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d-z20 · 6 months ago

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Rivals (NSFW)

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: As Agatha Harkness’s loyal, overworked intern, you're used to her sharp critiques, but during tonights debate your focus slips as her opponent, Rio, commands the stage—every smirk and effortless remark dragging your attention away from where it should be.

-OR-

Rio fucks you in a supply closet during the 20 minute intermission

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Top Rio, Agatha's a bitch to work for, hints at sub reader, reader gets called a good girl, fingering (R recv), kind of jealous Rio

Words: 2.5k

A/N: Agatha All Along Week Day 3: Politics AU

AO3 | Part 2 | Masterlist

The greenroom hums with quiet tension as you rifle through Agatha's debate notes for the third time, hands clammy and breath uneven. It’s the night of the big political debate, and as Agatha Harkness’s long-suffering assistant, it’s your job to keep her sharp—and yourself invisible. The pages are pristine, you’ve been over them so many times you could recite every policy point backwards, but Agatha's sharp gaze makes you doubt yourself anyway.

“Your collar,” she says flatly, eyes flicking up at you from her seat. “It’s crooked. And don’t tell me that’s the coffee you’re drinking?” Her voice cuts with a blend of exasperation and thinly veiled superiority. “You look jittery. The last thing I need is my intern vibrating through the floor.”

Jen is crouched in front of Agatha with a makeup brush in hand and mutters just loud enough for you to hear, “She doesn’t pay you enough for this.” The words are paired with an eyeroll as she dabs foundation across Agatha’s sharp cheekbones. You resist the urge to laugh or nod in agreement, offering Jen a tight smile instead.

Nearby, Alice—all business in their crisp, dark suit—stands by the door. As Agatha's head of security, she scans the room like a hawk, her gaze never lingering for long, before leaving to check another room. Just as you think you might escape Agatha’s scrutiny, you catch the telltale click of heels against the tile floor outside.

The sound is light and deliberate. Rio.

She doesn’t enter, of course. Instead, you catch her gliding past through the crack in the door, an effortless vision in sleek navy tailored trousers and a fitted blazer that seems more runway than debate stage. Her confidence oozes into the room like smoke, intangible yet suffocating. And as if she senses you looking, she pauses. Her piercing gaze locks onto yours through the sliver of the door, and her lips curl into a smirk—just a small, slow lift at one corner. It’s not smug, not outright. It’s worse: like she knows something you don’t. Your stomach twists, and you look away, your pulse hammering harder than it should.

“Focus,” Agatha snaps, drawing you back. You nod, gripping the notes tighter.

—

Out onstage, the spotlight belongs to the host, Lilia. With her poised, almost theatrical delivery, she welcomes the audience and sets the stakes for the evening. Her voice rises and falls with practiced polish as she introduces the two candidates, her tone dipped in just enough gravity to make the event feel monumental.

“First up, please welcome Agatha Harkness.” Lilia announces, and a round of polite applause follows. Agatha steps up to the podium in sharp black, chin tilted just so. Her expression is cool, calculated.

“And the opposition… Rio Vidal.”

Rio’s entrance is a masterclass in charisma. The lights catch her in all the right ways, her movements fluid as she takes her place. She flashes that grin—just a hint of teeth—at the crowd, and a ripple of enthusiasm bubbles up from the audience. You can feel it, and you hate it. You hate her easy confidence, her unshakeable calm, and the way her presence feels like gravity itself.

The debate kicks off with a bang. Lilia moderates with a firm hand, though at times she lets the tension stew just long enough to keep the crowd engaged. Agatha’s strategy is sharp and relentless. Her words hit like precise daggers, cutting at Rio’s platform with efficiency. But Rio… Rio doesn’t falter. Each barb rolls off her back as if rehearsed. Her responses are smooth, her tone honeyed yet precise. And every so often, when Agatha lands a particularly scathing blow, Rio’s smile spreads wide—like she’s winning something entirely separate from the debate.

From your place offstage, your knuckles are white where you grip the edge of your clipboard. You can’t stop watching her. It’s infuriating. Her ease, her smugness, the way she doesn’t seem to sweat even under the heat of Agatha’s precision.

And then Rio’s gaze flicks sideways—to you.

You freeze.

Her eyes hold yours for the barest beat, her smirk deepening like a silent challenge. It’s only a second, maybe two. But in that moment, she owns you, and she knows it.

—

“Now for a few questions from the audience,” Lilia says, gesturing to a woman in the second row.

“Hello, my name is Sharon Davies, and my question is for Agatha,” the woman begins, voice clear and steady. “How do you plan to address the economic disparity between the local communities?”

You feel a flicker of relief at the straightforward question until Agatha responds. “Thank you for your question, Mrs. Hart.”

There’s an audible pause. The woman’s lips twitch in confusion, but Agatha continues unbothered, launching into a clipped yet polished answer.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rio take a slow sip of water to hide the grin playing at her lips. You groan internally.

—

The first half of the debate ends with Lilia’s crisp announcement of a 20 minute break. Agatha wastes no time making her exit offstage, muttering about the poor quality of the audience questions as she brushes past you. You follow instinctively, already bracing for whatever critique she’ll launch your way—

But then a hand grabs your arm.

“In a hurry, are we?” The voice slides into your ear—low, teasing. You don’t have to turn to know it’s Rio. Her presence burns like a shadow just behind you, close enough to feel the faint warmth of her body.

“Move, Rio,” you mutter under your breath, refusing to look back.

She laughs—soft and unbothered. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

Before you can react, Rio’s hand finds your wrist, firm but not painful, and she pulls you toward an empty corridor.

“What the hell are you—”

“Shh.” Rio’s voice drops to a sultry murmur, the dim light casting shadows across her sharp cheekbones. “You talk too much.”

Rio ushers you away from prying eyes, her palms resting flat on the wall on either side of you. She leans closer, her eyes searching your face, drinking in every flicker of resistance and reluctant want.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Your voice wavers. You hate that she hears it.

Rio tilts her head, her lips curling. “You really think she can give you what you need?”

“Who?”

“Agatha.” She says the name like it tastes bitter on her tongue. “You run around after her, putting out her fires, handing her her lines... You can’t tell me you’re happy letting her treat you like that. You deserve better, sweetheart.”

The tension boils over when Rio’s hand finds your wrist, her thumb brushing over your pulse. “You don’t know anything about me,” you snap at her furiously.

Her response is a quiet, taunting whisper against your ear: “I know she could never touch you the way I could. You think she’s ever made you feel the way you do now?”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words crumble when Rio shifts closer—her thigh grazing yours, her scent sharp and distracting, her breath teasing your skin. Your heart pounds against your ribs, wild and traitorous.

“Stop it,” you whisper, though you make no move to push her away.

Rio’s smile darkens, and for a moment, the teasing falls away, replaced by something hotter—something real. Her hand finds your jaw, fingers brushing just under your chin, tilting your head so she can lean in, her lips so achingly close to yours that the space between feels electric.

“I don’t think you want me to stop,” she murmurs.

Before you can retort, Rio’s mouth crashes into yours, fierce and possessive. It’s a clash of lips and teeth—heated, desperate, and almost spiteful. The hallway is empty save for the two of you, and any protests melt as Rio pushes you into a storage closet, claiming you like she’s proving a point.

Because she’s right. You don’t want her to stop.

You melt into it for half a second before your own desperation flares, matching her with equal force. Your hands grasp at her blazer, pulling her closer until there’s nothing between you but heat and ragged breaths.

“Is this what you want?” Rio mutters against your lips, one hand sliding down your side, the other bracing against the wall to cage you in further.

You don’t answer, too far gone, but your body betrays you—arching into her touch, fingers digging into her shoulders. Rio’s smug chuckle ghosts over your mouth as she kisses you again, rougher this time, her hand slipping lower, fingers dipping under the waistband of your pants.

Rio is rough and relentless but never careless—her hands grip your waist as she drags you closer, murmuring filthy promises against your lips about how she’d “treat you right.” Her voice is dark and velvet-soft, each word a taunt designed to unravel you. “You’d feel so much better if you let go, sweetheart... If you let me take care of you.”

The hatred and tension simmer under every touch, the unspoken resentment crackling like a live wire. She hates that you belong to Agatha, that you let her use you like an accessory—and you hate her for being right. But as Rio’s fingers drift lower, her lips leaving heat down the column of your throat, it’s clear this is about something far beyond spite. It’s about want, raw and consuming. It’s about Rio making you lose control—her revelling in every shaky breath you take, every whimper that slips free despite yourself.

Her hand cups you lighly, fingers brushing against the thin barrier of your underwear, and you can’t hold back the soft gasp that escapes your lips. Rio hums approvingly, her smile all satisfaction as she applies more pressure. “Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “Agatha would die if she saw you like this. Weak. Needy. Mine.”

Before you can snap a reply, Rio moves her hand so it’s beneath your underwear—fingers deft as they find their mark, her movements precise, relentless. She drinks in the way you shudder against her touch, how your hands tighten in her blazer as your body betrays you completely. “You like this,” she says, more statement than question. Her lips skim your ear as she adds, “Say it.”

You bite back your pride, but it doesn’t matter—Rio doesn’t need you to answer. She already knows as she buries two fingers inside you.

Her hand moves with a devastating rhythm, slow and deliberate at first, teasing you with unbearable precision. The tension coils in your body, a heat pooling low in your belly, rising with every measured stroke. You can feel her breath against your neck, hear the faint rustle of her blazer as she shifts, leaning in closer, caging you in further. The soft scrape of her nails against your neck sends a shiver up your spine, and you grip her shoulders harder, holding on as if you might collapse otherwise.

