♥️

Your fingers tighten around the cheap plastic cup, the punch sloshing slightly as the material crinkles under your grip. "Oh… thank you," you say, feeling the warmth creep up your neck. "I really loved the class."

Agatha hums, watching you with something unreadable in her expression. Then, her eyes darken, sweeping over you in a slow, deliberate motion. She shifts, crossing one leg over the other, sighing as if mildly bored—though the intensity in her gaze says otherwise.

"Also," she continues, her voice a sultry purr, "I have to admit, I’ve looked up your exact features when I’ve been alone."

Your brow furrows. "What?"

She smirks, leaning back in her chair, the picture of ease, though the tension crackling in the space between you is anything but. "And no one… quite fits the bill," she muses. "They’re not needy enough. Not as desperate for approval in the way my favorite student was."

Your breath catches. There’s no misinterpreting her words, no mistaking the low, knowing lilt in her voice. Heat pools in your stomach, your mind scrambling to process what she’s implying.

"I—" you start, but she interrupts with a quiet chuckle.

"Tell me," she murmurs, tilting her head, "did you think about me, even after you left my class? Did you let my words keep you warm at night?"

Your face burns, the air between you thick with something dangerous, something exhilarating. Agatha watches you like a cat with a trapped mouse, waiting, seemingly devouring your reaction.

Your breath comes a little quicker now, the warmth creeping down your neck, settling low in your stomach. You can’t meet her eyes—not directly, not with the way she’s looking at you, like she already knows the answer to the question she just asked.

Agatha hums again, and you hear the slow, deliberate tapping of her nails against her cup. "Oh, sweetheart," she sighs, amused. "You don’t even have to say it. I can see it all over your face."

You swallow hard, gripping the plastic cup like it’s your only tether to reality. "That’s not—I mean, I don’t—"

She tilts her head, watching you flounder. Then she leans forward, elbows resting on the table, voice dipping just for you. "You were always so easy to read. It was adorable, really."

Your pulse thrums in your ears, your thighs clenching under the weight of her words. She knows. She’s always known.

She smirks, like she’s enjoying your torment “Did you think I never noticed? The way you used to stare? The way your breath hitched when I praised you in front of the class?" She tsks, shaking her head. "Poor thing. You must’ve been so frustrated."

You exhale sharply, shifting in your seat, trying to find something—anything—to say. But Agatha gives you no room to recover.

"Did you touch yourself to the thought of me?" she asks again, this time more bluntly, her voice feather light but razor sharp. "Let me guess… my voice? My hands?" She watches your throat bob as you swallow. "Or was it the way I used to lean over your desk, close enough that you could smell my perfume?"

Your fingers dig into your cup, the plastic nearly collapsing under your grip. She’s relentless. Unforgiving. And worst of all—you don’t want her to stop.

Agatha smiles, slow and knowing. "I bet you still do," she whispers, and God, you hate how easily she unravels you. "Don’t you?"

Your breath shudders as you exhale, fingers twitching. You should deny it. You should laugh, shake your head, pretend like she’s wrong like she doesn’t have you pinned under her gaze, exposed and unraveling by the second.

But you don’t. Because she isn’t wrong. And the slow, victorious curl of her lips tells you she already knows your answer.

"That's what I thought," Agatha murmurs, tilting her head like she’s studying something fragile, something delicate—something she wants to break apart just to see how it looks in pieces.

Your thighs clench again beneath the table, your whole body betraying you. The room hums with low conversation, laughter from students and professors alike, but it all feels miles away, like nothing else exists except this. Her. The space between you, crackling like a lit fuse.

"You know," she continues, tone almost thoughtful, "it’s funny. All these years, and you still look at me the same way you did back then." She leans in just enough for you to catch the faintest hint of her perfume, something warm and sharp all at once. "Like you’d do anything I asked."

Your breath catches once more, could you have an asthma attack from shock? All she does is smile. God, she’s enjoying this.

"You want me to tell you what to do, don’t you?" she muses, tapping a nail against the rim of her cup. "Just like before."

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your body betrays you, your lips parting, something helpless and wanting caught in your throat.

Agatha watches the struggle flicker across your face, then sighs, shaking her head like she’s disappointed—but her smirk says otherwise. "Finish your drink, sweetheart," she says, voice like silk, like a command wrapped in velvet. "Then meet me outside."

Your stomach flips.

She stands, adjusting the sleeves of her blouse like she didn’t just dismantle you piece by piece, like she isn’t leaving you breathless in her wake. Then, just before she turns, she leans down, her breath warm against your ear.

"And don’t make me wait."

Then she’s gone.

Your hands are trembling as you drain the last of the punch, the artificial sweetness clinging to your tongue, but it’s not the drink making your head swim. It’s her.

You shouldn’t go. You know you shouldn’t. But you will. You always do.

Discarding the cup, you push back from the table, your legs unsteady as you weave through the crowded room. Conversations blur into meaningless noise, the bright fluorescent lights above suddenly too harsh, too real. But none of it matters—because outside, past those heavy doors, she’s waiting for you.

The cool night air bites at your skin when you step outside, but it does nothing to settle the heat simmering beneath it. You scan the dimly lit courtyard, your breath still uneven, pulse thrumming beneath your ribs—

And then you see her.

Agatha stands by one of the brick pillars, bathed in the amber glow of a flickering streetlamp. She’s lighting a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her face before she takes a slow, deliberate drag. She exhales, tilting her head back, looking every bit like a woman with all the time in the world.

And then her eyes find yours. A smirk tugs at her lips as she gestures with a tilt of her head. Come here.

You hesitate for half a second—half a second where you could turn back, where you could remind yourself of every reason why this is a bad idea. But then your feet are moving. You stop just short of her, your breath catching as she looks you over, exhaling another slow stream of smoke before she speaks.

"You always were such a good little thing," she muses, tapping ash onto the pavement. "Always so eager to please."

Your stomach tightens.

"Tell me," she continues, gaze heavy, deliberate, "are you still my good girl?"

The air stills between you. The words sink deep, curling around something inside you, something that’s been waiting, aching, desperate for her to say it. And when she steps closer—so close that the heat of her body seeps into yours—you know there’s only one answer.

"Yes."

The smirk on her lips is slow, satisfied. "Mmm. I thought so." Then, before you can take another breath, her fingers are curling beneath your chin, tilting your face up, her touch searing, intoxicating. Her other hand has abandoned the cigarette.

"Now," she purrs, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, "why don’t you show me just how much you missed me?"

You nod gently and you lick your lips, leaning in just a bit more, her thumb lingers at the corner of your mouth, her breathing shallower now, the teasing smirk on her lips faltering for the first time.

She was always the one in control, always the one pulling the strings—but right now, standing so close she could feel the heat of your skin, the power was shifting.

Her fingers tighten under your chin, her pupils blown wide as she wets her lips, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth like she’s at war with herself.

"You have no idea," she murmurs, voice rougher now, like she’s forcing the words out before she loses her nerve. "No idea how long I’ve wanted to—"

But she doesn’t finish. Because she can’t. Because she’s already closing the distance, crashing her lips against yours in a way that’s nothing like the Agatha you remember—nothing slow, nothing teasing.

This is hunger. This is desperation.

Her hands are firm, almost rough as they frame your face, fingers sliding into your hair like she needs to hold you there, needs to feel you, needs proof that you’re real. She groans into your mouth—low, needy—like she’s been starving for this, for you, for longer than she’ll ever admit.

You barely have a second to breathe before she’s pressing deeper, her teeth grazing your bottom lip, her own lips parting like she wants to devour you.

And God, she’s needy.

She kisses you like she’s trying to make up for lost time, like every second without you was a second wasted. Her body presses closer, chest flush against yours, her breath ragged as her hands slide down, grasping, clutching at your waist like she’s afraid you’ll pull away.

But you don’t.

You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

Her nails dig in, her hips pressing forward in the faintest, instinctual movement, and when she pulls back just enough to drag in a breath, her forehead pressing against yours, she whimpers.

The sound alone nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

"Fuck," she exhales, breathless, her voice wrecked. "You’re—" She swallows hard, her hands still gripping you, grounding her, anchoring her in something real.

You don’t let her finish.

Instead, you crash forward, swallowing whatever she was about to say as you kiss her again—deeper this time, harder—because if she’s desperate, if she needs this, then so do you.

And from the way she moans into your mouth, trembling against you, you don’t think she’ll ever let you go.

You fist your hands into the lapels of her jacket, yanking her closer until there’s nothing between you but heat and shallow breaths. Your thigh slots between her legs, pressing just enough to make her gasp against your mouth.

Her breath stutters, her grip on you tightening, and you take the moment to tilt your head, brushing your lips over hers—soft, teasing, just to feel her tremble.

"You should take me home," you murmur, your words ghosting over her lips, your thigh pressing just a little harder.

Agatha shudders. A sharp inhale, a quiet curse under her breath.

X

As soon as you step foot into Agatha’s home, she’s on you.

The door barely clicks shut before she’s pushing you up against it, her hands gripping at your waist, your jacket, anything she can get her fingers on. Her mouth crashes against yours, all teeth and heat, nothing careful, nothing restrained. She’s starving for you.

Her hands roam—impatient, desperate—as she presses into you, hips slotting between your thighs. She groans, low and needy, as your fingers tangle in her hair, tugging just enough to make her whimper.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," she breathes against your lips, hands sliding under your shirt, soft palms against bare skin. "I—God, you don’t—"

"Don't what, Professor?" you husk out, your voice low, teasing, as your fingers find the hem of her blouse. You tug it up, pulling it free from where it’s neatly tucked into her trousers, your knuckles grazing the bare skin of her stomach.

Agatha shudders. Her breath stutters against your lips, her grip on your waist tightening like she’s trying to ground herself, trying to hold onto some semblance of control—but it’s slipping.

"You don’t—" she starts, but then your fingers splay across her stomach, pushing beneath the fabric, and whatever she was about to say dissolves into a sharp inhale. She swallows hard, her forehead pressing against yours, her breath ragged. "Fuck."

You smirk, slow and deliberate. "Didn’t catch that, Professor," you murmur, your nails scratching lightly against her skin. "You were saying?"

Agatha growls, something deep and guttural, and then suddenly you’re the one being pushed back, her body pressing into yours like she needs to consume you.

"You have no idea what you do to me," she rasps, her hands already tugging at your clothes, her lips dragging down the side of your throat, hot and desperate. "But you’re about to find out."

"Show me," you whisper, your voice barely a breath, laced with challenge, anticipation, and something darker, something you both can’t escape.

Agatha’s hands freeze for a split second, and in that pause, the air between you crackles, tense and thick with unspoken desires. Her breath is shallow, her body trembling with the weight of your words. Then, without another thought, she pulls you in, her lips crashing against yours in a fierce, hungry kiss that burns everything else away.

X

You’re first inside her bedroom, and agatha is holding your lower back with a firm hand, she sort of freezes and you’re wondering why before you see it. She left a toy on the bed. it’s purple, as big as two of your fingers. And there’s probably a button on it somewhere to turn it on. It’s laying on top of the rumpled duvet. “Naughty girl.” You tease before walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed before picking it up, it’s not been washed since earlier and you can tell because the cum that was on it has dried, and your eyes look up at her before you part your lips.

Agatha freezes, her breath hitching audibly, her entire body going rigid. Her eyes flick from the toy to your lips, back and forth, like she’s caught between wanting to stop you and being completely unable to.

Her jaw clenches, and when she finally speaks, her voice is lower, rougher—strained, like she’s barely keeping herself together. "What do you think you’re doing?" she asks, but there’s no real authority in it, no true reprimand. If anything, it sounds like she’s daring you to continue, like she wants to see just how far you’re willing to push her.

Her fingers twitch at her sides, and her breath is heavier now, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured movements—an attempt to control herself. But the way her pupils are blown wide, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips? She’s already lost.

You move the toy upwards, “Did you do it right before the mixer?” You speak as if you’re discussing the weather and you lick the tip of the toy, a soft breath leaving your lungs. it’s dried, but agatha tastes so good

Agatha swallows thickly and you can hear it from where you’re sat on the bed.

Her fingers flex at her sides like she wants to reach for you, stop you—or maybe she just wants to steady herself, because her knees look moments away from giving out. Her breath is sharp, unsteady, her entire body frozen in place, locked in a war between restraint and pure, unfiltered desire.

Her eyes track every movement—how your tongue flicks over the toy, how your lips part around it just enough to tease. She swallows hard again, her throat working around it, and when she finally exhales, it’s shaky, almost desperate.

"You—" Her voice catches, and she has to force the next words out. "You have no idea what you're doing I think I need another fucking cigarette.."

But she’s wrong. Because from the way she’s gripping the doorframe now, like she needs to anchor herself, from the way her pupils are blown so wide there’s barely any color left—You know exactly what you’re doing to her

You slide the full length into your mouth, cleaning it with a happy moan in the back of your throat. Your eyes watch her the entire time as you do it

Agatha whimpers then The sound is quiet, almost choked, like it slipped out before she could stop it. Her grip on the doorframe tightens until her knuckles turn white, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, her eyes fixed on you—on the slow drag of the toy past your lips, on the way your throat hums with that pleased little moan. She looks utterly wrecked, torn between restraint and the overwhelming need to do something, anything.

"Fuck," she breathes, her voice wrecked, barely there.

She sways slightly, like she might move toward you, but she doesn’t—not yet. Instead, she watches, completely transfixed, her pupils swallowing the last hints of blue in her irises.

And when you finally pull it from your lips with a soft, satisfied sigh, your tongue flicking over the tip one last time—

She snaps. Agatha moves before she can even think.

One second, she’s frozen in place, barely breathing, and the next, she’s on you—crossing the room in a few quick strides, her hands gripping your face, your jaw, anything she can hold as she crashes her mouth against yours.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a claim.

She groans against your lips, deep and guttural, like she’s been starving for this, for you. Her fingers tangle into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, and she takes full advantage—licking into your mouth, tasting herself on your tongue.

"You’re—" she pants between kisses, her breath ragged, desperate. "So—fucking—dirty."

But there’s no disapproval—just raw, unfiltered hunger.

Her hands are everywhere now—gripping your thighs, your waist, shoving you further up the bed as she follows, crawling over you like she won’t be satisfied until there’s nothing between you.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her pupils blown, her lips red and kiss-bruised. And then, with a wicked smirk and a voice dripping with promise, she whispers—

"Let’s see if that mouth of yours is just as eager when it’s on me."

Agatha doesn’t give you time to respond. She grabs you, her fingers digging into your jaw as she kisses you again, hot and urgent, like she’s trying to drown in you. Her body presses into yours, her weight pushing you back against the mattress, her thigh slotting between yours in a way that makes you gasp. She grins against your mouth at that, a pleased little sound slipping from her throat as she rolls her hips forward—just enough to tease, to taunt.

"You wanted to put on a show, sweetheart?" she murmurs, her lips dragging along your jaw, down your throat. "Wanted to see how far you could push me?"

Her teeth graze your pulse point, and she bites. Not hard—just enough to make you feel it, enough to make you whimper beneath her. She soothes the mark immediately after, her tongue flicking over the skin before she pulls back to look at you.

And God, the way she looks at you. Like she’s about to ruin you.

Her hands move with purpose, slipping beneath your clothes, her fingers tracing fire along your skin. "You were so bold a minute ago," she taunts, tilting her head. "What happened, darling? Cat got your tongue?"

She leans in, lips brushing yours as she whispers, "Or are you just waiting for me to put it to better use?"

A slow, knowing smirk spreads across Agatha’s lips as she watches you—eyes dark, pupils blown wide with want. She knows she has you now, right where she wants you.

Her fingers trail lower, teasing, skimming over your heated skin as she presses her thigh just a little harder between yours, reveling in the way your breath stutters, in the way your body reacts to her.

"You were so eager to use that pretty mouth before," she purrs, tilting her head. "Go on."

She grips your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet her gaze. "Show me just how much you missed me." She repeats the same exact phrase from earlier and it feels like an electroshock to your system.

Then, without another word, she shifts back onto her knees, watching you expectantly, her breathing heavy, her chest rising and falling with every shaky inhale.

The moment stretches, charged, waiting. And then you move. You grip her hips firmly, fingers digging into the fabric of her trousers as you murmur, "Take these off."

Your voice is low, commanding, and it sends a shiver down Agatha’s spine. She exhales sharply, eyes locked onto yours as she unbuttons them with deliberate slowness, like she wants to see you squirm.

The moment she slides them down and steps out of them, she’s back on you, straddling your lap, her heat pressing against your stomach. Your hands find her hips again, guiding her closer, your breath hitching as you take in the sight of her—her thighs trembling slightly, her black lace panties soaked.

A groan rumbles in your chest. You let your head fall back against the mattress, your grip tightening. "Now sit on my face."

Agatha stills for a beat, her breath uneven, her pupils blown wide. She licks her lips before smirking. .

"You’ve got such a filthy mouth," she muses, reaching down to run her fingers through your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

And before you can even respond, she shifts, crawling forward, her knees bracketing your head, her thighs warm and soft as they cage you in.

"Be good for me, sweetheart," she breathes, voice wrecked, as she finally lowers herself onto your waiting mouth. Agatha shivers the moment your mouth meets her, a ragged gasp slipping from her lips as her fingers tighten in your hair.

"Fuck—"

Her thighs tense around your head, but she doesn’t pull away. No, she presses down, like she wants to drown in the heat of your tongue, like she can’t stand even an inch of distance between you.

You groan against her, the sound vibrating through her, and her hips stutter forward instinctively, grinding just a little as she chokes on a breath. Tasting Agatha on a toy was one thing, having it straight from the source was another.

