#spatial practices

[russellmoreton]

Gildengate Vessels : The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard. by Russell Moreton Via Flickr: russellmoreton.blogspot.com

[gemmahale]

Suddenly hit with a memory of middle school (~12 yo) Gemma answering the trivia question of “countries that start with U” with “Urugli” (pronounced ‘you’re ugly’) from Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen’s “Our Lips are Sealed” that I had just watched over the weekend at a sleepover.

Thank god the PE Coach misheard me and thought I said “Uruguay.” 🤦‍♀️

This has been your reminder that I have always been, and always will be a gullible dipshit.

[irkendogma]

zim with that fuckin water balloon WOMD mocap

[khajiitclaws]

FFXIV raiding while autistic is not for the faint of heart I’ll tell you that. Half the time I can’t visualize space correctly and go to the wrong spot. I’m putting my hands up for left and right to figure it out mid fight. I’m constantly hyperaware that the rest of the party probably thinks I’m an idiot

[orthosispsychosis]

i dont enjoy the aesthetics of my own figure drawing practices and usually end up distorting/stylizing them if i use them as a base for a more personally enjoyable work but they are useful for realizing things such as 'hm i seem to have gradually drifted away from awareness of where the bellybutton goes'

[exopelagic]

liveblogging my descent into madness

[antiadvil]

Ok final decision: definitely intertwined

If their hands were cupped I would expect the back of Dan's hand to be facing more towards the camera and his wrist to be less bent. He could be holding his hand in a weird position, but if their hands were cupped, that would force Phil's hand to be more sideways, but his fingers wrap around Dan's hand from the bottom, not the side.

TLDR: if their hands were cupped then their fingers would have to point in different directions at a right angle. But their fingers both point downwards, so their fingers are intertwined.

Okay but have we decided if their hands are cupped or if their fingers are intertwined.

[dlyarchitecture]

[kabr0ztrousers]

Similar to the portal one. But reader is a chubby witch in a house full of diffret species (not picky on the type). Anything with a big size differance is chefs kiss though. She has a crush on one of them. So she puts a portal spell on a toy and leaves it out for him to find. And he does but what she didn't realize was how many of her roommates share there toys. And now she has live with the consequences or for some the reward

You can even do a continuation were they figure out what she did and they give up on the toy and just start to use her instead

Kabr0z Writes episode 68: Toying Around

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: infidelity via deception; dubcon via deception; public sex; free use; autocunnilingus

A/N: Ah, my two great loves, portals and free use... Whatever would I do without them.

########################################

You finally figured it out. You'd had the hots for Andy for months, ever since he moved in with you. You were already living with Debbie, and the pansexual lupines Paul and Brian couldn't object to the new housemate; they were fucking practically every night, and weren't quiet about it. The only problem is, Andy only had eyes for Debbie, and you weren't about to fuck up the flat dynamic by stealing her man.

But what a man he was, the very ideal of a minotaur. Eight feet tall and as wide as a doorframe, 150 kilos of pure muscle and sinew, with biceps thicker than your plush thighs. The time you walked in on him in the shower (totally by accident, you understand) sealed it. He was equally huge down below, a cock as long and thick as your forearm. You got wet just thinking about burying that flared monster in your cunt. You just had to get around his obnoxious fidelity first.

That's where a little bit of magic comes in.

Magical study can be understood as ten domains, or spheres, interacting with one another. Forces is the flashy one for tossing fireballs, entropy is the scary one for making things degrade, life is the one for healing wounds or changing your shape, if you can think of it, there's a sphere that does it. Your speciality was a little more esoteric: correspondence. Correspondence is the magic of spatial relationship, specifically the realisation that distances are an illusion and can be subverted with a little know-how and just enough gumption. Theoretically, correspondence lets you teleport too, through a process of literally not being here and being somewhere else, but when that goes wrong it's not uncommon to accidentally become part of a building or worse, so prudent mages only pull that trick in times of direst need.

This trick was almost too easy. You'd get his usual cocksleeve, take out the insert, and link the end of it with the gusset of a pair of knickers. Barely a party trick, it's the same mechanism for pulling a rabbit out of a hat, though with any luck there wouldn't be any pulling out happening. A few magic words, and one exsanguinated mouse later, a hazy film lay on the top of the toy you'd pilfered. You pushed a finger into it, and watched it come out of the inside of the underwear you'd used for the other side. Pulling on the panties you tested again.

Yep, you could feel your finger stroking your pussy lips, a hint of wetness coming away on your hand as you did. You'd always been curious of this. You brought the tube to your face, smelling the warmth of your cunt through the portal as you licked yourself through it. Damn, you taste good. Too good, and god does it feel right. Your tongue explored your nethers, running up and down your slit, lapping up your wetness and circling your clit. Either you're a natural at this, or you're getting far too turned on by the idea of being able to really fuck yourself.

It wasn't easy to stop, but you knew if you let yourself cum like that you'd be there all day, and you wanted to be out of the house before Andy came home from work. He was always pent up when he came back, and modifying his normal cocksleeve into your enchanted pocket pussy was a simple job. He probably wouldn't notice, at least not until he was already balls deep into you. By that point, he might not care.

Replacing the toy, you slipped on a sundress and made your way to the park. You weren't going to risk being caught in the flat while he wanked off with you. There's a quiet spot under a weeping willow, right near the river, about a mile into the park where nobody goes, not even the dog walkers.

That's where you sat, channeling the power of the river and the forest, recharging as you waited. Getting fucked here would probably help, if anything, sex carries powerful magic. It's just a pity he wouldn't be here in person.

Something touched you. A gentle fingertip slid some lube over your pussy, coating your lips in a cold, slick film. The finger pushed in, rubbing the lubricant around the inside of you, feeling the texture of your inner walls. It pulled out. Moments passed. Seconds felt like hours as your mind raced. Of course he'd figure it out, he'd have to lube his toy before fucking it otherwise that huge bitch-breaker would rip it in half!

Or not. The flare pressed against your hole briefly, before forcing its way in. You groped a tit as it pushed in, filling you slowly before he started fucking himself properly. He was going fast, faster than anyone could fuck. Every push made you yelp, your eyes rolling back as it hammered into you, getting deeper and deeper with every push. Your yelps and whines reached a crescendo, the hammering cock driving you to orgasm hard against it.

You felt yourself tensing, gripping the flared beast inside you as your toes curled and your body shook. The force of the orgasm almost made you fall backwards, your arms catching you as your back arched, your hips pushing up against a man who wasn't there as you groaned.

He wasn't far behind. The flare flattened against the entrance of your womb as he pulsed into you, delivering his cum right where you wanted it. The thick liquid steamed through your cervix in a river, filling you in an instant before threatening to spray out around the sides. He held the toy down, keeping you hilted as he pumped you to bursting.

At last, the flare started to recede, he pulled out. You felt the still too wide tip pulling on your entrance before popping out in a fountain of thick cum. You lay, panting on the sparse grass, shielded from passers-by by the fronds of the willows above. It's another simple spell to prevent pregnancy, a handful of river water mixed with a little ash and daubed over your belly neutralises the semen filling your womb. Life magic wasn't your speciality, but a witch knows the rudiments.

You picked yourself up and started to walk back to the main park. It's about a 20-minute walk at a decent clip, but you were taking your time.

Something touched your pussy again. Not a finger, not Andy's flared member, something else. Thinner, shorter, already leaking fluid into you. Have you been borrowed?

The new cock was slower, fucking you like it was savoring the experience. The minotaur cum lubricating him as he slid in and out.

You looked for somewhere to duck out of the way, slipping into a bush as the cock slowly fucked you. It wasn't as big as the minotaur, but the languid pace made you squirm.

It sped up for a few pumps, making you arch yourself again, before slowing down. The cock twitching and throbbing in your cunt, it hadn't knotted you yet, the slippery precum adding to the mix of fluids dripping out of you.

Over and over, the slow stroking punctuated by fast thrusts, each time drawing moans and gasps from you as the canid cock edged inside you; each time brought you to the very edge, before slowing back down and leaving you panting.

