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neptuneiris · 5 months

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Behind the Scenes (04/05)

Behind the Acceptance

pairing: actor!aemond × fem!reader

summary: there are new changes for you and Aemond, he wants to rectify himself for past mistakes and you get used to your new life with the father of your son present.

word counter: 10.2K (consider it as a christmas gift, love you all❤)

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I'M SO SORRY!

i know the wait has been too much and you don't know how sorry i am. i experienced stress during my last week of uni before leaving for vacation and i got a new job, which consumes my time and i couldn't edit or do any writing, but i managed to find small times to write and that's why it's taken me so long. i appreciate your understanding, really🥺

I would like to wish you all merry christmas and a happy new year, my best wishes to all of you and also to your families, have a great time and God bless you all beautiful people, you are amazing and truly thank you for so much🥰

now yes, enjoy!

warnings: aemond dad melting our hearts and that's it:)

When Aemond told you to please go back to work and stop running away so that the two of you could face all this together, you didn't quite understand what he meant by 'go back to work'.

However, the next morning after waking up and starting to prepare breakfast for Aenar, you received an unexpected call that answered your question.

It's an unknown number so you accept the call with some caution.

"Y/N speaking? This is Michelle Watson, from the Warner Bros studio production department," she says and your heart jumps.

"Hello?"

You speak on the other end of the line, holding your phone to your ear.

It's HBO, who Aemond is working with right now and where you left your job thrown after unexpectedly meeting him again.

Nerves soon set in and you hold your breath, already feeling ashamed for leaving the shooting set like that without saying anything to anyone and creating a complete circus the moment Aemond called your name in the trailer in front of everyone.

"Yes, she speaks," you reply nervously.

"We want to inform you that despite what has happened, we understand it and the circumstances that led you to leave unexpectedly during your working hours," she tells you in a soft and formal voice, "And we will expect you tomorrow without any problem to resume work."

You frown completely, hesitate a little and blink several times in disbelief, not quite understanding.

"I'm sorry… what do you mean by resuming work?" you ask, barely able to contain your own surprise and disbelief.

"Some conversations took place," she explains, "Mr. Targaryen was quite insistent on convincing the production team to reconsider your situation. He advocated on your behalf, explained the circumstances and your entire track record as an excellent professional makeup artist so that you could continue to work with us."

With your lips parted and your eyes wide open, you are speechless for a moment, staring at a spot in your living room with your heart pounding, definitely not expecting to hear any of this after everything that has happened on this day.

You didn't even expect Aemond to decide to do this for you after everything that happened with him and Criston.

And just when you were starting to worry about how you were going to pay the rent for this apartment and even started to make a schedule in your mind to go get a job somewhere else tomorrow or even today.

"So if there's no problem and everything is fine with you, we'll expect you tomorrow at 7:00 A.M."

Completely speechless.

You can't even control your own heart rate.

But in spite of that, you can't help but feel a huge relief run through your entire body, where you still feel overwhelmed by the generosity and gesture of trust they are offering you, but you definitely feel completely relieved and grateful.

"Yes, yes, of course," you hasten to say, trying to control your emotions, "I'll be there. Thank you so much."

They give you a few more details, you ask few more questions and finally end the call, which leaves you with mixed emotions as you silently contemplate that you still have this new possibility of a better life for you and Aenar.

But you also think about Aemond.

And you will also wait to see how Aemond's integration into your son's little life will be now.

You really appreciate this gesture, you know that only he can do something like this with his influence and connections.

And in fact it gives you the confidence that he will keep his word that no one else will interfere in your and Aenar's life, only the two of you will make the decisions.

Arriving at the recording set, you leave Aenar in the nursery and then you enter the corridors of the whole big production, which is buzzing with its usual atmosphere with its twinkling lights, technical equipment with the huge cameras, microphones and all the sets ready.

You honestly feel nervous knowing that tomorrow you and Aemond will be working in the same place again, like in the old days.

But that's why you try to be as prepared as possible and you won't let all kinds of personal matters interfere with your work.

And once you arrive, you take a moment, take a deep breath and push open the door, where that familiar atmosphere once again envelops you.

You don't even know why but your heart is pounding as you walk down the halls and every step leads you to your area, the makeup and wardrobe trailer.

You assume it's out of shame after what happened yesterday.

Unfortunately your entrance doesn't go unnoticed and as you close the door behind you as you walk just a little into the trailer, some curious faces turn to see you, including Jess, who stops her usual routine and rushes over to you, her eyes wide with surprise.

You hug her back gently, feeling relieved and less tense by the warm welcome from Jess who, even though the two of you don't know each other very well, she actually seems like a very nice person and her personality shows you that.

"Ah Y/N, what a relief to see you again!"

She exclaims with her tone full of joy.

"God, I thought you wouldn't come back," she says as she hugs you excitedly, providing you with some comfort.

"I'm so sorry about yesterday," you say with a regretful gesture and you both break the hug, "I shouldn't have left like that and you don't know how embarrassed I feel. I'm really sorry."

"Oh no, don't worry about it," she assures you instantly, making a nonchalant gesture, "That's all in the past. The important thing is that you're back and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it," she comforts you with a small smile, "We have a lot of work to do today and we need to get you up to speed right away."

Jess, full of energy, ushers you further into the trailer while you greet your other co-workers. Then she explains the day's itinerary precisely, pointing out schedules, wardrobe changes and other important details.

All the while you nod, thanking her for her guidance and trying to keep up. In the midst of all the preparations, the huge door opens again and Aemond is now the one who makes his presence known.

Your gaze meets his and you see the obvious and unexpected surprise in his eyes at seeing you again, but there's not much reaction from either of you as instantly the makeup artists call him over and guide him to start prepping him for today's filming scenes.

And Jess also takes your arm, guiding you to the back of the trailer where the dressing rooms are located explaining what you will be doing, forcing you to look away from him.

And you can only feel Aemond's gaze on you until he loses sight of you.

Jess continues to explain to you, but you can't help but think and wonder certain things, like if everyone here, even Jess, knows about you and Aemond... what you once were and that you have a child together.

The behavior of both of you yesterday was very obvious, that's what you would think if you were an expectant one, so surely there must be some speculation.

And at that moment you remind yourself that your priority right now is your work and that the personal should be kept out of your work environment, so you shouldn't even think about it.

Finally you focus on following Jess's directions, putting aside distractions and preparing for the day.

Jess leaves you alone to take care of her own work and you start with yours, where you spend about an hour still in the back of the trailer, where you check and prepare the costumes that already have to be ready for the scenes that will be filmed soon.

When in the middle of everything, you hear some footsteps approaching behind you and thinking it must be one of the other actors or one of your co-workers, you turn around and the first thing you notice is that silver hair.

Aemond enters this section of the trailer a little unsure, without saying anything, while you also watch him without saying anything.

He is ready to record his scenes with that scar on the left side of his face that his character has and he only lacks the costume.

Until finally he speaks first.

You knew that having a conversation with him again would happen soon, so you're not surprised.

But for a moment there is a tense silence and a slight nervousness and insecurity on the part of both of them, where a clash of emotions is reflected in each other's gazes.

"Hey," he says in a soft, low voice, taking a couple of steps towards you.

You try to smile a little in his direction, not knowing exactly what to say or what to do.

"Hey," you wave back.

There is an awkward pause before Aemond again takes the initiative, taking a few cautious and slow steps towards you.

You bite your lips and lower your gaze for a moment, as he puts a hand to the back of his neck and looks so insecure and nervous standing there, surprising you a bit, as that behavior in him is unusual.

He usually always has that confident attitude in everything he says and does.

"I'm glad you're back," he admits to you, his low tone full of sincerity, "It's good to see you around again."

His words and that friendly gesture take you a bit by surprise, and although you still feel overwhelmed by the unexpected situation, you appreciate the way he is leading in handling all of this to start working together for Aenar's well-being, leaving past tensions behind.

"Thank you," you reply, feeling that sense of relief in your chest again, "Oh, hum… and thank you for talking to production so I could come back," you say a little shyly but gratefully, "You didn't have to."

He lets out a scoff in a nonchalant and also absurd gesture, frowning slightly his nose and forehead.

"Please, it was the least I could do," he tells you softly and with a warm tone, "Besides, it was nothing. I was just afraid you'd decide not to come back."

You hum in understanding.

"I thought about that," you confess to him, lowering your gaze for a moment, "But things were going to be easier for both of us with Aenar if I came back here," you explain, "Still, it was a very kind gesture of you."

Aemond nods, his gaze conveying a mixture of emotions that reflect both relief to see you back here, understanding, and also regret for the past that still haunts him. But he doesn't let those thoughts invade him too much at that moment.

Again there is silence in between for a few seconds, when he speaks again.

"How is Aenar?" he asks in a voice charged with a mixture of happiness, nostalgia and longing for his son.

"He's fine," you say in a soft voice, "He's in the studio nursery. Mary takes very good care of him," you add, wanting to reassure him that his son is being properly cared for.

He nods slowly, humming in response, trying to hide the intensity of his emotions in his gaze.

"That's good, I'm glad to hear that," he replies, vulnerability in his tone and gaze.

The air between the two of you still lingers, charged with emotions that neither of you dares to express openly. However, taking advantage of the conversation, Aemond decides to propose something.

He just met him yesterday and can't wait to see him again, to be in his company.

Yesterday's hours were simply not enough. And knowing that his son is well brings him relief and a feeling he hasn't experienced before since he found out he is a father.

"If you want, I can pay for a trusted babysitter for him," he offers and this gets your full attention, "I'm just saying… so you don't always have to bring him with you to work," he says with a hesitation, his tone betraying his insecurity about his proposal.

You remain silent for a moment, not knowing what exactly to say, in fact processing the unexpected offer. And Aemond can't help but feel even more unnerved by your silence.

"I-I… I don't know," you murmur, hesitant.

This nursery in the set is at least in the same place as you and that gives you relief that whatever happens, you can rush to him right away.

The idea of a babysitter strikes you as a mixture of relief and concern.

In the morning you'd have more time getting ready to come to work and it wouldn't be as much of a burden on you, yet you've never left someone to take care of Aenar while you're away.

But leaving him at home and coming all the way here to work, that causes you hesitation, besides the fact that you have to know the person who will take care of your child perfectly, as well as have confidence in her, above all.

"Only if that makes you feel more comfortable," Aemond adds softly, "But if that's not what you want, that's fine."

You bite your lips, feeling uneasy at the thought of someone else caring for your son and having him away when you're working.

"And you know someone who might be trustworthy?" you ask attentively and still with hesitation in your gaze.

"Yes," he tells you immediately, softly, "Rhaenyra has an army of babysitters to take care of my younger nephews. I can ask her for help with that and I know she'll say yes," he assures you.

"And they are professional babysitters?"

"Yeah, yeah, Nyra is also very careful with the selection and the babysitters she has hired have years of experience and so far several of them have worked with her for a few years now."

And after a moment's reflection, you agree.

And as convincing as the information is, still a mixture of worry and resignation envelopes your body.

But you knew that sooner or later you would have to face the situation of balancing your job with the responsibility of caring for your little one, accepting the idea that you won't always be able to have him with you.

"All right," you nod to him, "But I'd like to do some interviews first."

"Yeah, of course. I'll take care of that, don't worry," he says softly, nodding to you and you nod back.

"Thank you, Aemond."

"You don't have to thank me, Y/N, it's for our son. And if he or you need anything, please just let me know."

Seeing Aemond so willing to be a present father and his desire to be involved in his son's life, to some extent relieves you and surprises you a little, clearly because of what happened at first when you found out you were pregnant.

But so far… he has really shown you that he wants to be present and without having Criston and all his team around anymore.

The slight tension in the air is felt again as you and he continue to navigate the terrain of this new dynamic, which feels a little weird and you feel very nervous, though you don't even know why, while he at all times seems unsure.

And in an attempt to diffuse the tension, now you're the one who speaks first.

"Okay," you nod, "And if you…" you try to say a little nervously and with some caution and insecurity, "If you want to go see Aenar at the nursery or even at the apartment, you can," you assure him with a soft tone, "I never said you couldn't visit him and I don't plan to take that right away from you."

Vulnerability is reflected both in your words and in Aemond's expression, who with his soft face and with his gaze full of various emotions, places a small gentle smile on his lips.

"I'd love that."

Your words mean more to him than you probably realize. That sincere gesture of openness on your part, Aemond deeply appreciates.

Just as he appreciates that the conversation has reached a level of understanding and cooperation that neither of you had anticipated, but that you definitely appreciate. It doesn't end there yet, though.

"Can I ask you something?"

You nod, with no problem.

"Sure."

"What will you be leaving work on when your shift is over with Aenar?" he tells you interested and attentive.

"Um… well, yesterday I took the bus," you explain, considering that just yesterday was supposedly your first day, "And I had already planned that if I finished late, I'd take an Uber. Like now in the morning I was running a little late and took an Uber," you reply, trying to explain your transportation routine.

In fact there is nothing wrong with moving this way, many people do it, besides you don't have many options.

But that's what Aemond doesn't want, he wants to make your life a little easier, especially since Aenar lives with you and he doesn't want to risk something bad happening to both of you one day with public transport.

"Well, if you want, I can take the two of you," he also offers without hesitation, "Or if it seems too much, I can ask my driver to pick you up and take you wherever you need to go, without problem," he assures you, "I just don't want you to move that way with Aenar or by yourself."

This new unexpected offer from Aemond also surprises you, that you even think about turning him down, telling him it's not necessary.

Mostly you see it from Aenar's safety side.

But his concern is genuine and also you know that then moving you will start to be a problem.

You know you can't afford Uber every day, the fares aren't exactly cheap and there are other needs you have to take care of, besides taking the bus late could be dangerous.

"Well…" you look at him hesitantly and a little embarrassed, "You won't have a problem with that?"

"No, of course not," he answers you instantly.

You nod in his direction, grateful for his consideration.

"Yes, it's fine and seriously thank you for this too," you can't help but say, "Sometimes transport is complicated."

"Don't worry, it's fine."

He is about to say something else when a third voice interrupts him, entering the same space as you.

"Yeah, I know, sorry, I'm already on it," he assures her instantly.

"Aemond, are you ready now?"

Enters one of your co-workers, watching him intently and instantly with concern at the sight of him still in his civilian clothes.

"For God's sake, why aren't you dressed yet? Your scene is going to shoot in less than fifteen minutes!"

"I'll be back in ten minutes. Hurry up, please," the worried girl says and hurries away.

You instantly at that moment decide that the two of you can talk later and hand him his clothes from the scene he'll be shooting soon and he thanks you, heading for one of the small dressing rooms quickly.

When he finishes putting on his clothes, you quickly help him look perfect for filming the scene.

"I'll be seeing you," he tells you before leaving and you nod.

"Sure."

And from that moment on, over the next few days, everything changes as much for Aemond as it does for you.

He kept his word to drive you and Aenar back home every time your shift ended. And if he was still filming scenes, he would send his driver to take you instead of him, also to bring you in the mornings.

The relationship is cordial and collaborative and while there is no romantic reconciliation involved, there is a determination to build a more stable and secure future for Aenar, as well as prioritizing his well-being above all else.

At work, too, the dynamic between the two of you changes completely. Communication is professional, as it should be, but in every interaction there is a complicity that seems to have evolved.

There is a quiet understanding, a new focus on cooperation and mutual respect that is taking shape.

Also Aemond kept his word to hire a fully trusted babysitter and while he took care of that, sometimes you found him in the nursery with Aenar, keeping him company and playing with him.

At first this caused you some noise and also confusion, since Aemond is under the public eye spending quality time with his son and doesn't bother to hide it, so you wondered if already everyone working here, also Aemond's co-workers, knows that he has a son with you.

Again that sight couldn't help but make you smile with a certain nostalgic look, watching the interaction of those two silver-haired heads in their own world.

But it made you feel happy to see your little boy laughing and playing with his father.

And if so, you doubt that it will come out soon, because working in this production of whatever position, there is a confidentiality contract for everything, even for the personal life of the actors.

But when the shooting of this show is over, everyone is probably going to know about it. Although it seems that Aemond doesn't even think about it and doesn't really care.

So you decide not to ask him anything about it and how Criston and his whole team is going to take it.

You honestly don't know what Aemond has done with him, what they have talked about and what exactly happened for him to leave you and Aenar alone.

And you don't want to know. You've had enough of him and everything he did to you. And fortunately you live in peace and feel safe to have Aemond on your side this time.

And before you can say anything, Aemond steps forward with a soft little smile.

When one day on your day off you find yourself making dinner while Aenar watches his favorite cartoon in the living room and you supervise him occasionally from where you are, there's a knock at the door.

You're traumatized with the thought that maybe it's Criston and something bad is going to happen, but when you open the door you find Aemond with a woman by his side.

"Hey."

"Hi," you try to smile, a little confused.

"Are you busy? I-I didn't know and thought I'd just come over," he says, "And I'd let you know but I don't have your number or-or something."

"No, no, it's fine, I'm just making dinner," you hasten to say.

"I came because I wanted to introduce you to Elinda Massey," he tells you, pointing to the woman next to him and she looks at you with a warm smile, "One of the babysitters Rhaenyra recommended to me to take care of Aenar."

"Oh," you nod, now understanding.

You watch Elinda and she radiates warmth and assurance in her gaze, instantly feeling comfortable with her presence.

"It's nice to meet you, Elinda," you say with a small smile, extending your hand to her.

"Same to you, Y/N," she replies, shaking his hand with yours, "Aemond has told me so much about you and Aenar. I'm very excited to meet him as well."

Aemond beside her nods, his expression calm.

"Elinda is professional and very experienced. I wanted to introduce you to her and thought maybe we could do a little interview together, just to get to know her and see how she gets along with Aenar."

You instantly nod again.

"Oh yeah, yeah, sure, come on in," you step aside, allowing them to pass, "Aenar is watching his favorite cartoon," you say as you close the door behind you.

Aemond instantly walks towards him, making a sound of surprise, catching his attention and Aenar instantly notices him, smiling big at the sight of him, his huge blue eyes lighting up and reaching out his little arms towards him.

Both you and Aemond know Elinda better and you realize that she is a woman who has all the necessary experience and training. Besides the fact that when she approaches Aenar, he instantly laughs and plays with her.

Aemond laughs and takes him in his arms, starting to leave a bunch of kisses on his huge chubby cheeks, making him laugh as he holds him against his chest and speaks to him in a honeyed tone.

And you again can't help but smile as you watch the scene.

There is still that feeling of worry in you knowing that you will have to leave Aenar in someone else's care.

But Elinda shows you so much in so few hours, she tells you about her experience, shows you letters of recommendation, first aid certificates, as well as other care and Aenar has fun with her.

Aemond stays a few more moments in Aenar's company, playing games and watching the cartoons he likes, while you finish dinner and cleaning the kitchen.

The three of you establish a work schedule for her, as well as you tell her some recommendations and observations regarding Aenar.

And once everything is ready and clarified, she leaves and Aemond tells you that he has already taken care of all the payment details with her.

Every now and then you hear how Aemond asks him questions in a honeyed tone and repeats the same expressions he does when he sees his favorite character on TV, and then both start laughing.

Those sounds, the sound of your son's laughter and also Aemond's expressions, unconsciously make you smile and you watch from the kitchen as Aemond makes funny gestures or faces to make him laugh and attacks him with a lot of kisses all over his face or tickles.

Then you walk him to the door once he is ready to leave.

And there the two of them make themselves comfortable on the couch, eventually Aenar falls asleep on Aemond's lap, his back and head against his chest. He cautiously gets up holding him gently and puts him to sleep, while you thank him.

"Oh, right, I almost forgot," he says stopping in front of the door and turns to you, "This is for you."

You see him take his wallet from his back pocket and inside it, he pulls out what appears to be a black card and holds it out to you. This catches your attention and also confuses you, taking the card with that confusion, not understanding.

And only when you take a good look at it in your hands do you realize that it is a bank card.

"It's yours."

He says and you frown more, then raise your gaze to him asking for an explanation.

"I can only send money to it, I don't have direct access. You'll get the PIN from the bank, tomorrow after the shoot, I'll take you to activate it," he tells you, "You know, it's in case you need money to buy something for Aenar or for you, whatever you need."

Then when you fully understand the explanation and the purpose of this, you start to panic.

"Aemond—

You try to say feeling the lump in your throat and your heart starting to pound.

"I know I didn't tell you about this, but please, I want to do it," he interrupts you with a pleading tone so you won't reject him or reproach him about it, "Besides, this is necessary. Sometimes I will have to travel to other cities for shootings or events and I won't be able to see you or him and I want to make sure you don't lack anything. So just accept it, please."

"But—

"Please," he insists.

This really seems too much to you and you have an idea of the amount of money the card must already have. And no… in spite of everything, you don't want to accept this and feel that you are taking advantage of him.

You watch him still with hesitation and worry on your face, tension hanging in the air as you and he stand in complete silence, saying nothing for a few seconds.

You look back down at the card in your hands and Aemond follows your gaze, both of you standing face to face.

And it just seems that Aemond reads your thoughts by the hesitation and insecurity on your face.

"If you don't want to use it to also buy things for yourself, use it just to buy Aenar whatever he needs," he tells you softly, "After all, I was going to do this sooner or later, wasn't I? It's my responsibility to make sure he doesn't lack anything and that's what I'm going to do."

You let out a long breath, beginning to feel less of the weight of the luxurious and clearly exclusive black card in your hands, with his words beginning to soften your chest at the mention of Aenar.

"Fine," you mutter finally, letting out a sigh and raising your gaze to him, "B-but I'll only use it for things that Ae-

This gesture from Aemond is a clear sign of concern and responsibility he feels towards you and his son. And you truly feel that genuine desire that he wants to contribute for the welfare of both of you.

You try to clarify but he quickly speaks up.

"Yeah, okay," he nods at you, "Don't worry. Just… use it."

You nod again.

"Thank you, Aemond."

