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deathsmallcaps · 2 days ago

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I’m autistic and despite growing up with a Black Stepdad and Black friends, and thinking the Civil Rights movement and the Civil War were cool, and even going to schools with pretty inclusive curriculums, I sometimes repeated mean things I heard (often from my Dad) or did not give thought to how certain lines of questioning/conversation may feel different towards different people. I was, and still occasionally am, racist. Among other things.

(I initially grew up in an almost exclusively Black and white town that was roughly half & half, and later moved to an area that was more half & half Indian and white. I have only ever lived in the east half of the USA)

Sure I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Sure I did believe that everyone should be treated well. Sure I loved the Black people around me. I’ve never said the n-word - I didn’t even know it existed until I read Roots by Alex Haley. But I didn’t consider nuance, I didn’t consider feelings in my thirst for knowledge, and frankly, I have a tendency to be obnoxious. ALL normal things for an autistic person. But ALL things that are quite hurtful. After all, don’t we get hurt when someone stereotypes us?

Looking back, I feel like my Stepdad should have been more active in my social education. He wouldn’t have been educating some random white person who walked up and hurt him, he’d have been teaching his daughter (he’s always treated me how his family treats daughters, for better and for worse).

But my mom, the white woman, stepped up as a good ally. SHE gave me Roots. SHE talked me through dealing with ‘white guilt’ and how that’s nobody’s problem but mine. SHE encouraged me to educate myself, and to consider what I say before I say it. SHE helped me realize my privilege. With help from a psychologist, we both learned how to handle my social issues. And now I’d say I’m a more conscious person. It doesn’t hurt that one of my English classes focused on the Harlem Renaissance and another taught Othello and Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison. Since then, I’ve sought out media and information by and about creators of Color and my relationship with my Black family members and friends has definitely improved.

I’m lucky guy. My autism is not the most debilitating in the world, and I do think it gives me valuable insight into said world. Acknowledging it helped me gain insight into how I work.

But I’m still an upper-middle class Anglo-American culturally-Christian white adult whose worst personal interaction with the cops is getting a speeding ticket. The only things I could possibly be oppressed about here is my sex/gender and if someone clocks my neurodivergencies. Maybe my allyship if its a REALLY crazy situation. It’s my responsibility to be aware of my privilege, love my fellow humans, and educate myself on how to respect others. Loving does NOT equal respecting. They’re different things. Just like how your family may genuinely love you but do not respect or understand you.

All those things on the news, about children getting shot because they’re wearing their hoodies up, or having a panic attack, or whatever bullshit excuse a white person with a gun can dream up. Those are extreme and something to be worried about. That kind of behavior should be condemned. But that doesn’t cover every single angle of oppression. And oppression isn’t just perpetuated by the nebulous concept of The System! It’s also perpetuated by Our Common Man. AKA, you and me sometimes.

Sometimes, you’re going to reach out in ways that have worked before and it’s not going to be appropriate. That hurts! But if you do your best to incorporate that info into what you’ve learned, then that’s awesome! I’m proud of you! You’re going to have to keep doing it though!!! And that’s okay!!! That just means you’re getting to live life!!!

Apologize and/or change the subject and educate yourself soon after. Those are some of the best skills you can have. You can’t go back, you can only improve the future.

Another really good bunch is being honest and introspecting on why certain things make you uncomfortable. Once you know, own it and desensitize! Be a good friend!

This is getting very long. If you want some concrete examples,

Some of these things happened because I am autistic. Some may have happened because I was a white kid. But for whatever reason it occurred, as an autistic older teen and now adult, I needed to learn from these experiences so I can help make the future better :). You are capable of learning these things too.

Problem: I once asked a Black friend how it was to be Black. I was trying to educate myself! It wasn’t appropriate though. I kept asking repeatedly, and we were like 13. She was a child and shouldn’t have to have the answer.

Solution: My mom redirected me to Black literature so I could learn from adults willing to talk about it. She didn’t owe me information, nobody does, but especially not kids.

Problem: I was 16 (in 2017). I was talking to a Filipino American* girl who was just coming out of homeschool. I wanted to be nice and relate to her, and I loved Disney. Turns out so did she! I asked if Mulan was her favorite Disney Princess. My thinking was ‘I like Tiana best but I really liked seeing Anna because we have the same hair color -> I know representation is important because (at the very least) it’s nice to see people who look like you being heroes -> Mulan is cool and the Asian princess ™. I was trying to relate and be kind. But that wasn’t appropriate. I made a general assumption, and made her uncomfortable. Mulan was a favorite of hers, it turned out, but that does NOT matter. A person’s relationships with their demographic’s stereotypes are extremely private unless shared. And it’s THEIR right to close it up again.

*despite Filipino and Filipina being gendered, when saying demographic information, such as ‘Filipino American’ about a woman, the trend is towards -o. I couldn’t find a direct answer, but multiple sources said Filipino-American about ladies.

Solution: Remember everyone is an individual and may not want to talk about all aspects of their life. Let them offer information about aspects that you aren’t knowledgeable about, like being of Filipino descent, or being homeschooled, or how it is being a Disney fan of Color. If they bring it up, offer responses like ‘I didn’t know that. Cool!’ Or make encouraging noises like ‘huh!’ Or ‘neat!’ So they know it’s safe to keep talking to you about a subject that is important but sensitive to them. And they might not ever bring these things up! And that’s okay. It’s their business. Retrain your nosiness elsewhere, it’s hard but possible :)

I must reiterate: A person’s relationships with their demographic’s stereotypes are extremely private unless shared - and it’s THEIR right to close the subject. And for the record, just because there is a Southeast Asian Disney Princess now (Raya), it would NOT have been appropriate to ask if her favorite was Raya. That’s still stereotyping, it’s just updated for the 2020s.

Problem: I love name meanings. I couldn’t find my one Indian-American classmate’s name meaning online, so I went up to him and after starting a pointed conversation, I told him my name’s meaning in the hope he’d tell me his. He did, but he was uncomfortable. Because I didn’t really talk to that guy before, and in a roundabout way socially coerced him into giving up information to a relative stranger. Information he probably didn’t care that much about, but it was obvious I only wanted one thing from him. It was rude and showed that I hadn’t really cared about him before I wanted something from him. And people generally don’t like being treated like living wikipedias of their cultures!

Solution: sometimes you’re going to have to accept you aren’t owed information. This also applies to my first example. If you can’t find information online, even if you find the perfect subreddit that welcomes questions like these*, they might not give you an answer. And that’s okay. It might drive you a little mad about missing that bit of information, but it will not end your world. Trust me. I’m putting a lot of personal mess-ups on here, I’m not going to start lying to you now.

*people don’t like being treated like walking Wikipedias for their cultures in general, but sometimes the armor of online anonymity makes people more comfortable sharing. Not always though. Maybe check other questions from other people in that subreddit or tumblr or whatever to find an appropriate format, or get a general sense of what kind of questions are answered happily. You may just have to let it go.

Problem: when I was 17 my mom introduced me to two women, a Black woman and a white woman. She told me offhandedly that one played in an American football adult league for fun. Being a feminist, I was really excited by that, because American football is a very male sport. I didn’t end up talking to either of them about it, but I sure thought a lot about that during that encounter. Afterwards, I said something to my mom that made it clear I thought the Black woman was the football player. She corrected me and said “You thought it was [her] because she’s Black,”. She was correct, I felt terrible for stereoptyping, and I cried (I cry easily). I wanted to go apologize or something. My mom pointed out that the apology would be for me, not for her. Which is an issue (I still struggle with this in many different contexts)

Solution: if you want to apologize, ask yourself ‘Am I doing this because I want the person I hurt to know how apologetic I am? Am I doing this because I want to hear ‘it’s okay’?’. If either of those has a yes as the answer, then reconsider making the apology. If the person really does appreciate apologies, then offer one. But keep it simple. Don’t mention your feelings or why you messed up. That doesn’t matter, and can make them feel guilty for their own valid feelings. And regardless, focus more on not repeating the behavior. That’s the best apology, even if you never see the person you hurt again. You hurt someone, so *I must stress this* it is NOT about you.

Problem: I’m going to college in a very white town (it fits my budget). My first week there, a white friend E was talking about her friend P, who I was to meet later that day. She mentioned they are a minority (E is from that white college town and is still learning too. She’s improved quite a bit. She doesn’t lead with that kind of information anymore) who was also from the area. I was confused. I had pretty much only seen white or white-passing people the last few days. I asked, and she told me they were Indian* and from a local people (among others. Like many Indigenous people, P isn’t from just one Indigenous or only-Indigenous culture). I was shocked. I was under the impression that all the Indigenous people from [college] area were killed or forcibly removed or assimilated.

*P prefers the term Indian when talking about themself or their family, due to their multiculturalism and preference to older terms, but the most polite thing is to refer to an Indigenous person by their People. So if you’re talking about M, your Salish friend, and for some reason his ethnicity comes up, call him Salish - not Indian, not Native American, not Indigenous. Unless he prefers those terms. Though individuals generally prefer the more culture-specific name. If you’re talking about a group of different people or peoples who are original inhabitants of the Americas or Australia or the Pacific Islands (and sometimes Africa), then use Indigenous. That being said, always defer to personal preference.

Solution: I let P bring up info about their peoples when they wanted. I looked up some things later. I also did some research and found that the Indigenous people of my [home] area weren’t all gone either. I had been taught in my state history class who they were exactly, and then they were never never brought up again. Then I learned about things like the Trail of Tears and residential schools, and assumed their culture was effectively dead. I was wrong, thankfully!

Problem: This is not exactly racist but I feel that it’s relevant. I’m talking to this guy right now. A couple weeks ago, we went out and I brought up a question that I thought was pretty normal for dates/conversations where you get to know one another. “What do your parents do?” After all, parents’ occupations affect you! He told me that his mom is working as a fruit seller after being laid off and his dad was laid off (his parents are divorced like mine) and is currently unemployed. FAUX PAS! Yikes. Both of my dads have histories of unemployment (my Dad likes to quit, my Stepdad has gotten laid off multiple times*) but all are employed right now. And I know how awkward (at the very least!) it is to be in that situation, especially money-wise.

Solution: I looked up bad questions to ask on dates later and yup! That was on there. Don’t talk money until you you’re serious. Apparently doing it so early on is a very white/privileged thing. One website I read even said that explicitly.

*Once you get laid off once, you’re often a new hire at a company. And being a new hire, you’re more likely to be laid off, because companies value seniority. Thus, a self-perpetuating situation unfortunately. I wouldn’t be surprised if other factors came into play - reminder: my stepdad is Black, and employers may use that information when choosing which new hire to let go. But we know for sure that seniority is definitely part of the issue.

