There are plenty of bars in the city, and most of them are co-ed, hosting spaces where both predator and prey hybrids can be comfortable. There's a few that are targeted towards specific species, with atmospheres and menus that center them. You've been to quite a few rabbit clubs. This one, however, is catered towards predators. It's not a strict rule, but it's one of those social rules that are just understood that you should follow.

You never liked rules very much.

You push the heavy wooden door open and step inside. Almost immediately, your nose twitches as its sent into overdrive. The smells hit you like a meteor, a mix of hybrid musks that has your rabbit instincts screaming at you. Heads turn and glance at you as you walk to the bar, a few eyebrows raised, tails swishing with curiosity, but no one says anything about your presence.

The leather barstools are nice, but worn, squeaking a little under you as you sit. You wait patiently for the bartender to come over, watching him speak in a low, deep voice to a couple of patrons who were here just before you. He's a wolf hybrid, but strangely the fur of his ears and tail are much lighter than his black hair. An arctic wolf, you muse. You rest your head in your hand and watch him move.

Your parents used to say that you were too curious for your own good, especially when it came to danger. They always got calls from school saying you got into tussles with other kids on the playground, provoking them or just thinking you were able to scrap with the big dogs—literally. Multiple teachers and counselors expressed concern for the behavior, citing that it was very unusual for a rabbit to be so willing to put themselves in these situations. It was like your fight and flight instinct were swapped.

As a teen, your focus shifted to school, so you mellowed out a little. But you still had a reputation for not backing down from a fight. You're pretty sure your unwavering attitude is the main thing that kept you from being shoved in lockers daily. That and being a teacher's pet.

It's funny, really. Everyone who meets you always expects a trembling bunny, and instead they get met with a spitfire jackrabbit. Flipping those expectations on people always amuses you, and it's gotten you a lot more respect as you've climbed your way through the hellscape of academia.

But part of you misses the adrenaline rush of a good scrap.

"What can I do ya for?"

You glance up at the wolf bartender, who seems to be watching you with the same curiosity that you were watching him. He cleans a glass as he waits for your response.

"What do you have that's fruity?"

A feline hybrid next to you snickers at the request. You ignore them. The wolf pauses his cleaning for a moment as he thinks, sets the glass down, and starts grabbing some things from the back counter. He looks at what he has for a moment then turns back to you.

"Don't usually get a lot of fruity requests, but I do have some stuff. Just gotta go to the back to get something. That okay?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all. I'll be right back."

As you wait, you idly spin the stool around a bit by pushing your foot off the counter. Your rabbit ears sway with each motion. They quirk up as you pick up on various conversations around the room. Someone telling a friend about their promotion at work. A group of friends comforting a girl after a breakup. Animal senses come in a lot of handy when you're nosy.

"I'm telling you, I'm done with her this time."

"You've been saying that for years, Agatha. I have a hard time believing this is the final straw."

"We're divorced for a reason."

"And yet, you still hook up constantly."

"A woman has needs, Wanda."

This conversation has you zeroing in, looking towards the source of the voices. Standing at a table near people playing pool, you spot the pair whose chatter has made its way to your ears. Two women, both nursing what looks like it might be bourbon and coke. As they keep talking, you identify the one closer to the bar side as Agatha, the apparently divorced woman. And you are so thankful she is, because suddenly your ambitions for the night have found a target.

Her hair is wild and dark, a deep brunette that looks almost black in the dim lights of the bar. As she moves and the lighting shifts, you can see streaks of silver running through her waves. Pointed ears, perfect little triangles, sit atop her head, and a bushy tail the same color as her hair, grey streaks and all, swishes behind her. If you had to guess, you'd wager she's middle-aged, maybe late 40s to early 50s, judging by the distinct lines of her face when she shifts expressions and the easy confidence that she carries that can only come with decades of spending time in bars like this. When she opens her mouth to speak to the woman next to her, you can see her sharp canines.

A silver fox. Both literally and figuratively.

The other woman, Wanda, is also a fox, her hair and fur a red-orange that reminds you of autumn. She's pretty, closer to your age than Agatha's. But your sights are set on the older woman.

Someone clears their throat behind you. You spin back around to face the bartender again. He's placed a drink on the counter. The glass is filled with a pink-peach color and garnished with a maraschino cherry.

"Here you go. I hope it's okay," he says awkwardly. You thank him and tell him not to close your tab yet. Luck willing, you'll be buying another drink soon.

The cocktail is good, a bit sweeter than you hoped, but a nice flavor nonetheless. You sip it and play with the tiny straw, stabbing the cherry as you swing back around to scan across the room. Your brow furrows when you look over and there's only one fox still at the table. Where did Agatha go? Did she leave before you could even meet her?

Your body twitches, alert, as someone walks up behind you.

"Looks like a little bunny got lost," a low voice that can only be described as sultry speaks.

Pushing off the counter again, you spin to face her. Agatha stands before you, empty glass in hand, looking you up and down. Regarding you with cool blue eyes.

"Not lost at all. I'm right where I wanna be," you reply, leaning an elbow on the bartop.

"So, you want to be staring at a pair of vixens across the bar like a creep?" Agatha raises an eyebrow. She clearly expects the callout to fluster you, but you simply shrug.

"Wasn't trying to be creepy. Just admiring the view." Both of Agatha's brows raise now, visibly surprised by your boldness. You return the accusation. "Did you come over here just to intimidate me?"

This makes Agatha set her glass on the counter, leaning over you. Her tail lashes behind her. The sharp points of her fangs gleam when she opens her mouth to speak. "That depends, bunny. Is it working?"

"Not in the way you want it to."

"And what way do you think that is?" Agatha asks smoothly, never pulling back. She taps her fingers against the bar, her claws making a light tapping sound on the polished wood.

"I think you expected me to run," you say, tilting your chin up to meet her heavy gaze more firmly. "Probably thought I'd hightail out of here the second you flashed your fangs."

You take a sip of your drink again, keeping your eyes on her. She glances at your lips pressed against the glass momentarily, almost imperceptibly, before they dart back up to your face. Before you realize what's happening, Agatha steps back. You think that she's about to leave, disappointed that she couldn't scare you off, but then she turns to the person sitting on the bar stool to your right.

"Move. I'm taking this seat," she snaps at them. When they start to protest, she snarls, and they relent, uninterested in getting into a fight over a seat. Agatha looks smug as she sits down.

"You always that pleasant?" You tease.

"No, I'm in a good mood, so I'm being extra nice."

You introduce yourself, and Agatha says her name curtly in response. You choose to omit the fact that you've been listening to her conversation and learned her name that way, but you have a feeling that she might have guessed that already.

"Should you tell your friend you're abandoning her?" You nod your head towards where Wanda was left standing.

"She'll figure it out." Agatha waves a hand dismissively. She waves to get the bartenders attention, and he takes her glass to get a fresh drink.

"I'll get that," you tell him as he sets Agatha's drink down. His eyes dart between the two of you, a bit of surprised on his face, but he simply nods and leaves you alone again.

"What do you do that you can just go buying drinks for women, hm?" Agatha asks as she brings her glass to her lips.

"I'm a waitress, but I'm still in school. I'm also a TA," you explain.

"Undergrad?"

"PhD."

Agatha looks impressed, and you beam a little.

"What field?"

"Anthropology."

"Small world," Agatha smiles. She points at herself. You try not to let your eyes linger on her sharp claws. "History professor."

"At Westview?" She nods as she takes a bit of ice from her glass and crunches it. "That's where I'm studying. I'm surprised I haven't seen you before."

"I don't linger around campus often. Too many of my students love to barrage me with annoying questions and ask for life advice."

"I'm not actually on campus that often either, to be fair. I'm usually running from my last class to get to work."

"How do you fit going to predator bars and ogling women into your busy schedule?" Agatha asks casually. You scoff, nose scrunching up. Agatha grins, finally having caught you off-guard. "Seriously. What are you doing here, bunny?"

"I'm allowed to be here," you sneer.

"That's not what I mean." Agatha sets her half-empty glass down and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. "A bunny doesn't just wander into a building full of drunk predators."

"Maybe I do." You bristle at the assessment.

"In that case, you're dumber than I thought." Agatha shrugs.

"Did I mention the PhD?"

"You did, and I stand by my statement." Agatha watches you start to grow frustrated with her, a greatly amused smile on her infuriatingly pretty face. "The way I see it, you're here either because you're dumb and horny, or just plain dumb. Pick your poison."

Heat rises to your face. You reach for your drink to try to occupy yourself while you come up with a response that doesn't make you sound as flustered as you are, but your glass is empty.

You've prided yourself on defying the timid rabbit stereotypes for your whole life. Nothing has ever truly made you cower. You've presented the thesis that you've dedicated your entire being to in front of a board of intimidating faces and didn't waver. But now, face to face with a beautifully terrifying woman almost twice your age, is where you're forgetting yourself. Your heart is beating at an ungodly pace, your foot tapping nervously against the footrest of the bar stool.

This is the first time you've understood what it means to be prey. Though you're sitting in place, you can't help but feel like Agatha is hunting you. It's the way she's been watching, waiting for her perfect moment to strike. To hit you with the blunt observation that she somehow knew would finally make you stumble.

But you're not going down without a fight.

"Projection is a dangerous game, Agatha."

A beat. Agatha scoffs, shaking her head with laugh. "Oh, you're just asking for it, aren't you?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you though?" She leans in closer to whisper into your ears. Her hot breath brushes against them, and they twitch, which makes her chuckle. "Tough bunny just wants someone to put them in their place. That's why you're here."

You run your tongue over your teeth, eyes darting up to meet her. Agatha is looming over you now, her hair a curtain around you. You're positive she can hear your heart beat. You wonder if she can also smell your arousal that's starting to pool in a wet heat between your legs.

She probably can, given the fact that you can smell hers.

It's thick and musky, much more intense than the prey hybrids you usually sleep with. And you desperately need to press your face against her and have it surround you completely until your scents are so intertwined that they're indistinguishable from each other.

"You're making an awful lot of assumptions here." Your snarky responses are getting less potent by the second.

"Am I?" Agatha raises a brow. She sits back a little, starts counting off on her fingers. Long fingers that she definitely knows how to use. Veins along her hands down to her perfectly toned forearms that you've been drooling over since you saw her from across the bar. Of course she's rolled her nice button up sleeves up to her elbows. It's bait for anyone who loves a hot, powerful woman. "Bunny walks into a bar catered towards predators. Bunny watches a woman old enough to be her mother from across the room. Bunny has a whole lot of pride that she's had to wear like armor to get where she is."

"Your point?"

"Bunny is trying to cut off my assessment and divert my attention." You huff. Agatha continues with a smirk, "All that is to say, you like a challenge. You like to push boundaries. If you didn't, it would take you about five minutes to find a dozen other bunnies who'd be down to fuck you."

"Two dozen, probably," you mumble. Agatha gives you a look that says "I know I'm right, but thank you for confirming it." Feeling defensive but unarmed, you cross your arms over your chest and glance away from her intense gaze. "I thought you were a history professor, not psych."

"History is my main interest, but analyzing people is my real talent."

"Are you done?"

"I could probably keep going. Do you want an analysis on your various psychological complexes too? Or is that too explicit to do in public."

"No thanks, Freud."

"Rude. But if you want Freud, I can give Freud."

"Don't—"

"How's your relationship with your mother?"

The noise you let out is nothing short of a feral whine of frustration. You try to play it off, act like it was a squeak from your stool, but Agatha isn't that stupid. Her ears perk up, and her lips curl up over her teeth. You blink, body reacting off pure instincts as you lean back and away from her. A low chittering sound hits your ears, and you realize it's her. It must have been as involuntary as your own noise, because Agatha shakes her head a bit, ears flopping in a rather adorable way, before steeling her gaze again. She lets out a little snort of air.

"I'm leaving. I'll be waiting out front for an Uber. You have about ten minutes to decide if you want to follow."

And just like that, she's getting up and walking away from the bar.

Ten minutes. Nine now, as you pay for your drinks. Eight by the time you're opening the front door and looking around, ears rotating atop your head and nose twitching as you seek out the fox.

Agatha is leaning against a lamp post, foot propped up against the fire hydrant next to her. A cigarette is perched between her lips for a moment before she pulls away and lets out a stream of smoke. She's facing the street, but you know she hears you approach by the way her tail swishes and ears move.

"Bunnies shouldn't follow foxes, you know," Agatha hums, still looking out at the few passing cars. You let out a wavered sigh, the cool night air allowing you to see your breath. It mirrors the smoke she's exhaling. "You're just asking for it."

"I know what I'm asking for." Your words come out childish, like a kid who's determined to try something they're not usually allowed to do.

"I don't think you do," Agatha says, looking over at you now. You stand firm, unmoving. She brings the cigarette to her lips again. The end glows red. Pulls it away. Breathes out. "Prove it."

"How?"

"Hold out your wrist."

The request is strange, but when she flicks her cigarette a bit and steps closer to you, blue eyes dark and hungry, you realize what she wants. It's a test. She's showing you that she's not going to go easy on you just because you're a cute rabbit hopping into the fox's den. It's a little crazy, and for the first time all night—or possibly the first time in your entire life—you start to think you've bit off more than you can chew.

But you've never met a test that you couldn't handle.

You hold out your wrist for her, chin up to face her fully. Agatha grins, toothy and a little menacing. Holds eye contact as she takes your wrist in her hand. Her fingers easily circle around you, meeting over your pulse point. She can feel how fast your heart is racing.

The tender skin burns as Agatha presses the cigarette against you. You visibly wince, but you refuse to pull away. She holds it there, until the embers start to fade, and then finally takes it away. You let out a stuttered sigh of relief, eyes watering at the corners. Agatha is still holding you by the wrist. Her thumb rubs over the burn mark.

"Good girl."

A shiver runs through your body. You're trying to find any coherent response, but the tension is fogging your brain. All that you manage to squeak out is, "Can I kiss you?"

Agatha simply pulls your body into her own, cupping your face and crashing her lips into yours. You squeak again, fingers grasping desperately at her shirt. Anything to ground you. You've kissed a lot of people, but none have made you feel even close to this. Agatha's fangs graze your bottom lip, nipping and suckling at the soft flesh. You can feel your body trying to go limp.

Blood smears across your mouth as she bites too hard. Agatha pulls back suddenly, breathing heavily. Her eyes are wild, mouth twitching like she didn't want to stop. Your body hums, arousal spiking impossibly as you see just how much she's affected by this too. She runs her tongue over her lips, tasting your blood.

"Fuck," Agatha breathes out. She looks almost surprised that she lost a bit of control.

"Yeah. I agree." You reach up and swipe some of the blood away from her chin with your thumb, and she smiles. Maybe satisfied that you didn't get freaked out by her feral instincts peeking out.

A car rolls up to where you two are standing, asks for Agatha. She nods at the driver.

"Ride's here."

Agatha doesn't ask if you're coming with her. She doesn't need to. You follow her into the backseat, closing the door behind you with a soft slam.

As soon as the car starts moving, Agatha is on you again. She kisses you eagerly, then trails her lips along your jaw down to your neck. You tangle your hand in her hair, scratching at her scalp right at the base of her ears. She makes a noise that sounds like a mix of a purr and a growl. You feel her press her nose against you and inhale. The hand that's gripping your thigh tightens.

"You smell so fucking delicious, bunny," Agatha says against your skin, voice husky. Her teeth graze against your neck. Your rabbit brain reacts, and your human brain is too aroused to push the feeling away. Your body tenses, freezing in place as it tries to tell you that there's danger. Agatha rubs her hand over your thigh. You feel her claws through the fabric of your pants. Those also set off your instincts, but the slight pain when she bites your neck again is enough to snap you back to reality.

"You gonna fuck me or eat me?" You tease, but your voice wavers.

"Both. But the latter in the former sense."

"What?" You blink. Agatha's fingers brush against your crotch. "Oh."

"Not as quick as you were earlier, hm?" Agatha laughs.

"Your wording was confusing," you mumble defensively. You tug on her hair, and she growls.

"Mhm, or you're just not the smartest in the room like usual."

"I have very little doubt that you're smarter than me, but you have age advantage."

Agatha snorts and pulls back from your neck. She rubs her thumb over your bottom lip, pressing hard enough to make that still sensitive cut dribble out a few more drops of blood. Instead of licking it off herself, she pushes the digit into your mouth. You wrap your lips around her and lave your tongue over the pad of her thumb, holding her gaze with wide eyes the whole time. The taste is metallic and unappealing, but the weight of her fingers on your tongue distract you from that.

"Oral fixation," Agatha says simply.

"Oh shuhup," you garble through the finger still wedged between your lips. Agatha cackles and removes her thumb. "You're the one who smokes."

"That's addiction, not psychosexual."

"Two of Freud's favorite things."

"Your little rabbit teeth are cute," Agatha hums, tapping her index finger against your lips.

Your face feels warm, and you turn away from her gaze. One of the signature traits of rabbit hybrids was the distinct front teeth. You grew up hating them. It was definitely a learned insecurity from schoolyard jabs through your childhood, but they stuck nonetheless.

For a split second, you believe that maybe Agatha is giving a Mean Girls-esque fake compliment. But you get the feeling that if Agatha were Regina George, she would've told that girl straight to her face that she was wearing the ugliest effing skirt she's ever seen.

So, you take the compliment.

The car rolls to a stop in front of a nice row of townhouses. You thank the driver. Agatha ignores them and gets out of the car swiftly, taking you by the hand and leading you along. You follow her up to a small two-story house. The yard is a little overgrown, but it's nice otherwise. You resist the urge to go sniff around what looks to be an abandoned flower garden below her porch while she fumbles with her keys.

Once inside, you look around in the darkness. Agatha doesn't bother flipping the lights on. Both of you can see well enough.

"Your house is nice," you say, admiring all the vintage furnishings. With curious eyes, you wander over to a tall bookshelf, scanning over the titles. It's mostly non-fiction, which you expected from the history professor. Agatha seems to have a morbid curiosity in tragic historical events, given the array of books about everything from the Titanic to the Hindenburg disasters. But the number of those pale in comparison to the sheer volume of Agatha's witch trials collection.

Your body twitches, and you suddenly feel a warm presence behind you. You know she's been watching you this entire time, but it seems she's growing impatient. Fair. You might've been tempted to flip through the very out-of-place Dolly Parton biography if Agatha wasn't ready to finish what you started.