A slight flicker of concern appears in his gaze and he quickly tries to be able to struggle to find the right words to be able to explain himself so you don't misunderstand him.

"I don't want you to feel like I'm trying to—

"No, no, I don't think so," you tell him softly, with understanding, "This…" you look back down at the card in your hands and let out a sigh, "This is actually necessary and very helpful…. you really don't know how much I appreciated it."

He nods, his expression relieving a bit as he sees your behavior and also as you accept his support.

"Easy, it's okay," he assures you in a soft murmur.

"Also…" he starts to say with some nervousness but definitely more confident, "I wanted to ask you if you have social security for Aenar and you," he says with a serene expression, looking directly at you.

Again silence settles between the two of you but the air is different, calmer and less tense, feeling the mutual understanding.

And Aemond, after the two of you say nothing for another long few seconds, thinks it best to talk at this point about another plan he has in mind.

This also immediately catches your attention and you watch him warily, tilting your head to one side and starting to get an incredulous look on your face.

"You're not seriously thinking that—

"Y/N, please," he interrupts you, "This is no problem for me, really," he insists, "I just need to know."

"But—

"This is also important and I can pay for it."

"But it's a lot of money and I don't think—

"Do you really think I'll let you and Aenar go through life without being covered?" he asks you incredulously, "I can handle this. I really can."

His words continue to reflect that genuine commitment and you, despite your concern, feel something warm invade your chest, especially the gentle and willing way he is looking at you.

After all that has happened, seeing Aemond so determined to contribute to your son's well-being gives you a new hope and opportunity for Aenar's future.

The costs are too much, nothing you could really afford, not even for Aenar, since your salary was not much and had to cover other needs. You couldn't even afford it on your current salary.

You have always worked very hard to try to give Aenar everything he needs. Among them, paying for a social insurance for him, in case of anything.

But you could never afford it.

And that suddenly Aemond is offering it to you so easily, clearly because he can afford it, you feel somewhat overwhelmed and also feel that it is too much.

"And you're completely—

"Yes, I am," he interrupts you again, being very clear and honest with you, "This won't be any trouble, really," he assures you.

You want to tell him thank you, but the words get stuck in your throat. However, Aemond sees the gratitude is visible in your gaze, along with your concern and how you find yourself overthinking it.

So he just gives you a look of understanding and total reassurance.

"I'll be leaving. You need to rest. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

You let out a long breath, bite your lips and nod in his direction.

"Okay."

"Good night," he says softly as he opens the apartment door again.

"Good night. Drive safe."

Lately the days have been more… peaceful.

But as the days progressed, you realized that it was useless to feel that way because when you returned to the apartment, everything was absolutely fine. And also everything is easier when you transport yourself with Aemond's help or with the help of his driver.

Having Elinda as a babysitter, your mornings are easier and she does an excellent job with Aenar, so you have nothing to worry about.

At first you would leave home feeling horrible and your whole body tense, always alert to your phone and exaggeratedly paranoid.

Aemond also one day told you the same thing, that lately things have been quiet, even the recordings have not been heavy for him compared to other days or other jobs.

And for the same reason that he is busy filming, he hasn't attended any events or interviews, that happens rather after he finishes filming a new show or movie and there is still time left for that.

Aemond drives in silence and the soft background music on low volume fills the entire interior of the car while you watch the city through the windows and Aenar sleeps secured in one of the back seats.

So on this one day and for one occasion only, Elinda had an important commitment that she couldn't postpone, so she didn't show up for work and you didn't have any problem, since you can bring Aenar to the nursery on the set.

And now it is Aemond who is driving them home after your shift ended almost at the same time he finished filming his scenes.

He and you haven't talked much during the whole drive, only about work, but even so the silence is comfortable and you can't wait to get home to cook a nice dinner.

The cityscape soon transforms into familiar and somewhat… careless streets, as you approach to your apartment.

He parks in front of your building and watches you.

You know this isn't a luxurious area and there's a lot of detail to look at, but it's what you can afford right now.

And that's just what Aemond thinks as he looks around the neighborhood, hating to leave you and Aenar here when he can get you a much better place. But he knows you'll say no.

"Will you stay here any longer?" he asks you softly, "I mean, will you continue to pay rent?"

"For now yes," you nod to him, "I'm saving up to move to a better place, to an apartment in a different area and that's close to work," you let him know, "It's just taking time because of my paycheck."

Aemond stares at you intently for a moment, thinking and pondering your words, with a thoughtful look on his face, while you make sure you have all your belongings with you before getting out of the car and carrying Aenar.

And just as he is about to speak, a familiar sound interrupts him and his son's crying is heard throughout the car.

You follow him too with all your things in hand, walking over to both of them.

You quickly turn to him to attend to him, trying to calm him down, while Aemond reacts and quickly gets out of the car to open the door to the back seats.

It takes him a little while to unfasten the seat belts, but once he's finished he takes him in his arms and whispers comforting words in his ear to make him stop crying.

"Shh, my little one," Aemond whispers, holding him against his chest and stroking his silver hair, "Hey, it's okay, it's okay," he murmurs, leaving a soft kiss on his forehead.

You move to his side and run one of your hands over his wet cheeks, watching you for a moment with teary blue eyes only to close them tightly and continue crying.

"Either he wants to sleep in his room or he's hungry," you say, stroking his face to try to calm him as well.

"He didn't eat?" he asks you attentively.

"Yes, Mary said yes."

"Then he wants to sleep," he says, trying to wipe the dried tears from his cheeks, "Come on upstairs, I'll take him," he tells you and you nod.

All the while Aemond tries to comfort him until they reach the door of your apartment, but when he lays him down in his crib, Aenar cries more and he carefully holds him in his arms again, trying to soothe him while you quickly stop in the kitchen and prepare a baby bottle, hoping it will help.

And when you hand it to Aemond, he stands gently pacing around the room holding Aenar with one arm while the other hand holds the baby ottle for him against his mouth, hoping it will soothe him and he will fall asleep.

You take the bottle and Aemond carefully lays him down to sleep in his crib, leaving a soft kiss on his forehead to finally let him rest.

Aenar eventually calms down as he drinks from the baby bottle and watches with his blue eyes Aemond above him, who is still gently walking him around the room.

And little by little, wrapped in the safety of Aemond's arms, he falls asleep.

He sits up and turns to you, where you both look at each other without saying anything for a moment, sharing a silent connection.

"Thank you," you whisper to him.

"Don't worry," he says back to you in the same way.

Together you leave Aenar's room without a sound and gently close the door.

That night Aemond drives to his apartment with a new thought in mind, one of which is to always provide a better life for you and Aenar.

That's why, without telling you anything and taking advantage of the fact that it's your day off, he manages to leave the recording set early, he tells you to accompany him to the mall to buy new clothes for Aenar and you accept without thinking about anything else.

During the ride, so far you haven't questioned him about anything and that relieves him, but when you finally pay attention to the streets he is driving through, that's when your confusion appears and Aemond is thankful that you are about to arrive at the real place he wants to take you.

"I don't think there's a shopping mall around here, Aemond," you tell him confused, watching the streets carefully.

You realize that he is actually driving through a private residential neighborhood, with the streets lined with luxurious homes or rather mansions that would catch anyone's attention and you are clearly no exception.

And remembering your locations, you can tell that this neighborhood belongs to the Visenya Hill area, the most exclusive and prestigious area of King's Landing.

"Aemond, where are we going?" you look at him completely confused and questioning.

"I want to show you something," he tells you without giving you any more detail, generating more confusion and despair in you.

"But you said we were going to the mall."

"I know, but I lied to you," he says with some regret and you frown, "If I told you I wanted to show you a house where you can live with Aenar, you wouldn't have come."

"What?"

You inquire in your completely incredulous, serious and questioning voice, watching him with your eyes wide open.

"Surely you're joking," you tell him absurdly, shaking in his direction and watching him completely intently and seriously, really wanting to believe this is a joke.

"No, I'm not," he says letting out a small laugh, watching you for a moment to turn his gaze back to the road.

"Aemond," you start trying to warn him, serious.

"We're here," he announces out of nowhere, alerting you more fully.

You watch with your lips parted and completely attentive at all the windows, as the car comes to a stop in front of an impressive house, whose high ceilings and elegant white columns stand out in the neighborhood.

The front garden with the green lawn, a beautiful fountain and flowering bushes only make it stand out more, besides the elegant entrance, its huge windows and the dimension of the whole house that makes you continue to stare at everything with your mouth open.

In comparison, Aemond looks at the house with a hopeful expression and feeling genuinely happy and excited. But at the same time, he is worried about your attitude and what you will tell him about all this.

At first you refuse to get out of the car, still incredulous and surprised, telling him this is crazy, but Aemond makes you get out and also gets Aenar down from the back seats, instantly on this rare occasion preferring your arms instead of his father's.

"Aemond," you try to say, worried and still unable to believe it.

"Easy. Come," he tells you completely unconcerned, leading you to the entrance of the house.

You observe everything, unable to help yourself, as there is even furniture and everything looks too expensive but too beautiful at the same time.

You watch as he holds the fucking key in his hand and opens the beautiful, gigantic door for you, without giving you a chance to say anything else.

And as you enter, the entire interior of the house spreads out in front of you, illuminated by the daylight filtering through the windows and highlighting every majestic detail of the property.

The simple entrance is large with a crystal chandelier above you hanging from the high ceiling, the living room is spacious and there is also a small decorative fountain. Further on there is another living room that you can observe from the spacious and eye-catching kitchen.

And the entire upstairs also completely grabs your attention, having three huge bedrooms, the master bedroom being the largest of them all, each with its own bathroom and closet.

The bathroom down here is ridiculously large for a bathroom. The pantry is also a ridiculously large room for a pantry.

The garden is lovely and has a swimming pool which, according to Aemond, can be automatically closed off for Aenar's security. There is a laundry and drying room as well.

"It's perfect, don't you think?"

Aemond tells you slightly excited as you walk down the stairs behind him, with Aenar in your arms and who also looks at everything around him with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Work is nearby, my apartment is nearby and Elinda has come to this area to work before, so it won't be a problem," he tells you with that little smile, turning to you, looking with that gleam of hope compared to you.

He clearly expects the same reaction from you and even having already seen the house, you let out a sigh and look at him with a serious and confused expression.

"Aemond, what do you think you're doing?"

"Well, it's for you," he tells you, pointing to everything around him, still not seeing how much this is costing you, "It's perfect for you and Aenar. And a chance for him to live and grow up in a nice, spacious, safe place."

You are speechless for a moment, feeling that heaviness in your chest and your heart pounding as you press your lips together and briefly observe everything around you again.

"Everything will be taken care of by me, you won't have to worry about anything," he assures you softly, "Aenar's room is big, the kitchen is big, there are two living rooms and..." he shrugs, "Like I told you, everything is close by."

"Tell me you haven't already bought all this," you say slightly concerned.

And then all emotion from Aemond slowly fades.

"But why? What is it that—

"Aemond, this is too much," you interrupt him incredulously, shock in your eyes, "How do you think I'm just going to accept this just like that?"

He steps closer, with the slight concern in his gaze, trying to convey calm, but his eye reflects the urgency of his purpose.

"Y/N, please. I only want what's best for you and Aenar. Besides, you said you're moving soon and—

"Yes but to an apartment, not a house that costs millions of dollars," you tell him absurdly.

"Yes, I know, but—" he bites his lips, nervous, "I wanted to do this. I wanted to give this to you and Aenar," he says insistent, "A safe place in a quiet neighborhood, where you can also have your space without having to worry anymore."

You shake your head.

"But—

"Look, just..." he tries to find the right words, trying to work on your willing attitude for not accepting this, "Consider it, yes?" he insist, "You don't have to make a decision right now, for now I just wanted to show you around, nothing more," he says calmly, though you know that behind that calmness is an obvious longing.

"But it's just that this is too much and... no," you look at him with slight concern, "I don't need to consider it because no matter how much I think about it, my answer is no."

"Aemond, this..." you begin to say with restrained sadness, hesitating, "This won't change the past. This won't make it so I can forgive you," you tell him resignedly, "This isn't about me and Aenar, it's about Aenar nothing else and her well being," you tell him in a broken voice, "But this... this house... it's too much."

"Y/N..." he says, taking a couple more steps towards you, wary, "Two years ago, I was the worst shitty boyfriend," he says with sadness and regret, "I had to support you, be there for you completely, I shouldn't have let Criston talk me into his plans, accept in the beginning to hide you and hide my responsibility."

He says as he looks nostalgic at Aenar in your arms.

"And now that you've given me this second chance, I just want to make things right....I want to do what I should have done in the beginning."

Aemond's expression, although he himself tries to remain expressionless, still feels as if he has been hit hard in the stomach when he hears your words.

And all illusion disappears, as well as his enthusiasm.

He resignedly steps back, leaving a space between you and him, not wanting to overwhelm you any more than he already has.

He thought this would be a good idea, that by the time the three of you were here, looking forward to the idea of a new home, you would understand and accept.

But there are still many open wounds from the past and he knows they cannot be healed with these sudden gestures.

"I know, it's just that I-I..." he tries to say with his voice laden with regret and deep remorse," I didn't expect this... a house or an apology to just fix things," he says sincerely and with disappointment, "I just wanted to give Aenar stability and offer you a safe place for the both of you, give you a better life."

Silence envelops you both, dense and charged with mixed emotions.

Aemond tries to find some sign on your face, wanting you to see his true intention, longing for some small indication of hope or acceptance.

And you feel the overwhelming weight of responsibility and emotions inside you. All of this is tempting, though your heart is still scarred by past pain and also distrust. And you are torn between caution and the opportunity to give Aenar the stability he deserves.

Aemond remains silent, respecting your space and your time to process the situation. But the indecision in you is all too obvious.

"Y/N, I promise you that all this is for Aenar and nothing else," he tells you seriously and sincerely, "I promise I won't try anything, except to take care of him and make sure he lacks nothing," he insists, "At least stay in this house until he grows up a little more and if you still think it's too much, we can find a smaller place," he proposes.

His words are left floating in the air, while you continue to think too hard. His proposal echoing in your mind, plunging you into a sea of thoughts, with indecision.

Aemond seems to have put his heart on the table, but your emotions continue to struggle between caution and hope, as you cannot ignore the possibility of offering Aenar a more secure and stable life, which is all you wish for him since you could not give him that at the beginning.

And it is also what Aemond desires, that is why he is so insistent and you see his true intention to give this to Aenar, without any other intentions in between.

But is it right to trust him again? What if Criston and his team try to intervene again? This time they would do it more easily.

Maybe it can be different this time.

You honestly feel like you're taking a big risk by agreeing. It's a big bet to open your life and Aenar's to this new opportunity, but you also see how he's striving to give you something better.

And that's exactly what has you questioning and wondering: should I give this a chance?

"All right," you finally say in a soft voice with a mixture of nervousness, "But only for Aenar."

Aemond looks at you with surprise and hope.

"Really?"

You nod, swallowing hard and Aemond lets out a long breath, visibly relieved and then, avoiding smiling big, takes the house key from his front pocket and holds it out to you, to which you take it a little confused.

"Don't you have to give it to the real estate agent?"

"Actually, I already bought it," he says with a nervous but innocent gesture at the same time, scratching the back of his neck, "Well, I haven't paid the whole amount, but I've paid most of it. So it's yours."

Seven fucking Hells.

You can't help but think as you close your eyes for a moment and let out a sigh, unable to believe it.

The new house soon began to have that warmth the moment you started settling in with Aenar. Every room radiates a sense of peace and comfort that you haven't experienced in a long time.

The move wasn't difficult at all, the only thing you had to transport from the old apartment with the help of Aemond and his driver was your clothes, Aenar's clothes, her toys and her crib, nothing else.

The house already had furniture, beds, decorations and even televisions already installed.

The high ceilings allow natural light to flood in, while the white walls set off the black and gray furniture and Aenar toys, creating a warm and cozy atmosphere.

Aemond builds Lego block forts together with him, buys him toy dragons, cars, stuffed animals and they both watch Aenar's favorite cartoon or movies, getting cozy on the shag carpet or on the couch.

Because Aemond's apartment is close by, his commitment is more accessible, so there is never a day that goes by that he doesn't visit Aenar.

Special moments between father and son are spent in the living room, where toys scattered on the floor become Aenar's playroom area.

Also some evenings the three of you have dinner together, where Aemond offers to feed Aenar and eventually the dining room fills with laughter and smiles as you focus on him.

The backyard also becomes a realm of adventure, where they both even plan picnics and invite you over.

They also both sometimes spend afternoons exploring with laughter and playing with the plastic cars on the lawn where Aenar imitates the sounds Aemond makes from a car.

The new house is filled with happy and warm moments, forming the perfect setting for Aenar to begin to grow up, having both of his parents looking after him.

The proximity of work and Aemond's apartment made the daily routine easier. The routes are short and convenient, allowing more time to enjoy time together.

And above all you definitely feel more at ease having Elinda taking care of Aenar while you are considerably closer to home from the set.

When one day at night, you had already received a message from Aemond telling you that he would be a little late to visit Aenar, as usual, and you replied that it was fine, even though tomorrow is your day off and you have no problem with sleeping late.

But the clock is almost half past eleven at night and you think he is not going to arrive, when just at that moment you hear the doorbell ring and you go to the door, checking from the IPad the cameras of a program that Aemond installed to record Aenar while he sleeps and also monitors in case of anything and so you can make sure he is okay.

And finally you open the door, watching Aemond carefully.

"I thought you weren't coming anymore," you tell him in a low, warm tone, but also worried.

Aemond nods, letting out a sigh.

"I finished later than I thought. It was a hard day," he tells you heavily.

You nod softly and understandingly, stepping aside to let him pass.

"Aenar is already asleep."

"Yes, that's what i thought," he says calmly, "But it doesn't matter, I won't wake him up, I just want to see him," he watches you with tired eye, "You should go to sleep too," he says as he places one of his hands gently on your shoulder, "I'll lock up and set the alarm when I leave."

Hesitation shows on your face for a moment, watching him intently and with a flash of concern.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry," he nods at you with a small soft smile, "Go get some rest, I'll take care of it."

"Fine, but anything tell me, no matter what it is, okay?"

"Okay."

With a soft nod, you both head up the stairs and down the hallway to the rooms, you wave goodbye to him before entering your room and he enters Aenar's room.

And once in your room, you cover yourself with your sheets and thinking that you would fall asleep the moment you were in the comfort of your bed, you suddenly stare at the ceiling for a long time unable to close your eyes and clearly unable to sleep.

He hasn't left yet, as you haven't heard that soft 'click' of the door or his footsteps in the hallway walking away.

You try to find sleep any way you can, but the thought that Aemond is still in the house is what keeps you awake.

And it's not because you don't trust him, on the contrary, you look at the time and feel remorseful and worried that he has to drive back to his apartment so late.

Minutes pass and suddenly you find yourself restless, sleep refusing to invade you. So with quiet steps, you approach Aenar's room, where the dim light of a night lamp reflects through the frame below the door.

Carefully and determined, you gently open the door, first peeking your head and then your body, catching the attention of Aemond who turns his head towards you, sitting near Aenar's crib and gently and very lightly stroking his hair so as not to wake him with a look of affection that does not leave his face despite the interruption.

"Can't you sleep?" he whispers to you, watching you with a soft gaze.

You nod softly, folding your arms as you look down at sleeping Aenar with palpable tenderness.

"It's late and I thought maybe... if you want, you can sleep here," you say with a warm tone but your hint of shyness in your voice is noticeable, as well as your hesitation to suggest such a thing.

It's no problem for you, it's just that he's never slept over before and you don't know what his reaction will really be to you proposing that, whether he'll say yes or no.

"And you're okay with that?" he observes you thoughtfully and softly.

"Yes, of course I am," you assure him completely nonchalantly, "It's totally fine with me."

He nods at you with a gesture, without wiping away his soft little smile.

"Thank you."

And then both his gaze and yours return to watching Aenar asleep in his crib. And Aemond resumes the smile of tenderness on his lips, again sliding his hand over his hair.

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" he whispers with a flash of pride in his gaze.

You hum in assent, slowly moving closer toward them both.

"Yes, he is," you reply, gazing at your little one with indescribable love.

A brief silence envelops you for a moment, only hearing the soft hum of the spinning lamp projecting images on the ceiling, creating a peaceful low-light scene of animals and stars for Aenar.

This usually helps him sleep and also calms him down a bit if he wakes up crying in the middle of the night while you wake up and rush over here.

"For a while I imagined how he would looked like, whether boy or girl..." he murmurs in a soft, warm, low, wistful tone, "No matter what you decided to do when you left, I always thought about it," he gives you a meaningful look, guilt on his features and you nod, watching him with understanding.

Aemond clenches his jaw and looks at Aenar again, while you remember those days, where fear and uncertainty lived inside you every day.

You wish you had them, those happy moments that a new mom should experience, but that was not the case for you and yet... you cannot imagine a life without your little boy, it is impossible.

What is supposed to be happy news, was not happy for you and Aemond.

There was no single moment of joy at the beginning, when you learned of your pregnancy. Nor did you experience that feeling the first few months, when you ran away and went back to building a new life.

And Aemond feels the remorse most in these kinds of moments, when Aenar is asleep and he looks at him, not being able to believe and wondering over and over again how it is that from the beginning, he supported the idea of just getting rid of him.

And now he sees only him and cannot imagine a world without him.

Shame overcomes him, guilt also and he even wants to cry with anger as he thinks of all that you must have gone through, without his support, trying to make a living for you and his son, all alone in a new and unknown place.

And he knows that this, allowing you to be in Aenar's life, is a great opportunity that he doesn't deserve and yet you have given it to him.

"I know you said you can't forgive me but... someday can you? For how I reacted and for the decision I supported in the beginning?" he asks you, unable to help himself and needing to know.

His tone is charged with a mixture of regret and longing as you feel a pressure and a slight sharp pain in your chest at his words.