The fast fucking started again, this time you clenched yourself against it, feeling the thickness of the cock pressing back at you. You created your peak, tears welling in your eyes as you half-moaned, half-sobbed your release. The knot filled you up, and another man's cum started to fill you.

Walking is hard when you have a tennis ball sized knot plugging you up, harder still when that knot is moving and thrusting with a mind of its own.

You staggered home, the knot staying hard, holding the rest of his cock in you as it twitched and pumped more and more into you. Lupine cum isn't as thick as a minotaur's, but there's just so much of it; you could feel it dripping down your legs, the unmistakable smell of fresh cum filling your nostrils. You were just glad you didn't need to take the bus.

You finally got home, the knot still in you, and slid into your room, waiting for it to pull out.

A knock on the door

"Hey" It's Andy "I know what you did. I gave you to Paul, he's loaded Brian up with boner pills, so don't expect to be getting out any time soon. Next time you want to hook up, just ask, OK?"

Well, looks like you're in for the long haul.

Worth it.

######################################

Not sure how I did on that. The minotaur fucking was fun, but was the lupine as good, or did it overstay its welcome? Maybe I'm being over critical because it's my work.

Either way, if you have a request for any scenarios you want to see or kinks you want me to explore, please do drop an ask! If you're not sure if it oversteps any boundaries, send it and I'll make a decision. The worst I'll say is no

[russellmoreton]

Ceramics in Spatial Practices : Human Bodies/Spatial Bodies by Russell Moreton

[verstappenverse]

can you do a fic based on the Live event? can it be a charles fic?

Five Minutes Off-Schedule

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: At the F175 live event there’s no room for distractions. The collision is unplanned, the attraction immediate, and the interruption entirely unwelcome. Five minutes with Ferrari’s golden boy might just be enough to derail your night.

Author's Note: First Charles request hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

1.9k words / Masterlist

You’ve been on your feet for hours. Between checking stage setups, coordinating media schedules, and making sure nothing spontaneously combusts, the F175 live event is running as smoothly as one can hope. Every moving piece of the event relies on your ability to juggle a dozen different tasks at once, and there’s no room for distractions. Not when a single oversight could send the entire schedule into chaos.

Your phone is practically an extension of your hand, vibrating with new emails, last-minute schedule adjustments, and frantic messages from colleagues trying to keep the event from spiralling into disaster. Every few steps someone stops you with a question, a problem, or an urgent request, and you barely have time to breathe, let alone pause and take in the spectacle around you.

Which is probably why you don’t see the heavy-duty equipment case in your path, at least not until you walk straight into it. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humour, it’s spectacularly unsurprising that the one and only Charles Leclerc appears in front of you at the exact moment you do.

Your clipboard clatters to the ground, papers scattering in disarray.

“Shit—” You exhale sharply, steadying yourself with one hand on the case, the other instinctively reaching for your phone before it slips from your grasp. Your heart pounds in irritation, but the moment you lift your gaze, your breath catches in your throat.

A pair of familiar green eyes meet yours.

Strong hands steady you before you can fully wipe out, and suddenly, you’re looking up at a familiar face. Charles stands before you, brows slightly raised, hands lifted in a half-hearted attempt to prevent the collision. His black suit blazer is unbuttoned over a fitted white shirt, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sinewy strength in his forearms. His expression wavers between concern and amusement, his lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.

"Ah, merde," he mutters, a hint of a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. "That was dramatic. Are you okay?"

Your brain short-circuits for a second. The adrenaline from the near-fall mixes with something undeniably mortifying as you take a quick step back, putting a safe distance between the two of you.

“I—uh, yeah.” You clear your throat, willing the heat creeping up your neck to disappear. “Sorry, I didn’t see—” You gesture vaguely at the offending equipment case, even though it was very much in plain sight, as if that excuses your complete lack of spatial awareness.

“You were walking like you had somewhere to be,” he counters, his tone light, but his eyes assessing.

“Because I do,” you reply, a little too quickly.

He watches you with interest, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other resting casually on his hip. “So serious,” he muses.

You huff out a breath, more focused on straightening the disheveled papers than on the amused man in front of you. “Some of us are working.”

He crouches at the same time as you, and in the process your fingers brush his. The contact is brief but enough to make your stomach do something ridiculous. You snatch the clipboard quickly, standing up before you make more of a fool of yourself.

“Sorry, I don’t have time for whatever this is,” you say firmly.

“'Whatever this is'?” He tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “I think this was just an unfortunate accident.”

You roll your eyes, stepping to the side to move past him. “Great, then let’s not make a habit of it.”

“Tsk,” he clicks his tongue. “So cold. You’re sure you didn’t plan this? Walking straight into me?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, absolutely. I rearranged the entire event schedule just so I could trip into you.”

But before you get too far, his voice follows you. “Ah, but now I’m intrigued. Maybe I should be the one rearranging my schedule.”

You don’t bother looking back. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

An hour later you spot him again, leaning against the bar in the hospitality suite sipping something dark in a lowball glass. The dim lighting casts a golden glow over the polished wood, the soft murmur of conversation filling the space. You’ve just finished dealing with a minor crisis when your eyes meet across the room.

He smirks.

You turn away, determined to pretend the moment never happened.

It should end there.

But then he’s suddenly beside you, his presence felt before he even speaks. The faint scent of expensive cologne lingers in the air between you, mingling with the sharp tang of whiskey from his glass. He moves like someone who belongs here, at ease in a way you envy.

“Are you avoiding me?” His voice is smooth, threaded with quiet amusement.

You sigh, tilting your head slightly as you glance at him. “Avoiding implies I was thinking about you.”

That earns a low chuckle, rich and genuine. “You wound me.”

“Unlikely.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you with an infuriating sort of patience. “So you’re working here, for the event?”

“Yeah, sort of. More like ‘thrown into the fire and hoping not to get burned.” You shift the clipboard in your grip, forcing yourself to focus. “Making sure everything runs smoothly. Not doing a great job of it apparently.”

“I think you’re doing great,” he says easily, glancing around the room with practiced observation. “Everything looks very…well-organised.”

You let out a dry laugh, rubbing your temple. “You say that because you can’t see the chaos behind the scenes.”

“Ah, but that’s the point, no?” His smile is warm, a little too knowing. “If it looks perfect to the outside world, then you’ve done your job.”

You blink. He’s right, obviously, but you didn’t expect him to say something like that, insightful and understanding.

“Maybe,” you admit. “Or maybe it’s just good PR.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting back another smirk. “That bad, really?”

You sigh, shifting the clipboard in your arms. “Let’s just say I’ve spent most of the night convincing your fellow drivers not to wander off five minutes before they’re supposed to be on stage.”

He laughs, the sound low and unrestrained, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds about right.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a secret. “So who’s been the worst?”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m legally not allowed to disclose that information.”

“Oh come on.” He nudges your elbow lightly with his own. “Give me a hint. Just a small one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Absolutely not.”

His grin deepens, like he enjoys the challenge. “Fine. I’ll just have to guess.” He taps his chin, feigning deep thought. “Lando?”

You press your lips together, refusing to give anything away.

“Aha,” he says triumphantly. “That’s a yes.”

You groan, rolling your shoulders. “I swear, keeping drivers in one place is like herding—”

“Children?”

You snort, unable to help it. “Your words, not mine.”

Charles grins, pleased with himself, and takes a slow sip from his glass. His gaze remains on you, curiosity flickering behind the teasing. You wonder, briefly, if this is how he always is, charming, easygoing, entirely too confident for his own good.

And, annoyingly, it’s working.

“I suppose I should let you get back to preventing disasters,” he muses after a beat, though he makes no actual move to leave.

“You suppose correctly.”

He hums, setting his empty glass down with an exaggerated sigh. “A shame.”

You arch a brow. “Why?”

“Because I think it'd be much more fun if you took a break.” His voice drops just slightly, a thread of something almost challenging woven through it.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t have time for breaks.”

His smile is slow, deliberate. “Maybe you should make time.”

And then, just as easily as he appeared, he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving you standing there, pulse annoyingly uneven.

You think that’s the last of it. But Charles seems determined to prove you wrong.