"God—just like that," she pants, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes. The sight alone nearly undoes her the way you’re staring up at her, desperate, hungry, needy to please her.

She grins, sharp and wrecked, dragging her nails lightly across your scalp as she rolls her hips, letting you guide her movements with the palms still pressed into her hips . "Such a good little thing for me," she breathes, her voice breaking on a moan. "So eager—so fucking perfect—"

She’s losing herself in you, the control she usually holds slipping with every flick of your tongue, every needy little sound you make beneath her.

And when you whimper against her, pulling her down even harder, she cracks.

"Fuck—" Her head falls back, her grip tightening, her body trembling as she grinds against your mouth, chasing the edge you’re so eagerly pushing her toward. "Don’t you dare stop—"

Agatha shakes above you, her thighs trembling as she grinds down harder, chasing the pleasure you’re so eagerly giving her. Her breath is ragged, breaking on every moan, every gasped-out curse.

"God—" she whimpers, her voice wrecked, "you’re— fuck, you’re gonna make me—"

Her nails scrape against your scalp as she tries to hold herself together, but she can’t. She’s unraveling, coming apart in your hands, and she likes it—likes the way you let her use you, the way you want this just as badly as she does.

She looks down at you, and fuck, the sight nearly finishes her off right then and there your blown-out eyes, your flushed cheeks, your tongue flicking just right against her.

"Don’t you fucking stop—" she gasps, her hips stuttering, desperate now.

And when you moan against her—when you pull her down even harder, like you want to drown in her and you start sucking and sucking.

She breaks.

Her whole body seizes up, her breath catching as pleasure slams through her. A sharp, choked moan rips from her throat, her thighs squeezing around you as she falls apart, shaking and whimpering above you.

"Fuck—fuck" she gasps, riding it out, riding your face, her entire body trembling as aftershocks ripple through her.

It takes her a moment to come back down, to breathe, to remember where she even is.

And when she finally looks down at you again, still trapped between her thighs, her release shining on your lips, your chin, your smug little expression—

Her breath hitches. And then she grins.

"Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, reaching down to cup your jaw, her thumb swiping across your slick-covered lips. "You did so perfect for me.”

You smile and it’s bright, “Thank you professor.”

Agnes—no, Agatha—was your brothers’ babysitter. She watched your brothers when you were younger, but you were too old to need looking after. Instead, you’d lurk in the kitchen, pretending to need a drink or a snack, just to steal moments with her. Talking late at night when your brothers were asleep, when your mother was out. You used to hang on her every word, laughing at her dry humor, drawn to the way she never spoke to you like a child.

But she isn’t laughing now. She isn’t teasing, or tucking her hands into her apron like she used to. She’s still, shoulders rising and falling, and when she reaches for the clasp of her cape, something in you acts before you think.

You grab her wrist, stopping her. The fabric of her sleeve is cool under your fingers, but the magic beneath is warm, thrumming like a second pulse.

She turns, slow and deliberate, dark eyes locking onto yours. Challenge flickers in them, amusement curling at the edges.

And then, before you can hesitate, you lift her hand and take her fingers into your mouth.

Darkness, cinnamon, chocolate. Power. It coats your tongue like silk, seeping into your senses, heady and intoxicating. The magic crackles between you, curling around your teeth like smoke.

Agatha hums, tilting her head. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, voice smooth as ever, but there’s something sharper beneath it. Something intrigued. Her free hand comes up, thumb dragging across your lower lip, smearing the taste further.

“You always were a little bold, weren’t you?”

You lick your bottom lip, chasing her finger without thinking, tasting the lingering traces of magic. Your breath comes quicker now, uneven, as you reach for her other wrist. She lets you, watching with something unreadable in her gaze—something dark, something knowing.

The air between you is thick, humming with power, and you’re caught in it, tangled in her web like it was always meant to be this way.

Agatha doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in, her smirk is electric. “Careful, darling,” she murmurs, her voice a velvet warning. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”

But you do. Or at least, you think you do.

“I don’t care,” you whisper, fingers tightening around her wrists.

She chuckles, low and indulgent. “No,” she agrees, tilting her head, studying you. “I don’t suppose you do.”

Her fingers twitch, and suddenly, magic flares, sparking against your skin. It doesn’t burn—it coils, spreading up your arms, slipping under your skin like it’s searching for something, like it’s testing you.

You shudder, but you don’t let go.

Agatha hums in approval. “Look at you,” she says, dragging her thumb along the inside of your wrist now, pressing where your pulse pounds. “So eager.”

You swallow hard, your stomach twisting, your mind hazy with the scent of her, the feel of her, the raw power that crackles in the space between your bodies.

“I want—” Your voice catches, your thoughts tangled, your whole body thrumming with something you don’t have words for.

Agatha raises a brow, her smirk widening. “Oh, I know what you want.”

And then, before you can answer, she leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, her voice nothing but a whisper of dark promise.

“The question is… can you handle it?”

The magic tightens, curling around your ribs like a lover’s embrace. Your breath is shaky, but your hands are steady as you tighten your grip on Agatha’s wrists. She allows it, her smirk deepening, dark eyes glittering with intrigue.

“Oh?” she muses, tilting her head, her voice all amusement. “Taking what you want?”

You swallow, emboldened by the way she watches you, by the way she lets you. The magic still crackles between your fingers, thrumming in your veins like a second heartbeat. You swear you can taste it on the air just as you did when it was on your tongue.

You step in closer, closing the space between you, feeling the warmth of her body even as her magic chills your skin. Your fingers slide up from her wrists, over her forearms, tracing the inky veins of power that have seeped into her skin.

Agatha lets you explore, watching, waiting.

And then, with a boldness you didn’t know you had, you push her back—just enough for her to hit the edge of the worn wooden table behind her.

She hums, arching a brow. “My, my. Where did this bravery come from?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when your head is spinning, not when the very air between you is thrumming with something unspoken, something you need.

Instead, you lift her hands and press them down against the table, holding her there. Your thumbs brush over the blackened veins on her wrists, and you wonder if the darkness is seeping into you, making you reckless, making you crave more.

Agatha sighs, a sound that’s almost pleased. “Sweet thing,” she purrs, voice curling around you like smoke. “You do know you’re playing with fire, don’t you?”

“I don’t care,” you whisper again, breathless. “I want—”

But before you can finish, the magic shifts.

The power in the air condenses, pressing in around you like a living thing, wrapping around your wrists before you even realize what’s happening.

And then, in a single effortless movement, your back slams against the table before you can react, and suddenly she’s the one above you, pressing her hands to either side of your head, her fingers sparking with dark energy.

Your breath catches.

Agatha smirks down at you, eyes glowing with something ancient, something thrilled.

“Oh, darling,” she coos, voice dripping with amusement. “You really thought you could keep me there?”

The magic tightens around you—not painful, just enough to remind you who really holds the power here.

She leans down, lips barely brushing your ear. “You’re lucky I find you entertaining.”

Your pulse pounds, every inch of your body alight with sensation, with magic, with her.

Agatha tilts her head, studying you like she’s considering what to do with you now. Her thumb drags slowly over your jaw, a stark contrast to the raw power crackling at her fingertips.

Then, she grins—sharp, knowing, dangerous.

“Now,” she murmurs. “Be a good girl, and let me show you how this really works.”

The magic surges.

And you know—you know—you’re entirely at her mercy

Agatha slides her fingers down, then up your throat, you can feel the crackle in them, they tingle against your skin and before you could stop it Agatha shoves her index and middle finger into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as she shoots her magic down your throat.

“Mmmph!” Your back arches and your eyes roll back as you come. It’s instantaneous, it’s strong, Agatha’s magic is flowing through you and sending you over the edge stronger than you’ve ever had before. “Fu-“ Your words are garbled around her skin and you reach up and grab her wrist with a tight grip.

Agatha hums in delight, her fingers pressed against your tongue, her magic pouring into you at a fast rate. It crackles through your veins like liquid fire, your whole body is trembling and you can’t help the way your hips jerk into her.

She tilts her head watching you eagerly as you fall apart with a sort of fascinated amusement. Like you were a toy. “So desperate for it.” She husks out, “So so sensitive too.”

You try to for words but all that comes out is a strangled whimper from around her fingers, you can feel her magic filling you up, warmth in your belly, heat in your ribs, and a deep and earth shattering pleasure directly on your clit that didn’t seem to stop.

Can you die from coming too hard? You think for a moment that Agatha just might kill you.

She chuckles, it’s deep and indulgent before she slips her fingers out of your mouth with a wet pop. A glistening string of saliva connects them to your lips before it snaps and she wipes the excess against your bottom lip. Watching as you relax against the table and flick your tongue out to clean up the mess she made on your chin.

“That’s my good girl.” She purrs and your pussy throbs at the praise.

You’re still gripping her wrist, fingers digging into her skin, but there’s no real fight in it. You’re not trying to stop her. If anything, you’re holding on for dear life, struggling to ground yourself, to find something solid in the overwhelming wave of sensation she’s just drowned you in.

Agatha leans down, her nose barely brushing yours, her breath warm against your lips. “Tell me, sweetheart,” she whispers, mockingly sweet, “was that the first time someone’s made you come without laying a single hand on you?”

Your stomach flips, heat pooling low, shame and desire tangling into something dangerous. “I want to taste you.” You breathe out, your words barely there. If she wasn’t so close she wouldn’t have heard you.

Agatha arches an eyebrow and you grab her wrist again, tugging on it, and she lets you lead her to the couch in the living room. You push her down and you lick your lips eagerly before kneeling down in between her thighs. “Can I-“

Agathas eyes are dark now, her blue eyes gone and replaced with dilated pupils. “Far be it from me to stop you.” Her voice is deep, husky, aroused and it sends a shot of heat from your chest all the way down to your core.

You slide her dress up, and up, and up and rest its abundance on her hips. A moan leaves your lips when you realize she’s not wearing panties. She’s pink, and swollen and so so wet. She’s dripping onto the back of her dress. And as you look, just for a second longer you can see a single rune, glowing above her clit. “Fuck.” You lean in and take your first swipe with your tongue. Her magic is flowing here too. You taste her, earthy, salty, but then there’s the cinnamon, the chocolate. Agathas magic is flowing through every single bit of her body and it makes you feel starved.

You wrap your arms around her thighs, placing them on your shoulders and you cover her with your whole mouth, eating her as desperately as you felt.

“Gods.” Agatha lays her head back on the couch and her dark fingers slide into your hair, tugging it as you lap up her juices. “Fuck that’s it, you’re so hungry for me aren’t you?”

You nod against her hold and you moan into her again, eager in your need to please, to taste, to consume. Your sucking on her now, filling your mouth with her magic and you’re delighted to feel her buck into your mouth. Until she pulls your hair a bit more and it forces you off of her.

“Hold your tongue out.” She’s looking at you again, and her face is flushed. She’s close, and you can tell. You do as you’re told, and Agatha slides forward slightly before rocking herself on your hard tongue. She whines and whimpers as she fucks herself. She’s spread her juices all over your face. “Fuck- that’s it you’re being so-so good for me. I’m going to“ Your nose hits her clit when she rocks upwards and her fingers clench your hair hard enough to cause pain.

You watch with greedy eyes, your tongue out, accepting every single bit of cum and magic that’s flowing into your mouth. Agatha was ethereal when she climaxed. Not to mention the dark that painted just her hands slid up and up and now covered nearly all the way up to her elbows.

“No!” You raise your hand, “You don’t get to call me that anymore, stay away from me.” You turn and you’re walking to the front door of your home.

“Please no. Please let me come back home, please, please, I’ll be a good girl.”

You look over your shoulder and your blood rushes to your ears as you see Agatha down on her knees, her purple slacks digging into the grass outside of your home, fresh hot tears flowing down her cheeks. “What is happening right now?” You whisper in confusion, your lower stomach burning at the sight.

“Please I’ll be so good. i’ll do whatever you want.” She crawls forward on her knees, her hands reach out but they don’t touch you, they’re trembling and pale in the moonlight. “Please Mommy, i’ll be such a good girl.”

Your jaw tightens, your heart pounding against your ribs as you stare at her—Agatha Harkness, the ever-powerful witch, on her knees, begging, looking so completely undone. The sight stirs something inside you, a complicated cocktail of emotions: anger, betrayal, and something darker, more twisted, and you can’t really decide if it’s entirely unwanted.

“Stop,” you snap, though your voice wavers. You can’t let her see how she affects you—not anymore. “This isn’t some game you can win, Agatha. This is my life—my heart—you keep playing with.”

Her tears flow freely now, streaking her mascara, and she looks up at you with an expression you’ve never seen before: raw, vulnerable, and utterly desperate. It makes you falter for a moment, but you shake it off, turning your face away to shield yourself from her pull.

“I know I hurt you,” she pleads, her voice hoarse, “I know I’ve been cruel, manipulative, selfish. But I—” she swallows hard, her breath hitching. “I can change. For you, I will. Just… don’t walk away. Don’t leave me alone in the dark. Please. Please don’t.”

You close your eyes, fighting back the memories of every tender moment you shared. Her laugh, her touch, her smile—they flash through your mind like a cruel montage. You know she’s capable of love; she’s shown it in her own way, but it always comes at a cost. And you’re tired of paying the price.

“Agatha,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you take another step back. “I can’t. I just can’t keep doing this.”

Her hands clutch at the hem of your jeans now, her fingers trembling as she looks up at you like you’re the sun and she’s desperate for warmth. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel it too,” she says, her voice has a bit more strength behind it, it’s nearly a purr. “You can’t tell me you don’t love me.

You freeze at her words, a lump forming in your throat. Of course, you love her. That was never the question. But loving Agatha has always been complicated, a labyrinth of shadows and light where the darkness threatened to consume you both.

“I do love you,” you admit quietly, and her face lights up with a fragile hope that nearly breaks you. “But love isn’t enough, Agatha. Not when it hurts this much.”

She shakes her head violently, her grip on you tightening. “No, no, no,” she chants like a mantra, her voice filled with panic. “You don’t mean that. You can’t mean that. Please, just tell me what to do—tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything. Anything.”

Your resolve begins to crack as she presses her forehead against your abdomen, her sobs shaking her body. But you force yourself to stay firm. “I’ve told you before,” you say, your voice soft but unyielding. “You can’t fix this with promises. I need actions, Agatha. I need to know I can trust you. And right now, I can’t.”

Her head lifts, her tear-streaked face etched with a mix of sorrow and determination. “Then let me prove it,” she begs. “Give me a chance to prove it, Mommy. Please.”

Your stomach burns at the way her voice drops, the way her lips wrap around the word, so vulnerable yet deliberate. It’s a plea and a challenge all at once, one you’re not sure you can ignore. She doesn’t stop. She’s staring up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, her lips trembling as she whispers again.

“Please, Mommy.”

Your breathing grows shallow, and you can’t tell if it’s fury, heartbreak, or the electric heat crawling up your spine that’s making you feel like this. You step forward, grabbing her chin roughly and tilting her face up to meet your eyes. Her lips part in a shaky breath, and the look in her eyes—pleading, submissive, full of unrelenting need—snaps something inside you.

“You think this fixes everything?” you hiss, your grip firm but not cruel. “You think you can just crawl back to me, say the right words, and it all goes away?”

Agatha shudders under your touch, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans into you, her hands reaching up further to grasp the fabric of your shirt as though it’s the only thing tethering her to reality. “No,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “But I don’t know how else to make you stay.”

Her words slice through you, and before you can think, before you can stop yourself, you bend down and crash your lips against hers. It’s not soft or tender it’s raw and demanding, a clash of teeth and desperation as you pour every ounce of anger, frustration, and unyielding desire into the kiss.

Agatha gasps against your mouth, her hands clutching at you like she’s terrified you’ll disappear if she lets go. Her moan vibrates against your lips, and it only fuels the fire burning inside you. You hate how much you want her, how easily she can unravel you even when you’re supposed to be furious with her. You pull back just enough to look at her, your breaths mingling as you glare into her wide, dilated eyes.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” you growl, your voice low and dangerous, and your hands are now cupping the back of her neck. Your fingers buried in the long brown hair that rested there.

Agatha nods quickly, her lips swollen and slick from your kiss. “I don’t care,” she breathes. “I’ll take anything. Just don’t push me away.”

You stare at her for a moment, your grip on her tightening in her hair as you try to sort through the chaos in your mind. The logical part of you screams to stop, to walk away before you fall back into the same toxic cycle. But the way she looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—makes it nearly impossible to pull away.

“Agatha…” you whisper, your voice cracking. She lifts her hand to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realised had fallen. You don’t even know when she stood.

“I’m yours,” she says softly, her voice trembling but steady. “No matter what. I’m yours.”

You close your eyes, resting your forehead against hers as you try to calm the storm raging inside you. For better or worse, Agatha Harkness has you wrapped around her finger. And despite everything, you’re not sure you want her to let go.

Your breath is heavy as you stay pressed against her. Her hands tremble where they cling to you, and you hate how much you crave her touch despite everything she’s done. Your mind screams at you to pull away, to put space between you and her, but your body refuses to listen.

Her lips part slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please… don’t stop loving me,” she murmurs, her eyes searching yours with a mixture of fear and longing. “I’ll be good. I promise. Just don’t leave me.”

Your jaw tightens as her words wash over you. “Agatha,” you begin, your voice low, dangerous, “do you even understand how much you’ve hurt me? How much damage you’ve caused?”

Her face crumples, guilt and despair etching themselves into her features. “I know,” she says, her voice breaking. “I know I’ve been selfish and cruel. I know I’ve pushed you too far. But I—” she swallows hard, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks, “I can’t lose you. I won’t survive it.”

