#we can get over it but shit's smoother without

[greenerteacups]

Are there any other wizarding families that are underexplored in canon and pique your interest in a similar way to the Blacks?

This is a unique function of what food my brain worms like to eat, but no one's doing it like the Blacks. The drama? The intrigue? The Gothic horror? The prodigal sons and lost daughters and killers and sinners and martyrs and saints? The wizard Catholicism of it all? The story of the House of Black is the best book never written.

[freedomfireflies]

Teach Me*

Summary: Harry needs a little practice in the art of Eating Pussy, and who better to ask for help than his best friend?

You.

Word Count: 5.4k

“...I’m sorry, you need to what?”

“I need…” Harry repeats, “...to eat you out.”

You blink at the man standing alarmingly still in the hallway outside of your door. “Is it crack? Is that what you smoke? Do you smoke crack?”

He smirks at the familiar joke before he’s brushing past you and striding into your apartment. “All right, fine. I just thought I’d ask.”

“Ask what?” you huff as you shut the door and face him. “I still don’t understand what it is you want.”

“I want to eat you out,” he says yet again as your expression falls flat. “Look I need…the practice.”

“Practice…”

“Practice.” He nods before flopping down onto the sofa. “You remember Tina, right?”

“Tall, hot, and out of your league?” you recall as you walk over to him. “Yes, I remember.”

He fights a smile. “Yeah, well…she agreed to let me take her out and I just…I want to make sure I’m prepared.”

“...prepared.”

“Prepared.” His eyes follow you as you take a seat beside him. “Come on, you know I don’t have a lot of experience with that shit, and I want to make sure I’m…you know, at least capable of making her come. And I have no other way to get…better.”

“Oh, so, naturally I’m your second-best option,” you snort playfully as you pull your knees to your chest. “But how would eating me out help you make her come? Not all girls like the same stuff, you know. Lesson number one.”

“Because I need someone to help me make my technique a little…smoother, I guess. Tell me what feels good and what doesn’t so I know,” he explains, without a hint of embarrassment, and truthfully, you’re a little impressed.

Harry has always been…bold, you would say. Assertive, confident, borderline egotistical. He’s never had a problem making friends or getting a girlfriend, so learning that his sexual experience didn’t expand as far as you thought it did was kind of a surprise.

You do admire him for wanting to be good for her. In fact, the thought is almost sweet, although you have no idea where he got the idea to ask you.

Sure, you’re his best friend, but…that’s kind of fucking…weird. Right? You guys don’t do that. You don’t even like to hug.

You run your tongue over your bottom lip and look for the deception within his expression. He could be messing with you. It wouldn’t be the first time and you certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

But there’s something…earnest in the way he speaks. In the way his eyes hold onto yours as he awaits your response, hopeful and desperate.

“So…wait, hold on.” You clear your throat and straighten up. “You…you honestly want…to eat me out…just to see if I like it?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he agrees as one shoulder bobs up in a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve got a few ideas on what to do, I just…I need someone—I need you—to tell me if it feels good or not. So I can practice and make sure she’ll like it.”

Your teeth begin to absentmindedly knaw on the inside of your cheek. Truthfully, you have no idea how to feel about this. The request is outrageous and weird and it goes way past the duties of friendship.

But you’ve known him forever and you trust him and honestly? You feel a little bad for the guy.

Sure, the best way for him to get the practice he needs would be with her, but you know him. He doesn’t like to admit he doesn’t know something and he absolutely despises feeling unprepared. 

He’s a perfectionist.

And you are a little flattered that he feels safe enough with you to showcase his inexperience and that thought alone begins to wash your reservations away.

“So…all I’d have to do is just…sit here? And tell you yes or no?” you clarify, and he nods.

“Yeah. I won’t make you come, don’t worry. I know that’s…going a little farther than we need,” he says. “I just…wanna play with you a little.”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t not making me come defeat the purpose?”

He exhales a laugh as he leans back. “I just want to make sure I can. Besides, doesn’t it open up a bunch of emotions and shit? It attaches you to the person? I mean, do you really wanna live with the knowledge that you came because of me?”

“...no,” you admit. “Okay, that’s fair. So…if I agree…you’re not gonna drag this out, right? Just to annoy me?”

He chuckles again. “Well, I wanna make sure I’m doing it right…but no, I won’t drag it past that. I’ll stop whenever you want.”

Your fingers pull at a loose strand on your jeans. You aren’t seriously considering this, are you? “And if I say yes…how would we…I mean, what would we do?”

He thinks about this for only a moment, suggesting that he already came with a plan. Typical. “I guess we go somewhere you feel comfortable…we start slow. You tell me what you’re okay with, what you’re not okay with…and then I’ll just…get started.”

You look at him. Really look at him. He’s relaxed. Almost too relaxed considering the line he’s suggesting you both cross. A line you can never uncross.

And as you stare at those familiar features you’ve known for years…you feel your body exhale a deep breath. You’re doubtful, sure…but he’s always been rather exceptional at providing you comfort, just through a look alone.

Exactly like he is now.

His mouth quirks up in a smirk as he bumps his knuckles against your knee teasingly. “We don’t have to, Bee. I just…thought I’d ask.”

You roll your lips into your mouth as you hesitate, the familiar nickname calming you ever-so-slightly. “I didn’t…I’m not saying no, I just…I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“I know,” he agrees with a nod. “Look, just…forget I said anything. I’ll Google it, it’s fine. Let’s just watch Schitt’s Creek or something, yeah?”

With that, he turns toward the TV, grabs the remote, and begins to flip through the channels, leaving the conversation behind.

But you aren’t as quick to let the idea go. After all, he planted the seed, and now you’re starting to wonder. You’re starting to…accept.

Maybe things will be weird. And maybe you won’t be able to go back to how you used to be. But at least you’ll have helped him…? And that’s…something that friends do.

…right?

“I have never heard someone say so many wrong things…one after the other…consecutively…in a row,” David says to your right as Harry smiles and glances over to see if you’re listening.

But you’re not.

At least, not to David.

“Okay,” you murmur, quiet enough that it becomes lost beneath the next line on the show.

Harry, confused, raises a brow and begins to lower the volume. “Sorry, what?”

“Okay,” you repeat, a little more confidently than you had before. “Okay, I agree to your proposal. Just this once.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously.” You nod. “What? Don’t look at me like that, I’m charitable. And cool, and a really good friend. So…don’t forget that the next time I ask you to buy the popcorn at the movie.”

His eyes roll but he laughs as he tosses the remote aside. “All right, that’s fair. Deal.”

You both go quiet.

Funny…for some reason, you thought agreeing would be all there was to it.

His eyes soften as he looks you over. “So…you’re in charge, okay? You just…tell me where you wanna go, what you’re comfortable with…whatever you want, yeah?”

You nod faintly before glancing toward your room. “Um…I guess we can do it on the bed. There’s probably more room, so it would be a little easier…I guess.”

He nods, too, before slowly moving for the edge of the couch. But he doesn’t stand until you do, eyeing you closely as if gauging your reaction.

You aren’t sure why you feel so…timid. You’re not exactly nervous, maybe just…apprehensive. But, it’s Harry, and he will always be the boy that got a blueberry stuck up his nose and snorted purple snot to you.

And it can’t get more embarrassing than that. 

He follows you into the bedroom. The same bedroom he’s seen a million times, although now, it’s like a completely different space.

With an awkward clear of your throat, you take a seat on the corner of the mattress, head tilting back as you look up at him expectantly. “Uh…now what?”

“You tell me,” he says softly, hands finding refuge in his pockets. “Where do you wanna be? Against the pillows? Might be more comfortable.”

You glance over your shoulder at the headboard. “Yeah, I guess that’s…a good idea.”

He smiles again, stepping back to allow you the room to crawl back. 

Once you’re in position and settled, he takes your spot on the edge of the bed. “Still good?”

You nod, arms resting atop your stomach, almost as if to hide yourself. “Yup.”

“Do you wanna pick a safeword?”

Your brows raise. “I mean…I think ‘stop’ will do just fine.”

He snorts his amusement. “Fair.”

Again, you both grow quiet, and you wish you could find your nerve. In the many years you two have known each other, not once have you ever been this shy. Or quiet. In fact, you don’t believe there’s ever been a second of silence between you, and you have no idea what to do with it.

He straightens up, taking the reins when he notices you don’t plan to. “Do you have your phone?”

Confused, you reach into your pocket and wiggle the cell phone free.

He nods. “Okay, I want you to pull up your favorite porn.”

Your lips part as you blink. “...I’m sorry, what now?”

"Well, I’m willing to bet you’re not exactly turned on right now, right?” he explains, nodding his chin at you with a teasing glint in his eye. “And I’m just thinking that might be a little harder to work with. For both of us.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. You’re about as dry as the Sahara desert, so you admit defeat and swipe up on your screen.

Now, while you and him have both exchanged some of your favorite videos before, pulling up one now…in front of him…feels like a whole new ballgame.

You quickly readjust the volume before looking for the ones you know normally do the trick, refusing to sneak a glance at the man now scooting a bit closer to you. 

But you do hear him smile. “Find it?”

Your eyes land on the familiar thumbnail you’ve seen a hundred times before as you whisper, “Yeah.”

“Good,” he hums, hands coming to rest near your outstretched legs. “Can I take your jeans off? Just your jeans.”

You peek out from around the screen of your phone, catching the curious but hopeful look on his face. “...sure.”

He nods his understanding before shifting closer so he can reach for your zipper to guide it down.

You debate watching him but choose instead to click play on the video and force your attention elsewhere. Maybe this will go smoother if you just…don’t look at him. 

Ever.

You feel the air hit your legs as his fingers curl around the fabric at your hips to pull it down. He’s deliberate, making sure he doesn’t accidentally graze something he’s not supposed to (ironically enough), but you appreciate the gesture. 

He gently tugs the material down to your ankles before effortlessly tossing it aside, and you feel yourself swallow.

This isn’t your first time, so you thought you’d know what to expect. But you don’t know what to expect from him. He seems to have a plan (thank God), and you catch the way he eyes your underwear before he glances up at you.

“Ready?” he murmurs, the cadence of his voice rather reassuring. “I’ll just play with you a bit for now, yeah?”

Again, you swallow thickly, forcing the nerves aside. “Yeah, go.”

And from that point on, you decide to proceed with a more clinical mindset. This is practice, exactly like he said. It doesn’t mean anything to either of you, and once it’s over, you doubt you’ll ever mention it again.

It’s just practice.

A cunt is a cunt, a tongue is a tongue, a hand is a hand. Doesn’t matter who they belong to. Pleasure is pleasure, and that’s all there is to it.

You return your attention to your phone as the bed dips, signaling that he’s getting himself into position. You wonder what he means when he says he wants to play with you, and you also wonder if he’ll actually be any good.

But before you can worry that you’ll have to tell him that he’s terrible…he touches you.

You feel his palm, gently smoothing up your right leg, slowly but with purpose. Your breath hitches as you blink at the images flashing across the screen in front of you. You have no idea if you’ll be able to get out of your own head long enough to feel turned on, but you don’t worry about it quite yet.

Then…you feel his thumb.

Your entire body goes still as the pad of his finger brushes down the front of your underwear, right over your clit. There’s just enough pressure to capture your attention but not so much that it feels uncomfortable.

Your chest deflates with a deep breath as you begin to move your focus from the porn to him.

He does it again, a little harder this time around. It’s teasing, almost. Exactly like he said it would be. He’s simply playing with your body and seeing how it reacts. And every time you twitch or your legs begin to tense, you hear him smile, as if making a mental note of it.

For a few minutes, this is all he does. He runs his fingers up and down the fabric in slow but teasing patterns, pressing and sometimes circling as you feel an ache begin to form.

The sounds coming from your phone are successful in urging your body to bend to such salacious intentions. You can feel your muscles unwind as your mind begins to release those doubtful premonitions.

With a flutter of your lashes, you move your phone to the side so you can get a glimpse of the boy between your legs.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Either that or he pretends not to. And for a moment, you aren’t sure what to make of the sight before you. Harry, your best friend, in a staring contest with your cunt and you want to be put off…but you’re not. 

“How’s that?” he murmurs after a moment, his other hand softly stroking the skin of your thigh as he pulls your legs further apart.

Your voice betrays you as you breathe, “Good.”

He looks up. Smiles. “Noted.”

He does it some more, thumbing over your clit before pressing into it and guiding it in a circle. You squirm each time, the faintest of whimpers getting stuck in the back of your throat. 

He seems proud, and you almost want to be annoyed, but you just don’t have the mental capacity to be in this moment.

Maybe when it’s over.

And then, he does something you hadn’t expected.

He dips down…and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh. Not too close but not too far, and as he does, his eyes find yours.

Shit. “Okay, I’m ready,” you whisper quickly, hips subtly bucking up. “I’m…I think I’m good now.”

His brow raises as he drops his hand and you have to fight the urge to whine. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” You chew on your bottom lip. “I mean, if you are.”

“I am,” he says, glancing back down at your waist. “Yeah, I am.”

So you nod, and anxiously await his next move.

He reaches again for your body, and you want to sigh with relief as he slips his fingers under the band of your underwear to peel it down. 

The cool air is rather chilling and it’s then that you’re made aware of the mess already forming between your thighs. You knew you’d begun to enjoy yourself but you’re surprised by just how much. 

Whether that was because of him or because of the video…you don’t exactly know.

Once the lace has been flicked to the side, he readjusts onto his knees and formulates a plan.

He makes you wait. Watch. Watch as he once again takes your legs in his hands to guide them apart and settle between them.

Watch as he outstretches his palm so he can run it along your hip before moving lower.

