#then maybe they should be required to come to a complete stop

[odinsblog]

The crew of a massive container ship that crashed into the Francis Scott Key bridge in Baltimore early Tuesday warned of power issues before the collision, which caused the bridge to collapse into the frigid Patapsco River, officials said.

Maryland Gov. Wes Moore said the warning from the ship’s crew likely saved lives.

“We’re thankful that between the mayday and the collapse, that we had officials who were able to begin to stop the flow of traffic so more cars were not on the bridge,” Moore said. He called those officials heroes.

Moore noted that the bridge was up to code at the time of the collapse. He said the collapse was a “shocking and heartbreaking” event for the people of Maryland who have used the bridge for 47 years.

(continue reading)

[neuromantis]

aw2 gave me perhaps, one of the most important realizations of my life. just now. "how do you run from an idea?"

the world i created when i started writing. i liked it. and i liked my characters. they were real to me. but. i could escape there. but i couldn't live there. with my family and friends and loved ones, the only ones i've had then.

i needed to stay outside and keep writing them. i could never join them. so i kept writing. every day i would write more of it, obsessively. and with that came a realization of the genre of the story it was shaping up to be.

i keep calling it "automatic writing", because i really never felt like i was in control of it. ideas just used me as a conduit. the story was telling itself. and it wasn't. a nice story. not one with hopes or happy endings.

i once told someone a long time ago that i couldn't stand writing anymore because i loved those people. loved their world. but if i made more of it. they'd have to suffer for it. so i quit. i kept meeting new ideas and characters and i only wrote down the barest of outlines. because the narrative would inevitably doom them, there had to be no narrative anymore.

i think what also made me stop it, was meeting Adam. a guy i knew like 10 years ago who suddenly messaged me. he re-sent me my own message to him from 2013. "well what about the fact that perhaps there IS a god, but he just specifically hates you?"

the last couple of years made me accept it. Adam is me. N(adam)ian. The one who made it all. The one who set up the rules. The one they'd be suffering for. And I don't want to be that. So I chose to leave them. They don't let me. But at least I can not write.

[mariasont]

mariaaa!! i have another idea!! > 3 <

ok, so…

sleepy, needy, & clingy bimbo!reader with hotch

either before they together or when they first get together <3

Hot & Bothered (No, Like, Literally, You Have a Fever) - A.H.

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader is feverish, clingy & just a little delirious, except, not too delirious to shamelessly flirt with your very attractive, very exasperated boyfriend. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: sick!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft!hotch, flirty banter, suggestive-ish content, clingy!reader, hotch ignoring all cdc guidelines, reader is kinda being a baby about everything (just like me fr), theatre kid hotch. wc: 2.3k

You started off playing it cute. All little sighs, sending Aaron pouty texts filled with emojis, making sure he knew you missed him, but in a haha, just kidding (unless?) kind of way. Now you're way past that. The cute phase had dissolved into something far more desperate.

You were sick-sick. The terrible kind of sick where your limbs feel like they're made of granite, and your skin somehow manages to burn and freeze at the same time.

Worst of all, Aaron wasn't here.

And really, what was the point of having a boyfriend as stupidly gorgeous, painfully competent, and naturally overprotective as Aaron Hotchner if he wasn't going to be around when you need him most?

You knew you were being dramatic. You knew this was your own fault. Aaron had practically ordered you to let him come home with you, standing there in his office with his disapproving frown, telling you that you shouldn't be alone if you weren't feeling well.

But in your infinite wisdom, you had waved him off, told him to stay at work. Because at the time, you were fine. Or, more so, fine-adjacent. And because sometimes, your brain tricks you into thinking you are a capable, independent woman who does not, in fact, require Hotch-shaped supervision.

So now you're curled up in bed, drowning in the well-worn fabric of his FBI academy hoodie, the one that smells like him. And it helps. But not enough.

Because if he were here, he'd be so good at taking care of you. He'd probably be all bossy and stern about it, telling you to drink your water, go to sleep, and stop pouting. But then he'd turn around and betray himself completely by smoothing your hair back so, so softly, by tucking the blankets up to your chin like you're something delicate. Contrary to popular belief, he did have a soft side.

Maybe you should call him. Maybe you should be really, really pathetic about it and beg him to come home.

Maybe you're just a little too codependent. (Just a little.)

The second the front door opens, you think you must be imaging it. You convince yourself it's the fever, twisting reality into want instead of what actually is. Because Aaron shouldn't be home yet.

You squint at the clock, but it's just a bunch of blurry numbers, and math is already hard enough without feeling like your brain is actively melting.

But then there's the sound of leather against hardwood, and not just any leather.

You know those shoes. The custom Italian Oxfords you forced him to let you buy. He'd grumbled about the price, all exasperated and dramatic (as if he had any real concept of what good leather actually costs), but he still let you drag him to the store. Still let you lace them up for him. Still let you kiss him senseless in the parking lot because he looked too insanely sexy in them to be allowed to exist without immediate compensation.

You'd told him once that good shoes take you good places. And now look where they took him.

Straight home to you.

The relief is so instantaneous, it makes your head spin. And suddenly, he's there, shoulders broad against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes warm despite the unimpressed look he's attempting to pull off.

"My poor baby," he says, half-teasing, but mostly just achingly soft.

Your bottom lip wobbles. "It's not that bad."

Aaron sighs loudly, already loosening his tie as he strides over, assessing the damage, which, in this case, is you, buried under what is objectively a very reasonable amount of blankets.

"Uh-huh." Flat. Dry. But he's already reaching to fix them, like he can't help himself. "That why you're buried in every blanket we own?"

You burrow deeper into said blankets. Maybe if you commit hard enough, he'll stop looking so smug.

"They're comfy."

He crouches beside the bed, undoing the last button on his cuff before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His touch is cool, and you lean into it immediately, shameless at how much you enjoy his skin against your overheated own.

"You're hot."

You blink at him, dazed, and—without thinking—mumble, "So are you."

The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Not because they're untrue, that's indisputable, but because of the sheer pathetic delivery of it, all scratchy and pitiful and nothing like the effortless flirtation you usually bring to the table.

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut like that might somehow reverse time.

Aaron, of course, is completely unbearable about it. His lips twitch, and you can see it happening in real time, his struggle not to laugh directly in your face.

"Flattered," he drawls, his thumb brushing over your temple, fingers carding through your hair in slow strokes. "Have you been drinking enough water?"

You wrinkle your nose. "Water is boring."

"You're boring."

You gasp, sniffling as you try to look offended, despite the congestion ruining your tone. "Boring? You weren't calling me boring last night when I—,"

"Okay."

Aaron cuts you off immediately, already leaning down, pressing kiss after kiss to your face—forehead, cheeks, anywhere he can reach. You squeal in protest (or, well, try to, your voice is too weak for it to be truly effective), but he just laughs against your skin, relentless.

"Okay, I take it back," he murmurs, kissing your nose like an apology. Like a bribe. "You're the most exciting person I know. Now be exciting and drink some water before I have to force it down your throat."

"Force it down my throat?" you rasp, a weak smirk pulling at your lips as your fingers prod into his dress shirt. "You promise?"

"So inappropriate." He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his hands are already cupping your face, his lips pressing to yours, like he loves kissing you too much to stop himself.

You barely have time to enjoy it before your brain remembers how sickness works.

"Wait, germs!"

Aaron just smirks, tilting your face up with a knuckle under your chin. "Since you brought up last night, that's an interesting concern, considering where your mouth was last night."

You should say something flirty in return. Something about how that was different because it was basically an act of public service (one you love providing). Because that's what you do. You throw him off, make him sigh like you're exhausting and adorable at the same time, watching his ears flush pink when he pretends he's not affected.

But the words never come, instead, your brain hands you a far worse visual. Aaron, like this, but worse. His face pale, head pressed against a pillow, forehead creased with discomfort he wouldn't acknowledge. You can see it clearly, the way he'd insist he's fine, the way he'd make it through a workday half-dead before even considering rest.

And suddenly nothing is funny.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, like holding onto him will somehow fix the terrible, awful, no-good mental image you just had.

You're frowning, and you don't even realize it, not until Aaron does, his thumb pressing lightly against the center of your forehead, like he can smooth it away.

"I don't want you to get sick."

"My sweet girl," he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair once before he stands. "I can handle a cold. What I can't handle is you being miserable and dehydrated. Be good and let me take care of you."

Aaron disappears before you can argue and by the time he returns, a glass of water in hand, you've barely had a chance to process how much you missed him in those few seconds.

You watch as he puts it down on the nightstand beside you.

"There. Now drink."

"Yes, sir," you mumble, taking a few small sips just to prove that you're listening.

But if he really wanted you hydrated, he should've just kissed you again.

Aaron's eyes narrow, shooting you a pointed look.

You sigh, loud and put-upon, then take another sip, longer, just to appease him. You make a show out of it, before immediately reaching out, patting the empty space beside you with undeniable urgency.

Aaron snorts. "Didn't last long, did you?"

"I'm sick. I need warmth and love."

He exhales so dramatically, shaking his head. "If that's what my poor, suffering girl needs, then I suppose I have no choice."

Alright, theatre kid.

You bite your tongue, not because you're wrong, but because self-preservation is a skill, and you'd like to see another sunrise. And, fine. If he wanted to pretend like sitting still for five minutes was his own personal crucifixion, then who were you to deny him. It wasn't your fault, he ran himself into the ground, like he was trying to beat time himself, working to the bone until someone (you) had to physically drag him to bed.

You watch, maybe a little too intently, as he kicks off his shoes, undoes his belt, and swaps out his boring, stuffy work pants for the sweats. Your sweats. The ones you have a deeply personal attachment to.

You have history with those sweats.

"You know, you put those on and suddenly I start feeling a whole lot better." Call it divine intervention, maybe. "Do you think if you let me sit on your lap, I'd be at full strength again? Because I think we should at least try. For medical purposes."

Aaron settles in beside you, pressing one, two, three kisses to your lips, because he can, because he wants to. When he pulls back, he's smirking.

"Cheeky girl," he murmurs, thumb skimming your jaw. "And here I was, thinking you needed me to take care of you. Turns out you just wanted an excuse to climb all over me. How tragic. I've been completely fooled."

You brain-to-hand coordination is questionable at best, but that doesn't stop you from attempting to very subtly slip your fingers along the waistband of his sweats.

Aaron grabs your wrist instantly laughing—an actual, real, Hotchner laugh.

"Sweetheart," he muses, so damn amused, his thumb tripping over the pulse point of your wrist. "You can barely hold your head up, and you're trying to start something?"

"With a boyfriend like you, I'm like, legally required to start something."

Aaron lets out the longest, most suffering sigh known to man.

Like you said—theatre kid.

"Don't I know it. You're insatiable."

You open your mouth, fully prepared to launch into a passionate defense of you very reasonable levels of attraction to him, but a sneeze—tiny, weak, kind of embarrassing—ruins it.

Aaron's smirk evaporates. It happens fast, like a switch flipping, like he's just remembered, really remembered, that you're not at full strength, that beneath all your teasing, you're a little delicate, too easily worn down.

For a second, he just stares, jaw tight, brows furrowing ever so slightly, like the sight of you, flushed cheeks, fever-glazed eyes, pathetic sneezy, physically pains him.

And then you're moving, no he's moving, pulling you in, tucking you into his chest, as if you were something his hands were built to protect.

"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, kissing your temple, breathing against your hair, "disease-ridden and tragically adorable."

You sigh, shoving your face as close as humanly possibly, like some kind of human limpet. His heartbeat is strong beneath your ear, soothing, a constant thump thump thump that makes your eyelids droop.

"I really missed you today."

Aaron's arms tighten around you, but then you sniffle. Not the same pathetic little sound from earlier. This one's different. This one is softer, wetter.

He tenses just enough for you to feel it, enough to make you regret it, because now he knows.

You blink rapidly, tilting your face down, trying to breathe past the sudden, stupid sting behind your eyes, willing it go away before he—

Too late.

His arms loosen just enough to tilt his head down, scanning your face like he's already trying to figure out how to make it better.

You turn, burying your face in his chest. "I'm fine."

A lie. A bad one at that. So laughably transparent that even you wince a little.

Aaron doesn't call you on it, however, just pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your cheek, catching the tear before it falls.

"Oh baby," he breathes, voice a little rough, like he wants to pull the sadness out of you and keep it for himself.

He presses another kiss to your temple, then another, then another, like he needs to fix something unfixable, his fingers curling around the nape of your neck.

"You're killing me here."

You sniffle. Again.

"M'sorry," you mumble. "This is probably like... super unattractive."

Aaron shifts again, tilting your chin up as his thumb brushes against your cheek.

"Still the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he murmurs, but his jaw is tight, his fingers flexing against your skin. "I should've come home sooner."

"You wouldn't have lasted," you mumble, voice slowing, words dragging just a little.

Aaron raises an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

"Because you'd stress yourself out." You hum sleepily, tracing absent circles against his shirt. "You'd take my temperature every hour. Make me drink disgusting tea. Then, once you ran out of things to fuss over, you'd start deep-cleaning the grout just to feel useful."

He snorts, shaking his head. "You make me sound unbearable."

"You are unbearable," you murmur, but your grip tightens around him, contradicting yourself entirely. "But in a very sexy, very productive way."

He laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.

"You know what would make me feel better?"

Aaron's chest rises with a deep inhale, like he already knows. His arm tenses around you. "Sweetheart—,"

You grin against his shirt, weakly.

"A very hands on wellness check."

Aaron chokes out a laugh, tightening the blankets around you. "Christ."

He presses one last kiss to your forehead and you think you hear him mumble should've seen that one coming under his breath.

You hum in agreement, mentally ranking all the times he should've seen something coming.

This moment, obviously.

The time he let you fall asleep on him once and then acted surprised when it became a permanent thing.

The time he told you to be serious and then immediately realized that was the worst possible way to get you to stop joking.

The time he tried to fight it, tried to keep you at arm's length, tried to act like this thing between you wasn't inevitable.

You should tell him. You should. But then he tucks you closer, breath hot against your temple. And before you can launch into your incredibly important findings, you're already too far gone.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[comicaurora]

Do you think ethics are just an attempt at being a healthier form of selfish?

In one of your Detail Diatribes where Batman confronts Catwoman and tries to stop her from killing Falcone, you highlighted the fact that his reasoning was not to protect her father, but to try and save her. Ever since, some very strange ideas about the nature of selfishness and selflessness have been rattling around my head.

It only started coming into focus when I tried to put into words why it was a bad thing that D-16 killed Sentinel Prime. My best answer right now is because it made D-16 into Megatron. Orion wasn't trying to save Sentinel, he was trying to protect the cybertronian people. Maybe if Orion focused more on saving D-16, they wouldn't have lost their friendship and all of Cybertron would be better for it. Of course, in the end, Megatron was the deciding factor in making himself, caring more about his pride than his current identity, but this highlights a strange selfish quirk in sustainable selfless behavior.

If you are purely selfless you suffer from spending more of yourself than you have to give. If you're too selfish you can't maintain the human connections that are a requirement for being a complete and healthy person. It leaves the best options as being selfless to make your environment an easier one for you to live in. Where your actions for others are repaid by the selflessness from your community. Or, being selfish with your charity. Taking care of what you care about because their well being positively contributes to your own.

To be fair, the opening sentence now looks like an incomplete thought. It probably should be asking if you think ethics is just an attempt at being a more healthy form of selfish and selfless. Really, just asking if ethics is meant to make you better at being a person, which seems like a question that can answer itself. Still, it feels like an important insight to highlight that to be ethical isn’t about how much of your own life you're willing to sacrifice. It's hard to be a good person when you're not a person anymore.

This is a fascinatingly deep question, and I'm very tickled that our two touchpoints in it are a transforming robot tank and Batman.

My personal opinion is that ethics and morals are not reflections of some universal truth of Justice and Goodness, as they are often framed, but are instead best-practice guidelines on how to function in the big, messy world without causing undue suffering to yourself and others. A facet of this is determining, case by case, how much you need to prioritize yourself vs how much you can afford to help others - in the framing you've proposed, selfishness vs selflessness.

