#adora writes

And then again, you were reminded of how rare it was to sense warmth spread across the span of your body, or for anticipation to crest more than once in the swell of your chest on monday evenings. The fact that you scarcely knew how to articulate the various forms that your heart would pinwheel forward at the mere sight of Agatha did little to nothing to ease off your conscience, but you could live with it. You thought so, at least.

Until bloom turned into flame, until— the existence of Wanda Maximoff was added to a mental list of worries as the peak priority. The woman was Agatha’s assistant, no more than in her late twenties, or it seemed so. And with a strong preference for dressing in all-black, silk-clad, sterling silver encircling most of her digits, embracing the bone of her wrist. 

She, too, bore the same coolness as Agatha— though Wanda resembled a blade of sorts, sharp, regal and ceremonial, like the ones that a monarch would keep at their hip. Crueler, in a sense, than Agatha; also less open, as if the woman felt nothing except a level of amusement whenever Agatha cornered a student, demanding as ever for an answer. 

You expected a certain rebellion to crack from underneath that static surface, not the pliancy that often accompanied most of her actions whenever Agatha was around. Wanda did not seem to love all the praise as well, for she remained silent for most of the lectures she assisted in, just handing papers and notes to Agatha when the woman needed, answering a question or two. Then, there was the sensation of being a mere observer of whatever existed between Wanda and Agatha; an unspoken understanding, a synergy that made you wonder how one was without the presence of the other, and that intrigued you. The haunting impression that their bond was as old as the blade Wanda was a dead ringer of.

There was tension, too. Wanda seemed high-strung all the time, and some nagging part inside of your mind loved to feed the idea that it had to do with you somehow, as far-fetched as it could be. Yet that never ceased to intimidate you whenever you paid close attention to the woman. It was puzzling, really, the swiftness that her shoulders would square up at the briefest of mentions of your name on the attendance list; the stern diligence that she would stare at you, sometimes as if you were made of transparent glass, or pure concrete. Her edges glowed warmly from the golden streaks that the sun cast into the classroom— it bathed Wanda vermeil, and conferred on her a softness she did not seem to possess otherwise. 

“The deadline for the essay on Osborne’s Greece in the Making is due next Tuesday, just a reminder”, Agatha said, unfazed when met just with the rushed swish of papers and students eager to get out as fast as possible, fearing another two-hour-long lecture. “Love to see that your disposition to submit a paper is near as high as to leave class.”

A lock of hair fell into her face while Agatha packed up most of her belongings in her purse, sans a slick-black, glossy binder loaded with papers, that seemed heavier than the rest of Agatha’s materials altogether— she never forgot to shove this one at Wanda so she would carry it herself.

Then, Agatha cocked her head, lucent gaze— had her eyes always been this blue? You tried to draw memories from previous encounters, but could not remember —glinting in your direction, and she seemed pensive for a brief moment. Like she had to decide to be pulled or not by the gravity around you, that consisted of nothing but the desire to be near her, for her to spin around your orbit even though stars dripped down Agatha’s eyes, sheen and translucent. You felt something shift inside your core under the pressure of Agatha’s attention, heavy and heady, and the woman leaned on her desk, waiting. It became some sort of ritual between the both of you, in which Agatha lent history books that would end up being scrounged later— she passionately refused each of your attempts to return them.

Yet Wanda was already pliant and waiting beside Agatha’s desk, hands outstretched to take her binder, and the woman broke eye contact; decided to not give in to your flimsy gravity, spinning in an orbit of her own. The weight on your lap has never been lighter and has never felt heavier— you were trying to return Halls’s History of the Archaic Greek World for two weeks now, but golden-assistant Wanda, stick-up-my-ass Wanda never let it; since her first lecture assisting Agatha, she would rush her, urge that the both of them left to catch up with grading assignments and god-knows-what.

“Please, don’t flirt with this one”, you deadpanned, leveling a look at Darcy. She started to present a spark of interest in Wanda after discovering that she also had a masters in Russian History, and the last thing you wanted was to acquiesce to her phantom, lingering presence that waxed more and more throughout the weeks.

Darcy bore her teeth at you, pearly and warm, thin-liner pen still clasped between the fingers of her right hand. You scoffed at the casual confidence that rose from her. “Dunno what goes on inside that head of yours, but I won’t, overbearing love of mine. She’s too socially awkward, even for me”, she replied, nonchalant as ever, then finished writing. Agatha’s boards were indeed oppressive.   

“Really? ‘Cause I think you said the same about me.” You smiled with a hint of mischief, a playful glint in your eyes. Darcy groaned, faking a bothered expression as she slung her backpack on one shoulder. “The time we spent together meant nothing to you? You’re so cold-hearted.”

“Ugh, stop! You’re making me regret that fling more than I already do”, Darcy said in a teasing tone, a squared smile on her soft pink lips as she lightly nudged your sides with an elbow. You chuckled after pretending you were hurt, the fling you had in the summer of junior year had become an internal joke since then— how could it not be? the older girl would say whenever the topic was brought into the conversation, because, despite having a lot of interests in common, both of you were too distinct to function in a romantic relationship. 

There was a small window— of half an hour or so —between Agatha’s lecture and the next period, and it became a habit to wind down near one of the campus’ coffee shops, located in a large square, also close to the commons hall and the largest library of the university. Groves of oaks and tulip trees creaked in the gusty evening, most bare of leaves; the heavy smell of wood filled the crisp air, thrumming with chattering as other students idled along grass and cobblestoned pavement. The clock tower rose in the hazy distance, a white spire with a bright-red dome, contrasting with the rest of the rusty-colored, old buildings on campus.

