#History of Circle Casting

[trashnmagico]

Casting a Circle in Witchcraft: a Step-by-Step Guide

Casting a Circle in Witchcraft Casting a circle is one of the fundamental practices in witchcraft, serving as a powerful tool for protection, focus, and energy manipulation. This ancient ritual has deep historical roots and plays a crucial role in various magical traditions. In this article, we’ll delve into the history of circle casting, the essential tools required, where to cast a circle, and…

[solxamber]

Familiar, Not So Familiar || Lilia Vanrouge

You, a mage-in-training, attempt to summon a simple familiar—only to accidentally get yourself Lilia Vanrouge, a legendary fae with a penchant for chaos.

You have tried. You have tried so many times that the gods themselves must be watching your efforts like a soap opera, popcorn in hand, marveling at your persistence and misfortune.

Every spell you’ve ever learned? Perfect. Every potion you’ve ever brewed? Immaculate. Every single tedious little task required of an apprentice mage? Completed with at least passing competence.

And yet—this. This one, single, crucial spell has eluded you since the moment you first picked up a wand and thought, yes, let’s dedicate my life to this craft instead of something simple, like farming, or piracy, or a career in interpretive dance.

For years, you have watched your classmates perform their familiar rituals with ease. You have seen their little foxes, their wise owls, their unbearably smug salamanders perched on their shoulders like accessories in an enchanted fashion show. Oh, you don’t have a familiar yet? they’d say, voices dripping with polite condescension. That must be so hard! Magic must be so exhausting for you!

Yes. Yes, it is exhausting, Martha, you imbecile. Magic without a familiar is like trying to run a marathon uphill while being punched repeatedly in the stomach. It is like carrying a cauldron of molten lava with no gloves and being told, just don’t drop it! It is slowly killing you, and you are tired.

So tonight? Tonight is it. The line has been drawn. The candles have been lit. You have researched, you have practiced, you have painstakingly carved every single rune with the desperation of a student facing final exams with an empty study guide.

Either you summon your familiar, or you start looking into lucrative careers in something that requires zero magical ability. Candle-making. Tax fraud. Something.

You kneel before the summoning circle, hands clasped in pure, unfiltered desperation. Your voice is raw as you plead, as you offer up your dignity to the uncaring forces of the universe.

"Please," you whisper, nearly headbutting the floor. "Just this once. A cat. A dog. A single, semi-intelligent rat. Hell, a bat—bats are magical, right? I’ll take a bat. I’ll take a sentient pile of mold if it can cast at least one large spell without dying. Just something. Please, I am begging you."

The room is deathly silent.

And then—

A hum. A vibration in the air, as if reality itself is rethinking its choices.

The summoning circle does not glow—it erupts, an explosion of light so bright that your first instinct is to assume you have been smote for your insolence. The ground shudders. The candles flicker wildly. The sheer energy of the spell crackles through the air like the universe is taking a deep breath and laughing at you.

And then, through the haze, a silhouette.

Your first thought: That is not an animal.

Your second thought: That is not an animal, that is a person.

Your third thought: THAT IS A FAE.

Your fourth thought does not get to exist because your brain has blue screened.

The figure steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back, surveying the room with the air of someone who has just walked into an amusing play and finds himself the lead actor. He is floating, because of course he is. His wild hair is a chaotic mess of black and magenta, his sharp eyes twinkling with mirth, his very presence radiating power that should not, under any circumstances, be inside your living room.

Then he smiles, and you are abruptly hit with the horrifying realization that you know who he is.

The portraits. The stories. The absolute legend that is Lilia Vanrouge, former general, feared warrior, living relic of a bygone era, the kind of fae you read about in history books with the unspoken footnote of probably do not summon him.

And he is here.

And he is looking at you.

"Ah," he says, with all the delight of someone who has just stumbled upon something incredibly amusing. "How interesting."

You are frozen. Your body has stopped functioning. Your brain is actively trying to escape this situation by retreating into the astral plane.

Lilia tilts his head, observing your utter paralysis with great amusement, and then, with the flourish of a seasoned actor stepping onto the grandest stage of his life, he presses a hand to his chest and bows deeply.

"You have called," he proclaims, voice rich with dramatic flair, "and I have answered! For one year, I shall serve as your loyal familiar! May our contract be fruitful, our battles glorious, and our meals—" he pauses, grinning like a fox, "well, we shall see."

He straightens, clearly expecting some sort of response.

You do not move. You do not speak. You do not even blink.

Because you are still attempting to comprehend the fact that you have, against every possible law of magic, logic, and common sense, just summoned Lilia Vanrouge as your familiar.

The next morning, you awaken to the horrifying realization that last night was not, in fact, a fever dream.

Lilia Vanrouge is still here.

Floating.

In your kitchen.

Sipping tea.

With your mug.

You stand there, unblinking, as he lifts the cup in greeting, utterly unbothered by your complete mental breakdown. “Ah, you’re awake! Good morning, my dear summoner! Did you sleep well? Oh, never mind that, of course you didn’t—you must be so excited! Your first day with your new familiar!”

Your eye twitches. The existential dread is setting in. But there is no time to panic because you have class.

And now, for the first time in your absolutely miserable academic career, you have a familiar to bring with you.

Which would be a cause for celebration.

If your familiar was literally anyone else.

But no. No, you are marching through the academy halls with a floating, ancient fae war general drifting beside you, humming cheerfully, taking in his new surroundings like a tourist at a historical landmark.

Your classmates? Shitting bricks.

Your professors? Re-evaluating their life choices.

Your history professor? Actively vibrating in place. This is a man who has spent years studying Lilia Vanrouge, reconstructing battle strategies, debating historical inaccuracies, analyzing old texts to understand the mind of one of the most enigmatic figures in magical warfare. He looks at you, at Lilia, back at you, back at Lilia, and you swear to the gods above that this man is about two seconds away from weeping.

He wants an interview. He wants an entire dissertation. He wants to shake your hand for the sheer magnitude of this academic opportunity, and you are just standing there, barely holding onto your last scrap of sanity, because this is not a research opportunity, Professor, this is my life.

Meanwhile, Lilia is having a blast.

“Ohoho, what a delightful institution!” he muses, drifting through the halls, peering into classrooms, inspecting the architecture with a level of interest that should not belong to someone who predates half of these buildings. “Ah, look at that banner! I remember when these were in fashion—horrid little things, always got caught in the wind and smacked people in the face during duels. Ah! And look at these uniforms! What a quaint design! Oh, but that color… tragic choice, really, you should have seen the battle robes from my era. Those had flair!”

You press a hand to your face, inhaling deeply.

You are not going to survive this year.

But at the very least, you are about to have the first productive Offensive Magic class of your entire life.

For years, casting magic without a familiar has been hell. You’ve always struggled with large-scale spells, your body too weak to sustain the energy required. Your classmates have always had an advantage, their familiars supplying them with extra mana while you struggled to get anything stronger than a low-tier fireball.

But today?

Today, you have Lilia Vanrouge as a mana battery.

And you are about to find out exactly what that means.

The spell you’ve been struggling with for years—the one that has never worked properly, the one that has always left you half-conscious and questioning your life decisions—flows from your hands as easily as breathing. You don’t even have time to be excited because the moment the spell leaves your fingertips, the entire training ground erupts.

Not a small explosion.

Not a reasonable, manageable, academically acceptable explosion.

No.

You have just cratered the battlefield.

The shockwave sends everyone flying. The ground is smoking. There is a hole where the target dummies used to be. Somewhere in the distance, alarms are going off. Birds are screaming. Your professor is staring in mute horror at the absolute devastation before him.

And you?

You turn to Lilia, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like a fish, because what the hell just happened.

Lilia, floating beside you, watches the destruction with the expression of a man who has just seen a slightly amusing street performance. He clasps his hands together, nodding approvingly.

“Well! Now that that’s done, why don’t we go find something fun to do?”

You are not going to survive the year.

It is supposed to be a quiet night.

Supposed to be.

You, a dedicated apprentice mage (read: overworked and underpaid student), have settled down with your magical theory book, prepared to suffer through the finer details of mana channeling. The lamp flickers softly, the air is calm, and for once in your chaotic existence, things feel peaceful.

Then, from the kitchen, you hear something.

Something that does not belong in the realm of mortals.

It begins with an unsettling hiss, followed by a squelching noise so visceral it sends a shudder down your spine. Then there’s a clank—something metal hitting the floor—then a thud, then another squelch. You are gripping your book so tightly that the pages crinkle.

And then—

A chainsaw.

You blink.

You tilt your head, straining your ears, waiting for your exhausted mind to correct you.

The chainsaw revs again.

There is a cackle—a delighted, mischievous giggle, unmistakably Lilia’s—followed by the sound of what can only be described as something wet hitting the walls.

You place your book down with the slow, measured movements of a person who has just realized that, against all odds, they are in mortal danger.

Before you can even get up, Lilia emerges from the kitchen, beaming, holding something that should not exist.

It is a plate of food.

You think.

At least, you assume that’s what it is. The thing on the plate is writhing slightly, like it’s trying to escape, its color shifting between shades of green that have never been found in nature. It looks less like a meal and more like something that should have been sealed away in a forbidden vault centuries ago. You are pretty sure it just twitched.

Lilia, looking pleased with himself, holds the plate out to you like a proud parent. “Here you go! A little something I whipped up! A good meal is essential for a strong mage!”

You stare at him. You stare at the food. You stare at him again. Then back at the food, as if hoping that, upon a second glance, it will suddenly become normal. It does not. It continues to vibrate menacingly.

You inhale slowly. You pray to the gods—the ones who have clearly abandoned you—and take a bite.

And then—

You almost meet them.

Your soul briefly leaves your body. Your ancestors appear before you, shaking their heads in deep disappointment. The concept of life and death ceases to have meaning. Time itself slows to a crawl as your taste buds experience a level of suffering once reserved only for cursed spirits.

You slam the fork down, forcing a smile that looks more like a pained grimace. “I—uh—actually, I’m not really that hungry right now!”

Lilia blinks, tilting his head. “Oh? But you just took a bite—”

You cut him off, nodding so quickly it could give you whiplash. “Nope! Super full! Wow, so full. Stuffed, actually. I definitely can’t eat another bite!”

Lilia frowns, looking genuinely disappointed, and for a brief, insane moment, you almost consider eating more.

Then the food on the plate shudders again.

And you decide that no matter how cute Lilia Vanrouge is, you simply cannot abide.

Later that night, you are once again seated at your desk, trying to get through your magical theory reading, when Lilia appears at your side.

For a brief moment, fear seizes you—until you see what he’s holding.

A cup of warm milk.

Just milk.

You stare at it, half-expecting it to start glowing or whispering in an ancient, cursed tongue. But no, it’s just milk. Safe. Harmless. Normal.

You accept it with more gratitude than you’ve ever felt in your life. “Thank you.”

Lilia settles in beside you, watching as you study, occasionally making little jokes, pointing out errors in your book’s outdated magical theories, offering insights that no historian could ever dream of. The conversation flows easily, his voice a constant, comforting presence, a bridge between history and now, between chaos and something softer.

And as you sit there, sipping your drink, listening to Lilia hum an old tune while offering you obscure magical trivia, you think—

Yeah.

Maybe he really is the best familiar you could have summoned.

Lilia does not like your magical theory professor.

At least, you think he doesn’t.

He’s always cheerful—borderline impossible to ruffle—but the moment you step into that class, something shifts. His usual smile dims, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his arms stay folded across his chest like a particularly judgmental gargoyle. It’s subtle—so subtle that if you weren’t stuck with him 24/7 (as your familiar, and definitely not because you enjoy his company), you might not have noticed.

But you have noticed. And it’s weird.

Even weirder? Every time you ask him about it, he gives you the most convincing performance of utter cluelessness you have ever witnessed. The first time, he even tilted his head, widened his eyes, and said, “Me? Dislike someone? Oh, dear apprentice, you wound me!” in the most theatrical, exaggerated manner possible.

And the thing about Lilia is, if he doesn’t want to talk about something, there is no force in the universe that can make him.

You gave up after the third attempt. If it was major, he’d tell you.

…Right?

Today, your professor smiles as she hands you a new assignment: a magic circle for you to analyze.

“You should be able to cast this with your familiar’s assistance,” she says, smiling in that teacher who’s about to ruin your life way.

You glance at the intricate diagram, tilting your head. “What’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s just illusion magic,” she assures you breezily.

And before you can say anything else, Lilia moves.

One moment, he’s standing behind you, silent as a shadow. The next, he’s in front of you, plucking the book from your hands with the effortless grace of someone who has definitely stolen things before.

His gaze sharpens as he scans the magic circle, his usual playful demeanor gone. His fingers tighten slightly on the book’s spine. Then, without hesitation, he snaps it shut and hands it right back to your professor.

“No.”

Your professor blinks, looking caught between offense and confusion. “Pardon?”

Lilia’s voice remains pleasant—but it is the kind of pleasant that makes your survival instincts scream. “I said no. My dear apprentice will not be casting this.”

The professor balks. “Excuse me, but I gave them an assignment. You contain your familiar—”

You raise your hands in exasperation. “Lady, are you kidding? This is a war general. You think I can just ‘contain’ him? You contain him.”

Your professor looks like she wants to argue. Lilia, meanwhile, tilts his head at her with the serene patience of a man watching a squirrel try to pick a fight with a dragon.

Then, he smiles.

It is not his usual mischievous grin. It is a deliberate, pointed smile.

“Why don’t you cast it first?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

Your professor stiffens. “That’s unnecessary, I already—”

Lilia’s eyes gleam. “Go on, then. Just illusion magic, isn’t it?”

The tension in the room spikes. Your professor, who has just spent the past five minutes acting like the spell is no big deal, suddenly looks very nervous.

“Oh, well,” she flounders, “I—it’s meant for—um—student practice—”

“Ah,” Lilia hums, nodding sagely. “So you’d assign a spell you wouldn’t cast yourself to my dear apprentice? How interesting.”

Your professor’s expression freezes.

And that’s when you realize something.

Lilia knew.

He knew the moment he saw the circle that something was off. He recognized it. And whatever it was meant to do, it wasn’t just harmless illusion magic.

Your professor coughs, clearly scrambling for a way out. Lilia waits, ever-patient, eyes half-lidded like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Then, before she can say anything else, he turns to you. “We’re leaving.”

And you do not argue.

Outside, Lilia floats beside you, humming a little tune. You don’t say anything for a while, still processing.

Finally, you sigh. “You’re not gonna tell me what that spell actually was, are you?”

Lilia’s grin returns, bright and playful. “Who’s to say~?”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, reaching out to pat your head in a way that is both condescending and annoyingly affectionate. “Let’s just say I’d rather not have to un-curse you anytime soon, hmm?”

Your stomach sinks slightly. You glance back toward the classroom building, frowning. Your professor has never pulled something like that before. But before you can dwell on it too much, Lilia floats closer, arms crossed.

“Promise me something,” he says, tone suddenly softer.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Run your spells by me before casting them.” His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something firm—unshakable—beneath the usual playfulness.

Your first instinct is to argue. To say you know what you’re doing. That you’re a capable mage. But then you think about how fast he moved. How easily he spotted the issue. How your professor, faced with his simple challenge, folded like wet parchment.

“…Okay,” you say.

His smile widens, but this time, it’s warm. “Good.”

And then, just like that, he’s back to his usual self, floating ahead, dramatically stretching as if he was the one who had to deal with a dangerous spell.

“Now that that’s settled,” he sighs, “why don’t set something on fire?”

You press a hand to your forehead.

At first, it was little things.

Your professors started assigning you slightly more advanced spells—reasonable enough, considering your mana pool had technically expanded (read: you accidentally summoned an ancient fae war general as your familiar). You could handle it. You were handling it.

But then it got worse.

Much worse.

It started with offensive spells. The usual: fireballs, lightning strikes, the occasional tornado. And then, gradually, the assignments escalated into city-leveling disasters.

One moment, you were casting a moderately powerful explosion spell. The next, you were being instructed to conjure something called the Wrath of the Abyss—which, from the name alone, sounded like it had no business being taught in a school.

Lilia, floating serenely beside you, casually flicked his fingers, erasing the spell from your assignment scroll. “No,” he said.

You didn’t argue.

The final straw came when you were assigned a spell so ridiculously strong that had Lilia not interfered, you’re pretty sure you would’ve smited an entire town off the map.

That night, exhausted and frustrated, you marched to the headmaster’s office to finally have a conversation about this.

And that’s when you heard it.

Muffled voices.

The headmaster and your professors—all of them—discussing how to weaponize your newly expanded mana pool. How to push you further, how to ensure you could be controlled—with force, if necessary.

You stood there for a long moment, processing.

Then you turned on your heel, went back to your dorm, and drafted the most polite resignation letter you have ever written in your entire life.

By morning, you were gone.

Which brings you to now.

Laid out on the couch.

Bored.

Contemplating your life choices.

Lilia floats around the new house, inspecting it with the air of a man who has been evicted from kingdoms before and now finds the concept of moving vaguely amusing. Occasionally, he hums in approval. Once, he sticks his head into the kitchen and mutters, “I could work with this.” (You choose to ignore the implication.)

Eventually, he drifts over to the couch, settling next to you. He watches you for a moment, eyes softer than usual, before reaching out and gently patting your head.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink, turning your head to look at him. “For what?”

He offers a small, almost wistful smile. “For everything. You wanted a small familiar. A cat, perhaps. A gentle companion to aid your studies. And instead… you got me.”

Something about the way he says it makes your heart squeeze.

You sit up, shaking your head. “That’s not your fault. It’s not your fault humans are garbage sometimes.” You snort. “Honestly, I should be the one apologizing to you. You got roped into this mess because of me.”

Lilia laughs softly. “Oh, please. This is hardly the worst summoning I’ve been part of.”

You roll your eyes but lean into him anyway, resting your head against his shoulder. “I mean it, though. I’m glad you were there to look out for me.” You exhale, closing your eyes. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. You’re the best fit for me.”

There’s a pause.

Then, Lilia shifts slightly, tilting his head to look at you.

“…You know,” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice, “it almost sounds like you like me.”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself, and lets you rest against him, draping an arm over the back of the couch.

The TV plays some mindless reality show in the background—something ridiculous, the kind of show where two rich people argue over whose yacht is shinier. Lilia occasionally makes a quiet, offhand comment about the historical implications of their arguments, which, considering he’s been around long enough to have historical context for everything, is both fascinating and deeply concerning.

Still, as you sit there, comfortable and safe, a strange sort of peace settles over you.

Maybe this is okay, too.

Moping is unsustainable.

Yes, your dreams of becoming a renowned royal mage have withered and died like a houseplant you swore you watered (you didn’t). Yes, the academy tried to turn you into a walking magical war crime before you dropped out. And yes, you are technically in magical witness protection now.

But you refuse to let that get you down.

You are a problem solver. A forward-thinker. A survivor.

And what do survivors do? They pivot.

Thus begins your new life as the proud owner of Mystic Remedies, a charming little potion shop in a sleepy town where nobody knows—or cares—that you once accidentally summoned a literal fae war general as a familiar.

And surprisingly? Business is booming.

Apparently, people love magic when it’s used for normal things, like fixing bald spots or whitening teeth or getting rid of that one really stubborn pimple that refuses to die no matter how many times you pray to the gods. Your bestselling potions?

“The Shine of Youth” – Teeth Whitening Elixir

Results are instantaneous and blindingly effective (literally. One guy came back complaining his teeth were so white they were reflecting sunlight into his own eyes.)*

“Regrowth & Renewal” – Anti-Baldness Tonic

The town’s balding population has never been happier. One man sobbed openly in your shop after seeing his full head of hair for the first time in twenty years.

“Vanisher’s Touch” – Acne & Scar Removal Serum

One (1) drop and your skin becomes as smooth as a newborn’s. Side effects include strangers asking you for your entire skincare routine (which, obviously, you refuse to share because you are making BANK off of this).

And presiding over all of this?

Lilia Vanrouge.

Your fae general, immortal menace, questionably helpful familiar.

At first, you thought Lilia would just hang around for company. Maybe help with security. Offer sage wisdom. That kind of thing.

You were wrong.

Instead, he has taken it upon himself to be your business partner.

Which would be fine, except:

1. Lilia insists on being the shop greeter.

“Welcome, weary traveler!” he announces grandly every time someone enters, even if it’s just the lady from next door.

2.He also bows dramatically every time, which has led to multiple people thinking they’ve accidentally entered a royal court instead of a potion shop.

3. He makes up fake tragic backstories for your potions.

The baldness potion? “Crafted from the tears of a forgotten god who, himself, was once afflicted with hair loss.”

The teeth whitening elixir? “Distilled from the ancient wisdom of a radiant moonbeam, stolen by a trickster spirit under the cover of night.”

The anti-acne potion? “Forged in the fires of celestial vanity, when the first star envied the smoothness of the moon’s face.”

The customers eat it up. Business doubles because people now believe they’re purchasing legendary magical relics instead of DIY cosmetic solutions.

4. He takes “quality control” VERY seriously.

You once caught him drinking the hair regrowth tonic.

“Lilia,” you said. “You have hair. You have a lot of hair.”

He took a long, thoughtful sip, smacked his lips, and simply said, “Quality assurance.”

(The next day, his hair was so voluminous it looked like he had absorbed a lion. He seemed thrilled about this. You refused to comment.)

5. His idea of “helping” with potion-making is... distressing.

One time, you left him alone for five minutes.

When you came back, he had somehow produced a glowing purple substance that was hovering slightly above the table and making whale noises.

You didn’t even ask. You just threw the entire thing out.

Lilia disappears sometimes in the middle of the night. You’ll wake up, the room unnaturally quiet, and immediately know he’s gone. Not gone gone—he’s not that dramatic—but somewhere else, wrapped in thoughts you never quite get to see.

Tonight, the air is cool when you step outside, wrapping around you like a second skin. You don’t have to search long. He’s on the rooftop, perched with all the effortless grace of a creature who defies gravity. His eyes are locked onto the moon, silver light washing over his face, his usual impishness replaced with something… else.

You’ve seen Lilia in many states—mischievous, chaotic, wise, deeply concerning—but you’ve never seen him like this.

So, naturally, you make the entirely reasonable decision to scale the side of the house.

It is not a graceful process. There’s a lot of slipping, a lot of swearing, and at one point, you’re pretty sure you get stuck in a position that defies basic human anatomy. Lilia watches all of this unfold with what you know is barely suppressed laughter, but he doesn’t help.

Rude.

By the time you haul yourself onto the roof, panting like you’ve just wrestled a bear, Lilia looks at you like you’re the strange one here.

“…You could have used the stairs,” he points out.

You glare at him. “Yeah? Well, you could’ve not brooded on the roof like the protagonist of a tragic novel, but here we are.”

For a moment, you think he might tease you, but instead, something in his expression softens. Like he hadn’t expected you to come. Like the idea of being found was somehow surprising.

You settle beside him, deliberately sitting close enough that your arms brush. Lilia doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, his weight light but grounding.

“I’m grateful you left immediately when you did,” he murmurs, voice quiet in a way that makes you pause. “I wasn’t prepared to lose you.”

