#andrew is determined here

[emry-stars-art]

For the Royal AU Twinyard backstory... Maybe Andrew, as a second son, was sent away for study? He could have become an apprentice to a knight or a scholar when he was young, maybe even with the Spears, and that's where Bad Shit Happened. And then he could have returned when he became of age, or when their last parent dies and Aaron needs a familiar (ha!) face around

*excited* okay okay this has been brought up a few times now and every time I read it the idea grows on me more, you’re all so smart for it

(I was gonna put the art at the end but this got a lot longer and sadder than I anticipated so. Sometimes Andrew likes to do stuff like this when they’re stuck talking to important boring dignitaries)

(It’s the main reason Aaron develops an incredible poker face)

tws this time are all canon compliant

Honestly yeah! I do think this is great because I want the twins’ father to be around after birth and for a while, because the whole point of Andrew being sent elsewhere is probably so they can give that extra attention to Aaron and raise him as the heir to the throne. So it’s a perfect balance, in my mind, of a family that cares enough to get Andrew an education/proper upbringing and a father that doesn’t care enough to spend time on a second son.

In my head the Spears would be almost always overbearing, partly because Andrew is the prince and they Do Not want to disappoint the royal family and partly because Andrew is the prince and they immediately assume this little five year old they get on their doorstep is going to be a spoiled brat. Even though he isn’t. And, as you may guess, the only thing they turn a blind eye to is Drake. Drake, their own son, probably the real spoiled brat that gets his way in all things, even with the young prince. Faces no consequences, even when Andrew tries to tell someone. It’s probably his governess or nanny at first (either way, it’s not really important what the role is, just that she’s there). And this woman has been Andrew’s biggest advocate since he arrived, she genuinely cares about and is worried for the little prince with his bruises and fear. She cares enough to bring this up to Duke Spear - maybe he really is dumb enough to just be unaware, she hopes - and confront him about Andrew’s treatment. But of course the duke doesn’t do anything to discipline his son. Instead, the governess is fired and a new woman takes her place, a woman that isn’t as outspoken and won’t ever question the authority of the Spear family. Andrew learns soon enough that trying to tell someone or speak out only makes things worse for himself. Sometimes he still wonders where that first governess is, if she’s doing well.

Meanwhile at the castle, Aaron is going through his own rigorous training. A lot of the same stuff as Andrew is learning, honestly, with a few added duties and lessons and a lot more official meetings he attends with King Minyard. It’s a pretty average upbringing for an heir, I think.

Then maybe when Aaron is around the age of ten or so, King Minyard passes. This wouldn’t normally be a political issue, since it’s expected of the Queen to take over and divide the king’s half of the duties as she sees fit until either she remarries or has an heir become old enough to take the throne, at which time she may pass it to the child or continue to reign until she either passes or is deemed unfit. And, politically, this is exactly what happens. What most don’t see is how grief stricken she becomes and then remains. She can’t pull herself from her grieving, and instead of passing duties to more fitting people, Queen Tilda simply lets young Prince Aaron take on as many duties as he can without breaking down. (Though he has, before. Likely a few times. A kid being pushed past his limit again and again.) Aaron grows up so much faster than he ever should have. He’s thirteen now and sometimes he shakes with stress.

Then the queen finally gives into her grief and passes as well. If it weren’t for Katelyn, Abigail, and Betsy, Aaron might have been next to lose his mind, leaving the throne empty. As things are, Aaron swallows everything down just long enough have word sent to the Spear family. He wants his brother back. A familiar face and his quiet, desperate hope: someone to just help.

And return him they do. Andrew’s been perfectly competent with all his studies, they say, they’d even managed to break that stubborn streak. (They didn’t like he wouldn’t speak or shake hands when instructed. They didn’t like being told no.) And yes, it’s a familiar face. Aaron sees the carriage door open, sees his twin for the first time in eight years, but he isn’t sure he recognizes Andrew. Andrew isn’t supposed to have bags under his eyes like this. Andrew didn’t hold his jaw so tightly. And Andrew certainly didn’t answer questions like some kind of unthinking, unfeeling shell.

The first thing Andrew says to Aaron getting off that carriage is “No.” It’s quiet, but he does say it. Aaron is confused - he’d thought they’d still be allowed to hug each other, or shake hands at least - but he does step back and instead ask if Andrew wants to see his room. He can see Andrew relax.

It might hurt Aaron a little when he watches the Spear boy get a hug with no protest, or how Andrew quietly addresses the duke with more than a one word sentence. But he’s not going to ask about it for a while. He’s the stranger to Andrew here, after all.

(I think Andrew does let him ask. The most he tells Aaron about it - maybe as much as a year later - is that the younger Spear had been much worse at listening than Aaron ever is. It is much better here. At least you and Nicky understand the meaning of ‘no’. Leave it at that. And after that Aaron is even more supportive of Andrew’s wide bubble than he was before. He enforces it himself when he has to. And growing up together for longer, with no looming secrets or much reason for animosity between them - it isn’t Aaron’s fault King Minyard decided to hand Andrew off and the twins are both mature enough even at that age to know it - means the twins are much closer than in canon. I don’t think it would be a typically ‘fond’ relationship, because they’ve both still been through it. But they support each other in all things, no questions asked, and always get through problems together.

It doesn’t take much longer than that first year for Aaron to earn the right to touch Andrew, even if he does need to give or show warning before he does. Andrew never says it, but he’s grateful that Aaron is generous with his shoulder pats. It feels a little like the validation he never got anywhere else. And Aaron never says it, but he’s grateful that Andrew is always at his side to tell people ‘no’ when Aaron is technically not allowed to.)

[bailesona]

“  hi!  you  must  be  charlie,  right?  i’m  ramsay,  it’s  so  great  to  finally  meet  you!  “          what  a  strange  situation  to  be  in.  first  off,  aisling  going  time  travelling  and  ending  up  stuck  in  the  wrong  era?  perfectly  possible  when  it  comes  to  her.  but  then  renée  decided  she  wanted  to  help  her.  and  etienne,  the  loyal  best  friend  that  he  is,  agreed  to  join  her.  after  that,  one  by  one,  they  all  ended  up  going  back  to  doctor  strange  and,  in  true  form,  ended  up  in  hawkins,  1983,  exactly  as  aisling  moved  to  the  suburbs  and  balance,  or  a  form  of  it,  was  restored  to  the  town.  but  now...  well.  now  hawkins  is  on  the  brink  of  a  new  variety  of  chaos.  and  charlie’s  proving  herself  to  be  the  strongest  person  alive,  given  everything  she’s  been  through  in  one  brutally  cruel  week...  best  to  set  those  thoughts  aside.  he  steps  aside,  one  arm  outstretched  to  accept  her  coat,  the  other  deftly  knocking  fresh  snow  from  the  doorstep  with  a  broom.          “  aisling  and  the  others  are  inside,  there’s  mulled  wine  on  the  stove,  and  henri  is  making  some  snooty  french  appetisers  in  the  kitchen.  you  just  go  on  ahead  and  make  yourself  at  home,  okay?  “

@cninghm​ liked THIS POST for a family holiday dinner starter!  ( and the locations of the other muses are in the tags in case char wants to explore!! )

[elliespectacular]

Do you still have that Jellicle name generator saved anywhere? Some friends and I used it for our OCs and it was an absolute blast!

The name I got was Callio the convivial cat, which is short for Calliope, who I played in Xanadu. She has a whole costume and everything now!

Even if you don't have it anymore, tysm for making it ;-;

Xanadu mention! Also I do still have it saved! This one is revised a little and I might make more changes later, but here it is in text form:

Jellicle Name Generator

This will give you a name that is relatively in-line with the naming conventions seen in Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats by T.S. Eliot and later adapted into the musical Cats by Andrew Lloyd Webber - and unlike those shitty "last name and your birth month" name generators, this one won't doxx you in the process.

Before we begin, a bit of terminology we'll be using: - Portmanteau: Turning multiple words into one word linked by a sound or letter. Compelling Television = Compellevision. Punk Squid = Squnk - Smoosh: Combine words by simply removing the space and (optionally) changing the word positions. Country Jester = countryjester - Prefix: Goes before the name, like Mr. or Captain - Suffix: Goes after the name, like Jr. or The Great - Cat-like term: Something associated with cats. Meow, Whisker, Bell, Claw, Scratch, etc.

FIRST: Roll a D20 to determine your base name

An uncommon person’s first name

First syllable of a common last name + a unit of measurement. Portmanteau 'em.

Short, dangerous noun + a non-dangerous profession. Smoosh 'em.

Two Latin words. Portmanteau 'em.

A simple present-tense verb + sophisticated person's first name. Smoosh 'em.

Cat-like term + sophisticated person's first name. Smoosh 'em.

Combine two short nouns, then add "-er" "-ie" or "-est" to the end.

Think of an actor you like. Shorten their first name to its shortest nickname.

A medical term spelled incorrectly.

A food you liked as a kid + a pretentious word. Smoosh 'em.

A figure of legend/myth. Remove one syllable and any spaces.

An older person's first name that isn't common today.

Last name of a historical figure + a silly word. Portmanteau 'em.

A kids' name with 2 or more syllables + that name again without the first syllable + an onomatopoeia. Portmanteau 'em if you can.

A silly word + the first name of a former coworker. Portmanteau 'em.

A kind of public event + a cat-like term. Smoosh 'em.

Something from ancient history. Shorten what you came up with into a single word.

Something you do when you're nervous. Take that verb and add "-er" to the end to make it a noun.

Silly word + hostile-sounding verb. Portmanteau 'em.

Two silly words with 2+ syllables each. Smoosh 'em.

SECOND: Roll another D20 for flavor

Before you roll, consider how your name sounds without any additional flavor. If it's fine on its own, feel free to leave it as-is. Otherwise, roll on!

Suffix - An upsettingly average last name

Suffix - Think of a hobby. Your suffix is "The _____ Cat"

Prefix - A short adjective

Suffix - Think of an adjective. Your suffix is "The _____ Cat"

Prefix - Choose Mr. Mrs. Ms. Mx. or something similar

Suffix - Think of a color. Your suffix is "The _____ Cat"

Prefix - Any one-syllable word. Repeat the word a second time, adding or replacing the first consonant with that of your base name.

Suffix - Think of any non-proper noun. Your suffix is "The _____ Cat"

Suffix - it's the word Cat

Suffix - it's the word Kitty

Suffix - it's the word Kitten

Prefix - Choose "Sir" "Madam" "Captain" or something similar

Prefix - Choose "Lord" "Lady" "Noble" or something similar

Prefix - His/Her/Their Majesty (or any pronoun you prefer)

Prefix - His/Her/Their Grace (or any pronoun you prefer)

Prefix - Mc

Prefix - Van

Prefix - Von

Prefix - De

Suffix - Any cat-like term

And you're done!*

*This is as much a creative exercise as it is a "generator" so feel free to mess with the formula and/or let your result inspire something more original. Add multiple layers of flavor if you want. The rules are not rigid. I recommend generating a few names and picking your favorite!

[padfootagain]

Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Pairing : Hozier x fem!reader

Professor! AU

Warnings: hurt-comfort, angst, fluff, no smut but suggestive scenes so 18+ only

Chapter 1 : 'And that orange, it made me so happy, as ordinary things often do just lately'

Chapter 2 : 'Through me the way to the City of Woe'

Chapter 3 : ‘I miss him in the wheeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide’

Chapter 4 : ‘For he gave all his heart and lost’

Chapter 5 : ‘But here comes the lyrebird passing through the sky’

Chapter 6 : ‘I’ll lie here and learn how, over their ground, trees make a long shadow and a light sound’

Chapter 7 : 'And so I still wait, like a lonely house, for you to see me and inhabit me again. Until that time, my windows ache.'

Chapter 8 : 'I hope she never learns how to peel oranges'

Chapter 9 : 'I think I will always be lonely in this world, where the cattle graze like a black and white river-- where the vanishing lilies melt, without protest, on their tongues'

Chapter 10 : '[I] was angry that my trust could not repose in the clear light, like poetry or freedom leaning in from sea'

Chapter 11: ‘Lived to see you throwing me aside.’

[bisexualchaosdemon]

Twins run in the family.

Aaron and Katelyn get married after graduating from Palmetto, before they go off to med school together. It takes them pretty far from Andrew, but they work to keep in touch.

In the last year of their four year MDs, Kate gets pregnant — A happy accident. Then, they find out they're having twins, just, holy fuck. Kate is determined to not let it slow her down, though, because she's a bad bitch. Then Andrew suggests that they move closer to him and Neil once they graduate.

This leads to a few long and difficult conversations. Andrew admits that he would like to see Aaron more and to have a relationship with his nieces. Aaron admits that he does miss Andrew being close by and that they could use the extra support. In the end, they agree after Andrew actually apologies to Katelyn for the way he treated her in the beginning.

No one regrets the decision. Aaron and Katelyn are beyond grateful for the support as they start their careers. Andrew absolutely adores his nieces, more so than he ever thought he could. Neil is happy because Andrew is happy.

But it isn't always easy. It's hard because they both see it; the girls are what Andrew and Aaron could have been if they were never separated. If Tilda had been capable of being a good mother to her twins. And it fucking hurts.

Somehow, this pain leads to Aaron planting a seed in Andrew's mind — What if Andrew and Neil were to start fostering? Andrew thinks his brother has finally lost it. It's ludicrous, insane, impossible, but– Is it? Helping foster kids could be nice, and it's not like they can't stop if it's too much.

Once Neil has his own separate crisis about it, they decide to go for it. Andrew and Neil sure as hell know how not to raise a kid and they have yet to completely traumatise any of the kids in their lives. So a fuck ton of paperwork and hoop-jumping later, they find themselves in a group home to see if there's a kid there they can help.

That's when they find not one kid, but two. Tucked away in a corner they find twin girls, maybe a year younger than Aaron's girls, who only speak Russian. They hadn't intended to jump in at the deep-end like that, but something about them puts Andrew on alert. So they take the girls home with them.

And it is so, so much harder than they had expected. They had only prepped for one kid, but that's easily fixed. It's not so easy to fix the fact that the girls absolutely do not trust them. But Andrew and Neil are persistent; they don't push for trust, but they make sure to prove to the girls that they are safe at every turn.

Slowly, achingly slowly, the girls start to relax. They start to open up. And Andrew realises something so much worse than the pain that got them here.

Andrew realises that his twins are like him and Aaron too, but if Tilda left them both in the system. They are the real life result of his own worst nightmare.

[nebty]

Neil Gaiman is still following the PR playbook

I'm so sick of how Neil Gaiman is continuing to manipulate the conversation while displaying ZERO accountability or remorse.

Do you think him leaking that he's apparently offering to step back from Good Omens Season 3 is a sign that he realizes he fucked up and is trying to make it right? Absolutely not.

What he's doing is making the first moves to launder his reputation so that he can keep making money off of his IP and, eventually, return to the spotlight. All of the overjoyed reactions here and elsewhere are part of that plan.

One part of that Deadline article really stuck out to me.

[Highlighted Text: Deadline understands Gaiman’s offer is not an admission of wrongdoing...

