Agatha All Along

"There she is," Negan says, speaking with his signature cadence that made you want to rip out your hair, "How'd you sleep, babydoll?"

"Fine," you rasp as you slowly sit up. The mornings were the only time you could get away with dull answers like that. Any small bit of attitude could be blamed on you being 'cranky' rather than feelings of hatred that hadn't been broken down by this point.

He smiles at you, his rough hand cupping your jaw.

"You're so pretty in the mornings," he mumbles, sweeping a thumb over your pouty bottom lip.

You pause for a second, but so does he. Like he expects a reply. Unfortunately, you know the words he wants to hear. Swallowing the last sliver of dignity you have, you force out the response you'd been trained to say over the last however-long.

"Thank you, daddy."

He grins even wider if that's possible and pats your head. "You're welcome. Now let's get you dressed. Like I said, daddy's got a lot to do today."

You get out of bed and follow him over to the dresser that held your outfit for the day. The chill of cold air bites at your legs as the lack of blankets leaves them exposed. The generator had been out for the past day or so, leaving the Sanctuary victim to the harsh Winter raging outside. You were hoping he'd take that into account when picking your clothes, but you didn't hold out too much hope.

The two of you shuffle around the gray furniture of Negan's room. Even though you'd been in here more times than you could count now, you still marveled at the quality of the chairs and sofa. Items like these seemed luxurious with how the world was outside these walls.

When you reach the dresser, you follow the routine you'd become used to. You peel the small shirt you're permitted to sleep in off and drop it in the basket nearby. Your panties are next to go. You pull the dainty garment down and toss it to the same place as your top.

You can feel his eyes on you with every move you make. They watch how your breasts bounce when freed from their confines. They admire the curve of your ass when you bend over. They glimmer with smug satisfaction as you stand there nude before him.

"I'll tell you what. I never get sick of seeing this," he teases.

You offer a weak smile in return. The lack of energy almost seems to please him more.

He walks around to stand behind you, giving you a light pat on the ass as he does. His hands land on your hips first and then slide up to cup your breasts. He pulls you back, positioning you flush against his chest.

"You know I'd keep you like this all the time if I could," he murmurs in your ear, "Sweet and ready for me. Ripe for the pickin' whenever I felt the need."

The deep, gravelly rumble of it seems to trigger a flicker of heat in your lower belly on instinct, and you despise yourself for it. Shame burns so hot in your heart, it threatens to take the nausea you felt earlier into a full on dry heave. You're glad there's not a mirror in front of you. It's easier to keep a docile look plastered on your face when you don't have to stare yourself in the eyes.

The rough pads of his fingertips pinch and tweak your nipples, causing you to squirm a bit where you're standing, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of a noise. You can feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your neck.

You choose not to say anything to his last statement. There's no guarantee that he hasn't actually considered that, and you don't want to find out. Displaying you in that way in front of everyone doesn't seem like his style, but back when he had you lined up on your knees with the rest of your group, you wouldn't have imagined yourself ever calling him daddy either.

As you'd quickly learned in regards to most things around here, the risk just isn't worth it.

"I'd never do that to you though. Don't think anyone could keep their hands off if they saw all of you, and I just can't have that," he whispers, calming your fears for you. He pulls his hands away from your breasts and steps back to grab the pieces he'd be putting you in today.

He starts with panties. This pair is pink and ruffly just like the last. You step into it with rehearsed timing. One foot then the next. He slides them up to your hips and lets the elastic snap into place against your skin.

You had no clue where he got this shit. You didn't want to believe that his hold on his men was so strong that they'd waste an entire supply run raiding a Victoria's Secret, especially for women they never even got to touch.

It wasn't worth thinking about though. It's not like discovering the origins would spare you from wearing the damn things every day.

Next, Negan shakes the wrinkles out of your dress. You step into that too, just like you did with the underwear. Looking down, you catch a glimpse of the garment.

It's just as humiliating as all the rest he makes you wear. The fabric is bright white and baby pink. Like everything else, you have no idea how it was kept so pristine. The waist is accentuated with a pretty pink ribbon wrapped around it, tied into a large bow at the front. It's extra tight up top and melts into a puffy skirt down below.

He shimmies it over your body and yanks the zipper up in back. The dress conforms to the shape of your figure, leaving little to the imagination in terms of how much the neckline shows and how high the hem of the skirt sits.

Spinning you around, he whistles when he gets the full picture.

"Good God Almighty. Pretty as a picture," he praises, reaching out to pinch your cheek.

Again, you force yourself to smile.

He'd already dressed himself for the day before getting you up, so the rest of the time before you leave the room is spent working through the remnants of your morning routine. He takes you into the bathroom connected to his room to brush your teeth and do your hair.

"Say ah, sweetheart," he smirks before jamming the brush into your mouth.

He's not careful or attentive. He only does it long enough to let the weight of humiliation settle in your stomach. It's always obvious when it kicks in. You get this look on your face like that of an abandoned puppy. Only then does he let you spit and move on to the next task.

He styles your hair into something cute, though you hate it anyway. Like the dress, it's only intended to make you stick out. To draw attention to your status as his possession.

The last thing he does is put your socks and shoes on. Your feet get covered in a pair of frilly ankle socks before he slips a pair of chunky sneakers on you. At least if this place got overrun and you had to bolt, you wouldn't be totally fucked.

"You ready to go, honey?" he asks you when the first part of your torture has finally come to a conclusion.

Again, you nod while looking up at him.

He grins at you. "You're quiet today," he says.

"Sorry, daddy," you respond. The way he said it sounded like teasing, but you could never be too careful.

"Don't be. I like it," he says.

You don't know how he does it, how he deflates you so easily without even trying.

He turns and grabs that stupid bat he carries everywhere, swinging it to his side before facing you again and sticking out his hand.

"Got my two favorite girls, now we're really ready to go," he says. He gestures with his fingers. A small impatient reminder. "You know the rules."

Of course you know what he's referring to. Always hold daddy's hand when you leave the bedroom. One of the rules he'd prattled off to you when he first brought you here.

You reach out and take his outstretched hand, earning a kiss to your head.

The way he'd been holding his arm caused the leather sleeve of his jacket to ride up a bit. Beneath the stiff fabric, you could see the fading scar you'd given him around the same time you'd been informed of the rules. Two crescent shaped marks in the pattern of your teeth.

You can barely stand to look at it now. All it does is bring back memories of when you still held hope for escape or rescue. Back then, you'd thought it'd only be a matter of days until Rick or Michonne burst into the small bedroom they were keeping you in.

The day you'd sunk your teeth into him, he'd just finished giving you one of his speeches about your new life at the Sanctuary. According to him, you'd be so much happier here. Sure you couldn't see your family, but now you had someone better than them. You had him. And he would spoil and take care of a pretty thing like you in the way you deserved. Show off to the rest of your old group how generous he could be.

He'd reached forward to pinch your cheek just like he'd done earlier today. You wanted to smack him away, but he had your hands bound. So you did the next thing you could think of and bit him. Hard.

His eyes burned with fury you hadn't seen since. You can still hear in your mind the way he yelled, shouting "Goddamn it" so loud that the walkers out at the fence probably heard.

After that was a bit hazy. He'd snatched that limb away from you before bringing it back and striking you hard across the cheek. You'd nearly fallen off the bed from the force.

"You little bitch, you try some shit like that again, and I'll knock your fucking jaw loose," he growled before yanking you up right and forcing you to look at him.

Involuntary tears leaked from your eyes as you glared up at his face. Blood oozed from the stinging wound you could feel inside your mouth.

That cut had healed by now though.

You squeeze his hand harder while walking down the hall out of his room. Even though it was the hand that struck you, it was the only thing you had to hold onto now. 

Your brain tries to compartmentalize him nowadays. There's Negan, and there's daddy. Negan is the one who gets mean. Negan is the one who yells. Negan is the one who killed your friends. Daddy is the one who cares for you. He keeps you safe and healthy. He'd never hurt you like that. You didn't think you'd survive with a shred of sanity without that distinction.

He feels your little grip and squeezes your hand in return. That's what daddy does.

You stay close to his side as he guides you on the walkway that looks down on the commotion of the main room. Even after what you guessed had been a couple months, if not more, you still didn't like this place. Everything was so transactional. No one cared about each other. It was all about what everyone had to offer. That was by design of course, but it didn't make you any less critical of it.

Your eyes scan the clusters of people below. Although you weren't allowed to socialize on your own, you were starting to get a grasp on the cliques here. Negan's closest advisors all seemed to amalgamate in one area, spare the guy with the burnt face. The table closest to the window was where most of the soldiers ate while the one by the door seated the workers.

You weren't completely sure what class you fit into here.

The most obvious guess would be the group you're about to encounter, Negan's wives. But there are stark differences between you and them that prevent you from feeling camaraderie.

The two of you approach the room where he keeps this group of women. He maintains a tight grip on your hand as you slip through the doors. The disparities between you and the others become obvious as soon as you're within a few feet of them.

All of these women get to dress in black. They stand tall in heels, have earrings dangling next to their faces, and for some, a red tint painting their lips. All of them get to openly glare at him. They don't have to hide their hatred behind a feigned smile or soft laugh.

You know it isn't right to be jealous of them. They're suffering too. This isn't a happy situation for them either. But god, you can't help it. Envy nearly sears a hole through your heart every time you come into this room. What you wouldn't give to be one of them. To be allowed to drink and talk with other people. To not be under the constant threat of punishment.

Despite all these thoughts swirling through your head, you manage to keep your mask on. A simple, thoughtless look on your features as you stand next to him like an oversized accessory.

He looks down at you before dropping your hand.

"Stay right here for me, sweet thing. Daddy's only gonna take a minute," he says.

He stalks off to the back corner of the room with a woman you'd come to learn is named Sherry. They speak in hushed tones, so you can't make out what they're saying. You figure it's about one of the girls sneaking around with some other guy. That's what it's usually about when he makes a stop here with you in tow. Even with their status elevated above yours, they don't get to escape the wrath of his possessiveness.

You stand there awkwardly, arms crossed over your midsection while your weight shifts between your feet. No one tries to talk to you. You can feel their eyes on your pastel form, but their gazes don't hold curiosity or interest. It's pity.

In the beginning, you thought they were looking at you with jealousy. After all, you got your own cell and then graduated to Negan's bedroom while they had to share amenities.

But they weren't naive like you had been. None of them wanted Negan's attention. They didn't want to be his pet or his dolly or whatever the fuck he would classify you as. They had each other, and they got to share the load between all of them.

You sigh quietly and look down at the sparkly trim of your white sneakers.

He finishes his conversation with Sherry and then migrates across the room towards a blonde, crying girl. They speak at the same volume as him and Sherry. It's not worth trying to eavesdrop on.

Instead, you patiently wait the couple minutes it takes for them to finish up and for him to return to you. When he walks back over, you can tell the discussion hadn't been a positive one. His shoulders seem weighed down by whatever information he'd gathered from them.

But the dark cloud above him fades away as his hand slips back into yours. He leads you out of the room just as you'd come in and continues walking with you.

You hesitate but decide to try. "Are you ok?" you ask softly.

His head turns slightly to cast you a look. For a moment, it seems the daddy act has fallen away. He looks at you like he would any other woman who asked him that. Cold. Analytical. But the persona makes its reappearance seconds later as he pulls on a smirk for you.

"Just fine, honey. You don't gotta worry about me," he answers.

You know you should just nod and shut up, but it drives you crazy being led around like a child expected to be seen and not heard. So you decide to try again.

"Did they do something bad?" you ask. You hate how weak your voice comes out. There's no spark to it, no bite or sharp edge. All of that, he'd extinguished in you.

He drops your hand and drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you to his side.

"What are you so curious for, huh? You know something about it?" he responds.

You shake your head. Your arm rises and wraps around his torso.

"No. I just don't like when you're upset," you say. You lean your head into his chest to really sell it.

"Oh-ho, look at you. Turning on the charm," he chuckles, "I am just fine, sugar. I swear it. Sometimes those girls give me trouble, but it's nothing I can't handle."

You decide to just take it and nod this time. 

He looks at you with satisfaction. "They can't all be like you, y'know? So well-behaved," he praises.

The compliment makes your blood curdle. You couldn't stand that he would act like obedience was your defining trait.

When you were with your group - your family more like -  you would never have been described as obedient. Whether at the prison or Alexandria, it felt like every other day you were sneaking off to try something. You were always quick to spring into action, never the type to let someone belittle you. Rick got on your ass about deviating from plans in spurs of emotion more than anyone else. Maybe that's how you wound up here.

You had tried to stop them from taking Daryl. On that dark night in the woods, surrounded by the ring of headlights, you had tried. You didn't rush at Negan like your friend. Not wanting someone else to get their head bashed in, you were more subtle than that. But you attempted to get in the way of the guys carting him off. That's what landed you here. Tucked under his arm, the very weapon that took away two people you love swinging a foot away from you.

But you swallow down all of this rage and nod again. You nuzzle into his chest, a way to conceal the tightening sensation in your throat and the sting of tears at your waterline.

This is the worst part about Negan, you decide. The way he makes you act like you want it.

From your first day here, he made sure to tell you over and over how he's staunchly against rape. He's not a monster. He's not that kind of guy. No, no. You are a prisoner, so yes, technically here against your will, but never in a million years would he violate you in that way.

And he'd stuck true to that. Whenever you screamed or cried or yelled "no" on a loop until he shook you around like a bobble head, he always backed off of his advances. He never copped a feel or slid a wandering hand in your panties while you slept, never held you down or physically forced himself on you.

Instead, he broke you down until saying yes seemed like the only sane option.

You didn't want his affection? That meant you must not want to talk to anyone at all. For days. You didn't want to sit in his lap? Maybe you'd prefer kneeling by his feet for a week, in private and around everyone else. You didn't want to sleep in his bed? Fine. You could sleep on the concrete floor without a pillow or blanket while the heat was out.

You reflect on all of this as the two of you trot through the boxy halls. He takes you around on all his errands for the day. You stop by the doctor's office, inventory, and Dwight's room. All over the place. You stay quiet the whole time. busying yourself with your thoughts as you stay attached to him.

Everyday the line between survival and free will becomes blurrier. You tell yourself that you have to be like this with him. You'll be worse off if you don't act the part of the sweet, adoring girl he wants. But then sometimes you wonder if you truly are becoming obedient. Like a wildcat tamed into a lazy house pet. You almost never resist his touch anymore. You even go to him for comfort sometimes.

The idea kills you, so you deem it best not to think about for now.

Rather, you focus on guessing what the rest of the day would hold. It's already the afternoon by now. The sun hangs low by the tree line, shimmering into the Sanctuary through the rectangular windows across the walls. He wouldn't have a meeting with the lieutenants today. Those were almost always around lunch time. You didn't think he'd spend it with one of his wives either. If that was the case, he usually gave you a heads up in the morning.

The most likely possibility you come up with is the dilemma from earlier. You had never been invited to see the culmination of those though. Normally, he kept you safe and sound in his room while he tended to matters like that, ready to provide him some stress relief when he finished.

But things can always change, and now it seems like that's the case.

He guides you back into the main room. A crowd has gathered down below. You can't see the center point of their conglomeration. All you can sense are the nerves vibrating between everyone.

Their feet shuffle around on the hard concrete flooring. They look between each other with anxious eyes. Hushed chatter clouds the area until you and Negan begin to descend the stairs. That's when they all go quiet. Mouths close and pupils snap to the position of their leader.

You look down to lessen the ache of humiliation that came with accompanying the center of attention. The few times you had scanned the crowd for others' reactions, seeing if you could find a sympathetic gaze or outraged expression, all you found was animosity. The male workers and soldiers leered at you. They smiled and smirked, visibly amused by your girly outfits and docile disposition. On the other side of the aisle, the women glared, taking in the details of your appearance with disgust, like somehow it was your fault you got toted around like this.

His voice booms out to his audience as he takes step after step towards them.

"You all know what we're here for today," he starts, "We got simple rules 'round here, but some people still seem to have trouble following 'em."

Your hand stays linked with his as the two of you reach the landing.

"Watch your step, babydoll," he murmurs to you before continuing his speech. Your cheeks burn with shame.

"It feels like I'm doing this every other month. It's getting ridiculous," he lectures, "I don't like having to be so harsh. Truly, I don't. But rules are rules, and I don't know how I can make myself any clearer. They are not optional."

He walks further into the room with you. Being level with everyone else, you can see more of what's happening. They're gathered around a furnace. Dwight stands near the opening to the flames, clearly preparing something. Another man sits a few feet away. Over in the corner, the woman from earlier is looking at him and crying.

Looks like your guess was correct.

"So we're gonna do this again. Hopefully it's the last time," he concludes.

The crowd parts as you and him head towards the center of the room. He leads you over to an empty spot near the wall. Dropping your hand, he cups your jaw and makes you look him in the eyes.

"Stay right here for me. Daddy'll be right back," he says.

You nod and then watch as he turns away, waltzing over to where Dwight stands.

While your eyes are up, they can't help but catch on somebody familiar standing at the front of the crowd.

Daryl.

Your heart stutters, and you can see on his face that his does too. He looks worn down. Eyes dimmed and face hollowed. His clothes, dirty and ill-fitting. You start to feel tears pricking at your waterline from the sight. You weren't the only one they'd broken down.

In him, you find the compassion you'd been searching for. The look that told you at least one person here didn't take enjoyment from your suffering. But it comes from someone who truly can't help you. Who's in a situation as bad as your own.

You sniffle and try to wipe away any beginning tears before Negan or someone who would tell him notices.

The loud creak of a metal door opening drags your attention to the furnace though. You watch as Dwight pulls out the item he'd been preparing. A burning, metal iron becomes the new focus of everyone in the room.

Upon seeing the small object, so many things connect in your head. You know what's going to happen. You realize why Dwight's face is scarred. You understand why that woman is crying. And you know no one is going to stop any of this now or in the future.

Your heart pounds harder, and your breaths become shaky. Tears blur your vision further. You dig your nails into your palm to try and ground yourself, but it doesn't help. The scene in front of you has whipped your mind into a frenzy. You haven't felt this bad since the early weeks of being in this place.

This stupid fucking place. You hate it. You hate how cruel it is here. How disconnected and lifeless everything feels. You hate him for being the only one allowed to really live. You hate everyone else here for letting him get this powerful.

It's a complete spiral whirlpooling in your mind, only made worse by the fact that you have to keep it contained. You try to tell yourself you just have to wait it out. This couldn't take more than five minutes and then you could go back to the bedroom. You'd be ok. You could take off this itchy dress and put your hair back to how you like it. You could kick off these shoes and hide yourself beneath the warm blankets. None of these people would be around, all you'd have is the quiet between those walls where daddy could make it all better.

As you're in the process of mentally talking yourself down, Negan takes hold of the iron. To free up his hands, he offers Lucille off to someone nearby. Your eyes follow his leather-clad limb to the neck of the bat and then up to its new handler. You see Simon.

You have to look down now. If you don't, everyone here will see the look of pure terror on your face. You close your eyes and rein in whimpers that threaten to spill from your lips. Everything feels fuzzy around you, intangible and like your hands would drift right through them. Your head heats up, the sensation making you dizzy. You try to steady yourself by leaning back against the wall, but the cool, flat surface does little to ease your nerves.

It does even less when you hear his voice closing in on you.

"Hey there, princess," he starts, voice laced with mockery, "You feeling alright?"

You're not looking at him, but the image of his stupid face projects with HD clarity in your mind. You swallow hard and nod.

Laughing lowly, he comes to stand beside you. "You sure about that? You're looking kind of lightheaded," he taunts.

"I'm fine," you choke out.

His hand darts up and grabs your jaw. He doesn't gently guide your eyes where he wants them to look. He yanks your face in his direction like an unruly child with a doll.

"I don't know about that. You're looking kind of rough," he says while glaring down at you with those ruthless eyes, "Maybe I should take you over to the doctor's. We both know Negan wants his favorite toy kept in good condition."

Your entire body vibrates with hatred for this creature. Every breath you take acts as an effort of restraint, a way to lull yourself into not ripping out what hair he has left.

You didn't just despise Simon because he's an asshole or because he was the person harassing your group leading up to that horrible night you were taken. Your aversion for him stems from experiences entirely your own.

A few days after the biting incident, you had tried getting physical with Negan one more time. You'd managed to worm one of your wrists out of your restraints, and instead of aiming for escape, you decided revenge held a higher priority. You waited for him to come check on you, keeping your arm tucked to your body as if it was still bound.

When he finally came in, you sat there and took the speech, took the condescension, and took the promises that you would conform. And then he leaned a bit closer. That's when you backhanded him as hard as he had you the few days prior.

After the hit landed, you lunged forward and tried to wrap the rope connected to you around his neck. You pulled as hard as you could, and for a moment, you thought you had won.

But wrangling you off was easier than you anticipated. They hadn't been allowing you much food or sleep, so the strike took most of your energy. It only took him a handful of seconds to snake his hand under the rope and then pry your arms away.

He stood up and slammed you into the wall with his hand around your throat. In that moment, he didn't look at you with the same fury he had before. This time around, frustration dominated his gaze.

"Was that fun for you?" he asked.

You didn't answer. Your chest puffed with exertion while your eyes stared daggers into him.

"What did I tell you last time? What did I fucking tell you?" he asked. Despite the look in his eye being less volatile, his tone of voice was dangerous as ever. "I told you I would knock that jaw of yours loose. That's what I said, and I meant it. I don't want you thinking I didn't. But I'm not gonna do that right now because I don't think it would work, and I'm not one to waste my own time."

Internally, pride swelled in your chest, thinking you had called his bluff. But then he kept speaking.

"I have a bad feeling that if I struck some sense into you that you'd just try to strike it into me right back, and I can't have that. That's just not gonna fly around here," he said, "So I'll tell you what: I have a better idea. You don't wanna play with daddy? Then you can spend a weekend with your Uncle Simon. See how much fun he can be."

Back then, you didn't know Simon as the right hand man. You didn't have his name and face connected yet. Now, you wished you could go back to that state of mind.

You were with him for three days while Negan did a tour of the outposts and subjugated communities. Only 72 hours. But an hour of him would have been enough to scare you for a lifetime.

When he first came into the room, you didn't get the feeling that him and Negan would handle you so differently. You could tell from the way he looked at you that, like his boss, he looked at you as something to toy with. A source of amusement. The difference, you soon found out, was how they played with their toys.

Unlike daddy, Simon didn't talk just to talk. He didn't warn you of future spankings or timeouts. He hit. And he kicked. And he shoved you down and tossed you around. He didn't offer the same condolences daddy did, there was no "this hurts me more than it hurts you." Nothing he did even bothered Simon. He watched you hurt, and he enjoyed it.

You didn't even get a reward once you'd settled down. Your attitude had disappeared almost instantly. Having the wind knocked out of you once was enough for you to become more amicable, but your change in demeanor didn't phase him. It wasn't his goal.

The only rules Negan left him with were the basic ones for the Sanctuary along with no killing you or causing permanent damage. But that didn't mean he couldn't threaten you with breaking them. He went on and on during the down periods where you cowered in the corner or huddled against the wall of your bedroom cell, telling you stories of how he went rogue before. Any horrible thing he could think of, he dangled in front of you as a potential fate.

When Negan finally came back, you eagerly awaited him. Despite your sleep deprived and bruised condition, your eyes stayed locked on the door like a puppy expecting their master. For the next week, you latched onto him. Didn't want to leave his side. He had made his point. You could hate him as much as you wanted but leave you alone with Simon for a little while, and you'd beg for him back.

That's how you feel right now, staring up into Simon's eyes while he holds your jaw. The pressure his fingers put on your cheeks serve as a reminder of the pain he can inflict while his other hand holding the bat twirls the weapon near your calf. As much as you had been internally preaching your hatred for everything to do with Negan minutes ago, all you want to do now is run into his arms.

You feel more tears wanting to slip down your cheeks, but you try your best to hold them in. The more you cry, the more I like it. That's what he'd told you more than once over those three days.

"Just leave me alone," you tell him. You try to sound as firm as possible, but even your own ears catch the way your voice quivers. "Negan wouldn't like you talking over him."

Your attempt at taking a stand falls flat. He doesn't back off any, rather, he leans in closer.

"Negan, huh? Are you even allowed to call him that?" he mocks and feigns a pout. 

"Just shut up!" you say. You mean it as a threat; though, it hits his ears like a plea. More hot panic rushes down your spine from the stress of having to remain quiet while also trying to be assertive.

His lips flatten into a line before he continues speaking. "Your head's getting too big for those shoulders, little girl. You better watch your attitude, or I might have to suggest you're due for some more correction," he mutters.

A loud scream rips the two of you from your conversation. He drops his hand from your face, and you both straighten up against the wall. Negan stands in the center of the room, pressing the blazing iron to the side of the man's face.

He wails until he passes out, and that's when his leader peels away the device of torture. Sticky skin goes with it before snapping back against his face like a rubber band. You grimace, your stomach twisting at the sight. You'd seen so much blood and guts over the years of living out on the road and fighting with other groups, but melted skin was a new one.

Negan turns to Dwight and gives him the iron back. You breathe an involuntary sigh of relief, subconsciously soothed by the thought of him returning to your side.

The reprieve ends suddenly though when a small, sharp pain slices along the meat of your calf. You whimper and lift your leg away on instinct. Looking for the source, you see the bat twirling from the motion of Simon's wrist. One of the barbs had caught your skin. Your eyes flit up to him.

"Watch out!" you say. The old you would have been seething. She would have pulled out her pocket knife and given him a little receipt for the cut. But now, you watch him with fearful eyes, trying to gauge whether or not you would get in trouble for calling him an asshole.

"Remember what I said," he tells you quietly as a trickle of red runs down to the lacy frills of your sock.

Before you can respond, a warm hand lands on the small of your back. Your head turns to find Negan smiling down at you.

"What's with the long face, sugar? Simon bothering you?" he asks, clearly not meaning it seriously even though to you it is exactly that.

You part your lips to answer, but Simon beats you to it.

"Bothering her? C'mon. I'm just checking up on her. She looked a little dizzy, so I offered to take her to the doctor's," he says, light as ever, "I'm just watching out for her, y'know? Sweet thing like her will get eaten alive here if she's not careful."

Negan raises his eyebrows, and for a second, you think he's about to take your side. But then he just chuckles and shakes his head. 

"She's doing just fine. That was her first time seeing one of those, so she's probably a little shaken up," he says, rubbing your arm.

"Hm... Sounds about right," Simon replies, "I know that's not how her little group did things."

"Yeah. So I'll get her back to the room. Think you can handle shit down here?" he says, gesturing around to the dispersing crowd.

"Always," Simon says with a mock salute. He then hands Lucille back.

Finally, you find some relief, some true sanctuary as Simon walks away. Your body physically relaxes. Negan feels it underneath his arm and spares you a glance as the two of you walk back up the stairs.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

You want to just take the easy route and say no, to play along with this sadistic charade and not cause any trouble. But you can't get the single syllable out. It feels impossible to even shake your head. Even though Simon's gone, the weight of everything that happened still remains along with the stinging in your leg.

Your throat feels tight, and your eyes feel like they're two seconds from overflowing. The lights suddenly seem too bright, and everyone here is too loud. You can't show him that though. You don't want more correction. You don't want someone to like it when you cry. But you can't ignore him either. That would be the worst thing to do.

All you manage in response is a shaky shrug. You let out a broken sigh with it and lean into his chest. The tension in your shoulders returns as you fight to keep the tears from leaking out against the worn leather.

At first, he doesn't say anything, and the two of you keep walking. Your steps remain in time with his as you traverse the walkway and around the corner. Then the two of you come to a stop when you're out of sight. He turns you by your shoulders, holding you in front of him so that you can't shy away.

"I got one more thing to attend to out by the fence. Think you can handle that?" he asks.

Your heart pulses to an uneven rhythm, trying to decide what to do without devolving into pure panic. You bite your lip as you mull your options over. Say yes and go with him. Then inevitably fail to contain yourself and get in trouble. Or, say no now and risk punishment for being defiant. You're not sure which one will end up worse.

"Can... can we just go back to the room?" you ask. Your voice comes out weak as if every word siphons a drop of energy from you.

He eyes you with uncertainty of his own; though, there's no fear in his look. His gaze is careful, an attempt to decipher if this is some kind of deception. You'd been pretty well-behaved as of late, but one bad day could take even the most obedient pet to a rabid dog, jaws primed to gnash.

But you didn't really have a reason to lie. The bedroom with him would provide the least likely chance at escape, and in the condition you were in now, you didn't seem to be planning an attack.

Slowly, he nods. "Sure, honey. I'll have Arat handle the other shit," he tells you before leading you in the direction of his bedroom.

The words he mumbles through his radio sound distant to you. You watch your legs switch between one and the other as you walk. On your right, you see the small red splotch staining the pristine cloth of your sock.

Before you know it, he's pushing open the bedroom door and bringing you inside. It then closes behind you, creating a barrier between you and everything else out there. It gets a little easier to breathe.

He guides you the few steps over to the edge of the bed and sits down, pulling you onto his lap. You feel his eyes scanning over you in an attempt to figure out the problem without asking. His hand rubs up and down your back over the crinkly fabric of your dress. His other palm focuses on your legs, coasting over your knees and the area of your thighs the skirt doesn't cover.

The code is harder for him to crack than usual. Normally when you got upset, it resulted from something he said. And he knows that because, usually, that's his intention. It was always either that or you'd just generally be feeling down, missing your home. But that doesn't seem to be the case right now. You seem more antsy than your normal bouts of sadness. He doesn't think it was from watching the spectacle downstairs. He knows you hate the saviors indiscriminately. Watching some random guy's face melt off wouldn't have you this upset. Finally, he relents.

"What's wrong?" he asks. He actually makes an effort not to sound like he'll make fun of whatever your answer may be.

"I just don't feel good," you choke out and bite your lip.

He feels you shudder on his lap, and he knows it's not the full truth. Pulling you a little closer on his thighs, he continues to look down at you.

"C'mon, baby. Tell daddy what hurts," he coaxes.

Your face tenses, but you know he won't drop this. "Just... just... I don't know. A lotta stuff," you say. You couldn't decide on a lie to commit to.

He sighs and bounces his leg with you on it a few times. "Did someone say something to you? Was someone bothering you?" he asks as his scope of potential causes narrow.

You're in the middle of trying to think of a cover story when his hand glides down to remove your shoes. He knocks one off. Then the other. The foamy white sneakers clatter to the ground next to his foot.

He goes to bring his hand back up, dragging it over the fine threading of your socks, but his eyes catch on the bloody splotches near the edge. Grabbing your ankle, he tugs your limb upward. It puts you at an awkward angle and nearly knocks you from your perch on his thigh. He stares the small wound down, assessing every detail of the tiny scrape.

"How'd you get this?" he asks. He looks over to you.

In reality, it may have been the most standard question in the world. But it hits your ears like an accusation and brings a fresh wave of tears that you can't control. Your lip quivers as your lids blink a few droplets over your water line.

"Simon did it," you weep.

You're scared he won't believe you, but after a few seconds, he drops your foot and pulls you close. His arms wrap around you tight and keep you flush against his chest. The warmth of the embrace encompasses you. You let the dam burst and cry into him, pouring all your sadness out against his body.

His hand sweeps up and down your back in comforting strokes. "Shh, shh, shh, sweetheart. Daddy's got you," he murmurs.

You feel him shrug off his jacket and push it aside, leaving the plain material of his t-shirt to soak up your anguish. He keeps you as close as possible. One of his hands cradles the back of your head to ensure you don't pull away.

"Does Simon bother you a lot?" he asks.

You nod. "Whenever I'm not with you," you choke out.

He hums in acknowledgement. "I'll talk to him. He's not supposed to hurt you when you're being such a good girl for daddy."

"I was trying really hard," you sob, your voice cracking, "I've been trying to be good. But he just hates me anyway. He's so mean to me."

Your arms snake around him as tight as a pair of snakes aiming to kill. You cling to him with everything you have, as if he's your one true savior from this living hell and not the cause of it.

In your head, you feel like you're annoying him. He's probably waiting for you to calm down, so he can nip this blossom of resentment in the bud. Good girls don't have tantrums or meltdowns, right? And all he cares about is that you act the part of a good girl.

But you only think all of that because you can't see the smile on his face right now.

He's grinning more than any of the times he got you to say something humiliating or cooperate with a punishment. The look he displays now reaches a new level of smugness, higher than the night he killed two of your people and traumatized the rest of them. His satisfaction runs deeper this time because right now, you're truly broken.

This isn't something you agreed to because the other option was worse. It's not something he had to coach you into or manipulate a situation into becoming. You did this all on your own. You came to him. Sure, he had to coax it out of you a little bit, but once he got his foot in the door, you let him right in. You're clinging to him for comfort, looking to him for a solution. He couldn't be more pleased. This is exactly what he wanted - to break you down. Now he just had to reel you back in the slightest bit, get you in that perfect middle ground between too independent and non-functioning.

"You have been doing really good for me, y'know? I'm proud of you, baby," he tells you in the most earnest tone he can manage, "Don't worry about Simon for right now, ok? Daddy's gonna set him straight. He won't bother you again."

You nod, but the reassurance doesn't stop the flow of tears from your eyes. Your fingers stay clenched around the fabric of his shirt.

"No more tears, honey, c'mon," he coos. He pries your limbs from around him and boosts you to your feet, standing you between his thighs. "I'll take care of it just like I take care of you. Let's just worry about what my little baby needs to feel better right now."

You take a few seconds to think about it, but the answer comes with relative ease. The most agitating thing about this situation right now is wrapped all around you, scratching at your sides and digging in under your arms.

"Can you take my dress off?" you sniffle.

His eyes fall from your face over your body. "What? You don't like this pretty little number?" he teases.

For once, you don't feel like you're two seconds away from punishment. You feel like it's a joke, and you don't have to awkwardly straddle the line between playing along with the humor and submitting to the literal interpretation.

"It's ok... it's just kinda scratchy," you say and wipe away your tears with the back of your hand.

"Spin around for me then. We'll get it off you. Can't have it irritatin' that soft skin while you're tryin' to relax."

You take the few steps to turn around. His fingers grasp the zipper and undo the baby pink prison you'd been trapped in for the day. Feeling the chafing fabric pulled away from you lets you take a real breath for the first time in hours. Already a small bit of relief. It only compounds when the garment hits the floor and pools at your feet.

He tugs you back by the waist and lays you across the bed, body on full display for him. Right now, you don't mind his gaze tracking your curves. He leans over you, his hands coasting from the sides of your breasts down to your hips.

"You're prettier like this anyways, princess," he praises.

"Thank you, daddy." It spills out as naturally as water from a faucet.

He rewards you with his lips on your stomach instead of words. Kissing the smooth, warm skin, his lips travel from just above your navel to the divot between your breasts. Your nipples rise to attention automatically.

His hands slide up to cup your mounds of flesh. He fondles and gropes them as his lips migrate up the curves to the hardening little peaks. They don't latch on just yet. He teases them with kisses instead, letting the anticipation of blissful suction build.

You take your lip between your teeth as you watch him. Chills break out across the rest of your body. You know you should be fighting. You know you should kick and scream and cry. You should try to take advantage of his closeness and get towards your revenge. But in your hellish life, are you not allowed one moment of pleasure? You haven't let those plans of escape and vengeance go, but you want this right now. You want to feel good, and he gives you that. 

This isn't Negan. This is daddy. And you don't wanna hurt daddy.

His tongue peeks out from between his lips to trace wet circles around your nipple. The sensation draws a whine from you. Your body squirms beneath him with an eagerness to feel more.

"I think I know how to make you feel better. Take your mind off all that stuff from before," he whispers.

He takes one of your nipples between his lips, flicking the bud with the tip of his tongue and scraping his teeth against the sensitive area. You reward the choice with a mewl and squirm your legs. He chuckles and then switches to the other one.

"That feel good?" he asks.

You nod, your head tilting back and your eyes fluttering.

Grinning, he continues his work on your chest. You whine and squirm for him, giving him all the reactions he craves. Soon, his hand ghosts up your inner thigh. His fingertips drag over the flesh and land on your clothed center. Through the thin pink cloth, he rubs at your clit. That garners a breathy moan and a full body shudder.

"Goddamn, you are so cute," he chuckles, "Just a few little touches and you squirm around like a virgin for me."

Heat floods your cheeks, but you don't bother disputing the claim. It was the truth. You weren't sure what it was about him that got you so amped up and needy.

The pad of his middle finger swirls around the little nub in your panties. He can already feel the fabric getting sticky from the wetness between your thighs.

"Poor baby. You're so easy to play with," he says.

His mouth leaves your breasts now and begins to retrace its path down your stomach. It glides over your skin with open-mouthed kisses all the way down to the hem of your underwear. His fingers fall away from your center to your dismay.

Your disappointment is short lived though. You feel him position your thighs on his shoulders. When you look down, his eyes are staring right back up at you, gleaming like that of a panther ready to pounce.

"You want daddy's mouth on you? Will that help you feel better?" he rasps.

You nod quickly. "Please, daddy," you whimper.

"So polite. You didn't even need me to remind you of your manners," he smirks.

You don't even care about that remark. It washes right over you. All your mind is concerned with right now is getting more of his touch.

He brings his index finger back between your legs. He hooks it beneath the soaked seat of your panties, pulling it to the side and revealing your slick folds to him. The thumb on his opposite hand comes up to rub over the length of your slit up to your clit. Back and forth, nice and slow, just to tease you.

Your hips writhe the slightest bit, and he nips the skin of your inner thigh.

"Tsk. You know good girls are patient. They don't wriggle around. I've taught you better than that," he chides.

"Sorry," you say, backing down quickly.

"It's alright. I know you're having a rough day, so I'll let it slide this time," he says. He then leans in to lay some kisses on your clit.

Your eyes roll back and your toes curl. He never let things slide. This must have been a miracle. The same man who always toted that the rules weren't optional, letting you bypass one? Maybe you were his favorite. That's what you took it as anyways.

He makes out with your cunt like it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen. His lips engulf it, spreading his affection from your little bundle of nerves all the way down, nearly reaching your puckered entrance below. You whine and clutch at the bedsheets. You were still too scared to grab his hair. You weren't sure if he'd like it and groan or glare at you in a way that said you'd pay for it later.

It doesn't matter to you right now though. What you hold isn't important when you feel this good. It feels like a firework show is erupting in your belly, bright bursts of all different colors. Your heels dig into his back, subconsciously keeping him buried between your thighs.

He's tempted to tear your panties off and fling them aside. He would if not for the limited number in his possession. If this was normal life, he'd rip a pair to shreds on a weekly basis. These things were so cute when he put them on, but when he wanted at you, he despised them. If this was normal life, he'd just buy you new ones whenever a tattered one had to be tossed. But then again, if this was normal life, he wouldn't have you at all, so it isn't really worth thinking about.

Refocusing his mind on your pleasure, he dives further into your cunt. His nose bumps your clit as his tongue fucks into you. He pushes it in a few times before pulling back and just lapping at your pussy in broad strokes, getting every drop of you he can. Two of his fingers prod at your entrance before slipping in. They fuck deeper than his tongue, but don't stretch you out like his cock. A happy medium to walk the steps of preparation.

He maneuvers his digits with expert precision, scissoring and curling them at the perfect intervals. You can't help the way your hips buck in response. He doesn't get on you about it though. He just wraps your arms around his hips and holds you in place.

Your thighs squeeze around his head too. Luckily, that wasn't against the rules. He loved feeling the heat of your plush legs wrapped around his skull, keeping him close.

He pumps his fingers faster, curling them right against that spot that got you to squeal and cry out his name.

"Cum for me, babydoll. All over my face. I wanna feel it," he rasps.

It's a fortunate coincidence he gives you that command because you were about two swipes of his tongue away from doing it on your own. You melt against the bed, eyes fluttering and body jerking and quivering as rushes of pleasure sweep through you.

Your fingers grip the blankets so tight they threaten to tear into them, but then they loosen completely and go lax next to your hips. He licks your cunt through the entire thing, not letting you come down until the euphoria has thoroughly washed through you.

While you're lying there, dazed and blissed out, he untangles himself from your legs and stands at the edge of the bed. He wipes your nectar from his facial hair before pulling his shirt over his head and unzipping his pants.

"I think daddy deserves a little reward for making you feel so good, pretty girl. What do you say?" he asks.

Of course, you nod. There was no way you would reject him while still so close to the high of your last release. He grins at your hazy movement and shoves down his pants, jerking his cock a few times and crawling on the bed to hover over you.

"You're such a good girl for me. Better than I ever thought you'd be," he says while looking down at your face.

"Wanna be good for you, daddy," you say softly, blinking at him with your misty doe eyes.

His grin spreads even wider. In your sane mind, you probably would have thought it looked like some creature out of hell. But right now, the look just makes you giggle and squirm.

Down below, he lines up at your entrance. He slides his tip through your arousal a few times, getting it nice and wet before he sinks in. A smile of your own rises on your face, and he groans at the deep satisfaction of having your cunt embrace him so readily.

"Perfect little pussy, fuck," he grunts, "Think it's the best I've ever had."

You preen at that compliment. He balances his forearms on each side of your head as he begins to thrust. Your legs rise up and lazily wrap around his waist, which he loves. He can't get enough of the fact that you want him, that you're pushing him deeper and not letting him pull out too much.

His head falls beside yours, letting you hear every pant and grunt that falls from his lips. Your walls squeeze around him every so often. The noises make your tummy flutter for him. It drives you wild to know you brought him to such a state of lust.