You sat down under the long shade of a black oak, chuckling when Darcy let out a relieved sigh as she laid down on the grass, thanking the gods for the well-deserved break, and you agreed. Two hours of lecture was enough time to short-circuit your brain, especially if ministered by Agatha— you could sense calluses roughening the tips of your fingers from churning out one essay after another, but the woman seemed impossible to sate, ever so demanding. Wanda had also been decent enough to provide the class help and example questions from Agatha’s old tests, since mid-terms were just around the corner, but as the thought crossed your mind, you immediately brushed it off.

“Don’t Professor Harkness and Wanda seem fairly chummy to you?” You mumbled, words almost carried away by the breezy wind, and Darcy’s shut-eyed face parted into a lopsided grin. “Never mind. Forget I asked it.” Not that the older girl did not have logical and down-to-earth theories, which she did, but after a moment of consideration, you were unsure of what Darcy would come up with. And if you could handle it, whatever it would be. 

You leaned against the tree trunk, shutting your eyes to the pale sky ahead. Then, you filled in the emptiness of black with a couple, unperturbed and with their backs turned against you. Filled with Wanda and Agatha, and their low whispers, occasional touches, unbearable closeness. Your chest swelled with a dawning interest in both women, and it was shameful how easily you could picture the two of them together in their own sandbox universe, free from the shackles of normality, rule-bending, and non-conforming. Independent elements co-existing on their own, unaware of their audience as if nothing else mattered besides themselves. Somewhere in your heart tightened.

“For your information, I do think they are chummy. But I guess that’s what professors and their assistants do? Didn’t watch enough movies about college life to have a theory about them”, Darcy said from her spot on the grass beside you. “Why, do you want me to be chummy with you? I can do that.” You opened your eyes and were surprised to see Darcy smiling, traces of softness underneath her teasing tone, and something inside you changed, spurred on by the warmth that trickled from the girl’s words and gestures, and you wanted to just bask in it a little longer, so her tenderness would soothe a bleeding wound. So her tenderness would close the emptied cut, black-stained and aching in your chest.

Lighthearted laughter escaped your lips at the girl’s question. “You’re the absolute worst. People think we’re dating to this day, y’know? ‘Tis all your fault!” You could not be more grateful to have Darcy around, and, regardless of the usual banters, you hoped that the message came across through your open, beaming expression.

“And you still hang out with me because? Ah! ‘Cause you obviously love me.” The pink curve in her lips was merciless and full of teasing until her smile softened and she moved closer, tender hands outstretched to push a strand of hair behind your ear. “But seriously, don’t let Agatha have a chokehold on you—”, and before you could even protest, Darcy shushed you, “— I’m serious! We don’t know a single thing about her at all. What if she’s hiding, like, a super weird kink?”

Although the girl was right about most— if not all —of what she said regarding Agatha, a screaming voice urged you to contradict Darcy, even if you indeed knew nothing about her. And was it possible to pass the superficial level of Agatha’s persona? To cut her clean down her center, and have the rest of herself bleeding through each side of a knife? You wondered what would bleed from Agatha if she was halved. The woman seemed like a force of nature, the embodiment of night itself: dark and cool like a ghost, disordered and wild. Impossible to hold in one’s hands, to possess. To know Agatha’s contents and discover if violence and tenderness would bleed in equal measure or not.

Swallowing hard, the thought forcefully disappeared from your mind. “Yes, ‘cause I’m super worried about her kinks when I dated you after all people”, you retorted, prompting Darcy to cover your mouth with the palm of her hand. 

“For fuck’s sake, you’re insufferable! Your crush on her is more than obvious by now, but, please, be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt by some shady milf, and I say that very seriously.” Graveness permeated the older girl’s lineaments as she stared at you, clear irises melting within the horizon. A mirror to one’s own countenance. “And if she tries any funny business, I swear I’ll hunt her down, ok?”

“She’s not some shady milf!” Darcy just rolled her eyes in response to your exasperation. “And she’s not interested in me anyway, but I pinky promise I’ll take care. Worst case scenario you give Agatha your I know how to make a murder look like suicide look”, you added, eager to end the uncomfortable topic. And to stop Darcy from almost committing a homicide in plain sight.

“Which is very effective, and my ultimate weapon”, the girl stated before lying back down on the grass, using her backpack as a makeshift pillow. Waving a languid hand in the direction of the coffee shop, she closed her eyes again. “Now go get us some coffee before the next class. It’s your turn after all this headache you put me through.” 

—

A pristine, somewhat tall figure stood in the center of Woo’s coffee shop, poised with a cup of coffee at hand, pale and thick steam caressing her face in gentle blows. You were inexplicably drawn to Agatha, and trying to spot her presence in crowds became a habit of yours even if it often led to nowhere. 

She did not seem to notice your presence at first— why would she, you realized, all the lightheartedness from before waning, especially after Darcy’s warning—, loitering by the wooden bar off to the side, devoid of technological devices to loot her attention; an alien sight if compared to the rest of the coffee shop, brimming with undergrads on their laptops or smartphones. You flashed a brief smile at it because that was so classic of Agatha. 

