#rippersz

Oh does she take care of you… her darling girl… her sweetheart. You are more to her than an omega, a person she’s destined to fuck and have children with. You are her entire world. It goes beyond destiny and bonds and carnal desires. She is quite seriously, quite genuinely, till the end of the line, in love.

⟡ So it’s not hard to show her affection for you. At times, she can be shy, but when you get comfortable around one another… she’s relentless. And very suave about it, too. Her compliments are teasing, but heartfelt, and she always sports a smug little smirk when she gets you to tuck your chin down because you’re flustered. Expect over 5 compliments a day — on anything. Your outfit, your hair, your voice, your eyes, whatever you’ve just said, how you’ve cut your toast. Of course you tease back, but when she tilts her head in that way she does and her blue eyes are so intense… you can’t help but stumble a little over your words, so they’re simply not as effective.

⟡ Which is not to say Larissa Weems isn’t effected by you. Because she is. Very much so. You are the first contact in her ‘favourites list’, practically on speed dial, you are the only person who doesn’t drain her social battery (which does indeed have a firm limit), you are rarely ever a thought put on the back burner of her mind (and when you are, it’s because she’s dealing with a work crisis). Larissa Weems is infatuated—and when she has all of your attention, it’s difficult not to preen like an alpha. Puff her chest the tiniest bit, stand a little taller, speak a little firmer. If she had a tail, it would wag like mad every time you relied on her, every time you asked for her opinion or her help. Every time you used her name.

⟡ And you best believe that she’s a blushing alpha. It’s not really something she can hide without using her ability—her skin is so fair and she is an expressive woman. So yes, when you do something to fluster her, or call her out for some sort of lovey-dovey behaviour, her chest and her ears, above all else, go a bit pink. Then red, depending on how embarrassed she gets. It’s actually very cute because she pouts a lot as well—without even realizing.

⟡ Which leads me to my next point: Larissa Weems does not fit the alpha stereotype of being aggressive and possessive. She’s not a brooding, heavy force or a particularly threatening presence because it’s simply not in her nature. Her pride is too great, her aesthetic too well-formed, her heart too soft. She’s not eager to fight other alphas or flaunt your relationship—she respects both of you too much. Not to mention she is a private person. Your combined business is your combined business and she doesn’t want anyone knowing about the tender things. You have her mating mark, you hold her hand, you have the lingering scent of alpha on you that all taken omegas have. And that’s enough for her. She won’t be hunting anyone down. And if she did, she’d rather hire a hitman.

⟡ That scent you carry around as well, a gentle drape over your very being, your clothes, lingering even under your perfume, it’s a scent all hers. Unique. Light. Sexy. Citrus, sandalwood, and flowers. She scents you a lot, but 7 times out of 10, it’s unintentional—hugs and nuzzles before parting for the day, rubbing her hands against your arms and your shoulders, cupping your face while speaking to you on occasion, she’s just an affectionate woman. It’s not her fault her natural instinct is to scent her sweet girl. To surround you with her claim in a way that’s not imposing and gauche. If anything, Larissa is very subtle about it, and you have become so familiar with the smell that you don’t often realize the scent is stronger than normal until you see people who stand a little bit too close start to wrinkle their noses. When you do recognize the reaction, you’re suddenly reminded of earlier that morning when you were brushing your teeth and Larissa had put her chin on your shoulder and gently leaned her head against yours with a sleepy smile. Your cheeks were rubbing together. She was practically purring!

You end up (gently) scolding her over text. “Keep your scent to yourself next time, missy. A coworker pulled a gross face while we were in the elevator.”

Larissa’s response comes a few minutes later and all it says is: “🤷‍♀️”

⟡ Larissa Weems might not be that aggressive domineering alpha, but she definitely makes all of the noises. When she’s irritated, frustrated, or angry, she will be growling and snarling and yes the decibel level changes depending on how bad it is. At her worst, it’s a deep guttural huffing and panting, prolonged and dragged out, an indicator of brewing anger, at her best it’s an irritated grunt or two, quick and momentary. She also purrs. A sweet feminine purr, light and breathy, usually when she’s on the edge of sleep, extremely comfortable, or using it as a way to calm you down. Her noises, no matter what kind, are actually quite endearing. Such a huge contrast to the sweetness of her. And the meaner bits, the growls or snarls, are rarely directed towards you and always directed towards some sort of work issue. She has to swallow her noises a lot when meeting with some particularly infuriating people, being careful not to secrete too many angry pheromones either. Also—when she’s rumbling/growling without realizing, perhaps quite focused in writing a heavily worded email, then the very second she does come to her senses and hear herself, she’ll stop instantly, throw a hand over her mouth for a second, blush, and clear her throat. Sometimes she argues with a fury that she doesn’t make those sounds, but you both know that she definitely does.

⟡ You can stray in public, sure, but she always likes to have at least one eye on you if you slip away too far. She starts getting a little nervous when she can’t spot you, but it only shows in a slight freezing of her expression and a quick end to whatever conversation she’s having so she can go off looking for you. It’s the furthest you’ll see in regards to outward possession, and even when she finds you, she doesn’t get angry or demand where you went, she just sighs a little in relief and you, desperate to calm her nerves, give a small reassuring nod of your head — as if to say “I’m still here, alpha, don’t worry.” This whole aspect of her anxiety is built purely around previous events in her life. Trauma, bad luck with lovers, etc. — and now she’s found her mate and she wants to protect you, even if it’s only in the form of making sure she can still smell you nearby.

⟡ Though for all of the lovely things about her, Larissa-Sassy-Pants-Femme-Weems does have a few flaws:

1. She’s got unspoken house rules to maintain the order in her life and if you’re not a rule-follower or if you’re a messy (/unorganized) girl, trust that you will be having many a conversation about “Why it’s important to keep things neat and tidy! You can’t just throw things anywhere!” — And then Larissa gets those creases in her forehead and she’s raising her voice a little and it gets kinda squeaky and you just wanna kiss her stupid alpha face off. Especially when she starts speaking like one, demanding you pick your things up or make the bed or wipe the counter. Your omega does it, desperate to please, but you give her a firm hard glare all the while. Then she pats your head and calls you a good girl and suddenly life has never been better.

2. She works long hours and is always bloody doing something—it’s actually rather annoying at times. Emails, meetings, phone calls, parent-teacher affairs, student relations, etc. — Larissa Weems is a busy woman with a busy workload and sometimes, when the evening runs late, you do end up falling asleep alone in your nest, making soft noises while you hug the pillow that smells like her. And when she returns home (either an off-campus home or the apartment next door), kicking off her heels before straightening them in the hall and putting her things down, she’s got a frown on her face. She loses track of time on occasion, and when you’re asleep before she returns, her pheromones are sad and disappointed and full of guilt. But there’s never a night where she doesn’t hold you close and whisper a soft goodnight and give you a kiss on the forehead. It's a comforting thing to feel you turn into her, snuggling closer to your mate. She always falls asleep purring.

3. She hates feeling or looking or seeming too desperate, so when the time for her rut comes around, Larissa suppresses her desires almost subconsciously. Aside from being busy and forcing herself to work through any discomfort, the woman doesn't like the idea of putting you on the spot or inducing your heart too early, so she will keep walking until the race against time leaves her overwhelmed and nearly in tears. It's a side effect of her heritage as well, hiding her nature around people because alphas have always had a rocky reputation and, being a sucker for acceptance and praise, Larissa didn't want to risk anyone thinking of her as anything less than perfect. However, that was in her Nevermore days, and she has since gotten a bit better around you, but old habits do die hard. And no matter how many times you reassure her, coaxing her into a gentle rut, trying to pin-point the time of year when it rears its sexy (but sometimes uncomfortable) head, Larissa still ends up on her knees on the bed, tears in her eyes, waiting for you to get home so you can give her some relief.

⟡ She's a sexy alpha, of course. Like - undeniably sexy. Like - flushed twitching cock pressing a hard outline against white lace panties, already drooling at the tip, eager for your touch and warmth kind of sexy. She is the perfect example of a femme alpha mixed with a soft domme, all teasing whispers and low growling demands and red lipsticked kisses and rough presses of her teeth against your flesh. Those blue eyes of hers get so dark, overwhelmed with lust, tracing your body desperately. And Larissa really can't help but make it known when she needs you -- aside from the previously mentioned blush, her hands also start to shake a little, her shoulders get tense, her nostrils flare, her gaze darkens, her lips twitch, almost like they want to pull into a snarl, but instead she sets them into a firm line because she doesn't want to be overwhelming right off the bat.

⟡ But, when you're in the middle of things, writhing beneath her, bearing your neck and whimpering her name, whining "Alpha" into her mess of platinum locks, the beast that stalks underneath her skin, singing for you, begging for you, crawls its way up to the surface - and suddenly you find yourself tugged into all sorts of positions, held in place by strong eager hands, sharp pink fingernails digging into your hips, your thighs, your shoulders, the pouch of your tummy, caressing and feeling and reveling all at the same time.

There might be teeth at your neck, biting softly at first, a kinder pressure, a suggestion of another mating mark, until that instinct kicks in and she finds every part of her body burning to claim you once more. It's no question, of course --- no use in asking or answering. Her eyes roll back and her legs lock up and she's slowly pressing them deeper, deeper, deeper, until there's pain and rumbling; a deep happy mix of a growl and purr vibrating from Larissa's throat as she begins biting over the scar of her previous mating mark. All at once, you cum together.

⟡ A few kinks I think Alpha!Larissa Weems would have...: - Breeding kink. She wants you to have her children, she wants to fill you up and fuck you full and keep you fed and healthy. She doesn't demand it of you - she asks, very nicely, but already knows what the answer will be.

"Please- d-darling- let me- I need to fill you, my love... give you my pups-" and it comes out as a whine and a growl at the same time and she's shuddering and she smells so good and it feels so good and she's big and warm inside you and what else are you to say aside from "Yes god- please breed me, Larissa- p-please Alpha-"

- Size kink. I bet you're probably shorter than her, hm? She likes that, even though she keeps it to herself. Everyone notices her natural height---it's one of her most obvious features---so she doesn't need to talk about it unnecessarily... except when she thinks about it to herself while looking down at you.

Seeing you peer back up at her, feeling your arms around her waist and your forehead under her chin, delighting in the times you lie together in bed and your legs tangle and hers are so much longer and when one wraps around your thigh and you find yourself tugged into a languid, slow, messy kiss... well she thinks about those things often. And though I mentioned that her protective streak doesn't work the same way as most alphas, she likes being taller than you because it fulfills that subtle dominating feeling of having power. Not the type of power to hold over you (unless consented), but the type of power that subtly allows others to know that you are hers without her needing to make a big statement.

Not to mention when you're both in the mood and you treat her with your mouth, sitting on your knees, lips at cock-height, giving her puppy eyes as she slides such gentle hands into your hair and guides you in a gentle bob. She adores the sight of it. And the feel of it. And how cute and fuckable you look when you present for her, either on your stomach or your back, spreading your legs while she gives you a satisfied hum and a deep smirk, towering over you when she stands, but also when she prowls, going on all fours to hover, to kiss, to tease you with all of her touches until you're two steps away from hysterical.

- Titles. If you want a one-way ticket to riling up the great and marvelous Larissa Weems, then you should look no further than simply calling her by her title. Alpha. It sounds cliche, but walk with me darling.

You're about to leave the house. Larissa is dressed, potting around in the kitchen, putting dishes away, double checking her laptop bag, fixing her hair in the mirror, and she gives you your mug of ice water and your mug of coffee and with a proud, warm smile on her face, she takes your cheeks into her hands and gives you a soul-completing kiss. Firm, loving, all of her soul poured into it. She slept well the night before, her arms wrapped around you so well, and woke up with a hum in her voice and a pep in her step. An impending good day, it seemed. Stress and tension free.

And then you slide away from your kiss, giving her the most mesmerized eyes, staring up at your lover as though she were a gift from Heaven --- and she gives you one of her winning sparkling grins and you can't help but lean up on the tips of your toes, peck her on the cheek, and whisper a soft "Thank you, Alpha." before turning away to go slip into your shoes.

She's frozen. Red-cheeked. Lips parted, nostrils flaring instantly, chest heaving the tiniest bit, staring into space like you've just rewritten the fabric of reality. Playing it over in her head. Feeling the elation of her soul. Thank you, Alpha. Thank you, Alpha. The praise she needed.

- Praise. It gets her hot, hard, and ready. She nearly sweats out of her skin when you start complimenting her, telling her she's such a good alpha, takes care of you so well, looks after you, provides. Because even Larissa Weems isn't immune to the rush of being told she's done a good job. Especially from her mate.

And if she had ears, they'd flatten as she turns bashful, looking away, hiding a soft smile, biting her bottom lip, trying not to squeal or sigh happily as you express your gratitude. It is very important as an alpha, after all, to know that she's giving her omega---her mate---everything she needs. Larissa likes to be relied upon anyway, even without her secondary sex involved, and enjoys being a reliable person and shoulder to cry on. To have your respect, your trust, your vulnerability, and to hear you notice all of the things she does, it gets her soft and desperate very quickly. Almost embarrassingly quickly. Seriously, if you mention it, she'll get a sour look on her face for two seconds before pouting and tilting her nose up haughtily.

If you praise her during sex? While she's treating you? Fucking you so well, hitting that sweet spot deep inside, making you see stars, and you tell her in whining pants, "Such a good alpha, Larissa... m-make me feel- feel so fucking good," and you're sparkling with sweat and gripping her, tugging her closer, then you should not be surprised if she lets out a high whimper into your neck and cums on the spot, hips jogging messily to meet your desire. When I say she's sensitive to praise from you, as her lover, then I mean it.

⟡ Alpha!Larissa Weems always knows when your heat comes around. If she doesn't have it written down because the dates are unpredictable and it comes at a different time, then she can usually smell it. And she lets you know, too.

With a soft touch on your shoulder, tucking you closer into her side while you read together. She sniffs, just to double check the theory that's been swirling in her head all day, and then nods to herself. "You have about a week before your heat becomes serious, my love. Perhaps we can go shopping tomorrow to pick up anything you might need?" She's so soft and kind, so loving. You end up closing your book and turning to her, focusing all of your attention, before narrowing your eyes.

"You're a creep, you know that? Stalking my heat. Pervert."

Her eyes go wide, her mouth falls open, she practically guffaws in your face. "Excuse me? It is-"

"You're excused."

"It is my responsibility to make sure you're safe and comforted in your time of-"

"Safety, shmafety, you just want to get in my pants, Larissa Weems."

"Oh, I see, and you don't want to get into mine?"

"We're not talking about me right now."

"But we can. In fact, we have all the time in the world to talk about your little fantasies and how I can practically see them play out behind your eyes whenever you see me walk into a room."

"Oh don't flatter yourself, Alpha! I'm not-"

"See? You can't even resist the chance to reaffirm the natural hierarchy."

"Oh please. Natural hierarchy, my ass. You're so-"

"Omega." She interrupts and points to you, long finger straight and unwavering. Dark eyes dripping intensity. And before you can blink, her finger flicks back to point at herself, nearly jabbed into her own chest. "Alpha." There's a pause. "If you have any complaints about that," she tilts her head, staring at you through painted lashes, lips pursed and brows low, "then I suggest you consult your inner bitch first before making any rash decisions."

Blushing, lost for words, and sufficiently silenced, you huff and pick up your book again, very aware that it's only a matter of minutes before you throw a leg over her lap, mount her, and beg for her attention.

⟡ Larissa praises you, too. She's not big on degradation - she prefers to call you her good girl, her sweet omega, obedient, beautiful... she's not inclined to use harsh language. But regardless of what you want, she will do her best to deliver. Sex as an alpha and omega is first and foremost more than an act of breeding and creating -- it can be fun, too, and just done for the sake of it rather than with the purpose in mind to knot and cuddle. This also leaves the opportunity for BDSM and power dynamics to work their way in. It's something that is kept strictly to the bedroom and your cellphones because Larissa takes her job and her position very seriously. She doesn't want to risk anything personal getting out that could possibly put your relationship in any danger, so you respect her wishes and understand that your play is for your eyes only. Which doesn't mean it only has to happen in the bedroom of your house. She doesn't mind making you gag on her fingers on top of the kitchen counter, you know.

⟡ Larissa also doesn't share. She's never been very keen on it. And even though alpha/omega dynamics usually call for monogamy, it's just all the more enforced in your relationship. You belong to each other as lovers, as partners, friends, and equals --- there is no room for anyone else.

⟡ Sometimes, she hisses and bears her teeth when she gets frustrated.

⟡···········⟡···········⟡

The wedding was extravagant. Divided between an indoor soiree and a balcony oasis, every wall, every corridor, every spot the eyes could look carried a certain air of Noxian finery. It wasn’t because of the decor, as splendid and gleaming as it all was, and it wasn’t because of the band or the staff, draped in uniforms of crimson and black, and it wasn’t because of the atmosphere, with its tastes of perfume, fresh meals, and money. No, no, above all else, what gave the event its spark of Noxian authority, of undeniable privilege, of the truest kind of worth, was the brand. 

Medarda. 

The sigil was pressed into napkins, into displayed weaponry, into suits of armour and even the silverware. Banners hanging from the main room’s walls were meticulously crafted with perfectly centred crests. Not the newer version, altered by a modern approach, but the original two-diamond sleeve with its centre star. They faced each other like mirrors, like hangings of blood, and set the tone with ease for the manor’s guests as they trickled through the front entrance. Remember your place, the sigil mocked, and do not forget where you are now. Not only a call for respect from allies, but a reminder—a threat—to those who thought they could swoop in under the veil of festivity and wreak havoc. Like a well-crafted blade, that was just another facet of a Medarda wedding. Beautiful and lethal all at once. 

Guards stood at every door, patrolled every hall, watched over every room—even the ones that wouldn’t see a glimpse of sunlight all day. To Ambessa Medarda, it didn’t matter. She was too clever to allow herself a moment of respite. If an enemy dared a strike at her careful plans, they would find themselves dared against the edge of her katar. Not one guest batted an eye. But was that such a surprise? No. It was Noxus of course, such behaviour was expected, encouraged, and appreciated. The people marveled at seeing the Medardian interior, the dark woods and the clean irons and the impressive stonework. They loved the carpeting, the tall ceilings, the glory of the main hall and the ceremony room, and they nodded their heads at the armoured soldiers while they gorged themselves on liquor. In fact, the only one who truly found the underlying aura of a threat to be unsettling was none other than the bride herself: you. 

It was by far the most stressful thing you’d ever had to endure. Despite the marvelous sunset and the grand day and the delicious food and reassurance of loud laughter, anxiety did not dissipate easily even in the face of a jovial atmosphere. Rather, it coiled inside you, bubbled like a scalding fire, and was one of the reasons why you wanted to (many times) rip the golden dress from your body and jump off of the nearest ledge. There was a slight chance that you could have gotten away with it too… if it weren’t for the fact that your new wife was the most perceptive, observant, well-trained creature you had ever met in your entire life. 

Amber eyes followed you like a drakehound’s snout with a trail of blood. Unrelenting, quick, and sharp. It didn’t matter how many tall, muscular people stood between you and her, or how dark the corner that you tucked yourself into was, if she could catch even a sliver of your body, you were being watched. Tracked. Not with something soft, either. Not with lust or care or curiosity, as if she’d ever look at you like that, but rather with possession, with suspicion, with a fascinating elixir of strict acknowledgement and amusement. Like it was secretly the funniest thing in the world to watch you try your best at charming the strangers you called guests or at trying to keep yourself entertained until the evening was through. Suffice to say, it did not take a genius to gauge just how bored and exhausted you were despite the fact that you hid it well enough. Ambessa Medarda could sniff it out in a heartbeat because that’s just who she was, but everyone else… well. Apparently, it did take a genius. Or at least a very intelligent warlord. Because everyone else was so certain, quite suddenly, that you were itching to slip away from the celebration of your blooming marriage and tumble off somewhere to go have sex with your new wife. 

Such a preposterous idea spread in the form of little whispers, laughs, and glances, but it all swiftly graduated to sly remarks. Warriors and esteemed house leaders, even well-known names from foreign lands and a few ambassadors, traveled around the main room making connections, doing their own rounds of the floor to greet your wife, sharing stories and watching one another like hawks. They chatted and laughed and poked fun and made thinly-veiled threats just before running over the ridge and coming to you. The fresh meat. The flower on display. The real show. Their smiles were all a bit too wide, like they knew something you didn’t, and they looked down at you (for you were one of the shortest people in the room, standing at 5’ something rather than above 6’2”) like you were the answer to all of their problems. What you could possibly do for them? You hadn’t the slightest idea. Although many did sneak in a comment here or there about ‘speaking’ to Ambessa on ‘their behalf’. You often had to muffle the sarcastic snort that built up so frequently within your throat. Like you’d ever speak to your ‘new wife’ about anything even similar to politics or trade. Like you’d ever speak to her at all. Please. After that day, you planned to keep to yourself for as long as physically possible. But they didn’t know that and they didn’t have to. It was none of their business. And yet… a vast majority of the room was quite certain that the restlessness of your soul existed purely because you were constantly battling the urge to cross the large richly-decorated hall, take a big flying leap, and jump Ambessa Medarda’s bones. 

“But I suppose you’re eager for some time alone with your newly wedded wife, yes?” Some snobby motherfucker in a Piltovan jacket cooed. 

“Oh I’ve got no doubt. She’ll take good care of you.” A half-drunk warrior grinned.

“I’m surprised the two of you haven’t run off to your chambers already.” One of the two Demacian ambassadors teased. 

“You have much promise for Clan Medarda. Ambessa was right in picking you, I can tell. You will give her family tree life once more.” The other Demacian said, totally serious, and knocked the nail into the coffin when they nodded at you and uttered, before fucking off somewhere else: “The children will be strong.” 