Taking the specific examples we're focusing on - two cases where someone attempts to prevent a revenge killing for the benefit, not of the victim, but of the avenger - I think they reflect this worldview, that the killing is not seen as some innately universally-judged evil act that must be prevented for its own sake, but that the act of killing will harm the killer in a way the person trying to stop them doesn't want to see.

For Catwoman, committing premeditated murder wouldn't solve any of her problems in any way that arresting Falcone and having him legally unraveled would. It'd just park a first degree murder charge on someone who'd up til this point only dealt with petty larceny, and it would potentially weigh her down with misery and regret as she grappled with the trauma of taking a life.

For Megatron, killing Sentinel Prime wasn't a bad action because he deserved to live. They just spent that whole fight scene tearing through enemies. They're warriors on track to spend the next four million years killing each other; the whole "taking a life" ship has already sailed. The problem is that Sentinel is a symbol and a structural part of the political narrative in the founding of the next stage of Cybertron's society. If the first thing the new regime does is bloodily avenge itself on the face of the old regime for the personal wrongs it did them, that proves that the only thing they care about is personal satisfaction of their individual desires - just like Sentinel. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. If they can instead take a step back, think of the good of Cybertron as a whole, enforce a rule of law and a fair system of justice that applies equally to everyone, even on someone they personally loathe, that would signify integrity and credibility and the hallmark of wise, just and fair leadership capable of setting aside personal feelings for the greater good. It's not about Sentinel; it's about whether the satisfaction of killing him is worth the price of enforcing forever that personal vendettas are more important than the well-being of the people of Cybertron. Which makes it really obvious which one Megatron is going to pick.

My hottest take, and I mean this very genuinely, is that most of the human perception of what constitutes goodness and justice is one thousand percent based on vibes, and is extremely susceptible to narrative reframing. We see an unsympathetic victim (Sentinel Prime, Falcone) who has gleefully caused suffering to innocent people (so judged because they are framed sympathetically, not because we've actually enumerated their lifelong actions to determine they've never done anything wrong) and we feel (feel) that it would be right and just for them to suffer consequences (emphasis on suffer) because that would balance the scales on this vibes equation and that would make us feel like justice had been served. Would this suffering lead to any material good? Not inherently. Would it heal the victims? Not usually. Would it remove the source of the problem? Categorically not, what with how negative reinforcement works (or rather does not work.) It also wouldn't do anything about the other people empowered by the same system to be just as shitty in just as many ways that just happen to be offscreen from our POV. But it feels fair. So what is justice, if it reduces down to "I want them to hurt for the hurt they've caused me"? If it can be sated with a spectacle or distracted by a long nap and a good joke to let the feeling fade? What purpose does this justice serve if it is devoted wholly to the satiation of a bone-deep chordate-brain hunger for Retributive Violence rather than towards actually ensuring that the lives of those harmed are healed and supported and built up again after being broken down? (This is the entire core character arc in The Batman, btw, I'm not just monologuing for no reason here. He calls himself Vengeance for a reason, and the reason is he's doing Batman wrong)

That feeling - that white-hot burning core of Righteous Fury - is the unexamined heart of many systems of morality that focus, not on doing good, but on exacting satisfying retribution on Bad People Who Deserve It, categorized as People Who I Can Hurt Without Feeling Bad Myself. It's a very tempting concept for people who have suffered at others' hands. That feeling, that powerful instinctual understanding of "that's unfair," is incredibly strong. In my opinion, most systems of ethics are built, not around relitigating what is Good and what is Bad per se, but in trying to shape and curb that bone-deep, unbelievably powerful desire to rend the flesh from the bones of your tormenters.

But I mentioned that feeling is susceptible to narrative reframing. This is, as I understand it, a huge part of lawyering. Tell the story of what happened using true events and adding no falsehoods, but highlight the parts that make it feel like your client is the one who is being treated unfairly. They're not an unsympathetic wrongdoer who you can punish without personal moral stain - they're a loving spouse, a parent of three adorable children, they have a really cute puppy, they donate to charity, they're a wonderful conversationalist, a kind friend, etc etc. All those things can also be true of people who do terrible things, but thinking about them defuses that White Hot Core by making us sympathize with the sympathetic parts of them.

This is incredibly well-understood in fiction. It's the whole reason the tropes Kick The Dog and Pet The Dog exist. When you want the audience to root for a character's destruction, leave aside any of their potential quiet moments of sympathy - their tragic backstory, their cute pet, their adorable relationship with their mom - and instead show them going out of their way to commit some minor act of petty cruelty, say Kicking The Dog. The audience will infer that this badness is 24/7 and they have no reason to curb their enthusiasm for Righteous Vengeance. But if the writer wants the audience to see a spark of good in them, to sympathize, to believe they can be redeemed, they'll highlight one of those small moments of charming kindness, and allow them to Pet The Dog instead.

Neither of these acts, in the grand scale, have any bearing on the morality of this person's actions. A pet dog doesn't counterbalance a razed village; a kicked dog doesn't negate a generous contribution to the local soup kitchen. Goodness and badness is not a linear scale added or subtracted to by opposing deeds. BUT showing them to an audience reframes them narratively, and THAT is what shapes the judgment of the White Hot Burning Core. In the space of fiction, this form of bottom-shelf emotional manipulation is one of the cleanest ways to get the audience to root for the messy destruction of what is ostensibly, in the universe of the fiction, a wholly complex and living person who definitely has reasons for everything they've done, even ones that could be framed sympathetically when shown.

Meanwhile, in the real world, ethics are an attempt to judge what is best in a given situation without trusting the White Hot Burning Core to make the call, no matter how compelling "but it would feel really good though" might seem. They try to give someone perspective, context, other priorities to consider. The White Hot Burning Core might want you to rip someone's arms off for driving slow when you've got important places to be, but Ethics can present a number of compelling reasons not to do that - even if it's just "ripping their arms off will definitely make me even more late." And yes, this can be a balance of Selfishness Vs Selflessness. You are one of the people whose wellbeing ethics is designed to make you prioritize improving even if it feels weird, and when all other things are equal, your own health and happiness can be the deciding factor. In a world with an overarching Moral Force that weighs the goodness of your soul by sifting through every grain of action and intent seeking negativity to punish you for, absolute selflessness to the point of self destruction would still probably be seen as Morally Wrong, simply because the universe is a better place with you in it trying your best.

Anyway, if doing the right thing was simple, easy and painless, we probably wouldn't have so many thousands of years of arguing about what it looks like. Good luck out there everybody 👍

[yourlocalbreadenthusiast]

Kindly take a break from scrolling to read this, it's important.

Take your time to grieve and come to terms with the election results, but once you've done that, it's time to get to work. We have two months. And a lot to do in that time. We have to prepare, to be ready.

Be careful about what you post or say online. Anything potentially incriminating should be avoided. Threatening language, even if clearly a joke, can be used against you.

Know someone who's trans? Someone who's had an abortion? Someone who's LGBTQIA+? Someone who's an immigrant? Someone who attends protests? Someone who's disabled? Someone who might in any way be at risk due to laws being put into place? No you don't.

Move away from social media platforms and browsers that require you to use your real identity or input a large amount of personal information. Now's a good time to find alternate means of communicating online. Tails, Element, Tor, Mastodon, Firefox, and Lemmy are all decent options.

Find a community. Someone you can talk to, either online or in real life, that you'll have reliable contact with. We need to try and create a network, but one that's as anonymous as possible.

Start scrubbing your trail as much as possible. Get rid of old accounts that can still be traced to you but are no longer used, delete personal data off the internet. There are websites out there that will freely remove your data from the internet, but be careful about which one you use, make sure it's safe and legitimate first.

Change any usernames that you can that contain any personal information. Names, birthdays, anything.

Plan B has a four year shelf life. Stock up, but don't take more than you you'll need. We don't want a COVID repeat where everyone buys an excessive amount of things and leaves none for everybody else.

There are doctors that will sterilize you, if that's the way you want to go.

Stop using online period trackers right now. Delete all data from it if possible first, then delete the app itself. If you must, write it down, but in a subtle manner and on something you keep at home. Don't label it, just put the dates. If you're really worried, discard older records and only keep the most recent few, and label the dates as other random events, like "go to mall" or "chicken salad for dinner this night"

Get your vaccines now.

Save money.

Archive. We have to start collecting records, media, data, books, and articles now. On racism, on fascism, on homophobia, on gender, on self-reliance, on survival, on safe travels routes, on equality, on justice, on anything that may be useful and/or censored soon. We can't let them erase it.

Collect those online resources. Bookmark them, copy files into your storage, Screenshot pages. Create a decentralized library where everyone is working to be part of a whole, storing what they can individually and sharing it between one another. Again, be careful about doing this.

Second-hand bookstores are your best friend. Books are usually very cheap in them, and they often have a decent stock. See what you can find.

When buying ANYTHING I have mentioned above, or anything else that maybe put you in danger, try to use cash to reduce your spending trail.

Check your car information online, many newer models can be remotely tracked.

Turn your phone completely off if you may be at risk due to your location and current activities. Turning off your GPS also helps.

Take note of where you are. Who are your friends? Who's a safe person? Where can you go besides your own home that you know you'll be safe? Establish these connections now.

Who around you is not safe? Who and where do you need to avoid? Do you need to move? If you cannot afford moving but need to, there are fundraisers that can help you. If even that is not an option, at least try to make sure your home is secure. Have someone who can help you. Have a fallback safe place.

And finally, I want anyone with resources to put them in the replies. Flood it with useful links, information, tips, anything. We're in this together. Do not panic. Organize.

EDIT: Please be civil in the replies.

[mwagneto]

hungarian/nomadic magyar tumblr circa 998AD dashboard simulator

🏞️ vándor-ló-979 Follow

not yall still spreading emese's foundation myth??? she literally claims she fucked a bird????? like either she's lying or she cheated and she's trying to cover it up or well. i dont even want to consider the third option

🪺 magánügyek Follow

tengri forbid women do anything???

735 notes

🦅 szél-könnyű-szárnyán-szállj Follow

okay im sick of the discourse let's do this.

8,572 notes

🐎 istván-rovására Follow

that took so long lmao -> !!!!!!!∧◇ᛏ⋈∧

481 notes

🐴 csillagösvény Follow

i'm so serious rn if you support """istván""" in any way just unfollow and block me. we do NOT need him or his dumbass god and what he's been doing to our people to spread his religion is shameful.

🐴 csillagösvény Follow

btw we all know your real name is vajk stop larping as a christian it's EMBARRASSINGGGG

✝️ esztergom-örökké Follow

love seeing my mutuals reblogging this /s anyway op has multiple posts on their blog supporting quartering and human sacrifice. in case you were wondering. anyway stand with István

🐴 csillagösvény Follow

1) we dont even do human sacrifices, are you fucking stupid??? show me ONE post where i talk about that. 2) are you seriously forgetting that your bestie istván LITERALLY QUARTERED HIS UNCLE?????

#sorry to put this dumbass on the dash😭 dont even engage just block them #ur not making it up the tree of life lmao #discourse

3,264 notes

🌅 bolygó-kárpáti Follow

friendly reminder that just because you're white passing doesn't mean you're not a real magyar!! people with mixed parents are just as valid <3

🏇 attila-népe Follow

cranky coz ur ancestors decided to mix with the europeans arent you

🧺 lemezelő Follow

isnt your girlfriend literally frankish????

🏇 attila-népe Follow

you had to have done some serious stalking to find that💀 and first of all i didn't have a choice, my parents picked the tribe, and second of all she's not my "girlfriend" i got her via ritual kidnapping (WITH consent. before anyone gets weird)

🌐 a-kiber-kovács Follow

Couldn't you have kidnapped another magyar woman? Or someone from another mongoloid tribe?

🔅 hadúrsimp Follow

ohh sure so now human pet guy is gonna chime in to advocate for the kidnapping of our women while being lowkey racist. what are you even doing on nomadblr????

🌅 bolygó-kárpáti Follow

what the fuck happened to my post

19,276 notes

🪔 rakabonciás Follow

for the nth time, you're only a true shaman if you were born with teeth OR with extra fingers OR in the sac. the rest of you are faking & we can tell.

🦅szél-könnyű-szárnyán-szállj Follow

okay people keep spreading this but this is literally just wrong?? like congrats on the 6 fingers op im glad u and Little Golden Father have a special connection (genuinely) but like. táltos and sámán and mágus and garabonciás and javas etc are all different things with completely different requirements and life paths which you should definitely know if you're claiming to be one?? especially since your post says shaman but you're listing the criteria for a táltos, and your username looks like a play on garabonciás so. which is it🤔 maybe get your facts in order before trying to gatekeep

anyway don't listen to op!! your connection to the Upper World is yours alone and you're the best judge of what the Fathers and Mothers want your path in life to be!!

646 notes

🛐 mea-culpa Follow

It breaks my heart that the majority of my people still refuse to see the One True God and insist on sticking to their pagan spirits. I fear that when judgement day comes, we will all be wiped out thanks to their foul godless ways.

��� csillagösvény Follow

how tf am i godless when i literally have dozens of gods? little mothers and little fathers are in everything all around us & it must suck ass to live in a world where you're not surrounded by the small gods that inhabit everything. manifesting that the fene and the guta tag team beat your ass tonight

🔅 hadúrsimp Follow

hadúr will literally strike op down personally. he told me himself. whispered it to me sweetly even

🐴 csillagösvény Follow

while i agree with you, i feel like you might also have ulterior motives, nomadblr user hadúrsimp

#but live your truth! doubly so on the posts of these freak repressed bible lovers. meanwhile on the #COOL side of magyarhood we walk around butt ass naked!!! op have fun never experiencing joy ever again tho #discourse

198 notes

👑 sanctus-stephanus Follow

posting from an alt so i don't get cancelled but lowkey i'm starting to think koppány was right.... maybe this christianity thing isn't gonna work out after all

👑 sanctus-stephanus Follow

WRONG BLOG

👑 sanctus-stephanus Follow

THIS WAS A JOKE. IGNORE THIS

🪺 magánügyek Follow

ISTVÁN????????????? 💀

[pumpkinpaix]

Very curious for your opinion- what do you think of it when people write modern au wwx as being very active in social justice movements? Personally, I can buy it but I don't think it should be a given?

maybe an unwise first question to pick out of my moldering askbox but whatever it's the first one that i felt like i had an answer prepared for off the cuff so yolo i guess!!

short answer: at this point, i don't buy it. It's a detail that I can and have put up with for fics i really like for other reasons, but i think it's pretty far off the mark in terms of how I understand wei wuxian's primary motivating forces.

ok now to get into the weeds! :D

there are several reasons why wei wuxian being heavily involved in social justice movements doesn't ring true to me--the easiest one to point to from outside the narrative is that the sort of activism wei wuxian is written to participate in is often modeled on how social justice circles look in the US. It feels really culturally alienated in a lot of ways. I can't really blame authors for this, though, because it's a very understandable approach to write what you're familiar with--but it does often take me out of the story because i find it kind of jarring, especially if the story in question is ostensibly supposed to be set in China where modern social activism necessarily looks very different than in the states.

but that kind of feels like metagaming the question, so: in terms of interpreting the text, i really just don't think wei wuxian would be inclined to that kind of work for two main reasons.

first: I think he'd be really bad at it lol. social activist movements are necessarily collaborative, and wei wuxian is kind of terrible at playing well with others, compromising, discussing, etc. he often favors action over diplomacy and has terrible impulse control, tending to act first, think later, often to pretty devastating consequences for the people he's ostensibly standing up for. See: antagonizing Wen Chao, which precipitates the chain of events that ultimately leads to the massacre at Lotus Pier; confronting the jins and basically threatening to kill everyone at jinlin tai if they opposed him, thus alienating all his potential allies and leaving the wen remnants essentially completely dependent on his individual power for survival etc. thus dooming them entirely when he died.

