#multimilfswritings

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. 

Her routine is simple enough she could do it with her eyes closed; and does, for most of it. It isn’t until she turns the shower to a cooler temperature that she feels anywhere close to awake. She needs coffee—bad.

Halfway through said cup of coffee and one of the donuts you picked up, she realizes she hasn’t kissed you good morning yet.

You grumble a bit when she turns you over, untucking your head from the blankets, but you don’t wake. You look heavenly, painted in the warm glow of the Christmas tree you insist on keeping plugged in all night. Agnes smiles.

Pressing her lips to your forehead, she murmurs, barely a whisper, “Be good, baby.”

A hand wraps around her wrist and she startles. Pulling back, your eyes haven’t opened.

“Agnes, come back to bed.” You say, voice gravely from sleep.

“Vidal will be on my case if I don’t show.”

“I can make your morning better than Vidal can.”

You stretch, curling back into the blankets, but hold her wrist just tight enough to indicate you’re still half awake. It’s good your eyes are closed; she doesn’t need you seeing all the kinds of fond you’re making her.

Agnes really shouldn’t get you started, but curiosity kills cats, not bears, “Oh yeah? How would you do that, baby?”

“You’d come back to bed and sleep until I say.”

“And then what?” She prods, trying not to laugh.

“Then we’ll have a really nice breakfast. Donuts for you.”

“What would you have?”

“You.” You answer, casual and so matter-of-fact, “I’ll even swallow, out of Christmas spirit or something.”

Agnes jolts at the change. Though true to form, she can feel the familiar coil of arousal between her legs. She really shouldn’t have gotten you started.

She’s half awake, she won’t remember this, Agnes tells herself as she tries to move from her kneeling position on the bed. Your grip on her wrist remains.

“Sleep. We’ll have fun when I get home.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.” You whine.

“I’ll be home before you know it, I swear.”

“Fine. ‘Love you.” You murmur.

You rescind your hand and turn over, pacified as you burrow back under the covers. Agnes shakes her head.

“Love you too.” She whispers.

With one last parting kiss to your forehead, she’s gone, with you none-the-wiser.

—

You wake up a mess.

There’s a half-remembered conversation with Agnes lingering in your mind, but it’s hazy enough to feel like a dream; an unsatisfying one, the persistent throbbing between your legs says. You offered to blow her, you remember that much—it’s all pretty blank after that.

No, there was something about having fun when she got home, too.

You can’t wait that long.

It isn’t until two of your fingers are knuckle-deep and you’re missing the fullness Agnes offers that the idea strikes you. You scramble blindly for the phone on your night-stand. The movements change the angle of your fingers and you whine, rolling your hips, even as the blind grabs for your phone grow more frustrated.

Once found, it is ripped viciously off the charger, and you open it, going through your messages for the quickest access to her number. You grin at the contrast between your long-winded messages and Agnes’ one word responses.

An infinitesimal movement of your hips reminds you of your intention.

The phone is brought to your ear and it rings… and rings… and rings…

…and rings…

“O’Connor.” Her gruff voice comes down the line.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You squeeze around your own fingers at the sound.

“Yes, Detective, I’d like to report a crime.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end.

“Go on.”

“Well, my wife woke me up this morning and got me turned on, and she didn’t even have the decency to fuck me before she left. What kind of woman does that, Detective?”

You can hear the curve of her grin, “A lousy one. That’s a pretty serious crime.”

Maybe it’s the low, lilting drawl of her voice down the line. Maybe it’s the way you can see how she’s sitting in your mind; shoulders back against the seat but hips forward, legs splayed with careless confidence, one hand toying with her belt. Maybe it’s the easy humor she slips into with you that she’s never had with anyone else.

Whatever it is, two sentences from her brings you closer to finishing than thirty minutes with your hand has.

You whimper, “Keep talking.”

Another pause. Then the faint rustle of fabric.

“What are you doing?”

Her tone is utterly serious. Unforgiving. And god if it isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Finally showing your clit some attention, you moan shamelessly. It’s nice to feel full, but your fingers never quite reach the right spots, and you can’t get off on penetration alone—with Agnes or otherwise. It’s fun to work yourself up though; pushing to the heights you can reach there before really giving yourself the stimulation you want.

If she keeps talking, that—combined with the circling motions on your clit—will send you straight over the edge.

The anticipation builds over the line. For a moment, you pull the phone away to make sure she hasn’t hung up. She’s likely weighing the best thing to say to both turn you on and strike the fear of punishment into you.

Instead, her tone is almost pleading, “Don’t do this now.”

An image strikes you of making Agnes beg, of driving her to a point where the easy dominance falls away, and she’s reduced to chasing whatever kindness you give. It brings you so much pleasure it hurts. You need it. But how to get it?

“Is Agent Vidal in the room with you?” You ask.

The idea of Vidal witnessing what you’re doing to Agnes makes your toes curl.

“No.”

“I thought you were stuck with her today.”

“Leave Vidal out of this.” She demands, but it’s strangled.

She’s clawing for control over the situation, scrambling for a foothold. Normally, you’d give it to her. Normally.

“I don’t think I ask for much…” A lie. You make many requests in the sanctity of your bedroom, “all I wanted was for you to fix what you started.”

“Baby.”

You have to pull your fingers away from your clit, desperate to come but not ready yet.

“There are so many ways you could have done it, too. You could have woken me up with your head between my legs… or with you inside me. It could have been nice, right?”

Only the sound of her breathing comes down the line. Heavy, uneven, like when she’s holding herself over you, hips driving her deeper—

God, you’re so close.

You whisper, needing to know that she’s as affected as you, needing to hear her say it, “Are you hard, Agnes?”

“Yes.”

Even though you haven’t moved any part of your hand, the mental image nearly sends you tumbling over the edge.

“Will you come with me?”

“I…I can’t.”

You know. With the shades open, her office is basically an observation room; meaning if she were to do what you ask, there’s almost a guarantee she’d be caught. A sick part of you wants it. Wants to know that you have enough power over her to make her take the risk.

Gently, you begin to toy with your clit again. You can make her do what you ask. All you need is for her to say it—the confirmation that you’ve undone her so thoroughly that she can’t help but fist her cock under the desk where anyone could see.

“Please.” You beg.

You hear her inhale, the sound sharp in your ear. The words are on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes are no doubt shifting around the office, searching for the perfect way to hide what she’s about to do.

You’re standing on the precipice.

The harsh beeping of a disconnected call blares in your ear. Yanking it away, orgasm thoroughly ruined, you yell in frustration.

—

An officer pulls open the door before you can reach for it, nodding, “Ma’am.”

The precinct is busy for it being a holiday. Uniformed officers sit around desks, either on the phone or talking with others. You spy the Chief talking animatedly to a few toward the back.

They’ve really done up the place this year. Last year it’d been sad, grey. Now there are a few little trees spread around, some personal decorations here and there, a menorah on the front desk with candles waiting to be lit. It livens up the place.

In the back sits the partial vision of Agnes’ office. The blinds are somewhat closed, but she’s left the door open, allowing you enough of a glimpse to know she’s in there. You can imagine her without having to see; her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hunched over the desk, hand toying with strands of her hair as she frowns over evidence.

Gazes follow as you cut through the center of it all. You do your best to ignore the heat working its way up your neck. Once upon a time, a few of the other officers had tried to catch your attention. You’d entertained a few of them. But they were minnows, and you wanted the shark.

You wanted the unapproachable, stone-faced Detective O’Connor.

And you had been the one to catch Agnes, but her fellow officers couldn’t imagine their illustrious Detective not being the one to do the catching. If only they knew how you could have her eating from the palm of your hand.

A swift knock on the open door and you lean against it. She’s exactly as you imagined. Though there’s a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and her fingers tap on the desk like she can’t sit still.

She doesn’t look up, barking, “I’m busy.”

“I’ll pass this off to one of the other officers then.”

Her head snaps up and you grin. Hanging from one of your fingers is a white takeout bag. The scent of orange chicken and rice permeates the air, but it isn’t what you’re hungry for.

Work forgotten, she looks you up and down, licking her lips. Her fingers twitch on the desk. You clear your throat and she snaps out of whatever daze she’s in. Clearing her own throat, she sits up, tugging on the bottom of her flannel shirt. Your smile widens.

“Close the door behind you.”

Stepping in, you kick it closed with a low, “Yes, Detective.”

“What are you doing here?”

“My job.” You cross to her desk, dropping the takeout bag on top. You’re perched on the edge closest to her. She looks up at you from her chair, lips pursed, tugging on her shirt again, “What kind of wife would I be if I let you go hungry?”

“None of the other guys get lunch delivered personally.”

“None of the other guys are married to me. Do I get a kiss for my troubles?”

Briefly, she looks out into the precinct—not that she can see much with the shades drawn—then back to your lips. Agnes shifts, licking her own, before nodding.

You lean forward and hold onto the chair by one arm, capturing her lips in a rough kiss. Your other hand palms the length you know pulsates between her legs. Upon contact she grunts into your mouth, hips bucking.

Her hand fumbles blindly for your wrist. Catching it in a firm grip, you can feel the tension in her frame as she decides whether to press you closer or shove you away.

Pulling back just enough to smile, “Poor baby. Have you been like this all day?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Detective?” You murmur.

Her breath hitches. Blue eyes so blown out they’re nearly black regard you, her chest rising and falling as she struggles for an even rhythm of breath. You test her grip and find its slackened. The palm of your hand caresses the entire outline of her through her jeans.

Agnes doesn’t push you away, but she doesn’t pull you closer, either. The hand on your wrist allows you enough movement to stroke slowly from base to tip. Every inch of her seems to jump at the whisper of your touch.

Looking into her eyes, you can see how she’s fighting for control. She just can’t find the path to it. Good. You want her like this—panting and desperate. It makes you clench around nothing.

“What have you been imagining all this time?”

She swallows. Clears her throat, “Vidal will be back soon.”

“I can be quick.”

“Anyone… could see.”

“We have a few options. Your favorite is off the table, though.”

The favorite in question being Agnes bending you over the desk and fucking you hard and fast. It’s efficient, allowing her drive in deep while having the benefit of spanking you as she chases her reward. Her cock twitches at the reminder.

She’s tense, taut with energy like she’s only a few strokes from finishing right here. The thought is hot and you want it, bad—but not all dreams can be reality.

“What do we have?” Agnes asks, finally.

“If I crawl under the desk no one would see what I’m doing.” You offer.