The room feels impossibly small, the air heavy with the sound of your ragged breaths and the soft, wet sound of her hand working you over. Your head falls back against the wall, a soft thud breaking the quiet, and you swear you can hear the faint hum of the debate stage through the walls—a cruel reminder of where you are.

But it’s her voice that drowns everything else out. Low, taunting, dripping with control. “You like it when people use you, don’t you?” She purrs, her words a velvet lash against your pride. She presses her palm harder against your clit, wringing a desperate sound from your throat. “Tell me. Has she ever made you fall apart like this?”

Your pulse thrums in your ears, drowning out everything but her and the unrelenting rhythm of her hand. Every movement grows sharper now, harder. Your arousal builds impossibly fast, the sound of it obscene in the quiet—slick and unmistakable as her fingers slide inside you, claiming every reaction. Her name falls repeatedly from your lips, half a curse, half a plea, but you’re too far gone to care.

The pressure crescendos, and Rio pushes you past it. Her movements grow almost merciless—harder and faster still—and the sound fills the room, echoing in time with your shallow, hitched breaths. It’s like a wave crashing over you, fierce and consuming, leaving you gasping as your body trembles beneath her touch.

Your hands fist into her shoulders as you climax, the pleasure so intense it borders on overwhelming. You collapse against her, your forehead pressing into the crook of her neck as your knees threaten to buckle. She catches you, of course—her arm sliding around your waist, holding you up as your chest heaves against hers.

For a moment, the only sound is the harsh, uneven rhythm of your breathing, the quiet hum of the lights overhead, and the faint, distant chatter from the debate stage. Your pulse thrums wildly under your skin, your body still twitching with the aftershocks as Rio’s hand finally eases, resting against your hip as if satisfied with her work.

“Good girl,” she murmurs into your ear, the smug satisfaction in her tone making your skin prickle. She presses a final, lingering kiss just below your jaw before straightening, leaving you slumped against the wall, dazed and breathless.

Before you can muster a response, Rio steps back, casual as ever. She grabs a paper towel from the small storage shelf, cleaning her fingers with slow, deliberate movements as though she hadn’t just wrecked you against a supply cupboard wall.

The door creaks, and your stomach drops as you scramble to straighten yourself, still too disoriented to think clearly. But Rio doesn’t spare you another glance—she slips out, leaving the door ajar just enough to let in a sliver of light.

You’re alone, the air stifling and charged, your pulse still racing as you try to gather your wits.

—

You make it back to your spot off-stage just as the debate resumes. You’ve got your notes in hand, and your posture is straight, but your mind is far from clear. Agatha’s voice drifts over the room in measured, practiced rhythms, but it’s all background noise. Across the stage, Rio sits poised—calm, cool, her expression as sharp as a blade. There’s no indication of what just happened—no lingering smirk, no flushed cheeks. She looks utterly untouched, untouchable... except for the barest flicker of her gaze, catching yours.

Your stomach flips.

Rio smirks—a slow, deliberate pull of her lips—and then she shifts her attention back to Lilia’s next question, leaving you gripping your notes with white-knuckled fingers, every nerve in your body still singing from her touch.

You keep your face blank, eyes fixed on the stage as if nothing happened, but the phantom heat of Rio’s kiss remains, simmering under your skin like a secret you’re not sure you’ll survive.

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please pretend this isn't a day late, @aceday guilted me into going to sleep at a reasonable time last night instead of running on 2hrs sleep again but don't worry I'm trying to catch up :P

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usedpidemo · 1 year ago

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Mistakes were made, but not you (Le sserafim Yunjin)

“Why? Why weren’t you there? I needed you and you weren’t there!”

While Yunjin lashes out at you, grabbing at your shirt and using you as a proxy for the world and its ill-timed misfortunes, you can’t help but wonder if your presence would have changed the situation for the better.

Probably not. It’s one of those events that has to happen for character growth.

—————

Tonight is supposed to be a night of celebration—a commemoration to the achievements, accomplishments, and accolades of the past year. The numbers and statistics never lie. They love her work, they love her artistry. They love her for what she sells and what she represents. But truth be told, Huh Yunjin couldn’t care less about what they think.

Thunderous cheers and colorful lightsticks representing different fandoms brighten the arena as the five Le sserafim members climb up the stairs to claim their award. Minutes ago, they pulled off the performance of a lifetime—an eight minute masterclass that represents everything the group stands for. You could see the exhaustion in their faces; barely mustering the strength to smile and wave to the crowd shouting for them.

For the most part, the acceptance speech is nothing notable. Going through the motions, thanking the fans, the staff, the company, promising to do better in the future—it’s about as cookie cutter as it gets. As Yunjin tries her hardest to keep her tears from falling while she talks, the other four can only focus on her with varying weary looks. Chaewon looks especially worried; it’s her responsibility and burden to look after every single one of them.

From the audience’s viewpoint, it’s seen as a non-issue, but the five girls recognize deep down it’s anything but. The only noteworthy thing is how suddenly quick they are on their feet heading backstage. It’s funny how everyone chases fame: to be in the moment, the spotlight. It’s funnier, Yunjin thinks, that she’d rather be anywhere else.

Unfortunately for her and the other artists attending, they’d have to wait a little longer. There’s backstage interviews and other idol obligations to do before they are finally let go. It’s not even worth all that lost time—that one award they receive ends up being their lone win for the night.

—————

Yunjin storms into your hotel room without a word with a fierce expression on her face. She doesn’t have to say it; she’s thankful she doesn’t have to spend another minute in front of the cameras, another minute being an idol—at least for the night.

In a sea of anger and auburn, Yunjin walks past you without acknowledging you at least once. She hastily drops off her purse on the coffee table before charging straight to her room and slamming the door. It’s easy to chalk up her frustrations on the monotony of the awards season—the countless hours of practice specifically for one event, the hours spent in the makeup room, the hours of interviews and fanservice—but you know she never acts like this. Rain or shine, hell or high water, she’ll walk around with a pleasant smile on her face.

Tonight simply isn’t one of those nights. You saw the whole ordeal happen in real time, and you’re already regretting the decision not to be there. At times, watching her on screen was tough. You can tell she was visibly uncomfortable, more clingy to her members than usual, when it’s normally the other way around. Admittedly, you have to give her props for holding herself back from crying when she has every right to. It’s a cold winter night, but that’s not the reason she’s trembling and shaking. It should be a night of celebration; instead, her sullen expression resembles the aftermath of complete, utter humiliation and defeat.

And it may as well be. You look through your phone; you find the messages from friends and acquaintances telling you the exact same thing; it might as well be considered spam.

> Yo did you see what happened to Yunjin?

> Is Yunjin okay?!

> Yunjin fell! Fuck MNET!

> BRO YUNJIN FELL FROM THE STAGE WHAT THE FUUUUCK—

> Don’t tell her but I actually laughed when she slipped XD hope she alright tho!

Of course you know. It’s all caught on camera and in living color for the whole world to see. Even if it was cut from the YouTube edit, which is highly unlikely, it’s already out there on the internet spreading like wildfire. Numerous reposts with tens of thousands of likes, multiple articles immediately written after the incident—her name and her moment will remain immortalized in K-pop history for all the wrong reasons. It has the internet making jokes, it has the internet writing thinkpieces, it has the internet creating needless fanwars—it has the internet buzzing.

You want to throw your phone from where your room is located—all the way up on the 27th floor—and pray it lands directly on a hater’s head.

Sure enough, when you try to enter her room, it’s locked shut. The door won’t budge. All this awkward, quiet tension between you is terrifying, and sleeping her feelings off isn’t going to help anyone, not during these trying times. She needs comfort right now more than anything else.

You give the door a respectful knock, only to be met with silence. Trying again and again leads you nowhere. Calling her name does you zero favors. Each futile attempt cuts away at your heart, little by little. Yunjin would rather isolate herself from the world than open up to anyone with no exceptions. Obviously, you have nothing to do with what happened (that is on the production team more than anyone) but you bear the responsibility and burden of being Yunjin’s partner, always there for her during the good times and the bad.

Now is not the time to give up or sulk. She needs comfort and love more than anything. She needs a shoulder to cry on. She needs a special voice to reassure her that everything will be okay.

Rummaging through her purse, you find one of her countless hairpins. It’s the oldest trick in the book—one that she always used to get you with guaranteed success. Already bent and straightened, perfectly shaped for picking—it’s as if she wanted you to reach her. You remember the disaster that was teaching you how to pick locks; dozens destroyed, to the dismay of her apartment doors, but she knew you’d need it at some point, and tried to help you to the best of her ability.

The lock comes undone. It’s a miracle, but it’s short-lived. What welcomes you as you enter her bedroom turns your uncertainty into shock and utter disbelief.

It’s imagery you only see in nightmares. Her bedroom completely ravaged and in utter ruin. Pillows, clothes, and objects scattered throughout the room. Yunjin is curled up against the wall with a blanket draped over her, concealing everything but her eyes. Bloodshot red from spilling her heart out. Around her feet lay two opened half empty bottles of alcohol and a spilled over wine glass. It takes everything not to drop to your knees or yell out “fuck” from the depth of your lungs.

Instead, it only comes out as an airy whimper, with your throat choked up seeing the sorry state your girlfriend’s in.