Silence stretches for a moment throughout the room, Aemond respects your silence and though there are many reasons why you should never forgive him for what happened, you still decide to be honest.

"I don't know," you whisper in a low, sad and vulnerable tone.

The words echo through the room, enveloping the space with palpable tension.

Aemond feels his heart pounding, filled with overwhelming regret. He lowers his gaze, unable to bear the weight of his mistakes and your words are like a dagger in his heart, but still, he understands you completely.

He nods with compression, letting out a regret-laden sigh, still gently stroking Aenar's hair.

"I understand," he murmurs with a tone of melancholy and fragility, as well as in his gaze full of pleading and remorse.

"Does your family know about him?"

And you with your sad eyes full of regret, you watch him out of the corner of your eye.

And you see all those emotions in him, all his thoughts reflected in his gaze, trying to stand firm and on the sidelines as he continues to watch Aenar.

You can't help but ask, trying to calm the atmosphere a little, though it's useless, as that slight tension is felt and also that physical and emotional distance from both your side and him.

"I've wanted to tell them, only Nyra knows but I asked her not to say anything," he confesses to you in a low voice, trying to speak firmly but the nostalgia is clear, "Even though I know my mother and siblings will be disappointed in me when I explained what happened two years ago, yes I have wanted to tell them," he nods, "But first I wanted to discuss it with you," he says looking briefly at you over his shoulder.

And now it is remorse that comes to you.

"Tell them, Aemond," you tell him firmly with a soft tone, "They deserve to know."

general taglist:

@imaegonstargaryenswife0 @bellstwd @gibbsgirl7 @toodlesxcuddles @imsoshygirl @croatianprincess @gemini-mama @a-little-roony-mara @mysteris-things @zenka69 @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @duds31 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @eternally-passionate @bellaisasleep @ttkttt @aemshaircare @mellowdreamlandpost-blog @noodle81937 @mooncalvin @queenofshinigamis @n4tforlife @vexladin @dixie-elocin @wotcherpeak @watercolorskyy @shiny-trashs-blog @strangersunghoon @elysian0612 @skzenhalove @iloveallmyboys @cakescupcakesminicookies

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@hypocritic-trash-baby

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen x y/n #hotd aemond #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x oc #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #modern aemond #aemond targaryen angst

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manwrre · 8 months

Text

It’s bordering on two weeks since Hargrove’s arrival at Hawkins High, when Steve realizes he’s crushing on the guy. Like—‘doodling hearts in the margins of his books and racking up a list of things he likes about him’ type crushing.

They’ve barely interacted after that night at the party. Outside of social gatherings, they just run in different circles; Steve, filling his time with Robin and occasionally third-wheeling Nancy and Jonathan, while Billy hangs out with the more popular crowd.

Their schedules also don’t overlap despite the blonde taking a number of senior-level classes, with the exception of gym and lunch.

The list though, is still so painstakingly long. Ego-stroking-ly lengthy. Embarrassingly indulgent, all on his behalf.

Steve would much rather nosedive into the quarry, than divulge too deeply into it with anyone.

Especially around or to the guy’s actual face, at the risk of Billy’s head becoming too big for his body (even though Steve thinks he’d make an adorable bobble head). Or you know, worse— like him, getting absolutely brained in front of everyone.

Which must say a lot about him as a person because apparently, this is his type. Beautiful, angry, conceited boys.

Regardless, there are some objective mentions on his list though.

Things that the general public would agree on, like Billy’s Michelle-Pfeiffer curls; loose and wavy but so, so golden.

His eyes are a close second, of course because Steve’s seen a lot of bright blues but Billy’s remind him of the vacation he’d spent in Aruba, as a kid. Remind him of a horizon-kissed vastness and warm water lapping at his ankles on a private beach.

The public also agrees that Billy’s got a banging body. He’s thicker than most because he actually gives a shit and ‘works out religiously’ but it’s not all muscle. His abdomen and thighs are firm but his pecs and ass have the right amount of give. A perfect amount of softness.

Steve would know because he’s had to will away many boners at the sight of them.

And Billy’s funny in a witty, sarcastic way. He grins toosharptooprettytoobright and dangerous. He’s smart too, like taking mostly AP classes smart and he’s smug about it all because he knows he’s hot shit. Of course, the bastard is self aware. Cocky. Steve likes him so much. Wants him so bad that it’s dizzying, sickening.

So yeah, there’s stuff that everyone can agree on but then….then, there’s whatever this is.

This being the two penny-sized indents at the base of Billy’s spine. Symmetrical and just defined enough for average eye to discern.

When Steve sees them for the first time though, he promptly drops the basketball in his hands. In front of everyone. During fucking gym class. Purely out of shock.

He catches himself within the same breath and quickly looks away.

Swallows.

Ignores the pointed look that Patrick sends him for flaking out, mid-pass, like some kind of freak and looks around cooly.

Because Billy Hargrove has dimples of venus.

Affectionately dubbed a sign of beauty by Michelangelo. Famed after the Greek goddess’ simulacrum. Called dimples of Apollo on men, which suits Billy all the more, in Steve’s opinion.

The sun child.

Flushed with life. Deserving of avid worshippers. A being deserving of wax poetic. Glittering, dazzling, vibrant and the Camaro, his chariot.

And he knows this because dimples are like, his freckles. His glasses. His braces. They’re a niche, little thing that he finds just devastating. Achingly cute. Nancy has a pair of them near her laugh lines that he would kiss everyday and prod at, endeared.

So he ambles on through practise a little out of breath and red in the face with his newfound knowledge.

Watches Billy jog over to the locker room with everyone else at the end; skin slick and sweat pooling at the divots of his waistband. Tempting.

He stands back and feigns trying to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. Eyes the younger boy’s retreating form from up through his hair. Imagines hooking his thumbs into the depressions of his flesh.

Relishes in the thought of splaying his hands across the width of his waist.

Feels his mouth go dry and a rush of white heat surging south.

Licks his lips absentmindedly as his cock aches to life and makes the decision to skip the locker room schtick, save anyone realizing he’s sporting a half chub.

Instead, he grabs his backpack and heads out to his car. The parking lot is mostly empty by the time he gets there and devoid of anyone interested in him enough to wave him over. He tosses his stuff into the backseat of the Beemer and speeds off before anyone can catch up to him.

It’s a short drive to his house but he spends it envisioning Billy in all sorts of compromising positions. Thinks about the flush on his skin when he plays and the heat in his eyes— wonders how easily he gives in; loud-mouth turned soft and pliant at the faintest hint of pleasure.

He barely makes it inside before shucking his bag off and stripping himself bare of sweat-sticky clothes. In the same breath, he’s fisting a too damp hand around his cock and hissing at the near painful throb. His only relief comes from the coldness of the door against his back as he slumps against it.

Precum beads at the flushed head and he gathers it all on the upstroke to ease the glide. Squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that honeyed galaxies explode behind the lids and he can’t think.

Can’t think about the consequences of jerking off to someone he sees damn near everyday. Doesn’t care enough to avoid the impending embarrassment.

Why would he? Instead, he thinks of Billy laid out beneath him, all pretty and flushed and glittering; his eyes wet with unshed tears and ruddy lower lip between his teeth as he looks over his shoulder at him. Imagines the roughness of his voice and his muscles all pulled taut as Steve knocks the air out of his lungs with each slam of his cock.

He fucks into the tight ‘o’ of his hand, already so goddamn close and conjures up the image of twin dips. Wants to paint pearlescent white across the bronze expanse of Billy’s back; let it pool where he is favored by the Gods.

The thought has him biting back a moan as he grinds into the slickness of his hold. The heat in his gut expands so greatly, so suddenly, that his hips flex with the intensity of it. Until finally,

it snaps.

Like a star beneath the pressures of gravity; with all the strength and ferocity of a supernova. And he’s spilling all over his hand in a few stiff, jerky thrusts and breathing out a low, garbled “Fuck, Billy— shitshitshit.”

And God, he’s so screwed.

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peterparkouryo · 2 months

Text

a summer in new york¹ | ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

prompt; You and your parents spend the summer in New York. You make new friends (and enemies) during your time there. Also, yeah, you meet a boy.

warnings: fluff

word count: 1.3k

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ taglist

School is just another word for prison, you'd like to think so at least. It sounds bad, and that’s because it is. You hated the “educational” building you were required — no, forced to attend five days a week for ten months, mainly because the students were fake as shit and there was always drama.

If there was an opportunity for a school to be based solely around a reality tv show, you're sure yours would be the first option and the perfect kind of scrutiny any kind of audience would tune into everyday.

The one and only good thing about school is the every once in a while breaks. Winter break was your favourite but the break that took the cake, had to be summer. Three months free of a draining, time consuming and stressful academy. Not only were you excited for this particular summer but you were a senior, a graduate so that meant no more high school for the rest of your life.

A truly humbling resonation.

"I should cut my hair, like a cute little bob." You hear your friend, Michelle blurt aloud as she scrolls through her phone, most likely on TikTok.

"It wouldn't make sense with your face shape." Your other friend, Cece points out from next to you. Michelle rolls her eyes and places her phone on the booth's table.

Michelle and Cece were your best friends, and only friends. You met Michelle through Cece when the three of you were in grade school and ever since then, you all were inseparable. All sounds very cheesy and silly, but that's quite literally how it is. Cece was more of a mother of the group, and you only gave her that role because when the two of you first met, she stuck up for you when a more privileged girl made fun of the fact you weren't as prosperous as her. Michelle was the more undeveloped of the group, only for one of a million reasons. She was fourteen. A freshmen, while both you and your other friend were well in your senior year.

But it didn't bother you at all, because at the end of the day your friendship was something special, a kind of bond that not many people would ever come close to understanding.

"What are we doing after graduation?" Cece looks at you as you take a bite of your very mature for your age chicken tender.

"College in august." You shrug.

Cece gives you a unamused look, before glancing at Michelle who laughs at your very vague answer.

Cece had the most beautiful dark skin, it was smooth and pristine. With the way she carried herself, anyone could mistaken her as a goddess on earth. She told you once before when she her and her mom took a family vacation to South Africa, that men there fall to their knees for women as beautiful as her, which you found weird because she was fifteen at the time, and you're sure the men who "fell to their knees" just for her, were probably — or more appropriately, way older.

Michelle on the other hand, was a Bulgarian whose accent faded from time spent in America, her skin was tan and her hair was dark brown, like the kind of dark brown that reminds you of chocolate, with a hint of fading red since the girl loves to dye her hair.

"I meant like during the summer, moron."

You look over to Cece, before trailing your eyes to Michelle, your bottom lip retreats in between your teeth nervously.

The girls thankfully, don't catch onto your sudden febrile behaviour, but you knew at the end of the day, you were going to have to break their hearts with the news your parents shared earlier that day.

"I can't." You sigh and run a hand through your hair, looking down at your plate as you feel two pairs of eyes boring almost burning into your skin.

"You can't?"

"Why?"

You tilt your head up, your eyebrows raise, glancing in between your two best friends as they await your answer.

"Because, I'm going to New York for the summer." You look down at your acrylics, tapping the table with your index finger. Michelle snorts as Cece continues staring, silently, but you know that's just her odd way of processing news told to her.

"New York? Girl bye." Michelle laughs at your words, you give her a glare as she continues to find humour in your information.

"I'm serious, my parents got family down there or whatever." You argue.

Cece sighs in what could only be described as a defeat, disappointment and devastation. Michelle shakes her head and glares at you. "I wanna go." She pouts and you smile with a quite laugh, but you remember, she's a underdevelopment teenager.

"You can't, I said family vacation Michelle." You make sure to emphasis the word 'family' as your friend sticks up her middle finger.

"You said you had family down there," She retorts and you pick up a fry and throw it at her. "Same thing!" Michelle laughs as she dodges the fry, picking it up from the table and eating it, which you grimace at, your face morphing in disgust. Her gross behaviour wasn't anything new, but it still unsettled you whenever she did anything such.

Your other friend was oddly quiet, and it was fine, not bothering you most of the time, but when typically, Cece only grew quiet when she's fighting a difficult battle in her own head. A habit you and your younger friend tried to break her from many times, but to no avail.

"You okay Cee?" Your mouth falls into a fall frown, looking over your friend carefully, because the wrong kind of question could set her off.

She nods, but you're unconvinced, so you take the risk to push your concerns.

"You sure? You're scary when you're quiet."

"I just didn't think you would be leaving to a different state, for three months mind you." She shrugs as the waitress comes over to check on you three, and Michelle tells her you're all ready for the bill.

"I know, but we're literally going to the same college this fall, plus I'll FaceTime you both every single day, you'll get sick of it." You reassure her, taking a hold of her hand and giving her cheek a quick kiss.

Cece raises her eyebrow at your affection. The girl is no stranger to the behaviour. You often have a flirty friendship from time to time, so it's not an out of character thing for you to do. She sometimes enjoy it, but only if you're not wearing sticky lipstick or lip gloss. Her pinky raises to your other free hand, and you hold up yours as soon as you get the hint. Both your pinkies wrap around each other with a quiet promise.

"Can you two stop being lesbian and get the hell out the booth so we can go to the bookstore?" Michelle breaks your cute moment between you and your older friend as she puts on her jacket.

You and Cece laugh at her impatience, but you slide out of the booth as well as your friend, throwing on your jacket. You look down at the table once you do, your face in an obvious confusion, turning your gaze to your younger friend.

"Did you pay?"

Michelle nods with a smile.

Cece shares a look with you, but before you two could get a word out, the younger girl holds up her finger in defence.

"I literally just got my first paycheque, you should bow down to me for spoiling you girls."

You shake your head at the invitation of worship. "Girl shut up, let's go." Cece rolls her eyes and walks past the both of you, exiting the diner as you two trail behind her towards your car, or more so, your parents’ vehicle.

You round towards the driver side, getting into the car, sitting in silence as you wait for your two better halves to settle in.

After a few seconds of two successful car slams, you start your car and pull out the parking lot of the diner, driving to the first red light. The older friend in the passenger seat turns on a shuffled playlist from her phone, the first song being a Beyoncé one you enjoy.

"Aliayah lives in New York, right?" Michelle quizzes from the back seat.

"Mhm." You nod at the mention of your other friend.

The light turns green after an eternity, and you press the gas, continuing your journey to the only bookstore in your godforsaken town.

taglist: @victoriousskylar @imawhoreforu

#peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter parker angst #peter parker fluff

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thebearchives · 2 years

Text

slow days in monaco | PG10

PAIRING: pierre gasly x single mom!reader

REQUESTED: [] yes [X] no

WORD COUNT: 2.2k

SYNOPSIS: a slow day in monaco is like a bad omen, or so you were told. what happens when formula 1 drivers pierre gasly and charles leclerc enter the café you work at and spark up a conversation with your son?

WARNINGS: fluff, son has a name (thomas), reader can speak both french and english (translations are included), probably more interactions between pierre and the kid (sorry, not sorry. I'm a sucker for guys interacting with kids)

A/N: hello, hello!! first post alert!!! i hope you guys enjoy what i came up with during my dad!pierre brainrot. please don’t be a ghost reader! i love getting feedback, even if it’s just a small comment :)

( originally, this was supposed to be a series, and i’m more than willing to write more parts to this, but i’m not entirely sure if that’s what people want. that being said, send me a message if you'd like another part and I'll see what i can do! )

although there never truly was such thing as a slow and quiet day in a coffee shop in monte carlo, the mornings were just a little bit more mellow after the start of the formula 1 summer break. or at least they were to you.

this was your first year working at le pain d'amour, a bakery and coffee shop popular with tourists and natives alike, so you didn’t have much to go off of. you had started working there a couple of months prior to the monaco grand prix, and even three months later, you were still recovering from the weeklong madness.

long gone were the mornings where you made coffee for f1 enthusiasts and team members alike. now, your mornings were spent serving tourists looking for a good instagram-worthy latte, and suit-clad men complaining about their early mornings and lack of vacation days.

unlike other days, today felt like your longest morning shift yet; halfway into your five-hour shift, with only about five customers sitting inside the cafe. ‘a slow day in monaco is like a bad omen,’ your coworker had said. to you, it just felt like torture.

another hour passed, the five customers long gone, now replaced with three individuals who sat scattered around the shop, all busy with their own devices. the bells above the front door chimed announcing the entrance of two men. with the way the two men loudly chattered in french, you doubted the need for the bells in the first place.

you moved from your spot leaning against the counter to the front cash register. your coworker, michelle, had stepped out not too long ago for her break, leaving the cafe in your very capable hands.

“bonjour! welcome to le pain d'amour, i can take your order whenever you guys are ready!” you channelled your best customer service voice and looked up. the smile you slapped onto your face faltered slightly when you realized the faces of the two men standing across from you.

there in front of you stood f1 drivers, charles leclerc and pierre gasly.

you snapped back into reality when charles opened his mouth, “bonjour! can i just get an iced coffee and a croissant sandwich?”

you nodded as you entered his order into the system, “and for you?”

your question was directed to pierre, who had been gazing at the (h/c)-haired boy sitting on one of the stools near the counter. his head snapped back to you, a smile following as he looked over your head at the menu. a quick apology left his lips as he requested some more time, before opting to get the same as his friend but with a cookie as well.

as you turned to make their orders, telling the men to take a seat wherever and that you would call them up whenever their order was ready, you missed pierre gesturing towards the young boy, pulling charles up to sit on the stools near the kid. the alpha tauri driver couldn’t help but miss his nephew as he watched the young boy colour his page with great focus.

the quiet clicks of keys, and the music playing over the speakers was now overshadowed by the aggressive sounds of a crayon scraping against paper and the sound of the two drivers chattering in french. although loud enough for others to hear them, the speed at which the two men spoke made it hard to understand what they were saying.

“maman, regardez ça.” mom, look at this.

you drew your eyes from the espresso machine to the five-year-old, thomas, and the paper held up in his hand. you absorbed the shapes and lines on the paper before looking at the boy who was smiling widely.

“devinez ce que c'est!” guess what it is!

his energy was palpable, no thanks to the three hours he had spent sleeping on the couch in the backroom while you worked outside. you looked back at the machine, noticing the coffee just barely starting to stream.

you decided to entertain the boy, “hmm,” you furrowed your eyebrows in fake confusion, “est-ce un chien?” is it a dog?

“what?!” he gaped at you, “not even close! réessayer.” try again.

you giggled at the young boy’s exasperated face, “désolé, mon petit. je dois retourner au travail.” sorry, my child. i have to get back to work.

if it wasn’t for sanitary reasons, you would have reached over and ruffled his hair to get him to smile. instead, you resorted to calling out to him again, “stop pouting, amour.”

thomas grumbled, a mess of both french and english, albeit both sloppy, escaping his small lips.

a voice broke his muttering, “puis-je deviner?” can i guess?

both you and the boy looked over to where pierre sat, a small smile gracing his lips. you looked back at the young boy, eyes wide open and jaw slacked.

you huffed a small laugh, “tommy, ferme ta bouche.” close your mouth.

thomas sat up straight, “you’re in f1!”

he turned to look at you, “maman!! driver! un pilote de course!” a racing driver!

it was endearing, listening to him exclaim in both french and english. you, yourself, had been raised in a bilingual household, with your father being a native english speaker, who met your monégasque mother on his summer vacation. you grew up in a household where both english and french were spoken in tandem, and now, with your own son, you couldn’t help but raise him the same way.

you turned back to finish making the drinks that said driver had ordered, “oui, and he asked you something. sois poli et réponds-lui.” yes…be nice and answer him.

tommy’s eyes grew wide again and he turned back to the driver next to him, “pouvez-vous répéter votre question?” can you repeat your question?

pierre pointed to the drawing, repeating his question in english this time, “can i guess what you drew?”

thomas looked down at his drawing. an attempt at copying the foam art you had done on his long-empty cup of hot chocolate.

he looked back at you for guidance, gesturing you to come closer to him with his hand. you placed the sandwiches and coffees in front of the drivers, smiling apologetically to pierre for your son’s blatant avoidance of his question.

“i’ll get you your cookie in just a minute,” you stated, to which he responded, “pas d'inquiétude.” no worries.

as you neared the cookie display, and thomas, he reached up and whispered into your ear, “what if he thinks my drawing is really bad?”

you looked down at the boy, a small smile gracing your lips, “i’m sure he’ll think you’re very talented, and if he doesn’t…” you trailed off as you placed the cookie onto a plate.

after placing the cookie in front of pierre, you leaned down to whisper in your son’s ear, “i’ll fight him.”

thomas giggled, moving away from you to push his drawing in front of the driver, “maman said if you think i’m a bad drawer, she will fight you.”

charles’ chortle was loud, turning into a series of coughs as he choked on his coffee. you gasped quietly, quickly turning away from the three to avoid pierre’s amused gaze and get charles a tissue, to which he nodded with a red face, eyes watering. you began cleaning your station, ears not having to strain to hear the conversation going on behind you.

as charles’ coughs died down, pierre sighed, “well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

after a small sip of his own coffee, he continues, “is this a cup?”

you couldn’t see it but pierre was pointing to a spot on the drawing.

thomas nodded excitedly, “mhm! c'est une tasse comme celle-là.”

the five-year-old pointed to the large array of coffee cups and mugs just to the left of where you stood.

pierre nodded, “is this design on top one of those foam…” he trailed off forgetting the words.

charles piped up from his spot, “latte form art?”

again, thomas nodded fast, “yes! but maman says i can’t have coffee so she makes me it on hot chocolate!”

both charles and pierre nodded at his words, “your mother is very smart, then.”

you turned around just in time to catch thomas nodding super fast, cheeks turning red at the compliment.

pierre took a bite out of his sandwich and charles decided to reach out and make conversation with the kid, “what’s your name, buddy?”

