#agatha rio

[florida3exclamationpoints]

Agatha All Along + text posts pt. 42/?

[warpdrive-witch]

It Worked (11/?)

26.4k words: Christmas. New Year Flashbacks. Fluff. So much FLuf. Oral. Grinding. New Year's Eve Sex.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader

Summary: The stones caught the firelight like memory. Her hands shook. Her breath caught. And in the quiet, she finally let herself believe: this is mine.

Right Where the Light Hits

The house was draped in the deep hush of early Christmas morning—the kind of quiet that only happens once a year, before the world remembers to wake up. Outside, snow blanketed the street in untouched layers of white, moonlight catching in each delicate drift. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, curling around the corners of the house like it, too, was waiting.

Inside, warmth hummed low through the radiators. The air smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon—remnants of the fire and cookies from the night before. The only sound was the soft rustle of shifting blankets and the quiet creak of the mattress as Agatha eased upright, one hand braced at the edge of the bed, the other already reaching to check if your breathing was still steady.

It was. You lay curled beneath the blanket, dream-drenched and peaceful, one hand tucked beneath your cheek, the other resting protectively over your belly. The faint shape of your daughter moved beneath your palm in sleep, and Agatha felt the breath catch in her chest. Just for a moment.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Behind her, the bed shifted again—Rio’s arm sliding across the space she’d just left, a soft groan slipping from her lips. Her curls were wild with sleep, half-shadowed in the dim light. She blinked blearily once, twice, then tilted her face up as Agatha leaned in to kiss her temple.

“Now?” Rio whispered, voice rough with sleep but already warming.

Agatha nodded. Her smile was small, but sure. They moved like smoke—quiet and deliberate, stepping through the house with practiced ease. Agatha wrapped herself in her long cardigan, the one with threadbare elbows and one loose button, while Rio pulled on the same flour-dusted sweatpants from last night, the drawstring dragging behind her like a forgotten ribbon. No socks. No lights. Just breath. Memory. Anticipation.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Tucked in the alcove near the laundry room, swaddled in an old white sheet, it waited—the rocker. Agatha had found it weeks ago in the corner of a small family-run shop, haloed in lamplight like it had been placed there for her to see. Thickly cushioned. Deeply upholstered. A warm-stone color that wasn’t quite gray, wasn’t quite beige—just comfort, woven into fabric. A chair that didn’t demand attention, but promised to hold it.

She peeled the sheet back now, slow and reverent. The rocker revealed itself inch by inch—the soft curve of the back, the wide armrests already shaped for elbows that would hold babies and books and sleepy heads. The ottoman sat in front of it like a second breath. Steady. Solid. Waiting.

Rio exhaled low. “God, it’s perfect.”

Together, they lifted. The weight of the chair wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. Symbolic. They maneuvered it down the hallway, breath syncing without thought, steps careful, practiced. They paused once at the doorway to the bedroom, just to listen. Still asleep. Still dreaming.  The nursery door creaked as it opened.

The room was quiet, still in its in-between state—walls mostly bare, a small stack of books you’d begun to collect on the floor, a soft rug anchoring the space in the center. Curtains fluttered faintly at the edges of the window, moved by the breath of the heater beneath it.

Rio shifted to angle the chair toward the window, setting the ottoman just in front. Agatha stood back and watched the space transform. Not physically. But in spirit. It wasn’t just a room anymore. It was becoming. The rocker settled like it had always belonged.

Its oversized cushion curved gracefully toward the window, the faint light of snow-filtered dawn beginning to stretch across the floorboards like soft ribbon. It didn’t just take up space—it shaped it. The rocker grounded the room in a way nothing else had yet. Not the shelves. Not the little pile of books. Not even the framed print of the night sky Rio insisted on hanging just above the changing table.

This chair was the first real center. The kind of piece a room rearranged itself around. A future written into fabric and woodgrain. Agatha stepped back, her gaze sweeping over the gentle angle of the backrest, the wide arms built for bracing elbows and sleepy weight, the matching ottoman standing like a silent companion. It looked exactly as she remembered it in the shop, except now—it was here. Real. Placed. Home.

And then Rio, stepping back with a little grunt, brushed her palms off on her thighs and nodded, just once.

“Right there,” Rio whispered, stepping back and brushing her hands off against her thighs. “The light hits that spot first in the morning. I checked all week.”

Agatha glanced at her, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Of course you did.”

“I had to make sure,” Rio said, her voice warm despite the chill in her lungs. She turned toward the chair again, watching it like it might start rocking on its own. Her eyes shimmered in the half-light. “She’s gonna fall asleep there. Curled up with her. After feedings. After she’s changed. After she cries just because she needs to be held. We will to of course butt… you know what im saying.” Agatha’s expression softened.

Because she could see it.

Clear as if it had already happened.

You—barefoot, in one of her old sweaters, your hair mussed from sleep and still beautiful. The baby in your arms, cheeks pink from warmth, breath slow and even, nestled against your chest, warm, full, and impossibly small. A soft blanket half-draped over you both, slipping toward the floor like it always did when you were too tired to care. Your head tilted back, eyes closed. Not asleep, not quite—but in that sacred space between exhaustion and reverence. The room quiet. The chair creaking gently beneath the weight of the moment. Of you.

Not even poetry could compete.

They fell quiet again—but not from absence. From fullness. There was nothing left to say that hadn’t already been whispered into the bones of the house. They just stood there, side by side, breath fogging in tandem, the rocker sitting like a held breath between them. A symbol of everything that had changed. And everything that hadn’t.

Agatha reached out first—fingers curling into the edge of Rio’s sweatshirt. Rio stepped into her without hesitation, wrapping her arms around Agatha’s waist, her forehead brushing the crook of her neck. She breathed her in—lavender lotion, flannel, and something deeper. The scent of safe.

Agatha’s arms circled her in return, loose but firm. She exhaled through her nose and let her chin rest gently on Rio’s head.

“Merry Christmas, Aggie,” Rio murmured, her voice thick with something that might’ve been awe.

“Merry Christmas, Love,” Agatha whispered back.

And for a while, that was enough. No music. No ribbon. No fanfare. Just the slow blink of string lights from the hallway, the snow thickening outside the window, and the presence of something vast pressing gently around them. The shape of a beginning.

“You think she knows?” The question came like a breath half-held. Not heavy. But holy.

Agatha didn’t answer right away. She kept her eyes on the rocker—the way it caught the first gray blush of morning, the way it filled the room without overtaking it. Like it had always been waiting for this place, this moment, this version of their family to settle into it. She watched how the shadow from the curtain pooled at the base of the ottoman like an exhale, like the room itself was beginning to breathe easier.

Her hand slid down to cover Rio’s, fingers curling into the grooves of her knuckles, grounding them both in the quiet certainty that they had done something right. When she spoke, her voice was low. Careful. “I don’t think so.”

Rio tilted her head, brushing her cheek against Agatha’s shoulder. Her breath caught just slightly. “Really?”

Agatha nodded slowly, eyes still on the chair. “She’s been watching us so closely lately,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “She always notices the little things. The way we glance at each other. How we never let her carry anything alone. She’s been trying not to get too curious, but I think—” she hesitated, just for a second, “—I think she’s convinced we’re planning something. But not this.”

She squeezed Rio’s hand, thumb stroking the back of it in slow, absent-minded circles. “This… she won’t expect.”

Rio’s chest rose, then fell in a quiet, reverent rhythm. She thought of you waking up slowly. Stretching. Padding barefoot across the hallway in one of their shirts, rubbing sleep from your eyes. She thought of the way you’d pause in the doorway. The breath that would catch in your throat. The way your hand would instinctively drift to your belly—not out of fear, but out of grounding. Out of awe.

And then the tears. Not loud ones. The kind that came quiet. Soft. Sacred. “She’s going to lose it,” Rio whispered, almost gleefully. “Like… full-body, wobble-lipped, hands-over-her-face crying.”

Agatha’s laugh was quiet. “Only if we’re lucky.”

“Oh, we’re lucky,” Rio murmured. Her arms tightened around Agatha. “We’re the luckiest people alive.”

And there it was again—the hush. Not emptiness, but presence. A silence thick with things unsaid: gratitude, devotion, the aching joy of building something beautiful in the bones of a life once made only to survive. Agatha leaned her head back slightly against Rio’s. “We should go,” she said. “Before she realizes we’re gone.”

But neither of them moved. Because the chair wasn’t just a gift, it was a beginning. And for just a few more seconds, they wanted to stand there, wrapped in quiet triumph and snow lit morning, watching the future take shape in the corner of a room they would soon fill with books, lullabies, and the kind of love that didn’t need to be spoken to be known. Not yet. Soon. But not yet.

-----

You woke slowly, in that thick, honeyed way your body had only recently relearned—one you’d nearly forgotten before winter break began. No alarms. No deadlines. No frantic lurch toward consciousness with a to-do list already pounding behind your eyes. Just stillness. Just breath. Just warmth, blooming around you like a secret.

It greeted you before thought did. Before memory. Before the dull ache in your hips or the familiar stretch in your ribs. Before the soft, insistent pull of your daughter shifting beneath the weight of your lungs, as if even in sleep she knew the rhythms of you.

The bed was a sanctuary—a cocoon spun from fleece and firelight, stitched at the seams with breath and quiet touch. The kind of sacred stillness only winter mornings know how to hold, when the snow has fallen overnight and the world hasn’t yet decided to rise. Before the kettle hums. Before the radiator clicks. Before the house remembers to be a house again, instead of a dream.

Agatha’s body was wrapped around yours like silk—an embrace worn smooth from countless nights spent holding each other together. Her arms draped across your side with that familiar, unspoken ease; her legs tucked neatly behind yours like puzzle pieces. The slow rise of her chest met your back in a rhythm that was no longer separate from yours.

Her breath warmed the curve of your neck, each exhale heavy with sleep and faintly sweet with peppermint—the tea she brewed when her mind refused stillness. One of her hands, slack but steady, rested just beneath your breast. The tips of her fingers curled softly against your ribs, and her wedding band—a slim, unyielding circle—pressed coolly into your skin. A quiet vow. A pulse. A reminder.

On your other side—Rio. Tucked into the curve of you like she had never belonged anywhere else. Like gravity itself had pulled her into place. Her thigh was draped over yours, skin against skin, the heat of her seeping through the sheets in slow, gentle waves. Her curls were half-crushed into the pillow beside you, wild and soft and scented faintly of cinnamon and old records. Her breathing matched yours—deep, even, steady.

Her hand lay across the lower swell of your belly, fingers splayed protectively, reverently. Warm. Familiar. Callused in all the places that reminded you of who she’d been before you. Before this. A historian with steady hands and wildfire in her voice. And now—those same hands knew exactly how to cradle the miracle growing beneath your skin, as if they’d always been meant to.

You inhaled. And in that sacred, silent space between night and morning—the world breathed back. She moved.

Your daughter stirred beneath Rio’s touch with the slow, sure grace of a tide changing direction. Not a kick. Not a startle. Just a ripple. A roll. The kind of motion that said I’m here. That said, Good morning. That said, I already know you. A cat’s stretch in a sunbeam. The kind of movement that lived in quiet confidence.

You didn’t speak. Not yet. You didn’t need to.

Your smile arrived first—small, private, glowing from somewhere deep inside your ribs. A secret smile. The kind that grows when something sacred passes between you and the universe, and no one else has to know.

But gods—Rio noticed. Instantly.

Her fingers twitched reflexively across your belly, brushing the echo of movement just as it passed beneath. Her breath hitched, catching on the edge of a gasp. Then stillness. And then her hand pressed in, slightly firmer, like she needed to feel it again. Like she couldn’t trust the miracle until it told her twice.

“Wait—” she breathed, her voice raw with sleep but thick with awe. Something ancient hummed in her tone, a thread of reverence so full it felt like it had been handed down across centuries. “Was that—?”

You didn’t even open your eyes. Just smiled, slow and wide and blooming. The kind of smile that only comes when the thing you’ve been aching to share finally, finally arrives. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice curling through the quiet like ribbon. “She’s awake.”

Agatha made a soft sound behind you—a low hum in her throat, still thick with dreams but already searching for you. Already moving. Her hand slid lower, over your waist, finding Rio’s with ease. She didn’t press. Didn’t push. Just rested there, fingers open, still. Listening.

“Of course she is,” Agatha murmured, voice like velvet scraped raw. “She knows it’s Christmas Morning.”

Rio let out a soft chuckle—breathy, quiet, half-laugh, half-prayer—and leaned in. Her lips found your belly like they’d known the way for years. Her voice dipped lower, gentler. “Good morning, baby girl,” she whispered. “You ready for your first Christmas?”

And as if in answer, your daughter moved again. A gentle flutter at first. Then a roll—higher this time—pressing into Agatha’s palm like recognition. Agatha’s breath caught. Sharp. Soft. Her lashes fluttered against your neck, and her body curved tighter around you like she could wrap herself around the moment and never let it go.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Her grip on you tightened just slightly, anchoring herself to the feeling. Her fingers traced slow, circular patterns over the curve of your belly—mapping something she still couldn’t quite believe was real. She leaned in and kissed the soft skin behind your ear. Light. Fleeting. A vow.

“She’s excited,” Agatha whispered, and the wonder in her voice was a living thing. “She feels everything.”

“Of course she is,” you murmured, turning your face just enough to find Agatha’s cheek. “She’s yours.”

Rio leaned in again, brushing another kiss low across your belly, her curls trailing over your skin like silk. “She’s got your sense of timing, that’s for sure,” she whispered, grinning against your belly. “Isn’t that right, mija?”

You laughed. A quiet, cracked thing that broke open beautifully between the three of you. Agatha kissed your shoulder, her lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. Rio kissed your belly again, right over where your daughter had last pressed. And again—she moved. Slow. Strong. Certain. The room around you stayed wrapped in early light. The curtains held back the snow-dusted morning like a secret, pale gold beginning to curl around the frost at the corners of the windowpane. Somewhere, the world was stirring. But not here. Here, everything was still.

You turned your head slightly, enough to nuzzle against Agatha’s cheek. Her skin was cool at the edge, warmed by the curve of your breath, and her curls—unruly, wild, familiar—brushed across your forehead like ivy trailing along a stone wall. “Don’t move yet,” you whispered. “Just… stay like this a little longer.”

Agatha nodded. Wordless. Certain. Her hand never left your belly, her presence wrapping around you like a second blanket. Rio’s voice came last—soft and reverent, barely above the hush of snow whispering beyond the windows. “This is the best morning of my life.” And you knew—so deeply it hurt to hold it— She meant it. All of it.

-----

The warmth still lingered when you finally stirred, tangled in the leftover heat of bodies and the echo of laughter. Agatha had slipped out first, moving with that practiced kind of grace that barely rustled the sheets—just the soft creak of the floorboard where she always stepped too far to the right. Her hand had ghosted across your arm before she left, a silent I'm here that needed no voice.

Rio had been less subtle. She stretched like a cat beside you, groaned dramatically into the pillow, then muttered something about “the betrayal of wood floors in winter” before sliding from beneath the blankets. But not before kissing your cheek, slow and lingering, her curls brushing against your shoulder as she whispered, “Back in a second, hermosa.”

You stayed there for another breath, maybe two—long enough to memorize the way the sheets had cooled on Agatha’s side and still held Rio’s warmth at your back. Long enough to feel your daughter stir low in your belly with that familiar, content little roll. And then you rose.

You rose slowly, your joints stiff but your heart so full it might’ve floated. The pajamas felt softer this year—stretchy cotton printed with dancing reindeer and cartoon snowflakes, the kind designed for cozy photo ops and maximum embarrassment. Yours rode a little higher over your bump now, the top straining slightly across the curve of your belly. Agatha had warned you they might not fit come New Year’s, but you refused to give them up. Not when they still carried last year’s scent of vanilla and peppermint, not when they were the same pair you’d insisted the three of you buy during your first winter together, wide-eyed and full of nervous hope, trying to build memories from scraps of silence and joy.

“It was your idea, you know,” Agatha had teased when you’d found them again in the bottom of the Christmas box last week. “Matching sets. Ridiculous prints. Full commitment to holiday chaos.”

You’d laughed then, rolling your eyes with affection. “I was trying to build traditions.”

“You were trying to get us all in photos you could blackmail us with later.” And maybe both had been true.

Now stepping into the hallway, you caught the first rich waft of brewed coffee, warm and earthy and slightly nutty—real coffee, not herbal tea or ginger-infused compromise. Decaf. Ezra-approved. A small indulgence on a morning made for memory. A gift in its own right. You followed it, bare feet brushing against the cool hardwood, your hand absently resting on your belly as your daughter stretched again, slow and satisfied.

The nursery door caught your eye as you padded past. Closed. Not locked, not suspicious—just gently sealed the way it always was. Still, something tugged at you. A pause. Just a half-step slower than usual. You didn’t question it. Not today. Not when the air was thick with possibility and something quiet hummed beneath the surface.