The children. 

You slipped out of the nearest door after that and placed your drink on the floor, not bothering to finish the heady depth of Noxian wine. It wasn’t sweet like the familiar liqueurs from Ionia. In fact, nothing was like the sweet familiarity of Ionia. There was no nature, there was no freedom, there was no community, no trust, no smiles that didn’t hold ulterior motives, no laughter that wasn’t tinged with irritation, no camaraderie or kindness, no fresh air or green vines or natural springs, no merchants who would give passing traders food for free, no weavers who created shoes for the village children, no selfless creatures, no families with new babies who kept to themselves and didn’t force their ideas of motherhood onto you. There were no lovers who didn’t have blood staining their hands. There were no wives who hadn’t slaughtered entire cities. There were no doors that didn’t have soldiers posted at every fucking angle. 

You huffed when you nearly tripped over one of their steel boots and turned to stomp down the hall. Like statues, they were still and strong and didn’t bother turning their heads to meet the glare you sent them over your shoulder. Like brutes. Listening to their leader like dogs called to heel. A harsh scoff scraped the back of your throat as you rounded the corner, feeling the blooming twinge of overstimulated anger in your gut, and you bunched your fists up into the buttery fabric of your dress. The staff had been so helpful earlier, remaining silent and respectful as they slid the golden fabric over your skin, practicing patience while trying not to crease it. During the few times you met their eyes, you swore you could see pity, but it was so fleeting, like spooked birds, that you couldn’t really tell. What was there to pity anyway? Your arranged marriage to a fearsome warlord so as to avoid the industry of your people falling under the iron chains of complete Noxian reign? Your lack of choice regarding the decision because if you didn’t marry Ambessa Medarda then your people would definitely suffer? The expectation of children that you weren’t quite aware of until that exact moment in the celebration hall when strangers started speaking about how beautiful your heirs would be? The fact that if you did have children, they wouldn’t even be your heirs but rather hers? 

…Perhaps there was a lot to pity. Perhaps you had to give yourself more credit. Perhaps you had to tear through the nearest set of windows, break your body through the glass, and end it all before anyone else could expect something of you. 

Perhaps you could manage it, too. Considering how far you were from a certain pair of prying eyes…

Your footsteps slowed, tempering to a drag against the red carpet beneath your heels, and when you finally stopped in the middle of a corridor—a place you were not yet familiar with—you found yourself turning to face a slim pane of glass. It was set into the stone wall, placed perfectly between identical windows, and beyond your immediate view sat a deep orange horizon. It was fading into a blue-black, into a midnight scene, and slowly, breaking through thick evening clouds, you could catch the twinkles of far away stars. They waved at you, cheered at you, and sent pangs of sadness through your heart. 

In Ionia, you could see them almost all the time. They were like friends—brighter there, shining even past the sun because of the clear skies, and they followed you wherever you went. 

Even to Noxus, it seemed. 

Even to your wedding day. 

Even to the bed chambers you found yourself wandering toward after you tried to clear your head and walked away from the window. 

There was no use trying to escape. Ambessa Medarda never made any guarantee that should anything happen to you, she’d give your people another chance. You were most likely the only thing standing in the way. The symbol of peace. The connecting saviour. And your family still thrived, still ate and drank, still loved their work, and no doubt missed you more and more each day… you could not ruin the likelihood of getting to see them again. 

So suck it up, your thoughts hissed as you scoured the halls, desperately looking for the familiar emblem upon blood-red doors, and push on. 

And push on. Because there was nothing else left to do. So push on. Embrace some of the Wolf and push on. Ignore the laughter from the celebration of your hopeless marriage and push on. Ignore the shining helmets of the statued guards and push on. Ignore the theme of war clinging to the Medardan bedchambers and push on. Ignore your heart, your mind, your instincts and your morals, and push on. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It had been a blur of time between the moment you left and the moment she found you. It could have been an hour, it could have been five, it could have been thirty minutes, it didn’t matter. Your ass was numb from sitting on the settee for so long. The hearth was dark and empty. The room was coated in silence. Only the stars and the moon glimmered through the wide windows, but they didn’t offer much light or comfort. They simply sat in their positions, hoisted into the sky, to watch freely while you stared at the floor, at your feet, at the fabric of your dress, and wallowed. 

The stone walls were silent. The stone floor didn’t speak. The huge rug in the centre of the room, made from the pelt of a white Frejlordian animal, didn’t whisper a word. The plush charcoal duvet from atop the tall, wide bed, kept quiet. The polished display of weapons arranged above the hearth glared like enemies. The great double doors held their breath. The clean windows straightened up. The expensive pillows beside you looked the other way. The bar in the corner of the room smirked without a sound. The wine didn’t even blink. 

It was an oasis of your breathing and your thoughts, buzzing like the insects found in Ionian swamps.

And then it was shattered—because that’s what Noxians did. They stomped through the swamps and they stole you from your peace. 

“I will admit… I’m a bit disappointed I have to reprimand you so soon,” her voice, despite sounding like liquid silver and powdered power, sent shadows of frustration racing through your heart. She sounded just as she said: disappointed, but you also sensed a distinct lack of surprise. Like she knew you were going to run from the party even before it began. Was that surprising? No. Not really. 

She decided not to finish her sentence yet, leaving you in a very purposeful well of suspense while she began moving about her bedroom and fiddling with her outfit. The wedding armour produced light clinks and scrapes as it was rearranged or taken off—you didn’t know because you didn’t bother facing her—and each sound that broke the quiet set your nerves ablaze. You’d seen her get-up enough times already throughout the day, you’d practically memorized the stitching, and as much as it infuriated you to even acknowledge her presence, you were (unfortunately) not an idiot. 

Yes, you still had eyes. 

And yes, so did she.

A very impressive set, in fact. Far better than any other in all of Noxus (and Ionia, you figured). Amber and mahogany set behind an aureate film, shaded by dark lashes, constantly sparkling with knowledge—as if she knew everything all the time. Knowledge or hubris? Who could tell? She used them like she used her weapons. With precision. With intention. And her face, blessed by some God or another, only amplified the destruction. Damn her sort of beauty. It was actually quite strange for a warlord, hardened through battle and bloodshed, through murder and espionage, to look so… so… you didn’t even have a word scornful enough. The line of her side profile alone was frustratingly striking. Smooth dark skin inset with graceful age, jaw cut sharp enough to slice stone, delicately shelled ears, thick red lips, strong chin, the curves of forehead and nose gentle, bridge not quite hooked, thin severe grey brows set low over those honeyed eyes, and three peach-healed scars drawn taught across the left side of her face. Curling like a jagged bolt of lightning from the jaw up over the cheekbone, kissing a smoother line from the chin into the lower lip, sharply painting a right-curving hook along the forehead from the careful root of a grey widow’s peak. 

When you saw her speak for the first time back home, through the swift gaps of her mouth, fast and steady as she introduced herself, razor-edged cuspids glinted like diamonds. And clenched within them, pressed into the perfect rows of those sparklingly white teeth, was a promise. 

I am going to get what I want. 

And that is exactly what happened. 

The beauty certainly helped, sure, but that’s not how she struck her deal. It was the cunning, the guile, the might, the vision that illuminated her path to political victory and threw shadow upon your new walk of doom. 

But it could be worse. 

Yes. It could be worse. She could be ugly instead. 

“If you are going to last in this position,” her voice was hard and sharp, just as sudden as a wolf’s bite, “then you must wear the face of this house with honour. I do not tolerate disrespect.” 

The sound of something thumping against cloth—the duvet, you assumed—was the only indication that she was unwinding. Her tone, on the other hand, suggested that the fire in her soul was just sparking to life. You weren’t really in the mood to push it, to argue and trade barbs, especially not with the woman you wanted to slap straight across the face, but it appeared that she was giving you no option. If you stayed quiet, you’d either be viewed as obedient or apathetic, and if you spoke up, you’d either be viewed as a problem or a crybaby. And if you tried to walk out, there was no guarantee that you could reach the door before she stopped you from escaping what was apparently a very important conversation. Your first one yet. Already starting off ‘marriage’ like professionals. 

You shifted on the settee, feeling pins and needles in your lower back, and both felt and heard the shudder in your breath when you sighed. Exhaustion ran rampant, tugging at your eyes, your lips, your scalp, and the dress’s fabric was beginning to scratch at your skin, and Ambessa Medarda’s overwhelmingly weighty presence (combined with her building anger) did your tired body no favors at all. Perhaps if you had more time to wallow, to think, then you would’ve felt better about being forced into marriage, and could have had more than an ounce of patience, but she came in too early. So what else was there to do aside from stand up and adjust the too-tight fabric around your hips as a means to distract yourself from the eventual consequences of your exasperation? 

“How, exactly, did my exit disrespect you?” Said with yet another sigh and a slow hanging of your head, you refused to meet her gaze. 

“Listen well, child.” 

And before you could blink, there she was, carried swiftly by long legs right up to your body, standing as tall and unwavering as the stronghold of Basalich. The last thing you wanted upon facing a warrior like her was to find yourself on the other side of a mean taunting gaze, so you kept your eyes forward and stared at the wall of her broad chest instead. The plating from her bridal outfit was gone, leaving the crimson armour of her corseted shirt bare to your eyes. She was warm despite standing a foot away, radiating a natural heat that drew you in and repelled you all at once. You could feel her staring holes into your forehead.

“A Medarda never cowers.” Her voice was husky, commanding, you felt the timbre of it shake your soul. That type of conviction was untouchable—like iron in her grasp. There was no room for contention. “We endure.” She announced like a queen.

Yes. Endure and take. You are the ones people cower, run, and hide from. Silly me. How could I forget? 

“If you want to stay a Medarda and honour the terms of our arrangement,” a soft threat swam beneath her words, amplified only by the subtle lean of her body toward your own, “then you will remember this the next time you’re struck with… discomfort.” She said it with such a strange amount of disgust that the irritation swirling in your gut quickly flared into something overwhelming. 

Discomfort? 

Oh you’d show her discomfort. 

Your head went shooting up so fast you felt dizzy. There was a mean look in your eyes, you knew it, but even the sight of her standing so tall—nearly two feet higher than yourself—didn’t dissuade you of your anger. She was being rude. Callous. Before you even arrived in Noxus, you promised yourself that you would not allow your marriage to be a burden worse than it already was. If you could be civil until death, that was the best course of action. If you had to run away in the future and could actually manage it, even better. But as it stood, you had the rest of your years ahead of you and you had to spend them forced into the shadow of a warmongerer. A blood-thirsty, wolf-adoring, pride-obsessed, stupidly-observant, infuriatingly-intelligent, terribly-alluring, beautiful woman who also had a lot of money. 

But it could be worse. 

She could be ugly.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t. And that was one of the greatest, most annoying issues. When you glared up at her, having to crane your neck a bit too much (a gesture that will forever be a reminder of your status), you had to violently, internally, swiftly reject the urge to look away again. She was so unbelievably smug and confident that it made you sick. And you didn’t have to see a smirk on her face to know it—she said it all with her eyes alone. 

Test me, little one. See what happens. 

When you were young, you never had trouble keeping your mouth shut. Yes, you were sarcastic and yes you were a bit sassy, but your settlement knew you to be a generous helper. A staple of connection. A daughter of the family sector that handled the trades. Upstanding in an Ionian fashion. That hadn’t really changed over the years. You were chaste at 18, rebellious at 21, a philogynist at 23, a writer at 24, an authoritative figure at 25, and then you hit 26 and Ambessa Medarda decided to swagger her way along Ionia, looking for a productive village large enough to provide her with exotic crops. The kind used for elixirs and poisons. Apparently, she’d been thinking of the idea for over a decade—she just never had the time to follow through. Until she did. Maybe you never stood a chance at all. 

Your sass, however, seemed to flare up quite a lot whenever you were forced into intense political marriages. So when she towered over you like that and placed her big hands on her strong hips and flexed her muscles in the dim light of the room (not intentional, you were sure), then you didn’t quite feel like fighting the instinct that told you to speak up. In fact, you wanted her to know just how pissed she’d made you. You wanted her to recognize that you wouldn’t be a pawn she could push around on her little Noxian chess board. You wanted her to realize that there was war in you too. A different kind of war, but war nevertheless. You weren’t going to be one of the training mats she could walk all over, you weren’t going to be a servant she could boss around, you weren’t going to shut up and sit down and take it. Maybe if she were kinder, if the circumstances were different, if you didn’t feel the panic of being in her shadow itching beneath your skin, buzzing in your ears, then you would’ve been nicer. But she was suffocating, flustering, and you gave her the response she was looking for without even realizing.

“Let me remind you, I never wanted to become a Medarda in the first place.” Your voice came out like a hiss and your face, for you could feel the tightening and shifting of your skin, screwed itself up into a snarl. You must’ve looked righteously livid. “So do not speak to me as if I don’t understand the concept of responsibility. Today has been stressful and isolating. I am very far from home, and the very last thing I need right now,” your voice rose, fueled by injustice, “is a woman so self-involved in her own crimes against humanity that she can’t even bear to spare a spot of empathy for her new wife.” 

“Relax your fists, child.” She clipped the edge of your sentence, drawling like her tongue was doused in honey, and you watched, burning with indignation, as she tilted her head ever so slowly, slightly, to the left, and glanced down at your hands. 

Fists? 

You blinked, going warm from embarrassment of all things as you followed her gaze and found that, indeed, your fingers had curled themselves into the meat of your clammy palms. You were also leaning toward her, nearly on the tips of your toes (which were bare because you kicked your heels off somewhere by the animal carpet when you stormed in earlier), too driven by scorn to realize that you were acting, at least physically, quite hostile. To a warlord, that is. And such behaviour was unacceptable. If you were anyone else, like one of her soldiers, she would’ve struck you as soon as your voice rose. But as her wife, she had no choice but to turn the other cheek as best she could without allowing you, of course, to think that you had any control. Because you didn’t. In fact, you were so far removed from control that it was almost laughable. You were merely a political tactic, a bold move, a bargain, and it was your job to be arm candy, to be a face for her brand, to be a supporter and encourager, to smile and hang onto her arm and contain your emotions and take care of your appearance so that the world could know just how far Ambessa Medarda would go to get what she wanted. As far as taking a wife. 

Could you do that if you disliked her so intensely? Probably not. 

And clenching your fists wasn’t going to get you any further onto her good side—which was really, ideally, where you needed to remain for your own sake. 

So your hands went slack and your shoulders drooped, successfully doused by the chilly waters of her subtlety. 

Again. Do not test me. 

But it was so hard not to when she- well when she looked like that and spoke like that. With arrogance. 

“You are upset. Rightfully so,” she started diplomatically, schooling her expression into something more relaxed, more exhausted, more… placating. Her eyes, however, were still just as sharp. “But you knew what you were getting into. Crumbling after a binding contract has been made and sealed is unwise.” Your heart twinged, quickly growing familiar with the punch of her apathy. And when she took a small step forward, those big hips sauntering the tiniest bit, your heart twinged and then leapt. You struggled to keep it down. Ambessa didn’t seem to notice; her voice was made of steel. “If you do not get a hold of these feelings soon,” a silver brow ticked up, “then I fear your experience will be more intolerable than you’ve imagined.” 

“How do you know I’ve imagined anything?” You growled as best you could, scrambling to keep your mask of anger glued to your face. 

Her shadow quite literally swallowed you, enforced with all of her might, and you felt your bones weaken beneath the weight of it. 

But you couldn’t falter. You wouldn’t falter. 

Even if her smirk was unfortunately jaw-droppingly sexy. 

“What do you believe to be your real purpose here?” It might’ve been a genuine question, despite spawning in from nowhere, but suspicion told you that she already knew your answer. 

People talked, after all, and Ambessa Medarda was very intuitive. Connecting the dots was no difficult task. The word on most people’s lips that entire day had been ‘heir’ and the second most popular had been ‘children’. Because entering into an arranged marriage for the sake of trade alone didn’t seem to exist anymore. No, no. Heirs, at least in the Noxian empire, were all anyone desired. A proper legacy. A name to last throughout the ages. Another generation to spit fire. And that’s exactly what the Medardas needed. Ambessa had her children but they were not born with their mother’s desire for bloodshed. Rather, as you heard, they strived for peace and understanding. A position never fit to last long in Noxus. 

A new child, however, could solve that problem; could lengthen the amount of time her family name spent in the folds of history, could succeed her own death whenever her mortal chase ended, could expand her own mini-empire. Perfectly plausible. All she needed was a breeder. A political figure, most preferably, who wouldn’t cause drama or conflict, who would know her place and understand her duties, who would give her something in return (aside from her womb of course) that would bolster her power. Not an idiot, not a fool, not a naïve girl, and not a harbinger of trouble. 

Motherly, too. With the instinct and all. 

It was a pity for her then that you were no mother. 

Not really, at least. 

If a baby were thrust into your arms and you had the means to provide for it without hassle, then sure, but otherwise a child of your own? With your blood? It had never been a consideration. And after an arranged marriage with a fearsome, narcissistic, self-involved, manipulative warlord? 

Absolutely not! 

And yet?

That is what they wanted from you. 

That is what she wanted from you. And by the Gods did that make your blood boil. 

“I think I’m to be your breeding stock. To give you children so you can spread your war-addicted ideologies.” You spat, glaring up with all your might. Honeyed eyes stared back at you, totally unmoved. Her disinterest only served to piss you off more. “And let me tell you something. If that’s what you think this is going to be, I’ll let you know right now that it’s not. I am not your little pregnant wife, I am not your baby mother, I will have nothing to do with procreating. Not now, not ever. And if you even try to change my mind, I’ll run out of here so fast you won’t be able to blink before I’m gone! Do you understand me, Ambessa Medarda?” 

“Oh I do.” She hummed, darkly, and poured all of her attention over your body like liquid metal. It came in the form of a lingering gaze, flickering over your shoulders, your chest, your waist, your hips, your legs, your feet. Up and down, catching at the dips of your figure, caressing your body with only a glance, contemplating something before wandering back up to your eyes. You couldn’t exactly tell what was there—in her expression, behind that amber look, skulking and melting and waiting—but you got the sense that it was patient. She was patient. When she wanted to be, at least. You’d heard a story or two of her battles; how intricate her plans were, how long she played the game. A wolf with battle strategy, that is one of the most dangerous things a creature could be.

And as she took a step back, one, two, turning her body toward the bedroom door once more, languid and glimmering with a mix of amusement and venomous anger, half draped in shadow and glory, you saw it all in a quick flash. That danger. Alluring and terrifying in equal measure. 

Her lips parted.

“You must stick to your conviction, child,” announced in that haughty way of hers, accompanied by the sanguine maroon of her smirk, “but be prepared to abandon your own assumptions. For others and for yourself.” 

You didn’t even have a chance to respond before the doors closed behind her, definitive and heavy and concluding with their gentle bang and cutting end. 

By the time she’d returned that evening, you were fast asleep on the farthest edge of the bed, totally uninterested in acknowledging her words, her existence, her presence, your marriage, or the fact that you’d genuinely never slept upon anything softer. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Over time, as most things did, it got easier. 

Neither of you mentioned the one-sided argument from your wedding night. There was no discussion of pregnancy or children or motherhood, and no expectations had been set—none that you knew about, at least. 

So for the longest time, it was all quite… civil. Surprisingly. 

You became familiar with your staff, with certain ambassadors and political figures that were too important to avoid, you’d explored the Medardian compound, their main home within Noxus, and had even found a favourite Noxian dessert and main course. Drake-hounds had also become an interest, a thing you discussed with some sellers and owners in the markets, who spoke to you despite the intimidating flank of soldiers at your sides, and to fill most of your time, you’d taken to painting and writing. In the beginning, it was gradients and complaints, then at some point it had shifted to nature and poetry, and after that, still-lifes and ponderings. 

Simple, regardless of the region, and without much stress, regardless of your wife. 

In fact, you didn’t see her all that often. Ambessa did her own thing, tended to her own knitting, went about her scheming and planning and spent many hours in her study pouring over maps and documents with Rictus at her side and a few other important faces lingering over her shoulders. It was impactful, the work she did, and although you had your reservations about it, the lingering simmers of betrayal, outrage, and hurt, you were also struck with a confusingly distinct spot of admiration. She was what some would call a ‘war-pig’, yes, and definitely cruel in similar ways, yes, but it was not senseless. There always seemed to be a viable reason, tinged with self-serving desires, but not overrun with selfishness. Her family, at the very least, was a testament to her strength. She did all that she did for and because of them—you could understand that even without a rare conversation. 

And lucky for you, in some roundabout way, you’d become part of that family as well. Not as her flesh and blood, never as that, but rather as a close ally. A necessary thing to protect. 

That’s how it was for half a year. 

Six months of civility. Unspoken compromise. Peace.

Until one fateful evening after you’d just gotten dressed, fresh from the warm waters of a bath. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was a bit hotter than tepid by the time Ambessa walked into the bedroom, her head held high but expression dull and exhausted. The hearth was comforting, drawing dark shadows along the orange walls while you potted around and got ready for bed. The warlord was quiet as she took the time to unclasp the usual stylish (but useful) armour of her clothing, and you only interrupted her to ask, gently because you weren’t looking for an anxious talk, “The bath is full. Would you like it re-warmed? It’s still pretty hot.” 

Your back was turned to her as you sat on the edge of the bed, facing the moonlight through the windows, sipping your usual before-sleep tea. It was a ritual you’d continued from your childhood, a warm cup of herbal tea before slumber—you didn’t plan to skip out on that regardless of where you lived. And so the rustling of cloth and thuds of various accessories, plus her boots hitting the bed and the floor, faded into the background for but a moment. Your focus had shifted, briefly, calmly, to observe the nightly appearance of the city. The shining fires of Noxus. The dark of the sky. A thing to marvel at, even if you didn’t always like the thought of being there.