Watch as he takes his thumb and brings it back to your clit which is now exposed to his skin.

And the contact is sinful. You’re worked up enough that the immediate connection makes your head drop back, and while you’d like to be embarrassed…you just don’t care.

He drags it down. Down. Presses, rubs, and dips into the wetness that waits for him.

He’s concentrated, and the look on his face is rather adorable. He’s learning. Studying. Observing each and every reaction you offer him as he continues to tease you.

Once in a while, he’ll venture a glance up, perhaps for approval, and you’ll nod quickly. Then, he’ll return to the task at hand as he looks for new ways to make you gasp.

He slides the tip of his finger in without warning and when you whimper, he stills and raises his brow.

You can tell he was aiming for the element of surprise, choosing not to warn you in order to receive this very response, but he’s not sure if that was a sound of approval or unease, so you rush to clarify.

“No, it’s fine,” you mumble. “It’s fine, it’s good.”

“Are you su—”

“Yes, it’s good. Go.”

Encouraged, he pushes in. He’s still wary of your enjoyment but he seems to focus more on the movement of his hand than your expressions. And that’s all right with you. You’re happy to simply sit and…judge. Which is what he’s asked you to do, and you plan to uphold your end of the deal.

He stops when he’s reached his knuckle, finger curling slightly before he’s gently pulling back. He repeats the action a time or two more and the fullness that accompanies the stretch is quite enjoyable.

Your eyes move to the ceiling as you fight the urge to watch him. You’re not that comfortable yet and perhaps watching him would ruin the fun. So, for now, you stare at the white paint above you as he begins to pump his hand a bit faster.

When he adds a second finger, you gasp, and he uses this as leverage to expand his search.

And you know exactly what he’s looking for, the crease between his brows indicative of his captivation.

But just when you’re getting ready to offer some help, he drives in and curls up until the tips of his fingers brush against that particular point of ecstasy.

You inhale a sharp breath and writhe away, faintly panting, “Shit…that.”

Intrigued, he perks up, although he doesn’t relax his pace. “That?”

He does it again and your eyes squeeze shut. “Yeah…yeah, it’s…mhm.”

A smile dances across his lips as he scoots a little closer to watch his own hand as he repeats the action.

You begin to slump down the mattress, limbs turning to jello as he guides your body up toward that familiar ledge, and you hear him hum his approval.

“Good,” he murmurs, you assume in an attempt to soothe you. “Very good, m’proud of you. Seem to be doing really well.”

You stumble over a scoff. “Yeah, well…so are you.”

The grin grows. “Still doing okay?”

“Yes,” you whisper when his thumb ghosts over your clit. “Yeah, I…fuck. I’m…is this all you’re gonna do…then? I thought…I thought you wanted…to…with…the other…”

Nothing that comes out of your mouth is coherent but he seems to understand. “Yeah, I just wasn’t sure if you were ready.”

“I am,” you correct quickly. “I’m…yeah, I’m fine. You can…you’re good. Just do it.”

He dips his head down but doesn’t quite connect as he continues to watch you carefully. “Bee?”

“...wha—shit—what?”

“Thank you.”

Your eyes roll playfully, although perhaps that’s just from the pleasure. “Yeah, yeah, I’m…I’m a fucking saint. Just…fucking do it, okay?”

So…he does.

Those lips you used to stare at move down to your clit and he brushes his mouth over your body for just a moment before you see his tongue.

He takes a moment to decide exactly what he wants to do before he’s pressing that tongue into you and dragging it up from his hand.

You’re so wound up that it doesn’t take much more for you to arch off the bed in search of that feeling. He’s hardly done anything but your head is rolling back across the pillow as your fingers dig into the blanket beneath you.

He nips at you gently, continuing to pump your arousal in and out as it coats his hand, and your mind instantly falls completely blank.

The sounds…god, the sounds. The sound of you, the sound of him, the sound of your body falling apart beneath him.

He’s good. He’s very good, and you almost wonder if he was lying about his inexperience. There’s no way he learned this from porn…at least, you can’t see how. But, he is a perfectionist. Maybe it just comes naturally to him.

“Awfully quiet up there,” you hear him say, and the vibration of the deep tone of voice sparks a chill down your spine. “That bad?”

No! you want to scream but you simply shake your head. “It’s…it’s good. You’re…this is great. This is all…you know…standard…good…stuff.”

When he smiles, your cheeks grow hot. “Guess I have a good teacher.”

“Please,” you huff, pressing your palm to your forehead. “You always—god, always know what you’re doing. I had nothing to do with it.”

He shrugs as his eyes flick across the mess in front of him. “Had more to do with it than you think.”

He dives back in, licking a stripe up before driving his fingers in further. And there’s so much happening. So much that it makes you crazy. There’s him, and there’s you, and there’s that reminder of need that continues to grow. You can’t focus in on any one thing, and honestly...you’re okay with that. 

When he sucks you into his mouth, you have to fight the urge to grab onto him, twisting the duvet around your knuckles as you reel. 

“Don’t,” he mumbles, and you work to figure out what he’s referring to. Did you do something wrong? “Don’t grab the blanket. Grab me.”

You blink down at him. “I’m…no, it’s fine. I was just—”

“Bee, I’m not asking,” he interrupts, rather resolutely. “You wanna do it, so do it. Promise, I don’t mind.”

You certainly aren’t a stranger to this more…authoritative side of him. Although now, you might even…like it? At least, in this context.

“Come on,” he repeats, pulling back only to shoot you a stern look. “She will. And it’ll show me what you like. Don’t be a pussy, just do it. You won’t hurt me.”

And you almost want to fight him, but he’s right, and you can’t argue that. 

So, the moment he returns to his focused work, you reach for those chocolate brown curls and give them a nice tug.

He makes a noise of approval that nearly kills you, lapping at your folds like he’s depraved and you’re his only remedy.

Tina is gonna love it.

He finds a certain rhythm that you respond to well and zeros in. His cheeks hollow every time he sucks on you only to quickly pop off as he presses his tongue beside his fingers. 

Your nails scratch down his scalp and he seems to like it, his other hand grasping onto your thigh so hard you imagine it’ll bruise.

And for just a moment, you actually don’t mind. You concede to the satisfaction he’s offering and you indulge in it. You find gratification in the fact that you accepted and you even decide that maybe…this was a good idea.

“Are you close?” he asks once your whimpers scale up an octave.

You nod quickly. “Yes…yeah, I’m…yeah.”

“Good,” he muses proudly before he’s suddenly removing his hand from your body and pulling away.

You nearly disappear through the mattress as you choke on a dejected whine and look down at him. “What…what happened?”

He breathes out a laugh as he settles onto his knees. “Nothing, I’m just keeping my word.”

His word.

Right.

“You…oh,” you whisper, fighting your disappointment. “Yeah. Well…that was…you did good. That was all…you know, very well done. She’ll like it, you’ll be fine.”

He seems pleased with your approval before his eyes begin to narrow in thought. He watches you haphazardly reach for a throw blanket to cover yourself, but just as you’re getting ready to toss it over your legs, he snatches onto your wrist.

You both still as he studies you. “Bee?”

“...what?”

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “If there’s something you want to ask me…then ask me.”

You blink. “What…what do you mean?”

With his hold still on your arm, he leans closer. “Bee…we agreed, yeah? M’trying to be a good student, but I can’t be if you don’t tell me what you want.”

Your breath hitches the closer he gets. “Har, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Do you wanna come?”

Well…shit. “I…” You begin to shift nervously under his pointed stare. “I was just…”

His expression softens although there’s a hint of smugness swimming behind his smile. “Do you want me…to make you come?” he clarifies as your stomach twists into a knot.

Feigning exasperation, you huff a stray hair from your eye. “Well, what do you think? Obviously nobody likes being edged.”

He’s amused as he begins to lower back down, fingers still wrapped around your wrist. “Then what do you need to do?”

You huff again, shooting a quick glare his way as you watch him drop his gaze to your sensitive cunt. “Harry…come on.”

He clicks his tongue and cocks his head. “Nope, that’s not it.”

You open your mouth, a quippy remark locked and loaded, but right before you can use it…he puckers his lips and blows on your clit.

Your muscles recoil and your throat seems to close up as you pull against his hold. “You fucking asshole, you did that on purpose.”

“Obviously.” He tosses you a wink. “You wanna try again?”

No, I wanna kill you, you think but don’t say. “Harry…please.”

You briefly notice the way his eyelashes flutter at the sound of his name but he doesn’t comment on it. “Please what?”

“Harry—”

“Come on, Bee, you can do it.”

“I just…I…this isn’t…”

“Almost there, that’s it. Be a good girl and ask me.”

Oh, that sadistic fucker. You’d berate him for such a nickname if it didn’t turn you on so goddamn much, especially with the state you're in. You might even wanna hear it again and truth be told, the thought blows your mind.

You swallow a shaky breath. “Harry?”

“Yes?”

“...please make me come.”

A wide smile bursts across his face. “Attagirl.”

And with that…he continues.

You’re thrust back up the precipice of pleasure as he slips three fingers into your aching, dripping cunt. 

And it’s purposeful and practiced and he’s such a liar because he knows exactly what he’s doing, at least to you, and you want to smack him.

But you also want to grab onto his hair and his arm and every inch of his body and never let go because he’s so good for making you feel this way. The best friend you could ever have and why on Earth didn’t you guys try this earlier?

Each curl, each twist, each push in. You feel so full and he feels so good and it’s only his hand and then suddenly…it’s his mouth, too.

And the moment he presses his tongue against you, you lose it. You roll your hips against his face, and lift your back from the bed, and drop your mouth open as a desperate moan falls free.

And it goes, and goes, and goes. Stronger and longer than any other one you’ve ever had and this time, you think it really does kill you.

But he doesn’t stop, not even when you’ve begun to settle. He pushes against the sensitive nerves until tears spring to your eyes. He teases and he tortures and he demands a second orgasm out of you before you can even fight it.

This time, he grabs onto your hips, one hand on either side, to lift you and place you where he wants.

And he tastes you. Savors you on his tongue as if this is for his enjoyment, not yours.

And you look down at him, and you see the flush in his cheeks, and the messy way his hair falls into his eyes, and the veins in his arms as he holds you.

And you lose it. Completely and utterly and permanently.

You disappear into your own head for a moment until his ministrations relax and he slowly—very slowly—begins to let go.

As you fight to catch your breath, you watch him run his thumb across his lip. He’s going to wipe you away, you imagine, but then, to your surprise, he sucks his thumb into his mouth.

When he notices you watching, he raises a brow. “Want some?”

And you can only lay there and stare at him, dumbfounded and blissed-out

He laughs to himself when he notices the spacey expression on your face, moving to hover over your body until he’s only inches away. “Can I try something else?”

“What?” you ask breathlessly.

He smiles. “Kissing you.”

Your eyes widen. “...why?”

He shrugs. “I mean, it’s only polite after something like that, no? Like…a parting gift.”

Your eyes narrow. “How sweet. No, really, that was so romantic. Don’t stop, give me another compliment—”

He presses his lips to yours. And it’s rushed and it’s messy and it’s the perfect parting gift.

It’s him.

And you don’t mind that.

You both grin when he pulls back, chuckling to yourselves as he flops over onto the bed beside you.

He helps you toss the blanket over your legs before he’s turning onto his side, head in his hand as he studies you. “All right, Teach. What do you say?”

You pretend to think. “Well…your dirty talk could use some work.”

He smirks. “Okay.”

“And your incessant need to make me spell it out lost you a few points.”

“Sure, sure.”

“But, overall…that was really good,” you admit, and he beams. “Like…better than I expected, and I kind of think you lied about not knowing what to do.”

He shakes his head playfully as he glances off into your room. “Good to know you had so much faith in me.”

“Oh, I didn’t. Not even a little.”

He snorts. “Well, I meant what I said. I only knew what to do because of you.”

“Yeah right. I didn’t tell you any of that.”

“You did,” he argues, turning his attention back to you. “Not with words, no. But with the sounds you made. The way your breath would catch or the way you’d squirm. Or when your nose would crinkle up ’cause you were trying really hard not to like it.”

Shit…had he noticed that? “I…okay, in my defense…I like almost anything. And I wanted to make you work for it.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

He rolls over onto his back, grinning up at the ceiling. “All right, well…I still appreciate it.”

“Hey, don’t get all sappy on me now.”

“Fuck off,” he groans. “I mean it, Bee. I was honestly…okay, don’t fucking laugh, but…I was kind of nervous about it. About whether or not she’d like it. Whether or not you’d like it, and…I’m glad you said yes. I’m glad it was you because…you know. It’s you. And I always feel better around you.”

You work to restrain your smile as you look up at the fan spinning above you. “I feel better around you, too.”

He hums.

“Especially after that. I mean…that was good,” you add and he shakes his head again. “She’s gonna love it.”

He turns to you. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.” You meet his eye. “Really, Har, you have nothing to worry about. She’ll show you what she likes just like I did. You know what to do, you just have to listen. And then…you can call me and tell me all about it.”

“Deal,” he agrees eagerly, sticking his pinky between you.

You take it and squeeze. “And I already know what next week's lesson is gonna be.”

Amused, he says, “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

You grin.

“How To Eat Ass 101.”

Next part:

~ Show Me* (Pt. 2)

~ Full Teach Me Masterlist (with all the other parts plus extras!)

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

[turtle-paced]

Revisiting Chapters: Bran II, ASoS

Happy new year! Have a story.

The story so far…

Having made their escape from Winterfell and deciding to head north beyond the Wall, it’s now a matter of travelling for Bran and company. Lots and lots of travelling.