You take a sharp breath, your emotions warring inside you. “You don’t get to just say that and expect me to forget everything, Agatha. You don’t get to manipulate me into staying.”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you,” she pleads, her hands sliding up to cradle your face. Her touch is warm, grounding, and it only makes it harder for you to think clearly. “I’m trying to show you that I need you. That I love you. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to you.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy with sincerity. For a moment, you’re silent, staring at her, trying to discern if this is another one of her games or if she truly means it this time. The vulnerability in her eyes, the way she’s holding you like you’re the only thing keeping her afloat, makes you believe, against your better judgment, that maybe she does.

“You say you’ll do whatever it takes,” you murmur, your fingers brushing against her jaw. “But what happens when it gets hard, Agatha? What happens when I ask you to be better and not just promise me you’ll change?”

Her grip on you tightens, her determination shining through her tears. “Then I’ll fight,” she says firmly. “For you. For us. I’ll fight every single day if that’s what it takes.”

You let out a shaky breath, the walls you’ve so carefully tried to build around your heart beginning to crack. “If I give you another chance, Agatha, there are no more lies. No more manipulation. You don’t get to play your games with me anymore.”

She nods fervently, her gaze locked onto yours. “I swear it,” she whispers. “No more lies. No more games. Just you and me, the way it should’ve been from the start.”

Your heart aches at the sincerity in her voice, and you curse yourself for wanting so badly to believe her. Against your better judgment, you lean in again, your lips brushing against hers softly this time, testing her resolve.

Agatha melts into you, her arms wrapping around your neck as she presses herself closer. The kiss is slow, deliberate, a silent promise that feels heavier than any words she’s spoken. When you finally pull away, her eyes are glassy but hopeful, her chest rising and falling as though she’s been holding her breath.

“I’m tying you up tonight.” you whisper, a breath away from her lips.. “you’ll let me do whatever i want to you, and you’ll be good, won’t you? Like you promised? Like you begged to be?” your tone is dominating, your eyes dark

Agatha’s breath catches, her wide eyes searching yours as your words sink in. Her lips tremble, her body stiffening for a brief moment before she nods, her cheeks flushed with a deep, telling heat.

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice shaky yet eager. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

You smirk, your thumb brushing over her lower lip before gripping her chin tightly, forcing her to hold your gaze. “You’d better,” you murmur, your tone dripping with authority. “Because if you don’t, I won’t be so forgiving.” You lead her inside, your hand on her lower back. Once you’re both in the foyer you close and lock the door before grabbing her hips.

Her body shudders beneath your touch, her hands twitching at her sides as though she’s unsure if she’s allowed to touch you. You lean in, your lips brushing against her ear, your voice dropping to a husky whisper.

“Strip.”

Her eyes widen, and for a moment, she hesitates, as if she’s testing to see if you’re serious. One sharp, expectant look from you though, and she’s moving. Her trembling fingers fumble with the buttons of her blouse, her breath quickening as she works to obey you.

You step back slightly, crossing your arms as you watch her, your gaze predatory and unrelenting. “Good girl,” you murmur as the fabric falls to the floor, leaving her exposed to your scrutiny.

Her hands instinctively move to cover herself, but you stop her with a low, commanding, “Don’t you dare.”

Agatha freezes, her arms dropping to her sides as she looks at you with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. You take a step forward, your hand trailing down her neck to her collarbone, your touch light but possessive.

“You’re mine. Completely and utterly mine. And you’ll let me do whatever I want, won’t you?”

Her breath hitches, and she nods fervently, her voice barely audible as she responds. “Yes.”

You smirk, your fingers tangling in her hair as you pull her into a rough, claiming kiss. You completely take over, sucking her tongue into your mouth before pulling away, leaving Agatha breathless and trembling, her lips parted as though she’s about to plead for more. But you’re not about to make it that easy for her. You let your fingers trail down her throat, over her chest, your touch light enough to tease but not enough to satisfy.

“Turn around,” you command, your voice steady and unyielding.

She hesitates for the briefest moment, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip, before obeying. Her movements are slow, deliberate, as though she’s savouring the moment. Once her back is to you, you step closer, your hands skimming over her bare shoulders and down her arms.

“Good girl,” you murmur, pressing your lips to the curve of her neck, making her shiver. “You’re already learning.”

Your hands drift lower, reaching her wrists. You grab them firmly and guide them behind her back, holding them in place as you whisper against her ear, “Stay still.”

From the corner of your eye, you spot the silk scarf you’d discarded earlier. Perfect. You let go of her wrists for just a moment, reaching for it, and you hear her whimper softly at the loss of your touch.

“You’re impatient tonight,” you tease, your voice smooth. “But that’s fine. You’ll learn to wait.”

Agatha’s head tilts slightly, her breathing uneven as you bind her wrists together with deliberate care, the soft fabric cinching against her skin. When you’re finished, you step back to admire your work, your gaze sweeping over her form.

“You look beautiful like this, completely at my mercy.”

Her cheeks flush deeper, and she glances over her shoulder at you, her voice soft and almost shy. “What are you going to do to me?”

You smirk, stepping closer and running your hand down the length of her spine, making her arch slightly. “Whatever I want,” you reply, your hand slides back up her back, slowly and torturous in pace, before your fingers wrap tightly into her hair, tugging her head back.. “And you’re going to take it like a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she breathes, her voice trembling with anticipation. Her blue eyes are closed and there’s a bright flush on her cheeks and chest.

You let her hair go, and she immediately relaxes, her chin falling down to press against her chest. You press a kiss to the back of her neck, your hands exploring her body with more confidence now. The power you hold over her is intoxicating, and you can feel her surrender in the way her body reacts to your touch.

You take your time with her, letting the moment stretch, the air thick with anticipation. Agatha’s breathing is shallow, her chest rising and falling as she waits, bound and vulnerable, completely at your mercy. The sight of her like this, the once-imposing witch now trembling and obedient under your control, sends a thrill coursing through you.

Your fingers trace slow, deliberate paths along her shoulders and down her arms, grazing the silk binding her wrists. You lean in close, your breath warm against her ear. “Do you trust me?” you ask softly.

“Yes,” she whispers without hesitation, her voice shaking but sure.

“Good.” You press a lingering kiss to the curve of her neck, your lips brushing over her skin as your hands wander down her sides, teasing her bare hips. “Because you’re not allowed to hide from me tonight. Not a single thought, not a single sound. I want all of you.”

She lets out a shaky exhale, her body leaning into your touch, and you can feel the way her muscles tense and relax beneath your hands.

Your lips start to press small and deliberate kisses against her right shoulder. You’re delighted to hear a soft and needy moan leave her throat, your soft lips slide against her warm skin before they reach right under her earlobe. “Remind me who you belong to again?”

Agatha takes a deep shuttering breath and she whimpers before answering. “You mommy.”

You hum in response and slide your palms up her sides, brushing your fingertips against her ribcage, and then back towards her spine before you push her over the end of the bed. “Crawl up, I want to see you.”

Agatha’s face heats as she realizes what you wanted from her, but she listens, like a good girl. She crawls up onto the bed properly on her knees and she leans down so her chest is pressed against a pillow, her ass on display, and more importantly, her soaked center.

“Fuck baby.”

Agatha whines at your appraisal, and she arches her back even more for you, her face now planted in the purple satin pillowcase.

“Look at you.” You whisper and press your thighs against the end of the bed, your fingers reach out to touch her pale skin. “So fucking beautiful for me.” You lick your lips, “Do me a favour darling and keep that face pressed into that pillow.”

You can see Agatha’s nod and she rocks a bit on her knees, it’s like she’s fucking herself on nothing at all and it sends a heat through your body, your cheeks are flushed. “You should be good like this, you’re being so well behaved for mommy, i think…” You look at the headboard, where two ties are already resting, “No I think you’ll be good just like this.”

Agatha let’s out a heavy sigh into the pillow and she leans up just slightly, her voice still quite muffled. “Mommy I promise I’ll be so so good just… Please.”

You smirk and you press a small kiss to her spine, her skin jumps underneath your lips and you chuckle before kissing lower, “Oh darling… I know.” You coo as you drag your lower lip up the skin on the back of her thigh.

Agatha’s face digs into the pillow and she tries to calm her breathing as your face, as your tongue gets closer and closer to where she wants you. She promised she would be good, and she intended to follow through. “Please.” She whimpers it out, and it’s pathetic and it’s so entirely muffled in the pillow that her eyes fill with tears. “Please please please.”

You raise your eyebrow from your spot, now you pull back slightly but you keep your palm on her ass, your thumb sliding over the small dent at the bottom of her back. “hm? What’s that? Do you need mommy?”

You watch as she trembles and you smirk. “Oh sweet girl, i bet you need it so bad don’t you? you need mommy’s fingers and tongue and you need me to fuck you so so good.” You’re voice is high, teasing, babying her. “Gods you’re dripping.” You moan out as you watch her arousal drip out of her and down her thigh. “Fuck look at you, all spread for me. Ready for me.”

Agatha starts rocking back and forth on her knees again, fucking herself with air. Her mind is working faster than anything, and your words were causing heat to flare out in her stomach. “Fuck mommy please.”

“So desperate,” your fingers slide down the back of her thighs. “You’re so pathetic Agatha, and so needy, you just want and want and want.”

A whine.

“You’re so pathetic for my attention, the moment you didn’t have it you broke didn’t you?”

Agatha’s shaking now, her thighs trembling as you watch her rock, her breathing is coming out in quick pants. “N-No wait- wait!”

“You’re such a fucking slut for me- you’d do absolutely anything I asked right now. Just for a bit—,” your fingers trail up the inside of her thigh, collecting her on your finger. “Of relief.” You suck the finger in your mouth and let out a hum.

Agatha can’t take this. She is crumbling, and its quick. “Please. Please wait” Her face is sweaty now, locks of brown hair sticking to her forehead as her cheek rests on the pillow. She’s so flushed.

“Imagine, imagine if all the covens knew? Imagine if everyone knew that the big, scary and horrible witch killer Agatha Harkness was laying face down-“

“Stop-“ Agatha chokes out.

“With her soaking pussy in the air-“

“No wait I’m gonna-“

“About to cum just because someone is being mean to her.”

“Fuck!”

Agatha isn’t loud, she’s usually in control, most sounds are muffled by a bitten lip, but right now? Right now she’s unrestrained, she screams. Like she didn’t expect this. Her thighs are now taught as she rides out her orgasm, and you an see her heartbeat pumping to her center. Juices flow out in copious amounts and you collect them with three fingers, ignoring Agathas cries of sensitive protest.

Once your fingers have enough on them. Your middle finger creating a ridge, collecting all the cum you could. “I love how much you give me.” You husk out, not even meaning to. Agatha was always generous when it came to coming, in your mouth, on your fingers, and now she’s done it for the first time untouched and she still made sure you had enough to swallow.

You can tell she’s waiting, you hear it in the way she’s holding her breath. But you move up the bed, your front pressing against hers and you delight in the moan that she lets out due to the contact. You bring your fingers up to her mouth. “Open.”

She gasps, and her eyes are dark, and desperate as they open up, she looks so wrecked like this. She listens, and she parts her mouth just enough fo you to put your fingers in and when she closes her mouth to suck your fingers clean her eyes flutter closed. “That’s a good girl.” You praise and you feel her rock back against you. “Jesus Agatha-“ You slap one of her ass cheeks and she moans loudly around your fingers. “Fuck.”

Agatha opens her mouth just enough for you to slide your fingers out and she presses her face against the pillow. “Thank you.”

You lick your lips, sliding a steady hand down her spine. “Thank you… Interesting, for what?”

Agatha whines into the pillow, fights a bit with the binds on her wrists and she lets out a breath.”Thank you for letting me….”

“Cum?” You supply, your cheeks hot with arousal.

“No.” Agatha wiggles a bit, her ass once again gaining your attention. “For letting me drink from your fingers.”

Heat crawls up your spine and pools right into your lower stomach. “Agatha… Are you ready?”

You were the only one in your family who could’ve answered the call, you’d been left to take care of your grandfather all alone. Simple as that. You just… Did not expect the woman on the other end of the line to look so… Pretty. How had you not seen her before today you would have remembered if you had.

Eve gives a bit of a smile but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, she’s too busy staring at the top of your sundress. “It’s fine…” She clears her throat and seems to realize what she’s doing because her eyes avert, “obviously if you can just let him know not to do that anymore, it would be extremely beneficial for us.”

“Of course, God I’m so sorry.”

Eve waves a hand dismissively, though her face still holds that tight, polite expression that suggests she’s used to dealing with uncomfortable situations. She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs.

“It’s not the first time we’ve had… incidents like this,” she admits, running a hand through her hair. “Though usually, it’s the men sneaking off to their rooms with an iPad on mute.” She gives a dry chuckle, then exhales, looking down at the folder in front of her like it holds the solution to all of this.

You nod rapidly, still burning with embarrassment. “Right, yeah, I—he’s, uh, he’s a little hard of hearing. And he’s lonely.” It feels like a stupid thing to say. It’s not like loneliness justifies blasting porn in a common area. You glance at Eve again, and she’s watching you—steadily, but softer now. Like she understands.

For a second, it throws you. You’d expected her to be exasperated, maybe even scold you, but instead, there’s something almost… knowing in her expression.

“I get that,” she says finally, pressing her lips together. Then she shakes her head like she’s shaking something off. “Look, I just need to mark down that I spoke to you, and as long as you have a conversation with him- maybe introduce him to, I don’t know, headphones?—then we can call this handled.”

You huff out a nervous laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

There’s a beat of silence. You should probably stand up, thank her again, and go. But you don’t. Eve’s looking at you with that same expression like she’s debating saying something else, but stopping herself.

Finally, she clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “You look young to be dealing with all this.”

You shrug. “Not much of a choice.”

Eve nods slowly, tapping her fingers against the desk. “That’s hard,” she says, like she actually means it. Then, after another pause, she adds, “I was a lot older than you when I realized I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. So… you’re ahead of me in that regard.”

The comment is self-deprecating, but there’s a quiet warmth behind it, and you find yourself smiling in spite of your mortification.

“Thanks, Mrs. Fletcher.”

Something flickers across her face at that.“Eve,” she corrects.

You swallow. “Right. Eve.”

She watches you for a second longer, then exhales and glances away, reaching for her pen. “Okay. I’ll let you get back to your day.”

And just like that, the moment is over. You stand up, smoothing your dress down, still feeling her eyes on you as you make your way to the door.

And maybe it’s your imagination, but as you leave, you swear you hear her let out a breath—one that sounds a little heavier than it should.

You’re almost out the door when Eve’s voice stops you.

“Hey,” she says, her tone softer now, like she’s reconsidering something she was about to let slip.

You turn back, the handle still in your hand. “Yeah?”

Eve hesitates for a moment, chewing on her lip. It’s the smallest of gestures, but it’s like a crack in her usually composed demeanor. Finally, she meets your gaze again, her expression unreadable, before she clears her throat.

“Just… for what it’s worth, I know what it’s like, dealing with the people you love, the way you have to adjust. The sacrifices you make. It doesn’t get easier, but it’s… normal, I think,” she says, her voice low, as if she’s speaking to herself more than to you.

The words linger in the air, heavy with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You nod slowly, unsure of what to say. You hadn’t expected her to share something so personal, and the vulnerability in her voice catches you off guard. You want to ask her more—ask what she means, how she knows—but before you can find the words, she pulls her gaze away and adjusts her hair behind her ears.

“I should go,” you mumble, suddenly feeling like the weight of her words is too much to carry.

Eve’s eyes flick back up, that brief, searching look in them before they settle back into something a little more guarded. “Yeah, sure. Take care of your yourself. And, um…” She pauses, hesitating for just a moment. “Don’t be a stranger.”

It’s an odd request, considering the situation, but something about it makes you feel seen in a way that’s almost disorienting. You blink a few times, feeling the familiar flush creeping back into your cheeks.

“I won’t,” you promise.

As you leave the room, the door clicking softly behind you, you wonder if you’ve just stepped into something far more complicated than a simple meeting about your grandfather’s behaviour.

You leave the nursing home with a lot on your mind. As much as you try to shake it off, Eve’s words echo in your head, like she’s drawn some kind of invisible line between the two of you—one you’re not sure you’re ready to cross, but find yourself thinking about all the same.

Later that evening, when you’re back at your apartment, standing in front of your refrigerator with no real appetite, the thought of her lingers. You find yourself wondering if maybe—just maybe—there’s more to her than the carefully curated version of herself she showed in that meeting room.

You shake your head, pushing the thought away, but it clings to you.

II

The next week, you return to the nursing home, bringing a pair of headphones with you for your grandfather. You head straight to Eve’s office, feeling that same knot of tension building in your stomach. You knock lightly, waiting for her response, but instead of the usual “come in,” there’s only silence.

After a moment, you slowly push the door open.

Eve’s sitting at her desk, her back to the door, fingers pressed to her temples like she’s trying to ward off a headache. She doesn’t hear you enter at first. You clear your throat softly, stepping inside, but she doesn’t immediately react.

“Eve?” you say, your voice quieter this time.

She turns at the sound of your voice, her eyes flicking to you before she blinks, quickly trying to compose herself. That brief, almost embarrassed glance she shoots you—like she didn’t expect to be caught in such a vulnerable moment—makes your chest tighten.

“Sorry, I—didn’t mean to…uh, space out,” she says, reaching for her mug, then looking back at you. She doesn’t smile this time, but there’s a softer edge to her voice. “What can I do for you today?”

You hesitate, holding out the headphones.

“I brought these. For my grandfather,” you explain, unsure of what else to say.

Eve’s eyes flick to the headphones, then back to you. There’s a pause, a silent exchange between you both. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she says, but her voice betrays a hint of something else—something like longing, maybe, but it disappears almost as soon as it appears.

