you're grabbing lunch with a nice man and he gives you that strange grimace-smile that's popular right now; an almost sardonic "twist" of his mouth while he looks literally down on you. it looks like he practiced the move as he leans back, arms folded. he just finished reciting the details of NFTs to you and explaining Oppenheimer even though he only watched a youtube about it and hasn't actually seen it. you are at the bottom of your wine glass.
you ask the man across from you if he has siblings, desperately looking for a topic. literally anything else.
he says i don't like small talk. and then he smiles again, watching you.
a few years ago, you probably would have said you're above celebrity gossip, but honestly, you've been kind of enjoying the dumb shit of it these days. with the rest of the earth burning, there's something familiar and banal about dragging ariana grande through the mud. you think about jeanette mccurdy, who has often times gently warned the world she's not as nice as she appears. you liked i'm glad my mom died but it made you cry a lot.
he doesn't like small talk, figure out something to say.
you want to talk about responsibility, and how ariana grande is only like 6 days older than you are - which means she just turned 30 and still dresses and acts like a 13 year old, but like sexy. there's something in there about the whole thing - about insecurity, and never growing up, and being sexualized from a young age.
people have been saying that gay people are groomers. like, that's something that's come back into the public. you have even said yourself that it's just ... easier to date men sometimes. you would identify as whatever the opposite of "heteroflexible" is, but here you are again, across from a man. you like every woman, and 3 people on tv. and not this guy. but you're trying. your mother is worried about you. she thinks it's not okay you're single. and honestly this guy was better before you met, back when you were just texting.
wait, shit. are you doing the same thing as ariana grande? are you looking for male validation in order to appease some internalized promise of heteronormativity? do you conform to the idea that your happiness must result in heterosexuality? do you believe that you can resolve your internal loneliness by being accepted into the patriarchy? is there a reason dating men is easier? why are you so scared of fucking it up with women? why don't you reach out to more of them? you have a good sense of humor and a big ol' brain, you could have done a better job at online dating.
also. jesus christ. why can't you just get a drink with somebody without your internal feminism meter pinging. although - in your favor (and judgement aside) in the case of your ariana grande deposition: you have been in enough therapy you probably wouldn't date anyone who had just broken up with their wife of many years (and who has a young child). you'd be like - maybe take some personal time before you begin this journey. like, grande has been on broadway, you'd think she would have heard of the plot of hamlet.
he leans forward and taps two fingers to the table. "i'm not, like an andrew tate guy," he's saying, "but i do think partnership is about two people knowing their place. i like order."
you knew it was going to be hard. being non-straight in any particular way is like, always hard. these days you kind of like answering the question what's your sexuality? with a shrug and a smile - it's fine - is your most common response. like they asked you how your life is going and not to reveal your identity. you like not being straight. you like kissing girls. some days you know you're into men, and sometimes you're sitting across from a man, and you're thinking about the power of compulsory heterosexuality. are you into men, or are you just into the safety that comes from being seen with them? after all, everyone knows you're failing in life unless you have a husband. it almost feels like a gradebook - people see "straight married" as being "all A's", and anything else even vaguely noncompliant as being ... like you dropped out of the school system. you cannot just ignore years of that kind of conditioning, of course you like attention from men.
"so let's talk boundaries." he orders more wine for you, gesturing with one hand like he's rousing an orchestra. sir, this is a fucking chain restaurant. "I am not gonna date someone who still has male friends. also, i don't care about your little friends, i care about me. whatever stupid girls night things - those are lower priority. if i want you there, you're there."
he wasn't like this over text, right? you wouldn't have been even in the building if he was like this. you squint at him. in another version of yourself, you'd be running. you'd just get up and go. that's what happens on the internet - people get annoyed, and they just leave. you are locked in place, almost frozen. you need to go to the bathroom and text someone to call you so you have an excuse, like it's rude to just-leave. like he already kind of owns you. rudeness implies a power paradigm, though. see, even your social anxiety allows the patriarchy to get to you.
you take a sip of the new glass of wine. maybe this will be a funny story. maybe you can write about it on your blog. maybe you can meet ariana grande and ask her if she just maybe needs to take some time to sit and think about her happiness and how she measures her own success.
is this settling down? is this all that's left in your dating pool? just accepting that someone will eventually love you, and you have to stop being picky about who "makes" you a wife?
you look down to your hand, clutching the knife.
3K notes
·
View notes
deku x reader - succession!au, uhhhhh............... deku has a thought abt parenthood. it's bad.
(warning - short, talk of pregnancy but no actual gender of reader mentioned, mild talk of stds, drugs, sleeping around.... etc.?)
-
“I want a baby,“ your boss, Deku, the near-CEO of media conglomerate AllMightco, says randomly one day, halfway through your lunch break (that he demanded you spend with him), and in the middle of your well-earned silence after a long conversation about whether Bakugo needs antidepressants.
You can only gape at his words, close but not too close to where he’s seated at one of the little armchairs he has in his office for any business casual meetings that require somewhere cozy to sit in spite of any fighting words that may be spit (and for fucking, you’re rather quite aware).
“Maybe it’d be… good for me. I love kids and, I think, I think,” he continues, stuttering like he always does when he’s nervous, excited, high, his tone questioning despite his making of it a statement. “it would give me a break from work?”
All you can do is laugh at the question, dryly, in disbelief, unsure of whether he’s being serious or just sharing some secret, wistful dream. You decide to tell him the truth either way.
“You can’t have a baby just because you want time off.”
He ignores you, though.
“I have all this money, and what for…?” he waves his shaky hands, “I could have a family. I’d change diapers and buy toys and take them to the beach.”
(Though just last week, he was fighting the board for more funds, screaming in that raspy voice he always develops after working through the night that he’d give up any and all vacation time for the foreseeable future if it meant keeping Toshinori Yagi in a position, any position, at the company for the next five years.)
You throw your laptop aside and stand up from your wilted salad and grapefruit soda that’s now sweating on the coffee table to walk around the edges of his desk. You throw a leg over one sharp corner, the exposed part of your ankle brushing his knee as you address him directly.
“And who would be having this child, Deku?“ you ask. “An ex? A surrogate? Ocha—“
He gives you those eyes, slouching down into himself, reaching out to pull your butt of his table and grip the back of your thighs to pull you in between his legs. You can feel the length of his overgrown green curls brushing your fingertips as you put your hands on his stiff shoulders to keep yourself from falling right into him.
“Me? Izuku,” you clarify, (though you always call him Deku), “me? What do you think? I’m just gonna say yes, no warning, no nothing? We’re not even dating, sweetie.”
—and just last week Kirishima offered to drive you to the clinic with him to tested, though you’re not going to bring that up now, even if you know Deku already knows you’re sleeping around. He is too.
He closes his eyes, resting the back of his head against the heavy, red leather of his office chair. The stubble on his face is more noticeable than ever; he even has a little knick under his chin from shaving, and you move to brush your thumb against it as he swallows thickly.
“I’m just tired,” he says, blinking his dark lashes into the bags under his eyes,
“I know, baby. But a child is not way to fix that” you say. The for anyone part, you just think.
Deku pouts. He sighs. Then his face relaxes and he sags, his hands falling off you to lay limp in his lap, the silence in the room stretching like salt water taffy from the pier.
149 notes
·
View notes