You don’t ask. You never have. Lilia carries centuries in his gaze, in the way he moves, in the weight of the things he doesn’t say. But this? This moment, this sliver of vulnerability? This is his truth, and you’ll never push him to unravel more than he wants to.

So you nod. You pull him closer. And you sit there, pressed together beneath the vast, endless sky, offering nothing but presence.

Because sometimes, companionship is enough.

Despite all of this—despite the dramatics, the chaos, the fact that you are pretty sure Lilia is making up 90% of his fae wisdom on the spot—your little potion shop thrives.

You get to help people. You get to live peacefully.

And best of all? You get to spend your days with someone who makes life interesting.

One evening, as you’re closing up, Lilia floats beside you, watching as you count today’s earnings.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says, tone oddly soft, absent of his usual teasing lilt.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “We have,” you correct, shoving the last of the gold into the till. “I’d be lost without you.”

He hums in amusement, resting his chin in his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.”

You snort. “It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

There’s a pause.

Then, after a moment, he reaches over—ruffles your hair with genuine fondness.

You pretend to be annoyed, but you don’t move away.

(And later, as you sit together, sharing a cup of tea under the quiet glow of lantern light, you think—maybe this life? This ridiculous, unpredictable, strangely wonderful life? Maybe it’s not so bad, after all.)

The first time you created a potion for hair growth, you barely had time to marvel at your genius before Lilia grabbed the vial and downed it in one gulp. No hesitation. No patch test. Just the unwavering confidence of a man who believed you were capable of alchemy miracles despite your previous track record, which included but was not limited to:

Accidentally making a love potion so strong it made a squirrel propose to a tree.

Brewing an invisibility elixir that only made clothes disappear (awkward).

Concocting a sleeping draught that did, in fact, induce sleep—just exclusively in yourself.

So, really, this blind faith of his was either heartwarming or deeply concerning.

The effect was immediate. Lilia’s short, fluffy locks exploded outward in a dramatic cascade, flowing past his shoulders, his waist, and then pooling onto the floor in a heap of silky, midnight strands. He blinked at you from behind his newly acquired curtain of hair, looking entirely unbothered, while you sat there in stunned horror like an artist realizing they’d just painted the Mona Lisa using finger paints.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, lifting a section of his hair with mild curiosity. “At least I won’t have to buy a blanket anymore.”

You groaned, already reaching for the shears. “Sit down. I’m cutting it before you trip and break your immortal neck.”

Lilia plopped down in front of you, perfectly content as you gathered the thick locks in your hands, marveling at how soft they were. You ran your fingers through them, untangling strands, watching them catch the light like the finest silk. Somewhere in the middle of methodically snipping away, your hand brushed against the nape of his neck.

And Lilia—Lilia of the endless energy, mischievous smirks, and unpredictable chaos—tilted his head into your touch like a cat craving warmth. He let his cheek brush against your palm, the weight of him light but deliberate, and you felt something in your chest hiccup.

Oh no.

Nope. Absolutely not. You were not going to sit here and have an emotional epiphany over a haircut.

You cleared your throat and kept cutting, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes fluttered shut, how he sighed just the slightest bit when you raked your fingers through his hair again. You ignored the warmth curling in your stomach, the way your heart stuttered like a miscast spell.

This was fine. Just a normal, everyday occurrence. No significance whatsoever.

(You ignored the fact that, long after the potion’s effects had worn off, Lilia still asks you to fix his hair for him.)

It has been a year.

A whole year since you knelt in front of a summoning circle, begging the universe for a small, manageable familiar—a cat, a bat, anything reasonable—only for reality to spit in your face and drop a war general into your living room.

A year since Lilia Vanrouge, former general, ancient fae, and walking eldritch menace, declared himself your familiar with a dramatic flourish while you stood there questioning every single life decision that had led to that moment.

And now, it’s time to let him go.

You knew this day would come. You told yourself you wouldn’t get attached. He was never supposed to stay forever. He has actual, important, world-changing things to do, and you—what are you? A small-town potion seller with a thriving business in male pattern baldness reversal and anti-aging tonics. This is not a worthy occupation for a fae of his caliber.

So why does the thought of him leaving feel like your heart is about to crawl out of your chest, slap you in the face, and then dramatically expire in protest?

You’re an adult. You can handle this. You will handle this.

Night falls, and you set up the ritual.

The summoning contract that bound him to you for a year must now be undone. The process is simple: draw the circle, say the words, and Lilia will be free to return to whatever grand, fae-magic-drenched existence he had before meeting you.

Your hands shake as you carve the sigils into the ground. You tell yourself it’s just fatigue.

The circle is perfect. The words are ready. You steel yourself, take a deep breath, and—

SCRATCH.

You blink.

Your circle is ruined.

Because Lilia just dragged his foot through it like a toddler messing up a sandcastle.

“Whoops,” he says, tone entirely insincere.

You stare at the ruined circle. Then at him. Then at the deep, deliberate groove he just scraped through the sigils.

“…Did you just—”

“Oh dear,” Lilia sighs, not looking remotely sorry. “How clumsy of me.”

You narrow your eyes.

Fine. Fine. You can work with this. You redraw the circle, faster this time, heart pounding, trying not to think about how every stroke is another step toward the inevitable.

But as soon as you finish it, it vanishes.

You gape. “What the fu—”

Lilia, sitting lazily on your kitchen counter, swirls his wine glass and hums, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You try again. And again.

Each time, something goes wrong.

The chalk disappears. The ink dries too fast. The lines curve into nonsense when you look away. Lilia, drinking his wine, watching you struggle, looking like a cat who just knocked over an entire shelf and is waiting for applause.

Then, finally, the last straw.

You painstakingly carve the circle one last time, standing up with triumphant determination—

And Lilia immediately spills his wine on it.

He gasps, eyes wide with the fakest, most dramatic shock you have ever seen. “Oh my. How unfortunate.”

You drop the chalk.

You inhale, slow and measured, like a parent about to scold a misbehaving child.

Then you turn to him.

“…Hey,” you say, voice trembling, not with sadness, but with the sheer, earth-shattering realization that this little fae menace is playing with you.

He takes another sip of wine, as if to fortify himself against the incoming confrontation.

“Do you,” you say, pointing at him, “not want to leave?”

Lilia smiles. That infuriatingly cryptic, all-knowing smile that he has given you exactly one thousand times over the past year.

He doesn’t answer.

And you are done.

You grab him by the collar, yanking his floating self down to your level, because no. Not this time.

“Say it.” Your heart is racing, your voice shaking. “Stop playing with my feelings and just say it.”

For the first time in a long time, Lilia looks genuinely surprised.

His bright red eyes flick over your face, searching, calculating.

Then, gently, effortlessly, he kisses you.

It’s soft. Unhurried. Like a promise instead of a confession.

When he pulls away, there’s no teasing, no smug amusement. Just quiet certainty as he murmurs, “I thought that was obvious, little mage.”

And you—

You think, yeah. This is perfect.

The day after the kiss is, by all accounts, completely normal.

Lilia is still Lilia—dramatic, whimsical, and absolutely insufferable in the best way possible. He flits around the shop like a particularly mischievous specter, rearranges your potions in ways that make absolutely no sense, and startles at least three customers by dropping upside down from the rafters like a bat with a caffeine addiction.

The only difference are the little changes in his proximity.

The way he brushes a little closer, his fingertips lingering on yours when he hands you a vial. The way he leans in when he speaks, voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. The way his eyes—sharp, playful, knowing—linger just a second too long, like he’s drinking in every reaction.

Your regulars notice immediately.

“You two finally figured it out, huh?”

“About damn time.”

“Oh, we’ve been betting on this for months—Edgar, pay up.”

Even the old woman who only comes in for her arthritis tincture pats your cheek with grandmotherly approval, declaring, "He’s a little strange, but you always liked strays."

By the time you close up for the night, you’re warm with laughter, exhaustion, and the sheer reality of it. Of him. Of you.

And then there’s a weight on your back, light but unmistakable, arms winding around you as Lilia attaches himself like a particularly affectionate cloak.

“You still haven’t actually asked me to stay,” he hums, his chin resting on your shoulder. You can hear the grin in his voice, teasing and pleased.

You roll your eyes, exasperated and utterly, helplessly fond.

Then, without warning, you turn, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him hard.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips before immediately melting into it, responding with all the fervor of someone who has absolutely been waiting for this. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and you swear you can feel him smiling into the kiss.

When you finally pull back, breathless and a little dazed, you meet his gaze and say, firm and sure,

“Stay.”

Lilia blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it. Then his lips curl into something unbearably soft, unbearably fond, and he whispers,

“Till the end of my life.”

Masterlist

[harknessxo]

I’ve Missed You

Paring: Dark!Agatha Harkness x reader

Summary: You and Agatha had a twisted history. She had kidnapped you into Wanda’s distorted reality to make you into her perfect wife. She had you under a spell until Wanda freed you. Wanda promised you Agatha would never hurt you again and helped you find a new home where Agatha wouldn’t be able to find you. You had your little house in the middle of nowhere, where you were safe…or so you thought. (This is also based on the one clip of Rio pinning Agatha to the wall.)

Warnings; kidnapping, magical manipulation, manipulation, metal abuse, fingering, strap on use (r receiving), mommy kink.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/n: All these Agatha All Along trailers and teaser have motivated me to write after four months. I am so ecstatic for it to come out already! I have waited two years for this! 😭

You and Agatha had a twisted history. She had kidnapped you into Wanda’s distorted reality to make you into her perfect wife. She had you under a spell until Wanda freed you. You told her everything about Agatha’s sick plan and Wanda then was able to trick Agatha and put her under spell, trapping her in Westview. Wanda promised you Agatha would never hurt you again and helped you find a new home where Agatha wouldn’t be able to find you. She even casted runes around the house.

A couple months after those events you found out about Wanda’s death. You grieved her death little, she was the closest thing you had to a friend ever since Agatha stripped you from your friends and family, but most of all you felt fear. Fear that Agatha would come out of the spell and go looking for you especially because Wanda’s runes had disappeared.

You were paranoid for months until you had confirmation that she was still in Westview under the spell. You spent the next three years in hiding. You had your little house in the middle of nowhere, where you were safe…or so you thought.

It was around mid day when you found yourself in the kitchen making some coffee. You were just wearing a robe and your hair was laying wild over your shoulders. As you were pouring the milk into your coffee, you heard a noise outside. You frowned and walked over to the window and saw nothing. As you were about to get back to your coffee, you heard it again. You grabbed a knife and walked over to the front door. Before you could even open it, the door burst over and someone pinned you against the wall, making you drop the knife.

“I’ve missed you, sweetheart.” That voice…you hadn’t heard it in so long, it made your skin crawl.

“A-agatha?” your voice trembled as you said her name. You looked into her eyes, she looked the same, she hadn’t aged a day yet she looked older in a way. Maybe it was the dark circles that laid under her eyes. She gave you a sinister smile moving her hand to brush a strand of hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ear.

“You look as beautiful as the day you left me.”

“How did you free yourself? And how did you find me-”

“I had some help,” she simply said, moving her hand to your neck and squeezing lightly, “I didn’t appreciate you betraying me and running away. Did you really think you could get away from me?” she pouted mockingly.

“Agatha please-” you wrapped your hand around her wrist.

“Say that again, you know how much I love to hear you beg.”

“P-please don’t hurt m-me…” your voice cracked. You were terrified of this woman’s power, of what she could do. Agatha dismissed your pleas and started kissing down your neck, surprisingly gentle.

“God, I missed you so much,” her hand sneaked underneath your robe to grip onto your waist, “Wanda did quite the number on me but now she’s not here to save you,” she whispered harshly into your ear and a tear silently ran down your cheek.

“Shh, baby, there's no need to cry,” she wiped the tear away, “I promise to take my time with you.” She started dragging you to your bedroom and you just let her, you knew better than to fight back. She pushed you on your bed and started undressing. Even if she was manipulative she was still very attractive. Something you would never admit. When she was done, she crawled on top of you, still leaving your robe on.

“Look at me,” she said when you looked everywhere but her. You just wanted this to be over with. “I said look at me,” she demanded, cupping your face, making you look at her. Usually when you looked into her eyes, all you saw was lust and possessiveness but this time, there was something different.

“Tell me you missed me, Y/n. Tell me you missed my touch.” she pleaded. This was very out of character for her. She never showed vulnerability. Ever. Yet, here she was asking you if you missed her as if her life depended on it.

“I…” she started to kiss your neck again, nipping at it, “I missed you too,” you finally said. It wasn’t a complete lie, a small part of you did miss her. She did kidnap you but she still took care of you and gave you everything you had ever wanted.

“Good girl~” she finally started to untie your robe.

“Aggie-” you tried to protest, gripping into her wrist but she pinned your hand above your head with her magical binds.

“Shh, just relax,” she took off your robe, leaving you completely bare, “I’m going to take care of you.”

“All you do is h-hurt me…”

“That’s because you disobeyed me. I had to discipline you,” she said, manipulating you into thinking it was your fault, “If only you just did as you were told, I wouldn't have had to hurt you bunny…” she softly ran her nails down your waist and hips, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. You remained quiet, not saying a word as her fingers moved closer to your core.

“I can’t wait to have you all to myself again,” she finally dipped her fingers into your wetness, chuckling at the fact that you were absolutely soaked for her. She started to slowly circle your clit, her breath hot against your ear.

“You were always so ready for me, baby. Your body still remembers me.” You whimpered when the pleasure caught up to you. You hadn’t touched yourself for so long. Your thoughts undoubtedly went to Agatha every time you tried so you gave up trying to find relief.

She chuckled at your reaction, clearly amused by your whimpers. She started to move her fingers faster, applying more pressure to your clit.

“I bet you haven’t touched yourself since you left me. You were too afraid to think about me, weren’t you?”

“��yes.” You replied, biting your lip when she sped up her movements.

“That’s what I thought. You knew that no one could make you feel as good as I do. No one can satisfy you like I can,” she smiled and leaned down to suck on your neck, leaving a dark spot.

“N-no one can…” You said, your brain turning into mush as she slipped her fingers inside you.

“I’m the only one who knows you better than you know yourself. You can barely take care of yourself, baby. You need me.” Agatha was doing what she knew best, manipulating you. She could put you under her spell again but she wanted you to willingly submit to her. She could feel your body starting to tense up as she continued to work her fingers inside you. She moved her lips to your jaw, placing gentle kisses along the way.

“You’re so close, aren’t you baby? Do you remember the rules?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed in response, tugging at the binds slightly.

“What do you say then?” she slowed down her movements, loving to see you so desperate for her touch.

“Can I cum please?”

“Beg me, baby. I want to hear you beg for me.”

“Please mommy? I promise to be a good girl!” And there it was. She finally had you exactly where she wanted you. She smirked at your words, her eyes darkened with lust.

“That’s my good girl. You always know how to please me. Cum for me, baby. Cum for mommy.” She freed your hands and you clung to her as you rode your high, moving your hips against her hand. She spoke sweet nothings into your ear, encouraging you before finally pulling her fingers out and kissing your forehead. You thought it was over until you felt something poking your entrance again.

“Mommy?” You mumbled again, trying to clench your thighs together. She smiled and gently caressed your face.

“I’m not done with you yet, baby. You still have a lot to make up for~”

“No more-” you tried to push her away but she didn’t budge. She grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at her.

“Don’t tell me no, darling. You’re going to be a good girl and take whatever I give you. Understood? Don’t you want mommy to feel good too?” She started rubbing the tip of her enchanted strap against your pussy lips. She’d fucked you with the strap many times and she could feel everything which is why it was her favorite toy to use on you.

“But I’m too sensitive.” You whined.

“You can handle it, baby,” she chuckled and slowly pushed the tip of the strap inside you, “You’ve done it before…” she started to move her hips, pushing the strap deeper inside you. The strap slipped right in, your juices making it quite easy.

“Fuck, baby. You still feel so fucking tight. You’re taking me so well. You’re such a good girl~” Agatha groaned. Your pained whimpers soon turned into pleasurable moans and the knot in your stomach started to build up again. She continued to thrust into you, her movements becoming more erratic as she felt her own pleasure building up. She leaned down and whispered in your ear.

“That’s it, baby. Keep making those pretty sounds for me. I want to hear you scream my name when you cum.”

“A-Aggie-“ You dug your nails onto her back. She let out a low growl, her grip on your hips tightening.

“Say it again, baby. Say my name again.”

“Agatha!” You came again, your pussy pulsing around her strap as your legs started to shake. Agatha let out a moan as she felt you cum around her strap, her own orgasm washing over her. She continued to thrust into you a few more times before pulling out and collapsing on top of you.

“That’s my good girl. You did so well, baby,” she started petting your hair as if you were a pet. She pulled you closer, holding you in her arms. She ran her fingers through your hair, her voice soft.

“You’re mine and no one else’s. You’re going to be a good girl and obey me, understand? You don’t want mommy to have to hurt for not listening, do you?” You frantically shook your head, burning your face in her neck. She gripped your hair and pulled your head back, forcing you to look at her.

“I said, do you understand? You will do as I say. You will obey me. You are mine to control and use as I please. Don’t make me punish you, baby.”

“I u-understand…” your eyes watered a bit, now you were really trapped. She smiled and released your hair, her hand gently stroking your cheek.

“Good girl. I knew you would see things my way. You’re so much more compliant when your brain is turned into mush, isn’t that right? Maybe I’ll have to fuck you more often so you don’t fight me,” she kissed your forehead and pulled you closer to her, wrapping her arms around you possessively. Agatha held you tightly, enjoying the feeling of having you in her arms again. She ran her fingers through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. She could see the gears turning in your head and spoke up again.

“Don’t worry, baby. You’ll get used to it. You’ll learn to love being mine again. And I’ll take good care of you, I promise. You won’t want anything as long as you’re with me…”

[notapradagurl7]

Good Ol’ Lovin’.

Black Fem! Plus Size Reader x Elijah “Smoke” Moore.

Summary: Besides working early mornings and late nights in your mother’s store with your sister, Asia. You decided to enjoy your day off with Smoke.

A/N: I’ve finally write about Sinners, and finally saw the movie! It's amazing, Hope you enjoy. 😌 don’t forget to reblog, comment and like to support, remember don’t be afraid to send in a request they’re always open.

Warnings: sensual dancing, jealousy, life in 1932, fluff, kissing, mention of violence, a pinch mention of racism, spanking, mention of hoodoo, dirty talk, filth, fingering, mention of vampires, use of the n-word, cursing, use of AAVE, doesn't follow the flim’s timeline, possessive!Smoke, consensual intimacy.

Taglist: @megamindsecretlair @satoruya @planetblaque

@playgurlxoxo @dabratzchronicles

@becauseimswagman1

@araybiaaa @beenathembo @brattyfics

@hxneyclouds @yassbishimvintage

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaesworld @ovohanna24

@novahreign @writingsbytee @avoidthings @kimuzostar @slippinninque @keyera-jackson @theblacklewinsky

@euphorichappiness10 @life-in-the-slut-house @blkgirlsneedlove2 @ranikyani

@uniqueoutlierblog @mama-2001

@fakxmbj @kaylalb @theereinawrites @uzumaki-rebellion @blyffe @kumkaniudaku @luckydaye777 @that-one-anxious-mango @rose-bliss @kindofaintrovert

—————-

In the deep South, where the air is rich with the earthy scent of damp soil and the distant sound of tractors rumbling over vast fields fills the space, a wave of life and labor unfolded before you.

Your gaze was drawn irresistibly to the twins, moving in perfect synchrony as they walked side by side, each lifting heavy wooden boxes with their bare hands.

Their muscles glistened with sweat, rippling beneath their sun-kissed brown skin, while subtle grunts escaped their lips, echoing the effort of their work.

A small church painted in snow-white was nestled in the land, you could hear the choir singing psalms of worship.

There wasn't a time when the pastor always called those to come to join hands in prayer and asked those to be saved, forming a circle under the ancient oak tree that shaded half the gathering.

You only focused on your work in your mom’s store, and her greenhouse, it kept the house afloat, and bills paid, yet worry settled in her that she was going to work herself into the ground.

She whispered prayers on quiet nights, confessing fears of someday not being able to lift her hands or stand for hours on end to God. She brought you and your sister to work alongside her.

Sunlight spewed through the clean windows, and casted warm golden rays that hovered across the wooden floors. Biting your lip, distraction and admiration swelling within you, as you slowly reached into the box, pulling out a book.

The simple task of organizing your mother’s store became an afterthought, your mind drifting away from the mundane and onto the twin brothers who worked their toward their farm.

The identical twins Smoke and Stack caught your attention as soon as they arrived back in Mississippi. You could hardly believe they were back after years spent working for Al Capone. They purchased a sawmill from a bigoted landowner and chose to open their own farm.

It hasn't been a popular topic ever since; you've known them for so long that the exact time escapes you. You were a close friend of both, and occasionally, others questioned why they picked you. when trouble seemed to follow them sometimes.

The twins knew that you were a working woman, trying to keep the boat afloat. But you had your eyes on Smoke, not Stack.

Stack wanted to get an exorcism on him after what happened with Mary, once it was, he felt free of her venom, her evil spell.

A hoodoo from Annie helps Smoke in ways only whispered about—dark, uncanny ways. He was able to sleep at night.

The juke joint was no longer in business ever since that night. It became nothing more than a forgotten memory, a chapter in the town's history shrouded in mystery.

All you knew of them was that weren't married, no kids. It was only business, and money.

Your sister Asia, wasn’t the one to catch you slipping from doing the simple tasks at work but this time she got lucky.

“Y/N! What is wrong with’chu? Mama doesn’t want us foolin’ around in the store!” Asia yelled, her hand on her hip.

You almost flinched from her voice, but didn’t move an inch. You sighed lowly before placing the books inside the empty spaces in the bookshelf.

“I’m just gettin’ a lil’ distracted, that’s all Asia,” You shot back, your tone filled with annoyance, you grabbed another box of books and ripped it open.

You spent your early mornings and late nights alongside your sister Asia in your mother's shop, selling books, agricultural products, and various essential items for farm life.

Aisa scoffed at you, clearly unimpressed by your words. She definitely knew about your feelings for Smoke.

“Please tell me that you ain’t lookin’ Smoke’s way, he’s trouble.”

“I would be lyin” if I said I wasn’t sista.” You chuckled lightly, placing your

You fixed the hem of your black dress with red roses plastered on them, until you spotted Smoke toward the store.

You hurried your way to the counter, and pushed your sister to the side, while she gave you a skeptical glare.

Smoke sauntered in, his charm unmistakable even in the dim afternoon light filtering through the window.

"Good afternoon, ladies," Smoke drawled, tipping his hat with a sly smile.

Asia crossed her arms, arching an eyebrow, clearly waiting for you to speak first. You cleared your throat and finally spoke up, “Good afternoon Smoke,”

“What would you like to buy today?” You brought up, holding your hand behind your back to stop them from shaking.

His eyes deep brown eyes gleamed with mischief as they settled on yours. "I'm hoping to trade for some new seeds," he said, leaning casually on the counter.