Agatha wraps her arms around you, her mouth finding your neck once more. You gasp as she nips you. Not quite drawing blood this time, but certainly enough to bruise. Her body presses against yours. When you feel a slight bulge pressing against your ass, you almost have to grab onto the bookshelf to steady yourself.

"I'd offer you a drink, but I'd rather see if I can get you drunk on something else," Agatha murmurs against your skin. She punctuates the sentiment with a roll of her hips, and you groan.

Boldly, you push back against her, grinding your ass against her clothed cock. Agatha curses under her breath, her hands falling to your hips. She pulls away from your neck, and you know exactly what she's busy looking at. You flick your cottontail purposefully, and Agatha exhales a stuttered laugh.

"Fuck, that's adorable." Agatha gives another hard thrust and slaps your ass playfully before pulling away. You try not to whine at the loss. Before you can complain, Agatha says, "Bedroom is upstairs. Door at the end of the hall. Lead the way, bunny. I'm right behind you."

"Why don't you lead the way? It's your house." To answer your question, Agatha slaps your ass again. You snort. "Pervert."

"Excuse me for wanting to look at that cute tail of yours more."

Even as you walk up the stairs, the tension in the air is palpable. While you know that Agatha is trailing you, it's a bit eerie having her lurking behind you. Especially when she lets you get a few steps ahead of her. It feels like she's stalking you rather than letting you lead.

"You're weird."

"Why's that?" Agatha asks in a low voice as you reach the bedroom.

You spin around to face her, but keep walking backwards until the back of your knees his the edge of her bed. You're expecting her to push you down onto it, but instead she just gets as close as possible, looming in your space. Chest to chest, you can feel her breathing against you.

"Just are." Your eyes drop down to the bulge nudging against you. You lick your lips.

"Very well put, bunny," Agatha snorts. "If you're not going to say anything useful, how about we put that mouth to work?"

You reach out to unbutton her slacks, but she slaps your hands away.

"Nope. Get on your knees first."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Am I just going to unbutton them when I'm down there? What difference does it make?" You scrunch up your nose at her. Agatha's buttons are very fun to push. Her brow furrows adorably and the vein in her forehead becomes more prominent as she tenses.

"The difference is that I want to see you on your fucking knees," Agatha growls. "But if you want to be a stubborn thing, you strip first."

"But I wanna see you—"

The sound of fabric ripping hits your ears before you realize whats happened. Agatha has taken her claws and shredded them down the front of your shirt. The fabric parts in a tattered mess, exposing your chest and tummy to her hungry gaze.

"You're paying for that," you huff, trying to act offended and not give away that the action made your cunt throb.

"You know, for someone who literally wanted this, you're doing an awful lot of talking and not much being a good little fuckbunny."

That is not something anyone has called you before, and you think it just changed your brain chemistry.

Agatha smirks, fully aware that she just activated that little submissive part of your brain that you've been hiding behind sass and annoying questions.

"Am I going to have to repeat myself, bunny?" Agatha tilts your chin up with her finger, her claw poking into your skin. "Surely you remember what I just told you to do."

Trying to pretend you still have some dignity left, you shed the remains of your shirt and put it aside. Agatha runs her hands over your tummy and up to your chest, palming your tits through your lacy bra. Normally, you'd want her to play with you like that for a bit longer, but with how the nights been going, you're far past ready to get down to business. You slide to your knees in front of Agatha, the plush rug under you a soft cushion against your delicate skin.

"Good bunny," Agatha hums, patting your head condescendingly. You shake your head to get your ears unruffled when she pulls back. "Now you can unbutton, sweetheart."

The palms of your hands are sweaty, but you manage not to tremble as you reach up and thread the button through the hole. The heat of her arousal is searing. Agatha is wearing purple lace. The dark curls of her thick bush peek out of the waistband and through some of the thinner parts of the fabric. That sight is already mouthwatering in itself, but you can't even dwell on that because you're face to face with the thick bulge of Agatha's cock.

Strained against her panties, you can't tell how big she is yet. But you're stopped dead in your tracks as the smell of her musk drowns out any other thoughts. Agatha might get her wish of getting you cockdrunk before it's even out.

"Fox got your tongue?" Agatha asks, looking down at you with a fake pout. "Aw, poor bunny. Do I need to help?"

A needy whine is your only reply. Agatha laughs and slowly, teasingly, starts tugging her pants and underwear down.

Her cock springs free the second that the lace is peeled away. Your senses are absolutely overwhelmed. The smell of her is still making your entire body buzz, and now you have to remember how to function as you try not to drool at the sight of her dick.

Agatha wraps her hand around the base, giving it a few pumps. You'd wager it's about five or six inches. Thick. As her hand reaches the root again, your eyes dart to her sack. You've never done it with anyone before, but you kind of want to press your nose against her balls and try to get her musk directly from the source into your head. Or wrap your lips around them and massage them with your tongue. Or take her cock while you're laying upside down over the edge of the bed so that her sack press against your nose while you deep throat her. Or—

"Bunnyyy," Agatha singsongs. You don't snap out of your haze, you simply let your eyes drift up to her face. The way she's towering over you makes you feel so small, helpless in the face of whatever she chooses to do with you.

It's her pheromones, you tell yourself. That's why your head feels like it's full of static instead of real thoughts. Even though your pheromones shouldn't even be compatible as two wildly different species—predator and prey, no less.

Or, maybe the stark difference is why you're so overwhelmed. The rabbits you've hooked up with never elicited even close to this response.

Agatha taps the tip of her cock against your lips to try to focus your attention. You part your lips, tongue darting out to lick a dribble of pre-cum.

"Wider," Agatha urges, hooking her thumb in your mouth to wrench your jaw open for her. You give her no resistance. Her finger runs over your teeth, back and forth over the more prominent rabbit ones. "Don't use these on me. Don't want my dick snapping like a carrot."

"Won't." You promise and open your mouth a little wider.

"Good bunny."

The tip of her cock presses against your tongue as she pushes in. You groan as you taste her pre direct from the source. Agatha's breath hitches almost imperceptibly as she sinks deeper into the warm wetness of your mouth, but your ears just barely pick it up.

She doesn't hesitate to push as deep as she can right away. The look in your eyes might be getting more dazed by the second, but in them she can see the determination to prove yourself to her. Agatha's cock lays thick and heavy on your tongue, sliding towards the back of your throat. Her fluffy tail has stiffened behind her. Your nose twitches, getting closer to her pelvis. Her bush brushes against your nostrils and you wrinkle your nose as her hair tickles you. Agatha must find the sight of your nose scrunching up amusing. She grips your head and pushes you all the way down. You gag.

"Aww, is the wittle bunny wabbit getting overwhelmed?" Agatha coos down at you, voice dripping with mocking condescension and an exaggerated pout on her lips. The "wittle wabbit" nickname is something that would normally make your skin prickle with irritation. But you can't exactly think straight right now, and from Agatha's mouth the degrading tone is hypnotic. You make a little gurgling whine around her cock as you adjust to the feeling of her in your throat. Your nose is mashed against her now, buried deep in her bush.

"Breathe through your nose, bunny," Agatha encourages. If Agatha doesn't let you up for air, you might die happily here. The puffs of air that you exhale through your nose are unsteady. Agatha runs her hand through your hair, flattening your ears against your head. "C'mon, you're a big girl. You can do it. In…"

You inhale. As you do, the scent of her musk hits you hard. It shouldn't be possible for your head to feel this empty just from Agatha's smell. But here you are, moaning around her dick. Agatha curses at the vibrations, hips jerking. She remembers she's supposed to be guiding you, voice coming out strained as she says, "And out…"

When you exhale, she pulls back ever so slightly. Then Agatha starts thrusting, her cock gliding over your tongue. In and out. Back and forth. Your eyes droop, and your body is strangely relaxed as your throat is being used for her pleasure. Arousal is soaking through your panties now, growing slick and uncomfortable, but you can't be bothered to focus on that.

You're jolted from your meditative state as Agatha's hands wrap around your rabbit ears. You glare up at her. Rabbit hybrids ears are very sensitive. Luckily, the human part of your genetic make-up means they're not devastatingly fragile. But the feeling of someone grabbing them does make your heart beat rather fast.

Agatha senses your tension and pauses her movements. She doesn't move her hand from your ears, but her grip loosens a bit. Her other hand comes up to your jaw and cups it gently.

"Nod if this is okay," Agatha murmurs under her breath.

You don't ponder it for long, far too eager to push your comfort for the sake of getting rough treatment from Agatha. You nod. Agatha smirks and tightens her grip again.

"Tap my thigh twice if you need to stop."

That warning is the last one you get before Agatha starts fucking into your mouth again, this time, using your ears as a handle to guide your head. It hurts a little, but it's a similar sensation to when past hookups have pulled your hair. The sting tugs at your scalp, but the pain is colliding with pleasure.

"Fuck. Fuck yes. Take it."

The room is filled with the guttural sounds of your throat working around her, coupled with a rumbling growl from Agatha's chest and a muffled whine from your own.

"Arch your back and stick your ass out," Agatha orders through gritted teeth. "Wanna see your cottontail shake while I use your mouth."

You shift, spreading your thighs and pushing your hips back so that Agatha can admire your ass from above. You flick your tail teasingly, and Agatha's cock twitches in your mouth at the sight. As Agatha gets more and more frantic, fucking your mouth faster, you notice something. When your lips get closer to the base of her cock, you feel them stretch a tiny bit more than they were earlier, like Agatha's cock is starting to swell at the base.

Before you can worry about it, Agatha yanks you off of her. You squeak and wince, and she breathes out a clipped apology when you rub the base of your ears.

"God, your mouth is so good. Almost made me knot."

Since you're rubbing your ears to soothe them and your mind is currently centralized between your legs, you don't fully register what Agatha's said. You hear "nut" and assume she just didn't want to come yet. Maybe her refractory period isn't what it used to be. Makes sense. Age and hormones will do that.

Agatha draws your attention again, cupping your jaw and rubbing it with her thumb. You lean into the touch, a small buzzing noise escaping you. Agatha's ears perk up. She laughs, an amused chittering sound.

"What's that?"

"Oh." Of course she heard it. Your cheek goes warm under her touch. "Sometimes rabbits do that. When they're happy. Or aroused."

"Mmm, all it takes is a cock in your mouth to get that cute noise out of you?" Agatha asks with a smirk. Too flustered to respond, you just shrug. The smirk turns into a full grin. "What happened to all that backtalk, hm? I guess you really are just a needy little fuckbunny."

"No…" You say with zero conviction in your voice.

"No? So, I shouldn't fuck you then?" Agatha bends down and reaches slowly for her pants, her cock still leaking between her thighs. You could absolutely call her bluff, and normally you would. But the logical side of your brain is nowhere to be found.

"Wait." You stop her. She laughs in your face.

"That's what I thought. Now finish stripping and get on the bed."

You scramble to obey, shedding the rest of your clothes until you're completely naked. Agatha follows suit, unbuttoning her shirt quickly and tossing it aside. When she unclips the lace bra that matches her panties, your mouth waters at the sight of her tits. Puffy, sensitive nipples practically begging to be sucked. But she clearly has other plans. Agatha tells you to lay back against the pillows, so you scoot your way up and rest your head against the silk pillowcases.

"So obedient now," Agatha hums as she crawls up the bed. You watch the way she stalks towards your body, the muscles of her body moving like a Renaissance art piece. "Dumb bunny think she's all high and mighty, but she just needed to be reminded where she sits on the food chain."

Your cunt pulses and legs spread. Agatha can see the way your pussy reacts, so she continues with a low, sultry voice that could lure even the most suspicious prey into her trap.

"About an hour ago, you would've died rather than have someone dare insult your intelligence. But now, here you are, practically moaning when a mean old fox calls you dumb bunny. This is why you went searching tonight, isn't it? You just needed someone to put you in your place. Needed to embrace that prey side of you that you've stuffed away for so long."

The truth of the statement makes you turn away, eyes shiny with need and a couple of tears. Agatha is hovering over your body now, her thick hair falling in your face. She grips your face and turns you back to face her. Unable to hide from the truth, you nod. You swallow nervously as you see her lick her lips.

"Don't look so frightened, bunny. I won't tell anyone what a needy mess you get when you finally find someone willing to bite back." Agatha's voice is slightly softer. The tenderness must surprise her as well, because she kisses you sloppily to divert your attention. She loves the way you're shaking under her. Pure arousal is pumping through your body, and you're not sure how much longer you're able to stand not being filled. When Agatha pulls back a bit, you nuzzle your face against hers, making whining noises.

"Silly rabbit. Such a pathetic creature. Can't even wait one more second to be filled?" You shake your head. "Too bad. I need to taste you first. I promised to eat you, didn't I?"

Her lips trail down your neck, leaving bites along the way. Agatha gives your tits a little bit of attention, flicking her tongue over your nipples to listen to you squeal, but she's on a mission.

Her hands grip your thighs, spreading you open for her hungry gaze. Agatha leans in and inhales, her tail lashing as she smells your soaked cunt. Her tongue lolls out, and before you can comment on how long it is, it swipes through your folds in a long, firm push. Your head falls back against the pillow, back arching as you feel her start licking you eagerly.

Agatha's fox tongue has little bumps meant to help groom fur, and the feeling of that ridged, wet muscle lapping at you like she's been starved for months has you seeing stars. You wrap your legs around her head, your fingers grasping at her hair. Anything to ground you.

"Ah!" You moan, thrashing under her. "Don't stop, I'm close!"

Agatha doesn't speak, but her gaze never leaves you. Her nose brushes against your clit as she fucks her long tongue inside of your aching hole. Claws dig into the meat of your thighs as she tries to hold you still. You might be bleeding, you're not sure. All you can feel is pleasure that practically has you passing out as your orgasm crashes through you.

Despite the mind blowing climax, you're not nearly done yet, and Agatha knows it. Agatha pulls back just enough to reach between your thighs. She spreads your pussy lips with two fingers, groaning at the sight of you.

"I've never seen anything like this, bunny," Agatha murmurs, her lips shiny with your slick. "So red and open. It's like you were built to be fucked."

When your cunt clenches visibly at her words, a bit of your cum squeezes out and down to the sheets. The sight makes Agatha pounce into action.

There's no more words shared between the two of you. They're not needed. Both of you know what the other needs right now. The raw, animalistic need is all-consuming. Agatha sits up and rolls you onto your back. You're already moving into the position she wants, so she doesn't have to do much. Once on all fours, you raise your ass in the air, practically shoving yourself against her body.

Agatha positions herself behind you, stroking her cock as she gives you a slap on your flank. Your fluffy tail flicks back and forth, wafting the scent of your need around. You feel her claws dig in at the sight.

There's barely any time between Agatha rubbing the tip of her cock through your folds and almost her entire length being shoved inside you. Both of you let out feral noises at the feeling. Agatha starts rutting into you, draping herself over your back so she can latch her teeth into the back of your neck.

The sound of her grunts fill your ears, with the wet slapping noise of your bodies meeting as she fucks you serving as the backing track. You're glad that Agatha can't see your face from this angle, because you're sure that you look like a wreck. Eyes rolled back in your head, mouth hanging open and drool down your lips.

You've never been filled so perfectly. The thickness of her cock drags against your walls with each thrust, sending shockwaves up your spine and reducing your brain to a pile of mush. Another orgasm sends your body into a shaking mess, moaning into the pillow when you lose your balance and can't hold yourself up anymore. Agatha doesn't mind though. She sits up, shoving your face further into the pillow and fucking you faster.

"Gonna fuck you so good that you never want another cock," Agatha growls lowly. "No more rabbits for you, baby. You're gonna crave this from now on. Thick predator cock breeding this pretty pussy."

Her voice is starting to sound higher pitched, and you can tell she's close. You want to make her come. You want to feel her breed you. With what little strength you can muster, you start pushing your hips back to meet hers. She gasps, cock pulsing inside of you as you fuck yourself on her cock. The stretch of her feels so good that you don't notice that she's stopped going as deep, fucking you in small swift thrusts instead of the delicious ones that reach deep in your wanting hole. And you also don't notice the thickness at the base of her cock swelling again. All you can do is push, wanting her hilted inside of you and letting out a high pitched wail when she pulls back out a bit further, staving off her orgasm for a moment longer.

"Dumb bunny," Agatha breathes out. "Don't even know what you're begging for."

"I do. Please. Please, I need it," you babble mindlessly. You do know what you're begging for. You're begging for her cum. You're begging for her to claim you. To ruin you for anyone else.

Agatha hesitates for a moment before pressing herself against your back again.

"Okay. Okay, bunny. I'll give you what you need." She nips at your ears to distract you before shoving her cock fully inside you once more. It's bigger. Thicker. It's stretching your cunt at the entrance. You cry out, and she shushes you, lips against the back of your neck now. "You've got it, it's in. Just relax, and it'll go smoother."

Agatha's thrusts are shallow now, barely pulling out of you before hilting with each push of her hips. You thought the stretch would settle, but every time your cunt adjusts, it feels like the girth around the base of her cock swells even bigger, growing into a bulbous shape that catches against your hole.

And then, realization hits you.

Knot.

Agatha was right. You didn't know what you were begging for. She warned you earlier, and you misunderstood. And she was holding back now because she didn't want to knot you.

Knotting is meant for mating and is supposedly incredibly intimate for species that do it. Agatha probably hesitated because of course she would. She probably doesn't just go knotting any random hookup.

But she heard your desperate begging and gave it to you anyway.

Your impression of Agatha tells you that she wouldn't do something so vulnerable if she didn't really want to. This divorced woman who's old enough to be your mother is crossing a social boundary for you, just because you sat pretty and begged pathetically for her to claim you.

The brief panic you had disappears. Your cunt clenches and gushes around her. Agatha is letting out an endless stream of grunts and moans. The vibrations of them rattle through her chest and against your skin where she's pressed against you.

Even if you wanted her to stop, you're not sure that you'd be able to shove her off. She's too far gone now, too close to release that the only thing in her mind is finishing.

You wiggle your hips and clench around her deliberately. Agatha's eyes fly open, and you feel her pulse.

"Bunny, I—"

"Knot me, Agatha."

Agatha's eyes roll back and her entire body shakes. Her sweat slicked forehead drops to your shoulder as she manages a few more tiny thrusts before you feel a spurt of thin cum shoot into you. Agatha gasps when you squeeze around her, milking every drop you can.