“thomas! with an h,” he started, going on a ramble about his classmate who also shared the same name, but without the h.

your attention got pulled from the conversation as you heard the bell chime again. this time, however, it was your coworker coming back from her break, keeping the door open for the person who was leaving the shop.

michelle smiled at you with a wave, tapping on her wrist as if to indicate the time. you looked at your own wrist, eyes widening to realize your shift was due to end in about 10 minutes. as slow as your shift had started, in the presence of the two drivers, you couldn’t help but be amazed at how fast time had passed.

there wasn’t much for you to do, waiting for the time to pass. as thomas continued chatting up the two f1 drivers, you made rounds around the tables placed in the shop, cleaning up any messes left behind.

with thomas and pierre’s loud voices filling up the air, it wasn’t long before michelle pulled you by your arm, eyes widened at the sight of the two very famous men sitting next to your son. her inquisitive look made you laugh quietly, explaining that they had come in not too long ago and had already ordered, and finished most of their food by the looks of it.

the ten minutes went by quickly, and you found yourself apologetically disrupting the very important conversation between thomas, charles, and pierre about whether or not a velociraptor could outrun charles in his ferrari. (charles: “velociraptors cannot run as fast as a racecar.” pierre, smacking his hand on the table: “you can’t believe everything you read on the internet!” thomas: “yeah! raptors are fast!”)

you smoothed out thomas’ hair, “hey, mon petit chou. i’m gonna go get our stuff from the back so we can get ready to go, okay? why don’t you start wrapping up the conversation?”

you left before charles could ask for your opinion on the matter, not wanting to face the wrath of either side if you defended the other.

by the time you made it back out, thomas was sitting on his stool, hunched over a piece of paper, a red pencil crayon held tightly in his hand as he drew something. the plate with pierre’s cookie now sat next to the boy, small teeth marks indicating that instead of the man who had ordered the cookie, the young boy was the one eating it.

pierre, noticing your return, smiled sheepishly as if embarrassed. whether it was for not ensuring your son had packed up before you came back, or for the fact that he got caught giving your son a cookie, you weren’t sure.

“sorry, he said he wanted to draw something for us,” pierre started, his eyes catching the movement of thomas taking another bite of the cookie before darting back to your amused face, “and sorry for the cookie, i always intended on giving it to him, but i realize now i should have probably asked before if he could have one.”

you smiled at him, “don’t worry about it, either of the things. the cookies are by far his favourite item on the menu and he’s not had one yet, so no harm done.”

charles leaned over from his spot, pushing against pierre, “so, do you think i could beat a velocirapt-”

pierre’s groan cut him off, “fermez-la déjà.” shut up already.

charles poked pierre with his elbow, “no, you,” before he turned back to you, “google says raptors only travel about 40 km/h…”

you laughed, “i’m afraid i cannot give my answer without risking my life,” you gestured your head towards the boy still colouring, now with a blue pencil in his hand instead.

“i think that gave your answer perfectly.” though his words were directed to you, charles couldn’t help but stare at pierre, a cocky smirk planted on his lips.

before pierre could retort, thomas sat up eagerly, “j'ai fini!” i'm done!

he pushed the piece of paper into the middle of the counter, right in front of pierre. looking over thomas’ head, you couldn’t help but smile at the picture he drew.

two racecars, one red and one speckled with blue, the numbers 16 and 10 drawn on either car respectively. in between the two racecars stood four people. three squares bodies and one triangle, three boys and one girl. as thomas pointed at each aspect of his drawing including the people, not that any of them needed any supporting description, you couldn’t help but smile at the fact that the triangle stick figure was connected at the hand to the smallest square figure. you and thomas, holding hands.

after pierre and charles thanked thomas profusely, you helped him hop off the stool. you turned to look at the two drivers one last time, “thank you for keeping him entertained today, you really didn’t have to.”

“nonsense, he’s a good kid.” charles smiled, pierre nodding at his words, “hopefully, we’ll see you both again.”

you smiled, “well, i’m here nearly every morning, so y’know.”

you helped thomas put his backpack on, “have a good summer break, both of you. hope the rest of the season treats you two well!”

the racecar drivers smiled, waving bye to both of you as you walked towards the door. before stepping foot outside, however, thomas turned around.

“maman’s number is written on the back! bye!”

A/N: second part is now posted!! read lonely nights in monaco here!!

#pierre gasly x reader #f1 driver x reader #f1 imagine #pierre gasly #pierre gasly 10 #pierre gasly x you #pg10 #pierre gasly fluff #charles leclerc #alpha tauri #fluff #ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ writes #f1 imagines #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula one #sdim #1k

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syneilesis · 5 months

Text

[fic] Floriography

Floriography

By next week, and the several following, Vlad gives you flowers.

A/N: One last fic before my vacation ends! Another installment to my university crossover AU! This one is just silly and pointless and I don't know why it's reach this word count lol. In this particular fic, characters from other ikeseries games show up, and there are some callbacks to the previous fics for worldbuilding lol. I'm not an expert of floriography, I just used this as reference.

The day the news broke out that the university president has been kicked out and replaced by a new one, is the day that you wake up as if your muscles are replaced by lead.

Sore, aching in places you don’t even know can ache, your heavy eyes struggling to pry open, you—after ten minutes of intense internal deliberation—decide to call in sick. This is rare, but the recent months have thrown you into a waterfall of activities: traveling to conferences, organizing events, research projects, department-related excursions—these on top of teaching and grading papers and lots and lots and lots of meetings held consecutively in separate buildings.

You steal a few more minutes of sleep, but the responsible (read: guilty) person that you are, you grab your phone on the desk beside your bed and fire off a heads up in your department group chat. An email announcement for today’s classes will be written a little later.

Not even ten seconds in and your phone lights up like fireworks.

HEY HEY YOURE MISSING OUT

Oh, no. Rest well, doc.

Oh my god guys! Did you read the paper?

Moving forward, what’s in it for us?

Its aLready been poSTED in teh WEBSITE!!!!!!!!

Proper typing please, prof. This is still a professional group chat.

You squint at the stream of chats as you try to feel for a sleeping position that wouldn’t exacerbate the soreness in your calves. The nerves at your nape feel pinched and your shoulder muscles burn. Thank god it’s almost the weekend; you think you won’t come to work until next week.

Then, in a private chat, one of your colleagues sends you a link to a livestream of an emergency announcement. On the thumbnail is the Executive Secretary Kicho’s face, and despite the woozy state of mind and body, you tap on the video.

“—thus, from this day onwards, our new university president—”

A close up shot of the HR director, looking like when Professor Clavis has installed a giant disco ball on top of the historical main building—again. A panicked glare towards the secretary, who ignores it, then a rapid blinking that can be interpreted as repeated SOS directly to the camera. The live comments are on fire: some asking what happened to the previous president, some celebrating the disappearance of the previous president, and some lamenting over the future of the university. Two in particular are a momentous standout:

Dr. Clavis Lelouch Haha so we’re allowing insurrections now? Splendid! @Chevalier Michel sleep with one eye open 👈(ﾟヮﾟ👈)

Kenshin Uesugi, PhD I will join the insurrection and challenge Michel to a duel to the death.

It’s chaos afterwards. You spare a sympathetic thought for your HR-Director-promoted-to-University-President. But, really, you’re too out of it and in pain to care. Sleep calls, and it is not to be denied.

A few hours more of sleep, breakfast, and an email announcement to your classes (with additional assignments so your students won’t slack off) later, there’s a knock on the front door.

On the other side of the doorway, a bouquet of gladioli and yellow tulips greets you. This is held by a pair of elegant-fingered hands attached to a beautiful specimen of a man, who is currently gracing you with the sweetest smile that has ever existed in your lifelong awareness.

“Special delivery!”

Vlad passes you the flowers, your hands coming up to meet the gift in reflex. You met Vlad—a pretty and charming florist across your building—right after you moved into your apartment. Noticing the moving truck, he had wandered into the building and introduced himself, a pot of anthurium in hand. You were so taken by his kind and pure heart that you’d swore to yourself to protect this man and buy flowers from him regularly. To this day, the anthurium is still alive and bright-colored in your living room.

“I didn’t order this?” you say, admiring the flowers. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s a get-well-soon gift from your students. They asked me to deliver it to you, since they have classes all day today and couldn't do it themselves.”

That’s sweet of them, to make a gesture like this. It warms your heart, and you bring the bouquet closer to your chest.

You almost forget that Vlad is standing outside the hallway, and he’s watching you with a curious glint in his eyes.

“Oh! I bought a strawberry cake yesterday. Have some as my thanks.”

“I won’t say no to that.”

You also brew him coffee, explaining that the combination is a feast on the taste buds. Vlad just hums in agreement, definitely not protesting against free strawberry-made food. As he enjoys the pastry, you sip your own coffee in contentment, the floral gift already arranged and added into the coziness of your living area.

Midway through decimating his cake, Vlad comments, “This is my first time inside your home.”

You pause. “Truly?”

“Truly.” He turns a little to his left, where the large windows overlook the campus, the sun glaring behind the edge of the main building far to the right. “Ah! The anthurium I gave you is still healthy.”

“Of course. I’ve been pretty diligent about taking care of it.”

Vlad smiles so prettily that your heart forgets to fulfil its function for a couple of seconds. Will that have to be added to your list of things to ask your doctor?

When all is finished, Vlad lingers in the hallway as you bid him goodbye. Then he asks, “Will you also call in sick tomorrow?”

You think about it for a moment. “If I still feel sore, then maybe. But as much as possible, I don’t want to cancel classes again.”

He takes the liberty to smoothen the wrinkles on your shirt, a move that you find odd yet not unwelcome. “I see. Then, rest well. I’ll see you around.”

The remaining hours of the day are spent on the bed, hot compress soothing your heavy muscles, while you catch up with your leisure reading. Every now and then your thoughts drift to the memory of Vlad’s smile, how it’s caught in the late morning sun, an example of perfect geometry. You don’t notice it—but your own lips curve of their own accord.

And then your phone buzzes with the group chat notification, the preview text saying, OUR SPY SAYS SURPRISE AUDIT TOMORR…

The next day, you come into the department office warmly welcomed by a mess of papers and Hideyoshi at the end of his wits.

“I’m sorry you have to come to work,” he says by way of greeting, the black undereye circles he’s sporting so obvious in his haggard face. “I would’ve told you to rest some more, but Mitsuhide says that the head auditor is personally seeing the audit of our college.”

You nod in sympathy. It’s not like your college doesn’t comply with the university standards—in fact, it’s one of the most compliant colleges ever, lauded (sarcastically though) by Executive Secretary Kicho whenever he has the opportunity for it. It’s just that, there’s a weird and tension-filled rivalry going on with your dean and the director of internal audit. Every time they cross paths you swear that the air thickens and darkens, static raising the hair on your arms and nape. It drives Hideyoshi insane and Mitsuhide gleeful. Dean Nobunaga, though—he’s just amused and so nonchalant about it all.

“S’okay, I planned on coming anyway. Uh, good luck to us, I guess? What time will the audit happen?”

“In the afternoon, right after lunch break—we have a little more time.” Hideyoshi sighs. Behind him your colleagues pass around a jug of coffee, the enticing smell reaching your nose. “It’s not that we’re not prepared, but we’ve been informed that today is going to be different. How exactly it will be different, I don’t know. Mitsuhide didn’t say.”

“But is Dean Nobunaga worried about it?”

Hideyoshi jolts at that. “Not at all! Our—our dean has full confidence in our capabilities. It’s just that—well …”

Hideyoshi’s devotion to Nobunaga has been a main topic in the college for some time now—ever since he assumed the position of associate dean, in fact. Apparently something happened between them in the past that made the once-average-performing student Hideyoshi shoot for graduating with distinction so that he could follow Nobunaga in whatever field he was taking. It isn’t like it’s a secret, but the teasing became so much for Hideyoshi he’d now get embarrassed whenever somebody mentions that particular point of his past around him.

Sometimes, you catch him unconsciously referring to the dean as ‘Lord Nobunaga’, but you don’t bring that up to him ever.

“It’s just that the audit director has been trying to sabotage our college and destroy our reputation! I can’t let that happen.” Hideyoshi’s phone rings, and he warily turns around. “I must check the other departments. We’ll have our post-audit meeting later. In the meantime, don’t push yourself too much, okay? Where’re the dept-heads when you need them …”

When you place your bag on your desk, a colleague offers you a mug of coffee, which you take gratefully. “Happy Friday, I guess?” you offer.

It’s met with a snort. “Say that again after you finish filing all your student evaluation forms. Bet it hasn’t even reached seventy percent compliance.”

Your co-faculty is right. “Mine’s sixty-three.”

“Ouch. You still have class this morning, right? There’s still time. Happy Friday.”

You sigh, thinking about begging your students to fill out their evaluation form again. Happy Friday indeed.

“Vlad!”

“Oh, hello.”

There are two other customers perusing the displays, curiously sniffing the blooms. Instead of meandering around, you head straight to the counter, where Vlad is rearranging the decorations beside the cash register. He waves a hand goodbye at the one customer who exits without buying anything and glances at the other, who’s still smelling the flowers. When his shining eyes fall upon you, you momentarily forget what you’re supposed to say.

“Uh—oh, right! I’d like to place an order,” you say, checking your phone for any additional instructions. When you find none, you go back to Vlad, who’s watching you with his customer service smile. “A bouquet for our boss, something that means respect and success and great job and all.”

“Hmm.” The smile cracks and becomes more excited. “Did something good happen?”

“We just survived a surprise audit. Everybody was ready to demolish our building out of sheer panic, but Dean Nobunaga led us to victory. The audit director looked so frustrated! We just want to celebrate tonight. Can it be done?”

“Of course, you can count on me.” Vlad steps out of the counter. Somewhere in the corner, the other customer sneezes. “I already have something in mind. I’ll get on to it right away.”

He shows you a preliminary illustration of the bouquet, and you, knowing nothing about the language of flowers, agree to everything he suggests. It’s paid by the college budget anyway, so whatever. When the flowers are finalized, you hand him Hideyoshi’s card. Vlad raises an amused brow, having gotten to know the man via your recountings of your college shenanigans whenever you drop by, but swipes it wordlessly.

“I’ll pick it up later, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

At the door you turn and see the remaining customer having an allergic reaction to sunflowers. Caught off-guard by the scene, you approach the person to help, meeting Vlad’s concerned eyes at the other side. It takes you an hour for the matter to settle, and you finally leave the flower shop, Vlad’s soft, cool voice lingering behind you.

By next week, and the several following, Vlad gives you flowers.

Not a bouquet, just one hand-picked flower that he offers you by the apartment exit with a cheerful smile and a morning greeting.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“Just something to brighten your mood,” he answers.

And that would be that, except every day it’s a different flower: today it’s an amethyst flower; tomorrow it’s angelica flower; the day after that it’s lesser celandine; and so on and so forth. There’s no pattern to the choices of flowers he gifts you, and oftentimes you wonder if he’s just carding through the types of flowers alphabetically for no reason at all.

It comes to a point where even Nobunaga makes mention of it:

“Your admirer is committed to their daily presents, I see.”

He’s caught you on the way to your department office, studying the flower as if it holds all the answers to the universe. You freeze at your dean’s voice, and Nobunaga takes the opportunity to intimidate you through proximity. He eyes the flower before gauging your reaction, and something in your face delights him, because he grins and says:

“White clover. Interesting.”

It takes a few more seconds, but you manage to gather your wits.

“It’s just from the florist near my apartment building. He’s nice and generous enough to give me flowers to ‘brighten my mood’, as he put it.”

“Indeed.”

Nobunaga’s grin hasn’t slipped off, and a grinning Nobunaga means a dangerous Nobunaga. You still remember that time when he audaciously announced that he intended to unify all colleges under his lofty purview, which incited a whole spectrum of responses ranging from sardonic amusement (Dean Sariel) to a declaration of war (Professor Kenshin). It’s risky to stay inside the perimeter of a scheming Nobunaga, so you pretend to look around and gasp dramatically, pointing to a corner as if expecting somebody to materialize out of thin air.

“Oh, look! Isn’t that Doc Hideyoshi coming to get you? Well, dean, it’s nice to talk to you. See you around!”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of responding when he calls out, “I’ll guess tomorrow’s choice—peach blossoms.”

Vlad’s flowers are too beautiful to put away once they wither, so you elect to press them and have them framed in your home.

But as you stare at the array of the colorful gifts for you, you can’t help but think of what Nobunaga told you earlier. It haunts you until the next day, when Vlad hands you a frame of pressed peach blossom flowers.

“Peach blossoms are out of season,” he elaborates, “so I preserved them until I can give them to you.”

The words escape you quicker than your brain can catch them:

“What the hell?”

Vlad falters, his genial smile wavering, and you scramble to accept the gift with a sheepish smile of your own. A dour Vlad makes the world go dimmer, so you try to salvage your faux pas.

“I’m sorry! I just meant—you’re going to think it strange. Yesterday, my boss saw your gift and then predicted that today’s flower would be peach blossoms. And he’s right! I can’t believe he’s right.”

As you recount your conversation with your dean, Vlad listens in rapt attention, his expression serious, until you mention Nobunaga’s parting words, and that lights up Vlad’s face. “Oh,” he says, narrow-eyed pleasure uplifting his features. “What an interesting man.”

“Is he? He just made a lucky guess, I bet.”

“Why don’t you ask him what he thinks? Maybe he guessed my intentions correctly as well.”

That makes you pause. “What are your intentions?”

Vlad chuckles. He taps your nose once, almost teasing but also fond. Your heart skips a beat.

“That takes out the fun, doesn’t it?”

Later, at the faculty room, Nobunaga sweeps by and sees the framed peach blossoms on your desk. The smirk he’s adorning is practically radioactive in its smugness.

Before the end of the day, you cave.

You march up all the way to Nobunaga’s office, heedless of Hideyoshi’s offended squawk, and demand, “All right. Explain.”

Nobunaga leans back on his plush leather chair and eyes you critically, arms folded across his chest. If you were anybody else, and Nobunaga anybody else, the way you treat your boss could invite a surprise visit from the HR. But you’ve been working in this institution for a while now, and four-fifths of those years had Nobunaga as your dean. He may be intimidating at first—and he still is—but you’ve discovered that underneath that warlord-philosophy he’s got going for your college is a big brother who would readily tease his younger siblings with relish at every opportunity.

Which makes him all the worse when you think about it.

Behind you, Hideyoshi attempts to catch your attention. “What do you think you’re doing—”

“White clover. Think of me.”

You and Hideyoshi both halt and stare at Nobunaga. The twin looks of confusion fail to daunt him.

“In the language of flowers, white clover means think of me.”

He lets the words hang in the air, and you and Hideyoshi glance at each other—he bewildered and you boggled.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you doubting Lor—Dean Nobunaga?!”

You level Hideyoshi a pointed look. He coughs discreetly. Before you can say anything further, Nobunaga redirects back the topic at hand.

“I am certain. You may ask me about the meanings of other flowers, if you wish.”

“Okay … Amethyst flower?”

“Admiration.”

“Angelica flower?”

“Inspiration.”

“Lesser celandine?”

“Happiness coming your way.”

“Hibiscus?”

“Delicate beauty.”

You pause at that. “What? Really?” You shake your head. “Uh … Viole—blue violet?”

“Faithfulness.”

“... Peach blossom?”

Here Nobunaga smirks, just like earlier. He lets the silence marinate for a bit before dropping the bomb.

“I am your captive.”

Hideyoshi gasps; you’re not sure why—he’s not the one being wooed. The two of them await your response, Hideyoshi vibrating with what you suspect is materteral commentary on the subject matter.

“Seriously?” you say.

Nobunaga just nods.

“Is someone courting you?” Hideyoshi explodes, grabbing your shoulders and whirling you to him. His expression is a little frantic, as if he can’t believe that he wasn’t informed of this. You’re tempted to say that he can always adopt you if he wants to continue indulging himself of his motherly urges. “You know them well, right? You’re getting to know them well? They have a stable job, right? What’s their annual salary rate? They better not have any criminal record. Have you asked for their CV—”

“Okay,” you declare, escaping the associate dean’s line of interrogation and heading towards the door. “Thanks for the answers, Boss. And Doc Hideyoshi—you might as well slap my suitor’s face with money based on how you’re shaking right now. Anyway, gotta go.”

“Wait, I’m not finished—”

“Byyyyeeeee!”

Tomorrow comes, and just like any previous days, Vlad is waiting for you by the apartment building exit, and this time the flower he offers you is a rose. Red and fully blossomed.

“This is the most beautiful rose that bloomed in my garden,” he explains without your prompting. “I’d like for you to have it.”

Hesitation colors your movements. Even you know what a red rose means. Vlad’s gaze is guileless, and you’ve no doubt that the man knows that by giving you a rose, he’s declaring something with intent.

Though it's only a single flower, its fragrance is remarkably potent. “A-Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You know what this means, right?” And, because you can’t help yourself, you add: “I asked what the other flowers’ meanings are.”

“And what did you find out?”

So you tell him what transpired the day before. Vlad listens diligently, a serene light cast on his face. When you enumerate the list of flowers he’s given you the past weeks and what they symbolize, the calm smile that curves Vlad’s mouth widens and widens.

When you finish, Vlad’s grinning, white teeth sparkling against the morning sun. For some unfathomable reason, the thought of him being a perfect toothpaste model renders you distracted. You nearly miss him stepping closer to you.

He leans towards the side of your face, his hand grasping one of yours and pushes something on your palm. Your fingers enclose on a narrow stem, thornless.

Then Vlad whispers into your ear, “So … have I succeeded, then? Did you think of me in the last several weeks?”

He also smells of roses. This close, you note the floral scents that cling to him strongly. Like he’s bathed every day in flowers.

“Well?” he spurs, and the warmth of his breath accelerates your heartbeat. It makes you realize the lack of distance you have with each other.

“Oh,” you mumble, shifting your feet. Vlad remains in his position. And then, softer: “Constantly.”

Vlad sighs happily, pressing his nose against your hair and inhales your scent. You jump in surprise, not expecting that. But before you can make another move, he’s lessened his proximity to you, hands on his back, head tilted, innocent smile on.