You’re unsure of how to handle this. You wonder if she feels what you do—this strange, undeniable pull. It’s like you’re both standing on the edge of something, yet neither of you is brave enough to take the leap.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. It feels heavy.

Finally, Eve leans back in her chair, staring at the headphones for a long moment before meeting your eyes again.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice almost too soft. “I’m sure your grandfather will appreciate them.”

The way she says it like she’s talking to someone who understands, not just about a nursing home resident, but about the deeper thing you’re both avoiding acknowledging—makes your stomach flip.

You swallow, taking a step back. “I’ll… I’ll leave you to it,” you say, unsure of how to leave this strange, fragile moment between you intact.

Eve gives you a small nod, her gaze lingering on you just a second too long. “Take care of yourself,” she says, and you’re almost sure she means more than just the usual parting words.

You turn and leave, but this time, something has changed. The tension between you feels more real, and somehow, more dangerous.

III

The next few days pass in a blur. Your mind keeps returning to Eve, her voice, her gaze, and the way she seemed to almost open up when you’d caught her off guard in her office. It wasn’t a typical professional interaction—it felt… more. Like there was something else there, something beneath the surface. But you push it down.

Still, every time you return to the nursing home, which was going to be more often. You decided that last night, your hand sliding into your panties as you looked up at the ceiling.

It’s Wednesday when you find yourself walking out of the nursing home, you spot Eve standing by the front desk, speaking with a staff member. Her back is to you, but you can see the familiar way she holds herself, the slight curve of her posture, like she’s carrying more than just the weight of the conversation.

You approach slowly, trying not to feel like you’re intruding, but when she hears your footsteps, she turns and smiles, a soft, almost imperceptible curve of her lips.

“Hey,” she says, as if she’s relieved to see you. “How’s he doing?” The question is genuine, but there’s a quiet, almost personal quality to it that catches you off guard.

“He’s... good. He likes the headphones,” you say, offering a smile. “Thanks again for the suggestion.”

Eve’s eyes linger on you a little longer than necessary. Her expression shifts, like she’s weighing something in her mind, but she doesn’t say anything immediately. Instead, she lets out a breath, as if she’s trying to gather her thoughts. Then she looks down at her hands, fiddling with a pen in her fingers.

“You’re doing a good job with him,” she says finally, looking back up. “I can see how much you care.”

Her words make your chest tighten, and for a moment, you feel exposed—like she sees something inside you that no one else does. You don’t know how to respond to that, so you just nod.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice a little quieter than you intended. You stand there, unsure if you should stay or leave, but before you can decide, Eve shifts her weight slightly, her gaze flicking down the hallway.

“Have you had a chance to... take a break? You should, you know,” she says, her voice lower now, almost as if she’s speaking to herself. “You’re working so hard to juggle everything, and it can’t be easy.”

You blink at her, not entirely sure where this is going. “I... I don’t really have time for a break.”

Eve tilts her head, and there’s something in her expression soft, almost longing, maybe even need, but you can’t quite decipher. It makes you feel like there’s more she’s not saying “You deserve one,” she murmurs, her eyes flickering back to you. “You’ve got to look after yourself too.”

You find yourself standing a little too close now, the space between you feeling charged. It’s ridiculous, really—this is a professional setting, and yet, the tension between you is palpable, lingering in the air like an unspoken promise.

“Maybe you’re right,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. You can’t tell if you’re agreeing with her because you believe it, or because it’s the only thing you can think of to say.

Eve shifts her weight again, her fingers pressing a little too firmly against the pen in her hand. Her expression wavers, as if she’s on the verge of saying something more, but then she pulls back, offering you a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. They’re darker now.

“I’ll let you go then,” she says, and for the first time, there’s a hint of something warmer in her tone. “But if you ever need someone to talk to…” She trails off, then adds, almost too casually, “I’m here.”

You swallow, suddenly aware of the way your heart is beating faster, the way she’s looking at you. There’s a connection here—a tension that’s only grown over the past few weeks. You’re almost afraid to acknowledge it, to admit that maybe this isn’t just about your grandfather after all.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say finally, your voice steady, even though your thoughts are anything but.

Eve nods, her eyes lingering on you for just a moment too long. “Take care of yourself,” she says again, her voice soft, but with a layer of something else.

You leave, feeling that familiar buzz of energy in your chest, as if you’re both walking on the edge of something that could easily tip over into something far more complicated than either of you are prepared for.

Later that evening, when you're finally home, you replay the conversation in your mind. The way she’d looked at you, the subtle way her body language shifted when you stood so close, the way she’d offered her presence without fully acknowledging the tension between you.

But the thought of her her eyes, her voice, her perfume, the quiet way she sees right through you—sticks with you long after you should’ve been asleep.

IIII

The next time you see Eve, it’s late in the afternoon. The nursing home has emptied out somewhat, and the bustle of the day has settled into a quieter rhythm. You’re on your way to the recreation room to see your grandfather when you catch a glimpse of her down the hallway. She’s standing at the front desk again, this time flipping through a clipboard, but you can see she’s not really reading anything. Her gaze is distant, unfocused, like her mind is elsewhere.

You hesitate before walking over. You don’t want to disturb her, but then again, there’s something about the way she’s standing there, so still and almost lost in thought, that makes you want to go to her.

As you approach, she glances up. For a second, you almost swear you see something shift in her expression—like her eyes flicker over you in a way that’s different. There’s a hesitation before she forces a smile, but it’s a little tight at the edges.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft, as if she’s trying to pull herself out of whatever it was that had been occupying her thoughts. She sets the clipboard down, but her fingers linger on the paper a moment longer than they should. It’s almost like she’s holding on to something, some thread of a thought she doesn’t want to let go.

“Hi,” you reply, unsure of where this interaction will go, but something feels different today. The air between you feels thick, charged. Maybe it’s because of the last conversation, or maybe it’s because the space between you has been steadily shrinking. Either way, it feels like the slightest movement could tip things over.

Eve lets out a soft breath, her lips pressing together like she’s fighting a smile or a sigh. “How’s your grandfather today?” she asks, she hadn’t seen him yet, and her eyes are meeting yours in a way that feels deliberate. A little too long.

“He’s good,” you say quickly, trying to brush off the tension. “He’s adjusting better with the headphones.” You give her a small, awkward smile, but you can’t shake the feeling that her attention is somewhere else. Her gaze keeps flicking down to the papers, but she doesn’t seem to be reading them anymore. Her fingers tap against the clipboard, almost absentmindedly.

Eve’s eyes move to you again, and this time, there’s no mistaking it. There’s a deep focus in her gaze—like she’s cataloging every detail about you. The way you stand. The way you move. The subtle shift in your expression when you mention your grandfather. There’s a hunger behind her eyes that she tries to hide, but it’s there, simmering just beneath the surface.

“You know, you really don’t have to keep coming here so often,” she says suddenly, as if the thought has just occurred to her. Her voice is too light, too casual, as though she’s trying to disguise the fact that the suggestion feels a little too personal. It’s like she’s trying to convince herself more than you.

“I—I know. It’s just… I don’t want to leave him alone too much,” you stammer, but then you stop yourself. “Sorry, I shouldn’t-.”

“No, it’s okay,” Eve says, her tone softer now. Her lips quirk again, but she bites them, like she’s holding something back. Her fingers slide over the papers slowly, tracing the edges with a quiet, absent motion. But you notice the way she’s holding herself, the tension in her posture, the way her gaze flickers to you again—just a second longer than it should.

It’s hard not to feel like she’s caught in some internal conflict, some war between the woman who knows she’s supposed to keep it professional and the part of her that’s longing for something else. The subtle shift in her gaze, the brief flashes of warmth when her eyes meet yours, the way her breathing becomes just a little deeper when she’s talking to you—these are things you notice, even if she tries to hide them.

You want to ask her what’s going on in her mind, but you can’t seem to form the words. Instead, you stand there, unsure of whether you should leave or stay, your thoughts tangled with hers in a way you’re not sure you can control anymore.

Finally, Eve exhales softly, her shoulders drooping a little, like she’s released some unspoken tension. Her eyes flicker to the hallway for a moment, then back to you, and for a split second, you catch a glimpse of something raw in her expression. A flicker of something unspoken.

“I should probably go,” she says, her voice low, almost to herself. “I have some things to take care of.”

There’s a heaviness in her words. You don’t think it’s just about the paperwork.

“Okay,” you reply, but you don’t move to leave right away. You want to stay, but it’s like you’re both waiting for something—waiting for the other to make a move.

But she doesn’t, not yet. Her gaze drops to the clipboard again, her fingers sliding over the paper in the same absent manner.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, Eve clears her throat softly, almost too softly, as if she’s trying to shake something from her thoughts. “You know,” she says, her eyes still not meeting yours. “Sometimes, it’s hard to remember who we are, when we’re always taking care of someone else.”

The words hang in the air, thick with something unspoken. You want to reach out, to say something, but all you can do is nod, the words stuck in your throat.

Eve shifts again, her fingers running through her hair. She doesn’t look at you, but you catch the way her breath catches, the way her chest rises and falls a little faster than normal.

When she finally looks up, there’s a quiet, lingering tension between you. It’s not just the situation—it’s everything. The way her gaze drifts from your eyes to your lips, and back again. The way her voice falters when she speaks.

Her smile is soft, but there’s something dangerous in it, something that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Be safe,” she says, and this time, it sounds like a command more than a suggestion.

You stand there for a moment, rooted to the spot, and then, without another word, you turn and walk away.

But the tension lingers, vibrating between you both, pulling at something deep inside.

V

You’d almost forgotten about the outing. Your grandfather had insisted on coming, his enthusiasm outweighing his usual grumbling. It was a crisp Saturday morning, and the nursing home had arranged a group outing to a local café. A rare treat, and one that, for a moment, made you forget how much you were juggling. You decided to go along, just to make sure everything went smoothly.

The café was bustling, the scent of coffee mingling with the chatter of the other patrons. You managed to find a seat in the corner, helping your grandfather settle in with a cup of tea while you glanced around the room. It was a bit quieter than you’d expected—until you saw her.

Eve stood in the doorway, taking a quick look around the café before her gaze landed on you.

The moment your eyes met, something shifted in her expression. You saw it clearly now—how her breath seemed to catch, how her eyes changed just the slightest bit. A brief flicker of surprise, followed by a slow exhale. Her lips parted just slightly, like she hadn’t realized how much she was anticipating this moment.

For a split second, Eve looked… stunned. Like you’d just interrupted her thoughts. The way she paused, the way she blinked a few times as if trying to snap out of a trance, made your pulse spike. It was like she was seeing you for the first time again, but more… more than that.

You glance away, unsure of how to interpret it. You had no idea you were having this effect on her. You’d always thought of Eve as distant, professional—a woman whose thoughts never lingered long enough on anyone to make them uncomfortable. But now, watching the way she carefully composed herself, you realize just how wrong you’d been.

It was subtle, but when you turned back to her, she had found a smile—small, but genuine—and walked toward your table, as if the brief moment of vulnerability had never happened. “Hey there,” she says, her voice warm, but with a hint of something else behind it. Something unspoken.

“Hi, Eve,” you reply, trying to keep your tone casual. You glance down, catching a glimpse of her hands—she’s holding her coffee cup a little too tightly, as though the action grounds her.

She glances over at your grandfather, who’s happily chatting away, oblivious to the underlying current between you both.

“Looks like he’s doing well,” Eve observes, her eyes softening as she watches him. Then she turns her focus back to you. “I’m glad you could make it out today. How’s everything going?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get stuck, tangled up in the way she’s looking at you. Something is different now. You feel the weight of her gaze, heavier than before. And though she’s still smiling, the air between you both seems thick with all the things that haven’t been said.

“I’m… doing okay,” you finally manage, your voice quieter than you intended. “It’s a lot, but… today’s been good.”

She nods, but there’s something in the way she watches you now. It’s almost like she’s absorbing every detail—the way you speak, the slight nervousness in your eyes, the way you adjust in your seat. The way your lips part just a little too much as you speak.

And you’re almost certain that’s not just the coffee you’re smelling. Something’s changed in the space between you both—something that’s pulling at the edges of the conversation, like a slow unraveling. You wonder if she’s aware of it too.

Eve’s fingers curl around the coffee cup a little tighter, her knuckles whitening. She shifts her weight, but doesn’t look away from you, not completely. It’s a look that speaks volumes, one you hadn’t noticed before—the heat, the way she seems to be drinking you in. She’s trying to keep it hidden, to maintain that calm, professional demeanor, but the way she’s breathing… it betrays her.

For the first time, you feel the full force of it. She wants something. You can see it in the way her eyes move across your face, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on your lips before quickly pulling away. She’s been thinking about you, no question about it.

You can feel it now—the way her desire simmers just beneath the surface, tangled with the professional mask she tries to hold up. The way she breathes a little more shallowly when she’s near you, the way her lips press together like she’s trying to stop herself from saying something she doesn’t want to admit.

You swallow, trying to hold your own composure. This was too much. Too real. Too… dangerous.

“I—” you start, but she cuts you off, her voice suddenly low, a little too careful.

“Have you been getting enough rest?” she asks, her gaze finally dropping to her coffee cup for just a moment, like she’s trying to compose herself. But there’s still that edge to her tone, that unmistakable desperation.

“I’m... fine,” you say, your voice wavering slightly. “Just a lot on my plate, you know?”

She nods slowly, but her eyes are still on you, like she’s trying to make sense of what’s happening between you two. Her lips part again, as though she’s about to say something else, but she stops herself at the last moment.

There’s a long pause.

Then, almost like she’s made up her mind, she says, “If you ever need someone to talk to... really talk, I mean... you know where to find me.”

It’s an invitation, but it’s not just an offer of help. There’s something more. A thread, so thin, but undeniable. She means it—all of it. Her eyes, her voice, the way she looks at you, like she’s offering more than just friendship.

You want to respond. You want to say something that matches the weight of her words. But the moment feels too fragile, like anything you say could shatter what’s between you. So, you just nod, the moment stretching between you both.

And that’s when you realize—this is real. Eve has been daydreaming about you. And now, in the quiet space between the two of you, the desire she’s been hiding is no longer something she can ignore.

VI

The week drags on, and by the time you step into Eve’s office like she offered the week prior, you’re already feeling the weight of the day’s frustration build. Your head is spinning with work, family obligations, and everything in between. The last thing you need is to bottle it all up. You know you’re here to talk about your grandfather, but that feels like the last thing on your mind right now.

Eve is sitting behind her desk, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She glances up at you as you enter, offering a small smile, but you can tell her mind isn’t entirely present. You pace back and forth for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts, but the irritation inside of you keeps bubbling up.

“I swear, this job is going to kill me one of these days,” you begin, your voice rising slightly, frustration seeping through. “I’m running around all the time, balancing so many things, and nobody gets it. Not even my boss. I feel like I’m being pulled in a million directions and—” You cut yourself off for a moment, realizing you’re practically ranting, your breath coming in quick bursts.

You glance over at Eve, and that’s when it hits you. Her eyes are on you—intense, focused, but not on your words. No, she’s looking at you in a way that makes your stomach drop. It’s not the usual professional distance; it’s something far more personal, something that feels… invasive. Her gaze is fixed on you, and her lips are parted slightly, like she’s caught in a trance. She’s flushed, a faint pink creeping up her neck, and there’s a tension in her posture, her body almost leaning forward, as if she’s drawn to you.

You swallow thickly, your heart suddenly beating faster as the realization hits you: she’s not just listening—she’s fucking you.

You stand still for a moment, unsure how to proceed, but then, without thinking, you step forward, the space between you narrowing. You walk to the front of her desk, your mind racing. You sit down on the edge, the movement deliberate, bringing you much closer to her than you had anticipated.

Her gaze snaps up to meet yours immediately, but she doesn’t look away. She’s frozen for a second, like she’s trying to process what’s happening.

“Eve…” you say softly, but with a teasing edge in your voice. You raise an eyebrow, trying to make sense of what’s going on between you. “Are you even listening to me?”

Her breath hitches ever so slightly, and for a moment, you think you see a flicker of guilt in her eyes—but it’s quickly replaced by something else. Something darker. She opens her mouth to respond, but her words falter, her eyes still locked on you.

You watch as she swallows, her gaze darting from your eyes to your lips, then back to your eyes. She doesn’t say anything immediately. Instead, she shifts in her chair, as if the proximity is unsettling her, but in a way that makes her more aware of you.

“I… I’m sorry,” Eve mutters, her voice tight. She clears her throat, but it doesn’t do much to break the tension between you two. She straightens up, trying to maintain her composure, but you can still see it. You can feel it. There’s something unspoken hanging in the air.

Her fingers twitch, like she’s fighting the urge to reach out, but she doesn’t. She presses them down into the desk, trying to keep herself grounded, but it’s clear she’s struggling.

“You’re frustrated,” Eve says, her voice strained. “I understand… but maybe... you’re letting it get to you too much.” She’s trying to sound professional again, but you can hear the slight catch in her voice, the way it betrays her.

You lean forward, just a little, closing the distance between you both even more. Your heart is pounding now, and you can feel the charge in the air—the almost electric connection that’s impossible to ignore.

“Eve…” you repeat, your voice quieter now, coaxing her to look at you. “I’m not talking about work anymore.”

She stiffens, her eyes widening just a fraction before they drop, her breath coming a little faster. She’s struggling to keep it together, but her hands are trembling just slightly at her sides. You can tell she’s fighting it—fighting the pull. Fighting her fantasies.

For a moment, there’s silence between you two. The only sound is your breathing, quick and shallow. Eve doesn’t look at you; she’s staring down at the desk, biting her lip, as though trying to hold onto the remnants of her composure.

