re exhausting.”

She gave a light shrug, the fabric of the blanket shifting against her arm. “Takes one to know one.”

Harry snorted softly and leaned back again, but this time, his knee bumped against hers. He didn’t move it.

The contact was small—barely noticeable in a room this quiet. But to her, it felt like a light being switched on. A soft there you are. And when he didn’t shift away, when he let the contact stay, something inside her responded with a kind of stillness that surprised her. Like her body knew something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

They stayed like that for a while. Not speaking. Not needing to.

The window let in just enough breeze to lift the edge of the curtain, and Y/N found her gaze drifting to it as her mind wandered. There had been so many ways this trip could’ve gone. And yet, here they were—her and Harry, of all people. Existing in the same corner of the world in a way that felt almost deliberate. Like they’d been steered here by a hundred tiny decisions neither of them had realized they were making.

And she didn’t want to waste it.

“You always this quiet at night?” she asked eventually, not because she minded the silence, but because she wanted more of his voice in the room.

Harry tilted his head toward her, mouth ticking up slightly. “Only when I’m trying not to ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“This.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. And she didn’t press.

Instead, she turned a little more toward him, their knees still touching now. She let her head rest back against the couch, mirroring his posture, letting the moment stretch.

She didn’t want it to end.

He didn’t remember the last time silence had felt this good.

Usually it meant something was missing—words that needed saying, a thought waiting to be cleaned up and made less jagged, or worse, something unsaid hanging sharp between him and someone who didn’t know how to fill the gaps. But this wasn’t that.

This silence felt earned.

She was sitting a little closer now—still curled up in her corner, but angled toward him. Their knees pressed side by side, just barely, but firmly enough that he knew it was deliberate. A shared warmth, a quiet we’re here. And the room held it. Carried it gently, like it understood this was something new, something precious that hadn’t been named yet.

He could hear her breathing. Not loud. Just steady. Present. And it somehow made the space around them feel smaller in the best way.

Harry didn’t want to ruin it. He didn’t want to break it with the wrong comment or a joke that would land sideways. But more than that, he didn’t want to pretend anymore—not after the grocery store, not after the car ride, not after the way she’d laughed today like he’d said the most brilliant thing she’d ever heard even though he’d been talking about cereal mascots.

There were so many things about her he’d started to collect without meaning to.

Like how she always tied her hoodie strings in a double knot and never fixed them once they slipped uneven. Or how she picked up boxes in the grocery store and read the ingredients—not because she cared about health, but because she liked knowing what was inside something. Like how her voice got softer—not quieter, just rounder—when she was trying to figure out how to say something honest. Or how she never leaned away when someone moved closer. Only in.

And then there were the things he didn’t know how to name. The way she felt in a room. Like she steadied it. Even when she was teasing him. Especially when she was teasing him.

That was the part that got him. The steadiness.

Her head tilted slightly, like she was half-lost in thought, and Harry felt the urge to say something rise up in his chest. Not anything big. Just something. To bridge the space between what they were doing and what they both knew they were doing.

But before he could, Y/N moved. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly. Her foot slipped down from beneath her and stretched just enough that her ankle bumped against his.

Harry didn’t move.

Y/N didn’t either.

She just stayed like that—close, still, barely touching but definitely touching. And when she looked over at him, when her eyes met his without pretense, it felt like something broke open again.

“Sorry,” she murmured, though her voice wasn’t apologetic. It was more like an invitation to respond. To meet her there.

He didn’t look away. “Don’t be.”

They sat like that for a moment—watching each other, but not trying to figure anything out. Just… noticing. Letting it be what it was.

She didn’t know what made her move. Not exactly.

Maybe it was the stillness. Or the way his breathing was calm but not quite even. Or the way she’d been watching the way his fingers curled around the throw pillow like he didn’t realize he was doing it, like he needed something to hold onto.

But it felt natural, the way her leg had shifted, the way her foot had bumped his. It hadn’t been a mistake. Not really. She could’ve moved it. She could’ve leaned back into her corner and made the moment small again. Dismissible.

But she didn’t.

Because the moment wasn’t small.

She looked at him then, and the expression on his face wasn’t something she had words for. Open. A little vulnerable. Like he was already where she was, but had been waiting for her to catch up.

And the way he said don’t be—soft, low, steady—made her feel something deep in her chest unfurl slowly and completely.

She hadn’t felt that in a long time. Not in a way that mattered.

Her voice, when it came again, was quieter than before. “You’re not what I expected.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He smiled then, but it wasn’t cocky or teasing. It was the kind of smile that happened when something felt real. And the sight of it—unguarded, a little tired, completely honest—made something twist in her chest again.

She didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t want to break whatever this was, whatever they were building in the spaces between eye contact and half-laughed jokes. Because this was the part she always missed. This part—the quiet, unspoken build—was the part no one ever paid attention to.

She wanted to remember this.

The way his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to be funny. The way his breath hitched a little when she looked too long. The way his knee pressed into hers like he didn’t want to let her drift too far away.

She wanted to stay.

She didn’t pull away.

That’s what he noticed first. That after she shifted, after her ankle nudged against his and she looked at him like he was worth seeing, she didn’t take it back. She just… stayed. Let it happen. Let them happen.

He hadn’t realized how much of himself had been waiting for that—for the proof that this thing wasn’t one-sided. That the rhythm they’d found today wasn’t just a fluke of timing or convenience or boredom. That she felt it, too. The tension. The pull. The comfort and the edge and the way she never gave him the easy version of herself, and how he didn’t want it even if she did.

She shifted slightly now, just enough that her shoulder brushed his arm, and the contact was light—barely anything—but it traveled straight to his chest like it had weight.

He let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

He didn’t move away. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. Something about her presence made everything else quieter. And not in a muted way. In a way that made more sense. Like his brain had finally stopped doing the thing where it ran in a hundred directions at once.

She made things quieter.

Clearer.

And now she was here, pressed just barely against him, and the house had fallen away. The whole house. The trip. The people upstairs. The water outside. Everything had dimmed. All of it.

Except her.

He turned toward her just enough to catch her profile. The shape of her mouth in the soft lamp glow. The crease between her brows that deepened when she was thinking about something she didn’t want to say out loud. The slope of her neck where it met her shoulder, loose and relaxed now, like she didn’t feel the need to tense around him.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to say anything stupid. He didn’t want to push it too far. But he also didn’t want to lose this—this sliver of time where she was here and real and his world had narrowed down to the warmth of her leaning toward him without hesitation.

So he shifted his arm. Slowly. Cautiously. Until his forearm was resting behind her on the back cushion of the couch. Not touching. Not yet. But close.

She looked over at him, just her eyes. They flicked toward his arm, then back to his face.

He didn’t smile.

She didn’t look away.

It felt like something might happen.

Not something dramatic. Not anything that needed music or speeches or the weight of big declarations. But something important. Something small and undeniable and impossible to forget.

She could feel the heat from his arm now, close behind her shoulders. Not touching. But there. Waiting.

She wanted to lean into it. Just a little. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she did—if he’d shift away, if the spell would break, if it would feel like too much. But her body wanted to close the gap, and her heart hadn’t argued once all evening.

Harry had been different tonight. Lighter, yes. Playful. But also present. The kind of present you couldn’t fake. And she’d been watching it happen in real time—his gaze on her when she smiled, the way he passed her things wordlessly, the way he hadn’t walked ahead of her once at the store. He let her be beside him. He wanted her beside him.

And now they were here, in the dim quiet of a worn summer living room, and he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t drifted off or shut down or offered some sarcastic remark to undo the softness between them. He was staying.

She didn’t want to pretend anymore either.

So she shifted again. Small. Just a fraction of space. Enough that her back met the warm line of his arm, and she let it rest there—light and certain and brave.

He froze for a second. Not tense. Just still. As if he didn’t want to ruin the way her weight felt against him.

Then, slowly, he relaxed into it. Let his arm settle behind her like it had always belonged there.

And it was everything.

Her heart beat slower now. Heavier, but not with anxiety. With knowing. With the kind of awareness you only get when you’ve been dancing around something for long enough to understand that it isn’t going away.

This wasn’t about fixing anything anymore. Not about making up for what they’d lost or comparing where they were to where they’d been. It was just this. Him. Her. The night. The shift that had started in a grocery aisle and hadn’t stopped since.

He leaned his head toward hers slightly, not resting against her, but close enough to make her breath catch.

She didn’t say a word.

Neither did he.

But in the stillness between them, in the warmth of the contact and the way neither of them felt the need to explain it, something settled.

A beginning.

There was something about the way she settled into him that made the whole day snap into focus.

Like all the noise and heat and tension that had woven itself through the morning—the posturing, the clipped conversations, the weight of unspoken things—had finally broken apart, leaving behind only this: the quiet rhythm of her breath beside him, the solid warmth of her against his side, the soft brush of her shoulder pressing against his chest.

He could’ve sat there forever.

No one had ever leaned into him like that without pulling away eventually. No one had ever stayed close without needing it to be a moment or a joke or something performative. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t a moment being made—this was a moment becoming.

And he didn’t want to miss it.

He let his arm settle fully around her now, his hand resting lightly against her upper arm, careful but certain. Like he was learning the shape of what this could be. And when she didn’t flinch, didn’t tease, didn’t shift away, something in him unclenched. Something deep and quiet and tightly wound that had been waiting for her to decide if she wanted this, too.

She did.

And that truth pulsed through him like steady heat.

It wasn’t the contact that undid her. It wasn’t the way his arm fit around her or the strength of his presence or the subtle curve of his body pressing into hers like he meant to stay. It was the ease. The way it felt natural. Uncomplicated. Like they had always ended days like this, quietly and without urgency, tucked into the same corner of the couch and the same fold of breath.

There was no pressure here. Just closeness. Just stillness.

And somehow, that made it all feel more real.

She wanted to say something. Just a small thing. A word or a whisper to acknowledge what this was without cracking it open too wide. But everything she thought of felt either too much or not enough.

So instead, she let her head tip slightly, just enough that it brushed the side of his shoulder. Not quite a lean. Not quite an ask. Just a shared quiet.

Harry didn’t speak. He just shifted, his fingers curling slightly where they rested against her arm. Like a promise. Like yes, I feel it too.

And it was enough.

The room had dimmed even more now, the lamp flickering once and holding steady, the only light against the coolness of the lake air drifting in through the window. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, and someone murmured a goodnight. But the house was drifting into its own hush, and they were drifting with it.

Y/N blinked slowly, her body finally catching up with the weight of the day, her eyes heavy but her thoughts still alive and buzzing beneath the quiet.

He smelled like the outdoors and coffee and something faintly citrusy she couldn’t place. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath against her shoulder, the calm rhythm of someone who wasn’t pretending to be okay—someone who was okay, in this moment, with her.

And it was disarming. And lovely. And more than she’d let herself want, until now.

She didn’t want to sleep.

Not because she was afraid of what morning would bring. Not because she was waiting for him to ruin it. But because she didn’t want it to stop.

This stillness. This closeness. The way he hadn’t made it a big thing. The way he’d let it grow slowly, carefully, without needing it to become something right away.

It made her trust him more than she expected.

Maybe more than she should.

But she wasn’t scared.

She was… here.

And when she felt the weight of his head dip slightly, the gentle pressure of him leaning just a bit more into her, she let herself breathe into the moment like it belonged to her.

Because maybe it did.

The last thing she remembered before sleep took hold was the warmth of his hand, slow and steady where it rested on her arm, and the certainty—clear, quiet, and undeniable—that she wasn’t alone in this anymore.

Not even close.

She woke slowly.

Not because she’d slept particularly well—she’d only half remembered drifting off, barely aware of when her limbs gave in to the pull of rest—but because she was afraid that moving too fast would shatter whatever quiet magic had wrapped itself around them the night before.

