#chaos magic reader

[iamgayjesus]

Study of Shadows📝🥀

Pairing: Professor Agatha Harkness x PhD!Reader

Tags: slow burn, possessive Agatha, power imbalance, academic tension, grief and magic, dark academia, angst and fluff, eventual smut, tags to be updated.

Synopsis: A guarded PhD student is assigned to the mysterious and powerful Professor Agatha Harkness. In their candlelit meetings, secrets unravel, and a slow-burning tension grows between teacher and pupil—where knowledge, desire, and possession intertwine in a dark dance of magic and longing.

Chapter One: Between Light and Dark

🖋️Ch. 2 // Ch.3 // Ch.4

You didn’t expect much from your doctoral journey.

Not glory. Not prestige. Certainly not rest.

What you anticipated were the usual ghosts — long nights hunched over brittle pages, ink-stained fingers twitching from too much caffeine and not enough clarity. You expected footnotes that bled into oblivion, your spine aching from chairs too hard and ideas too heavy. You braced yourself for loneliness — the kind that lingers in academic hallways long after the lights go out, when even the walls seem to whisper in forgotten tongues.

What you didn’t prepare for was how easily grief would follow you in.

How it would settle beside you in the library, breathe against your neck in archives, lace itself between the lines of your dissertation. No one warns you at orientation that scholarship and sorrow are twin sisters — that they walk hand in hand through every lecture, every paper, every late-night revelation you mistake for progress.

You didn’t expect your advisor to vanish either.

Three weeks in — no warning, no explanation, not even a professional courtesy email. Just gone. As if they’d walked into the stacks and simply… dissolved.

You asked around, once. Politely. Once was enough. Eyes dropped. Conversations rerouted. One of the senior professors said something about a sudden sabbatical, but their voice cracked on sabbatical like it wasn’t quite the word they meant. You caught a TA whispering that he’d been sent away, but the phrase felt too deliberate to be casual.

And still, you waited.

Until the message came —

just a line of sterile type in your inbox, timestamped 3:11 a.m., the kind of hour that never delivers good news:

Subject: ADVISOR UPDATE

Your research profile has been reassigned. Please report to Professor Harkness this Thursday at 6:00 p.m. (Office 4C, Antiquities Wing).

Attendance is not optional.

No greeting. No signature. No attached explanation.

Just her name.

Harkness.

The one who reads old tongues like lullabies and walks

the campus at hours when the shadows grow too long.

And with it, something cold pressed itself beneath your skin — not fear, exactly, but something quieter. More dangerous. The kind of dread that doesn’t shout, but waits.

You stared at the email for longer than you’ll admit, rereading it like you might unlock a softer meaning the third time through. You didn’t.

You closed your laptop. Sat in the stillness of your apartment for a full hour.

Outside, the city moved on — cars passing, wind shifting the curtains, the streetlight flickering in its usual faulty rhythm. But you sat frozen, aware only of the weight behind that name. Of the silence it summoned.

You told yourself you’d heard the rumors.

But the truth is, everyone had — and no one ever told them the same way twice.

And she doesn’t take students.

You sat there in the half-light of your kitchen, your tea cooling you.

Why you?

You weren’t political. You weren’t legacy. You didn’t play the long academic game with the rest of them, smiling at the right faces, asking the right questions at conferences just loud enough to be heard. You sat at the edge of things, always watching. Always digging.

Still, you knew your work was… difficult.

Not to write — writing came easily. It poured out of you like breath, like blood. No — difficult to touch.

You’d built your thesis like a locked room, every chapter carefully warded, every argument too sharp for casual handling. Professors left it alone not because they didn’t understand it, but because they didn’t want to.

It made them uncomfortable.

And maybe that’s why, when your advisor vanished and the reassignment email came through without explanation, a part of you — a quiet, bitter part you’d never admit aloud — thought:

“Of course they gave me to her.” You exhaled.

Because your thesis wasn’t gentle.

_____________

The day you were supposed to meet her, the world had the strange, alert stillness of a day before a storm.

Leaves curled at the edges, crisp and uneasy. The sky above the university hung low and grey, all color leached from it like a faded memory. The clocktower struck three — slow, resonant chimes echoing through the courtyard — as you stepped across the flagstones toward the North Tower.

No one else was around.

That should’ve been your first warning.

The building itself looked older than the rest of campus — as though it had been moved here from somewhere far more haunted. Ivy crawled thick along its stone skin. Gargoyles watched from high corners with expressions that felt… personal.

You climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the fourth floor, your boots echoing too loudly in the silence. The corridor at the top was cold, despite the season, lit only by wall sconces that flickered with lazy golden flame.

Her door was at the end. Her office.

You hesitated.

The wood was dark, almost black, with an iron handle that looked like it would bite if you touched it wrong. Her name was etched in a brass plate: Professor A. Harkness.

You raised your hand to knock.

The door opened before you could.

And there she was.

⸻

You didn’t expect her to look like that.

Not when she turned toward you, silhouetted against the grey-blue light of the rain-slicked window behind her. Not when her eyes landed on you like a blade sliding into place.

She wasn’t old, like the rumors suggested. Nor was she particularly young. She was the kind of beautiful that made age irrelevant — composed of angles and shadows and something ancient humming just beneath the surface of her skin.

Her coat was still on, black and tailored, high-collared and dusted with a fine shimmer like smoke. Her hair was twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, loose strands curling down like spells half-finished. Her hands, ringed and bare of gloves, rested on the back of the chair before her, fingertips drumming softly — a rhythm without a melody.

Her voice, when it came, was velvet against your throat.

“Miss Y/L/N,” she said. “Right on time.”

You swallowed. “Professor Harkness.”

The door clicked shut behind you without her moving. You didn’t remember stepping inside.

She gestured towards a velvet chair.

You sat, uncertain. The room smelled of dried herbs, wax, old books. Rain on slate. Something sharp underneath it all — burnt rosemary, maybe. Or binding chalk.

She watched you like a cat might watch a bird that hadn’t realized the window was open.

“I’ve read your proposal,” she said at last, settling behind the desk like a queen slipping into her throne. “Interesting subject. Difficult. Possibly career-ending, depending on how recklessly you pursue it.”

You blinked. “That’s… fair.”

She hummed — not quite approval, not quite amusement. Her fingers trailed across the cover of your thesis file, resting there with eerie familiarity.

“You understand, of course, that words like ‘binding’ and ‘consent’ carry weight beyond the page?”

You met her gaze.

“That’s why I chose them.”

Something flickered in her expression — not surprise. Not exactly. More like recognition.

“Good,” she said. “Then we won’t waste time.”

She leaned forward, just slightly, and suddenly the distance between you felt paper-thin. You could see the silver threads at her temples. The fine lines beside her mouth. The coiled stillness of her — like a spell wound tight, waiting for a trigger.

“Tell me,” she murmured, “why do people make vows they can’t escape from?”

Your breath caught.

And not just because it was the question at the heart of your work. But because her voice had dropped — intimate, intrusive, like she already knew your answer.

You thought of all the texts you’d read. The names signed in blood. The whispered pleas buried beneath layers of formal phrasing.

You thought of want.

Of love that felt like ruin. Of fear, too deep to name. Of devotion that didn’t need to be returned to feel real.

“Because,” you said, your voice quieter than you meant, “they want to belong to something. Even if it hurts.”

Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Very good.”

She didn’t blink.

Neither did you.

⸻

When she dismissed you, twenty-seven minutes later, it was with a small nod and the simple phrase:

“I expect progress weekly. No excuses.”

You nodded, hand tightening around your satchel strap. As you turned to go, her voice followed, soft and deliberate.

“And Miss Y/L/N?”

You paused.

“Careful with your phrasing.”

You swallowed, pulse tripping.

“Words have teeth.”

And though she smiled — elegant, amused, all ice and shadow — you couldn’t help but feel that something had already been written between you.

Not in ink. Not in blood.

But in silence.

Something binding.

Something beginning.

______

Hey guys, please let me know if you’d like me to continue!

[aventurineswife]

Y’know the “My partner got turned into a cat” trend? Quite a few people wrote it awhile back, and while I was glazing ideas for Sylle and Noah… I think I have a request.

Just as it reads, I wish for a fic written with Sunday, Noah, and whomever else of your choosing. With a reader who got transformed into a cat. 🙏 Surely they’ll find a solution and return to their human form... Even better if they’re like snuggled up together then boom! Back to their regular figure unexpectedly.

A Cat’s Gaze, A Lover’s Soul

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Noah (OC) x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Comedy, Cat Transformation, Mild Angst, Established Relationship, Snuggling & Cuddling, Protective Behavior, Magic Gone Wrong, Unintentional Chaos, Sudden Transformation, Found Family, Lighthearted Shenanigans.

Warnings: Minor Violence, Implied Past Trauma, Touch-Starved Behavior, Mild Possessiveness.

Soft light filtered through the grand halls of the Astral Express as Sunday delicately traced his fingers over the rim of his teacup. It had been a week since you’d mysteriously transformed into a cat—a small, fluffy creature. Despite the bizarre circumstances, Sunday had remained composed, though you couldn’t miss the gentle melancholy in his gaze every time he stroked your fur.

“It seems the universe has a cruel sense of humor,” he murmured as you sat curled up in his lap, your tiny paws kneading the fabric of his coat. His feathery wing twitched behind his ear, a subtle tell of his unrest. “Even in this form, you seek comfort.”

You meowed pointedly, earning a soft chuckle from him.

The situation was frustrating, but if nothing else, being a cat meant you could curl up against Sunday’s warmth, nestled beneath the folds of his long scarf. You weren’t sure if it was your imagination, but each night you spent snuggled against his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around you, his hold grew just a little bit tighter. He wouldn’t admit it, but he feared losing you entirely.

Then, one evening, as you rested against his shoulder, his quiet voice barely above a whisper, you felt an odd shift—a warmth rushing through your limbs, a sudden weightlessness that made you blink.

And then, just like that, you were back in your human form—wrapped tightly in his embrace, limbs tangled as you pressed against his chest. His breath hitched, eyes wide as realization struck.

“Ah,” he said, his voice laced with an unreadable emotion. “...I suppose I should let go now.”

But for a moment, he didn’t.

The darkened halls of the Afterlife Judiciary/Palace of Justice echoed with the rhythmic clicking of boots. Noah sat lazily on his throne-like chair, his sharp teeth glinting in amusement as he flicked your tail with a gloved finger.

“You’re absolutely pathetic like this, you know that?” he purred, a sadistic glint in his one visible eye. You swiped at his hand in protest, earning a chuckle that sent shivers down your tiny feline spine.

Despite his cruel words, he was oddly possessive of you in this form, carrying you around in one arm or letting you perch on his shoulder as he doled out his merciless justice. He claimed it was just convenient, but you knew better.

At night, when he thought no one was watching, you’d find yourself nestled against his chest, his fingers buried in your fur, his steady heartbeat lulling you to sleep. He’d call you a nuisance in the morning, but his actions told a different story.

Then, one fateful evening, he was cradling you absentmindedly while reading through case files when a sudden surge of energy rippled through you. A blinding flash later, you found yourself sprawled across his lap, back in your human form, hands gripping his coat for balance.

Noah blinked.

Then, slowly, a wicked smirk spread across his lips. “Oh? Now that’s interesting.” His fingers traced your jaw, sharp and teasing. “Guess I’ll have to figure out new ways to keep you on my lap.”

“Now, now, little thing. If you wanted my attention this badly, you could’ve just asked.”

Aventurine lounged on an opulent couch, a glass of rich crimson wine in one hand, while his other traced circles on your feline head. You huffed, swishing your tail as he laughed, his golden accessories jingling with the movement.

He had taken your transformation with surprising ease, treating you as if this was just another high-stakes gamble the universe had thrown his way. You’d caught him betting with himself about when you’d turn back, whispering outrageous odds under his breath.

But despite his teasing, he never once let you stray too far. You always ended up curled on his lap, his warmth radiating through his elaborate suit as he hummed in amusement.

Then, one evening, as you stretched across his chest, his fingers lazily stroking your back, you felt the familiar warmth take over. A rush of sensation overwhelmed you, and suddenly—

You were human again.

And somehow, still sprawled across Aventurine’s lap.

He arched an eyebrow, a slow grin creeping onto his face. “Oh? Didn’t think you’d be so eager to stay close, darling.” His fingers trailed up your spine, amusement flickering in his eyes. “If you wanted to be in my arms so badly, you could’ve just said so.”

You smacked his shoulder. He only laughed.

[rizzlesregal13]

Maybe Using Magic Isn’t That Bad… Not When It’s Just The Two Of Us

***NSFW - MDNI***

Agatha x Reader 💜

With the Saturday night dance party over, and Nicki & Ella finally tucked up in bed, what started as playful teasing quickly turns into something more...especially when your magic gets involved.

A/N: I had no intention for this to decend into smut central… it was supposed to be cute and fluffy… clearly my mind had other ideas. Oopsie 🙈😏

Saturday evenings in our house were always “something”.

Not the “witchcraft and chaos” kind of “something” Agatha revelled in... well, not just that... but the good kind. The kind where our living room became a dance floor, the music was too loud, on this occasion Pink Pony Club, a small disco ball spun, and any sense of decorum flew right out the window.

And tonight...was no exception.

Ella was perched on my hip, giggling uncontrollably as I spun and tipped her in time with the beat. Her little hands clung to my shoulders, her brunette curls bouncing with every move. She wasn’t even trying to dance anymore, she was just enjoying the ride, possibly thinking I was her very own “pink pony”.

Nicki, on the other hand, was locked in an ambitious battle with Agatha, attempting a step-cross-leg manoeuvre that neither of them were doing particularly well at. Agatha towered over him, her longer legs working against Nicki’s as he stubbornly tried to keep up and not trip over her feet.

The result? Absolute, silliness.

“Kid, if I stretch you just a teensy bit, I think we might nail this,” Agatha teased, her blue eyes flashing with mirth.

“Hey! No magic!” I shot her a look, though my amusement was hard to hide. “This is a magic-free dance floor.”

Agatha huffed dramatically, clutching her chest as if I had just shot her.

“You wound me, hon. Truly.”

“You’ll live.” I smirked, twirling Ella one last time before setting her down so she could run to Nicki and Agatha.

Nicki, determined to master the step, dragged Ella into the mix, her tiny feet mimicking his with unwavering enthusiasm. This was what it was all about. Not the spells, not magic, not the thrill of bending reality to our will.

Just this… the four of us.

I watched as Agatha’s expression softened, her ever-present smirk shifting into something… gentler, something unguarded. There were no sharp smirks, no teasing, no wicked little grins that she wore like armour. Just her, just Agatha, playing with our kids. Being soft in a way she rarely let herself be… that very few people got to see.

And god, it kills me how much I love her in moments like this.

Because I know her past. I know she isn’t perfect. I know she’s done terrible things, that she’s hurt people, taken what she’s wanted without caring about the consequences. And yet, here she is, with her arm around our son and daughter making up crazy dances, as laughter ripples out of all three of them, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She caught me watching her, and in true Agatha fashion, cocked a knowing brow.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She left Nicki & Ella, and prowled toward me, slipping an arm around my waist before I could protest.

“You were having a moment.”

I rolled my eyes. “I was not.”

“Oh, you so were.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What was it this time? Overwhelmed by my stunning dance skills? Enchanted by my presence?”

“More like overwhelmed by your complete lack of rhythm.”

Agatha gasped. “How dare you.”

I laughed, wrapping my arms around her neck. “Face it, you’re powerful, brilliant, ridiculously sexy… but… you dance like a drunk cat.”

She grinned. “But you love me anyway.”

I sighed dramatically. “Against my better judgment.”

The music swelled around us, but for a moment, it was just the two of us. No magic, no responsibilities—just Agatha, in my arms, her hands resting at my hips like they belonged there.

“I love you,” she murmured, so low I barely caught it.

My heart did that stupid, crazy thing where it forgot how to function properly, missing a beat. Of course I knew she loved me, but those three little words were never something she threw about easily.

“I love you too.”

Nicki’s voice broke through before she could kiss me.

“Ew! Mom and Mama are being gross again!”

Ella giggled, clapping her hands over her eyes.

“We have to do something about their timing.” Agatha groaned, burying her face in my shoulder.

I just laughed, tugging her back into the dance party and the chaos of our two kids, before she could plot something truly wicked.

***

It had gotten late. We’d managed to get the kids in bed fairly hassle free. Nicki had crashed mid-sentence, mumbling something about being the best dancer in the family, and Ella had insisted on one last bedtime story before her eyes, that were so like Agatha's, betrayed her and fluttered shut.

Now, the house was still. Not silent… never truly silent with the lingering energy of two overactive kids, but still enough that I could finally relax. Agatha stood in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of wine before handing me one, the deep red liquid catching the dim kitchen light as I took a slow sip.

I leaned back against the counter, eyes drifting through the open archway into the living room; a battlefield of discarded blankets, scattered toys, the disco ball still spinning, and upturned cushions.

Agatha followed my gaze, her smirk lazy, knowing.

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

She was right. It could wait. But something about ending the night with the house in disarray made my fingers twitch… my magic spark. So, with a subtle flick, the room righted itself. Cushions fluffed and stacked back on to the sofa, the coffee table straightened, the disco ball stopped and materialised inside the cupboard. The craziness of earlier now looked like nothing more than a memory.

I barely turned my head before I felt it—Agatha’s eyes on me, her smirk widening as she took a slow sip of her wine.

“Using magic, are we?”

I shrugged, pretending I didn’t feel the way her gaze sent warmth curling through me.

“I like waking up to a clean house.”

Agatha set her glass down with an amused chuckle, stepping into my space, her hands resting lightly on the counter on either side of me.

“Mm. Sure. That’s the reason.”

I arched a brow. “And what other reason would there be?”

Her smirk deepened. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you just enjoy it.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping just enough to make my breath catch.

“Maybe it’s not so bad, using what you were born with.”

I rolled my eyes, tilting my head back slightly.

“Don’t start.”

“Start what?” she teased, her lips just brushing against my jaw before pulling back. “I’m just saying, for someone who claims they don’t like usung their magic freely, who would rather do things the “normal” way, you sure didn’t hesitate.”

I huffed, lifting my glass to my lips again. “It’s practical.”

“It’s magic.”

“Magic can be practical.”

Agatha tilted her head, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the countertop beside me.

“And yet, when I use it to summon a bottle of wine instead of walking to the kitchen, you give me that look.”

I bit back a smile. “That’s different.”

She scoffed, feigning offence. “How?”

I swirled the wine in my glass, meeting her blue gaze with a knowing smirk of my own. “Because when you use magic, you always take it a step too far.”

Agatha clutched her chest, staggering back a step.

“How dare you?”

“Example, you magicked Mrs Hart’s garden gnome into an actual gnome, Agatha.”

“In my defence, he was boring, and Nicki and Ella loved it.”

I shook my head, laughing softly as she stepped back into my space. She nudged my glass aside just enough to steal a quick sip before pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth.

“Mm,” she hummed, savouring the wine. “Practical or not, I like it when you use magic.”

I let out a small sigh, resting my forehead against hers for just a moment. “You would.”

She grinned. “Of course, I would.”

I watched as Agatha picked up her wine glass, her fingers curling around the delicate stem. She took a slow sip, eyes locked onto mine over the rim, that ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Then, without a word, she turned to walk away.

What happened next… I don’t think I could have controlled it even if I’d wanted to. Let’s just say that deep rooted instinct “that I was born with” kicked in.

Agatha barely had time to process before she was spinning back toward me, my magic curling around her like an invisible ribbon. She stopped just inches away, her blue eyes flickering with something between amusement and intrigue.

“Oh?” she murmured, head tilting as that wicked smirk continued to play on her lips. “Now who’s taking things a step too far?”

I stepped closer, slow, deliberate, my own smirk mirroring hers.

“Did you think you were going somewhere?”

Her eyes dipped to my mouth for just a fraction of a second before locking back onto mine, her breath steady but charged.

“Maybe. But you seem to have other plans.”

I lifted my hand, magic humming in my fingertips as I plucked her wine glass from her grip without touching it, letting it float over to rest beside mine on the countertop. She watched it land, then turned back to me with an arched brow.

“Oh, look at you,” she murmured, voice dripping with something almost sultry. “Using magic without a care.”

I laughed, stepping in until there was barely any space between us. “Seems you’re a terrible influence.”

“I certainly try,” she whispered, eyes glinting in the low kitchen light.

She didn’t pull away. Neither did I.

Instead, I reached up, fingers ghosting along the sleeve of her deep green sweater, tracing the wool before slipping lower, to the warmth of her wrist. Agatha let out a breath, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh, as I slowly walked her back toward the counter.

Her hands found my hips first, then my waist, her touch familiar, teasing, taunting.

“So,” she drawled, eyes never leaving mine, “what exactly are your plans?”

I grinned, tilting my head slightly as I let my magic flare again—not enough to startle her, but enough to send a playful spark up her spine.

“I thought you liked it when I used magic.”

Agatha let out a low hum of approval.

“Oh, I do.”

“Then stop talking.”

And for once, she actually listened.

I ran my fingers back up her sleeve, slow and deliberate, letting my magic tingle against her skin like the faintest brush of static. Agatha inhaled sharply, her breath catching for just a moment—not because she was surprised, but because she liked it.

I smirked, letting my fingers trail higher, up the curve of her neck, where I felt the rapid thrum of her pulse beneath my touch. Then her jaw, where she tilted her head slightly into it, anticipation curling between us. And finally, across her lips.

Her eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, her breath warm against my fingertips.

“You’re playing with fire, Y/N,” she murmured, lips parting just enough for her voice to slip through, low and dangerous.

I hummed in response, trailing my fingers back down to her collarbone, then pressing my palm flat against her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath it.

“Funny,” I mused, tilting my head. “I thought you were the dangerous one.”

Agatha’s eyes blinked open, dark and smouldering, her smirk creeping back. “Oh, I am,” she purred. “But you… you’re finally starting to realise that you are too.”

I leaned in, close enough that my lips barely brushed hers, our noses ghosting, but not quite closing the distance. The air between us crackled, magic humming, but neither of us were in a hurry to break it.

Then, because I couldn’t resist, I let my magic flare again, just a whisper of power tracing along her skin, making her shiver.

Agatha let out a quiet, breathy laugh.

“Oh, I really like this side of you.”

I grinned. “Thought you might.”

She made a sound—half approval, half impatience, before she finally closed the space between us, her lips pressing against mine in a kiss that was slow but intent, teasing but undeniable with what she wanted.

My fingers curled into the wool covering her body, pulling her in, and Agatha let me—for now. But I knew her. Knew that any second now, she’d turn the tables, take control, push back just to see how far I’d let her go.

That was the game she played, we played.

The one we both loved.

I fingered the hem of her sweater, my touch slow, teasing, before I finally tugged it upward. She didn’t stop me—didn’t hesitate—just lifted her arms to let me pull it over her head and toss it aside.

The moment it was gone, she was on me again, her hands slipping around my waist as she pulled me into another kiss. This one was deeper, more intent, her lips parting against mine as if she had no interest in keeping space between us.

When she finally broke away, her breath warm against my skin, I felt it... A shift, a pulling in the fabric of my shirt that I wasn’t responsible for.

I glanced down just in time to see my buttons undoing themselves, one by one, the fabric falling open to expose my skin.

My breath hitched, heat pooling low in my stomach, and when I lifted my gaze, Agatha was watching me with a smirk—one that matched my own.

“I see we’re not bothering with patience tonight,” I murmured, my voice lower than I intended.

Agatha hummed, reaching out to trace a finger along the navy lace of my bra, her touch featherlight.

“I’d argue I’ve been very patient,” she countered, her voice dripping with amusement. “You’re the one who started playing with magic.”

I bit my lip, watching the way her fingers teased at the lace, her gaze dark, considering.

“So what happens next?” I asked, my own hands slipping to her waist, feeling the warmth of her bare skin beneath my palms.

Agatha leaned in, her lips barely ghosting over mine, her breath sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

“Oh, hon,” she purred, her fingers slipping lower, dragging over my stomach with just enough pressure to make me ache.

“What doesn’t happen next?”

I couldn’t stop the involuntary moan that slipped from my lips at Agatha’s words. That wicked, knowing smirk of hers deepened, as if she had expected that reaction, as if she had been waiting for it.

But two could play that game.

My fingers twitched, and with a quiet pop, the button of her jeans came undone. A second later, the zipper slid down in a slow, deliberate motion, the sound filling the space between us.

Agatha’s breath hitched, just barely, but I caught it.

I didn’t stop there.

Stepping back, I let my magic press against her jeans, coaxing them to slip down from her hips, past the curve of her thighs, pooling at her feet.

She didn’t move to stop me. Didn’t move at all, except to lift her feet free. She stood there, her lip caught between her teeth as she watched me with blown, approving eyes.

Oh, she really liked me using magic—especially like this.

“Interesting,” she murmured, her voice like silk, like sin. “You do have a wicked streak, after all.”

I took a slow step forward, closing the distance I had put between us. My fingers found her waist, my touch light but firm.

“You bring it out in me,” I admitted, tilting my head slightly, watching her expression shift... anticipation, desire, something close to pride.

Agatha’s hands found my bare skin, her touch sending a fresh wave of heat through me.

“I love bringing things out in you,” she purred, fingers trailing along the back band of my bra, her magic sparking faintly against my skin, making me shiver.

I swallowed, my own smirk returning.

“Then you’re going to love what happens next.”

Her eyes flickered with amusement, challenge… hunger.

“Oh, darling,” she whispered, lips brushing against mine just enough to tease. “Show me.”

Happily.

I trailed my fingers over her chest, skimming over the soft skin above the fabric of her black bra, feeling the way her breath caught beneath my touch. My magic followed, leaving behind a faint, tingling sensation as it traced between her cleavage, along her ribs, down her stomach, dipping over her hip before gliding up the inside of her thigh.

Agatha let out a breath, her body shivering, reacting slightly under the sensation, but she didn’t stop me.

Not yet.

I smirked, watching her closely, revelling in the way she responded, the way her lips parted just so, the way her pupils continued to grow as she watched me.

When I reached the edge of her panties, I let my magic surge, just a bit stronger, the warmth of it teasing against her, slipping beneath the material.

That’s when I felt it... her fingers curling firmly around my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.

My gaze snapped up to hers, meeting those sharp, knowing eyes.

Agatha’s grip was firm but not forceful, her smirk just as wicked as before, but now there was something else behind it—a need for her to be in control.

“Ah, ah, not yet” she murmured, tilting her head, her voice thick with something that sent heat pooling low between my thighs. I swallowed, my heart pounding, my breath uneven.

“Stopping me already?”

Her fingers tightened, her smirk deepening. “I never said stop,” she purred, leaning in just enough that I could feel her breath against my lips. “I said not yet.”

A shiver ran through me, her words like a spark catching fire.

Agatha slowly, deliberately, lifted my wrist, guiding my hand away from where I had been heading, dragging it instead up her body, pressing my palm against the centre of her chest, just above her heart.

“Patience,” she whispered, pressing a teasing kiss to my jaw.

I let out a slow breath, my fingers twitching against her skin.

She was going to make me work for this.

I smirked, pressing my body closer, my hips tilting forward against hers, my lips grazing her ear.

“I hope you know,” I murmured, my own voice dangerously low, my magic skirting lightly against her exposed skin, “I never lose.”

Agatha’s laughter was dark, promising.

“Then you’re going to love losing to me.”

I let out a slow breath, trailing my free hand back over her body, fingers brushing over her skin, my magic following like a whisper of heat. Agatha shivered beneath my touch, her lips parting slightly, her grip on my wrist loosening. I could feel it now…the crackling energy between us, the push and pull, magic flaring like a slow-burning fire. It felt reckless, deliciously so.

Because the kids were just upstairs… and they could come down at any moment.

And yet, neither of us stopped.

Agatha’s magic sparked, brushing against me like an invisible caress, and before I could process the shift, I felt it—the clasp of my bra releasing, the straps slipping slightly from my shoulders.

I inhaled sharply, looking up to find her smirking, blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“That was very smooth,” I murmured, feigning nonchalance as I let my own magic tease along the edge of her panties in return.

Agatha hummed, her fingers toying with the loosened strap of my bra, dragging it down just enough to expose more of me.

“I do try.”

I swallowed, my body heating under her gaze.

“And if the kids...”

Her lips brushed my ear, then to the spot where my ear met my neck, her magic pressing against my skin, firm and knowing.

“They’re asleep,” she murmured. “You worry too much.”

I let out a breathy laugh, even as a shiver ran through me. “One of us has to be responsible.”

Agatha leaned back slightly, her smirk widening as she took me in. She traced her fingers down the valley of my now exposed breasts, then lower, down over my stomach, just above my waistband.

“You could stop me?”

I exhaled sharply, meeting her gaze, the challenge clear between us.

I could… was I going to… absolutely not.

Because right now?

I wasn’t feeling very responsible.

I barely had time to process the flick of her fingers before I felt the cool air against my legs—my jeans weren’t undone, they were gone. Just… disappeared, like they’d never existed.

I gasped, my body tensing for half a second before I caught the wicked glint in Agatha’s blue eyes.

“Really?” I breathed, half-laughing, half-reeling from the abrupt removal. She smirked, eyes trailing over me now that I was left in nothing but my panties.

“You were taking too long.”

Before I could throw some snarky reply back at her, she was on me again, her lips trailing hot, deliberate kisses down my chest.

I sucked in a breath as she pressed in closer, her bare skin warm against mine, her hands roaming—one resting against my lower back, the other teasing over my hip, her fingers just brushing the lace of my underwear.

The living room, the kitchen, everything else faded to the background.

It was just her. Just us.

And I wasn’t thinking about the kids, or responsibility, or even the reckless way we were tangled up here, barely clothed, not caring about anything else but this.

Agatha’s mouth found the curve of my breast, then my nipple, her teeth scraping lightly before she soothed the spot with her tongue, pulling a gasp from me.

I dug my fingers into her back, tilting my head as she kissed lower, teasing, deliberate.

“I knew you’d like that,” she murmured against my skin.

I let out something between a laugh and a shaky breath.

“I hate how smug you are.”

She grinned, pressing a kiss just above my navel.

“No, you don’t.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers threading into her dark waves as her lips trailed even lower.

No.

No, I really didn’t.

I thought she was going to drop to her knees... god, I was ready for her to.

But then I felt it—my feet lifting from the floor, my body moving, guided by something unseen but all too familiar. Before I could even gasp, I was placed onto the cool surface of the kitchen counter, thighs spread wide, my balance steady only because she wanted it to be.

Agatha stepped between my legs, hands running up my thighs, and I knew she had done this on purpose—to see me, to make sure I knew exactly what I looked like right now, open and wanting, the evidence of it soaking through the thin lace of my underwear.

Her eyes glanced low as she took in the sight, and god, the way she looked at me... like she had just won a game we weren’t even playing... made the heat between my legs burn even hotter.

I swallowed hard, my breath uneven.

“You could’ve just asked,” I murmured, my voice rougher, more ragged than I intended.

Agatha hummed, dragging her nails lightly along the inside of my thighs, making me shiver.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Her hands inched higher, her fingers pressing just enough to make me squirm, but not enough to satisfy. She was toying with me, drawing this out, enjoying the way my body responded to her.

I let out a shaky breath, reaching for her, gripping the back of her neck to pull her closer.

“Agatha—”

Her smirk deepened, and I barely had time to react before her lips were on mine, hot, claiming, stealing the words right out of my mouth.

And just as I started to sink into it, our tongues fighting for dominance, just as I was about to beg her to do something, I felt it.. another pulse of magic.

A beat later, my panties were gone.

I moaned, the sudden coolness making me shiver, making me ache. My body was so hot, so wound tight I thought I might snap from nothing more than the way she was looking at me.

I spread my legs wider for her, an offering, a surrender. God, I was hers and she knew it. I would let her do anything.

And she was enjoying it—relishing the way I melted for her, the way I was already undone before she had even really touched me.

Her fingers trailed higher, slow, deliberate, teasing the inside of my thigh, her touch light enough to make me want, to make me need her. And then—finally—she stroked me. Just the barest drag of her fingers through my wet folds, and my hips jerked instinctively, desperate for more.

But she didn’t give it me.

She was toying with me, dragging this out, revelling in the way I responded to just the teasing touches of her left hand, the way my breath hitched, the way my thighs trembled under her.

I let out a whimper, gripping the edge of the counter like I could ground myself, like I could will her to give in.

Then I felt it.

Not just her fingers… but her magic.

It pulsed through me, against me, inside me, invisible but undeniable, like a current sparking through every nerve in my body.

I gasped, my back arching, my head rolling back as a husky moan tore from my lips.

It was unlike anything I’d ever felt before—so intimate, so deep, touching something in me that was beyond the physical.

Agatha hummed, pleased, her fingers still stroking, circling, her magic still pressing, teasing, building.

“Oh,” she murmured, voice dripping with amusement and something darker, something possessive. “You really like that, don’t you?”

I couldn’t answer her.

I could barely breathe.