Though, despite the softness that glimpse of her brought to you, there was no trace of it on Agatha’s expression. The lines around her eyes were harsh; her brows were knitted, a small crease in between them; her plump lips were pursed the entire time. You could almost sense the tension that weighed upon her shoulders. Thus, regarding it all, you decided to not approach the woman after leaving the queue. 

Yet, Agatha’s presence had loomed over you, and— a cold hand pressed to the small of your back. The woman was right beside you.

It was a surprising feat that Agatha was even able to spot you among the multitude of liberal arts and social studies students that lounged around Woo’s in-between periods or after classes were over, given the proximity of the coffee shop with one of the largest libraries inside the campus— nevertheless, there was Agatha, broad shoulders less than an inch apart and almost brushing against yours as she stepped further to avoid bumping into a pink-haired girl. You resisted the urge to chuckle upon seeing the scowl that had formed on the woman’s face, now close to muttering something on the lines of kids these days.  

Then, just then, Agatha settled her cool stare on you, and her profile seemed a little sharper, a little paler underneath the fluorescent light— the shop window served as the single source of daylight, allowing only so much sunbeam to stream in through; to spill flecks of gold over Agatha’s entire complexion, to create bronze lines on sea-stained irises, making it even easier to pinpoint the borders between lucent blue and endless black. 

“Fancy seeing you, dear”, Agatha finally said, soft mouth set into a curve, though the smile didn’t come across the rest of her face, unperturbed as ever. You had grown familiar with Agatha’s aloof, sharp edges, which would crack enough to leak off warmth at rare moments. After what seemed a long pause, Agatha continued, “What brings you here?”

If she meant here as in that coffee shop or here as in beside her, you couldn’t tell.

“Just coffee, I guess.” You shrugged, hands busied with two cups of cappuccinos. The steam that blazed across your skin seemed to soothe you; it eased most of your scattered thoughts, all to focus your sole attention on the keen burn your hot palms bore and Agatha’s presence. “I’m grabbing something to drink before the next period. It’ll be very much needed.”

Awkwardness coiled on your chest. Agatha was somewhat familiar, that encounter was anything but. Even though a casual, brief meeting in a café on campus was expected when both people were student and professor, something artificial lingered over the atmosphere. Nothing abnormal happened, still, still. Something tightened around the column of your neck— at this point, you could taste steam burning on the back of your throat. 

“So is that friend of yours around?” Agatha’s sudden, grave expression did not match the tone of her voice at all, emptied of interest, while she peered over your head— a reminder of how taller the woman was with heeled boots. It became both easier and harder to read Agatha, despite how open-faced she could be, as if the woman was talking to a ghost instead, gaze never falling upon you. As if you were talking to a suit-clad ghost. An expensive all-black vulture. 

You raised an inquiring brow. “What friend— you mean Darcy? She’s not, we often take turns to get coffee between classes. It happens to be my turn this time.” The question was odd, whatsoever, especially facing Agatha’s clear disinterest. “How do you know I was with her though?” The burn started to numb the palm of your hands, as well as the rest of your senses.

“Well, just happen to see you two together a lot on campus”, Agatha dismissed, and her razor-sharp timbre thickened the metallic rims of her words, causing you to flinch at the unexpected coldness. But before you even had the chance to find enough arguments to counter the woman, Agatha’s hands flew to your waist, light and gentle, touch ghosting over the dip of it. The woman maneuvered you out of the way of a rushed undergrad in one smooth motion. Then, much to your surprise, you noticed just how crammed Woo’s had become in minutes. “Why don’t we go to a quieter corner, dear?” She suggested, points of fingers flattened into one straight line that started on your last rib and ended above your hip bone. Without waiting for confirmation, Agatha guided you to the end of the wooden bar, leaning back against one of the industrial-gray walls. 

“Ah—”, although Agatha had spared a single moment of her attention, the sole object of your recent desires, it was enough to make you desperate to change topics, faint red already springing across your cheeks and ears, “—is Wanda going to meet you here or something?” Suddenly, Agatha’s curiosity was placed entirely upon you.

You were rendered see-through under Agatha’s scrutiny; about to drown in the astral-blue of her two lakes. At each dissolving second her gaze remained rooted at you, a step further to the eager, boundless mouth of a blue caldera, impatient to engulf you whole— and if Agatha stared at you an instant longer, seawater would start to fill your lungs, trails of blue salt already caressing your lips as you submerged into her charms.  

“Oh, darling, Wanda isn’t here at the moment, I’m afraid”, Agatha answered a few beats later, and her voice had dropped a half-octave lower, at knifepoint, and its candor was still cool, light, but its air had changed. For a split second, the light cast askew, strange shadows on Agatha’s face, a subtle amber glint shadowing the blue of her irises and accenting pupils that looked much like two narrow slits. The woman slid closer, and pristine nails, polished in glossy black, scraped the surface. “Why, am I not entertaining you enough?”

“N-No, this isn’t— I didn’t mean that, professor”, you denied immediately, gapping at her curt retort. You would almost laugh embarrassedly if it wasn’t for Agatha’s sardonic, verging-on-serious tone. She was too blunt to fake anything.

Agatha has never been that expressive, her lineaments holding intricate threads of discontent. Ghost fingers hovered over your waist, as her fine lines held a foreign harshness, lips pursed in a straight line, and you felt utterly small before the woman’s presence. “What did I say about calling me that, dear?” 