The Northern Landscape

The land is the first thing we’re hit with this chapter. Trees with autumn colours have given way to evergreens, the Wolfswood to flint hills into grey mountains. The land is scattered with long lakes and devoid of roads - game trails only, as we find out later. And it’s cold. Bran, Hodor, Meera and Jojen are heading north, following the blue eye of the Ice Dragon constellation, going up and down and occasionally getting turned around for short amounts of time.

Bran is not loving it.

But Bran’s life had turned into endless chilly days on Hodor’s back, riding his basket up and down the slopes of mountains.

Meera is also not loving it, or maybe she is. She has mixed feelings about mountains, which she tries and fails to explain to Bran. Jojen has the more poetic take that opposites, whether it’s fire and ice, marsh and mountain, or love and hate, aren’t so different after all. The land is one, he says. Meera replies that the land's too wrinkly.

Weather and food both are becoming issues as the group travels. Game is scarce. The temperature is cold. They get caught in a sleet storm, which sounds incredibly miserable. Bran wants to go to the Kingsroad, but Jojen says it’s too dangerous. They’ll be spotted.

That said, Bran soon points out that they’ve already been spotted. Summer’s seen them. There are people in these hills. Sometimes Umbers - usually to the east and usually in summer. Wulls to the west, Harclays to the south, and around where they are now there are Knotts, Liddles, Norreys, and Flints. Bran’s maternal grandmother was a Flint - distant family.

The concerns about witnesses are proven valid when rain drives the group into a cave with a Liddle man. No names are exchanged. Lots of helpful information is. Bran asks how far to the Wall; he’s told it’s still a decent journey if you can’t fly over the hills. They’re warned off the Kingsroad:

“When there was a Stark in Winterfell, a maiden girl could walk the kingsroad in her name-day down and still go unmolested, and travelers could find fire, bread, and salt at many an inn and holdfast. But nights are colder now, and doors are closed.

More immediately, the ‘Bastard’s boys’ are on the road. They’re paying silver for wolfskins and maybe gold for walking dead (no, not the zombie kind). The way the Liddle puts this leaves little doubt that he knows exactly who Bran is. Ramsay’s people also know full well that Bran and Rickon escaped. The news that Bran and Rickon are alive cannot be hidden indefinitely. There are just too many people who know. A bit later, the party circles back around to what happened at Winterfell. They noticed a lot of dead Ironborn and no dead women. The immediate conclusion is that it wasn’t Theon who did the killing.

The Liddle also warns Bran off heading towards the Wall, where Sam’s ravens without messages have at least effectively communicated that some deadly serious shit happened north of the Wall. Which tells Bran and company that at the very least, they’re not likely to find meaningful help at the Wall. Perhaps not even safety.

But they can have sausage and oatcakes instead.

One day there would be Starks in Winterfell again, he told himself, and then he’d send for the Liddles and pay them back a hundredfold for every nut and berry.

This is just about the power of small kindnesses. What follows that is more empathic landscape - a bit more sun, a bit smoother a slope. Just a little bit more bearable all round. And with that, it’s easier to tell stories.

The People of the Crannogs

It’s overshadowed by certain other things this chapter, but it’s definitely worth getting into how much we learn about the residents of the crannogs in this chapter. First we see Meera hunting (and Bran’s developing first crush). She’s a lord’s daughter, but skilled at both hunting and spearfishing. Quite what this says about food security in the Neck, or various recreational pastimes, or gender roles, isn’t clear.

In one of the most hopeful moments of the series to date, Jojen promises the Liddle that he will not be left with ghosts - the wolves will come again. He’s dreamed it. “There are dreams and dreams,” he says. Without more of a sample size you wouldn’t like to say that the crannogpeople culturally have respect for true dreaming and perhas the associated mysticism - but Jojen is confident in referring to those dreams as authoritative. He’s not afraid of sounding ridiculous, he’s used to the idea that dreams can give foreknowledge. Given that Meera refers to “the magics of my people”, it seems that there's a level of respect for magic within their society.

Bran asks for stories after a while. Stories about knights! Jojen tells him there are no knights in the Neck. Meera corrects him that there are no knights above the water - lots of dead ones below, though.

“Andals and ironmen, Freys and other fools, all those proud warriors who set out to conquer Greywater. Not one of them could find it. They ride into the Neck, but not back out. And sooner or later they blunder into the bogs and sink beneath the weight of all that steel and drown there in their armour.”

Thus speaks Jojen. Which is another very informative passage about the people of the crannogs. They have a very different fighting tradition, even to the North. The armour the crannogpeople seem to prefer, it seems, are shirts sewn with bronze scales, plus a leathern shield; the weight is not the best when fighting in the marshy ground. Even their greatest castle is camoflauged or otherwise hidden, which again doesn’t seem to invite the whole siege and straight fight. Instead, the crannogpeople seem happy for their enemies to charge around carelessly and get themselves killed. We’ll see in future books that this isn’t the end of their strategies, but even from this admittedly partisan viewpoint, this seems like a brutally effective strategy.

We get some more details by implication as Howland Reed himself is introduced in the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree:

“He grew up hunting and fishing and climbing trees, and learned all the magics of my people. […] He could breathe mud run on leaves, and change earth to water and water to earth with no more than a whispered word. He could talk to trees and make castles appear and disappear.”

Another point for hunting and fishing being appropriate for the upper strata of crannog society. And a good hint at Howland’s moving castle.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree

With spirits a bit higher, the party starts swapping stories. Meera nominates the tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Oddly, Jojen says that Bran must have heard that tale a hundred times. But no, Bran hasn’t heard it even once.

Since it’s Meera telling the story as it was told to her by her father, it starts with Howland Reed (not named within the tale). Howland Reed, who wants to see a bit more of the world than just the crannogs, and who goes to find the Green Men on the Isle of Faces. After a productive winter visit, he heads off when spring arrives, and wanders right into the Tourney of Harrenhal. Meera doesn’t use family names, but the identities of the attendees are clear: King Aerys, Rhaegar, all the Kingsguard, Mace Tyrell, Robert Baratheon. Tywin’s had a spat with the king and didn’t show, but there are a lot of Westerlands lords there.

But women also attend (though Bran asks with suspicion if this is going to be a love story - there’s no other reason for women tot be present in a story except romance!). Elia Martell counts as a fair maid, and she’s brought a full dozen lady companions, with the men flocking around them.

But almost no sooner has Howland Reed shown his face than he’s set upon by vicious Walders. As Jojen says, “sometimes the knights are the monsters.” Squires or not, all of them are bigger than Howland Reed. Howland marks their faces as he’s being beaten - but even as that happens, a “she-wolf” arrives and sends all of the squires packing with a tourney sword. Lyanna Stark insists Howland come with her, first to meet the other Starks (explicitly noted in this is that Brandon’s the leader), and then to the feast.

Throughout the description of the action, Meera uses heraldry to identify the characters, rather than names. While this makes sense - did Howland know those names? What’s easier for the audience hearing this story spoken aloud? - It does mean a little piecing together is needed for the reader. Among the more important interactions are Lyanna crying at Rhaegar’s beautiful music (and then pouring wine on Benjen when he laughed at her), and Brandon asking Ashara Dayne to dance with Ned. Tragically, the woman the readers already know committed suicide is described here as having “laughing” eyes - a good bit of writing that implies the terrible things that happened to her over the course of Robert’s Rebellion.

Central to Meera’s story, though, is Howland spotting the Frey squires at the feast. Benjen offers to find Howland a horse and armour, but Howland is conflicted. He has his pride, and he knows jousting isn’t his forte. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself or his people more than he already has.

“You never heard this tale from your father?” asked Jojen.

At the jousting the next day, a mystery knight shows up, sure enough. Bran thinks the knight was the crannogman - they were short, in mismatched (obviously borrowed) armour, and the small crannogman fits the bill. The knight, named in the story for the device on their shield as the Knight of the Laughing Tree, challenged the masters of the squires. They won the jousts, demanding that the knights discipline their squires for the return of their horses and armour. Afterwards, at the feast, others swear to unmask the mystery knight (including Robert Baratheon), with King Aerys sending Rhaegar out to unmask the knight. But though Rhaegar returned with the shield, the knight vanished into thin air.

Bran thinks the story is…okay. Look, he’s got some opinions about what would be dramatically satisfying here. They needed to commit to making the knights the bad guys. There needs to be more violence, with the knights killed at the end. And for all that Bran complained about love stories, he wanted that romance subplot in - and resolved. (Though this does tell you a bit about how women are perceived as standard rewards in the in-universe fiction. The bloody eight year old has bought into it.) Meera tells Bran that Lyanna was indeed named the Queen of Love and Beauty: “but that’s a sadder story.”

“Are you certain you never heard this tale before, Bran?” asked Jojen. “Your lord father never told it to you?”

Because what Bran hasn’t realised is that this isn’t a far off tale of times long gone. This happened less than twenty years ago. This is his family’s recent past - part of events that shaped his family and the politics of the world he lives in profoundly. What Bran misses is right there for the readers.

Chapter Function

This chapter mostly exists for Meera’s story and the promise that the wolves will come again. The rest of it’s mostly walking.

There are very few ways we can get insight into these key events of the backstory with all these child protagonists who weren’t even born when these Big Deals happened. The mechanism of a story for children is actually a really good one, since it tells us about another culture, another time, and two different families.

In writing terms, it’s also an excellent way of showing the readers what’s important through the implications of what’s not told. Meera’s main narrative is about Howland’s experiences, so the ‘camera’ glances at Lyanna, at the interactions between the Stark siblings, at Rhaegar and Aerys, but doesn’t focus on them. They’re unmistakeably there, but they’re not gone into, which leaves room for speculation and mystery and the certain level of ambiguity that GRRM's stories thrive on.

Even more than this, there’s the in-universe meta-level of what’s not told. Ned’s been dead for a book and a half, and we’re still learning about him just for knowing that he couldn’t bear to tell his own children this story.

And why can’t Ned tell this story? Lyanna. Lyanna is the hero of this particular story, even more than Howland Reed. From the very beginning she’s an active presence. This is a story Lyanna drove, first by rescuing Howland from the Freys, then by taking him into the Stark tent, then by avenging Howland’s honour when Howland could not avenge his own. What we’re shown is a girl with both physical and moral courage. She’s daring, ready to fight squires, stand up for her father’s bannerman, and defy social convention to joust in the lists herself. Even in this little story for children, Lyanna’s a memorable character.

Through this, more than just telling us about Lyanna, GRRM shows us the effect all this had on Ned. The pointed, grief-stricken silence is palpable even as the implications fly over Bran’s head. It keeps Ned’s character and his silence in the reader’s view. Which is going to be important when at the end, GRRM has to talk about Ned’s character, his grief, and his silence - again relating to Lyanna.

Miscellany

This chapter is far more about what’s going on around Bran than his internal experiences, but even then:

He followed it with his eyes, wondering what it would be like to soar about the world so effortless. Better than climbing, even. He tried to reach the eagle, to leave his stupid crippled body and rise into the sky to join it, the way he joined with summer. The greenseers could do it. I should be able to do it too.

That said, it’s worth noting that Bran flips back to explicitly preferring knighthood at the end of Meera’s story. Acceptance is a process. Bran's going through it.

The internalised ableism continues strongly. And on that note, mind Bran’s interaction with Hodor. Hodor likes stories about knights, Bran says. Hodor doesn’t like love stories, Bran says. Are these Hodor’s preferences, or is Bran using Hodor as an excuse? On one level it’s childish behaviour from a child…but on another, it’s Bran using Hodor’s voice for his own ends.

Who doesn’t love Jojen’s shade about “Freys and other fools”?

It’s flagged that Howland Reed did meet the Green Men, “but that’s another story.”

We also learn in this chapter that not-yet-Ser Barristan entered a tourney as a mystery knight when he was ten.

Clothing Porn

The Liddle man wears a squirrelskin cloak with a pinecone-shaped clasp in gold and bronze.

Food Porn

Bran fantasises about the eel, fish, and hot crab pie that Osha might be eating at White Harbour. Later, there’s actual blood sausage and oatcakes. Oatcakes with pine nuts and oatcakes with blackberries.

Next Three Chapters

Tyrion V, ACoK - Eddard X, AGoT - Sam V, AFFC

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

I just posted a fic on AO3 for the first time, it's the first thing I've posted anywhere since 2012, maybe earlier? Horrifying, I did not miss the anxiety that comes after posting. Have an excerpt:

He wishes he’d figured it out sooner, because a lot of the faces he sees in the crowd are younger than his, and most of them look so happy and free. Even if their lives aren’t perfect, they’re somewhere they know they belong where they can feel like themselves. The only time he’d ever had that was with the 118, but it wasn’t the same. He’d still had a whole part of himself locked away without even realizing it.

“You wanna dance?” Tommy asks, lips close to his ear.

“Yeah,” Buck replies, grinning.

They finish their drinks, Tommy entrusts Karen with his jacket because she and Hen are planning on getting more drinks, and he leads Buck out to the mass of people on the floor. People are close, but there’s a small bubble of personal space around them, which is good. Buck feels a little awkward, because he doesn’t really dance, but he’s mostly just pressed up against Tommy and letting him move for the both of them. Tommy isn’t much smoother, but he at least has something approaching a sense of rhythm. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, though, until Tommy grabs his wrists and lifts them to his shoulders. Buck ends up crossing his wrists behind Tommy’s neck and feels something inside settle when Tommy’s arm slips around his waist.

“You’re so cute,” Tommy says, half-yelling in his ear so he can be heard over the music.

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious!” he says, pulling back a bit to grin at him.

