#I know some of these personalities are for a different gender but I don’t really care….

[seagull-scribbles]

An enchanting neighbourhood

[drill-teeth-art]

Wow! Here’s something incredibly personal.

This is Good Bi Gender. A comic I made to express some feelings I have about my gender. I don’t really have that much else to say about it. Here it is.

[Image Description: A digital comic made with sharp, angular abstract lines and only the colors white, blue, pink, and black. The featured character is all white, except for facial features and hair colors, which changes from panel to panel. The comic reads: Cover Panel: The text "Good Bi Gender", the words colored with the trans flag. It shows a glitchy person's face, half pink and half blue. Panel 1: White text reads: "Hello. My name is apparently irrelevant. And my pronouns are he/him and she/her. But you can't call me she/her. And here's why." Someone with a half-pink and half-blue shirt looks to the side. One eye is covered with hair, and the other eye is pink while the iris is blue.

Panel 2: The character sits happily, imagining facial hair and a masculine voice. "I don't want top surgery. I love my chest. And I dream about being on testosterone someday soon." The character looks at a phone, frowning. The phone shows the male symbol with an "X" through it. Text next to it reads: “People don't seem to think that the features I dream of are very pretty though... Or they think even worse of them than that…”

Panel 3: The character’s features are all pink, and sits in a blank frame. The character reaches over to a blue frame, frowning. “I don't like the animosity. I really despise it.” A photo of the character shows an all-blue frame and blue hair, with pink outlines and facial features. “To be a boy... I aspire to be one. I aspire to be masculine in all its handsomeness. All its prettiness.” Panel 4: The character sits in an all blue panel, but reaches back out to the pink panel. “And I'm still a girl too. I was so excited to have both. To love both. To have handsome femininity. Beautiful masculinity.” The frames break and connect, and pink and blue swirl together. The character smiles in between the frames, with one pink eye and one blue eye. “So excited. And yet I get asked…”

Panel 5: Two hands hold out two different pills to the character, one blue and one pink. They ask “Male? or Female?” using the male and female symbols.The character, facial features an array of pink and blue, looks between the two hands, distressed. “It's both! I'm both! They're not opposites. Not narrow boxes. I say I'm both despite the insistence that I can't be. And I know what I look like. I know I look like a girl to most. I know that if I say people can call me she, that's all I will get from most. Because it's "easier". It "makes more sense". To have my masculinity, I am often forced to be unflinching in it and it alone. To never use she. Because if I don't, I will never get to have he.” [The words "she" and "he" are italicized.] Panel 6: Text reads: “I'm still very happy to be so comfortable in my identity. To know, despite all that, that I am indeed a boy and a girl and both. But you know. Telling people to only use he/him for me. Guarding my masculinity all just to have it. All at the expense of the part of me who is happily and unashamedly a girl.” The character cries from one pink eye, the other hidden. The character holds a pink girl in a sea of blue, the girl crying out. In the midst of the blue, text reads: “Well, it fucking breaks her heart.” End ID]

Edit: @starberry-skies wrote an ID for the comic, so I added it to the og post with its permission!

[genderkoolaid]

In Los Angeles, one of the queerest cities in the United States, there are surprisingly few spaces where trans masculine individuals can find solidarity and community. For some, trying to fit into queer spaces after transitioning can be an isolating experience once they start to pass as men. “In general, people can’t necessarily look at me and know that I’m trans,” says Devyn Payne, jumping rope outside to warm up ahead of his match. It’s now different for him to enter LGBTQ+ rooms where lesbians might read him as a straight man or gay men might not recognize him as trans. “Passing as a Black man, my experience has been different in sapphic spaces ... I don’t necessarily feel welcomed [anymore].” The 27-year-old used to wrestle competitively in high school, but three years after coming out as trans he is now rediscovering his joy in the sport and reconnecting with the queer community in a different way — tonight by wrestling another trans man in a neon green jock strap under the alter ego “T-Payne.”

“Before I went to my first Trans Dudes of LA event, I had no trans men friends,” Payne says. “I can’t necessarily relate to [cisgender men]. So it’s great to have people who I can talk about the changes of being on testosterone.” [...] In this room full of transgender people, the weight of a gender binary disappears. Masculinity becomes play material, a performance to bend and break. People dressed for the part exude “Brokeback Mountain” homo-eroticism, another pair act out a construction worker role-play in a BDSM scene in which a plastic hammer is shoved in the mouth. Cal Dobbs, dressed for the part as a judge for the tournament, wears a white wig reminiscent of the founding fathers and a thong under his black robes. (“RBG, classic sex symbol,” Dobbs explained of his costume inspiration from the late Supreme Court Justice.) “Trans men and trans masculine people are redefining masculinity,” says the 27-year-old, who was the first trans person to run across the transcontinental United States. “[Wrestling] is a hyper masculine sport, [but the competitors] bring an element of humor and romance and cuteness to it that makes everyone feel really comfy and safe.” [...] In the weeks leading up to the big performance, Elías Naranjo and Arón Sánchez-Vidal had practiced their wrestling routine weekly for a month, familiarizing themselves with consent and boundaries to make sure they wouldn’t hurt each other. “I was asking them, ‘Is it OK if we kiss? Is it OK if I pick you up and grind on you?’ And he was like, ‘Yeah, I’m open to it,’ ” says Naranjo. But on the spot the two also decided to improvise as Sánchez-Vidal took his testosterone shot on the wrestling mat — a moment met with thunderous applause. The two entered the ring waving Mexican and Peruvian flags dressed as vaqueros. “EL VAQUERO... STR8 4 PAY?” read a sign that Sánchez-Vidal’s girlfriend had made to cheer on her partner. “There’s so much in being brown and trans and queer,” says Naranjo. “We want to show up and take up space ... we’re Peruvian, hot and trans.” The two won best partners, splitting a $150 cash prize at the end of the tournament. Inclusiveness was on the forefront of co-organizers Miller and Bandrowski’s minds as they planned this event. They prepped over 200 hot dogs to feed their hungry fans, a hot and heavy playlist to rally their attendees, and hired ASL interpreters to make the event accessible for deaf members of the queer community. This was their biggest event yet.

[amirasainz]

Can you please do driver reader is literally the absolute Angel of the paddock and everyone adores her, she’s the cutest sweetest little bean that you can’t help but love, she’s a Redbull driver and Christian always fawns over her and talks about his ‘daughter’ ( it’s clear she’s the favourite ). Even the older drivers love her e.g kimi, jenson, Seb, mark. Platonic pleaseeee

Omg, that is such a sweet idea. I did the format a bit differently, hope you don't mind.

Enjoy reading and send me some requests!!!

-XoXo

The Redbull Princess

YN YLN was a known name in the motor sport world. Not only was she the youngest driver currently on the grid - only 19 years - but she is the first female to ever drive for RedBull. Not oy that, but also the only woman on the grid.

Despite having a different gender, the other drivers never treated her bad. In fact, one could say that YN got the whole "Princess Treatment" from the drivers and teams. Each driver has taken a special place in her life.

Exhibit A: The protective one

The paddock was buzzing with energy, reporters swarming like bees near the Red Bull garage. YN was prepping for her media rounds, already feeling the weight of the spotlight on her. As she stepped into the press pen, a group of journalists immediately approached, firing off questions.

"YN, how do you feel about the pressure of being the youngest driver? Do you think it affects your performance?"

Before she could answer, Max appeared out of nowhere, slipping between her and the reporters with a grin that was anything but friendly. "I think that's enough for now," Max said, his blue eyes narrowing. "She’s got a race to focus on. Back off."

The reporters, visibly intimidated by the reigning World Champion, quickly shuffled away. YN let out a breath of relief, nudging Max with her elbow.

"You know, I can handle them."

Max chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, steering her away from the crowd. "Yeah, but why would I let them bother you when I can have fun scaring them off?"

"You're impossible," she laughed. "But thanks."

Exhibit B: The gossip King

YN walked into the Ferrari garage, still buzzing from practice. She found Charles leaning against his car, drinking water. His face lit up when he saw her.

"Charlie! Did you see that move I pulled in turn 9?" she said, excitedly plopping down next to him.

Charles grinned, instantly slipping into gossip mode. "I did! Smooth as butter. But did you hear about Fernando's radio message? He was furious about the tire degradation. Drama!"

YN's eyes widened. "No way! Spill all the tea, Leclerc."

Charles leaned in, whispering. "Apparently, his engineer told him to manage his tires better, and Nando snapped, saying, ‘I am managing them!’" He mimicked Fernando’s accent, making YN burst into laughter.

Exhibit C: The helping hand

The young RedBull driver just exited her car, when she felt someone grabbing her Birking Bag. When she quickly turned her head, she was meat with the sight of Carlos not only caring her bag in his hands and her coat on his arm, but carring his own stuff as well.

"Carlito, what are you doing? You don’t have to carry all my stuff for me." she told him, after they started walking towards the entrance.

Carlos mate an irritated sound, before responding to her. "Nonsense, hermana. Your job is to win this weekend. So let me help you with all the other things, comprende?"

Before Carlos could get an answer, she threw her arms around him, whispering a small thank you in his ear.

Exhibit D: The personal chef

YN sat in the Red Bull hospitality area, poking at her plate of food with a discontented look. Yuki walked over, noticing her lack of enthusiasm.

"Not good enough for you, huh?" Yuki teased, sliding into the seat across from her.

YN scrunched up her nose. "I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t eat this."

Without missing a beat, Yuki stood up. "I’ll make you something. What do you want?"

Her eyes brightened. "Yuki, really? You don’t have to!"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, you’re picky. I know that. What do you want? Miso soup? Onigiri?"

YN tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Onigiri sounds perfect."

Within minutes, Yuki was back, placing a plate of freshly made onigiri in front of her. YN took a bite and sighed contentedly. "You're the best, Yuki."

He grinned. "I know."

Exhibit E: The "annoying" prankster

YN was busy trying to make sure her helmet and gear were ready when suddenly, her entire backpack fell off the counter with a loud thud, spilling everything.

"Lando!" she yelled, spinning around, catching the British driver grinning like a mischievous child.

"What?" Lando said, feigning innocence, hands up. "It slipped."

YN gave him a look but couldn’t help the smile creeping on her face. Lando always knew how to lift her spirits, even if it was through relentless pranks.

"One day, Norris, one day!" she warned, pointing a finger at him.

"I’ll be waiting," Lando chuckled, before helping her pick up her things

Exhibit F: The shoulder to cry on

"I just can't believe it. I was so close. How did I manage to bin the car into the wall on the last corner" muttered the 19 year old. Her face pressed in Oscars neck, who was busy stroking her hair. He knew better than to interrupt her during her rant. Knowing it would help her when she got everything of her chest.

After a moment, she shakily breathed out. Oscar knew that the only thing he could do now was to let her fall apart while he would catch every piece of her.

And that's what he did. While she cried her heart out, Oscar held her close to him, rocking them slowly in a soothing matter. It felt like nothing could happen to her in Oscars arms. He would protect her from the outside world as long as she needed

Sometimes actions speak louder than words

Exhabit G: The fashionista

Lewis stood beside YN, eyeing her racing suit critically before smirking. "That’s not gonna work."

"What do you mean?" she asked, confused.

He pointed at her boots. "Those shoes? No way. They don’t match the rest of the suit."

YN raised an eyebrow. "I'm not trying to walk the runway, Lewis. I’m racing."

Lewis rolled his eyes. "You can do both. Come on, let’s get you a new pair of shoes. You’ll thank me later."

And true to his words, YN received a new pair of racing shoes only a few hours later. They certainly looked better than her old pair.

Exhibit H: The mother-hen

George was hovering near the buffet in the paddock, watching YN closely as she piled food onto her plate. He narrowed his eyes as she bypassed the salad section.

"YN, you need to eat more greens. And have you had any water today?" George asked, his tone dangerously close to motherly.

YN groaned. "George, I’m fine. I had water this morning."

"That’s not enough," he replied sternly, filling a glass and handing it to her. "Drink. Now."

She pouted but took the glass. "Okay, Mom."

Exhibit I: The proud dad

During a press conference, Christian Horner stood beside YN, smiling at the reporters. "You all know my daughter here is the star of the show," he said, gesturing towards YN.

YN blushed at the comment. "Christian!"

The reporters laughed, but YN knew Christian wasn’t entirely joking. He had taken her under his wing from day one, treating her like family. And she couldn’t have been more grateful.

Exhibit J: Bwoah

In a rare quiet moment, YN had somehow convinced Kimi Räikkönen — the Iceman himself — to do a TikTok trend with her. As the camera rolled, Kimi deadpanned his way through the trend, barely moving but somehow nailing it.

"Thanks for doing this, Kimi," YN said, grinning as they finished.

Kimi shrugged. "Bwoah, don’t mention it, kid. But don’t tell the other drivers that you are my favourite"

YN laughed. "Deal."

[honeypiehotchner]

Operation Lovebirds (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- oneshot

Happy belated Valentine's Day! In the spirit of making myself feel better, here's some unashamed fluff in between updates of The Gambit!

Summary: You make plans for the team to get drinks together after work on Valentine’s Day in an effort to make yourself feel better after a sudden breakup. The team decides to play matchmaker instead 😉

Warnings: oblivious reader, oblivious Hotch, PINING, YEARNING, past relationship/breakup woes, gender neutral terms for reader's ex, hotch is divorced but no foyet arc, awkward flirting (i think), happy ending ofc!!!

WC: ~5,200

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Aaron Hotchner since you started working at the BAU a year ago, it’s that he doesn’t go out.

