Is It A Crime To Become A Witch In The Forest??

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.

Outside of the room, Sam is enjoying himself far too much. Carol would say way too much. The pilot shifts her weight for what feels like the hundreth time tonight. Sam notices immediately.

"Comfortable?"

Carol narrows her eyes, "very."

"Liar."

"Hostile work enviroment."

"You volunteered, Danvers," Sam smirks.

"I regret it."

"You regret potentially meeting the love of your life?" He pushes the blonde once again.

"No, I´m regreting you."

"Ouch. Too bad I don´t care," he shrugs.

Carol groans at his words. The rest of the women seem entertained by this ongoing disaster. Even Natasha´s lips twitch, Wanda is fully smiling and Yelena looks like she already place a bet with Agatha and Kate.

"You´re doing this bullying all night," she points a finger at Sam.

"I have no idea what you´re talking about," Sam shakes his head.

"You´re enjoying my suffering," Carol continues with her grumpy ramble.

Sam gasps dramatically, "I would never!"

The look on Carol´s face says otherwise. Without breaking eye contact, Sam randomly chooses another person. Looks down, then immediately starts laughing.

Carol closes her eyes, "no."

"No, indeed," he chuckles.

"You´ve got to be kidding me," the pilot throws her hands around.

"I´m not, it just means fate is hilarious," everyone is at least smiling now, only Carol is looking like the grumpy cat. "The next ten minutes goes to…" he pauses, mostly for Carol´s benefit, "Rio Vidal."

Carol drops her head backward and the entire group can´t help but laughs, even Rio. "Unfortunate," she says calmly.

"For you or Carol?" Sam asks.

Rio glances toward Carol, "yes."

Carol points, "see? I like her." Rio simply nods her head. Then turns toward the private room.

Unlike everyone else tonight, she doesn´t seem excited, or nervous, or eager, to be honest. Not that she doesn´t care, she does, but after everything she is still very patient, knowing she will get what she wants and she never has to rush.

The door slides open and you look up, making you sit straighter. Your body just decides it´s the correct response to someone like her coming in. Rio notices, the corner of her mouth twitches, "relax."

You laugh nervously, "I´m trying."

"Well… you´re doing pretty shitty job at it."

"Thanks, Rio." You clap your hands together.

"You´re welcome." Rio steps further into the room, her outfit still looking professional, sleeves neatly rolled. After few hours, everything about her still looks efortless. Which is deeply unfair.

She sits across from you, not beside you. And you´re not a big Colombo to know that it´s intentional. She´s giving you space, or studying you, or pretty much both. For a moment neither of you speaks. The silence isn´t uncomfortable.

"Are you tired?" Rio asks.

You blink, "that´s your first question?"

"You look exhausted."

You suddenly become aware of all of them, fantastic. "You´re reading me."

"Oh," she isn´t wrong, you laugh, not taking it as an insult. "a little."

Rio nods, "I figured." Her gaze drifts briefly toward your hands, then your posture and your leg bouncing up and down. Every tiny moment is easy to noticed by her.

Rio´s eyebrows lift, "reading you?" You give her a look, "occupational hazard."

You hum, " so what have you figured out?"

She studies you for few more second, even though she doesn´t really need to, "you´re worried about making the wrong choice." Your stomach drops, but Rio continues, "you´re trying to enjoy yourself while also treating this seriously and perhaps your last chance with love." Rio tilts her head, "and… you´re overthinking every interaction after it ends."

Now you´re just offended, "I don´t like this game anymore."

Rio laughs softly, it´s a nice sound, "you asked."

"I did, but you´re scary."

"Noted," the weird tension is now gone. After a few seconds of silence, Rio speaks up again. "What did Agatha make you think?"

The question catches you completely off guard, "Agatha?"

Rio nods. This time you study her carefully, trying to figure out if its a trap. With Rio, it probably is, but you asnwer her anyway, "she was fun."

Rio hums, "she is."

The asnwer comes too quickly, too naturally. Like she knows that forever, which… she has. You hasitate, but then decide to go for it. "So what´s exactly happened between you two?"

Rio´s smile appears instantly, "there it is."

You groan, "not you too. If anything you started with Agatha, not me."

"What?"

"The question."

"No, no," Rio waves her hand, "I´m considerably more cooperative than Agatha." That sounds suspicious, but she continues, "we dated."

"Okay."

"More than once."

"Okay." Now this is interesting.

"That was generally the problem," you laugh, not at that statement, just the way Rio says it, which makes her smile widens slightly. "we met at the wrong time." That sounds genuine.

You wait, expecting more, but Rio remains silent and you narrow your eyes, "that´s it?"

Rio tilts her head, "what do you mean?"

"That´s all you giving me?"

"I answered."

"You didn´t aswer."

"I absolutely answered." You stare at Rio and she stares back, unbothered and patient. And somehow you realize she is right, she did asnwer, yet you didn´t learn anything.

"Technically you did, you even answered more than Agatha did, but… not really. You used your power of manipulation.." you chuckle.

"I prefer the term redirected," she lifts her finger.

"That´s worse."

"It isn´t. I just don´t want to share my past with the whole country."

"I thought you would say with me," you meet her eyes.

"I wouldn´t mind it sharing it with you, just those guys," she nods towards the camera.

You soften and nod, "fair point."

Rio´s smile grows and for the first time tonight, she looks less intimidating, the big wolf is still in her, but smaller, or maybe more cute.

"It´s really easy to talk to you," Rio starts.

"Is that so?"

"Uhm, you don´t perform, you don´t fake who you are, you´re… you."

"I absolutely perform," you laugh nervously.

"You try… but you´re not so good at it. Eventually you forget and then it´s just you." Something in your chest tightens, because she´s right. Again. And that´s becoming a problem.

"Okay, fine… enough about me. What about you, besides your cool detective work?"

Rio smiles, "I´m not a detective, I´m consultant."

"Do you have a badge?" You cut her off slightly.

Rio laughs this time, she nods, "I do have a badge, yes."

"Cool. Very cool."

"So all this time I could just seduce you with my badge?" Rio Vidal is joking now and you love this version of her.

"Maybe," you shrug with a smirk on your face.

The timer suddenly sounds, both of you look up, annoyed. Rio sighs softly, "that´s unfortunate."

"Few more questions and I would make you talk about Agatha again," you chuckle and Rio smiles.

"No chance," she shakes her head.

"At least you´re honest," you chuckle as you both stand up.

"Always," the answer comes immediately.

The room suddenly feels smaller, she studies you one last time. "One piece of advice," you nod, "stop trying to predict how this ends." Your eyebrows lift, Rio´s expression softens, "people are rarely who they seem at first."

Something abut the way she says it makes you wonder whether she´s talking about the women or herself. Before you can ask, Rio steps closer, not enought to touch, but close enough to lower her voice.

"And for the record?" Your heart prepares for disaster, "I don´t mind waiting." You swallow, but you nod somehow, "good things usually find their way to me eventually."

And then she leaves, just like that, leaving you standing there. Wondering whether you´d just been flirted with, manipulated, threatened or all three. Probably all three. Which, unfortunately, is becoming a recurring problem in this villa.

district 13 is quiet, but never silent. there’s always the hum of generators, the clang of boots on concrete, the clipped voices of officials echoing down the metal halls. and somewhere beneath all of that, buried deep like everything else down here, is you.

you sit on the edge of your cot in the medical wing. the overhead lights buzz too loud. you flinch every time they flicker. you don’t talk much. the nurses have stopped trying. they hand you food you never finish and run tests you never ask about. you keep your head down. you stay quiet. that’s what they taught you in your time in the capitol.

johanna leans in the doorway, arms crossed, weight pressed into one hip like she owns the place. she doesn’t. nobody owns anything down here. but johanna doesn’t know how to belong without acting like she doesn’t want to.

"you gonna stare at the wall all day again?" she asks.

you don't respond.

"great," she mutters, and steps inside anyway. she smells like smoke and the recycled soap the compound issues to everyone. it clings to her skin, but it can't wash off the blood under her nails, or the capitol from her eyes.

she tosses a small item onto the foot of your bed. a gear. cleaned, polished. useless now.

"thought you might want a souvenir," she says, too casual.

you stare at it like it might explode. your father gave you one like it once. you remember the way he taught you to reverse-engineer force fields in your kitchen back home, before the quarter quell, before you volunteered in wiress's place, before the capitol got its hands on you.

"don’t tell me you forgot what that is," the brunette says. still sharp, still pushing.

you want to tell her you remember everything. or that you remember nothing. you aren’t sure which is worse.

in your dreams, people in white tell you the rebels are liars. that johanna betrayed you. chose katniss and the rebellion over you. that district 13 is just another kind of prison.

"you think i'm the enemy," johanna says one day, not asking. she sits on the floor with her back against your wall, knees pulled up, picking at the calluses on her hand. "that they sent me to finish the job."

you don’t answer. but you don’t look away either. your eyes are bloodshot, and they burn to keep open.

"i hate this place," she says, not looking at you. "i hate the drills. i hate the people. i hate waking up not knowing if i’m gonna get shot or given a pep talk. but i'm staying for you."

you flinch.

johanna catches it. her voice drops. "not because i’m noble or soft or any of that crap. don’t make that mistake. i stay because you’re the only thing that makes this war feel like it matters."

she's lying. your brain screams at you.

you feel like you should say something. anything. but the words are stuck behind your teeth, choked by static and ghosts. you pull the thin blanket tighter around your shoulders. she doesn’t push further.

days pass. maybe weeks. she keeps showing up. sometimes she talks. sometimes she doesn’t. she brings you things: a broken communicator she says reminded her of you, a tangle of copper wire. one day she brings a journal. completly blank.

"you don’t have to talk to me," she says. "but maybe try talking to yourself."

you don’t touch it for three days. then you write a single word: why.

and the next day, another: remember.

the third day, you write her name.

it goes on like that. slow. uneven. your brain rebels against every truth you try to reclaim. but one morning you wake up and feel the ache in your chest before the fear. it hurts. but it's yours.

you start watching johanna when she walks in. you start nodding instead of looking away. one night, when the lights dim for curfew, she says, "you’re still in there."

you nod.

"good," she says. "because i’m not doing this whole damn war without you."

The last several weeks had felt like a nightmare. Or a fever dream, you couldn’t quite decide. Probably both. Ever since you’d woken up in this bunker that turned out to be District 13 – a myth turned reality – you had been running on autopilot.

It wasn’t exactly like a lot had happened. And that was the problem. Nothing happened. One second, you were in the arena of the third Quarter Quell, fighting for your life while trying to override the damn thing and destroy it, the next you woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by suffocating silence. And the worst thing? Johanna was gone.

Gone. Whisked away by the Capitol and possibly forced to undergo indescribable torture. When you’d overheard two nurses talking about it while they thought you were still unconscious, you’d been just about ready to make a mess out of the entire room you were currently in. But the heaviness of your limbs and the several injuries marking your body had stopped you. Your suddenly racing heartbeat had alerted the nurses of your very much awake state, however.

After ignoring the nurse’s panicked fussing, you’d strenuously heaved yourself off the hospital bed, taking the IV with you to not completely cause the nurse – and yourself – to collapse. Once out of the infirmary wing, you’d searched for any familiar face. There were a lot, admittedly, but you had needed someone you trusted. After what felt like forever, you finally ran into one of the people you’d been subconsciously searching for. Haymitch.

After ushering you to the nearest seating possibility – all while grumbling about how reckless children were – you were over twenty years old, mind you – and just waiting to keel over, he had explained to you what happened.

The plan to destroy the arena had succeeded, somewhat. Unfortunately, the Capitol had been too fast, managing to get their claws onto a few of the surviving tributes. Johanna and Peeta included.

You’d winced lightly at hearing Peeta’s name as well. He was nice enough, head over heels for Katniss, that much was obvious. And vice versa, even if she didn’t want to admit it. You didn’t even want to know how Katniss was doing. Not better than you, you guessed.

You’d always been a bit hesitant about the girl, sharing Johanna’s opinion to a certain extent. You still remembered how you met the lovebirds of District 12 for the first time. Though they weren’t exactly the thing you had focused on back in that elevator.

You were walking just a few feet behind Haymitch, Peeta and Katniss, entering the elevator with them. Johanna came right after, the doors closing behind her as she stood facing the rest of you, especially the people from District 12.

“You guys look… amazing.” she said in her typical ‘reluctantly nice’ tone, observing the tributes from head to toe before turning to face the elevator doors, her back to all of you, not acknowledging the confused “Thank you.” that came from Katniss.

You already knew that Johanna was up to cause a bit of drama right now, especially as she started loosening the various pins and decorations in her hair, all while complaining profusely about her stylist.

“My stylist is such an idiot. District 7. Lumber. Trees. Ugh. I’d love to put my axe in her face.”

You had to bite back a smile at that. Of course. Though, you had to say, the clothes her stylist chose did suit her. Well, in your opinion, she looked good in anything. And your amusement only heightened when you saw the outright confused expressions on the tributes faces. However, you had half a mind to hit Haymitch upside the head as his eyes wandered over her whole body.

“So, what do you think? Now that the whole world wants to sleep with you?”

“Tch, I don’t think that the whole world-“

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Johanna cut off Katniss, much to your slight enjoyment and definitely not to the latter’s.

Though the small smirk on your lips vanished when she turned her back to Peeta with a simple “Unzip?”

I’m sorry, what?

You stared at the spectacle with stunned surprise as Peeta reached to unzip the dress of your girlfriend. Now it wasn’t only Katniss that had a bit of a sour look on her face. Though, you thought you kept yourself under control pretty well, even if you wanted to cut off his hands in that moment.

And the desire to cut off his hands quickly transformed into the need to gauge both men’s eyes out as the openly gawked at Johanna when she boldly dropped her dress to the floor, now standing naked in front of you.

Even if you wanted to focus on your girlfriends more-than-beautiful body, Haymitch and Peeta’s obvious wandering eyes made it hard for you as you were more adamant on glaring holes into their heads.

Just as you were about to say something, Johanna decided to wink at Haymitch.

Okay, this wasn’t only to spite Katniss now. That one was for you.

Eventually – and thankfully – the elevator stopped at the floor of District 7.

As Johanna stepped out, clothes still discarded on the floor, she called over her shoulder:

“Thanks, let’s do it again sometime.”

In response to Haymitch’s following “Thank you.” you had not-so-softly elbowed him, before following right after your girlfriend, not caring if these weren’t your floors.

Johanna was still naked after all. And despite the fact that you were mildly annoyed, you were not going to let that opportunity go to waste. And she knew that as well.

Because when you finally caught up with her, you all but dragged her into the nearest bedroom, her following without much complaint.

Six weeks after having been rescued from the arena, Peeta, Johanna and Annie – who had also been taken by the Capitol, had finally been brought back.

You’d wanted to personally march into Snow’s mansion and burn it down to ash when you had first seen the state Johanna was in after being saved.

She was malnourished, way too thin for it to still be healthy. Her hair had been sheared off, which only intensified her already sickly appearance. And the circles around her eyes were dark, a symptom of lack of sleep. You hadn’t even wanted to fathom what she’d gone through.

Since she came back around three weeks ago, you were doing everything in your power to make sure she felt as safe as possible, helping in nursing her back to health. The doctors and nurses barely wanted to let you see her at first, claiming she was unstable and it was dangerous, as she could lash out and possibly hurt you. You’d scoffed in response, shoving the nearest nurse aside to get closer to Johanna. She was calm – well, at least a bit calmer – in your presence, which ultimately led to the nurses allowing you near her.

Johanna barely let any of the doctors to examine her. She didn’t trust them. Not one bit.

The only one she trusted was you. So you were always present, right by her side and swearing you’d stab the doctor in the jugular if he even tried to do something mildly suspicious. While said doctor had only stared at you in terror with slightly trembling fingers, it had been enough for Johanna to calm down and not shout profanities left and right while refusing to be treated.

Even when neither doctors nor nurses were present, you always sat at her bedside. The chair was rather uncomfortable, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that she was safe. That she felt safe. Day and night, you sat by her side, either ‘keeping watch’ when she was sleeping or getting in a nap or two when she was busying herself otherwise.

When she couldn’t stand the tasteless food the nurses brought her each day, you always smuggled in something from the main hall, eating the classic hospital food for her, while she ate the things that would certainly help her gain back a bit of weight faster.

On the outside, she appeared as tough and mentally strong as ever. She still had her sharp wit, her colourful vocabulary when it came to insults and her voice certainly hadn’t decreased in volume. But you knew the Capitol had left traces. She didn’t trust the doctors, afraid they’d inject her with something that wasn’t simple pain medication or anything of the sorts.

She also didn’t like to be alone, though the only other presence she tolerated was you. Sleep was possibly the toughest subject. At first, she refused to sleep, not wanting to let anyone out of her eyesight, unable to see what they were doing.

But when she hadn’t slept for several days, even with you trying to coax her into it more than once, you had promised her to stay awake.

She was exhausted. You could tell. More than exhausted. You were surprised she hadn’t passed out yet. Her mind and body were weak, worn from spending six weeks undergoing torture in the Capitol. Her eyes were heavy, but she was sat upright, refusing to rest.

It was almost 2am by now, and you’d been trying to get her to sleep for the past several hours. You always gave up for maybe half an hour before you brought it up again, hoping that the tiredness she felt would eventually get bad enough for her to finally give in.

Other than that, you two sat more or less in silence, your hand encasing hers as you ran your thumb softly over the back of it. In your head, you were going through all the possibilities of how you could get her to just lie down and close her eyes. Sleep would come automatically in her state.

You were pretty much aware of why she wasn’t sleeping. A twisted paranoia had settled deep in her since the Capitol, afraid that it would happen all over again.

She didn’t like to talk about what happened back there. But as your last resort, you thought maybe it would help her. Talk about it, hear your comforting words in response.

“Jo, why don’t you want to sleep?” you asked her for what seemed the 100th time in the last three days.

“What do you think?” she snapped back.

You didn’t take it to heart, aware that she was simply agitated. Tired and scared.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk, Jo. You’re going to kill yourself at this rate, if you don’t sleep. And I don’t know about you, but kicking the bucket before Snow after what he put you through? Because of lack of sleep? Not the most glorious way to go, no?” you retorted, a small smile on your face.

When she didn’t reply instantly with another snappy comment, you knew you had her.

“Come on, Baby. Talk to me. What’s scaring you?” you tried again, this time softer.

Again, she didn’t reply immediately. But you could sense she was gathering her thoughts to put them into words. So you waited, her hand still in yours.

“What if this is a dream?” she eventually whispered, barely audible.

“What if I sleep, and when I wake up, I’m back there?”

You wanted nothing more than to cry in that moment. God, what had they done to her?

“You won’t, okay? This is real. You’re here. With me. With the others. We’re here and we’re protecting you. You’re safe with me.” you tried to reassure her.