Your hand keeps moving. It’s more for yourself than anything; you like feeling her, hard and wanting, yet so restricted, jumping at the slightest bit of attention. A thumb swipes over where you know the head is and she chokes, hips stuttering from what had been a slow roll into your hand.

“Do it.” She demands.

The subtle authority returning to her voice sends a shiver down your spine. One more swipe of your thumb and she keens, before clamping her mouth shut.

You laugh. Waking up this morning, this is the last thing you expected for yourself from the day; but you can’t deny you’re enjoying every second.

“That’s my girl.” You praise.

Bracing to slide off the desk, there’s a knock on Agnes’ closed office door, and disaster strikes.

The knock startles you. You try to turn and look toward the door, but forget just how precarious your seating situation is on the edge of the desk. You lose your balance. You’re able to get your foot under you just enough to fall into Agnes’ lap, rather than onto the cold tile of the office.

Agnes lets out a cross between a harsh breath and a moan as you fall into her. Your back presses firmly to her front.

“Don’t—god, I’m gonna—”

Strong hands settle on your hips to shove you off, but it’s too late. Agnes grunts. Nails dig into your sides as she ruts helplessly against your backside, unloading spurts of cum with every press of her hips.

You freeze in shock.

Then out of habit your hands find hers. With one, you lace your fingers together. With the other you caress her wrist, brushing gently as you turn your head to meet her eyes, careful to keep every inch of your body where she needs you. Her hips tense, stuttering, whimpering as she fights the orgasm that’s ravaging her.

“It’s okay. Let it happen.” You encourage, brushing a finger against her inner wrist. A war is waging over her face as she’s caught between desire and shame. Desire must win out. Agnes movements pick up speed as she furiously grinds up against you, and you can’t help the praise that falls from your lips, “That’s it.”

Now that she’s given in, she can’t stop, the hands on your hips clenching as she presses closer, harder with every thrust, powerless to the desire she can’t stop shooting. A wounded noise leaves her throat. You empathize; you know well how getting what you want can quickly move into pained-pleasure, when your body just keeps giving and giving.

Agnes’ expression is pained, laced with helplessness to her pleasure. Her eyes don’t leave your own as she rides out the waves. You try to sit still, letting her take what she needs. She allows you to watch every twitch of her expression, hear every noise she lets slip—it’s an act of trust that overwhelms. Lifting a hand to her cheek, you wipe at the perspiration there.

Eventually, she relaxes into the seat, her hips stopping in their frantic search for friction. Her eyes slip closed and you watch her breathe.

You’re eternally grateful that whoever knocked didn’t barge in right after; there is no way you’d have been able to talk your way around what was happening. It’s a mercy that Agnes rarely shuts her office door—now that she has, everyone understands something important is going on.

Running a finger along her cheekbone, you whisper, “Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” She growls.

“Given the mess you just made, I’d say you’re on cloud nine.” You tease.

With a sudden show of strength, you’re shoved into a standing position. You turn to take in the weight of Agnes’ glare.

Agnes snarls, “Fuck you.”

“You could have… if you had a little self control.”

Your eyes fall to her lap for emphasis, the evidence of her desire stark against the front of her jeans. Her hands clench on the arm-rests. Blood has rushed to her face, painting her features in red hues that betray her forced calm.

The sight of her so humiliated is doing it for you; and you can see that she sees, regarding you with a loaded, wary look. It will take no shortage of negotiation, but you will be revisiting this again.

You open the take out bag and pluck out the napkins near the bottom. Carefully, you wipe them over the planes of her face, soaking up the sweat that had been clinging to her skin. Agnes doesn’t meet your eye.

“Agnes.” Waiting until she locks eyes with you, “It’s okay.”

She scoffs, “I came in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

“And it was hot.”

“You’re really something else, you know that?”

“Oh, I’m well aware. I also know that you love me for it.”

Agnes rolls her eyes.

“Unfortunately.”

“Careful, O’Connor, I can still give this lunch away to one of your coworkers.”

The bag is promptly snatched from your reach. You laugh.

Now that she’s standing, you breathe a sigh of relief; her flannel is long, perfectly hiding the evidence of your activities from the world. You just hope no one outside was looking in too closely.

Desire rears its head at the thought. You need to get out of here before you do something that’ll get you both caught.

You lean up and steal a kiss, “Enjoy your lunch, baby.”

When you open the door to leave, you come face-to-face with Agent Rio Vidal holding two cups of coffee in her hands. You startle and she raises her brows at seeing you.

“Agent Vidal.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, sweetheart, or I would’ve bought an extra coffee.”

“That’s okay, I was just bringing Agnes something to eat.”

“Take mine.” The coffee cup is held between the two of you. You can see the faint mark of her lipstick on the lid as she leans in, “I don’t need the extra caffeine anyway.”

“Keep it, Vidal. She can have mine.”

You turn so you can take in both of them. Vidal is relaxed, posture brimming with a quiet confidence while Agnes is tense, staring at the two of you like she could throw something—and she would, if she didn’t think it’d encourage the former somehow.

Agnes has always been… odd around Vidal; moreso than the normal awkwardness between two exes. And Vidal has never been subtle with her interest in poking Agnes’ nerves.

Whatever it is, you’re going to use it and see where it takes you.

You accept the offered cup of coffee, making deliberate eye contact with Agnes as you take a long sip. A latte—thank god, Agnes’ black drip would’ve made you gag.

“Thanks for the coffee.” You murmur low. Then you throw your wife a smile, ignoring the promise of pain in her eyes, “See you at home, Agnes.”

—

Coming home you’re delighted to find a few last-minute packages on the porch. Carrying them in, one shifts heavily in your arms, and you know immediately what it is; one of the speakers in Agnes’ car crapped out on her a few months back, so the passenger-side only spits out static where there should be music—or the sports broadcasts, in your wife’s case; you bought her a new stereo system so she wouldn’t have to ‘make do’ anymore.

There’s also a few new shirts, a nice leather belt, and a watch she’d been eyeing but wasn’t willing to buy for herself. You wrap all of them with a smile on your face and slide them under the tree.

The busy work of it all eases the tension in your shoulders and some of the arousal between your legs. There’s a lingering peace in every corner of your home. It’s quiet, barring the music playing from the kitchen, casting a nostalgic glow over you where the lights seem just a little warmer.

You sit down on the couch and take it all in. Ornaments wobble on branches, glittering and winking at you as they twist. There’s a garland draped over the fireplace with dancing lights; you feel warmer inside when you remember how Agnes helped you set it up, shaking her head at your excitement.

With the bustle of the season, you’ve forgotten to take time like this to stop and let it sink in. So many spend Christmas alone, hungry, without a place to go. You don’t have to. You have a wife who will spend every second with you in the warmth of your home. Tears prick your eyes.

You fall asleep on the couch with that warm feeling in your chest.

—

The scent of garlic and butter tickles your nose. You snap awake.

Did you leave the stove on?

You shoot up from the couch and throw off the blanket you don’t remember grabbing. It falls to your feet, twisting in your ankles, and you do all you can not to fall face-first onto the floor. How long have you been asleep?

Wait. Did you even put anything on to cook?

Agnes’ flannel-clad back greets you when you round the corner. A sigh leaves you. One hand settles over your chest, willing your heartbeat to slow to a normal pattern. It all comes back to you; wrapping gifts, sitting down to enjoy the quiet, intending to get up and start dinner afterward.

You step into the kitchen and wrap your arms around her waist from behind, forehead resting between her shoulder blades. A hand lifts your own so she can press a kiss on the back.

“How was work?” You ask, voice muffled by her shirt.

“A waste of time.” She answers. Her form shifts, one shoulder tensing as she stirs what sits on the stove, “It could’ve waited until after Christmas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Vidal’s a workaholic and fails to realize the rest of us aren’t.”

“You are most of the year.”

Agnes grunts noncommittally, “What trouble did you get into?”

“Wrapped a few gifts, took a nap. I’m surprised some of your guys weren’t beating down my door with how rowdy I was being.”

“Chief would’ve just sent me to handle you.”

“I’d like that… you, handling me…” You murmur, hand moving down her front with intent.

A strong, veined hand grabs your own. She forces it back to its former resting place. You keep your hand where it is directed. The haven you’ve found nuzzled against her back—surrounded by the scent of her cologne and the heat of her—is just as inviting as anything more salacious could be.

Something bubbles and pops on the stove. Agnes jolts, before relaxing. You drag yourself from your haven to look over her shoulder; a pan of sauce is stirred on one burner, boiling pasta churning away on another. Simple, but hearty.

You press a kiss to the skin you can reach, just behind her ear, “You’re getting better.”

Before, her dinner of choice would’ve been a canister of peanuts, maybe a microwave dinner.

“Don’t say anything until you’ve tasted it.”

“I’ll do what I want.” You answer.

“Don’t I know it.”

Jabbing her side with a finger until she cracks a grin, “Let me taste, so I can tell you how amazing it is.”

The wooden spoon is lifted from the sauce and over her shoulder to your mouth. You wrap your lips around it, immediately lulled further into bliss by the combination of onion, garlic, and tomato.

“Agnes, that is delicious.”

Her brows raise. With a flourish, she allows herself a taste.

“You love to stroke my ego.” She says in that self-deprecating tone you know well.

Your hand and mouth move before you think, “That’s not the only part of you I like to stroke.”

Whether by a lapse in understanding or simply because she lets you, your hand finds its mark before Agnes can stop it. The full width of your hand presses at the apex of her thighs. Your mouth drops open.

Agnes is painfully erect for the second time today with little work on your part.

She drops the spoon against the pan and removes your hand again, blunt nails biting into your skin in the way you like. You don’t react, still reeling from the information you’ve gleaned. Agnes libido isn’t what it once was—a reality of age—even if she’s like a well kept oldsmobile; capable of going the distance and then some once you get her properly started. But you’ve done very little in the way of actually getting her started since visiting the office.

“What on earth have you been up to today?” You ask, breathless.

“Don’t start.”

“I’d say you’re well past the starting point, given what I just felt.” A laugh escapes, then you pause, “You didn’t…”

Agnes curious gaze meets yours over her shoulder. Understanding dawns, along with indignation, “Of course not.”

“Needing a little extra help is normal.”

“This is all your doing.” She snaps, “Go sit down.”

“If it’s all my doing, you should let me fix it.” You coo.

In a sudden burst of movement, Agnes is out of your arms, sauce and pasta left behind on the stove. You blink. Did something happen at work? Have you hit a nerve?

She crosses the space to the kitchen table. The chair at the head of the table, facing the stove, is yanked from its resting place. You wince as it shrieks against the floor. But she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, turning the chair and meeting your eyes with a hard look, pointing.