“Agatha,” I moaned, my hips moving instinctively, chasing more—more friction, more of her, more of whatever spell she was weaving around me… inside of me. God, what was she doing to me?

The pleasure was overwhelming, sharp and sweet all at once, twisting inside me until I forgot everything else—where we were, how loud I was being, how reckless this was.

I knew I should be quieter, knew I should at least try to keep it together. But all I could feel was her—her fingers sliding through my slickness, teasing me open, her magic pulsing in a way that sent hot sparks licking up over my clit. She was dragging this out, savouring every reaction, every damn sound I made. She stepped back slightly, just enough to watch, her blue eyes locked onto where her fingers were playing with me, spreading me, owning me.

I whimpered, my body twitching with need, and she smirked—knowing, utterly devastating.

“I think…” I managed to breathe, my voice uneven, shaking, “it’s not just me that likes this…”

Agatha let out a low, approving hum, her fingers pressing just a bit deeper, just a bit firmer, making me gasp, but not giving me enough.

“Mmm,” she murmured, tilting her head, her eyes still fixed on me, watching every little movement, every little reaction. “You have no idea.”

“Please, baby,” I moaned, my voice desperate, needy. Any restraint I might have had was long gone, tossed out the window along with my inhibitions.

I needed her. Inside me. Not teasing, not playing, not making me fall apart inch by inch—I needed her to take me.

Agatha smirked, her fingers still tormenting me, tracing the edges of my entrance but never quite pushing inside. Her magic rippled through me again, that slow, electric pulse that made my body tremble, made my breath hitch.

I whimpered, hips arching, trying to move against her, trying to take her deeper myself.

But she just tsked, keeping her touch just out of reach.

“What do you want, Y/N,” she murmured, voice silky, but dangerously in control.

I moaned, my body aching with need. God, she knew exactly what I wanted, knew exactly how desperate I was.

And she was thriving in it.

I bucked my hips again, trying to push her fingers inside me, but she stayed firm, just barely pressing, just enough to keep me on edge.

“Use your words,” she purred.

I whimpered again, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter so tight my knuckles turned white.

“Agatha, please,” I gasped, my voice breaking. “I need you inside me. Now… Just… fuck me.”

Her smirk deepened, satisfaction flickering across her face.

“There you go,” she murmured, leaning in close, her lips brushing the side of my face. And then—finally—she gave me what I wanted.

I had no idea how I didn’t wake the kids. Jesus, the noise that left me—the desperate, broken moan that ripped from my throat as she finally gave me what I needed.

Her fingers.

Her magic.

Inside of me, stretching, filling… fucking me.

Agatha’s left hand was buried deep, her ring and middle fingers deep, sinking in all the way to her engagement and wedding band, the cool metal pressing against my entrance, a constant reminder of who I belonged to.

Fuck.

It was consuming. Unlike anything I had ever felt before, like every nerve in my body was attuned to her, to the way she moved inside me, thrusting, twisting, curling her fingers just right, hitting that spot that made me see stars.

I barely registered the way I clung to her, my nails dragging down her back, my thighs trembling against her sides. All I could focus on was her, the way she was watching me, blue eyes gleaming, drinking in the way I was falling apart beneath her, around her. She fucking loved this…Loved the way I writhed, the way I gasped her name, the way I had lost any semblance of control.

“Agatha,” I choked out, my breath ragged, my body burning.

I could feel it, building inside me, higher and higher, like I was standing at the edge of something I might never come back from.

She curled her fingers again—fuck, right there—her magic pressing at the same time, flooding through me, deep, touching something I couldn’t even name.

"Oh, baby—right there,” I gasped, my voice breaking. “Don’t—”I didn’t even know what I was begging for.

More? Mercy?

I couldn’t control myself. The way I was acting, the way I was moving, chasing her, chasing this, my body desperate, needy, starving for more of her.

The need for her to fuck me like she never had before.

And god, she knew it.

But fuck... she was doing it on our kitchen counter.

The thought should’ve made me laugh—should’ve made me pause, should’ve reminded me that the Nicki and Ella were just upstairs—but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care.

Not with her inside me.

Not with her fingers pushing, curling, twisting in ways that made my body tremble, made me forget everything but the pleasure she was pulling from me.

The sound—the obscene, wet sound of her fingers moving inside me filled the room, mixing with my gasps, my moans, the quiet murmurs of encouragement from her lips.

“That’s it, baby,” she purred, her voice as dark as her magic, her free hand gripping my thigh, keeping me spread wide for her. For her to see. For her to take. “Let me hear you.”

I let out a strangled moan, my hands scrambling against the counter, my body arching. I couldn’t control it anymore, couldn’t stop the way I moved against her, how I chased it, chased her.

“Fuck… baby…” I gasped, barely able to breathe. “I—”

I didn’t even know what I was trying to say.

That I was close? That I was hers? That I was about to come apart so completely, I wasn’t sure I’d ever put myself back together again?

It didn’t matter.

Because she knew, and nothing was going to make her stop.

“Feel me inside you,” she whispered against my mouth, her breath hot, her voice thick with dark amusement, with possession.

Her fingers pumped deeper, curling just right, her magic rippling inside me in a way that made my body shudder, my breath come out in desperate, choked gasps.

“Squeeze me, baby.” Her lips brushed mine, her smirk infuriatingly smug as she felt me clench around her. “That’s a good girl”.

I was so far gone.

I couldn’t think, couldn’t form a single coherent thought beyond her—her fingers fucking me open, her magic thrumming through my veins, her body owning mine in a way that I never wanted to end.

The pleasure was blinding, all-consuming, twisting tighter and tighter, coiling in my stomach, in my thighs, in the very marrow of my bones.

“Oh, fuck,” I gasped, my hands gripping at her—her shoulders, her arms, anything to anchor me as my body tensed, trembling.

I was going to come.

God, I was going to come so fucking hard for her—from her, because of her, because of her fingers, her magic, her voice in my ear telling me to let go.

And when it finally snapped—when the pleasure crashed over me—I moaned her name, as if it was fresh out of a porn movie.

That was one of the most intense orgasms I’d ever had.

Holy fuck.

I was still trembling, my body shuddering with aftershocks as Agatha’s fingers worked the last of the pleasure from me, coaxing me through it. My hips still jerked, my body still reacted to her, even as I collapsed forward, my head resting against her shoulder.

I let out a breathless, satisfied laugh—maybe from the sheer bliss of it, maybe from the slight embarrassment of how completely I had let go.

And then, realisation hit me like a brick to the face.

I had been so loud.

“Shit,” I gasped, lifting my head to look at her, panic flickering through the lingering haze of pleasure.

“I wasn’t—”

“—quiet?” Agatha finished, her smirk wicked, amused. “No, darling. You really weren’t.”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands, but before I could wallow in my mortification, I felt the slow, deliberate slide of her fingers pulling out of me. My body ached at the loss, already missing her touch.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she lifted her fingers to her lips and sucked them clean.

I swore my soul left my body.

She hummed, deliberate, slow, as she licked every trace of me off her fingers. My breath hitched, my stomach flipping, my already sensitive body twitching at the sheer filthiness of it.

Then she grabbed my jaw and pulled me into a kiss, her tongue sliding into my mouth, teasing, letting me taste myself on her.

And—fuck.

It was different. Not just me—but her, her magic, something dark and electric and entirely Agatha lingering on my tongue.

When we finally broke apart, I was dazed, spent, and still shaking from what she’d just done to me.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from my face, her smirk deepening. “The kids wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

I raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

She lifted a hand and subtly flicked her fingers.

I narrowed my eyes. “You didn’t—”

“Oh, it was just a little sleeping spell,” she purred, grinning like the devil.

I gaped at her.

“Agatha!”

She shrugged. “You were being loud, darling.”

I groaned, dropping my forehead back against her shoulder, already knowing this had set a precedent for it becoming more than a one-time thing.

“It would be a shame to waste it,” Agatha murmured, leaning into me, her bare skin pressing against mine, warm and tempting.

“Would it now?” I teased, though my voice lacked conviction.

I was still not entirely thrilled about the magic she had used to keep Nicki and Ella asleep, but… god, was I torn.

Because the way she was looking at me?

The way my body still hummed from her touch?

I wanted her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

She slid me down off the counter, my legs unsteady, still trembling from my release. I gripped her tight, my body weak but aching for her all the same.

Agatha hummed, amused. “A little wobbly there, hon?”

I huffed, gripping her tighter. “You know damn well why.”

She smirked, proud of herself, too proud, and before she could get another word out, I flicked my wrist.

Magic surged between us, wrapping around our bodies, and in an instant, we were no longer in the kitchen.

We were in our king-size bed—Agatha beneath me, sprawled out, panties now completely gone.

She let out a low, pleased hum, her smirk widening as she stretched out, utterly unbothered by the sudden shift.

“Oh,” she purred, blue eyes glinting, “look at you. Using magic like it’s going out of fashion.”

I merely arched a brow, pressing my body flush against hers, trapping her beneath me.

I leaned in, capturing her lips in a deep, slow-burning kiss, my hands trailing down her stomach, teasing but intentional.

As I broke the kiss, I let my fingers drift lower, my magic sparking against her skin as I smirked down at her.

“So,” I murmured, my voice low, my touch dangerously close to where she wanted it. “Where were we?”

I trailed my fingers lower, slow, teasing, the anticipation thrumming between us like a live wire.

Then I felt her.

And—Jesus. She was soaking.

A sharp inhale left my lips as my fingers dipped between her thighs, sliding against her wetness, between her folds, feeling just how wrecked she already was.

I lifted my gaze, meeting her eyes, my breath catching at the pure, unfiltered desire burning in them.

“Oh,” I murmured, my fingers teasing through her slickness, not quite giving her what she needed yet.

“Look at you.”

Agatha let out a breathy laugh, her smirk still in place, but her body twitched at the contact, her hips subtly shifting, needing more.

“Surprised?” she mused, though her voice was a little rougher, a little less composed than usual.

I grinned, pressing my fingers against her just a little more firmly, noting the way her breath hitched, as I brushed her clit.

“Pleased.”

I slid my fingers through her again, slow, deliberate, watching her expression shift, watching her lips part, her chest rise and fall just a bit quicker.

“God, baby,” I murmured, my voice dark with satisfaction, “you’re already so fucking wet for me.”

Agatha hummed, but this time, there was an edge to it.

“You did put on quite the show,” she murmured, her tone taunting, but I could feel the tension in her body, feel the way she was holding herself back.

I smirked, leaning down, brushing my lips against her ear as my fingers pressed deeper, teasing at her entrance but not pushing inside…just yet.

“Do you want me to return the favour?” I whispered, my breath warm against her skin.

Agatha swallowed, her hands tightening where they rested against my hips, her nails digging in just slightly.

But she was still playing the game, still trying to hold her ground.

So I waited.

I kept teasing, barely giving her what she wanted—until, finally, she let out a soft, frustrated moan, her hips arching, her magic flowing against mine in a way that sent a shiver down my spine.

Her voice was rough, low, almost a growl when she finally said it.

“Fuck me.”

I grinned against her skin.

“Oh, baby, I intend to.”

And then I slid my fingers inside her, and Agatha gasped.

God, she was so tight around me.

Nothing—nothing—felt better than this.

Than her.

Her heat.

I started moving, slow at first, deliberate, knowing full well it wasn’t enough, knowing it would drive her crazy.

Agatha let out a low, frustrated noise, her hips twitching, trying to take more, trying to set the pace herself.

But I wasn’t going to let her.

Not yet.

I wanted to feel her break, wanted to hear her beg, wanted to pull her apart the way she had done to me.

I pressed my lips against her jaw, nipping her with my teeth, teasing, dragging my fingers slowly out before pushing back in, keeping the rhythm achingly slow.

“Patience, baby,” I murmured against her skin, mocking the words she had said to me earlier.

Agatha let out a breathy laugh, sharp and knowing, but I could hear the edge of need beneath it.

“Oh, you’re playing dangerously, hon,” she whispered, her nails digging into my back, her magic thrumming against mine.

I grinned, pressing my thumb against her clit, just lightly, just enough to make her body twitch beneath me.

“I thought you liked that,” I murmured, thrusting deeper, still keeping her waiting, still teasing her with every slow movement.

Agatha let out a shaky breath, her walls tightening around me, her hips shifting restlessly.

Then she turned her head, her lips brushing against my ear, her voice lower, rougher, more raw than I’d ever heard it.

“Stop fucking teasing me,” she growled.

I shivered, the pure desperation in her tone setting my blood on fire.

Mmm—fuck.

I couldn’t deny her anymore.

Not when she sounded like that.

Not when she felt like this.

So I broke, curling my fingers deep inside her, pressing hard against that spot that made her body jerk, that made her gasp so loud I knew she didn’t care if the sleeping spell held or not.

I fucked her.

Hard.

And god, she love it.

I thrust hard, my fingers driving deep inside her, my thumb pressing against her clit at the same time… a warm burn starting to spread through my wrist.

The moment I did, I felt it—my magic crackling between us, wrapping around her, inside her, like an invisible pulse of heat.

Agatha’s moan was wrecked, raw, her body arching up into me, her head tilting back, exposing the long, perfect curve of her throat.God.

That sound.

That deep, desperate, uncontrollable moan that came from her lips as I fucked her with my fingers, as my magic pulsed through her body.

I felt a rush of heat between my own thighs, felt my own wetness drip down, my body aching from just hearing her.

From watching her come apart.

From knowing I was the one doing this to her.

She was so close, I could feel it in the way she clenched around me, in the way her hips jerked without rhythm, her body chasing more, more, more.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” I gasped, my breath coming out in ragged pants, my own pleasure building just from watching her fall apart.

Agatha’s hands clawed at me, pulling me closer, as if she needed to anchor herself, as if she needed to feel all of me as she unraveled.

Her voice was shaky, breathless, so fucking close to breaking as she gasped:

“Don’t stop—!”

And god help me, I wasn’t going to.

The wet, slick sound of my fingers moving inside her filled the room, mixing with her breathless, broken moans. Fuck, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

I never lost my rhythm, I kept thrusting, kept pushing as deep as I could, my fingers scissoring inside her, stretching her, curling to hit that perfect spot that made her body jolt against mine.

She was so damn close—I could feel it in the way she tightened around me, in the way her thighs trembled, her nails digging into my skin, her head thrown back in complete surrender.

“That’s it, baby,” I murmured, my thumb pressing harder against her clit, rubbing fast, tight circles, my lips, my tongue brushing against her throat as I encouraged her.

“Come for me. Let go, Agatha.”

She tried to speak—tried to say something, but all that left her was a strangled, wrecked moan as her body seized, her muscles tensing, her magic crashing against mine in wild, uncontrollable waves.

I felt the exact moment her release came —the moment she shattered around me, her walls pulsing tight, squeezing my fingers so hard it nearly stole my breath.

Her cry of pleasure was raw, undone, her hips jerking, her body writhing as she rode out her orgasm, my fingers still deep inside her, drawing out every last aftershock.

She was so gone, so completely wrecked beneath me, and god, I had never felt so powerful, so fucking addicted to the way she fell apart for me.

Her breath was ragged, her body still trembling, and I couldn’t stop myself—I leaned in, capturing her lips in a deep, slow kiss, tasting her moan, owning it.

When I finally pulled back, she was dazed, her beautiful blue eyes hazy, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

I smirked, satisfied, dragging my fingers slowly out of her, loving the way her body twitched from the loss.

She swallowed, blinking up at me, her expression unreadable for just a second—then her smirk returned, lazy, dangerous, so fucking Agatha.

She let out a breathy chuckle, still wrecked, and rasped “…God Y/N, I knew you had it in you.”

I smirked down at her, utterly pleased with myself, my fingers still glistening from her.

“Oh? And what exactly did you think I had in me?”

Agatha let out a breathless, satisfied laugh, her hands still lazily resting on my hips as she blinked up at me, her eyes still looking hungry.

“Oh, you know,” she drawled, tilting her head, her smirk lazy and self-satisfied, but I could still see the aftershocks running through her body. “A bit of wickedness. A little bite.”

She exhaled, still catching her breath, her fingers brushing idly against my bare skin.

“But this? I wasn’t expecting you to be so…” She trailed off, eyes flickering down to my very smug expression, before licking her lips.

“So?” I prompted, dragging my slick fingers up her thigh, teasing, making her twitch.

Agatha hummed, fake considering, before her smirk turned sharp, wicked.

“Merciless.”

I grinned, leaning down, brushing my lips over hers, just barely giving her what she wanted.

“Oh, baby,” I murmured, dragging my fingers up her stomach, watching her shiver under my touch. “I learned from the best.”

Agatha let out a slow, dark laugh, her fingers tightening on my waist.

“I really should’ve corrupted you sooner.”

I bit my lip, mocking thoughtfulness, my fingers trailing back down, dangerously close to where she was still warm and wet for me.

“Oh? So you admit I’m better than you thought?”

Agatha narrowed her eyes, her smirk growing wider.

“I never said better.”

I flicked my fingers, letting my magic spark just enough to tease her, to make her gasp, her hips twitching again.

“Oh, I think I just proved otherwise.

”Mm,” she murmured, voice hoarse, amused, completely smug. “You really are full of surprises.”

I huffed a soft laugh, pulling her closer, my arms wrapping around her, our bodies naturally melding together, skin still warm, still buzzing from everything we’d just done.

She let out a content sigh, tucking her head against my shoulder, comfortable, relaxed, so effortlessly Agatha.

I let my fingers trace absent patterns up her side, across her ribs, pressing a lazy kiss to her temple.

“You can take the sleeping spell off the kids now,” I murmured, my voice teasing but pointed.

Agatha hummed again, this time slower, considering.

“Mmm,” she sighed, stretching just slightly, her bare legs tangling with mine. “Maybe I’ll leave it on a little longer.”

I snorted, turning my head to look at her, eyebrow raised.

“Oh? Is that so?”

She grinned, her fingers trailing lightly down my own side, casual, innocent, but I knew better.

“Well,” she mused, thoughtfully mocking me, her breath hot against my skin, “you did just discover how much fun magic can be.”

I smirked, shifting just slightly so our bodies pressed even closer, heat curling between us again, despite the exhaustion settling in.

“Maybe,” I murmured, my lips brushing hers, “using my magic more often isn’t such a bad thing…”

Agatha let out a low, pleased hum, her smirk widening as she nipped at my lip.

“Not when it’s just the two of us.”

Also on AO3 - Writtenwhiledreaming 💜 (Third chapter of No! You Can’t Hex A Four-Year-Old).

[dark3den]

Don’t ask me what this is…🙊. Besides ‘Lights, Camera, Magic!’, by @lunargrrrl , constantly occupying my brain and needing an outlet. 🫠😩💜.

It’s also on TikTok 💋

Xoxo, Eden 🥀

[noobiestnoober]

Truth or Dare Gone Wrong (The Mystic Falls Gang and Reader)

A game of truth or dare at the Salvatore house starts off innocent enough—until you dare Bonnie to use a spell, and suddenly, Stefan is stuck speaking in rhymes, Damon’s hair turns bright pink, and you are somehow glowing in the dark.

The night started out almost suspiciously normal.

The Salvatore boarding house had that rare, peaceful vibe—as if the walls had momentarily forgotten all the times they’d been stained with blood, or echoed with Klaus’ taunting threats. The fireplace was flickering softly. A lazy indie playlist hummed in the background. Someone—probably Caroline—had strung fairy lights across the ceiling, giving the space a soft, golden glow that made the worn-out furniture feel cozier than it had any right to.

For once, no one was fighting. No one was bleeding. No ancient evil was crawling out of a crypt. It was just the Mystic Falls crew, lounging in a makeshift circle with blankets, pillows, pizza boxes, and a dangerously underestimated sense of peace.

You had just taken a sip of soda when Elena, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, said the cursed words.

“Truth or dare?”

Bonnie, immediately suspicious, gave her a withering look. “Seriously? Can we not tempt fate for one night?”

Jeremy snorted. “You say that like we haven’t already tempted, pissed off, and danced with fate about twelve times this week.”

“It’s a harmless game,” Elena said with a shrug.

Damon raised his glass. “Says the girl whose last harmless game got us locked in a haunted corn maze with a headless banshee.”

Stefan gave his brother a pointed look, but his lips twitched with amusement. Still, despite Bonnie’s half-hearted protests, and the unspoken what could go wrong hanging in the air like a warning, everyone agreed. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was habit. Or maybe it was the kind of collective denial only a group of supernatural misfits could afford.

The bottle was retrieved from the kitchen, placed in the center of the circle, and given a spin.

It started off... well. Manageable. Funny, even. A few tame truths. A few harmless dares. Stefan reluctantly jogged shirtless around the house after losing a bet. Caroline was dared to speed-clean Damon’s liquor shelf alphabetically and did so with glitter and flair. Elena admitted she once fantasized about making out with Elijah during a particularly weird dream—and then pretended she hadn’t said it by stuffing her mouth with chips. Damon was dared to compliment Jeremy ten times in a row and got through five before dramatically fake-gagging and muttering something about his “tragically average bone structure.”

Everyone laughed. The laughter was warm and real. Then the bottle landed on Bonnie.

She arched a brow. “Truth or dare?” you asked, unable to hide your grin.

Bonnie didn’t hesitate. “Dare.”

You leaned in. “Use a spell.”

Immediately, the mood shifted. Everyone exchanged glances. Bonnie straightened, her expression unreadable.

“Nothing serious,” you added quickly. “Just... something fun. Something dumb.”

Caroline tilted her head. “Like what? Turning the lights different colors? Floating snacks?”

“Sure,” you said, already regretting everything. “Something like that.”

Bonnie stared at you for a long second. Then she sighed and stood up. “Okay. Fine. One spell. No promises.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small crystal, whispering under her breath as she moved to the center of the room. The lights dimmed slightly. The fire crackled louder. And then, in a voice that sounded just a little too ancient for your comfort, she muttered something in Latin and waved her hand.

There was a brief shimmer in the air, like heat rising off pavement. The fairy lights pulsed. The candle flames danced.

Then silence. Nothing exploded. Nothing caught fire. You exhaled. Too soon.

Stefan suddenly sat up straighter and, with perfect seriousness, said, “What in the name of hell just occurred? My chest feels tight, my thoughts are slurred.”

Everyone blinked.

“Did you just... rhyme?” Elena asked.

Stefan opened his mouth again. “I fear my voice is not my own. These cursed words—I speak in tone.”

Bonnie’s eyes went wide. “Oh no.”

Damon, who had been halfway through sipping his bourbon, looked up with narrowed eyes. “Oh no what?”

“I think the spell... reacted,” Bonnie said, backing away. “It might have tied itself to the game.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” you said. “It was just a dare.”

“Yes, and I dared chaos. So... congratulations, you’re welcome.”

While everyone tried to process that, Damon stood up and stalked over to the mirror near the staircase. He paused, stared, and screamed.

“Oh, hell no.”

He turned slowly, seething. His perfectly tousled hair—his pride, his signature—was now a blinding shade of neon pink.

“Someone fix this before I set the entire block on fire.”

“You can’t threaten arson in a tiara-colored mop,” Caroline deadpanned, half-laughing, half-horrified.

You blinked and looked down at your hands. Oh. You were glowing. No—radiating. A soft, golden shimmer rolled across your skin, pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

“Bonnie?” you said carefully.

She turned. Her eyes widened.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m glowing.”

“Yep.”

“Like a radioactive lightning bug.”

“I think the spell is bonding to each of us,” she said slowly, scanning the room. “Based on who we are, what we dared, or maybe... I don’t know... emotional resonance?”

Damon flailed. “My emotional resonance is not pink, thank you very much!”

Stefan sighed and sank into the nearest chair. “Of all the things to make me do, why rhyme? I’d rather die than waste my time.”

“You are wasting our time,” Damon muttered, still glaring at his reflection. “At least try a haiku or something.”

“Guys,” Bonnie said, rubbing her temples, “the spell is unstable. If we don’t finish the game, the effects could stick.”

Jeremy perked up. “So we have to keep playing?”

“No,” Stefan said dramatically. “We must continue this cursed affair, or suffer longer in despair.”

“That’s a yes,” Bonnie translated.

And so the game resumed.

—

If the first half had been silly, the second half was absolute supernatural anarchy. Elena’s next dare gave her brief telepathy—just long enough for her to hear Damon’s thoughts and physically recoil.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” he said.

“You—think—in French when you lie.”

Damon didn’t even deny it. “Helps with finesse.”

Caroline, ever the overachiever, accepted a dare to teleport—but immediately vanished mid-sentence and reappeared on top of the kitchen counter. Then again in the hallway. Then, horrifyingly, in Stefan’s shower.

Matt turned into a stone statue for five whole minutes when he refused to answer a dare, only revived after Bonnie waved a candle and sang Beyoncé under her breath.

And you—your glow was brighter now. It shifted with your emotions. Every time someone shouted or shrieked, you pulsed like a heartbeat monitor on espresso. You were afraid to stand too close to anything flammable.

Stefan, rhyming now with bitter elegance, was narrating the entire night in tragic couplets like some cursed Shakespearean bard.

By the end, everyone was slumped in various states of exhaustion and spiritual damage.

Bonnie stood slowly. “One more round. Then I can end it.”

“Don’t you need, like, an actual reversal ritual?” you asked.

She shook her head. “It started with a dare. It ends with one.”

She looked around. Then dared herself. The room darkened. Magic sparked around her fingertips. She spoke fast, incantations layered in an ancient tongue. The spell pulsed out of her like a wave, and all at once—

Your glow vanished. Stefan exhaled in silence. Caroline reappeared on the couch with a relieved squeak. Jeremy finally stopped trying to get the bottle to spin on its own. And Damon? Damon stared at his reflection.

“Still pink,” he muttered.

Bonnie winced. “Yeah, that one’s... probably gonna fade naturally. In a week. Or so.”

Damon turned slowly, eyes murderous. “A week?”

“You dared the spell,” she reminded him.

“No. She did.” He pointed directly at you.

You raised your hands, no longer glowing, and smiled. “Worth it.”

Later

Everyone had gone home—or, more accurately, scattered like trauma survivors. You stayed behind to help clean up. Damon, sullen and sparkling under the low light, poured himself another drink, tiara still in place because Caroline had dared him to keep it for the rest of the night and Bonnie had reinforced it with a binding charm. He caught you smirking.

“Laugh it up, glow worm.”

You saluted with your soda. “Truth or dare, Damon?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Dare.”

You leaned back with a grin. “Be normal for a whole day.”

Damon groaned.

“Pure evil,” he muttered, downing his drink.

You didn’t disagree.

🕯️ Truth or Dare is now banned from the Salvatore boarding house under magical law. Violators will be glitter-bombed and hexed accordingly.

The Sequel to this story is uploaded. Enjoy!

[warpdrive-witch]

It Worked (15/?)

Words: 30.k. Sumbissive Agatha. Dom Rio. Fuff. Smut. Strap. Oral. MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT.

Summary: The nursery gets its color. So does your shirt. So does the space between their thighs. But beneath the soft green and the laughter, something waits.

AN: Let me know what you all think of the chapter. I'm not sure if you all would like this or not 💜

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader

Love Painted Over Lace

The morning started with chocolate on your pillow. Not the cheap kind—Agatha would never allow that—but one of the fancy truffles from the tiny shop on Elm Street, the kind that had to be ordered in advance and came in a velvet box. Wrapped in gold foil, tucked next to a handwritten note. Just your name. No message. Just your name, in Agatha’s looping script.

Rio, on the other hand, left her trail in the kitchen. Heart-shaped pancakes. Strawberries carved into roses. The scent of coffee already steeped into the woodgrain of the table she built with her hands the year before.

Your belly had grown firm and round now, the center of gravity around which the whole house seemed to orbit. They were careful with you, but not precious—not treating you like glass, but like fire. Steadying hands on your hips when you wobbled. Soft jokes whispered into your shoulder when the world still felt too heavy.

And still, even in the laughter, you were grieving. The news of your mother’s death had only been a couple weeks ago.  The letter was still in the drawer beside the bed, unopened since Rio read it aloud. You hadn’t dared touch it since. But they hadn’t pushed you. Not once. They only held you when the sobs came, and held you tighter when they didn’t.

Today, though… today was about them. The way Rio’s fingers threaded through your hair without even thinking. The sound of Agatha’s voice, dry and velvet-sweet, as she read the paper beside you on the couch. The way they made you feel like home hadn’t been taken from you—it had just changed names.

The living room was already sun-warmed by the time you padded out, the soft cotton hem of Rio’s old T-shirt tugging over your belly, and your fingers curled around two small envelopes like offerings. You found them where you knew they’d be. Rio was on the couch, legs kicked up and one hand curled around a mug that had long gone cold, her hair still wet from the shower, a cozy sweatshirt pushed to her elbows. She looked up the moment you entered, and her face—gods, her face lit like it always did when she saw you. That grin full of trouble and sunlight.

Agatha stood at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled, an apron cinched around her waist like something out of a 1960s fantasy—but with her, it was sharp and elegant, a vision in deep navy with her silver streak pulled into a high bun. She was plating something onto porcelain with methodical care, like each item had been interviewed and selected for the honor.

“Good morning,” Rio purred, voice thick with affection. “Feliz día de San Valentín, mi amor.”

“Happy Valentine’s,” Agatha echoed from the kitchen, her voice already filled with a knowing smile. You didn’t say anything at first. Just grumbled, eyes narrowing slightly as you circled toward them with the envelopes in hand.

“I didn’t like waking up to an empty bed,” you muttered. It came out more petulant than intended, but it earned the right kind of reaction.

Rio was already moving before you finished. She stood up from the couch with a soft sound, her hands sweeping down to rest over your belly with the ease of someone who had learned your rhythm long ago. “Sorry, honey,” she murmured, low and warm, kissing the corner of your mouth once, and then again—deeper this time, until you felt it in your knees.

You exhaled into her, grounded by the pressure of her palms on your stomach, the silk of her voice, the way your breath caught between you and didn’t feel so sharp anymore.

From the doorway, Agatha’s voice drifted through. “Breakfast is served, my loves.”

She stepped into the room, elegant and composed, carrying a small tray like a queen disguised as a professor. On it: croissants still warm from the oven, slices of cheese, a fig jam in a tiny bowl with a silver spoon, soft-boiled eggs with cracked pepper, fresh fruit kissed with honey. Your favorite tea waited for you in the ceramic mug Rio made last fall, the one glazed in the colors of dusk.

She crossed the space slowly, eyes only on you now. Agatha set the tray down with gentle precision—but then, without hesitation, she reached for you. Her hand found your cheek. The other came to rest beside Rio’s on your belly. And she kissed you, softly and fully. No performance, no duty—just her, pressed to you like gravity itself, like she'd waited all morning to feel you breathe against her mouth.

You let out a quiet sound, some stitch in you pulling loose. “Sit,” you said gently as her lips left yours. “Both of you.”

They obeyed without question, settling beside each other on the couch, eyes still flickering over your features like they were trying to memorize you in real time. You placed the envelopes down with care. Wax-sealed. One with a pressed daffodil tucked delicately inside—the flower Agatha always pointed out to you in the wild, quiet and golden like a spell blooming against the odds. The other held a piece of a soft, star-patterned ribbon. Navy and silver. A piece of the same ribbon Rio had tied around the nursery door a week ago, a galaxy of tiny constellations printed across the fabric. She’d called it a blessing for safe passage. She hadn’t explained it further, and you hadn’t asked.

Now, it was repurposed into something sacred. Something offered.

You hadn’t written much—just a few words in each. But your voice trembled when they read them anyway.

To Agatha: You taught me that love could be safe and sharp at the same time. That I didn’t have to be perfect to be protected. Thank you for claiming me.

To Rio: You taught me to breathe again. And when I couldn’t—you did it for me. Thank you for staying.

Their hands stilled. Eyes darted up to meet yours. You saw it—the moment the words landed. But you weren’t done. From your pocket, you withdrew one last envelope. A slightly larger one, scalloped at the edges. The ink on the front shimmered faintly in the light like it had been kissed into being:

To: Mommy & Mamì. Rio took it first, her fingers trembling just slightly. She passed it to Agatha once she’d read it, lips parted, gaze unfocused, like she was holding her breath through time. The leaned in to open it and read it together. Inside, a single folded card, written in your script—but signed with a different voice. Smaller. Sweeter. Still-becoming. A heartbeat that wasn’t born yet:

Hi Mommies, I love you both so much already. Next Valentine’s Day, I’ll be here with you. With tiny giggles. Cartoons. And maybe a mess or two. Thank you for loving me before I even took my first breath. Love, Your daughter, Bean Sprout.

Agatha’s throat worked. Her mouth parted like she might say something—but instead, she pressed the card against her chest. Rio reached for you again, fingers curling slightly like she wasn’t sure whether to stand or just pull you closer where you stood. You didn’t have to decide—because they both moved at once. She shifted first, sliding to the edge of the couch and taking your hand, guiding you down slowly, carefully, like you were porcelain—but beloved, not breakable. Agatha followed without a word, reaching for your other side. And just like that, you were seated between them. Agatha’s kiss landed at your temple, soft and anchoring. Rio pressed hers to your shoulder, to the corner of your jaw, before resting her forehead against your hair. Her hand found Agatha’s across your belly, and there, beneath their palms, your daughter stirred—just once. A quiet little hello.