The living room glowed soft and gold, the tree lights twinkling in sleepy patterns, the garland across the mantle catching the first pale beams of morning. The hearth was quiet now, but embers still pulsed behind the grate like a held breath. The whole house smelled like comfort—coffee, yes, but also something sweeter. Cinnamon, maybe. Orange peel. Crumbs from last night’s sugar cookies and the memory of something baking hours before. Rio appeared from the kitchen, her curls tied up in a loose, sleepy bun, her pajama pants riding low on her hips and her mug clutched between two hands like a lifeline. “Look at you,” she grinned when she saw you. “Fashion icon. Holiday legend.”

“We’re literally wearing the same thing,” you pointed out, waddling toward the couch with a mock glare.

“Yes,” she said, “but I make it look rebellious.”

Agatha was already by the tree, one of her thighs tucked under her as she knelt and pulled out the first of the hidden gifts from behind the armchair. Her sleeves were pushed back, her glasses still perched low, and her hair half-fallen from the braid she wore to bed. She looked up, her expression softening instantly. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You crossed the room and leaned down, brushing a kiss to her hair. “Is that all of them?”

“Almost.” Her hand reached blindly beneath the sideboard and retrieved one last bundle wrapped in navy cloth and twine. “We’ve gotten sneakier every year.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rio muttered, flopping onto the couch with exaggerated flair. “I nearly broke a toe on your ‘discreet’ hiding spot in the laundry room.”

You laughed, already turning toward the hallway. “I’ll be right back. Mine’s still stashed.”

Agatha’s eyes followed you with quiet curiosity as you ducked into the hallway, your steps instinctive now—past the edge of the living room, past the soft creak in the floorboard, toward the hall closet by the office. The old bookshelf in the hall closet waited like a co-conspirator—tucked neatly beside the study, its door always just barely ajar like it knew it held secrets. You opened it with care and crouched down— third shelf down, behind a stack of archival binders and the decoy folder still labeled Thesis Edits in faint Sharpie. Classic misdirection.

The first bundle was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, tucked carefully into the old museum tote you’d carried through two degrees and one unforgettable summer fellowship. You cradled it close, lips tugging upward with the kind of smile that always came before a surprise. This year, the bags were heavier—not in cost, but in meaning. Chosen with intention and hope.

You made two trips. No choice, really. Agatha was just beginning to arrange the gifts beneath the tree when you leaned over her again, murmuring, “Round one.”

She glanced up, eyebrows raised with amused suspicion. “There’s more?”

“Of course, there’s more,” you said, already pivoting for the second haul. “I live with two academics. You think one round is gonna cover it?”

The second bundle took more effort. You had to kneel, one hand bracing your weight, the other shifting aside a stack of old winter scarves, the crumpled felt hats from a holiday party two years ago, and a lopsided box of backup batteries. Your daughter pressed upward in protest, a low, gentle stretch beneath your ribs.

“Almost done, baby girl,” you whispered under your breath, rubbing your side with one hand as you reached into the back corner and found the last package. The one you’d debated wrapping at all. The one you’d tucked away with a kind of hope too tender to name.

Your heart thudded as you returned to the living room, both hands full. That giddy, fluttery kind of nervous—the kind you only get when you’re giving someone something you really hope they’ll love. By the time you stepped back in, Rio had started peeling oranges with that slow, practiced ease you recognized from the holidays of her childhood. The peels curled in perfect spirals across the edge of the coffee table, placed carefully to the side like they were part of the ritual. The citrus scent filled the room—bright and clean, blooming into the air like memory.

She looked up as you approached, her mouth already full, and grinned around a bite. “You survived the second heist.”

“Barely.” You dropped back onto the couch beside her, breath catching slightly as you reached for your coffee again. “She’s not impressed with the bending and lifting.”

Agatha had settled on the floor again, cross-legged, her hands dusted with flour from the thumbprint cookie she’d just pilfered. A light flush warmed her cheeks as she surveyed the growing pile beneath the tree. “Neither am I,” she said, mock-stern, nudging your foot with hers. “Next year, you’re not allowed to be the sneaky one.”

You grinned over the rim of your mug. “Too late. I’ve already got plans for Valentine’s Day.”

Rio groaned. “Oh god, she’s scheduling her chaos in advance.”

You settled into the cushions, one leg tucked beneath you, the other stretching lazily across Rio’s lap. She immediately reached for your foot, warming it between her hands with instinctive affection. Agatha brought the final gifts over and tucked them gently beneath the tree, adding them to the soft pile of cloth-wrapped bundles and ribbon. None of them extravagant. All of them chosen with care.

“Coffee?” Rio offered Rio offered, holding out her mug like it was sacred. “Decaf. Sworn off by the gods. Ezra approved.” You took it with a grateful hum, the ceramic warming your palms. The first sip settled into your chest like gratitude. Like good decisions. Like rest you didn’t need to earn anymore.

Agatha returned with a tin of cranberry scones she’d baked two nights ago, edges still golden, the tops dusted with sugar. The coffee table now held a little wooden tray stacked with jam thumbprints, candied walnuts, sugared strawberries—and Rio’s oranges. The peels were curling into soft little spirals beside her thigh, hands still working through the next piece with methodical care.

“My mom used to make a whole thing out of peeling these,” Rio said softly, placing another perfect slice onto a plate. “Said if you did it in one piece, your wishes would come true.”

“Did they?” you asked, taking a slice when she offered.

She shrugged, smiling crookedly. “Eventually.”

Agatha gave her a look from the floor—half smirk, half something deeper. Then she reached up to swipe a slice from the plate without asking, popping it into her mouth with the air of someone who fully intended to savor the moment. You smiled into the rim of your mug and whispered, mostly to yourself

-----

The coffee still steamed in your hands, the scent curling into the soft warmth of pine and firelight as the three of you made your slow migration from the couch to the base of the tree. Your back settled gratefully against the curve of the sofa behind you, a pillow tucked just so to keep the weight from your spine. Agatha reached out immediately, adjusting the blanket at your legs without being asked, her fingers brushing over your knee in a rhythm that had become second nature. Rio dropped beside you with the grace of someone who had spent her whole life making herself at home in rooms like this—legs stretched long, hair a riot of sleepy curls, the corner of her mouth curved in a grin that could melt frost.

The tree glowed above you. Its lights blinked softly, casting golden reflections against the scattered wrapping paper, ribbons half-unfurled like secrets waiting to be unwrapped. Most of the gifts were little things—matching hoodies, handmade bookmarks, a mug with a picture of your three faces awkwardly crammed into the corner of a photo booth. But two boxes remained untouched, tucked toward the back, still wrapped in heavy paper. The ones you had waited to give.

"Okay, okay," Rio said, her voice full of sugar and mischief. “Whose turn?”

"Mine," you murmured, already leaning forward, placing the two small boxes in your lap. You looked to Agatha first, fingers brushing across the thin ribbon. "You go first."

Agatha accepted the box with a slight tilt of her head, her eyes narrowing with a smirk. “This better not be another annotated edition of The Price of Salt”

"Open it," you whispered, heart caught behind your ribs.

She peeled the ribbon slowly—deliberate fingers, careful hands. The paper crinkled beneath her palms, soft as snow. And when the box opened, her breath left her in one quiet, shattered exhale.

Inside, nestled in soft velvet, was a necklace—delicate, white gold, the chain fine enough to catch moonlight. But it was the pendant that held her still. Four stones: amethyst, smoky quartz, and citrine, each no bigger than the tip of her pinky. And between them, cradled at the center, a single diamond. Small. Brilliant. Irrefutable.

She didn’t speak. Just stared. “Three stones for us,” you said softly. “And one for her. For our daughter.” Agatha’s eyes flicked to you, wet now, shimmering. Her mouth parted, but her voice cracked before it could form words. So instead, she reached out—her hand curling behind your neck, pulling you forward until your foreheads touched.

"Thank you," she breathed, and it sounded like a benediction.

Rio reached out and gently ran her thumb across the diamond. “It’s like you caught the moon,” she whispered.

You turned then. Reached for the second box. “And now, you.”

Rio cocked an eyebrow but took the package with both hands, like it might be fragile. Her fingers were faster—always impatient—but when the lid lifted, her breath hitched. She didn’t say a word for a full ten seconds.

Inside, her necklace lay in a tangle of stars. A constellation, cast in silver, small and bright. Three stones shone in its curve—one violet, one honeyed gold, one pale green. At its heart, a diamond glimmered. Framed by the others, embraced by the sky. Your sky. Rio’s thumb pressed against it, then lifted. "This is us," she whispered, voice thick.

"And her," you nodded. “She’s the center of our stars.”

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the necklace free. “I don’t…” She stopped. Shook her head. Her eyes gleamed with the weight of something she hadn’t let herself carry for years. “I don’t even have the words for this.”

"You don’t need them," Agatha murmured, her voice like velvet. She reached for Rio’s hand, guiding the necklace around her neck with the kind of tenderness that broke things open. “We see you.”

Rio nodded, pressing her lips together tightly. And when you leaned in to kiss her temple, she turned to catch your lips instead. A kiss soft as dawn. And then—her turn.

“Alright,” Rio said, clearing her throat and trying to find her balance in the emotional wreckage of joy. “Your turn, sweetheart.”

She stood then, crossed to the closet, and returned with a bundle wrapped in soft indigo cloth. The moment it passed into your hands, your breath caught. Not because it was heavy—but because it wasn’t. Light. Worn. Familiar. You peeled the fabric away. Slowly. The breath in your throat trembled.

A quilt.

Hand-stitched. Layered. The top was a collage of colors and textures—hoodies, old T-shirts, pieces of fabric that carried entire chapters of your life. You ran your fingers across the navy blue from the college hoodie you wore when you first found out you were pregnant. The faded gray tank you slept in during that long, sick first trimester. A soft square of Agatha’s worn scarf. One of Rio’s early gym shirts. You gasped—recognizing each piece.

"You made this?” you asked, voice cracking.

Rio nodded. “I started it a few months ago, right after we saw Bean Sprout for the first time. Agatha helped when I messed up the binding.”

You turned it over—only to freeze. The backing was indigo cotton, soft and light, scattered with tiny embroidered stars. "My Abuela used to say babies started life on this side of heaven,” Rio said softly. “And every child in my family started with a quilt like this. Handmade. Made from scraps of the people who would love and hold them forever.”

Your fingers stilled over a strip of soft tan-and-white striped cotton. "That was my father’s work shirt,” Rio whispered. “He wore it every Saturday until it fell apart. The yellow flowers? My mom’s church skirt. She wore it the day I won my first writing contest. And this…”—her voice broke—“this was my Abuela’s favorite blouse. She used to say it was made of music notes.”

You touched it reverently. The fabric smooth like song. “It’s not just for the baby,” she said. “It’s for you, too. So she’ll always be wrapped in the hands that love her. Some of them here. Some of them watching from the other side. But none of them gone.”

Your vision blurred. You ran your hands over the quilt, the softness, the weight of memory stitched into every seam. “She’ll be held by all of them.”

“She already is,” Rio said, her hand pressed to your belly, where she kicked out at Rio’s palm.  You kissed her. Fiercely. And held on. Because the gift wasn’t just cloth, it was home. And it had your story written all across it.

Agatha shifted beside you, wiping her cheeks in that unconvincing way that meant she was crying too. “Well,” she said thickly, “my gift might feel a little anticlimactic now.”

Rio laughed. “Oh, please. That tiny box has chaos energy. What did you do?”

Agatha pulled a small package from under the tree. Inside, Rio found a tiny baseball glove—barely larger than a coffee mug. Beside it, a second, adult-sized glove, weather-soft and perfect. And under that, a tiny baby cap. Stitched across the front: “My Mamí’s the Coach.”

Rio blinked. Agatha smiled. “And three tickets to the Mariners game. April. A few weeks after Opening Day.”

Rio let out a quiet, broken laugh, her fingers cradling the glove like it was made of glass. “You remembered.”

“You told me once,” Agatha murmured, “that your dad never missed a home opener. And your mom used to dress you in tiny jerseys even when you couldn’t sit up straight. I figured… our girl should have the same.”

You felt Rio’s inhale from where you sat. Deep. Shaking. Whole. “You’re giving me my childhood back,” she said. “But better. With her.” And Agatha—without hesitation—kissed her.

You smiled, heart aching in the best way, and shifted where you sat. “Wait,” you said, reaching out to touch Agatha’s arm. “This goes perfect. Can you grab the little box behind the candles? It’s from me.”

Agatha leaned forward, retrieved the small rectangular package with a questioning glance, and slid it across the quilt to Rio. Rio cocked her head, still a little teary but intrigued, and tore gently at the wrapping. When the lid came off, a laugh broke free—soft and startled and so full of memory it made your chest tighten. Inside were two tiny baseball jerseys. The first was red and cream, with Rockford Peaches stitched across the front in looping script. A nod. A memory. A tiny love letter to that rainy afternoon in Rio’s office—when your flirtation had still been cautious, but your mutual adoration of queer baseball history had already bound you like a shared secret.

Rio held it up, grinning like she was twenty-five again, her thumb brushing the fabric like it might carry the echo of that moment. Then she reached for the second—this one teal and cream, unmistakably a Mariners jersey. As she unfolded it, a third piece tumbled free: a matching miniature version, impossibly small. The name across the back was blank, waiting.

You shrugged, trying not to cry. “This way,” you said softly, “you can teach her about sports and queer history” Rio didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She just held both jerseys to her chest like she’d been handed her entire past—and her daughter’s future—all at once.

The room stilled with her. No one rushed to fill the silence. It felt like standing at the edge of a chapel—quiet, full of light, suspended in something sacred. The tree lights blinked slow and warm behind her, casting soft shapes across the quilt in her lap. Her thumb moved absentmindedly over the tiny Rockford Peaches logo, and you could almost see the memory forming behind her eyes. Agatha leaned in, resting her hand lightly on Rio’s knee. She didn’t say anything, but the touch said everything. I see it too. I feel it with you.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat, your hand pressed over your heart like you were trying to hold it still. “She’s gonna grow up knowing who she comes from,” you whispered, “and where she’s going.”

Rio finally looked up. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks pink from smiling too hard through the tears. “And she’s gonna grow up loved,” she said, voice cracked but sure.

Agatha shifted slightly, her gaze softening as she glanced between you both. “Everywhere she turns.” Rio turned back to the tiniest jersey—the one folded neatly like a secret waiting to be worn—and with a soft laugh, she laid it carefully across the swell of your stomach.

“What do you think, baby girl?” she murmured, brushing a knuckle gently across the edge of the fabric. “You like it?”

The answer came in a soft, certain roll—low and slow beneath your skin, right beneath the tiny nameplate that hadn't yet been stitched. Rio grinned, wide and proud and a little wobbly. “Already a Mariners fan,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss your belly. “That’s my girl.”

Rio exhaled, still looking at the tiny shirt. Then she blinked and sat back just enough to glance toward the base of the tree.

“Your turn, Doc,” she said, nudging a small, carefully wrapped parcel from beneath the garland and sliding it gently toward Agatha. Her voice was lighter now, steady with something new. “We didn’t forget you.”

And Agatha, who had been watching the two of you with something luminous in her eyes, finally reached for the gift. “For our daughter. From your Mommy’s hand and heart”

She opened it slowly. Blank pages stretched out before her, but between each line waited something sacred. A place to write poems. Letters. Thoughts before and after she was born.

Rio’s voice, soft beside you: “You said that no one ever gave you a place to write when you were little, and you always had questions you wanted the answers to.” She paused just long enough for Agatha’s eyes to flicker toward her.

“I figured… you could start writing to her now. And when she’s older, maybe she’ll find some of the answers to questions she never thought to ask.”

Agatha turned another page. Then another. Her breath moved in shallow waves, chest rising like the swell before a storm—but not a dangerous one. One that breaks open the sky just enough to let the light through.

And then she closed the book. She didn’t say anything. She just pressed it to her chest—flat against her heart—with both hands, fingers curling gently around the spine like she was holding something living. Rio leaned in and kissed her cheek, “You, my love, are going to be an amazing mother.”

-----

There were still a few gifts under the tree—carefully wrapped, ribboned with too much flair, probably more cozy things or chocolate or books. You reached toward them, your fingers brushing one of the remaining packages when you caught the shift in the room before you heard it. The sound of movement. A glance passed between your wives—quick, knowing.

Agatha turned first, the corner of her mouth already tugging into a smile. Rio’s eyes followed hers, lighting with a spark that you’d learned to recognize over the years: shared mischief. A plan just about to hatch.

“Wait,” Rio said, already rising to her feet, “those can wait.”

“What—?” you started, gesturing to the still-untouched gifts. “There’s a few more—”

But Agatha was already offering her hand, steady and sure, her other one brushing at her braid like she was trying not to grin too soon. “Come on,” she said softly. “Trust us.”