“Sit.”

You move without thinking. There’s a subtle note of steel beneath the command that sends you into submission on instinct, like a pet might jump to obey their owner. The thought doesn’t chafe today; you want to be good, you want to obey.

Plopping down into the seat, hands settle on your shoulders. Agnes growls in your ear, “Stay.”

And you do.

As she finishes dinner, moving the pasta into the sauce with an unsure—but successful—flourish. As she nearly burns herself cutting the garlic bread fresh out of the oven. As she casts quick, dark glances your way every few minutes, as if having to make sure you’re where she left you.

You are the picture of poise and obedience, fighting every desperate urge for nearness to follow her command. But the longer she takes the harder it becomes. Hands settled on your thighs, your fingers scratch anxiously at the fabric of your pants, helpless and without any other way to expel this building energy.

“Agnes.” You whine.

“Quiet.”

It takes ages before she approaches you. She takes her sweet time putting dinner on plates, making it pretty in a way you know is just to drive you crazy; she doesn’t give two fucks about whether or not something looks nice as long as it tastes good.

Dinner is brought over to the table, but you tilt your head. Agnes only brought one plate.

“Up.” She commands, “You’re in my seat.”

You stand. Reaching for the chair next to hers, a hand on the back stops you from pulling it out. There’s the deep sound of porcelain meeting the wood of the table. As she leans around you, the scent of her cologne makes you dizzy.

Agnes snaps her fingers. You jolt, snapping back into your own mind. She points to the floor and your brows furrow. Then, it clicks, and your face grows warm.

You sink to your knees in front of Agnes’ chair as she sits in it.

“I can guess what a perp is going to do just by the way they sit in interrogation.” Agnes drawls, idly tapping her knee as her mind works, “But you… I can never guess how you’re going to act. Look at you now, all good and obedient for me, when you were acting like a whore in my office today.”

So caught up in the dizzying feeling of submission, you’ve been oblivious to the weight of your own desire. Agnes’ words change that in an instant. There’s a needy, pulsing beat between your legs, and you clench your thighs together in an attempt to help yourself. It doesn’t work.

“You started it.” You say, breathless.

You can’t breathe around your desire for her. Oxygen is a secondary need to the feel of her, whether she’s buried deep inside or grazing her fingers over your flesh; you want her and it hurts. But you keep your hands on the tops of your thighs.

Agnes chuckles. It’s a low, rolling thing. Agnes’ usual response to amusement is to grin, maybe even shake her head and scoff—laughter is a rare thing, aged and cultivated until it’s amber laced with smoke over your senses. You feel the heat of it. The intoxication it brings is warm, a weight settling comfortingly over the shoulders.

“I’m collecting on your offer from earlier.”

And with that, her thighs part, and you surge forward without being told. Her belt is unbuckled in one fell swoop. You moan, unable to help yourself, needy for the feel of her skin, to taste.

A testament to the overwhelm of your desire that the concept of toying with her again does not cross your mind. Your hand finds the desperate length of her cock, exposing it to the cool air.

It stands proud, tip flushed and leaking, veins stark against the fair skin. You pant. With single-focus, you lean forward.

An equally fair hand grips your jaw, forcing your eyes to Agnes’, “How many taps?”

You blink. You’re buried beneath desire, mind clawing its way to the surface.

“T-Three.”

Agnes nods and you’re free.

The first thing you do with your newfound freedom is flatten your tongue and lick a broad stripe up the length of her. The hand on your jaw goes slack in surprise, Agnes’ hips jumping. A groan echoes through the room.

You circle your tongue over the tip, drinking in her taste and the sounds falling from her lips. It’s heady, making the room fuzzy around the edges.

Submission brings with it a strange feeling of power. You’re doing as she bids, being good, but every sound and reaction coming from her is real; the truest manifestation of how well you’re doing to please her.

The world falls away. Your head feels floaty, strangely empty despite the manuevers you’re employing with your mouth. You don’t need words, you don’t need thoughts, you just need to offer Agnes whatever she wants.

Which you do by taking her cock in your mouth until she hits the back of your throat.

A thud sounds from her hand slamming on the tabletop, scrambling for something to grip as she chokes out, “Fuck!”

You do all you can to repress your gag reflex, forcing yourself to just relax everytime she hits the back of your throat. Agnes has her head thrown back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as she pants, whimpering with every movement of your tongue and mouth.

Through it all, her hand remains on the side of your face, a careful guide. You can’t help the hand that sneaks under your skirt; Agnes is shaking with tension, begging to let go and chase her pleasure at your expense, but she’s holding herself back and guiding you through taking her in the way that would do the least harm.

You moan. Agnes’ cock twitches in your mouth and she matches your moan, a semblance of that control slipping with a particularly rough thrust. You gag, tears forming in your eyes.

The hand between your thighs shakes, fumbling for your clit while focusing on what really matters. You’re so wet there’s barely any friction.

You want Agnes to make you gag again. You want her to push into you and take what she wants until you’re crying.

Looking up, you try to will all of that thought and intent into your eyes, but Agnes’ are closed.

You whine.

Blue eyes regard you from beneath drooping lids. You will one thought into your mind and one thought only; use me.

Agnes swallows. The pad of a thumb runs under your eye, collecting some of the wetness there as if to say are you sure? In answer, you take as much of her as you can physically manage, eyes meeting her own the whole time.

Her restraint snaps.

Agnes’ hand travels to the back of your head, her hips moving faster and firmer than you can comprehend. She takes over completely; driving into you for what she needs, making you gag obscenely, without a thought in the world for if it is too much.

Not having to make choices allows you to focus on obtaining your own pleasure. With every tear she forces from your eyes, you swipe over the pulsating bud of your clit. You can feel your own orgasm building low in your gut.

“I’m going to cum.” Agnes groans.

Delight shoots through you. She’s going to cum and it’s because of you; because you were good and gave her everything she needs. It feels amazing.

Why, then, do you pull off and out of reach?

Agnes growls. You blink.

Words. There are words to go with the desire you feel. You close your eyes, searching for them, mentally scrambling at the edges until you can wrap your hands around them and their meaning.

“Can I…” You start, voice rough from the beating your throat has taken, “Can I ride you?”

Agnes makes quite the scene; splayed open on the dining room chair, hair a mess and eyes blown out, cock twitching and needy through the fly of the jeans she ruined only a few hours ago. You clench.

Agnes licks her lips, “Yeah, alright.”

You stand on shaking legs and Agnes holds up a hand, stopping you as she lifts her hips and fumbles in her back pocket. She obtains her wallet and rifles through until she locates a small foil wrapper.

It’s safer, you know. You’ve used one almost every other time for the duration of your marriage.

“Agnes.”

The woman in question pauses before opening the condom. Her brow pops up in an unspoken question.

The words are instinct, comprehensive thought still far away, “I want you to cum inside me.”

Outside, the world rages on. Westview residents race down the street, returning home from last minute errands, gifts in tow that they’ll have to sneak inside. The wind is kicking up and through the trees as snow grows closer with every second.

And then there is you and Agnes, tucked in the warmth of your home, caught in the weight of your words. Stopped in the face of the potential consequences.

Agnes throws the unopened condom on the kitchen table.

“Then come here.”

You stand with your legs on either side of her own, steadying yourself on her shoulders. One steady hand settles on your hip. The other pushes your panties aside and aligns her to your entrance as you lower into her lap.

You could take her in one motion with how wet you are. Yet, Agnes keeps your descent slow, careful. She watches your face with every inch you take—same as you watch hers.

Agnes’ chest is heaving, eyes dark and stormy, face pinched in concentration. She’s the most handsome person you’ve ever seen. You clench around her and her hands tighten on your waist.

“Sorry.” You murmur, out of habit.

Agnes raises a brow, but doesn’t respond, helping you down the last few inches. When you settle fully in her lap you let out the breath you’d been holding.

One hand sneaks under your skirt to trace shapes on the bare flesh of your hip.

“You pulled an interesting stunt with Vidal today.” Agnes says. The hand on your hip tightens, “I’m not so sure I should reward your behavior.”

“Then why let me…”

“Why deny myself just because you’re acting like a brat?”

There’s a small testing thrust of her hips. You clench. She groans, head falling back against the chair. You whimper. Trying to move your own hips, eager for what you’ve been denied, you find yourself held in place.

That’s not fair. All day she’s been teasing you, driving you to the edge of what you want—what you need, just to deny you.

“You started it.” You whine, trying to move your hips again, still finding yourself held stationary as she leisurely thrusts up, “You woke me up and got me all bothered, it’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, baby.”

“Please.” You whine, “It’s not my fault, please.”

Muscles in her arms tremble as she lifts you slightly before sinking you back down onto her. The fullness makes your toes curl but it isn’t enough.

“Calling me at work and getting me worked up wasn’t your fault?”

“…No.”

Agnes laughs, “If you’re going to lie, you could at least be convincing.”

You won’t win this fight by playing fair, not when Agnes is clearly uninterested in fairness.

“You… You feel so good. Can’t think properly.” You breathe, moaning a bit more than comes naturally, “I’m so full of you.”

The thrust of her is uneven. She stops moving you completely and you fight down a grin.

You press a hand between your bodies, applying pressure to your lower stomach as she continues to thrust, subtly picking up speed. Her pants are growing louder, a wheeze leaving her mouth when you press.

“That’s you.” You murmur, leaning forward and ghosting over her lips, tracing the bridge of her nose with the tip of your own. You press harder and enjoy the way she groans, “Nobody has ever been as deep inside me as you.”

“Fuck.” She snarls.

You’re pushed up again, suddenly empty, and whine, blinking at the change. But then her strong hands are on your hips and spinning you around.

Your front is pressed against the table, bent so your cheek rests on the top of it. The texture of her jeans is rough against the back of your thighs as she lines herself and fills you in one thrust.

“Oh, fuck!” You cry.

Agnes sets a brutal pace, chasing that which only you can offer. Every thrust has her cock brushing that perfect spot inside you and you lose control of whatever sounds you’re making.

“Is this what you wanted?” Agnes snarls in your ear, “For me to leave work and fuck you like some bitch in heat?”

“Yes!”

“You haven’t earned it.”

“No, Agnes, please!”

“Hold it.” She orders.

With every move she makes, you do all you can to ignore the pleasure, to pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s somewhat possible when it’s only her cock. But then she leans down and starts toying with your clit and you cry out, fighting not to roll your hips against them.

You want what you’ve been chasing all day, but you still want to be good. You’re her good girl, aren’t you? You have to keep being good even if it hurts.