You stay there, on the edge of her desk. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, each of you on the brink of something you might not be able to take back. She’s not pulling away, though. That’s what’s so strange—so intoxicating. Her breath hitches again, and you know she’s aware of how close you are, of how her body is reacting to you being this near. She can smell your perfume, can practically feel the warmth of your thigh.

“I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t…” Eve begins, but her voice trails off, like she’s struggling to find the right words. She looks at you, finally meeting your eyes, and for a moment, the world outside the two of you doesn’t exist. It’s just Eve, just the raw emotion simmering between you, thick and heavy.

She swallows hard, and then, in a voice so quiet you almost don’t hear it, she says:

“Can I kiss you?”

Your stomach twists. And your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that. It’s not the words themselves—it’s the way she says them, the way her voice shakes ever so slightly, like she already knows she shouldn’t be asking, like she’s been holding back for so long that it’s become unbearable.

Her fingers press into the desk, gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. She’s not even breathing properly now, her chest rising and falling unevenly, her lips parted just enough to tell you how badly she wants this. Wants you.

Your heartbeat is deafening in your ears.

Eve Fletcher—reserved, careful, composed Eve Fletcher—just asked you to kiss her.

You could. Right now, you could lean in, close the distance, press your lips to hers, and feel the exact thing she’s been fantasizing about—maybe for weeks. Maybe longer. You could let her have what she’s so clearly craving.

But you don’t.

Instead, you tilt your head, watching her closely, taking in the way she’s practically unraveling in front of you. The way she’s waiting. “Eve,” you say softly, your voice deliberately measured, teasing. “Are you sure you want that?”

Her breath shudders, and she blinks rapidly, like she’s trying to collect herself, trying to think—but it’s too late for that now, isn’t it? “I—” she starts, but she doesn’t finish. She just looks at you, her pupils blown wide, her hands gripping the desk so tightly her knuckles are white. She’s desperate. And she hates that she’s desperate. But that only makes it worse for her, doesn’t it?

You shift slightly on the desk, your knee brushing against her thigh, and the soft sound she makes—the barely-there hitch of breath—sends a pulse of something sharp and electric down your spine.

Eve inhales sharply, her fingers twitching like she wants to reach for you but can’t, like she knows if she does, she won’t be able to stop herself.

You lean in just enough so that you can feel the warmth of her breath against your lips, and her eyes flutter closed for a second, like she’s already imagining it, already feeling it before it even happens.

But then—then you pull back. Not much. Just enough. Just enough to leave her hanging.

Her eyes snap open, confusion flickering through them first. Then frustration. Then—something else. Something deeper. Something devastating. “You’re not gonna give it to me,” she realizes, her voice almost breaking. It’s not even a question.

You smile. Just a little. Just enough to let her know that you see her. That you know exactly what’s happening inside her head.

“Not yet,” you murmur.

Eve exhales shakily, her jaw tightening, her hands flexing like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She looks wrecked. Utterly wrecked. And you’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

Her gaze drops to your lips again, her breathing shallow, and she shifts in her seat like she’s trying to ground herself, like she’s trying to remember who she is and where she is and why she can’t just take what she wants. Like she’s trying to relieve the ache.

And now that she knows what it feels like to want something this badly and not get it—it’s going to drive her insane.

You can already see it happening.

Her fingers flex. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Her entire body is tense with restraint, and you know—you know—she’s going to be thinking about this later. Thinking about you. Thinking about what she asked for. Thinking about how close she got. And how you didn’t give it to her.

Not yet.

You straighten up, letting the moment stretch just a little longer, letting the silence between you simmer until it’s thick enough to suffocate. Then, just when you know she can’t take much more, you lean down, your lips close to her ear, your voice barely a whisper. “Maybe next time.”

And then you pull away completely, standing up from the desk, your body still thrumming with the heat of the moment, with the sheer power of leaving Eve Fletcher like this. She doesn’t move. She just sits there, her breath unsteady, her hands still gripping the desk like she’s afraid she might fall apart. She looks up at you—dazed, frustrated, aching—but she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to. You’ve already won. And she knows it.

VII

You shouldn’t be here. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself when you step into Eve’s office again, closing the door behind you with a quiet click. You don’t know why you came today—your grandfather is fine, you don’t really need to be here, but maybe that’s not the point anymore.

Maybe the point is her.

Eve looks up from her desk when you enter, and immediately, you know.

She’s different today. She’s tense in a way that has nothing to do with stress. Her hands, usually so composed, are clasped tightly in front of her, like she’s forcing herself to stay still. Her eyes flicker to you—just for a second—but that second is enough.

Enough for you to see how much she’s struggling.

Enough for you to know that she’s been thinking about it. About you. About the way you left her last time, breathless and wanting, with nothing but a whisper in her ear and an ache she couldn’t do anything about. And now?

Now, it’s worse. Because you’re here again. And she still wants.

You clear your throat, shifting your weight. You try to act normal, but the moment you open your mouth, you realize how impossible that is. “So, about last time—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Eve cuts you off so quickly, so desperately, that it makes you pause. She isn’t even looking at you anymore.

You take a slow breath, tilting your head, watching her carefully. “You don’t?”

Eve exhales sharply, pushing back from her desk like she needs the space, like if she stays too close, she might do something reckless. “No, I don’t,” she repeats, firmer this time, but there’s a waver in her voice that betrays her. She’s lying.

You know she’s lying. You take a step closer. “Eve.”

Her shoulders tense. Another step.

“Look at me.”

She hesitates—just for a second—but then she does. And fuck. She looks ruined. Her pupils are blown wide, her breathing shallow, her fingers gripping the arm of her chair like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Like she’s about to break.

She’s been fighting it. For weeks, she’s been fighting it. But you can tell—she’s so, so close to losing. And you? You want her to lose.

You move even closer, so close that you can see the slight tremble in her hands, the way her lips part just slightly when she looks up at you. “You don’t want to talk about it,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, lower. “But that’s not the same as not thinking about it.”

Eve inhales sharply, her hands clenching.

You lean in, just slightly, just enough to see how she reacts—how she shudders at the proximity, how her breath catches in her throat.

She’s so close. So, so close to breaking. And then—You nearly do, too. Because she looks up at you, her expression raw, her body pleading for something she won’t let herself take, and suddenly, it’s you that’s fighting restraint.

Suddenly, it’s you that wants to snap. Your fingers twitch. Your jaw tightens. Because this is Eve Fletcher. She’s older than you, she’s supposed to be collected, she’s supposed to be in control—

And yet, here she is, unraveling for you. All because of you. You exhale, slow, steady. You can feel the heat between you, the electric pull that’s been there since the very first time she let her eyes linger too long.

You could kiss her right now. You could kiss her, and she would let you. Hell, she would melt for you. But, you don’t. You let the moment stretch, let the air thicken, let her feel how badly you could take her if you wanted to.

And then, at the last second—You pull away. Eve flinches. It’s barely noticeable, but you see it. The moment is gone. The tension doesn’t snap—it lingers, unfinished, unbearable. She swallows, blinking rapidly, looking anywhere but at you.

You exhale, running a hand through your hair, trying to ground yourself. You almost lost the game you started. Almost.

Eve stands abruptly, her hands shaking slightly as she reaches for something—anything—to make it seem like she still has control over herself. “I think—” She clears her throat, voice hoarse. “I think you should go.”

You watch her for a long moment, taking in the way she’s avoiding your gaze now, how she’s holding herself so stiffly, like she doesn’t trust her own body. You smirk, not cruelly, but just enough. Just enough to let her know that you saw her. That you see her now.

You step back, moving toward the door. You reach for the handle, but before you leave, you pause—just for a second. Just long enough to say “I’ll see you next week, Eve.”

You don’t wait for her response. You don’t need one. Because when you glance back one last time, she’s standing there, frozen in place, staring at the empty space where you were just standing—Like she already knows she’s going to be thinking about the interaction in bed tonight.

VIII

Walking into Eves office the next Wednesday you freeze in the doorway. She knew you’d be here. She knew, and—fuck. Your breath catches in your throat the second you see her. The dress she’s wearing is new. You know it’s new, because Eve doesn’t dress like this. Not in front of you. Not in front of anyone. And there’s remnants of a tag on her side.

Today, she’s in something sleek, something black, something with a neckline that dips just low enough to feel deliberate. Something that hugs her in all the right places, something that makes it impossible to look anywhere but at her. She’s baiting you.

And she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Eve,” you say, breathless, gripping the folders you were holding tighter against your chest like they might shield you from whatever the fuck this is. “That’s not fair.”

Eve doesn’t smile, not exactly—but there’s something there, something in the way she tilts her head, in the way her lips part like she’s already won.

“What’s not fair?” she asks, all soft innocence, like she’s not standing there looking like this, like she’s not doing this for you.

You swallow thickly, forcing yourself to move forward, forcing yourself to act normal, to sit in the chair across from her like you’re not feeling the weight of every single second you’ve spent not touching her.

Eve sits, crossing her legs slowly, deliberately, and your eyes flicker downward before you can stop them. Her lips twitch. She saw that. Fuck.

You inhale deeply, setting your folders down, trying—trying—to ignore the fact that your hands are shaking slightly. “You look…” You hesitate, trying to find the right word, trying not to say what’s really on your mind.

Eve raises an eyebrow. Waiting.

You exhale sharply, looking away. “Different.”

“Different?” she echoes, her voice softer now, amused, with the undercurrent of need.

You shift in your seat, jaw tightening. “You know what you’re doing.”

She doesn’t deny it. Instead, she leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk, closing the distance between you just enough to make your stomach clench.

“Do I?” Her voice is quieter now, coaxing.

Your entire body is burning. “Yes,” you breathe, because if you don’t say it out loud, you might actually lose your mind.

Eve hums, tilting her head, studying you, and fuck—this is different.

This isn’t last week, when she was barely holding it together. This isn’t Eve caught off guard, flustered and desperate.

This is Eve deciding. This is Eve choosing to make you suffer. She thinks she has the upper hand. And that’s when you move. You stand abruptly, walking over to her desk in a slow, measured stride.

Eve blinks, startled, her confidence wavering for just a second as you set your folders down firmly on top of her paperwork—like nothing else in this office matters but you and her. Then, without a word, you reach for her wrist. And you pull her up.

Eve gasps softly as she stumbles to her feet, her body pressing against yours, her balance thrown by how quickly the moment has flipped.

You’re close now, so close you can feel the warmth of her body against yours. So close you can see the moment her resolve shatters. Your fingers reach up, slow, deliberate, clasping her chin, tilting her face toward yours.

Eve’s breath stutters. She doesn’t pull away. She won’t. Her eyes flicker down to your lips, and your noses brush, the slightest contact, just enough to feel how badly she wants more.

Your voice is a low, husky whisper when you speak. “If you ever tease me again,” you murmur, tilting her chin just a little higher, making sure she’s listening, “you’ll regret it.”

And then—before she can process what’s happening, you bite her bottom lip. Not hard. Just enough. Just enough to make her inhale sharply, to make her feel it, to make her fingers twitch at her sides like she’s aching to grab you.

And then you pull away. Completely. Like nothing just happened. Like she’s not standing there, stunned, ruined, her lips still parted in silent shock. You smooth the front of your shirt, and flash her the slightest smirk before stepping back.

“I’ll see you next week, Eve,” you say, voice steady, even, like this was just business.

And then you turn, walking toward the door without another glance back. You don’t need to look. You already know. Eve Fletcher is standing behind you, fingers pressed to her lips, eyes wide, body still reeling from what just happened.

And she’s going to fuck herself for hours tonight thinking about it.

VIIII

Eve is spiraling. You know she is. Because when you show up the next week, she can’t even look at you.

You step into her office like always, closing the door behind you, expecting another round of the same game—the tension, the teasing, the way she pushes only for you to pull harder. But today? Today, she’s different. She’s nervous. You can feel it the moment you walk in.

She’s seated at her desk, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles are turning white. Her shoulders are stiff, her posture too rigid. She doesn’t greet you, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t even attempt to play coy.She’s completely avoiding your gaze.

You shut the door and take a slow step forward, tilting your head, watching the way her breath hitches at the sound. “You’re quiet today,” you murmur, setting your folders down on the desk, forcing her to acknowledge you.

Eve swallows, shifting slightly in her chair, her eyes flickering up to meet yours—just for a second—before darting away again. “I—” She stops herself, exhales slowly. “I thought maybe we should keep things… professional.”

You pause. Professional? That is adorable. Your lips twitch, and you round the desk without hesitation, just like you did last week. Just like before. And just like before, Eve’s body tenses at your proximity.But this time?This time, she doesn’t try to tease.

This time, she looks genuinely terrified of what you might do to her.

You place your hands on the edge of the desk, leaning down, forcing her to either meet your gaze or look away again.

She chooses to look. And fuck, she’s unraveling already. Her breathing is uneven, her pupils blown, her lips parting slightly like she’s begging for something she won’t say out loud.

“Professional?” you echo, your voice low, amused. “That’s what you want?”

Eve’s jaw tightens. “Yes.” It’s a lie.

You watch her for a long, agonizing moment, letting the silence stretch, letting her feel it.

She squirms slightly under your gaze, shifting in her chair, gripping her hands tighter in her lap.

You exhale slowly, your breath fanning against her cheek. “Then why,” you whisper, “are your thighs clenched so tightly right now?”

Eve inhales sharply. And there it is. The moment she completely falls apart.

Her face flushes deep red, her fingers twitch, and she finally—finally—looks away, squeezing her eyes shut like she can physically will herself out of this. Like she can pretend she isn’t completely wrecked by you.

You lean in closer, just enough to brush your lips against her ear, just enough to make her shiver. “Do you want me to stop?” you murmur.

Eve doesn’t respond at first. Because she can’t. She’s frozen. And then, barely above a whisper— “… No.”

Your lips twitch into a smirk. That’s all you needed to hear. You lean back, straighten up, and grab your folders like you didn’t just ruin her entire day. Like you didn’t just win once again.

Eve stays still, completely stiff, staring straight ahead like she’s too afraid to move, too afraid to let herself feel what’s happening.

You step back, toward the door, turning just before you leave.

“I’ll see you next week, Eve.”

Your voice is calm, controlled.

Hers is wrecked. “… Okay.”

X

This is it. The tension is thicker. More volatile. More aggressive, maybe even angry. She’s already unraveling. She’s already wrecked. You don’t even have to touch her. You just step inside, close the door, and look at her. And Eve Fletcher is done for.

She’s standing by her desk, not even pretending to work, not even pretending she has control anymore. Her hands are gripping the edge of the desk, white-knuckled, like she’s physically holding herself back from you.

She looks exhausted. Ruined. Like she hasn’t slept all week. Like she’s been thinking about you every second of every day. And when she finally meets your gaze—

She shatters.

“You have to stop this,” she breathes, her voice low, desperate, pleading.

You tilt your head, stepping closer, watching the way she sways slightly, the way her breathing stutters the second you move.

“Stop what?” you ask, slow, deliberate.

Eve exhales shakily, looking at you like she’s seconds away from completely losing herself.

“This.” She gestures vaguely between the two of you, swallowing thickly. “I—I can’t—” She cuts herself off, her hands flexing against the desk, her body rigid, like she’s fighting something she knows she can’t win.

You take another step forward.

Eve flinches.

Not away. Towards you. Like her body is betraying her, like every part of her is screaming to just give in. And then, before you can say another word— She moves.

Fast. Desperate. Thoughtless.

She reaches for you, grips your shirt, pulls you in hard—

And kisses you. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s messy. Like she’s been starving for it. Like she couldn’t take it anymore.

Her lips crash against yours, her body pressing into you like she needs this to survive. Her hands are shaking where they clutch your clothes, like she’s terrified you’ll pull away, like she knows she’s made a mistake but can’t stop.

And for a second. Just one—You let her have it. You let her kiss you. You let her take what she wants. You let her drown in it.

And then—You take it away. You rip yourself from her grasp, breathing hard, leaving her gasping in the space between you. Eve’s eyes snap open, wide, terrified, lips still parted, still wet, still aching for more. She looks like she’s about to apologize.

Like she knows she’s just fucked up. But you don’t let her. Because you’re already grabbing her wrist, already spinning her around, already pressing her front against the desk with enough force to make her whimper.

Eve inhales sharply, her hands bracing against the wood, her body trembling under your touch.

You lean in close, dangerously close, your lips brushing her ear.

“You don’t get to take from me, Eve,” you murmur, voice dark, steady, controlled. Eve shudders.

“I—I didn’t—” She swallows hard, her breath ragged, completely wrecked.

You tighten your grip on her wrist, just enough to make her gasp. “Do you even know how long I’ve been waiting?” you whisper, your lips grazing her jaw, teasing, tormenting. “How long I’ve been playing this game for you? Letting you push me, letting you ruin yourself over me?”

Eve makes a soft, broken sound, her body sagging against the desk, her fingers flexing uselessly against the wood. She’s gone. Completely.

And you’re not finished.

“You think you get to just take what you want?” you continue, your voice sinking lower, slower, letting her feel every word. “After everything?”

Eve shakes her head frantically, her breathing erratic, her whole body thrumming under your control.

“N-no,” she whispers, her voice barely there. “I—I don’t.” You smirk. Finally. She gets it.

You loosen your grip slightly, letting your fingers drag up her wrist, her forearm, slowly—just enough to make her ache for more.

“You want me?” you murmur, letting your breath ghost over the back of her neck, just barely touching, just teasing.

Eve whimpers. A real, helpless sound. “Yes,” she breathes. “God, yes.”

You chuckle softly, dark, amused. “Then you’ll wait.”