Every little step you take may as well be tiptoed. Carefully treading into uncharted territory, who knows what you’ll end up meeting. The next words you pick will be the most important ones you’ll ever say. It isn’t as simple as telling her everything will be fine—that mistakes happen, life moves on, and this will be a memory she can laugh at a few years from now. She believes she’s ruined not only her career, but also her members, when anyone with common sense thinks otherwise.

With a deep breath and a gulp of your throat, you run through all the options. You pray you make the best choice.

“Jen Jen,” you mumble, crouching down in front of her, frowning. Try as you might, you can’t bring yourself to smile. You reach your hand out to peek through the curtain; she aggressively slaps down your palm. It’s as dire as you believe it looks. She sees the world crashing down before her.

Watching her cry and hide herself away plucks away at your heartstrings. You don’t want to see her looking this sorry, this deflated. If her members—the people she’s closest with—couldn’t get through her, then how much less can you? Even so, you have to keep trying. Not as a fan nor an acquaintance, but as her partner.

Again, you’ll have to pick your way through another lock. This time, her heart. And it’s more delicate than any physical door.

She’s drowning in her tears to realize the tug on her wrists. Little by little, you pull them apart. Yunjin’s bloodshot eyes glare right into yours, but she does nothing. Slowly, you curl your arms around hers, reaching around her back. For a moment, she appears vulnerable. Open. You press yourself close to her—

And then she hits you square in the face.

Yunjin assaults you with a relentless barrage of fists, with one jab directly clocking your lips. They’re not the playful ones you’re used to. The kind that’s usually thrown after a serious argument, and you’ve only experienced a handful of squabbles. She sends you staggering back to the floor, violently screeching and attacking you. “Fuck you! Leave me alone!” she yells, punching you repeatedly with no sense of direction, only rage. You try to lift a hand in self-defense, only to be sent knocking down, to the point where you just give up and allow her to rip through you.

Looking into her eyes, having turned from grim to cruel, she looks as if you were there. As if you were the stage director. As if you were the one who pressed the button on the control panel. Her punches, aimless as they are, fucking hurt. You’re on the floor, defenseless, but you deserve it. You weren’t there when you should have been. The one award show you opt not to attend happens to be the one that ends up sideways. Of course she’ll pinpoint the cause back to you. That’s blind passion. That’s love.

She grabs you by the collar of your shirt, screaming right in your face, “Why? Why weren’t you there? I needed you and you weren’t there!” Angry as she is, you can tell she’s trying to restrain herself. She wants to humiliate you, but she also doesn’t want to smash your head through the marble floor. You have this ragged but innocent look on your face. The stubborn kind that would tell her that you won’t give up on her. That you’d happily take all the beating just to see her smile again.

As it turns out, all she really needs is an outlet to air out her emotions. She has moved past her tears, and she has stopped beating you down, but everything else still remains. The glare. The dour frown. The fingers gripped to your collar. The room is silent, with the only sound filling the air is your low, airy hush of “Sorry.” Your hand rubs against her arm, conveying a message of reassurance that everything’s going to be okay.

Yunjin freezes. Unsure of how she feels, unsure of what to do. The moment stretches beyond the perception of time. You end up getting caught unprepared by what happens.

She doesn’t apologize for throwing you to the floor and verbally and physically assaulting you. You don’t really mind. A kiss is more than enough of an apology. Even more when it’s passionate, humming into your mouth before letting her tongue slip right between your lips, and her hands now pressed to your cheek. Lovemaking is how she speaks to you. Her lips do most of the talking.

Her body does the rest.

Yunjin pushes you down to the floor. You watch her shed her leather jacket, in awe of her radiant beauty. Her skin is porcelain, gleaming from the bedroom light. She’s a star, and shines like one. The reverence soon turns to amusement, mostly at how nonchalant she’s behaving. Minutes ago, she was hostile, out of control, threatening to turn you into a ruined mess. Instead, she’s about to leave you a ruined heap, but in a different way.

She notices. She always does. Knows you like a book. She grins.

“You know I can’t be mad at you,” she says, lifting an eyebrow as she straddles on your lap. Smirking playfully, she’s making you double take and wonder if this was an elaborate ploy or if she was really upset. And if it’s the former, then you’d really feel betrayed and manipulated. “Sorry dear,” she adds, accompanied by a peck on your lips. “I know it’s not your fault nor mine, it’s just that we prepared so much and—”

“Don’t worry,” you interrupt, placing a hand on her bare shoulder, “I should have been there. I mean, what are the chances the one time I’m not there, this shit—”

“Shhh.” Yunjin plants a finger on your lips. “Babe shouldn’t worry about his Jen Jen’s performance. At least I looked cool falling, right?” she asks, both sweet and playful.

“Sure you did,” you chuckle, almost sucking on her fingertip as she points it directly at your lip. “Definitely the coolest fall I’ve ever seen. Will never be replicated. Ever. And I mean that.”

She laughs, heartily, even though she knows you’re flat out lying. “Yeah, because they won’t do stage designs like that ever again.” Then she kisses you again; she kisses you as if your lips are her lifeline. “I swear I’m gonna tell management not to do elevated stages when we go on tour!”

This is the Yunjin you know and love; the one that everyone knows her for. Laughs at her own jokes and her own mistakes, and smiles through it all. You’re amazed at how joined to the hip you both are when the cameras aren’t on. When you’re the only ones in the room—when she can truly be herself and not a fragmented version tailored to the public. You both have this special connection together that only you two can understand.

Her smile is so radiant, distracting even, that you recognize too little too late how tense you’re feeling.

“Jen Jen,” you tell her, looking down at her legs. She has a hand between her skirt, and her underwear is already partially down.

“What is it?”

“Can we take this somewhere else,” you tell her, flustered by your own request. There’s no skirting around the thought that you’d rather take her anywhere except for a cold floor in a messy bedroom. She hasn’t realized it yet, but you know Yunjin well; she would never let your imprints stick anywhere in her bedroom, hotel or her apartment, let alone make a mess. That, and for as much as you love the sight of her on top of you, you want to keep things on even footing—for now.

The expression she makes is priceless; it's all part of the charm. She rolls her eyes, scoffing at the thought, as if the very suggestion offends her. She takes a moment to let the notion sink in. “The audacity,” she thinks to herself, the idea seemingly harder to digest if anything else.

“You’re so unserious,” she comments, in the most blunt tone possible, it may as well be condescending. Her thighs press deeper into your jeans to further prove a point. If that’s what she wants., then you’re fine with that. It’s probably a better idea than yours, too. “You shitting me right now?”

“It couldn’t have hurt to ask.”

“Well it wouldn’t have hurt you to be here sooner,” she retorts, grinning, like those words are your biggest mistake. “Then maybe I would absolutely consider it.”

In reality, there’s nothing to consider, because you end up rolling on top of her after she first pounces on top of you. It’s how she usually greets you after a busy day: jumping straight into your arms, then it’s on to the bedroom.

But not tonight. You don’t make that far, just the table by the foyer, the chair she usually reads in, nearly tripping over the coffee table and landing somewhere more comfortable for you both in the living room. In your wake you leave behind a trail of clothes, yours and hers entangled together—mostly yours. It doesn’t take much to undress Yunjin when she’s dressed for the occasion, and by the time she’s halfway unbuttoning through your shirt, she’s on her knees, completely naked.

She kisses you, leaves strawberry marked lips on your tummy, looking so wanton, so needy. Your eyes follow along as she continues down to your pants, before looking up to you with doe-eyed curiosity. She’s got an edge to her, they say, which really just means, “she’s really fucking hot.” Everything about her, from the attitude to the wardrobe screams fierce, someone who knows what they’re doing and doesn’t care about what others say.

But behind closed doors, she’s more like the other girl you know. Someone she tends to look after. She looks vulnerable. It’s cute to watch her act like someone she’s not.

It’s impossible not to help yourself, to stroke your own ego, even at Yunjin’s expense. There’s no hiding that devilish grin; it’s way too obvious. Nodding, you brush your hand through her autumn colored locks as she undoes your jeans, reminding her who she really belongs to.

“Fuck—oh God—” you moan, allowing Yunjin to do what she does best: use her lips to praise your cock. No preamble, no foreplay—just immediately taking you straight into her mouth. You were already hard, so it doesn’t take much effort for her to swallow you up. Both of you using your pent up frustration and impatience after weeks where it seemed as if you were worlds apart.

Leaning back against the wall, you can only imagine how Yunjin looks taking it. Your hand firmly grips the back of her head, while she rubs her fingers along the length of your shaft. She forces out every curse and word of appreciation out of you with a deep tone, it’s almost concerning.

“Slow down,” you mutter, knowing full well she won’t listen. Not for anything. Not for you. She wants this as much as you do.

At first glance, it doesn’t really show—not in the playful, satisfied hums while she blows you nor in the slow, deliberate pump of her fingers around your base. It’s a little too leisurely for someone to act desperate. Then you peek through the curtain of sensory overload, and that’s when everything becomes clear. The furrow of her eyebrows, the fixated attention on your cock, the spread of spit and precum all over your erection.

Maybe she does have a point after all.

She catches you staring, catches you slipping. Her eyes flutter open, then shut. In a flash, she goes from sipping on your cock to choking on it. Forcing you deep in her throat without your input. It leaves your head spinning, back at square one, with no control of Yunjin nor yourself, clinging your hands to the walls for support.

“Jen Jen, shit—” you mouth, but it's near silent in comparison to the sloppy sound she makes gagging. It’s as if she’s laughing at you for looking so helpless against her.