So, you hold your orgasm at bay, while Agnes chases her own. Judging by the uneven rhythm of her hips it won’t take long.

“Please let me come, Agnes. Please.” You beg.

“Why should I?”

“I’ll give you anything—anything! Please, my love!”

“Anything, huh?”

The tone of her voice is low, dangerous. Layered with a rasp that nearly undoes you.

If she doesn’t let up, it doesn’t matter how good you are; you’re going to cum.

“Anything!”

Agnes phone is slammed down on the table right beside your head. It isn’t on, but you have the sinking feeling that you’ve just landed yourself into something far worse than expected.

Her thrusts stop, but she keeps a light, teasing pressure that grazes your clit just enough to keep you engaged without getting you off.

It is torture. And the silence building as you stare down the upturned cell phone is only making it worse.

“I’m going to make a call and turn on the speaker. Then, I’m going to fuck you. And you’re going to let whoever is on the phone hear you as I make you cum.”

The weight of it is like a lead weight of nerves in your stomach, “But—“

“If you want to act like a whore you’re going to be treated like one.” She snarls, then her tone grows softer, “Yes or no, angel?”

Whoever she calls and puts on the line, you’ll never be able to look in the eye again. But you’re so full and eager that you don’t truly care at this point.

Besides, it’s Christmas Eve, maybe everyone will be too busy to pick up.

“Yes.”

A harsh thrust that forces the air from your lungs, then her lips are next to your ear, breath hot, “That’s my girl.”

The echo of your own words from earlier make your toes curl. Her phone is snatched from the table and she continues to toy with your clit as she makes the call.

It rings… and rings… and rings…

Faintly, you hear the line connect, and you gasp.

You can’t make out who the voice belongs to, but you hear a faint, “Yeah?”

Agnes barks down the line, “Don’t say a word.”

The bang! as her phone hits the table again makes you jump, a small shriek leaving your lips. It wobbles. Faintly, you’re impressed she hasn’t broken the thing with how she abuses it.

A long finger slams down on the speaker button and as the phone tilts slightly, you read the name on the screen, and your eyes widen.

Vidal.

Before you can say a word, though, Agnes is back to work. Something in the action of being heard has made her more aggressive. You swear you can feel the bruises forming on your hips where she grabs, leveraging you for every single thrust.

You try to choke down your moans and whimpers, not wanting Agent Vidal to hear you like this, but Agnes won’t stand for it; one hand grabs your jaw and pries your mouth open.

She pushes in to the hilt and you let out a shrieking moan.

“You were so talkative before. Have you lost your nerve?”

“I—please—“

“Calling me this morning and getting me worked up, teasing me in the office, in the kitchen… and incapable of handling your punishment.”

“I’m sorry, Agnes. Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Use me. I want—I need you to fuck me until I can’t remember being without you—I need you to fuck me until you cum inside and make me yours forever—please!”

The knowledge that every word from your mouth is being heard by someone else is not forgotten, but you’ve been pushed beyond caring. Agnes is intent on making you beg for what you want and you want it bad.

Agnes’ fingers and cock alternate stimulating you. If her fingers are working, her hips aren’t—and vice versa. You’re frankly astonished she’s been able to last so long because you’re teetering on the edge of pleasure at the barest contact.

But her will has always been steel. And she wants to see you humiliated.

The hand on your clit slides to your lower stomach and presses, mimicking your own actions only minutes before, “When I knock you up, you’re going to feel it right here.”

Something inside you snaps. You wail.

Agnes’ hips are moving at a clip, every inch of her rubbing where you need, setting you alight from within. Her hand doesn’t move. The faster she goes, the deeper she drives, her hips begin to lose their rhythm.

Any words devolve into animalistic grunts as she ruts into you, mouth alternating between kissing and biting at your neck from behind.

You’re so fucking close. If she denies you now, you think you might die.

“Let me cum, Agnes, please—pretty please—I’ll be your good girl, please, I’ll be so good. Let me cum and fill me up, it’s all I want—“

Through gritted teeth, “Go on then.”

Something inside you snaps.

The command is exactly what you need. Your entire body clenches so tight you fear you may never relax again. You lose track of what noises leave your mouth, you think you may even lose consciousness for a few moments.

All you know when you come to is that your throat is raw and Agnes is driving into you, choking out in your ear, “Gonna cum—“

Her hips meet your own at full force and don’t pull back, remaining, pulsing forward as if she can’t get close enough. Every spasm of her cock paints your insides with her desire, marking you as hers. Agnes holds your hips as she presses in with every twitch, struggling to breathe.

Weakly, you reach a hand back to tangle in her hair. Your throat aches, “That’s it, baby. Fill me.”

A groan. Another rough twitch.

It reaches a point where the pressure ebbs. She remains, but she’s not twitching anymore, nor is she fighting to become one with you. There’s only the sound of your breathing in the room.

Agnes moves to straighten and pull out, but you whine, reaching back to grab whatever part of her you can reach.

“Stay.” You whisper.

She pauses.

A hand gently caresses along your spine, “You can’t stay like this, angel.”

“Just let me feel you a little longer.”

There’s a comfort in the fullness; in the knowledge that Agnes is the only woman who can provide this for you. That she even wants to.

It’s all a blur beyond that.

Eventually, you can’t stand being bent over on the table anymore, even if you never want to be without the feeling of Agnes inside you. The call with Vidal is disconnected at some point. You and your wife move slowly, hand in hand, up to your bedroom.

You gently shove her onto the bed while grabbing damp washcloths. Neither of you can stand a shower at this point.

The two of you take your time, being careful to mind the sore spots. You lean slightly into Agnes as you wipe some of the sweat from her flesh.

“You’re so good to me.” You murmur, kissing the underside of her jaw, “Thank you, my love.”

“Consider it an early Christmas gift, angel.”

I’m gonna take my time I have all the time in the world To make you mine

It seems in the last few months that every investor in New York has invested in the same cologne; the scent surrounds you like a cloud, tinging the food in your mouth with chemicals. No base notes, no top notes, just overwhelm. 

The smell is worse when they open the floor and you’re playfully nudged—forced—into entertaining them for a dance or two. Telling them apart is virtually impossible when the same rancid scent clings to them. You grin and struggle to breathe and ignore the wandering hands of old men. 

And the second you see an opening for a blissful, cologne-less moment, you take it. 

You glide up a back staircase, careful not to let your heels click on the marble as you ascend to the empty level overlooking the event. A sea of bland tuxedos and grey hair greets your eyes. Toward the back you spot your Father, laughing jovially, his eyes darting the space, no doubt looking to locate you so he may attempt at pawning you off on whoever he’s speaking with.

He’s never picky with who he opens the bidding of your hand to, your Father—one of his few lackluster business strategies. But he’s never been one to sit on tainted goods. 

And that’s all you are, aren’t you? Tainted goods he’s attempting to sell for pennies on the dollar. 

You scoff and slide toward the balcony this level offers; a small thing with more plants than standing room, but the view is… incredible; the whole of the city skyline spread open for your enjoyment. 

It twinkles on cue as you step outside, as if waiting. The cool breeze creates an odd ache in your already tense muscles. A fur had been draped over your shoulders earlier this evening, a mere thirty minutes before it was removed—stashed in a closet you couldn’t hope to find without the help of an attendant—and you long for it now. 

You weather the chill, attempting to relax into it as your eyes slip closed. 

“Ugh, you reek of them, pet.” 

Your heart jumps in your chest. Turning to the sound, you find her encased in shadow at the edge of the balcony. Her eyes glint in the struggling light. 

A smile pulls at your mouth, “Occupational hazard.” 

“Daddy’s little princess is an occupation now?” 

She pushes off the wall, drawing closer with an assured gait. Blue eyes trace over every inch of your form as she closes the barely-there distance—standing far closer than appropriate. 

“More like Daddy’s little parasite, the way he sees it.” You scoff. 

“You’re not unlike a leech when provoked,” she muses, a smirk pulling at her lips, “not that I’ve ever had reason to complain.” 

With a roll of your eyes, you close the scant distance. You wrap your arms around the back of her neck, laying your cheek on her shoulder, and sighing at the warmth soaking into your bones. Any lingering tension leaves your body when her hands settle on your waist. 

“Are you looking for a repeat experience?” You whisper. 

You ghost your lips along the side of her neck, even letting your tongue out to play. 

“Well, if you’re offering.” 

Her own lips press a kiss to your forehead. And for the first time in months, you can breathe, melting into the feeling like it’s a key and some part of you has been unlocked. A dreamy little breath escapes your lips. 

Why did you ever give her up? 

You pull back just enough to take in the vision she makes dressed in shadow and moonlight. Her lips part as she returns the gaze. There’s a glossy sheen to her eyes and you’re reminded of the thousands of times she gazed down on you with that same look, hair wild and skin covered in sweat. 

One of your hands guides hers beneath your dress. She needs no further instruction, fingers finding where you have so desperately needed her for ages—since you saw her, felt her last—since Vienna. 

You don’t stop her hand, but you drop your eyes, “Who is pulling your strings tonight?” 

Two fingers slide slowly, carefully, into your cunt, scissoring apart to open you up for a third. A whimper leaves your lips. Her thumb toys with your clit, tracing soft circles around it. You buck into her hand, desperate for more. 

“No one.” 

She drops her head enough to lick and suck along your jaw. You allow it, the wet warmth only adding to your growing pleasure. 

A scoff leaves your lips in place of a moan, “The payout must be impressive if you won’t even tell me.” 

“You forget,” she drawls, beginning to thrust, “that I kill because it’s fun. The money is just practical.” 

You did forget. You always do. 

That’s what led to Vienna—to you coming home, once again at your Father’s whim, though your heart stayed in that damned city with Agatha. You had let yourself fall, ignoring what she was until you couldn’t any longer. Your heart clenches in time with your core. Tears spring to your eyes. 

Everything would be so much easier if you just gave in; your Father is no stranger to death, and you returned to him—what makes them so different?

Your hand closes around Agatha’s wrist and she stops. 

“Who is the lucky target tonight?” 

“Who says it isn’t you, dear?” 

You laugh, softly, “You wouldn’t have stopped fucking me if that were the case.” 

Agatha doesn’t deny it. She does pull out of you, though. You wince. 

A hand on your jaw draws your gaze back to hers. It is a fight not to close your eyes against everything lingering there—the barely disguised want, the love she usually keeps wrapped up so tight. 

