goeshometocactus

[goeshometocactus]

not a (televised) date

story page | talk to me

wc: 8k+

PART 7

June brought Jason back to New York, a simultaneous sigh of relief and a quickened pulse with the new proximity.

You’d done it before, Mia reminded. One city, same place. But this felt different.

Weekly sleepovers, at least a night or two he’d be at yours and you’d spend the evening ordering take out or laughing over a glass of wine about the things that happened in your days.

The warm air brought a new version of the honeymoon stage, he snuck in and out of your apartment, avoiding photographers when you’d meet him for dinner in the East Village.

You danced around the harder things: the traces left behind by the children you’d only seen in pictures, the way he’d step out into the living room to call her and make sure they went to sleep okay.

But despite the fact that the rumor mill turned and strangers were as curious as ever, neither you nor Jason made any move to publicize the relationship that had once felt like it wouldn’t even be one.

Sunday afternoon, Brooklyn, you sat across from him at a bar in his neighborhood, your back towards the door and a hat on his head to hopefully fly under the radar, a few days since you’d seen him.

“So your cousin Natalie and your other cousin—different parents—Janelle, both slept with the same guy and that’s why you all stopped having Christmas together?”

You nodded dramatically, let out a sigh. “That and my grandfather’s political views have gotten more obnoxious as he’s aged, so--felt easier for everyone to just send a Merry Christmas text and accept that we might not see some of them until there’s a funeral or a wedding.”

“And your grandfather is how old?”

“Eighty-seven,” you stifled a laugh. “So it’ll probably be a funeral seeing as both Natalie and Janelle are currently single.”

“Jesus,” he made a face at you. “Give him a break, the guy might keep ’ for a while.”

“He drinks whiskey every night and smoked until he was 75, so--”

“Or not,” he tried to keep a serious face. “I take it you’re not very close with him?”

You shrugged, let your hands wrap around the cocktail in front of you. You hadn’t planned on divulging the details of your family dynamics, but something about the way his head tilted to the side when you talked pulled it out of you.

“Things kind of shifted when I broke into the industry,” you offered a vague explanation.

He nodded in understanding, a frustrated look on his face when he joked: “phone calls from relatives asking for money or tickets to shows?”

“Actually yeah,” you laughed. “I don’t know--one of my aunts wanted to put an addition on her house and got upset that my mom didn’t offer to help pay for it--whatever though, I don’t want to bore you with L/N family drama.”

“Bore me?” He smiled. “Family’s are fuckin’ weird, but, I don’t know, I could listen to you talk about yours all day.”

You blushed a little, looked down at the ice that melted in your drink and used the two black straws to stir the contents inside. He sensed your shyness, hesitancy when you looked back up and felt like you’d been talking too much.

He cleared his throat and held your gaze for a second, looked away when he admitted: “Family dynamics are a whole different ball game when you have kids with someone and then break up.”

You nodded, too nervous to say anything in response. He didn’t talk about it much, you’d gathered crumbs here and there: every other weekend, high-pitched laughter on FaceTime when he called to say goodnight, planned weeks when they’d stay at with him and you’d yet to figure out if it was something that you’d ever learn more about.

“S’just weird, you know? Obviously when you have a kid with someone you don’t think you’ll end up co-parenting via text message.”

Sarcasm when you didn’t know how to reply. “You don’t?”

He offered a small smile at your joke. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be too…deep about it.”

You shook your head, unsure how to tell him that you wanted to hear it. Maybe there were details that you didn’t need to know, but after a few months of just wanting to be around him, you realized you wanted to hear it--even if it felt awkward.

“You’re allowed to be deep about something that’s deep,” you reminded, a quick glance around the room. A bar might not have been the most private place for a conversation like that, but he let out a small laugh, a huff of air through his nose when he looked up at you.

“You’re something else,” he smiled.

“Why?”

“Because you never say or do what I expect,” he admitted.

You let your eyebrows crawl up your forehead, a challenging smirk when you shrugged. “Maybe you should stop thinking you have me figured out.”

“Maybe,” he laughed, a pause when he looked down at the almost-empty beer glass in front of him. “Maybe you should stay with me in LA when we’re both out there this fall.”

“Yeah?” a quickened pulse when his eyes met yours.

He shrugged, “if you want, I mean, I know there’s a lot going on for you.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, you’d sworn him to secrecy about the album you were putting out, now he glanced around the room to make sure he hadn’t blown your cover.

You smiled, had to bite your tongue to keep from saying yes, yes, yes. He reached his hand over, scooped yours into his before he said: “Cara just settled everything with my AirBnB, apparently there’s a hot tub and a pool.”

“I’m sold,” you giggled.

“You are?” He asked excitedly, playing it up to get a laugh from you when you shushed him in the dark bar. “You’ll come? You’ll have hot tub sex with me?”

You rolled your eyes and bit back another laugh. “Isn’t that how you get a yeast infection?”

He dropped your hand, a serious look on his face. “Well I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t have the same anatomy.”

“I’m aware,” you deadpanned.

“Right, right,” he let out a breath, a silly shrug as if to say how could I forget? “You’ve seen it.”

He convinced you to ride the subway home with him, handed over his hat and sunglasses to protect you from being recognized. He tugged you down the steps behind him and didn’t seem to mind the way you tugged his face down to yours, a kiss on the mouth when your train approached. He stood with you in the corner, a quiet car on the A Line, your hand in his when the computer voice nudged you, Next Stop: LaFayette Avenue.

“Can I say something?” He asked you suddenly, eyes searching your face when you looked up at him.

You swallowed the fear that lingered overhead, a flicker of the subway lights when the train rounded a corner.

“I like you,” he nodded, a serious expression on his face that still took getting used to, not the same guy who cracked jokes or always had a comeback. “A lot.”

You felt your lips curl up, waited a second just to mess with him. He squirmed a bit, arched brows as if he knew what you were up to.

The train screeched to a halt--you didn’t really understand it, but you could have stayed right there, forever.

“Ditto.”

You followed him up the front steps, a big house near Fort Greene beneath a cloudy sky. You’d seen a few pictures on his phone, a living room with colorful throw pillows, his kids sprawled out on the floor with toys.

The foyer was big, stairs to the second floor and the door latched shut behind you. “Here,” he opened his arms to take your jacket, you did your best to hide your curiosity.

A tiny pink and yellow rain jacket on the hooks to your left, tiny shoes on the floor, pictures on the wall of blue-eyed babies, a few frames were empty, probably the ones of her.

“I can give you a tour,” he spoke quietly, a small smile in acknowledgment of the way your eyes wandered around the room.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

He extended his arm, took your hand in his and brought you around. A dining room, a renovated kitchen, a bay window that looked out over the street. You climbed the stairs behind him, imagined their Christmas mornings, birthdays, pancakes in the kitchen and the life with his family that still felt out of reach.

A smaller bedroom, pink walls, a doll house in the corner, you’d never guess how hard it was to put that thing together.

Farther down the hall, an office, past house plants and armchairs. “This is mine,” he flipped the light switch on. A dresser in the corner, a king-sized bed and light gray walls. “Just had a lot of the place redone, you know, after she left.”

You nodded, a tiny one, offered a small smile that somehow, he could read.

“She moved out at the end of last year--I got the house.”

A thousand questions when you looked up at him, but you didn’t know if it was okay to ask. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, waited for him to kiss you before he tugged you into the bedroom. Somehow the anxiety floated away with the rest of the world, the knot in your stomach untangled when he said: stay the night.

Mia’s take was pretty blunt, “you’re falling for him.”

“No I’m not,” you said to her in the backseat of an SUV in early July, the air conditioning tried it’s hardest to take the stickiness out of the air. Mid-town was a shit show, you sat in traffic and Mia offered an I don’t believe you look.

“It’s been like, a few months--just because we’re exclusive now doesn’t mean it’s--”

She waited, an expectant look on her face when you paused.

“You can’t even say it!”

“Say what?” Your shoulders lifted to your ears.

“Love,” she made an obnoxious face, scrunched her nose and mouth all tight like it was the cutest thing in the world.

“Because I don’t know if that’s what it is,” you confessed. A reiteration, as much for yourself as it was for Mia: “just because we’re dating doesn’t mean it’s love.”

“Right--but are you doing that thing where you try to convince yourself it’s not?”

You stared out the window, steam billowed from a manhole on 7th Avenue, you shuttered at the sight of a humid summer in New York. “No.”

“Well, just as a friendly reminder, your August is about to pick up. Album’s out in less than three weeks, you’ve got promotion here and in LA throughout the entire month. Might want to clue him in on all that.”

“Oh, right,” you turned back to her, remembering the conversation you’d had only a few days earlier. Little did Mia know, you were way ahead of her. “Jason said I could stay with him in an AirBnB he has out there--he’s out there for work at some point too, he leaves soon, I think.”

You picked up your phone to confirm the date with him, sent off a text before you looked back up to see Mia smiling.

“What?”

“You’re gonna stay with him?”

“Yeah,” you shrugged. “Should I not?”

“No, I totally support that if you’re into it.”

“That’s a non-answer,” you laughed a little.

“Am I not the one who has been supporting this the entire time?”

“You are,” a sigh, turning back to the window.

You couldn’t admit it to Mia, but the thought had crossed your mind: what’s the difference between love and infatuation? Was there such a thing as love between two people with an age gap wider than the Hudson?