Gaiman’s position is that he denies the allegations and is said to be disturbed by them.]

This is what makes me think that it is actively irresponsible to publicly celebrate or advocate for the continuation of any media project that involves or enriches Gaiman. The fact that Amazon has even announced that Good Omens is on hold shows the credibility of the accusations. And yet Gaiman leaking this information suddenly puts them on the backfoot. "Just take the deal!" cries the fandom. Neil is no longer the bad guy, it's Amazon who are now denying you your comfort show. It's blatant manipulation and it sickens me that it might actually work.

Boosting Good Omens or Sandman or Coraline at this time is not a victimless crime. True, no one person is going to be the difference between Gaiman facing consequences or not. But it's public opinion that will truly determine whether his legacy will be impacted. That's why he's spent a considerable amount of money on the same PR firm as Russell Brand, Prince Andrew, Danny Masterson, and Marilyn Manson. Their specialty is helping rapists get their lives back.

So please think of the long-term implications of breathing a sigh of relief and going back to posting about Good Omens, or signing a petition that gives Gaiman a way out of finally facing the consequences of his own actions.

Yes, none of these shows were 100% made by Gaiman. It sucks that this is going to affect people other than him. But maybe he shouldn't have chosen to sexually abuse at least 5 women and very likely more. In a just world, you fuck around and find out.

[mimi-0007]

Jennie Dean founder of “Manassas Industrial School for Colored Youth" Jennie Serepta Dean (1848–1913)

She was born a slave in northern Virginia’s Prince William County, but by the late 1880’s she finagled enough money from people like tycoon Andrew Carnegie to build an entire educational campus: classrooms, dormitories, dining halls, libraries and shops to teach both academic classes and trades like carpentry, animal husbandry, cooking and sewing to male and female black students from across the region, who had few other options for continuing their education.

Opened in 1894 with a small group of students and lasting in various forms until the original buildings were torn down in the 1960’s, Jennie Dean’s “Manassas Industrial School for Colored Youth” is testament to one woman’s determination and leadership. Her legacy lives on through the hundreds of students she touched, and their families.

What vision she had. What persistence in the face of extraordinary odds, from “ordinary” obstacles such as lack of money to the everyday insults of segregation and discrimination. What a gift she gave to so many generations of classes.

Frederick Douglass himself delivered the school’s dedication ceremony address in September, 1894. Here’s what he said, noting the location near major Civil War battles fought over whether people in certain states had the right to own slaves:

“No spot on the soil of Virginia could be more fitly chosen for planting this school….it is a place where the children of a once enslaved people may realize the blessings of liberty and education.”

Before they were torn down,the Manassas Industrial School buildings housed segregated classes during decades of Jim Crow.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andy L.

Published: Apr 14, 2024

It has now been just little under a week since the publication of the long anticipated NHS independent review of gender identity services for children and young people, the Cass Review.

The review recommends sweeping changes to child services in the NHS, not least the abandonment of what is known as the “affirmation model” and the associated use of puberty blockers and, later, cross-sex hormones. The evidence base could not support the use of such drastic treatments, and this approach was failing to address the complexities of health problems in such children.

Many trans advocacy groups appear to be cautiously welcoming these recommendations. However, there are many who are not and have quickly tried to condemn the review. Within almost hours, “press releases“, tweets and commentaries tried to rubbish the report and included statements that were simply not true. An angry letter from many “academics”, including Andrew Wakefield, has been published. These myths have been subsequently spreading like wildfire.

Here I wish to tackle some of those myths and misrepresentations.

-

Myth 1: 98% of all studies in this area were ignored

Fact

A comprehensive search was performed for all studies addressing the clinical questions under investigation, and over 100 were discovered. All these studies were evaluated for their quality and risk of bias. Only 2% of the studies met the criteria for the highest quality rating, but all high and medium quality (50%+) studies were further analysed to synthesise overall conclusions.

Explanation

The Cass Review aimed to base its recommendations on the comprehensive body of evidence available. While individual studies may demonstrate positive outcomes for the use of puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones in children, the quality of these studies may vary. Therefore, the review sought to assess not only the findings of each study but also the reliability of those findings.

Studies exhibit variability in quality. Quality impacts the reliability of any conclusions that can be drawn. Some may have small sample sizes, while others may involve cohorts that differ from the target patient population. For instance, if a study primarily involves men in their 30s, their experiences may differ significantly from those of teenage girls, who constitute the a primary patient group of interest. Numerous factors can contribute to poor study quality.

Bias is also a big factor. Many people view claims of a biased study as meaning the researchers had ideological or predetermined goals and so might misrepresent their work. That may be true. But that is not what bias means when we evaluate medical trials.

In this case we are interested in statistical bias. This is where the numbers can mislead us in some way. For example, if your study started with lots of patients but many dropped out then statistical bias may creep in as your drop-outs might be the ones with the worst experiences. Your study patients are not on average like all the possible patients.

If then we want to look at a lot papers to find out if a treatment works, we want to be sure that we pay much more attention to those papers that look like they may have less risk of bias or quality issues. The poor quality papers may have positive results that are due to poor study design or execution and not because the treatment works.

The Cass Review team commissioned researchers at York University to search for all relevant papers on childhood use of puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones for treating “gender dysphoria”. The researchers then graded each paper by established methods to determine quality, and then disregarded all low quality papers to help ensure they did not mislead.

The Review states,

The systematic review on interventions to suppress puberty (Taylor et al: Puberty suppression) provides an update to the NICE review (2020a). It identified 50 studies looking at different aspects of gender-related, psychosocial, physiological and cognitive outcomes of puberty suppression. Quality was assessed on a standardised scale. There was one high quality study, 25 moderate quality studies and 24 low quality studies. The low quality studies were excluded from the synthesis of results.

As can be seen, the conclusions that were based on the synthesis of studies only rejected 24 out of 50 studies – less than half. The myth has arisen that the synthesis only included the one high quality study. That is simply untrue.

There were two such literature reviews: the other was for cross-sex hormones. This study found 19 out of 53 studies were low quality and so were not used in synthesis. Only one study was classed as high quality – the rest medium quality and so were used in the analysis.

12 cohort, 9 cross-sectional and 32 pre–post studies were included (n=53). One cohort study was high-quality. Other studies were moderate (n=33) and low-quality (n=19). Synthesis of high and moderate-quality studies showed consistent evidence demonstrating induction of puberty, although with varying feminising/masculinising effects. There was limited evidence regarding gender dysphoria, body satisfaction, psychosocial and cognitive outcomes, and fertility.

Again, it is myth that 98% of studies were discarded. The truth is that over a hundred studies were read and appraised. About half of them were graded to be of too poor quality to reliably include in a synthesis of all the evidence. if you include low quality evidence, your over-all conclusions can be at risk from results that are very unreliable. As they say – GIGO – Garbage In Garbage Out.

Nonetheless, despite analysing the higher quality studies, there was no clear evidence that emerged that puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones were safe and effective. The BMJ editorial summed this up perfectly,

One emerging criticism of the Cass review is that it set the methodological bar too high for research to be included in its analysis and discarded too many studies on the basis of quality. In fact, the reality is different: studies in gender medicine fall woefully short in terms of methodological rigour; the methodological bar for gender medicine studies was set too low, generating research findings that are therefore hard to interpret. The methodological quality of research matters because a drug efficacy study in humans with an inappropriate or no control group is a potential breach of research ethics. Offering treatments without an adequate understanding of benefits and harms is unethical. All of this matters even more when the treatments are not trivial; puberty blockers and hormone therapies are major, life altering interventions. Yet this inconclusive and unacceptable evidence base was used to inform influential clinical guidelines, such as those of the World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH), which themselves were cascaded into the development of subsequent guidelines internationally.

-

Myth 2: Cass recommended no Trans Healthcare for Under 25s

Fact

The Cass Review does not contain any recommendation or suggestion advocating for the withholding of transgender healthcare until the age of 25, nor does it propose a prohibition on individuals transitioning.

Explanation

This myth appears to be a misreading of one of the recommendations.

The Cass Review expressed concerns regarding the necessity for children to transition to adult service provision at the age of 18, a critical phase in their development and potential treatment. Children were deemed particularly vulnerable during this period, facing potential discontinuity of care as they transitioned to other clinics and care providers. Furthermore, the transition made follow-up of patients more challenging.

Cass then says,

Taking account of all the above issues, a follow-through service continuing up to age 25 would remove the need for transition at this vulnerable time and benefit both this younger population and the adult population. This will have the added benefit in the longer-term of also increasing the capacity of adult provision across the country as more gender services are established.

Cass want to set up continuity of service provision by ensure they remain within the same clinical setting and with the same care providers until they are 25. This says nothing about withdrawing any form of treatment that may be appropriate in the adult care pathway. Cass is explicit in saying her report is making no recommendations as to what that care should look like for over 18s.

It looks the myth has arisen from a bizarre misreading of the phrase “remove the need for transition”. Activists appear to think this means that there should be no “gender transition” whereas it is obvious this is referring to “care transition”.

-

Myth 3: Cass is demanding only Double Blind Randomised Controlled Trials be used as evidence in “Trans Healthcare”

Fact

While it is acknowledged that conducting double-blind randomized controlled trials (DBRCT) for puberty blockers in children would present significant ethical and practical challenges, the Cass Review does not advocate solely for the use of DBRCT trials in making treatment recommendations, nor does it mandate that future trials adhere strictly to such protocols. Rather, the review extensively discusses the necessity for appropriate trial designs that are both ethical and practical, emphasizing the importance of maintaining high methodological quality.

Explanation

Cass goes into great detail explaining the nature of clinical evidence and how that can vary in quality depending on the trial design and how it is implemented and analysed. She sets out why Double Blind Randomised Controlled Trials are the ‘gold standard’ as they minimise the risks of confounding factors misleading you and helping to understand cause and effect, for example. (See Explanatory Box 1 in the Report).

Doctors rely on evidence to guide treatment decisions, which can be discussed with patients to facilitate informed choices considering the known benefits and risks of proposed treatments.

Evidence can range from a doctor’s personal experience to more formal sources. For instance, a doctor may draw on their own extensive experience treating patients, known as ‘Expert Opinion.’ While valuable, this method isn’t foolproof, as historical inaccuracies in medical beliefs have shown.

Consulting other doctors’ experiences, especially if documented in published case reports, can offer additional insight. However, these reports have limitations, such as their inability to establish causality between treatment and outcome. For example, if a patient with a bad back improves after swimming, it’s uncertain whether swimming directly caused the improvement or if the back would have healed naturally.

Further up the hierarchy of clinical evidence are papers that examine cohorts of patients, typically involving multiple case studies with statistical analysis. While offering better evidence, they still have potential biases and limitations.

This illustrates the ‘pyramid of clinical evidence,’ which categorises different types of evidence based on their quality and reliability in informing treatment decisions

The above diagram is published in the Cass Review as part of Explanatory Box 1.

We can see from the report and papers that Cass did not insist that only randomised controlled trials were used to assess the evidence. The York team that conducted the analyses chose a method to asses the quality of studies called the Newcastle Ottawa Scale. This is a method best suited for non RCT trials. Cass has selected an assessment method best suited for the nature of the available evidence rather than taken a dogmatic approach on the need for DBRCTs. The results of this method were discussed about countering Myth 1.

Explainer on the Newcastle Ottawa Scale

The Newcastle-Ottawa Scale (NOS) is a tool designed to assess the quality of non-randomized studies, particularly observational studies such as cohort and case-control studies. It provides a structured method for evaluating the risk of bias in these types of studies and has become widely used in systematic reviews and meta-analyses.

The NOS consists of a set of criteria grouped into three main categories: selection of study groups, comparability of groups, and ascertainment of either the exposure or outcome of interest. Each category contains several items, and each item is scored based on predefined criteria. The total score indicates the overall quality of the study, with higher scores indicating lower risk of bias.

This scale is best applied when conducting systematic reviews or meta-analyses that include non-randomized studies. By using the NOS, researchers can objectively assess the quality of each study included in their review, allowing them to weigh the evidence appropriately and draw more reliable conclusions.

One of the strengths of the NOS is its flexibility and simplicity. It provides a standardized framework for evaluating study quality, yet it can be adapted to different study designs and research questions. Additionally, the NOS emphasizes key methodological aspects that are crucial for reducing bias in observational studies, such as appropriate selection of study participants and controlling for confounding factors.

Another advantage of the NOS is its widespread use and acceptance in the research community. Many systematic reviews and meta-analyses rely on the NOS to assess the quality of included studies, making it easier for researchers to compare and interpret findings across different studies.

As for future studies, Cass makes no demand only DBRCTs are conducted. What is highlighted is at the very least that service providers build a research capacity to fill in the evidence gaps.

The national infrastructure should be put in place to manage data collection and audit and this should be used to drive continuous quality improvement and research in an active learning environment.

-

Myth 4: There were less than 10 detransitioners out of 3499 patients in the Cass study.

Fact

Cass was unable to determine the detransition rate. Although the GIDS audit study recorded fewer than 10 detransitioners, clinics declined to provide information to the review that would have enabled linking a child’s treatment to their adult outcome. The low recorded rates must be due in part to insufficient data availability.

Explanation

Cass says, “The percentage of people treated with hormones who subsequently detransition remains unknown due to the lack of long-term follow-up studies, although there is suggestion that numbers are increasing.”

The reported number are going to be low for a number of reasons, as Cass describes:

Estimates of the percentage of individuals who embark on a medical pathway and subsequently have regrets or detransition are hard to determine from GDC clinic data alone. There are several reasons for this:

Damningly, Cass describes the attempt by the review to establish “data linkage’ between records at the childhood gender clinics and adult services to look at longer term detransition and the clinics refused to cooperate with the Independent Review. The report notes the “…attempts to improve the evidence base have been thwarted by a lack of cooperation from the adult gender services”.

We know from other analyses of the data on detransitioning that the quality of data is exceptionally poor and the actual rates of detransition and regret are unknown. This is especially worrying when older data, such as reported in WPATH 7, suggest natural rates of decrease in dysphoria without treatment are very high.

Gender dysphoria during childhood does not inevitably continue into adulthood. Rather, in follow-up studies of prepubertal children (mainly boys) who were referred to clinics for assessment of gender dysphoria, the dysphoria persisted into adulthood for only 6–23% of children.

This suggests that active affirmative treatment may be locking in a trans identity into the majority of children who would otherwise desist with trans ideation and live unmedicated lives.

I shall add more myths as they become spread.

==

It's not so much "myths and misconceptions" as deliberate misinformation. Genderists are scrambling to prop up their faith-based beliefs the same way homeopaths do. Both are fraudulent.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Summer Breeze 6

Warnings: age gap (reader is 22, Andrew is mid 40s), dad’s friend, Andy being Andrew, other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

You sleep sitting up. Aside from the stiffness in your muscles, your stomach is gurgling from the greasy meal. The night fraught with worry and restlessness leaves your head even more cloudy than before. It’s real, you know it, and yet you just don’t want to accept it. 