(also see: "can we stop talking and just start killing each other" at guanyin temple)

even really minor events in the past show the same kind of pattern, such as at the qishan conference when he throws his support behind wen ning as an archery competitor--wen ning panics in the spotlight and flubs his shots to public ridicule from being put on the spot. jiang cheng is the one who drags him away in mortification while wei wuxian simply doesn't give a shit about how it reflects upon him, not really considering how it might reflect on his sect.

i'm not saying that these were "wrong" actions to take in the moment: wei wuxian has an admirable righteous streak. he does not, however, always take other people into consideration when he makes his decisions. he basically ignores anyone who tries to change his behavior, sometimes carelessly, sometimes reacting with anger (Jiang Cheng, Lan Wangji, literally everyone post-sunshot frankly). that kind of individualist mentality is really ill-suited to activism, which requires an understanding that the individual has less power than the group and that you cannot bend the world around you. a lot of fandom comes down super hard on characters like jiang cheng and yu ziyuan for the things they say to wei wuxian, but i think they're honestly quite understandable, even if the way they express themselves is sometimes cruel or hurtful. the rationale isn't particularly surprising. It's one thing to act in a way that gets yourself hurt. It's another to do so when you know that your position will drag a whole lot of others down with you.

i feel that even if wei wuxian had the interest in joining a social activist group, he would probably eventually butt heads with the others until they either expelled him or he left himself. his thick skin would be a great tool in certain calculated actions (he would do very well as a symbol or a charismatic fall guy) but unfortunately, he's not very good at listening or adhering to a plan.

second: i just don't think wei wuxian thinks about systems of oppression very much. i summarized how i feel about his relationship to class already in this post from like 4.5 years ago (jeez.....) and I still stand by it! wei wuxian is not particularly class conscious because he is, in fact, relatively wealthy. he also like, pretty clearly doesn't think very hard about women's work or status either, except in personal terms--after all, he plays with A'Yuan frivolously, planting him in the dirt and does not think about the kind of work that goes into maintaining a standard of living, which is often women's work. (before anyone says anything, yes, i am aware he is not outright misogynist about women's work). throughout the text, wei wuxian just doesn't put a whole lot of thought into how a woman's gender might affect her status and power.

furthermore, this is kind of mentioned in the class meta, but again--wei wuxian's defense of the wen remnants isn't singularly motivated by the desire to uplift an oppressed class, because the wens are not an oppressed class. They are a sect, which is both familial and alliance-based, not an ethnic group or a class of people. Their treatment is still unconscionable, but it's not systemic oppression. the attempted killing of all the wens is not much different than xue yang's vendetta against the yueyang chang clan, except in scale. and until wen qing comes and personally begs him to help her find her brother, wei wuxian doesn't really have any thoughts to spare for the wen remnants and how they might be faring. he goes to help wen qing and wen ning because he owes them both a serious personal debt, which is something that he feels strongly about! and once he gets to the camps, he obviously isn't going to just ignore the other people suffering (esp because they are the wen sibs' immediate family). he is righteous, after all, but often fails to apply it in a big-picture way.

wei wuxian cares a lot about paying back those who have been kind to him or have helped him, which is pretty evident through his self-sacrificing streak throughout the narrative. he often forgets or deliberately does not take his own well-being into consideration--but, as established, he also forgets that he is not an isolated entity and that his well-being is tied to the well-being of others as well.

throwing himself in front of the brand to save mianmian, making sure everyone else gets out of the cave before he does, immediately coming to terms with having his right hand cut off, giving up his golden core, publicly distancing himself from yunmeng, personally defending the wen remnants, taking jin ling's curse mark onto himself, making himself into the yin flag at the second siege and so on--it's all one long extension of paying back debts, in some way.

personally, I think this is because he considers his entire life to be one that is owed--his life, his skills, his body etc. is all owed to others. I also think, however, that this tendency is often confused by fandom into characterizing wei wuxian as having low self-esteem, which he patently does not. wei wuxian thinks he's hot shit. he's arrogant, a show-off, and is so insistent in his own skills and abilities that he icaruses himself into literal bits. when he thinks he's about to lose his right hand he's like welp. guess i gotta learn how to do this with my left, without really any question about whether or not he can. of course he can! he's wei wuxian! can he bring wen ning back from the dead? for sure!! definitely!!!! can he totally do this night hunt blindfolded? hell yeah he can! and he's usually right. i think wei wuxian has very low self-worth, which is a different thing: he throws himself away at the drop of a hat for others that he cares about or feels indebted to because, whether consciously or unconsciously, he thinks that their well-being, survival, happiness etc. is something he should ensure at any cost, even himself because he owes it to them. he owes his whole existence!

so circling back to the initial topic, I think this pattern of thinking is pretty at odds with social activism. he puts those he feels he owes above himself, but doesn't have a lot of attention to spare for people he considers irrelevant--which is most people. (never learning jin zixun's name, for example). I think that while he understands the nature of systems of oppression to a certain degree (like, he understands jin guangyao's motivations, but he's not particularly interested or sympathetic), it's not something he's really passionate about correcting. his reaction mostly seems to be like "well, that sucks". he only really goes out of his way to defend those that he has personal affairs with or those that happen to pique his notice

wei wuxian doesn't actually have big-picture ambitions. he didn't want to be a leader of anything or start his own sect or anything else. he doesn't spend much of his thoughts on making a better world so much as how he might be able to be content in the world that exists with the people that he cares about. that kind of self-focused drive leaves me unconvinced that he would get involved in social justice in any meaningful way in a modern au. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ i think that makes him a really fun protagonist, tbh. the tension between his selfishness and his propensity for self-sacrifice makes for a very interesting dynamic.

.....

:'] i guess i never left the weeds.

(ko-fi)

[rotagnus]

intuitive messages for the rest of may 🏙️

(and june). wow. it's been a while, hasn't it? sorry for not being as active. i have a lot of finishing up high school issues, but those are all slowly falling away. i feel like i'm starting a new phase of life and there's so many unknowns and it's kinda freaking me out 😭😭

this pac will give you some insight on a couple of things you should know. it's gonna be more specific (not too much) for each pile, so one may be about romance, the other can be about something totally else. please don't try to force yourself to pick one that doesn't resonate.

pile 1.

i think a lot of u will be reflecting on your life right now, especially about being alone. a lot of you developed this raw fear of being alone as a child, and you coped with it through various methods (for some always socializing even though at heart you loveee the nourishment that comes from solitude, for others through addictions (substances or anything else)). i think a lot of you had a falling out with something that was deeply central to all aspects of your life, and this kinda ran a crack through your vision of life was. more layers were discovered, and you're kind of like 'wow the world is way bigger and more complex than i thought' and soon, you'll be feeling a lot of emotions and seeing a lot of things you've NEVERRR seen before. like finding a new good song, y'know what i mean? but in order for this to happen, you're gonna have to truly let go of those things.

let yourself mourn. many of you just use escapism to get over trauma and heartbreaks because it was something you didn't allow yourself to feel as a younger person because it'd completely break you. you didn't learn how to cope with pain, and as a result, sought it out as an adult because it was a sweet taste compared to the unknown. stop finding people who remind you of the worst parts of life, and trust that there are good ones out there. sometimes, you don't meet them, because your current version would be unable to handle it. sometimes, to keep something forever, you have to be a bit patient in order to get it.

and another message for this pile; be careful with your negative emotions. you guys are a powerhouse, and that energy...it can really be used to better the earth, or as a weapon you wield. now, don't get me wrong; a lot of people deserve your anger and if i was you i would be bitter and hurt too. but you have to be careful who you aim it at. there are a few genuine people in your life and if you start to hurt them because of this deep-set dagger you've had in your back for the past years, you can scare them. channel all of those feelings into something that won't slowly destroy you, deep inside.

pile 2.

a lot of you have been in this patient, slow, steady kind of mood recently. a lot of you doubt your own tenderness and capability to be soft because you think that your loudness or some aspect of you cancels those out. all you want is to be able to be vulnerable and soft but a lot of the time, you feel like you tend to push people away, particularly in romantic prospects due to the fact that you are unable to change things about yourself or are simply unwilling to. there are parts of you that are deeply integral to who you are as a person, as a soul, and while you understand that you can't remove them simply for the sake of another person, you wish that you'd find someone who'd hold all these parts of you and be gentle with them instead of trying to make you fit into a box.

a message i have is that you CAN be loved for who you are, WITH that steady and soft love, without having to change things about yourself. stop painting yourself into a picture of what people 'want'. this is such a self-destructive quality you have and i think some of you have had relationships (platonic, romantic, EVEN W THE SELF) that required you to change something about yourself. sure, maybe you fit in better--but in your head, it was a storm. you guys really gotta stop trying to fit in. you weren't made for that life. think of all the famous artists, singers, whatever celebrity calls to you; did they fit in? nahhh. they paved their own road with their own hands instead of comparing themselves to others. you were meant to be unique. you were meant to SHINE as who you TRULY are instead of a mimic, instead of a two-dimensional copy of other people.

a lot of you look at people and go guessing what you have in store for yourself, or what you deserve. guess what? there's NOBODY out there like you. and i know it's hard because you're left worrying about the future, but this is the path you've chosen. you're blessed enough to be wise and deeply caring, and you've been blessed TO HAVE THIS RETURNED TO YOU IN THIS LIFE. but that is gonna be WASTED if you try to be loved by the wrong people who can only love those who fit a neat checklist. you really think that those people are gonna have true love for you if they only love you when you're a certain person? nahhh. stop trying to wither away just to be loved, pile 2. you guys have a deep fear of being unlovable, but you must fix it. there's a lot of people who are attracted to you, and you have to weed those with ill intentions out, BY BEING YOURSELF. be authentic. heal that wound.

pile 3.

a lot of you seem like you're grieving something rn. 'grieving your whole life'. moon river by frank ocean started playing. a lot of self-reflection has been going on, and for this pile, i think most of you really do love life for what it is; it's an art to you. existence is a beauty that is so tangible to you, you guys are really in tune with it, more than out of all these piles. you see people for their souls, not the roles they play in your life, which makes it hard for you to see any of them as 'villains' or 'heroes'. this can make you frustrating to deal with to some, but trust, you're gonna find someone who likes that deep justice inside of you. you just have to be patient. you guys feel like there's something good coming. it's true. you're the typa spiritual person who wakes up and lists off things you're grateful for. sometimes you doubt your goodness, but my message to you is that everyone can see it. even good people stumble, but that doesn't suddenly remove their goodness, y'know?

don't sink down to people's levels. i think a lot of you have experienced a betrayal of some sorts and now you think that the only way you'll ever be happy is by joining the crowd and running away from your depth, which feels like a burden sometimes. you feel like friends are fake and life is low, and you feel like the only way you'll ever be happy is if you turn to what makes other people happy...drugs, sex, money, etc. you guys fail to understand you're not meant for that. YOU'RE NOT MEANT FOR THAT. you guys are pure souls with pure hearts and the universe will shove you away from that path WITH FORCE if you ever go down it. i know you've been thinking about a certain decision; don't do itttt don't stoop down girl. you'll find joy but not in that. stop being scared that you're never ever gonna be happy, this is just a transition period, and god is testing you to make sure you're really willing to wait before giving all that to you.

connections will be very important for you in the next phase of your life. right now it's important to nurture yourself. have some tea, talk with someone who brings you light. i know that you feel like a burden and that you're complex, alone even in a crowd. that's not the way people see YOUUU. they see you as this bright, unique person, this SOUL that glows and leads people to light. you see yourself as this broken, chipped thing. you don't even see yourself as someone worth saving. you don't have to do everything yourself. trust, there will come a time in your life where you'll wake up by the love of your life with the golden sun in your face, and you'll feel truly happy. just because all of the people u met before were fucked in the head doesn't mean that the future holds the same thing. you have to stop giving yourself away FULLY. if your whole life revolves around one person that's a sign that something's seriously wrong. find other things to do that make you happy babycakes. you're the master of this reality; anyone would be lucky to have you. you're sweet, absolutely beautiful in the way that morning light is, honest, truthful, GOOD. you're a GOOD PERSON, dumdum. i know a lot of you don't wanna believe it but you are.

[someone-writing]

Today's menu:⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ Headcanon 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Spencer Reid gender neutral!reader

Spencer Reid... is a man who, in my eyes, eats the raisins from the mix of dried fruits and nuts. (In that “no one else wants them, so I will” sort of way... this may not be just about raisins.)

Spencer Reid... is not a bad cook, but he religiously holds to the recipe, so in case he is missing something extremely specific, he doesn't know how to work around it.

And he neither knows for how long to mix some things to not over-mix them, nor how much boiling is too much, etc.

Give him a recipe that requires measuring to micrograms and cooking for exactly 17 minutes, 25 seconds and 4 milliseconds, and he is a Michelin chef.

Give him your granny's recipe with 'Bake for 12–17 minutes and add a spoon of salt', and the man will be screaming in despair over how big that spoon is supposed to be, and he burns the thing to a crisp because he's scared to underbake it.

Spencer Reid... who would love to share clothes with his partner, but only under the condition that he will still know where to find them later.

Spencer Reid... who supports the academic rebellion against the publishing companies because research should be accessible to everyone. (Ehm... he would maybe even be one of the archive donors under a fake name...)

Spencer Reid... was a kid who took his time and learned sign language the moment he found out that one of his old neighbours back in Vegas had hearing problems.

Spencer Reid... is not a picky eater because of his childhood, but he avoids some types of food because of their texture when he can (for example: dried dates, soggy cornflakes, overripe bananas, and pears).

Spencer Reid... never really played any games, but Penelope made it her crusade to teach him how to play Mario Kart. (He is surprisingly good at it.)

Spencer Reid... has one pair of shoes he’s been buying for several years in a row at this point (those black sneakers), and he no longer even bothers to try them on in the shop. The moment they have a hole at the bottom, he just walks to the shoe shop, grabs the box in his size, checks that they don’t have any manufacturing defects, and pays for them.

Spencer Reid... is a man who smiles and waves back at smiling children when they wave at him first. Because they deserve to meet happiness and goodness while they still can. And hey... it’s just a smile. That’s the bare minimum.

Spencer Reid... is a man who cannot watch medical dramas with his partner—or unsupervised either. Because that man yaps about the medical inaccuracies and has to bite his tongue every time to not scream “Chest compressions! Chest compressions! Chest compressions!” when one of the characters whips out a defibrillator in a case where the patient's heart has stopped.

Spencer Reid... who is a cat person, but if he had a dog, it would be an English Cocker Spaniel called Remi, who was supposed to be trained as a search and rescue dog.

But she was too sad when she didn’t find the training figurines alive, so they had to remove her from the program and offered her for adoption. And so... the search and rescue dog found the man who needed to be found.

Spencer Reid... takes his time when the day of 'Bring Your Kid to Work' comes. He always hangs around to speak with the kids who are left behind—too shy to ask anything, or in general not really included—and answers every question they may have. (He is surprisingly the favourite agent, but he himself doesn’t know about it.)

Spencer Reid... who would crawl on his knees up the stairs from hell to heaven for his partner, but at the same time doesn’t need them to be with him 24/7.

Just the idea of sharing a flat with them makes him happy. Just the idea that behind that wall is the one person who loves him is enough. (He is like a turtle—he is hidden most of the time, but he loves the idea of closeness that is not completely obvious.) Being near them, letting them sleep on his shoulder, watching them move around the shared space, or hearing them hum from the living room—and the man is a puddle on the ground.

Spencer Reid... in my eyes, is a man who doesn’t mind dog-ears and broken spines on books. He wouldn’t do it purposefully to destroy the book—no, he has respect for the thing. But for him, those are the signs that the book was read again and again, and that it was well loved.

When he gets his hands on old antique books, he lingers a bit longer on the places where the spine is broken, trying to figure out what might have caused the previous owner to stay on that particular page longer than the others.

In his eyes, books are supposed to be worn down by time, by the hands that held them and turned their pages. Books are supposed to be read and loved.

Spencer Reid... is a man who appreciates those whimsical designs you can find on canned fish and boxes of matches, because he knows that even something so... useless and mundane got enough care from someone.

Something small for today :] And this may or may not be the canon for Spencer that exists in my stories so... yeah, maybe we will meet Remi one day And I'm definitely planning to write more of those head canons Hope you enjoyed! Underline note for the recipe: I'm not a native speaker, 'pardon my French' and any mistakes, but we're cooking in freestyle here

[robustcornhusk]

due to the circumstances, fell into a hole of reading through the archives of a blog that got deleted ~8 years ago

Reminds me of research on how ‘gaze aversion’ (e.g. avoiding eye contact) helps people think by removing the cognitive and emotional load of face processing, etc., so teachers who get caught up in forcing students to make eye contact are missing the point. Likewise abstract doodling while listening helps improve recall. Speech is so bad for conveying information, people need all the help they can get when forced into speech-based learning scenarios, really.

the writer has a bone to pick with lectures & orally-delivered information: they don't like 'em. i don't disagree from personal experience but i don't know enough to agree in the general case. maybe other people do learn well from lectures.

the gaze aversion link led to me to this paper on gaze aversion in adults with and without autism, williams syndrome by the same researcher.

