#Really stretching the limits and definitions of a sentence

[zerolostwalks]

The greater polyphantoms polycule + niche themed café au

The truth of the matter was, they all expected a bigger reaction from their loved ones when they announced their plans to open a fantasy tavern style cafe, none of them sure how to react when instead everyone they told simply glanced over all them and slowly relented, “yeah that makes sense.”

“If it wasn’t that it would have been some neon pastel candy shoppe,” Kayla had supplied when Carrie and Flynn had brought up their surprise over lunch, “but that seems too close to Luke’s hated diner job, and this way Carrie can live out that ‘secret dream’ of being a fairy princess.”

And while Carrie would never openly admit Kayla was right, she had to concede that combining all of their unique flair’s for the dramatic and flights of fancy really did make for quite the immersive themed cafe experience.

(Send me an AU and a pairing and I'll write a 3 sentence fic)

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. 

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption  my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @r-3dlips @m-indkiller @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @reiderrambles @averyhotchner @hbwrelic @sky2nd @messylxve @alexxavicry @doigettokeepyou @pleasantwitchgarden @kodzukenmaaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spenciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @c-losur3 @theylovemelody @alahnizamolo @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @spiderladyleah @estragos @khxna @spencerssoup @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @aecd27 @persephonestears @moonyxstars @xxmooxmooxx @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @jungchloee @she-wont-miss @duchesz @i2rapunzel @historicallyqueer

join my taglist here!

[harkharknessness]

lucid (part two)

summary: You've got the journal back, but it doesn't help your spiral... especially once you look more closely at what's inside. warnings: nothing really, i think. allusions to sexy dreams. weaponized bureaucracy, mention of “female anatomy” but only in the anatomical sense, it's a slow burn, folks. word count: 5.2k (part one) (ao3)

You stared at the book in your hands. You stared so long that you could see the pen marks on the insides of your eyelids when you blinked.

This couldn’t be real. You had to be imagining things thanks to the lack of sleep and the abundance of anxiety you’d accumulated over the last few days.

But you kept looking, and the words on the page didn’t change. So you flipped to the next page. More red. And on the next. And the next.

Almost every page was littered with annotations, arrows, underlines, and at the bottom of each entry, a grade.

An actual letter grade.

She’d marked up the notebook as if it were just an essay you’d turned in for class. Academic feedback on the dreams you’d had about her.

After one paragraph, which you could tell you could tell by the slope of your handwriting that you’d written in the middle of the night, she noted:

C. Rushed. Grammatically inconsistent. Suspension of disbelief stretched to its limits.

Your face hadn’t stopped burning since she’d handed the notebook back to you, but it was hotter than ever as you read her critique.

You wanted to stop already. You needed to close the book or risk losing any remaining shred of self-respect you still had.

But something wouldn’t let you. Morbid curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps the chance that something she’d written in the margins would give you just a little bit of a thrill, whether or not she’d intended to do so.

A few pages later, in the margins of a longer, more detailed entry:

Your focus wanders here, bordering on sensory overload. Choose a lens: touch, sight, sound? One will do.

Then there was just:

Good.

Good. Good? What was good about it?

You couldn’t bring yourself to revisit whatever dream that comment appeared next to. You hadn’t reread any of them, actually, and didn’t think you’d ever be able to read any of them again, knowing she had seen them all. You’d just think to yourself She’s read this, at the end of each sentence.

And then maybe you’d have to scream into a pillow.

Between all the thinking and screaming, it would take an excruciatingly long time to get through even a short entry.

Still, you quietly folded the corner of the page over itself, just in case you ever did want to find out.

At the bottom of another page she’d written,

B-. Demonstrates a weak understanding of the female anatomy—surprising, considering the extensive knowledge on display elsewhere.

You felt a wave of shame like you’d never felt before. What had you possibly written to make her say that? And was it better that you’d apparently made up for it elsewhere? Or did that make it worse?

Worse. Definitely worse.

Then you read:

An impossible position for anyone but a contortionist, which the professor—to my knowledge—is not. If she is, that should be established earlier in the narrative.

and your knees buckled. Your free hand barely found the corner of your mattress to keep you from falling to the floor. That one felt… different. Like a confirmation that she knew. Like a claim. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

As you neared the end of the notebook, it became harder and harder to continue. You didn’t have to read these dreams to know what they were about. They were fresh, not yet buried with the rest. You knew exactly what she was referencing in her notes now, so when she wrote something that was just a little too specific, you had to take a deep breath and close your eyes, letting the part of you that was begging you to stop and the other part keeping you moving forward fight it out.

When you finally made it to the last page, to the entry you’d made the day the journal went missing, there was a mixture of horror and relief as you read:

Your subject has proven to have quite the manual-oral fixation. Fascinating.

written right next to where you’d described swirling your tongue around her fingers.

You slumped back, your shoulders thudding against the wall, as if your body had only just caught up to what your mind had been feeling for days.

Your eyes swept over the final grade of the book.

A. Compelling, if not overindulgent.

Something turned warm in your chest—an “A” from Agatha Harkness? Unheard of, even in the classroom—but it chilled a second later when you read the line below:

See me during office hours.

You slammed the notebook shut and threw it across the room like it had burned you. Your head fell forward into your hands, fingers pressing against your scalp, trying to give yourself something to focus on besides the inky words floating around in your mind.

It would’ve been one thing to receive the notebook back as it had been. Just your words on the page in dark-colored inks. Nothing more, nothing less. There would’ve still been plausible deniability in that.

But this? There was no hiding from it. She’d not only seen what was inside; she’d read it. Analyzed it. Added her own words to it right alongside yours. Probably laughed the entire time.

And after all that, she wanted you to go to her office hours for what? So she could scold you? Humiliate you more? You weren’t naive enough to hope anything good (Good. Fuck. What an awful little word.) could come of it. Or maybe you were, but you were telling yourself you knew better.

So, no. You wouldn’t be going to office hours. You wouldn’t even be going to class for the foreseeable future. You were going to do whatever it took to never be in the same room with Agatha ever again.

The notebook remained on the floor in the corner of the room overnight—its new home as far as you were concerned—and it wasn’t going anywhere. Not until you moved out or found the nerve to burn it on the roof some night.

Maybe at some point, when you could stand to look at it again, you’d pick it up and put it somewhere a little more out of the way, like under the mattress or in a drawer. But even if it wasn’t in the most convenient place for now, it was still here, in your dorm, and not there, wherever that had been.

(In her office? In her home? If you weren’t careful you could picture her sitting up in bed, notebook open against bent knees and glasses perched on her nose as she read, smirking non-stop. But you tried not to think about that.)

But, as you were about to head out the door the next morning, you found yourself bending down and slipping the notebook into your bag, a self-betrayal you couldn’t stop. It was like you suddenly couldn’t bear to have it out of sight, like if you couldn’t see it or touch it within three seconds of thinking about it, you risked diving headfirst into another spiral about it going missing.

You wouldn’t acknowledge that, maybe, there was something else tethering you to the book, something more than just the fear that it would disappear again.

It was the same thing that compelled you to fan through the pages as you sat in the quad with your mug in your other hand, pretending not to look at it all while hoping for the faintest flash of red ink that would make your cheeks burn and your chest tight at the same time. It was the same thing that made you rub the one folded corner of a page between your thumb and forefinger anytime you weren’t taking notes in your seminar. The thing that had you clutching it to your chest as you peeked discreetly around corners, looking for her even in places she had no business being.

You were flipping through the pages again as you sat down for dinner that night—not seeing anything inside except the occasional flash of color—when Wanda slid into the seat across from you like she’d appeared from nowhere.

You jumped and your finger lost its place in the pages, causing the rest of the notebook to fall closed with a soft thud.

Wanda’s brow raised in amusement.

“Whoa. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” you nodded, then took a deep breath through your nose. “You just surprised me.”

Wanda nodded back, but you could tell you hadn’t dispelled all of her suspicions. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing toward the notebook.

You shrugged, trying to regain some of your composure, but you’d lost the upper hand on subtlety already. “Just notes.”

“Did they get graded? What was all that red?”

“New memorization technique.”

“Can I see?” Wanda asked, reaching for the notebook. The way you saw it, it almost seemed to float into her waiting hand before you pulled it off the table entirely.

“No.”

“Okay… You’re being weird,” Wanda said, and you knew it was true, but you didn’t give in. The notebook remained securely in your grip under the table. “But fine. I don’t need to look at your secret note-taking strategy. If I fail this test for the gen-ed class I’m taking, though, I’ll blame you.”

You laughed once, sharp. “Blame yourself for not taking it freshman year like the rest of us.”

Wanda tilted her head as if demonstrating her decision to disengage, then stood. “I’m going to go get food.”

You followed, but not before putting the notebook back into your bag.

You checked three times to make sure it was still there before you left the cafeteria after you’d finished eating, even though you felt pathetic by the second look. Wanda pretended not to notice.

Thursday morning came and went. You stayed in bed—just staring at the ceiling, not even scrolling on your phone—long past the time you should’ve been in Harkness’s class. But even if you weren’t physically there, your mind was.

The slide on the projection screen would have the name of the day’s lecture in a simple, bold font; nothing garish. She’d probably started with a reminder of the midterm due date, then offered up a general berating to the procrastinators. Maybe she’d looked over to her right, seen your empty seat, and had to pause. Nothing dramatic, just for a second. So brief, no one would really even notice. But you would’ve.

Then you shook yourself out of your own head because, even after everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours, you still wanted that. And it was humiliating.

You spent the weekend almost entirely in your room, surviving off the stash of almost-expired snacks and a few water bottles you’d forgotten were hidden in the back of your mini-fridge. Texts came in from friends, but you didn’t respond to any of them until Wanda threatened to come over and drag you out herself if you didn’t give some proof of life.

Somehow, this weekend was even worse than the last when you had been running all over Westview. You didn’t realize then that ignorance really was bliss. The stillness was suffocating, and the knowing was tearing you up inside.

But that wasn’t keeping you from getting stuck on a whole new set of unanswered questions.

Why had she bothered to give the notebook back, and why had she written those notes inside of it? Was it just to tease and torture you? A silly little mind game she decided to play with you? You wouldn’t put it past her, and if that’s all it was, you’d have to begrudgingly appreciate her commitment to the bit, even if it made you want to disappear to start a new life in some faraway country.

Why had she read it at all, once she knew what you were writing about? Was it just the same compulsive curiosity that had kept you reading her commentary? Just some sort of sick delight from finding something herself pulled into so completely indecent?

But… she had made sure you knew she read everything. There wasn’t a single page without some kind of marking, at least not once you got past the class notes and the less scandalous dream fodder from earlier in the year. That had to mean something. Right?

No matter what you tried to do—read, do homework, or even just scroll on some stupid app on your phone—the questions wouldn’t leave you alone.

More than once, you were tempted to press on the bruise. You’d even pick up the journal and stare for a long time at its cover, but you could never bring yourself to actually open it up. The most you could do was feel for that folded corner and run your finger over the crease, back and forth. By the time you were in classes on Monday, the crease was so soft that the little paper triangle was barely hanging on anymore.

By Monday night, the feeling had become unbearable; you had to do something to stop it from continuing to fester.

At nine-thirty on Tuesday morning, you left your dorm as you normally would, but instead of making the journey to the room on the third floor of the Stark building, you found yourself heading toward the administrative offices.

You were standing in front of the registrar’s window by the time the bell tolled to mark the start of the 9:45 classes.

When the student worker—Kate, according to her name tag—asked you what you needed, you didn’t hesitate. “A course withdrawal form, please.”

She shuffled through a row of file folders before plucking up a half-sheet of paper.

“Here you go,” she said, holding it out for you to take. “Better hurry. Deadline’s Friday.”

You shifted the weight of your bag higher onto your shoulder and clicked your pen. “I can just fill it out right now. I’m not in a rush.”

“You can fill out most of it,” Kate agreed, “but you need a signature from your advisor if you’re going to drop to part-time.”

“That’s okay,” you assured both her and yourself, positioning the tip of your pen on the First Name line. “I still have enough hours.”

“And you have to get one from your professor, too.”

Your heart sank.

Your eyes scanned the form and, yep, down in the bottom right corner, a line for an instructor’s signature.