The doctor comes after 8am. He checks your father’s vital and makes some notes on his chart. Andy asks about his condition as you can’t bring yourself to speak. He looks ragged and tired, you must not come off any better. 

“We’ll have to wait until he’s stable to make any further determination. We’ll need to test his cognizance along with his physical capabilities. The injury like has caused a TBI, meaning the effects will vary. He’ll need to be monitored well beyond his time here,” the doctor explains as Andy listens intently. You cling to every word but your mind is reeling. “Best to discuss what sort of therapies would be covered by insurance.” 

“Yeah, I figured,” Andy says, “thanks, doctor.” 

“Of course. You did a good job getting him here quickly,” the man in the white coat pauses and sends you definitive look, “keeping pressure on him. You both saved his life.” 

Your eyes sting and your nose burns. You can't cry. Not yet. Once you crack, you know that’s it. You won’t be able to stop. Your cheeks tug and you thank him, swallowing down the swell of horror.  

“Andy,” you eke out as the doctor leaves, “I couldn’t get through to my mom. Do you mind if I try again?” 

“Hm, I haven’t charged my phone,” he slides his cell from his pocket, “I’m at twelve percent. Could do the trick.” 

“Oh, maybe I could ask the nurse’s desk. I think I saw a patient phone around here.” 

“Good idea,” he nods. “I texted Jacob but I don’t think he has service up there. We’ll need to go grab some clothes so how about we do that today?” 

“I... I can’t leave my dad,” you insist. 

“Sweetheart, they said he’s going to be out for some time.” 

“He shouldn’t wake up alone,” you argue. 

“Alright,” he shows his palm appeasingly, “I’ll drive up, grab your stuff, and we’ll get everything else sorted when I get back.” 

“I can do this,” you avow, as much to yourself as him, “you’ve done enough.” 

“Right, I know, you’re a strong girl. But what do you do next? Once you talk to mom. You gotta call insurance, right? Do you have what they need? You’ll need the plan number, that’s probably in his wallet, right? You’ll at least need proof of ID. We brought him in in his trunks and nothing else. All that’s up at the cottage,” he shakes his head, “I don’t doubt you can handle it but a little help can’t hurt.” 

Your eyes widen and you sigh. You drag your hands down your cheek, “yeah...” 

“You can’t think of it all right now. That’s expected. You should worry about him. So I’ll deal with the details.” 

“Andy,” you utter, “I...” you look at your dad and get up, shuffling to his bedside. You take his hand, careful not to tug the tubes and tape, “I owe you.” 

“It’s what people do for each other, right? I’m a dad too. I know if anything happened to me, Jacob would be lost.” 

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” you crackle from your dry throat. 

“Try to rest if you can,” he sniffs and scratches his beard, “I’ll be quick. As quick as possible.” 

“Sure,” you squeeze your dad’s hand, barely hearing Andy. You just want him to wake up, or maybe you can wake up from this nightmare. 

🌅

You force yourself out of the room to ask the nurse about a phone. She points you towards a worn phone down a few halls meant for emergency calls. You punch in your mom’s number and wait for it to dial. It takes six tries for her to answer but you won’t give up this time. 

“Hey, what’s up?” She answers casually. 

You don’t answer right away. You can hear the lightness in her voice and the rustle of unknown movement. She’s busy with something or someone. Probably her latest fling. 

“Mom,” you scratch out, “it’s dad.” 

“What is it now? Tell me he’s not drank himself into the tank again. He’s too old for that.” 

“Mom,” you say firmer than before, “mom, he’s hurt.” 

“Hurt. Well, call the paramedics, I don’t know,” she giggles and you sigh. 

“We’re at the hospital,” you raise your voice, “he’s... he’s not awake. He hit his head. And I... I’m scared.” 

She’s silent. You hear her move around and she excuses herself. A door clicks on her end and she scoffs, “well, what do you want me to do about it? He’s your father.” 

You’re stunned by her callous response. 

“And I’m your daughter,” you insist, “what... you should...” you shake your head and deflate. “Well, mom,” your voice cracks, “I’m sorry I interrupted fun for something so stupid as this.” 

“Honey, please, I’m a bit shocked is all,” she squeaks, “I mean what can I do from so far away. For my ex-husband of all people? You’re an adult. You need to learn how to handle these things.” 

“Gee, thanks, mom,” you sneer and slam the phone on the hook. 

You don’t know why you expected any different. You’re not at her house because she told you plainly that she didn’t want you spoiling her fun. She gave up trying to be a parent the minute you turned eighteen. 

You roll your eyes back against a new wave of tears; these one angry. You guess you just need to grow up. It’s your turn to take care of your dad. 

[fic-over-cannon]

Strawberry Pie

jason todd x gn!reader

summary: you spend a lazy morning finishing baking the pie that Jason started

tags: kissing, fluff, domestic jason todd

rated teen | wc: 1.1k

a/n: a loosely inspired song fic. can be read as a future scene from A Soft Touch or as a standalone. just wanted something light and fluffy and was possessed with the urge for pie so here it is.

It’s warm this morning, but there’s a cool cross-breeze coming in through the open window. It’s not late enough in the spring to start turning on the AC yet, the breeze currently lifting the sheer curtains enough to keep the apartment fresh. You reach over to the empty side of the bed, let your hand bunch up into a fist before pushing yourself upright and out of bed. Jason had told you, between parting kisses, that he’d be late coming home, the planned stakeout likely to go on until noon. You’d expected this, unworried by his absence but still secretly hoping he’d have returned safe to you.

You make yourself a cup of tea and drink it leaning against the countertop, the Formica countertop digging into the small of your back, the thin cotton of your tank top barely blunting the edge. Feeling hungry, you go looking for breakfast ingredients in the fridge. There’s a note from Jason, stuck to the top of the strawberries you’d bought at the farmer’s market yesterday. For pie, do not eat! signed off with a little heart and smiley face. A few shelves down is the pie dough, covered in plastic wrap and exactly where Jason had left it, in a hurry to follow up on the lead his lieutenant had called in.

It’s a lazy Saturday morning, time stretching out in front of you. You pull out the dough and berries, set them onto the counter. Go rummaging through Jason’s box of recipe cards, one of his last keepsakes from his mother and added to by Alfred, until you can find the one for strawberry pie. The recipe is easy enough, Jason having done all the hard work of making the dough.

You start by turning on the radio, an old analogue thing that Jason had been determined to fix by himself, and setting the oven to preheat. The strawberries go into a colander, washed and ready for slicing. You pop one into your mouth and it just about bursts on your tongue, bright and sweet like sunshine. They’re smaller than the kind you can buy at the grocery store, seeds more prominent and scent stronger. It’s a shame that these wild strawberries are only available a few months of the year but it makes them that much sweeter. Humming, you slice through the quart of berries, juice staining your fingertips. Put them in a bowl with cornstarch and sugar, a dash of lemon juice to finish.

Turning to the dough, you start rolling half out onto the floured countertop. It fits into the pie dish Jason had brought back from one of his missions almost perfectly, only a few hanging edges in need of trimming. Feeling adventurous, you decide to braid some of the lattice work for the top. It comes out a little lopsided, but it’s a good first attempt. Fingers pinching, the fluted edge of the pie takes shape. A light hand with the egg wash and a sprinkle of Demerara sugar later and it’s done. You step back to admire your work. It makes a pretty picture, the pie on the marbled countertop, white tulips in a vase from your one foray into pottery, mid-morning sun bright and white through the kitchen windows.

The pie goes into the oven, and you start cleaning up the evidence of your morning’s activities. The dishes go into the washer, the countertop wiped clean, leftover berries into your stomach. So engrossed in your tasks, you don’t hear the door open or the duffel bag hit the floor of the entryway. Arms circle around you, pick you up and spin you in a circle. Jason sets you down, buries his face in your neck.

“Something smells good,” he murmurs into your hair. And it does, the air filled with the scent of golden pastry and roasting strawberries.

“It should. I’ve been working away on that pie all morning.”

“Thought that was my job.” He tries to pout, but you swat at his hip with the dish towel. The timer on the oven goes off, interrupting the moment.

“Well that,” and you gesture at the oven, “can be your job now.”

He accepts his new job with minimal pouting, scooping up the bee-patterned oven mitts and taking out the pie. It’s perfect, golden with rich red juice bubbling through the lattice work. Steam rises off the top in a way that’s got both of your mouths watering. Jason reaches out to pinch off a piece of crust with his bare hand, but you swat his hands away before he can burn his fingers.

“Not yet! It’s got to cool first Jay.” Looking him over, you finally catch on that he’s still got his jacket on and fully zipped up, despite the warm day. He only ever does that when his shirt’s got bloodstains on it. “Go on, take a shower. By the time you’re done the pie’ll be ready and you can have some for breakfast.”

Jokingly holding his hands up in surrender, he starts heading for the bathroom. “Okay, okay, I’m going!”

“Oh and don’t forget to throw anything bloody into the washer, not the laundry basket! I want to run the next load before the stain really sets in this time,” you call over your shoulder. Last time Jason had left it too long, had ended up having to throw away a previous favourite shirt when neither of your combined efforts had gotten the dried blood spatter out.

He makes a noise of assent and you get busy unloading the dishwasher as you can hear the spray of the shower turn on, leaving out two small plates beside the pie. Some forks, a large knife, and an ice cream scoop join them on the counter. You’re just getting the ice cream out of the freezer, the expensive kind with real vanilla beans that Jason splurges on, when he walks back into the kitchen. He hasn’t dried his hair properly, a habit you haven’t gotten him to break in all the time you’ve known each other and grown to just accept.

You hand the knife over to him with a careful kiss, let him carve up slices for the both of you, hands sure and steady. You’re struggling with the ice cream, frozen solid and unwilling to be scooped. Jason notices, gently nudges you out of the way with his hip and takes over, depositing two perfect spheres of ice cream on top of each slice of pie.

Picking up a fork, you feed him the first bite, hand cupped below it to catch any droplets of ice cream. He closes his eyes, goes silent for a moment. You start to get worried that somehow you’ve messed it up, maybe mixed up the salt with the sugar but you were sure it had tasted just fine when you’d licked the filling syrup off of your wrist.

“So? What do you think?”

He smiles before opening his eyes. “I think it tastes like home.”

[fafnir19]

The Hamptons Diary

Loris sat in the glow of his computer screen, the frenetic sounds of gunshots and explosions filling his small apartment. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight.

His neighbors Andrew and Dean, a gay couple in their late forties, tossed and turned in their adjacent apartment, unable to sleep amidst the cacophony of Loris' late-night gaming. Suddenly, the sound of pounding fists echoed through the thin walls. Loris paused the game and sighed, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before Andrew and Dean barged in. "Can you keep it down, Loris? We're trying to sleep here," Andrew's stern voice reverberated through the door. "Yeah, seriously, Loris. It's the middle of the night," Dean added, his voice laden with exhaustion. Loris opened the door, revealing himself to be unkempt, his blond hair disheveled and his once-bright blue eyes weary and bloodshot. He mumbled an apology as a single tear trickled down his cheek. "What's wrong, Loris?" Dean's tone softened slightly, concern flickering in his eyes. "I lost my job, okay? I don't know what to do. I feel useless," Loris choked out, his voice laced with defeat. Andrew and Dean exchanged a glance, the reality of Loris' struggles sinking in. They offered their sympathies before leaving, but the tension lingered in the air like an unspoken plea for help. The nightly pattern of gaming and sleepless neighbors continued for weeks, taking a toll on Andrew and Dean. Andrew, with important business meetings on the horizon, could no longer tolerate the disturbances. "We can't go on like this, Dean. I need my rest for these meetings," Andrew voiced his frustration, weary lines etched on his face. Dean, with a thoughtful expression, suggested a temporary solution. "Remember our friend in the Hamptons? We inherited his house. Loris could look after it for us, spruce things up a bit. We could even pay him for it, give him something to focus on." Andrew hesitated, skeptical of entrusting Loris with such responsibility. "You know how disorganized Loris is. Can he handle it? And I've never liked him, you know that," he remarked, his apprehension evident. After some debate, Andrew begrudgingly agreed, swayed by Dean's kindness and the hope of peaceful nights ahead.

Dean drove Loris to the opulent oceanfront home in the Hamptons, the fresh sea breeze offering a stark contrast to the urban clamor left behind. Loris gazed wide-eyed at the sprawling property, feeling a sense of peace wash over him. "Thank you, Dean. I'll take care of the house, I promise," Loris assured, a glimmer of determination in his eyes. Dean patted Loris on the shoulder before heading back to the city, leaving Loris to the tranquil expanse of the Hamptons estate. Days passed, and Loris reveled in his newfound solitude, though the pristine beauty of the house soon mirrored the chaos of his city apartment. Used dishes littered the kitchen, and dust settled on every surface. Amidst the clutter, Loris stumbled upon a weathered diary, its pages yellowed with age. Intrigued, Loris began to read, realizing that the diary belonged to Tom, likely the previous owner's companion.

Loris sat cross-legged on the floor, a pool of moonlight around him as he pored over the aged diary. Dust motes danced in the air, and the distant crash of waves against the shore provided a soothing backdrop. The pages crackled as he turned them, each revealing more of Tom's intriguing life. Scribbles and smudges adorned the once pristine pages, speaking of Tom's dedication to exercising, grooming, and housekeeping. A humorous snort escaped Loris as he read about Tom's relentless efforts. With a shake of his head, he thought, "This guy was really something." Holding the diary closer to his face, Loris continued reading by the flickering light of an old candle. He marveled at the meticulous routines Tom adhered to, his neat handwriting leaving no detail untold. Loris couldn't help but chuckle at the pages filled with anecdotes about Tom's wardrobe and preppy attire. As the nights bled into each other, Loris found himself unconsciously mimicking Tom's habits. He'd rise before dawn to jog along the beach, pamper himself with regular grooming sessions, and maintain the house with an almost obsessive zeal.

And when he slipped into Tom's preppy clothes for the first time, a shiver ran down his spine, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his body. Days turned into weeks, and Loris was a changed man. His previously disheveled appearance had given way to a chiseled physique and impeccable grooming. At night, the house practically sparkled under his diligent care. One evening, Loris stood before a full-length mirror, clad in Tom's preppy clothes. As he admired his reflection, a new sense of confidence surged within him. The realization struck him like a lightning bolt - he looked like a gay wet dream.

A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he let out a low, satisfied hum. The thought surprised him, but he couldn't deny the thrill that coursed through him. Lost in his thoughts, Loris barely noticed Dean's arrival at the beach house.