It would be nothing to fall into her arms again and let her drag you around the globe, a trail of blood left in your wake—loving Agatha, being with her is as easy as breathing; but it will only hurt more when you remember why you left in the first place. 

If you fall again, it will be for good. You won’t taunt her with the what if of tonight when you doubt your ability to give her forever.

You lean your forehead to hers, pressing a kiss to her mouth, “I love you.” 

Her breath comes out in a shudder, like she’s fighting to hold herself back. Then, she releases you, composed as ever. 

“Of course you do,” she purrs, “I’m exceptional.” 

And this time, it’s Agatha who leaves first. You try to breathe around the empty chasm in your chest where she should be. 

---

A certain awareness is required of someone so intimate with death. This awareness escaped you endlessly, until Agatha—it had never been a lack of skill leading to your obliviousness, but a lack of desire; you didn’t care much for death then… her, on the other hand... 

It’s something almost primal, your cognizance. She sets her eyes on you and some baser instinct lights up. Your muscles subtly tense, the prickling on the back of your neck telling you to run. 

(You always ran right into her open arms, like a moth to a flame.)

When your date slams your back into the heft of your apartment door, teeth sinking into the side of your neck, you should feel a different kind of baser instinct, the one that makes you writhe and moan and whimper, subconsciously seeking the biological imperative another woman can’t give you. But even as hands fumble below the waist, something sets that awareness alight. 

There’s no scent trailing down-wind or color sticking out from the foliage, but she’s here in some way. Stalking. Hiding. 

Your eyes trace along the hall over your date’s shoulder. Every door is firmly closed. There are no shadows peeking from the halls. But there is a camera close overhead, the red light flashing like a signal, and you don’t take your eyes from it. 

She’s watching. 

Like the feel of her hands on your waist, you know the weight of her stare like it has always been with you. Noises leave your mouth, but they’re muted compared to what Agatha can pull. You blink but don’t dare move your gaze from the camera. 

She’s not bad, your date—sweet enough and very willing—but she doesn’t set you alight. Beggars can’t be choosers though, can they? 

While someone else's fingers sink into your heat, you mouth to the camera, “I want you.” 

And it’s her smirk you imagine behind it when you come. 

---

Five blocks—that’s how long you’ve been followed. 

You’ve expected an event like this to come on a night that was… well… eventful; shadows sneaking up on you in the wake of some gala or high-visibility date, not on your 2am walk back from the corner store. Perhaps it was the romantic notion that if something happened, it wouldn’t befall you in sweatpants. 

But no, sweatpants it is. 

They’re lean, the shadow, but not lean enough to be your shadow. You sigh. All you wanted was a snack. 

Your apartment building is one block ahead. You keep a slow, leisurely gait, and they don’t speed up; this isn’t a hired hit, this is a spur-of-the-moment desire. Keeping your smile in check just in case, you pull out your key-card subtly. Mere steps stand between you and the door. 

They maintain their slow distance. 

With a barely-there wave of your key, you slide into the building, and laugh as it locks behind you. 

Stepping through the lobby and into the elevator, spoils in hand, a niggling thought plagues you that you should call Agatha, but you shove it down.

When you step into your apartment you sigh. The thought of calling her remains tempting and persistent; her voice offers a calm you can’t replicate alone, but it wouldn’t be right to give her false hope—you’re still not sure where you stand. 

An odd, burnt smell lingers in your space and your nose scrunches, attempting to get a feel for where it's coming from. A jolt of fear seizes your chest. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

You forgot to blow out your candles before leaving. 

Throwing your snacks on the counter, you skitter through the apartment, not bothering to kick off your shoes as you beeline for your bedroom. The light is on but nothing seems to be brighter—that’s a good sign, right? If things were on fire it’d be brighter. 

A hand claps over your mouth before you can reach the door. 

On instinct, you shriek, but it’s muffled. Large and unyielding, a body traps you from behind. You thrash pointlessly. The burning smell comes over your senses tenfold. 

Agatha is going to be so furious when she figures out who did this to you. And you won’t even get to enjoy watching. 

You should have called her. 

Words she said echo in your mind, “I’m the only one who gets to snap this pretty little neck of yours, angel. You’re mine.” 

You are, aren’t you? Hers. Even though you left all those months ago, putting half a world between you, you never stopped belonging to her. You never wanted to. 

You sink your teeth into the hand over your mouth—hard. 

A roar of pain fills your ears. They attempt to pull away, but you double down until your lips turn wet, your tongue heavy with the taste of a dozen pennies. You shake your head for good measure and feel a sickening pop. 

When you’re filled with a sick satisfaction, you unclench your jaw. The scent of stale cigarettes grows fainter. You hear two heavy steps being taken and a low voice swearing. 

That’s all you need. 

You throw yourself forward before you can second-guess any movements, fingers wrapping around the first thing you can reach; some metal sculptural piece you bought ages ago that has collected dust on the hall table since. It’s weighty in your hand. 

The world feels like a blur when you spin on your heel. It’s like pure electricity is firing in your veins, making everything brighter and clearer and still somehow hazy when you try to recall even seconds before. Adrenaline, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Agatha supplies. 

Adrenaline or not, you’re grateful for it. Your assailant barely has time to raise his eyes before you swing the metal sculpture. It makes contact with a crunch. 

He drops like dead weight. But you’re not done. 

You swing so many times you lose count. The movement feels amazing. You swing until your hand is wet and you can barely keep your grip, but you keep going. 

Again. 

Again. 

Again.

Again. 

When you come to, you’re pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around your legs. The body lays utterly still. Crimson dries brown on the sculpture inches away. 

Your hands shake as you slide your phone from the pocket of your sweatpants. You don’t even have to look as you dial. 

Two rings, then her voice teases down the line, “Feeling lonely, pet?” 

“I need you.” Your voice cracks. 

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end of the line. Then, the barely-there sound of shuffling. 

“Stay where you are.” She commands. 

She hangs up without saying goodbye.

You’re not sure if you throw the phone or if it simply falls from your grasp—whatever the case, it’s no longer in your hand. And you’re drawn back to the heaping mass of a man lying dead in your hallway. 

No civilian could get up to your apartment like this, but he’s not working for anyone special; he’s in a dark suit that doesn’t fit right, attempting to look more sophisticated than he was. You scoff. That’s what they all get wrong—whether dressed in suits or sweatpants, sophistication remains, like an unshakeable layer. 

This man wanted to be someone like Agatha. He was a very, very poor imitation. 

If you’ve dispatched a poor copy of your lover, then, well, the satisfaction in your chest isn’t so twisted after all. 

Your eyes are drawn away from the body by movement. The heart in your chest calms when Agatha traipses down the hall like a queen, hair tied messily on her head. Blue eyes glance at the dead man before locking onto you. 

“That was fast.” You comment. 

Her brows pinch, something passing behind her gaze, “It took half an hour.” 

You blink. 

Stepping over the heap, standing between him and you, she half-turns back. Then she kicks the body without ceremony. 

“Yup, he’s dead alright.” 

You sigh as she crouches to be eye-level with you, “Agatha.” 

“What, you want to be extra sure?” 

Agatha doesn’t turn away, doesn’t so much as break eye contact as she eases a gun from somewhere you can’t see and cocks it. She aims it behind her with startling accuracy. One long finger hovers over the trigger. 

You watch, silent. Her finger doesn’t so much as twitch. 

Then, after several long moments, it is turned on you; the end of the barrel nudged under your chin in silent command. You lift your head to give her a better look at you and wonder what she sees. If you did have the time to check your appearance, your mind has blocked out the memory of it. 

However you look, familiar pleasure fills her gaze. 

Leaning around the end of the gun, you press your lips to the side of the barrel, eyes never once leaving those piercing blues. Pink lips part, ragged breathing filling your ears. 

“You liked it, didn’t you? Killing him.” 

Shamefully, you nod. 

“Just like Vienna.” Agatha murmurs, raising a brow, “Are you going to run again?”

What would be the point? Death will find you again, regardless of where you go. You’d rather watch it befall someone else at her side than for it to befall you. 

“It’d be silly to run from the inevitable.” 

Agatha discards her gun and falls forward onto her knees. Long fingers pull you in, but rather than her lips finding you, it’s her tongue, trailing warm and wet along your jaw and to your chin. You whimper. 

“I was getting so tired of being patient.” She admits against your skin. 

Then she twists your body without a change in breath, laying you so you’re front-down on the floor, head twisted to the side. Her hands rid you of your pants in a single heartbeat. 

“Agatha—now!?—”

“He’ll be just as dead when I’m done with you,” A hand taps your hip, “Up.” 

Your body obeys before your mind can protest. In a moment, your knees are up under you, creating an obscene arch in your back that presents you exactly as she craves. 

A flat palm comes down hard on your right cheek. Your face goes hot as a strangled moan leaves your mouth, and you fight the urge to hide. Then another blow lands on the left. 

“Fuck!” 

The hand moves and Agatha trails down your cunt with the flat of a finger, laughing, “Soaked just from waiting. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you liked me.” 

“You’re—fuck—an ass.” 

Agatha releases a scandalized gasp, “You want me to fuck your ass?” 

Your traitorous cunt clenches at the thought and Agatha cackles. But she makes no move upward. Instead, she probes your core carefully with curious fingers. 

“No,” she drawls, “I think you need me here.” 

In a single, smooth motion, Agatha sinks two fingers inside you to the knuckle. And then the fucking demon of a woman has the audacity to curl them against that spot that drives you wild. 

You are no longer aware of the sounds leaving your mouth—you don’t even care. Nothing has felt this good, this right in ages. She’s playing you like a fiddle and you hope she likes the music. 

Desperate, you push back, meeting her thrusts. 

“Please, more.” You beg. 

Another time, you’ll put up a fight; but right now you need her, completely and truly. 

“No one has taken proper care of this cunt of mine, have they?” Her voice is saccharine as she drapes herself over your back and you can’t help the pulse it sends to your clit—which she hasn’t even acknowledged, “Only two fingers and you’re begging.” 

It’s been months but your body writhes like it’s been years, and your heart screams in the same way. A trail of heat is left wherever her fingers touch. Tears form when she continues to thrust, but leaves your clit painfully untouched, pulsing in rhythm with your heart. 

“No—needed you—“ 

“Oh I know.” 

Teeth sink into the soft flesh of your shoulder and you scream. Part of you jerks away while the other is still pushing back onto her fingers. 

Wet warmth spreads over your shoulder and you have the all-consuming desire to kiss her—to feel the weight of her lips on your own, her mischievous tongue in your mouth. You reach back and sink fingers into her hair, turning your head enough to capture her mouth. 