“I’ve had this dream before. At least similar. And in those dreams, you told me the same thing. Turns out I was always hallucinating and it wasn’t you.”

You stood up from your chair, sitting down on the edge of her hospital bed. Your hand left hers, reaching up to cup the side of her face instead, forcing her now glassy eyes to meet yours.

“But this is real, Johanna. You’re here, far away from the Capitol. You’re with me. The real me.”

You could see she wasn’t entirely convinced yet, the fear of this being nothing more than an illusion making her want to cling onto it.

“You’re Johanna Mason, from District 7. You always used to feed the neighbourhood cat when you were a kid. She had pitch black fur and it was very fluffy, despite her living outside. You called her Willow. Because of the Willow tree you’d first seen her lying under. You won the 71st Hunger Games at 17 years old, your speciality was with an axe. Typical District 7. We met at a Capitol event a few months after that. You snapped at everyone, not willing to talk to neither those obnoxious and rich pricks or the pushy journalists. I showed you a room that I always used to escape to when everything became too much for me. At every single following event we were both forced to attend, we snuck off. And a year and a half after your games, you kissed me for the first time. In that same room. And I asked you to be my girlfriend a day later. We kept it a secret, obviously. You always shiver when I touch your lower back or when I run my finger down the side of your neck.”

You did exactly that, her responding shiver proving your point.

“You always tease me about the fact that I have a very sensitive neck and instantly melt every time you put your lips to it. And every single time we had the chance to spend the entire night with each other, you always told me ‘Sleep well, idiot.’ Which is basically a love confession, coming from you. And you always kissed me after.”

Leaning closer, you took notice of her body language. And when she didn’t instantly tense up or lean away, you pressed a soft kiss to her lips, just like she had always done with you.

After pulling away, you looked at her, seeing her eyes were slightly wet. You weren’t better off. This was the first time you’d kissed since before the Quarter Quell started.

“Would anyone else know all this? Would anyone else be able to tell you all these things just to make you believe it was me?” you asked quietly. “I’m here. With you. Away from the Capitol. You’re safe.”

When the first tear trickled down her cheek, you took her into your arms, pulling her close. In the end, you were both crying messes, quietly sobbing into each other’s necks. But you knew then that she believed you now. That she finally knew she was safe.

She’d slept that night. And most of the next day. And you stayed awake next to her, your hand once again not leaving hers, as you had promised her. To keep her safe and protect her.

It stayed like that. While she slept, you stayed awake, watching over her. And every time you sensed she was having a nightmare, you woke her up, assuring her she was safe.

There were times when she had a fall-back, once again believing she was still in the Capitol, only making this up in her mind. Or that the Capitol made her see it.

You repeated everything you’d said that first night each time. Sometimes adding a few other things. And every time, you kissed her at the end. You repeated the process until she calmed down. Until she was back in reality.

Over the weeks, she was slowly getting better.

She was gaining weight, her body in the process going back to how it was before. Her hair was growing bit by bit, also making her feel better about herself again.

And you were there every step of the way. When her hair was long enough to comb again, you took pleasure in doing it after showers. Sitting behind her on the bed, running the comb through the still short strands.

You always reassured her you loved her. And that she was safe.

The first night after she finally got dismissed from the hospital wing – you had her moved into the same room as you, the doctors deemed it rational – you laid down on the bed with her. The space was rather cramped as the bed was quite small, after all. But neither of you cared.

The silence between you was comfortable. It was calmer than in the hospital wing, since you couldn't hear the clinking of various utensils and the hurried footsteps of doctors and nurses.

Here, it was quiet.

Eventually, a quiet voice broke the silence. Johanna’s.

“Thank you.”

You knew what she meant. She was referring to everything you’d been doing since she’d been rescued from the Capitol. As if you wouldn’t burn down the entire world for her. And she for you.

“Always. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“I love you.”

A smile twitched on your lips. She didn’t say if often. She especially wasn’t the one to say it first. You knew that when she did, it meant something. You intertwined your fingers that were lazily resting on the sheets.

“I love you too.”

Before you could continue with your reading, you heard laugher and tiny but fast running steps coming to you

-"Mama!"-Your little boy came running to your spot, barely giving you time to put the book and the mug on the coffee table before he jumped on your lap, opening your blanket and hiding in your chest-"Good morning mama" - he said with a sleepy voice and crazy hair slipping between your blanket

-"Good morning my baby"-You squeeze him in your chest-"What are you doing up this early? You don't have school today" - you asked

-"Good morning love, they woke up because I forgot to take off the alarm for the weekend. I'm sorry"-your wife said with the same crazy hair as your son, holding your sleepy baby daughter in her arms

-"Good morning my beautiful ladies" - you replied, smiling and kissing your wife as she sat by your side

-"Story time mama?" - your little boy asked peaking trough the blanket to give you the best puppie eyes that he could master

-"I thought story time was at night, not early in the morning..."-you replied smiling at him an trying to press down his crazy hair but having cero success

-"Please mama! Is the weekend and you were already reading, you even have your glasses... Pleaseeee"-he insisted and you nodded, unable to say no to those shiny eyes. Your wife smiled and carefully put your sleepy daughter in the bassinet that was in the living room. Getting up to make breakfast

-"Which story do you want baby?"-he pointed at your book without doubt

-"The Witch and the Mighty soldier!"-he said exited and rested his face against your chest again, closing his eyes but paying close attention to your voice. You laughed softly because he always picked that one. You started without grabbing the book, because you already knew the whole story by memory.

As soon as you started your tell, a fog blocked your mind from the present, transporting you to that time

The environment around you changed, you were no longer in the warmth of your home, now you could feel the humidity emanating from the mossy forest floor. You could hear the sound of the river passing near the small town and the distant conversation of the vendors.

After a few more steps, you turned your face attracted by a very familiar force. You noticed an old house between the trees, a black house with lilac flowers around it. A house that was well known in the small town and had signs around it that said "beware of the witch". Around the house you could find some remains of bones, forming an almost perfect circle surrounding that place, like if you were near a fae trap.

Many years ago, in a small, isolated village, there lived a magical being, a witch, more powerful than all the other witches who had ever walked that land. Not only was she more powerful, but she was also bolder and smarter than the others. She liked to deceive and steal from the poor villagers of the village and liked to deceive other witches with false promises to take away their powers. This witch knew no limits, no mortal limits or limits beyond mortal, for many years she controlled and terrorized families, armies and anyone who crossed her land. Anyone who crossed her path or tried to stop what she wanted, suffered the same terrible fate, to perish.

Every year that the witch went by without finding a person strong enough to stop her, her power, her riches and her arrogance grew stronger.

She was a lonely being, but she had earned it. No one wanted to be around her because she wouldn't allow it.

The families of the village offered her food and wealth in exchange for the witch not attacking them. But after years and years of sacrifices, the villages had nothing more to offer. Their crops were not enough to feed the people and the witch, and since they gave all the riches to her, they no longer had the means to buy more supplies to grow new crops.

Almost exhausted, with very little hope, they decided to send villagers to neighboring towns seeking help from their strong armies. By explaining that whoever could kill the witch would keep all the profits and riches, many brave and some greedy soldiers decided to go and fight her. But their mortal weapons were no match against the witch's strong and powerful spells, and soon they perish too.

What the townspeople did not know was that that lonely witch, full of power, had an empty heart and soul, she sought with riches and magic to fill that void, but every night she went to sleep more and more sad and cold.

After several failed attempts, no one continued to try to defeat the powerful witch, and the attacks of the armies ceased.

Seeing that no one was facing her anymore and bored in her solitude, the witch began to visit isolated villages, almost certain that no one would recognize her. She traveled for days, almost a week, visiting different places with bars and beautiful women, each time moving further and further away from her home and the small town where she lived.

The parties and drinks helped the witch to forget her loneliness for a while, but when night stretched too long and laughter faded into silence, the emptiness always returned.

Until one day, just like all the others, the witch entered a bar, looking for distraction and alcohol.

Warm light spilled from iron chandeliers, painting the room gold. The air smelled of spiced wine and cedar smoke. Music drifted lazily from a violinist in the corner, and the low hum of conversation wrapped around her like a familiar spell.

No one looked at her twice. Just another beautiful stranger in a dark cloak. The witch made her way to the bar, ordered the strongest wine they had, and let her gaze wander over the crowd. Merchants with flushed cheeks. Laughing couples. A gambler losing badly at cards.

And then she saw you.

You were sitting alone at a table near the back, half-shadowed by candlelight. Your gloved hand circled the rim of your glass. Your hair spilled over one shoulder like ink, and even if your face was calm, your sharp eyes were fixed on the witch with unnerving certainty. No admiration or fear, but recognition.

The witch felt it instantly, a prickling at the back of her neck. Interesting. Most people looked at her with hunger, fear, or desire. You looked at her as though as if you were solving a puzzle. You raised your glass slightly.An invitation.

The witch should have left.

Instead, curiosity curled through her chest, warm and dangerous. She took her wine and crossed the room.

-“Do I know you?”- she asked, stopping at the table.Your lips curved into something too knowing to be called a smile.

-“No"- you said smoothly-“But I’ve been hoping to meet you"-The witch arched a brow

-“And why is that?”-she asked and you leaned back in your chair, studying her openly now.

-“Because"- you said, your voice low enough to disappear beneath the violin’s song-“I had begun to think no one could possibly be as beautiful as the stories claimed"-The witch laughed, surprised by it, bold. Most flirtation wilted before reaching her, this one had teeth.

She set down her glass and sat across from you.

-“Careful”-she murmured.-“Flattery from a stranger is usually a sign of poor intentions"-Your gaze darkened, though your smile remained.

-“Then it’s fortunate"-you said-“That I never claimed mine were good"- you were screaming internally "holy hell it worked", trying act normal while laying bait with flirtation.

For the first time in centuries, the witch felt something sharper than boredom. Interest.

And across the table, hidden beneath your black leather gloves, your fingers brushed the silver chain coiled at your wrist. At last.

Even if you were living the story again just like the first time while you were telling it, the bubble of storytelling broke and you came back to the present a little confused to see your wife's magic go away

-"What happened?"-you asked turning to look how your wife was lifting your baby daughter from the bassinet

-"They are both asleep" - she whispered pointing at your baby boy asleep in your chest curling and smiling-"it's still early, let's take them to bed" - she suggested and you nodded, getting yourself up from the couch with your boy in your arms and going to their rooms to carefully leave each of them in their beds.

Once you made sure they were still asleep and the baby monitors were working, you closed the door to turn around and find your wife smiling at you

-"What is that for?" - you asked raising an eyebrow

-"Let's go to the room? I wanna hear how the story goes" - she said exited and you rolled your eyes smiling walking to the room

-"You know how the story goes, you were there..."-you replied getting into bed with her. As soon as you lay down, she grabbed your waist hugging you close and hiding her face in your neck

-"Please... I like how you tell stories and you like how I transport us there with my magic fingers" - she said moving special two specific fingers on her hand and you laughed giving her a kiss on her forehead

-"You are nasty" - you said

-"You love me like that" - she replied and transported you right where you left your story. Again at that bar.

The witch tilted her head, studying you with amused suspicion.

She was curios, it was something unusual about you. Not fear. Not worship. Not even the trembling hunger she was used to inspiring. You looked at her as though if were already known, every sharp line of her face committed to memory long before tonight.

It should have unsettled her. Instead, it thrilled her.

-“What is your name?”- the witch asked.

You lifted your glass, her eyes never leaving yours.

-“Elaine”-the lie fell from your lips, smooth as silk.

The witch smiled faintly. She knew a lie when she heard one, but chose not to challenge it-“And yours?”-you asked having a zip of your drink

-“Would you believe me if I said I’d forgotten?”-

You laughed softly, the sound warm enough to melt frost.

-“No"-you replied

-“Good”-she smiled

The violin in the corner swelled into something slower, sweeter. Around you, the tavern blurred into soft noise and amber light. For a while, you two talked.

The witch found herself telling stories she had not spoken aloud in decades. Not truths exactly, but fragments of them dressed in prettier clothes. Tales of distant cities, strange storms at sea, kingdoms that no longer existed.

You listened as though each word mattered.

When you spoke, you offered little of yourself, only enough to keep the conversation alive. Clever remarks. Dry humor. The occasional look that lingered just long enough to suggest possibility.

The witch had known countless beautiful women. Most tried too hard. You did not try at all. That was what made you dangerous.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. The candles burned lower. And then, when the witch reached for her wine, your hand brushed hers. A simple touch. Barely there. But cold lightning raced up the witch’s arm. You froze, just for a breath, as though startled by your own boldness.

Then you smiled, smaller now. Almost shy. A performance so flawless even the witch nearly believed it.

-“Forgive me"- your murmured. The witch’s lips curved.

-“For what?”-she asked. Your hands remained touching on the table. Your pulse fluttered beneath her fingers. Real. Not acted. Interesting.

-“For wanting to know... ”- You said quietly-"...If you’re as impossible to touch as you seem"-The witch laughed, low and genuine. There it was. Desire. At last. She turned her hand, lacing your fingers together.

-“You could find out"- she said and your breath caught. That part, at least, was not pretending.

The witch rose first, setting coins on the table. She looked down at you through half-lidded eyes and offered her hand

-“Come with me"- She asked, no, she demanded, and for the first time that evening, uncertainty flickered across your face.The witch noticed, misread it as nerves. And smiled wider. Slowly, you took her hand.

The room seemed to hush around you as you crossed toward the stairs leading to the tavern’s rented rooms above. You palm was warm, your grip steady, but beneath your glove your wrist ached where the silver chain rested hidden against your skin. Months of hunting. Years of stories. A lifetime spent chasing monsters. And now the most feared witch in the kingdom, the highest reward was leading you willingly into darkness. The trap was set.

She pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside. The wood groaned softly before the latch clicked shut behind yoy, cutting off the music below as if the world itself had fallen silent. Your entire body went taut. Every nerve stood awake beneath your skin. Though the witch did not touch you, you could feel her there, close enough for warmth to gather at you back. The brush of her breath against the nape of your neck sent a shiver down your spine. Now. It had to be now.

You would never have another chance like this.

A weaker part of you, the foolish mortal part you thought duty had long ago strangled, wanted to turn around and forget every order you had ever been given, wanted to find out if the stories whispered in taverns were true, if the witch’s touch really could make a woman forget her own name. But desire was a luxury you could not afford, and the reward waiting for the woman who delivered the witch alive was worth far more than one reckless night.

Slowly, carefully, you turned to face her.

The witch was smiling. Not the cruel smile of the legends, nor the amused smirk she had worn downstairs. This one was softer. Trusting. And for the first time in three years of hunting her, you hesitated.

The witch noticed, of course she did.

Her smile curved, slow and knowing, as she stepped closer. Candlelight caught in the dark spill of her hair, painting bronze across the sharp line of her cheekbones. She moved with impossible grace, like something woven from smoke and moonlight rather than flesh.

-“You look frightened”-she murmured. You forced yourself not to retreat.

-“I’m not.”-The witch tilted her head, studying you with infuriating patience.

-“No"- she said after a moment, her voice dropping lower-“You’re nervous.”-She was close enough now that you could smell wine on her breath, sweet and spiced. Beneath it was something colder, stranger, like winter air before the first snowfall. Beautiful, deadly, and entirely within reach. The thought steadied you.

-“I’ve simply never been alone with someone so infamous before"-you said. The witch laughed softly.

-“Infamous..."-The word seemed to amuse her-“Is that what they call me in these parts?”-she ask and you said nothing.

The witch reached for you, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with unbearable gentleness. The touch burned hotter than silver ever could.

-“And what do they say?”-the witch asked.

Your throat tightened. "That you are cruel.

That villages starve so you may feast.

That men have crossed mountains to kill you and returned as ash on the wind.

That your kiss leaves women ruined for every mouth that follows" you though, but instead you said, almost breathlessly,-“That no one survives long enough to know you"-your voice was soft, barely a whisper. For a heartbeat, something shifted in the witch’s expression.A flicker, gone too quickly to name. Then she smiled again, though there was sadness tucked into its edges now.

-“What a lonely story they’ve written for me"-The words struck deeper than you expected.

This was the monster you had imagined a thousand times in a thousand forms. A creature of greed and cruelty and black-hearted hunger.

But standing here, close enough to touch, she looked less like a monster and more like a woman who had forgotten what kindness felt like.

Dangerous, you reminded yourself.

Dangerous because she can make you pity her.

The witch’s fingers drifted lower, tracing the line of your jaw.

-“You’re thinking too loudly"-she said and you caught her wrist. The witch’s eyes widened slightly. Neither moved.

Silver waited, hidden in the lining of your sleeve. One sharp twist and the enchanted chain would lock around that elegant wrist, severing the creature’s magic before she could speak a single spell.

This was the moment. The years of tracking. The ruined towns. The promises made to kings and desperate mothers and starving children. Everything had led here.

-“Do it"- the witch whispered. You froze. The witch smiled faintly-“You’ve looked at me all night as though you’re waiting for permission"-Her free hand came to rest lightly against your chest, right above the frantic hammering of your heart - “Well?"-Her voice was velvet over steel-“What is it you want from me?”-she raised an eyebrow with her question.

You should have moved, should have snapped the silver into place and ended this.

Instead, before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward and kissed her. The witch stilled in surprise, then she kissed back. Slowly at first, curious as if testing whether this was real. Then deeper, one hand sliding into your hair, the other curling at your waist. Heat crashed through her and you. For one impossible, reckless moment, you forgot every oath you had ever sworn. Forgot the reward. Forgot the chains. Forgot the kingdom waiting for its monster. There was only this.The witch’s mouth, warm and yielding against you, making you wonder if her kisses had any kind of spell or why they felt so magical.

The small breath she gave when you pulled her closer, the terrible, breathtaking realization that she did not want this to be a lie, and that was exactly why you ended it.

You tore yourself away, breathing hard. Before the witch could speak, silver flashed between you. The iron chain snapped shut around both wrists with a sound like breaking glass. The witch gasped.

Magic exploded through the room in a violent pulse, rattling the windows, snuffing every candle into darkness.

And when the light returned a heartbeat later, the witch was on her knees. Her wide, disbelieving eyes lifted to meet yours. No fury. Not yet. Only hurt.

Your chest caved under the weight of it.

-“I’m sorry”-you whispered.

The witch stared at you for a long, terrible moment. Then she laughed. Sharp and empty as shattered crystal.

-“Oh”-she said softly. And now her smile was the cruel one from the stories. - “So that’s what this was"-The witch’s eyes darkened, no longer with passion but with betrayal. For the first time in centuries, she had allowed herself to be vulnerable, and had been repaid exactly as she had always feared-"The moment they remove my chains, you will be the first one to die"-the witch said, no as a threat, but as a curse, with her last bit of magic she cursed you and you smiled letting a dry laugh out

-"Then I will tell them to keep them on until the fire turns you into ashes" - your voice was dry but your face didn't matched the venom in your voice, you stood frozen for a moment, unable to move.