"Christ, you're so fucking tight," he mumbles.

You giggle again and drape your arms around his shoulders. Your eyes flutter shut. You just get lost in the feeling of him inside you, his cock battering all your sweet spots just right. He leans in and kisses at your neck. His hips pump deeper, ramming his shaft further into the warm depth of you.

In this moment, everything feels so good and pure. You can't even imagine any of the pain he inflicted on you before. It all feels like a distant dream. Memories that belonged to someone else, not you. At this second, it feels as though this bliss will last forever. Just you and him tangled in the throes of passion without a concern for anything else happening beyond the privacy of his room.

When you open your eyes, they're a little watery from all the stimulation and how good it feels mixed with your saccharine thoughts. You arch off the bed a few inches, pushing your pert breasts against the warmth of his chest. He pushes you back down with ease, keeping you angled exactly where he wants you.

Pulling back a little to look at your face, he smiles when he sees the water gathering in your eyes.

"Oh, those are the tears I like to see," he croons.

You moan, a little shiver coursing through you. It only encourages him to pound his hips harder against you, in and out, in and out, until you're both approaching the edge.

"You gonna cum again for me, sweetheart? Show daddy how good he's making you feel?" he murmurs.

"Yeah, mhm, ah-" you whimper, "I wanna cum daddy, wanna cum for you."

"I know you do," he chuckles, "I can feel it."

Your cunt contracts and releases around him with increased frequency now. He knows you're moments away from reaching the peak. Swiveling his hips, he tries to strike that chord and bring you crashing down.

You whimper, the pitch getting higher as the glass gets closer to shattering. Finally, with one good jerk of his pelvis, you tense up and cry out. A couple tears trickle from your eyes. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades.

Your body trembles and rolls with the feeling. He fucks you through it, savoring every delicious squeeze of your cunt around him. A few breathless groans rumble out of him. He gets every last second in your hole he can before he has to pull out.

He snaps his hips back, replacing the tightness of your pussy with his hand. It's not the same, but it will do. He gives it a few quick strokes before he explodes and spills on your belly. You lift your head and watch as the ropes of hot, sticky cum land on your skin.

His hips jerk with each surge of release firing from him. When he finishes, his head hangs, and he takes a moment to catch his breath. He scoots off of you and cools down beside your body on the bed. It's quiet for a few moments; though, he's never one to be vulnerable, so he doesn't let the silence linger for too long.

"You feeling better?" he asks and rotates his head to look at you.

You nod, visibly more relaxed than before.

"Thank you, daddy," you say, sweet as can be, before leaning in and pecking his lips.

He stares at you for a few moments in fond satisfaction. Then he gets up, and pulls you to your feet with him.

"C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up," he says.

You follow obediently to the bathroom where he wipes you off with a damp rag and makes sure you're all set to get some rest after. Both of you make your way to the dresser next. He pulls another set of those panties out and slips you into them. They don't feel so horrible this time around, but in the back of your mind, you're sure that won't be the case tomorrow morning. A soft, thin shirt covers your upper body next. It's the same baby pink color as the dress, but you don't mind since it's much more comfortable.

On your own, you tuck yourself to his side for the short walk back to the bed. He climbs in first and then tugs you into your spot next to him.

"I want you to try and get some rest," he tells you, stroking down the side of your face, "When you wake up, I'll get you something to eat, but for now, I want you to take a nap, ok?"

You aren't particularly tired, but while living here, sleep has become your greatest method of escape. You never reject a chance at it. The only thing is, right now, you don't really want to escape. You don't feel a horrible gnawing sensation from being so close to him.

However, you agree anyways because daddy knows best for you, and you don't want to make him upset.

You lie your head on his chest and snuggle up to him. He holds you close, rewarding the compliance by rubbing your back.

"Sweet dreams, babydoll," he murmurs.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed out so late, especially after promising your stepmother you’d be home me 12. Now it was 1:30 am and you had melted into the couch at the party you were at. It didn’t matter that you stopped looking at your phone, all you cared about was the drink in your hand as your friend rolled another joint next to you.

Although you still felt a little bad about not responding to your stepmother who you knew would be worried. The more you thought about it the worse you felt until you eventually caved and checked your phone.

As you expected you had multiple missed calls and texts from your stepmother. You excused yourself and hobbled outside as best as you could, away from the music and party.

Wanda picked up on the first ring.

“Baby are you okay?! Where are you?? I’ve been worried sick about you!” You let her ramble on, trying to calm her down. “Wanda please, can you please just… come get me?” Trying to talk to your stepmother while very… not sober… was a struggle but you eventually sent her your location.

You moved your position outside to the front of the house and sitting on the curb. Letting your head sink into your arms you focused on sobering up. You had been so out of it that you didn’t even notice the car pull up next to you, only realizing someone was with you at all when you felt hands on you.

“Your outside?! God baby your freezing get in the car. I am so disappointed with you right now.” The words stung but not as much of the relief you felt as you got into Wanda’s warm car.

“Wanda…”

“Don’t you dare. Not right now. You said it would be a small get together and you’d be home by midnight. And- and what? Your at some house party letting who knows how many people ogle you?”

You groaned and leaned your head against the window, she managed to lecture you the entire way home. All the way inside, taking your shoes off, leading you to the bathroom, and having you sit on the toilet so she could wipe your face off.

Her hands felt so soft and she was so gentle, you pressed into every touch which Wanda hummed in response to. “God doll, don’t you know how much I worry?” Your guilt began to overflow and as if by magic your tears began to pore over. “I’m sorry mommy, I really am.”

She cupped your face and kissed your forehead, you never really called Wanda that unless she asked. “I know your sorry baby and I know you couldn’t help it. Your to dumb and little to know how to take care of yourself. But right now I need you to go to sleep, we’ll talk more in the morning.”

With that she led you to bed, peeling away your short dress and dressing you in yours pjs. When she finally had you tucked into bed you found yourself not wanting to be alone. Wanda was about to turn to leave until you stopped her. “Wa- mommy, can you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”

Wanda smiled and held your face, “of course baby, mommy will hold you. But this doesn’t mean we won’t talk about your action in the morning.”

And with that she climbed in next to you, pulling you against her extremely soft chest as sleep grabbed at you. In no time at all you had passed out in Wanda’s arms, hoping you could stay like that forever.

It wasn’t a huge shock when you woke up alone but the feeling still stung. You groaned as you felt a headache from last nights drinking form. And as if by magic Wanda had appeared in your doorframe holding a glass of water for you.

“How are feeling? I expect you aren’t feeling too well?” She sat with you on your bed and gave you the water. “Thanks wanda…” she sat with you the whole time and watched you drink. When you finished she took the glass back and you had a feeling she wasn’t done.

“You know I’m still disappointed about last night correct?” You nodded and looked away, still feeling guilty about the whole thing. “There’s the good girl I know. When your feeling better come down for breakfast alright? We can go over your punishment tonight.” She finished and with a kiss on your cheek she left your room.

That of course left you with the whole day to worry about what your punishment was.

Time went be pretty quick, your hungover eventually disappearing. Wanda had made sure you were drinking water the whole day and resting. Cooking dinner and cleaning up by herself even though she normally let you help.

When she took your plate from you she gave you a firm kiss o your forehead while tilting your chin to look at her. “Go to mommy’s bedroom alright? You can wait on her bed while she finishes up.” Her tone wasn’t angry but it reminded you of your stunt the night before and how she very much hadn’t forgotten. You could only nod and find your way to her room, and your spot on the bed.

This wasn’t the first time your stepmother had “fun” with you, as she put it, but the first time she had wanted to punish you like this.

She must have been rushing since it was no more than five minutes until you heard Wanda approaching. The door cracked and god, she looked beautiful. Her brunette hair cascaded down and framed her face as her green eyes stared at you. She sat and joined you on the bed, using her thumb and pointer finger to grab your chin.

“You disappointed me last night draga mea. I gave you permission to go out because I thought my good girl would follow her curfew. Worse than that you repeatedly ignored my calls and texts and you got drunk and god knows what.”

Her tone was steady and you looked down so you could play with your fingers. You really did feel terrible about it but Wanda didn’t seem in the mood for any excuse. “I’m really sorry, I- I promise. Please mommy I’m really sorry.” Wanda smiled and for a second you thought you could get off easy.

“I know you sorry baby, it’s not your fault that your to stupid to follow simple instructions. But since you’re being so obedient right now I’ll allow you to pick what punishment you get first.”

Her face did not match h the vulgarity of her words at all, that if you looked at her you could forget what your step mother was saying. Wanda crawled on top of you and pushed you onto your back, her lips finding your neck and kissing the exposed skin. Your fingers tangled in her hair, “Wanda…”

“You can choose between being edged or spanked first. But you will quickly lose my kindness if you slip up again.” You added a quick sorry mommy at the realization of your mistake.

The thought of either made your stomach churn, it didn’t help that Wanda continued her assault on your neck, clouding your judgement.

“I, um, can I be sparked first mommy?” You whimpered as she bit a particularly sensitive area on your neck. “Such a good girl for asking so nicely. Help mommy get those clothes off.”

You moved with her as she peeled your shirt and pants off. Your bra and panties following soon leaving you embarrassingly exposed compared to a still fully clothed Wanda. She moved you so that you laid on your stomach, placing a pillow underneath your hips and one by your head. “Comfy?” You nodded, still feeling very exposed.

“This is going to hurt a little, remember this is a punishment alright?” She didn’t give you a chance to respond before her hand came down hard on your backside.

Immediately you jolted and tried to get away, clawing at the pillow she had given you. Her hand soothed the sore skin. “Shhh baby just relax.” Another crack of her hand, this one making you audibly cry out.

The pain was beginning to blossom and sit as warmth on your skin. “Please mommy please I’m sorry I won’t do it-“ she cut you off with another spank, this one harder than the last two. Tears finally broke through and you hid your face in your pillow, taking quick ragged breaths.

“Good girl I know baby I know. You’re taking your punishment so good for mommy just a few more.”

You stopped counting by the sixth and eventually just openly cried and whimpered. She made sure to apply pressure after every hit which soothed it a little but your ass must have been all sorts of red by now. “To much… mommy please I can’t, I can’t mommy-“ another sob racked though your body as she sparked you again.

That must have been the last one because she immediately moved your body so you rested in her arms. She shushed you and wiped your tears away as you hurried your head into her neck. “Shh it’s alright, such a good girl for her mommy. It’s not your fault you misbehaved your just to stupid to know better. But mommy will make sure she never lets you out like that again.”

Her fingers found your surprisingly wet pussy and you wondered when you had gotten so soaked. Wanda’s long fingers took their time playing with your clit, the stimulation felt like electricity in your veins with how sensitive you were after your spanking.

You chased the pleasure though, hips following her hand making Wanda smirk. “Poor girl are you all needy for mommy?” You quickly nodded hand reaching for Wanda’s wrist to try and make her touch you. Your backside still burned but compared to Wanda’s clever fingers rubbing on your clit it was easy to forget about the pain.

Tears still poured from your eyes, not quite crying but still so overwhelmed that your body only knew how to cope with crying. “M-mommy please, I’m gonna-“ she didn’t respond but instead rubbed deeper, your hips ground into her and yet right before you could cum her fingers left.

You whined and tried to lift your hips to chase her but her hand pushed you back down. “It’s aright shh it’s alright baby. Let mommy play with your pretty pussy…”

Her fingers found you again, this time two of them circled your dripping hole before pushing inside. Your moan was sultry as her fingers curled perfectly inside, pushing and abusing against the spongey spot inside. “There we go my good girl, let mommy make you feel good.” You believed her entirely, much to sore and worked up to think anything else.

You were a fool to think she’d actually let you cum, her fingers pulling away once more right on the verge of your release. Her hand slapped your pussy, not hard enough to make you sob again but enough to make your body shake.

“M-mommy stop, wait-“ she didn’t listen or didn’t care, hand coming down again on your pussy. The sound of your wet pussy was covered with your cry’s as her hand came down another two times. “Whose pussy is this?” You didn’t hear her at first, trying to push her hand away so she couldn’t hit you.

It didn’t matter though since her hand came down again, cupping it when she was done. “I won’t ask again malysh, whose pussy is this?”

With the little strength you had left you answered, “y-yours mommy. Only you please.” The answer must have satisfied her because she didn’t move to strike you again. You let her adjust your bodies again, letting you lay flat on your back as she moved between your legs. “You took your punishment so well baby, now let mommy reward you.”

You cried out in pleasure as her lips immediately found your clit and sucked. Wanda’s hands grabbed your hips so you couldn’t move away as she alternated between sucking your clit and dipping her tongue inside you. It didn’t take long until you were on the verge of coming. Body shaking and trying to bring Wanda closer. “Please, please mommy. Please I’m gonna- I’m”

You couldn’t even finish your sentence as Wanda slid her fingers inside you once more. “Go one baby, cum on mommy’s fingers.” It was almost instant as you came, hard, on her. Wanda happily licking up all of your release. She didn’t stop until you started whining and saying it was too much.

“You did so good, it’s okay we’re done now.” She moved you into her arms and placed kisses all over your face. You felt so relaxed in her arms, not wanting to move. “Do you wanna lay with mommy or do you want to take a bath?”

It’s early in the morning. The sun is only just starting to rise, casting a sleepy orange glow across the kitchen floorboards. The house is quiet, the kind of soft quiet that comes when you’ve already left for work. There are no other sounds apart from the ticking wall clock and the faint hum of the fridge.

Agatha pads into the kitchen barefoot, her hair mussed from sleep, yawning into the sleeve of her shirt. She’s wearing your favourite one, the one that she bought at a thrift store because it said ‘Bohner’ like that could ever actually a real family name and now smells like her shampoo.

She’s expecting to find your little post-it notes on the counter. A sweet message. A doodle of Señor Scratchy. Some stupid pun that makes her snort into her coffee.

But instead…

She sees your ring sitting in the little dish by the sink.

The engagement ring she gave you three weeks ago.

The one you never take off.

Her first thought is no, it must’ve slipped off. Maybe you were washing your hands, or you took it off while getting ready and forgot to put it back. But even that doesn’t make sense because she knows you. She knows how tight you grip that ring like a lifeline. How you only take it off when you’re in surgery, and even then you hate it.

She steps forward slowly and picks it up between her thumb and forefinger. Somehow it feels heavier than usual.

“Mm, what’re you doin’ baby huh?” She murmurs to herself, voice rough from sleep.

She rubs the inside with her thumb, feeling for the engraving she’d paid extra for.

My love, forever.

And suddenly there’s this heavy, tight ache in her chest. Her brows knit together. Because why would you leave it?

She stares at it for a moment longer then sets it gently on the counter where you would usually leave a note. Except today, there isn’t a note.

No ‘have a good day <3,’ no ‘left you banana bread,’ no ‘love you.’

Just silence. And a ring.

She exhales through her nose, her chest tight and her mind unsettled. Her girl would never take this off. So what the fuck’s going on?

She stares at the ring again for a long moment. Then turns away sharply, gritting her teeth as she starts to make her morning coffee just to do something with her hands.

But she can’t stop thinking.

You never take it off. Not even in the bath. Not when you sleep. You cried when she gave it to you, wrapped your legs around her waist and whispered ‘thank you thank you thank you’ like it was the only thing you’d ever wanted.

So why the fuck is it sitting on the counter?

She tells herself not to be stupid. You’re not cheating. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You’re obsessed with her. You’re with her every free moment you’ve got, curled up in her lap, tracing lazy circles on her chest, making those soft little noises when she kisses behind your ear. You’re always touching her, always needing her, always whispering ‘mine’ against her skin when you think she’s not listening.

There’s no way.

Except…

Her arms cross tighter over her chest. She’s gripping her mug too hard.

Then why’d you take it off? And why no note? Why no ‘love you baby’ post-it on the fridge written in pink pen like every other day?

Her jaw clenches.

She trusts you. She loves you.

But love doesn’t stop that horrible little whisper in the back of her head, the one planted by every woman who ever looked at her like she was too much. The one that told her she was too old, too masculine, too closed off, too hard to love.

She’s pacing now, tugging at the hem of her shirt.

Maybe she said something wrong. Maybe she was too distant this week. She’s had night shifts, paperwork, the whole overtime conversation you had a couple of days ago…

Fuck.

She runs a hand through her hair, heart pounding now. You wouldn’t leave her. You wouldn’t.

But the ring is still sitting there.

And the clock is ticking, with every minute you’re not home feeling like a fresh crack in her ribs.

~

You don’t expect Agatha to be standing in the kitchen when you get home. Especially not with the lights dimmed low and with your engagement ring pinched between two fingers like evidence in a case she’s working on.

But there she is, standing inside the kitchen, feet planted to the ground, arms crossed tight over her chest.

Her eyes lift when the door clicks shut behind you.

And they are dark.

They aren’t teasing or warm. She isn’t looking at you with her usual fond but firm ‘c’mere, babygirl’ look.

This is something else.

You blink. Caught off guard. Your tote bag halfway down your arm.

“Agatha?”

She doesn’t speak at first. Instead she holds the ring up between her forefinger and thumb, its shine duller in the low kitchen light. The space feels immediately heavy between you.

You freeze.

Fuck.

“I-I forgot,” you say quickly, before she can say anything. “I just… it was by the sink, I guess I…”

“You never forget it.” Her voice is rough, her tone low and controlled. “You sleep in it. You shower in it. You make me put it on you during sex, like a fuckin’ ceremony.”

You wince. “I know. I’m sorry. I just…”

“I’ve been trying not to spiral,” she says, flatly. “Trying not to think the worst.”

Your heart drops. Oh god. She can’t possibly think…

“Baby,” you whisper, stepping forward. “It’s not what you think…”

“You think I haven’t seen this happen before?” she cuts in harshly.

Her voice is frayed at the edges now, her anger covering something deeper, something so much worse. Insecurity.

“The young girl realizes what she signed up for. That she’s got this old butch ball and chain instead of some Pinterest wedding dream, and suddenly the ring’s a little too tight.”

“Agatha,” you breathe. “No, stop please…”

Her mouth presses into a tight line.

But you see it now.

The hurt.

It’s in the way she won’t meet your eyes. The way her fingers are clenched white around the little wedding band. The way she’s holding herself like she’s bracing for a car crash.

And suddenly you feel sick.

This is your fault.

You did this.

“No, fuck… I just…” you drop your bag and walk closer. “I didn’t wear it today because… because I met up with my mom.”

That gets her attention.

Her brows lift. “Your mom?”

You nod, quickly. Tears pricking.

“She doesn’t… she doesn’t know about us,” you admit, voice small. “She doesn’t even know I’m into women. Or that I’m engaged. Or that I live with you. I just…” you shake your head, frustrated. “She’s never approved of anything I’ve done. Any decision I’ve made. She ruined my graduation, she ruined my first apartment, she ruins everything… and I just… I didn’t want her to ruin this too. So I took it off.”

Agatha blinks in shock as she tries to process the information she has just been given.

You sniffle, clutching your arms around yourself as if to hold you together.

“I just didn’t want her to look at the ring and ask questions and make that condescending face like she always does and make me feel like shit for being happy…”

“Hey.” Her voice is softer now. It’s still low but no longer sharp. “Hey, baby.”

You finally meet her eyes.

And she looks wrecked. She’s not angry, not even hurt anymore. Just… wrecked.

Her gaze sweeps over you, looking at your damp lashes, your trembling lip, your hunched shoulders. And you see the exact moment her expression breaks.

“Oh, honey…”

And then she’s moving. You’re wrapped in her arms before you can even finish wiping your cheeks. Strong hands pull you close till you feel her warm breath at your temple.

“I thought…” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Jesus, baby. I thought I lost you.”

“I’d never…”

“I know. I know, now. God, look at you.”

You sniffle, nuzzling in.

She kisses your hair, then your forehead, then your cheeks. She cradles your face and tilts it up so you’re looking at her again.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t wanna seem…”

“Seem what?” she cuts in, gently. “Like a girl trying to protect herself?”

Your lip wobbles.

She smiles that slow, crooked, ‘God I love you’ kind of smile and brushes your hair back behind your ear.

“I get it,” she says. “Do your mom’s a fucking piece of work. And you don’t owe anyone anything baby. Not even her.”

You press yourself closer to her, inhaling the scent of cedar and safety that clings to her clothes.

“I just didn’t want her to ruin this,” you whisper again. “I love you so much, Agatha. I love our life together. I’m not ashamed of you or of this… I’m just scared.”

She presses a kiss to your temple.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she murmurs. “But next time talk to me, yeah? I don’t need to be in your mom’s good graces. I just need to know what’s going on with you, okay? So next time, you come to me. You don’t keep this shit locked up on your own. Team Harkness?”

“Team Harkness.” You agree, giggling softly and a little teary still.

She grins.

“And if you ever leave this ring behind again,” she growls, nudging it into your palm, “I’m gonna bend you over the kitchen table and fuck you in nothing but that ring, you got that honey?”

Your breath catches.

She cocks her head, her confident smirk returning to her face. “I mean it. I’ll leave ring prints on your ass.”

You’re giggling now, clinging to her shirt like a lifeline.

“That’s my beautiful girl,” Agatha murmurs again, brushing her knuckles under your eye to catch the last tear.

You smile, sniffling as her fingers curl beneath your chin. And when she kisses you, slow and deep and oh so devoted you feel it in every inch of your body.

“Remember that I’m not just your fiancée, baby. I’m your home. You hear me?”

“I hear you…” you melt into her, nodding again.

She presses a kiss to your nose. Her voice lowers as she reminds you one last time. “And don’t you ever leave this ring behind again.”

You look down at it in your palm, your ring. The one she slipped on your finger with shaking hands the night you said yes.

Your fingers close around it. You swallow.

“I’m so sorry… I wasn’t trying to hide you,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t want her to ruin this. She ruins everything, Agatha…” you can’t help but repeat, making sure Agatha truly knows where you’re coming from.

“Well then let her try,” she growls, protective fire igniting behind her eyes. “Let her come over here and see the life we’ve built. Let her look me in the eye while I tell her how fucking loved you are.”

Your knees wobble. She’s got both hands on your waist now, pulling you in tight, your chest against hers.

“I want everyone to know you’re mine,” she murmurs against your mouth. “I want that ring to shine. I want your hand in mine everywhere we go. You don’t need to make yourself small for anyone, sweetheart. Especially not for someone who doesn’t know what a fucking miracle you are.”

Now you’re crying again but this time for a different reason. You bury yourself in her shirt, wrapping your arms around her middle.

“Agatha…”

“I’ve got you,” she breathes, kissing the crown of your head. “Always, baby. Always.”

You stay there a long time, swaying together in the dim kitchen, your arms clutched around her like an anchor, your ring now back on your finger, where it belongs.

“You’re mine, honey. Forever. I don’t care who I have to fight. I’ll take on the whole damn world for you.” She strokes your spine, murmuring in your ear.

“I love you.” You tilt your head up, teary eyed and adoring.

Her expression softens. “Good,” she says, voice deep and rough. “Then let me show you.”

And when she picks you up with her strong arms around your thighs, your soft little gasp against her jaw tells her that you know exactly what she means.

The bedroom’s warm, the only light is the soft amber spill from the bedside lamp and the slow rise and fall of her chest against your back.

You’re nestled in Agatha’s arms, completely surrounded by her thighs bracketing yours, one arm under your neck, the other draped over your waist like she’s holding her most precious thing.

Her breath is slow and even against your hair, your hand resting over hers. And then you reach for your ring. You twist it gently off your finger, holding it between thumb and forefinger, and turn in her arms just enough to press it into her palm.

“Put it back on me properly?” you murmur, soft and shy.

She raises a brow. “Again?”

You nod, biting your lip.

She chuckles, low and warm in her chest. “Will you marry me, baby?”

Your grin spreads so fast you can’t even try to hide it.

“Yes please,” you whisper, breathless.

She takes your left hand and cradles it reverently before she slides the ring back onto your finger, watching the band slip back into its rightful place, snug and shining. You let out a dreamy little sigh like it’s your favorite feeling in the world, because it is. And she knows it.

“God, you love this,” she murmurs, smiling down at you as your eyes flutter. “My pretty little fiancée…”

“I love being yours.” You nod, eyes glossy, lip caught in your teeth.

“You are mine.” Her voice drops an octave, gravel thick and laced with that ache she gets when she’s feeling too much.

She curls her arm tighter around you. Her nose presses to your temple. “I’d put that ring on you every damn day if it meant seeing that smile.”

Your heart flips. You squirm back against her chest just a little, tilting your face up toward hers, cheeks flushed. “I’d like that.”

“Oh, baby…” She presses a kiss to your jaw, to your shoulder. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around hers and allowing yourself to be caged in completely. That’s your favorite place, wrapped up in her, claimed and warm and wanted.

“You’d let me,” you hum.

“In a heartbeat.”

You’re half in her lap now, her arms wrapping you up tighter the more you squirm against her, not to get away, but you’re just so full of love, full of her, this ache, this buzz, this need to be close to her.

Her hand cradles the back of your head, her palm warm, fingers spreading through your hair.

“I love you,” you breathe, pulling back just enough to whisper it against her lips. “I love you so much.”

She stills for a moment, like the words hit her somewhere too deep to move.

Then her arms tighten around you, slow and sure. She nuzzles her nose against your cheek, her lips brushing the edge of your mouth.

“Oh, baby…” Her voice is rough and low. “You say that like I’ll ever stop needing to hear it.”

You whimper softly and cling tighter. You’re in nothing but your panties and the ring she slid back onto your finger; she’s in her old shirt and a pair of sweats she only ever wears when it’s just the two of you. And even dressed like that with no makeup, and hair wild from bed, she looks at you like you’re everything. Like she can’t believe you’re hers.

You tilt your chin, searching for her eyes. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you so much it’s fucking stupid,” she says, voice thick. “I’m nearly fifty, I’m a grumpy, tired cop with a bad back and more regrets than I can count…”

“Stop,” you whisper, pouting.

“…and then there’s you,” she finishes, eyes locked on yours. “This perfect, warm, sweet little thing who looks at me like I hung the damn moon.”

You swallow.

“You did,” you whisper. “For me, you did.”

She groans like it physically hurts how much she wants you. Her hands slip down your back, over the curve of your hips, cradling you close as she kisses your neck, your jaw, your cheekbone, whispering between kisses.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“I hope not.”

“Oh, I’ll die happy,” she breathes. “If it’s in this bed, with you in my arms, saying you love me like that?”

You giggle. Her nose scrapes your cheek. Your ring glints in the low light.

“You love it when I get needy,” you whisper.

She hums. “I love you.”

Then, firmer, breath warm on your throat, “and I’ll love you forever.”

You curl tighter into her chest, letting her hold you, letting her kiss you again, slow and deep and steady, like she’s promising everything she’ll ever give you, one kiss at a time.

She’s got you exactly how she wants you, bare legged and soft, curled up in her lap with her cock hot and heavy between your thighs, resting against the cotton of your soaked panties.

Her lips drag over the side of your throat, slow and warm and knowing.

“Tell me you love me, baby.”

You let out a tiny gasp. You try to nod, but she tuts gently, nose brushing your jaw as her hand presses more firmly between your legs.

“Words, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “Say it for me.”

“I-I love you,” you breathe, voice trembling. “I love you, Agatha…”

“Again.” She groans.

You squirm against her. “Be a good girl. Say it again.”

“I love you,” you whisper, more certain this time. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“That’s right,” she growls softly, dragging her mouth down your neck. “My good girl. My sweet, needy baby. You love me.”

You nod quickly. “I do, please, I love you.”

And now she’s moving, slow strokes over your panties, letting you grind down onto her cock, her hand, as she kisses you again, right under the ear.

“You know what that does to me?” she breathes. “Hearing you say that?”

You moan, high and soft, like it’s your only language.

She grins against your skin.

“I could fuck you just like this,” she murmurs. “Keep you in my lap, in my arms, whispering how much you love me while I ruin you on my cock…”

Your hips stutter.

“Would you let me, baby?”

“Y-yeah…”

“You want me to take you just like this?” she presses. “Still in your panties, just move ‘em to the side, slide in slow…”

You whine.

She groans again, deeper this time, more ragged.

“God, you make me crazy.”

You tilt your face toward hers, breath catching, and she kisses you again, hungry, deep, possessive.

“Say it one more time,” she whispers, forehead against yours.

You look up at her with those glassy, doe eyes, trembling, flushed, ring glittering on your finger where it clutches her arm, and you say it again like a prayer.

“I love you.”

“Good girl.” She exhales.

Her mouth never leaves your neck as her fingers tug the edge of your panties aside.

“You sure, baby?” she whispers, voice low and deep right against your skin.

You nod fast, breath shivering, hips rolling back into her. “Yes, yes, please, I want you…”

You hear her groan, that same ruined sound she makes when you moan her name in the dark, and her cock presses lower, guided by one strong hand until the head is nestled right there against your entrance. It’s so hot. And you’re so wet.

“Relax for me,” she murmurs, kissing your temple. “Gonna go real slow. I’ve got you.”

You whimper as she starts to slide in. Just the tip at first. Then she pauses to let you breathe. One hand cradling your hip, the other stroking up your stomach to cup your breast.

“Breathe, baby,” she murmurs, so tender, so in control.

You nod again, lip caught between your teeth, clutching at her wrist as her cock pushes deeper.

Your back arches instinctively, body trembling in her arms.

“Fuck Agatha!” You gasp.

“I know,” she groans against your ear, voice fraying. “You’re doing so good. So tight around me, baby, shit, just like that.”

She grinds in a little deeper, and you cry out, a broken, breathless gasp that makes her curse again under her breath.

“God, listen to you. You’re taking me, baby fuck, so good.”

You nod frantically, tears pricking your lashes, overwhelmed and full and clinging to her like she’s all you know.

She kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your shoulder.

“I’ve got you. You’re mine. You know that, right?”

You sob out a yes, the ring on your finger catching the lamplight as your hand claws at the arm holding you.

“You love me, baby?” she pants, rocking into you slow and steady now, each inch dragging against nerves you didn’t know you had.

“Yes, yes I love you, I love you so much Agatha!”

And just like that she’s finally fully inside you. You gasp, feeling stretched and split and so safe. And she loves you like this, broken open in her arms, her cock buried deep and your lips whispering promises of forever into the dark. She moans, pulling you impossibly closer, your bodies flushed together, sweat slick and trembling.

“Never letting you go,” she growls. “Never. You’re mine.”

You can’t even speak anymore, just sob and shake and nod into her kiss, because she’s right. You’re hers. Forever.

“Oh, baby,” she breathes, hips rocking just enough to drag her cock over your sweet spot, the thick length of it buried so deep. “You feel that? Feel how good you’re takin’ me?”

You sob out a breathy yes and bury your face in the crook of her neck.

She’s got you caged against her chest, her arms wrapped tight around your middle, one hand palming your tit like she can’t get enough of how soft you are, how perfectly you fit against her.

She kisses your shoulder. Murmurs, “So tight around me, fuck you were made for this, baby. Made to take me.”

You shudder, helpless. Her cock grinds slow and steady inside you, every thrust making your thighs quake, your body melt further into hers.

She groans again, low and broken. “Can feel you flutterin’ around me, sweet girl. Like your pussy’s tryin’ to keep me.”

You nod into her throat, gasping when her hips roll again, deeper.

“Agatha…”

“Oh, I know,” she rasps. “It’s a lot, huh? You’ve never had anything like this. But look at you now, takin’ it so perfect.”

Her hand slides down between your legs and she circles your clit slowly and practiced.

You squeal, clutching her arm, legs shaking.

She moans into your hair. “That’s it, baby. Let mommy take care of you. Let me ruin this sweet little pussy for anyone else…”

“Y-You already did,” you whimper, voice shaking. “No one else, ever, just you…”

“Goddamn right it’s just me,” she growls, cock driving a little deeper now, a little faster. “You’re mine. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” you sob.

“My pretty little fiancée. Fuckin’ obsessed with you.”

Her fingers work faster on your clit, and you feel it building, too fast, too hard, and you whine, voice breaking, “C-Can’t, Agatha, oh my god!”

“You can, baby,” she purrs, mouth hot at your jaw. “Come for me. Right now. Wanna feel you soak me, wanna feel this pretty cunt cry for me.”

And just like that you shatter. Screaming. Clawing at her arm. Legs clamping shut as your whole body convulses in her lap, pussy squeezing so tight around her cock she curses, guttural and desperate, holding you through every wave of it.

She doesn’t stop. Not even when you’re shaking. Not even when the sobs spill out of your throat like helpless little gasps. She just kisses your shoulder, still whispering to you.

“That’s my girl. My perfect fuckin’ girl.”

You’re still crying when she finally stills her hips, her cock twitching inside you. You’re trembling, open, so full, your body completely spent.

When she pulls out you both whimper at the loss. You’re still so full, so raw and open, her cock slick with everything you gave her. And you don’t even have time to catch your breath before you feel her press a kiss to the top of your spine, her voice rough and aching.

“Need to come, baby. You gonna let me finish?”

You’re already nodding, teary-eyed and flushed, and she groans like she’s losing it.

“Yeah?” she rasps, sliding her hand down your back, your waist, your ass. “Get on all fours for me, then. Show me that sweet little pussy again.”

You whimper and do as you’re told, back arching instinctively, cunt still clenching around nothing as you present yourself for her.

“God damn,” she growls, kneeling behind you. “You look so fucked out, baby.”

She strokes her cock once, still hard and soaked with your juices, and lines herself up again.

“You sure?” she checks, even though she already knows the answer. “You’re sore, I know. But I gotta finish, baby. Gotta come in this tight little cunt.”

You look back at her with big, glassy eyes and whisper, “I want you to.”

That’s it. That’s all she needed. Her hands grip your hips, firm but reverent, and then she pushes in. You cry out and she curses under her breath, like the heat of you is overwhelming.

“Fuck,” she groans. “Still so tight, baby. Like your pussy knows it’s mine.”

You whimper again, burying your face in the pillow, gasping as she bottoms out, her hips snug against your ass, balls heavy against your thighs.

Agatha doesn’t move at first, just grips your hips and watches you take her. She watches how pretty you look stretched around her cock, how your back rises and falls in stuttered little breaths.

“You’re perfect,” she murmurs, low and rough. “You know that? No one’s ever touched you. No one but me.”

You nod, breath hitching. “Just you. Just want you.”

“Yeah, baby,” she rasps. “You’re mine.”

And then she moves. Her hips snap into you with a slow, punishing rhythm, not too fast, but deep. Every thrust knocks a little gasp out of you. Every drag of her cock makes your thighs shake.

You sob into the pillow. She groans behind you.

“Still so good for me,” she pants. “Even when you’re crying. Even when you’re sore. Still open for your mommy.”

You nod helplessly, as her hand slides up your back, between your shoulder blades, gently pressing you further into the mattress as she picks up the pace.

“You wanted me to come, didn’t you?” she grits out. “That’s why you got on all fours like this. ‘Cause you need it.”

“Yes,” you whimper, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Good girl.”

And that’s when she starts to lose it.

Her thrusts get rougher. She’s panting now, hands gripping your hips so hard they’ll leave bruises, cock twitching inside you with every grind.

You’re crying again, broken little sobs that only make her groan harder.

“Oh, my babygirl,” she pants. “So fuckin’ needy. Letting me use this sweet pussy however I want. You’re gonna make me come, baby.”

“Please,” you sob. “I want you to. Please come, Mommy!”

That’s it. She slams deep and stays there, cock buried to the hilt, and you feel her jerk as she spills inside you, low and broken moans spilling from her throat as she comes.

She stays inside you, her weight draped over your back, her mouth pressing kisses to your spine, her voice ragged in your ear.

“That’s my girl,” she murmurs. “Took me so well. Made me feel so fuckin’ good.”

You collapse beneath her, trembling and tearful and completely claimed. She pulls you into her arms, still inside you, and kisses the top of your head.

She doesn’t pull out right away, instead Agatha keeps you pressed to her chest, your back against her front, her cock still buried deep in your sore, spent pussy. She has her arms wrapped tight around your waist as if she’s scared you’ll float away if she lets go.

You’re drifting, every part of you is flushed and fluttering and full. And Agatha is beaming.

“Fuckin’ hell,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “My baby took me so well. You feel that? How full you are?”

You nod, whimpering, too gone to speak.

She chuckles, all smug and fond, her hand sliding down to cup your inner thigh and pull your leg over hers, opening you up even more so she can feel herself still tucked inside.

“Yeah, you feel it,” she says proudly. “My perfect little fiancée. Always so good for me.”

You sigh, eyes fluttering closed, cheek nuzzled against her arm. You’re all melted down now, like honey in her bed, warm and sweet and still catching your breath.

“Did so good for me, baby. So fuckin’ tight. So desperate to make Mommy come, weren’t you?”

You nod again, teary and blissed out, and she groans softly like you’re her favorite thing in the world.

“You should’ve seen yourself,” she whispers against your ear. “Crying on my cock. All pretty and wide eyed. Fuckin’ heaven.”

You make a shy little noise, and she grins into your hair. “Oh don’t get all shy on me now. Not after you begged me to fuck you full.”

“Didn’t beg,” you mumble.

She laughs, full and warm. “No? That wasn’t begging, sweetheart?”

You hide your face in her bicep and she just cuddles you closer.

“I love you,” you whisper.

She kisses your forehead. as“I love you more. Gonna marry the fuck out of you. Never letting you go.”

Her fingers stroke your hip, then slip lower over the swell of your belly, down to where you’re still stretched and leaking, absolutely stuffed with her come. She hums, satisfied.

“God, look at that. My baby all full of me. You really are the perfect girl.”

You squirm a little, breath catching.

“Don’t move,” she murmurs. “Just let me hold you.”

And you do. You stay there, all tangled up, her cock still inside you, her voice in your ear. She doesn’t stop talking soft, dirty praise between kisses, her voice low and proud and sweet.

“Gonna keep you like this forever,” she says. “All mine.”

You nod against her, sleepy and blissed.

“My perfect girl. My good girl. My fiancée.” She smiles

~

The next morning, you wake to the sound of her making coffee in the kitchen, her flannel shirt thrown on over her bare skin, her own ring glinting on her finger as she leans against the counter, scrolling the news on her phone.

When you pad in wearing just one of her old shirts, still sleepy, she looks up and softens instantly.

“Hey, baby.”

You smile, rubbing your eyes as you come to hug her. Her hand comes up to hold your against her chest.

“You sleep okay?” she murmurs.

“Mhm. You?”

“Barely. Too busy thinking about you.”

You blink up at her, surprised, and she turns to face you fully.

“I mean it,” she says. “I’ve been thinking all night about how small you looked yesterday. When you told me about your mom.”

You glance down, instantly self-conscious. “I wasn’t trying to…”

“No, baby. I’m not upset,” she says gently. “But I want you to hear me.”

She tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, tilts your chin so you’re looking at her again. “I don’t want you hiding who you are. Or who we are. You hear me?”

You nod slowly.

“Good. Because I’m serious. Invite her.”

You blink. “What?”

“Invite your mom over,” Agatha says, voice steady. “I want to meet her.”

You shift, nervous. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

“I do,” she says. “She needs to see us together. She needs to see how loved you are.”

You go quiet, lip trembling slightly, and Agatha wraps her arms around you.

“She needs to see you wearing that ring. In this house. Happy.”

You bury your face in her chest, and she presses a kiss to your hair.

“Let her try to ruin it,” she whispers. “It won’t change a thing. You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

You nod, holding her tighter.

Salem smoldered behind you, smoke still curling into the pale morning sky as the sun began to rise. The town you had grown up in had become little more than charred wood and memories. The people who had raised you were gone. The neighbors who had whispered about your magic were gone. Everything familiar had vanished in a single night, leaving behind only silence and ash.

You should have been grieving. You should have been terrified.

Instead, you found yourself sitting beside a lake just beyond the edge of town, watching the sunrise paint gold across the water.

The moment felt strange even then.

For years, your family had treated your magic like a curse. Every spark of power beneath your skin had been met with fear, disappointment, or anger. They wanted you quiet. They wanted you obedient. They wanted you to become the kind of woman who never asked questions and never stepped beyond the life that had been chosen for her. Every dream you carried felt too large for the world they had built around you.

Now there was no one left to tell you who you were supposed to be. The realization should have felt freeing. Instead, it felt lonely.

You remembered pulling your knees to your chest and staring across the lake, trying to imagine what came next. The water reflected the colors of dawn in shades of pink and gold while birds called from the trees overhead. For the first time in your life, there was nothing expected of you.

No home. No family. No future. Only a sunrise.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention. Two women stood several yards away.

One was dressed in dark clothing, her posture confident despite the destruction that lingered behind her. There was power in every movement she made, the kind that seemed to bend the world around her. Even before you knew her name, there was something impossible about her.

The second woman stood slightly behind her. Everything about her felt older than the earth beneath your feet. You would spend centuries trying to explain Rio Vidal to people and never quite succeed. There had always been something cosmic about her, something vast and eternal hidden beneath her smile. Looking back, perhaps part of you recognized what she truly was even then.

Neither woman spoke immediately. They simply watched you. You watched them right back. The silence stretched long enough that it should have become uncomfortable, yet somehow it never did.

Years later, Agatha would claim she approached first because she was worried you might be injured.

Rio would argue that Agatha had simply been staring. Agatha would insist that was not true. Rio would laugh every single time. You never once received the same version of the story twice.

What you did remember was the way the morning light caught in Rio's dark hair. The way Agatha looked at you as though she had discovered something unexpected. The way neither of them treated you with fear. For perhaps the first time in your life, nobody was looking at your magic like it was a problem that needed fixing.