You felt them both exhale when she did. You sat nestled between them like the living answer to a question they hadn’t dared ask aloud: Could love really be this full? Agatha was the first to pull back, just far enough to sweep a strand of hair from your face. Her fingers trailed across your cheek like they couldn’t bear to leave. “You’re going to undo me,” she murmured.

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened,” Rio said, grinning against your shoulder. You smiled—genuinely, finally, in a way that felt like something springing up through frost. “I believe you promised breakfast,” you whispered to Agatha, nudging her lightly.

She sniffed, haughty and amused, and reached behind you for the tray she’d set on the coffee table. “A feast,” she said dryly, “fit for my two Queens.”

“And their daughter,” Rio added, rubbing one slow, reverent circle over your belly. “Don’t forget, Sprout.”

The next few minutes passed in warm silence—the kind that only comes when a room has been saturated in love long enough to hum with it. You leaned into them as they each filled a plate for you, Agatha slicing open the croissant and layering it with jam, Rio carefully peeling back an orange like she’d practiced just for this. And then, almost without thinking, you reached down and plucked a strawberry from the bowl—one of the good ones, sweet and firm and already sliced at the tip. You turned to Agatha and held it up to her mouth. She looked at you, startled just for a second, then her lips parted delicately. You placed the berry between them. Her teeth closed slowly. Her eyes didn’t leave yours. The look she gave you afterward was so quiet, so full of affection, that it left a pressure behind your eyes—warm and sacred, the kind of look people used to write prayers about.

You cleared your throat gently and looked between them. “So. What are the plans today?” Rio set her tea down, wiping her hands on the leg of her sweatpants with a mischievous glint. “Well,” she said, “I was thinking... it might be a good day to paint the nursery.”

Your whole body straightened at once, that lovely electric pulse of anticipation flaring through you like sunshine behind your ribs. “Seriously?” you asked, voice pitched just above a breath.

Agatha leaned in with a slow smile. “I was going to suggest the same. We picked the color last week, didn’t we?”

“That soft green?” you asked, eyes lighting. “The one that looked like sage?”

“Exactly that one,” Rio nodded, her hand gliding down to press at the underside of your belly just as your daughter gave a low, languid stretch. You gasped softly, your hands flying to where Rio touched. “She likes the idea,” you whispered.

“She’s got good taste,” Agatha murmured, reaching for her tea. Rio chuckled. “Well, she is ours.”

You all laughed at that—quiet and content, the sound folding in on itself like a shared secret. You could already see it: the three of you in paint-splattered clothes, the windows open to let in the early spring air, brushes dipped in warm green and tiny handprints pressed into the corners like a blessing.

“Are there more plans later?” you asked coyly. “Oh, definitely,” Rio said, lips curling as she popped a grape into her mouth. “But I figured we’d start the day with something productive. Then maybe... bath time, candles, something sweet after dinner.”

“And if you behave,” Agatha added, plucking a piece of cheese from the tray with a raised brow, “we might even let you pick the movie tonight.” You grinned, stretching your legs across Rio’s lap and resting your head against Agatha’s shoulder. Your body felt heavy but soft, cherished. The tea still steamed gently in your cup. Their hands moved constantly—always adjusting the blanket over your lap, rubbing slow patterns into your hip, brushing stray crumbs from your collarbone.

-----

After breakfast, you pushed yourself up from the couch with a soft grunt, swatting away the hands that instinctively reached for you.

“I’m fine,” you huffed. “Just full of croissants and baby.”

You made your way down the hall, the hardwood warm under your bare feet, one hand pressed absently to the curve of your belly as you moved. The door to your bedroom stood open, sunlight stretching across the sheets like an invitation.

You changed slowly, pulling on a pair of worn cotton shorts that clung low on your hips, the waistband stretching tight beneath your belly. The tank top followed—white, ribbed, and just snug enough to reveal every curve and angle your body had become. Your clothes hugged every curve now, the bottom hem of your shorts stretched tight across your belly, sitting low, barely hooked over your hips. Your daughter shifted beneath your skin, a small ripple moving under the surface of your skin like a wave caught in sun-warmed shallows.

You looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment—your hands resting on either side of the swell. Thirty-two weeks. This body had changed everything. Your skin glowed in the light. The fullness of your belly, the softness of your thighs, the curve of your breasts rising with each breath—every inch of you felt touched by purpose. A body remade by love. By time. By her. They adored you like this.

Rio emerged from the bathroom first—her dark curls still a little damp, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the shower. She wore an old white shirt with the sleeves rolled, and a pair of paint-smeared jeans that hugged her thighs just right. There was a smudge of old navy-blue streaked across one pocket, a relic from painting the kitchen years ago.

Agatha followed close behind. Her hair was up in a high ponytail, several strands already beginning to fall loose, neck bare and flushed slightly from the warmth of the room. Her shirt was ancient, a soft charcoal thing with tiny flecks of teal and ochre near the hem. Stains old enough to be considered historic.

You turned to them slowly. Took in the sight.

And then—wordlessly—you crossed to Rio first. She watched you approach like she was bracing for impact.

You kissed her slow. Deep. Your hands framed her jaw, and her fingers slipped to your waist, settling low. Her breath caught as she melted into it, like you'd stolen the air from her lungs and replaced it with something better.

When you pulled away, she didn’t speak. Just stared, wide-eyed and a little unsteady.

Then you turned to Agatha.

She was already watching you like she knew exactly what was coming—and still, when you kissed her, her lips parted like it had taken her by surprise. You pressed into her with soft certainty, one hand rising to cradle the back of her neck. Her breath hitched. She kissed you back with the kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

When you stepped back, both of them stood still—stunned in the best way. No words. Just stunned silence and flushed skin.

“Well,” you murmured, grinning as you adjusted your tank, “guess I still got it.”

You turned and left the room, barefoot and smug, trailing heat in your wake like perfume, hips swaying, the tight stretch of your tank and shorts leaving little to the imagination. You didn’t have to see it—you could feel the effect you’d left behind.

The nursery door creaked open as you stepped down the hall. Light pooled across the floor. The pale green paint cans waited near the wall, brushes laid out like an offering. The space felt full already—your daughter’s presence pulsing beneath your skin, your hands sweeping gently along your belly like a blessing.

A beat later, you heard the thud of movement.  The unmistakable sound of someone being pressed against a wall. Another sound followed—a soft, startled moan. Soft. Subtle. The unmistakable sound of someone being pressed against a wall, losing control. Quiet, restrained.

Agatha.

You paused in the doorway.

You didn’t need to look. You could see it clearly in your mind—Rio crowding into her, hands on either side of her waist, mouth at Agatha’s neck. Agatha’s body pinned between drywall and desire, her body arching into her wife, her fingers twisting into the front of Rio’s paint-stained shirt. A kiss that burned.

You leaned against the nursery doorway. You let out a low laugh, your hand sliding protectively over the curve of your belly as you stretched your arms above your head.

“Ladies,” you called, tone honey-sweet, “if you need a moment, let me know so I can torture myself in the living room while listening.”

There was a pause. The sound of someone gasping. A quiet thud as something knocked the wall again.

“You’re evil,” Rio called, her voice deliciously breathless. Agatha, ragged and wrecked, didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t stop.” You grinned, brushing a hand over the firm swell of your belly as your daughter gave another little stretch. “I’ll give you five minutes,” you offered, “then I’m opening that paint can and choosing the wrong brush on purpose.”

No answer. Just another low moan. And maybe, maybe a muffled laugh.

-----

You had barely left the room before Rio was on her. One breath. That’s all it took.

Agatha turned slightly, adjusting the hem of her shirt, fingers smoothing down the old paint-smeared cotton—and then Rio was there.

No warning. Just motion.

Her hands caught Agatha by the hips and moved her back with a soft, firm insistence. Her body followed, pressing in, guided by something deeper than thought. Agatha’s back hit the wall with a low, startled sound, her breath catching as Rio stepped in close and filled the space between them completely.

“Rio—”

“God, Aggie, I can’t—” Rio breathed. “You—look at you.”

Agatha’s chest rose hard beneath her old shirt, her breath shaking as Rio’s mouth found her throat—hot, dragging, open-mouthed and reverent. Her fingers clutched at Rio’s waist, knuckles tightening in the fabric of those ruined jeans. Then Rio kissed her. Not soft. Not slow. Hungry. Agatha moaned—high and throaty, the kind of sound that made Rio's body tremble with restraint.

“You still make that sound,” Rio whispered hoarsely, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, “and I forget everything else.”

“Then take it,” Agatha rasped, her voice wrecked and velvet. “Take all of it.”

Rio did.

She kissed her again, rougher now, hands braced on either side of Agatha’s hips, her thigh sliding between Agatha’s legs. Their bodies moved together like memory—like instinct honed by years of touch and silence and wordless understanding.

Agatha pressed into her, every part of her aching for more. For more.

Her head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. “More, Rio. Please—”

And that’s when they heard it.

“Ladies,” your voice floated down the hallway, sugar-sweet and knowing, “if you need a moment, let me know so I can torture myself in the living room while listening.” There was a beat of stillness. Then the soft thud of Agatha’s back hitting the wall again as she let out a breathless laugh—half desire, half disbelief.

Rio pressed her forehead against Agatha’s collarbone, chest heaving. “You’re evil,” she called out, voice wrecked and soaked in heat. Agatha didn’t even look up. Her lips were parted, breath shallow. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

Rio didn’t lift her head from where it rested against Agatha’s chest, her breath still hot, her fingers twitching with restraint. “You think you can cum in five minutes?” she murmured, her voice dark with promise. Agatha’s breath hitched again, her nod was barely a breath, but Rio saw it. Felt it. And then she moved.

There was nothing slow about it—not this time. No coaxing. No teasing licks across her stomach, no feather-light brush of fingers. Just need—raw and immediate—as Rio dropped to her knees with the weight of someone surrendering to gravity itself.

Her palms slid up the backs of Agatha’s thighs, curling beneath the hem of those soft cotton pants. She pulled them down in one swift, practiced motion, the fabric whispering to the floor and pooling around Agatha’s ankles. The air hit bare skin—and Rio froze for just a second, breath catching in her throat.

There it was.

The soaked-through spot on Agatha’s briefs, dark and shameless, clinging to her.

Rio exhaled like she’d been punched.

“Fuck, Aggie…” she breathed, jaw tightening as her hands rose to frame her hips again. “Look at you.”

And she didn’t wait. She pressed her mouth directly to that damp heat, her tongue sliding up against the thin cotton with slow, devastating pressure. Agatha arched—body slamming against the wall with a moan that cracked right through her chest. Her hand flew to the back of Rio’s head, fingers tangling, her other palm bracing hard against the wall behind her.

“Oh my god—”

Rio didn’t let up. Her mouth worked through the fabric, tongue dragging across the soaked cotton again and again, each stroke precise, merciless, pulling helpless, broken sounds from Agatha’s lips. She mouthed at her like she’d been starving—like this was what she needed to breathe. Agatha gasped, hips rolling forward, chasing contact, chasing everything.

“You need to be aware of the time,” she gasped, her voice high, wrecked, and unraveling.

Rio growled into her. Her fingers hooked into the briefs, dragging them aside without a word, without ceremony, revealing everything. And then— She devoured her. No teasing now. No slow build. Just Rio’s mouth on her—wet, warm, consuming—with the kind of mastery that came from knowing her wife’s body as intimately as she knew her own heartbeat.

Agatha’s knees buckled. She gripped Rio’s shoulders, fingers digging in, her head falling forward as every ounce of her control dissolved into heat and pressure. “More,” she breathed. “Please, more—”

And Rio gave. Her tongue curled, her lips wrapped, her rhythm relentless. One hand held Agatha steady by the thigh, the other slipping between her legs to press in tandem—mouth and hand moving in perfect tandem, coaxing her closer, closer, closer—

Agatha gasped—loud, sharp, shattered—her head thudding softly against the wall.

“God—yes—”

Her thighs trembled where Rio held them apart, wide and open, her hips rolling forward instinctively, grinding into the mouth that had ruined her more times than she could count.

Rio groaned low and deep, the sound vibrating through her lips as she licked harder, deeper. Her jaw flexed. One arm slipped behind Agatha’s thigh, holding her firmly in place while her other hand gripped her ass, pulling her in, anchoring her.

Agatha was already panting, fingers knotted in Rio’s curls.

“You need to—” she tried, voice breaking, “Rio, we don’t have time—”

Rio didn’t stop.

She tilted her chin, tongue dragging in slow, brutal strokes against Agatha’s clit, lips sealed around her like a promise. Her nose pressed into skin, her breath warm and damp.

Agatha’s breath was unraveling fast, her hips rocking against Rio’s mouth with increasing desperation. Her hands fisted in Rio’s hair, not guiding—pleading. Her thighs trembled on either side of Rio’s head.

“Hurry,” she gasped, voice thinned to air.

Her grip on Rio’s head tightened, fingers digging in, her head falling to the side as every ounce of her control dissolved into heat and pressure, her hips trying to move in tandem with Rio’s mouth.

“Baby,” she breathed. “faster—”

Rio didn’t ease. If anything, she slowed, pressing in deeper, firmer, holding Agatha’s hips flat to the wall with unrelenting strength.

When she pulled back just enough to speak, her voice was low, breath hot against soaked skin.

Then she looked up, lips slick and swollen, and said darkly, “You’re not the one in control today.”

Agatha shuddered.

And that’s when your voice rang out, sing-song from down the hall:

“One minute!”

She went back in hard, mouth slick and reverent, sucking now, tongue dragging in tight, practiced circles. Agatha’s hands flew to her own mouth to muffle the scream that nearly tore out of her.

“Thirty seconds!”

Agatha’s fingers gripped Rio’s shoulders like anchors, her knees shaking, her chest rising and falling with desperate, broken gasps. Her release hovered at the edge of her body, coiled and ready, a tide swelling in her core.

And then—

“Ten...”

Agatha arched hard, hips jerking forward as Rio’s tongue dragged across her clit with devastating precision. The heat that flooded through her legs was molten, wild. Her body knew—it was time, she was there.

“Nine...”

Rio groaned against her, the vibration setting off a twitch so sharp Agatha nearly cried out. Her hands twisted in Rio’s curls, hips rolling forward, chasing friction that was blinding.

“Please—” she whimpered, “don’t stop—don’t stop, I’m right there—”

“Eight...”

Rio didn’t stop. Her tongue flicked again, then again—tight, purposeful strokes that made Agatha see white behind her eyes.

“Seven...”

Agatha’s breath came in harsh pants. Her head hit the wall with a dull thud, and her free hand slapped against it, fingers splayed, bracing herself as her thighs trembled violently.

“Six...”

Rio’s hand slid around the back of her leg, gripping tight, holding her in place as she sucked harder—wet and noisy, relentless, obscene.

“Five—”

Agatha’s body seized. Her stomach clenched. Her toes curled inside the bunched fabric at her ankles.

“Oh my god, I’m—Rio—”

“Four...”

A cry tore from her lips. “Three...”

Her whole body lurched forward, her orgasm crashing against the walls of her control, nearly breaking through— “Don’t you dare—” she hissed, wild and helpless. “Two...” Her thighs snapped around Rio’s head, involuntarily, desperately.

“Rio—please—please, I’m—” “One.” And Rio pulled back.

Agatha’s orgasm snapped like a frayed wire. The pleasure ripped from her at the very peak, shuddering and unfinished, echoing through her body like the aftershock of an earthquake that never landed. Her whole body sagged forward. Her hand slammed into the wall again to catch herself, and her breath came in frantic, open-mouthed gasps.

She stared down at Rio—eyes wide, lashes wet, mouth parted in disbelief. Rio sat back on her heels, flushed and glowing, her mouth wet, chin shining with slick. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked up with a smile that was far too pleased.

“Come on, my love,” she said, voice still hoarse from breathlessness. “We had a time limit.”

Agatha blinked at her like she could kill her with a thought. “You are unholy.”

Agatha didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her whole body hummed with the sharp ache of denial. Of being unraveled and left right there. Her hands twitched at her sides, clenching once before she forced herself to breathe. Agatha’s jaw clenched. Her breath was still ragged. Her thighs still trembled. “You owe me,” she hissed, voice low and dangerous, eyes burning up at Rio with fire and unfinished ache. “Tonight.”

But Rio didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped in close again—so close Agatha’s breath caught—and took her jaw in one hand, firm but not cruel. Her fingers curled beneath her chin, tilting her face up until there was nowhere left to look but directly into Rio’s eyes.

“You’re not in control,” Rio said softly. Darkly. Each word slow and carved from granite. “Not tonight. Understood?”

Agatha’s pupils dilated. Rio leaned in closer, their foreheads almost touching. “You’ll remember that tonight. Or you won’t cum at all.”

Agatha didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her whole body shivered under the weight of it—wrecked, breathless, and bound by nothing but command. And from down the hall, you called again: “I swear if you two aren’t in here in thirty seconds, I’m naming the baby Crayola and painting the trim hot pink.”

Rio kissed Agatha’s forehead with surprising gentleness. “Come on, Professor.”

Agatha glared as she righted herself. “I’m walking into that nursery with soaked briefs, trembling legs, and rage in my veins.” Rio just grinned, grabbing the paint-stained rag from the dresser and tossing it over her shoulder.

------

You were already on the floor by the time they walked in—legs splayed out in front of you on a folded blanket, your back pressed to the wall just under the windowsill. A soft flush had crept up your throat and settled just below your collarbone, the pink tint catching the light like a secret you weren’t trying very hard to hide.

You had, after all, heard everything.

Rio entered first, cheeks faintly pink, but with the smug calm of someone who had just made a point and made it well. She crossed the room like she belonged there—like this was what she'd been made for: messy homes, sacred mornings, and women she loved flushed and trembling.

She leaned down and kissed you slow.

You hummed into her mouth, lips parting just slightly in that way that said yes, I forgive you for being a menace.

Agatha followed behind, and before she could speak, you reached up and pulled her into a kiss too—one hand sliding into her shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin at her waist. She gasped softly, her body still humming with residual heat.

A little moan escaped against your mouth, involuntary, and when you pulled back, her eyes were still slightly dazed.

“Paint,” she said hoarsely, clearing her throat like it might restore her dignity.

Rio chuckled as she moved to the corner and slid the rocking chair out into the hallway. She did it one-handed, carefully dragging it across the floor so it wouldn’t scuff the wood. Then she reached for the folded drop cloth leaning against the wall and unfurled it in one smooth motion, letting the thin layer of plastic glide into place across the nursery floor.

“There,” she said, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Contain the chaos.”

Agatha stepped forward and uncapped the gallon of soft green paint—the color you’d picked weeks ago. She poured it into the tray slowly, precisely, like it was a potion.

You shifted forward on your blanket, reaching out like you were going to help pour—but the moment your hands touched the floor to lift yourself, a shadow crossed Agatha’s face.

She arched an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping—”

“You’re thirty-one weeks pregnant,” she said calmly, not moving, just watching. “You may assist in spirit.”

You grumbled, and she reached out her hand.

You took it. Let her pull you upright, your knees cracking with the effort. She didn’t comment on the sound, just steadied you with a hand beneath your elbow, her touch grounding, familiar, quietly protective.

Rio walked back in just as you found your balance. She scanned the room once, then walked to the window and pushed it open. The fresh spring air flowed in, soft and clean.

“There,” she said, hands on her hips. “Fumes out. Baby safe. Mama’s ready.”

She turned and looked at you directly.

“Now listen.” Her tone was playful, but the command beneath it was real. “If you get dizzy, thirsty, tired, hungry—or even slightly annoyed—you go sit in the rocker. Deal?”

You tilted your head at her, suspicious. “What if I want to help?”

“You can supervise. Or…” Her voice dipped into mischief again. “We can surprise you with another color.”

You blinked.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Agatha dipped the roller in the tray and turned just enough to smirk. “We did pass a shade called ‘Electric Lemonade’ on the way to the greens.”

You groaned. “Fine. Rocker. Supervising. No citrus walls.”

Rio leaned in, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “Smart wife.”

You sank slowly into the rocker as they got to work—Agatha starting in the corner by the window, Rio humming low as she unwrapped the edge of a second brush. The plastic rustled underfoot. The first swipes of green appeared on the wall like moss climbing toward morning.

Your daughter kicked once beneath your skin. You pressed a hand to your belly and smiled.

By the time two of the walls had been covered in that warm, soft green—somewhere between sea glass and sage—the nursery had already begun to change. Not just in color, but in spirit. It smelled like fresh air and fresh beginnings, the paint glistening slightly in the soft afternoon light.

You had just finished sipping the little bit left of your tea when Rio stepped back from the wall and turned toward you, her eyes catching yours across the room. She didn’t say anything. Just smiled, slow and soft and a little crooked—like she couldn’t believe you were real.

She crossed the room, careful not to track the edge of the roller across the drop cloth, and leaned down to kiss you. It was gentle, familiar. A brush of lips that landed on your mouth, then your cheek, then your shoulder like she couldn’t help herself.

Then she knelt—carefully, making sure not to bump the rocker or smear anything against your legs—and pressed a kiss to the side of your belly. Her breath warmed through the fabric of your tank top, and when she spoke, her voice went low and sing-song, like she was telling a secret just to the two of you.

“Okay, little Sprout.” She kissed your belly again. “So far, we’ve got two walls done. One looks like sunlight touched a forest. The other looks like peace.”

Another kiss. “Your Mama is supervising like a queen. Your mamì made sure the window’s open because she loves your little lungs. And in just a few weeks, this room is going to hold you. We’ll read you books. Sing to you. Nap in this chair.”

You blinked against the sudden blur of tears. “We’re getting it ready for you,” Rio whispered. “Everything’s for you.”

From behind her, Agatha approached with a water bottle in hand, her expression softened into that familiar maternal mix of affection and command. “Drink, please,” she said, offering it to you like it was a spell. You took it with a grateful smile, the cool plastic grounding you as the moment pressed close around your ribs. One sip. Then another. Your daughter kicked once, slow and curious, and Rio looked up and laughed.

“She likes hydration.”

Agatha hummed in approval and walked back to the tray, dipping her roller and resuming her rhythm with elegant swipes, while Rio followed behind, blending the edges in soft arcs.

You watched them, heart heavy and full—until an idea bloomed behind your ribs like a spark catching breath. You sat up from the rocker slowly, your palm bracing your belly as you stood. You made your way quietly down the hall, into the office where the old leftover paint samples still sat on the shelf: purple, soft orange, and that dusky moss green you hadn’t used yet. You cradled them in your arms like treasure.

By the time you returned to the nursery, Rio was standing in front of the third wall, just setting her brush down. Paint trays sat half-full in the corner, rollers resting in silence, the air thick with that clean scent of something new. The walls gleamed in soft green—fresh, living, almost luminous in the late afternoon light. But the final wall remained untouched.

The one Rio had promised would be a surprise.

You stepped forward, your arms full of color, sitting them on the table outside the nursery. “Hey,” you called gently, and both women turned toward you.

Rio turned first, her brow lifted in curiosity. Agatha straightened, paintbrush still in hand, the faintest crease in her forehead that softened the moment she saw the look on your face.

You smiled. “Can I see both of your hands, please?”

They glanced at each other, something wordless passing between them, then walked over in tandem, offering their palms without hesitation. Their skin was smudged with green and laughter, flecks of paint dried in the creases of their knuckles, like proof they’d built something here with you.

“Here.” you murmured,

You slid their palms around the side of your belly, over your tank top, snug and slightly stretched, the fabric soft and pale from too many washes. Their fingers curling slightly as you moved their hands around, the little bit of wet paint still on their skin settled into the cotton like brushstrokes. Their touch was reverent. Slow. Anchoring.

The little smears of green they left behind bloomed like wild things—marking the moment they held both of you at once. You wanted it this way. You wanted the paint on the fabric. A memory you could keep.

You gave their fingers a gentle squeeze, then lifted both of their hands away—carefully, deliberately—freeing the fabric with a soft tug that left the imprint of their fingers behind like ghost-light in wet paint. You took a slow step toward the table, one hand on your belly for balance, and picked up the first.

Purple. Agatha’s.

Deep and rich, somewhere between dusk and royal ink. A color that looked like intention. Of power worn quietly. Like something ancient and sacred that still knew how to love. You turned to her, reaching for her hand again.

She held it out, open and steady. You dipped the brush and painted her palm in long, smooth strokes—making sure to cover each finger, every crease. The ridges of her hand caught the pigment like they’d been waiting for this. Agatha watched without blinking. Then you brought her hand forward, cradled it over your belly. The print bloomed dark and bold on the fabric, left of center, fingers curved like a protective cradle.

“That’s for the stories she’ll grow up hearing,” you whispered. “The books. The poems. The strength.” Agatha’s throat moved like she was swallowing down something thick.

You reached for the next jar. Green.Rio’s. Not the green of the nursery walls. No. This was deeper. Wilder. Like the heart of a forest untouched by time. The kind of green that grounded you in the middle of chaos and joy.

You painted her hand with quiet focus—watching the way her knuckles flexed slightly, the way her breath shallowed when you turned her wrist gently to cover the edge. The brush gliding between her fingers, catching in the callus at the base of her thumb. She watched you do it like you were anointing her. Then you pressed her hand to the right side of your belly, slightly overlapping Agatha’s. “This is for the hands that will catch her,” you said softly. “For the home she’ll land in.” Rio exhaled hard through her nose, like it had taken something from her to hear that. She didn’t speak, just touched her forehead to your shoulder briefly, grounding herself before stepping back.

The colors bled into each other softly, edges imperfect, beautiful. Intimate. And then—finally—yours.

Soft orange. It wasn’t bold. It was quiet. Warm. The color of marigolds, of sunset in the fall, a quiet glow across your favorite coffee shop. A hum in your chest that never stopped saying you were loved.

You painted your own hand slowly, using a folded towel beneath your forearm to steady yourself. You took your time—each finger, the inside of your palm, the base of your wrist. It glowed softly against your skin.

Then, with care, you pressed it just above theirs—your palm nestled like a lid, your fingers framing the prints they’d left behind. “And this…” Your voice broke for just a moment. “This is for her beginning. For the heartbeat she’s known from the start.”

Three hands. Three shades. One origin. You looked down. The paint soaked gently into the cotton. Purple. Green. Orange. Three handprints, slightly blurred at the edges, slightly smeared from weight and warmth. But perfect.

Your shirt would never be the same again. And that was the point. Inside you, your daughter shifted—low and sure. Not a flutter, but a press. A soft stretch like she could feel the moment settle around her. Agatha gasped under her breath. Rio stepped in close again, brushing her fingers down your wrist. “There she is,” she whispered.

You smiled without looking away from the fabric. “I want to keep this,” you said. “When she’s older, I want her to see how we built this. That we were here, together, waiting for her.”

Agatha nodded once, fierce and full. “We’ll frame it.” Rio kissed the back of your hand. “Right next to the wall she’ll ruin with marker someday.” You laughed—wet and soft, your body swaying slightly from the ache of too much love.

The nursery was starting to become her room. You looked around and took in the sight, the evolution of the room in only a few hours felt right. The final wall stood untouched, just as promised. Not forgotten—reserved. You turned toward it with a soft smile, your fingers resting lightly on your belly, the fabric of your shirt still damp with three overlapping handprints.

“You’re not painting it today?” you asked, tilting your head. Rio stepped beside you, arms crossed over her chest, eyes fixed on the blank wall with something warm and steady behind her gaze.

“Nope,” she said. “It’ll be done by the end of the week.” You raised an eyebrow. She looked over at you and smiled, slow and sure. “It’s my gift to her. Something just from me.”

Her fingers brushed your wrist. “Always the artist.” You swallowed hard, your throat catching with that kind of ache that only love can cause. Agatha came up beside you, slipping her hand into yours.

You looked around one last time. The soft green walls glowing in the golden light, your shirt forever marked in purple, green, and orange. Their hands still tingled against your skin, even after they'd left. “It’s perfect,” you said. Your voice barely above a breath. “She’s going to love it.”

Your daughter kicked then, low and certain, as if the word yes had a rhythm and she had learned it. Rio laughed under her breath. “She agrees.”

You stood there a moment longer, just watching. Breathing it in. Then, slowly, you all turned toward the hallway, the last threads of sunlight slipping across the wood floor. Your arms brushed as you walked. Agatha’s hand settled low against your back. Rio lingered a moment behind, casting one final glance into the room like she was sealing it in her mind.

The window remained open, letting in the soft hush of late afternoon. And just before she closed the door, Rio reached for the light switch. The room dimmed into silence. Paint drying. Air stirring. Memory settling.

Waiting.

And the nursery, marked now with color, handprints, and a promise yet to come, held your daughter’s space like a cradle already shaped.

------

The house had gone quiet.

Not the kind of silence that pressed in with absence—but the golden, weighted stillness that followed intention. A silence full of meaning. The brushes were soaking in the sink, little bursts of green clouding the rinse water like watercolor dreams. The nursery door was shut, its soft green walls still breathing through the cracked window. That space—newborn and waiting—seemed to hum with memory already.

The hum of effort had settled. Everything had softened.

You lay stretched across the couch, the curve of your spine eased into the cushions, one leg tucked loosely beneath the other. A folded throw covered your calves, but your thighs were bare to the evening light, flushed and freckled, streaked faintly with paint. A smear of sage green marked the side of your knee, another faint trace lingered on your calf where Agatha’s hand had steadied you earlier.

Your tank top—damp with effort hours ago—had been peeled off and left on the kitchen table to dry. Its cotton clung to memory now, speckled with fingerprints and love. But what you wore instead was something far more sacred.

Rio’s hoodie.

The old gray one, oversized and soft at the edges, the one she always tossed over the back of the couch like it belonged to the house itself. It smelled like her—like cedarwood and clean cotton, like warmth after a long day. You’d pulled it over your head on instinct one morning nearly seven months ago, back when your belly was still flat and your nausea had just begun to whisper. Before you’d even known.

And somehow, even after you knew, it had stayed.

The fabric never left your side in those early, trembling weeks. When the world felt too sharp, when your chest felt too fragile to hold what was growing inside you, the hoodie had wrapped around your body like armor. A shield over your girl. As if, even then, it understood the task—protect her.

It wasn’t just cloth. It was Rio. It was the memory of her hands and voice. It was the silent promise that they’d both protect this little life before she ever had a name. Before you ever had the words.

Now, the sleeves slipped past your wrists, the hem rising over your belly as your daughter turned slowly beneath it, pressing up as if she still remembered how it had cradled her in those first flickers of existence. It didn’t fit the way it once had. But it held you. Still. As if it had decided long ago that you belonged inside it—and nothing had changed.

Your hand rested lazily above your navel, fingers moving in slow circles. A small kick met your touch from within, like your daughter was stretching, too. Reaching for that last bit of the day.

The bathroom door creaked open down the hall.

Then came laughter—soft and low, still damp with steam. Bare feet whispered against the wood.

And then, her.

“Hi, love.”

Rio’s voice curled around the doorway like smoke, low and knowing, worn smooth by affection.

You looked up.

They were glowing. Damp and flushed from the shower, hair curling in fresh waves from the heat. Agatha’s curls had been combed back, her cheekbones tinged with warmth, her cotton T-shirt sticking slightly along the curve of her ribs. Rio wore clean sweatpants, a dark shirt, a towel tossed over one shoulder like she’d forgotten it was there. Her skin shimmered, droplets catching in the dip of her collarbone.

They looked like the aftermath of something sacred. And they walked to you like you were the center of it.

Agatha reached you first. She didn’t hesitate. One hand found the back of the couch as she leaned in and pressed a slow, anchoring kiss to your temple. Her lips lingered, breath warm, grounding you with nothing but contact.

Then Rio knelt, slipping one hand to your cheek as she kissed you softly on the mouth. Just once. A question tucked into that kiss—You okay while I was gone?

You answered by melting into her hand.

“You look cozy,” Agatha murmured, her fingers ghosting across your knee, brushing the faint green smudge there like it was sacred.

“It’s mine,” Rio said, tugging at the hoodie with a little smile, her tone somewhere between smug and adoring. “I knew that thing would end up yours.”

You smirked, eyes fluttering shut again as you leaned into her.

“It was never yours, babe,” you murmured, voice dusted with fondness. “It just stayed on your body longer than it should’ve.”

Rio laughed, shaking her head in defeat. Agatha grinned.

And then she tilted her chin, voice soft and steady. “Are you hungry?”

“Do you want to pick a movie?” Rio added, nearly overlapping.

There it was—that rhythm again. That instinctive, unrehearsed harmony. They offered things in tandem the way you’d seen people pass dishes at a family table: without needing to ask what the other was doing. Just knowing.

You opened your eyes slowly and looked at them—at your wives.

Their skin glowed with heat, smelling of soap and lemon and faint paint still clinging beneath their nails. They were beautiful in the way only people are when they’ve spent the whole day building something for someone they love.