As Dean stepped into the luxurious oceanfront home in the Hamptons, he couldn't help but feel a jolt of surprise at the sight before him. Loris, once unkempt and disheveled, now stood before him as an enigmatic and adorable young man. Dean's eyebrows shot up in astonishment as he struggled to process the drastic transformation. "Loris, what... how did this happen?" Dean's voice quivered with disbelief. Loris grinned, exuding a newfound confidence that seemed to radiate from every pore. "I found Tom's diary," he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Dean's heart sank as he realized what that meant. He thought the cursed diary was long gone, destroyed to prevent its sinister influence from spreading. The possessive and jealous former homeowner had given it to his lover, Tom, in a twisted attempt to bind him and transform him into a trophy boy against his will. And now, it seemed that Loris had unknowingly fallen prey to the same fate. Dean's expression darkened, his voice barely above a horrified whisper. "Loris, that diary is cursed. It forces its owner to become a trophy boy, against their will. We need to destroy it, before it's too late." He watched Loris carefully, praying that he hadn't been fully ensnared by the diary's enchantment. Loris' eyes widened in shock as he processed Dean's words. "I-I'm the victim of a spell?" His voice trembled with uncertainty. For a moment, it seemed that the confident facade he'd adopted was beginning to crack.

But then, to Dean's profound dismay, Loris let out a laugh that chilled him to the bone. "The spell is good!" Loris exclaimed, his tone betraying an unsettling fervor. "I used to be undisciplined and unkempt - and look at me now. The magic makes me better! Plus, I like the way you look at me lustfully, even if I'm not gay!" Dean's heart sank as he realized the depth of the diary's hold on Loris. "But Loris, you don't understand. You'll become a trophy boy, against your will. You'll be forced to submit to someone else's desires, to become something you're not." His voice shook with urgency as he tried to reason with Loris, to break through the spell's intoxicating allure. To his astonishment, Loris's expression transformed into one of unnerving determination. "It isn't against my will anymore," he insisted, his words firm and unwavering. Dean felt a surge of helplessness as he confronted the stark reality before him. It was clear that Loris had embraced the changes wrought by the cursed diary, despite the dangers that lurked beneath its enticing facade. Desperation gnawed at Dean's insides as he grappled with the enormity of the situation. As the weight of their predicament settled upon him, Dean realized that breaking the spell would be an uphill battle. But for Loris's sake, he knew he couldn't simply give up.

Dean drove back to the city from the Hamptons, a sense of urgency gnawing at him. He weaved through traffic, determined to tell Andrew about the cursed diary and Loris's transformation. As he burst through the front door, he found Andrew in the living room, engrossed in his laptop. "Andrew, we have to break the spell!" Dean exclaimed, rushing over to Andrew. Andrew lifted his gaze from the screen. "Dean, what are you talking about? What spell?" Dean quickly recounted how Loris had discovered the cursed diary in the Hamptons, and how it had changed him drastically. "We have to find a way to undo this. It's not right, Andrew." Andrew's eyes widened, and he leaned in, "Let's do it. We'll figure out how to break this curse." A week later, Loris returned from the Hamptons. As he stepped into the living room, Andrew's breath caught in his throat. Loris stood there, transformed into an adorable young man. His previously disheveled appearance was replaced with a preppy and well-groomed look.

"Wow," Andrew murmured under his breath, unable to tear his eyes away from Loris. Dean shot a pleading look at Andrew. "We have to do something, Andrew. Loris is becoming a trophy boy against his will." However, as Andrew stared at Loris, he found himself charmed by the young man. "Dean, I don't think I can help you," Andrew said softly. "What? But Andrew, this is not right," Dean protested. Andrew's eyes softened as he looked at Loris. "He's the son I never thought I wanted. I can't help you, Dean. I'm sorry." The realization hit Dean hard. He had lost this battle. He resigned himself to his fate as Loris's second gay father, feeling helpless in the face of the enchantment that had captured Loris. Weeks passed, and Andrew and Dean rallied to support Loris. They made it possible for him to study at the best university in the country, providing him with everything he needed for his education and well-being.

Loris flourished under their care, embracing his new life as a well-groomed and preppy young man. In the end, Loris was happier than ever. He found comfort in the care and attention he received from Andrew and Dean, feeling like he had finally found a place where he belonged. The once unkempt and lost Loris had transformed into a young man who exuded confidence and joy. As the days went by, laughter and warmth filled the walls of the house. It echoed with the sounds of Andrew and Loris joking and sharing stories, while Dean looked on with a warm smile. Despite the circumstances that had led to this unusual family dynamic, there was an unspoken bond that tied them together. Loris had found a new sense of purpose and belonging, and Andrew and Dean had welcomed him into their lives with open arms. Though the cursed diary had brought about unexpected changes, it had also led to an unlikely but loving family forming in the beautiful house in the Hamptons.

[bellaxgiornata]

You're Safe With Me [Chapter One]

Pairing: Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

Summary: When you accidentally stumble upon something far bigger than the fluff and filler news stories you’ve always covered for WGN News Chicago, you reach out to the Department of Homeland Security and come in contact with Dinah Madani–but that only seals your fate as a target for the Patriot Militia and their wealthy political backers. Determined to root out the culprits deep within the government, Madani tasks an unlikely person to keep you safe while she builds her case. But when the person she expects you to go on the run with is Frank Castle–the Punisher himself–you feel anything but safe.

Warnings: 18+; series contains violence, mentions of mass shootings, angst and comfort, slow burn romance, enemies to lovers, eventual smut

Word Count: 5k

a/n: Sharing the first chapter of this fic! There's a bit of exposition at the beginning, just a heads up, but it's all important information. I'm really excited about this series and feedback is certainly appreciated!! Chapter list can be found here.

Tag List: @lunaticgurly @allaboardthereadingrailroad @linamarr @hollandorks @sleeperthelazy @marcysbear (tagging everyone who initially asked, please let me know if you want to be removed)

Today had started off as almost any normal day at WGN Chicago for you. You'd been at your desk working on piecing together a news segment detailing the upcoming construction in the city this morning, rushing to meet a deadline for Gloria. It was a terribly boring piece, one that had been tossed around the station until it had eventually landed on your desk. Having stared at that filler piece more times than you’d have liked, you had found yourself already on your second cup of coffee for the morning, a headache pounding in your head that you hoped to relieve with the extra caffeine. 

But while you had been at your desk working, you'd received a call from a number you hadn't recognized on your phone. Maybe it was foolish that you'd answered that call and talked to whoever it was on the other end of the line, but it wasn't entirely unusual considering your line of work. You often had sources calling you with information about something. But you'd thought that their very enthusiastic invite to a Patriot Militia rally in a small town just outside of the city was incredibly strange. Your curiosity had admittedly been piqued as you jotted down the address, wondering why a group dangerously close to being deemed domestic terrorists had actively sought out attention from WGN News–and from you in particular considering you weren't remotely a big name reporter at the station. After you'd gotten off the phone with whoever it was that had called, you'd made a few calls to verify the rally was legitimate before bringing it to Gloria’s attention. 

Of course, like any good boss when it came to covering potentially dangerous stories, she'd instantly rejected the idea. She'd told you it wasn't safe and it smelled like danger– especially because it was being held on private property and because there would definitely be guns present. It was, after all, the Patriot Militia. You had practically begged her to let you head out there this afternoon with just Andrew to film so you could cover whatever it was that was happening with this rally. You figured if someone had gone through the trouble to invite you then there had to be a story there, and you were desperate to make your way out of the filler and fluff pieces. Eventually Gloria had caved and given you permission, but only with the promise that you'd leave if things seemed like they were getting out of hand.

Knowing what you now knew, you wished you wouldn’t have gone at all. You wished you hadn't gotten involved.

Everyone at the rally had been surprisingly friendly to you and Andrew, though. Nothing had seemed remotely suspicious or out of the ordinary, and you were shocked to find that you hadn't felt threatened in the slightest despite the fact that everyone was heavily armed. Even more unexpected than that, considering your presence had apparently been a surprise, even if a welcome one, was that everyone you had interviewed had been willing to make statements to the press for the piece you were putting together. 

But what you hadn't expected when Andrew was packing up his camera equipment was that you’d overhear a conversation behind one of the tents as you'd finished getting a last minute statement. 

You had almost immediately recognized the voice of Adam Johnson, a Republican running in the upcoming senate elections. Curious, you'd paused and leant up against the tent, pretending to be focused on your notes as you turned the audio recorder in your pocket back on. When you realized exactly what he was discussing with a few other men in hushed voices, your eyes had gone wide. 

You worked in the media yourself, even if you weren't much of an investigative reporter at the station quite yet, so of course you’d heard all about the mass shooting at a mall in Schaumburg only days ago. Fifteen injured and three dead. But it wasn’t the police that had arrived on the scene and gotten the situation under control, it had been a civilian with a concealed carry that had stepped up and taken charge. He’d shot the suspect on sight and killed him. It had been all over the news after the fact, and the civilian who'd stepped up and killed the shooter had been touted as a local hero. 

But from what you had gathered while you’d stood there silently eavesdropping on the hushed conversation, you’d learned the shooting hadn't been perpetrated by an ordinary young man like the news had been reporting. He'd been a member of the Patriot Militia, one who'd willingly played martyr for the cause. The whole thing had been orchestrated as a way to sway public opinion on guns. And as you continued to eavesdrop, you'd begun to learn what happened in Schaumburg hadn’t been the first time they had done this. The shooting that you’d seen in the news only a month ago out near Columbus, Ohio had been brought up among the group, and they’d also name-dropped a Glen Allen, Virginia, though that name hadn’t rung any bells in your mind for any recent incidents.

From what you’d gathered, it sounded like not only was the Patriot Militia behind these mass shootings where armed civilians had taken out the shooter–who also happened to be a Patriot Militia member–but these attacks had begun to sound far more like terrorist attacks, and it seemed like they were being quietly led by prominent political figures who were proudly anti-gun control across the country. 

Clearly you had accidentally stumbled on something you weren’t meant to hear at that rally, and it had made you wonder if the stranger who’d called and invited you out to it that morning had hoped you’d uncover this. Especially since you had been the only member of the press present at the private event.

Your heart had been furiously hammering in your chest when you’d slipped your phone out of your pocket, readying it for a quick, inconspicuous photo. Ducking your head, you’d walked past that tent and snapped a single, quick picture of the group of men you’d been recording, knowing that whatever you'd overheard was proof the Patriot Militia was in fact a domestic terrorist group. News that you needed to take far above WGN and straight to the proper authorities.  

You’d thought you’d been in the clear when you and Andrew had left the rally without a single problem, too. You were driving a little faster than usual, trying to rush straight back to the station, your eyes repeatedly flickering to the rearview mirror as you drove. Though no one had followed you from the rally.

Back at the station, you’d immediately sought out Gloria in her office and relayed everything you’d overheard. The two of you had huddled over her desk as you replayed the recording you’d taken, Gloria’s face only looking more and more grim as she listened. Afterwards, you’d pulled up the photo on your phone and–despite the attempt to hide their identities with hats and sunglasses–the pair of you had quickly recognized the politicians Adam Johnson, Eric Bane, and Daniel Carpenter who were speaking to Elijah Wolf–the man who ran the Patriot Militia. 

Gloria had immediately retrieved the number for the Department of Homeland Security, which she had scribbled on a piece of paper and slid across her desk to you with a trembling hand. She’d urged you to call them immediately and you had. 

That was how you’d been put into contact with an Agent Dinah Madani who seemed quick to act the moment you’d spoken to her and explained what you had uncovered. She’d stayed on the line with you while you uploaded the audio file and the cell phone photo, sending them to the secure email address she’d given you. And then she’d continued to stay on the line with you while she listened to the recording, a nervous churning beginning in your stomach as she did. Afterwards she told you to make a copy of both pieces of evidence and to hold onto it, sit tight, and keep your head down. Before ending the call, she had given you her personal cell phone number in the event anything else came up or in case something more happened.

And, unfortunately, something did.

Sitting at your kitchen table, you’d been quietly eating your reheated leftovers for dinner. Chewing a bite of the pasta, your eyes were meticulously scanning over the news articles from the day on your phone. Nothing in the media had mentioned a single thing about the Patriot Militia rally or a shooting in Glen Allen, Virgina, though. As your eyes continued to skim over the day’s news, your hand absently twirling pasta noodles around your fork, you heard a noise coming from the side of your house. 

Your hand froze mid-twirl of the fettuccine noodles, your breath entirely catching in your throat as your eyes widened. Distinctly you could make out the hushed tone of voices just outside. Carefully setting the fork back into your bowl, you rose to your feet and slipped your phone back into your pocket, making your way towards the window above your kitchen sink. Nervously you reached a hand out and peeked through the blinds. Two men dressed in all black, both carrying guns in their hands, were sneaking around by your garbage bins along the side of your house. 

Fear struck you like ice in your veins and you quickly lurched backwards, releasing the blinds. Your heart began to beat just as rapidly as it had done earlier this afternoon when you’d snapped that photo and tried to disappear from the rally without raising suspicion. 

The men outside had to be related to the Patriot Militia. But why? If they’d known what you’d discovered today–what you’d recorded–why wouldn’t they have done something before you could leave that rally? Why would they show up at your house later at night and have given you all that time to alert the federal authorities about them?

In a panic, you flew from the kitchen as quietly as you could, racing down the hallway and towards your bedroom. Keeping the lights off, you pulled open your closet door before kneeling down and digging around in the corner of it. Eventually your hands landed on the duffle bag you occasionally used as a carry on when you traveled. Barely paying attention to what you grabbed, you began tossing handfuls of clothing into the bag, stuffing a few bras and pairs of underwear from your dresser inside before you snatched your wallet from your purse on the bed. Cautiously tip-toeing back to your dresser, you grabbed the flash drive you had transferred the photo and audio recording to the moment you'd gotten home from off of it, adding that to the few things you’d packed. 

The moment you’d finished zipping up your bag, you heard the faint squeak of your back door opening and you stopped, your body becoming completely still. Whoever those men were, they were in your house now. And that had the hairs on your arms raising.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you tried to stay calm. Leaving out your front or back door was no longer an option now that they were in your house–you’d have to pass them to reach one of those exits and that was not something you wanted to do. Eyes darting to your bedroom window above your dresser, you knew you had no other choice. 

You reached your hands out, pushing the curtains back as silently as possible. Biting down on your tongue, you unlocked the window latches next before slowly beginning to push the window up. You could make out more hushed voices coming from your living room and you swore you'd stopped breathing while you worked. Continuing to push the window up, you winced when it made a soft noise as it slid upwards, breaking the silence in your bedroom. Thankfully neither of the men came running down the hall to your room at the faint noise, though.

Leaning over your dresser, you peered outside and checked that no one was lingering out front before tossing your bag outside. You heard it land with a soft thud on the grass. Climbing carefully up onto your dresser beneath the window, you thanked whatever higher power existed that the windows in your house were wide enough for you to comfortably climb through right now. 

Awkwardly you maneuvered around on top of the dresser, turning and placing your legs out of the window one at a time. Slowly you began to slide your body through it. It wasn’t until you were almost halfway out of the window that you heard the shout, your bedroom lights turning on and taking you by surprise. Looking over your shoulder, you caught sight of one of the men dressed in all black standing there, a black ski mask covering his face and the gun still in his hand. Your stomach felt like it almost flew up out of your mouth at the burst of fear and adrenaline that immediately shot through you.

“She’s climbing out of the window!” the man shouted. “Go out the front!”