You often wondered if they knew, in that moment, how much they would come to mean to you. If they knew they would become your home. That they would become your family. That decades later, you would still wake up between them, still laughing at Agatha's terrible jokes, still listening to Rio talk to her plants as though they were old friends.

Perhaps they did. Perhaps they didn't.

What you knew for certain was that they sat beside you as the sun climbed higher into the sky, and somewhere between the silence and the sunrise, your life changed forever.

It had been like that ever since.

Time passed in the strange, beautiful way they always seemed to when shared with people you loved. You watched empires rise and fall. You witnessed wars, revolutions, and enough questionable fashion choices to fill entire museums. Entire countries changed names. Languages evolved. Music transformed. Humanity stumbled forward, generation after generation. Through all of it, somehow, the three of you remained. Some years were filled with joy. Some years were filled with grief. Some years were spent simply surviving. Yet no matter where history carried you, no matter how much the world changed around you, Agatha and Rio were always there.

Now, you shared a small house not far from a university campus. It was almost laughable how ordinary your life had become. You had spent lifetimes outrunning hunters, surviving wars, and witnessing the rise and fall of nations, yet your greatest concern that morning was locating an article buried somewhere inside a digital archive.

The university library buzzed with activity around you as students filled nearly every table. The low hum of conversation mixed with the sound of turning pages and tapping keyboards while sunlight streamed through the tall windows overlooking campus. Someone was whispering frantically about an exam they clearly should have studied for sooner while a printer somewhere nearby sounded moments away from giving up on life entirely.

You loved places like this. Always had.

There was something magical about knowledge gathered in one location. Thousands of stories waiting to be discovered. Thousands of voices refusing to be forgotten. Every shelf, every archive, every carefully preserved document represented someone’s life, someone’s memory, someone’s attempt to leave a mark behind.

Your family would have hated it. The thought made you smile despite yourself.

They had spent years trying to convince you that curiosity was a flaw. That asking questions made you difficult. That a woman's place was inside the boundaries someone else created for her. Every book you opened had been treated like a challenge to their authority. Every opinion had been an argument. Every dream had been dismissed before it ever had the chance to grow.

If they could see you now. A young Queer woman pursuing another degree simply because you wanted to.

The thought was satisfying.

Several months earlier, you had announced over dinner that you wanted another degree.

Agatha had stared at you over the rim of her wine glass. "You already have seven."

You had shrugged. "I'm bored."

Rio nearly choked on her tea, laughing.

The conversation had somehow turned into a twenty-minute debate about whether seven degrees was already excessive. Agatha argued that it absolutely was. Rio argued that you had earned the right to do whatever you wanted. You had pointed out that neither of them complained when you spent months buried inside archives researching obscure historical events. Agatha had muttered something about that being different. Rio had immediately asked how. Neither of you ever received an answer.

Despite their teasing, neither woman had ever denied you knowledge. They remembered the young woman Salem had tried to silence. They remembered the girl whose family had demanded she make herself smaller to fit inside the life they wanted for her. Every degree, every conference presentation, every article you published felt like a quiet act of defiance against the people who once insisted your voice did not matter.

Which was precisely why you found yourself sitting in the library at eleven-thirty in the morning, fighting with a stubborn digital archive while texting your wives about lunch.

The article loaded slowly enough that you had time to question every life decision that had brought you to this moment.

A progress wheel spun lazily in the center of the screen while your foot bounced beneath the table. When the page finally appeared, your eyes immediately scanned the title, hope rising in your chest for the briefest of moments before disappointment followed close behind. Wrong source. Again.

A groan escaped you as you leaned back in your chair, one hand dragging down your face. Three hours. You had been sitting in this library for three hours chasing a citation that seemed determined not to be found. Somewhere, buried inside thousands of scanned documents, journal articles, and archived records, was the source you needed. Unfortunately, it appeared to be playing an elaborate game of hide-and-seek.

Your fingers drummed against the edge of the table while you clicked back to the search page. The database responded with all the urgency of wet paint drying. As the screen struggled to load, your attention drifted toward the massive windows overlooking campus.

Outside, autumn had settled across the university in earnest. Golden leaves drifted through the air every time the wind picked up, collecting along sidewalks and beneath benches before scattering again moments later. Students crossed the quad in clusters, backpacks slung over shoulders and coffee cups clutched in their hands. A group sat near the fountain, laughing loudly enough that the sound occasionally carried through the glass whenever the library doors opened. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle bell rang before disappearing beneath the hum of campus life. The sight made you smile.

There had been a time when a place like this would have felt impossible. Back then, your family had viewed curiosity as something dangerous. Questions led to trouble. Knowledge led to independence. Independence led to disobedience. They had spent years trying to convince you that wanting more was a flaw.

Now you sat in a university library pursuing another degree simply because you wanted to.

The thought never failed to amuse you.

Around you, the library remained alive with quiet activity. Students moved between shelves carrying armfuls of books. Someone highlighted passages in a textbook nearby with the concentration of a person desperately trying to memorize an entire semester in a single afternoon. The steady rhythm of keyboards filled the air while whispered conversations rose and fell between rows of tables.

It was ordinary. Wonderfully, beautifully ordinary. Not the kind of ordinary people noticed while living it, but the kind you had learned to treasure. A crowded library. A research project. Students worried about exams. The promise of returning home at the end of the day.

The sort of ordinary people fought wars to protect.

Your phone vibrated beside your laptop. The smile appeared before you even looked at the screen.

Aggie: 💜

You opened the message.

Alive?

A laugh escaped immediately. Debatable.

The response came so quickly she had clearly been waiting. Tragic.

The archive hates me, Aggie. It is actively working against me.

Three dots appeared. Maybe it knows you're a historian.

You rolled your eyes. That's discrimination.

It's self-defense.

The laugh that escaped this time earned a glance from a student several tables away. You immediately pressed your lips together, trying—and failing—to contain your amusement. Decades of loving Agatha Harkness. And somehow, she still managed to make you laugh at the most inconvenient times.

Another message appeared. And yet you're losing.

You snorted. Rude.

Accurate. Before you could respond, another text arrived. When are you coming home?

Your eyes drifted across the battlefield occupying your table. Open notebooks. Printed articles. Color-coded sticky notes. Three different pens. A half-empty water bottle. Enough research material to suggest you had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

When I find this article.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. So never?

The laugh that escaped this time was loud enough that you immediately clapped a hand over your mouth. The student nearest you looked up from their textbook with an amused smile. You mouthed a silent apology. They returned to reading. You looked back at your phone.

Aggie. I'm hungry.

You're a witch.

And?

Make food.

Several seconds passed. Then a photograph appeared. You opened it. For a moment you simply stared. The image appeared to contain the remains of a grilled cheese sandwich. At least, you assumed it had once been a grilled cheese sandwich. Now it looked like something recovered from an archaeological excavation. The bread had somehow achieved a shade of black usually associated with volcanic rock.

Your smile was louder than any laugh that you could have made.  How did you even do that?

I got distracted.

By what?

The answer arrived so quickly it felt rehearsed. Thinking about my wife.

Heat bloomed instantly across your cheeks. Gods.

Your smile lingered as another message appeared. Rio says bring coffee. Then another. Rio says you're taking too long. Then a third. Rio says she loves you. A pause followed. I also love you, but the coffee remains a priority.

Your chest ached with affection.

You could picture the scene perfectly. Agatha sprawled dramatically across the couch as though you had abandoned her for decades instead of a few hours. Rio tending to her plants while pretending not to encourage the theatrics. At some point Rio would offer a perfectly reasonable solution. Agatha would ignore it entirely. Somehow the conversation would become your problem. It always became your problem. The thought settled warmly in your chest.

Home. Not the house itself. Not the walls. Not the furniture. Them. It had always been them. After wars, losses, rebuilding, grief, joy, and finding your way back to one another again and again, home had stopped being a location a very long time ago. Home was Agatha stealing your side of the bed. Home was Rio talking to her plants as though they were old friends. Home was knowing that no matter how frustrating your day became, there were two people waiting for you at the end of it.

Your smile softened as you looked down at the messages one last time before setting your phone beside the laptop and turning back toward the archive, completely unaware that within the next few minutes, the ordinary life you had spent lifetimes building was about to shatter.

The archive continued its personal vendetta against you.

Another article loaded. Another dead end. Another source that looked promising until it wasn't. Your fingers moved automatically across the keyboard, opening tabs, scanning abstracts, checking footnotes, and closing windows with the practiced rhythm of someone who had spent far too many years buried inside archives. If anyone had asked, you would have told them you were being productive.

The growing pile of rejected sources suggested otherwise.

With a sigh, you reached for your water bottle and took a long drink. The water had long since lost the chill it possessed that morning, but you welcomed it anyway. Across the room, someone stood to leave, gathering notebooks and charging cords while carefully trying not to disturb the students around them. A librarian pushed a cart between the shelves, reshelving books with the sort of quiet efficiency that only came from years of practice.

The normalcy of it all settled around you like a blanket. No one in this room knew that you had watched empires collapse. No one knew you remembered a world before electricity. No one knew you had stood beside Agatha while entire galaxies unfolded around the two of you, or that Rio had taught you the names of constellations that no longer existed in quite the same way they once had. To everyone around you, you were simply another graduate student losing a fight against a database.

Honestly, you preferred it that way.

The archive loaded another page. Your eyes skimmed the title. Then paused. A small flicker of excitement sparked in your chest. Maybe. The article looked closer than the others. Not perfect, but close enough to justify opening it. You clicked the link and waited for the document to load.

A shadow fell briefly across your table. You assumed it was another student passing by. The library was crowded enough that people were constantly moving through the aisles. You barely looked up.

The article finally opened. You immediately leaned closer to the screen, scanning the opening paragraphs. The author referenced a source you hadn't seen before. Your pulse quickened slightly. That was promising. Very promising. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

Finally.

Then a voice interrupted. "Excuse me."

You looked up.

A man stood beside the empty chair across from you. At first glance there was absolutely nothing remarkable about him. He looked like any number of professors you had encountered over the years. Older. Well dressed. Neatly groomed. The sort of person who blended easily into a university setting.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked politely.

Your gaze drifted around the room. Every table nearby was occupied. Students had begun claiming spots along the windows and against the walls, some balancing laptops on their knees while others sat cross-legged on the floor beside outlets. Midterms were approaching. The library had become a battlefield.

"Go ahead."

"Thank you."

The man offered a small nod before lowering himself into the chair. His movements were measured and deliberate, neither rushed nor hesitant. For a moment, you thought nothing of it. Why would you? It was a crowded university library in the middle of the day. People shared tables all the time.

Your attention returned to the article glowing on your screen.

The source was finally looking promising. The author referenced several collections you hadn't encountered before, and you quickly opened three new tabs before you could lose the trail. Your pen scratched across a yellow legal pad as you jotted notes in the margins. Half-finished thoughts. Page numbers. Citation reminders. Questions to chase later. The sort of notes that looked completely incomprehensible to anyone except the person who wrote them.

Several minutes passed.

The library continued around you. A student nearby quietly cursed after dropping a highlighter. Somewhere deeper in the building, a cart rattled across the floor as books were reshelved. The heating system kicked on overhead with a soft hum, pushing warm air through the room. Someone laughed near the circulation desk before immediately lowering their voice when a librarian looked in their direction.

Normal. Everything felt normal. You reached for your water bottle without looking away from the article. Your fingers missed. The bottle rolled off the edge of the table. Before it could hit the floor, the man leaned forward and caught it.

The movement was fast. Not impossibly fast. Just fast enough that it caught your attention. For a moment, you stared. Then a small laugh escaped you. “I’m so sorry.” The man smiled faintly as he handed it back. "Good reflexes."

Something flickered across his face. "Occupational habit."

The answer was simple enough that most people would have let it pass without a second thought. You certainly tried to.

"Thank you."

"Don’t mention it."

You unscrewed the cap and took a drink before returning your attention to the article. Yet something lingered. Not the interaction itself. The feeling.

A small thread of awareness tugged somewhere in the back of your mind. You couldn't explain it. The exchange had been perfectly normal. Polite. Forgettable. Still, as you lowered the bottle back onto the table, you found yourself glancing up again.

The man sat quietly across from you. No laptop. No notebook. No textbook. No phone. Nothing. The realization lingered for a moment before you dismissed it. Plenty of people came to libraries for reasons other than studying. Maybe he was waiting for someone. Maybe he had finished working and was simply taking a break.

You returned to your article. Another minute passed. Then another. The feeling remained. Concern settled into your chest first. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make you notice.

Outside the windows, students crossed the quad beneath a brilliant autumn sky. Golden leaves danced through the air whenever the wind picked up, scattering across brick walkways before gathering against benches and tree roots. A group of students hurried toward class carrying coffee cups and backpacks while another sat beneath a tree arguing passionately about something that probably felt world-changing.

Life carried on.

The concern lingered. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it became unease. You had lived long enough to know the difference between anxiety and instinct. Anxiety spiraled. Instinct whispered.

This felt like a whisper.

You found yourself paying attention without meaning to. Watching the reflection in your laptop screen. Tracking movement from the corner of your eye. Listening for things you couldn't quite name. The man wasn't reading. Wasn't typing. Wasn't checking his phone. He was simply sitting there. Looking around as if looking for someone. Waiting.

The realization settled heavily in your stomach. Not enough for fear. Not yet. Enough for worry. Enough that old memories began stirring. You had spent lifetimes outrunning people like him. Not this man specifically. The people behind him. The cause. The obsession.

For as long as there had been magic, there had been hunters. They called themselves different things depending on the era. Religious orders. Secret societies. Protectors. Purifiers. Guardians. The names changed. The symbols changed. The methods changed.

The mission never did. They wanted witches gone. Some wanted power. Some wanted answers. Some convinced themselves they were saving humanity.

Entire families dedicated themselves to the cause. Journals filled with names and observations were passed from one generation to the next. Children inherited grudges against people they had never met. Parents taught their sons and daughters that hunting witches was a sacred duty. One generation failed. The next picked up where they left off. Again. And again. And again. The hunt never truly ended. It simply learned patience.

Your fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. The article in front of you blurred. The concern became worry. The worry became recognition. Not of the man. Of the feeling.

The same feeling that had warned you before traps. Before betrayals. Before moments where survival depended entirely upon noticing danger before it revealed itself.

Quietly, you clicked save on your notes. Then saved them again. Just in case. The action felt ridiculous. Paranoid. You almost laughed at yourself. Maybe Agatha was rubbing off on you. You could already hear her voice. "See? This is why I don't trust people." The thought almost made you smile.

Almost.

Instead, you found yourself reaching for your phone. A quick text. Maybe you would head home early. The article could wait. Agatha would be insufferably pleased. Rio would pretend she hadn't expected exactly this outcome. Life would continue. You just needed to leave.

The moment you closed your laptop, the man's expression changed. Only slightly. But enough.. Not dramatically. Just enough. Like someone realizing the game was about to end. Enough that your pulse immediately quickened

You slid the computer into your bag. Reached for your phone. Prepared to stand. Then the man spoke. "I've been looking for you for a very long time."

You blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

The man's smile didn't falter. His gaze swept over you slowly. "You reek of them."

Your stomach dropped. "What?"

"The women you've been hiding with." His smile sharpened. "Their magic is all over you." His eyes never left yours.

"I've been tracking that scent for years. And you… You reek."

Every sound in the library seemed to disappear. The voices. The keyboards. The turning pages. All of it vanished beneath the sudden roar of blood in your ears.  Slowly, you looked up. The smile waiting for you wasn't friendly. It wasn't warm. It wasn't the smile of a stranger making conversation. It was recognition.

And for the first time in a long time, genuine fear unfurled inside your chest. Because nobody should know who you were. Not really. Not after changing names. Not after entire lifetimes spent disappearing before anyone could notice you never seemed to age. Nobody should have been able to find you.

Yet somehow, this man had. And the certainty settling into your bones told you something far worse. He hadn't just found you. He had been hunting you.

The realization hit like ice water down your spine. For a moment neither of you moved. The library continued around you, completely oblivious to the danger sitting quietly between rows of books and half-finished essays. Students typed away at laptops. Someone laughed near the circulation desk. A printer somewhere in the building emitted a noise that suggested it was losing a battle with modern technology.

No one noticed. No one knew. You forced yourself to breathe. One slow inhale. One slow exhale. Maybe there was still time. You had escaped hunters before. You had survived worse than this. Slowly, carefully, you slid your phone into your pocket.

Agatha. Rio.

The thought of them steadied you. You only had to get outside. Only had to put distance between yourself and whatever this was. One call. One text. One warning. They could handle whatever it was. The three of you together. Not alone.

The man watched every movement. Still smiling. Still patient. As though he already knew how this would end.

“Dude. I have no idea what your issue is. But I’d go talk to a doctor if you could smell women on me.” You pushed your chair back. The legs scraped softly against the floor. Ready to leave. Ready to run. Ready to get as far away from him as possible.

You adjusted the strap of your bag. Prepared to stand. Prepared to walk away. Prepared to run if necessary. Then the man spoke.  

"I wondered if you’d recognize me."

Something cold settled in your stomach. Not because you recognized him. You didn't. That was the problem. The certainty in his voice implied history. Familiarity. It implied that somehow, impossibly, this wasn't the first time your paths had crossed. Every instinct you possessed immediately began searching through centuries of memories, faces, names, and places.

You found nothing. The room lurched. At first, you thought it was panic. Then the floor seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your breath caught sharply in your throat as dizziness slammed into you without warning. One hand shot toward the table, fingers gripping the edge hard enough that your knuckles turned white. The polished wood dug painfully into your palm, but you barely felt it.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The realization arrived with startling clarity. This wasn't fear. This wasn't anxiety. Someone had done something.

The room tilted again.

Students blurred at the edges of your vision as though the world had suddenly lost its focus. Sunlight fractured across the library windows, turning into smears of gold and white. The steady sounds of keyboards and turning pages seemed strangely distant.

Your magic surged instinctively. A reflex. A lifetime of survival condensed into a single moment. You reached for it the same way someone might reach for a lifeline. For protection. For escape. For anything. The familiar pulse of power answered beneath your skin.

Then immediately slipped away. Your stomach dropped. No.

You reached again. Harder this time. Desperately. A protection spell. A ward. A rune. Anything that would buy you time.

Your fingers twitched against the tabletop as you attempted to trace a symbol into the wood. The motion was so practiced you didn't even have to think about it. You had cast spells in forests, battlefields, hidden covens, city streets, and burning buildings.

The symbol never formed. The magic dissolved before it could take shape. Like smoke scattered by the wind. A sharp spike of panic shot through your chest.

Power gathered beneath your skin. Then vanished. Again. And again. And again.

Every attempt slipping through your fingers before it could become anything useful. The sensation was horrifying. Not because your magic was gone. Because it wasn't. You could still feel it. Somewhere beneath your skin. Somewhere inside your soul. But something was pulling at it. Draining it. Drawing it away from you thread by thread. Like watching someone siphon blood from your veins while remaining powerless to stop them. The man remained seated. Watching. Patient. Interested. As though he were observing the final stages of an experiment.

Your pulse hammered in your ears.

Agatha.

The thought came instantly. Instinctively. You reached for the bond connecting your souls. For the familiar warmth that always lingered somewhere inside you. The steady presence of Agatha's magic had been a constant in your life for longer than most civilizations had existed. Even when continents separated you. Even when decades passed. Even when circumstances forced distance between you. She was always there.

You reached for her. Nothing. Your breath hitched. Not broken. Not gone. Just quiet.

The absence struck harder than the failing magic. For as long as you had been theirs the bond had been a living thing between the three of you. A comforting awareness resting somewhere beneath every waking moment. You never had to search for it because it was simply there.Now it felt distant. Like hearing a voice from the far end of a tunnel.  Panic clawed its way up your throat.

Rio. You reached again. For her.

For the impossible gravity of her existence that had anchored you through centuries of war, loss, and endless change. For the familiar pull of her soul against yours, constant and unwavering no matter how far apart you were. For the quiet certainty that came from knowing Death herself loved you with a devotion that transcended time, fate, and reason. You reached for the warmth hidden beneath her darkness. For the comfort of her presence wrapping around you like a protective embrace. For the promise she had always represented—that no matter where you wandered, no matter what dangers found you, you would never truly be alone.

For home. For Rio. For the certainty that if you called, she would answer as she promised you she always would. Nothing answered.

Not Agatha. Not Rio. Only silence.

The realization shattered through you. Whatever was happening wasn't merely suppressing your magic. It was isolating you. Cutting you away from the two people who had been at your side for lifetimes.

The room spun violently. Your vision darkened around the edges. Students became indistinct shapes.

The library dissolved into blurs of movement and sunlight. You tried to stand. Tried to force your body to move. Tried one final desperate time to reach for your magic. For Agatha. For Rio. For home. The silence that answered felt endless.

The last thing you saw was the man rising slowly from his chair, picking up your water bottle. Calm. Certain. As though he had known from the moment he sat down exactly how this would end.

Then darkness swallowed everything.

**************

Back at home, Agatha and Rio knew exactly where you were.

The library. Or, more specifically, buried somewhere beneath a mountain of articles, footnotes, and half-finished notes while attempting to track down a source that had probably been hiding from historians since the invention of the printing press.

They had received approximately seventeen texts about a stubborn archive, three complaints about missing citations, and one dramatically worded message accusing a database of personally conspiring against historians.

Neither woman was surprised. This was normal. The two of them had lived long enough to recognize the signs. Once a topic captured your attention, the rest of the world had a tendency to disappear. Hours became minutes. Meals were forgotten. Entire afternoons vanished beneath stacks of books, highlighted passages, and increasingly specific research questions that somehow always led to three more.

Agatha claimed it was one of your most frustrating qualities.

She also secretly adored it.

The small house sat comfortably beneath the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Light spilled through the windows and stretched across hardwood floors worn smooth by decades of living. Books occupied nearly every available surface. Some were stacked neatly on shelves while others had found homes on end tables, windowsills, and chairs because somebody—which Agatha insisted was you and Rio insisted was Agatha—refused to put them away.

A half-finished mug of tea rested on the coffee table. Somewhere in the kitchen, the remains of Agatha's attempted lunch still occupied the stove after she had declared the entire experience "a personal attack."

Rio had laughed so hard she nearly dropped her watering can.

Now she stood near the large windows overlooking the backyard, tending to the collection of plants that had steadily overtaken the house over the years. Vines curled around bookshelves. Flowers bloomed in places flowers had absolutely no business blooming. Small pots occupied every patch of sunlight they could find.

Rio considered this perfectly reasonable.

Agatha disagreed.

Frequently.

Usually while discovering a new plant where a plant had definitely not been the day before.

At the moment, Agatha lounged across the couch with all the dramatic elegance of a woman convinced she was suffering immensely. A book rested open in her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in nearly twenty minutes. Every few moments, her gaze drifted toward the front door before returning to the same paragraph she clearly wasn't reading.

"You know," she said eventually, breaking the comfortable silence, "she's been at the library for hours."

Rio didn't look up from the fern she was trimming. "She's researching."

"She's been researching for three days."

The corner of Rio's mouth twitched. "Mm."

Agatha sighed dramatically. "I miss our wife."

That finally earned her a glance. Rio's expression softened immediately. "We'll see her in a few. She’ll come home."

Agatha huffed. "I know she'll come home. I still miss her."

The response drew a quiet laugh from Rio before she returned her attention to the plant in her hands.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees surrounding the property. Leaves rustled softly against one another while sunlight filtered through the branches in shifting patterns of gold and green. Somewhere beyond the forest, a bird called out. The house responded with the familiar creaks and groans of a place that had been lived in, loved, and filled with memories.

Everything felt normal. Comfortable. Safe. The sort of afternoon the three of you had spent countless times together.

Then the bond went dark.

The watering can slipped from Rio's fingers before she even realized she had let go of it. Water splashed across the hardwood floor, soaking into the rug beneath her feet. Agatha was already standing before it hit. The book tumbled from her lap and landed forgotten among the couch cushions as every instinct she possessed immediately snapped toward the sudden absence where your presence should have been.

For a moment, neither woman moved.

The silence that followed felt wrong in a way Agatha couldn't immediately explain. The bond hadn't broken. If it had broken, they would have known. They would have felt it. This was something else entirely.

The connection was still there. Somewhere. They could feel the outline of it lingering at the edge of their awareness. It was like standing outside a familiar house and knowing someone was inside while being unable to see through the windows. Like hearing the faintest echo of a voice and realizing you couldn't make out the words.

The bond wasn't gone. It had been smothered. Buried beneath something unnatural. Agatha felt her stomach drop. The certainty arrived immediately, settling into her chest with terrifying clarity. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Rio."

She barely recognized her own voice. Across the room, Rio slowly lifted her head. Every trace of color had vanished from her face. The sight sent a fresh wave of dread crashing through Agatha because she realized instantly that Rio had felt it too.

The impossible thing. The thing that should not have been possible. For a heartbeat neither woman spoke. Agatha could practically see the thoughts racing behind Rio's eyes as she reached for the bond. Searching. Listening. Looking for any sign of you.

Finding only silence. Not absence. Not death. Silence. And somehow that was worse. You should have been there. A familiar warmth resting quietly at the edge of her awareness. The steady presence she had carried for so long she could no longer remember what it felt like not to have it.

Instead, there was only distance. Distance and a terrifying quiet that seemed to grow heavier with every passing second. Something shifted in Rio's expression. Agatha felt her heart sink. Because she knew that look. She had seen it before.

The look that appeared whenever Rio stopped being merely Rio and became something far older. Something that existed beyond names and faces and centuries. The air in the room seemed to change around her. Leaves trembled on nearby plants despite the absence of wind. A flowering vine slowly curled tighter around the bookshelf beside her as though reacting to something the rest of the world could not feel.

Death had noticed the silence too. Agatha's pulse hammered against her ribs. "Something's wrong." The words left her mouth in a whisper. Neither of them questioned it. Neither hesitated. After everything they had survived together, there was only one explanation for a silence like this. And neither woman wanted to say it aloud.

Rio moved first. Her eyes closed. Agatha watched as her wife reached outward with senses no mortal being possessed. The room seemed to grow impossibly still around her. The leaves stopped moving. The house itself felt as though it were holding its breath.

Rio listened. Not with her ears. With something older. Something woven into the fabric of existence itself. Agatha had watched her do it countless times over the centuries. Watched her locate souls across impossible distances. Watched her sense the final breaths of kings and beggars alike. Watched her know things no living creature should ever know.

For one terrible second, hope sparked inside Agatha's chest. Rio would find you. Of course she would. She was Rio. She was the Original Green Witch. Death. If anyone could find you, it would be her.

Then Rio's eyes opened. The hope died immediately. Because she had never seen that expression on Rio's face before. Confusion. Not uncertainty. Not fear. Confusion. As though she had reached into a place where an answer should have existed and found nothing waiting for her.

"I can't… feel her." The words barely rose above a whisper.

Agatha stared. "What?"

Rio swallowed. The motion looked strangely human. Vulnerable. "I can't feel her Agatha."

The room seemed to tilt beneath Agatha's feet. That wasn't possible. Rio could feel every soul. Every life. Every death.

Every heartbeat moving through the world. She had once located Agatha on another continent without so much as a map. She had found her through wars.Through oceans. Through centuries. And now she couldn't find you?

"No." The denial escaped before Agatha could stop it. Rio's jaw tightened. Agatha reached for the bond again. Harder this time. Desperately. You.

Come on, my love. Answer. Nothing. Only silence. The quiet was becoming unbearable. Agatha suddenly found herself reaching for her phone. Her fingers shook as she opened your messages.

The last text stared back at her. The last ordinary conversation. The last joke. The last piece of normalcy. Her thumb immediately pressed your contact. The call connected. Once. Twice. Three times.

Straight to voicemail. Something cold wrapped around her spine. Not fear. Not yet. Something worse. Because fear required uncertainty. And every instinct Agatha possessed was rapidly becoming certain of one thing.

You were gone.

***********

Consciousness didn’t return all at once.

It came in fragments, slow and disjointed, like something dragging you back piece by piece instead of allowing you to wake naturally. The first thing you became aware of was the cold. It pressed into your back, into your shoulders, into every part of you that touched the surface beneath you. It wasn’t the kind of cold that came from weather. It felt deliberate. Deep. Like the stone itself had been waiting for you.

Then came the sound.

A steady, uneven drip somewhere in the distance. Water striking stone in a slow, echoing rhythm that filled the silence in a way that made it feel heavier. Beneath it, there were voices. Low. Blurred. Too far away to understand, but close enough that you knew they were speaking about something—someone—with intent.

You didn’t open your eyes yet. You listened. You tried to gather yourself. Your body didn’t feel right. It felt… distant. Heavy. As though you had been laid out and forgotten for hours, your limbs no longer entirely under your control. Your breath came shallow at first, catching in your throat before settling into something uneven and strained.

Then you felt it. Pressure around your wrists. That was what forced your eyes open. The ceiling above you came into view slowly, your vision struggling to focus as the world swam in and out of clarity. Rough stone stretched overhead, uneven and cracked with age. Shadows moved across it, cast by a flickering light source somewhere just out of view. The dimness of the space made it difficult to tell how large the room was, but the echoes told you enough.

Enclosed. Maybe underground. Maybe not.

Your gaze shifted. The movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing through you, but you forced yourself to look. Iron. Bands of it. Your wrists were secured above you, stretched just far enough to make any attempt to pull away painful. The metal wrapped tightly around your skin, thick and unyielding, etched faintly with markings that pulsed just beneath the surface. More restraints circled your arms, your torso, your legs. Each one placed with intention. Each one layered.

Not just to hold you. To contain you. Enchanted iron. The realization hit with terrifying clarity. You could feel it. Not just the weight of it, but the magic threaded through it. Crude compared to your own, lacking the nuance and depth you had spent centuries mastering, but effective. Brutal in its simplicity. It pressed against your skin like a constant pressure, like something pushing back against you. Like something that knew what you were.

Your magic stirred instinctively. It rose beneath your skin the way it always had, answering fear with power, reaching outward for something to hold onto— And then it faltered. The sensation made your breath hitch sharply. You tried again. Harder this time. Desperately. A spark. A thread. Anything. The response came in the form of pain.

It tore through you, sharp and immediate, forcing a broken sound from your throat as the magic collapsed before it could take shape. It didn’t disappear. You could still feel it there, coiled somewhere deep inside you, but every attempt to reach it felt like pushing against something that refused to let it through.

Like something was taking it. Draining it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Careful.”

The voice cut through your thoughts. You turned your head toward it, your vision still struggling to steady as figures came into focus. At first, they were little more than shadows moving at the edge of the room, but as your eyes adjusted, shapes became people.

More than one. Several. They stood at varying distances, some closer, some further back, but all of them watching you with the same unsettling focus. Papers were spread across a nearby table. Books. Notes. Objects you couldn’t fully make out from where you were.

This wasn’t random. This was prepared. One of them stepped forward. They moved slowly, deliberately, crouching just enough to bring themselves into your line of sight. You didn’t recognize their face, but something about the way they looked at you made your stomach turn.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even hatred. It was curiosity. Measured. Interested. Like they were looking at something they had spent years trying to find.

“Awake,” someone else said behind them. There was the faint scratch of a pen moving across paper. Recording. Documenting. Your pulse began to pound harder. They hadn’t killed you. That realization settled heavily in your chest as everything else began to fall into place. They hadn’t meant to. They had taken you alive. The horror of that realization was worse than anything else.

Death would have been simple. This was not.

“Let’s begin.”

The words settled into the room with quiet authority, as though this moment had been prepared long before you ever opened your eyes. There was no urgency in them, no uncertainty. Only expectation.

The first question came immediately.

“How old are you?”

You said nothing. Your mind was still catching up, still trying to understand how they had done this, how they had found you, how they had managed to break through protections that had held for lifetimes. Silence felt like the only thing you had left that belonged to you, the only control you could still claim in a situation that had stripped everything else away.

For half a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the iron tightened. The sensation did not begin as pain. It began as pressure, something deep and invasive that moved through your body rather than against it. The bands around your wrists pulsed faintly, and suddenly it felt as though something inside you had been seized and pulled downward. Your breath caught sharply in your throat as your muscles tensed instinctively against the restraints, your body reacting before your mind could understand what was happening.

Pain followed. Not sharp. Not clean.

It was wrong.

It felt like something reaching into you and pulling at threads that were never meant to be touched, something interfering with the very foundation of what you were. A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, your fingers twitching uselessly against the iron as the sensation spread through your chest and down your spine.

“Answer,” one of them said calmly.

Your jaw tightened as you forced yourself still, forcing yourself to remain silent despite the way your body trembled beneath the strain. You would not give them anything. You would not let them take that from you too.

Another voice spoke, quieter this time, almost thoughtful. “They always try that first.”

The pressure returned, stronger now, more deliberate. It coiled through your chest and into your core, dragging against your magic in a way that made your vision blur at the edges. You could feel it then, unmistakably—something pulling at your power, not violently, but with precision. Testing. Measuring. Learning.

You bit down hard enough to taste blood.

Still, you did not answer. “Who is in your coven?”

The question landed heavier than the first. Your silence was immediate. The response came just as quickly. The iron flared again, and this time the pain spread outward, radiating through your limbs in a slow, grinding wave that made it difficult to breathe. It wasn’t just pain. It was depletion. You could feel something being taken alongside it, drawn from you in careful increments, as though they were deliberately avoiding taking too much at once.

Your breath came uneven as you tried to steady yourself, your thoughts scrambling for something to hold onto.

Agatha. Rio. Home.

The names rose instinctively, but the comfort that should have followed did not come. That silence pressed harder now, more suffocating than the restraints themselves.

“Who else do you know?”

The voice came from closer this time, the speaker stepping just within the edge of your vision. You forced your gaze toward them, your sight still struggling to focus as their features came into view. There was no anger in their expression. No cruelty. Only interest.

That was worse. You remained silent. A pause followed, but it was not hesitation. It was assessment.

“Record that,” someone said behind them. “Subject resists initial questioning.”

The word hit harder than the pain had. Subject. Not person. Not witch. Subject.

The iron pulsed again, and this time the sensation drove straight through your core, tearing through the place your magic should have been strongest. You felt it then in full—something siphoning it away, drawing it out in thin, controlled threads. Not enough to destroy you. Just enough to weaken you.

Your body arched instinctively against the restraints, a strained sound escaping your throat as the pressure intensified. Somewhere in the room, someone murmured in quiet approval.

“Responsive,” a voice noted.

“Expected,” another replied.

The questions did not stop. They came faster now, layered over one another with increasing precision. Names you had used. Places you had lived. Moments in history you had witnessed. Some spoken outright, others referenced indirectly, as though they were watching for reactions more than answers.

They were not searching. They were confirming.

“Salem.” The word cut cleanly through everything. Your breath stilled. “You were there.”

It was not a question. It did not need to be. Cold dread spread through your chest as you forced yourself not to react, not to give them even the smallest confirmation. But they were watching too closely. You could feel it in the way their attention sharpened, in the subtle shift of their posture.

“Mark that,” someone said quietly.

“Physiological response noted.”

Your stomach dropped. They were not just listening to what you said. They were reading everything else. The iron tightened again, and the pain followed, deeper now, more invasive. It dragged through you like something searching, probing the limits of what your body could endure. Your magic responded reflexively, trying to rise, trying to defend—

And once again, it was pulled away. Drained. Thread by thread.

“Fascinating,” someone murmured.

You forced your eyes open fully, locking onto the nearest figure you could focus on. You needed to see them clearly. Needed to understand what you were facing. What you saw only made the dread deepen.

There was no chaos here. No frenzy. Everything was organized. Intentional.

Crosses had been carved into the stone behind them, faint but unmistakable. Old designs, altered over time, stripped of their original purpose and reshaped into something functional. Tools were laid out nearby, not scattered but placed with care, each one positioned as though it had a specific role to play.

This had not been improvised. This had been built. Refined. Passed down. They had not simply found you. They had been preparing for you. Or someone like you.  The room quieted again, just slightly, just enough that the next question settled into the space with unsettling clarity.

“How do you keep surviving?”

The voice was softer now, almost contemplative. Your heart stuttered.

“What makes you so special?”

The words lingered, heavier than the rest, because they were not asked out of ignorance. They were asked because they believed there was an answer. And as the iron held you in place, as your magic slipped further from your grasp, as your connection to Agatha and Rio remained silent in a way that should not have been possible, one terrible truth settled deep into your bones.

They didn’t need you to speak. They had time. And they were willing to take everything from you until you did.

*******

The house no longer felt like home.

It felt like a place waiting for something to break.

Every room held a quiet that had long since stopped being peaceful. The usual sounds—the soft settling of wood, the distant rustle of leaves outside, the faint creak of old floorboards—seemed sharper now, louder in the absence of your presence. Even the light filtering through the windows felt wrong, too still, too unmoving, as though the day itself had begun to hesitate.

Hours went by.

Neither of them stopped. Neither of them rested. Neither of them even remembered what it felt like to breathe without effort.

Agatha had lost track of how many times she had tried to reach you. The calls blurred together in her mind—your name lighting up her screen, the sound of it ringing into nothing, the inevitable drop into silence. At first she had left messages, her voice steady out of habit, out of denial, as though you would hear them later and laugh about how dramatic she had sounded. By the fourth, her voice had cracked halfway through your name. By the fifth, she had said nothing at all.

Now her phone sat abandoned on the kitchen counter, the screen dark, the last message still open as though it might somehow change if she looked at it again.

She had turned to magic instead. Not the careful, practiced kind she preferred. Not the kind that required thought or structure. This was something older. Sharper. Pulled from instinct rather than intention. She had searched the house first, every room, every corner, every place you might have returned to without them noticing, even though she knew—knew—that you were not there. After that, the spells had become less precise. More desperate. None of them had worked.

Rio had stopped pretending to be human somewhere around the second hour. It wasn’t a decision she made consciously. It simply… slipped. The careful balance she maintained, the quiet restraint that allowed her to exist in the world without overwhelming it, began to unravel piece by piece as the silence where you should have been stretched longer and longer.

The air around her changed first.

It grew colder, not sharply, but steadily, until Agatha became aware of it in the way one notices a storm approaching before the sky fully darkens. The warmth that had filled the house only hours before began to drain away, replaced by something heavier, something that pressed against the skin and settled into the bones.

Then the plants began to react. Leaves turned slowly toward her, as though drawn by something unseen. Vines tightened around their supports, curling inward instead of reaching outward. A flower that had been in full bloom that morning began to wilt, its petals softening and folding in on themselves as though the force sustaining it had weakened.

Agatha noticed. Of course she did. She had seen this before. She had seen what happened when Rio lost control. But never like this. Not with you missing. Not with the bond still there and yet impossibly silent, as though something had wrapped around it and smothered it without breaking it completely.

Rio stood in the center of the room, utterly still, her eyes unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with distraction. She was reaching outward in ways no human mind could comprehend, stretching her awareness across distances that bent the very edges of reality. Agatha could feel it happening without even trying, the subtle shift in the world around them, the quiet imbalance creeping into things that had always existed in harmony.

The line between life and death was not meant to be disturbed. And Rio was disturbing it. Not out of recklessness. Not out of anger. But because she was searching. Because she could not find you. And that was something the world itself did not know how to withstand. Agatha paced. Relentlessly.

Back and forth across the length of the house, her movements sharp and uneven, her thoughts racing faster than she could keep up with them. Every possibility surfaced at once, colliding into one another until she could no longer separate them. Hunters. Old enemies. Forgotten grudges. Spells cast centuries ago that might have left something lingering. Mistakes she had made. Things she had overlooked. Protections she should have strengthened.

Her hands shook. She hated that. Hated the loss of control. Hated the way fear was beginning to seep into places she had spent lifetimes fortifying against it. “We’ll find her.”

Rio’s voice cut through the room. Calm. Too calm. Agatha turned toward her immediately, the movement sharp enough to betray everything she was trying to hold in place.

“Rio—”

“We’ll find our wife.”

The words were steady.

Certain.

And that certainty was what made them terrifying. Because Rio wasn’t calm. Agatha knew her better than anyone. That voice was not calm. It was contained. There was something vast beneath it, something ancient and immeasurable pressing against the edges of her control. Terror, grief, and something far more dangerous were being held in place by nothing but willpower, compressed into a single line of certainty that threatened to fracture at any moment.

“It’s been hours,” Agatha said, and she hated how her voice sounded. Thin. Strained. Not quite breaking, but close enough that she could feel it.

“I know.” Rio did not look at her when she answered. She did not need to. She knew. Of course she knew. She felt time differently than Agatha did. She felt the presence of life and the absence of it in ways no one else could. She understood what it meant for you to be missing in a way that went beyond distance.

And still—

She couldn’t feel you. The house creaked softly as something shifted in the distance, a quiet reminder that the world had not stopped, even if it felt like it had. Neither of them moved. Neither of them stopped.

It was somewhere around the sixth hour that everything changed.

Agatha had been moving again, her pacing carrying her into the far end of the house where older wards still lingered beneath the surface of the walls. This part of the house held history in a way the rest of it did not. Layers of magic had been built here over decades, reinforced and reshaped with each life the three of you had lived within its walls. Some spells had been cast in protection, others in desperation, and a few in quiet moments of fear that none of you had ever spoken about afterward.

The air here always felt different. Heavier. Aware. It was the kind of place where magic did not simply exist—it remembered. That was where she felt it.

At first, it was nothing more than a flicker at the edge of her awareness, so faint she might have dismissed it under any other circumstance. But there was nothing normal about this moment, and Agatha had lived too long to ignore something that felt even slightly out of place.