You see him again near the backstage producers area, where he absolutely doesn’t need to be. The space is a flurry of activity, you’re mid-discussion with a sound tech, trying to sort out an audio issue that could derail the entire segment, when you feel a familiar presence.

He walks by, clearly in no rush, hands in his pockets, he catches your eye, smiles, and keeps going, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Then again when you’re near the dressing rooms, balancing a stack of equipment, you sense him before you see him. This time he doesn’t just walk by, he stops, standing directly in your path, one hand outstretched.

“Need help?”

You narrow your eyes, shifting the weight of the equipment in your arms slightly. “Are you even supposed to be here?”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Probably not.”

“Charles.”

“What?”

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t have time to babysit you.”

He places a hand over his heart mockingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So harsh. And here I was, just trying to be helpful.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing Ferrari things?” you ask, arching a brow.

His lips twitch. “Ferrari things?”

“You know. Smiling for cameras, charming sponsors, pretending you’re not dying for the event to be over.”

He tilts his head, smirk deepening. "Who says I’m pretending?"

You scoff. "So you are over it."

"Not everything." His gaze lingers just a beat too long. "Present company excluded."

That gives you pause. He studies you for a moment, then gestures to your clipboard. “Five minutes. I promise not to steal your precious clipboard.”

You arch a brow. “Bold of you to assume I’d let it out of my sight.”

His laughs. “I figured. But if I have to compete for your attention, I’d at least like a fair shot.”

You hesitate, glancing around at the chaos still unfolding around you but then again, Charles Leclerc is standing in front of you, eyes locked onto yours like he has nowhere else he would rather be.

“…Five minutes,” you relent.

His smile is triumphant. “That’s all I need.” He waits until you set your clipboard down, watching with an amused tilt of his head.

“I have a million things to do,” you counter.

“Then what’s five minutes?” He leans against the wall, entirely at ease.

You cross your arms. “And what exactly do you plan to do in these precious five minutes?”

His grin widens. “Well, I was thinking of just standing here and watching you stress, but that feels a little cruel.”

You huff, unimpressed. “Glad to know you’re self-aware.”

“I try,” he muses. “But I was actually going to ask if you wanted to grab a drink. Or at the very least, breathe.”

You glance around, half-expecting someone to swoop in and drag him away to something important. But no one does. He stands there, patiently waiting, like the answer genuinely matters to him.

“You’re persistent, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” His expression softens, just slightly. “Look, I know how these events go. Nonstop. Overwhelming. Sometimes you need someone to remind you to take a second for yourself.”

You hesitate, just a beat too long, and Charles seizes the opportunity.

“I’ll even let you complain about my fellow drivers,” he offers. “No names needed. Just a little vent session.”

You press your lips together, fighting a smile. “Tempting.”

“Isn’t it?” He steps a fraction closer, lowering his voice. “So? What’ll it be?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already reaching for your phone to set it aside. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Charles grins and his eyes sparkle like he’s just won a race.

And as he leads you toward a quieter area of the venue, you can’t help but think that maybe five minutes isn’t such a bad idea.

[astrologydray]

Mercury Sign Intelligence Ranking (From Sharpest to Softest Thinkers)🧠✨

Note: Everyone has strengths in different kinds of intelligence (emotional, analytical, spatial, linguistic, etc.). Mercury in Pisces may write the most moving poetry. Mercury in Capricorn might write the best business plan.

1. Mercury in Gemini

Keyword: Mental Gymnastics

This is Mercury’s domicile, meaning it functions at full strength here. Sharp, witty, fast-talking, and excellent at multitasking. Absorbs trivia like a sponge. Thinks in hyperlinks.

2. Mercury in Virgo

Keyword: Precision

Also in domicile and exaltation. Analytical, detail-oriented, and mentally organized. Masters systems, edits flawlessly, and thrives on logic. Their brain is a high-speed filing cabinet.

3. Mercury in Aquarius

Keyword: Genius-Level Pattern Seeker

Independent thinker, visionary mind. Thinks ten steps ahead and outside the box. Often “ahead of their time” — the rebels and inventors of thought.

4. Mercury in Scorpio

Keyword: Psychological Sleuth

Obsessed with depth. Highly intuitive and investigative. Can detect lies, read minds, and process information beneath the surface. Strategic thinker with razor focus.

5. Mercury in Capricorn

Keyword: Strategic Planner

Thinks long-term. Practical, grounded, and goal-oriented. Absorbs knowledge through structure and discipline. Excellent at putting ideas into action.

6. Mercury in Libra

Keyword: Diplomatic Logic

Highly intelligent socially and verbally. They weigh perspectives and speak with poise. Great debaters, lawyers, and artists of articulation.

7. Mercury in Sagittarius

Keyword: Big Picture Thinker

Philosophical, adventurous, and open-minded. Not always detail-oriented, but sees overarching meaning and vision. Brilliant storytellers and educators.

8. Mercury in Aries

Keyword: Quick and Blunt

Snappy thinkers. Acts on impulse and trusts instinct. While not always reflective, they’re sharp, decisive, and quick-witted in arguments.

9. Mercury in Leo

Keyword: Creative Communicator

Thinks with flair and heart. Loves storytelling and spotlight communication. Not the most logical, but brilliant at inspiring and performing.

10. Mercury in Taurus

Keyword: Slow and Steady

Learns at their own pace. Strong memory and focused attention, but slower to process new ideas. Excellent at mastering one subject deeply.

11. Mercury in Cancer

Keyword: Emotional Intelligence

Learns through emotion and memory. Not always linear, but intuitive and empathetic thinkers. More subjective, but deeply wise in a nurturing way.

12. Mercury in Pisces

Keyword: Dream Logic

Highly creative, imaginative, and intuitive — but struggles with linear or rational processes. Their intelligence is spiritual, artistic, and symbolic rather than logical.

[darkmatilda]

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐲 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which spencer struggles a bit to come to terms with the fact that you don’t celebrate your birthday.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, reader doesn't celebrate birthday, karaoke bar, reader wearing a dress

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request marathon masterlist

“NOBODY TAUGHT YOU TO WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING—”

“DO YOU HAVE TO YELL AT ME—”

“WHEN YOU CAN’T WALK STRAIGHT—”

“You were the one glued to your phone—”

“Well, I work on it. What were you doing, genius, pondering paramecium’s sex life?”

“Parameciums reproduce asexually—”

“So you were thinking about it?”

“What does that have to do with anything—”

“Kids,” came a heavy sigh from their left.

Both turned their heads to the side. Rossi was passing them, clearly having caught part of the argument—and now shaking his head slowly.

“You’re worse than preschoolers. No offense to preschoolers.”

Spencer realized they were standing right in the middle of the hallway, practically blocking the way. The things they'd dropped when they bumped into each other were still waiting to be picked up at their feet. The papers he had been carrying, the empty coffee cup he intended to throw away, and those belonging to the woman he'd bumped into— a thick folder the size of an encyclopedia, a granola bar, a red lipstick, a magazine with a black-and-white cover, a holder for ID cards and other documents that had spilled open, and the question of how on earth she'd managed to fit all those things in one hand.

Rossi had disappeared from their sight, but his comment about childish behavior lingered. Spencer rolled his eyes upward and, with a reluctant expression on his face, crouched down to collect everything. The woman didn’t seem like she planned to do the same. An irritatingly self-assured expression appeared on her face, one that clearly indicated she still believed the collision was in no way her fault. He huffed but decided to behave his age—ignoring the hint of humiliation that arose within him as he found himself so close to her shoes, he picked up the things that belonged to both of them.

He barely managed to fit them all into his arms, which required nearly professional spatial planning—something that was definitely not Reid’s forte. When he held out the items that belonged to her, she didn’t move.

A sly smirk appeared on her face.

“Oh, how sweet of you to take this to my lab,” she said with a dramatic smooch and...

...She bypassed him, not even bothering to turn around to check if he was following her.

Spencer stood there for a moment, mouth agape, but then quickly shook his head and followed her. Of course, it was just to play her camel for the day. Oh, no. He needed to shove her stuff back at her because, seriously, what the hell else was he supposed to do with it?

"If you don't take this, I'll just drop it on the floor," he threatened in a serious tone as they stepped into the elevator.