[...] in phase 2 participants were required to maintain eye contact with the experimenter at all times. Looking at faces decreased task accuracy for individuals who were developing typically. Critically, the same pattern was seen in WS and ASD, whereby task performance decreased when participants were required to hold face gaze. The results show that looking at faces interferes with task performance in all groups.

to listen to some people talk about it, you'd think that only autistic people suffer do worse from being made to maintain eye contact. ... actually, given the rest of the wording in the paper, you might be able to say that NT people don't suffer from it, they just suck more when made to maintain eye contact, whereas the autists suffer. but i think more research is required.

this is only one paper and i haven't bothered to look into replicability or reliability or literally anything else about it. perhaps the author has been kicked out of the profession for making shit up. perhaps they are a pioneer. idk. i bring it up only as 'some authoritative-looking people have this position, so it's probably not completely without basis'.

....

perhaps one issue with lectures is that the audience can't fidget without causing a problem. (i can't sit still to watch movies but can watch them for hours with a treadmill)

---

less thought out position: i think people as a whole are bad at teaching.

i tried to look up why the fuck every curry i cook at home sucks, and instead i got a bunch of people talking about how it's impossible to learn to cook it if you haven't grown up there copying your parents' (=your mother's) cooking. that which can be destroyed by women's liberation should be.

went to a certain woodblock studio once. as i recall, the owner talked admiring about how the traditional way to learn to do the prints was to 'steal' the techniques from the person working next to you; very little direct instruction, but pick it up from noticing. it takes years and years to get good.

this works okay -- i mean, i suspect a large part of it was hazing, so i hesitate to say it worked well -- if you don't have better options, but what happens when there's no one able to take years and years to get good?

transmitting information is hard! it's really, really hard! i can't blame the people writing it down (or lecturing, or otherwise) for stopping at 'good enough'.

but like....

Have you ever had a book like this—one you’d read—come up in conversation, only to discover that you’d absorbed what amounts to a few sentences? I’ll be honest: it happens to me regularly. Often things go well at first. I’ll feel I can sketch the basic claims, paint the surface; but when someone asks a basic probing question, the edifice instantly collapses. Sometimes it’s a memory issue: I simply can’t recall the relevant details. But just as often, as I grasp about, I’ll realize I had never really understood the idea in question, though I’d certainly thought I understood when I read the book. Indeed, I’ll realize that I had barely noticed how little I’d absorbed until that very moment.

though given how many (nonfiction) books suck (=get the facts wrong, make logical jumps that are unjustified, etc), perhaps it's for the best we don't remember much

It’s easy to attend a lecture and feel that you understand, only to discover over that night’s problem set that you understood very little. Memory feels partly to blame: you might sense that you knew certain details at one time, but you’ve forgotten. Yet we can’t pin this all on memory. When you pull on certain strings from the lecture, you might discover that you had never really understood, though you’d certainly thought you understood during the lecture.

partner had a beloved professor in university who had a particular reality-warping field; it was so easy to come away from the lectures on a very hard topic believing one had understood everything! everything!

[musingsofmajesty]

𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 | 𝐬𝐡𝐲 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐥. 𝐕

pairing shy eddie x flirty reader | summary Eddie was expecting a chill Sunday, but between answering the door shirtless, an unexpected "I love you," and overthinking it while making mac and cheese, it’s fair to say his day takes a turn | fluff | wc 900

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[best enjoyed in order, but not required! ♡]

.・゜゜・ ・゜゜・．

When three knocks sound on Eddie’s front door, he’s almost certain he's imagining them. But there’s no doubt someone’s outside when more arise. Maybe if he turned down his stereo, he’d be able to hear for once.

His fingers fumble to tie the drawstring of his sweatpants as he heads for the door. 

He doesn’t bother looking out the window or peephole to see who it is first. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Ms. Daphne was probably swinging by to let him know she fed Mila, the stray calico who made the Munson residence her home base after strolling around the trailer park. 

But no—it’s you standing there with a smile on your lips and that same ever-present sparkle in your eyes. 

You have every intention to utter a dignified greeting, but he’s shirtless. Yes, shirtless. His milky torso displays dark, fantastical tattoos. A thin line of hair runs downwards from his belly button. A handful of freckles dot his skin as well.

“Well, hello.” A pinch of playfulness dances around the edges of your words.

Only then does Eddie consider he might be giving the wrong impression by answering the door half-dressed. 

“Hey. Sorry.” He smiles sheepishly and attempts to cross a modest arm across himself. “Just took a shower.” His damp hair attests to the fact. 

You trail him inside, but after he closes the door behind you, he makes a beeline to his bedroom to turn down his music and wrestle on a shirt.

“Wait up, Teddy,” you chuckle lightly. 

An Iron Maiden t-shirt is already in his grasp by the time you stop in his bedroom doorway.

“You didn’t even let me get a good look at you.” The lilt of your tone makes warmth rush to his face, ears, and neck. One of these days, he would get used to your unabashed flirting.

“Sweetheart…” With a shake of his head, he briefly casts his flustered gaze elsewhere. 

“You look good.” Your tone is lovely and sincere. “I like your tattoos.” 

He meets your gaze again and decides to throw you a bone. “Yeah?” 

You hum in confirmation, crossing the distance to stand before him. The fresh scent of pine soap lingers on his skin. He watches you run a gentle finger over the spider beneath his collarbone. Then, the floating demon head just beneath it. 

“Even though they’re kinda scary.” 

“Thanks,” he says through a smile. 

After putting on his shirt, he studies you with quiet fondness. All he can think to do is steal a brief kiss from your lips. 

A light, airy feeling flutters through your chest when he gently taps the tip of your nose. “Gonna find your off button one of these days,” he murmurs. 

“Good luck trying.” 

Later, you find yourselves cruising around Hawkins. Your aimless drives have become some of your favorite things. Eddie looks good behind the wheel but thinks you look prettier sitting shotgun, playing with his rings as his hand rests in your lap.

“Shit,” he mutters as you come to a stoplight. 

You snort, but not unkindly. “What happened?” 

“We’ve got that quiz in Mrs. O’Donnell’s tomorrow,” he says. “I haven’t even done the reading.” 

“It’s a short chapter,” you tell him. “You should have enough time tonight.” 

“Thank God,” he sighs as the light turns green. “Thought I was gonna have to ditch.”  

You can’t help but tip your head back and laugh sweetly. “Please don’t. I’ll miss you.” 

“You’ll miss me even more if I flunk out and you graduate without me.” 

Another laugh bubbles up your throat, and you gently swat his arm. All things considered, Eddie’s been doing really well this quarter. He has a B+ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s, so failing the quiz wouldn’t completely destroy his grade. 

You’re proud of him. Maybe even a little more than you let on. You’ve seen how hard he’s been working to ensure he graduates, so he’s earned the right to make a failure joke or two, especially now that those days are behind him. 

“Gosh, I love you,” you sigh as your amusement settles. 

I love you. I love you. I love you. Even though there’s no weight behind your delivery, Eddie still can’t help how his grip on the wheel tightens. The way his gaze flicks to you. In return, you smile, unaware you’ve just shaken his world. A part of him waits for you to circle back and double down, but you don’t. 

For now, your smile is enough. 

Your “I love you” remains beneath his skin after you’re back in his trailer. You can’t help but notice he’s gone particularly quiet and pensive as he stands at the stovetop, stirring macaroni for the two of you. It isn’t long before you pad over and snake your arms around his slender waist. 

“You okay?” you murmur into his shirt. 

He hums, almost distantly. 

“You’re quiet,” you press. 

“I’m just thinking.” 

“About what?” 

Eddie sets the fork down and turns around in your arms. “You.” 

A frown forms on your face. “Did I say something? I’m sorry if I did. I know I’m a lot.” 

“Don’t say that,” he chides lightly. “You’re not.” 

His sincerity makes you tilt your head. “What am I then?” 

“One of the best things about this town,” he says without hesitation. It feels as though he’s just laid his heart bare. 

“I…” he lets his sentence trail off even though it longs to continue.

Behind him, the macaroni continues to bubble on the stove. 

You smile in encouragement. “You what?” 

I love you.

Thank you so much for reading. All likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. I promise I see them all! ♡

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DAY BY DAY MASTERLIST

[mariasont]

hiii! could you write aaron x bau! reader where they have a child that’s like 2 or around that age - so still very little but one day they came back from a case and yn was so unwell and turns out that she’s pregnant again but they weren’t planning and work’s been so busy and she’s a bit scared how aaron’s going to react🥺 thanks!!!! 🫶🏻

Two Heartbeats Later - A.H

summary: you weren’t planning for another baby, but life doesn’t wait for timing to be perfect and hotch shows you that sometimes the best things are the ones you don’t see coming pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader tags: pregnant reader, unplanned pregnancy, soft!hotch, domesticity, flangst, happy ending, established relationship, a little post pregnancy stress wc: 2.3k

You barely made it past the front door when your body gave up the charade. Like it had been so wired together with caffeine and pure fucking spite, like every muscle had been clenched so tight for so long that the moment your brain registered home, everything unspooled at once. 

You go-bag slid from your shoulder, the strap half biting for half a second before it was gone. You think you heard it hit the floor. Think you heard the keys, still clenched in your uncooperative fingers, rattle against the table. Shoes still on. Jacket too. But taking it off required effort, and you'd run out of that hours ago. The couch was there, and then so were you. Face-first, half-breathing, half-existing.

The sigh that pushed from your chest felt endless, like it had been lodged inside you for days. Weeks maybe. Years.

The house was quiet. Unnaturally so. 

No padding feet, no sticky hands pulling at your sleeve, no stubborn, sleepy voices demanding one more story before bed. Jessica had taken Jack and your two-year-old, Bella, insisting that you and Aaron need real sleep after back-to-back cases.

You should have been relieved. It should have felt like a luxury. Should have.

Aaron's voice reached you from somewhere behind. "Well, aren't you dramatic."

You exhaled, too drained to even roll your eyes, barely mustering the energy to glance at him over the arm of the couch. He was by the door, still half in shadow, arms loose at his sides and watching you with that look on his face that he got sometimes, the one that said you were both completely insane and completely adored, all in equal measure.

You made a noise. Not words, not quite a groan either, the sound barely making it past the cushions.

"That bad?"

You lifted a limp arm and let it flop back onto the couch.

"I see." A pause. "Should I be concerned?"

"Probably."

The fridge door hissed as it opened, then shut. The tap turned on, ran for a few seconds, then clicked off. A glass placed, not set, not dropped, just placed, onto the counter. Then, the soft shuffle of socked feet across the floor. The indication he was near by the couch dipping under his weight.

And then there was his hand, finding your leg, fingers pushing into the space between your ankle and the couch. One shoe. Then the next. Like he'd done this a thousand times before. Which he had. Because you were beyond lucky. Fortunate. Blessed. All the vocab words that could be synonymous with you being undeserving. His palm dawdled, thumb dragging absently over the thin stretch of skin just above your heel. 

Your heart did something stupid and weak in your chest.

"You're a very doting husband," you murmured, aiming for teasing but landing somewhere softer, somewhere warmer.

Aaron chuckled, shifting beside you until he was comfortable, his arm draping over the couch as he turned toward you. "Yeah, I don't get many complaints."

You peeked up at him through tired, half-lidded eyes. "I could complain."

"But you won't." His palm flattened against your hip before slipping away. Gone too soon on purpose, you were sure. "You like being spoiled too much."

You let out a small, drowsy hum. "Maybe."

His hand moved to your back, dragging up the ridges of your spine and smoothing over the knots you'd stopped noticing until now. And it was unfair, really, because he then found that space at the base of your neck, and you were done for. 

You should have let yourself be submerged in it. Into him. Into this. You wanted to. Needed to. 

But your brain was perpetually doing loops, swinging from thought to thought, refusing to land. Because as much as you wanted to focus on your very handsome, very intuitive husband, on the way he just knew what you needed before you even had to ask, on his touch, on jus the undeniable, singular himness of him (which, okay, maybe wasn't a real world, but you were too tired to litigate that) — all you could hear was JJ's voice.

"God I remember that level of wiped. I felt the same way before I found out about Michael."

It had been a throwaway comment, made with a laugh as you'd all packed up to head home. It was the kind of thing that should have rolled right off your back. And it had, at first. You'd scoffed, waved it off and blamed it on the jet lag and the late nights and the way your body never quite figured out how to recalibrate between cases.

But now, laying on the couch, staring at at the cushions like they held divine answers, every part of you felt off. Tender in a way you didn't like, in a way that felt far too familiar. 

And you couldn't ignore it. Well, you could. Probably. Maybe. Except no you couldn't because JJ was unfortunately, irritatingly, horrifyingly right.

Aaron repositioned beside you. "You're quiet."

"I'm tired." As if that could be the end of it. Like if you said it just right, it could turn into an irrefutable fact.

"No kidding." A pause. Then softer, nudging. "Try again."

You turn onto your side, eyes catching his before you brain can screech abort mission, bad idea, too much eye contact, danger. And in that same instant you were even surer of your discernment.

Because this isn't suspicion or paranoia or stress or an overactive imagination.

This is real.

The strange dragging in your limbs, the hot-cold whiplash that makes you constantly second-guess your own damn thermostat, the nausea you wrote off as too many takeout meals and too little sleep.

Your body had known for weeks.

It felt like someone had upended a bucket of ice water down your back. Or no, actually, more like a door slamming shut on every single ounce of stability you had spent years clawing toward. 

Because there was no room for this. No room in the schedule, not in the fridge (which, let's be honest, was already one yogurt cup away from disaster), and certainly not in the tenuous, barely-functioning balancing act that was your life.

Jack's school projects, his late-night study sessions, his growing independence that you want to encourage, needed to encourage, but what if you're pushing too hard? What if you're not pushing enough? Bella's refusal to eat anything that isn't shaped like a star, her impossible stubbornness, her need for you that takes up every ounce of energy you have left. 

And work. Gods, work. The late nights, the cases that leave bruises on you emotionally and physically, the constant demand to give more, be more, solve more.

You barely made it though last time. How are you supposed to do it again?

Before you can spiral any further, before your brain can really sink its teeth into the oh my gods, you're fucked of it all, you're moving, no, being moved, with absolutely no input on your part, being hauled into Aaron's lap.

"Do I need to bribe you out of whatever's happening in that head of yours?" he muses, shifting so his hands can slip beneath your shirt, palm warm against too-cold ribs. "Or do I just have to annoy you until you snap out of it?" You blink at him, heavy-lidded, and he smiles, unfairly amused. "Because I can talk about legal precedents and federal jurisdiction until you pass out from boredom."

You groan dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder like you're already picturing it.

"Not the legal precedents," you mumble, voice muffled by his shirt. "Anything but that."

"That's what I thought."

You peek up at him, pouting. "I'll take bribery, please."

He smirks and inclines his head like he's mulling it over. "What's my price?"

You angle your head, shifting just enough that he’ll get the hint, because obviously he’s not dense, and obviously you don’t have to spell it out.

Aaron's chuckle is warm and affectionate, and his smirk slips into something more partial. "Well, lucky me."

His lips graze yours like he has nowhere else to be, like the rest of your world isn't hanging on by a thread. And for just one selfish second, you let yourself chase it, into that fleeting illusion that everything is fine.

But then he pulls away, and it's gone. The illusion crumbles, slipping through your fingers like sand.

Because he's too good. Too selfless. Too willing to bear everything like it won't eventually crush him. And now here you are, about to pile more onto his already impossible load. Another thing for him to carry, to shoulder, to make space for when there's already so little left. You don't know if you can stand it, don't know if you can watch the depletion deepen in his eyes and be the reason for it.