She stilled instantly. Every muscle in her body went rigid as her senses sharpened, her awareness stretching outward as she reached for the disturbance again. It was subtle, buried beneath layers of interference that made it difficult to grasp fully, but once she found it, once she let herself feel it—

Recognition struck like a blade. Familiar. Wrong. Her breath caught in her throat.

No.

That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Her mind reached for it anyway, dragging the sensation forward whether she wanted it or not. The shape of it settled into place first, not visually but instinctively, like something her magic had learned to recognize long before her mind could name it. Then came the intention behind it, the way it pressed against the edges of her awareness with something deliberate, something crafted, something meant to bind and suppress.

And then came the memory. Not one. Many. Layered. Repeated. Recognition didn’t come from a single moment. It came from a pattern. From the slow, horrifying realization that this was not new. That this feeling—this mark, this presence—had existed before.

They had hunted you all before.

Not once. Not by chance. But with purpose. In another life. Another century. Agatha staggered back a step, her hand catching against the wall as the memory fully took hold. It wasn’t just the knowledge of it. It was everything that came with it, every piece she had buried, every moment she had refused to revisit because it had come too close to ending everything.

She remembered the chase. The fear that had settled into her bones when she realized someone was tracking you—not randomly, not blindly, but with intent. She remembered the way you had tried to brush it off at first, how you had insisted it was nothing, how you had smiled through it even as the danger grew closer.

She remembered how late they had been. How they hadn’t understood what was happening until it was already too close, too real, too dangerous to ignore.

She remembered the moment they almost found you. How close they had come. How easily it could have gone differently. How easily they could have lost you before they ever had the chance to build the life they now took for granted.

And now—

Now all she could see was that moment repeating, not as a distant memory but as something unfolding again in real time, something she could not stop no matter how hard she tried. Only this time, she wasn’t there. This time, she hadn’t arrived yet. This time, you were already gone, and there was nothing between you and whatever had taken you.

A sharp, uneven breath tore from her chest, the sound breaking free before she could contain it. Her grip tightened against the wall, fingers digging into the surface as though she could anchor herself against the weight of the realization settling into place. It was crushing in its certainty, undeniable in a way that left no room for hope to exist untouched.

“I can’t do this again.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

They weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. Rio went completely still. The shift was immediate and absolute, the kind of stillness that did not belong to anything human. The air in the room seemed to tighten around her, as though something vast had suddenly drawn inward, collapsing into a single point of focus centered entirely on Agatha. Even the house seemed to react, the faint creak of wood and rustle of leaves outside falling into an unnatural quiet, as though the world itself had paused in recognition.

Because Agatha did not say things like that. Not after everything they had survived. Not after centuries of standing unshaken in the face of things that should have broken her. Agatha Harkness did not admit fear.

Not like this. Not ever. But this wasn’t just fear. This was memory pressing too close to the surface. This was loss that had never truly left them. This was the echo of something that had already nearly destroyed all three of you once before.

Rio turned slowly.

For the first time since the bond had gone quiet, her attention shifted fully back to Agatha. The searching stopped. The reaching stopped. Everything that had been stretching outward across impossible distances collapsed inward in an instant, focusing entirely on her.

There was no need for explanation. No need for clarification. She knew.

She knew exactly what Agatha had felt the moment that sigil brushed against her awareness. She knew exactly what memory had surfaced, what fear had followed, what conclusion Agatha had already reached before she spoke the words aloud.

Nicky.

Not just the absence of him. Not just the grief that had followed. But the life you had all shared together before everything broke. His absence. The aftermath that had followed. The way it had hollowed something out inside all of you, leaving behind a grief that had never fully faded, only settled into something quieter over time but never truly gone.

The way the house had felt too large, too empty, every room holding echoes of something that was no longer there, every silence heavier because it used to be filled with him. She remembered Agatha in those first days, the way she had moved through the world like something hollowed out, her sharp edges dulled by a grief so profound it stripped everything else away and left something fragile in its place.

She remembered you, too.

The way you had held on even as you were breaking, the way your hands had still reached for them without hesitation, grounding them in something that refused to disappear. The way you had refused to let either of them vanish completely into that loss, even when it would have been easier to fall with them. The way you had stayed, had endured, had kept loving them through something that should have ended all of you. The three of you had not walked away from that loss unchanged. You had survived it together.

Barely.

And now—

Now that absence was pressing in again, creeping into the edges of everything they had rebuilt. Not the same. But close enough that it made something deep and instinctive recoil in recognition. Too close.

Agatha met her gaze, and for once there was no deflection, no sharp wit to soften what she was feeling, no distance placed between herself and the truth of it.

“I cannot lose her.”

Her voice was steady. But the fear beneath it was unmistakable, raw in a way Agatha never allowed herself to be. It wasn’t the kind of fear that panicked or scattered. It was the kind that settled deep, rooted in knowledge, in memory, in the understanding of exactly what it would mean if they failed.

For a moment, Rio said nothing. The stillness stretched between them, heavy with everything that did not need to be spoken aloud, every memory shared, every loss carried, every piece of you that existed in both of them.

Then something shifted. Subtle, but undeniable. The control she had been holding fractured, just enough for the truth beneath it to surface. Not outwardly, not in a way that would shake the world yet, but internally, where the weight of what she was containing had nowhere left to go. For the first time since the bond had gone silent, the depth of her own fear became visible. It was quieter than Agatha’s. Contained in a way that made it no less devastating. But it was there. Clear. Unavoidable.

“We won’t.”

The words were not whispered. They were not uncertain. They were not something she was trying to convince herself of. They were a promise. And this time, the certainty did not feel contained.

It felt inevitable.

*****

They thought they were prepared.

That belief had been built carefully over years, over generations, passed down like doctrine alongside prayer and scripture. The building itself reflected that kind of thinking. It stood half-forgotten on the far edge of old church property, its stone walls weathered by time and neglect, its windows clouded with dust and age. The air inside was thick with the smell of damp wood, old incense, and something metallic that lingered too long to be anything but blood.

It was the kind of place no one questioned.

The kind of place no one came looking.

Inside, everything had been arranged with intention. Symbols carved into the floors and walls layered over one another in careful, obsessive patterns, twisting older magic into something rigid and cruelly efficient. Iron had been shaped and reshaped, etched with runes stolen, altered, and forced into purpose, each band designed to suppress, to drain, to break. Candles burned low in uneven rows, their flames flickering weakly as though even light struggled to survive in a place like this.

They had built this place to hold something powerful. To contain it. To study it. And at the center of it—

You.

Bound. Bruised. Barely holding on.

Your body felt foreign, like something you were trapped inside rather than something you controlled. Dark bruises had bloomed across your ribs and arms where the restraints held you too tightly, where they had tightened them again and again when you refused to answer. Your wrists were raw, the skin split in places where iron had rubbed and bitten too deeply, dried blood flaking where it had been left too long.

There were cuts you didn’t remember receiving. Thin ones. Deep ones. Some fresh, others already healing unevenly, your magic trying and failing to keep up with the damage being done. Every breath scraped painfully through your lungs, your chest tight and aching, your body trembling beneath the strain of exhaustion and whatever they had been doing to pull your magic from you.

It never stopped. That feeling. That pulling. That slow, relentless draining that left you weaker each time it flared. Tears slipped down your face despite your efforts to stop them, trailing through dirt and dried blood, your vision blurring as another voice cut through the haze.

“Answer me.” It was sharper now. Less patient. “How long have you lived like this?”

You said nothing. Your silence had long since stopped being tolerated. The iron responded immediately, tightening with a violent pulse that sent a wave of pain tearing through your body. Your breath broke into a gasp, your back arching instinctively against the restraints as the force reached inside you again, pulling at your magic, dragging it downward like something trying to strip you from the inside out.

Still—

You didn’t answer.

“Who taught you?” another voice demanded, closer this time. “Who gave you this power?”

Your head dipped forward, your strength faltering as you tried to stay present, tried to hold onto something that wasn’t this room, these voices, this pain. Agatha. Rio. Home. The names felt distant now, like something just out of reach, something you could almost grasp if you just—

“Look at me.” A hand caught your jaw, fingers digging in as your head was forced upward. Pain flared along your neck, your vision swimming as you tried to focus on the face in front of you. “Who else is with you?” they pressed. “How many are there?”

Your lips parted. No sound came. You shook your head weakly, not in answer, but because it was the only movement left to you. A mistake. The iron flared again. This time it tore through you so sharply your body jerked hard against the restraints, a broken cry slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Your fingers curled uselessly as your magic tried to rise in response, tried to defend—

And was dragged back down. Stolen. Thread by thread.

“Stupid girl.” The words were muttered, dismissive, edged with frustration rather than rage. “You think silence protects you?”

Another voice, colder. “You think we haven’t already learned enough?”

A hand released your face abruptly, letting your head fall forward again as your breath came in uneven, shaking pulls. Your body felt too heavy to hold upright, every muscle straining just to keep you conscious.

“We know what you are,” someone continued, pacing just out of view. “We know what you’ve done. The lives you’ve lived. The places you’ve been.” A pause. “We know you were there.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Salem. New York. Chicago. Philly. Spain. France.”  The word cut through everything. Your breath stilled, your body going rigid despite the exhaustion weighing you down. They noticed. Of course they did.

“See?” one of them said quietly. “She hears it.”

“She knows we’re not lying.”

The scratch of a pen followed, calm and methodical. Your chest tightened painfully. They weren’t guessing. They weren’t searching. They were confirming.

“How do you keep trying to heal?” another demanded. “Why do you persist when others don’t?”

Your silence stretched. The iron tightened again. Pain followed. Deeper now. More invasive. It dragged through your very soul, through the place your magic should have been strongest, pulling harder this time, more deliberately, as though they were growing impatient with how little you were giving them. Your body trembled violently against the restraints, your breath breaking, your vision darkening at the edges.

“Answer,” they snapped.

You couldn’t. Even if you wanted to. Your voice felt gone. Your strength was gone. All that remained was the refusal.

“Useless,” someone muttered.

“No,” another corrected quietly. “Not useless.” A pause. “Not yet.”

You were so tired. Your head fell forward again, your body sagging against the restraints as the room blurred further, the voices around you fading into something distant and indistinct. Your heart stuttered unevenly in your chest, your breathing shallow, your magic barely more than a faint, flickering presence beneath your skin.

You had promised them you would be careful. The thought came dimly. You had promised. Another tear slipped free, tracing slowly down your temple, catching briefly at your ear before disappearing into your hair.

You tried, one last time, to reach for them. For Agatha. For Rio. For the bond that had never failed you before.

Silence answered. It wasn’t just absence. It was suffocating.

It pressed in around you, heavy and unrelenting, settling into your chest in a way that made it harder to breathe. For the first time in longer than you could remember, the bond did not answer. Not a flicker. Not a whisper. Nothing but a vast, endless quiet where something warm and constant had always been.

Your chest tightened painfully. So, this was how it ended. Not in fire. Not in some final, desperate stand. But here. Alone.

A weak breath slipped from your lips, your body sagging further against the restraints as the last of your strength bled out of you. The room blurred at the edges, the voices around you fading into something distant and indistinct. You barely registered the movement anymore, the presence of them, the way they circled and watched and waited.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing did.

Your head dipped lower, your vision slipping further into darkness as your heartbeat stuttered unevenly in your chest. Your magic flickered faintly beneath your skin, no longer something you could reach, only something you could feel being taken.

A slow, quiet ending. You almost welcomed it.

Then—

Something broke. It wasn’t loud at first. Not the way you expected. It wasn’t an explosion or a crash or anything that made immediate sense.

It was wrong.

A deep, splitting force that moved through the building like a fracture racing through bone. The walls trembled faintly, dust loosening from the ceiling in a soft, drifting fall that caught in the candlelight. The voices around you faltered, confusion rippling through the room as heads turned toward the source of the sound.

You didn’t lift your head. You couldn’t. Your body didn’t respond the way it should anymore. Another impact followed.

Closer. Stronger. The structure groaned under it, the sound of stone protesting as something struck again with enough force to carry through every surface, every wall, every layer of protection they had built into this place.

Your breath caught. Not from the pain. From something else. Something instinctive. Something that reached deeper than exhaustion. Magic. Not theirs. Not the crude, stolen thing they had twisted into control.

This was something else entirely. Something familiar. The air shifted. Even from where you hung, barely conscious, you felt it. A change in pressure. A change in presence. The kind of shift that didn’t belong to the physical world so much as something layered just beneath it.

Hope hurt.

It tore through your chest so sharply it almost felt like pain, your body reacting before your mind could follow. Your fingers twitched weakly against the restraints, your head lifting just slightly as your breath hitched in something dangerously close to disbelief.

No. No, that wasn’t—

Another strike. This one shattered something. You heard it. Felt it. The crack of something breaking apart under force it had not been built to withstand, followed by a surge of energy that rippled through the structure of the building itself.

And then—

Magic answered. It didn’t slip into the room. It tore into it. Purple light burst through the outer space, violent and undeniable, crashing against the wards with a force that made them flare in resistance before splintering apart. The symbols carved into the walls flickered erratically, their structure failing under the pressure as something far stronger pressed through them without hesitation.

Your name followed it. You didn’t know if you heard it or imagined it. It cut through everything. Sharp. Breaking. A sound that did not belong to the composed, controlled woman you knew.

Agatha.

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as something inside you surged in response, weak but desperate and alive. She was here. She found you. The room erupted into motion around you. Voices rose in sharp, overlapping commands, the careful control they had maintained fracturing into something urgent, something unsteady.

“She’s breached the outer—”

“How did she—”

The next impact silenced them. It wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t measured. It was fury.

The doorway to the outer room gave way under the force of it, splintering inward as wood and stone broke apart in a violent collapse. Purple magic followed, crashing through the space like a storm finally unleashed, tearing through the protections they had built as though they had never existed at all.

Agatha stepped through it. Not careful. Not restrained. Her power moved with her, not something she wielded but something that surged outward, striking anything that stood between her and the space beyond. The air itself seemed to burn with it, thick and charged and impossible to ignore.

Her eyes scanned the room. Searching. Feral.

“Where is she?” Her voice cut through everything, sharp and breaking in a way that sent something twisting painfully through your chest.

You tried to answer. Tried to make a sound. Nothing came. Your body failed you again, your head dropping as your strength slipped further away.

But she was closer now. You could feel it. Her magic pressed against the edges of the room, overwhelming, tearing through what remained of their defenses as she pushed forward without hesitation.

They had prepared for her. They had expected her. They thought they understood what she was. They were wrong. Because Agatha was not the thing they should have feared most.

The shift when Rio entered was not loud. It was not violent. It was quiet. Terribly, horribly quiet. Every candle in the room went out at once. Not flickering. Not dimming.

Gone.

Darkness swallowed the space for a fraction of a second before the dim, fractured light from the outer room spilled inward again, but it felt different now. Heavier. Thicker. As though the absence of light had weight to it.

The enchanted symbols carved into the walls shuddered visibly, the magic within them collapsing inward like something suffocating. The iron around your wrists pulsed once, sharply, before going still, its force faltering as something far greater pressed into the space.

The air changed. Cold. Not the kind that came from temperature. The kind that came from absence. From something being removed. Every person in the room felt it. They didn’t understand it. But their bodies did.

Their breathing faltered. Their movements slowed. Something deep and instinctive recoiled all at once, a recognition older than thought, older than belief. One of them turned. Slowly. And saw her.

Rio did not need to move. She didn’t need to raise her voice. She didn’t need to do anything at all. Her presence alone bent the space around her, reality thinning slightly in acknowledgment of something that had existed long before anything in that room had been built. The balance they had tried to control, to manipulate, to cage—it shifted the moment she stepped inside.

“What are you?” one of them whispered.

The question trembled. Not with curiosity. With fear. Rio looked at him. And when she spoke, her voice did not rise.

“The reason your heartbeat has an ending.” The words settled into the room like something final. And then—

Everything gave way.

Power surged outward from her, not cast, not shaped, but released. It moved through the space like something ancient and inevitable, something that did not need permission to exist. The foundation of the building shuddered violently, cracks racing through stone as the air itself seemed to buckle beneath the weight of it.

The guards dropped.

Some collapsed instantly, their bodies hitting the ground with a dull, final weight that echoed too loudly in the ruined quiet, as though whatever force had been holding them upright had simply… let go. Limbs slackened mid-motion, weapons slipping uselessly from their hands, their chests no longer rising as they struck the stone floor without resistance.

But others remained.

Frozen. Rooted where they stood as if something deeper than instinct had seized control of their bodies and refused to release it.

Their weapons hung loose in their hands, fingers no longer tight enough to grip, their knuckles pale and trembling. Their breaths came shallow and uneven, each inhale catching like it might be their last, each exhale stuttering as though their bodies were already beginning to understand something their minds could not yet grasp.

They stared. Not at Agatha. Not at the destruction she had carved through their defenses.

At Rio.

Watching. Unable to move. Unable to look away. Unable to understand what they were seeing—but understanding, somehow, that they should not have been seeing it at all.

Fear rooted them in place. Not fear of death. Something deeper. Something older. The kind of fear that bypassed thought entirely, that lived in bone and blood and memory, something passed down long before language had ever given it a name.

Because they could feel it now. The shift. The imbalance. The wrongness of the air pressing in around them, thick and suffocating, as though the room itself had begun to collapse inward under the weight of something it was never meant to hold.

They had not captured something powerful. They had taken something that belonged to something older than power. And it had come to take you back. For one suspended moment, no one moved.

The outer room trembled in the aftermath of shattered wards and broken magic, the remnants of their careful preparations flickering weakly along the walls before dying out completely. The smell of burned sigils and cracked iron filled the air, sharp and acrid, mixing with the damp rot of the building and the faint metallic tang of blood.

Dust drifted slowly downward from the fractured ceiling, catching in the dim light that struggled to hold against the growing darkness. The silence that followed was not empty.

It was waiting.

Then—

Agatha heard you. It was barely a sound. A broken thing. A soft, uneven gasp that scraped out of your chest like it hurt to exist at all, like every breath was something your body no longer remembered how to do. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t clear. It shouldn’t have carried this far.

But it did. And it cut through everything. Through the silence. Through the fear. Through the magic still thrumming violently in the air. It cut through her with a precision no spell could ever match. Her head snapped toward the source instantly.

Not here. Not in this room. Beyond. Through the reinforced door at the back—the one layered in thicker wards, deeper carvings, heavier iron. The one they had guarded more carefully than anything else. The one they had hidden you behind.

You. Another sound followed.

A weak, fractured groan, your breath catching again as your body struggled to remember how to function. Every inhale seemed to fight against something inside you, your chest rising unevenly, your shoulders trembling under the strain of simply staying alive.

Even from this distance. Even through stone and failing magic. She could hear it. And it was wrong. So wrong it made something violent twist in her chest. You didn’t know where you were. You didn’t know what was real.

Somewhere in the haze of pain and exhaustion, drifting at the edge of consciousness, you thought—maybe—you heard them. Maybe your mind was trying to comfort you. Maybe this was the last kindness your body would give you before everything stopped. Maybe you were already gone.

Another gasp tore from your lungs, sharper this time, your body jerking faintly against the restraints as the cold and the pain and the exhaustion all collided at once. Your heartbeat stuttered in your chest, uneven and wrong, the rhythm faltering in a way that should not have been possible.

Rio’s head snapped up. Agatha was already moving. Nothing else mattered.

Not the hunters. Not the men still standing, still watching, still frozen in place as their understanding of the world unraveled around them. Not the building shaking under the strain of broken wards and unleashed power. Not the magic, wild and furious and barely contained.

Just you.

She didn’t even feel the distance as she crossed it, her body moving faster than thought, faster than breath, her magic surging ahead of her in a violent, uncontrolled wave. It struck the reinforced door before her hand ever reached it, slamming into the symbols carved into its surface with enough force to make them flare in desperate resistance.

The carvings burned. The magic within them screamed. Ancient patterns twisted and strained, trying to hold, trying to obey the purpose they had been given. They failed.

Purple cracked through them like lightning splitting open a storm, fracturing the symbols, shattering the magic beneath them as though it had never existed at all. The iron embedded in the structure bent under the force, a sharp, metallic scream tearing through the room as the entire doorway buckled inward.

Another broken sound came from inside. Weaker. Closer. Agatha didn’t hesitate. The door exploded inward. Wood splintered. Iron tore free. Stone cracked and gave way as her magic ripped the entire structure apart, sending debris scattering across the floor in a violent collapse. Dust filled the air, thick and choking, as the barrier between you and her ceased to exist.

She stepped through it without slowing. Without thinking. Her focus locked onto the center of the room— And everything stopped. Because there you were. Bound. Bruised. Bleeding.

Your body sagged against the restraints, your head barely lifted, your skin pale beneath streaks of blood and shadowed with deepening bruises. Cuts marked your arms, your shoulders, your ribs—some shallow, some not—each one a testament to what had been done to you while she hadn’t been there. Your chest rose unevenly, each breath a struggle, each inhale fragile in a way that made something inside her fracture completely.

Agatha moved before the dust had even settled.

She was at your side in an instant, her hands already reaching for you, already shaking before they even touched you. For a split second, they hovered, just above your skin, like she was afraid—

Afraid you might not be real. Afraid you might disappear if she moved too fast. Then Rio stepped fully into the room. The shift followed her. It didn’t surge.

It collapsed.

The magic holding you snapped under the pressure of her presence alone, the iron restraints cracking with a sharp, splintering sound before tearing free from your wrists and falling uselessly to the floor. The runes carved into them burned out in an instant, whatever power they held extinguished like a candle in a storm.

You dropped. Agatha caught you. Her arms wrapped around you immediately, pulling you against her chest with a force that bordered on desperation, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other bracing your body as though she could hold you together just by refusing to let go.

“My love. We’re here.” Her voice broke. She didn’t try to hide it.

Her hands moved over you, frantic and searching, brushing your hair back from your face, fingers trembling as they traced the line of your jaw, the bruising already blooming there, the dried blood at your temple. She checked your wrists next, her breath catching sharply at the sight of them—raw, split, marked with deep impressions where the iron had bitten into your skin.

Too tight. Too long.

Her fingers pressed lightly over your ribs, your shoulders, your sides, trying to map the damage, trying to understand how much of you was still holding. Your breathing. She needed to feel you breathing. You gasped again. It wasn’t a full breath. It scraped. Caught. Your chest barely rose under the effort, your body trembling weakly against hers as though even that small act was too much.

Rio was beside you now. Too still. Too focused. But her hands—

They shook. Barely. But enough. Enough that Agatha felt it without looking. Your heart skipped. Just once. But it was wrong. Rio felt it instantly.

“You… you found me…” you rasped, the words barely forming, your voice splintering apart as it struggled through your throat. Your lips trembled with the effort, your breath hitching painfully between each broken syllable as though even speaking cost more than your body had left to give. Your fingers twitched weakly against Agatha’s sleeve, a faint, instinctive attempt to hold onto her, to anchor yourself to something real before everything slipped away.

Agatha felt it. That small, fragile movement. It nearly undid her.

“Yeah, babe… we’re here… my brave girl.”

Her voice softened around the words, but there was nothing steady beneath them. Her hands tightened around you as she pulled you closer, one arm braced firmly around your back, the other cradling your head against her shoulder like she could physically keep you here, like she could hold your soul in place if she refused to let go.

She pressed you closer than she should have. Closer than your injuries allowed. She didn’t care. Her eyes moved over you again, slower this time, more deliberate, as if she could force herself to understand what she was seeing if she just looked hard enough.

And this time—

She saw it. Not just the bruises. Not just the blood. She saw you. How far gone you were. Your skin had gone pale beneath the mottled bruising, a sickly contrast that made every mark stand out more violently. The cuts along your arms and collarbone looked darker now, your blood no longer bright but dulled where it had begun to dry, where it had soaked into fabric and skin alike. Your breathing didn’t flow—it stuttered, uneven and shallow, your chest barely rising beneath her hand. Your body wasn’t holding itself up. It was leaning into her because it had nothing left. Because you couldn’t. Her stomach dropped. Her hands stilled for half a second.

Her eyes widened. Panic didn’t creep in. It hit. Hard. Fast. Complete. She pulled back just enough to look at you again, her gaze darting across your face, your throat, your chest, searching for something—anything—that told her you were still here in a way she could fix.

Her mind moved too fast. Spells. Bindings. Healing. Blood magic. Anything. Everything. There had to be something. There had to be—

“Aggie…” Your voice dragged her back. It was weaker now. Fainter. Like it had to travel too far to reach her.

Her gaze snapped back to you instantly, her hands tightening again, her entire body curling instinctively around yours as if she could shield you from everything—pain, death, the world itself.

“I’m here, I’m right here—don’t—don’t go anywhere, stay with me—” Her words tripped over each other, no longer careful, no longer controlled.

You turned your head. Just barely. Your vision swam, unfocused, your eyes struggling to land on anything clearly as they drifted past Agatha and found Rio. She was already looking at you. She hadn’t looked away. Her brown eyes were wide, too wide, something breaking behind them in a way that didn’t belong to someone who had existed as long as she had.

“Rriioo…” you tried again. But the word didn’t come out right. It broke. Your breath caught halfway through, your chest stuttering as your body tried to pull in air and failed. The sound that followed wasn’t breath—it was wet, fractured, a faint, choking gurgle as blood slipped where it shouldn’t, as your lungs struggled to do something they no longer knew how to do.

Agatha felt it before she fully understood it. The wrongness. The shift. Her breath hitched violently. “No—no, no—no—”

Rio broke.

“Don’t make me do my job,” she sobbed, the words tearing out of her, raw and shattered and human in a way that felt impossible for something like her. Her hands hovered helplessly for a moment before finally reaching for you, afraid and desperate all at once. “Please… don’t make me do my job—please—”

Agatha’s head snapped toward her. Panic sharpened into something desperate. Something feral.

“RIO, IF YOU TAKE HER, I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU,” she gasped, her voice cracking completely now, every ounce of control gone as her grip tightened around you like she could anchor you through sheer will alone. “Don’t do this to me again—don’t you fucking dare—fix it—fix it now—please, my love, please—”

Her forehead pressed hard against yours, her breath uneven and shaking as her hands trembled against your body, trying to keep you here, trying to force your body to respond, to breathe, to stay.

You tried. You really did. But everything was slipping. The room blurred, the edges of it softening, fading into something indistinct and unreachable. Their voices stretched and warped, like they were being pulled further and further away from you with every passing second.

Your body felt too heavy. Too distant. Like it no longer belonged to you. The last thing you felt was them. Agatha’s arms around you. Rio’s hand against yours. Their warmth. Their fear.

And then—

Everything went black.

*****

At first, there was nothing.

No pain. No weight pressing down on your chest. No cold biting into your bones. The ache that had been consuming you was simply… gone, replaced by a quiet that felt impossibly gentle. It wrapped around you without pressure, without expectation, like something that has been waiting patiently for you to arrive.

The world returned slowly, unfolding around you in soft, golden layers. The scent of wildflowers drifted through the air, warm and sweet, carried on a gentle breeze that brushed against your skin like a memory you didn’t have to fight to hold onto. The sky stretched endlessly above you, impossibly blue, the sunlight spilling across the field in soft waves of warmth that settled deep into your bones.

You knew this place.

Not as it ended.

But as it once was.

The lake shimmered nearby, light dancing across its surface in quiet, shifting patterns. The sound of water against the shore is steady and grounding, a rhythm that feels older than everything that came after. You could hear the tall grass moving in the breeze, the soft rustle anchoring you in something real. Something peaceful.

Warmth spread through your body, slow and steady, filling the hollow spaces left behind by pain. It settled into your chest, your arms, your hands, until you realized you are no longer shaking.

You were no longer hurting.

You we’re

At peace.

Then you heard it.

A laugh.

Soft at first, like something carried on the edge of memory, but unmistakable in the way it reached into you and pulled. It grew clearer with each passing second, bright and unrestrained, and your chest tightened before you even understood why.

A boy’s laugh.

The sound settled into you like something sacred, something you had held onto for so long it became part of you. Hearing it again felt like remembering how to breathe after forgetting.

And then you saw him.

Running toward you.

Small, bright, alive in a way that made your breath catch painfully in your chest.

Nicky.

His laughter carried across the field as he ran, his arms already reaching for you, his feet kicking up soft grass beneath him. The sunlight caught in his hair, turning it gold at the edges, wrapping around him in something warm and glowing.

You didn’t think. You didn’t question. Your arms were already open, reaching for him before your mind could catch up, your body moving on instinct alone as he closed the distance between you.

He collided with you in a burst of laughter, the impact small but real, and you wrapped your arms around him instantly, pulling him close, holding him tighter than you ever dared to before.

He was warm. So warm. Your hands pressed against his back, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid he might slip away if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

“Mama!”

The word broke something open inside you.

You laughed and sobbed at the same time, the sound catching in your throat as you buried your face in his hair, breathing him in. He smelled like everything you remember—sun-warmed air, soft earth, something clean and bright that is entirely him.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you pulled back just enough to see his face. Your hands came up to cup his cheeks, your thumbs brushed softly over skin you thought you would never touch again. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”

He smiled at you as if nothing had changed. Like you were never apart. And for a moment—just a moment—you let yourself believe it.

Your breath caught again, sharper this time, not from fear but from the overwhelming need to look. Really look. Your eyes traced every part of him, memorizing, drinking him in like you were afraid the world might take him again if you didn’t hold onto every detail.

Your thumb brushed just beneath his eye, your touch reverent, like you were confirming it again and again—like if you traced the shape of him enough times, you could make this real in a way that wouldn’t disappear.

He wasn’t pale.

He wasn’t fading.

There were no shadows beneath his eyes, no fragile stillness in the way he held himself. His cheeks were full of life, warmed by the sun, his skin glowing in a way you had only ever imagined in quiet, desperate moments you never let yourself linger on for too long.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sick.

The realization settled slowly, gently at first—and then all at once, overwhelming in its weight. You felt it in your chest, in your throat, in the way your hands tightened just slightly against his face, as if acknowledging it too fully might break whatever fragile miracle this is.

He looked—

Healthy. Whole. Alive in a way you never got to keep. Your gaze flickered over him again, softer now, deeper, taking in the small details you never realized you had memorized. The shape of his eyes, the way they held steady when he looked at you, something grounded and quietly knowing that felt achingly familiar.

Agatha.

You saw her in him so clearly that it almost stole the breath from your lungs. The depth of it. The quiet intensity beneath the surface. The way something bright lived just behind his smile.

And Rio.

In the warmth of his skin, sun-touched and glowing. In the curve of his smile, in the steadiness of his gaze. In the way something ancient and gentle seemed to exist within him, even now.

He is both of them. He is all of you. Perfectly, impossibly yours.

Your chest tightened, something tender and painful blooming there as you held his face just a little closer, your fingers trembled against his skin as you tried to take in everything at once, as if you could carry it back with you.

As if you could keep him.

Your thumb brushed just beneath his eye again, your touch soft, reverent. “My little love,” you whispered, your voice quiet and breaking all at once. “You look…” Your breath stutters. “So much like your Màmi and Mommy.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. And you didn’t take them back. Nicky’s smile didn’t falter when you said it.

If anything, it softened.

Something in his eyes shifted—not confusion, not surprise, but something deeper, something that felt like understanding far beyond what he should’ve been capable of. He leaned into your touch just slightly, as if grounding himself there, as if he wanted you to feel him, to know that he is real in this moment.

“I know,” he said gently.

The words were simple, but they settled into your chest with a weight that felt intentional.

Your breath caught again, and for a moment, you just looked at him. Really lookedd at him. Your hands still cradled his face, your thumbs brushing faint, absent circles against his skin like you were afraid to stop, afraid the moment you do, this will end.

You didn’t speak right away. Didn’t need to.

Your hands remained where they were, cradling his face, your thumbs brushing slow, absent circles against his skin as if the motion itself could keep time from moving forward. You let yourself feel him—really feel him—the warmth of him beneath your palms, the softness of his cheeks, the steady, easy way he breathed.

Real. So real. For a moment, the world narrowed to just this. Just you and him.

The breeze moved gently through the field, lifting the edges of his hair where it brushed your fingers. The scent of wildflowers lingered in the air, warm and familiar, wrapping around you both as the sunlight settled across your shoulders. It soaked into your skin, soft and golden, warming your face, your hands, the space between you.d

You exhaled slowly.

Not from exhaustion. From something deeper.

Relief.

Your hands slide from his face, not letting go, just moving—one settled at the back of his neck, the other pulled him closer as you drew him into you again. He came easily, like he always had, fitting against your chest as though he belonged nowhere else.

Because he didn’t.

Your arms wrapped around him fully now, holding him close, your chin resting lightly against the top of his head. You felt the weight of him there—small, solid, steady in a way that your body recognized immediately, something it had always known how to hold.

The sun pressed warm against your back.

The grass shifted softly beneath you.

And for a moment—

Everything was still.

You breathed him in again, slower this time, letting it settle into your lungs, into your chest, into something deeper than memory. His arms came around you in return, easy and certain, no hesitation, no fear—just presence.

Just him.

Your fingers pressed gently into his back, grounding yourself in the shape of him, the way he fit beneath your hands. You let your eyes fall closed, your cheek resting lightly against his hair as the quiet stretched, unbroken, and full.

You didn’t rush it. You didn’t reach for anything else. You just… held him.

Feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against you, the peace of it settled into your bones.

And for the first time in so long—

You let yourself have this.

Completely.

The moment stretched. Not fragile. Not fleeting. Just full.

You stayed there, holding him, your breath slow and even, your body no longer fighting, no longer bracing for what came next. The warmth of the sun settled deeper into your skin, the breeze soft against your arms, the quiet wrapping around you like something that didsn’t need to be questioned.

Nicky shifted slightly in your arms. Not pulling away. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak. You feel it before you hear it—the subtle change in him, the way his weight adjusts, the way his head tilts just enough beneath your chin.

“Tell Mommy and Màmi I love them,” he said softly.

The words were simple. But they settled deep.

You didn’t pull away right away. You didn’t rush to answer. You just held him for a second longer, letting the words exist between you, letting them take root somewhere inside your chest where you knew they would stay.

You nodded, your hand lifted just slightly to brush through his hair, smoothing it back the way you’d done a thousand times before.

“I will,” you whispered.

And you meant it. Every part of you did.

He shifted again, just enough eto look up at you. You followed the movement naturally, your hands easing back to his face, your thumbs brushing faintly along his cheeks as your gaze found his again. There was no fear there. No hesitation. Just that same steady, quiet certainty.

“It’s not your time yet, Mama.” The words landed differently than you expected. Not sharp. Not breaking.

They didn’t tear through the moment or shatter it—they settled into it, as natural as everything else had been. Like something you already knew, something you just hadn’t said out loud yet.

Your breath left you slowly. Not in resistance. Not in panic. Just understanding. Your forehead rested gently against his, your eyes slipping closed for a brief moment as you let it settle fully into you. The truth of it. The shape of it. The way it didn’t feel like something being taken, but something being given back.

“I know,” you murmured softly.

And this time—

You did.

Your hands lingered on his face just a moment longer, your thumbs brushing beneath his eyes in one last, quiet motion. You took him in again—not because you were afraid to lose him, but because you could. Because you were allowed to have this moment exactly as it was.

You felt the weight of him settled against you again—solid, warm, real in a way that made your chest ache with it.

You pressed your cheek into his hair, slower this time, letting yourself linger there. Breathing him in. Not just once. Again. And again. Like you were trying to carry it with you. The scent of him—sun-warmed air, soft earth, something bright and alive—sank deeper into your lungs, into your chest, into something that felt like it would stay long after everything else faded.

Your hand moved gently against his back, slow, absent, familiar. The kind of touch that didn’t need to think. The kind that had existed in you for as long as he had.

You felt his breath against you. Steady. Easy. Alive. There was no wheeze. No crackle in his chest. Just clear, strong, steady breath.

And for a moment—

You let your eyes close. Not to hold on.

But to feel it fully. Every part of it. The warmth of the sun across your shoulders. The softness of the breeze moving around you. The quiet. The peace. Your son in your arms.

“I love you,” you whispered.

The words didn’t break. They didn’t rush. They settled into him, into you, into the space between you like something that had always been true and always would be. You felt him shift slightly against you, just enough to tilt his head, his voice soft and close where it brushed your shoulder.

“I love you too, Mama.”

Your breath caught. Your fingers tightened faintly against him, not enough to hold him back—just enough to feel him there. To know.The moment didn’t shatter.It didn’t slip. It held.Like the world itself paused around you, giving you this—fully, completely, without taking it away too quickly.

You stayed there. Just a second longer. Letting it settle. Letting it become something you would carry. “Be strong, Mama.”

And then—

Something shifted. Not abruptly. Not cruelly. Just gently. Like the tide beginning to turn. The warmth began to change. Your arms loosened—not because you had to, but because you understood.

Because you knew.

The field softened at the edges, the light dimming just slightly, the scent of wildflowers faded, the breeze stopped as the world gently began to let you go.

And this time—

You didn’t reach for him. You didn’t need to. Because you know he wasn’t leaving you. Not really. He was never gone.

****

Something broke.

Not the world you just left.

You.

Pain hit first.

Not slowly.

Not gently.

It crashed into you all at once, violent and consuming, tearing through every inch of your body like your nerves had been lit on fire. Your chest seized, ribs locked tight as if they’ve forgotten how to expand, your lungs refused air for one terrible, suspended second—

And then—

You gasped.

It ripped out of you.

Raw.

Broken.

Air clawed its way into your lungs like something foreign, burning as it forced its way down, catching halfway before your body jerked, trying to pull more, trying to survive. The movement sent pain lancing through your ribs, your shoulders, your wrists—every place they touched you, every place they broke you.

Too much. It was too much. Your throat tightened, something wet catching there—blood—and your next breath stuttered, uneven, breaking into a sharp, choking sound that tore through your chest instead of filling it.

And then—

Warmth. Not sunlight. Hands. You felt them before you understood them.

Agatha.

Her arms were wrapped around you, pulling you tight against her chest, one hand braced at your back, the other cradling your head against her shoulder like she was afraid you might slip away if she loosened her grip even slightly. She was holding you too close, too tightly—but you didn’t have the strength to move, to protest, to do anything but feel her.

She was shaking. You felt it in the way her body trembled around yours, in the uneven rise and fall of her chest, in the way her breath stuttered where it brushed your temple.

Something warm hit your cheek. Then again.

Tears. Her tears. They slipped down from her face onto yours, warm against your skin, trailing along your temple, catching against your jaw. You felt them without opening your eyes, the way they fell unchecked, the way she didn’t try to hide them.

“—No, no, no, stay with me—stay with me—” Her voice is shattered. You’ve never heard it like that before. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you—please, don’t you leave me, do you hear me—”

Her hand shifted, gripping at your sleeve, your arm—no, your hand. You felt it then, your own fingers barely curled, weak and unresponsive, tangled in the fabric of her clothing. You held her without even realizing it.

And she felt it. Her breath caught violently. “There—there you are—baby, come on—come back to me, my love—”

Another presence grounded you. Rio. Her hands were at your chest—firm, steady, one pressed just beneath your collarbone, the other lower, anchoring you in place. You felt the difference in her touch immediately. Not frantic. Not searching. Focused. Controlled. But trembling beneath it.

And then—

Magic. It moved through you. Not around you. Through you. It flooded your veins like warmth and pressure all at once, threading into your chest, your ribs, your lungs, forcing something inside you to remember. It didn’t hurt—not like everything else—but it’s overwhelming, filling every hollow space left behind.

You felt her. Ancient. Steady. Terrified.

“Breathe,” she said, her voice low, strained beneath the control she was forcing into it. “Come back. Stay with us—stay—you’re okay. Everything will be okay.”

Your body didn’t want to listen. It hurt too much. Every breath was wrong; every movement splintered with pain. But something responded. A weak inhale dragged into your lungs again, uneven, stuttering—but there. Alive. Your chest spasmed with it, your ribs protested, your body shaking as it tried to catch up, to follow, to survive.

And beneath it—

Another thread. Faint. Soft. Familiar yet new. It brushed against your chest, your heartbeat, your breath.

Nicky.

Not fully there. Not like before. But felt. Like warmth lingering after a touch. Like something left behind just long enough to guide you back.

Your heart stuttered—

Then catches. Then beats. Stronger. Agatha let out a broken sound, something between a sob and a gasp as she felt it, her grip tightened instinctively as she pressed her forehead against yours, her breath shaking where it brushed your skin.

“There you are—there you are—good girl, stay with me, baby, please—”

Her voice broke completely on the last word, the sound of it raw and unguarded in a way you had never heard before. It trembled through her chest and into yours, where you’re pressed against her, where she refused to let you go.

Rio’s hand pressed firmer against your chest. Her magic surged again—steadier now, deeper—threading through you with purpose, anchoring, holding, forcing your body to stay where it belonged.

“Again, sweetheart,” she said, low and steady despite the strain beneath it. “Breathe again. I know it hurts—fight through it.”

You did. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t easy. It felt like dragging yourself through broken glass just to take in air—but it came.

Another breath. Then another. Each one stuttering, uneven, catching halfway before forcing deeper, dragging pain with it—but filling your lungs all the same.

Your fingers twitched. Stronger this time. Still weak. But yours.

They tightened just slightly against Agatha’s sleeve, grasping without thought, holding on like your body knows exactly where it needs to be- even if your mind hadn’t caught up yet.