“Did you … Did you just—”

“I’ll send a frame of pressed agrimony to your boss, and—” Vlad looks at you slyly “—attach my CV while I’m at it.”

You blink.

“What.”

⇼

Endnotes:

Other reactions from Nobunaga's unification goal: confusion (Prof. Isaac); bloodthirst (Head of Security Motonari); airheaded intrigue (Prof. Dazai); nosy intrigue (Prof. Arthur); resentment (School of Divinity Dean Kennyo); rebellion plotting (then-Prof. Kicho); a raised eyebrow (Prof. Michel); pure stressed out (then-HR Director); pure amusement (Director of Audit); refusal to be one-upped by this villainy (Prof. Clavis); etc. etc.

The apartment building you live in is owned by the kind landlord, Comte.

Vlad deliberately set up his flower shop across the apartment building so he could unnerve Comte whenever the landlord visited the building. When Vlad had developed an interest in you, Comte barged in his flower shop once and threatened Vlad not to hurt his tenant. Vlad sent him hops flowers, just because.

You luckily managed to reach 70% compliance in student evaluation that day before the audit session. Happy Friday.

Hideyoshi reads Vlad's CV and ruptures his blood vessels. Mitsuhide is there to see it in real-time.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen vampire fic #ikevamp fic #ikevamp vlad #ikevamp vlad x reader #ikemen vampire vlad x reader #cybird university verse #fic #my fic

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after-the-end-times · 1 year

Text

We'll always have (more than) Paris

Different Meeting Tedependent AU where Ted had planned a trip to Paris for him, Michelle, and Henry, but before he can tell her she hands him divorce papers.

But after so many months of researching places to go and things to do and food to eat he finds he still wants to go. So, he and Henry go to Paris without Michelle.

They're wandering toward the base of the Eiffel Tower when a little girl darts past him giggling and screeching that ear splitting high pitched happy screech kids that age can so easily hit.

A few moments later a harried looking man with amazingly white streaked hair trot-runs past him, trying to catch up to her without full out sprinting.

But Ted knows how toddlers can be when they're in that darting away phase and she's not going to stop until she's scooped up.

He also knows no parent actually wants to look like they can't get their child back without yelling or running, so he turns to Henry,

"Hey Henry, why don't run up past that little kid there? Get her to chase you and get her back to her dad, hm?"

Henry doesn't need to be told twice and takes off, dashing past the man and then the little girl.

Ted speeds up his walking pace to tap the man on the shoulder.

"Excuse me! Er- Excusez moi! Uh parlez um- inglese? My son's gonna bring her back, don't worry! Toddlers love nothing more than chasing big kids!"

Ted tries to make himself look as encouraging and friendly as possible in case the man doesn't understand him. The man had turned to look at Ted at his shoulder tap so Ted finally got to see that magnificent hair up close.

"Oh! Uh yes, thank you. Though he might have his work cut out for him, she hasn't been a very good listener today, I'm afraid," He looks back to the kids who are giggling and zig-zagging around the green, before turning back to Ted looking slightly bewildered, "And I'm sorry, was that supposed to be French earlier? I think there might've been some Spanish in there."

Ted huffs out a laugh and puts his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, I tried to learn some French on that owl app before we came here, but three years of high school Spanish keeps slipping through instead," He nods toward Henry, "He's actually taken to it a lot quicker. Probably cause it's like it's just another game on his tablet."

He holds out his hand, "Ah right, Ted Lasso. That's Henry out there."

The man gives him a bemused look and takes it, "Trent Crimm. And she's Darcy"

"Well, nice to meet you Trent Crimm," He nods toward where Henry and Darcy have flopped down on the grass, breathing hard, "Looks like someone's been tuckered out."

"Well, thank you for that. Fortunately, our hotel isn't far and it's just about time for a nap," He starts toward the kids, before pausing and turning to Ted, "Have a good vacation Mr. Lasso. You should make sure to visit Musée d'Orsay, they have a little art scavenger hunt Henry might enjoy."

"Thanks for the tip. And please. Ted." He smiles at Trent.

"Ted." Trent holds his gaze a moment longer, a faint flush spreading across his cheeks, before glancing away. He turns and calls out, "Darcy! Come on! It's time to go!"

Henry and Darcy sit up and clamber to their feet. Darcy races over to Trent, slamming into his calves, "Daddy! Can Henry come picnic with us?"

"No darling, we're done picnicking for today. And I'm sure Henry's dad has plans for them."

"T'morrow?" She gazes up at Trent with glistening eyes.

Ted wouldn't wish those big crocodile tears on anyone, let alone his new friend.

"Well hey there, little Miss Darcy!" He bends down to address her where she's still wrapped around Trent's legs and she turns her eyes toward Ted, "You guys have been picnicking? That's fun! Henry and I love a good picnic! We'd love to join you sometime!"

He stands up to look at Trent, smiling gently at him "If that's alright with you?"

Trent blinks a couple times up at him, a slow smile over taking his face, "We'd love for you to join us." He pauses and breaths out a laugh as he glances away, "But tomorrow we actually have plans. To visit the Musée d'Orsay, in fact."

Ted smiles wide as he realizes, "Why Trent! And here I just heard a great recommendation for the Musée d'Orsay! And an art scavenger hunt, I believe?"

He glances over at where Henry's attempting to do cartwheels in the grass. Darcy notices as well and abandons Trent's legs to run over and start somersaulting alongside him.

Ted's smile softens as he tilts his head to the side and looks at Trent from under his lashes, "I'm almost sorry I messed up our "Accidentally running into each other for the second time" meet-cute, but at least now we can spend the whole time together! Then grab lunch afterwards? Besides, art scavenger hunts are much more fun with more people, everyone knows that."

Trent smiles up at Ted, "Well, if everyone knows that. Who am I to disagree?"

For a moment they gaze into each other's eyes, picturing the rest of their time in Paris; Visiting museums and tourist spots together, meeting at cafes for breakfast, finally making it to the top of the Eiffel Tower, ice cream along the Seine, Henry gaining a Darcy shadow, Ted and Trent spending their every moment learning about each other and falling in love faster than either thought was possible.

But for now, Ted and Henry walk Trent and Darcy back to their hotel for nap time. And as Ted looks at Henry skipping ahead of them while Darcy chatters on and he feels Trent's sliding his hand into his own, he suddenly knows they're going to have so much more than Paris

~fin~

post scripts: Before their flight, Ted got an email and was offered the Richmond coaching job, but hadn't thought much of it. He's definitely going to accept it now. Michelle always wanted to travel and move abroad, but Ted never wanted to leave Kansas. She studied abroad in London and would actually love the opportunity to move there with Henry and Ted (but not with Ted) Trent is overwhelmed when Ted tells him he was one of the deciding factors for Ted accepting the Richmond coaching position. He never imagined someone could ever love him so much they'd move across the ocean for him. It takes time, but he finally starts to believe it

#tedependent #tedtrent #ted x trent #trent crimm #ted lasso #I just meant to write the idea and then a wild ficlet appeared #ficlet #I guess I have a writing tag now

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spnfanficpond · 5 months

Text

Secret Santa 2023 Masterlist

A Night By the Fireplace by @fangirlingfromdownunder

Summary/Prompt: SPN Pond Secret Santa: Stuck home because of a snowstorm

I'd Never Leave You Stranded by @samanddean76

Summary : Jared planned a getaway for their Christmas vacation. Jensen arrived the day before, but with the worsening winter weather, will he be able to get Jared from the airport? Or will their snowy adventure be a total loss?

Always Have Always Will by @little-diable

Summary: It's been years since Dean and (y/n) have parted ways, but perhaps this year's Christmas season is finally the right time to find their way back together.

Christmas Magic by @jessjad

Summary: Sometimes all you need is a little christmas magic to help you be at ease with the decisions you made.

The Christmas Present by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior

Summary: Y/N is beginning to wonder just where she fits into Jensen's life. Is she expendable?

Need by @hoboal87

Prompt: Renewal of Mating Vows

Unlikely by @apocalypseornaw

Summary: It's an unlikely pair. A hunter and a men of letters or is it after all?

Incidentally, It Was Christmas by @ani-coolgirl

Summary: Sam comes out to his brother. Dean handles it about as well as to be expected, and is pretty cool about it--right up until he realizes something rather distressing about himself. That it's Christmastime is purely incidental.

A Christmas Case by @spnexploration

Summary: Dean drags you out of bed to go to a case, ruining your Christmas plans. But does he have a plan to make up for it?

(Don’t) Hurry Down The Chimney Tonight by @talltalesandbedtimestories

Summary: Dean saved Reader from the supernatural on Christmas Eve years ago. Every Christmas since, she has always found a way to show her unending appreciation.

Happy To be Stranded With You by @thepromiscuousduck

Summary: Sam and Dean are stranded on Christmas Eve.

Not So Silent Night by @ladylilithprime

Summary: The hunt was a bust and Dean just wanted to kick back and a bar and pretend he wasn't missing his little brother like one half his lungs. Turns out the bar he picked was a better choice than he'd thought.

The Best Gift One Could Ask For by @heavenssexiestangel

Summary: Dean didn’t expect to spend Christmas with anyone, just like every other Christmas in the past. This year is different, though, and it brings many different things with it - family, hope, a new beginning.

Resurrections and Confessions by @schizonephilim

Summary: The holidays have rolled around again, and Sam finds himself grieving the loss of the angels he never got to have.

Christmas past and giving Present by @a-nah

Summary: The boys hunting for gifts. last minute Christmas.

Snow Globes and Forgiveness by @kickingitwithkirk

Summary: Even with Chuck no longer narrating the story, it’s not a Winchester Christmas till something screws it up.

This is it for the 2023 Secret Santa masterlist!!! I hope you show some love to our wonderful writers!!

For any questions please feel free to ask!

Admins

Michelle - @mrswhozeewhatsis

Marie - @mariekoukie6661

MJ - @thoughtslikeaminefield

Mana - @manawhaat (Founder and Admin Emeritus)

#spnfanficpond secret santa 2023 #Spn Fanfic #Supernatural Fanfic #Secret Santa 2023 #pond events #writing challenge #pond writing challenge #fic exchange #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #lucifer

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speechlessxx · 2 years

Text

he wants what’s only yours. [andy barber x reader]

PART TWO OF CLANDESTINE.

summary ⇒ jealousy is an ugly monster, but good thing andy barber looks so damn good in green.

warnings ⇒ age gap (reader is referenced to be 19 but this is technically a flashback), BFD!Andy, jealousy, choking kink, daddy kink, slight special guest x reader ;), references to sex and wanting to take part in it.

MINORS DNI

word count ⇒ 2.5k

PART ONE

Despite that declaration of “wanting to see you again”, you didn’t see Andy Barber until the next spring.

It wasn’t that he avoided you or that you him, by any means. It was simply the entanglement of every single entity that linked you together.

Jacob and his mother, Laurie – Andy’s ex-wife – lived in New York City. With Jacob in the residence hall one floor above yours (damn you, coed housing), it became impossible for you to sneak in the man, especially since your roommate would definitely snitch to Jacob. On the other hand of the Barber entanglement, the former Mrs. Barber had promised your mother to watch over you, a promise she fulfilled to the T by bringing over food, groceries, sometimes even toiletries, and the surprise check-ins.

You could only imagine the catastrophe that would ensue if they found their Mr. Barber hiding out in your dorm.

There was no escape from either of them, and therefore, you could not find a way to meet Andy in private without the mother and son finding out.

So, you just bided your time.

That is, until Jacob recounted to you and your friends of his encounter with his father’s new girlfriend during his last visit home – or as he put it, “the lady walked out of the house bowlegged!” And while the boys laughed and the girls silently wished it were them, you couldn’t help but feel this pit of despair forming at the bottom of your stomach.

Because, just like that, that hope you carried that those late-night calls and texts that brightened your day brought vanished. Everything became empty promises – a rouse meant to flatter you, to ensnare you into a trap. Like another notch on his belt.

And that night in the bar bathroom had simply become a real mistake.

Which lead to this disastrous decision.

It started with an invitation extended to you and your other college friends from Jacob to stay at the Barber family vacation home in Cape Cod for spring break. And while spring in Massachusetts was anything but, a free trip and an escape from the stressful midterms waiting for you back on campus seemed worth it. The only caveat, however, was that his father would be living amongst the younger adults for the entirety of the stay as he was “attending” to the house – something about “renovations in the boathouse, or something,” Jacob said with a shrug.

And, okay, you knew to be the bigger person – to forgive and forget, to tag along silently and give Andy the cold shoulder. However, you were a hurt, defiant, and well, yes, very petty nineteen-year-old. And as childish as it was, it was nowhere near as childish as hooking up with someone whilst trying to “woo” your son’s best friend.

Which lead to you in the passenger seat of a Beamer that still had that awful new car scent that made your headache. Convoying in front of you – much to your driver’s dismay, something about driving too slow for his liking – were Jacob, his girlfriend; Sarah; and two other friends from NYU; Peter and Michelle.

You watched as the coastal life flashed by you through the window. With the Cape not being in peak season, you found that it was rather empty, lifeless almost – like a perfect little getaway.

“Quaint,” the occupant to your left said under his breath as Jacob pulled into the driveway. He eyed you as you continued to bite your fingernails and he sighed, “you probably shouldn’t do that.”

“Huh?” You asked before he took your hands away from your mouth and held them in his.

“Nervous ‘bout something?”

“Uh, something like that.”

Without another word, he accepted your answer, but not before bringing your left hand to his lips, planting a kiss. You tried not to snatch your hand away from him. It wasn’t any fair to him, not at all, but you wanted to show – no, prove – that you were completely over Andy, and Hugh Ransom Drysdale was your weapon to prove that.

However, Ransom was not invited to the Cape. In fact, he wasn’t really a friend to anyone in your group at all He didn’t even go to NYU. A, then, incoming junior at Columbia, Ransom was more of a nuisance to Jacob, and a continuous thorn to your side for the past year or so.

You met him on your first trip to New York City last year. Jacob had invited you to come visit his mother and tour the NYU campus after finding out you both applied. You graciously accepted the invitation, and on an activity-less day, you opted to explore the city while Jacob slept in. A decision that ultimately got you lost until you tapped on the broad shoulder of a young man texting away on his phone.

Rather than directing you towards the right direction, a black car pulled up next to the man and he offered to take you back home. He seemed harmless enough though you knew the outcome of this could’ve been far worse, but you got into the car anyway, formally acquainting yourself with Hugh Ransom Drysdale.

He had an aura of entitlement that was masked by sophistication, and his egotistical personality put you off, but he was handsome, wealthy (not that it was a criteria, it just helped), and nice (when he wanted). He took a liking to you, saying that he’d “take you under his wing”, but you had always turned down his advances. Ransom not taking no for an answer put Jacob off, but you always defended your … acquaintance.

And besides, it was nice feeling wanted sometimes.

So, when this devilish plan to prove that Andy was no more than a notch on your belt, you decided to take Ransom up on his countless attempts.

As everyone got out of their respective vehicles, stretching their legs to feel relief, Andy made his way out to greet the guests.

“Jacob!” Andy had called out with open arms, and Jacob, who rolled his eyes, begrudgingly accepted the embrace. “Nice to see you, Sarah,” he nodded to her, and she beamed.

The formalities between the two new faces that climbed out of his son’s car fell upon deaf ears as Andy’s eyes found you emerging from the BMW. There was a pounding in his chest as you finally made eye contact, but much to Andy’s displeasure another figure came out from the driver’s side.

Andy’s hands clenched into fists as his side.

The motherfucker didn’t even bother to open your door.

You quickly averted your stare from the older man, diverting your attention back to Ransom. You waltzed to him and pouted, “I’m really cold.”

And to your relief, Ransom only chuckled just before he shrugged off his own insanely expensive jacket to drape over your shoulders. “There you go, pumpkin.” Had you been Sarah or Michelle, you knew Ransom would’ve gladly told you to “eat shit.” “Better?”

“Extremely, thank you,” you smiled, shyly as he wrapped his arm around your waist.

“Take care of it,” Ransom warned. “Or, not I could just buy another.”

You dared a glance back at Andy who scowled at the sight of another man – no, a boy – touching you. “Mr. Barber,” you feigned a smile as Andy made his way towards the both of you.

He nodded a fake formality before turning his attention to your guest. “Hey son,” Andy said. “Never met you before,” he extended a hand. “Andy Barber, Jacob’s dad.”

“Ransom Drysdale,” he had taken Andy’s hand and yelped as Andy tightened his grip.

“Andy – “you muttered.

“So, you’re the boyfriend?” He asked, ignoring your intervention.

“N-no.” Ransom stuttered, and suddenly the pressure on his hand was relieved as Andy loosened his grip enough for Ransom to escape. “I mean, I’d like to be. Gotta do some convincing, of course.”

“She’s said no like a million times, Drysdale!” Jacob had called as he and Peter unloaded the trunk of their car. “Take a hint.” Snickering from the others followed afterwards.

Ransom huffed and rolled his eyes. “And in a million and one, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“C’mon,” you said, pulling Ransom towards the back of the Beamer. “Let’s get our bags, yeah?”

“Go ahead inside, Princeton,” Andy said, a roughness to his voice that no one could really quite place. Jacob only laughed at his father’s nickname, deciding that the hostility was most likely due to the fact Andy could just tell Ransom a douche.

Ransom, again, rolled his eyes. “Colombia,” he corrected, but he was used to others bending over backwards for him, so he thought Andy’s offer to retrieve his things was merely hospitality.

So, he only shrugged, and tried to drag you along with him, but Andy had called out, “Missy, can I have a hand?”

You groaned. “Oooo,” Jacob had teased as he and Sarah walked past you hand in hand. “You’re gonna get chewed out for bringing a boy.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sarah had slapped his shoulder. With her free hand she gave your arm a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

“Keep an eye on those two,” you asked her, glancing between the wide-open door as Ransom had already gone in and Jacob. “You know how they get.”

“Of course,” Sarah winked before disappearing inside. Michelle and Peter soon after, and the door slammed shut.

It was only you and Andy now.

You let out a sigh as you slowly made your way towards the back of the Beamer. Andy, true to his word, had began unloading the trunk and you eyed him suspiciously. So, you wordlessly followed his lead as you began to take out one of Ransom’s many luggage bags.

“Didn’t know you’re into the white collars,” Andy finally broke the silence.

“Don’t start,” you muttered.

“Why’d you bring him, huh?” He asked. You ignored him, which obviously pissed him off as he repeated the question through clenched teeth. You pulled out the last of the bags, but again, you didn’t respond; only trying to antagonize him even further.

You grabbed what you could as Andy shut the door, but quickly after he grabbed your arm, the luggage falling from your hands and onto the thin snow. He pushed you up against the back of the car, encaging you between him and the vehicle. “What the hell!” You snapped at him.

“Oh, don’t get feisty with me,” Andy said, digging his waist into yours. “Why the hell did you bring Mr. Trust Fund Brat?”

“Peter and Michelle are dating. Sarah and Jacob are dating. I didn’t want to be the only single one while all my friends are coupled up!” You reasoned, slightly proud of the impromptu lie. “I’m not gonna be the fifth wheel, Andy.”

“You know damn well you weren’t going to be,” Andy husked into your ear. “You tryna be a big girl, huh, baby?”

“Tryna foster age appropriate relationships, more like it,” you frowned. Oh, he didn’t like that. “Hey!” You yelped as he snatched Ransom’s jacket off your shoulders and threw it onto the snow. “That’s Prada!”

“That’s Prada!” He mocked. “How dare you bring him here.”

“How dare I?” You gawked. “How dare you act like a scorned boyfriend when you’re anything but.” You tried to push him off you.

“Is that why you brought him? To show me you have a little boyfriend now?”

“Have you ever considered that not everything is about you!” You hissed. “Maybe I like him!”

“Bullshit.”

“I do!”

“Oh, honey,” Andy chuckled, coldly, “he can’t do anything for you.” He leaned into you, nose brushing up against yours. His breath hot against your skin, making you feel like melting like the snow around you. “He’s just some dumb kid with daddy’s money.”

“Andy – “

He encaged you against the back of the car, trapping you like a hunter does its prey. He stared down at you like you were helpless, and perhaps, beneath his ocean blue stare, you were. “Baby, he can keep you wrapped up in his expensive jackets. He can buy you a yacht for all I care, but he can’t do anything for you.” He scoffed, “I bet he doesn’t even know where to put his hands.”

His hands released yours, but you didn’t dare move a muscle. Suddenly, they were behind your thighs, hoisting you up against Ransom’s car. You gasped as Andy leaned into you, and you could feel the intimidating bulge forming against you.

“That you like them here,” he whispered, lips ghosting over each other as his hands wandered to give your ass a teasing squeeze. You locked your legs around his waist, keeping him there – not that he was trying to escape, anyway. “Oh, but you like them here, too.”

You let out a squeal as one of his hands had enclosed around your neck, squeezing until you could barely breathe. Oh, this one shouldn’t turn you on as much as it did for sure. Your moan was strained as Andy smirked down at you.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how to kiss you, huh, baby?”

You shook your head though your movements were limited. “No, daddy.”

Andy groaned before pressing his lips against yours. You had forgotten all about the luggage bags scattered around you, or the fact that Jacob and your friends – and your now forgotten plus one – were inside the house behind you.

No, in that moment, as it had always been, it was just you and Andy.

You had began to grind against him when Andy pulled away, hand releasing your neck and you took a huge breath. Andy’s hands gripped you, halting your movements against him, shaking his head. “Only good girls get to do that to their daddy, and baby, you’ve been very, very bad.”

You tried to pull him in for another kiss, an attempt to convince him that you were, indeed, his good girl, but he tutted. “Why’d you bring him, sweetheart?”

You pouted. “Jacob said you had a new girlfriend.”

Andy scoffed, brows furrowed in confusion. “I do not.”

“Then who’s that woman walking out of your house? Bowlegged and limping?”