You glanced back up at Kate. Her face was schooled into a look of practiced sympathy, like you weren’t the first person she’d had to break that news to. “Rough semester?”

You snorted. “Something like that.”

“Well,” Kate said, leaning forward on the surface of her side of the counter. “You can try the online form. Usually if the professor gets it by email, they’ll just sign it and send it back. Nothing in person.”

That was the best news you’d heard in over a week. You looked up at her, eyes wide and grateful. “You are a lifesaver.”

She laughed quietly before collapsing back in her chair. “Good luck,” she said with a tilt of her head before you walked back toward the exit.

The bell in the campus clock tower started to signal it was ten o’clock just as you stepped back into your dorm building. Agatha would be three slides deep into her PowerPoint by now.

When you got back up to your room, you sat down at the desk in the corner. You almost never sat there—the wooden chair was uncomfortable and you could hear the music that your neighbor seemed to play around the clock even more clearly than usual. But it felt like the right place for now.

You grabbed your laptop out of your bag and pulled up the registrar’s website, searching for the digital version of the form you’d crumpled into a ball on your way back; there was no way in hell you were using the paper copy.

When you finally downloaded it, you filled in the fields in record time. You wanted to get it over and done as quickly as possible; there was no point in delaying it. You were never setting within fifty feet of Agatha Harkness ever again, and this form was step one toward that goal.

The basics were easy—name, date, student ID, course number—but you hesitated when you got to “Reason for withdrawing.”

You couldn’t very well say: “My professor read through all of the sex dreams I’ve had about her, so I now need to use the class time to attend very intense and targeted therapy instead.”

So, after thinking a little bit more, you went with, “Course load too heavy.”

It was kind of true, or at least, you could argue it if you had to. Besides, seniors dropped classes all the time, realizing too late that they only had energy for the bare minimum in their last couple semesters.

You sent the completed form to the printer down the hall, then walked down to sign it and scan it back in. As you walked back down the hall with the printed copy in hand, your eyes were drawn to the last space you needed to fill.

Instructor’s signature.

It wasn’t written in red ink, but it haunted you just as much as any of the writing in your notebook.

When you got back to your room, you sat down at your desk and opened a blank email. You attached the scan first, something that allowed you to feel productive without actually doing any of the real work. But once the file showed up at the bottom of the window, loaded, there was just you and a blinking cursor.

You took a deep breath and typed:

Subject: Course withdrawal

Good morning, Professor Harkness,

I’ve decided I need to withdraw from your course. I’ve filled out the form (attached), so all it needs is your signature. Would you mind signing it so I can turn it in to the registrar? The deadline is coming up on Friday.

Thank you in advance.

You scanned the message twice for typos, even in your auto-generated signature. It wasn’t like it mattered at this point, but you had just recently realized you had a fear of being “grammatically inconsistent.”

Then you hit Send.

The reply came almost instantly, even though class should’ve still been in session—maybe you were missing a quiz.

Subject: RE: Course withdrawal

Bring it to office hours.

-AH

You read the email over and over again until the words stopped making sense and a metallic taste tinged the inside of your mouth; in the silence, you’d managed to bite enough skin off your lip that it had started to bleed.

Of course, that’s how she responded. You should’ve known better.

So, now, you weren’t just facing a W.

You were getting an F.

Because there was no way in hell you were going to go to Harkness’s office hours to ask her permission, in person, to drop her class. And there was an even smaller chance of you ever going to class again.

So between the lack of attendance and the assignments and tests you’d miss, you were going to fail.

An F, though… And after you’d worked so hard over the last few years. Were you going to take the hit to your GPA so you could avoid a few minutes (awkward, humiliating, and soul-destroying as they would be) of embarrassment? Avoiding her wouldn’t make her somehow unread those things you’d written about her, and screwing up your transcript wouldn’t change the words she’d written on those pages.

Then again, how much damage could one little F do, right? Maybe it just sounded bad, and it wouldn’t drop your GPA by more than a few decimal points. And you could start planning right now on how to talk your way out of it if someone ever happened to question the course on your transcript.

The ideas chased each other in and out of your thoughts for the next hour as you lay on your bed on top of the covers. You were missing your second class of the day, again, just to stare up at the ceiling of your dorm, like the pinholes in the tiles would rearrange themselves to spell out a solution for you.

Your phone buzzed on your stomach and you almost ignored it, feeling like the mere act of raising it up was beyond your current capabilities. But when it buzzed again a few minutes later, you picked it up.

A calendar reminder was fixed in the middle of your screen.

Harkness office hours: 3-5 PM

You’d set the alert just a few days before your journal had gone missing, assuming you’d want the time to ask a few final questions before turning in your term paper. And then a second alert for good measure.

If you were going to get that signature, you only had two chances to do it—today’s office hours or Thursday’s.

So you could sit with the pit of dread in your stomach for two more days, risk skipping again and securing your F. Or you could go now. Get it over with.

You could probably even avoid seeing her one-on-one. You just had to stake out her office and wait for another student to go in, then interrupt so you’d have an unwitting buffer between yourself and Agatha.

So, that afternoon, that was what you did.

Or tried to do.

You walked into the department and took up camp on a bench down the hall from Harkness’s office, waiting for someone, anyone, to knock so you could hijack their meeting. But you sat there for over an hour, and not one other person walked up to that door. You knew people were afraid of her, but it was midterm season, and still, no one was there.

When an hour became an hour and forty-five minutes, you debated leaving. There was still one more session of office hours before the form was due. You could wait down the hall again, and maybe someone else would show up then. And if they didn’t, well, you’d have a decision to make. But at least you didn’t have to make it right now.

Releasing a deep sigh through your nose, you got up to leave, but a door creaked open further down the hall and stopped you cold, only halfway standing.

You felt her before you saw her; her gaze was too heavy to ignore. But, oh, did you try. And, despite knowing exactly how it would play out, you prayed to whatever higher power was out there that she would ignore you too.

“Leaving?” she asked, cool-voiced, but there was something in the undercurrent that felt familiar in a way you couldn’t explain.

You closed your eyes and let out a soft breath through your nose before finally turning your head to look over at her.

She was standing just outside the doorway to her office, coffee mug in one hand, phone in the other. She was still but not frozen, her thumb hovering deliberately over her screen like she’d been mid-scroll when she’d noticed you. The fabric of her button-down rustled softly as she moved to lean against the door frame.

You scrambled for words. “Yeah, I was,” you said, finally noticing the burn in your hamstrings and shoulders from the way you were still half-hunched over. You stood the rest of the way with as much confidence as you could muster.

“So you’re not here to see me,” she said more than she asked.

“No.” The word somehow stretched itself into two syllables, the second lifting a half-octave higher than you mean it to.

She nodded, raising her mug in your direction before turning and heading down the hallway in the opposite direction, but left her door cracked just enough to say I’ll be back. It wasn’t for your benefit, you told yourself. She’d just left it that way in case anyone else showed up. There were still a few minutes of her office hours left, after all.

A voice in your head was screaming for you to leave. She’d given you the opportunity. You needed to take it. Go. Leave. Run.

But you weren’t moving.

She had already seen you, and as much as you hated knowing that, you hated the idea of retreat even more. Cowardice from afar, you clearly had no problem with. But cowardice in person? It would probably be the most humiliating part of the whole thing when all was said and done. If you left now, you wouldn’t be coming back.

So you took another deep breath, rolled back your shoulders, and straightened your spine. You could do it. You could hand her a piece of paper and wait a few seconds for her to sign it. That’s all it would take. And then you could leave and move on from Agatha Harkness with your dignity intact. (Mostly… Kind of… A little bit, anyway.)

She didn’t seem too surprised to find you’d floated closer to her office door by the time she returned, coffee mug steaming in her hand.

“Thought you didn’t need to see me,” she said before bringing the cup to her lips. Still neutral. Still not giving anything away.

“I don’t,” you said. “I just need a signature.”

You both stood there, wrapped in the silence, before she reached out and pushed the door fully open. “Come in, then.”

She walked inside, and you followed, but at a distance. You stopped only a few steps into the room, maybe because you didn’t know what would happen if you got any closer, or maybe giving yourself space to bolt if needed.

She didn’t offer you a seat, and she didn’t take one herself. She just leaned against the front of her desk, one arm bracing her against the edge and the other holding the mug near her face as she watched you.

“The form,” she said, holding her hand out expectantly. Her first two fingers curled twice in quick succession, and you had to hide the hitch of your breath as you handed the paper over.

She took it and held it just below eye level, gaze flicking back and forth as she skimmed the filled-in fields. “Course load too heavy,” she read, tone deadpanned. Not mocking. Just shy of amused.

“Yes,” you nodded. You rolled your shoulders back again like a change in posture would help anything. “I’m working on my senior project and I have two other required classes I think I should focus on.”

She set the form beside her on the desk, then the coffee cup on the other, before crossing her arms over her chest.

“This isn’t about something else?” Her eyes flicked to the paper then back up like a dare.

“No.” You gestured to the form as if it had already explained everything. “I’ve just got a lot of other work to handle.”

She hummed as if she knew better but wouldn’t say so.

The quiet fell between you again, but she made no move to sign the form. Not even to grab a pen. She just stood still. Unwavering. Even more unnerving with silence than with her most cutting words.

You couldn’t take it.

“They’re not about you,” you finally said. You didn’t know if that was what she wanted to hear, and it certainly wasn’t what you planned to say, but it was out there, and you had to go with it. “I just wanted you to know that. They’re about one of my other professors.”

She tilted her head, the corners of her lips twitching almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t know there was another Agatha on the faculty. You’ll have to introduce me.”

So you had written her name somewhere in those pages. You’d known this whole time it had to be true. You just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

She exhaled through her nose, a small but knowing smirk breaking out across her face, and, God, it felt so familiar—the tendrils that had fallen in her face lay exactly where they always did before you brushed them back in your sleep. You swallowed. Hard.

“Easier question, then,” she offered like it was a favor, but you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from sighing. “How will this affect your graduation status?”

“I can just take it with Professor Hayward in the spring.”

She didn’t even try to stifle her scoff. “The only thing that man hates more than an undergraduate lecture is a department meeting.”

You shrugged. “A class is a class.”

The look that flashed across her face told you she was highly unimpressed with your answer, but it disappeared in the time it took to push off from where she was leaning against the desk and walk around to sit in her chair behind it. Her elbows perched on the tabletop, and she rested her chin on her laced finger, assessing you with sharp blue eyes that somehow made your skin sting.

Finally, she reached one hand out and tapped her fingertips over the form, acknowledging it for the first time since she’d set it down. You watched as her nails clicked rhythmically right over the space that was empty and waiting for her signature.

“So,” she said, breaking your trance. “Am I signing this or not?”

You should’ve been able to answer right away. Yes. Yes. Even a Please, I’m begging you, because what was one more embarrassment on top of the pile you’d already collected?

But instead, you said, “I don’t know.”

You stood there, not quite believing the words that had just come out of your mouth. She let you sit with it for a few breaths before breaking the stillness.

“Well,” she said as she slid the form to the edge of the desk. “Come back when you do. And until you’ve dropped the course, you should remember the midterm is due on Thursday. And that I don’t allow make-up work.”

“I know.”

She leaned back in her chair, the seat groaning softly with the shift of weight. “You missed a quiz today.”

You shook your head, trying to fight a grin while running your tongue over the backs of your bottom teeth. “Figures.”

You stepped forward only as much as you had to pick the form up off the desk, then turned to leave, only stopping again in the doorway when she spoke again.

“Thursday,” she said as if it were its own kind of farewell.

You didn’t say anything more. Just gave her one last look and then stepped into the hallway.

You walked out of the building into the chilly New Jersey autumn air and stopped right outside the doors, clutching the fabric of your coat snugly around your neck as you looked out at the campus grounds. The air that escaped your lips as you sighed fogged around you for just a moment before disappearing.