Her red lipstick slipped from the top of the items he was carrying and fell to the floor. The woman bent down to pick it up and placed it back on top of her complicated pile.

"Thanks," Reid said automatically, immediately slapping himself in the forehead. "No, no thanks! If you think you’ve found yourself a servant, you’re mistaken. I don’t have time for that, so if you think I’m taking this straight to your lab, you're deeply mistaken—”

In her lab, he set down each item one by one on the counter, sighing with admiration at himself for actually managing to get them there.

“You did great as a camel,” she complimented, patting him on the shoulder.

“I hate you.”

“Affectionate?”

“No!”

The woman rolled her eyes. Spencer adjusted the documents he was holding in his arms, realizing that there was one last item of hers left between them. He handed her her ID, but as her fingers closed around it to take it, something suddenly stopped him. They both held the document on either side, and her eyebrow shot up questioningly. But before she could ask, Reid finally tore his gaze away from the date printed on it.

“It's your birthday today,” he said, looking at her in surprise.

She took the document from him, delaying her response. He registered it with some surprise. She had always struck him as the kind of person who would show up to work on her birthday wearing a golden crown, a royal cape draped over her shoulders, and every intention of bossing people around more than usual. Yet she hadn’t mentioned it—nor had Morgan or Garcia, both of whom he’d spoken to that day—leading him to assume they didn’t know either.

“Congratulations, Dr. Reid, you can read dates,” she scoffed at last.

He should’ve responded with the same level of endearing snark and simply walked away—he had hundreds, if not thousands, of better things to do than engage in their usual bickering. But something just wouldn’t let him leave.

Spencer cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

“So, what are your birthday plans?”

He was met with a shrug.

 “I don’t celebrate birthdays.”

“You don’t celebrate birthdays?” he repeated, incredulous.

 “Do I have to say everything twice for you?”

 “Do you always have to act like a complete—” he cut himself off, taking a deep breath and reminding himself that maybe insulting someone on their birthday wasn’t exactly appropriate. “No, you don’t. I’m just surprised you don’t. I figured it would be the opposite. I mean, it’s your day, after all.”

“Every day is my day,” she replied in an obvious tone.

He held back an eye roll. Of course. But despite the rather dry answers, he kept going.

“You don’t like your birthday?”

“I don’t celebrate it. Doesn’t automatically mean I cry into my pillow every time it comes around. Finished your interview?”

He ignored the end of her sentence.

“I used to be the same,” he started, not entirely sure why he felt the need to share this. But since he had, he decided to keep going. Some inner sense of duty, maybe. “But then I joined the team and, well, it feels completely different when others actually remember your birthday and put effort into celebrating it for you. Now I…actually kind of like them. Maybe it’s the same with you.”

As she listened, her eyebrows lifted slightly with intrigue, but overall, she didn’t seem convinced. His gaze dropped to her arms crossed over her chest, one of her fingers tapping absentmindedly against her shoulder.

"I don’t think so," she replied stubbornly. “There’s no difference between a party on the day you’re a year older and a party on any other day of the year. It’s not some kind of special day.”

Spencer had completely forgotten about his plan to leave her lab as soon as he handed over her things. He also wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt so determined to change her mind about birthdays. Maybe over the years, and through his friendships with the team, he had gotten used to the idea that everyone threw each other surprises and gave gifts, using the occasion to show mutual appreciation and remind each other that work wasn’t the only thing that connected them—that they really mattered to each other. 

Accepting the fact that some people were missing out on that was unexpectedly hard for him.

“I think I could easily prove you wrong,” he declared smugly.

She propped her elbow on the counter, giving him a look laced with amused pity.

“Prove me wrong,” she repeated, one brow arching mockingly. “And how exactly do you plan to do that? Bake me a little cake and buy some party hats? Invite my stuffed animals?”

“Well, if that’s what your dream birthday party looks like…” he spread his hands in a why not? gesture. But then his tone shifted—more serious now, as if he wasn't joking at all. What had started as a spontaneous idea was now beginning to root itself deeper. The longer it stayed in his head, the more he felt compelled to make it happen.

“If your opinion doesn’t change, you won’t lose anything.”

“And will I gain something?”

She seemed genuinely intrigued. Apparently, she enjoyed proving him wrong too much to dismiss the idea outright. Reid shrugged at her question.

“A relatively pleasant evening?”

“So you’re taking me somewhere,” she said, her face a strangely entertaining mix of disbelief, reluctance, curiosity, and—maybe he was imagining it—just a hint of excitement.

“Congrats on your deduction.”

“Be nice, it’s my birthday.”

“Oh, so now you do celebrate?”

“Only when I need to keep you in line.”

His amused huff marked the end of the conversation. But just before he could leave—step out of the lab—one last thought danced on his lips, the final thing he wanted to say Dress nicely.

Yet the moment he opened his mouth, his gaze slipped over her figure. A little too thoroughly—like someone who’d promised himself he’d only read the final page of a good book, but whose eyes were already drifting to the next. He shook his head, turning toward the exit.

Whatever she wore, it would be fine.

Besides, he didn’t even know where he was taking her.Something he only realized once he was out of her sight and earshot—prompting a loud, exasperated fuck. 

*

"Can you explain why we had to find out it’s your birthday from Reid?"

She was being squeezed in a hug so tight—classic Penelope—that she could barely get a word out. A couple steps away, he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, curious to hear her answer. They were all seated at the same table in a karaoke bar—nothing fancy, but the company mattered more than the place. To his surprise, his entire team had offered to come along on their own, and her team agreed without even a second of hesitation, shocked that they hadn’t known it was her birthday. He’d asked them where she might want to spend it.

“Your friend’s been spying on me,” she answered, adjusting her dress that had gotten bunched up from the merciless hug.

Well, turned out he’d been right. He hadn’t even needed to tell her to dress nicely—clearly, she just did. 

Once she had smoothed herself out, another arm wrapped around her—this time Morgan’s.

“And good thing you did,” he said, nodding toward Spencer. Reid met her eyes and let Derek’s approval hang in the air between them. She rolled her eyes, of course, but there was a small smile on her lips. One that filled him with a quiet sense of triumph.

“I knew something was off this morning,” Morgan added. “You look older.”

“Screw off,” she snorted, bumping his shoulder and shoving him gently toward the stage. “Now get up there and make my birthday wish come true. I want to hear you and Pen sing me a duet.”

Garcia snapped her fingers like she was gearing up for an epic battle.

"Whatever your heart desires, darling. Britney Spears, ABBA, or maybe..."

"I’ll leave that decision to you two."

There was a flicker of dread in Derek’s eyes—he didn’t even get the chance to blink before his friend dragged him toward the microphone.

And while the two of them quietly bickered over the song choice, Spencer felt someone step right up beside him.

She wasn’t looking at him yet, her eyes fixed on the pair up on stage, which gave him a moment to study her expression. She could deny later that she was having fun, but he already knew better.

She must’ve felt his gaze, because she met it.

Reid, instead of looking away like someone caught staring, leaned in slightly so she could hear him over the noise.

“Happy birthday.”

It suddenly hit him that he hadn’t said it once.

“Does this qualify as your relatively nice evening?”

She pretended to consider, biting her lower lip.

His eyes followed the motion before returning to hers when she gave the tiniest nod—not quite confirmation.

“As of right now, no,” she answered mysteriously. “But it has potential. There’s one thing you can do to change that.”

They looked at each other in silence for a second—him, waiting for her to go on; her, waiting for him to figure it out. Eventually, she glanced toward the stage.

“You want me to join them?”

A snort of laughter, suggesting he wished that was what she meant.

“I want you to sing with me.”

what song should diva reader sing with reid?

[witchingwithscissors]

Agathario AU | based on a post by @incorrectquotesmcu : “fucking commit to it.” ft. a sharp-tongued principal, a hot coach who won’t stop flirting, one kid with a bunny, and a coffee spill that ruins everything just right.

Monday.

There are mornings that fade into the rhythm of the school year. This wasn’t one of them.

Dr. Agatha Harkness turned the corner outside the Counseling office and walked directly into the beginning of a distraction she would spend the next several weeks pretending wasn’t happening.

A yelp.