The knot swells as the last bit of her load dribbles out. You bite the pillow at the feeling, the walls of your pussy gaping around the fleshy plug meant to keep Agatha's seed inside of you. The sensation is so painfully delicious that it has you rubbing your clit, urging one last weak orgasm from your trembling form.

Agatha's body collapses on top of you. She takes a moment to catch her breath before rolling you onto your side.

The sudden movement and tug of the knot at your hole makes you scramble. She didn't know that you were biting the pillow. The sound of fabric ripping hits both of you, jolting you from the post-orgasm haze. You blink and flatten your ears, straining to look back at her over your shoulder.

"Sorry."

"We're even now from the shirt thing," Agatha huffs out an exhausted laugh.

"Yeah, that's fair."

You can't turn to face her with her knot snug in your cunt from behind, so you can only get a glimpse of her beautifully wrecked appearance. Her hair is wild and pupils blown out so that they look like midnight rather than sky blue. Her tail is wagging slowly, content.

"Can you reach the nightstand? There's a water bottle there."

"Yeah."

After both of you chug half a bottle each, Agatha drapes her arm over you and nuzzles against your back. You try to free yourself and roll over to face her, but her knot is still just as swollen.

"How long does this thing last?" You ask.

"Depends," Agatha mumbles, sounding sleepy. "Could be soon. Could be as long as an hour and a half."

"What? That's so long," you whine.

"Don't you know anything about knots?"

"I thought it was like, a few minutes!"

"I know it's been a while since I've been in school, but didn't they teach you kids sex-ed?"

"They separate us by species! All I learned was rabbit sex. Anything else I've learned through experience, and you're the first person with a knot I've ever fucked."

"Maybe you should do your research next time then," Agatha shrugs.

"What was I supposed to do, look up fox breeding dynamics when I saw you at the bar?"

"Or not beg to get knotted."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

You hike your leg up and kick backwards into her shin. Agatha yips. You giggle, which is cut off very quickly when you feel her teeth sink into the back of your neck, scruffing you like an unruly kit.

Prey instincts make you go limp, and Agatha lets out a satisfied snort.

"Don't get too cocky, bunny," Agatha says once she releases your neck. "I know all the buttons to push to make that bratty attitude of yours disappear."

"Not a brat," you mumble.

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not."

"You're doing it right now."

"It's not bratting."

"It is. Textbook even."

You give up, scooting back against her body fully so that you can steal her warmth. Agatha's fingers stroke your lower tummy. You wonder if she's thinking about her cock nestled inside there.

"Why'd you agree to knot me?" You ask after a bit of silence. "Isn't it like, meant for mates or something?"

Agatha's hand stills. Clearly, you struck a nerve. She makes up an excuse on the fly.

"I just wanted to see how it would feel inside you. Different species and all."

"Have you only ever fucked other foxes?"

"No." A beat. "My ex-wife is a wolf."

Ah. The ex-wife that she can't stop hooking up with. Something about this first-date knotting is screaming attachment issues (literally). But, not eager to have Agatha angry with you while you're locked together, you hold your tongue.

"Cool. I've never fucked a wolf before. Did she howl?"

"You really want to ask me questions about my ex while I'm inside you?"

"You brought her up, I'm just being following the thread of conversation."

"I bet your mouth gets you in a lot of trouble, missy."

"It does. Like the time it got me stuck on a fox's knot for an hour."

Agatha barks out a laugh and squeezes your tummy. You beam with satisfaction.

"Alright, that's enough out of you. You tired?"

"Physically. But I'm pretty awake still."

You feel Agatha wrap around you, and she grunts as she maneuvers the two of you. Her knot tugging at your raw entrance is a dull ache now. She repositions the two of you so that you're laying horizontal across the bed. Agatha reaches around you to grab a remote from the side table. She points it at the television mounted on the wall and turns that on before offering it to you.

"Pick something. We can shower after my knot goes down. Might as well keep yourself entertained."

You smile at the thoughtfulness and take the remote from her. Agatha falls asleep within about ten minutes of the documentary you turn on, snoring behind you with her nose pressed against your shoulder. You feel her drooling on your skin.

The warm stretch of her cock buried inside of you keeps your brain in a delightfully hazy space. It's just enough to keep you from overthinking about how you've never stayed with a hookup for more than a couple of minutes after they rolled off of you.

Steadily, her knot starts going down. After about a half hour passes, it's small enough that you could probably pull yourself off of it now.

But you're comfortable. And you don't want to wake the woman behind you by moving around so much. So instead, you settle in Agatha's arms, tug the blanket over the both of you, and wait for her to rouse from sleep so that you can shower together.

Five types of poison are immune to tangible magic. You know antidotes for three. Staring hard at the wound, you look for the blackened edges consistent with Nightrot, finding the flesh as red and irritated as to be expected. Is it swelling or screaming that goes with Alewife’s Revenge? A glance up at her face finds it normal. Her lips are pursed. 

Your hands shake, one hovering over the open wound in her middle, the other clutching your head. Remembering has never mattered more so why is your mind empty? Pieces of information slip through your fingers like sand. Dozens of cadavers, hundreds of hours of study; useless. 

Unable to rely on your memory, you scramble across the floor for the dagger that’d flown from the wall. The little light coming from the boarded windows prompts the metal to glint. The edge of the blade is sticky with blood, beneath it a metallic sheen that can only be a witches poison. You hold it up to the slant of light to see the color. 

“Are you out of your mind? Heal me!” 

You drop the dagger the second the poison glints purple. You slap your hand over your mouth, panic beginning to course through your veins; the body’s own special brand of poison. 

How are you going to tell her?

“I’m trying!” You snap, voice breaking. 

It’s a cruel joke that the poison should be so well matched to the witch bearing its effects. You stare at the edge as it rocks from being dropped, your stomach turning when the color doesn’t change. If only you could be wrong this once. 

Were you a lesser witch, you’d curl in a little ball and quail under the weight of your failures. The idea is seductive. Yet, you turn to Agatha where she lies, pale and sweating on the floorboards. The pallor of her skin makes you whimper. 

“Agatha,” You start, your voice holding just enough, “it’s Saura’s Dread.” 

Things click into place behind her eyes despite the glazed-over look to them. She fights to find a way out of this, but you know well that the reality cannot be avoided. 

“Give it to me. You’re wrong.” 

“I know poisons better than most.” You hand the dagger over anyway. 

“That’s not saying much.” 

The comment stings, but you let it slide off you. You cannot give into petty squabbles now. With so little time to find a solution, you have to focus. 

She stares hard at the blade as if willing it to change. 

“Brew the antidote.” 

“I can’t.” You whisper. 

There’s a flicker of something in her gaze that looks suspiciously like rage. Your own internal fire leaps to meet it; of all the emotions to look upon you with—rage? As if this is your fault? You’re not the one that dragged her into this old cabin, intent on sifting through the contents. 

It’s not your fault. You know that as the truth. Yet, shame floods you. 

“You’re a healer.” Agatha spits, “What good are you if you don’t know the antidote?” 

“Someone didn’t let me stay with my coven long enough to learn it!” 

“The next time someone tries to keep you from me, I’ll let them.” 

The fire in your chest ebbs. An old argument at an inconvenient time. There will be no rough makeup sex following this argument, no unspoken apologies in Agatha’s kisses. All the time, all the bodies; they cannot be for nothing. They mean too much. 

Fleetingly, you feel pity for your old coven. In their minds they had attempted to do the right thing. Keeping you from Agatha must have seemed reasonable. But you remember how many bodies they made, how pleased it made Her. 

Saura’s Dread takes its victim within six hours. This, you know confidently. The demise is slow and painful, a poison intended for torture. You can’t stand to see Agatha in this kind of pain. You’re not ready for her to be just another body.

“I’m calling Her.” You say. 

“No.” Agatha counters, “She’ll never let me live it down.” 

“You won’t live down anything if you’re dead, Agatha.” 

“I won’t die.” 

She’s an idiot. 

Magic flowing into your fingertips, you trace familiar symbols on the floor. They glow bright and then dim as they wait. Around your neck sits an old, jagged bone, tied by a thread; you use the end of said bone to split your palm and drip blood over the symbols. 

Agatha’s mouth is moving, but you don’t listen. You mutter the incantation in latin under your breath. The words—old and comforting—curl your tongue in ways that you’ve only known between two pairs of legs. You end the incantation with the key that gets you around the waiting list; Her name, Her true name. 

There’s a blinding flash of light and a puff of fog, but the symbols contain it. You catch the glint of white teeth. 

“You rang?” 

Rio smiles, clad in darkness and bone and that same beauty that always stops you in your tracks. Upon seeing her, you breathe easier.

“We need your help.” 

“You wouldn’t have called so formally if it was quality time you wanted.” Amusement dances in her eyes. 

She eyes the symbols on the floor. They no longer glow, but still they contain her. She scuffs a foot along them. 

You smudge the symbols and the containment drops. Stepping over the magic as it sinks down into the earth, she catches you by the waist and devours you; lips and teeth and tongue dominating your own, leaving you helpless to do anything but give in. And you’re all too willing to do so. 

When she pulls back, you’re breathless. Somewhere in the fray your lip has begun to bleed. Rio soothes her tongue over the wound and you feel it close. 

“Hand.” 

You offer the demanded appendage, palm up. She places a kiss in the center and licks the blood from her lips. 

Rio turns her head to where Agatha has dragged herself to sit against the wall. The rise and fall of her chest is slow, but there. She glares at the two of you. You flush while Rio grins. 

“Hi, sweetheart. You look like shit.” Rio says, delighted. 

“A side effect.” Agatha grits out, “The same can’t be said for you.” 

Rio tilts her head back and laughs. It’s deep and rich and fills you with thoughts that are not appropriate for this situation. The hand on your waist squeezes as if she knows. Then, she releases you. 

She crosses to crouch before Agatha, devious smile shifting to something softer. One of her hands works through a lock of Agatha’s hair, brushing it out of her face. 

“What did you get yourself into?” 

Agatha’s eyes drop to Rio’s lips, but she stays silent. 

“Saura’s Dread.” You choke out, shame winding itself tight inside you, “I don’t—I can’t brew the antidote.” 

You should have done more to push off Agatha’s agenda; just so you would have finished your research. A few extra days wouldn’t have hurt. They would’ve infuriated Agatha—and Rio by extension—but then you would know the solution instead of watching her slowly wither away. 

Rio doesn’t look away from Agatha, but you know the soothing tone is for you, “It’s okay.” 

Something passes between the two that you miss. One moment, Rio holds Agatha’s face in her hand, while Agatha—hesitantly—leans into the contact. The next Rio is standing between the two of you, toying with her knife, all business. 

You feel a chill pass through you at the unfamiliar territory; staring into Rio’s eyes and finding the affection buried away. It stings more than knowing how you’ve failed. 

“You’re asking me for life in a bottle.” Rio says, grinning, “What do I get in return?”

Short of knowing that Rio would fix it should you ask, you find yourself shamefully bereft of anything with value. You search the space for anything to bargain with. Agatha’s eyes should be looking at you with knowing, but her gaze doesn’t leave Rio. 

When Agatha tilts her head and grins, turning on the bedroom eyes, you pause. 

“What you’ve wanted for years.” Agatha says, “Brew me a little potion and you can have her all to yourself.” 

Rio’s brows shoot sky high. You tilt your head, then freeze. It’s you. Agatha’s bargaining you.

There should be a sweetness in knowing you’re the only thing of value she has to offer, yet the taste is sour on your tongue. The words feel like a punishment, a reprimand—and not the kind you’ve begged at her feet for. That awful part of you would rather Agatha die than ever willingly give you up and Rio eyes you as if she knows it. Does it please her to know how they’ve twisted you?

One mistake, you think bitterly, and Agatha throws in the towel. Despite all the near-death experiences you’ve endured at her side. Despite the years you’ve spent together. You never expected a punishment of this proportion. 

You bite your tongue. At your sides, your fists clench and unclench. They glow with the anger you can’t keep hidden. 

Pride rears its unhelpful head and you speak before you can stop to think, “My life for Agatha’s.” 

Rio’s full attention is on you, then. Her eyes are bright. 

You speak directly to her, “I’m bound to you and The Road until such time as Agatha traverses it to collect me.” 

Had you not been so focused on Rio, you would have noticed Agatha flinch at your suggestion. Her wide, glassy eyes stare at you. You do not give her the satisfaction of your attention. If she is going to be cruel, so can you. 

Your terms are a challenge; and Agatha doesn’t turn down a challenge. 

Her devious, wicked mask clicks back into place. Rio’s expression is pensive. Despite the poison working through her system, Agatha almost looks as powerful as her best day. 

“You’d let me steal her away, O Death?” Agatha teases. 

The comment is salt in your open wound. You glare, wishing more than anything that you could wrap your hands around her pretty neck and squeeze. You want her not only to beg—but to apologize. 

But Rio’s eyes haven’t left you for a second. 

“Alright, sweetheart.” Rio says, “Your life, bound to mine, until Agatha comes to get you.” 

In it you understand the desire you both share; to have Agatha, one way or another. You wonder if the desire for possession is your own or something you’ve learned from her. 

From her pocket comes a small glass vial. She tosses it to Agatha, who only barely catches it. She cradles it like something precious. 

“Drink up.” Rio orders. 

Then Rio is there, arm around your waist, holding all your pieces together. You lean into her comfort as color returns to Agatha’s cheeks. 

“Te veo.” 

--

1754

“She waits for you.”

Agatha whips around, purple crackling at her fingertips. At the edge of the clearing, Rio leans her weight against a gnarled tree, eyeing the withered husks of once-witches in the grass with interest. She looks almost predatory. 

“Does she?” 

Rio nods, eyes shifting to Agatha, “Like a puppy. It’s almost pathetic.” 

It is pathetic, is what she should say. Time and affection have curbed her tongue on this small thing at least. On you. Agatha’s smile is knowing. 

Rio has pulled her punches toward you since the beginning. Agatha’s never minded. It’s almost sweet watching the oldest force in the multiverse tiptoe around a witch barely into her second century. Is it that craving for ancient knowledge in your veins that renders Rio down, or is it simply your pretty face? 

Does it matter? 

“I don’t have what I need yet.” Agatha rolls her eyes, “Witches these days don’t have the power they used to.” 

“Or maybe you’re leveling the population before they have time to strengthen.” Rio raises a brow. 

Agatha thinks, deliberately dramatic, then shrugs, “No, that’s not it.” 

With a shake of her head, Rio steps out from the treeline, and closes the distance across the clearing. Agatha watches every step with dark eyes. The stench of death and magic sends a chill down Rio’s spine; there’s nothing more delicious than a life snuffed out. 

The wind slows in the trees as if sensing her. Birds silence their sweet tunes. There is frantic rustling in the trees somewhere as creatures do all they can to get away. 

Yet Agatha stands, waiting, and allows Death to pull her into her embrace. 

One of Rio’s great loves is watching skin split so she can lap up the blood at her own pace. Yet, when her hands settle on Agatha’s hips, they’re gentle. She doesn’t open wounds with her teeth. Rather, she moves her lips over Agatha’s until she can’t breathe. Agatha is wary when she pulls back. 

Rio shrugs, “A message from her.” 

“I see. Forgiven me, has she?” A slow, taunting grin, “Anything from you?” 

“Have you earned it?” 

“These bodies didn’t make themselves.”

A tilt of her head, as if considering, “Maybe you’ve earned something small, then.” 

And they meet in a clash of lips and teeth. Rio’s hands are everywhere, leaving behind deep claw marks that make Agatha moan into her mouth. Agatha’s own nails pierce through cloth and skin at her hips but draw no blood. She tries to push Rio backward toward one of the trees, she just needs a little leverage and Rio’s thigh to—

Rio pulls back. She grins something wicked at the flash of Agatha’s purple.

“Something small.”

Agatha makes a face, batting her lashes. Rio doesn’t give in. 

“You’re awful.”

“You love it.” Rio says, then her face takes on something more serious, “Don’t keep her waiting, Agatha.”

Then she’s gone as if she was never there; the only evidence being the bleeding marks on her skin. Agatha stares at where she stood for a long time before moving on.

--

1801

The Road changes, you’ve seen, as the covens come along. Small cottages, ancient ruins—the most interesting was an old system of catacombs, though it lacked the remains you’d been intent on studying.

Your favorite, though, is the bower, absent of any illusions or spells.

Beneath a canopy of purple leaves upon a seat of grass, you watch the events unfold from afar. An old curved trunk sits at your back keeping you upright. The animals—lost familiars, mostly—wander up to you here, nibbling at fallen leaves and taking up residence in your lap.

From outside it could be mistaken for a simple tree. Yet, beneath it, the world is at your fingertips. The position of your place presents the underside of millions of glowing leaves to your view; lives, Rio said, witch and non-witch alike.

You find the one you love best among the foliage. You trace your finger down the purple veins, hoping she feels you, thinks of you, misses you. The veins seem to glow a little brighter at your touch.

Rio doesn’t enjoy you toying with them; worried a wrong move on your part will take a life too soon, upsetting the greater balance she’s beholden to. But she taught you how to handle Agatha’s. Trace, never prod. Caress, but never pluck.

A black cat settles in your lap and you sit straighter.

Soothing a hand down her back, she purrs. Her little body presses against your stomach and basks in your warmth.

“You really are too predictable.” Rio says.

She stands a few feet away, clad in dirt and muck, yet still beautiful. Always beautiful.

“I like it here. It’s comforting.”

“You like being close to Agatha.” She corrects.

The leaf in question glows brighter as if sensing the mention. You trace a finger along the edge, willing all your love into it.

“This is all I have of her.” You admit.

Something like softness creeps into Rio’s face. As soon as it appears, it recedes. She joins you under the canopy. The cat in your lap startles and leaps from your lap, darting back into the underbrush.

You had never thought to secure some token of Agatha’s, then. Now, with nothing of her’s to hold close, you settle for her life-line, begging it to tell you her whereabouts and if she’s safe; it is always silent. Rio is, too. She doesn’t mention much when you ask, though you know she knows the actions of every life tied to her.

The Road is a wonderful home. Rio is an attentive partner. But you ache, still, for the other set of hands you knew; those who were predictable in their firmness, balancing the sudden changes of Rio’s own.