The first thing she registered was the soft pressure of something warm around her waist. Not heavy. Not restrictive. Just there. Steady. Familiar in a way that felt startling.

Harry.

He was still beside her. His body relaxed, breathing slow and even. One arm draped loosely around her middle, the other resting across his own chest. And she was tucked into him, head against the curve of his shoulder, like they’d been fitted together by some gentle, invisible hand while they slept.

She didn’t panic. She didn’t tense. That was the most surprising part of all.

She just stayed there. Eyes open, barely breathing, letting herself feel the moment before she had to move through it.

The room was awash in morning light now—faint and golden, slipping in through the narrow window over the couch. Dust motes floated in the quiet beams, suspended in the air like they were trying to hold onto the hush as long as they could. And outside, she could hear the lake birds beginning their slow, lazy chorus. The world was waking up. But the cocoon they’d created hadn’t cracked yet.

Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of the throw blanket draped over them. She didn’t remember pulling it up. Maybe he had. Maybe it had just fallen that way. It didn’t matter.

All she knew was that she hadn’t slept like that in a long time. Not just beside someone. But with someone.

Safe. Easy. Warm.

She knew it should scare her. That if she thought about it too long, if she let her mind get too far ahead of her heart, she’d ruin it with questions and panic and doubts. But right now, lying in the soft hush of the early morning, she didn’t want to move at all.

A shift.

His breathing changed—just slightly, just enough.

And then his fingers twitched against her waist.

She stilled, breath catching.

A pause. A stretch of silence so heavy she could hear her own pulse.

Then, quietly, his voice—rough from sleep, soft at the edges.

“You’re still here.”

She turned her head slightly against him, enough to feel the faint rumble of his voice in his chest. “So are you.”

A beat passed. She could feel his cheek shift as he smiled.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d sneak away.”

“I thought about it,” she murmured. “Didn’t want to risk waking the human furnace.”

Harry chuckled, low and warm. His breath stirred the hair near her temple. “I am unreasonably warm. That’s fair.”

She smiled, but didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The morning felt like something suspended—like time had been stretched out a little, just for them. And for once, she didn’t want to rush into the next thing. She didn’t want to ruin the slowness.

It took him a minute to remember where he was.

Not the house—that was easy. The lake, the trip, the chaos of the friend group turned semi-hostage situation, the way Claire and Ben had imploded them all into the same orbit. That was background noise by now.

It was this—the body curled against his, the warmth of her breathing soft and even, the way she hadn’t moved when he woke—that made his brain catch up slower.

Y/N.

Still here.

Still in his arms.

And somehow, not weird.

Not wrong.

It felt natural in the kind of way that made him worry about how natural it felt. Like his body had already adjusted. Like it knew what to do with her pressed into his side, with her breath brushing his chest, with the silence that sat comfortably between them like it was supposed to be there.

He hadn’t expected to fall asleep. Not really. He’d meant to stay there until she shifted, until it got too warm or someone came downstairs and ruined it. But the longer she’d stayed close, the more his body had given in. The stillness had soothed him in a way he couldn’t explain.

And now—morning light and all—she was still here.

No rush. No excuses.

Just warmth. Just her.

“I’m sorry if I was—” he started, not even sure how he meant to finish that sentence.

“You weren’t,” she said before he could. “I wasn’t, either.”

That startled him a little. The honesty of it. The way she didn’t even let him apologize for something he hadn’t said yet.

And he realized, again, that she saw him. The version of him he didn’t always let people near. The one who second-guessed when things felt too easy.

His voice came quieter. “This isn’t weird, is it?”

Y/N turned just enough to glance up at him, her chin brushing his chest. “It’s not.”

He exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

And somehow, it really was.

They eventually moved, but only because they had to.

Not in a dramatic sense—no one came barging in, no phone call interrupted the silence. It was just the sun creeping a little higher, the house shifting around them, the collective rhythm of morning making itself known in soft creaks and a far-off shower running upstairs.

Still, it took time. Several long minutes of neither of them saying anything, of her just breathing into the warmth of his chest and him keeping his arm where it had settled naturally around her waist. She felt his thumb move once, tracing the fabric of her shirt absentmindedly. Not possessive. Just present.

But the stillness couldn’t last forever, and eventually her body started to stir with the weight of the day ahead.

She shifted slightly. Just enough that their legs uncrossed, their limbs uncurled, their shared warmth gave way to the cooler space between them again.

And even though it was small—just a few inches of air—she felt the ache of it.

Harry sat up with her, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face, blinking against the light. His curls were flattened in one spot and sticking up in another. She could see the faint red line of the couch seam pressed into his cheek. And still, somehow, he looked stupidly good.

She pulled the blanket from her lap and folded it out of habit. Something to do with her hands. Something to keep the air moving before it thickened again.

“So,” she said quietly, glancing sideways at him. “How long until someone walks in and ruins this completely?”

Harry snorted, leaning back against the couch, arms draped across his knees. “Ten minutes. Tops.”

She smiled, but it faded quickly—softly—not because anything was wrong, but because everything felt right, and she didn’t want to lose that by trying too hard to hold onto it.

He must’ve sensed it, too, because he looked at her for a long beat. Then, quieter, steadier, he said, “You okay?”

Y/N nodded once. “You?”

His smile was small. “I am.”

And for a moment, that was enough.

The morning air was cool against the back of his neck when he finally pushed off the couch and stretched. He let out a quiet groan, partly for dramatic effect, mostly because his spine wasn’t built to spend the night curled up on a lakeside sectional with only half a cushion under him.

Y/N stood too, rolling her shoulders, pulling her hoodie tighter around her as she moved toward the kitchen without a word. He followed her out of habit now, like he didn’t know how not to. It didn’t feel weird. It didn’t feel too much.

It just felt like them.

Something had changed, and it wasn’t just the proximity. It was the ease. They were moving around each other differently now. Calmer. Not waiting for the next sharp word or cold glance or clumsy silence. They existed in each other’s spaces like the sharp corners had been sanded down. Like they’d forgotten, for a few hours, how to be suspicious of one another.

The house was still mostly asleep. The floor creaked beneath them as they padded into the kitchen, but the lights were off, and the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. Just the rustle of trees outside, the soft lap of water against the dock, and the distant clink of someone—Ali, probably—mumbling about coffee filters upstairs.

Harry watched as Y/N stood by the sink, her back to him, and reached for a mug from the drying rack. The one she’d used yesterday. A small floral one with a chip in the handle. She held it in both hands for a second, then set it gently on the counter like it was fragile.

Maybe they both were.

He crossed the space between them slowly, stopping beside her, leaning against the counter the way he had yesterday when they’d bickered over peanut butter.

Except now, she didn’t look tired of him.

Now, she looked softened by him.

“I was thinking,” he said, voice quiet in the hush between them, “we could go on another walk today.”

She didn’t look at him, but her shoulder tilted in his direction like she wanted to. “Another scenic route?”

“Something like that.”

She glanced up at him then, and the look in her eyes wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t guarded.

It was open.

And it hit him like a stone dropped into still water.

“I’d like that,” she said.

And just like that, the day began with a promise neither of them had to say out loud.

Ali was the first to see it.

Of course she was. She wasn’t loud about it. Didn’t say anything. But the second she walked into the kitchen and found them already there—quiet, close, in sync in a way they hadn’t been before—her expression shifted for just a second. Something soft. Something aware.

Then she moved toward the coffee pot and started fussing with the filters like she hadn’t seen anything at all.

Y/N caught the flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth anyway.

She kept her back mostly turned to Harry as she helped pull things from the fridge—fruit, eggs, the container of almond milk he’d made fun of yesterday. But it was different now. Every step she took near him came with the awareness that they’d slept beside each other. That they’d woken up warm and still touching, neither one in a rush to leave.

She could feel it in her fingertips. In her chest. In the way her voice softened when she asked him to hand her a fork.

She didn’t think she’d be able to hide it. Not really.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

More footsteps. Laughter upstairs. The house was waking now.

And then—Ben and Claire.

They entered together, too casual to be natural, both holding mugs that didn’t quite match their expressions. Ben had that look he always wore when he knew he was walking into a room with too much history in it. And Claire was smiling too tightly, her gaze flicking once between Y/N and Harry before landing somewhere pointedly else.

Y/N said nothing.

Harry, to his credit, didn’t even look at them. Just kept slicing a banana in long, careful strokes, setting the pieces gently into a bowl.

The air got thicker.

Ali cleared her throat. “I think we’ve got stuff for pancakes if someone wants to take lead on that.”

Ben made a vague noise, but Claire stepped toward the counter instead. “I can do it.”

“Let me help,” Ben offered.

“No, it’s fine.”

Y/N kept her head down. Kept cutting strawberries, even though they didn’t need more fruit. Kept breathing evenly.

Harry bumped his elbow against hers once. A light touch. Intentional.

She glanced at him, and he gave her the smallest, most devastatingly calm look—like I’ve got you. Keep going.

She did.

He didn’t like the way Ben looked at her.

He never had, even before everything. There was something smug about it. Something that suggested he still thought he had a claim. And even if Harry couldn’t quite name what he was to Y/N right now, he knew what Ben wasn’t.

Still, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Because she was next to him.

Because she hadn’t moved.

Because when he bumped her elbow, she looked at him like she wasn’t sorry for last night. Like she wasn’t planning to take it back.

And that was more than enough.

Ali talked more now, filling the space with questions about breakfast and day plans and whether anyone wanted to help bring the cooler out of the garage. Y/N slipped out of the kitchen for a moment to grab her water bottle, and Harry found himself alone at the counter with Claire.

He didn’t look up at her. He didn’t speak.

But she did.

“You two seemed… close this morning.”

He didn’t stop slicing the banana. “Is that a problem?”

Claire’s smile was light, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not for me.”

“Good.”

She lingered like she wanted to say more. But then she turned away.

Harry didn’t watch her go.

He didn’t need to.

Because Y/N came back into the room a second later, and without thinking, she stepped back to his side like she’d never left it.

It wasn’t that they were doing anything obvious.

No hands held. No whispered confessions. No sudden announcement over breakfast that she’d fallen asleep in Harry’s arms and woken up still tucked there, blinking into the soft light of morning like something in her chest had clicked into place overnight.

But everything had changed.

Because now, every time he walked past her, he didn’t brush against her accidentally. He drifted closer. Purposefully. Every time she looked up from chopping something or setting out plates, his gaze was already on her. Steady. Soft. Knowing. And when they moved around each other in the kitchen, they didn’t speak much—but their silences were whole conversations.

And people noticed.

Not loudly, not directly. But the shift was unmistakable.

The group, for all their oblivious chaos, picked up on the undercurrent. Ali clocked it instantly, her glances flickering like checkmarks—okay, okay, I see you two. Jules didn’t say anything, but her mouth twitched more than once when they reached for the same bowl of granola or started laughing at something no one else had heard. Even Eli, half-asleep and nursing his coffee like it owed him money, gave them a lingering second look as he passed them on his way to the table.

The only ones who seemed actively uncomfortable were Ben and Claire.

Which was a little too on the nose.

Ben kept making comments that didn’t land—backhanded jokes about “overcorrecting” and “people getting cozy all of a sudden.” Claire kept stirring the pancake batter too hard. And Y/N kept not looking at either of them.

She didn’t need to.

Because Harry was beside her. Solid. Quiet. Constant.

And when she felt the pressure of his hand at the small of her back as he passed behind her with a stack of mugs, it grounded her in a way she hadn’t expected.

She exhaled slowly. Picked up the jar of jam. Set it on the table like her hands weren’t still buzzing.

He wasn’t trying to make a scene. He wasn’t trying to do anything, really.

Except not hide it.

Whatever “it” was. Whatever last night had become. Whatever he and Y/N were doing now—if they were doing anything at all.