Somehow you’d walked out of that office with an incomplete form, a half-promise to show up to class again, and no solution to your problem. You weren’t right back to where you started; you were someplace even worse. taglist: @6stolenangel9 @filmedbyharkness @ahintofchaos @sweetmidnights

[hummingbird24220]

Can I request genderfluid! Reader just chilling out with the strawhats. Maybe they have a devil fruit that lets them have complete control of their body (within reason). I imagine Luffy, Chopper and Franky find it very cool, chopper and robin definitely want to find out the limits of their devil fruit. Sanji gets very flustered by their changing (they definitely use their fem body to get more snacks) and shopping trips with Nami. The rest of the straw hats are pretty indifferent to their devil fruit power (unless you have a cool idea for them) Also feel free to play around with how the devil fruit works if you want!

This was more rambling then I expected, you don’t have to write about all the strawhats if that’s too much you can just pick your favourite!

Hello! Yes, absolutely. Ive never written Genderfluid!Reader before, so i hope i did it justice.

----

Shifting Tides - Part 1

One Piece x Genderfluid!Reader

Part 2

The Thousand Sunny bobbed gently on a calm, glittering sea. No Navy. No bounty hunters. No chaos.

In other words: the perfect day to do absolutely nothing.

“Y/Nnnnn!” Luffy's voice echoed across the deck, limbs flailing as he bolted toward you. “Let me see the stretchy one again!”

You stretched your arm lazily above your head, grinning. “Stretchy one, huh? You mean this one?”

Your form rippled slightly as your body shifted—arms lengthening, fingers flexing like elastic, before snapping back into a different version of yourself. Taller. Buffer. Your voice a little deeper, cocking an eyebrow at Luffy.

“YOOOOOOO!” Luffy gasped, eyes sparkling. “THAT’S SO COOOL!”

Franky, polishing something vaguely explosive nearby, paused to adjust his shades and nod appreciatively. “That’s a super fruit you got there, bro! Sis? Bro-sis?”

You chuckled, morphing again mid-sentence—your frame shrinking slightly, hair flowing out longer, features softening. “I’m just me, Franky. But hey, you can call me whatever fits. I shift more than this ship does in a storm.”

Chopper practically popped out of the infirmary, notebook in hand and eyes gleaming with scientific curiosity. “I have so many questions! Do your organs change? Your bones? What about your hormone levels—do you produce different amounts depending on your form?!”

You laughed and ruffled his hat, ignoring how Robin subtly appeared at your side, gaze curious but calm. “You’ll have to join the queue, Chopper. Robin’s been cataloging me like I’m a sentient encyclopedia entry.”

“I simply find the limits of your Devil Fruit fascinating,” Robin said with a small smile. “The Body-Body Fruit, was it? Total control of your own biology, within reason. Do you have to imagine the change or feel it?”

“Little of both,” you answered. “It’s not like drawing a picture—it’s more like… feeling myself stretch toward a different version of me.”

Robin tilted her head. “Have you ever considered turning into someone with wings?”

“Please don’t give them ideas,” Zoro muttered from his napping spot against the mast. “They’re weird enough already.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Love you too, sword boy.”

Sanji exited the kitchen right on cue, tray balanced on one hand. “Snacks are ready for—”

You switched to your more femme form with a flick of your wrist. Your hair bounced, your eyelashes batted, and your voice dropped to a sugary, singsong pitch.

“Saaaanjiii~ You’re so sweet to me~ Could I maybe get an extra plate? For all this shapeshifting, I really must replenish my calories~”

His nose erupted in a predictable geyser of blood as he collapsed backward with a dreamy sigh. “A-a-a-anything f-for you, mademoiselle…”

You winked at Nami, who had just walked up beside you with a shopping list.

“You’re so evil,” she said fondly, grabbing your arm. “Now c’mon. I need backup for the next island. Pretty faces get better discounts.”

“Just say you like shopping with me,” you teased, shifting seamlessly between forms as you posed dramatically. “This look or this one? Or maybe—” you flicked to something androgynous, long coat billowing behind you. “Battle-ready discount mode?”

Nami laughed, dragging you toward the helm. “Doesn’t matter, you’re paying half.”

Later, as the sun began to dip and the crew gathered for dinner, you relaxed in your favorite form—somewhere in-between. Hair tousled, voice warm and casual, you leaned back and watched your chaotic family bicker, laugh, and eat like pirates do.

Usopp was trying to convince Luffy he could also control his body with sheer will (“I can stretch my nose!” he claimed, yanking it violently). Brook played background music that didn’t match the tone at all. Sanji sneakily brought you another plate.

“I don’t get what the big deal is,” Zoro said, sipping from his sake cup, eyes half-lidded. “They change shape. So what?”

“Yeah,” you replied, mouth full. “And you fall asleep in every corner of the ship. We’ve all got talents.”

Robin smiled over the rim of her wine glass. “I think it’s nice. You’re truly yourself, however you choose to look.”

Luffy threw an arm around your shoulders. “You’re awesome! I wanna see what else you can do tomorrow!”

You leaned into him, grinning. “I’ll show you the stretchy one again, captain. But only if you don’t eat my dessert this time.”

“NO PROMISES!”

----

It started innocently enough.

Chopper had asked to do some basic testing—nothing invasive, just a few form swaps, flexibility checks, a reaction speed test, maybe a tissue sample or two (he was very polite about that part).

Robin had also taken notes. Pages and pages of neat handwriting. You were about 60% sure she was planning to write a paper on you.

“Can you shift muscle mass instantly?” “Yup.” “What about vocal pitch without altering your throat?” “Sure.” “Can you make yourself taller and still retain agility?” “Wanna race?” “What happens if you do this—” poke

Meanwhile, Luffy sat cross-legged in the middle of the deck, watching with wide, fascinated eyes. He clapped every time you transformed. “DO THE TALL ONE AGAIN!” You stretched up into a tall, broad-shouldered build with a sly grin. “Like this?” “YEAHHH! SO COOOOOL!”

Zoro leaned against the rail, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

“…Y’know,” he said after a while, squinting, “it’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” you asked, flexing one arm in a very gratuitous show of your newest build. You had gone with an athletic look—abs on display, golden skin glinting with sweat. It was giving swordsman rival energy and you knew it.

Zoro shifted slightly, cheeks just the faintest bit pink. “I mean… not bad weird. Just weird.”

Usopp peeked out from behind a barrel. “Yeah! Like, one second you look like a cool dude, and the next you're a hot girl, and then you’re just… something else entirely! It’s like—like—brain static!”

You looked down at your current form, which was leaning into gender-neutral grace: lithe, sharp-featured, with a killer jawline and the longest lashes you’d ever conjured.

Then you looked back at Usopp.

“I cause brain static?” you said, smirking.

Usopp made a sputtering noise. “I—I didn’t mean—I mean, maybe! But like, in a cool way!”

You shifted forms again, landing in your soft, femme form—the one with the dewy eyes and curves that made Sanji short-circuit every time.

You turned toward him slowly.

“Sanji~” He was already mid-spin with heart eyes before you finished the first syllable.

“YES, MY LOVE?!”

“…Do you prefer this version of me?”

THUD. Sanji collapsed. Again. Chopper was beginning to consider a “Sanji Nosebleed First Aid Kit” specifically for you.

Luffy wandered over and poked your face. “So wait… when you’re like this, are you still the same you?”

“Yup,” you said easily, shifting again—now back to a masculine build with striking eyes and a lazy smile. “Still me. Always me.”

Luffy tilted his head. “Then how come I feel different when you change?”

You paused. “Different… how?”

He frowned hard. “Like… when you’re the tall guy version, I wanna fight you. But when you’re the pretty one, I wanna give you meat. And when you’re in-between, I just wanna sit next to you.”

There was a silence.

Usopp and Zoro both looked away. Sanji was still unconscious. Chopper looked mildly stressed.

You stretched your arms above your head, cracking your neck. “I think that just means you’re into me, no matter what I look like.”

“OH.” Luffy looked thoughtful. “...Cool.”

You smirked and dropped into a lounging position in a sunbeam. “You guys overthink this way more than I do.”

Zoro groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re too chill about this.”

You looked at him with a raised brow. “Why? You confused too?”

“…No.” “Yes,” Usopp whispered behind him. “Shut up, Usopp.”

Sanji groaned faintly from the deck. “Th-this is too powerful… weaponized attraction…”

You threw your head back and laughed.

“Y’all are lucky I’m nice. I could be so dangerous with this fruit.”

Robin flipped another page in her notes. “You already are.”

-----

It started during another chill day on the Sunny.

Nami had asked for your help at a merchant island—not because she needed it, but because shopkeepers tended to give you the “we-don’t-know-what’s-happening-but-we-like-it” discount.

You walked beside her in a charming, neutral look—cool, suave, just the right mix of soft and sharp.

She was talking about coral bracelets or something, but then she paused.

“…Wait,” Nami said, blinking at you. “Have you always had that jawline?”

You tilted your head. “Nope. Shifted it like ten minutes ago.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then made a very quiet, very frustrated noise.

“…Do you ever not look attractive?” she muttered, mostly to herself.

You wiggled your eyebrows. “You noticing, Cat Burglar?”

Nami elbowed you in the ribs and stormed off muttering about “stupid sexy shapeshifters.”

Later, Robin walked beside you, arms folded elegantly, and said very softly:

“Do you find it enjoyable, causing identity crises in everyone on board?”

“Immensely,” you said, flipping your hair (which hadn’t been long ten seconds ago). “You feeling the brain static too, Robin?”

She hesitated. Then calmly said, “…I will neither confirm nor deny.”

-----

You didn’t have long to bask in your power.

Marines.

A small ship spotted yours, then sped toward it—clearly thinking a frontal assault on the Thousand Sunny was a good idea.

“Want me to take care of it?” you asked, already walking to the rail.

“No killing!” Luffy called from the deck.

“No promises,” you called back.

You were in your tall, femme form—long legs, battle-ready, impossibly elegant. You leapt onto the enemy ship mid-sprint.

“Hello boys,” you purred, one hand on your hip. “Need something?”

Half of them froze. The other half tried not to stare.

“We—we are here to apprehend—”

You shifted mid-sentence—taller, broader, a sharp masculine form with rolled-up sleeves and a very punchable smirk.

“Oh,” you said, cracking your knuckles. “You’re here to die.”

BOOM.

The deck exploded into screams and confusion as you pummeled through them—fluid, fast, a one-person hurricane. When one of them tried to run, you shrank into a petite, lithe body, dodging low and then slamming an elbow into his gut with brutal precision.

When the dust settled, you stood atop a pile of groaning Marines, adjusting your collar like it was just another Tuesday.

“Done.”

-------

Zoro invited you to train with him. That was a first.

You joined him in your most jacked, bulky form—biceps like tree trunks, tank top barely holding on. He eyed you once, nodded in approval, and threw you a sword.

You sparred for a while, clashing blades, sweat flying, both of you grunting in that way that said "respect earned."

Then, just as he swung for your shoulder, you ducked, spun, and shifted—

—into your smallest, most delicate-looking form. Wide eyes, sharp smile. A twirl and a flip over his blade.

Zoro froze. The sword missed you by a mile.

You landed behind him and whispered, “You always this easy to distract?”

He made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a gulp. “Don’t—do that.”

You winked. “What? Scared I’ll win cute too?”

-------

Later, you were lounging in the crow’s nest when Luffy climbed up beside you.

He flopped down, chin on your thigh like a lazy dog. “Hey.”

“Hey, Captain.”

“…What were you like before the fruit?”

You paused. Shifted forms once. Twice. A third time. Settled somewhere right in the middle.

“Mm,” you said. “Yes.”

Luffy blinked. “…What?”

You smiled. “Exactly.”

He giggled, kicked his legs lazily, and nodded. “Cool.”

You patted his head. He fell asleep ten seconds later.

---

You hadn’t expected it.

The Straw Hats were not a subtle crew, but they weren’t exactly known for heart-to-hearts either. Chaos? Absolutely. Fistfights? Daily. Group therapy? That was… new.

It started with a dinner.

You had walked in late—fresh from training, barefoot, a towel over your shoulders, and casually morphing from one body to another to get the stiffness out.

Tall to short. Femme to masc. A soft androgynous blend somewhere in the middle. Your muscles still ached pleasantly.

You sat down, yawned, and said, “Smells good.”

Sanji blushed so hard you worried he might combust.

The table was rowdy as usual—Luffy stuffing meat in his cheeks, Usopp talking with his hands, Nami counting coins, Franky yelling about cola, Brook asking someone to see their panties, Chopper taking notes on your post-training flexibility.