Then her body gave out. The silver chains had already stripped her of her power, and the poison you had paid the bartender to slip into her wine finally took hold. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Morning came cold and colorless. The witch woke to iron light spilling through the curtains and a sharp burning at her wrists. Silver.

For one stunned heartbeat, she did not understand. Then memory returned in fragments. Wine. Laughter. Her hands buried in dark hair. A kiss that had tasted like surrender.

And across the room, seated silently in a chair, clad now in full armor with a sword and pistol resting across her lap, was Elaine. No. Not Elaine.

You lifted your eyes to meet hers, and all softness was gone. The witch’s voice came low and dangerous.

-“Who are you?”- she asked and your jaw tightened.

-“Captain (Y/N)”-The name struck like thunder.

The hunter who had spent three years tracking her.

The witch stared, then laughed once, sharp and disbelieving-“Well...”-Her eyes glittered-“You certainly earned your reward"-Pain flickered across your face, brief enough that most would have missed it.

-“I did what I had to”- You replied and the witch smiled, cruel again, though hurt coiled beneath it like a wounded serpent.

-“Did you?”-her words and the way she looked at you was venomous. You said nothing, and somehow, the silence hurt more than the chains.

Her gaze followed as you rose from the chair, fastening your sword and pistol to their holsters. The armor made you seem taller somehow, broader, colder. Hollow. Just as she felt.

-“Get up"-Your voice was dry and commanding, deeper than it had been the night before.

Nothing like "Elaine’s".

You seized the iron restraints at her wrists and hauled her to her feet, draping dark cloth over the silver so they would not draw attention. Without another word, you opened the door and descended the stairs, sure she would follow. And though every part of her wanted to remain where she was, to let humiliation root her to the floor, she followed. Because for the first time in centuries, the witch wanted answers more than revenge.

The road stretched on for days, and if you had hoped silence would make the journey easier, the witch quickly proved otherwise. Chained at the wrists and seated before you on the horseback, the witch seemed to take cruel delight in every shift of movement that forced your bodies closer, every jolt in the road that pressed your hands tighter around her waist. For hours she said nothing, until the quiet had settled into something almost bearable. Then, tilting her head just enough for her dark hair to brush your throat, she murmured

-“You held me much more tenderly the other night”-your grip tightened at once, and the witch smiled to herself, unseen.

Later, when you stopped to make camp, the witch stumbled theatrically over a tree root and fell neatly into the your arms. For one suspended breath neither of you moved. Your hand was firm at her waist, her face only inches away, close enough for the witch to feel the sharp hitch of your breath

-“Careful"-the witch said softly, her lips curving-“Anyone might think you’re worried for me".Rolling your eyes you shoved her upright so abruptly she nearly laughed

-“Walk”-you replied

-“There she is”-the witch purred, dusting herself off- “I was beginning to miss the woman who tied me up"- That earned her a dark look, though the flush climbing your throat betrayed you. The witch said nothing more, but her smile lingered long after.

That night, as you sat across the fire in brittle silence, she watched your rigid posture, the way exhaustion bent your shoulders when you thought no one was looking. Then, very quietly, the witch lifted her bound hands and let a whisper of magic slip through the silver’s bite, just enough to turn the wind from your side outside the camp. When you looked up sharply, the witch only arched a brow and smirked

-“Don’t flatter yourself, darling. If you freeze to death, I’d have to walk to my own execution"-

You said nothing to that, though your jaw tightened as you adjusted another log into the flames. Orange light leapt across the hard lines of your face, catching for an instant in eyes that looked far too tired for a woman your age. The witch watched you in silence, her smile fading into something unreadable. There was no triumph in your expression, no satisfaction at finally having captured the kingdom’s most feared creature. Only exhaustion, heavy and constant, as though this victory had cost far more than it was worth. Interesting.

-“You wear disappointment beautifully” - the witch said at last. Your gaze lifted sharply.

-“What?”-you asked and the witch tilted her head, as if thoughtfully admiring you

-“I had expected more celebration. Perhaps a song. A smile, at the very least. You’ve spent three years chasing me across half the kingdom, and now here I sit, conveniently chained by your fire. You might try looking pleased"-A flicker of irritation crossed your face.

-“I’m not here to celebrate"-your voice was hollow

-“No?”-The witch leaned forward, the silver at her wrists glinting in the firelight-"And here I thought ruining my evening was your life’s ambition"

You rose abruptly and crossed to where the horses were tethered, pretending to check their straps. The witch smiled faintly. There it was again. Retreat. She was learning your.

The discovery sent a curious warmth through her chest, one she refused to examine too closely.

When you returned, you stopped just beyond the firelight and held out a piece of bread and dried fruit. The witch looked at it, then at you.

-“How touching. Are you feeding me, Captain?”-she fluttered her eyelashes at you flirty

-“Take it”-you voice was clipped, but there was strain beneath it.

The witch accepted the food slowly, letting her fingers brush your bare skin.The reaction was immediate. A sharp inhale. The slightest stiffening of your shoulders. The witch’s lips curved.

-“Still sensitive, I see"- Your jerked your hand back as if burned.

-“Eat"-you said

-“As you command"- She bit into the fruit with deliberate slowness, her dark eyes never leaving your face. A flush climbed your throat at once. Delicious. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the witch swallowed and said lightly

-"Tell me something, Captain" - Silence- “When you kissed me…”-you went utterly still. The witch’s smile sharpened - “Was that part of your training?”- The fire cracked between you two. Your face revealed nothing now, every trace of warmth shuttered behind cold discipline.

But when you spoke, your voice was lower

-"No" - The answer landed harder than the witch expected. For the first time since waking in chains, her breath caught. It had been real, then. At least for a moment. A dangerous kind of hope stirred before she crushed it flat beneath practiced cruelty.

-“How unfortunate for you"- she said smoothly-“I’ve had better, many way better kisses and funnier nights"-she said and that struck painfully.

As a knight, love , kisses and fun nights didn't had much time in your life. The last time you kissed someone was your girlfriend and that was years ago before she passed away in battle, so the way she downplayed your first kiss in years, hurt more than it should have.

The pain flashed across your face before you could hide it, quick and raw as a knife slipping between armor plates.The witch felt it in herself at once, sharp and ugly. Regret. The realization unsettled her more than the chains ever could.

Without another word, you turned and disappeared into the darkness beyond the fire.

The witch stared after you, the bitter taste of victory lingering on her tongue. And for reasons she could not name, it felt very much like loss.

By the sixth night, the witch noticed. You always waited until you thought sleep had claimed her. Then, with quiet hands and careful precision, you would kneel beside the bedroll and lengthen the silver restraint by another inch or two, just enough for comfort. Never enough for escape. Always enough for mercy.

The first time, the witch had assumed practicality, a prisoner too exhausted to sleep was troublesome by morning. The second time had felt deliberate.

By the sixth, there could be no mistaking it. You cared.

The thought settled somewhere sharp and warm beneath the witch’s ribs, where she refused to examine it too closely. She said nothing.

Instead, she pretended to sleep as those careful fingers brushed her wrist, pretending not to notice how gently the you worked to avoid waking her.

That morning, neither spoke of it.

By midday you reached the nearest village.

It was small and busy, the market square alive with voices and horses and the smell of fresh bread drifting from nearby ovens. You needed supplies, and though you kept the witch’s silver chain hidden beneath dark cloth, your grip on the restraints remained firm as you entered the tavern.

The witch endured the stares with practiced indifference. Then she saw her. The barmaid was young and pretty, with bright eyes and an easy smile that sharpened the instant it landed on you.

-“Well”- she said, leaning against the counter as she filled your order-“You’re a handsome thing under all that armor"-You barely glanced up

-“Just the supplies"-The girl laughed softly

-“All business? Shame"-Her hand lingered unnecessarily over your arm as she passed over the satchel, fingers brushing your glove.

The witch went still. Something ugly and immediate twisted low in her chest. Ridiculous. Possessiveness was for mortals with too much time and too little pride. And yet there it was, hot as poison.

You shifted back slightly, polite but distant.

The barmaid smiled wider.

-“If you’re staying the night, I finish my shift at moonrise"-she offered with sweetness on her voice. The witch laughed. The sound cut through the room like glass. You both turned toward her.

She smiled sweetly.

-“Oh, forgive me. I was only wondering whether your standards are always this poor, Captain, or if travel has made you desperate"-your expression hardened at once. The barmaid frowned.

-“I beg your pardon?”-you asked

The witch tilted her head, all velvet cruelty.

-“My mistake. I thought we were all sharing our poor decisions openly"-you seized her arm hard enough to silence whatever retort followed.

-“Outside"-You said upset, the witch allowed herself to be dragged from the tavern, still smiling. Only once you reached the alley behind the stables you released her.

-“What was that?”-you yelled. The witch lifted a brow.

-“Jealousy, apparently. It’s a revolting experience. I cannot recommend it”- you froze. For a moment, neither moved.

-“You were jealous?”-you asked quietly. The witch laughed once, sharp and mocking.

-“Don’t flatter yourself"-she tried to disminish the comment, but her pulse had quickened, and judging by the way the you eyes darkened, you had noticed.

The air shifted between you. Something electric.

Dangerous. You stepped closer. The witch held her ground.

-“You don’t get to mock me for things you feel yourself"-you said, your voice low.

The witch’s smile sharpened.

-“And what exactly do you imagine I feel?"-she asked and you reached for her wrists. Not roughly this time. Slowly. Your fingers traced the silver restraints, then slid higher, brushing bare skin. The witch’s breath caught.

-“There" - you murmured. Your infuriatingly steady gaze lifted to hers-“You always go quiet when you’re lying"-Your replied, the witch’s heart stumbled.

She recovered quickly, leaning close enough for ypur mouths to nearly touch.

-“Careful, Captain"-she whispered-"You’re beginning to sound as though you know me" - she mocked and your hand tightened at her wrists.

For one suspended breath, neither moved.

Then the witch kissed you. Hard. All the days of bitterness and hunger and furious wanting crashed into it at once.

You answered instantly, shoving her gently against the stable wall, one hand cradling her jaw as if afraid she might break. The kiss burned. Not soft like the first. Not false.

This one tasted of anger and relief and all the things neither had dared say aloud.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, you rested your forehead against hers.

-“This changes nothing”- you said hoarsely.

The witch smiled, though her pulse thundered.

-“No"- she murmured. But you both knew she was lying. And this time, neither of you pretended otherwise.

You wrecked.

The walk back through the village was silent.

The witch kept her face composed, every inch the elegant predator, but inside her pulse still raced from the alley, from the taste of your mouth still lingering like heat on her.

Beside her, you seemed infuriatingly calm. Too calm.

You reached the small general store near the edge of town again just as the owner was preparing to close. You stepped inside, purchased what you needed, then lingered at the counter while the old man bundled your supplies.

-“Well”-you said lightly, as if continuing some harmless thought- “it seems we’ll be delayed"-The witch glanced over. You were fastening your gloves with deliberate care, not looking at her-“The inn still has rooms available"-you continued walking to the room- “And the barmaid finishes her shift at moonrise"- The words struck like flint. The witch stopped walking.

You turned, and though your expression remained perfectly composed, there was something dangerous flickering in your eyes, teasing.The realization hit all at once. The witch narrowed her gaze.

-“You’re crueler than I gave you credit for"-she said and you shrugged, impossibly casual.

-“She seemed eager enough. It would be rude to disappoint her”-The witch gave a soft laugh, though there was no amusement in it.

-“By all means, Captain. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to discover your most seductive quality is prolonged silence"-A corner of your mouth twitched.

-“Jealous again?”-you lifted your eyebrow and the witch’s breath caught. Damn you.

She turned sharply and resumed walking toward the inn, chin high enough to suggest indifference she did not feel. Behind her, she could hear the your measured steps following.

The room you were given was small, lit only by a single oil lamp that painted gold across the narrow bed and rough wooden walls.

You closed the door behind both of you. Neither spoke. The silence stretched.

You removed your gloves one finger at a time and said, almost idly

-"You know, if you dislike the arrangement, you could always ask me to stay" - you offered and the witch laughed. Sharp. Disbelieving.

-“You are insufferable"-she rolled her eyes

-“And yet here we are”-you began loosening the silver restraints, lengthening them as you always did before nightfall. Your hands were practiced now, careful where the metal had rubbed the witch’s skin raw. The tenderness of it undid something small and dangerous in her chest.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then, before pride could stop her, the words slipped free

-“Stay"-she whispered and you froze. The witch’s face remained composed, cool as ever, though her pulse thundered in her throat. Slowly, you looked up. The teasing had vanished from your expression

-“What?”-you asked. The witch swallowed hard enough to hate herself for it.

-“Don’t make me repeat it.”-For one terrible second, she thought you might smile, might mock her, might make light of this humiliation.

Instead, you reached up, your fingers brushing a dark strand of hair behind the witch’s ear with unbearable gentleness. And quietly, so softly it was almost reverent, you said:

-“Alright"-The witch forgot how to breathe. Your hand lingered against her cheek. Neither of you moved closer. Neither pulled away.

The space between you burned hotter than any fire.

The room had gone impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that seemed to hold its breath with you. The witch stood close enough for you to feel the warmth of her skin, close enough that one careless movement would close the space between you forever. For a long moment neither moved. Your hand hovered near her face, trembling with restraint, as though even the smallest touch might shatter whatever fragile thing had grown between you on the road. The witch noticed, of course she did, and her usual sharp smile softened into something almost unbearably tender

-"You’re staring again"- she whispered, her voice low enough to feel like a touch itself. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering

-“I’m deciding whether this is a mistake"-you replied. The witch moved closer, until your breath mingled, until you could smell rain and smoke and the faint sweetness of wine still lingering on her lips

-"And?”-she murmured. The answer never came, because the witch kissed her first, slow and deliberate, as if giving you every chance to pull away. But you only made a broken sound against her mouth and kissed her back with all the hunger you had spent days trying to bury. It should have felt reckless, stolen, wrong, and perhaps it did, but beneath the urgency there was something softer, something that made the witch’s chest ache with its unfamiliarity. You touched her like she was precious, like every brush of skin was a question you were afraid to ask aloud, and your her fingers ghosted over the silver marks at the witch’s wrists, you froze. For one terrible second the spell broke, reality crashing back between you. The witch’s breath caught. Then, quietly, almost pleadingly, she whispered

-“Don’t stop"-Something in your face shattered at those words. You kissed her again, gentler this time, reverent enough to make the witch’s throat tighten, and as you pressed your forehead to hers, eyes closed as if you could not bear to look at what you were doing, the witch understood with sudden, devastating clarity that this was not desire alone. This was longing. This was grief. This was love arriving at the worst possible moment, asking to be let in anyway.

For a moment, putting distance between you, you rose from the bed. Your legs trembled beneath you, almost threatening to give out entirely.

The witch let out a slow, quiet sigh. Her dark eyes still burned with desire, but something sadder lingered there too, some old familiar hurt settling behind the heat. For a heartbeat, she thought this was how it would end. That same retreat she had come to expect whenever things became too real, too dangerous, too honest to bear.

She thought you would turn away from her. Withdraw into your armor and your duty and whatever walls had kept your heart hidden all this time. But instead, beneath her watchful gaze, your trembling hands rose to the clasps at your shoulders.

The first piece of armor hit the floor with a heavy metallic thud. Then another. And another. Slowly, uncertainly, as though each movement cost you something, you stripped away every layer that had made you Captain, every polished plate and buckle and barrier that had stood between you and the world. Under the dim amber light, your skin looked impossibly vulnerable, marked faintly where leather straps had pressed too tightly, your breath uneven as your hands shook at your sides.

The witch stared. For once, she had no clever remark ready. No teasing smile. Only silence, thick and trembling with understanding.

This was not seduction. This was surrender. When at last your hands stilled, you looked at her with a kind of naked terror she had never seen on any battlefield.

-“If I stay..."- you said softly, your voice rough enough to crack-"there may be no going back for me"- your words struck her harder than any blade ever had.

The witch’s expression softened, something fragile and aching passing across her face. Slowly, she pushed herself upright and crossed the small distance between you. Her fingers lifted, feather-light as they brushed your cheek.

-“You should go, then"-she whispered. The lie of it sat between you. She wanted you to stay. Gods, she wanted it with a hunger that frightened her. But centuries had taught her what hope cost. And if she let herself believe this was real, if she let herself need this… It would destroy her.

Your breath hitched. Then, with a quiet desperation that made her heart lurch, you caught her wrist and pressed your lips to her palm. The touch was reverent enough to make her knees weaken.

-“I don’t want to go"- you confessed. The witch closed her eyes. For one terrible, beautiful moment, she let herself feel it. Then she opened them again and cupped your face in both hands, still bounded by the chain but with more room to move, her thumbs brushing the warmth rising in your cheeks.

-“Then stay”-she whispered. You kissed her before she could say anything more.

Not with the desperate hunger of before, nor the sharp edge of anger that had marked your first stolen kisses. This was slower. Deeper. A kiss shaped like choosing.

And as your hands found her waist and drew her close, as her fingers slipped into your hair and held you there like something precious she had already begun mourning, the whole world beyond that room seemed to fall away.

For that night, there was no captain. No prisoner. No kingdom waiting to tear you apart. There was only this. And the fragile, impossible love neither of you had meant to find.

Without breaking the kiss, you guided her backward with your hands at her hips, gentle but unyielding, until the backs of her knees met the edge of the bed and she sank onto the mattress with a soft gasp. The sound went straight through you. Opening your legs you sat at her lap

Your breath caught against her mouth, and for a heartbeat you nearly pulled away, startled by how easily she undid you.

But then her fingers found your hips, not to stop you, only to hold there lightly, as if reassuring herself that this was real, and something inside you gave way completely.

When her tongue brushed against your lips in quiet invitation, your breath hitched into a helpless little sound that made her smile against your mouth. You opened for her. And in doing so, gave her more than permission. You gave her trust. The realization seemed to strike her all at once. You felt it in the way she stilled for half a breath, as though suddenly afraid to move too quickly and break whatever fragile thing had passed between you.

Then she kissed you again. Slower this time. Not with hunger sharpened into conquest, but with unbearable care, as though she were learning every trembling answer your body gave her and committing each one to memory.

You let yourself melt beneath her. For years your life had been discipline. Steel buckles fastened too tight, commands barked without question, every choice shaped by duty until there had been no room left for softness.

And now here she was, undoing all of it with nothing but patience and the brush of her lips.