But every time those thoughts cropped up you pushed them out, stay in the moment, don’t freak out. It wasn’t worth obsessing over what his kids might think of you if you ever met them, didn’t matter what would happen if you ever ended up in the same room as his ex.

Most days, all that mattered was the way you felt when he said your name or said he missed you.

A few nights later, your phone buzzed.

“Wanna come over?”

“To yours?”

“Yeah, to mine,” he laughed a little.

“Right now?”

“Right now,” he confirmed, you laid on your bed and stared up at the ceiling. Late already, past ten, but the sound of his voice through the phone had you feeling like you’d do anything he asked.

“It’s late,” you giggle a little, embarrassed by the butterflies that took flight at his invitation.

“I’m fully aware of the time,” he challenged. “But my bed’s a lot better when you’re in it.”

If you weren’t already pulling on shoes, now you were. You called a car and headed over, sipped the glass of wine he had waiting and followed him out to the roof deck.

Blinking lights that blurred together in the dark, sounds from the streets below floated up to the outdoor space off his bedroom when he asked: “New York feels so small sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“This summer especially.”

“What do you mean?”

You smiled over at him, brave enough with the help of your drink to admit the truth. “It feels small cause you’re the only person I’ve been hanging out with.”

“What?” He made a face that said you’re full of it. “That’s not true.”

“Yes it is,” you giggled, leaned back in the outdoor chaise lounge and tugged at the strings on the hoodie he offered you. “Mia doesn’t count.”

“I think that would hurt Mia’s feelings,” he chided, a tiny smirk on his face when he looked over to see you. “And you’ve seen Blake and Ryan, and Maddy and…Ava?”

“Ada,” you corrected, watching as you swirled the wine around in your glass. “Which is true, but I’ve only seen them all, like, twice now. Apparently I’m one of those girls who only hangs out with her boyfriend.”

He sipped his own glass and looked out over the streets below, eyed you quickly before he tugged his gaze away.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he smiled.

“What?” You pushed again, lips curled into a smile when he finally brought his eyes back to yours.

“It’s stupid…”

You lifted your brows, waited for him to say more when he let out a sigh like he was about to crack.

“You saying the word ‘boyfriend’ referring to me makes me…like…I feel tingly, or something.”

“Down there?” You wiggled your brows, borrowing his sexual humor when he let out a chuckle.

“No, like—” he motioned all around his torso: his chest, his stomach, his shoulders. “All over, I guess.”

You could tell he felt embarrassed to admit it, nodded a little before he chanced a look up in your direction.

“Good to know my power over you,” you smirked.

He blew a breath out between his lips, leaned back and finished off his glass. “Yeah—pretty frightening.”

“Fightening?!” You laughed.

“In a good way,” he backtracked, a beat before he admitted: “I haven’t been hanging out with anyone either. Weirdest part is that you’re kind of the only one I want to hang out with.”

You felt the warmth spread throughout, felt your cheeks blush and your heart beat pick up when a plane descended in the distance for JFK.

“Wow.”

He chuckled, thrown off by your short reply. “Wow?”

A shrug. “Just never expected…all of this, I guess.”

“Thought I was just gonna be a one night stand? An incredibly sexy hook up that had the allure of being an older man?”

You offered a challenging stare, aware of the implication of his words. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Oh really?”

“Really,” you laughed, trying your best to stay serious.

He stood up, moved over to sit on the edge of your lounger. He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your lips when you giggled against him.

“Let’s go,” he stood again, reaching out a hand for yours.

“Why?”

“Cause I can’t have sex with you out here.”

So sure, being back in New York brought a new excitement, and most days it felt like it was just the two of you in all of the city. You floated above Manhattan, not sure if it was cloud nine or if dating him had you living in a bubble, but either way you feared the fall back down to earth.

Summer soon peaked and after brunch dates in Greenwich Village, he had to head to the West Coast for the premiere.

You watched the new episodes with Mia, wine and giggles in your apartment when she rolled her eyes, who’d have thought. Promotion for your album in August before you boarded a plane and then dropped bags in the hallway of a house in Encino.

The California breeze was a welcomed break from the smog of the city, green smoothies and lazy mornings in sun-soaked rooms before you had a busy week for the release.

A party put on by your label and talk-show appearances during the day, each night you got to find him in the kitchen or the living room, it almost felt like playing house. What do you want for dinner, what’s your day look like tomorrow?

Now, five months in, you sat on the couch in Ellen’s studio, ignored the bright lights and hoped for the best.

“I’ve known you for a while now, Y/N,” Ellen said, an unplanned tangent she hadn’t briefed you on before the taping. “But I never knew we had mutual friends.”

“I…didn’t either,” you laughed in uncertainty, the audience echoed.

A picture flashed on the screen behind you, a photo of you and Jason walking by the East River and the camera zoomed in when you felt heat rise to your cheeks.

“Jason and I go way back,” she smiled, the look in her eyes told you she knew just how much she was throwing you off. “I didn’t know you two were also friends.”

“Right,” you nodded. “Yeah--he’s great, he’s uh--we met in London.”

The picture disappeared, thank god, not a flattering one. “Of course, yeah, what were you doing over there?”

“I was working on my album, writing and recording and whatnot,” you smiled, unable to play it cool. “Which came out last week, by the way!”

“It did, and it’s phenomenal! I mean, really, you are so talented.”

“Thank you so much!”

She paused for a second and smirked, you lifted your brows.

“Are there songs about him on it?”

You let out a laugh, “Jason? No, no--he’s…a good friend. I was out in London to work on my album--”

“...And he was there working on his show,” Ellen filled in the blank, an excited look on her face as she watched you crack under pressure.

“Yes, yeah.”

A beat when she watched you, stray giggles from the crowd. “You’re smiling a lot.”

More blushing, “am I?”

“A bit,” Ellen smirked, “yeah. You seem excited.”

“No, I just--I didn’t know you have photographic evidence of your guests hanging out with your friends.”

“Well,” She shrugged, appreciative of your banter. “Based on that photo, he looks like he’s your friend, too.”

“Sure,” you nodded. “I can see why you’d think that.”

Rumblings of excitement from the audience, dark figures almost invisible beyond the studio lights.

“I’m glad you’re at the point where you can admit it.”

Another smile, “admit he’s my friend?”

“Well there’s this rule, in Hollywood--it’s like for the first three months you’re dating someone you can’t even admit you know them, right?” She paused a little to see if you’d fight her, when you didn’t, she laughed. “You get asked about them and you have to be like--oh, I don’t even know them.”

“Who is that?” You laughed in agreement, “Yeah, right, it’s total ignorance.”

She nodded. “Right, that’s phase one of a celebrity relationship.”

“It sounds like you’ve been doing research,” you teased.

“I’ve talked to a lot of people,” she laughed, motioning around the set. “So far, that’s the universal phase one, I think!”

You laughed at her joke, let your head tilt to the side to admit she was onto something. “It’s just ‘cause you don’t know where it’s going, you have to be so quiet about it.”

“Right,” she nodded. “I’m glad you’re in the phase where you can call Jason a friend, it’s got to be between three and six months, right?”

You giggled, brought your hands up to your face as if that would shield you from the cameras, she wasn’t going to get it out of you that easy. The audience cheered and you wondered what Kailyn would say once she met you backstage.

You couldn’t hide it forever, and in most ways, you didn’t want to. Ellen made it up to you with a mimosa after the show, you’d admitted the truth about your relationship before the taping and she’d joked that even her ten-year-old niece had heard the news.

A few nights later, you sat in the AirBnB kitchen and sipped a glass of wine, scrolled mindlessly on your phone and told him: “My friend invited me to the Emmys,” your thumbs typed out a reply, 🤣🤣🤣.

Her actual text: if he doesn’t ask you to be his date, you can be mine 🥰

There was no way he’d ask you to be his date, only two weeks away and it hadn’t even been mentioned. You didn’t expect it and you didn’t want it, really. You knew all too well how much of a stir it would cause to walk the red carpet or sit by him at a table draped in white.

Walking by his side down the street did enough in the headlines, you could only imagine sipping a cocktail in an evening gown with his arm on the back of your chair.

“Oh—is that the kind of thing you can go to?”

You made a funny face, a tiny laugh: “what’s that supposed to mean?”

He laughed, shrugged when he turned to see you, a spatula in hand. “I don't know the rules. Pop stars at TV awards shows? Is that allowed?”

“Yes it’s allowed,” you rolled your eyes. “I’ve never been though. She writes for a sitcom that’s nominated and has a plus one. I don’t know if you’d care if I was there--I don’t know if that would be…like, weird.”

He thought on that for a second, pushed his lips out in thought when his forehead wrinkled.

His nominations were huge, he was sure to be a hot topic of the night and the show was certain to get the praise it received. The last thing you wanted to do was overshadow that.

“Well,” he let out a breath, “just to be clear, if the internet wouldn’t explode, I’d love to bring you with me—”

“But—”

“How’d you know there’s a but?” He smirked, pretending to be surprised.

“I’ve known you for a few months now, I know your sense of humor.”

“Mmm, yeah,” he admitted. “It’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” you dismissed him, redirecting: “but it is how you deflect from serious conversations.”

He quirked a smile at that, nodded in defeat when you waited for him to spit it out.