The screech of sneakers on high-gloss tile. A cardboard drink tray skidding across the waxed hallway. One iced coffee launched upward, its plastic lid popping off like a cork.

Caramel splashed over Agatha’s forearm and across the top of her neatly stacked discipline reports.

“Oh my God—shit—sorry, I—didn’t see the floor was wet, there wasn’t a sign—was there a sign?”

Agatha blinked down at the mess, the sensation of cold sweetness soaking into her sleeve. The voice belonged to a woman already crouched at her feet, sleeves rolled back, trying to blot the spill with the edge of her own sweatshirt. It was pointless.

Agatha lowered herself slowly. “There was a sign.”

The woman looked up.

Dark curls frayed loose from a bun. Deep brown eyes, warm and wide. A lanyard swung forward as she shifted her weight, brushing against Agatha’s wrist. Vidal, Rio – PE / Girls Basketball.

Agatha knew who she was now. She also knew she needed to stand up before this turned into something else entirely.

The woman stood first. “Coach Vidal. First day.” She extended a hand.

Agatha took it. The shake was firm and unguarded, fingers still cool from the iced drink.

Touch #1.

The contact wasn’t supposed to linger—but it did.

“Dr. Harkness,” she replied. “Principal.”

Rio looked mortified, though her smile came through anyway—like it always wanted to. “I swear I’m better with spatial awareness when I’m not holding caffeine.”

Agatha stepped back. She didn’t smile, but her voice softened. “Then I expect the rosters reprinted before second period. No lamination required.”

“Copy that.” Rio saluted her with a dripping straw. “And for the record—I really am better in the gym.”

Agatha walked away, resisting the urge to look back. But she could still feel the ghost of Rio’s palm against hers. Still smell the faint trace of vanilla and sweat that clung to her collar even after she closed her office door.

Tuesday.

Faculty meeting. 7:55 a.m. The library conference pit always made everyone look grayer under its flickering bulbs. Agatha stood in front of a screen and worked through policy updates with clipped efficiency. The staff knew her cadence by now—new hires would learn.

Halfway through her restorative discipline section, a hand rose from the third row.

Rio.

“Would you ever consider tardy reflection sheets before automatic detention?” she asked. “Students write down why they were late and what they’d need to fix it. It helped when I taught 7th and 8th. Some of them are carrying a lot before 9 a.m.”

She wasn’t interrupting. She was… adding.

Agatha paused. “Submit a draft.”

Rio nodded, then sat back, rolling her pen between two fingers. Her hair was still damp from early practice—Agatha clocked it before she could stop herself.

After the meeting, most teachers drifted toward bagels. Rio lingered near the back of the room.

“Peace offering,” she said, handing Agatha a reprinted folder.

The lamination was uneven. A bubble formed near the spine. Agatha ran a thumb over it, not sure why the imperfection made her chest ache.

“Thank you,” she said. “You weren’t out of line. Reflection is a good idea.”

Rio looked briefly startled. Then pleased. “You’re the first principal who hasn’t brushed me off mid-sentence.”

“I only do that when staff say something foolish,” Agatha replied. She meant it to land crisp—but it came out warm. Too warm.

Their fingers brushed again.

Touch #2.

Agatha pulled back, pulse sharp beneath her collar. Her office still smelled faintly of sweet milk from the coffee spill, and now—now it smelled like Rio.

She closed her door five minutes early and sat with the laminated folder in her lap.

Wednesday.

In the lounge between lunch blocks, Agatha passed Rio sitting on the floor with three kindergarteners playing a cooperative beanbag toss game. She was barefoot—again—and laughing so easily Agatha had to look away.

Later, Rio passed her in the hallway, hoodie zipped halfway, cheeks flushed from 8th-grade dodgeball.

“Did the blazer make it through the cleaners?” she asked.

Agatha kept walking but allowed, “Mostly. Unlike my dignity.”

Rio grinned, easy and unbothered. “I owe you a splash-free coffee.”

Agatha paused. One breath. Then: “I don’t drink coffee.”

But it didn’t sound like a no.

Friday.

The fundraiser was bedlam wrapped in raffle tickets and frosting. K–8 families filled the gym: balloon animals, bake sale tables, a noisy pop-a-shot competition run by Rio, who had somehow charmed every third grader into lining up twice.

Agatha’s son, Nicky, six and wild-haired, clung to her hand with his beloved stuffed rabbit squashed against his chest. The thing had been through the wash a hundred times—its ears were permanently lopsided.

He tugged at Agatha’s wrist. “That’s her, Mama! The tall one! She helped me make three baskets!”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Coach Vidal?”

“She fixed Bun’s ear, too.”

Wanda—ex-wife, ER pediatrician, observant as ever—arrived a few minutes later. “You’re smiling,” she said, dryly.

“It’s the event,” Agatha replied.

“Mmhmm.” Wanda glanced across the room. “That the coach?”

“Yes.”

“She’s pretty.”

Agatha gave her a sharp look. Wanda smirked and took Nicky’s hand.

Later, as Agatha tallied silent auction forms, Rio passed close behind her—close enough to brush fingertips against hers while handing her a stray entry slip.

Touch #3.

Not deliberate. Not not deliberate.

“Your son’s a menace,” Rio said softly. “And smart.”

Agatha nodded, but her voice caught. “He’s fond of you.”

“I’m fond of him, too.”

Their eyes held for a second too long.

Rio’s voice dropped further. “You’ve been on your feet all night. There’s a caramel rabbit at the bake sale with your name on it. I stashed one under the table.”

Agatha didn’t answer. But an hour later, she left the gym with a small white paper bag tucked inside her blazer pocket.

The house was quiet. Nicky was asleep with the rabbit tucked under his chin. Agatha stood in the kitchen, glass of wine untouched on the counter, reading and re-reading a text that had just come in.

Coach Rio Vidal: Hope you made it out alive. Pretty sure I’ve got frosting in my hair.

She typed back. 

Agatha: Thank you for helping. Nicky wouldn’t stop talking about you.

She almost added: You looked good tonight…

She deleted it. Instead she wrote: He liked the rabbit thing. That meant something to him.

Rio’s reply came five minutes later.

Coach Rio Vidal: Bun is my new best friend.

Followed by a photo of the rabbit tucked inside her hoodie pocket, looking vaguely smug.

Agatha smiled, closed her phone, and stared out the dark kitchen window.

She had no plan for what came next. Only that her skin still remembered where their fingers had touched. And her son had laughed harder that day than he had in weeks.

Across town, Rio lay flat on her back in a too-warm apartment, hair still wet from a rushed shower, hoodie bunched under her spine. She had a dozen half-written messages in her Notes app. She wasn’t usually careful like this.

Agatha was sharp, elegant, and clearly trying not to notice her.

But Rio did notice her.

How she rarely smiled but always watched. How she spoke quietly but carried weight in every word. How she touched her son’s shoulder like it was holy.

She typed.

Rio: I like talking to you. Maybe you could show me around sometime?

Then deleted it.

Eventually, she sent just what felt safer.

Rio: Tell Nicky I’ll bring him a practice jersey. If he promises not to beat me in a free throw contest.

She hit send. Then rolled onto her side and closed her eyes, feeling warmth rise and settle behind her ribs.

She was definitely in trouble.

But she hadn’t wanted something in a long time.

And Agatha Harkness was worth wanting.

Monday.

Rio started leaving her office door slightly open.

Just enough to be inviting. Not enough to be obvious.

Agatha didn’t acknowledge it. But she noticed. She always did. The PE office was across from hers, nestled behind the gym’s east stairwell. Technically convenient. Emotionally treacherous.

By Wednesday, Agatha began walking that hallway more often.

She told herself it was about morning supervision. But every time she passed and caught the sound of Rio’s low voice behind the door—soft music, a laugh, the scratch of a pen—something unspooled low in her chest.

She never paused. But she started walking slower.

Tuesday.

Mid-morning. Warm for early spring. The blacktop smelled like chalk dust and sun.

Agatha stepped outside with her coffee. K–2 was at recess. Nicky ran past her, stuffed rabbit clutched in one hand, yelling about a spaceship. Somewhere nearby, jump ropes slapped pavement.