“No, thank you,” was all she said, rumbly and warm, unknowingly tugging you back to yourself, and because you were a good person and a kind soul, trying to continue the peace of the recent months, you turned around to give her a soft quick smile. 

And proceeded to choke—hard—on your tea. 

Wondering about how Ambessa Medarda got her children was not a thing you did. You just assumed, like most, that her husband at the time, Azizi, had been given the honour and permission. You’d never actually met her during that span of a few years, so you didn’t know that she’d never been the one pregnant with the child but rather her lover. A woman, of course, because men couldn’t bear children and because Ambessa Medarda didn’t actually have the facilities to give birth with in the first place. 

Instead, from what you could grasp of your very intense (and accidental!) five-second moment of staring, was that in the same place as you had your parts, Ambessa Medarda had hers. And the sight of it caused one wild bolt of fire to spark beneath your skin. 

It was big. Proportional, naturally, like the rest of her. Long, too. Thicker in the middle. It seemed… heavy. Even when relaxed, with a slightly thinner base darkened by a smattering of onyx curls and veins that you could only see the shadows of when she straightened to her full height. It had no visible curve or lean, it dangled just as any other did, but you didn’t find it as crude, as disgusting, as it seemed to be on men. Possibly because the scene that came before it; firm, chiseled abs and weighted breasts with husky peaks, enticed you more than the usual flat chests of the male sex. You’d seen too many of those; stocky bodies with no soft curvature, no alluring heaven between their legs, no protective fat to their bellies or the tops of their thighs, and though nudity was allowed in the bathing houses of your community, and some young girls found that tantalizing, you never joined the fun. Because you weren’t interested in admiring. But all of your time spent there listening to their giggling gossip did pay off somehow because you’d come to know what ‘cut’ and ‘uncut’ meant, and in that five-second moment, it became very clear that Ambessa Medarda was the former. Blessed with a marginally smaller tip, a deep umber colour, and an unnecessary amount of raw sex appeal.

Draped in a half-golden light. Her outline all curves and muscle. Temptation in one woman.

Bested by the sight of her body. 

Your eyes flew so wide, so quickly, they hurt, and any desire to be discreet about your surprise was immediately shot out of the window, along with your dignity, as your eyes watered and your throat spasmed, scrambling to right itself from its tea debacle. To any other wife, you had no doubt that it wouldn’t have been an issue or a problem or even a shock because Ambessa Medarda either slept in a thin cover-up or in the nude, but for you, who was usually asleep by the time she retired for bed and who was still asleep by the time she woke up for her day, it was something very unexpected. The woman was already touched by the Gods—you weren’t aware that anything about her could be more alluring than her hair or her eyes, which you tried not to pay all that much attention to anyway because you still held a grudge, but apparently you were wrong. 

In fact, you had no idea. 

No idea whatsoever. 

And then, all at once, accidentally, you did. 

And it proved to be a very big idea. 

One that other wives—other women— would probably (and definitely did) salivate over. One that other wives and other women would probably (and did) throw themselves over the bed for. One that other wives (but not other women) most likely knew of the very evening of their wedding day because they weren’t too upset or angry or mildly scared to touch her. That was the expectation after all. Get married, fuck that same night, and go at it like rabbits forever.

But you just couldn’t do it the easy way, could you? You couldn’t save yourself the trouble. So instead you caught a glimpse of her sex while she was changing and suddenly your face, your body, your hands burst into one glorious mixture of flushed embarrassment and sweaty surprise. 

She walked around with all of that tucked into her trousers? 

“Drink more. It will soothe your throat.” She spoke calmly from behind you, unaware of your conundrum, instantly worsening the effects of what you’d seen. To distract yourself, you did as told and quickly poured another cup with shaking hands, and while it eased the odd feeling of choking, the damned tea did nothing for your sabotaging thoughts. 

Turn around. 

What?! No! Absolutely not. No turning around. You couldn’t.

Turn around. See.

See what exactly? There was only so much to look at! 

Turn around. 

No. No no no. That was exploitative, voyeuristic, and wr-

Do it. 

Oh dammit all you wanted to! You wanted to so bad. You’d never seen one on a woman before and your eyes itched to see and understand, skirting along the waters of curiosity. That’s all it was. Curiosity. Born out of intrigue. Just to look, to ponder over a few questions, . To , to stare and to see indeed because no, you’d never seen one on a woman before- but out of a desperate grab for decorum and self-respect and to cover up your shame, you kept yourself firm, clearing your throat, burning with a million feelings as you faced the window. 

“Thank you.” It was a soft croak, a lunge for normalcy, and when you heard the pad of footsteps walking away and a soft responding hum thrown over her shoulder, you finally began to relax.

You’d slipped into bed soon after, intent on forgetting all about what you’d seen, and quickly decided that it didn’t matter that you were her wife—your mind still scoffed at the sight of her sometimes, and you still overflowed with rage when you thought too hard about the circumstances of your marriage, so the whole ‘married’ ideal within itself was nothing beyond an altered last name and a hesitant new spot in her life. Which is why you never questioned her business either. No warlord was without a vice, after all, and for someone so openly hedonistic… well you had no doubt that she had dalliances, she was just clever enough to hide them well. She had had many years of practice, you were sure. 

And thus—many years of pleasure.

That was the last thing your subconscious whispered before it faded off into dreams, drowning your warm room in shadows and your flushed body in sleep. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

That moment, as it turned out, was fated to become a catalyst for a very sudden, terrifying, brutally embarrassing, borderline obsessive bout of utter insanity. 

You’d gone to bed shocked, unsettled, and curious, but otherwise alright. And you’d woken up confused, intrigued, and awed, but possessed. 

There was no other way to describe it. 

You only thought of her when necessary beforehand (which was actually quite often, but when your entire life revolved around the schedule of your new wife, it was quite hard not to), at the moments when you had to wonder if your plans were going to interfere with hers or if you were going to be late to one of her meetings or peacocking parties. That is to say, you still had your own agenda, which was what made all of it—the change, the adaptation, the learning, the passing time—somewhat tolerable. As opposed to what you assumed your behaviour was going to be in the beginning, you didn’t glare your head off or keep yourself deathly silent or snap back with a little more than a spoonful of attitude. Peace was a surprising outcome, but better than most others—and that’s how it went on for months on end. 

Until that chilly evening when you couldn’t keep your eyes to yourself. 

When you saw what you weren’t supposed to, which was a silly thought because you were quite literally married to her, but there was no initiation or passion or desire in that room. It was only the sin of  your eyes, your mind, and your body that had gone and mucked it all up. She was only getting undressed, something you knew she did before bed, but never something you cared to pay attention to. By the Gods, Ambessa was gorgeous, even the blind could sense it, but your pride stood just as tall and unwavering as her muscular body. Even if it was hard to temper your irritation with her—because quite honestly, it was difficult to be continuously exhaustingly angry with someone when they peered down at you with heavy chocolate eyes and revealed new graceful lines of age in their face whenever their expression shifted while hearing you talk—you still clawed for any bit of sense you could pull back into yourself. 

No, it wasn’t fair for a warlord to look that attractive, but there was nothing to be done about it. Your wife was sexy and terrible, you were chained and free, the world kept spinning, the stars kept burning. Nothing new. 

Until something slammed into the walls of your routine and your peace, your hesitant relationships and your comfort, your beliefs and your feelings, and crushed it all to ash.

A something that buzzed behind your ears, that itched beneath your fingernails, and threw punches at your heart. A pounding, overwhelming, dizzying something that you couldn’t name ever in your life before that moment, never in its entirety, never with such certainty.

Like a poison.

Like a craving.

Like pure, raw, desperate desire. 

You woke up the next morning after that night, alone in the big bed, smelling the distinct scents of her skin, her lotion, her hair product, her oils, her perfumes, her soap. There was a time when you thought it was obnoxious how good she smelled. It made your nose wrinkle for most of the first month, bringing a sour look to your face each morning, until the scents gradually faded, became familiar, and only popped back into your head when you noticed a change in product. There was no recognizable change that morning when you sat up in bed; the smell was just as strong as it always had been. But something in you was different. You sat there for a little bit, rather than getting up like usual, and stared at Ambessa’s unmade sheets. It was probably no longer warm. Just a creased red silken heaven. One that smelled very good. That held the imprint of her body, strong as it was. Hard and soft as it seemed. A space you felt the sudden urge to roll into, to curl up in, to drown upon, but instead, to distract yourself, you inhaled with big shuddering heaves and the spice, leather, and cinnamon of her scents all filled your lungs like the glowing Shimmer manufactured in Zaun. Intoxicating enough to send a shiver down your spine.

The howling creature chained to the back wall of your heart screamed at you to lean down to her pillow, to bring it to your face, to shove your nose into its softness and close your eyes with bliss, to lose yourself in the sudden realization that maybe, perhaps, possibly— you were physically attracted to your wife. 

But you hadn’t gone mad, not yet, so rather than put the demon at ease and fill your hands with her pillow and your nose with her scent, you staggered out of bed and got dressed for the day. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

And from that moment onward, you became someone else.

A reserved soul caught in the lurch of your own confusing interest. Walking around with a furrowed brow, with filthy thoughts, with a burning heart. 

You couldn’t meet her eye anymore. You couldn’t quip or banter or argue. You couldn’t lie down in bed at night without thinking about the fact that she’d be beside you, still strong, still capable, still beautiful, still powerful, and you couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t turn to her and talk, couldn’t curl up to her side, couldn’t sneak your hand down the hard plains of her stomach and explore. 

Conversation was hard. 

Catching glimpses of her in the hallway was hard. 

Looking at her was like dipping your body into a pool of liquid metal. 

Even painting became a nuisance. The draw of portraits grew to be lacklustre after observing the Noxians and recognizing that virtually no one in the city was anything but thin or muscular or thin and muscular. Despite being a welcoming place for the toughest foreigners, Noxus’ people, no matter the species, seemed only to be made of those in the most athletic shape or those past their prime, who were still, naturally, quite athletic. It was disheartening, recognizing that among the strong and wiry, you were a creature of supple flesh and bad stamina. That is why you stopped just as quickly as you started after trying to advance in your anatomical sketches—you simply didn’t want to be mocked by your own canvas. 

Until you sat down at it again, some days after that fateful night, and found your mind taking backward steps into oblivion. Re-entering the memory of smooth veins, a gentle downward slope, an umber tip, soft mahogany skin, alluring scars, dark hair and darker shadows, a body fit for war and pleasure. For battle and sex. For blood and cum. You felt your hand spread across the page, all phantom movements and whispered brushes of paint, so desperate to capture her countenance… her strength… the two sloping lines of her groin, the thick muscle of her legs, the sweet hourglass of her waist… oh to have it drawn before you, free for admiring… for fantasizing… 

It was the first paint brush you broke. The wood splintered the very moment you tossed it, smashed it, across the floor of the balcony. And when you turned away from the remnants, looking back at your canvas, five well-placed lines greeted you with sultry hellos, marking the very beginning of a thick erotic figure between walnut thighs.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You watched her train two weeks later. 

Sweat decorated her torso, her temples, her ankles. Tight red fabric ran wet with the salt of it. The bottoms of her feet were dusted with fine orange sand. Her grunts and growls of effort made her chest heave. 

At first you weren’t sure why you were there, lurking in the shadows with an advisor rambling off at your side, watching your warlord wife like a stalker rather than a partner, but when she flipped a male warrior over her shoulder and tossed him to the ground without breaking form or stumbling, recognition finally flashed through your thoughts. Of course. It was a self-test. That’s why your feet had taken you to the outdoor training grounds. That’s why you were studying her so closely. 

It was an unconscious grab for reassurance. 

Am I genuinely attracted to her? Or just intrigued by what’s under her pants?

Ambessa kicked a man’s spine so hard he tripped forward and didn’t get back up. 

Ambessa dodged a punch, deflected another, and elbowed the side of a woman’s head with such speed and force that she caved, groaned, hit the dust, and didn’t get back up. 

Ambessa straddled another’s waist, headbutted them before they could flinch, and shoved their weak reaching arm aside. They didn’t get back up. 

But she did. 

She did. Every time. 

With a short breath and a tense expression on her face, she did. Unfolding and standing to her true height. Beautiful skin, naked shoulders and biceps, all bared to the scorching sun. Her scars glittered. Her braids swung wildly against her back. Her hold on a deep red-wooded staff loosened. Then she passed it off to a soldier who ran up to her side and turned to address the collective wounded pride of the fighters at her feet. 

“No matter the position you are in, no matter the grip of your enemy or the state of your body, you never take your eyes off of your opponent. Even if you must twist your neck or strain your shoulders, you face them. Force them to see your fire. Your determination to succeed, even in death. Am I understood?” 

An echoed response, “Yes, General Medarda”, spread through the grounds, from everyone nearby, those training, those waiting, and you swallowed at the sound of it. A steady collection of voices bowing to her will, addressing her by title, acknowledging her authority. It was, in its purest, most recognizable form, the very essence of power. 

And you then, in its most recognizable form, were the very essence of lust. 

Your hurried fleeing steps meant nothing to your advisor, but they spoke so many truths to you at once. 

You’d found your answer, and were all the more doomed for it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

“You’ve been terribly quiet these days.” When she entered the room later that evening, some hours after you fled the training grounds to hide your blushing face and burning loins in the privacy of your chambers, her voice was low and inquisitive. Almost… amused? 

Not terribly surprising—she always seemed to be vaguely smug or entertained by one thing or another, usually at someone else’s expense, so you figured it was residue from whatever she’d been doing before returning to the bedroom that night. However, her blunt acknowledgement, holding an air of expectant confrontation, set your heart racing.

Does she know? 

What a silly question. Born from paranoia.

She couldn’t. She wasn’t a mind reader, she couldn’t possibly make that inference, and ever since you found out about her not-so-little secret, you’ve been quite strict about keeping your eyes to yourself. No wandering gazes. No hypnotized stares. Barely even glancing. Except when she didn’t know you were there. Or when she just so happened to be looking somewhere else. Or was too busy to pay much attention to her surroundings. Either way, she couldn’t possibly have known. But that didn’t stop you from tugging the book you were reading up further to shield your face and hide your nerves. Ambessa Medarda could sniff out anxiety, fear, weakness like a bloodhound. Caution was necessary, imperative, if only to save you from your own mortifying embarrassment. 

Though what could you say to get her off your trail if she’d found your scent? 

“There hasn’t been anything to talk about,” accompanied by a shrug and a soft sigh, your tone was as falsely relaxed as it could be. It threw a flimsy veil over the tension coiled in your body beneath the sheets; already you were feeling the familiar anxious sensation of itchy ankles and restless limbs, quite suddenly aware that you were now stuck in the same room as a decorated warlord. One that was known for her proficiency in manipulation. And making threats. Lucky you. Lucky lucky you.

“No?” A pause. “I would’ve thought you’d found the approaching art festival to be… inviting.” Ah. So she was in a very playful mood, walking around with an obvious smirk dancing across her charming lips, using that bouncy, teasing bell-ish tone she undertook when something was amusing. If you weren’t suspicious, some part of you would’ve found it almost… cute. But you were drowning in anxiety. What a strange thing she said. Why did she mention an art festival? You weren’t aware one even existed in Noxus. Was it true? Was it a veiled accusation? Bait? A test?

Had she- oh gods. Had she seen the painting? 

Your fingers twitched and tightened around the covers of your book. She couldn’t have. She… well you hadn’t actually gotten rid of it, had you? It wasn’t a very detailed piece, a bystander with an untrained eye couldn’t even begin to fathom what it was, what it would become, but you swore some of the artworks hanging around the compound walls had been made by her. And if that was true, then she had an eye for art. And if she had an eye for art… well. Your heart sang murder in your ears. 

How fucking maddening. Was it on purpose? The clever way in which she set you on edge while strutting about and taking off her clothes? The easy sway of strong arms didn’t seem strategic, but why would it be? She was masterful. Throwing the layers over the back of the chaise, leaving the armour on the duvet, drawing your eyes like a greedy kitten to milk. The stained lamps beside the bed were lit low, painting the room in reds and oranges. They cast smaller shadows, leaving her body on display. And you couldn’t help but stare like a woman in a museum. Your depraved eyes traced the path of her legs while you answered her, hoping in the back of your mind that your words would distract her from your wandering thoughts. 

“I- well I simply didn’t know Noxus had an art festival. I wasn’t aware you… well… I suppose I was just too busy to notice.” You bailed out of your sentence, switched your mind half way through, and tried to recover. It was hasty. Clunky. So revealing of some secretive thing that you didn’t want to share. 

You would never do well in war. 

And she seemed to agree. Her shaking head, muffled scoff, and jump of her shoulders said enough without saying anything at all. But you didn’t particularly care. You were too busy resuming your admiration of the clean dark undercut peaking out beneath her braids. 

“Of course not. Because you are of the belief that warriors are incapable of entertaining anything other than battle.” Now that was an accusation if you’d ever heard one, stated with blank amusement and an air of scorn. 

How wonderful a talent she had for fanning the flames of your irritation. It sparked back to life the very second you heard her tone—definite and factual. A claim you were not going to stand for. In only a blink, she reversed that momentary strike of attraction that clenched around your soul and replaced it quite easily with a flare of overwhelming anger.

“I never said that.” To accompany your harsh growl of a statement, you yanked your book down to rest on your lap, still held open but cast to another corner of your mind as you glared at the back of her head. 

Ambessa continued to undress, totally unbothered, either not caring that she’d pissed you off or somehow not noticing. It was definitely the former.  

“You did not have to,” she shrugged, “it’s obvious.” 

Obvious?! 

Your brow furrowed so hard, so fast, you must’ve looked a little funny. 

What in the world was she going on about? She didn’t have one clue about what you thought of Noxians. You were well aware that there was more to them than their precious military state. They were human too, after all. Well most of them. Either way, their culture was admittedly quite fascinating—even if you hated it sometimes. Even if you wanted to literally be anywhere else when you had to be present at 90% of the meetings. But apparently your new wife thought you were barbaric and hateful.

“Obvious?!” You barked, spluttered, and gave her a wide-eyed offended look. “You have no idea-”

Apparently she didn't care much to explain because Ambessa Medarda, warlord, strategist, temptress that she was, chose that very moment to undo her hip-guards, fling off the red sash around her waist, and shove her grey trousers down over the swell of her ass and thighs with a swift final whoosh. Done before you could blink. One second they were there, the next they were gone. And in their place? A whole lot of smooth, scarred, dark skin. Absolutely drool-worthy.

You would have been mad to just ignore it. You couldn’t even if you tried. And you didn’t. You didn’t try at all. What kind of wife would you be anyway if  you didn’t admire the curves of her calves or the chorded muscle of her thighs, the balance of her steady legs or the shape of her knees, the bones in her ankles or the… 

The bulge.

Of fucking course.

The fucking bulge. 

Clothed in deep scarlet fabric, pressed generously against a high waisted pair of panties. It was pushed off to the side, forced into a gentle curve, so thick it could barely be contained–and yet it was. Somehow. Maybe the Gods were holding it up or something. The simple shape of it left a deliciously obvious print you could trace with your eyes.

The very picture of tantalizing eroticism. Flexing inner thighs. Abdominals rippling. Scars bared to the light. Muscular forearms easily bigger than your hands, reaching up to take off her undershirt. Not for show, not even with much intent, but so excruciatingly sexy nonetheless. 

As soon as your gaze caressed the outline of firm balls and your mind was suddenly reacquainted with the knowledge of Ambessa Medarda’s dick, a shocked gasp fell from your lips and your head spun around so quickly it nearly went toppling off onto the floor. Oh you couldn’t help but act like it was a crime–a sin–a trespassing–to ever see your wife unclothed. Like a virgin stepping foot into a whorehouse for the first time. A mortifying ordeal, one you couldn’t seem to avoid, especially when the first scandalized words out of your stunned mouth were:

“Have you no decency?!” Flustered, loud, embarrassing, and high-pitched, you’d unexpectedly transformed into a nervous student with a schoolboy crush. 

It didn’t help that your cheeks and chest were slowly growing blotchy with a dark blush, or that you felt like you were on fucking fire, easily growing hot and sweaty beneath the summer sheets. And she didn’t even have to do anything. Barely even showed anything! 

Just stood there… so tall… sculpted… soft…

Only the brief sight of her covered cock had you spiraling. Why? You’d seen them before. You knew how they looked flaccid and otherwise, though the latter was only a one-time thing that never went anywhere. Regardless. They were not especially pretty or interesting. Maybe it had to do with the person? No. Well- yes. It definitely had to do with the person. 

You desired the one you loathed most. Wasn’t that how the story always went? You wanted what you couldn’t have or what was seen as taboo or what was seen as restricted. Some form of primal self-torture. And it didn’t help to be aware of such a sentiment when married to one of the most coveted, breathtaking, infuriating warlords in all of Noxus. Maybe even the whole world. Nothing about it was strange or taboo enough to evoke such an odd response… and yet? She was Ambessa Medarda. And you were you. And that wasn’t odd because you had a wedding band around your finger with her family crest sculpted into the gold. And you slept beside her at night. Just a quick roll-over away from a broad back and veiny hands and huge biceps and a beast of what you were sure was insurmountable pleasure. You didn’t know if you wanted to want her, but there didn’t seem to be a choice. Something in you claimed it as instinct. Something else said it was inevitable. Another thing said that it didn’t matter what it was and that you should just give in anyway. Which one to listen to? One? All? Neither?

You swallowed hard, feeling your hand shake as you pressed it to your cheek and tried to block your peripherals even though your entire face was already turned to the wall.

Such fluster and confusion. All because you were curious. All because you wanted to know.