The most noticeable sound— the only sound, as if the café was noiseless —you could pick on was Agatha’s nails tapping the surface in a rhythm that mirrored the one inside your own rib cage, like the woman could sense your pulse from afar, a clock ticking; the seconds were passing, and you had yet to answer— am I not entertaining enough? —, and every dreadful beat was a reminder of words that you couldn’t find. You swallowed, trying not to quiver beneath Agatha’s phantom touch.

“I’m sorry, profe— Agatha.” It was then that heat creeped up your skin, and the woman let out a hum of approval, voice low and curling at the edges. Agatha had almost closed the distance between your bodies, now towering over you. “And you are entertaining, i-it’s just— You and Wanda seem very close, I just thought you could be meeting here to work together.” You didn’t understand why you sounded a little breathless, words anxious-lilt. It was unusual to see Agatha so up close, and it felt like the woman would disappear if she stepped any further. Her floral scent, lavender notes on top, was even more intoxicating than when it just whistled past and gone in the classroom.

“We’ve known each other for quite a while, yes, but we’re not attached by the hip, hon. Wanda’s just been nagging about some work we have to finish— a high-strung type if you will”, Agatha said, deadpan, while she hastily scanned the place, as if searching for someone, before setting her attention upon you again. Something in your chest pinwheeled forward, for Agatha’s effect on you was capable of making you forget your birth name, sweet and bewildering like a spell; however, the slow burn smoldering at your core made you want to run away from the woman, her presence a lighter itself.  

“I see. But I guess you two get along alright.” You were adamant to move to another topic again. Cold welled up at the merest of mentions of Wanda and her vermeil shadow that haunted you wherever you went. “Ah, about the book I borrowed, can I return it to you now?”

At that, Agatha’s expression softened a bit, and her mouth set into a gentle curve. She shifted, still close enough to stare at you. “Nonsense, dear, we still need to discuss it, don’t we? I’m sorry we couldn’t do it earlier.” Because of Wanda, you wanted to include but remained quiet. It was rare to see such softness tinting Agatha’s lineaments; to listen to words softspoken, honeytoned. You did not want to spoil what caused shivers on your spine, what made you wonder what a much more amiable version of her would look like. “Meet me at my office tomorrow, darling, I’ll stay in the department for basically the entire day, anyway”, Agatha said, squeezing your shoulder with moderate strength, murmuring a quick got to go now. She whisked past you and soon disappeared into a sea of people.

The universe died down, and all that had left was the ghost of where her touch once rested upon, the rapid beats of your heart, and a glimpse of Wanda standing outside Woo’s. And a pair of cappuccinos, cold and bitter.

—

In the lectures that followed that heart-stirring encounter, you could not focus at all— your mind wandered over the remembrance of Wanda outside the café, in a long stroll to collect shards of memories muddled together, linked by faint strings that made it impossible to distinguish which was real and which was not, their edges blurred; each reminiscence was part of a tableau, now burnt and molded behind your eyelids. Wanda: pliant as a hound, hidden in the shadows, bearing a manicured smirk that revealed nothing past her pristine facade. It was Wanda the sole person that monopolized your thoughts, even more than Agatha.

Therefore, mechanical steps led you to your safe place, a little corner unfrequented and forgotten by most students, where not a single soul, except for Darcy, would intrude. After classes were over, it became a habit to hide in the smallest of the trio of libraries— and even if the world was falling, one could spot you at the all-night study room, though you never spent the night there —, far from the History and Sociology Department. Far from Agatha and Wanda, and the unrequited reverie of feelings often associated with them both.

The library was an inconspicuous, three-store building on the edge of the campus: old, tanned-red bricks covered with pine-green ivy as to be almost indistinguishable from the landscape, and haunted at certain angles. In the winter, most flowers were buried under a thin coat of snow, just a few had thrived— late bloomers, honeysuckles, primroses, and so forth —, and the dried lawn was peppered with shady patches, such as the woods and their white-laced branches; an uneven path of footsteps pockmarked the snow in the wake of your passage. The place would resemble a vault of sorts, had it not been for its large, dark windowpanes, that let golden beams trickle down walled bookshelves and old furniture, and a marble fireplace as monumental as a sepulcher keeping the rooms drowsily warm. You were greeted by the scent of vellum, tangy and rich, while wondering if a coffin would be as comforting.

For a moment, stepping into the library felt like a homecoming to a world bound in leather and ink, the world of a buried past, long forgotten. Emptier than usual, even the librarian— an unusually strong woman named Peggy, who developed the habit to check in on you while being borderline intimidating —was nowhere to be seen on the ground floor, and the place was akin to a tomb in its silence. A shiver ran through your spine as you headed to your study spot on the second floor; regardless of the late-afternoon sun that glittered through the windows and turned the bookcases and furniture into glowing bonfires, the fluorescent light made the room seem much colder.

You loved the solitude that often accompanied humanities majors. There was nothing more pleasant than seeing no farther than the books before you, the silent thrum of streams of historical facts filling the gaps in a puzzle, resurrecting figments of the past and trapping them in their own microcosm, all to track the stains that bled through the present. It was something as meticulous as the work of an artisan, and you worked with care to unveil the threads of events between past and present. Agatha indirectly followed you through that process, like she was the ghost of Midas herself; the woman spun gold out of vellum, and that became even more evident in the thorough notations she left on the textbooks on Ancient Greece entrusted to you, a selection of Agatha’s copies she carefully curated. 