“You’re crying.” Rio says.

Her face is dark, but fury lingers around the edges. Something like worry flutters in and out of her eyes. You have nothing to say, so you only nod.

Then you’re in her lap. Rio’s bunching up your dress to your waist, canines embedded in your neck. Her nails dig into your hips and the blood warms you. You whimper.

Lips kiss down your neck while a hand hovers between your legs. You bear down, desperate for any friction to dull the ache. And she gives it to you. Her hand is exactly where you want it, fingers rubbing and pressing, and you grind your hips hard, harder until you’re right there.

And then her hand is gone.

You whine. Your hips move of their own volition, searching for that pressure to send you right over the edge. Rio’s lips catch your own in a bruising kiss and you whimper into her mouth.

Needy, desperate, you can almost hear her say.

But when she pulls away and digs her nails in harder, she whispers, “Cry for me, sweetheart.”

She alternates between giving you what you crave and rescinding it for hours. You whimper, moan, and beg. She laughs and repeats herself—cry for me. You lose count of how many almost-orgasms tighten your body just to go unfulfilled. You do cry. You sob and she’s there, tongue licking up your tears and knuckle deep inside you, thumbing over your clit until you have what you want.

You’re not sure how long you lay there, after, crying against her.

--

1833

Rio’s arm is warm where you’re wrapped around it. She leads you through the winding stone streets, around grand buildings with stained-glass windows. Some of the scenes depicted in the glass are beautiful, simple; but the majority are Catholic in nature, dripping with sadness and guilt. You shake your head.

Passersby nod or tilt their hats, but don’t seem to see you. Their eyes go especially glassy when they look at Rio.

Whereas you’re clad in a dress of rich layered fabric, Rio has opted for more masculine attire. The low heels of her dress shoes click upon the stone. The unwrinkled fabric of her suit smells of smoke.

Your heels don’t quite agree with the stone. After the fifth time of a near-twisted ankle, you huff, “Could I not have worn flat shoes?”

“The heels compliment your legs.”

“You can’t even see them.”

“Yet.” She winks.

You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat suffusing your cheeks. Another nod to a passing couple and Rio makes a sharp turn. You’re led into a damp, dim alleyway.

The ground is made from rough slabs of uneven stone. You curse when your heel slips and only Rio’s strength keeps you standing. Water slides down the walls on either side, thick moss growing in the cracks. You reach out to feel it only for your hand to come away red.

If not for Rio pulling you along, you’d have screamed. Blood cascades down the walls. From it grow dark, twisted plants you’ve studied beside The Road. Beneath the plants and out of them come bones; most have yellowed with age, but there is the occasional bright-white specimen.

Surprise aside, you lean toward the bones with interest. Still, Rio presses on.

The alleyway is growing slimmer by the second. Should it continue to do so, you’ll be forced to walk behind Rio, and the thought makes you tense.

Rio squeezes your hand, “Relax, sweetheart.”

“I’d relax more if I knew what we were doing here.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Before you’re forced to walk single-file, you come to the end. Rio traces a counter-sigil upon the stone. With a shudder, a door is revealed. Above the silver knocker, embedded in the door, sits an unblinking eyeball. The blue pierces you.

Rio pulls and slams the knocker. The eyeball falls from the door and hits the ground with a sickening pop. You nearly shriek while Rio makes noises of delight.

“Ooh,” She chuckles, “we’re not the first to arrive.”

You try not to think about what the eye must look like now, “Can I go home?”

“Why so squeamish all of a sudden? You handle the cadavers I bring you just fine.”

“That’s different. That’s research.”

“Who says this isn’t, sweetheart?”

The door opens soundlessly. Inside, the scene is much the same; another dark, slim space, though notably absent of plants and body parts. The owner of this place must be allergic to candles, the lighting situation is just pathetic.

Rio waits. When you make no move to walk inside, she sighs, nudging you with a hand on your lower back, “Ladies first.”

You’re not sure if being first or last is the worst. If anything is to jump from the walls now, you’ll take the brunt of it; you’re reminded of that day with Agatha all those years ago. Rio’s warmth at your back offers the strength you need to continue. Though, you do cling to her hand the whole way.

The hallway empties into a full room. Dark shelves match the height of the walls, on them jars full of ingredients. There are tables boasting dozens of drawers, though none sit open. Glasses and tools and cauldrons line the tabletops. In the center of it all are two figures; well, one figure and one corpse.

You can’t catch your breath. She’s as beautiful as the day you lost her.

“Agatha.” You whisper.

Agatha turns and smirks. She doesn’t look nearly as surprised to see you as you do her. Upon seeing you, her expression softens, eyes full of affection and longing. It hardens a bit when she glances behind you.

“You ruined the surprise.” Rio says, arms crossed, though one motions to the corpse, “We needed her.”

“What could you possibly need with a poison witch?”

“Our darling healer wanted to study with her.”

Something like regret turns Agatha’s face when she regards you. With a wave, she produces a thick book full of yellowing pages. You tilt your head when she offers it to you.

“Her life’s work. I’m sure there’s more here somewhere.” Agatha shrugs.

You take it and hold it to your chest reverently. All this time you thought Rio was putting you off about finding a competent poison witch and yet here you are, standing in her apothecary. She lies dead on the floor but you couldn’t care less when the real gift stands before you.

You long for her. You ache to feel the gentle caress of her hands on your face, the threat of her nails on your scalp.

A look at Rio tells you she isn’t entirely pleased with the turn of events. Yet when she sees your excitement some of her ire dissipates. The yearning in your eyes must be plain, since she gives you a single nod.

Book of poisons tossed onto the tabletop, you throw yourself into Agatha’s arms. She’s as steady as you remember. Her hand grips your chin and forces your lips to hers. Her hands are predictably firm wherever they land. She grips you as if afraid you’ll slip away. But her kiss, oh gods her kiss; soft lips and taunting, sharp tongue. The length of her body pressed against your own and so warm.

There are hands in your hair and this is all you’ve wanted—all you’ve craved for years. Why, then, do you feel the urge to cry? To rip the heart from your chest and banish it to where it won’t hurt?

Agatha is warm and steady. You bury your face in her neck and her in yours. Your hands shake with the force of clinging to her.

The feeling is bliss. Yet, it isn’t complete.

You glance over Agatha’s shoulder to Rio. She stands in the doorway, watching the scene with dark-eyed interest; but there’s a weariness in the set of her shoulders.

“Beloved.” You call, holding one of your hands out to her.

Rio raises a brow. Her eyes don’t stray from your outstretched hand.

“This is your gift, sweetheart.”

“And it’s incomplete without you.”

Her eyes stray to Agatha, who has taken to watching her, too. This time, Agatha’s eyes don’t harden. They maintain that soft look you melt for.

Agatha extends her own hand alongside yours.

“Come on.” Agatha urges, soft.

You watch the resolve break moments before she wedges her way into your embrace. Her fingers lace through yours, but her face is pressed into Agatha’s neck. She pushes and nuzzles like she wants to become part of her. It reminds you of the cat that visits the bower—Ebony—but you don’t dare say so.

Agatha’s hands leave you to caress Rio’s face. A thumb rubs along her cheekbone. You press yourself against Rio’s back, unable to glimpse her face but sure of the longing in her expression.

In a perfect world, there would be no separation between the three of you. No clothes, no emotional barriers, not even flesh to keep your hearts from mingling into one. You settle for Rio’s hand in your own and Agatha’s blue eyes locked on you.

You lean over Rio’s shoulder and kiss Agatha, your free hand fumbling with getting into the former’s pants. She chuckles darkly in your ear. It ignites a spark in your chest; a dangerous longing for this to remain, to be always. You try to push it away and focus on how Rio moans in your ear instead.

--

1869

“Will you walk with me?”

Rio nods, smiles grandly, “Of course.”

You laugh. She holds out her arm, ever the picture of a gentleman, but you lace your fingers through hers instead.

As a rare treat, you lead. You pull her along the road. The leaves change beneath your feet, from silver and black to the hues of autumn and then to pure green. The Road opens its arms into a clearing bathed in the color. Only the stone building in the center stands apart.

Upon your approach, flowers grow in the flattened grass where you step; honeysuckle and heliotrope, baby’s breath and red chrysanthemum. Rio glances over her shoulder as the blooms spring forth.

Ivy grows up the walls of the building. You brush a gentle hand over the leaves.

Crumbling, worn headstones en masse wait behind the building. 

Rio tilts her head, “What is this?”

The door is unlocked. You knew it would be. The Road cannot keep you from this place. 

Inside is warm and hazy. Papers with elegant scrawl cover every surface, books half-open litter any free spaces. Shelves line the walls, jars bearing various specimens. Plush couches overflow with deep, red cushions, begging you to sit and stay. A fire cracks in the fireplace.

Rio turns this way and that. She wanders around the room, flipping through books. A fingernail taps against a jar full of eyes. An errant paper is plucked from where it sits haphazardly atop the mantle. She stops.

You know the paper the second she comes into contact with it; can remember the way you wax poetic about how beautiful she is, how safe you feel in her arms. She picks another, then another, so on, and you know every word the second she touches them; the way she unwinds in Agatha’s arms, her face twisted in perfect fury, the lightless turn of her eyes when she teeters on the edge of wickedness.

She looks at you, vulnerable and unsure, “What is this?”

“My heart.”

“That… then why is all of this here?”

Her hand shakes the papers for emphasis. You resist the urge to laugh, lest she think you’re making light of her. Death can be cruel, but you try not to be.

You step close. Gently, the papers are extracted and returned to their places. Rio stares and hardly breathes as you take your face in her hands.

“You pulled away after that night.” You whisper, finger tracing her cupids-bow, “Do you think I touch you only because it is convenient?”

Rio’s lip curls. Fists bunch at her side, crackling with green light. You feel the rumble of her anger working through her chest. She tries to pull from your hold, but you don’t let her.

“Do you think I kiss you and pretend it’s her?”

Rio snarls, “I will kill you if you don’t stop talking.”

You smile. The threat is a real one, but you don’t fear it; the outcome is remaining by her side. With one hand you reach and pull one of her fists between you. You unravel it, trying not to flinch against the bursts of power over her skin. You press the palm of her hand over where your heart resides inside your chest.

The snarl fades just so. Fury still lingers in her eyes. You press your hand over hers and will her to see, to know.

“Look at the walls.” You order.

Upon the walls, plain and dark, shimmering scrawl appears. Agatha Harkness, it reads in shaky lettering; like a name carved into a tree. One signature turns into ten and ten into countless. Purple and shimmering is Agatha’s brand upon you. Rio yanks and reaches for the dagger she keeps handy.

Rio’s true name appears in shimmering green letters, then. Same as Agatha’s, there are countless signatures. They conjoin and overlap until the walls of your heart look like nothing more than a child’s colorful scribbles.

She stares at the walls in disbelief. The knife in her hand clatters to the ground.

“I’ve carved your names upon my heart so I’ll never forget who it belongs to.” You whisper.

“Sweetheart…”

You bend and collect her blade, pressing it into her hand, “Now do it yourself.”

Her hand wraps around the handle reflexively. Rio’s hand doesn’t leave the spot over your heart, feeling the steady, truthful beat.

“It’ll hurt you.” Rio says. She doesn’t bother hiding the desire in her voice.

You urge, “Make me hurt.”

Each artful stroke of her blade is slow. You whimper, but grip her wrist and push the blade deeper into your flesh. She scoffs when tears flood your eyes. The tears run down your cheeks while you smile, filled with bliss and ache in equal measure.

It’s a gift to love so deeply it wounds you. You never want her to stop; who, aside from your shared scar, holds such power? Who else in the world could touch your heart truly enough to carve into it?

There’s delight in her every movement. She consumes the pain of millions and yet, none of it is of her own making. She can only relish in what others have done; torture for a being who remains eternally intimate with the greatest methods of drawing out agony. Death has no free will but that you offer her—and she takes what none else would give, ravenously.

Is it enough?

Not forever, something tells you, you think it might be her, but for now.

--

1925 

“You called?” Rio asks. 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re avoiding me.” 

Agatha leans against the wall beside a small window. The pane has been slid upward, letting in the sounds of the city below, releasing the smoke of Agatha’s cigarette into the air outside. 

The cigarette is clutched in gloved hands. Her expression is amused as she draws in and releases the smoke, watching it form the shapes she wills. Though it has no effect on such a witch, Rio admires the object’s capability of bringing Agatha infinitesimally closer to her. 

“We’ve been busy.” 

“Busy or not, I’d say twelve bodies earns me a visit. And with the bulk of good booze I just removed from the market, I’d say I’ve earned a little more.” 

An obvious lure with paltry bait, still Rio bites, “What do you have in mind?”

“Let me see her.” 

She should. You’ve come to accept Agatha’s absence in your life, but she sees how much time you spend in the bower, and how you flinch when her name comes up. Rio hadn’t expected the frequency of Agatha’s name on the lips of covens walking the road to be so overwhelming, but it always drives you right into her arms; that she will relish. 

But Death is not giving. She takes. Taking is, in fact, her favorite hobby. Twelve bodies is not enough to make up for the haunted look in your eyes. She wants more—will have it. Agatha has to earn you. 

“I’ll need a little more from you.” Rio drawls. 

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill that many witches here with the nightlife?” Agatha throws her hands up. Ash flies from the forgotten cigarette. 

The sounds of Chicago seem to grow louder, as if to aid her point. Rio grins. She crosses the small space and takes the cigarette, snuffing it out on the back of Agatha’s hand. The action prompts a quiet moan. 

“It shouldn’t be a problem. What I want, you have an abundance of.” Rio’s smile widens as she manipulates Agatha’s hand, removing the glove, pushing and prodding until purple flashes along the flesh. 

A cooling breeze sneaks in the window and rustles the fringe along Agatha’s dress. It’s a beautiful thing, short and decadent. Rio knows you’ve enjoyed the few sightings of the period fashion you’ve glimpsed, but like her, you’d enjoy this specific dress in a pile on the floor. 

Agatha’s eyes stare at where Rio’s flesh meets her own. Her eyes are contemplative, calculating. She hesitates. And that is her fatal mistake. 

Rio throws her across the room with a shove. Agatha’s side hits one of the walls and she falls, face-first, onto the mattress she’s been sleeping on. The springs shriek at the sudden weight. Agatha snarls, throwing out a blast of purple that slams into Rio’s chest. Rio moans something filthy. 

There’s a brief struggle where Rio does her best to keep Agatha pinned; to the bed, to the wall, wherever there’s a surface. Yet Agatha is slippery. Her magic whisks her right out of the hold Rio puts her in and wherever Agatha wills it; which currently, is behind the other witch so Agatha can kick the back of her knees. Rio kneels not of her own volition. 

She braces to stand, only to find the blade of her own dagger at her throat. 

Rio’s gaze has lost any warmth. Her affection is buried deep, beneath layers and layers of earth she craves to bury Agatha in right this second, “You’re breaking her heart.” 

“That shouldn’t be a problem, you like seeing her cry.” 

“When I’m the one responsible.” 

Agatha rolls her eyes. She maintains a carefully ambivalent expression. Rio knows better; knows, under all that forced emotion, that Agatha’s heart is waging against her head, warring over her selfish desire to keep every bit of power. 

Then, something shifts. Rio feels it. Agatha has made her choice and it isn’t you. And it ignites a rage in her chest unlike anything she’s felt in centuries. 

She snatches the dagger back from Agatha’s grasp and only just barely resists the urge to bury it in her chest. If she has to drag Agatha back to you kicking and screaming, she will. You would like that, wouldn’t you?

“I’ll kill you.” Rio vows, and means it. Agatha can’t run away from the two of you if her soul is Rio’s to keep. 

Agatha’s eyes flash with fear. Then, she grins around it, “If you can catch me.” 

Latin words roll off Agatha’s tongue faster than Rio can comprehend. She recognizes the words and what they mean, where they’ve come from. Rio reaches out with her magic for the Darkhold too late; it, and Agatha, have completely vanished from her awareness. 

When she returns to The Road and finds you pacing before the bower, she stops short. 

“Did you—is she dead?” You ask, worrying your lip. Though your eyes dart every which way, looking for whatever manifestation of Agatha you believe she’s brought you. 

“Sweetheart…” 

--

1937

“Do you think if I cut you open you would heal too fast for me to do any research?” 

Rio tilts her head, considering. She’s sprawled out on the plush couch inside the physical manifestation of your heart, toying with her knife, having a staring contest with the unblinking jar of eyes while you jot down thoughts into notebook number… well, she’s lost count. 

“Probably.” She answers, “I’m also not sure I have organs.” 

You pause, “How is that even possible?” 

“Magic, sweetheart.”

Leaning back, your mind begins to race; given how old she is, it would only make sense that the organs the body came with are gone, rotted away—but would the flesh not go with it? You massage your temples. Life magic is no easier to understand than Death magic. 

There’s only one way to test your hypothesis. You stand from your place at the table and cross to her, straddling her hips where she lay on the couch. 

“I want to see.” You say, holding out a hand. 

Rio hands over her dagger and sinks further into the couch, as if that is possible. She grins up at you with no shortage of delight. You do your best to tamp down on your own grin. 

The flesh beneath your hands is warm and smells of damp earth where you peel away her shirt. Her eyes darken with every inch of flesh revealed to you. Firm and unafraid, you press the tip of the dagger down against her sternum. The action earns you an exaggerated moan. 

You rip the dagger away, glaring, “Behave.” 

“Or what?” Rio taunts, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek. 

“Or I stop letting you watch my dissections.” 

She tenses, “You wouldn’t.” 

“Wouldn’t I, beloved?” 

“Get on with it.” 

You lean down and steal a quick kiss. It melts away the darling little pout on her lips. 

When you press the dagger back down, the flesh bends, but doesn’t open. You tilt your head and press harder. Rio watches, unphased. There is absolutely no give to her flesh. It gets to a point where you’re pressing your entire body weight behind the dagger, but Rio only laughs, squirming as if the action tickles. 

You whine and sigh. The dagger is dropped unceremoniously onto her chest while you lean an elbow against the back of the couch, sinking somewhat into the cushion. 

“If you want live specimens, we can collect some.” She soothes. 

The idea isn’t intolerable, but you shake your head. 

“They scream too much.” 

“Anesthetic exists, sweetheart.” 