Your hands found her waist, then higher, tracing the warm curve of her back as if you needed proof that she was here, that this was truly happening. The witch shivered beneath your touch. The reaction startled you enough to draw back. For one suspended moment neither of you moved.

The world beyond the thin walls of that room seemed impossibly far away.

No kingdoms. No chains. No dawn waiting to tear this apart. Just the two of you, suspended in the fragile mercy of now.

Then her hand rose to cradle your face, her thumb brushing slowly across your cheek.

There was something heartbreakingly soft in the way she looked at you.

-“You should hate me”-she whispered. Your throat tightened.

-“Maybe I do"-A faint, sad smile touched her mouth. You kissed it away before she could believe it, making her smile.

-“Can you take off my chains? I wanna work my magic"-she teased, trying to lighten the mood. You laughed, your hands drifting to her wrists as if to grant her wish. For a moment, her expression softened with expectation. Then, instead of freeing her, you pushed her gently back onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her as you pinned the restraint to the bedframe, the sharp metallic click echoing through the room. Her eyes widened in shock

-“Let’s see what your pretty mouth can do…”- you said with a slow smile, savoring the stunned look on her face. You leaned closer, close enough for her to feel the warmth of your breath against her skin, and tilted her chin upward with two fingers. The moonlight spilled across her face like silver paint, catching the curve of her mouth as it twitched into a defiant little grin-“Still think you’re the one in control?”-you murmured.

Her laugh came low and velvet smooth, though you caught the hitch beneath it

-"You talk too much" - she replied fighting against the chains

-“Do I?”-You traced the edge of her wrist where the restraint held firm, then let your touch drift away entirely. The absence of it was louder than contact could ever be.

She shifted against the sheets, dark hair spilling around her like ink across paper, and for the first time since this little game began, her confidence flickered. Just enough to make your pulse quicken. You leaned down until your lips hovered beside her ear.

-“Then make me shut up"-you whispered, biting softly at her ear.

Her eyes darkened, ignited by the challenge. Her magic slipped through the restraints and made your skin burn, not with pain, but with heat.

The intensity made you desperate. You stripped away the little clothing you had left, letting it fall in a careless heap on the floor.

This time, the witch was the one left spellbound, watching, admiring, savoring every inch of your body. Her gaze was that of a hungry animal stalking its prey, sharp and unrelenting, until it fell upon the battle scars scattered across your skin.

Suddenly, you felt far more naked than bare before her. It felt as though she were staring straight into your soul. So you looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

-“Stunning"-she said, the honesty in her voice catching you off guard. You felt heat rush to your cheeks, a blush blooming across your skin as you finally looked back at her. She was smiling.

Not the sharp, teasing smile she wore like armor, nor the wicked smirk that usually danced on her lips when she had the upper hand. This one was softer. Real.

And somehow, that made your chest tighten more than any spell ever could.

Her eyes drifted over your scars again, not with pity, not with curiosity, but with reverence, as though each mark was a verse in a story she wanted to memorize. Slowly, she lifted her chin, her smile never fading.

-“They’re beautiful"- she whispered. Then her lips curved into a teasing smile-“Come to bed and end this torture, or I’ll break the frame to free myself and drag you here instead"-The soft plea in her voice sent warmth rushing through you.

Without another word, you obeyed.

You climbed onto the bed and settled over her, straddling her hips. The moment your body met hers, that familiar heat flared between you again, stealing the breath from your lungs.

Leaning down, you captured her lips with yours.

The kiss was hungry and desperate, all restraint dissolving the instant your mouths met. A quiet sound escaped you as her warmth surrounded you once more, dizzying and impossible to resist.

She laughed proudly again your lips, sending a vibration trough your body

-"I can feel your wetness on my hips... I like to see that I have this effect on you"-she was about to tease further but her desire didn't let her-"Please sit on my face" - she begged out of air-"Let me taste you, I've been dreaming about this since the first time we kissed" - her chest rose with every breath she took and the chains sounded against the bed frame every time she desperately moved trying to get you closer.

You kissed her one more time, painfully slow, riding your wetness on her hips and she moaned in your mouth, biting and sucking your lips desperately, until you heard a crack wood sound, followed by the feeling of her hands on your ass and then your hips, grabbing possessively your skin, digging her nails on the soft flesh.

The chain that bounded her hands was still on, digging softly against the skin of your back too, creating a cold contrast with the heat of the situation, but the bed frame where the chain was held was broken.

She grabbed your hair with one hand pulling your head back gently making you break the kiss

-"Ride my face now, next time I won't ask nicely" - her voice was deep, hungry. Her lips went straight to your neck, to your pulse point, bitting gently and then soothing the bite with her tongue,making you whimper and press your core against her body. You nodded unable to find the words.

Carefully you open your legs on top of her face, resting your knees as a support on each side of her head trying not to let your weight crush her face. You core was contracting against nothing, you could feel it, and by the moan Agatha let out when she saw your pussy, she could see it too.

You lowered your face gently, grabbing the bed frame to steady yourself, even nervous and full of anticipation you were trying to be gentle to her face. But the witch didn't wanted to wait anymore, her mouth was salivating and the non existent patience went out the window. Her hands grabbed possessively your thighs, one arm curling around each leg, pulling you down completely on top of her face.

The sudden contact against her face made you let out a squeal at the same time Agatha moaned against your pussy, like if she was tasting the most tasty forbidden fruit

-"Agatha!"-you screamed in surprise and she bit the side of your thigh making you shiver and lift your hips a little

-"First time I hear my name come out of your lips and I'm already obsessed... Keep making those pretty noises, I want everyone, specially the whore of the bar, to hear who is making you see stars tonight" - she made you sit again on her face, her tongue was lay out flat, being able to lick your whole pussy in one swipe. Her nose was pressing down on your clit and the sharp puffs of air that she let out made your pussy tickle.

Since it had been a while since you had last been sexualy with someone, your body, especially your private parts, were very sensitive to any stimulus. Without mentioning that you've never sat in someone's face like you were doing right now, you wouldn't deny that it felt amazing, but the sensation was also too much at the same time

-"Agatha, Agatha, Agatha" - her name was coming as a prayer from your lips, you wanted to ask her to slow down a little bit, but your mind, fogged by the sensation, was not able to form any other thought than her name -"Please..."-you begged, barely above a whisper, with tears on the corner of your eyes.

The witch, rather than slowing, took it as permission to keep going. You were unraveling on top of her, every wall you had ever built crumbling piece by piece. Your fears, your caution, even the promises you had once made to yourself dissolved into the haze consuming your mind, until there was nothing left but sensation. Nothing but her. And she loved it.

She loved knowing she was the one undoing you, the only reason your careful control was slipping through your fingers.

Her nails dug deeper on your skin, grabbing your thighs with desperation, breaking the skin a little, making a mixture of pain and pleasure travel all over your body.

Your hips moved back and forward, riding her face, feeling how her tongue explored every inch of your lips, your clit and eventing she could find. You could feel the way she was gasping for air, and you tried to lift your hips to let her breathe a little, but the witch complained with a tiny whimper lifting her head to not let you pull away, and then she pulled you back down on top of her.

Your hips kept moving more frantically this time, your ears where ringing and your vision was getting blurry. Your hands were pressing the headboard making your fingertips hurt but unable to let it go. You could feel your own heartbeat on your head, like if something was pounding the door asking to let them out.

Agatha's movements were becoming more sloppy and desperate, you could even feel her teeth every time she sucked your pussy trying to get as much of you as she could.

Your whimpers and moans were becoming shorter but more frequently, shutting down the creaking sound of the wooden bed, your boobs where bouncing because of the frantic movement of your hips and your legs were trying to close together. The witch was moving her mouth in ways that you thought it wasn't humanly possible and your body was about to give up.

Agatha was consumed by you, you were using all her senses, your thighs were pressing the side of her face, forbidding her to hear anything more than the rumble of her own heart and the way your wet pretty pussy collided against her face. Her mouth and nose were inside your sex, all she could taste and smell it was you, the salty of your juices and the tangy but sweet taste of your body. She couldn't breathe very well but not even for a moment she thought of stopping or pulling you away from her. Her eyes were intoxicated trying not to miss a single reaction of your body. Her hands were digging your skin, feeling your warmth and shivers. Her forehead was damping with your and her own sweat mixing.

Agatha noticed the way that your body was moving, the way you were almost screaming and moaning, and the way your pussy was clenching every time her tongue dipped a little on your entrance and she knew you were about to break.

Her tongue dipped completely inside your entrance at the same time that her mouth closed around it, sucking your pussy. Your body froze for a second before your back arched and you started shivering and having spasms on top of her, having the most strong orgasm in your life and screaming her name in a way that made your throat hurt.

Agatha kept her movement steady making your orgasm last while she looked at you. There was something darkly intoxicating in the way her eyes watched you come apart, drinking in every trembling breath, every shiver that ran through your body as though committing each reaction to memory. Not out of cruelty. Not even out of triumph.But with the quiet satisfaction of someone witnessing a miracle they had never expected to touch.

When you felt yourself on the verge of collapse, your body still trembling from the force of it, you gathered what little strength remained and pulled yourself away. With a shaky breath, you slumped on top of her instead, letting the full weight of your body rest against hers. You buried your face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in, the scent of sweat and lingering heat wrapping around you like a spell more intimate than any magic she could conjure.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Agatha’s arms slipped around you carefully, as though afraid you might break if she held too tightly. With a soft flick of her fingers, the covers drifted over your bodies, cocooning you both in warmth.

Then she smiled. It was small and quiet, but impossibly radiant, she was licking her lips savoring your taste still on her. Not even her magic, wild and ever-shifting as it was, could have erased it.

There was something almost disbelieving in that smile, as if she still could not quite accept that you were here, tangled with her like this, real and breathing and hers to hold, if only for tonight. Her lips brushed your temple with so much tenderness that made you shiver again.

-"I will return the favor, just need a moment" - you said weakly with your eyes closed and she laughed under you

-"It's Okey... You can barely move... Besides, it wasn't a favor, it was my pleasure" - she said looking at you- "You are delicious" - you blushed under her gaze.

-"I feel like I'm high" - you whispered -"You are very good"-you kissed her chest and she smiled enjoying the confortable silence and the sound of your breathing.

Afterward, in the quiet that followed, you lay tangled together beneath the thin inn blankets, both still catching your breath. The moonlight spilled pale across the bed, tracing silver over flushed skin and tangled sheets.

-“Why did it have to be true?”-you whispered, more to yourself than to her.

The witch, resting atop you now with her head against your chest, lifted her face to look at you. Her dark hair spilled across your skin like ink, and she smiled faintly at the sight of your flushed cheeks and thoroughly ruined hair.

-“What is true?”-she asked softly, her fingers tracing invisible patterns against your stomach. You let out a slow breath.

-“That your mouth could work wonders. Magic, even.”-Her smile widened. You groaned and buried your face in the curve of her neck, breathing in the salt-warm scent of her skin-“I think that may have been the best orgasm of my life"-you muttered. A low laugh vibrated beneath your lips.The witch shifted, rolling you gently onto your back so she could look down at you properly-“I feel like I’m under a spell"-you admitted, your voice heavy with sleep and something far more dangerous.

-“I’m glad I live up to the tales"-she teased. You gave her thigh a light slap.

-“Always insufferable"-Her smile softened. But then she noticed the way your expression drifted, your brow furrowing with thought. She always noticed.

-“What is it?”-she asked. You hesitated before answering.

-“This is one of the only times you’ve behaved as the stories claim"- She stilled. You lifted your head enough to meet her eyes-“We’ve traveled together for more than two weeks. You’ve been infuriating, sarcastic, impossible to endure…”-That drew the ghost of a smirk from her-“But never cruel. Never vicious.”-The smirk vanished-“You’ve had opportunities to hurt me"-you continued quietly-"I know your power still works, at least a little. You could have escaped. You could have killed me"-You swallowed-“You never even tried."

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she looked away. When she spoke, her voice was softer than you had ever heard it.

-“There is one tale no one knows"-Your body tensed beneath her. She drew in a slow breath-“Long ago, I fell in love with another witch. The first green witch"-Her lips curved faintly, though there was no joy in it-“She was Death herself"-The room seemed to still around her words-“We had a son. He was never meant to live. He was destined to be stillborn"-Your breath caught-“When he was coming, I ran from her. Foolishly believing I could hide him even from Death"-A humorless smile touched her mouth-“She found us anyway"-Her fingers trembled where they rested against your skin-“I begged her not to take him. And she loved me enough to give me time"-Her voice cracked. Barely-“But he was always sick. Always fading. And I became desperate enough to believe power could save him"-Your chest tightened-“I lured witches to me with stories. Death would take their bodies, and I took their magic. Again and again and again…”-Her eyes closed-“And still it was never enough.”-The silence that followed was unbearable-“The first night I failed to kill one…” - she whispered -“…Death came for him"-Your throat tightened painfully-“I lost my son. And I hated myself for ever loving the thing that would take him from me"-Her voice was empty now. The kind of emptiness carved only by centuries of grief-“The armies came later. The hunters. The thieves. I killed them because they came to kill me, or to steal what little remained"-Slowly, she looked back at you. There were no tears in her eyes. That somehow made it worse-“It was never pleasure"-You could feel your whole body rigid beneath her. The stories. The years of hunting. Everything you had believed. Rotting away. The witch studied your face carefully, as if memorizing it.Then, very quietly, she asked:

-“May I ask something of you?”- You nodded, though your throat was too tight for words. Her fingers curled faintly against your skin-“I know I deserve no kindness from you"-The softness of her voice made your chest ache-“But when we reach the capital…"-She hesitated. And for the first time since you had met her, she sounded afraid-“Don’t let them take me alive, kill me" - Your breath stopped-“Please"-The word barely existed-“They will not kill me cleanly. They will strip me apart for what I carry"-Her lips trembled around the next words-“My life has been an endless punishment already"-Then she looked into your eyes with a terrible, fragile hope-"Please… let it end with mercy" - her voice was a plea and her eyes looked so sad at yours, you nodded, not able to give a verbal response.

She let out a breath smiling softly and hugged you tightly closing her eyes and kissing your forehead one more time.

And there, with her weight still warm against your body and her heartbeat trembling beneath your hands, something inside you began to break.

The next morning, you woke long before the sun dared touch the horizon. The world beyond the cabin windows was still swallowed by darkness, the sea a black endless hush beneath the ship. Even the wind seemed to have quieted, as though the world itself held its breath.

Carefully, you slipped from the bed. Agatha stirred faintly behind you, a soft sound escaping her lips, but she did not wake. For a moment, you froze. Then, slowly, you began to dress.

Each movement was deliberate, almost ritualistic. The fastening of your shirt. The pull of leather over skin. The familiar weight of your coat settling over your shoulders like armor. You did it all in silence. You did not look at her. Because you knew if you did, you would not be able to leave. Your heart and your mind had been at war all night. Your mind was cruelly practical, reminding you of what waited in the capital.

The soldiers. The judgment. The promise you had made.

Don’t let them take me alive.

The words had haunted every breath since she’d spoken them.

You knew what you had to do.

And yet your heart, traitorous and desperate, whispered of impossible things.

Run. Turn the ship around. Take her somewhere no kingdom could ever find you. Let the world choke on its own hatred while the two of you vanished into some quiet corner of it, where mornings could begin with her tangled in your arms and end with her laughter filling the dark.

It was a foolish dream. A beautiful one. And it was killing you.

Behind you, the bedsheets shifted. You closed your eyes.

-“Leaving without a goodbye?”-she joked stretching. Her voice was thick with sleep, soft enough to shatter what little resolve you had left.

Slowly, you turned.

Agatha sat half-upright in the bed, the blankets pooled around her waist. Her dark hair spilled wild across her shoulders, her face still warm with sleep and impossibly unguarded in the dim light. For one terrible second, she looked like peace. And that hurt more than anything.

You tried to summon your usual sharpness, the steady authority your crew trusted, but your voice betrayed you when it came.

-“You should eat"-your voice was dry and you pointed at the bread and tea on the table. A faint smile touched her lips.

-“You’re avoiding my eyes"-she said and your throat tightened. Agatha’s expression softened as she studied you. Then understanding settled over her features, quiet and devastating-“The capital"-she whispered, today you will be reaching the capital. You said nothing. She lowered her gaze, and when she spoke again, her voice was almost unbearably gentle-“You’re already mourning me"-The truth of it struck like a blade. You stayed looking at the floor. The bed creaked, Agatha's body stood in front of you, covering you with her shadow. Two of her fingers landed on your chin raising your gaze so that you could look into her eyes, a bright smile was present on her face

-"Don't be sad... I don't regret what happened yesterday" - her hand rested on your cheek- "Thank you for reminding me what happiness feel like"-your heart broke completely and all you could do was staring at her eyes.

Outside, the first light of dawn began to bleed across the horizon and the clouds gathering on the sky. And somewhere in the distance, the capital waited.

Like an executioner sharpening its blade.

The capital had always looked cruel from a distance.

Its pale towers rose through the storm like the bones of something long dead, sharp and unforgiving against the blackened sky. Rain poured over stone walls and iron gates, washing the streets in silver as thunder rolled above like the warning of some ancient god.

You had spent years dreaming of returning here in triumph. Instead, you arrived in chains of your own making.

The soldiers closed in around you two the moment the gates opened. Steel rang against steel. Boots thundered against slick cobblestones. Torches hissed beneath the rain, their flames bowing in the wind.

Agatha stood at your side, her wrists still locked in the enchanted cuffs, her dark hair plastered to her face by the storm. Exhaustion carved shadows beneath her eyes, but there was something regal even in her ruin, something untouchable.

The commander stepped forward, his face hard as carved granite

-“At last"- he said. His gaze settled on Agatha with naked hunger. Not desire. Worse. Ownership.

Your stomach turned. Around you, dozens of rifles rose. There would be no escape.

-"Deliver your prisoner Captain, you fulfilled your duty, a feast is waiting on your name and all the beautiful women and riches that you heart can desire are ready for you"-you could hear your own heart hammering in your chest and your ears, your hands tightened against the wet chain and you lifted your eyes to look at the which. Slowly, Agatha turned her head toward you. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then understanding passed between you, quiet and devastating. Agatha’s expression emptied. Not anger. Not panic. Only the hollow stillness of betrayal.

Her lips parted, and when she spoke, her voice was so soft you nearly missed it beneath the rain.

-“So this is how it ends..."-The words struck harder than any blade. Your throat tightened. Agatha looked away first, her face going cold, as though she could not bear the sight of you. And you felt something inside you splinter.

The commander’s voice cracked through the silence-"Now commander"

Your hands trembled. Every promise you had ever made pressed against your ribs like broken glass.

Don’t let them take me alive. Agatha had asked for mercy. And you had given your word.

You stepped forward. Agatha flinched at your touch. That small movement nearly destroyed you.