“It’s probably too soon for us to go together and it’s probably not the best venue for an F-P-A.”

“F-P-A?”

“First public appearance.”

You nodded once he explained, tried not to roll your eyes at another attempt of his to break the tension with a joke. “Got it. Yeah, no, I agree.”

He watched you for a second, obviously trying to gauge your reaction. “Are you upset?”

“No,” you said, a half-truth. You understood, and for the most part, you did agree. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a tiny part of your brain that wished he had said: fuck the media, fuck what people think, I’d love for you to come with me. Wishful thinking at best.

But all you said was: “I get it. Do you care if I go with her?”

He came closer, leaned on the granite beside you. “Do you want to?”

You shrugged, nervous to admit the truth. “I mean, it’d be nice to be there. I know it’s a big night for you.”

The corner of his mouth twisted, flattered. “You want to go because it’s a big night for me?”

“Don’t get gross about it,” you laughed, pulling away when he snaked an arm around your waist.

“Gross? It’s gross that you like me?” He had a good hold of you, pressed a kiss to the side of your face despite the way you wriggled in his arms.

“Yeah, disgusting,” you made a face, pushed him off when he let out a laugh.

“I would not hate it if you were there,” he watched you walk towards the living room. “But so help me God if I have to get on that stage and make a speech, don’t look at me.”

You bit back a laugh. “Don’t look at you?”

“No--don’t give me those sex eyes.”

“Sex eyes?” You couldn’t help it now, a giggle escaped and he pointed at you with two fingers.

“Yes, those, those ones right there,” he almost shouted, fighting a laugh. “Those ones that also look up at me when you’re sucking my--”

“You’re an idiot,” you nodded at him. “I’m telling Evie I’m coming with her.”

“Please do,” he went back to the stove. “Maybe we can meet in the bathroom for a quickie.”

“Right, like you’ll have time for that.”

“It’s a lot of sitting around at those shows,” he eyed you over his shoulder, building his case.

“Yeah, but you’re nominated for the biggest categories,” you dismissed him. “Something tells me you’ll be busy.”

He didn’t reply, laughed a little and tended to the food on the stove.

You stared at your phone now, I’m in, you told Evie, when he turned around and said: “I actually wanted to talk to you about something, though.”

Uh oh. You looked up quickly and he let out a laugh. “It’s not a big deal.”

“What’s up?”

“I actually talked to Liv the other day and we talked about me taking the kids for a week, around my birthday.” Also two weeks away.

You nodded slowly, letting your eyes drift back down to the granite. “Here?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “She’s gonna go on a trip, I guess. Obviously wanted me to see them for my birthday, too, though.”

“Right.”

He couldn’t read you, confusion crossed his face. The scent of dinner wafted through the house that was starting to feel cozy. He’d only been there for two weeks or so before you came out, said it felt empty without you.

Was he kicking you out? First the Emmys and now this? Two blows in one night.

“I know you’re here, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable--”

“Yeah--”

“She kind of sprung it on me at the last minute, I figured I’d see them for the weekend or something, but she asked if I could take them for the week.”

“Of course.”

“I’m a dick,” he nodded quickly. “But I don’t know if I’m ready for--y’know--having those two…parts of my life, like, come together.”

You nodded, felt your mouth go dry and wished it didn’t sting so bad, a level of nonchalance when you replied. “Yeah--I can talk to Mia, I mean, I’ve got more work stuff next week.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay, though? I feel bad.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about me, I can get a place or stay with a friend--Ada has a place near Venice Beach, remember?”

“Ava?” He tried to joke, “the one from your birthday party?”

“Yeah,” you stood from the island and picked up your phone and your wine.

“Hey,” he called after you when you headed for the bedroom. You turned to see him, still masking the disappointment. “I’m sorry--it’s not that I don’t want you to meet them.”

“No, I get it, it would be a lot.”

You weren’t lying--it would be. Meet his kids and sleep in the same bed as their dad? You didn’t even know how serious this was or what type of future there was for the two of you. The summer had been fun, a nice surprise to keep things going beyond the London expiration date you once assumed would be the kiss of death.

And moments like these--ones that highlighted the disparity between you--had you questioning if there was a future at all. He looked like he didn’t believe you. You shifted on your feet.

“Does she know about me?”

His forehead wrinkled, a hand on his hip when he asked: “Olivia?”

“Yeah.”

He stammered, dropped your gaze. “Yeah--no, I mean, I told her that you were out here with me, I told her back in May about you, I think.”

“May?”

“Yeah, I mean--” he cracked a smile, “I kind of owed her an explanation for ditching our kids for your birthday party.”

You smiled a little. “How’d she take it?”

“I mean, she didn’t seem thrilled that I’m sleeping with someone 10 years younger than her,” he joked, more serious when you eyed him suspiciously. “But I’m not really worried about what she thinks.”

“Why not?”

He shook his head, let his eyes glance out the window. “She’s the one who wanted to end it.”

“Oh.”

He pushed his lips out in thought, turned back to the stove for a second. He hadn’t divulged that, you hadn’t asked. So far you only had a few puzzle pieces he’d revealed: November 2020, drifting apart, in a way he saw it coming.

“She’s moved on, so…” he trailed off.

You nodded, only half-reassured by the smile he offered when he turned to see you again.

So you planned on heading to Ada’s the morning they arrived, bags packed for the week and he kissed you at the door. “We’ll work out the details of that quickie,” he poked you in the side.

You talked to him on the phone, he sent a few pictures of bike rides and when Ada looked over your shoulder one night, she smiled. “Are you going to be a step-mom?”

“What? No,” you let out a quick laugh. “I don’t think that’s where this is going.”

“What do you mean?” She settled back into the couch and tucked her feet beneath her. The ocean waves were audible through the window, you sent him a picture of the sunset but didn’t reply when he said: miss you.

You shrugged, clicked your phone shut. “I don’t know.”

She looked at you expectantly. “Yeah?”

“I like him,” you admitted, more comfortable with saying it out loud now that you’d brushed your teeth beside him for a week. “A lot.”

“...But?”

“But we’re at really different places in our lives. He’s a dad, he practically has an ex-wife. Two, I mean, he was married before he was with Olivia! And I don’t think I’m step-mom material.”

“You’re good with kids!” She argued, albeit a bit taken back by the emotion in your voice.

“Yeah,” you made a face. “Seven year olds at meet-and-greets.”

She rolled her eyes and sipped her wine.

“They’re old, Ada. Old enough to have opinions and not like me.”

“You’re forgetting that you’re famous,” she eyed you.

“Just because they might like my songs doesn’t mean they’ll like me sleeping with their dad.”

She tried her best to keep a straight face. “Well they’re children, so I’d hope he hasn’t told them that part.”

You laughed at her joke but let out a sigh. “I don’t know. He didn’t want to bring me to the Emmys, now he’s not ready for those parts of his life to collide.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll never be ready…”

“Yeah,” you agreed, though you didn’t know if you believed her. “I don’t want to fall harder than he is though.”

She reached over and squeezed your thigh, apparently deciding she wouldn’t push you on it. She poured another glass of wine and encouraged you to take him up on the bathroom quickie when she bid you farewell the next morning--you headed to Evie’s for hair and make up.

But awards shows always felt awkward. Fancy gowns, famous faces, free alcohol. A jacked-up, preposterously expensive prom for adults, popularity contests that weren’t frowned upon.

Attending one outside of your field felt like a breath of fresh air. You weren’t performing, presenting, accepting--you weren’t doing anything but keeping a low profile and, hopefully, nursing cocktails to distract you from the fact that Jason hadn’t mentioned anything about an afterparty.

Only this time it hurt more than when Brittany Devers didn’t invite you to her co-ed, post-senior prom sleepover.

You watched as Evie took both drinks from the bartender, handed one to you and smiled at the security detail that lingered close behind. A phenomenal teleplay writer for a nominated sitcom, her first big gig in Hollywood landed you at a party together two years back when she spilled a drink on your dress and then begged you to not write a song about her.

“Thank you,” you let out a sigh, brought it close to your lips when you fell into step with her back towards the ballroom.

“The goods have been secured, let the fun commence.”

“Hopefully,” you groaned.

“Oh knock it off,” she said, weaving past other celebrities. “We’ll go to that afterparty.”

“If he invites me.”

“He’d be the worst boyfriend ever if he didn’t and you should dump him if that’s the case.”

When you didn’t reply, she changed courses, arm linked with yours when she served a heaping dose of reassurance.

“He will, he’ll invite you. Or we’ll go get drunk somewhere and you can dance on a table and all the tabloids will cover that instead of however many Emmys his dumb show wins.”

“The show’s not dumb,” you looked at her, fully aware of how full of shit she was.

“It’s so good,” she admitted quickly, like it’d been hard to lie. “They’re gonna fucking clean up.”

“Y/N, hi, we wanted to come introduce ourselves,” a timid hand on your wrist, two familiar faces when you stopped in your tracks and offered a smile. Shit.

“Hi!” You greeted, suddenly embarrassed to have been talking about him so casually in public. Hannah, Juno, his castmates, you blinked a few times and hoped they hadn’t heard anything you’d said.

“Just wanted to say hi, we’re huge fans,” Juno smiled up at you.