You blinked up at them both, a little dazed, caught in the warmth of the morning, the way their silhouettes looked against the slow dance of snow through the window. The fire crackled low behind you. The tree blinked soft gold. But something had shifted. Something new waited. You reached up, letting them pull you gently to your feet.

“Where are we going?” you asked, your voice playful but wary, like you already knew this was going to be one of those moments—the kind that shifted the season from memory into myth.

Rio just chuckled under her breath and took your other hand. And then Agatha turned slightly, just enough to look back at you with that almost-smile she saved for magic she didn’t need spells to conjure. “Okay,” she said, her voice dipped in honey and command, “you have to close your eyes.”

You arched a brow, amused, but did as asked—your lashes fluttering shut as they began to guide you down the hall, careful and slow. Their hands never left you—Agatha steady at your back, Rio’s arm looped with yours like a lifeline.

Your steps echoed gently off the hardwood. The air shifted as you moved through the house, from pine-scented warmth to something quieter. Still familiar. But different. Anticipatory

The sound of the nursery door. That slow, unmistakable creak. Your breath hitched. Even blind, you knew where you were. The air smelled faintly of lavender and fresh paint, sunlight warm on your cheeks. The floor beneath your feet softened—the plush rug. The quiet hush of space that had been waiting to be filled.

Rio’s hand squeezed yours once. “Okay,” she said, voice caught somewhere between pride and awe, “open your eyes.”

You did. And the world broke open. The nursery had changed since you last saw it. The soft sage walls glowed in the morning light. The garland you'd half-forgotten from a market in early December hung like a promise over the windowsill. A basket of children’s books you hadn’t sorted yet waited patiently near the shelf. But none of that mattered.

Because by the window—bathed in golden light, like it had always belonged there—was the chair. The chair you had mentioned weeks ago, without thinking. Not demanding, just dreaming. You’d said it once while curled under a blanket in the living room, your hand resting on your belly, half-laughing as you insisted: “I don’t care what else is in there. That nursery needs a rocker by the window. Big enough to curl into. Not the kind you perch in—one you sink into. That’s a must.”

And now here it was here. Stone-colored fabric, textured and warm. Deep, sturdy arms. A gentle curve to the back that looked like it had already memorized the shape of your body. An ottoman tucked beneath it, waiting like a quiet companion. The light from the window touched the fabric like a secret. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Surprise bloomed across your face before you could stop it, cracking you open from the center out.

Rio stepped closer, her hand brushing down your spine with unbearable gentleness. “Do you like it?” she asked, her voice thick, just a little breathless. Your hand lifted slowly—trembling—and skimmed across the fabric. The weave was soft beneath your fingertips, like warmth pressed into texture. Like something chosen with love. Your throat tightened. You nodded once, twice, unable to stop the tears that welled up in your eyes. Yes.

Agatha hadn’t moved. She stood just inside the doorway, watching you. Her arms were folded gently across her chest, but not like she was closed off. Like she was holding herself together, just barely. Her eyes never left your face. You met her gaze through the shimmer of tears. She smiled softly. Not smug. Not proud. Just... certain.

“Sit in it,” she said.

You moved forward slowly, almost reverently, your hand still grazing the armrest like it might vanish if you blinked too hard. And then you lowered yourself into the chair—and it gave.

It welcomed you. Held you. Not a piece of furniture. A place. The cushions yielded like they had been waiting for you all along. The room seemed to inhale with you, the light pooling across your lap, warm and quiet. You let your full weight sink down for the first time all morning. Every tired inch of you released into it. You gave a slow, testing rock—once forward, once back. And gods, it moved like butter. Smooth. Balanced. A rhythm you could live inside. A rhythm you could raise her in.

And then— She rolled. Not a flutter. Not a stretch. A full-bodied roll that pressed against your ribs like a wave breaking just beneath your skin. Not harsh, not sharp—just present. Certain. Your breath caught. Your hand flew instinctively to your belly. Fingers spread wide.

She moved again—slow, deliberate, strong—pressing herself into the curve of your palm like she was reaching for you. Like she knew. You let out a shaky laugh, part disbelief, part reverence. Your eyes darted to Agatha. You nodded, tears falling freely now. There was no point in trying to stop them.

“You remembered,” you whispered. “You really… remembered.”

Agatha smiled. “Of course I did.”

Rio was the first to move, kneeling at your side, one hand warm against your knee, the other coming to rest beside yours over your belly. Her thumb rubbed gentle, grounding circles. But then—Agatha joined you too. She crossed the room slowly, then lowered herself onto the ottoman at your feet, knees brushing yours as she faced you. The quiet creak of the wood beneath her weight didn’t protest. It held.

All of it held. The weight of your body. The weight of Rio’s hand, the future curled inside your womb, and now—Agatha. The three of you. And the life coming with you. Agatha placed one hand on your shin, the other finding Rio’s. Her voice was soft, uncertain. “If you don’t like it,” she began, “we can find another one. Something bigger. Softer—”

You didn’t let her finish. You leaned forward and kissed her—slow and sure, your fingers slipping beneath her jaw like they belonged there. When you pulled back, your voice was steadier. Clear. “I love it, Agatha,” you said. “It’s perfect.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, like she was letting the words settle inside her. Letting herself believe she got it right. Then her hand moved to your belly, joining yours and Rio’s, all three of you pressing softly into the curve of life growing beneath your skin. Your daughter rolled again beneath the warmth of your touch—present, real, unmistakably part of the moment.

 “How,” you whispered, breathless, “When—?”

Agatha’s lips curled into a tear-softened smile. “The week you mentioned it,” she said gently. “I went looking. And when I found it—I could already see you here. It was delivered the day you and Rio went out for lunch,” she said softly. “I had it stashed in the alcove near the laundry room—covered it with an old sheet and told you it was holiday decorations I hadn't sorted yet.”

You blinked, letting that land, then looked between them in astonishment. “And you got it in here this morning?”

Rio chuckled, her shoulders shaking with the effort not to laugh outright. “You were so wiped from everything yesterday, babe. We woke up early—like, barely light out—and carried it in here.” She grinned, leaning in to nudge your shoulder. “You didn’t hear a thing. We came back to bed as soon as we were done. Agatha even made coffee in the dark.”

Agatha smirked faintly, brushing her knuckles along your calf. “She bumped into the laundry basket twice,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“And you stubbed your toe on the ottoman,” Rio countered, eyes gleaming.

Agatha tilted her head, unbothered. “Worth it.”

You laughed, the sound spilling out of you breathless and a little disbelieving. You shook your head slowly, the pieces clicking into place. Agatha turned to Rio, her voice low and smug in that way only she could manage without being annoying. “I told you she’d be surprised.”

Rio gave her a mock glare, but her smile betrayed her. “Yeah, yeah. You were right.”

Then Agatha looked at you again, hand sliding along your knee in a slow, grounding touch. “Did you expect it?”

You exhaled a stunned laugh, the edges of it catching on the tears still lingering in your throat. “Not even a little.”

Agatha’s smile spread, soft and wide, the kind she reserved for only you. “Good,” she said, voice full of quiet pride. “That’s what made it worth it.”

You looked down at them—Rio kneeling beside you, her hand still anchored on your knee, her other resting protectively over your belly. Agatha sat on the ottoman in front of you, close enough that her thigh brushed yours, her fingertips tracing slow, absent circles against your shin. They weren’t saying anything. They didn’t have to. The three of you had folded into a kind of hush—not silence, exactly, but a breathless stillness wrapped in laughter, in glances, in the kind of love that only comes from knowing someone long enough to move in sync even in moments like this. You sank back a little more, letting the chair cradle you deeper. It didn’t creak. Didn’t shift. It just held. Every inch of you. Every emotion wrapped up in the morning. The curve of your body. The life moving quietly beneath your skin.

Rio looked up, her cheek brushing against your leg as she tilted her head. “You look good in it.”

“She does,” Agatha murmured, the corner of her mouth curling just slightly.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Okay, okay,” you said, brushing your hand across Rio’s shoulder, then reaching out to find Agatha’s wrist. “You’ve both stared at me long enough. I want to see you in it too.”

Agatha blinked. “Me?”

“Both of you,” you said firmly, shifting forward in the seat with a slight groan. “I want to see what I saw this morning. You had that whole vision, Agatha? Let me see it.”

Rio laughed, already rising to her feet and offering you a hand to steady yourself. “She’s nesting already, babe,” she said over her shoulder.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you muttered, taking her hand and pushing yourself up slower than usual.

As soon as you were clear, you turned back to them with a playful but expectant tilt of your head. “Well? Go on.”

Agatha gave a low sigh of mock reluctance, but the softness in her eyes gave her away. She stood, straightened the ottoman behind her, then slowly lowered herself into the rocker. And as soon as she settled, the chair moved beneath her with the same gentle grace. Rocking once. Twice. She exhaled. Then smiled—really smiled—like the morning light had finally reached her heart.

“Yeah,” she said. “This’ll do.”

Rio watched her for a beat, arms crossed, then grinned wide. “Alright, my turn.” She bent and practically flopped into Agatha’s lap, knees over the ottoman, laughing when the rocker groaned faintly under the weight of them both.

You stood there watching them, hands on your hips, shaking your head. “I knew it.”

“What?” Agatha asked, her arms wrapping automatically around Rio’s waist.

You smiled, eyes shining. “It really was meant to hold all three of us.”

Agatha looked up at you with something quiet and warm in her expression—something that said yes, it was. It always was. Rio leaned back against her shoulder. “It’s a good chair,” she murmured, tilting her head to kiss Agatha’s cheek.

You laughed, and this time, it wasn’t cracked or disbelieving. It was full and soft and whole. This was the moment you hadn’t known to plan for. And it had already become part of your home.

-----

The excitement had caught up with you. Not all at once—but in slow, honey-thick waves. The kind that crept in beneath your skin, settled behind your eyes, and turned even blinking into an act of surrender. The fire had burned low, its light flickering across the room like breath. Wrapping paper was strewn like confetti across the coffee table, curling ribbons spilling over the edge in lazy arcs. Empty mugs stood like tiny monuments to the morning’s joy—Rio’s half-finished cider cooling on the windowsill, a slice of dried orange still clinging to the rim.

You shifted, slow and boneless, the knit blanket dragging softly across your belly as you pulled it higher to your chest. The couch caught you like memory—deep and forgiving, its cushions warm from the weight of three people who had filled the day to its brim and then poured over.

Agatha sat close beside you, her posture relaxed but alert, like even in stillness she was protecting something. One arm stretched behind your shoulders, her fingers tracing slow, steady arcs into the fabric of your shirt. Not absentmindedly. With intent. The kind of touch that said, I see you. I feel you. I’m here.

Across from you, Rio sat perched on the ottoman, her legs spread in a lazy sprawl, a discarded gift bag in her hands that she was halfheartedly folding. But she wasn’t looking at the bag. Her eyes kept drifting back to you. Watching the slow dip of your lashes. The way your body was starting to give into the weight of rest.

You sighed—long and deep, from somewhere low in your chest—and let your head tilt toward Agatha’s shoulder. Her arm curved around you instantly, tucking you into the line of her body. Her hand splayed wide across your back, the gesture unconscious and complete.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice hushed, smoky with sleep but steady.

You nodded, the movement more a hum than a gesture. “Just… happy. Tired-happy.”

Rio smiled from the ottoman, her voice soft and amused. “That’s the best kind of tired.”

And she was right. The rhythm of the day had slowed, softened. Like the universe had exhaled around you. You felt it in your bones—the deep, slow unraveling of thought, the gravity of safety drawing you inward. Your breaths came slower now, your limbs heavier.

Agatha shifted slightly and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Her lips lingered there.

“You can nap,” she whispered. “It's been a busy day.”

You didn’t need convincing. Your hand found hers across your belly—her fingers already resting just below the curve of your ribs. You curled your own hand over hers, anchoring the moment, holding her to where your daughter rested beneath your skin. Agatha leaned further into you, letting your weight settle together. Her hand kept moving, brushing soft and slow across your back, like the rhythm of a lullaby without words.

Rio stood. Quiet, unhurried. The gift bag slipped from her hands and was forgotten. She padded over, bare feet brushing lightly against the rug, and knelt beside the couch. One hand reached for your cheek, her thumb stroking just beneath your eye. You were almost asleep—your lips parted, your breath deepening.

“I’ll clean up later,” she whispered.

Agatha looked at her without a word. Just a glance. But it was enough. Don’t you dare leave. Rio’s expression softened into a half-smile—one she only wore when she felt entirely loved. She climbed onto the couch slowly, carefully—like easing herself into water. She stretched out on your other side, legs tangling with yours, her head resting against your thigh, one arm curling gently across your lap. Her fingers found the edge of Agatha’s hand and stayed there.

For a moment, they both just looked at you. Your eyes fluttering closed. Your mouth slack with sleep. One hand resting across your bump, the other twined with Agatha’s. Agatha’s cheek found the crown of your head. Rio’s fingers curled lightly against your hip. And then—without a word, without ceremony—they both gave in too. Agatha’s breath evened out first, warm and slow against your skin. Rio exhaled next, her face tucked close to where your daughter stirred in her sleep.

The house didn’t fall silent. It settled. The lights on the tree blinked in slow rhythm, golden against the hush. The fire gave one last sigh and cracked low in the hearth. And the three of you—tangled in warmth and ribbon, full of sugar and laughter and hope—let yourselves drift.

There would be more gifts. More calls. More moments. But for now? The world could wait, because everything that mattered was right here—pressed close, wrapped tight, and finally completely, at rest.

The couch was a tangle of limbs and warmth. You weren’t sure who had fallen asleep first—only that somewhere between laughter and leftovers and the gentle thrum of the fireplace, the three of you had melted into one another. Agatha was curled along your side, her hand resting idly over your bump. Rio’s legs were draped over both of yours, one arm slung lazily across Agatha’s waist. You’d all drifted in and out, half-dreaming in the glow of twinkle lights and the warmth of the day.

-----

The house was quiet. Not silent. Just filled with the kind of sacred hush that only Christmas afternoons could hold. A hush built from laughter still echoing in the beams, from paper strewn like snowdrifts under the tree, from cider-stained mugs and half-finished cookies.

Until Agatha’s phone rang. The sharp buzz against the coffee table shattered the stillness—not harsh, but sudden. It was the sound of the world tiptoeing back in.

Agatha stirred first, her eyes fluttering open, unfocused at first, then narrowing against the soft glow of the screen. Her arm shifted against your side, her hand absently rubbing your belly in slow, sleepy arcs.

“Billy and Eddie,” she murmured, voice thick and velvet-warm. “FaceTime.”

You blinked your eyes open, lids heavy with sleep, and nodded even before the words fully landed. Rio groaned softly, face still pressed into your leg, then dragged herself upright with one long stretch and a hand combed back through her curls. Agatha accepted the call. And then he appeared. “Asher!” she said, the smile blooming across her face instant and uncontained.

The little boy on the screen beamed like the sun had kissed his cheeks. “Santa came, Aunt Aggie! He really came!” he squealed, voice peaking in delight, curls bouncing as he wiggled in and out of view, pajamas rumpled and joy pouring from every movement.

Rio grinned and scooted closer, her arm brushing yours as she helped you sit up more comfortably.

“Hey, buddy! We miss you so much.”

“Aunt Rio!” he squeaked, eyes wide and shining when he spotted her fully.

Then he turned slightly, gaze catching on the screen where you leaned in with your chin still tucked against the edge of the blanket. You smiled softly, voice warm and lilting as you reached toward the screen.

“Hi, my little man. Merry Christmas.”

Asher squeaked in delight, practically vibrating. “You’re all together! You’re all together in the same place!”

“We are,” Rio said, nudging your leg under the blanket. “All three of us, squished like sugar cookies.”

You caught the way Agatha’s mouth curved in the corner as Asher giggled so hard he almost dropped the phone. “You wanna show us what Santa brought?” you asked gently.

Billy’s voice rang out from somewhere behind the camera. “Alright, alright—go to the tree, bud. We’re doing presents with the aunties.”

Agatha adjusted the phone in her hand so the three of you were all in view, your bodies still tangled on the couch, your eyes bleary but smiling, your hearts stretched across the miles and stitched back together with pixels and love.

Tradition didn’t need proximity. It just needed presence. Every year—even when you couldn’t be in the same room—you still opened gifts together. This year, FaceTime would have to carry the weight of that magic. And somehow, it did.

“Did all the packages make it okay?” Agatha asked, leaning in a little, squinting at the screen.

“All safe and sound,” Eddie called from the kitchen, already elbow-deep in wrapping paper. “Even the one that said, ‘open this side up or face Agatha’s wrath.’”

“Appropriate,” she muttered, arching a brow.

Billy reached for the first package in the pile, fingers already smudged with ribbon residue and whatever sticky thing Asher had touched five minutes ago. He tore into the wrapping with a practiced sort of glee, eyes widening when he finally unearthed the sleek black box inside.