You sank back into the couch, hand over your daughter again.

“I could eat,” you said quietly. “And maybe something with a happy ending.”

Agatha’s smile softened. “We’ll bring snacks.”

Rio pressed another kiss to your forehead, letting it linger longer this time.

Agatha returned first, balancing a tray in both hands like it was an offering laid at the feet of something sacred. Apple slices glistened with honey, popcorn still warm in a cracked ceramic bowl, and a few squares of dark chocolate nestled beside a folded napkin. The scent of butter and cinnamon sugar lingered like the last spell of the evening.

“I didn’t forget,” she said as she set it on the coffee table. Her voice was casual, but her eyes sparkled. “Just because you didn’t ask doesn’t mean I didn’t know.”

You blinked drowsily, your head sinking back against the throw pillow beneath you. “Telepathy?”

“Proximity,” Agatha murmured, brushing her fingers lightly along your calf. “Also, years of study.”

Rio came next, dragging the quilt from the armchair and claiming her place beside you like she had always belonged there. You shifted instinctively, your body finding her like a compass finds north—nestling into the cradle of her side, your cheek sinking into the pillow she arranged in her lap. Her legs curved around you, the throw blanket cocooning the three of you in warmth and the smell of clean cotton and home.

Her hand found your hair instantly.

Long strokes. Slow. Reassuring. The kind of touch that didn’t just soothe—it rewrote your whole nervous system to the rhythm of love.

Agatha folded herself neatly at the end of the couch, drawing your legs across her lap, her palms warm and reverent against your skin. She took one foot in her hands like it was something delicate—an offering all its own—and began to rub slow circles into your arch with her thumbs.

You sighed, eyes fluttering closed as the movie began. The sounds on the screen were soft and full of color, laughter mixing with distant dialogue. You barely registered it. Your whole world was beneath this blanket, in the hands that held you.

“I missed this,” you mumbled, the words drifting like steam from your mouth.

Agatha looked up. Her eyes found yours, full of that quiet gravity she never had to force. “We’re always with you.”

You smiled faintly and let yourself drift. Not fully asleep. Not fully awake. That golden in-between, where sound melted into breath and breath into touch.

Your daughter kicked.

“Hey there, Sprout,” she murmured under her breath. “You cozy in there too?”

Another kick. This one lighter, like she was answering.

You sighed through a smile. “She’s been at it all day.”

“She takes after her mama,” Rio said, her voice barely above a hum. Her hand never stopped moving through your hair. “Doesn’t know how to sit still.”

Agatha’s hand began to rub slow, rhythmic circles across the place your daughter had kicked, and you felt your body sigh beneath her touch. She shifted slightly, settling her chin in her palm, elbow resting on the arm of the couch as she watched your belly with quiet amusement.

“You’ve been throwing elbows all day, huh?” she murmured with a grin. “I know because I’ve been watching. Every time your Mama sat down, you started practicing gymnastics.”

Another kick—a little bump under her hand like your daughter knew she had an audience.

“Mhm. That’s what I thought.” Agatha rubbed the spot a little firmer, thumb sweeping gently in slow circles. “You’ve got good timing, I’ll give you that.”

You exhaled a soft laugh. “She was doing it while I was trying to nap, too. I swear she has a sixth sense for when I’m horizontal.”

“She’s just making sure we know she’s involved,” Rio said, her voice light and fond as her fingers wove through your hair again. “We paint the nursery, she supervises. You lie down, she performs.”

“Very hands-on,” Agatha added. “She takes after both of you.” She kissed the spot just above your navel, where the movement had been strongest, her lips soft and unhurried.

“Not you?” you murmured, teasing.

Agatha smirked. “I’m the calm influence. Obviously.”

Rio snorted, then leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. “You’ve yelled at three paint rollers today.”

“Because they betrayed me,” Agatha replied with perfect seriousness, then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the curve of your belly. “But it’s okay, Sprout. Your walls look amazing. One perfect shade of green. Very elegant.”

“We’re raising a little design critic,” Rio said. “She’s going to come out expecting clean lines and hand-selected lighting.”

“And honeycrisp apples,” you murmured.

“And popcorn,” Agatha added.

Agatha chuckled, smoothing her palm again over your belly. “Well, we are excellent snack providers.” She leaned closer, whispering like it was just between them. “And don’t worry, Sprout. You’ve got the comfiest hoodie, a five-star nap schedule, and two moms with zero chill. You’re all set.”

Another kick answered her.

Rio shifted beside you, her hand still stroking through your hair, slow and steady. Then, quietly, she reached out with her other hand again—finding Agatha’s fingers across your middle, lacing them together without looking away from you.

“Do you know how much I love you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but thick with something heavier than air.

Agatha glanced up, her brows knitting ever so slightly at the tenderness in it. Rio met her eyes.

“I love you so damn much.” The words landed gently, like a stone in a still pond—rippling outward through everything that had come before. “I’m so happy,” Rio continued, her hand tightening slightly around Agatha’s. “I still can’t believe I get to be here… like this. That I get to have this. You. Her.” She glanced down toward your belly, where Agatha’s hand still rested. “All of it.”

Agatha looked like she might speak, but Rio wasn’t done yet. Her eyes shimmered, wide and full, not with tears but awe—like she was still staring at something too beautiful to make sense.

“I think about that first time I saw you across the quad,” Rio murmured, her thumb brushing Agatha’s knuckle. “You had that leather satchel, and your hair was a mess, and you were furious at someone on the phone.”

Agatha huffed a laugh, low and fond. “It was a conference call. They forgot my name—again.”

“I know,” Rio said, smiling. “And I thought, there she is. Just like that. Like something clicked into place.”

Agatha’s eyes softened. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to Rio’s, her fingers tightening between hers. “I love you too,” she said, breath catching on the words. Then she kissed the corner of Rio’s mouth—brief, reverent. “Every dream I ever dared to dream, even the ones I never said out loud… they all look like this.”

Their joined hands shifted lower without thinking, settling over your belly again, as if drawn there by instinct. And right then—like she’d been waiting for her cue—your daughter moved. A little stretch, a slow turn, the gentle pressure of a heel or elbow brushing just beneath Rio’s palm. Rio froze for a moment, breath caught in her throat. Then her face crumpled into the softest grin, one that cracked right down the middle with joy. “She heard you,” you whispered, voice thick with sleep and wonder.

Agatha’s hand curled a little tighter against your skin. “Of course she did.”

And for one long, golden moment, no one spoke.

There was only the movie flickering on the screen. The weight of the blanket over your legs. Your body nestled safely in the curve of Rio’s lap, your head heavy with comfort. And the feeling—deep, unshakable—that the three of you had already built something eternal. The child inside you turned again. The life you made together. The love that had always been waiting. And the dream that had, somehow, come true—right here. All around you.

------

Hours had passed in a hush of warmth.

Dinner had come and gone, candlelight flickering low along the edges of the table while the last of the dishes sat soaking in the sink. Plates had been cleared, glasses rinsed and set aside, but no one had rushed to leave the table. There was something sacred about lingering—about full bellies and flushed cheeks and the weight of your daughter stretching lazily beneath your ribs.

The candles had burned halfway down by now. The light was amber and soft, shadows pooling along the curve of Agatha’s collarbone as she tipped the last of her water to her lips, her other hand resting idly over yours beneath the table. Rio sat beside you, posture loose, but eyes sharp. Watching you. Watching her. You had long stopped pretending you weren’t waiting.

Your thoughts had begun slipping toward upstairs the moment dessert was finished. Maybe even before then—when Rio’s hand brushed your lower back as you passed behind her, the heat of her fingers firm, intentional. Or when she caught Agatha’s gaze mid-meal and said, calm as ever, “You’re not in control tonight, remember?” A line dropped like a match onto dry kindling. Agatha’s breath had caught. Just briefly. But you saw it. Felt it. And now, hours later, that promise sat thick in the air between the three of you, blooming like smoke beneath your skin.

You’d excused yourself casually, just a whisper of “be right back,” but you saw the way Agatha followed you with her eyes, like she already knew. Rio hadn’t even looked up—just reached for her wine glass and said softly, “Take your time, baby.” You walked down the hall barefoot. The floor was warm beneath your soles, the air thick with candle smoke and the faint trace of dinner—garlic, herbs, a memory of chocolate on your tongue. But deeper beneath that: your own heartbeat, low and steady, echoing beneath your ribs.

The candles you’d placed earlier—simple white pillars, each tucked into a crystal holder—had been lit with a whispered incantation, their flames steady and warm. Their glow shimmered against the bedspread, already turned down. The air smelled faintly of rosewood and something sweeter—like cinnamon bark steeped in cream. You’d left the windows cracked just slightly, letting the winter night sigh gently through the curtains. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the lingerie.

The robe swayed around your thighs as you walked. Black, sheer, delicate as moth wings. It caught the low light with each movement, fabric parting just enough to reveal the lace beneath—soft cups cradling your breasts, the satin band tucked beneath the curve of your belly. You’d chosen it carefully. Not for modesty. For revelation.

The lingerie didn’t hide your body—it framed it. The stretch marks glowing like silver thread. The swell of your breasts full and heavy with promise. The gentle curve of your stomach, firm with life, pressing out against the fabric like your daughter was reminding everyone that Agatha and Rio had claimed you in more than one way. It gave them a view of everything. Of the way your body had changed. Of the life you were carrying. Of the softness they’d touched earlier on the couch with such reverence you’d nearly wept.

It made you feel beautiful. Powerful. Like something blooming beneath the surface of skin and silk. You checked your reflection in the mirror. Not to adjust—just to look. Just to feel the way the evening had been slowly, reverently building toward this. Toward you. The way they’d watched you all day like you were something holy.

You exhaled, slow and steady, the weight of candlelight behind you, the echo of your heartbeat humming in your wrists. And when they didn’t come—when the sound of their footsteps never reached the bedroom door—you realized something else:

You didn’t want to be revealed. You wanted to arrive. So you moved.

The robe slid against your skin like breath, barely tethered by the loose tie at your ribs. Each step down the hallway made it shift more—your thighs brushing together, the soft swell of your belly rising and falling with each inhale, your breasts heavy beneath the sheer lace cups. The shadows stretched ahead of you. The warmth of dinner and wine still lingered on your tongue.

You padded silently toward the dining room, the faint scent of rosemary and wax hanging in the air like the memory of a kiss. And then— You reached the corner. Paused. And stepped into view.

Agatha’s breath caught audibly, her lips parted around a gasp she didn’t manage to suppress. Her spine straightened in the chair like she’d been struck—not hard, but reverently. Her eyes moved slow, almost reverent, as if she couldn’t decide where to land.

The soft curve of your breasts. The darkened outline of your nipples beneath the lace. The way your belly curved beneath the silk band, skin glowing in the dim light. The parting of your thighs where the robe swayed open just enough to reveal bare skin and the suggestion of more. You leaned one shoulder lazily into the doorframe, pretending not to notice the way their gazes devoured you.

“Still hungry?” you asked, voice warm and sweet as fruit left to ripen on the windowsill.

The words settled over the room like silk. Agatha looked completely undone. One hand gripped the edge of the table, the other still holding her napkin, clenched and useless. Her throat worked around a sound she didn’t speak aloud.

Rio didn’t move. Not at first. She sat back in her chair, legs wide now, one hand wrapped around the stem of her wine glass, the other resting over her knee. Her gaze traveled the full length of you—slow and deliberate, taking her time. She didn’t rush. She wanted you to know how she was looking.

Like you were a gift she hadn’t even let herself dream of unwrapping yet. And then, with devastating calm, she set her glass down. The sound was soft—a whisper of crystal against wood. Her voice, when it came, was low and steady.

“Starving.”

The smile she gave you wasn’t sweet. It was possessive. Dark.

Like she’d already decided what she wanted—and was just letting the moment linger a little longer before she claimed it. You held her gaze for a moment longer, your fingers tightening slightly against the doorframe. Your body pulsed with heat, with the weight of being watched like that—not just with desire, but with intent.

Then Rio turned her head, her gaze cutting to Agatha like a blade honed on heat.

“Bedroom.”

Agatha’s eyes widened—not in defiance, but in something softer. Her spine straightened instinctively, but her breath caught, and you saw it—that flicker of surrender breaking through the calm she wore like a second skin.

“On the bed or by the bed.” Rio’s voice was smooth. Lethal in its certainty. “On your knees.”

Agatha nodded once. Silent. Her chair pushed back with a scrape far too loud for the hush that had fallen. And then she was moving—heels quiet across the floor, robe brushing her legs, the hallway swallowing her up in the space of a heartbeat. She looked back only once. And in that single glance, you saw her unraveling.

Then Rio stood. The room seemed to shift around her, candlelight catching on her shoulders, shadow dipping beneath the curve of her jaw. Her movements weren’t rushed. They never were. She approached you with the kind of quiet confidence that made your skin burn before she even touched you.

You stood in the doorway, legs loose, breath caught in your chest like something you didn’t know how to hold. The robe fluttered slightly at your sides, catching the faint pull of air from the hall. Your belly curved outward—proud and high, firm and undeniable. It kept you from folding fully into her the moment she stopped in front of you.

But that didn’t matter. Because Rio filled the space between you without needing to press forward. Her presence alone took up every inch. Her gaze dragged over you—slow, unyielding. Not polite. Hungry.

One hand reached out, brushing the edge of the robe aside, fingertips grazing over the soft lace at your sternum. She trailed them up—higher—her knuckles barely grazing your skin until she reached the curve of your breast.

“Mira nada más…” she murmured, eyes dark with wanting. Her fingers splayed out, tracing over the lace, circling the nipple through the fabric in slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Estás tan hermosa…”

Your breath hitched.

“…tan jodidamente sexy.”

Her other hand slid low, tracing the underside of your belly like it was a blessing she’d been given. Reverent. Possessive. She leaned in, her lips barely grazing the shell of your ear.

“Tan mía.”

You arched, chest rising into her touch, body taut with anticipation. But your bump kept you from fully pressing against her—and Rio noticed. Her eyes sparked. She shifted closer, then dipped her chin, whispering— “Turn around.”

You did. Slowly.

The robe swayed with your movement, your thighs brushing, your heart galloping. You turned to face the wall. Felt the soft breath of candlelight behind you. And then—her.

Rio pressed up behind you, her body flush against your back, hands sliding over your hips. She didn’t care that your belly curved between you, didn’t treat it like a barrier. She let her hands follow the new shape of you—all of you—until her palms framed your waist and she drew you gently back against her.

You gasped.

The warmth of her chest against your spine. The soft edge of her breath at your neck. The way her hips pressed forward—owning the space you’d left open for her. Her lips found your throat. Open-mouthed. Slow. Trailing down, she kissed beneath your jaw, then lower, to the place where your pulse beat strongest. Her tongue flicked against it as she exhaled. “You don’t even know…” she whispered between kisses, “…how badly I want you.”

Her fingers moved beneath the robe now, curling over your stomach, cradling it with a possessiveness that was both tender and claiming. Her other hand moved higher, slipping beneath the lace cup to find your breast, cupping the weight of it, her palm calloused and warm.

“Look at you,” she breathed. “Filling out my fantasies, giving me everything I never knew how to ask for.” You pushed back against her then—hips rolling instinctively, searching for more. Rio growled low in her throat, her grip tightening. Her hand splayed over your belly, grounding you. Holding you. “I want you just like this.” Her voice darkened. “Swollen. Glowing. Full of our girl.” You moaned, the sound quiet but desperate.

And behind you, Rio just smiled against your neck.

Because you were trembling in her hands.

You melted back against her, the heat of her chest warming your spine, her hand cradling your belly like she’d been born to do it. The lace strained over your breast where her fingers teased gently, lovingly, just enough to make your knees threaten to bend. But then—she paused. Slowed. Her grip softened, her mouth brushing lightly over your shoulder now, lips parting to release a breath, not a command. She stilled her movements—just enough to draw your awareness back to something quieter. You felt it in the way her hands steadied.

“Mi amor,” she murmured, low and close behind your ear. Her voice had shifted—still dark, still edged with hunger, but now threaded with something more grounded. “You feeling okay?” Her fingers traced gentle patterns along the underside of your belly. “Everything feel good? Are you up for it? Feel safe with me tonight?”

The questions landed soft, but solid. Anchored in the way only Rio could be when everything else burned around her. You nodded, forehead tipping down slightly, the robe slipping off one shoulder like it, too, wanted to be bare.

But Rio didn’t move. She reached up and turned your face with her fingertips, gentle but insistent, guiding your chin until your eyes found hers. The intensity in her gaze was immediate. Her irises burned dark and searching, scanning every inch of your expression—your parted lips, your breath, the blush blooming high on your cheeks. But mostly your eyes. She didn’t rush it. Didn’t let you look away. You met her stare fully, and the warmth in your chest swelled. The love. The want. The trust. It filled you up.

And then, your smile bloomed slow, certain. “Green, my love.” The color of consent. Of readiness. Of go. Rio didn’t breathe for a moment. And then she did—but it was you who took her air. You turned in her arms and kissed her.

Not softly. Not shyly. But deeply—like your mouth had been crafted just to remind her of who she belonged to. Your hands slid up her chest, the curve of your belly pressing into her front, separating you—but not stopping you.

Your kiss curled heat low and hot between you, the force of it pushing a quiet, startled sound from the back of Rio’s throat. You felt her hands tighten, anchoring herself to you. Her body rocked forward, lips chasing yours even as you pulled away. When you finally opened your eyes, Rio’s were wide. Wrecked. Your lips were still parted when you whispered against hers, breath mingling.

“Aggie is waiting.” The words were still warm on your lips, the echo of your kiss still blooming across Rio’s mouth when she grinned—slow and devilish.

“And she can wait as long as I want her to,” Rio said, the smirk curling one side of her mouth as she gave you a wink that should’ve been illegal.

It made something flicker low in your belly. Not just arousal—though that hummed like a lit fuse—but something deeper. That pulse of safety and surrender, of knowing exactly whose hands you were in.

You laughed softly, breathless still, and took her hand in yours. Fingers laced.

The walk down the hallway felt quieter now. The air had thickened around you, the golden warmth of dinner and laughter replaced with something darker, more charged. The soft pads of your bare feet kissed the floorboards with each step, the candlelight growing dimmer as the bedroom came into view, a low fire of anticipation burning behind your ribs.

You reached the door first. And when you stepped inside, your smile deepened. Agatha lay on the bed. Still dressed. Still waiting. Her legs were folded beneath her, spine tall, hands resting on her thighs exactly as Rio had told her. Her chest rose and fell with slow, practiced breath—but her eyes? Her eyes were molten. Fixed on you the second you entered. Devouring. Wanting. But she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Obedient. And still visibly wrecked from what you’d stirred in her that morning.

Your gaze drifted over her—the flush in her cheeks, the tension coiled in her shoulders, the quiet plea in her restraint. You could see how badly she wanted to reach for you. To say something. But she stayed still. Exactly as she’d been told.

Good girl.

The thought curled behind your smile. Then— Rio stepped in behind you. And everything shifted.

Her hand touched the small of your back, guiding, firm, warm through the sheer robe. She walked you to the center of the room, slow and deliberate, like placing something precious where it belonged.

You stood now just a few feet from the bed—between them. You felt the weight of both their eyes. Agatha, sitting perfectly still, breathing you in. Rio, behind you, her presence a wall of steady heat. Her voice brushed the air like smoke, low and deliberate as her hand returned to your waist.

“Look at her,” she said, voice velveted steel. “Still desperate for what she didn’t get this morning.”

You didn’t have to look to know Rio was smiling. But you did anyway. And when you turned toward her, that smirk was already waiting—lazy, confident, just a little dangerous. It curved across her mouth like a promise and a threat wrapped in silk.

You stepped closer, eyes never leaving hers, and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck—right beneath the strong line of her jaw, where her skin ran hot and steady. You nipped her lightly, teasing with your teeth, lips brushing that sensitive place just below her ear.

“Play nice,” you murmured, the words landing soft as a warning.

Behind you, from the bed, came the softest sound. A moan. Quick. Breathless. Barely there. But it pulled at you like gravity. Agatha.

Still kneeling on the edge of the bed, exactly where Rio had told her. Still dressed, spine straight, hands folded tightly in her lap like she was holding herself together with the barest thread of discipline. Her knuckles were white. Her jaw clenched tight. Her eyes never left you—not for a second.

You didn’t turn fully. But you smiled. Then your fingers found the front of Rio’s shirt—the one she’d changed into before dinner, dark satin beneath your fingertips, each button a slow tease. She’d worn it to make the night feel special. Elevated. Intentional. You remembered how her sleeves had been cuffed just below the elbow, her collar open slightly to reveal the curve of her collarbone and the hint of a chain tucked beneath.

And now you were unfastening it. Button by button. The fabric parted slowly, your hands steady as your pulse raced. You expected bare skin beneath. You were wrong. Your breath caught.

Black lace. Semi-sheer. A bra cut low and sharp, supportive but unapologetically seductive, built to highlight the strength of her body—not soften it. Her breasts sat full and high in the cups, her nipples visible through the delicate mesh. The contrast between that and the crispness of her shirt—

You nearly whimpered. She hadn’t dressed this way by accident. Rio watched your reaction with something smug and fond behind her gaze, her hands never leaving your hips. She let you take her in. Let you stare. And when your eyes finally dragged back up to meet hers— She winked. Devilish.

From the bed, Agatha inhaled sharply. You heard the hitch in her breath before you saw the tremble move through her. Her thighs pressed together. Her shoulders locked. But she didn’t move. She didn’t dare.

You stepped closer to Rio, your hands sweeping down her sides, tracing the lines of her waist and hips with aching care. Her muscles tensed beneath your touch—subtle, restrained. But she let you guide the moment. For now.

Your fingers reached the waistband of her pants. You hooked them with deliberate slowness. Looked up at her. “Off.” Your voice was low. Firm. A dare laced with heat. Rio raised a brow.

Then—smiled. She didn’t obey. Not immediately. Instead, her hands curved around your waist, guiding you back—one slow step at a time, until the back of your knees kissed the edge of the mattress. You looked up at her, your robe parting around you like petals beginning to fall, the lace over your belly tight and beautiful in the candlelight.

Her voice came low against your ear, all heat and mischief.

“Now, who said you get to make the rules tonight?” And then she laid you down.

Gently. Your body met the mattress with a sigh, hair spilling in waves over the pillow, robe slipping open just enough to reveal the stretch of your thighs, the slope of your hip, the place where you were soft and ready and radiant. You reached for her instinctively—but she didn’t follow.

Not yet. She stood there for a moment, shirt open, lace bra exposed, watching you like you were the most exquisite thing she’d ever touched.And to the side—Agatha. Still on the bed. Still perfectly still.

Her eyes were glassy now. Lips parted. Breath shallow. She hadn’t moved an inch. But every line of her body trembled. She was breaking for you. And she hadn’t even been touched yet.

Rio didn’t speak at first. She just looked at you—hair fanned out over the pillow, robe parted, lace clinging to the swell of your belly like it had been stitched to worship you. The soft rise and fall of your breath. The flush already high in your cheeks. Then she turned her gaze to Agatha. “Lie down,” she said softly. Agatha moved immediately. Not rushed. Not frantic. Obedient.

She shifted from her upright position, body trembling just slightly as she turned and lay down beside you, her hands folding over her stomach, legs stretched out straight, face angled toward the ceiling—but her eyes never left you. Her lips parted. Her chest rose and fell. But she didn’t touch. Not herself. Not you. Not Rio. Waiting.

“Don’t move,” Rio murmured.  Agatha nodded once.

Then Rio’s attention returned to you. She moved toward the foot of the bed and climbed up, one knee sinking into the mattress, the other following as she stalked up the length of your body like she’d been called there by gravity itself. Her hands braced beside your shoulders. Her mouth dipped to yours.

The kiss was slow. Firm. Possessive. Her tongue traced the seam of your lips before her mouth slid lower, pressing kisses down your jaw, your throat, the hollow just beneath your collarbone. Each one left heat in its wake—tiny, glowing imprints of where she’d been.

You gasped when her hand finally moved. It slid down over your belly, reverent in the way it curved around the full, round weight of it. Then lower, over the lace stretched tight across your hips. Her fingers skimmed the edge. Then traced outward. You opened for her without thinking. Your knees falling to the sides. Your body offering.

She moved between your legs with slow precision, her eyes lifting once to your face. Then her hand followed the curve of your hip, down, around— Her fingers cupped you through the lace. Warm. Intentional. Claiming. She didn’t press. Not yet. But you were soaked. Her fingers stilled for half a second. You saw her smile. Then came the laugh—low, amused, pleased.

“Just like Aggie,” she murmured, voice curling dark against your skin. “I don’t even have to touch, and you’re desperate and ready for me.”

You exhaled hard. Your thighs twitched, pushing gently against her wrist, needing more.

Agatha whimpered beside you.

Rio’s fingers never stopped moving.

Even as her mouth descended, even as she began to kiss her way lower—down the column of your throat, across your collarbone, her lips parting around the swells of your breasts—her hand stayed firm between your legs, cupping the heat of you through soaked lace, her thumb grazing slowly, rhythmically across your center.

You gasped. “Rio—” She didn’t answer with words. She just hummed softly against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver through your ribs as her fingers hooked into the edge of your lingerie. She pulled the cup of the lace bra aside with maddening care, just enough to expose your nipple, the cool air brushing over it for only a moment—

Before her mouth closed around it. Warm. Wet. Possessive. “Ah—” Your cry punched out of you, your back arching as she sucked gently, tongue flicking against the tight bud, then circling slow, deliberate. Her free hand curved around the underside of your breast, holding it steady as she worshipped. You couldn’t stop moving—hips shifting, thighs tensing, your whole body rolling helplessly into her rhythm. The steady pressure of her fingers at your core made you feel like you were melting from the inside out.

Beside you, Agatha made a sound. A quiet, shaky breath—held too long, now breaking. Rio pulled her mouth from your breast with a soft pop, your nipple glistening in the candlelight. Her hand didn’t leave your body. Not even for a second.

She didn’t turn her head—didn’t need to. Her voice was low, edged in command. “Agatha.” The name alone made her shiver. “Take your clothes off.” Agatha swallowed audibly. “Leave the bra and briefs on.”

There was a rustle of movement to your side—subtle, reverent. You didn’t look. You didn’t need to. You could feel Agatha’s energy shift beside you—her obedience a slow, aching pulse in the air. The sound of fabric sliding over skin. A zipper. A breath sucked through her teeth as she peeled away everything but the essentials.

You felt her eyes on you again as she settled—now bare-legged, stripped of everything but the sheer black bra and matching briefs she’d worn beneath her clothes. The same ones you remembered from mornings after long nights—thin, clinging, worn soft by time and desire.

Rio’s mouth began to move again. Down. Slower now, like she had all the time in the world to taste every inch of you. She left kisses as she went—wet and open-mouthed against your ribs, your sides, the soft curve where your belly met your waist. Her lips pressed reverent heat into the stretch of your skin, her tongue flicking along your side, teasing, tasting the salt of you.

Then a nip—right beneath the swell of your belly.

You gasped. “Fuck—” But Rio just smiled against your skin, her lips moving lower still, trailing toward the waistband of your lace. Her fingers followed. Sliding up over your inner thighs. Teasing along the edge of your underwear. Dipping just enough to make your hips rise from the bed in a slow, uncontrollable roll.

Her fingers brushed lightly over your center—through the soaked lace this time, pressing just enough to feel the heat of you, the undeniable wetness there. She made a low, delighted sound in her throat. Then her voice cut through the tension again—low, measured, wicked. “Agatha.” To your side, a sharp inhale. “You can touch your breast now.” Silence followed for a beat. Then— “Only there.”

You didn’t need to look to know that Agatha was obeying. You felt it. The quiet moan that broke from her lips. The rustle of her hands as they moved—slow, trembling, reverent—to her breasts, still caged in sheer lace. Her thumbs rubbing over the peaks beneath the fabric, her hips twitching, desperate for more but unwilling to break the rules.

Her breath grew louder. Shaky. She was watching you. Watching Rio peel the lace aside, exposing your soaked center, her mouth just inches away from where you needed her most. Watching your legs fall wider. Your fingers curl in the sheets. Rio made no move to rush. Her fingers had pushed the lace aside fully now, baring you to the low candlelight and her mouth. But instead of diving in—instead of giving you what your body was begging for—she took her time. She lowered herself further. And began kissing the inside of your thighs. One. Then another. Open-mouthed, wet, slow.

She kissed just above your knee first, then higher, her lips dragging against your skin as her tongue followed in little teasing licks. You twitched beneath her, the muscle in your thigh jumping with every graze of her teeth. The closer she got, the more your hips lifted, your body chasing her mouth, desperate for contact.

But Rio only chuckled low. “You’re so greedy when you’re this wet. I’ve wanted to taste you all fucking day.” You whimpered, your hands clutching at the sheets, legs spreading wider. Her teeth nipped again—sharper this time, right at the sensitive skin near the crease of your thigh. You cried out, your body jerking as she soothed it immediately with her tongue, the heat of her breath flooding over your skin.

And then—finally— Her tongue licked a single, hard stripe through your center. “Ah—fuck!” Your hips bucked off the bed. The groan that ripped from your chest was raw, unfiltered, electric. Your thighs widened instinctively, spreading open for her as far as they would go, your belly tight and high between you. Behind you, Agatha gasped. “Don’t stop,” Rio murmured against you, her voice like velvet-dipped command. Her lips pressed a kiss just above your clit before her tongue flicked again—longer now, firmer. “Let her hear what I do to you.”

And you did. You couldn’t help it. The sound that spilled from your throat was thick and needy, cracking as your body jolted beneath her tongue. It wasn’t a cry—it was a surrender, a moan pulled up from somewhere low and sacred, trembling through the walls and straight into Agatha’s lungs.

Rio licked you again—slow and deliberate, the kind of pressure that knew exactly how to part you, how to make you tremble. Her tongue worked through the slickness she’d already coaxed from you, dipping down and then dragging upward in one smooth stroke, stopping just shy of your clit.

She did it again.

And again.

You writhed, hips rocking instinctively, thighs straining wider. The muscles of your stomach fluttered, the tight round of your belly rising and falling with each breath as she devoured you like she had all night.

She flattened her tongue then, the heat of it broad and hot as she licked from the bottom of your entrance all the way to the top—and then finally circled your clit.

Your cry was sharp. You fisted the sheets. Your head fell back. Your whole body arched. “Fuck, Rio—please—” Behind you, Agatha moaned. Louder this time. Desperate. You turned your head just enough to see her.

Her knees drawn up now, thighs pressed together, her hands still on her chest—just her chest—rubbing her nipples through the lace of her bra. Her lips were parted, red and wet, her face flushed, her eyes fixed on your body as if she were starving. And still—she hadn’t moved lower. Because Rio hadn’t said she could.

Rio moaned into you then, as if feeding off your sounds, your trembling. She suckled your clit once, slow and controlled, and then flicked her tongue faster, drawing tight, wet circles around the bundle of nerves that had you keening. Her hand slid up to your hip, holding you down. Keeping you open. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. You were burning alive for her. For both of them.

“Rio—”

Her name broke from your lips on a moan, ragged and full, torn from the pit of your stomach as her tongue circled your clit with maddening precision. The way she moved—slow, then fast, then slow again—had your thighs trembling, the heat coiling low in your belly tightening into something that felt like it might shatter you.

“God, Rio—please, please—”

Your hands tangled in the sheets, trying not to come undone too fast, but the pleasure was building—mounting—with every flick of her tongue, every rumble of her moan as she fed on your body like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. She was groaning against you, low and rough, like the taste of you wrecked her just as much as you were falling apart beneath her.

“Fuck—please—please, don’t stop—”

The words slurred into the air as your hips lifted, thighs shaking, your hand reaching out blindly—gripping the nearest edge of the sheets, the mattress, anything to anchor yourself. You were trembling now, legs parted wide, hips twitching every time she flicked her tongue across your clit, every time she moaned against you like the taste of you was wrecking her from the inside out. Your fingers twisted into the sheets, mouth falling open on a cry that barely sounded human. And beside you—so close, so still—

Agatha lay on her back, just as Rio had placed her. Her body was a study in restraint. Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white. The rise and fall of her chest was sharp, her breathing ragged, her eyes glassy with want. She watched every shudder of your thighs, every roll of your hips, every twitch of your belly as Rio devoured you.

And still—she hadn’t moved. Her lips were parted. Her face flushed. She looked like she was holding back a storm. Rio lifted her mouth for just a moment, her breath hot against your skin. She pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another—before glancing up with a dark, breathless smile.

“Agatha.” Rio’s voice was low but absolute—cutting through the room like silk-draped steel. Agatha’s head turned instantly, breathing hard, chest heaving, her hands clutched into the bedding like they were the only things holding her together. Her face was flushed, lips parted, pupils blown so wide her eyes looked nearly black.

Waiting. “You can kiss her,” Rio said, her voice rough now, thick with possession and reverence. Then a pause. “And you can touch her chest.” Another beat, her mouth still pressed hot to your thigh. Her fingers tightened on your hip. “That’s all.”