“So nice to meet you,” you used your free hand to give them both a hug. “Sorry I missed you on set that day I visited, feels like a long time ago now!”

“We thought something was up back then,” Hannah wiggled her brows at you suggestively. “Very glad to know it still is.”

Evie smiled at that, cuing your manners.

“Right, this is my friend Evie, Evie Lydon,” you introduced them.

“Huge congrats on your nominations,” she greeted.

“Absolutely wild,” Hannah gushed, humility evident in her excited smile.

“Can’t believe people even know my name, truthfully,” Juno admitted.

“Are you kidding? Your show’s the best thing on television,” Evie nodded confidently. “Can’t believe you guys didn’t get more nominations.”

“Too bad we have to fight for one,” Hannah smiled down at her friend.

The lights in the lobby flashed twice, a reminder to get your ass back to your table before things really got started. You hugged them both again, thanked them for coming to say hi.

Juno offered a toothy grin, “we’ll see you later, yeah? You’ll be at the afterparty?”

Ouch.

“I might,” you forced a smile, “haven’t really chatted with him about that yet.”

“Nonsense,” Hannah said. “You have to come! I’ll find you and bring you myself if I have to, it’ll be fun!”

Evie was beside herself, the afterparty for writers probably sucks, then you made your way back to your seats.

A non-discriminate table, number fourteen. Not in the back, not in the front. A perfect place for you to spend the evening, your phone face up on the table when a text came through:

Jason (9:13pm): Juno said she’s obsessed with you. Hannah said you smelled like roses. Rave reviews up here at table 3

Y/N L/N (9:14pm): Table 3? Sounds like you’ve got easy access to the stage 👀

Jason (9:16pm): 😳

Evie leaned over to peek at your screen. Your eyes glanced over to meet hers, a smirk when she let out a laugh. “What’s he saying?”

You clicked your phone shut and set it down. “Just that Hannah and Juno said I was nice,” a shrug of your shoulders.

“You are nice.”

“I know,” you laughed, waving her off. The other inhabitants of your table were distracted, a few of Evie’s co-writers were chatting with an actress from the sitcom, the table over had the director and the producers.

The table to your other side had people you knew from Saturday Night Live, a few NBC execs and familiar faces decorated the three tables between yours and Jason’s.

People were distracted enough, you lowered your voice and leaned over to Evie.

“I was nervous as shit to meet them.”

“Why?”

“Cause--I dunno--look at them all up there,” you nudged your chin towards their posse. Jason, the producers, the rest of the cast. “They’re like a little club.”

“Oh my god,” Evie brought her eyes back to you, realization in her smile. “You feel left out.”

“No I don’t,” you said quickly, leaning back in your chair and reaching for your drink.

She didn’t buy it, her wide eyes and subtle smirk let you know she saw right through your faux-calm demeanor. “Little Miss Popstar isn’t used to not being the center of attention?”

“Okay, that’s not it,” you laughed and rolled your eyes. “I just--I’m out of my element. They all make a TV show and you write on one and here I am--no one would be impressed by me pulling out a guitar and singing a little song.”

“Well, you’re Y/N L/N, so, they’d actually lose their shit--but I do get what you’re saying.”

“What am I supposed to talk to them about if we go to this afterparty? I’m not one of them and this is his night. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

You slurped your cocktail, ignoring the way she watched you.

“Have you ever thought that what makes him like you is that you aren’t an actor? Maybe he’s sick of dating people who have the same job.”

A shrug, unsure. In your vulnerable state and with all of the beautiful actresses in the room he’d probably had sex scenes with, Evie’s words landed right below your ribs and only made your stomach twist more: you didn’t know why he liked you in the first place.

Young, immature, anxious, not as funny as him, you’d never really acted besides a few guest appearances here and there. The evidence piled up, Evie got tugged away by one of her bosses and you were forced to be pleasant with an actress who’s name escaped you.

After your second drink and seven awards:

Y/N L/N (9:41pm): Are you shitting yourself?

Jason (9:45pm): My stylist would kill me, so no.

Y/N L/N (9:46pm): Honest answer?

Jason (9:47pm): May or may not be nervous sweating.

Jason (9:47pm): It’s already a good night, we already won a few.

Y/N L/N (9:47pm): True!

Jason (9:48pm): I’d rather everyone else win than me.

Y/N L/N (9:48pm): You’re going to win.

Jason (9:48pm): 😬😬

Jason (9:48pm): You’re gonna give me a big ego

Y/N L/N (9:49pm): How so?

Jason (9:49pm): Let’s see…somehow I managed to land someone incredibly hot, incredibly talented, incredibly awesome

Jason (9:50pm): it also doesn’t hurt that every other guy between the ages of 18-60 would hands down, 100% have sex with you

Y/N L/N (9:50pm): Is that your kink? Other people wanting to have sex with me?

Jason (9:50pm): 🤷🏼‍♂️

You leaned to your left, put your face close to Evie’s when you watched him from afar. Was it stupid to think he wanted you here? Was it stupid to believe what he said instead of the anxiety that gnawed at your core?

It only rose, an uneasy feeling when you watched him accept the biggest award of the night, a speech and applause that made your pulse rise as the seconds ticked.

Your heart soared for him, proud--but you felt like you didn’t have the right to be. Your phone started to flood with texts--friends congratulating him through you--but you made a break for it, wove through a back hallway until you found the bathroom and hoped for a moment of quiet.

Instead, you stared in the mirror and felt sorry for yourself.

The adult in you understood the fragile nature of something like this. What did you expect? Had you really thought dating someone so much older--someone with his own life and his own family and his own career--would be easy? Were you really silly enough to be hiding in a bathroom because you didn’t know what to do?

This was his job, just like it was yours. Smile for the cameras, be grateful, prop yourself up and perform. And now your stupid emotions were getting in the way.

When you emerged to find your security detail waiting, you headed back towards the event space, only a few steps until you looked up to see him walking beside Cara down the same hall, a trail of crew members behind them.

His face lit up, Cara smiled when they slowed.

“Were you in the bathroom?” He offered a playful smirk, clunky award in hand. No one else was in on the joke, you rolled your eyes but smiled up at him.

“Congratulations,” you looked down at it.

“Heavier than I thought,” he held it up to give you both a closer look.

You smiled, didn’t say anything when Cara excused herself. The security detail followed her lead and stepped away, Jason smiled at them in gratitude.

“I should go back to my table,” you said.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, forcing a smile. It didn’t seem fair to bring it all up tonight. “All good, you’ve got celebrating to do.”

Another headset approached, started talking to Cara. Jason tried to stay focused despite the buzzing in the hallway. “Yeah--I’ll text you. Are you guys going to an afterparty?”

“Dunno.”

“Come to ours,” his brow furrowed, the look on his face told you he knew something was up, but now wasn’t the time or place to address it. “I’ve got a hotel.”

“I don’t have to--I know it’s a cast thing.”

He took a step closer to you, his voice lowered despite the fact that now it was clear Cara and the headset woman needed to pull him away from you. “I want you to come.”

“Okay,” you nodded, turned to Cara and offered a smile. Evie was still at her table when you got back, disappointed her show wasn’t awarded Outstanding Writing for a Comedy Series, but happy to find you and brag to her friend: this is Y/N, she’s dating Jason Sudeikis, but shh!

A few more drinks helped you relax, eventually you were herded into a party bus by Hannah, she’d found you just as she promised and Evie happily took a glass of champagne that someone was passing around.

The bus lurched into motion, next stop: afterparty, but everyone fell quiet when Jason stood and cleared his throat. “Sorry to break up the party,” he held up a hand, someone shoved a bottle of champagne into it and he laughed, gripping it and holding it up. “I just want to say how proud I am of everyone here--we’ve worked really fucking hard and I did a shitty job thanking everyone I needed to thank, but we’ve made a fucking awesome show and--yeah, I’m just glad to share tonight with all of you.”

You were towards the back, giggled with Evie when her glass fizzed and the rest of them cheered. Maybe you didn’t belong like they did, but a text made you feel a bit more at ease.

Jason (10:45pm): There’s an empty seat up here with your name on it

You peered over Hannah and Juno to find him in the front of the bus, another one of the writers beside him as they laughed.

Y/N L/N (10:45pm): Hmm, from back here it looks like you’re sitting with someone

Jason (10:45pm): He can move!

You caught him eyeing you when you looked up, waved him off but couldn’t help but blush at the smirk on his face.

“Alright,” Juno said, turning in her seat and adjusting her dress. “I’ve never seen the man so glued to his phone. Spill it.”

Evie smiled like she respected the way you’d been called out, Hannah turned to see you and they all waited for an answer.

“There’s nothing to spill,” you stifled a giggle.

“Oh please,” Hannah waved you off. “He stares at that phone with a stupid grin on his face and you should absolutely take credit for it.”

“Maybe he’s texting his children,” you shrugged, downplaying their enthusiasm.

Evie sipped her champagne and fluttered her eyelashes at you, “didn’t know there was an award tonight for best liar…”

A sigh before you gave in, “he just said he wanted me to go up there and sit with him.”

They all let out coos of excitement when Hannah questioned:

“And you’re not because…?”

“I don’t want to intrude,” you said honestly.

“Intrude?” Juno made a face. “You’re Y/N L/N.”

“And I had nothing to do with this show,” you reminded, gesturing around the bus.