General Reminder 1: Don’t ask to touch or talk about Black people’s hair. No comments about getting it wet, how it’s different from yours, how working with it must be different, interesting little factoids you may have learned about their hair, weaves, wigs, and so on. If you genuinely have curly hair at 2c-ish or higher (see picture), then it’s a different story. You may have something in common that’s fun to talk about! Comments on how nice it looks are sometimes okay, but consider: are you only saying these complements when it’s straightened or braided? Or only when it’s natural? If you really are only complementing them when it’s on one side of the spectrum, then that’s an issue. Respect Black hair as an art form or even just a part of existence, in its entirety.

Also don’t say it’s kinky or wild hair. Black people can sometimes use those terms for themselves but it isn’t for us. There’s literally a ton of historical laws and economies that have oppressed Black people’s hair and those are some of the things that we should just listen to them about.

This can applied to other cultures’/races’ clearly visible differences from your own features, too.

General reminder 2: look at the kind of things you like to watch, or read, or even react with, like memes. Are they making fun of the minority people in those books? Would that meme be as funny to you if the person in the picture had facial features more like yours? Are the people who look like the person in that meme using that meme? Are People of Color getting to talk and have non-stereotypical storylines in your TV show? Are they even there?

Lastly: You’ve read all this advice from a white person. Go seek out advice, stories and more from other sources!!! It might hurt in the moment but that’s just called growing pains. You will still make mistakes but you have to look to the future! Learning from the sources themselves will be a lot more useful towards creating a pattern of information and behavior your autistic brains can utilize :). Let’s all go be better allies!

The books and authors I mentioned are great places to start and another really good one that I cannot recommend enough is the Levar Burton Reads podcast. But don’t just read fiction. Crack open some history books or podcasts or tv shows. Give yourself some context. Personally I adore Wikipedia when I want to find out more but I don’t have a book. Okay I’ll stop.

idgaf how autistic you are stop being racist😭😭

#personal testimony here #under the cut I spell out some examples #edit: I wrote this ages ago and wanted to clear my drafts a bit #just updated some details where I caught them and I’m posting now #idk if this would be helpful but I hope so!

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uranvittie · 2 days ago

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I’m on the run with you, my sweet love.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader.

Summary: You are a special soldier for Hydra, who brainwashed you to forget your past in Red Room. On a certain mission, you come face to face for the first time with Black Widow, who tries to kill you at first. And then she looks at you with sad eyes?

Warnings | Tags: ¿Angst? little. Friends to enemies to friends to lovers? Sort of, not really enemies, at least not that much. Blood, a little. Knives, guns, some stabbing, pretty quiet actually, I think, very fluffy and some comfort. Slow burn maybe. No use of T/N. +7K.

Note: This is actually my first time writing here on Tumblr, my first time writing a story for Reader/TN, just so you know, I do NOT use "T/N", sorry. It's replaced with "—" Is that more comfortable? Somehow it feels that way. Anyway, yeah, this is my first time writing something like this here, so sorry if it looks ugly. And well, I also clarify that english is NOT my forte, gosh, it's not my native language, so there might be some mistakes. And about this, well, the reader is basically a Bucky Barnes, but the equivalent for Natasha would be Steve, but without the good morals. Although I don't think I mentioned the gender of the reader, the intention is that it should be a female. And this is just a practice for my writing, it's been a long time since I wrote.

Your mission there was easy, well, you wouldn't use the word 'easy', it would be rather simple. A simple task where you had to be efficient.

Assaulting a moving train so that others could gain access to a weapon. There were no specifications, you didn't need them.

You were never given the number of soldiers accompanying you, nor the number of agents you had to deal with. You didn't ask. It was never necessary information.

Your job was one and simple, the only thing you were good at: assassination.

Every known SHIELD agent had been shot through the forehead by you. And your expression was unchanging, without a trace of emotion —under the mask— even when blood splattered on you, you barely twisted your lips in disgust, because, God, the feel of other people's dirty blood on your skin was always unpleasant and uncomfortable. But this was your job, and you had to do it perfectly.

The team responsible for removing the weapon was in place. After you had perfectly fulfilled your role as a shooter, you finished off everyone in most of the wagons.

Your mission was to make other people's jobs easy. Your boots echoed on the floor with every step you took, and the loaded gun in your arm was used on any agent who got in your way. And then there was the redheaded agent. Someone Brock Rumlow had identified as Natasha Romanoff, and through the earpiece you received a warning not to entertain Natasha Romanoff.

Uh.

The name echoed in your brain, but you didn't understand why.

So when you reached the inside of a carriage, after disposing of two SHIELD agents in the back, and met her head-on, you barely had a chance to blink before she lunged at you.

The way Natasha Romanoff fought was something that deserved a warning, now you understood. Her moves were fast, precise, deadly. She didn't even give you time to breathe, and you were so shocked that someone could match her movements and speed that you barely had a chance to dodge and protect yourself from each blow.

At some point, Natasha Romanoff knocked you to the ground. You couldn't even blink, what was going on? And at that moment, you seemed to have finally snapped out of your stupor, jerking forward as the agent pinned your wrists to the floor. You practically grunted in pain as the redhead drove her knee into your stomach.

In the next second, you felt your mask being removed. It was like a soft caress of her fingers against your sweaty, sensitive skin. You didn't change your expression.

But you noticed the agent's expression change.

"—"

Her voice had an accent that sounded familiar —familiar—. Your brain repeated the word and you realized that you had nothing familiar to react to. But her voice, and that accent, and the way he looked at you. And what did she say?

You feel it. You feel it immediately. The way Natasha Romanoff's grip weakens, it's just a second, —or less than a second— a moment of weakness. A microsecond in which the agent seems to freeze. And, of course, you take advantage of it.

Your foot hits the agent's stomach hard, causing the redhead to roll off you. You stand up with incredible speed, and in that same second, you pull a knife from the pocket on your leg. You waste no time in throwing it forward, toward Natasha Romanoff's right arm, preventing her from grabbing the weapon she was apparently trying to retrieve. You don't give her a chance. You're fast. You're quite fast, faster than a mere human.

Your hand holds the gun tight, it's that second, and you don't hesitate when you fire. You never do. You shoot, aiming for her forehead, as you always do. But you miss. Damn it, Natasha Romanoff is fast too. She must be experienced enough to have seen that shot coming, or were you predictable?

You don't think about it. You don't think. You grab the smoke bomb on your belt and throw it on the ground, the smoke billows out, and the next second you're gone.

You run through the empty wagons, having just received a simple "It's done. Get out of there."

You know how the escape plan worked. Go to the last wagon of the train, with the weapon there, everyone was going to be picked up by a helicopter after they cut the connection to the moving train, which was also about to derail because they cut certain tracks before reaching the bridge.

They had about two minutes to get to the last wagon. Although there was the more risky backup plan, it was not recommended.

"Get back here!"

Then you stop.

You stop right there. You don't know why, but you do. Maybe it's the thick accent in that harsh, strong tone, or maybe it's because you're curious about the agent, Natasha Romanoff. Why is she looking at you like that? You're not sure, but it feels strange.

You blink slowly as you turn around and focus your gaze on Natasha Romanoff. She doesn't look like she could stand another fight against you. Not with that deep cut on her arm, or the bruise that's forming on half of her face, plus she's bent over, holding her stomach. Are you going to take advantage of that?

Of course you are.

The way your feet move with inhuman speed seems to surprise her again, wasn't she expecting it? You frown, but you don't stop, and you pick up speed after jumping and shoving yourself into one of the empty seats of the wagon to deliver another blow to Natasha Romanoff's face from above.

You watch as the agent collapses to the ground with a loud crash, like something breaking.

You watch her slowly, your head cocked to the side as you focus on the image of the seemingly defeated agent. Natasha Romanoff looks up at you with reddened, crystalline green eyes. Is she crying? You barely blink. She has a busted lip and a scrape on her cheek where she hit the ground.

"Where are you?"

The voice in your earpiece asks, and then you snap to attention. Why are you looking at all?

You barely have a chance to take a step before you feel the weight on your left foot. You look down, confused, and notice the bloody hand gripping you tightly. Then you turn to see Natasha Romanoff crawling, clinging to your leg.

You raise an eyebrow in further curiosity, but after a heartbeat you grab the gun on your belt and point it at her head.

"—"

That name again. You frown as your gaze lingers on Natasha Romanoff. —It's a name, isn't it?— You're sure you recognize the name, but you're not so sure. Your breathing has become more leisurely and you don't realize it until you feel the grip on your boot tighten again.

"—"

"Who's that?"

The look Natasha Romanoff gives you at that moment is that of someone who knows less than you do. Barely able to think, you press the gun to her head to remind her where she is.

The agent says nothing and gives you a confused look. It feels strange. You definitely don't like her. Your finger slides down the trigger and just as you're about to squeeze, you feel the pressure of a bullet in your shoulder make you pull back.

You back up, letting the gun fall to the ground as you clutch your wounded shoulder. You glare angrily at the person who shot you, your hand immediately going to your uniform belt to grab another weapon when you hear the sound of another gunshot.

But this time the bullet never hits, as Natasha Romanoff takes out the agent shooting at you. Fighting her own people? You don't think. You don't think. You don't think about that or anything.

You're not supposed to.

So you use the second she's giving you to escape and throw yourself through the smashed door of the wagon onto the cliff.

Well, here's the emergency plan.

———————————————　♡　———————————————

"The agent… on the train…"

"I saw her somewhere else…"

"I knew her."

"But… uh… I knew her…"

You can't think about it. You're not allowed to. You're not allowed to think.

After the mission was successfully completed —Hydra had the weapon it wanted in its hands— you had been found among the snow-covered mountains of the cliff where you had thrown yourself to escape. That had been the plan.

You had used the ropes and hooks to hold on to something on the mountain, which lessened your fall, and the snow that seemed to have recently fallen also allowed you to stay alive. Anyway, it wasn't like you were allowed to die.

You were found quickly that same day at dusk, unconscious but breathing, of course, you had a tracker embedded in your neck.

When you woke up, they took you to the interrogation room to give the mission report, but you kept mumbling barely understandable words —things that no one had asked you— you kept repeating in your head and on your tongue that agent, Natasha Romanoff, as Brock Rumlow had called her.

So you didn't seem to be responding as they instructed. Did you hit your head too hard? Perhaps. Your brain remembered things. You remembered things you shouldn't remember, things they didn't want you to remember. The voice of the agent played in your head. And the name the agent had spoken.