Because the truth was, they hadn’t defined it. Hadn’t drawn a line or written the story down or decided what any of this meant. But what he knew—what he felt—was that she’d stayed. That she’d leaned in. That when she looked at him now, she didn’t do it with the skepticism from before. She did it like she knew him. Like she chose him.

So he didn’t perform. He didn’t overdo it.

But he also didn’t shrink.

When she turned to ask him if they had more butter, he didn’t answer right away—just looked at her. Long enough for her to notice. Long enough that her breath hitched.

She said nothing.

Neither did he.

But the space between them got quieter.

And that said everything.

The table was loud once they sat down, but Harry barely heard it.

People talked over each other. Laughed about something someone said last night. Ben kept trying to direct the conversation, his voice louder than necessary, his eyes flicking toward Y/N like he was waiting for her to jump in.

She didn’t.

She was sitting next to Harry.

Close. Not pressed up against him. But close enough that their knees brushed. Close enough that she leaned toward him when she reached for the strawberries instead of across the table. Close enough that it meant something.

Ali raised an eyebrow once—just once—when Y/N said something under her breath and Harry laughed before anyone else had a chance to catch the joke. But she didn’t say anything. She just smirked into her orange juice.

It felt like a secret. One the whole table was almost in on, even if no one had the guts to say it out loud.

And Harry didn’t mind.

He liked it.

He liked the quiet between them. The comfort of her beside him. The weight of her presence when she wasn’t trying to hold it back. The way she’d looked at him that morning like something had been decided.

And maybe it had.

The meal started to wind down. People stood up to rinse plates, talk about who wanted to swim, what time the hike might be. Ben made another joke—something about “partners in crime” and “getting too close for comfort”—but it fell flat.

Harry didn’t even look up.

Y/N didn’t respond.

Instead, she leaned slightly toward him as she stood, brushing her hand against his arm on her way to the sink.

She didn’t say anything.

But the touch lingered.

And his chest ached in the best way.

She found him on the back deck twenty minutes later.

The house had scattered. Claire and Jules were arguing over sunscreen, Eli was trying to convince someone to help him test out the paddleboards, and Ben—blessedly—had wandered off somewhere, maybe finally catching on that his presence wasn’t wanted. The kitchen was mostly clean, the dining table half-abandoned, and Ali had quietly told Y/N to “go take five minutes or forty” with a pointed look before disappearing toward the driveway.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

And she knew exactly where she was going.

Harry was sitting in the shaded corner of the deck, barefoot, his long legs stretched out in front of him, mug balanced on one knee. His sunglasses were pushed up into his curls, his shirt soft and wrinkled from sleep, and he looked unfairly at ease with the world. Like nothing could rattle him here.

Except maybe her.

Because the moment he saw her step through the sliding door, his entire posture shifted. Just slightly. Not a dramatic straighten, not anything performative. Just enough to say there you are.

And that was enough to make her chest ache.

She didn’t say anything. She just sat down beside him—close again, like they were already used to being close. Her thigh brushing his, her shoulder leaning in just enough to tilt her toward him.

The silence between them stretched, but not because there was nothing to say. Because everything was already being said.

Harry passed her the mug without a word.

She took it. Sipped. And handed it back.

The lake glittered in front of them, impossibly bright in the mid-morning sun. Kids shouted somewhere across the water. A bird wheeled lazily overhead. Everything felt suspended—like the world was moving forward, but this moment wasn’t. Like this was the kind of stillness people wrote about and never quite got right.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Feels different now.”

He looked at her. “Yeah.”

She didn’t ask what he meant. She didn’t need to.

Because she already knew.

She was so close.

And it wasn’t just physical. It was her being here, her showing up, her choosing to be near him again when she could’ve so easily blended into the chaos of the group and let the night before blur into memory.

But she didn’t.

She was here, beside him, her presence tucked against his like she was built to fit there.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just sat with her, letting the breeze move through the trees above them, letting the scent of the lake wrap around them like summer itself was trying to keep the air quiet.

It didn’t feel like a conversation anymore.

It felt like a knowing.

And it made him braver.

“I think I notice more than I let on,” he said finally, his voice low.

Y/N glanced at him, curious. “What do you mean?”

He swallowed once, glancing down at the mug in his hand. “About you.”

Her breath caught. But she didn’t speak.

“I know you always skip the fourth question in card games. Even when no one’s paying attention. You tuck your thumb under your palm when you’re uncomfortable. You hum to yourself when you walk away from an argument.” He smiled softly, still not looking at her. “And you put the blueberries at the back of the fridge so no one else finishes them.”

She laughed quietly. “Okay, that one’s fair.”

He looked up at her now, the smile still tugging at his mouth. “I notice things.”

She held his gaze. “So do I.”

That surprised him a little. He blinked.

“I know you don’t like the first sip of coffee—always wait a second before drinking it. You reread instructions, even if you know what they say. You look away when you’re trying not to laugh.” She paused. “And you always stand behind people when you talk to them. Just far enough that no one thinks you’re trying to get too close.”

His throat tightened.

She shifted closer, eyes soft. “You don’t do that with me.”

And he didn’t. He hadn’t thought about it until now, but she was right.

He wanted to be near her.

He was near her.

And it didn’t feel like a risk.

It felt like finally.

They didn’t speak after that.

They didn’t need to.

Not every connection was made through conversation. Not every moment needed explanation or context or anything more than this—two people sitting just close enough that their shoulders touched, breathing the same air, watching the same water glitter beneath the sun.

Harry shifted slightly so their knees aligned again. Their legs pressed from hip to ankle now. Steady. Solid. Warm.

And she let herself lean.

Not because she was tired. Not because it was comfortable.

But because she wanted to.

She didn’t want to be anywhere else.

The breeze lifted her hair gently, strands tickling her face. Harry reached over without hesitation, tucking one behind her ear.

His fingers lingered.

Her eyes met his.

And for a long, breathless moment, they didn’t move.

There was a question between them. Unspoken. Not ready to be asked, but undeniable in its presence.

And then he smiled.

Soft. Crooked. The kind that made her feel like the morning light had shifted just for her.

She smiled back.

And leaned her head against his shoulder.

She fit.

That’s what hit him most.

Not the heat of her beside him, or the way she leaned without asking, or the way her hair brushed his jaw as she settled into him.

It was how right it felt.

How easy.

How like he’d been carrying a weight he hadn’t noticed until it was gone.

He let his cheek rest gently against the top of her head. Just a little. Just enough to say I’m here.

And she didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen.

She just sighed, slow and full, and let her hand rest on his knee.

It was quiet like that for a long time.

Long enough that the world started to fade. The laughter from the dock became background noise. The creak of the screen door lost its edge. The wind and the trees and the water became a rhythm beneath them, something that moved with them instead of around them.

He didn’t want to move.

He didn’t want to speak.

He didn’t want to risk even one second of disrupting the way she was curled into him like she’d always known how.

So he didn’t.

He just stayed.

Eventually, she closed her eyes.

Not to sleep. Just to feel it better. To memorize the way the sun warmed her cheek, the way his arm wrapped lightly around her, the way her entire body exhaled when she let herself believe—for one slow, golden morning—that this didn’t have to be complicated.

That maybe, for the first time in a long time, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Taglist: @this-is-tiny-mia @goldensunflowerssss-blog @notsosweetcreature @ohmygoldboots @pradastardust @hsbbyhunny @meganrose139 @reeadyreeady @harrys-flower-vol-6 @sunshinextemptress94 @somebunnybaby @justsimplybands @witch-rry @millsadoresyou@watermelon-medicine@pink-watermelon-cherry @babegoalsreads @namoreno @fairyjuicestyles @pologoonies @mp-269 @musicforastylesrestaurant @finelinereading @sigh-mon-reads @tonystaank @slut4phoebe @messyemmy @sasasstyle @officerslay @taliarosej00 @stylesftcher @stardustvalentyne @harry-winkes @cassofheartsss @xairaa @honeymoonluvv @loverrryxo @eggnoggs-world @drewrry @harryscherries28 @hannah9921 @harryscowgirl

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pankowcrumbs · 15 days ago

Text

Good enough X Lando Norris (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lando Norris x Reader: Teammates to Lovers, Lando is afraid, that he is not good enough.

The paddock smelled of oil and adrenaline.

Race day was always like this tight suits, tighter helmets, and even tighter expectations. I tugged at the neck of mine, trying to focus on my breathing as engineers buzzed around our cars. Cameras flashed. Fans chanted. And somewhere, buried beneath the chaos, my nerves festered.

Being the only woman in Formula 1 was a feat I wore like armour. It shimmered on the outside a sleek, headline-ready accomplishment but it pressed hard against my bones. Every move I made was magnified. Every mistake? A banner headline.

And to make things even more complicated?

Lando Norris.

He was my teammate. Fast, smart, and maddeningly charming. The sort of person who could make you laugh during strategy briefings and then steal pole position with a grin. We were equals on paper. In private, we were… something else.

I leaned on the barrier near my car, watching him talk to his race engineer. He caught me looking and winked.

"Nervous?" he mouthed.

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. Of course I was.

We'd been circling each other for months. Flirtations over lunch debriefs, touches that lingered just a second too long when squeezing past each other in the garage. Nothing overt. Nothing spoken. But it was there a crackling charge that hummed every time we were near.

And yet, Lando never acted on it.

Not properly.

Not until last night.

I still felt the echo of his fingers brushing mine as we walked back from dinner. The heat of his palm when he'd grabbed my wrist at the hotel doors, pulling me back from leaving. The look in his eyes.

"This isn't smart," he'd whispered, his voice low and rough. "You're brilliant. Too brilliant. I don't want to be the reason you lose focus."

"And if I lose focus on my own?" I'd asked.

He didn't answer. Just released my wrist and let the silence fall between us like a curtain.

This morning, it still hadn’t lifted.

I climbed into my car, the tight cradle of carbon fibre instantly familiar. My engineer spoke through the radio, calm and focused, but my mind drifted.

To Lando.

To the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve.

The formation lap began.

We took our places on the grid him in P3, me right beside in P4. It was a good start. McLaren had been performing well this season. We were a strong team. A united front. But something about this tension between us made me feel like we were teetering on the edge of something we couldn’t name.

The lights went out.

I surged forward, the roar of the engine drowning every thought. My world narrowed to the track, the corners, the split-second decisions. I overtook one of the Ferraris by Lap 10. Lando was holding P2, fighting off Red Bull like a lion.

By Lap 25, we were running 2 and 3. Team radio crackled.

"Hold positions," came the instruction.

I knew what it meant. We were playing the strategy game. Tyres were degrading. No risks.

But I wanted to.

I wanted to see if I could pass him. Not to win. Not really.

Just to see if he’d let me.

He didn’t.

Every time I drew close, he defended smartly, aggressively. I caught glimpses of him, jaw set, eyes focused. I could feel the adrenaline pouring off him like heat.

After the race, we parked up P2 and P3. Podiums for both. Confetti rained. Champagne sprayed.

And still, all I could think about was the moment his hand brushed my waist on the steps.

Back in the hospitality suite, I cornered him.

"We need to talk."

He hesitated, scanning the room. Then nodded.

We found a quiet corridor behind the media tent. I leaned against the wall. He stood opposite, arms folded.

"Why won't you let this happen?" I asked.

He exhaled slowly. "Because it's not simple. We're teammates. If it goes wrong…"

"And if it goes right?" I challenged.

He looked at me then, properly. All the barriers dropped.

"I think about you constantly," he said. "Every race, every briefing, every bloody lunch. I look for you. I listen for your laugh. I wait for your texts. It's driving me mad. But I don’t want to be the guy who ruins this for you."

My chest tightened. "You're not. I know the risks. I’m not scared."

He stepped closer. "I am. I’m scared that if we cross that line and it doesn’t work, I’ll lose more than just a teammate."

We spent the rest of the night talking, leaning into one another, stealing quiet smiles like they were secrets only we understood. And while the world outside kept spinning, for once, we let ourselves stop pretending.