“Except for sleeping with the guy who created it, wrote it, produced it, starred in it…” Hannah’s bluntness elicited a laugh from all of you. “Sorry, not to be crass, but--people talk.”

“Did he tell you guys about her?” Evie leaned forward, kept her voice low enough to avoid being overhead.

“Tell us about you?” Hannah repeated for good measure. “He was basically blushing on set after you met.”

“Took him a few weeks to tell us who he was seeing,” Juno shrugged, “but, learning it was you was the excitement of a century.”

“I told you,” Evie elbowed you in the ribs.

“Told me what?”

“She’s been imploding tonight,” Evie informed your new friends. “The age difference, the career difference, blah, blah, blah.”

“You’re, like, way more famous than him, no offense,” Juno commented.

You bit back a laugh, reached for Evie’s champagne and took a sip. “Tonight’s about you guys all and your amazing work,” you lifted the glass to clink it against Hannah’s. “Cheers to you!”

More laughter, more excited chatter when you ignored another text:

Jason (10:56pm): I won an Emmy and if you think I won’t use that to guilt you, you’re wrong

A hotel in West Hollywood, the bus slowed in front of the entrance and people started to file off towards hors d'oeuvres and celebratory drinks. Jason was off first, you and Evie trailed behind Hannah and Juno in the dark evening.

“Not for nothing,” Juno held onto your wrist for a second once you hit asphalt, a timid smile when she looked up at you. “But he’s been the happiest I’ve ever seen him. Own your power.”

You felt yourself soften, anxiety melting when she looked over her shoulder and watched Evie link arms with Hannah as they headed for the party, the energy still buzzing from the group. Juno looked back to you, then off to where Jason stood with someone you didn’t recognize.

They shook hands, he locked eyes with you and excused himself when Juno gave your arm a squeeze. “See you inside, yeah?”

“Thank you,” you smiled down at her, waved when she hurried in her heels to catch up with the rest of them.

His hands were in his suit pockets as he approached in the quiet night, the mustache you’d grown used to had been shaved for the formal event. Music floated from the hotel when the doors parted to allow the rest of them inside.

“All the girls in the back of the bus,” he sighed. “Kind of feels like a middle school field trip.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Kind of felt like one with all of the giggling we did.”

“Are you okay?” He asked seriously. “Are we good?”

“Yes, yeah--we’re fine. I don’t want you to worry about me. This is your night.”

“Yeah, but,” he shook his head. “If something’s up I want to know.”

You inhaled, contemplated lying some more but figured that would only create more tension. “I just don’t want to intrude on your night, or your life.”

His lips curled up, he let out a tiny laugh but kept his eyes on you for a moment in the now empty parking lot.

“I want you to intrude,” he nodded.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged, looked around before his eye settled on yours again. “If you being here is intruding, or if you sleeping in my bed is intruding,” a step back when he laughed again. “I want that.”

You nodded, sheepish and embarrassed.

“I have some people I want to introduce you to in there,” he pushed his chin towards the hotel.

“Yeah?”

“I know it’s been a weird week, but, yeah--I’d like to introduce my girlfriend to some people.”

Butterflies, he knew it when he reached for your hand. He brought it up to his mouth and kissed it, tugged you towards the entrance.

“Oh,” you said, stopping in your tracks, pulling him into you by the suit jacket. You kissed him quickly, felt him lean into you before you pulled away.

“What’s that for?”

“Happy birthday, a day late.”

He smiled, slung an arm around your shoulders and walked you inside.

So you stayed by his side most of the night, met his friends and his colleagues, thanked the people who said they loved your music and even posed for a few selfies. You watched him work the crowd, hopeful that the rush of adrenaline you felt when he smiled at you across the room would never fade.

He unzipped your dress that night in a hotel room and the way he kissed you made any insecurities fade, even if just for a moment.

The next morning he flipped his phone around, a text from Cara that he’d already replied to:

Cara (8:23am): Some photos from the afterparty have Y/N in them--talked with Danielle, we can ask them to not publish if you want.

Jason (8:34am): Publish them. I win an Emmy and I have a hot girlfriend?

Cara (8:36am): Lol, you’re definitely a winner.

____

story page | talk to me

AN: OKAY GUYS! I cannot believe there are now 7 parts of this wine fueled idea I had. I seriously had so much fun writing this part and wanted to ramp it up/go a littler deeper than we have so far with these two. Things are getting more INTENSE and I hope you're here for it like I am!

[goeshometocactus]

Compilation of the outfits Harry wore on stage during Love On Tour 2021. Links to individual posts about the looks can be found under the cut. ©

Keep reading

[goeshometocactus]

not a (pity) date

story page

PART 2

The clock on the wall ticked with each second, you stared at the screen of your phone. How were you supposed to focus when you knew you had a text that threatened to illuminate the screen and send butterflies swarming through your entire body?

You saw it come through, an unknown New York number in bold above a simple word: iMessage.

You had no clue what it said, no clue--technically--who it was. There were plenty of options, plenty of possibilities of who could be sending you a text with a New York number that had not yet been saved to your phone. But there was certainly someone you hoped was behind the message.

Finally, twenty-two minutes after it came through, your meeting ended and you were able to pick it up.

(212)932-4592 (2:41pm): Tonight, 8pm. I can send a car for you.

Your heart felt lodged in your throat, thumbs perched over the screen as you planned out a reply.

“You okay?” Mia asked, her eyebrows knit together when she picked up her laptop and stood from the table.

She knew the drinks had gone well, she said you were crazy to leave right when things were getting good. You bit your lip and turned your phone around to show her the message.

Her eyes lit up, excitement on her face when she looked up at you. “Are you gonna go?”

“No, I’m gonna turn him down and say I’m busy--” you rolled your eyes. “Of course I’m gonna go. But I can’t make it that easy.”

“I’ve never seen you play hard to get like this,” she laughed, following you out into the hallway. “And I’ve been your assistant for four years. Meaning I’ve scheduled, like, 85% of your dates.”

“He started it,” you reminded her, a stupid grin on your face when you looked down at the message again.

“So what are you gonna say?”

“I don’t know, something mysterious and snarky,” you wiggled your eyebrows at her. “I can’t just say: sure, can’t wait!”

“But that’s how you feel, isn’t it?”

“I mean yes,” you rolled your eyes at her in jest. “But I’ve got to keep it spicy.”

“You hear yourself, right?”

Instead of answering her question, you enlisted her help in the car to craft your reply.

Y/N L/N (3:16pm): Depends on who’s asking.

(212)932-4592 (3:23pm): Oh right. This is Jason’s assistant. He’d like to know if you’re available tonight for dinner. He didn’t have the balls to text you himself.

Y/N L/N (3:29pm): I guess I can move things around for him and clear up my schedule 🤷‍♀️

(212)932-4592 (3:32pm): I would be so honored.

(212)932-4592 (3:32pm): I mean he would be so honored!

Y/N L/N (3:37pm): I’ll be ready at 8pm.

It took everything in you to not sit and stare at the clock again that evening when you wasted time. You’d flipped through everything on TV and you even called your parents to distract yourself from the possibilities that the evening held. Your heart thumped under your coat in the backseat of a car that arrived at 8pm exactly, you wiped your hands on your pants when you walked inside a restaurant just East of Chelsea.

A hostess with wide eyes led you to a table in the back, you offered her a knowing smile in gratitude for not blowing your cover. He looked up from his phone when you stopped right in front of him, eyes sweeping up your figure when he stood.

“Hi,” he said, a kiss to your cheek in greeting.

You slunk out of your coat and joined him at the table, a smile already fighting to take over your features. “I thought we weren’t doing the cheek-kiss thing.”

“I thought so too but I figured I have to spell it out that--” he looked around and lowered his voice playfully, “this is a date.”

There were other people in the separate dining room, a few couples and a group of business men with nice suits. None of them seemed to be paying any mind to the Americans with an age-difference in the corner.

“Well,” you leaned forward to confess, “then I’ve been on a lot of dates with British men since I’ve been here.”

“Mmm, no--see, I think you’re confusing what I did with the double cheek-kiss. I just did one. One cheek, one side,” he nodded.

“Oh,” you nodded, playing along. “So one cheek means more than two cheeks.”

He licked his lips a little, nodded and smirked. “Counterintuitive, but yeah, it does.”

The hostess reappeared, two small menus in hand when she cleared her throat to interrupt. You both took them, stared at the pages for a few seconds before he looked up to see you.

“Everything’s good here, I’ve come a few times.”

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Is this your typical date spot?”

“Depends on what you mean by typical.”

You rolled your eyes, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The right corner of his mouth twisted up, “last person I was here with ordered the Salmon, said it was phenomenal.”

“I do love Salmon, but that feels like a weird choice for a date.”

“Well it was one of the other writers for the show, my friend, so--wasn’t really a date.”

You felt the same shiver down your spine when he let his eyes settle on yours, hoping his words translated to: actually, I haven’t been on a date here before.

Another interruption, a waiter this time with a napkin over his arm and an eager smile. He told you about the specials for the evening and promised the Sunday Roast wouldn’t disappoint.

When he asked for your drink order, Jason seemed to eye you quizzically.

“Not in a Manhattan mood?” He leaned back in his seat once the waiter disappeared.

“There’s no way it’ll be as good as the one you made, so--” a single shoulder shrug when you smiled. “Might as well expand my palate.”