The sensation of her slick mouth burns. Her ever increasing tempo and lack of care or comfort relentlessly pluck away at your resolve and restraint. Her eyes water as she violently pushes her own boundaries, her own limits. Stains gradually pile around her lips and chin, a mixture of her spit, seed, and lipstick. You have her hair wrapped around the print of your fingers, holding loose strands away from her gleaming face. Despite your best efforts, you aren’t able to see her beyond blurry little flashes and brief snapshots. Deep down, you’re set ablaze, with nothing to extinguish you. You look to the ceiling, to the side, anywhere but beneath you, trying to find some reprieve from the agony and tension pulling at your loins.

You end up finding it down there, where you want it the least.

Yunjin has you right where she wants you to be—tightly sealed between her strawberry lips as you helplessly cry out her name in a sea of curses and praise. Anticipating the moment you finally break, she zealously works around her gag reflex to keep you deep in her throat. It doesn’t help that she has your balls around her hand, rubbing away and humming in satisfaction at the big hot load that she’ll receive soon. At points, she’s pouting at the fact that you refuse to surrender yourself entirely to her, that you’re still fighting.

It’s a losing effort that ultimately delays the inevitable.

An echoed shout, a wide drop of your jaw, and right there, lightning strikes—you come undone. Yunjin welcomes you with an open mouth; your thick hot load spills down her throat without a single wasted drop. You’re left wide-eyed, shuddering, panting as your orgasm washes over you. Even so, she continues to squeeze away at your balls without remorse, pumping your cock to unload more cum down her thirsty, needy maw.

Yunjin can’t hold in her delight and laughter after she licks your underside for any leftovers. You cushion back against the wall, your energy completely drained as she laps her lips and chin clean. Just like that, any remnant of what transpired hours ago, completely forgotten. It’s not a healthy coping mechanism—not in the slightest—but if it works, it works.

That’s one department where Yunjin won’t let you down.

“I wasn’t ready,” you huff, palming a hand on your thumping chest, cumbrously catching your breath. You mindlessly stare at the living room light, struggling to gather yourself. “Shit, Jen Jen, that was—”

“And we’re only getting started,” she interjects, quickly rising to her feet, pushing you upright. The grin on her face doubles down on the intent. “I’m not going to bed in a dour mood tonight, and you’re gonna help me feel better.”

God, she’s so damn good at this whole setting the mood thing.

You’re no different than anyone else, folding so easily as her fingers map out your body. Continuous circles around every part that belongs to her: from your hair, to your shoulders, arms, chest, down to your tummy, around your back, and everything else in between. Yunjin demands everything about you, her fiery gaze keeping you in tow. You’re tensing up, letting out these strained gasps, watching her watchful eyes dictate your every little move, reminding you who’s carrying the stick in the relationship.

She has you by the balls, quite literally—pumping you back to hardness—and she’s enjoying every moment of it. Teasing you with her flattering mien, she has every intention to leave you more tired and spent tonight than any day she’s worked in her life.

Then, a phone rings. It’s not the hotel landline, but from the pile around your legs. Suddenly, a lightbulb appears over Yunjin’s head, and the smirk on her lips is anything but subtle.

“Would you look at that,” she teases, her grin growing an extra inch wider, and her ironclad grip loosens. Still, you have no room to breathe when she crouches down to dig your rumbling phone out of the pocket of your pants. She makes it a point to act shocked in response to the incoming caller, then shows her to you.

Kim Chaewon.

It’s an open secret within the group—how important of a piece she is between you two, the perfect reprieve and voice of reason when the other isn’t around. You’ve gotten tangled up with both Chaewon and Yunjin a few times, under the same guise of stress relief. In a way, they’ve grown closer together thanks to you. But the rather scornful frown she has tells you otherwise. As if she’s going to lose the one last thing keeping her head straight. Forget that Chaewon is respectful of your relationship; if she gets in the way between her and your dick, she’ll cut her down, and that goes for anyone else too, friendship be damned.

“Be a good boy and take care of the call, will you?” she asks, tone playful, handing the phone over to you. You have no say, other than to follow her command. In the process, you feel your groin tense up. You look down and find your cock sandwiched between her heavenly thighs, choking up from the new sensation of her creamy skin.

When you try to look away, she redirects your eyes back to hers. Her palm meets your chin. Hard. She curls her lips, expressing disdain and reinforcing her control. There’s your first and last warning.

You’ve never struggled so much just opening your own phone. It’s not that Yunjin just hacked into it; her imprints are everywhere. The very lockscreen is her kissing you, your face cropped out of frame and your homescreen is a candid photo of her more bold outfits. If not for the texts from the other members and loved ones, you’d look like the creepiest, most obsessive stalker ever. You can feed tabloids and news outlets day-to-day information, down to the most intricate details. She’s a huge part of you, and it’s gonna eventually ruin you—

“Hurry up, dipshit.”

Yunjin’s stern tone snaps you from your daze. Hard to maintain a steady head when she’s slowly choking you out and she’s thrusting your cock in and out of her legs, still sore from her blowjob and while you’re still reeling from your orgasm. She’s perfectly built for fucking for hours on end; you’re surprised you hasn’t caught on after so long.

“Hello?” Chaewon’s voice pulls your focus away, but only briefly. Almost instinctively, Yunjin’s legs press tighter against your hard cock in response. She raises her eyebrows, shaking her head, demanding you answer the call. No context clues, no verbal cues, just wing it.

“He-ey, Chae.” Your voice comes out gruff, airy. A brief glimpse down and you find the growing stain on Yunjin’s thighs. Your cock entering and exiting the comfort of her legs. She doesn’t appear satisfied, not even a little.

“Is Yunjin there with you? She’s been gone after we got back to our rooms. She's not been herself after—you know—and we’ve been trying to comfort her to no avail.”

“Yeah, she’s here with me—” you say, looking directly at her, and she nods, still stiff and sour. She leans forward, her tongue pressing against your skin, mumbling something incomprehensible on your neck. Somewhere along the lines of “If you tell her, I’m going to fucking kill you,” and she sounds like she means it.

Try to suppress your gasps and whine, you can’t hold yourself back. It affects your inflection, from gravelly and small to high-pitched and nasally. You’re one wrong move away from meeting disaster, and Yunjin is the one goading you to your own pitfall. She revels running you around in circles, leading you like sheep to a shepard. You can’t think straight from all this built up pressure. “She’s good! She’s doing just fine—”

Out of nowhere, she moans. Loud. Her tone is so obvious, it can’t be anyone but her. Any sort of illusion or pretense is immediately dashed, right then and there. You almost drop your phone, barely managing to save it with a glint of clarity.

You don’t hear from Chaewon for a bit, letting you indulge in Yunjin’s seductive motions. Your body is the perfect outlet for her pleasure: kissing and marking around her neck, her fingers tracing your arms to your chest, and your cock comfortably snug between her sculpted legs. You regain some semblance of control by pumping away between her warmth, but it’s hollow; she lets her thighs press down while you thrust quicker and quicker. At first, she’d been the one bringing all the friction, until your hips begin to glide involuntarily, the wetness dripping from her thighs and around your cock making the transition near-flawless.

Soon, the room fills with the sound of her moans, till it becomes oh-so clear you’re fucking her. The call remains active, but you still hear nothing from Chaewon’s side. The phone in your hand is what’s holding you back, but even you feel your control slip away again; against Yunjin’s demand to pretend everything’s normal, when there’s nothing normal about the position you’re in. The only thing unusual is the fact that Chaewon isn’t there to watch, preferably while pleasuring herself.

“Shit, Yunjin, you feel so fucking good—” you sputter, clutching Yunjin’s nape as she curses and whines against your shoulder. Suddenly, you hear Chaewon again, but you’ve practically stopped caring. She’d understand.

“Yeah, well, I don’t blame her for going to you. I’d do the same right now, but I gotta take care of the girls as the leader.” Chaewon sounds so diplomatic about the matter, it’s almost surprising. “Just—” she pauses when Yunjin loudly kisses you, cooing and moaning about how big you are in the direction of your phone. “Please tell her to come back here by morning, all right?”

“Sure—thing.” Your tone jumps on the second word, as your cock hits a particularly deep stroke that teases the outline of her cunt.

“Oh, and Kkura said hi, by the way.”

You’re amazed at how understanding she is.

“Okay.” You look down and you see Yunjin adjust your cock around the entrance of her pussy with her hand, impatient and done with the teasing. All the possible replies to maintain normalcy and your best response ends up being a simple, hurried “Hi.”

“Bye.”

You drop your phone right as Chaewon hangs up the call. Yunjin immediately kisses you straight in the lips, sliding her tongue between your lips. She lets out this strained whine when you grab her ass, lightly pushing her away. Miraculously, she doesn’t fight back or lash out.

“Don’t you wanna cum right in my pussy?”

“No, Jen Jen. Let me finish right in your thighs.”

Yunjin flashes this sad, deflated frown, but she ultimately concedes. She’s this multifaceted character only you might ever hope to understand. She's a perfectionist and wants things her way, but she’s also soft and vulnerable. You feel guilty making this rather huge request, but she reassures you by pressing your cock comfortably between her legs. Your worries soon disappear when the friction of her heat keeps your hips moving. The sight of your dick moving in-and-out keeps you preoccupied.

Even she forgets about her disappointment too, hypnotized by the continuous rhythm of your cock. She pulls your head in, moans all these profanities of varying tones in your ear. The way you both pull each other’s bodies apart, your expressions twisting in pleasure, demanding more—you might as well be in bed, and not breaking your knees and backs against the living room wall.