“Oh! I know just what you need! Here are some of the best tomato seeds we have.” You replied back, You reached under the counter, producing a small burlap sack with a flourish.

You passed the sack to him, while he passed a bundle of dollar bills back to you, his fingers brushing yours. “Thank you, but it’s too much money,” you stammered, trying to return some of the cash.

Smoke shook his head, his smile widening. "Nah, keep the change. Ya'll already work yo’ tails off in this sto’, you deserve it. Besides the fact that this is my favorite place,” he added, taking in the surroundings as if he were seeing them anew.

Heat raised in your cheeks once you pulled your hand away, feeling a wave of nervousness. It wasn't every day that a customer, especially someone like Smoke, made you feel so noticed.

“Thank you, Elijah,”

You watched him walk out of the store and give you a wink, and you've finally looked back at your sister, “Don't give me that look, I know that you're fond of him, I'm sure he feels the same,” she spoke up.

“I'm gonna take a day off, tell mama that I'll be back in time for supper.” You said, grabbing your bag from under the counter.

Asia watched you with a knowing grin while shaking her head, she was happy for you but you left to do all the work, she was gonna have to make up a good excuse for this one. But you needed a break from that store, running a business was already stressful enough.

“Hey, Elijah!”

The twin brothers turned around you, giving that devious smirk and Smoke spoke up first. “Yeah?”

“I was hopin’ that we could spend some time together?”

He couldn't help but smile wider, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Of course, I would love to court you this afternoon. Just tell me where you'd like to go, and I'll make it happen.”

Stack eyed you up and down, the curve of your ass, the dress hugging your body perfectly, Smoke’s eyes lingered after his brother's. “I understand why you want to hang back at the store,” Stack teased, catching your eye.

“Back off, nigga she's mine, you were just freed of the white devil,” Smoke shot back in a whisper.

Stack rolled his eyes, sighing after what he said, “That don't mean I lost sight of this beauty right here,”

“Back up and I mean that shit,” Smoke shot back, his tone laced with anger.

“A’ight, a nigga will back off,”

You walked up toward Smoke with a smile, feeling the tension between the brothers dissipate as you focused on him. “Let’s just go somewhere fun. I’ve been cooped up in that store for too long.”

Smoke’s expression softened, and he nodded. “I know just the place. The old riverbank is quiet this time of day. We can sit, talk, and maybe even dance a little if the mood strikes.”

“Dance? You think you can keep up with me?” you teased, your heart racing at the thought of being alone with him.

“Oh, I know I can,” he replied, his voice frim and confident.

You both made your way to the riverbank, the sun casting a golden hue over everything. The sound of water lapping against the shore mixed with the chirping of cicadas, the two of you sat down underneath a big oak tree.

As he pulled a thick soft woolen blanket, you settled down on it, you felt the weight of the world lift off your shoulders. “This is nice,” you said, looking out over the water.

“Yeah, it is, But it’s even nicer with you here.” Smoke agreed, his gaze fixed on you.

You felt your cheeks heat up again, and you looked away, trying to hide your smile. “You’re just saying that.”

“Nah, I mean it. You’re special to me, Y/N. Always have been,” he said, moving closer.

His honesty caught you off guard. “I…I feel the same way, Smoke. But it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” he pressed, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin.

You hesitated, your heart racing. “You know how people talk. About you and Stack. About the trouble that follows you.”

Smoke chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Let them talk. They don’t know us. They don’t know what we’ve been through. I’m not that man anymore. I’m here for you, not for the past.”

You looked into his deep brown eyes, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all you found was warmth and sincerity. “You really mean that?”

“More than anything, I came back for you,” he said, his voice firm.

You felt a rush of emotions as you leaned in closer, your lips almost touching. “Then why don't you show me?”

Smoke wasted no time, closing the distance and crashing his lips into yours.

The kiss was soft at first, but it quickly deepened, igniting a fire within you that had long been dormant. Your lips sliding across his, feeling his soft hands cradle your face as he pulled you closer.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. “Wow,” you whispered, your heart racing.

“Yeah, wow,” Smoke echoed, a playful grin spreading across his face. “I could get used to this.”

“Me too, but what about Stack?” you admitted, feeling bold.

“Stack can handle himself. This is about us,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll always protect what’s mine.”

You smiled, feeling a sense of belonging wash over you. “And what if I’m not ready for all that?”

“Then we take it slow,” he replied, brushing your box braids behind your ear.

You laughed softly, the sound echoing in the quiet space. “Slow is good too.”

He kissed you again before peppering kissing along the crook of your neck, with his hands on the small of your back, you squirmed in your seat and your breathing became hollow. “E-Elijah, I...I want you so much,”

He kissed the shell of your ear, feeling the warmth flow through you causing your clit to throb. His cupped your ass roughly, the soft flesh made him groan lowly, and his length hardened in his pants. “I want you more than you ever know darlin’, fuck,”

“W-wait, we're outside, someone might see us,” You whispered, your eyes darting through the small riverback.

“Would you like to go somewhere private, baby?”

“Yes, You really are trouble?”

Maybe a little trouble from him wasn't so bad, but the two of you standing up from the blanket, he picked it up and folded it in his hands. You and Elijah walked onto the small bridge that led to his house.

The cool night breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and blooming wildflowers, and grabbed your hand. He led you toward the front door of brown lumber, he fished out the keys and unlocked the door with a swift flick.

He opened the front door for you as you stepped inside the cozy living room, closing the door behind you. He twisted the lock, and followed behind

“My room is on the left, sweetheart.” He guided you, his voice raised an octave with a hint of rasp in it.

As you walked the hallways, seeing pictures of Smoke and Stack when they were younger, their mom between them hugging them tighter. You heard the story of their father

Whew, that's southern twang with that voice of his made your pussy throb. Carefully fanning yourself with a shaky exhale, his arms wrapped around your waist and peppered kisses along your neck. You sighed blissfully before kissing him back, a wave of heat washed over you.

Both of your clothes littered across the bedroom floor, the sound of lips coliiding filling the room, soft moans from you were music to his ears.

Smoke dragged his dick toward you, halting at your wet pussy, and he slid hismself into you, as you moaned at the size of him. “fuck..” you dragged out in a moan, pushing your hips with him.

He started off with deep, long thrusts, focusing on that sweet spot that you squirm underneath him. The sound of skin-to-skin slapping together echoed in the room and your arm wrapped around him. “So fucking goodd..” you whimpered, legs shaking.

You kept him close to you, This moment was perfect and you were with him, “That pussy is still tight, and wet huh?” he teased, lifting you onto his lap.

You rode him with such skill, as his hand smacked your ass once more, “Answer me,” You were unable to respond, your moans sounded like gibberish. Everything in you was telling you to release already, but you wanted more.

Blinking away tears from the pleasure, “Yess..” you trailed off, kissing his shoulder. He made sure you felt the love through every thrust, eliciting moans. His dick kissing that sweet spot of yours, eyes rolling back. Giving you everything all at once.

The way he fucked you so good made you see the heavens, hands clenching the sheets. “You drive me wild, baby, don't you feel the love I'm givin’ you?” He said, thrusting deeper. You did feel it, every single time, you were a wet babbling mess, he smirked at the mess that was made in his lap, biting his lip.

A knot tightening in your stomach letting you know that your climax was here, bodies quaking. Without saying a word, you came undone, your essence pouring out on his dick, while squirting on his abdomen. “Damn, girl.” he groaned lowly.

Bodies collapsed beside each other, panting heavily replaced with laughter. He turned his face to you while you looked his way, “You good, sweetheart?” he asked in concern, his thumb swiping over your cheek.

“Yeah, I'm good, let’s clean up,” you panted heavily, smirking at him. Feeling a wave of happiness wash over you.

After that, the two of you took showers, getting dressed and he drove you back home. As he kissed you goodnight, you knew that this was the beginning of you and him, something magical.

————-

[dontpulloutman]

singer!yn x lewis pullman headcanons

an accompaniment to favorite muse !

like two cosmic entities, you two have been circling each other for years before you properly meet.

gaining fame and your celebrity status before the age of 18 doesn’t change the fact that you are a fangirl at heart. suddenly being invited to afterparties and high-profile events, you took the time to socialize, mingle, and meet the people who you only saw on your screen.

in one of those post-award show parties, you meet eden brolin. you’re both talking about music, how you’re at the height of yours, and how she and her band are in hibernation, when she gestures for someone to join you.

sporting a shy smile, lewis makes his way over to you. your eyes are stuck on his smile, ears tingling with his laughter when eden makes a witty remark you didn’t catch. you’re enchanted, captivated.

this is only the beginning.

songwriting has always been your strongest suit. as you always said, without it, you wouldn’t have it all. for almost a year, your relationship with harry has been on a steady decline. songwriting is how you’ve learned to cope with and understand it.

lewis was the one who helped you heal through it.

back and forth from new york to rhode island; los angeles and oddly enough, a home studio at lew’s montana ranch, your album was crafted. in this, you poured out your feelings and thoughts regarding your relationship with harry.

(if, in a few years, fans realize your entire album photoshoot took place in lewis’s montana ranch, what harm would it do? you can’t blame eagle eyed fans from connecting his recent 2024-2025 interview backgrounds to your album photobook)

after such a publicized relationship, you knew you had to take some time for yourself. never mind the fact that the internet always had something new to say about your breakup, how you’ve basically gone non-existent while harry has been spotted walking around with a new girl every other month.

in those months of hiding, you find your friendship with lewis developing into something more.

knowing looks, longing stares, and the feel of a warm hand against the small of your back. everywhere you went; out with friends, intimate gatherings with industry peers - he became your immediate and automatic plus one. it’s understandable; he’s your best friend.

one night, while sequestered in your new york apartment, deep into your second glass of wine, your eyes meet lew’s from across the sofa. there’s soft jazz playing from the record player, and you can’t stop your eyes from tracing the stubble he’s growing. you want to feel it against your fingertips.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you have a secret you need to tell.”

you bend down, putting your wineglass on the carpeted floor. slowly, eyes never leaving his, you get on your hands and knees, and crawl across the sofa to where he’s seated. back against the corner of the L-shape couch, his hands immediately move to your hips.

“Do I?” there’s a shit-eating grin on your face

you’re not sure who leaned in first, the world is totally blocked out. nothing to feel, nothing to think, nothing to see, except the press of his lips, earthquakes in your core, and fireworks behind your eyes.

like they say, the rest is history.

your relationship settles like puzzle pieces that have always been meant to be. “It makes total sense,” is the general consensus you hear from friends. even lew’s parents have mentioned how they’ve been expecting it.

2018

lewis joins the ensemble cast for Bad Times at the El Royale; it’s been two years since things ended with harry, and 4 months since this new, beautiful, yet still fragile relationship with lew started. you celebrate his new role by cooking dinner together, and watching your favorite films on the couch.

you also begin to write and produce songs for other artists

2022

top gun: maverick and press play.

at this point, you haven’t released any of your own songs. sure, your fans know that you’re making music, and you’ve joined in on a few collaborations with other artists, but people have been dying to hear from you.

it’s not something you’re worrying over. supporting lewis’s career, simply being there when Big Heart Manners and Crab Park were made and recorded; it’s easy to fall into domestic bliss with the love of your life

2023

and still, he never stops encouraging you to release your own songs again. with festering and long-awaited inspiration, you start to work on muses & anecdotes. a 13-part love letter dedicated to the man you know you couldn’t live without.

2024

after an accidental post on instagram, you both decided it was time to let the world know. releasing muses & anecdotes, and the accompanying “hard launch” posted on instagram, you felt a newfound freedom. almost like the weight of the past few years have been lifted, a declaration of starting anew. the whole world learning of your love with lewis was like a new page being turned.

your story has barely begun.

[whizzing-fizzbee]

Ok so shy reader and confident Sebastian, touching MC in class under the table , standing behind her and pushing/grinding on her, whispering in her ear, all in public- and reader getting fed up and pulling him into like a bathroom or a closet and absolutely RAILING him and he’s super surprised bc usually he’s the dom one but this time he ends up being the whiney mess who finishes several times before MC even does, and goes back to class shaking.

-3way anon

Oh hello, my fave 3way anon ❤️ Hope this is what you had in mind.

Unraveled

Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit / MDNI (smut, language); all characters 18+ Words: ~3,200 Tags: second person POV, reader insert, no y/n, smut, teasing, dom Seb turned into sub Seb, semi-public sex

Summary: You're typically the quiet, reserved type. You find public displays of affection unbecoming, though your boyfriend, Sebastian Sallow, can't help himself. So when he spends a morning teasing you until you're wound so tight you can't see straight, you show him how it feels to unravel. In other words: You and Sebastian get filthy in the Hogwarts Hieroglyphic Hall.

Read below the cut.

By your seventh year at Hogwarts, you knew Sebastian Sallow like the back of your hand. 

You knew what made him tick. You knew what kept him up at night. You knew he couldn’t sleep with less than two blankets. You knew how many pumpkin pasties he could eat before he began to whine that his stomach hurt. 

Sebastian Sallow no longer surprised you. You’d seen him at his best, worst and all stages between. That’s why you certainly weren’t surprised when his attention turned to you during the middle of History of Magic class one day. You could always tell when he was bored. He’d subconsciously roll his wand back and forth across the desktop, his lips forming a slight pout as he willed the time to pass. Once he got bored of that, his gaze shifted to you.

You quirked an eyebrow at him and he smirked as he casually stretched his legs out, extending them beneath the desktop while his hand grazed the side of your thigh. You pretended not to notice.

After nearly a year of calling Sebastian Sallow your boyfriend, you’d mastered the art of nonchalance. Because as much as you loved and adored him, you liked to challenge him.

Sebastian was far more extroverted and outspoken than you. He never shied away from much of anything, whether it be a friendly duel or asserting himself as your proud boyfriend. But you carried yourself with quiet confidence, choosing to let your history as the hero of Hogwarts speak for you. The two of you were the spitting image of opposites attract.

So when Sebastian smirked at you, his knee shifting closer to yours beneath the desk, you rolled your eyes. Lazy sunlight streamed through the windows, casting emphasis on the speckles of dust that hovered throughout the classroom. Their quiet presence contrasted the roar inside your head.

While you appeared just as calm, just as serene as that floating dust, a war was raging inside of you. It threatened to pry you apart until you were a desperate, dissolute mess of untamed desire. 

It was all Sebastian’s fault. He’d spent the entire morning riling you up. It was his own sick little serving of revenge after you’d denied his advances to study with Natsai Onai the previous night. You insisted you’d make it up to Sebastian, but he was far too cheeky to let you remain unscathed.

It started at breakfast that morning. Sebastian slid onto the bench next to you at the Slytherin table, his hand resting gently atop your knee. You didn’t notice as you tucked into your porridge – not until Sebastian’s hand snaked its way toward the top of your thigh. His thumb traced loose, lazy circles while he chatted with your housemates as if nothing was happening beneath their breakfast. He yapped about the past weekend’s quidditch scores while your fellow seventh-years were none the wiser to the way his fingers were forming unseen patterns across your thighs. They inched inward and inward until Sebastian could undoubtedly feel the heat radiating from your core.

“Pardon me, love,” he said as he reached across you for a pastry from the bread basket. As he did so, he leaned in close enough to graze the side of your neck with his warm breath. He flashed you an innocent smile. You averted your eyes in hopes you appeared unbothered.

But Sebastian was unrelenting, even in Herbology class. While Professor Garlick discussed the uses of puffapods, Sebastian stood far too close for your comfort. He shifted until he was practically sharing your repotting station, his fingers drumming quietly across the weathered wood tabletop. He hovered behind you, his eyes quietly scanning you with a silent craving while his breath tickled the nape of your neck. Your nipples hardened and your posture became painfully straight.

When it came time to replant your puffapod, his hand found the small of your back as he brushed past you, his hips grinding against your ass as he prattled on about needing a new trowel. 

You pretended that your stupid puffapod was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.

Then came your study break in the library. You were diligently leafing through your Potions notes to ensure you were prepared for your next brew. Poppy Sweeting sat across from you while Sebastian lounged in the seat beside you, sucking on a sugar quill. He’d lost focus a good half-hour ago, his eyes now clinging to you as you read. Per usual, you pretended not to notice.

But Sebastian shifted to lean forward in his seat, his long legs bent at the knees as he extended his half-eaten sugar quill toward you.

“Want a taste?” he murmured innocently, though his eyes were anything but. You blinked at him with a deadpan stare. He smirked. “C’mon,” he continued, holding the sugar quill near your lips. “The sugar rush will give you some energy to focus.”

You rolled your eyes but obliged, parting your lips to allow Sebastian to stick the sugar quill in your mouth. You savored the saccharine taste while Sebastian’s eyes locked on yours. He held your gaze as he slowly glided the melting sugar quill from your tongue.

“How does it taste?” he asked innocently.

“Like it’ll rot my teeth.”

Sebastian breathed a short, silly laugh and leaned in closer until his lips were a mere inch from your ear for only you to hear.

“I can think of something worth sucking on that won’t rot your teeth,” he murmured quietly. The skin on your forearms prickled with goosebumps. He popped the quill back into his own mouth, his eyes still sparkling with sportiveness. “If you ask me, you look more alert already.”

You glared daggers at him and returned to your notes. Nevermind the fact you ended up scribbling the same line four times in a row before you even noticed.

History of Magic class was the final straw. Sebastian had been intentionally edging you all morning with culpable calculation. You knew that he knew exactly what he was doing. And while you were fighting like hell to appear unbothered, you were actually on the verge of unraveling.

As Sebastian’s hand inched its way to the apex of your thighs, you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. The heat between your thighs became a scalding ache that screamed for relief. His fingertips dragged discreet lines over the fabric of your skirt while you tried to swallow the whimper ascending in your throat. It threatened to expose your indecencies if you didn’t get out of that stifling classroom soon.

Your eyes shifted sideways until they caught Sebastian’s gaze. He offered you a smirk, to which you narrowed your eyes and pursed your lips. You stared hard into his pupils, praying he got the message.

Eyes now forward, you waited for Professor Binns to turn his back at the blackboard. When he did, his voice still droning on about Lachlan the Lanky, you rose quietly to your feet. Sebastian frowned as you slunk casually toward the back door of the classroom and silently slipped out.

You took a right and waited. About thirty seconds later, Sebastian emerged.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. You didn’t reply, but merely made another right, leading him through at the empty corridor until you were in the Hieroglyphic Hall outside Professor Binns’ office. A left past the sphinx statue and you finally came to a stop behind a column outside one of those Depulso puzzle rooms you’d discovered at random your fifth year.

“What are you do-” Sebastian repeated before you cut him off with a kiss. You threw yourself at him, crashing him backward against the column as he grabbed at your waist to steady you both.

You leaned, pressed fully against him with your hands splayed across his chest as you continued your assault on his lips. Finally, when you had to part for air, Sebastian gaped at you in awe.

“What’s gotten into you?” he teased. You glared at him.

“You know exactly what’s gotten into me,” you huffed. “You’ve been trying to provoke me all day.”

“Darling, whatever do you mean?” he asked cheekily. You fisted his tie in one hand and pulled. He snapped forward at the waist, his eyes widening at your aggression as he bent toward you. 

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” you hissed. You released his tie with a light shove and turned your attention to his belt buckle.

“Wh- what are you doing?” Sebastian stammered. “We can’t do this here!”

“Why not?” you retorted. “Binns is in class. No one else ever comes through this corridor. You’ve spent the entire day teasing me. Now you get what you wanted and suddenly it’s too much for you?”

Sebastian was a lot of things – an arrogant tease, a conniving pest and of course, a cheeky bastard – but he certainly was not one to shy away from a challenge. So instead of showing any more apprehension, he flashed his signature smirk and pulled you into a kiss.

As your tongue clashed with his, your hands fidgeted with his belt until you were shoving every piece of clothing in your way to the floor.

“Easy now,” Sebastian laughed at your haste. You sneered at him in annoyance as you unbuttoned your own blouse. Sweat was already causing it to stick to your skin, so you shed it to the floor, your bra following close behind, leaving you bare above the waist.

You were a caged tigress starved for sustenance. Sebastian had dangled himself as prey in front of you and you were merely staking your claim.

His erection bobbed in your hand and you grasped at it like it was a final lifeline for your salvation. Sebastian sucked in a sharp breath at your rough touch, but you ignored it. You pumped your hand, your curled palm dragging over his shaft, once, twice, again and again until Sebastian tilted his head backward against the column. You stared at his expression as his eyes fell shut and his chest puffed and caved with labored breaths.

You dropped to your knees and guided him into your mouth. His eyes shot open in surprise and you smirked upward at him, your eyes shining as your lips tightened around his cock.

“Merlin,” Sebastian muttered. His hands tangled in your hair as you worked, your hollowed cheeks pulled taut around his shaft. When his tip hit the back of your throat, you held it there, gurgling around him as he moaned. 

You loved it when he moaned. It was the telltale sign you had him wrapped around your finger, even if you were presently the one wrapped around him. 

Your head tilted backward, sending Sebastian’s cock popping from your mouth until you attacked it again, this time with your tongue. You flattened it against the bottom of his shaft and dragged it slowly toward the tip where you traced circles. The sounds of sucking echoed around you, wet and crude.

Meanwhile, your own wetness pooled between your legs. It was a culmination of a day’s worth of arousal that Sebastian started over breakfast. You reached beneath the hem of your skirt, your fingers edging into your panties as you hummed in relief at your own touch. The vibration from your lips made Sebastian’s breath hitch.

You dipped two fingers inside yourself, outraged by how wet you’d allowed yourself to become. It was unfair of Sebastian to do such a thing to you without any relief. 

Your panties snapped back into place when you removed your hand, using it to stroke Sebastian’s cock with your arousal. He hissed at the slick sensation until you replaced your hand with your mouth again. Your hands pressed into the backs of Sebastian's thighs as you sucked harder, your jaw aching as your head bobbed back and forth.

“Ease up,” Sebastian panted, one hand tugging gently at your hair. You ignored him again, hastening your mouth’s movements until you could hear Sebastian swear above you. You engulfed him with your throat until you could feel him fidgeting, his hands tightening in your hair as he started to unravel. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he whimpered. You wanted to time this right. And just as you felt him begin to twitch, you released him from your mouth. You pumped a hand around his wet shaft and he grunted, his release showering over your breasts. When it was over, Sebastian slumped against the column.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, his eyes slowly cracking open to gaze at you in disbelief. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“Nothing,” you answered simply as you rose to your feet. “We’ll call it even once you make it up to me.”

Sebastian didn’t understand. He was clearly under the impression your impish acts were done for the day. So when you stepped backward several paces until you were leaning with your back against a column opposite of him, he blinked in confusion.

You closed your eyes and slowly dragged a hand from your neck over your chest, where Sebastian’s release was still dribbling over your breasts. Your hand snaked downward over your stomach until it disappeared beneath the hiked up hem of your skirt.

You let out a low moan as your hand made its way back to your soaked entrance. You dragged two fingers over your clit before you paused to slide your panties off. They fell to the floor, exposing just how wet you were.

Sebastian swallowed – not that you paid him any attention. Your fingers sank inside yourself as you bucked your hips forward, pushing the plush front wall of your cunt into your fingertips. You did this repeatedly until the sight of you fucking your own fingers made Sebastian’s cock stir again. 