You’re not really sure what it is that stops him, because even Rossi comes out with the team most nights, but in the year that you’ve been here, Hotch has come out three whole times. Three. In a year.

So, naturally, you’re the first to let the pure surprise show on your face when Hotch agrees to go out tomorrow night. In fact, you laugh.

He doesn’t.

“Oh my god,” you pause, smacking Morgan’s arm. “He’s being serious. Somebody get the champagne! Get me a calendar, I need to mark it.”

Hotch rolls his eyes at you, but there’s a small smile fighting at the corners of his lips like always when he hears your jokes. “Don’t get too excited. I might change my mind.” 

(The truth is, after seeing how excited you are, he won’t change his mind. He hasn’t seen you smile in a week.)

A week ago, the person you were dating broke things off rather randomly. You aren’t even sure if you can consider them as someone you were in a relationship with, since based off their final message to you, it seems they didn’t see things that way. Regardless, it ended, and it was something that, for the first time, you had high hopes for. You thought it might’ve been real.

So, yeah, Hotch hasn’t seen you smile in a week. He knows something is wrong, but hasn’t had the courage to ask, in case he’s overstepping. The two of you get along just fine to work together, and you’ve had a few heart-to-hearts over the months, especially on late night flights when everyone else is asleep and you’re the only two wide awake. But those feel…different than this.

Hotch is just happy that his idea worked. He knew if he could joke about going out, it would put the bug in your ear, and you’d make the plans. Which is how he found himself agreeing to go out to a bar tomorrow after work.

Tomorrow just so happens to be Valentine’s Day. So what if Hotch selfishly wanted to spend the day with you in some capacity outside of the office, but was too scared to ask outright? So what if he’s a little happy at the fact that you have no plans other than inviting everyone out to drinks?

He’s a little worried given that he thought you were seeing someone, but he thought that was his imagination. You never mentioned dating anyone to anyone on the team, Hotch was just putting pieces together to hurt his own feelings.

Except. You haven’t smiled in a week, and you’re suddenly free for drinks after work…on Valentine’s Day.

Hotch tries not to think about it too much. He doesn’t want to think about you being sad any more than he’s had to this past week with your silent moods and halfway smiles. That alone has already twisted something into a knot in his chest.

“This is perfect!” your excitement is palpable. “This might be the first time I get everyone out at once. Derek, do not let me down. Bring your date!”

“Fine, fine,” Derek concedes. “I’ll ask her if she wants to come -- after her and I have had a very romantic dinner,” he smirks.

You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder in the same sibling way you always interact with Morgan, but Hotch watches you carefully, noticing the hint of sadness behind your eyes.

Fuck. You were seeing someone. That’s the only explanation, and they broke your heart -- a week before Valentine’s Day, might he add -- and it must’ve felt real to you because why else would you have that devastated look in your eyes?

Hotch, unsurprisingly, has harbored somewhat of a schoolgirl crush for you since about a month after you started working at the BAU. It took Rossi precisely one week to notice, but you’re going on month eleven of being blissfully unaware. Morgan has given Hotch a couple knowing looks but has yet to call him out on it. If JJ and Emily know (and they do), they haven’t said anything, least of all to you. Garcia is well aware after she caught Hotch watching you wistfully from his office one afternoon, but she hasn’t mentioned anything to you.

Rossi has, of course, tried to talk Hotch into making a move -- even a half-move, a hint of a move -- but Hotch refuses. Mostly because he had suspicions you were seeing someone, but also because he just can’t imagine someone like you having the same feelings for someone like him. It’s bizarre.

As everyone listens to your giddy pre-planning of where to go for drinks and what to wear, knowing looks are shared by the team -- looks that you and Hotch are left out of.

+++

You’re trying on the fourteenth outfit and trying to hold yourself together when you nearly cancel drinks to lie in bed in a pit of despair.

But that’s dramatic and irrational, so you try on a fifteenth outfit, say fuck it, and grab your car keys.

You’ll be a little early to the bar, but you don’t mind. Might as well get out before you lose the will to go back out again.

You just couldn’t stomach sitting inside, alone on Valentine’s Day, not during this rollercoaster of emotions that you’re feeling. Especially not now.

It’s not that you thought you had found the one, it’s the fact that you thought maybe they are. It’s not the fact that you were certain, it’s that you were so hopeful. You really thought things would go farther than that, and you never thought the crash and burn would be so random. 

You really thought this time was different. Because it felt different, it felt good. Only for it to end the same as always. 

You should be used to it by now, you think. People being uncertain of you. People being uncertain of how they want you in their lives. This isn’t the first time you’ve been in a relationship with someone only for them to decide that suddenly they aren’t ready for a relationship. It doesn’t make any more sense than it did the last time, but this one certainly knocked the wind out of you from how unexpected it was.

No matter, though. Because tonight you’re dancing, laughing with friends, and hopefully smiling so hard that you forget about it all hurting so much.

When you get to the bar, you’re the first one there, so you slide up to the bar and wave the bartender down, getting started with your first drink.

Unfortunately, no one cute catches your eye -- yet. You’re not exactly sure if you want to flirt with anyone tonight, but it could be fun. Could take your mind off things.

You’re halfway done with your first drink when Derek texts the group chat. Dinner got a little delayed. See y’all in a bit.

You roll your eyes, knowing exactly what he means by delayed. You snort and text back telling him it’s fine.

JJ is next. Couldn’t find a babysitter so Will and I are staying in! So sorry guys!

You frown, but it’s fine. You were worried about whether they'd be able to find a babysitter so soon.

No one else says a word, so you assume they’re all free.

Except that they don’t show.

You’re getting a little annoyed as the minutes tick by until you see, like a knight in shining armor, Aaron Hotchner walks through the doors.

You smile in pure relief and disbelief that he’s actually here, waving him over. He spots you and a soft smile settles on his lips, making a beeline for you at the bar.

Couples are sitting on either side of you, so Hotch stands behind you, your body suddenly very aware of how close he is.

“You look surprised to see me,” he teases.

You stare up at him, mystified. “Because I am.”

Hotch orders a whiskey on the rocks and another of whatever you’re having, opening a tab. Your brain short circuits a moment too late when you realize he’s just bought you a drink.

You don’t mention it, unsure of what exactly it means. Or what exactly you want it to mean.

When the bartender brings the drinks over, Hotch leans down to speak to you over to growing crowds and conversations. “There’s an open booth over there if you want to move somewhere more comfortable?”

Your mind spins with all kinds of inappropriate thoughts as you nod. “Booth sounds nice.”

You were unaware of just how many people had flooded into the bar since Hotch arrived, your focus clearly all on him and how close he was to touching you. Your fingers lightly touch Hotch’s back as you follow him through the crowd to the booth that he can see with his height.

Finally, you spot it, a miraculously free two-person booth at a table with a small lamp in the middle. It casts just enough shadows on Hotch’s face to make him look infinitely more attractive (something you hadn’t thought possible).

You’ve harbored a foolish crush on your boss since, well, the very beginning. It’s embarrassing.

Because you know that not only will he never feel the same way, it’s also highly against the rules at work and would be beyond frowned-upon. So, you suffer in silence, and try desperately not to think about what it might feel like to just kiss him. Just once.

That’s the alcohol and loneliness talking. You need to pull yourself together.

There’s precisely ten minutes of small talk before Hotch goes straight for the heart.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

For anyone else, it’s an unassuming question. It’s simple. It almost falls into the category of small talk, except it doesn’t. Not for two FBI profilers.

Still, you try to deflect with a shrug. “I’m alright. As alright as someone chronically single can be on Valentine’s Day, I guess. What about you?”

He’s not exactly in a different boat. He’s been single ever since his divorce a few years ago, as far as you know -- and you imagine you’d know because these sort of things get around in the BAU. The nosiest unit in the FBI, you always joke.

Hotch mirrors your shrug. “I’m alright.” He pauses, studying you. “I only ask because you’ve seemed…down lately.”

You grimace.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he quickly adds, almost scrambling. “I know this is odd, I’m your boss and we’re sitting at a booth in a bar on Valentine’s Day, but, I want you to know, if you do want to talk -- about anything -- I’m here. I want to listen.”

You stare at him blankly for a moment, feeling your facade as it slowly melts and drips away. “Thanks,” you avert your eyes, focusing instead on your drink that has barely two sips left. You have a comfortable buzz now, one that makes you a little quicker to let him in. “I was seeing someone that I was really hopeful about, for the first time, ever, and it ended randomly a week ago. Got a text just out of nowhere.” You pause, chuckling darkly. “I was in the middle of thinking about Valentine’s plans, actually, when I got the text. So.”

Hearing you confirm it out loud only makes Hotch’s heart twist and threaten to break. “I’m sorry,” he says, unsure of what else he can say, unsure of if there’s anything he can say to make it better. “I’m really sorry that happened.”

“Thanks,” you breathe, shaking your head a little to shake yourself out of it. You look up at Hotch and put on a fake, half-smile, the same one he’s seen you wearing the past week. “On to the next one, huh?” you joke. “If there even is a next one. If I even want there to be another one,” you add with a roll of your eyes. “I might have reached my limit for this shit.”

Hotch can’t even say that he blames you. “That’s understandable.”

There’s a trace of something in your eyes when you look at him, something he can’t read, but your smile is a little softer now, starting to look genuine. “Alright,” you clear your throat. “There’s my relationship woes. What about you? Breaking any hearts? Anyone breaking yours?”

He laughs at your change of subject, but shakes his head. “No, no, there’s no one.”

You frown. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t really wanted to, I suppose.” I’m too much of a coward to ask you out on a date, according to Rossi. “Maybe soon, though.”

Excitement glints in your eyes. “Ooh, there is someone, I knew it! Tell me immediately.” 

He just stares at you, fighting back a smile at your unbridled joy that he gets to witness. He is so glad he gets to see this expression on your face. “There’s not really someone, it’s kind of--” He pauses, looking down at his own glass, wondering how much he can say without giving himself away so embarrassingly. “I’ve been too afraid to do something.”

“Why?” you ask, sounding genuinely interested. “Is she dating someone?”

“She was,” he replies, perhaps too fast. “And I’m not certain she feels the same way, or else I’d have made a move by now,” he admits, thinking the whiskey is getting to him. “Maybe.”

“Aaron Hotchner, a shy, hopeless romantic,” you muse, leaning back in the booth with a smirk. “Who would’ve guessed?”

He gives you an almost pained look, hoping the awe seeps through the most. Because you have no idea, do you? You have no idea just what you do to him, just by talking to him, looking at him, making him laugh, letting him hear your laugh. He’s more of a goner than he originally thought.

He laughs off your teasing. “There are my woes,” he says, hoping that’ll be the end of it. “Where are the rest of the team, anyway?”

“Who knows,” you say, sounding unbothered, though you dig your phone out to see if anyone has texted. 

If you and Aaron hadn’t been so caught up in conversation for the past hour, then you would’ve seen that everyone has said they can’t make it or that they’ll be “late” which is only code for they won’t show. You frown down at the messages, some almost forty-five minutes old now, wondering what they’re up to. 

Aaron glances at his phone, too, finding a private message from David. Enjoy your date ;)

Hotch rolls his eyes, pocketing his phone. The team -- most likely led by self-proclaimed Cupid, David Rossi -- decided to play matchmaker. He should’ve known.

And you…you seem completely unaware.

“Whatever,” you exhale, exasperated. “I should’ve known better than to try to get everyone together on Valentine’s Day.” You pause, a sheepish look in your eyes. “I just really didn’t want to be alone, so,” you lightly tap Aaron’s leg with your foot, “thanks for coming and keeping me company.”

“Anytime,” he says, meaning it wholeheartedly. “Should we get another drink?”

You hum. “I was actually getting kinda hungry.”

“You read my mind,” Aaron smiles. “Do they have food here?”

“Probably shitty bar food,” you reply. You look up at him through your lashes, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. “Wanna go somewhere else?”

He nods immediately, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go. I know the perfect place.”

You grin almost instantly, standing up from the booth. “Lead the way.”

+++

The perfect place that Aaron knows is a hole-in-the-wall, family-run pizza joint that he has frequented for years, probably ever since he joined the BAU and moved out here. It’s open late, and half-full of other couples when you and Aaron arrive.

“Hey, Tony,” Aaron greets the owner with a firm handshake and smile. “Table for two, please.”

You watch as Tony gives Aaron a look before repeating his words, “Table for two, you got it, right this way, Hotchner.”

The way Tony says his name is reminiscent of a coach talking to his favorite player, right down to the playful swat of Aaron’s chest. It makes you smile.

“And who is the lucky lady?” Tony asks nonchalantly as he places the menus down on the table by the window.

You giggle, introducing yourself. “I wasn’t aware Aaron had connections here.”

It could be a trick of the dim lighting, but you swear you see Hotch blush as he shakes his head.

“Oh, yeah,” Tony says, standing back as you both sit. “I’ve known him for years, always coming here alone on Valentine’s Day. I’m just happy to see he’s brought someone with him this time.”

“Oh, we’re--” you start to say.

But Hotch interjects with, “That’s enough, Tony, thank you.”

You furrow your eyebrows only a little. He didn’t deny what Tony is implying.

You ignore it. Because you can’t let yourself read into it. That’s what always ends up burning you. You need to ignore it.

Tony leaves to let the two of you look at the menu, albeit going with a mischievous smile on his face.

“What do you recommend?” you ask, trying to redirect. “Or should we just get a large and split it?”

“That might be easiest,” Hotch agrees. “Let’s do that.”