“I suppose that’s true.” 

You look away, tracing the walls and their offerings with your eyes. Upon them hang paintings of your own making; scenes of life, death, love, fear—mostly fear. 

The human condition fascinates you, always has. Of the emotions to study, fear is the hardest; it is always fleeting in your wake; your face is too kind, too trustworthy, wiping away any sense of the unease you seek to study. You stare at your paintings and feel only distaste, knowing they’re not quite right. 

You can’t claim to have always had such taste. No, a cultivation for the finer flavors of life and death takes time. You can pinpoint where the itch started, however; that day in your childhood village when a dying soul reached out to you—scarcely were you a day older than four—and found no assistance. 

How beautiful it was; grisly, messy, but beautiful. You did not flinch away. Rather, you found yourself drawn in, eager to see more. And being of a coven of healers, your desire was fulfilled. Death was yours before you knew her name. 

Looking down at her, she stares back, unashamed to be caught. The heart in your chest—which has felt so stagnant in recent years—warms toward something almost pure. 

Rio will one day claim your soul. This, you know, and accept; your soul belonged to her the second you watched that woman die. You fear the when. What becomes of you when she claims your soul? What if you have yet to conduct all the research you desire? There is so much still to learn and you know she’ll abandon it for the chance to keep you. 

You love her, but you’ll never forgive her the knowledge you’ll one day lose. The warmth in your chest doesn’t ebb. 

Her top is still splayed open from your attempt at dissection. A healthy amount of flesh is bared to your eyes. You trace one finger from her neck to the center of her chest and tap, just above where a heart should be. 

“When you come for me,” You say, “I want to hold your heart in my hand.” 

“You already do.” She utters. 

“Will you let me study it, then, when I’m but a soul?” 

“You can study whatever you wish as long as it leads to me.”

--

1989

Agatha dwells on mistakes, often. She just doesn’t allow them to distract from her purpose. She is ruthless, to her very core. 

She spends an embarrassing amount of time trying to open the damned door to The Road. One coven after another, all failures. There is an obscene beauty in claiming a reward for what would otherwise be failure on her part. 

Time passes, enemies made, promises broken. She shrugs them all off. Yet she can’t shake the feeling of your hands in her hair, on her face. The lingering whisper of your kisses haunts her. The Darkhold whispers to her, oftentimes in language she shouldn’t comprehend, and it offers her the solution, should she just be patient; 

The Scarlet Witch

--

2026

The power that floats before you is biting and all too familiar. 

It fights against your hold, twisting and writhing like a wild animal, desperate to return to its mistress. But you’re stronger for now. The Scarlet Witch threw this power into the ether in her attempt at playing Death, and now it is yours to hold until Agatha comes for it. 

Anger rubs against the heart in your chest like a cat. You lean into it, feeling your own power respond to subdue that which isn’t yours. 

Rio watches beside you. She runs her fingers through the purple electricity contained in your palms, laughing when it fights her. Lips press against your temple. 

“Not long now.” She assures you. 

You feel longing and fury in equal measure. 

“I want her soul, Rio.” You whisper. 

A small chuckle, low beside your ear. It sends shivers down your spine. Her hand grasps your chin and turns you to face her, her lips meeting your own. The kiss is soft. You melt into it. 

She pulls back, tone careful, “You didn’t walk The Road, sweetheart.” 

You have not earned what The Road promises to grant. 

--

2026

Agatha doesn’t expect the end of The Road to look like Agnes’ Westview home, nor does she expect to see Rio perched on the roof, leaning back, as if waiting. But every step closer to the front yard makes her more furious. 

She is owed her prize. 

Upon her first step in Agnes’ yard, the front door opens, and she is blasted with something so strong that it knocks her back to The Road, on her back. She groans. Yet, she feels more alive than she has in centuries. Her body shudders with its missing piece; her power curling up in her veins, pleased to be home. 

She sits up, wincing at the ache in her bones that continues despite the gift she’s received. Leaves stick to the back of her arms, little pieces having crunched beneath her weight and adhered to her skin. She does her best to brush them away while getting to her feet. 

Rio remains on the roof, grinning. 

There, on the porch of Agnes’ house, is you. All the glory of you. 

Agatha’s heart leaps in her chest despite the scowl on your face. To her, you haven’t aged a day; still the young, fresh-faced witch following at her heels, dizzy on knowledge and the thrumming power inside. Time has not erased the love she has—so great it threatens to bring her to her knees. 

“Dearest…” Agatha murmurs, taking a half-step forward. 

“You have your prize.” You sneer. 

Your heart aches, begging you to go to her; hasn’t it been centuries? But your pride holds you back. She left you here while she gallivanted around the world getting what she wanted. 

There’s a brief flash of hurt on Agatha’s face, before it morphs into a wicked grin. Her posture changes, too, to something more proud, as she slinks across the yard toward the porch. You resist the urge to take a step back. 

“No, I don’t.” She drawls, “Are you going to be a good pet and come home willingly, or do I have to put you on a leash?” 

Something inside you burns for her. You ache for her touch, for her to force you to do what she wants. It creeps through the cracks of your pride and turns it into something else. You stick out your chin. Agatha snickers. 

Magic pulses in your palms, pulling various items from around you to throw—not fast enough. Agatha has you kneeling with your hands bound in a blink. 

“That’s not very nice, dear. And after all I’ve done to get here.” 

You regain some of your fight, snarling, “You left me here.” 

Agatha hums. 

“Into the deal you stumbled your way into. I’m not the one who tied herself to The Road in a fit of pride.” 

“You were leaving me regardless. If I was going to be handed off, I was going to do it on my own terms.” 

“Did I specify a length of time in my proposal? Was there any explicit mention of how long She could have you before I came back?” Agatha asks, mean-spirited joy in her eyes upon watching the realization dawn in your own. All that time you spent agonizing… when you had shackled yourself, “Years lost because you wanted to be a self-righteous brat.” 

There’s a lilt to her voice that clues you in to everything you’d once seen instinctually; Agatha has been in just as much anguish as you have, left to walk the world alone. You see the pain in her eyes. Just like then, you try to get to her now, eager to fix it, to wipe it away. 

The binding around your arms keeps you stationary. You whine and pull against it. 

“Agatha,” You whine, “I’m sorry.” 

“You will be.” She says. Then she turns to your left, finger poised and accusing, “And you—you kept her away from me.” 

Rio shrugs, smiling, “I couldn’t just make it easy on you.” 

Agatha waves a hand and Rio is kneeling on the porch at your side, similarly bound. Yet where you look pained, she is delighted. 

“I’m sorry.” You repeat, “I didn’t mean to be bad.” 

“That doesn’t change that you were.” 

A cloud of purple smoke announces your arrival to the inner bedroom of Agnes’ house. It doesn’t look like what you’ve seen from Rio, though. Where Agnes had been bland and cookie-cutter, this is rich fabrics and deep wood. It is Agatha through and through. 

You and Rio kneel side-by-side at the foot of the bed, where Agatha perches. Her beautiful blue eyes don’t miss the slightest movement you make. She’s clad in a dark robe with snakes and flowers that has Rio leaning forward in interest. 

Agatha’s eyes lock on you, “You’re going to apologize. Properly.” 

“I’m sorry—” 

“With your tongue.” 

Leaning back on her forearms, Agatha spreads her legs, and you feel the desire in your body rush through you. It’s so strong you feel your head begin to pound. She’s pink and dripping and all you want is to do a good job for her. 

Yet, ever the brat, you lean forward and start with kissing her inner thighs. With every press of your lips to the delicate flesh you murmur an apology. She sighs. 

A hand weaves into your hair and yanks you back. Her eyes are dark. Her face is set in a punishing expression but you see the yearning in her that matches your own. She yanks again, lighter, and you moan. 

“What did I say?” She asks, before directing you where she wants you. 

Witches don’t subscribe to the idea of what a human would call heaven, but upon tasting her, you think you could get behind it. She’s warm and sweet. You flatten your tongue and drag it along her slit just to collect a better taste of her. Agatha’s hand presses you in harder as she moans. 

Without the use of your fingers, you have to use your tongue well. You stiffen it as much as you’re able when you delve inside her and hope it is even slightly close enough to satisfy. The pathetic sounds reaching your ears—breathy moans, sweet whimpers—tell you that you’re doing fine. 

“Good girl.” Agatha breathes out. 

You clench around nothing. You’re sure that you’ve ruined your undergarments thoroughly from how wet you are. 

Eager for more praise, you direct your attention to that small, fleshy bundle of nerves begging for your attention. You swirl your tongue around her clit and her hips stutter, before they grind against your face with a renewed sense of purpose. You smile. 

“Yes—there, more—” Agatha stutters. 

You were born to do as she commands. All you want is to make her happy. Following her directions is as easy as breathing. 

The tip of your tongue alternates between circling her clit and flicking it. Every flick earns you a high-pitched oh! and a firm grinding of her hips. Her thighs are tightening around your head, but she’s putting up a good fight. Her legs quiver. 

“There—there—I’m going to—” Is all the warning you’re given before Agatha shrieks and comes while rutting against your mouth. You lap up every drop of her wetness you can get with glee. You did this, you brought her this pleasure; the knowledge sends a happy jolt through you. 

Agatha’s grip on your hair releases and you lean back, taking in big lungfuls of air. She stares down at you with a thoroughly fucked-out expression that makes you preen. 

Then she leans over and pulls your lips to hers. She moans against the taste of herself on your lips, tongue collecting the flavor from your lips. You throw every ounce of love you possess into the kiss—willing her to understand the longing you felt, the thousands of hours you spent watching her lifeline just to make sure she was safe. 

“Good girl.” Agatha murmurs, pressing little kisses all over your face, “My good girl.” 

“All yours.” You agree.

She laughs, low and smooth, “That’s not quite the truth, is it?” 

The two of you turn to regard Rio in unison. She remains in the position Agatha left her in, kneeling and bound. You admire her restraint at not breaking the bindings. Though you guess Agatha wouldn’t take kindly to that. 

Rio’s eyes are black with desire. They dart between the two of you. She takes in the wetness on your face, licking her lips. You can feel her eagerness for a taste. 

She’s writhing a bit in her restraints, pressing her thighs together and wiggling, looking for any source of friction she can find. Agatha tuts and she stops. If it were up to you, your face would be between her thighs, ears enjoying every sound she makes. But it isn’t up to you. 

Agatha scoots back up the bed until she’s sitting against the headboard. That’s when you feel the restraints on you fall away. She beckons the two of you with a finger and you both follow the command, eager. 

“Come here.” Agatha urges you specifically, patting her bare thigh. 

You obey and straddle the appendage, shuddering against the feeling against your throbbing clit. There’s a split second where you think of just grinding down and taking what you want. But you don’t—you have to be good. 

Words pass between Agatha and Rio during your silent struggle. When you look, she’s lying along the length of the bed, legs bunched up and spread wide next to you. 

“What am I going to do with you both?” Agatha muses. 

“Fuck us?” Rio drawls. 

“You, my good girl,” Agatha says, ignoring Rio as she soothes a hand through your hair, “are going to use me until you come. And my bad girl isn’t going to come until I tell her she can.” 

You shudder, whimpering, while Rio whines next to you. Agatha kisses your forehead while dealing a slap to Rio that makes her groan. 

A hand settles onto your hip and begins to guide you through the motions of grinding against her. The friction is difficult to attain with how wet you are, but you do what you can, crying out everytime the pressure is just enough to make your toes curl. It won’t take long for you to finish. 

Your face is buried in Agatha’s neck, where you press loving little kisses to the flesh. As a result you cannot see Rio. But you hear her; every movement of Agatha’s deft fingers through her wetness, every growl and keen of desire, every slap of Agatha’s hand when she gets a bit too eager. She won’t last long either, from what you can tell. 

The image of Rio and Agatha in your mind is enough to push you toward that delightful little taste of death. Your hands tighten over Agatha’s shoulders. 

“Agatha, can I—please?” You plead. 

“So obedient, asking for permission even when you don’t need to.” Agatha praises, “Go on, darling.” 

With her hand guiding you and her voice in your ear, you come so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You’re not sure what sound leaves your lips, only that your throat aches afterward. 

You tune back in to hear a brutal slap of flesh on flesh. Rio snarls. 

“Beg.” Agatha’s voice commands in your ear, though you know it isn’t for you. 

Rio stays stubbornly silent. 

The sounds of Agatha toying with her come to an abrupt halt. You don’t have the strength to lift your face from your refuge, but you can imagine that stubborn, yet pleading look in Rio’s face; wanting so deeply but not willing to give up what is required. 

“If you don’t want to behave, she can have your pleasure instead.” 

“No! I’ll—” You hear Rio grit her teeth, “Please, Agatha. Please let me come.” 

Agatha laughs. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She coos. 

Seconds—or maybe minutes—before Rio wails. There’s something primordial and animalistic wrapped inside it, almost like a growl. It makes you shudder. Then all that's left in the room is the sound of breathing. 

You spent so long aching for something just like this. It’s beautiful, though you know it can’t stay; all three of you are far too ambitious to live a domestic existence, but it’s nice for now. You missed them. The heart in your chest feels complete again, filling to the brim with affection. 

Tears seep from your eyes and you pull back before Agatha can question it, though you do feel her stiffen. You press kisses to her neck, her sternum, the inside of her wrist; then you grab Rio’s hand and press kisses to every pad of her fingers. 

With every kiss, you murmur I love you. 

--

2027 

“If you don’t sedate him at least a little bit, his heart is going to give out.” 

Rio’s sudden voice next to you isn’t surprising. You’ve grown used to her coming and going—Death waits for no one, after all. Her lips press to your cheek and you accept the affection. 

“She did sedate him. Three times.” Agatha’s voice calls from the next room. 

“Oh, I see.” 

Rio leans over to examine the man on your table with no shortage of interest. He stares back, eyes impossibly wide. His heart rate picks up. 

“What is he?” She asks. 

“Not sure. Rapid regeneration, odd capabilities. Mutant, maybe?” 

“He’s certainly not a witch.” Agatha’s leaning against the doorway now, arms folded over her chest, “Though it is taking a fair amount of magic to keep him subdued.” 

“He’s no match for you, naturally.” You compliment. 

Both Agatha and Rio grin at that. The former comes up behind you, hands settling on your hips. Her lips press against your neck. Then, she leans over and steals a kiss from Rio, who is all too eager to meet her halfway.

You smile. The heart in your chest threatens to burst—not unlike the specimen in front of you. 

“Well, aren’t you sweet today.” Agatha comments. 

“Aiming for a reward?” Rio asks. 

Rio kisses her way up the flash of skin available to her eyes, making you sigh, leaning back into Agatha’s hands. Then Agatha’s lips fasten to the other side of your neck. Your head falls back and you laugh. Then you moan. 

Wanda feels distinctly sloppy, next to her, but can’t quite bring herself to care. That’s not why she’s here, after all.

“Combine runes.” Agatha huffs, and points at the mistake. “The spell won’t activate.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow, and flicks her hands. 

Reality bends.

The ᛊ rune and the ᛒ combine.

Agatha’s coat bursts into flames, and she shrieks, sudden and high pitched, as she drops to the ground with a roll.

Wanda doesn’t scream, but she freezes in shock for a long moment; while Agatha gives up, and teleports out of her coat, leaving it to burn in a pile of elegant fabric on the forest floor.

Agatha’s boots reappear in Wanda’s line of sight, as she shimmers back into existence, and stamps out the combined rune in the mud, obliterating it, before rounding on Wanda with her teeth bared.

“Stand up.” She barks. Wanda obeys, as Agatha pushes her out of the runic circle, their footprints muddying the summoning spell into nothing.

Wanda’s back slams into a tree, and then Agatha’s on her, long, corrupted fingers curving around Wanda’s neck, Agatha’s face wild as her shirt is still smoking from the fire.

Agatha doesn’t squeeze hard, but Wanda can see in her eyes that she really, really wants to.

“Put. It. Back.” Agatha hisses.

“Put what back?” Wanda manages, as Agatha’s grip tightens. 

“You didn’t just combine your own runes. You changed the runic definition of every other rune in existence.” Agatha snarls. “Including the ones in my coat. You have no idea what you’ve done or what you might be unleashing, you absolute moron. Put. It. Back.”

Wanda closes her eyes, fear shivering through her like ice down her spine.

She wills what was done to be undone.

Agatha’s hand lifts off her throat, and when Wanda blinks her eyes back open, Agatha’s coat is restored on the ground, like nothing ever happened to it. 

Agatha glances at it, but then goes back to glaring, her face smeared with soot and her eyes dark. 

Her rage is rolling off of her in salty waves, but there’s both a rich and bitter tinge to the edges of it, and when Wanda pushes, she can feel both lust and fear under Agatha’s anger.

The lust isn’t new- that’s a frequent thing, whenever Wanda does something she didn’t realize wasn’t possible until afterward.

The fear though; the fear is new, and Wanda squints, then cringes as she gets a flash of a witch burning alive at the stake.

“That’s enough.” Agatha snaps, and Wanda’s access to her emotions cuts as neatly as a thread being snipped.

Agatha steps back, and takes a deep breath, visually calming herself. “It seems that your lessons on this topic still haven’t sunk in.” She says flatly, her voice hard.

Wanda sighs. She knows what that tone means, and resigns herself to not being able to sit down at dinner tonight.

“Here, or inside?” Wanda asks quietly.

Agatha doesn’t answer. Instead, she picks up her coat, and whirls it back on, before stalking back toward the cabin.

Wanda trudges after her. At least she hadn’t made her pick out her own switch- that was always extra humiliating.

Her power itches at her fingers, and there’s a thought that whispers in the back of her head. She doesn’t have to take this. She can make Agatha give her the knowledge she needs, without all the twisted games. 

Wanda could twitch her hand and make Agatha her puppet. Or her sex slave. Or nothing at all. 

She pushes the thought back down. 

It’s the same reason that she went, retrieved Agatha to her cabin, and restored her magic in the first place. 

(Wanda’s all alone. And she’d never been all alone before.)

Wanda doesn’t know what she’s doing. And to achieve her end goal, she needs to learn, without turning Agatha’s ancient, twisted brain into useless mush.

(Agatha having her powers back doesn’t make a difference to Wanda’s goals, one way or the other- there’s nowhere she can hide from Wanda, not now. Besides, it makes her much easier to live with.