“Want me to take care of you?” he asked huskily. You nodded silently, your eyes still squeezed shut as your fingers continued their work.

Sebastian moved toward you, his hands bunching your skirt higher around your waist so that he could see beneath it. He nudged your hand away and replaced it with his own, his fingers dragging over your drenched folds. He groaned as you coated his hand.

You spun to face the column, no words needed to indicate your intentions. You propped yourself against it with your hands, your legs parted slightly as you bent at the waist. Sebastian dragged the tip of his hard cock against your entrance and you moaned through your impatience until you felt him gliding against your walls.

“My god,” he breathed as he was fully sheathed. “I’ve never felt you so wet.” Though you weren’t facing him, you could feel him smirking behind you. “Guess I should rile you up more often.”

“Shut up,” you ordered, forcing your hips backward for emphasis. Sebastian obeyed, choosing to press an affectionate kiss to the back of your shoulder until he was rocking against you.

Hours’ worth of tension pleaded for release. You clenched your walls tight around his cock, the ache already threatening to erupt in erratic waves as he drove into you. The faster he slammed against you, the louder your moans chorused. 

“Harder.” It wasn’t a plea, but a command. Sebastian, aroused by your abnormal dominance, eagerly obliged. But it still wasn’t enough for you and soon, you were rocking your hips backward with such force, Sebastian’s grip on your hips began to slacken.

He was grunting through gritted teeth at your force, but you paid no mind as you clung to the column for dear life. Perhaps it was selfish, but so was Sebastian’s decision to tantalize you all day. The sound of slapping flesh filled the corridor until Sebastian’s panting became broken gasps.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I’m going to-”

He let out a choked moan, his hips pinning you forward against the stone until he spilled into you. He slumped against you, spent of all energy as he caught his breath. Your thighs were wet and your legs ached from supporting your sinful act for so long, but you still hadn’t had your fill.

Your cunt quivered for more. More friction, more pressure, more Sebastian. Assuming you still had another twenty minutes until class let out, you decided you might as well make the most of the time.

Sebastian reached down to gather his trousers when you knocked him backward. He grunted as he toppled against the wall, his legs giving out as he fell to the floor. He blinked up at you with puppy dog eyes, stunned by your behavior.

“Wh- what-” he started, but you lunged yourself on top of him, straddling his lap before he could question you. 

You kissed him hard, desperate to keep him excited. You grinded your drenched folds against his lap, moaning at the return of his flesh against yours. You needed that pressure inside your walls again.

“Your fingers,” you panted. “Use your fingers.”

“But… you… how are you still-”

“Just do it.”

If he hadn’t been so transfixed by your demanding demeanor, your face flushed and eyes dark with insatiable desire above him, he may have considered putting up more of a fight. Instead, he indulged you and slid a finger inside of you. By now, you were so sensitive, you gasped at the intrusion. 

“More,” you breathed. Sebastian added a second finger and you began rocking yourself around them. Your hips bucked in desperation, your softest spot dragging against his fingertips until you were moaning in his ear.

Soon, you could feel Sebastian’s hardening cock pressing against your thigh. You took it in your hand and stroked until he was fully erect again. You beamed at him in excitement. 

When he pulled his fingers from you, you sank downward, wriggling your hips until his cock filled your cunt completely. His hands gripped your waist and you lifted yourself upward, slamming down with impatience as you chased your release.

“Not so rough,” Sebastian whined with a clenched jaw. On any other day, you would have taken pity on him and obliged. Not today; not after what he’d done to you all morning.

“Just hold still,” you ordered. Your hands rested on top of his shoulders as you continued to bounce yourself up and down, your walls stretching around his cock. When his tip met the deepest part of your core, you whined in elation, certain you were about to earn your prize.

“I’m- I can’t-” Sebastian sniveled. His face was scrunched in sheer exhaustion. You rocked harder, your sensitive spot slamming greedily around his cock until you were on the cusp of your climax. 

“F-fuck,” you breathed as the spasms started. You tipped your head backward and unleashed a wild cry as your walls rippled around Sebastian, whose fingers pressed into the skin of your hips with bruising force. You stopped your frenetic motions to sit in his lap, the final lingering flutters of your orgasm causing you to flood around him.

Sebastian was too sluggish to vocalize his own ending. He slumped over, his forehead against your shoulder as he emptied inside of you for the final time. 

Finally, you were satisfied, though your head felt heavy and your frame may as well have disintegrated from your body. Meanwhile, Sebastian looked absolutely and utterly spent. His hair was a messy mop, sticking upward in all directions while sweat trickled from his forehead. His eyes were barely open as he fought to catch his breath.

When you finally crawled off of him to collect your clothes, Sebastian peered up at you in quiet befuddlement. You chose to act none the wiser.

You smiled at him as you finished buttoning your shirt, smoothing your skirt with a hand to ensure you appeared perfectly composed per usual.

“Ready to return to class?” you chirped innocently. Sebastian blinked at you in disbelief.

“You’re just going to act like none of that happened?” he asked. 

“Like what happened?”

When the two of you returned to class and slipped discreetly into your seats, you smirked quietly to yourself as the other students began to whisper about Sebastian’s shaky, disheveled appearance. 

[saduko]

PAY YOUR DEBT

Lando Norris x Driver!Reader 7.6K words

Summary: Lando's Austrian crash could not have come at a worse time, and now he's scrambling to find someone to replace him in the upcoming Quadrant video. He's so lucky you care, and that you're horrible at lying. Or in which, reader takes Lando's place during Quadrants; 'Spill Your Guts', and they manage to pull some interesting information out of her.

Childhood Friends to Lovers, Pining, Slowburn

Despite having never met you, the cast of Quadrant were more than familiar with your name for one of a few reasons. The first being that, you were of course, a renowned Formula 1 driver beloved by many. The second being their own proximity with another famous Formula 1 driver who so happened to be your Mclaren teammate. 

For years they watched from a distance, saw your interviews and watched your races, cheering their team in orange on as the two of you dominated race weekends once again. It was obvious Lando was fond of you just off the way the two interacted on track, but beyond their parasocial concept of your relationship, they knew he liked you because of the sheer number of times your name was mentioned in the Quadrant circle. Lando’s inability to refrain from speaking about you was frankly an ongoing joke at this point. Though they playfully rolled their eyes at every mention of your name, they knew they couldn't necessarily criticize him for it either. Its hard not to talk about people you spend a lot of time around, and naturally, with you two being teammates and all, it wasn’t all that strange for him to want speak about you.

And when they consider the fact that your history stems way beyond just the devoted McLaren camaraderie you share, it’s hard to be mad at him when he brings you up. You two did grow up carting together after all, entering every stage of your lives with the other. You were childhood friends.

Except they had also spent a lot of time with Lando. Yeah, you might work with him, but so do they, and they knew he wasn't just talking about you because you were around often. They knew he wasn't just mentioning you because you grew up swerving along the same tracks or because you now wore the same bright papaya orange.

The man so obviously liked you and they all knew it. He mentioned your smile far too often to hide it, and he always seemed a bit too proud when he talked about being the reason you did. Not a single Quadrant member has ever spoken to you before, and yet somehow each one could articulate the way your eyes crinkled tight when you laughed or how your lips pursed hard when you found something funny but didn't want to show it.

He liked you, even if he denied it.

And so the Quadrant cast begged and begged to meet you. Eager to see the woman who has evidently captured the man's attention, despite his insistence to the contrary to no avail. Though, their efforts hadn't entirely fallen on deaf ears; in fact, Lando had been trying to get you in a Quadrant video since he founded the damn company, begging for nearly four years, only to be met with the same dismissive glare from your gleaming eyes every time.

“One day, Lando. Not today.” 

One day, you would say. Though he’s starting to think one day is no day at all. In your defense, opportunities away from the relentless gaze of the media are far and few between and the brief moments of peace you manage to find are precious. The thought of spending that private time filming yet another video for millions to watch has never been particularly enticing. As much as you care for Lando, sometimes you cherish your downtime just a little bit more.

But... this time he was stressed, and you could see it. He was supposed to film a Quadrant video this week. Finally home in London for this week’s Grand Prix, at last, he was able to put a little more effort into his personal business. It was one of the very few times a year he was able to participate in the creative side of the brand. The whole video had been planned, written, set up and was ready to be shot. The date was set, it was finally coming together. But then Lando crashed. He crashed in Austria and now his work at Mclaren had essentially been doubled for Silverstone week and he had no time to film. And now all the week’s worth of effort put into preparing the video had been flung out the window. It was supposed to be yet another spill your guts video focused on Lando and his career but now with last week's events disrupting this week's schedule, they were going to have to rewrite all the questions and find someone to fill his spot.

And so you’d watched him for the past few days on calls, asking around to see who could be available on such short notice. Between his team of producers, the other members of Quadrant and possible candidates for the video, on top of the copious amounts of obligations he had at the Mclaren headquarters, you couldn’t help but feel a little guilty knowing you were spending all the current free time you had between track work lounging around the Hilton pool. You technically had no reason not to help. Changing the script wouldn’t be an easy task with the little time they had. You knew filling in meant they would have their empty spot filled and they wouldn’t need to tweak the script as much. You were a driver too, the questions they would have asked Lando still mostly applied to you as well. And you knew it’d do Lando a huge favor; lift such a massive weight off his already heavy shoulders so he could run around McLaren focusing on what actually mattered most this week - getting his car ready for the upcoming race.

And so you did it. You smiled so kindly at Lando on that faithful Wednesday afternoon and so calmly announced that if he was struggling to find a replacement, you’d be happy to help him out just this once. It was finally one day, you would take the spot for Quadrant.

Landos face had never expressed so much surprise yet simultaneous relief. And it was only a matter of seconds until Landos arm had reached entirely around your waist and your feet had left the ground. You caught a few questioning glares being sent your way from a couple Mclaren engineers in the garage, but the breath struggling to find its way to your lips at the force of it all left you unbothered. “Y/n, thank you so much, you don’t understand how much this helps me out! I owe you so bad.” 

You would never say it to him, but his smile in that moment had almost paid his debt entirely right then and there. All the nerves and doubt about the decision you just made had nearly swept right by as you watched his face light with adoration. But instead you sent him a defeated grin as he placed you down on your heels. “I’m gonna hold you to your words. I better not regret this.”

“You won't, I swear.”

__ Regret this you will. As soon as the quadrant team had received the call that in his place, Lando's fellow teammate would instead be filling in for his absence, they immediately knew this wouldn’t be the video everyone was anticipating. They would take this opportunity to finally squeeze out the information they had been waiting to know for years. This would be their first time meeting you, and god was it a gold's mine worth of an opportunity. Not only would they be able to question you about your life as an F1 driver, they could also question you about your romantic life as an F1 driver, specifically about your relationship with Lando, a topic you successfully eluded everywhere else. But this video was the perfect opportunity. They would have a polygraph on set, and you were doing Lando a favor. You couldn’t leave and most importantly, you couldn’t lie.

The topic of your love life wasn't a new one, and a flurry of greedy journalists digging for a story have attempted to ask about your potential feelings for anyone and everyone on the grid. You always denied ever liking any fellow drivers and kept adamant that your driving and personal lives stay separate. But they had Lando as a secondary source - maybe to a fault - and from everything the man had explained, there was no way you weren't at least a little into him. And they were gonna get it out of you.

Was it a bit unethical? Maybe. Was it manipulative? Perhaps. Had Lando already told them he’d cut their pay if they fucked with you. Absolutely. But he’d be fine once he hears what you would inevitably say. He could thank them after they got you to confess the crush you just had to have on Lando. 

So here you were, staring at a set full of very enthusiastic YouTubers, all beyond eager to be sharing a table with the phantom of a woman they had been hearing about for almost 4 years now.

Not only were you a talented and beloved motorsports athlete, more importantly, you were the girl their mate liked. and as a friend, they were curious, but as youtubers, they were out for blood. And if there's one thing a group of Youtubers were going to do, it was get you to admit your deepest darkest secrets for online content.

There would be no filling, only spilling, they'd be sure of that.

Oblivious as you were, despite how nervous you initially felt about participating in the video, it had been smooth sailing so far along. Everyone was nice enough and you could see why Lando enjoyed the company of these people, they were all quite funny after all, and the questions were not the absolute mood draining, time wasters you were used to receiving.

You were nervous coming into this but maybe this wouldn’t be all that bad.

The table settled from their laughter as Ria finally swallowed whatever it was she had been forced to bite into. Bull testicles? You didn’t want to know, and honestly it didn’t really matter all that much anymore because for the third time round, it was your turn again, and you were now being strapped up to the Polygraph machine.

Max Fewtrell's eyes sparked with a menacing joy as they locked with your own. He was hosting this video, meaning he was safe from the contents of the table, but more importantly, he got to interrogate the girl his best mate was into. He was the only person who knew that for a fact thanks to the multitude of conversations Lando has had with him in private, begging for advice on what to do. As bad as he felt about it, Max could never give Lando a straight answer, he didn’t know his fellow driver, didn’t know what it was she felt, and if she truly meant what she was saying in her interviews, it wasn’t looking too good for his friend.

This was finally his opportunity to help out.

“Y/n…” His voice carried menacingly around the room, dragging out each syllable to draw the suspense. You eyed him playfully, keeping your guard up as his eyes flickered from you to the card in his hand and then back up to you a few times. The last few questions had been relatively tame, all relating to your job; who your favorite team really was, who you disliked the most on the grid, (you'd had your fair few arguments with Stroll, but you bit into an 1000 year old egg because you were not going to admit it.)

A part of you hoped they were giving you easy questions because you were a guest - a good friend of Landos at that, but at the back of your mind you knew better. And that’s why when the question escaped Max’s lips, you really didn’t feel all that surprised. “Do you really mean it when you say you like to keep your professional life and your private life separate?”

Simple enough, but you were smart enough to know the implications of the question, so you hesitated. “... Yes.”

A pause, no buzz. “That’s true.” Ethan comments.

“Okay that’s too easy, let me rephrase it.” Max’s gaze bore straight into your own. “Do you really mean it when you say you don’t see any of the boys on the grid as like, candidates? You don’t find any of them attractive?”

The groan that escaped you was so inherently guttural you hadn’t even noticed you made the noise. Everyone laughed at your reaction and it seemed so light hearted on the surface, but inside your mind was beginning to race, heartbeat speeding up as if the peddle was full throttle. This was exactly what you were nervous about.

You had felt a bit uneasy once finding out a polygraph machine would be present, and crossed your fingers that the team wouldn’t get into the topic of your romantic ties with the boys on the grid. You guess your luck didn't really extend past the track. initially, no ties with the other drivers sparked any fears within you at the question. You really didn't have any romantic ideas of anyone, the others truly were just friends, boys you grew up with, some like brothers. None of the boys had ever made your eyes wander, or ever had your heart skipping beats when you made eye contact. There wasn’t a single driver you could think of that had ever made you nervous or left you hoping for anything more than just a friendship. No one except that one boy. That one stupid boy that had led you into this goddamned position in the first place. That one stupid boy who’s mates were all gathered around the table with eager eyes directed entirely towards you, waiting for an answer. This was truly your worst nightmare. Maybe you did like Lando, maybe the moment had awoken within your days in F2; seeing him grow from the scrawny kid on the track to something else entirely. So what of it? No one needed to know that. Curse you and your incessant want to help that stupid boy through his stress. Why did he need to make you care about him enough to do this? Now, you could ‘fill your guts' if you really wanted to, but with a yes or no question like this, no answer is just as much an answer in itself. You had watched this game enough to know how it worked, and so you opted to take your chances against the polygraph machine. “Yes I mean it.” One phrase. A simple phrase muttered through a guilty smile, and yet you could hear your heart through your ribs as you told the lie and it was so, so silent after that. The anticipation felt like the devil himself had engulfed the room in its glory. The faces at the table had your palms sweating further and Ginge’s ability to hold such intense eye contact left you wondering if there was more to this than it seemed. God, was this the longest 3 seconds of your life. But you were good under pressure. If you can keep your heart steady driving at 350 kilometers an hour, you could keep your heart steady enough to lie your way out of this question-

Beep.

Suddenly the room was ablaze with noise, yelling and screaming as everyone expressed their disbelief yet absolute excitement at the answer. Incoherent sentences thrown your way one on top of the other but your brain couldn’t decipher a single sentence, instead engulfed in the thought of how much this would change the way all the boys spoke to you, how Lando spoke to you, now that they knew you did like someone. You could already hear Danny’s teasing voice followed up by his sly, all knowing smirk. Fuck. Was it too late to back out? Maybe you could bribe Lando into deleting the footage. 

But as you glanced forward into Max’s eyes, you saw the silent omniscient smirk that trickled on to his face - like the calm amidst the chaos - and you knew there was no going back. You were cooked. Your face fell into the palm of your hands, sheepish laughs slipping past your lips as you spoke in a slow, bashful tone, “No! It’s-.. It’s not like that!” But damage control is useless when the damage is already done. “Oh really?!” Ginges thick accent was next to echo across the room over top all the others, “Cause it seems like you’ve been secretly canoodling with some fast bastards and lying to all us about it!”

Ethan was the first to laugh, and soon everyone else's laughter followed suit, and as defeated as you felt a loud chuckle slipped past your lips at the comment. At the very least they were being funny about it and not trying to make a huge deal of it.

However, for the time being they couldn't prove it but once you admitted it, there was no going back, so you figured doubling down and playing dumb was the best option. “No- like, okay; the boys are good looking, they're attractive but that doesn't mean I necessarily like any of them. I grew up with these boys, you know, they’re like brothers to me. Your machine is definitely bugging out or something.”

“Nah, I think it’s working fine.” The reintroduction of Max’s voice had the room settling once again. It seemed all the quadrant members were on the edge of their seats, like they had been anticipating this the whole time.

“But if you’re sure it’s not working properly, I can try asking a different question, rephrase it a little better for you?" Max's face turned towards the camera. "In fact, we have a little tradition here!” His eyes gazing through the lens as he spoke. “Spill your guts tradition says that guests have to answer the final question and rules are no eating on the last round.” Now his eyes turned to you, “Truth’s only, so I hope you have your answer ready.”

You were just moments away from opening your mouth to protest, the words at the tip of your tongue; No thanks it’s fine,’ or even just a ‘I’ve already answered two questions, it’s not my turn anymore.’ as petty as it was. But the words were never able to slip past your overly gnawed on lips before your heart was sinking to the absolute pits of your stomach. “Who do you like on the grid and why is it Lando?”

Panic. “God! No- no it’s not Lando!” Deny. “Definitely, not Lando!” Deny.

The polygraph machine was silent for a moment as everyones eyes flickered over to the screen, and you endured the tension in real time as your forehead came down, lips pursing. And yet nothing came, no beeping sound to be heard. 

To this all the boys are silent, and Ria’s eyes flicker up to Max as the man furrows his brows down. There was no way they managed to make the driver inadvertently admit she liked someone, just for it to not be Lando. You had to like him. All the stories Lando told him, all the words you spoke to him repeated back to Max, all the looks Lando was adamant he observed. All the nights clubbing, celebrating their wins together in videos Max himself saw. Your hands would travel just a little too far up, or your eyes would hold his just a little too long. It had to be Lando. He knows it.

“Okay, okay fair enough. Then I'll ask again, more direct. Y/n, do you like Lan-”

You knew the flaring panic in your eyes was not doing much to help your case, neither were your next words, but by the grace of god, or maybe his pity, that machine didn't beep despite your lie and you had just been handed an out, and lord be damned if you weren't going to capitalize on that inconclusive result. “Wait!” 

You need to be smart about this. You needed to give them something they wanted whilst not giving them everything. A little sacrifice to spare a lifetime of embarrassment, and probably a long and testing conversation between you and Lando. “How about I take one bite of every single thing on this table, chew and swallow instead.” Your eyes held so much hope, pleading for an out but Max only laughs at your soft little doe eyed expression and you couldn't help but frown. 

“Okay, that’d be quite funny.” Ria’s laugh suddenly bit the air, and you had to silently thank her for subverting the attention elsewhere for a moment.

“I wouldn’t do that for no one, especially not for Lando. Are you sure you don’t like him y/n?” You knew Niran was joking but god did his comment make your hands sweat. Calm down.

Max shrugged, ignoring the remarks of his fellow Quadrant members. “Rules are rules, can’t eat your way out of the last question, you have to answer.”

You have to think fast. “...Okay, well…" Hm. "How about this?” It’s the only thing you could think of on the fly, but maybe it’ll work. “I’ll tell you the details, but- I won’t mention any names. So you get to know the whens and what’s, without knowing the who’s." Your laugh was light hearted, though it sounded more nervous than humorous.

A silence suddenly engulfed the room, eyes darting back and forth as the people on the table thought over the offer. In fact the room was so silent, you felt you could hear the gears turning in their heads and you couldn’t help but feel your heart rate speed up just a little more at the prospect. These people were essentially marketing geniuses. They were youtubers whose jobs it was to get as many views as possible. Whatever the decision, you knew it wasn’t about to be in your favor, but about what favored Quadrant as a brand. You were no good at marketing - you drove fast cars even faster for god sake, but damn if you didn’t hope your idea was good enough for them. 

Ginge’s voice was the first to sound. “Nah, nah, stop trying to change the conversation speedy gonzales, you think ‘cause you’re a bloody F1 driver you can- you can bend the rules!? It may slide over there princess but it ain’t gonna slide ‘ere.” His finger pointed down into the table with a glare that almost felt real and you were really trying to think but now you were laughing. 

So was everyone else apparently, because it took you a moment to hear Steve’s smooth voice through all the noise, “Alright, but we’re already putting the girl through a lot.” Then finally Max spoke again. He was really starting to feel like the governing power here, “Okay hear me out. Names are easy to find when you have a story. We get the story and then we evaluate.” His eyes bore directly at you, laughing as he spoke. Max knew with whatever story you told, he could just go right to Lando and together they could eventually connect the dots. He wasn’t trying to out you to everyone… just to Lando.

After a moment of deliberation Aarav spoke, “All agreed?” To which everyone seemed to nod in agreement.

Max nodded his head. “Alright Y/n, you win. In that case, this guy you like-” 

“-I don’t like him-” “-How long are we talking?... This guy you like.” The last comment had a playful laugh leaving your lips as you brought your nail to your mouth. He was purposefully pushing your buttons.

Your lips, previously curled into a smile, had now pursed at the question. “I don’t like him.” You reiterate. “It was like a small little crush if anything.”

“Was it recent?” Max questioned. “No, god it was years ago.”

Beep. Fuck, you completely forgot about the Polygraph. You could ring that stupid things neck. Come on, man throw me a bone or something. Max smiled at the revelation, glancing over at Ria as she spoke through her smirk. “Must be more than just a small little crush if your heart beat is rising at the thought of him.” To this, your head hung low as your laugh sounded. “I plead the fifth.”

You couldn’t even imagine how you would look to any viewers at home once this came out. They had well and truly cornered you here. 

“Well this isn’t a bloody democracy now is it, this is an ambush.” You're very right Ginge this really is an ambush, you thought. There might be no escaping this one.