What did Ambessa Medarda taste like? Sweat and metal? Spices and leather? Sweet? Salty? What did she feel like? Was her body soft? Warm? When you pressed against her muscles, were they really as rock-hard as they seemed? Totally unyielding? Were her scars sensitive? Were even the smallest ones healed into silky peach lines? 

Did the paradise between her thighs smell like her? Her body oils? Her soap? 

Did she ever caress it, imagining a warm tongue lapping at her desperately? Dragging her between soft palms, with gentle tugs and quiet moans? 

Would it feel like silk against your lips? Slipping across your cheek? Pressed to the back of your throat? You’d need to be trained… Taught how to take her and all of her twitching and throbbing and thrusting without causing too much of a scene. Both hands shoved into your hair, pulling your mouth close close close… 

It would be so big inside. So full. You didn’t have to have it in you to know it would take some adjustment. Some… stretching, Gods…

You were too busy getting lost staring at a spot on the wall, picturing her in your head, falling into your own thoughts, to see the strange inquisitive look, raised brow, and head tilt that Ambessa was directing at your back.

“In Noxus,” she spoke indulgently, her voice smoother than honey, “nudity is not a prospect built upon shame and judgment, but rather the liberation of embracing strength. And vulnerability.” 

Great. Another lecture from the brilliant General Medarda. All fucking hail.

You knew Noxian customs were different. They didn’t walk around naked, no, but their public bath-houses and hot springs were common and safe. Designed for the relaxation of the soldier’s body. Gods, she probably thought you were stupid. Or a child. Or a prude! Which only served to worsen your irritation because you were actually none of the above. Seeing other people nude was fine (barring the exception of your wife), and yes it was hard coming to terms with your own body at times, but you weren’t riddled with shame. It was only a matter of personal preference to cover up and not bare the meat of your shoulders and torso as much as the Noxians did. You were fatter than them–simply the truth–but it had nothing to do with humiliation. Only decency. Only the way bodies were made. And anyway, what did she know about judgment? Her body was a sight more glorious than the peak of Targon slicing through a gold-pink sunrise.  

You huffed. 

“I didn’t say that because I think-” 

“It is imperative to trust your body. To cherish it. To hone it and know it. Shying away from flesh will only result in failure at the most crucial moment—when you will need that trust the most.” You hated how important and wise she sounded. How much sense she made. You just wanted to turn around, lunge at her, and scrabble, fight, grapple until her entire body was painted in big red scratches. That would teach her. Yeah. A little pain. Her body, her back, stained with your marks, a sign of your anger, your hatred, your deep ruinous passion. 

Yeah. She’d look good like that. Roughed up. Sweaty. Heaving. Shivering. 

It was a shame that even in fantasy, you couldn’t hold your own against her. Not in any way that mattered, at the very least. So you spat fire instead. 

“It’s not me I’m concerned with.” Your hands clutched hard at the sheets, having already forgotten your book a while ago, “and will you stop interrupting me? Not everything has to be a learning experience, Ambessa. I just wasn’t- I mean I- you- I’m simply not familiar with it all! Still becoming accustomed.” It was as diplomatic as you could get and as far from embarrassing as you could stand. Even with the false starts. And squeakiness. 

The soft padding of bare feet told you that Ambessa took a walk toward a dresser near the hearth, across the room, far from your trembling figure, and while her back was turned, you took a deep steadying breath. How interesting it was that doing that became easier when she was some feet away. Like her presence was so intense it hurt your lungs to work. 

“Six months is not long enough?” A joke laced her tone, warming it like melting sugar, and you licked your lips nervously. 

Six months was enough. Then I saw too much. And now you have me half convinced that I’ve gone mad. Or been drugged. Somehow seduced by your body. 

“I guess not,” you shrugged, then went quiet, and waited for the sound of a drawer sliding shut to finally speak again. “You mentioned an art festival?” 

“I did.” 

Interesting. What could that have possibly looked like in Noxus? 

Conjured images of golden battlefield paintings, house crest embroideries, and market stalls of tender meat floated into your mind. Travelers, most from surrounding areas, and weaponsmiths displaying new designs of blades, bows, and armours. Red, black, and silver colour schemes. An air of authority and threat, with eyes always watching and hands always ready to reach. A stifling place, quite unfit for the gentle serenity of your preferred paintings, of pastels and flowers. 

Your brow furrowed. Driven by a sudden bolt of intrigue, you decided to ask. Just to create conversation. To get her as far away from the previous moment as you possibly could.

No more thinking about her body. Just speak. 

“What is that like?” 

There was some rustling happening behind you, very brief, before her footsteps faded away. 

“Wait,” was all she said, a firm command, before the washroom door closed. 

You were left in silence. 

Left to stew. Left to stare at the wall. Left to try and gather yourself.

Damn her. Damn her. Damn her. Damn her. 

A few minutes later, the door opened again and steady footsteps grew near. When the bed dipped on her side, shallowly felt because you sat so close to the opposite edge, your body fell tense. Rigid. All you could do was freeze as she settled in, like a rabbit half-convinced that if they didn’t move, the lioness wouldn’t see them.

But your lioness was a bit smarter than that, and she must have been truly exhausted after her day because there was never a time in which you both sat in the same bed, awake, engaged in conversation, without animosity. You simply expected her to have gotten out casual clothes like her training garbs, then tell you about the festival, then fuck off to her office or the kitchens or the courtyard again to stretch with Rictus like she usually did, leaving you in peace. But no. Instead, that big warm body of hers slid into the silk sheets beside you, so close but so far, and you felt her presence instantly, like an oncoming storm, and still you stared at the wall as though the very sight of her would send you spiraling again (which it probably would—hence the avoidance). And since you had no sensible excuse to get up and scramble away, to escape the danger of untrodden territory, you were trapped. With the lioness. No way out. Only Ambessa.

“The annual art festival is a celebration of Noxian history, strength, and culture.” She either hadn’t noticed the strangeness of your situation or simply didn’t care. Her tone gave away nothing, it held no edge, no tease, no belittlement, no manipulation, only the pleasant desire to inform. And you actually found it quite… well… momentarily pleasing. Neutrality suited her well. When she indulged in truth, it seemed as though you didn’t mind listening. Your hands moved to put your book away, eager to find something to do, as she continued. “Artists of all kinds, local and otherwise, line the streets. Most gravitate toward the blacksmiths and weapon crafters, for personalization purposes. Some find themselves in front of menders and seamstresses as clothes have a propensity for getting… snagged… in battle. Regardless of which vendors attend, it always draws a heavy crowd.” 

When you heard her extinguishing the flame beside the bed, and saw the light in the room dim, you finally allowed yourself to turn and see her throw the covers over bare legs. Shadows cradled the curves of her biceps and forearms, kissed the veins and shifting muscle, and you sent a quiet thank you up to any gods listening that she decided to wear a slip. It hugged her body, fell like silky water, and still covered all the skin that made you dizzy.  

It matched the same deep red of the soft bonnet she had stretched protectively over salt and pepper braids, off-setting the bare canvas of her skin. You couldn’t help but allow your wandering eyes to roam free. No tint to her full lips, no shadow atop her eyelids, no darkening of her lower lashline. Only the cheekbones, the scars, the wrinkles, the colours. Natural. Somehow… softer, but not by much. And looking at her like that, from where you sat by her side, seeing the framing of her lips and brow against shadow, you were struck with a sudden bolt of… endearment? A gentle embarrassing warmth and adoration that tickled your heart. When she sat with her broad back against the headboard and looked at you, chocolate eyes and bare skin shining in the light of the lamp over your shoulder, face weary with the want for sleep but her gaze no less sharp, focused, wearing a protective covering for the hair she did take so much pride in, smelling of oils and spices and that unique scent… no condescension… no threats… well she could have almost—almost—been a woman you loved. A woman you married. Happily. With no political intent. With a genuine smile and willing hands. Content. Honoured. Joined together on a beautiful wedding day followed by a beautiful wedding night. 

Perfection rather than convenience.

Desire rather than obligation. 

Freedom rather than entrapment. 

Then she opened her mouth - and you were swiftly reminded of why you were so reluctant to ‘marry’ her in the first place. 

“It is a tactic used to build morale, but is ultimately a waste of time and resources.” A waste of time? An art festival? You stared at her, feeling your lips part slowly in realization, disgusted awe, and disbelief. “I plan my visits to smaller territories beforehand so I can miss the commotion. Rebellions do not care for celebrations and they will take any existing distraction as an opportunity for rallying.” She spoke with such conviction, you wondered if you were the mad one for believing festivals were harmless.  

“So you just… don’t go?” A silly question you already knew the answer to, but what else was there to say? Arguing with Ambessa Medarda was like arguing with the mirror—you’d somehow lose every time. 

She tilted her head, slowly, casting jagged scars into the light, and somewhere in the back of your mind, past the part that seemed razor-focused on her beauty, something whispered that you were edging into dangerous territory. 

“I already have access to all I need,” she hummed. “What else would I find? A new weapon? Armour?” A smirk curled across dark lips, patronizing and arrogant. “Perhaps a painting?” She paused, eyes burning into your skull. 

Nowhere to run, nowhere to go. 

“Or a pretty little thing to sample?” It came out as a purr. Low and sinful. Indulgent and wicked. Spoken from between sharp white canines and sanguine lips. Your skin went hot. Images flashed through your mind. Bodies against bodies and mouths against mouths and the idea of her eyelashes fluttering beneath the weight of pleasure. If she noticed the sudden glaze of your eyes, she said nothing. Only gave you an austere look, powerful and righteous, with a slight lift of her chin. 

“They have nothing to offer me.” The indulgence was gone, replaced by steel. And when she cast her mocha gaze down the expanse of your body, hidden underneath sleek bedding, she drew imaginary fire over your curves. “Nothing I do not already have.” 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

This was my momentary return... I want to eat her up. She is my everything. Thank you for reading. Please remember that just because she has a penis doesn't mean she is masculine, male-adjacent, or framed that way. This is a LESBIAN fic. Be civil.

P. S. I see the asks in my inbox and they make me happy. I might get to work on some of those requests but no promises. - Rip x

Was that a crazy thing to say? A crazy thing to think? To want your boss/roommate like you wanted your boss/roommate? Maybe. Probably. But no one ever said matters of the heart led down a road of sanity—so how on Earth could you be blamed? 

Short answer: You couldn’t.

Not when the woman you wanted was as wise, as intelligent, as kooky, as beautiful, as charming as Lilia Murgo Calderu. An interpreter of the divine - and to you, all divine within herself. 

Even when she’d just woken up, dreams still swimming behind her eyes, orange slippers on her feet as she shuffled around the kitchen. Even when she took her time brewing tea, fixing her hair, humming quietly to herself. Even when she looked up to acknowledge you with a good morning and a lazy wave of her hand, to which you always responded with a smile and a chuckle because honestly you found her early-morning demeanour to be quite endearing. Even with the bags under her hazel eyes and the exhaustion of a terrible night weighing on her shoulders. Even when she rarely slept peacefully and then spent the entire next day getting lost within her thoughts. Even when she screamed in her sleep, cried out for help, yelped from a phantom pain. You ran to her on those nights, practically flying out of your room to find her tossing and turning in her bed, and always stumbled in the dark over to her side. Even when she was overtaken by nightmares, by visions and ‘possessions’, by people speaking through her and people speaking to her. Even then, when she was at her most volatile, with golden wicks of magic sparking along her knuckles and her fingertips, still harnessing power in her dreams, you scrambled to take her hands. To hold them gently. To pry them from their fists and smooth them with your touches.

“Lilia,” you’d whisper, heart pounding and touch soft, “Lilia you have to wake up now, you’re going to hurt yourself sweetheart.” And by then, she’d already be mid-gasp, shooting up in bed, looking around the room wildly before settling on you. 

Always you. Always at her side. Always willing to help. Her assistant, her roommate, the young woman everyone saw her around town with. The one who, perhaps, understood her more than anyone ever had before. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Oooo,” you smiled, led by your nose through the door that separated the front of the shop from the back of the flat, whisked along easily by the smell of food. “This looks amazing..” 

The spoon poised to the right of the stove, already dirty with the tomato and meat from the cooking pasta, was quickly picked up by your hand and dipped back into the pot. 

“Lilia you are a godsend,” you whispered to yourself, bringing the spoon (heaped with bolognese) up to your mouth, already closing your eyes before anything could land on your tongue. 

“Aht!” A sharp voice cut through your bliss, followed by a small smack and sting on the back of your knuckles as the devil herself walked up to your side and hip-bumped you away from the stove. “No tasting before it’s ready!” She scolded, taking the spoon right out of your hold and pushing it back into the pasta to stir.

“Hey!” You protested instantly, lightly shoving her back as you pressed yourself to her side and looked over the pot. She was warm, soft, and you felt your heart jump at the scent of her bourbon and wildflower perfume. “Gimme some now,” you teased, reaching over her for the spoon. 

“Can’t you wait for five minutes!?” Lilia said loudly, shooting you a glare out of the corner of her eye as she moved her body and elbowed you away again. 

“Ow- that hurt!” You cradled your belly. It didn’t, not at all, but you loved to add fuel to the fire. 

Unfortunately, the fire had all the fuel she needed. “Good!” Lilia quipped, putting the spoon back into place in its holder, “I’m glad!” 

You tried hard to hide the smile on your lips and the desperate giggles that wanted to fly out, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

“So mean to me…,” came your laughter-laden lament as you moved to the table in the centre of the room. “Making me set the table, too.” You shook your head and let out a sigh that was much too loud, exaggerating the mope in your shoulders and the dragging of your feet while you moved around the room to get bowls and cutlery. “This is illegal, I think.” 

A snort came from the stove, making you glance up just in time to see the smirk on red lips before she turned her head away to the spice cabinet. “Oh yeah? Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters?” 

“The police.” You set the bowls down quietly and gave her a scoffing ‘duh’ to follow up. 

“Oh please.” Lilia shook her head, sending grey and silver curls swishing around her neck, “The police will take one look at you and give you back.” 

You paused at the drawer, a fork already in your hand, and whipped around with a gasp. “Did you just call me ugly?” You looked quite affronted, mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed, one foot already pointed out to tap rapidly on the floor. 

“Is that what I said?” She shot back, spinning in her place to give you a look in return. Eyebrows raised, tone sarcastic, casting beautiful coffee eyes over the length of your body to prove her point. In the face of that gaze, intense in all its flawless effort, you had to control the sudden hot feeling that spread across your cheeks.

“That’s what I gathered,” you pointed out, sheepish beneath the weight of her full attention, and ducked your head to rifle through the drawer, “And you like to imply things.” You bumped it shut when you found another fork. 

“Oh yeah?” Lilia huffed. “Well you like to accuse. So put that in your pipe.”

“And smoke it.” You spat, smiling.

“Exactly!” 

The two of you laughed, creating a joyful harmony as you finished setting up the table and went to turn down some of the lights. Lilia, in the meanwhile, added the finishing touches to the pasta and donned tarot-themed oven mitts (which you gifted her last year for Christmas after her others were accidentally set on fire) to carry the pot to its trivet. 

“Careful,” came your soft call as you double-checked the lock on the flat door. 

“Hmm,” Lilia hummed, slipping the mitts off and throwing them on the countertop. “Come sit, I’m starving.” 

“Shoulda cooked earlier then,” you teased, practically skipping over to the table to pull out her chair. 

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” she waved her hand and rolled her eyes before taking her seat, falling into your familiar routine.

It was your pleasure, above anything and everything else in life, to make Lilia Calderu’s days as smooth and bright as possible. You made breakfast, you helped clean up, you always pulled out her chair for her and always beat her to the dishes, and at night, you turned down the lights before heading off to your own room. It was small, decorated to suit you, and totally unnecessary. You’d insisted in the beginning of your stay that Lilia have it instead, because it had a door and was less open-spacey, but she brushed it off and said that she was already comfortable in her little pull-out bed. You didn’t enjoy the thought of it, not with the way her back hurt sometimes, but it was nothing a good spot of healing tea couldn’t fix—or so she claimed. You also learned early on that Lilia was neat, careful, and entirely against rushing. She did not like to rush. Nor did she like to argue, or raise her voice when angry, or get angry in the first place. And she didn’t like sleeping in too much and she didn’t like cold showers and she didn’t like when you didn’t respond to her texts (which happened maybe two times and both times you got an earful). But you never minded the things she didn’t like. You made sure to work on time-management, to avoid rushing, and you never got angry with her, only frustrated, and you never yelled at her (because you were quite sure that you’d rather be stabbed then ever do so), and you woke her up before her late alarm and only let her sleep in if she had a rough night, and you never used too much of the hot water, and you kept your phone ringer on whenever you left the shop, and all of the things she needed you to make space for, you did. You gave her privacy, you gave her an ear, a shoulder, you gave her gifts and you gave her attention and you gave her banter and jokes and stability and routine and beneath it all, every time you smiled at her, every time you both sat down in the armchairs to read your books, every time you stayed up late to listen to her rant about the world’s offences against witches, you were also giving her your heart. 

Happily, gladly, giving her your heart. 

“My compliments to the chef,” you grinned as you took your spot opposite her, putting your napkin on your lap as though you were in a fancy restaurant. 

“Mm, let me know if it’s too salty,” she ran her tongue over her teeth before grabbing your bowl, sliding it closer, and starting to dish up. 

You couldn’t help the way you looked at her, keeping one elbow on the table, holding your chin with the cup of your hand, admiring the way she moved. There was a specialness to it, a gracefulness found only in someone like Lilia. Even the way she put homemade pasta into your bowl, even the way she gave you a hefty helping, to make sure you ate properly, and even the way she slid it back to you with a small smile. The way the dim lights darkened her eyes, the way she focused on her own food, the way she shifted to get comfortable. 

Your heart felt just about ready to burst from your chest. 

“It’s perfect,” was the only thing you could say after you had your first bite; a common phrase in your combined household because Lilia was a fantastic cook. 

“Eh. Not bad,” she shrugged, but after her first bowl was finished, you smirked as you watched her grab another helping. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

At first, living together was a bit awkward. 

You were still a juvenile witch, having learned as much as you could from your previous mentor before she suggested Lilia as a continued source of help; and the last thing you expected when stumbling into Madame Calderu’s for the first time was the key to a future filled with the best of fortunes. You never got your palm read, never had her look into a crystal ball for you and pretend to know dead relatives, but still you were certain—your future was the best future one could have. There was a roof over your head, food at your table, books at your fingertips, and Lilia Calderu at your side. There was nothing more to want. 

Though in the beginning, that wasn’t the case. 

You tiptoed around her as though you were scared she was going to smite you down with all the power of the Divine Mother if you stepped out of line. You were the quietest, kindest, most endearing soul you could ever be—all in an effort to avoid being thrown out on your ass. But when you recognised Lilia’s way of living, how some larger part of her didn’t seem to really mind your presence at all, you began to settle. You lingered in shared spaces, you asked both the boring and exciting questions, and the tension in your shoulders faded. Sleeping came easier, smiling was instinct, and when you heard Lilia laugh at one of your jokes for the first time, you knew there was nothing in the world that could take you away from her home. 

Her home which eventually became yours, but which would always be hers no matter what she claimed. 

It was Lilia’s flat, your presence. 

It was Lilia’s life, you tagging along. 

It was Lilia’s heart, you left at the outskirts, mingling with the other acquaintances and friends (not that there were many, but still. Not in the inner circle of Lilia’s Inferno.) 

And in your life, in your heart, she was at the very centre, embedded in everything you did. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Merry Christmas!!” Your excited yell bounced off the walls, obnoxiously loud and announcing your entrance before you skated into the living room in fuzzy socks and holiday-themed pyjamas. 

The only answer that greeted you was a low gravelly groan, muffled by the press of Lilia’s face into her sheets. And on top of her head, squishing her beloved curls? A pillow. 

“Wake up now, Madame Calderu! It’s time to celebrate!” You sang, taking in the air of your shared flat. 

It was decorated beautifully, with lights along the cabinets, a fake purple tree in the corner, and other little festive trinkets you found in thrift shops, dotted around any flat surface there was. Dancing snowmen, a penguin with an ‘I love you’ sign (a symbol of your devotion, as subtle as you could make it), two stockings hung on the wall beside the tree, each of your initials sewn into the fabric. And on the tree itself? Colour-changing lights, baubles and plastic decor, some in the shapes of stars, others in the shapes of the moon’s phases, a few depicting typical witchy symbols (a hat, a little witch on a broom, two that were painted like tarot cards. The Lovers and The World.) Beneath it, there was a red and white tree skirt, fuzzy and dotted with little purple faux-pines, and on top of that, forming a little neat pile, were a few gift-wrapped presents. It was the most wonderful, heart-warming, heart-wrenching thing you had ever seen. You could spot the ones you picked out for Lilia, the gifts you spent so long thinking about, and noticed a few days before Christmas morning that she had matched each one with a wrapped present of her own. The contrast couldn’t have been more obvious; hers were all clad in some shimmery blue iridescent paper you’d never seen before in your life and yours were dressed up in a matte red and brown pattern that repeated the scene of a little bear in a Santa hat reading a book. 

You didn’t expect the presents to be there, in fact you didn’t really expect anything from her at all, and yet there they sat, adding to your pile of four. Four gifts for her and then, because she really was the softest person at heart, four gifts for you. As a thank you that evening, you’d made dinner - sweet potato chilli and slices of fresh bread. She loved it, but still you felt that a simple meal wasn’t a big enough show of gratitude. 