 Agatha saw it. Felt it. Her breath caught again, her hand immediately closed over yours, pressing it tighter into her chest like she needed to feel the proof of you there.

“That’s it—good—don’t let go—”

Your eyelids fluttered. Heavy. Pain dragged through your body again as your chest rose, your ribs protesting, your lungs still learning how to work.

Tears slip from your eyes this time. Not from grief. From pain. From breath. From being alive.

Your eyes opened. Just barely.

The world bleeds in slowly—blurred shapes, dim light, shadows flickering against walls lined with something ancient, something familiar. Candles burn low, their flames steady but soft, casting gold across wards carved deep into the wood and stone. The air hums with layered magic, thick and protective, wrapping around you like something that refuses to let harm reach any further.

And you know it.

Not just the magic.

The place.

A memory settled into you as your vision struggled to focus—old wood, incense, the quiet weight of protection woven into every inch of the space.

A house.

One from decades ago.

One tucked far from everything.

Close to Lilia.

To Jen.

To Alice.

Safe.

They brought you somewhere safe.

The realization settled slowly, heavily, as your breath stuttered again, your chest rising unevenly against Agatha as your body continued to fight its way back.

Your lips parted.

It took effort. More than it should’ve.

“Aggie…” you rasped, the word breaking apart as it left you, your voice raw and barely there.

Her name. It was enough.

Agatha made a sound—half sob, half laugh—her forehead pressed harder against yours as her hand moved to cradle your face more firmly, her thumb brushed against your cheek like she was afraid to lose the feeling of you.

“I’m here—I’m here, Sunshine. I’ve got you—”

Your gaze shifted. Slow. Heavy.

“Rio…” it came softer, thinner, but still yours.

Rio exhales sharply, something in her posture breaking just slightly, her hand still steady against your chest, still holding you there.

“I’m here,” she said, quieter now. “You’re safe, Sweetheart. Stay with us.”

Your throat tightened. Not from pain this time. From something else. “I’m… I’m sorry…” You managed the words catching, fragile, and uneven. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

Rio’s hand shifted immediately, her other hand rose to your face, steady, grounding. “No,” she said, firm but soft, cutting the words off before they could fully form. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

There was no hesitation in it. No doubt. Only certainty. “You hear me?” she added, quieter now, her thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. “Nothing.”

Agatha nodded against you, her grip tightening again, her voice still shaking but resolute. “Not a single thing.”

Your breath stuttered again, your chest tightening as emotion rose too quickly for your body to keep up with. Tears slipped more freely now, trailing down your temples, into your hair, across Agatha’s hands where she’s holding you.

You’re here.

You’re alive.

You’re in their arms.

But it—

It hurts.

The realization hit all at once, your body catching up fully now, every bruise, every cut, every place they touched you flaring awake like it had been waiting. Your ribs ached with every breath, your wrists burned, and your throat tightened as the taste of iron flooded your mouth.

Blood.

You swallowed instinctively.

A broken sound slipped from you before you could stop it, your fingers tightening weakly against Agatha’s sleeve as your face twisted, your body trying to curl in on itself despite the way she was holding you together.

“It—” your voice fractured, barely more than air. You tried again, breath catching. “It hurts…”

The words are small.

But they break something open.

Agatha’s grip tightened instantly, her hand coming up to cradle your face more firmly, her thumb brushing frantically along your cheek as if she could soothe it away.

“I know, I know—baby, I know—”

But Rio moved. Fast. Controlled. Purposeful.

Her hand left your chest for only a second, and you felt the absence of it immediately—like something vital slipping away—before she reached for something just out of view.

Glass.

Liquid.

Magic.

She’s back just as quickly, one hand returning to your chest, steady, grounding, while the other brought the vial up.

“I know,” she said, her voice low, firm, but threaded with something softer underneath. “I know it does, my love.”

Her thumb brushes once, briefly, against your collarbone, anchoring you there as her gaze lockd onto yours.

“But you’re still here,” she continued, quieter now. “You’re so brave. So strong.”

There’s no exaggeration in it. No softness meant to comfort. Just truth.

“You made it back to us.” Agatha shifted slightly, helping guide you as Rio tilts the glass toward your lips, her hand steady despite the tremor you can feel beneath it.

“Easy,” Agatha murmured, her voice still shaking but gentler now, her forehead brushing yours again. “Just a little—”

The rim touched your mouth. Warm. Faintly bitter. You hesitate—not from fear, but from instinct—your body unsure of anything right now.

“Trust me,” Rio said quietly.

You do. Your lips parted. The potion slid into your mouth, thick with magic, and the moment you swallowed it.

It burned. Not like the pain that was tearing through you. Different. Deeper. It spread fast, threading through your chest, your ribs, your throat, pushing into every place that hurt and demanded it to mend.

You gasped softly against it, your body tensing as it worked through you, your fingers tightened again against Agatha’s sleeve. “Still hurts—” you breathed again, weaker this time, more breath than voice.

“I know,” Rio repeated, softer now, her hand pressed more firmly against your chest as her magic followed the potion, guiding it, steadying it. “Let it. It’s helping to heal you.”

Agatha’s hand never left your face, her thumb brushed away fresh tears as they fell, her other arm tightened around you like she was holding you through every second of it.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “We’ve got you.”

And you believed her. Even through the pain. Even though the way your body still shook. Because you’re here. You’re breathing. You’re in their arms.

Alive. Broken. But still theirs.

The realization settled into you slowly, not all at once, but in quiet, steady waves that moved through your chest with each uneven breath. The pain was still there, sharp and insistent, but beneath it—threaded through it—was something stronger.

Warmth.

Safety.

Them.

Your body shifted before you fully thought about it, instinct pulling you closer as your fingers tightened faintly in the fabric of Agatha’s sleeve again. Holding onto it like a lifeline holding you here to her. You leaned in, your head turning just slightly, your breath still unsteady as you pressed more fully into her chest, seeking something grounding, something solid.

She adjusted immediately. She always did.

Her arm tightened around you, one hand sliding more securely along your back, supporting you as you moved, as if she already anticipated what you needed before you could ask for it. Her other hand remained at your face, her thumb brushing softly along your cheek, slower now, gentler, as though she was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath her touch.

Your eyes lifted to hers. It took effort. More than it should’ve. But you did it anyway. Her face was still too close, her expression still fractured with relief and fear and something softer beneath it all, something that only ever existed when she looked at you like this.

Like you’re her everything.

Your lips parted slightly, your breath catching—not from pain this time, but from something quieter, something instinctive. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

You just lean. It was small. Barely there. But she understood. Agatha always understood.

Her breath stuttered, her gaze softened instantly as she closed the distance the rest of the way, her hand steadying your jaw as she leaned in. The kiss she pressed to your lips was impossibly gentle—careful, reverent—like she is afraid even this might hurt you.

It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t desperate. It is relief. A quiet, trembling confirmation that you are here. That you were breathing. That she had you. Your lips moved faintly against hers, weak but real, and you felt the way her breath caught at that, the way her hand tightened just slightly at the back of your neck as if grounding herself in the moment.

When she pulled back, it was slow.

Reluctant.

Her forehead lingered against yours, her breath still uneven as it brushed across your lips.

Rio was there before the space could settle.

You felt her shift closer, her hand leaving your chest only long enough to move upward, her fingers brushing gently along your jaw, tilting your face just slightly toward her. There was something quieter in her movement, something steadier—but no less full.

Her eyes meet yours. Searching. Confirming.  And when she leaned in, her kiss was just as soft. Just as careful. Her lips pressed lightly to yours, grounding rather than claiming, her hand steaded against your face as though she was anchoring you here—in this moment, in this body.

Alive. Her breath lingered for a second when she pulled back, her forehead resting briefly against yours, her thumb brushing once beneath your eye, catching a tear before it could fall.

Neither of them rushed. Neither of them let go.

You remained between them, held, supported, their hands on you, their presence wrapped around you from both sides as your breath continued to stutter and settle, your body still shaking, still healing, but no longer alone in it.

And for the first time since the pain returned—

You didn’t feel like you were fighting it by yourself.

Your lips parted again.

It took effort.

Your throat still burns, your chest still tight, the taste of blood lingered at the back of your mouth—but the words sat there, pressing forward, something you neededd to give them.

Your fingers tightened faintly where they still clung to Agatha, grounding yourself before you try.

“Nicky…” you managed, your voice rough, fragile, barely more than breath.

Both of them stilled.

Completely.

You felt it.

The way Agatha’s body went rigid around you, the way Rio’s hand stilled against your chest, her magic faltering for just a fraction of a second.

The room seemed to hold its breath with them.

You swallowed, wincing faintly as it pulled against your throat, your gaze flickering weakly between them.

“He… asked me…” your voice caught, breath stuttering, but you pushed through it. “He asked me to tell his Mommy and Màmi…”

Your chest rose again, uneven, your grip tightened just slightly as emotion pressed in behind the words.

“That he loves you.”

Silence.

Not empty.

Not hollow.

Full.

Agatha broke first.

A sharp, shattered inhale that turned into something dangerously close to a sob as her hand came up to your face again, trembling, her forehead pressing harder against yours like she needs to stay anchored there.

Rio closed her eyes.

Just for a second.

But you saw it.

The way her composure fractured—not outwardly, not in the way Agatha did—but inward, something deep shifting beneath the surface as her hand pressed more firmly against your chest again, like she was grounding herself through you.

Through your heartbeat.

Through your breath.

Through the fact that you came back.

“You saw him…” Agatha breathed, the words barely there, breaking apart as they left her.

You nod.

It’s small.

But it’s enough.

“He wasn’t—” your voice faltered again, softer now, something almost fragile in it. “He wasn’t sick…”

Agatha let out another broken sound, her grip tightened as her hand slid into your hair, holding you closer, her breath unsteady against your skin.

Rio exhaled slowly.

Controlled.

But not unaffected.

“Of course he wasn’t,” she murmured, quieter now, her thumb brushing once, gently, against your collarbone. “He wouldn’t be.”

Your chest tightened, but not from pain this time. From something softer. Something that lingered. You were still shaking.

Still hurting. But here. And they heard him. Through you.

And somehow—

That mattered.

It settled into the space between all three of you, quiet and heavy and full, something sacred in the way it existed without needing anything more.

You remain where you are, held between them, their hands still steady on you, their presence wrapped tightly around your broken body as your breath continues to even out, your heartbeat steadier now beneath Rio’s hand.

Alive.

Still healing.

Still hurting.

It was gravel, the surface of the island. Vast amounts of thin grey gravel. Almost like a rocky beach around the entire surface, or the surface you've seen so far.

You still haven't had the chance to explore, but the day is young.

When Agatha asked if you wanted to go for a walk with her, you being ten paces behind her while she talks on her phone was somehow not what you had expected.

You're patient of course. Maybe too patient. Looking around as you follow her. A small dock sits next to a boathouse, the helipad you arrived on just a stones throw away from it. It's easier to navigate with context.

The breeze is fresh and salty as you balance on some large rocks, every beat of the water sending a chill over your legs, only a little covered by your underwear and the company branded t-shirt.

At least the sun is out.

As much as you miss the softness of the towel robe, the employee shirt feels almost as good. Her name printed on your chest in the same way. Maybe everything you wear should have her name on it. Maybe it should be carved into your skin forever.

Despite everything, the chaos and the cuddles, Agatha seems unusually calm. Her beige robe snug to her body as she talks quietly into her phone. Quietly. Not Agatha quietly. Really genuinely quietly.

It's almost more terrifying than the yelling. She's resolving this, and today you're going to get your answers. You aren't sure how yet, but she cannot run from you. Not here. Not after last night and not when you're both this isolated, you haven't even spotted a single staff member despite knowing they must be around here somewhere.

There's no way Agatha is taking care of herself entirely, and there's certainly no way she doesn't have security here.

Your eyes catch the horizon, watching the water calm down a little, hitting the shore. The cloudless sky burns your eyes a little as you squint to spot a boat in the distance. Perhaps the security have those massive photography lenses to keep you safe. Or maybe they have some kind of tiny security hut somewhere.

You could look for it later, but as you move across the rocks and onto the grass, you're more interested in finding Agatha's other rooms.

The lawn is vast, with trees dotted around large concrete sculptures. A woman. A cube. What looks like a candle. It's hard to see the theme here. The large house situated in the centre, and a couple of smaller cobblestone style buildings around the outside of it. Shrouded amongst the trees.

Agatha stops and turns for a moment to see how far away you are, smirking as you follow her aimlessly. Pretending this is some kind of romantic walk. If you'd decided to date one of your co-workers, would you be in central park with a hotdog right now?

Would you still be thinking about Agatha?

She holds the phone in front of her face and back to her ear before she continues at the same pace, hair trailing down her back as she turns away from you.

"Well we have to do something."

Her tone is still hushed, and you're surprised she can even get signal out here because you certainly can not. She probably owns the satellites. Asking for the wifi or a charger seems borderline stupid under the circumstances, but at least there's nobody you need to contact.

Everything you need is a few feet away from you scoffing into her iPhone.

The strain of trying to eavesdrop almost hurts, but although you're determined to fully trust Agatha, you're not entirely sure she'd tell you the truth right now. Unsure after last night whether it's because she's secretive, or she's worried she'll scare you off.

Her hands flex as she walks, resolving the issue in a way that sounds methodical. Your eyes fall to them as they so often do, the way the veins under her skin move as she cracks each knuckle with her thumb. The hands that have caused incomprehensible amounts of damage you don't yet understand.

The hands that held you softly last night.

Falling asleep in her arms felt like a vibrant dream despite it being too warm. Despite her snores and her hair tangling under you. Feeling the way her chest moved as her breathing became deeper, the small twitches in her hands as she began falling into a sleep you wish you could follow her into. Dreams you'd want to explore to understand her further. Waiting patiently for when you'd wake up next to her again.

But Agatha wasn't there when you opened your eyes, leading you to wonder whether she was already busy working or had taken her own interview lies seriously and had began morning podcasts.

When she came back a few minutes later with a cup of coffee, she explained she doesn't have any syrups or sugar so she had melted part of a candy bar into the liquid.

Feeling a surge of cute aggression when she stumbled over her words trying to explain to you how she had tried to flavor it for you, you decided not to tell her that the coffee was mostly lumpy and left a weird trail on your tongue.

You would have a million more lumpy coffees.

Your feet stop when hers do, remaining a little further behind her as to not throw her off. You can't hear what she's saying. You shouldn't snoop, you really shouldn't. But you do want those answers. This is the perfect opportunity to really understand who you're sleeping next to at night. Maybe you'd be more naive not to.

She begins the walk again before you can flex your ears enough to convince yourself you can hear better.

The boat house sits in view with the doors closed. Almost too quiet as the water gently hits the side of the dock. There must usually be staff here. Surely somebody would work in this building, at Wanda's island there was, what was there again...?

You try and picture the island, the boats, the firepit—

Suddenly your chest pangs with an unusual pain, coldness seeping in your throat, hands shaking as you freeze in place.

It dawns on you, you can't breathe.

Wanda's island, the games, the conversation. The pressure. The manipulation you'd been blind to until it was too late and you'd been used for entertainment by somebody you thought you could trust. And now you're trapped here with the very same person. Nobody around to save you. No boat to retreat to.

Agatha Harkness could do anything she wanted to you here.

You think back to her words last night, when you told her you didn't care. You don't care. Not really. You know her, even if she thinks you don't. Even if there's much more to learn. You know she's good to you.

You know she wouldn't hurt you. You don't know what she's running from.

It's the unknown. It's the fact that no matter what she tells you, it's never what you need to hear. Agatha is an excellent manipulator, an even better liar and could be spinning a gigantic web of tricks to trap you alone here with her.

Is that an awful thought to have?

"Everything they say about me is true, you know that, right?"

Clarity hits you like a train, feelings you'd been ignoring. Pushing down because of the money, the security, the adventures and the curve of her lips.

Are you really safe here?

But she apologized. She got on her knees and begged for forgiveness.

And you'd bet begging isn't something she's done before.

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest as Agatha turns to look at you, significantly further away from her. You'd stopped moving entirely you suppose.

Your eyes have glazed over, she notices immediately as you stare off at the water. The burn of the phantom fire pit in your lungs.

"Didn't realize you were into astronomy. You know with the spacing out."

You say nothing. Are you going to pass out?

Agatha is hanging up the phone without another word as she rushes for you.

"Woah. Hon you okay?"

When she reaches for you, the flinch that happens is entirely accidental. The tips of her fingers grazing your arm, the blues of her eyes dripping with concern, squinting a little from the sun.

"What's happening? Hey. Talk to me."

For a second all you crave is the comfort of her arms, but your body is fighting your brain. The same ruminating thought. Is this the person who melted a KitKat in your coffee this morning or the person talking down to you in front of her friends with whiskey on her breath?

Her hands are on your shoulders before you can decide.

“Sweetheart look at me.”

The phone is nowhere to be seen, shoved away so she can focus on you in your entirety. Her face free of makeup, the frown lines between her eyebrows deep as she studies your face with intention.

The warmth of her fingers settles across your skin, grounding you as your eyes get lost inside of hers. She looks different than you picture her when she's sitting at her desk. Her hair a little longer, a little more frazzled. Grays where her parting sits. Dark stray eyebrow hairs out of place.

Agatha’s been so focused on you, on this, she hasn’t been making enough time for herself.

“I’m sorry I–" you wobble as you try to take a step forward, her hands trying to keep you still.

“You’re alright. You’re okay.” The softness in the voice you’ve heard in a hundred different tones. “Do you need a glass of water?”

“No. I’m okay.”

Are you? You shake your head like you're trying to throw the thoughts away.

"Breathe."

You breathe, it feels weak.

"Again, come on spacegirl, breathe." You follow her instructions, a deep breath. She isn't great at breathing exercises, but the reminder to breathe is always nice and your body finally starts to function normally, besides the pressing question that falls too fast out of your throat...

“Agatha what are we doing here?”

Her hands fly off of you, clenching by her sides as she processes your question, the pale blue of her eyes hide her emotions as best as she’s able to. “Well we’re on a walk, silly.” Her head shakes, but her voice does a little too.

Not what you meant.

“Although…” she starts up again, checking you over to make sure you’re present “…I should really be making you do some paperwork.”

Your lip quivers as it forms a pout you didn’t intend to make. “Why?” But the work distraction does what it needs to do, and you’re able to take another step forward, and another as Agatha follows you slowly, phone still in the pocket of the robe. It flows slightly in the breeze as you look back at her. "Let me follow you around."

She cackles as the discomfort settles and you're back to feeling yourself. Thank god.

“You have some nerve. I’m your boss.”

You blink. “I work really hard.”

"I just need—" she's cut off when a particularly chilly gust of wind throws her hair all over her face, grabbing at it seems harder than it should be and on the third attempt at moving it away she's finally able to see you again. "—well I need to go inside first of all."

You stifle your laughter when even after you stop it happens again, sticking a little to her lip. "Oh my god I hate being outdoors."

Agatha takes a quick turn, heading towards the buildings making up the island. With a small jog, you're able to catch up to her as she power walks away from her sworn enemy, nature.

She marches towards beautiful lawns and beaches and away from the rocky shore. Of all the picturesque places you can spot it's odd she'd come over here for a morning walk. Unless it's the only place with signal.

"If you get some work done, you'll get a reward. How does that sound, hm?"

Your ears perk up at the promise of a reward, scrubbing the past reservations clean entirely.

"Really?"

"Really."

"What's the reward?"

The building you're being guided towards is glass with floor to ceiling windows. It doesn't really match the rest of the buildings, to be honest it looks a little out of place. It seems like it's been added much more recently. Fountains surrounding it on freshly cut grass and a soft, winding path.

Agatha stands in front of the transparent doors, adjusting the belt on the robe. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you're sure? You moved away when I touched you." Her hand reaches out to stroke your cheek with the back of her hand almost like a test, harsh knuckles on soft skin. You relax into it without another thought.

"I'm sure. I was just in my head...."

"You tell me if something is wrong, okay?"

You nod and despite her annoyance at wordless answers, she allows it.

For a second it's easy to forget you're on a private island. Tilting your head in confusion when Agatha swings the door open without a key and stepping inside to what is essentially a smaller version of her office at the headquarters.

A large and unusually tidy wooden desk, with a plush wheeled chair, an antique globe mini-bar and an armchair that looks untouched.

"I have the Samson papers ready to be signed, I need you to make copies of the statistics so we can compare them to the previous year. Understand?"

Do you understand? You feel like you're on the verge of a tantrum. A private island all alone and you're writing data?

But you nod your head anyway. This isn't a real vacation, it's not a business trip. It's basically a remote workday, and Agatha has already taken so many liberties with allowing you to slack off. You're basically being paid to sleep in her bed at this point.

Should that thought scare you instead of arouse you? Aren't you smart and competent?

Agatha's sifting through the desk to grab two stacks of papers and her MacBook. Heavy-handedly slamming everything onto the table with an eyebrow raised.

Your hands loose by your sides as you stand a little awkwardly in the entryway.

"Now..." she starts, hips swaying as she meets you where you're lingering. "...I'm going to get dressed into something more appropriate for work."

Your eyes scan the robe clinging to her body. She looks soft and you're lost in the domesticity of seeing her like this you hardly notice when she grabs your chin firm between her fingers, tilting your head to the side so she can whisper into your ear. Breath warm and words slow, the sound of her throat as she swallows.

"And when I get back—" a chuckle, and maybe this isn't about the work anymore, your heart fights with your ribs under the employee shirt "—you'll be wearing nothing at all."

Saliva bobs in your throat as you swallow.

You are certainly okay now.

"Yes, Ms Harkne—" You catch yourself immediately, this office space clouding your brain. "—I mean..."

"See you in five, hon." A quick wink.

She doesn't look back and you try not to think about the mess of this situation, running your hands across your face where her own fingers just were.

You don't strip. Not right away. Taking in the room a little more, and more importantly what's outside of the room. The grass, the trees, the fountain and just further down the path, the water. This is private, but there must be security or staff. Couldn't anybody just wander onto the shore? Truthfully you have no real idea on how any of this works, but Agatha's entirely missing from your view and it's only a matter of time before she returns.

And you should be getting undressed, but your eyes dart to the desk and the secrets it contains.

Agatha has been alone here for a few days, she consistently has everything open on her laptop home screen. The thing sounds like a jet taking off despite being the most expensive model.

Just a peek wouldn't hurt, right?

You could take one look, see if she has an email open. Or a text from security. Just to know who that man is. Why you're here. How much trouble she's really in. Just something. Anything. To know the woman who kisses you at night.

Should you be snooping though? What if she catches you?

Hm. Agatha wears things with buttons. She might be at least a few minutes. And it wouldn't change anything, would it? You said you didn't care. How bad could it be?

It's worse to not know. Then it could be anything.

With a breath not deep enough to make you feel better, you pull open the lid of the laptop. The screensaver of New York at night runs on a loop as you stare at the password box.

This was a stupid idea. This is a stupid idea. Her profile photo taunts you, a headshot from a newspaper maybe ten years ago. Fuck. What would her password be?

You should just get up and do what you're told.

"H4RKN3SS" shot in the dark, license plate. Error message.

"Bordeaux" more personal. Error message.

How many tries do you have left? Agatha is probably putting on slacks, it's fine. Would she make it something personal or professional? Would it have any meaning whatsoever?

You should just strip now before it's too late. Maybe she'll tell you when she's ready.

But what if it's something insane, like the mob?

If Agatha was in the mob you'd know.

Oh my god would you still be with her if she were in the mob?

Well now you need to know.

Then it occurs to you, Agatha Harkness is fifty years old and uses her iPhone with one aggressive pointer finger.

You pull the drawer open, a black notebook sits on top. A slight moment of hesitation for a second before you're already too deep into this. You have to know something, anything.

Turning over the first page:

"ADMIN PASSWORDS:"

Bingo.

Subscription services. Banks with the passwords crossed out, likely from her exhausted security team. Apps.

Then midway through the page: "LAPTOP - SCR4TCHY"

You don't register what it means as you're typing it into the computer.

It unlocks on the first try which feels objectively worse than if it had failed and you'd given up. The windows all open at once. The internet open in so many tabs none of them are readable. Her text messages in the left hand corner and fuck you forgot this syncs to her phone.

You're in too deep, what are you doing?

What are you doing if not glancing just a little at the open phone conversations..?

What look like a bunch of unread notifications for parking tickets sit right under a sent message from SEC 1, whoever that is. “Call you back.” Must have been who she was on the phone with. Security 1?

Your hand hovering over the track pad as you prepare to open the conversation, only to halt when you notice the chat that’s already open. RIO V.

Curiosity and fear turn to outrage and jealousy. You were under the impression they weren’t friends anymore.

RIO V: Okay. Well let me know if u need anything. Outgoing: I have it under control. Thank you though. Outgoing: And keep quiet, for God's sake. RIO V: I'm always quiet. RIO V: Unless u don't want me to be quiet ;)

Your hands tremble.

Outgoing: Stop it. RIO V: Seriously tho I can fly in if u need me to ...... or i can see you at the gala thing. when is that? Outgoing: Don't. And I don't remember without my assistant. Will you be donating? RIO V: Still the same one? ya can donate. u pmo but im still a good person Outgoing: Are you? Outgoing: And yes. The very same one despite your efforts to poach. RIO V: Just trying to keep you safe u know that Outgoing: I highly doubt that's what was happening. But OK. RIO V: Champagne is not my friend. and u r getting too attached again. I am trying to be civil with u Outgoing: I am not. RIO V: Just be careful what u tell her ok RIO V: and tell me gala date

You slam the lid shut as soon as your eyes scan the last line. Gurgling in your stomach, a nasty cocktail of regret and disgust. As if you thought you could compete with this woman.

The woman who knows all of Agatha's secrets, who accepts her and protects her no matter what. Despite Agatha seemingly pushing her away. The dynamic is complicated, and you're too involved with something you don't understand yet again.

This doesn't tell you anything. It only makes things worse. What were you even hoping for? A long list of the reasons you're on the island? A step by step on her life?

"Fuck." The word mumbles under your breath as your trembling hands run across your face. A nausea running under your skin and up your throat.

Okay. You don't have long.

You've wasted this time.

You can either tell Agatha you went through her computer while she was getting dressed and that's why you're so tense.

Or you can get naked and pretend that everything is fine and the jealous monster in your chest is all too happy to oblige.

The shirt slips off easily over your head, exposing your skin to the cool air and glass walls. The feeling both freeing and mildly terrifying, still feeling so oddly public.

Breathe.

Out the corner of your eye, thick brown hair suddenly swings into view. A relaxed white blouse and you should be excited but you're suddenly hit with a new wave of anxiety. Is this your fault? Really? If she wasn't so secretive, you wouldn't have tried to find answers. It's not like she doesn't track your every move or apparently watch you on her security cameras.

Her...security cameras.

Agatha's eyes are down at her phone as she walks towards the glass office through the shade of the trees near her. Your eyes dart around the room quickly.

Of course there's a camera in the corner of the room. Of course there is

Maybe she's looking at you snooping right now. Or maybe that security camera is linked to her team. Maybe she doesn't even have access.

The door handle creaks when she turns it, finally looking up at you as she pushes the door open.

You're still.

"Well this isn't what I asked you to be wearing." She gestures to the remaining clothes on your body. Okay. So she didn't see anything and as much as you enjoyed her cute sleepwear this is absolutely even better.

She places a black purse to the side of the desk.

"I'm sorry." You remark before you can even process what exactly you're sorry for, pulling off the rest of the fabric until you're bare before her.

"Atta girl." Agatha's eyes take in your form as she heads to her desk, scanning your body like she's committing you to memory. "You ready to get some work done for me?"

Act natural.

"Yes. Ready to work. Of course. Always am."

Blew it.

"...Okay?"

The chair rolls back as Agatha plops down onto it, spreading her legs, placing her glasses over her eyes and opening the laptop. Is it obvious you were on there? She scans her fingerprint and clicks around. Everything seems...normal?

"Nice shoes." You remark, looking down at a pair of leather boots. You aren't joking either, they give her work outfit a bit of an edge and it's exciting to see something different. "Hm. I don't like heels on the gravel."

You nod. It doesn't seem like she knows. Maybe you're in the clear.

"Right. Here's the last set of reports. Crosscheck with the current ones—" she places a stack of papers neatly on the ground next to her chair "—write everything fresh. As soon as you're done i'll sign off and we'll send it over to the team."

You don't need the hand signal, you know where you're supposed to be. Knees soft on the wood as you settle next to her.

The papers aren't that thick, her hands gentle and lingering as she hands you a black pen. Can she tell you're tense?

"You really don't want to work, huh?" Her fingers are soft against your hair as she calms you. The answer is yes.

"Just want to spend time with you."

"Soon." She types. The noise feels like it's lasting forever. "I told you there'd be a reward. You tell me if you need to stop."

Your exhale is shaky as you flick through the papers. This is fine.

Why did things feel so perfect last night and so imperfect today? You hate that your body had finally caught up.

The notes scribble on the papers as you work through everything. Silence except for the typing, and an occasional noise from Agatha as she thinks out loud. Alternating between a hum, a chew of a pen and tapping her nails on the wood.

The worry you’d caused yourself dissolving as you sit where you’re supposed to be.

--

After an incomprehensible amount of time in the silence, it's already done. You might have rushed it, but it's probably fine.

You click the pen, handing the documents back towards Agatha. Her eyes dragging slowly from the screen as she decides whether or not she’s ready to look at you.

“Done?”

“Yes.”

Grabbing with her right hand and flicking through with her left. Eyes bright but narrow as they tear over your work.

You blink.

She’s quiet.

Too quiet.

“Hm.”

You swallow.

“Hmm.”

Is it better or worse if you say something?

You shuffle on the ground just a little. Readjusting.

“Stand up.”

“What?”

“Stand. Up.”

You do as your told as she also stands, rising to her feet as you fold your hands in front of you.

“Okay hon. Bend over the desk. Palms on the wood.”

The way the words calmly drip from her lips send a feeling of warmth through your body despite not understanding the context.

Being on the ground for her must have gotten her all worked up. Your back arches, heat under your skin as you try to breathe. The sun on your naked skin through the glass walls.

Agatha fishes around for something in her drawer. Eyes closed and lip between your teeth you try to focus on grounding yourself. Already becoming desperate for her and she'd hardly said two words to you.

"My poor baby." She tickles the curve of your back as her fingernails walk down your spine. "I'm going to punish you now...you already know what you've done wrong, don't you?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. "I—yes."

You thought you'd gotten away with it. The drawer closes with a soft noise.

Agatha's hand is warm as she places it on the small of your back, pressing you further into the wood.

"I thought you were a smart girl." She purrs, taking a handful of your ass.

The breath she releases is heavy. You can't tell if that cold feeling on your skin is from your panic or from whatever she's holding.

"Are you not enjoying mommy's hospitality?" Agatha speaks too slowly and much too calmly for someone clearly trying to prove a point. Is this how she talks to everybody who has wronged her, or is this reserved especially for you?

"Silly girl." She tuts."You're already shaking. Brace for me."

The sound of wood on flesh comes before the cry that leaves you, one that is loud and trembling, a hot pain radiating through your ass. Instinctively your hand rushes to your mouth.

"Hands on the table!"

Her tone is entirely different and fuck she's serious. Torn between looking down and looking back at her you catch a glimpse of the wooden ruler in her hands.

"Don't you want to be a good girl for me?" The wood is cool on your skin as she traces the outline of the red on your skin.

"Yes."

It's weak. But it's better than nodding. Another hit in the same spot, the pain much worse than her hand.

Another.

Tears prick in your eyes at the third impact, Agatha coos at the noise as you hold them back. How could you be so dumb?

She knows you went through her computer.

"Fuck! I'm sorry!" You attempt to spill through garbled noises and maybe if she'd move from the same spot this wouldn't be so bad. Tears and saliva spill onto the wooden desk below your face as you try to regulate your breathing. The wet skin on your cheek sticks a little to the desk as you talk.

In trying to find out how dangerous Agatha Harkness is, you seem to have forgotten how you're on a private island with her.

But you'd be lying if you said you weren't soaking wet. What a privilege it is to be at the recieving end of her discipline.

"Nice and red, so pretty like this." Another slap. The stinging has somehow numbed the area a little."How many are we on, baby?"

"I—"

Another.

You jolt forward, pressing into your palms.

"How many?"

You can't tell.

"Six?"

"Five? Oh well that's not very many. I think you can take ten. Don't you think?"

She's taunting you, but you can feel your arousal dripping down your thigh.

"Mayb—"

Another. The sound in your throat is raw and real.

"You will take it. These are the consequences of your actions, see?" Her hand soothes over your skin, fiery and on edge. Goosebumps over the surface as she soothes the hurt with the warmth of her palm. "It'll bruise. So you remember how to behave for me."

She hums as she flicks the ruler in her wrist again. Six or seven?

"I didn't mean to see them. They were open when I—" You sob at the sting. At the overwhelm and the pressing guilt of acting like a jealous teenager.

The ruler leaves your skin as Agatha takes a step back.

You're so focused trying to hold it together you don't realize she's placed it gently back on the desk.

You don't notice the way she looks at your body with her arms crossed and shoulders tense.

"I wasn't even looking for messages I promise I was looking for..."

You trail off. What exactly are you supposed to say next? As if what you were planning on saying made anything better after you searched for her passwords.

The silence is heavy.

"Oh."

You turn your head as she slowly opens her purse. The passion has turned to something new, the air feels different. Worse somehow. A heavy swallow bobs her throat.

And for a second, you don't even know what you've done.

The next few seconds happen too fast to fully process.

Grabbing the contents of her purse, Agatha's fingers tangle viciously in your hair, pulling you up to your feet before you can comprehend what she wants you to do, skin wet and sore and messy.

Her eyes are completely fucking blown, they're so dark and distracting you take a second to register the beautiful black and diamond collar in her hands, a leash in the other.

"This—" she grabs your neck too viciously to be satisfied with your punishment, you wince as she manhandles you "—was supposed to be your reward."

But the collar is around your neck anyway and you're not sure how you're supposed to react while this is happening.

As quick as she pulled you up, you're pushed down to your knees as your increasingly blank brain tries to solve the situation.

Legs firm on the floor and she's already clipping on the leash, pushing you down forcefully like she never has before.

No hand signals. No gentle coo behind harsh words.

Just the hardwood.

"You do not deserve this. Do you understand?" She's dragging you outside before you can protest. You scramble onto your hands and knees to try and match the pace of her already walking, leash in hand as she drags you outside like a disobedient dog.

"Agatha I didn't—"

She stops at your words before you're even down the path, pulling her free hand back and landing a sharp slap across your cheek with the back of her hand. The gasp that leaves your throat almost hurts.

Making her this upset feels worse.

"Do not call me that right now."

With your hands and knees on the gravel, she leads you quickly towards the house.

---

You try to get a good look around as she leads you down a new corridor, it proves to be difficult as she periodically pulls the leash tighter around her hand to keep you close behind her. Hands imprinted thanks to the rocks under your body.

The black door opens silently as she shoves you into the room by the collar, slamming the door behind her.

The lights are dim and red as you try to take in the space. Cages. Benches. Whips. Equipment you don't fully understand. Like the room she first shared with you in her penthouse, but with significantly more budget and privacy.

Your fingers touch the collar as you sit in a puddle of arousal. Agatha says nothing, walking towards the features of the room like she can't quite decide what to do with you, unbuttoning the first few buttons of her shirt, tossing her glasses and rolling up her sleeves.

You should be scared of her right now.

But you're desperate and she is everything.

"I didn't mean to—"

"Quiet!" She yells, yells like she does on the phone or to people she deems unworthy of her time. You flinch at the reaction, such a contrast to last night and the comfort she provided you after she snapped. Her hand raised to silence you.

You nod.

A press of a button. Classical music filling the heavy silence as she slowly wanders back over to you on the ground. The sound of her shoes heavy on the wood.

"I was punishing you..." she laughs in disbelief "...because you made a sloppy, sloppy error on your work."

Oh.

Oh no.

"Now, I did wonder why those notifications didn't come through." The control that's back in her words is impressive given the anger inside of her. "But I suppose that's because you got them."

"Agatha I really didn't mean—"

"I said do NOT call me that right now." Fuck. The word just slipped from your lips. "Now come here."

She points to the ground in front of her and for a second you're almost grateful she isn't shoving you around despite the tenderness in your palms as you crawl across the floor. She didn't specify to, but you suspect if you were to walk normally now she'd lose her shit even more than she already has.

And ultimately, you do deserve it.

"I don't even know where to begin with you." Your head is low when you finally reach her, the leash scraping along the floor as you move until she's able to reach it with her left hand. Her manicured nail points down to the point of her boots. "But you can start with apologizing."

This isn't italian leather and champagne. This is humiliation and punishment. Your tongue meets the boot before she can tell you what to do. Agatha's jaw tightens as she wraps her hand around the leash, her eyes have that unrecognizable look in them she gets sometimes.

You thought maybe you were past that look. That you knew all her looks. But in spite of the heavy exhale that leaves her nostrils you ultimately trust Agatha Harkness. Even if she explicitly told you not to.

You whimper when she pulls your collar so you're forced to look at her.

"Say sorry."

"I'm sorry. Really I—"

Another slap, and fuck this one hurts. Your hand reaching your face in shock. Something falters behind Agatha's expression. You can't tell if it's pity, power or disappointment.

You hope it's not the last one because it is delicious and it is just for you. Nobody else. Not anymore.

"You are on your knees, aren't you? Beg."

"What?" You heard her loud and clear but the words don't register in your head, cloudy as you're still focused on the sting.

"Put your goddamn hands together and beg for my forgiveness."

Leaning back on your knees you do exactly as you're told, pleas of sorry through a cracking voice as your mouth gets wetter and you both know you're trying not to cry more. "Please forgive me. I'm really sorry."

"Please forgive me." She mocks.

"Please. Please. I'm sorry."

"Say please mistress."

"Please mistress."

Your palms press into each hother and you are desperate.

"No."

She's already unclipping the leash and patting the plush bench behind her, retreating to a deep wooden dresser as you climb up onto the soft surface. Legs shaking already as they threaten to betray you.

A beat of anticipation as Agatha returns, one hand loosley grabbing the flared base of a black dildo, the other cracking her knuckles.

"Get on all fours like the dumb little animal you are." She commands as she struts back over to you, the shirt falling slightly off of her shoulder. You try not to gawk at the sight of collarbone when you're so exposed in comparison.

Body reaching you, her fingernails trace your spine gently. Scraping down from your tailbone towards the base of your neck.

You drip onto the bench.

"Let's get this wet, shall we?" Her words are a question but you know it's a demand as she holds the silicone inches from your mouth. The hint of a smirk on her lips as you open your lips to take it in, her eyes on yours. It's thinner than what she wears, and a little shorter.

Your tongue swirls around the toy obediently. You'd be thinking about why this particular size if you weren't so focused on pleasing her.

So when she removes it from your mouth and brings it behind you, the noise of something mechanical starting up alarms you for a second. Closing your eyes to steady your breath as the cool material presses against your entrance. "Disobeying me behind my back, and now look at you."

Agatha's hands hot as she opens you up and you are clearly not very good at being punished because it appears you need no warm up.

"You're this wet from me hurting you? Such a fucking slut for me." Her laugh at the ease it slides into you is masked by your own gasp, filling you slowly, much too slowly and to your disappointment Agatha is unusually silent. She always moans when she first fucks you. Did you mess up that bad?

"You are nothing without me, and you will learn how to behave."

Her hands are off you, her bodyweight away from you and her footsteps coming closer until she's stood directly in front of you. Holding a remote. If you had rational brain, this would be obvious.

"Do you like my toy, pet?" The speed is agonizingly slow and it is not enough.

Punishment.

"Yes."

Your hands are pushing through the leather.

"You broke my trust. Do you know how that feels?"

Guilt and sex is a weird combination and you want to grind back against the toy but you know that'll only make things much, much worse.

"I'm sorry. I'm so—"

One click of a button and the pace increases, not by much but by enough.

"Are you with her? She set you up to this?"

Who? Rio? Zara?

"Nobody...I wouldn't..." You can't speak properly despite her interrogation. Another button click and the speed is finally, finally enough for your mouth to fall open.

"What were you looking at on my computer?"

"Nothing!"

Another click as you clench around the toy. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"I will ruin you and you will break. Do you understand?"

Another click. Ohmygod.

"You said you didn't care about anything I've done."

"I don't!" You cry but the pace is relentless as it works you open.

"Then why were you snooping through my fucking computer?!"

Back to yelling and back to turningupthemachine—fuck

"Were you going to the board? You want to report me?"

"OhmygodAgatha"

Your fingers are going to tear through this fucking leather as the machine fucks you too fast to have a clear thought.

"If I have to correct you a third time I won't hesitate to shove my cock in your ass right now."

The thought alone is too much to bear as your body goes limp, rocking with the motions of the machine. "I wouldnever...Ineed....Ineed you." Slurs out.

"Then what were you looking for?"

Your response is one long groan and reluctantly, she reduces the speed, it's easier but it's still not quite enough.

"Anything! Answers to anything!" You spit, hair sticking to your face.

Slower now as it slips in and out.

"I saw your...messages with Rio...that's all...about...the gala."

Slower.

"Which is on...the eighth."

Any opportunity to be her best assistant.

"You are a stupid, reckless girl for messing with my things like that."

She stops the toy altogether and although it wasn't reaching quite the right spot for you the feeling of nothing is far much worse. Legs shaking as she returns behind you and slips it off of the machine.

You could collapse, body shaking. Staying still until she tells you to move.