“So,” he leaned in, put his elbows on the table and sighed. “Would it be weird for me to admit that I’ve been looking forward to seeing you since you left my house last week?”

You bit your lip, tried to avoid the giggle that he seemed to pull out of you. “No--cause I’ve been feeling the same way.”

“Is this the first time we agree on something?” He eyed you, the corner of his mouth pulled towards the ceiling.

“No,” you shook your head quickly. “We said that British greetings are weird.”

“Mmm, they are,” he nodded like he’d forgotten. “But I’m glad that you’ve been looking forward to this, glad it’s not a pity date.”

“A pity date?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what a pity date is,” he waved you off. “I’m sure you’ve been on plenty of them--”

“Yeah?”

“As the pitier,” he clarified, “not the pitied. What I mean is I’m sure plenty of guys ask you out--”

“I’m glad you think I’m nice enough to go on a pity date with someone,” you laughed, “Means I’m selling myself well.”

“You’ve never gone on a pity date?”

“No,” you laughed, a smile to the waiter when he dropped off your drinks. “I don’t actually get asked on many dates.”

“Well here’s to this being not a pity date,” he smiled, letting his glass clink against yours before he took a sip. “But I also find that hard to believe.”

“That I don’t get asked on many dates?”

He nodded.

“Headlines are an anti-aphrodisiac, I’ve learned.” He watched as you sipped and then set your glass down. “I mean, come on, you know that.”

He offered a challenging smirk. “Right, me and my expansive dating history.”

“You already admitted that this is your typical date night spot!”

You looked over your shoulder, eyed the waiter on the other side of the room. “Is he gonna slip and call me by someone else’s name? Whoever else you bring here?”

“No,” he made a face at you and laughed. “You clearly don’t know much about me if you think I’m dating a bunch of women here.”

“So just a bunch back in New York,” you nodded, still pushing him.

“Just one, actually--heard she lives in Tribeca.”

You looked up at him quickly, a rush of adrenaline when you realized he was talking about you.

“You also must think I’m more famous than I am if you think I’m dating a bunch of women.”

You laughed a little, sensing a shift in his demeanor when he reached for his drink again.

“I haven’t--uh--been on any dates since Olivia and I broke up.”

There it was, the name you knew you’d hear and the feeling you knew would bubble up when he finally said it.

“Really?”

He shrugged, “unless you’re finally willing to admit that us getting drinks last week was a date.”

You smirked in his direction, let your eyes trail down the napkin on your lap.

“But yes, really.”

“Well I hope your first experience getting back out there has been all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Yeah,” he nodded thoughtfully. “You know, good banter, good drinks, good food,” he motioned around the room. “Good company.”

“You say that now,” you tilted your head, “just wait until The Sun gets a picture of us here and you’ll probably never answer any of my texts.”

He laughed a little, looked down at his hands and then back up to you. “We can cross that bridge if we get there.”

“When,” you corrected.

“When?”

“It’ll happen,” you assured.

He nodded, cleared his throat and looked away. For a second you couldn’t read the expression on his face, but then he sipped his drink and smiled when you asked: “did you film today?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “We do table reads on Monday and then film all week, and sometimes Saturdays if we need to.”

“Long weeks,” you commented.

“We have a good crew, good cast--they’re fun to be with.”

“Nothing worse than hating your coworkers,” you made a face.

“Or starring opposite someone you can’t stand,” he admitted.

“Please tell me it’s not Jennifer Aniston,” you leaned in quickly with wide eyes.

“No,” he laughed. “She’s a peach.”

“Oh thank god,” you held a hand to your heart.

Christina Applegate, he divulged. Nice and friendly but apparently she was never on time and had strange requests for her trailer and thought she was better than everyone else. He told you about his favorite scenes from your favorite movie of his, and by the time your food came, he told you about his most embarrassing celebrity moment: not recognizing a former co-star on a red carpet at the White House Correspondents Dinner he went to a few years back.

You told him about the friends you were writing with and the time you went to Japan. He offered to walk you home since it was late enough that you could fade into residential neighborhoods and avoid any lingering photographers.

After thirty minutes in the night air, he stood on the front step to your place, hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. It was cute--he was nervous but didn’t want to show you. You glanced up at him, thankful for the scarf around your neck when the wind blew.

“My daughter does this thing--when she’s upset with me--she stares at me from across the room and won’t answer me when I talk to her. It’s cute at first but then it just freaks me out. Her self-control is amazing.”

A beat of silence when he looked away for a second and let his head dip from side to side before he looked at you again: “your self control is amazing.”

You felt your eyebrows dip together. “Why?”

“Because you left before I could kiss you the other night.”

“I did.”

“Which is probably a good thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah--I mean, seeing as you and me might be weird, with the age difference and the,” he trailed off, hoping to find another reason as you watched him. “Age difference,” he said it again.

He smiled a little when you let out a laugh.

“Is it too weird for you?”

“Too weird as in: too weird for me to still want to kiss you now?”

You nodded, waiting for him to answer.

He thought on it for a second. “No--I, uh--I still want to do it.”

You saw his eyes glance down to your lips, another moment of uncertainty before you leaned up to just get it over with. Short, simple, quick enough that when you pulled back, you wished you’d taken your time.

He blinked a few times, rolled his eyes when he smiled. “Great, you’re younger than me and you kissed me first?”

“Seemed to be causing a fair amount of stress for you.”

“I can’t wait to tell The Sun that you came on to me,” he teased.

“Jason Sudeikis Not a Creep: Y/N L/N kissed him first,” you mocked a potential headline, looked up into the sky as if it were the front page of a newspaper.

He kept his eyes on you, a wave of butterflies took fight when you brought your gaze back to meet his.

He was more serious now, lips pushed out in thought. “Maybe we can do this again.”

“Maybe,” you nodded, pulling a smirk from him when you reached into your pocket for your keys.

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[goeshometocactus]

not a date

(aka a jason sudeikis blurb that i wrote after three glasses of wine and binge watching all of ted lasso season 2)

wc: 4.3k of flirty, angsty banter

You stared at your dress in the mirror, three hangers from the left tucked between an Oscar de la Renta you’d gotten to take home after a photoshoot last fall and a leather jacket you’d been gifted from a brand you couldn’t remember.

Now it clung to your form, saved from the mess of clothes you’d thrown into the closet after living out of suitcases for your first three weeks in London.

Was this a date? No.

Aside from the almost 20 year age difference and the fact you’d literally never met, you spent most of the day coming up with plenty of other reasons why this was not a date and certainly just a friendly drink you were grabbing with another person in show business.

But why were you even thinking along those lines? Sure--maybe over the last few months you’d started to see him in a different light through interviews and episodes of his new show. Maybe a few texts from your friend back home had amped you up a little bit and now, sitting in the back of a car that drove you towards Notting Hill, you desperately tried to swallow the butterflies that fluttered beneath your ribcage and made you feel incredibly, horribly stupid.

You offered a pleasant smile to the driver and hopped out when the car slowed to a stop that evening, unsure if the dress was too much or if your earrings were too much or if the fact that you’d paired them with white tennis shoes to dress the whole ensemble down was too much.

Did you look too young? Would he greet you like you were his long-lost niece or the daughter of his oldest friend? You weren’t either of those things to him, but you felt confident that if you were running through the age-based options of what this would feel like, it had at least crossed his mind.

The bar was quiet when you pushed the door open, dim lighting, velvet-lined booths along the left wall and you scanned the room. For fuck’s sake, did he stand you up?

Two bartenders behind the counter and a few other groups finishing dinner. A couple to your left seemed cozy over red wine and a somewhat boisterous group of friends let out yips of laughter across the room.

You were anything but unfamiliar with the time he’d chosen: late enough that most people were finishing dinner but early enough that you could easily brush it off as we ran into each other here! should tabloids or tweets pick up on the events of your Thursday night.

A time in the evening that could be one of two things: a date, and absolutely, positively, not a date.

You were about to head for the bathroom, send your assistant a text to ask where the fuck is he? What the fuck do I do? But when you pushed your purse up your shoulder, he turned around at the bar, both hands around a glass of something.

He smiled, you took a few steps forward and reminded yourself: Networking. A casual drink. You’re both in London. No need for a nervous flutter of your heart. Your manager probably would have killed you if you didn’t at least meet him.

He opened his arms in greeting and let out a laugh that somehow acknowledged the uncertainty between you. “Hey, hi--thanks for having a drink.”

“Of course,” you smiled, giving him a brief hug before settling onto the stool beside him. “Thanks for reaching out.”

He smiled, “we’re both American, so we don’t have to do the cheek-kiss thing, right?”

“Right, I think we get a free pass,” you nodded. “It can be pretty intimate and overwhelming when you have to do it with strangers.”

A wave of relief washed over his features when he let out a laugh. “I’ve been trying to tell people that, but they think I’m just an asshole American when I say it, so--this is a nice change of pace.”

“How long have you been here?” You shrugged out of your jacket.

“At the bar or in London?”

“In London,” you laughed, “but I hope you weren’t waiting too long for me.”

“No, no,” he waved you off. “I live a short walk--” he motioned with his hands and towards the door you’d just entered, “--up and around, so I just got my drink before you came in.”

“Got it,” you nodded. “And in London?”