But even in that stillness, I could sense it. The hesitation in his eyes. The worry gnawing at the edges of every soft thing he gave me.

It came to a head a week later, in Monaco.

We were seated in the back of the McLaren hospitality unit after media day. Rain tapped against the windows. The smell of coffee lingered in the air. I had just finished laughing at something ridiculous he’d said, and when I reached for his hand across the small table, he pulled away slightly.

My chest tightened.

“Lando?” I asked gently.

He looked down, fingers rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck. “I keep thinking… why you’d choose this.”

I blinked. “This?”

He glanced up at me, that familiar vulnerability swimming in his ocean-blue eyes. “Me.”

My heart broke a little at the way he said it like he genuinely couldn’t see what I saw every single day.

“You’re Lando Norris,” I said with a soft smile. “Quickest hands on the grid, heart bigger than this whole bloody paddock, and the only person who’s ever made me feel like I could actually breathe out here.”

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not like you,” he said quietly. “You’re… fierce. Brilliant. Every camera turns when you walk in. You’ve changed the game, and you don’t even flinch when the world tries to tear you down.”

“And you think I don’t get scared?” I asked. “That I don’t second guess myself every time I climb in the car?”

“It’s different,” he muttered. “Everyone already believes in you.”

There was a silence then, heavy and aching.

He wasn’t saying this because he didn’t want me. He was saying it because he did and he was terrified it would all fall apart and I’d realise he wasn’t enough.

I stood and walked around the table, crouching beside him.

“Lando,” I said softly, “do you have any idea how many times I’ve looked at you and thought, ‘God, I wish I could be as effortless as him’? How often I’ve watched you charm an entire room or pull a miracle lap out of nowhere and thought, ‘That’s what greatness looks like’?”

He looked up, eyes glassy now.

“I didn’t fall for you because of a stat sheet or your driver rating,” I continued. “I fell for the way you always look back to see if I’m following. The way you defend me in interviews when I’m not there. The way you never underestimate me even when half the world still does.”

He exhaled shakily, hands reaching for mine this time. “I just… don’t want to hold you back.”

“You never have,” I said. “You push me forward. Every single day.”

His fingers tightened around mine.

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t need to.

That moment his head resting lightly against my shoulder, my fingers in his hair, his whispered “Okay… I’ll try” that was all we needed to break the last wall between us.

And from that day on, Lando tried.

He quieted the voice that told him he wasn’t enough. I helped when I could, reminding him, sometimes gently, sometimes firmly, that love wasn’t about perfection. It was about showing up. And he did. Always.

Even when the headlines caught wind of us two months later.

“F1’s Power Duo or a Disaster in Waiting?” “Is Romance Ruining McLaren’s Dynamic?” “Flirtation on the Grid Norris and Y/L/N Too Close for Comfort?”

We laughed. We rolled our eyes. We showed up anyway.

Side by side in the paddock. Fierce and unbothered. A team.

But sometimes, after a tough race or a brutal press day, I’d find him quiet staring out at the track like it was asking him questions he couldn’t answer.

And I’d just take his hand. Not to fix it. Just to remind him that he wasn’t in it alone.

Because if there was one thing stronger than the pressure or the scrutiny it was us.

Would you like me to continue with how they officially go public, or maybe something sweet like a holiday or time with friends to show how far they’ve come?

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witchywithwhiskey · 3 months ago

Note

For the sweethearts game I would love to see what you do with Crazy 4 U + Andy Barber 🩷❤️🩷❤️

your favorite sweet treat

pairing: boyfriend!andy barber x female reader

summary: after your valentine's day date in the city, you stop at a diner with your boyfriend, and when you don't share your milkshake, he decides to steal a taste of something else.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!); smut; vaginal fingering; fingerfucking; semi-public sex; come eating; orgasm control/denial; light bdsm; risk aware consensual kink; quiet sex; oral sex (m receiving); road head; brief mentions of piv sex, spanking, and more overt bdsm dynamics (including punishments); dirty talk; daddy kink; praise kink; some degradation kink; begging; pet names (babygirl, baby); established relationship

word count: 3.8k

a/n: ahh Cate, thank you for sending in this prompt!! i don't remember where i got the idea, but i wanted to do something with a diner and it just made sense to use Andy. plus i love the idea of straight-laced lawyer Andy being a little reckless on Valentine's Day 🤭 thank you for playing my sweethearts game, i hope you enjoy ♡♡

sweethearts game masterlist

“You look like you’re really enjoying that milkshake, babygirl.”

The neon lights of the diner shone brightly in the dark February night as you cut your eyes to Andy Barber, who sat beside you in the booth. The lawyer, dressed in a suit that was more than a little rumpled after your Valentine’s Day date in the city, was eying the milkshake in your hand with a hungry look.

“Mhmm, it’s very good,” you agreed sweetly, knowing exactly what Andy was angling for and refusing to give in so easily. If he wanted a taste, he’d have to ask directly—or wrest the chilled glass from your determined fingers, especially since he was liable to drink half of it in one gulp.

Andy chuckled at your seemingly innocent response, turning toward you in the booth in the back corner of the diner, where you’d stopped for a late dinner after seeing a show in Boston, and shifted closer to you. He lay his arm across the back of the bench seat, his big body curling around yours while he ducked his head close.

You watched him sharply, a ripple of heat curling in your belly as you noticed the way his eyes were fixed on your mouth. He stared at your lips as they wrapped around the straw and you took a sip of the sweet drink, seeing his gaze darken infinitesimally.

You let the straw fall away from your lips and darted your tongue out to savor the milkshake’s flavor, delighting in the quiet groan that rumbled in Andy’s chest. The satisfaction of teasing him made you smile.

“Why don’t you let me have a taste?” Andy murmured, his voice low and enticing. His words were barely louder than the 60s Motown music playing from the classic jukebox across the diner, but you could hear him well enough.

Andy was so close that you could feel his warm breath against your cheek and it almost made you want to give in, just so he could understand how good the milkshake truly was. He’d seemed satisfied with the burger he’d polished off, so surely he wouldn’t drink all of it before he gave it back…

But then you saw the glimmer of greediness in Andy’s gaze and you knew that if you let him have just one small taste, he was going to drink the milkshake in half a second—and it was just too good to share. It was rich and thick and creamy perfection. You couldn’t risk giving Andy any because he’d take too much.

“Get your own,” you said airily, tossing your head and turning so you were giving Andy your back as much as you could in the vinyl booth. You even curled protectively around your milkshake, taking furtive sips as you enjoyed its sweetness.

Andy laughed lowly, but there was something a little dark in the pleasant sound that had your body going on delicious alert. Instead of making a play for your milkshake, though, he dropped a kiss to your shoulder, his lips pressing against the bare skin between the thin strap of your dress and where your cardigan had slipped down your arm.

He nuzzled into your shoulder, his hot mouth dragging over your skin an exquisite contrast to the rough rasp of his beard. It was so distracting, you nearly missed the moment when his hand fell on your thighs and began to skim higher.

It wasn’t until Andy’s fingers pushed beneath the hem of your dress that you realized what he was doing. You had to bite back a gasp of surprised delight as heat bloomed, hot and insistent, in the core of your belly, settling heavily between your thighs, which spread instinctively for Andy’s hand.

“If you won’t give me a taste of your milkshake, babygirl,” Andy rumbled in your ear, his voice deep and warm and so rich, it sent shivers down your spine. “I’ll have to take a taste of something else.” His fingers pushed between your plush thighs and swiped at the already damp fabric of your panties.

“Andy,” you said on a sharp exhale. You’d been aiming for a scolding tone, but your whisper was too fluttery, too drenched in needy lust, and there was no real recrimination in your tone.

Still, you remembered where you were, and your eyes flicked around the diner.

It was late, nearly midnight, so the place was practically empty. The only people in the whole building were a lone man sitting at the counter on the opposite side of the diner, and the waitress and cook, who were talking to each other through the order window.

“You’re crazy,” you murmured, keeping your voice low so as not to draw attention, even as your legs fell open in wordless invitation.

Andy was quick to act on the invitation, his fingers curling around the edge of your silk panties and sweeping along your damp slit. He gathered your wetness on the pads of his fingertips, his touch sending sparks of pleasure dancing through your body and you had to silence a whimper by taking another sip of your milkshake.

“Crazy for you.” Andy’s words were purred in your ear, and you could hear the smile on his handsome face without even turning to look. But you did turn, just in time to watch him pull his fingers from between your thighs and slide them into his mouth.

You turned toward Andy more fully, watching eagerly as he licked the taste of you from his fingers, his eyes sliding closed as he groaned in pleasure. The sight was so erotic, you could feel yourself drip even more wetness into your already very damp panties.

For a brief moment, you entertained the thought of Andy Barber, your serious lawyer, getting down on his knees right there in the diner and tasting you straight from the source. It was a delicious, deviant thought, one that would no doubt end up with Andy getting disbarred, but it was fun to think about.

Andy’s eyes opened and they caught your undivided attention. His gaze, darkened with lust and sparkling with hunger, roved over your face, taking in your expression—and that was enough for him to know you’d been thinking dirty thoughts about him.

An obscenely self-satisfied grin spread across his handsome face, making him look even more sinfully hot. Andy ducked closer, so his forehead was pressed against your temple, and spoke directly into your ear.

“Does my babygirl like it when daddy fingers her sweet little pussy while she’s drinking her milkshake and not sharing it with me?” he asked teasingly, his hand falling to your thigh again and letting his thumb draw small circles on your bare skin.

A whine rose up in your throat, but you held it back. With another furtive glance around the diner to make sure no one was paying attention to you and Andy, and they couldn’t see what you were doing while you were sequestered in the back corner booth, you spread your legs even wider.

“Yes, daddy,” you whispered, nodding for good measure as you looked up at him from under your lashes, your lips curving in a sweet smile.

A moment later, you had to bite back a gasp when Andy curled his fingers around your knee and pulled your thigh over his leg, opening you up obscenely wide and forcing the skirt of your dress to ride up improperly high on your legs. The cool air of the diner brushed against your heated core and you couldn’t help but squirm on the vinyl seat.

“Oh god,” you whimpered, turning your face into Andy’s shoulder to muffle a helpless moan. The fabric of his suit jacket was soft and cool against your heated skin. When you breathed in, you could smell the familiar scent of his spicy cologne, and it filled your head with even more fluffy clouds of desire.

“Be a good girl and drink your milkshake, babygirl,” Andy said, his voice warm, but with the steel of a command. His fingers skimmed up your thigh, raising goosebumps in their wake, and dove beneath your panties to slip teasingly through your wetness. “Daddy’s going to play with your pretty little pussy, and if you can stay quiet, I’ll let you cum.”

“Daddy, you have to let me cum,” you whined, pouting up at Andy with your widest, most innocent eyes. But, though you saw the corner of his mouth flicker in a smirk, he gave you a stern look and nodded his head toward the cold glass still clutched in your hands.

Obediently, you wrapped your lips around the straw and took a deep pull of the creamy treat. All the while, Andy’s fingers explored your pussy, sweeping teasingly along your slit, dipping shallowly into your hole and gathering your arousal to rub lazy little circles around your clit.

It felt so good that your mind drifted hazily in pleasure. The rest of the diner fell away until it was just you and Andy in your secluded vinyl booth, his hand doing filthy things with your pussy while you hypnotically sucked on the straw of your milkshake.

All you could do was focus on the sweetness on your tongue and the pleasure building between your thighs—and staying quiet, which grew increasingly difficult the longer Andy played with your pussy. Thankfully, the straw in your mouth helped muffle your little huffs and quiet whimpers of need.

When Andy finally slid his finger into your aching, fluttering hole, it felt so good that you forgot yourself. Your entire being was reduced to your inner walls clenching greedily around his thick finger, wordlessly begging for another, begging to be stretched around as many of Andy’s fingers as he could fit in your tight cunt.