And to bribe. She really is a leech of a woman, and Wanda knows she’s not sticking around for Wanda’s charming conversational skills.)

Agatha’s not in the main room of the cabin when Wanda walks in- but Wanda can hear her in the bedroom, rummaging through her chest at the foot of the bed.

“Clothes off.” Agatha orders from the next room, and Wanda rolls her eyes, but complies, mentally bracing herself for whatever punishment this was going to entail.

Agatha saunters back out of the bedroom, her hands in her pockets and her lips pursed.

“You want me to bend over somewhere?” Wanda folds her arms over her exposed breasts with a huff.

Agatha sneers. “Yeah, see, this little attitude right here is why we’re doing something different today.” 

Wanda raises an eyebrow and tries not to look nervous- admittedly difficult in the nude.

Agatha loves nothing more than the sound of her own voice, and continues to monologue. “You, my little masochist, are starting to enjoy the usual punishments for incompetence a little too much.” 

Wanda feels the tips of her ears burning. “I do not-”

“You came about five minutes into your last session.” Agatha drawls.

“You were-” Wanda nibbles her lip.

“Yes?” Agatha prompts, leering her eyes lit up with sadistic pleasure at Wanda’s embarrassment.

“Spanking my clit.” Wanda mutters, and she can feel the blush heating her cheeks.

“See darling, that’s not normal.” Agatha purrs. “You like it when I hurt you. But that means it's difficult to make your lessons stick in the usual way.”

“So what, you’re going to make it worse?” Wanda frowns. “Slice me open, brand me? Burn the runes into my arms?”

Agatha wrinkles her nose. “Nothing so crude.” She hums. “Besides, you’re not ready to graduate to knife play with me, honey.”

She reaches in her pocket, and pulls out something oblong and bone white, before leaning over and pressing it firmly onto the seat of Wanda’s usual chair at their ramshackle table. Agatha turns, shrugging off her coat, draping it over her own chair, and settles down on it, leaning back to watch Wanda through her long lashes. 

“Sit.” Agatha orders, and Wanda peers around the edge of the table, to see that Agatha has stuck a white dildo with a flat base, upright in her seat. Wanda blinks up at her, then back down at it- Agatha has a lot of strange devices, but Wanda’s never seen this one before. It’s certainly not the biggest thing Agatha’s fucked her with (in any part of her) but its definitely not small.

“I’m not- I’m not wet enough.” Wanda murmurs.

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “That’s my issue, how? You want it wet, get it wet.” She smirks.

Wanda groans, but she sinks to her knees nonetheless, and leans over, trying to take the dildo in her mouth. The angle is odd, and while the toy is silicon soft, its utterly unmoving as Wanda tries to slick it up with her tongue- though the humiliation of this, on her knees, trying to fellate a toy while Agatha’s sharp eyes watch- is rapidly solving the issue of her not being wet enough to take it inside her cunt.

After a few minutes of licking, and accidentally gagging when she brushes the back of her sensitive mouth, Agatha pulls her off by her hair. “Stop stalling.”

“I’m not.” Wanda argues, but Agatha’s using her improvised handle to yank Wanda up and back- letting go when it’s clear Wanda will acquiesce.

Wanda lines the toy up, spreading herself open with her fingers, and sinks down onto it with a moan as it penetrates deep, sliding in and coming to a stop about an inch before it’s fully hilted.

“All the way.” Agatha orders, licking her lips.

“I can’t.” Wanda pants, trying, but she’s too tight to force it any further.

“You need me to help you?” Agatha offers casually, her voice low and rough.

“I- yes.” Wanda squirms her hips, trying, but she can’t quite get there. 

Agatha leans over, one hand on Wanda's shoulder while the other reaches down, and with a single finger, rubs the tip of it over Wanda’s clit, featherlight. 

The sensation snaps through Wanda’s body like a static shock, and she gasps, her body yielding as Agatha’s other hand gives a soft push- as her cunt stretches wide, and takes the dildo all the way into the bottom. 

“See? Not so hard when I’m here.” Agatha murmurs, leaning back in her own chair, as she unsnaps her cuffs and starts to roll up her sleeves- while her eyes flicker and start to glow violet.

Something shifts inside Wanda, and she feels the toy start to swell, just at the base, and she squirms and tries to lift up to relieve the pressure- but finds she can’t, as the dildo is now locked inside her cunt, trapping her in place.

“Agatha.” Wanda moans. “What-”

“That stays in until you’re done.” Agatha says firmly. “Now.” Agatha gestures, and a pen and notebook flutter over from the couch, landing in front of Wanda on the table. 

“You are sloppy, and make errors that you think you can just will away. What happens when you can’t concentrate enough to cover your ass? Or you make a mistake you’re not even aware of?” Agatha muses. “You’re going to sit here, and copy the runic alphabet out, three times. Perfectly. Make a mistake, and you start that round over. Orgasm, and you start the entire process over.” 

Agatha twirls her fingers, and Wanda suddenly realizes how this is a punishment- as the dildo trapped into her cunt starts to vibrate.

“Pass out, you start over.” Agatha continues, as Wanda stares at her with wild eyes. “Beg- well, you don’t start over, but it will get me off faster.” Agatha grins. “So that one’s encouraged, sweetheart.” She sighs, put upon. “If you can’t figure out how to concentrate before we wear out your cunt, well, you’ve got two more orifices we can try, don’t we honey?”

Against Wanda's will, her cunt clenches, and the shockwave of pleasure has her rolling her hips forward. “I don’t think I can do this.” Wanda pants, already halfway undone.

“Then it’s gonna be real interesting for me to watch you suffer.” Agatha drawls, her eyes tracing the bead of sweat that’s already forming on Wanda’s brow.

Wanda whimpers, and moves to pick up the pen. Her mind is fogged, the vibrations rolling through her- dazed, her hips twitching, she does her best to ignore it; the heat building inside of her, the tension that’s almost ready to snap.

She starts with ᚠ. She gets through ᚾ when she realizes that as she writes, the vibrations are getting stronger and stronger- and she turns to look at Agatha’s glowing violet eyes with a deep sense of betrayal, as Agatha chuckles, and twirls her fingers, telling Wanda to keep going.

Wanda's magic pulses, heavy and distracting. She thinks if she comes she might have a better grasp on what she’s doing- or at least, clearer focus to get her powers under control. 

She gets to ᛇ and the coil snaps, her orgasm breaking over her as she moans in relief.

Then, abruptly, it stops; ruined as the vibrations still completely. 

“No.” Wanda whines, her cunt clenching- but the sensation is already fading. “You said-”

“Naughty little witch.” Agatha scolds, but she’s mocking. “I did say you could come. I didn’t say I wouldn’t ruin it.” Agatha grins. “Now. Let’s take it from the top.” 

It’s so much worse now- Wanda’s more sensitive, and the vibrations nearly hurt, which drives her faster and faster to the edge.

She gets to the end of the alphabet this time, before her body gives out and starts to come. She almost screams in frustration as the toy goes inert inside of her, yanking the orgasm out from under her as her release is ended before it can begin.

Agatha chuckles under her breath, leaning forward to check her work. “You’d have had to start over anyway, pet. This is wrong, and so is this.”

“You’re a monster.” Wanda hisses.

“Takes one to know one, sweet cheeks.” Agatha is unmoved. “I’m not the one sitting in a puddle of her own juices now, am I?”

Wanda glances over, and rolls her eyes; Agatha’s hand is shoved down the front of her trousers, and Wanda can see her fingers moving lazily. “You’re getting there.” Wanda points out.

“You know how much I just love watching the Wanda show. Especially when there’s all this audience participation.” Agatha smirks and it's vicious. “Now, chop, chop.”

Wanda’s next effort is the worst yet; her concentration shattered. “Agatha.” Wanda whimpers, forced to restart her task again. “Please. I’ll let you feed from me, however much you want this time. Please just let me come.”

Agatha laughs, melodic and dark. “Oh angel. I’m about to get it from you anyway; look at you, an absolute hair trigger on your control, isn’t there?” Wanda turns her head to scowl at her, as Agatha pulls her hand out of her pants, her tainted fingers glistening. She leans over, and taps them against Wanda’s pouting lips. “Suck.”

Wanda immediately complies, taking Agatha’s shadow stained fingers to the back of her throat, and sucking them clean, humming as she tastes how wet Agatha is from tormenting her.

Agatha watches, her clever eyes dark and heavy. “You can make this all stop, you know.” She murmurs softly. “The games, the work, the pain you have inside. I can make this all go away for you. Just give up.”

Wanda squirms, the toy still heavy inside her even as her mouth is full. She’s tempted. She always is, when Agatha asks. Wanda knows what she’s looking for: she wants the Darkhold back, solely in her hands. And she wants to keep Wanda, as her own, personal, living battery. 

It would be easy to give up. Agatha wouldn’t hurt her, at least permanently- Wanda’s sure enough of that now. She wants to use her. She’d pamper her, as a cherished pet; Wanda wouldn’t have to worry about anything, ever again- Agatha would take care of it.

It’s so, so tempting. But-

Wanda doesn’t know what Agatha wants with unlimited power and the Book of the Damned. She also really doesn’t want to be responsible for finding out. 

That, and what Wanda’s trying to accomplish, are the only two things that stop her from saying yes.

Wanda shakes her head, refusing to give in yet again. Agatha sighs, unsurprised, and leans back once more, taking her fingers with her.

It takes Wanda three more tries to copy the runes out correctly- and two more maddening, ruined orgasms. Her power is actively fighting her now, wanting to take, and burn, and punish Agatha for the torment of not being able to release, while her body shakes, sweat dripping down her face and her neck.

Agatha, meanwhile, has come at least twice now. Loudly. Her unrestrained moans had triggered the most recent of Wanda’s ruined climaxes, as Wanda broke the pen she had been using for her work cleanly in half with a pop of shimmering red light.

Licking her lips, Agatha leans over, and finally nods. Relieved, Wanda slumps back down into her seat- and gasps as the toy inside her magically vanishes.

Fuck, she’s empty. Her cunt helplessly contracts, her body not used to the feeling, trying to chase something that’s no longer there. She lets out a desperate little whine, and Agatha chuckles.

“Learn your lesson?” Agatha all but purrs, leaning forward, and flicking the hair sticking to Wanda’s forehead out of the way.

Wanda leans into her, trying to get her teeth into Agatha’s neck, looking for something, anything to distract from the ache between her legs.

“On the floor, pet.” Agatha orders, and Wanda complies immediately, sliding off the chair and onto her knees. Agatha purses her lips for a long moment, before flicking her eyes toward the rug in the living room. “Crawl. And then I want you on your back, cunt in front of my chair.”

Wanda’s so far gone, she doesn’t argue- instead she clamors over to the rug on her trembling limbs, dignity a distant thought. She knows Agatha’s watching her, wanting to get a glimpse at the mess she’s made between Wanda’s legs; open, swollen, and dripping down her thighs.

She lays herself on her back on the rug, feeling like she’s exposing her soft underbelly to the maw of a predator; then realizes she doesn’t care, as she spreads her legs.

Agatha follows slowly- bare foot falls soft on the wooden floor, her shirt sleeves rolled up, and her fly still undone.

She sits down in her armchair, legs sprawled wide. Wanda almost sits up to bury her face between them, but stops herself just in time; Agatha sees her twitch, and grins. “So dumb and hungry for it when you’re like this, aren’t you? Just look at that cute little gape where I stretched you out- I can see you clenching down, you little slut. You want me to give you more? I’ll give you more.”

Wanda just whines, and tucks her chin down, trying to see what Agatha’s doing, as Agatha shifts. Suddenly there is firm, wide, warm pressure, directly over Wanda’s aching clit.

Wanda cries out, and Agatha chuckles. “That’s right princess, hump my foot; but that’s all you’re getting. Naughty girls don’t get filled, and you’ve been bad, haven’t you.”

Wanda thrusts her hips up and into what she knows is the arch of Agatha’s bare foot, her face burning in mortification; but she’s so desperate, she’ll take anything she’s given with pathetic gratitude. The sounds her cunt is making against Agatha are obscene as she grinds, moving faster and faster, racing to finish before Agatha can change her mind and pull away, ruining her orgasm yet again.

“What did you learn?” Agatha asks, cool and unbothered by the mess of a witch underneath her, leaning forward to get a better view of Wanda’s humiliation.

Wanda searches inside herself, trying to find the words. “Not- to-” She pants, out of breath. “Not to change things- just to make it easier for me.” Comes out in a tumble. 

“Why not?”

“Because- because I don’t know- what I’m doing.” Wanda whimpers. She’s hot and tense and aching, and she’s done what she was told, why won’t Agatha let her- 

“Good girl.” Agatha murmurs, then casually shrugs, but there’s hunger in her eyes. “Well. I, at least, have earned a little treat for my hard work- haven’t I, pet. But have you? That is the question.”

“Please.” Wanda pants. “Please, I was good for you.”

Agatha lets her suffer for another moment, dragging it out, pretending to mull it over, before she grins. 

“Well, if I want my snack, I suppose I have to let you. Come for me, now.” Agatha orders, licking her lips.

Wanda sees stars as her orgasm rips through her on Agatha’s command, her magic pouring out of her in a blaze of scarlet, while her body moves in one continuous wave. Relief washes over and over, again and again, as she's writhing on the rug, Agatha’s foot firmly pressed against her clit as Wanda shudders and whimpers through it.

Wanda doesn’t see Agatha siphon the magic she just releases into the air, but she feels it- along with Agatha’s low, rumbling moan. She doesn’t open her heavy eyes until she feels Agatha’s knees thud into place on either side of her head; Wanda looks up to find that Agatha’s shed her clothing, and her glittering cunt is just a breath away from Wanda’s panting lips.

Wanda gasps, immediately opening her mouth, presenting her tongue. “Good pet.” Agatha praises again, and Wanda’s entire body lights up with pleasure. Agatha continues, though she’s losing her breath. “Now, I’m going to ride you until I’m satisfied. Disciplining you always works up my appetite.”

Wanda whimpers, and stretches her mouth even wider, resigned to her fate. 

(For now, that is.)

˖⁺‧₊˚✦

@amatterofcomplication asked for Wanda stumbling into a magical innovation that Agatha wouldn't have thought of herself, simply because Wanda's not aware that things aren't supposed to be done a specific way.

Agatha wrinkles her nose, and starts to blink away; Wanda grabs her by the wrist, stopping her as Rio cackles.

“There will be a movie after the deck.” Jen says from where she’s standing beneath the projection. “So it wasn’t entirely fake.”

“If this is an intervention, the first dozen or so didn’t take, but you’re welcome to try again.” Agatha drawls, gesturing with her glass.

“Contrary to your delusions, not everything is about you.” Jen snaps.

“Touchy Jenny. Someone get her business license revoked again?”

“Funny you should mention my business.” Jen nods to Alice, who clicks a button, advancing the slides. A simple splash card fades in, in Jen’s signature pale pink and her logo’s font, reading “Kale Kare x Costco”.

Agatha takes a deep pull of her wine. “Didn’t think you’d be interested in competing with the hot dogs.”

Jen ignores her, although she does that little vein going in her temple, the one she gets under stress. Wanda squeezes Agatha’s wrist, before glaring at her to knock it off. Jen squares her shoulders, and starts to talk.

“Thank you everyone but Agatha for coming. As you know, tomorrow is a big day for me, and my brand- the first day of my buyer’s demo at Costco.”

Jen gestures up at the screen, and Alice advances the slide. There’s a diagram of a molecule, and a bunch of charts and graphs, and other things Wanda doesn’t really follow; out of the corner of her eye though, she can see Agatha lazily looking up, as her fingers start to drum on the edge of her lawn chair, her brow wrinkling.

“Thanks to Rio’s help with human testing, I’ve been able to make a breakthrough in my retinol serum formula- better results, but absolutely no side effects, even for people with sensitive skin.” Jen continues. “I’ve finally sourced a place in the US to manufacture it at scale, with all natural ingredients.”

“Wait, I thought I was helping with something to make people more sensitive.” Rio folds her arms, with a pout. “I wanted more interesting sunburn victims!”

“Joke’s on you.” Jen says without missing a beat.

“Aren’t you supposed to be boutique? Kinda ruins the exclusivity of the brand if you’re at Costco.” Agatha drawls.

“If you’ll let me get there.” Jen huffs.

“That’s what she said.” Alice mumbles.

“Thought you didn’t care.” Wanda raises a bemused eyebrow at Agatha.

“I don’t.” Agatha hisses back.

“Alice, next.” Jen says, and gestures up at the complex flowchart that appears. “As you can see here, getting Kale Kare picked up for a six month exclusive contract with Costco North America will increase our brand awareness with our target audience of middle to high income women, and lend authenticity and trust to the Kale Kare name.”

“Trust you need to earn back after the lawsuits.” Agatha points out.

“Trust we will regain after the lawsuits were settled or dismissed.” Jen snipes back.

(There’s a whooshing sound behind Wanda as Lilia magically summons something. “Popcorn, boys?”

Tommy grabs a bowl from her and starts to tuck in with enthusiasm.)

The slides change, showing a screenshot of a LinkedIn profile- an older man, with greying hair, heavy brows, and an impressive mustache, wearing a cravat with a smoking jacket. “This is Doug Luciano.” Jen uses her magic to point, with a pink laser. “62, twice divorced- and the Costco Chief Procurement Officer for the Northeast.” Jen pauses, scowling. “He’s also… an eccentric.”

“What she means is: a total lunatic.” Lilia adds from the back row of lawn chairs.

“That’s not helping.” Jen puts her hands on her hips.

“Well he is Jen.” Alice pipes up.

“Are we killing this guy?” Agatha asks, sounding interested.

“No.” Jen and Alice say at the same time, before Jen continues.

“I’ve put way too much time into this, and we’re in the home stretch.” Jen sighs heavily. “Doug Luciano is a bit of a technological luddite, and is deeply competitive; winning a contract with Costco through him means you have to jump through his hoops. Play his games. And his favorite is to pit industry rivals against one another, via selling head to head.”

Alice clicks, and a TikTok pops up, starting to autoplay. There’s an influencer, who looks like he’s about Wanda’s age, reacting to another video behind him- this one about Jen, and what the text behind him called the Kandle Skandal.