He opened it slowly—dramatically—and then let out a low whistle. “Oh, hell yes.”

He held up the watch to the screen, letting the light catch on the polished silver face. It was clean, sharp, minimalist in design but clearly expensive, and the thin black band gave it just enough edge to feel like him.

“That’s from me,” Rio said, proud as ever. She leaned back against the couch with her arms crossed, smirking. “Because the one you’ve been wearing for the last ten years should be retired and framed like an antique.”

Billy snorted. “I was attached to that one.”

“It clicked, Billy,” she shot back. “Like a goddamn bomb countdown.”

He grinned and slipped it onto his wrist, holding it up again. “Now I feel dangerous. Like a hot professor in a British spy movie.”

You laughed. “That’s the vibe we were going for.”

Eddie unwrapped his gift next, slower, more deliberate. He was always the one who peeled back paper at the seams like it could be reused. And when he revealed the leather satchel inside, his hands froze for just a moment.

“Oh…” he breathed. He ran his fingers across the thick flap, thumb brushing along the edge of the hand-stitched seams. The leather was soft but sturdy—just worn enough to have character. “This is beautiful.”

“It’s for all your travel research stuff,” you explained. “I figured... now you won’t have to carry manuscripts in that hideous canvas tote from college.”

Eddie barked out a laugh. “Don’t hate on the tote! That tote survived Rome, okay?”

“Barely,” Agatha murmured, sipping her tea. “You patched it with duct tape.”

“I styled it with duct tape,” Eddie countered. “But this—this is a real upgrade.”

Billy nudged him, still admiring his own wrist. “We’re thriving this year.”

Then, it was Asher’s turn. The box had his name scribbled across it in big, looping letters with glittery stickers, courtesy of Rio and an excessive amount of tape. He attacked it like a wild animal, paper flying in every direction until the box gave way and the prize was revealed. Then it was Asher’s turn.

Agatha leaned forward, her smile blooming across the screen. “That one’s from us, little man.”

He attacked the paper like it had personally wronged him. When the box finally surfaced, he paused—head tilting, curls bouncing—as he read the front.

“A Lite Brite?” he asked, squinting. “What is it?!”

“It’s magic,” you said, grinning. “Tiny lights. You make pictures with them.”

Billy let out a dramatic groan. “God, that thing is ancient! Rio, should we preserve this for future generations? Maybe loan it to a museum?”

Agatha rolled her eyes. “It’s not that old. These came out when I was in high school.”

Eddie laughed. “So, like… when dinosaurs roamed the mall?”

You snorted. “Hey now, I’m a child of the ‘90s. I always wanted a Lite Brite. I begged for one growing up. It’s nostalgic.”

Agatha gave you a look. “Baby, you were literally in diapers when I was staying up late to play with one of those in my bedroom.”

Rio cackled. “Oh, I am loving this. The generational divide is real.”

You gave them both a withering look, hand still protectively on your bump. “Keep going, and I’m buying Asher a Tamagotchi next year and making you two care for it.”

Agatha smirked. “You say that like it’s a threat. I kept mine alive for months.”

Rio raised her cider. “Meanwhile, I was writing fanfiction on floppy disks. You win the youth award, sweetheart.”

“Damn right I do,” you said, grinning. “I’m the youngest—don’t make me start weaponizing slang you two can’t decode.”

“Age gap for the win,” Agatha sighed, mock-exhausted.

“What do you think, Asher?” you asked, watching him sort the Lite Brite pegs like a little engineer.

“I LOVE IT!” he screamed, immediately jabbing a green peg into the cardboard.

Asher was still buzzing from the Lite Brite, already trying to pry open the plastic packaging with determined little fingers when Eddie held up another box from the pile. “Hang on, little man—there’s one more in the stack,” he said, waving the slim, rectangular package wrapped in blue foil paper. “This one’s from your Aunt Rio.”

Asher gasped like someone had just told him there was another Christmas tree hidden in the garage. He snatched it with both hands and shredded the paper like a raccoon at a picnic, flinging it over his shoulder and narrowly missing Billy’s face.

Inside: a tiny, official Mariners jersey. Crisp navy blue with white stitching, the number 7 bold on the back beneath Asher's last name.

The room went quiet for half a second. And then—pure, uninhibited toddler shriek. “BASEBALL!!” he screamed, holding the jersey above his head like Simba on Pride Rock.

Rio lit up, laughing as she leaned into the frame. “That’s right, buddy. Your very own jersey.”

She pointed to the name stitched across the back. “You see that? That’s you. That’s your name. You're official now.”

Asher clutched the jersey to his chest like it was spun gold. “I’m gonna wear it forever!”

“You better not,” Billy muttered. “Not if he refuses to take it off again like the Halloween dinosaur incident.”

Rio ignored him. “When you get back, I’m taking you to your very first game. Hot dogs. Screaming. You’re gonna love it.”

“I WANNA YELL AT THE GAME!!” Asher bellowed, hopping in place now.

“You will,” Rio promised. “We'll yell together. It'll be cathartic.”

Agatha leaned into the frame beside her with a teasing smile. “Just make sure you let us wash it once or twice, okay?”

“No,” Asher said decisively, already trying to wrangle it over his head. “Washing is for regular clothes. This is game armor.”

Billy looked back at the screen, deadpan. “You’ve created a monster.”

Rio sat back with an utterly satisfied smile. “My job here is done. That level of joy should be federally protected.”

Asher had only just bolted offscreen with his jersey bunched halfway down his back, singing something that might’ve been “baseball forever,” when Billy reappeared on screen, breathless from laughter.

“Okay, your turn,” he said, flopping onto the couch beside Eddie with a grin. “We want to see you open everything.”

Eddie leaned in, adjusting the phone slightly for a better view. “We labeled the boxes, so you’d open them in order. Don’t mess it up.”

Rio was already scanning the tags on your pile. “Alright, bossy. This one’s first?”

You held up the flat, carefully wrapped package, then rested it across your lap. The three of you leaned in together, shoulders brushing, and you peeled the paper away with care. And then stilled. Inside was a photo frame. Simple, silver. Elegant. But it was the picture inside that made your breath catch.

It was the five of you—taken just before Billy and Eddie left, almost six months ago. You weren’t pregnant yet. The house still held a different kind of quiet. But in this moment—captured by the front steps of your home—you were smiling. All of you. The kind of real, wide-laughed joy that couldn’t be staged. Billy was holding Asher upside down, mid-swing, the toddler shrieking with laughter, his curls a wild halo. Eddie had one hand on Billy’s shoulder and the other extended toward the camera, clearly having set the timer. Rio was doubled over from laughing, her sunglasses askew. Agatha stood beside you, arm around your waist, both of you looking not at the camera, but at Asher—glowing.

It wasn’t a portrait. It was a memory. Unfiltered. Untouched. Just love. Agatha reached out slowly, brushing her fingers along the frame. “This was… that last Saturday. With the lemon pie and the sprinkler.”

You nodded, your throat already tight. “He kept saying it was ‘rain from the hose.’”

Rio laughed, soft and fond. “That’s the day he tried to put a worm in my Croc.”

Eddie’s face appeared on screen again, smiling. “We wanted you to have a piece of then. The before. Before the flight. Before the belly.”

Then Rio reached for the next box, already sniffling. “Okay. Soft one. We’re switching gears before I start crying on camera.”

You opened the second package together, peeling the tissue paper aside to reveal a hoodie—thick and soft, deep green, with the National Parks Service crest printed on the front. Beneath it, in block letters: Protect What You Love.

You grinned. “Okay, yeah, this is so us.”

Rio lifted the shirt tucked beneath it—the same design, but in a lighter fabric—an laughed as something small and folded fell out into her lap. It was a baby onesie. The logo was the same. It was tiny. Agatha stared at it for a moment, then reached over, smoothing the fabric with reverent fingers. “That’s… very small.”

Eddie’s voice cut in gently. “We saw it in a shop and had to get it.”

“She’s gonna be your little ranger,” Billy said proudly. “Raising her on hikes and poetry and refusing to let her learn the phrase ‘boys will be boys.’”

“She’ll know moss types before she knows algebra,” Rio added, eyes soft.

“I can live with that,” you said, voice tight around the edges. Agatha folded the onesie carefully and set it in your lap like it was precious. Then you reached for the final box. Your fingers shook a little as you pulled the lid away. Inside, nestled in soft fabric, was a leather messenger bag. Dark brown. Weathered but new. Clearly handmade. You ran your fingers along the seam, over the front flap, the subtle stitching—

And then saw it. On the inside flap, embossed in warm gold foil: Dr. Vidal Harkness. You covered your mouth.

Billy’s voice came soft over the speaker. “You’re so close, sis. That Ph.D is right there.”

Rio leaned in and kissed your temple. Agatha reached for your hand. “I don’t know what to say,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to,” Eddie replied. “Just carry it. Let it remind you of how far you’ve come.”

You nodded, blinking hard. “Thank you. So much.”

Billy clapped his hands once. “Okay. Okay. Last one.”

Rio raised an eyebrow. “You said that two gifts ago.”

“This one’s special,” Eddie said, already grinning. “It’s for the baby.”

You opened the small, final package—and burst out laughing. Inside was a toddler-sized drum set. Bright red, with mini sticks and all.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed. “You didn’t.”

Rio leaned forward like she’d seen a ghost. “Billy!”

Agatha looked genuinely distressed. “There’s metal cymbals.”

“Payback,” Billy said smugly. “For the guitar. You think I forgot?”

Rio groaned. “You’re evil.”

Eddie shrugged. “We prefer the term ‘equal opportunity chaos Uncles.’”

You laughed, breathless, tears now mixing with joy. “She’s going to love it.”

And that’s when Billy paused, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “Wait. She? Did you just—?”

You froze for half a second, then smiled.

“We found out yesterday,” you said softly. “It’s a girl.”

For a second, no one spoke.

Then Asher’s voice rang from offscreen: “A girl?! The baby’s a girl?!”

Billy shrieked. “YOU’RE HAVING A GIRL?!”

Eddie looked like he might start sobbing. “Holy shit. Asher’s getting a cousin.”

Rio grinned wide. “She told us herself.”

Agatha added with a little tilt of her head, “Kicked us both. She made her presence known.”

And then— Asher’s face reappeared on screen, lit up like a Christmas tree.

“There’s a baby in your tummy?” he asked, pointing toward you.

You nodded. “There is, buddy.”

He leaned forward, whispering to Billy. “Daddy said the baby’s gonna be mine.”

Billy laughed. “He meant you’re going to be cousins, kiddo.”

Asher’s eyes sparkled. “Can I show her dinosaurs?”

You smiled so hard it hurt. “She’d love that.”

Agatha’s voice came gentle. “She already does.”

Rio leaned in. “She moved when we talked to her.”

Asher gasped like someone had just told him the moon was made of jellybeans.

“I’m gonna give her my blue dino. Not the green one. The blue one’s the best.”

You nodded solemnly. “That’s a very important job.”

Asher looked offscreen for a second, then turned back to the camera with wild, two-year-old focus. “I gotta go tell my fish,” he declared, and ran off again, loud and barefoot and singing a dinosaur song he’d just made up.

Billy’s face returned, still laughing. “Well. There’s your godson.”

Rio wiped a tear from her cheek. “He’s perfect.”

And somewhere inside your belly, your daughter stirred—gentle, soft, slow. Listening. Already knowing she belonged.

The final stretch of the call arrived quiet and full, like snow beginning to fall.

“We’ve been meaning to check in,” Eddie said, his voice gentler now, anchored in something steady. “We’ll be back by the end of February. March at the latest.”

Billy nodded. “I wrapped most of the ranger paperwork last week. Just got a few odds and ends left. We’ll be home in time.”

Those words landed like warmth in your ribs. A lighthouse in the middle of winter. A date on the calendar that meant more. Agatha exhaled slowly beside you, her hand brushing the curve of your stomach without thinking.

“Right in time to meet your girl,” Billy added.

You all stayed like that for another few minutes, wrapped in easy warmth, until Asher’s voice called again from the other room, and Eddie sighed, fond and a little sleepy.

“Okay, okay,” he murmured. “We better get this one to bed before he tries to use the Lite Brite as a nightlight.”

“We love you,” you said, already missing them.

“Love you back,” Billy and Eddie echoed together.

The screen dimmed. The house fell still. And something inside your chest had clicked into place. Quiet joy. Solid and certain. A marker in the months ahead—something to look forward to, to build toward, to hold onto.

-----

After the call ended, the three of you moved in slow, quiet spirals. The couch was still warm beneath your bodies, the remnants of torn wrapping paper tucked neatly into a box for recycling. Agatha folded the quilt draped over the armrest. Rio dimmed the lights.

There was no rush to speak. The house was full of words already—gifted ones, spoken ones, unspoken ones. You brushed your teeth while Rio filled your water bottle. Agatha turned down the bed, her hands moving with practiced care, smoothing the quilt over the sheets like she was tucking love into every fold.

When you climbed in, it wasn’t just sleep you felt approaching—it was rest. The true kind. The kind you could only fall into when you were held. Agatha curled in behind you, her hand low over your bump, fingers splayed in lazy, half-conscious arcs. Rio draped herself across your other side, her head on your shoulder, one leg tucked between yours. Peace hummed beneath your skin like a lullaby. The room was still. And then the world dissolved into quiet.

-----

Until you woke. Not to sound. Not to cold. You didn’t wake from fear. Not startled. Not sound. But to movement. Low. Firm. Certain. A presence, not a panic. A gentle claim from the inside out. She moved. Not a flutter. Not the quicksilver twitches you’d felt in weeks past. No—this was different. This was deliberate. This was her. A slow roll just beneath your ribs, followed by a quiet push. Then another. A rhythm. A pulse. A soft, sweet insistence: Mama, I’m here.

Your eyes blinked open in the dark, lashes catching the faint shimmer of moonlight that poured across the floorboards like silk. You were still wrapped in warmth—Agatha’s hand over your hip, Rio’s arm slung around your waist—but your focus had narrowed to something smaller, deeper.

To her. Your palm slid instinctively over your belly, finding the place she’d pressed. Another nudge. You breathed out through your nose, soft and smiling. “Okay, little girl,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “We can go back to sleep.”

A beat. Then another kick—firm and unapologetic. Your lips twitched. You shook your head gently against the pillow. “Oh. So that’s how it’s gonna be?”

Another slow push, like she was stretching. You exhaled a quiet laugh, warm and wry. “Alrighty then.” You turned carefully, pressing a kiss to Rio’s shoulder as you eased out of bed. She stirred but didn’t wake. Agatha only sighed, shifting deeper into your shared warmth. You slipped into the hallway barefoot, the quilt from the foot of the bed draped over your shoulders.

The nursery door was slightly open. Inside, it smelled faintly of lavender and linen, the paint still fresh, the air holding the quiet of things still becoming. No crib yet. No mobile. Just the chair. And the quilt Rio had made—hand-stitched, careful, soft with purpose—folded neatly on the rocker’s arm.

The moonlight stretched across the floor in long ribbons. It glinted faintly off the bookshelf, caught the edge of a picture frame, and spilled gently over the back of the rocking chair. You crossed the room slowly and sank down into the cushion. The chair gave beneath your weight—easy, familiar, the creak a lullaby you hadn’t known your body remembered.

Your daughter moved again beneath your palm. A slower stretch this time. “Hi, BeanSprout” you whispered, smiling into the dark. “You needed Mama, huh?”

She moved again. A little softer this time. Like she’d been waiting for you to join her. Like she hadn’t wanted to be alone. You smiled—slow and quiet. Rocked again. Back and forth. Back and forth. And she settled. The moonlight kissed your cheeks, your lashes, the soft round of your belly. Your head fell back, lips parting slightly with a deep, even breath. There, in the chair, your body swaying with the rhythm of motherhood, with the hush of winter night, you closed your eyes.

-----

Rio stirred just before dawn. It wasn’t sound that woke her. Or cold. It was absence. Her hand reached across the bed instinctively, seeking your warmth, your weight, the curve of your body where it always rested just beneath hers.

But you weren’t there. Her fingers met nothing but soft quilt. Still warm. Still recent. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. Not panicked—just aware in the way she always was when it came to you. The house was still. The kind of still that came only in winter’s last hours, when even the light moved quietly.

She stepped into the hallway, her feet bare, her breath steady. And then—she saw it. The nursery door was slightly open. The moonlight poured through it like water. She stepped forward. And stopped. You were asleep in the rocking chair.

Quilt wrapped around your waist. Your head tilted back against the cushion. One hand resting over your belly. Your features soft in sleep, glowing where the moonlight touched them. Quiet. Full. Completely at peace.

The baby quilt—her quilt, the one Rio had sewn by hand, stitch by careful stitch—was tucked gently into your lap. Rio didn’t speak. She just stared. You looked like something holy. Like something found. After a breath, she turned and padded quickly back down the hall. She slid back into the bedroom and leaned over the bed.