-“Please”- Agatha whispered, her voice breaking for the first time-“Don’t make me watch you become like them, end me now"-she begged, you bent close enough that only Agatha could hear.

Rain streamed down yoht6 face like tears you refused to shed, and then you whispered

-“I made you a promise"-Agatha’s breath caught. The world seemed to stop. Then came the click. The cuffs sprang open. For one impossible heartbeat, nothing happened. Agatha’s eyes widened in realization, remembering her curse "The moment they remove my chains, you will be the first one to die" -"Captain, no…”-the cuffs fell to the ground, the heavy metal hit the ground, and a second latter the sound of a gunshot shattered the sky.

Heat exploded through your chest. For an instant, you felt only surprise. Your hands were to your chest, red tinted your fingertips, the warm blood staining your clothes. You lifted your eyes to see the witch, quickly turning pale and then your knees gave way. You fell forward into Agatha’s arms. The witch caught you with a strangled sound, her hands flying to the blood already blooming hot and dark across your uniform.

Agatha stared down at you, horror swallowing every feature. The curse had triggered the moment the cuffs released. The bullet had only made certain there would be no miracle.

-"(Y/N)...”-she gasped. Your trembled into the faintest smile. You lifted a shaking hand and touched Agatha’s cheek, your fingers already cold.

-"Don't be sad... Thank you for reminding me what happiness feel like" - you repeated what she said to you that morning and your hand fell, all the light left your eyes.

For a moment, the world held still. No thunder. No rain. No breath.

Then Agatha screamed. It was not the scream of a woman. It was grief given sound. Raw and ancient and terrible enough to split the heavens. The first soldier burst into ash before he could lower his rifle. The second crumpled as his shadow tore itself free and devoured him whole. Then the slaughter began. Darkness erupted from Agatha in waves, swallowing the square in screaming black. Stone cracked. Steel melted. Men vanished mid-breath, their bodies unraveling into nothing beneath the force of her rage.

The commander tried to run. Agatha raised one trembling hand. His body froze. Slowly, impossibly, he turned to face her. Her eyes blazed violet with ruin itself.

-“You took..."-she said, her voice deathly calm- “the only mercy this world ever offered me"-Her eyes were dark purple, almost black. He opened his mouth to beg. Agatha closed her fist. And he came apart like dust in the wind.

Silence followed. The rain returned. Soft now. Almost gentle.

Agatha dropped to her knees in the wreckage, gathering you into her arms. Blood soaked through her dress. She did not care. Her fingers shook as she brushed damp hair from your still face.

You looked peaceful. As though you were only sleeping. Agatha bowed her head and pressed her lips to your brow. The kiss lingered.

When she finally pulled away, her tears fell freely, vanishing into your skin. Her voice cracked on the word.

-“Stay...”-But the storm gave no answer.

For several long minutes, Agatha did not move.

The small stones bit into her knees through the soaked fabric of her dress, but she barely felt them. The rain fell endlessly around her, cold against her skin, while your body lay limp and heavy in her arms. She you her tighter with every passing second, as though enough desperation might force life back into you.

Then she heard it. Soft footsteps against the gravel. Barely there. But unmistakable. Agatha’s breath caught.

No.

Not her.

Not now.

-“Agatha…”- The voice was achingly familiar. An old love. The one person she had once trusted beyond reason. The one she had grown to hate more deeply than anyone in all her endless life.

Slowly, Agatha lifted her tear-streaked face. Death stood before her. Beautiful and terrible as ever, cloaked in darkness that seemed to drink the rain before it could touch her. Agatha’s arms tightened around your body.

-“Not her”-she whispered, her voice breaking.

-“Not again"-The words dissolved into a sob.

She bowed her head, clutching you closer, as though she could shield you even now-“I beg you…”-Pain flickered across Death’s face.

-“Nobody has received more mercy from the wheels of time than you, Agatha"-she said softly-“We cannot keep doing this"-Agatha shook her head violently.

-“I’ll give you anything"-Her voice cracked, frantic and raw-“The bodies you want, the souls, the blood, whatever price you ask. I will bring it to you, I swear it"-Her tears fell freely now, vanishing into your rain-soaked hair-“Just bring her back. Please"-she begged

Death’s expression twisted with sorrow.

-“I need to take her"-The words struck like a blade. Agatha went still. And then, with terrible certainty, she looked up.

-“Take my life instead"-Death’s eyes widened. There was no hesitation in Agatha’s voice. No fear. No bargaining left. Only truth-“Let her live,” she whispered- “Take me instead"-The rain hissed against the broken stones.

Death stared at her in stunned silence. Agatha had always been selfish. She had clawed and lied and killed to preserve her own endless existence. She had feared death with every ounce of her cursed soul. And yet here she knelt, offering immortality itself without a second thought. For you.

Something shifted in Death’s expression. Not pity. Understanding. Slowly, she knelt before her old love and reached trembling fingers toward Agatha’s cheek, brushing away a tear.

-“When next I come for you"- Death said quietly-“I wonder if you will regret this"-Agatha looked down at your still face and smiled through her grief.

-“Never"-For the first time in centuries, Death smiled back. Then she rose turning away.

And as she vanished into the storm, Agatha felt it. The terrible, ancient weight of immortality slipping from her body like chains falling away.

She still had some power left, but her heartbeat stumbled into fragile humanity.

And beneath her trembling hands, another heartbeat answered. Agatha froze. Heat returned to your body in a sudden rush. A sharp breath tore into your lungs. Your fingers twitched.

Your her eyes fluttered open, dazed and heavy, finding Agatha’s face through half-lidded confusion. For one breathless moment, neither moved.

-“Captain..."-Agatha choked.Your lips parted as though to speak, but exhaustion claimed you before words could come. Your eyes slipped closed again, and you fell into a deep, living sleep. Agatha laughed. A broken, disbelieving sound, half sob and half prayer.

She gathered you against her chest and pressed trembling kisses into your damp hair, tears falling freely at last.

She was mortal now. For the first time in longer than memory, her life had an end waiting somewhere ahead. And she had never felt more alive.

Because when that ending finally came, it would find her exactly where she wished to be:

At your side.

When you finished telling the story of your life, the magic fade away, and Agatha was in the middle of your legs, resting her head on your stomach looking at you with love and adoring eyes

-"What if we add some more chapters at our story, my Captain?"-she offered and you smiled, knowing that you still had a few more minutes before your children woke up.

Claire closes the bathroom door behind her and exhales sharply. She leans on the counter a second, palms flat, studying her reflection. She’s still flushed from earlier, your mouth, your cries, your hands in her hair, but now that’s fading under a different heat: the one that prickles just beneath her skin when she remembers who else is going to be at that pool.

Her swimsuit, the one she packed last-minute, barely thinking, clings in all the ways she’s been avoiding lately. The plunge neckline shows the soft swell of her chest, and the ruched middle draws in slightly at her waist, but not enough to hide the way her stomach settles. Her thighs are bare. Her arms aren’t toned like they used to be.

She tugs at the straps, then stops, hands hovering mid-adjustment.

She looks at herself and thinks: I could be her mom. She hears your voice sometimes, playful and breathless, telling her how beautiful she is, how hot, how lucky you are to have her. But right now, she doesn’t feel hot. She feels older. Softer. Covered in the weight of politics and sunscreen and expectation.

Claire ties up her hair with quick fingers, tugging the ends into a low bun. She grabs the complimentary white robe off the hook, wrapping it tight around her. She finishes off her total cover up with a sun visor.

She stares at herself one last time. Wrapped up. Covered. Beige.

She looks like a woman trying to disappear.

Then, you open the door.

“Hey babe, it’s really hot. Do you know if there’s a cover up I can borrow or…?”

She turns and her breath catches.

You’re standing there in your black bikinis all sleek and sharp, a little sheer at the hips. Your body gleams faintly with lotion, the curves of your waist and breasts catching the golden light from the porthole window.

You look young.

Not in a way that shames you, but in a way that shatters her. Because you’re hers. And somehow, so far out of her league it hurts.

You blink. Then tilt your head. “Wait, why are you in a robe?”

Claire clears her throat, defensive before she even speaks. She shrugs, avoiding your eyes. “It’s breezy out there.”

You step closer. “Claire.”

She doesn’t look up.

You slide your hands around her waist, tug the robe a little looser. Your fingers brush her side, soft and warm.

“You look beautiful.”

Claire huffs softly, eyes still not meeting yours. “You have to say that. You’re in love with me.”

You grin, nose brushing hers. “And still I’d say it even if I wasn’t. Because it’s true.”

She flinches.

“Claire.”

“I know, I know,” she mutters, voice brittle. “It’s stupid. It’s not even that revealing. I just… Birdie’s going to be dripping in sequins and nipple glitter, and Whiskey’s got that fitness influencer body and I look like I’m going to check the pools chlorine levels”

“Stop.” You interrupt.

She looks up, startled.

You press your hands to her waist, right over the tie of the robe. You kiss her collarbone. Her shoulder. The dip just beneath her throat.

“You are the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen,” you whisper, voice firm. “Not just on this crazy expensive ship. In the world.”

That makes her laugh, hoarse and unsteady.

“I’m serious,” you murmur, sliding your fingers into the robe belt and gently undoing the knot.

She exhales, eyes softer now as you peel the robe open slowly, letting it fall to the floor. And fuck, you look at her like she’s divine.

That swimsuit clings to her breasts, the neckline plunging low enough to make you ache. Her thighs are soft and perfect. There’s a line at her waist from how she sat earlier, and you kiss it like it’s holy.

“Claire Debella,” you whisper, mouth trailing down her chest. “My powerful, stunning, completely fuckable girlfriend.”

She flushes, laugh catching in her throat.

You look up, smile and whisper against her stomach, “do not make me get on my knees right now just to prove a point.”

She snorts, one hand covering her mouth, the other tangling in your hair.

“You’re a menace,” she murmurs.

You grin up at her. “But I’m your menace.”

You kiss her deep and unhurried and you feel the second she starts to pull back. It’s subtle. A tension at the base of her spine. The shift in her breathing. She eases out of your arms just a little too fast, her hand sliding back to re-tie the robe before the fabric even slips off her shoulder.

You blink, frowning. “Claire c’mon…”

She cuts you off with that voice, the one she uses in meetings, in hotel rooms, behind closed doors when she wants you to be still.

“The robe stays. Okay?”

It’s not cold. But it’s final.

Your brows knit together. You don’t want to let it go, not when she’s so fucking beautiful, not when you can see her hiding. But there’s something about the way she squares her shoulders, the tightness in her jaw, that makes you pause.

So you nod slowly. “Okay.”

She exhaled like she didn’t even know she was holding her breath.

You reach out and take her hand instead, intertwining your fingers through hers.

“I just think…” Your voice is soft now, almost shy. “You’re the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

Claire doesn’t respond right away, just squeezes your hand. Then lifts it to her mouth and kisses your knuckles, slow and reverent, robe fluttering slightly with the motion.

“You’re too young to be that good at saying exactly what I need to hear,” she murmurs, eyes on your fingers.

You smile, but it’s sad around the edges. “You deserve to hear that you’re pretty all the time.”

Claire meets your gaze. And for just a second, behind the cool exterior, behind the robe, the visor, the instinct to shield, you see it. The girl inside the politician. The woman who fought so hard to get here she forgot how to feel beautiful.

You lean forward and kiss her cheek.

Then tap her ass gently through the robe. “C’mon, Councillor. Let’s go get through this pool party.”

Claire chuckles. “Not if you’re wearing that bikini. I’ll never get anything done.”

The pool deck is all white and chrome and glinting glass.

You step onto it with Claire just behind you, one hand resting light but insistent on your lower back. You’ve got her TED Talk tote over your shoulder, your sheer black cover up drifting around your legs. You’re trying so hard not to feel out of place, even as your heart bangs against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Claire’s at your side, robe still firmly belted, sun visor shielding her eyes. She walks like she’s going into a press event, not a poolside hangout. You, meanwhile, feel like an underdressed extra on a luxury set piece you didn’t audition for.

Lionel is already poolside, reclining on a sun lounger under an umbrella, tablet in one hand, whisky in the other. He looks up briefly when you approach, gives Claire a small nod, and then gestures to the seat beside him.

“Didn’t think you were a pool girl.”

Claire exhales like she’s been holding her breath since Athens. “I’m not. But Miles insists.”

She sinks down beside him, carefully arranging her robe, legs crossed, visor low. You hover for a moment, unsure whether to sit or wait, before sitting on the empty lounger next to Claire, half listening to them talk about polling data, Miles’s new tech ideas he won’t stop taxing Lionel, and something about the optics of Duke’s twitch streams.

Then you notice Whiskey.

She’s lounging near the pool in a terracotta bikini, drink in hand, golden hair loose down her back. Her legs are long and tanned and glossy, and her eyes are on you.

She doesn’t hide it, not even a little. She gives you a slow up and down, her lips parted with a subtle, appreciative smirk when your cover up shifts with the wind and shows the deep curve of your waist.

Claire sees it as she’s mid sentence with Lionel. And that’s it, without a word, she stands. Lionel barely glances up as she steps around her lounger and comes to you.

“Arms,” she says.

Her voice is low and measured with that tone you know, the one that means do what I say, no questions.

You blink. “Here?”

“Now.”

You lift your arms automatically, eyes wide.

Claire pulls the sunscreen from the tote with one hand and squirts a generous amount into her palm. Then she perches herself on your sun lounger and begins rubbing it into your skin in slow, deliberate strokes down your arms, working it into your shoulders, your forearms, your wrists. Her hands are warm. Strong and claiming.

You glance around. Lionel’s back to his tablet. Duke’s still doing laps. Whiskey, however, is still watching, her expression unreadable now, but her gaze sharp.

Claire doesn’t care. She tugs the sheer fabric up your thigh.

“Legs.”

You hesitate then nod, cheeks pink.

She coats your calves in lotion, then your thighs, slow and thorough, thumbs pressing gently into the soft skin just above your knees.

“Back,” she murmurs.

You shift so she can reach, feeling her hands on your spine, your shoulders, the curve of your lower back. The whole time, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t glance at anyone else. Instead she just focuses on touching you. And when she finishes, she leans in close, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You’re mine, baby,” she murmurs, soft and lethal. “She can look. But she’ll never touch.”

The sun glints hard off the water, bouncing off chrome railings and shimmering across the marble deck. You wipe your palms on your thighs, not from heat, but from nerves, and slide your sunglasses back into place.

Claire is now reclined on her lounger beside Lionel, robe still cinched, legs crossed at the ankle. She’s speaking low, tapping her finger against the side of her glass.

“Any word on when Miles is actually showing up?”

Lionel shrugs. “The man’s never on time. You think he’ll come by heli again?”

“Unless he’s planning a goddamn grand entrance by jetpack, yeah.”

Their tone’s casual, but Claire’s hand never strays far from her drink or from you.

You try to make yourself comfortable on the sun lounger beside hers, adjusting your sheer cover up with one hand, heart beating a little too fast. Maybe if you just sit, stay quiet, don’t draw attention, people will forget you’re even here.

“Uh-uh.” Claire doesn’t even look at you, just reaches out with her hand open, fingers curved in silent command. “On me.”

Lionel doesn’t react, doesn’t even glance your way. But your pulse stutters.

You nod softly and move toward her. Carefully, you ease yourself into her lap, straddling her thighs sideways, your shoulder resting against her chest. She adjusts automatically, one arm slipping around your waist, the other resting back on the armrest like this is normal. You exhale a soft little sound against her collarbone and settle in.

She smells like sunscreen and faint floral deodorant. Her hand presses lightly to your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth.

Lionel’s voice cuts through the heat. “You gonna talk to Birdie about her sweatpants venture?”

Claire hums, uninterested. “I’m sure she’ll find a way to bring it up.”

You smile against her.

Her voice shifts lower, lips near your temple. “Relax, baby. You’re safe.”

You let your fingers curl into the edge of her robe, cheek pressed to her collarbone, eyes slipping shut.

The sound of heels clacking against the deck cuts through the soft murmurs of morning.

You lift your head just in time to see Birdie Jay arrive like she’s storming a runway in a glittering bikini, body oiled to high heaven, sunglasses the size of dinner plates perched on her nose.

The bikini is… aggressively Birdie.

Tiny, sequined triangles, held together by an aggressive number of gold rings and straps that seem designed more for optical illusion than support.

It’s unclear how it’s staying on. But there she is, hips swinging, smile gleaming, voice already too loud.

Behind her, Peg lumbers under a backpack, and two tote bags carrying what looks like a pharmacy’s worth of skincare. She’s in baggy board shorts, a tank top, and a faded bucket hat.

Birdie’s already waving as she approaches.

“Oh my god, Claire!” she calls, voice rising an octave. “You look so cute!”

You stiffen slightly where you’re curled in Claire’s laps. Her arm tightens instinctively around you.

Birdie stops in front of your lounger, oversized cocktail in one hand, the other lifting her sunglasses just enough to scan Claire’s robe, her tied-up hair, and modest one-piece hidden beneath more beige.

“I love how you make an effort.”

Claire doesn’t miss a beat, she lifts her middle finger lazily and smiles.

“Thanks, Bird,” she says dryly. “I figured, you know… yacht.”

Birdie gasps, half mocking, half delighted, and flops dramatically onto the sun lounger next to Claire’s, nearly spilling her drink. Peg mutters something about heatstroke and slinks to a shaded corner near the ice bucket.

You glance up at Claire to find her jaw tightened. She’s reclasping her robe, pulling it tighter around her.

You frown and then you look at Birdie. You take in her glittering bikini, and the smug, sunlit smugness radiating off her.

You tilt your head slightly and blink, voice deadpan. “And you are dressed as…?”

Birdie freezes blinking slowly before throwing her head back and laughing.

“Oh my god,” she says. “You’re funny. She’s funny, Claire!”

Claire exhales a breath, you feel it more than hear it. Her chin dips against your shoulder, her lips brushing your cheek, just for a second.

A thank you, maybe.

You curl tighter in her lap, hand sliding under the edge of her robe, resting on the warm skin of her hip. Protective.

Birdie’s laughter has finally settled into soft hums as she sips her drink, legs stretched out, sunglasses tilted to the sky.

The sun is hotter now, glinting off the pool where Duke floats on his back, humming some awful electronic remix, while Whiskey scrolls through her phone without really looking at it.

You’re still curled in Claire’s lap, but she’s more upright now, one hand scrolling rapidly through her inbox on her work phone, eyes narrowed behind her visor. Her other hand rests lightly on your thigh. She’s still touching you, still present. But less… there.

It’s Lionel who breaks the silence. He exhales and glances around the pool deck with a tired kind of smile.

“Guess the band’s back together.”

No one answers at first.

Then Birdie leans up on one elbow, swirling the ice in her glass. Her gold bangles clink. “Well… apart from, you know.”