Brushing the glossy, light-cream coated paper, flecked with purple post-its and lilac highlighted words— Agatha’s fixation with the color purple never ceased to amaze you —, underlined sentences in black ink, and a slew of remarks that occupied each blank space in the pages, sometimes overlapping the text itself, it felt like Agatha had never left. Rather than that, you rewrote history. You met in front of the department after running at each other in Woo’s and walked alongside through tree-lined, large sidewalks, disappeared in a secluded pathway that led to the library. And Agatha hummed between each softspoken phrase, listening to all you had to say with utter diligence— just to chime in in the next second to tell you about the latest former top student that she had on the verge of tears in the middle of a lecture. Her long, ink-stained fingers caressed the back of your hand in delicate motions as if asking for permission, and Agatha’s squared hand enveloped yours in the very way a pyre engulfed whatever is closest to its hot mouth. Rosebud lips brushed against the shell of your ear to whisper that you were Agatha’s favorite student, her only one.

No Wanda Maximoff could demand the attention of this ghost-Agatha or claim her, no Wanda Maximoff could bother you in your little play-pretend universe, no Wanda Maximoff could interrupt—

A phantom, steel-cool touch on your shoulder startled you, and your fantasies dissolved at once, “Ah, I see Agatha really made a new victim.” You could discern a hoarse voice, awash with an eastern-European accent, over the heavy instrumentation playing in your earphones.

Something in your chest sunk— it could as well be your whole heart. After spending countless amounts of time being chased by the ghost of Wanda, you thought, you finally willed the woman into your life; your ears rang with the loud, high-pitched timbre of Darcy’s voice already listing all the supernatural reasons for said chance encounter. An omen, she would probably say. In the instant Wanda’s hand grazed your skin, she metamorphosed into a creature of flesh and blood, not a hallucination, a heedless vulture stalking down the corridors behind Agatha’s shadows in a swish of black silk and sterling silver. Her wintry fingers were just more give to the knife; under Wanda’s attention, her touch felt like a laceration, and if it lingered for just a minute, just a second longer, a wound would easily open in your flesh. 

You had tried to ignore Wanda in the hopes of her noticing you did not want to be bothered and leaving minutes after, resuming her rounds heedless of the living as ghosts often were. However, it seemed to prompt the woman to have the opposite reaction, much to your despair. Wanda took the seat before you, and her skin was so fair she glimmered almost pearl-white under the languid sunshine, looking like an old, wrinkled marble statue of a minor goddess, perhaps Achlys or Asteria. Despite not possessing the same sovereignty Agatha’s ocean-stained gaze had, Wanda’s springtime-green irises also carried within them the very remembrance that you responded like a livewire to both women’s preternatural existence, elicited the desire to just glance at their owner for a moment, so riveting was Wanda’s aura— it stirred instincts unbeknownst to you, concealed at the innermost part of your mind. Finally, you were compelled to acknowledge Wanda, who beamed a satisfied grin, eyes flickering to a faint golden shade. 

“It’s truly addicting, isn’t it? History, I mean.” Wanda’s surprisingly softspoken words were imbued with ancientness, although it seemed uncanny for an individual in their mid-to-late twenties to have a whiff of the ancient world as Wanda did; but then, you wondered if a certain level of intimacy with Agatha would be the culprit for that. In the face of deafening silence after you had simply nodded in agreement, Wanda inquired, “Did Agatha actually lend you her copy of Hall’s Archaic Greek World?”

“Yeah. She wanted me to take a look at her notes while reading, because ‘an undergrad could never comprehend his work fully without help’, or something in those lines.” You blinked slowly, still getting used to the sight of one Wanda Maximoff putting into the effort to make small talk to you, of all people. Darcy, for once, was right when she said the woman was in a different league of social awkwardness. 

Wanda chuckled, an earnest timbre to it. “Right. This sounds just like Agatha.” Then, she leaned a few inches closer, gaze perusing upon a mess of sticky notes and terrible handwriting. “I’m just impressed she just didn’t order you to borrow a copy from the library. Agatha only let me use her own textbooks nearly a year after she hired me”, she disclosed, fondness tinging rigid lineaments that became more open for a brief instant. 

“For how long have you been Agatha’s assistant?” You surrendered to the waxing voice in an obscured corner of your mind, where a single desire remained untouched in its cracked shell. To indulge the blooming, warm sensation of being scrutinized under the diligence of Wanda’s glare, glinting askew and sharp. Then, you could as well have a slumber party with your foe, as to explore the mysterious trail of secrets that lay underneath Wanda and Agatha’s relationship. 

Your interest for them grew under sheer masochism and morbid curiosity, for bodies of possibilities accompanied the very idea of Wanda and Agatha; regardless of the pressure settling at the base of your chest. The dichotomy between wanting to know more— everything —and protecting little patches of your heart that somehow remained untouched weighted the same as the world Atlas had to carry on his shoulders. Also, Wanda seemed to beckon you for more— attention, time, anything that you could give —, though it was a detail implicit in her cool demeanor, in the tone of her husky voice, that almost crumbled with need raised to its highest power. And, as such, you were somewhat satisfied to oblige. 

Closing the textbook with a gel pen in the middle of its pages, you signaled to the woman your interest to learn more. About Wanda herself, about Agatha, about what carried both women that appeared to be much older than Westview to that little, stranded town. The glossiness of discoveries tinted your expression, and you grinned, a little more open-faced.  