And then Robin—blessedly, elegantly, horrifyingly—spoke up.

“You know we love you, right?”

The table went dead silent.

Your brows raised. “Excuse me?”

Robin smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded. “All of us. In different ways, perhaps—but we do. No matter how you look, no matter what form you’re in.”

“YEAH!!” Luffy shouted around a mouthful of meat. “You’re YOU! That’s what matters!”

Chopper’s hooves flailed. “You’re so cool and strong and kind and funny and—I don’t care what you look like!!”

Nami leaned her chin on her hand. “Honestly, sometimes you’re prettier than me and I hate it—but you’re amazing. I trust you with my life.”

Usopp raised his cup. “I can’t even explain what I feel when I look at you. But it’s definitely… affection. And fear.”

Zoro huffed, arms crossed, eyes slightly averted. “…Tch. Doesn’t matter how you look. You’re a pain in the ass either way.”

“Translation,” Robin added smoothly, “is: Zoro also cares deeply.”

Franky jumped up, doing an exaggerated pose. “YOU’RE SUPERRRR! Doesn’t matter what body, gender, height, or hairstyle—if you’re one of us, you’re one of us! Forever!!”

Brook tilted his skull slightly. “I do not have eyes, but if I did, they would weep with admiration. You are lovely, my friend—no matter how you appear!”

Sanji, dead silent this whole time, stood awkwardly. He looked at you like you’d hung the moon. Slowly, he walked around the table, stopping right beside your seat.

You watched him.

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… I’ve said a lot of dumb stuff. Probably still will. But…”

He crouched beside you, one hand reaching—not to grab, but to rest gently over yours.

“You’re beautiful. All the time. In all the ways. But it’s not about that. I love you because you’re you. You’re strong, and clever, and stupidly good at messing with my head—but you make the Sunny feel more like home.”

You stared at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Sanji…”

He grinned, a little crooked. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

The whole table groaned.

“You’re the worst,” Nami muttered.

You looked around, heart warm, body soft and relaxed in whatever form it chose. “You guys really mean it?”

Luffy gave you a big thumbs-up. “YEAH! You’re one of us!”

“You’re our crewmate,” Zoro said firmly. “No matter the body.”

Robin nodded. “And always loved.”

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “So does this mean I don’t have to do chores for a week?”

“NO,” everyone said at once.

You laughed so hard you almost fell off your chair.

Later that night, after the dinner, after the hugs, after the crew had dispersed into their chaotic sleep schedule, you sat at the bow of the Sunny—alone for a moment.

The wind blew through your hair—short, long, curly, straight. You didn’t even notice what form you were in anymore.

You were just… you.

And that was enough.

[dehydrated-for-donghae]

Headcanon: Spitting with Super Junior

more Eunhyuk Mango GIFs here word count: 978

I don't have an explanation for this ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ it just sort of happened. Whoops, oh well, what a shame.

No Ryeowook, 'cuz he's married.

Leeteuk

Colour this mother hen shocked. Why on earth would you want him to spit on you? But then… if it comes up organically, perhaps in the form of a strand of saliva linking your lips after a particularly ardent kiss… he’ll be curious enough to try it. Nothing too hardcore, he’s definitely not going to spit in your eye, probably a good thing that doesn’t sound too sexy but his lips do look luscious when he lets you treat your tongue like a lipgloss. So lick away and be prepared for some very messy (borderline feral) making out. His mouth isn’t the only thing that’s going to end up soaked.

Heechul

You would have to be out of your motherfucking mind to think this would go well. No.

Yesung

Okay I’m just going to say it. Yesung is filth. It doesn’t always have to be kinky fun times, vanilla is always available and on the table. Yesung is an excellent lay either way. But… my question is, why? Why would you pass up a chance on the spicy stuff? He’ll pin you down, or tie you up, get you in whatever position that you’re most comfortable with, and then he is going to go to town. He’s going to soak your skin, mouthing you all over until it looks like you’ve been swimming. He’ll spit hard if you ask him to, but he’s just as happy to let his drool and gravity work it out between themselves. And when he’s finally fucking you, leaning back with your legs wrapped around his waist so he can watch your whole body stutter on his cock, he’s going to look you in the eyes while he lets his spit drip from his perfect mouth directly onto your already-overstimulated clit. And, even better, he’s a switch. He’s more than happy to spend all his attention on you, but if you take charge… it is going to get messy. Good thing he’s got an excellent recovery rate.

Shindong

I can’t see him being into this. I’m not saying Shindong isn’t kinky or maybe I am, I just can’t see him enjoying this. Maybe it’s because he’s often cited as one of the unattractive members of SuJu, and I’m not gonna take on K-beauty standards here, but I am saying he deserves to be treated like the king he is. So no spitting on Shindong please. (Unless I’m completely wrong on this and you experience the fangirl fever dream of actually meeting him/winding up in his bed, and he asks you to spit on him. In which case, my bad).

Eunhyuk

Oh yeah, Eunhyuk is definitely into this. The merest suggestion of spit puts him straight on the “Ohgodyes” train “Fuckmenowville”. So lick the shell of his ear in public, maybe disguise it as a kiss when you are having a meal together with the whole team, and reap the benefits when you get home. Those benefits including: being thrown against a wall as soon as the door closes, getting your clothes ripped off, and swapping spit for the next two hours while getting railed in every position Eunhyuk can think of. And he's a creative guy so... lucky you.

Siwon

Generally, no. I think he’d find it too disrespectful to you. And he’d just be confused if you spat on him. He might even get mad about it, once he gets over the shock. But then again… if you can get him really riled up, maybe by teasing him relentlessly when you have to be in public all day… You don’t even need to touch him (in fact, it’s better if you don’t). Just keep catching his eye. Keep your fingers near your mouth, rest your hand on your chin, tap your lips thoughtfully (but give him bedroom eyes). Make an exaggerated show of licking your lips with your mouth open just enough to stretch it around his dick… yeah, that could distract him enough that he’d fumble his words mid sentence. And if you manage to make that happen while he’s doing an interview… you better be prepared for Dark Siwon™ to make an appearance. And Dark Siwon™ has no limits.

Donghae

If you can get him to spit on you, he’s going to try so hard to stay serious. Think missionary, him resting on his elbows above you, letting his spit drip into your mouth. Yeah, he’s gonna manage that for about five seconds before bursting into giggles and hiding his face in your neck. He’ll get better with practice, if you want him to. Once he’s used to it, if he’s feeling particularly submissive… he’s too shy to ask for it outright, but you can coax the request out of him. You’ve gotta be gentle though, no heavy degradation this is not Yesung we’re talking about. So tie him up with something soft (think dressing gown belt, or even a twisted up bedsheet), straddle his waist, and let your drool drop onto his face. Make sure you tell him how good he’s doing and how much you love him, because there will be tears. The kind that comes with a raging boner and lots of little hip thrusts, trying to find some kind of release. (Your aftercare better be top notch, or I will come for you, and they’ll be finding bits of you for months.)

Kyuhyun

Absolutely not. No. The only time spit gets involved with Kyuhyun is when he’s desperate for sex and you only have ten minutes, so he needs to slick up quick. It is really hot though, the way he spits into his hand and coats his cock before shoving it in you, with none of his usual teasing or taunting. Definitely worth getting him all riled up before a schedule or a show. Bring out his needy wild side once in a while, and cum so hard you see stars.

masterlist

[amymbona]

Coach Zweig who rewards you for winning a games by eating your pussy out ❤️

Coach Zweig who doesn’t let you date because you need to focus on your game.

Coach Zweig who bends you over and spanks you when you lose.

Coach Zweig who says he’ll finally fuck you if you get that grand slam.

FUCKKKKKKK😫😫😫😫💦💦💦💦 I was like yeahhh the first one is really fucking good! And then I saw the second sentence! And then the third one! And the fourth one!

The rewards begin when he offers to massage your legs for you (after the whole afternoon of you whining how sore your whole body is). He has you on his bed, laying on your tummy, fingers sliding up your calves and thighs until he can't resist it and slide his fingers under your shorts. At first he just fingers you, but soon, the sessions consist of him diving into your pussy. He never gives you enough, though, not as much as you need, rewarding you just a bit and promising that the better you get, the better the rewards will be.

He saw a boy driving you to the practice once, instantly filled with jealousy and couldn't help but be rude as fuck to you the whole time. He's always rough during practice, says it helps build the character of a player, but that one time, he was such a bitch to you. That particular day, you were pushed to your very limit. And when you attempted to confront him, he told you every time you go on a date could be spent on the court instead. He's worse than your father, really, even insisting to give you a ride every so often to be sure there is no other boy competing for you attention.

The first time Patrick bent you over his lap was after one of the first bigger matches, you out of the city. You were incredibly nervous that day, almost crying, and unfortunately lost the match. When Patrick entered the locker rooms, you hoped he was gonna hug you, perhaps, and lighten up your mood. But instead, he pulled you over his thighs, ass up, and rolled your skirt up. He made you count too, and apologise after each time his palm made a contact with your ass, for playing so poorly. "Good girls get rewarded, bad girls get punished." Ever since that say, that sentence has stuck in your brain like a mantra.

You had the fuck talk completely sober, serious and without much bickering. Patrick is definitely not stupid, and he's a man with a fair amount of sexual experience. And he can damn well see when someone is attracted to him. So when you're stretching, his frame looming over yours, hand laid on your back to help you bend further and stretch your muscles fully, he casually drops it. It's like a bomb actually, and leaves you with soaked panties for the whole two hours of your practice. You are definitely getting that slam.

[pagegirlintraining]

Wilmon + Baby steps, he told himself, taking a deep, shaky breath.

Baby steps, he told himself, taking a deep, shaky breath. Sure, there were plenty of things he’d have wanted to ask the gorgeous man with the dark curls and the eyes he could see himself drown in for good, other than, “Can I buy you a drink?”, including but not limited to, “How the fuck are you this beautiful?” and “Mind if I find out for myself what that drop of sweat on your neck tastes like if I lick it off?”; but he had to start somewhere if he didn’t want to scare off this real life miracle of a man by coming off as a major creep.

The smooth timbre of the man’s voice sent a shiver down Wille’s spine when he told him with a chuckle, “I thought you’d never ask.”; or maybe it was the way the man was leaning into Wille’s space to be heard over the steady thump of the music, the way Wille’s nostrils filled with his scent for the briefest moment. A hint of citrus buried under something sugary sweet, the latter of which Wille attributed to the faintly purple beverage he’d watched him consume several glasses of throughout the night.

He must’ve looked a bit quizzical, because the next thing he knew, the man was fixing him with a knowing smirk. “You do realize you’ve been staring at me literally all night?”

To Wille’s relief - and utter confusion - he didn’t sound like he minded this observation in the least.

Really stretching the definition of a sentence here but who’s gonna stop me, right? :D

[onelocket]

Hello Krei! How are you? So I was wondering if I could request Fyodor with a fem s/o who does ballet? And like, her teacher is super hard on her, so she keeps practicing at home and he is always cheering for her and maybe even helping her (like holding her waist for support, and all). Not a NSFW but like this closure of touches and kisses? uwu

hello fyodor’s beloved cello!! i love this idea so much and incase this is more than just an idea, i do hope you’re alright! always prioritize yourself and your health,, i’m so sorry this one took a while, but thank you for requesting ♡

pas de deux Fyodor D. x fem!ballet dancer reader

involves -- domestic relationship, possible inaccuracies but i tried to limit them! ;_;

headcanons

Initially would he only keep a quiet eye on you.

Because personally I find that Fyodor wouldn't be direct with expressing his worries to you at first, even if you have a strict teacher. He trusts you knew what you're signing up for, but sometimes it gets a bit concerning. On certain days you'd see him on a seat nearby where you practicing so he can 'look', or rather — watch over you. Because be as your talent may, if concern for you was a topic, Fyodor has a lot in his head.

"Oh- Fedya, hi." You mutter with a tiny smile, sweat cradling your cheek. He didn't like seeing it. He'd rather have his hand there.

"Milaya," He smiled back, stepping closer to you. "Was that a sauté you just did?"