"You said you didn't care."

"I don't."

You don't.

"Then why were you looking?"

"I just want to know." Your tongue is too dry for a real swallow.

"So you're nosy."

She's wandering back over to that damned dresser, hands in the air, her fingers wiggling in anticipation of what she'll choose next.

"Yes." You admit, it comes out weak and empty. Weaker when you see her eyes fall to a short riding crop mounted on the wall. Jesus christ.

"I think—" she's reaching for it under the red lights "—we should make the rest of that pretty ass just as red. To match the other side."

The "no" that leaves you is pleading and shallow.

Agatha halts.

"Are you safewording?"

The next "no" is stronger, because it has to be. She looks like she was born to hold that leather and stand over you with it in her hands. You need it. You need her.

"Then you'll do what I fucking want you to do, won't you? Turn around. Clean up the mess you've made on my bench." That sentence shouldn't be so hot and it takes a moment for your body to listen to you until you're face to face with the puddle on the bench, lapping up your own mess as Agatha dips the end of the crop against your neglected clit. A full body shiver up your spine as it finally gets some attention.

"Let me see your thighs tremble." The leather brushes softly where she didn't touch earlier as she taunts the curve of your ass.

WIth the flick of her wrist, she's already claiming the rest of you and fuck it hurts much more than the ruler. For a second the sinful thought that you may exist soley to be both hurt and cared for by Agatha Harkness crosses your mind.

"So curious aren't you?" Her tone is darker as she watches the marks appear on your skin, body covered in goosebumps and shaking for her. It's almost too much, leather on skin controlled in one area "hurts" is all you can muster up, arms too weak to keep you on all fours as your chest sinks to the plush material under you.

Agatha gives a patronizing "aw" before she's tracing the tip of the leather against your back. "It's supposed to hurt. Why do you need to know everything. Doesn't it get boring?" She offers, voice languid and she is really enjoying dragging this out.

Why do you need to know everything?

Because your thoughts are consumed with this woman? Because you're undoubtably having deep and unthinkable feelings for someone you don't fully know? Because her laugh is perfect and her nose crinkles and she's the only person you want to pray to?

The soft thoughts contrast your fingernails digging into the leather like some kind of perverted fantasy, your boss punishing you for snooping of all things.

"I just want to."

Is easier than a confession of obsession and it is the wrong answer, the crop coming down but you moan instead of sob and Agatha likes that far too much.

"...What if I don't want to ruin your little romantic fantasy?"

Those words feel much too sincere for this. This isn't just a fantasy. Agatha holds you and gives you her t-shirts and talks about taking you to her family home. She can't ruin it.

"You can't. I don't...I don't care..."

She barks a laugh.

The energy shifts, just a little but the silence that follows is noticeable, like the moment right before a break up or an argument you know you can't come back from. The second when you and your ex are in bed, staring at the ceiling knowing you just said the exact thing she didn't want to hear.

And you couldn't take it back.

Agatha knows she won't be able to take her next words back.

"Okay...fine."

You brace, mentally and physically as the crop teases your clit again, your body easing into the feeling. Trust. Breathing heavy, steady.

Agatha swallows.

"Some of the money that paid for this island, I took from the company pension fund. Under the radar of course. Cut the budget. Took it for myself."

You should hate that. You would hate that. You would have hated that? Just recently. God who are you? You should hate that but the sensation against your body, the sound of her boots on the wooden floor and the sweet sound of classical music provokes only one thought.

"I don't care."

The crop comes down hard on your ass, like she's trying to get you to care.

"You should care. That was very bad of mommy, wasn't it? I always take a little extra than I say I do. I love buying shit too much to let anyone else have anything." Her words are a mixture of arrogance and anger. "Except for you of course, my special girl."

And Agatha truly has her claws in you, because all you can think is—

"I don't care."

You swallow, a horse cry leaving your lips when the blow comes down, thinking of the marks this will leave. You want them. You want all of them.

"That stupid man, he's looking everywhere for me. Ha. My people are finding him right now...or they're trying to. Who knew a man so big and ugly could hide so easily..." the crop drops to the floor. Her hands are soothing over your bruises as they form. "...mommy sold him a building she knew wasn't safe. Polished it up so she could charge four times the price."

Her fingers find your desperate clit, slowly and agonizingly as she talks. "No reason really. More money. More entertainment. Turns out he has some verrrrry angry business partners." Her words are stretched out as she toys with you and this doesn't feel real. This doesn't feel real.

"Whoopsie! Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"'I don't...I don't care..." You moan against her precise and familiar fingers and you aren't even aware of what you're saying, you just know you need her and there's nothing she could say that would scare you away from her.

"Luckily the police are in my pocket, so there's nothing really he can do." She laughs, dipping a finger into you to collect your wetness. It's unnecessary. You can feel it down your thighs.

"Bought this poor kid's business a few years ago, just to kill it—" the sound of her belt unbuckling causes your cunt to throb like a conditioned animal "—was a good idea too. But it might affect business. What's a gal to do?"

The belt drops to the ground.

"It wasn't a good look. Luckily all my lovely little charities wiped that slate squeaky clean. Which was needed between the assistants I fucked and the staff I laid off and the lawsuits I was drowning in..." her words are too casual and she's suddenly too comfortable. Your ears focus on the sound of her boots dropping empty on the floor. "...the tax shelter is a nice little bonus too."

"You care about the charities. I know you do." The last of your energy lets you look over your shoulder just as she's securing herself into a new strap. The toy in the harness sits heavy on her hips larger than what she usually wears and attached to a—

She grabs a bottle of fluid from the dresser before returning to your already exhausted and trembling skin that's still starving for her touch. Her actual touch.

"I never force people into these situations you know. That's what's so silly." Her tone feels almost playful as the bench rocks, the feeling of her body leaning over yours, you're almost too easy to maneuver as she grabs and positions you. Pinning your legs between hers as you lay face down boneless and exhausted. "They basically put themselves in these positions."

The softness of your ass tender as she lines her cock up with her prize. You didn't try to run. You didn't even use your safeword. You just lay there and did nothing. The thick tip presses against you as she positions her entire body over yours, the fabric of her shirt pressed flat against your back as she slips inside of you with one fim thrust. The familiar groan you'd do anything for slipping from her lips.

No resistance despite it being much thicker, and of course Agatha notices, laughing as you're willingly trapped face-down beneath her.

As if you'd want to be anywhere else. Even after this.

"Is this turning you on? That's disgusting. I didn't think you'd take this so easily."

Her body flush against yours as your moans get lost in hers, whimpers hot in your ear as she rolls her hips, helpless under her. Despite the words she's confessed to you, all you feel is immense relief. Intimacy as her hips slap against the sweat on your skin.

"You feel so fucking good baby. You always feel so—still so tight for me all worn out like this." A kiss on your neck becomes a lick until your earlobe is between her teeth.

"I want all of you." You confess, her breath warm as you turn as much as you can to see her. "I want everything."

Her eyes are serious.

"You don't want everything."

This is not the time for her to deny you, but you should know this is not the time for you to get all your answers. Not when she's fucking you deeper than she ever has, passion and force and pinning you down with her bodyweight as the bench rocks. But you know there is no other time. It's now or never.

"Agatha—fuck— did you—"

She doesn't correct you, not anymore. Blissed out as she kisses the back of your neck with wet lips. Her hips are at the perfect angle as she moans, her sweat on yours, shirt sticking against your shoulder blades. Lost in her. Lost in you. Your depraved question comes out as moan.

"Is it—ah— true...?"

Would you a year ago would run from you now?

Fuck. There's that spot, her grunts are shallow and they are perfect.

"About—about what they—fuck—said you did—"

Her slack jaw purses into a sly smile, unsure whether to tell you what you want to hear or whether she'll finally scare you off.

But she's already inside of you. In every place.

"My team offered to do it for me..." a tentative roll of her hips. You stutter as you try to stay silent. "But men can be so clumsy..."

Fuck.

"...Poison is very delicate."

You swallow as she halts movement entirely. Waiting for your response. Waiting for you to run. Deep down, you already knew it was true. And your words don't surprise you anymore.

"I don't care."

You know she deserved it but you do not want to think about Agatha's mother right now all you want to think about is the woman on top of you. The woman who trust you wholeheartedly to tell you what you want to know so desperately and instead of being repulsed you feel unfathomably close to her.

In response, Agatha grabs your hands, pinning you down by them, pressing onto you until you're completely flat under her weight. Something plastic in her left hand as it merges with your own.

"That's for you, if you want it." She rolls her hips as you gasp, hips stuttering as she's already losing composure "fuck you take me so well".

"I want it." Your own tone is violent, desperate and unrecognizable.

"You still want my come baby? Even after everything?"

Fuck. Fuck of course you fucking do.

"I want it" You beg, right at the edge.. "I'm sorry for snooping I want it. I— I want you. Please."

Her groans are raw and animalistic in your ear as she sets a faster pace, the push of her hips slapping against the raw skin of your ass. "You're mine, you know that? This pretty body is mine. Every part of it."

"Yours." The thought is enough to push you over the edge. "Please—fuck—please."

"Let me feel it baby, gonna come so deep in you. Fuckfuck—"

Her body jerks as she cries out, stuttering her hips inside of you as your vision blurs, her hand wrapped around yours as she presses down, pumping her come into you. Clenching and throbbing as she forces a few deep thrusts to make sure it doesn't spill out.

"Jesus christ sweetheart."

Agatha's body collapses onto yours, twitching and panting. Hands wrapped around your own as your breathing struggles to return to normal. If you were trapped under her forever, you'd live.

"I forgive you." She whispers, letting you settle before she pulls out dangerously slowly. You muster a croaky "thank you".

Agatha's legs tremble as she stands off of the bench, dropping the harness to the ground and agonizingly slowly grabs some lotion and a towel robe. She had these the whole time?

You lay still a little longer, letting your body finally relax as her fingers spread you open to watch the come trickle onto the table.

"Hm look at that. I should do that before a meeting. Have you cross your pretty legs in front of the board."

The thought would be enough to set you off if you weren't already limp.

"You're trembling, honey." Her hands are soft on your waist as she helps you sit up, pulling the towel robe around your body, the rough material grounding and comforting, hair sticking to your forehead.

Agatha's cheeks are flushed and her shirt creased as she takes you in, she is beautiful but your brain is dizzy and distant like you can't quite process anything.

The tears start before you can stop them.

"I'm sorry, about snooping I really am."

Like that's the worst thing that was said today.

"Hey, you're alright. You're okay. I—" standing before you, she wraps her hands around you, shuffling you to the edge of the bench so you're flush against her chest. Her heartbeat comforting in your ear. "—I forgive you. You took your punishment so well, you're such a perfect girl."

You nuzzle against her chest as she runs one hand through her hair. "I can't believe I just told you that. Fuck."

Her body stiffens. A swallow. "Don't run from me...please don't run from me."

You pull her in tighter, impossibly closer as she soothes your back with the palm of her hand.

"I'm not running."

"I want to be good."

Her own eyes are glassy.

"I know."

Agatha holds you for so long, you almost sleep pressed up against her.

--

A phenomenal shower, a lotion and a plain white t-shirt later you're lured to the kitchen at the promise of a hot meal. The idea would go down a treat, especially with the staff Agatha has. The food is always phenomenal.

The conversation after the comedown died, feeling both fictional and inevitable. You should feel sick processing it, but you strangely feel...nothing at all. Perhaps it'll hit later. Perhaps you really, truly don't care. Slipping Agatha's t-shirt over your head and boxers around your waist, knowing the iceberg of things she'd been keeping from you makes you feel special of all things.

The floor is warm with underfloor heat as you make your way from her bedroom to the kitchen.

Your cortisol spikes when you see Agatha stood over the burner, a sweater and shorts on her frame.

She's cooking.

"There you are." She processes how you struggle to get comfortable on the barstool. "I'm making spaghetti."

"You're cooking?"

"Well there's nobody else here and i'm certainly not going to get you do it. You're bearly awake and its just gone five."

"Long day."

Understatement of the century.

She takes a beat to read a recipe book she has balanced next to the stovetop, a carnage of seasonings crammed next to it. Red stuff spilled on the counter.

"I can make it, pasta sauce is just a few ingredients."

She snaps the pasta in half. You wince.

"No. I'm making it..." She clears her throat like the words are caught in it" ... I—uh...I want to take care of you." She says it like she hasn't been practising saying that in her head, but the delivery of the sentence has some weight to it.

The sweater sits loose around her neck as she grabs a wooden spoon and goes to town on the sauce. The heat is way too high. You don't want to backseat cook. Is the water even boiling properly. Oh god.

"Christ I miss the chef. I don't know why I thought I could be here on my own..." Suddenly the book is slammed shut and shoved against the wall with a loud THUD that makes you jump out of your skin.

"Bug. Bug on the wall. Got him. Weird freak looking thing." In her bug-killing zone she hasn't noticed the sauce spitting hot liquid all over the wall. "Agatha the fucking—" you're on your feet before you can stop yourself, turning off the heat. The red liquid half on the backsplash and the other burnt to the bottom of the pan.

"We can just have the pasta." She offers with a quiet voice. Is she embarrassed?

"Sure. Did you salt the water?"

The water isn't boiling. It's a gentle simmer and is too small for the spaghetti.

"That wasn't in the book."

Upon closer inspection, the book covered in dead bug is for gourmet cooking and old as fuck. Her groan is long and heavy like a petulant teenager, stamping her foot on the ground.

You go into fixing mode instantly. "I was going to say we could order something but you know, island."

"I have some pre-made stuff in the freezer. For when I'm alone."

Oh? Then why is she bothering at all? "There's probably a pizza. Nothing super fancy, last time I was here it was only for a day or so, it'll be with whatever we had leftover. They're easy to freeze."

"That's perfect."

Pulling open the massive freezer, Agatha pulls out the fanciest frozen pizza you've ever seen. Turning on the oven, you make sure she isn't blasting it at 500 degrees top shelf.

"Do you want a soda? I have stuff in the fridge." Cherry Coke seems to be the only thing she has in her fridge, aside from half a block of cheese and a bottle of vodka. She eyes it. "Or a martini."

"Soda is good." The cool condensation in your hands while grabs herself one. "I didn't know if you'd like this, it's not as sweet as the other stuff."

"It's perfect." A satisfying pop as you pull the tap. She's putting a glass in front of you before you can drink from the can.

"Don't drink from those, you don't know where they've been." You nod, letting her help you as she takes it from your hands and begins pouring. The glass shallow for whiskey, not quite big enough for the whole soda.

"So..." She starts, pouring her own soda into a glass. "...I have a big couch in the other room. TV. Maybe like, seven DVDs."

What the fuck is happening right now? You seem to have unlocked dating bonus features.

"Are you suggesting a movie and a pizza? Are you okay?"

"Yes that's what I'm suggesting. But if you make it a big deal i'll throw all the dvds into the sea."

She's already out of the room assuming that you'll follow her. No timer set for the food so you'll have to keep an eye on the time, scrambling off the stool and following her into the den.

--

The couch is enormous, essentially a bed you can both lay on along with two other people if they were here. Soft lights and a television disguised as a painting. The fur rug is soft on your feet, and the blankets she has neatly rolled up near the arm don't stay so organized as you pull one over yourself.

Pizza and a movie is a date you've done a hundred times. But not like this. Agatha is Agatha, with a pizza covered in balsamic glaze, a blanket made of cashmere and a black and white French movie.

You don't bring any attention to it. This is just her, like everything else is.

Unfortunately despite wanting this moment since you first showed up at her penthouse, your eyelids feel heavy. You aren't surprised, not really. This has been a very long few days but you're desperate to stay awake. To absorb this with her. What if she doesn't want to do it again? What if she only wants to make you fly in helicopters and go to the opera?

Right now you're able to snuggle into her soft sweater, the perfume on her neck in your nose and her warmth on your own.

You take a risk, but after today it feels less stressful and more undeniable, wrapping your arm over her as you cuddle into her. She tenses for a moment before you can almost hear her brain telling her to relax.

Your eyes close....

No! Wake up. Wake up. Focus. What's happening in the movie? Maybe she didn't notice. You don't want her to think you aren't interested.

Agatha pulls some of the blanket over herself to stop you hogging it like a burrito. "Is it the French? Are the subtitles boring you?" her words feel sincere and no! Not at all!

"No I swear, i'm just so sleepy."

"Oh. It's almost over." Her hand tentatively reaches around you, pulling you in closer and as much as you want this it is not helping your tiredness.

"I can translate. Close your eyes."

"Hm. Translate." You shuffle closer to her.

"Oh, I lie now and then, I suppose. Sometimes I'd tell them the truth and they still wouldn't believe me, so I prefer to lie."

She swallows as she finishes the sentence and that one was maybe a little close to home, you reach the last slice of cold pizza when she makes no attempt to eat it.

"I like that you speak lots of languages." You start, waking yourself up to avoid her thinking too long about today. "We can go anywhere and you can talk for me."

She raises an eyebrow. "You're a smart girl. You can talk for yourself. I can get you lessons."

You roll your eyes.

"Stop that."

"Or what?"

"I'll take you back down the hall." She points towards the doorway.

"Oh noooo. Don'tttt." The cheese threatens to fall off the pizza.

Her tongue pokes her cheek before her face softens, you can tell she's thinking deeply about what she wants to say. "Do you still want to go places with me?" She asks and her voice feels smaller than it usually does.

"I meant what I said. It wasn't just the sex." The French continues in the background, you'll be missing the end of this movie. "You do what you have to do."

You don't mention the things she does clearly for power and entertainment. How do you rationalize them to yourself? To her? Are they really that big of a deal? Are they any worse than firing half the office and manipulating her assistants? Both of which you've dismissed before.

You don't care as much as maybe you should. Maybe it's because of her eyes and the lines around her lips when she smiles. You just know you want to be here.

"You're in this now. You know that, right?"

She shuffles up in the seat, separating herself from you. Wanting to look right at you when she talks. You reach for your glass of soda to wash the pizza down.

"What will happen to him, the man?" You ask as the liquid relaxes the lump threatening to clog your throat.

"We're hoping to pay him off."

You place the empty glass on the coffee table to the side of the couch. Knowing the answer to your next question. Not fully understanding how you feel about it.

"...and what if he doesn't take it."

She smiles like she doesn't know what to tell you.

"He will. It's a big offer."

The film comes to an end behind you, the credits rolling. The room is darker than you realized with the curtains closed, the lack of movie highlights it. The white of the credits glowing on her skin.

"Is that why..." Um. How do you word this. "Zara..."

"No." She cuts you off before you can figure out how to say it. "She doesn't know about any of that. She just wanted to expose my interactions with my assistants." She shuffles in her seat, adjusting her legs and removing lint from her sweater. "Which may I add were all consensual. I didn't force anyone to do anything they didn't want to do."

"Hey. No baby I know." You reach for her. "We'll figure it out. I can help you now, I mean. if you need it. You can talk to me."

Her lip settles between her teeth. "Where did you come from?" Agatha's hands find your face as she pulls you closer. Her lips on yours softly, a claim and a promise, scooting closer to you when she breaks contact.

"Your millionth job interview." You laugh.

"If I interviewed you myself I wouldn't have made it so long without touching you." You swallow as she pulls you onto her lap. Heat under your clothes. Will you always want her this badly?

"We'll fly back in a day or so. I'll handle it then."

Your eyes widen. "A day? I didn't bring clothes."

"Whaaaat? I totally didn't know that." She slams herself back against the couch cushions, pulling you with her. "There's nobody else here except perimeter security." You wobble on her lap, your hands on her shoulders.

So there is security. Hm. They must be good.

She purses her lips, sucking her cheeks in.

"You really won't learn French, when we go to France?"

You pull her into a kiss, hands on the sharp curve of her jaw. A shit-eating grin on your face when you pull away.

"You want to take me to France."

Behind the couch it's easy to spot a half-eaten bag of chips and a glass of water. Sleeping pills next to them. Did she sleep here last night?

Her eyes are tired when your gaze finds hers again. It can't be later than seven.

"When this is all over...I'll take you there. Deal?"

"Deal." You agree.

No more secrets.

"Now..." She begins, voice cracking as she eases you off of her and back onto the soft material beneath you. "...How about something in English so if you rest your eyes it doesn't matter."

"I didn't realize you had anything in English." You pull the blanket up to your chin as Agatha rocks the couch, heading over to the TV to remove the disc.

"I have uh..." she pulls open her small collection. Probably the classics. Something elegant. Gone with the Wind. Breakfast At Tiffany's? "...The Craft or The Exorcist."

You sit bolt upright.

"I can't sleep through either of those!"

"Yes you can. I do it all the time."

"You're going to absorb them into your subconscious."

She puts the French disc back in the case. "I already do. You wanna see me spin my head all the way round?"

The giggle that leaves you plants the biggest smile on her face. "I puke up green stuff too, I just have my people clean it. Just all the time puking up green stuff. Can't stop."

"You are gross." But you're smiling. She's smiling.

"I'm getting another soda. You want another?" She still hasn't chosen a DVD but you'll get nightmares if you watch that one before bed. Instead grabbing her empty glass from the arm of the couch.

"Sure. Yeah thank you." You reach for your own, handing it to her.

"You're welcome hon."

Her eyes linger on you a second too long as she leaves the room, not quite knowing where this new chapter leaves the two of you.

But you're ready to find out.

---

Taglist: @mommyissuesismypersonality @chlondykebar @sweetmidnights @rmaximoff @hannah-0730 @milflovers4 @neverfindmegone  @absolute-memegarbage @wifeofmanymilfs @marcelinaceciliarose @marcelinaceciliarose @6stolenangel9 @pianogirl2121 @hagofswords @natashasmuse @htinha157 @@wandanatsub @morgananyx @galaxybaby @greyella @w4ndsversew0nder @daffodil-heart @isixxxx

It’s late by the time you ease your own front door open, the rain still dripping from your hair and coat. You slip your boots off quietly, trying not to wake the house, but the flicker of light from the living room gives them away.

Your mom and Billy are curled on the sofa, a blanket tossed over their legs, eyes glued to the TV. The shrill strings of some old horror film fill the room, shadows dancing across their faces.

You step into the doorway just as something jumps on screen, a ghoul lunging. They both scream, at full volume and ridiculous.

“Wow,” you deadpan, dropping your bag onto the side table. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

Billy clutches his chest, glaring at you through wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, you nearly killed me!”

Your mom swats his arm, though she’s still catching her breath too. “Don’t sneak in like that!”

“I walked through the front door,” you point out, chuckling as you peel off your damp coat.

“Like a ghost,” Billy mutters, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “All silent and creepy.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth and normalcy untangles something in your chest that’s been knotted all night.

Your mom pats the space between them. “Come sit, sweetheart. We’ll protect you from the scary bits.”

Billy snorts. “We’ll protect her? You’re the one who screamed loudest.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and sink down onto the armchair instead, curling up and letting their bickering fill the room.

Billy mutes the TV with a dramatic flourish of the remote once the commercials come on, eyes squinting at you. “Didn’t expect you to come in tonight,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “Thought you’d be… busy.”

Your mom shoots him a look, then turns her attention to you, brows raised expectantly.

You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “Her son was really sick. She needed to focus on him, so I came home.”

“Her son,” your mom repeats slowly, like she’s trying the words on for size. Her eyes narrow a little. “Wait. Are you telling me… are you’re dating the woman you babysit for?”

Your heart lurches into your throat. “I uh…” you glance at Billy, who is already grinning like the Cheshire Cat, clearly enjoying every second.

“Mom,” you start carefully, “please don’t freak out…”

“Oh my god.” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me.”

Billy laughs. “I told you she had a girlfriend.”

“Billy!” you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.

Your mom leans forward, still staring at you in disbelief. “So you’re really with her? Billy’s boss? The professor?”

You nod, cheeks flaming, wishing you could sink into the armchair and disappear. “Yeah. I am.”

Your mom leans forward, pausing the movie entirely now, her eyes fixed on you with that maternal mix of worry and curiosity.

“She’s a bit old for you, isn’t she?” she says gently, but firmly. “And sweetheart, being a stepmother, even unofficially, that’s a big responsibility. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The words hit hard, right in the soft spot where your insecurities live. Your cheeks heat, your chest tightening. “Mom…”

Billy groans, tossing his head back against the sofa. “Here we go.”

“No, I’m being serious,” she insists, folding her hands in her lap. “You’re still so young. You’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want you getting hurt because you’ve taken on more than you can handle.”

You swallow, staring down at your hands twisted in the blanket. “I… I know it sounds complicated. And yeah, she’s older. A lot older.” Your voice drops, softer. “But I… care about her. And I care about Nicky. It’s not… it’s not something I fell into by accident.”

Your mom studies you, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she sighs, reaching across to squeeze your hand. “I’m not trying to scare you off. I just want to make sure you’re thinking it through. You deserve to be happy, not overwhelmed.”

You nod, throat tight, managing a small smile. “I am thinking it through.”

Billy smirks, breaking the tension. “Besides, you’ve already survived me. You’re basically qualified for stepmom status.”

You throw a cushion at him, rolling your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosens a little.

Your mom squeezes your hand once more, then leans back against the sofa with a decisive nod. “Well I’ll need to meet her.”

Your head snaps up. “Mom, no. Please, no.”

“Yes,” she says firmly, crossing her arms. “If you’re serious about this woman, and it sounds like you are, then I need to meet her. That’s non-negotiable.”

You groan, dragging the blanket over your face. “You’ll scare her off.”

Billy chuckles, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “Trust me, Agatha Harkness isn’t scared of anything. Except maybe imminent death.”

You peek out from under the blanket just enough to glare at him. “Not helping.”

Your mom shakes her head, smiling faintly but with a stubborn glint in her eyes. “Sweetheart, if she’s good enough for you, then she’s good enough for me. And if she’s serious about you, she won’t mind meeting your mother.”

“She will mind,” you mutter.

“Then she’s not as serious as you think.”

That lands like a stone in your stomach. You sink deeper into the chair, groaning, while Billy smirks at the whole scene.

“Mom,” you mumble, “please don’t make this a thing.”

“It’s already a thing,” she says simply. “And I expect to meet her. Soon.”

~

The living room is a mess of crayons, construction paper, and little cut out leaves Nicky insisted on bringing home from preschool. You’re on the rug with him, knees tucked under you, while he twirls in a circle with his stuffed goat clutched in one hand.

“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down,” he sings, his little voice high and proud, bouncing more than dancing.

You chime in with exaggerated gusto, clapping along in time. “Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”

He collapses into giggles, clapping his hands and throwing himself into your lap. You catch him, pressing a noisy kiss into his curls before sitting him upright again. “That was so good, professor,” you tell him, using his goat’s honorary title. “Ten out of ten.”

“Again!” Nicky cheers, already springing back up, his little feet stomping against the rug.

You take a deep breath, lifting your arms dramatically like a conductor. “Ready? One, two…”

“Three!” he shouts, spinning wildly as you both launch into the song again, your voices overlapping.

It’s in the middle of the second round that the front door opens. Agatha steps inside, still in her work clothes, hair a little mussed from the wind. She stops short in the doorway, her briefcase slipping from her fingers with a soft thunk.

On the rug, Nicky is twirling like a leaf himself, his cheeks flushed, his laugh bubbling high and bright. You’re on your knees, arms waving with theatrical drama, singing loudly and off key just to make him laugh harder.

For a moment, Agatha just watches, something soft breaking open in her chest.

When Nicky spots her, he squeals. “Mama! Look!” He rushes over, tugging at her hand. “We’re singing my show song! Y/N knows it too!”

Agatha’s gaze flicks from her son’s shining face to yours, your cheeks pink, still catching your breath from all the singing. Her lips curve, slow and warm, into the kind of smile she almost never shows anyone.

Agatha sets her briefcase down with a soft thud, hand to her chest like she’s been hit. “Oh, you got your show song today?”

Nicky bounces on his toes, nodding so hard his curls flop. “Yes! Yes! Wanna hear it?!”

Agatha gasps, playing along, eyes wide. “Do I ever!” She drops into the armchair like it’s the front row of Carnegie Hall. “Give us a performance, darling boy.”

Nicky scrambles back to the middle of the rug, shoving his goat into the “audience” too, then throws his arms wide. “One, two, three!” he counts off, launching into the little song with all the power in his tiny lungs.

You pad over and sink onto the armrest beside Agatha. Her hand immediately finds your knee, giving it a squeeze, her eyes fixed on Nicky like the world could fall down around her and she wouldn’t notice.

He twirls, stomps, half forgets the words halfway through and makes up the rest, but his grin never wavers. When he belts the final line, “all around the town!” he bows so low he nearly tips over.

You and Agatha clap wildly, cheering like lunatics. “Bravo!” Agatha cries, whistling through her fingers. “Encore, encore!”

You laugh, clapping until your palms sting. “Ten out of ten, Professor Goatly agrees!” You lift the stuffed goat in mock solemnity, making Nicky dissolve into shrieks of giggles.

Agatha glances sideways at you, her smirk softened into something gentler. Her thumb strokes over your knee, an unspoken thank you, as Nicky starts gearing up for another round, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

Later, after dinner and the small storm of bedtime negotiations of one more story, one more sip of water, one more kiss, the house finally quiets. Nicky’s door clicks shut, and Agatha pads into the living room, her blouse a little rumpled, her hair falling loose around her face. She drops onto the sofa beside you with a sigh.

You curl sideways to look at her, chin propped on your hand. “Well,” you murmur, eyes glinting, “I hope you’re prepared to hear that song every day, about a hundred times, from now until the show.”

Agatha groans, throwing her head back dramatically. “God help me.”

You smirk, clearing your throat with theatrical gusto. “Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down!”

Before you can get to orange and brown, she leans over and captures your mouth in a kiss, effectively cutting you off. It’s slow at first, deliberate, her hand cupping your cheek.

You grin against her lips, the song dissolving into a muffled laugh as you kiss her back.

When she finally pulls away, her eyes are half lidded, her smirk wicked. “That’s the only acceptable way to shut you up,” she murmurs.

“Mm,” you hum, still smiling, “guess I’ll have to sing it more often.”

Her hand squeezes your thigh, her brow arched. “Careful, babygirl. I’ll find other ways to make you quiet.”

You start to laugh again, but it dies on your lips as she leans back in, kissing you slower this time. Her hand slides from your thigh to your waist, tugging you closer until you’re curled against her side. The silk of her blouse is cool under your fingertips as you fist the fabric, melting into her warmth.

She tilts her head, deepening the kiss, her thumb stroking along your jaw in a way that makes your chest ache. You sigh into her mouth, letting her take the lead, letting her set the pace.

When she finally breaks away, her lips hover against yours, her breath warm. “There,” she murmurs. “Much better than singing that damn song.”

You giggle, pressing your forehead to hers. “You didn’t even let me get to the second verse.”

“Exactly,” she says, smirking, and kisses you firmer this time, until you’re clutching her blouse tighter, your heart racing.

By the time she eases back, you’re curled fully into her, your head tucked under her chin, her arm wrapped tight around you. She presses a kiss into your hair, sighing as her other hand rubs slow, soothing circles over your back.

You breathe her in, the faint trace of her perfume mingling with the warmth of home, and let yourself sink into her hold. The world outside, with all its sharp edges and questions, feels far away. Here, it’s just her arms, her lips, the steady thrum of her heartbeat under your ear.

You’re still curled against her, her hand stroking slow lines down your back, when you mumble into the fabric of her blouse, “My mom’s been talking again about meeting you.”

Agatha hums low in her chest, fingers pausing for just a second. “Would you like me to meet her?”

You groan, tilting your head back enough to look at her. “Honestly? No. She’s insufferable. But she’s important. And she won’t let up.” You chew your lip, hesitating before adding, “So… maybe for my birthday. You could come out to dinner with us?”

Her whole body stiffens beneath you. She pulls back, her brows lifting high. “Excuse me, your birthday?”

You blink at her, suddenly sheepish. “…Yeah?”

Her eyes narrow, a flicker of guilt and annoyance cutting through her expression. “And you were going to tell me this when exactly? After the fact? Over cake crumbs?”

You flush, pulling the blanket higher over your lap like it’s a shield. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big-…” she cuts herself off, shaking her head, her tone sharp with disbelief. “Sweetheart, your birthday is a very big deal to me. You’re my girl.” She cups your jaw, forcing you to meet her eyes. “I should’ve known.”

Your stomach twists, a mix of guilt and nerves under her gaze. “I just… I don’t like making it a thing.”

“Well, it’s a thing now.” She kisses you once, quick but fierce, before pulling back with a sigh. “I hate that you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”

You lean into her touch anyway, your voice small. “You know now.”

Her expression softens, but there’s still that glint of frustration in her eyes, not at you, but at herself for missing it. She presses her lips to your temple, her arm wrapping tightly around you again.

You tilt your face back toward her, biting your lip. “So you’ll come? It’s nothing huge. We always go to this Thai place Billy loves the day before my birthday.”

Agatha’s brows knit. “The day before?”

You nod, smiling a little shyly. “Yeah. Because… my birthday’s on Halloween. So we celebrate the day before.”

Her mouth falls open, eyes narrowing like she thinks you’re joking. “You’re serious. Halloween?”

You grin, unable to help it. “Yeah. I’m a Samhain baby.”

There’s a beat of silence before she tips her head back, laughing. “That makes so much sense.”

You giggle, hiding your face in her blouse. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” she insists, still laughing, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Of course you were born on Halloween. That explains everything. My little witch.”

You laugh with her this time, the sound warm and tangled, the tension between you dissolving into something softer.

Agatha is still chuckling, her thumb brushing the line of your jaw. “Alright, Samhain baby,” she teases, “so what do you usually do on the actual day? Your spooky little Halloween birthday?”

You shrug, cheeks heating. “Honestly? Horror movies in bed. That’s kind of it.”

Her brows rise, lips curving slow and sly. “So… no real plans.”

You shake your head, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself. “Not really.”

“Good.” She leans in, her voice dropping low against your ear. “Because that means you’re all mine.”

The words make your stomach flip, your whole body going hot at once. You duck your head, blushing furiously, but she catches your chin with her fingers, forcing your gaze back to hers.

“Ohhh,” she purrs, clearly enjoying the way your composure crumbles, “look at that blush.”

“Agatha,” you whine, but you can’t stop smiling.

Her grin widens, wicked and affectionate all at once. “Don’t worry, babygirl. I’ll plan something worthy of a Samhain birthday. You won’t lift a finger, except maybe to unwrap presents.”

You bite your lip, heart hammering. “You’re really going to plan my birthday?”

“Already am,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re mine that day. No arguments.”

Your cheeks flame hotter, but your grin gives you away.

Her mouth hovers at the corner of yours, her grin sly. “So what does my little Samhain baby want for her birthday? A cauldron? A broomstick? A séance in the living room?”

You swat weakly at her shoulder, giggling. “Shut up.”

“Oh, she giggles.” She leans in, brushing her lips against yours. “Cute.”

“Agatha…” you start, but the rest is swallowed when she kisses you properly, her hand sliding into your hair to keep you exactly where she wants you.

You melt, sighing into her mouth, your fingers clutching at her blouse. She chuckles softly against your lips, clearly pleased with how easily you crumble for her, and deepens the kiss.

Your blush only worsens when she murmurs between kisses, “All mine. Gonna spoil you rotten, babygirl.”

You whimper, caught between laughter and want, and she grins against your mouth, tugging you into her lap like it’s nothing. The blanket slips to the floor, forgotten, as her hands spread warm over your back.

“Mm,” she hums, lips trailing down your jaw, “maybe I’ll start planning tonight.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle, tilting your head back to let her mouth find your throat.

“And you love it.” Her teeth graze your skin, just enough to make you squirm, before she pulls back to kiss you again, like she could happily make out on the sofa with you all night.

The TV flickers silently in the background, the whole house hushed, just the sound of your breathless laughter and her low, pleased sighs filling the room.

Agatha’s kisses turn greedier, her hands sliding from your back to grip your hips tight, tugging you closer against her. You gasp into her mouth, the shift in her energy making your stomach flip.

She growls softly, low in her throat. “God, babygirl… you’re killing me.”

You whimper as her teeth catch your lower lip, her tongue soothing the sting before diving back in, kissing you like she’s starving. The blanket on the floor is long forgotten, all you can think about is the way her fingers dig into you, pulling you exactly where she wants you.

She pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, breath hot and uneven, “Bed. Now.”

Your cheeks flame, your body already thrumming, and you nod quickly.

“Good girl,” she praises, standing smoothly and hauling you with her. One arm stays locked around your waist as she guides you down the hall. You stumble once, breathless with laughter, but she just scoops you up, carrying you the last few steps of the way.

“Agatha!” You giggle, your arms looping around her neck, “you don’t have to carry me!”

“Oh, but I want to,” she purrs, kissing your cheek as she pushes the bedroom door open with her hip.

She sets you down on the bed, eyes dark and hungry now, already tugging her blouse loose. “Been thinking about this since the car ride home,” she admits, crawling over you, her mouth claiming yours again before you can answer.

Your hands clutch at her shoulders, your body arching up into hers, the heat between you snapping fast from playful to desperate.

“Mine,” she growls against your mouth, pinning you beneath her. “All mine.”

Her hands are frantic, pulling off your panties, tugging at your dress, sliding up under the fabric to touch as much skin as she can. You arch into her, whimpering, your fingers tangled in her hair.

“Agatha,” you breathe against her lips, your voice breaking with need. “I love you.”

She freezes for just a second, pulling back enough to look at you. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips swollen, but the expression on her face is pure awe.

“Oh, my baby,” she whispers, voice rough. Her hand cups your cheek, her thumb brushing away the tear you didn’t realise had slipped free. “You undo me every damn time.”

Her mouth crashes back onto yours, her tongue sliding against yours, her sighs mingling with your gasps. She kisses you like she’s trying to breathe you in, like she’s terrified of ever letting go.

Her hands skim down your body, every touch deliberate. She takes her time undressing you, murmuring soft praises between kisses. “So beautiful… my perfect girl… mine.”

She parts your thighs wider as she presses into you, letting you feel every inch of her cock inside of you, her breath shuddering against your mouth. You gasp, your nails biting into her shoulders as your body stretches around her, clenching tight.

“Jesus, baby,” she groans, forehead dropping to yours. “So fucking tight for me, you were made to take me.”

Your whimper makes her kiss you again, swallowing the sound, her hips rolling until she’s fully seated inside you. She doesn’t move right away, just holds you there, both of you trembling.

Her hand cups your face, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip. “God, I’ll never get over this. Being inside you… it’s like nothing else.”

When she starts moving, it’s with deep, unhurried strokes that make your toes curl and your back arch. Every thrust drags a desperate sound from your throat, and every sound makes her groan like she’s losing her mind.

“That’s it,” she pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. “Cling to me, baby. Let me feel you. You’re so good, fuck, you’re perfect.”

You whimper, burying your face against her neck. “Agatha…”

She stills, just for a heartbeat, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes are dark, glassy with want, but underneath it’s awe. “Tell me you love me baby,” she whispers, voice breaking.

“I love you,” you breathe, shaky, desperate.

Her lips crash onto yours, the kiss hot and wet and claiming. “My baby,” she moans against your mouth. “You undo me, you fucking undo me.”

Her pace builds, not rushed but more insistent, each thrust deeper and harder like she’s trying to carve herself into you. Her hand slips between you to circle your clit, drawing sharp cries from your throat.

“Take it, babygirl,” she growls, her voice low and rough. “Take all of me. You’re mine. Always mine.”

You cling tighter, keening under her, your body a mess of heat and want. She kisses you through every sound, her words tumbling fast and needy between kisses: “So beautiful… so good for me… fuck, the way you squeeze me baby, I never want to leave you.”

The intensity builds until you’re trembling, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust making you see stars. And she’s right there with you, her own breath ragged, her moans spilling into your ear.

“Come for me,” she begs, almost broken with it. “Let me feel you, baby, give it to me.”

And when you shatter, sobbing her name, she follows with a guttural groan, burying herself deep, spilling inside you with a kind of ferocity that makes her whole body shake.

She holds you through it, kissing your hair, your face, anywhere she can reach, murmuring ragged I love you’s and mine’s until all that’s left is the sound of your breaths, tangled and shaking, pressed so close you’re not sure where you end and she begins.

~

By the week of the show, that damn song has invaded every corner of your world.

Your mom hums it absentmindedly as she stirs a pot of soup, tapping the spoon against the rim in time with the melody. Billy whistles it while brushing his teeth. Agatha, caught on a work call, doesn’t even notice herself mouthing “red and yellow, orange and brown” as she paces the kitchen with her laptop open.

You groan every time you hear it, because it’s everywhere.

Even Nicky’s stuffed goat has been enlisted. Last night he’d made you hold Professor Goatly and make him “sing along” while Nicky spun in circles until he fell into a heap of giggles.

It’s in your head when you wake up, when you shower, when you’re trying to fall asleep. You’ve caught yourself humming it under your breath while waiting for the kettle to boil, and immediately wanted to throw yourself out the window.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the lines repeat in an endless loop. Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…

You throw an arm over your face and groan. “I’m being haunted.”

From the bathroom, Agatha calls back dryly, “Welcome to parenthood, darling. Death by nursery rhyme.”

And then you hear her voice, smooth and rich, sliding into the next line without missing a beat, “red and yellow, orange and brown…”

“Agatha!” you shriek, throwing a pillow toward the bathroom door. “Don’t encourage it!”

She peeks her head out, towel in hand, grinning like a fiend. “Too late, babygirl. It’s already in my bones.”

She slides in beside you a minute later, her damp hair brushing your shoulder, the faint scent of her shampoo clinging to your sheets.