What was it?

You don't remember now, of course. They never allowed you to remember anything. You weren't allowed to think. You weren't supposed to think. You weren't made for that, so after you made them hurt your head again, they threw you in your room.

It was nothing more than a cell. You wouldn't call it that because you didn't really have that word in your head. But it was a simple cold room with no windows, with brick walls painted white. Though the light that illuminated the small space was a cold light, which made it get a greenish-blue hue.

You moved to the mattress on the floor, it was hard and also cold, you had a pillow and a blanket at least. And then there was the bathroom, although privacy was poor, just a curtain. You didn't do much anyway, you weren't really allowed to do much. You would sit on the edge of your mattress and stare at the floor with your face resting on your knees and not even think. —Because you had no ideas or memories to think about— And you also don't know how long it takes before you hear the sound of the cell opening and the scientists coming in again.

———————————————　♡　———————————————

A hand rests on Natasha's shoulder, causing the agent to raise her head to look up and meet Steve, the man looking worried.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, though then he seems to regret asking, Natasha gives him a clear look that says, "How do I look?" "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I wasn't there to help."

The agent doesn't respond, just nods as she looks nonchalantly down at the floor.

Natasha hadn't spoken, not even during the mission briefing.

Steve and Natasha had been sent to the train to protect the SHIELD scientists on board, of course, the real mission was for the other team to secure the SHIELD weapon and they could protect the train. It all went horribly wrong. Many hostages were killed, the weapon was stolen by the mercenary group, and Captain America, while he may have been able to protect some SHIELD agents and scientists, was disappointed that his own team had to hide missions from him.

Steve still didn't understand.

Of course, Steve was upset with Natasha and had initially gone to see her to complain about her disappearing in the middle of a mission where she was endangering the lives of her teammates, only to find her collapsed on the ground, shaking. The agent next to Natasha also seemed upset, and it was because Natasha Romanoff had not allowed him to take the shot. Steve looked at Natasha confused at that moment, Natasha was not someone who would hesitate to shoot, in fact that was very much her style.

When Steve realizes that the agent doesn't seem willing to clear up any of his doubts, he walks away, hands on his belt and head down.

Natasha doesn't allow herself to lament too much, of course, she had spent a few hours looking down at the floor and up at the ceiling while recovering. And no doubt she had replayed every moment of her fight with you in her mind. How?

The way you looked at her, the way you didn't hesitate with your blows even when you shot her. Those cold, dark, clouded eyes. It wasn't like you. It wasn't.

You were so sweet, so gentle, so kind. You always looked at Natasha in a certain way. A way that made Natasha feel warm and appreciated. Even in the red room. And you cared, oh, you always cared about everyone around you, you even cared about others more than yourself.

Where was that?

Something had happened. Natasha missed a lot of things.

She met you in the Red Room, the first time she saw you was in the ballet room, and her first thought was that you were perfect. You did it the perfect way. You were more outstanding than anybody else. And at such a young age. Even Natasha was always called a prodigy, but you were a genius. And you had a heart. That was the most important thing. You kept your heart.

Until you didn't.

Natasha never heard from you again after you were taken on a mission from which you never returned. Everyone assumed you were dead. It wouldn't be the first time. It wouldn't be the first time another girl was sacrificed for Dreykov. Nor would it be the last. So when Natasha had the chance to get out, to leave, she took it.

And Natasha didn't think about you anymore. She didn't. The Red Room had been left behind, far behind, buried in her past. She never thought she'd see you again, never even imagined the possibility that you were still alive out there.

Where had you been? Still working as an assassin? For a group of mercenaries for hire?

And you didn't even remember her?

———————————————　♡　———————————————

It was not your mission. You definitely didn't need to intervene. It wasn't your business. It wasn't your mission, but there you were. Disobeying someone else's orders for the first time. Winter Soldier, a super soldier you knew well —their torture chambers were next to each other— the soldier heard your cries of pain and you heard his cries. You also heard his screams. And you definitely heard him recognize more than just orders and missions.

He remembered someone. Just like you.

Just like you once did.

You did, didn't you?

"Report, —" Brock Rumlow's voice in your earpiece made you jerk for a moment, you'd forgotten. You had left your position to follow the soldier. You just had to talk to him, ask him certain things, what did he remember? How could she remember too? Was there someone he was looking for? For what?

You were not there to fight. It wasn't your mission. So you don't intervene when you see the soldier —the Winter Soldier— fighting what you think is the acclaimed Captain America. You grimace in disgust at the Captain's uniform, ridiculous. Everything is going to shit, well, it's not like you can hold buildings, so you let everything go on without getting —if possible— even dirtier hands. It's not possible anyway.

You watch from a distance, a prudent and appropriate distance that allows you to see everything. You wish your hearing was as good as your speed, but it isn't, so you just read lips. Before you fall into the river, you see Steve Rogers —or Captain America?— call the soldier "Bucky".

You get out of the river before they do, of course. You are a good swimmer, and you are not carrying the weight of another super-soldier. You watch as the soldier, Bucky, pulls Captain America out of the river and drops him on the shore, and he takes off.

Then you follow him.

You'd like to say you'll get through the next few days without a hitch, but you won't, because first you had to rip out your tracker. And damn it, it hurt like hell. The news, the papers and everyone is talking about Hydra and SHIELD. Both organizations seemingly sunk and broken, finally dismantled. And with Natasha Romanoff, a.k.a. Black Widow, exposing all their secrets, it seems the bad guys are hiding in the shadows while the good guys are struggling to find them.

Natasha Romanoff. That's who you should be looking for, right? The agent on the train who looked at you the way no one else had. And who had spoken a name, a name that might have belonged to you, in a quiet way.

Bucky Barnes is a pain in the ass. Maybe you shouldn't have followed him. And you shouldn't have stayed with him, but it's too late. And they're stuck together. He's stupid, clearly from a bygone era when people barely used televisions. And he doesn't know anything except his own name, and that's because Steve Rogers apparently told it to him.

Because Steve Rogers is a hero revered by many in the world, he gets a museum filled with information about the soldier. James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, they both learn. They can reconstruct a bit of Bucky's past, but there is nothing about yours. Most of Hydra's facilities are destroyed or being dismantled by the government, or incredibly hidden if they're still there, and there's not much you can do with a soldier who looks at you like he's lost, and you with a clouded and shadowed mind. You're both a mess.

He screams and cries almost every night. And you can't sleep —you don't have nightmares, it's worse than that— you can't sleep at all with the constant feeling of alertness in your head.

At least neither of them is alone in their stormy times. If that's any consolation.

Until you separate.

It's more or less an agreement. You realize that Bucky is of no use to you and you're of no use to him. One day you both just give up the little shelter you have and run off to different places. Neither of you visits the room you shared for the last time.

———————————————　♡　———————————————

Norway.

She's been searching for you for over eight months. Chasing a ghost, an elusive kitten, but here you are at last.

Natasha's breathing gets heavier as the cabin finally comes into view. She's tracked you here, she can see it's the shelter you've spent the most time in. She's found your other huts, of course, she's been through a few. And without a doubt, this one seems to be the healthiest.

A cabin in the woods, quiet, bright, also quite cold. Natasha goes to the cabin, doesn't even have to force the door, no lock. Quite organized —yes, kinda like you— clean, cool… do you even have books? Natasha's heart skips a beat as she inspects the pile of books on the coffee table.

Natasha doesn't touch anything, but her gaze is intense, curious and penetrating. She looks deeply at every detail. There is an old television in front of an equally old sofa, she also notices a record player in a corner and an empty cage on a wooden chair. The table is clean and decorated with a scented candle that is not lit at the moment.

Natasha is not surprised when she hears the sound of the door opening. But you are.

You see her sitting on the only other wooden chair, one hand resting on the table, holding your book. Even though it doesn't really belong to you. You see her put the book down and look at you for a second, both of you looking at each other in silence without saying anything.

You're wearing a thick cotton turtleneck that covers you up to your chin. It's too big for you, of course, and it doesn't belong to you. And you're carrying wood for the fire in the fireplace.

"Natasha Romanoff."

The name slips from your lips in a low, husky tone, shit, you haven't used your voice in a long time and it sounds strange. You try to control your breathing as you look at her and then look away.

"Do you remember?"

You let out a sigh and move forward, shrugging your shoulders. You move towards the fireplace with soft but steady steps, dropping the firewood to the side so you can stack the logs later. As you do so, you feel Natasha's gaze on your back and a shiver runs through you.

"I remember… some things, sometimes… memories come to me from time to time at unexpected times…" You turn around and look at her closely, Natasha hasn't moved from her seat, even though the book is now on the table and she's crossing her arms. "Sometimes… when someone says a word or I read about something… it's like a different image suddenly comes to me and then…" You rub your hands together, enjoying the warmth of the fireplace, and finally take off your gloves. "It's easier now that I'm alone…"

Natasha nods and looks at you with a wry expression, then points to the books on your nightstand.

"That's why you read so much."

You don't answer, continuing to rub your hands together in front of the fire, your fingers icy cold from spending so much time away from the cabin.

You don't look at Natasha, but you can feel her looking at you. God, her gaze is so intense. You lie on your back, facing the fire, shivering and hiding your almost tearful reaction. Natasha Romanoff. You've spent months reconstructing the image of the agent in your brain, trying to put the pieces together in your memories, searching and wandering to find crumbs of this person standing behind you now.

You feel your breathing become agitated and you feel tears welling up in your eyes. You swallow the lump in your throat and lower your eyes.

"I'm not here to hurt you…"

Natasha's voice has this soft tone. You're not used to being spoken to like that, even with Bucky, in his better moments, his voice was always sleepy, fearful and insecure. Natasha Romanoff seems confident and kind, and your chest warms at the first comforting words you've heard in years.

Natasha doesn't seem bothered or uncomfortable that you don't speak. In that way she's a lot like Bucky, at least back then they didn't speak, they just looked at each other a lot and seemed to communicate through their eyes. Natasha Romanoff looks at you too much, but you try not to look back at her. It feels strange, in your chest, like a feeling of comfort and familiarity, but when you search your brain for where it came from, there's nothing there.

After adding more wood to the fire, you turn to Natasha, who is still sitting in the chair with her arms resting on the table, looking at you with a soft, calm smile. Why does she always have that look? You move more awkwardly as you straighten up, but when you finish stacking the logs, you walk to the area that functions as a kitchen.

You don't offer Natasha tea, you just make it for her. You learned how to make tea from Bucky. And you found out that you like chamomile tea with a spoonful of honey. So you make one for Natasha just like that.