The permission landed like a spell. Agatha gasped—sharp, involuntary. And then she moved like she’d been released from something. Her body shifted, rolling onto her side with a desperation that bordered on frantic, but her hands were careful. Delicate. Worshipful. She didn’t rush. Her palm came up first—hovering, trembling—before finally settling against your cheek. The way she touched you felt like prayer. Like awe.

Her fingers traced your jaw, cupped your face as if it might vanish, her thumb sweeping slowly across the flushed curve of your cheekbone. And then—she kissed you. Not softly. Not sweetly. With need.

Mouth crashing to yours like she’d gone days without it. Like she needed your breath to live. Her kiss was soaked in hunger, all tongue and aching reverence, her moan cracking in her throat as she finally—finally—got a taste of the sounds Rio was tearing out of you. And beneath you, between your thighs, Rio groaned.

Her tongue circled your clit again—tight, fast, focused. Every flick sent lightning bolts through your core. She sucked it into her mouth now, not gently, but with purpose, her hands gripping your hips to keep you grounded as your whole body lifted from the bed. You moaned into Agatha’s mouth, the sound helpless, broken. She kissed you harder. Her other hand found your chest, sliding under the lace. Moving it out of the way as she pulled it down, your skin spilling out. She didn’t go lower—she wouldn’t dare—but her palm molded to your breast, thumb circling your nipple with slow, aching worship. You arched. The pressure inside you was no longer building—it was surging, a tidal wave bearing down on you from all sides. And then Rio’s voice— Right against your cunt, low and full of dark praise.

“That’s it, baby,” she breathed, the words dragging hot across your skin. “Let her taste what I do to you.” You shattered. Agatha’s mouth swallowing your cry, her hand tight on your breast. Your legs jerked. Your toes curled. You sobbed. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t quiet. It tore out of you, your whole body seized in the grip of something too big to name, too perfect to survive. Your thighs snapped shut around Rio’s head—but her grip on your hips tightened, keeping you spread, her mouth still devouring.

She didn’t stop. Not when you whimpered. Not when your body arched like a bowstring pulled to breaking. She kept going. Slow now. Deep, dragging strokes of her tongue, her lips sealing over your clit, pulling, sucking, flicking again—making sure you felt it, that every aftershock cracked through your spine and pulsed out into your fingertips. Your voice broke. “Fuck—Rio, I—” Another wave hit. Not a full climax—a quake. A raw, drawn-out contraction of muscle and pleasure and fire beneath your skin. Agatha kissed the corner of your mouth now, her breath rushing, her lips brushing your jaw, whispering into your skin like she couldn’t stop herself. “So beautiful like this.”

Her thumb rubbed your nipple again, slower now, in sync with Rio’s tongue. Your back arched into both touches, your body no longer your own—offered, stretched between them like a lit cord about to snap. Rio groaned into you. The vibration hit straight through your core. And that-that—made you sob again. You didn’t know if it was a third orgasm or the echoes of the second stretched into oblivion—but your legs trembled violently, your stomach tightened hard, your hands clawed at the sheets— And Rio held you there. Pinned open by her mouth. Owned by her rhythm.

Her hand slid up to your belly, holding you, grounding you, as her mouth moved faster—her lips slick and hot, tongue swirling tighter, tighter, tighter, each flick more devastating than the last. You could hear Agatha panting beside you. Could feel her hand sliding down your breast now, cradling it, squeezing it, her body curled toward you like gravity had dragged her to worship. She was shaking. But neither of them stopped. And you—wrecked, soaked, trembling—could only take it.

------

Laid out in the aftermath, your skin flushed and slick, your breath ragged in your chest. Agatha kissed your cheek once more, lips soft and reverent, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead like she couldn’t stop touching you—even now.

And then—

Rio rose.

Her mouth glistened with your release, her chest rising slow and controlled as she licked her bottom lip and looked up between your thighs—then higher—past your body.

To Agatha.

Agatha froze.

You felt her beside you—her breathing, the weight of her stillness, the way every muscle locked tight beneath her skin.

She knew.

The moment had come.

Rio wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and deliberate, then crawled up over your body—not kissing, not pausing—until she was between you and Agatha, straddling the space between.

Her voice was low.

Dark.

“Look at you,” she murmured, eyes sweeping down Agatha’s trembling body. “You’ve been such a good girl tonight.”

Agatha swallowed hard, her hands still tucked against her chest, fingers curled tightly like if she let go, she might break into pieces.

Rio leaned in closer, her body hovering now, all restrained power and focused attention.

“You followed every word.”

Agatha nodded—quick, desperate.

“You watched her fall apart.”

Another nod.

“And now you think you’ve earned me?”

Agatha’s breath hitched. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Her jaw flexed with effort, her thighs twitching beneath the lace of her briefs, her bra visibly damp with sweat and arousal.

“Say it,” Rio said softly, tilting her head. “Tell me what you want.”

Agatha’s eyes finally met hers.

“You,” she whispered. “I want you, Rio. Please.”

Rio smiled. Not kind.

Possessive.

Predatory.

She leaned forward, lips brushing Agatha’s ear.

“Then be still.”

Agatha had gone utterly still beneath her. Her hands rested at her sides, curled into the sheets, and her eyes were wide with anticipation, already glassy with need. The lace of her bra barely contained her, her nipples hard and straining beneath the fabric, her briefs soaked dark where her thighs pressed together.

Rio sat over her hips, not straddling fully, just enough to press her down, a hand braced beside her head as her other trailed slowly down her sternum.

You could see the way Agatha’s body reacted—every inch of her tense, trembling, waiting for the next command.

And Rio gave it.

“Hands over your head.”

Agatha obeyed instantly, arms rising, wrists crossing above her head like it was instinct. Her breath hitched—a caught sound—as her body arched beneath the command, chest pushing up into Rio’s palm as it traced down, down, over the dip of her stomach.

“You’re so good like this,” Rio said softly, but there was steel behind it—domination wrapped in velvet. “All that control you wear like armor… stripped away.”

She leaned in then—just enough for her breath to brush Agatha’s jaw.

“Look at you now.”

Agatha whimpered.

You moaned softly at the sound, your thighs pressing together as you watched, content to stay exactly where you were—languid, warm, owned—while Rio turned her full attention to Agatha.

Rio sat back slightly, letting her eyes drag over Agatha’s chest.

“Keep your hands where they are.”

She gripped the center of the lace bra with one hand and pulled it down—not torn, not rushed—peeled, like she wanted Agatha to feel every second of exposure.

Her breasts spilled free, flushed and soft, nipples tight from neglect and anticipation.

Rio exhaled like she’d been waiting to see them all night.

“Perfect,” she murmured. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Agatha let out a choked sound—half whimper, half laugh—but she nodded, breathless. Rio’s hand came down—not hard, not gentle—just firm, cupping one breast and squeezing until Agatha gasped, her hips bucking up.

And Rio pushed her back down.

“I said still.”

You watched as Agatha’s whole body trembled with effort, her wrists flexing above her head, but she didn’t move. Not again. Her chest heaved beneath Rio’s palm, her mouth falling open.

“That’s it,” Rio purred. “You don’t have to be in charge tonight, baby. Just take what I give you.”

Agatha whimpered, her lips parted, head tipped back into the pillow like she couldn’t bear to look anywhere but the ceiling. Her arms stayed exactly where Rio had told her to keep them—wrists crossed above her head, fingers curled tight into the sheets to keep from reaching. You could see her whole body vibrating with tension. With need.

She wasn’t used to this. Not like this. She could take control in any room, command a storm with the flick of a wrist or the cut of her voice. But here—beneath Rio—she was bare. Quivering. Made soft and silent by nothing more than permission.

Rio leaned forward again, slow, predatory, dragging her mouth just along the edge of Agatha’s jaw. Her voice dropped, breath ghosting warm across her cheek.

“That’s my good girl.”

Agatha shuddered.

Your own breath caught as you watched—heat curling low again, slow and thick, as Rio pressed a kiss to Agatha’s neck. Then another. Open-mouthed and wet, just below her jawline, tongue teasing along the vein there, her hand still cradling one of Agatha’s breasts like it was something meant to be claimed. Agatha moaned, her hips bucking up involuntarily.

Rio caught them with hers. Pressed her back down. “Did I tell you to move?”

“N-no,” Agatha breathed, her voice shaking with restraint, with surrender.

“Then stay still,” Rio murmured. “Or I’ll stop.”

You could see the war inside Agatha’s body—every nerve lit with wanting, but her hands stayed where they were. Her legs flexed beneath Rio’s hips, but didn’t rise again. She bit her lip. Swallowed hard. And she obeyed. Rio smiled. Dark. Devastating. “Good girl.”

Then—slowly, deliberately—her mouth descended. She kissed the top of Agatha’s breast first. Then lower. She sucked at the soft swell just above her nipple, her teeth grazing lightly—not enough to mark, just enough to remind. Agatha moaned, a sound so raw it hit straight between your legs, and your breath stuttered out in response.

Then Rio’s tongue flicked over the tight, flushed peak.

Agatha cried out. Her body arched—just barely—but her hands stayed above her head, white-knuckled, trembling. “Please…” You heard it. Barely more than a whisper.

And Rio answered by closing her mouth around Agatha’s nipple—hot, slow, possessive—sucking deep, her hand pressing firmly to Agatha’s other breast, her fingers spreading wide to claim every inch.

She lingered—tongue circling, lips pulling tight around the sensitive peak as her fingers rolled and squeezed Agatha’s other breast, each movement slow, sure, and deliberate. She wasn’t teasing.

She was claiming.

Agatha’s gasps had turned to whimpers, her wrists still locked above her head, knuckles bone-white from how tightly she was gripping the sheets. Her chest arched upward, offering more, even as her thighs trembled beneath the weight of staying still.

You could see it—how close she was to breaking.

And Rio knew it too.

She drew back slightly, letting Agatha’s nipple slip from her mouth with a soft, wet sound. Her breath was warm as it ghosted across the damp skin, and her voice, when it came, was low and rough with satisfaction.

“So responsive,” Rio murmured, dragging her hand trailing lower—down the line of her ribcage, the soft rise of her belly, the curve of her hip, slow as honey. “And we haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

Agatha was flushed, her skin glowing under the flicker of candlelight. Her breath trembled in her chest, her eyes fluttered half-shut. She hadn’t moved once. Arms still stretched above her head, hands gripping the pillow, every tendon in her arms pulled taut with effort. She was obedient, open, waiting.

And Rio—God, Rio was slow.

Cruel in how gentle she was.

She dragged her fingertips down the inside of Agatha’s thigh, hovering above where the lace still clung damp to her skin. She leaned down, close, nose brushing just along the edge of Agatha’s bra, her breath hot against flushed skin.

“You’ve been so good for me,” Rio murmured, almost cooing. “Keeping still. Staying quiet.”

She kissed the center of Agatha’s chest, right between her breasts.

“I think it’s time you got something back.”

Agatha choked on a gasp, her fingers flexing once—but not moving—her whole body caught between discipline and the frantic ache of wanting more. Her hips twitching involuntarily, but her hands—miraculously—remained in place. Obedient. Desperate.

Rio shifted down.

Kissed the space just below Agatha’s navel. Then lower. A trail of heat that left Agatha shivering beneath her, her breath catching in her throat.

Rio hooked her thumb into the waistband of the briefs. Pulled them down. Slowly. Peeling them away inch by inch until Agatha was bare—open and glistening and utterly wrecked without being touched.

Your breath caught.

You could see the shine of her arousal against her inner thighs, the desperate clench of muscle as she fought to stay still, her arms shaking from the effort of not reaching for you. For anything.

Rio smiled. Admired her. Then looked over her shoulder—back at you.

“You can kiss her.”

You blinked, surprised. Your body still ached pleasantly from your own release, but the heat was stirring again. Your legs shifted, heart thudding.

Rio’s voice darkened.

“Just her mouth.”

She turned her attention back to Agatha.

“Her hands stay where they are. And if she moves…” Rio’s lips brushed Agatha’s thigh, “…I stop.”

Agatha let out a sound that wasn’t quite a word. Her lips parted, her hips twitching once—barely—and then stilled again.

You moved.

You leaned in slowly, watching Agatha’s face the whole time. Her eyes were wide, lips parted, chest heaving. She looked spent already, her body slick with sweat, flushed from the inside out. You cupped her cheek gently and kissed her.

And at the same moment, Rio slid two fingers into her.

Agatha cried out into your mouth, the sound muffled but raw, her whole body jolting beneath you. Her walls clenched instantly around Rio’s hand, her thighs shaking with the effort to stay still.

Rio groaned low—approving—as her fingers began to move, pumping slow and deep, curling expertly with each stroke.

Agatha kissed you like she needed your breath to survive.

Her lips moved over yours hungrily, tasting the echoes of your release, her moans vibrating against your mouth as Rio’s fingers worked her open—slow, deep thrusts that made her body tremble with every stroke.

But she kept her arms above her head.

Barely.

Her fingers gripped the sheets like lifelines, her wrists taut, arms quivering from the effort of obeying. Her whole body shook, breasts rising into the air as her hips twitched in helpless surrender. But she didn’t move. Not in the ways that counted. Not in the ways Rio had forbidden.

Your hand brushed her cheek, thumb stroking just beneath her eye as her brows pulled tight and another moan fell into your mouth.

God, she was beautiful like this—wrecked and trembling, submissive under Rio’s hand, and still trying so hard to be good.

You felt her pulse in the kiss. The want. The ache. The tears that hadn’t yet fallen. Agatha moaned into your kiss, her hips trembling, her body pulled taut with tension.

And between her legs, Rio groaned—deep, pleased.

“She’s close.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see her.

Agatha’s lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed deep pink, eyes glassy and half-lidded. Her chest rose in shallow bursts, breasts heaving with every breath, nipples peaked and untouched now, the ache in them matching the one between her thighs.

Rio’s fingers didn’t let up.

They pumped harder now, her palm snug against Agatha’s cunt, thumb grinding slow and tight over her clit as her fingers curled inside her again.

Agatha cried out.

“Please—please, Rio, I—”

But her wrists never moved.

And Rio leaned in, kissed the top of her thigh, then the inside.

Then—

“You don’t cum until I say.”

Agatha whimpered. Shook. Her thighs twitched like they wanted to clamp down, to move, to do anything—but they stayed open. Obedient. Her body was burning. Her eyes darted to you—pleading.

You leaned down again, kissed her softly now, whispering into her mouth.

“You’re doing so good, Aggie.”

And beneath your lips, she sobbed.

Rio’s fingers never stopped.

They pumped deep inside Agatha, steady and devastating, the curl of them perfect, practiced. Her palm pressed against Agatha’s mound, her thumb dragging slow, ruthless circles over her clit—tight and unrelenting.

Agatha sobbed beneath your lips.

Her thighs quivered violently now, her entire body trembling with the effort it took to obey. Her hands were still clenched above her head, fingers twisted in the sheets, shoulders locked. Her arms shook with the strain.

She wanted to move.

She wanted to cum.

But she didn’t. Because Rio hadn’t told her she could.

And God, it was beautiful.

“That’s it, baby,” Rio murmured against the inside of her thigh, her voice warm and razor-sharp. “Feel how close you are. Feel what I’m giving you.”

Agatha gasped, her head rolling to the side, her lips brushing yours again as she struggled to keep from breaking.

You kissed her—softer now, soothing—your hand coming up to stroke her hair, to anchor her, to praise her.

“You’re doing so good,” you whispered again, your voice trembling with awe. “So good for her. So good for me.”

Agatha whimpered—a broken sound, high in her throat.

Her whole body strained now, hips twitching, her stomach clenching with the threat of release.

And Rio—still fucking her with that same measured, deliberate rhythm—curled her fingers again. Hit just right.

Agatha cried out—loud—and her legs started to close, instinct kicking in.

Rio’s free hand shot up.

Pressed her knees apart.

“No.”

Agatha froze.

Her hands stayed up. Her legs fell back open.

Tears gathered in her lashes, her chest heaving as she shook her head, helpless.

“Please,” she choked out. “Please, Rio, please—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Rio’s voice was low, steady. Absolute. “You don’t cum until I say.”

Another thrust. Deep. Curling. Her thumb never left her clit.

And Agatha was sobbing now—eyes wild, mouth open, body shivering so hard you thought she might unravel right there.

You pressed your forehead to hers.

“Almost there,” you breathed. “Just hold on, baby. Just a little more.”

And Agatha—your strong, sharp, unshakeable Agatha—nodded.

Tears clung to her lashes, her breath catching in her throat with every thrust of Rio’s fingers, every cruel, perfect circle of her thumb. Her body trembled violently, the effort of staying still pulling her so tight you thought she might crack open from it.

And then—finally—Rio’s voice came, low and steady and full of command.

“You can move.”

Agatha broke.

Her hands flew down instantly—desperately—as if they’d been waiting to fall all along.

One hand tangled in Rio’s hair, clutching it tight, pulling her closer in a rush of instinct and gratitude and lust. The other found you—shaking fingers curling behind your neck, anchoring you as if your skin were the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Please—please—”

She wasn’t asking for permission anymore. She was begging for release.

And Rio gave it to her.

She didn’t say another word—she lowered her mouth to Agatha’s center, fingers still pumping deep, thumb never losing its rhythm. Her tongue flattened against her clit, hot and relentless, licking with the kind of focus that could obliterate.

Agatha screamed.

Her hips lifted off the bed, knees buckling, thighs locking around Rio’s head, but Rio held her there—groaning into her, licking harder, faster, her fingers curling just right with every thrust.

And you—

You leaned in, lips brushing Agatha’s jaw, then lower, your kisses featherlight and reverent against the salt-warm column of her throat. You trailed down slowly, your breath trembling as it fanned over her flushed chest.

Your lips closed around one peaked nipple, and Agatha wailed.

Her hand tightened on the back of your neck, not pulling—just holding. Holding like she needed you as much as she needed Rio’s mouth between her legs.

“I can’t—I’m—”

Her voice broke.

And Rio didn’t let up.

She moaned against Agatha’s clit, her tongue flicking in rapid, devastating circles, fingers pounding into her with precision, her free hand gripping her thigh to keep her open, wide, ruined.

You kissed her breast, sucked gently, then trailed your tongue back up her sternum, whispering through your own rising breath—

“Let go, baby.”

Agatha shattered.

Her body seized, then surged forward—hips bucking, chest heaving, voice rising into a sharp, fractured cry as the orgasm ripped through her like a wave pulled taut and finally unleashed. Her hand yanked at Rio’s hair, her other fist curling against your skin as she sobbed, the pleasure too much, too full, too deep.

But Rio didn’t stop.

And neither did you.

You kissed the tears from her cheek as she came—loud, shaking, her thighs clamped tight, her whole body shaking between the two of you.

And she had never been more beautiful.

Agatha was still trembling.

Flat on her back, eyes dazed, lips parted in the warm hush that followed her release. Her body glistened in the candlelight—chest heaving, thighs twitching, the slick sheen between them catching the soft gold glow. One of her hands was still tangled in your hair, fingers loose, the other lay limp at her side, every muscle in her arms gone soft from the sheer effort of staying still.

She looked undone. Not just from the orgasm, but from obedience.

And Rio—

Rio rose slowly from between her legs, shoulders rolling back, her mouth slick with Agatha’s release. Her chin shimmered with it. Her lips parted, breathing deep and even as she took Agatha in from above. She looked wrecked herself, in the most gorgeous way—hair tousled, cheeks flushed, a dark calm blooming behind her eyes.

Her fingers flexed absently at her side—those same fingers that had pulled every sob, every twitch, every broken moan from Agatha’s throat.

She looked down. At Agatha. At you. “Open.”

Her voice was low. Measured. Absolute. Agatha didn’t hesitate. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp, mouth parting immediately. There was no question in her obedience, no pause for thought—just a quiet, desperate kind of hunger.

Rio brought her fingers to her lips. And Agatha took them. Sucked them in deep—no teasing, no hesitation. Her mouth sealed over Rio’s knuckles with reverence, her tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as she cleaned them, licking every trace of herself from Rio’s skin like it was holy.

A moan slipped from your mouth, quiet but shaken. Just the sight of it—Agatha on her knees now, her hands folded neatly against her stomach, her mouth wrapped around Rio’s fingers—was enough to make your thighs press together. She looked like she was being fed communion. Like Rio was her altar. Her offering. Her god.

You reached out, brushing Agatha’s damp hair back from her face, fingers trembling slightly as they traced her temple. You watched her jaw work around each digit, watched her throat move with every slow, deliberate swallow.

When Rio finally pulled her fingers free, a string of spit connected them. Agatha’s mouth stayed open, her lips red, her eyes glassy and dark. She looked wrecked. And Rio smiled. Her voice, when it came, was low and warm—deep, grounding. Possessive. Affectionate. Proud.

“You did so well for me, baby.”

She cupped Agatha’s cheek, thumb stroking the flushed skin along her jaw. Agatha leaned into the touch instantly, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting on a soft exhale like she could dissolve into it.

She inhaled shakily. Then opened her eyes again—dark, dilated, and utterly wrecked. And Rio smiled. Then she turned to you.

Her hand moved with purpose—trailing along your breast, slow and firm, before gliding down your stomach and curving around the swell of your hip. Her palm lingered there, fingers spreading wide. Her voice purred behind your ear, thick with want and command.

“On your knees.”

Your breath caught. And you moved. Instinct took over—your body still flushed from earlier, still thrumming with the memory of pleasure—but now filled with new heat, heavier, hungrier. You shifted to the center of the bed, legs parting as you braced yourself, hands sinking into the mattress. Your belly hung full and beautiful beneath you, your body glowing in the low light.

Rio knelt behind you.

You heard her breath catch. She moaned low in her throat—a sound of reverence, raw and aching—as her hands moved over your hips, grounding you, claiming you. Then she reached forward. Her hand brushed over your thigh, knuckles grazing your skin, before curling around the base of the strap she had laid aside earlier.

Black. Sleek. Familiar.

Worshiped.

Rio didn’t rush.

The harness whispered against her hips as she adjusted it lower, tightening it with practiced ease. Her hands grazed your sides, firm and grounding, thumbs stroking soft circles into the skin just above your hips. She moved like she had all the time in the world—and every inch of your body belonged to her.

She leaned in close, her chest pressing to your back, warm and steady, her breath skating over your shoulder as her palm slipped down between your thighs.

The tip of the strap touched you. You inhaled sharply. It wasn’t just contact—it was possession. A soft kiss that said I know you. I own this. She dragged it slowly through your folds, collecting the slick already gathered there, teasing your entrance but not yet pushing in. Not yet giving you what you needed.

Behind you, Rio moaned. Deep and guttural.

Her hand came to rest on the underside of your belly, cradling it, reverent.

You were full already—full of life, full of heat—and the angle of your hips made every touch bloom outward, slow and trembling.

“So ready for me,” she growled, her voice thick against your skin. “You always open up like this. Like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, rocking your hips back into her touch without meaning to. Your hands fisted the sheets. Your thighs quivered as the weight of your belly shifted slightly, your body bracing instinctively for what was coming.

Below you, Agatha trembled. She was laid out beneath you now, exactly where Rio had placed her—back against the pillows, lips parted, breath stuttering. Her eyes were locked on your body, on the strap poised at your entrance, on Rio’s hand possessively wrapped around the base.

She looked wrecked. Her hands twitched against the sheets, fingers curling. Her eyes shimmered—not just with lust, but with something deeper. The ache of not being allowed to touch. The reverence of being made to watch.

Her voice cracked open in a whisper.

“Please…” Not a demand. Not even a request. Just need, given voice. Rio heard it. And smiled.

One hand still holding the strap, she reached forward with the other—placed it flat against Agatha’s sternum, firm but gentle, pinning her down again. “Not yet,” she murmured. “Not until I say.” Agatha whimpered. And her hands went still. Above her, your body trembled. The candlelight poured across your skin, golden and soft, casting shadows across the round curve of your belly. Your breasts swayed slightly with every shallow breath, your moan catching in your throat as the tip of the strap circled your entrance once more—slow, deliberate, claiming.

It glistened. Slick with you. And Agatha watched—eyes wide, lips shaking, her breath quickening with every second. “She’s watching how you fall apart for me,” Rio purred, and then—

She pushed inside. The stretch was slow. Full. Your moan cracked the air as the tip slipped past the edge and filled you, the pressure blooming with a depth that made your thighs tremble and your arms lock tight to stay upright.

“That’s it,” Rio whispered. “Open up for me, honey. Let me in.”

The weight of your belly shifted forward. Your hips arched reflexively, and your breath came in ragged bursts as the strap sank deeper—inch by slow, burning inch.

It was too much and not enough.

You gasped.

And Agatha—beneath you, eyes locked on the point where you were joined—sobbed.

Her hands had curled into the sheets again. Her chest heaved. And that sound—that sound—it was the same one she’d made the very first time you kissed her in her office, years ago.

That same shuddering breath. That same surrender. That same willingness to fall.

Rio grunted low behind you, her hands gripping your hips as she bottomed out, the full length of her now buried deep.

And for one breathless moment—

The three of you formed a perfect line. You—open and glowing, belly suspended above the woman you loved. Agatha—gasping, pinned beneath you, tears in her eyes. Rio—behind you, inside you, in control of all of it.

Sacred geometry.

A shape that radiated.

And Rio—voice raw, feral with tenderness—breathed against your neck:

“Now let her watch you take it.”

Rio didn’t move at first.

She stayed fully pressed inside you, her hands wide and firm over your hips, her pelvis flush against your ass. The strap throbbed inside you—not with vibration, but with presence. The pressure alone made your breath stutter, made your cunt flutter greedily around it, already aching for more.

Behind you, Rio exhaled.

“God, you’re so fucking tight like this,” she murmured, her voice dark silk against the back of your neck. “Still soft from coming. And still trying to take me like you can’t help yourself.”

You whimpered.

Your body was already responding—thighs trembling, back arching, your walls clenching around the strap as if trying to draw her even deeper. But Rio didn’t move.

Instead, she rocked. A small motion. Subtle. Her hips ground forward just enough to make the strap shift inside you. It dragged along your inner walls, angled just right to brush every sensitive point—but it wasn’t enough.

It was on purpose.You gasped, trying to press back, but her grip held you still.Beneath you, Agatha moaned.She was still pinned by the weight of your body above her, her eyes locked to where you and Rio met, her hands visibly shaking against the mattress. Her thighs rubbed together, her lips parted in a soft, helpless pant.

She looked like she was going to cry again—but from the pleasure of watching. From the need of it.

Rio noticed. “You like watching her take me, baby?” she asked, her voice dripping with praise and power.

Agatha nodded fast, swallowing hard. “Yes, Rio. Please… she looks so—” Her voice broke. “So beautiful.” Rio hummed low in her throat. And then—a single thrust. She pulled halfway out. And slammed back in.

You cried out, loud and high, the motion punching the breath from your lungs. Your hips jerked, your arms nearly gave out as your body rippled with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. And Agatha gasped beneath you, her head tipping back like your moan had hit her just as hard.

“You take my cock so well,” she whispered, her lips brushing the back of your shoulder. “So fucking full, mama. You think Aggie sees how deep I am?”

You tried to speak—tried to say yes, or more, or please, but all that came out was a broken sob as she rolled her hips again, dragging the strap out in one slow, soaking glide before easing it back in, inch by devastating inch.

Beneath you, Agatha was squirming now. Not moving toward touch—just trembling, thighs clenched, chest flushed. You glanced down at her. Her eyes met yours—and in them, there was something raw. Wrecked. Tears brimmed again. Her lower lip quivered. Her fingers dug into the sheets as she whispered—

“Please, Rio.”

And Rio chuckled low behind you, her hips grinding once more as she fucked you slow, deep, claiming every inch of you again and again.

“Be patient, baby,” she purred. “And keep watching.”

Rio’s rhythm slowed again.

She stayed deep inside you, her hips pressed flush to yours, the strap buried to the hilt. You could feel every inch of it, throbbing heat radiating outward, your body clenching again and again, desperate for friction, for movement, for more.

But Rio didn’t give it. Not yet. She curled forward over your back, her chest warm against your spine, her mouth brushing the side of your neck.

And she asked—soft, grounding, herself again: “You okay?”

The question cut through the heat like balm.

And you nodded—frantic, breath trembling as you gasped out, “Yes—fuck—yes, I just please—”

Your moan broke the last word in half, your voice pitching higher as your hips twitched beneath her, trying to grind down, to take more than she was giving.

But Rio held you still.

“Use your words,” she whispered, her lips warm against your skin.

Your hands tightened in the sheets. Your whole body arched—bowed back into her—and the motion pressed your swollen belly forward, heavy and full, until it touched Agatha’s stomach beneath you.

Agatha gasped. And you— You cried out. “More—please, Rio, I need it—”

Your voice cracked as the strap shifted inside you, and you felt your core seize with the edge of it, the ache rolling through your hips, your spine, your ribs. You collapsed forward, forehead dropping to Agatha’s shoulder. Your lips grazed her skin, breath coming fast and shallow as Rio rocked behind you—deep, slow, grinding. Not fast.

Devastating.

Agatha sobbed beneath you, her body stiff with tension, her hands still pinned at her sides. She felt your weight now—your belly pressing warm and full to hers, your breasts grazing her chest, your moans pouring against her skin like prayer.

Behind you, Rio groaned.

“Fuck, baby,” she breathed. “You’re so full—so soft like this—God, I can feel how much you need it.”

Her hands flexed on your hips. Then she rolled into you again—deep, slow, the kind of thrust that knocked the air from your lungs, your face burying deeper into Agatha’s shoulder.

Your teeth grazed her skin. Your hands scrambled for the sheets.

And Agatha? Agatha was shaking now, her thighs clenching together, her breath quickening to sobs as she whimpered beneath you—

“Please, Rio—please let me—please—”

But still, she didn’t move.

And Rio’s voice was velvet over your spine.

“Not yet, baby.”

Then another thrust. And this time, you moaned loud enough to echo. Rio shifted her grip. Her hands slid lower, curving under your belly, then back to your hips—tightening. Anchoring. The change in angle pulled you back just a little, your knees sliding wider apart on instinct.

And then— She started to move. Not just a grind. Not a tease. She thrust. The first one hit deep and clean—so deep your voice cracked as it spilled from your throat, your mouth still pressed to Agatha’s skin. The next was harder. Faster. A rhythm beginning. Her hips smacked against your ass, the sound thick, wet, echoing softly in the candlelit room.

You moaned into Agatha’s shoulder, your mouth open against her skin, your breath hitching with every push forward. Each thrust rocked you against her body—your belly rubbing firm and full against hers, your breasts pressed tight to her chest. Her skin was hot. Slick. Trembling beneath you.

“That’s it,” Rio groaned behind you, her voice dark and ragged. “Take me, mama. Let her feel how good I fuck you.”

Your hands slipped. Your chest pressed harder into Agatha as your strength faltered, overwhelmed by the drag of pleasure, by the way the strap filled you—over and over again, every stroke deeper than the last.

And then— Rio’s voice again, breathless now, low and indulgent: “Go ahead, baby. You can touch her.” Agatha gasped. And then she moved. Her hands rose immediately—shaking, reverent—and she cupped the back of your neck, her thumbs sliding along the damp line of your spine. Her palms curved over your back like she was cradling something sacred. Then she pulled you in.

Her lips found yours with a sound just shy of desperation—wet and aching. She kissed you through your moans, swallowing each one, pressing her mouth to yours like she was trying to feel what Rio was doing to you.

And your body—

Your body arched.

Back bowed deeper, hips lifting into Rio’s grip as her hands held you open, your spine pulling taut as your upper body sank more firmly into Agatha’s.

Your belly pushed flush to her. Your breasts smeared slick between you. Her hands clutched your shoulders, her kiss growing frantic as you moaned again—louder, sharper.

Behind you, Rio growled, the sound breaking low in her throat as she drove in harder, your angle giving her everything—every inch.

“Fuck, look at you,” she rasped. “So deep like this—both of you shaking for it.”

Agatha whimpered into your mouth. And you—opened, shaking, held between them—could only take it. And want more. Rio’s thrusts grew sharper.

Each one struck deep, the sound of her hips meeting yours slick and rhythmic, echoing in the thick candlelit air. Her grip around your waist tightened, fingers digging into your skin as she held you there—guiding your body forward again and again.

And with every thrust, your body rocked into Agatha’s.

You were pinned against her now—your belly pressed tight to hers, your chest flattened to her ribs, your moans muffled into the soft curve of her neck. But there was no space between you. No stillness. Rio was driving you forward, again and again, her motion dragging your body across Agatha’s, forcing her to feel it.

The strap pushed deep inside you—again. Again.

And Agatha felt everything.

Her breath hitched. Her thighs squeezed together. Her hands clutched at your back—and she whispered, her voice wrecked, trembling against your cheek:

“Fuck—I can feel it—she’s so deep in you—”

You moaned in response, a high, shattered sound, your body arching helplessly into each push.

“Rio—please, more—don’t stop—”

Behind you, Rio groaned.