Rio crouched beside a second grader, showing her how to catch a kickball.

She stood when she saw Agatha, brushing gravel from her palms. Her shirt clung to her back from coaching drills. A faint pink flush crept up her neck beneath the messy bun. There was a smear of purple paint on her forearm.

“Didn’t expect to see you off-campus,” Rio teased gently.

Agatha raised a brow. “This is still campus.”

“Barely.” Rio stretched her arms over her head. Agatha looked away too fast.

“Nice turnout for recess,” Agatha said.

“Hard to compete with bunnies and beanbags,” Rio replied, nodding toward a small group drawing rabbits in chalk near the fence.

Nicky was among them.

“He’s good at basketball,” Rio said. “Stubborn about it.”

“I can’t imagine where he gets that,” Agatha murmured.

Rio turned. Their eyes held for a beat. A little too long.

Then Rio reached into her back pocket. “Reflection sheet draft.”

She held it out.

Agatha took it, and their fingers met.

Touch #4.

The paper crinkled between them. Agatha felt the callus on Rio’s index finger, the soft skin along her knuckle.

She let go too quickly and told herself it was professional.

Wednesday.

The staff room was overfull. Agatha arrived last. Only open seat? Next to Rio.

Rio didn’t move. She didn’t say anything, either—just shifted her water bottle to give Agatha more room.

Agatha sat, posture precise. She opened her salad. Ate without speaking.

Rio bit into an apple. The scent of it—tart and sweet—brushed the edge of Agatha’s awareness. It was unbearable, how good it smelled. How close she was.

“You always look like you’re solving a puzzle,” Rio said finally.

“I usually am.”

“Big one?”

Agatha didn’t answer.

Rio smiled faintly, then softened. “You’re not easy to read. I think that’s why I like talking to you.”

Agatha froze, fork mid-air.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said, voice low.

“Why?” Rio’s tone stayed quiet. Not teasing. Just wondering.

“Because I’m your boss.”

Rio looked down. “Right.”

She folded her apple core into her napkin. For the first time, she didn’t meet Agatha’s eyes.

Agatha stood to leave. She hesitated. Reached to steady her chair—and her hand brushed Rio’s shoulder.

Touch #5.

Rio’s body stilled. The contact lingered half a second longer than it should have.

Agatha let go and walked out without looking back.

Thursday.

That morning, there was a chocolate bunny on Agatha’s desk.

Wrapped in gold foil. No note.

She didn’t need one.

At 3:07 p.m., she passed Rio in the hallway and said only, “Thank you.”

Rio blinked. “For what?”

Agatha fought a smile. “It had caramel.”

Rio’s eyes sparkled. “You seem like a caramel person.”

“Is that an insult?”

“Uh, no. It’s a compliment. Chocolate people are emotionally avoidant.”

Agatha didn’t say anything, but she walked away with warmth in her throat she couldn’t quite swallow.

The next morning, another bunny appeared—this one with dark chocolate and raspberry. It was their thing now. She’d never admit it, but she looked forward to it.

After practice, Agatha stopped by the gym.

Nicky sat on the bleachers, rabbit on his lap. He wasn’t talking. He was watching.

Rio was coaching the 6–8 girls—running layup drills, calling encouragement, laughing when someone missed wildly and blamed the ball.

Agatha leaned against the doorframe. She couldn’t hear what Rio was saying, but her gestures were expressive—gentle corrections, soft claps, a fist bump with a nervous sixth grader.

Nicky turned to Agatha and whispered, “She’s nice to everyone.”

“She is,” Agatha said.

“I like when she laughs.”

“Me too.”

The words came out before she could stop them.

Nicky tilted his head. “Do you like her like her?”

Agatha blinked. “That’s a complicated question.”

He hugged his rabbit. “You smile more when she’s here.”

Agatha felt it like a slow exhale. “You’ve been watching me too closely.”

“Only a little,” he said. “She watches you too.”

Friday.

It was raining lightly by dismissal. Agatha stood outside under the covered walkway, waiting for the last wave of carpool.

Rio approached from the staff parking lot, hoodie up, curls clinging damp to her cheekbones.

They stood in the quiet, just the sound of water tapping against metal.

“You walk in the rain?” Agatha asked.

“Better than traffic.”

Agatha exhaled through her nose. “You’re reckless.”

Rio stepped closer. “You’re careful enough for both of us.”

It wasn’t flirtation. It was truth.

Agatha looked at her. Really looked.

Her mouth. Her eyes. The drop of water on her collarbone.

Rio didn’t move—but she didn’t step back either.

Agatha shifted. One inch closer. Another.

Then her phone buzzed.

She flinched.

Rio took a breath. The moment folded in on itself.

Agatha looked away. “I have to go.”

Rio nodded. “Of course.”

But as Agatha walked off, she heard Rio’s voice—low, certain.

“I wouldn’t have kissed you. Not unless you wanted me to.”

Agatha’s throat tightened.

She didn’t look back.

But she did want.

She just wasn’t ready to want out loud.

That night, she found a drawing in her bag. A rabbit in a gym jersey. Labeled “BunBun Coach.”

Nicky’s handwriting. Crayon.

Agatha sat on the floor of the kitchen, her knees drawn to her chest, and held the drawing in both hands.

She’d gone so long without feeling wanted by someone who didn’t need her.

And now—here it was. Quiet. Consistent. Sweet as caramel.

Monday.

Agatha had started leaving the seat next to her open during staff meetings.

Not on purpose. But she noticed when Rio sat there. And she noticed—more carefully—when she didn’t.

This time, Rio arrived late, her curls still damp from early drills, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. She slid into the seat just as Agatha closed her laptop.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“You’re fine,” Agatha said without looking.

But her pulse betrayed her.

They didn’t talk during the meeting. But when it ended, Rio stayed seated. So did Agatha. Just long enough for it to be noticed.

Just short of giving it away.

Tuesday.

It was a nothing moment. A hallway crossing near the gym between fifth period and sixth. Rio leaned against the wall beside the drinking fountain, hair tied up, cheeks pink from effort. She was talking softly with a sixth grader who looked ready to cry.

Agatha paused at a distance.

She didn’t interrupt. Just watched.

Rio crouched to the student’s eye level, said something that made the girl nod and wipe her face, and gave her a small fist bump.

The girl walked off.

Rio stood slowly. Caught Agatha’s gaze across the hall.

Agatha didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

But she held Rio’s gaze a second too long.

And she didn’t look away when Rio smiled.

Wednesday.

They were alone in the gym after a board meeting ran late. Rio was cleaning up stray cones and water bottles. Agatha had lingered, notebook in hand, the only sound the soft creak of sneakers on hardwood.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” Rio asked.

Agatha looked up. “Of what?”

“Being the one who has to know everything. Solve everything.”

Agatha paused.

Rio sat on the edge of the bleachers, cradling a ball in her hands. “You always look like you’re bracing for impact.”

Agatha stood still for a moment. Then: “That’s not entirely wrong.”

Rio rolled the ball between her palms. “I used to fake injuries to avoid scrimmage. Not because I couldn’t play. Just… I was tired of pretending I liked who I was supposed to be.”

Agatha crossed the court. Stopped a few feet away. “And now?”

Rio looked up. “Now I’d rather be underestimated and honest than impressive and empty.”

Agatha swallowed hard. “I don’t think you’re either.”

There was silence. The kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

Then Agatha sat beside her. Close—but not touching.

They shared the silence. And something in it felt warm.

Friday.

It happened in the hallway near the side entrance. The one no students used. The one that always smelled like lemon wax and felt too quiet.

They had walked there together after a late fire drill review. The air was cool. Rio’s hoodie sleeves were pushed up. Agatha’s blazer hung unbuttoned.

Rio reached for the door.

Agatha touched her wrist.

Touch #6.

Rio stilled. Turned slowly.

Their eyes met.

It was barely anything—just a flicker. A moment folding in on itself.

Agatha said, “I shouldn’t.”

Rio said, “Then don’t.”

But neither of them moved.

Then Rio stepped in—not bold, not timid. Just close. Close enough that Agatha could smell citrus shampoo, could hear her breath catch.