You bring the cup to her and place it next to her at the table, since there are no other chairs, the only existing chair is pushed into a corner with a pile of books and more stuff, you stand there staring at the floor while you drink in silence.

"—"

You raise your head to look at her. Oh, she called you that again.

She explains that it's your name. She calls you that a few more times until it doesn't sound strange in your brain. Natasha puts a folder on the table that she apparently had hidden in her jacket. She offers to read it to you when you're ready. And you don't really feel ready, but you accept.

It leads you through the Red Room, how you were apparently kidnapped by Dreykov since you were a little girl. To your first mission for the Red Room, from which you never returned. Hydra captured you and brainwashed you to be their assassin, leaving behind everything you knew about the Red Room and leaving you with only the training. Much like Bucky —the Winter Soldier— you were given high-level missions by Hydra. A perfectly conditioned assassin who was not supposed to ask questions or have a past. Natasha Romanoff has been searching for you since the fall of Hydra because of your shared past, of which you only have fragments.

Natasha speaks and explains in her characteristic calm tone. She looks at you with soft eyes and a hint of a smile on her lips. Her green eyes sparkle as they focus on you. You let her talk about you and listen to her. She asks questions and you answer as best you can.

"How have you been?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Are these your clothes?"

"Are you eating well?"

You've moved over to the old chair and she follows you, sitting at the other end, because she's noticed that you move away when she gets too close. And you can't help it, even though part of your brain is sure that Natasha Romanoff won't hurt you, the damaged part of you is constantly on alert, sending out danger signals.

"Did you have a bird?" Natasha asks, pointing to the cage on the pile of books on the chair in the corner of the room. You shake your head.

"It was trapped. And I freed it."

Natasha nods and smiles at you again. For the first time, you smile back at her, and you see her eyes light up at what you have done. You can't help but blush when you notice it.

As night falls, you realize that Natasha has no intention of leaving, so you start to get ready for bed. You turn off the fire in the fireplace, and after making some more tea, you show her where you sleep. It's a separate, airier room with thick glass windows and fluffy curtains drawn to keep out the little moonlight. There are a couple of oil lamps because the bulb is out and you haven't found a replacement. The bed is in a corner, with thick blankets and a few pillows. There's a large green rug on the floor and a rocking chair. The rest of the furniture is mostly empty, except for a closet with some clothes in it.

You point to the bed and tell her she can sleep there.

"Where do you want to sleep?"

You point to the floor and Natasha laughs.

"I'm not taking your bed away."

"I'm more used to sleeping on the floor than on a mattress…"

Natasha twists her lips in disgust at this comment.

"We can share the bed. It's big enough." She points, watching you with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile. "It won't be the first time you share a bed anyway. And I assure you, I can be softer than Bucky…"

Oh, the heat rushes to your face, but you say nothing. Yes, somehow you had to share a bed with Bucky some nights. How would Natasha know?

You blink and nod, offering Natasha a coat which she accepts, changing your jacket into a sweater and kicking off your boots as you climb into bed.

Natasha lets you sleep on the side closest to the wall and you curl up in a blanket while she lies comfortably beside you. It's quiet, except for the sounds of the forest, like the wind or the animals. You can't sleep, not because you're uncomfortable with Natasha —it is uncomfortable, yes— but it's really your brain. Your damaged brain that won't stop sending out warning signals from the time you spent locked in a cell at Hydra Labs.

"I can hear you breathing faster."

You close your eyes and let out a sigh at the sound of Natasha's voice. You still have your back to her.

"Did we have an intimate relationship? Before I disappeared?"

You don't know why you're asking this —well, you do— but it seems you've surprised Natasha as well, because she remains silent for a long moment, you hear her clear her throat and shift.

"No. Never-" Natasha lets out a sigh and you're almost sure she's staring at the ceiling because her position on the bed has changed. "There was no time for that…"

Oh.

You're tempted to say something else. You want to explain the reason for your question, you even want to ask more, but you remain silent. It's just that the way Natasha had talked about you, about the two of you, when you were in the Red Room, it had seemed to you that something else had almost happened.

You regretted not being able to remember, or not being able to right now. Yes, you had some memories of the Red Room, but it was all about the exhaustive training they forced you to do.

"But there was something special." Natasha speaks, and even if you don't look at her, you can tell she has a smile on her face. "You were always someone special. Someone real. With a heart."

———————————————　♡　———————————————

You spend the next few days with Natasha. She doesn't seem to have any desire to leave, in fact, she just seems to get more and more comfortable. You go with Natasha to the town, she does her shopping and you do yours. You've never needed much. You do the shopping and buy some blankets. Natasha, on the other hand, seems to be carrying a lot of bags in her arms. You don't ask what she bought, she tells you anyway.

Natasha had a car, which you didn't find out about until the third day, apparently she abandoned it in an empty warehouse in town and when she went to pick you up the first time, she did it on foot. She mentioned that she didn't want to scare you.

She drives you back to the cabin. And she lets you be quiet the whole way because she doesn't ask you any questions.

Bucky has taught you how to cook some simple things, and you live with that. White rice is your favorite dish; plain, simple and neutral, somehow you feel comfortable eating it. Until Natasha makes you fried rice.

She seems really happy that you like her food, because she smiles like a fool as she offers you more and more. You've never eaten anything so delicious, or at least you can't remember, so you thank her for the food and wash the dishes when you're done.

You share your place like Bucky, but she's very different from Bucky. Natasha is super helpful. It's not like Bucky was useless, but between two mentally damaged and deranged people, they couldn't fix a window lock. Natasha talks a lot all the time, and she's organized, very clean too, she seems to like to flirt and smile at you more than you'd think appropriate, but she's always very kind and gentle. She fixes the TV and manages to find a video player in one of the old boxes that the previous owner kept in a closet.

They sit on the couch —closer than before— for hours watching old movies. Natasha also offers to buy newer movies or ones she thinks you'd like, but you tell her you're fine with whatever. In the afternoons, you usually go for walks in the woods and around the nearby lake, you sometimes take the opportunity to chop wood, and she usually spends her time fixing things around the cabin. You don't ask her, she just finds things that don't work and fixes them. Like the broken glass in one of the windows, or the poorly nailed floorboard, or the door without a lock.

You're making tea when she comes in with a new light bulb to finally replace the burned out one in the bedroom. Natasha doesn't say anything to you when she sees you standing there with the jar of honey in your hands, as she goes into the bedroom with a ladder that she somehow built back in the day to change the light bulb. Natasha also fixes the shower in the bathroom so that the hot water works, even though you tell her that you prefer cold water.

"You shouldn't try so hard to fix this…you know this place isn't even mine?" You tell her one day when you see her trying to rebuild the fence.

"I bought it."

"What?"

"Well, I obviously knew it wasn't yours. So I tracked down the real owner and bought it." Natasha explains carefully, a hammer in her hand as she gestures toward the cabin. "I bought it for you." She mumbles and her goofy smile returns to her lips. Oh, she's a fool who likes to flirt. You already figured that out. "You don't have to run anymore."

Natasha looks at you in a way that makes you feel warm. And you have to look away so she doesn't notice the heat rising to your face.

You don't thank her. Your throat feels too tight to speak. And you know your voice gets shaky when you blush and get embarrassed, so you just avoid her by going back inside.

That night you cook for Natasha. It's a simple dish you've learned to make from the recipe book you've been reading. Mushroom risotto with Parmesan. It's a thank-you dinner, somehow you both know that. Natasha seems very happy that you're cooking for her. And she praises your dish a lot too, until you blush too much and ask her to eat in silence.

Natasha also fixed the record player, so after dinner you both sit on the couch while you read and she fixes an old radio she found in one of the boxes, she puts her feet up on the table and a slow melody plays in the background.

The next few days are much the same, though you seem to feel more comfortable with Natasha's presence as you get used to her. Natasha is someone who touches a lot, so you no longer flinch when Natasha's hand sometimes brushes yours, or freak out when you feel her hand on your lower back, or when she looks over your shoulder at what you're cooking. You finally have something familiar. And you appreciate it.

You appreciate the way Natasha wakes up before the sun even comes out to go for a run, the way she greets you when you come into the house after her morning run —with a pat on the cheek as she rests her head on your hair— you appreciate the way Natasha always finds something to fix, and you appreciate the way she smiles when you offer her more pancakes and tea. Even though you know Natasha prefers coffee. You learned how to make pancakes from Natasha and started making them for Natasha almost every morning.

One day you discover a box on your doorstep. Natasha is out running, so you pick up the sealed and wrapped box and notice a label on the top. A package for Natasha. You didn't even know that a place like this could receive packages.

You leave it on the table and when Natasha returns from her run, she greets you as she always does, with a pat on the cheek and her head resting on yours, you smile at her and offer her tea, when Natasha sits down next to you, she notices the box and her expression darkens as she reads that it's a package for her.

She doesn't seem to want to open it, and you can tell by the way she looks at it, as if it's cursed. You can also tell that she doesn't want to open it in your presence, so without being asked, you excuse yourself by saying that you have to go to the bathroom.

You give her a few minutes, and when you come out of the bathroom, the package is open and Natasha is nowhere to be found.

You try not to look too hurt by her sudden absence. You start to read the new gardening book that Natasha recently bought for you —after hearing you say that you wanted to have a hobby like hers about fixing things, she suggested gardening— Natasha also bought you some gardening tools, but you haven't started yet.

Natasha shows up a few hours later. You notice that she's gone for a drive, and she greets you as she always does, apologizing for leaving without telling you, but not explaining where she went. You don't ask any questions anyway.

"I want to stay here forever…" Natasha says suddenly in the night as you lie in bed, ready to sleep.

You blink and look at her with big eyes. You don't know why she said that, but deep down you feel like you know. You smile at her and reach for her hand to squeeze it into yours. It's the first time you've made contact. And Natasha seems both surprised and delighted.

You breathe and she leans forward, for a moment everything stops for you and you are about to push yourself back when her forehead touches yours.

"I want to plant poppies…" You whisper, your eyes closed as Natasha rests her forehead against yours and you feel her thumb caress the back of your hand.

She lets out a soft laugh.

"I'll get the seeds tomorrow…"

You're finishing Natasha's pancakes when you hear the door open and turn to see her come in. She has a paper bag in her hands and a silly grin on her face. You're already serving her pancakes when Natasha greets you in her usual way. You pour her coffee and she puts the paper bag on the table.

Natasha finishes her first pancake and you finish a page of the book you're reading when you hear the sound of a car pulling up outside. Natasha immediately moves and you follow. You look out the window and notice Natasha's tense shoulders slump slightly and her expression becomes somber and tired.