Agatha tastes of cinnamon and menthol—and copper. 

Freezing for only a moment is long enough for her tongue to slide past your lips, toying with your own, giving you a raw taste of yourself. And when her thumb grazes your clit, you almost lose it. 

In the weight of her body draped over you, you feel the increasing movement of her hips against your ass, and ache to slip your hand to where she’ll be just as wrecked for you. But Agatha’s devoted to a purpose and you’re not silly enough to attempt at derailing her. 

She breathes against your lips, “All that time making me wait, drowning in your own self-righteousness when we could have been here.” 

On the final word, she presses her thumb firmly against your clit, destroying the arguments bubbling up in your throat. 

“And you got sloppy,” Agatha continues, slipping a third finger inside, “nearly letting someone take what’s mine.” 

Your eyes drift to the body of your would-be killer. It’s a mercy his face is still hidden from your view—keeping whatever lifeless gaze exists from your own. 

You owe whoever sent him a gift. 

“Take it before someone else can.” 

The answering laugh rolls along your skin. Her eyes watch you, mind working behind them at an unfathomable speed. You don’t dare look away, don’t allow yourself to blink. 

Except when her free hand slides up, lithe fingers curling around your throat. 

“Maybe I should.” She agrees. 

The world goes fuzzy at the edges of your vision. You can feel your heart in your throat, pulse beating like it’s caged against her hand as she slowly grips tighter. A thinness builds in your lungs where air should be. 

Hazy bliss settles over your mind. Your eyes flutter closed, the vision of her own imprinted on the back of your lids. 

Her hand eventually loosens—and at the same time, Agatha’s mouth devours yours, pushing air into your lungs, like she’s offering your life back to you on her own terms. You take it—take her—without reservation. 

“Please,” you whisper against her lips, “please, my love.” 

“Is there something you need?” She taunts.

What do you need? 

After months of lackluster orgasms at other’s hands, you’re desperate for a good one—but it’s more than that, it always has been with Agatha; maybe that’s why everything with her feels so good. 

What you truly need escapes you, but you know Agatha can give it to you. 

“You.” 

Unlike the other times, she doesn’t let you off that easily; she refuses to fill in the blanks your mind can’t, “And what do you need from me, pet?” 

You could scream. 

She keeps her thrusts painfully slow, ghosting over your bundle of nerves, keeping you clenching and wet but not offering to build you higher to that peak you crave. It’s maddening. It’s pure evil. 

What you want is to go back in time and erase ever leaving her. You want to stay in Vienna and accept what she brought out in you, rather than opening the Agatha-shaped chasm inside you. But you can’t turn back time no matter how hard you’ve tried—and what you want isn’t necessarily what you need, though they do inform one another. 

You need her teeth in you again, drawing blood. You need her bruises all over your body. You need her name carved into you like a fucking brand, so no one—not even you—can forget who owns you. 

“Don’t stop.” The satisfaction in her eyes tells you she understands this request has nothing to do with her fingers but rather the chase—her constant, ravenous, looming love for you, “Own me. Keep me.” 

It doesn’t matter if she locks you up in chains and throws away the key, so long as she’s your jailer. You’d live a lifetime in a solitary room with only her name in your mind as long as you feel her ownership over you. You’re tired of drifting, tired of being a lone figure when you’re meant to be part of a pair. 

You need her, in whatever way that comes.

Agatha snarls against your mouth, “Finally.” 

All at once, the speed of the fingers thrusting inside you reach new heights and her thumb bears down on your clit, grinding in a near-painful motion that makes every muscle tense. Her lips trail from the front of your jaw to your neck and then they’re gone—the weight of her front gone too, as she kneels back to watch her fingers pump in and out. 

Her other hand ghosts higher, a finger gently beginning to circle and press over your untouched entrance. 

Your breath catches, “A-Agatha.” 

“Shh, pet. Let me feel.” 

Reassured by the sound of her voice alone, you relax back into the contact, taking every press and push like it is what you were made to do. You’re almost ashamed of the sounds she pulls from your mouth when she stimulates both entrances at the same time—almost. 

But you’re climbing closer to that peak with every touch, gasping when the pleasure is paired with a building pressure. Gods—as if one mess wasn’t enough.

“Agatha—” you choke out, “I’m going to—” 

She must be feeling sentimental too after your time apart, since all she says is, “Go on.” 

When your body goes tight around her fingers, hips pushing back helplessly to deepen the feeling, you feel that pressure release—soaking both of you in your desire. Agatha makes a surprised sound that is nearly lost among your moans. 

The high is exquisite, the release settling into your bones like nothing before. You sink against the floor completely and utterly spent. A shadow comes over you and a kiss is pressed to your temple with startling care. 

Then, something sticky prods your bottom lip, “Open.” 

You do so on instinct. Agatha sheathes her fingers in your mouth. Lazily, you clean her off, tasting your own desire on her flesh. It’s almost enough to get you worked up again. 

When she pulls them free, you murmur sweetly, “Thank you.” 

“So polite.” The grin is evident in her voice, “You’re almost spoiling me, angel.” 

“Let me roll over and I’ll spoil you properly.” 

Agatha laughs. But her weight vanishes and you slowly turn over onto your back, taking her in through half-lidded eyes; from the locks of hair that have slipped from her updo to the subtle bite marks on her bottom lip. There’s a stunning flush on her skin that you want to make worse. 

Smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, you coo, “Have I earned a taste, my love?” 

“Hardly,” she scoffs, fingers working at shedding her belt, “but you need to clean up the mess you made, so I guess it doesn’t matter whether you earned it or not.” 

She steps out of her pants and your breath catches because you can see her desire. It clings to the tops of her thighs, glistening, beckoning your tongue like a siren call to her pale skin. And it doesn’t matter that your body has gone limp after your own orgasm, you’re suddenly wide awake and ravenous for her. 

You reach out for her, desperate, and she swats your hands away. Then she shimmies out of her panties and you can’t help but moan at the sight of how she’s ruined them—for you. 

“You’re amazing.” You breathe out. 

Agatha scoffs, though there’s a pretty blush high on her cheeks, “I haven’t sat down yet.” 

As if the words were a command, you let your tongue loll out, waiting and obedient. Her smirk is electrifying as she comes to kneel over your face—and the scent of her alone is nearly enough to undo you. You shake with the desire to taste, to use your tongue until she’s crying above you, but you wait. 

“Oh, good girl.” She laughs, hand cupping your cheek, “Don’t forget to breathe, hm?” 

And then everything is Agatha. 

She’s wet and sticky and you’re hooked from the first drop. You drag your tongue along the length of her cunt, pulling as much of her as you can, savoring like a fine wine, relishing in the little gasp and roll of her hips. It can be easy to forget she wants you just as bad; but in moments like this, there is no denying it. 

Hands clutching the back of her thighs, you feel her muscles quiver beneath your hands when you lick. You gently flick the tip of your tongue against her clit, just to hear her choked moan. 

You could continue like this all day—slow, steady, drinking in every pretty sound—but she settles a little more, hips beginning to grind against the planes of your face. 

“Give me what I want.” She demands. 

The command and the infinitesimal wobble in it make you moan against her, which in turn draws a pained noise from her mouth, even as the hand on your cheek presses you closer; as if you could ever think of pulling away. 

You need no oxygen, no sight, just her. Always her. 

Flattening your tongue, you rub carefully against her swollen clit, knowing how sensitive she gets and how fast—and above you, Agatha whimpers. Her nails dig into the skin of your cheek. Warmth follows. 

One hand slides away from her thighs and up to her cunt, ghosting two fingers at her entrance. She wastes no time in chasing them—impaling herself on you before you can even consider teasing her. You grin against her. With the way she growls, you know she can feel it. 

But she doesn’t say a word at first. She chases her high, ascending to that peak with startling speed as she uses your fingers and tongue for all they’re worth, stuttering out a, “Fuck.” 

She’s not riding you so firmly that you can’t pull away; you consider it for a moment, just to prolong the experience, to drive her to the edge and leave her there, but it would be bad form to torment her when she allowed you to finish so generously. 

You sink another finger into her heat and seal your lips around Agatha’s clit, sucking. And Agatha fucking shrieks. 

“Fuck—yes—I’m—“ Is all she chokes out before you find your fingers squeezed tight, and a final gush of wetness spreads down your chin and neck. 

You gently run your tongue along her and she jolts. A whine leaves her mouth, hand on your cheek tightening again. 

She whines when you do it again, lifting away, whispering, “Enough, pet.” 

The idea of getting enough is unfathomable, but you don’t push your luck. You stare up at her in breathless wonder; taking in the beautiful, sweat-slick planes of her body and the pink flush on her cheeks, eyes dark as she meets your own. 

Agatha adjusts until she’s draped on top of you. Her low laugh tickles your neck where she’s nipping. 

“I needed you,” the words slip from your lips before you can stop them, “even when I thought I didn’t, it was always you.” 

There’s something like fondness twinkling in her eyes when she responds, “I know, angel.” 

“I love you.” 

And that fondness, that soft warmth in her beautiful blues, cracks into something you know always lingers there, buried beneath the hard exterior—love. She leans up and takes your lips with her own, tasting herself there, and the invasion of her tongue in your mouth seems to plant a statement in your mind— 

I know. 

The to-do list sits empty, which in theory allows for more time to relax; but relaxation often turns to boredom, and you find yourself missing Agnes. You sigh again as you aim for the kitchen, passing the living room.

Three steps past the living room you pause. 

You know every inch of your home top-to-bottom, down to the scuffs on the baseboards from Agnes kicking her shoes into them—which is why you know the dark mass sitting on the couch shouldn’t be there. You back up and blink at the sight of your wife. 

She’s clad in a flannel shirt and boxers, hair a frizzy halo around her head. Her glasses threaten to slide down her nose as she stares down at the pages of a book. 

“You’re home today?” You ask. 

“Chief told me to leave, take a ‘well deserved break.’” Agnes scoffs, not looking up from her book, “Just because we wrapped that case yesterday doesn’t mean there aren’t others.” 

“True. But you can look at the others with fresher eyes if you rest.” 

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were conspiring with him. He said the same thing.” 

“Common sense for those who believe in work-life balance.” You smile, crossing to the couch and sitting down, leaning into her, “What are you reading?” 

An arm loops around you, pulling you more firmly into her side. Long fingers brush against the exposed bit of flesh on your side. Warmth radiates from her and you cuddle into every bit of contact she offers. The sigh that leaves you this time is pleased—dreamy. 