Tony returns to take your order and brings water with him, promising some wine if you’d like. You laugh him off and tell him the two of you just came from the bar. 

When the pizza comes out, the two of you dig in, both having not realized just how hungry you were. With more water and food on your stomach, the alcohol has begun to wear off. But you’re still happy you’re spending the night with Aaron.

Whoever it is that he’s got his eyes set on, she’s one lucky girl. You know that for sure.

As the night winds to a close, you watch him more closely, wanting to memorize this. Because if you have any say in it, he’s going to get that girl that he’s so hopelessly in love with already. He deserves that. Even if it means you’ll never have another night like this with him.

So, you tell him just that as he’s dropping you back off at home. You turn toward him in the passenger seat, a sad smile on your lips.

“I’m going to give some unsolicited advice, okay?” you begin.

He laughs, clearly wary. “Okay. Go ahead.”

“Ask her out,” you say, hating the way you can feel the beginnings of tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. “Make a move. Don’t make her wait any longer. She might feel the same way, you never know, and you’ll never know, if you don’t ask her. So do it.”

He watches you, eyes studying every inch of your face. You don’t know it, but he’s trying to figure out why you look so sad as you’re saying this to him. How can you have no idea that it’s you, it’s always been you? How do you not know?

“That’s all,” you say, blinking the emotion out of your eyes. It’s gone so quick that he wonders if he imagined it. “Thank you for tonight, I really needed it. I’ll see you on Monday?”

He nods, all words foreign to him. “See you Monday. Enjoy your weekend.”

“You too,” you give him another smile.

He watches you leave, watches you get to your front door, waits for you to go inside. He stays there, waiting until he sees the lights turn on in your apartment, until he knows without a doubt that you are safe inside.

He drives away. And starts to think of a plan.

+++

Monday is a slow, tortuous day after a slow, tortuous weekend spent wondering yourself sick about if Hotch took your advice. If he spent the weekend with her, the girl that made his eyes go all soft when talked about her to you. If he was going to come into the office as a new man on Monday, feelings reciprocated, love radiating off him.

He didn’t, which you felt guilty for feeling relieved about.

He brought you a coffee, though. With a heart on the side of the cup. Probably from the barista who made it, you think. 

It’s a paperwork kind of day, so everyone leaves by 4:30, even Reid, though he leaves so early because he has an event at a bookstore to go to. Slowly, everyone trickles out, until it’s just you and Hotch.

You’re avoiding your empty apartment. Hotch is finishing up his work, while simultaneously building up the courage to ask you to dinner.

Time is ticking, this he knows, and he starts packing up as soon as he sees you standing to rinse out your coffee mug.

You’re just finishing gathering your things when you hear Hotch leaving his office, locking the door behind him. You look up at him with a smile.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” you tease, gesturing around at the barren BAU. “Why do we keep doing this?” 

It’s true that you’re usually the last two here, but this time feels different. There’s a different tension in the air that wasn’t here before, and you’re trying like hell to decipher if it’s good or bad.

“What are your plans for dinner?” he asks.

“Just leftovers or something,” you shrug. “You?”

“Well,” he says, letting out a soft, nervous laugh. “I was hoping to take someone out to dinner.”

You deflate a little. He must mean the girl. You try not to let it show in your tone, so you keep your head tucked, putting things away. “Did you ask her out? What’d she say?”

“That she had leftovers or something.”

Your hand freezes on your purse. You’re terrified to look up because if you do, then that means-- He can’t mean--

“I didn’t think I was so bad at this,” Aaron chuckles. “I guess it’s not muscle memory anymore.”

Slowly, slowly you lift your eyes. He’s sheepish. There is a blush on his cheeks, his smile is so damn hesitant, and you’re smiling before you can stop yourself.

“Aaron Hotchner,” you cross your arms over your chest. “Are you trying to ask me out on a date?”

“Emphasis on trying,” he says, looking so boyish. “Would you like to get dinner with me? Tonight, as a proper date?”

You nod right away, then stop yourself. “Wait, what about that girl you were telling me about?”

You’ve been “the other girl” before, and you refuse to do that again, not even for a man who looks like Aaron Hotchner.

But he laughs. Not at you, more at himself, at the situation. He shakes his head. “That girl is you,” he says. “I thought I was so obvious.”

“Wait--” you pause, blinking, the gears in your head stuttering and starting. “Me?”

He nods. “Since you started here. It was getting kind of embarrassing, according to Rossi.”

You giggle, unable to help yourself. Then pieces begin clicking into place. “Wait, so Valentine’s Day--”

“That was the team’s doing,” he nods to confirm. “Rossi got them in on it.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “And tonight?”

“Tonight was…just us being ourselves,” he confesses with a warm smile. “I didn’t tell any of them to leave so early.”

“And I just always stay a bit later,” you add. “Like you.”

“Like me,” he says. “Though you still leave before I do, most nights.”

“Yeah, because you sleep here, it seems like.”

“Hey,” he laughs, feigning hurt for a moment. “So…dinner?”

“Dinner,” you nod. “I’d love to get dinner with you, Aaron.”

“That’s a relief,” he breathes. “Can I take you somewhere again?”

You can take me anywhere you want, is what you want to say, but that feels a bit forward. “Of course,” you say instead. “Lead the way.”

+++

The team finds out the very next day, by pure accident.

Aaron drove you two to dinner last night straight from work, and the both of you were too caught up in it all to realize you left your car at work. Until it’s the next morning, you’re heading down to the parking lot of your apartment, car keys in hand, with your car nowhere to be found.

Aaron is walking through the BAU doors when his phone buzzes with a call from you. His heart skips as he answers, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, my love,” you reply easily. “Do you know where my car is? You get one guess.”

Hotch pauses, thinks, wondering why you’re asking him this question, until-- “Oh, shit,” he laughs. “I’ll come get you.”

“I can just take the bus,” you laugh just as hard. “I just wanted to tell you.”

You? On the bus? When he can easily just come get you? Absolutely not. “I’ll come get you,” he says again. “Let me set my things down, and I’ll be on my way to you.”

“Aaron--”

“Let me, please?” he asks, shoving inside his office to put his things down just inside the door. “I’m already walking back out to my car. We can get coffee and breakfast.”

“Okay,” you concede, finally. “I’ll wait.”

“I’ll be twenty minutes.”

It’s less time than that, actually, but you don’t call him out on it. Instead, you climb into his passenger seat with a smile.

“Long time no see,” you joke, buckling yourself in.

“I’m so sorry,” he laughs. “I completely forgot about your car.”

“I did too, don’t be sorry,” you reply, resting your hand on his arm. “It’s funny. And I’ll just drive it home tonight.”

He doesn’t want you to, he wants to always drive you around like this, but he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t want to come on too strong. “Okay. Well, for your troubles, we’ll get breakfast.”

“And coffee,” you sigh happily. “My turn to pick. I know the best place.”

He turns his phone toward you, the GPS already up. “Lead the way.”

When the two of you finally make it back to the BAU, the whole team is there, huddled around in the bullpen, clearly whispering about you and Hotch.

See, it’s rather suspicious when Hotch’s things are in his office, but he isn’t, especially an hour after he’s usually already got half the day’s work done. And your absence was noted too, as the minutes ticked by and no one had heard from you. And they knew the two of you were the last to leave last night.

Hotch holds open the glass door for you, laughing at something you’ve said (like always), the two of you unaware of the team meeting until you’re inside.

Everyone wears similar smirks. 

“Hello lovebirds,” Rossi chimes. “We were wondering where you disappeared to.”

“Just breakfast,” you say with a shrug.

“Mhm,” Morgan hums. “Where’s my breakfast?”

“Go away,” you groan, swatting him. “Why are you all around my desk? Boundaries!”

Just like that, the crowd disperses with some laughter, and Hotch is free to escape up to his office. Rossi is quick to follow him, interrogating him about his night.

“It was a great night,” Hotch replies, not wanting to give anything away. “You are an instigator.”

“Did you kiss her?” Rossi presses on.

Hotch makes a sound of disbelief. Rossi looks appalled.

“You didn’t?”

“There is such a thing as taking things slow, Dave,” Hotch replies.

“Alright,” Dave concedes. “But dinner was good?”

“Dinner was great,” Hotch reiterates, unable to hide his smile. “Now get out of my office so I can get some work done.”

Rossi leaves with a smirk so smug that Hotch hopes his face cramps up.

+++

Later in the evening, when once again it’s just you and Hotch left in the office, Hotch decides to pack up a little early. 

You’re in your own world, completely unaware that he’s heading out until he’s standing beside your desk. 

You lift your eyes, realizing he’s watching you. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he smiles. “Ready to go?”

You glance at the clock. “I was actually--”

He shakes his head. “Come on.”

“What?”

“As your boss, I’m deciding you’re done for the day.”

“Oh, really?” you quirk an eyebrow. “And there wouldn’t happen to be any ulterior motives, would there?”

He shrugs, all sheepish again. “If you happened to be free for dinner again, I wouldn’t say no.”

“And if I’m not free?”

He’s unbothered. “Then I’ll walk you to your car and let you get to your plans.”

“Not even a kiss goodnight?” you tease as you start gathering your things.

Hotch goes quiet. “That can be arranged.”

“Okay,” you murmur, standing with your things. “Let’s go.”

He reaches out for your hand which you easily hold onto, walking with him to the elevators. As you wait for one to arrive, you look at him, taking in his side profile. He catches you looking from just the corner of his eye, starting to smile.

Once you step onto the elevator, you break the silence. “I desperately need to sleep early tonight, so raincheck on dinner?”

He nods. “Of course.”

You pause, testing the waters. “Coffee tomorrow, though?”

He smiles. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“That’s perfect,” you reply.

Hotch walks you to your car, as promised, and helps you set your things inside. He even opens the driver’s side door for you. You’re about to get inside when he stops you, one hand on your arm.

“About that goodnight kiss,” he says, a glint in his eyes that has your stomach doing flips.

You place your hands on his shoulders, gently looping your wrists around his neck. “Mm, what about it?”

His hands find your waist in no time, squeezing ever so slightly. “Can I?”

“You don’t have to ask,” you murmur. “And yes.”

You’re both smiling into it, softening when your lips finally connect. You feel it then, how this is what you’ve been missing. 

Aaron is so gentle as he kisses, so timid in a way that only makes you want him even more. His hands never wander from your waist, except for one moment to cup your jaw, to brush his thumb over your cheek as he kisses you one last time.

He pulls back to watch you, your eyes still closed in bliss. When you finally open them, he’s smiling at you.

“That’s some goodnight kiss,” you tease. “Careful, or you’ll spoil me.”

He shakes his head. “I want to,” he says, pressing another kiss to your lips. “And I will.”

You bring one hand to his face, holding onto him in disbelief. “Goodnight, Aaron.”

“Goodnight,” he whispers, giving you one more kiss for good measure. “Let me know when you get home safe?”

You nod. “You as well?”

“Okay,” he smiles. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You nod slowly. “In the morning.”

Neither of you make any move to leave. In fact, it takes half an hour for you to peel yourselves off of one another, and might’ve taken longer if your stomach hadn’t growled.

Eventually, you part, and Aaron shuts you into your car, waving as you drive off before he walks to his own vehicle. He stares at his reflection in a bit of disbelief, wondering what he did to deserve someone like you.

[beazt]

something I don’t really see mentioned or acknowledged at all is that “being in the closet” is a spectrum.

some people are only out to themselves.

some people are only out online.

some people are only out on specific websites or accounts.

some people are only out on a specific space on an account, such as a discord server.

some people are only out irl.

some people are only out when they’re in an area they don’t live in (such as the next city over, or on vacation).

some people are only out to their therapist and/or medical team.

some people are only out at school/uni.

some people are only out at work.

some people are only out to their family.

some people are only out to their friends.

some people are only out to their partner(s).

some people are only out to specific family/friends/partners.

some people express a muted or more “palatable” version of their identity in some or all spaces, not necessarily expressing the fullness of their identity anywhere but to themselves.

some people are partially or fully expressing their gender and/or sexuality, but not expressing other identity signifiers such as new pronouns or name.

or the above but express different versions of these signifiers in different circumstances or spaces.

some people express their identity fully, but don’t correct anyone who is “wrong” or tell anyone the full extent of their identity, with some answering when asked and others not.

some people have come out “fully”, and gone back into the closet “fully.”

some people are stealth, and are very cautious about who they allow (if anyone) to know their full identity.

and most queer people are incredibly complex mixtures of all of the above scenarios, and many more. I can’t possibly list them all.

we cannot meaningfully divide experiences between those who are “in/out of the closet” (full stop) because individual experience is way more nuanced than that. and everyone’s definition of either in/out is going to be different, ranging from “if 1 other person knows, you’re out of the closet” to “unless everybody knows the full extent of your identity, you’re not out of the closet.”

[transmisogyny-explained]

I want to submit a perspective on "afab transfemininity" from. an afab multi gender person. I know my experience isn't representative of everyone who calls themselves this, but I wanted to at least share

I don't call myself a trans woman, I hesitate to call myself transfem. nonetheless, I feel connected to femininity in a distinctly transgender way. when I first came out, I hated being a girl. I was a transmedicalist and validated myself by invalidating others. I had to face a lot of internalized misogyny and transphobia in order to really learn what it meant to be a man. after I started testosterone about 3 yrs ago, I realized I was a lesbian, and started feeling more comfortable being, at least in part, a woman. it was different this time because it was something I liked, something new and my own, not something ascribed to me. it's not cisgender in any way, it is transfemininity

this being said, I know my experience toward transfemininity is extremely different from the norm. I am not what most people are referring to when they refer to transfems, and there are many definitions of transfem that do not include me. despite that, I do have some experiences that overlap, things I can relate to. my femininity is at its core transgender in nature. my gender now is more complex... I feel like both a man and a woman, neither and both. but that doesn't mean my feelings about my gender are predatory or invalid. I don't want to talk over transfems, I am very aware of my place in these conversations. but I still have a place, and it frustrates me to see you share posts that minimize my experience into a stereotype

Why do you view transfemininity as being, at its core, the experience of being “both a man and a woman” lmao

Get back to me when you start viewing trans women as actual women and transfemininity as actual femininity, and not an aesthetic or a vibe or “some other third thing” apart from femininity.