Buck can’t hide the bashful smile or the flush of his cheeks, and Tommy nuzzles his cheek before kissing him. He exhales through his nose and brings a hand up to scratch his nails through the short hair at the nape of Tommy’s neck, and he feels rather than hears Tommy’s groan. Hands slide over his back, one slipping under the back of his shirt to press fingertips against his lower back, and Buck breaks the kiss, almost shuddering when Tommy’s nails scratch gently into his skin.

“We just got here,” Tommy says, laughing, and Buck’s laughing, too. They’ve made it a habit of leaving dates a little early because they can’t keep their hands off each other, but they usually make it to the end of their entrees first. Twenty minutes would be a new record, plus Hen would give him endless shit about it.

“I like it here,” he says, and Tommy’s smile gentles and his eyes shine, and it’s ridiculous how much that look makes him feel like his heart is about to flutter out of his chest.

“Me, too.”

Read the rest here. It's basically a canon divergence AU, because I started writing it after season 7 aired.

[riality-check]

riiaaa!! for the 100 ways to say i love you prompts, #1 and steddie please!!

(this is also very late, but here we go!)

"Pull over, let me drive for a while."

"Steve."

"Mhm."

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

"You're gonna drive us off the road."

"I'm fine," Steve says, and Eddie watches from the passenger seat as the car moves a full two feet onto the shoulder.

And people have the nerve to criticize his driving.

"Yeah, no," Eddie says. "Pull over, let me drive for a while."

"I got it," Steve says, a mid-sentence yawn ruins his credibility.

Eddie sighs. Steve is more than just a good dude; he's become one of Eddie's closest friends over the past few months, thank you, trauma bonding. But even though Steve Harrington is a good person, he's exceptionally stubborn when he wants to be, and driving his Beemer is the most stubborn he ever gets.

Seriously, though? He needs to sleep. He's gonna get them hurt otherwise.

"Sweetheart," Eddie says, and where that came from, he's going to blame on the sleep deprivation, "please. I promise I won't scratch your car."

Steve straightens up at that. Sneaks a glance at Eddie out of the corner of his eye. Relaxes his grip on the wheel.

"Okay," he says, and he puts his blinker on, pulls onto the shoulder. "Yeah, you can drive."

Eddie breathes out a sigh of relief as they switch seats. He's lucky he and Steve are the same size, nearly; he doesn't have to adjust the seat or the mirrors.

He glances at Steve, just to make sure he's settled, before he shifts the car into gear and gets them back on the road toward Hawkins.

Move in was a success all around. First Nancy, in Boston, then Jonathan in New York, then Robin in Philadelphia. Steve and Eddie had nothing else to do, the gas money to spare, and a want to help out. Taking the Beemer seemed stupid until Eddie was reminded by everyone, less than nicely, that the van would fall apart on a drive to Indy, nevermind to three different cities on the East Coast.

They fit less boxes, but at least they made the journey without breaking down.

And now they're on their way back, at nearly midnight with four hours left to go, because it makes more sense to drive than to find an affordable hotel that's not a shithole in Philadelphia.

"This is weird," Steve mumbles.

"What is?"

"Letting someone else drive my car," he explains. "Last time, I was concussed, and Max almost drove us into a telephone pole."

"Mayfield?"

"Yeah, back in '84. Hargrove beat the shit out of me so bad I could barely think, the kids had to get somewhere, and she was the only one who knew at least a little about how to drive."

Eddie laughs and shakes his head. "Everything I learn about you is weirder and weirder."

"I didn't even tell you the worst part."

"Which is?"

"I was so out of it, I thought Mike was Nancy."

Eddie cackles, wiping the tears from his eyes as he continues to drive. Thank god no else is on the road.

"They don't even look alike," he wheezes.

"In my defense," Steve says with a smile, "I did have brain damage."

"Past tense?"

Steve punches him in the shoulder. "Asshole."

Eddie rubs over the spot with one hand and keeps driving with the other. It's nice, this time of night. No one on the road, warm enough to have the windows cracked in the pitch black. Music playing loud enough to hear but low enough to have a conversation over.

It helps that Steve's rich-boy car drives smoother than anything else Eddie's been behind the wheel of, and Eddie's been behind a lot of different wheels in his life.

"Thanks," Steve says after a little while.

"For what?"

"Driving."

"Of course," Eddie says, because he means it. Of course he'd drive when Steve can't. It's what you do for the people you-

Eddie looks over at Steve. He's kicked his shoes off and scrunched his knees to his chest on the passenger seat. He's curled up, toward Eddie, with his hair fanned out and his cheek squished against his knee, eyes closed. The streetlights, as they race by them, cast his skin in varying shades of silver and gold, highlighting the contrast of his freckles.

-love.

Eddie's doing this because it's what he does for the people he loves.

It's a quieter realization than he expected. Eddie has loved a lot of people like he loves Wayne and his friends, but he's never been in love before. He thought it would be an all-consuming, heart-racing crash, a collision bringing fire and constriction, needing the jaws of life to pull him out.

This isn't like that. This is liking being a little kid, jumping off the couch, and knowing someone is waiting at the bottom to catch him. There's the feeling of danger, sure, but he knows what's at the bottom.

He wonders how long he's known. Long enough for that love, the love he has for Steve, to be something comfortable and warm in his chest.

Steve's hand rests on the space between them, palm up, outstretched. Eddie takes it and squeezes it.

And, though Steve is surely asleep, he thinks he might squeeze back.

Prompts here.

[turtlesandfrogs]

Friends, neighbors, and strangers, for those of you who find driving on the highway stressful, I may have found a trick that dramatically reduces the stress levels! Granted, I've only just now tried it out for the first time (on I-5 during rush hour), but I think it might be worth sharing, so here we are!

Caveats:

1. I find going more than 10 to 15% over the speed limit to be stressful. I do not want to go 80 in a 60, I would much rather go 62 to 69. Call me a granny if you want, but I simply do not need to go that fast. Remember, force equals mass times acceleration! The faster you go, the deader you are if something goes wrong!

2. I dislike being tailgated, and I also hate when I'm following someone at a safe following distance, and another car pops in leaving like 2 feet between us. I want to be able to stop without hitting you, or you hitting me, thanks.

If those two things are NOT true for you, you might as well skip the rest of this post.

Here's the trick: Get behind a semi truck! And follow them at a safe distance!

Why? Well, let me tell you:

1: Semi trucks have the driver's seat way higher than most commuter vehicles, which means their drivers can see further ahead (and over the top of like, everyone). This means:

they can see traffic slowdowns and problems before you can, and adjust accordingly

they can actually tell which lane is going to be faster in heavy traffic

2: They are big and heavy, which means that:

they can't break as quickly as other vehicles

they also can't speed up as quickly as other vehicles

If you put 1 & 2 together, that means that if you're following a truck in heavy traffic (here defined as when no lanes are able to go the actual speed limit), you're probably in the best lane AND the truck is smoothing out the compression waves for you. This makes for a smoother ride and eliminates the mental struggle of trying to decide if you should switch to another lane that momentarily seems to be going faster (the answer is no, unless your truck switches lanes). You can just ride along like a baby dolphin in the slipstream of their mother. Like that last goose in the arm of the V. Like the hobbits following Aragorn and Boromir through the snow on Caradhras.

ALSO! Since they see so much further and have to change lanes more slowly because of physics, by being behind them, you're going to see when they turn on their turn signal, and have advance warning to change lanes before you reach the slow down. Just be nice about it, and leave room for them to move over, too. (Perhaps a bit of an assumption, but it proved true 100% of the time on this trip)

3: Most (the vast majority of?) semi trucks are governed, meaning that they can't exceed a certain speed. This means that people think truck = slow, so:

People who like to go fast won't cut in front of you as often, because they don't want to be stuck behind a truck. This means you can follow at a safe distance, and actually maintain that distance instead of other cars jamming in there. They do pop in, but then they pop over to the other lane pretty quickly.

People who like to go fast won't bother tailgating you (as much) because clearly you can't go faster, you're stuck behind a truck! And they don't want to be stuck behind a slow truck, so they switch lanes! It's glorious!

Seriously, this trip down, there were so many times the lane next to me was packed bumper to bumper, but there was a nice open space in front of me. Because trucks are slow, don't you know, and nobody wants to be stuck behind a truck! So you get breathing room and increased time to react!

4: This is their job so:

They have additional training and more experience, so theoretically are less likely to do dumb shit on the road. And are more skilled at handling other people's dumb shit, because they see proportionally more of it than the average driver.

They have to have a clean driver's license, and apparently get randomly drug tested! So you're not behind some numbnuts who's driving without a license while drunk and uninsured. That's nice.

They are more likely to be taking it seriously, not playing games on their cellphone while driving.

5: They are MASSIVE. They take a while to slow down. Which means:

You effectively increase the amount of time you have to react to things happening ahead of you if you're following them at a safe distance.

and!

WORST CASE SCENARIO and there is an accident ahead of you, you have A MASSIVE WALL OF MASS between you and whatever is going wrong up ahead of you. Like a meatshield, but made of metal. And you can stop much more quickly than they can, so when you hit your breaks, you are effectively increasing the distance between you and the bad thing happening.

6: By being behind them and following at a safe distance, you're not in front of them, and you're not beside them. This means:

You aren't going to accidentally stop more quickly than they can stop and get, uh, smooshed.

You aren't going to be accidentally in their blindspot while they're changing lanes, and get smooshed.

You're not going to be next to a truck when someone else in front of them hits their breaks after cutting them off, causing the truck to start fishtailing and swat you off the road.

You're not going to be right in front of them when someone right in front of you slams on their breaks , and you won't get sandwiched when they can't stop and you can't get out of their way.

You are going to maintain a safe follow distance and pay attention so you don't accidentally rear them and get smooshed.

Further testing is needed, but I think I might be on to something here. Remember, big trucks are big, force = mass x acceleration, and they have a lot of mass. Respect that.

[luckycharms1701]

the perfect date with the boy in orange 👀

how do you think he'd plan it out..?

not me swooning over here thinking about this. time for some dumbass (affectionate)

doing bayverse because i've already done a couple of dates with rise mikey, the loml needs some attention too

Mikey jumps into the weight room and sighs. Heavily. He paces a bit, then sighs again. He positions himself so that Raph can see him out of the corner of his eye where he’s using the punching bag. He sighs again, then throws his hands up when he still doesn’t get a response. “Raphhhhh….” he whines, causing his brother to grunt in irritation.

“What is it Mikey?”

“I need your help!” Raph rolls his eyes.

“With what Mikey?”

“Planning my date with my angel!”

That makes Raph pause. He grabs the bag to stop it from swinging into him as he looks at Mikey incredulously. “You asked them on a date without planning it out first?? And you’re coming to me??”

Mikey blinks at him. “Yeah, of course.”

Raph looks down at the punching bag and gives it one last strong punch before releasing it and moving to his reflex bag. He starts aggressively punching it, jumping around to avoid its recoil. Mikey is about to give up and go sulk in a corner when Raph speaks up. “Don’t they like ballroom dancing or whatever? What if you took them dancing?”

Mikey’s eyes widen and he points at his brother. “Yes! They love ballroom dancing! I can take them dancing!” His excitement almost immediately dims though, and he puts his head in his hands as another thought occurs to him. “Awww, but I can’t dance!”

Raph is silent for another minute. Mikey starts to pace while muttering to himself. “Ain’t that shit just footwork? You should be fine if you work on your footwork,” Raph finally offers.

Mikey whirls around and points at Raph again. “Yes!” He runs off without another word, yelling Leo’s name.

Leo is confused but happy to see Mikey taking his training so seriously. He drills Mikey on footwork for several days. By the day of the date, Mikey has never been smoother on his feet.

~~~

Mikey watches nervously as you emerge onto the roof of your apartment building. He sees your eyes soften as you take in the candles along the edge of the roof and the rug he found to lay down as a makeshift dance floor. The elation he feels at knowing you like it so far almost makes him whoop, but he manages to suppress it in time. Be a gentleman! He repeats Leo’s words in his head as he approaches you.

He picks up your hand and lowers his head to kiss it, keeping his eyes on yours. “My lady,” he purrs, and is rewarded when your eyes widen and your breath catches. “May I have this dance?”

You visibly swallow, and he has to tamp down another whoop of joy. He is killing it today. “You may, good sir,” you reply a little breathlessly. Mikey grins at you and escorts you to the dance floor, hitting play on the boombox he has set up on a nearby air conditioning unit.

The classical tune he’d chosen weaves around the two of you as you assume the beginning position of a waltz. It is at this point that Mikey realizes two things.

Dances have steps.

He never learned the steps.

Mikey’s face must be reflecting his panic, because you pause and regard him for a moment before your lips twitch. “Forget something darling?” Your drawled question has Mikey’s face growing hot as he hangs his head in shame.

“Hey, hey, none of that now,” you release his hand so that you can lift his head. “How about I teach you the steps?” You smile encouragingly at him. “I would love to teach you so that we can dance together.”

Mikey’s embarrassment slowly eases as you lead him through how to do a basic box waltz. You are endlessly warm and patient, showing no signs of irritation at all. Mikey is grateful for the footwork training Leo gave him, it is coming in handy now.

By the time you need to leave, the two of you are able to do a shaky waltz around the roof. Mikey’s embarrassment is gone, replaced with happiness and awe at how amazing you are. He once again brings your hand to his lips. “Angel,” he purrs, then releases your hand to cup your cheek. “Thanks for your patience.” He looks down, still a little bashful about his ridiculous blunder.

You once again reach out and raise his head. This time you lean up and kiss him tenderly on the cheek. “Thank you for this date! It was perfect.” Mikey beams down at you as you smile up at him.

It’s at this moment that he knows you’re the one for him.