“Agatha,” she whispered. A sleepy murmur.

“Come see.”

Agatha blinked herself awake, already sitting up. She didn’t ask questions. She just followed. And when she reached the doorway, she stopped too. Her hand caught Rio’s wrist. Her eyes shimmered in the dark. You looked like a promise. A quiet future already unfolding in the dark. Rio pulled her phone from the pocket of her sweatshirt. One photo. One click. The shutter was barely a whisper.

Together, they crossed the threshold. Rio knelt first beside you, her palm brushing lightly over your leg. But it was Agatha who stepped forward without hesitation—barefoot, quiet, reverent in the moonlight. She knelt beside the chair, her hand trailing up your arm, slow and deliberate, fingers pausing where your wrist met the curve of your belly.

“Baby?” she whispered, soft and low, her breath warm against your skin. You stirred, lashes fluttering open slowly. Her touch anchored you. You blinked once, twice, and when your gaze met hers, a small, sleepy smile bloomed across your face.

“She woke me up,” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep, with wonder. “I told her we could go back to sleep. But she had other plans.”

Agatha smiled, leaning in, her hand now flat over the gentle swell of your belly. “She was practicing,” you added, your tone fond and amused. “Wouldn’t settle down, so I thought… maybe the rocker would help. And it did. She calmed right down.”

Agatha let out the quietest laugh, warm and hushed and awed. “Of course it did,” she whispered, her thumb brushing slow circles over the fabric of your shirt.

Rio reached for the quilt in your lap, gently pulling it tighter around your waist, tucking it close like she couldn’t bear for you to be anything less than held. “Let’s get you back to bed,” she murmured, her hand finding your back. Agatha kissed your temple softly before standing and sliding her arms beneath yours.

Together, they helped you up—carefully, gently, as if the moment itself was made of glass. When you stood, you folded the quilt on the chair, like it had always belonged there. Rio supported your side, her touch sure and familiar. Agatha braced your opposite arm; her body pressed close. You let them guide you. Not because you couldn’t walk. But because being held by them felt like the most natural thing in the world. The three of you moved slowly down the hallway, your bare feet brushing softly across the floorboards, quilt trailing behind like a whisper. The nursery faded behind you. The moonlight stayed. The rocker moved. Just once. Just enough. Like it knew it had done its job.

Back in the bedroom, Rio pulled the covers back with one hand, the other still braced against your back. Agatha helped guide you down, her touch slow and steady, the mattress dipping beneath you like it was exhaling relief. You sank into the warmth like it had been waiting for you. Agatha settled in behind you, her body curving naturally into yours. Her palm found its place over your belly again without hesitation, the gesture so familiar now it felt like breath. She pressed a kiss to the curve of your shoulder—just a brush of warmth, just enough to say I'm here.

Rio curled in from the front, her forehead resting briefly against yours as she tucked the quilt up to your chest. One hand slipped into your hair, fingers moving slowly through the strands. The other found your hand beneath the blanket, lacing her fingers through yours, grounding you.

Your eyes drifted shut. Your body relaxed between theirs, heat cocooned on all sides. And just as sleep began to pull you under— Kick. Your breath hitched. Then—another. A pointed nudge low and to the left. Then a roll. A gentle jab like punctuation. You groaned softly, half-laughing, half-exasperated as your belly shifted beneath Agatha’s hand. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Agatha propped herself up, her head tilting just enough to look down over your shoulder. “Someone still in the Christmas spirit?” she murmured, voice low and warm. You nodded into the pillow, the corner of your mouth lifting in a sleepy smile.

From the other side of the bed, Rio’s voice floated in, still heavy with sleep but unmistakably her: “Tell her she’s got exactly one more kick before bedtime privileges are revoked.”

You huffed out a soft laugh, then whispered, “I mean... I’ve felt her flutters at night. Little stretches. But this?” You reached for Agatha’s hand, guiding it more firmly over your belly. “This is the first time it’s been enough to keep me awake. Like she’s really here. Making sure I know it.”

Agatha’s breath caught just as a slow roll pressed beneath her palm—followed by another, firmer nudge a few seconds later. She stilled completely.

“She’s strong,” she said quietly, her eyes locked on where her hand met your skin.

Then her mouth quirked into a smile. “Maybe it’s the excitement from today? Or the caffeine?”

Rio laughed softly and leaned over, brushing your hair back with her knuckles. “Or maybe she just knows how to make an entrance. Like one of her moms.”

“Hey,” you murmured, lips curling. “She could’ve started with a gentle tap.”

Rio arched a brow, then leaned in closer toward your belly. Her palm settled over the space just above Agatha’s, and she whispered gently, “Estás causando caos ya, mi amorcito. ¿Así nos saludas?”

And then—kick. Right beneath Rio’s hand. Your breath caught—then broke into a quiet snort. “Oh my God,” you whispered, laughing into the quilt. “She answered you.”

Rio grinned. “She understood the assignment.”

Agatha smirked, her hand shifting in slow, rhythmic circles. “She’s showing off.”

“Or listening,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep now. “She likes hearing you both.”

Another small shift passed beneath your skin—softer now. Sleepier. Like the moment had worked its magic.

Agatha leaned in and pressed a kiss to the spot just below your navel. “Hey, Sprout,” she murmured. “Mommy’s right here. We know you’re excited, but you’ve got to let Mama get some sleep, okay? You can kick us all you want in the morning.”

Her palm moved in soft arcs across your belly. Rio’s hand slipped back beneath the blanket, fingers lacing gently through yours again. “Already got opinions,” she murmured fondly.

“Already has a fan club,” you replied, eyes fluttering closed again. Another breath. Then stillness.

Agatha leaned in and pressed one last kiss to your belly. “That’s my girl.”

You smiled. And between them—wrapped in their warmth, their hands, their love—you finally let sleep take you. The last thing you felt was Agatha’s breath soft against your skin, and Rio’s fingers still threaded through yours. And the faintest flutter beneath your ribs. Just one more promise from her.

-----

New Year’s came quickly.

Maybe it was the magic of the season—tree lights blinking their last gold goodnights, snow still soft enough to quiet the world, your daughter rolling gently beneath your ribs as if marking time with her own rhythm. Maybe it was the way the days bled into each other after Christmas, each one warm and slow and edged with the promise of something new.

But it arrived. No countdown. No fanfare. Just a sunrise that felt brighter than the one before it. Rio stood at the window that morning, a half-drunk mug of coffee cradled in her hands, curls wild from sleep, and one of your old sweatshirts slipping off her shoulder like it had been waiting for her body to fill it.

You were asleep still—barely. Curled beneath the quilt with Agatha’s arm slung over your hip and your face buried in the pillow. The room was warm. Safe. Full of slow breath and cinnamon air. But Rio was watching the street below. Watching the snow melt in slow streaks against the asphalt. Watching a new year unfold one breath at a time. Her thumb traced the rim of the mug, and her mouth curved into something small.

“God,” she murmured to herself. “Look at us now.”

She didn’t mean the nursery half-painted or the names you hadn’t chosen yet. Not the unopened planner on the kitchen counter or the way your body had begun to sway when you stood for too long. She meant the quiet. The warmth. The way the three of you fit now—like puzzle pieces worn smooth at the edges.

And for a moment, as the sun climbed higher and the snow shrank from the light— She was back there.

-----

You’d been together just a few months, still learning the curve of each other’s rhythms. Still memorizing who liked what tea and how long Agatha let candles burn before she snuffed them. Still pretending that you weren’t terrified sometimes of how big this love had become. You’d made too much food. Agatha had lit every damn candle she owned. And Rio—well. Rio had danced barefoot across the floor with a glass of spiced wine in one hand and her other curled around yours, laughing so hard she forgot to be cautious.

You were wearing mismatched socks and one of Agatha’s oversized sweaters. Your cheeks had been flushed from drink, from joy, from the way you’d turned toward Rio that night like she was the only resolution you’d ever needed. And she remembered—vividly—the way midnight hit.

Not with noise. Not with cheering. Just with breath. Just with the three of you in the kitchen, your hand on Agatha’s shoulder, Agatha’s hand on Rio’s back, and a kiss that stretched the space between one year and the next until it folded in on itself like a promise. At one point, close to midnight, you had leaned back against Rio’s chest, your head tucked beneath her chin, Agatha curled against your side like a cat staking her claim.

And then—just before the countdown, just before the new year crept in through the seams of that drafty little room—you turned to them both, eyes glassy with something softer than wine, and whispered, “I don’t know what this is yet. But I think… I think I want to find out.” Agatha stilled. Rio forgot how to breathe. And then—both of them reached for you. In the same second. The same breath. Agatha kissed your cheek. Rio kissed your hand.

Ten seconds to midnight. You all looked at each other. None of you said anything. Five seconds. And then— You leaned in. And kissed Agatha first. Slow. Questioning. Her hand found your jaw. Then you turned—lips still parted—and kissed Rio. And her whole world realigned. You tasted like cinnamon and nerves and too much hope, and when you pulled back just enough to whisper, “Happy New Year,” she thought: God, I’m already gone for you.

The kiss didn’t end. Not really. It just… changed.

Agatha’s fingers curled tighter at your waist, pulling you forward into her. Her lips were still parted from yours, breath brushing the tip of your nose, her eyes blown wide and dark and wanting. Rio’s palm had stayed on your back, warm through the sweater, her chest flush against yours from behind. You felt her nose nudge into your hair, then lower—breath landing against your neck like an invocation. Her mouth found the curve beneath your jaw and pressed there, slow and reverent. The clock ticked past midnight. But none of you moved. Except to lean closer.

Agatha tilted her head just slightly—her mouth ghosting yours again, a question wrapped in fire. “You’re sure?”

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere in the center of your chest. “Yeah.”

Rio’s lips trailed down the side of your neck. “Say it again.”

You turned in her arms, twisting just enough to meet her eyes. “I want to find out,” you said. “Whatever this is. I want to find out with you.”

And then— You stepped back. Just a little. Just enough to change the current in the room. A pause. A gap. A pull. Agatha blinked—her brows twitching together, just briefly, as if she’d missed something important in the space between your breath and your retreat. Rio swayed forward without meaning to, like her body hadn’t gotten the memo that you were no longer in reach.

Both of them looked at you like something precious had just slipped through their fingers. Not far. Not gone. But moving. You bit your lip, pulse fluttering in your throat. “I, um—” your fingers twisted nervously in the hem of your sweater. “I… have a surprise. For New Year’s.”

Agatha’s eyebrow arched—just one, sharp and suspicious and utterly intrigued. Rio tilted her head to the side, slow and feline, the corner of her mouth curling like she’d just caught the scent of something sweet and worth chasing.

You smiled. Not coy. Not uncertain. Just a little shy. A little wicked. A little like you were finally letting them see what had been burning under your skin all this time. And then—softly, deliberately:

“Be right back.”

-----

The sweater came off first. Then the socks. Then the nerves. You’d bought it on impulse, weeks ago—late one night after too much wine and one too many nights dreaming about what it would feel like to be wanted the way they looked at you. Black lace. Ivy embroidered along the edges. Not delicate—intentional. As if the vines themselves had been stitched to climb your body.

The bodysuit hugged everything. High on the hips. Low on the chest. Just enough to whisper where you could be touched—where you wanted to be. The sheer parts didn’t hide anything. Just hinted. Teased. Promised. You’d never worn something like this before. But tonight? Tonight, you wanted them to see you. The you who had finally said yes. The you who had kissed them both and meant it. The you who wanted more. You took one breath. Then another. And stepped back out into the firelight.

---------

Agatha was the first to see you.

She’d just started pouring a second glass of wine—something deep and garnet-dark, sweet on the inhale and rich enough to leave her lips stained—but the moment she turned, the bottle tilted too far. The wine hit the rim of the glass and spilled just slightly over the edge, slipping down her fingers in a slow crimson curve.

She didn’t notice. Her eyes had already locked on you. The glass froze mid-pour, still trembling in her hand. Her breath caught like her lungs had forgotten how to work, and her mouth parted—slowly. Like awe. Like a prayer she hadn’t known she believed in until now.

“Oh…”

Rio turned at the sound of her voice. And saw you. She swore under her breath, low and reverent, like the kind of curse you whisper when touching something sacred. “Holy—”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. You just stood there—framed by the bedroom doorway, barefoot and bare-legged, wrapped in black lace and ivy and the soft golden pulse of firelight. The bodysuit clung to you like ink, sheer where it mattered, structured where it didn’t. Ivy traced up your thighs, delicate and wild like it had grown there just to tempt them. Every curve of you glowed. Every shadow begged to be touched.

And your mouth—god, your mouth—held the smallest smile. Just enough to say: I know what I’m doing. Just enough to say: I hope you love it.

Your breath shook. But your eyes didn’t waver. “I figured,” you said softly, voice low and steady even as your heart pounded in your throat, “if we’re stepping into something new... I should do it properly.” You were trembling. But it wasn’t nerves. It was anticipation. It was yes.

Agatha was still by the fireplace, her body unmoving, her glass forgotten. Her gaze dragged down your body with devastating slowness—taking in every thread of lace, every hint of skin, every inch of you that had been revealed with purpose.

You watched the way her fingers flexed around the glass. You saw the flush bloom at her throat, the way her lips parted without speaking, the sharp edge of restraint in the line of her jaw.

Rio was the one who moved first. Her wine glass hit the table with a soft clink, barely balanced before she crossed the room. She didn’t say another word- just looked—eyes moving over you like she was cataloging something she’d never let the world forget. Her mouth open just enough to show how badly she wanted to taste you. Her fingers twitching at her sides.

“Turn around,” she said, voice low. Gravelly. Like heat had melted the smoothness from her tone and left only want behind. You obeyed. You turned slowly. Deliberately. Gave them the full view.

Agatha made a sound then—a strangled thing in the back of her throat, caught somewhere between a gasp and a growl. You didn’t look back yet, but you felt her eyes on your ass. You felt the air shift behind you when she took a single step forward and then stopped like she wasn’t sure she could handle what came next.

Rio reached you first. Her hands didn’t fumble. They landed low on your hips, firm and steady—claiming. Her thumbs slid up, then curved beneath the mesh to trace the top swell of your ass, her palms reverent like she was holding something holy.

She didn’t speak. Not at first. Just traced you. Down. Then up again. A slow sweep, memorizing you. You could feel the heat radiating off her skin. Then—her lips found your spine. She kissed you, right between your shoulder blades. Then lower. Then lower still. The heat of her breath followed every touch, pooling beneath your skin until your knees felt like they might buckle.

Behind her, Agatha stepped closer. Close enough that you could feel her breath against the side of your throat, she hadn’t touched you yet. But her voice—god, her voice—landed on your skin like a brand.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to us right now?”

You turned halfway, just enough to meet her eyes. Just enough to feel the fire. Your voice was soft. Playful. Dangerous. “I hope.”

Agatha growled. Not theatrical. Not exaggerated. It was deep. Instinctive. Like she was holding herself back by a thread—and the thread had started to fray. Rio kissed the small of your back. Her hands pulled tighter. And the night cracked open like a promise being fulfilled.

You didn’t move—not yet. You stayed there, turned just enough to look over your shoulder at them, the golden flicker of the fire catching in your eyes.

Rio hadn’t stepped back. You could feel them vibrating behind you, heat rolling off their skin in waves, thick with the kind of restraint that ached to be broken So you smiled. A little more this time. Not shy now. Not coy. Wicked.

“I bought this three weeks ago,” you said softly, voice slow and honey-warm. “Knew exactly when I wanted to wear it.”

Agatha exhaled like the words punched straight through her. Rio’s hands gripped tighter on your waist. Your smile deepened.

“Been thinking about it all day,” you continued, your words curling around the air like smoke. “Wrapped it in tissue, tucked it at the bottom of my bag, pretended I wasn’t counting the hours…” You turned a little more, dragging your gaze up Rio’s chest, then over to Agatha. “…the minutes.”

Agatha’s hands clenched at her sides. You watched them. You waited for her to move. She didn’t. You stepped toward her. Just one step. Then another. And god, the way her breath hitched. You stopped just short of her, your chest brushing hers, the air charged and electric between you. You tilted your head. Let your voice dip. “You gonna keep pretending you’re in control right now, Dr. Harkness?”

Her eyes flashed. Her mouth parted. But nothing came out.  So you leaned in. Close enough for your lips to brush her jaw, your breath a whisper. “‘Cause I can see it.” You smiled again, slow and sure, your hand sliding up to rest lightly on her collarbone. “Your hands are shaking. Your pupils are blown. And your jaw…” You brushed your thumb along the sharp line of it. “It gets tight when you’re trying not to fall apart.” She groaned.

Rio laughed softly behind you—wrecked and amused all at once. “Oh, she’s learning,” she murmured. “She’s really learning.”

“I am,” you said, glancing back toward her. “You’re teaching me.”