Agatha didn’t think.

She just leaned.

And then they were kissing.

It wasn’t perfect—angled too quickly, breath uneven—but it was real. It was heat curling between ribs. It was the sensation of falling into something she’d already been halfway inside for weeks.

Rio cupped her face, not to hold her in place—just to feel her.

Agatha broke the kiss first.

Not because she wanted to.

But because she had to.

She stepped back like it cost her.

Rio didn’t chase. Her voice was steady. “You okay?”

Agatha nodded.

Lied.

That might, Agatha sat in the dark of her kitchen, Nicky asleep upstairs.

She hadn’t told anyone.

But the kiss was still there.

Pressed into her mouth. Her throat. Her ribs.

She hadn’t kissed anyone in years. Not since the divorce. Not since she stopped hoping someone would want all of her—the mother, the principal, the complicated woman behind all that control.

And Rio had wanted her.

Not despite all that.

Because of it.

Which was exactly why it scared her senseless.

Saturday.

Nicky crawled into her bed before sunrise, rabbit tucked under one arm.

He yawned against her side.

“Coach Rio’s nice,” he mumbled.

Agatha ran a hand through his hair. “She is.”

“She likes you,” he said.

Agatha closed her eyes.

“She likes you like you,” he added sleepily.

Agatha didn’t speak.

Not for a long time.

Thursday.

Agatha had started letting it show.

She didn’t pull her hand away when Rio’s fingers brushed hers during dismissal. She stopped pretending her smiles were for students when they weren’t. And she started carrying a chocolate heart in her coat pocket like it meant something. Because it did.

She still hadn’t said the word girlfriend. But she’d stopped pretending she wasn’t thinking about it.

Rio didn’t ask for more. But she noticed the shift.

She noticed everything.

Friday.

Rio drove them north to the coast—somewhere outside Westview, where no one knew who Agatha Harkness was or what she was afraid of becoming.

They ate shrimp tacos on a candlelit patio, drank two glasses of wine each, and argued playfully over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. Rio said yes. Agatha said obviously not.

There was lightness between them—uncomplicated, real.

But Agatha kept feeling the weight of everything unspoken.

The boardwalk was cool beneath their bare feet. The wind carried the smell of salt and warm sugar. They passed a carousel, quiet now. A couple kissed beside it, tucked into their own world.

Rio’s hand brushed Agatha’s once.

Then again.

But didn’t stay.

Agatha stopped walking.

Rio turned. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

And then she saw Agatha’s face.

Still. Focused. But cracked wide open.

“You keep pulling away,” Agatha said, voice low and trembling. “Like you’re doing me a favor.”

“I just didn’t want to put pressure on you,” Rio said carefully. “Not when you’ve come so far.”

Agatha stepped forward.

“I’m not scared of pressure,” she said. “I’m scared of wanting something I might lose. I’m scared of how much I feel when you’re close.”

Her throat closed around the next words.

“I’ve spent years pretending I was fine being alone. And then you show up and I start… cooking again. Laughing at lunch. Remembering how it feels to want someone.”

Her voice cracked now—honest and breaking.

“So if you’re going to keep touching me like you mean it—”

Her fingers closed around Rio’s hand.

“—then fucking commit to it.”

Rio stared at her. Breathless.

Then, quietly she smiles. “You think I haven’t wanted you since I spilled coffee in the hallway?”

That was all it took.

Agatha leaned in at the same time Rio did.

The kiss wasn’t neat. It was slightly off-center, a little too fast—like they both forgot what it meant to hold back.

But it was good. Real. Deep.

Agatha’s hand curled around Rio’s like it had that first week in the hallway. This time, she didn’t let go.

Halfway through, Rio pulled back just enough to breathe. Her forehead rested against Agatha’s. “I never stopped thinking about that coffee spill.”

Agatha smiled. “You spilled it.”

Rio grinned. “Exactly.”

They kissed again. Slower. Warmer. And when it ended, they stood there silently, listening to the ocean and the echo of their hearts.

Later, in the passenger seat of Rio’s car, Agatha pulled something from her blazer pocket.

A crinkled foil heart.

She dropped it onto Rio’s lap.

Rio looked down. Then back at her.

“I kept it,” Agatha said softly. “The first one you gave me.”

Rio closed her fingers around it. “I’m keeping this one.”

Monday.

They walked into school together.

Agatha carried her coffee in one hand. Rio’s arm brushed hers.

A seventh grader looked up. Whispered. Giggled.

Agatha reached up and gently tucked a stray curl behind Rio’s ear.

“You have lipstick on your neck,” she said, low enough to be private. Then she kissed the spot just below Rio’s jaw—soft, quick, certain.

The student blinked.

Agatha smiled. “Morning.”

After school and over apples and cheddar slices, Nicky looked up and asked, “So… is Coach Rio your girlfriend now?”

Agatha nodded. “Yes. She is.”

Nicky reached into his backpack. Pulled out a foil-wrapped bunny.

“I saved it,” he said. “You can give it to her.”

Agatha took it, heart tight.

“You don’t have to tell her it was mine,” Nicky added, grinning. “But she’ll know.”

Then, quietly, “You used to only make eggs. Now you make waffles again.”

“You started doing nice things again.”

Agatha didn’t answer.

Tuesday.

Agatha didn’t flinch when Rio stepped into her office without knocking.

She looked up from her desk, hair loose, glasses slipping, and smiled before she realized she was doing it.

“You’re not bracing anymore,” Rio said softly, a smile curling at her mouth.

Agatha set down her pen. “You noticed.”

Rio shrugged. “I’ve been looking at you for a while.”

Agatha leaned back in her chair and said, without deflection: “I like when you do.”

Rio stayed leaning against the doorway, casual, but her gaze was full.

“You want dinner Friday?”

Agatha nodded. “And breakfast Saturday.”

Monday.

Agatha emailed HR.

In a relationship with Coach Vidal. No supervisory connection. I’ll recuse from evaluations if needed.

She copied all parties needed and moved on with her day.

When she told Rio that night, Rio said nothing at first—just stepped into her space and pressed a hand to Agatha’s waist.

“You’re making a place for me,” she said, forehead against Agatha’s cheek.

Agatha closed her eyes. “You were already here.”

Friday.

Wanda met them at the market after work—her and Rio, hands full of oranges, and Nicky skipping ahead with BunBun slung over his shoulder like a soldier.

She eyed them both. “You’re holding hands in public now.”

Agatha didn’t let go.

“I’m proud of you,” Wanda said, voice low but firm. “Not because of her. Because you look… happy.”

“I am,” Agatha said.

Wanda looked between them and said, “Want me to take Nicky next weekend?”

Agatha blinked. “Seriously?”

“You two deserve a night where you get to be women, not just moms and educators.”

Rio grinned. “She really is a good ex.”

Agatha gave Wanda a small, sincere smile. “Thank you.”

Wanda touched her arm once, brief. “Just be kind to each other.”

Agatha didn’t cook. She ordered Thai food and changed into leggings and one of Rio’s old college basketball hoodies.

Rio kissed her on the mouth before the food arrived.

“I’ve thought about tonight in so many ways,” she said simply. “I want you.”

Agatha exhaled, shaky and warm. “Then take me seriously.”

“I already do,” Rio whispered. “I have since week three.”

Agatha pulled Rio to her, kissed her again—deeper, longer.

Their delivery driver knocking broke them apart. Agatha grabbed the food, slightly flushed and hungry for something not in the white takeout bag. They ate on the floor with reality TV murmuring in the background. Later, they curled into each other on the couch, Rio’s hand over Agatha’s heart like it had always been meant to rest there.

Saturday.

The next morning, Agatha poured two mugs of tea. Left Rio’s on the nightstand without waking her.

She padded down the hall, barefoot, robe dragging, and found Nicky in the kitchen smearing cream cheese on half a bagel.

“Is she staying for breakfast?” he asked.

“She’s still asleep.”

Nicky nodded. “You smile more when she’s here.”

Agatha kissed the top of his head. “She makes it easier.”

Sunday. 

They didn’t make an announcement.

But Agatha started saying “we” when Rio wasn’t in the room. She brought her to a school event. She slipped her a piece of chocolate during a meeting. She reached for her hand in the parking lot and didn’t care who saw.