Aaron catches it in seconds, because nothing ever gets past him, because you could probably breathe funny and he'd be asking what's wrong. His teasing vanishes immediately, replaced by something gentler, and something infinitely worse. 

His hand is on your face before you can neutral your expression, his thumb at the corner of your mouth, like he's trying to press the emotion back in, to stop it from spilling over.

"You're breaking my heart, sweetheart," he murmurs, fixing his head to meet your gaze. "Tell me how to fix it."

Your hands lift, like the movement might shake the words loose, might make sense of everything in your head, but they fall just as fast, fingers tangling into the material of his shirt.

“It’s just — I don’t know, I should’ve seen it coming, right? But I didn’t, and now it’s like —” You squeeze your eyes shut, breath shaking. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know how it happened, I don’t know what to think, I don’t —”

"Hey, honey," Aaron interrupted, his thumbs sweeping careful paths down your tear-stricken cheeks. His brow dips. "Slow down for me, okay? I need you to breathe."

You try, you really do, but your chest feels like it's wrapped in steel bands, too tight to expand properly, and your thoughts are useless, spinning too fast, overlapping, crashing into each other.

"You're talking in circles, baby. Help me understand."

A sound claws its way out of your throat, half a sob, half hysteria.

Aaron just watches, expectantly, like he's waiting for the moment it all clicks into place. For you to say it. For you to crack wide open.

"Aaron, I'm — God, I'm pregnant."

For a long, stretched-out second, he doesn't move.

His eyes flicker between yours, scanning, searching, reading every inch of your expression before, instinctively, unconsciously, they drop downward. To your stomach.

His hands follow, hesitantly, like they already knew, like something deep in him had felt it before his mind could catch up. But he doesn't touch you, not yet. His fingers just hover, inches from your shirt, like he's afraid to break something delicate. Like he needs to believe in it first.

"You're —?" It's not even a word, just a shape in his mouth, just air barely pushed into sound.

You nod, and oh, something gives way, splinters inside you, breaks open just like he was wanting and suddenly, you can't stop talking.

"I know," you whisper, voice breaking, hands swiping furiously at damp cheeks. "I know."

Your shoulders tremble, fresh tears slipping past your lashes, and damn it, you can't stop them, can't stop any of it.

"I'm so sorry, please don't be upset, I don't know how this happened, I didn't mean for it to happen, I —,"

"Hey." You freeze instantly. "Stop." He pauses for a second as if trying to figure out the right thing to say. "Why are you apologizing?"

You open your mouth, already scrambling for some kind of justification, some kind of explanation, but he's faster.

"Pretty sure we were both there when this happened," he says, voice so deadpan, you almost didn't hear the amusement as his mouth flicked upward. "Fairly certain it was a mutual effort."

You let out a choked, watery laugh. "But we weren't expecting this. We didn't plan for this, and the timing is awful, and work is insane, and Bella —,"

"— will be fine."

"Jack —,"

"— will love it."

"And what about us?"

Aaron's hand moves again, actually pressing to your stomach now. And then he smiles, this tiny, crooked, almost smug little thing that makes your stomach flip in a completely different way, like he's remembering something good, something soft, something dangerously sentimental.

"Did I ever tell you," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this, "that you weren't even supposed to be on my team?"

Your brows furrow instantly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he says finally, "you were supposed to be off in some White Collar division. Probably catching investment bankers committing tax fraud."

"Then how did I end up here?"

Aaron snorts, actually snorts. "A clerical error."

"Are you serious?"

"Like I said, Strauss meant to assign you to the White Collar division." His thumb strokes along your jaw, like he’s trying to soften the absurdity of what he’s about to say. "But someone messed up the paperwork. By the time she noticed, you'd already started your first week."

A sharp, incredulous breath escapes you. "So I got on the team by accident."

"Not entirely," he murmurs. "Strauss asked if I wanted her to fix it. Move you where you were actually supposed to go."

"And?"

His hands find their way into your hair before you can process the movement —fingertips brushing against your scalp, smoothing strands away, tucking them behind your ears, like he needs to see you.

"And I almost told her yes." And he says it in a way that makes you think maybe he still can't believe it. "Not because of your skills," he continues. "But because I knew — I knew that if I spent any more time with you, I was going to fall in love with you. And I didn't want that," he admits. "Because I wasn't sure if I was ready for something that permanent."

He'd never told you this. Not in words. Maybe in glances, in pauses, in the way he always found you first, in a crowd, in a crime scene. But never like this. Never out loud.

Your brain tries to process it, but it's like pouring water into a cup that's already full, it spills over, sloshes everywhere, and makes a mess of things.

You almost laugh except there's this awful, aching tightness in your throat, and you think if you let the sound out, it might not be a laugh at all. 

"So what changed?"

He lets out a breath, a small, almost reluctant smile playing at his lips. "You told me to relax."

"Excuse me?"

“You were new. Three weeks in. I was this close to telling Strauss yes. Had the email typed out, my finger hovering over send. And that whole week, I had been —” he pauses, smirks faintly, “— a pain in the ass. And you just —” another shake of his head, “— you knocked, walked in, took one look at me, and said, Hotch, you need to relax.”

A long, drawn-out pause.

"And then you walked out."

You let out an unguarded laugh. "No, I didn't."

"You did. And I remember thinking — who the hell does she think she is?" Then, without hesitation, he pulls you flush against him, like that thought alone is hilarious in retrospect. "And then, two seconds later, thinking — I hope she never stops. And you never did. Thank God for that." His forehead presses to yours. "Because now, you're my beautiful wife. The mother of my children. You know, I spent so much of my life thinking I needed a plan but turns out the best things happen when you don't."

And then he kisses you and damn it, he tastes like that coffee, the stupidly expensive, unnecessarily strong stuff he insists on smuggling onto the jet, the kind that is so obnoxiously him it makes your head spin.

Dark roast, sharp on his tongue and now on yours, transferring straight into you like somehow he's the one who's addicting.

And maybe he is. Because when he pulls back, there's another smirk at his mouth, but his hand stays at the nape of your neck, like he's already considering doing it again. And Jesus, you hope he does.

"You know," he muses, far too casual for a man about to be slapped. "if we really think about it, this might actually be your fault."

Your jaw drops. "Come again?"

He tilts his head, all easy amusement, all knowing. "You were the one who insisted on that very thorough stress relief session a few weeks ago."

Your face flames. "Aaron!"

“Oh, don’t act innocent,” he hums, tilting his head like he’s thinking, like he’s remembering in excruciating detail. “I was there. I distinctly recall the moment you climbed into my lap and said —”

"Stop talking."

"— Aaron, I need to —"

Your hand clamps over his mouth, but his laughter is instant, vibrating against your palm, his eyes crinkling at the corners, full of mischief and love and the kind of thing that turns your brain to static.

"You’re the worst," you mutter.

Aaron just smirks, prying your hand away, pressing a kiss to your lips like a punctuation mark. "Says the one who keeps letting me knock her up."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[traveler-at-heart]

Love is a winning serve

Sequel to Game, Set, Match that was on my drafts and just decided to post lol.

Tennis player Natasha Romanoff x F!R

--

The grass is always greener at the start of the season.

No matter how many times you step in, Wimbledon always takes your breath away. The view is especially magnificent today, as your eyes follow the figure of your girlfriend, Natasha Romanoff.

Fury grumbles next to you.

“Is there a problem?”

“She’s down! 3 games to lob on the first set. Why are you not freaking out right now?” the man whisper yells and Melina glares, shushing him.

“She’s bored” you say after she loses the fourth game.

“What did you just say?”

“Natasha’s bored. She won Roland Garros 6-0, 6-1, so she wants to make this at least a bit entertaining”

“Well, could she possibly play sudoku or something else to combat this boredom? If I wasn’t bald already I’d be losing my hair from the stress”

After the break, and as you suspected, Natasha wins three games in a row. You admire her graceful movements as she sprints across the court. She’s wearing all white, as tradition requires. Such a shame that her team opted for a polo shirt. Yes, she looks elegant, but you’d rather see those toned arm muscles as she exerts herself.

“Fuck”

Natasha’s outburst and the crowd’s gasp break your train of thought.

“Are you kidding me? That ball was so in” she challenges the call.

“That’s the rule” umpire Steve Rogers, aka Mister Manners, says.

“That’s bullshit”

“Ms. Romanoff, language!” he says, truly shocked. You’re amused, because Natasha can do so much worse than that.

So much dirtier…

“Stop it” Yelena elbows you.

“Stop what?”

“Looking like you’re ready to throw your panties to the court”

“If that keeps the press from asking about her little outburst, be my guest” Fury sighs.

But you’re already on it.

After throwing her racket across the court, Natasha has to go the extra mile to win 7-5 on the first set. Throughout the rest of the match, you make sure your left hand is showing the big diamond ring Natasha gave you.

“You’re already trending on Twitter” Yelena says, amazed. “Thank God you’re on our side, evil genius”

Natasha wins the second set easily, and is saved from the court interview by the English rain.

“Nice. The tennis part, not the tantrum in the middle of the game” Fury says.

“Come on, the umpire was being an idiot. How long do I have before the press conference?”

“20 minutes, give or take. Don’t worry, they’ll be nice to you”

You show the ring and she nods.

It all started as an honest mistake. Yes, Natasha had given you this particular ring as a present, and yes you’d wore it in public. But the speculation of an engagement was enough to boost her public persona, so you ran with it.

“You know, when I get you an actual engagement ring, it will be huge” she says, pulling you closer to kiss you.

“I don’t have a preference on that regard, Miss Romanoff” you smile against her lips.

“Really? I was under the impression you liked how big my stra…”

“Aaaah! Stop. I should have stayed in New York!” Yelena says, leaving the locker room in a rush.

—

“Have you set a date?” is the first thing a journalist asks during the press conference.

“Date for what, David?” Natasha plays dumb.

“We’ve all seen the huge diamond ring on Y/N's finger. Or maybe you’re planning on getting married right in the middle of the court once you reach the Golden Slam”

“No comment” Natasha says, holding back laughter.

—

It’s been two years since the start of your relationship with Natasha. Once it became clear that you were both committed to making it work, you quit your job and joined her team, as PR manager/mediator when Fury and Natasha were butting heads.

At first, you were worried that I’d be too weird to work with Natasha, but she valued your input and trusted you. Two things she had never found in anyone else aside from her family and Fury.

The fact she had won 3 grand slams last year and was on route to completing the golden calendar this year was a testament to how good you were as a team.

Knowing her after match routine, you figure there’s some time to catch up with Bucky’s first round match. He gets the job done in straight sets, and you wait for his interview to be over.

“Hey, defending champion” you say, looping your arm around his. He smiles.

“Hi, coach Y/L/N”

“Glad to see umpire Jarvis wasn’t a total asshole to you this time” you mutter, looking around as a couple of kids approach Bucky for autographs.

“Might be too busy with all the Maximoff drama”

“Oh?”

Though Wanda had stopped trying to mess with Natasha since you two became public, you were always on edge when it came to her. It couldn’t hurt to have any extra intel on Maximoff.

“Word on the street is that they broke up” Bucky lowers his voice, placing his hand on your back. “You didn’t hear it from me”

“My lips are sealed”

“Hopefully not for food. I’m starving”

“Lunch on me, champ”

—

“I’m home” you joke as usual, stepping foot on the hotel suite. That had been the hardest part of your new life.

You didn’t spend more than two weeks in the same country, and being alone with Natasha was a rare ocurrence.

There were times when you missed your couch and the Indian food from around the corner of your apartment.

The sight that greets you is enough to make up for it.

Natasha is stretching in nothing but leggins and a sports bra, her perfect ass on full display as she bends over in a complicated yoga stance.

“Now that’s a champion’s ass” you whistle.

The redhead smiles and straightens, raising her arms above her head. You take the opportunity to wrap your arms around her waist, kissing her neck. “Where’s everybody?”

“They went to get some food”

“Perfect timing” you whisper against her skin, enjoying the soft smell of lavender. Your hands wander all the way down to her ass and slap playfully.

“You know the rule” Natasha warns, but still melts against your touch.

You huff, annoyed. Stupid, stupid rule. No sex during tournaments.

“I have to wait two more weeks to taste you? How is that fair, baby?”

“Don’t I make it up to you everytime?”

“Let me just…” you kneel hugging her hips and placing kisses on the small of her back. “I’ll take care of everything. Just bend over and spread those pretty legs for me”

“Y/N…” you can tell by her tone she’s ready to give in and you smile.

“Hope you are all starving… ah! AGAIN! I quit” Yelena shouts as she walks in on you.

“Step away, Y/N” Fury warns as you stand up and whimper pathetically against Natasha’s shoulder. “Go take a cold shower.”

“Not fair” you cry out. Natasha chuckles, leaning forward and kissing your neck. A blush spreads as you imagine her lips in other parts of your body. “Really not fair”

—

It wouldn’t be Wimbledon without a rain delay. Considering Nat lost the second set against Danvers, a little break might be good for her.

As you wait for the weather to improve, you keep looking at your calendar and the meeting that no one knows about. Of course it has to happen the minute the match resumes.

“I’ll be right there” you promise, knowing it will be a quick call anyway.

“Ramonda speaking” the voice on the other end greets. She knows it’s you, but still makes you introduce yourself. You expect nothing else from the head of the WTA. “Have you thought about my proposal?”

“It’s very generous… but I’m afraid I’ll have to reject it”

Head of Communications for the Women’s Tennis Association. Being on the citcuit for two years had put you on the map, beyond your wildest expectations.

But you would never leave Natasha. You are a team.

“You’ll still be able to see your girlfriend, if that’s what you’re worried about” the woman says, with a certain condescention in her voice.

“Like I said… it’s very generous. But I am where I need to be. Thank you, Ramonda”

There’s a pause and you wonder if the woman will call you a fool and hang up.

“Look, our current director is leaving at the end of the USO anyway. We’ll hire a consultig firm for a bit, and I hope you’ve had more time to think about this”

“Alright”

Your answer will be the same, but right now you need to go back to the game. Ramonda says her goodbyes and promises to send a better offer by the end of the month.

It makes you dizzy, to think that a local news reporter like yourself could ever do such a huge job.

“You look a little pale” a voice with a thick Russian accent says as you leave the locker room.

It takes you a moment to recognise it.

“Alexei”

“Surprised to see me?”

“Well, yes. Considering you’re banned from the club” you hope that he’ll take offense and end the conversation. But the man laughs, showing his gold teeth.

“I still have my connections”

“Natasha is not here”

“I’m not here to see her. Not right now, at least”

“Then what do you want?”

Alexei sighs, sitting in a bench and looking at you with a phony smile. He looks so much older, and nothing like the man that would get entire stadiums to cheer for him.

“You know I taught her how to hold a racket? How to throw a ball? She was serving before she knew how to write her name”

“Sorry, I don’t have time for this sentimental daddy of the year bullshit”

“I want her back” he explodes, standing up and blocking the exit. You look up, aware that he’s a lot taller than you.

He’s scaring the shit out of you and you hate him for it.

“She listens to you. Put on a good word for me. And then, she’ll come to her senses. That’s how Natalia is, she always needs a little guidance”

“If you go back to coaching her, it would be the worst mistake of her career. So, no. Now move. I have a match to get to”

Alexei punches one of the lockers and you try not to jump at the sound.

“I’ll make sure you regret this”

All you can feel is your heart beating out of your chest. What can you do to escape this situation?

“You better leave now, jackass” Bucky steps out of nowhere, shielding you with his body. “Security is on their way”

The man grumbles, exiting the room. You sigh with relief, allowing Bucky to hold you for a second.

“You ok?”

“Yes. Thank you, Buck”

“Natasha has to know about this. He could be dangerous”

“I don’t want to worry her. It will be fine” you dismiss his concerns quickly, but he looks annoyed “I’ll tell Fury, that should be enough. You have a match to prepare for, I’ll leave now”

Despite his protests, you walk out of the room, heading to the player’s box without paying attention to anything.

“Y/N?” Fury insists when you’re seated and you finally snap back to reality.

“What?”

“Did you two fight? Because she’s about to lose the match and you look like you’ve seen a ghost”

“What do you mean she’s about to lose?” you look up, noticing Natasha is two games down.

Well, shit.

“No, we are not fighting. And the reason I look like I might pass out is because Alexei was here”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you about it later” you say, watching as Danvers prepares to serve.