Overwhelmed, you had to stop drinking your milkshake so you could let out a low moan, forgetting to bury your face in Andy’s jacket. The noise spilled into the diner, with only the music from the jukebox masking the sound of your debauched pleasure.

Thankfully, no one seemed to hear it except Andy, who froze immediately. A rumbling sound of recrimination came from his chest as he shifted in the booth, curling around you even more and crowding you into the wall so that you were hidden entirely from the view of the rest of the diner.

“Be quiet, babygirl,” he growled, more bite than warmth in his voice. The dominance in his tone made your pussy squeeze around his finger and you mewled quietly into his shoulder. “Unless you want everyone in this diner to know what a little slut you are, letting daddy finger you in public and getting so wet for me, you need to be quiet.”

Although Andy’s words had the desired effect of admonishing you about how important it was that you stay quiet—since a public indecency charge could lead to his disbarment—they also drove your need and desire higher. His warning reminded you of how dirty and filthy the two of you were being, him with his hand up your skirt and you getting off on it.

So you forced yourself to take a deep, calming breath, clearing some of the hazy pleasure from your mind and buried your face in Andy’s neck. The rasp of his beard against your temple and the smell of his cologne filling your senses calmed you enough to let out a sweet little sigh and find your words.

“It’s the milkshake, daddy,” you said in your most innocent voice, placing a kiss against the side of his neck and grinning when you were rewarded with Andy’s big body shuddering beneath your frosty lips. “It’s just so creamy and delicious.”

Your voice was thick with innuendo so Andy didn’t buy your guilelessness for a moment, but he chuckled indulgently and brushed a forgiving kiss to the apple of your cheek.

“Then you should keep drinking, babygirl,” he urged, his hand beginning to move again as he withdrew his finger from your warm cunt and pushed it back inside. He quickly added a second finger, the slick of your arousal making it easy to push inside your tight hole. “Because you’re not gonna cum until you finish all of it.”

A petulant whine slipped from your mouth, but at Andy’s stern look, you wrapped your lips around the straw of your milkshake and prepared to drink the rest.

Peering down into the glass, you were relieved to see there wasn’t much left at the bottom and nearly huffed a laugh. Wasn’t it only a little while ago that you were hoarding the milkshake all to yourself?

In that moment, you nearly wished you’d given Andy a taste. But then he never would’ve subjected you to the delicious torture of his fingers between your thighs in the back of that diner, and it would’ve been a damn shame to miss out on the orgasm he was driving you toward.

You took a deep pull on the straw of your milkshake, reveling in the delicious sweetness of the creamy treat, and nearly spit it all over the table when Andy’s thumb brushed against your clit. You managed to swallow and hold in your desperate moan, but it was a near thing.

Andy rubbed steady, leisurely circles on your clit as he fucked you with two fingers, pumping into your hole like he was barely trying to make you cum, which only made what he was doing so much hotter. Your head was tucked beneath his chin and he murmured soft praises, telling you how good you were, how well you were taking his fingers.

You fell back into your mesmeric daze of pleasure, sucking on the straw in your mouth while Andy fucked your pussy with his fingers. He thrust into you with rhythmic strokes that drove your pleasure higher and higher so gradually, you barely recognized it as you drifted in bliss.

It wasn’t until the sharp sucking sound of your straw pulling in air that you roused from the depths of your pleasure. Still, out of habit, your lips pulled on the straw, trying to suck up every last drop of the delicious milkshake, enjoying the final remnants of sweetness as they trickled onto your tongue.

“Good girl, such a good girl,” Andy cooed, his arm along the back of the booth curling around your shoulders to pluck the glass from your fingers and set it on the table. Then he pulled you deeper into his chest, your face pushing into the gap between the collar of his dress shirt and his warm skin. “Do you wanna cum now, babygirl?”

“Yes, please,” you whined softly, feeling achy and needy. “Make me cum, daddy, please,” you begged in a voice barely louder than a whisper. Your hips rocked into Andy’s hand, meeting the thrust of his fingers as he added a third, stretching you enough to make you whimper and bury your face more firmly into his neck.

“Such a perfect girl, did such a good job drinking your milkshake and staying quiet while I fingerfucked your needy pussy, babygirl,” Andy purred in your ear, his hand working faster between your thighs, his fingers curling deep inside to press against the spot that made your whole body tremble. “You’re such a good girl, did so well for daddy, baby.”

Your fingers, still chilled from the milkshake glass, pressed beneath the lapels of Andy’s jacket, reveling in the warmth of his body through his dress shirt. You clung to the fabric, knowing you were wrinkling it with your desperate grip and not caring even a little bit. You couldn’t care about anything beyond Andy’s fingers fucking you, driving you straight to the edge of your release.

“Please, daddy, please let me cum,” you begged on a silent sob of pleasure, opening your legs wider until your knee nudged against the bulge in Andy’s slacks. Knowing he was hard for you only made your body hotter, achier, needier, and you whined softly into the hollow of his throat, babbling, “Please, please, please, please.”

“Cum for me, babygirl,” Andy ordered in that warm commanding voice you loved so much. “Be a good girl and cum all over daddy’s fingers, you can do it, make a mess of daddy’s hand.” His thumb pressed harder against your clit, fingers stroking the spot inside you, his words urging you on. “Good girl, baby, cum for daddy—cum for me, babygirl.”

All at once, the tension in your belly snapped and you shattered apart on Andy’s hand, burying your face deep into the fabric of his jacket and dress shirt to muffle your moans as you came. Your pussy clamped down on Andy’s fingers, sucking them in deeper while he fucked you lazily through your release, still rubbing soft circles on your clit to drag out your pleasure.

It went on like that for what felt like ages. Andy didn’t stop until you were whining at the overstimulation, your body trembling while you struggled to pull yourself up from where you’d slumped against him.

You met his gaze, the small, self-satisfied smile nestled in his thick beard sending another tendril of heat curling in your belly. Then you grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him in for a kiss.

You kissed Andy hard, your tongue plunging into his mouth and letting him taste the sweetness of your milkshake on your lips. You could taste the faint traces of your own desire on his tongue and you moaned into the kiss, scooting nearer to him on the vinyl seat of the booth, practically climbing into his lap in an effort to get closer to him.

“Mm, your milkshake tastes very good,” Andy murmured when you separated to catch your breath. “But I think your pussy will always be my favorite sweet treat.”

He popped his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them lewdly and licking them clean with such unabashed zeal, you couldn’t help but pull him in for another all-consuming kiss, groaning at the delicious mixture of tastes as you licked the tartness of yourself from his mouth.

For long moments, you savored each other, but Andy gently slowed the kiss and eventually pulled away. His cheeks were flushed a little pink above his beard as he rearranged his hard bulge in his slacks to be less obvious, and he had to take a few deep, calming breaths before he was ready to stand.

Andy paid the bill for your dinner at the cash register near the door, then tugged you out to the parking lot of the diner. He opened the passenger side door of his sleek car for you and helped you inside before getting into the driver’s seat and pulling back onto the dark road that would take you home.

Thankfully, since it was so late, there was no one else on the road—no one else to see you reach across the car’s console and greedily undo Andy’s belt and fly. You reached inside his pants to pull out his half-hard cock before he even had a chance to say anything.

“What’re you doing, babygirl?” Andy asked in a deep, gruff voice, glancing away from the dark road as it wound and curled through the Massachusetts countryside outside Boston.

“That milkshake hit the spot, but now I want my favorite sweet treat, daddy,” you said tartly, then you rearranged yourself in the passenger seat, leaving your seatbelt buckled over your lap while you leaned over the low console and pressed a kiss to the tip of Andy’s cock. “If you can keep us from crashing, I’ll let you cum,” you purred, echoing Andy’s earlier words.

The sound that came from Andy’s mouth was part groan, part breathless laugh. You half expected him to refuse your game, to pull you away and give you a stern warning about the importance of safe driving, but there must’ve been some kind of magic in the late night air, some kind of spell cast in time to make your Valentine’s Day perfectly debauched, because he didn’t.

Instead, the car slowed, which you knew was Andy’s way of taking precautions to make sure you were as safe as you could be while gave him road head. But it made you smirk against his tip, because it meant it would take more time for the two of you to get home, and you could play with him for even longer.

“Enjoy your treat, babygirl,” Andy rumbled, his voice deliciously deep, with just a hint of the steel dominance that made your pussy wet. “Because when we get home, I’ll be teaching you a lesson about not distracting daddy while he’s driving.”

Your whole body clenched at the promise and you grinned against Andy’s cock, dragging your plump lips down the thick ridge on the underside of his dick. You lapped eagerly at his balls before murmuring, “I’m looking forward to it, daddy.”

Then you licked up the length of his cock and wrapped your lips around the tip, tongue sweeping through the slit and moaning when you tasted his salty precum. One of Andy’s hands fell to the back of your head, petting your hair lovingly while the other held the steering wheel so tight, you could hear the leather creak.

For the rest of the drive home, you sucked Andy’s cock just as leisurely and reverently as he’d played with your pussy, savoring the taste of him and burying your face in his balls while you stroked him steadily. By the time you made it home, Andy’s cock was a throbbing, leaking mess covered in your spit, but he refused to let you make him cum.

That, he said, would have to wait until after your punishment.

Andy’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he dragged you into the home you shared, telling you he hoped you’d enjoyed your favorite sweet treat, because he was going to make you beg and cry on his cock until you’d repented for being bad and were his good girl again.

Since Andy Barber was the type of man to follow through on his threats and promises, you endured your punishment—a spanking, over his knee, while your pussy dripped all over his thigh. Then he stretched you out on his thick cock, pounding into you relentlessly and withholding your release until you were crying and begging to cum, apologizing for distracting him while he was driving.

You enjoyed every moment of it, and it was all worth it because at the end of the night, Andy Barber gave you your favorite sweet treat—his cock shoved deep in your throat, filling your mouth with cum while you swallowed greedily with a smile on your face.

sweethearts game masterlist

#andy barber #andy barber fanfiction #andy barber smut #andy barber x reader #andy barber x you #andy barber imagine #andy barber au #andy barber one shot #chris evans #chris evans characters #chris evans smut #chris evans fanfiction #witchywithwhiskeywork #witchywithwhiskey's sweethearts #veltana

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belsssssss · 27 days ago

Text

A Few Pints Deep

The pub is packed, the kind of Friday night chaos that buzzes through your veins. You’re two drinks in maybe three and everything feels a little looser, a little lighter. George is only a few feet away, laughing with Chris and Arthur Hill, head thrown back and curls bouncing with every laugh. His hand wraps around his pint like it’s second nature, and he looks good unfairly good. Like he always does when he doesn’t even try.

You’re mid-conversation with a guy who’s definitely not from your usual circle. Someone someone brought along. He’s leaning in close, a little too close, saying something flirty, eyes lingering. His hand rests lightly on your thigh under the table a move you notice but don’t immediately shut down, partly because it feels like a petty test and partly because you’re a little tipsy and riding the buzz.

You catch George looking over. Correction: staring. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his jaw is sharp as glass.

A minute later, he’s beside you. No warning. Just suddenly there, thigh pressed tight against yours, his arm tossed across the back of the booth so it brushes your shoulders. His presence is hot and grounding and just a little territorial.

The guy tries to keep talking to you, but George cuts in smooth, low voice. “Didn’t realise we were inviting strangers tonight.”

You snort into your drink. “He’s not really a stranger”

George’s eyes flick to the guy’s hand, still too familiar on your leg. “He’s not your boyfriend either.”

The guy looks taken aback. You, however, feel like your skin’s on fire.

“Alright, man,” the guy says, standing. “Didn’t mean to cause drama.”

“Yeah,” George mutters, “maybe find someone else’s date to flirt with.”

Your heart skips.