Christmas morning pancakes, however, would make a stunning addition to the ‘thank you’ list, especially as they were Lilia’s favourite. Two with chocolate chips and two with blueberries (though you always made at least one extra of each just in case). And beside that, a mug of herbal tea and beside that, a mug of hot chocolate. You were dead silent as you worked, trying hard to give the resident witch at least a few more minutes of peaceful sleep before you woke her up for a proper celebration. It was hard to contain the excitement, the lightning in your veins as you anticipated the rest of the day. The company, the warmth, the movies you’d watch, the books you’d read. The shop was closed, partly because the roads were full of unpaved snow, but also because you were not going to be waiting for customers on Christmas Day. You wouldn’t allow it, and eventually Lilia agreed. It was unlikely anyone would go looking for a palm reading anyway, not in that chill. Plus they all had other things to do as well, like spend time with family and cuddle up with their kids and their lovers and hold their wives and drink wine with their lovers and their wives and eat biscuits with their wives and kiss their wives and open gifts with their beautiful wives and ugh! Well. 

There were still gifts to open, gifts that you’d cherish no matter what they were. Even if Lilia got you the most basic things, like socks or a new body lotion or a water bottle, you’d wear them every day, you’d put it all over your hands, you’d never drink from anything else ever again. To even be in her busy head enough to receive a gift felt like an honour, and that was such a strange sentiment for someone you loved, putting her on a pedestal, but you were past the point of caring. Lilia Calderu was no perfect woman, you knew that more than anyone, but she wasn’t trying to be. Her kindness was taught, learned, maintained, and you weren’t sure which Gods you pleased enough to deserve it, but not a day went by where her care was overlooked. So all you could do was return the favour. 

“Merry Christmas indeed,” came a sudden rumbling purr over your shoulder, husky with sleep and tinged with amusement as Lilia shuffled her way up to the counter. 

You gave her a glance, taking in the robe around her shoulders, the colourful pattern of her nightgown, the slippers on her feet, and the sweet smirk on her lips, and could only smile when the heavy weight of her head leaned itself against your shoulder. Her curls tickled your neck a little, tied up as they were, but you had no complaints. She was warm, comforting, and still a bit tired. You would always be her headrest if that’s what she needed.

“Did you sleep well?” It was compulsory for you to ask, a habit you fell into as soon as you felt comfortable in the flat. Checking on Lilia was a common occurrence, though you only asked about sleep after she went through the night without waking up in a fit. The evening before had been quiet, so you had high hopes.

“Like a babe. What about you?” And that was the typical response, bringing a soft smile to your lips as you slid the mug of tea over to her. 

“Likewise, though I fell asleep to a delightful little playlist called Lilia’s snoring.” 

She gasped. “How dare you? I do not snore.” Wide coffee eyes looked at you, shocked, and one hand, devoid of decorative rings, playfully swiped at your arm. “Maybe you were hearing your own.” Lilia sassed before she hid her growing smirk behind her mug.

“Oh yeah right,” you rolled your eyes, moving away to shimmy the last pancake onto the small stack. “Let’s just go with that.” 

Lilia snorted and took her chance then to dip into the bathroom, still intent on completing her morning routine before eating. You got to setting the table, putting the pancakes on each plate and the rest on a separate one off to the side, placing Lilia’s favourite fork and knife beside her dish (they were made for her a while ago, complete with engraved gems and smoothed symbols, the only surviving two out of a full set), and completed the table with your mugs. It looked a bit romantic, as it always did when it was just the two of you sitting at your little kitchen table, but over the course of your time together, neither of you mentioned it. Once, in the beginning of your routine, you lit a candle and placed it in the centre of the table arrangement, and promptly promised yourself never to do so again. For as soon as Lilia sat down, embraced by the flame’s flickering light and short warmth, you felt your cheeks grow hot. She looked unbelievably handsome that evening, meeting smouldering eyes over the candlelight, showing off the shadows of her wizened face, and you were overcome with the distinct desire to lunge across the table and kiss her senseless. 

Fortunately for your friendship, you never did. And unfortunately for your friendship, the urge to do so only got worse. From kissing to holding, from holding to loving, from loving to fucking. You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t control the flutter of your heart, but there was nothing to be done. Lilia was your roommate, your mentor, the woman who laughed with you and cried with you and consoled you when you were on your period and needed a shoulder. She wasn’t the woman you kissed or the woman you held or the woman you fucked and in all seriousness, you knew that she probably never would be. And although that thought came with its own sense of pain, its own sorrow and bone-breaking ache, it was also followed by relief. If you weren’t close enough for that, then you weren’t close enough to break each other’s hearts. So there was no need to fear, no need to worry, and if ever there came a day where Lilia found someone to be with her for good, then you would be happy. You would be happy. For her, for the woman you found yourself loving, you would be happy.

And speak of the witch, the sound of the bathroom door creaking open, followed by soft footsteps, broke you out of your staring contest with the counter. 

“Thank you for breakfast,” she said airily, fresh-faced with a small bit of makeup, a spritz of perfume, and a better style for her unruly curls. You nodded, almost in a bow, as you slid her seat out for her and gently pushed her back in. 

“It’s always my pleasure. Especially today.” You knew your eyes were shining, pouring with Christmas glee, but Lilia didn’t seem to mind the excitement. 

Ever since the beginning of December rolled around, she’d been happy to help you decorate. She took the time to hang lights with you, standing on the tips of her toes to give you the string as you circled it around the tree, then she spent the second evening of her December dotting it with decorations, inspecting the ornaments and baubles as she went, and she even bought a wreath to hang from the inside of the front door. You felt as though your heart was going to crawl out of your chest, it was so full of light and love. And at the end of the evening, when she affixed the Triple Goddess’ symbol to the top of your purple tree instead of an angel, and whispered a quick, happy, “Four of Wands” to you when she settled back on her feet, you couldn’t help but wrap her up in a hug. If that’s what her heart told her, if that’s what the divine whispered, an upright Four of Wands, then who were you to dictate? The higher powers were more right that evening than they had ever been before: in that moment, everything was Four of Wands. 

And while you ate a silent breakfast across from Lilia Calderu, enjoying the warmth and taste of your meal, taking in the slight chill of the morning and the beautiful image of her lounging in her nightie and robe, everything felt like Four of Wands all over again.

“You know I didn’t expect you to get me anything,” you finally murmured, hiding your eyes as you sipped from your mug. “It wasn’t supposed to be an eye for an eye sort of thing.” 

Lilia finished her bite, licked the side of her mouth, and raised an eyebrow. “So you expected me to be the only one opening gifts on Christmas morning? I don’t even celebrate Christmas. Why would I leave you empty handed?” 

You shrugged, already feeling the beginnings of warmth taking over your cheeks. You knew she didn’t celebrate - and technically you weren’t inclined to do so either, but the holiday cheer always got to you. And she had been so patient, going along with your joy. “I just assumed- I dunno…. We didn’t do it for each other the past two years, and exactly. You don’t celebrate. So I hope you know that just because I got you things-”

“Wait wait wait wait, stop right there.” Lilia cut you off, waving her hands a little bit, forcing your avoidant eyes from your plate up to her face. Her expression was strange, serious mixed with a distinct shadow of outrage, brick-red lips set into a frown; but behind her chocolate eyes? All you could see was warmth. “Before you even go any further, I’ll have you know that I did not feel obligated to get you Christmas presents just because you got some for me, and I certainly didn’t do it because I felt sympathetic.” 

You opened your mouth, ready to interrupt, but were quickly shut down by a held-up palm and a stern look. Your jaw clicked shut.

“I did it because I wanted to.” She held your eyes. “I did it because I didn’t want you to be celebrating alone and although it has been a long time since I last celebrated the holidays, I have to tell you that this has been very nice.” Lilia nodded at you, her lips tilting up into a smile, and she watched with delight as you couldn’t help but mirror it. “It’s been nice, right?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, resisting the urge to shyly duck away, “yeah it’s been nice.” 

“And that is precisely why I did it. Because this is the kind of atmosphere every home should have,” she spread her hands out, breaking away to look around your living room with pride and care, taking in the purposefully mis-coloured tree, the lights and ornaments, the gifts, the holiday trinkets, the stockings, the sight of your books mixed with her books in the shelf, your shoes next to her shoes by the front door, your notes stuck to the fridge, your handwriting on the wall calendar, the TV you bought a little while ago, the paintings you hung up, the food that you made for her and dished for her and placed beside her favourite knife and fork, the drinks you prepared, the look in your eyes… And when she brought her attention back to you then, you almost cracked right in half when she leaned forward as though she were going to tell you a secret and said, in a playful whisper with a smirk on her face, “And there is no other person I would rather celebrate with.” 

You were so thankful she couldn’t read minds. 

“Okay?” She nodded as a reassurance and you returned it without hesitation. 

“Okay. Thank you…,” you breathed, shuddery and annoying, so out of tune, but when she looked at you in the way she did, when she spoke so gently, so firmly, you simply weren’t sure how you could’ve regained your footing sooner. “I- I appreciate it.” 

“I know you do,” Lilia was smug as she leaned back in her seat and crossed one leg over the other while she finished her breakfast.

“Shut up.” 

The response you got was a near-silent huff of laughter. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Okay! Stocking first or presents?” 

You stood in the middle of the room and Lilia sat in the blue armchair, nursing another brewed mug of hot chocolate. You hadn’t taken the chance to change, insisting that Christmas morning gifts were always unwrapped while still in your pyjamas, and Lilia had inclined her head to tell you that the reins were yours before she got cuddled into her seat.

“Let’s start with the big guns. Presents.” 

You nodded, still managing to somehow follow orders, and swiftly crouched beneath the tree, then carefully picked up all four gifts for Lilia and shuffled back to her on your knees. 

“Your gifts, m’lady.” 

“Why thank you,” she smiled, looked down at you with those heavy-lidded eyes, stroking the fire in your heart, and put her mug off to the side before holding her hands out and taking the wrapped presents into her lap. They weren’t very big, one of them wasn’t even a box, so she had no trouble balancing as you quickly turned around to grab your own. 

“Right,” once you were settled at her feet on the floor, cross-legged and acutely aware of how close you were, you set the boxes down in front of you and clapped your hands. “You go first, then me, then you, then me. Deal?” 

“What if I want you to go first?” One dark eyebrow raised, adding to the wicked pleasure of a dark-lipped smirk, and you instantly tried playing off your fluster with a shrug. 

“Then I will. Is that what you’d like, Madame Calderu?” Only used in moments of teasing, you enjoyed seeing the slight pink that went to Lilia’s cheeks as she heard you use her unofficial official title. Despite it being the name of her shop, it was rare that a customer addressed her as so. In time then, she only came to associate it with you. 

“Yeah, why not,” Lilia shrugged, and you instantly picked up the first gift nearest to you. 

“Can I shake it?” You grinned.

“If you’re interested in breaking things, be my guest.” 

“Mmm, no thank you,” came your little murmur as you carefully (trying to hide your eagerness) undid the wrapping. It was a long box, thin, and as the gift was revealed and the paper fell off to the floor, you felt your heart stutter. Clearly, it was jewellery. And clearly, you had to open it. But the front caught your eye, stalling you, and you took in the small golden cursive L. with interest. “Did you make this?” You whispered, shifting the box to hold it like precious gems. 

“Open it first, ask questions later,” you didn’t have to look up to know she was smiling, so you did what was desired. 

The top came off with little resistance and suddenly you were looking down at a necklace. A familiar necklace. Familiar and yet different. Made of smaller beads with similar colours, more delicate and fitting to your less loud aesthetic, but with the same rectangular shaped pendant in the centre. You nearly folded yourself in half looking closer, feeling your heart in your throat when you recognized that yes, it was like Lilia’s, but it wasn’t meant to be a replica - it was meant to match. Two hands against a white background hovered above and below a sun with an open eye, fitting the same mould, but Lilia’s hands were an iridescent blue-green, the top one pointing down from the right and the bottom pointing palm-up from the left. Yours was in complete contrast. A deep blue background, opal coloured hands, the top one pointing down from the left, the bottom pointing up from the right, and the sun in the middle was not a sun at all but a full moon, painted white, the eye’s iris a dark midnight blue. It was perfect in a way you could not even voice, hand-crafted with so much care, and you looked up at Lilia as though she herself had the bright idea to create the sun and moon and hang them both in the sky. 

“I- this is- Lilia…,” you swallowed, glancing at the necklace resting against her chest before looking down at its partner in your hands. “Holy shit, Lilia.” 

“Here, let me help you put it on.” She flapped her hands to gesture you forward and forward you went, placing the box aside and taking the necklace out with the gentlest touch. When you turned and she slung it around your neck, the jewellery was cold, but her hands were warm, and in seconds you were suddenly matching with the woman you loved. 

“...I feel like I’m part of your coven now,” you whispered while looking down, stroking it with reverence. 

“Ha!” Lilia cackled, her smile brighter than fresh snow in the sun. “You don’t want to be part of my coven, kiddo,” she took a sip of her tea. 

A very mean, insecure voice in the pit of your mind hissed at the sound of that nickname. It always incited a wild, twisting fire inside you. You hated to be reminded of your age, of the differences between you, because it always served as a symbol of what could never be. Coming to terms with unrequited love was one thing, but having the reason why it was unrequited spoken to your face so boldly, even without intent to do so, was a different beast entirely. You could handle the sadness when not reminded of its roots, but a quick ‘kiddo’ or ‘kid’ or reference to age spoken from Lilia’s lips had you instantly defensive. Of course you never showed it, never in front of her, but that didn’t mean the punch to your psyche didn’t hurt like a bitch. 

“Yes, I do.” You insisted, moving the opened box and wrapping paper out of the way. “Of course I do. Lilia Calderu’s coven? Sign me the fuck up right now.” 

She huffed, put her mug down, and turned back to her own gifts. “Shall I?” 

“You shall.” 

The first one she picked up was the squishy one, soft and medium sized, and you delighted in the way her brows furrowed as she pressed it between her fingers. Three seconds later, when the paper was torn off (just as gently as you did it, you noted), a small gasp, followed by a rich laugh, filled the air. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Lilia grinned as she picked up the oven mitts and slipped them onto her hands. It was a cute addition to your running joke. Only a few months before that moment, Lilia had somehow accidentally set her old oven mitts on fire. Bright flame and all. It was a miracle how you got there just before the smoke detectors went off and managed to throw the things outside before dousing them in water. They were still on her hands too! You’d nearly had a heart attack, staring at her with eyes so wide it gave you a headache as you ignored the half-charred mitts and held her palms. Lilia insisted she was okay as you inspected them, but she never pulled away and she didn’t protest when you asked her to please run them under cold water for a few minutes. Since then, the only ‘oven mitts’ she had were dish towels and every time you meant to buy replacements, you procrastinated or you forgot. That simply wouldn’t do—thus, the tarot card themed oven mitts she had on her hands, waving them around and pinching her thumb to her fingers with satisfaction. 

“These are lovely. Thank you,” her voice was liquid gold with gratitude as she finally slipped them off and gently set them on the table, giving them a pat for good measure. 

“Yeah, I thought you might have needed some,” you smirked and gladly accepted the small playful slipper-covered kick you got to the knee. “Now my turn again.” 

The next gift was softer than a box, but shaped like one, with a weird hard lump on the front, and once you got the wrapping paper off, your face almost split in half with the width of your smile. 

“This looks so beautiful, oh my god,” your left hand stroked and fiddled with the pendant at your neck, holding it as a newfound comfort while your right hand explored the leather-bound notebook you found in your lap. The lump you felt on the front was a sewn-in gem, coloured gold and orange, and you felt warm with the thought that it reminded you so much of Lilia’s magical tint. “Thank you Lilia.. I promise you it won’t go to waste.” 

Her eyes were shining proudly when you looked up at her, and you noticed the quick glance away from your collarbone to the book in your lap. She must have thought the necklace was just as beautiful as you did. 

“It better not, or I’ll take it back,” she teased, humming a soft sound of agreement as you marvelled at the fraying, fabric pages. 

“No chance. Now open your next one, please.” The notebook was gently set aside after you re-clasped the metal hinge. 

As Lilia picked up one of the smaller boxes, harder than the oven mitts, and began unwrapping, you briefly wondered about what you were going to put in the new journal. There were no lines, so it was perfect for sketching, but at the same time you hadn’t kept a diary in so long and it was the perfect opportunity, accompanied by the most perfect feeling. Making use of something a loved one had given you. And you would make use of it, without a doubt you would. 

“Is this a book of spells?” Lilia asked, turning the little brown book over in her hands with a furrowed brow and a confused smile. 

You straightened up and shuffled closer to her knees, practically putting your chin in her lap when you excitedly reached up to hold it open for her. “That’s exactly what it is, yes. I had to get a bit of help from Elise, but…,” you bit your lip, suddenly shy at all the effort you’d put into contacting your mentor. She agreed to help because she loved you, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t teased, and as you looked up at Lilia then, staring into dark enchanting eyes, you felt a blush roll over your cheeks. “...It’s um- it’s little obscure spells. For like cleaning and mending and things. I think there’s one in there for even stitching stars? Just stars? And a few others. Shining copper, cleaning lipstick off of glass…,” you trailed off, watching as Lilia hummed and took the book from you again. 

She took a moment to flip through the pages and read the small descriptions, taking the time to react to each one in kind. And when she got to the end, going a bit faster in her perusing, she suddenly stopped. You paused just as she paused and watched, with confusion, as her eyebrows promptly shot up.

“You think I need an.. ‘overstimulating orgasm’?” 

….

“Excuse me?” 

You went still. 

Lilia’s eyes bounced from you to the page and back again before she turned it around on her lap, nonverbally forcing you to read it. 

And there, in your mentor’s handwriting, were the cursive words, “Spell for a Very Special Feeling”. 

And beneath it, in smaller print:

‘Do your wrists ever get tired? Your hands? Are you eager for a satisfying night in? A chance to really release your frustrations without doing the work yourself? I know just the spell.

Completing the steps below will result in a release like no other. It will burn, it will feel painful, but the pleasure will override the ache and in no time at all, you will find yourself feeling delightfully… overstimulated. No tiring hours of doing it yourself! No chickening out! Give it a try maybe once. Or twice. As many times as your body can take.’ 

And a diagram showing hand movements, followed by a chant to go along with it. 

That motherfucker!

“Judging by your expression, I’m guessing you didn’t look through this thoroughly before you wrapped it for me?” Lilia smirked, cheeks growing pinker the longer you stared at the writing in complete and utter shock. 

It took you a good second to react and then another two seconds to respond. You were quick to reach out and grab the book, wanting to look through it properly to avoid any other utterly embarrassing miscommunications, but Lilia yanked it back before you could. 

“Too late,” she shook her head, and you floundered. 

“N-no! That is not supposed to say that, I swear. I would never- that- Elise wrote them all! I approved them! I don’t even know how- why-” 

Lilia raised one of her palms, cutting your sentence right in half, and you fell quiet as she smiled. 

“She must’ve slipped it in. I think she’s trying to tell me something,” the book went flipping back and forth between her palms and you sighed. 

“I’m really sorry about that, oh my god. It was just supposed to be a cute little gift.” 

“And it is,” Lilia insisted, snapping the book shut with a smirk. “Don’t feel embarrassed. It’s only natural.” You felt something in you shiver when she winked and desperately tried pulling yourself together when she turned to put the little book on the side table. 

Dwelling on the moment, now matter how enticing the idea sounded, was not a very good decision to make. You couldn’t afford to get distracted or blush too hard, but dear lord it seemed to be an impossible feat - especially with the image of Lilia in your head. Panting, blushing, hands gripping her sheets… the same hands, soft hands, with delicate wrinkles and perfect nails, just the right length and just the right width and so deceptively strong, no matter how feminine they seemed… the same hands she used to do her sewing, her cooking, her readings, her hair… the same hands she used to thread two fingers through the curve of her mug’s handle… oh in much the same way you wished they could curve into- no. 

No. 

You wrenched your eyes away, declining the draw of lust, and picked up the next gift on autopilot. As you tried emptying your head, the wrapping paper fell apart under your wandering hands, and soon you were staring down at what seemed to be a box of tarot cards. A very unique box of tarot cards with unique drawings, sequences, and detailing - art nouveau inspired. One of your favourites. 

“I don’t have this set yet…,” you breathed, drifting your fingertips over the glossy cover of the box like it was your Bible. 

“I know.” She hummed, still drinking from her hot chocolate, watching you with curiosity.  

Tarot set collecting somehow became your combined hobby over the years, although your preferences differed so as to not have any duplicates. Lilia had a set she used only for the shop, one that didn’t hold the same sentimental value as the few others she had, and you displayed your decks on the empty surface of your dresser. Lilia rarely got new ones, she was quite connected to the five that she already had, they all held different meanings, and you only enjoyed splurging when you saw ones that were really incredible. Your next gift was a surprise for Lilia, it would bump her deck number up to six, and you smiled softly as you slid the top off of the decorative box and swiftly counted the cards as the tenth addition to your collection. 

“These are gorgeous. Where did you get them?” You couldn’t tear your eyes away. 

“A witch never tells,” Lilia put two fingers to her pursed lips and though you didn’t look up to see it, you still huffed at her words. 

“Well can a witch accept a thank you?” 

“She can,” your roommate acquiesced, giving you a heartfelt “You’re welcome” when you thanked her on the spot. 

“I will say I think you and I had the same idea,” you admitted when Lilia got around to opening her next gift. She raised quizzical eyebrows as she looked down at the box in her hands, and you watched with glee as her lips parted in surprise. “We know each other so well.” 

“It appears we do…,” she murmured low beneath her breath before she tossed the wrapping paper down to you and gave the box a proper look.

It was medium sized, wooden, hand painted, and carved. On the front, there was a rather uncanny all-black cameo of Lilia’s side profile. It was perfect, from the shelf of her brow to the distinct curve of her nose down to the gentle slope of her neck, and it was front and centre in the painted format of a tarot card. At the bottom were two words written in your pen, ‘The Divine’. And at all four corners, little details of the sun, moon, Saturn, and stars. Lilia was quiet as she opened the hinged lid, and then she gasped as she came face to face with The Empress. It took her less than a second to realise what you’d done. Her gaze shifted quickly, from every individual stroke to every mark and design, from every corner signature to every line. With slow movements, pouring with awe, The Empress was quickly pushed to the back as Lilia slipped the entire stack out of the box and began fanning them with her fingertips. Her touch was delicate, hovering as she traced outlines and ran her thumb along the curves of the cards. 