“When did you first notice you liked this person?” Ria was determined to keep the conversion on track. This is the most anyone had ever gotten out of you regarding your love life, and it being about another driver? Potentially Lando?! They were so close to what they wanted. You were silent for a moment, assessing the people staring on with anticipation. You’d only ever told this story to two people, your mom and your best friend. Were you really about to expose it to the world? The polygraph strapped to your chest said you were. 

“I-... I first felt it a couple years back.”

Compliance. They got you.

“How far back we talking?” Max questioned.

“I don’t know…” your eyes flickered up at him. “Maybe early F2 days?” Ria’s eyes just about bugged out of her head as you answered, hands coming down onto the table with a gasp. “That’s like over 5 years ago!” Her reaction had you groaning, face turning a shade red enough to match the ferraris you race against as you sunk down into your seat. “Now I need to know! There had to have been a moment where you felt it! Because you had been racing with these boys for years! There has to be a moment of clarity, or was it like, progressive? Or-?”

“It- It was definitely progressive in some ways but I do remember the moment it kind of.. hit me.”

“Was it sudden?”

“So sudden.” You laughed. “Tell us!” It felt strange to engage in this conversation, you had sworn to yourself that no one else would ever hear about the feelings you had buried away for years now. Was it better to speak or to die? That truly was the question… But, It was out now, everyone knew you had feelings for one of your teammates; at least one of your F2 ones. What more harm could the details afflict? Besides you’d raced against a multitude of drivers in your F2 career, many of which never even made it to the current F1 grid so the chances of anyone guessing who you were even talking about had to be slim. Speak it was. 

“We were-” The observant eyes of the Quadrant members beamed on at you as you bit your lip in deliberation, but the debate in your brain was finally over, and so you took a breath in.

“We were in between seasons beforehand, so I hadn’t really seen the boys in a few months. And I remember walking into one of the common rooms, where a bunch of the boys were all sitting around before the race, and again, I hadn’t seen these boys for quite a bit.” Your hands moved with every word you spoke, “And the thing about the F2 is that, we were all about 17 to 18 right, so most of the boys had already had their growth spurts, puberty and all that… except for this one guy.” Your eyes were bright as you recalled the memory, a laugh chasing the ends of your lips as the table fell silent.

“And at this rate - in my 17 year old brain - the only thing that ever really mattered to me was racing. Like I could genuinely have cared less about boys and relationships and all that, I’d never had a boyfriend and I was so disinterested in it. To me these boys were my friends off track and my competitors on, nothing in between. So I remember seeing everyone I hadn't seen for while and not really thinking much of it. But then my eyes kind of looked on and… noticed.. him.” God that sounds so corny but you were trying to be inconspicuous, not give away too many details. It wasn’t working.

“Him?” Max smirked. 

“Him.”  You doubled down. “The person.” You glared as a light laugh sounded. “He had always been a bit more on the smaller side, I guess? A 'late bloomer.'” The phrase came to you. “And I don’t know what the fuck happened in those four months we were away but god did puberty hit that motherfucker like a truck.” This time the laughter was a lot louder and you leant back, suddenly a little more comfortable now that the weight had been lifted off your chest. “It was like, he had gone from this scrawny little kid everyone used to pick on to this… man in the blink of an eye and my brain could not comprehend it.”

“Moment of clarity.” Ria laughed and you laughed alongside her.

“No really! Like that’s really what it felt like. I remember hugging everyone because I hadn’t seen them in so long, but when it came to this guy, I just, like- stared and nodded at him and he gave me the weirdest look cause I'd never done that before!” Your voice was thick with embarrassment as you chuckled, and everyone joined in your laughter. Then you stuck up your pointer finger. “But it gets worse.” You swallowed. “So my brain’s already kind of short circuiting in that moment and I guess he thought my odd behavior just wasn't worth his time because then he just goes on, puts his hands down and takes off his shirt-”

“What?!” Ethan yelled. 

“Because we were racing soon and they always would! They would change around the paddock all the time! It’s so normal, they still do it, and I never, ever thought anything of it, like it never phased me. But this one time, when he just lifted his shirt over his head and I was already feeling things I’d never felt before, I was already confused, and oh my god. I don’t know what happened to me.”

Once again the table was booming with laughter. “No, it was so bad. Definitely one of my worst moments. It got to the point where one of the other boys; no names - had to smack me alongside the head and tell me to stop glaring.”

Max’s eyes lit up as he heard the last part. “Wait, people noticed?” “Not people, just the one, I think. If anyone else did, they never said anything.”

“Huh.” Max nodded. “And you don’t feel this way anymore?”

The word came without hesitance, “No,” you shook your head.

Beep.

Max had just found his jackpot moment. He had the information he needed.

What a week it had been. Between the guilt of Austria, the subsequent frantic Mclaren schedule leading up to Silverstone and the stress of the Quadrant video, Lando felt he could truly take his first breath of fresh air knowing at least one of those problems was officially resolved. 

The day was nearing its end meaning you were probably just about done filming with his crew and were likely headed back to the hotel for some well deserved rest before a hectic day of simulation practice and debriefing tomorrow.

He knows he has already done it 1000 times over, but he really needed to thank you for the favor you did him this week. No matter how much you spoke of all free time you had, he knew you were really just as busy with race prep, it wasn’t the simple ‘schedule squeeze’ you had made it out to be and he was more than grateful.

“What time did you say Y/n was coming back?” Charles’ voice rang loud throughout the room as his eyes flickered up from his phone. A few of the drivers had decided to spend a not so usual night in Max's hotel room sharing a few drinks. Camaraderie and all that, especially after the tension of last week.

“She should be finishing up now.”

“Is she coming back here?” Charles continued, still glancing between his phone and Lando’s eyes, fingers tapping briskly over the screen. 

“I’m not sure, I haven’t spoken to her. Why?” Landos eyebrows furrowed down as he asked. 

“Nothing, Alex was asking, that's all. I think she was going to stop by if so but I’ll tell her don’t worry.” To this Lando hummed. As much as he hoped you would stop by - hoped you would have a few drinks with them because you always got a little touchy and so much more bold with your advances when you did (and he’d be completely lying if he said he didn’t love it everytime) - he also knew how exhausting a day of filming was. Further, he knew his friends, and as much as he had scolded them - put them through the ringer about not messing with you, he knew them well enough to know they would do it anyways. You would probably go straight back to the room, and while he understood, he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

Distracted with his thoughts of you, he had almost missed the buzzing of his phone on the table besides the couch armrest he had been leaning against, if it hadn’t been for Carlos’ voice breaking the trail his mind was wandering. “Lando compadre, your phone.”

Snapping his eyes to the side, Lando quickly reached out and turned it over to see Max Fewtrell's name splayed across the screen. And being too lazy to pick up the phone and assuming he was just calling to assure him that filming went well, he swiped his finger across the screen and pressed the speaker button to talk.

“Yeah mate, how’d it go?”

“She has feelings for a driver.” 

Woah. No hello, no how are you, not even a build up to the revelation? It felt as if the world had stopped spinning as every single person in the room froze to look back at Lando with wide eyes.

“W-What?” Landos heart felt still in his chest as he spoke.

“We got her to talk about her relationships on the grid-”

“-You dickhead! I told you not to-”

“-I know you told us not to push her, but It wasn’t me!”

“You’re telling me she just admitted that on her own?” Landos voice was laced with sarcasm, a scoff of knowing disbelief leaving his throat. Bullshit.

“No! … Ria did it.”

“Max you muppet, she was doing me a favor! She probably hates me now.” Lando sighed into his hands before peaking through his fingers to glance around. All three boys; Charles, Carlos and Verstappen all had their heads turned towards the phone with wide eyes. 

“Well, that’s the thing,” Max laughed. “Maybe not! She said there was a driver she had a crush on during her formula 2 days, she wouldn’t admit who and when we asked if she still liked them she said no, but the buzzer went off. She was lying, Lando.” The silence in the room seemed deathly thick as the words left Fewtrells mouth, the three other boys blinking at the words they were hearing. They were sure to be experiencing the same emotions Lando himself had been. Shock, confusion, maybe a little intrigue. The boys had been teasing you for years about your relationship status. You had been single for so long, yet constantly surrounded by men so it was inevitable that the conversations would arise; you had to like someone. Nevertheless, you always stood firm, exclaiming that always being around the boys just made it even easier not to. 

After years of the same answers, with absolutely no indication to suggest otherwise, it was hard not to believe the words you spoke. And when you started dating your then boyfriend a few years ago - now ex, thank god for Lando - and bringing him around the paddock; a random guy none of the boys knew very well, the teasing well and truly died down. You really didn’t like anyone on the grid.

But now here they were hearing that the years of teasing, the years of questions, of loud drunken debates and near screaming matches had all been in effort to hide the truth they all suspected. A truth you had been hiding for over 5 years apparently.

The silence must have stuck out to Max Fewtrell beyond the phone, as he seemed to continue talking in the absence of a response. “Here’s what we managed to get out of her. He was an F2 driver that raced with her. She was close to him because he was one of the first people she saw after off season. She had raced with him before, so it wasn’t a new driver. And get this, he was a ‘late bloomer'- was one of the smallest in the comp before he shot up.”

Suddenly it was as if the gears were beginning to turn in Lando’s head, and he couldn’t help but pick up on the obvious smile Fewtrell definitely wore behind the phone. A late bloomer? There weren't many of those by the time they had reached Formula 2, and if there was one thing Lando was, it was a late bloomer. And it seemed everyone else had put the same cogs together, because now all the boys seated around were looking at him with sly smirks and cocked brows. 

God, there was no way. Not a single chance! Lando had spent the past however many years of his life stumbling after this girl, chasing your shadow in hopes for just a single moment of something more between you. That you would glance at him from a distance for as long as he did you, yearn to talk to him as much as he did you, sit up and think about him as often as he did you. He had liked you for as long as he could remember, and while he admits it may have been more akin to puppy love back in his teen years, that innocent crush quickly developed into something so much more intense as he got to be close to you. He wasn’t really afraid to admit he had feelings for you, and while he's never really said it out loud, he also made no attempts to hide it either, and it quickly became obvious to all your mutual friends that he liked you. 

The two youngest single people on the paddock that grew up together, now teammates, who were forced to be around each other everyday but somehow were still never apart, even when it wasn’t required, together anyway. Except one was obviously in love and the other would never like a driver, personal life and professional life were strictly separate.

Beep. Lies. 

Fuck, no, he couldn’t get his hopes up like this. It’s something, but it also doesn't really mean anything.

“Okay but, there were a lot of damn drivers on the f2 grid. There were a few late bloomers, and she was friends with plenty of the other guys that never made it to Formula 1. She- she could be talking about a lot of people.”

“You didn’t think I'd call you with all this doubt, Bob?” Max’s voice was smug and mischievous and Lando couldn’t help but wince at the dumb nickname. “Respect my name. I wouldn’t leave without something to attest. Apparently she was caught staring at the guy by another driver. Another driver knows, or at least they noticed.”

“F2 years you said?” Verstappen's voice rang loud, it almost made Lando jump from the change in bass. 

“That’s what y/n said.”

Verstappen's eyes seem harsh as his brows move down to come over his lids. “Coming back from the off season?”

“...Yeah?” Fewtrell agrees. 

In the blink of an eye Verstappen’s tense face had quickly fallen into a bright and humorous expression, eyes squinting tight as his head fell back in a loud laugh, “Oh my god!” 

“What?” Lando questions.

“Oh my god, Lando, It’s you!”

A chorus of ‘what’s’, and ‘huh’s’ course the room as Max leans over to give Lando an exhilarated slap on the back of the neck. Lando’s eyes are wide as he leans forward in a wince. Though, wether he was wincing at Max’s sudden motion or the revelation he’d just been subjected to, he wasn’t sure. You? Liking him?!

“It was me who noticed!” His laugh boomed as he spoke. “I remember it because I thought it was funny at the time, and for a while after it I thought she might have liked you because it was so unlike her. But she kept denying ever liking anyone and then she showed up with that prick of a boyfriend after that and I just let it go. I always knew it was something!” Max’s voice went raspy as he spoke in a loud, joyful tone, he was no doubt excited at the news. He loved you and wanted to help you wherever he could. And though he would never say it out loud, watching Lando pine over you; the way he cared for you, the way he would defend you when the media had negative things to say; he did think Lando would be a good match for you. 

Now, Lando on the other hand, Lando’s mind was a whirlwind of emotions as he struggled to conceptualize the bomb that had just been dropped over him. He had spent so long pining after you, thinking you saw him as nothing more than just a teammate or worse, just a friend. The idea of you possibly liking him back was a concept he had spent night dreaming of yet never did he think the day would actually come. He was so unconvinced of it ever happening he almost felt unprepared, unsure of what to do or how to act now. Yet, here it was. The room seemed to buzz with a newfound energy, the boys' playful teasing barely registering as he tried to wrap his head around the idea.

"Lando, you okay?" Carlos asked, his voice softer than usual, breaking through Lando's thoughts.

Lando blinked, looking up to see the concerned yet amused faces of his friends. "Yeah, just... processing."

“She likes you mate!” His best friend's words sounded unreal to him. You like him. You like him too. All this time trying to form something with you, not realizing what you already had.

Crashing that goddamn car may have been the best fucking thing that's ever happened to him.

If he’d known this would have been the outcome of DNFing he’d have sent his car straight into the track barrier years ago. Sacrificing pole position if he had to.

He truly thought nothing could have taken him away from this moment, not a single other thing could pull him back from his thoughts of you. Nothing except you. And the sound of his phone beeping with the tone of an incoming call really did pull him back to reality. Because it was you. You were calling!

The boys incessant chatter had immediately come to a halt as Lando shot up. “She’s calling!” His head turning left to right as he frantically looked around at the boys around him. “She’s calling, what do I do?”

Fewtrell’s voice couldn't have come through any clearer. “Answer you knob!”

And so he did. He analyzed the buttons and clicked the one that ended the call with Max and sent it straight over to you instead. 

His heart stuttered as the line went silent, anticipation pulsing through every inch of his veins. The boys sat back in their seats, eagerly eavesdropping on a conversation that could potentially bring a whole new meaning to the word WAG. But Lando didn’t care, more so he didn’t notice, he truthfully had been so sucked in by the letters of your name he forgot the boys were even there. 

What was he even supposed to say? You didn’t know what he knew, maybe he shouldn’t have answered. And yet he found his voice shakily as his teeth clasped his bottom lip.

“Hello?” His breath stuttered as he spoke, and the line sat silent for just a moment too long for Lando’s liking. Y/n? “Lando, you owe me so bad!”

[targtowerxstark]

A woman’s touch- Cregan Stark X Wife Reader.

(Fluff Drabble)

Summary: Cregan is helping train the young lads of Winterfell. While doing so he gets a cut on his arm from fighting. He returns to his shared chambers and his wife takes care of him. Which leads them to have an intimate conversation about his other scars.

———————-————————————-———-———Cregan Stark stood in the training yard, surrounded by the eager young lads of Winterfell. The air was crisp, with the scent of pine and snow lingering in the atmosphere. He exchanged a glance with his guard, Ser Jory, a loyal man with a quick wit.

"Shall we show them how it's done, Ser Jory?" Cregan challenged, a playful smirk on his lips.

"Only if you can keep up, my lord," Ser Jory replied, drawing his sword with a flourish.

The boys gathered around, eyes wide with anticipation. Cregan and Ser Jory circled each other, swords clashing in a dance of skill and experience. Cregan feinted to the left, then swiftly struck to the right, catching Ser Jory off guard. As Cregan looked at the young boys as he lowered his guard, Ser Jory took advantage, landing a quick strike that left a thin cut along Cregan's forearm. With a swift movement, he disarmed his guard, sending Ser Jory’s sword clattering to the ground.

"Impressive, my lord!" one of the lads exclaimed.

Cregan chuckled, but Wincing slightly, he shook his head, "A fine lesson for the boys, but I believe I shall need a moment to tend to my wounds."

With a nod to the lads, Cregan made his way to the shared chambers he had with his wife. He opened the door to find her nestled in bed, a raven from her brother resting beside her.

"Y/n," he called softly, a smile breaking through his fatigue.

She looked up, her eyes sparkling with warmth. "Cregan, my love. How was the training? Did the boys impress you?"

"They showed promise," he replied, moving closer.” But winter is coming they must train harder, Though I fear I may have overestimated my own abilities today." He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the cut on his forearm.

Her expression shifted from curiosity to concern. "Oh, my love," she said, sitting up and reaching out to inspect the wound. "You must be more careful."

"It is but a scratch," he reassured her, though the warmth of her touch sent a shiver through him. "The lads needed to see that even seasoned men can falter. Winter is coming, and they must be prepared." He spoke as she climbed out of the bed to get a water basin and fabric from a nearby table.

As she cleaned the cut with gentle hands, he continued, "You should have seen the way they rallied. They are eager to learn."

"And you, my lord, are eager to teach," she teased lightly, her fingers brushing against his skin.

Cregan chuckled, “Aye, but I have my scars to show for it.” He gestured to the one on his jaw. “This one? A wilding thought he could challenge me.”

"And the one on your stomach?" she asked, her brow furrowing in concern.

"Ah, that was a deserter from the wall," he replied, a hint of pride in his voice. "He thought he could escape the North's justice."

"And the one on your hand?" she pressed, her gaze unwavering.

"That one," he said, a soft smile playing on his lips, "was from my uncle. It reminds me of my triumph against him”.

Y/n shook her head, a mixture of awe and concern in her eyes. "You have faced much, Cregan. But you are here now, and that is what matters."

He took her hand, intertwining their fingers. "And I shall always return to you, my love."

As the evening drew near, they settled into bed, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow around the room. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the history of their house, and the scent of burning wood filled the air.

Y/n cuddled into his side, her head resting against his shoulder as they gazed out the window. Snowflakes began to fall gently, blanketing the world in white.

"Look at the snow," she murmured, her eyes reflecting the falling flakes. "It is beautiful."

"Much like you," he replied softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Together, they watched the winter wonderland unfold outside, wrapped in each other's warmth, knowing that whatever the future held, they would face it together.

[wendichester]

📺 ₊ ⊹𖦹 ׂ quality time,

summary. you'd do anything for sam. even watch boring history documentaries.

pairing. sam winchester + reader

wordcount. 491.

The screen flickers in the dim light of the bunker’s library, casting a soft glow over you and Sam as you sit side by side on the worn leather couch. A history documentary drones on, something about medieval warfare and siege tactics—Sam’s pick, obviously. You wouldn’t have chosen this in a million years, but you’re here. For him.

Because this is what you do. You spend time with him, even if it’s watching dry historians explain the invention of trebuchets with slightly too much enthusiasm.

Sam is completely engrossed, his eyes fixed on the screen, one hand resting casually on his lap. You, on the other hand, are only half paying attention. The narrator’s voice blends into the background as your gaze drifts around the room. You glance at Sam, his face lit by the TV, and smile softly. He’s in his element—wide-eyed, soaking up every detail like a sponge.

“This is actually really fascinating,” he murmurs, half to himself, half to you.

“Totally,” you lie with a straight face, earning the briefest side-eye from him.

Sam chuckles under his breath, clearly not buying it, but he doesn’t call you out. Instead, his hand shifts, finding yours where it’s resting on your knee. His fingers slide between yours easily, warm and steady, and he gives your hand a small squeeze. It’s such a simple gesture, but it makes your chest feel light, like you’ve done something right just by being here.

You lean back into the couch, letting your hand rest in his as he absentmindedly traces circles along the back of it with his thumb. His attention stays glued to the documentary, but the way he holds onto you feels deliberate, like he’s saying thank you for this without needing words.

“You know,” he says after a moment, still staring at the screen, “the trebuchet was revolutionary for its time. Completely changed the way battles were fought.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, feigning interest.

Sam grins, catching the teasing edge in your tone, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. “I’m serious. It’s engineering genius. You’ve got counterweights, a sling—it’s all about maximizing force and range.”

“You’re very passionate about this,” you say, unable to hide your smile.

He shrugs, the tiniest flush creeping up his neck. “I just think it’s cool.”

And it is, in a way. Not the trebuchets or the siege tactics or the endless diagrams on the screen, but this—sitting here with Sam, watching him light up about something he loves. You don’t have to understand it to appreciate it, just like he never questions your enthusiasm for the random things you’re into.

The documentary rolls on, but you stop trying to follow it. Instead, you let yourself focus on the weight of Sam’s hand in yours, the soft hum of his voice when he occasionally explains something. He’s happy, and that’s enough.

You’d sit through a hundred history documentaries if it meant more moments like this.

[orlesianhennin]

I really feel like so many people who hate Vivienne for being power hungry do not fully grasp and appreciate the desperation that Vivienne feels because she conceals it so well… as little content as she got, she honestly is expertly written and presented and it’s why it disappoints me so much when people hate her for surface level reasons… her writer deserves so much more appreciation.

I think it is subtle because she hides it and you really have to care about the character to seek out these threads and understand her motivations… she is in danger of total irrelevance, being cast aside by society (and history), and she is forced to ride the coattails of some upstart organization because all of the institutions she is invested in have either totally failed her or cast her aside.

She is clearly a prideful person who does not readily admit this… but her true talent is how clearly she can evaluate this and understand her own position. She suffers no delusions. She knows the Circle’s standing in society is diminished to nothing if it doesn’t house and account for the majority of mages, and she is left with just meek Chantry loyalists and sycophants who are lost without her guiding hand, as even otherwise pro-Circle mages with any sense have abandoned ship and left both rebels and loyalists at this point to see where the chips fall (Ellandra) - and the Chantry itself has been all but decimated in terms of military and political power. The one lifeline she has is the Imperial Court, and the fickle nobility have moved on from her - the mages are now a threat that she cannot control or offer any meaningful opposition to, and Celene’s favor has turned to Morrigan, and Vivienne does not know if she will ever have it again. She knows Bastien is dying, and that all that she has left at court will be those who hold kind feelings towards her such as his family, and that is a position she can never accept - being at the mercy of others.

We meet Vivienne, this impressive, powerful mage, who has made a life for herself by maneuvering brilliantly, all to improve her own standing, at a point where she is in danger of losing everything she has. And she doesn’t let on, at least not explicitly, but she joins the Inquisition out of desperation - it’s obvious she sees it as an opportunity, but the gravity of the situation for her isn’t clear from the start. She refuses to lay down and fade away. Vivienne would never had joined this fledgling upstart organization if she was in a better position at Court or there wasn’t a vacuum of power. She is very close to having nothing left, and starting over - and so she does. Before the rug can be pulled from under her, she gets out and sets off for herself again.

Vivienne, often accused of pride, privilege, and self importance, comes to the Inquisitor out of pure humility. She knows she is reduced. And her gamble ultimately pays off, and the Inquisition becomes the political juggernaut that it does, and she becomes more powerful and important than ever just by association. And I like to think, especially with an Inquisitor who respects and befriends her, that she plays no small part in shaping the organization.