~~~~~~~

head bonks: @yorshie @avery73 @justalotoffanfiction @thejudiciousneurotic @writinandcrying @xnorthstar3x @morenovix218

[shrimpmandan]

The current state of AI discourse is baffling to me because I swear to god some people are just developing collective amnesia and dismissing AI art as "not actually being that bad" when the problems with it are significantly deeper than whether or not it's "real art". It being "real art" is irrelevant to it causing tangible harm. Like yeah I don't think someone AI generating an image to use as a reference is some massive evil, but in the greater scheme of things:

AI art is being used to spread actual real-world misinformation. Propaganda.

Ai art is being used to spread CSEM and other forms of revenge porn. It is also threatening the livelihoods of sex workers to some degree.

People are putting their favorite artists' works through a blender, without their consent, instead of paying them, because image generation is instant dopamine.

Big corps are trying to use AI instead of paying artists/writers because they're greedy fucks.

Most AI programs (with few exceptions) are scraping from existing works without the consent of the original artists.

AI voices are doing the same.

A common argument I've seen is comparing these things to like... digital art, photo editing*, voice splicing. You have to understand that the merit of these things isn't that "they take more time/effort". Effort is not an inherent facet of art. Plenty of tools exist to make art easier that we take for granted now-- many forget the discourse that kicked up when digital art was first gaining popularity. The issue is and always will be consent. Most artists do not want their works or voices to be put into AI databanks. The fact that most AI programs do not care for this, and that a lot of companies are trying to swindle their way into getting artist consent under the pretense of "well they didn't say no", is the main issue. We completely lost the plot when we started focusing more on "is AI art real art?" and "is it bad to use AI for any purpose?", because those are both irrelevant to the question of "is AI harmful?", wherein the answer is yes. This is also failing to consider that "real art" can also cause harm for similar reasons: sexual harassment/revenge porn, defamation, propaganda, etc.

*As a note, this is also ignoring the fact that a lot of people DON'T want their art to be edited or even heavily referenced. It's been commonplace in art usage terms for ages now. This is important to note in the context of AI discourse and copyright law. I also believe there is a difference between voice splicing and AI voices since splicing is more limited and way less likely to get someone actually defamed or 'replaced' as a voice actor, and is just a manipulation of existing voice clips mostly for silly shitposts.

AI CAN be helpful. AI can be used to create references, or make smoother rendering, or even just for fun. A lot of people used AI programs in their baby stages without thinking about how the images were generated or the actual consent of the artists involved, because it was a fun shiny new toy. I also like to think most people who have the means to pay an artist ultimately would. But the issue is not and never has been AI making art easier, or people using it for silly shit, or even people using it for serious art refs. The issue is AI mass-scraping existing artwork, being used to facilitate misinformation, and screwing artists out of jobs. Don't even get me started on AI fucking generating CSEM, or revenge porn, and additionally how it impacts the careers of sex workers.

AI is an issue in its current state. Yes, the panic about it taking over art as a whole was overblown, even if the fears were valid. The capacities of AI art is almost always slightly below the capacities of human-made art, and it's something that will quickly fall in popularity once it stops being the shiny new thing. People using AI to make art easier aren't the enemy either, especially since this can be beneficial for people who do it as a job-- shortening the labor time and all. That doesn't mean AI isn't an issue and that everyone critiquing it is actually just an elitist ableist cuck or whatever. None of this really would've been a problem if not for the mass scraping, resulting in both violations of artist consent, and also it picking up genuinely illegal/nasty content. That's what we should be focusing on. None of this "real art" bullshit.

All that said: I personally would say that using most AI programs-- no matter the purpose-- is unethical because of how most of them function. The only exceptions would be for programs that specifically use consensually obtained data. On this front, I would highly recommend keeping tabs on Adobe Firefly, since it's one of the very very few models out there that has stated a clear commitment to not violating the copyright and consent of artists or persons (it operates off of stock footage and public domain).

[kiddbegins]

Did you really love me? - Connor Rhodes

Requested: yes

Word count: 1,318

Warnings: angst, no happy ending

A/n: if someone said ‘they brought me back to life’ over someone they left me for that’d be it for me

Masterlist

“Did you ever really love me?”

Breakups suck. Like, really suck. Seriously, who the hell wants to be sat in their room, watching disney movies in the hopes of cheering themselves up with ice cream in one hand and left over pizza in front of them? 

It didn’t help that you saw a future with him. Connor Rhodes, found his way into your heart then decided to rip it out with his bare hands. He said he found someone else, someone that brought him back to life. Some great feelings that stirred up. (That was pure sarcasm by the way.)

No, in reality it felt like he’d taken both your heart and your soul and crumbled it to pieces. Years down the drain. That first year of pining over the slightly older surgeon that you worked closely with followed by the next two years. 

Sure you should have seen it coming. Less time spent together and half the time you were together, there were fights speckled in. Over stupid shit. Leaving things around, forgetting to do something, missing a date. It was already being written in stone that you two weren’t going to last but you couldn’t take the signs at face value.

You just loved him so much. Every argument you thought maybe it was just a step to things working out. But it wasn’t. Now you’d spent the week in your apartment, using paid time off to wallow in your own pity.

And tomorrow was going to be your first day back at work. Your first day seeing him since everything happened. You had no idea what the hell you were going to do. Natalie and Will sort of had a plan in place, one they could only do so much about.

“We see him coming and we’ll make sure he asks one of us for help, or if you need a consult we’ll take over when he’s there, easy.” Natalie was proud of her plan, her boyfriend just nodding along knowing that was not how any of that was going to work.

You guys were doctors. It wasn’t like they’d always have time to be a personal block between you and the surgeon. Which was proven true the literal first patient you had. Will and Natalie were actually treated the sibling of the boy you had under your care who needed surgery.

And of course the surgeon in question was none other than Dr. Rhodes. Sure you could be professional but that was also when you completely avoided looking in the dark haired man’s direction. Something that was picked up by and brought up by the boy’s mother.

“Do the two of you have an issue with one another? Because I’d like for my doctors to be able to communicate so that I know my baby is getting the best care there is.” Her arms folded tightly across her chest as your mouth gaped.

Were you supposed to lie? Tell her that you and the man next to you were fine? You could handle him. But as much as you believed that, you couldn’t stop the tears pricking at your eyes when you so much as glanced at the back of his head.

Slightly you cleared your throat. “We’re okay, but uh, if it’ll make you feel better, I can have Dr. Halstead, who’s with your other son, take over here.” You spoke with a faint smile, the mother nodding tightly.

It was obvious she didn’t believe you just as much as you didn’t believe yourself and you didn’t want to make this day any worse for her. “Will, uh, could we switch? Mom’s asking for a different doctor.” She bit at her cheek, the look on her face giving away that that wasn’t the entire story but there was no time to question it.

“Yeah sure, we’re just finishing up his labs here.” Natalie gave you a soft smile as the rest of the shift continued, this time without any hiccups. And crossovers were smoother than that one. And once it was over, you were right back where you were that morning.

Crying on your couch.

Except, about halfway through your rewatch of Dirty Dancing, there was a knock on the front door. You weren’t expecting anybody and when you pulled open the front door, you were staring back at the last person you ever expected to grace your entrance way again.

“Connor?”

He gave a tight smile, sucking in a breath, “Can I come in?” You had to fight to hold back the scoff that nearly came out, raising your eyebrows. Who did he think he was just showing up, a week after you two broke up.

Annoyed, you went to shut the door with a roll of the eye, only stopping when the man grabbed the edge of it. “Y/n, please. Look, I just want to talk okay? We work together for god sakes, you have to learn to at least look me in the eye. Especially if we’re taking care of the same patient.”

As much as you wanted to pretend he was wrong, he wasn’t. Begrudgingly, you stepped aside, letting him come in. It was silent for a couple moments, the man taking in the mess that had fallen upon your apartment. 

In all honesty, he wasn’t that aware that the breakup had affected you this much. Obviously he knew you were upset, the lack of your appearance at work was enough proof of that. But seeing the messed up couch, the take out containers and half empty tissue box just put things into perspective. 

“Alright, are you going to say something or just judge the state of my house? Because I seriously-”

“Just tell me whatever you’ve been dying to tell me, y/n.” He cut you off, turning his attention back to you fully. “I can tell from the look on your face that you want to say something but you’re not letting yourself, and I know how much stuff like that eats at you.”

You nostrils flared as you looked up at him, “You don’t get to say that you know anything about me anymore Connor. You don’t. Not with all the shit that’s happened.” Your words came out harsher than you meant to and for a second you realized that maybe you did have some choice words for him.

“I’m sorry. I just, I want you to be able to get on with things. Move on, not have to worry about me when you’re at work.”

“I’m always going to Connor! I love you.” Your voice cracked along with the dam that was keeping your tears at bay. “With my entire heart, and you left. So I’m sorry if I can’t just get past that in seven days.” You tightly crossed your arms over your chest, sniffling.

If anything was embarrassing it was crying in front of someone that was the source of the tears streaming down your face. And you hated it. You absolutely despised how he was capable of all these emotions spilling from you and that you couldn’t even keep yourself from showing it.

“You know what. I do have something.” You cleared your throat, the anger fading and bringing back the heaviness in your chest. Connor nodded, gesturing for you to continue, his gaze on you entirely. “Did you ever even love me?” 

The softness of the question made Connor’s heart drop, his eyes flicking over your face. The lack of response made you scoff, nodding tightly. “Alright. That’s enough of an answer for me. You can go now.”

“Wait no, I did-”

“Go.” You practically yelled, squeezing your eyes shut and pointing at the door to your left. “And don’t try to talk to me again unless it’s work related.” The sound of the door opening and shutting was all you heard before you let yourself crumple onto the couch, crying until you couldn’t cry anymore.

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[youwouldntlietopapa]

kissing prompt thingy: 44+50 for copia please, thank you very much✨

It's done! At... 1:45am. I'm going to eat dinner now and leave this here.

Enjoy!

Includes: Idiots, fluff, back seat make-outs, wee bit of sexy action but no real smut, did I mention idiots?

also available on AO3

____________________________________________________________

“No, no, that’s all right… No, I completely und-… sure. Right… Yes, we’ll be here. There isn’t really anywhere to go… Sure. Thank you… Thanks. Bye.”

Fuck. The tow truck would be at least an hour, if not more. And an added fee for being so far out. Plus whatever the repairs would be. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But you could say, with certainty, that Sister Imperator would be demanding an explanation in the morning regardless. Wonderful.

Copia is still standing at the front of the car, with its hood open, steaming and hissing angrily. The car, not Copia. He is just making the odd noise and poking at a few things tentatively, trying to look knowledgeable. The section of highway isn’t even lit and the moonlight isn’t really cutting it. You walk over to join him, looking at the mechanical workings with all the confidence of a caveman with a cell phone.

“I think I spot the problem.”

“Really?” You look at him with a little more astonishment than was probably complimentary.

“Si,” he nods sagely. “The problem is I don’t know shit about how cars work.”

You snort. No matter how bad the day, no matter how screwed the situation might be, he never fails to make you laugh. “Perfect. I’ll call the tow company back and tell them we figured it out.”

“How long?” He nudges you gently.

“An hour. Minimum.” You tip your head sideways, resting it on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about all this.”

Copia only waves the apology away, resting his cheek against the top of your head. “Not your fault. You didn’t make the car car break down. It happens sometimes.”

“I still didn’t mean to get us stuck out in the middle of no where, in the dark, waiting for a tow.”

He only chuckles. “I can think of worse places and worse people to be stuck with.”

“Oh, well, I will take solace in not being the worst.” You tease right back.

Carefully, you pull away, walking back around to the driver’s side. The door is still hanging open and to drop into the old leather seat. If you have to wait, might as well enjoy the rare opportunity for star gazing and quiet. The car groans in protest as it usually does when you press the release for the roof.

“Sorella, I don’t know shit about cars, but I think I can say that button doesn’t fix the engine.”

“No?” You laugh. “Well, damn. And here I thought I had the answer.”

The roof needs help folding back and out of the way. It’s only a little bit of a struggle before Copia comes to his senses and rushes over to help. Between the two of you, it goes much smoother.

“eh…. Can I ask why we do this?”

You climb into the big back seat and pat the spot beside you. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

He raises a brow, but doesn’t argue, climbing in next to you. Watching curiously as you slump down in your seat a bit, tipping your head back, and staring up at the sky. Copia waits a moment before following suit, smiling when he sees the view provided without the city’s light pollution.

“È bellissimo…” His voice is soft, as if he’s afraid to disturb anything. “I don’t remember the last time I was free to… just sit and enjoy the stars. Too busy. Too much work. Grazie, cara mia.”

For a while, you’re content to sit quietly. Pointing out the few constellations you know. Listening to the distant sounds of the local wild life. But the chill of the evening creeps up before too long and you catch yourself shivering. Copia tries his best to look like he’s not looking, though it would be hard to miss it, sitting so close.

“Do you want my jacket, Sorella? You look cold.” He cracks and asks.

“Oh, no. No, no. Thank you, Papa. I wouldn’t feel right letting you catch a chill.” Papa. You’ve known him long enough and well enough that the formal title only comes out during office hours and when you’re worried about overstepping. Regardless of how familiar you might be, he’s still… him and you’re still… just another Sibling.

Copia rolls his eyes and huffs, softly. “Ah… I see.”

“See what?” You shift a little to look at him.

“We are back to Papa.”

Apparently the switch hasn’t gone unnoticed. Or the reasons why. At least, whatever reasons he assumes. “Did you leave your position and not tell me? I’m sure I would have heard about it.”

He gives you a bit of a look. One that doesn’t particularly feel good about the poorly timed attempt at humour. “Don’t play stupid, Sorella. It doesn’t suit you. You forget I know how clever you are.”