Agnes switches to reading the book aloud. Yet you’re not paying attention to the words, but rather, her voice; the gravelly note in it as she keeps her voice low in the peace of the morning, how it speeds up and slows at different intervals depending on how eager she is to see what happens next. Head resting on her shoulder, you take in all of her with so much affection it could make you sick. 

Like the details of your home, you know every contour of Agnes’ face as if you possess a map. You know every wrinkle and smile line, the subtle freckles that become brighter in the summer. If she’d let you, you’d kiss every mark on her face a dozen times over. 

Instead, you settle for tracing your finger down the length of her nose. She pauses. 

“What are you doing?” She asks. 

“Admiring.” 

Hesitation, then she shrugs it off, “Okay.” 

She begins to read again, mouth twitching with a grin when you trace the sensitive spots of her skin. It makes you grin. Faintly, you have the thought of hooking a finger in her mouth to see how she’d react, but you’re enjoying the comfort of being near her too much. 

Her lashes flutter when she blinks behind her glasses. The muscles in her jaw work double-time when she reads faster. You drag your finger along said jaw with agonizing tenderness. 

Tenderness that fills you so fully you can’t keep silent any longer, murmuring, “My handsome girl.” 

She swallows roughly.

“What is your deal?” 

“I told you,” you smile, leaning in to kiss her jaw, “I’m admiring.” 

“You’re distracting.” 

“Part of my job, sorry.” 

“Don’t remember that being in the vows.” 

“If I remember correctly, you don’t remember any of the vows—your focus was on the wedding night. As if we’d never had sex before.” 

Agnes barks out a laugh, “A lot of you was on display, what else could I focus on?” 

“How much you love me, for starters.” You pout. 

At the sight of your expression, Agnes rolls her eyes, the hint of a grin still pulling at the edges of her oh-so-kissable lips. 

“That’s what the rest of our lives were for.” She waves you off, “The wedding night had its own purpose.” 

“Loving and fucking can and do exist at the same time, you know.”

“You don’t say.” 

You don’t dignify the comment with anything beyond a petulant huff. 

Like a cat sure of their rightful spot, you curl back into your wife’s side as if you own the space; as if the curve of her body was molded to match your own. The length of a strong shoulder plays the part of your pillow. 

Agnes’ fingers twitch around her book. She resumes reading, silent this time. 

The allure of sleep still beckons with a convincing hand. Your eyelids droop—but though you may close them, sleep does not come. You alternate between opening them to make a half-hearted attempt at reading the pages and letting them slip closed on the hope of slipping away. Similar fatigue plagues the whole of your body. 

A bird calls outside. There’s a brush against your foot as Scratchy hops by. 

The lingering notes of Agnes’ cologne tickle your nose. You press closer—as if it’s possible— wanting to drown yourself in the scent, in her. She huffs a near-silent laugh. 

Your stomach growls. It squeezes, searching and desperate. You should make something for the two of you, but that requires moving away, and you’d rather cut off your own hand than do that right now. 

But the noise doesn’t escape your wife’s notice, “Let me finish this chapter and I’ll make breakfast.” 

A simple, innocuous statement; yet it turns your heart to liquid. 

Before Agnes, how many times did you trudge through the day, ignoring your own needs due to your exhaustion? How many past partners had cared enough to put their tasks on hold to do something like make you breakfast? 

The offering doesn’t surprise you; you’ve been together too long—but in the silence, you’re painfully aware of a time where the idea of anyone caring felt impossible. You had only let yourself imagine someone like Agnes in the dead of night, where the lack twisted in your chest. And you had given up on ever finding what you needed… until she walked into your life and shook the foundations of what you knew to be true. 

The affection and gratitude gnaws at your insides, desperate to be expressed. How do you express the gravity of a love like yours? How do you explain to Agnes the way she makes you feel without her waving you off, unwilling to hear praise?

Without a word, you spit in your palm and slide it past the waistband of her boxers. 

Agnes jolts when you take her in hand. Her fingers press indents into the pages, eyes wide and searching your face for a hint of explanation. 

“Keep reading.” You say, with more force than intended. 

You’re stunned when she does so without argument.

Pages turn, minutes pass. You listen to how her breathing changes as your hand works over her length, varying your strokes, paying attention to what makes her hips twitch. The change is slow—gradual, the sun changing position as you bring Agnes’ cock to wakefulness. 

You don’t mind the time it takes; allowing you to revel in the closeness, breathing in the scent of her and embracing her warmth as she slowly grows hard in your palm. 

Every now and again, you’ll tilt your head back to admire her side profile again—the subtle pucker of her lips, her darling cheekbones, the beautiful meandering outline of her nose. You want to show her love so overwhelming that she never doubts her beauty again. You want to smother her in it. You want to sink your fucking teeth into her. 

Agnes inhales sharply when you squeeze, sitting up a bit straighter. You smile into the skin of her neck at how hard she’s growing, and how with every minute that passes she loses control over her focus. 

“Baby.” She whispers, pleading. 

A strange desire for a different title comes to life in the back of your mind. You shove it down. 

“Keep reading, Agnes.” 

A throaty whine. You like watching her try to do what you ask, but you want to see her squirm more. You nip at her neck. 

“You’re so perfect.” You whisper, hand stroking faster, “And all mine.” 

Though Agnes’ eyes are focused on the book in her white-knuckle grip, they don’t move across the page. Her chest rises and falls, hips twitching as she bucks into your palm. A thin sheen of sweat clings to her temples. 

When you run your thumb over the head of her cock, she whines, thrusting up. 

“So responsive, aren’t you?” You run your tongue along the shell of her ear, “So needy for more of me around your cock. You just can’t get enough.” 

The flutter of pages and a clatter as her book hits the floor. Head thrown back, she squeezes her eyes shut, throat bobbing. Slowing the movement of your hand, there’s a rush of heat between your legs at her pitiful little noises. God she’s fucking perfect. 

Her cock throbs as you drag your hand over every tense inch. Fist so loose you’re hardly making contact, Agnes’ hand seeks your own; gripping you around the wrist and tightening the grip for you, fucking herself into the warmth of your palm. 

That won’t do. 

Extracting yourself entirely, you tsk, “I didn’t say you could touch.” 

Agnes’ head rolls in your direction. Shadow falls over her face, her eyes darker for it. Pink and red paints an enchanting vision over her flesh. You resist the urge to give in and give her your cunt—because then she won’t learn, will she? 

“Baby,” she grits out, jaw tense, “don’t tease.” 

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d behave.” 

“I’m not a fucking dog.” 

“Oh?” Your head tilts. Her cock is pressed against the front of her boxers and you trace your finger along the outline of her, “But I thought you liked being a good boy.” 

A violent throb beneath your touch. Her hands clench in the couch cushions. 

“God.” 

You bring your ghosting touch up to her throat. Sweat clings to your fingertip as you dip along the sharp structures of her physique. An idea pops into your head that has you clenching your thighs. 

“Maybe I should put a collar on you. You’ll never forget who holds your leash if you’re wearing my name around your neck.” 

“Fuck no.”

Agnes twitches. 

You laugh—a mean sound that you don’t entirely recognize coming from your mouth. Oh. The sound of your own twisted confidence and the power wrapped within only deepens the heat between your thighs. 

“No?” 

A dangerous note lingers in your voice. Agnes—whether not noticing or not caring—snarls.

“No.” 

“What a shame.” 

In a beat, you’re gone; off the couch and out of her reach. You crouch to pick up her book and look up through your lashes. Agnes swallows, eyes blown out, cock straining enough that she must be in some kind of pain. 

The weak, pleading look on her face has been replaced by something harder—the veneer of Detective O’Connor, who spits in the face of higher forces and never once stops to ask for forgiveness. Your mouth feels too full; your tongue desperate to trace along the hard line of her jaw and into the divots of her collarbones, the press of bone firm against your soft appendage. 

You love her in power and control, but you want the glimpse caught in her office on Christmas Eve—you want her so desperate she’ll humiliate herself for a touch. 

With a sweet smile, you throw the book into her lap, “Have fun with your hand.” 

A brief glimpse of her shock makes you shiver with satisfaction. You’ve never walked away, never denied either of you; you’re the desperate one, willing to do any degrading little thing she suggests if it means she’ll take you. 

You’re not sure where this desire to dominate has been hiding, but god if it isn’t delicious. 

A step away from leaving the room, her raspy voice calls, “Wait.”

“Yes?” 

“Don’t… Don’t leave me like this.” 

Leaning against the doorway, you laugh, “I’m not taking orders.”

“Come on, baby,” She says, in a near-whine, “I don’t want my hand.” 

“You want mine?” 

For flair, you hold yours up, wiggling your fingers with a raised brow. She stares and gulps. Then, she nods. 

“Words, Agnes.” 

“Yeah. Yes.” 

You step back into the room with an expression of faux-sympathy. But instead of returning to the couch where she waits, hard and wanting, you sink into the armchair at the edge of the room. The cushions caress your form without fuss. You sink deeper, getting comfortable. 

Agnes' eyes haven’t left you for a moment—good. You fold one leg over the other and finally meet her gaze. 

“You’ll have to come over here and earn it.” 

She’s up from the couch in less than a second. Her feet wobble beneath her, but she’s so eager that the questionable footing doesn’t stop her. 

You hold up a hand. 

Agnes stops. 

“Crawl.” 

Her teeth make an appearance, lip curling. You brace for a mouthful of venom as you prod at the pride she protects so viciously—but Agnes sinks to her knees. 

You feel as if you’re watching the scene in slow motion. Agnes crosses the space on all fours, hair obscuring her features, even as her eyes never leave your own—not even when the sharp rays of sun sneak through the slats of the blinds and light directly on the electric-blue orbs. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. 

Desire churns and makes you clench. The emptiness between your legs is so prominent that it’s painful. You want her inside you, but you have all day. 

When Agnes reaches you, there’s a split second where she looks unsure, hands twitching in front of her as she tries to decide what to do with them. You wait. Even if you’re enjoying holding all the power, you love how she surprises you. 

Agnes’ eyes leave you as she bends, pressing her lips to the sensitive skin of your ankle. 

“My angel.” She murmurs, alternating to the other side, “My love.” 

It’s a slow ascent. She’s taking her job seriously—worshipping every inch of you on her way up to the space between your legs, murmuring words of devotion and praise in a voice so reverent it almost feels out of place; you are the offering upon the altar she kneels before, and she’ll do whatever is required to demonstrate her piety. 

Your chest is heaving by the time her lips make it to your inner thighs. How unfair, how so like her to steal the power back by completely surrendering herself to you—tears prick at your eyes, your body searching for a way to release all this emotion inside. 