And then—just because you could—you took Rio’s hand from your waist and brought it forward, slipping it just beneath the lowest curve of lace across your stomach. You held it there. Pressed it flat. “So go ahead,” you said, voice barely a whisper now. “Tell me how long you’ve been waiting to touch me.”

Rio sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Jesus,” she muttered, her voice scraping along the edge of need. “You don’t want to know.”

“No?” you asked, biting your lip as you turned to face her fully now, chest to chest, your voice still low and curling with heat. “Because I’ve been thinking about this since breakfast. Since Agatha handed me my tea and I almost dropped it ‘cause I remembered what this lace looked like in the mirror.”

Agatha whimpered behind you. It was soft. But you heard it. You turned back toward her—slow, lazy, hungry. And this time, you let your voice drop into something that trembled just slightly. A little rough. A little uncertain but brave. “And you,” you said, your eyes on Agatha like you were reading scripture. “You’ve been looking at me like that since I walked out here. Like you’re one word away from ruining me.”

Agatha didn’t speak. Not yet. But the look in her eyes, God, it was barely contained. Wide. Dark. Heavy with want. Laced with something that curled at the edges of reverence and danger. Like she was watching something holy unfold. Like you’d just rewritten the rules of gravity—and she hadn’t decided whether to fall or burn.

You took another step forward. Slow. Deliberate. Close enough now that your breath ghosted against her throat. The firelight caught the flush rising across her neck, glowing warm against skin that had always looked like dusk. Your lashes lowered, heat blooming behind your ribs, and when you spoke, your voice slipped free like satin—slow, low, intentional. “How are you still not touching me?”

Her jaw clenched. You saw it—felt it in the air, the way tension rippled down her spine like a storm about to crack. Her eyes flicked to your mouth. Down your throat. To the curve of your breasts beneath the ivy lace. And then lower. Still, she didn’t move. Not even a breath.

So you reached for her. Your fingers brushed her wrists—light as a question. Her skin was warm. Her pulse thundered beneath your touch. Agatha made a sound—soft and caught. Almost surprised. Almost pained. And still, she let you guide her. You lifted her hands slowly—slow enough to watch her come undone one inch at a time—and pressed them to your hips. Her fingers twitched. Tightened. Curved instinctively around your waist like they’d been waiting for permission. Your breath hitched. But your voice didn’t falter.

“There,” you murmured. “Isn’t that better, Dr. Harkness?”

Agatha’s lips parted—but no sound came. Her breath dragged slow and ragged through her nose, and her fingers curled harder against the lace. You didn’t stop. You slid her hands higher—your own moving over hers, guiding the ascent. Over the dip of your waist. The bare edge of your ribs. Up, up, until her thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts, right where the lace turned sheer and suggestive.

Her whole body tensed like one more word might undo her completely. You leaned in, nose brushing hers, your lips a whisper from her mouth. The fire cracked behind you. The whole room leaned forward.

“Do you want to feel what you’re doing to me?”

That broke something. Her grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to ground. Her breath caught hard in her throat, and her fingers spread, suddenly greedy against your skin. But still. She didn’t move. So you smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Remember how hard I used to flirt with you in class?” you whispered. “All those times I stayed after, just to watch you try and pretend I wasn’t driving you crazy.”

Her breath shuddered out of her. “God, I wanted you to break. To lose control. I wanted to know what it would feel like when you finally touched me like this.” Her jaw clenched. Her lips parted. You could see it now—that flicker in her eyes. The unraveling. You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “So tell me, Professor. Are we still pretending this is professional?”

Behind you, Rio let out a long, low exhale—like she’d been holding her breath just to see how far you’d go. “She’s gonna snap,” she murmured, voice warm and wrecked with awe. “And you’re going to love it.”

You didn’t look away. You let your lips hover just above Agatha’s, your voice dropping lower—richer. “I used to picture it. You, like this. Shaking. Desperate. Still trying to act like you’re in control.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch Rio’s silhouette in the corner of your vision. “Every time she walked in with one too many buttons undone. Every time you wore those pants like you didn’t know what they did to me…” Your gaze slid back to Agatha—unchanging, unflinching. “I spent weeks learning how to sit still when all I wanted was to drag you both across that seminar table. I only learned restraint because if I hadn’t, I would’ve ruined your entire tenure track.”

But you didn’t look away from her. Not now. Not with her breath stuttering. Not with her hands trembling where they held your waist. You tilted your hips forward—just slightly. Just enough for the lace to press tighter to your skin. Just enough for her to feel how wet you already were through it.

Her fingers twitched. Tightened. And you smiled. “You’re shaking again, Professor.”

Her name was a blade in your mouth. Soft. Precise. That was it. The thread snapped. Agatha groaned against your skin. Rio’s laugh cracked open and spilled into something darker—needy, reverent, wrecked. And just like that, restraint was no longer on the table.

Agatha surged forward.

Her hands left your body—only to return fiercer, firmer, claiming. One hand cupped the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling your mouth to hers with a kiss that broke you open—hungry, hot, breath-stealing. The other clutched your waist, fingers splaying wide, thumb dragging up the line of your ribs like she wanted to learn you by touch alone.

She kissed you like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Like you were the only thing that had ever satisfied. You gasped into her mouth—head tilting, body arching—your hands flying to her shoulders, clutching, anchoring. Heat bloomed between your thighs so fast it made your knees buckle.

But you didn’t fall. Rio was there before you could stumble—arms wrapping around your waist from behind, catching you between them. Her chest pressed to your back. Her mouth at your throat. She held you there, steady, while Agatha kissed you like she was starving.

“Jesus,” Rio muttered, voice ragged, lips dragging across your skin. “You really have learned how to ruin us.”

Agatha growled against your mouth, deep and guttural like the sound had been coiled in her chest all night. Her fingers trailed down your side, slow and unrelenting. One hand skimmed the top swell of your ass, her nails scratching lightly down your skin. You shivered—caught between them, breathless with want. Rio’s hands slid down to your thighs, anchoring you between them. You felt her grin against your neck.

“If you want to tease,” Rio whispered, low and molten, “we can tease.” Then she kissed beneath your ear—hot and slow and claiming—her mouth dragging just enough to make your spine arch.And then—Agatha’s grip shifted, fierce and sudden. One hand cupped the back of your neck again, pulling your mouth to hers with a kiss that shattered you. The other slid down your back, over the curve of your ass, clutching hard enough to bruise.

You gasped into her mouth—again—your body trembling, your knees starting to give. But Rio held you upright. Braced you between her and Agatha like a bridge of heat and need. Without warning, Agatha grabbed your thighs. Lifted.

You gasped again, arms clinging around her neck, legs parting on instinct, wrapping around her hips. The lace pressed tighter to your skin, your heat dragging against the firm line of her body. You felt her breath stutter when it landed there. She carried you like you weighed nothing. Like you were hers. Like she’d been holding back for months and the dam had just cracked.

And then— She pressed you to the wall. Gently. Commandingly. Her body pinning yours in place with nothing but raw intent. The cold bite of the wall made your skin jolt—but it was nothing compared to the searing heat of Agatha’s mouth finding yours again. Her tongue slid deep. Her hips ground into yours in one deliberate roll, and your back arched hard. Your fingers dug into her shoulders. You moaned into her mouth.

You gasped, the cool surface behind you a sharp contrast to the fire burning in your chest. Agatha’s hips rolled forward again, slow and deliberate, grinding just enough to make your eyes flutter closed. Rio’s hands never left you. Her mouth stayed at your neck, her breath hot and shaky. The three of you moved like a single breath—desire thrumming in every inch of contact.

“Look at me,” Agatha rasped, pulling back just far enough to meet your eyes.

You did. And what you saw there wasn’t just hunger—it was worship. Awe. Fury and devotion wound so tightly together they were indistinguishable. Her hands gripped your thighs harder. Her hips rolled again. Every inch of her was pressed to you—your chest rising against hers, your thighs clenching around nothing, your core throbbing where the lace clung wet and wanting between your legs. You gasped, your voice catching. “Agatha—”

She kissed you again—feral and reverent all at once—and whispered against your lips: “You’re mine.”

Behind you, Rio stepped closer.Not touching. Just watching. Her presence was molten—heat without contact, weight without pressure. Her voice came low and wrecked, smoky with admiration.

Agatha’s eyes held yours. Her breath ghosted your lips, warm and reverent. “You knew what you were doing.” Her thumb brushed just beneath your lower lip—soft, steady—her gaze never leaving yours.

“You walked out here in that—” her voice dipped, dark and reverent, “daring us. Tempting us. Making us ache with it, thinking we wouldn’t be able to keep our hands off you.” Her other hand gripped your hip harder now, fingers digging into the lace. “Looking at us like you weren’t unraveling along with us... every step you took, silently begging us to lose control.”

Agatha groaned against your neck. Rio let out a laugh that cracked into something darker—something hungry. She stepped back just enough to let her hands roam. And gods— You ached for the weight of her again. Her body. Her heat. You whimpered, hips rocking forward instinctively—

And Agatha pulled away. Not cruelly. Not sharply. But just enough. The friction you’d been chasing vanished like smoke, leaving you trembling. Aching. Your breath caught in your throat. “Poor thing.”

Rio’s voice curled into your ear like smoke, her breath brushing the curve of your jaw. “She thought we were done playing.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even think. Your body was taut—suspended—every muscle trembling between Agatha’s unshakable grip and your own unraveling restraint. Agatha’s palm stayed warm and steady against your stomach, keeping you gently, firmly pinned. Her hips remained just out of reach, that unbearable sliver of distance denying you the one point of contact you craved most. Your legs were still wrapped around her hips, heels digging into her back—not for leverage. Not for escape. But because if she let go, you might break apart entirely. It wasn’t balance you were clinging to. It was the pressure. The heat. The slow-burn ache of being held like you were meant to be there.

And Rio— God, Rio. She didn’t rush. She didn’t need to.

One hand slid along your side, up and up, slow as candlewax—until her knuckles just skimmed the underside of your breast. Barely a touch. Only a suggestion. Her fingers ghosted over the lace like she was teasing the idea of touch more than the thing itself. Her other arm braced beside your head, caging you between her and the wall. Her body close enough to feel—but not enough to satisfy. She didn’t need to touch much. The way her voice curled around you was already enough.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” she whispered, low and hot against your ear. “Pressed between us. Legs around her like you were made for it.” You whimpered. Your hips twitched in Agatha’s grip, desperate to grind down, to feel. But she moved first. A subtle shift. Calculated. Cruel.

She adjusted her stance just enough to take that friction away. You gasped, your forehead falling to her shoulder, nails curling into the fabric at her back. “Uh-uh.” Agatha’s voice was calm. Controlled. Devastating. “You don’t get to chase that yet.”

Rio chuckled darkly, her breath grazing your throat. Her hand moved again—skimming down your ribs, across your stomach in a path that left your muscles trembling beneath her palm.

“You feel that?” she whispered. “How soaked you are through this lace?” You nodded—barely. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

“God,” she breathed, her mouth brushing your cheek now, “when we finally take this off…” Her lips lingered there. “I’m going to put my mouth everywhere it touched.” Your body jolted in Agatha’s arms, a moan tearing from your chest—sharp and wrecked.

“Everywhere,” Rio continued, voice molten, reverent, ruined. “Right here—” she kissed the hinge of your jaw, “behind your knee. The inside of your thigh. That spot where your ribs meet your waist—” Her fingers tapped it. Light. Cruel. Precise.

“And here.” She kissed the corner of your mouth. “And here.” Her hand slid to your inner thigh, still outside the lace. Still not where you needed her. Agatha’s mouth found your neck again. Open. Warm. Claiming. Her breath was ragged now, but her voice still came steady. “She’s mine,” she murmured. “But I want you to show her what it means to be…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. She let her hand drift lower—tracing along the inside of your thigh. Not touching where you ached. Just circling the edges of it. Daring you to beg. “Look at you,” Rio murmured, her mouth now at your jaw. “Wrapped around her, already soaked through, and you haven’t even been kissed where it counts.”

You whimpered—high, helpless, already trembling. Agatha kissed your temple—gentle. Ruining. “You’re doing so well.” That praise—so calm, so matter-of-fact, so earned—nearly undid you. Rio’s hand slid higher. Until her fingers hovered right over the center of your lace-covered core. Still no pressure. Still no contact.

Just the unbearable, perfect awareness of her right there. Her breath kissed your ear. And her voice was nothing but heat. “I could make you come without even taking it off.” You gasped. Your whole body tightened in Agatha’s grip, the sound slipping from your lips before you could catch it.

“This isn’t even the best part,” Rio whispered—slow, deliberate, almost cruel. “Not yet.” Agatha's palm slid down again, smoothing over your thigh, stopping just short of where you ached most. Her lips pressed to your temple—once, twice—then down to your jaw, then to the center of your throat.

“So brave,” she whispered. “But not in control anymore.”

Then you felt it— Rio dropping lower. Slow. Sure. Her hands slid down the backs of your legs, helping support your weight as she sank to her knees between Agatha and the wall. One hand curved beneath your thigh, the other gripping the swell of your ass through the lace, grounding you in place. Her breath hit your stomach first— Then the wet, open heat of her mouth through the lace. You cried out. Sharp. Real. Agatha cooed at the sound, voice thick with pride.

“That’s it,” she murmured, kissing the crown of your head. “Let her taste what you tried to hide.”

Rio groaned—deep, reverent. “She’s trembling,” she said, her voice husky and raw.

“I know,” Agatha replied, her lips curving into the side of your neck. “Isn’t she beautiful like this?”

Then—Rio leaned in. Pressed her mouth right against you. Not beneath the lace. Over it. Tongue first. Then lips. Slow. Heavy. Perfect. You sobbed—guttural and unrestrained—your head thudding softly against the wall as your hands clenched fistfuls of Agatha’s sweater. Agatha held you tight, one arm around your waist, the other stroking your hair as her voice dropped to a whisper.

“So good. So brave. Just like that, baby.”

Rio mouthed at you through the soaked fabric like it was the only thing she’d ever wanted. Like the lace wasn’t in the way. Like it made it better. Her tongue dragged up the center seam—slow circles, devastating pressure, dipping low and pulling back again, never quite giving you what you needed. But giving you everything else. You gasped—shuddered—legs tightening around Agatha’s hips, not to grind, just to hold onto something.

“She’s soaked,” Rio murmured, her voice muffled by your thighs, her lips brushing lace. “And we haven’t even really touched her yet.” Agatha leaned in, her forehead pressing to yours. Her breath was steady, her hand warm where it cupped your ribs.

“Let her keep going,” she said. “Let her make you beg.” You whimpered again—high and broken—your body suspended between mercy and madness. Agatha held you steady. Still. Anchored in her arms like she knew what you needed before you could even name it. One hand stroking your hair, the other braced tight at your lower back, her voice wrapping around you like silk drawn taut.

“That’s it,” she murmured.  Rio didn’t stop. Her tongue moved in slow, knowing circles—pressing through the soaked lace, teasing where it made you shake, then pulling away just before it became too much. Her hands held your thighs now, firm and reverent, her mouth working against you like she could drink the want straight from your skin.

“So sensitive,” she whispered, lips brushing lace, voice molten. “You’re trembling, baby.”

You were. Your fingers clung to Agatha’s sweater like lifelines, knuckles white, arms trembling from the effort of holding on. Your head tipped back, your mouth open, breath shattering against her throat in desperate little sobs.

“Please—” you choked out.

Rio moaned softly into you, the sound vibrating through the fabric. “Say it again.”

“Please, Rio”

Agatha kissed your temple, her voice warm, wrecked, so proud. “Good girl.” Rio’s tongue flattened—firm and slow—dragging a thick line from the base of your core to the top, over lace, through the heat, and you cried out, hips jolting despite yourself.

“God,” she groaned, “you taste like fucking heaven through this.” And then— She stopped. Her mouth hovered for a breathless second, and you thought you’d die from the silence. “Let me show her,” she said.

Agatha stilled. And then nodded. She let go of you with one arm—slowly, gently—and Rio rose to meet her. Their hands brushed against your skin as they moved, heat trading places, mouths whispering in ways your body felt more than heard. “Right here,” Rio murmured against Agatha’s ear, one hand guiding hers to the lace. “Start slow. Just over it. She loves that.” You gasped—eyes fluttering open—just in time to see Agatha drop to her knees before you.

Her hands smoothed over your thighs. Reverent. Steady. She looked up at youEyes dark. Mouth parted. Worshiping. “so beautiful.” Her lips met the lace where Rio’s had just been. And you shattered. Not all at once. Not yet. But your body jolted, your hands flew to the wall, and a whimper cracked from your throat so raw it could’ve been a prayer. Agatha kissed you through the lace like it was holy. Her tongue soft. Her pressure light. She licked over the exact spot Rio had just mapped, her movements slower—deeper—like she wanted to learn you by heart.