She lets out a sigh as she turns to look at you, and you look at her in a way that seems to hurt her.

The two of you walk out to find Captain America —Steve Rogers— in civilian clothes. He's got the whole soldier thing going on with his hands in his pockets and his chest puffed out as he looks at Natasha and then back at you. He seems to be smiling in embarrassment.

“Romanoff.”

Steve Rogers' voice is cheerful and firm as he moves forward to close the distance. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel shy. He seems kind of cute with that bright, friendly smile, but also kind of pretentious with all that attitude. You don't introduce yourself even though he does, and he seems to understand your silence because he doesn't push, instead he looks at Natasha and you see them exchanging silent glances.

You don't know what they say, but you can feel it.

Natasha says goodbye that afternoon and promises she'll be back soon. She makes a lot of promises. She promises she'll finish fixing the fence, bring you more books on gardening, find you new movies, get you a decent video player, and come back to watch your flowers grow.

Natasha kisses you as you see her off at the door.

She holds your face in her hands, caresses your cheeks with her thumbs, and her soft lips press against yours. Natasha kisses you tenderly. She closes her eyes as her forehead meets yours, forcing you to open your mouth with a thumb pressed against your chin, pushing her tongue into your mouth and only pulling away when Steve Rogers clears his throat loudly enough to annoy Natasha.

"Please don't run away again."

Her look is a plea and you nod. You give her a short, soft kiss on the lips. Natasha smiles at you and says goodbye with a touch on your cheek.

It's been almost three months. Almost three months since Natasha Romanoff got into Steve Rogers' car and drove off without much explanation. You discovered that the paper bag she left on the table were the seeds of the poppies you mentioned you wanted to plant, so you did. And indeed, the flowers had just bloomed.

You planted not only poppies, but other wildflowers that could grow in cold climates. Yes, you did your research and all that. You learned that you liked gardening, so you started to put more effort into it, so much so that you started a small vegetable garden as well.

It's a sunny and cold day, the wind isn't as annoying as other days, so you go outside to examine your flowers, happy and proud that they are blooming beautifully.

And then the sleek black sports car pulls up on the dirt road in front of the cabin. You watch as Natasha gets out of the car with a smile on her face, a large bag in her hand, hanging from her back as she walks over to you.

"You have beautiful flowers."

You straighten up, your hands covered in dirt and your face flushed from the time you spent outside in the cold. Natasha wraps her arms around you and you bury your head in her shoulder. The leather of her jacket sticks to your skin and you squirm in the embrace, but Natasha just laughs.

You walk into the cabin with Natasha. She kisses you sweetly after you wash the dirt off your hands. And she murmurs against your lips how much she's missed you as you sigh between kisses.

"I can start fixing the fence…"

She mumbles, moving to the closet to get her toolbox when you interrupt her, your fingers tightening on the sleeve of her jacket and she looks at you with an arched eyebrow.

Natasha turns to you again, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you back in for a deep kiss. You sigh in her arms and shudder as her tongue slips into your mouth, Natasha’s hands tighten on your waist and she leans down, pushing her face onto yours as she kisses you in an intense and hungry way.

“I’m going to repair the fence…” Natasha mentions with a goofy smile on her lips as she pulls away, leaving you dizzy and slightly hazy. “I swear. I have time for it. I’ll stay here with you.”

Natasha slides her hands down your face and kisses you again. It’s just a peck on your lips and you smile at her as she pulls away to get her tools.

“I’ll build you a mailbox too. Bucky Barnes said he wanted to send you letters…” She scoffs as she walks out the door.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #natasha romanoff x fem!reader

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snseaa · 2 days ago

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Say Yes! Say Yes!

synopsis: Sylus confesses to the cashier he's been crushing on. How will things go?

tags: fluff. just fluff.

wc: 752

<previous part

"Good day! How may I help you?" she chirped, her smile so dazzling it could probably blind him – blinded by her sheer adorableness. His face slowly turned pink, which, considering his profession, was perhaps not the best look. And then, the moment of truth. She recognized him. Oh dear. This was their first encounter since the band-aid Incident, and he was even more tongue-tied than before.

"Oh! It's you!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with recognition. "How's your wound?" she asked, gesturing towards her own chest – right where his injury had been.

Sylus,the strongest hitman on Onychinus, suddenly discovers he lacks communication skills when it comes3 to girls (you). He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He tried again. Nope. Still nothing. It wasn't that he hadn't talked to girls before. Okay, maybe it was a little bit that. He just... he didn't know how to. It turns out that even the most feared hitman had a weakness. And that weakness was a cute cashier with a smile that could melt glaciers.

He managed a small, awkward nod, hoping it conveyed, "I'm fine, the band-aid was a lifesaver, and you're utterly charming, but my brain has officially short-circuited." Probably not.

He busied himself gathering items he absolutely didn't need, just to have something to do with his hands. When it was time to pay, he took a quick, covert peek at her name tag. Mc. Intriguing. While she scanned his eclectic assortment of goods, his mind went into overdrive. Mc… Mc… He wracked his brain, trying to recall any intel he might have on a girl named Mc.

‘ has a brother named Caleb. Lives alone in an apartment near the convenience store. Single, had two past relationships. One of them is the famous painter Rafayel, and the other… a hunter. Has a hea—’

"That would be $10, sir!" she chirped, bagging his ridiculously random assortment of items. Her cheerful interruption snapped Sylus out of his mental deep dive. He felt his cheeks flush again. This was getting ridiculous. He was supposed to be a master assassin, not a bumbling schoolboy with a crush.

He pulled out a $10 bill, trying to act nonchalant, as if he hadn't just been mentally cataloging her life history. "Thanks," he mumbled, his voice a little rough. He took the bag, acutely aware of her eyes on him. He really needed to get a grip. This whole "cute cashier" thing was messing with his professional image. As he turned to leave, he couldn't resist one last glance. She was still smiling, that dazzling, sunshine smile that made his heart do a little flip-flop. He quickly looked away, but then...

“Be my girlfriend”

‘Great choice of words, Sylus! Just great,’ he mentally cursed himself, his inner voice dripping with sarcasm. Blankly staring at her, he was mortified by his own boldness. What had possessed him? He had just blurted out something that sounded more like a desperate plea than a charming invitation. He didn't understand it. No one had ever affected him this way—only she… but why? His mind was a whirlwind of confusion and sudden, overwhelming attraction.

Just as he was internally flagellating himself for his social ineptitude, she giggled. Giggled! The sound, light and airy, sent a shiver down his spine. His blush deepened, spreading across his cheeks like wildfire.

"Is this how guys ask girls out these days? Straight to the point?" she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement. He just groaned inwardly. He was making a complete fool of himself.

"Forget what—" he began, desperate to salvage some semblance of dignity, but she cut him off.

"I'd love to," she said, her smile widening.

Sylus’s head snapped up. "You… what?" he stammered, completely thrown. She was actually… saying yes? He looked at her, searching for any sign of mockery, but her eyes were soft, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. She was serious.

"I-I uhh… y-you didn't need to f-force—" he stammered, still trying to process the fact that this was actually happening. He was so flustered, he could barely string two words together.

"I like you too… There… straight to the point," she said, mirroring his earlier (and admittedly awkward) phrasing. She giggled again, her blush deepening, and Sylus felt his own heart doing a little happy dance. They both looked like teenagers with a brand-new puppy crush. Except… this wasn't puppy love.

Oh God, he thought, this is so not how my days usually go… But I'm not complaining.

I would really appreciate it if you read my other Rafayel series here!

AO3

ignored 10 calls from my groupmates just to write a stupid fic

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h-sleepingirl · 18 hours ago

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Trance Processing

Sometimes I think people are so scared of thinking things during trance, of knowing things about how hypnosis works, or about getting distracted. But your hypnotized brain can come up with amazing things -- things you’d NEVER think about when you’re awake.

He was hypnotizing me on our date this weekend and it was just one of those times that I went DEEP -- that I felt myself shift out of reality and into a space I never really understand. There are times when this happens for me with a certain lucidity, very much like how people explain inducing lucid dreams from wakefulness, shifting into a dreamscape while you are aware of your state of consciousness changing around you.

I stared up through lightly wetted eyelashes, and they began to refract rainbows from the harsh lights dotting the ceiling. Twitching, glowing, otherworldly rainbows all overlaid on my vision. I thought in a spellbound moment: “People could see these and think they’re angels.”

I remembered a concept extrapolated from Maimonides, the famously rationalist Jewish philosopher: Angels are no more than the natural forces of the world. Not separate mystical beings, just all forces that make the universe function. Angels for why the wind blows, angels for all the tiny mechanisms involved in a blade of grass growing.

So I thought maybe Maimonides would say there WERE angels in my eyelashes, angels responsible for carrying my partner’s words into my head and hypnotizing me.

Then something in his voice hooked itself into my body, making me shudder, and making the idle thoughts melt away.

I really think there is something to embracing “trance processing” -- even Erickson in 1970 talks about how in hypnosis, people’s thoughts don’t stop but instead take on a dreamy, weird quality.

I think part of that is relaxing our urges to be hyper rational about hypnosis. I don’t think analysis itself is a problem -- and I don’t even think rationalizing is always an issue. I have gone plenty deep crunching on technique and theory in the midst of trance. But I think you can learn to develop a sense of wonder at what your brain is doing that will lead to a holistic view of trance as something mysterious and magical.

The reality is, you can’t anticipate what your brain is going to do in trance. And it’s amazing to me that it doesn’t have to fit a format or follow a script or sound sane. Angels in my eyelashes hypnotizing me? Come on. Obviously that’s weird. But it was a little poignant dream-thought in the middle of intimate time. And that’s what it’s all about -- not the stories you tell other people, but what your brain is actually doing, what you and your partner are actually creating together.

(I wrote a weird guide in 2023 called SIX DAYS ASLEEP that was created to help people build their “trance processing” muscles, if you’re interested. It’s hosted in full on my website.)

#hypnosis #hypnok1nk #real hypnosis #spirituality #my writing

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etoilesombre · 2 days ago

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yes! ok hi as a resident dark content enjoyer and sometimes-creator, and also a mental health professional (i have a license and everything! i know it seems like i spend all my time writing fucked up porn, but i actually get paid to talk to people about how to deal with being a person. kind of the best day job ever) i am here to make a serious case. a fucking plea.