You “feel femininity in a distinctly transgender way?” Congrats! You’re nonbinary! But that is NOT what being a trans woman is — Their womanhood and femininity is not essentially different from cis women’s.

What you are describing is a very generic experience of being a feminine nonbinary person, and I don't say that to insult you; but to compare that experience to those of trans women’s betrays the fact that you don't view them as the same gender as cis women. Which is transmisogyny. It’s textbook third-gendering.

Call yourself a nonbinary woman- Call yourself whatever you want, in fact. But trans women and TMA people are never going to feel safe around you so long as you continue insisting that transfemininity is essentially the same as the nonbinary femininity you experience, and essentially different from “real” cis women’s femininity.

Also, can I just say that it’s a little condescending that you would end your ask by saying “I’m aware of my place in these conversations, but…”

Like, if you were really “aware of your place” and were actually listening to transfems when we talk about transfeminism, you would be able to recognize the enormous amount of transmisogyny baked into your message. On top of the third-gendering, you also managed to:

Imply that TMA people don’t understand the complexities of gender and nonbinarity like you, a TME person, do

Imply that TMA people creating the language and spaces to discuss our experiences in a way that excludes you, a TME person, is invalidating and somehow tantamount to labeling you as “predatory” (what does that even mean?)

Sent an unprompted ask to a transfem’s blog venting your frustrations with the language of transfeminism, despite the fact that I’m not even the one who made those posts?

Showed a pretty absurd amount of entitlement by insinuating that it’s somehow my problem that you feel frustration over misunderstanding the basics of transfeminist theory

Subtly demanded that I do the emotional labor of managing your frustration, which, frankly, is just classic misogyny

Displayed a complete lack of understanding towards what transmisogyny even is, nor why we, as the direct targets of transmisogyny, need the the language and spaces to discuss it

I really don’t care what transfem “experiences” you think you relate to, the fact that you perpetuate and can benefit from transmisogyny will always separate you from us, and if you actually gave a shit about us and our struggles, you would recognize that and try to be a better ally to us rather than co-opting and redefining our language in a shallow attempt to define us out of existence.

As has been said countless times now:

“Transfeminine” does not mean “trans + feminine,” it is a term coined by TMA people to describe our specific experiences with being denied our femininity. That is something which you, as a person for whom (as you said) womanhood/femininity was ascribed by the system of patriarchy, cannot understand in the way we do.

[bingsoo-jung]

I said this in the comments of someone else’s post, but I’m going to say this here. Taash identifying as non-binary is good actually, and in fact better than the dev’s making up some new term for them. Let’s get into it.

So for a bit of background, I’m non-binary and Thai. If you don’t know, Thai has specific terms for different gender-sexual identities, they’re quite old, they date back a few hundred years. However, the thing about culturally specific terms is just that, they’re culturally specific. The reason you use them is because you are tied to the culture in such a way that you gender-sexual identity cannot be disassociated from it. Because, to be clear, these terms are never just about your gender or sexual identity. They encompass a role you play within society itself.

For instance, in Thai culture we have tom/tomboys. These are AFAB folks who occupy a masculine societal role and date women. If you’re AMAB you cannot be tom. If you’re transmasc and feminine? You cannot be tom. If you’re transmasc and not attracted to women? You cannot be tom. If you’re transmasc and mostly date men? You cannot be tom. If you’re transmasc but don’t particularly feel like taking care of the girl you date, taking her out, being the ‘man’ in the relationship? You can’t really be tom.

Because the thing about culturally specific genders is that they come with a lot of rules. Being tom isn’t being non-binary. There are cis women who are tom, and there are non-binary people who are toms. You do not get eschew gender roles in these cases. You are quite literally taking one on. You have a role and place in society that has been made for you, and you are expected to carry it out.

Because of this, none of these terms are a one-to-one for other identities, and nor should they be. Being kathoey or hijra is not the same as being a trans woman or non-binary, and visa versa. You can be kathoey and not be trans. You can be trans and not be kathoey. Being aqun-athlok or any other specific term shouldn’t be either. The idea that it is, is more ahistorical and inaccurate than the word non-binary itself. Giving Taash some new, culturally specific term, would inherently tie them to a culture, and one perhaps that they didn’t feel apart of. Especially since Taash’s entire story is about struggling to figure out where they belong. Arguably the biggest issue with their story is that you have to make them decide, and fundamentally tying them to a term would’ve compounded that problem.

The reason I identify as non-binary and not a tom, is because I am not occupying some specific role in Thai culture. Despite living in LA, I rarely interact with other Thai people who aren’t my family. I do not live in a cultural context that would allow me to identify as a tom.

The thing about terms like non-binary, or trans, or agender, is that they’re meant to be acultural terms encapsulating the concept of truth to oneself and ones identity. Whereas culturally specific terms aren’t, they’re about the role you hold in society and where you fit in. It’s about your identity within a status quo. Taash is a character who is eschewing societal roles, and breaking the status quo, giving them those terms just wouldn’t work.

And finally? Using non-binary itself allows the writers to very specifically say where they stand. There is no space given to transphobes. You either accept that DA is queer-friendly or bust. And that’s a very important stance to make in an era where trans and non-binary folks are being actively targeted. There’s no ‘well Taash isn’t actually trans or non-binary they’re [insert term here]!’ Because people would’ve done that, we know they would’ve. This means people can’t do that. They have to just say that they have an issue with the term, and thus we can call them for what they are. Transphobes. Plain and simple.

So yeah, Taash’s identity does have nuance, it has a lot of it. And to be honest with you, I wouldn’t be surprised if Trick Weekes, a non-binary person whose wife is First Nations and thus from a group with culturally specific gender identities, knows about the difference between something like two-spirit and trans. And to be honest with you, using something like non-binary has nuance I doubt was actually afforded to Krem, considering they cast a cis woman to play Krem.

So yeah.

[aceday]

Agatha Harkness x Reader

summary: you’re but a humble young librarian super into this milf who just happens to show up at an opportune moment.

warnings: age gap, public sex, oral, fingering

*afab gender neutral reader

@covenofagatha

i don’t do this btw

The Librarian

It’s snowing, the third time you meet her. Behind the circulation desk, with your feet kicked up against the long arch of desk that separates you from the rest of the library, paging through somebody’s hold (it’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, perhaps some sort of premonition), you look every bit as bored as you are. When you look up and out the window, it’s the kind of black only 6 o’clock in the middle of January can be. Snow pummels against the window. It’s the kind of weather nobody should be out in, either.

Between you and your two other coworkers — the lifeblood, like Atlas holding up the last two hours of the library before its close — there is really only the odd, uncanny emptiness of one librarian and their empty shelves. Of course you’re surprised when she breezes in, in a long dark trench coat with damp shoulders, opened to reveal a pale turtleneck tucked into pleated trousers, snowflakes still dotting her long, thick tresses of dark hair. The snowflakes dissolve. She is panting, wind-blown, she turns around and you see the stark blue of her eyes set against the soft red burn of her cheeks.

“Hi,” she says, breathy, her chest rising and falling heavily. She flashes you a smile, an intentional, albeit distracted smile, the smile of someone who seems a little caught, a little embarrassed in the way you really only can be around strangers for no apparent reason. She carries a folded, closed umbrella and a black bag on her shoulder.

Her name is Agatha Harkness. You were here when she signed up for a library card, and spent the whole time kicking yourself that you hadn’t beat your coworker to helping her. She’s new in town, she has a son that loves to read, or be read to, and there is no ring on her finger, which, as far as you’re concerned, means you have a chance.

You don’t move from your seat, knowing that if you scrambled to put your feet on the floor and throw the book back on the hold shelf then you’ll really look like you’ve been caught. You set the book down on your lap and cross your arms.

“Hi,” you say, smiling easily.

She looks around the library and takes a few hesitant steps towards the shelves. The New section is the first thing to greet library goers, and she distractedly scans the books. You don’t take your eyes off her. She’s beautiful. And you know a lost face when you see one, so when she absentmindedly taps her umbrella against the floor and turns to you, you’re ready.

“Hi,” Agatha says again, approaching the circulation desk. This time you set your feet down.

You smile softly, “Anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, actually. I was looking to get some books for my son. He’s four.”

You point to the corner of the library, where the door frame labeled “Children’s Section” is tucked, leading to an entirely different section of the library. “The Children’s Section is over that way.” You’re a little disappointed to be sending her so far away, but you’re the only person at circulation and if she wants to check out any books she’ll have to find you anyway. But, to your surprise, she doesn’t turn towards Children’s. She taps the desk with a gloved finger, staring down the shelves. You take the opportunity to stand, leaving the book on your chair behind you.

“Is there anything in particular I can help you find?”

Agatha inhales slowly, clearly lost in thought. Then, she turns slowly to you. Her eyes are so blue. It’s like being pinned in place, the way her eyes meet yours. You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, but you’d be lying if you said your breath didn’t flee your lungs.

“Are you busy?” She looks down at the book. Normally, you’d feign a little embarrassment, but you smile and shrug.

“I’m getting slammed right now, actually. But uh, I suppose I could help you out.”

She chuckles, peeling off her black leather gloves and stuffing them in the pockets of her trench coat. “Sure. Any recommendations? What are you reading?”

This time you do flush a little. “It’s, uh, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It’s someone else’s hold.”

Agatha narrows her eyes a bit, a small smile curling at the corner of her lips. “Is it raunchy?”

“By today's standards, probably not. Is raunchy what you’re looking for?”

She raises her eyebrows. Your blush deepens. Working these lonely evening shifts has you forgetting you’re employed to work, not to flirt with patrons, which you never do anyway, but luckily Agatha laughs after a moment.

“What’s your name?” She squints to read your name tag, and you offer it up lazily. “I’m Agatha,” she says. “Agatha Harkness. Actually, I’m a bit new to town. I just got my card.”

“I know your name,” you say, looking away. Agatha, who, until now, has been a bit fidgety and distracted, suddenly stills. “I was here when you set your card up. You probably don’t remember me.”

“But you remember me.”

She doesn’t say it like it’s a question. A knot forms in your throat. You offer a thin grin. “Of course.” Then you tap your temple, which is stupid and you immediately regret it, but Agatha doesn’t seem to really notice or care. Her smile stretches easily. She levels you with a knowing gaze, though you can’t imagine what it is she knows.

“It’s cozy in here,” Agatha says, beginning to rifle through her bag. Her hair is windswept and wild falling down her back, but you have the impression that this is its natural state, despite the wind. She pulls out her wallet, then her library card. “The roads are getting bad though. Especially now that it’s dark out.”

You nod. “Yeah, this is definitely the place to be. At least it’s supposed to slow down soon. There’s a fireplace back past non-fiction. Do you have any holds to pick up?”

Agatha smiles. You scan her library card. “Just one.” Your stomach drops.

“Ahh,” you pick up Lady Chatterley’s Lover sadly, “right. How about that?”

Agatha looks more than amused as you check the book out to her account, quickly plucking your place marker out from the pages.

“No, no,” Agatha says, “leave the bookmark. We can do a little book club, hmm?”

You’ve officially embarrassed yourself enough for one night. You smile warily. “I hope you enjoy it as much as I was. Drive safe.”

Still smiling, Agatha hums in response and tucks the paperback into her bag. “Did you say this was supposed to let up soon? You know, I could use a few recommendations while I have you here.”

You’re pretty sure you’ve already used up all your charm. It’d be ideal if she left and came back another day, but, the more you think about it, the more you realize that this is one opportunity you just can’t waste. Not a coworker in sight (one in the break room for the next half hour, the other shelf-reading in the basement), your work crush right here, mildly stranded in a snowstorm, willing to converse, nay, to joke with you, and- Jesus do you have a chance?

“Anything,” you say at the realization, a little more breathless than you’d intended but you feel renewed with your usual charm and ready to not let this opportunity pass without a fight.

“I was also looking for maybe a cozy mystery? What with the weather and all.”

Does she know the mystery section is the most isolated back corner of the library? You can definitely work with this.

“Sure. I can show you. Follow me.”

You step out from behind the counter, Agatha lingering on your heels. You haven’t had to think this fast in months. Maybe in years. What to say? What to do? You don’t even read mysteries.

You wind through the shelves, leading Agatha deeper into the more shadowy parts of the library, into the most definitely, undoubtedly empty and out-of-sight parts of the library.

“Here’s mystery. I mean, there’s obviously Agatha Christie, and then Laura Childs is pretty cozy, and-” you stop abruptly. You have no idea why you’re talking about mysteries. You face Agatha, who looks at you with one raised eyebrow. She looks expectant. Perfect.

“You’ve happened to find us in the coziest spot in the library,” you say as nonchalantly as you can, scanning the book spines, “But you won’t find anything raunchy over here.”

The look on Agatha’s face is both curious and knowing. Amused, even. She can read you like a book (hah), and some part of you feels like an animal in a zoo, watched by an audience far hungrier than you.