“Could’ve been you, but you decided to bring Princeton.” Andy teased and you rolled your eyes at him. “Bowlegged and limping,” he thought aloud, trying to recount his memories. “Duffy? Only lady that’s been around was her – she was injured on the job and came around asking for some file – wait. You brought Mr. Prada Jacket because you were jealous.”

Suddenly, you were embarrassed, face turning hot, so you hid it in the crook of his neck. “Oh, no.” You muttered as he laughed.

“Oh, baby, you know the only girl I’ve been wanting is you.”

“Fuck me,” you muttered, and he only laughed a little louder.

“Oh, I intend to, but not when Princeton’s here,” he muttered into your ear, nudging your head up so that you could meet his eyes. Andy finally let you down and you stared at one another for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, awkwardly, scratching the back of your neck. “I shouldn’t have – “

“You should’ve just asked.” Andy said, “But jealousy looks good on you, baby.” He grabbed your arm and pulled you closer towards him. “Now, if you do wanna get out of Cape Cod, bowlegged and limping, you be a good girl and send Princeton packing, okay?”

You smiled, devilishly at him and nodded. “Okay, daddy.”

#andy barber x reader #andy barber #andy barber imagine #andy barber fan fiction #chris evans x reader #chris evans imagine #chris evans fan fiction #ransom drysdale x reader #he wants what's only yours.#clandestine.

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itsybiggy · 1 year

Text

Stuck With Me: Peter Parker x OC

Cute Peter Parker slow burn, less spiderman action more just good ol awkward Parker.

Peter has been in a bad mood all month, but with soon to be divorced parents, trying to figure out what's wrong with him is the last thing Lani needs. Thankfully summer break is here. Lani, Ned, Peter, and MJ set off on the summer vacation road trip to California. Drama ensues

🕸️Chapter 2🕸️

Chapter 1

Master list

•🕷️🕷️🕷️•

He left me on read. He never does that, like ever. My thoughts begin to wander to attempt to make evenly winged eyeliner.

So much for keeping it positive.

Intrusive thoughts pile up in my mind. I'm not dumb enough to really believe that Peter now hates the mere thought of me; but the little "read" under my text makes me anxious all the same.

I being wracking my brain. Thinking of everything I have said to him in the past weeks. I mean maybe I said something to make him upset or did something and just not realize it. But honestly, it only makes me smile as I recall the jokes we cracked and fun we all have had. Nothing bad is really coming to mind.

My screen is still void of any text notifications.

I check my refection in the mirror, smiling. I usually try to stay positive when it comes to my appearance. And I definitely can't complain of how my butt looks my black maxi skirt. I adjusted my white crop top, making sure the tiny cross stitched spider was visible. After a quick click of my off brand Dock Martins I decided humidity was a virtue and mirror time was over.

It was already 5:15, I didn't feel quiet ready but Ned would be waiting.

~15 minutes later~

"GET IN LOSER WE ARE GOING SHOPPING!" I yell as Ned walks down the apartment stairs.

He gets in the car "Hey."

"Hey." My smile drops and I hope it's subtle. The tone of his voice worried me. Silence between us is uncommon. I squirm a bit in my seat.

Seeing as he isn't going to make conversation, I speak up.

"Did you get the texts from me and Michelle?" I say.

"Yeah, I have no idea what's wrong with him. Maybe we will figure out tonight" he says quickly, shrugs and looks out the window. Silence fills the car again.

I know you can't sound like anything over text, but Ned sounded a lot peppier when we were messaging. What was going on with my friends?

"We should go see a movie after." I make a lame attempt to kindle a conversation.

Ned seems to perk up a bit at this.

"Yes! The Joker is out!"

I laugh at this, I'd never been much for DC superhero comics. Especially when they are made up. It didn't really make a lot of sense why someone would make up a superhero and a supervillain when there are plenty to choose from that are real. Movie production companies have tried to profit off of rising superhero stars. The movies are never as good as the up close and real action.

I shrug "I'll see whatever you want bubby."

He winces at 'bubby' and goes back to looking out the window.

I feel my face getting hot. Ok mental note, after being called bubby for 3 years Ned now doesn't like it.

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH MY FRIENDS! Blasts in my mind. My only hope now was that Michelle was normal.

___

To my relief she was. We got to the diner at 6:04, Michelle sitting down at our usual table in the back. We try to sit in the back as to not disturb other customers. Our laughs are usually boisterous and frequent not to mention the cheeky jokes. And all being on the decathlon team, heated arguments or "debates" on some old dudes theories or such tend to heated. But we are high tipping customers so we don't worry about it too much.

"Hey guys surprised to see you have made it here alive." She jokes.

"I don't know where you got that I was a bad driver!" I motion for Ned to take a seat before I slide in next to him.

"Oh I think you know." She winks.

"what?" I look at her, perplexed before she shakes her head.

"Speak of the devil" she said just as Peter walks through the door.

The little bell at the top of the door gives a joyful ring. Peter flinches but his body quickly moved back into its slightly hunched position with a frown on his face. Oh great.

"Hey Peter!" I say as he sits down next to Michelle.

He looks into my eyes and gives a slight smile. But says nothing.

A waiter soon comes around with menus "Can I get you started off with anything to drink?"

"I will have a coke." Michelle starts.

"Same." Peter mumbles.

"Sprite." Says Ned cheerfully.

"Tea for me please and thank you." I say brightly, I had to stay positive. I am with my friends to get away from negativity, not have more of it.

Once the waiter left we all began talking. Peter slowly starts engaging more, and it seems to feel right again. Something about him is definitely off; though that does make me very worried about him, I know now was not the time to ask. I will just do my best to cheer my moody friend up.

I smile, mentally stepping back from the conversation, contentment filled my heart. There is nowhere I would rather be and no group of people I would rather be with. I mean they are the only friends I have...

Good Eats has become a favorite of ours. We started eating here for dinner or after school almost every weekend, for about 3 years now. It was cheap for the quality of simple yet delicious diner food. But it's usually pretty quiet in the evenings— (we learned the hard way to avoid it during the mornings where the line is out the door.) —a steady stream of customers usually taking things to-go. Which I don't get, a big part of this place being great is the aesthetic. It reminds me of a 70s diner and most likely opened then. Yellow booths, a jute box always playing great oldies music, kinda ugly wallpaper, and warm lighting. And the store owner is a really nice guy. He usually brings his grandkids. It's always funny when you get rung up by a 10-year-old or have your water refilled by a 7-year-old. Since we have been coming for so long so often, the owner has a special discount for us "I've got to treat my best customers right!" he always says I'm pretty sure it's just a %10 student discount. We usually tip as much much as we can.

I snapped back into reality when I heard my name. I didn't really know who it came from.

"What?" I said shacking my head out of the clouds.

"We were asking about the van. Summer break is almost here, when is Caroline gonna be ready?" Ned asks

"Oh right, I would say just in time for school to let out." I say.

We have been planning our summer break since school started this year. It will be our last summer vacation ever, so it had to be epic. I always get excited butterflies from it, but it is usually mixed with dread too. Dread because I know when I get home my parents will be officially divorced. Not that I haven't known this was coming or that it needs to happen. It definitely does, I have a cup bruise on the side of my head to prove it.

No, nope stop! I feel my eyes watering. Internally I let out a big sigh. This summer vacation has to be perfect. I don't know what I will do if it's not.

"Alright let's go over the plans one last time," Peter says.

I smile reaching into my purse, and pull out a small, light pink, piece of paper. 1-10 lists of things we need to do while we are in California. We had decided a beach trip is definitely what we need.

I clear my throat and begin to read.

1. start off at Stark Tower to go over things with Tony such as Hotels, food reservations, and tickets

Did I mention all of this was Peter's early birthday gift from TS himself. We are all pretty jazzed. And by that I mean we about shit our pants when Peter told us.

2. head out across the country stopping at the finest Tony Stark hotels (hotels with penthouse suites that Tony has frequent so much he just straight up bought the hotels.)

3 get to LA and check out our crib

4. beach

5. Disney Land

6. More beach

7. eat at a super fancy restaurant

8. ruins of Mr. Stark's Malibu mansion

9. Santa Monica Pier

10. hike to the Hollywood sign

It was a packed summer for sure, but it had to be the best, it just had to be. My last slice of happiness before I move away with my mom, before I move from Queens to which ever relative my mom decides to move close to. Away from all of my friends, who are more of a family then my real ones. Who have gotten me through so much, stuck by my side through it all. And even feeling upset makes me feel like I'm a monster. I want to support my mom, but I don't want this! I don't want to be away from them. Away...I hate that word.

"You ok La?" Ned asks his hand rests on my back, lightly rubbing it.

My cheeks grow warm with embarrassment- I was crying. And of course Ned's kind questioning made more tears flow. I quickly wipe my eyes with my sleeve, and give a quick fake smile to my friends. They look concerned, except Peter. He looks almost angry, this made me cry more. Amazing.

"Yeah I'm fine. I-uh-i yawned." I stammer, I yawned wtf, who would believe that?!

"What the hell Lani?! No one's yawns make them cry that much." Michelle said, her voice rose she was almost laughing at the dumb lie that came out of my mouth. But I knew she was just concerned.

Ned quickly drops his hand from my back, my head instinctively turning towards him. He's looking at Peter.

"I'm fine I, I-just." I paused. I had told them about my parents getting a divorce, but not much. More importantly, I hadn't told them I was moving, and I wasn't planning on it till the trip is over. If they knew it would just ruin the whole trip for me. Not to mention I was so scared to even say it out loud, it would just make it seem more real. I tried my hardest to not think about it ever. Yea I know it's is unhealthy, but it's how I'm coping now. Might as well let future Lani deal with it.

"It's just my parents divorce, it's getting close to the last of all the court stuff. I just, can't stop thinking about it." My face continued the hot embarrassed sensation. I felt my under arms tingle and I could feel their eyes in me. My eyes stayed glued on my hands like my left depended on it.

There was a small pause. Oh gosh this is embarrassing.

"Lani, no madder what, you will always have us. We love you." Michelle finally said. Her tender words caught me off guard.

I looked back at her, giving a genuine smile "Thanks, that means a lot."

But the little voice in the back of my mind kept screaming Except they won't always be there for you.

"Are you guys ready to order?" We all jumped a bit as the waiter had finally returned to serve us. She placed each of our drinks in front of us.

After we ordered I had asked if we could just forget I said anything, what I needed was a fun night with my friends. They all agreed and once Ned had brought up The Joker, a new conversation sprung. I was just happy to not discuss anything family related.

___

Once we had all gotten and eaten our food, we decided to head to the movie theater to watch The Joker.

"Ok how about Peter pays for drink, Ned pays for Popcorn, and Lani pays for the tickets?" Michelle suggests as we walk into the theater.

"Um, that's convenient, seeing as you pay for nothing." Said Peter, slightly annoyed "and we should all pay for our own tickets, they are too expensive for Lani to pay for alone."

Michelle give a little snicker before we all decide it was every man for himself/herself.

I walk up to the counter, and smile brightly at the young man at the register. "Four tickets for The Joker, please and thank you."

"Sorry The Joker is sold out." He replies in a monotone voice.

"What?!" Ned exclaimed "but- I just checked online like 5 hours ago."

"Sorry The Joker is sold out" he repeats in the same voice. I don't blame him, he has probably had to say this so many people tonight.

"Hey, guys it's fine we can just pick another movie!" I say trying to lift their spirits.

"It 2 is out." Michelle offers.

Oh no

"Yeah I'm down" says Ned.

Oh no

"Yeah me too" says Peter.

Shit

Three pairs of eyes look at me. I give a sheepish smile. I get scared very easily, they know this, but I'm willing to take one for the team... even if it means I won't sleep for a few da-weeks. "Yes, let's go see It 2" I say in a fake enthusiastic tone.

I turn back to the man at the register "um, four for... It 2 please."

___

The theater is completely empty, which makes it about 1099999373783298xs more scary. It's a pretty popular movie so the rows of seats absent of people makes it feel like the twilight zone. We look around, deciding to sit in the far back.

I see Peter hanging back, walking slowly behind us. Strategically, I begin to slow my pace; slipping behind MJ to sit beside Peter. If there is anything that will distract me from the killer clown, it's Peter. We enter the row and settled in. And Peter grabs my hand.

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thisismysecondrodeo · 1 year

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what if reader went to college w ted (before he met michelle) just someone he casually knew from class and had a crush but never did anything

and they run into each other all those years later in richmond and they talk about how they both liked each other but never said anything

AN: This is such a good idea, which is why it took me so long to get to because I wanted to do it justice. Side note: never seen gone with the wild, this is probably not a scene people would pick. I could have written like 10 times this and maybe I’ll still revisit it!

Rating: General (series becomes Explicit)

Tags: Michelle Lasso, Henry Lasso, Second Chance Romance, Alternate Universe - College/University, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Time Skips, Ted and Beard have the purest friendship, Ted Lasso Deserves Love, Getting Together

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Fic Masterlist

TW: Canon-typical mention of suicide

Of course you recognized Ted the moment you saw him. You’d know him anywhere, even when it had been over 20 years and you were on vacation in a foreign country for the first time ever. You were sitting on the patio of the Crown & Anchor, and had just put a bookmark into your latest science fiction novel to accept a fresh pint from Mae, as Ted Lasso, in all his glory, arrived on the cobblestone path in front of you. He didn’t see you at first which gave you a chance to look him over: the long athletic legs, his middle a little softer and his hair a little more styled, and the ever-present mustache that made you smile just as it had when you met him in college.

He looked up from his stylish sneakers—the khakis were new, but the sneakers he had always been a fan of—and there was a twinkle in his eye when he noticed you. His head tilted, and you could see from his expression that he knew you as well as you knew him.

“Well, I do declare, I was surprised to see you turn out to be such a noble character,” you said playfully, quoting Gone With the Wild, a movie you both had a shared history with. You wouldn’t expect him to remember the next line, but Ted had always been able to surprise you.

Ted stepped closer to your table, placing his hands lightly on the top and leaning in as he spoke, “I can't bear to take advantage of your little girl ideas, Y/N. I'm neither noble nor heroic.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you grinned but there was no room to be embarrassed when you were too busy contending with every unrequited feeling you had in college flooding your senses.

22 YEARS AGO

Ted Lasso was a terrible actor. He knew it and so did the rest of the theater arts class but most of the class wasn’t very good either. At least half of them were there for the same reason you were: need of an art credit and no discernable art skills. You’d picked it because you liked words and even if you were occasionally debilitatingly shy, at least you might enjoy reading the plays. From what you could tell, Ted was part of the other half of the class, who picked the elective with pure-hearted enthusiasm. At least you hoped it was an elective, it certainly wouldn’t be a good major for him. Ted was the constant volunteer scene partner, for the instructor and for other students, and despite recognizing that he wasn’t very good, you couldn’t deny that you liked to watch him. He had broad shoulders, a little lanky but strong looking. His hair was unstyled and flopped over his forehead and ears when he was excited and then there was the mustache. You had heard other students poke fun at it in hushed breaths, but you thought it suited him just fine.

For weeks, you doodled Ted Lasso’s name (and attempts at his likeness) in the margins of your notebook, feeling safe to do so because he always sat as close to the front as he could. You waited in your last-row seat until he left, just to make sure there was no way he’d possibly know. He always left with the same person, a spindly pale guy with a scruffy beard and sunken cheeks, who a few times you'd seen leaning in to say something to Ted and then giving you a pointed look that you pretended not to see.

And then one day you were doodling so hard you missed the instructor requesting that everyone pick a partner for your final project. No one wanted to be Ted’s partner, which was a shame because he would certainly make any partner look amazing in comparison. He looked around the room, unphased at the lack of interest, and then he spotted you, in the back row, not paying a lick of attention. If you had been listening, you certainly would have volunteered to work with Ted, but since you were distracted the man in question found you. He cast his shadow over your notebook…which was covered in his own name like you were a middle school girl.

“Y/N, right?” If Ted noticed what you were doodling, he politely ignored it. You slapped the notebook shut, not wanting to look up but also not wanting to be rude. “Do you already have a scene partner?”

“I, uh, no… to be honest with you, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Oh don’t you worry about that,” Ted slid into the seat next to you and recounted word-for-word everything you needed to know about the final project, and you thanked him profusely. “So what do you say?”

“What do I say…to what?”

“Being my scene partner,” Ted grinned, and now that you were this close you could clearly see his dimples and smell his cologne and it was all so distracting that you were sure you were coming off as an idiot. For Ted’s part, he looked a little nervous—his hands were folded tightly in his lap and one of his lean legs was bouncing. “I know I’m not very good, but—”

“Oh, I thought it was already decided,” you smiled, not wanting to hear him disparage himself. “Of course I’ll be your partner. What scene did you have in mind?”

In an instant, Ted was still. He wiped his hands on his flat front shorts, and smiled, looking up at you through his long lashes, “Ya ever seen Gone With the Wind?”

PRESENT

Ted was now sitting across from you with a pint of his own, and the two of you couldn’t stop looking at each. Short glances, long appraising gazes—anything to center yourselves in the present.

You’d gotten braver since college, for better or worse, and you couldn’t wait any longer to break the silence. “So what are you doing in Richmond?”

“Oh, I, uh, live here. I coach the team. Football—er, soccer,” Ted stuttered through his answer. “Sorry, it’s just been a while since I talked to someone that didn’t know what I do…or that called it soccer. God, I sound like an asshole. It’s just, I’ve been in the papers quite a bit recently and it’s been a little stressful.”

Ted’s hand was resting on the wooden picnic table and you did everything you could to restrain yourself from reaching out to hold it. He’s married, isn’t he, you wondered, but when you looked again you didn’t see a ring.

“You don’t sound like an asshole at all. I’m sorry to hear it's been stressful, but God, coaching in England must be exciting! I, uh, avoid social media as best I can otherwise I’m sure I would have known... Last I heard you were married and coaching the ol’ alma mater.” It certainly wasn’t subtle but hopefully it would get the job done.

“Ah,” he wiggled his ring finger in the air, “divorced. Recently. One son, Henry, who’s in Kansas still, but there’s, uh, room to breathe here if you know what I mean.”

You looked around at the green behind you, the sun setting gently in the distance. “Yeah, I’m starting to pick up on that.”

Ted tapped the table near your left hand and it seemed he wasn’t in the mood for subtlety either. “What about you? Last I heard you had moved clear across the country with a husband of your own.”

“Divorced and quickly. Didn’t even last three years, to be honest with you. No kids. Mostly single ever since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ted said quickly, but he didn’t look very sorry at all, even a little optimistic, but then he frowned. “Was he nice to you?”

You took a deep breath, thinking deeply about how you wanted to answer that. It was a question you had never been asked before. “It was nothing dramatic, he just…wasn’t a very good scene partner.”

Ted’s eyes locked on yours, and the conversation lulled but in a pleasant, amorous way. The two of you sipped your beers.

“Can I ask you something,” you said softly, not shy but meaningfully. Ted nodded and his hair flopped in a way that immediately sent you back 20 years to the past. “Why did you take theater anyway? I’m sure you told me back then, but I always felt like there was some hidden reason.”

“What, because I wasn’t very good,” Ted asked with a laugh, but you could tell he was deflecting and only gestured for him to go on. “You never did let me talk bad about myself.”

Ted sighed, took a deep drag of beer, and then balled his hands into fists. “I wasn’t ready to talk about it then, and I still don’t talk about it much, but my dad died when I was 16 years old. Self-inflicted.” You didn’t know what your face was doing, but you tried to school it into something neutral. “He loved movies. Loved ‘em. He said if he could do it over again he woulda gone to LA and made a go of it. And so when I got the opportunity I thought I’d do it for him, do something he never got the chance. And it was the first in a long line of lessons about living for myself and not others because I was downright terrible at it.”

This time you gave in. You let yourself reach across the table and slide your hand into his. He smiled, gently squeezing and you squeezed back. He had probably heard all the platitudes, it was 30 years ago, after all, so instead, you talked about class.

“You know, I didn’t expect you to remember those lines. It’s been, what, 22 years? Clearly, you couldn’t have been that bad.”

Ted smirked, “I don’t know that I could forget those lines, we worked on that for weeks… and maybe I just so happened to watch Gone With the Wind again a few weeks ago.”

“God, I hate that movie,” you laughed, and Ted sputtered on his beer.

“What?! Why didn’t you ever say anything? We could have done something else, anything else!”

“Well, Ted,” you responded carefully, taking a sip of your beer, “when your crush asks you if you want to be Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler, you definitely don’t say no.”

Ted’s cheeks pinked furiously and he looked down at his lap but he couldn’t hide his smile. “You know, Beard told me I should ask you out 1,000 times and I chickened out every single one. On the last day of class, I, you know, asked for your number and you gave it to me…and I wrote it down wrong. I asked around for a while and tried to run into you, but a few weeks later I met Michelle and, well I thought it was fate. Silly me, huh?”

“Not silly at all,” you responded seriously and before you could say anything else, Mae announced last call and you looked at him pointedly, hoping he’d invite you home.

Ted’s hands were folded in front of him and one of his lean legs was bouncing, and it was easy to picture the flat front shorts and band T-shirt of his youth. “What would you say if I asked you to come over and watch Gone with the Wind?”

You dissolved into giggles and Ted joined you with a little apprehension, worried he was about to be rejected. “I’d say I’d love to come over but I’d like to watch literally anything else.”

“You got it,” Ted laughed, for real this time, and pulled his coat on. He picked up yours and held it up for you to slide your arms into and it made you feel like you were being courted. And you nearly swooned when he picked up your book and tucked it under his own right arm, and then stuck his left arm out for you to hold. You considered, briefly that this is what you could have had 22 years ago, but somehow you knew that it wouldn’t have been better than right now.

Part 2 ->

#ted lasso #ted x reader #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso x yn #ted lasso fluff #fluff #au

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 5 months

Text

By: Michele Seminara

Published: Jan 4, 2024

My first exposure to what I now call “griftivism,” a hybrid of grifting and Critical Social Justice activism, occurred in the arts. It was 2020 when—in my role as managing editor of literary journal Verity La—I became embroiled in a social media cancellation precipitated by backlash to the publication of a story some deemed racist and sexist. The ensuing moral outrage razed our “little magazine that could” into internet infamy, where it remains strung up, replete with apologies, hanging its masthead in shame.