Terrified, you’d pushed yourself the rest of the way through, tumbling down the short drop and ungracefully landing on the ground. You scrambled to your feet as fast as you could, grabbing your duffle bag before glancing over your shoulder to be met with the sight of a gun pointed right at you. With a shriek, you darted to the side and took off at a run down the sidewalk, your legs protesting the movement as your lungs began to burn. 

You kept on running, adrenaline pushing you forward as you neared the corner of the street. Chancing a look behind you, you spotted both men standing in your driveway staring straight at you. Though neither of them were chasing after you. 

You didn’t give yourself time to wonder why as you continued running, trying to make your way back towards the downtown of the suburb you lived in where you hoped you’d be safe among the crowds of people. The moment you were, you’d be calling Agent Madani and praying she had some way to keep you safe.

°•°•°•°•°•°

Leaning an elbow along the bar counter, Frank drank down the cold beer in his hand. His eyes lingered on the country band currently on the stage in the roadhouse, listening to the music they were playing with a faint smile pulling up one corner of his lips. It was the reason he’d meandered his way over here from the motel next door. He’d heard the music on his walk over to the room he’d paid for, having been ready to settle in for the night after the long day of driving he'd been doing. He was exhausted and his body ached from sitting in the van for hours. Inevitably the music pouring out of Lola's Roadhouse next door had drawn him like a moth to a flame before he'd even managed to unlock the door to his room.

The pretty brunette behind the bar counter he'd spotted when he stepped inside was just an added bonus, too. Frank had surprisingly found he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from her every time he ordered a new beer, though he hadn’t made any attempt to flirt. It was something he’d become aware of lately ever since he’d left New York. He’d been noticing women more–not that he never had before, but ever since–

He drew the beer bottle back up to his lips, taking a long pull. He didn’t want to think about that.

“How’s about I get a pint and one for you, too?”

Frank swallowed down his beer, his eyes still focused straight ahead as he heard yet another inebriated patron hitting on the woman. That was the sixth one he’d heard this evening since he’d stopped in here.

“Thanks man, I’ll grab it later,” the bartender told him.

“Oh come on,” the man behind Frank said, his voice grating on his nerves already, “why not grab it now?”

“I don’t drink when I’m working,” she replied in a clipped tone. 

“Well if I’m giving you my eight dollars, I’d at least like you to have a drink with me,” the man continued.

Frank’s hand gripped tighter around the neck of his beer bottle, his jaw clenching as he tried to focus on the music playing. He was not going to get involved. He was laying low and he’d be leaving in the morning. This didn’t concern him.

“And why’s that?” she huffed out.

“I think you’re a good lookin’ woman,” the man replied, trying to sound all charm. “And I want to see how far down those tattoos go.”

Frank’s eyes slowly closed, his teeth grinding against each other. Couldn’t this man take a ‘no’ the first time around? He hated assholes like these.

“Plenty of other women here with tattoos,” she answered, setting what sounded like a glass on the counter behind him.

“Oh come on,” the man pressed. 

To Frank’s ears, it sounded like the man had reached across the bar counter when he'd spoken, and when Frank’s head shifted just a bit over his shoulder, he noticed the man indeed had a grip on the brunette’s wrist. Anger slowly began to smolder in Frank’s gut at the sight as the woman tried to pull her arm out of his grip.

“At least give me your name or a number,” the man pushed.

Trying to keep his temper under control, Frank turned and rested his back against the bar counter, knocking a fist against it lightly three times. The gesture caught the man’s attention and Frank’s intrusion quickly cut off whatever the woman had been starting to say, but his focus was on the asshole still grabbing her wrist.

“Hey, the lady is tryin’ to work,” Frank pointed out, trying to keep his tone casual and calm despite the anger he felt begging for a release. “You expect her to keep pourin’ drinks while your holding her arm like that? Let her go.”

The man made a show of releasing her wrist, the brunette shooting Frank a once-over before she walked past him behind the bar to continue pouring beers. Frank muttered an offhand ‘thank you’ to the asshole, trying hard not to cause a problem as he focused back on the band–because he was supposed to be staying out of trouble. 

But he could feel the asshole’s eyes still on him.

“What a skank.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed just a bit, his head shifting back towards the man a fraction. “That’s real classy, man,” he shot back.

The inebriated man beside him rose from his bar stool, his eyes still on Frank. “You say something to me?” he asked, trying to sound intimidating as he closed the space between them.

“Yeah,” Frank answered simply, turning further towards him.

The man reached out, placing two fingers against Frank’s chest before he roughly pushed them against him. Frank's eyes lowered to the man's hand, staring at it as the guy used those same two fingers to push against his chest a second time. 

"You just made my night, dumbass," the man said, his two fingers pushing against Frank's chest for a third time.

Eyes rising back up towards the man's face, Frank's right hand casually swung up and grabbed the man's fingers in his grip. With a sharp twist he heard the sound of finger bones snapping over the sound of the band playing. Instantly the man cried out, doubling over in pain as Frank tossed the man's hand back at him.

"You sure 'bout that?" Frank asked.

Clutching his injured left hand to his chest, the man straightened and reached out, picking up a beer bottle from the bar counter beside him. In a single, swift movement he'd smashed it against the counter, beer and glass splattering everywhere. 

"Come on now," Frank warned him. "Don't do that."

The drunk took one step forward, ready to lunge at Frank with the smashed bottle raised in his hand, but the roadhouse bouncer came up behind him before he could get any further. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisting the broken bottle from his grip before he shoved the man over the bar counter, keeping his good arm trapped behind his back. With the man incapacitated, the bouncer focused on Frank as he spoke.

"You've got two options," he told Frank. "Either you leave, or I kick your ass out with this asshole."

"Hey, Ringo," the brunette behind the bar cut in, her voice briefly catching Frank's attention. "He's good. He was just helping me out."

The bouncer known as Ringo eyed her for a moment longer before Frank saw him give the woman a quick nod. He pulled the man off of the counter, leading him towards the exit without another glance at Frank. Though Frank’s eyes watched as they went, following to make sure the man didn't cause any more trouble as he clutched his injured hand to his chest.

"I deal with assholes like that every damn night," the bartender said.

Frank’s focus shifted from Ringo and the asshole he was dragging outside to the woman eyeing him up on the other side of the counter. Gradually Frank turned fully towards her, resting both of his hands on the bar and contemplating another beer after all of that or whether he should just head back to his motel and call it a night. 

"You shouldn't have to," he told her. "'S'not right."

Her eyes lingered on him, a slow smile sliding across her lips. Making a quick decision, he'd been about to ask if he could trouble her for another drink, maybe this time while getting her name, but the phone in his jacket pocket began to vibrate. Brows curiously drawing together, he glanced down towards the noise before reaching a hand inside of his jacket, pulling it out. 

Who the hell would've been calling him on this phone? He'd picked it up shortly after he'd left New York. To his knowledge, only two people had the number.

Looking down at the series of numbers on the screen, confusion further spread across his features. It was Agent Madani's number. But why the hell would she be calling him? She'd made it quite clear that if he crossed her path again, she'd be arresting him. 

Frank glanced up, about to tell the bartender he needed to take the call, but she'd already wandered off to help another patron. With a sigh he slid his finger across the screen before holding it up to his ear.

"Yeah?" he asked into it.

"Castle, it's Agent Madani," the woman's voice immediately came over the line. 

"Figured as much," Frank replied, his focus on the damp bar counter before him. "Wasn't expecting a call from you. Am I already in trouble, Madani?" 

"No," she answered him quickly. "I actually need a favor. A…big one."

Frank's eyes narrowed curiously as he heard the tension in her voice. What could a federal Homeland Security agent need from him? 

"And what's that?" he asked carefully.

Madani loosed a deep sigh that was loud enough for Frank to catch over the music still playing in the roadhouse. Her apprehension was only increasing his curiosity.

"I need you to protect someone," she said after a moment. "They've…accidentally stumbled on something and now they're in danger."

"You got federal agents for that, Madani," Frank pointed out.

"Yeah, well," she continued slowly, "I don't exactly know who I can trust with this here."

Frank pushed away from the bar counter, maneuvering his way through the crowd of people dancing and enjoying the band. A few of them shot him strange looks as he moved between them but he ignored it. The closer to the roadhouse exit he got, the better he could hear Madani over all the noise. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Frank asked. "And what's that got to do with me?"

"There's a woman who came to me earlier today," Madani explained. "She's a reporter for a news station out in Chicago and she accidentally stumbled on something huge. As in national security huge. It's something that involves high profile politicians–we’re talking wealthy, big names here. It's–it's going to be a massive scandal once this surfaces, but I need to keep her alive. I'm trying to assemble a case but I need her witness testimony with the evidence she brought me."

"Yeah? What's that gotta do with me?" he asked her again.

“She was at a Patriot Militia rally today,” Madani continued. “I don’t have to tell you who they are, do I?”

Frank leant up against the wall near the exit, his eyes on the pretty bartender pouring a beer. “Bunch of crazy activists, yeah?” he asked.

“Putting it simply, yes. This reporter recorded some things. Snapped a photo of these high profile people conversing together. Yet no one paid her any mind when she left that rally–because no one knew she’d done that. Or I think we both know she wouldn’t have been able to just hop into her car and leave.” There was a pause before she continued. “But she called me a few minutes ago. Couple men with guns showed up at her house. Now that has me thinking someone in Homeland caught wind of this and is trying to clean up the mess before anything gets out.”

Frank ran a hand over his chin, the stubble of his beard rasping lightly against his calloused fingers. “So you can’t trust your men but you think you can trust me?”

“I’m hoping I can,” Madani corrected. “I need you, Castle. If anyone is trained enough to keep this woman alive, it’s you.”

“I ain’t no babysitter, Madani,” Frank told her, shaking his head. “That’s not what I do.”

“I can make it worth your while,” she replied quickly. “I’ve talked to my superior Hernandez–the only one I trust on this right now–and he’s said if you help us with this, we’ll clear Frank Castle’s name.”

“Clear my name?” he asked curiously, his hand halting its movement on his chin.

“You won’t have to live as Peter Castiglione,” Madani told him. “You can be Frank Castle. If you help us. But I need her alive , Frank.”

Frank’s attention drew back towards the band that was playing on the stage, his mind racing. The government would clear him? Of all the charges for what he’d done in New York? And all he had to do was keep one woman alive to get that?

“What do you say, Castle?” she asked. “Can I count on you?”

His hand slowly lowering to his side, Frank pushed off of the wall, turning and making his way towards the exit. He pushed the door open, stepping out into the chilly night air.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” he told her.

“Great,” Madani replied, her tone sounding vastly relieved. “Where are you?”

“Just outside of Detroit,” he answered, making his way back to the motel.

“She’s a bit north of Chicago so that’s perfect,” Madani said, her fingers flying across what sounded like a keyboard rapidly. “I’ll have her meet you halfway–Ruby’s Diner off of I-94. Tomorrow morning at seven sharp. Can you be there?”

“Yeah,” he replied, digging around for the key to his room in his pocket, “I can be there. But how the hell do I know who I’m lookin’ for, Madani?”

Frank’s eyes narrowed as Madani said a name over the line, his hand pausing in his search for the key in his pocket.

“She’s a small time reporter for WGN News out there. Google her,” Madani ordered. “There’s a picture of her on their site. That’s the woman I need alive, Frank. I just need you to hop from town to town and keep her safe. That's it. And I’ll be texting you coordinates for a drop site in a bit. I’ll have someone I trust leave money to help keep you both taken care of on the road while I build this case.”

Frank reached the door to his room, shouldering his phone. He slid the key into the lock, twisting it before opening the door and stepping inside. He turned on the light, closing the door behind himself before locking it. 

“Any questions?” she asked him.

“Yeah, just one,” Frank asked, tossing the room key onto a nearby table. “You say you need this woman alive because there’s people with guns tryin’ to kill her, right?”

“Yes,” Madani answered.

“So does that mean I’ve got the U.S. government’s express permission to keep her alive and safe by any means necessary?” he asked, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding.

There was a long pause over the line at his question. Frank could hear the tapping of something like a pen coming from Madani before he heard her let out a rough breath. The corner of Frank’s lips twitched upwards at the sound.

“Yes, Castle,” she replied. “But no civilian casualties or our deal is over. And if the reporter dies, the deal is over. If you lose her, the deal is over. If–”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Madani,” Frank cut her off. “Text me the drop site details and I’ll find this woman in the morning. I’ll keep her alive for you, Madani. But I expect you to hold up your end of the deal.”

“I will,” she assured him.

Frank hung up, quickly pulling up the search browser on his phone afterwards. He made his way over to one of the beds in the room, settling down onto the end of the stiff mattress as he typed in the news station's name along with yours. Sure enough, a photo of a smiling woman appeared– your face–and for a moment Frank just sat there studying it. 

“So you’re the one who stepped in some shit,” he muttered to the picture. “You definitely look like you’d cause some trouble, that’s for sure.”

He stared at the photo for another moment longer, telling himself it was just because he was trying to memorize your face and not because he liked your smile. Eventually he closed out of the search and rose back to his feet, switching the screen of his phone off. If he needed to be a few hours from here by seven in the morning, he needed to go to sleep now. If he was lucky he'd get four hours of rest before he was back on the road again. 

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading updates: august 2024

the good news is that I did a lot of reading this month, the bad news is that honestly? I think that my birthday month has had the biggest percentage of literary letdowns, duds, and outright bullshit than any other month of this year so far.

but at least there's plenty to talk about, so let's get going!

Unlearning Shame: How We Can Reject Self-Blame Culture and Reclaim Our Power (Devon Price, 2024) - uh oh gamers, we're starting on a doozy! I've enjoyed both of Price's previous books very much, but with Unlearning Shame I couldn't help but feel like I couldn't quite shake the feeling that I wasn't getting what I had signed on for. the issue, I think, could be corrected by an adjustment to the title, which seems to be promising a very broad tackling of the concept of shame and is therefore making some pretty big promises. in reality, the book is much more narrowly focused than that, interested primarily in the shame that arises in the activism-minded when they feel overwhelmed by the sheer amount of awful things in the world and their perceived inability to do anything about it. fairly early on Price introduces an apparently relatable anecdote about himself and a friend having mutual breakdowns in a grocery store because they were both so paralyzed by the conundrum of trying to buy the most ethical groceries possible, and I realized this book was maybe not really for me or my particular experiences with shame. I think this book will be really helpful for a lot of people for sure, would love to pass it on to a lot of my freshmen, but overall it did not live up to the expectations I brought to the party.

A Separate Peace (John Knowles, 1959) - so I wanted to reread this because someone on here sent me an ask about, I don't know, my favorite required high school reading or whatever, and I said it was A Separate Peace but then I realized it's been over a decade since I read the book and I had to go see if it still actually held up. and god, does it EVER. this is such a brutal and heartbreaking novel, beginning in the last carefree summer that best friends and roommates Gene and Finny will experience before their final year at their boys' private school and their seemingly inevitable draft into WW2. although Gene is seethingly jealous of Finny's seemingly effortless charisma, popularity, confidence, and athletic prowess, the two boys are also inseparable - until a tragic injury changes the course of Finny's life forever. this book is a mess of unspoken pain, from the looming end of innocence on a global scale to the intimate ache of loving your best friend so, so much and having no healthy way to express it because you're a repressed little rich boy in the 1940s.