“I didn’t say I wanted raunchy.”

“Didn’t you?”

Agatha scoffs slightly. Her smile widens. She takes a step closer to you and you don’t move back.

“I have more than a few suggestions if that’s the case,” you say, tilting your head. You’re a good few inches taller than her, and when she looks up at you behind dark eyelashes…

“You’re bold,” says Agatha. The same grin hangs wickedly on her mouth.

“But not too desperate, I hope?”

Agatha laughs without taking her eyes off of you. You don’t think you could move backwards if you tried, you don’t think you could move if you tried, her face sings with an effortless amusement, like she knows every thought in your mind and every desire beneath your tongue. It’s vulnerable. Like you’re naked, or just bared, skin unprotected against a harsh wind or sharp rain.

“I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“I know.”

She hums, her gaze raking you up and down, studying. You’re nothing now but a specimen, an insect, pinned by the legs and wings to a cork board, shivering under a magnifying glass. You swallow, then take a step forward. Her chin raises. It’s cute, defiant in a way that reminds you almost of a petulant child, and this most momentary relief from the scrutinization of her gaze is all you need. You raise one hand and tuck her hair behind her ear.

“Cold out there, hmm?” you ask softly, almost boredly. Her unblinking stare doesn’t move from yours. She nods. “Warm in here though.” Your hands trace the lapels of her trench coat. “Damp.” You push it off her shoulders. It’s heavy, woolen, and water-logged, and crumples to the ground with a thud, taking the purse and umbrella with it. You let your gaze drag lazily, obviously, across her face, her eyes, her neck, her mouth.

You see her swallow, which feels like a victory in and of itself. Consider yourself spurred. “And of course, I’m-”

Whatever clever remark you had readied is cut off before even its effect is conveyed. Agatha closes the space between you two, shoving you against the bookshelf. You knock back against the shelves with an “oomph” and Agatha balls your shirt in her fists. She stares at you for a pulsing, pregnant moment before you crack and push your lips against hers. It’s a vicious kiss that’s barely a kiss and lasts for only half a moment anyway. Agatha pulls back severely and pushes you once more against the shelves. Your breath heaves out of your lungs.

“Something the matter?” you ask, grinning like a snake. Agatha scoffs. Her lips meet yours with a sharp inhale, her eyes closed. The kiss is not tender but not desperate, more inquisitive, curious, until a moan escapes your throat and your hands grab dumbly at Agatha’s waist.

You don’t want to be audacious, but you’re already past that point if you’re being honest with yourself, and you step off the wall. You don’t have that much time. You want. Agatha’s tongue slips between your lips and you feel the pit in your stomach empty out, heat flushing into a tense knot in your abdomen. Not much time.

Gentle — but firm —, you push Agatha back against the wall, and sink to your knees. Surprise flickers across her face, but quickly melts into an impish smile. Mischief looks good on her.

“Can I, Agatha?” you ask, very politely, your fingers working already around her belt.

“Yeah. Yes, sweetheart. That’s good.” The words send a twist between your legs and you tug her belt open and unzip the pants. While you pull them down, her hands shovel through your hair, fingertips digging into your scalp, and the feeling almost gives you vertigo. Her skin is impossibly soft. Her underwear is plain and black. You slide it down the swell of her thighs, swallowing. You can smell her on the air, skimming the top of it, and you fight the urge to lick your lips like some hungry dog.

Your hands feel up the length of her legs, one pushing under her shirt up her stomach, in a manner not short of exalted, and you can feel her shudder under your touch. It’s a power, of sorts, and you breathe into a taut smile.

Your mouth is on her legs, sucking at her thighs, and she hisses at the sting of your teeth on her skin. You don’t need to bruise her, really, but you do, if only to prolong eating her out, to hold what you’ve been waiting for in front of you just moments longer. Her breath hitches, she’s trying to be quiet, and in a moment of uncontrolled excitement you surge forward, your jaw widening, your tongue flat against her and your nose buried in her folds.

Agatha yelps a little louder than she meant to, and one hand leaves your hair to cover her mouth. She groans quietly into her palm as you eat her out, tongue scooping inside of her, the taste electric on your tongue, burning in your nose, your eyes heavy-lidded. Fuck. She’s hot. She’s so hot. One hand grips her thigh steadily, the other slides down beneath your waistband. What can you say? You’re desperate.

You whine into her and Agatha looks down, watching as you fuck yourself with your face buried into her cunt. She curses softly, her hand grabbing onto the ledge of a bookshelf by her head. “That’s great, baby, that’s-” your tongue flicks hard against her clit, interrupting Agatha as she spills into a moan. “That’s good, that’s good, that’s-” your lips suck airily around her clit, your tongue immediately continuing its flat and solid path through her folds. She’s dripping off of your chin by now.

Agatha’s breath stutters and she falls eerily quiet, but you know the signs. Her body tightens and then convulses, a delicate shudder gripped around your tongue, thighs squeezing your face, her manicured fingernails scraping against your scalp. She orgasms moaning your name quietly, in a hushed, devoted sort of way nearing on delirium.

When its intense waves wash away and you stand up you’re wearing a self satisfied smile, but Agatha doesn’t leave you long to bask in your pride. She stumbles forward and shoves you against the bookshelf, her mouth collapsing onto yours. She moans softly at the intense taste of herself on your skin; your mouth, nose, chin, cheeks. It’s overpowering. You can feel pearls of her rolling down your jaw and neck. Agatha bites your bottom lip, hard, and then her mouth finds your throat.

You sigh at the feeling of her above your pulse, the heat of her breath and the delicate trace of her fingertips across your sides.

“That was quite the orgasm.” There’s still a ragged edge to her voice, a lulled huskiness, and she seems to struggle to keep her voice balanced in the median between hush and speaking.”How do you feel touching yourself?”

Now with your back pressed against the bookshelves, you had given up all previous hope of getting yourself close. Not that you had minded, fucking Agatha was like seeing the gates of heaven. After that, who needed some masturbatory purgatory at the helm of your own fingers? You take too long to come up with an answer, lost still in the haze of the bruise you’re sure she’s sucking into your skin. Her fingertips, gripping at your sides, rush suddenly to undo the button of your jeans.

“Good,” you say, your head falling backwards, “not as good as this, I’m sure.” Agatha’s hand sinks into your jeans. You sputter forward and she leans harshly into you, pinning you against the stacks. Her fingers and palm slide down, and, God- she’s cupping you through your underwear, pressing testingly against you. It’s intoxicating. Fuck. Your arms sling around her shoulders and your hips buck into her hand. She smiles, kisses you.

“You want this?” she asks, leaning her mouth into your ear, her breath hot, as if it’s even a question, as if you’re not already dripping, soaked through your underwear, keening into her touch.

“Yeah, Agatha, yeah. C’mon.” At the sound of her name in your mouth, Agatha hums a moan. Her fingers slip under the seam. You pull Agatha into you, your hands tangled in her hair. It’s still damp from the snow.

Her fingertips slide into you. Cold, her fingers are cold, and the sensation of them curling inside of your cunt leaves you halfway to breathless. “Fuck.”

“You’re warm,” Agatha says mildly. She’s pulled back a bit in favor of studying your face, every twitch of your eyebrows and tug of your swollen lips, the blissed out, wired look in your eyes.

“Fuck. You’re- fuck.” She thrusts deeper into you, the tips of her fingers running against your walls, feeling for every jolt of your body. She thumbs your clit, rubbing soft circles into you. She’s good, fuck, every twist of her fingers and push of her thumb sweeps tides of pleasure through your body.

“I’m what?” Agatha teases, thrusting hard, then harder, and fast, and the library is so quiet and you can hear the wet slap of her fucking you.

“God, fuck, fuck,” you groan, your forehead falling against Agatha’s shoulder. She shrugs your head up, her hand smothering your mouth.

“We are in a library, darling,” she whispers, and your being silenced like this makes the slick sound of her fingers in your, against you, seem that much louder. You whine, whimper, keen, your body jolts, her fingertips hit against your g-spot and white pulses behind your eyes as you spill into orgasm.

Your body trembles, tense, your teeth closing around Agatha’s hand, and her fingers slip out of you. She pulls you into a soft hug, holding you up between herself and the bookshelf while you steady your breath.

“Jesus,” you pant, “that was so good, God.”

Agatha pats your hair and you pull back. She pushes a fast kiss against your mouth, and the heat returns, despite your orgasm still buzzing fresh on your skin.

“Thank you and you’re welcome,” Agatha says against your mouth. “Do you have a job to return to?”

“Only if you have a number to give me?”

Agatha smiles. She kisses your cheek and begins fixing her clothes. “I’m still old enough to be your mother.”

“I still know that.”

She eyes you warily, scanning you up and down. “You’ll give me your number, and you’ll wait to hear from me first.”

You sigh in relief and fall back against the bookshelf, running your hand through your hair. “Deal. Welcome to town.”

[vellazx]

Inspired by one of my friends prompts — Law x Reader (gender not specified) — Angst / Fluff

You were a Straw Hat.

The most perfect person in the world for him — on a different crew. You were someone who he couldn’t reach, no matter what he did.

He fell for you. Hard.

You always liked him. He was a pretty boy; perhaps the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen. Ever since you laid your eyes on him two years ago in the auction house in Sabaody, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Hells, you didn’t even speak to him.

At first, he just believed you were some diehard simp who wasn’t genuine towards him. So he shrugged you off.

He was always rather insecure, not capable of believing someone actually loved him. Romantically, at least.

You talked (pestered) him the whole time he was on the Sunny due to the newfound alliance he made with your captain. Honestly, you didn’t really do a good job at hiding your feelings.

More like you didn’t even bother to hide them in the first place. You were so direct with him about how you felt.

Still, he wasn’t phased by your endless compliments and attempts at making him open up.

One night, however, he wasn’t in the best mood.

He said you irritated him. Bluntly.

After that, you decided to leave him alone. It felt unusual around the Sunny without your constant rambling. For some reason, his heart ached without your warmth by his side.

He told himself you meant nothing to him; only a temporary ally with good fighting skills he couldn’t risk losing.

However, in Dressrosa, when Doflamingo managed to capture you and him both, you acted strangely.

You saw how distressed he was, being helpless before the Warlord. Behind that tough exterior, there was a little boy, scarred from his past.

And, oh, how absolutely protective you got.

Doflamingo was holding you up by strings, blood spilling from every wound they cut into your skin. But you still retaliated.

Risked getting killed to escape the strings, all because you didn’t want Law to feel helpless. His emotions were through the roof whenever he realized you were trying to meaninglessly fight back. For his sake.

When you got out, you were a bloody mess, barely able to stand with how wobbly your knees were. Some of your bones were even broken.

He asked with wide eyes, “What were you thinking?!”

You simply smiled, and said, “You hate him, don’t you? I didn’t want to sit around and do nothing to help. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

He met your gaze with an unfamiliar softness you’d never seen before. His heart skipped a beat.

That’s when he realized.

You fell first, but he fell harder. Way harder.

The whole time you were in Zou and Wano with him, he couldn’t stop staring at you. You shone like an angel in his vision. All your features amplified to make you more ethereal.

His teeth ground against each other whenever you got too close to one of your crew mates. Especially the blond cook. He swooned over you, and you laughed so wholesomely in response.

What he would do to just steal you for himself.

When Kaido and Big Mom were defeated, the whole country celebrating by holding a feast, Law offered to look around at all the games set up throughout the capital.

Happily, you dragged him around, completely forgetting that day when he said you were annoying.

He couldn’t stop admiring you as you indulged in the games.

His heart raced.

Ba-dump!

Ba-dump!

Ba-dump!

Gods, he couldn’t take it anymore.

So, he dragged you away, into a nearby alleyway. You flushed, asking him what was wrong. He was so red in the face that he looked feverish.

He hadn’t even touched you, yet he was drunk off of you. That same warmth he craved and missed.

Before you could question him any further, his lips brushed against yours, his hold on your wrist tightening. You gasped against him, not expecting the intimate contact.

Eagerly, you kissed him back.

He loved you too much for his own good.

“Come with me. Please. Leave this country with me.”

“Tra-.. Law. You know I can’t… I can’t do that.”

Fuck.

When he had to leave you behind, it felt like he was leaving half of his heart behind. With someone else. Under someone else’s supervision.

If anything happened to you, he’d steal you away without even asking for your permission.

But if something happened to him…

He just wanted you to know that he loved you.

[nicname]

”Oh if we didn’t have xenogenders/GNC trans people/neopronouns/MOGAI/etc etc etc then transphobes would respect us.” Untrue. Most transphobes are so insanely vitriolic that you could be the most standard, decent, agreeable trans person, and they would still hate you.

I’m a fairly basic trans man, online and off. I tone my gender down even more for work. I have short hair, facial hair, I wear pretty standard non-fitted pants and t shirts with some manner of compressive undergarment underneath, and I go by my fairly basic, common masc name. The only difference between me and my cis coworkers is that I openly engage in good-faith discussions about my being transgender when brought up, and I have a “he/him” pronoun pin I like to wear.

I have one coworker who I’m well aware has never gendered me correctly. I have assumed it was an intentional, bad-faith decision (because of other, unrelated-to-me conversations he has had with coworkers), but I’ve never really cared enough to bring it up to him. I figured, “if this is intentional, that’s his issue. I’m not interested in trying to change his mind.” I’ve reached a point in my transition to where I don’t really care that much if some random person doesn’t respect me or my gender, because I don’t need every stranger’s approval to be happy with myself.