"...Yeah!" You eventually reply out after a minute of surprise, smile growing. When did he learn that name?

Indirect as his words were, he deep down meant each sentence to check if you were still actually thinking in that head of yours. But he only really asks when you practiced overtime, checking if you still actually had control of your head and wasn't just practicing like a bot with scripts she couldn't comprehend in her head for world forbid what her teacher said.

As time goes, he'd be there for your small break sessions

For you did one day promise you'd take breaks in between the hours you almost comically stretch to unnaturally long sets. At first he wouldn't be there, definitely busy with his own work — but eventually did he appear more often, like he knew when you'd take your breaks. He wanted to just be there for your comfort and his assurance that you're fine, but he speaks sometimes.

"(Name)," He calls out your name in his voice you'd always relax your head to, "Would you like more water? I'll get some for you."

"Ahaha, you're a bit more caring today Fyodor." You joke out quietly, a laugh to hopefully let him take the word as something light. "But yes please, thank you."

A laugh to momentarily break the pressure you put for yourself and the concern you put for him was enough to make him smile in that same moment.

Your loyal fan

If you didn't mind it; Fyodor is always delighted to watch your practices at home, especially because he's one of the firsts to see all of your dedication before the crowd gets to see your angelic play of ballet. May it be as long as practicing a section of a dance you were going to preform soon, or even just as warming up with positions — he loved watching you, soothing his mind away from his continuous thinking.

"I must say, milaya, I don't believe I've seen that position before." Fyodor's chin rests on his intertwined fingers as his elbows meet the desk he was sitting at.

"Mm? Ah- emboîté is more of a set of steps though." You reply back, staying in your position to let the talk settle. "I still find myself a bit stiff with it, so I'm practicing it right now."

"Is that so?" He puts his hands down. "I'm intrigued then. Do continue."

Usually those points get you to explain the steps you're doing if you're still energized for talk, your voice able to make your lovely viewer also a listener. Sometimes he lies about having no knowledge to it, sometimes he just wants you to explain it to him. For you would he listen to your talk and ramble about ballet, even if he didn't do ballet himself.

Your own, visible worry breaks Fyodor's barrier of hiding his

He wouldn't want to overwhelm you with his constant check-ups like "are you okay?" or "want me to do anything?", because he'd rather have you ask for it or allow his eyes to see your physical body speak for its status. Plus, he knows you're an independent beauty who can handle herself. But when you start involuntarily stressing out however.. it's not so pretty to him.

"Shh, shh shh. Milaya, I'm here." He coos to you as he leans on the mirror behind him, holding you close in his arms with your sobbing face on his shoulder.

"You did that step so well," Fyodor whispers, one hand stroking your hair. "Be proud of yourself."

Deep down it wasn't so easy for him to know what words he should say to you, finding your fear and anxiousness unnecessary for such talent you hold in something not everyone can just do. But of course was it understandable, so he tries. Be it speaking words when he thinks you need it, grabbing you something or just holding you — do expect a lot of care to try and soothe you.

Taking care of your body gently like you're a rosebud

It doesn't happen so often, Fyodor knowing you were still able to tend to yourself. But to say something doesn't happen often doesn't mean it never does — Fyodor always there for you when you ask for it.

"Milaya, perhaps its time for another break, wouldn't you say?" He quietly suggests like a lullaby, not wanting to interrupt whatever may be in your head right now.

"I'm okay." You try to assure, "My teacher requires me to perfect this in a week... I'll perfect it, and rest if I can."

"'If I can' won't do.." He replied with a more audible voice, hands meeting your feet as he gently rubs them, "While a flower like you gets watered daily, she needs her sunlight as well."

The most he can usually do for you is to massage you or rub your sore feet from all the practice, set aside the other things he can do that mostly treat your mental being than such physical. But every time he caresses your aching body is it always so careful and much more delicate, also attentive to your own saying about your comfort.

scenario

It'd been a few hours since your practice for today. You ended up promising to Fyodor that today would be shorter than the ones you took these past consecutive days, but you deep down feel guilty for doing so.

The days to attending practice in an actual dance studio again were nigh. You were going to see your teacher in two days, and you still had to compose yourself for whatever word they'll tell you.

Of course, their criticism also helped you and your progress to the world of ballet. You were treated as if a unique flower each time you hear something you can learn from — a bit overwhelming to the ears, however important to know for being the one seen with improvement.

It still made you nervous though.

As your foot finally feels the hard pressure of the floor after having your toes balance you the whole session, you pause with your hands holding onto the barre you swore was cold this morning, now all matching your body temperature.

"Milaya, are you taking a break?" You suddenly hear a familiar voice welcome itself in your ear, a smile reaching your tired face as you see your boyfriend walking inside your small studio.

He didn't visit as much today, which honestly made you a bit upset. But at least it also aided you into giving your all earlier, even if that such was for him anyway.

"Hi, Fedya." You greet, your feminine and angelic voice equally meeting a smile on your lovers. "I'm done for today. Like I promised you."

"I'm glad to hear that." Fyodor steps closer to you with a hand gesturing its desire to touch you, to which you allow.

His slightly cold hand meets your forehead as he wipes a small bead of sweat off, head tilted a little as if concerned for you. "Would you like me to get you anything?" Was his first set of words, his other hand meeting your waist as if to give you some sort of closure.

"No, I'm fine." You deny, although as you spoke you did feel your throat a bit dry.

I do need water.. but I don't want him to leave yet.

Until a thought sparks in you.

"Mm, there is something I kind of want right now." You imply with a rather smug, yet still an adorable little smile. This wouldn't slip away from Fyodor's eyes, replying to it with his own chuckle. "And what would that be? I'm here to give what I can."

"I still feel guilty for finishing practice early." You start to explain, one of your own hand meeting to press on the hand which held your waist. "I feel like I should be giving more time, since I'll be seeing my teacher soon."

You see a temporary look on Fyodor's face. A look that indicated his own dislike for you finding the need to have your own time be controlled by another person, even if you weren't in the studio of which they have right to parry through.

But he doesn't discuss it. Instead he softens his gaze, unwilling to argue with you. "I am not forcing you on this matter, milaya. I am simply suggesting you breaks in between your hard work."

"I know," You reply, an expression of what deemed to be curiosity on your now tilted head. He knew this was just to get his ears in lead, but regardless was your face cute. "But I'll finish todays practice.. after we do something first."

"(Name), I'm not experienced in ballet." He immediately recalls to you, a genuine look of his own curiosity written on his face. You nod to the note, "I know. But you're good in blending in, right?"

Silence temporarily controls the room, although Fyodor reassuring you no anger was present in the moment with his gaze on you — hands carefully holding you.

"Oh, I see." He eventually speaks up, letting go of your waist. "You'd like us to have a duet?"

His grasp of understanding your point makes you eagerly nod, "Yeah. A pas de deux is what we call it." explaining its term to your clueless looking boyfriend.

A smile meets his lips to the answer you have thoughtlessly given, enjoying your disregard to hide vulnerability with your sleepiness. "Pas de deux is French. A step of two?"

"Yes!" You exclaim rather excitedly, both of your hands finding its fingers to interlock into fists as your right palm leans back, earning you this.. almost pleading pose. "But don't worry- I won't make you do work.. I just want us to have an adagio."

"As long as I've seen you do such pose, I could give you the possibility of me doing it." He puts a side comment to before replying properly; "But of course. An adagio is where the danseur supports the ballerina's movements, am I right?"

"How do you know that..?" You furrow your eyebrows to, a small yet blithe pout on your face. "My, you suddenly rambled about that before." Fyodor hums out, a hand on his chin. "But nevermind that, milaya. We can do that if such is your wish," He stops to escape a little laugh, "however I'm not a danseur exactly."

"No but you're certainly my partner." You fight back, taking a swift glance at Fyodor's appearance. He was simply wearing a turtleneck and pants, which would do. Because really, you just wanted to feel him while you did what you loved.

Your remark makes Fyodor laugh before you two knew your place — him behind you with arms supporting your waist, toes returning into balancing yourself. You wanted to impress your lover, but with how tired you actually were you internally doubted what balance you had left in you.

So you chose one you could do right now. Little less of what you wanted, but you hoped it could impress him somehow.

One of your leg was supporting your body, the other is extended into an arabesque. You felt Fyodor's grip on you tighten a little bit, the corner of your eye catching his head turned to you.

Your arm which was adjacent to your lifted leg stays where it is as your left makes its attempt to draw its move... till you find yourself yawning.

Immediately did you bashfully cover your mouth as pink meets your cheeks, Fyodor holding onto you tightly in case you trip due to the sudden surprise. As you yawn he carefully adjusts you, enough for you to get the hint and let your feet meet the floor again.

You didn't want to see his face right now out of pure embarrassment, but his move tells you to as he turns you around, hands locking on your waist to support you.

As expected, not a look of mockery or humorous find was in his face, rather.. concern, but also still soft.

"You're too sleepy." He whispers, one hand letting go of the latch to meet your face, brushing away those strands of hair. "This lovely ballerina should sleep now."

"But the..." Your voice trails, a tiny frown painting on your face as he wipes it away with a kiss on each side of your lip, turning that into a better look. "There now, there's no need to frown." He spoke quietly, "If you want it that badly, we can try it tomorrow."

"...Okay," Defeat mourns your words in, trying to conceal the topic of your embarrassing yawn with a lean in, asking for a proper kiss by Fyodor. And it didn't even take a minute for him to allow the need, pressing his lips with yours.

Gentle and delicate circles rub your back as you melt at both the kiss and at the sudden but welcoming massage, hands holding onto his shoulders for support.

His kiss felt warm, tranquilly and clement. While his earlier, very rare visits to your practice room were gifted with kisses, they were all tiny and lacking.

And you could tell he enjoyed this as well, his fingers making subtle movements that felt like little shivers down your waist. A comforting one, at least.

The kiss takes shorter as you desired, however he makes up for it by peppering sweet kisses on your knuckles to the hand he picked up with his free one, eyes closed.

"я тебя люблю, my milaya." He mutters in between those kisses. "You're such a strong girl. Be mindful of that."

Your mousy pink cheeks meet the peachy hue he knew it'd blend to, a smile meeting your lips again as you let your fingers rest on his, your thumb catching his own to rub the skin. "I love you too."

His hand lets go of yours as he stops. His hand on your back would glide down to your waist to touch again as he pulls you in closer, you taking that as a hug. Both of your hands wrap around him, whilst his free hand continued the relieving massage.

"It's alright. Let's get yourself changed then head to bed, okay?" He whispers in your ear, to which you hum a sleepy sound to.

You didn't want to sleep right now, as much as how warm and serene he was to lean onto. But knowing he probably was also too tired to be carrying a girl even if such was his girlfriend, you had to stay awake till the envelope of sheets surround you two.

Yet staying awake till then wouldn't be as bad either. You'd get to hear and see your lover take care of you.. to rub all those sore spots away, and importantly be here for you.

"Besides, if a pas de deux means a step for two — you can technically count this in... wouldn't you think?" He suddenly adds, finding his unexpected thought carry through vocalized words.

His own surprise for himself makes him let out a tiny chuckle from it, muffling the noise with a soft peck on your shoulder.

"Because you being so strong with everything you're dealing with is already a step for us two."

⚘

[hey-kae]

If you're still down to write I would like to request something. I'm thinking of some pissed pierre smut. First him being happy about this quali and then getting the penalties and you're more then happy to help him get his anger out.

a/n: i am definitely still down to write but no one is acknowledging me🙃

Pierre was really happy about qualifying p4, happy enough that it broke your heart when you found out about his penalty. He was gonna start the race from p10 now.

But he wasn’t sad about it like you were. He was absolutely fuming when he rejoined you in the evening after the decision had been made.

If it was his fault, he would’ve kept his mouth shut, but was it really that hard to keep an eye on the radar and warn him about cars behind him that were on a fast lap?

He walked back into the room, mumbling to himself in unintelligible french as he pulled off his shirt and threw it on the floor, not caring where it landed.

“Hey…” You stood up and went to him, “Are you… Are you okay?” The question hesitantly slipped past your lips.

Pierre’s hands wrapped around your waist, tugging you to him, and by the way his fingers dug into your sides, you got your answer.