“Oh, it’s been such a long time I can barely remember, darling”, Wanda replied, accent curling at the edges of each pronounced syllable, like she was a foreigner to the human world itself. Words hung on her melting lips for a couple of seconds before she decided on a conclusive answer. “I think we’ve known each other for almost a decade now.”

The grin your lips carried rotted, sprouted into something much sour while Wanda’s honeyed voice echoed inside your head, memories that you could not pinpoint, coated with affection and sweetened with the gentle passage of time, screamed into your heart, now tore out. You could almost put together a timeline of Wanda and Agatha’s time together with the remembrances that floated in the air if they were more palpable.

“I wasn’t expecting this at all”, still stunned, you pushed yourself to say anything that contained words. Flushing at the immediate surge of sheer curiosity that flooded you, the question escaped your lips before you noted, “Wait. How old are you?” You were ready to apologize more than once, to tell the woman she did not need to answer, but Wanda interrupted your mini-crisis with a delicate giggle.

“That's no problem, dear, I’ve overcome my early midlife crisis already. I’m 33”, she replied, lineaments settled into a softer, understanding look as you had to produce some conscious effort not to gape at Wanda’s astonishing statement; to wrap your malfunctioning mind around the idea that Wanda was not a person forever captured in sepia film and encapsulated in a fleeting instant. Meanwhile, the woman leaned forward, a teasing upturn on her lips, and asked, “Why does it seem that I’ve scared you off now?”

In that instant, you wanted to argue that you had all the reasons to be scared. Wanda bore an immortal type of beauty as if she had been bound to a particular period of time until the centuries, tired to wait, outgrew her. Yet Wanda carried a preternatural freshness one born hundreds of years ago would not; held within her chest a long-living girlhood. Her body was the budding flower of her own flesh, and Wanda’s petal-pink lips fell into a neutral line under your silent examination, late-springtime orbs, peppered with copper spots, shimmering. She stared straight ahead, and her kohl-lined, half-lidded eyes physically pinned you against your seat, as bewildering and mesmerizing as their owner— you could spend hours mapping all the microconstellations of gold and green around Wanda’s pupils, that, for brief seconds, resembled those of a cat, thin and infinite-black. Wanda’s genuine beauty was terrorizing: eerie in its roots, inexplicable like a nature’s phenomenon. Such were her eyes, her hands, her looks.

The woman absent-mindedly nibbled on her bottom lip, carding her fingers through her hair, a cascade of dark-brown falling over her shoulders— before that, Wanda’s locks used to veil her in scarlet, fiery strands dyed in a shade of bright orange; then, faded to subdued strawberry-blonde, that made her look like real gold, alluring and intoxicating. 

Then, you remembered that Wanda was still waiting for an answer. “It’s not that. It’s just— I imagined you’d be fairly younger.”

“A lot of people do, so don’t stress over this. Agatha, too, is a lot older than she seems”, Wanda reassured, nectar-like voice coated with hints of aloofness as she waved an uninterested hand in the air. “But pretend you didn’t hear a peep from me, or she’ll cut my head off. Or not write a recommendation letter for my doctorate’s program.”

“I don’t know what is worse.” A solemn silence saturated the room, and the underlying threat posed by Agatha and her seemingly widespread influence did nothing to ease your nerves. 

A few beats later, Wanda pulled a thick brochure out of her leather messenger bag, shuffled some papers out of a large batch, and started to work on something you had no idea of. Noting your prolonged stare, the woman smiled, polite and aimed at nowhere in particular, as if she was just looking through a looking glass. Devoid of Wanda’s sole attention, it felt like you were no longer a sunstone with the entire sun to show for it, and, slowly, you became painfully aware of your surroundings once overflowing golden streaks ceased to blind you. The music had never stopped playing in your earphones; you never had to even take one of the sides of your earphones off to listen to Wanda, whose voice resonated loud and clear inside your skull— like the whole conversation happened in a universe alien to the one you were standing in. Like no time had passed at all, and your dialogue with Wanda was cut out from the timeline of History and inserted in a little frame of its own, guarded in a museum built off of your thoughts, where no one could access but you.

The minutes crawled on the clock unhurriedly, and see-through panels made of glass closed around you, hourglass-shaped, while your concentration trickled like thin sand, first, through your fingers, then, over your body, until you were buried underneath a pile of alarming thoughts. Until the base of the hourglass was full of sand. Until there was sand inside your mouth, and all you could not breathe at all—

As if she sensed your crescent restlessness, Wanda stretched against the chair, letting a relatively loud hum as she did so, that echoed like a gunshot in the empty library.

“Anyway, I don’t suppose there is a place one could grab something to eat nearby, right?” Wanda questioned, rustling through her papers again and placing them in the middle of her brochure, before packing it all inside her bag. A glimpse of Agatha’s ever-infamous, slick-black binder inside it piqued your attention, and you wondered if Wanda had yet to return the woman her precious treasure.

Cold welled up. In that span of seconds, an anxious tremor washed over you, like an earthquake, or the parting of the seas, and the wish to leave the room and Wanda altogether begged you to be fulfilled.

Suddenly standing up, you motioned the woman to do the same. “There actually is a vending machine at the end of the hallway. I can show you”, you offered, deciding to leave most of your belongings on the desk to pack them up later, for the library had never been that emptier. Wanda’s shoulders almost brushed against yours more than once as she walked beside you, an inch or two taller. “It’s just so hidden by the staircase no one bats an eye on it at first”, you didn’t resist the urge to add it after sensing a burning, wary stare setting fire onto your flesh.