Verity means “truth,” and the journal’s motto was “Be Brave”—rendering its demise that little bit sorrier and sadder. The story that sank our publication depicted a disaffected Australian academic engaged in a sexual affair with a local woman while in the Philippines. The protagonist was uncomfortable with what the author described as the “patriarchal and colonial” power imbalance between his two characters, but not guilty enough to resist. He was an un-admirable and unreliable narrator, and in publishing the story, we sought to unveil an unsavory truth about how some men use women for casual sex. This truth was not well received.

What confounded me most about the backlash to the piece was not the mechanism of cancellation (if you’ve seen one online takedown, you’ve seen them all) but the beliefs and motivations of the cancellers, their supporters, and the silent mob of onlookers.

Upon examining this dynamic, I became aware of a new type of grifter who hitches their self-interest to activism and thrives in a culture hell-bent on “being kind”—or, at least, in appearing to be so. “Griftivists,” I call them.

The instigator of my cancellation was a colleague on the advisory board of our journal. Her bio on Ko-fi, an online “tip jar” to make “income directly from fans” proclaimed that she liked to “spread joy on social media, & care for others a lot.” Her Twitter feed was both a consummate work of self-curation and self-contradiction; earnest retweets from fellow social justice activists and scathing criticisms of “white people” (“Do not get me started on white men. Do not, ‘not all white’ me. I’m spicy today”) bookended daily selfies showcasing designer shoes, handbags, and dresses. Fine dining, trips to the theatre, and a steady stream of purchases sat incongruously beside tweets thanking followers for ostensibly essential UberEATS vouchers and requests to “buy her a Ko-fi” so that she could replace her cracked Miele cooktop or purchase a dehumidifier for her “damp” Sydney harbor-side apartment. Unbelievably, there was even a request for donations to enable the purchase of an alcoholic drink at the airport before boarding an international flight to go on vacation. Yet few seemed to notice the grift.

Someone that did was Sangeetha Thanapal, a Singaporean-Thamil writer and academic residing in Australia, who, in response to the plethora of praise showered on my colleague (“You are such a treasure. Such an advocate. Such a wonderful writer. We are lucky to have you in the world”), boldly tweeted, “It’s enraging to me that Singaporean Chinese people… who have access to every privilege and opportunity, can come here and play ‘person of colour.’ And y’all will fall for it cos you have zero understanding of the dynamics of race in Asia… This is why POC spaces in Australia will continue to shield privileged people like her while shutting out actually disadvantaged people like me.”

This surprised me. While I had no doubt that since moving to Australia my colleague had experienced racism, I hadn’t thought to question whether she was disingenuous to present herself as marginalized. She had, after all, grown up in a wealthy country as part of the dominant race and spoke English as her main language. Could she be appropriating disadvantage to her advantage, engaging in a kind of cultural double-dip to reap social and financial gain? For a lifelong small-l liberal, even entertaining the idea felt verboten.

* * *

Leading the charge in cancelling someone can be a profitable affair; in the cash-strapped arts, it can pay handsomely in the type of cultural capital that translates into invitations to publish work, speak at writers’ festivals, judge and win literary prizes, and secure competitive grants. In the year following the demise of my journal, my colleague succeeded in repurposing her tweets into a paid full-length article in a literary magazine, saw her Twitter followers burgeon from several hundred to nearly ten thousand, was featured in the news multiple times for her writing and social justice activism, and went on to receive two lucrative arts grants totaling seventy-five thousand dollars.

Of course, racism, disadvantage, and marginalization are real and must be challenged. Those dedicated to doing so have historically favored the left-wing of politics, a space heavily populated by my demographic: middle-class, educated white women (sometimes known as “bleeding hearts”). Having always been progressive, I was stunned by how swiftly and irrevocably I was recast during my cancellation as a “white supremacist.” A dreaded open letter signed by hundreds of my peers even demanded our funders withdraw their support for our “systemically racist” journal, despite the fact that we worked as volunteers and prioritized publishing and paying writers from marginalized demographics. Logically it made no sense; nonetheless, I was racked by guilt and shame.

However, after schooling myself in the recent trends in Western culture (a.k.a. scouring Twitter), my naiveté quickly resolved. I was both relieved and alarmed to discover that my case paled in comparison to more extreme pile-ons occurring around the world. Particularly in the arts, a space in which you might assume dissenting views could be aired and debated, there was a spate of ad hominem attacks being waged that seemed motivated by a mixture of moral certainty, self-advancement, and thinly veiled glee. As another Australian publisher confided to me when weathering their own public take-down, “One becomes a piñata.”

* * *

The moniker “Verity” in Verity La not only means “truth” but was inspired by the name of a once famous bookshop in Australia’s capital city, Canberra—which, in turn, was named after the inspirational woman who founded it. Verity Fitzhardinge brought literary culture to Canberra at a time when sheep still grazed on the paddocks of Old Parliament House and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover was banned. From 1938-69, her bookshop was an oasis, a meeting place for thinkers, students and dissidents marooned in a cultural backwater. When Verity La was conceived in 2010, its founding editor happened to live on Verity Lane (rendered “Verity La.” on the street sign), and thus, the literary journal destined to live and die on the sword of its truth was born. Having no experience as an editor and no prescience, I enthusiastically took the helm in 2014 and would infamously go down with the ship just six years later.

After my cancellation, like the heterodox patrons gathered in Verity’s bookshop eighty years earlier, I sought comfort in knowing I was not alone. I discovered Counterweight, an organization established by author and academic Helen Pluckrose to help promote “reason and freedom by encouraging critical thinking” and support people like me who found themselves at odds with the new cultural climate. I devoured books, articles, and podcasts and realized that the verbal jabs thrown at me (“It’s not enough to be not racist, you have to be anti-racist!”) were not original but parroted from the rhetoric of far-left activism. As the 2020 global shitshow gathered steam, cultural commentators were warning that Critical Social Justice (CSJ)—a progeny of postmodernism and Critical Theory with roots in Marxism—had breached the walls of academia and was spreading its own divisive worldview.

CSJ was originally touted as a way to address “prejudice and discrimination on the grounds of characteristics like race, sex, sexuality, gender identity, disability and body size.” This certainly sounded rather positive to me. It appealed to my social conscience and to that of many others, as evidenced by the viral popularity of social media hashtags like #BlackLivesMatter and corporate advertising campaigns like Nike’s "For Once, Don’t Do It," urging Americans not to turn their backs on the issue of racism.

Yet, as I discovered, the stated goal of ending bigotry was soon subverted—hijacked, if you will—by those wishing to bend the truth to their own advantage.

Perhaps this should come as no surprise since CSJ was born of the postmodern view that knowledge is not objective, but socially constructed to maintain power. Critical theorists scrutinize structures, language, and social interactions to identify and dismantle oppressive power systems and dominant “truths.” This makes for an enlightening thought experiment, but in the wilds beyond academia, it’s easy to see how things might go awry. For if there is no objective yardstick for ranking truths, how will we know what to believe, and what values will we allow to guide us?

Enter the de-and-postcolonial theorists who argued for not only dismantling power systems such as white supremacy but inverting them. Drawing on their revolutionary vision, CSJ activists declared that those best placed to call out the oppressors’ false truths and design fairer alternatives are the ones who suffer oppression most: the marginalized. Perhaps because, in the absence of any method for judging the worth of one socially constructed thing against another, our safest bet is to run in the opposite direction of the powerful towards the powerless. But while it’s undeniably fair and wise to acknowledge, listen to, and learn from the experience of marginalized people, when groups who are viewed as oppressed are elevated to an unquestionable ethical status, problems predictably arise.

This has been evidenced in numerous social justice movements over the last decade (think #MeToo’s “Believe All Women” slogan), with activists claiming that lived experience trumps all other forms of knowledge and that the most marginalized person’s lived experience is the most valid. It follows that your right to engage in cultural and political dialogue is now dependent on your identity and positionality: the lower your position, the higher your status and the more weight your “truth” holds. Any skepticism is dismissed as racist, sexist, and so on. Even if you are a “marginalized” person whose dissenting views are inconvenient to the majority of activists within your group, you risk being diagnosed with “internalized” prejudice or dismissed as an “Uncle Tom.” Sadly, progressives have adopted this worldview with empathic gusto. I know I did. Many well-meaning people do. And so have corporations, universities, whole industries, and governments, effectively transforming the left—a formerly meager hunting ground for opportunists seeking power and reward—into a space fertile with possibilities for those on the grift.

The socially-enforced expectation that we not question the efficacy of progressive activist movements (or risk backlash and potential cancellation) has proved a godsend for the griftivist and has engendered what cultural commentators call a form of “new puritanism.” Whereas society used to judge morality according to religious and conservative values, now there is a shift to make the same judgments based on absolute acceptance of the tenets of CSJ. This has fostered a rigid leftist ideology equal to the far-right in both its pronouncements of acceptable truth and willingness to extinguish dissent. That may seem counterintuitive for a theory embedded in postmodern skepticism, but it’s perhaps not so surprising given human nature; as Lord Acton said, “Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” There is now power in being oppressed (or at least in appearing to be) and by establishing themselves as the marginalized or their allies and espousing the requisite leftist beliefs whilst denouncing those who fail to do so, the unscrupulous griftivist—like the Wolf dressed in Grandma’s clothing—succeeds in veiling their selfish intent under a cloak of harmlessness and virtue. And soft-hearted progressives, not hip to the ruse, are being eaten up.

* * *

A 2023 study published in the journal Current Psychology by Ann Krispenz and Alex Bertrams of the University of Bern entitled “Understanding left-wing authoritarianism: Relations to the dark personality traits, altruism, and social justice commitment” provides insight into the psyche of the griftivist. First, researchers characterized left-wing authoritarianism (LWA) as comprising three interconnected factors: anti-conventionalism, top-down censorship, and anti-hierarchical aggression. “Anti-conventionalism” is a dogmatic endorsement of radical moral values coupled with a desire to impose them on others. “Top-down censorship” is the use of authority to quash opposition and suppress “offensive and intolerant” speech. And “anti-hierarchical aggression” is the drive to overthrow and punish those with power. Together these paint a recognizable, if somewhat disturbing, portrait of left-wing CSJ activism, where the most virulent proponents possess traits mirroring those we’re accustomed to seeing on the authoritarian far-right.

To better understand left-wing authoritarianism, researchers designed two studies exploring its relationship with narcissism and psychopathy, as well as its correlation with traits they defined as prosocial, like altruism and social justice commitment. They found that left-wing activists who endorse aggressive actions to overthrow those in power are more likely to demonstrate “manipulative and exploitative behaviors… self-perceived entitlement, arrogance, reactive anger, distrust, lack of empathy, and thrill-seeking.” They also found that “neither dispositional altruism nor social justice commitment was related to left-wing anti-hierarchical aggression.” In fact, they concluded that “some political activists on the left side of the political spectrum do not actually strive for social justice and the support of underprivileged groups or persons, but rather endorse or express violence for the satisfaction of their own ego-focused needs.” Meaning that the most strident and morally outraged CSJ activists might not be driven by the desire for social justice at all. Quite the opposite.

As Krispenz and Bertrams explained to the science news website PsyPost, left-wing activism provides bad-faith players with “opportunities for positive self-presentation and displays of moral superiority to gain social status and dominate others.” Worse, those who “strive for influential positions that involve social visibility and outreach as well as access to financial and other resources” will likely misuse progressive movements for private purposes and cause “irreparable financial and reputational harm.” Indeed, it would seem a significant number of those marching under the banner of “doing good” while extolling others to “do better” and “be kind” are impelled by selfish, devious, or even harmful motives. And some are just on the grift.

So concerned were the authors that they advised minority groups should be made aware of these “narcissistic ‘enemies’ from within” who might hijack their causes and whose behavior could lead to dwindling public support.

Furthermore, they identified a phenomenon they dubbed “the dark-ego-vehicle principle” in which “individuals with dark personalities—such as high narcissistic and psychopathic traits—are attracted to certain ideologies and forms of political activism.” For example, someone might “participate in a pro-BLM protest pretending to fight against racism while actually using such protesting activities to meet their own aggressive motives and thrills” or because “this form of activism can provide them with opportunities for positive self-presentation (e.g., virtue signaling).”

The trajectory of the discredited Black Lives Matter Global Network certainly bears this out. In the wake of George Floyd’s death in 2020, corporations and individuals desperate to demonstrate their CSJ credentials poured hundreds of millions of dollars into the organization globally. Happy to profit off the empathy (or, more cynically, the virtue-signaling) of those willing to donate to BLM, one of its founders, Patrisse Cullors, controversially bought a house worth $1.4 million. Another BLM organizer, Xahra Saleem, was recently jailed for stealing donations intended for a British “anti-racist” group. And there are still several lawsuits involving alleged misuse of BLM funds by members ongoing; as UnHeard journalist Niall Gooch noted: “When a cause is hedged around with taboos... to the extent that obvious questions about governance, spending and oversight are simply not asked, that cause will attract grifters like moths to a flame.”

Of course, activism per se is not psychopathic; Krispenz and Bertrams’ study merely confirms that for a confluence of reasons, leftist CSJ movements are currently attracting dark personality types. There are still many political activists who get involved for positive reasons. That’s a relief on the one hand, but a concern on the other; it suggests that the volatile world of left-wing activism is currently a murky meeting point of malignant griftivists and socially conscious bleeding hearts being manipulated into rewarding them. It’s a worrying trend that—once recognized—you begin to see everywhere.

Take, for example, my field: writing and publishing. The dirty secret behind the submissions wall is that many editors now read bios before even considering a writer’s work, and all know that the way to secure lucrative government funding is to tick as many diversity boxes on grant applications as possible. Of course, many (perhaps even the majority) of those working in publishing are motivated by good intentions and aim to nurture and platform underrepresented writers. However, it’s not a stretch to imagine that as publishers jostle to showcase the work of the marginalized, they might attract the attention of a canny griftivist.

One who twigged to these opportunities earlier than most was Norma Bagain Toliopoulos (otherwise known as Norma Khouri), who made a literary killing in the early 2000s with her “memoir” Forbidden Love. The book hinged on the false narrative of its author growing up in Jordan before fleeing on witnessing her best friend’s “honor killing.” Norma referred to herself as a “humanitarian” and claimed she wrote the memoir to give voice to the plight of oppressed Arab women, yet was not only found to have duped her worldwide readership, but was investigated by the FBI for having swindled lovers, friends, family, and even elderly and infirm strangers out of at least one million US dollars. Her ruse was uncovered after her publisher, Random House, received a twelve-page dossier from the Jordanian Women’s Commission outlining seventy-three factual errors and discrepancies they had noticed in the book. An eighteen-month investigation revealed that, far from being a Jordanian who fled her home, Khouri was an American passport holder who had lived in Chicago from the age of three. Rana Husseini, a Jordanian writer and human-rights activist who spent years actually exposing and working to eradicate her country’s honor killings, told journalists that by profiting off false narratives about Middle-Eastern women’s deaths and appropriating the work of activists, Khouri—like the opportunistic Dark Triad individuals Krispenz and Bertrams warn of—had effectively “ruined our cause.”

A no less scandalous case is that of Egyptian-Australian activist Eman Sharobeem, who grifted on a fake narrative of being forced to marry her first cousin as a child bride before escaping to Australia. She was a finalist in the 2015 Australian of the Year Awards and founded two publicly funded not-for-profit community organizations to assist immigrant women before being found guilty of fraud in 2017 for misappropriating upwards of $800,000 in public funds for personal use. Like Khouri, Sharobeem styled herself as a women’s rights activist while stealing from the marginalized communities she claimed to support. She wasn’t investigated until a group of determined migrant women working for one of her organizations repeatedly filed complaints about her financial misappropriation and bullying of staff. Only then was it discovered the prominent activist’s entire backstory was fabricated, including her claim to have two PhDs. When asked how such fragrant lies could pass unchecked, the Immigrant Women's Health Service board chairman Audrey Lai testified, “We trusted Eman. We thought she had such a good reputation and high profile in the community, we didn't check. It's not very wise in hindsight but unfortunately we were very gullible because we believed in her.”

* * *

Establishing belief in an oppressed identity, a common enemy, or a worthy cause, is central to the griftivists’ game. And it’s disturbingly easy because few of the precariously privileged who have the power to call out their lies are prepared to risk questioning the veracity of a social justice activist’s claims; their reputations and often livelihoods depend upon asserting the emperor is indeed clothed.

Instead, the dirty business of calling out the truth is often left to the people who can afford it least but who it affects the most: people from the marginalized communities that the griftivists leech off.

Take, for example, the case of Rachel Dolezal, a white woman whose career, memoir, and Netflix documentary were based on her identification as a black American. While some white commentators were quick to reach for explanations such as mental instability and childhood trauma to explain Dolezal’s bizarre behavior, many black critics accused her of exploiting the history of black suffering in order to opt into victimhood and co-opt lucrative leadership positions in the black community. One of the most intriguing aspects of Dolezal’s case is that she continues to uphold her black identity despite admitting to being biologically Caucasian, claiming that race is just a “social construct”—another example of how the postmodern elasticization of “truth” is artfully manipulated by griftivists.

Another sphere where griftivists opting into an oppressed identity to secure advantage has succeeded is in the gender versus sex debate, with some biological men exploiting society’s support for transgender people to enter previously sex-segregated spaces, often with disastrous results. After violent criminal Stephen Wood (who adopted the name Karen White) expediently claimed to be trans while awaiting trial for multiple sexual crimes and then reoffended while housed in a women’s prison, there was outrage from both the gender critical and trans communities. Many feminists claimed such outcomes were the inevitable result of the recent legal and social sanctioning of gender self-identification and used the case to demonstrate the incompatibility of all trans women in all women’s spaces. However, trans activists, such as Steph Richards, denied that Wood was transgender at all and argued that by claiming to be so with nefarious intent, he had created a public and media backlash that harmed the trans rights movement. Indeed, in 2023, the British Ministry of Justice tightened its rules in an effort to curtail people of bad faith exploiting policies designed to keep inmates of all genders safe. As Richards pointed out, “Wood was very aware that the Prison Service procedures at that time (they have subsequently changed) meant that he could self-identify as a trans woman and easily get transferred to the female estate. This offered Wood two significant advantages... Firstly he himself would be in a safer environment... Secondly, he would be close to vulnerable cisgendered females and trans women—potentially more victims.” Yet another case where a malevolent griftivist exploited the empathy and damaged the reputation of the social justice movement that harboured him.

Griftivists and their cons come in many shapes and sizes—from hate crime hoaxes, to identity appropriation, to outrageously priced diversity dinners—but what they share is a canny eye for the opportunities created by Critical Social Justice ideology and a willingness to trade on progressive guilt in order to advance their own ends, often while destroying their competitors with allegations of bigotry. It’s beyond dispiriting.

In his essay ‘The Curse of the Man Who Could See the Little Fish at the Bottom of the Ocean,” sinologist Pierre Ryckmans pondered belief, truth and lies after the ruthlessness of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) was confirmed in the wake of the Tiananmen Square massacre. For twenty years prior to the massacre, Ryckmans (who wrote for security reasons under the pen name Simon Leys) was a rare dissenting voice in the West. His warnings about the Chinese regime were drowned out by leftist media, academics, and film stars who were convinced that the Maoist Revolution was a net good. When asked how the world could have failed to recognize the reality of the CCP for so long, Ryckmans chose to ponder a much more profound question: “How and why do we usually endeavor to protect ourselves against the truth?” For, as he noted, the truth can be disturbing, inconvenient, and dangerous to acknowledge. Perhaps this explains why, in a culture captured by Critical Social Justice, we’re committed to not seeing certain obvious but unpopular “truths,” or to bending the truth so far out of shape with clever theories that it essentially becomes meaningless.

With a nuance atypical by today’s standards, Ryckmans’ article outlines the varied reasons people might choose to believe lies, even in the face of evidence to the contrary: “What people believe is essentially what they wish to believe. They cultivate illusions out of idealism—and also out of cynicism. They follow their own visions because doing so satisfies their religious cravings, and also because it is expedient. They seek beliefs that can exalt their souls, and that can fill their bellies. They believe out of generosity, and also because it serves their interests. They believe because they are stupid, and also because they are clever. Simply, they believe in order to survive. And because they need to survive, sometimes they could gladly kill whoever has the insensitivity, cruelty, and inhumanity to deny them their life-supporting lies.”

The lies peddled by CSJ activism and exploited by griftivists are not ones we are supposed to question, and yet, everyone does—in their minds, in their hearts, and in private rooms and messages, away from the censorious and punitive eyes and ears of ideologues.

We question privately because to do so publicly risks joining the ranks of the cancelled, becoming one of the shunned. Calling out griftivists can extract a heavy personal and professional price.

One of the more tragic examples in recent years is that of Canadian school principal Richard Bilkszto who took his own life after being publicly shamed for questioning Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion trainer Kike Ojo-Thompson during a Zoom presentation in which she claimed that Canada was a bastion of “white supremacy and colonialism.” The Toronto District School Board has finally announced an investigation into Bilkszto’s tragic case, but not before two years of bullying, disbelief, and social media pile-ons fatally took their toll. While his family must continue without him, Bilkszto’s peers who smeared him as racist for merely questioning Ojo-Thompson’s “truth” have prevailed.

Human rights activist Ginetta Sagan wrote that “silence in the face of injustice is complicity with the oppressor.” The questions we might ask in cases like Bilkszto’s are: where was the injustice and who was the oppressor? Or perhaps it’s time to drop the often-weaponized framework of oppressor and oppressed entirely for something that has the potential to unite us.