With all that being said, I’ve treated him the same as I have every other coworker. I’ve been civil, I’ve been agreeable, I’ve still been friendly to him and haven’t gone around the workplace intending to smear his name. (Yes, I have discussed his behavior to those close to me who have asked, but I’ve kept it very private and said that as long as he doesn’t say anything outwardly malicious, I don’t really care about his behavior.) He has been outwardly friendly to me, too, telling me about his past careers, showing me pictures of his family, we’ve talked about our hobbies and other things we enjoy.

Still, after all of this, he has given up the ghost and decided to gossip about me negatively to coworkers. I won’t go into detail about what I’ve been told he said, but it was all explicitly transphobic and pretty aggressive. I’ve never gone out of my way to make him mad, relating to my gender or not, so it’s a little out of nowhere. I’m not particularly surprised by this, but I’m more surprised that he would be bold enough to say everything out loud when working for a company that has explicit protections for trans people in place. He was reported fairly quickly, without me ever knowing what occurred. The only reason I found out about everything is because I overheard a manager discussing it with a concerned coworker from my department.

So, if you take anything away from this, let it be that no amount of friendliness, gender-conformity, or civilness with stop a transphobe from taking their transphobia out on you, and it’s not your fault or any other trans person’s fault. Don’t victim blame trans people who become the subject of someone’s transphobic hate, because a transphobe is dedicated to harming trans people regardless of whether they blend in with cis people or not. Don’t use a transphobe’s needlessly malicious behavior as a reason to harass other trans, GNC, nonbinary, or otherwise gender diverse people.

[wonderjanga]

Biblical Marvel

This is connected to the Revival post. If you don’t want to go find that, let me give a quick summary of it. In that post, Mary and Freddy die a lot in their Marvel forms. As a result of this, Billy has to revive them a lot. It honestly stresses the poor boy out too because at the end of the Revival post, Billy finds some grey hairs. So, yeah.

Anyways, so people think Marvel is god sent in human form to protect them. (Let me also connect this to the Billy is Really Old post too. In that post, Billy has been a hero since 1940.) It explains why he hasn’t aged over the almost 80 years of him being a hero. Not only that but once, a homeless person asked him to turn water to wine, and he did, though that’s more a of Jesus thing.

Speaking of Jesus, some people think Mary and Junior are Jesus split in two. I mean, Mary has blue eyes (from C.C.) and brown hair (From Marilyn) for Christ’s sake. Not only that but her name is Mary. Maybe Jesus/Mary is honoring his/her mother. And as for Junior, maybe Mary took the looks and he took the gender?

Marvel: *sorting through letters and replying to a bunch of fan mail while sitting at a table in the kitchen.*

Wonder Woman: *Sitting next to him, eating ice cream*

Flash: *zips over and is now leaning on Marvel’s shoulder looking at the fan mail* “Dude, is that fan mail?”

Marvel: “Yup.” *finishes replying to a letter and putting it in the ‘done’ pile*

Flash: “How do even get fan mail? Do they know your address or something?”

Marvel: “Whiz Kid.” *picks up a super fancy looking letter*

WW: “Pardon?”

Marvel: “Whiz Kid. He gets them, and then he gives them to me.” *opens fancy letter*

Flash: “Wait, that little dude who does the radio show?”

Marvel: *Doesn’t like being called little but thinks it would be weird for him to defend himself while in Marvel form* “…Yeah… That ‘little’ dude.” *Takes out letter and reads it before sighing*

WW: “What’s wrong?”

Marvel: “The pope asked me to dinner again.” *sighs again and puts letter down on table to slouch and spin in his chair like a depressed little kid* “Now I gotta think of another excuse.”

WW: “The pope? As in the Catholic pope?” *eats bite of ice cream*

Flash: *looks to WW* “You know who the pope is?”

WW: *looks to Flash* “Yes? Flash, I may be from Themyscira, but I’m not completely ignorant of man’s world.” *looks to Billy* “If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you want to go?”

Marvel: *shrugs as he slows his spinning to a stop, having came up with an excuse. Picks up letter and starts replying* “I don’t know. Do you want to have dinner with a guy you’ve never met?”

WW: “I see. I suppose not.” *goes back to eating ice cream*

or

Mary: *Watching a show on a TV in Mount Justice*

Robin!Tim: “Mary? Could you help me with something?”

Mary: *pauses show* “Huh? Yeah sure.” *flies over to Tim* “What’s the problem?”

Robin!Tim: *sitting at the kitchen at the counter with a laptop* “Can you tell me everything you know about angels? I’m writing a paper about it for school.”

Mary: “Oh. Uh, sure?” *Proceeds to talk Tim’s ear off for the next 15 minutes about angels and their different types and personalities and such*

Robin!Tim: *finishes paper* “Thanks a lot.” *closes computer and hops off chair*

Mary: “No problem, but why’d you ask me specifically? Why not use the internet?”

Robin!Tim: “Aren’t you like the primary source?” *heads back to his room*

Mary: *confused*

or

*Captain Marvel flies down and asks to pet a woman’s dog when all of a sudden, a mother holding a child runs up to him*

Mother: “Please cure my child!” *holds child out to him* “You can perform one of your miracles, right? Please!”

Marvel: “What?” *looks between Mother and child.*

Child: *looks really sick*

Marvel: *gets concerned at the sick child* “You haven’t taken him to a hospital?”

Mother: “It’s too expensive! Please! Just this once.”

Marvel: “Uuuuuuuuuuuhhhhh…” ‘Solomon! Help me!’

Solomon: ‘Repeat after me, Billy’ *proceeds to rattle off healing spell*

Marvel: *repeats spell and heals child*

Mother: “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” *hugs child tight* “I’ve never been much of a religious nut, but now I’ll have to start believing more. Thank you so much!”

Marvel: *Little confused by sudden mention of religion* “Your welcome? Have a good day, miss.” *floats off the ground, giving her a little wave before flying off*

or

*Freddy is hanging outside one of a meeting rooms in the Watchtower because he wasn’t allowed in due to the face he looked like a kid. He’s now talking to someone on the phone.

Junior: *talking on a phone he magicked from God knows where while floating a foot or two off the ground*

Kid Flash: *bored out of his mind, leaning against a wall, standing next to him cause he also wasn’t allowed in for the same reason*

Junior: *ends call*

Kid Flash: “Who were ya talking too?”

Junior: “My friend, Cain.”

Kid Flash: “What, like bible Cain?” *was joking*

Junior: “Yup.” *didn’t realize he was joking*

Kid Flash: “What seriously? The Cain from the Bible? The Cain that stabbed his brother? The Cain that’s immortal because he stabbed his brother?”

Junior: “Yup.” *starts typing on phone, a little too nonchalant about the conversation*

Kid Flash: “And Cap just lets you be friends with him?”

Junior: “Uh yeah? Why wouldn’t he? You know he’s friends with him too, right?”

Kid Flash: “Wait really? Shouldn’t they hate each other or something?”

Junior: “No? Cain’s pretty chill.”

Kid Flash: *blinks a couple times at that* “Huh.” *he seems a little surprised*

*The meeting ends and the heroes file out of the meeting room before Kid Flash can ask another question*

[sweetestberryofthebunch]

Ultra Violet - Devil Wears Prada AU (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

When you struggle to find your footing at your new job at renowned Fashion Magazine Runway, a secret Guardian angel decides to help you out. Your mysterious fashionable gifts seem to catch even your stone cold, stern boss's eye. You can’t help but wonder if maybe Agatha Harkness knows more than she lets on.

Content/Warnings: The Devil Wears Prada!AU, CEO!Agatha x Assistant!Reader and the power dynamics that come with that, No pronouns or gendered terms used for R

✨Happy Valentine‘s Day my little loves! Get yourself a sweet cup of coco, a heart shaped treat and enjoy some all inclusive CEO!Agatha fluff!✨

Your new job at Runway was both the best and worst decision you had made your entire life.

Pay was better than the small tabloid you‘d written for until now, their reputation in the industry was insurmountable, and the office had a portafilter espresso machine. All your friends were especially jealous of that one. You’d landed a well paying position at one of the most prestigious fashion magazines in the world.

But that was also the problem. The Fashion. And, if you really boiled it down, your snobby, ruthless, obsessed with shallowness boss.

Agatha Harkness, head and face of the company. An icon of the scene, a trailblazer in the industry (at least that was what your coworkers told you.) Stoic, opinionated, and most of all, impossible to please.

Jen made sure to let you know about that. She had been Second Assistant before you got hired, but now she was promoted to First Assistant and you filled the new position.

She had explained the hierarchy to you in hushed whispers over morning coffee one day, while Mrs Harkness door had been shut and all you could hear were muffled voices arguing behind it.

Jen and your desks were in the hallway just outside, left and right to Harknesses door like two obedient guard dogs. You wondered if that was how she saw you, if she paid enough mind to her assistants for that at all.

It was only your fifth day working at Runway, and your To Do List was nothing but overwhelming. Meanwhile, Mrs Harkness barely spared you a glance, dropping her coat on your desk in the morning without a word, without even a glance, expecting things to be done and never returning a single gesture of gratitude. And everyone, including Jen, just jumped at her bid and word, like she was Queen of the world. It was … a lot.

„Who needs two Assistants anyway?“, you murmured with a chuckle as the meeting seemed to heat up, only to be met by a panicked stare from Jen.

„Don’t ever question Agatha Harknesses choices!“, she‘d tutted, and she looked like she had more to say. But she was interrupted by the door to the hallway where your desks were situated swinging open.

Lillia Calderu, head of the Runway Archives a few floors below dropped a thick binder of fabric samples onto your desk. Strips of dyed denim, all shades of purple so close to each other, you could barely tell a difference. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve laughed.

„What are you two whispering about?“, Lilia asked loudly, only to be met by both you and Jen shushing her sharply.

The voices behind the door to Mrs Harknesses raised in volume, and Lilia swallowed hard.

„I see“, she immediately switched to a whisper tone. „Vidal?“, she asked Jen, who nodded. They shared a serious look, flinching at the yelling.

You bit your lip, glancing from Jen to Lilia. The older woman took a deep breath, leaning against your desk, a hand on her hip.

„Rio wasn’t happy with the placement of her interview in the June Issue“, Jen explained, „I‘ve been getting angry calls from her secretary for days. Now Vidal showed up in person without making an appointment. Had to push back Calvin Klein, they were not happy.“

„What a glorious first week“, Calderu shook her head, giving you a sympathetic look. „Good Luck, Newbie“, she said, and then, her glance slowly dragged down your form, taking in your large green sweater and simple black jeans and sneakers. Her eyes widened, and as she looked back at Jen, she visibly shuddered, „You’re going to need it.“

„What, is something wrong with how I look?“, you gasped, loud enough to get another sharp shush from the other two.

You looked over at Jen, who just shook her head, raising her shoulders in a small shrug. „To be honest, we’ve all been wondering how you got this position in the first place. You‘re not exactly Runway material.“

„Or sidewalk material for that matter“, Lilia added, and Jen clutched her pearls dramatically, trying to stifle her laughter.

„You‘re not wrong, Calderu.“

You shot Jen a hurt look, ready to defend yourself. You were Second Assistant, most of your work happened on the phone, who cared if you wore Armani or not? After all, you had studied Journalism, not Fashion! And you were more than capable of showing professionalism in your profession!

But before you could give the two women a piece of your mind, the door flew open, and a dark haired woman in a suit strutted past you, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

„Admit it Agatha!“, she snarled, glaring back into the office over her shoulder, „This had nothing to do with the collection and everything with your own stubbornness!“

The woman, Vidal, turned around on her heels, dark hair whipping over her shoulder. As she turned, her eyes focused on you, and she froze in her tracks.

„Oh“, a dangerous little smirk formed on her lips. „You‘re new. Clearly.“

She took a step closer, Lilia moving out of her way as she did. Dark eyes watched your every movement like a lynx stalking its prey, and you suddenly felt incredibly exposed, even behind your desk. When she noticed you shudder, Vidal grinned, exposing her teeth.

„They really let anyone work here these days.“, raising her voice loud enough that it echoed through the hallway, she added „Who let the little barista in?“

To your horror, both Jen and Lilia just shrugged, not saying a word in your defense. Stupid, shallow Fashion industry.

Rio Vidal leaned over your desk, dangerously close to your face. She placed one hand on either side of you, practically caging you into your seat. Her voice was low as she smirked down at you, teeth exposed. „Aggie is going to eat you alive, little mouse. Better run while you can.“

„Rio!“, Mrs Harkness' voice rang from her office, a sharp cut through the air.

All four of you whipped your heads around, even Rio, finding the woman leaning against her office door, arms crossed, legs perfectly accentuated by a fitted culotte, a matching blazer draped over her shoulders, silk scarf loose around her neck. Her brow was creased, and sharp, ice cold eyes stared Rio down like a hawk. „Our meeting is over, Vidal. Get your ass out of my office. And“, her jaw tensed, eyes flitting over to you for less than a second. „Don’t touch my stuff.“

There was a slight frown on her face and you wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and fall through all nine floors of the building.

But still, Rio listened. With a scoff, the dark haired woman pushed herself off your desk, brushing past Lilia as she made her way towards the door.

„I‘m so sorry!“, Jen started babbling the moment the elevator doors closed and swallowed Vidal up, „She stopped for us, we did not-“

„Silence, Kale.“ Agatha didn’t even bother to look at her. Instead, her cold eyes closed in on Lilia. „Have your coffee break elsewhere, Calderu. There is no reason for you to linger around up here. And you, pet.“, her head whipped around, ice cold stare piercing right through you.