“Really.” It was all Wanda said, curt and distant, when both of you stopped before an old vending machine, with aged edges because of rust and some creases on the steel of its sides. At least, the snacks were far from being expired.

“Yeah. Peggy— the librarian —told me about it once, or I’d starve every time I came here.” You were amused— and grateful to have such an opportunity —to watch Wanda glancing at the machine with a grave countenance for some instants before figuring out what she had to do, fumbling to insert a dollar note inside it, pressing some faded black-and-white buttons, and taking a while to confirm the snack code showing on the tiny display. A small part inside your chest softened at that sight, since, not even in your most far-fetched thoughts, you imagined that Wanda would have such difficulties dealing with technology.

Then, in the seconds that followed the mechanical buzz of the machine amidst its own ritual, Wanda did not reply at all, staring, with profound curiosity, through tempered and scratched glass. A single granola bar fell in the pickup box and was promptly examined by a very unimpressed Wanda Maximoff as if she had put her object of study under the lens of a microscope only to come to disappointing conclusions. “Hmm”, she said after a long while, turning her body to you and continuing, “This Peggy woman seems like a good person, darling.” A nameless something blemished the center of her words, which, regardless of the softened edges, the polished and well-controlled manner that tinged Wanda’s statements, felt as automatic as the loud hum of the snack machine dropping its order. 

The low, smoldering sun splayed red over Wanda’s lineaments— over deep-forest-green eyes, lit by a foreign, blown fire —, outlined the woman the color of violence, of warning. Streaks of red built patches of flame atop her skin, making Wanda eternal even if for a fading moment, A cool grin cut through bud-red lips, and the temperature in the hallway seemed to drop a few degrees, either due to the crisp air of winter in its dawn or the glittering white of long canines.

“I’ll be going then, kotik”, she said, and the foreign word rolled on her tongue, languid and voluptuous, nectar seeping from each syllable. It caressed your skin with a freshness akin to plump and ripe fruits, burnt it tenderly as you flew straight to the woman’s orbit; a simple insect landing on the crimson mouth of a starved venus flytrap. Wanda seemed pensive, perhaps considering her next meticulous move, searching for the most precise reaction, all the while she leveled a soul-piercing gaze in your direction that made you hold all your instincts to hide from her. Her grin bloomed into a satisfied smile on her lips as she whispered, “I hope to see you around again.”  

Wanda looked like a goddess mouthing a set of magical words, a mythical being made of burnished gold, unperturbed and ephemeral. Contrarily to other days, where the mere sight of the older woman would cause an undesired heaviness at the base of your stomach, on that particular evening, it caused a maelstrom of lukewarm feelings, like the sun itself had descended to meet you. Although Wanda had always been beautiful, for you were not blind to acknowledge it, she looked especially graceful, blissful under shafts of shimmering-orange. After she disappeared from your peripherals in a pristine mess of blood-red, you thought breathing would become second nature again. Instead, your core ached, plush and red.

Still, the throbbing in your heart did not become easier to ignore, even as you entered a series of numbers on the snack machine’s display, peering at one of the large windows to stare straight ahead at the sullen evening, the sun so low in the horizon that the darkened sky started to melt over it, and stars sprung like wallflowers from behind a canopy of clouds and shadowed buildings. But then— your eyes widened when you spotted a miniature version of Agatha, sitting at a cobblestoned bench near the library’s entrance, like she was just a trick of light, a byproduct of shades, and not a real person. Smoke curled up like a thin curtain that veiled her face, cigarette clasped between rough knuckles and a book on the other hand. That made you briefly contemplate how one could read in the semi-penumbra, until the full view of Agatha pushed you into a blazing abyss, fire-warming your entire body. 

A lump formed in your throat whilst you observed Wanda approach the other woman, back-turned, so you could only imagine what her expression looked like. Not good, you thought, almost out loud; Agatha did not seem pleased, an evident frown imprinted on her face as she gesticulated with fervor, her lack of composure crushing the calm breeze of winter. Regardless of what could be happening, they started to walk side by side together, and Agatha placed a firm hand over Wanda’s nape before both cast a glance at the building, towards the specific direction of the window you stood behind— as if it was possible for them to recognize where you were under a veil of dim-light.

Then, a strident clang coming from the machine force-pulled you out of a trance with a start, and the reality was much quieter, much lonelier. The whole floor appeared to be empty except for you, filled with specters of the dead silence that loomed over the hallway as well as the rest of the place, which would be a perfect liminal space, a bright and muted void, if it were not for metallic thuds of cart wheels moving around downstairs. Thus, you put on your earphones again, unpausing a song you were not even aware of when it started playing in the first place. In the black emptiness that suffused outside, you could see Agatha and Wanda’s shapes, outlined in purple and red— technicolor in contrast to the usual monochromatic tones that colored the campus during winter —, growing smaller in the distance.

Your chest swelled with a dawning interest, with a thrill of adrenaline, whenever you sensed Wanda or Agatha’s presence close to you, whenever you saw them together. It also swelled with heat, with sensitivity, under the barest of gestures from both women. Yet a quiver insisted on destabilizing you each time you thought of them.

As you decided to leave, you came across a missing person’s pamphlet, bound with staples, a grainy picture of an unknown girl on the cover, Missing Person printed beneath it with a series of information: full name, age, contacts, address, the date of the disappearance— a week ago —and last seen location— the square near to the English and Literature Department. An immediate shudder ran through your spine when you left the library, feeling the moistness of the first hours of the night, the reminiscences of the bad omens Darcy was so fond of explaining— it all weighed heavier on your girl-heart.