STORIES ARE A GOOD AND NATURAL PLACE FOR HUMANS TO EXPERIMENT WITH DARK CONTENT.

stop interpreting people's taste in media as an indication of their morals, or trauma, or psychological state.

one of the most amazing, unique, wonderful things about being human, probably the thing in which all the other amazing wonderful things are rooted, is that in addition to understanding our own internal lives (which other very big brain mammals probably also do) we are uniquely able to imagine ourselves behaving in ways other than we do. making different choices, experiencing different consequences, living whole other lives. this is essential not only for empathy, but for the development of moral systems, both as a society and as individuals. at the most basic level we need stories about doing things that we should not in fact probably do, unless we want to have to learn that lesson first hand every time.

and! that is not to say stories have to be cautionary tales about what happens if you actually do dark things. another amazing thing about humans is that we are curious. we like stimulation and novelty, we like to push limits, test out situations and experiences. most of us are drawn to thinking about things that are outside of our own comfort zones to some extent. stories are a fantastic, safe, harmless way to play with the potential range of human experiences. and that IS a great way to cope with trauma, actually, but it's also just fun! enjoy your amazing big brain and the weird shit it can get off on! and for what it is worth, i do not have actual data on this, but in a world in which i was given good research funding i am very sure that i could prove that, at a population level, 'reads fucked up shit on ao3' would actually be strongly negatively correlated with 'has been a perpetrator of violence' for a whole variety of reasons.

a talking point i often see when defending the consumption of dark content is that it’s a coping mechanism for those with trauma which is very valid and true but i also want to make this abundantly clear: you can like dark content for no reason. you can enjoy fucked up shit in fiction because it’s enjoyable and entertaining. trauma is not required as a ticket for entry. enjoy your dark content bc it’s fun and sexy and don’t let anyone take that away from you

#hi op sorry to hijack your post #I needed to rant apparently #thought crime is not real thought crime is not real thought crime is not-

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saxophonesir · 2 days ago

Text

Part four of my white passing Tim Drake agenda

It started with a joke.

Dick had been helping Tim clean up his apartment—by which he meant Dick was lounging on Tim’s couch, making comments, while Tim actually cleaned.

Tim was reorganizing his bookshelf when Dick, scrolling through his phone, snorted. “Man, I swear, Bruce has us all collecting languages like trading cards. What are you at now? Five? Six?”

Tim rolled his eyes, shifting a stack of books. “Seven.”

Dick let out a low whistle. “Show-off. What are they?”

Tim didn’t even look up. “French, German, Spanish, Russian, Latin, Greek, and Mandarin.”

Dick froze. “Mandarin?”

Tim, still distracted, hummed in confirmation. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Huh.”

Tim turned, eyebrow raised. “What?”

Dick sat up, studying him like he’d just grown a second head. “You speak Mandarin.”

Tim frowned. “Yeah? So?”

Dick gestured vaguely at him. “Since when do you speak Mandarin?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Since I learned it, obviously.”

Dick scoffed. “No, I mean—why?”

Tim blinked, thrown off by the question. “…Why does anyone learn a language?”

Dick narrowed his eyes. “Okay, but, like… was it just for missions? Or did you—” He cut himself off, his brain finally catching up.

Tim saw the exact moment it clicked.

Dick’s eyes widened slightly, his expression shifting from confusion to realization to something softer. “Wait. Is this a family thing?”

Tim sighed. He should’ve known this was going to happen eventually. “…Yeah. My mom was Chinese.”

Dick stared at him. “Holy shit.”

Tim rolled his eyes again. “Really? That’s your reaction?”

“I mean—! I just—!” Dick gestured wildly, clearly thrown. “Dude, how did I not know that?”

Tim shrugged, turning back to his bookshelf. “I don’t really talk about it.”

Dick was still staring, his brain visibly short-circuiting. “I just assumed—you know, rich Gotham kid, white parents—” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God, I’m an idiot.”

Tim smirked. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

Dick huffed, then, after a pause, asked, “So… do you actually use it? Like, can you hold a conversation?”

Tim hesitated, then admitted, “…My Mandarin is kind of crap.”

Dick’s brows shot up. “But you speak seven languages?”

Tim groaned, flopping onto the couch beside him. “I know! It makes no sense! I can read it fine, my grammar’s solid, but my accent—” He shook his head. “Apparently, I sound awful.”

Dick snickered. “Like, ‘off’ how?”

Tim glared at him. “Like, I sound like a white guy reading from a phrasebook.”

Dick lost it, doubling over with laughter. “Oh my god—”

Tim shoved him. “Shut up.”

Dick was still grinning. “No, no, it’s just—it’s so you! Of course you’d be perfect at every other language but sound like a tourist in the one tied to your own family.”

Tim scowled. “Glad you find it funny.”

Dick nudged him playfully. “Hey, it’s kinda endearing. And, you know, we do have a bunch of native speakers in the family. If you ever wanna work on it, I’m sure Damian would love to mock—I mean, help you.”

Tim groaned. “Great. Exactly what I need.”

Dick grinned. “Hey, I think it’s cool. And, you know, if you ever do wanna talk about it, I’m all ears.”

Tim glanced at en gave a small nod. “Yeah. Thanks, Dick.”

Dick beamed. “Anytime. Now, say something in Mandarin. I gotta hear this accent.”

Tim threw a pillow at his face.

Now, Bruce. Bruce prided himself on knowing everything about the people in his life. It wasn’t just a habit—it was a necessity. Information was protection. If he knew, he could prepare. If he could prepare, he could keep them safe.

It wasn’t arrogance—it was necessity. Their lives depended on preparation, on understanding the people they fought alongside. He had contingency plans for all of them, profiles meticulously detailed, habits cataloged. He knew how Jason held his jaw when he was about to throw a punch, the exact lilt in Dick’s voice when he was covering up exhaustion, the barely perceptible shift in Damian’s stance when he was about to lie.

And yet, somehow, he had missed something so fundamental about Tim that it made him question everything.

He had overheard it by accident.

A rare quiet evening in the manor, Damian and Tim sitting at the long dining table, a chess game between them. Bruce had only been half-listening as he went over case notes, his mind caught between the present and the ever-growing weight of unfinished business. Then, in a tone that was more observational than judgmental, Damian had said, “Your pronunciation is dreadful. It is almost shameful, considering your background.”

Tim had groaned. “Yes, thank you, Damian. I’m aware.”

Bruce hadn’t thought much of it at first—until Damian continued.

“It is strange. You should be more naturally inclined toward it.”

Tim had sighed. “Yeah, well, language skills aren’t genetic, Damian. And just because my mom was Chinese doesn’t mean I grew up speaking it fluently.”

Bruce had stilled.

It was such a small thing. Just a few words exchanged between brothers.

But they hit Bruce like a blow to the chest.

Tim’s mother was Chinese.

Janet Drake—distant, sharp, refined—had been Chinese. And Bruce had never once thought about it. Never questioned it.

And suddenly, all the little things he had overlooked over the years began to piece themselves together.

The way Tim brewed tea with an almost unconscious precision. The books on his shelves, some with spines marked in Chinese characters. The way he sometimes hesitated before saying certain words, as if recalling something half-forgotten. The fact that he had never quite seemed at home in spaces meant for him, never quite fit into the image of “Timothy Jackson Drake” that the world had constructed around him.

Bruce had missed it.

And that realization settled deep inside him, alongside all the other failures he carried when it came to Tim.

Because, of course, he had missed it. Of course, Tim was the one son he had never quite been able to read.

With Dick, there was warmth, openness. With Jason, there had been fire, defiance. Even Damian, for all his sharp edges, had a clear, undeniable presence.

But Tim?

Tim had always been quiet. Always watching. Always adapting. A chameleon in any situation, taking up only as much space as the moment required. He was easy to perceive, but never to see.

And now Bruce was wondering—how much else had he missed?

The thought lingered with him long after Damian had won the chess game and Tim had grumbled about it. Long after they had cleared the board and gone their separate ways.

That night, Bruce found himself in the cave, staring at Tim’s file on the Batcomputer.

It contained everything—height, weight, medical records, case history. But nowhere in those cold, analytical lines of text was the truth of who Tim was.

Who he had always been.

Bruce sat in the dim glow of the monitor, fingers steepled, jaw tight.

For the first time in a long while, he felt like the world’s greatest detective had failed to solve the most important case of all.

His own son.

It makes sense now, in everything Bruce had dismissed before. When he overheard Tim practicing Mandarin with Damian, his accent just slightly off. When he’d caught sight of an old photo of Janet Drake, tucked away in a folder on Tim’s desk. Or when it was the tea—chrysanthemum, Tim had said absentmindedly one night, a quiet tradition carried from his mother, a detail Bruce had never thought to ask about.

It was staggering.

Not because it changed anything—Tim was still Tim. But because he had missed it. Because it made him realize just how much he had always been missing when it came to Tim.

It was a quiet night in the Cave when he finally said it.

“I didn’t know.”

Tim, hunched over the Batcomputer, barely looked up. “Know what?”

Bruce hesitated. “That your mother was Chinese.”

Tim’s fingers froze over the keyboard.

For a second, there was nothing. Then, slowly, Tim turned, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t?”

Bruce exhaled, feeling something heavy settle in his chest. “No.”

Tim studied him, and Bruce could see it happening—Tim processing, assessing, deciding how to react.

Then, with a faint, almost amused scoff, Tim said, “Huh. And here I thought you knew everything.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “I should have.”

Tim was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was unreadable. “Does it bother you?”

Bruce’s eyes snapped open. “Of course not.”

Tim tilted his head slightly, like he was testing Bruce’s reaction, looking for cracks in his composure. “Then why bring it up?”

Because I failed you.

Because you’re my son, and I should have known.

Bruce exhaled. “Because I realize now how much I’ve overlooked.”

Tim blinked at that, clearly not expecting the admission.

Bruce pressed on. “I… I’ve always felt like there was something missing. Like I was never able to connect with you the way I do with the others.” His jaw tightened. “I thought it was just me. That I was failing in some way.”

Tim’s expression flickered—something unreadable, something quiet.

“…Bruce.” His voice was softer now, less guarded. “It’s not like I was hiding it.”

“I know.”

Tim glanced away, drumming his fingers against the desk. “…Guess I just never thought it mattered.”

“It does,” Bruce said simply.

Tim let out a slow breath, then, after a pause, smirked. “Well. If it makes you feel better, I barely speak Mandarin anyway. My accent’s terrible.”

Bruce gave him a look. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

Tim groaned. “Oh my god, not you too—”

Bruce let the corner of his mouth quirk up, just slightly.

Tim rolled his eyes, but there was something lighter in his expression now, something easier.

And Bruce… Bruce felt it, too.

Maybe they weren’t as disconnected as he had always feared.