“Since early February, until about June, probably. That’s the plan. What about you? You’re here for--”

“Another six weeks, give or take. Yeah, I’ve been writing with some friends of mine who live here and working on recording new stuff,” you explained, a small smile when you brought your eyes up to meet his. “Glad our time overlapped.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, keeping eye contact for a second when he smiled, hands still wrapped around his drink. “Can’t believe we’ve never really met before.”

Now you were close enough to tell it was scotch or whiskey or something dark like that. You couldn’t remember which ice cube shape went with what.

“We’ve definitely been at the same parties or events--”

“For sure,” he agreed. “But never actually got to say hi or tell you what a fan I am. My daughter loves your movies, knows almost every word to Should Have. Which, I’ll admit, sounds kind of funny when a five-year-old is singing it.”

You laughed at the thought of a little girl, pigtails or a cute dress sitting in the back of his car, mumbling along to the words of your biggest song to date. “I apologize in advance to her first crush.”

“You should, yeah--he’ll get an earful if he ever fucks up,” he looked down to the counter and at your empty hands. “You need a drink, though--what do you want?”

You let out an uncertain sigh and looked at the liquor behind the bar. When you did, you felt his eyes linger on your face for a second, pulled away only by the appearance of a bartender he seemed to know quite well.

“Whatever she wants, Marty, on my tab.”

“You don’t have to,” you looked over at him.

The worst part of any not date, networking drinks or dinner, work chat, whatever this was. An awkward dance you found yourself doing with anyone else whose name landed in headlines like private jets at Teterboro. Did you pay? Did he? Who’s net worth was more? Did it matter? Who asked who to get together? Did it matter?

“I don’t have to,” he agreed, a slight nod when he looked at you again. “I’d like to, though.”

The bartender looked at you expectantly, eyebrows raised until you said: “A manhattan, please.”

“How’s filming going?” You asked once you were left alone again--impressed by his choice to sit at the bar rather than a table hidden in the back.

London had always been quieter than New York or LA, though. This neighborhood seemed tucked away in the suburbs and hidden behind brownstones and boutiques.

He angled himself towards you a bit. “It’s good, yeah. We’re about half way through the new season, everyone’s really excited about it and we’re having a great time making it so I can’t complain.”

“The show’s really good,” you confessed. “My brother watched it before I did and he pretty much demanded I at least give it a shot.”

“Give it a shot,” he repeated your words with wide eyes and a smile, his tone quickly became teasing. “Were you able to stomach it? The mediocrity of it wasn’t too much?”

“That’s not what I meant--” you laughed.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” he held his hands up and grinned. “Every show has its critics. My humor can be stupid--might not be your cup of tea.”

“I think you mean cuppa,” you challenged.

“Yes,” he held up a finger, catching his own slip. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“No, I love the show,” you said honestly, more serious now when the bartender delivered your drink atop a paper napkin--the same logo etched in the window in blank ink. “Watched all of season one basically in one sitting.”

He raised his and clinked it against the side of yours before he said: “Last night, right? Had to do your homework before we met?”

“Crash course,” you joked. “Stayed up all night and almost fell asleep during the finale.”

He sipped his drink and nodded curiously.

“No,” you shook your head. “I think I watched it in the fall, then immediately learned that a second season was coming so I knew I was committed at that point.”

“Well, don’t expect to get any spoilers from me. I’ve been sworn to absolute secrecy and my friends who wrote it with me would probably have me murdered, so, unless you want my blood on your hands--”

“Aren’t you in charge? Did you swear yourself to secrecy?”

“I’m partially in charge,” he shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A lot of other people call the shots too. I make sure to show up on time and say what I’m supposed to say.”

You nodded, watched him as you took another sip.

So maybe you’d only been partially honest so far. You didn’t watch the show last night, and you had devoured it rather quickly last fall after a few text messages from your brother.

But you did stay up late last night reading an interview he did with GQ and after that, you found yourself three videos in on youtube of his funniest sketches from Saturday Night Live. Then an over-the-ocean FaceTime call with your friend back home to process the questions and concerns that took flight.

Is it weird if I’m kind of into him? Why would he want to have drinks with me? There’s no way it’s anything but a networking thing if his assistant texted my assistant.

“I didn’t ask for any spoilers, for the record. You’re the one who brought up spoilers.”

He tilted his head to the side and let out a small laugh. “Because I know if you asked I would have a hard time saying no.”

A beat of silence before you pulled your eyes away and tried to take a deep breath without him noticing.

“Well then I’ll do my best to not put you in that position,” you said, giving up and letting your eyes trail back to his.

Again, he watched you for a moment, eyes on your face like he had just as many questions as you did. But then he cleared his throat, looked over to the bartender and sipped his drink.

“Where are you staying? I hope this wasn’t too far of a trip.”

“No,” you reassured with a shake of your head. “I’m renting in Fulham, so it was an easy drive--aside from the whole left side of the road thing. I always forget and then remember to switch sides.”

His eyes went wide and your cheeks felt tingly when you smiled, “I’m joking! A driver brought me--I don’t--I’m not driving on the wrong side of the road in London!”

“Wow, good, yeah, that’s great that you’re not mowing over children or old ladies out of sheer ignorance.”

“You know us Americans,” you rolled your eyes, before you both spoke at the same time: “Ignorant.”

Another pause, you smiled.

“Do you like it here?”

“I do,” you told him. “It’s not New York. I think that’ll always feel like home, but--”

This piqued his interest. “Where do you live in New York?”

“Tribeca. Far enough away from the madness but close enough at the same time.”

“My ex and I had a place in Brooklyn.” He told you, “still have it, but, you know, don’t live there together anymore.”

“That’s how it works for most people when they break up,” you nodded and tried to hide your teasing smile.

“You mean you don’t live with your ex-boyfriend? That kid from that movie--what’s that line he says? I’ll never forget you as long as I live, but I’ll be damned if--”

You pretended to shutter at the mention of him. A quick fling, a few months last fall that led to plenty of TMZ articles and turned out to be a waste of time.

“Thank God I don’t live with him,” you cut him off and laughed. “We, uh, yeah--just didn’t work.”

He smiled but then it faded into a thoughtful nod, took another sip of what you were now convinced was whiskey. “I can relate,” he admitted. “But hey, everything comes to an end eventually and when one door closes, another one opens. That’s what people say at least.”

You smiled at his sentiment. “In Hollywood it sometimes feels like a revolving door.”

“Jesus,” he pulled his head back and looked you up and down. “That was deep--we’re only one drink in! Save the philosophy for--I don’t know--at least the second.”

Heat rose to your face at the thought of another drink, more time to sit here and steal glances his way and wonder what on earth was going through his head when he did the same.

“The night is young,” you raised your glass to cheers him again. He smiled and agreed, the night is young.

By the end of your second drink most of the other diners or drinkers had gone home. Your chin was in your hand when you took the last sip and told him: “I’ve had Manhattans at other pubs, one near my apartment is okay, but this is good.”

“Mmm,” he nodded, putting his credit card back into his wallet after the bartender closed him out. “You haven’t had mine.”

“Yours? You make a good Manhattan?”

“I’ll ignore the shock in your voice and not take it as an insult,” he let out a laugh but eyed you warily.

You rolled your eyes at him and smirked. “No--I just--I’ve never tried to make one.”

“It’s easy, you just need the right stuff.”

“And you always keep those things on hand?”

“I like to keep a well stocked bar,” he shrugged. “My place is only a few blocks away, you’re welcome to come see for yourself how easy it is to make.”

“Yeah?” You asked, a smile that mirrored his when you reached to tug on your jacket.

“Yeah--and, for the record,” he lowered his voice and seemed more serious. “I’ve never seen any paparazzi around here, either. So, you won’t have to worry about that.”

You offered a gracious smile and fell into step with him. “I wasn’t worried.”

“No?” He held the door open for you to walk into the cool evening.

“Should I be worried?” You eyed him over your shoulder.

“No, I mean--I don’t think so,” he shoved his hands into his pockets. The buds of leaves were visible in the spring air, even under the cloak of night. “Just, you know. Rumor mills do their thing and we’ve never met before and--I’m significantly older than you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, you weren’t going to be the one to go there.

All you could manage after you averted your gaze: “Is that a bad thing?”

He laughed, did that thing where he watched you for a second before looking down to the sidewalk. “You’ve got a lot of questions, don’t you?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Well if you’re significantly older than me, shouldn’t you be significantly wiser, too?”

You tried to keep your lips in a thin line, tried not to laugh at your own joke but when a smirk broke loose on his face, you couldn’t help but grin.

“That was low,” he nodded, stopped dead in his tracks and shook his head at you. “Are you implying that you’re young and naive?”

You kept walking, turned and stepped over cracks in the pavement backwards as you laughed. “No! You’re the one who brought age into this.”

He rolled his eyes playfully and picked up his pace to catch up to you. “Just acknowledging the elephant in the room.”

That put you into your thoughts. Why would age matter if this was just friendly drinks? Why would he invite you back to his place if he viewed you as some kid, some 28-year-old girl who makes music his daughter likes?

“Sounds like you think it’s a bad thing,” you said simply, a metaphorical leap of faith as you turned left onto his street.

“I just think it’s a fact that could easily become a topic of conversation,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders.

You nodded, let out a breath when he fished for his keys in his pocket.