In your earphones, a mournful voice sang atop the languid, sandy beats of a drum:

“Something bad is ‘bout to happen to me. I don’t know what, but I feel it coming.”

—

During the witching hours of dawn, Agatha visited you, soft-eyed, in all her dream-state splendor.

Under a heavy blanket of liquid darkness, which bathed your entire room in black ink, streaks of moonshine leaked through, conferring to the furniture a sheen, silver glow. It also delineated a humanoid shape, knelt near the foot of your bed, and silhouetted against the twilight glow; a mass of shadows much darker than darkness itself looming over your peripheral vision. Though unconsciously pinned against the mattress— for you seemed to have reached another level of lucid dreaming, where you could only watch the events unfold before your eyes —you were not scared, not at all. Not even when the empty side of the bed weighed with a presence unknown, or when the sheets rustled with something, someone, crawling towards you. Not even when a shape, veiled in shades, covered your entire body.

It was all Agatha, and you could recognize the woman by smell alone, the rich scent of lavender more intoxicating than ever now that you could bury your nose against the wicked curve of her neck and breathe it all in straight from the source. You could recognize Agatha by touch, tracing the pads of your fingers over the lush skin of her back, drawing absent shapes against the bones of her shoulder blades, as if you were caressing the moon herself; sometime after the dream had started, you wondered how it was possible to touch Agatha and not have your hands stained in silver powder, a pearly ocean spreading above you. Ocean-blue lakes glittered at the merest of your caresses, oversaturated with lust and need.

Agatha pressed a soft thumb over your lips, ran it through them, and the feeling that she held something as delicate as a rosebud in her hands arose within you, trapping her finger between your teeth before the only sensation left was the ghost of her touches. Profound desire flashed through Agatha’s lucent irises as she let a low moan out, lustrous strands of brown hair tickling your cheek. 

“Hmm… Hungry, aren’t we?”, she said against the pink shell of your ear, pleased when an inelegant whimper cut through your lips, voice dreamy and husky. She brought a fingertip beside your jaw bone, and drew a long line down the curve of your collarbone, resting her hand over your weaving chest. 

You clung to Agatha’s back like a lifeline, girl-hand over her nape, scratching your nails on milky-white skin not-so-tenderly, for one could not keep any sort of gentle demeanor beneath the woman’s lacerating touches, the steady burn of flattened fingers dug on the dip of your waist. “Agatha, please— I need you, please—”

The velvety tip of a tongue lapping across your lips shushed you, dissolving the remnant words of your plea slipping away as soon as Agatha opened your mouth with her thumb and slithered her tongue inside it. Her delighted moans made you buck up your hips, in desperate need of friction, while Agatha licked the back of your teeth, the roof of your mouth, the seam of your lips. Two lithe fingers filled your mouth, and a sheen trail of saliva trickled down your chin. Agatha tasted sweeter than any mouthful of sugary desserts from your memory.   

“Yes, yes— good girl, you’re such a good girl. Lick it all clean for me, dear.” The command melted from her swollen lips amid a little breathless, satisfied sigh. You meld at each other with quiet ferocity, the sensation heightening when you pressed your center, hot and blooming with slickness, against Agatha’s thigh, as somewhere along the way she skirted a teasing line of teeth over the column of your throat, moaning against the flush of your skin when you gathered a fistful of silky hair. 

Then, a roughened hand slid underneath your shirt, following the ripples of your quivering abdomen, sweeping over your breast before Agatha fitted her large palm against your bare sternum, restraining you between her own body and the mattress. Her mouth painted half-circles on the sides of your neck, pressed on the base of your throat, and a trail of longing kisses stretched downward, each lingering longer than the previous one until Agatha could trace a map of bite marks she constructed herself on your flesh.

And you offered the arch of your back as a sacrifice, and you let Agatha take you on her mouth like a sacrament, and you whimpered devoted pleas like a prayer, all for Agatha to spit on holiness; you could tell by the heat in her gaze that she got turned on by your sacrilege, that she didn’t think twice before running her nails down your sides and whispering close to your ear how good of a little whore you were, how beautiful you were ruined like that. The moon pressed to the curl of Agatha’s back, stained her skin with silvery light— over her soft neck, down her collarbone and shoulders, and then lower and lower, more of her body.

“This will hurt a bit, darling”, Agatha warned softly. She dug her teeth on the crook of your neck, and the skin under her canines gave in tenderly before slicing open, blood welling up on the woman’s mouth like spring’s superbloom. An intricate stream of hot tears rolled down your cheekbones, a pained whimper-turned-into-scream left your throat raw as Agatha licked and sucked blood-red nectar dripping from the aching wound on your plush flesh. “Shh, you’re doing so good— you’re so good for me, baby.”

Agatha steadied her body, covered in a shimmering layer of sweat, on her elbows, leaning in to press her mouth against yours. The sickening, iron taste of your own blood made you hazy with desire; just as you tried to deepen the kiss, to taste more anti-Eden, Agatha leaned her head back slowly, licked the cut, overflowing with blood, and snaked her wet tongue between your lips. You savored the lushest of sins on your mouth— yours and Agatha’s —, irreverent in its wakening. Warmth settled at the bottom of your stomach, and the woman delved her teeth right above your breast—