“You hear that, baby?” she growled, breath hot against the back of your neck. “That’s what you do to her. You feel how she breaks when I fuck her just like this?”

Another thrust.

You cried out, loud and unrestrained, your body sliding harder into Agatha’s now—your stomach pushing firm and warm into her belly, your pelvis grinding down from the force.

And Agatha—she moved.

Her hand slid down your back, slow but certain, her fingers tracing over the dip of your spine, past the curve of your ass, then gliding around to your belly. She spread her palm there first—cradling it, reverent, trembling.

Then her hand dipped lower.

Her fingers found the soaked space where you and Rio met—wet, pulsing, open.

Agatha gasped at the heat, at the way the strap moved in and out of you—so slick, so full, so steady. Her fingers danced just beneath the stretch, her touch featherlight, teasing, almost nervous with how reverent she was.

And then her lips were at your ear.

“You’re dripping,” she whispered. “She’s fucking you so deep, I can feel it through you.”

You sobbed against her.

Her fingers teased your clit now, slow little circles that made your hips jolt in Rio’s grip. Your whole body stuttered between them, breath breaking into moans, thighs twitching as sensation spiraled.

Behind you, Rio cursed.

“God—look at you both—fuck—this is mine,” she growled, snapping her hips forward, driving deep enough to make you scream into Agatha’s throat. “Every inch of this—mine.”

Agatha’s fingers moved faster now, her touch more sure, her own body shifting beneath yours, hips rolling as if she could feel each thrust inside her too.

“Please—don’t stop,” you begged, lips dragging across Agatha’s jaw, your breath hot, wrecked. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

And neither of them did.

Agatha worshipped. Rio claimed. And you—you were taken.

Rio’s thrusts lost their rhythm.

She was still deep, still controlled—but the control was slipping. Each push snapped forward harder now, hips slamming into yours with a growl that started low in her chest and tore free of her throat.

You sobbed her name, your moans growing louder, rawer, body jolting forward with every thrust—and Agatha was beneath you, breath catching on every movement, her fingers still teasing your clit in slow, reverent circles, even as her eyes stayed locked on where Rio was fucking you.

And then Rio snapped.

“Míralas,” she groaned—Spanish cracked and low, choked with heat. “Mírame… esta mierda—this is mine. Both of you.”

She thrust deep, hard, and your cry turned sharp, your body arching like you’d been struck by lightning. The angle dragged the strap against everything, made your stomach flutter with the sudden tension, made your knees quiver from the pressure.

“That’s it, mamá—take it—take every inch.”

Her hand slapped your ass, not cruel, but hard enough to make you gasp—and Agatha moaned underneath you like she felt it too.

“Qué rico suena—” Rio’s voice fell into that gritted, breathless growl, her words thick and trembling. “La forma en que gimes—cómo aprietas alrededor de mi polla—fuck, you were made for this.”

You whimpered into Agatha’s neck.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

Rio grabbed your hips tighter, pulling you back against her with every thrust now, wet, obscene slaps echoing as she fucked you harder, her voice unraveling in your ear.

“You can. You fucking can. Look at you—so desperate. So open. You love being filled, don’t you?”

“Yes—yes, I—” you cried, voice shattering.

And Agatha—beneath you, her lips against your temple—moaned.

She was panting now, her fingers quickening over your clit, her thighs squeezed tight, her body moving against yours with each slam of Rio’s hips. “She’s so deep—” Agatha gasped. “I can feel her in you—feel the way you give her everything.”

Rio was close. You could hear it in the way her breath stuttered. In the way her thrusts grew meaner, grinding so deep the strap pushed you up onto your toes, your belly pressing harder into Agatha’s, your breasts dragging slick between you.

And then— Her mouth dropped to your ear, her voice a wrecked growl of heat and reverence:

“Tú eres mía. Las dos. Mine. This cunt—this body—you both belong to me.” Your body broke around her.

You screamed her name. You bucked. You begged. And Rio—behind you, hips snapping, breath a fevered chant in Spanish—owned every inch of it. Rio's grip tightened.

One hand slid up your spine, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of your neck—not cruel, but firm, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat. Her breath hit your skin like fire, ragged and thick with the weight of control teetering at its edge. “Mine,” she growled, voice cracking into your shoulder. “Look at you—fucking mine.”

The strap pushed deep, grinding with a rhythm that knocked your breath loose, your moan torn straight from your chest the second Rio’s groan spilled out behind you.

You didn’t just hear her—you felt her.

That sound—low, possessive, breaking—ripped a moan from your own lips, and Agatha gasped beneath you, her body jolting in response, thighs trembling. Her hands were still on your skin, her lips at your cheek, but now she was shaking with need. Her breath stuttered into your mouth as she whimpered— “She sounds so—oh God, she’s gonna—” But Rio didn’t let her speak. Didn’t let either of you take the moment.

She snapped her hips forward—harder, deeper—the sound of your bodies colliding echoing wet and fast, the slap of skin meeting skin now rhythmic, relentless. Rio didn’t let up. Her thrusts turned savage—no longer calculated, no longer anything close to control. She drove into you with the force of obsession, hips snapping with punishing rhythm, the strap grinding so deep you could feel it everywhere. Your spine. Your womb. Your throat.

The bed shook beneath the three of you, every bolt trembling in time with her relentless pace. Your moans came in gasping, broken waves, each one ripped from your chest as your body jolted forward again and again—slamming into Agatha’s trembling frame beneath you.

“Fuck—look at you,” Rio growled, breath ragged, her chest slick and burning against your back. “So fucking full for me. So close—I can feel it.” And she could. Your body was drawn tight like a bow—every nerve strung to the breaking point. You were soaked, thighs shaking, arms trembling with the weight of your own need. Agatha whimpered beneath you.

Then—she bit you. Her mouth clamped at the base of your throat, lips shaking, breath hot. Her teeth sank in—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to claim. Enough to ground you in the wet heat of it, the way her entire body shuddered beneath yours.

You screamed. Your hips twitched. Your core fluttered around the strap, so close to breaking that even the bite of teeth pushed you toward it. “Beg me,” Rio hissed behind you, voice feral, eyes no doubt burning. Her hands slammed into your hips, holding you open as she pounded into you, wet, loud, relentless. “Beg me to let you  cum.”

You sobbed, the sound raw and cracked.

“Please—please, babe—I need it—need you—please let me—”

“Louder.”

“Please!” you screamed, your voice ripped raw. “Rio, please let me cum, I need it—I need you—I need you—”

Your words broke into sobs, your body rocked forward with every brutal thrust, the sound of your bodies slapping together thick and soaked and filthy. “God—look at you,” Rio snarled. “So fucking perfect like this. Begging. Dripping. Made to take me.”

You moaned again, desperate, your face buried in Agatha’s shoulder. You could feel every breath from her, every quiver—her fingers clutching at your back now, nails digging into your waist, her own voice reduced to high, gasping whimpers. And then—another bite. Harder. A mark. A tremble. Your scream cracked the air, body jerking as pain met pleasure in a blinding wave. Behind you, Rio growled—feral. Her hand fisted into your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat like an offering. Her mouth found your skin in an instant, lips dragging over your pulse, breath hot and burning.

“You want to cum?” she snarled. “You want to fall apart with my cock still in you? With your wife beneath you, watching you lose it, because she knows you belong to me?”

“Yes—yes, please—” you sobbed, “I need it—I need you—”

“Say it.” Her thrusts grew ruthless, every slap of her hips a brand. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Rio—”

Agatha whimpered beneath you, breath catching. Her nails dug in. “You are—she is—we’re yours—”

Your body gave.

Rio slammed into you again, the angle perfect, brutal—and her voice dropped into a low, guttural command:

“Cum. Now. Let me feel you fall apart.”

Your orgasm detonated.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t quiet.

You shattered.

Your body arched violently, snapping back so hard your belly dragged across Agatha’s, your breasts smeared against her chest, your throat exposed as your scream ripped through the room.

You clamped down around the strap, spasming hard—again, and again, and again—hips jerking wildly, unable to stop, unable to breathe.

“Fuck—fuck—Rio—”

Your body convulsed in her arms, every muscle locking and releasing in waves, slick dripping down your thighs, pleasure so sharp it burned.

Agatha sobbed against your cheek, her hands holding you like she could keep you from floating out of your skin. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you—”

And behind you—Rio broke. “Take it—take all of it—fuck, you’re mine—tú eres mía, mi amor, mi vida—fuck—”

Her grip on your hips bruised as she snapped forward one last time—deep, desperate, breaking. Her whole body shook against yours, breath catching on a ragged cry as she ground deep,

“I’m close,” Rio snarled, the words guttural, spoken against your neck as she buried herself inside you again. “Fuck, mama—I want to finish in you.”

You sobbed—wrecked, open, your body trembling in her grip. “Please—do it—please, fill me—” The image hit her like a match to gasoline.

You, knees spread, pregnant and wrecked, moaning into Agatha’s mouth. Agatha, desperate and soaked, watching every thrust from beneath you. Rio, losing control with your name in her throat, her cock inside you, her hands bruising your skin with how hard she held you together.

She slammed into you again. Then again. Her pace snapped into something frenzied—fast, brutal, perfect—the sounds obscene now: soaked, loud, a chorus of hips and breath and need.

Her hand at your waist gripped tighter, nails dragging down your hip, her chest slick against your back. “Fucking mine—mine, both of you—. She was groaning now, a chant of your name and Agatha’s between curses in Spanish, hips slamming faster, harder, until your moans blurred into cries and Agatha was shaking beneath you, her thighs wet, her voice cracking—

And Rio held you down. Her body slammed forward, burying the strap deep inside you—so deep it knocked a sob from your throat. Her hips jerked, losing rhythm, losing control, every muscle in her stomach and thighs tensing hard behind you. Her breath shattered. “Fuck—yes—fuck—look at you—taking it so good—mine, all of this—” You cried out, your body still pulsing, still shaking from your own climax, but Rio wasn’t stopping. Her hips rocked hard and fast, desperate, the sound of your bodies slapping together wet and heavy and filthy. “I can cum in you as much as I want—” she growled, breath catching in her throat, voice breaking at the edges. “Anytime. Anywhere. You’ll take all of it—’cause you’re mine. You’re fucking mine.”

Her hips snapped again—harder, deeper—her cock grinding inside you as her moan ripped from her chest, guttural and wrecked.

“God—te sientes tan bien,” she gasped in Spanish, mouth dropping to your shoulder as her body convulsed. “Tú me haces venir tan duro—I can’t—I can’t stop—”

You felt her stomach clench against your lower back. Felt the wild, frantic tension rip through her. Felt her snap. Her hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back onto her cock with one last, punishing thrust—and then she came. Hard. Loud.

Her voice was a feral, broken roar, her words no longer coherent, torn between English and Spanish as she slammed into you again and again, her whole body jerking, twitching as wave after wave of release ripped through her. She was still grinding through it, still possessing you with every breath, every pulse, every thrust. And then—her body locked behind you. Full weight collapsing into you, forehead pressing to your shoulder, her breath burning against your skin. She was trembling. Broken. Still holding you inside and out. And below you, Agatha sobbed. Not from pain. From watching. From feeling you be loved like that. Her hands clung to your back. Her lips pressed to your temple.

Rio was still panting, her breath hot across your shoulder, body twitching in the aftermath of her release.

But she didn’t stop.

She grunted softly as she pulled her hips back, the soaked length of the strap slipping free from your body with a wet sound that made all three of you gasp. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, hips trembling. But Rio’s hands were already moving—shifting you gently forward, guiding your body to collapse more fully against Agatha’s, your belly pressing warm and heavy into hers, your breasts slick where they dragged across her skin.

Agatha moaned—wrecked, desperate—her mouth searching blindly for your jaw, your cheek, any part of you to kiss.

And then— Rio thrust forward. The strap pushed into Agatha in one brutal stroke, slick from you, buried deep in one hard snap of hips that made her scream beneath you. “Oh—God—Rio—” Her back arched beneath you, body jolting, thighs twitching violently as the sudden fullness hit her all at once. Rio growled. “You’ve been so good,” she hissed, already thrusting again, brutal and fast. “So fucking patient. Watching me fuck her. Not touching. Begging like you deserved it—”

Another thrust—deep, unrelenting—your bodies bouncing together as Rio slammed into her again.

“Now you get what you wanted.”

Agatha was shaking beneath you now, hands clawing at your back, nails dragging down your sides as her mouth opened wide in a moan that never fully ended.

You held her face, trembling fingers brushing hair from her sweat-drenched forehead as you gasped, “She’s so deep in you, Aggie—she’s inside you.”

Agatha sobbed—“I know—I—oh fuck—I feel it—” Rio slammed into her again, the sound wet and sharp, hips meeting thighs in fast, punishing rhythm. Her voice snapped through clenched teeth, commanding, praising, devastating: “Take it. Just like that. You begged for it—now take every inch like the good girl you are.”

Agatha’s hands clutched at your waist. Her body writhed beneath yours, her breath breaking into sharp, desperate whimpers with every thrust. And Rio didn’t slow. She fucked her through it—fast, punishing, perfect, dragging Agatha to the edge with no mercy.

“You feel her against you?” she growled, one hand pressing down between your shoulder blades to pin you both together, “You feel your wife’s body shaking while I ruin her?” Agatha screamed into your neck. Pinned beneath your body, legs spread wide, slick and trembling, every muscle in her body locked tight around the strap as Rio fucked her—hard. There was no slow now, no tease. Just the brutal rhythm of hips slamming into hers, again and again, wet and loud and perfect.

“Fuck—Rio—please—” she gasped, voice already breaking.

You could feel her twitching beneath you, her whole body jolting with each thrust. Her hands clawed at your back, then cupped your face, desperate for something to hold as the pleasure overwhelmed her.

You kissed her—soft and trembling—countering Rio’s brutality with reverence.

“You’re doing so good, Aggie,” you whispered, your forehead resting to hers, both of you slick with sweat, breath shared between trembling lips. “You waited so long. Look at you now.” Behind you, Rio groaned—feral, her body pounding into Agatha with raw, aching hunger.

“That’s right, baby,” she growled, her voice low, commanding, praise turned to thunder. “Take it. You begged for it—took your punishment—now you come when I say.” Agatha sobbed beneath you. Her hips tried to jerk, but Rio pinned her, thrusting deeper, faster, dragging that orgasm from her whether she was ready or not.

You kissed her temple, your voice breaking with love and heat. “Come for her, baby. Let go. You’re safe. You’re held.”

“You’re mine,” Rio growled again, her voice full of fire. “Fucking come for me, Agatha—now.” And Agatha shattered. Her scream tore out of her as her body seized, thighs clamping around Rio’s hips, her hands grabbing your shoulders, clutching you like she’d fall apart without you there to catch her.

“I—I can’t—oh fuck—I—”

She clenched around the strap, soaking wet, body spasming uncontrollably as Rio fucked her through it, never slowing, never letting her go. Her voice cracked into sobs. Her nails dug into your skin. Her entire body writhed beneath you, broken open, ruined in worship. “Good girl,” you whispered against her ear.

“So fucking good,” Rio echoed, breath harsh and reverent behind you. “So beautiful when you cum for me.” Agatha moaned through her tears, her thighs still twitching, the aftershocks wracking her in waves. The room was humming—bodies wrecked, breath still ragged, the air thick with sweat and the scent of everything you’d just given and taken. Your body trembled as you collapsed forward, your cheek resting on Agatha’s collarbone, your chest pressed to hers, limbs limp and slick with heat. She was still beneath you, soft now, her body still spasming in small, residual waves, hands brushing gently across your back in soothing, broken strokes.

Behind you, Rio was kneeling, her thighs spread wide, hands still firm on your hips, strap buried deep in Agatha beneath you. Her breath gusted across your shoulder in raw, guttural bursts. You felt her heartbeat through her hands, the way it thrummed at your lower back—still climbing.

But she hadn’t let go yet. You felt it—her restraint, her body still so close to breaking. She’d held you through your peak. Held Agatha through hers. But now— Now she needed to be held. And you would give that to her. Your fingers curled into the sheets beside Agatha’s waist as you shifted—slow, careful, every movement dragging a moan from your own lips. You pressed a kiss to Agatha’s cheek. Soft. Grateful.

Then, gently, you started to rise. Your knees slid against the sheets. Your thighs ached as you tried to lift yourself off of Agatha’s trembling body. But before you could sway too far, Rio’s hands caught you. “Easy, mama,” she breathed behind you, voice frayed at the edges. Her arm looped around your waist, steadying you as your muscles trembled. And then—she guided you. She slipped the strap from Agatha in one slow, wet motion that made Agatha whimper beneath you, her legs twitching. Then Rio pulled your hips gently back toward her, repositioning you in her lap, turning your body carefully until your knees framed her thighs, until you were facing her, straddling her—your belly cradled between you, your chests slick with shared heat. Her hands stayed on your hips. Your forehead pressed to hers. And for a second, she just breathed. You could feel her trembling—held together by will alone.

From the bed, Agatha slowly sat up, hair damp and tangled, eyes heavy-lidded and soft. She looked at the two of you and moved without hesitation, rising to her knees and slipping behind Rio, wrapping her arms around her waist from behind, lips brushing her shoulder like a prayer. And between them—between the arms that held you and the warmth behind her—Rio finally let her head drop forward, lips parting around a moan that said everything she’d been holding back. You stayed like that for a moment—forehead to forehead, your breaths mingling, your hands resting on Rio’s chest where her heart pounded like it was trying to break free. Her skin was flushed, damp with sweat, her jaw tight, her lips parted—but her eyes…

Her eyes were glassy. Shaken. Open. And she wasn’t speaking. She didn’t need to. You kissed her. First her cheekbone. Then the soft curve just below her ear. Then lower—your mouth tracing a path across her collarbone, slow, deliberate, your tongue brushing salt and skin and power. She twitched under your touch—her hips shifting, her breath catching—but she didn’t pull back. She let you take your time. Let you worship. Behind her, Agatha pressed closer, her arms tightening around Rio’s waist, her body molded perfectly to hers, chin resting on her shoulder. She kissed a line across the base of her neck, whispering in the hush:

“You were incredible, baby. You held us through everything.” Rio’s lips parted on a breathless moan, her throat working like she was trying to swallow something deep and thick. “No one—” Agatha’s voice broke, soft and hoarse. “No one takes care of us like you do. You’re… you’re everything, love.”

You felt Rio’s stomach flutter beneath your palms. So you kept going. You kissed down the center of her chest, your hands sliding to her thighs—strong, quaking beneath you. Your fingers stroked gently over the muscle, tracing lines you knew by heart.

“We love you so much,” you whispered against her sternum, “let us show you.” She was silent, but her hands—still resting at your sides—gripped harder. Not possessively now. Not with command. With need. Agatha’s mouth brushed her ear again. “You’ve given us everything. Let us give it back.”

And Rio finally nodded. Just once. Tiny. Fragile. Like a dam cracking. And beneath your mouth, her breath hitched again. You shifted lower between Rio’s thighs, your knees finding the sheets as your hands steadied you. But your center of gravity had changed—all of you had changed. Your belly, full and round, pressed gently into the top of her thigh as you lowered yourself, your breath catching slightly as you adjusted. You rocked back just a little to compensate, the movement slow, careful, reverent—not because you couldn’t move, but because you carried life inside you. And Rio saw all of it. Her breath caught. Her eyes flicked down, landing on the curve of your belly where it met her leg. Her hands twitched at her sides, and you saw it—that look in her face. Not just hunger. Not just love. Worship. You tilted your hips back just enough to show her everything—the way your body moved, the way you shifted your weight to stay balanced, how pregnant you looked kneeling there between her thighs, your skin still glowing, sweat-dampened, hers.

Behind her, Agatha whispered, “Look at her for you. Carrying everything. And still wanting to take care of you.” Rio whimpered. Her thighs tensed. And you kissed the strap. You leaned in again, your belly resting soft against her leg, your hand stroking up her inner thigh as you mouthed along the soaked leather—over the place she’d been inside both of you, over the place that was still dripping from your bodies.

Her hips jumped beneath your hands, instinctive and desperate. “I—fuck—I can’t—” Her voice cracked as the words fell out of her, guttural and breathless, like she was trying to hold onto a cliff’s edge that no longer existed. Her thighs trembled on either side of your face, muscles twitching with restraint.

“Yes, you can,” you whispered, your voice low, molten, and certain, lips brushing against the heat of her skin—right above where she pulsed, right at the base of the strap still wet and gleaming from the two of you.

You pressed your hand to her stomach—her abs still trembling—and kissed her just above the harness. Then lower. Your lips dragging over the top of it, the leather warm with the heat of her, your tongue slow as your fingers slid beneath it again.

You adjusted—carefully—the weight of your belly making you shift your knees farther apart, grounding you deeper into the mattress, your thighs burning slightly from the stretch. It didn’t matter. You leaned into it—into her—your softness a balm against her unraveling.

And Rio looked down—eyes wide, dazed, reverent—and saw your pregnant body between her thighs, back arched, lips against her, hair clinging to your cheeks from sweat, glowing from afterglow, and still worshipping her.

It undid her. “You’re so good,” Agatha whispered behind her, her lips brushing Rio’s temple. Her arms tightened around her waist, and one hand trailed lower, stroking Rio’s ribs with the gentleness of someone calming a storm. “You gave us everything. Now let us have you. Let us watch you come.”

Your fingers slid deeper beneath the harness, stroking her with gentle, deliberate pressure, your thumb circling where she throbbed. Your other hand rested on the inside of her thigh, your palm flat and firm, holding her open for you as your mouth followed.

Your lips sealed over the base of the strap and lowered, pressing kisses to her—through the leather, around it, beneath it.

Rio’s hips twitched beneath your mouth, her thighs trembling where they framed your shoulders. You kissed just below the strap again—soft, teasing, reverent—but you could feel her pulse there, just beneath the surface, the need aching, just out of reach.

She whimpered above you, her hand tightening in your hair.

“Please—”

The sound of her voice—so raw, so wrecked—made something shift inside you. She deserved more than friction through leather. She deserved your mouth on her. You lifted your head just slightly and pressed your hand to her hip.

“Can I…?” you asked, already sliding your fingers along the waistband of the harness. Rio moaned. Her answer came in the form of a desperate nod, breath ragged. Behind her, Agatha murmured, “Let her see you. Let her feel all of it, baby.”

Your hands moved slowly but sure—undoing the buckles, tugging the strap just low enough to bare her fully to you. Your pregnant belly shifted against her thigh as you adjusted, leaning back slightly to create the room you needed, your hands spreading her thighs gently, reverently, until she was completely exposed.

Glistening. Quivering. Beautiful. You looked up—and caught her eyes.

Rio was shaking, her lips parted, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as she watched you. Watched you kneel for her.Watched you look at her like she was holy. And then you leaned in. And put your mouth on her.

The first press of your tongue to her folds made her scream—high and wrecked, her hips jerking forward uncontrollably, one hand fisting the sheets, the other buried in your hair.

Your lips sealed around her, your tongue parting her slowly, tasting everything she was, everything she had held back. She was soaked—slick with want, with all the tension that had been building inside her, all the dominance she’d carried for both of you.

And you devoured her like a thank you. Your tongue moved in soft, languid circles, then deeper, pressing inside her just enough to make her cry out again, her thighs twitching around your cheeks.

“Oh—fuck—oh my God—yes—”

From behind her, Agatha held her tight, whispering everything she needed to hear:

“Let her taste how perfect you are, my love.”

You moaned into her, the sound vibrating against her core, and Rio broke.

Her legs snapped tight. Her hips bucked. Her hand yanked your hair as her moan spilled into a scream. “I—fuck—I’m cuming—I’m—”

And then she was gone. Her entire body locked up—tensing, shaking, bowing between the two of you—as her orgasm crashed through her. She wailed, hips grinding hard into your mouth, thighs trembling violently as she came in your arms, against your tongue, your name falling broken from her lips. You didn’t let go. You licked her through it—soft, slow, steady, your hands grounding her hips as she shook. And Agatha kissed her temple, her cheek, whispering over and over:

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Let her take all of you.”

Rio collapsed forward—moaning, panting, her body shaking as the last waves of her orgasm crested and fell. Her hands were still in your hair, but looser now, her fingers slipping gently free as her body slackened.

And then she opened her eyes.

And saw you. Still on your knees, lips wet, breath uneven, your body swaying just slightly where you knelt. The tremble in your thighs had deepened, your belly rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. Your hands had drifted to the mattress for support.

You were glowing—but you were spent.

She sat up fast. “Oh—shit, mama—” Her voice cracked as she reached for you, the last of her orgasm still pulsing through her body, but her instinct to hold you overriding everything else.

Her hands slid under your arms, warm and firm.

“Let me—baby, I’ve got you,” she whispered, already guiding you upright.

You let out a soft sound, more sigh than word, as your body folded into her. Your legs shook, and you stumbled just slightly as you tried to shift your weight.

“Too much?” she asked quickly, her arms tightening.

“No,” you breathed, smiling. “Just… my legs. They forgot how to exist.”

She laughed, soft and breathless. “You’re carrying half the universe in there. Of course they did.”

You looked up at her. And kissed her. Your lips found hers—slow and open, your tongue slipping gently into her mouth, still tasting of her, and now sharing it. She moaned into you, her arms sliding around your waist, pulling you close, her hand splayed over the side of your belly.

Then, slowly, she helped you turn.

And lowered you—gently—onto the bed.

The sheets were still warm, still damp from where Agatha had trembled and you had collapsed, but none of it mattered. Rio eased you down with reverence, one hand behind your back, the other guiding your hips until you were on your side, body cushioned, belly settled.

And then she reached for Agatha. Agatha was already watching, her lips parted, eyes soft and glassy. Rio leaned in, kissed her cheek, and whispered something too low to hear.

And then she pulled you both in. She settled back into the pillows and gathered you, arms folding around the two of you, one hand tucked beneath Agatha’s shoulder, the other smoothing tenderly across your belly, your back pressed to her chest.

The silence lingered for a long moment, filled only by the sound of your breathing—the steady rise and fall of three hearts slowing in unison.

Then Rio let out a long, ragged exhale and tightened her arms around the both of you, one hand spread across your belly, the other slipping beneath Agatha’s ribs.

And she murmured—voice wrecked, still hoarse, but smiling so wide you could feel it against your shoulder:

“Best. Valentine’s. Day. Ever.”

You snorted softly, your cheek buried against her bicep.

Agatha laughed too, quiet and breathy, her face nuzzled into Rio’s collarbone. “We’ve definitely raised the bar.”

Rio leaned over, pressed a kiss to the top of your head—slow and sure—then turned and kissed Agatha’s temple just as tenderly. “I don’t know what the hell I did to deserve either of you, but I am never letting go.”

“You didn’t let go once tonight,” you teased, your voice rasped and warm.

“Mmm,” Agatha hummed, still half-draped across you. “I can’t feel my thighs, so that checks out.”

You all laughed—soft, sleepy, sore.

Rio leaned in and kissed your cheek again, her hand smoothing gently over the curve of your belly, feeling your daughter twist, kick, live beneath her palm.

“You okay?” she asked, voice lower now, brushing damp hair from your forehead with careful fingers.

You turned your face toward her, your body sinking deeper into the shared heat of them.

“More than okay.”

Agatha exhaled into your shoulder, already curling around you. “We should probably hydrate. Or shower. Or something resembling adult responsibility.”

Your belly shifted beneath Rio’s hand. A slow stretch at first—then a long, unmistakable push that rolled beneath your skin like a tide. Not flutters. Not light kicks. Your daughter was making herself known.

Big, stretching statements.

You felt the shift ripple from one side of your belly to the other, warm and taut beneath Rio’s palm. She had been resting her hand there for the past few minutes, her fingertips tracing idle circles without realizing. Now, they stilled—then followed.

You let out a low sound—half breath, half laugh—as the tension rolled through you again. It wasn’t pain. It was presence.

“And someone wants to party,” you murmured, voice softened by the weight of warmth, of the ache in your back, of how heavy your body felt now—limbs loose, belly full, lungs open from the stretch of shared pleasure.

Rio stilled. Then smiled, her lips brushing your temple.

“She’s up?”

Before you could answer, another push—deliberate. A tiny heel or elbow pressed up beneath your skin, lifting it in a slow wave. You inhaled deeply as your muscles tightened around the sensation, your core flexing with instinct and awe. “She’s throwing bows,” you whispered, breath hitching with affection. Your hand joined Rio’s, palms warm where they met over the round of your belly. Her thumb followed the motion without question, like it was something she’d always known how to do.

Rio snorted, soft and sleepy. “She really does have your timing.”

“My timing?” you scoffed gently, nudging your hips into the mattress beneath you. “I haven’t moved in ten minutes.”

From behind Rio, Agatha stirred—her breathing already slow, but her voice sharp with fondness.

“She’s announcing her peer review.”

The bed dipped slightly as she shifted closer, the weight of her body pressing into Rio’s back, wrapping around her. Her arm draped across Rio’s waist, reaching under the blanket until her hand settled beside Rio’s on your belly.

Both hands there now. Two sets of fingers following every shift.

Their touch grounded you.

“Of what, exactly?” you asked, eyes fluttering half-closed.

Agatha’s voice came low, warm, her lips brushing the back of Rio’s shoulder. “The methodologies of maternal cuddling. Current findings: insufficient blanket coverage and inconsistent thigh support.”

Your body was sore. Gloriously so. Your thighs throbbed with the echo of movement, your lower back was tight, your breasts heavy and sensitive where they rested against your chest. The curve of your belly rose between you and Rio like the moon—unmistakable. Beautiful.

You nestled into her chest a little more, feeling her breath rise and fall, slow and steady. She’d caught her breath a while ago, but something about her exhale still matched yours—like she was syncing with you, matching your rhythm as instinctively as she traced the curve of your belly.

“Well,” Rio murmured, “if we’re submitting feedback, someone better mention the structural stress on my ribcage.”

The baby kicked again—harder. Rio’s palm jumped slightly, and Agatha laughed behind her.

“She disagrees.”

“Vehemently,” Rio added. “That’s a rebuttal if I’ve ever felt one.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, your hand now resting atop both of theirs, fingers spread wide. The baby rolled again, and you felt your skin tighten with the stretch.

“She’s going to have notes for my defense,” you murmured.

“She already thinks she’s on your committee,” Rio whispered, her mouth soft against your hairline.

Agatha tucked her body more firmly around Rio’s, her fingers tracing small circles near your ribs.

“If she could hold a pen, she’d be grading my undergrads’ papers.”

You laughed—exhausted, glowing.

“Baby girl, you gotta keep growing another few weeks,” you whispered, rubbing over the kick still echoing near your side. “Mama still has to format her citations.”

“You’re seven months pregnant and defending a dissertation,” Rio said, her voice low with something close to awe. “She already knows you’re a legend.” You grinned. “I am a legend,” you whispered. “Currently a very naked legend, but a legend nonetheless.” Agatha hummed, her voice low and amused. “Sprout’s going to start kicking every time we cuddle. Like a little built-in drumline.”

“A percussionist,” Rio added with a kiss to your temple. Your belly rolled again—a full sprawl this time, wide and stretching beneath all three of your hands. The motion arched your back just slightly, your body instinctively adjusting to make room for her movement. Their hands moved with her, following the arc of motion, like they were reading stars.

You groaned—warmed by it. Anchored by their touch. “She gets that from you, Rio.” Rio gasped, mock scandal soft and breathy in your ear. “Better than the Zills. She’s got stage presence.” Agatha’s lips brushed against Rio’s bare shoulder. “She takes after her mom.” You arched an eyebrow, too tired to open your eyes but still full of grin. “Which one?”

“Statistically?” Rio said, breath hitching slightly as Agatha curled closer. “All three of us. Baby girl BeanSprout has all the best options.” Your daughter stretched—a full-bodied starfish sprawl beneath your skin. Then settled again, curling inward, her movement quieting to soft flutters beneath your skin. The room went quiet with her. The air was thick with warmth—body heat, blankets, candle-warm air still lingering from earlier. Your head rested beneath Rio’s chin. Agatha’s breath spilled softly against Rio’s back. One of your legs draped over Rio’s, and Agatha’s foot hooked loosely behind both of yours.

Your hands remained—all three—on your belly. It was Agatha who whispered it first, voice low and warm against the stillness. “Your back could use some heat, baby.” You didn’t speak—just nodded, your body heavy, hips sore, belly tight with the residual effort of everything that had come before. There was an ache deep in your spine, the kind that made your whole frame feel swollen with weight and meaning. Your skin still hummed where their hands had touched you. Your daughter had stilled, but her presence felt closer than ever. Agatha leaned in and kissed your shoulder, her hand smoothing gently along your side. “Just ten minutes. Let me take care of you.” You moved slowly, letting her help you sit up. The air was warm but cooler now against your skin, and the low flicker of candles made shadows stretch long across the floorboards.

From behind you, Rio shifted upright with a soft groan. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks still flushed, but her smile hadn’t left. “I’ll change the sheets,” she murmured, already swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “Be in soon.”