She pulls you close automatically, her arm heavy and solid over your waist, her breath brushing your temple as you settle into the curve of her body. For a moment it’s quiet, just the occasional car passing outside.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you murmur, “Parenthood, huh?”

Her body goes still behind you. You can feel her stiffen just slightly, like you’ve touched a nerve.

You turn your head, peeking up at her, your voice softer now. “Was that a joke, or…?”

Agatha clears her throat, the sound low, almost sheepish which is rare for her. “Well I did mean it when I said I intend to keep you round forever, baby.” Her thumb rubs an absent line over your hip, grounding herself. “And forever, for me… means my son, too.”

Your heart gives a nervous kick. You roll onto your side so you can see her face, her eyes dark in the low light, her brows drawn just faintly as if she’s bracing herself.

“So…” you whisper, barely more than a breath, “does that mean I’d be like… a stepmom, or something?”

There it is, the question you’ve been carrying in your chest for weeks, finally out loud.

Her gaze flickers over your face, searching. “If that scares you, tell me now,” she says quietly. “Because Nicky isn’t going anywhere. He’s my whole life. You’d be stepping into something… permanent.”

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself not to look away. “It doesn’t scare me. I just…” Your hands twist in the sheets. “I don’t want to be… not enough. For him or for you.”

Agatha exhales, something breaking in her expression, half stern, half unbearably soft. She shifts closer, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek. “Sweetheart,” she says, her voice low but steady, “you are already enough. He adores you. And as for me,” her mouth trembles into the faintest smile, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like this.”

You blink fast, your chest tight with something that’s part fear, part relief. “You really think I could be good at it? At being that kind of part of his life?”

“I don’t think,” she corrects, leaning in until her forehead presses to yours. “I know. I watch you with him. I see the way he lights up for you, the way you meet him where he is, the way you give him your whole attention. That’s what matters. Not perfection or some fantasy. Just love.”

Tears prick hot at your eyes, your voice cracking. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

Her thumb swipes under your eye before a tear can fall. “Then don’t walk away, and you won’t. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

For a long moment, you just breathe together, her forehead pressed to yours, her hand warm against your cheek, your own heart pounding out its uneven rhythm.

Finally, you whisper, “Forever sounds really good.”

Her lips brush yours, the kiss slow and deliberate, carrying more weight than any words could. When she pulls back, her eyes are shiny, her smile small but certain.

“Then forever it is,” she murmurs.

You sink back into her arms, your chest loosening for the first time all night, the ridiculous little autumn song still rattling around your brain but quieter now, drowned out by the steady thrum of her heartbeat.

Agatha settles onto her back and tugs you with her until your cheek is pillowed against her chest, her fingers stroking lazily up and down your spine. The room feels smaller like this, tucked away from the world. Her heartbeat is steady under your ear, grounding you.

“So,” you mumble, voice muffled against her blouse, “what’s the show gonna be like?”

She chuckles, low in her throat, her hand tracing the curve of your shoulder. “Chaos. Delightful chaos. The youngest class always sings something, the teachers line them up, half of them forget the words, two start crying, one picks his nose through the entire performance…” She tips her head so her mouth brushes your hair. “And it’ll be the most important show I’ve ever been to.”

You smile, even though your chest pinches. “Wish I could come.”

Her hand pauses, then resumes its soothing stroke. “Two tickets per child, baby. You know I’d have you there if I could. But it’s just me and Rio.” She sighs softly. “Not exactly my dream pairing.”

You hum, tucking yourself closer. “Guess I’ll just have to make do with the dress rehearsal.”

She laughs, kissing your temple. “Which I’m sure he’ll put you through a dozen more times before Friday.”

You grin against her chest, eyes fluttering shut as the steady motion of her hand and the warmth of her voice start to lull you. She notices, her fingers drifting up into your hair, her voice softening.

“Sleep, my little Samhain baby,” she murmurs. “You’ll hear the song again soon enough.”

You snort, too drowsy to answer properly, but your arm tightens around her waist. The song plays faintly in your head still, but softer now, muffled under the rhythm of her heartbeat.

And before long, you’re asleep in her arms.

~

The morning of the show, the whole house feels a little different, brighter and buzzing like even the sunlight is in on the excitement.

Agatha is already in the kitchen, hair swept into a loose twist, sleeves pushed up as she wrestles with Nicky’s tiny button-up shirt. He squirms on the chair, cheeks puffed out in protest.

“Mama, it’s itchy,” he whines, tugging at the collar.

Agatha sighs, half exasperated, half amused. “Of course it’s itchy, darling boy, it’s new. Just let me do the last button and then you can show everyone how handsome you are.”

He grumbles but lifts his chin, letting her fasten the top button. The moment she’s done, he hops down and spins dramatically. “Do I look like a big boy?”

Agatha presses a hand to her chest, feigning shock. “Like a very big boy. Practically a man.”

He giggles, then blurts, “Can we sing it one more time?”

Her mouth curves into a smile despite herself. “One more time,” she agrees, crouching down so they’re eye to eye.

He claps his hands together, takes a deep breath, and launches into the song, his little voice clear and wobbly at the same time.

“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”

Agatha joins in, “…red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town…”

Nicky grins, twirling so fast his shirt comes half untucked. When he stumbles, she catches him, pulling him into her arms and pressing a kiss into his curls.

“You’re going to be brilliant,” she murmurs, her hand smoothing down his back. “The brightest leaf of all.”

He giggles into her shoulder, but when she sets him down again his little hands twist in the hem of his shirt. “What if I forget?” he asks her nervously. “What if I mess up?”

Agatha kneels, cupping his face gently. “Then you’ll keep going. Everyone messes up sometimes, darling boy. What matters is that you sing with your whole heart.”

He nods, comforted, though his grip on her hand lingers as she straightens up.

She brushes his curls back, sighs, and mutters half to herself, “God help me if he starts crying on stage I’ll be up there singing it with him.”

Agatha buckles him into his car seat, tugging the strap snug across his chest before leaning in to kiss his forehead. He smells faintly of the apple shampoo you helped him pick out, his curls still damp.

The morning rush fades into the quiet hum of the car. Nicky hums under his breath in the backseat, his little legs swinging, and Professor Goatly clutched tight against his chest.

“You’ll be there, Mama?” he asks suddenly, his voice serious.

Agatha catches his gaze in the rear-view mirror, her expression softening. “Of course I’ll be there, darling boy. Right in the front row.”

He nods, reassured, then adds quickly, “And Mama Rio too?”

“Yes, baby,” Agatha says with certainty. “She’ll be there too. Both of us, cheering you on.”

Nicky lets out a relieved little sigh, hugging the goat tighter. “Can you bring Professor Goatly? He makes me brave.”

Agatha smiles, her heart squeezing. “We’ll tuck him in my bag. He’ll be clapping louder than anyone.”

That wins a giggle out of him, but after a beat, he asks in a smaller voice, “will Y/N be there?”

Agatha keeps her eyes on the road, her voice gentle but firm. “Not this time, love. The school only gives two tickets. Just me and Mama Rio today.”

His shoulders slump, the smile sliding right off. “But I want her there.”

Agatha reaches back at the red light, her hand brushing over his knee. “I know, darling. She wants to be there too but she’ll be waiting to hear all about it when we get home and you can sing the song just for her.”

Nicky clutches the goat close, his little mouth set in a pout. “It’s not fair.”

Agatha sighs, her thumb stroking his knee, steady and reassuring. “It isn’t. But you’ll still have us there, and we’ll be so proud of you.”

His lip wobbles, but he nods, leaning into the goat like it can hold the rest of his nerves.

The school car park is crowded, parents and little ones spilling across the pavement in a noisy tide of coats and backpacks. Agatha slips the car into a space, glancing back to where Nicky sits clutching Professor Goatly, his face pinched with nerves.

She opens his door, unbuckles the seatbelt, and helps him hop down. His hand finds hers right away, small and clammy, his eyes fixed on the swarm of children heading inside.

Agatha crouches so they’re eye to eye, brushing a curl back from his forehead. “Alright, darling boy. You’re going to go in with your class, and then this afternoon you’ll get to show us your big performance. Sound good?”

Nicky chews on his lip, shifting from foot to foot. “You’ll be there?”

She nods, steady, certain. “Front row, I promise. Me and Mama Rio.”

“And Professor Goatly?”

Her mouth curves despite herself. “Professor Goatly wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He huffs out a little laugh, then throws his arms around her neck. She holds him tight, breathing in the warm, apple scented tangle of his curls, before setting him back down and nudging him toward the door.

“You’ll be brilliant,” she says firmly, squeezing his hand one last time before a teacher waves him over.

Nicky looks back once, eyes wide and anxious. Agatha smiles, blowing him a kiss. “See you later, my leaf.”

That wins the smallest grin out of him before he toddles toward his classmate.

Agatha watches until he disappears inside, her chest tight, before straightening her coat and heading back to the car.

Once Agatha gets home she drops her keys into the bowl by the door and kicks her heels off. She’d cleared her whole day for this, every email bounced back with a crisp ‘out of office,’ every meeting pushed to tomorrow. Today was for Nicky.

She’s halfway through making tea when her phone buzzes across the counter. Rio.

With a sigh, she picks up. “What?”

“Agatha.” Rio’s voice is clipped and hurried with the cadence of someone already halfway into an excuse. “I’ve got a huge meeting this afternoon. It just came up and I can’t get out of it.”

Agatha goes still, the kettle starting to hiss behind her. “What do you mean you can’t get out of it?”

“I mean exactly that. The client flew in early, and the entire board is expecting me. It’s not optional.”

“You’re telling me you’re going to miss his show for a client meeting?” Agatha’s voice sharpens, low and dangerous.

“Don’t make it sound like that,” Rio snaps back. “You know how my job works. This is one of those times.”

Agatha presses her palm flat to the counter, nails biting into her skin. “No. No, this is his time. He’s been talking about this show for weeks. He asked me this morning if you’d be there. I promised him. And now you’re bailing?”

Silence hums on the line, heavy. Then Rio sighs, softer but no less infuriating. “You’ll be there. He’ll still have a parent in the audience. He won’t even notice.”

Agatha’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “You really believe that? You think he won’t notice the empty seat? He notices everything, Rio. Everything.”

There’s a pause, long enough that Agatha can hear her own pulse hammering in her ears.

“I’m sorry,” Rio says finally. “But I can’t be in two places at once. You’ll just have to handle it.”

The line clicks dead before Agatha can bite back.

She slams the phone down onto the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. The kettle shrieks behind her, but she doesn’t move, her chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Agatha eventually kills the kettle with a sharp flick, the whistle cutting off mid shriek. The kitchen falls back into silence, but it doesn’t feel quiet. It feels heavy.

She paces the length of the tiles, phone still in her hand, thumb pressing into the glass so hard she’s surprised it doesn’t crack. Her mind runs circles around itself.

She can’t call the school to warn him. He’ll be lined up with the other kids, scanning the crowd for her face, for both their faces. He’ll spot her easily, and then he’ll keep looking. And looking. And when he realises Rio isn’t there…

Agatha exhales sharply, dragging both hands through her hair until it’s wild around her face.

“Damn it, Rio.”

There’s nothing she can do. No way to soften it. No way to prepare him. She imagines the wobble in his bottom lip, the panic in his eyes, and her stomach twists until she feels sick.

She had promised that they’d both be there. His small hand had been so tight around hers, his voice so hopeful.

Agatha presses her palms into the counter, bowing her head. For all her careful planning, the cleared calendar, the pressed blouse, the camera already charged to film him, none of it matters. Because all he’ll see is the empty seat beside her.

She straightens, jaw locking. She’ll have to make up for it somehow. She doesn’t know how yet, but she will.

Her thumb hovers over your name in her contacts, the one she always presses when she’s unraveling, when she doesn’t know what to do.

Her first thought is to call you. She pictures your voice, steady even when you’re unsure, the way you’d talk her down and remind her to breathe. The way you’d probably say that he won’t be alone, Agatha. He has you. That’s enough.

Her thumb twitches, ready to tap.

But then she remembers you told her this morning that you have therapy at noon. You’d made that brave little smile as you said it, like you were trying to be casual when she knew it still terrifies you.

And now, as the clock blinks 12:14 from the oven display, she can see you in her mind’s eye, knees tucked up in that chair, fidgeting with your sleeves, trying to peel your chest open in front of a stranger. She can’t interrupt that, can’t drag you out of your own fight just to soothe hers.

Agatha sets the phone down with a sharp clatter, bracing her palms on the counter. Her jaw tightens until her teeth ache. All she wants is your voice. But for now, she has to sit with the silence.

The thought of Nicky seeing that empty seat makes her stomach twist again. She paces, furious with Rio, furious with herself for promising something she couldn’t control, desperate to reach for you but refusing to rob you of the one thing you’re doing for yourself.

~

Traffic crawls outside the school, minivans and SUVs jostling for the drop off lane. Agatha grips the wheel tighter, her pulse hammering as she imagines the gymnasium filling up, the folding chairs in neat rows, one of them already destined to stay heartbreakingly empty.

Her phone buzzes in the cupholder. Your name.

She snatches it up, fumbling to put it on speaker. “Baby?”

“Hey,” your voice comes, soft but steady. “I know the show’s about to start. I just wanted to say good luck. Tell him I’m cheering for him.”

Agatha swallows hard, the words spilling before she can stop them. “Rio’s not coming. She called with some bullshit excuse about meeting she ‘couldn’t miss.’” Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “He’s going to look for her, and she won’t be there. He’ll see that empty chair and…”

Her voice breaks, raw. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain it to him.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then your tone sharpens. “How long do I have?”

Agatha blinks, thrown. “What?”

“How long until showtime?”

She glances at the dashboard clock. “Ten minutes, maybe less. Why?”

“Okay, gotta go,” you cut in, and the line goes dead.

Agatha stares at the phone, stunned, then back to the traffic outside the school.

And for the first time all day, a flicker of hope pushes through the dread because if anyone could make sure her son doesn’t see an empty chair, it’s you.

The corridors smell faintly of glue sticks and floor polish, children’s artwork taped in uneven rows along the walls. Agatha makes her way toward the gym, heels clicking against the linoleum, her bag heavy with Professor Goatly tucked inside.

At the entrance, a cheerful woman with a clipboard greets her. “Name?”

“Agatha Harkness. For Nicholas Harkness Vidal.”

The woman checks her list and smiles. “Two tickets. Is your guest with you?”

Agatha forces a calm nod, adjusting the strap of her bag. “She’s running a little late, but she’ll be here. Please just let her through when she arrives.”

“Of course,” the woman says, waving her inside.

The gym is already buzzing with rows of metal chairs filled with parents, the makeshift stage lined with autumn decorations of paper leaves, construction paper pumpkins, and a painted banner that says ‘Welcome Fall!’ in uneven letters. The teachers hustle small children behind the curtain, voices hushed but urgent.

Agatha takes her seat in the front row, the little folding chair creaking under her as she sits. It feels too small for her, but she barely notices.

Her eyes keep darting to the door. Every time it opens, her breath catches, but it’s just another parent, another sibling, another stroller rolling in. Not you. Not yet.

Her fingers tap against her knee, restless. She can already picture Nicky’s face peeking from behind the curtain, scanning the crowd. If you don’t get here in time…

She presses a hand over her heart, swallowing hard. She told the clipboard woman you’d be here. She told herself you’d be here. And now, all she can do is sit in the small chair, surrounded by smiling parents, and pray you’ll make it before her son steps out and sees an empty space where his family should be.

You’re not even sure how fast you drove, only that you threw the car into the first open space you saw, half crooked across the line, and bolted.

Now you’re sprinting across the school parking lot, bag thumping against your hip, lungs burning with the chill of late October air. Parents are strolling casually toward the doors, chatting, clutching travel mugs, and you weave between them, muttering frantic apologies as you go.

Inside, the halls are a blur of posters and backpacks. You catch the faint sound of a piano warming up from the gym, a teacher’s voice herding kids into line. Your heart slams harder. Don’t miss it. Don’t let him see that empty chair.

Your boots squeak against the polished floor as you skid around the corner. The clipboard woman at the door startles when you appear, breathless.

“Agatha Harkness’ guest,” you gasp, already reaching for your ID.

She checks the list, then waves you through with a smile. “Go, go! They’re about to start.”

You dart inside, the gym already packed, rows of parents filling the folding chairs. The paper pumpkins and tissue paper leaves strung across the stage blur past as your eyes lock on the front row.

The moment the door swings open, Agatha’s eyes snap toward it, the way they have every single time someone’s walked in. But this time it’s you.

Breathless, cheeks flushed, hair wild from the sprint, eyes wild with determination as you hurry down the aisle. You don’t even glance around at the rows of parents craning to see who’s rushing in so late, your gaze is locked on hers, like you knew exactly where she’d be.

Her chest seizes. Relief crashes over her so hard she almost sags in her chair.

You, her messy, shy, stubborn, beautiful girl, you showed up. Not for her but for him.

She knew she loved you before, of course she did, but this is another level entirely. A raw, bone deep love, sharpened into something fierce by the sight of you gasping for air in a school gym just to make sure her little boy won’t see an empty chair.

You drop into the seat beside her, still panting, and without thinking she reaches for you, her hand clamping onto your knee. Your hand covers hers, warm and steady despite your racing pulse, and Agatha has to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep her composure.

She leans closer, her voice a rasp only you can hear. “You came.”

You manage a breathless grin. “I wasn’t about to let him look out and see an empty chair.”

Her throat tightens. She swallows hard, blinking back the sudden sting in her eyes, and squeezes your knee so hard you almost wince. If you weren’t in a room full of preschool parents, she thinks she’d kiss you until she cried.

Instead, she whispers, “God, I love you,” and turns back toward the stage just as the curtain begins to twitch.

The curtain ripples as the teachers shuffle the kids into place. Your hand slips quietly into Agatha’s bag, rummaging till you grab Professor Goatly. You pull the plush goat out and set him carefully on your lap, arranging him so he’s sitting tall, facing the stage.

Agatha sees it and her composure cracks, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a grin so tender it makes your chest ache. She leans sideways, pressing a quick kiss into your hair, her lips lingering for a second longer than they should in public.

Her voice is a whisper, warm against your ear. “I want to tell him.”

You turn your head, blinking. “Tell him what?”

Her hand finds yours under the cover of the goat, her thumb stroking over your knuckles. “That you’re not just his babysitter.” She swallows, her eyes glinting in the stage lights. “That you’re Mommy’s partner. That you’re ours.”

Your breath catches. The noise of parents settling in, the scrape of chairs, the rustle of costumes behind the curtain, all of it fades. It’s just her, her hand squeezing yours, the weight of those words hanging heavy and bright between you.

Tears sting hot in your eyes before you can stop them. “You mean that?”

Her grip tightens, her forehead brushing yours for the barest moment. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

You sniffle, trying to blink the tears away before the curtain goes up, before Nicky can see. But you can’t hide the way your smile trembles as you whisper back, “I want that too.”

Professor Goatly sits proudly in your lap, a silent witness, as the first notes of the piano strike up.

The curtain shuffles open, revealing a row of tiny four year olds in paper leaf crowns, each one fidgeting in place, eyes scanning the crowd.

The teacher steps forward with a big smile. “Our youngest class has been working very hard on their autumn song. Please welcome them!”

The room erupts into applause and camera flashes.

And there he is. Nicky. His curls bouncing under his crown, his little shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, Professor Goatly nowhere in sight because he’s safely on your lap.

His eyes dart nervously across the crowd, wide and searching. Then they land on the front row. On Agatha first, her hand raised in a steady wave, her smile as bright as he’s ever seen it.

And then on you sitting right beside her, the goat propped up proudly on your knees.

Nicky freezes, blinking like he can’t believe it. Then his whole face lights up. He beams so hard his crown slips sideways, and he waves with both hands, bouncing on his toes.

You and Agatha both wave back, grinning like fools. She leans into you, her voice barely a whisper. “Look at him.”

The music cues again, and Nicky straightens with the other kids. He takes a deep breath, clutches the edge of his shirt, and sings at the top of his little lungs.

“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”

Some of the kids sing at the top of their lungs, others mumble shyly into their collars. One little boy in the middle stares at the ceiling like the words might be written there, while another girl next to him is already chewing on her paper crown.

Nicky belts it. His voice wobbles on the high notes, but he sings directly toward the front row, his eyes darting between Agatha, you, and the goat on your lap. Each time he catches sight of all three, he grins wider, his crown slipping further over his curls.

“Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”

Half the class comes in too early on orange and brown, dissolving into giggles that make the teacher clap frantically to bring them back together. Agatha’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter beside you, her hand covering yours tightly.

They launch into the second verse, even less in sync than the first, but no one in the audience cares. Parents beam, phones held high. A mom in the second row dabs at her eyes like she’s watching the Royal Opera instead of a preschool show.

One little girl forgets the words entirely and just twirls in a circle until she falls over. The boy next to her bursts into tears, tugging at his crown. But the rest keep going, the song chugging along through every wobble and mistake.

And through it all, Nicky keeps singing, cheeks flushed, his little fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he’s putting every ounce of bravery he has into each line. His eyes flicker to you both constantly, like he’s drawing strength from the fact you’re there, his family in the front row.

“All around the towwwwnnnn!”

The kids hold the final note far too long, their voices cracking with the effort. The teacher claps her hands together, beaming. “Take a bow!”

They do, half tripping over each other, crowns tumbling, paper leaves scattering across the stage.

The audience erupts in applause, cheers echoing through the little gym. Cameras flash, parents whistle.

Nicky bows so low he nearly topples over, then pops back up, grinning so wide his face could split. The second his eyes find you and Agatha again, he waves with both arms, practically vibrating with pride.

Agatha squeezes your hand hard, her throat working. “My brave boy,” she whispers, voice thick.

The applause still thunders through the little gymnasium as the children are shepherded off the stage, paper crowns crooked, some of them already yawning from the excitement. Parents begin to shuffle, standing to get a better view, calling their kids’ names.

Agatha rises, her hand slipping from yours only because she’s craning her neck to what door Nicky will come out of. You clutch Professor Goatly against your chest, your stomach already tight with anticipation.

And then there he is.

Nicky barrels out from the side of the stage with the other children, his crown now fully askew, his face flushed and glowing. He scans the crowd wildly, eyes wide.

“Mama!” he yells, spotting Agatha first. Then, a beat later, his gaze lands on you and the goat in your arms. His whole face lights up, brighter than the stage lights, and he bolts.

“Mama! Y/N!”

He collides into Agatha’s legs first, wrapping his little arms around her waist. She scoops him up without hesitation, kissing his curls, her own eyes suspiciously bright. “Darling boy, you were wonderful.”

“I did it!” he beams, breathless from the run, curls sticking to his forehead. “I wasn’t even scared!”

You hold up the goat, and he squeals, reaching from Agatha’s arms to grab both you and the plush at once. “Professor Goatly saw me! You saw me too!”

You nod, grinning, your eyes stinging. “I saw everything. You were amazing.”

He wriggles until Agatha crouches down to set him between you both, his little arms looping around your necks, pulling you close in a clumsy, tight hug. “Best show ever!”

Agatha meets your eyes over his curls, her smile breaking into something raw and full. She mouths, ‘thank you’, even as she kisses the top of Nicky’s head again and again.

“Well, superstar,” she says, brushing a stray curl off his forehead, “I think a performance that brilliant deserves a celebration.”

His eyes go wide, glittering. “Celebrate?!”

“Yes honey.” She taps his nose, grinning. “What do you think? Pizza?”

“Pizza!” he squeals, throwing his arms up so enthusiastically his crown finally slips all the way off and clatters to the gym floor.

You bend to pick it up, laughing as you hand it back to him. “Pizza sounds perfect.”

Nicky hugs the goat tight against his chest, practically vibrating with excitement. “Best show ever, best pizza ever!”

Agatha stands, slipping one hand around your waist while she reaches for Nicky’s little hand with the other. “Then it’s settled. Let’s get our superstar fed.”

You glance at her as the three of you head toward the exit together, her eyes catching yours with that same look from before, full of love, relief, and something deeper and fiercer than you’ve ever felt trained on you.

Studio A smells of rosin, sweat, and old wood polished so many times it has developed a shine like still water. The mirrors along the far wall catch every movement with exhausting honesty. Girls are already stretching at the barre when you enter, their warm-up knits hanging from narrow shoulders, pointe shoes discarded in pale satin heaps beside dance bags.

No one speaks much before Larissa arrives.

You are three minutes late.

Not late enough for another instructor to notice, perhaps, but Larissa notices everything. You have learned this the way dancers learn most things, through repetition and humiliation.

The studio door opens behind you just as you tie your hair back, and the room stills with almost embarrassing immediacy. Conversations taper off. Spines straighten. Someone hurriedly removes their phone from the barre and tucks it away.

Larissa steps inside carrying the cold with her.

Snowmelt glimmers faintly at the hem of her black wool coat. One leather-gloved hand rests atop the silver head of her cane, though she hardly seems to need it. She moves with the same sharp composure she brings to everything else, as though even pain has been instructed to behave properly in her presence.

She surveys the room once. A practiced sweep. Inventory rather than greeting.

Then her eyes settle on you, moving from your face to your half tied bun.

“You were late.”

The words are not loud. They do not need to be. Larissa speaks the way surgeons cut. Neatly, without wasted force.

Heat climbs immediately into your face. “I’m sorry, Miss Weems.”

“You apologize as though it alters time.”

Around you, no one looks directly at either of you. The dancers at this academy have perfected the art of witnessing someone else’s destruction discreetly.

Larissa removes her gloves finger by finger and lays them atop the piano. “Don’t be late again.”

“Yes, Miss Weems.”

The pianist receives Larissa’s coat with the solemnity of someone accepting ceremonial robes, and then rehearsal begins.

“Barre.”

The room obeys at once.

That is the frightening thing about Larissa. Not that she is cruel—though she can be—but that obedience forms naturally around her, instinctive as breath. She does not command the room so much as arrange it around herself. Even silence seems curated in her presence.

The music starts softly. Slow warm-up exercises first. Pliés and tendus repeated until the body loosens from sleep. You settle your hand against the barre and try to ignore the lingering embarrassment beneath your skin, though embarrassment under Larissa’s gaze has a tendency to become physical. Your shoulders tighten. Your breathing shortens. Every movement begins to feel observed.

Perhaps because it is.

Larissa walks between the dancers while the pianist plays, correcting posture with economical precision. A lifted chin here. A pressed shoulder there. Her criticism is rarely theatrical. She doesn’t shout unless absolutely necessary. The disappointment in her voice is usually punishment enough.

“You look lazy,” she tells one dancer flatly. “I assume this is accidental.”

The girl flushes crimson and straightens immediately.

Larissa moves on.

You feel her approaching before you see her reflection in the mirror. Your body always notices first. Some humiliating instinct. Your spine lengthens unconsciously, your stomach tightens beneath your leotard.

“Shoulders.”

The word lands directly behind you.

You correct instantly.

“No,” Larissa says, and there is the faintest trace of irritation in it. “You’re stiffening, not opening.”

Her hand settles between your shoulder blades before you can try again. Warm even through the fabric. Firm enough to feel instructional rather than comforting, though your body has long since stopped understanding the distinction.

“Here.”

Pressure against your spine forces you upright. Not rigid. Supported.

Larissa’s hand remains there a moment longer than strictly necessary, and the awareness of it spreads through you like fever. She smells faintly of sandalwood and something colder beneath it, something clean and expensive that belongs in opera houses and nowhere near a studio full of sweating dancers.

“You collapse inward whenever you lose confidence,” she says quietly enough that only you can hear. “The audience will notice.”

You swallow. “I’m trying not to.”

“I know. Try harder.”

The words settle strangely inside you. Not praise. Not kindness. Worse, perhaps. Recognition.

Larissa steps away, and cold rushes back into the space she occupied. You hate the immediate feeling of loss almost as much as you hate the relief.

The exercise continues.

Outside, snow drifts softly against the windows. Inside, the room warms with effort. By the end of barre, strands of hair have escaped slick ballet buns and the mirrors are beginning to cloud faintly at the edges where bodies have brushed too close.

Larissa watches all of it.

“Swan Lake is in eight weeks,” she says during center work, clipboard balanced lightly against one arm. “At present, most of you dance as though this information has failed to concern you.”

No one speaks.

“You are technically proficient,” she continues, pacing slowly across the studio floor. “Unfortunately, technical proficiency without emotional discipline is how mediocre dancers convince themselves they deserve principal roles.”

Her gaze drifts across the room.

Lingers on you.

Moves away again.

The relief is immediate and shameful.

“Auditions for Odette will be next Friday,” Larissa says. “I suggest you begin behaving accordingly.”

The atmosphere changes at once. Competition arrives quietly but thoroughly, sliding itself beneath the skin of the room. Girls stop smiling at one another quite so easily. Corrections begin to sound personal. Every stumble becomes visible.

You can feel it happening inside yourself too, ugly and desperate. The role has rooted itself somewhere deep in your chest ever since the production was announced. Odette. White silk and tragedy. Fragility sharpened into precision.

You want it badly enough to embarrass yourself.

Perhaps you already are.

The rehearsal becomes brutal after that.

Larissa works the same turn sequence for nearly forty minutes, stopping the music every time someone falters. Again and again and again until fatigue begins unraveling technique altogether. Ankles shake. Breathing roughens. One dancer nearly slips during a landing and catches herself hard enough to bruise.

Larissa watches impassively.

“You are tired,” she says. “How devastating.”

The girl lowers her eyes.

“Again.”

No one argues.

You dance until your calves burn violently beneath your skin. Again until your toes feel blistered raw inside the pointe shoes. Again until the studio begins narrowing strangely at the edges from exhaustion.

Larissa’s attention settles on you more and more frequently as rehearsal drags on. You have never decided whether this is fortunate.

“You anticipate the turn before you trust it,” she tells you after stopping the music mid-combination. “Why?”

“I thought—”

“There is your first mistake.”

A few dancers laugh behind you.

Heat flashes across your face, but Larissa is already moving closer, her expression sharpening rather than softening at your embarrassment.

“You think too much while dancing,” she says. “I can practically see the calculations happening behind your eyes. Ballet is not mathematics.”

You nod quickly.

Larissa sighs through her nose, dissatisfied. “Again.”

You reset position.

The pianist begins once more.

This time you force yourself not to think about Larissa watching. Not about the mirrors. Not about the audience that will eventually fill velvet seats and decide, in a matter of minutes, whether you are extraordinary or forgettable.

You turn.

Land cleanly.

Continue.

The sequence finishes without error.

Silence.

Larissa studies you for one long moment. Her face gives almost nothing away, but you have become disturbingly skilled at reading the tiny shifts in her expression. The slight easing around her mouth. The near-invisible softening in her eyes when something pleases her despite herself.

“Better,” she says at last.

The single word settles into your bloodstream like alcohol.

Praise from Larissa is dangerous. Too rare not to become holy.

You spend the next twenty minutes chasing the sound of it again.

—

During the break, Isabelle collapses dramatically beside you against the mirrored wall, her tights already laddering slightly at one knee.

“I think she enjoys this,” she mutters, gulping water. “Not ballet. Human suffering specifically.”

You smile faintly, unwinding the ribbons from your ankles. “You say that every rehearsal.”

“And every rehearsal I’m right.”

Across the room, Larissa stands near the piano speaking quietly with the accompanist. Winter light spills pale across her profile from the windows behind her, turning the edges of her hair almost silver. Even exhaustion seems elegant on her.

Your gaze catches there too long.

Isabelle notices immediately. Of course she does.

“Oh, you’re doomed.”

You look away at once. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I really don’t.”

“She humiliates you publicly ten times a day and you look at her like she hung the moon over the theater district.”

You feel your stomach drop hard enough to hurt.

“Keep your voice down.”

Isabelle snorts softly. “Please. She probably noticed your crush before you did.”

“No, she didn’t.”

As if summoned by the conversation itself, Larissa looks up.

Her eyes meet yours across the room with terrifying immediacy. Not accidental. Never accidental.

You look away first.

Cowardly.

Necessary.

“Break is over,” Larissa says.

The room moves instantly.

—

Partnering rehearsal begins badly and deteriorates from there.

The White Swan pas de deux requires a kind of trust that exhaustion makes difficult. Girls miss cues. Hands slip. Timing fractures apart under pressure. Larissa’s patience thins visibly as the afternoon drags on, though her anger remains frighteningly controlled.

“You dance like frightened prey animals,” she says after one particularly clumsy sequence. “Odette is not fragile because she lacks strength. She is fragile because the world insists upon breaking her.”

No one responds.

Larissa gestures toward center floor. “You. Demonstrate.”

Of course she means you.

You step forward while the others retreat slightly toward the mirrors. Your partner takes position behind you, one hand hovering carefully near your waist.

Larissa circles once around the pair of you, gaze sweeping critically over every line of your posture.

“Chin,” she says.

You lift it.

“Higher.”

Her fingers settle briefly beneath your jaw, tilting your face upward with careful pressure. The touch is entirely practical. Professional. Yet your pulse reacts with humiliating speed anyway, stumbling unevenly beneath your ribs.

Larissa’s thumb lingers for the briefest moment before she steps away.

“There,” she says. “Odette does not beg to be loved. She expects it.”

You spend the next several seconds trying to remember how breathing works.

The music begins.

You dance.

Or attempt to.

Larissa watches with such unwavering intensity that your awareness of her becomes almost physical. You can feel her attention moving over every imperfect angle before she even speaks.

Halfway through the turn sequence, your balance falters.

“Stop.”

The music cuts abruptly.

Silence folds over the studio.

Larissa approaches slowly, her cane tapping once against the floorboards.

“You’re afraid of the turn.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she says calmly. “You anticipate failure before your body has even moved.”

Shame burns beneath your skin.

Larissa steps closer. Too close.

Her hands settle against your waist to correct your alignment, firm enough that you can feel the exact span of her fingers through the thin fabric of your leotard. Your body goes painfully still beneath the contact.

“Feel where your center actually is,” she murmurs. “You keep abandoning it.”

The warmth of her palms lingers long after she steps away.

“Again.”

This time the turn lands perfectly.

Larissa’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. Not satisfaction exactly, but something adjacent to it.

Then she says, “Now do it consistently,” and the moment disappears.

—

By the end of rehearsal, your right foot is bleeding.

You noticed it nearly an hour ago when pain sharpened suddenly beneath your toes, warm wetness gathering inside the pointe shoe. You continued dancing anyway. Most dancers would. Ballet has a way of teaching people that the body is negotiable.

The studio empties slowly around you once Larissa dismisses the class. Girls limp toward the locker rooms carrying dance bags and exhaustion alike, complaining softly about bruised arches and strained calves.

You sit on the bench and begin massaging your thighs.

“You’re staying again?” Isabelle asks.

“I need to practice.”

“You need a priest. And medical intervention.”

You smile faintly. “I was off during the turns.”

“You were exhausted.”

Larissa noticed.

The thought arrives instantly, shamefully warm.

Isabelle studies you for a moment, concern dimming the usual amusement in her face. “She’s harder on you than everyone else.”

“That’s because she thinks I need improvement.”

“No,” Isabelle says quietly. “I think it’s because she sees more in you.”

Before you can answer, the locker room door opens.

Silence follows immediately.

Larissa steps inside. “Everyone out.”

No one argues.

Within moments, only the two of you remain.

Larissa waits until the door closes behind the last dancer before looking at you fully.

“You stayed after rehearsal yesterday.”

“Yes, Miss Weems.”

“And the night before.”

You nod.

“Why?”

The truthful answer catches painfully behind your ribs.

Because your attention feels like oxygen.

Because when you look at me, I stop feeling ordinary.

Instead you say, “I need to improve.”

Larissa watches you in silence for several long seconds. The fluorescent lights flatten the room harshly, but they do strange things to her eyes, turning them pale enough to look almost silver.

“You confuse suffering with discipline,” she says eventually.

“I don’t.”

“You do.” Her voice remains calm. “You romanticize your exhaustion. You wear it like proof of devotion.”

The accuracy of it leaves you briefly speechless.

Larissa has always possessed a terrifying ability to reach directly into the softest parts of people and press there without hesitation.

“You think destroying yourself for ballet makes you exceptional,” she continues. “It does not. It makes you interchangeable.”

The words hurt because they are true. Worse because some part of you still wants to impress her by surviving them.

Larissa sighs softly then, almost tired. “Studio.”

You obey at once.

Of course you do.

The mirrors look different at night. Less honest, perhaps. The darkness outside the windows turns them strange, reflections layered over shadow until bodies appear ghostlike at the edges.

Rain taps softly against the glass while you tighten your ribbons.

Larissa stands near the piano watching.

“You favor your left foot when tired,” she says.

You glance up too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“That was not an invitation to lie.”

Heat creeps into your face.

Larissa gestures once toward center floor. “Show me the turns.”

Your muscles ache violently now that rehearsal has ended. Fatigue settling properly into the joints and tendons. Still, you rise.

The music begins softly from the stereo.

You dance.

One turn.

Then another.

Halfway through the third, pain slices sharply through your foot and your balance wavers.

“Stop.”

You freeze immediately.

Larissa crosses the room without hurry, though something sharper has entered her expression now.

“You’re injured.”

“No.”

Her gaze drops toward the faint stain spreading through the satin of your pointe shoe.

Then back to your face.

“You are a very poor liar.”

Before you can answer, Larissa crouches before you.

The movement startles you enough that your breath catches outright.

Her hands close carefully around your ankle, professional and efficient in a way that only worsens things. She unties the ribbons slowly, fingertips brushing occasionally against your skin with absent precision.

You stare helplessly at the pale crown of her hair beneath the dim lights.

Larissa removes the shoe, the blood-speckled padding earning a quiet exhale through her nose.

“There it is.”

Humiliation floods you immediately. You feel absurdly close to apologizing.

“You continued dancing on this,” Larissa says.

“I could still dance.”

“That was not the question.”

Her hand remains lightly wrapped around your ankle, warm and steady.

Rain gathers harder against the windows.

“You are reckless,” she says quietly. “And you mistake recklessness for ambition.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Then her thumb brushes once against the inside of your ankle, thoughtless perhaps, and your entire body reacts like struck wire.

Larissa notices. Of course she notices.

Her eyes lift slowly to yours.

A pause opens between you, sharp enough to split skin.

Then she releases you and stands.

“Again,” she says.

You stare at her. “I can barely stand.”

“Yes.”

No sympathy. No softness. Only that terrible unwavering expectation.

“You want Odette,” Larissa continues. “You want greatness. Yet the moment pain becomes inconvenient, you expect permission to stop.”

“I didn’t ask to stop.”

“No,” she says softly. “You asked to be admired for continuing. You wanted me to see, to notice that you endured the pain. And you thought that I would allow you to stop.”

The words land cleanly because they are true.

Outside, rain streaks silver down the darkened windows. The studio has gone almost black beyond the overhead lights, the mirrors no longer reflecting properly. Only fragments now. A shoulder. A hand. Larissa’s pale face suspended faintly in glass.

Your foot throbs violently inside the ruined shoe.

Every muscle in your body aches.

Still, when Larissa repeats, “Again,” you straighten instinctively beneath the command, and hate the part of yourself that feels proud for obeying.

————————————————————————

The waiting room is too bright. Every wall is stark white, filled with posters about mindfulness and breathing techniques in pastel colours, the faint whir of a vent overhead the only sound. You sit in one of the plastic chairs, knees pressed together, hands fidgeting with the strap of your bag.

Your phone vibrates in your lap.

~ Mum: Good luck today, sweetheart. So proud of you. ❤️~

A second buzz, almost immediately after.

~ Billy: You’ve got this. Text me after or I’ll come drag you out for coffee, deal? ~

And then, right on their heels is a text from Agatha.

~ Agatha: With you in spirit, babygirl. Be gentle with yourself. Call me the second you’re done. ~

You stare at the three messages stacked on top of each other, all soft and supportive, and somehow they just make your stomach twist harder.

You swallow, staring down at the screen until the words blur. It should feel good, having them cheer you on. Instead it feels like pressure. Like they’re all waiting for you to come out better somehow. Fixed.

You slip the phone back into your bag, pressing your palms to your thighs to keep them from shaking.

Your name is called from the doorway, your head jerking up at the sound of your name.

The air feels thick in your chest as you stand, your body already too warm. You force your legs to move, every step toward that office making the sick feeling coil tighter in your gut.

She’s not what you expected.

Short, with dark hair pinned back in a loose twist, streaks of silver glinting through. Big, expressive eyes lined in kohl. Her clothes are professional enough but there’s something wildly witchy in the way bracelets are stacked at her wrists, a single silver ring catching the light when she pushes the door open wider for you.

“Come on in,” she says, her accent faint, a lilting undercurrent that makes you glance twice.

You step into her office, clutching your bag strap too tight. The space smells faintly of herbs and old books. There are shelves lined with psychology texts, yes, but also a few dog- eared novels, a thick candle burned low in a glass jar.

And behind her desk is a framed, weathered map of Sicily.

Your nerves tangle with curiosity. “Are you Sicilian?”

Her mouth curves, faintly amused. “I am. Very perceptive.” She gestures to the map, stepping past her desk to pull a chair out for you. “My family is from Palermo. I keep that there to remind me of home.”

You nod quickly, sinking into the offered chair. Your heart is still hammering, your palms clammy, but there’s something steady in the way she looks at you, direct but not unkind.

Dr. Calderu settles into her chair across from you, her bracelets give the faintest chime when she folds her hands in her lap.

“So,” she says gently, tilting her head a little, “why have you decided to come to therapy?”