“Hey sisters, it’s Jaymes Hall back at it again with the tea on everyone’s favorite wanna-be diva: Jen Kale.” He snickers.

Alice pauses the video. Wanda squints up at him, before looking over at the boys. “Why does he sound familiar?”

“He took like fifth place on Drag Race last season.” Billy explains. “Remember? Miss Hall Pass?”

“Ohhhhh.” Wanda nods along, with a vague recollection.

“Total stunt queen.” Tommy adds sagely. “Great at social media posting, but came to the show not knowing how to sew. No ball knowledge.”

“Jenny, why are you beefing with a drag queen a third your age?” Agatha drawls.

“Jen is literally one third your age, and you bully her.” Lilia points out.

“Yes, but it's different when I do it.” Agatha sniffs. “Who the fuck is this kid?”

“Jaymes Hall Skinny Bitch is Kale Kare’s number one competitor in this share of the market.” Jen growls. “He’s also just, horrible. Plus, he’s got two million followers on TikTok, and knows how to weaponize them. ”

“Well, how many do you have?” Agatha asks.

Jen frowns. “1.5 million.”

“Seriously?!”

“I’m literally a beauty influencer.” Jen folds her arms. “Are you really that surprised that I’m good at my job? That I had to learn how to make money manually, because I lived for a century without my magic?”

Agatha rolls her eyes, but before this can deteriorate further, Wanda steps in. “I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised at all.”

Jen smiles at her, though she’s still on edge. “Thanks, Wands.”

“I’ve literally never seen you filming.” Agatha raises an eyebrow.

“I’m living with two wanted felons and literal Death.” Jen says, dry as a bone. “Not to mention, an entire coven of other witches. No, I’m not filming at the house. Back to my point-” She gestures up at the still shot on screen.

“Kale Kare, and I, along with Jaymes Hall, and his skincare brand, ‘Skinny Bitch’, have been invited this weekend, for a demo sale at the Eastview Costco. Two days only, real life, on-site sales- no clicks or trends, just a winner-take-all contest; sell the most, win the contract.”

“Why can’t he sign both of you?” Wanda asks, puzzled.

“That’s the insanity part.” Lilia drawls. “This is how he gets his kicks. Like a Roman emperor making them fight for his entertainment.”

“It works- his numbers prove it.” Jen says grimly. “So the executives will keep letting him do it.”

“So, back to Hall Pass over here.” Agatha points up at the screen. “Is this the guy we’re killing?”

“No one is killing anyone, Agatha.” Jen growls. “The suspicion would immediately be on me, and do you want the cops here? Because that’s how we get cops here.”

“Then what exactly are we doing?” Agatha asks, exasperated.

“Funny you should ask.” Jen folds her arms. “Jaymes Hall is notorious inside the industry for the dirty tricks he pulls- shorting his vendors, sabotaging his rivals. I’m pretty sure he’s embezzling. Tons of fraud.” Jen raises an eyebrow.

“So? That’s small potatoes. I could do that in my sleep.” Agatha scoffs.

Jen grins, and Wanda feels a frisson of fear.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Jen says simply. “Here’s the plan.”

“I’ll get my shopping list.” Lilia mutters.

—

“You know.” Agatha looks down at her claws, perched on the edge of the open tailgate as Wanda and Lilia load up the groceries into Wanda’s little red SUV. “For us, that was a pretty successful grocery run.”

Two parking lot rows over, at the front entrance of the Costco, a fire truck, an ambulance, and multiple police cars are parked, lights flashing. A plume of smoke rises from the roof, as the ambulance pulls away, sirens blaring on.

Agatha smirks, looking elegant in her business wear- she’d been playing the role of a Costco board member, to put pressure on the buying manager to make the right choice.

Wanda stops, holding a value pack of ketchup, as she glares. “Shut up.”

“What?

“What part of, 'don’t kill anyone', did you not understand?” Wanda throws the ketchup into the back, and starts to manhandle heads of lettuce out of the cart.

“No, what I heard was, don’t kill anyone that might implicate Jen.” Agatha points out, unrepentant. “Besides, I didn’t mean to!”

In the distance, the police push Jaymes Hall into the back of the cruiser in handcuffs, as Jen stands off to the side, gesturing as she gives her statement to another pair of cops.

Rio blooms into existence in the back seat, poking her head over the headrest. She twitches her nose, and levitates a green apple out of a nearby cardboard tray, before biting into it with zest.

“Well?” Agatha tilts her head back, impatient.

“Oh he’s definitely dead.” Rio drawls. “Complained about you the entire time. Have you ever actually scared someone to death before?”

“It’s not my fault he had a weak heart!” Agatha protests. “I wasn’t trying to kill him! Just lean on him. A little.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

Agatha’s lying. She can feel it, in the connection between them.

But she can’t quite figure out why.

Lilia snorts. “I’ve seen more subtle performances from la cosa nostra enforcers.”

“I don’t know why you’re complaining. I framed the drag queen, Jen’s got the contract, and now no one has to deal with what’s-his-mustache anymore.” Agatha grouses. “Problems solved.”

“Strangely, not how Jen’s going to feel about it.” Wanda mutters, as Jen comes stomping up to them, livid.

“Yes, leafy Kale?” Agatha drawls. “Anything you’d like to say? Let me help you- start with ‘Thanks!’”

“I said, very specifically, do. Not. Kill. Anyone.” Jen grits out, between her teeth. “Now we have a murder, arson, and thousands of dollars worth of product ruined. I should have known better than to trust you; when you’re a hammer, every problem is a nail.”

The air next to Jen shimmers like a mirage, then Alice ripples into view, her face scrunched up.

(She’s just learning how to teleport, with Wanda’s help- and Agatha’s commentary.)

“Good job.” Wanda smiles at her, and Alice grins back, before turning to Jen.

“Thousands of dollars of Jaymes Hall Skinny Bitch have been ruined.” Alice reports with a straight face. “Somehow, the Kale Kare survived, without a scratch.”

Jen purses her lips, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, really?”

Alice nods happily, as Billy appears in a shimmer of blue light.

“Really really.” He reports, still in his own disguise as a Jaymes Hall super fan- his face done up in exactly the same look as Hall Pass’s most popular makeup tutorial. “Alice did the fire, I did the shielding.”

“That wasn’t the plan.” Jen complains.

“I altered the plan.” Agatha drones. “Pray I don’t alter it further.”

“The Empire Strikes Back.” Rio adds helpfully.

“We know.” Jen snaps.

“Nerd.” Agatha points at her.

“You were the one- God, I just can’t with you.” Jen snarls, and turns, stomping back to her own car. Alice rolls her eyes, and follows, Billy in tow.

Agatha holds out a hand, and Tommy suddenly skids to a halt next to her. “You get the goods?”

Tommy grins, and points behind her. There’s a cardboard cutout of Jen, smiling and holding a jar of Kale Kare, swaying slightly as it had just been dropped off at high speed. The very same ad that had been standing next to Jen’s demo station, before the Costco burst into flames.

“Excellent work zippy.” Agatha purrs. “Big plans for this thing.”

Wanda just groans.

—

Much later, Wanda props herself up in bed, and looks down at Agatha, who is ostensibly sleeping; Rio on the other side, is reading a very old book by a soft lamp light.

“What.” Agatha mumbles, not opening her eyes.

“Here’s what I can’t figure out.” Wanda muses. “You, who I know has run cons that last for years at a time, couldn’t hold together your character for two hours.”

“So?”

Rio chuckles softly, and turns the page.

“So-“ Wanda ventures onward. “So you blew up what was a pretty good plan to bust Jaymes Hall for fraud, in favor of killing someone who isn’t a witch.”

Wanda pauses, but Agatha doesn’t respond.

“You don’t make mistakes like that.” Wanda points out.

“It was an accident.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You heard the lady.” Agatha’s eyes crack open. “I’m a hammer.”

“No, you’re not.” Wanda wrinkles her nose, trying to put it together. “You don’t make mistakes like this, unless your emotions are involved.”

Rio flips her book shut, dark eyes shining with mirth. “Should I tell her?”

Something clicks in Wanda’s mind.

Rio's always bemused at Agatha's murderous antics, but she seems really tickled this time.

And she really is quite fond of Jen, in her way.

Wanda smiles, shaking her head. “No, I think I got it. He said something, didn't he. That weird old buyer guy, about Jen. Something awful.”

Agatha rolls over, burying her face in her pillow, but Wanda’s onto her now.

“He did. Oh my god, he insulted Jen, and you snapped and killed him.” Wanda starts to giggle.

Agatha lifts up her head. “Oh, now you think homicide is funny, toots?”

Wanda shakes her head laughing. “No, no- you know what this means? You like Jen. You defended her. You might even lo-“

“Finish that sentence and Rio will be escorting to wherever you fuck off to while you’re regenerating.” Agatha sneers, before burying her face back in the pillow, the tips of her ears pink.

Wanda can’t stop laughing, while Rio chuckles, before opening her book again.

Agatha doesn’t speak to either of them for the rest of the evening, and Wanda wakes up the next morning to a scream-

Apparently, Agatha had put the cutout in Jen’s shower; scaring the shit out of Jen when she opened the curtain to her own grinning face.

Wanda smiles, and walks past the two of them bickering at the top of their lungs in the living room- a vein in Jen’s forehead pulsing.

“Coffee, anyone?” She calls over her shoulder, as she opens the kitchen door.

“Yes.” They both say at the same time, scowling at one another, before they get back into it again.

Wanda hums under her breath. And makes sure to pick them out matching coffee cups.

˖⁺‧₊˚✦

@likea-black-widow-baby asked: Might I request the coven attempting to grocery shop together as a group?

“What the actual fuck? Did you really have to destroy my ride?” Val coughs out at last, the English in her mouth strange after weeks of Russian.

“Oh, get real, that’s such a grody way to say ‘Thanks for stopping that Soviet chump from blowing my gorgeous head off; very bodacious of you to pull the self-destruct lever.” Agatha rolls her glowing violet eyes, inexplicably sitting cross legged in the center of their very strange escape pod.

She's dressed in a bizarre mix of American trends: hugely permed hair, leather jacket, mini skirt, ripped fishnets; while her nails, bangles, headband, even her eyeshadow are violently fluorescent- hot pink, lime green, electric blue. Her ever present brooch is pinned to her lapel, a strangely dated contrast to the rest of her fashion forward outfit.

Val feels positively drab in her Soviet navy uniform by comparison. She resists the urge to call Agatha a capitalist pig, out of sheer spite.

“I absolutely had that under control.” Val hisses instead, pivoting instead to annoyance at just how fucking smug Agatha is right now.

“Yeah, that’s usually what people think right before their brains go splat. Totally not tubular.” Agatha smirks.

“Cut it out, you are way too old to sound like you’ve escaped from MTV.” Val snaps. "What the fuck are you doing out here?”

“I’ll be asking the questions.” Agatha arches an eyebrow, and twirls a glowing violet hand. One side of the bubble glows, the blacklight effect of it making Agatha’s accessories shine in the dark. “For example, what’s a cute little CIA asset like you doing, fucking up a mission so badly that the hot witch who was hitchhiking on the Soviet sub had to stop your pretty face from getting rearranged?”

“How do I know you didn’t blow my cover in the first place? We didn’t exactly leave it in a good place last time.” Val snipes back absently, something dawning on her as she peers around, looking outside the bubble and noting how the water moves.

“I didn’t do jack shit.” Agatha argues, outraged. “You fucked up on your own, Contessa; I just pulled your ass out of the borscht. There’s a certain amount of gratitude that I am now owed- and trust me honey, I will collect.”

Val ignores her; she can’t quite tell, but it seems like they are sinking.

In the middle of the North Atlantic. 

Maybe Val did die, and getting stuck in a magical bubble with Agatha Harkness is just her own personal hell. That would figure.

“Agatha. Up is that way.” Val says slowly, pointing in the direction she’s fairly certain is toward the sky. 

“Yes, it certainly is.” Agatha says serenely. “Convenient then, that we are in fact, going down.” She wriggles her eyebrows. “Although not the way I like, though that can be arranged once my errand is complete. You do owe me.”

“You have an errand? Out here?” Val latches onto that piece of information, still trying to figure out exactly what’s going on- though its difficult to concentrate, the way her ears are still ringing from the sound of the submarine’s implosion.

“Mmhmm.” Agatha hums.

“What the fuck could you possible need in the middle of the ocean?” Val splutters.

“I left something here.” Agatha shrugs.

“When? How?” 

“I was in a bit of a hurry.” Agatha admits, and twists her glowing hand again. “You know how it is. One moment, you’re arguing with the bad omen of your bitch ex-wife; the next it’s ‘women and children first’, and she has to work late, yet again. Typical excuses.” Agatha rolls her eyes. 

Setting that bit aside for the moment, (although, ex-wife? As in, marriage to a woman?!) in favor of more pressing concerns, Val glares at her. “Agatha. Are you telling me that you were on the Titanic when it sank?”

“Sure was, hun.” Agatha chirps. She gestures once more, and that same side of the bubble glows again.

“The Titanic? The very famous unsinkable ship, that very much sank, and was lost forever, never to be seen again?” Val raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“That was what they were all screaming about, I seem to recall.”

Val purses her lips, considering. “Did you sink it?” 

Agatha snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous; why would I? That one was all mortal hubris, and fate coming to collect on it.”

“But you know where it is, right now.” Val says slowly. “Don’t you?”

“That is what I’m doing down here. It would be a little silly if I didn’t, now wouldn’t it?” Agatha shakes her head, as though Val was the ridiculous one here, before continuing.

“Your mortal submarines finally got good enough that I could get close without wasting a ton of my own power- I was just going to phase through the hull and be on my merry way, but someone had to run her little mouth, and now look where we are. Nuclear submarine in a million pieces, probable casus belli, and a pretty girl who’s now cheated death.” Something sharp and awful appears in Agatha’s expression as she finishes her explanation, but it vanishes before Val can really study it. “Now what do we say, dear?”

“Gee, thanks.” Val says dryly. “You escalated a very minor misunderstanding into a full blown red alert. If this thing goes hot, it will be your fault.” Val huffs, biting her lip, trying not to think about how deep below the surface they must be right now. “And now you’re what, dragging me on a field trip out to the wreck of a ship that people have been looking for like seventy years? That, conveniently, only you know the location of?”

“Well, when you put it like that. Yes.” Agatha grins. “To that last part, not to the first thing.”

Val runs through her mind what she can remember from the dossier about the wreck, but it has been a few years since her briefing was refreshed. “Isn’t there supposed to be, like, massive amounts of treasure on board the Titanic? Or am I thinking about a different fuck off ship?”

Agatha shrugs. “That’s not what I’m looking for. Now hush; this next bit could get tricky, and if I drop this spell down here, we’re going to be crushed like pancakes.”

“What do you mean-”

“I will gag you, and I will enjoy it.” Agatha glares, and Val realizes that the violet light hasn’t left her eyes during this entire episode. “Shut up, Valentina.”

Val promptly shuts up, deciding discretion to be the better part of valor, and that agitating Agatha while they’re miles below the surface is probably a bad call. 

She looks around instead; there’s very little light down here beyond what Agatha is generating from the bubble- but if she squints, she can just make out the sea floor, rising toward them quickly. Strangely pale and murky with sludge, Val realizes that they’re so far down, nothing here has ever seen the sun.

That is, until she spots a familiar shape, resting in the murk, still below them but recognizable none the less.

“Are those boots?” Val whispers, unable to stop herself. She touches the edge of the bubble, and flinches- as her finger tip passes through the magical barrier and into the painfully cold seawater beyond.

“Probably the only thing that’s left of the poor saps who froze, then sank.” Agatha murmurs, brow furrowed. “The sea would have dissolved the rest by now- like when a whale falls.”

Val raises an eyebrow, but this is probably not the right time to interrogate why Agatha seems to know so much about marine biology. The bubble lurches forward, as the sea floor beneath them starts to slope down.

More evidence of the wreck starts to appear; first just indecipherable clumps, but then objects more recognizable, even half buried in the silt- dishes, chests, suitcases, bottles of wine, metal chairs, bed frames. Nothing organic, except for leather- no wood or cloth. More shoes- large and small. And even smaller.

Then, a shadow looming over them, and Agatha’s hands both glow as she illuminates the sea around them with the eerie light of the brightest, full moon. Val’s eyes water, and she blinks, as she looks up at what’s unmistakably the prow of a massive vessel, resting in the impact crater of where she fell, covered in the oceanic silt and rusty decay of seven decades buried at sea. 

Val shivers, her eyes fixed on the eerie sight, tracing the lines of the railings covered in icicle-like rust- as she and Agatha become the first people to lay eyes on the corpse of the doomed ship since her catastrophic end.

For this is unmistakably, undoubtedly, the wreck of the Titanic.

“Where exactly did you say this was again?” Val muses out loud, her mind whirling with the possibilities.

“Nice try.” Agatha snorts. “No dice. I’m not helping the CIA with whatever bullshit you’d come up with about this.”

Well, Val thinks, it was worth a try.

Their bubble hovers for a moment, and then moves to the right, along the ship’s rusted port side, gliding in closer; as Val glimpses a massive hole in the deck while they cruise past and down.

“That was the dome, over the big staircase- I think.” Agatha hums, glancing over. 

“What were you even doing here?” Val asks, her eyes fixed on the hulking wreck, tracing every strange and shattered detail.

“When I was a girl, it took three months to cross the Atlantic, and it was a fucking misery even under the best of circumstances. This ship cut the trip to ten days, at the height of luxury.” Agatha shrugs. “Sue me, I was curious. I always take the latest and greatest when I can- I flew on the Concorde to London last month; I cannot believe you people have gotten that voyage down to three fucking hours.”

“Aren’t you magic?” Val rolls her eyes.

“I’ve lived for a very long time. Novelty amuses me.” Agatha chuckles. “Like rescuing certain lovely, distressing damsels, for instance.”

“I didn’t need-”

“Hush, I’m trying to count.” Agatha interrupts, cutting Val off, high-handed as usual, as she points at the port holes on the side of the wreck. The bubble floats along as Agatha mutters under her breath, before coming to a sudden halt. “There.” Agatha murmurs, and gestures, her long fingers rippling in a come here motion.

Something on the other side of the porthole starts to glow, eerie and purple in the downed ship. Then, a long, narrow shape erupts out of the darkness, shattering the still intact glass, and shooting dart-like through the bubble; like an arrow loosed from a bow. 