„Starting Monday, I want to see initiative. It’s time to take this Job seriously.“

Just like Rio had done just minutes before, Harkness leaned over your desk, glaring you down as she invaded your space. You leaned backwards into your chair, resisting the urge to flinch away. Blue eyes wander down your front, lingering over your exposed throat for just a moment longer. „And no more green at the office.“

Just as fast as she had leaned in, she was gone again, leaving your heart beating out of your chest, hands curled around the arm rests of your chair so tight, your knuckles turned white.

Agatha was already halfway back to her office. „Accompany Calderu back to her office, pet. I don’t want to see you when I leave. And next week, you either show up dressed like you want this, or don’t bother showing up at all.“

You weren’t ever going to admit it to anyone, especially Jen, but that night you crawled into the back of your uber with tears in your eyes. Fuck your stupid boss and her stupid standards and your stupid coworkers who only cared about appearances! Your work was hard, and ungrateful, and no one seemed to care that you did every little task, every small favour that wasn’t in your job description at all, and you did them all marvelously. But still, no one had your back because you wore converse instead of Louis Vuittons. Not even in front of your boss and her infamous ex wife, known for always somehow ending up closer to Agatha than the Runway CEO would like. Even then, in front of two of the most powerful women in the business, no one felt the need to stick up for you.

When you stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of your home, your uber gave you a worried look, and it only made you cry harder.

However, someone seemed to have your back.

As you walked up the stairs to your front door, you noticed a single package. A white box, even adorned with a lilac bow on top of it. And, when you crouched down to inspect the mystery package further, it had your name written on it at the top.

No tape or even a stamp, just a single gift box with a bow, looking like someone had snatched it away from under a Christmas tree. It wasn’t Christmas though, and it wasn’t your birthday either. It was a regular Friday, only tainted by the tears you‘d just spilled over your stupid job.

When you opened the box, carefully pulling at the lilac ribbon, your confusion didn’t let off either. In fact, you were even more lost with the contents.

A pair of black slacks, the fabric smooth and organic. No polyester in sight, this was high quality fabric. When you held them up, something fell out of the left pocket.

A card, a lapel pin attached to it. Fine, polished silver wrapping around a single, sparkling amethyst.

On the backside was a note, written in a cursive so filigrane that at first, you thought it must be printed.

No more jeans. Time to dress for the job you got.

You glanced up, but the street was empty, no cars other than resident vehicles parked under the flickering street lights. Whoever had dropped off this mystery gift had not stuck around. You swallowed, taking the box and bringing it inside. Maybe there was hope for you.

The gifts didn’t stop there. On Monday, you sat down at your desk, wearing your nice, new slacks and a slightly less washed out sweater today, you found another little box, the same white cardboard, the same ribbon. This one was way smaller though, small enough that Jen didn’t seem to notice from across the room as you unwrapped a brand new, sleek watch. The wrist band was incredibly light and slick, the watch itself small but neat, and the pointers were adorned with the tiniest little diamonds, tainted a bright blue if you held them up to the light. Underneath the watch was a note again. Neat cursive.

Meeting with Dior in 10, not 20. Wear the watch.

You bit the inside of your cheek, but before you could think about it, Jen hung up her current phone call, stress written all over her face.

„Dior called, they are coming in-“

„10, not 20“, you gave her a firm nod, „Don’t worry, I‘ll meet them and take notes for Harkness, you do the evaluation with Lilia.“

As you got out of your seat, you slung the new watch around your wrist. It sat perfectly. Jen gave you a confused but appreciative once over.

„Okay“, she said, „See you in 30.“

On Wednesday, you rushed in from driving Agatha’s son to soccer practice to find the hallway empty. Jennifer must have gotten stuck in a meeting. However, that wasn’t what caught your interest. As you put your laptop down, you noticed another box, this one sitting right in the seat of your chair. It was bigger than the others, and as you pulled the lid off, you were met with a bubble wrap. Whatever was in here, it was packaged like something incredibly precious. You bit your own tongue, anticipation bubbling up inside you. And then you unwrapped it.

A leather jacket. A little scuffed, worn in at the elbows. Definitely vintage, worn before. The arms were studded by silver rings, from the shoulders down to the cuffs. It was gorgeous, and vaguely familiar.

Behind you, you heard the clinking of porcelain, and then a sharp curse. When you spun around, Jen was already halfway across the room towards you, ignoring the fact she‘d spilled fresh coffee all over her desk.

„Where did you get that?“, she asked, panic in her voice. You clutched the jacket a little tighter.

„I found it here. Must be a gift.“

Jen came to a halt right in front of your desk, both hands immediately diving into the box on your seat.

„Hey!“, you nudged her away with your hip, but Jen‘s stance was firm, „Stop that!“

“Absolutely not!“, the first assistant just replied, „As per usual, you have no idea what any of this is about!“

„Then you should tell me, as first assistant and all!“, you shot back, and Jen let out a deep sigh.

„1998. Agatha Harkness gets photographed by paparazzi leaving Rio Vidal‘s mansion. The jacket she wore started a trend that didn‘t settle until denim took over in the 2000s.“ She gave you a long, serious glare. „You are holding that jacket.“

Before you could process what she just told you, and what any of that meant, your coworker already dove back into the box. At the bottom was a folded piece of cardboard, just off white and high quality. There was a set of simple, silver cuff buttons attached to it. Jen snatched the note out before you even had a chance to grab it.

„You polish up nice. Pair with a dress shirt.“ She read out loud, gasping.

„No signature? I can’t believe this! There is no way this left the archive without Mrs Harknesses permission.“

You reached for the note, but Jen took a step backwards, holding it out of your reach. Damn her and her high louis vuittons.

Her eyes closed in on you, pointing an accusatory finger at you. „This is why you‘ve been looking good! Someone is playing dress up with you! Do you have a secret admirer in the archives?“

„I don’t know who these are from!“, you told her truthfully, holding the leather jacket close to your chest. You still weren’t 100% sure she wasn’t just going to tear it from you.

„But … Someone‘s been helping me. Lilia has been a lot kinder since I changed the way I dress, even you shared your salad with me the other day!“

Jen creased her brow at that, glancing from the note in her hand to your face and back.

„I guess there hasn’t been any complaints from downstairs either. Whoever sends you stuff does so fair and square.“ She huffed, nose wrinkling, then shrugged, finally handing you the note. Soft, high quality paper, like artists used for Aquarelle painting. The same neat cursive as the other one.

Jen watched you and shook her head. „Whoever is sending you these is right though. You need a button up with this. And some good shoes.“

As if your secret angel had heard her, the next day, you found a bag with the Lauren Ralph Lauren logo printed on it under your desk. Inside was a shoe box. A pair of sleek black ankle boots, shiny, real leather, a minimal heel to give you just a little bit of extra height, but small enough to keep the shoe androgynous and cool. This time, there was no extra goodie attached to the note, however, when you turned it in your hand, a sour, citrusy scent found your nose. The paper was doused in perfume. This time, when you read the note, a smile slowly but surely crept up onto your features.

Looking good. Now show them exactly who you are, pet.

You licked your lips in excitement, glancing up from your desk. Mrs Harkness office door was closed, her way of letting you know she wanted no disturbances right now.

However, you could hear that one Lorna Wu song playing behind the door, the smooth sound of a record player unmistakable. You were starting to get an idea of who might be behind your sudden gift shower.

By Friday, you had an almost entirely revamped closet, held in shades of violet, plum and indigo. Today, you wore a flowy, long sleeved shirt made out of what you were pretty sure was pure dyed silk, the amethyst earrings and a matching bracelet, the slacks that had started all of this. You looked stylish, young, professional. You looked like you weren't a second assistant, but editor of Runway, and you carried yourself through the hall like it too, dropping the leather jacket on your chair as you passed your desk. Jen looked up from her laptop when you came passed, giving you an impressed nod.

„I‘m gonna be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you.“

You let out a little snort, leaning against her desk. „Thanks Jen, you look great today too.“ She always did, of course. Jen had this game figured out like no other. No matter how much Mrs Harkness had to complain about her work ethic or her shitty handwriting or the coffee Jen bought her being just a little too sweet, not even the Wicked Witch of Runway could criticise Jennifer's style. But, if you were quite honest, you started to feel like you were holding up pretty well yourself. This morning when you‘d dropped off a new collection for the Archive, Lilia had pulled you into a tight hug, before introducing you to one of the photographers. She‘d never done anything of the sorts before. When you walked down the hallway, a binder or a bag of clothes or Agatha‘s lunch order in your hand, people greeted you, some even stepped out of the way now.

„So“, you flipped open your notebook, glancing at your To Do List for the day. „What does the afternoon look like for us?“

„I‘m dropping Nicky off at Alice‘s for his guitar practice.“ She explained, „And on the way back I‘ll stop by Gucci to pick up some samples. Agatha has calls until four, and expects her afternoon latte immediately after. Until then, you’re on phone duty.“ Jen gave you a small smile, and you dared to see pride on her face. „Nothing you can’t handle, superstar.“

That afternoon, you knocked at your bosses door no less than two minutes after she‘d finished her last call. You had a tray with her drink and a salmon cream cheese bagel, the mug still steaming as you peaked into the door.

„Coffee’s ready!“, you announced, ready to put the tray down and disappear again.

However, to your surprise, Agatha told you to come inside. You closed the door behind you, putting her order down on her desk before stepping away, feeling oddly exposed in the middle of the room like that.

You’d barely seen her all week, she was always either on the go but in a conference. But yesterday, as she had brushed past your desk, phone in hand as she’d once again yelled at Vidal about … something, you imagined that for the splinter of a second, she‘d winked at you in passing.

Now, Agatha‘s eyes dragged down your form, and for the first time this week, she genuinely smiled. Taking a sip of her latte, she gave you a satisfied nod.

„You may not look like a barista anymore, but I swear this stuff has been better since you started to do the coffee run.“

You caught your lower lip between your teeth. „Thank you, Mrs Harkness.“

Then, as you turned to leave, Agatha called out to you again.

„Wait up, pet.“

You froze, glancing over your shoulder back at her. There was an unreadable glimmer in her eyes, tainted lips curled into a small smirk. „Add whatever you like to drink to the order tomorrow. Use my card.“

You couldn’t help but gasp, smile so wide you quickly had to turn away, before she could see. This was entirely new. Coffee run meant a drink for Agatha, sometimes one for Lilia. Never for the assistants. Well, until now. „Thank you, Mrs Harkness.“

„Call me Agatha.“

„Of course, Agatha.“ Her name rolled off your tongue surprisingly easy, like it had always belonged there. You bit back a grin, feeling your stomach tighten. Her undivided attention felt like opiates in your system, made you feel like you were floating on clouds above the world. Like you wanted nothing else, ever again. It was dizzying.

„Come over here“, Agatha’s voice brought you back to reality. It was calm, and she nodded towards her desk, cluttered with notebooks, concept art and prior issues of the magazine. Every night before you left, you made sure to organise it, but over the course of just one day, Agatha always managed to restore the chaos.

Right now, she was getting off her seat, putting down her cup. To your surprise, she had foregone stockings today, bare skin under her deep purple, tight pencil skirt. The matching blazer was draped over the back of her chair, sleeves of her white shirt pushed up to her elbows. It was unusually casual, uncharacteristically human. It was intimate.

Your stomach did a little flip, stepping forward to stand in front of her desk as she had ordered. The quiet obedience gained you a satisfied little nod.

„You’ve been cleaning up quite well, pet.“

If you thought about it, you didn’t mind the pet name at all.

Praise from Agatha was a rare treat, if you believed Jen, it was near impossible. You played with the rings adorning your fingers, glancing down at the tips of your polished, shiny black boots.

Agatha paced around her desk in a slow circle, until she was standing right behind you. „Everything I’ve heard about you has been nothing but positive.“

Goosebumps rose on your skin. „Thank you, Mrs Harkness.“

She tutted. „I told you to call me Agatha.“

A warm hand grazed your hip, and you exhaled sharply at the touch. „And here I thought you were good at taking orders.“ She glanced at you over your shoulder, a mocking pout on her lips.

Her fingers curled around the silky fabric of your shirt for a mere moment before letting go again.

„Turn around.“ You spun around to face her without missing a beat.

Agatha‘s eyes dragged over your blouse, along your shoulders, your collarbones exposed by the silky fabric, dipping lower for just a moment. Your breath hitched.

She took a step forward, into your space. Instinctively, you took a step back. The air got sucked out of your lungs when you felt the desk press into the back of your legs. You were now caged in between Agatha‘s presence in front of you and her desk behind you.

Your boss seemed unbothered, her hand reaching out, running over the neatly folded collar of your shirt. You’d added the lapel pin to it, the silver reflecting in the blue of her eyes. You swallowed, and her glance focused on the movement of your throat.

„Gorgeous“, she murmured, and you weren’t sure what exactly she meant. You imagined you saw her lick her painted lips, but you weren’t sure. Either way, goosebumps tickled your arms, your chest, all over your skin.

Agatha’s index finger and thumb take your collar between them, silky, deep purple fabric running through her hold. You felt her gently tug on the fabric and your heart skipped a beat. The only thing you wanted was for her to touch your skin instead.

But then she spoke, and it took every fibre of your being to concentrate on her words.

„Ultra Violet, the Pantone Color of the Year in 2018“, her lips pursed into a dangerous, thin smile, „Do you know why that is?“

She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she took another step closer. You swallowed hard, halfway sitting on her desk now, knees sliding apart automatically as she stepped between them. You didn’t stop her, just held still as she invaded your space. It was like there was electricity flimmering through the air.