“Facts are just facts,” he pulled them out and selected the one that would provide entry. “Not good, not bad. Just facts.

“Now you dabble in poetry, too?”

He smiled at your joke but pushed the door open, held it there while you crossed under his arm and into the dark foyer of a townhouse.

He flicked on a light switch and dropped his keys on a console table nearby. “One Manhattan, coming right up.”

You hung your coat up on a rack in the corner when he disappeared further into the house. Art on the walls, books on shelves--a house that you were sure he rented for the months he’d be here, a home away from home that suddenly felt intriguing and mysterious as you wandered to find him.

He was bent over behind a bar in the corner, pulled out the vermouth along with two glasses.

You waited a second, watched as he poured the bourbon into the mixer.

“Why’d you ask me to have drinks?”

He looked up at you briefly, repeating your question. “Why’d I ask you to have drinks?”

You nodded, he uncapped the bitters and shrugged.

“Figured it’d be nice to not have to greet someone with a cheek-kiss for once,” he smirked.

You raised your brows in anticipation, silently challenging him to answer the question truthfully instead of hiding behind comedy.

He shook the mixer, looked up and shrugged. “One second,” he feigned guilt. “I can’t hear you over the shaking.”

An eye roll from the middle of his living room before he uncapped it, poured the drink into two glasses and then garnished them with cherries.

“Okay,” he picked them up and walked over to the couch in the center of the room. You came to join him on the opposite end and he asked: “You want to know why I asked you to get a drink?”

“I want to know why you asked your assistant to ask my assistant to ask me to get a drink,” you clarified.

“Oh, right, that’s how it happened,” he nodded sarcastically as if he’d forgotten. “Uh, let’s see.”

You took a sip and kept your eyes on him, waiting for an answer.

“I asked you to get a drink because I think you’re incredibly talented and I’ve always been a fan--and I think it was a shame that we didn’t meet until tonight--” he said this as an aside when he glanced up to you. “But I also heard you were in London and I guess I’ve always been curious about you.”

You nodded, taking in his words.

“In a totally not weird way,” he clarified.

“Right, of course,” you smiled.

Now he sipped his drink and turned the question around. “Why did you say yes to me asking my assistant to ask your assistant to ask you to get a drink?”

You smiled and set your drink on the coffee table in front of you. The conversation had become a sort of verbal chess game, a poker-faced exchange that was both carefully planned and executed.

“I said yes because I think you’re hilarious and I’ve always been a fan,” you borrowed his words, a nervous inhale in preparation to show your hand. “And because when I watched the show I thought you were clever and cute and--I guess I was also curious.”

He let out a hum in thought, let his elbows rest on his knees for a second. “I see what you did there, sneaking in ‘cute’ right in the middle so maybe it’d get lost or I wouldn’t notice.”

You nodded, leaned back on the couch and let your lips twist into a smile again. “Right, my hope was that if it was weird for me to say that, you would have just ignored it and not actually point it out like you just did.”

“Ah, got it, I see,” he nodded, playing it cool. “I don’t think it was weird. I almost said the same thing about you but didn’t know if that would be creepy--you know, seeing as I’m both older and wiser,” he rolled his eyes playfully.

You stifled a laugh, kept his eye contact while he took another sip. You hoped to lock in the moments, the taste of the cocktail and the warmth in the room on a cool night, the heat on your cheeks when he looked at you and the shiver down your spine at the tug-of-war you both seemed to be playing.

“Those aren’t insults unless you take them that way,” you crossed one leg over the other and retrieved your drink.

“That’s a life lesson,” he nodded, repeating your words mindfully. “It’s not an insult unless you take it that way.”

“I thought we weren’t getting philosophical tonight--”

“Well, yeah, at the bar during the first drink,” he looked up to you with wide eyes and let out a quick laugh. “You wasted no time going there. This is drink three,” he held it up before taking a sip. “A lot of things change once you get to drink three.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one, you can get philosophical. That’s fair game now.”

“Okay,” you smiled.

He stood and headed for a stereo on the far side of the room, looking over his shoulder briefly to see you. “It’s also apparently the level at which you felt comfortable admitting you’re attracted to me.”

He pressed a button and suddenly the room filled with music. You looked at him through narrow eyes. “I don’t remember that.”

“No?” He tilted his head to the side. “It was just a second ago. You were kind of shy about it--I thought it was cute.”

You watched him walk back to the couch.

“Is this smooth jazz?”

“Does it age me?”

You laughed, “I’d be more weirded out if you put on Doja Cat, to be honest.”

“Well she’s actually up next, so--”

“What playlist did you choose?”

“Oh, you know, the playlist I usually choose when I bring a girl home.”

“So you do this often?”

“Bring my date home?” He asked, watching you with intrigue to see what kind of reaction he’d get.

Your heartbeat picked up, “this was a date?”

He shrugged, leaned back and brought his glass up to his lips as he kept his demeanor calm. “I think that’s up to you.”

“You’re the one who asked me to get a drink!”

“I didn’t know what it would be when I asked you,” he admitted, a smile on his face. “Do you not want it to be a date?”

“I just didn’t know if that’s what this was--didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

“I think the third drink is also where it becomes a date a lot of the time, to be fair.”

“Is it?” You flirted.

“In all of the third drinks I’ve had,” he let out a sigh, “that’s where something changes if it’s going to change. But I feel like something changed for us during the second, if we’re being honest.”

You hummed in thought, unable to disagree but afraid to say more. You didn’t want to come off too eager or excited and you certainly didn’t want to let him know how many times your stomach had flipped just sitting across from him on a couch.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said simply.

“For all of your future dates?”

“Exactly.”

He watched as you tilted the glass back and finished what was left. You knew what you had to do: get your coat, get your purse, and leave him wanting more. So much of you wanted to walk over and plant yourself on top of him, make him squirm for your touch or beg to feel your skin.

But it was Thursday and it was late and you weren’t the type of girl to leave nothing to the imagination.

Maybe he knew the move, maybe he knew exactly what game you were playing, because he didn’t seem fazed when you stood and put the glass on the coffee table.

He sat, let his eyes trail up your body, and tilted his head as he waited for you to say it.

“I should go.”

He let out a slow breath, stood, and motioned for the door.

Your heart beat with every step, mouth dry from the desire that coursed through you when you plucked your coat from the rack where you’d left it.

He leaned against the doorway to the foyer, watched as you slipped each arm inside to brace for the night air. Once your purse was on your shoulder, he moved to the front door.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he bargained. “You can keep telling yourself this wasn’t a date if you let me take you on a real date.”

“A real date?”

“Well something about tonight clearly didn’t mean your standards,” he motioned back towards the living room. “Maybe it was the smooth jazz.”

“It was more the fact that I had no clue you wanted it to be a date until just now.”

“Just now?”

You nodded, fought a smirk when he sighed.

“I thought asking you back to my place made it obvious.”

“Asking me back to your place and then having sex with me would have made it obvious,” you told him.

“Chivalry fucks me again,” he joked.

“Have a good night, Jason.”

He nodded, one last look when you stepped out into the night. “You too, Y/N.”

AN: HAHAHA okay. As I've said, this was just for fun and I have no clue if i'll continue it (though give me more wine and i might), it was just a fun to explore writing someone other than harry. BUT, would love to know what people think!!!! Dedicating this one to @daylightlasso for all the encouragement!!!

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harry styles seems to be having too much fun, maybe it's time taylor releases 1989 (taylor's version) and reminds him of his place

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I need you to understand the importance of what Maneskin did on their concert in Poland.

In a country where president gained his votes by spreading hatred, in a country where right-wing activists spread rumors about LGBT people wanting to adopt children to r*pe them, in a country where conservatives think gays only want to teach the kids masturbation, in a country where so many young people are homeless because their homophobic parents kicked them out, in a country where people are afraid to hold hands with someone of the same sex, in a country where people were murdered on the street because they were gay, in a country where LGBT people have literally no rights, in a country where non-binary, genderfluid, trans people aren't even acknowledged, in a country where people are afraid to speak out about their orientation in fear of being publicly lynched, in a country part of which denies LGBT people the right to live, in a country where LGBT people are considered abominations in need of treatment...

Maneskin on public TV said love is never wrong. That everybody should be able to be whoever they want. On public TV Damiano kissed Thomas.

I can't imagine how many kids this has given hope to. How many unwanted kids who have been denied parental love because they dared to be who they feel they are, saw that they are not alone in the world. How many artists felt solidarity, inspiration and motivation. And deep down I really want to believe that maybe at least a small percentage of homophobes have thought about this message.

I cried. My heart grew so much bigger, knowing that it was shown on public TV. Even if it doesn't strike any change, many kids out there, being neglected, afraid and bullied, felt the representation and support they need.

Thank you, Maneskin.

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Måneskin being complete ICONS by basically saying fuck the polish government 🌈

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Måneskin (Italy) after winning Eurovision Song Contest 2021 🏳‍🌈

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*this is a love story* 

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Måneskin win Eurovision 2021

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I'm looking... Respectfully...

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Italy's Måneskin rocked the stage during their Grand Final performance of 'Zitti E Buoni'.

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The four horsemen of the apocalypse bringing all of us to superhell:

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anyways this is why YOU should vote for italy

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måneskin lead singer gender envy so hard its unreal