Agatha laughs, and plucks the thing from midair as it whizzes over a stunned Val’s shoulder, stopping it midflight.

Val looks down at the object in Agatha’s hand and groans. It’s a hat pin- seven inches long, wickedly sharp, crowned at the end with a massive, soft grey pearl; which had been cunningly carved into a resting rabbit.

“Please tell me that we are not at the bottom of the ocean because you left a hat pin in your stateroom.” Val isn’t going to scream- she’s a god-damn professional, and it’s unbecoming. But she’s close.

“Okay. I am not at the bottom of the ocean to fetch my favorite hat pin.” Agatha drawls, twirling the pin around with the air of an expert. “I will say though, I am quite fond of this one. I killed a man with it in 1911.”

Val studies it, and frowns.

Something is off. Her instincts are tingling; Agatha’s a talented liar, but Val’s not a fool.

Agatha wouldn’t have gone to all of this trouble for just this; not without a reason.

Val looks around them again, at the legendary wreckage, the crushing depths, and Agatha’s far too bland expression- for the amusement dancing in her eyes. 

Val squints. “Can I see that for a second?” 

Agatha smirks, and hands it over with a flourish; rabbit pearl first.

Val pulls out her standard issue Soviet navy pocket knife- and drives it into the soft pearl, straight through the heart.

Or she would have, if the blade didn’t snap on impact.

Agatha cackles. “What gave it away?”

“Pearl would have worn away by now- too much pressure and seawater.” Val says simply. “Nothing else organic seems to have made it down here. What is this really?”

Agatha waves a hand, and the pearl rabbit vanishes- leaving Val holding a sparkling, blue diamond the size of an egg, still affixed to the hairpin. 

A very familiar looking blue diamond, come to think of it.

“Now this makes slightly more sense.” Val mumbles, but she’s careful not to touch it as she hands it back to Agatha. “But you’re not going to trick me into touching the Hope Diamond; the thing’s cursed, isn’t it?”

Agatha grins like the Cheshire cat. “This is why I keep you around, Valentina. Pretty, and clever.” 

“Isn’t this supposed to be in a museum?” Val ignores the flattery, folding her arms.

“That one’s a fake; I stole this baby in 1910.” Agatha admires the shimmer of it in the dim light. “You are right, it’s very cursed. I was trying to decide who to plant it on, then, you know- icebergs, sinking, etc.” 

“You didn’t have time to go grab it?”

Agatha shrugs. “It was all very chaotic there, toward the end. And I was busy; at least locked in my cabin, I knew where it was. I haven’t really had the opportunity to circle back for it until now.”

“You let a priceless, cursed diamond sink to the bottom of the ocean, just because what, you just wanted to?” Val throws up her hands.

“Well, when you say it like that, it does sound stupid, doesn’t it?” Agatha chortles, looking vastly amused.

“You are unfucking believable.” Val mutters. “Are we done now? Any other stolen cultural treasures you’ve let vanish down here? Should we inspect the cargohold just in case?”

“Touchy, touchy.” Agatha smirks. ”I did have an ivory dildo in my lost luggage- that’s probably gone too, but I can double check, if you’d like?”

Val hates that her cheeks flush slightly at the implication, and is frankly done with this entire escapade. “I’m good.”

“You sure? Because I can just-” 

“Agatha!”

“Oh, is someone all hot and bothered?”

“God, do I hate you. Now hurry up and get us somewhere we can fuck without the threat of certain death hovering over my head. I’m sick of the fucking ocean.”

“Your wish is my command, Contessa.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

˖⁺‧₊˚✦

request from @oh-a-cute-lesbian: harktaine, Okay okay 😇 well it will have to be harktaine, because I love those very morally skewed bitches. (Sorry Mel). So, I would actually LOVE it if they were trapped somewhere together and see your take on their dialogue 😈 (could be smut but entirely up to you!)

merry trickmas!! this was one of the only feasible ways (bottom of the sea or in space) that I could conceive agatha and val being stuck in a situation where Agatha either 1) wasn't de-powered or 2) wouldn't just poof away. And I wanted to tackle the agatha vs the titanic conundrum.

this also triggered a three week long research titanic spiral, multiple documentary viewings, a side spiral into soviet nuclear submarine schematics and/or uniforms, a skim of the hunt for red october, a new found interest in james cameron as a person, and my long suffering gf and/or parents having to listen to me titanic ramble as we did assorted holiday tasks. b/c nothing says holiday cheer like: the survival rate in the water (under 30 minutes, unless you were the moonshining head baker, who lasted four hours and came out with frostbitten toes), the history of mass casualty recovery, the number of dogs who died, and the decomp rate of bodies in the saltwater based on time of year (note to self: ask your shrink about an autism diagnosis).

further, and for the record: I don't think Agatha sank the Titanic. There's a significant difference between blowing up the swastika-festooned Hindenburg over New Jersey- which was full of rich Nazis and had significantly fewer people on board (38 deaths/62 survivors)- and sinking the british Titanic in the middle of the North Atlantic- which had large of number child casualties involved (53, mostly in 3rd class- which was immigrant families), a startlingly large number of deaths in general (1514 deaths/710 survivors), and no clear motive as to why Agatha would be behind such a large catastrophe, with no payout (there's no one actively hunting the occult- like the Nazis were; the ship wasn't full of witches; as a solo witch, Agatha benefits much more from covert operations. even drunk on the darkhold, it's clear agatha was at least able to resist its lures, and thus wouldn't have just murdered 1500 people off the cuff. (side burn: wanda and strange, who both lasted all of ten minutes))

Not that Rio comes here often. Normally, just after a bad encounter with Agatha- to clear the taste of ash from her mouth. 

Not that any of their run-ins in the last few centuries have necessarily been good.

Rio kneels down in the clearing that marks where Agatha’s son’s bones once lay.

(He’s not hers. Agatha had always been very, graphically explicit about that. Rio only ever took, after all. And in this forest that still echoes with the horror of Agatha’s screams, that morning long ago, Rio doesn’t feel like she has the right to claim him.)

Rio rests her back against the towering American elm. Solid, dependable. 268 years old this year.

“I’m so sorry, Nicholas.” Rio murmurs, listening to the wind whisper in the leaves. “I let you down. Again. She won’t move on. Not even to see you.”

(Agatha never comes back.)

As soon as Agatha was gone that awful day- stalking her new prey with all of the hatred burning in her shattered heart- Rio had emerged, up from under the undergrowth.

The stones of his cairn were damp, droplets of something.

Rio touched a spot with the tip of her finger, and brought it to her lips. Salt. A tear.

Agatha’s tears.

There was a pain in her chest, so deep, and so violent, that for a moment, she thought about simply dissolving her body- fading back into the nothing of the greater, cosmic being that always pulled at her fingertips, yearning for her to come home.

But she couldn’t. She can’t. She didn’t deserve to forget.

(There was still a very small part of her that was holding out for the hope that one day Agatha might see. Understand. Forgive.

The way Rio’s always seen her. Understood her. Forgiven her.)

Where there’s life, there’s hope. Isn’t that what they say?

She placed a hand flat on the stone, and extended her senses, down into the freshly churned earth.

There was a single seed.

With a thought, Rio gave it a little nudge.

Life sparked.

Carefully, Rio used her power to collect the water droplets that had soaked the stone. With a little twist, she pulled out the salt, then sent the water into the soil, dampening the seed.

Then she stood up, and with a sigh, vanished.

Over the course of the next two and a half centuries, Rio tended to the tree that grew up and above his grave. Protecting it. Pruning it. Shielding it from invading fungi. Resting in the shade in the summer, enjoying its golden leaves in the fall, its stately, snowy branches in the winter. The purple flowers in the spring.

As the tree grew, the stones from the cairn displaced, eventually forming a loose ring around the base of the tree, or tangling deep in the roots below. Meanwhile, Rio always made sure that the same type of flowers that Agatha had left that day were growing around the clearing; along with a dazzling variety of other purple wildflowers.

He’d loved his mother’s purple, she thinks now, tired in a way that something like her should never have experienced.

The wind whispers through the leaves. Overhead, a family of squirrels scamper, gossiping amongst themselves. Below, there’s a mole, rummaging around, while just over there, past the tree line, a mushroom colony is making great use of the leftovers from a red fox’s corpse- the remains after all of the other scavengers had picked it clean. All things moving through life to death to life, as they should be, as they were meant to.

“What- what the actual fuck-!?”

All things that is, but one thing. The most painful thing of all.

Rio doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t say anything. It was inevitable that it would catch up to her, but Rio wasn’t counting on it being so soon.

“What the fuck did you do to his grave? You god-damned monster!” The thing that sounds like Agatha shrieks.

Rio doesn’t reply. She can’t. She knows she’ll have to, but she wants another moment before she has to look at the thing that looks like Agatha, and that’s going to hurt.

Rio’s never been slapped by a ghost before. Even on her cheek’s exposed bone, it kind of burns like frostbite.

“Answer me!” The ghost roars, and the clearing falls still- the animals hiding, the plants curling back; nature itself shrinking back from something that’s the absence of anything alive.

Rio’s eyes flicker open.

“Why should I?” Rio drawls. “You’re not real.”

The ghost- long white hair, like Agatha never allowed in life, throws an icy stare at her- that same familiar mix of longing and despair flickering behind her translucent eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about? Of course I am.”

“No.” Rio says shortly. “You are not.” 

“Have you lost your mind? Were you really so desperate that one kiss scrambled your senses?” the ghost sneers. “And fix your fucking face, you’re impossible to talk to like this.”

Rio rolls her eyes. What that means is the Agatha-shaped thing wants to fight; she’d loved to fuck Rio in her true face, but arguing with a skull made it very hard to see or judge Rio’s reactions.

The apparition is just as annoying, lucky Rio. 

“Agatha, the real one, never wanted to see that face again. I am honoring her last wishes, as she is very much dead.” Rio explains, with more patience than she feels is owed. “She kissed me, siphoned me, used me to kill herself. Over a child who wasn’t hers, who shouldn’t have ever been alive to begin with.” Rio can’t help but add bitterly. “Unlike she was- I am not a liar, so I let him go.”

“I am right here!” The spirit would be stomping her foot, if she had one.

“No.” Rio says, and her voice rumbles. “Agatha was a living, flesh and blood, person, with hands that touched and killed, and a mouth that lied and sang. A body that carried her son. Agatha, the real one, died.”

Rio glares at the ghost. “You are not her. You are not real. You are a memory, an echo. Her leftover magic imprinted with her strongest emotions, and set free to torture me.” She would smirk, if she had lips- as she realizes she’s still pretty enraged and wants to score cheap points- adds: “Her sloppy seconds.” 

The ghost blinks at Rio, her face frozen. “Is that- is that really what you think?”

Rio laughs dryly. “It’s not a matter of think. It’s what is real.” Rio looks up at the tree, sighing. “She was never very good with the boundaries of reality, so it makes sense that the leftovers wouldn’t be either.”

Rio fixes the ghost with a stare, and goes for the metaphorical kill. She doesn’t need to pull her punches, not anymore.

Agatha is dead. Agatha never comes back. The fact that this thing is here proves that it isn’t Agatha. Rio doesn’t have it in her to be kind to the thing that’s stolen that face.

Rio’s voice is flat.  “Life and Death are binary. They are a zero-sum game; you are one or you are the other- change, or stillness. There are no exceptions just because someone was a special girl who fucked Death for a time. Anything that abides outside the natural law is an Abomination that must be destroyed, before it annihilates everything else.”

The thing that looks like Agatha is silenced by that, panting hard, staring at her, with flinty eyes. There’s a long moment of silence, while the ghost clearly tries to make up its mind on which of Agatha’s mercurial moods it’ll inhabit. At last, the spirit says, quietly, “If you don’t think I’m real, why do you still look like that? And why are you here?”

“Contrary to what Agatha believed, not everything in the universe revolves around her.” Rio says dryly. “I’m here, occasionally. Someone has to watch the tree. Dutch elm disease can be a real pain; though it has proven remarkably resilient- something about the power of being watered by tears will do that.” 

The ghost blinks, that horrible fragile expression what Agatha had worn when her son was mentioned flickering across the face.

“As to why I look like this-” Rio runs a hand over her skull. “I hate to admit it, but I did try to go. Back.”

She huffs. “Agatha cursed both of us, spirit. I made this body for her, and we spent so long together, so closely- her death should have broken the hold on me, on whatever Rio Vidal is.”

Rio raises whatever she has for an eyebrow. “But it didn’t, because you’re still here; a rogue ball of her power imprinted with her strongest impulses. Now we’re both stuck- whatever you are, it’s enough to keep this body half-tethered.”

Rio shrugs. “I could probably throw myself into a volcano or something, but I honestly hadn’t gotten that far into the plan yet.” 

“You really don’t believe I’m me, do you?” The ghost whispers.

“I am ancient and beyond knowing.” Rio replies with a hiss. “I know you are not Agatha. She. Is. Dead. And instead of letting me grieve, you persist- as a monstrous echo, designed to torment me, a reminder of what a mistake I made.”

“Designed to torment you?” The ghost repeats, disbelieving. “A mistake you made?! You, with the face that looks like my son’s, haunting me across centuries, refusing to leave me alone?” The ghost shrieks, with a howl of rage. “The only mistake I see here is you! You, who sits here with his eyes, on top of his grave, which you desecrated!”

Rio’s temper flares, her rage cutting through her grief- and her memory. “Desecrated? The grave that you abandoned, as soon as it was convenient? That you never came back to!” 

“I didn’t-”

“It’s been two hundred sixty eight years, four months, eighteen days, twelve hours, and ten minutes since you, I mean, Agatha, left to hunt.” Rio snarls. “Even animals return to mourn their dead. But no, you just left. You always leave.”

Rio rests her hand against the bark. “His shell was empty; his soul moved on with grace. This tree is his marker, and his legacy.” 

“His legacy?” The ghost spits out, with a bitter little laugh. “What legacy? He never even got to live.” 

“He lived for six years.” Rio points out. “Six years of borrowed time.” 

“And why couldn’t it have been sixty? Or six hundred?” 

“It was never going to be enough for you, for your greed. I realize that now.” Rio says quietly. Ah, this familiar argument; at least they’re on well-trod ground now.

“He was one little boy!” Agatha’s ghost gestures, and Rio knows that if she were real, if this were real, Rio would be dodging her magic.

“He was one life, who I gave as much time as I could. The universe was already straining against him- couldn’t you see how sick he was? Reality was unraveling.” Rio tries to reason with it, knowing it's futile. “Would you have traded one life, against the entire universe? He would have died anyway, along with you, and me.”

“You are not alive.” The ghost points out. “And yes. Yes, I would have. That’s the difference between the two of us. I would have found a way to fix it. I needed more time.” 

“I gave you what I could.” 

“You should have tried harder. He was your son too, god damn it!” 

In the distance, a flock of crows starts and takes flight, fleeing the echo of the ghost’s scream.

Rio just stares at Agatha; her face twisted in pain and despair.

In life, Agatha had never, ever admitted that.

Rio finds she can’t speak.

Agatha takes her silence as a denial, a rejection of Nicky; Rio can tell, just based on how her expression changes, darkening into something harsh and sinister.

Rio stands, coming to her feet, and taking the few steps forward to stand directly between Agatha and the tree, trying to find the words to explain but-

“I don’t think I ever told you, while I was alive, why exactly I wanted the Darkhold, did I?” Agatha’s smirk is like the edge of a blade. “Beyond just its ability to get you to leave me the fuck alone.” 

Rio scowls, but Agatha keeps talking before Rio can get a word in edgewise.

“I know you think that I was trying to find a way to bring him back. But honestly, darling, I really wasn’t; just like now, I didn’t want to have to look him in the eye, and know that he knew about all of my sins. The one good, pure thing I ever did.”

Agatha shakes her head. “You were right, when you threw that sink at me. I am a coward. But I’m not ashamed of that.”

“Then why-”

“Oh, that.” Agatha looks down at her hands, and checks her nails, unstained by the Book of the Damned. “Well you see, my dear. I couldn’t have my son. So there was nothing left for me to do but try to figure out a way to destroy what killed him.” 

Rio’s mind freezes. 

Agatha grins. “Did you know there’s a method to kill Death itself, in the back chapters? It really is such a helpful little book.” 

“Agatha.” Rio says desperately, searching her face. She has to be lying, she has to know what a catastrophic decision that would be. “Agatha, you can’t. You don’t even have the Darkhold-”

“Not so fun when the shoe is on the other foot, is it?” Agatha drawls. “How’s it feel? The helplessness, the despair?”

She folds her arms. “And don’t worry your pretty little head about the book. The spell is nice and safe, right here.” She taps her ghostly temple.

“Agatha, life without death is- it’s cancer.” Rio scrambles, trying to reason with her. “It’s unchecked growth, with no energetic cycling; nothing moves, it stagnates. Everything would mutate, it would be monstrous.” 

“Oh, I never said I wanted to get rid of all Death, all together.” Agatha snaps. “I just want to be rid of you.” 

Rio blinks, her eyes watering. She’s not going to weep, not in front of Agatha. Not again. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” Rio mutters. “It’s not that simple.”

“It was never an option, before.” Agatha hums, ignoring her. “Try as I might, I could never harvest enough power.” She tilts her head.

“I do wonder though. What’s the Scarlet Witch going to think, when I tell her that Death, who has taken so much from her, is after her sons because of some stupid rule? I don’t know, she might be interested in what I’ve got to offer her- what do you think?”

Rio’s not going to beg. That’s never worked before, and she knows it won’t work now.

It’s not just about her. It’s about everything. 

But Agatha’s never seen it that way.

Agatha doesn’t let her answer. “So nice when we have these little tête-à-têtes.” She drawls, her ghostly hand patting Rio’s cheekbone with condescension.

Rio closes her eyes and fights everything in herself not to lean into Agatha’s palm, hating herself for it.

Agatha leans in. “See you soon, my love.” 

When Rio opens her eyes, Agatha is gone.

As she has, many times before, Rio kneels back down, next to the tree, leaning her forehead on the trunk.

Once again, watering it with his mother’s tears.

˖⁺‧₊˚✦

@isagrimorie requested: Rio, Nicky, Agatha. Family reunion, post-canon. I hope you like it!