Deep as the Sky, Red as the Sea (Rita Chang-Eppig, 2023) - Chang-Eppig's debut novel follows the career of Chinese pirate Shek Yeung, also known as Zheng Yi Sao, immediately following the death of her husband, fearsome pirate Sheng Yi. you've probably seen a post or two about her floating around on this very hellsite, calling her a pirate queen and accompanied by this image:

Chang-Eppig isn't interested in portraying Shek Yeung as any kind of heroine or feminist icon; over and over again it's acknowledged that she's simply a woman who has survived massive hardships and will do whatever she needs to do to survive. manipulation? spying? extortion? torture? murder? you name it, she's done it, and she does not feel remorse. while the novel wasn't a knockout for me either in terms of plot or prose, it's nice to see an entry into the trend of "retelling" stories from history and mythology centered on women that isn't determined to justify every step a maligned woman ever made. Shek Yeung is what she is, and her story makes for a gritty, bloody adventure.

Victim (Andrew Boryga, 2024) - this book is pure sleazeball fun; if you've ever wondered what I consider a romp, this is it. Victim follows our manipulative king Javi Perez as he builds a writing career for himself by turning in one essay after another about racial discrimination that he never really experienced, inventing stories of hardship caused by racism and poverty from his college application essay to his school newspaper to the story that finally brings the whole lie crashing down when he stretches the truth too far. the novel is written like Javi's apology in the wake of getting #canceled, and while I do sometimes feel that this premise makes some of the writing seem a bit implausible (why would you admit that!!!) it's a fun setup for a scandal that would have been a bloodbath on the twitter of old. come get your mess!!!

Bad Girls (Camila Sosa Villada, trans. Kit Maude, 2022) - this is my first time reading Sosa Villada's work but OH BOY, do I need to seek out more. this is a skinty little novel following a dramatized account of the travesti (or transgender) women who live and sell sex in Córdoba, Argentina. the women build an unsteady but beautiful and magic-infused family under the protection of the ancient Auntie Encarna. the protagonist (who is named Camila Sosa Villada, no relation I'm sure) watches as her unconventional family grows, changes, and frays over time, struggling to find ways to stay afloat in a world that see them as disposable. Sosa Villada's turns of phrase are brilliant and searing, and she weaves fantastical elements so nimbly into her narrative that it's utterly believable to see women becoming animals and courting headless men in the streets of a modern city. strongly recommend for fans of Kai Cheng Thom's Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars.

Talkin' Up to the White Woman: Indigenous Women and Feminism (Aileen Morteon-Robinson, 2000) - this book serves as a scathing literature review indicting Australia's white women anthropologists and feminist scholars for the ways in which they've dehumanized and discredited Aboriginal women, stripping them of the right to be authorities of their own experiences and barring them from a white-centered feminist movement. Moreton-Robinson's account is excellent, contrasting the wok of white women academics with the accounts of Aboriginal women to reveal exactly how massive the disparities in understanding are. as a USAmerican previously aware of Australia's colonial history but unfamiliar with the specifics, it was jarring to discover exactly how similar the mechanism of colonial violence are between my country and Australia, with countless genocidal parallels to be drawn. one particular highlight of the book comes via my purchase of a 20th anniversary edition, which includes a new post-script by Moreton-Robinson in which she dissects and responds to various criticisms of the book at its time of release, taking several critics to task for the belittling tone they used to describe her work and the tools white feminists use to absolve themselves of blame in the face of critique from women of color. fascinating and thorough articulation of Moreton-Robinson's point, and deservedly blistering. I love when academics call each other out by name.

The End of Love: Racism, Sexism, and the Death of Romance (Sabrina Strings, 2024) - so the thing about this book is that there are really good PARTS. Strings is still an excellent historical writer, and I found a lot to appreciate in, for instance, the segments on the history of Black American pimp culture and the analysis of Playboy and Helen Gurley Brown's Sex and the Single Girl. the more personal segments, where Strings contorts herself to fit her own failed relationships into the narrative she's building, are decidedly less consistent in their quality, with some feeling like they would have been better off staying between Strings and her therapist. there's a long and convoluted digression about Sex and the City, and a strange anecdote towards the end in which String recounts a phone call with a friend's college-aged son who, String believes, was masturbating during the call. a yucky experience, to be certain, but I'm not sure it justifies Strings filing a police report against the youth and his mother, who she accuses of having groomed her on the son's behalf. she also casually drops in the same chapter that she considers herself pansexual because she's attracted to trans men in addition to cis men? idk man!!! this book was so uneven that I found myself genuinely questioning whether Strings' first book, Fearing the Black Body, is actually as excellent as I remember it being. I'm pretty sure it is, but god it sucks to get shaken so hard that you have to wonder!

The Diary of a Teenage Girl: An Account in Words and Pictures (Phoebe Gloeckner, 2002) - another book that I had to read for class, years ago! I read Diary of a Teenage Girl in one of my gender and women's studies classes in my undergrad, for a class with a title along the lines of Girlhood Stories in Fiction and Film. Gloeckner's novel (though heavily informed by her own life, she insists that it's a work of fiction) sees its young protagonist, Minnie, navigating a great deal of sex, alcohol, drugs in 1970s San Francisco. I started thinking about the book because I was listening to a trio of episodes of You're Wrong About in which Carmen Maria Machado guests to talk about the pervasive sham that is Go Ask Alice (great series, check it out) and I started thinking about Diary, which is so much less preachy and didactic and is, you know, actually drawn from a real teenage girl's diary, unlike Go Ask Alice, and lacking Alice's preachy didacticism. as a diary based on a real diary this book is largely lacking in any particular plot (the most consistent through line is Minnie's ongoing and tumultuous sexual relationship with her mother's 35 year old boyfriend), but if that's not a turn off then you'll find yourself rooting for Minnie to find her way all the way to the uncertain but ultimately optimistic conclusion.

One and Done (Frederick Smith, 2024) - okay, so. this is a romance novel that I picked up because I saw a review talking about how it's an incredibly realistic depiction of working at a university. now that's obviously an insane thing to look for in a romance novel, but I like romances, ESPECIALLY gay romances, and I work at a university, so I figured sure, I'll bite. spoiler alert: it's not great. I posted some examples of the prose here, and even if the two protagonists talked like actual human beings it wouldn't make up for the stale-ass plot or devastating lack of chemistry they have going for them. more like One and Glad to Be Done With This Book That Isn't Very Good, am I right, ladies?

Seduced (Virginia Henley, 1994) - guys, I'm gonna be so fucking real with you. this is the most batshit novel I've ever read, period, let alone the most batshit romance novel. this book was the winner of a poll I ran on patreon last month in which my wicked patreonites got to nominate romance novels of their choosing for my next reading project and voted amongst themselves to crown a winner, and against all odds and my own light attempts to sway the voters, Seduced won it all. this book has everything: a historical setting, a bold young lady disguising herself as her own brother, wildly unchecked orientalism, a murderous cousin, high society scandal, and some of the most torturous sex scenes I've ever encountered in my life. truly this write-up cannot do justice to what I have experienced; I've already promised by patreonites that I'll have to do a little youtube live in order to fully express the extent of my dissatisfaction.

and that was the month of August, babey!!!

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (I)

Chapter 1 : ‘And that orange, it made me so happy, as ordinary things often do just lately’

Hi, everyone!!! I’m so glad to finally start posting this series! I know I’ve been talking about it for a while, and I thank all of you for being interested and even excited about it! I hope you won’t be disappointed!

The first chapters will set the plot into motion, of course, we need to get the story going!

I hope you like this series! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3502

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange— The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave— They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all the jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I’m glad I exist.

Wendy Cope, The Orange and Other Poems, 2023

There was sunshine upon the Liffey that morning. A scent of new beginnings in the air, a whisk of excitement in the breeze.

You took a deep breath before entering the college grounds. This was what you had worked so hard for, for so long…

You were finally working in a university, you were a researcher, you would be teaching to younger generations about your passion. And every time you thought about that truth, that new reality, your heart made a happy jump, and a grin formed on your lips.

You were there. At long last. You had a teaching position, you had money for your research, and you had this at Trinity College, no less.

For now, there were no students, the grounds were empty, filled with nothing but old stones, bending trees and sunlight. The year had not begun yet, it was still the early days of August, filled with warm weather, summer storms and a tinge of sun here and there. It seemed that your first day was one of those sunny, warm days that felt too much like vacation time to work. A good omen, if you had ever seen one. A good omen for your life that seemed to fall perfectly into place these days. Professionally, you were achieving your goal today, with this position in the best university in Ireland. Your family was proud, and so were you. And on a personal point of view, you were engaged, to be married to a successful man. You glimpsed at the diamond on your finger. You didn’t have a date for the wedding yet, but you were aiming for spring of the coming year. Frank had proposed during the summer, while you were on a trip for your vacation in Wales. You smiled at the memory. You were lucky this year, your life was perfect, or at least, successful. You were ticking all the right boxes. What else could you ask for?

You walked between the still frames of Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith, stepping finally on the grounds of Trinity College. And you took a deep breath as you stepped into the entrance hall, crossing the building to reach the first courtyard hidden inside. You gathered your thoughts, tried to slow down your beating heart that was pounding with nerves and excitement.

You were to meet one of the fellows of your department, Professor O’Connell. You had never met the woman, but she seemed kind enough on the phone, if strict in her tone. You checked your watch, but you were still seven minutes early. At least, you would not make a bad first impression because you were late…

You hurried under the archway at the centre of the yard, glancing at the forbidden green grass on both sides, and the tall buildings that surrounded it. You tried to calm yourself, thinking that you were an assistant professor already, even if this was your first stable job, that you knew what you were doing, that the papers you had already published were proof of your academic success and your worth as a researcher. You could do this. You could do this…

You walked towards the English department with hesitant steps, trying to follow directions on the various signs scattered across the grounds. A fifty-something woman waved at you from afar though, she seemed to be waiting in front of a building. You smiled, hurried towards her, hoping that you were not mistaken and that she was, indeed, the woman you were looking for…

“Y/N Y/L/N?” she asked, and you nodded your head with a grin.

“Yes! Professor O’Connell, I assume?” you answered, offering her your open hand, which she took with a smile.

“Oh, Lydia is more than enough. How are you?”

“Grand… grand…”

“Welcome to Trinity, I guess. I’ll guide you for a quick visit of our building, and then leave you in the competent hands of our HR department for you to sign off some paperwork. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

She guided you across the large stone building in which you would be working from now on. You easily got lost in the maze of corridors, staircases and halls you were crossing. Still, she showed you the cafeteria in which you were introduced to a few of your new colleagues, some of the classrooms, and finally she guided you to the HR, where a middle-aged woman gave you some paperwork to sign.

Lydia was waiting outside, ready to guide you to your office. A new maze of corridors opened before your feet, but you said nothing, figured that you would eventually get used to it. You took a turn to the right to another corridor, headed straight for the door a few steps ahead. Wooden, with two plaques fixed on its surface.

Dr. Andrew Hozier-Byrne

Dr. Y/N Y/LN

Your heart skipped a few beats at the sight of your name there, engraved in copper.

“You’ll be sharing your office with another of our assistant professors,” Lydia explained. “Andrew arrived last year, he’s working mostly on 20th century literature… but I’ll let him talk your ears off about his research.”

She knocked, didn’t wait for a response before opening the door.

The office was tiny, to say the least, but it was enough for the two desks and chairs set there, a wardrobe and a few shelves. There was a poster of Johnny Cash on one of the empty spots on the white walls, and a large window facing the door, behind one of the desks. The other desk was set on the left-side of the room, a tinier window behind it.

A man was sitting in the chair behind the desk in front of the larger window, and he looked up as the door opened and Lydia walked in, you following close behind.

“Good morning, Andrew,” Lydia greeted her colleague with a smile. “This is Y/N, our new assistant professor, who’s going to share your office this year.”

Andrew’s eyebrows arched slightly, although he still gave you a warm but shy smile, standing in a hurry. You couldn’t help your surprise as he stood up, towering you with an intimidating height. He seemed to have long hair, that he had tied in a bun. You studied his features, something kind and gentle made his hazel eyes shine, a short beard coloured his cheeks. He readjusted his glasses, as he quickly stepped around his desk. He was wearing a black turtleneck and dark jeans, there was a brown jacket thrown on the back of his chair.

You looked up at him as his smile widened just a little, still polite but with an extra-touch of kindness now. His body was intimidating though, and the fact that he was handsome wasn’t helping. He bent to avoid the lamp that was hanging from the ceiling.

“Of course! Erm… hi, nice to meet you,” he greeted you, offering you his open palm, avoiding eye-contact. You weren’t expecting how soft his voice was, how quiet his tone sounded. If his height gave something intimidating to his appearance, his voice countered that feeling, and you immediately felt more at ease.

“Hi! It’s very nice to meet you too, Andrew!”

“Alright, I’ll leave you to settle,” said Lydia, addressing you. “My office is down the corridor, if you need anything. But I’m sure Andrew can help you with the rest. The HR gave you everything you needed to access a computer?”

“Yes, I’ve got everything.”

“Good. Settle this morning, we’ll have a talk about your research this afternoon. The meeting for the upcoming year and classes is set later this week, you’ll get all the information you need for your teaching then.”

“Alright, thank you so much.”

She gave you a bright smile, before walking out of the room.

You were left alone with Andrew, who gave you another shy smile, rubbing at his palms.

“Erm… right… obviously, there is a large selection of desks you can choose from in this room,” he joked, his tone still stern, and you noticed how he was biting the inside of his cheek.

But you laughed good-heartedly at his joke, and he raised his eyebrows at your reaction.

“Hmm… I guess I’ll take this beauty over there,” you said, dropping your bag on your desk.

“Good choice,” he nodded, fleeing your gaze again. “Erm… I’ve emptied a couple of shelves over there for you too, and made some room in the wardrobe as well.”

“Thank you,” you smiled up at him and caught his eyes again, noticed their pretty hazel shade.

You turned on your computer, looked through your papers for the password that had been given to you so you could log in.

“So… what’s your research about?” he asked, a little awkward, shifting his weight while burying his hands in his pockets.

You noticed how he was bending his head and shoulders a little, as if to look smaller than he was.

“I work on feminism and the use of the female gaze in literature, as opposed to the male gaze.”

He raised an eyebrow, and you noticed how his gaze lit up with interest.

“Oh… that’s so interesting!”

You were surprised by the earnestness in his tone. The academic world was a particularly misogynistic one, after all. Most men in your field were enemies rather than allies.

“Yeah… I… I think so too,” you smiled, cursing yourself for your naïve answer. “I mean… If I chose to work on that, it means that I’m interested in it, but…”

He chuckled, the sound as quiet as his voice. You were still surprised by it, by the contrast it offered to his intimidating stature.

“Totally, yeah…”

“What about you?”

“20th century literature… mostly modernism and contemporary poetry. So… Lots of Joyce, Woolfe, Heaney and the likes.”