I think this is also why, potentially, she plays it so cool at the Winter Palace. She doesn’t get involved… she doesn’t need to. Simply being present is a statement to the court, and she truly doesn’t care about who wins; it’s not just the Game, it’s personal, despite what she claims. That they cast her aside, and now they are interested again… not necessarily in her, but still, she sees the paradigm shifting again. She is now a part of the organization who gets to change Orlais, and favor with the Inquisition is quickly becoming just as important as favor with Celene.

The whole arc is a subtle one as she really doesn’t get much attention, but if you pay close attention, it shows how expertly Vivienne plays politics. We already know she came from nothing and maneuvered into a powerful position. But I think not everyone realizes she is nearly back to nothing when we first meet her… and through the course of the game’s events, by allying with the right people, she plays the game well enough to become an advisor to the most influential person in southern Thedas… and potentially even Divine. But her initial plea to the Inquisitor, for all the great lengths she goes to keep up the appearance of strength and invulnerability, comes from a place of utter desperation.

[0alix0]

Overusage of Lore

a lot of people tend to say that bioware put little to no lore into Veilguard, and i might be on a minority on this to me it's way too much and way too shallow

The entire game feels like writers just scream at you "Look at all the magical thing we have!! So we have Titans! And Evanuris! And Illuminati Those Across the See! And-- are you listening? You better listen cuz there are more! We have Shadow Dragons! We have Griffons! We--"

OMG calm down it's not a fucking Warcraft

the best thing in DA was the way it beautifully showed real life issues through the lens of medieval fantasy world.

The dalish weren't so fascinating because they had an entire language made for them and pretty tattoos. They were fascinating because they were enslaved, fought for freedom, then got their land taken away YET STILL continued to fight for survival, for their cultural identity, their children and their children's children, for freedom. Literally combination of native american's and jewish history. Because despite having one goal they all had different approach and opinion about other of their kin: city elves (those disconnected from their culture) and half-elves ("can they be considered elves?" "should they be allowed to be a part of dalish?").

The city elf origin wasn't so memorable because every npc had a backstory with a length of bible. It was memorable because it was the most obvious analogy on racial oppression, segregation, colonialism and fetishism in the entire franchise. Because it had the guts to actually show in details the horrors of these things.

Broodmothers weren't so horrifying because it's a female mixture of jubba hutt and a fucking pudge from dota with a detailed explanation their anatomy. They were horrifying because they were paralleling a very real misogyny, mistreatment, the way how women in some countries are seen as nothing but a walking uteruses, where the only thing they're good for is to give birth

AND bioware doubled it while doing the same thing with Orzammar, cast system & Rica!

The Circles weren't so interesting because we've got dozens of pages in WoT explaining their hierarchy/fraternities. No, they were interesting because it was literally a bunch of medieval GULAGs with a function of a mental hospital, it showed what mistreatments happen there, the abuse, child abduction and enforcement of religion.... And from the side of templars it was a discussion about professional deformation, addictions and the way high ranking people abuse those to control their underlings.

..... And you know, if we were back in origins, griffons, for example, would've probably been used as a parallel on irl eco terrorism. it might've been about how Wardens despite their good nature unintentionally bonded the general association of the entire animal species to their order and abused this connection to the point when the species was beyond preservation!

and btw, then that decision in davrin's quest would actually had any meaning, instead of throwing wardens into mud (again) and turning isseya into a villain for no fkn reason.

lore is only good as long as it's used for purpose, when it has things to discuss, not just exist

i don't fucking care about titans/evanuris/and other shit because they're just a 30 pages long article in codex and WoT trying to explain magic and write DA timeline almost to a fucking mesozoic era. it's BORING. Get me emotionally invested, then i'll care

[thetxtdevil]

ehem... gynecologist Yeonjun?! a totally professional setting and uh- well, I guess he needs to take a closer look at you 🤷‍♀️

- xoxo, liv MWAH

Gyno!YJ x Patient!Reader

nsfw/mdni: professional nipple play, professional fingering until it's not

---

"Kai don't you have a friend that is a Gynecologist?" you ask your best friend.

"Yeah that’s Yeonjun, why?"

"Well,,, can you send me his office number so I can see him?"

"O-oh yeah ok" Kai blushes not wanting to think of what problems you were having.

The problems you were having was sex. You just weren't getting wet enough, it hurt when your hookups weren't experienced enough to realize. So much so you had to start investing in lube and had to stop everything to explain that you need it. Nothing wrong with that but you think its hotter when you're so aroused that a man can just slip in.

So there you were sitting in the waiting room of gynecology. The natural light from the windows casted over making the cream color wallpaper comforting. A bowl of candy sat next to a bowl of pads and tampons next to a bowl of condoms, which was super convenient. Maybe I should start going here for my pap smear? you thought to yourself.

Your name was called and you followed the nurse to a private room equally as warm and comforting as the waiting room. The nurse asks you questions of history, medications, and why you're here. You're embarrassed and a little irritated knowing that the doctor will come in asking the same damn questions.

"Alright, are you ok with taking your clothes off and putting this gown on?" the nurse asks showing the white paper thats supposedly cover you.

The nurse leaves letting you know that the doctor will be in soon. You shiver as you undress, slightly rushing just incase the doctor is somehow on time. You sit back on the table and wait.

knock knock

You jump at the alarming sound, "Come in!"

Shit, the doctor was none-other Dr. Yeonjun. You knew you were going to his office but you thought he'd be too busy to be the one to see you. You had a crush on him, always excited to see him every time he met up with Kai. "Hey y/n, how are you?" Yeonjun asks with his sweet smile that could make everyone melt.

You two do your greetings and he gets up, "can I do a breast exam," you nod opening your gown. You shiver as his hands grope your breasts. Eyeing his face, Yeonjun is simply focused but you couldn't help but blush at his darkened serious face. You swallow hard when his nibble fingers brush against your nipples. "Heard you're having a hard time getting aroused, have you used lube?"

"Yes its a fine supplement, but I was concerned that it could be from something else."

"Well its a good thing you came in" his eyes scrunch up as he does that beautiful smile of his, "can you put your feet up for me?" You comply and raise your legs to rest on the high rise feet stools. You squirm in your spot feeling uncomfortable with how exposed you are.

"Honey,,," you shiver at his low voice, "you seems to be aroused enough right now." Your eyes widen, lifting your head to look, of course not being able to see anything other than Yeonjun putting on gloves. His eyes were glued to your pussy, a gloved finger drags down your pussy lips spreading them to get a better view of your cunt.

You were dripping and you didn't realize. Yeonjun moves his finger up to inspect your clit pressing light circles, "you look very healthy to me." You nod knowing that he won't notice, his finger slides your wetness all over, then down to your weeping hole. "Let me take a deeper look," he probes a finger in you making a small whimper come out of your lips.

Finally, this is what you've been wanting to feel like for so long. Your body wants to grind against his finger but you try so hard not to because this is supposed to be a health check up.

"Do you mind if I move faster?"

A slight gasp fills the room when you feel the Yeonjun's warm breath so close to you, "n-no not at all." Wet lewd noises began to fill the room letting the doctor know just how well you are. Soon he adds another finger in your cunt having you moaning. All embarrassment gone, all your humility was out the window when you feel his other gloved hand play with your swollen clit. Yeonjun bites his lip, focused on your arousal, happy he has Kai's pretty friend like this, and at work? so much better.

One loud drawn out moan empties out of your throat when Yeonjun skillfully abuses your g-spot. You cum on his fingers, turning the blue gloves a lustful white. Yeonjun slows down his movements helping you with your high. Removing his hands from you, he pushes himself on his rolling chair to grab paper napkins next to the sink. Then grabbing a towel to clean you up nicely. "Well it looks like you're doing just fine dear, maybe you just needed someone like me to help you out."

Glad you don't have a problem, worried that you might have a different sickness, you're obsessed with the doctor. You look over at Dr. Yeonjun, first watching him get rid of the ruined gloves, then your eyes drift down to the obvious tent in his pants. "Yeonjun, you're hard."

He looks down then at you, "I sure am, but I did schedule a lunch break after your appointment," your eyes light up, "how about we do another assessment?"

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil

taglist: @inkigayocamman, @naoristerling

[vidavalor]

Aziraphale's Eden clothes play so differently after S2.

In S2, Before the Beginning and the Job minisode show us that the angels (minus Gabriel) were all still wearing the same shapeless robe with the gold trim through even the first couple of thousand years of Earth. When you consider that? Aziraphale's clothes in Eden suddenly seem really rebellious.

In Eden, Aziraphale had thrown out the uniform that they were all expected to wear entirely and made his own look. He was abiding by certain rules of Heaven's colors but he was using his clothes to make a statement. And these choices he was making here?!

Gone was that horrible robe with the gold collar and wrist trim evocative of the angels being shackled to Heaven. Gone was any sense of a lack of individualism. He made these clothes fit his body and his own sense of style, with different shades and textures that he enjoyed. Aziraphale was even coming at Heaven's warped ideas about consumption by wearing a decorative top layer. This was all about asserting individuality and free will and, amazingly... none of these things were even the most political part.

That was the fact that the draping in the top layer was subtly creating a sash within Aziraphale's clothes... like the signature look of Lord Beelzebub and which we have seen is echoed by many of the original demons who were first cast out in The Fall, like Furfur and Dagon.

This seems like it was a protest look? Aziraphale was subtly trying to convey solidarity with the demons from whom Aziraphale was supposed to be guarding the humans and The Garden.

There's also the other layer to the sashes, as well, which is that they not only have had ties to a zillion different political movements but that they have been worn in different times in history as part of mourning.

The idea of Aziraphale's clothes in Eden being designed to reflect political protest and grief then makes the pattern on them a lot more significant. It didn't mean much of anything to us in S1 but, after S2, we might see why Aziraphale chose a scrolling pattern of intertwined circles.

[saikira999]

Amos is an underwater monster of the Thalassaphagos species, resembling a cecaelia (an octopus mermaid) but with several differences: larger size, tolerance for prolonged stay on land, a second toothy mouth instead of a beak, and the presence of seven tentacles, one of which serves as his "tail."

However, unlike his kind, Amos is covered in dozens of eyes, indicating that he has been infected by the "Knowledge" disease, which sets him apart from his underdeveloped tribe, where the average thalassaphagos only cares about eating delicious food, producing a mountain of offspring, and preferably not dying. For his awareness and predisposition to magic, Amos was cast out from the tribe and is now seeking wisdom on land.

Amos is a quiet and thoughtful young thalassaphagos. He is intelligent, but often, his animal nature takes over, and Amos becomes incredibly dangerous and uncontrollable, a perpetually hungry savage. Initially, he has rather weak moral principles and can easily trow them aside if he deems it necessary. But this will change in the future when he begins to better understand the concept of compassion and kindness (though this won’t stop him from biting someone's hand off if he gets hungry).

Story:

The thalassaphagos tribe has never been known for its desire for knowledge. On the contrary, intelligence and intellect were always frowned upon, and the legend of an ancient chief who once led their people to greatness was cited as an example. Thanks to this chief, the thalassaphagos cast aside their beastly habits and began to develop culture and science. Their empire flourished and prospered year after year.

But one day, the chief became prideful and desired forbidden knowledge, which angered the Gods of wisdom, and they destroyed the once-great empire, returning its people to the times of savagery, while the great chief vanished.

Now, the wrath of the gods still haunts the thalassaphagos in the form of a disease that spreads across the body as dozens of eyes, signifying forbidden knowledge. And Amos became that unlucky guy.

Being a creature that is wild yet quite curious (to the point of being uncomfortably TOO curious), he travels the land, wishing to prove to his people the importance of wisdom and to restore their once-lost greatness.

Perhaps one day he will succeed, and after many years of wandering, Amos will return to his homeland, determined to become a new leader and rebuild the empire from scratch. Year after year, wound after wound, along with prosperity and strength will come the thirst for power and greed characteristic of his kind. Beings like him live long, which means that soon the underwater ruins where they hid will turn into magnificent new structures, savagery and old rituals will fade away. And this will continue until at some point, Amos looks in the mirror...

...And in response, the ancient chief from the legends will look back at him.

The gods who cursed the thalassaphagos did not just erase their empire but also trapped the ancient chief in an eternal loop – a mad cycle that serves as punishment for his pride and greed. And now, each time, with each new fall of the empire and its chief, the people forget their history, sincerely believing that it happened to their long-ago ancestors, unaware that they themselves were pawns of the gods, and their fallen chief will soon be reborn to start the cycle again.

...Of course, only if he does not decide to break the vicious circle and kill the Gods of wisdom.

Old concept art :P

(I decided to make him a character for dnd)

Dead Knight: "Stay out of it, you moron."

Amos: GGGGRGGRGRGRG AAWRAGAG SBARRARRAT BARK BARK BARK GGRRRERRRARARREARARREARARAR!!!!!

[warpdrive-witch]

It Worked (1/?)

Agatha’s voice, low and steady, cut through the moment. “Say again?” The breath that left your lips was lighter now, laced with something close to wonder. “It worked.”

Word count: 10.7k

Warnings: smut, oral sex, fingering, light biting, praise, miscarriage, pregnancy, grinding, age gap, no one dies, Agatha x Rio x Rio.

(disclaimer: I fell down the Agatha x Rio x Reader wormhole and came out the other side with a close to 11k fic. This does have a one medical flashback, but it's quick and helps to understand the back story. )

If you want a part two, let me know!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

----------------------------------------------------

It Worked

The soft glow of the television cast shifting shadows across the living room, the muted sounds of dialogue and orchestral swells lulling you into a hazy drift between wakefulness and sleep. Your head rested in Agatha’s lap, her fingers threading idly through your hair, a slow, methodical rhythm that kept you tethered to the warmth of the moment. The other hand held an old leather book, the pages worn soft with time, exuding a scent of pine and history.

Across the room, Rio sat curled up in the oversized chair, utterly enthralled by the movie. Her dark eyes were wide and locked onto the screen. The flickering light reflected off her skin, painting her in alternating shades of gold and shadow, and if you had the energy, you might have told her how beautiful she looked in that moment. It was a perfect Saturday at home.

But exhaustion clung to you, heavier than usual. The blanket wrapped around you felt both too warm and not warm enough, your body caught in some strange in-between state. Sleep tugged insistently at the edges of your consciousness until a sudden cramp shot through your abdomen, dragging you back with a sharp, startled moan.

Your hands, previously cocooned in the blanket, slipped free to press against your stomach, instinctually rubbing slow circles with your thumb by your hip. The ache wasn’t quite pain—not exactly—but it was enough to make your brows knit together and breath shudder.

Agatha’s fingers stilled in your hair.

She set the book down without a word, the barely audible thump against the couch cushion drowned out by the movie. Her gaze flickered downward, her eyes—always so steady, so measured—fixing onto you with an intensity that could have pinned you in place. You felt her shift slightly, adjusting so she could better see you, and the warmth of her other hand settled against your arm, her thumb tracing deliberate, soothing circles. A quiet comfort, the kind she had always been best at offering.

Rio hadn’t noticed yet.

But Agatha saw. Agatha always saw.

Another cramp—or maybe it was just a stretch, something shifting inside you—drew your knees toward your chest, your head tucking further into Agatha’s lap. Her hand lifted from your arm only for you to catch it, guiding it down, pressing her palm against the place where the discomfort lingered. The second her thumb resumed its slow, grounding motions, a breath slipped from your lips, and the tension in your body eased just enough.

The rustling finally pulled Rio’s attention away from the screen, because the sound of the movie abruptly cut out, leaving the room in thick silence. The evenings glow hovering through the windows, casting rainbows and shadows along the wall. You didn’t need to look to know she was watching you now, her sharp gaze assessing, cataloging. The weight of it pressed into your skin as much as Agatha’s hand did.

A glance passed between them, a silent exchange laden with quiet urgency. Agatha’s fingers twitched against your stomach. Rio’s brows furrowed. The air tightened, heavy with unspoken concern. You could feel it unravel before you. The questions forming. The pieces clicking together.

They had both chalked up your recent fatigue, your occasional bouts of nausea, to the relentless demands of academia. Agatha had silently attributed the clamminess of your skin to long nights spent hunched over research, while Rio had teasingly blamed the small swell at your stomach on late-night snacks and stress cravings.

It was time.

You shifted slightly, moving away just enough to see both of their faces clearly. Agatha’s grip on you tightened, not liking the space you created, but she let you move. Your heart pounded against your ribs, not from nerves but from the weight of the moment, from the way their eyes burned into you with unwavering focus.

You exhaled, steadying yourself. And then you said it.

“It worked.”

You had been with them since undergrad—since study sessions in Dr. Vidal’s office turned into drowsy confessions with Dr. Harkness during late-night talks, since they found you at an off campus bar being cornered by a man who wouldn’t stop, whose hand stung your face when you said you liked women, since tears ran down your face at your families disowning you after coming out, since laughter-filled weekends bled into moans and stolen breaths, something deeper, something unshakable. A home. A family. Through years of change, growth, and becoming, you had remained theirs, just as they had remained yours.

Silence crashed over the room. Seconds stretched impossibly long, warping into something immeasurable.

Agatha’s expression didn’t change at first, her face locked in its usual unreadable stillness. Then, her breath caught, the barest flicker of something shifting behind her blue eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, deliberate.

“Excuse me?”

The words were sharper than she likely intended. The kind of sharpness that came from genuine shock, from something she hadn’t quite let herself believe was possible. The structured chaos of her hair adding to its force.

You hadn’t planned for this—had wanted to make it memorable, a revelation carefully wrapped in joy, not something thrown into the open like a sudden gust of wind knocking everything askew. But now there was no reeling it back in.

Rio was another story. Her dark eyes had widened to almost comical proportions, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. It would have been amusing if it weren’t so heartbreakingly beautiful. Her chestnut hair touching her shoulders in gentle waves.

Agatha’s grip on you tightened again, an eyebrow raising slightly. Rio’s eyes never left you, rooted to the spot as she processed, as she tried to form words that wouldn’t come.

You felt a tremor in your limbs, not from fear but from the sheer weight of it all—the way the room hung on your every breath, the rare shift in power as you held their focus so completely. It was exhilarating, in a way, and you intended to savor it for as long as you could. For as long as they would allow.

Agatha’s voice, low and steady, cut through the moment. “Say again?”

The breath that left your lips was lighter now, laced with something close to wonder.

“It worked.”

A smile broke across your face, uncontainable, radiant. You barely had time to process the way it hit them—how it landed like a force all its own—before Rio was moving, crossing the room in a heartbeat to kneel in front of you and Agatha.

Before you could reach out, another small cramp fluttered across your stomach, and this time, when the sound of discomfort left your lips, Agatha was on her feet. The shift was seamless, her hands catching your shoulders, gently easing you down against the pillow she placed beneath your head. Your body stretched out, your back enjoying the warmth Agatha had left behind.

Rio’s hands found your face, her thumbs brushing against the furrow of your brow, trying to smooth away the discomfort. Her gaze flickered over your expression, taking in every minute detail, searching for anything she might have missed.

Agatha stood frozen, watching, her mind undoubtedly racing through the past few weeks, fitting the pieces together. And then, as if something finally settled into place, she lowered herself beside Rio, her movements slow, reverent.

They were staring at you, but not just at you.

At the small swell you had hidden beneath one of Agatha’s old college shirts, stretched loose with time. Rio’s eyes flickered lower, catching sight of her own boxers on your frame, an unintentional reminder that you had been wrapped in them—pieces of them both—since the moment you knew.

You wanted to make sure that it had worked, that you wouldn't lose a piece of their very soul that was now growing inside of you. This wasn’t the first attempt, and the thought of sharing the heartbreaking news again had been too much. You wanted to be safe, to shield them from the hurt of another failed attempt. So you locked it away, a small secret, until you thought it was safe. Wearing a piece of their clothes every day was an added layer of protection. Another way for this spark of life in you to be surrounded by their love.

You lifted the soft fabric of Agatha’s shirt and lowered Rios boxers slightly, revealing the barely-there curve, the quiet proof of what had been growing inside you all this time. No one else would have noticed the slight change, but Agatha and Rio knew every scar and dip of your body. Their eyes flickered between you and the sight before them, hesitant, searching for permission, as if they were standing before a goddess that demanded it.

Your eyes caught theirs, and you nodded, guiding their hands forward until both of their palms pressed gently against your skin. Your hands covered theirs as you introduced them to the magic of new life growing inside you.

A tear slipped down Agatha’s cheek.

Rio exhaled, reverence and disbelief woven into the breath. She flexed her fingers, reaching for as much skin as possible under your hand, like she was cradling the universe in her palm.

"Holy fuck," she whispered, the words barely audible, a prayer to no one in particular. “It… it worked?”

You nodded, watching them absorb it, watching the love that radiated from them in waves. The shift in their expressions, the wonder, the quiet awe—

But Agatha was still watching in worry, collecting the slight sighs and moans of discomfort that you had been experiencing. She was reading you like she always had, storing away each breath, every small shift in your features. You guided her hand to your hip again, her fingers still hesitant, as if afraid she might break something fragile. She still hadn’t spoken, hadn’t broken through the storm of emotions clouding her usually measured composure.

You looked her in the eyes, her soul crashing into yours.

"I'm fine," you murmured, voice low, meant only for her. "It's just that my skin stretching or whatever this is, feels like cramps. Or maybe a cousin of cramps. It’s not painful, but it’s not comfortable."

Agatha blinked slowly, absorbing, cataloging, recalibrating. She was still trying to catch up, still piecing together the reality of the last few minutes, but the edges of her tension softened slightly. Her grip on you firmed—not out of fear but certainty. Between a sob and a laugh, Agatha met your eyes, burning this moment in her very existence.

A sigh left your body, tension easing as their hands remained, mapping every small change, every curve they hadn’t yet memorized. Agatha’s hand stilled first, her crystal-blue eyes locking onto yours, filled with unspoken worry.

"Why didn’t you tell us sooner?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of it settled in the space between you. "We could have been right by your side these last few weeks, but…"

Rio’s fingers pressed more firmly against your stomach, the other hand settling gently on Agatha’s thigh—a silent message to take this moment one breath at a time.

Agatha, ever stoic, caught your gaze again. Her thumb pressed a little harder into your hip, and a sound left you before you could stop it—a soft, breathy moan that she caught instantly. Her brows furrowed, the worry in her expression deepening.

Your mind drifted—unwillingly at first, then fully—back into the past, to the weight of the last year and a half.

**** FLASHBACK Miscarriage*****

You had been so careful. You had done everything right.

The first attempt had been filled with joy, with hope, with whispered excitement between tangled limbs. Agatha and Rio had spoiled you—tucking you into blankets, massaging your aching muscles, kissing your stomach even before there was anything to show. The two of them hovered, but in a way that made you feel adored rather than suffocated.

Then, at six weeks, the world shifted.

You had woken in the dark, sandwiched between them, something unsettled in your body. A nausea that wasn’t morning sickness, a pressure that wasn’t normal.

You swallowed your discomfort at first, hoping it would pass, but then the pain came in slow, creeping waves—tightening, pulling, wrong. You had shaken Rio awake, her instincts snapping her into alertness before her sleep-fogged brain could catch up.

"What’s wrong?" she had asked, her voice husky with sleep. The rustling of the sheets woke Agatha, her warmth solid against your back as she instinctively pulled you closer.