This eighth game isn’t any better.

One point and that’s it for Natasha.

“She’s gonna pull through” you say, hopeful.

And miraculously, she does. The redhead saves three match points, wins a couple of games and forces a tiebreak.

You sigh with relief as the umpire speaks those magic words.

“Game, set, match, Romanoff”

Little did you know, this wouldn’t be the last bump on the road.

—-

A questionable reputation

The world of tennis knows her as a devout girlfriend, strategist and PR manager to her partner of two years, Natasha Romanoff.

And yet, we know very little of Y/N Y/L/N as she seeks to share some of Romanoff’s record breaking glory.

An insider has shared that they met two years ago during the USO, when the Russian player was having one of the worst seasons of her career.

The public perception has been that Y/L/N contributed to Romanoff’s success, but recent information has put that into question.

As it stands, Miss Y/L/N has a habit of blurring the lines of professional and personal relationships. She has been tied romantically to Yankees’ superstar Sam Wilson and current ATP number one Bucky Barnes.

It seems as if the loving girlfriend is actually a calculated gold digger, and Romanoff might be the next target in her long list of infamous conquests.

—

Well, shit.

Not only did Alexei drag your name (and career) through the mud, but he also managed to put Sam and Bucky in a PR nightmare of their own.

You severely underestimated him.

What a time to post the article. Natasha is about to make her way to the quarterfinals, which means the press conference will definitely include some questions about her “gold digger girlfriend”

A tear rolls down and you try to keep it together, but it feels like the world is on your shoulders.

Your phone pulls you out of the miserable thoughts, but your stomach drops again when you see the name on the screen.

“Yes?” you greet, wiping more tears from your face.

“Alexei is after you” Ramonda drops the bomb without so much as a greeting and you laugh.

“No shit”

“You knew” the woman says, confused.

“He asked me to convince Natasha to take him back as trainer. You can imagine what my answer was”

“I see. He called me too, you know? I don’t understand what he was expecting to get out of it. Alexei’s not a friend of the WTA. He suggested someone else for the job we’re offering you, which is frankly unbelievable. I wanted to call you and let you know that he’s cashing in the few favors he has left to bring you down”

“What would you do in my place, Ramonda?” you pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache coming.

“I’d give him hell”

The playful tone makes you laugh.

“I got nothing to lose, right?”

“Good luck, Y/N”

She hangs up the phone, but the conversation keeps playing in your head.

You may have underestimated Alexei, but he doesn’t understand one thing. As a team, Natasha and you are fucking unstoppable.

So, you take a deep breath, stand up, and go look for your partner.

—

The post match routine is the same as usual. The only thing missing is you.

“She’ll be right here” Fury says, nodding as Melina checks Natasha’s leg, where she felt a cramp.

“Pickle juice” Melina reminds her daughter and she rolls her eyes.

“But it’s so gross, Mama”

“Gross, but effective”

While they wait for you, Natasha walks to the bathroom. The first thing she hears upon entering is someone puking their guts out.

“You ok?” she asks, not knowing who was there.

A beat of silence and then a voice that she knows all too well.

“I’m fine”

Wanda.

“You never threw up before a match. Are you nervous?” the Russians tries to joke while she washes her hands, but stops when Wanda exits the bathroom stall looking half dead. “Jesus! What happened?”

“It’s nothing. Morning sickness” Wanda answers, too tired to care about keeping her pregnancy a secret anymore.

“Oh. Congratulations” Natasha says in an even tone.

“You sound more excited than Jarvis” Wanda says, splashing some water in her face. “Says he’s not ready to committ after two years. What am I supposed to do with twins by myself?”

“Twins?”

Wanda is about to speak when she throws up in the sink once again.

“Here. Let me just…” Natasha rushes to her side, offering some paper towels and craddling Wanda’s face between her hands as she cleans her mouth.

“I’ve missed you”

“I…”

Natasha places a strand of auburn hair back in her place out of pure habit. This is the closest she’s been to Wanda in years, outside of the court.

Her heart aches over Wanda, how terrified and alone she looks.

The redhead is about to say something else when the door opens.

“Oh”

Natasha turns around, her hands dropping immediately to her sides.

“Y/N…”

“Don’t” is all you say as you leave, not looking back.

You’ve seen enough.

—

It was wise to keep some things to yourself. Like this little bar downtown, where Natasha would never think of looking for you.

She must be going crazy, considering your phone is off and the last time you saw her she looked ready to kiss her crazy ex.

Bucky said Wanda and Jarvis broke up.

So, maybe this whole time you were just a distraction. And now, with the article and Wanda being single again…

No. Natasha would never do this to you.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having. Plus another one for her” someone says behind you.

“Carol” you turn, smiling at the woman. She squeezes your shoulder, taking a seat on the bar stool next to yours.

“I thought you’d be preparing for the next round”

“Nah. Gold diggers don’t work, we just cash” you joke but she doesn’t laugh.

“That article was bullshit. Everyone who has ever worked with you knows that. And if Natasha believed it, you’re better off without her”

“I don’t know if she believed it. I left after I saw her with someone…” you sigh, taking a drink from the new glass the bartender brings over.

How you wish you could erase that memory of Natasha and Wanda.

“I thought her and Maximoff had called it quits” Carol says, shocking you. “What? They weren’t as sneaky as they thought. The rest of us didn’t care enough to mention it”

“Wow”

You sit in silence, drinking and looking out the window. It’s gonna rain again.

“If I had known…” Carol starts, but just shakes her head. You encourage her with a nudge of your elbow. “I would have asked you out. But Natasha had to beat me to that as well. As she does with everything”

“Oh, come on” you say shyly, biting the inside of your cheek.

“I don’t know, in the court I’m pretty good at fighting Natasha. Maybe I can give it a try off it”

“I wouldn’t recommend it” you smile, looking over at the menu as a way to change the subject. “You got me a drink, I’ll get you a cheeseburger. How about that?”

“Deal”

—

By the time you go back to the hotel, the rain is pouring. Carol was staying very close to the bar where you had dinner, so she lent you her jacket to keep you dry during the ride home.

You’re walking down the hallway, when the door to your room opens.

If looks could kill…

“Where the hell have you been?” Natasha says through gritted teeth.

You were expecting an apology, not a scolding.

“Out” you walk to the room, eager to change into some dry clothes.

“Yeah? Danvers is your new target, or what?”

Your blood runs cold. Hell, you’re even sure Natasha regrets it as soon as the words leave her mouth.

But she still won’t apologize.

She just stares and that pisses you off.

“Excuse me? Say that one more fucking time, Natasha”

“What do you want me to think? There’s that stupid article going around and just now, someone takes pictures of you hugging Danvers in the rain. It’s all over social media”

“She was helping me with her jacket, Natasha. But, while we are on the subject, how is Wanda? As charming and batshit crazy as usual?”

“That’s different” Natasha scoffs and you laugh.

“You are unbelievable. Truly. One of a kind” you go back to looking for clothes, praying the hotel has a spare room you can book.

“It’s not what it seems. She was going through a rough… just trust me, ok?”

“What? Is it her break up?”

“I don’t have to tell you everything” Natasha says, and you feel like crying.

You threw your life out the window for someone who was waiting for the one that got away.

“Yeah, you’re right. You absolutely don’t have to tell me anything”

“I don’t need this right now, Y/N. Think whatever you want”

She walks out, slamming the door behind her.

Everything you believed in has fallen apart.

—-

It was supposed to be an important day. However, your phone has been off since the day you got on a red eye back to New York City.

Bucky is the only person you talk to through video call using your old computer. He’s so pissed off that he easily agreed to not bring up Natasha at all.

So, Saturday comes and you have no idea if she reached the Wimbledon final or not. You stay in your living room all morning and afternoon, watching a medical drama.

Your heart is so broken, and the last time you felt this kind of pain was after losing your father.

At some point, you’ll have to start thinkig about getting a job. There’s no way in hell you’ll take Ramonda’s offer, because it would mean working with Natasha at some point.

For now, staying in your couch while you wait for your food to be delivered is enough.

“Finally” you mutter, standing up to walk to the door. You open without looking who’s on the other side.

“Hi”

Natasha is standing in the middle of the hallway. You look at the containers she’s holding and realised she hijacked your order.

“That’s mine”

“Can we talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about”

“Yes, there is”

“No, there isn’t” you reach for the food and she steps back. “Seriously? Fine, I’ll eat leftovers. Whatever”

You begin to close the door, but Natasha stops it with her hand.

“I’m sorry”

“What for, Natasha?” you say, but she doesn’t answer. “For not explaining whatever that was with Wanda? For impliying I was cheating on you with Carol? Or for stealing my fucking food?”

There’s no answer.

“Everything you just said. And for not protecting you from Alexei. Fury told me everything. Barnes provided some extra context in a very loud voice too”

You want to laugh at the idea of your best friend yelling at Natasha. He’d been waiting to do it for so long. It’s apparent that Natasha has no intention of leaving so you walk away, leaving the door wide open.

The redhead takes the hint and goes inside, closing the door behind her.

“Have you eaten anything?”

“There was some food on the plane”

“Wait, what?”

“I… won Wimbledon”

“Congratulations” you say without a hint of excitement.

“And when I looked to my box, you weren’t there. I didn’t even climb to hug anyone. I got through the ceremony, then went to the airport and on a plane here”

“Natasha, are you insane?” you go back to work mode immediately after hearing how stupid she’s acting. “You know you have to stick around for the interviews, the pictures, the dinner. The press is gonna have a field day speculating…”

“I don’t care”

“I do. We are getting you back on a plane to London. Not to mention the Olympics are in two weeks on a completely different surface. You should be training”

There is absolutely no way in hell that Natasha will miss the milestone of her career because of you. You find your phone tucked away in your travel bag and plug it, ready to call Fury and make a plan.

“Y/N, I’m not going back unless you come with me” Natasha walks to your room, leaning against the door.

“I- I can’t. Not now, Natasha” you look away, tears rolling down your cheeks. “You should go”

“Ok”

She agrees so easily to let you go, or so you think until she speaks again.

“I’ll be back to get you some breakfast”

“What?”

“I’m going to a hotel. I meant what I said earlier. The only way I’m going back is if I can fix the mess I made”

Natasha lingers for a second and you sigh.

“Use the guest room” you give in, turning to cut off her thank you. “Just for tonight. One way or another, I’m making sure you go back to London”

—

The call with Fury takes an unexpected turn.

“What do you mean you don’t want her back?”

“This past week was hell for all of us. Did you see how hard she was hitting the balls? I almost thought she’d break them in half mid play”

“So what? She’s so close, Nick. We have to help her to the finish line” you plead. Just two more things and she’ll become a legend. That’s the way it was always supposed to be.

“Don’t tell me you’ll be the one to put the sport above your relationship. I thought it was all Natasha’s doing”

No, it wasn’t all Natasha’s doing. This past week has been eye opening for you.

You gave up your life to follow her, you decided to become her rock. She didn’t ask for anything, and even when she crossed a line, being too focused on the game to check on you, your immediate reaction was to minimize your needs. In your mind, Natasha came first because she was extraordinary; a once in a lifetime talent.

But what about you?

“You still there?” Fury says, making you snap out of it.

“Yeah. Just thinking”

“Listen. If she doesn’t want to come back, no one’s going to force her. I think you know better than anyone that nothing can change Natasha’s mind. Well, only one person can”

“Who?” you think about Melina or Yelena. They can talk some sense to her.

“You” Fury says before hanging up.

Well, that won’t do. You’re done telling her what to do, or when. She’s a big girl and she can handle herself.

“How’s Fury?” she says as soon as you walk out of your room.

“He wants you on the next flight to Paris” you lie to her, but she laughs.

Of course she knows better.

“If you want me out of your place, just say the word and I’ll find a hotel. But I’m not leaving until I fix this. Hey, are you listening to me?”

“There’s a seat available for tonight’s flight” you ignore her, pulling out your credit card to buy her a ticket.

“Stop it!” she protests, snatching the card from your hands.

“Natasha, give it back. You need to practice before the Olympics”

“Why are you so worried? Clay is my best surface” she argues and you take the bait.

“Your best surface is grass but stats don’t reflect that because there’s like two championships! Why am I even arguing with you?”

“I don’t care about any medals if you’re not there” she insists, going after you as you pick up a basket of laundry and walk to the bedroom.

“Really? You’re fine with Maximoff taking it from you? The one thing missing in your career? Olympic gold. Boy, she must have done a number on you on that bathroom, huh?” you say bitterly, trying to shut the door, but Natasha pushes inside.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I saw how close you were. Her hands on your waist, yours on her face. Fine, be with her, I don’t give a shit”

“It looks like you do” Natasha tries to joke when you throw the clothes on the bed. “And Wanda’s not competing. She’s pregnant”

“Congratulations” you smirk, walking out of the room. Natasha stays annoyingly close and you’re aware of how small your apartment really is when you keep moving but there’s absolutely no way of putting distance between you two.

“Ok, now you’re just being an ass. You don’t believe I want to be with her”

You laugh, but it comes out as a sob. Natasha’s smile fades, and she tries to inch closer to touch you, but you step back. She doesn’t push it this time.

“You’re the one who was quick to assume I was flirting with Carol. The one that believed the article. It hurt, Natasha. Especially because I quit my job and my life to be with you”

Your words are met with silence. Not even an apology. Great.

“Wait” she says a second later when you’re opening the door to leave.

“Don’t. I need to be alone”

Luckily, she listens to you.

As you walk down the street to get some food (because yes, you’ll stress eat like you always do), Fury’s words come back.

You could change her mind.

But you don’t want to. She’s a grown woman, a professional athlete with a career to think about. If she wants to throw it all away, that’s fine.

That’s not your problem anymore.

“Hey, Y/N” Pat greets as you enter your favorite diner. “Shouldn’t you be at the Olympics?”

Since you left to travel with Natasha, there’s always a tennis tournament on their television. Apparently it’s a big deal for everyone when the camera pans to the player’s box and you’re there.

“Ah, I had to come back for a bit, I don’t think I’ll make it to Paris” you say, trying to avoid the topic.

“Is that why you weren’t at the Wimbledon game either?” the woman says with a frown and your eyes widen. “It was all the commentators were talking about, sweetheart. They said it was a miracle she won. You didn’t watch it?”

“Nope”

“Well” she turns to the screen and shushes a customer complaining about watching baseball. “There. Watch for a bit while I get you some food”

“Pat, it’s scary how much you know me” you smile in spite of yourself.

It’s a though watch. Natasha lost the first set and barely managed to get the second one in a tiebreak. You notice how she kept looking at the player’s box, and then shaking her head, muttering to herself.

Pat gets you a chesseburger, shaking her head at the way in which your eyes are glued to the screen.

During the break before the third set, she sat looking defeated, and you notice she was running her hands up and down her left arm.

Of course.

It’s the spot where you always write something or put on a smiley face before a match. A spot only she can see.

Even if you already know the result of the match, you cheer when she wins. Natasha doesn’t. It looks like she couldn’t care less about winning, she won’t even go to her box.

“Quite the watch, huh?”

“Yeah. It was… very stressful. I would have shouted at her if I had been there”

“Like your dad during the NBA playoffs?” Pat jokes and you laugh.

“Yeah. Would have gotten banned too”

“Here. Take this back to her. Sleep it off” she says, handing you a package with a burger. You nod, smiling when she tells you to go back home.

You’re walking back when the rain starts.

“Come on” you protest. To your surprise, Natasha meets you halfway there, holding an umbrella.

“Pat called me” she explains when you inch closer, feeling thankful as she shields you from the cold drops. “Come on, let’s go home”

Natasha places her hand around your waist, and even if it is only to keep you under the small umbrella, it makes your heart beat faster.

Once you’re back in the apartment, she places the umbrella in the hallway.

“I’ll get us some towels. Sorry, your food got wet”

“It’s ok” she smiles, taking the bag.

You go back to your room, getting rid of your wet clothes, and searching for a couple of towels among the mess you left earlier.

“Sorry, I should have knocked” Natasha says, but is unable to keep her eyes away from you.

“It’s ok” your voice shakes.