Agatha helped you up, her arm looping around your waist as she walked you toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you, steam already beginning to drift outward from the edges, curling like breath along the baseboards.

In the bedroom, Rio exhaled and stretched, bare feet brushing the cool wood. The bed was a mess of twisted blankets and warmth. She stripped it quickly, fingers practiced, pulling clean linens from the cedar chest. The scent of lavender oil drifted faintly through the room, mingling with sweat and candlewax and something unmistakably yours.

She smoothed the new sheet down with a sweep of her palm, then reached for the water bottle from the dresser—cold, beaded with condensation—and placed it neatly on your nightstand. A small, domestic gesture. Done without thought. Done with love. She opened the top drawer. Only looking for your phone charger.

But her fingers paused. The envelope was still there. Tucked against the edge of the drawer like a bookmark no one had touched. The ivory paper had yellowed faintly, its edges slightly curled. It had been weeks. It hadn’t moved. Hadn’t needed to.

But tonight—beneath the soft golden light of the lamp—the back of the envelope caught the glow differently. Something shimmered. A second line of text. Not your mother’s return address.

Not her handwriting. Just a small, almost imperceptible stamp—a line of typeface so faint it might have been a printing error. An address. Tiny. Quiet. Hidden in plain sight. Rio stared at it. The hair along her arms prickled. She didn’t reach for it. She pulled out her phone, her thumb already moving before she’d even finished drawing a breath. One quick photo. The camera shutter clicked softly in the hush.

The address blinked back at her from the screen—clear now, sharp in the glow. She stared at it for a beat too long. And then— “You can join us now,” your voice called from the bathroom, rich with steam and sleep-laced mischief, “or you can suffer the consequences of showering alone. Without the mother of your daughter…”

Rio smiled despite herself. “I’m coming, my loves.” She tucked the envelope back into place, fingers careful, the paper sliding softly against wood. The drawer closed with a quiet click. The light followed her for a moment as she turned toward the bathroom, then faded as she stepped into the fog of steam curling from beneath the door.

“Hey,” she called out, her voice already warm again, “I thought I was still giving the orders.” And behind her, in the dark hush of the room, the envelope waited. Undisturbed. Unopened. But no longer unseen.

---

It's getting good. As always, tell me how much you loved the chapter. Any theories yet?

@6stolenangel9 @ahintofchaos @peskygremlin @holystrangersalad @loveshineslikethesky @dandelions4us @mustangmopar @maydaythingz @stevieswildheart13 @myharkness @fucklove-4-life @supergirl107 @jillisselt @claramelooo @im-tired-24-7 @littlegaybutterflysblog @skidney1 @nothingspecialnothingnew @idonutevnno @thembolesbo @bethany-zor-el-danvers @holystrangersalad @eternalfaeri @s1anwyck @alessandradenoir @ananas8292 @theevilqueenfr @n0body-is-perfect @alexaneb @team-blackstar @the-library-of-alexandria @mandolinvibes @julia203 @thatssomeplaygirlshit-blog @shydinodragonshark @myharkness @tiddiewitch @filmedbyharkness @dragynflies @quesadillasandchips @deeem-daynie @tvseries-writings @i8ev1

[tomas-smoked-sasuage]

MK1 Kast reaction to AOU! Scarlet Witch! Reader (Outworld Edition + Takeda Takahashi)

SUMMARY: Outworld had a history of Chaos Magic disturbing their peace years ago, finding out you were a descendant of the magic brings concerns on the Royal House

WARNINGS?: I can think of any, maybe gore mentioning?

SINDEL

She finds you intriguing

She wonders if you are more powerful than you normally show (well she’ll never know, she gone)

“If you were raised here, you could’ve been Umgadi, that is you will live longer…and loyalty with no tricks”

She’s heard r of your magic and is cautious whether or not you’ll bring harm, to her family and kingdom (prolly snatch her weave too while you at it..)

Eventually she’ll be more wary of you than she is with Liu Kang about his “betrayal”

To her very last breath and strength, if you every turned against her and her family, she will deemed to kill you

MILEENA

She’s not much of a fan of you but can tolerate you than the other Earthrealmers, mainly Johnny and Raiden (she hates Raiden’s humbleness)

Much like Sindel, she won’t hesitate to try and kill you if you deemed to be bad news

In her Tarkat state, she will cut you faster if you are not careful

She is aware that your abilities are unpredictable therefore does not trust you if you can't handle them

She definitely didn’t trust you when Kung Lao, Kenshi, Johnny and you walked in on her treatment with the Tarkat serum, but was concerned of you when she heard you were kidnapped by Shang Tsung after being captured at his laboratory

She apologized for nearly killing you and blinding Kenshi, but you told her thing was a learning experience for the future

She was hoping to contact you to help her find her father/Ermac

KITANA

She will think you of as inferior and dangerous but was dumbfounded to found you kind

Much like the other Edenians, she does not have full trust in you, with the fact that Chaos Magic flows through your veins bring her more questions on how your more different than your ancestors with the magic

She asks Johnny about you and was more surprised that he was new to this magic of yours

She does see promise and pride in you, but does not know how long it will last

After defeating Titan Shang Tsung, you two do grow close, and you eventually tease Raiden about it

She kind of questions your motivates on why becoming a warrior if your powers were too dangerous, you explained your powers were already becoming dangerous even without using them

She likes the flow and glimpse of them, the scarlet red moving and flowing like waves around her finger tips, she could get used to you

TANYA

PROTECTIVE ASF!!

Yes, that is her job, but girlie cool down!!!

Out the corner of your eye, you feel her deep glare…very, very deep…

She will low-key threaten you…

“If you ever think about stepping one foot out of line, I will make your death fast but painful, I know what you are…” (okay, kobeni..)

Not much for Tanya, but she’s just a straight up hater, watch for her

RAIN

Ngl, this man will TRY to bed you

He’s looking up and down…😏🤏

Okay, I’m joking… but he does find your magic at grace

Not like other Edenians, he does not fear or caution much of your magic, yes he knows all about it when he studies but he’s not scary of it

BUT on the other hand, during your capture from Shang Tsung, he does try to convince you to join him and the others to overthrow and rebel against Sindel and the Royal House, you choose not to.

Not wanting to gain any favors

He tries to win your trust by telling you he knows how much potential you have is nearly endless. But you didn’t want to hear it. Even with your accruing nightmares, thinking about the harm you could do, you choose not to go against your friends

Even after flooding Seido, Rain understood why you chose not to rebel against anyone but yourself, his decision which costed lives and Mileena’s wrath, he determined redemption

✨BOUNUS✨

TAKEDA TAKAHASHI

You’re weird… that’s it

As if not only finding out his cousin does telepathy and telekinetic manipulation, finding out someone else on his team can do it too is even more weirder

Brother thinks he’s high asf (shit probably..)

He did not disagree with Johnny when he said you and Kenshi should be together, but can also see why you choose not too, he knows you can beat his cousin and is way above his league

He notice that you don’t do too much combat, so he teaches you some moves he learned from the Shirai Ryu

Is actually happy that you have common sense when being in a typical situation

I DID IT!! I will continue this with the next one with Villains, the villains might have two parts since there’s a lot of villains, the DLC characters (not the actual MK characters) will have their separate list such as Homelander, Omni-Man, Peacemaker and Ghostface. I’ll make a part two for other DLC non-canon when they come out.

REQUEST ARE OPEN, FEEL FREE TO ASK ME ANYTHING

List of fandoms are on my main page. Here

[crazyskirtlady]

The Dragon's Eye Amulet

genderfluid! reader X human male

content: you are a demonic entity, shape shifted into an amulet of power, you grant the wearer of your amulet wishes of their desires...for a price

warnings: demon, shape shifting, fem&male genitalia, yandere vibes, forced/coerced, bondage, pain, blood, gawk gawk 5k, le anale penetratíon

From the moment he picked up the amulet that contained you...

Immediately you could see the vanity in his eyes, the shallow desires that filled him are what attracted him to the cursed amulet, to you, in the first place, and you gleamed knowing he would be perfect to feed upon.

Prihyom purchased the gold, dragon shaped, red jeweled bauble from the glib salesman (an associate of yours) who confidently promised it would empower the wearer with all they could desire and more...

He took the amulet home and adorned himself, prancing about his room admiring his reflection. And you exuded aura from the sparkling gem, a glamour he could see and feel...

He couldn't take you off, the red and gold necklace suited him so perfectly, emboldened him and he could hardly keep his hands off the intricate design and bejeweled filigree. He took out his phone and admired himself again and again in the screen. And you glowed brilliantly, fueling his pride into conceit.

Prihyom could not even take the amulet off to sleep, and stoking it as he lay in bed he dozed in and out of sleep, and you whispered to him...

"Tell me what you most desire..."

Clutching the amulet in his hands he mumbled softly, asking to be even more handsome, he wanted to become achingly, stunning beautiful!

And of course you obliged him.

The next days everyone who saw him fawned on him, commenting on his pleasing features, dewey smooth skin, eyes bright as copper, hair black as night. Prihyom was beside himself in amazement, his physical transformation was like a miracle!

But it wasn't enough of course, having had a taste of your power Prihyom felt the amulet to be something otherworldly. He could feel your presence, though he did not know it was you yet. And so, in bed, in the dark of the night, stroking the amulet, he murmured to you, about being the most popular and most liked among his peers. He wanted to have the charm to become affluent and adored!

And of course you obliged him.

And the next days you watched as he was flooded with a thousand new friends, dates, party invitations, engagements of all types. And he was so happy, busy enough that he seemed satiated...but only for a bit.

Because he was again clutching you, clutching the amulet in the night whispering to you in a desperately needy voice, oh! He wanted wealth now! Wanted people to throw money at him! And now you chuckled to yourself knowing he was irrevocably bound by your power as you again granted his demand.

In the next days an offer was made for him to become an entertainer, with his tantalizing good looks, his supernatural charm and smile, all it took was a wink and a flick of his silky mane to have people sending money to him in all forms.

With his newly acquired wealth he stepped into a better quality of life. Bigger lodging, fancier decor, amenities to impress his many friends and many more eager lovers...

Now Prihyom knew without a shadow of doubt that his amulet was magickal, that you were powerful magick and he was filled with greed for whatever he could summon from you. He was hungry for more!

More!

Now the time was ripe.

It was time for him to pay the price for all he had asked of you...

In the night your spirit poured like a mist from the amulet, transmogrifying gold into flesh, jewel into bone and teeth and eye. Standing over Prihyom sleeping peacefully in his bed you grin and stretch oh! It has been awhile since you have taken on a physical form!

Glancing down at your fearsome visage you decide perhaps a more feminine form would be preferable in this instance. Smoothing your skin, sprouting long flowing hair, shaping delicate, feminine features vaguely similar to his own; as Prihyom had become quite narcissistically vain.

Sitting down in the bed next to him, you reach out and run your fingers along his jaw, cupping his chin you tilt his head back slightly so you can examine his handsome face closely. The small movements make him grumble and stir, his hand grasping yours in a half conscious reflex. His eyes open and focus on you in confusion, he startles and tries to sit up but you have already weighed him down with your presence, demonic paralysis now makes his jaw drop and his uplifted hand slump down.

You chuckle and click your tongue at him.

"My dear, sweet Prihyom, you didn't even bother to question the powers of the amulet that granted your every whim, and now..." You grin wickedly and watch growing fear widen his eyes. You reign in your power, allowing him the freedom to gasp and cough.

"Who...are you?" He manages to choke out the words.

"Now you ask ah? The golden amulet you wore everyday for weeks? It was I that granted your plaintive wishes no? Gave you everything your little heart desired." You stroke his face, letting your fingers linger on his lips.

"You?! The dragon necklace is...was you?! This whole time you were trapped within? Listening to me?"

"Not trapped, just a different form, and I didn't just listen, oh no...I watched you as well..." Your voice lowered to a husky whisper as you trail your hand through his silky black hair and watch a deep blush redden his cheeks. Quickly Prihyom turned away from your touch to hide his face.

"Aww, did I not give you everything you asked for?" You pout at him while he stutters

"I didn't...I mean I don't...well yes...but I couldn't have known the necklace was...was you?"

You lean close to him and notice his breathing speed up, you can hear his heart racing and it makes you smile in excitement.

"Aren't you satisfied with everything I have done for you?" You let your mouth hover over his while he pants and gulps air, his chest is heaving and sweat is starting to bead on his forehead. His cheeks are bright red now.

"What...what are you doing? What are you going to do!?" If he could, he would be thrashing, but your power holds him still.

"You didn't think I did all that for free did you? My dear, I feed off of you in exchange for what I gave!" You press your lips over his and suck the air right out of his lungs, pulling his face tightly against yours as you force your tongue into his mouth. Prihyom grunts, struggling to turn his face away again.

You pull back, anger reverting your hands back to their large, scaled form, grabbing his face firmly you stare intensely into his eyes.

"You are already mine Prihyom! From the first wish I granted you we became linked inexorably! If you want to break our partnership, then I will simply revoke all that I have granted to you!" You growl at him, letting him see your true demonic form for but an instant, power raging like fire inside your eyes.

Prihyom gasps and swallows hard, squeezing his eyes shut against the image of your demonic form. You relax your features back into the pleasant mask you created for him. Stroking his head with your human hands you plant a kiss on his forehead.

"Don't fear me, I have been watching you all these months and have enjoyed doing everything I did for you. And I can do even more..."

"...if you will let me..."

You can sense him thinking about all the wonderful luck and prosperity that has befallen him since you came into his life; his physical transformation, his popularity, his charm, his wealth...

His eyes open tentatively and, seeing you gazing at him in such a lovely form he can't help but blush again.

"What...what will you do to me?" Prihyom whimpers, fear fills his voice, but his body betrays him, you can feel heat and tension building... elsewhere in him...you smile again and he knows you are well aware of his conflicting feelings.

"Oh I think you already know what I will do with you, don't you?" You push your body up against his, letting him feel the soft curves of your human form. You slid one hand under his shirt and up his chest, allowing a single claw to manifest itself, making a thin scratch into his skin, just enough to sting a bit, not enough to draw blood...yet...

Prihyom yelps, his breathing growing erratic again as you press his body into the bed underneath you, listening to his racing heart, feeling the heat radiating from his groin against yours. You twirl a finger into his hair and lock eyes with him, the intensity of your gaze has him hypnotized. Slowly you bring your lips to his and kiss him softly, savoring his taste again and again with small, sensual kisses that leave him breathless.

Sitting up you staddle his body between your thighs, and with a flick of your wrist all clothes are gone, nothing between your skin and his but air and heat. Prihyom nearly hyperventilates, taking in the entirety of your human form and you allow yourself a little giggle of pride for creating such an alluring physical shape after so many years of not having made one at all!

"You like what you see? I fashioned it just for you!"

You grab his limp hands, still paralyzed by your power, and guide them along the soft skin of your thighs, up your stomach and chest, pausing to hold them against your ample breasts. Prihyom moans, able to feel everything and not able to so much as twitch a finger. You delight in his helplessness, sliding his fingers gently along your nipples. It feels so good you grind your hips down against his body and hear him gasp and moan. Watching his face fill with desire as you lick and suck his finger, feeling his need as a growing firmness where your body and his meet. You lean down to kiss him deeply, his tongue meeting yours eagerly now. You devour his mouth in yours, drinking in his growing lust for you as a fine wine. Freeing him from the paralysis just enough to indulge him, Prihyom instantly wraps his arms around you and bucks his hips upward trying to bring the warm hollow of your body against his hard shaft. You immobilize his body completely again and laugh at his groaned frustration.

Now, you shift your form just a bit, and using your whip-like prehensile tail you firmly pin his arms above his head as your demon tongue lashes against his neck and slides downward, licking and tickling at the inner fold of his arms until he squeals, then flicking around his nipples making him whine nervously. You tease and suck his nipples until they are hard little nubs.

You know exactly what he wants, as you move lower on his body, feeling his muscles tense under the paralysis hold you still have on him and when your long, thick tongue begins to wrap around the hardened, aching shaft of his desire, Prihyom lets out a deep moan. You swallow his whole member with ease and swirl your tongue around and over the sensitive tip. Wanting to feed deeply upon his lust you again release your hold on his body and he is immediately thrusting desperately into your throat, his hands struggling against the strength of your tail. Your extra long tongue slurps the whole length of his shaft and curls down towards the more tender organs below. You can feel his legs trembling, his muscles tensing as he nears the peak, glancing up you watch his eyes roll back, his breathing all but stopped as he loses himself in ecstasy. You can taste him, swallowing his very essence, you drink in his vitality and feel it stoke your power like coal in a furnace.

As his body goes limp from expending himself you quickly flip him over, burying his face in the bed. Allowing yourself to partially revert to your demonic form you grab his hips in your large scaled hands, drawing a yelp from him as you plunge your huge tongue deep into his most intimate hole. He is howling like a madman while you tongue fuck him, your drool dripping down between his cheeks gripped tight in your claws. You feel him loosening up, thrusting himself back onto your tongue with eager abandon, chasing the wild throbbing feeling of your tongue stimulating his g-spot. You quickly draw back, making him whimper, loudly needy. As you position your even larger demonic appendage between his dripping wet cheeks, you pause, letting him feel the size difference of your monstrous phallus. Before he can turn or struggle you grip his hair and shove him down into the bed, thrusting yourself deep into his body at the same time. The mattress muffles his wailing as you slide your wickedly barbed shaft in and out of his tight hole, his muscles spasm, squeezing you so tight you stop moving and just enjoy the feel of his body struggling underneath you. Controlling the tip of your phallic appendage as easily as you could your finger or tongue, you find his sweet spot again and apply pressure to it as you grind your hips into his backside. It's all too much for Prihyom, he screams into his bed, his body shuddering as he cums again. The way his body clenches around your shaft as he bucks in ecstasy sends you over the edge as well. A terrifying roar bursts from your chest as you cum with him, your claws grip his skin too tightly, drawing blood in 5 fierce lines across his thighs. You fill his hole with your hot load and collapse atop him, nearly crushing him with your demon form. Panting and breathless you still manage to keep some sense and bring your body back to your smaller human form, but keep your demon phallus buried deep in him for a moment longer.

When you finally release him and roll off his back he is so silent you fear for a second you might have suffocated him! But then he too rolls over gasping for air, tears in his eyes. His beautiful hair is a tangled mess and his gorgeous face is red and marked from being shoved into the bed. You grab his shoulder firmly and pull him into an embrace, smattering his face with kisses.

"Is...our partnership... maintained...?" Prihyom gasps out. A deep rumbling laughter vibrates inside you.

"Yes indeed my sweet." You cradle him in your arms, despite your current smaller form your presence envelopes him completely, holding him as physically as your paralysis had. You stroke his hair mindlessly, listening to his breathing slow, thinking he has fallen asleep.

"You are frightening...and incredible...I...I like our... partnership..." He sleepily mumbles into your arms.

You chuckle softly, caressing his face.

You suddenly feel his hand on your lower appendage, still in demon form. He thumbs the barbs and bumps, all soft and limp now.

"I like this part as well." He admits shyly.

[cissa-calls]

Countdown to Agatha All Along: Day 844

Y/N: “You’re back! I thought you were just picking up groceries, what took so long?”

Wanda: “I forgot my wallet, so Agatha had to pay.”

Agatha: “I also did not have my wallet on me.”

Y/N: “Wait, how did you pay then? You didn’t steal did you?!”

Wanda: “NO! Though, someone had to be reminded of that.” *glares at Agatha*

Agatha: “Hey, I was just trying to hel-“ *Wanda steps on her foot* “- OW! It’s FINE THOUGH, I may not have had my wallet, but I had my change purse in my bag.”

Y/N: “No. You didn’t. Please tell you didn’t make the employees-“

Wanda: “She did. And it took forty-five MINUTES”

Agatha: “I didn’t know it would take that long to count up 34 dollars worth of quarters!”

[comeback-from-the-dead]

I feel like the Scarlet Witch fandom is dying; it's not the same anymore. Please, I want to go back to 2020 to early 2023. I need more people talking about Wanda. I need more Wanda edits. I need more of us talking about Wanda like she's our wild pet hamster. I miss when normal posts about Wanda get more than 100 notes, not just smut fics. I want to see different content every time I look at the Scarlet Witch tags. I wish everyone in this fandom acted like every other fandom. Please put her in a jar and shake her...Put her in a microwave and watch her spin. God, I miss her so much. I feel like a child whose mother never returns home. I miss my angry, pathetic woman. She's such a wet cat. She's so horrible. I love her so much. She has so much potential. I hate you, Kevin Feige and Michael Waldron. All of you can disagree with me all you want, but she's literally the most interesting M*rv*l character. I am literally so scared of being completely obsessed with something new because I am afraid I am going to forget about her. I am so dramatic... I am scared of falling out of love...

[iamgayjesus]

Study of Shadows📝🥀

Pairing: Professor Agatha Harkness x PhD!Reader

Tags: slow burn, possessive Agatha, power imbalance, academic tension, grief and magic, dark academia, angst and fluff, eventual smut, tags to be updated.

Synopsis: A guarded PhD student is assigned to the mysterious and powerful Professor Agatha Harkness. In their candlelit meetings, secrets unravel, and a slow-burning tension grows between teacher and pupil—where knowledge, desire, and possession intertwine in a dark dance of magic and longing.

Chapter Three: Glossolalia

🖋️Ch.1 // Ch.2 // Ch.4

The morning was grey — not in colour, but in feeling. The kind of cold that slipped through wool and wove itself into your bones. Even the coffee burned bitter, unwelcoming, as you stood in front of the mirror, staring past your own reflection.

You’d slept, but only barely. Tossed under crumpled sheets with the memory of her eyes — that look — seared into the back of your eyelids. You weren’t even sure what it was. Concern? Disapproval? Something closer to possession?

And then Rio Vidal had appeared like smoke, all sharp eyes and silk. It had taken nothing at all for Agatha to fall into step beside her and disappear into the night, without a word more to you.

You’d stood outside the restaurant for a full minute after the door shut, your breath frosting in the air, fury and shame tangled in your throat.

It wasn’t jealousy. That would be ridiculous. You barely knew her.

But you were still thinking about it now, hours later, notebook in hand, thumb worrying the corner of the page as you paced the stone corridor toward her office.

You were meant to deliver the translation today — your work from the Occitan manuscript she’d given you, the one with the looping script and the broken margins, filled with half-legible accounts of heresy and exile. The kind of text that could shift careers if you handled it right.

Your boots echoed softly against the stone, the morning quiet swallowing your footsteps like a cathedral holding its breath. You paused outside her office door.

You pressed your hand to the cool doorframe before entering, clutching the manila folder tight against your chest. Inside, she sat at her desk, silhouette crisp—pin-straight posture, dark blouse buttoned to the neck, hair wound with purposeful precision.

Her head lifted as you came in. Pale eyes met yours, and something in her expression flickered—almost a smile, but sharper, more private. She waved toward the chair in a slow, refusalless motion.

“Pet,” she greeted you, voice low and even. The soft word landed in your chest like a promise—or a warning.

You swallowed. “Good morning.”

She didn’t hurry; the moment paused. “You look… composed.”

You shook off a flush. “The translation is complete.”

“You’re early,” she said, voice clipped. Polished. The vowels as sharp as her gaze.

You held up the folder, willing your fingers not to tremble.

“The translation. You said you wanted it by today.”

A beat.

Then she leaned back slowly in her chair, like she was measuring the distance between you.

“Of course. Leave it on the desk.”

You stepped forward, placed the folder carefully atop a stack of open books, and straightened.

She didn’t touch it.

Not yet.

Instead, her eyes stayed on you.

You shifted under the weight of them — that familiar pressure. As though she could read your thoughts inked across your forehead.

She flipped it open and lightly tapped the margin, fingers lingering over your annotations. “Efficient.” She looked up, gaze becoming an assertion. “And thorough.”

Something flickered behind her eyes—appraisal, hunger, interest. You couldn’t tell which. She paused. Then she added, voice silk laced with steel: “You behave exactly as I hoped you would.”

Your breath caught. You tried to meet her eye, but her glance pressed across your skin, tracking slow, deliberate.

“If you feel—” you started, noting the tiny hesitation that crept in, “—if there’s anything you’d like me to refine—”

“You’ve done more than enough,” she interrupted, soft but certain. “It’s precisely what I asked.”

The tension took shape between you—neither airy nor heavy, but alive. You wanted to breathe—but catching your breath felt like moving in a storm.

Her fingers brushed a margin where you’d scribbled an alternative translation. “You changed your mind here,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It felt truer,” you replied. “The older reading flattened the nuance. This one allowed the metaphor to breathe.”

She didn’t respond for a beat.

Then, softly, “Good girl.”

Your stomach dropped.

The words were simple—commonplace even. But in her voice, they unspooled something hot and breathless inside you. You hated how it made you feel. Or rather—you hated how much you liked it.

You looked away. “I’ll leave you to read it—”

“No,” she interrupted. “Stay.”

You blinked.

Agatha circled the desk, manuscript in hand. “You’re here, you’ve done the work. We’ll go through it now.”

You sat, trying not to shift too much. Trying not to notice the way her eyes lingered. Or the way her voice dropped when she leaned over your shoulder to point something out. Or the subtle press of her fingers against the desk beside you, steady, deliberate, always just close enough.

“Your linguistic choices here,” she said, “suggest a certain… intimacy with the source material.”

“It spoke to me,” you said.

Agatha looked at you. “Did it?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

She was too close.

You were too aware.

There was something coiled behind her gaze—tension or amusement or something more dangerous. But before either of you could speak again, there was a knock at the door.

A pause. Then a secretary’s voice, muffled: “Professor Harkness, the seminar starts in fifteen minutes.”

Agatha straightened. “Tell them I’ll be there shortly.”

Footsteps retreated.

She turned back to you.

“You’ll be joining me,” she said.

Your brow creased. “I thought I was meant to join you next week?”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. Her gaze—sharp, ice-blue like glacial water just before it freezes—held you in place. There was that familiar flicker in her eyes, neither fully stern nor entirely amused, but something deliciously calculating, like she was weighing you against some invisible scale only she could see.

“This is a different seminar,” she said at last, her voice clipped but smooth as velvet. “Philology and the Arcane Tongue. I expect you to keep up.”

Your mouth parted in mild disbelief. “I haven’t prepared for that—”

A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips—half-mocking, half-inviting. She circled you like a prey, the subtle scent of lavender and incense drifting around her, sharp and intoxicating. The soft rustle of her coat followed, then the muted tap of her heels on the floor, each step measured and commanding.

She stepped closer, gaze steady, voice low. “You don’t need to prepare. You’re sharp. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

Her fingers lightly grazed the edge of your manuscript, just a breath against the paper, but enough to send a shiver up your arm. Her eyes dropped for a moment, lashes casting delicate shadows over her pale skin, before snapping back up, locking onto yours with that piercing intensity.

The fine lines at the corners of her eyes softened her sharp gaze — wrinkles not of age but of a lifetime lived fully, etched like delicate lace that only made her more captivating, more real. It was a beauty not easily forgotten, like a memory that lingers.

The fine planes of her face—high cheekbones, perfectly arched brows, a mouth always poised on the verge of a knowing smirk—made her seem carved from something cold and exquisite. Yet, there was warmth in that look now, an almost teasing fire beneath the surface.

“And besides,” she said, voice dipping just enough to make your stomach twist, “I like you best when you’re focused.” She flicked her wrist with elegant disdain, the movement sharp and graceful. “Pet.”

The word landed heavy and hot, and your cheeks flamed before you could stop them.

Agatha’s smile deepened, almost wicked now, the kind that promised both challenge and something dangerously close to pleasure. She gave a slight shake of her head, as if amused by your reaction, then straightened her posture with the faintest tilt of her chin.

Agatha stepped back with an elegant flick of her coat, the kind that made it clear she was done — not because she had to be, but because she’d chosen to be.

“Come,” she said, already turning toward the door, her heels clicking softly, a steady rhythm that pulled you in. “We’ve work to do.”

And just like that, she was gone—the echo of her heels fading like punctuation to a lesson you hadn’t yet realised you were being taught.

*

The corridor stretched long and echoing before you, the high-arched ceilings framed in crumbling filigree, glass panes catching fractured light. Your boots scuffed faintly against the old stone floor as you followed the crisp cadence of Agatha’s heels — sharp, decisive, never hurried.

She didn’t glance back to see if you were behind her. She didn’t have to.

Each step she took carried the scent of lavender and incense, curling in her wake like something summoned. And you followed it, as if compelled.

As if bound.

Your mind raced with the translation notes folded under your arm, but none of it seemed to hold shape. The memory of her voice — I like you best when you’re focused, pet — looped like a spell, caught between your ribs. You couldn’t name the feeling. Not quite panic. Not desire. Something between: sharp-edged and impossible to admit.

She paused at the threshold of a wood-panelled door. The brass plaque read:

Seminar Room III – Restricted Access

Her hand rested against the worn handle, a flick of her wrist adjusting her sleeve — a gesture practised enough to look accidental, but you were watching her too closely not to notice the precision of it. Everything she did seemed deliberate. Beautifully so.

You wondered, stupidly, if she knew the effect she had on you.

Then she turned her head just enough for her profile to catch the light — the high cheekbone, the curve of her mouth, a single strand of hair brushed back with a gloved fingertip.

“I expect you to observe,” she said, not looking at you, her tone low and unreadable. “Take notes. I’ll ask for your input toward the end.”

You blinked. “Input?”

She opened the door and stepped inside, letting her answer hang in the air like perfume.

You followed, trying not to look like you were hesitating.

*

The room was smaller than you expected — warmer, with lamps casting soft gold over worn bookshelves and a circle of desks. A handful of students were already seated, their faces drawn with the weight of whatever reading list they’d been subjected to.

Agatha took her place at the head of the room, sliding her coat from her shoulders with a single fluid motion, revealing dark navy tailoring beneath — sharp lines and a silk scarf knotted at her throat.

She looked — unreachable.

You hovered, unsure, until she glanced your way and murmured, “Sit there.”

She gestured to the seat nearest hers — not across, not down the side, but close enough that your knees would nearly touch if you turned slightly.

You took your seat, your pulse thudding dully beneath your skin. The papers in your hands felt heavier now. You weren’t sure if you wanted to vanish or be seen.

The room filled — not bustling, exactly, but dense with quiet tension. Eighteen students had filed in, coats damp from morning mist, shoulders hunched against the marble chill of the corridor outside. Most looked as though they’d come prepared for a bloodletting.

In a way, they had.

Agatha Harkness didn’t do casual. Nor did she tolerate underperformance. The students knew this. You’d seen it in their eyes as they settled around the old mahogany table, pens poised, spines straight. No one was foolish enough to speak without invitation.

When the final student settled, she stood with a grace so fluid it startled you, the soft click of her heels slicing the quiet.

“This is Philology and the Arcane Tongue,” she began, her voice low and clear. “We will not be wasting time.”

A shiver passed through the room. She let it hang for a beat before continuing, tilting her head slightly toward you.

She allowed herself a satisfied flick of her wrist — then gestured to you.

“This,” she said, tone formal but unmistakably proud, “is Miss Y/L/N. A doctoral candidate of considerable promise, currently specialising in magical oaths and binding language. She’ll be co-teaching this seminar.”

Several students glanced between the two of you. One of the boys — a tall, pale thing with too much gel in his hair — let his gaze dip too slowly over your body.

Agatha didn’t even look at him directly.

“If any of you forget where to keep your eyes,” she said, tone razor-smooth, “you’ll find yourselves reassigned. Permanently.”

Gulps. Silence.

“Miss Y/L/N’s background in arcane linguistic studies is exceptional. During her master’s, she produced significant work on the nuances of spellcasting dialects, particularly how foreign linguistic structures influence magical efficacy.”

A faint surprise flickered in your chest at her detailed knowledge of your past research. You managed a small nod.

Agatha’s voice softened but remained authoritative. “We expect rigorous engagement and discipline. Magic is not merely spoken; it is shaped by the tongue, the rhythm, and the subtle inflections of language itself.”

*

Agatha resumed her place at the front, the seminar flowing under her command. Her voice, rich and measured, wove through the room as she elaborated on the interplay between language and magic — how arcane utterances were far more than mere words, but living conduits of power. She gestured gracefully with a flick of her wrist, moving like a shadow cast by candlelight.

“As you see,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room, “the precision of language here is paramount. Even the slightest mispronunciation can shift the entire matrix of a spell.”

“Let us consider this transcript from the 14th century Drakonic codex,” she said, lifting a worn parchment carefully. “Notice the inflection in the final binding phrase — it’s subtle, but crucial. The sibilant ‘sh’ sound here softens the curse, almost redirecting the spell’s energy. Miss Y/L/N, what might this imply about the caster’s intent?”

You glanced briefly at the text projected behind her, then met her steady gaze.

“It suggests a deliberate tempering,” you began, voice clear and steady. “The caster wasn’t aiming to cause harm but to bind with precision, perhaps to limit collateral damage. The ‘sh’ sound acts almost like a linguistic brake, controlling the spell’s force.”

Agatha nodded once, sharp and approving.