Once the guy’s gone, George doesn’t move away. If anything, he gets closer.

“You’re not my date,” you say, half-daring, half-breathless.

George turns to you, eyes dark. “You should be.”

His hand slides down not overtly, just resting on your bare knee under the table, fingers brushing the hem of your skirt. It’s nothing overt in the grand scheme, but it makes your stomach flip.

“You jealous, Clark?” you ask, voice teasing, but your heart’s pounding like mad.

He leans in, so close you can feel the heat of his breath against your ear. “I didn’t like seeing his hands on you. Because I’ve been dying to touch you like that for months.”

You swallow hard, cheeks flushed. “Then why haven’t you?”

He looks at you like he’s already undressing you with his eyes, but there’s something softer under it too. “Because you’re my best friend. Because I didn’t want to fuck it up. But seeing you like that tonight laughing, tipsy, letting him get close I realised I’d rather risk everything than let someone else think they’ve got a chance.”

You don’t think. You just grab his shirt and pull him in, lips colliding with his in a kiss that’s all heat and want and months of unspoken tension finally breaking. He kisses you like he means it hand sliding up your thigh, other curling into your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

When you finally pull away, breathless, his forehead rests against yours.

“Tell me that wasn’t just the drinks talking,” he whispers.

You smile, brushing your thumb across his jaw. “Nope. That was all me. Sober enough to know I’ve wanted this longer than I’ll ever admit.”

His grin is cocky now, pure George. “Reckon we should get out of here before I kiss you again in front of the entire pub.”

You pretend to think. “Might not be a bad idea.”

George’s hand slips into yours under the table, fingers interlocking, possessive and sure. As you leave the pub together, his hand stays firmly on you like a promise.

And this time, you’re not going to stop him.

#george clarkey x reader #george clarkey #george clarke fics #george clarke fanfic

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beneathsilverstars · 3 months ago

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Can you pls explain to me the proper way to raise a child gender neutrally, especially in a world that loves to push gender? It’s something I always wanted to do when I have my own kid but I’m scared the world is just not ready for that kind of thing and my child will get bullied by other kids/adults.

Unfortunately the feasibility of this does depend on where you live. I’m lucky to live in a fairly liberal college town — the state as a whole is awful, but in this town we have drag shows and a huge pride parade and rainbow stickers in shop fronts. There are still transphobic people here of course, but they generally know that being too overt about it will have social repercussions.

However! It doesn’t necessarily have to be an all-or-nothing thing! When your kid's a baby it’s up to you how you refer to them while in different situations, so you’re free to adjust your language as seems necessary. And then when they’re old enough to care, well, at that point it’s not up to you anyway! (My kid has decided she’s a nonbinary girl, hence the she/hers in this post.)

So here’s a list of things my partners and I did, and you can decide which things seem safe / worth it to you.

We gave her a name that doesn’t have strong gender connotations.

We shopped in the boys and girls sections equally, aiming for a roughly equal number of fancy little button ups vs fancy little dresses, pink diapers vs blue diapers, etc.

We told friends and family that we were planning to raise her gender neutrally and use they/them pronouns, until/unless she expressed a preference otherwise.

Our explanation to adults was along the lines of “We don't want to assign a gender to our child, because we think gender should be a freely-made choice rather than something that is assumed based on body type. So, we're raising them gender neutrally until they decide what they want to be. We’re not assigning them 'nonbinary', either; we’re using they/them to help avoid gendered bias, so they’ll get to experience feminine, masculine, and ungendered options equally. That way every option will be open to them as they learn their own preferences and decide who they want to be.”

Our explanation to kids was along the lines of “I don’t know yet if they’re a boy or a girl or something else! When babies are born, the doctor guesses what gender they’ll be. But sometimes the doctor guesses wrong, and the kid grows up to be a different gender. We decided not to guess what gender our baby will be, because we want to let them choose.” This usually makes perfect sense to 4-5 year olds! (Younger kids might not entirely understand or care, and older kids might have more questions.) However, you gotta be careful with this, bc even some people who are okay with you explaining your own adult transed gender won’t like you implying to their children that everyone should have that option and the whole system is bs. The less objectionable explanation is “I’m going to wait until they’re older to ask them whether they’re a boy or a girl.” Or even answering "What gender is your baby?" with "What do you think?" and then "Maybe!"

We didn’t announce her agab. When people asked, we refused to answer, more or less politely depending on the vibes. If you really want to make them feel bad you can give them a weird look and say “My child’s body is none of your business??” but there’s also the gentler “I don’t think it really matters!” We did fill out her assigned sex for official paperwork, like doctor's forms and legal government stuff, but for more casual forms we sometimes skipped the question or wrote in "we are raising them gender-neutrally" or "they/them".

We generally didn’t correct strangers or explain it to them unless they asked. Nothing wrong with some people assuming “she” and some people assuming “he”, as long as it’s not always just one or the other. If a stranger asked about their gender, I'd go for a quick "We're raising them gender-neutrally." I did also have to clarify fairly often that I only have one kid, when I talked about them and people assumed the "they" was plural, but that was never a big deal it was just kinda funny.

We did correct friends and family, since if they used gendered pronouns it was an active choice or mistake rather than a clueless assumption. Most of our circles are queer so most people were chill about it, but some family members changed one diaper and immediately assigned a pronoun set. We didn't think it was worth fighting over or limiting access, since it's not like they were disrespecting the baby's preference. But we did keep correcting them / emphasizing the neutral pronoun in our replies.

When she started preschool, we preemptively explained to her teachers that we're raising her gender-neutrally, and to please refer to her using "they/them" unless she said otherwise, and to avoid splitting the class into boys vs girls teams or anything like that. Again, fairly liberal town, and the preschool even has a teacher who uses they/them, so the teachers agreed without issue. iirc, they messed up occasionally but they were making an effort, and again I wasn't too bothered as long as my kid wasn't.

When she started using she/her sometimes, I let her teachers know, and told them to follow her lead. When we talked with friends and family we just used the right pronouns ourselves, and explained if they asked or it came up. And then once she was consistently using just she/her, we made a facebook post about it and started correcting people with a quick "She actually decided to use she/her, now."

And then here's how we talked about gender with her, specifically.

When she was old enough to start wondering who's a boy and who's a girl and what that even means, we explained, "Some people are girls, some people are boys, some people are neither or both or something else. I decided I don't want to be a boy or a girl, I'm nonbinary instead. You can decide if you want to be a boy or a girl or nonbinary or something else, too." and "Well, maybe that person's a boy, but they could be something else; I don't know because I don't know them. I don't know their name or anything either." We decided not to explain how differently most of society treats gender, the stereotypes of gender presentation, etc, until she started noticing that stuff herself. Explaining that it's wrong still involves putting those ideas into her head, which was going to happen pretty soon anyway regardless. Might as well start with a foundation of pure gender anarchy while we can.

When she noticed that every other kid she's met already had a gender, we explained "A lot of parents guess what gender their kid will be, and sometimes they guess right or sometimes they guess wrong. [Friend]'s mom guessed that she was a girl, and [friend] agrees! But when Mama was a kid people guessed she was a boy, and then she grew up and decided she's actually a girl. We didn't want to guess for you and maybe get it wrong, so we decided to wait until you were old enough to decide for yourself what gender you want to be."

Occasionally when the topic came up, we would ask if she felt like she wanted to be a girl or boy or something else, or specifically ask if she liked "they/them" or wanted to use "she/her" or "he/him". When she was ~2, she didn't entirely understand and didn't care. When she was ~3, she occasionally said she wanted to be a girl or use she/her, but immediately changed her mind as soon as we actually referred to her as such. (This is quite in-character for her, because she's generally averse to big changes and doesn't like to do anything she doesn't feel totally confident about.) When she was ~4 she finally stuck with it, and now she's a nonbinary girl who uses she/her, and her feelings about gendered terms like "daughter" still go back and forth a bit.

When she started expressing preferences in clothing, colors, etc, we just got things she liked, which ended up being dresses and sparkles.

As she started noticing gender differences, picking up stereotypes from school and media, etc, we'd address them as they came up. "Yes, a lot of people think dresses are just for girls. But I think that isn't very fair. Some boys love to wear dresses, and some girls don't, and that's just fine! It's not very nice to tell someone else what they're allowed to wear. (Unless they need certain clothes to say safe, like a jacket in the winter.)"

We also had to tell her to stop being sexist, lol. "It's fine that you think girls are awesome, they are! But boys are awesome too. It's not very nice to say you won't play with someone just because of their gender. If someone said they wouldn't play with me because I'm nonbinary, I would be so sad! If you don't want to play with [these three classmates] because they're usually too loud and rough, that's fine, but that's not because they're boys; that's because of what games they like to play. Some girls like to play loud and rough, and some boys like to be more careful and quiet like you. Can you think of any boys in your class who you like to play with sometimes? ... See, boys can like all sorts of different games, just like girls can."

We ended up getting the easiest resolution (at least for now): by the time she reached the age where kids start caring about these things, she'd started caring, and settled into being a classic girly girl (with the occasional splash of nonbinary flavor). If she'd stuck to they/them, she'd probably be starting to have a harder time in school -- definitely not full bullying, given her 12-kid 2-teacher private kindergarten class, but probably some frustration with constantly correcting people.

However... if she was more gnc, she woulda ended up that way sooner or later, anyway. If I was choosing between "she's out and proud trans and gets some shit for it" or "she's unhappy with being cis but doesn't realize she has other options," I'd always choose the former, because in that case she gets a choice. By the time kids are old enough to bully each other over gender, they're old enough to decide whether they want to be out at school, y'know? And I've always been ready to pull her from school if it ever became necessary due to peer bullying or unsupportive teachers, especially since she shares a lot of the traits that my wife got bullied for as a child.

It is possible to go 100% gender-neutral, and cut anyone out of your life who opposes it, including moving schools or even moving house if necessary. There are people who will support this choice, even cishet people who don't really get the trans thing but know that unconscious sexism can have a big effect on babies' development. Maybe more people than you think! But it depends on your local culture. And sometimes it takes a certain amount of privilege to be able to prioritize finding those people, and it's simply not worth, say, paying more to switch daycares to find a teacher who won't gender your baby. Sometimes you do have to balance your priorities, and you can't know how much balancing it will actually take until you get there.

So, overall, my advice is just to do whatever you feel comfortable with! What sounds worse to you: gendering your baby, or fighting against society's attempts to gender them? Obviously when you have a trans child you fight for them, but it's a muddier question when the child doesn't care yet. Most of our queer friends aren't going full they/them gender neutral with their kids like we did, because they don't want to have to constantly explain that on top of all the shit they deal with for being queer. Instead they're just being extra firm about shopping in both sections of the store, not falling to stereotypes, and explaining to their child that they can decide to be something else if they want.

And there's a lot of options in between -- maybe you use they/them at home, but he/him at school, or maybe even she/her at home to balance out the school. Maybe you name and dress them gender-neutrally (or both fem and masc) and don't correct any assumptions. Maybe you tell one side of the family that you're going gender anarchy neutral so they should avoid gendered terms, but you only tell the other side that you're going feminist equality so they should make sure to gift both pretend kitchen toys and pretend power tools. It's the same as deciding in what situations you want to be out vs stay stealth/closeted.

When they're a baby it doesn't matter much either way (as long as you're not being sexist in your reactions to their behavior) because they're a baby, they could not care less. And then when they're old enough to pick their gender, you're hopefully giving them that choice regardless of what you did when they're a baby. It's true that the starting point you gave them may affect their gender journey, but that's true of gender neutrality as well.

So if you think it'll be too risky in the time and place in which you're raising your child, you really don't have to feel bad about not doing it. It's okay to save your energy for when your child really needs it. But if it's something you're committed to, it is possible! I'm so glad that my family was able to make this choice. I actually loved the conversations that it opened up with all sorts of people about gendering children! Even though I got in trouble one time for explaining gender too well to the children at the daycare I worked at, lol. And I know that gendering my kid as a baby would've made me more uncomfortable than any number of awkward conversations. I love knowing that her pink purple flower unicorn heart dresses are something she freely chose!!