“Nice! That sounds interesting.”

“I mean… I teach a lot about modernism, but my research is more focused on poetry, especially poets who are currently writing.”

“That’s pretty rare, to have scholars studying contemporary art, instead of… dead people.”

You both chuckled at that.

“Yeah… but I… I mean… I value a lot the political weight of art, so… I find it more interesting to study something that talks about our current problems, rather than the problems from… four centuries ago or something...”

“Can’t argue with that,” you nodded.

You exchanged a smile, noticed that Andrew was relaxing as well by now.

“Erm… I’ll let you settle down, but… tell me if you need anything. Oh, and…”

Andrew nodded towards an empty frame tugged away against the wall, in a corner of the room.

“There’s an empty spot on the wall, feel free to hang something you like in it. As long as it’s decent enough.”

“Oh… I will refrain from a poster of my naked celebrity crush then,” you joked, making Andrew laugh again.

“Please, refrain. Although, I will accept your latest pagan ritual to summon Chtulhu or something…”

He tensed again, bit the inside of his cheek, as if he regretted his joke, but you laughed, and he seemed a little surprised by it.

“Dully noted… so, I can bring my pentagrams at work?”

His smile widened.

“Feel free to do so. I can produce the goat for the sacrificial ritual, if you need.”

You chuckled again, and Andrew bent his head, but you noticed the way his shoulders relaxed.

“Right, sorry for the weird humour,” he apologised anyway, and walked back to his desk. “Tell me if you need help with anything. I have a couple of things to take care of, but I can show you around if you need.”

“Okay, thank you! Yeah, that would be grand! And no need to apologise, I have a rather dark humour too.”

You exchanged a smile, before both of you would focus on your computers. You managed to log into almost everything, started to create documents and files for your research, downloaded a few articles that you needed to read this week.

It was almost noon when Andrew looked up from his screen again.

“Erm… is everything alright for you?” asked Andrew, his voice still as quiet.

“Yeah… erm… I just can’t log into something.”

Andrew stood up, bent to avoid the lamp again.

“Can I take a look?” he asked softly, and he walked around your desk when you nodded.

He helped you log into the software you needed, showed you a couple of things that you would need to use often.

“Would you like to get lunch?” he asked you with a timid smile.

You answered with a bright smile.

“Yeah, sure!”

“Did you bring some food?”

“Erm… no…”

“That’s fine, no worries,” he chuckled at your sudden hesitation. “We have a cafeteria in our building, for the staff. But it’s more suited for a coffee break than anything else. You can’t buy food there, except for a few snacks from a vending machine. There’s an electric kettle, a coffee machine… there’s a microwave and fridge too, if you… like… want to bring your own food. But nothing to make proper food. We can go to the cafeteria on the campus, though.”

“Okay, that would be nice! Are you waiting for anyone else for lunch?”

But Andrew shook his head.

“Most people in the department are gone to a conference in Cork for three days,” he explained.

“How come you didn’t go?”

But Andrew merely shrugged.

“I wasn’t invited to be a speaker, and to be honest, it was mostly about subjects I’m not particularly interested in. Besides, someone had to stay behind to keep the new lecturer company,” he smiled with a tinge of mischief, and you liked the sight.

He waited for you to gather your things, and you walked together out of the building. Andrew showed you around the campus a little bit, mainly the library and a couple of buildings where you could be asked to teach. You followed him to the cafeteria as well.

“Do you eat here often?” you asked, as you took a look at the food that was available that day.

“When I can. It’s not bad. But students come here too, so you should come only if you can avoid the worst of the crowd. As this year hasn’t started yet, we’re in the clear for a few more weeks.”

You ordered a sandwich, while Andrew bought a salad, and you walked together to one of the many empty tables.

“Lydia told me it was your first job as a professor?” asked Andrew, before sipping on a glass of water.

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve obviously been teaching and working in research for a while, but it’s my first year since I got that title,” you answered with a smile.

“Have you talked about your classes with Lydia yet?”

“No, not too much. I should be able to create a couple of lectures based on my research, but for the more… general stuff, nothing.”

Andrew nodded.

“Yeah, you might inherit some of the classes no one really wants to do, as you’re the newbie.”

“Did it happen that way for you?”

Andrew nodded again, but shrugged right after, swallowing a mouthful of salad.

“I mean, you’ll stay in something you’re used to, don’t worry. But a lot of people are holding the classes they enjoy teaching. You’ll have a limited choice in your field.”

“Any class that you’re hoping to drop?”

“One of them is bound to religion and religious references. I should be able to pass it to someone else this year. We’re exchanging. I’ll get a class on Yeats instead, which is much more in my area of expertise… and interests.”

“Not a religious guy, are you?”

He chuckled.

“Not really, no.”

He didn’t elaborate on the subject, and you didn’t want to push him, happy enough that your colleague and office-roommate was talking to you and acting with benevolence.

“Where did you teach before Trinity?” you asked instead, changing subject.

“Cork for a while, but my partner works in Dublin so I really wanted to move back on the west coast. And then I had the opportunity to come to Trinity last year, when I got the rank of assistant professor, so I didn’t really hesitate. What about you?”

“I taught for a while in Belfast, and they offered me a job when I became assistant professor. But I really wanted to teach at Trinity, so I applied and… got the job! My fiancé is working about halfway between Belfast and Dublin anyway, so it didn’t change much on his side.”

Andrew nodded.

“Relationships can be tricky with academic jobs, especially with how few the teaching positions can be.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure.”

You had gotten a yoghurt for dessert, and Andrew some dry fruits. He handed you the packet, a questioning rise of his eyebrow as a silent enquiry. You smiled, opened your hand and he poured some fruits in your palm.

“Anyway, I hope you’ll get interesting classes, and especially that you can teach about your research. Aside from being interesting for you, I think it’s important to develop what you’re working on in our field.”

You smiled, and he seemed to notice, giving you an awkward smile of his own in exchange.

“Thanks. I think so too.”

“But I have a more important question to tackle.”

You raised a questioning eyebrow, inviting him to go on.

“What poster are you going to put in that empty frame?”

You couldn’t refrain a laugh.

“I have no idea,” you admitted.

“Well, think about it. The decoration of our office is at stake, that’s serious business.”

“Of course, of course. Definitely my number one priority.”

“Good, it should be. My Qi is very sensitive to that kind of stuff.”

You both laughed, and you felt yourself relax again.

You had a good feeling about Andrew, about your shared office, about your new job, about this whole life that was ahead of you.

The world was smiling to you, even the weather was on your side. What could possibly go wrong?

You were so excited to go home and tell everything to your fiancé. Frank got home before you did, you lingered a little longer than anticipated because you asked Andrew questions about how the university worked, the power dynamic in the department, the people you should avoid and those who were nice to talk to. And you wanted to tell Frank about Andrew too. You were so relieved that the colleague sharing your office was nice, kind even.

When you stepped inside, Frank was watching TV. He had ordered some takeaway, and was eating in front of a stupid show that was on, more focused on his phone than on the tv anyway. He jumped when you entered, put his phone away in a hurry.

“Hey, babe!” you greeted him with a grin, bending to kiss him as he sat on the couch.

“Hi! I ordered food for tonight,” he said, nodding towards the Indian food that was scattered across the coffee table.

“Nice!”

“You’re home late.”

You grinned, nodding your head.

“It went amazing!” you jumped up and down excitedly. “First, a senior professor, Lydia, came to pick me up and showed me around. She seems very strict, but nice as well. Apparently, as long as you do your job well, she’ll be on your side. I went to the HR to sign some papers, and…”

You noticed that Frank wasn’t paying too much attention anymore, so you rushed your explanation.

“Anyway, I’ve met a few colleagues, and especially Andrew! We’re sharing an office. He’s been of great help throughout the day, and he’s very sweet! Which is surprising given that he is quite literally a giant!”

“You’re sharing your office?”

“Yes!”

“With a guy?”

“Yes. His name is Andrew! He’s been teaching at Trinity for a year.”

You noticed the way Frank refrained from making a comment, knowing you would call him out for being jealous. You refrained a sigh.

“He lives near Dublin with his partner too. He’s specialised in poetry.”

Frank seemed to relax, and you struggled not to be annoyed by his reaction.

“It’s grand that your first day went fine, babe,” Frank gave you an earnest smile.

“I’m just so relieved that the guy sharing an office with me is not some… misogynistic gobshite. I mean, I don’t know Andrew very much, but he seemed to be more on the feminist side of the spectrum, so I’m sure we’ll be able to get along.”

“That’s nice.”

He didn’t ask any further question but he was still looking at you. You sat down next to him, and he handed you some food he had ordered for you. It wasn’t your favourite, but you liked it.

He opened his arm for you to settle against his shoulder, and you happily obliged. You thought about all the details you wanted to say, but knew would bore him. You chose another question instead.

“What are you watching?”

[millennialsalkin]

hello have not been on here in literal years and reactivated simply to post my modern bridgerton hcs that came to me as i was falling asleep would not let me go until i wrote them down! enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~

the entire family is still very much british upper class - they regularly interact with the royals and attend all the family event like wimbledon and ascot. they are regularly featured in the pages of the tabloids much to their annoyance. they also went to either oxford, cambridge, or st. andrew’s (franny)

- anthony - still who he is, took over edmund’s position in the family business. huge company either a law firm, business like real estate or holdings. he’s ceo and damn good at his job. still viscount but it is really in name only.

- kate - still very much who she is, i can see her either going very much a lawyer or the artist route but i like to think of her as leaving her art as a hobby that she does simply for the pleasure of it.

- benedict - artist can do either painting or photography but has become very famous for it, initially it was because of the family name but then people started seeing his talent for what it is. his photos have been featured a bunch of times in british vogue and he is one of their go to photographers.

- sophie - very much a primary school teacher because of her experience with araminta as a child she was determined to not let that happen for other children so she makes damn sure that while they are at school in her class they know some one is looking out for them.

- colin - travel writer. he works for some magazine and has his own column. the magazine is owned by like some big media company that has their own building.

- penelope - pen works for a different magazine that is owned by the same parent company as colin’s so they work in the same building when colin is not on assignment. she secretly still runs lady whistledown that is like deux moi and once she gets outed she starts her own mini media empire. still besties with eloise.

- daphne - she is very much the perfect socialite philanthropist that is so perfect she seems like she would be a bitch but truly is that nice. is still married to simon after they fake dated due to some media scandal. lives her absolute best WAG life and has the season down to a science.

- simon - is a huge sports star, think david beckham. technically was still the duke but officially gave up the title to piss off his father. this man was born to be girl dad.

- eloise - once she realized just how much privilege she has, she put her money where her mouth is and is constantly going to protests much to anthony’s annoyance (not because he doesn’t agree with the cause just because she is giving the family a bad name in the press, he actually super proud of her.) el went to school for a degree in women and gender studies and is super involved in academia when not getting arrested.

- phillip/a - a botany professor at the university where el is based out of. still has the kids from their previous relationship with marina but they were able to get a divorce because it is the 21st century and co parent the twins quite well. their gender honestly doesn’t matter for this, they love plants and eloise - the order of that is not important.

- francesca - autistic, it is important to me that you know that. she is a film composer, she loves getting to create the score for movies and that it doesn’t require that much human interaction.

- john - still unfortunately passes away, but prior to that was some kind of finance guy. was generally the nicest guy and loved fran with his entire heart.

- michael/michaela - hot. like the most beautiful human being you have ever laid eyes on. they work as an actor because it’s fun but secretly are insanely smart and like build computers for fun.

- gregory - anthony’s mini me and he wouldn’t have it any other way. he works for the family company and loves it. generally small bean like but is insanely tall, like taller than benedict much to everyone’s annoyance but no one more than hyacinth. he worships the ground lucy walks on but they only have three or four kids because they have access to birth control.

- lucy - a mini kate. also a lawyer who’s family firm got bought by kate’s and then started working under her where she eventually met greg when he was visiting his favorite sister kate for their monthly lunch date. has ocd.

- hyacinth - a child prodigy, started university at like 15 (which she never lets greg forget) works as a ta (or whatever the uk equivalent is) for agatha who is an old family friend through whom she meets gareth. her field is like archeology or some other super niche thing. (agatha does not have to teach, she does it because if she doesn’t how else will the new generation ever be taught the right way to do things)

- gareth - is so fucking chill but absolutely matches hyacinths freak. no one is quite sure what he does, he has explained it many times but no one truly knows even hyacinth.

- violet - was besties with princess diana (old money england) she unfortunately passes around the same time as edmund and she just loses it. luckily it is the modern days was able to get help but it took a little while. though once she is back on her feet she is a force to be reckoned with. she runs the family foundation which focuses on mental health and allergy awareness.

thank you for reading this! i will take no criticism at this time but welcome any addition thoughts!

[agentstarkid]

AN ETERNAL LOVE BULLSHIT ✦ DR3

Based on this ask

✦ PAIRING: daniel ricciardo x famous!latina!reader

✦ CHECKERED FLAG: 3.7K words (I tried to keep it short, oops)

✦ TRACK LIMITS: angst, self-doubt, crying, feelings of not being enough, heartbreak.

✦ MAY'S RADIO: I've had this on my drafts, ruminating on it for days, soooo I hope you guys like it. Vitto, Iza and Chloe are the real MVPs of this chapter! Queens uplifting another Queen 💅🏽💖 This was fun to write! Thank you so much nonnie for this idea! ilysm <3 p.s. can y'all spot the song references? 👀

This is set during Saudade. | Everything between "—" and italized are flashbacks.

< previous chapter | series masterlist | general masterlist | next chapter >

The end of April in California had days of clear skies, endless blue, and a gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers. The sun shone warmly, casting a golden glow over everything it touched, yet the cheerful weather felt almost mocking to her current state.

Her guitar lay across her lap, repurposed as a makeshift table for the notebook where she hastily scribbled words, each one an attempt to capture the storm of emotions swirling within her. The grass beneath her was cool and grounding, but it did little to tether her to the present. Every line she wrote was a desperate attempt to process the pain, to make sense of the abrupt void he had left behind. 

Life moved on around her with an indifferent rhythm, but her mind was still stuck replaying the scenes in a Bahraini hotel room on a fateful Friday morning in March. She was stuck, a relic in a world that had already moved on, trapped in the shadow of what once was. The ache in her heart was a constant companion, a reminder that she was still right where he left her, struggling to find a way back to herself.

Her pen moved frantically across the pages, as if the act of writing could somehow release the torment inside her. But each word, each lyric, only seemed to root her more firmly in the past. The guitar beneath her fingers, once a source of joy and creativity, now felt like a conduit for her sorrow. She was lost in her own words, hoping that somewhere in the tangled mess of emotions, she might find a way to heal.

But amidst the ache, she found solace in the unwavering support of her friends. 

Since landing in Los Angeles, her friends had been her rock. When days of isolation had left her feeling like a shell of herself, Vitto and Andrew had intervened, offering her refuge in their home outside the city. Their house, tucked away from the relentless glare of cameras and the whirlwind of drama, had become a sanctuary. The quiet of their surroundings was a balm for her frayed nerves.