“No. I assure you, I’m an idiot.” You sigh and nudge him softly. The silent gesture that’s come to mean something more, something you can’t fully articulate. When things are shit but at least you can know someone has your back. “I’m sorry… Copia. Thank you for the offer, but I really don’t want you to be cold because I didn’t think to bring a coat. I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t really want to be cold either.” He admits, finally relaxing again and offering a small smile. “But, maybe a compromise?”

Copia shifts closer, urging you to lean forward. You have no idea what he’s up to, but you’re also not really eager to be rude twice, so you comply. When he tugs you back against the seat, he holds his hoodie open, tucking you against his side and wrapping the jacket and his arm around you. It is, you’re forced to admit, delightfully warm. Pressed up against him, with his arm holding tight. The lingering smell of his cologne and… You clear your throat, staring hard at the stars overhead.

His other hand rests on his thigh, not that you were looking or anything. It just happens to be where it was. Quite close to your own hand, which is irrelevant, really. Just two hands, relatively close together, while you platonically cuddle and look at the stars. Nothing more. Obviously. And the way his finger softly nudges yours? Why would there be anything strange about that? No stranger, certainly, than hooking your pinkie together with his finger would be. For instance.

And if, say, that single pair of fingers, hooked together were to become a single pair of hands holding each other, that too wouldn’t be so strange. Would it? Or thinking a little too hard about how soft the leather of his glove is? Or how warm his hands are? What normal person wouldn’t think about things like that in a situation like this? None you’d want to meet, that’s for sure. Those are the real weirdos.

Copia opens his mouth, seeming very much like he has something to say, right before shutting it again. A process he repeats about half a dozen times while you pretend to be focused on the cosmos and he looks a bit like a guppy. Which is very cute. In a very platonic way. Because that’s what this is. Just… good friends. Holding hands. Cuddling. Staring at the stars. Not being weird about it. And definitely not commenting on the strained, awkward noise he makes before trying to hide it with a cough. Just rub your thumb, platonically and soothingly, over his knuckles. Like a very good friend.

“… Copia?” You hear your own voice say, which is very odd because you’re sure you meant to just sit quietly.

“eh... uh… Yes, Sorella?” He freezes in place.

Shit. I’m an idiot. Why did I say that? And why was it a question? Like I had more to say??? Your head screams as your mouth betrays you again. “… are you going to kiss me?”

“Do-do-do you w-want me to?”

Do I? I mean, I’ve thought about it a… normal amount. I’m NOT saying that out loud. Satan’s tits, don’t be absurd. While you got lost in a downward spiral of wondering if Satan’s tits was an insult to Him, your mouth carried on without you.

“… only if you want to.”

For a very long, very quiet moment, you both stare into space. Literally for once. Even your own head has gone oddly quiet while you’re grateful that his leather glove is hiding how sweaty your palm has gotten.

“… now?” He blurts, immediately making a face of deep regret that you can feel in your soul.

“Sure… or later… whenever… or not at all. I just thought… and then… because we’re… and the stars…” You come to the conclusion that Satan’s tits is, in fact, insulting to Him because your mouth is apparently possessed by a demon who both can’t shut up and can’t form a complete sentence. A problem you’re only just coming to terms with when Copia’s hand slips from yours to cup your cheek and kiss you. One single, soft kiss and you sit there staring at him like he’s the first person you’ve ever seen and attempting to copy his guppy impression. “…….. now is good too.”

There’s more than a touch of panic on his face which is, if you’re being honest, not the ideal expression from someone who just kissed you. “Mi spiace! I should… I should have warned you first or-or say more or something. I didn’t mean t-”

Oh, to hell with it. You wipe your palms quickly on your pants and cup his cheeks, kissing him again. Aiming for confident, it starts much softer than planned. Still half convinced that he was just being nice. But he doesn’t pull away. He leans into the touch and into the kiss, shifting toward you to make the angle less troublesome. His arm wrapped around you pulls you closer and his hand moves to your hip, sliding down to grip your thigh.

Copia breaks the kiss first and you almost make it to disappointment before his mouth presses to your jaw, trailing along it to just below your ear and down your neck. To the spot where your neck meets your shoulder and his mouth hits just right. Dragging a moan from the very core of your being. He pulls back and blinks at you in stunned silence for what feels like an eternity. Though it was, you’re desperate to believe, more likely less than a second.

“… Devo ricordare quel posto.” He says, just louder than a whisper.

Snapping out of his reverie, he claims your mouth again. When he leans into you, you don’t push back. You don’t want to push back. Instead, letting him guide you back down onto the cool leather of the wide bench seat. Your hands tangling in his hair, moaning into his kiss while your legs hug his sides. This is, you suppose, probably not platonic.

Copia’s hips rock against yours, moaning as shamelessly as you. By your estimation there are entirely too many layers of fabric between you, and it’s still not possible to miss how hard he is, pressed up against you. You legs hook over his hips, pulling him closer, desperate for more. So focused on the beautiful sounds that drip from his lips and feel of him so close, the rest of the world falls away.

Including the sound of crunching gravel and the squeak of an old truck door. The flashlight, on the other hand, certainly gets your attention.

Copia’s head pops up and you both squint and try to shield yourselves from the blinding brightness. Barely making out the figure of a lump of a man staring down at you.

“Hate to break up the party, kids. But if you want this antique towed, it’s now or never. I got other jobs waiting.”

“Right… uh… hi… we-we-we just need a second. Don’t leave! We need to tow. Just… one second.” You are positive you’re as red as Copia’s hoodie but, at least, the tow truck driver wanders off without a word to prep his truck.

Copia flops back down on top of you, burying his face in your shoulder, and groaning deeply. Less for pleasure and more the sound one might make when dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn after a long night out. “Are you sure we can’t just stay here tonight?” His voice is muffled by your shirt.

“Might be a little cold.” You offer as a very weak defense.

“I will keep you warm.”

You can’t help laughing, kissing his temple softly. “Sister is already going to kill me for the car. If I let Papa catch his death out here, I might as well throw myself on the mercy of the Church and hope she’ll burst into flames if she comes looking for me there.”

He snorts and sits back to look at you. “How can I condemn you to such a terrible fate, eh?” Still stealing one more kiss, leaning in close and lowering his voice. “But we are not finished. No. Only pause until we are home, si?”

“Perhaps I will make you see stars there too…”

___________________________________________________________

Devo ricordare quel posto = I need to remember that spot for later.

[creepycranberry]

No Chance Showmance

Robin Buckley x Munson reader showmance AU

(Plus a little hellcheer)

Based on this request

Trigger warnings: angst, alcohol, mentions of homophobic parents, cursing, not proofread

(Let me know if I missed anything)

•••

“Come on, please?” you plead, giving Robin over exaggerated puppy dog eyes.

Robin can't help but think of how unfair it is that just a bat of your eyelashes can have her resolve breaking. Robin was somehow secretly happy that there was no way you knew that. Robin looked to Steve for some help but Steve shook his head.

“Sorry, Rob. if she managed to rope me into this shit then you're definitely a lost cause. it would probably be best if you just gave in now." Steve shrugged from the workbench he was setting up to help with set building.

“It’ll be fun, I promise.” you assure her, “you just need to do the spotlight when the stage manager says so. You’ll have plenty of practice beforehand, and I know this probably won't count for much, but we'll get to see each other more than we have lately.” You smile and then hesitantly make another point, hoping for something, “and maybe you’ll meet someone? You’re always saying how hard it is to put yourself out there and find someone.” The thought made your throat feel tight, you wait for some confirmation but Robin just shrugs and sighs.

It was true that During rehearsal seasons robin and steve rarely saw you. They worked the days you had rehearsal, and then you and Keith worked on days when you didn't. The promise of more time with you does sound appealing but robin still isn't sure. Rehearsals with you mean skipping band practice with Vickie.

“The show is in like two weeks, though. Are you sure that's enough time for me to-”

“More then enough time. I mean if steve can build and paint a set piece for us in that amount of time, im sure you could figure out the lights. I wouldn't ask if I really didn't need your help.”

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

The pure joy on your face and the bear hug you gave Robin was enough to assure her that she was making the right decision.

•••

Robin spent a lot of the next week with Mark, a somewhat gruff but passionate lightboard operator with a nasty habit of forgetting his cue. Much to Robins relief and your delight, she was pretty good at lighting. She subbed for mark in a few rehearsals, along with doing the spotlight and somehow managed to make the show run smoother than it did with the two of them.

Rehearsals went late fridays and started early saturdays, which is why you suggested robin stay at yours for a sleepover so you wouldn't have to pick her up in the morning. And so friday night after rehearsal you drove robin with you to your house.

It was rare for you and robin to spend time with just the two of you. Normally steve and sometimes dustin would be a part of the group. Or it would be you and Steve and everyone else and Robin would be with her band friends. So as the both of you sat in the car you both appreciated the rare moment of silence you got to share.

“Hey.”

You turn to robin and raise your eyebrows before looking back at the road.

“Yeah?”

“You're really great up there.” robin says quietly and you do your best to ignore the blush that creeps up to your cheeks.

“I really try but i think im probably one of our weaker links.” you shrug and robin sits up a bit more.

“No. mark is one of our weaker links, you- you're the fucking ringleader. I've never seen someone demand attention from a crowd the way you do.” robin realizes her babbling and clears her throat, “i-I mean, the theatre group is small, and everyone is so passionate about this, but i don't think theyd get anywhere with actually putting on the show without you.”

You're momentarily stunned into silence by the sheer sincerity in robins voice.

“Th-thanks. I, um, i've never really seen it that way- seen myself that way.”

“Anytime.”

The drive is quiet until you pull into the driveway of the old trailer. When the two of you get to yours and eddies shared room Robin is thoroughly interested in every little thing, fawning over the movie posters on your walls and the little figurines on your desk and bookshelf.

“It’s just kid stuff.” You shrug, taking her jacket from her and hanging it on the back of her door.

“Well we’re kinda still kids right? And plus it’s cool.”

“You’re cool.” You mock lamely but Robin just snorts. You really can’t help but smile, “I’m not good at the whole conversation thing.”

“It’s okay, I’m not the best either.” Robin shrugs.

“But give me a script and I can knock that shit out pretty well.”

“I know that much.” Robin smiles.

You like it when you can make her smile. You don’t think you’re funny most of the time but Robin makes you feel like you could be a comedian. She thinks you're funny, she listens to you and you like listening to her rambling.

You find yourself so focused and enthralled with her lips, watching them move as she talks, until she stops and you’re still staring. And then you’re moving closer to her, eyes still fixed to her lips, lost in the thought of what it might be like to be familiar with the feeling of them against yours.

You barely realize you’re giving into your impulse. Her lips are slightly chapped but still pillowy and sweet.

You think she’s kissing you back but then she’s gently pushing you away.

And you’re mortified when she looks at you, awkwardness settling over you and the uncomfortability of it has you rambling an apology as you stumble backward and get away from the house,waving Robin sitting there in your bedroom, utterly stunned. By the time she finds it in herself to run after you you’re so far ahead of her. She catches up to you though, holding onto your shoulder to stop you, fighting to get air back into her lungs.

“I’m sorry Robin, I shouldn’t have-“

“You didn’t do anything wrong I just-“

“You just what?” You sniffle.

“I like someone else- I mean I don’t not like you but i-“ she begins babbling but it’s not as comforting as usual. Now it feels like you’ve been stabbed in the stomach and the knife is being twisted and pulled upward.

You now understood what it meant when someone said they felt gutted.

“It’s fine Robin. There’s a landline in the kitchen, Steve can drive you to rehearsal tomorrow I just- I need to take a walk.”

Robin looks utterly conflicted as she slowly turns and makes her way back to the trailer.

•••

You stumble up to the trailer, your body feeling sort of heavy but you're riding on a high. The kind of high that numbs every sensation and makes every thought a little bit fuzzy.

You fumble with your key for a little bit before the door opens on its own, Eddie standing there giving you a concerned look.

“Eddie! How are you?” you smile, giving him a big hug, almost face planting in the process.

“I’m good? What’s going on with you? Are you drunk?” He asks you, holding out his arms to stabilize You so you don’t fall over.

You nod dazily, “mhm, ‘m just having a good time y’know?”

“Eddie? Who is it?” A voice from inside asks and you raise your eyebrows at Eddie.

“Is that Chrissy?” you whisper shout to him.

“Yeah, that’s her. Come on, let’s get you inside, you need lots of water and bread and sleep.” He hums to you, leading you into the house where a pretty blond girl is standing in the middle of the living room, shifting her weight back and forth between her feet.

“Chrissy!” you gasp, stumbling forward and away from your cousin to give her a hug.

“Hey, Hon. Is everything alright?” She asks you, leaning away from you and holding onto you as you slightly sway.

“Hm, I don’t- I don’t know… Chrissy, when a girl tells you she likes you, and you kissed her but she stopped the kiss and tells you that she likes you but she also likes someone else, what does that mean? Does that mean she like, likes you or does that mean that she doesn’t like you like that but doesn’t want to make you feel bad? And either way, how do you deal with that? Because this girl, she’s adorable,” you gush, smiling as Chrissy leads you to sit on the couch next to her, Eddie just standing there awkwardly, “she’s so cute and she’s smart and she’s funny and she does this really cute thing when she’s nervous where she starts rambling nonsense and sometimes I’ll try and make her nervous just to hear her talk but I don’t know… because I really thought she liked me, but then I kissed her.”

“Did she get mad at you for kissing her?” Chrissy asks you, coaxing you into drinking a sip of what you’re guessing was the water Eddie had been drinking before you got here, judging by the one at your usual place on the couch.