And Rio watched it all. She pressed herself behind you again, her mouth at your neck, her fingers stroking your side with aching gentleness. “That’s it, baby,” she whispered. Agatha’s tongue circled. Pressed. Curled her lips against the soaked center of you. And you sobbed. Lace still on.

Wall still cold. Their hands, their mouths, their devotion— All of it burning through you. Agatha’s tongue moved in slow, steady passes, circling over the soaked lace like she was tasting something ancient and sacred. Her hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to claim without hurting. She moaned softly into you.

“You’re dripping,” she whispered against the fabric. “I can taste how much you want us.” You cried out again, your head knocking gently back against the wall, the tension in your body coiled so tightly you could barely breathe. Rio kissed your shoulder. Your neck. Her hand slid up to your chest, cupping you through the lace. Just holding. Just reminding you she was there. “You’re doing so well,” she murmured, kissing your temple now. “But you have to tell us what you need.”

Your mouth opened—closed—opened again. A sound escaped. Not quite a word. Just need. Agatha’s tongue circled again, slow and deliberate, her lips dragging along the edge of lace now soaked through, her breath hot against the center of you. “Please—” you finally gasped. She stilled. Her eyes lifted. And you saw it. The power in her restraint. The worship in her focus. “Use your words, sweetheart,” Rio coaxed, her hand now stroking along your ribs, warm and slow. “You’ve been teasing us all night. Now tell us what you want.”

“I want—” You broke off with a gasp as Agatha kissed you again, firm and open-mouthed through the fabric. You nearly sobbed. “I want you—”

“You have us,” Agatha whispered.

“I want more,” you choked out. “I want—fuck—please. Take it off. I need—” Rio’s lips brushed your ear, soft and indulgent. “That’s better.” Agatha hummed—low and pleased—her mouth never leaving you. “Say it again,” she said, her voice wrecked, her tongue pressing just a little harder now. You whimpered, clutching at Rio’s arm, your entire body shaking. “Please. Take it off. Please—I need—”

The words cracked from your throat like thunder—shaky, aching, broken open. Raw in a way that left you exposed not just in body, but in soul. Agatha’s mouth never left you, but her breath stuttered. You felt the shift. The unraveling of her control—not violent. Not rushed. Just inevitable. And then— Her voice. Low. Wrecked. A little trembling, like it cost her something to speak at all.

“I’ve waited all night to see you.” She pulled back just enough to see what she was doing, her hands lifting to the edge of your lace. Her fingers curled under it—Shaking. Barely. But enough to make your breath catch in your throat. Enough to make your thighs quiver against her ribs. She didn’t rip it. She didn’t yank. She peeled it down. Inches at a time. Breath by breath. Worship. The fabric clung—soaked, ruined—slipping from your skin like silk giving up its secrets. You felt the air hit you, cool and sharp, and still you burned. Agatha didn’t blink. Her breath hitched. Once. And then her voice—barely a whisper. “Oh—” It wasn’t a sound of lust. It was awe.

Then— “Fuck.” You whimpered. Your hands flew to Rio’s arm, clutching her where she still stood behind you—your anchor, your shadow—because staying still while they looked at you like this was suddenly the hardest thing you'd ever done. Rio kissed the corner of your mouth, her voice a low, knowing whisper.

“That’s it. Let her see what’s hers.” Agatha exhaled. Hard. Like she hadn’t breathed in minutes. Her gaze dragged up—slow, heavy—and when it met yours, it wrecked you. She looked undone. Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Her pupils blown wide, black with want.

And then— She kissed you. No lace. No barrier. Just the wet, aching heat of your skin and the reverent weight of her mouth. You sobbed. Loud. Visceral. The sound tore from your chest like a prayer ripped raw, and Agatha groaned against you—felt it—her hands gripping your thighs to hold you steady as her tongue dragged through you. Deep. Slow. Perfect. Your head dropped back against Rio’s shoulder, and she caught it with both hands, cradling your face like something precious. Her lips brushed your ear.

“There she is,” she whispered, her voice reverent, proud, hungry.

Agatha’s mouth worshipped you like she’d been starving for this. Each stroke of her tongue was slow, devastating, intentional—not a single movement wasted. The lace had barely been pushed aside, still clinging to one thigh, still clutched in one of her shaking hands like she wasn’t ready to let it go completely. And you? You were right there. Your breath hitched with every flick of her tongue, every soft kiss to the aching, swollen heat between your legs. You were bare. But not undone yet. Not fully.

Not until— “Please,” you whimpered, the sound catching like a sob in your throat. “Don’t stop. Please—please—I need—” Your thighs were shaking where they clung to Agatha’s body, your heels slipping against her back as you tried to stay grounded. But there was no ground anymore—only heat. Only want. Only the wild, beautiful blur of them.

Agatha groaned into you, and the sound vibrated through your core. You cried out, nails digging into Rio’s wrist where she still held your face—steadying you, anchoring you through the tremble of it all. Agatha adjusted her grip, spreading her hands over your thighs, lifting you slightly—just enough to shift her angle. Then she— Flattened her tongue. Long. Deep. Unforgiving. “Oh my god—” You didn’t mean to scream it. But you did. “Ohmygod ohmygod please—I’m so close—”

“You feel it, baby?” Rio whispered at your ear, lips brushing the curve of it. “It’s right there”

“I—can’t—” Your whole body was locking, bracing. Agatha didn’t pull away. She lifted her head just enough to speak, her breath dragging rough and hot across your skin. “Yes, you can.” And you did. Right there. Still pressed to the wall. Still half-dressed. Lace still barely pushed aside. You came hard—your whole body snapping tight, hips jerking against Agatha’s mouth, your head falling back into Rio’s shoulder with a cry that shook the walls.

“Oh—fuck—yes—”

Agatha moaned into you, licking you through it, into it, around it, her hands cradling your thighs like she couldn’t not touch you now. You collapsed forward, undone—wrung out and breathless, your body folding into Agatha’s arms, arms weak around her shoulders, lips parting in a whimper you didn’t have words to shape. She held you like you might break. And Rio—still behind you, steady and warm—whispered soft, reverent things as she pressed kisses into your temple.

“You did so good,” she murmured. “So fucking good.” A beat. Silence. The fire crackling low. The sound of your breath, shivering in your chest. And then— “You didn’t even make it to the bedroom,” Rio said with a grin in her voice.

Agatha huffed a laugh, her lips still ghosting along your shoulder. “Didn’t even get undressed.”

“Whose fault is that?” you mumbled against her skin, your voice hoarse and barely functioning.

“Yours,” Agatha whispered proudly. “You came the second I touched skin.”

Agatha’s mouth didn’t stop—not even as you gasped, not even as your legs trembled around her waist. She held you through it, kept kissing you, licking gently now, the way someone might kiss a shaking hand—comforting. Reverent. Deliberate.

“Agatha—” Her name broke from your lips in a gasp—half-moan, half-plea. It cracked something in her. You felt the groan in her chest before it vibrated against your core. And then her tongue dragged up again—one last long, slow lick. You shuddered. Already twitching in the aftershocks.

“Agatha, I—fuck—please—”

Her mouth pulled back just enough to speak, lips wet, her breath hot against your thighs. “That’s it. Say my name again.”

You did. You couldn’t stop. “Agatha—oh god—” And then— Rio kissed your cheek. Softly. Almost sweet. But her voice? Pure mischief.

“She’s so polite now,” she murmured, sliding around to kneel beside Agatha, her fingers brushing your thigh. “Not so cocky anymore, are you?”

You tried to speak, but your mouth only opened around a gasp as Rio leaned in and blew—soft and cruel—across your oversensitive skin. “Rio—” Her name came out broken. She smirked. “There it is.”

Her mouth followed the path Agatha had just left—not touching where you needed her, but dangerously close. Her tongue traced your inner thigh, slow and mean, and her teeth grazed the skin, making you flinch and moan.

“You think I forgot what you said earlier?” she murmured.

“Rio, please—” You didn’t even know what you were begging for anymore. You just needed. Agatha was still holding you, stroking your sides, whispering in your ear.

“That’s it, baby. Let us hear you.”

“Agatha. Rio. Please.”

Rio kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and open, and looked up at you—eyes wild and wicked and so full of love. “God, you’re pretty when you break.” You whimpered. She licked again. This time—up the seam of your thigh, and along the edge of your center. Close. So close. “Beg better.”

Your head dropped back. A sob caught in your throat. “Please. I need—fuck—I need your mouth, I can’t—please, Rio.” Agatha’s grip on you tightened. Pride burned in her voice. “That’s our girl.” Rio hummed. “Now you sound like her.”

And then—Her mouth finally met you. Skin to skin.Tongue to clit.Direct.You screamed—your back arching off Agatha’s chest, hands scrambling over her shoulders for something to hold as your entire body jolted from the first true contact.

“Rio—ohmygod—fuck—yes.”

Rio groaned against you, her mouth moving in slow, deliberate strokes. One arm wrapped around your thigh, holding you open. Her other braced on the floor, anchoring her as she devoured you—deep, teasing, methodical. Your scream echoed, sharp and holy, as Rio's tongue found you. You were gone again—your body jolting, thighs shaking, back arching into Agatha as you clawed for something, anything, to hold onto. But then— Hands shifted. Arms moved.

Agatha kissed your neck one last time and whispered, “We’re taking you down.”

And she did. She lifted you so gently, one hand beneath your thighs, the other across your back, and slowly lowered you to the rug beneath the firelight. The moment your back touched the floor, warmth spread through you. The flames nearby crackled softly, shadows dancing across your skin, and the air between them hung heavy—thick with the scent of you, with need, with hunger. Your legs remained open, shaking slightly, still wet with their touch, your chest rising and falling like you’d run miles and hadn’t stopped. Rio hovered above you, kneeling between your thighs, licking her lips.

“She’s perfect like this.”

Agatha knelt behind her. Watched her. Hands now moving with purpose—curling into Rio’s hair, dragging it back to reveal the curve of her throat, the sharp line of her jaw.

“Then let me watch you ruin her.”

She tilted Rio’s head, kissed the side of her face—hard.

“Let me see what you do to her.”

Rio groaned, grinning as she leaned forward again. Her mouth met you without hesitation. No warning. No pause. Just heat. Just tongue and lips and want. You gasped—high and broken—your hands flying to Agatha’s wrists where she still gripped Rio’s hair, holding her in place.

“Fuck—Rio—” Agatha’s voice was a soft hum above you. “That’s it. Right there.”

You moaned again—louder—as Rio licked deeper, slower. Her tongue moving with confidence, with purpose, curling exactly where you needed it most. And then— Agatha’s voice dipped lower. Darker. “She’s going to cum again.”

“Not yet,” Rio murmured against you, her words muffled by your skin. “Not without you.”

Agatha stilled. You felt it. Felt the shift. And then— “Move,” she said.

Rio did. She backed up, lips slick and cheeks flushed, panting a little as Agatha crawled forward and lowered herself between your thighs. She didn’t hesitate. She just looked at you and then tasted you. Deep. Long. The kind of lick that steals breath. You cried out, your hips twitching off the floor, hands flying to Agatha’s hair. She groaned, loud and unrestrained. “Fuck—she’s still shaking.”

“You didn’t let her come all the way down,” Rio teased, settling beside you now, her hand cupping your breast, her lips trailing along your neck. “She’s still floating.”

Agatha licked again. Then again. And Rio kissed you just below the jaw, murmuring, “Come on, baby. Say her name again.”

You did. You couldn’t stop. “Agatha—oh god—Agatha, please—” Rio’s hand slipped down your body, just above your center, just below your ribs. “That’s it. That’s our girl.”

Agatha's mouth never let up. Tongue rolling deep, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking slow and full, and your legs trembled, thighs bracketing her head, your voice climbing higher. And Rio watched. Stroked your cheek. Smiled like she already knew— “Let’s see how long you last now.”

Agatha didn’t stop. Her mouth stayed locked to your center—tongue slow and deep, lips wrapped around your clit like she was claiming it. You could hardly breathe. Could hardly move. Rio was curled at your side, her fingers brushing your ribs, her breath hot against your cheek as she whispered: “So fucking beautiful.”

Your hand fluttered uselessly against the floor, muscles still trembling from your first release, your second already building like a wave you couldn’t outrun. Agatha’s hands came up—steady, strong—and guided yours into her hair. “Pull,” she rasped against you. The vibration shot straight through your core. “I want to feel you take it.” You curled your fingers into her curls, hesitant at first—then tighter, tugging gently as her tongue dragged through you again, long and wet and slow. “Agatha—”

“Good girl,” Rio murmured, and then her fingers slid down your body. You gasped as they passed over your stomach. Then lower. Then lower still. Her hand slid between your legs. Between Agatha’s mouth and your core. And then—she joined her.

Fingers curling just beneath where Agatha’s tongue licked. Not inside. Just gliding in sync, dragging slow and hot over your folds, slick with your own release, her rhythm perfect. “That’s it,” Rio whispered, breath catching as her lips kissed your ear. “That’s it, baby”

Your head thrashed, your hand pulling harder at Agatha’s hair. “Please—please—don’t stop, I can’t—” Agatha groaned into you—loud, raw—and you felt her suck harder, her tongue swirling in time with Rio’s touch, both of them pressing, licking, circling as one. You shattered again. No warning. No build. Just fire. Your body arched off the floor, your legs locking around Agatha’s shoulders, your scream muffled by Rio’s mouth as she kissed you, deep and wet and full of heat while you sobbed into her lips.

“Oh—fuck—yes—”

Your body bucked, shaking violently beneath them as they took you through it—together—one licking, one stroking, one holding your jaw and kissing every moan from your mouth. And when it passed—when your body finally dropped back to the floor, limp and shaking, your chest heaving between them. They didn’t stop. Not fully. Agatha lifted her mouth from you slowly, her lips slick, her eyes wrecked. “She’s not done,” she said, breathless. Rio grinned—flushed, glowing. “Neither are we.”

Agatha crawled up your body like she needed to memorize you. Not fast. Not frantic. Devotional. Her lips dragged over your shoulder—wet and open and shaking. Not from hesitation, but from the sheer effort it took to keep from biting. You felt her breath stutter against your skin, short and ragged, heat blooming in its wake and leaving your skin pebbling beneath her. And then— Her thigh slipped between yours. Bare. Burning. Unforgiving. The moment it pressed against the slick heat at your center, she let out a sound—low and guttural, pulled straight from the base of her spine.

“Fuck,” she breathed. Her voice was wrecked, barely holding together. “You’re—god, you’re soaked.” Her forehead dropped to your collarbone, like the weight of it all was too much to carry upright. She just breathed. Inhaling the scent of sweat and skin and sex like it was the only thing keeping her conscious. She didn’t pull back. She pressed in.

Her thigh flexed—once, twice—grinding against your core with a slow, punishing rhythm that made your eyes flutter, your mouth fall open, your body jerk against hers. It wasn’t fast, but it was precise likeshe was watching for every flicker across your face and adjusting her pressure to devastate you. Your hips bucked, chasing her without thought. Your hands flew to her waist—digging in, nails catching the edge of her shirt, clinging hard. You didn’t even realize you were moaning until you heard the catch in her breath when you did. You felt Rio before you saw her. The way the heat of her body folded in from your side. The way her fingers ghosted along your ribcage, tracing the sweat-slick line beneath your breast.

Then her mouth. She kissed up your jaw, slow and reverent, lips dragging like they couldn’t decide whether to soothe or devour. Her breath was molten. Her body? Fire.

And when she finally pressed herself fully against your side, you felt her thigh slip forward to mirror Agatha’s. It pressed into your opposite hip—sliding between the slickness of your thighs like it had always belonged there. You were caged. You were held. You were theirs. Every point of contact—Agatha’s weight above you, Rio’s heat curling into your side—stitched your body between them like thread pulled tight.

All three of you started to grind. Not in sync at first. It was messy. Desperate. All muscle memory and breath, all instinct and ache. Agatha shifted first, her thigh dragging in a slow, upward stroke that sent a jolt through your spine. Her breath caught as your hips twitched in response, a soft curse spilling from her lips. She adjusted, just barely, her weight settling heavier, her thigh flexing as she found the angle that made you gasp.

Rio followed a beat later—pressing forward, her thigh sliding tight against your hip, her body flush to your side. Her lips hovered at your ear, her breath hot and shallow, her chest rising hard with every exhale as she started to move with you.

The rhythm found you. Not fast. Not frantic. But deep. Insistent. Agatha’s thigh pushed up—firm, slow, grinding. You felt her muscles clench with every stroke, her body tightening like she was barely holding herself back. The friction built between you, pressure rising with every roll of her hips, every slick, desperate drag of her skin against yours.

Rio’s thigh moved with it, dragging from the opposite side—pressing against your waist, against the side of your breast, against everything—until your body was suspended between them like something sacred. Their breath changed first. Agatha groaned—sharp and low, the kind that shook through her chest and bled into your own. Rio gasped, one of her hands tightening on your ribs as she moaned, soft and broken, her thigh stuttering against you for half a second before she steadied herself.