Baby Iza, their little bundle of joy, at almost 1 year old, was a constant source of comfort. The child's tiny hands and infectious giggles seemed to have an almost magical ability to lift her spirits. It was as if Izabele could sense her sadness and made it her mission to shower her with love and affection. 

With the sun casting gentle rays through the window, the child would toddle into the room with her tiny feet pattering softly on the floor. Her face, a picture of innocent determination, was often lit up by a bright smile. She would clutch a small toy in her chubby hands—a plush animal or a colorful block—and make a beeline for her godmother, as if to say, “Here, play with me. Everything will be okay.”

Sitting down beside her, Iza would arrange her toys with meticulous care, her eyes occasionally glancing up to gauge her mood. They would sit together in quiet companionship, the simple act of play bringing a semblance of peace.

As the night fell and the room grew dim, she would make her way to her aunt's side once more, but this time with a special gesture. She would carry one of her favorite teddy bears, its soft fur worn from countless hugs—she recognized it as the one that Daniel had gifted Iza when she was born. 

Her sleepy eyes would barely stay open, and the pacifier bobbing gently in her mouth gave her a serene, dreamlike appearance. She would approach her aunt with the bear in tow, offering it with the sincerity only a child can muster. The gesture, simple yet profound, was Iza’s way of offering comfort and reassurance. The irony wasn’t lost on her, as the comfort offered by the bear was tied to the person who had broken her heart.

Despite the tangled emotions that the bear represented, she’d accept the gesture with a quiet grace. Each night, she would clutch the teddy bear tightly in her arms as she lay in bed, she would close her eyes and allow the bear’s presence to soothe her. It was a small, ironic comfort, a connection to a past she was still grappling with. She never spoke of it to anyone, keeping this bittersweet detail to herself. 

Vitto and Andrew's kindness, along with Baby Iza’s innocent charm, and Fio and Danna’s constant facetime calls—and impromptu visits—, were her anchors, grounding her in a time of turbulence.

Rumors had started circulating about Daniel moving on with Heidi, emerging just two weeks after their breakup. As she heard whispers and saw the headlines, she felt a deep internal conflict. One part of her mind tried to dismiss the rumors, knowing all too well how the business thrived on gossip and sensationalism. She had been in this world long enough to recognize how quickly false narratives could spread and how little they sometimes reflected the truth.

Yet, another part of her, the part that had been wounded by every argument they’d ever had about their future, couldn’t silence the inner voice that screamed she was a fool. It was the same voice that had questioned every promise, every declaration of eternal love Daniel had made. How could someone profess to love her, to call her the love of their life—a million times—, to talk about rings and cradles, and then, almost as soon as it was over, move on to someone new?

But a single text changed her entire world.

The moment she received confirmation from Chloe that the rumors were true, a wave of crushing disappointment and pain washed over her. It felt as if the ground beneath her had given way, leaving her in a freefall of disbelief and heartache. The confirmation struck her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs and leaving her feeling hollow inside.

The betrayal was sharper than she could have ever imagined. Daniel, the person she had known better than herself, had indeed moved on after only two weeks. The image she had clung to, the person she had given the benefit of the doubt, shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces. How could someone who had claimed to love her so deeply and had spoken of a future together move on so swiftly? The realization was a bitter, choking pill to swallow.

Her heart ached with a profound sense of loss, not just of the relationship but of the person she thought Daniel was. The trust she had placed in him, the dreams they had shared, all felt like a cruel joke. She felt duped, as if she had been sold a "get-love-quick" scheme by someone who never intended to follow through on his promises. The sense of being deceived cut deeply, leaving a wound that seemed impossible to heal.

She sat there, gripping her pen tightly, her mind swirling with the betrayal she felt so deeply. Without a moment’s pause, her pen began to race across the pages of her notebook, pouring out the raw, unfiltered emotions she could no longer contain. The lyrics flowed from her as if they were the only way to make sense of the chaos within:

And ain't it funny

How you ran to her the second that we called it quits? 

And ain't it funny how you said you were friends? 

Now it sure as hell don't look like it 

You betrayed me 

And I know that you'll never feel sorry 

For the way I hurt, yeah 

You'd talk to her 

When we were together 

Loved you at your worst 

But that didn't matter 

It took you two weeks 

To go off and date her 

Guess you didn't cheat 

But you're still a traitor

With each line, she felt the searing pain of his betrayal more acutely. How could he have moved on so quickly? The words “two weeks” echoed in her mind like a relentless drumbeat, reminding her of how little time it had taken for him to replace her. The sense of being betrayed, of having her trust shattered, was almost unbearable. She had loved him at his worst, given him everything, and yet it had taken him mere days to discard their love and move on to someone new.

The realization that she was right, that he had been talking to her while they were still together added salt to the wound. It made every moment they had shared feel tainted, every promise he had made feel like a lie. The anger and hurt intertwined, fueling the lyrics that poured out of her. He might not have cheated in the traditional sense, but the emotional betrayal was just as devastating, if not more so. To her, he was a traitor, someone who had violated the sacred trust of their relationship.

The pen in her hand paused for the first time in days, the words unable to flow as freely as before. The grief was too raw, too overwhelming to articulate. She felt an intense, suffocating sadness, mixed with anger and a sense of foolishness for believing in him. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and her chest tightened with the weight of unspoken emotions.

Her phone storage has been filled with voice notes for the past weeks, but the number has elevated exponentially since the news had hit. Her chat with her producer has been overflowing with “What do you think of this?”, demos shared between them back and forth. 

For moments, she was consumed by raw anger, her pen becoming a weapon as she furiously wrote songs that painted him as the villain he had become in her eyes. She felt the fierce determination to make him know—and if his treacherous heart allowed, to feel—her pain.

Each line dripped with venom and sorrow, a raw portrayal of the anguish he had inflicted upon her. The thought of him reading her words and realizing the depth of her suffering provided a fleeting sense of power and justice.

But after the anger came a deep, suffocating depression. The reality of his betrayal settled over her like a heavy, oppressive fog. Each day felt like a battle to simply get out of bed, and her once vibrant spirit seemed to wither under the weight of her grief. She found herself crying at the smallest things, her emotions a raw, open wound that refused to heal.

—

One night Vitto found her in bed, her cheeks tear-stained and her eyes red and swollen, looking every bit as miserable as she felt inside. Without a word, Vitto quickly gathered her in her arms, holding her tightly as the heart-shattering sobs began anew. The weight of her friend’s pain pressed heavily on Vitto’s heart, but she held her close, whispering kind and reassuring words, trying to contain the pieces of her shattered glass heart.

In a voice barely above a whisper, filled with desperation and heartbreak, she asked the questions that had been gnawing at her soul. “Why can't it be me for once, Vitto? Why can't someone choose me?” Her voice cracked with the weight of the pain she felt. “Is it so hard to love me? What's so wrong with me that no one has the will to stay?”

Vitto's heart ached at the sight of her friend so broken, so lost in her despair. She tightened her hold, pulling her closer as if she could shield her from the cruel thoughts that plagued her mind. “There's nothing wrong with you,” Vitto whispered back, her voice gentle but firm. “You are so easy to love, fofinha, and anyone who doesn't see that is a fool.” She prayed that her friend would see the truth in her words. “You deserve someone who sees you for the amazing person you are and who will never let you go.”

Vitto rocked her gently, smoothing her hair and murmuring softly. “You’re strong,” she whispered. “Stronger than you know. You’ll get through this, one step at a time. You have us, and we’re not going anywhere.”

That night, after the tears had subsided, she found herself sitting on the windowsill, staring out into the vast, indifferent sky. The weight of her grief pressed down on her chest as she gazed at the stars, feeling more alone than ever. 

In the quiet darkness, she whispered her desperate plea to any entity that might be listening. She wasn’t asking for fame or fortune, but for something much simpler and infinitely more precious: love. A love that wasn’t for the artist she became on stage or the persona she put on for the cameras, but for her—the real her, with all her flaws, insecurities, and hidden depths.

She was on her knees, metaphorically, begging for someone to change her fate, to alter the prophecy that seemed to doom her to be always left behind. Why couldn’t someone love her as fiercely as she loved them—or even harder?. 

The question lingered in the air, a painful echo of her deepest fears. She longed for someone who would choose her, who wouldn’t toss her aside once the initial novelty wore off and someone else, shiny and new, came along.

The night air was cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the burning ache inside her. She closed her eyes, letting the silent tears fall, each one a small release of the pain she carried. 

She wasn’t asking for much, just someone who would love her, not for what she represented, but for who she truly was. Someone who would see her, really see her, and still choose to stay. The silence of the night offered no answers, but she hoped—prayed—that somewhere, someone would hear her and bring her the love she so desperately craved. The stars offered no answers, but in the quiet of the night, she found a sliver of solace in the act of voicing her deepest wish.

—

The phone rang late in the evening, its sound piercing the quiet of the room. She hesitated for a moment, glancing at the screen. Chloe's name flashed across it, and a part of her almost didn’t want to pick up. But Chloe had been there for her in ways she hadn’t expected, turning from an acquaintance into one of her closest friends. With a deep breath, she answered.

“Hey,” she said softly, trying to mask the exhaustion in her voice.

“Hey, you,” Chloe replied, her tone gentle, almost cautious. “I just wanted to check in on you. How are you holding up?”

There was a brief silence, the kind that stretches out when you’re trying to find the right words to explain a pain that feels impossible to describe. “I’m… surviving, I guess. It’s been hard,” she admitted, her voice wavering.

Chloe sighed on the other end, a mix of empathy and frustration evident in her breath. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through. And I hate that I had to be the one to confirm it. You deserve so much better.” 

Her heart ached at the sincerity in Chloe’s words. “I don’t even know what hurts more—the fact that he moved on so quickly, or that I still can’t hate him for it. I feel like such an idiot, holding on to the person I thought he was.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Chloe reassured her. “You loved him, and you believed in him. There’s nothing wrong with that. But you have to remember that this isn’t about you, it’s about him and his inability to recognize what he had.”

A sad smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Thank you. It’s just… I keep asking myself how someone can move on so quickly. I thought what we had was real. We talked about a future, Chloe. The farm, rings, babies, all of it. And then, two weeks after we break up, he’s with someone else? It just… it doesn’t make sense.” she said, her voice cracking. “How could he say all those things to me, make all those promises, and then just... move on? Like I never mattered.”

Chloe hesitated, knowing that what she had to say might sting, but also feeling that honesty was necessary. “I know, and I wish I had the right words to make it better. I don’t understand it either. But people… they’re complicated, and sometimes they don’t even realize the damage they’re causing until it’s too late. Sometimes-” she let out a sigh, “Sometimes people make decisions that don’t make any sense, that hurt the ones they’re supposed to care about the most. But that’s on him, not you. You’re allowed to grieve, to be angry, to feel everything you’re feeling.”

“Do you think he ever really loved me?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, her voice barely above a whisper. It was a question that had haunted her since the confirmation of Daniel’s new relationship, and now it hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded with vulnerability.

Chloe paused, her heart aching for her friend. “I think… I think he loved you in the way he knew how, but maybe that wasn’t the way you deserved to be loved. And that’s not your fault. It’s his loss, really. You gave him everything, and he’s the one who couldn’t appreciate it.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought them back. “It just hurts so much, you know? I keep thinking that if I had done something differently, if I had been better, maybe things would have turned out differently.”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Chloe said firmly. “You did nothing wrong. You were yourself, and that should have been enough. He’s the one who couldn’t see what he had in front of him. But I see you, and so do the people who really care about you. You’re not alone in this.”

The girl swallowed the lump in her throat, grateful for Chloe’s words, for her friendship. “Thank you, Chloe. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m here for you, no matter what,” Chloe replied warmly. 

As the conversation between the girl and Chloe lingered, an uncomfortable question bubbled up within her. She hesitated, biting her lip before finally asking, “Chloe, how is Heidi? Is she… nice? She looks like she is.”

Chloe paused on the other end, considering her words carefully. “She is nice,” she admitted softly. “She’s kind and sweet, and she seems like a good person.”

The girl swallowed hard, a mix of emotions swirling in her chest. “I figured as much,” she said, her voice tinged with a quiet resignation. “At the beginning, I wanted to tear her apart, you know? I wanted to pick out every flaw she had, convince myself she wasn’t good enough. But I couldn’t do that… because she just looks so nice and kind. It’s almost like it made everything worse, knowing that I couldn’t even hate her.”

Chloe sighed, understanding the conflict in her friend’s heart. “It’s natural to feel that way, to want to protect yourself by finding reasons to dislike her. But you’re also showing so much strength by acknowledging that she’s not the enemy. It’s okay to feel conflicted.”

The girl nodded, though her throat tightened. “I just wish it didn’t hurt so much, Chloe. I wish I could be happy for him, for them. But it’s hard when it feels like I’ve been discarded, replaced by someone who seems perfect in every way.”

“Listen,” Chloe said, her voice firm yet gentle, “you’re human, and it’s okay to feel hurt and conflicted. But don’t let those feelings define you. You’re more than what he made you feel, and you deserve someone who will see all of you—the good, the bad, and everything in between”

“I know,” she whispered, though the knowledge didn’t make the pain any easier to bear. “It’s just hard to accept sometimes.”

“It is,” Chloe agreed. “But you’ll get there. One step at a time. And remember, just because she’s nice doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t valid. You’re allowed to grieve what you’ve lost, even if it’s complicated.”

—

Slowly, the depression began to give way to a semblance of acceptance—or something that resembled it. It wasn’t forgiveness, nor was it forgetting, but a grudging acknowledgment that clinging to the pain and anger would only prolong her agony.

She continued to write, but the tone of her lyrics shifted. They were still tinged with sadness and loss, but there was also a hint of desperation and sometimes hope.

We broke up a month ago

Your friends are mine, you know, I know

You've moved on, found someone new

One more girl who brings out the better in you.

[...]

And do you tell her she's the most beautiful girl you've ever seen?

An eternal love bullshit you know you'll never mean

Remember when I believed you meant it when you said it first to me?

And now I'm pickin' her apart

Like cuttin' her down will make you miss my wretched heart

But she's beautiful, she looks kind

She probably gives you butterflies.

[...]

I hope you're happy

I wish you all the best, really

Say you love her, baby, just not like you loved me

And think of me fondly when your hands are on her

I hope you're happy, but don't be happier.

Acceptance came in small, painful increments. It was in the quiet moments when Baby Iza’s tiny hand rested on her cheek, or when Vitto and Andrew’s unwavering support reminded her that she was not alone. It was in the act of writing itself, where she could pour out her heart and begin to untangle the threads of grief and loss.

As she sat on the grass, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows around her, she realized that while Daniel’s betrayal had broken her, it had not destroyed her. She would rebuild herself, piece by piece, word by word, until she was whole again. Despite everything, she was still standing.

Through the anger, the depression, and the acceptance, she learned that she had the strength to endure. The scars from this heartbreak would always be there, but they would also be a testament to her resilience and her capacity to heal. And in those moments of writing, she knew she would emerge from this experience stronger, wiser, and ready to embrace whatever the future held.