And then—You step away. Completely.

Eve stumbles slightly, her body swaying, her hands gripping the desk so tightly it creaks under the pressure. She turns to look at you, devastated, desperate, pleading with her eyes.

But you just grab your things, adjusting them in your grip casually like this—like she—means nothing. Like she’s not completely ruined because of you. “I’ll see you next week, Eve.” Your voice is steady. Even.

Hers is wrecked. “… Please,” she whispers.

Agatha seems to sense it, her sharp gaze softening. “You look like you’re about to collapse,” she says, her voice still laced with that familiar sardonic edge, but there’s an undercurrent of concern that wasn’t quite there before.

“I’m fine,” you say, though your knees threaten to betray you.

“Liar,” she mutters, her free hand reaching out instinctively to steady you. Her fingers brush your arm, firm but careful, and the bond thrums faintly in response. “You’re always so reckless, always giving and never thinking about the cost. You—” She stops herself, her expression twisting into something conflicted.

“Spit it out, Agatha,” you say tiredly, though there’s no real bite in your tone.

Her lips press into a thin line. For a moment, you think she won’t say anything, but then she exhales, her hand lingering on your arm. “You didn’t have to do that,” she says softly. “You didn’t have to… give up part of yourself for me.”

You meet her gaze, your exhaustion tempered by the raw vulnerability in her voice. “You think I’d just stand by and let you suffer like that? Agatha, we’re bonded. I feel what you feel. I couldn’t ignore it even if I wanted to.”

Her jaw tightens, and she looks away. “You’ve always been like this,” she mutters. “Too selfless for your own good. It’s so fucking infuriating.”

You laugh faintly, the sound dry but genuine. “And you’ve always been too stubborn to admit when you need help. So I guess we balance each other out.”

She doesn’t respond right away, her fingers still lightly gripping your arm. But there’s a warmth in your chest, and you can feel the gratitude she’s trying so hard not to voice.

“Come on,” she says after a beat, her tone lighter now. “Let’s get out of this wretched place before you decide to martyr yourself any further.”

She moves to step away, but you catch her hand before she can let go. Her eyes widen slightly at the gesture, and you can feel her surprise ripple faintly through the bond.

“Agatha,” you say, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. “Don’t let this go to waste.”

Her expression falters, her carefully crafted walls cracking just enough for you to see the emotion beneath. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she squeezes your hand in return.

“Okay I- I’ll try.” she says quietly, her voice carrying a weight that feels like a promise.

You nod, satisfied, and let her lead you forward. The mist around you begins to thin, the glowing blue light of the witches’ road shifting to a soft, golden hue. It feels like a small victory, like the road itself is acknowledging the fragile progress you’ve made.

As you walk, Agatha’s hand brushes against yours every now and then—not quite holding, but not quite letting go either.

The quiet between you feels different—less strained, more… charged. You try to ignore it, chalking it up to the magic you just shared, but the truth lingers at the edges of your thoughts. The bond isn’t just a connection of power; it’s always been more than that.

And now that it’s whole again, it’s impossible to ignore.

“Do you feel that?” you ask suddenly, breaking the silence.

Agatha stops, her brow furrowing as she glances at you. “Feel what?”

“The bond,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “It’s… different now. More than it was before.”

Her lips press into a thin line, her gaze flickering away as if she’s considering how much to say. “Of course it’s different,” she replies, her voice carefully measured. “You gave me your magic. That kind of exchange would strengthen any connection.”

You narrow your eyes at her, sensing there’s more she’s not saying. The bond pulses faintly, carrying her unease like a ripple in a still pond.

“It’s not just the magic,” you press, stepping closer. “There’s something else. Something I didn’t feel before.”

Agatha exhales sharply, her jaw tightening. “You’re imagining things,” she mutters, though the flicker of guilt in her eyes betrays her.

“I’m not,” you insist, your voice firmer now. “Agatha, what aren’t you telling me?”

She hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides. For a moment, you think she might deflect again, but then the bond hums with something deeper—an emotion that feels startlingly raw. It makes your eyes water slightly as it fills your chest.

“You’re not the only one who feels it,” she admits finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “The bond… Us… it’s always been more than just magic. But I buried it. I had to.”

You blink, the weight of her words settling heavily in your chest. “What do you mean?”

She looks at you then, her expression guarded but vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. “When we first started to forge the bond, I felt it, those nights in the forest,” she says, her voice steadier now. “Something more than connection, more than power. But I couldn’t handle it—not then. I was too afraid of what it meant. So I ignored it. Tried to bury it deep enough that even you wouldn’t feel it.”

Her confession leaves you breathless, the bond between you flaring further as her emotions ripple through it. You remember those early days—the intensity of your connection, the way being near her felt like standing too close to a fire.

You’d thought it was just the magic, the strength of the starting bond itself. But now…

“Agatha,” you say softly, your voice tinged with disbelief. “Are you saying… you felt this back then? Even before…”

“Yes,” she says, her tone clipped but honest. “And I thought you did too. But you never said anything, so I assumed it was one-sided. That’s… Another reason why I left.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, memories flooding back with startling clarity. The trial, the first night after she left, the ache of her absence that felt more than just betrayal. It wasn’t just the severed bond that hurt—it was losing her.

“I didn’t know what I was feeling back then,” you admit, your voice trembling. “I thought it was just… the magic. I didn’t realize…”

Your words trail off as you look at her, the weight of the moment settling between you. The bond pulses again, and this time, it’s impossible to deny the warmth that spreads through you.

Agatha steps closer, her gaze searching yours. “And now?” she asks, her voice quieter, almost hesitant.

You swallow hard, the air between you charged with something fragile but undeniable. “Now… I think I Do.”

Her breath catches, the bond roaring underneath your skin, as the truth settles between you. Slowly, tentatively, she reaches out, her fingers brushing against your wrist. The touch is light, hesitant, but it sends a jolt through you that makes your heart race.

The world around you feels distant, the golden mist fading into the background as your focus narrows to her—the way her eyes soften, the faint tremble in her hand as it lingers near yours.

“Don’t run again,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “If this is what we are—what we’ve always been—don’t run from it anymore.”

Her lips part, her expression flickering between fear and something softer. Slowly, she nods, her fingers curling around your wrist with a steadiness that surprises you both.

The stillness between you is filled with the quiet hum of the bond, stronger now, resonating like a steady undercurrent. Agatha’s thumb is brushing lightly against your skin—a small, unspoken gesture that sends heat pooling in your abdomen.

She’s not running this time. That realisation alone makes your throat tighten.

Neither of you moves to break the fragile moment, but the bond speaks louder than words. You feel her unease, the raw edges of her vulnerability, but also the faint flicker of something else: hope. It’s tentative and cautious, like a flame coaxed to life after years of darkness.

“I never wanted to hurt you, you know” she says finally, her voice low, almost trembling. Like she couldn’t keep it in anymore. “Leaving… it wasn’t because I didn’t care. It was because I cared too much. After… Listen like i said, you never said anything about any extra feelings and sometimes i just felt like I would die if i didn’t-” she cuts herself off and sighs deeply.

You blink, her words settling heavily in your chest. “You thought running away would help?”

Her lips twitch into a humourless smile. “I thought it would be easier to sever the bond and save us both the trouble, I was so scared, to feel more, to be more, to have everything with you. Clearly, I was wrong.”

“You think?” you say, though there’s no heat behind it. If anything, your voice is softer now, touched with the faintest trace of affection.

Agatha huffs a quiet laugh, her fingers sliding down to tangle with yours. “You don’t have to be smug about it.”

You bite back a smile, studying her carefully. In the glow of the road, her features are softer, less guarded. Her usual sharp edges—the sardonic quips, the biting humour—are still there, but muted, stripped down to something real.

“Why didn’t you come back sooner?” you ask, the question hanging heavy in the air.

Her gaze drops to where your hands are still joined. For a long moment, she doesn’t answer. When she does, her voice is quieter, almost a whisper.

“I thought you hated me,” she admits. “And I didn’t blame you. After what I did—after what I didn’t do—I thought it was better for you if I stayed away. I killed other witches for sport for years, I figured you’d move on, find someone stronger, someone who deserved…” She trails off, shaking her head.

“Deserved what?” you press gently, stepping closer.

She looks up, her eyes searching yours. “You,” she says simply.

The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You feel the bond flare again, emotions rushing through it too fast to parse: guilt, longing, regret, and something warmer, deeper, that makes your heart skip a beat.

For a moment, you’re at a loss for words. You’d spent centuries convincing yourself you didn’t need her, that the ache she left behind was just a relic of the bond. But now, standing here with her, the bond humming strong and full, you realised how wrong you were.

“You idiot,” you say softly, though your voice lacks any real venom. “You’ve always deserved me. I just didn’t realise what that meant until now.”

Agatha’s breath hitches, her hand tightening around yours. Her gaze flickers to your face, searching, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. But you don’t pull away.

Instead, you lift your free hand and let it brush against her cheek, the touch light and hesitant. She freezes, her eyes wide, but she doesn’t pull back.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, the words soft but firm. “Not this time. And I’m not letting you go either.”

Her lips part as if to respond, but no words come. Instead, she leans into your touch, her eyes closing briefly. Through the bond, you feel the tension in her begin to melt, replaced by a quiet, cautious relief.

It’s a fragile thing, this moment, but it’s real.

When she finally opens her eyes, they’re softer than you’ve ever seen them. “You’re not making this easy,” she mutters, though there’s no real bite in her tone.

You smile faintly. “Good. You’ve made me wait long enough.”

Agatha huffs a laugh, shaking her head slightly. “Right, yeah it was all me.” Your palm cups her other cheek and she licks her lips before her gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest moment, and your breath catches. But instead of closing the distance, she presses her cheek into your left palm, her eyes closing again. It’s not quite a kiss, but the intimacy of it is enough to make your heart race.

“Come on,” she says finally, her voice quieter now. “We should keep moving. The road doesn’t wait forever.”

You nod, letting your hand fall reluctantly, though your fingers linger against hers for a moment longer than necessary.

As you walk side by side, the bond pulses steadily between you, stronger than it’s ever been. And for the first time in centuries, it feels like you’re finally moving forward—together.

Each step forward feels lighter, though the weight of the moment lingers between you. Agatha stays close, her hand brushing yours with each unintentional sway. It’s not deliberate—at least, not entirely—but the proximity is unmistakable.

You don’t speak, letting the bond fill the silence. It thrums with a steady rhythm, no longer jagged or uneven, but it carries a tension neither of you can quite shake.

When you glance at her, you find her doing the same—her sharp, calculating gaze flickering away as though you’d caught her in something private.

“Something on your mind?” you ask, your voice light, though your curiosity is anything but.

Agatha exhales sharply, her lips quirking into a faint smirk. “You, apparently.”

The admission catches you off guard, though her tone is sardonic enough to make you question how much she’s revealing. Still, the bond tells another story. The emotions simmering beneath her words—warmth, vulnerability, longing—are unfiltered and raw, impossible to ignore.

“Should I be flattered?” you tease, tilting your head to watch her reaction.

Her smirk falters, replaced by a flicker of something softer. “You always had a way of getting under my skin,” she mutters, her voice quieter now.

You slow your steps, turning to face her fully. “You’re one to talk.”

Agatha stops too, her arms crossing defensively even as her gaze softens. “You’re different than I remember,” she says, her voice almost wistful. “Or maybe… I just forgot.”

Her words settle between you like a confession, the bond humming faintly in response. Memories flash through your mind—moments of laughter, of quiet companionship, of stolen glances you never thought twice about back then.

“I don’t think you forgot,” you say softly, stepping closer. “I think you were just too scared to see it.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she looks at you with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. “And you weren’t?”

You hesitate, the truth catching in your throat. “I was,” you admit, the words feeling heavier than you expected. “But I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t know what we were I thought we were just…”

“We should keep moving, this area” Agatha cuts you off gesturing around at the forest, “It’s getting cold,” she says, her voice steadier than you expected.

You nod, though you don’t miss the faint tremor in her body as she brushes past you. The bond hums softly, carrying her emotions—conflicted but warm, her resolve wavering but not breaking.

As you fall into step beside her again, the silence is less oppressive, though the tension remains.

The bond wasn’t just magic. It wasn’t just power or connection. It was something more. Something that always had the potential to be everything.

And now you’re starting to piece it together, you always knew there was a reason why you didn’t marry, but you didn’t realise why. Didn’t understand why you couldn’t get over the loss of Agatha, and now, you can’t help but test the waters.

You glance sideways at Agatha, noting how her eyes dart toward you and then quickly away, as if she doesn’t trust herself to look too long. The bond hums with her emotions, faint ripples of curiosity and unease laced with something sweeter—something she’s clearly trying very hard to ignore.

“Agatha,” you say, your tone light, playful.

She raises an eyebrow, her guarded expression slipping into something sharper. “What?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let the bond speak for you, sending a gentle pulse through it—nothing overwhelming, just a soft nudge of warmth, like the magical equivalent of a hand brushing against hers.

Her steps falter for the briefest moment, and her sharp gaze snaps to yours.

“What was that?” she asks, her tone suspicious.

You feign innocence, your lips curling into a faint smile. “What was what?”

Agatha narrows her eyes, and through the bond, you can feel the flicker of her irritation—tinged with just a hint of something more. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Do I?” you tease, sending another soft ripple through the bond, this time carrying a spark of affection—light and fleeting, but unmistakable.

Her cheeks flush faintly, and she glares at you. “Stop that,” she says, though her voice lacks its usual edge.

“Stop what?” you ask, your smile widening.

“You’re actually impossible,” she mutters, picking up her pace as if putting distance between you will help.

You follow easily, keeping stride beside her. “I’m just trying to make this bond more... interactive,” you say, the bond pulsing again with a playful nudge.

Agatha groans, her hand rising to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I swear, if you don’t stop—”

“What?” you interrupt, your voice low, teasing.

Her steps halt abruptly, and she spins to face you, her eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and something deeper. The bond flares faintly, her emotions rippling through it—frustration, yes, but also warmth, fondness, and that ever-present flicker of longing.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she says, her voice low and laced with warning.

You take a step closer, your smile softening. “Maybe.”

Her breath catches, and for a moment, she looks at you like she might actually give in—like she might say or do something that would change everything. But then she shakes her head, her lips quirking into a wry smile.

As you fall back into step beside her, the bond hums with a quiet warmth that feels like laughter, like the shared amusement of two people who are finally starting to understand each other.

You let it carry another ripple, this one deeper—a soft wave of warmth that lingers longer than the others. It’s not overwhelming, but it’s enough to be unmistakable, enough to make Agatha’s steps falter slightly.

Her head snaps toward you, eyes narrowed. “Seriously. What are you doing?”

You bite back a grin, your expression one of feigned innocence. “Walking,” you say simply.

“That wasn’t walking,” she snaps, her voice sharper than it needs to be. But through the bond, you feel the flicker of something else—frustration, yes, but also heat, a spark of something she’s trying desperately to ignore.

“Agatha,” you say, your voice light and teasing, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re a little flustered.”

Her glare sharpens, but the faint flush creeping up her neck betrays her. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” you ask, and this time, you let the bond carry not just warmth, but a roaring heat in her abdomen, a phantom brush of your hand against hers. A hand sliding up a thigh.

She stops walking altogether, spinning to face you with an expression caught between irritation and something far more vulnerable. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’ve spent centuries not understanding what we were,” you say honestly, taking another step closer. “And now that I’m starting to figure it out, I want to see where it leads.”

Agatha stares at you, her expression flickering between disbelief and something softer. “You can’t just—”

But she doesn’t finish, because you send another wave through the bond, this one gentler, but more deliberate. It’s a feeling of closeness, of warmth, of trust—everything you’ve always felt for her but never quite put into words.

Finally, she exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair in a rare show of frustration. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

You step closer still, until there’s barely any space between you. “Why don’t you just tell me? Please Agatha” You’re silent for a moment. The bond feels almost suffocating now, a shared pulse of magic between you, thick with what she’s been holding back.

She finally speaks, and when she does, the words feel like they’ve been ripped from the very core of her. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, to push it down… But you’re making me want you so badly, okay?” She meets your gaze, and you can feel the rawness in her words—her vulnerability laid bare, for once. “I’ve been trying so hard to pretend that this bond, that you aren’t driving me insane. But you are. And I’m so tired of fighting it.”

Your breath catches, the magic between you sparking with the sudden intensity of her admission. You step closer, your heart racing as her emotions flood through the bond—she’s frustrated, yes, but there’s something more, something far deeper: the longing you’ve always known was there.

She continues, her voice barely above a whisper, “Every time you get close, every time you… tease me, I can’t think. The bond, your magic, the way you look at me, I—” She cuts herself off, visibly exasperated. “I’m not saying it’s just magic, because it’s not. I can’t keep pretending like it is.”

You take a step closer, backing Agatha against a tree, and this time, she doesn’t move away. The space between you is a breath, a heartbeat, nothing more. You can feel the heat in her skin, the pulse of her heart beneath your fingers as they brush lightly against her arm.

“You never had to pretend,” you say, your voice quiet but firm. The bond hums in agreement, a feeling of closeness, of shared emotion, building. “Not with me.”

Her gaze flickers between your eyes and your lips, and the bond throbs, sending waves of heat, of longing, through both of you. She doesn’t speak, but you feel it in the way her breath hitches, in the way her hand shifts slightly, almost as if reaching for you. It’s too much, too close, and yet—there’s nowhere else either of you can go.

“Agatha…” You say her name, soft and almost pleading, as the bond pulses with magic too strong to ignore. “Please my angel… stop fighting this.”

She breathes in sharply, and before you can say another word, she closes the gap between you. Her lips crash against yours, urgent, hungry, desperate—as if the bond, the magic, everything between you is finally too much for her to fight.