“George Hobeika Fall 2017 Couture showcase. He comes to me with a collection of deep oranges and reds. Orange for fall? How original. I send him a note telling him to shove his off the rack bullshit back to where he must be hiding that visionary spirit he claims to have. The color of the paper?“ Her brows raised, blue eyes unreadable as she scanned your face expectantly.

„Ultra Violet“, you guessed, and the pleased curl of her lips has your heart almost beating out of your chest.

„Exactly“, she murmured, so close that you felt her breath on your face. „Ultra Violet. The colour of the standout dress of the show, the colour you saw on every Magazines front page for a full year after.“ She chuckled, tugging on your collar just the smallest bit. The upper button came undone. You didn’t stop her.

Agatha’s voice dropped. „I send Kale to buy office supplies once and the entire fashion industry bends over backwards for me.“

Her fingers let go of your blouse. Instead, her thumb hooked underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards. There was no escape to her intense eye contact now. Her voice was low, amused. She practically purred at you.

„And look at you, wearing my color, seven years later.“

She took another step towards you. Her hips pushed against yours now, and your hands found the surface of her desk behind you, pushing yourself upwards as she pinned you against it. Her body was warm against you, even through layers of expensive satin and velvet. It was only now that you noticed your blouse matched the colour of her skirt, of her blazer. Her rings were adorned with the same amethysts that dangled off your ears.

All the little gifts on your desk, every single item in your new, professional closet, they all had one thing in common. Ultra Violet. The colour of the Woman herself. Every single thing that made Jen green with envy or Lilia whistle impressed, they weren’t just gifts from a secret admirer who wanted to help you. They were territorial markings. They were hers. You were hers, visible to everyone’s eyes.

Blue eyes twinkled down at you in approval, the realisation written all over your face.

„My colour, all over you“, Agatha purred, her thumb dragging along your jaw, up towards your cheekbone, and then slowly towards your slightly parted lips. Her touch was gentle and you stopped breathing at the feeling, trying hard not to lean into the touch. But then, her hand found your hair, fingers curling into it, pulling you closer. Her other hand slipped around your waist, palm pressed firmly against your lower back. A familiar scent found your nostrils, sour and citrusy.

She was so close, you felt every single one of her words on your lips.

„You wear it so well.“

That was when the knot inside you snapped. All restraints, every last ounce of professionalism flew right out the window. Your eyes fell shut. It took barely a slight nudge of your chin to close the gap between you. Finally, your lips were on hers.

Agatha was firm against you. The sweetness of Charlotte Tilbury matte lipstick met your tongue, her painted lips creamy and soft against you. She kissed you with vigour, her hand firm on your lower back as she pushed you flush against her. She leaned forward, pushing you onto her desk with strong arms. Your shirt slipped off one shoulder and you let out a surprised squeal. Agatha took the opportunity and slipped her tongue between your lips. The faint bitterness of Espresso hit your tastebuds, her tongue dancing around you with the confidence of a leading dance partner.

Your hands found her shoulders as your back hit the surface of her desk, pulling her down with you. Holding onto her tightly as she stood between your legs, she kept you in place exactly where she wanted you with the hand in your hair.

A little moan escaped your lips, devoured immediately by her mouth against yours, and her teeth grazed over your swollen bottom lip.

Suddenly, the penetrant sound of a new notification cut through the air. On the other end of the desk, Agatha‘s phone lit up, vibrating once.

A part of you wanted to grab the damn thing and throw it out the window into the night, but you also wanted to keep your job. Now more than ever, actually.

So, as Agatha pulled away, adjusting her blazer as she did, you pulled your shirt back in place as well. But not with a frustrated little sigh, sitting up on her desk as she gave you a warning look with raised brows.

While you were still catching your breath, Agatha stepped around her desk casually, reaching for her phone before turning to the skyline behind her desk, New York City gleaming back at her in shades of Neon and Steel blue. The bright Purple Runway sign from above your building tainted the entire street in a faint violet light. Her mark was everywhere.

Agatha‘s brow creased as she typed into her phone.

„Before you go home, make a dinner reservation for two at the French Place at the Boulevard. 9 pm sharp. Message Nicky‘s babysitter to let her know I‘ll be late.“, she said matter of factly, and you scrambled for your notepad to write down everything she told you. Even your notepad was purple. How had you never noticed that until now?

„And remember to pick up your suit for Vidal‘s Gala before Saturday. You’re going to need a fitting.“ You tried to ignore the way your heart leaped in your chest. Your first event as her assistant, and she was taking you and only you!

“Oh, and Y/N,“ Your name on her lips was new, and it was exciting. You felt your chest flutter at the sound.

Agatha turned back around to look at you, the city lights illuminating her form. Her lipstick had smudged the slightest bit, but it did not ruin the image of perfection she was. If anything, it just made your stomach burn even hotter. Her eyes found yours and there was a twinkle in them, lips curled into a subtle smirk.

“You have Dinner at the French place on Boulevard at 9. There‘s an outfit waiting for you in the Archive.“

A knowing smirk tugged at your lips, raising a brow at her. „I must polish up nice to wear archived items.“

Agatha tutted, bright eyes twinkling. „You have been.“

[avicecaro]

see. okay. this is true about chairs. and while i personally think “adult human female, female meaning of the sex which produces ova” is a very clear and comprehensive definition, not everyone agrees. and, for the sake of argument, that’s fine! but that’s not how the law works. lawmaking bodies agonize over the precise definitions of terms to ensure that the law does what they’re hoping it will do, and is not easily misused. that’s their job.

in ireland, the bread that fast food restaurants use is legally considered cake because of the sugar content. cake is regulated differently than bread. do you and i need to argue the finer points of cake and bread? how sweet do you think something has to be so we can consider it cake? does it matter? not really. but it does when you’re trying to tax staple foods and non-staple foods differently.

there have been multiple court cases in the US determining if a taco is a sandwich (as of May 2024, it is, as per the superior court of indiana, fun fact). is a taco a sandwich? i don’t know! i don’t really think so. if someone said “hey i made sandwiches” and gave me a taco, i’d be confused. and anyway, does it matter? not really. but it does when i’m trying to determine if a taco restaurant can open in a space that won’t allow sandwich shops.

is a barbershop different than a hair salon? i think so. i go to a hair salon, my brother goes to a barbershop, if we switched our appointments we’d both be unhappy. it matters for the sake of communication, but is it a super important distinction? not really. but what if i signed a non-compete agreement with the barbershop i work at that said i wouldn’t work at any nearby barbershop for six months after terminating my contract? can i work at a hair salon? now it matters.

if i needed fifty chairs for an event, and the company i contracted with sent fifty horses, or fifty tables, they could argue “but it’s something with four legs that a person can sit on!” and they’d be correct. but i would know i’d been given something different than what i asked for, and i would expect the chair supplier to know that, too. so if i want to demand a refund/return/exchange on the basis that i’ve received the wrong product, do i have a claim?

so, okay, you feel we can’t define the term “woman” perfectly. or maybe we can define it, as in we know what we’re trying to talk about, but we don’t have a good term for it. wouldn’t be the first time it happened! but if we are creating a legal category, it does in fact need to have parameters. meaningful parameters.

if i want to give some speeches promoting radical gender acceptance, i could probably get away with never outright defining the word woman. but what if i want men who kill women to have their crimes classified as hate crimes? i need to have a meaningfully defined category of what a woman is and what makes one different from a man. mexico requires that congressional candidates be split 50-50 between men and women to enforce gender parity. “woman” has to be a meaningfully defined category, or else … well, you’ll end up with the same problem they keep having to deal with.

if we want protections or resources for women, “women” have to be a meaningful legal category. if it is a category anyone can opt into, then it is a category that includes anyone, which is not a meaningful category when it is meant to include only half of people. also women aren’t chairs.

[ilovedthestars]

A thought I’ve been having: While it's important to recognize the long history of many current queer identities (and the even longer history of people who lived outside of the straight, cis, allo “norm”) I think it's also important to remember that a label or identity doesn't have to be old to be, for lack of a better word, real.

This post that i reblogged a little while ago about asexuality and its history in the LGBTQ+ rights movement and before is really good and really important. As i've thought about it more, though, it makes me wonder why we need to prove that our labels have "always existed." In the case of asexuality, that post is pushing back against exclusionists who say that asexuality was “made up on the internet” and is therefore invalid. The post proves that untrue, which is important, because it takes away a tool for exclusionists.

But aromanticism, a label & community with a lot of overlap & solidarity with asexuality, was not a label that existed during Stonewall and the subsequent movement. It was coined a couple decades ago, on internet forums. While the phrasing is dismissive, it would be technically accurate to say that it was “made up on the internet.” To be very clear, I’m not agreeing with the exclusionists here—I’m aromantic myself. What I’m asking is, why does being a relatively recently coined label make it any less real or valid for people to identify with?

I think this emphasis on historical precedent is what leads to some of the attempts to label historical figures with modern terminology. If we can say someone who lived 100 or 1000 years ago was gay, or nonbinary, or asexual, or whatever, then that grants the identity legitimacy. but that's not the terminology they would have used then, and we have no way of knowing how, or if, any historical person's experiences would fit into modern terminology.

There's an element of "the map is not the territory" here, you know? Like this really good post says, labels are social technologies. There's a tendency in the modern Western queer community to act like in the last few decades the "truth" about how genders and orientations work has become more widespread and accepted. But that leaves out all the cultures, both historical and modern, that use a model of gender and sexuality that doesn't map neatly to LGBTQ+ identities but is nonetheless far more nuanced than "there are two genders, man and woman, and everyone is allo and straight." Those systems aren’t any more or less “true” than the system of gay/bi/pan/etc and straight, cis and trans, aro/ace and allo.

I guess what I’m saying is, and please bear with me here, “gay” people have not always existed. “Nonbinary” people have not always existed. “Asexual” people have not always existed. But people who fell in love with and had sex with others of the same gender have always existed. People who would not have identified themselves as either men or women have always existed. People who didn’t prioritize sex (and/or romance) as important parts of their lives have always existed. In the grand scheme of human existence, all our labels are new, and that’s okay. In another hundred or thousand years we’ll have completely different ways of thinking about gender and sexuality, and that’ll be okay too. Our labels can still be meaningful to us and our experiences right now, and that makes them real and important no matter how new they are.

We have a history, and we should not let it be erased. But we don’t need a history for our experiences and ways of describing ourselves to be real, right now.

[moonreader1010]

Pac: how people perceive you<3

Note: 1. take what resonates.

2. Take a deep breath. Ask your spirit guides to help you choose the pile and choose the one that calls out to you.

3. Pictures used are from Pinterest. All rights go to the original owner.

Pile 1:

She'll put you in a trance at first glance

Don't wanna fall in love, but I'll take a chance

straight up I got vision of this one picture that I saw on Pinterest a while back. It was a rabbit in an armour with some sort of spikey weapon and it said “soft but not available for mistreatment”. Very do not harm but take no shit vibes. I see major cancer placements. You can tame anyone. I keep getting beauty and the beast vibes. Like, you know how to tame people. People listen to you but I don’t see and boss employee kind of relationship but more like a goddess and her followers kind of relationship. I see you being hurt in the past. Was growing up difficult baby? Did someone hurt you? I wanna hug you right now. You are an inspiration. You are a warrior and you are so so strong and wise. I feel like we are getting away from the actual question of the reading but I feel like someone wanted me to tell you this hahah. So onto the question that how people perceive you, I think they can tell that you have been through something that changed you. Made you stronger and wiser. People definitely see you as someone who will nail the trope of “taming the bad boy” haha. But ofcourse remember that it’s not your job to fix anyone and I feel like you already know this. People see you as someone who dances in the rain, confident (lots of cards show me the theme of confidence actually), hopeful. They also see you as this boss lady (gender neutral). They see you as someone who is busy building empires.

Additional: student, business, garden, summer dresses, flowers.

Song: Dangerous woman by Wieland

Pile 2: You wear that cast so cool

And I'm in awe

A face like you've never seen before

Around

people see you as someone who is constantly moving(it could be traveling or you know, making moves generally) you are not a still entity. You are always doing something. People see you as someone who is very private and mysterious. It’s hard to know anything about you. Moon seems to be really significant for some reason. People also see you as someone who cuts people of very quickly. No bullshit kinda person. You can deal with absence but won’t take disrespect. You are an achiever. People see you as someone who is constantly trying to learn something. You are open to experiences. You walk away from a situation that doesn’t serve you and that’s what many people admire about you. Young hear and old soul is what I keep hearing. People feel like they can come to you for help and also see you as someone who is very sensible.

Additional: wood, earth signs, moon, 3, heart on your sleeves, white flowers, driving far away.

Songs for you: Ever (foreign sleep) by team sleep.

Pile 3: Baby, this is what you came for

Lightning strikes every time she moves

And everybody's watchin' her

But she's lookin' at you,

people see you as someone who works really hard. They see you as someone who is very responsible and completes tasks like a pro. They see you as a leader. Is acts of services you love language? People feel like they can always count on you. You are always there to help people. You honestly are a great leader you know? Some people seem to see you as a rival. A competition. You make people competitive pile 3. People see you as someone who is very faithful. You are almost untouchable to people. You seem to be on an entire different level that they cannot reach. People see you as someone who is smart and has a way with words. You seem like someone who would do great in negotiations and business exchange lol.

Additional: ships, sea, commerce, green,

Song for you: this is what you came for by Calvin Harris and Rihanna. (Very Rihanna energy lol)