Her hand had already been resting on your stomach, but now her fingers stilled. Felt. The tightness, the unnatural rhythm of it, the way your body wasn’t letting go of the tension.

"Something’s wrong." Your voice had been hoarse, barely there. "I don’t—"

Then the pain tore through you, like your insides were ripping apart. A sound left your throat—something raw, something animalistic, something terrifying.

Rio had shot up, fully awake now. Agatha’s arms had tightened around you instinctively, but then—

Then you had felt it.

A warmth between your thighs. A flood of something you knew wasn’t normal.

The sheets beneath you grew damp, then wet.

Agatha had locked eyes with Rio in the darkness, and even through the haze of pain, you had seen it. The fear. The terror neither of them wanted to show you, but it was there.

"Help," you had whispered, turning to Agatha, clinging to her shirt as another sharp, searing pain tore through your body.

Rio had moved first, throwing the blankets off, her movements sharp, urgent. Agatha had held you tighter, her heartbeat a steady thrum, thrum, thrum against your back, but it was too much. The blood. The pain.

Before you could process it, Agatha had her phone in hand, calling her personal doctor. They had promised you—sworn—that you would never have to set foot in a hospital again, not after everything. Instead, they had ensured that the right doctors, the right people, would be on call whenever you needed.

Minutes later, Dr. Ezra was in the apartment, taking in the sight of you—Agatha wrapped around you, Rio’s hands coated in something dark as she pressed fabric between your thighs to stop the flow.

You barely remembered Ezra’s examination. Just the touch of her cool fingers against your burning skin, the sharp contrast of her voice—calm, professional—against the panic in Agatha and Rio’s eyes.

Then she had pressed against your stomach.

And the scream that left your body shattered something in them both.

"Please," Agatha had whispered, a prayer, a plea to the universe.

Everything after that blurred—the rush to the car, Rio carrying you into a private medical facility, the flickering lights above you as the world slipped in and out of focus. Their hands never left you, their voices never stopped murmuring reassurances, but nothing had mattered until you woke up to their faces, Agatha’s hand clutching yours, Rio’s voice hushed as she explained what had happened.

The miscarriage had turned into a medical emergency. You had passed out multiple times. You had lost so much blood. They had nearly lost you.

And yet, through all of it, Agatha had never stopped touching you. Even as Rio spoke, even as you drifted in and out of consciousness, her hand had stayed pressed against your skin, refusing to let go.

The next day had been unbearable.

Tears. Screaming. Grief.

You had apologized, over and over. Apologized for your body betraying you. Apologized for giving them hope only to take it away. And when the doctor had asked you if you remembered anything leading up to the event, all you had been able to say was:

"I… was…"

Their eyes had been on you—Rio’s, Agatha’s—filled with so much love and pain, and yet—

"I can be good."

The words had shattered something inside of you.

You had sobbed, repeating it over and over. I can be good. I was good. I can be good.

Agatha had reached you first, wrapping you in her arms as you broke, whispering reassurances against your hair. Rio had walked out—not away, just out—giving you space to grieve while she spoke to Dr. Ezra, making sure you had medication and answering any lingering questions.

The next few months had been cautious. Hesitant.

Two more attempts, two more failures.

And when you had gone back for the fourth attempt, you had whispered to them both, voice small, “Maybe we should take a break.”

Instead of arguing, they had listened.

And this time, the doctor had suggested something different. A more hands-on approach.

You had given your permission.

You had watched as they both, together, pushed their bone marrow into your egg. Although the science was new, it was the only way you were willing. A child made of all three of you.

And then—

Life had gone on.

***End of Medical Flashback**

Before Agatha and Rio knew—before the words had even formed in your own mind—you had already started wrapping yourself in them. It wasn’t a conscious decision at first. Just something small, a lingering comfort on the cold autumn mornings when exhaustion clung to your bones and the nausea never truly left.

It had started with Rio’s hoodie, the well-worn gray one she always tossed over the back of the couch. It smelled like her—like cedarwood and something unmistakably warm. You had tugged it over your head without thinking one morning before heading out the door, and it had stayed. The oversized fabric hung loosely around you, drowning you in a way that felt safe, a shield between you and the rest of the world.

Then came Agatha’s sweaters. Thick, cable-knit ones she folded carefully in the closet, each one carrying the faintest scent of vanilla and old books. When the chill in the air deepened, you pulled them over Rio’s hoodie, layers upon layers, as if wrapping yourself in the two of them might settle the unease in your stomach. The soft fabric brushed against your skin, grounding you when dizziness struck.

And then there was the weight of it all—the way your body never quite felt like your own anymore. You noticed the shift before they did. The way your stomach felt a little tighter, the way your jeans sat just a bit differently. So you stopped wearing them. Opted for Rio’s sweatpants instead, paired with Agatha’s thick, oversized scarves that you draped around yourself like armor. The chill of the season was only an excuse—the real reason was something you weren’t yet ready to name. The warmth of their touch seeped into you, grounding you in the moment as your mind raced through the past weeks—the symptoms you had ignored, the small signs you had pushed aside.

It had started subtly. A lingering nausea that crept up in the early mornings and clung to you throughout the day. You had chalked it up to nerves—too much stress from meetings with your dissertation committee, too many late nights staring at your screen, eyes burning from the glow of endless student papers. It made sense at the time. The pressure of finishing your Ph.D. while balancing teaching responsibilities had left you perpetually exhausted. Of course, you were tired. Of course, your appetite was erratic. It was just the weight of academia, the natural consequence of overworking yourself.

But then, the patterns emerged. The way you found yourself reaching for small snacks throughout the day—crackers between lectures, fruit while answering emails, toast before bed—anything to settle the queasiness that never seemed to fully fade. The exhaustion became something else entirely, different from the academic burnout you had grown accustomed to. This wasn’t just weariness—it was bone-deep fatigue, a heaviness in your limbs that no amount of sleep seemed to cure.

And then, the realization.

You were finishing up on a revision when the reality hit you.

You were late. Like, late late.

It hadn’t even crossed your mind that it had worked. The appointment had been almost seven weeks ago. The hope rose in your chest, but terror quickly overshadowed you. Instead of rushing to the two people you loved more than anything, you locked the news away to shield them from another round of pain and disappointment.

You refused to take a test, wanting to do that with them present. No matter how long that would be. You ordered a onesie with “my moms have Ph. D.s and me”, another with “I’m the co-author”, and the last said “It worked”. It was made for a home full of women who loved history and literature. This would be the perfect way to break the news you thought. That was two weeks ago, and you were almost at the ten-week mark, a somewhat safe time, you thought.

Looking back, you wondered how they hadn’t noticed sooner. How Agatha hadn’t caught on when she saw you curled up on the couch in her thickest cardigan, Rio’s hoodie still layered underneath. How Rio hadn’t pieced it together when she found your stash of crackers tucked beside the couch, or when she caught you in the kitchen late at night, staring at a glass of orange juice like it might hold the answer to a question you were too afraid to ask.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

But now, their hands still pressed against your stomach, the realization settled like a weight in the air bringing you back to the present.  Agatha’s fingers spread wider, her touch firm but reverent. “You were keeping us with you,” she murmured, her eyes soft with understanding. “Even before you knew.”

Rio’s lips parted, her gaze flickering between you and the oversized hoodie next to you—her hoodie. “Oh, honey,” she breathed, her thumb brushing against your side. “You weren’t just keeping us close, were you? You were protecting them.”

A lump formed in your throat as you swallowed hard, nodding. Because somehow, even before the truth had settled in your mind, your body had already known. It had wrapped itself in them, seeking their warmth, their love, their presence—because even then, your child had been surrounded by each of you.

As the realization settled, the weight of it pressed against your ribs—not crushing, but shifting, changing, making space for something new. Something terrifying. Something beautiful.

"Why didn’t you tell us sooner?" Agatha’s fingers still rested against your stomach, Rio’s touch anchoring you to the moment, to them. And yet, fear still clung to you, wrapping itself around your ribs as tightly as the sweaters you had hidden beneath for weeks.

"I didn’t want to disappoint you both again," you whispered.

Agatha’s hand stilled. Her fingers lifted, tilting your chin up with a quiet reverence, her touch firm but gentle. There would be no hiding now.

Her blue eyes found yours, and in them, you saw everything—the fear, the hope, the love. And then—

"You, my love, could never be a disappointment."

The words unraveled something deep inside you. Her lips ghosted over yours, her breath warm, steady, grounding. A tether.

Rio was there too, her hands still firm against your skin, her eyes reflecting nothing but awe and relief.

And then—

Agatha kissed you. Soft. Slow. Reverent. A promise, a devotion, a truth that had always existed between the three of you.

Then Rio was closer, replacing her, pressing her own kiss to your lips—filled with joy, with excitement, with everything that made you fall in love with them in the first place.

"Never a disappointment," Rio murmured against your skin. "You’re everything to us. You know that, right? We love you so so much. "

You nodded, breath catching in your throat, the last remnants of doubt dissolving under their touch.

Agatha’s fingers spread wider on your stomach, her normally guarded face open with wonder. “You’re carrying our child.” Her voice was reverent, as if saying it aloud made it more real. She swallowed hard, pressing a lingering kiss to your stomach before her forehead rested against it, as if she needed to feel closer to the life within you. “You’re…” she trailed off, searching for the right words. “They are a piece of each of us.”

Rio exhaled sharply, overwhelmed but awed, pressing herself closer to you, her lips brushing against your temple. “You’re everything.” And as she pressed her lips to your skin, as Rio breathed you in, you finally believed it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Moments later, you were in their arms.

Your back pressed against Rio, her warmth enveloping you, while your legs stretched over Agatha’s lap. The space between you hummed with something unspoken, something weighty, tangible. Agatha’s fingers traced slow, deliberate circles over your stomach, barely skimming the fabric of your shirt, yet each touch sent sparks dancing across your skin. She wasn’t just touching—she was learning you, mapping every change neither of them had truly noticed before tonight.

Her palm flattened over the subtle swell of your stomach, reverent, grounding herself in the reality of you.

Rio’s hand, warmer, rougher, trailed featherlight along your side, as if afraid to push too hard, as if she might break the spell. Even that whisper of contact sent a shiver down your spine. A soft gasp slipped from your lips, unbidden, and Agatha stilled.

Their gazes met over you.

Rio pressed a bit more firmly against your waist, her thumb grazing the dip of your hipbone. Your breath caught, another sound—barely a whimper—escaping before you could swallow it down.

Agatha, ever the observer, took in every reaction, every involuntary tilt of your body. Her hand shifted, fingers brushing higher beneath the swell of your chest. A sharp inhale, your body instinctively leaning into her touch before you could stop it.

Agatha exhaled slowly, her expression unreadable—until it wasn’t.

“You’re so sensitive,” Rio murmured, her voice low, warm. Her fingers flexed experimentally against your skin, and the way you trembled beneath her touch made something flicker in her dark eyes.

Agatha’s lips parted slightly, gaze roaming over you with newfound understanding, with a quiet, reverent wonder.

“God,” Rio breathed, like she was seeing you for the first time. “You’re incredible.”

The shift was subtle but unmistakable.

Gone was the hesitancy, the careful restraint. Agatha’s hands slid down your thighs, kneading gently, thumbs skimming along the inside of your legs in a way that made your breath stutter. Rio’s fingers followed the curve of your ribs, barely-there, until her lips found the pulse at your throat.

Soft. Lingering. Worshipful.

“So strong,” Agatha whispered against your skin, her hands pressing grounding circles into your calves, easing away tension you hadn’t even realized had settled there.

“So intelligent,” Rio murmured, her mouth finding the line of your jaw, her breath warm as her words seeped into you.

“So beautiful,” Agatha added, her lips following Rio’s path.

Every whispered praise sank into you, seeped into your bones, until they felt like they had always been there, waiting for you to believe them.

And then—

Agatha leaned in closer, her breath ghosting over your ear, her lips just barely brushing your skin.

“And so incredibly stubborn.”

The words hit like a gravitational shift, leaving you weightless in their grasp. The truth of it cut deep—not as a wound, but as something undeniable, something that had always existed between you. Your body responded before your mind could catch up—your back arching, a sharp, sudden sound slipping from your lips.

“Please.”

The air thickened, electric, charged with something unseen yet undeniable.

Rio stilled. A sharp inhale.

Her grip on your waist tightened, fingers pressing just a fraction harder into your skin.

“Oh, fuck.”

The words were barely a whisper, yet they resonated between you like a bolt of lightning. You felt the weight of her realization before she spoke, before she even moved. Memories surged—sharp, vivid.

Last week. Her office.

Her phone had vibrated against the desk. A message lighting up the screen.

"Are you free? Can I come to you?"

Agatha had been tied up in a meeting, but Rio had been alone.

"Door’s open."

Ten minutes later, you had walked in, something different about you. Blown-wide pupils. Uneven breath. A certain intensity in the way you looked at her, in the way the door had clicked shut behind you.

She barely had time to ask, “What’s wrong?” before you were on her.

The kiss had started desperate—your hands framing her face, your body pressing flush against hers—but then it had turned into something else entirely.

Your fingers curled in her shirt, pulling her closer, and when she gasped, you swallowed the sound like you needed it to breathe.

Rio had no idea how you ended up on the couch, her back against the cushions, your weight pressing her down—but she remembered the way your mouth found her throat. The way her fingers dug into your hips, trying to anchor herself in the tidal wave that was you. The way her skirt was tugged down before she knew what was happening, followed by the pressure of you settling on her lap, the dark spot in your lace unmistakable, making her moan.

She also remembered the moment she realized how sensitive you were.

Every touch had you trembling, every brush of her hands over your skin made you shudder like you couldn’t get enough. How your kisses burned with a fury, chasing something desperate, something undeniable. How, when she finally ran her fingers through your folds, the full-body shudder should have been enough.

But it wasn’t.

The moment your gasp turned sharp—loud enough to echo down the hall—she had clamped a hand over your mouth, pinning you against her, breath ragged.

You had shivered in her grasp.

And now—standing in the present, the weight of realization settling in her bones—Rio understood the past few weeks.

The way you had craved their touch. How insatiable you had been. Every brush of contact had drawn sounds from you, neither of them had questioned at the time.

Her grip tightened. Her breath came quicker.

“Rio?” Agatha’s voice was low, laced with the beginning of understanding.

But Rio was already moving.

She stood abruptly, her hold on you never faltering, effortless in her strength as she hauled you against her chest.

"Agatha," she said, voice tight, urgent.

Agatha’s brows furrowed for only a second before she saw it.

Something clicked.

She exhaled sharply, her hands sliding over your legs, steadying you, helping Rio adjust her grip.

You barely had time to react before Rio was carrying you through the threshold of your bedroom, your head falling back against her shoulder.

And when your gaze caught Agatha’s—when you saw the way she was looking at you—

A moan slipped from your lips, unbidden. The air burned, charged with something inevitable. Overwhelming. When your back hit the bed, you knew.

There was no running, no retreat—only surrender.

Still breathless, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, watching as Rio and Agatha moved together, drawn in by a force you couldn’t name but felt deep in your chest.

It started with a look—one that passed between them like a match striking against dry air. A spark. A promise. And then, Rio reached for Agatha, and the moment their bodies connected, the room shifted.

Their lips met in a slow, charged collision, a pull stronger than gravity itself. Bodies pressed close, the heat of them licking at the space between, sending a pulse of electricity straight through you. It was like watching a storm break over the horizon—raw, untamed, breathtaking. A force of nature.

Hunger and need tangled with something softer, something deeper. Something like home.

The way Rio’s fingers curled in Agatha’s shirt, the way Agatha’s hand cradled the curve of Rio’s jaw, thumb brushing over her cheek—it was mesmerizing, and you felt it, every breath, every shift, every barely-contained sound between them.

You could have watched forever.

And for a long, perfect moment, you did.

But then—

Their kiss broke, and in unison, their eyes found you.

Your breath hitched.

They moved together, deliberate and slow, a predator’s grace. A promise wrapped in silk. Agatha’s fingers ghosted down your arm, delicate and knowing, while Rio’s presence loomed close, warm and steady.

“How long have you known?” Agatha’s voice was low, brushing over your skin like velvet.

You swallowed, your throat tight. “Two weeks… maybe a little more.” The confession slipped out like an exhale. “I didn’t even realize until I was up too late doing revisions.”

Agatha’s smirk was devastating—sharp, electric, curling at the edges with something wicked. Her fingers followed the heat, teasing down your skin, setting a slow-burning fire beneath every touch.

Before you knew it, clothes were peeled away—Rio’s shirt discarded without care, Agatha’s sweater joining it on the floor. The rustle of fabric, the shifting weight of bodies, the sharp contrast of warm skin meeting cooler air—it all sent a delicious shiver through you.

Then, their lips were on you.

They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to.

Rio pressed a kiss to the sensitive curve of your neck, her lips warm, her breath steady. Agatha’s fingers traced the path of heat, skimming down your side, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip. Each touch deliberate, a slow unraveling, like they were mapping you—learning you all over again.

You shivered beneath them, but the warmth pooling low in your stomach had nothing to do with the cold.

Their kisses trailed lower, brushing the length of your chest, their bodies surrounding you, pulling you under inch by inch. The realization struck like a bolt of lightning—you were the only one still clothed, the thin fabric of your boxers and shirt clinging to your skin, every brush of their mouths turning unbearably electric.

Your hands moved on instinct, reaching for Rio, for Agatha—needing more.

The moment your fingers tangled in Rio’s hair, her eyes met yours.

Something ignited.

A fire sparked in her gaze, dark and consuming, and then—

She was on you.

Her mouth claimed yours in a kiss that left you breathless, her body pressing into you, her chest flush against yours, the heat of her skin bleeding through the barrier of fabric. She kissed you like she had been holding back for too long—like she wasn’t willing to anymore.

Agatha, still leaning back on her calves, watched with darkened eyes, her lips curling in something both knowing and insatiable.

Enjoying the view. Waiting. Letting Rio set you ablaze.

Then, Agatha moved.

Her hands skimmed over your thighs, palms branding heat through the thin barrier of your boxers. Slow, deliberate. Her fingertips traced over your stomach, just beneath the hem of your shirt, teasing, lingering.

Her blue eyes caught yours—pinned you in place. Not just looking, but memorizing.

Rio’s lips ghosted along your jaw, her hand settling over Agatha’s, pressing you into the mattress, grounding you.

And then, Agatha peeled your shirt away.

She took her time, her fingers never straying too far, never too rough, as if afraid to move too quickly—to take too much. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, and the air between you all changed.

Their eyes drank you in.

Rio exhaled, a slow, shuddering breath, her fingers tracing reverently over newly exposed skin.

Agatha stilled.

For the first time, she wasn’t composed. She wasn’t controlled.

She looked at you like she had never seen anything more breathtaking in her life. Like you were something rare and impossible.

Her fingers resumed their path, tracing delicately over the soft swell of your stomach, relearning you. Revering you.

“You are…” Agatha’s voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it, almost breathless. She shook her head slightly, like she couldn’t find the right words.

Rio pressed her forehead against your temple, her hand covering Agatha’s once more, sealing you between them.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured.

Agatha’s lips brushed over the curve of your stomach, her breath warm against your skin.

The weight of emotion curled tight in your chest, tangled between guilt and relief, but before you could speak, before you could even gather your thoughts—

Agatha’s lips pressed to your stomach again.

Grounding you.

Rio exhaled against your temple, her body taut with something unreadable. You could feel it in the tension of her muscles—not anger, not even frustration, but understanding.

She let that understanding settle before she spoke.

“Do you have any idea how we would have taken care of you?”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, heat curling low in your stomach.

Agatha hummed against your skin, a quiet agreement. “How badly we still want to?”

Your breath hitched.

Then—

Rio moved first.

Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of your boxers, slow, deliberate. Not teasing—not yet. Just feeling you. Memorizing.

Agatha followed.

Her mouth traced lower, lingering, worshiping. Each kiss, each breath, each reverent touch sent a slow, consuming fire licking through your veins. It was overwhelming in the best way. Their hands, their mouths, the heat of them pressing close.

Your hands fisted in their hair, gripping anywhere you could, needing something to hold on to as the sensation swelled, too much and not enough all at once.

Rio pressed a kiss just below your ribs, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I can feel your heart racing.”

Agatha’s fingers flexed against your thighs. “We haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

You whimpered.

They felt it—the way your body responded, the way you clenched around nothing, the way your breath stuttered at the promise laced in their words.

And then—

Agatha hooked her fingers into your waistband, dragging the fabric down, slow, controlled, but her gaze—God, her gaze burned.

Rio let out a shaky breath, her fingers brushing over bare skin, her palm splayed against your stomach as if she couldn’t stop touching you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she whispered.

Agatha smirked, dark and knowing, before dipping lower, her breath hot, her lips teasingly close.

“Tell us what you need,” she murmured.

Rio’s hand trailed higher, fingers brushing the underside of your breast, feather-light and devastating.

“Say it,” she echoed, her voice rich with promise.

And then—

You gave in.

“Please”

The only thing louder than the pounding of your heart was the way Rio and Agatha moved against you—the rustle of fabric, the quiet, needy exhales, the slick press of bodies drawn together in something inevitable.

Rio’s lips traced slow, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, her breath warm, damp against your skin, sending a shudder rippling down your spine. She exhaled softly, the sound a quiet hum of satisfaction as she dragged her tongue up the length of your neck, tasting, teasing.

Agatha, kneeling between your thighs, took her time. Her fingers were feather-light as they traced up the sensitive skin of your legs, her nails barely scratching, sending jolts of anticipation through you. A slow inhale left her lips, as if she were savoring the moment, memorizing the heat rolling off your body.

"You smell so sweet," she murmured, her voice thick, almost reverent.

A whimper slipped from your throat before you could stop it, and Rio chuckled low against your jaw.

“She’s barely touched you, and you’re already falling apart,” Rio teased, her lips brushing over the shell of your ear. The rich amusement in her voice sent a new wave of heat curling through you.

You tried to reply, but the words melted on your tongue as Agatha pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft at first, then firmer, her lips parting just enough for you to feel the ghost of her tongue against your skin. The sound you made was somewhere between a gasp and a plea, your fingers twitching where they tangled in the sheets.

"Patience," Agatha murmured, her breath teasing, the vibration of her voice sinking into your skin.

Rio shifted, her body pressing more firmly against yours, pinning you in place as her hand slid lower. She traced her fingertips along the curve of your stomach, her touch barely there—just enough to make you shiver, to make your muscles tense in anticipation.

Then—finally—she slipped her fingers lower, parting you with an agonizing slowness. The first touch sent a sharp, helpless moan tumbling from your lips, your back arching instinctively.

“So sensitive,” Rio murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

Agatha exhaled against your thigh, clearly pleased by the reaction. "She’s trembling," she noted, her voice edged with something wicked.

Rio hummed, her fingers teasing, circling, coaxing. The wet sounds of her touch mixed with your hitched breathing, with the quiet, aching noises you couldn’t hold back.

And then Agatha joined her.