You’re not sure what’s going to break first—your legs, your back, your hips, or your cock.

“Oh—fuck—Yunjin,” you groan, losing yourself in her asphyxiating heat of her skin, on the verge of another climax. You have one hand marking her ass as you both grind into each other’s bodies. God, you’re both made for one another. Drowning in her tightness, you thrust deep between her legs. Same spot, same stroke, same result. You remember where and how well you’ve fucked her, it’s almost muscle memory to you. It drives Yunjin crazy.

She senses your incoming orgasm and shouts. The need for you to cum isn’t a request, but a full demand. Something to be expected. Her voice hits those familiar high notes that aren’t far off from her usual recordings, and she firmly clings to you. As if you ever had any other thought than to finish on her pencilike legs. You let yourself succumb to the sensation, let all the pent up pressure set itself off while you bask in that delirious high.

The way Yunjin clenches her thighs around your cock, she may as well have snapped it off.

You both mirror each other’s expressions; eyes completely shut, jaw completely agape, resting in each other’s bodies. The only difference being that Yunjin is way, way louder than you. Your mind goes completely blank, with nothing but her name drawn out from the curve of your lips. Your back is aching; your knees are tingling, ready to fail at any time. Nothing registers for you except her voice, her endless moan that rings in your ear. It’s only after her legs involuntarily slacken their grip that you fall.

To the floor, that is.

And you stay down—a minute, maybe several, completely shaken up and your head still riding that high. Somewhere in limbo. One hand gripped to her waist, the other on her leg. You forget to breathe. Your brain doesn’t register the concept of exhaling, only taking in air. The world around you appears to pause completely.

And then your phone beeps. Still dazed, you completely ignore it.

Yunjin brings you back to life. She has one hand gripped against the wall, the other on your hair—which you now just realize—gasping for much needed air. She can’t muster up the strength to open her eyes, so you assess the damage. It’s as disastrous as it looks: a huge splatter of cum around her legs, dripping down to her feet. To the floor. To your pants.

You don’t say a word; you don’t really have anything meaningful or productive to add. The simple question of whether or not she feels better, but you know she’ll say it won’t be enough. That she wants your cum right in her pussy, no matter how spent or sore you are. Maybe you can quietly weave your way out of a nightlong bedroom session.

So you look at your phone, removing yourself from the situation. There’s two new messages, both from the same person—Chaewon. Nothing noteworthy, just the reminder to send Yunjin back early in the morning. The idol life never really stops.

Yunjin calls out to you, abruptly intercepting your attention. “Hey.”

You look up and find her looking down at the details, slowly gathering her bearings. She runs a finger on a sticky patch on her skin, then tastes your seed with her tongue. “What’s up?”

She ignores you for a moment to gather more cum to lap, then stares directly at you. “We should have done this in front of a mirror.”

You pause. It’s hard to believe Yunjin telling you this, when she’s been the biggest skeptic. She’d rather have it in bed, on the table—anywhere that won’t allow her to see herself. The uncanny image of a prim, desirable idol bent over while someone uses her.

With that in mind, you chuckle. “We do it all the time. Give it a break.”

—————

You both end up doing it anyway.

It’s two in the morning, and you vividly have Chaewon’s request at the back of your mind. The group’s flight back home is in six hours, and Yunjin has to be there with them for breakfast. It’s not like you’ll be away long term; she has three days-off after today. Days when you can spend all the time in the world together to your heart’s content. But fuck, Yunjin is so goddamn insatiable, she can’t go at least three hours without your cock somehow around her. You don’t end up getting sleep, because she’s so needy for your cock she can’t help but stroke it or blow it back to hardness.

Your suggestion? A late night coffee run that ends in predictable fashion: you, fucking Yunjin from behind in the comfort of a cafe restroom.

Yunjin’s outfit barely qualifies as casual; if anything, it’s her performance fit (a sports bra and a short skirt) from earlier, topped only by the leather jacket she went to your room with. Yet none of that matters when they’re pooled on the floor, with your hand squeezing her bare breast and the other pressed on her shapely ass. And there’s your hard cock, pounding away at her soaked cunt like it’s second nature—which it is—and it’s quite the motivating sight. Watching it appear and disappear in her pussy, hearing her hushed pleas, echoed cries, and every lewd sound in between.

The cafe across your hotel is completely empty, which is to be expected. You can count the number of working staff on one hand, and most of them are fast asleep or busy on their phone. You’re not making any excuses for fucking Yunjin at a place like this; you’re merely laying out the scene.

You can blame Yunjin for your precarious position. Any attempt to make some small talk she makes it about you. About missing your cock so much, about how she wants you to fill her pussy up and make her feel better. As if two orgasms wasn’t enough. You wouldn’t be surprised if she asked you to fuck her right then and there, in front of the cafe where everyone can see. You end up agreeing to a compromise, but it’s merely delaying the inevitable. The door is locked shut, nobody’s around to hear, and no one really cares.

If only it were that simple.

“Fuck—so—fucking—big!” cries out Yunjin, as if you were in the privacy of your hotel room and not in front of a public restroom. She gives it to you again, praises you in both murmurs and screams, her hands glued on the edges of the sink, eyes fluttering open and closed with her jaw agape on the surface. It’s as filthy as you imagined, if not more. Only you can see the full extent of the damage you’re making, and it is breathtaking.

She beckons you to fuck her harder, give her more, tells you not to stop. The idea never crosses your mind. When she yells and mewls, she’s making sure each one is louder than the last. You can tell she has nothing to lose. If she’s going down, she’ll drag you down with her.

“You’re so fucking tight, Jen Jen,” you groan out, looking at your entangled bodies in the mirror, at her arched back, at the curvature of her ass, at your cock spearing her hard. You puncture each of your next three words with increasing emphasis. “So—fucking—tight.”

As the sex dissolves into deeper madness, so does your restraint. You’re fucking her through the sink, pounding away with reckless abandon, with zero care for comfort. Thoughtless, impulsive drops of ‘tight,’ ‘fuck,’ and even a single ‘slut’ bomb—words that can get you cancelled on-air. Yunjin shudders, letting out this drawn out ‘yes’ in response, as if admitting the truth—to your utter surprise (sarcasm). Her core clenches against your cock, stretching her out. So wet, so needy—

It’s a strange thing to believe, but this is Yunjin’s first orgasm of the night. Her lands lay flat on the sink, and her mouth lolls wide, screaming your name like you’re the most important person in the world. The intense heat, the suffocating pulse of her cunt, drowning your cock—

Fuck, it’s too much for your already aching cock. And her thighs and lips were brutal in their own right.

Moments after hers, your very own climax follows. You’ve already struggled holding back twice; whatever amount of resolve you had left is non-existent. Moving from her chest at some point, the hand on her hair yanks harder. Pushing your hips as far as they can go, wishing your cock can somehow enter her womb—you ignore the possibility that you might be hurting her.

‘Hurts so good’ exists for a reason.

The remnants of your orgasm continue to leave Yunjin in shambles. A brief look at the aftermath, and the first impression is that you didn’t fuck her hard enough. Your hot cum spilling from her splayed, ruined hole, her clothes on the other side of the restroom, and your pants receiving some of her hot slick. Yunjin remains bent on the sink, huffing through her own climax, your hand deeply imprinted on her ass, and marks, scratches, and rosy patches on her back—vestiges of hours gone by.

You remain like this for a little while longer: cuddling up against her frame while she rests on the sink, softly kissing around her ear, brushing strands of loose red hair. She’s gorgeous, there’s no denying that. When she performs, when she’s being herself, when she’s getting pounded hard—but she looks best when she’s calm, when she’s at her softest, at her most vulnerable. When you’re all alone and you both have nothing to hide. At the end of the day, you both need each other. For everything.

—————

You and Yunjin might as well be strangers.

It’s as if the past seven hours happened in a different timeline. Both of you casually lounge in the still lifeless cafe, drinking the nonexistent traces of your iced coffee. You scroll through social media; Yunjin still dominates the trends and new reposts of the viral accident pop-up like they’re produced from a factory. She’s doing the same, reading through all the comments. Some memes, some praising her professionalism, some simply to get that verified ad revenue.

This will be completely forgotten in a week. Yunjin’s career will come out unscathed. People move on. She will, too.

Yet you still remain awkward with her, completely undecided on the words that she really needs right now. She needs you more than just your body.

“Jen Jen,” you whisper, before you freeze up at her anxious gaze. She waits for a follow-up, a sentence, anything. It never comes.

She frowns. She’s not mad, only disappointed.

The sun begins to rise over the city, signaling the start of a new day. Knowing this, Yunjin adjusts her jacket and rises from her seat. You never told her once.

She walks through the door, and steps outside—but not before turning and taking one last concerned look at you. You quietly mouth ‘Love you,’ and surprisingly, she smiles. The Yunjin you know and love.

‘Love ya.’

—————

(A/N: againsorryfornotpostingmuchlatelyohgodivebeensobusy—

Ginger/red hair Yunjin didn't grow on me at first. Then the Good Bones teaser dropped. The strut. The attitude. The fact they allowed her to walk around in her bra and panties. What the fuck. I've been so down bad for her lately, and so are you. Looking forward to their new music! Thank you for reading!)