“Excellent. Now, take us deeper.” Her voice lowered just slightly, the challenge clear. “Explain how this contrasts with the Sylvan dialect’s approach, particularly in their use of the trilled ‘r’—a phonetic element that often clashes with Drakonic’s harsher consonants.”

You stood, feeling the weight of the room’s eyes on you as you moved forward. The soft click of her heels echoed faintly as she settled into her seat with deliberate grace. Resting her chin lightly on the knuckles of her hand, she leaned forward slightly, her piercing blue eyes locking on you. Her lips parted just enough for the tip of her tongue to flick out and moisten them—a small, knowing smile curving the corner of her mouth. The delicate wrinkles framing her eyes deepened.

The scent of lavender and incense wafted subtly, grounding yet intoxicating.

Her gaze held you fast as you began to speak.

“The Sylvan dialect’s trilled ‘r’ introduces a rhythmic vibration that can enhance a spell’s stability but can also cause interference if misaligned with Drakonic’s sharper tones. When combined incorrectly, it may lead to a destabilisation of the magical matrix, sometimes causing the spell to backfire.”

Agatha’s eyes glinted with challenge.

“Very good,” she murmured, voice low but audible. “But tell me—what would happen if a novice caster confused the intonation of these dialects during an attempted binding?”

You hesitated for barely a moment before answering confidently.

“A novice would likely cause a misfire. The spell’s energy could become erratic, leading to unintended consequences—perhaps even breaking the binding entirely or causing harm to the caster.”

Agatha’s smile deepened, clearly pleased. She reclined slightly, fingers steepled elegantly, watching you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

As you spoke, Agatha slowly removed her glasses, her fingers gliding over the frame before she tucked them carefully beside her notes. She rested her chin lightly on her knuckles, tongue just visible between her lips, eyes fixed intently on you.

Near the end, she fixed you with a particularly sharp look, voice lowering just a fraction. “Miss Y/L/N, consider the dialectical shifts in the northern incantations. How might these variations affect the resonance frequency required for successful spellcasting?”

You paused for a heartbeat, gathering your thoughts, then spoke with measured confidence. “The shifts alter the phonemic emphasis, which in turn requires a corresponding adjustment in the caster’s vocal modulation. Without this, the spell’s vibrational energy becomes unstable, leading to rapid decay or unintended side effects.”

The room was silent, the students hanging on your every word. Agatha’s lips parted slightly, eyes wide in genuine astonishment. She leaned back, fingers to her mouth, nearly speechless — an expression so rare it sent a thrill straight through you.

After a moment, she recovered her composure, voice calm but with a new, quiet respect. “Exceptional. Truly. You’ve not only mastered the theory but intuitively grasped the subtle art that many only ever glimpse.”

Her gaze lingered, an unreadable flicker in her brilliant blue eyes. “Well done, Miss Y/L/N.”

*

As the session drew to a close, Agatha’s usual poised command softened just enough to let a flicker of warmth slip through.

“Miss Y/L/N,” she said quietly, voice low but clear only ti you, “you’ve exceeded my expectations. It’s a rare pleasure to witness such dedication and intellect. I look forward to seeing how far you will go.”

The students stirred and slowly left , the spell broken, but your eyes remained locked on hers.

You felt the pull of her gaze, electric and insistent. “Thank you, Professor. I… I didn’t expect—”

Her fingers brushed lightly against your forearm, a touch so delicate it could have been accidental, yet it lingered—warm and deliberate. “Expectations are a curious thing, aren’t they? Sometimes they reveal what we really desire, rather than what we say aloud.”

You swallowed, still feeling the ghost of her touch. “I didn’t expect… that you wanted me to co-teach the others as well?”

Agatha tilted her head slightly, studying you in that maddening, quiet way that always made it feel as if she already knew what you were going to say. “Why limit yourself, pet?” Her voice curled around the word like silk. “The more you expose yourself, the better you’ll become. And I do like watching you rise to the challenge.”

She turned, her scent trailing in her wake as her heels clicked softly across the stone floor.

Just before she reached the door, she glanced back over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Tomorrow?”

But Agatha was already gone—disappearing down the corridor with her coat flaring behind her like a shadow come to life, leaving you suspended in the doorway with your pulse skittering and a dozen questions echoing in her wake.

~~~~

Hi!

I hope you are still enjoying this. Please let me know!

-A

——————

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[ominous-faechild]

VERY important question for Fantasy (and ESECIALLY High Fantasy!!!) fans as well as everyone in my taglists!!!

Say you're reading the best, most original work of fiction yet. You're loving it. The worldbuilding's superb, the characters feel like real people, and you can tell everything is building up to something, even if you don't know what.

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They're locked into a coma by the other gods for the crime of destroying the world of old.

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[rizzlesregal13]

No! You Can’t Hex A Four-Year-Old!

***Agatha x Reader 💜- Just a typical Saturday in the Harkness household. With two kids in tow, it’s a given that chaos will ensue!***

You know those mornings where you wake up to the smell of fresh coffee, sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window, and the love of your life curled up beside you? Yeah…. This is not one of those mornings.

Instead, all I can hear is my eight old son screaming “Mom, I can’t find my cleats!”

Ella, meanwhile, my four year old daughter, is in the kitchen, half-dressed in mismatched pyjamas, aggressively dunking a cookie into her milk with the conviction of a child who knows no limits… much like her other mother.

Agatha lounges on the sofa, swirling her morning coffee like she has all the time in the world, completely unbothered by the domestic apocalypse unfolding around us.

I stare at her, somehow refraining from placing my hand on my hip.

“You could help, you know.”

“Oh, I could.” She takes a sip. “But this is wildly more entertaining.”

Nicki skids into the living room, his socks sliding across the hardwood. “Mom, I swear I left them by the door!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“You swore that last time… and they were in the fridge.”

Agatha hums. “Ah yes, the great cleat hunt of last Saturday. A true moment in history.”

“You are so not helpful,” I mutter, shoving cushions off the sofa in case his cleats have somehow ended up there… I mean with this kid, they could honestly be anywhere!

“Oh, but darling, I am,” she says, tilting her head. “I simply offer my assistance in… unconventional ways.”

Ella climbs onto Agatha’s lap, getting chocolate milk all over her pyjamas, and I wait for her to lose it. But instead, she smirks at me over Ella’s dark curls.

“This is karma for making me get up before noon.”

“This is parenthood, Agatha.” I kick aside a pile of toys, still no cleats in sight. “When did our weekends go from hotel suites and silk sheets to lost shoes and milk spills?”

“The moment you decided we should be responsible adults and become parents.”

“Oh, I decided? You were very involved in that process too you know.”

She lifts a single manicured brow. “As I recall, I was merely the catalyst of your bad decisions.”

Before I can respond, Nicki wails, “We’re gonna be late! Coach is gonna be sooo mad!”

“Maybe if you kept your stuff in one place, this wouldn’t happen,” I say, crouching to look under the sofa.

Agatha sighs dramatically, as if the weight of the world rests on her shoulders.

“Fine, fine. Let’s get this over with.” She flicks her fingers, and… Nicki’s cleats materialise mid-air, dropping directly onto my head.

I glare at her. “For fuc…. You knew where they were this whole time?”

She grins, absolutely shameless. “Of course. I found them in the bathtub last night. But watching you struggle is the highlight of my morning.”

“I really hate you sometimes.”

“And yet, you’re still madly in love with me,” she purrs, eyes twinkling, that smirk that does things to me plastered over her lips.

Nicki grabs his cleats and bolts for the door, yelling, “Come on mom! We’re so late!”

I groan and grab my handbag. “I am in love with you, but I also think I might murder you in your sleep one day.”

Agatha stands, pressing a lingering kiss to my cheek, her voice low and teasing. “Mmm. Promise?”

I shove her toward the kitchen. “Go clean up your daughter.”

“Our daughter,” she corrects.

“Not when she’s that sticky, she’s not.”

Agatha laughs, and despite the chaos, the mess, and the sheer exhaustion that comes with our life, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Even if I am going to get an earful from the soccer coach.

***

I barely get the front door open before Nicki barrels through, his cleats still very much on, and leaving a fresh trail of mud across the hardwood floor.

“Nicki, cleats off!” I call after him, but it’s useless. He’s already halfway to the kitchen, probably raiding the fridge like a starving trash panda. Before I can properly groan about the mess, there’s a blur of sparkles and frilly tulle flying at me. Ella launches herself into my arms, clutching onto me like a baby koala, her tiny face pressing into my neck. And then… tears.

“Mommy, I don’t wanna go to Maddie’s birthday party!” she wails.

Shit.

Maddie’s birthday party, was that even on the calendar?

I glance up just in time to see Agatha coming down the stairs, her expression as amused as it is smug.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

I exhale through my nose, shifting Ella on my hip.

“No,” I lie. “I just… got distracted.”

Agatha flicks her fingers, and just like that, a perfectly wrapped present in a little party bag appears out of thin air.

“Good thing one of us actually keeps track of these things."

I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly relieved.

“Okay, Miss Omniscient. Why doesn’t Ella want to go to said party?”

Agatha frowns slightly, looking at Ella, who’s still sniffling into my shirt. “She wouldn’t say.”

I rub soothing circles on Ella’s back, kissing the top of her curly hair.

“Hey, honeybee, what’s the matter? Why don’t you want to go?”

She hiccups, snuggling closer before mumbling, “Maddie’s mean to me.”

And just like that, I feel Agatha’s entire posture shift.

Gone is the relaxed, sarcastic witch who found amusement in my domestic failures. Instead she’s turned into a full on protective mom, meaning she’s sharp, dangerous, and entirely too willing to hex a four-year-old.

Agatha folds her arms, her voice deceptively light.

“Oh? And what exactly has little Maddie been doing?”

I shoot her a warning look.

“Agatha.”

“What?” She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “I’m just curious.”

“I know that look,” I say, voice firm. “You are not casting a spell on a four-year-old.”

Her lips twitch, but there’s something deadly in her eyes.

“Technically, I wasn’t going to.”

“Agatha.”

She sighs dramatically, flipping her dark hair over one shoulder.

“Fine. No spells. But if she needs a mild scare….”

“No.”

“…a gentle lesson….”

“Agatha.”

She groans, tossing her hands up in defeat.

“Fiiiine. I suppose we’ll handle this the boring, mature way.”

I nod, satisfied. “I’ll talk to Maddie’s mom, and we’ll sort this out like adults.”

Ella lifts her head, her tear-streaked face looking between the two of us. “You promise she won’t be mean anymore?”

I smooth her hair back. “I promise I’ll talk to her, okay? And if you still don’t want to go, we don’t have to.”

She sniffs, considering.

“Can I have cake and then leave?”

Agatha grins, pressing a kiss to Ella’s forehead.

“Now that is a solid plan.”

I sigh, but I can’t help but smile. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

As soon as Ella wriggles out of my arms and runs into the living room, presumably to wipe her tear-streaked face on my sofa cushions, I turn toward the stairs.

“Nicki! Go upstairs and change! Clean clothes, and I mean actual clean, not just sniff-tested clean!”

A muffled, “Ugh, fiiine!” echoes from somewhere deep in the house.

I rub my temples, mentally preparing for yet another round of herding my children like wild animals, when I feel Agatha’s arms snake around my waist from behind.

“You know,” she murmurs, pressing herself against me, “watching you in full Mom Mode is oddly appealing.”

I snort, leaning back against her.

“Oh yeah? You mean when I’m sleep-deprived, covered in child-related fluids, and constantly five minutes away from a possible nervous breakdown?”

She hums, her lips ghosting the shell of my ear. “Mmm, precisely. It’s unusually attractive.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You have terrible taste.”

Agatha smirks against my skin. “Tell that to the incredibly sexy woman I married.”

I roll my eyes, turning in her arms so we’re face-to-face.

“You mean the incredibly exhausted woman you married.”

She grins, tapping my chin with the pink party bag. “Exhausted, yes. But still undeniably hot.”

I raise a brow, skeptical. “Even after yelling at our son about laundry and refereeing a pre-party meltdown?”

Agatha’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Especially after that.”

I shake my head, but I can’t stop the smile creeping onto my face.

“You’re crazy.”

She leans in, her voice dropping to that dangerously smooth tone that always spells trouble.

“You love how crazy I am.”

Before I can argue… because, let’s face it, she’s right… Nicki thunders down the stairs, somehow managing to not be in clean clothes.

“Nicholas.” My voice is pure warning.

He pauses mid-stride, looks down at his still-muddy shorts, and sighs.

“Ugh! Fiiine! Changing again!”

He stomps back up the stairs, and Agatha laughs, pulling me closer.

“Admit it,” she teases, voice full of fondness. “You wouldn’t trade this for anything.”

I exhale, looking toward the living room where Ella is now humming to herself, seemingly over her crisis. Then toward the staircase where Nicki is loudly complaining from his bedroom about how unfair his life is; and finally, back to Agatha, who looks at me like I’m still the same person she fell for, even if I now come with a side of domestic insanity.

I shake my head, sighing dramatically. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Agatha grins. “Told you so.”

I swat her arm. “Shut up and grab Ella’s jacket.”

She smirks, stepping back. “Yes, Mommy.”

I groan. “Never call me that again”

But as I grab my keys and corral my family toward the door, I know Agatha’s right. It’s chaos. It’s exhausting, but deep down I love every second of it.

***

Agatha pulls the car up outside Maddie’s house, eyeing the aggressively pastel-coloured decorations with thinly veiled disgust. She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, then turns to me, her voice sickeningly casual.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to put a curse on that little brat?”

From the backseat, Nicki chimes in immediately.

“Mom’s right. Everyone at school knows Maddie is a total brat.”

I twist in my seat to give him a look. “Nicki.”

“What? It’s true.” He shrugs. “She’s, like, legendary for it in school.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“We do not call four-year-olds brats, and we definitely do not put curses on them.” Then, shooting a pointed look at Agatha, “Right?”

Agatha sighs dramatically, draping herself over the steering wheel like she’s being personally victimised.

“Fine. But if she happens to trip over her own feet later, or her tongue gets stuck to a popsicle, I claim no responsibility.”

I unclip Ella from her car seat, hoisting her onto my hip.

“You two stay in the car.”

“Gladly,” Agatha says. “The sheer amount of pink in that house is making my skin itch.”

I roll my eyes and start walking toward the house when…

“Y/N.”

I turn back to see Agatha, her smug smile firmly in place, dangling the pink birthday bag off her finger.

I sigh, rubbing my temple. “Right. The present.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want to show up empty-handed. That might be—gasp—rude.”

I march back, snatch the bag from her hand, and give her the most insincere “Thank you” I can manage.

She smirks, eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re very welcome, darling.”

Muttering under my breath, I head inside, adjusting Ella on my hip as she immediately wriggles free to run off toward the bouncy castle in the back garden. I scan the room, looking for Maddie’s mom, and oh… there she is.

Platinum blonde extensions, fake boobs that look like they defy the laws of physics, and the kind of spray tan that would rival Donald Trump’s. She’s holding a large glass of white wine at 1 p.m. and laughing just a little too loudly at whatever the other moms are saying.

I take a deep breath and approach.

“Hi,” I start, my tone as friendly as I can muster. “I’m Ella’s mom.”

She flicks her gaze over me, taking in my shirt, jeans and sneakers, before her lips stretch into a perfectly practiced smile.

“Oh! Hi!” she drawls, drawing out the syllable like she’s already bored.

I clear my throat. “I just wanted to have a quick word about Maddie and Ella. Ella mentioned that Maddie has been… less than kind to her.”

Her smile freezes, just a flicker of annoyance passing through her perfectly botoxed face. “Oh, kids will be kids,” she says dismissively. “They’re four. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

I press my lips together, keeping my tone even. “Right. It’s just that Ella has been really upset about it, and I think it’s important to make sure—”

“Oh, honey.” She laughs, a high-pitched, rehearsed sound. “You’re one of those parents.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

She waves a manicured hand, already looking toward the other moms like she’s ready to be done with this conversation.

“The ones who get worked up over every little thing. If your daughter can’t handle a little playground drama, maybe she’s just… sensitive.”

My hands tighten around the party bag. I take a slow breath, reigning in my very unkind thoughts.

“I’m just asking that we encourage the kids to be kind to each other. That’s all.”

She takes a sip of her wine, completely unbothered.

“Mmm. Sure.”

I stare at her. She is not taking this seriously.

I can feel the irritation creeping up my spine. But before I can say anything else, I catch a glimpse through the window… Agatha, still in the car, watching me with a knowing smirk.

I take a slow, deep breath, trying one last time to reason with Maddie’s mom, but it’s like talking to a brick wall… one covered in fake tan and a superiority complex.

“Well,” I say, forcing a smile, “thanks for the chat.”

She barely acknowledges me, already turning back to her group, wine in hand, dismissing me like I was never there.

I clench my jaw and step away, calling out toward the backyard.

“Ella!”

A few seconds later, she comes bounding in, curls bouncing, her party dress slightly rumpled from whatever she’s been up to in the garden.

“Come on, babygirl,” I say, scooping her up into my arms. “We’re leaving. Let’s go get ice cream with Mommy and Nicki.”

Ella gasps, horrified. “But you said I could have cake!”I

hesitate. “I did, didn’t I?”

That’s when I see it.

The cake.

It’s an obnoxious shade of pink, layered with enough frosting to send a grown adult into a diabetic coma. It sits on a pristine white tablecloth, placed just so on the delicate little serving table. It looks expensive.

And suddenly, suddenly, I have an idea.

I know I shouldn’t.

I really shouldn’t.

But, you know what? Screw it.

With a flick of my fingers, my magic sparks to life, humming warm and familiar at my fingertips. The table leg trembles, creaks… then, with a sharp crack, it snaps clean in two.

The table collapses.

And the entire cake crashes to the floor in an explosion of frosting and pink shattered fondant.

A gasp ripples through the room. Maddie’s mom shrieks, her wine glass slipping from her hand.

I blink innocently, shifting Ella higher on my hip.

Ella looks up at me, her big blue eyes wide with delight. She leans in and whispers, “Mommy, did you do that?”

I kiss her forehead. “Do what, honey? I don’t know what you mean.”

And with that, I turn and walk out, leaving behind the absolute shit fit of a meltdown happening inside.

When I reach the car, Agatha’s already watching me with raised brows, arms lazily draped over the steering wheel. She takes in my smug expression, Ella’s satisfied grin, and the sounds of absolute chaos erupting behind me.

She smirks. “We’re off to get ice cream, huh?”

I nod, setting Ella in her car seat. “Yep.”

As I’m strapping her in, Ella, ever the traitor, pipes up.

“Mommy broke the table and made the cake go boom!”

I freeze.

Slowly, I look over my shoulder at Agatha.

She’s staring at me, expression unreadable. Then…A slow, wicked grin spreads across her face.

“Well, well, well,” she drawls, delight sparking in her blue eyes. “Look at you. Breaking the rules. Being a bad mom.”

I snap Ella’s seatbelt into place and straighten up, glaring at Agatha. “Don’t start.”

She’s grinning so smugly now, like a cat that just found the cream. “I knew you had it in you.”

I roll my eyes and climb into the passenger seat.

“Just drive."

Agatha starts the car, still obnoxiously pleased. “You know,” she muses, pulling away from the curb, “I’m almost disappointed I wasn’t the one to do it.”

I shake my head, but I can’t help the little smirk tugging at my lips. “I’d say you’re rubbing off on me, but honestly? That woman deserved it.”

Agatha grins, reaching over to squeeze my thigh.

“Attagirl.”

I shake my head, laughing as Ella giggles from the backseat.

Nicki, completely oblivious, pipes up. “Wait…what happened?”

“Nothing!” I say quickly, shooting a look at Ella.

She giggles again, whispering, “Mommy’s magic is sneaky.”

Agatha sighs dreamily. “I am so proud right now.”

I groan, leaning my head back against the seat. “We are so lucky these kids haven’t grown into their powers yet.”

Agatha smirks. “Yet.”

And with that mildly terrifying thought hanging in the air, we drive off in search of ice cream, leaving the wreckage of Maddie’s birthday party far, far behind.

***

The house is finally quiet.

Nicki and Ella are sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, completely zonked out, the remnants of their earlier ice creams still visible in the slight stickiness on Ella’s hands and the faint chocolate smudge at the corner of Nicki’s mouth. The movie they were watching still plays on the TV, casting a soft glow over their peaceful, sleeping faces.

From my spot against the kitchen counter, I exhale slowly, taking in the rare moment of stillness.

Agatha slides up beside me, pressing a glass of red wine into my hand.

“For surviving another day in this madhouse.”

I clink her glass and take a grateful sip, letting the warmth spread through me.

She watches the kids for a moment, then smirks, tilting her head toward me. “So...The cake.”

I sigh, already knowing where this is going.

“Don’t.”

“Oh, but I must.” She grins, swirling her wine. “You, of all people. Breaking the rules. Embracing your dark side.” She waggles her fingers mockingly. “You couldn’t resist, could you?”

I shoot her a dry look. “At least I didn’t hex a four-year-old. Which, let’s be honest, you totally would have.”

Agatha sips her wine, completely unrepentant.

“And she would’ve deserved it.”

I shake my head, laughing softly. “You're unhinged.”

“But,” she leans in slightly, smirking, “You still married me.”

I look at her then, really look at her - the way the dim kitchen light catches the sharp angles of her face, the way her smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, amused and knowing.

She’s older now. Debatably wiser. A little less reckless, maybe, but every inch still her. Sharp, unpredictable, undeniably magnetic. The woman I fell in love with, the woman who still makes my heart stumble in my chest just by being here.

I move toward her, the warmth of the wine settling in my chest, but it’s not the drink making me feel lightheaded... it’s her.

Hooking my thumbs into the loops of her jeans, I tug her forward, closing the small distance between us. She lets me, her body falling into mine like she’s always belonged there.

Agatha smirks, tilting her chin up ever so slightly, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Oh? Feeling frisky, are we?”

I roll my eyes, but my fingers tighten at her waist, holding her close. “Just taking advantage of a rare moment of silence.”

She hums, dragging her hands up my arms, settling them over my shoulders like she has all the time in the world.

“Hmm. And here I was thinking you were about to admit how irresistibly drawn you are to me.”

I scoff, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with the smallest smile.

“Don’t push it.”

She grins. “Or what?”

I don’t answer. I just kiss her.

It’s slow at first, our lips pressing, a familiar warmth sparking between us. But then she deepens it, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. I sigh against her mouth, hands sliding around her back, melding her to me like I can’t bear to let go.

She tastes like red wine and something distinctly her, and I know, I never stood a chance.

Agatha makes a quiet, satisfied noise, her fingers teasing at the hem of my shirt.

“You know,” she murmurs against my lips, “if we’re very quiet, we could sneak upstairs and…”

A loud, exaggerated groan comes from the couch and interrupts us.

We break apart just in time to see Nicki shifting under his blanket, his eyes still closed, but his face twisted in the universal look of an absolutely disgusted child.

“Ugh,” he mutters, half-asleep. “You guys are so gross when you do that .”

Agatha pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against mine, laughter bubbling up in her chest.

“You hear that? We’re gross.”

I sigh dramatically. “Guess that’s our cue to behave.”

She grins, pressing one last lingering kiss to the corner of my mouth before stepping back.

“For now.”

I roll my eyes, biting back a smile. “Come on. Let’s get these two up to bed before we scar them for life.”

Agatha sighs, stretching. “Fine. But I fully expect you to finish what you started later.”

I shake my head, amused.

“You’re incorrigible.”

She winks. “Stop complaining, you know you love it.”

I huff out a laugh, moving to scoop Ella into my arms while Agatha nudges Nicki back awake.

Yeah… I do love it … all of it … this crazy, chaotic life of ours, that I wouldn’t change for the world.

Also on AO3 - Writtenwhiledreaming 💜

[clubeso]

Manifestation Through Sex Magick Tarot Spread

Spiritual & Occult PDF guides available for download.

[dark3den]

“A director's toy.

It's mounted and aimed dead-centre like it's waiting for its next scene. Not recording, but it's posed like it could be.

Because a director is always directing.”

“Now you're suspended midair. An angel, helpless in white, strung up for her viewing pleasure.

And you gasp.

Because it feels good.

God, it feels so good, and you are so fucked.

Her purple magic kisses and binds your skin and feels better than any restraint or satin ribbon she's ever wrapped around your limbs. Because this?

This, is her.

Unfiltered and unhinged.”

“Picturing you, on your knees for her, as her sacrificial bride.

But then, with a smirk that threatens to kill, she says:

“Oh no, sweetheart,” she tilts her head, “I’m going to fucking ruin you in this.”

Oh.

Oh.

And then it all hits home:

This is no reunion, reminder, or rehearsal.

This, is your reckoning.

And Agatha, ever the director, is going to capture every moment of it.”

“But your eyes betray you. Because they’re already lingering on what they really shouldn't:

On those stilettos.

On those fucking stilettos.

On those fucking Jimmy Choos.

Because she sees it. Instantly.

Because Agatha sees everything.

"Look at you," she purrs, tilting her ankle so the gleam of patent black leather taunts your eyeline, "Still obsessed with my heels, even after I ruined you with them."”

“The floor tilts. The puddle of your ruin starts to ripple. A warm trickle runs from your nose again and the blood drips down to your wet lips.

That too-much feeling.

—

You look up at her like a girl possessed.

Not a good girl. Not a bad one either.

Just the kind that doesn’t know how to stop wanting.

“It’s not enough. I want more,” you say, teary and wrecked, and then, “Please, mommy. Make me worse. Want you to make me bad.”

Agatha’s jaw drops. Blue eyes flare with something feral. Something flickers through her face like she just witnessed a miracle she accidentally created.

“So you lick. You swallow. You moan. You sob a little into the floor as your hips jerk forward uselessly, clenching on nothing but the air and the ache.

“Oh, look at you. Look at you,” she huffs, “Wrecked little thing. My fucking favourite view.”

Above you, Agatha watches like a queen atop her castle.”

—————— 🎥 🪄💜✨ ——————

Agatha.

Agatha.

Agatha.

….Uh. Did I just black out and have the spirit of “Lights, Camera, Magic!” By @lunargrrrl possess my body once more, having resulted in whatever this is? Yes. Yes I did.

All credit and admiration goes to the amazing, and beyond magically talented @lunargrrrl 💋. ~Quotes are from chapter 49; aka THE chapter~

Gods. LMC, you will never not have me in a chokehold. You will always be famous 🙇🏻‍♀️.

✨Kathryn in the actors on actors, also fueled this✨

[noobiestnoober]

Truth or Dare: The Mikaelson Invasion (Sequel to “Truth or Dare Gone Wrong”)

Here's the official sequel to Truth or Dare Gone Wrong, where Klaus Mikaelson and Co., crashes the next game night—and brings all his chaos with him.

Three days had passed since the truth-or-dare spell incident. Three long days where Damon still refused to look at his reflection for too long, and Stefan pretended he hadn’t recited rhyming couplets for hours on end. You, on the other hand, had finally stopped glowing—but not before Caroline teased you into wearing sunglasses indoors. No one had dared say the words “truth” or “dare” out loud since. It was an unspoken pact, one rooted in the shared trauma of enchanted glitter, magical hiccups, and the sheer audacity of Stefan reciting his own Shakespearean tragedy as narration to everyone’s suffering.

So when the doorbell rang that evening, you were expecting pizza. Something simple. Comforting. Absolutely, undeniably non-magical.

Instead, when you opened the door, you were greeted by Klaus Mikaelson standing on the porch, looking far too smug for someone who hadn’t been invited. He was dressed in dark grey and black, casual but effortlessly intimidating. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his coat, and his smile was the kind that usually preceded terrible ideas.

"Hello, love," he said smoothly, eyes scanning the interior of the Salvatore house behind you. "Word reached me that Mystic Falls had itself a rather... colorful game night. Pink-haired Damon. Rhyming Stefan. And you—glowing like a Christmas angel. Must’ve been a good time."

You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms. "It wasn’t a good time. It was a near-apocalyptic event in a cozy sweater. And how exactly did you find out?"

He stepped forward just slightly, enough for you to catch a hint of whatever expensive cologne he was wearing—a mix of spice and arrogance. "Damon sent a picture. And a voice message. It was mostly swearing, but the hair really told the story."

You tried to close the door on him, but Klaus, being Klaus, stopped it with a single finger, still smiling as if this were all a charming misunderstanding.

"Don’t be like that," he said. "I brought reinforcements."

The words hadn’t even settled before Rebekah strolled into view behind him, arms laden with wine and something suspiciously like playing cards. She looked far too pleased for someone crashing an evening uninvited. Kol wasn’t far behind, sipping something amber from a crystal glass he definitely hadn’t poured inside his own home.

You sighed. Deeply. From the soul.

"You’re not really planning to crash game night, are you?"

Kol shrugged with a grin. "We heard there were spells, psychological warfare, and bodily transformations. Of course we came."

Inside, Damon must have caught the drift, because he stormed toward the door from the hallway, his hair still faintly pink in the overhead light despite Bonnie’s attempt to fix it the night before. The color had faded to more of a soft rose gold, but the trauma was eternal.

"Absolutely not," he said before anyone else could speak. "There is no way I'm letting glitter-hiccups over there turn this into a circus. Again."

Klaus, with a faux-innocent blink, said, "Damon, I’m hurt. I didn’t even bring Hope this time."

Caroline appeared a moment later, eyebrows lifting in perfect sync as she took in the Originals like unwelcome party guests. Her gaze landed on Klaus for an extra beat, then flicked away.

Elena, behind her, looked wary. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

"No, it's not," Bonnie added from the doorway to the kitchen, holding a bowl of popcorn like it was a defensive weapon. "And I'm not fixing anyone’s magic-induced wardrobe malfunctions tonight. That spell was a one-time deal."

But despite the warnings and the sighs and the collective sense of déjà vu, somehow, once again, everyone found themselves gathered in the Salvatore living room. The coffee table had been cleared, the cushions rearranged into a casual circle, and the dreaded bottle placed in the center like a cursed relic that had never once brought joy to anyone.

Rebekah uncorked the wine.

Kol spun the bottle first.

The game had begun.

The first few rounds were manageable, in the way that any situation involving the Mikaelsons could be considered manageable. Elena was dared to swap phones with Damon for five minutes, resulting in a tense silence as she scrolled and then announced loudly that she would never be the same. Damon turned to Bonnie and muttered something about encryption spells and memory loss potions. Bonnie refused.

Caroline, visibly regretting staying, dared Rebekah to sing the Mystic Falls High cheer in full. Rebekah complied—but only after compelling the stereo to play a background beat and forcing Stefan to beatbox. His beatboxing was, unfortunately, better than anyone expected. That somehow made it worse.

When the bottle landed on Klaus, he leaned forward, elbow resting on one bent knee, his voice slow and deliberate. “Truth.”

Kol grinned immediately, sensing an opportunity to stir the pot. “Is it true that you once enchanted your own reflection to wink back at you in every mirror?”

Klaus barely blinked. “Only when I was feeling dramatic.”

That somehow broke the room into low, hesitant laughter. You watched him closely, unsure what his angle was. He didn’t just come to tease Damon. Klaus never did anything without some deeper motive.

Eventually, the bottle pointed at you. You stared at it like it had betrayed you personally.

Klaus smirked. "Truth or dare, love?"

Everyone watched. You hesitated for only a second too long.

"Dare," you said finally, because pride was a dangerous thing.

The smile that curled on Klaus’ lips was both charming and menacing. "Let Bonnie cast a spell on me. Anything she likes."

You blinked. “Wait. That’s a dare for me?”

He tilted his head. “You dared me last time, didn’t you? I’m only returning the favor.”

Bonnie looked between you and Klaus warily. “You sure about this?”

He nodded. “Completely.”

There was a beat of tense silence as Bonnie stood. Her fingers flexed, magic already humming in the air around her. She didn’t speak the spell aloud this time—she simply moved her hands in a smooth arc, whispered something too soft for anyone else to hear, and let the magic slip into place.

At first, nothing happened. Then Klaus sneezed. And again. On the third sneeze, a puff of shimmering pink glitter burst from his mouth and floated lazily to the floor. Rebekah covered her mouth with both hands. Kol was on the floor, laughing so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

Stefan leaned forward, eyes wide. "Was that—"

“Glitter,” Bonnie confirmed. “Every time he lies. Or gets annoyed.”

“Which is always,” Damon said, practically gleeful.

Klaus narrowed his eyes and sneezed again, the glitter now catching in his lashes. You tried not to laugh, but it was a losing battle. Caroline gave up entirely and started filming with her phone. Elena didn’t even bother hiding her amusement.

Klaus looked at you, eyes still glittering, and said flatly, “This isn’t over.”

You smiled. “That wasn’t a lie. No glitter.”

He sneezed again. A lot of glitter.

“I stand corrected,” you said.

And Klaus, sneezing, sparkling, and still somehow managing to look vaguely threatening, glared at the lot of you as Kol clapped him on the back, laughing too hard to breathe.

Somewhere deep down, you knew this wouldn’t be the last of it. But for tonight? You’d take the win