Rio started keeping a hair tie in the bathroom drawer. Left one of her college hoodies on the hook behind the bedroom door. Made waffles or omelettes or oatmeal with Nicky on Saturdays like it had always been part of the plan.

One evening, after they’d eaten and Nicky had fallen asleep between them on the couch, Agatha looked at Rio in the low light and said, “You’re not just someone I want. You’re someone I trust.”

Rio leaned in, pressed a kiss beneath her jaw.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I’m still here.”

Agatha’s office door was open.

Rio stepped inside without asking, hair wind-tossed from recess, clipboard tucked under one arm.

“You busy?” she asked.

“No.”

Rio stepped closer.

Agatha stood.

She cupped Rio’s jaw with one hand and kissed her once—gently, like a question.

Rio kissed back like an answer.

They pulled apart slowly.

“I love you,” Rio said, finally. Without armor. Without performance. Just truth.

Agatha didn’t speak for a moment. Then she smiled—full and warm.

Rio tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Say it back when you’re ready.”

Agatha kissed her again.

The hallway bustled just outside. Papers shuffled. A student laughed.

But inside the room, everything was still.

The door stayed open.

It was late July, and the heat had settled thick over Westview, the kind that made everything feel like it was moving underwater. School had been out for a few weeks. The lawn was already half-browned. The pool in Agatha’s backyard was filled with Nicky’s inflatable animals, one of Rio’s sports bras, and a towel that had no business being that damp.

Agatha sat in a lounge chair, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, the condensation from her margarita dripping down her wrist. She had a paperback open in her lap but hadn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.

Rio walked past—still damp from her shower, bikini top swapped for a tank she hadn’t worn in years, low on the sides, scandalous in all the right ways.

Agatha watched her move toward the patio with the lazy satisfaction of someone who now had the freedom to stare. “You wore that to distract me.”

Rio didn’t even look up. “I wore it because your kid used my last clean shirt as a cape.”

“He’s a genius.”

“That’s what I said.”

Nicky was gone for the night—Wanda had picked him up with movie snacks and no agenda. Agatha had offered a list of acceptable bedtimes. Wanda had ignored her.

It was quiet now. The house was golden with dusk and half-silence. Music played low on Rio’s phone in the kitchen—something rhythmic, slow. The kind of background hum that suggested dancing or kissing or both.

Agatha found Rio folding towels in the bedroom like it wasn’t the hottest day of the year. She leaned in the doorway and watched her, bare-legged and barefoot, hair still wet down the back of her tank.

“You doing laundry?”

Rio looked up. “Is that rhetorical?”

Agatha crossed the room. Slid her arms around Rio’s waist. “You’re ruining my fantasy.”

“Oh?” Rio said, letting her hand rest just above Agatha’s hip. “And what’s your fantasy?”

“Something a little more horizontal.”

Rio laughed, deep and soft. “That can be arranged.”

They moved slowly. No rush, no choreography—just warmth and skin and familiarity. Agatha’s swimsuit peeled off like a second skin. Rio’s hands were steady, reverent. They kissed like they had time.

Outside, the sky faded purple. A sprinkler clicked on two houses over. The sheets smelled like lemon detergent and salt.

Rio shifted under her, just enough to glance down.

“You love me,” she said.

Agatha’s voice was quiet, but sure: “I do.”

Rio kissed her forehead.

“You make it easy,” Agatha added, then looked up. “Even when you’re not.”

Rio grinned. “Say that again when I bring up the new staff dress code.”

“Babe” Agatha murmured, already leaning in, “no school in the bedroom.”

She kissed her again—slow, deep, unapologetic.

And this time, Rio didn’t argue. Just wrapped her arms around her and pulled her closer.

Later would come. There’d be policies and practice schedules and morning traffic and new routines. There would be school and snacks and scraped knees and evaluations.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the bed was warm.

And love, finally, had nothing left to hide.

[ferigrievous]

HINATA SHOYO HCS ⋆˚࿔

the most contagious laughter ever like he’d just be laughing at the unfunniest shit ever and everyone else around him will be keeling over and crying with laughter

hates sitting in the middle seat and will also fight people for shotgun

horrible at lying, and horrible at keeping lies. dont tell this guy anything

that guy who says he doesnt need a jacket because its not cold out but will start shivering like a dog within ten minutes

sometimes feels really terrible that he’s like twice natsu’s age and cries over the fact that they’ll never get to be in school together at the same time

cant watch volleyball at all because he’ll get really anxious that he’s not the one playing

doesnt understand the concept of having only one best friend

biggest hypeman of the century, got worse when he met tanaka and nishinoya

no concept of personal space, and no concept of spatial awareness

post timeskip, he donates all his athletic related promotional merch to coach ukai to give to the kids he’s coaching

got so unbelievably sick when he first moved to brazil because he didnt acclimate himself to the food and ate anything he saw, which was like 80% streetfood

he’s that guy who always runs into people when he’s walking because he’ll just start drifting to the side and almost run them into the road

as much as he is stupid, he actually loves learning, and feels so terrible that he cant understand things because he really wants to

his mind works faster than his mouth, so he’s always saying the most outlandish shit

learned to love blocking because he feels like its revenge for people doubting him

hates anything scary but will watch/play them anyways just to prove that he can

as much as he loves kageyama as a friend and could never imagine a world where he never met him, he had a period in his life when he was in brazil that he blocked kageyama and his name because seeing him progress so quickly and so easily  and get better than him made him feel sick to his stomach

gets lost so unbelievably easily that when the team would go on trips for games the third years were discussing buying him a backpack leash

loves doing chores and errands, especially if theyre with other people

claps when a plane lands…

tried parkour once because tsukishima offhandedly said that he should try it (in an insulting way) and hinata ended up snapping his ankle.

was more mad he couldnt practice for like two months  over literally breaking a bone

loves sunrises and sunsets but is never awake/never outdoors for them, so when he sees one, he acts like god himself had descended from heaven just ot greet him

really competitive at stupid shit like rock paper scissors

also that kid who would carry all the chairs when the teacher would ask for a ‘big strong man’

actually backpacked around south america for like six months before settling in brazil

like literally one backpack and then like a duffle bag, lived in hostels and random peoples houses in exchange for doing work for them

didnt know that international calls costed money until after he called his family fourty times in a month for like an hour each and his phone bill was like ten thousand yen

[elodieunderglass]

In terms of "nerdy stuff that Derek would love and Killie would find completely confusing and possibly threatening", where would playing escape rooms fall? Killie seems like he'd have a hit-or-miss relationship with puzzles and riddles while Derek seems like he had a formative relationship with The Hobbit's 'Riddles in the Dark' scene

(Killie the OC)

You’re so right bestie!! Killie was something of an asset in the competitive nerd gaming circumstances they met in; as you say, a hit-or-miss thing. The nerds wanted him on their team for a lot of reasons besides his nice bum. He’s very good at math, spatial reasoning, and things like calculating odds. I’m currently picturing a sort of Lord of the Rings themed reality show in which teams competed outdoors to get points, and it was useful having at least one person as a strong practical and physical presence, even one with zero trope awareness.

Unfortunately the locked-in-a-room aspect of escape rooms, while obvious to anyone else, would not necessarily enhance the abilities of someone who is mentally kind of a wild horse.

He’s sort of emitting a stressed-out frequency audible only to bees and Charlie. It feels like High C, or perhaps a fork in a microwave. He’s fine though. Cool. Chill, even. He’s participating. Just out of interest: would anyone object to him having the door open. Or breaking it open? maybe. Yeah. No, no, carry on with the things and stuff.

It’s just that Killie has kind of a thing about stealing - well not so much stealing horses as moving them around a bit, with certain amounts of doors or gates or latches or morals or checks upon one’s impulses in the way being sort of academic, if there’s a Situation - and he suddenly fancies stealing himself.

Not that it’s a SITUATION

yet

but TWENTY MINUTES, DEREK, OR I BREAK THE -

(Quick shout to the escape room staff: he doesn’t mean it)

I DO MEAN IT

(He’s having fun)

IM - IM HAVING FUN