“Hand painted,” she said softly and you looked from her to the deck and back again with a nod and a smile. 

“Do you like them?” You didn’t really have to ask, you knew she did, but some part of you was always nervous whenever you did something nice for your roommate. You had to toe the line carefully, balancing being platonic and being romantic, and gifts were, at times, a difficult thing to interpret. You wanted her to enjoy them, to find use in them, to keep them for the rest of her long life just as she had with a bunch of her other souvenirs. If ever she had to leave, flee, or travel somewhere without you, you hoped that she would stop to pack them in with her things first. Or better yet, use them for special occasions. Times where she could tell people that she got that deck of tarot cards from a young woman she once knew, a woman she thought of often with fondness. Maybe a woman who could become her wife one day, though it was such a silly thought you could only shake it out of your head.

“Yes, I like them,” Lilia breathed, eyes still hungrily devouring the details. She looked quite impressed. “These are beautifully done. Thank you.” Her smile felt like a hug around your shoulders when she peered down at you. 

“Oh I- of course…,” you said shyly, resisting the urge to bow your head or look away, and her smile only grew as she turned back to her new deck and began realigning them. You watched her for a moment, seeing her care and appreciation in the way she handled them like fine china, and it was only when the box made a light clink against the side table that you finally snapped out of it.

“Why don’t we open the last ones together?” You suggested, perking up with a renewed sense of interest. The last gift was your personal favourite as it contained the most magic, and since you had yet to find your own physical form of the craft, like Lilia’s golden whisps, it was also the most time consuming. Laborious magic was a true pain in the ass, but you had a little help from your mentor and in only a few days, the gift was complete. You prayed the witch in front of you enjoyed it. 

“Good idea,” she put the wooden box to the side and picked up the last gift.

You mirrored her, then watched as both of you worked at the wrapping paper and revealed your last gifts. 

In your hand, a small unassuming brown box. In Lilia’s, a long Tiffany-blue box. You shared a look and in unison, slid the tops off.

Inside the box, nestled in a soft foam mould, was a simple, smooth, shining Black Tourmaline. It was about the size of the dip in your palm and when you picked it up, your hand dropped just a bit with the weight. You glanced up at Lilia, meeting her eyes over the ledge of her knees, and smiled in confusion. 

“This is gorgeous, but why is it so heavy?” You laughed, holding the gemstone like gold as you slid it between your palms and ran your fingers over the smooth surface. 

“Turn it around,” she responded as she looked down at her own gift and hummed, moving to gently take it out of its own foam mould as though it was made of glass. 

“Oh… woah…” On the other side was an engraving. A symbol. Seven points to a complex star. You’d seen glimpses of it in various books over the years, but it wasn’t among the most common signs in witchcraft, so you never paid it any proper attention. Clearly, to Lilia, you should’ve. 

“It’s a Heptagram. In many religions, its existence is overwhelmingly positive,” Lilia said offhandedly, eyes still glued to her own gift, “and this…,” she twirled it in her fingers, face glimmering with the way the sun shone through the kitchen curtains and caught the light off of one of the shining little bunches, “is a bouquet of hemlock stuck in stasis.” Her vision readjusted, moving past the green of the stems to you, sitting in direct view behind them. You watched as the film of magic made the bunch glow. From certain angles, it seemed as though it stood beneath shining stained glass, casting reds, oranges, yellows, blues, purples, greens, pinks, and whites all in various shades.

“I knew it was a bit on the nose, but it can’t hurt you unless you decide to eat it,” you explained, “Elise helped me cast the spell. It will be like that forever, I’m pretty sure. That’s why it’s shimmering. Pretty, isn’t it?” You smiled, running your fingers over your new stone aimlessly. 

“It’s perfect,” Lilia said warmly, tilting her head with a sweet smile on her face. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” You rushed out, chest almost heaving with the weight of her affection “Now are you going to tell me the meaning behind this stone?” You asked and held it up before your eye, symbol facing her. 

“It’s a protective ward. Throughout the ages, it has come to mean different things to different believers, but I focused my energy into divine protection. As long as it’s with you, anyone with bad intentions will turn the other way,” she explained in her teacher voice, speaking matter-of-factly.

You blinked at her. 

She looked entirely unbothered, maybe a little bit proud, as if it was just another one of her lessons. As if she did something like that for everyone, everyday. 

“Or that’s what it’s supposed to do,” Lilia rolled her eyes and swung her head to the side as she picked up her mug again, “but I’m certain I got it right.” 

Oh. Right. Of course. As if it was just another one of her lessons. Like a Christmas Day lesson. Like perhaps it was no big deal. Like maybe it wasn’t a true feat of magic, no matter how small the gem. Like protection wasn’t that hard. Like it wasn’t genuinely the kindest thing anyone had ever done for you. Ever. And like you wouldn’t think about it for the rest of your life, which you would, of course, cuz you’d hold the thing in your pocket, in your hand, you’d sew it into your skin, if it meant you wouldn’t lose it. 

Not that you could, you decided. No. You’d have it forever. You’d keep it until death, considering that’s what Lilia wanted. Your safety. Your protection. She went as far as to pick out a gem for you, went through the time of making it compact enough, smooth enough, and spent lord knows how long carving the symbol into its surface. Then continued to cast on it, doubling the chance of success, tripling the strength. For your protection. For your survival. Because she cared. Lilia Calderu cared. And you knew she did, so you weren’t sure why tears started to prick at your eyes, but it wasn’t like she noticed anyway.

She was too focused on her hemlock, admiring it still with a pleasant smile on her lips, and you watched her lick the hot chocolate from her mouth and put her mug down before you sprang into action. 

You hadn’t even realised that’s what you’d been waiting for, why you hesitated, but the second her hands were empty and you felt the warmth of her body press into your own, it made sense. That’s what you craved. That’s what you always missed. The subtle buzz in your body, calling as if it were without something, begging for a concept you knew nothing off, went quiet. Like a switch being turned off. Your hands tucked themselves beneath her arms and went winding up to her back, splaying out with the stone squished gently in between your left hand and her pyjamas. Of course that’s what you wanted. Lilia. Always Lilia. She still smelled so lovely, like the sweet perfume of your home and the lemon of her shampoo, and you shuddered as you felt a soft puff of breath along your neck. Jesus, you melted for her. Like ice in the sun. Like butter in a pan. Warm with love, with sunlight, and you felt as though you could soak her up forever. You could stay there, nearly collapsing at the feel of her arms running up to curl along the curve of your back, forever.

“Thank you Lilia,” you whispered into her ear, sounding shuddery and frail as those sweet hands patted you once, twice, so warm and so calming. Her arms squeezed gently, nonverbally returning the sentiment, and you felt weak. “Thank you…” 

A minute passed, then she shifted and pulled you a bit closer. 

“Merry Christmas, honey,” Lilia murmured, red lips so close to your skin you swore you could feel the brush of them. The pull of them. Like maybe she wanted them to be there. 

What a silly thought. 

“Merry Christmas, Madame Calderu,” you replied, just as softly, and grinned with joy as her shoulders began to jump with happy quiet laughter.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

The witch came back the very next day oh the witch came back...

Hi! Hello! Hi! Let me know what you all think? Did I get the characterization right? I have another part in mind for this, so if you like it and you show your love, you may have more Lilia Calderu coming your way. I really hope you're all doing well. - Yours, Ripley x

ʚ♡ɞ Chores. There’s no chart. There’s no firm agreement. There’s only a silent understanding. 

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina Dimitrescu is a haughty, confident, visibly flawless creature, tall and intimidating and unmoving whenever a man walks her way, but she is not above taking care of her house. In fact, she’s eager to get rid of the trash because she hates a full bin. She’s graceful about it, and strong, carrying the hefty bags without a sweat breaking across her brow, and taking them to the bins in the garage. She’ll roll those out too. It’s actually kind of sexy. Walking down the driveway in her heels, dark curls flicking about, moved by a gentle breeze, as she has each fist clenched around the handle of two big rolling bins. White button down sleeves shoved up to the hinge of her elbows, revealing strong pale forearms, and she dusts off her hands afterward before strutting her way back inside to replace the trash bag. SOMEHOW she makes it look attractive. 

ʚ♡ɞ Larissa Weems, on the other hand, is a very neat and tidy person. She doesn’t like mess or clutter, so there’s no qualms about mopping, sweeping, scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming, etc. If she notices something is dusty, she’ll clean it right then and there. If the counter is sticky, it’s clean only a moment later. It’s just who she is—making sure everything is in order so it matches (and calms) the state of her mind, keeping her in order too. 

ʚ♡ɞ Now where do you come into the mix?

ʚ♡ɞ Well. Because you love them so much, you don’t mind doing their laundry. Of course the three of you are busy women, but your hours are a bit more flexible—you’re not in charge of an entire school of children and you don’t own a big booming business. So during the downtime, you make sure the bedsheets are clean and fresh, and the laundry is done and folded. They put it away themselves, but you leave their sections on a counter in each of their closets (individual, of course… maybe now is the time I should mention that you own a very nice house). Oh and you also get groceries quite often, usually on your way home. A list is always on the fridge and you check in with your lovely ladies first about snacks and last minute requests if you make an unplanned stop.

ʚ♡ɞ Anyway, your house is very nice. Alcina will accept nothing less. 

ʚ♡ɞ It’s not ultramodern in the slightest. I wish I could say it was like a New York Brownstone but they don’t really have those in Vermont, do they? Not near the fake town of Jericho, so there’s no apartment or expensive condo, but there is a house. And it’s one of those ones with a long driveway and a beautiful chandelier opposite a big window looking out into the front garden. It’s got a gate too. Sort of like a manor. Alcina bought it not long after you three got together—mainly because she didn’t have a home in Vermont and because she realized she actually wanted one. You were the only two people she trusted with her life at that point, and that’s when she recognized that if you wanted to continue being close, if she wanted the chance to live with and marry you, then you all needed a place to thrive together.

ʚ♡ɞ Of course that doesn’t mean the house’s style is entirely hers. Larissa’s touches and your own are seen everywhere. Larissa’s influence, at first glance, is reflected in the garden. She likes to tend to the flowers whenever she can, but Alcina hires gardeners anyway because she knows how easy it is to forget something as simple as watering a row of roses. And trust that there are roses, as well as dahlias and some tiger lilies, but the most eye-catching details are the big weeping cherry blossom tree at the front of the house and the decorative hedges. They’re full and green, inviting people up the stone path, sort of lining the outside wall of the wrap-around porch. They don’t have flowers, but they’re very well-kept. 

ʚ♡ɞ Larissa also chose a lot of the wallpaper. She loves her light colours, but indulged in darker accent walls and patterned ones too. 

ʚ♡ɞ A lot of the furniture is wood, a deep mahogany more specifically, because it’s gothic and regal and Alcina likes it that way. Larissa and her have matching desks in their studies. 

ʚ♡ɞ Let it be known that whatever piece of furniture you wanted, you got. It adds bits of you to the house, and they love to spoil you so it’s a win-win-win. 

ʚ♡ɞ Despite their willingness to do chores though, these women are still flawed. 

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina always leaves her towel on the floor. She constantly forgets to pick it up, already moving onto the next thing in the morning after discarding it. Sometimes it’s in the bathroom, sometimes in the middle of her closet or on the bedroom floor, but regardless of whether or not you scold her every time, it still ends up happening. She just doesn’t have the patience for a towel, I suppose. Though she did feel very very bad when Larissa tripped over it one night while getting up to use the bathroom—Alcina had showered an hour or so before and of course forgot. Trust and believe that she got a good scolding afterwards. 

ʚ♡ɞ “Alcina Dimitrescu!” The three of you had just turned off the lights, already on the cusp of sleep, when Larissa’s angry shout echoed from the en-suite into the bedroom. You turned over to face Alcina immediately and were met with wide grey eyes. 

“Towels don’t hang themselves, darling!” 

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina didn’t get a kiss the following day. At all. Well not until you three were getting ready for bed and poor Larissa, walking around her closet half-nude, picking out pajamas, was quite literally accosted, picked up, and carried into the bedroom. She definitely did let out a little shriek, did insist that Alcina put her down, and did let out a soft surprised whimper when she was suddenly kissed oh so soundly and deeply on the lips by her draconian lover. No one can say Alcina Dimitrescu is not persuasive, because she certainly is. 

ʚ♡ɞ All it takes is a finger underneath your chin, a soft touch along your wrist, a deep look from across the room, and you’re melting. Falling into her hands. Accepting all of the kisses she likes to place along your neck. Sometimes she ignores your mouth entirely. Despite not being a Vampire, clearly she has a thing for throats cuz you and Larissa often have to help each other wipe red lipstick from your skin. And Alcina is not apologetic in the slightest. 

“You shouldn’t be so tempting.” Is all she says, like that’s something you can control. 

ʚ♡ɞ She thinks you both look tempting all the time. Her libido is seriously off the charts, along with her stamina. Alcina is relentless if she’s not locked in and focused on her work – trust that if she’s got the time, she will go around the house looking for you before interrupting whatever it is you’re doing. And you might not have been in the mood before but when she’s suddenly standing over you, pushing your shoulder, prowling like a lioness on the bed, there’s no way in Hell you’re passing up that opportunity. She’s a complete menace. 

ʚ♡ɞ Larissa, on the other hand, respects your boundaries. Her love is softer and subtler, though no less intense. 

ʚ♡ɞ She likes to run her fingers through your hair. Texture, type, length doesn’t matter. If you’ve got hair, she’s playing with it absentmindedly while she works or reads a book. Of course this means your head has to be in her lap, which she never complains about. Especially when you fall asleep. Then she admires you freely for a little bit, like she can’t quite believe you’re there, before returning to her work.

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina and Larissa love to cook together. I understand the whole ‘too many cooks in the kitchen’ concept and how easy it is to get irritated with one another, but they work in tandem. It’s the only time Alcina allows herself to be delegated, so Larissa puts her to work. Onions? She’s got ‘em. No sweat, no tears. Making a sauce? She can do that with ease. And they clean as they go, filling in for each other whenever necessary. It’s not a stressful ordeal either—it’s actually quite romantic. You find them dancing together all the time, just getting caught up in the jazz Alcina plays until she’s singing in Larissa’s ear and making her blush. As soon as they see you, you’re instantly brought into the mix as well and you get a dance with them both, taking turns, while the other checks on the food. It’s very very sweet and movie-esque… until you start to smell something burning. 

ʚ♡ɞ Larissa’s guilty pleasure sweet is chocolate lava cake. Seriously she cannot help herself if there’s any on a dessert menu. You and Alcina have become accustomed to just ordering it anyway, even if she’s too full, because you know she’s going to crave it later and would regret not having taken it home. But a lot of the time you end up staying later because she tries to eat it at the restaurant, arguing that it tastes better when served how it should be. 

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina, on the other hand, has a unique taste for really sour candies. She loves sour strips and things like that, but also sweets like Warheads and Toxic Waste and things like that. It’s a little odd, you and Larissa pull your noses at it, but she bites into those things and eats her candies without breaking a sweat, minding her business, happily munching. Alcina doesn’t get them often though cuz they make her tummy hurt :(. 

ʚ♡ɞ They have a shared craving for key lime pie. 

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina likes to dip her fingers into whipped cream and make you lick it off. She watches your tongue greedily.

ʚ♡ɞ Larissa gives you as many bites of her dessert as you want—and very much enjoys eating from her fork in a very sultry, sexy manner while staring into your eyes. 

Now let’s get FREEAAAKKKYYY!!!!

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina loves to overstimulate you. She can take the heat. If you’re squirming, thrashing, borderline fighting for your life (but not using the safeword, so it’s all consensual), then she can most certainly hold you down all by herself if she’s got to. And she will not let up. She will follow the bucking of your hips, the movement of your body, and keep caressing you until you’re screaming for mercy. Please believe that you are not escaping her until she lets you. 

ʚ♡ɞ Larissa, on the other hand, is a sucker for orgasm denial. Don’t get me wrong, she loves to treat her lovers, to give orgasms and know that she is the source of their pleasure, but there’s also something intoxicating to her about holding your relief in the palm of her hand. She’ll look up at you with her puppy eyes and smile a sweet messy red-lipped smile as you cry and beg for her mercy. 

“Pl-please! Please Mis-tress! Pl- I can’t- I wanna-” 

“I know, I know darling… just a little longer…” with her pink tongue touching the points of her teeth, and her hands stroking the outsides of your thighs. She’s not as insatiable as your other lover, but still just as passionate (even if she hides it better). 

ʚ♡ɞ They both love the introduction of vibrators into the bedroom. It provides many many opportunities for many many interesting things. They both have a vibrating insert that attaches to their strap harnesses, something to stimulate them while they stimulate you. Or each other. 

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina’s harness is made of expensive smooth leather so it doesn’t chafe or get uncomfortable. And it is a deep wine red. Her favourite ‘toy’ attachment is a slightly inhuman sculpted 11-inch dildo, black and red. It’s sort of dragon-inspired, which is fitting. However, she doesn’t expect you to take it all, she just likes that it’s big. 

ʚ♡ɞ Interestingly enough, Alcina gifted Larissa a harness of the same material for Christmas one year. It was a slight gag gift, yet very much serious (because Alcina’s heavy gaze on the other couch could not be interpreted any other way). It’s a bit smaller, though of course still adjustable, and fits her figure very well. And instead of wine red, the body of the strap is a pale baby blue. Alcina likes to pull her around by it, tugging gently with one finger until Larissa gives into her playful beckons and follows her lead.

“Oh? And what do you want from me?” Said with a red-lipped smirk and an amused lilt. 

“Everything you’re willing to give.” Comes the smooth, husky, romantic response. 

ʚ♡ɞ They both like performing in missionary, getting the pleasure of seeing your face, having your legs around their waists, but Alcina doesn’t mind changing positions so Larissa can get as much satisfaction as possible. And Larissa’s most likely to take you against a bed, or at the very least a countertop, but Alcina has an odd preference for floors and walls. She likes it a little rougher, a little more depraved. But she’ll take care of your aches and pains afterward, believe me.

ʚ♡ɞ They’re extremely well-versed in aftercare. Alcina introduced you both to the nature of it, so now you each understand how the other likes to relax/come down from the high of your scenes. 

ʚ♡ɞ Larissa likes a scalding bath, Alcina likes a smooth coffee, and you enjoy attention and soft cuddles… so naturally you all sit in the huge bathtub in your ensuite and sip sweet coffee while lounging on one of their laps. Sometimes there’s music in the background, sometimes it’s just the trickle of water as Alcina spills hot water from a jug over Larissa’s back, soothing her bruises and bites. Sometimes you sit on your own, lounging and recovering, and sometimes, most times, you’re leaning against one of their sides, kissing their shoulders, while they play with your hair or hold a gentle hand around your waist. 

ʚ♡ɞ They let you indulge all the time. You like running your hands over their backs, their soft skin, feeling the shift of their shoulderblades, and they never ever shrug you off. Alcina is more muscular, broader, and her skin is a delightful shade of grey while Larissa is exceptionally pale with beauty marks along her back and freckles sprinkling her shoulders. You trace them all, kiss them all, draw little words and hearts on their backs while they soak in the bath water. It’s very dreamy. And Larissa is ticklish, so she shudders when you get to her lower back and start tracing along her sides, letting out a surprised squeak when Alcina hugs her from the front, shoves their wet bodies together, and starts tickling her neck too. She’s shrieking and laughing in no time, only making you and your other lover smile and giggle until she’s tapping out and pressing her forehead to Alcina’s collarbone, huffing and puffing and blushing. 

ʚ♡ɞ Larissa wears a pair of silk pajamas. They’re a little long on her, but that’s the way she likes it, and they come in different colours. Alcina’s personal favourite is the light pink set. And Alcina herself wears a lacy black nightie with a hem that ends around the middle of her thigh. Quite form-fitting, very flustering, especially when she walks and swings her hips as she gets ready for bed. You and Larissa can’t help following her with your eyes. Though to be fair, a lot of the time you’re stuck looking at them both, gaze bouncing around greedily as you curl up under the covers and wait for them to join you. They’re just too sexy to ignore… must… look… at the beautiful women…

ʚ♡ɞ Anyway, you propose first.

୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧

Love them so much. - Rip x

“Needy.”

You startled, looking up with wide eyes.

Larissa’s gaze was unexpectedly intense. Dark. Staring into your soul with a depth and weight you couldn’t decipher. The sight of it had you freezing in your spot, blushing as she stared at you unblinkingly. There were cogs turning in the older woman’s head. You wondered about her thoughts before you nodded, feeling the embarrassed heat of your cheeks start to turn into a blaze. Needy… she had called you needy. She looked you in the eye and called you needy. The feeling of the duvet curling around your fingers, pushing into your sweating palms, had you pulling your mind out of the gutter with gusto. The object of your affections (and daydreams) was right in front of you. Fantasizing was off the table. Many things were off the table. Including yourself… which could be on the table if there were a table nearby and Larissa had the nerve to bend you over i-

“Apologies, it was- just the first word that came to mind. Please, continue,” she said suddenly, looking sheepish about her outburst.

You observed her for a moment longer, noting the straight posture and the fidgeting hands and the dark blush on porcelain cheeks. She just wanted to help, you reminded yourself. She just… wanted… to help. So you looked away, unclenched your hands from your duvet, and nodded.