It feels like a small gift from fate. You’re never completely alone, you’re always thinking about the next tournament. But now, it’s just you and Natasha, and the rain drowning out the rest of the world.

She approaches you first, pulling you by the waist until you lean your head on her shoulder.

“You’re cold” she says against your temple.

“Let’s take a shower” you say, surprising her.

It also takes you by surprise, considering how pissed you were. Considering she hasn’t said she’s sorry.

But it feels like it’s been forever since she’s been yours and no one else’s. Your Natasha, not the tennis legend, the number one in the world.

No one can have her, not like you do.

“Ok” she nods after a second, allowing you to lead her by the hand. It’s a small shower, and definitely not as fancy as the ones in those hotels you stay at.

You laugh and giggle as you struggle to fit inside, and Natasha reaches behind you to get the water running.

“Nat!” you shriek when the cold water hits you. “It’s the other one”

“I always forget your shower’s messed up” she apologizes, and you push against her to run away from the stream. “Not that I’m complaining” she adds when you invade what little personal space is left in the shower.

Before you can protest further, she kisses you, slowly at first and then with more urgency.

“Feeling warmer?” she teases against your lips and you smile.

“Very much so”

Her hands travel to your waist, one trailing lower until her fingers are circling your clit.

“Nat” you sigh against her skin. She teases your entrance, and takes her time playing with your clit. It isn’t the friction that makes you come, it’s the soft kiss she places against your ear as you keep moaning.

“It’s ok, let go, baby. I got you”

And as you ride out your orgasm, digging your nails in her back, you feel complete again.

—

The sounds of the city wake you up. As you open your eyes and look up, Natasha is already awake, admiring you.

“Morning, detka”

“Were you watching me sleep like a weirdo?” you grumble, sinking further in her arms.

“I missed this view. Thought I’d never get it again”

You don’t say anything, and stay in her arms until your stomach protests.

“I’m making you pancakes” Natasha says, kissing your temple and leaving the bed.

Even if you want to stay in bed, you follow her to the kitchen and watch as she gets everythig she needs for breakfast.

“I’m surprised you have anything at all”

“Did some shopping the day I got here” you comment, and she nods, trying to act unfazed.

Natasha cooks in silence, and as she places a plate in front of you, kisses your temple.

“Can I say something?” Natasha asks after a beat of silence. You nod, bracing yourself for the worst. “For the last two years, you’ve done what I wanted. I never ask you what you want or need. So, today I want you to tell me what do you want me to do”

“I want you to go and win the gold medal” you answer.

“Will you come with me?”

“I have to stay here… think about what I want” you say. “Natasha, I love you but my life has been all about tennis for the past two years. And I did it because I love you and we’re a great team… but if you were to break up with me tomorrow, you’d still have your career. And what about me?”

“Look, you’re right. We make a great team. But you need to tell me things too. If I had known Alexei was threteaning you, I would have handled everything”

“I didn’t want to worry you” you say, looking away.

“You’re my biggest concern. My reason to do this” Natasha says, holding you by the chin. “I’m sorry I made you doubt it, detka”

You lean forward, kissing her. After a few moments in her arms, you take a deep breath.

“In the spirit of transparency… Ramonda offered me a job as Head of Communications of the WTA”

“What? That’s amazing! When do you start?”

“I haven’t accepted the offer. If I do, I won’t be able to be with you all the time, Nat” you smile sadly, knowing you couldn’t do that to her.

“If that’s what you want to do, I’ll support you” she says.

“Not sure yet. And anyway, with everything that happened the offer might be rescinded”

You eat in silence for a moment, thinking about the things you discussed with Natasha.

“I guess I’ll take the next flight to Paris”

“Call Stark, ask for the jet. It will be faster” you roll your eyes, knowing Natasha hates talking to the former professional turned business man.

“Pass”

“You’re so stubborn” you complain, and she kisses your cheek, taking your plate to wash it.

“So, any advice when I move back to clay?”

“Patience is rewarded. Agression is not” you say, the same way your father always told you when watching those tournaments.

“Agression is my thing” Natasha grumbles.

“I know. Which is why clay is not your best surface”

“I know” she smiles, walking back and carrying you to the bedroom. “Now, let’s do some cardio. Just so I can get back into shape”

—

“Passport? Money? Your special socks?” you check as Natasha goes over her small suitcase.

“Baby, I didn’t bring a lot with me. I didn’t even shower after the game. It’s fine” she says, walking to the door.

Natasha hesitates before reaching for the doorknob, turning to look at you. You frown, arms crossed as you try to figure out what she’s thinking.

“This isn’t how I wanted to do it” she sighs, reaching for her pocket and pulling out a small box. You gasp. “But I realise that this place feels like home. Because you’re here. I know we go to all these amazing locations and I could set up a romantic dinner or a huge show, anything to impress you. Hell, I even had it with me at every final this year, thinking I might propose after winning”

“Nat…”

“I know, you would hate that” she smiles, placing the box in your hand and looking at you. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If it is here, while you work and I become a personal trainer for wealthy, senile people, so be it”

“Oh, that would be fun to watch” you chuckle.

“You don’t have to answer yet. But know that I love you, and I’ll do anything to prove how much I want this. And apparently that includes winning a gold medal”

“I… I’ll think about it. Call me when you land?” you ask, taking her face in your hands, kissing her softly. “I love you more than anything, Natasha. The trophies are just a plus”

“Mean” she laughs against your lips, kissing you again. “See you soon”

“Yeah”

With a final kiss, Natasha closes the door and you’re left in your apartment, still holding the box.

You try to think of something else, distracting yourself with cleaning and sorting out some clothes. Natasha texts you when she’s about to board and that finally makes you open the box.

The ring is beautiful. Very simple, because that’s what you like, instead of some flashy, giant diamond. You put it on and it feels… right, like it’s meant to be.

“Screw it” you take your phone and dial Stark’s number. “Tony, hey! Have a small favor to ask”

—

There’s a lot of movement in the airport, tourists and athletes arriving for the Olympics. Natasha figured it was going to be chaos, so she told Fury there was no need to pick her up. Still, there’s a driver waiting for her at the arrivals section.

“This way, please” the man says politely, leading her to a black SUV.

“I told you not to pick me up…” she complains as soon as she’s inside, but it’s not Fury on the other side.

It’s you, smiling at her.

“I couldn’t miss this. Not when you’re about to make history” you smile, kissing her. She squeezes you in her arms, shaking and refusing to let go. “Hey, it’s ok”

“I love you”

“More than winning?” you tease and she laughs.

“Yes. A million times yes”

“Damn, you have it bad. Now, let’s get going. Fury’s gonna put you on a tight training schedule”

—

It’s been a week. As you obviously pointed out, Natasha needed a lot of practice in clay. The surface asks for consistency and patience, and she’s anything but patient.

Still, she’s made it to the final, and you’ve been at the player’s box every single day. The press is having a field day, speculating about your absence during Wimbledon.

“So, what do I get if I win this thing?” Natasha says when you go and wish her good luck before the final match.

“A vacation” you promise, pulling out a sharpie to write in her arm. “You can’t read it until the match is over. I’ll place a little bandaid over it because I’m sure you’ll cheat”

“Baby, not fair”

“Shh, just do as I say. There” you finish, grabbing her chin so she’s facing you again. You smile, kissing her softly. “You got this”

“I love you”

“I love you too” you smile, smacking her ass. “Go win this thing, baby”

The crowd cheers as Natasha steps into the court, and you sit by her family and Fury as she warms up.

“Do you think she’ll be extra mean because she’s playing against Danvers?” Yelena whispers as the match begins.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the pictures” Yelena says, smirking.

“No, come on. She knows nothing happened”

But then Natasha executes a move that leaves Carol on the floor, her shirt and shorts covered in clay.

Yelena whistles, laughing as Natasha gets another game with four aces in a row.

“Alright, yeah. She might still be a little pissed”

The first set goes on to be a little bit of the same, Natasha winning with an easy 6-4. For the second one, it becomes a close call. Whenever Natasha serves, she’s in control of the ball, but if it’s Carol’s turn, she manages to throw Natasha off her game.

“Third set” Fury says, when Carol wins the tiebreak by two points.

“She looks kinda tired” you frown, knowing the change of surface might be getting to her.

And it definitely shows when Carol wins the first two games, Natasha struggling to get a deuce on the third one. If she loses this one, then you feel like she’ll definitely not be able to come back from it.

“Is there anything we can do?” Melina says, and you think about it for a moment.

“Oh, boy. I hope I don’t get kicked out” you stand up, aware that several people (and their phone cameras) turn to you.

“Take off the bandaid!” you shout. The umpire glares, asking for silence. Thankfully, there’s no request for you to get kicked out.

Still, you watch as Natasha does what you ask, while Carol dries her hands and gets ready to serve. Once she reads what you wrote, she smiles, turning to look at you.

Then, a miracle. Carol throws what looks like a killer serve and Natasha returns it so fast that you have to do a doble take.

“Is it code for something dirty?” Yelena jokes when Natasha wins the third game and gets two aces for the next one.

You laugh, ignoring her question. She’s so close. Two games. Eight points.

“Serving for the match” Fury moves around in his seat, anxious.

Natasha tries to breath, turning to look at you and you smile, nodding. You mouth an I love you and blow her a kiss.

Then, an ace.

“Fastest serve she’s ever done” Melina comments, looking at her notes.

The last three points go by in a blur, as Carol is simply not playing right. Her last unforced error gives Natasha a match point.

It goes by in slow motion. How she throws the ball, lifting her racket. Her movements graceful, almost like a ballerina as she practically floats.

Carol returns the ball, but it gets stuck in the net.

The crowd goes wild, Natasha dropping to her knees after the realisation sinks in.

Carol waits for her at the net, smiling and hugging her. Natasha accepts the congratulations, going to greet the umpire and turning to you a moment later.

She goes through the sea of people, straight to lifting you up and kissing you.

“Do you mean it?” she says, looking at the thing you wrote.

Yes, I’ll marry you.

“Absolutely. Now, put the ring on it” you say, handing over the box discreetly so she can pull the ring out and slide it in.

“Congratulations!” Yelena says, hugging you both.

Natasha is called back to the court, and you wipe the tears as she talks to the interviewer.

“Thanks to my family, my trainer, and my fiancee…”

The crowd cheers, and you can’t help but laugh at how perfect everything is.

This is a day you’ll remember forever.

2 months later

“Darcy, what news do you have for us today?” Maria says, the screen splitting to show the producer turned reporter.

“Romanoff breezed through her first match and is the favorite to become the USO champion. This would mean she would be the youngest player to complete the Golden Slam in the Open Era. Her wife and a former collaborator of us was also there”

“I believe she’s joining the WTA team soon, isn’t that right?”

“As Head of Communications, yes. And it couldn’t have happened to a better person. Congrats Y/N, but you still owe me a beer”

“Well, let’s hope she finds the time to settle her debt” Maria laughs, but then frowns. “Hey, you said wife. Didn’t they get engaged recently?”

“Well, have a look at what Natasha said in her post match interview” Darcy says with a smile, the screen running a recording.

“Have you set a date yet?” one of the reporters ask.

“Actually, we got married last night” Natasha says, turning to look at you, and you’re blushing when you notice all eyes on you.

“Congratulations” another reporter says. “Can you share anything about the ceremony?”

“Just that we’re very happy and can’t wait to go on our honeymoon. But my wife says I need to win the USO first, so… I better get back to practice. Nice chat, everyone”

Natasha leaves the conference room, amidst questions and camera flashes. You greet her with a short kiss, smiling as she pulls you by the waist.

“Now everyone’s going to say you’re whipped”

“Aren’t I?” she jokes, kissing your temple. “Come on, let’s win this so I can have you all to myself for the next month”

“Relax, Mrs. Romanoff. We have our whole lives ahead” you kiss her, smiling as she squeezes your hand, her thumb running over your wedding ring.

“Forever and then some”

[luveline]

omg i loved the loopy wisdom teeth one w peter 😭😭 can i get that with hotch, and reader, who's usually more reserved starts flirting with him and stuff while she's loopy

ty!! and ty for ur request ♡ fem, 1.2k

"Most people have their wisdom teeth out in their teens," Aaron had said before you went in, a Spencer Reid tidbit if there ever were one. 

"I'm a special case," you'd said, accepting his kiss on the cheek but denying his half hug. "See you in a bit." 

People often lament that Aaron's ended up with a  woman so much like himself. You must make each other miserable, one ill-advised chancellor had said, to your amusement. 

We're desperately unhappy, you'd said back. 

The opposite is true. You and Aaron, or Aaron alone, at the very least, is as happy as he's ever been. Work is hard but manageable, Jack is well-tempered, growing smarter and kinder each day, and you're his sweetheart. You're reserved, a little solemn, but you understand him better than anyone ever has. It's a relief like no other to be known so well. 

And so he has zero qualms looking after you for the rest of your lives. He waits patiently for you to come out of surgery, arms behind his head in the empty waiting room. He's worried about you. This isn't a painless procedure. 

Footsteps echo down the hallway, but you announce yourself anyways in the doorway. "Handsome!" you say, a lisp to your happy sing-song, "I'm back." 

Aaron doesn't know what to say. He giggles like a kid at your sudden demeanour and sits up properly. "Honey." 

You wobble with the nurse at your back, prompting him onto his feet to take over. "You should remove the gauze in about half an hour when the bleeding has completely stopped. Clean daily with saline, there are instructions in the bag," the nurse says, offering Aaron a white prescription bag. "Okay?" 

"That's perfect. Thank you so much," he says, taking your hand. 

"You're perfect," you say, looking up at Aaron with stars in your eyes. 

The nurse laughs softly as she leaves. Aaron doesn't bother hiding his amusement, grinning at you as he puts his hand between your shoulders to guide you to the front of the building. 

It's busier here. Reception is hectic. Aaron puts his arm more firmly around you to stop people from bumping into you and you again look at him with your starry eyed gaze. "You're very tall," you say. 

"I am," he says. "Though you joke occasionally that I'm shrinking." 

"The only thing getting smaller is your waist," you say, poking at his abdomen, "my champion." 

You're referring to his recent third triathlon success. He's no record setter, but it keeps him active and happy in the summer months, and he can't pretend you don't appreciate the additional definition of his muscle during this time. You like him every month of the year, of course, but with his trim waist comes a certain amount of energy you also appreciate. 

"Completely inappropriate behaviour," he says lightly, waving a short goodbye to the receptionists as he holds open the door for you to pass by. "Next you'll be enacting PDA." 

"You'd like that, huh?" 

Hard to take any notice of you with gauze fluffing your words, and again, he laughs at you. "I'd love that." 

"Well, wait, I'll do it right here–" 

Aaron catches your hands mildly. "In the car first. Kiss after." Your downtrodden expression requires urgent care. "What, that's not okay? You're upset?" 

"No," you lie obviously, glaring down at your feet as you wobble forward. 

"Maybe we can wait until later, then." 

"What?" You gawp. "You just said in the car." 

"I'm teasing you," he says, taking your elbow. "We've been known to do that with one another on occasion. You know I'd happily kiss you anywhere you wanted to be kissed, honey, now watch your step on this curb. Watch your step. Good job." 

You're extremely pleased by his praise, leaning into his arm with your head tipped back. "You're so handsome. Can you kiss me now?" You soften your eyes. 

Alright, you have a little bit of bloody dribble on your bottom lip, and yes, there's this dazed look about you like you've had a mean shock, but you never look at him like this day to day. Perhaps in your more intimate moments, your arms around him when the lights are low, or early, early in the morning when you haven't yet remembered your more timid temperament. But it's so rare. It catches him off guard, how pretty and wanting you look. 

Aaron leans down for a careful kiss, the barest of pressure. 

"And a good kisser," you murmur, turning into his chest for a hug. "I love you, I want you to carry me to the car." 

"Sweetheart, I don't think I can," he says. He's mostly kidding in the depth of his apology, but there are real threads of remorse in his voice, hot as a flame. "Come on. We'll go home, okay?" 

"But you always do everything for me. Everything I ask for." You talk into his chest, likely leaving pink spit on the grey of his quarter zip. He couldn't care less, his arm around you, looking down with equal measures of fondness and surprise. "I had to stop saying I liked things because you kept buying me stuff. I love stuff." 