“No, i’m not.” He answered, barely even answering the question before his lips were on yours and he was kissing you hurriedly and with desperation.

You felt his anger in the way his teeth bit onto your bottom lip, but you didn’t mind him taking out his anger on you. You knew he would never cross your limits, even when he was upset.

With slight pressure onto your hips, he pushed you back onto the bed until you were laying down and he was hovering over you, biting onto your neck and kissing down your chest, as far as your top would let him go.

“You’re gonna be good for me?” He stared into your eyes and asked.

You nodded and that was all it took for him to get rid of your clothes and his, tossing them into the growing pile on the side of the bed.

“Turn around.” Pierre kept his sentences brief and straight to the point, still frowning with anger in his eyes.

You gladly complied and turned onto your stomach.

Almost instantly, his hand met you ass in a light slap, then another.

“Don’t move.” He said and before you could even acknowledge his request, he slammed into you all at once, setting an exhilarating pace right from the start.

You moaned at the feeling of him stretching you out and at the way his hands were tight around your waist, moving you as he pleased. Pierre already could feel you clench around him, making a smug smile appear on his face.

“Relax,” he ordered, giving your ass one last spank, “and let me fuck you properly.”

As always, you did what he asked.

Every thrust was making the bed shake and simultaneously, your knees buckle. You couldn’t help the moans, especially when Pierre would grunt himself, driving you absolutely mad.

It was barely minutes before you were struggling to keep your composure.

“You like it so much, huh? When i use you to blow some steam?” He reached forward and started rubbing your clit in rushed circular motions, discarding your leg’s last hope of survival. Your knees gave up on you as the moans turned into straggled breathing.

Pierre was still frowning tho, keeping up the same angry pace, “Tell me. Answer my question.”

“Fuck, Pierre. Yes.” You forced out the words, pushing yourself back against him since his thrusts had come to a halt.

“Exactly. Fuck yourself on my cock… And i thought i was desperate.” He huffed as his hands grabbed your hips again, hard enough to bruise this time, “Stop.”

You stopped and he took the lead again, his fingers still moving against your clit as well.

“You take what i give you, and only that. Don’t be greedy, okay?” He leaned forward and spoke right into your ear, biting the supple skin of your neck as well.

You just nodded, your eyes screwing shut as you felt him hit that spot that made you see stars.

His rhythm was speeding up as he lost control of his movements, letting instinct take over until you were contracting around him and whimpering his name, your hands holding onto the sheets like your life depended on it as an intense orgasm shook your body.

Pierre kept going even then, both his hands on your waist now, every push making your legs shake as the orgasm heightened your sensitivity. He maintained the movements until you felt him fill you up, moaning as he let go, repeating the french curse words from earlier, in different circumstances now.

He then allowed himself to fall onto the bed beside you, his arms pulling you to lay on top of him while he breathed heavily.

You stared up at him, the blue of eyes hidden behind his eyelids as he laid back silently to catch his breath, but soon enough he felt your gaze on him and so his eyes, significantly softer now, met yours.

“Merci.” He whispered, kissing your lips gently now as his arms wrapped around you.

“I love you.” You said as you rested your head on his chest, tracing small circles on his shoulder, knowing better than to bring up tomorrow’s race.

“Me too. I love you too.” He responded, thankful that you always understood him so well.

a/n: thank you for sending in your request🫶🏻

[its-all-papaya]

Soph. My god. I’m obsessed.

Like- I was so immersed in this little world that I was actually surprised when I had already reached the end. It felt so quick despite it literally being an over 4k word chapter.

Buckle up. This may be a long one.

First off, after all this time of hearing about Lando and Max’s friendship, I can already grasp the type of relationship they have just from the first chapter. It’s soft, they banter and they may not see each other often but it’s like they’re intertwined. They don’t need to see each other constantly to know where they stand with each other.

“Max talks about you enough. Glows about you, actually.” He so would wouldn’t he? Going into work and everyone’s chatting about their week with their families and here comes driver Max Fewtrell, yapping about his own version of his family. I love them.

Now. Oscar. First off, fabulous characterization. Sometimes you read a fic and it’s good but Oscar especially can feel a bit out of character in some fics but you nailed it. You wrote in that casual, laid back but still very attentive vibe he has so well. Also wasn’t sure what to expect with their first meeting but I DEFINITELY wasn’t expecting lando to be full on drunk during their first meeting lmao. (Not a complaint though bc it actually introduced their dynamic really well.) Also definitely made me curious for how their next meeting will happen. 👀

Also. “Night, lando. you’re a good dad mate. And a good person x” Banger line. THE X??? What a way to knock a man out during a brutal hangover LMAO. But also that was so sweet, I wish dad!Lando luck bc I feel like he’s gonna need it.

Also the little snippets of Emma 😭 I just know I’m gonna love her so much. AND the “I kind of just miss her” line?? Sobbing. He misses his baby :(

Anyways. I could literally go on for far too long about this but tumblr must have a word limit at some point so I’ll stop here for now. Fabulous writing as always. I know you were nervous to post this but honestly, this is wonderful so far. You truly have a knack for writing and immersing your readers into the story. I really find myself getting lost in your writing everytime. I know first hand how stressful and nerve wracking it can be to put your work and passion projects out into the world, I’m glad you pushed through and shared it with us. I’m so excited to read the rest of Overwinter (lovely name btw). Hope you are having a good night out!

-og

hello ! hi ! am i drunk ? perhaps. gonna tackle this anyway.. obviously.

first of all, 4k is the SHORTEST chapter so. chapter 2 is like ~4100 and all the rest (minus 15, which is also 4.1k) are 5k+ i think? Twelve is literally 10k. i think 16 also. like there are some HEFTY chapters in here.

anyway !!! nortrell my beloveddddd <3 i didn't even know when writing ch 1 how deep i'd get with them, so just like... know. that it gets worse (better? more?) as the fic goes on. maxf is soooo important to me (and to lando and emma)... of COURSE he's talking about them at mtc. of COURSE everybody on the team knows who lando is. obviously.

oscar in ch 1 is definitely my best oscar. "makes sense why you're at his birthday party, then" is perhaps my favorite osc line i've ever written. i fear they both get a little ooc down the stretch of this one, but i'm glad i nailed the first scene with them at least LMAO.

i feel kind of bad that there's only trace evidence of emma in chapter 1, and tbh she's a bit in and out until like... the second half... kind of... she's around, though. but as i've always said, she is IN every part of this fic, even when she's not physically present. i can't wait for y'all to get to know her and love her like i do ! like lando does ! like max does ! like oscar... will? you'll see.....

anyway!!! dad lando anon you are so important to me, and i hope you enjoy every sentence of this fic bc you deserve it perhaps more than anybody. cannot WAIT to continue to yap with you about it as we move along!!!! cheers!!!

[johnwickb1tsch]

Rambling time again because-✨ late night thoughts ✨

So with each new chapter of bittersweet, (and the tex+john collab, which I could also ramble on for hours probably 😂) it's becoming more and more clear that John and the reader's relationship is currently like a stretched out elastic band. They're both very clear on what they want, they're both very stubborn about it, and aside from little sweet moments - or not so sweet moments 😏- here and there, they're basically getting pushed to the limits of their patience and sanity.

And it especially struck me with John, because let's be honest- The man is terrified of letting us go, letting our leash go in a metaphorical sense, in terms of something getting our of his control. It makes absolute sense with the life he lived, and especially with the amount of people he lost, Helen being the most relevant. Despite working for Ruska Roma and serving the Director during his early life, John has been in control for the most of his existence. He usually stays very cool and controlled from an outsider's view, but someone like Winston can easily see through him, and knows that he's anything but. He's calm, sure, but he's also impatient when it comes to things, hotheaded even if you look at the second movie - or any of them really - and what he did to Santino (who fucking deserved it, and I wanted to tap-dance on his corpse 😂). He's stubborn as a mule, and most importantly, he's not afraid to break the rules. Ever. Due to his skills, there really isn't many people who could hold his responsible if he does happen to break the rules either, and this also plays hand in hand with the fact that he was born and raised a morally dark/grey character. While all of this helps him a lot because he's practically unstoppable if he puts his mind to something, it also means that he is irrational, maybe even slightly delusional.

Have I mentioned that he's also very emotionally driven??? Look at him during the first 2 movies. The man went fucking bat-shit-crazy after people NOT disturbed him, but disrespected his late wife's memory, and pretty much ripped everything away from him that still tied him to Helen, - aside from their memories and his feelings - the very person who prompted this emotionally driven action from him to actually get out out of the life he once lived.

So now.. We have this extremely stubborn, and also extremely emotionally attached person, who lost pretty much everyone close to him, and is in fact very much so aware that his reputation means a death-sentence to pretty much anyone who interacts with him, INCLUDING little ol' us. So on a basic level, he is rightfully cautious and terrified, because people will not stop to consider whether they're bringing an innocent into this or not, they just want leverage over him.

This, combined with the fact that we, the reader, are also extremely stubborn (too), with a great amount of self-respect, an incredible display of self-esteem, and a set of although grey, but also pretty strict moral code, - where the lines do blur here and there depending on who does what, and why they do it - which he LOVES, however it also means that we're unpredictable. Attracted to him? Sure. Emotionally attached to him? Absolutely. But we're a strong individual and a free spirit, and that definitely made him doubt whether we would stay with him early on, (jealous!John intensifies 🤤) and is in fact actively making his paranoid that if he slips up, let's his defenses down, or maybe even becomes more lenient, we might be able to just slip out of his grasp, not that he'd ever allow it of course.

Buuuuuuuuuut- All of this is playing against him, against both of us really. While we might be able to get some kind of leverage over him the more he reveals, and the more time we spend learning the game, if there is to be a genuine relationship in the future like he wants there to be, like both of us want there to be really, he's doing this the wrong way, because he's basically trying to force it on us, and cage a free bird, thus the elastic band being stretched. And as we know, you can stretch an elastic band quite far, maybe even past it's limits sometimes, but at the end of the day, it will rip and it will snap back three times as hard, which is what I imagine will happen. Maybe not today, or not even tomorrow, but there is a limit to everything, including the patience of both characters, not to mention that John is already showing the signs of being tired with our constant stubbornness, (latest chapter 🤤) and if say.. He were to snap instead of us, it may very well snap us out of our helpless emotional state, in case he maybe were to overstep a line that he definitely shouldn't have.

Same goes for the reader. Poor girl is extremely strong, so, so strong, with an incredible sense of self-worth but there is a limit to that as well. She still hasn't quite processed that her family and friends practically abandoned her, and it's not like John's back and forth, their little cat and mouse games, or being punished for not behaving a certain way - which makes John an absolute hypocrite because unless he wants to change our personality completely, he should not be punishing us for showing signs of what he fell in love with, of who he fell in love with in the first place - are helping.. So honestly- I await whatever you have in store for us because it is going to be WILD.

Spooooky! LOL once again I have to ask if you've been rummaging in my WIP??? 😂 You make so many excellent points!

Especially that John's excessive enemies would definitely fuel his paranoia for keeping this girl under lock and key, after EVERYTHING he's lost. 🎡🏹 It's like it's just not enough to be John Fucking Wick. These idiots keep testing him, even though they should absolutely fucking know he's going to kill them all in the end. BUT that doesn't help you if you're the collateral damage...

AND he IS such a hypocrite because of course he fell in love with her for her independent nature, but he wants to be the one to bring her to heel, for his own peace of mind? I think she's into it to a point because she's never really met anyone who could do it (and still retain her love). It's new and mysterious but once the shine wears off and she gets her feet (because shit what are we on? Like day 2? 3? He's going to find out how stubborn she can really be. You're right, something's going to snap.

[zerolostwalks]

Julie/Luke/Reggie dystopian au plz and thank

“Shh, shh, Julie it’s us,” the words were whispered right into her ear, though it took a while for her brain to recognize the voice, too caught up fighting to escape the hold she’d unexpectedly found herself in. 

Julie stopped her thrashing, Reggie’s arms tightening around her as she relaxed against him, which only made the tears overwhelming her eyes all the worse, unable to control her broken sobs. “R-Reggie?”

Another set of arms wrapped around her, Luke’s voice joining Reggie’s in trying to unsuccessfully calm her down, “that’s right, Jules, we’re here now, we're back.”