#hmm i should tag this smth so i can find it again if i want #parenting #gender #silver.chat

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dalishious · 3 months ago

Note

Hi, hope you're doing well!

I had to unfollow you/block a lpt of tags for a while until I beat datv but I'm so happy to be back. You're one of the first da blogs I followed, and I see you've gotten a lot of argumentative people at the moment, but I just want to say I think that you're great, and I appreciate the candid way you answer people.

Just a quick question, you said Taash's rivaini route had a lot of bullshit? I've just beaten the game for the first time and that was the route I chose so I was wondering if you could elaborate?

Thank you!

Disclaimer: A lot of this is written from a personal place. In no way am I trying to discredit anyone who feels differently. That even includes Trick Weekes, when it comes to the gender stuff at least. And please keep hatred of Taash out of this post; as I say in the end, I do still really enjoy Taash as a character!

The player first meets Taash when still identifying as a woman. However, Taash soon comes to realize they are not a woman; they are non-binary. While most of this answer will be quite critical of Taash’s story, there are positives I would like to acknowledge first. For example, I do think that the dialogue options surrounding the acceptance of Taash’s gender is fairly good. I like that you can be encouraging but not pushy about them exploring their identity further, when the topic first comes up. If you play as a non-binary character yourself, you are able to relate to Taash on a personal level, and provide them with a sense of kinship outside that which they seek from the Shadow Dragons, (who apparently double as both abolitionists and queer support group?) The game makes it clear that Taash’s gender is not just player-reactive; if the player chooses to avoid Taash’s personal questline, Taash still later on announces they are non-binary and use they/them pronouns now, with a game notification letting you know they went and embraced that with the help of Neve and Harding. And while some people have criticized the use of terms like non-binary as “not being fantasy enough” for their tastes, I personally think it’s perfectly fine to be overt like that, instead of dancing around the topic. I saw a post on a recommended Facebook page from some cis person who said they learned a lot about gender diversity because the game went out of the way to be so blatantly inclusive. Yes, there are a moments I can agree are kind of cringe, but lord knows there’s plenty of cringe in other regards as well with the writing, so it’s not like it’s exclusive to Taash’s gender writing. Overall, I think it’s a good exploration about someone stepping outside of a binary view of gender, except for one glaring problem: It is so very, very, white.

Trick Weekes, Taash’s writer, is non-binary themself, but they are also a settler living in the colonial project known as Canada. And that has very clearly influenced their perspective on how they think gender and culture works. With Taash’s writing for the Rivaini route, Weekes paints a picture that their gender journey must come at the sacrifice of their cultural identity, as if the two must be distinctive, separate things. What’s worse, is how binary the cultural identity aspect to Taash’s story is; ironic for a character who is supposed to be about stepping outside a box like that!

Not once, not twice, but three times, Rook is forced to choose to convince Taash if they should be Rivaini or Qunari. The first time, there is an option to say “why not both?” But that option is not present the second or third time the dialogue prompt comes up. The one that hurt me the most is when Taash is clearly having a breakdown over who they want to be vs. who they were raised to be, and the only way to try and console them is to make them pick a singular thing to identify as.

I also think it was a hugely missed opportunity, in choosing to have a bunch of Tevinter humans be Taash’s only source of learning about gender diversity. We know from codex entries that they talk to the Shadow Dragons about that topic, but apparently no one else? Why not have Taash consult a Rivaini Seer for advice, or hell, how about adding more qunari characters who aren’t just standard brutes to mash buttons against in a fight? So, in limiting the scope of this knowledge to just Tevinter humans, Taash is only getting more reinforcement that gender comes before any other cultural identity.

As a Two-Spirit person, I cannot stress enough that gender and culture do not exist in two separate vacuums. They can overlap and/or can be essentially under the same umbrella. So, when Weekes writes about Taash struggling with cultural identity and gender identity at the same time, I can understand that feeling so well. But I cannot understand the written approach Weekes takes. The message I received was “your gender is more important than your culture.” Which again, I must stress is such a white colonial idea of queerness.

I do really like Taash despite these shortcomings from Weekes, though. Just like how I really like Sera despite Kristjanson’s bullshit in Inquisition. I’m not about to hate on a character just because there are certain parts of their writing that I think should have been handled better, when there are more parts that are really fun about Taash. They are so refreshingly autistic-coded in a way that doesn’t punish them for being so, for example.

#dragon age #datv #datv critical #ask

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inkandstardusts · 27 days ago

Text

honey i laugh when it sinks in

part i of ii

summary: Patrols with Joel are usually always the same. He leads and you follow. It's what works. Until one night when you confess far too much and it opens up a can of worms that neither of you can seem to put away.

word count: 3.9k

rating: mature

warnings/tags: mentions of alcohol, mentions of guys being creeps (not Joel), age gap (Joel is 54 and reader is 26), reader is AFAB but no overt descriptions otherwise, no smut (YET) but there are allusions to it

a/n: i'm going to be so real with you - i don't go here. this writing blog is something i created years ago as a teenager to write about medici, masters of florence and i really haven't used it since except to reblog random good luck posts in the hopes that it might work. what can i say, i'm superstitious sometimes. anyways, i've recently been devouring joel fics on here and have missed writing so i decided to take a stab at this. please let me know what you think! i love feedback. thank you for reading!

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You’re not sure how you reached this point. Discussing sex with Joel Miller of all people. You’ve never been friends, not even acquaintances really. You get along with him well enough during patrols mostly because you stay silent and follow exactly what he says. He doesn’t take well to people not following instructions and you’re fine with that. You’re not the biggest fan of how grumpy he can be, how easily irritable he is when people don’t listen to him. But you cut him some slack, given he’s twice your age and all burly muscle and perpetual gowns. Life has been hard on everyone, and you’ve heard whispers of what happened to him so you’re always kind and gracious. When you were a little girl, your mother had told you that it was your biggest strength. You have to remind yourself of that sometimes though, when you’re on patrol with Joel Miller and he’s barking orders.

Your second biggest strength, at least right now, might be your big mouth. You had no intention of talking about sex tips from a shitty magazine with Joel Miller. Truly. You had woken up from your afternoon nap and gotten ready for your shift before you had met Joel at the gates. He had nodded at you, mouth slightly twitching in what you assumed was a greeting before leading the way. You hadn’t even had a chance to nod back. You had followed him silently, trudging through the fresh bed of snow that blanketed the ground. It softened your steps, and you allowed your shoulders to relax, not having to worry about walking as silently as possible. The snow however, had gone from gentle flurries to a violent outburst. Your eyes had been squinting, trying to make out Joel’s hulking figure as he cut through the snow. You had been too far out to go back and there was no way you would be able to camp out. You followed him until you finally saw a faint outline of something, far ahead.

“What’s that?” you had asked and he hadn’t said anything. A few moments later you had found yourself in a cabin. It was cold and smelled sort of stale but it was shelter and you weren’t one to complain about being out of the snow. Joel had handed you a quilt, worn and fraying, and you had stripped out of your wet jacket. You had watched as he walked around, inspecting the windows and locks before he had finally settled across from you, a similar quilt around his own shoulders.

“We can wait out the storm in here,” he had said. You had nodded. It was silent after that and you didn’t do well with silence so you had reached for a worn magazine you found stuffed between the couch cushions. It was a worn, torn issue of Cosmopolitan. You were fairly sure your mother used to buy a copy once a month when she’d take you grocery shopping with her but you had been far too young to actually read them. When you had looked up at Joel, his head had been tilted back against the armchair he had settled in, his eyes closed. As you had perused the pages you came across a column about sex tips. You had glanced up at Joel, making sure his eyes were still closed before you started reading.

“Slip a donut around his penis, and slowly eat it off.”

Before you had realized what you were doing, you had snorted, quite loudly if you were being honest. Joel’s head had snapped up, eyes blinking open. His eyebrows had furrowed as he had looked at you.

“What?” he had asked, not angry, but somewhat annoyed at being disturbed.

Which is how you had found yourself here, in this moment. Your eyes widen and your brain is suddenly blank.

“Nothing,” you say, far too quickly. You can feel the heat in your face, and you know you must look guilty although you have no reason to be. Joel raises a brow, still looking unamused. His eyes shift to the magazine in your hands and something like recognition flashes across his face.

“S’all bullshit,” he says, presumably referring to the magazine. “Those magazines never made sense.”

Now you were sort of curious. Had he read magazines like this before? Maybe when he was standing at the checkout aisles. Then again, you can’t imagine Joel Miller of all people reading a Cosmo in front of other people.

“So you’ve read them?” you ask, voice quiet.

“No,” he says. Maybe a bit too quickly but you won’t call him out on it. “Just heard of ‘em is all.”

“Right,” you say, not at all convinced. It goes silent after that, but Joel doesn’t close his eyes. You blame the silence on your big fucking mouth. You’ve never been good with quietness. You always feel the need to say something, make it less awkward, at least in your mind. It’s the people pleaser in you. Which is why you feel the need to fill the silence. And since the only thing in your mind is apparently donuts and penises, the next words out of your mouth are exactly that.

“This one’s talking about putting a donut around a man’s dick.”

If a clicker came at you right at this moment, you wouldn’t even fight it. Death would be easier than the thick silence that follows. Your eyes widen right as the words leave your mouth and you cannot believe you’ve just said this. Joel seems just as surprised. He opens his mouth and then shuts it. You want the couch to swallow you, make you disappear. You’ve done it now. Whatever fragile dynamic you and Joel had created during your patrols is clearly gone. He’ll probably ask Tommy to never pair you up again. And it’s not like you’re dying to be his patrol partner but he’s good at what he does and he takes charge which means you can turn your brain off for a bit. You hate patrols, they make you anxious and on edge. But with Joel, it’s a little less. It doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome either, all golden skin, grey curls and pouty mouth.

“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I don’t know why I just said that.”

“S’fine,” Joel says, shifting. He looks uncomfortable.

“Really,” you continue going on, trying to make it better but probably digging yourself deeper. “I don’t even know what I’m talking about. It’s not like I’ve ever had sex. Or even been in a relationship. I just didn’t know that that’s what people did back then. I mean I guess it makes sense. If food wasn’t scarce, surely people would be curious to, like, try stuff with it. It’s sort of funny.”

You’re not even sure what you’re saying at this point. All you know is that Joel’s expression is something you’ve never seen before. He looks perplexed, still grumpy and there’s something else there that you can’t put your finger on.

“Right,” Joel says. His shoulders are tense.

“Sorry,” you say again. “Just pretend I said nothing.”

You put the magazine down, ready to pretend to fall asleep so you can brood in your embarrassment. You’re pretty sure Joel is going to ignore you until you get back to Jackson which is fine with you. Less opportunities to stick your foot in your mouth. Which is why you’re surprised when you hear his low drawl.

“Wasn’t like that,” he says. Your head snaps in his direction.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“The stuff,” he says, still uncomfortable. He points vaguely in the direction of the magazine on the ground. “Those magazines were always talkin’ shit. Dunno anyone who ever actually listened to them.”

“Oh,” you say. “So women weren’t putting donuts on penises?”

You mean it as a joke. You hope it lands. When Joel cracks half a smile, you slump in relief.

“Well maybe,” he says. “Seems like a waste of a donut.”

“Agreed,” you say. The last time you had a donut, a real donut, you had probably been seven. It’s been almost nineteen years since. “I would kill for a donut.”

There’s a pregnant pause and then Joel clears his throat.

“So you’ve really never…” he starts and then tapers off, watching you carefully. You feel your cheeks warm.