Her mouth replaced Rio’s fingers in a slow, devastating glide, the heat of her tongue against you sending a violent shudder through your entire body. The first flick was soft, testing. The second—firmer, more confident. She groaned, the sound muffled against your skin, but you felt it, the vibration of it, and your breath hitched so sharply it turned into a stuttered moan.

Rio swallowed the sound, capturing your lips in a kiss so deep, so consuming, it left you dizzy. Her teeth scraped against your bottom lip before she soothed the bite with her tongue, her other hand sliding up your chest, cupping your breast, rolling your nipple between her fingers.

The contrast was intoxicating—Rio’s warmth pressing into you from above, Agatha’s mouth devouring you below. The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of their touches, the quiet, desperate gasps and whimpers escaping from your throat.

Your thighs trembled, your body strung tight between them. Agatha's tongue moved in slow, languid strokes, dragging over sensitive nerves, drawing out soft, helpless moans that only seemed to encourage her. She hummed in approval, the sound sending a fresh wave of pleasure rolling through you.

Rio pulled back just enough to watch, her breathing ragged, her pupils blown wide with hunger. "God, look at you," she whispered, pressing her forehead to yours. "Completely undone."

Agatha chuckled, her lips slick, her fingers tightening on your hips as if to keep you from squirming away. "She’s close."

You were. Every nerve was alight, every sensation magnified, every touch dragging you further toward the edge.

And then—Agatha’s fingers joined her mouth, sliding inside you with perfect, practiced ease.

The stretch made you gasp, your hips jerking, seeking more. The sensation of her fingers curling inside you, paired with the wet heat of her tongue, had you choking on a sob.

Rio kissed you through it, swallowing every broken sound, every shuddered breath. "That’s it," she murmured against your lips. "Let go."

You barely had time to process before the wave crashed over you.

Your body tensed, then shattered, pleasure ripping through you in sharp, electric pulses. The world blurred—nothing but sensation, nothing but heat and hands and mouths and the overwhelming rush of being utterly, completely consumed.

Agatha didn’t stop. She worked you through it, her tongue lapping up every aftershock, her fingers slowing but never leaving you, drawing out the pleasure until you were trembling beneath them.

Rio stroked your hair, grounding you, pressing gentle kisses along your temple. "Breathe," she murmured, her voice thick with affection, with something deeper.

Agatha finally lifted her head, her lips glistening, her eyes dark with satisfaction. She leaned up, pressing a lingering kiss to your stomach before meeting your gaze.

"You’re breathtaking when you fall apart," she whispered.

Rio hummed in agreement, her hand still tracing lazy circles over your skin.

You were still shuddering, limbs loose and trembling, chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. The air was thick—charged, humming with the weight of what had just happened, but neither of them moved away. If anything, their touches became softer, almost as if they were worshiping the wreckage they had made of you.

Agatha pressed a last, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh before finally pulling back, her breath still heavy, her lips swollen, glistening with the proof of what she had done to you. She didn’t wipe it away. Instead, she let Rio pull her into a deep, heated kiss, one that had you watching, transfixed, as Rio tasted you on her lips, a quiet, satisfied hum slipping from her throat.

You exhaled shakily, still trying to ground yourself, still trying to catch up. But Rio was already turning back to you, her gaze molten, her fingers tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet her eyes.

"You’re not done yet, are you?" she murmured, her thumb tracing your bottom lip.

Your body was still trembling, oversensitive, but the way they looked at you—the way Agatha’s fingers skimmed your stomach, the way Rio leaned in, pressing the weight of her body against yours—it stirred something deeper, something insatiable.

You swallowed, your voice hoarse when you whispered, "No."

Agatha smiled, slow and knowing. "Good."

Then Rio kissed you.

It was different this time. Not urgent, not hurried. This was slower—deeper. She kissed you like she had all the time in the world, like she wanted to memorize every curve of your lips, every small sound that escaped you. Her tongue slid against yours in a languid, unhurried dance, teasing, tasting, leaving you breathless.

Agatha’s hands never stopped moving. They skimmed down your sides, over your stomach, tracing the sensitive dip of your navel, the curve of your hips. She was learning you all over again, taking her time, and every single touch sent shivers racing beneath your skin.

"She’s still shaking," Agatha murmured, her fingers skimming lower, making your stomach clench.

Rio pulled back just enough to let her lips brush against yours when she spoke. "Then we’ll have to be gentle, won’t we?"

Her words sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through you.

And then—

Rio’s hands slid down, warm palms smoothing over your thighs, parting them once more as Agatha settled between them again. The anticipation was intoxicating, the ache already returning, building despite how utterly spent you had been just moments ago.

Agatha exhaled softly against your skin, her fingers ghosting over you, teasing but not quite touching. You whimpered, hips twitching, and she chuckled, her breath hot as she pressed a slow, deliberate kiss just above your navel.

"So eager," she murmured, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

Rio hummed in agreement, her own hands moving with agonizing slowness, fingertips tracing the peaks and valleys of your body, learning, memorizing.

"You like being taken care of, don’t you?" Rio whispered, her lips pressing to your temple, the words sinking into your skin. "Letting us make you feel good?"

You nodded, barely able to think, barely able to do anything but exist between them.

Agatha’s fingers finally slipped lower, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves already swollen, already aching. The first stroke was light, testing, just a whisper of touch, but it sent a violent shudder through your entire body, a strangled moan tearing from your throat.

Agatha exhaled sharply, as if the reaction alone sent heat curling in her stomach.

"God, you’re soaked," she murmured, her fingers circling, pressing just enough to make your thighs tremble around her.

Rio’s grip tightened on your hips, her breath warm against your neck as she whispered, "We’re going to take you apart again."

And then—

They did.

Agatha’s fingers worked in slow, deliberate strokes, each movement perfectly measured, perfectly controlled, drawing pleasure from you in steady, unrelenting waves. She never rushed, never faltered, coaxing you higher and higher with practiced ease.

Rio, meanwhile, was everywhere. Her mouth trailed over your neck, your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder. Her hands roamed, smoothing over the curves of your body, her touch grounding and electric all at once. When she took a nipple into her mouth, her tongue flicking, teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp, your hands flew to her hair, your nails digging into her scalp as your back arched off the bed.

The room was filled with sound—the slick, obscene noises of Agatha’s fingers moving against you, the quiet, breathy moans that spilled from your lips, the soft hums of approval from Rio as she worshiped every inch of you.

Agatha was relentless, her fingers pressing deeper, curling just right, her rhythm never breaking, never hesitating. You were drowning, lost in the overwhelming heat of their touch, their mouths, their hands—

And then Agatha leaned down and replaced her fingers with her mouth.

A broken cry left your lips, your hands flying to her hair, fingers twisting in the soft strands as she dragged her tongue over you, slow and savoring. She groaned against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, making your thighs clench around her.

"Relax," she murmured, her fingers pressing firmly into your hips, holding you still. "Let us take you there."

You had no choice but to obey.

Rio's hand trailed up, fingers brushing your jaw before tilting your chin toward her. The moment you looked at her, she kissed you—deep, consuming, swallowing every whimper, every gasping moan.

Agatha worked you open with practiced ease, every stroke of her tongue sending you spiraling further, every slow, deliberate movement designed to drive you closer and closer to the edge.

Your body tensed, the pleasure unbearable, mounting in a way that felt all-consuming, inescapable.

Rio felt it—sensed it in the way your breath stuttered, in the way your fingers clenched in her hair. She pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, her voice nothing but a heated murmur.

"Cum for us."

And that was all it took.

The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, white-hot and all-consuming. Your body jerked, a sharp, helpless cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure tore through you. Agatha held you firm, her mouth never relenting, working you through every pulse, every shudder.

Rio kissed your temple, her voice a soothing hum as she whispered, "That’s it. Just like that."

Your vision blurred, your limbs boneless, the aftershocks rolling through you in slow, lingering waves.

Agatha finally pulled back, her lips glistening, her expression utterly wrecked with satisfaction. She pressed one last kiss to your trembling thigh before crawling up your body, her gaze heavy, dark with something unreadable.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The room was warm, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. The news still lingered in the air, changing something between you all—something delicate, something immense. And maybe that was why, when Agatha and Rio turned toward each other, it felt different. Like something inevitable. Like something that had been waiting for this exact moment to surface.

You sat there, watching as Rio reached for Agatha, her fingers skimming the line of her jaw, her thumb tracing over the edge of her cheekbone. It was softer than usual—less of a challenge, more of a need. And when Agatha leaned in, their lips met in something deep, something slow, something unhurried but undeniably consuming.

The sound of their kiss filled the space—wet, breathless, a slow push and pull that sent a tremor through your body. The air shifted as Rio’s fingers found the hem of Agatha’s sweater, pushing it up, her hands splaying over bare skin, feeling the warmth of her, needing more. Agatha let her, tilting her head slightly, deepening the kiss, sighing into Rio’s mouth as her fingers tangled in dark hair.

You swallowed, pulse quickening at the way they moved—how deliberate it was, how every motion felt like an unspoken promise. This was different from their usual hunger. There was still heat, still urgency, but it was laced with something holy.

Rio’s lips left Agatha’s mouth, trailing lower, pressing against her throat, sucking gently at the delicate skin there, drawing out a soft, shuddering breath. Agatha let her head fall back slightly, a small smirk curving her lips as she exhaled, eyes flickering toward you.

She knew you were watching.

And she wanted you to.

The moment stretched between the three of you, thick with something electric. Rio's hands moved lower, pressing over, fingers teasing. Agatha shivered, her breath catching slightly as Rio guided her backward onto the bed, their bodies flush together.

The rustle of fabric, the shift of weight, the small, sharp inhales that filled the space—every sound wrapped around you, making you hyperaware of everything. The way Agatha’s fingers gripped at Rio’s shoulders, the way Rio groaned low in her throat when Agatha arched against her, the way their bodies moved in perfect, practiced synchronicity.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.

It was slow, intentional—like they were savoring each other. Like they were memorizing this moment, anchoring themselves in it.

Rio pressed a kiss to Agatha’s collarbone, then lower, her mouth mapping a path over her skin, tasting, lingering. Agatha sighed, her fingers sliding through Rio’s hair, guiding, encouraging. When Rio bit down, just slightly, a sharp gasp escaped her lips, her back arching in response.

You felt it, deep in your stomach.

Agatha turned her head again, her gaze locking onto yours, heavy-lidded, dark with something unreadable. A small smile played at her lips—something teasing, something knowing.

Rio’s voice was hushed against her skin, but you still caught it.

“She’s watching us.”

Agatha hummed, a slow, pleased sound. “I know.”

Your breath stilled in your chest.

They weren’t ignoring you.

They were performing for you.

The moment stretched, thick with warmth, with intimacy, with something unspoken but understood between the three of you. Agatha reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over your wrist before pulling away again, an invitation but not a demand. A simple acknowledgment that you were part of this, even if all you did was watch.

And so you did.

And they let you.

Let you see them in their most raw, most vulnerable state. Let you witness them fall apart in each other’s hands, in each other’s mouths, in the slow, careful way they undressed each other, exploring, relearning, grounding themselves in this moment.

There was nothing rough about it.

Nothing desperate.

Only love. Only warmth. Only the knowledge that the three of you had just stepped into something new.

Agatha’s hand found yours, her fingers slipping between your own with an effortless certainty, her grip firm, warm, grounding. She didn’t pull—not forcefully—but the intent was clear. An invitation. A promise.

And when you shifted, when you gave in and let yourself be drawn closer, pressing against her bare skin, she let out the softest sound—something between a sigh and a hum, like she had been waiting for this, like she had wanted this all along.

Rio’s gaze flickered over you both, her lips parting, her breath uneven as she took in the sight—your body melting into Agatha’s embrace, your skin flushed, your chest rising and falling with anticipation.

You were surrounded. Trapped. Held between them exactly as they wanted you. Exactly where you belonged.

Agatha curled her arms around you, her body a steady wall of warmth, her breath brushing against your ear as she pulled you fully against her. The contrast between the firmness of her frame and the softness of Rio’s touch sent a slow, steady shiver through you, anticipation curling tight in your stomach.

Then—her lips. Feather-light, brushing just against your temple, barely there but full of meaning, full of something unspoken yet undeniable.

“You have never been more beautiful to us than you are right now,” she murmured, her voice low and certain, vibrating against your skin.

Rio’s hands smoothed up your thighs, her fingertips barely skimming over the sensitive skin, tracing delicate patterns before pressing more firmly, grounding you between them. She exhaled, her breath warm against your neck, her lips trailing the path of her hands as she slowly, deliberately worked her way up your body.

“You’re carrying our child,” she whispered, reverence thick in her voice, her gaze flickering up to yours with something raw, something deep. “You’re everything.”

The weight of their words settled deep in your chest, something overwhelming and indescribable tightening in your throat. It was love in its purest form, wrapped in hunger, in adoration, in the undeniable pull of something greater than the three of you alone.

Then—Rio moved.

Her hips pressed down, deliberate, controlled, the first slow grind sending a bolt of electricity straight through you. The heat of her body met yours in a slow, rolling wave, stealing the breath from your lungs, making your fingers clench tighter around Agatha’s arm.

Agatha inhaled sharply, her grip around you flexing just slightly, her lips curling into a barely-there smirk against your skin. She felt it—the way you shivered, the way your breath hitched, the way you tried to chase the movement before she tightened her hold, keeping you in place.

“Stay still,” she murmured, her voice smooth, edged with amusement, with something teasing, something possessive. “Let her take what she wants.”

And God, Rio did.

She moved again, rolling her hips with devastating precision, the slow drag of her body against yours a perfect, torturous friction. Every movement was controlled, deliberate, a measured rhythm designed to unravel you, to make you feel every inch of her.

Your own breath came faster now, each exhale breaking into something softer, something needier. The sounds in the room shifted—Rio’s quiet sighs, your sharp inhales, the slow, intoxicating slide of skin against skin, the occasional rustle of the sheets beneath you.

Every breath, every touch, every shift in pressure built on the last, tension coiling low in your stomach like a wire pulled too tight.

And Agatha? She was steady. She was your anchor, her arms wrapped around you, her breath warm against the side of your neck, the occasional press of her lips sending a shiver down your spine.

Her gaze was locked on Rio, watching the way she moved against you, the way her breath caught when she dragged herself over you just right.

“She’s so beautiful like this,” Agatha murmured, her voice rich and indulgent, sending warmth curling through your chest.

Then, with a shift in weight, Rio leaned in, her body pressing even closer, her breath warm against your cheek, her lips hovering just over yours but not quite touching.

Her fingers curled around your thigh, holding you there as she moved faster now, more insistent.

A sharp gasp broke from your lips, your fingers digging into Agatha’s skin, but she didn’t waver. She only tightened her grip, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear, whispering something low, something meant only for you.

Rio exhaled sharply, her breath shaky, her body trembling slightly with the force of her own pleasure, with the way she was losing herself in it—just like you were.

Agatha’s hand smoothed over your stomach, her touch reverent, possessive, fingers tracing the new curve of your body with something unspoken but undeniable.

“You feel this?” she murmured, her voice laced with awe, her lips pressing to your shoulder. “Every part of you belongs to us.”

Rio groaned, her forehead resting briefly against yours, her fingers flexing against your thigh. Stilling her movements and looking you in your eyes “And we’ll take care of you,” Rio added, her voice thick, edged with something soft, something fierce.

The heat between you all was undeniable, a force pulling you deeper, until there was nothing but sensation—the press of their bodies, the fire curling in your stomach, the way they surrounded you completely. From the moment Rio’s hips met yours, rolling in slow, intoxicating circles, to the way Agatha’s arms tightened around you, you were lost.

Agatha moved first, her body flush against your back, her breath warm as it fanned over your ear. She rolled her hips, grinding against you in time with Rio’s movements, and the added sensation sent a shudder through you. Your head tipped back, a breathless moan spilling from your lips—Agatha’s name.

A pleased hum vibrated against your skin as Agatha pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder. "That’s it," she murmured, voice husky with pleasure. "Say my name just like that."

Rio’s fingers flexed against your hips, her movements growing more insistent as she watched you come undone between them. When you whimpered her name next, drawn out and needy, Rio’s breath hitched, her eyes darkening.

“Rio, please”

Agatha smirked, tilting her head so her lips brushed the shell of your ear. "Rio loves when you moan her name," she murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction.

A groan tore from Rio’s throat, her grip on you tightening as her pace became more deliberate, more focused. "I do," she admitted, her voice thick with desire. "And I’m going to make you say it again."

The pleasure built in waves, crashing over you with every roll of their hips. Agatha’s moans grew softer but no less desperate, her movements faltering as she chased her release, her body tensing behind you. The sound of her pleasure, the way she shuddered against you, sent you hurtling closer to the edge.

And then—Agatha fell first.

You felt it—the way her body started to shake, her grip tightening, the sounds slipping from her lips turning desperate.

Her movements became erratic, faster, chasing that last bit of friction, the last stretch of pleasure—until she shattered.

A deep, wrecked moan ripped from her throat as she came, her entire body trembling, her fingers digging into your hips as she ground into you through every wave of release. “Fuck—oh, God—Such a good girl”

Her head fell forward, her lips brushing against the damp skin of your shoulder, her breath ragged and uneven.

And Rio—

Rio groaned, her hands gripping tighter, her hips stuttering against yours as she watched Agatha fall apart.

“That’s it,” she murmured, her voice raw with need. “That’s so fucking hot—”

But she wasn’t done.

Agatha was still trembling when Rio moved again, faster this time, her desperation showing, her restraint slipping.

She chased her release with sharp, erratic rolls of her hips, her breath coming in gasps, her forehead pressing against yours as she lost herself in the overwhelming heat of you.

And then—

You moaned her name.

“Rio—”

Her entire body jolted, her breath catching in her throat, her grip on your thighs tightening. “Oh, fuck—”

You whimpered it again, your voice breaking as she moved harder, faster. “Rio, please—”

The way you said it—wrecked and pleading—pushed her straight over the edge.

She let out a strangled, shuddering moan, her body convulsing as her climax tore through her, her head falling forward, her lips parting in a deep, breathless cry.

“Shit—yes—”

Her hips stuttered, jerking as she rode it out, dragging it out, making it last.

You felt every tremor, every desperate roll of her body, every broken sound that slipped past her lips.

And then—

Agatha moaned softly behind you, still feeling the aftershocks of her own release, her hands trailing up your body, holding you close.

But Rio wasn’t satisfied—not yet.

She shifted against you, her fingers pressing into your waist as she moved again, this time with more focus, more purpose. "I want to feel you let go for me," she whispered, her voice still ragged from her own release, but determined. "I’m going to make you come."

Agatha tightened her arms around you, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “Let go for us,” she urged, her voice a sultry plea, her hands trailing lower, adding to the overwhelming sensation.

It was too much—Rio’s desperate, lingering movements, Agatha’s warmth and whispered encouragement, the weight of their bodies surrounding you completely.

You gasped, your body tightening, your breath hitching as the tension inside you coiled impossibly tight—until it snapped. A sharp, broken moan tore from your throat as pleasure crashed over you, your body trembling between them, every nerve set ablaze.

Rio groaned as she felt you unravel beneath her. “Fuck, that’s it,” she murmured, her voice filled with pure, breathless admiration. "So perfect."

Agatha pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, her breath warm, steadying. “So beautiful,” she whispered.

As the aftershocks faded, the three of you remained tangled together, bodies pressed close, hearts still racing. Then, Rio’s hand slid gently over your stomach, fingers tracing slow, reverent circles.

"You’ve never been more beautiful to us than you are right now," she whispered. "Carrying our child… you are perfect."

Agatha hummed in agreement, her lips curling into a lazy smile against your skin.

Wrapped in their arms, the weight of their love surrounding you, you knew—there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

AO3: Link

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63878029/chapters/163822063

[wingsofmud]

The canonically rapid evolution of the dragons in WoF is really interesting to me, so I added some aspects of that to my rewrite.

The rankings system is also interesting, so I made that a nation-wide thing, instead of something just for the nobility. Circle 1 and the palace are located in the upper most part of the territory, with the other circles going in a line south of it.

I shifted the Great Ice Cliff to separate the 1-3 Circle from the 4-7 Circle and the rest of Pyrrhia.

Info Below (For present day Icewings):

Lower Circle Icewings

Lower Circle/Southern Icewings are vaguely based off of polar bears. They're shorter and brawnier than upper circle ones. While they do give off that signature Icewing chill, their scales are not as frigid as their northern counterparts. Their tails are like a spiked club.

They can come in white, but often come in light browns, grays, reds, and oranges. The closer the dragon is to the Great Ice Wall, the more whites, blues, and purples show up in their scales.

Southern Icewings are also more likely to have spots and/or stripes on their scales, all to blend in better in the ranging subarctic to temperate to desert climate they live in. They are more omnivorous, and many herd caribou as an occupation.

They make up the majority of the Icewing population and the backbone of the military. They wear clothing more often, which usually consists of fur, bone, or fish scales. Better off Icewings can also obtain cloth and jewelry from passing Sandwing nomads.

While all Icewings have a reputation for being frigid, pun intended, lower circle Icewings tend to be friendlier.

.

Upper Circle Icewings

Upper Circle/Northern Icewings are inspired off of arctic wolves. They often have small, pale irises and their scales feel like ice to the touch. Their tails are like spiked whips. They mostly come in white with some light blue or purple accents on them. Some dragons like Snowfall have red accents. Spots and stripes are rarer and usually much paler when they are present. They are much less tolerant of the heat.

Northern Icewings don't usually wear much jewelry. It's seen as garish to make such obvious displays of wealth, unless you're the Queen. They usually only dress up during special occasions and celebrations, and even then that's usually reserved for the one being celebrated.

The upper circle consists of all Icewing nobility along with the richest dragons. Most work in or around the palace grounds. Most of their diet consists of fish and seals which they eat raw.

.

History

I changed the Gift of Order to the Gift of Equality. In ancient Icewing society, the caste was absolute. You were born into and died in your circle. The Gift of Equality came with a system to introduce fairness by basing what circle a dragon ended up in on their merit rather than birth.

Of course the Queen at that time did not account for the fact that Upper Circle Icewings have far more resources at their disposal to ensure their dragonets remain in the upper circles than lower circle Icewings. A few dragons manage to climb a circle once in a while, which the upper circle dragons love to use to shut up complaints from the lower circles. It is incredibly difficult to end up in the top three circles if you were not born into them.

Lynx is an outlier. So much so that her family has been investigated several times by Icewing nobles for fraudulent scoring. Considering the punishment for that is death, it is not a light accusation. Nothing was ever found. Of course her problems aren't over, especially since Icewing nobles aren't exactly known for being accepting.

Lower circle Icewings are usually disregarded when it comes to decisions like war and lawmaking by the upper circles. In fact, the upper circles dragons very rarely directly interact with the lower circle ones, often giving news to the fourth circle for them to spread it to the rest themselves. Though each circle and town is different, there is a massive culture shock between the 4th and 3rd circle. Not to mention the literal wall between them.

Lower circle Icewings are vying for independence, a movement that grew rapidly during the War of SandWing Succession. A movement Queen Snowfall is now expected to do something about now that the war is over and Darkstalker has been dealt with.