I imagine only a handful who took part in my cancellation did so out of self-interest or spite. Most believed the “truth” my detractors spun, and those who didn’t played along or stayed silent for fear of joining the ranks of the cancelled. Their fears were well-founded; the power of the scarlet letter is frighteningly real. To disarm the griftivists and limit the harm they cause their victims and the justice movements they claim to champion, more of us must fight for what Verity La tried to: truth and the bravery to face it. By doing so, and by speaking up, we can strip the Wolf of Grandma’s clothing and unveil bad-faith players.

#Michele Seminara #griftivism #grifting #social justice activism #critical social justice #machiavellianism #Richard Bilkszto #diversity equity and inclusion #diversity training #equity #inclusion #diversity #hate crime hoax #religion is a mental illness

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onboardsorasora · 2 months

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https://www.tumblr.com/onboardsorasora/746938786304425984/those-bowling-vidspics-reminded-me-that-sugar

This was so good!!!

What if Daniel takes them dirt biking in Perth because that’s what he likes and the team is just like “we might not always have both feet on the ground but we do like to have 4 wheels”

For the first time, Daniel’s the one pulling out the crazy moves while everyone else is taking it easy

sorry this took so long Bestie, I loved this idea and wanted to give it its own chapter feel

Bowling |Australia | Helmet | Other prompts

Daniel grinned at the dubious faces around him. For once feeling like he knew what was going on. After the surfing excursion in Melbourne, he’d suggested offhandedly that they go to his family’s ranch in Perth to go off roading. Lewis had been down immediately and Bono had been intrigued.

It hadn’t taken much to put together and he may have thrown Lewis' and Mercedes’ name around to get a quick turnaround but it was worth it when Michelle had sent the video of all the bikes and atvs being unloaded in the bush beyond his Mum’s garden.

He’s been nervous on the flight over, especially with how glum everyone was after the double dnf. But felt a sense of calm the moment they touched down in Perth. It had taken three buses (Mercedes of course) to shuttle them all to Duncraig and it for sure had garnered a small smattering of attention from their neighbours, but the section of the ranch they were at was secluded and away from everyone.

Everyone had taken the travel day to settle into Daniel’s unused farmhouse on the edge of the property. It was a tight fit but fun in the way a family vacation felt. Grace, Joe and his Nonna had been excited to cook for everyone and they chatted away with Lewis, Toto, George and Bono while Daniel wandered off to look at the vehicles.

He’d wheeled his own bike out of the shed, which caught a few of the mechanics’ attention and that's how he’d inadvertently started a group tuning session. Working on something other than an f1 car while shooting the shit had seemed to be exactly what the doctor ordered. And the family meal afterwards was the cherry on top.

That was yesterday, today he grinned gleefully as everyone took in the ‘course’. He was proud of his little masterpiece, building the jumps himself with a few of his buddies over the course of three years. Before he headed to Europe and met up with Charles and subsequently Lewis.

“Lewis, George you are not allowed to do the hard course. Stick to the road course please.” Toto piped up, eyeing one of the larger jumps in the distance. This caused a round of snorting laughter.

“So! How about a track ride?” Daniel grinned and Lewis hopped on his chosen bike eagerly. Some of the mechs were definitely more hesitant, choosing the atvs– preferring four wheels to the death trap of two.

“Uncle Daniel!” A small voice yelled, Isabella ran out of the house holding a helmet that was almost as long as she was tall. “Nonna says to wear your helmet!”

“Ah, thanks Bells.” Daniel lifted her onto his hip. “Do you want to do the track ride with us?” He dipped his head and she put his goggles over his curls.

“Can we do the ET jump?” She asked and Daniel cackled an ‘of course’.

“ET jump?” George asked, putting on his own helmet. He chose a bike.

“The big one,” Daniel settled his niece on the seat of his bike and pointed to the jump in the distance everyone seemed hesitant about. “When you jump it, Isaac says it looks like the movie when he’s flying off.”

Lewis laughed and started his bike, he’d only looked at Daniel’s thighs in his shorts a normal amount. But they needed to hurry up before that changed with how amazing they looked clutching the bit of machinery.

“You’re really gonna jump it with her?” Someone piped up from the back.

“Oh, Bells has done this course loads of times. Right Bells?” Daniel looked down and she grinned up at him with a nod. He helped to fasten his helmet on her head and swung his leg over the back of the bike. “Ready?” He asked the team with a manic grin.

He saw the moment a few of the mechanics realized that he may just be as wild as Lewis was, just for different sports. There was a new appreciation and respect in their eyes.

“Lets gooooo!” Isabella giggled when Daniel revved his back and took off in a wheelie. She giggled the whole way point in different directions. Daniel looked through his mirrors to see the line of off road vehicles behind him and whooped a cheer. He heard Lewis’ laugh beside him before he sped off for the first jump. Lewis landed cleanly on the other side followed by Toto and George. Daniel waited til everyone went (Bella yelling her notes for more speed) before taking the first jump and throwing a small kick for flair.

They did the first run that way, with some people gaining more and more confidence as the lap went on. The big jump was where a lot of people chickened out much to Daniel’s glee. They were all for jumping out of planes and doing all sorts of dangerous shit, but a pile of dirt was where they drew the line.

“I thought about making a pussy path around it but Chelle wouldn’t let me.”

“Uncle Daniel!” Isabella gasped.

“We’ll do a trick if you don’t tell your Nonna!” Daniel bargained quickly, causing snickers.

“The flip one.”

“You drive a hard bargain miss Bells.” Daniel held his pinky out for her to hook hers to. She did so with a smile. “I guess we’ll show off a little for our friends.” Daniel teased, looping his bike further back for space and speed.

Lewis watched him with a grin, loving how confident and comfortable Daniel was on the back of his bike doing crazy tricks in the dirt. He landed the front flip easily on the other side, using one hand to clutch his niece’s body easily while they inverted. Isabella kept her hands clutched on the handlebars. The movement was smooth as if they really did this often.

Lewis watched Daniel enjoy the team’s cheers with a honking laugh and endeavored to do more things with him that made him light up this way.

#dewis #lewis/daniel #sugar baby daniel

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searidings · 1 year

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reading wrap up 2022 GO

ok so my goal this year was to read 100 books and then i went ahead and read 109. and if i read the locked tomb series three times through that's no one's business but mine <3

italics are queer, bold are amazing, bold italics are queer and amazing

jan:

middlesex - jeffrey eugenides

the mountains sing - nguyên phan qué mai

the vegetarian - han kang

the galaxy and the ground within - becky chambers

to be taught, if fortunate - becky chambers

when we were orphans - kazuo ishiguro

americanah - chimamanda ngozi adichie

h of h playbook - anne carson

klara and the sun - kazuo ishiguro

the space between worlds - micaiah johnson

feb:

normal people - sally rooney

circe - madeline miller

blood of elves - andrzej sapkowski

gideon the ninth - tamsyn muir

time of contempt - andrzej sapkowski

baptism of fire - andrzej sapkowski

march:

the tower of the swallow - andrzej sapkowski

lady of the lake - andrzej sapkowski

harrow the ninth - tamsyn muir

the last wish - andrzej sapkowski

we should all be feminists - chimamanda ngozi adichie

a memory called empire - arkady martine

burnt sugar - avni doshi

a psalm for the wild built - becky chambers

april:

the alchemist - paul coelho

sword of destiny - andrzej sapkowski

oranges are not the only fruit - jeanette winterson

the colour purple - alice walker

the midnight library - matt haig

where the crawdads sing - delia owens

10 minutes 38 seconds in this strange world - elif shafak

the discomfort of evening - marieke lucas rijneveld

crying in h mart - michelle zauner

my year of rest and relaxation - ottessa moshfegh

the shadow king - maaza mengiste

the virgin suicides - jeffrey eugenides

sapiens - yuval noah harari

the manningtree witches - a. k. blakemore

may:

parable of the sower - octavia butler

hot milk - deborah levy

an unkindness of ghosts - rivers solomon

the water dancer - ta-nehisi coates

pure colour - sheila heti

this is how you lose the time war - amal el-mohtar & max gladstone

five little indians - michelle good

june:

indian horse - richard wagamese

ducks, newburyport - lucy ellmann

the vanishing half - brit bennett

medicine walk - richard wagamese

crier's war - nina varela

a quality of light - richard wagamese

after the quake - haruki murakami

death in her hands - ottessa moshfegh

the school for good mothers - jessamine chan

bluets - maggie nelson

of women and salt - gabriela garcia

lapvona - ottessa moshfegh

mcglue - ottessa moshfegh

songbirds - christy lefteri

july:

to paradise - hanya yanagihara

sankofa - chibundu onuzo

the argonauts - maggie nelson

jane: a murder - maggie nelson

eileen - ottessa moshfegh

iron widow - xiran jay zhao

homesick for another world - ottessa moshfegh

a desolation called peace - arkady martine

the art of cruelty: a reckoning - maggie nelson

the witch's heart - genevieve gornichec

dune - frank herbert

aug:

never let me go - kazuo ishiguro

the island of missing trees - elif shafak

the marriage plot - jeffrey eugenides

almond - won-pyung sohn

all over creation - ruth ozeki

the water cure - sophie mackintosh

drive your plow over the bones of the dead - olga tokarczuk

sep:

the remains of the day - kazuo ishiguro

the blind assassin - margaret atwood

go set a watchman - harper lee

a pale view of hills - kazuo ishiguro

seven fallen feathers - tanya talaga

an artist of the floating world - kazuo ishiguro

the atlas six - olivie blake

the inconvenient indian - thomas king

a tale for the time being - ruth ozeki

ru - kim thuy

split tooth - tanya tagaq

wintering - katherine may

nomad century - gaia vince

dune messiah - frank herbert

the unbearable lightness of being - milan kundera

oct:

nona the ninth - tamsyn muir

indians on vacation - thomas king

severance - ling ma

nocturnes - kazuo ishiguro

nona the ninth - tamsyn muir

a prayer for the crown-shy - becky chambers

nov:

gideon the ninth - tamsyn muir

harrow the ninth - tamsyn muir

nona the ninth - tamsyn muir

embers - richard wagamese

dec:

starlight - richard wagamese

the buried giant - kazuo ishiguro

autobiography of red - anne carson

notes on grief - chimamanda ngozi adichie

cloud cuckoo land - anthony doerr

on fire: the burning case for a green new deal - naomi klein

sufferance - thomas king

#thanks for asking bro!!#read some bangers this year that's for sure #read some stinkers too but hey #gotta cast your net wide right #hope you had a great reading year too!!#yes tamsyn muir owned my entire ass this year and what about it #if anyone has great recs that align with the greats i've read this year i am all ears!!!#happy holidays my bro #book recs

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hannahssimblr · 4 months

Text

Chapter Seven

I adjust the cat ears on my head for the fourth time, despite only being there for ten minutes. They’re a bit slap-dash, the construction isn’t great, because I made them by following a YouTube tutorial on my laptop the night before the party with bleary eyes and a bit of a tension headache. Izzy let me borrow her glue gun so that I could attach triangles of white foam to black and curl the ears around an old plastic hair band I had that I had lying under my bed, but I’ve been finding myself pulling glue strings off it constantly.

“You look nice.” She assures me now, dressed as a pirate. “Very cute.”

I feel too cute for Halloween. Everyone else is dressed either scary or funny, while all I’ve done is paint whiskers on my face, the result being that I’m neither, I’m just lazy. The tight pleather skirt and corset that I never gave back to Marnie after I borrowed it two years ago makes me feel naked and self conscious, too uncovered, too done up, like a little girl play-acting like an adult. Nobody else is even wearing high heels, not even Claire, who’s in a witch costume from Dealz, and I feel ridiculous in mine. It’s only Shane’s house anyway, Shane’s friends, who I don’t know, and are certainly not bothered about the fact that I can balance in five inch heeled boots that come all the way up to my thighs and have me paranoid that my mother will somehow appear and ask me to change.

Shane is dressed as Darth Vader, helmet under his arm, because when he’s wearing it he’s not able to eat or drink anything. Someone already got a video of themselves trying to shove Doritos through the tiny mouth slits to no avail, and now there’s crumbs all over the floor that nobody will take responsibility for. Every time he walks into a room, be it the kitchen or the living room, somebody chants “Shane-oooooo” and then all the boys make these weird animalistic sounds with the grace and decorum of gorillas at the zoo. He just grins like he’s used to it.

“Eviiiiiieeee.” He musses up my hair as he saunters by, as if to subtly remind me that while I might have made an attempt to be sexy tonight, I’m still perpetually twelve in his eyes. He’s also been drinking, and Shane, on account of the rules of the football team, is not allowed to drink. We’ve all been warned that if his coach finds out he’ll be in trouble, hence why nobody is allowed to take a picture of him with a beer in his hand. I’ve seen the scene play out about three times already. The flash of a digital camera and then him, waving his hand around. “Nah, man, delete, delete.”

I think it’s been three years since I’ve seen him this way, and while he’s the merry kind of drunk, I can’t help but wonder if all of this has anything to do with the argument I accidentally overheard between him and Claire earlier this evening. I haven’t asked her about it, as she will deny it, but as I watch her from across the room, her body seems wound tight, tension emanating from her like an aura. Even as she’s laughing with the guy in a cow costume, I can tell her heart isn’t in it. I know her fake laugh from her real one, when she really wants to be somewhere and when she’d rather be at home snuggled in blankets and watching Say Yes to the Dress.

I wander into the kitchen and take a moderately warm beer out of a box. The fridge is full up with lunchboxes of chicken and rice meals and eight litres of milk, a carton for each of the four guys who lives here and refuses to split one with anybody else. I go into the living room but vacate soon after I come in, as some lad with a big square UCD head has cleared the room by trying to show everyone how he can rap the song from the end credits of Men in Black without looking up the words.

Michelle and Simon are just arriving, and are unloading a shopping bag full of mixers onto the cluttered counter when I return. They wave me over when I wander in. “Are you drinking Galahad?” Simon says in a voice caught between outrage and disgust. I stare down at my hand. I suppose I am.

“It’s all that was going for free.” I admit. “I didn’t bring any of my own drink.” I’m too cheap. And trying not to drink, clearly unsuccessfully.

“You like that shit?”

“Um.” I crack it open for an experimental sip. “Not really, no. It’s not the best.”

“Oh, have some of ours then” Michelle says brightly. She lightly grabs my forearm and pulls me closer to them, out of the path of another man in another obstructing helmet who cannot see where he is going. I realise, as she’s rummaging in her giant handbag that there’s actually something quite disarming and pleasant about her. I never thought she seemed particularly friendly before, there’s something tough and no-nonsense about her, but now for the very first time she seems rather sweet.

She yanks out a bottle of El Jimador Tequila and my palms prickle at the sight of it. I didn’t really intend on diving right into spirits tonight, but something about the way that droplets of condensation are clinging to the outside of the cold glass bottle while the can of Galahad warms even further in my hand makes my mouth feel twice as dry.

“You alright with tequila?” She asks, reaching around for a few plastic cups stacked on the counter.

I shrug. “I’ve no issue with tequila.”

“Grand.” Michelle unscrews it and starts pouring glugs into a cup. “I know someone who vomits at just the smell of it, which is why I asked.”

“Great image to have while you’re serving it up to me.” I comment, and she laughs. “Sorry, yeah, I just can’t really think about tequila without thinking about that.” I help her by reaching for a nearby bottle of orange juice. It’s what Marnie and I would always mix it with when there was nothing more sophisticated to be found. As I pour it into the cup, Simon gets distracted by someone nearby and strikes up his own conversation, and I take advantage of my moment alone with Michelle.

“Hey, sorry if it’s awkward, but I was talking to Jude the other day…”

She nods, still looking at the cup.

“…and he was wondering if he could have your new number. He said you’ve changed phones or something? He didn’t say why or anything, I just told him I’d get it for you.”

Her eyes flit to mine. “Oh yeah, no worries. You have your phone handy?”

“Uh, yep.” I wrestle it out of the tight waistband of my skirt, embarrassed by the imprint on my skin on the screen. She taps in her details, then I offer his number to her, and transfer the details from one phone to the other. The middle man, just here to facilitate whatever weirdness this is without any insight into why.

“He didn’t say anything to you about Jen, did he?” She asks, a tinge of vulnerability behind her words, and I blink. “Um, no, he didn’t. Not really.”

“Alright cool.”

“Should he have?”

“Ah, no, it’s nothing, like, I was just wondering. She hasn’t replied to my messages in a few days. I thought maybe he might have heard from her.”

“Isn’t she coming tonight?”

“I doubt it. She was invited, but she didn’t respond to the invitation, as far as I know.”

“Oh. Well, Jude didn’t mention that he heard from her, but I have a feeling he hasn’t. I didn’t think they were talking at all.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not not talking. She’s just a bit off the grid at the moment. He said something to Pamela once that pissed her off, but honestly, I can’t really keep up with everything that’s been said or not said…” She fiddles with the torn collar of her zombie school girl costume. “I just hoped that since she’s not replying to me she might have replied to him.”

“Well you can ask him yourself now.” I say with a smile that I hope says please don’t involve me, which prompts her to smile back. A wide, even smile that calls to mind a photo I saw in the depths of her facebook profile before where she was wearing braces. I wonder if Jude’s dad was her orthodontist. They’ve made her look very pretty, but even with crooked teeth I think she’d still be. As if somebody like Jude Turner would have ever settled for anything less than the prettiest girl at his school. As if he’d ever have to.

She looks down at her phone, staring at his number in her contacts. “Yeah I’ll text him tomorrow, or he’ll text me, I suppose. Whichever. It’s honestly a bit weird to see his number in my phone again, but…” her eyes flick to mine. “What’s the story with you two anyway? Jen said you liked each other, or you’re together or something?”

I bark out a laugh, surprised. “No, well, I fancied him once, and he didn’t like me back. That’s all, nothing really happened.”

She frowns. “Oh right? Because I-”

“Well, okay, that’s a lie. We kissed once.” I blurt out. “Twice, actually, but it was like, I heard he kisses all of his female friends so it’s a bit classic, you know? I know it didn’t mean anything.” I bury my nose into my cup and take anxious sips from it. I probably shouldn’t have said that. She probably doesn’t need to know it, but her face softens into a smile. “Right. I know how he is. He can get a bit swept away.”

“Right, because you were together… how long?” I say, even though I already know the answer. I’ll have to do this dance, regardless of how stupid and awkward it makes me feel so that I won’t have to admit that I scoured her Facebook page with the kind of intensiveness that could only be rivalled by a full time private investigator.

“Eleven months. We broke up when he got into that Berlin school, he just didn’t want to do long distance with me, so,” She shrugs, pouring herself a drink. “It didn’t feel great but I got it. I get it. You either have the personality for it or you don’t. Maybe I could have done it, but he couldn’t.” She exhales a laugh. “He definitely couldn’t. He needs too much contact with people. I think he’s a bit ‘out of sight, out of mind’.”

“Still, mustn’t have been easy.”

“No. I liked him a lot. It just felt really hard to understand why we broke up at the time, like there was nothing wrong with our relationship and it felt like he was just chucking it out and that pissed me off for ages.”

“I get it, like if he was your first-”

“Oh, no.” She interrupts. “We weren’t each other’s first anything. He was just my friend who became my boyfriend and then all we ended up doing was making things weird for Jen when we split up. The whole thing was a stupid idea, honestly. I was just young and I was…” She trails off in search of the right word. “Enticed by him.”

“He’s enticing.” I agree, and she nods. “He is. He’s always had that specific american brand of charisma, we all used to make fun of his accent and stuff when we were younger, I mean, to the point that he tried to disguise it, but actually it was one of the things that made him interesting. You know?”

“I do.”

“And if it means anything to you at this point, I mean, I don’t know how much you even care, Jen told me that he fancied you once.”

“Hm?”

“Ages ago.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Like, years probably. I forced it out of her when we were hanging out, I dunno why, like, I suppose I was feeling self destructive or something, I asked her if she knew about any other girls and she’s so bad at keeping things in, I knew she’d eventually just tell me, and she said that he liked this girl he met on the beach.”

“Oh.” I say with deliberate neutrality, “Well, it was so long ago, I suppose it hardly matters now.”

“Bit late, yeah?” She says with a laugh. “But I think it’s nice to know those kinds of things. It’s good for the ego. I was mad jealous, by the way.”

“You were?”

“Yes of course! I looked up your Facebook page and everything.”

“Oh God” I shield my face. “The state of my Facebook page back then. I bet that made you feel better about yourself.”

“No! I was raging, you were so pretty.” I roll my eyes but she insists. “There was this one picture I remember fuming over, where you were standing by the edge of a swimming pool, and I just thought ‘for God sake, her legs.’”

I stare down at my legs now, poking out of the bottom of this pleather skirt, and they look perfectly average to me. Paler than average, maybe, but that’s about the extent of their uniqueness. “My legs?”

“Yeah obviously. They’re perfect. I almost cried looking at you, like, knowing that he’d never want me again when he’d already wanted someone like you. Then we ran into you that time at that horrible cocktail bar and I had to pretend not to recognise you, I was so scared that you’d somehow figure out what I’d been doing.”

“God, Michelle, that’s so crazy. I did the same thing as you. When I found out who you were I stalked your Facebook for hours.”

“You didn’t!”

“I swear to God.”

“What did you think?”

I tell her, and we laugh about how silly we were, and how much cleverer we are now, and all the things that used to fill our heads and ruin our days, and it’s the most strangely healing thing to know that I wasn’t the only crazy girl, and even she, the sharp, intimidating person I pictured, was unravelling on the inside just like me.

When I finish my drink she pours me another, and I find myself warming to her utterly. She’s funny, she’s honest, she’s charming, which only makes me feel worse about the horrible, envious thoughts I had about her years ago. Eventually Simon rejoins our conversation, so we pivot to other things, like art and film. The party swirls around us and the music gets louder, and eventually, by the time Macklemore’s Thrift Shop is on its fourth rotation and my cup has been filled and emptied twice more I excuse myself and head out to the front steps for some fresh air.

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#lucky girl part 3 #tw: alcohol

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