“No,” you say, quickly. You’re not embarrassed. You’re not. You know you could if you really wanted to. It just never felt right. And relationships are too much effort and the guys your age in Jackson are immature. Your friends don’t seem to mind but you do.

“Alright,” he says. There’s no judgement in his tone but you feel the need to defend yourself.

“It’s just stressful,” you say. “And guys my age are awful. They think they’re hot shit because they know how to shoot. Or fight.”

“Alright,” he says again. “None of my business anyways.”

“Well you asked,” you say.

“Right,” he says. Is that all he can say? You think about it some more, as the silence settles over you both. Maybe you should just get it over with. You live in a post apocalyptic world, it’s not like romance will be easy to come by. You’ve killed zombies but you haven’t had sex because you’re holding out for…whatever it is you’re looking for. At this point, you don’t even know what yourself. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve already spoken far too much about things Joel has no business knowing but you might as well voice your thoughts. Maybe he’ll have an opinion. Older people have good advice. Sometimes.

“Maybe I should just get it over with,” you say and you turn your head to look at Joel.

His eyes are closed but you see him stiffen. Okay, maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe now you’ve really crossed a line.

“Don’t know if I’m the one you should be talkin’ to about this,” he says, finally.

“Right,” you say, echoing him from earlier. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologisin’,” he says. “You do it far too much.”

“Sorr -” you start saying before you close your mouth.

��There’s no rush,” he finally says. “It’s whatever you want. Shouldn’t make y’self do something you don’t want to do.”

It’s good advice. A sweet sentiment, really. You hum in response.

“Thanks Joel.”

He grunts in response and that’s the end of the conversation.

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It’s as if your conversation with Joel opened up a can of worms. You can’t stop thinking about sex. Not even just sex. But sex with Joel. And yeah, maybe you’re a bit tipsy right now but it plagues your sober mind too. You’re not even sure how it began. One minute, you and Joel were returning back to Jackson and then a few hours later you had woken up from a dream so vivid, of you on his lap in the exact cabin you had been in earlier, squirming against him. Your subconscious is clearly trying to tell you something. And that something is that you need to get laid. Your mind had just decided to imprint on Joel because of recency bias. Or something. And okay, maybe it isn’t that far fetched since Joel is handsome, all big arms and brown eyes but it’s still insane. You can’t act on it. He’d probably have a stroke. Hell, you’d probably have a stroke trying to instigate something. That is, if Joel didn’t tell you off first. And get you kicked off of patrols. And maybe out of Jackson. Maria would probably not allow it to happen. She’s always had a soft spot for you. And if there’s one person that Joel listens to, it’s Maria.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by a pint glass being placed in front of you. When you look up, Maya is smiling at you, a twinkle in her eye.

“You’re thinking about something,” she says, sliding into the seat across from you. You could play it off but she’s your best friend. She would know. Instead you take a sip, allowing the warmth of the beer to settle in your gut. It’s your third one and you can feel the tips of your fingers beginning to tingle. It feels nice.

“I am,” you finally say. She leans forward, waiting for you to say more. You look around, making sure no one is listening. The lights of The Tipsy Bison cast the whole room in a warm glow. “I had a sex dream.”

“Oh?” Maya says. “Do tell.”

“It was about,” you start, before taking a deep breath. You look around once more, just to make sure. “Joel Miller.”

Maya’s eyes widen, almost comically. She lets out a squawk, almost like a bird.

“Joel Miller?” she repeats, much louder than you.

“Shut up,” you hiss. “You want everyone to know?”

“Sorry,” she says, quickly. “But babe, everyone in here is drunk as a skunk and the music’s way too loud. If anyone’s listening to us, they’re being creepers.”

Then, “so what was it like?”

Your face warms at the memory. You can barely remember it except for how you had woken up with sticky thighs. That and how he had you in his lap, fingers curled inside you and whispering something filthy in your ear. You had woken up and shoved your hands into your underwear. It had barely taken anything before you fell apart. You tell her as much and she grins.

“You dirty girl,” she says and you blush. “You’ve got the hots for an old man.”

“He’s not that old,” you say, but it’s weak to your own ears.

“He’s like sixty,” Maya says.

“Fifty-four,” you quickly correct her, and she grins.

“Whatever floats your boat,” she says. “I’m just happy you’re finally into someone. I’ve been waiting for this day.”

You scoff. “Yeah, because now I can tell him and we can live happily ever after.”

Maya raises a brow. “You’re not even going to try?”

You laugh. She can’t be serious. But the look on her face tells you otherwise.

“Maya,” you start. “Have you met him? He’s grumpy and intimidating.”

“And it makes you all hot and bothered,” she says and you swat at her from across the table. She laughs and you can’t help but smile.

“I regret telling you this,” you say. She wiggles her eyebrows.

“Nah you don’t,” she says. “Drink up.”

A few other people join your booth, courtesy of Maya. At some point, you’re given a shot, which you gladly take, and in your state of drunkenness, you get another beer. It’s the most you’ve drunk in a long while but it’s Friday and you don’t have patrol until Monday so you allow it. All the drinking does get to you and at some point, you excuse yourself and make your way to the bathroom. You’re not stumbling, but you’re definitely holding onto chairs as you meander past people. The bar is busy today and you feel content at the chatter of voices and the strum of music that fills the room. When you get to the bathroom it’s occupied, so you wait outside, impatiently tapping your foot against the ground. You really have to pee and the more you think about it the worse it gets. When the door opens, you’re about ready to run in until you look up to find Joel Miller staring at you.

The first thought in your mind is that he looks good. His hair is slicked back and he’s wearing a flannel but the sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms. His shoulders look extra broad in this light. Or maybe it’s the shot of tequila you just had. Either way, you stand up straighter, swaying slightly. He reaches out, steadying you with a hand on your arm.

“Joel,” you say. “Hi.”

“Evenin’,” he greets. His hand is still on your arm. It’s so warm. You don’t realize that you’ve said this out loud until he moves it away.

“You alright?” he asks, and you nod.

“Yeah!” you say, with much more enthusiasm than you would if you were sober. “I’m so good. How are you?”

He nods. “Well I should head back. Let you use the bathroom n’all.”

You don’t want him to leave. You want him to talk to you. Your drunk brain is needy, apparently. And an even bigger blabbermouth than sober you was at the cabin which is why you end up saying what you say.

“I had a dream about you,” you say. His eyes widen, and his shoulders tense. “It was nice.”

He clears his throat.

“Yeah?” he asks, and maybe it’s you, but his voice sounds deeper.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding back. Maybe Maya was right. Maybe Joel will do something now that you’ve gotten the ball rolling.

Joel looks like he’s about to say something else but then he stiffens again, standing up straight.

“I’ll tell your friend to get you some water,” he says. “Go use the bathroom. You’re drunk.”

He sounds annoyed now, like an angry parent. It irritates you. You’re not some kid. You’re twenty-six. You don’t need him treating you like one.

“I’m fine,” you say, pushing past him and into the bathroom. You don’t look at him when you shut the door. You pee, before you wash your hands and splash some water on your face. Everything’s still hazy and the alcohol is still heavy in your bloodstream but you start to feel some embarrassment about what you’ve just said to Joel. Clearly for some reason your subconscious is yet to tell you, you have some sort of agenda of making things awkward with him.

When you come out of the bathroom, you walk straight into someone. When you pull away, you look up to see a familiar face. It’s one of the guys that had been sitting at your booth. Michael? Mitch? Something with an M but you couldn’t for the life of you remember.

“Sorry,” you say. You try to side-step him but his arm comes up, blocking you.

“Hey, no worries. You’re all good,” he says and you smile, nodding. “I was actually hoping to catch you alone.”

“Oh,” you say. He smiles at you, sort of bashful.

“Yeah,” he says. “Wanted to see if you wanted another drink. Maybe we could talk somewhere quieter.”

Perhaps it’s all the sex you’ve been thinking about but your mind is suddenly telling you to just do it. Go with not-Michael or maybe-Mitch and get some and then perhaps you’ll stop fantasizing about Joel Miller.

“Okay,” you find yourself agreeing and he looks relieved. He places a hand at the small of your back, guiding you towards the bar. He orders you a pint of beer and leans closer to you, whispering something in your ear that you don’t catch because there’s suddenly a shadow to your left. When you look, it’s Joel Miller. Once again.

You don’t really believe in God but you wonder if someone is bored up there and playing some sort of prank on you.

Not-Michael turns to look at Joel too. There’s a scowl on Joel’s face, subtle but there. His eyebrows are furrowed.

“She’s drunk enough already,” he says to maybe-Mitch. Maya is behind him, looking at you with a glint in her eyes. She’s holding a glass of water. Faintly, you wonder how Joel knew to find her. But your mind is far too preoccupied with what’s going on.

“I’m fine,” you bite back.

“Didn’t seem fine when you were swayin’ in front of the bathroom,” Joel counters, jaw clenched.

“She said she’s fine man,” whatever-his-name says. “You can fuck off.”

You stiffen, shifting away from him.

“Actually, maybe he’s right. I am pretty drunk,” you say. Maya steps towards you.

“I was gonna head out,” she says. “Wanna come with?”

You nod. You turn to the guy in front of you, who now looks angry. His jaw is clenched.

“Sorry,” you say, not feeling sorry at all. You think of Joel telling you to stop apologizing. Before he can say anything, you turn to Joel and nod.

“Goodnight,” you say and he nods. He walks away right after but you can feel his gaze on you as you and Maya leave arm in arm.

When you’re both outside, Maya giggles.

“I’m not even saying this because I’m kinda buzzed but there’s something there,” she says. Usually you would scoff, brush it off. But you think of Joel, how he had looked at you in front of the bathroom, how he had found Maya for you and made sure you were okay. And you wonder if maybe she’s right.

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You’re woken up by knocking on your door. It’s not that early but it’s still quiet out. It can’t be Maya since she’s definitely still asleep. Maybe it’s your neighbour, you think, as you make your way downstairs. Mrs. Alvarez sometimes brings by fresh bread if she has extra. But she usually waits until later in the day. When you open the door, you wonder if you’re still dreaming. Joel Miller is standing on your porch, coat on and face red from the chilled morning air. He looks like he can’t believe he’s here either.

“Joel?” you say, sounding as confused as you feel.

“Just wanted to make sure you were doin’ alright,” he says.

“Oh,” you say. “M’fine. Just tired.”

“Right,” he says. He steps back and then speaks again. “And I wanted to apologize. Not my place to tell you what to do.”

You feel something warm settle in your chest.

“It isn’t,” you agree. “But you were looking out for me. I appreciate it.”

He nods. He hesitates before he speaks.

“Guys like Mason aren’t good news,” he says. “He’s always trying to get with drunk girls. Not that I’m sayin’ you’re vulnerable or anything, just that I’ve seen the way he is. He’s on probation with the council.”

Your eyes widen. You feel foolish. The one time you entertain a guy and he ends up being a grade-A creep.

“I’m an idiot,” you say and Joel shakes his head.

“Nah, you’re not. He’s the creep. Not your fault,” he says, voice warm. You laugh, weakly.

“Thanks,” you say. Joel hesitates. And then he steps forward. You’re pretty sure your heart stutters.

“If you wanted,” he begins and then stops. He runs a hand through his hair. “If you’re curious about all that stuff we were talkin’ about on patrol. I could,” he hesitates here. You’re fairly sure this is a dream. Some elaborate fantasy your mind has concocted. Still, you speak.

“You could what?” you ask, voice quiet. He looks directly at you now.

“I could help you out,” he says. “I could show you.”

As soon as he says it, he’s stepping away, heading back down the steps of your porch.

He turns back, looking at you. “You don’t have to answer now,” he says. “I want you to think about it.”

He leaves you there, stunned. When you shut your door, you make sure to lock it before you head to your coach and lay down. You don’t need to think about it. You already know what your answer will be.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfic #tlou fanfic

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