“Not really? I don’t know?y’know? Like, she didn’t push ‘m away and I think she was kissing me back for a moment but then just… pulled away,” you slur, your bottom lip starting to jut out a little , “and when I asked’er if I did something wrong she said no but she just moved so far away from me and then she told me she didn’t mind, and she wasn’t mad but that she liked someone else and I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?” Chrissy asks you, looking over at Eddie.

“She’s not mad? And also she likes someone else? But I don’t think she’s straight because she said she didn’t mind kissing me but if she didn’t mind kissing me and she’s not mad than what’s the matter? She looked so… repulsed by me, almost, she just looked so uncomfortable and her face like… it scrunched up but not in the cute way it does when she’s laughing, no it was like when someone calls you a fag from the side of the road, because that’s such a creative way of making it known You're insecure but I just- I really thought she might like me, i really thought that maybe she could care for me in any other way than platonically…”

you think you started crying somewhere in there.

Your lip quivers as you talk, your eyes welling up with tears, “maybe it was stupid, y’know. Maybe I’m just unlovable. I mean I wouldn’t blame her or my parents or my old friends or even my new friends, I’m a mess. A stupid, unlovable mess.”

You huff a little, trying not to cry and failing miserably.

Eddie sighs, his hand tucked into his back pockets, “you’re not unlovable, I mean you’re definitely a mess don’t get me wrong but you are very easy to love. Now come on, we’ve got to get you something to drink-”

“Whiskey coke please.”

“We’ve got to get you some water to drink,” he corrects and Chrissy laughs a little. Eddie looks up at her, his eyes adoring as she gets up, grabbing your hand and looping her arm through your, “and then we’ll get you some medicine and food but first you’ll take a nap and you’ll feel all better. Okay?”

You just nod, letting Chrissy drag you to yours and Eddie's room. you pull off your shoes, falling onto eddies bed and hugging the teddy by his pillow.

Eddie covers you up with a blanket, kissing your forehead like Wayne does when you’re sick and taking the hair tie out of your hair,setting it in the dresser before closing the curtains and the door.

you don’t fall asleep immediately, though you feel yourself wanting to.

Instead you cry a little, trying to sob as quietly as you can, though small whimpers still escape your lips every time you have to breathe a little.

you hold the blanket close to your frame, tucking your face into the stomach of the teddy bear.

Stupid

Stupid

Stupid

You don’t know what you were thinking.

Your own parents couldn’t find it in themselves to love you after they found out what you are, how could you expect her to?

You can’t help but feel a little grief as you think of your parents.

You missed them, you missed hugging my mother after having a hard day and just needed a good hug, you miss car rides with my dad where neither of us would talk but we still enjoyed each other’s company, you miss going to the drive in to watch old movies from when they were your age with them, you miss listening to the radio in the kitchen with your mother on holidays.

You just miss not feeling like youre stuck floating. you hate feeling like you don’t really belong anywhere.

You can’t help but feel like the most massive screw up, your parents hate you, Robin probably won’t want anything to do with you today, you’re just kind of lost.

You sniffle, wiping your nose on your sleeve.

Your nose is stuffed up and you can feel the headache from both the crying and the alcohol starting to form itself and you sigh to yourself, wiping your cheeks and closing your eyes. Maybe you can sleep off the headache.

But before you can drift off completely you hear quiet voices in the hallway, “is she gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be fine, she just needs to rest and take some time to herself. In the meantime I’ve got a band geek to murder.” You hear your cousin's hushed voice retort.

“Eddie.” You Can hear Chrissy's smile in her voice, “it just happens sometimes. Feelings are complicated. I’m sure the other girl feels terrible about how this went down too. It just comes with the territory.”

“I just- she’s still a kid. She shouldn’t have to be feeling shit like this.” Eddie shrugs and you hear Chrissy snort, “what?”

“You’re not much older than her.”

“I am three and half years older than her for your information.” Eddie retorts and you can hear Chrissy giggle quietly.

“She’s not a little kid anymore, Eddie.”

“Oh don’t say that. She’s still a little kid, she’ll always be a little kid. I could take her to a candy store right now and she’d go nuts.”

“Eddie.” Chrissy warns.

“I know. She’s almost grown up. Which sucks cause it means I’m getting old.” He drags out the word ‘old’.

“Hey, If you’re getting old then I’m getting old. We are both still glowing youthfully.”

You hear Eddie laugh and sigh, “fine. I’m still gonna go and fight that band kid though.”

“Edward Munson.”

“Full name? That stings.” Eddie says dramatically and Chrissy laughs again as their voices recede down the hall.

•••

Might do a part two but I’m not sure

[despitethecold]

My contribution to the GTA summer fest!! Thank you @gtafest for the event (and for proofreading hehe) <33

Being the dumbass I am, I forgot we were supposed to be inspired by a song and I was inspired by a picture instead, but I think parts of Taylor Swift's august might be the song for this fic :D Especially when she says "Your back beneath the sun, wishing I could write my name on it"

Anyway, I hope you enjoy :3

. . .

It’s yet another typical Yankton summer for Michael. In his mid-twenties, the only real bond he has is his best friend and partner-in-more-things-than-crime, and that’s all he really needs. He can drink and be stupid and fuck off to wherever his heart desires with Trevor, do reckless shit without explaining himself to anyone. It’s freedom like he’s never experienced before; it’s like a dream come true, and even though it can feel a little aimless and gloomy sometimes, it never gets lonely. Not as long as he has Trevor by his side. He admits Trevor can be too much, especially when he gets high and acts like an absolute lunatic with zero boundaries and does the most deranged things Michael has ever witnessed. He’s a wild card, maybe even a liability at times.

But the Trevor before his eyes looks the opposite of that.  He’s calm in his state of unconsciousness, his face serene and free of all worries, body naked and cheap motel sheets twisted around it. Almost like he’s pure and harmless, and the thought makes Michael want to laugh until he can’t breathe, but he doesn’t because seeing Trevor like this has already taken his breath away.

He had complained about the blinds not working at night when the streetlights battled their way inside the room and chased away his sleep, but he couldn’t get upset at the early sunrise — not when it bestowed him the heavenly sight of Trevor sleeping soundly on his chest, snoring lightly, unfazed by his surroundings. His skin is deliciously tanned, alluring in the orange glow, and although the color reminds Michael of caramel, he knows perfectly well that it tastes much too salty to be that. The brightness accentuates the hairs on his uncovered legs and ass, but despite being a generally hairy guy, his back seems surprisingly smoother to Michael’s tired eyes — that is, if he ignores the scars. 

He absentmindedly reaches out a hand and touches the small of Trevor’s back. Warm. His touch slides down to his perfectly shaped ass, and he wants to bite into the flesh so badly, but manages to keep the urge under control. A thin sheen of sweat is visible on the back of his neck, and his long hair is spread messily on the pillow. It’s not soft and shiny like the girls Michael had slept with before, which isn’t a surprise considering Trevor probably doesn’t even use shampoo, but it’s still strangely attractive.

Shuffling closer, Michael presses a light kiss on his shoulder blade, checks to see if it woke Trevor up, and since he doesn’t detect any movement, he shifts to his neck. His lips stay there for a long minute, burning the texture and the taste of Trevor’s skin into his memory. It’s like he’s lost control of his body; all he wants to do is kiss Trevor all over, touch every inch of his skin. He’s usually very high or drunk or horny when he gets sentimental like this, and he’s none of those things at that moment, but for some unknown reason he’s so peaceful that the fondness he feels for Trevor that he normally keeps carefully under wraps doesn’t even bother him much.

After another set of kisses, Trevor eventually stirs and groans in protest, obviously wanting to be left alone and go back to sleep, but how can Michael let the moment pass like it’s nothing? At that second, he is convinced Trevor is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and some of him knows the feeling won’t last forever, so he intends to make it last. “You’re gorgeous, Trev,” he whispers in his ear, caressing his side, his palm flat against the sweat damp skin. 

Trevor lets out a drowsy scoff. “Very funny,” he murmurs against the pillow. “Now fuck off.” His voice cracks from sleep, and it’s low in a very masculine way. Michael has a tent in his boxers just from hearing it.

“It wasn’t a joke.”

Michael can practically sense the way Trevor assesses his words, weighs them in his head, and makes a decision. With a beat of silence, Trevor rolls onto his back, kicking the covers off of himself. Michael’s mouth goes dry at the sight; Trevor’s cock and balls are also real pretty in that light, not that he’s ever thought about another guy’s junk like that before. His eyes meet Trevor’s devoted ones, the honey-colored flecks in his hazel eyes daring him to do something, anything, and so he does. He gets on top of Trevor, slotting between his legs, their awakening cocks in complete contact while he takes Trevor’s mouth and tastes him. It makes Trevor whimper quietly, and Michael deepens the kiss to draw more of those needy moans out. He succeeds, and he soaks up all the little sounds Trevor makes. Each and every one of them goes straight to his cock, raising the urge to own Trevor, make him his and his only. The feeling is so strong that he doesn’t even dare fight it.

There’s no draft in the room, and they sweat even more with the union of their bodies, but neither of them care. Trevor’s arms wind around Michael’s shoulders, pulling him impossibly close, and Michael feels feverish from the sun’s rays and Trevor’s innate fire. It takes over his entire being, igniting the kind of flame within that only Trevor manages to stoke, making him feel like this, whatever it is they have, would be his end, and he welcomes that with open arms in his hormone-driven state. Trevor’s cock and balls feel so fucking nice against his own, and Trevor’s precum lubricates them deliciously as they rut against each other like wild animals.

Michael always lasts longer than Trevor, but for the first time, he comes first, biting into Trevor’s shoulder and leaving yet another mark that will remind him in post nut clarity to stop doing this and also why he does it in the first place. 

It doesn’t take Trevor long to follow Michael and make the mess between them even stickier, the pleasure so prominent in his tightly shut eyes, flushed cheeks, and fisted hands that Michael can’t help being enchanted by it. He refuses rolling away yet, just kisses Trevor again and again until Trevor comes down from his high enough to properly kiss him back, and after a long moment of making out, he finally pulls back, admiring how satisfied Trevor looks.

The sun is fully up by then. Trevor throws him a small, tired grin, wipes his crotch and stomach with the sheets before snuggling against Michael’s arm, holding him tight. Soon, he’s snoring again. 

Michael closes his eyes and tries to convince himself he’ll be fine, that this is okay. He pretends they’re living in a world where loving another man is not wrong, where they can keep robbing and having fun for the rest of their lives. A world where it’s always sunny.

If only.

[cupidsbed]

Ceviche Inspired Salad with X-Men First Class

I woke up today seriously craving salad. It's all I've been thinking about since I woke up this morning. Big problem? A few of my roommates absolutely loathe traditional salad, so I have to get creative. This recipe is heavily inspired by Mexican ceviche and I essentially turned it into a dish you can eat as a full meal rather than a topping! I paired the salad with some spice rubbed chicken and I think I ascended to the heavens. This recipe feeds around four people comfortably, or two particularly high people.

RECIPE

INGREDIENTS

For the Salad

1 can sweet corn, drained

2/3 can black beans, drained and rinsed

1/2 a small red onion

2 cups cherry tomatoes

3 large avocados

1 pinch tajin

1/2tsp basil

1/4tsp black pepper (white also works!)

1/4tsp dried dill

1/4tsp salt

1tbs salt (for the tomatoes)

1/2 lime

For the Chicken

2 chicken breasts

1/2 lime

1tsp tajin

1/4tsp cumin

1/2tsp paprika

1/4tsp cayenne pepper

1/2tsp black pepper

Hefty pinch of red pepper

1 tablespoon of cooking oil (I used olive)

Directions

Dump your drained sweet corn, and rinsed black beans into a large bowl.

Thinly slice your red onion and dump them into that same bowl.

Quarter your tomatoes and put them into a smaller bowl. Sprinkle your salt onto your tomatoes as evenly as you can and set them aside to allow the salt to soak up some excess moisture.

Dice your avocados and scoop them into the larger bowl. Mix up your bowl with a spoon or a fork, squishing the avocado slightly so it can stick to the other ingredients. I found this makes the texture a bit smoother and more cum in mouth worthy.

Add in your tomatoes and spices and mix again. Congrations! Your salad is done; now for the chicken!

Mix your spices for the chicken into a small bowl and set aside.

Slice your chicken into strips (size is your preference I like them fairly fat) and rub the spices onto both sides. You will have some left over that you can absolutely save and use later.

Line your pan with your cooking oil and cook your strips on a medium heat for about 4 minutes on each side or until cooked all the way through. Please keep in mind, I live in the mountains at about 5,000 feet in elevation. My chicken will cook a lot slower than someone at sea level or a lower elevation. Chicken becomes safe to eat at 165F (73.9C) if you have a temperature gauge please please please be sure to utilize it.

Plate the salad into a bowl, and place the chicken on top. Squeeze some lime on top and ta-da! You done it! You have completed your dish :)

A couple of notes before we move onto the nerd shit. You can very easily replace the chicken for something plant based instead. One of my roommates is vegan and I made this dish in a way that everyone in my household can enjoy. I cut him up a Morning Star Chicken Patty and cooked that in a separate pan and used the same spices (different mixture!! That one's contaminated!!). It'll give the same affect without leaving anyone out!!

I decided to pair this dish with X-men First Class. I've been pretty heavily hyperfixated on the X-men the past week or so after watching X-men 97' and I decided to start rewatching the entire series. I'm on the fifth movie in the series and I have been waiting for this one. First class is probably one of my all time favorites in this series. You can tell whoever wrote this script they grew up watching the cartoon or reading the comics. Obviously the writers and directors had their own take but I think it's such an amazing refresh from the nitty gritty of the first three (and the trash pile which was Origins).