(Send me an AU and a pairing and I'll write a 3 sentence fic)

[fayamn]

Feedee or Feeder: Bridget

This is two scenes with Bridget from Guilty Gear as a feedee or a feeder. Gender neutral reader.

Feedee Bridget

E-Easy as pie...! Ayayay... I'm so full... It's fine I can count on you to prepare my food without the stuff I dislike... Yeah, you know it! Bitter herbs and shiitake mushrooms, bleh... It's not like there is space for that between the sweets and the greasy food huh? It's no good, you're filling me on quite the unhealthy diet... Don't you worry about that, I love all of it. The food, the extra weight, the attention... You just have to accept you've made it hell for me to find cute clothes, meanie! Wait! No fair! You can't threaten me with giving me less food! I know you enjoy this at least as much as I do. And you can't deny it, I almost have the imprint of your hands on my belly by now. All right feed me more, I really want to make my wasted bounty hunting career worth every single pound.

Hmph! Wait! Too fast! My limit? I'm just getting started! You're too eager, my cuteness requires you to be more gentle and - UuurRrrp! Oh... That wasn't very professional of me... Not that there much professional left on display here, except professional eater. And professional cutie of course, you're right. Hmmm... I know you wanted me to keep the handcuff hula-hoop around my waist until my absolute limit... Well... It's now... Oh, I'm dizzy... It's too tight, help me remove it! Hmmm... Aha! Much better! Behold! Unleashed lard! Oh I look so much fatter without that pressing in... I know there's no way I'm ever putting it back on, you're making sure of that - umf! Right Now by schtuffing my fache even - ulp! More. You can wait between two sentences you know, I'm not going anywhere! Urp...

Slow, huh? Of course look at what a blimp you made me! I'm short too, so my BMI shot through the roof... And I'm definitely not burning calories and yo-yo tricks and moving... Don't tell me you think those clumsy weak fat hands are for holding anything more than junk food now! And my flabby legs are for jumping around, I'm not getting an inch off the ground. I'm not even getting off my butt most of the time anyways. Hmph! Woopsies! Oh yeah that was definitely my skirt... Appropriate that my butt ruined it when I was talking about it. It's okay don't bother trying to retrieve it now, no spelunking of my fat rolls until you're done feeding me. Going easy on me? Does it look like I can't take it? Keep the calories coming, I need more belly to cover any indecent parts, and to have more of the cutest thing around~

UuuUurrrRrpp!... Oof! How's this? Okay now I'm reeaaally getting stuffed... Which means... Time to get your hands on my gut. How yeah it's huge and soft and heavy? You bet, I only have the biggest and fattest belly around. So, happy to have engorged, fattened, plumped me this much? Reaching down for the skirt? Good luck digging it out, I'm not budging while you're all up on me, it's too good. Hehe, got you! Did I fluster you pushing your head in my belly fat? S-Stop! You're making me blush~ Ah, your hands feel so good yes! Knead my plump fat dough, I'm so stretched from the stuffing but there is too much blubber on top you can even barely feel it. And what I'm digesting now is gonna make me so much fatter than now, a poor little obese thing that is filling our couch.

Now now, help me get up! I want to lie down, and we're gonna have a way better time in the bedroom anyways. Haaa... Haaa... And I'm up, aha! Huff... Look what I can do! I can stand, I can waddle... Enjoying the show of my gut reaching my thighs? You better, it's not going anywhere. What? No, I'm not jumping, I'm already tired!... Fine, I wanna try too. And... Whao! What happened? I didn't leave the ground did I? But that noise the planks made... That was scary. I better go to the bed before I break something. Well, might break the bed soon given how I'm overfed like a piggy. Aaah, finally! I'm not the nimble thin cutie I used to be... Now I'm a ton more cute~ Well, not yet. You know what? That little walk freed some space in my stomach that requires a snack...

Feeder Bridget

Whoever you are, welcome to the show! Too slow! Whoop, caught ya! Too easy! Mind holding yourself right in my yo-yo string for a while? Let me give your face a good look. Oh, you're cute... But I'm way cuter. And also I don't have a bounty on my face, meanwhile you have, and I'm going to be the one who claims it. You're not going to resist if I unbind you? Yeah, would have guessed you'd try and be a pain in my butt. Guess it's time for plan B then. Or F, for Fattening. Oh yeah, I've tried it before, it's effective at pacifying baddies like you. Oh, I wouldn't? Don't underestimate the cute ones! You already did, that's why you're bound and on the floor, and you're the one of us that is going to be morbidly obese and all docile soon. How's that? Woo boy... I'm definitely going to prefer you with cheeks too puffed up to protest.

Of course I'm prepared for that, I gotta admit it's super fun. How about a treat? Take this! Here we go! The little candy I made you swallow is just gonna make you fat. How did I get that? Money can get you a lot. Looking plushier already. And it's just the beginning! My yo-yo string is starting to feel snug huh? Don't worry, you won't break it, it's pretty solid. Not soft, unlike what you're getting. What's this, getting tubby aren't you? Ripping? Oh, that's your clothes, still not my yo-yo. Let me check those legs... Yeah should be fine, those are soft and plump now~ Here's a bonus! I should have told you before, but the fat forms by reducing your muscles, so you're gonna feel extra weak. And you're gonna feel that because you'll be. As soft and weak as a plushie!

Here you go. Get going! You're free! Are you even trying? Just kidding of course. must be so hard to be obese and weak now. Aha, you're waddling already? Out of breath... Come on, you're not that fat. You're still squeezed in your clothes! Although that's not an outfit I'd be going outside with. Huh, you're kidding me? So not cute, I'm glad I made you ruin it with lard. Too bad there aren't any cute outfits that's going to fit you once I'm done fattening you up. You thought it was over? Not done yet~ The first candy did well, but I'm sure you're gonna try something, you're not fat enough! Want some more? No? Come on, you'll love this! Oh of course it's too much. I don't know the meaning of quit. And you just had not to act tough. Aren't you happy you're given attention and a new body?

Here it goes! You're growing again! Aww, it's already too late for escaping... How slow do you waddle? My casual walking outpaces you. Aaah, giving up, that's more like it. Or is it the lack of muscles in your legs now with the extra blubber to lug around? Oh you're so tired. You're done! Just as your clothes, geez. It's so indecent... Luckily you have a natural apron to hide your crotch huh? Might have to roll you in now. I hope they'll recognize you with your bounty poster, because that lard has made you quite the disguise. I guess we'll find out when we get there. What's that look? Embarrassed? I mean, you should be, you're a bloated fatty standing in the shreds of your former clothes, just for being caught for your bounty by the cutest bounty hunter there is.

There! Come here... Oh, you won't move now? How frustrating! What can I do... It's not my first bounty not cooperating after extreme obesity you know? And I know exactly what to do with a piggy your size. Aww, blushing? Read you like a book. You're enjoying this, all of this, right fatty? Come on, you like having a cutie like me groping you, teasing you? What a wonderful thing I did to engorge you like you're cattle, don't you think? I'll charge up your batteries for you to walk, a massage of your massive body will be enough huh? Let me press right there... Aww, what a cute burp. Good, I'm sure you're going to enjoy it. I might give you a treat too if you beg enough. And if that's not enough to make you follow me, I guess I'll have to drag you in with my yo-yo string around your neck like a leash. Are you ready? Because I sure am!

[ficbandit]

Chapter III: Die Hard, Flirt Harder

(read this on AO3!)

Suga drags his eyes away from the man’s chest up to his face and, not for the first time this morning, wishes he was 6ft under.

Daichi Sawamura, partner at OKD Law and his boss, is halfway inside the doorframe, one impossibly toned arm stretched across the door, holding it open. His other is at Suga’s hip, steadying the both of them so they don’t topple out of the building. He’s so close that Suga can see the almost invisible scar just above his upper lip.

His very pretty upper lip.

“Sugawara,” the sound of his name in Daichi’s mouth—real and outside of his head—is enough to make Suga’s ears burn. “Good morning.”

Ever since he came to work at OKD Law, Suga has been resolute about avoiding the incredibly charming, impossibly attractive attorney in the office. Daichi is the kind of man who sweeps secretaries off their feet, takes clients out to dinners, and racks up crazy bills, who most definitely had women throwing themselves at his feet both at work and outside of it. It didn’t matter that Suga had a hard time looking away from the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck, or that whenever they made eye contact in the office Suga felt like he was going to spontaneously combust.

That definitely did not matter at all.

It had only taken him a few hours on his first day to decide that Daichi Sawamura was completely off-limits and out of his league, and he was determined to live by that rule for however long he worked at OKD.

I didn’t think I’d see him this morning.

The thought is so quietly genuine that it takes Suga a minute to remember how to put words together for a moment.

“Uh—good morning, sir. Sorry, I was just—my train was slow this morning, and my bike—and then I realized I don’t have my keycard—”

Daichi stays perfectly still as Suga stumbles through his sentence, his smile deepening a little as he rambles. Suga watches the scar above his lip disappear and his train of thought dissolves completely. He feels the urge to reach up and trace the edge of the nearly invisible mark with his finger.

“I think I can help you with that.”

 He’s so close—

Suga swallows thickly and steps back quickly, pulling out of Daichi’s touch. The thought dissipates like it never existed, and he finds himself missing the weight of it in his mind, unlike every other thought he’s heard this morning.

Suga wants to slap himself. This, THIS, is exactly why he can’t trust himself to be around Daichi Sawamura. The man turns him into some kind of mumbling, pervy mess, the kind that ogles straight men and gets reported to HR. And fired too, probably.

“Thank you, sir. Sorry for…for…” he gestures vaguely at the door behind him. Daichi watches him, slightly amused, and waves a dismissive hand.  

“My fault. I saw you coming, and I just…couldn’t stop myself.”

Silence falls between them again, and Suga finds himself staring up at him, wide-eyed, too caught up in the idea that Daichi Sawamura saw him coming and couldn’t stop, and whether the innuendo in that is as clear to him as it is to him. He feels his ears grow even warmer.

Suga really, really, needs to slam his head in the turnstile.

It’s Yui’s voice that draws him away from those thoughts, making them both glance over to where she’s been waiting, watching them with raised eyebrows.

“Suga, I’m going to head up, maybe grab you that coffee, alright?” She gives him a knowing look that makes his stomach flop. “Good morning, sir,” she gives Daichi a quick nod before escaping to the elevators, taking Suga’s last hope of a buffer with her.

Looking back, he shouldn’t have told her about his hopeless office crush on their boss. He’d known it would probably cost him one day, and it seems like that day is today.

“Should we…?” He seems unbothered, though, almost as if he’s willing to stand there in the doorway to the building for however long it takes Suga to collect his thoughts. His heart skips more than a few beats.

“Yes!” Suga nods and manages a half-choked laugh, spinning around quickly and beelining for the turnstile. “Sorry.”

He waits off to the side for Daichi to enter first, gaze resolutely fixed on the turnstile as the other man digs around in his own bag for his keycard, ready to tap them both in. He only looks up at him when Daichi freezes in place, hand searching a little more frantically in his bag before he sighs.

No way.

“I guess it’s a bad morning for the both of us, huh?” Daichi dejectedly zips his bag back up. “I’ll ask the security guard if they can let us through without a keycard.”

Suga follows him silently to the nearby security desk, trailing like a lost duckling. It’s fine, he rationalizes. Daichi Sawamura is a named partner of one of the biggest law firms in the city. He owns an entire floor of this building. They’ll let them in.

“Sorry, no can do,” the security guard mutters, not even looking up from his phone. “No key card, no entrance.”

Suga’s gaze flits to Daichi, his eyes widening at the flutter of a muscle at the back of his jaw. It’s hot, hotter than seeing your straight boss pissed should be—if you want to keep your job—and Suga tears his gaze away quickly.

“I understand,” Daichi says, his tone polite but edged with something sharper. Suga sucks in a quiet breath. “But can you maybe call up my office? My colleague will be able to confirm—”

“No. Can. Do,” the man emphasizes. He jams a thick finger at the sign to his right that reads ALL VISITORS MUST HAVE KEYCARDS OR PRIOR AUTHORIZATION TO ENTER. NO EXCEPTIONS. He goes back to his phone like they’re not even there.