“Right- yeah- that. I get um… that- easily. And it’s- it’s really hard. It gets to a point where it hurts. A lot. And then at that point it’s just- all sense is… gone. Disappeared. I sort of fall into this- this haze… where I feel the um- the need to like get rid of the- the feelings really badly. The… desire.”

Oh. Oh it was… it felt like heaven to finally get it all off of your chest. Like the weight of your situation, the strength of the lust that overtook you, shameful and devious in its nature, was lugged off of your shoulders and thrown onto your bedroom floor. You’d been hiding it for nearly four weeks, knowing it would only get worse. The desire would overtake you at some point, you were certain. And then- well then you weren’t sure what you’d do. Die, maybe? Or pass out? Goodness, how terrible would that be? If you fainted and couldn’t wake up without the assistance of another? Surely, someone would find you eventually, no? Larissa would make sure of it - even if she had to show up herself. Maybe. Probably. The very thought of that had you letting out a sigh; one of mixed relief and exhaustion.

“So,” your boss started gently as she rounded the bed and headed toward the windows. Her pace was slow. “You… get flare-ups, so to speak… and have to ‘cure’ them… by uh- well- let’s say ‘taking care of it’? Am I correct?” You were a bit confused as to why Larissa’s voice sounded so strained- and why she was facing the window and not you- but you eventually decided it was most likely a way of giving you privacy. Rather sweet of her, honestly. It made you feel better as you looked at the bedroom door and nodded.

“Yeah it gets pretty intense. Like.. umm..”

“Painful?”

You hummed out a ‘yes’, figuring that was a good word.

“Excruciating?”

You hummed again.

“Just……. agonizing?” Larissa sounded breathless.

You turned, too focused on the tall figure by the window to notice the way the straps of your nightie slipped down the curves of your shoulders. Larissa looked tense, but you could see the way her body moved with breath - as though she were breathing heavier than normal, but you couldn’t hear anything. In fact, the world was quiet. Weirdly quiet. Like the lingering notes of nothing before it exploded into everything. Or the calm before the storm, as some liked to coin it. You weren’t sure what had changed exactly, but you knew something did. The tone of Larissa’s words… her desire to help, practically shining out of her eyes… did she- no. No, there was no way. You blinked, squinting in the dim light of your bedroom as if that would help you peer into Larissa’s thoughts.

…Just what was going on in that head of hers?

—

Larissa Weems knew exactly what was happening.

She knew exactly what was happening and she knew exactly how to help. Or- how to aid you in what you needed.

What you craved.

Oh you poor thing… her poor thing…

Trembling with restrained lust, nearly bursting at the seams with it. Trying oh so hard to act ‘normal’; to keep up appearances and mask the desire simmering- bubbling- beneath the surface. Waiting for it to boil over. Nervous for the moment in which it would.

Larissa had clocked you even before you opened the door. Her senses were sharp. Her veins swam with blood that sang for you; that smelled your… predicament… and wanted to relieve it. Wanted to get rid of it. Wanted to satiate it.

Wanted to make it all her own. Grasp the situation with both hands. Push you down and take you until your begging ceased and fell into mindless whimpers. Until you couldn’t stand being awake anymore and fell asleep in her lap, plush thighs framing her own, warming her throbbing co-

“Are you… okay? Larissa?” Your sweet little tone rang out, hesitant and questioning. It made blue eyes turn from the window, seeking out the slightly worried expression on your pretty face.

She swallowed as discreetly as she could and worked to unclench her hands from the fists they found themselves balled into. Clearly things were affecting her far more than she realized. It wasn’t really her fault though. No, it wasn’t her fault you smelled… so… so good. Larissa took a deep breath, utilizing it as a sigh when all she wanted was to push her head into the slope of your neck and breathe you in, swallowing your scent like a woman that had gone without water for a week. And it wasn’t her fault, likewise, that you were so… lovely. So beautiful. So perfect opening the door like that, trying to hide the way you were dying inside with desire. If she were a bolder soul that lived without shame, Larissa surely would have stepped up and walked into your room, slammed the door behind her with a click of the lock, and pulled you into the most passionate kiss you’d have ever felt. Oh yes, she would have given into her own instincts and taken control with vigor. She would have slipped her fingers beneath the lacey straps of that nightgown and pulled them further down your arms - slowly, teasingly, just to fuck with you and see how desperate you’d get if she took her time. And her nails, trimmed and painted a deep red, would caress so mindlessly - up and down and around in circles that would lapse over each other so many times they would become uncountable…

But she wasn’t that bold. And she cared far too much about your feelings to act so recklessly. So instead of listening to the hum of warmth that tugged at her soul, Larissa kept her head and clasped her hands politely at her waist.

“Yes, of course. I’m merely- trying to understand,” and she smiled as gently as she could, preening secretly beneath your undivided attention.

—

You hummed, looking your boss up and down once more. There was something up… but it wasn’t your place to ask. If she wanted to leave, she knew very well that she could. If she was uncomfortable, she’d just have to say so and the conversation would end. So whatever was going on… it was not for you to know just yet.

“Okay.” It was a simple response but you mirrored her smile to signal that everything was alright. The topic was strange… the last thing you wanted to do was put her in an uncomfortable position.

Larissa didn’t seem to mind too much though as she stepped away from the window and turned to sit in one of the armchairs in the room’s alcove, working to make herself comfortable. You observed like a captivated audience at the opera, unable to take your eyes off of every move she made. The measured steps of her stockinged feet… the steady sway of her hips and canter of her legs and the almost lazy way her arms fell to her sides… you felt your lust rise again, laughing maniacally from somewhere inside you as it spread from the depths of your abdomen up to your heart. There was an ascending pinkness to your cheeks and heat to your body that you sincerely hoped Larissa couldn’t see.

If she did, she didn’t comment on it and instead gestured with a flippant hand wave for you to continue. Her posture was finally relaxed, you were happy to see. Reclined, one leg crossed over the other, pulling her skirt tight while she pressed her elbow to the arm of the chair and rested her cheek on the hills of her knuckles. If she stayed just like that, contoured beautifully by the dim light of the room as the sun waved her last goodbyes, you were sure even the most esteemed artists would pay good money to catch even a glimpse of the Larissa Weems. Beautiful woman and shapeshifter extraordinaire, looking natural and calm in her willingness to help. God she was stunning…

“Um- yeah I think that may really just be it. The pain gets really bad and I just kind of- need to get rid of it at that moment otherwise I… freak out? I guess? The flare-ups are the worst part though,” you frowned, knowing that the eventual next wave would be worse than the last.

Larissa replied with a hum, looking thoughtful for a moment as her eyes- blazing and dark- traced over your form. You weren’t exactly the prettiest picture, you knew. Hunched over as you were on the edge of the bed, playing with the lace hem of your nightgown and anxiously bouncing your right foot off of the floor without much thought. From her perspective, you probably looked like a strange sick mess. Out of your mind with desire - itching to get rid of the buzz your body felt 24/7.

“...Are you aware of what usually happens during heats?” She paused. “Besides the- lust, of course.”

You nodded. “Um yeah, I think so. Usually, I mean for wolves I know there’s an alpha and omega and they do that whole thing. With the mating and the nests. And then the um- like um- the- the b- b-,” ugh god how embarrassing that you couldn’t even say it- “the br- bree-”

“Breeding?”

Your hands flopped down to the bedspread, fisting into the fabric without thought as a whimper- keening and loud and pathetic- threatened to fall off of your tongue. Your throat bobbed with the willpower it took to swallow the sound.

Breeding, she had said. Breeding. Breeding, breeding, breeding… Bearing children for one’s partner… giving up the body to accept the sacred fruits… oh it- it sounded- it sounded delicious rolling past Larissa’s lips. Breeding… oh just the concept-!

‘Yes…,’ your soul called, ‘meant for it. To breed. To be bred. To take. To take and take and take and take and take. To be good. Take her seed- her children- warm her. All for her. Every part. Meant for Larissa. All Larissa’s. Larissa’s. Meant to be hers. All hers.’

You could feel yourself trembling. Keeping the noises in, locked away, and the heat down, resistant in its simmer, was becoming too much. You swallowed, only to feel that your throat was dry. You sniffed, only to find yourself sniffling instead, trying to calm the sudden pound of your heart. It was in your ears. Your neck. The aching heaven between your legs.

“Oh Y/n, I’m sorry,” you dragged your eyes up to look at Larissa. Her expression was full of remorse. “I didn’t mean to trigger anything.”

You shook your head immediately, working through the grasp of your libido as you could feel it pull at you. None of it was Larissa’s fault. She didn’t know. She didn’t have to apologize. And when you tried telling her that, allowing your quivering lips to part so you could explain, the only sound that came out, rising from the back of your throat, was a sharp whine. It sounded like an instrument note for just a second before you abruptly closed your mouth and swiftly brought your hands up to your face, shielding yourself from embarrassment. If you were in better control of yourself, you would’ve apologized immediately, but the best you could do was shake your head and try to regulate your breathing. In and out… in and out… slowly but surely…

Larissa waited with patience as you collected yourself. She was silent, observant… tense. You couldn’t see the way she leaned forward in her seat, lips parted, heart throbbing within her own chest, mind running wild with thoughts that surrounded you and only you.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing out of your mouth when you finally managed to come back down to Earth. It was murmured on repeat, without thought. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-”

The whispers in your psyche were fading but they still threaded themselves through your body, making your blood hum with ardor, signaling that ‘the next wave’ was going to come about soon and you had limited time to prepare. Not that there was much to do from a preparation standpoint. Throwing the nightie off of your body and laying back on the bed was easy. Cracking your knuckles, taking deep breaths, and waiting was a little harder. Like the anticipation that grew within your body, waiting for the switch to click from off to on, would kill you if it didn’t happen soon enough. And maybe it would. Maybe that was something you had to ask Larissa. Yes. Definitely.

So with as much sense as you could muster, you stopped your apologetic rambling and said into your hands, “Will- will this kill me, Larissa?” You preferred not to think about the pathetic crack in your voice. “Cuz it f-fee-feels like it will….”

That was no exaggeration. It did feel terrible. It did feel fatal.

“Oh… darling, no,” came your savior’s soft voice as she stood up from her spot and crouched before you, placing one cool clammy palm on your bare knee. “You’re not going to die, Y/n… You’ll be alright.” And her coo made you shiver as her thumb, most definitely without realizing, drove you to the brink of madness with its slow circles over your sensitive skin.

It was strange, the reaction you had then. As soon as Larissa touched you, as soon as her long fingers clasped your knee gently and caressed the softness found, the whispers went away. Blinked out of existence. Threw themselves into the ether. Your heart still pumped wildly, remnants of what happened, but there was no more anxiety. No more harm. It was as though your soul had just decided to… settle. Nearly unnaturally. Nearly… impossibly. You felt the graze of your eyelashes along your fingers as you blinked and breathed into your palms. Slowly, the burn in your lungs went away. Slowly, the fierceness of your libido was tamed. Laid to an easily awoken rest.

“Y/n, darling…” Larissa’s voice made you sigh in relief. It felt like cool water being poured down the rivets of your spine. “...look at me.”

And she sounded so sweet… so careful… so aware of your predicament… that you couldn’t help but obey. Like a bitch with her master.

You moved your fingers and peered through the spaces between them, not at all surprised to see the concerned line between your boss’s eyebrows. Oh she looked so beautiful even like that… looking at you with a small pout on her face, like she really did feel bad about your situation. Though when your eyes met, the expression melted into something that nearly had you closing your fingers and covering the entirety of your face again. The corners of her lips drew up and her eyes started sparkling and the lines of her face deepened with warmth, happy to see you listening to her and being so good- being so… so….

“There we go,” Larissa cooed, “Hello~” And then she grinned, silly and amused, looking hopeful in her endeavors to calm you down just with her closeness alone.

It worked, thank goodness, and you found yourself rolling your eyes begrudgingly and smiling behind your hands. At least she didn’t think your reaction was embarrassing. At least she understood.

“Thanks,” was all you could think to say as you took your hands away from your face and sniffed. Larissa wasn’t going to judge you, you finally realized. She was just going to roll with the punches - and hopefully help. Her comfort alone was already doing a whole lot. And the nod she gave you, paired with the kind smile on her glorious face, had you relaxing even more. Just another reminder that it would be okay. Only a few more days. It would be fine. Everything would be fine.

“Are you alright now?”

“Yeah- yeah I think I’m okay. It just- blegh,” you gestured to your head and sighed.

Larissa chuckled very softly beneath her breath before she tilted her head, blue eyes shining with eternal mirth.

“Blegh?”

You nodded, confident in your words and rosy with humor. “Blegh. Yeah.”

“Well alright then…,” she supposed as she shrugged and stood up, put her hands on her hips, and bent her back to straighten it with a firm groan. “Gods, these old bones…”

That little comment had you giggling as you admired her from your place, tempted to swing your feet as you looked on with appreciation. So beautiful in her casualness… so stunning in her calm demeanor…

“Old bones?” Came your soft exclamation, “You’re not old at all! You’re just- um-...”

Larissa paused while you searched for the proper word, putting an end to her stretching so she could look at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Just…?”

A hint of challenge crawled around behind her gaze. It made your hands return to the bedspread, grasping onto the duvet for discreet support. The way she was- she was looking down at you- so tall… so strong… so aware of your little vocal slip-up. Your position wasn’t really helping either… when you removed your focus, trying to look anywhere but at her face with its shifting expression and domineering sort of arrogance, you found yourself at eye level with Larissa’s waist. And her hips. And that soft portion of stomach that one could see through a pencil skirt, with the way it pushed gently against the fabric, all womanly curves and respected existence. Protecting one of the most precious things about her… protecting the sweetness of her womb… the promise of life…

Usually, you wouldn’t focus so much on having children. But evidently, a woman’s heat had no qualms about outwardly desiring a baby. Or two. Or three. As many as it would take to have the emptiness of one's womb filled up entirely. And yours begged for it.

Oh if only… if only Larissa had a cock. The things she could do with it… the pleasure… it had you biting your lip as you stared off into space.

Then a cool hand was placed on your forehead and suddenly you were blinking, looking up at your boss with confusion.

“Um-”

“Hmm,” she cut you off, “no fever.” And then the hand was taken away.

You scoffed, swatting her out of your personal space (mainly for your sanity).

“Yeah duh- I’m not sick,” you spat playfully. “And you’re not old, your skeleton is just- I dunno- speaking to you,” you shrugged, spouting out whatever damned thing came to mind just to distract Larissa and keep her attention from getting stuck on your behavior.

And it seemed to work as she stared down at you, blinked, and then let out a confused little laugh. It was tinged with hilarity - like she was finally unwinding after a long day and could allow herself to break through whatever seams she was stuck in. Principal Weems, you noticed, had become Larissa- in every beautiful and silly way. It was heartwarming to see her place a hand on her chest as she laughed. You wished you could take it into your palms and kiss it. Over and over until she grasped your chin and shoved two fingers into your mou-

“Speaking to me! Ugh- goodness, honestly where do you come up with the things you say?” She giggled as she shook her head.

Your only reply to that was to smile a little wobbly smile, trying with all of your might not to remove your eyes from her beautiful face. One look down and you knew you’d descend into madness again. Your mind would run away from you. Your heart wouldn’t want to chase after it. And your libido would rise from its slumber, grumpy and angry and raw as it faced the tantalizing curve of Larissa’s lower belly. Just the thought of it had you sighing wistfully and looking away, pulling your attention to the windows behind you.

“It’s getting late,” was your quiet observation as you noticed how the sun was nearly gone, only leaving the very last lingerings of her golden rays.

“Ah. So it is,” Larissa agreed, her voice taking on a quiet hush as night fell like a stage’s red curtain.

And with the red curtain came the momentary silence before the audience erupted into cheers.

But there, in the dark of your Nevermore quarters, with the door locked and the rain picking up outside, you figured there would be no applause. And no cheering. And no congratulations and smiling faces afterwards. No, it would just be the quiet of your shared breathing and the steady pound of your heart that you could hear ringing in your ears. The moment felt like a strange reset. Or a lull, perhaps. Not so tense but not so relaxed. You felt your body teetering on the edge of desire. Instead of nipping at you, tugging at your heart and lungs with sharp claws, the symptoms of your heat rose like a wave. Impending. Inescapable. Just waiting to take you under and drown you. Just sitting there, on standby, smiling something evil as its dark ministrations plucked at your nerves. The muscles in your thighs twitched, wanting to move, wanting to push you into motion and make you rock back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Eager to quench the thirst your instincts craved. Eager to have you writhing around on the bed, grinding against anything you could find.

“Larissa,” your voice fell into a gasp, “you- you have to go. I- I- can’t do this.” It was time. It was time and she had to leave immediately before things became worse.

“Another flare-up?” She questioned gently, worry in her voice.

You nodded and turned to look at her. ‘You gotta go’ was on the tip of your tongue. ‘Unless you wanna stay for this next part you have to g…o…’ but the words died. Perished. Disintegrated as you came to find that she had gotten closer. Much closer. So close you could smell her perfume - gardenia and jasmine. It filled your lungs and made you dizzy; made you grasp onto the hem of her skirt, thumbing the fabric and tugging on it gently - like a lifeline; made you swallow and crane your head, nearly whimpering as you felt your chin graze the plushness of her abdomen. A whimper pushed at your lips, eager to fall into the silence, eager to seal your fate as you stumbled into a gaze of pure deep blazing blue. Dark with passion and desire and something else. Dark with… with… with need? You swallowed.

No. No no no. She wasn’t- she couldn’t be- she- well- you felt your heart stop. Was Larissa….?

“You’re going to be okay,” her voice interrupted, soft and kind as two palms, beautiful and desirable and heavenly, cradled your head. You felt her fingers card through your hair, tender and light.

If you were in a different situation, you were sure you would’ve sunken into the feeling and embraced Larissa’s closeness - but you were rooted in the moment and very much aware of the fact that her expression had changed. She was suddenly very serious, looking down at you with hesitation. Like a push and pull was happening inside of her. You didn’t even realize you had moved your hands from her skirt until they were framing her palms, running over her knuckles, silently telling her that she could speak. That she could be honest. That whatever was spoken about in that room would stay in that room. You were to be trusted. You were different.

And so the cord snapped - and Larissa began speaking.

“Y/n…” she started, voice shaking with breath, “…I need you to listen very closely.” You nodded, your thinking thrown to the wind; hanging onto her every word. When she paused, looked between your eyes, and saw your sincerity, she continued. “I may have an idea as to what’s causing this… but you have to stay with me while I explain. I understand it’s difficult, but you’re strong. Can you do that? For me?” And her blue eyes widened, fixing you with a stern look and a demand.

Yes. Yes yes yesyesyesyes all for you for you for you Larissa yes yes yes. You nodded again, immediately, without a second to lose, and croaked out a gravelly “Yes. Of course.”

Her explanation would be important. Her knowledge would be valuable. Even though your body was quickly warming up, becoming acquainted again with the desire to fuck, you grasped your mind and held it tight. The fingers in your hair were distracting. The closeness of her warm body was distracting. The smell of her perfume was distracting. The little relieved smile on her face was distracting.

But… if you got to see that smile again at the end of her spiel, as sweet and soothing as it was, then holding on until the last second would have been worth it. So you worked against your instincts and sat tight, giving all of your attention to Larissa.

—

Y/n was making it very hard for her to focus.

Very very hard.

So hard that she could barely keep herself in check.

Her pupils were blown, she knew. And her hands were shaking. And her cheeks and chest were flushed and her throat was dry and she really couldn’t help the way she ran her tongue over her lips as she looked down at the sweet thing beneath her.

You were very cute, not even realizing the extent of your own desire. How it showed on the outside. How the clench of your thighs was quick and rushed and desperate. How the bob of your throat and quiver of your lips signaled that you were holding back pretty sounds. How the tendons in your hands flexed when you twisted the duvet into your palms, poorly concealing your slipping self control. It was arousing.

And distressing.

Larissa remembered the first time she had gone through the cycle. She was capable of falling into a heat and a rut considering her genetic makeup. Born a female at birth with the ability to change that if she so wished; at a base level, that made for an interesting time with intimate partners. But on a level more carnal, more animalistic, it was something else. Something entirely different. Something… she didn’t often like to show. It wasn’t everyday that she stumbled upon people who experienced similar things anyway. Werewolves were fascinating creatures and those that could shift into animals had interesting abilities, but Larissa had yet to meet a person who satiated that side of her.

Who… gave themselves up to her. Submitted. And allowed themselves to be owned.

Others often took one look at the headmistress and saw a challenge. But you… oh you… you saw a dream. You saw all of your wishes coming true. And as Larissa watched the depraved little fantasies play out within that brilliant mind of yours, she was brought back to the painful glory of mating season. And just how delicious it was to feel the burn between her thighs and the ache within her core. And just how nice it was to relish in her own touch and embrace her own desire. And just how precious it was to drive her partners mad. Crazy. Insane with lust. Bonkers with ardor. To run them into the ground with need and push them off the precipice of the most wonderful climaxes. It was nearly addicting. It flashed through her mind during the times she wasn’t drowning in her heat. It flashed through her mind in that exact moment.

While looking down at you. While collecting her thoughts. While trying to explain.

Larissa inhaled a shuddery breath and averted her eyes from the tantalizing beautiful twinkle in your gaze. The dark ceiling, she found, was much less distracting. It gave her enough reprieve to begin speaking, allowing her fingers to play with your hair mindlessly as she picked through her words.

—

“Last year, over the summer, I returned to the United Kingdom to visit my brother.” Blue eyes glanced down at you before darting away again. “We stayed in Norfolk, deciding that we both needed a break from Worthing. That’s in West Sussex, it’s-”

“I know,” you interrupted softly, giving her a small smile once she looked down. You’d also gone to Norfolk over the summer. It was just for a week- a vacation of sorts- to get away from the drone of everyday living. It was crazy that you’d both gone during the same summer, but there was no way you’d been visiting at the same time. Right? You were sure you would’ve noticed her. You were sure you would’ve taken the chance to say hi.