#smut #kpop smut #le sserafim #yunjin #huh yunjin

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riddlesrizzler · 1 month ago

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Gracie babyyy what are your thoughts on lifeguard! himbo Theo who notices a suspicious number of girls needing cpr while he’s on duty, so he decides to do adult swim lessons. And suddenly there’s a suspicious number of girls who don’t know how to swim. And fellow lifeguard! reader is just so done with him

Just spit balling here, Leigh’s AU festival is taking over my entire brain rn

THEO would be eating it up for sure!!!! like this is what he is made for, attention. especially female attention. and like what better way to spend the summer with girls in tiny bikinis who need saving? (but obviously he is more interested in wondering if you can blow his whistle)

@nottslove what are your thoughts on lifeguard! theo? i loved your fic where he basically undoes the readers swimsuit!

It starts with CPR.

Specifically: a suspicious number of girls needing it.

“Third one this week,” you mutter, arms crossed, as Theo hoists yet another sunburned twenty-something out of the shallow end and gently sets her down on the pool deck like he’s performing a sacred ritual. “She choked on her own gum. In three feet of water.”

“She panicked,” Theo says seriously, brushing wet hair from her forehead. “It’s a real thing, you know. Shock.”

“She winked at you mid-rescue.”

He shrugs. “I have that effect on people.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Theo.”

“Yes, my beautiful and morally upright co-lifeguard?”

“Stop giving people fake CPR.”

“It’s not fake. It’s emotional CPR.”

“I will push you into the deep end.”

He grins at you-big and harmless and golden in that shirtless, sun-kissed way that makes your job so much harder. Not because you’re into it (though, okay, maybe you are, just a little), but because half the female population within a ten-mile radius seems to be faking medical emergencies just to get mouth-to-mouth from Theo Nott.

It’s getting exhausting.

So when he shows up one Monday morning with a laminated flyer and a hopeful look in his eye, you already know you're in trouble.

“I’m starting an Adult Swim Class,” he announces, slapping the flyer onto your clipboard.

You squint. “Since when do you teach?”

“Since now. It’s about public service. Drowning prevention. Lifesaving stuff.”

The flyer has a photo of him shirtless on it. Holding a pool noodle. Smiling like a himbo Greek god.

“Theo. This is just your Tinder profile in Arial Bold.”

“Marketing is everything.”

You sigh. “You're doing this just for the attention, aren't you?”

“I’m doing this,” he says, flashing that stupidly perfect grin, “for the community.”

The first class sells out in five minutes.

Fifteen girls show up in full makeup and matching pastel swim caps. One of them brought a waterproof ring light.

“I think I forgot how to float,” one says sweetly, clinging to Theo’s bicep like she’s just been rescued from a riptide. “Can you hold me up?”

You lean against the lifeguard tower, watching the chaos unfold.

To his credit, Theo really is trying.

Sort of.

“Okay, ladies,” he says, chest puffed like he’s teaching a masterclass. “Let’s start with breathing. In through the nose, out through the-uh-smile.”

Someone giggles. Another pretends to slip and grabs onto him for balance. A third is live-streaming on TikTok.

You can’t take it anymore.

“Alright, fish sticks,” you bark, blowing your whistle. “Float practice. Spread out. That does not mean dogpile on the lifeguard.”

Groans ripple across the pool, but they obey. Reluctantly.

Theo gives you a sheepish look. “I think they’re learning.”

“They’re learning how to flirt with a himbo with a whistle”

“I don’t wear a whistle”

“Exactly.”

He chuckles, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you again-like it used to be before Theo became the Poolside Panty-Dropper.

You raise an eyebrow. “You enjoying yourself, hotshot?”

“Maybe a little,” he admits, glancing at the group now dramatically practicing synchronized floating. “But hey. No one’s fake drowning.”

You snort. “Yet.”

He leans a little closer. “Unless you’re planning to.”

Your eyes narrow. “Don’t even try.”

“I’d save you first, you know.”

You scoff, but your cheeks go warm anyway.

Theo winks. “Emotional CPR. Just say the word.”

You roll your eyes and blow the whistle again.

#slytherin boys #slytherin #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter #slytherin aesthetic #au!#theo nott #ask the rizzler #theo nott x y/n #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #lifeguard! theo #theodore nott #theodore nott x you #theo nott x you

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orane23 · 2 years ago

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Introduction: The Transformative Power of Makeup Artistry

Makeup is not just a beauty enhancer; it’s a form of art that allows individuals to express themselves, change perceptions, and even set trends. If you’ve always been fascinated by the transformative power of makeup and aspire to become a professional makeup artist, then enrolling in a makeup artistry course could be your first step towards fulfilling this dream. This guide will provide insights into why and how to get started with makeup artistry courses.

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Job Versatility

One of the most compelling benefits of a career in makeup artistry is its versatility. Whether it’s bridal, fashion, film, or special effects, there are numerous avenues to explore.

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Makeup artistry allows for an endless stream of creativity. It’s a field that constantly evolves with trends, offering room for innovation and expression.

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While it takes time and effort to build a reputation, successful makeup artists can command high fees for their services, making it a financially rewarding career.

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Perfect for beginners, these courses cover the fundamentals of makeup, including tools, products, and basic techniques.

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These courses delve into specialized areas such as airbrushing, special effects, or high fashion makeup artistry.

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What to Expect from a Makeup Artistry Course

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Hands-On Training

Practical experience is crucial. Expect to engage in hands-on training to master the skills required.

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A well-crafted portfolio can be your golden ticket to the industry. Most courses will guide you in creating one.

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Courses often provide platforms to interact with industry professionals, helping you make valuable contacts.

Read More: https://www.oranehyderabad.in/journey-with-makeup-artistry-courses/

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luvly-writer · 22 days ago

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Aretia: Utterly Divine

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

The Riorson Estate’s dinning room had been polished for the dinner It was a political night, the kind that demanded strategy not just in words but in presence. They needed to convince one of Tyrrendor's viscounts to send supplies for the cadets they were training.

The squad was already gathered, dressed for the occasion in their best formal attire. Xaden stood near the fireplace, dressed in black, of course—his usual brooding elegance heightened by the sharp cut of his jacket and the quiet power in his posture.

And then she walked in.

Y/n Gamlyn.

The silk of her deep sapphire gown shimmered like water under moonlight, the fabric hugging her figure with a graceful strength that mirrored her personality. Her hair was pinned elegantly with pearls, with pieces artfully curled around her face, dark green in her nails nails. Her makeup was flawless, accentuating her warm eyes and high cheekbones. She looked radiant, confident, lethal in the way only a woman who knows her worth could be.

Conversations paused. Heads turned.

Xaden’s breath caught in his throat.

She spotted him across the room, and the tiniest smirk curved her lips at the way he was looking at her—like she’d just walked in and rewritten the laws of gravity. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening, not out of anger but restraint.

Imogen elbowed Garrick, whispering, “You’d think she just declared war with the way he’s looking at her.”

“He looks like he’s about to throw the Viscount out and have dinner with her alone,” Ridoc muttered under his breath, though his smile betrayed how proud he was.

Y/n made her way toward them, poise in every step, her gaze softening when it landed on Xaden.

“You’re staring,” she teased as she reached him.

“I’m allowed,” he replied, his voice low. “You look like a goddess.”

Her grin widened. “Good. That’s exactly the plan.”

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“You’ll live.”

“Debatable.”

When the Viscount finally arrived, he was immediately charmed by Y/n’s poise, her wit, her charm, and her graceful command of the conversation. She knew when to smile, when to laugh, and when to press—never too much, always precise. It was a masterclass in diplomacy and subtle seduction for the cause.

Xaden watched her from across the table, hand curled around his wine glass, heart in his throat. She was exquisite, inside and out, and every person in that room could see it.

And Loial, was she his.

The dinner had been a success.

The Viscount had laughed, toasted, and agreed to a private conversation with Xaden after being thoroughly charmed by Y/n. As their guests began trickling out, the squad lingered behind to gather themselves—and eavesdrop.

Y/n stepped out first, her heels clicking softly on the stone floor, her hand effortlessly slipping into Xaden’s as he joined her. His thumb rubbed circles along her knuckles like it was second nature, but his gaze—his gaze was ravenous.

“You,” he murmured, trailing a step behind her like she held the sun itself, “have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

She glanced over her shoulder, smug. “I think I have an idea.”

Imogen watched them from the hallway with Quinn and Garrick, who whispered, “She’s not walking beside him. She’s walking him.”

Xaden opened the door for her with a hand to her lower back, barely restraining himself from pulling her in right then and there. She was radiant, powerful, knowing exactly what her presence did to him—and she loved it.

When they finally reached their quarters, Y/n turned to face him, eyes playful, voice teasing.

“Well?” she said, tilting her head. “You’ve been staring at me like I’m dessert all night.”

“That’s because you are,” he said, voice low and reverent. “You’re everything.”

He cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb over the soft curve of her cheek, so careful not to disturb her makeup. “You owned that room tonight. I’m not even sure the Viscount remembers what I said. He only heard you.”

Y/n smirked. “And now you see why I told you I could handle it.”

“I always knew you were dangerous,” he said. “But tonight? You were divine.”

She tugged him closer by his collar, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “You gonna worship me properly now, Lieutenant Riorson?”

He growled low in his throat. “You know I will.”

And behind the door, Ridoc shook his head and whispered to Imogen, “He’s so gone.”

“Like a loyal, lovesick hound,” Imogen said with a grin.

“Walked him like a dog,” Garrick added.

And not a single one of them could deny how perfectly they fit: the deadly, glowing beauty in midnight blue silk… and the brooding shadow wielder hopelessly, utterly hers.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, and silence settled like silk between them.