"Then why did you stop?" he asks quietly. 

"'Cos I know I don't deserve it. Don't deserve you, Aaron, you're the best man I've ever met. Can't believe it."

He savours your mumbling, and begins to walk forward slowly, encouraging you out of his chest as he formulates an answer for your confession with the same gravity. "You can't believe it?" 

"You're a tall glass of water." 

He actually sighs aloud. My girl, he thinks, rubbing your lax shoulder. "Alright. What if I thought the same of you? What then?" 

You giggle infectiously, a stickying sound like you know he's trying to trip you up. "Nice," you say. "We should always be like this." 

When he brings it up later, the extreme effects of your anaesthesia dissipated and your pain revamped, you can't think of anything worse. "I'm mortified," you whisper, your ice pack chilling the top of his arm where you've wedged it, your hand tucked between his thighs in an attempt to stay warm. 

"I quite liked it." 

"You would. You used to flirt with me so aggressively–" 

"Aggressively," he repeats, grinning. 

"–you're lucky I survived it." You sniffle, rubbing your nose into his sleeve. "Was I as intimidating as you are?" 

He presses his lips to the top of your head, not kissing, just there. "No," he says into your skin, "you weren't intimidating at all. Just lovely. It made my day." 

"I'll have to have my teeth taken out more often." 

He snorts. "If you'd rather have more teeth pulled than flirt with me unaided, things are worse than I thought." 

"Don't be like that..." Much quieter, "Will you rub my back again, please?"

Just like that, he's reminded of how much he likes your regular reserved attitude. "Sure, honey. Lean forward."

[emmylksblog]

TRAINING MORNING // HÉCTOR FORT

summary: a morning where you accompany héctor by waking up early to join him on his way to training. who would say bickering would make you be late?

genre: fluff, playful-banter

warnings: héctor's eyes are lethal on that selfie lord save us

a/n: after a long hiatus caused by uni stress i finally mastered enough motivation to write for my husband, can’t promise being consistent tho. also i’m proud of my babies they made it so far into the champions hope they bring the trophy home 🙂‍↔️

You were already dating Héctor Fort, and being close friends with both Cubarsí and Lamine too, they had casually invited you to come watch them train that day. It wasn’t an official visit, just a chill hangout between friends they’d say.

Héctor, of course, was absolutely over the moon. He tried to play it cool, but you knew him far too well not to notice how excited he really was.

That morning, though, had required a Herculean effort on your part. You’d have to wake up unusually early, basically around the same time Héctor got up for training. And considering you weren't a morning person, it had taken your boyfriend’s enthusiastic assistance to even get your eyes open.

He was more than happy to oblige, of course.

“Bebé…” he murmured against your cheek, peppering your face with soft kisses. “Wake up, princesa. Come on, we have to go.”

You only grumbled in response, half-asleep mumbles escaping your lips.

“No more kisses? That’s how you’re gonna do me this morning?”

When the kisses didn’t work, he resorted to his secret weapon: tickling. Your squeals broke through the still air as you both playfully wrestled in bed, almost starting a mock boxing match under the covers.

Eventually, after managing to pry you away from the warmth of the blankets, you headed downstairs for breakfast. Your jaw nearly dropped when you saw everything already prepared: pancakes and fresh orange juice for you, just the way he knew you liked it—and a cup of his precious ColaCao for him.

You looked at him like he had just hung the stars in the sky, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Ay, mi niño, how much I adore you. Does me coming to your training really make you this happy? Maybe I should do it more often.”

He blushed immediately, giving you a playful smack on the butt and gently pushing you toward the kitchen island. It was his way of brushing it off, he was getting shy, and that only made your heart melt more because it didn’t happen often, at least not as much as you wanted to.

“I love you,” you said with a smile.

He didn’t answer right away. He had just taken a massive bite of pancake, chewing happily when you turned to look at him, waiting for a reply. you nudged his shoulder, laughing as he started coughing.

“Oh my god, babe, it was just two words! Or do I still make you nervous, huh?”

You handed him a glass of water and patted his back while he tried to recover.

Finally, after a long gulp and a laugh that still sounded like a cough, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulled you close, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Stop acting all tough. You’re the one who wouldn’t stop asking for cuddles yesterday,” he teased.

You pinched his side in retaliation, making him flinch and rub the spot dramatically.

“Well now it’s not even worth being sweet anymore,” you huffed, pretending to be offended and turning away slightly.

Héctor, clearly done with your daily back-and-forths, decided to end the teasing in a way you didn’t see coming. His hands slid around your waist, and you felt him press his body against your back. Curious, you let him.

Then, without warning, he pulled you toward him in one swift move and settled you on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Caught completely off guard, you looked up into his brown eyes—the same ones that had driven you crazy since day one. Now they gleamed with mischief, but there was something else too. Something softer. Something that looked a lot like adoration.

He gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear and caressed your cheek with his thumb.

“Finally got you to sit still,” he whispered, your faces only inches apart.

His voice, the intimacy of it, the warmth of his breath against your skin, it made goosebumps rise all over you. Your cheeks flushed instantly, and of course, that smug half-smile spread across his face, the one he always wore when he knew he’d won.

He resumed eating as if nothing had happened, while you still sat on his lap, stunned into silence. One, two, three bites…and then you cut in. Turning around, you pressed a kiss to his lips, then guided the hand holding his fork toward your mouth.

Héctor watched you with that “I-can’t-believe-you-did-that-but-I-love-you-even-more-for-it” look on his face.

“So that’s how you wanna play, huh, diablilla?” he said, giving your waist an affectionate squeeze.

You just shrugged, savoring the stolen bite. His food always tasted better, you still didn’t get why.

“So now you’re not talking to me?” Héctor teased again, resting his chin on your shoulder.

You ignored him, busy with your own breakfast now.

But he wasn’t giving up that easily. He started pressing soft kisses to your bare shoulder as you were wearing a tank top, and ran his hands slowly up and down your arms in soothing motions.

You weren't about to push him away. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t love this.

Then it hit him.

“Oh… cielo. Cariño. Mi vida. You do know I love you, right?”

Your boyfriend, occasionally slow on the uptake, a total contrast to how fast he was on the pitch, had just realized he hadn’t said I love you back earlier.

“Yeah, yeah, I know… but it doesn’t hurt to hear it, you know? Next time you leave me on ‘I love you’ read, I’ll ignore you for a whole day and we’ll see if you keep up the tough guy act.”

You grabbed his jaw and gently moved his face side to side in mock scolding.

“You’re mean when you want to be,” Héctor said, his voice low. “But I love that about you. And you know I can’t resist you.”

He didn’t waste a second before capturing your lips in a series of kisses, whispering te quiero between each one.

“God, I’m so in love with you, Héctor,” you murmured, hands resting on his chest.

You pressed one last kiss to his lips before turning and leaning into him, resting your head there. He adjusted his hold, wrapped his arms around you protectively, and placed a kiss on your cheek.

He knew you were definitely going to be late to training now, but he didn’t care. Not yet. He just wanted a few more minutes with the girl he adored.

You were worth every second.

this was supposed to be longer but it's 5:17 am and i can barely see what i'm writing so if yall want a continuation leave a heart or comment, hope you liked it!

[musings-of-a-rose]

Could I request Benny x female reader where they engage in mutual masturbation and they make out throughout?

Touch

Pairing: Benny Miller x best friend f!reader

Word Count: 1900+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: Listen. This was a hot ask. I'll admit, I had to think on this one a bit (and that was mostly staring at the wall). A huge thanks to @mermaidxatxheart as usual for listening to my Ted Talks and insecurities.

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

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**Reader is not described

Main Masterlist

Benny Miller Masterlist

“The date went bad I take it?” Benny’s eyebrows are raised as he motions for me to come inside his apartment. He closes the door behind me as I huff.

“He kept taking out his phone and texting. His mom. He was giving her a play by play of our date.”

Benny chuckled. “What? During your date?”

I kick off my heels and set them on his shoe mat. “I’m all for strong family bonds, but maybe wait until after the date? I could barely talk to him. It was literally every 2 minutes.”

Benny chuckled again. “Well I’m sorry it sucked. You’re welcome to come finish this terrible movie I’m watching.”

I follow Benny to his couch, plopping down next to him. We’d been best friends for years. He was always someone I could count on to be there for me, good or bad. He never judged or questioned me, but somehow always seemed to have an answer to my problems. He hands me a drink and offers me some popcorn from the giant bowl in his lap. I grab a handful and watch whatever b horror movie is on the tv. 

“Ugh even the ugly ass monster in this bad movie is getting laid why can’t I?”

Benny coughs, choking a little on his popcorn. “What?”

Fuck, I said that out loud. 

“I uh…nothing.”

He takes a swig from his drink, clearing the last of the popcorn. “Afraid no one will touch you again?”

I groan, but I’m also desperate for advice. “No. Well…maybe. It’s not even sex. I just want someone to touch me again. Someone that’s not me or Henry Cavill.”

Benny laughs, his head flying back. “You know Henry Cavill?”

I can feel the heat on my cheeks, but I’ve already said it. “That’s…that’s the name of my vibrator.” His laughter is contagious and I can’t stop myself from smiling. He makes some quips about it and then something happens in the movie that captures our attention. 

“I can help you with that if you’d like.”

My head snaps in his direction. “What?” Did he just offer to…surely not.

He turns his head, his bright blue eyes boring into mine, a sparkle in them. “I can help you with your problem.”

Heat burns my cheeks and I’m grasping at words. Surely he doesn’t mean…he can’t…without thinking, I glance down at his hands, the grip on his bottle, and how small it looks in them. I swallow hard.

“Ben, be serious.”

He leans forward, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he places his bottle on the coffee table before sitting back, casually laying an arm across the back of the couch as if he didn’t just suggest shoving his hand down my pants. 

“I’m serious, sweetheart. Look, you’ve had a really rough go of it. And I would make sure you were taken care of. You’re too pent up. Let some steam out.”

I shift slightly in my seat, which doesn’t go unnoticed by him. It’s not that I’ve never thought about it. Benny is extremely attractive. I just never would ever think he’d be ok with that with me. For me? I can’t even think. 

“Ben…I can’t lose your friendship. That would break me.”

He extends a long finger from the hand that’s across the back of the couch and pokes my head. “Do you think I’d ever let that happen?”

I swat at his hand out of reflex. “Is that something we could control though?”

He thinks for a moment. “It’s us. We’re best friends. We take care of each other. I think we’d be fine.”

“But what if it changes everything?”

He takes my hand in his large one, completely engulfing me. He looks into my eyes and does that thing where his eyebrows pull together and makes me melt. “I promise to not let it change the way I feel about you. Do you promise?”

Could I make that promise? The not-so-minor crush I’ve harbored for him for years is begging. Your feelings won’t change because you already like him. 

“How would…I mean, what would you…”

Benny shifts to face me better. “I’d touch you however you need me to. Maybe make out a little bit if you need to be distracted.”

I press my thighs together, hoping that he didn’t notice. But judging by the way he shifts and his eyes darken slightly, I think he very much noticed. Pressing my thighs together did nothing to quell the heat, my body begging me to just let me be touched. I feel safe with Benny and I know he’d never cross a line. My skin is hot thinking about it and I finally cave, promising myself that we’d still be friends. Just friends that gave each other a hand sometimes. 

Before I can talk myself out of it, I nod, moving to undo the button on my pants. Benny reaches out and stills my hand with his own and I look up at him.

“I need you to say it out loud, sweetheart.”

I swallow hard, trying my best to give him eye contact. Were his eyes always so blue? 

“Y-yes.”

“Yes, what? I need specifics.”

I let out a huff and this fucker chuckles. “Touch me, Benny. I..want you to touch me.”

Benny scoots closer to me on the couch, his leg pressed against mine. His large hand cups my cheek as he dips his head close to mine, his breath puffing out over my face, fanning the anticipatory fire between my thighs. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers. 

“Yes.” 

I barely get it out before his lips are on mine, soft but guiding, his tongue gently probing at my lips. I open them and his tongue slides inside my mouth, gracefully dancing with my own as he moans slightly into me. Both of his hands are on my face now, cupping my cheeks as he continues to kiss me. Then one moves to the back of my head, slightly gripping my hair as he tips my head back, exposing my neck to him. I gasp as his teeth skirt along my skin, gently nipping and kissing along my pulse point. The hand that isn’t entangled in my hair starts to glide down my body, barely even fumbling as he unbuttons my pants. But he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Over my jeans, he caresses my inner thighs as I spread my legs, tracing the line where my underwear sits, up and down, up and down, driving me mad. My heart is racing, pounding against my ears. I feel him pause just above my mound and I want to cry. 

“Can you slide your pants off for me?” He breathes into my ear. My hands fumble as I try to shove and kick my pants off, ignoring the smirk on Benny’s face as the pants land somewhere across the room. 

“Panties too. Promise I won’t look.” He covers his face, a large gap between his fingers where his eye is obviously looking out. 

“Don’t you need to see?”

He closes the gap in his fingers but keeps his eyes covered. “Nope. Your sounds will guide me to where I need to be.”

Fuck. Me.

I toss my underwear somewhere by my pants. “Ok I’m-”

I have no time to think because he’s back on me, kissing me hard, like he’s never needed anything so bad. My fingers tangle in his hair, the cool air from his apartment hitting my bare skin, but I don’t care. Benny’s large hand is on my inner thighs again, tracing circles, but also pushing them open. I keep them where he leaves them, my body practically shaking with anticipation.

One long finger slides down me and I jolt, my thighs trying to close, but he pushes them back open before resuming his touch. He slides all the way down to my entrance, gently tracing circles there and I gasp, my eyes still closed as I let myself get lost in his touch. Our foreheads are pressed together, his own breaths coming out a little more ragged as he drags his dampened finger back up me, pausing when my legs jump. He takes his time at this spot, small circles across my clit, fast and slow, fast and slow, my breaths coming out in small, fast pants. 

He slows his movements, gently pushing a finger inside me. I moan, louder as he pulls out and adds a second finger, curling them inside of me as he moves them in and out. One spot has me gasping his name and that’s where he stays, curling and rubbing inside of me as his thumb resumes circling my clit, slow and fast, gentle and harder, the pressure building quick and fast. I grip his wrist and he stills. 

“Can I touch you? I want you to come with me.”

He nods and I move my hand over and undo his button, sliding his zipper down gently. He’s already hard, straining against his boxers. I lower them enough for him to spring free and he grunts. I grip his wrist again and pull his hand out of me with a whimper, but then slide him back in and out, fucking myself with his hand a few times as he moans in my ear. Then I take his wet hand and rub it against my palm, dropping his hand back on me before gripping him with my slicked hand. He whimpers, swearing under his breath before he pushes his fingers inside me again, immediately resuming the slow curling and rubbing, his thumb pressing gently on my clit. I slowly work him up and down, squeezing harder and softer, matching my pace to his. He kisses me hard but then breaks it, our foreheads pressed together as we pant and moan. 

In some super move, he pushes me onto my back, his hand still firmly working me over, my legs spread wide as he settles between them, fucking his hips into my hand. His arm strains next to me as he holds himself up, curling his fingers a little deeper, swirling a little more and I can’t hold back anymore. I cum, his name tumbling from my lips in praise, my legs twitching as I pulse around his fingers. Another few presses of his hips and Benny grunts, small pants coming from him as he spills himself over my stomach, my shirt hiked up to my chest. We stay like that for several long moments, both of us trying to catch our breaths. His eyes open and meet mine, holding my gaze for a moment before he blinks, pulling his hand from me as he sits up. He tucks himself back in as he looks around, shrugs, then reaches behind him and pulls his shirt up and over his head. He drops his shirt on my cunt, using the sleeve to clean off my stomach, to hold up his promise of not looking. He glances down and picks up my underwear and pants, handing them to me as he turns his head away. I make sure I’m cleaned off before getting dressed, sitting back down on the couch, the movie still playing on in the background. Minutes pass in silence between us, my stomach twisting in knots with every passing second. 

Benny clears his throat. “So…are we never talking about this again or can I finally take you on a date?”

My eyes snap up to him, his already on me. There’s no pressure here, he’d be ok if I said we’re never talking about it again. But that’s not what I want. 

“Just so long as we can have dessert at home.”

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