After a delayed nod, Larissa continued. “Of course. Well, it was a nice trip for what it’s worth. It was good to see him again. But…” she swallowed, raising her eyebrows, “toward the end of my stay, something happened. Neighbors were complaining about bad water. The taste had changed, the color too. And when authorities found out what it was…” Larissa trailed off, getting lost in thought for just a moment. You watched with interest as the cogs turned in her head - and then blinked when she finally cleared her throat and continued. “..well. Turns out a werewolf died in one of the lakes. It happened near one of the smaller intake structures, the ones that take clean water and make it consumable. By the time authorities found out, it was too late.” She sighed, her chest heaving with breath.

You frowned. The water… that definitely rang a bell. It had been a strange thing at the time; the water tasted vaguely of metal and it sort of burned the back of your throat, prompting you to switch to plastic water bottles. You’d only had a few cups at most before making the change, but still. You’d still… you still had… some. Your eyebrows scrunched together in mixed confusion and surprise as you stared up at Larissa. Before she opened her mouth, you knew what she was going to say.

“I’d already had some of the water…” she paused, taking that moment to massage your head and tilt it back the slightest bit; fingers framing the space beneath your ears and the apples of your cheeks. Her expression was warm. Apologetic. “...And I know you did too.”

—

Larissa let out a little sigh when she saw your face fall. Part of her wanted to strengthen her hold and keep you in place when you began moving away, but she controlled herself and let you go; watching with eyes of pity as you reared away from her hands and put your feet firmly on the floor. When you got up, she took a few paces to the left and went to turn on the lamp on your bedside table - to distract herself and give you space.

“...A Himalayan salt lamp?” Larissa couldn’t help but question once she saw it, letting out a sweet little chuckle as she trailed one finger down the side of the pink-tinged crystal.

She was amused by the sight of it… and quite delighted when the beautiful golden glow lit up a small portion of the room. It was very adorable. It was very ‘you’.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah,” she heard you say distractedly with the slightest bit of hesitation - as if you were nervous that she was judging you. She wasn’t, of course. She’d never.

And to prove that, Larissa turned to you, a soft look in her eye as she watched you think over her words.

—

It was a lot to take in, but you knew it was coming. There had to be a reason for all of your strife - it couldn’t have just happened. And there it was. A bit strange but apparently true. You drank werewolf’s blood. Without realizing it. That was that. Done and done.

Well - not entirely. You had one question.

“How did you know I had it too?”

Your gazes met. Larissa’s eyebrows raised as she let out a breath.

“Well I… saw you. It was an odd coincidence, at first I thought I was hallucinating,” she let out a little amused scoff, “but no. There you were. Drinking a glass of water at an inn.” The look she gave you then was pointed- as if to say ‘My story is true and I was correct in my assumptions.’

But you knew she was right. You remembered that glass of water - and you remembered cringing at the odd taste. At the time, you finished it because you were parched, but after that you switched to the water bottles. And Larissa had seen you drinking, there at the same time, entirely unaware of the overall predicament and how it would affect you b- oh.

Oh.

Your eyes widened, body tensing with surprise once your mind caught up and everything clicked into place. Larissa’s flushed skin… her odd breathing… her dilated pupils and enraptured, concerned, knowing expression… You looked away from her so quickly you thought your head was going to snap off of your neck.

Larissa… Larissa was in heat. Or- or rut?

Oh god Larissa was in rut-!

“I was unsure of how to tell you earlier… if you are uncomfortable now, just tell me and I’ll g-”

“No. No no no no no,” you whispered, harsh and quick. “I want you, Larissa.” You were facing the wall, unable to look her in the eye as you spoke and cut her off as softly and kindly as you could. “I want- I-” your eyelids fluttered until you closed them and pressed your lips together, letting out a sigh as one of your hands went up to rest against your forehead. It was so hard to say- so hard to admit- but it was obvious what had to happen. It was obvious what you wanted to happen. “I want you… but only- only- if you want me too.” Your words hid the plea you yearned to share. Please. Please want me back. Please want me too. Please do this with me. Please be mine.

And as if stirred by your words, by your realization, your body came alive; thrumming with many strong lightning bolts of want. Of pure want and desire and ardor and admiration and lust. Your mind was running in circles, jumping from one fantasy to another.

Larissa on top of you. You on top of Larissa. Hips bucking and lips grazing and little moans- little muffled whimpers- leaving each of you and ringing like songs. Pretty beautiful songs that left your thighs shaking and fingers twitching and body humming for her. All for her. All for Larissa and her white teeth and red nails and red lips and pink cheeks and oh god- Larissa’s hands on your hips, Larissa moving your body back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, again and again and again against her. Pressing and writhing and coming undone beneath her touch. Bouncing on her lap, her soft velvety thighs; pulling her closer to your face, mouth open and wanting; seeing your legs out of the corners of your eyes as she pushed them up and back, pressed to your chest, so she could sink deeper and deeper and deeper into you-

“Y/n,” the object of your affections softly called from behind you, voice heavy with mixed concern and uncertainty.

An anxious sigh escaped your pursed lips. Of course - you shouldn’t have said anything. Of course - she didn’t want you. Of course - she thought it was odd. As your boss, god as your boss!, she definitely thought you were mad, didn’t she? Yes, terribly mad and terribly horny and just out of your goddamn mind with lust - to the point where you didn’t realize (until it was too late) that you were propositioning your own boss!

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” you began shaking your head, moving your hand down to cover your mouth with a sigh. The heat coiling within your abdomen wasn’t helping in the least; it only served to haunt you as you figured out how best to escort Larissa out of the room without jumping her bones.

She was in- in rut, for gods’ sakes! She was in rut and she was- oh just the thought- of her at night… hand between her thighs… moaning into the pillow… wrapping around her length or sinking into her heaven and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting… You swallowed hard to hold back a sudden moan and blinked rapidly, grasping onto your dwindling sanity and trying to dispel the wandering thoughts. Your heart was a rock concert in your ears. Sweat gathered along your spine.

It seemed, for once and for all, after teetering on the edge of desire for so long! - it seemed that it was finally time. So you spoke quickly and swallowed your embarrassment, shame, and lust for just a moment more. You’d deal with repercussions later - after getting Larissa the hell away from your bedroom.

“I’m sorry I even suggested that. If you don’t want this, just- just go. For your sake and mine I can’t- I can’t- be around you right now.” It was unnatural hearing yourself so panicked and serious, but it was necessary. The situation had become dire. If she thought you were rude, you’d handle that later too.

The sound of stockinged feet padding up behind you had you tensing. Your body felt stiff already. Tired. Hungry. Like you’d spent your entire life in heat and this quick reprieve left you sore and exhausted. The feeling would be gone in a few moments you knew. Soon enough, the pleasurable warmth in your womb, kind and gentle at that moment, would blow up and start screaming and scratching at you - and then you’d have no choice but to turn around and shove Larissa out of the room. But even when you were about to turn, to gently take her hand and lead her away and insist that staying wasn’t worth it and that she could probably find someone else to help her through her rut - someone better, more equipped - you were stopped. By hands. Two elegant feminine hands that gripped your biceps and kept you in place, facing the wall, body rigid and breath dipping into the shallows. Her hold wasn’t tight, but it was enough. It was enough. You felt your legs quiver.

“Y/n,” she spoke slowly, her tone a deep velvety whisper, “I do want this.” Her hands squeezed gently. “But I need to know,” and she stepped forward until your back was pressed to her front, resting against her, soaking in her warmth, “that you’re not just saying it.”

“I’m n-”

“Shush.”

You shushed.

“I know. I know you think you want this, but Y/n heats are… intense, for lack of a better word. They make you say yes to things you may not usually agree to. They make you-” Larissa inhaled sharply before she let out a bone-shaking sigh. The clammy press of her forehead against the top of your head had you blushing. “-they make you regret. And I don’t want you regretting something… I know I will cherish,” she finished in a whisper.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until you gasped for air, chest heaving with relief. The scent of her- of your boss- elegant and mischievous and everything everything everything- blanketed your lungs like a cold woman’s duvet at night. It was intoxicating. Liberating. The scent of… of-... of your mate?

“I won’t.” You spoke suddenly- sharply- desperate to make her see that you’ve always wanted her and you were sure you always would. “Even if I wasn’t in heat, even if this- this wasn’t happening… I’d still want you Larissa. I’d still say yes, if you asked.” And though you felt the need to hang your head in some strange mix of shame and embarrassment, you didn’t want to displace her resting - so you stayed still. Eyes facing the wall, peering at the wallpaper for all it was worth, allowing yourself to revel in the closeness of her. Finally finally finally - the missing puzzle piece your body longed for. The hymn it yearned to recite and sing and cry.

“You will be the death of me,” Larissa whispered sweetly, quickly, like a prayer, before you were being turned around and pushed.

Your back hit the wall with a thud. Your gaze melted into hers. She looked between your eyes- hurried and desperate. You’d never seen Larissa so close to the edge before. Her chest was rising and falling unsteadily, shakily, and there was a wildness to her expression that felt so terribly deliciously exciting. Her lips were parted, her cheeks were very flushed, her eyelids were fluttering. The only word you could think of to describe Larissa, as you gazed at her and felt yourself melt, was the word need.

“I need you.” It was true. It was perhaps the most truthful thing you’d ever said in your life. You wanted her, yes - but if you had to survive the night, since you finally had her in front of you, then you needed her. Her and her warmth and touch and body and all of the pleasure she could give and give and give.

“I know,” she whispered, leaning closer, pressing your chests together, forcing your gaze up through your lashes. You could feel her through the fabric of her dress and your nightie. The hardened peaks of her nipples, the soft flesh of her body- her midsection- the tops of her thighs. Her head was bowed, her nose nearly grazing your own, her shoulders caging you in. Larissa was staring at you; dark blue depths invading your senses, asking you only one last question and insisting that you answer it. She took a shuddering breath; you watched, enraptured, as her lips moved. “Are you certain? Are you- are you absolutely certain?”

You were. Absolutely.

But you knew that if you said no, if you changed your mind and didn’t want it anymore, she would step back immediately. She would step back and she would nod and she would understand and she would politely excuse herself - hunger and desire be damned. She’d leave you be and probably never mention it again. She’d bid you goodbye with a sweet smile and leave you to your own devices. She would never hurt you. She would never cross that threshold. She would never destroy that line. If you reconsidered, Larissa would understand. No matter what.

“Yes. I’m certain.”

And that’s why you couldn’t let her go.

“I’ve never been so certain in my life.”

You craved her.

Larissa’s eyes darted down to your mouth as you spoke. Lust curled like mist within her eyes. It reached for you. Called for you. It whispered your name and beckoned you closer.

So close… until your lips were pressing against each other, into each other, heads turning and mouths melting. Drowning in bursts of warmth. Interlocking finally. Both of you groaned, filthy and deep and full of breath, chests rumbling with satisfaction as the beasts within roared excitedly. Distantly, you felt clawed hands grab at your waist, wrapping around the thick of your hips, eager to be close. Eager to hold. Eager to own. God her lips were so soft. And full. And talented. Wicked. Devilish. They parted, teased, kept you slow and eager as your hands fumbled for purchase somewhere on Larissa’s body. Eventually, they ran up to her shoulders before draping over her neck and playing with the little baby hairs at the base of her updo. It would be ruined by morning. You couldn’t wait to be the culprit.

Larissa pulled back to glance at you, admiring as though you were the stars. “Open your mouth.”

The part of you that burned for her nearly collapsed, entirely too pleased by the demand to give you any pause as your lips fell open instantly. Then you leaned back in, both of you meeting halfway, acting as one until her tongue licked at your lower lip and dipped into your open mouth, curling in and dancing with your own tongue. The sensation had you whining, heart squeezing with pleasure, throat humming with sound. Larissa’s lips twitched into a smirk, smug and proud as she kissed you breathless. As she ran her hands along your sides. As she bent her knees and tucked her palms beneath your thighs, quick and smooth, before standing tall again. Taking you with her. Lifting you like Hades with his bride. Never letting your mouth leave her warmth for even a second as her muscles flexed beneath her shirt. And whatever surprised little sound you let out was quickly muffled- rectified- by a low moan from your lover’s lungs. Oh, she sounded so beautiful. So happy. So satisfied. And enraptured. And starved. Not even a tremble wracked her body as she leaned forward and kept you pinned to the wall. Pinned and spread. Your legs pressed against her curves, your thighs squeezed her waist, not letting her go even though you knew she didn’t want to be anywhere else. Even though the way your body fit against hers was something no god could ever experience. It was too good. It felt too right.

And you kissed until your lips tingled, pink and swollen and just as gorgeous as Larissa’s - both of you smeared with the red of her lipstick. The taste of her mouth, red-wined and human, lathered your tongue, making you swallow as you tried committing her to memory. But even as you leaned your head back against the wall, catching your breath, trying to relish in the feeling, Larissa continued her attack and struck gold.

Wanting lips trailed from the side of your mouth to your chin, soft and slow, running down down down until they grazed the sensitive skin of your neck and had your mouth opening with a gasp. She was ravenous but restrained, moving like a hungry snake to strike at your flesh and kiss kiss kiss her way to heaven. The little wet sounds her mouth made had your eyes rolling back, quickly falling into darkness as you closed them and hummed in delight.

“How long have you wanted this?” Larissa’s voice was gravelly, interrupted only by her soft pants. “How long have you wanted me?”

“So long,” was your whimpered response. “So long- so l-long-” there was a crack in your tone when she moved her head and decided to lick a long thick line up the side of your neck, pushing her tongue against your skin with fervor. Like she was trying to eat you. Consume you. Resist the instinct to sink her teeth into your warm flesh.

“Hm,” was the last thing you heard before Larissa removed her mouth and started to loosen her hold on your body.

Panic tugged at you.

“N-no no, what are you doing?” You shook your head, trying to tighten your hold around her. But Larissa had always been stronger and she easily let you slip away and forced your feet to touch the ground. “No no no-”

“Shh,” she murmured, running her hands up to your face. “Do as I say and get on the bed for me. Yes?”

You swallowed, resisting the urge to smile as your heart did somersaults within your chest. Yes! It’s happening! Yes yes yes finally! This is it this is it! Yes yes!

“Yes. Sure,” you nodded into her hold, blushing hard when her palms tightened around your cheeks.

There was a sudden sharp edge to her eyes as her brows set, falling to shadow her gaze.

“Yes, who?”

Yes… who? You frowned.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“Yes. Who.” Larissa repeated herself, leaning down until the tip of her nose brushed yours. Her hands moved, one shifting down to tug at your waist, to bring you even closer, while the other wrapped around your chin and tightened. “Think, darling. I know you have a brain in there somewhere,” she whispered, sounding like velvet and feeling like heaven.

She was right, naturally. You did have a brain. It was half mush due to her attention, but it was still somewhat there. You took a moment to search through it. Yes who yes who yes who yes who yes- who-

“Yes, a-alpha?” Came your little squeak. It didn’t sound quite right but if she wanted to be technical about it, and if she liked that, then that was what she was.

A warm twinkling laugh met your ears. It was soft and amused, leading you to smile in reply as you admired the way Larissa’s eyes squinted with mirth. Clearly you’d gotten it wrong.

“Cute,” she nodded, “but not the one I’m looking for, sweet girl. Try again for me.”

Right. Try again. Okay. You bit your lip, growing antsy in your waiting.

“Um- Yes… Mistress?” It was a shot in the dark - and you missed.

Larissa tsked, her breath huffing against the curve of your lips as you watched her raise an eyebrow. She felt so good… so warm… you swallowed, eyes darting down to watch her lick at her lower lip.

“No, darling… Do I really need to coax it out of you?”

Then her tone changed- flipped like a tossed coin; it became high and taunting and coy as she moved her head and pressed her lips to your ear.

“Or are we both going to pretend that you don’t want to call me Mommy?”

It was said so sweetly- so slowly- that you thought you may be hallucinating. When you go to move your head back, to look into her eyes properly, the hand on your chin wraps around your throat and presses. It’s not hard, not by any means. Just the slightest pressure - barely there. A silent claim. Ownership. And Larissa doesn’t stop.

“Hm? Is that what we’re going to do sweetheart?” The hand on your hip moved down to squeeze your ass; the bite of her nails through your slip, digging into your skin, made your thighs clench- desperately trying to provide friction for an ache you had yet to take care of. “Are we going to ignore your desire for Mommy instead of Mistress?” There was a pause as she pressed a soft kiss to the shell of your ear. “Unless you want to call me Alpha-”

“No,” you gasped, quiet and quick. Alpha was not her title. She wasn’t a dog. And she wasn’t a ruthless violent angry horny authoritative creature.

She was Larissa.

She was..

She was -

“No.. Mommy.”

The noise that rumbled up from her chest made your skin run hot. It was full of deep pleasure. Like the bits of wolf that ran through her blood were very happy with your submission. So happy, in fact, that she pulled back to give you a large toothy grin.

“That’s my girl.” Came her chimed praise as the hand around your throat slid away and her fingertips went to caress the side of your face. “So obedient for me… so good…”

Yes yes yes so good always so good always hers always need her- need to be kissed by her- fucked by her- dominated by her- always-!

Your hands landed on her shoulders before you could blink, instantly going to push- push push push until she’s backing up. Spurred on only by your deep desire to see her on the bed, spread out, panting, just as wanting and desperate as you. But you don’t get very far. Maybe one or two steps backward, making you think you’d actually be able to bend her slightly to your will - but then there are strong tapered fingers wrapping around your wrists and tugging them off of her shoulders.

“Ah ah ah,” Larissa admonished, shaking her head and looking deep into your eyes. “I don’t remember you being the Mommy.” She was smug, so smug, as she turned you both around and began walking forward.

You nearly stumbled over your own feet in your haste to back up toward the bed.

“I can be the Mommy,” you grumbled, shooting her a playful glare.

It was a lie, of course. You were a strong soul, but rarely one to take full control of a sexual moment. If it was something less… kinky… then you could certainly provide pleasure; but in that moment, with every inch of your libido working against you- forcing you to desire the floor beneath your knees and the thick of Larissa’s cock in your mouth- well. That was different.

“Oh can you?” A light eyebrow rose, ticking up at the exact moment that the backs of your legs hit the side of the bed and went buckling beneath the sudden feeling.

Your hands reached up to go for her shoulders, but the iron grip around your wrists kept you suspended. Then her hands were gone, in the blink of an eye, and you were released - and Larissa watched, with a flicker of sadistic delight, as you let out a small hiccuping gasp and fell backwards onto the mattress. When you looked up at her, an unserious glare in your eyes, you felt your heart skip several beats. Back again were you in that position… with her hips so close… and her body towering… and her carmine lips curled into an evil smirk.

“You were saying, love?” God she sounded so good… So soft and perfect, with her strong accent and delicate words and good lord- you couldn’t stop staring!

The only thing standing between you and the heaven between her legs were only about three pieces of cloth that could easily be torn in half- right off of your bodies- thrown to the floor. Your hungry gaze traced the curve of her thighs- from the soft dips of her skirt’s drape, to the plush spot in which those long gorgeous legs pressed together… leading right up to…

Your fingers twitched.

Please… please let me feel… please I want- want so bad- want to- have- lick- need-

“Y/n.” You looked up. Larissa tilted her head.

“Yes?” God you sounded so hoarse-

“Yes…?” Her nostrils flared.

Oh. Right.

Warmth shot through your heart.

“Yes, Mommy?”

“Mmm,” she hummed, taking a moment to run her gaze over your face- your body- your soul. “...Tell me what you want.”

You blinked.

“What?” There’s no time for that! I need you and I need you now!

“I said,” two large palms slid into your hair, cupped the back of your head, and pulled you closer, “tell me what you want.”

She smelled so perfect. All floral-y and jasmine-y and precious and when your face was lightly pressed to the fabric of her skirt, you couldn’t help but take a deep breath and close your eyes. If heaven existed, it was most certainly between Larissa Weems’ thighs - both under her skirt and above it. Your arms, meanwhile, wrapped around the backs of her legs and curled under the skin beneath her knees, keeping her steady as she held you there. Not with enough pressure that you couldn’t breathe, but with all the intent to make you flushed. To have you panting. Thinking. Wanting.

Wanting so much… desiring so much… needing her- needing all of it- everything she’d give you-

“A-anything,” you stuttered, pulling your head back into her hold. Mmm her palms were so warm- so soft-

“Anything?” There was a gentle blush on the apples of Larissa’s cheeks - magnified only by the vague glow of your lamp. She outshined the sun, then. By far more glorious than any beautiful phenomena at dawn or dusk…

“Mhm,” you nodded, “anything.”

A bit of her bottom lip disappeared into her mouth, tucked under her teeth, bitten hard by a woman who clearly had things on her mind. Seeing you there, looking up at her as though she placed the very moon into the sky… oh she wanted to see you ruined. She wanted to see you owned. She wanted to see you begging, pleading, needing her, barely able to breathe without her in you- taking her- wanting her- calling her name- calling Mommy- Mommy-!

Falling prey to your body again, your gaze drifted back to Larissa’s waist- taking in the curves and the feminine beauty- imagining your hands gripping her hips, her thighs, her ass, pulling her closer; looking lower still to rest on- on- o- on… on…. oh… was- was that-

A bulge. Beneath her skirt. Straining against the material, held back by her waistband and her panties. Obviously hard and obviously- so obviously- big.

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Wow Ripley, way to drop this out of nowhere and end on such a vulgar note oooo.

Anyway, there will be a part IV (4). At some point. Don’t hold your breath. I love you. - Rip x

(Tell me if it’s good cuz I’ve never written smut before and I know we’re not even there yet.)

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