Part three

#tim drake #batman #bruce wayne #batfam #dick grayson #asian tim drake

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sirfrogsworth · 8 hours ago

Text

The Price of "Efficiency"

There is a classic story about writing in space. It typically goes something like,

"NASA spent millions of dollars developing an ink pen so they could write in microgravity.

Russia used a pencil."

It became a parable about efficiency and bloated, wasteful budgets and overcomplication.

And without nuance, it feels like a good lesson. It's a simple teaching you can store in your brain and it can help you avoid complication when simplicity will work just as well.

But the parable is a lie.

There is a reason they spent millions of dollars making a space pen. Pencils in space are fucking dangerous. If one splinter or shard or speck gets loose in zero gravity that fucker can float directly into your eyeball.

There is a more modern version of this story. Congress will look over NASA or the military's budget and ask why they need $400 hammers or bolts that cost $50 apiece. They will hold up a bag of bolts and tell the taxpayer they are getting screwed.

But the NASA hammer has the pencil problem. If a shard of steel breaks off that hammer in zero gravity, it's a big problem. It could float into an important electrical system and cause a short. Maybe even a fire.

And those bolts might be for a $50 million fighter jet. They need to be custom manufactured to extreme tolerances. And you'll be glad you paid for those $50 bolts because replacing the fighter jet will end up being much more costly.

This is a concept Elon Musk should understand considering his work at SpaceX. People often deride SpaceX when a rocket blows up. They see it as a giant waste. But that is a normal part of rocket development. If you want to make a better rocket, you cannot avoid blowing a few into smithereens.

Everything needs context.

You have to consider nuance before making huge unilateral decisions about apparent wasteful spending. The folks who run these programs should be allowed to defend their existence. But outside his own interests, Elon can only seem to see space pens when Russian pencils will suffice. He is looking at these programs and making no effort to see the nuance.

They say USAID gives more money to "governance" than they give to "humanitarian aid."

HOW WASTEFUL!

Except a lot of humanitarian aid gets stolen without government infrastructure to secure and deliver said aid.

Waste happens. Fraud happens. I have no doubt.

But figuring out what is *actually* wasteful is a difficult job that takes a lot of research and understanding.

But also, sometimes the fraud and the waste are worth it. Large companies will actually factor theft and fraud into their budget because it would be more costly to try and prevent it. They consider it "the cost of doing business."

But it seems no fraud or waste is acceptable to a conservative when the goal is helping people. 100% efficiency is required. You can't give all kids school lunches because some of those kids have rich parents. You can't give people disability income because some will take advantage.

Apparently if you can help millions of people but you have to absorb 10% of the cost due to fraud... well that is just unacceptable.

It's better to help no one at all.

Oftentimes Republicans will create anti-fraud programs that end up costing more than the actual fraud happening. And all the anti-fraud programs end up doing is making deserving people jump through extra hoops.

Get a lawyer. See an approved doctor. Gather 20 years of evidence that you've been disabled. Whoops, they didn't request the proper records. Start over.

That was basically my disability case. I was already on disability. They had already determined I was disabled 20 years ago. But I had to prove that I was disabled all over again to get the better kind of disability. They couldn't take their own word that I was disabled.

Those hoops were created because catching fraud is more important than helping people.

Not terribly efficient.

And then there is the "not our problem" approach.

Taxpayer money is "wasted" helping people in other countries. "We have homeless veterans! Why are we helping African babies?"

Giving out free condoms is one of the easiest and cheapest ways to stop the spread of disease. Sickness cares very little for imaginary borders. Saving lives in another country also saves lives here. It's mutually beneficial. We probably even prevented some of those homeless vets from getting infected.

No thought is being put into this scorched earth shit show.

As always... get fucked, Elon.

#long post

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morgana-larkin · 2 days ago

Text

I was gonna have this out earlier but I was having major period cramps earlier so it's didn't really happen. Anyway, the story really takes a turn here. Not edited in the slightest and I hope you like it!

Part 11

Just Tired - Part 12

Warnings: Manipulative relationship (Mentioned), Swearing, Smut

Words: 4.05k

Melissa wakes up and looks over to beside her and expects a young woman there only to find it empty. She then looks around and sees that she’s in your room and some memories come to her brain. She gets up, gets dressed and goes downstairs and sees you’re already up.

“Morning, how do you feel?” You ask her.

“Not so good.” She says. “My memories are a little hazy, why am I in your house?” She asks you.

“Well I wasn’t there the entire time so I can only tell you what I know.” You say to her and she nods. “I went there because Barb was worried about you and I found you dancing with some young woman. You threw up when I tried talking to you but we had a discussion right after to which you childishly walked away and went back to dance. I stayed to keep an eye on you and then you began making out with some girl, apparently to hurt me, and then I walked out. You followed after me, and also tripped, I brought you back here to clean up the cut and then you fell asleep.” You explain and Melissa takes a few seconds to process what you just said as some memories were coming back to her.

“I was such an ass to you.” She says and then comes to join you on the couch. You hand her a plate with some toast on it and she takes it. “Thank you.” She says and takes a bite.

“Why were you being an ass? You ignored me all week and then went on Friday and Saturday night to the bar alone. You mentioned that you thought I was moving on from you but nothing else. I mean why were you spiraling?”

“Because I thought I was losing you and you make me feel safe. So I thought I was losing what makes me feel safe.” She explains.

“Well you don’t have to worry about that, I’m not going anywhere.” You tell her and she looks at you.

“Thank you.” She says softly. “And I’m sorry.”

“I understand. I’m your safety net right now and it’s scary when you think you could lose it.” You tell her and she looks down as a tear falls down her face. “Melissa.” You say and you gently grab her chin and get her to look at you. “I forgive you. I’m not mad at you at all. If anything I was worried about you.” You tell her and she looks at you in disbelief.

“You forgive me?” She asks softly and you nod. “But- but I hurt you and I wanted you to feel that way.”

“True, you intended to hurt me and I was upset that you were making out with a girl, but your emotions were getting the best of you and you acted out to try and protect yourself and make yourself feel better.” You tell her and she looks down again. “Melissa, did Joe tell you it wasn’t ok to cry?” You ask her and she nods without looking at you. “It’s ok to cry, it’s part of being human and crying makes you feel better.”

“No, it’s not ok, it’s…” She chokes out and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“It’s what? What did he tell you?”

“It means I’m too sensitive, too emotional and that it makes me look pathetic.” She says as more tears stream down her face.

“I can promise you right now that none of that is true.” You tell her and she looks at you. “You’re a strong independent woman, and maybe you’re a bit emotional right now but you just escaped hell. If you weren’t emotional then I’d be worried.” You tell her and you hear her sniffle as she tries to stop her crying. “Hey, you don’t have to stop, come here.” You tell her and she puts her plate down and she leans into your touch as you wrap your arms around her.

As soon as you begin hugging her, it’s like a dam breaks and Melissa starts crying. She wraps her arms around you and just cries into your chest. She just keeps crying for a few minutes and then she starts slowing down and starts sniffing. You begin stroking her head and rub her back and you feel her hug you tighter. You reach over to the table in front of the couch and grab the box of tissue and you hand it to her.

“Thank you.” She says, voice raspy from the crying as she grabs a tissue.

“I’ll always be here to help you, Melissa.” You tell her and give her a kiss on the top of her head.

“How did I get so lucky with you?”

“Well maybe the universe made sure I was born so that I could help you.” You tell her and she hums.

“I’m glad you were born.” She says.

“Me too.” You tell her and wrap your arms around her. “By the way, yesterday you mentioned something and I want to know if it’s true.” You say.

“What did I say?”

“You said that you told those 2 girls not to touch you when they took you home. Is that true?”

“Ya, I couldn’t go through with it. I mean how could I when all I thought about was you?” She says and you lean your head on top of her head.

“That girl I went home with, I imagined you the entire time.” You tell her and she lifts her head up and looks at you.

“I’m sorry that I’m not ready for anything. Right now I need something casual or one night or even friends.” She says and you cup her cheek.

“I understand.” You tell her and she looks into your eyes. “Maybe… maybe you'd be interested in casual dating.” You say to her.

“What’s casual dating?”

“Well it’s two people that date but they’re not in a relationship, they don’t put a title on it. They can go on dates or have sex, but it’s not exclusive.” You explain.

“That does sound nice but I don’t really want to try dating apps or anything to find someone like that.” She says and looks down.

“Well maybe…we could.” You offer and she looks at you.

“Are you offering to be my casual date?” She asks and you nod. “Why?”

“Because we’re both attracted to each other but you’re not wanting to be in a relationship right now, so maybe we can explore some casual dating with each other.” You explain and she looks down as she thinks about it.

“Are you sure?” She asks and you nod.

“I’m sure.” You say and she sits up.

“Well I guess that leaves one question then.” She says and you quirk your eyebrows. “Will you go on a date with me?” She asks and you smile before nodding.

“Yes I will.” You tell her and she smiles.

“Is tonight good for you?” She asks you and you nod.

“I did everything yesterday so I got nothing going on today.” You say.

“Can you drive me to Barb’s house? I would like to get ready for this date.” She says and you look at your phone.

“It’s 9am, when do you want to go on this date?” You ask her.

“Noon?” She asks and you chuckle.

“Ok, noon it is.” You confirm and then you drive her to Barb’s. “Hey Barb.” You tell her as you and Melissa walk through the door.

“Oh Melissa, are you ok?” She asks her.

“I’m alright, Y/n helped me yesterday and this morning. And I want to say I’m sorry for snapping at you and I hope you’re not mad at me.” She says to Barb.

“I was never mad at you, Melissa. I was so worried about you and I didn’t know what to do.” She says to Melissa and Melissa goes and hugs her. “Melissa, you’ve been my friend for 15 years, it’ll take a lot more than you snapping and slamming a door in my face to push me away.”

“Thank you, Barb.” She says and then turns to you. “I’ll see you in a few hours?” She asks you and you smile and nod.

“Am I picking you up or are you picking me up?”

“Hm, I’ll come pick you up.” She tells you and you nod.

“See you soon.” You say and then leave.

“So want to tell me what you guys are doing later?” Barb asks her.

“She told me about this thing called casual dating, where we date but we don’t have a relationship and we could still do physical things like kiss if we want.” She explains to Barb.

“So you two are dating then?”

“If today goes well then hopefully.” Melissa says with a smile before she goes upstairs to get ready.

Melissa pulls up a couple minutes after noon and knocks on your door. You open the door and Melissa's eyes widen and her brain freezes when she sees your outfit.

“Wow.” Melissa says breathlessly when she takes in your little red dress that gives her a view of your cleavage and bottom of your thighs. You blush at her compliment and then look at her outfit.