During this time there was a lot of focus on World War II in superhero movies. And by a lot I mean the first Captain America came out the same year. I think it was very much needed. I don't even know how to put into words how horrific the Holocaust was and as a Jew seeing someone not only survive that, but rise and do incredible things means the world to me. Magneto endured horror beyond words, and he will always be a hero in my heart. He's the type of villain that has become the hero we needed because, in the words of 97', Magneto was right. We cannot expect acceptance without resistance. There is no assimilating into modern society. We are different, and we should celebrate those differences. In my case: I'm a bisexual trans jewish man and I'm so proud of who I am. I'm proud of my differences, I wear my yarmulke, my pride flags to show I will not fold in a society that is increasingly hostile against who I am on a fundamental level. I love the X-men series because it's not just a silly little super hero comic; it's a series that's full of diversity that's meant to empower the individual.

Thank you for listening to my ramblings, and please let me know how you like the food!

[rockybloo]

english isn’t my first language so i apologize for any weird phrasing — so i remember reading an answer from you a while ago that explains that bitterbat chose to be a villain with one if the reasons being that the hero system has too many rules, which is fair, and that he’s also trying to clean up his fathers mess — the vents i think they’re called — which is another reason he’s a villain. (ps i love all your stories, you have a lot of interesting premises and characters!)

anyway i’ve just seen the recent ask about sweethearts guilt with treating him like a villain, and we all know bitterbat can read emotions. so my question is: why does bitterbat continue to want to be a villain if he knows it makes sweetheart feel bad?

Thank you!

As for Bitterbat's reasoning on continuing to be a villain, the pros outweigh the cons

He already had a reputation before he left as a villain as he and Sweetheart had pretty of battles when they were children in the public eye. So it's easier to return under the guise of revenge instead of trying to "turn over a new leaf" and face a bunch of doubt and nonbelievers.

There are too many rules for being a hero and Bitterbat is already sick of all the rules there are for being a human. Those already give him a head ache especially the ones that are against just challenging anyone to a battle to the death because of a minor inconvenience they caused. And don't get him started on the rules to a healthy "human" relationship.

Bitterbat doesn't give a shit about Decking City or Earth. He doesn't care about any human conflicts save for the ones that directly effect his Sweetie Pie. Due to his damn near uncaring but still slightly neutral perspective on Earthly life, both he and Sweetheart agreed he'd have a smoother time being a villain than becoming potentially one of the most criticized heroes in history.

One of the rules for heroes is how heroes have to be prepared to go on duty to fight certain villains. So even if Bitterbat was a hero, he would wind up having to spend even less time around Sweetheart who he would have to be sharing with the attention of some villain. And he simply ain't having that. So he decided he'll be the villain that hogs all her attention so he can have all the Sweetheart time he wants while also still working towards fixing his father's mess.

The lack of rules (with there basically be none) for villains allows Bitterbat to do whatever he wants and go where ever he pleases without having to be tracked by any hero league or squad or group.

Bitterbat doesn't have ANY documentation for Earth. His fingerprint doesn't identify him because there are no human records of his existence-not even in this galaxy. He has no socials or a birth certificate. He is a completely blank slate. And being a blank slate means he can operate much more easily under the nose of the law because there ain't much to track back to him.

Being a villain was Bitterbat's idea and he doesn't mind it much save for the times he can't be with Sweetheart. He acknowledges that Sweetheart feels guilt from time to time about it but they both work through it with him comforting her and telling her how no matter how tough things get-he knows she loves him regardless of what lengths they have to go for their act. On the days her guilt gets too much, they take the day off and just spend some alone time together until she feels better.

Ultimate perk of Bitterbat being a villain is that he is part of the Band of Bastards which is the villain league in Decking City. And that allows him to get all sorts of confidential villainy secrets he can use to his and Sweetheart's advantage. He may be a villain in public but he does some slightly heroic things like acting like a spy. Of course, there's some things he goes along with because causing a little bit of mayhem is fun but he never partakes in any plans that could lead to human casualties.

[sabineelectricheart]

Charlottesville Croissants

Summary: Jamie asks Baxter on another café-hopping journey. He is happy to go along with it.

Rating: K+ - Suitable for more mature childen, 9 years and older, with minor action violence without serious injury. May contain mild coarse language. Should not contain any adult themes.

Words: 1100

Notes: I really like croissants. Can you notice?

If one of her friends or acquaintances of hers from back in Sunset Bird were to describe her, they would probably say that Jamie Last is a sociable girl, kind and excitable. She had strong convictions about the silliest things and that she appreciated good food, both making it and especially consuming it.

Unfortunately for her, she had not made many connections with people in Virginia and, amongst them, Baxter Ward is the one friend she has made so far into her college career that is willing to tag along with her when she goes to a new café or restaurant in town.

"It would be such a shame to move to a new town and not try out all of the cute cafés!"

She remembers saying that exact phrase to Cove the day before she caught her eastbound plane at the end of summer, and it is something she repeated to all of her friends since then. However, no-one really seemed to share her sentiments as much as the equally-strange monochromatic young man did, possibly because they go café-hopping every other day like they are on a mission.

Charlottesville is not well-known for its nightlife or the gastronomic quality of its restaurants, being mostly a small college town with historically-relevant buildings dotted around it, but still, this is where she lives now, so she ought to make the best of it. She is glad to have trusted companionship over it, in any case.

The pair arrives to a small coffeeshop at Main Street. It was small, with only a few tables in the narrow and long space, but the air was filled with a nice smell of cookies, which was a plus in her book. Popular music played in a low volume on the background, not loud enough to be a bother to conversation, but something to make the wait time run smoother.

“How are we feeling this one?” She asks, lightly, to the young man next to her.

He smirked. "Well, this seems like a pretty nice one. It's got that special ambiance."

Baxter only uses that word to tease Jamie, since she has mentioned on many occasions that a restaurant's ambiance is important to her. Though the joke is much overplayed almost a year in, he does not miss the way her expression tinges with slight embarrassment

Oh, how he adores that look!

"Shut up..." She mumbles.

He just chuckles as he peruses through the menu. "My, is this the treatment I get for joining you on your quest to finding the best café in town? I even support this endeavour of yours financially!"

It is true, he does. She does not think she has ever had to pay for anything as long as he is around, which is fortunate, since she is a broke college student and could not afford nearly as much designer coffee as she usually consumes thanks to the bankrolling of the Ward economic enterprises back in Oregon.

Not that it is not a point of contention at times. It is not like she asked for him to do that! Still, she really does not want him to think she brings him along with her plans just because she is broke and he was much too well-educated to let a lady pay her way, along with having the generous capital to back it up.

"Well, you don't have to..." She mutters, feeling slightly guilty about it.

Baxter senses this, his expression softening slightly. He put his foot in his mouth again.

"Well, we all know the real reason why you ask me to accompany you these days, and it’s not my credit card." He says with a smirk.

That look makes Jamie very uneasy. What kind of out-of-pocket shit is this man going to say next? It suddenly dawns upon her, a conversation she had with Francine Second last week.

Francine, sometimes Frankie, was a common acquaintance between Jamie and Baxter. She was a childhood friend of the young man’s, as they grew up mostly in the same small town in Oregon, even though he really does not care much for her. Paradoxically, then, the two girls are closer between each other, often exchanging campus gossip and easy conversation over their common classes.

A few days ago, Jamie told Francine to not come along for their next café-hopping session because she wanted to spend more time with Baxter alone. Because she like him.

Francine would never! She would never, ever betray her friend this way! That woman swore upon her mother’s prized opal earrings that she would never, ever tell anybody about this. Especially Baxter!

Though, one may argue, Frankie had a bit of a habit of saying too much when she really should not. While she would not find herself in a situation with Baxter that would really warrant a concern, since he really did not care for her for reasons as of yet unknown for Jamie, she had certainly let it slip with other common acquaintances of theirs, who had no commitment or incentive to keep quiet themselves.

Jamie had never met the Autumn Gang, as Francine dubbed them, but they seemed like the nosy sort for sure. Not that she can judge, the Summer Entourage of hers is no different.

"Let's hear it then." She finally says, taking a chair on a table and hoping she does not sound as shaky as she feels right now.

"It's because you always over-order and can never finish the food." He responds, the usual teasing lilt in his voice.

Jamie let out a loud and heavy sigh of relief. Perhaps Francine had not betrayed her after all. She is going to treat her friend to some tacos later, she feels horrible for ever doubting that girl.

"Right, yes. You're absolutely correct." She responds finally, sounding far more relieved than she had anticipated. “By the way, I’m ordering one of every croissant they carry here. They made a hell of a case for them online and I’m not wasting a trip. I hope you didn’t have any lunch.”

Baxter, on the other hand, feels more than a little discontent at this turn of events, even if he is still cognizant and cool as ever. Surely, that conversation he overheard between Jamie and Francine had not been a figment of his own imagination?

He calmly sips his black coffee. Oh well, he decides to just watch her basically inhale the strawberry shortcake she just ordered, a small smile gracing his lips. Perhaps he can get her to confess next time. For now, this is enough.

*_*_*_*_*

Our Life Masterlist

[regthomas1728]

Today's Prose - Hot Showers

I'm working on descriptions, I want my readers to see what I'm seeing. To picture what's going on.

You're welcome to try it on your own page with the prompt: "How do you self-care?" If you do, make sure to tag it " Writing Prompt: How do you self care? " and/or reblog your response.

Warning: mentions of past trauma, mild language

Let me know if I should add anything else.

***

It's cold most mornings, we haven't had a sunrise above thirty but, to be fair, our summers are just as scalding as the winter is freezing. It's not often I come across a day without expectations, without some pressing something that needs to be done—these are the days I'm most unprepared for. I try to make myself get up, if not for someone then for a comically large bowl of cereal and a spoon that barely fits in my mouth. That doesn't usually work but always worth the valiant effort.

My attempts aren't successful until afternoon when I physically can't stay in bed any longer. It's in this moment, I realize what I actually need. It's not something to do, but rather something not to do. What I'm desperate for is permission to do nothing. Not for long, just a moment to allow myself to just exist. Sometimes it feels like too much to ask for but today I'm a beggar.

With plans made, I grab a fresh set of clothes and two towels. When I first moved in with my new roommate and two suitemates, it started off as a question. Like I was asking permission.

"Hey, do you mind if I take a long shower?"

I didn't realize the first few times I asked this question that it would spark long, drawn out conversations that I wasn't prepared for.

"What's a long shower?"

"What are you doing in there that you need all that time?"

"Can't you just color or something?"

With patience I didn't have, I summoned up responses—albeit quick and unfriendly ones.

"About forty minutes, I just kind of stand under really hot water. I just think. It get's me feelin' energized and ready to conquer the day." I throw in a good gesture, mocking the overly energetic soul that gets up early on a weekend. Spoiler alert, she's right across from me on the other end of this conversation.

"It's two in the afternoon, the day's almost over."

"Not for me. This is a relatively early start, actually." Sarcasm has always been a default setting for me but today, it comes out smoother than expected.

"Really? How long are you gonna be up that this is an early start?"

"I don't know…back to the original question…can I take a long shower?"

The question eventually turned into a notification. 

"I'm taking a long shower, you need to do anything?"

It became a monthly ritual, sometimes more frequent—especially with midterms and finals week. Those times were pretty chaotic but I never took showers or baths more than when I was at home. Interrogations were common, warnings were issued, and rights were taken. 

"Why are you taking two showers a day? We ain't got the money for you to be playing in water." And as an afterthought, they added "And you're going through a shit ton of towels, could you at least use the same ones—leave on the curtain rod or the door to air dry. Get a couple uses out of 'em before you go throwing 'em back in the dirty laundry."

Reasonable arguments but it didn't change the fact that showers were the only escape in that house. 

"I'm taking the kids!"

"You can take those two fuckers but you ain't taking my baby girl!"

"I'll take 'em all! You're not sober, Susan, they can't be around you while you're like this!"

"Oh and you're so great? You couldn't pass a damn drug test without your daughter's piss!"

Thanksgiving was a real treat at dad's house. At least the food was hot and well seasoned. It wasn't until much later that I found out drugs can affect your taste buds. Apparently some things will taste sweeter than it should and other things saltier. The food was pretty salty.

With hot water raining down on me, it was easy to dredge up old memories. Water had been with me since I was born, from the luke warm baths before my first steps to my senior year of high school when I was working and schooling—the stress of my brother following in his daddy's footsteps was terrifying. My mom used to leave the house with me in the car just to sit in an empty parking lot and talk. That's how I learned to listen, she didn't like a lot of advice or feedback—not that I had anything good to offer.

With hot water raining down on me, I could play various scenarios of a better life. Of someone caring to read what I write, of someone joining me just to hold me, and it was easy to imagine all the fucked up things I'd do if given the chance. All the retribution for all the shitty things they'd done.

Hot water pooling down at my feet, I was vengeful. I was cruel. I was angry and I was a killer.

The cute, innocent fantasies weren't often on my mind. Showers aren't just a time to be thoughtless, it's a time to let everything go. Showers are my release—I let everything out. I talk to God, because that's what I'm supposed to do and recently it feels like He might be there for me. I talk in my head to all the peole I'm too scared to open up to.

I talk to that one person who's just the opposite of me, so open and kind. I talk to that one person who could be perfect for me if I wasn't so broken.

"This is a good paper, very thoughtful."

"Thanks."

I don't let the feedback go to my head—if only my fear hadn't cut out what I thought was the best part. Unfortunately, that part left me too exposed, too open to a therapy session.

In the shower, I'll let him read about it.

Regine Thomas Tumblr Arse | With (His) Spunk regthomas1728@gmail.com