Suga thinks Daichi might reach across the desk and grab the guy’s phone from the glare he gives him. He casts a frantic look across the lobby, searching for anyone who might be able to help, when he catches sight of the mail room elevator sitting across the lobby, completely open.  

Suga puts a hand on Daichi’s forearm, trying to subtly pull him towards the elevator when his thoughts hit him with full force.

Fucking prick, he’s muttering, voice low and dark. I don’t need this right now, not this morning, and not in front of him—

The hair on the back of Suga’s neck stands up at the sound of it. He’s surprised that Daichi would care so much about him witnessing this interaction, but he assumes it has something to do with asserting authority and dominance over subordinates and whatever else men in power like him worry about. Still, the sound of it makes his mouth go a little dry.

He has to clear his throat to speak when Daichi turns towards him, eyes softening a fraction as they slip away from the security guard.

“I think I know another way,” he hisses under his breath, his eyes flitting to the service elevator. He drops his hand and feels his connection to Daichi slip away. “Over here.”

He starts for the elevator, looking back only to make sure that his boss is following him, and that the security guard hasn’t picked up on anything. Daichi hesitates at the desk for a second, before he gives the man one last glare and follows him, brow furrowed.

His confused look doesn’t dissipate as Suga presses the button for the elevator and casts a wary glance back at the security guard.

“What’s this?”

“Service elevator,” Suga says under his breath, leaning in as subtly as he can. He gives Daichi a conspiratorial look. “No keycard needed.”

The other man blinks at him for a moment before a smirk curls the corners of his lips.

“Are you breaking into our office, Sawamura?”

Suga’s eyes widen a fraction at the subtle playfulness in Daichi’s voice and the way his smirk makes him look boyish—less like his boss and more like someone Suga might meet on a night out. Someone Suga might not mind seeing again after that, either.

“I…well, I don’t think we were getting anywhere with him,” Suga jerked a thumb back at the security guard. “We shouldn’t both have to clock in late because of him.”

Daichi’s eyes brighten a little.

“Well, I don’t exactly clock in,” he murmurs, leaning in conspiratorially. “But don’t worry. I promise I won’t punish you for being late. The breaking in part, though—well, I might have to call you into my office for that.”

All at once, Suga forgets about his bike and the train and his keycard and loses himself in the way Daichi is looking at him. His blood sings under his skin. His thoughts are a chorus of This is your boss, Koushi, stop it and Do not fall for this fucking straight man, but they dissolve into the horny static that’s replaced his brain. He thinks back to the tone of voice Daichi used with the security guard and wonders—just hypothetically, of course, out of pure gay curiosity—what he’d have to do to get him to use that tone with him.

“Well, I—”

He’s interrupted by the elevator doors opening in front of them, and the security shouting at them from across the lobby.

“Hey, you two! Get back here, you can’t use that!”

Daichi’s gaze snaps back towards the security guard, who’s now vaulting over the desk like he’s fucking John McClane. Suga briefly wonders if there’s anything in the entire fucking building that’s worth that kind of effort before he feels himself being dragged into the open elevator and pushed against the wall beside the panel of buttons.

Daichi is standing over him, one hand by his head and the other punching the button to close the doors like he can block the security guard from him somehow. They both watch as the man sprints across the linoleum, only to reach the doors as they close on his face. He slams a hand on the metal doors and Suga can hear his faint shout from outside before they start moving upward.

Everything is suddenly quiet, save for the whirring of the elevator and the sound of them catching their breaths. Their chests are so close that they nearly brush against each other as they rise and fall, and Suga tries and fails not to think about it. Daichi’s chest is broader than his, and this close he can see the cords of his muscles beneath that button-up, tense and coiled after their daring escape.

Maybe he should just hand in his resignation when he walks into the office. He could write it up when he gets in, print it out, walk to Daichi’s office, set it on his desk, and announce he’s leaving. He’d probably look up at him with that same look from before, that kind of confused amusement that makes his eyes soft and the scar disappear, and Suga would probably kiss him, just because he finally could.

All in all, it doesn’t seem like that bad of a plan.

“Sugawara?”

Daichi steps back, ducking his head a little to catch his eyes. He’s giving him that boyish smile again, though it’s tinged with a bit of concern. Suga swallows thickly and collects himself.

“Sorry…what?”

“Lost you there for a moment. Are you okay?”

He drops his hand from its place beside Suga’s head, taking a few steps back to set his back against the opposite wall of the elevator. The distance feels sudden and violent after how close they’d been, and Suga crosses his arms across his chest against the feeling.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” he manages to huff out a laugh. “I just…wasn’t expecting this much excitement this morning.”

Daichi gives him a nod, hands braced on the railing of the elevator behind him. He watches the number on the small screen above the doors rise slowly.

“I know what you mean,” he chuckles. He runs a hand through his hair and Suga follows the movement against his will. “My morning’s been hectic enough as it is without staging a Die Hard plot to get into the office.”

Suga’s eyes widen, and he smiles.

“Oh my god, I was thinking the same thing!” He laughs, forgetting his nerves momentarily. “Did you see him vault over the desk? That was insane!”

Thankfully, Daichi looks just as excited as he feels.

“I thought we were screwed,” he laughs. “Who knew he cared about his job that much?”

They both laugh, and the sound of it makes Suga go a little quiet. Something about it feels far more familiar and right than it should.

He watches the number rise above 25. They have a minute to go to reach the 48th floor, but Suga suddenly wishes it were moving slower. He has the intrusive urge to reach out and press all the buttons before their floor.

“We’ve never really talked in the office, have we?”

Daichi is the one to break the comfortable quiet, his eyes on Suga when he looks away from the buttons.

“No,” Suga scratches at the back of his neck, the question reminding him once again he’s with his boss. “I work on the other side of the office, with Oikawa-san.”

“Right,” Daichi nods, “that explains it then.” He can still feel the other man’s eyes on him. “Tooru’s mentioned you, you know,” he adds. “He says you do great work.”

Suga looks up at him then, surprised. Oikawa Tooru isn’t exactly one for praise—opting instead to point out mistakes curtly and assign extra work at terrible times—and Suga always assumed he just wasn’t on the man’s radar. He was a partner, after all, and the one who’d inherited the firm from his dad at that. Suga had always thought it was safer to work unnoticed beneath him than try for that praise.

Still, hearing it was nice, especially when it came from the man opposite of him. Suga gave him a genuine smile.

“That’s…good to hear. Thank you, Daichi-san.”

Daichi’s smile falters a little, his eyes hard to follow in the dim lighting of the elevator. Suga wonders if he said something wrong. Was he not supposed to thank him for that? Or was the absurdity of their morning finally striking him as horribly inappropriate for a boss and employee?

“Sorry, your…uh, your tie,” Daichi nods at his chest, “I think it’s a little. Here—”

He pushes off the opposite railing and steps back into Suga’s space before he can blink, his hands coming up to fuss with the botched knot at the base of his throat. He yanks at it a little, and Suga’s jaw tightens as his brain reduces to static again.

The only thing that cuts through it is a thought, warm and intoxicating in the way it settles into Suga’s mind like it’s his own. It’s so familiar that it takes him a moment to realize, with a start, that it isn’t his at all.

Sugawara Koushi.

The thought takes its time like it’s memorizing each syllable of his name.

Suga freezes.

Completely oblivious, Daichi finally finishes with his tie and pats his handiwork with a friendly hand, catching his eye.

“There you go.”

Another thought bubbles up, just as dizzying as the last.

I need to see you again. --- A/N: Surprise! I couldn't stop and got out another chapter lol. Enjoy! xx

[trashcandroid]

It’s October 13th again which means it’s now my 4-year anniversary on T 🥳

Ponderous reflections under the cut, slight TMI warning for discussions bottom surgery

The biggest news in terms of trans stuff is that I got top surgery this past May and have tentative plans to get bottom surgery early next year! I already had my first consult a few weeks ago but still need another follow-up and some letters, but it seems like everything’s gonna work out fine?

I’ve decided on getting full metoidioplasty with the works. Apparently hysto, v-nectomy, urethral lengthening, etc. are all pretty uncomfortable to recover from on their own and even worse all together lol but I would rather have a shitty first month or two in recovery rather than have multiple surgeries spread over more time.

Which reminds me, I never really talked about how my top surgery recovery went/has been going. It was actually really fine, I didn’t even need painkillers? Basically once the drains were removed after a week and I could stop wearing the compression vest after a month, I haven’t thought about it much at all. I’m wearing silicon scar tape but that’s pretty much it. Actually because I felt no pain I returned to physical activities sooner than I should have—I was carrying my backpack which was definitely over the 10 lb limit and even went swimming and stuff pretty soon, and my scars are pretty stretched now lol. But I don’t particularly care about that.

Other stuff… I’ve been stealth at grad school for this past year and while it’s been cool, I’ve been considering telling some people so I can be a resource or something idk. Especially with the bottom surgery stuff since I’m getting it through the university and it’s been hard finding any information about it outside of my own meetings with the surgeons.

I’ve also been thinking about being more open about it in general, so grad/undergrad students can see me as a resource, or just to increase visibility of trans people in STEM or whatever… but that would require people actually knowing this stuff… I didn’t even tell my advisor when I had top surgery that I was getting surgery, I just said I’d be taking a week off for “family stuff.”

I’m sure most people would be cool with it but I’m also for some reason terrified of responses like “oh that explains so much” or “I thought you might be.” And of course the inevitable subconscious change in how some people will view me. I’ve heard so many stories of how people coming out of stealth start getting misgendered and I could definitely see that happening to me as well…

Stuff with family is going ok. I still don’t think my dad has ever correctly gendered me once. He will awkwardly stumble through sentences to avoid using pronouns for me, or if he gets really stuck he’ll use they/them (which I don’t use). Mostly he and some other people will just use my name a whole bunch, which I guess I should have seen coming since my name is only one syllable. Maybe I should’ve changed it to Rufus Xavier Sarsaparilla huh. (I may have already used this joke so mb if I have lol)

My mom has also explicitly asked me to be more of a trans resource to my brother, who has been presenting a lot more femininely lately. But I have no idea how to bring it up and idk if I should write much about that here anyway.

I think this post is long enough lol so I will stop rambling but yeah if people have any thoughts on this stuff I’m open for discussion ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[roydeezed]

So I hadn't read any Terry Pratchett before, but I just started Good Omens. I thought it would be a good introduction as I would get a re-primer before diving into the second season and I would get an introduction to Pratchett through one of my favourite authours, Neil Gaiman. Every once in a while I read an authour who makes me envious and inspires me through their writing style, plot structure, or deft handling of characters, but it's been a while since anything's laid me out as much as these passages:

Pratchett or Gaiman or both(Honestly if Gaimans began or had much of a presence yet I have not realized, it's amazingly seamless), cut bone deep with this part.

David Tennant always played Crowley with a heartbreaking pathos, in which we could tell his shunning of rules and limitations stretched into him being a good soul despite being a demon, but this cracks my heart in two.

In only a few sentences, the pair are able to evoke the beauty and duality of humanity, in a way that the reader can't help but assigns their own definitions to it, while also creating a character that wants to be able to change. A demon more sympathetic to humans than the angels themselves.

I'm only 49 pages into my copy and I'm already on the verge of tears. What the fuck?

And I could end it here but genuinely it takes on such a wild degree of relevance in the current time of conflict. Is it better to sit on the fence as something goes on in a place far away that will never affect you, or do you voice an opinion or pick a side? And is that any better? Are you just feeding into that conflict? It kind of paints those of us removed from places of conflicts as those largely unaffected while the only thing that really separates us isn't the fact that we haven't given into something we deem a lower level of humanity in its barbarism, but purely and plainly circumstance.

Also, much like one of my favourite Mangaka, Naoki Urasawa, Pratchett seems to have this quality where he's able to discuss philosophy and build characters with the same token, albeit in a more humourous way.

I've come across some Pratchett lines before, like a few Hogfather clips and others through cultural osmosis, and his writing seems to have such empathy towards humanity while also being irreverent.

I am so curious and excited to find more quotes and moments from Pratchett, and I can't wait to find out if what I've stated is true in a few books or even a few more pages.