The kiss is everything: the years of longing, the months of silence, the centuries of distance and heartache all colliding into one desperate, aching moment. Her magic flares around you, and you feel it in every touch, every press of her lips against yours. It’s not just a kiss—it’s everything, all at once, the bond weaving between you with threads of magic and emotion.

When she pulls back, breathless, her forehead resting against yours, she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. You both know now, in the deepest parts of your being, that this—whatever this is—is what you’ve both been craving for so long.

“I think I’ve been in love with you forever.” You lean forward and take her lower lip into your mouth, sucking on it and humming in response to her moan. You let the lip go with a pop and you look into her dark eyes. “I should’ve kissed you centuries ago.”

Agatha’s eyes are focused on your lips, unable to think of anything else, and she’s about to kiss you again when she hears the snap of a limb breaking underneath someone’s boot.

You were in Agatha’s trial on the witches road, you had on the same outfit as her, only it was a pink jersey, instead of the purple. Your hair was down instead of up in the hairstyle that Agatha was wearing, and your knee high socks were white with two purple stripes at the top. You don’t even know how you got here, but that was just how strong Billy was. Summoning you for a trial you had no idea you were taking place in.

You’d met Agatha during the Salem Era, both of you young, and close. You hated your own parents, and when Agatha told you about her mother, you planned to run away together. Things never worked out that way though, the closer you got with Agatha, you wanted to bond with her.

Bonding was something ancient, bringing together two witches. It would open their souls, their minds, and their hearts to one another. Agatha was petrified of being that open with someone, the vulnerability was just too much, and even though it hurt, she left you the next day after you poured your heart out, asking for her to break the barrier and become one.

Now it’s been centuries, and you freeze as you stop messing with the game in front of you, hearing a collection of voices from your right.

“Who’s trial is this?” Jen asks as they all look around

“Agatha’s.” Rio smirks. That name. You’ve not heard that name in so long it brings a flush to your cheeks, and your face lifts up, your side profile now visible to the group.

Agatha freezes when she sees your face, she’d remember it anywhere, she had dreams about it. She doesn’t say anything, she couldn’t. How were you even here? She… Thought maybe you’d died years ago. You never approached anyone about the road, and so she assumed.. She looks at you different then when she seen Rio again, there’s no anger or malice in her gaze. Just a deep set of longing. Her feet carry her involuntarily towards you and she breathes out.

“Darling.”

Your head snaps toward the voice, sharp and familiar, dripping with a need that makes your stomach twist in ways you wish it wouldn’t. “Agatha,” you say, her name cutting through the charged silence like a blade. It comes out too soft for your liking, so you harden your voice. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. There’s something in her eyes that makes it clear you’re not the only one thrown off balance. “The feeling’s mutual, darling,” she says, her tone breezy, almost mocking, but there’s a crack in the façade. She’s staring at you like she’s seen a ghost.

Maybe she has.

You’ve got centuries of practice keeping your emotions in check, but something about the way she’s looking at you, the way her breath catches for just a moment, has your carefully maintained armour slipping. You clench your fists to stop them from shaking.

“What have you done now Agatha? Have you stolen someone’s broomstick?”

Her smirk comes back, sharp and self-assured, like she’s trying to regain the upper hand. “If only it were that simple,” she says lightly, but there’s a tension in her jaw. “Let’s just say I’ve been accused of... dabbling.”

“Dabbling?” you echo, incredulous. “That’s likely one way to put it.”

“Careful,” she says, her voice dropping into something silkier, more dangerous. “You might hurt my feelings.”

Your laugh comes out more bitter than you intend. “Oh, I’m sure they’re well-protected under all that... dabbling.”

The others in the group exchange uneasy glances. Rio, ever the instigator, pipes up again, clearly loving the drama. “So... you two know each other?”

Neither of you answers, too locked in a silent, electric standoff. It’s Agatha who finally breaks the moment, turning to address the group, her voice dripping with the kind of theatrical charm only she can pull off. “Let’s just say we have history.” Her eyes flick back to you, and her tone turns pointed. “Though some of us are better at leaving the past where it belongs.”

Your lips part, sharp words ready to fire back, but you stop yourself. This isn’t the time, and you won’t let her get the better of you. Not again.

Instead, you tilt your head, levelling her with a look. “So, this trial. What’s the serious charge? Not just the accusations.”

Agatha hesitates, just for a moment. “They think I stole something.” Her tone is measured, but there’s a flicker of guilt—or defiance, maybe—in her eyes. “Power. Something I didn’t earn.”

You cross your arms. “And did you?”

Her jaw tightens, and for a second, she looks like she might actually tell you the truth. Then she shrugs, her smirk slipping back into place. “Does it matter?”

“It does if you want to walk out of here alive.”

The air between you is thick with unspoken history, the weight of centuries hanging over every word. Agatha steps closer, lowering her voice so only you can hear. “You’ve always been good at seeing through me, haven’t you?”

You swallow hard, hating the way her words make your chest tighten. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, stepping back just enough to reestablish your ground. “I just know your type.”

She chuckles, soft and low. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve always known me. That’s what made you dangerous.”

Her words hit a nerve, and you hate that she knows it. She’s always been good at that—finding your cracks and slipping through them like smoke. But this time, you won’t let her.

Before you can respond, Rio claps their hands, breaking the tension. “This is all very riveting, but shouldn’t we, I don’t know, do something? Trials, consequences, accusations—ringing any bells?”

Agatha’s gaze snaps to Rio, her smile vanishing in an instant. “Stay out of it,” she says sharply, her voice like ice.

But as much as you want to stay angry, to keep your walls firmly in place, there’s something in her eyes when she looks back at you—a flicker of vulnerability, of something real—that shakes you.

“Why am I here, Agatha?” you ask quietly.

She hesitates, her confidence faltering for just a moment. “I didn’t bring you here,” she says. “But... maybe the road thought I needed a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

Her gaze softens, and for a second, it’s like you’re back in Salem, two young witches on the brink of something extraordinary. She opens her mouth, but the words don’t come.

Instead, she steps back, her expression hardening again. “You’ll see soon enough,” she says, her tone deliberately flippant. “Just try not to get in my way, darling.”

You narrow your eyes, but there’s no time to respond.

The ground beneath your feet rumbles—a low, ominous vibration that sends chills up your spine. The witches’ road is alive, its energies twisting and pulling, urging the trial forward. Around you, the air grows thick with power, sharp and unrelenting, and the others in the group exchange uneasy glances.

Agatha stands still, her gaze fixed on you, as though the trial itself is secondary to the unfinished business crackling between you. But her expression hardens when the light around you shifts—a brilliant blue glow forming a circle in the center of the road.

"Right on cue," Agatha mutters under her breath. She turns to the group, her sharp tone carrying authority, even here. "Stay behind me. All of you."

"Why would we do that?" Rio asks with a smirk, stepping closer to the circle. "You’re the one on trial, remember?"

Before Agatha can snap back, the blue glow bursts upward, spiralling into a towering column of light. From its core, shapes begin to emerge—silhouettes, shifting and indistinct at first, but then solidifying into forms you recognise all too well. Witches, cloaked and severe, their eyes glowing with unnatural light. The Coven.

“Agatha Harkness,” one of them speaks, their voice cold and resonant. “You stand accused of theft, treachery, and the violation of sacred laws.”

Agatha lifts her chin, the picture of defiance, but you catch the way her fingers twitch at her sides, the slight clenching of her jaw. “Well, don’t hold back,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Tell me how you really feel.”

The Coven doesn’t react, their collective gaze shifting past her—to you. The intensity of their focus sends a shiver through you, but you don’t flinch. You know better than to show weakness here.

“Who dares to stand beside the accused?” another witch asks, their glowing eyes narrowing.

“She doesn’t belong here,” Agatha says quickly, stepping in front of you. “This trial has nothing to do with her.”

“Is that so?” The lead witch tilts her head, studying you with unnerving precision. “And yet, the road brought her here. Why?”

You meet the witch’s gaze, refusing to let the weight of her scrutiny drag you down. “I’d like to know that myself,” you say coolly. “But whatever this is, I’m not here to play spectator.”

Agatha casts you a sharp look, her eyes flashing with something between irritation and concern. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hisses.

“Then enlighten me,” you snap back, your patience wearing thin. “Or is keeping secrets still your favourite game?”

“Enough,” the lead witch commands, her voice cutting through the tension. The others fall silent, their glowing eyes shifting back to Agatha. “The accused will answer for her actions.”

“Gladly,” Agatha says, folding her arms. “But let’s be clear—I didn’t steal anything. I earned that power.”

The lead witch’s gaze sharpens. “You twisted ancient magic for your own gain, defied the natural order, and corrupted forces beyond your comprehension. Not to mention murdered hundreds. You are a danger to all witches.”

“Funny,” Agatha retorts, her voice venomous. “I seem to recall you trying to kill me for simply being too powerful. Guess some things never change.”

The Coven bristles, their forms glowing brighter, but before they can respond, the road itself shifts again. The ground beneath you ripples, and for a moment, you’re weightless—floating in the charged air. When you land, the circle of light has expanded, now encompassing you, Agatha, and the Coven.

You glare at her, your frustration boiling over. “What exactly did you do, Agatha?”

Her eyes flicker to you, something almost apologetic flashing across her face before she buries it under her usual mask. “It’s complicated.”

“It always is with you,” you bite back.

Agatha opens her mouth to respond, but the lead witch cuts her off. “The accused is bound to the truth. Let us see if her lies can survive the light.”

At her words, the blue glow intensifies, and the trial begins in earnest. The road reacts violently, pulling memories and illusions from the air—scenes of Agatha’s past swirling like a storm around you. Her betrayal of the Salem Coven. Her hunger for forbidden power. Her darkest moments laid bare.

But then the images shift—scenes you recognise. A younger Agatha, laughing beside you in the moonlight. The two of you whispering secrets, planning your escape. The night she left you, her face a mask of regret as she vanished into the darkness.

Your breath catches, and Agatha’s head snaps toward you, her expression unreadable.

The Coven doesn’t miss the exchange. “Ah,” the lead witch says, a cruel smile curling her lips. “Perhaps the accused’s greatest crime is not against magic, but against the heart.”

Agatha’s face hardens, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes as she turns to you. “Don’t let them twist this,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “You know me better than anyone.”

You take a step closer, your anger warring with the pull of old, buried feelings. “Do I? Because the Agatha I knew wouldn’t have dragged me into her mess.”

“I didn’t!” she snaps, the crack in her composure widening. “But if I had... maybe I should’ve. Maybe you’re the only one who can—” She cuts herself off, looking away.

The Coven watches, their glowing eyes unrelenting. “Speak your truth, Agatha Harkness,” the lead witch commands. “If you can.”

You don’t know what’s worse—the thought that she’s hiding something from you, or the thought that she’s telling the truth and you’re still tied to her, even now. Either way, you’re not letting this end without answers.

“Start talking,” you say, your voice sharp but steady. “Because if you want me to trust you, Agatha, you’d better earn it.”

Agatha remains silent, though her eyes are pleading. The road trembles beneath you, the Coven's chanting growing louder, more insistent. The blue light twists and contorts, creating shadows that dance around you and Agatha. You’re too close to her now, her presence almost overwhelming in its familiarity. After all this time, she’s still the same—still sharp, guarded, impossible. And yet, beneath it all, she’s still her

You steal a glance at her, and for a moment, you see a crack in her defenses. The weight of the trial, the memories, the raw, unspoken tension between you—it’s all there, etched across her face. But she’s too proud to acknowledge it, even now.

“You’re scared,” you say, your voice low enough that only she can hear.

Agatha’s gaze snaps to yours, her eyes narrowing. “Of them?” she asks, gesturing toward the Coven with a sardonic smirk. “Please.”

You hold her gaze, refusing to let her deflect. “Not of them. Of me. Of us.”

Her smirk falters, just for a moment, and you know you’ve hit a nerve. She takes a step back, but you follow, unwilling to let her retreat this time.

“I’m not scared,” she says, but her voice lacks its usual bite.

“Liar,” you counter, your tone soft but unrelenting. “You’ve always been terrified of letting anyone in. Of letting me in.”

Agatha opens her mouth to respond, but the Coven’s chanting suddenly shifts, the words growing sharper, more pointed. The blue light swirls between the two of you, pulling at the air, at your magic, at your connection . The Coven has sensed it—the bond that could’ve been, the bond you once wanted more than anything.

“You thought about it,” you say, stepping closer. “All those years ago. You wanted it, too.”

“Stop,” she snaps, her voice cracking slightly, her control slipping.

“You left because you couldn’t handle it,” you press on. “Because you were too afraid to open yourself up. To share everything—your power, your heart, your soul.”

“I said stop,” she hisses, but she doesn’t move away.

The blue light flares between you, the energy shifting, bending, until it forms a thread, a thin, shimmering line connecting the two of you. The sight of it makes your breath catch in your throat. It’s the bond, raw and unfinished, still lingering after all this time.

Agatha stares at it, her face pale, her usual confidence nowhere to be found. “It’s not real,” she says, her voice almost desperate. “It’s just the trial, just a trick.”

“You don’t believe that,” you say quietly.

The thread pulses, glowing brighter, and you can feel it now- the pull of her soul, of her essence, intertwining with your own. It’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once, and you can see the same war playing out in Agatha’s eyes.

The Coven speaks again, their voices cold and cutting. “The bond remains unfinished. A betrayal of magic, a betrayal of trust. It is a wound that festers, unresolved.”

Agatha clenches her fists, her gaze snapping to the lead witch. “This has nothing to do with them,” she says, her voice shaking with anger. “You’re trying to twist this into something it’s not.”

The lead witch tilts her head, her glowing eyes boring into Agatha. “The trial reveals truth. Nothing more, nothing less.” Her gaze shifts to you, and her next words are deliberate, cruel. “Perhaps the accused should explain why she ran. Why she rejected the bond when it was freely offered.”

Agatha flinches, and you feel the thread between you tremble. For a moment, you think she’s going to lash out, to fight, but instead, she turns to you, her expression raw and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I didn’t run because I didn’t want it,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I ran because I wanted it too much.”

Her words hit you like a tidal wave, and for a moment, you can’t breathe.

“I knew what bonding meant,” she continues, her eyes locking onto yours. “It would’ve made us... tied in ways I couldn’t undo. And I couldn’t let myself—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I thought I was protecting you. Protecting-“ she cuts herself off and then, “But maybe... maybe I was just protecting myself.”

The thread glows brighter, the magic between you surging, and you can feel it now—her fear, her regret, her longing. It’s all there, laid bare, and for the first time, you see her for who she truly is.

“You didn’t need to protect me,” you say, your voice steady. “I was ready, Agatha. I’ve always been ready. But you never gave us a chance.”

Her lips part, but before she can respond, the Coven’s chanting rises to a fever pitch. The thread between you stretches and trembles, the energy reaching a breaking point.

“You must choose,” the lead witch says, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Complete the bond, or sever it forever. There is no more middle ground.”

Agatha’s eyes widen, panic flashing across her face. She looks at you, her composure crumbling, and for the first time, she seems truly vulnerable.

“Don’t let them force this,” she says, her voice trembling. “Not like this.”

The glow of the thread between you pulses, trembling like a fragile lifeline. The Coven’s chanting grows louder, demanding resolution, pushing you both to a precipice. Agatha’s eyes dart between the shimmering connection and your face. You can see the fear in her eyes, the weight of her indecision pressing down like a storm.

“Choose, Agatha Harkness,” the lead witch demands. “Complete the bond, or sever it forever.”

Agatha’s hand hovers over yours, trembling. The vulnerability on her face is something you’ve never seen before, and it twists something deep inside you. For a moment, you think she might do it—reach out and let the bond fully take hold. But then her jaw sets, her gaze hardening.

“No,” she says sharply, yanking her hand back. The thread snaps violently, the energy spiralling outward like a scream. The sudden emptiness is immediate and gut-wrenching, leaving you gasping as if something vital has been ripped away.

Agatha steps back, her face pale, her hands clenched into fists. “I can’t,” she whispers, her voice brittle. “I won’t.”

The lead witch smiles coldly. “So be it.”

The thread between you vanishes, and the road trembles again, this time more violently. The energy shifts, the air growing heavy with the finality of her decision. You feel the hollow space where the bond once was, an ache that settles deep in your chest. It’s unbearable, and when you meet Agatha’s eyes, you see that she feels it too.

Her face twists with something you’ve rarely seen from her: regret.

“Wait,” she breathes, but the Coven’s chanting drowns her out. The blue light around you sharpens, cutting like a blade, and you can feel the road enforcing her choice, solidifying the severance.

“Agatha,” you say, your voice raw, stepping toward her. “Don’t do this. Don’t—”

“I already have,” she interrupts, her voice breaking as she turns away from you. “It’s done.”

But even as she says it, her steps falter. Her hand rises to her chest, where the bond once pulsed with life. Her expression crumples, the emptiness hitting her like a physical blow. She gasps, clutching at the air as if she could pull it back, undo the severance.

The lead witch tilts her head, her voice cutting like a knife. “Feeling the emptiness already, Agatha Harkness? Such is the price of fear.”

Agatha spins back to face them, her mask of confidence shattering completely. “Bring it back,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I’ll do it. I’ll—”

“Impossible,” the lead witch says coolly. “You made your choice.”

“No!” Agatha snaps, desperation lacing her words. She looks at you, her eyes wide and pleading. “I—I didn’t mean it. I can fix it. Just—” She turns back to the Coven. “Just let me fix it.”

The lead witch’s gaze is unforgiving. “The road answers only once. To sever a bond is to sever it forever. That is the law.”