Her tone is airy and dismissive. But the words hang.

You blink and look up at Claire.

She doesn’t react, just keeps scrolling, only it’s faster now.

You shift slightly in her lap, lifting your head. “Who?”

She still doesn’t look at you. Instead she leans down and kisses your hair and murmurs, “shh, baby,” like you’re being sweet but silly. Her fingers tighten gently around your thigh. “Don’t worry about it.”

And she’s back to her phone before you can say anything else.

You sit there, heart beating just slightly faster. You’re not sure why it hurts, not sure why it feels like a door just closed in your face.

Claire’s still holding you, still anchored to you. But she’s somewhere else.

And you’re left blinking in the quiet, wondering who the hell this mystery uninvited guest is and why no one will say their name.

The beat hits before you see it.

It’s faint at first, a pulsing, thudding baseline threading through the sea breeze. But then it swells, louder and louder, until every head on the deck is tilting upward.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Singing something about California, sun drenched skin and too much ego.

You squint against the sun.

Above, a sleek silver helicopter cuts through the blue sky, blades whipping the air into a frenzy. It’s descending fast with absolutely no subtlety.

The poolside is suddenly alive with movement: Lionel sits up, sighing like he’s aged ten years, Duke whoops and pumps a fist, Birdie shields her eyes with a manicured hand and shouts something giddy, even Whiskey slips her phone away, suddenly alert.

Claire stiffens beneath you.

Her hand clenches slightly on your hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to warn.

The wind hits a second later, kicking up towels and whipping Birdie’s curls across her face. You grab the edge of Claire’s robe instinctively, shielding your eyes as the rotor wash batters the deck.

The helicopter lands hard on the helipad above, music still blaring.

And then the door swings open.

Miles Bron steps out like he’s just invented air travel.

He’s wearing a white linen shirt with half the buttons undone, tight navy shorts, and mirrored sunglasses that reflect everything beneath him. A scarf is draped loosely around his neck, useless and theatrical, and he’s grinning like a man who’s never been told no in his life.

“HELLOOOOO, my Disruptors!” he booms, arms flung wide.

The music cuts out with a dramatic pause, as if on cue.

You stare. Still in Claire’s lap, wind swept and wide eyed, your first thought is that this guy is an egotistical dick.

The wind has barely settled when Miles descends from the helipad like he owns the fucking sun. He moves towards the group effortlessly, all teeth and golden charisma, doling out hugs and greetings.

Birdie squeals when he reaches her, flinging her arms around his neck, one leg lifted dramatically like a movie star from the fifties.

“Miles, baby, you look so tanned. Is that natural or are you finally using that tanning spray I told you about now?”

He laughs like she’s hilarious, kissing both her cheeks. “I missed you, Bird. The energy’s never right without you.”

“Damn straight it’s not.”

Peg offers a stiff nod from behind her sunglasses. Miles ignores it.

Lionel gets a warm clap on the back. A murmur about “brilliance can’t stay at work forever, huh?” before moving on without waiting for a response.

Duke gets a full bear hug, slapping backs like they’re old frat brothers.

And then this attention finally lands on Whiskey.

“Oh, Whisk.” He draws her in slowly, a hand low on her back, fingers just brushing the exposed skin above her bikini. His voice drops into something oily, private. “You look incredible.”

She giggles. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

His hands linger on her waist just a second too long before he finally lets go.

You raise an eyebrow.

Claire doesn’t move. But you can feel her shift slightly behind you, her muscles coiling tighter.

Then it’s your turn. He turns to you, spreading his arms wide like you’re an old friend.

“And you,” he says, beaming, “must be the writer.”

You stiffen as he pulls you into a hug before you can respond, warm and enthusiastic, one arm around your back, the other high on your shoulder.

“I’m so glad you could come,” he murmurs, just near your ear. “Seriously. I love your work. Huge fan.”

He pulls back to look at you, hands still on your arms, and his smile is just a little too perfect. A little too sharp.

Your skin crawls.

“Thank you,” you say, voice even and measured.

Claire is on her feet a second later.

She’s calm, but not casual. She places one hand on your hip, the other brushing your lower back, placing herself between you and him with a practiced smoothness.

“Miles,” she says, tone bright but brittle. “We were just getting settled.”

He smiles wider. “I can see that.”

Then he turns and strides toward the champagne waiting on ice, sunglasses catching the sun, already barking a joke at Duke.

You don’t move.

Claire doesn’t speak, but her hand stays tight on your back. You feel her breath at your neck, sharp and low.

“I didn’t like that,” she says.

Neither did you.

The champagne is poured.

The yacht hums with soft music and low chatter, sea breeze fluttering napkins and loose cover ups, and for a brief moment things almost feel normal.

Miles Bron takes off his shirt. It happens fast with a practiced tug over the head, tossed aside like a showman revealing something to behold. His chest is tanned to a suspicious level, hairless and oiled.

He lifts a flute of champagne and climbs up onto one of the low steps near the hot tub, standing barefoot and beaming, the late afternoon sun painting him gold like a cursed idol.

“My Disruptors!” he announces, arms wide like Christ on the bow of a tech yacht.

Peg mutters something that sounds like ‘Jesus Christ’, but it’s lost under the sudden silence as everyone turns.

Miles grins. “My inner circle! My brilliant, bold, beautiful friends. I am so glad you’re all here.”

He lifts his glass.

“This week, this legendary week, is about us. About connection. About remembering who we are. Who we’ve always been. Because this? This group? It’s magic.”

You glance around to see that Birdie’s already clapping. Duke lifts his beer in cheers, Whiskey flips her hair and murmurs something appreciative.

Claire’s jaw is tight, her robe is still wrapped around her like armor, her hand warm on your thigh.

“We’ve grown,” Miles continues. “We’ve changed. But the beauty of it is that we continue to disrupt. We evolve. But at our core? We’re the same. Still the same brilliant minds. Still the same family.”

And halfway through the word family, it hits you like a wave of overpriced cologne that the man is in love with the sound of his own voice. You shift slightly, trying not to laugh, but Claire notices. Her hand tightens, amused despite herself.

“I love you all,” Miles says, raising his glass again. “Let’s make this week unforgettable.”

He drinks to applause again. It’s lighter this time, uncomfortable. Too many eyes shift toward the champagne, the water, anywhere but Miles.

You lean closer to Claire and murmur, “do we clap again, or is there another round of speeches to come?”

She snorts quietly and presses a kiss to your temple.

“I love you,” she says, voice low, wry. “Please don’t find yourself alone with him.”

“There is no amount of money in the world to make that happen, baby.” You kiss her shoulder, smirking.

After his little messiah on the sundeck moment, Miles finally settles himself into one of the massive white poolside loungers, sunglasses perched atop his head like a crown. He lifts another glass of champagne and stretches out obnoxiously.

“So,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Here’s the vibe. We relax, we reconnect, we drink absurdly expensive cocktails by the pool,” he gestures grandly to the bar cart, as if he personally wheeled it aboard, “and dinner is at eight. No stress, just good company and good food. Sound good?”

General nods and murmurs of assent ripple around the group.

Claire doesn’t speak, her mouth is sealed tight in a practiced smile. You can feel the subtle tension in the arm she’s got wrapped around you.

Then, from across the deck, Whiskey rises. She adjusts her swimsuit strap, flips her hair, and walks purposefully over to Miles and sits beside him. It’s close enough that their knees brush.

You watch as she leans in slightly, fingers trailing over the edge of her glass, lips pursed in a curious pout.

“What are we having tonight?” she asks, her voice feather light, her gaze sparkling.

Miles grins. “I’ve hired the same chef that cooked my meal for Valentine’s.”

Whiskey giggles all bright and breezy and you swear to god you see her hand graze his thigh.

You raise an eyebrow. Claire sees it too. You feel the faint twitch of her leg beneath yours, but she says nothing.

You lean in, voice low. “Are they…?”

Claire exhales through her nose. “Don’t ask.”

You glance back over. Whiskey’s twirling the stem of her glass now, laughing at something Miles is saying. His hand is resting on the back of her chair, pinky nearly brushing her shoulder. They look… comfortable. Too comfortable.

You frown because now you’re not just watching Miles play host, you’re watching a dynamic unfold. A transaction. Something old and rotten dressed up in lip gloss and white linens.

“How is she so interested in what he has to say?” You murmur again, quieter this time.

Claire’s lips twitch. “She’s a very curious girl.”

And then she pulls you tighter against her, your bare thigh sliding over hers, her hand smoothing down your side, slow and possessive. You let her hold you, but your eyes don’t leave Whiskey.

The conversation drifts, the group scattering like birds. Peg’s halfway asleep under her hat. Duke and Birdie are already debating whether tequila belongs in a Cuban breeze. Whiskey’s still posted beside Miles, voice syrupy and bright.

Claire’s talking to Lionel. They’re leaned in close, voices low, the familiar rhythm of old friends slipping into shared code, scientific research, politics, debt ceilings, something about transportation funding.

You glance between them and your drink.

No one’s talking to you so you slip off Claire’s lounger, lift your sheer cover up off your body, and head to the pool.

The water’s warm, unnaturally so, and clear as glass. You sink in slowly, letting it rise over your chest, your arms, your collarbone. The black bikini hugs your skin, slick and sharp in contrast to the white stone deck.

You drift toward the center, eyes closing briefly as you tilt your head back to wet your hair.

For a moment, it’s quiet.

Until you feel eyes on you. You open yours slowly.

Across the pool, Miles is watching you. He’s still seated on his lounger, champagne glass in hand. Whiskey is sitting beside him but his gaze is not on her. It’s on you. Not in an overt, sleazy way, not obvious enough to call out. But that’s what makes it worse. It’s clinical. Like he’s… assessing.

You meet his gaze and hold it.

His answering smile is slow and pleased as if your attention confirms something for him.

You feel your stomach twist.

And then behind you, you hear the sound of shifting fabric paired with a sharp inhale.

Claire.

You turn slightly in the water, just enough to see her, still in her robe, her sunglasses tilted down just enough to show her eyes. And they’re locked on Miles.

Lionel’s still talking beside her, oblivious. But Claire’s no longer listening, instead she’s watching you float alone in the pool with Miles Bron watching you. She doesn’t speak but her jaw tightens, her hand curling into a fist by her side.

“C’mere a second?” His voice isn’t loud, but it carries. Miles lifts a hand in a casual little wave, fingers curling like you’re a dog he’s summoning.

Your eyebrow ticks up.

Across the pool, Claire still sits beside Lionel, jaw taut beneath her sunglasses, unreadable.

But you’re not one to be summoned.

So you rise, water cascading off your skin as you move towards the deeper end of the pool where Miles is sitting next to his acoustic guitar. Whiskey has already slipped away back to Duke’s side, rolling her eyes at something Birdie yells across the deck.

Miles is alone when you reach him.

“Having fun?” he asks, like you’re already old friends.

You tilt your head. “Still figuring out the dynamics.”

He chuckles. “That’s fair. We’re a… unique bunch.”

“You don’t say.”

He grins, all teeth, charming on the surface. But his eyes are calculating.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” he says, reaching for his glass. “Your writing? Incredible. The pacing, the tone, the way you build dread… it’s delicious.”

You blink.

Delicious?

He sips, watching your face as he swallows.

“Thanks,” you say, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. “Not everyone enjoys dread.”

“Oh, I do. Especially when it’s that controlled.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “See, chaos gets all the credit, but control? That’s the real art.”

You keep your expression blank.

He smiles wider, like he’s winning.

“I’ve read all of your books, by the way,” he adds. “Even the older stuff. The really twisted one with the siblings.”

Your pulse stirs.

That book is out of print.

“Impressive,” you murmur.

“Not really,” he says. “I like to know things. Especially when they concern my guests.”

You stare at him. He stares back, his expression smooth and unblinking, until the silence threatens to curdle.

Then his voice drops. “Claire keeps her secrets close. But not quite close enough.”

That’s it.

That’s the slip. The threat under the compliment. The hand on the back of your neck disguised as flattery.

“And what do you know about Claire’s secrets?” You raise an eyebrow, your voice prickly.

“Hey man,” he says lightly. “Didn’t mean to stir anything.”

You tilt your head. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

He grins. “I’m just talking to a brilliant writer. Is that a crime now?”

You fold your arms loosely on the poolside, bare skin still warm from the pool.

“What was with the invitation?” you ask. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Miles leans back on his lounger, arms stretching wide like a satisfied cat. “Claire’s one of my oldest friends. And I thought it was time her real life joined the rest of us. You shouldn’t have to hide. Not from this group.”

You blink.

That almost sounds…

Kind.

He smiles. “Besides, as I said I’m a huge fan. I brought your last book on this trip actually. Cicada Night. That shit was haunting. You’ll sign it for me later, yeah?”

You nod once, slowly. He doesn’t wait for more.

“I mean,” he shrugs, pretending to be humble, “it just felt wrong. Her sneaking off to be with someone she clearly cares about? You should be here. You’re part of her life.”

You study him. His face is open. Pleasant. Too pleasant.

“So this is you… doing the right thing?” you ask.

“Isn’t it?” he says.

You say nothing.

And that’s when he leans forward, his eyes sharper now.

“Must be hard, though,” he murmurs.

You stiffen slightly.

He notices.

“Being the secret,” he says. “The hidden girl. Especially with someone like Claire: public life, press schedules, donor dinners. There’s always gonna be another election. Another reason not to tell.”

You look at him. And for just a second, your throat tightens. Because it’s not like he’s wrong. You’ve heard those lines. Not yet. Not right now. Just wait a little longer. You’ve spent birthdays eating takeout in your apartment while she gives speeches two towns over, smiling next to people who don’t know you exist.

And he sees it. Miles fucking Bron sees that flicker of pain and he smiles.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, gentler now, “everyone deserves to be seen.”

He sips his champagne and you force yourself to smile.

You hold his gaze and when you speak, your voice is steady.

“You did all this just to help Claire be honest?”

He shrugs, pretending modesty. “I care about my friends. I want to see them happy.”

“Right,” you smile wryly. “Because you’re just that generous.”

His smirk falters for a split second but you don’t flinch. You just lean back into the water, let your eyes drift back toward the sea, and pretend you don’t feel Claire’s gaze still burning from across the pool.

The water laps gently at your ribs, warm and silent now that the noise has faded. You watch Miles rise from his lounger, always theatrical, always moving like someone is filming him, and he tips his drink toward you.

“Kombucha?” he offers, tone breezy. “It’s Jared Leto’s small batch. Sea salt and rhubarb.”

You give him a polite smile. “I’m good, thanks.”

He holds your gaze for just a second too long, then shrugs and turns toward the makeshift bar at the edge of the deck, whistling as he walks with an air of satisfaction.

You feel her before you see her.

Claire’s arms glide around your waist as she steps into the pool behind you, pulling you gently against her chest, the fabric of her beige swimsuit slick and clinging beneath the water. Her cheek rests against your temple.

“Hey,” she murmurs, voice low.

You smile and let your eyes flutter closed for a second as her hands settle on your stomach, her thumbs tracing slow, absent minded circles.

She’s tense in her jaw and shoulders, but her touch remains soft.

You tilt your head, just enough to see her.

“Hey,” you whisper back, voice light. “You good?”

Her eyes flick briefly toward the bar where Miles leans, grinning to himself, pouring his drink like he’s already ten steps ahead of everyone.

Claire’s jaw ticks but she doesn’t answer. She just brings one hand up to cup your cheek, fingers tangling into your damp hair.

And then you kiss her. A real kiss, your mouth on hers, water curling around you both, the world quieting for just a moment. Her hand anchors you there. You can feel the tension start to bleed out of her as her other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer.

You don’t care if he’s watching. Because this isn’t some power game to you, this is real love. And that’s something he’ll never understand

You’re still curled against her, the water warm around your thighs and Claire’s hands pressed low on your stomach. The taste of her still lingers on your mouth, and you’re about to go in for another kiss when a voice cuts through the moment.

“Damn,” Duke whistles from across the deck, where he’s towelling off. “You two are, like… hot.”

You blink in shock.

Claire doesn’t. She flips him off without so much as turning around.

“Jesus, Duke,” Whiskey mutters, clearly unimpressed.

Claire sighs and kisses you again, just to make a point.

You giggle softly, turning to face her fully now that Duke’s returned to grunting about his protein intake.

But then you pause, eyebrows scrunching as you squint down at her collarbones.

“Baby,” you murmur, reaching out to trace your fingertip along the faint pink flush blooming beneath the edge of her suit, “you need more sunscreen. You’re burning.”

Claire groans, letting her head fall back with a dramatic sigh. “God. Not the governor of Connecticut being defeated by the Greek sun.”

You smile. “Guess your robe strategy wasn’t bulletproof after all.”

“Traitorous little UV rays.”

You kiss the corner of her mouth. Then, a little quieter, you ask “so what were you and Lionel talking about?”

Claire exhales through her nose, her body tensing slightly as her hands drift from your waist to your hips under the water.

“Work,” she mutters. “Sort of.”

You tilt your head.

She eyes the others, Duke still posturing near the towels, Birdie lounging, Peg zoning out, Miles lost in conversation with Whisky, then turns back to you.

“Lionel’s stressed,” she says. “Miles has him working on some new energy project. Biofuel, something cutting edge. He didn’t say much, but…” She shrugs. “It’s got him on edge.”

You frown. “Edge how?”

Claire’s eyes scan the pool. “He’s twitchier than usual. Said it’s ambitious, even for Miles. And unethical if it goes wrong.”

Your lips press together, uneasy.

“And Lionel’s the kind of guy who cares if it goes wrong,” she adds softly.

You nod, thoughtful.

Claire reaches up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t worry,” she says, even though she’s clearly still worrying. “It’s probably just the usual. Miles talks big. Lionel panics. Rinse, repeat.”

But it doesn’t sit right. Not with how tightly Lionel’s jaw had been set, or with how Miles looked so fucking pleased with himself. And definitely not with how Claire keeps avoiding your eyes when she says ‘don’t worry’.

“Alright, out,” you say, swatting gently at her hip in the water. “You’re not frying on my watch.”

Claire grumbles under her breath, something about ‘solar resilience’, but she lets you tug her toward the pool ladder anyway. The robe’s waiting where she left it, and as soon as she’s shaken the water from her arms, she shrugs back into it like armor, tying the sash with a quick jerk.

She looks… soft, flushed with her hair slicked back, a little less polished than usual.

You grab the sunscreen and her TED Talk tote from beside the lounger, pat the spot in front of you with a firm little bounce.

“Sit.”

“Bossy,” she mutters, but does it anyway, legs crossed in front of you as she settles on the towel.

You tug her robe down, flip the cap open, squirt a dollop into your hand, and start working it gently into the tops of her shoulders, kneading it over that hint of a burn that’s already rising across her pale skin.