Then came yours. A high, shivering cry—punctuated by the snap of your hips, the full-body jolt as your clit caught on the edge of Agatha’s thigh again. You clutched at her hips, at Rio’s back, anchoring yourself to anything that could hold you in place. And then the rhythm quickened. Built. Tightened.

“Fuck—” Agatha moaned, voice cracking. Her lips dropped to your neck, open and wet, teeth grazing skin like she didn’t trust herself to bite. “You feel—Jesus, baby, I can feel you soaking me—” You whimpered, your hips bucking into hers. “I can’t—I need—” Rio laughed softly—wrecked, dark. “God, listen to her. She’s fucking trembling.” Her mouth dragged over your cheek, down to your throat, her lips brushing that sweet, shaking pulse. “She’s gonna fall apart,” she whispered, like it was sacred. “Right here. Right between us.”

Your body jolted. You sobbed. Because she was right. You were so wet, every grind of skin on skin echoed. The slick sounds of your thighs dragging against theirs filled the room—obscene and beautiful. Agatha’s hands curled around your waist, pulling you tighter, her voice wrecked. “Rub against me, baby. Come on. Let me feel how needy you are.”

Rio’s hand slid between you all—just for a moment—her knuckles brushing your inner thigh, dragging slickness back up over your clit before she let her thigh replace the pressure again. “So fucking wet,” she muttered. “You’re dripping, sweetheart.”

You keened, your hips snapping forward again, caught between both of them now—Agatha’s moans ragged in your ear, Rio’s curses melting into kisses along your throat. “You’re gonna make me come just like this,” Rio gasped, her voice shaking. “Just from grinding on you—fuck, fuck—I can’t—”

“Don’t stop,” Agatha growled, her voice fierce now, her hips grinding harder, her breath hot and fast. “Don’t you fucking stop—I want you both to fall apart on me.”

And god, you were close. You were so close it hurt. Your thighs were shaking. Your back arched. You cried out—high, helpless, soaked in pleasure— And their thighs kept moving. Rio moaned into your neck, her hands scrambling at your hips. “She’s twitching,” she gasped. “She’s—oh, baby, you’re already close again, aren’t you?”

You tried to answer. You really did. But all that came out was a sound—high and broken and soaked in need. They both felt it. The rhythm didn’t stop— It just shifted. Deeper. Slower. Crueler. You weren’t just chasing release anymore. You were building it—feeding it—wrapping your thighs tighter around Agatha’s hips just to feel how much she was shaking. And god, she was. Her whole body vibrated against yours. Her hands clutched your waist like a lifeline. Her mouth trembled against your skin as she moaned into your neck, raw and unfiltered.

“You’re gonna kill me,” she gasped. “You’re gonna—fuck—you’re gonna make me lose it before I even get inside you.” You grinned—wicked, breathless, ruined. Your hand slipped down her side, fingers dragging across the slick skin of her lower back before gripping the back of her thigh.

“You feel that?” you whispered, voice honey-thick, drunk on power and pleasure. “That’s all for you. All of it. I’m soaked because I knew you’d fuck me like this—like you couldn’t help yourself.” Agatha groaned—loud, needy—and her hips snapped forward harder, grinding against you so fiercely your head tipped back with a cry. And Rio—god, Rio. She was watching you with eyes like molten glass, her thigh still pressing from the other side, her hand gripping your jaw and keeping your mouth right where she wanted it.

“Say that again,” she whispered. Her voice wasn’t calm anymore. It was wrecked. “Say it again—tell her what she’s doing to you. Tell me.” Your eyes fluttered. You moaned. You turned your head, just enough for your lips to brush hers when you spoke. “She’s grinding against my pussy like she owns it,” you breathed, voice breaking with the truth of it. “And you—fuck, Rio—you’re just as wet as me. I can feel it every time you move.”

She whimpered—Rio whimpered—and her thigh jolted harder against you, slick skin dragging over your hip in a frantic, broken rhythm. Her forehead dropped to yours, her breath catching, stuttering out in heat-soaked moans. “Fuck,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Fuck, I can’t stop—”

You slid your hand behind her—fingers finding the curve of her ass, slick with sweat and flexing beneath your touch—and pulled her tighter, dragging her against you so hard she gasped. “Come on,” you whispered, voice thick and low and filthy. “Fuck me, baby. Grind it out. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You wanna come just like this. You love how filthy it is—don’t you?”

Rio’s response wasn’t words. It was a sound—long and wrecked, hips jolting forward in a wild grind, her whole body clenching. “I love it,” she sobbed. “I love it—god, I love it—I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop—” And she couldn’t. You could feel it in the way she moved—like she was chasing her orgasm blind, lost, riding the edge with every thrust of her thigh against your skin. But then— Agatha’s hand caught your jaw. Firm. Commanding. She turned your face back to hers, her eyes blazing.

“Stop teasing her,” she growled, her breath hot and ragged. “Tease me. Come on. Tell me what you want.”

You smiled. It was wicked and soaked and shameless, your mouth slick with moans and sweat, your hips still grinding helplessly between them. You leaned in—cheek to hers, lips brushing her ear. “I want you to feel how fucking wet I am,” you whispered. “And know you haven’t earned it yet.” Agatha groaned—not just from her chest but from somewhere deeper. Her hips bucked against you like she couldn’t stop herself, her thigh pressing harder, the friction brutal and perfect.

“You’re gonna make me beg,” you breathed, your voice hot against her skin. “You want it. You need to hear it.” Her lips crashed into yours—hard, hungry, desperate. Her tongue pushed into your mouth with heat and purpose, claiming every gasp, every broken sound. She pulled back only enough to whisper, “I should make you beg. You’d sound so fucking pretty—begging me to let you come.” Rio moaned against your neck—high and trembling—and then bit. Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough to claim.

“She already is,” she whispered, her voice rough and reverent.

You didn’t even realize it until she said it. But your hips were grinding wildly now, slick and fast, your thighs trembling from holding back, every breath a sob. Every pass of their skin over your core made you whimper. Every moan that left your mouth made them thrust harder. And your voice—when it came next—was barely a whisper, barely a sound.

“I want to feel you come on me,” you gasped, wrecked and open and raw. “I want to feel you grind it out on my skin—I want to be the reason you lose it.” Agatha’s breath caught—so sharp it sounded like it hurt. Rio’s hips bucked—wild, desperate, her whole body shaking as she moved faster, chasing friction like it was oxygen. You sobbed—real and ruined—your hands fisting in Agatha’s shirt, your legs flexing around both their hips, trying to hold them there, trying to keep that pressure from slipping away again.

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t you dare stop—”

And they didn’t. They couldn’t. Agatha’s grip tightened, her face pressed to your throat, her moans shaking apart into pieces. Rio was gasping now, her voice breaking open, her nails scraping down your side as she ground against you like she’d come apart if she stopped. And you—You were still right there. Trapped between them. Soaked. Begging. Smiling. Shaking. Ruthless. Perfectly edged. They were losing it.

You could feel it in the way their hips stuttered—the rhythm cracking, no longer smooth or controlled. Agatha’s breath came in ragged bursts against your throat, her thigh grinding up into you so hard it made your toes curl. Rio’s hands were trembling against your ribs, her moans spilling freely now—loud, wrecked, wild. Her whole body was slick where she moved against you, thighs soaked, stomach trembling, her voice breaking as she chased the friction.

Your hand slid down Rio’s back, fingers splayed across the curve of her ass. She whimpered the second you pulled her tighter—your thigh catching just where she needed it, slick skin dragging in a way that made her cry out.

“Come on,” you murmured, voice low and velvet-dirty. “Fuck me, baby. I know how bad you want it.” Her whole body jerked—hips rocking faster, messier—her mouth falling open in a broken, gasping cry. “You wanna come just like this?” you whispered, dragging your lips along her cheek. “Soaking me? Grinding on my skin until you’re dripping?”

Rio sobbed. That was the only word for it—a sob. Not from pain—no. From pressure. From pleasure. From holding it too long. From the kind of tension that coils so tightly, it has to break somewhere. “I love it,” she choked. “I love it—I can’t stop—I can’t—”

You turned your head—your mouth barely grazing hers—and moaned, soft and indulgent.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” you whispered. “You’re making a mess all over me.” You tilted your head, lips brushing between their necks, and breathed it into them. “I want to fuck you with the strap.” They froze. Just for a beat. One ragged breath between them. And then—Rio’s hips bucked. Agatha moaned. You had them “and fuck both of you until you’re ruined. Until your legs are shaking. Until you’re too wrecked to form a single thought that isn’t me.”

Their moans overlapped, broken and high, breath catching in stutters. “I’ll hold your hips,” you went on, your hand sliding down Agatha’s waist, gripping tight, “and fuck you until you’re sobbing. And you—” your other hand cupped the back of Rio’s neck, pulling her close, “—you’ll come just from the sound of it. Just from watching.”

“Fuck—” Rio gasped, her voice wrecked and cracking. “Fuck, I—”

That made her shake—eyes fluttering shut, breath seizing in her throat. Her hips jolted hard enough to press you deeper into Agatha. And Agatha growled. Her hand snapped to your waist, dragging you forward—hard, needy—her hips grinding into yours like she’d lost the ability to hold back. Like she couldn’t anymore. You ground harder. Pressed in deeper. Your thighs clamped down around them both, and your fingers slid down—over the slick heat between Rio’s thighs, then back, dragging along where Agatha’s skin was rubbing hard against yours. Soaked. Pulsing. Slipping over you with every grind.

“Fuck,” you whispered, voice breaking with how close you were. You were grinning—trembling—but so in control. “You’re both soaked. All from me.”

Agatha shuddered—a sound tearing from her throat, wet and deep and full of desperation. You looked at her—her eyes blown, mouth open, her body shaking as she rocked harder against you. You didn’t let up.

“I want you to come on me,” you whispered. “Both of you. Right fucking now.” You guided Agatha’s hips. Just a shift. Just enough. Her slick heat slid against yours—skin to skin, clit to clit—and the moment it happened, you both screamed.“Fuck—!” Agatha cried, voice ripped straight from her lungs, like it hurt to feel that good. “Oh god—fuck, fuck—”

The sound of it—your slick bodies dragging together, that perfect wet friction—was obscene. Gorgeous. It echoed in the air, between gasps, between moans. Her clit caught on yours again, and her whole body shuddered. She didn’t pull away. She snapped. Her hips slammed forward—once, twice—then again, harder, faster—grinding clit-to-clit in a rhythm that made your stomach drop and your breath catch in your throat.

“Don’t stop—” you moaned, the words falling out like prayer. “Please, please—Agatha—”

She couldn’t have stopped if she tried. Her moans were wild now—high, stuttering, tangled with your name. Her hands dug into your hips, anchoring herself there as she rocked into you, over and over, soaked and shaking, her clit grinding in tight, desperate circles against yours.

You could feel every twitch of her. Every pulse. And then—she came. It hit her like a wave, her body bucking against yours, her thighs locking around your hips as she screamed into your skin, voice cracking into ragged gasps as her orgasm tore through her. You felt her spill against you—hot and slick and everywhere.

At the same time— Rio cried out. She’d been right there—grinding helplessly into your thigh, breath catching on every ragged inhale. One hand clung to your back, nails dragging, marking, the other tangled in Agatha’s hair, like she couldn’t choose who to fall into.

Her voice broke on your name—once. Then again. Higher. Rougher. Desperate. “fuck—baby—please—” Her whole body convulsed against your side as she came—hard, soaked, sobbing through it, thighs trembling, hips jerking in stuttering, frantic motions. She was drenched—slick spreading over your leg, slick sounds filling the air as she ground through it, moaning like she was unraveling in slow motion.

And you— You didn’t stand a chance. Because Agatha was still grinding against you. And then— She adjusted her grip. Her hands slid to your hips—firm, reverent, shaking—and she guided you. Pulled you down into her. Dragged your clit right against hers. Slow. Exact. Deadly. You moaned—loud, ragged, already starting to shake.

“Come on,” she whispered—wrecked and reverent, voice breaking against your ear. “Come on, baby. Let go. Let me feel it.”

You broke. Pleasure ripped through you—white-hot, breathless, exploding like it had been coiled for hours, and now there was nothing left holding it back. Your spine arched. Your hips bucked against Agatha’s as she kept grinding you through it. Your thighs locked around her. Your hands clutched—her hips, Rio’s shoulder, skin, hair—anything to keep you from flying apart. And Agatha didn’t stop. She kept pulling your hips against hers, clit-to-clit, her own body jerking with every movement, grinding you through your orgasm like she needed to feel every second of it.

You moaned—sobbed—voice cracking into broken syllables as your body convulsed, slick and shaking and ruined. You heard them both— Rio gasping your name, soft and shattered. Agatha moaning beneath you, breath stuttering, her voice dissolving into open-mouthed, wordless sounds. And they held you. They held you through every last tremble.

Agatha collapsed into your neck, her body still twitching, arms curled tight around your back like she could keep you together with touch alone. Rio clung to your waist, her forehead resting against your shoulder, her breath still ragged, her mouth brushing soft against your skin as she tried to remember how to breathe.

And you— You were still shaking. Still soaked. Still coming down. And together— You fell. Tangled. Heaving. Clinging. Soaked.Shaking.Wrecked.

-----------

She was back there. Back in the firelight. Back in the lace. Back in the moment you stepped out of that bedroom and changed everything. The way your voice trembled when you said yes. The way her breath caught when she saw you. The way Agatha had looked at you like you were the first sunrise she ever bothered to notice.

And then— The heat. The laughter. The mess of limbs and mouths and promises made in moans instead of words. You, between them. All of you, undone.

It stayed with her. Lived in her skin. Still made her breath hitch when she thought about the way you’d looked that night. Rio’s fingers tightened slightly around the mug. And slowly—gently—she came back to herself.

To the present. To the quiet room behind her. To the shape of you curled beneath the quilt. To Agatha’s soft snore, muffled against your shoulder. To the gentle flutter of your daughter’s foot pressing up against your belly like a secret knock from within. Outside, the snow was still melting. Light spilled across the floor in slow gold ribbons. Another year had arrived—not with fireworks, but with warmth. With breath. With you.

Rio smiled. And this time, it wasn’t small. She turned back toward the room—toward the life you’d built. And as she stepped toward the bed, one hand outstretched to touch you, she whispered— “Happy New Year.”

 You didn’t even lift your head. Just a soft, sleepy murmur into the pillow: “Get your mind out of the gutter, Dr. Vidal.” Rio laughed—low, wrecked, completely in love. And behind you, Agatha stirred and reached for both of you without even waking.

What did you think? @6stolenangel9 @ahintofchaos @peskygremlin @holystrangersalad @loveshineslikethesky @dandelions4us @mustangmopar @maydaythingz @stevieswildheart13 @myharkness

[queer-red-panda]

Look at these two gifs

In the first one, Agatha looks horrified but at the same time she’s just so used to the insult that it doesn’t hurt as much. Just hearing it again, centuries later, is what opens the wound, maybe.

Rio. She’s keeping it together and knows for a fact how much that statement has hurt Agatha in the past, and knows how much it hurts hearing it again. She wants to stop her but doesn’t know how to.

And it literally KILLS HER 😭

[livingfandomly]

Shocking that when you focus on quality and give the story to actual writers they can successfully cement a character, give you her entire backstory, make you fall in love with her and make you cry when they kill her off, all in a span of 30mins.

[asterinthesiren]

agatha harkness they could never make me hate you

[stayevildarling]

are we going to talk about this??

[manicsoldier]

[riosblackheart]

Sometimes babygirl is a hundreds of years old lesbian witch that pretends to be tough but is actually a softie when she lets her guard down and is also SO unhinged that Death fell in love with her because they can only match each others freak. And I think that's beautiful.

[wo-mary]

AUBREY PLAZA as Rio Vidal in Agatha All Along (2024) and her naughty tongue

[ronance4life42]

Part one?

[florida3exclamationpoints]

Agatha All Along + text posts pt. ∞

[warpdrive-witch]

Agatha: Rio! Why is there glitter everywhere?!

Rio: *whispers* Nicky, why is there glitter everywhere?

Nicky: *whispers* Because I was unsupervised.

Rio: *turning back to Agatha* Because he was unsupervised.

Agatha: …I’m going to regret asking, aren’t I?

[iwantolderwoman]

their foreplay hits different

@marril96 @covenofagatha @lotsofmilfs @no-phrogs-in-hats

[livingfandomly]

That was literally one of the best episodes I have ever watched period. Not just in aaa but EVER. That was genuinely so so sooo perfect and satisfying and it itches my brain so nicely.

[asterinthesiren]

maybe Death isn't so bad... she's certainly hot

[riosblackheart]

Aweee this new photo of Agathario in the next episode is so cute 💚💜