Y/n turned, slowly unfastening the delicate clasp in her hair, letting it flow down her back. Xaden’s eyes followed every movement like she was art unfolding before him. Her dress clung in all the right places, dark and shimmery under the candlelight, and her hair still held the pearls she’d placed with practiced grace—like a quiet homage to the coastal life she'd once led.

Xaden didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His hands came up slowly, reverently, brushing her shoulders before slipping her cloak fully off her body. It pooled onto the floor, forgotten, as he looked at her like she was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

“You were… unstoppable tonight,” he murmured. “You walked into that room and every single person knew they weren’t worthy to breathe the same air as you.”

Y/n smiled, a little breathless from the intensity in his voice. “You flatter me.”

He leaned in, voice velvet and low. “I’m just telling the truth.”

His fingers traced the line of her jaw, then down her neck, over the pulse that jumped beneath his touch. He kissed her shoulder, then her collarbone, moving slowly, reverently, like each inch of her skin was a prayer he needed to say with his mouth.

“You undo me,” he whispered against her throat. “You show up like that and I can’t think straight. I just want to fall to my knees and worship you the way you deserve.”

She melted into him, hands threading into his hair as his lips trailed lower, kissing the curve of her shoulder, her arm, the inside of her wrist.

“You’re everything, Y/n Gamlyn,” he said. “A warrior, a leader, a goddess in silk. And somehow… you’re mine.”

Her breath hitched. “I’ve always been yours.”

That was all it took.

He scooped her into his arms with a growl, walking her to the bed like she weighed nothing, kissing her like he had all the time in the world—and planned to use every second to show her just how much she meant to him.

And that night, he did just that—worshipped her with his hands, his mouth, his body.

As if she was the moon and he had waited lifetimes just to feel its light on his skin.

Later...

The room was quiet, save for the crackle of the fireplace and the barely-there sound of her fingers lazily tracing shapes over his bare chest.

Xaden lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped around Y/n, who was sprawled halfway over him—her leg thrown across his, her cheek resting right above his heart. Her hair was a mess of curls and pearls, and he was still finding pieces of it in his fingers.

He kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the tip of her nose.

She giggled, tilting her head back just enough to look at him. “Do you ever get tired of kissing me?”

He blinked. Then looked deeply offended.

“Do I—?” he scoffed. “Y/n Gamlyn, I have fought battles with less passion than I kiss you. I’ve bled with less devotion than I put into pressing my mouth to your skin. Tired? Of kissing you?”

She was laughing now, full and delighted, cheeks flushed and warm. “Okay, okay,” she said between giggles. “I take it back.”

“Good.” He kissed her shoulder. Then the top of her chest. Then her collarbone. “Blasphemy. Utter blasphemy.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbled fondly, fingers still trailing over him.

“I’m in love,” he said against her skin. “It’s incurable.”

She sighed contentedly and nuzzled closer. “You’re soft after sex.”

“I’m soft with you,” he murmured. “Always.”

Another kiss. Her shoulder, again. Then her neck.

Then, just for good measure: her wrist, her temple, and the slope of her jaw.

“I think I’ll keep you,” she whispered.

He smiled, that real, rare smile he only gave her. “You’ve already ruined me. Might as well.”

Taglist: @eepyfaerie @dreamdragonkadia @hiraethjules @nikfigueiredo @galaxystern08 @taleiaargenis @minidemont @poeticbookwormcat @eternallyrosyfire @shadowhuntyi @bubble300 @messageforthesmallestman @iheartshopping @fangirling-galore @nesiris21 @itsbeenmyhonor20 @stelena-klayley @littleemissperfecttt @lagrandeourse @readinf @barbreadsbooks

#iron flame #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #xaden riorson x reader #ridoc fourth wing #ridoc gamlyn #onyx storm #the empyrean #xaden riorson imagine #xaden riorson x y/n #xaden and sgaeyl #xaden x reader #ridoc and aotrom #ridoc x reader

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in-you-i-found-a-home · 1 year ago

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Christina Aguilera performing during the MasterClass First Look Event at The Whitney Museum of American Art on 10 November 2021

#christina aguilera #xtina #masterclass #music #makeup #singer #style

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rottenpumpkin13 · 2 months ago

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makeup tutorial with AGSZC

(and Kunsel) 💅

Genesis: Welcome to my masterclass on the art of makeup. Today, we will be covering a simple, yet elegant look—

Zack: Can I eat this? Very Berry Revenge? It says it's cherry flavored!

Genesis: No, Zack, you cannot eat the lip gloss. And I am ignoring that entirely. First, we start with a good concealer—

Sephiroth: What does it conceal?

Genesis: Facial imperfections and blemishes.

Sephiroth: So the function of makeup is to deceive and lie to people? To trick them into thinking you're more conventionally attractive than you actually are?

Genesis: …Moving on. Foundation—

Sephiroth: What does that do?

Genesis: It evens out your skin tone.

Sephiroth: My skin is already even. You'll note that it's an honest quality to have, and I don’t need to fake it with paints and product.

Genesis: Sephiroth, I am one more critique away from shoving this eyelash curler somewhere uncomfortable.

Sephiroth: !

Angeal: Hey, why do we have blue eyeshadow? Don't you think that's a little harsh for a makeup look?

Genesis: What are you, a makeup critic? You don't know the first thing about makeup.

Angeal: I know that looks abrasive, and—ZACK, ZACK—HE'S CHOKING ON THE VERY BERRY REVENGE—

Cloud: HE'S TURNING BLUE—oh hey, that's a nice shade of blue.

Angeal: Yeah, maybe Genesis has a point.

Genesis, exasperated: I am ignoring my surroundings. Let's talk about blush—

Kunsel: I blush whenever Lazard wears that cologne that makes him smell good.

Sephiroth: So do I.

*Sephiroth and Kunsel high five*

*Cloud is beating Zack's back with a rolled up magazine to try to get him to stop choking*

*Meanwhile, Angeal is applying the blue eyeshadow on himself*

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 crisis core #zack fair #crisis core #kunsel #cloud strife

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watchnrant · 7 months ago

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Agatha All Along Episode 7: Easter Eggs & References

Death’s Hand in Mine

Lilia Calderu’s Epic Leap into Her Destiny

In Agatha All Along Episode 7, “Death’s Hand in Mine,” that haunting line from Ballad of the Witches’ Road hits hard, especially for Lilia Calderu. This isn’t just another dramatic beat—it’s the heart of her story. Lilia knows exactly what’s coming, and instead of running from it, she steps right up and grabs it by the hand. She’s not just staring down death; she’s embracing it, ready to take her destiny head-on.

What’s truly wild is that her sacrifice isn’t just about going out in a blaze of glory; it’s a calculated move. Lilia realizes this is the only way to save her coven, and she’s all in. Her death isn’t born from fear but from a fierce determination to protect those she loves. As she plunges into the unknown, she flips what could’ve been a tragic ending into an epic act of heroism.

Witchcraft and Wardrobes

Channeling the Magic of Iconic Witches—Wicked, Glamorous, and Sinister

In Agatha All Along Episode 7, we dive headfirst into a magical realm where our favorite characters channel iconic witches from fantasy lore. This isn’t just a costume party; it’s a masterclass in storytelling that enriches our understanding of who they are and what they represent. Each outfit and persona acts like a mirror, reflecting deep themes of power, identity, and legacy in the world of witchcraft.

Agatha Harkness as the Wicked Witch of the West: When Agatha transforms into the Wicked Witch, she’s not just throwing on some green makeup and a black dress. No, this is a bold statement. The Wicked Witch is the epitome of cunning and darkness, and Agatha steps right into those shoes (or should we say, flying broomsticks). This parallel isn’t merely superficial; it invites us to question the nature of villainy. In The Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch is all about control, much like Agatha, who deftly manipulates events to carve out her narrative. By embodying this classic character, Agatha challenges our assumptions about good and evil, pushing us to explore the grey areas in between.

Billy Maximoff as Maleficent: Then we have Billy, rocking a look straight out of Maleficent’s wardrobe. This isn’t just a nod to the Disney villain; it highlights the complexity of Billy’s character. Maleficent is often portrayed as a symbol of empowerment, reclaiming her narrative after being wronged—sound familiar? Billy’s journey of self-discovery and grappling with his powers parallels this. By dressing as Maleficent, Billy taps into the darker aspects of his own identity, showing us that with great power comes not just the potential for heroism, but also the risk of losing oneself in the shadows of legacy.

Lilia Calderu as Glinda the Good Witch of the South: Lilia, on the other hand, embodies Glinda, the Good Witch. Draped in an ethereal gown, she radiates hope and support within the witch community. Glinda is a guiding light, offering wisdom and nurturing strength, and Lilia steps into this role with grace. This costume choice isn’t just about aesthetics; it reinforces the importance of sisterhood and collaboration among witches. In a world where Agatha often manipulates, Lilia’s character reminds us that power can also uplift and unite. She’s the bright spot amid the chaos, hinting at her potential to mediate the conflicts brewing around her.

Jennifer Kale as Snow White’s Hag: Last but not least, we have Jennifer, transforming into the menacing hag from Snow White. This choice is both haunting and poignant, capturing Jennifer’s tumultuous journey. The hag symbolizes the darker aspects of femininity, manipulation, and survival—elements that resonate deeply with Jennifer’s backstory as an 11th-generation root worker. By adopting this persona, Jennifer confronts her past traumas and societal perceptions of witches as malevolent. This metamorphosis is a declaration of resilience and reclamation, showcasing her evolution from victim to a powerful force in the magical realm.