“You look beautiful, Melissa, absolutely beautiful.” You tell her as you take in her outfit. She’s wearing the iconic leather pants and jacket and a very revealing and beautiful pink shirt. You also notice that she decided to have her hair in a ponytail and she did her makeup a bit differently.

“Thanks hon, are you ready?”

“Yep, where are we going?” You ask her.

“I thought of taking a walk in the park and stop by the ice cream shop and if you’re up for it, go to my room after.” She says and you quirk an eyebrow at her.

“Your room for what exactly? Talk? Make out? Sex?” You ask her.

“Any of those I wouldn’t mind to be honest.” She tells you and you playfully shove her as you walk past her and she giggles.

Melissa drives you both to the park and you get out and have a stroll through it.

“So do you have any questions you want to ask, get to know me better?” Melissa asks you.

“Does this mean I have free range and will actually get answers?” You counter and she hums.

“Maybe, you won’t know unless you ask.” She says

“Alright, we can start easy, you said you have 8 siblings right?” You ask and she nods.

“Can’t believe you remember that but yes, 5 sisters and 3 brothers.” She tells you.

“And what are their names?” You ask her.

“Well there’s Kristen Marie, Marie, Marie Camille, Maria Christina, sister Toni, brother Tony, John Anthony and Seamus.” She says.

“Seamus? Why is his name so different from the others?”

“Different dad.” She tells you and you nod.

“Do you have a favourite sibling?”

“No, they’re all annoying.” She says but you can tell she loved all of them.

“Have you told any of them about your pending divorce?” You ask her and she shakes her head.

“I’ll only tell them when I’m actually divorced.” She tells you.

“Don’t you think they might ask questions on Thanksgiving or even Christmas when Joe is not there?” You ask and she hums.

“I didn’t think about that.” Is all she says. “My family doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving but we do celebrate Christmas and it’s Marie’s turn this year to host the Christmas dinner.” She tells you.

“You said you were the oldest sibling, so shouldn’t they have some respect for you? So I’m sure they won’t mind that you’re getting a divorce.” You tell her and she chuckles.

“Hon, this is an Italian family. They can be old fashioned at times.”

“You said they’ll only take you out of the loop, but they’ll still be your family.” You tell her and she shrugs.

“I guess. Since you asked some family questions, I want to ask you some.” She tells you and you nod.

“Ask away.” You tell her and she goes and asks a few questions about your family as you both walk around the park. She finishes asking you questions and you notice the tire swing is free. “Come on.” You say and take her hand before leading her to the tire.

“Where are you taking me?” She asks while laughing.

“To the tire swing of course!” You say and tell her to get on.

“Hon, I’m too old for it.” She says and crosses her arms.

“Get on the damn tire.” You say and challenge her with your gaze. She sighs before she goes and gets on the tire. She gets on one side and rests her feet in the middle of the tire on the other side. You go underneath the tire and pop up in the middle of it, in between her legs.

“Well that’s a view.” She says and you roll your eyes playfully before you hold the rope of the tire and do a run and jump on the tire, with your legs in between hers, as it starts swinging you both. You see Melissa starts laughing as you both swing on it and you decide to do something extra. You stop the tire from swinging and stand back in the middle before you start spinning it around, twisting the rope. “What are you doing?” She asks and you smirk.

“You’ll see.”

“I don’t know if I want to find out as you’re smirking.” She says and you giggle. Once you’re satisfied you’ve twisted it enough, you do the run and jump again. Only this time it’s untwisting as it swings.

“Aaaahhh!” Melissa yells out before she starts laughing. “This is a lot of fun.” She says as you’re still swinging.

“I did this all the time as a kid.” You say.

“I don’t doubt that.” She says through giggles. When the swing stops, you stand in the middle again to get it to swing again but Melissa stops you by wrapping her legs around your waist and brings you closer to her.

“Careful Ms. Schemmenti, there’s kids around.” You tell with a flirty tone and she hums.

“How can I be careful when you’re in front of me, in between my legs?” She asks and you smile.

“You find it hot when I’m between your legs?” You ask her and she nods.

“Very much so.” She says and she leans forward for a kiss but you place a finger on her lips. “You’re stopping me again?” She asks after you remove your finger.

“Oh I’m going to kiss you but not in the middle of the playground.” You tell her and get out from the tire and go behind her and you grab the rope close to where her hands are and place your head on her shoulder. “Because when I start kissing you, I won’t want to stop.” You say and start spinning the tire, twisting the rope. Once you twist it quite a bit, you let go and watch as Melissa is spinning and laughing. Once it's done moving, she looks at you with a smile.

“Help me get off of this thing.” She says and you hold your hand out for her and she takes it and gets off. “Thank you, that was a lot of fun.” She tells you and you move back on the sidewalk as some kids come to play on the tire.

“How about we go to the ice cream shop now?” You ask her and she nods and she holds your hand as you walk to the ice cream shop. You both enter the shop and look at all the different choices before you decide on chocolate.

“Of course you go with chocolate, you chocoholic.” She says and you wink at her before she orders. You go and get your card out but then you hear a beep and look to see that Melissa already tapped her card on the machine and paid for both.

“You’re sneaky.” You say and she smiles at you before she gets handed her ice cream. A few seconds later you get handed yours. “Thank you.” You tell the worker and then you both walk out of the shop and start walking and eating your ice cream. Melissa glances at you as you take a big lick of your ice cream and she can’t help her mind from going places.

“Is there anything else that tongue is good at licking?” She asks and you look at her with a smirk.

“There is one other thing that I have some experience with.” You tell her and she gets wet between the legs.

“Let’s walk back to my car, and maybe drive us back to Barb’s? She’s not home right now and she won’t be home until the evening.” She says and you both start walking to her car while eating your ice cream.

You get back to her car just as you both finish eating and then you get in and she drives you both to her temporary home. You get out after putting her car in park and she lets you both in and you take her hand and lead her to the bedroom. You enter her room and close the door before you bring her to the bed and you both sit down on the side of the bed. You can tell she’s a bit nervous so you cup her cheek and get her to look at you.

“We don’t have to do anything.” You tell her.

“I want to do it with you but this time I’ll want to be touched.” She tells you and you hum.

“And not only will you be touched, you’ll have an orgasm or multiple ones.” You say and she blushes and looks away.

“It’s been awhile since that’s happened.” She says and you lean forward and kiss her. She wraps her arms around your waist and pulls you closer to her. She then leans forward and pushes you backward and you get on your back. While kissing her you take her leather jacket off and fling it across the room. She runs her hands all over her body before she holds your hands and moves your arms over your head. “Is there a zipper on the dress or do I just pull it off?” She asks and you smile.

“Just pull it off.” You say and help her as she pulls it off of you and she looks at your half naked body.

“God, you’re so sexy.” She says as she touches all over your body. You reach for the hem of her shirt and then you take it off and freeze when you see her boobs in a fantastic bra and you get a better look at them. “I think you’re obsessed with my tits.” She says.

“How could I not with how big they are?” You ask and she giggles before she gets on your lap and pulls you up in a seated position. She cups both your cheeks and kisses you before she trails her down and goes behind to unclip your bra. She flings it across the room without looking and touches all over your exposed stomach before she looks.

“You look so beautiful.” She says and you tuck a strand behind her ear and she leans into your touch.

“You’re so sweet. I want to see your body as well, are you ok with that?” You ask and she nods.

“Please.” She says and you immediately unclip her bra and take it off and your mouth waters at the sight. “Please touch them all you want, Joe barely touched them.” She says and you look at her in shock.

“He had access to these magnificent boobs and he barely touched them?” You ask and she nods. “He’s such a fucking idiot.” You say before you lean forward and put a nipple in your mouth. She gasps at the sensation and puts her hands in your hair so you don’t move. You pay attention to what gets the most noises out of her and repeat the movements that she likes the best. After you’re satisfied enough, you switch to the other one and do the same movements that she likes. She ends up pulling you off of her and gets you on your back and puts one of your nipples in her mouth. Pretty much anything she does will get sounds out of you and she’s enjoying pleasing you. When she finishes with both nipples she trails up to your neck and sucks on it. “Oh god, Melissa.” You gasp out and she smirks as she feels you rub your thighs together. She slowly peels your underwear off of you and sees how wet you are.

“You’re soaking.” She says and runs a finger through your folds and you moan and buck your hips.

“Please, I need you.” You beg and she smiles before she slips a finger inside of you and you gasp.

“You’re so wet and tight, you feel perfect.” She says as she starts pumping. She then adds another finger and you buck your hips before she pins you down with her free hand. She then curls her fingers inside of you and you see stars and she goes faster as well. She then trails her free hand down and circles your clit.

“Oh my god, don’t stop.” You say and she watches as you get closer and closer to an orgasm. You wrap your hands in her hair and tighten them as you’re at the edge. Melissa feels you clench around her fingers and your legs shake. You then let go and your orgasm rushes through you. “Oh my god.” You say as you catch your breath. You then wrap your arms around her waist and flip you both so you’re on top and she’s underneath you.

“Oof.” She says and then you kiss her and she moans into the kiss. You trail down to her neck and make sure to leave a couple hickeys on her neck. You then take off her leather pants and underwear and see how wet she is.

“You’re perfect.” You say and you see the blush that makes its way on her cheeks and you think she couldn’t look more beautiful. You kiss all over her chest as you play with a nipple and she’s moaning underneath you.

“Please, stick a finger inside of me.” She begs and how can you deny her anything? You trail a hand down and slip a finger inside her. “Oh my god, that feels so good.” She gasps out as you pump your finger inside of her.

You then go down to her pussy and you kiss her clit before you start licking and sucking on her. She starts bucking her hips and you pin her down as you keep going. She puts her hands in your hair and moves her hands all over your hair as you keep giving her pleasure. Melissa then feels her orgasm start to build and she almost can’t believe it. It keeps getting stronger and stronger as she gets closer to her orgasm and she tightens her hold on your hair.

“Oh god oh god! I’m so close!” She yells out before her orgasm washes all over her and she lets go of your hair.

“Do you want another one? I can give you two orgasms.” You offer and she chuckles.

“No, I’m good with just the one for now, come up here.” She tells you and you go lay beside her.

“How do you feel?” You ask her as she wraps an arm around you and pulls you to her body.

“I feel so good. I can’t even find the right words for how good I feel.” She says to you and you smile as you lay your head on her chest. “Thank you.” She tells you before she gives you a kiss on the top of your head.

“Anytime.” You tell her and wrap an arm around her waist and get comfortable. Melissa hums at the feeling and then she looks up at the ceiling and smiles.

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