Then you hear the buzz of a phone, that horrible work specific hum she pretends not to be attuned to.

You glance over her shoulder to find that Claire’s already got her work phone in hand, eyes narrowed at the screen, thumb scrolling fast as her mouth sets in a familiar hard line.

“Claire,” you groan. “No.”

“Just checking-”

“You said no work.”

“I just need to respond to-”

“You promised.”

She exhales, eyes still fixed to the glowing screen. “It’s the campaign team,” she mutters. “They want to know if I’ll record a quick statement tomorrow morning for-”

“Baby.”

She finally turns her head to face you.

You’re holding the sunscreen bottle in one hand, palm still pressed to her shoulder, frowning.

“You’re in Greece. On a billionaire’s yacht. You’re in a robe.”

“I’m always in a robe at these things.”

“Exactly,” you say, snatching the phone from her gently but firmly and tossing it into her tote bag, away from reach. “That’s what the robe is for. Being off duty.”

Claire raises an eyebrow. “I thought the robe was for hiding my middle aged insecurities while my goth child girlfriend makes me feel like a sex criminal in public.”

You snort.

“Wow,” you mutter. “Sex criminal? Do you want me to bite your thighs in front of everyone?”

Her mouth twitches. “Kind of.”

“Unbelievable.” You chuckle as you reach for more sunscreen.

She sighs, finally leaning back on her hands to let you work.

The phone doesn’t come back out. Not yet at least.

You zone out somewhere between Birdie’s third rant about Twitter being so unfair to public figures and Lionel’s dry commentary on sustainable marketing metrics. Claire’s laughing warmly, hand on Lionel’s arm, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s performing, keeping up appearances.

You watch her for a moment longer, then quietly slip away. No one notices you leave.

The deck bar is gleaming in the afternoon sun, rows of jewel toned liquor bottles catching the light. You lean against the wood, fingers tapping lightly on the counter as you ask for sparkling water.

The sun’s starting to sink a little lower in the sky, turning the pool water gold. You set your empty glass on the bar, tuck your sheer cover up tighter around your body, and exhale slowly. You’ve been here less than a day, and already it feels like you’re trying to breathe through a wall of mirrors.

Behind you, Claire’s laughing at something Lionel’s said. Birdie’s sprawled dramatically on a lounger, performing boredom. Duke’s flexing. Peg is… somewhere.

You reach for another drink.

“Hey.”

You glance to the side to find Whisky’s leaning against the bar next to you, hair damp and curling slightly from the heat. She’s covered her tiny bikini with a looser tank top, but her skin’s still sun kissed and glowing. She offers a small smile, almost shy.

“Figured I’d come say hi for real.”

She’s prettier up close, less curated than she looked earlier by the pool, like the sun and the breeze have melted off the last layer of Instagram polish. Her tank top’s damp along the neckline, blonde strands clinging to her collarbone. She’s holding a glass, condensation already dripping onto her hand.

You blink, then return the smile. “Hi.”

She takes a sip of something pale pink, eyes flicking toward the pool where Duke is still splashing like he’s in an ad.

“They kind of forget we exist, huh?” she says lightly.

You raise an eyebrow. “We?”

Whisky shrugs, glancing over her shoulder. “The girlfriends. The plus ones. The… hot accessories no one bothers to talk to.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Ah… that. Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

She lifts her glass to her lips. “So,” she says, “feeling invisible yet?”

You blink.

She gives a sheepish little smile. “Sorry. Too much too fast?”

“No,” you say, laughing softly. “Just… accurate.”

“Right?” She leans her hip against the bar, eyes flicking toward the pool where Birdie’s loudly talking over Peg and Claire’s got her head bent toward Lionel, face serious. “You spend the whole day next to your partner, and somehow still feel like the plus one of a plus one.”

You hum, watching Claire nod along to something Lionel’s saying. “Is this your first big trip too?”

She sips again. “My second. Last year was Iceland.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

She nods. “Yeah. Volcano spas, a dome hotel, two full days of Birdie trying to order in Icelandic.”

You snort.

Whisky grins. “It was… a lot.”

You glance sideways at her. “Did they treat you like an accessory then too?”

Her smile falters a little as she shrugs. “Pretty much. Birdie hates that I’m younger than her, Peg thinks I’m after Duke’s followers. Lionel won’t even look at me. Claire…” she hesitates, “Claire acts like I’m a walking swimsuit. Not a person.”

You don’t say anything. But she sees something shift in your face, and nods, satisfied.

“Thought you might get it,” she murmurs.

You do, all too well. You hesitate before replying, swirling your drink a little, watching the bubbles fizz and die against the glass.

“I’m sorry about Claire,” you say quietly, glancing up. “She’s not… always like that.”

Whisky smiles, not bitter or biting but tired. “Yeah. She is.”

You start to protest, but she waves a hand gently.

“It’s fine. I get it. I just…” She sighs through her nose, looking out at the pool. “I was actually kind of excited to meet her.”

Your heart tugs. “You were?”

She nods. “I know she’s intense, but I thought she’d at least be a little interested in why I had to say. I’m trying to get into policy, environmental comms, digital advocacy, stuff like that. Not just brand deals. I had this whole thing rehearsed, how I could use my platform for something that actually matters.”

She laughs once, short and small. “Didn’t even get the sentence out. She made a joke about my name and then just… moved on.”

You bite your lip, glancing down. “Yeah. She can be like that.”

Whisky looks at you, eyes narrowing just slightly with curiosity. “And what about you?”

You glance over.

“What do you do?” she asks. “Besides look like the hottest witch who ever lived.”

You bark a quiet laugh, startled. “Jesus.”

She smirks. “Sorry. Had to say it.”

“I’m a writer,” you say, shoulders lifting.

Whisky tilts her head. “Like… fiction?”

“Yeah. Horror, mostly.”

Her eyes widen a little. “Wait. You’re that writer? The…” she snaps her fingers. “The one with the haunted sea town book?”

You blink. “You read that?”

“Yes!” she grins. “My roommate in college was obsessed with it. Kept her light on for a week after finishing it.”

You laugh, genuinely now, surprised. “Oh my god.”

“I’ve been trying to get Duke to audiobook it for months,” Whisky says, then gestures around you. “So this is like, what, your nightmare setting?”

You look at the yacht, at the group and the glittering sea that goes on forever in every direction.

“Honestly,” you say, “it’s starting to feel like a really slow, psychological horror.”

Whisky laughs unguardedly and taps her glass gently against yours. You clink and something eases in your chest.

Whisky’s still smiling when she sets her drink down, leaning lightly on the edge of the bar with her hip. There’s something easier about her now, still flirtatious, still cool, but no longer performing. She’s not trying to impress you, she’s just enjoying talking to someone who doesn’t dismiss her.

“So,” she says, nudging your arm gently with her elbow, “how’d you manage to melt the Ice Queen?”

You blink. “What?”

She grins. “Claire. Senator ‘please don’t touch me unless you have a policy proposal’ Debella. I swear, I’ve seen her smile more today than I did the entire Iceland trip.”

You snort, surprised, and shake your head. “She’s not like that, not really.”

Whisky raises her brows.

You glance over toward the pool, where Claire’s now perched at the edge, deep in conversation with Lionel again, her brows furrowed, robe still wrapped tight around her, one bare thigh peeking out.

“She’s actually… kind of a sap,” you say softly.

Whisky stares at you.

You smile to yourself. “She read my first book before it got picked up by my publisher. She emailed me through my website with her full name, campaign email and everything. Said she couldn’t stop thinking about the ending and wanted to take me out for coffee so she could yell at me in person.”

“No way,” Whisky grins.

You nod. “I thought it was a joke. Or like a very weird prank.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“Nope,” you say, lips quirking. “She showed up in a suit and called me ‘kiddo’ and then spent an hour telling me all the ways she thought the book was secretly a metaphor for generational grief and inherited systems of power. I fell in love with her in, like, eight minutes.”

Whisky’s quiet for a beat. “Wow.”

“She’s not cold,” you add. “She’s just… guarded. Everything about her has to be polished. Precise. She’s under so much pressure all the time.”

Whisky nods slowly. “Yeah. I can see that.”

You look over again.

Claire’s still deep in conversation, but you feel the way her head tilts slightly. You know she’s checking on you without turning. It’s a practiced move, one you’re used to.

“She’s sweet,” you say. “When it’s just us. She’s so sweet, it kills me.”

Whisky smiles again but it’s smaller now. A little sad.

“Shhh baby, I got you. It’s just the weed. It’s a bad trip.” Agnes said lifting your shirt off your body. 

You’d been nonverbal since coming home from the party. 

Your friends had made a 420 party, fixed with edibles and joints galore. 

It was mostly six high queer mid-twenties year olds, all sleeping after watching ten minutes of a movie. 

Turns out half of them accidentally got into the indica strand. Finding the nickname northern lights fun and pretty.  

However you seemed to be having a very different experience. The purple wrapper on the joint you’d rolled while outside was giving you a trip of a lifetime. You were staring at the moon mumbling and everyone was a tad worried. Not understanding the language that seemed to flow freedly from your lips

So your buddy took your phone and texted your older fiancée to come and get her girl. 

What was more concerning then your high, is when Agnes did show up - you looked at her in complete horror. 

Which made getting you into the car, an issue. But with some coaxing and Agnes' jacket wrapped around your shoulders. 

She’d gotten you into the front seat, and inside your home, up to your shared bedroom. 

You were having such a high that you almost couldn’t feel your face, kinda like the dumb song. But you watched around you dazed.

Inside this house was your carefully curated life. The calming purples and black themes. The tapestry with it’s fun witchy vibe. 

Your eyes zero in on the decorations, the evidence of where you and Agnes had carefully lived in the space.

The earrings resting on the jewlery box on your dresser that Agnes wore yesterday. The framed memories up on the walls, with your faces in them in various places. 

Agnes bends over unbuttoning your jeans, the zipper feels louder with your high mind. 

You blink and the colors change, you try again and you see Agnes hair frazzled and crazy. 

It’s impossible, this delirious hallucination won’t leave. 

You rub at your face as Agnes takes off your docs and thick socks. You almost stumble but she’s got you.

Your older girlfriend is talented in the art of directing you, in stripping the day away off your tired frame. Years of cherishing you has her fluent in you. 

But as she pushes you onto the bed and wrangles the ends of your jeans off your body entirely you see it again. 

Purple eyes instead of baby blues, a murderous glint that terrifies you.

You flinch away from her, legs bawling like you were some sort of roly poly bug under this villains grasp. 

Agnes is so shocked at the display that she doesn’t know what to say for a moment. You’d smoked before this, you weren’t new to it, but never had you had this type of reaction. 

“Bunny what is it?”Your older fiances actually looks behind her wondering what in your weed trip riddled mind was so fearful. 

Because it had never been her. 

Agnes arms were your home, you crawled into her lap everynight after dinner. Kissing in the lowlight with your domestic bliss and folded books in your laps. 

Tea, smooching, and a long day lended it’s way to warm baths by candlelight and tender touching. Hours of passion and fierce pleasure.

Agnes had never been rough with you, even when you had tried to get her to choke you. She refused, kissing the colum of your neck with words sprinkled over your soft flesh like ‘too beautiful’ and ‘just want to love you.’

Your cover your eyes but you can’t see your Agnes with her hair in a bun and plum sweaters. 

No longer that sweet librarian look with her glasses, no this was the thing of avenger like stories. 

You saw the way she killed, the shriveled bodies, then you see her on a steak, threatening others. 

What was this?

Agnes gets onto the bed, her gold chain necklace is cold as it touches the back of your hand, hanging loosely. The ring you’d gotten her hags from it. 

You try to focus on that - but images invade you. You think of her broach, the three women, it feels so different now. 

You flatten your body against the bed and twist away from her. 

But Agnes is straddling your hips to make it so you can’t run. 

It’s far more forceful then she normally would touch you, her hands yanking your sweaty palms off your face.

“Dear, come on look at me. I can’t fix it If I can’t see you. Is there something in your eye?” Your fiance persists and you look up at her through a scrunched up face. 

You see it again. 

Not Agnes. 

Someone else, someone far more….wild.

Agnes grabs your wrists and pins them over your head and you see the air turn purple. 

“Agatha please don’t.” You breathe out, but Agnes can feel your nipples harden from her grab. 

She stares at you, not letting go, if anything her thumb presses a little harder into your skin. 

Her lack of release should make you scared, but fuck maybe it was the weed, or maybe this wild version of Agnes is a hallucination from all the dirty books. 

But your body arches up into her, very different from what your voice just delivered. 

“What did you call me?” Agnes questions forcefully and you shiver under her harshness. Your fiance was never this tense towards you. Others yes, but not you, and you hated how your body tingled all over. 

“A-aagnes?” You try weakly, your blame the weed for making you lie so poorly. 

“Where did you learn that name?” Agnes tightens her hold on your wrist painfully now and you actually audibly moan. 

“Please, fuck me.” You gasp and Agnes body isn’t moving, isn’t reacting. She’s tight and towering over you - just muscle and confusion. 

“Who told you that name?” Agnes tried again, wondering who would have possibly done this to you. 

You blink up at her, and your fiance isn’t there anymore. Only she is, so much clearer than ever before. No longer a vague collection of personalities. No, this woman is strong, witty, and terrified. 

But there’s so much anger, and the contact high was better than anything you bought at a dispensary. 

“Agatha….You-you are so beautiful.”  You say high off your ass. 

You throw her off so much that she releases you and stands off the bed. 

“That’s not possible.” She whispered staring at you, but you see her now. Dress and cape, magic sparkling off her skin. 

You hadn’t lied, this version of her was stunning, breath taking really. 

No longer trying to tame her curls or hide her age, it was freedome.

She was something of the earth, she smelled like woods far from here. Of history long buried and the burning of herbs with no names today. 

Agatha in your bedroom, in this vision of weed and wanting. 

Was better than any bedtime story or cautionary tale of things in the dark. 

This woman was all power, purples and lavenders swirling from her - black soot like fingers reminding you that all things untamed were equally delicious and dangerous. 

Agatha was a folktale just as much as she was a promise to what a could be done with thirst for magic.

Agatha was all maiden, mother, and crone. 

It made so much sense now to you staring at her. 

“You’re a witch.” You say into the darkness, but it doesn’t sound like a slur to either of your ears. 

It sounds just as romantic as when your lover asked you to be hers forever. 

It was just as powerful as the idea of unconditional love. 

You were staring with open admiration to something so pure that you felt like a vouyer to her. 

“Please don’t -” Agatha can’t have you do this. This was her worst nightmare, even though something about the way you were gazing at her was flooding her system with a healing that no century had allowed. 

Agatha couldn’t have you saying such things. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask, no pain in your voice. Only amazement, like an angel had just unfolded her wings. 

Your room was adorned with witchcraft and spiritual tokens, but you had never thought it was for a purpose above admiration to witches. 

Little did you know that you had captured the heart of an old witch who had slaughtered thousands before your great great grandmother was even a thought from the universe. 

She flinches and closes her eyes, trying to figure out how to pit the cat back in the bag.

“Go to sleep, your just have a bad trip.” Agatha can’t look at you as she lies to you. 

How was that so?

That she had lied her whole existence, her whole long painful life, and yet looking at this young thing naked and sweet as spring blosoms made her unable to tell the smallest fib. 

You move to get off the bed and Agatha reacts, her hand raising and purple magic strapping you down.

Her eyes bulge when she see’s it. 

“No, no - I can control it-” She shudders terrified but your head goes back in delight. 

Her purple magic wrapping around your waist and left wrist feels like kisses - they sizzle against your skin and you moan again.

Agatha stares at the way the breath gets trapped in your ribcage. 

Her fear leaving as you moan and writhe on the bed, Agatha had never seen anyone react to her magic like that. 

Only death and syphoning could be done, no healing or any sort of aid. Nicky had cemented that belief for the witch. 

Yet here you were, and there was that feeling again - Agatha hated herself for it. 

But it was just as the day she syphoned the magic from her coven, from her mother, from Alice. 

That headhigh, but it was so much better than any of that. 

Because your arousal was in her mouth, in the air - Agatha hadn’t ever tasted a magic high like this. 

“Agatha, please fuck - oh fuck I can feel you everywhere.” You moan and twist in the bed, and your fiance loses whatever held her to these bonds. 

Decades of no magic and then to have you gasp and hump at her magic like that was too good. 

Agatha tries to reason as she climbs onto the bed shedding her clothes with magic in an instant that tomorrow she can tell you this was all just a bad weed trip. 

Yes, that was tomorrow. 

Tomorrow Agnes would be good again. 

But tonight, Agatha needed to be a witch once more. 

Scratch that, as her magic whipped in the air and purple tendrils pushed your thighs apart and flicked over your soaked cunt - Agatha needed to be your witch. 

“Easy little one, fuck you always get so wet for me.” The witch lifted the illusion - now that it didn’t work on you anyway. 

Your knees were lifted by her darkhold black, strong, veiny hands so that her purple could enter you.

Your face turned red as your eyes rolled back and mouth opened for a silent scream.

Her purple was vibrating, hot, and thick - better than any cock or strap. It was rubbing your insides making you so full, so loved. 

The wet noises would have made you embarrassed but you had never been more turned on. 

“You are my good girl, fuck so tight. Fuck I’ve been dying to do this.” Agatha panted, the intensity of you was making her need to cum early. 

She’d thought of doing this to you in your sleep, but it ate at the witch. 

Besides, your moans, the way Agatha’s purple seemed to be entering your blood stream. 

I twas so much better than she’d ever been able to do with you unconscious. 

“Don’t-don’t stop!” You gasp and shiver and Agatha’s not sure she will ever be able to. 

Staring at Agatha’s breasts that have been pushed down by time, makes your mouth water.  

She was changing in front of you. 

Her purple  fills you, the witch thrusts her own hips up. 

Locating your womb has her teeth grinding as she’s never experienced anything more addicting. Not even the darkhold felt this delicious. 

Agatha’s pubes rest against your sopping cunt, as she holds you in a breeding position. The heat and power radiating from her body into your own. 

Your drooling, completely fucked dumb, as a twirling twisting purple shooting tendril curl into your tummy and womb. Your toes curl - it’s not simply in and out fucking. While her hips thrust against you, there was a swelling of her tendrils deep in your cunt. 

“My love, my love, all mine.” Agatha chants like it’s a spell. 

It’s like one wet excruciating, overstimulated orgasm - kinda close to when you turned your vibrator on and it was the perfect spot. 

Where your whole body was on fire and your nerve endings were humping each other. 

Agatha’s magic was even more consuming then that. 

And it wasn’t ending, and you couldn’t breathe as Agatha lost herself deeper inside of you than she could ever have traveled before. 

Sweat dripping down her bare back, the scars she’d once hid were now on display. Nothing between you and the witch. 