Spellbinding Themes and Character Dynamics

This episode isn’t just about costumes; it’s a narrative device that lays bare the characters’ motivations and the overarching themes of the series.

Identity and Empowerment: The costumes serve as a canvas for each character’s struggle for self-definition in a world that loves to pigeonhole witches. Agatha’s embrace of her villainous side, Billy’s link to Maleficent, Lilia’s nurturing role, and Jennifer’s reclamation of her identity all spotlight the diverse spectrum of witchcraft. The show encourages us to reflect on how personal experiences and societal expectations shape who we become.

Sisterhood and Conflict: The dynamic between these witches highlights the delicate balance between unity and rivalry. Lilia’s supportive nature as Glinda is a stark contrast to Agatha’s more duplicitous tendencies, creating a rich ground for both conflict and collaboration. This tension echoes the broader theme of sisterhood, illustrating how witches can either lift each other up or become adversaries, depending on the choices they make.

Legacy and the Weight of History: Each character’s costume is a reminder of the rich histories they embody, prompting us to consider how their pasts shape their present identities. Whether it’s Agatha grappling with her villainous reputation, Billy dealing with familial expectations, Lilia confronting societal roles, or Jennifer struggling against limitations, the interplay of legacy and personal choice creates a narrative that resonates deeply with the complexities of modern witchcraft.

By weaving these references to iconic fantasy witches throughout history, Episode 7 of Agatha All Along not only pays tribute to beloved characters but also invites us to dig deeper into themes of power, identity, and the evolution of witchcraft in today’s storytelling landscape. It’s a beautiful reminder that the past informs the present, and in the world of witchcraft, nothing is ever as simple as black and white.

Another Trial, Another Countdown

The Hourglass Pushes Us One Step Closer to Destiny

The trial motif cranks up the tension in Episode 7 with the hourglass—your classic “time’s running out” symbol, and for Lilia, it’s hitting hard. She’s been battling against time her entire life, but the hourglass is the ultimate countdown to a fate she can’t dodge. It’s not just there for dramatic flair, though. This hourglass ties back to earlier episodes, where we had the kitchen timer in Episode 3, a metronome in Episode 4, and that retro ’80s digital watch in Episode 5. These weren’t just fun props—they were breadcrumbs leading to this moment. Time has always been Lilia’s greatest enemy, and as the sand slips away, so do her chances of rewriting her destiny. Her trial isn’t on the horizon anymore—it’s happening now.

Agatha Labels Lilia “Dory”

When Memory Lapses Meet a Perfect Pixar Zing

In Episode 7, Agatha’s sarcasm hits a new high when she calls Lilia “Dory” as she struggles to make sense of her disjointed memories. This clever jab is a clear reference to the forgetful fish from Finding Nemo and Finding Dory, voiced by Ellen DeGeneres. Just like the animated character who can’t keep a thought in her head for more than a few seconds, Lilia’s chaotic memory issues get a playful dig from Agatha, proving once again that no pop culture reference is off-limits when it comes to her sharp-tongued humor.

Billy’s Reunion Prophecy

Tommy Isn’t the Only Possibility

In Billy’s reading, Lilia drops the bombshell of an upcoming reunion. Naturally, Billy’s mind jumps straight to his twin brother Tommy—after all, that’s the whole reason he’s on this journey. But here’s the kicker: it might not be Tommy. This reunion could take a wild turn and involve someone unexpected, like the Scarlet Witch or even Vision. Whoever it is, you can bet it’s going to shake things up in a big way.

Lilia’s Flashbacks Pay Off Big

It All Comes Together in Episode 7

In Agatha All Along Episode 7, we finally get confirmation that all of Lilia’s seemingly random outbursts throughout the season are tied to her out-of-sync existence in time. Every cryptic line she’s dropped has been a breadcrumb leading us to this moment. Here’s a breakdown of each phrase in the order it was first said

“Wispy or Kooky?” – Episode 4

“Alice Don’t” – Episode 4

“Try to Save Agatha” – Episode 3

“I Hated This the First Time” – Episode 5

“Get Off Me” – Episode 2

“You Know We Really Hated Each Other in the Beginning, But Now…” – Episode 3

“I Love You Guys” – Episode 3

When you piece them together, it’s pretty touching to realize that some of Lilia’s final words were expressions of her newfound love for the coven. The bonds she formed as they walked down the Witches’ Road make her sacrifice even more impactful. Her out-of-sequence life wasn’t just a quirky character trait—it became the key to saving her coven when the Salem Seven came knocking. Lilia’s journey may have been chaotic, but in the end, it was all part of her story of loyalty and selflessness.

Lilia’s Tarot Drop in Episode 7

The Cards Are More Than Magic—They’re the Coven

Throughout Agatha All Along, Lilia Calderu’s cryptic outbursts weren’t just random—they were actually names of Tarot cards that come into play during her trial in Episode 7. Here’s how each Tarot card, previously mentioned by Lilia, ties into key characters and moments:

Queen of Cups – This one is all Lilia. She’s the intuitive force, trusting her inner voice even when time itself is working against her.

Three of Pentacles – Represents the entire coven. It’s about collaboration and sisterhood, something Lilia had been missing but ultimately finds in her fellow witches.

Knight of Wands – Linked to Alice and her recent death, symbolizing the path already taken and what’s been lost.

High Priestess – All eyes on Jennifer here. She’s the future, holding immense spiritual power, even if she’s not ready—or willing—to use it yet.

Three of Swords – Agatha holding Billy, representing the obstacles ahead: heartbreak, sorrow, and grief. It’s the emotional weight hanging over them all.

Tower (Reversed) – A symbol of destruction and upheaval, but reversed, it hints at miraculous transformation amidst the chaos.

Death – Of course, Lady Death herself, marking the inevitable end. “Death Comes for Us All” rings loud and clear here.

The way Agatha All Along uses these Tarot cards to weave together Lilia’s journey is brilliant. Episode 7 really nails the narrative payoff, showing how each card connects not just to Lilia, but to the entire arc of the show. It’s a well-executed nod to both Lilia’s fate and the future that awaits the coven.

Rio’s Big Mic Drop

Lady Death? Yeah, She’s the OG Green Witch

Well, there it is! Rio just claimed the title of Lady Death, proving she’s been the original Green Witch all along. Things are about to get real wild!

Episode 7 of Agatha All Along drops a bombshell in its final moments—Lilia finds out that Rio Vidal is none other than the living embodiment of Death herself. Yup, you heard that right. Turns out, Rio’s the original Green Witch, and all those subtle clues sprinkled throughout the season finally come full circle. Oh, and Agatha? She knew the whole time, of course. With this massive reveal now out in the open, the last two episodes are set to explore just how insanely powerful Rio really is, and let’s be real—the stakes just got cranked up to eleven.

“Time in a Bottle” Packs a Punch

Lilia’s Emotional Rollercoaster and a Nod to Quicksilver’s Epic Scene

In Agatha All Along Episode 7, we get hit with Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” during the end credits, and let me tell you, it’s not just background noise—it’s a deep cut into Lilia’s entire journey. This track does more than just set the tone; it taps into her power, her sacrifice, and the emotional weight of her story. When Lilia says, “Time is an illusion,” it’s not just a throwaway line—it’s the crux of her whole deal, living her life in a way that doesn’t follow a straight path.

The lyrics, “If I could save time in a bottle… just to spend them with you,” basically summarize Lilia’s abilities. She’s lived with time bottled up inside her, experiencing moments out of order. But, like the song, she couldn’t actually control it—she could only observe, never change. It’s that heartbreaking realization that, while she has the power to see everything, the moments still slip through her fingers. Much like Croce’s wish to preserve time for someone he loves, Lilia experiences her own life’s key moments—both the good and the gut-wrenching—but they always feel more like fate than choice.

Croce’s next line, “But there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do, once you find them,” hits hard for Lilia. Even with her foresight, even knowing what’s coming, she couldn’t avoid the tragedies she saw. It was all laid out in front of her, but she was locked into it, just like her destiny. And in her final moments, she sacrifices herself, not because she had a choice, but because she had already seen it play out. That’s the kicker—it wasn’t desire driving her actions, it was inevitability.

“If I had a box just for wishes and dreams that had never come true…” Okay, this line? It sums up Lilia’s entire existence. She wasn’t making decisions based on dreams or hopes—she was following a script she’d already lived. Everything she did—casting the sigil, warning Agatha—wasn’t a choice. It was something she’d already done, over and over again, like a broken record. And the acceptance of that is what makes her story so tragic yet powerful.

By the time her death arrives, Lilia’s already prepared. She knew it was coming, and her Maestra’s lesson—that divination is about bracing for the future, not changing it—was the backbone of her life. She fought against what she saw but couldn’t escape it. Her story, much like Croce’s song, is a bittersweet reminder that no matter how much we wish to freeze time or hold onto moments, it’s always slipping away.

Now, for the Marvel fans out there, let’s not forget the bigger picture here. “Time in a Bottle” was also the iconic soundtrack for Quicksilver’s unforgettable scene in X-Men: Days of Future Past, and with Evan Peters’ appearance in Agatha All Along, the connection feels like more than a casual nod. Just like Lilia’s fate, the song is all about love, loss, and the ticking clock we can’t outrun. It leaves us wondering—if Lilia could’ve truly controlled her time, how much would she have saved?

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