You pull your knees up into the chair before you can stop yourself, arms wrapping around them tight. The position makes you feel smaller, safer.

You sigh, eyes flicking to the floor. “I don’t know. I guess… people are worried about me.”

“People?” she echoes, tone curious but not sharp.

“My mom. My brother. My…” You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. “My… girlfriend.” The word comes out quieter than you mean it to.

Dr. Calderu nods once, like she’s tucking the detail away without judgment. “Why do you think they’re worried?”

Your gaze skitters away from her, catching instead on the lines of that old Sicilian map behind her desk. You focus on the faded coastline and the faint, sea worn names of towns you don’t know. It feels easier to look at that than her eyes.

You shrug, hugging your knees tighter. “I left my doctorate. I moved back home. Slept a lot.” Your words are flat, like you’re reading them off a page.

She doesn’t rush. “Why?”

Your throat tightens. You squeeze your arms tighter around yourself, knuckles pressing into your ribs. Your gaze drops to your shoes, blurring a little through the sheen of gathering tears you refuse to let fall.

You shake your head, voice cracking just slightly. “I don’t… I just...” you can’t seem to get the words out.

She nods again, slow, calm, like she expected that answer. “That’s alright. We don’t have to talk about anything you’re not ready for.”

Her voice is steady and low, grounding in a way that makes you breathe a little deeper, even as your arms stay locked tight around yourself.

Dr. Calderu lets the silence hang for a moment before she shifts slightly in her chair, her bracelets chiming as she folds her hands loosely again.

“Alright,” she says softly. “Let’s try something else. Tell me, what do your days look like now?”

You sniff, wiping quickly at your cheek, though no tears have fallen yet. “Um… I babysit a little boy.” Your voice is small, but it’s something. “Most weekdays.”

She nods. “That sounds like important work.”

You huff a laugh, quick and humourless. “It’s just one kid.”

“Just one kid who depends on you,” she counters gently. “That still matters.”

You look down, embarrassed, your arms tightening around your knees. “The rest of the time I… I don’t know. I sleep. Or I’m at home with my mom. Or with…” you trail off, fumbling for the word, “…her.”

Dr. Calderu’s eyes are steady, but not piercing. Just open. “So it sounds like your days are split, some responsibility, some rest, some time with people who care about you.”

“I guess,” you whisper, though your shoulders hunch tighter. “But it still feels like nothing. Like I’m not doing anything that counts.”

Her head tilts. “Counts to who?”

The question lodges in your chest, simple and impossible at once. You don’t answer right away, your throat tightening. You just squeeze yourself smaller, trying to avoid her gaze, the question buzzing in your ears.

You don’t speak for a while but when you do, your voice is quiet. “I always wanted to be a professor.”

Dr. Calderu doesn’t interrupt, just waits for you to continue.

“I loved what I did,” you continue, staring down at the floor. “I was good at it. I mean… I was becoming kind of a leading researcher in my field. My specialty was folklore, and the history of witchcraft. Obscure archives, manuscripts, oral traditions… I loved digging through things no one else seemed to care about.”

Your arms tighten around your knees. “My whole family was proud. My mom told everyone I was going to be a Doctor of History. Billy bragged about me. It felt like my life was all finally… coming together.”

You swallow hard, your throat thick. “And now anything else I do feels… empty. Pointless. Like I’ve already failed at the only thing that mattered. Babysitting, sleeping, cooking dinner with my mom… it doesn’t touch the same place. It just feels like I’ve ruined everything.”

The silence after is sharp, and you almost wish she’d say something, challenge you, contradict you, anything. But instead Dr. Calderu just nods once, her expression unreadable except for the steady warmth in her eyes.

“That’s a lot to carry,” she says softly. “No wonder it feels heavy.”

Your lip trembles, and you duck your face back into your knees, ashamed of how raw your voice had come out.

Dr. Calderu watches you tuck your face down into your knees, arms locked tight around yourself. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t fill the silence, just tilts her head and lets the space hold. Then, softly:

“Would you like to try again to tell me what happened?”

The question cracks through your chest like glass underfoot. You sniff, wiping your nose with the cuff of your sleeve, and your anxiety surges sharp and immediate, throat closing, stomach rolling, palms damp against your jeans. You don’t want to look at her. You can’t.

Your heart is already pounding, the way it always does when the memory comes. You can taste it, that awful mix of shame and bile, and your body doesn’t seem to know whether it wants to run or collapse.

“My professor,” you start, barely audible. “My… mentor.” The word sticks in your throat. You swallow hard, your voice cracking. “She was… inappropriate.”

Your whole body tenses, like even saying it out loud is dangerous. The air feels too thick, like it’s sticking to the inside of your lungs.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do,” you manage, words tumbling, shaky. “So I went to the dean. And they…” You break off, hugging yourself tighter, fingernails pressing crescents into your arms. “…they took her side.”

The shame rushes back hot and heavy, like it’s happening all over again. You can feel the sting in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.

“So I left.”

The words hang there, small and brittle.

You drag a shaky hand through your hair, your whole body restless, twitchy with the memory. “And now I’m nothing. I walked away from everything I worked for. And she’s still there. She’s still teaching, still publishing, like nothing happened. No fucking consequence.”

Your voice cracks harder, breaking into something closer to a sob. “And I’m so angry. All the time. I loved what I did. I really, really loved it. And now it’s gone. It’s just…” you clutch your knees tighter. “It’s nothing. I’m a failure.”

The words echo in the quiet of the office, and for a second you can’t breathe, like you’ve hollowed yourself out just to say them.

You hug your knees tighter, your face pressed into the fabric, as the silence stretches. It feels like ripping a scab clean off, raw air rushing into an open wound you’ve kept hidden, hidden so well you almost convinced yourself it wasn’t still bleeding. And now it’s gaping wide, stinging in every nerve. You can feel your pulse in your throat, in your fingertips, in your temples.

For the first time in a long time, you don’t try to patch it over. You just let it sit. The ugly truth of it. The humiliation. The anger. The grief.

“What happened to you,” she says, her accent softening the words, “does not make you a failure.”

Your head tips, just enough to peek at her through damp lashes. She hasn’t shifted in her chair — she’s still sitting, composed, but her eyes are fixed on you, steady and unwavering.

“You were wronged,” she continues. “By someone who abused her position, and by an institution that chose to protect her instead of you. That is not your failure. That is theirs.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat catching.

“I hear how much you loved your work,” she says. “How much you poured into it. That love doesn’t vanish because you were forced to walk away. It’s still yours. What she did… what they did… it cannot erase the truth of your talent or your worth.”

Your arms loosen a little around your knees. Just a little.

Dr. Calderu leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on her thighs. “You are not nothing. You are someone who survived being betrayed in the place you should have been safest. And you are here choosing to talk about it and get help. That does not look like failure to me.”

Your lip trembles, the tears threatening again, but this time they feel different, not humiliation but something closer to release.

Dr. Calderu doesn’t look away from you, doesn’t soften into pity or harden into judgment. She just watches you carefully, her voice lowering another notch.

“All you wanted,” she says, quiet but steady, “was to go to school and to learn. To do the work you loved.”

Your breath catches, and suddenly you can’t hold it back anymore. The tears spill fast, burning hot as they track down your cheeks, and then you’re sobbing.

And still, Dr. Calderu doesn’t move to interrupt it, doesn’t shush you or rush you along. She sits in her chair, letting the silence of the office hold your sobs, like there’s space here for all of it. Years of anger, shame, betrayal, and all the things you never said out loud, spill out in sobs that feel endless yet cathartic. Your chest hurts, your throat raw, but it’s different than before. This isn’t panic, it’s release.

When the sobs finally start to ebb, you can hear your own shaky breathing again, the hitch and stutter of air trying to find its rhythm.

Dr. Calderu speaks only then, her tone the same as it’s been from the start, calm and solid.

“What was done to you was wrong. But none of it changes who you are. You are still the girl who loves to learn. That’s still in you. And it always will be.”

You wipe at your face with your sleeve, the fabric damp by the time you drag it away. Your chest still hiccups a little with the aftershocks of crying, but your lips tug into the faintest smile. “…thank you.”

Dr. Calderu doesn’t soften into platitude. She just inclines her head, eyes steady, a small curve of her mouth. “No need.”

The quiet lingers for a few beats before she shifts, crossing one leg over the other. Her bracelets clink faintly. “Tell me,” she says, voice still calm but curious, “how are you taking care of yourself?”

You blink at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Forms of self care,” she explains. “Little rituals, routines, things you do to keep your body and mind steady. Ways you give yourself kindness.”

You sniffle, your frown deepening as you hug your knees tighter. “I don’t really… I don’t know.” You shrug, embarrassed. “I don’t think I do that.”

She nods once, decisive but not unkind. “Then that’s your homework. Between now and the next session, I want you to choose ways you can take care of yourself. It doesn’t have to be anything complicated, just something.”

You hesitate, then murmur, “My girlfriend’s taking me to the movies tonight, does that count?”

“Yes.” Dr. Calderu’s smile widens just slightly, enough to feel like approval. “That’s a start.”

You duck your head, cheeks hot, but there’s a flicker of warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before.

The clock on the wall ticks past the hour. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had gone until Dr. Calderu leans forward, uncrossing her legs.

“Well,” she says, tone gentle but conclusive, “that’s enough for today.” Her eyes stay fixed on you, steady and unflinching. “You’ve done the hardest part, showing up and saying the truth out loud. Now we can begin to make things better.”

You sniff, rubbing your sleeve under your nose, but there’s a tiny warmth in your chest at her words. A cautious spark of relief.

She stands, offering you her hand to help you up. When you’re on your feet, she simply says, “Same time next week,” like it’s already decided, and somehow that makes it easier to nod.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Her smile is brief but real. “Good work today.”

You leave her office slowly, the weight of what you said still clinging to your shoulders, but lighter now, like some of it was peeled away.

In the hallway, you finally dig your phone out of your bag. The screen lights up immediately with stacked messages.

~ Billy: Still alive in there? 👀~

~ Mom: Thinking of you. Call me when you’re home. ❤️~

~ Agatha: How’s my girl? ~

The knot in your stomach twists again, but this time you remind yourself that they’re all waiting for you, that you’re not walking out of this alone. You tuck the phone back into your hand, breathing deep, before pushing the door open to step outside.

The door clicks shut behind you, the late afternoon air hits cool against your face. You’re fumbling for your earphones when movement across the street catches your eye.

Billy.

He’s leaning against his beat up little car, jacket collar turned up, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s scanning the building, bouncing on his heels like he’s been waiting a while, trying to look casual but not quite pulling it off.

Your chest clenches so fast it knocks the air right out of you. Your eyes sting all over again, vision swimming before you can stop it. He looks up at just the right moment and catches sight of you, his face softening instantly.

You don’t even think. You just run.

Your boots slap against the pavement, your bag thudding against your hip, tears blurring your vision as you cross the street. Billy straightens, arms already opening, and you crash into him hard enough to make him stumble a step back.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, wrapping you up tight, his chin resting on the top of your head. One hand strokes down your back, steady and sure. “You did it. You went in there. I’m so proud of you.”

You clutch fistfuls of his jacket, sobs coming again, smaller now but with all the rawness still in them. He just holds you, rocking faintly, his cheek pressed against your hair.

“Shh,” he soothes, rubbing between your shoulders. “It’s over now. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just breathe.”

And you do, clinging to him on the street, tears soaking into his jacket, the weight of the session finally breaking loose in the safety of his arms.

Billy flicks the blinker on once you both get into the car, pulling out into the slow crawl of late afternoon traffic. He drums his fingers against the wheel like he wants to fill the silence but knows better than to push too soon.

After a few blocks he glances over, voice careful. “Did it… go okay?”

You keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of shopfronts and bus stops slip past. Your throat feels raw. “I told her.”

There’s a pause. He chews on his lip, then asks, gently, “told her… about university?”

You nod once, quick, still staring out the glass. The words scrape their way out, shaky. “I told her what happened. About…” you falter, clutching your sleeve tighter. “About my professor. And the dean. And how I left.”

Billy’s hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles pale, but he stays quiet, letting you say it.

You breathe hard through your nose, tears starting again before you can stop them. “She said… she said all I wanted was to go to school and learn, and…” Your voice breaks on the memory, sobs catching in your chest. “And it’s true. That’s all I wanted. Just to do what I loved. And now it’s gone. It’s all gone.”

Your chest heaves, your forehead pressing to the cool glass. Tears blur the passing cars into streaks of colour.

Without a word, Billy flicks the indicator on and pulls the car to the side of the road. The hazard lights tickn in the background. He shifts the gear into park, then leans over, one hand on your arm. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

You shake your head, but he tugs gently until you turn, and then he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling you across the console into his arms.

“I know,” he murmurs into your hair, squeezing you tight. “I know, I know.”

You sob against his chest, clutching the front of his hoodie like you’ll fall apart if you let go. He just rocks you a little, his hand rubbing circles into your back, his voice steady even as yours cracks apart.

“You’re not a failure,” he says firmly. “You’re my sister. You’re brilliant. You survived something that would’ve broken most people. And I love you. Always. No matter what.”

The words crack something deeper in you, but this time the sob that comes feels like release instead of shame. You let yourself cry into him, and he just keeps holding you, repeating soft little “I know”s until the storm ebbs enough that you can breathe again.

By the time Billy pulls up outside the house, your eyes are raw and sore, your chest still hiccupping now and then with leftover tears. He kills the engine, squeezes your hand once, and says, “Ready?”

You nod, even though you don’t really feel it, and follow him up the path.

The door barely clicks shut behind you before your mom’s there, wiping her hands on a dish towel, eyes darting to your face.

“Sweetheart!” She doesn’t wait for you to explain, just pulls you into her arms.

It’s different from Billy’s hug, less steady and more frantic, her hands smoothing over your hair, your back, like she’s trying to check every part of you at once. You sink into it anyway, letting her fuss, letting her hold you.

“Thanks,” you mumble into her shoulder, a small smile breaking through. “I really needed it.”

She leans back just far enough to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing under your tired eyes. Her own smile is soft, if not a little wobbly. “Anytime, my love. Always.”

Your throat tightens again, but you nod, squeezing her hand before gently untangling yourself. “I’m just gonna… go upstairs for a bit.”

She presses a kiss to your temple before letting you go, turning back toward the kitchen.

You slip up the stairs, your phone already in your hand by the time you reach your room. The screen lights up with a fresh message from Agatha.

~ Agatha: Well? How’s my girl? ~

You curl on your bed, back against the headboard, blanket tugged around your shoulders. Your thumbs hover for a moment before you finally type.

~ Y/N: I feel better x tired but better ~

It only takes a few seconds before her reply pings through.

~ Agatha: Good girl. I knew you’d get through it. ~

Your lip wobbles, but you smile, tucking the blanket tighter. You type again.

~ Y/N: How wasNicky? ~

~ Agatha: Handed him to Rio this morning. He clung a little longer than usual… always does when it’s her week. The house feels too quiet without him. ~

You stare at the screen, chewing your lip. You know how hard those hand offs are for her, she never says it outright but you can read it between the lines.

~ Y/N: Then it’s a good thing we have a date tonight x ~

The typing bubble appears instantly.

~ Agatha: Damn right we do. What time are you coming over? ~

You grin at your phone, typing back.

~ Y/N: Whenever you want me x but fair warning my therapist gave me homework to practice more self care so I’m picking the movie x ~

There’s a beat, then her response flashes up:

~ Agatha: Ohhh self care is it? So what are we watching? A three hour black and white documentary about goat sacrifices in the Carpathians? ~

You snort, shaking your head.

~ Y/N: Very funny but no x and you’re not allowed to complain! ~

~ Agatha: Never. I’ll even buy you the big popcorn bucket. Anything for my girl. ~

Your chest warms, the ache of the day easing a little more with each message.

Later on you stand in front of the mirror for longer than you mean to, tugging the hem of your dress down, smoothing it again even though it doesn’t need it. Your hair falls just the way Agatha likes, and you swipe on a little lipstick just enough to feel like you made an effort. You glance at your reflection, heart fluttering at the thought of her seeing you like this.

By the time you come downstairs, your boots clicking against the steps, the living room is filled with the low hum of the TV. Your mom looks up first, dish towel still in her hands.

“Well, don’t you look nice,” she says, brows rising. “Where are you off to all dressed up?”

Before you can even open your mouth, Billy twists around on the sofa, a grin spreading wide across his face. “She’s got a date.”

“Billy!” you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.

Your mom’s eyes light up instantly. “A date?” She steps closer, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Who is she? How long have you been dating? When do I get to meet her?”

“Ma stop.” You laugh nervously. “You’re not meeting her!”

Billy snickers, leaning back on the sofa with his arms stretched wide, smug as anything. “I’ve met her.”

Your jaw drops. “Billy!” you gasp, whipping your head toward him. “Stop it!”

He just grins wider, unbothered. “What? It’s true.”

Your mom turns on him immediately. “You’ve met her?”

“Billy,” you warn, glaring, but he just wiggles his eyebrows, enjoying every second of your mortification.

“Sweetheart,” your mom presses, turning back to you, her voice practically a coo, “why can’t I meet her? If your brother has-”

“Because,” you cut in quickly, grabbing your coat from the hook, “it’s new, and you’ll scare her off, and ugh, stop interrogating me.”

Billy snorts, hiding his laugh behind his hand as you shove your arms into your coat sleeves.

“Not funny,” you mutter at him, though your cheeks are flaming.

He just grins. “Kinda funny.”

You’re still fussing with your coat zipper when Billy pipes up again, voice all faux innocent.

“Don’t stay out too late, okay? Curfew’s midnight.”

You shoot him a murderous look over your shoulder. “God, I miss life before Mom adopted you.”

“I’m not adopted!” he protests, sitting bolt upright on the sofa.

“Yeah okay,” you say sweetly, already pulling open the front door. “Keep telling yourself that.”

He splutters behind you, and your mom sighs, “Children,” in that long suffering tone that tells you she’s trying not to laugh.

You step out into the cool evening air, the flush of embarrassment still warming your cheeks. The sky’s deepening violet, the street lamps just flickering on as you cross the drive to your car.

By the time you slide behind the wheel and start the engine, your nerves are sparking again but this time with excitement and the anticipation of seeing Agatha.

The drive over is a blur of headlights and nerves. Your fingers keep tightening and loosening on the steering wheel, stomach flipping every time you picture her face when she sees you and the fact that you actually made an effort to look pretty for her.

When you pull up outside her building, you cut the engine and fish your phone from your bag, thumbs tapping quickly before you can second guess yourself.

~ Y/N: I’m outside! ~

A couple minutes later, the front door swings open, and there she is.

Agatha steps out onto the stoop like she’s walking into a premiere, her hair blown out smooth, lips painted deep red, a soft silk blouse tucked into tailored black trousers that make your breath catch. A cropped jacket is slung over her shoulders. She looks devastatingly put together, every inch of her styled for you.

Her eyes find you through the windshield, and her mouth curls into a grin that makes heat spark low in your belly. She strides down the steps, heels clicking, and opens the passenger door like she’s already claimed the seat.

“Well, don’t you look edible,” she purrs, sliding in and letting her bag drop at her feet. She leans over the console before you can answer, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth, her perfume curling around you.

You melt instantly, giggling when she nips your lip lightly before pulling back.

“You driving us tonight, babygirl?” she teases, smoothing a hand over your thigh like she already knows the answer. “Good. I like being chauffeured around.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks hot, but the butterflies in your stomach are fluttering so hard you can barely focus on putting the car back in gear.

The car hums back to life under your hands, headlights catching the wet sheen on the road as you ease out from the curb. Agatha shifts in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other.

You clear your throat, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Okay, but fair warning, you’re not allowed to criticise my driving.”

Her head tilts, a smirk already tugging at her lips. “Sweetheart, I would never criticise… I would observe, maybe. Colourfully.”

You snort, shooting her a quick look. “That’s worse.”

She laughs, the sound warm and throaty, and it untangles some of the nerves fizzing in your chest. She leans back into her seat, watching the way your hands grip to the wheel. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Better than Billy anyway, the boy thinks turn signals are optional.”

That makes you laugh despite yourself, and her smile sharpens like she’s pleased to have dragged it out of you.

Her hand drifts then, sliding over to rest warm against your thigh. The weight of it is immediate, her thumb brushing idly against the fabric of your dress.

You flinch. Just a tiny jolt, your leg stiffening under her palm.

She notices instantly, withdrawing her hand back to her own lap like she’s been burned. “Hey,” her tone drops softer, careful, “sorry. Too much?”

You bite your lip, cheeks heating, eyes flicking from the road to her and back again. “No, I’m sorry I just… it’s been a rough day.”

Something in her expression eases. The sharp teasing softens into something warmer. She nods once, leaning back in her seat. “Then we’ll make it better. Starting with popcorn the size of your head.”

You let out a shaky little laugh, shoulders relaxing again as the road unfurls ahead of you, her gaze still steady on you in the glow of passing streetlights.

“So,” she says finally, low and lilting, “therapy.”

Your knuckles whiten against the wheel. “Mm.”

“How did it go?” she presses, her tone not quite teasing this time.

You can feel her waiting. It ties your insides up instantly. “Uh,” you murmur, eyes darting between the road and your side mirror. “It… went.”

“It went,” she repeats, one brow arching. “That’s very detailed. Extremely helpful.”

You let out a nervous laugh, heat crawling up your neck. “Yeah, well, I’m not writing a report.”

She hums, amused but clearly not letting you off that easy. “You know, if I had a dollar for every time someone tried to dodge me with a vague answer…” She trails off, turning her head to look fully out the window, but the smirk stays. “I’d still be working at the university, but at least I’d have a nicer office.”

“Very funny.”

Her eyes flick back to you. “So? Was it awful? Was it bearable? Did you feel like you could say what you needed to say?”

Your chest tightens. Your throat does too. You swallow, fingers twitching on the wheel. You can feel her watching you, steady and expectant, and the pressure of it makes your heart hammer harder.

So you blurt the first thing that comes into your head. “My mom wants to meet you.”

That gets her. She blinks, then lets out a low laugh, sharp and delighted. “That’s… not the same thing.”

You risk a glance at her to see that she’s grinning, lips painted red and wicked, and groan. “I know. But she asked, okay? Tonight. She was all ‘who is she, how long have you been dating, when can I meet her?’” You shake your head, cheeks burning as you stare hard at the road. “And I said absolutely not. She’s not going to meet you.”

Agatha smirks, leaning an elbow on the console, chin in her hand as she studies you. “Why not?”

“Because she’ll…” you falter, feeling the heat creep higher into your face. “She’ll interrogate you and scare you off.”

“Oh, baby.” She leans in just enough that you feel her gaze burning into the side of your face. “Nothing about your mother could scare me off.”

Your stomach flips violently and you bite your lip, keeping your eyes on the road just so you don’t have to look at her directly.

She notices anyway, she always does. “You’re blushing,” she teases, voice velvet smooth.

“I am not,” you protest immediately.

“Yes you are. I can see it.” She grins wider. “It’s adorable.”

“God, you’re annoying,” you mutter, but your voice cracks on the word and it makes her laugh, throaty and warm.

The neon glow of the theatre sign cuts through the rain slick night, splashing red and blue light across the windshield as you pull into the lot. The wipers drag one last streak across the glass before you kill the engine, the hum of the car falling into silence.

You’re fumbling with your bag strap, nerves jittering again now that you’ve actually arrived, when you feel her eyes on you.

“Hey,” Agatha says softly, drawing your attention.

You glance over to see she’s already leaning in. Her hand comes up, sliding over your cheek, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth before her lips press to yours.

Your breath catches, and you melt into it, eyes fluttering shut as her mouth moves against yours. She lingers, kissing you deeper, her palm warm against your skin. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours, her lips still brushing yours when she speaks.

“Better,” she murmurs. “I’ve been waiting all damn day to do that.”

You giggle softly, your stomach flipping, and she grins at the sound, her thumb stroking your cheek once more before she leans back, unbuckling her seatbelt.

“C’mon, babygirl,” she says, voice low but playful again. “Let’s go see what ridiculous film you’ve picked for me.”

Inside, the theatre lobby is buzzing with families corralling kids toward animated features, clusters of teens clutching sodas, and the hum of arcade machines chiming from the corner. The smell of buttered popcorn and artificial cherry slush fills the air as you step inside.

Agatha keeps close behind you, her hand brushing the small of your back as you head for the ticket counter. “Alright,” she murmurs, leaning down toward your ear, “what are we seeing? Please tell me it’s not three hours of men in spandex punching each other.”

You bite back a grin as you pass her the ticket stub. “We’re seeing a scary movie.”

She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Of course. My little witch picks the horror flick.”

“You don’t like scary movies?” you ask, pretending innocence.

“I love scary movies,” she declares, her chin tilting up, lips curving into her trademark smirk. “Love ‘em. Bring it on.”

But the way she smooths her jacket down and clears her throat says otherwise.

You hide a smile, threading your arm through hers as you head to the concession stand. She doesn’t argue when you order the jumbo popcorn, just pays for it and hands it over like she planned it that way.

By the time you find your seats in the darkened theatre, previews already rolling, she’s sprawled into the chair beside youl, jacket folded neatly over her lap.

“This is nothing,” she mutters under her breath as the lights dim further. “I’ve lived through faculty meetings. Nothing’s scarier than a tenure review.”

You snort, sipping your soda. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I am not.” She takes a handful of popcorn, eyes flicking to the screen a second too quickly as the opening credits roll over a dimly lit house and a low, ominous score.

When the first jump scare hits, a sudden shriek of violins accompanied by a figure lunging across the screen, Agatha jolts in her seat, her hand flying to the armrest.

You smirk into your soda straw. “Not scared, huh?”

“Shut up,” she mutters, her hand sliding deliberately over yours on the shared armrest. “Just making sure you’re not scared.”

You squeeze her fingers, hiding your grin as the movie swallows the both of you in shadow and sound.

On screen, the camera glides through a dark, empty house. An ominous score swells and you know what’s coming. The second scare comes sharply, a figure slamming past the window with a crash of strings. The whole audience gasps. Agatha, too. You bite your lip, smothering a smile.

She leans sideways, voice low and dry. “Don’t you dare say a word.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you whisper back, eyes glinting.

“Uh huh.” She crunches a kernel like she’s proving a point, then focuses her gaze stubbornly on the screen.

But the movie doesn’t let up. A long stretch of silence, a door creaking slowly open on its own. Agatha tilts her chin, like she’s not fazed at all.

And then a hand shoots out of the dark to grab the protagonist’s shoulder.

Agatha jumps.

This time it’s not subtle, her hand shoots across the armrest and latches onto your thigh before she can stop herself. Her nails dig through the fabric of your dress, and you bite back a gasp more from the suddenness than the pressure.

Slowly, you glance at her. Her eyes stay glued to the screen, jaw tight, like if she ignores you, it didn’t happen.

“You okay?” you murmur, lips quirking.

She exhales through her nose. “Perfectly fine. Just making sure you’re safe.”

“I feel very safe,” you whisper, giggling.

Her hand doesn’t move, though. If anything, her thumb strokes once over your thigh like she’s soothing herself.

The film spirals darker. After every scare Agatha stiffens a little, shoulders tightening under her silk blouse. She keeps up the bravado, muttering dry little comments like “oh yes, by all means go into the basement, that’s clever” but every loud sting in the score makes her jump again, her hand squeezing your thigh tighter.

At one point, the protagonist creeps toward a closet, the camera closing in on the knob twisting slowly. The theatre goes dead silent. You can feel Agatha holding her breath next to you, her grip iron tight. The door bursts open with a shriek of violins and Agatha actually yelps under her breath.

You press your fist to your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

Her head whips toward you, eyes narrowing in the glow of the screen. “Not. A. Word.”

You lean in, whispering so close your lips brush her ear. “You’re so brave.”

She smirks, but her ears are pink.

By the time the third act rolls in, full of bloodied survivors running through shadowy corridors, monsters lunging from every corner, she’s flinching in her seat, her arm now solidly around your shoulders under the guise of keeping you safe.

When the credits finally roll, the lights starting to come up, Agatha exhales like she’s been holding her breath for two hours straight. She shakes her head, smoothing her hair back into place, trying to look casual.

“Well,” she says, voice a touch higher than usual. “That was… interesting.”

“Totally.” You grin at her, eyes sparkling.

She narrows her eyes, lips twitching. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Maybe.”

She sighs theatrically, standing and stretching her arms over her head, blouse riding up just enough to make you blush. “Fine. Next time, I pick the movie.”

“You promised me selfcare!”

Her grin returns, sly and sharp. “Exactly. And selfcare means no more demon closets.”

You laugh, trailing after her as she leads the way out of the theatre, her hand sneaking back into yours as the crowd spills into the neon lit lobby.

The crowd spills out into the night, chatter buzzing with nervous laughter and retellings of the scariest bits. The neon from the marquee paints everything in red and blue stripes, slicked across the wet pavement.

Agatha slips her hand into yours as you step down the curb together, her grip firm, like she’s still recovering from the film.

“How,” she says, voice low and incredulous, “do you enjoy that shit?”

You laugh, the sound spilling out before you can stop it, shoulders shaking. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she throws her free hand up dramatically, “two hours of jump scares and bloody shadows, and you’re just sitting there, sipping your soda like it’s a Sunday matinee.”

You grin, bumping your shoulder against hers as you walk. “I’ve always loved horror movies. Even as a kid. I used to sneak them on late night TV when my mom thought I was asleep.”

“Of course you did,” she mutters, smirking sideways at you. “Creepy little thing.”

“Hey.” You giggle, pretending to pout.

She squeezes your hand. “Cute creepy,” she amends, the smirk widening.

By the time you reach the car, the rain’s thinned to a mist, dampening your hair. She presses the key fob, the lights flashing, and opens the drivers door for you with a little flourish. You roll your eyes but climb in, still smiling.

When she settles into the passengers seat, adjusting the mirrors with a casual flick, she glances over at you, lips curving into something slower, heavier. “Back to mine, baby?”

You gasp theatrically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Agatha Harkness. Are you suggesting I put out on the first date?”

She barks a laugh, throwing her head back against the headrest. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her hand slides deliberately onto your thigh again, this time with no flinch from you. “That was always the plan.”

You giggle, turning the ignition, the car purring to life beneath you both as she eases it out of the lot.

The engine hums low as you pull out of the lot, headlights cutting across wet asphalt. Inside the car it’s quiet, just the swish of the wipers, the muted thrum of tires on slick road.

“So,” she drawls after a beat, “did you have fun tormenting me, babygirl? Sitting there watching me jump out of my skin?”

You stifle a giggle. “Maybe a little.”

She side eyes you, smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re cruel. I like it.”

You take one hand off the wheel to hit her arm lightly, pretending to pout. “I wasn’t cruel! I was supportive.”

“Supportive,” she repeats, amused. “Is that what you call smirking every time that I jumped in my seat?”

You can’t help giggling outright now, shoulders shaking. “You were so brave, though.”

“Brave?” she scoffs, squeezing your thigh just enough to make you squirm. “Baby, I nearly threw the popcorn at the poor bastard sitting in front of us.”

You bite your lip, grinning at the windshield. “I’d still go to another one with you.”

Her smirk softens into something warmer, “yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, quieter.

There’s a pause before she murmurs, “Good because like taking you out. Even if it’s to a fucking haunted house.”

The car hums on through the wet streets, streetlights flashing across her profile. Every now and then, her thumb strokes idle patterns against your thigh, like she’s not even aware she’s doing it.

“So…” you start, smirking. “What exactly are your intentions with me tonight, Professor Harkness?”

Her smirk returns, slow and dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart. My intention is to get you back to mine, pour you a drink, and see how long it takes you to climb into my lap.”

You gasp, half laughing, half flustered. “You can’t just say things like that while I’m driving!”

She chuckles, low and pleased with herself, leaning back in her seat. “Consider it motivation.”

Your breath catches. The light turns green, but you barely notice, you’re too busy stealing a glance at her, heat crawling up your neck.

“Eyes forward,” she teases, voice like velvet.

You swallow hard, forcing your gaze back to the road, but your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. The car hums on, block after block bringing you closer to her place, the tension tightening like a bowstring.

By the time you pull into her street, your hands ache from gripping the wheel. You slide into the curb, kill the engine, and before you can even draw a steady breath, she’s leaning in.

Her mouth crashes against yours, hot and insistent. You whimper into the kiss, your hands flying to her shoulders. She pulls you over the console, her fingers already tangling in your hair, kissing you like she’s been starving for it.

You gasp against her mouth, and she takes advantage, deepening the kiss, her tongue stroking yours greedily. Her other hand fists in the hem of your dress, tugging you closer.

“Been waiting all night for this,” she growls against your lips, kissing you harder, her teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make you moan.

Your breath comes fast, fogging the windows, your body melting against hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the whole world shrinking to the heat of her mouth and the steady grip of her hands.

You whimper when she drags you fully over the console, the gearshift digging into your thigh as you straddle her lap. You don’t care, her hands are everywhere, one cradling the back of your skull, the other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.

“Fuck, babygirl…” she groans against your mouth, kissing you harder, open and hungry. “You’re killing me.”

You tug at her jacket, fists clutching the silk of her blouse underneath, kissing her back with everything you’ve got. The need floods hot through your veins, sparking at every point of contact.

Her mouth leaves yours only to trail down your jaw, her teeth grazing your throat as she licks and sucks there, messy and possessive. You gasp, nails digging into her shoulders.

“Mine,” she mutters into your skin, voice ragged. “All mine.”

Your hips roll helplessly against hers, and she groans, bucking up just enough to make you gasp. The car rocks faintly with the movement, the leather seat creaking under you both.

Your kiss turns frantic again, teeth clashing, tongues sliding, the two of you breathing like you can’t get enough air unless it’s from each other.

You break only long enough to whisper, “Agatha,” your voice shaking with it, “please don’t stop.”

Her hand fists tighter in your hair, pulling your head back so she can kiss you deep and filthy, like she’s trying to devour you whole.

The windows are nothing but mist now, the whole car swallowed in your heat, your panting, and the desperate sound of her kissing you like she’s not letting you go.

You moan when her hand slides up the back of your thigh, fingers pressing into bare skin. “Agatha…” comes out as a whimper, broken and needy.

“Mhm,” she hums against your throat, teeth catching your pulse. “Tell me what you want, babygirl.”

“I-” your words scatter when she rocks up against you, the friction sparking heat through your whole body. “I want… god, I just want you.”

That earns you a low, guttural laugh. “Already have me baby.” She kisses you again. “Always.”

Her hand inches higher, skimming dangerously close to where you need her most. Your hips buck, desperate, and she groans into your mouth like she’s the one falling apart.

The seat squeaks, the car rocks faintly, her breath hot and heavy as she mutters, “You feel so fucking good in my lap… could take you right here, couldn’t I? Fuck you until the car shakes.”

You whimper, clinging to her shoulders, dizzy with need. The heat between you both is unbearable, every kiss frantic, every touch like she’s staking claim all over your body.

Then she stills, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting. Her fingers flex on your thigh, achingly close.

“As much as I’d love to ruin you right here,” she rasps, eyes dark and wild in the dim light, “you deserve a bed where I can take my time.”

You whine, hips rolling helplessly against hers, but she just smirks, kissing you soft and slow now, a cruel contrast to how desperate it’s been.

“Don’t worry, babygirl,” she murmurs against your lips. “We’re not stopping. Just relocating.”

Her hand slides back to your hip, steadying you as she helps ease you off her lap, both of you flushed and panting in the fogged up car.

By the time you stumble into her apartment, your cheeks are still flushed, lips swollen from the car. You kick your boots off half blind, her mouth still chasing yours as she shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it somewhere.

She’s tugging you toward the bedroom when her phone buzzes against the counter, a vibration so insistent it doesn’t stop. Then again. And again. The screen lights up: 12 missed calls. Rio.

Agatha freezes, her hand still curled around your wrist. “Shit.”

You blink, heart still racing, the heat of the makeout still buzzing under your skin, but the tone in her voice slices right through it.

She snatches up the phone, thumb swiping across the screen. It barely rings once before Rio’s voice bursts through, tinny and frantic. You can hear enough to piece together that Nicky’s sick, feverish, and inconsolable, crying for his mother. Rio’s frazzled, her voice clipped with panic.

Agatha’s whole posture changes, shoulders stiffening, face sharp with focus. “I’ll come get him,” she says quickly, already moving, hunting for her keys. “Just keep him cool, I’ll be there in twenty tops.”

She hangs up, shoving her phone into her pocket, muttering, “Goddammit.”

You step closer, touching her arm. “Let me drive.”

Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “You don’t-”

“You’re too upset to focus on the road,” you remind her gently. “And Rio already knows about us. It won’t make a difference if I’m the one behind the wheel.”

For a moment she just stares at you, jaw tight, breathing heavy through her nose. Then she exhales sharply, shoulders sagging. “Alright.”

You squeeze her arm once, steadying her. “Go grab what you need for him. I’ll get the car.”

She nods, still rattled but grateful, and you turn for the door, the urgency of the night flipping from hungry kisses to something far more fragile, getting to Nicky.

The city blurs past in streaks of neon and wet asphalt, wipers beating fast across the glass. Your hands grip the wheel tighter than usual, every muscle in your shoulders strung taut with the weight of the moment.

Beside you, Agatha is nothing like the composed, teasing woman from the theatre. She’s wound tight, knee bouncing, fingers tapping restless patterns against her thigh. Her phone sits face up in her lap, screen dark now but still heavy with the weight of those missed calls.

“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, more to herself than to you. “He sounded bad. He hardly ever sounds that bad.”

You glance over briefly, heart twisting at the sight of her. “Kids get sick,” you say carefully. “It doesn’t mean-”

“It does with him,” she cuts in, sharper than she means to. She drags a hand through her hair, sighing hard. “He’s always been… fragile. Even as a baby. The asthma, the infections, the nights I was up with him every hour.” Her voice cracks but she swallows against it. “Every time he so much as coughs, I hear it all over again. Him tiny, gasping, hooked up to those fucking machines.”

You bite your lip, eyes flicking from the road to her profile. The streetlights catch the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw works like she’s trying not to cry.

Your hand slips from the wheel just long enough to brush her knee, steady and grounding. “He’s not that tiny anymore,” you murmur. “He’s bigger and stronger. And you’re already on your way to him.”

Her hand finds yours fast, gripping like a lifeline. “I just hate how fast it all comes back.”

You squeeze her fingers, the hum of the car wrapping around your silence. Rain spatters harder against the windshield, and she leans her head back, eyes closing, still holding onto you.

The road stretches ahead, but all you can think is getting her to her son and keeping her steady until she’s there.

You pull into Rio’s drive, the porch light a soft yellow against the rain. Before you’ve even shifted the car into park, Agatha’s unbuckled and out the door, heels clicking up the path in a near run. You stay put, hands locked on the wheel, heart thudding as you watch her disappear inside.

Through the rain blurred glass, the scene unfolds. Rio opens the door, hair mussed, wearing an oversized sweater. She looks frazzled and pale and the second Agatha steps in, Nicky is already there, flushed and teary, reaching for her. Agatha scoops him up without hesitation, murmuring against his damp curls, rocking him close.

You can’t hear through the car windows, but you can see Rio talking, the sharp gestures of her hands, the way she leans in close. Agatha shifts Nicky on her hip, answering clipped, then starts for the door again. Rio blocks her path.

You crack the window, just enough for voices to filter in over the rain.

“Stay,” Rio urges, her voice low but edged with something fierce. “He needs his mother here. Just stay the night.”

Agatha shakes her head, calm but firm. “No. He needs to be comfortable in his own bed. I’ll take him home.”

Rio’s tone sharpens. “It’s his home here too.”

Agatha exhales through her nose, jaw tight. “Y/N’s in the car. We’ll go back together.”

The name lands like a slap. Rio’s posture stiffens, her arms folding, her mouth curling. “Of course. Her.” The word drips venom.

Agatha adjusts Nicky against her shoulder, protective. “Don’t start, Rio.”

“I’m not starting,” Rio snaps back, voice rising. “I just don’t understand why she has to be involved in everything. She’s the babysitter, Agatha. She’s not family.”

Your stomach twists at the words, heat crawling up your neck even as you sink lower in your seat.

Agatha’s eyes flash, steel behind them. “She’s mine,” she says simply, quiet but razor sharp. “And she’s here. End of story.”

Rio bristles, lips parting like she wants to lash out more, but Nicky whimpers against Agatha’s chest, and the fight drains into a hissed sigh. She steps aside, jerking her chin toward the door. “Fine. Go.”

Agatha doesn’t wait another beat, she tightens her hold on Nicky, presses a kiss to his hot forehead, and sweeps back out into the rain toward the car.

The passenger door swings open hard enough to rattle the hinges, and then she’s climbing in, rain streaking her hair, Nicky clutched tight against her chest. He’s whimpering, little fists knotted in her blouse, his face blotchy and damp from crying.

Agatha doesn’t even glance at the front seat. She shifts straight into the back, settling against the leather with Nicky curled into her, murmuring low in his ear.

You turn in your seat, heart tugging at the sight of them. “Both of you stay in the back. I’ll get us home.”

Her eyes flick up to yours, gratitude breaking through the storm in them, and she just nods. Nicky’s too far gone to notice, he’s burrowed against her shoulder, trembling and whimpering, his breaths hitching like he can’t quite calm down.

Agatha rocks him gently, her cheek pressed against his curls, whispering soft comforts only he can hear. Her hand rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades, her whole body curved around him like a shield.