Agatha shakes her head violently. “No. That’s not—no!” Her voice cracks, and for a moment, she looks like she might collapse under the weight of her mistake.

You step forward, your own pain mingling with hers. “There has to be a way,” you say, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “You can’t leave it like this.”

The Coven is silent for a long moment, their glowing eyes unreadable. Finally, the lead witch speaks. “There is one way, but it requires both souls to agree. And the cost will not be light.”

Agatha’s gaze snaps to you, her eyes searching yours. For the first time, there’s no deflection, no bravado just raw, unfiltered need. “Please,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

You take a breath, the pain of the severed bond still fresh and raw. You should walk away. You should let her feel the consequences of her choice. But you can’t. You’ve never been able to. And now hearing her beg? You fear you’d do anything she asked.

“Fine,” you say, stepping forward. “What do we have to do?”

The lead witch smiles faintly, as if this is what she wanted all along. “Rekindling a severed bond requires sacrifice. Magic, power... a piece of the soul itself. Are you willing?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Agatha looks at you, her eyes filled with both gratitude and guilt. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” she says softly. “Not after what I—”

“Then don’t make me regret it,” you interrupt, your voice firm.

She swallows hard, nodding. “I won’t.”

The Coven begins chanting again, the air growing thick with magic. The blue light spirals around you and Agatha, pulling you closer together. This time, the bond doesn’t form gently—it crashes into you, fierce and unrelenting, flooding every part of you with her essence. You feel her fear, her regret, her longing—all of it laid bare. And she feels you, your unwavering determination, your pain, your love.

The connection is deeper than it was before, forged not just from desire but from sacrifice. When the light fades, you’re left standing face to face, your souls intertwined in a way that can never be undone.

Agatha exhales shakily, as if the bond settling between you is more weight than she expected. Her gaze flickers over your face, searching for something—maybe forgiveness, maybe reassurance. You give her neither, not yet. She’s made too many mistakes for things to be that simple. But you can’t deny the way the bond thrums, anchoring you to her in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

The road quakes beneath you again, the energy of the trial still humming in the air. The Coven watches silently, their glowing eyes unreadable, as if they’re waiting for the next move.

Agatha takes a tentative step closer, her voice low. “How does it feel?” she asks, her words almost hesitant. “Having me in your head again.”

You let the question hang for a moment, savouring the way it makes her squirm. “Heavy,” you finally say, your tone sharper than you intended. “But that’s no surprise, is it? You’ve always been a lot to handle.”

Her lips quirk into a faint smirk, the familiar spark of defiance flaring in her eyes. “And yet, here you are. Handling me.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. The bond hums in agreement, pulling you closer even as you try to keep your distance. “Don’t push your luck, Agatha,” you warn. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

Her smirk fades, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable. “I know,” she says softly. “But it’s a start.”

Before you can respond, the lead witch steps forward, her presence as cold and imposing as ever. “The bond is reforged,” she announces, her voice echoing through the space. “But it does not absolve you, Agatha Harkness. This trial is far from over.”

Agatha straightens, her bravado snapping back into place like armour. “Of course it isn’t,” she says, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want to make things too easy.”

The lead witch doesn’t react to the quip, her gaze sharp and unyielding. “The bond may strengthen you, but it also binds you. Your fates are now intertwined. Should one of you fall, the other will follow.”

You glance at Agatha, and for the first time, you see genuine fear flicker across her face. “What does that mean?” you ask, your voice steady but firm.

“It means,” the lead witch says, “that the bond is both your greatest power and your greatest vulnerability. Use it wisely—or perish together.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you feel the weight of them settle into your chest. Agatha glances at you, and you can tell she’s thinking the same thing: what have we just done?

“Fine,” Agatha says finally, her voice tight. “What’s next? Another test? Another round of judgment?”

The lead witch’s lips curl into a faint smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “You think this is a game, Harkness. But the road has already given you its answer. The only question now is whether you’re strong enough to face what comes next.”

The ground beneath you shifts again, and you feel the magic of the road pulling you deeper into its grip. Agatha reaches for you instinctively, her hand brushing against yours. The bond flares at the contact, filling you with a rush of her emotions.

Fear. Regret. Determination. And something else, buried deep, that feels almost like hope.

One again the road surges to life around you, swallowing the quiet moment between you and Agatha. The blue glow deepens, swirling with flecks of violet and gold, and the air feels like it’s being pulled apart. You grip her hand tighter, instinctively bracing yourself, and she doesn’t pull away.

The lead witch raises a hand, silencing the murmuring Coven. Her gaze fixes on the two of you like a blade about to strike. “The reforged bond is only the beginning. What lies ahead will test the strength of your connection—and the truth of your intentions.”

Agatha scoffs, though the sound is weaker than usual. “Another vague warning? How original.”

The lead witch’s smile is razor-thin. “The road reveals what is hidden. It will force you to confront the past you thought buried—and the consequences of choices you’ve both made.”

You glance at Agatha, whose jaw tightens. She’s always been so good at hiding what she’s feeling, but the bond makes that impossible for her now, you wonder if she knew that.

Before you can press her, the ground beneath you crumbles. The Coven’s chanting rises into a deafening crescendo as the two of you are plunged into a swirling abyss of light and shadow. Xx

When the world solidifies again, you’re standing in a dimly lit forest. The air is heavy with the scent of earth and moss, and the moon hangs low in the sky, casting everything in an eerie silver light. The road is gone, as is the Coven. It’s just you and Agatha now.

You turn to her, your heart still racing. “Where are we?”

Agatha looks around, her expression unreadable. “This… this is Salem,” she says quietly. “But not the Salem we knew. It’s different.”

The forest feels alive, the trees whispering secrets you can’t quite make out. The bond hums in your chest, tugging at something deeper, and you know without needing to ask: this place isn’t real. It’s a manifestation. A memory.

“Why would the road bring us here?” you ask, though the answer is already forming in the back of your mind.

Agatha’s lips press into a thin line. “Because it’s cruel,” she mutters. “And it knows where to hurt.”

A sound echoes through the forest—laughter, high and clear, cutting through the silence like a blade. Your stomach twists as you recognise it.

It’s her.

Your younger self steps into the clearing, a vision pulled straight from your memories. She’s vibrant, her eyes bright with hope, her laughter filling the air. And beside her, laughing just as freely, is Agatha.

The sight punches the air from your lungs. You can feel the echoes of that time through the bond—the joy, the connection, the longing that neither of you dared to name.

Agatha stares at the scene, her face pale. “Why are they showing us this?” she whispers.

“You know why,” you say, your voice low. “Because this is where it all started.”

The memory shifts, darkening at the edges. The laughter fades, replaced by tense whispers. The younger version of you steps closer to Agatha, her expression vulnerable, open.

“I don’t want to run,” your younger self says, her voice trembling. “I want to stay. I want to bond with you, Agatha. I—”

“Stop,” the real Agatha mutters, her voice tight.

But the memory plays on. Younger Agatha’s face twists, fear flashing in her eyes. She steps back, shaking her head. “No,” she says, her voice sharp and final. “We can’t. I won’t.”

“Why?” your younger self pleads.

“Because you deserve better than me!” Memory Agatha snaps, her voice cracking, before you hear her internal voice, one that’s truly broken and screaming out in fear “Because I’ll ruin you. Don’t you see that? I ruin everything I touch.”

The words hit like a physical blow, and you see the real Agatha flinch beside you. The memory fades, leaving the clearing silent once more.

You turn to her, your chest tight with emotion. “That’s why you left?” you ask, your voice raw. “Because you thought you’d ruin me?”

Agatha doesn’t meet your eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she says quietly. “I did ruin you, didn’t I? I left, and you—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, your voice sharper than you intended. “Don’t turn this into a pity party, Agatha. You don’t get to decide what I deserved. That was my choice to make.”

Her head snaps up, her eyes flashing with something between anger and pain. “And look where your choice got us,” she spits. “Centuries apart, and now we’re tied together because of this damned road. Is that what you wanted? To be stuck with me forever?”

The bond flares at her words, the tension between you sparking like a live wire. You take a step closer, your voice steady but furious. “What I wanted,” you say, “was for you to trust me. To trust that we could’ve been something more. But you ran because you were too scared to face that.”

Agatha glares at you, but her shoulders sag, the fight draining out of her. “You think I don’t regret it?” she says, her voice breaking. “I’ve regretted it every single day. But I thought... I thought it was better this way. Safer. For both of us.”

“Safer?” you echo bitterly. “Do I look like someone who needed to be saved from you?”

The air between you crackles with magic, the bond pulling tighter as your emotions clash and collide. You can feel her guilt, her longing, her fear—and beneath it all, her love. It’s raw and messy and imperfect, but it’s there, undeniable.

You’re about to say something before the forest grows darker, shadows stretching long and deep as the memory shifts again. You brace yourself, but nothing could prepare you for what the road dredges up next.

The scene crystallises around you: a small, dimly lit room with a single cracked mirror leaning against the wall. The air feels stifling, heavy with pain and desperation. It’s familiar—achingly so. This is where you went the night after Agatha left.

Agatha stands frozen beside you, her breath catching as she takes in the sight of you from centuries ago. Your younger self sits hunched on the floor, trembling, clutching a flickering ball of magic in your hands. The light glows faintly pink, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, but it’s unstable, wavering with every shaky breath you take.

“No,” Agatha whispers, stepping toward the memory as if she can change it. “No, no, no—what are you doing?”

But the memory unfolds without mercy.

Your younger self mutters under her breath, an incantation so jagged and broken it sounds like a dirge. The magic in your hands sparks violently, surging outward before collapsing back in on itself.

“Take it away,” your memory-self says, her voice cracking. “Take it all away. I don’t want it anymore.”

You remember the feeling all too well—the suffocating pain, the emptiness that threatened to swallow you whole. The bond you’d started to forge with Agatha had been severed, but not cleanly. It had left jagged edges, a wound that pulsed with every beat of your heart. You’d thought if you could rid yourself of your magic, you’d be free of her—free of the ache she left behind.

“Stop,” Agatha says aloud, her voice trembling. She reaches for the image of you, but her hand passes through it like smoke. She turns to you, her eyes wide and desperate. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you—”

“Because you weren’t there,”, the hurt in your voice cutting through the air like a blade. “You left, Agatha. I was alone.”

The younger you falters, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t do this,” she sobs, gripping the magic tighter. “I can’t feel her anymore. I can’t—”

The incantation grows louder, your magic swirling around you like a storm. It’s unstable, laced with anger and grief, threatening to implode. And for a moment, it feels like it will work—like you’ll succeed in ripping away the part of you that still clings to her.

But the spell breaks, shattering like glass, and the magic snaps back into you with a force that knocks your younger self to the ground. You cry out, curling into yourself as the bond—though faint and fractured—reasserts itself. It’s agony, the connection too stubborn to let go completely, no matter how much you tried to destroy it.

The memory fades, leaving the clearing eerily silent. Agatha stands rooted in place, her face pale and stricken. You can feel the weight of her guilt through the bond, heavier than ever, pressing into you like a physical thing.

“You tried to... take your magic away?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because of me?”

“Yes,” you say, your tone flat. “And I failed. Just like I failed to let you go.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. She looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, the full scope of what she did to you finally crashing down on her. “I didn’t know,” she says weakly. “I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t,” you cut her off. “You ran, Agatha. You made your choice, and you didn’t look back.”

Her shoulders slump, her walls crumbling entirely. “I thought I was protecting you,” she says, her voice trembling. “I thought... if I stayed, I’d only hurt you more.”

“Well, congratulations,” you say bitterly. “You hurt me anyway.”

The bond flares between you, sharp and raw with the weight of her regret and your lingering anger. Agatha flinches, her hand rising to her chest as if she can feel the ache directly.

“I was a coward,” she admits, her voice breaking. “I was so afraid of what the bond meant—what it would do to me. To us. I thought if I left, it would be easier for both of us.” She meets your eyes, and for once, there’s no deflection, no sarcasm. Just honesty. “I didn’t know it would be worse.”

You take a shaky breath, the pain of the memory still fresh. “I didn’t want it to hurt anymore,” you say quietly. “But it never stopped. Not for centuries.”

Agatha steps closer, her hand hovering near yours. “I don’t know how to make it right,” she says, her voice soft and unsteady. “But if you’ll let me, I’ll try. I’ll spend the rest of eternity trying.”

You study her face, the vulnerability in her expression. The bond hums between you, not as sharp as before, but still raw and unsteady. You don’t trust her—not completely. But for the first time in centuries, you feel something else beneath the anger: the faintest flicker of hope.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you say, your voice softer than before.

Agatha’s lips quirk into a faint, rueful smile. “I won’t,” she says. “Not this time.”

You take a deep breath, and you nod as you both start to walk, looking away from her, your eyes taking in the trees around you both, the silence that is only broken by crickets and your feet on fallen leaves every now and again.

The mist clings to you both like a second skin as the silence stretches, weighted and tense. The bond hums faintly between you, but there’s a strange hollowness to it, a missing note that makes your chest ache. It takes you a while to place it, but the realisation creeps up on you slowly, like a shadow in the corner of your mind.

You glance at Agatha. She’s walking beside you, her shoulders squared in that way that screams she’s unbreakable a lie she’s always told herself. But there’s something missing. Something that isn’t just her sharp-edged confidence.

You stop walking. “Agatha,” you say, your voice cautious but firm. “Your magic.”

She freezes, her back going rigid. Slowly, she turns to face you, her expression carefully neutral, but the bond betrays her. You feel her shame and frustration ripple through it, sharp and unsteady.

“What about it?” she asks, her voice brittle.

“It’s not there,” you say, your tone softer now. “Not the way it used to be. What happened to it?”

She looks away, her jaw clenching. “It’s not important.”

“It is to me,” you counter, stepping closer. “You’ve been hiding this from me, Agatha. Why? What happened?”

Her silence stretches too long, and for a moment, you think she won’t answer. Then, finally, she exhales sharply, her eyes dark with something raw and vulnerable.

“Wanda happened,” she says bitterly. “Westview, she stripped me of everything. My magic, my power—she left me with nothing but a body and a few clever words.”

Your heart stutters. “She took everything?”

“Yes,” Agatha snaps, her voice laced with frustration. “I can’t even light a damn candle without the bond. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be this?” She gestures at herself angrily. “This hollow shell of what I used to be?”

Her words hang between you, her anger bleeding into the bond. But underneath it, you feel the deeper truth: the helplessness, the fear, the grief of losing something so integral to who she is.

“Agatha,” you start, but she cuts you off, her voice sharp and bitter.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t give me some speech about how I’m more than my magic or how I’ll be fine. You don’t understand what it’s like—how empty it feels.”

Your chest tightens, the weight of her pain pressing against you through the bond. And suddenly, you do understand. The absence of her magic isn’t just a loss of power—it’s a loss of self, a wound that’s been festering since Westview.

“I wasn’t going to say that,” you say quietly. “But you’re right. I don’t understand what it’s like to lose magic. I don’t understand how it feels for you. But I can feel it, Agatha. Through the bond. And it hurts.”

Her eyes snap to yours, her expression faltering.

“I feel the emptiness, the hollowness,” you continue. “And I don’t want to feel it anymore. I don’t want you to feel it anymore.”

Her laugh is short and bitter. “Well, unless you’re planning on storming Westview I don’t see what you can do about it.”

You hesitate, the reckless idea forming in your mind. The bond between you hums faintly, and you realise there might be a way to fix this—or at least try.

“I can’t get Wanda to undo it,” you say slowly. “But I can give you something else. My magic.”

Agatha freezes, her expression unreadable. “What?”

“You heard me,” you say. “I can share my magic with you. Just enough to—”

“No,” she says sharply, taking a step back. “Absolutely not. That’s reckless and stupid, even for you.”

“You need magic to be whole again, Agatha,” you argue. “And we have the bond. It’s not just a connection—it’s a tether. If anyone can do this, it’s us.”

“You don’t know that,” she snaps, her voice trembling. “You could hurt yourself. Or me. Or worse, you could sever the bond completely. Have you thought about that?”

“I have,” you say, your voice steady. “And after realising what you’re feeling through our bond I’m willing to take that risk.”

Her anger falters, replaced by something softer—something closer to fear. “Why?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “Why would you do that for me?”

You step closer, your gaze locking with hers. “Because I feel you, Agatha. I’ve felt you for centuries, even when I didn’t want to. And I can’t stand feeling you like this anymore. I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and for a moment, she looks like she might argue again. But then she nods, her hands trembling at her sides.

“Fine,” she whispers. “But if this goes wrong we’re both dead…”

“It won’t,” you say firmly. “Trust me.”

You reach for her hand, your fingers brushing hers lightly. The bond flares at the contact, and Agatha inhales sharply, her magic—or what’s left of it—stirring faintly in response.

You close your eyes, focusing on the bond and the magic coursing through you. You channel it carefully, letting it flow toward her like a steady stream. It’s not painless—the act feels like giving away pieces of yourself, leaving raw edges behind. But through the bond, you feel her presence grow stronger, her magic flickering to life like an ember reignited.

Agatha gasps softly, her grip on your hand tightening as the magic flows between you. When you finally stop, your knees feel weak, and the bond hums with a new warmth—a sense of balance that wasn’t there before.

You open your eyes to find her staring at you, her expression unreadable.

“How do you feel?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

She hesitates, then says, “Stronger.”

A faint smile tugs at her lips, and before you can react, she steps closer, her cheek brushing against yours. The touch is soft, fleeting, but it sends a warmth through the bond that makes your breath catch. Her hand cups the back of your head and her other hand holds your lower back.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

You wrap your arms around her, exhaustion tugging at you. “Don’t make me regret it.”