The most bare skin fucking you had ever experienced, as the buldge inside of you from her purple got bigger. Her sex dripping ontop of your own, her arousal dribbling down your own puffy cunt.

This was the most intense pleasure you or the centuries old witch had ever experienced. Nothing more raw or powerful. 

So it wasn’t your fiancé fault.

 Truly it wasn’t.

Agatha didn’t notice as her magic curled through your body, that she was syphoning again. 

It didn’t feel like before - this felt like good magic. Light magic, if she believed in such judgemental terminology.

But your life was beating in her heart in synch. 

She had no idea that your fingers were turning deep dark black, just like her own. 

You stopped breathing entirely, and the lack of oxygen to your brain only served to intensify your own orgasm. 

Your choking fetish going to an unhealthy extreme now. 

As Agatha barried her face in your neck and got higher than any weed you’d ever smoked. 

She didn’t see your face turn from red, to purple, to blue. 

What she did feel as her own orgasm rocked her and her magic. Better than any sky clad magic could. 

Then your heart skip a beat, then a half beat, and then nothing. 

Agatha released immediately, her body moving back to look at your face. 

Your eyes open, void, gone. 

Dead.

“No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No!NO! NO!” Agatha screamed into your face, spit flying as she had done it again. 

Ruined everything. 

Her hands moved to your rib cage like she could restart your heart from pure spite. But you laid limp, eyes open, like some sort of doll. 

Her magic leaves you but it’s too late. 

Agatha hugged your body to her chest, both of you naked and bare. 

Agatha’s rocking back and forth, cradling your dead body to her own. Unsure of what godess to beg this time. 

But her screams shake the night. Tears and snot, spit all over her face. 

“NO I WAS GOOD! NO! NO I CAN BE GOOD! BABY COME BACK, NO PLEASE! MY LOVE DON’T GO! FUCK YOU RIO! RIO YOU GIVE HER BACK NO! SHE’S TOO GOOD FOR YOU! TOO GOOD FOR ME!” Agatha won’t survive this, she’s hyperventilating and holding you as you lose body warmth. 

Your hands just as black as her own. 

“Please, Nicky give her back to me. I promise, I won’t-I won’t ever” Agatha is hicuping and gasping. So horrified by her words to her son in the dark. 

But her lips move just under your jaw where she kissed your pulse point every night to remind herself you were real. 

Not a thing of the Hex, or of the sinister spell, a trick of the road. 

You were real, sweet and kind, and Agatha sobbed deep and sickly - because she’d done it again. 

She’d taken. 

Her mouth opened to scream again but nothing came out. 

After all this time Agatha had been foolish enough to think she’d run from her demons. But instead as her tears fell against your hair, she realized she’d just injected you with them. 

“I can be good, don’t leave me.” Agatha’s voice cracked as your corpse in her arms was the last thing that could save this witch. 

Agatha laid there for hours. 

The night ticked on, time moved, the moon outside whine in the windows. 

But Agatha Harkness refused to keep living. 

Her tears all used up, only red puffy face of a grieving widow, and a witch ready to burn the whole world down. 

There was nothing left for her, of this life. 

She didn’t blink, staring blankly ahead, as you lay in her arms. 

You were heavy, the epitome of dead weight. 

Agatha had no Darkhold.

No way to bend the rules for you. 

Agatha tortured herself with every moment of your lives together, she played them in her mind like an old film reel. Every time you laughed, the way the sunlight played in your hair. The places she didn’t get to show you, that she’d sworn she would. Why hadn’t she done that?

 And now Agatha held your body close as though she could fight Rio again. 

If she held you tight enough, maybe - just maybe, Rio would take her instead. 

Agatha was so far gone, that she didn’t notice when your leg twitched. 

When your eyes blinked open full of sleep, your fingers uncurling like butterfly wings their first beat out of the cocoon. 

Agatha was too far away to feel your body stir in her hold. 

You cleared your throat, and twisted to kiss her cheek.

Your first act.

Then and only then did Agatha’s gaze fall to you, your eyes no longer dull and colorless. 

But now the color purple, with the dark witch circle along the ridge. 

You were stiff at first, moving in her hold, but Agatha’s grip was unyielding. 

“Agatha?” You ask, but she’s still unable to comprehend. 

Her lips dry, she licks them desperately - wondering what trix her mind was conjuring. But her fingers deep in the muscles of your back felt…warm?

Blood pumping, heat, tissue and muscle.

“Bunny?” She whispered like you were made of porcelain now. 

No longer the rough magical fucking of your womb, the earth shattering orgasms, but your fiance so scared to whisper your name aloud. 

You watch the tears fall once more, unsure of where Agatha had ever had room for this much.

You give out a small laugh and it shakes Agatha’s body along with yours. 

“Honey, that was some bad weed.”

Do drugs not hugs kids

Rio was groaning. Agatha had the grocery cart FULL. They’d been to their third grocery store. The two of them had been running errands all day. And Rio missed their baby. Obviously, Aggie did too, because she kept pulling her phone out looking for a text, that never came. 

You usually were pulled on these trips with your wives. But not today, today you had plans with Lilia. Which didn’t make Rio and Agatha jealous, no, of course not. They understood, sorta, that you had a life outside of them, sort of…

But normally Rio would make you sit in the cart and she’d push you, standing on the cart herself, and you’d go flying down the aisle. Agatha would shout for you both to stop. 

Rio missed you, she wanted her little troublemaker back with Daddy. 

Usually by this time you’d both eaten all of the samples in the grocery store. You’d blasted fun music while in the car, waiting for Agatha to pick up her nice clothes from the cleaners. Honking at her to hurry up and then catcalling her out the window, telling her how sexy she was, obnoxiously. While Agatha cackled and joined in. 

Agatha would place you in her lap while they went through the car wash.

You’d even be adorably romantic and share an AirPod while walking around. You’d put your left earbud in Rio’s ear. And the two of you would listen to cringey disco or even a smutty romantic book. This drove Agatha crazy, and Rio knew it was jealousy. So the two of them would trade off listening to whatever you picked. 

You and Rio would dance in the aisles, and Agatha would pretend it didn’t make her smile but she would take forever reading the nutritional facts on the back of snacks before deciding if it was ‘baby snack worthy.’

But it was four pm on a Satruday full of boring ass errands. Mortal families walking around unaware of how gorgeous Rio’s life was. How much fun her family was. 

And something was very clear that neither Agatha nor Rio needed reminding. 

Life was entirely too boring without you. 

It lacked flavor and color. You brought depth and vibrancy to everything you touched. And the two were living in a black and white version of a day. It sucked. 

Rio and Agatha loved each other, they even loved quiet moments where you did your thing silently next to them and the two of them could talk. Their was peace in three’s. You were easy to be around, fun to joke with, and delicious to turn on. Rio just loved how you’d blush and your ears would turn dark red. 

You had a dirty sense of humor like hers. And Agatha adored every single move you made. Aggie was lighter with you than she’d ever been before. Rio fell deeper in love with you both every day. 

But the longer the three of you were together, the harder it was…to not be a thruple. Three had become such an important number. Three toothbrushes, three dirty tea cups, three sets of reading glasses.

And when it wasn’t three…well. 

If Agatha was helping Wanda, Rio saw how much their baby missed her. If Rio was even out planting new veggies in the garden. She noticed that Agatha and you would sneak over to the patio and lie in the sun. You’d both read and cuddle and watch Rio as she bent over just right. 

But everyday activities were a must in threes now. They were witches for fuck sake, three was a sacred number. 

“Rio,” Agatha says, and she whips her head around. 

“My love?” Rio said back. 

“Would you be terribly upset if we didn’t go to the next store?” Agatha asked, knowing the answer before she even brought it up. 

“You miss her, too, huh?” Rio asked, calling her wife out. 

“Like a phantom limb, it hurts Papi,” Agatha answered, and the two smiled warmly at each other. Agatha moved forward and kissed Rio softly in the middle of the Trader Joe's. 

The two knew you would be back in ten minutes, you’d told them. You and Lilia had a day planned, but you wouldn’t be later than 3:30, which meant 4:10. 

“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Rio whispered and kissed her once more.

Agatha texted the group chat with their ETA and a purple heart.  

________________

Agatha and Rio got home in record time, and Rio balanced groceries against her tank top-covered chest while Agatha had four plastic bags in between her fingers on each hand. Rio’s keys were forced into the lock, and the door opened. 

“Bunny, we’re home!” Agatha called out, and the two wives moved into the kitchen and listened for the pitter-patter of your feet coming downstairs to help with carrying stuff in. To give kisses and regale with fun stories of the day. 

Rio and Agatha set the stuff down and listened. 

Nothing. 

Eerily quiet in fact. 

Rio pulled out her phone and called you,but your phone went straight to voicemail. Ok, not normal. 

“I’ll call Lilia.” Agatha shrugged like her body hadn’t already gone into red flags and utter distress. 

Rio pretended to, she nodded and mirrored the same shrug. Before walking outside and taking a deep breath. She’d know if you were in trouble, right? Rio opened her iPhone and checked for texts, but once again, nothing. She’d sent you a GIF of a raccoon eating an ice cream cone two hours ago, and it was seen. Rio sighed and grabbed more groceries. 

Agatha and Rio didn’t have much to distract them once they’d finished talking to Lilia and brought the dry cleaning and food in. Rio put everything away, and Agatha called Alice now. Lilia had told them you’d been gone around 3:10. 

Now that wasn’t normal. Lilia said you’d left in good spirits, saying you’d missed Mommy and Daddy. 

Lilia said you were fine, driving home after a fun day. 

There was no reason for them to be this panicked. But Rio’s palms were sweaty and she was grinding her teeth. She’d pulled up ‘Find a Friend.’ Like a mad woman and your picture was grey, it wasn’t tracking your iphone anymore. That was insane. You three never turned it off. So why wasn’t it tracking you?

Agatha was pacing the length of the house and she kept brushing her fingers through her hair and pulling the ends. Rio had no words to comfort her wife, she didn’t understand where you were. And until you were home, neither would settle. 

“Alice, is my wife with you?” Agatha asked and Rio listened as close as she could for the answer. Agatha turned to look at her and shook her head. 

“Wait….Billy? What time?” Agatha said and Rio jumped up and grabbed the car keys out of the bowl. Agatha walking after her as the two locked the house and drove off towards Billy’s apartment. 

He’d just gotten a little place outside of the city. Wanda was freaked out by this fact. You’d convinced her into letting Billy experience being a young twenty year old in the nightlife. 

Agatha now hated the fact that you’d done that.

She’d called Billy over twenty times. Not even a ‘call you in a minute’ text. Not a gif of the wicked witch like he usually sent. Nothing, nada, zilch, this was getting ridiculous.  

Rio drove quickly down backways and cut across lanes like a crazy person. Until she pulled into a lane that said ‘no parking anytime.’ Rio didn’t give a fuck, she cut the engine pulling out her phone and seeing if your phone was back online. 

The two got out of the dark green Jeep Rubicon, slammed the door extra hard like it was the cars fault that you were missing. 

Rio locked the doors and the two of them ran up Billy’s apartment stairs. Taking two stairs at a time until they got to the fifth level where he was. Rio didn’’t have patience on a good day, especially not on a day where her baby was MIA. 

So her fists slammed over and over again against the apartment door. The whole building seemed to shudder under her strong, forceful weight. 

Agatha dialed for Billy again and pulled it to her ear. 

“BILLY GET THE FUCK OUT HERE!” Rio screamed not giving a damn about his neighbors. She continued to slam on the door over and over again. 

“BILLY FUCK WAD GET OUT HERE! IF YOU DON’T GET OUT HERE I’LL SHOW YOUR MOM YOUR VINTAGE PORN COLLECTION!” Rio screamed and the door flew open. 

Bily was holding a towel around his hips. His eyeliner was running down his face and his dark curls were dripping wet. He’d been in the shower obviously. 

“Rio, stop shouting that, I have to look my neighbors in the eye. What the fuck-” Rio pushed past his barechest and into the apartment. When she didn’t see you, she ran into the bedroom. 

Eddie quickly grabbed a pillow to cover his junk. But Rio wasn’t looking at him. 

Agatha pulled her phone out again and called you. 

“Agatha, what the hell! Why is your wife going feral?” Billy asked, and when he looked at Agatha, he realized she’d never looked more pale.

“When did you last see Bunny?” Agatha asked, and Billy understood immediately. 

“Oh shit, I thought she was going straight home? She came over and helped me build a shelf. We went swimming in the apartment pool. Then Eddie brought over weed. But she only smoked a li-”

“She smoked weed and then drove? Billy, why didn’t you call me? YOU LET HER DRIVE!?” Agatha snapped, and Billy grimaced. 

“She told me she wasn’t even high! I-” 

Rio came back holding your sweatshirt. Agatha spotted it and ground her teeth together. 

“Was it a bong, a joint, an edible? Fucking talk Teenager!” Rio snapped even though he wasn’t a teen anymore. Billy looked scared, and Rio didn’t think it was unwarranted, if something had happened to you. She’d be coming back for him. 

“It was a joint, not a big one! We were on the computer for hours!” Eddie yelled from the other room. 

Agatha rubbed her temples like she was going to burn Billy’s apartment down if either boy said another word. 

“She’s a fucking lightweight.” Rio snarled at Billy, who flinched in fear. 

“Rio....WHERE THE FUCK IS OUR BABY!?” Agatha shouted, and Rio focused her powers. She sniffed the sweatshirt and closed her eyes. Her face changed, and the skeleton facade moved over her. Billy jumped back in fear, but Agatha opened the door and the two of them left the apartment. 

__________________

Rio used her powers as Death to track you down. She’d not tracked someone like a bloodhound in centuries. 

She’d never had to do this for her wives, because they were usually right in front of her. 

What was most shocking is that Rio found you quickly in the most obvious place. 

You were at home. 

Rio and Agatha drove through every red light, and Rio used her powers to avoid collisions. 

When they got home. The two of your wives blew the door open, and you yelped, falling to the floor of the living room. 

Agatha’s fingers were glowing purple, and her eyes were glazed over. Rio had her dagger out and skull mask on. They were ready to kill whoever had hurt you.

You, however, were freshly showered, in Rio’s sweat pants and Agatha’s tank top, and wrapping a present in the comfort of your home. 

“GUYS WHAT THE FUCK!” You yell, seeing them ready to fight, and the door is completely unfixable. 

“Bunny?” Agatha said, confused, and the two of them dropped their magic. Rio put her knife down and dropped to the floor, grabbing your arms. 

“Mommy, Daddy, what’s wrong?” 

“Mi amor where the fuck were you! You drove home after smoking weed! Not okay, baby girl! You could have gotten hurt! You know better than that! Why is your phone off?” Rio spat. She was so scared, she was vibrating. Agatha rounded you both and came behind you on the floor and pulled you into her lap as Rio let her hands go up and down your arms. Like she was convincing herself you were unharmed.

You quickly explained seeing them freaking out around you. 

“It’s errand day, I thought you guys would take longer. And my phone died, I’m sorry. Besides, I took one hit of Eddie's gross skunk weed and coughed. Kids these days don’t know good shit. I didn’t get high at all. I’m used to Daddy’s home-grown good cush.” You laugh, and Rio’s lip turns up just a tad at the compliment. Agatha is rocking you and kissing your hair. You feel her heart pounding so fast behind you. 

“Never drive after weed- you know that,” Agatha says against your back. 

Rio kisses your forehead, and she keeps her hands tight around your biceps. 

Your wives are wrecked. You feel awful seeing them in this state.

“I got you both a present. I wrapped them.” You say lamely, eyeing the lack ofa  door now in your home. 

Rio uses the back of her hand to wipe her nose, she won’t cry right now. She won’t cry, she reminds herself. You move over and kiss her lips, and it helps Rio collect herself. She kisses back, and Rio doesn’t notice it at first, but you wipe at her cheek. A tear had escaped, and Rio realized it was relief. 

Agatha reached out one hand and held Rio’s hand tightly. 

“What did you get us, hermosa chica?” Rio complimented you, and you smiled at her through tears. 

You held up the small black box with the white ribbon. Agatha kissed the side of your cheekbone and nodded towards Rio to open it. 

Rio didn’t move too far away from her wives. The three of you sharing the same breath, legs, and hands overlapping comfortingly. But Rio took the present and pulled the pretty ribbon, and opened the top off the little box. 

A small silver object with four holes, it was metal and sturdy. But it had a small black heart painted in nail polish on it. Under it was a small squareish thing with buttons it had an Apple logo on the back. But it wasn’t an iPhone? Rio looked confused, and you laughed. 

“I knew Mama wouldn’t know what it was, but I thought you would, Daddy.” You laugh, and Agatha pinches your side, and you laugh harder. 

“Sweetness, what is this?” Rio asks stealing one of Agatha’s nicknames for you. Even though you weren’t being super sweet in this moment, laughing at your old wives. 

“It’s a headphone splitter. It splits three ways, so we can all listen to music together. We’ll have to use wire headphones, but next weekend we can all listen together. And this is an iPod classic. I loaded it full of music and books so my phone will stop dying whenever we go out.” You smile, and the room is still. 

You panic now, Rio, and Agatha weren’t saying anything. 

“Oh, was it a bad gift? I know it’ll be harder with wire headphones but I just thought, and I spent hours and hours at Lilia’s using her old ass computer to put all the songs on and- well Billy and I pirated the dirty books but..oh god it’s dumb-”

Rio surges forward and crashes your lips together, and Agatha is peppering kisses behind your ear and jaw. The two of them are grabbing you with need and so much devotion that your head goes fuzzy. 

“It’s perfect for the three of us,” Rio whispers, enjoying your present more than words can say. No more two headphones. No more two sets of shoes by the door. No two water place settings for dinner. No, their life was in threes. Rio loved threes. 

No one would be left out ever again. 

“I like threes.” You whisper in earnest, and Agatha hums in agreement. 

“Three is the most powerful number,” Agatha says as she playfully bites your neck, and you moan. Rio devours the noise with another bruising kiss against your lips. 

Agatha slips her hand in between you and Rio to push her naughty fingers down your sweatpants. Your hips buck up, and Rio smirks into the kiss before moving to Agatha. One of her strong hands grabs Agatha’s neck, and she kisses her older witch hard, all that pent-up worry leaving them now. You watch them battle for dominance in the kiss and Agatha’s greedy touch start to play agonizingly with your clit. 

“Oh yeah, I like three.” You are panting, and one of your hands grips Agatha’s forearm, not letting her retreat from its task. As if Agatha ever would.  

Rio breaks the kiss and licks her lips, tasting both of her wives now. Life is good again. 

“No more missing errands.” Rio is in control once more, she squeezes your throat and your eyes roll back and you feel Agatha’s finger push inside your wet cunt.