You have never loved or trusted anyone like her. You want to fucking ruin her for it. 

Before she can reach your covered center, you weave a hand in her hair and yank her head back. She groans. The sound makes you clench. But it’s nothing compared to how she looks up at you. 

The heart in your chest squeezes, you whisper, “Perfect.” 

She bristles like the words are an insult. You don’t give her time to argue, leaning down to capture her lips. Your tongue sweeps across them and into her mouth with a desperation that makes your heart race—the need to taste her, to taste your flesh upon her, drives you to near-madness. 

When you pull back a thin web of spit connects you and you lick it from where it meets her bottom lip. 

Unyielding, you grip her jaw in a hand, and stare into her eyes, “Who do you belong to, Agnes?”

A beat.

“You.” She breathes. 

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes from rolling back in your head. 

“Stand up.” 

Agnes does as you command as quickly as she can manage. You tamp down on your giggle when her knees crack, but you know she can see the amusement in your eyes; a matching look in her own. 

Said look fades when you remove your sleep shirt and yank her boxers down. 

The cold air of the room pebbles your nipples. From her position above you, Agnes licks her lips. You take her cock in hand once more and she throbs; no matter who is in control, she loses it seeing you beneath her. 

You squeeze. Her hips thrust forward. 

“Don’t tease, angel.” She begs. 

“Behave and I won’t have to.” 

Punctuating the statement with a firm stroke cuts off any arguments. Pretty blue eyes roll right back in her head, her hips moving, seeking more—soft little pants leaving her in place of words. 

It’s not going to take long to make her cum. 

When your hand falls into the rhythm that best suits, your mind begins to wander; it feels nice to touch her, taking your time—you’ve both found yourselves so caught up in life as of late that sex was a collection of frantic movements between tasks. Not that it was ever bad sex. But there’s something special about having time to tease and draw out the actions. 

How fortunate you had no plans today. 

You’re going to take your time and worship her like she worships you. You’re going to familiarize every inch of Agnes’ body with your tongue; imprinting her taste until it’s all you hold in your mouth. By the time you’re finished, every inch of her will shake at the reminder of how good you make her feel. 

Looking up through your lashes, that warm devotion in your chest expands until it’s hard to breathe. Her hand digs into your shoulder as she thrusts, eyes closed, completely trusting you to hold her steady. 

You push up the bottom of her shirt and press kisses to the soft skin of her stomach. Her hips stutter for a moment and you feel her tense, fighting her desire to check on you. But that isn’t what you want; you want her to take, to enjoy without guilt or worry. 

“Who do you belong to?” You repeat, speeding up your movements. 

Faintly, you remember why you don’t use your hand very often; your wrist hurts. 

A choked gasp, “You.” 

“Yeah you do.” You smile, bolstered by her affirmation, “Every inch of you is mine—mine to love, mine to cherish, mine to break. And I’m going to break you, baby. I’m going to fuck you until all you can do is pant like a fucking dog.” 

Agnes keens. Her chest is rising and falling so fast you worry she might hyperventilate, but she doesn’t once stop moving, fucking into your hand while whimpers of “yours, all yours” leave her lips. The power of taking every ounce of her fight makes your head feel floaty.

Her thrusts grow more erratic as she nears her peak. The hands on your shoulders tense and loosen. 

“Let me. Please l-let me—” She cries. 

You tense out of nowhere, waves of pleasure coalescing and rocking through you as you cum without a touch. Heaving gasps of air as you breathe through it. 

Your voice is weaker than you’d like, “Give me a pretty necklace, baby.” 

Agnes wastes no time in fulfilling your request. With one final snap of her hips, they stop, and spurts of cum shoot from her cock, painting the bottom of your face and neck in her desire. You watch every inch of her face—the furrow of her brows as she works through the feeling, and how every muscle loosens as the pleasure settles like a warm blanket. 

Carefully, you extract your hand from her softening length, licking her off your lips. She regards you through heavy-lidded eyes. 

You scoot to the side and make room to tug her down next to you. She allows it. Soft and pliant, she curls wordlessly into you, head falling on your shoulder—only narrowly avoiding the mess she’s made. 

“You did so well,” smiling, you kiss the top of her head, “you make me so happy when you let yourself have what you want. And you look so perfect when you do.” 

She grunts in acknowledgement. Her body weight is pressing against you more insistently with every passing second, and you let it, running your hand up and down her back until her breathing evens out. 

Even as she dozes off, you can resist whispering, “My love. My handsome girl.” 

---

Days later, you curse, every muscle still sore as you answer the phone. 

“Hello?” 

“This is Chief Proctor, would you—” 

You don’t think before rushing out, “What is it? What happened?” 

Did something happen when Agnes was out following a lead? She rarely goes alone, but you know how stubborn she can be about being made to wait. Did some perp try to fight back, or get her before she could get them? Fuck, did she get shot? 

“Everything’s fine, Agnes is just fine!” He rushes to reassure you, and you feel like you can breathe again, “I wanted to ask if you’d come in so I could run something by ya.” 

You put your head in your hand. The heart in your chest is still beating too fast, fear still coursing through your veins even though there is no danger. 

“Yeah. Yeah I’ll be there soon, Chief.”

---

 A few heads pop up when you walk into the station, but you don’t give them any attention; too exhausted from the scare earlier to entertain polite conversation with Agnes’ coworkers. You beeline straight for the Chief’s office when you spy that your wife’s is empty. 

Harold sits at his desk trying—and failing—to wipe a ketchup stain off his white shirt. 

“Sarah’s stain treatment must be holy with all the messes you make.” You say by way of greeting, plopping into the chair opposite his desk. 

An embarrassed flush works up his cheeks. He clears his throat, dropping the crumpled napkin on the desktop and straightening up. 

“Thanks for coming in. Sorry for scaring ya.” 

Waving off the apology, “What’s up?” 

“Well, you know the annual State banquet is coming up. I was wondering if you could get Agnes to be there.” 

You raise a brow. It takes all your will-power not to scoff at the request. 

“Chief, she hates those things.” 

“I know, I know—but look, they, uh, well what I mean to say is we—”

“Chief.” 

“They want to recognize Agnes for her work in the Maximoff case.” He blurts. 

The second he says it, you know you have no choice but to figure out a way to get her there. 

Ten months; that’s how long you watched Agnes agonize over the Maximoff case, obsessing over the details she was missing. She’d leave before dawn and come back after dark. And even when she was home, she spent half her time sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at all the photos. Some nights she brought Vidal with her—others, she sat in the dim kitchen alone, head in her hands while the world went on outside. 

She’d have worked 24/7 if you hadn’t insisted on days off. When she took them, she slept the whole day. 

Agnes doesn’t do her job for rewards, but you’ll be damned if you let her pass up recognition from the state; especially after everything she went through. 

“Fuck.” Dragging a hand down your face, you sigh, “She’s going to be a bear about this.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.” 

---

“Did you pick up your suit from the dry-cleaners?” You ask in lieu of a greeting. 

Agnes’ scoff is faint. The front door shuts with a half-hearted slam. Then, the squeak of rubber on wood; you wish she would stop doing that. 

“No, honey, I came straight home after you texted me about it seven times.” 

She comes into the kitchen, plastic-covered suit in hand, and you relax. That’s the last thing on your list, ready and secured.

“Oh bite me.” 

Agnes grins, “With pleasure.” 

You turn when she rounds to you and accept her hello kiss. The taste of un-burnt coffee lingers on her lips and you frown. 

“Did you go out for lunch again?” 

“The guys needed a pick-me-up.” 

“Agnes.” You groan. 

“It was a few sandwiches, baby. It’s not going to break us.” 

“That would be true if you didn’t buy ‘a few sandwiches’ three times a week.” 

A hand is dragged down her face. She sighs. 

“I’m going to put the suit in the closet and do some work in the office, yeah? Yell when dinner’s ready.” 

You grab her before she can go too far, “No, hey, I’m sorry—I just, there’s been a lot coming out of the account this month and I’m worked up over it. I’m sorry. Stay, please.” 

Worked up over it being an understatement—the state you were in after paying the final installment on Nicky’s funeral arrangements this morning could’ve earned you an Oscar. But you don’t want to dwell on that. You want to finish dinner with some light banter from your wife, sit next to her at the table, and cuddle up in bed talking about nonsense; none of which you can do if she locks herself in her office. 

Agnes relaxes in your hold. She may let you handle the finances, but she’s just as aware of the bills, and likely has a hunch of which are bothering you. 

“When do you plan on telling me where we’re going?” 

“Just enjoy the surprise, baby.” 

“It wouldn’t take much digging to uncover your evil plans,” she says, making you snort, “if you save me the work I’m sure we can strike a deal.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Tell me what I want to know and we can knock your time down from six hours to three—less, with good behavior.” 

There’s a purposeful press of her hips against you. She’s not hard, yet, but you take her meaning. 

“You can’t last that long and you know it.” You taunt. 

“Practice makes perfect.” 

You roll your eyes. Playfully pushing her away, her grin nearly makes you melt—but you focus back on dinner before she can tempt you into letting it burn. 

“Go hang your suit up and stop harassing me.” 

Her grin feels like a brand when she kisses your cheek, “Yes, ma’am.” 

---

The door clicks open and you get a whiff of Agnes’ cologne. You smile, not looking up from where you’re fastening your own bracelet. 

“Can you help me with the tie?” 

After several failed attempts, you loop the clasp through the chain link. Looking up, your breath stops. You swallow. 

Agnes stands in the doorway of the bathroom in a deep brown suit, the jacket button undone to reveal the dress shirt beneath. It’s a bit big, offering a slouchy silhouette that makes her look phenomenal. The matching tie sits unraveled around the back of her neck just waiting for your hands. 

You stand to help and she shifts. The adjustment moves one side of the suit jacket and that’s when you see it—the carabiner with her keys attached to one of the belt loops; simple, something she has on her everyday, but the sight of it has you sinking to your knees in front of her. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

She smirks down at you through the mane of hair she hasn’t pulled back yet, “Stand up.” 

“I need you,” you whine, hands reaching for her belt-buckle, “please, Daddy, I need you so bad.” 

Her hands pause as they reach for you. Clear as a whistle, you both register the desperate want in your voice; the kind she’d expect to hear after edging you a few times. 

Something about the suit is driving you wild—sending you from 0 to 60 from the mere sight of her. Maybe it’s the effortless way she pulls it off. Maybe it’s that she’s so comfortable in a way she’s only displayed wearing her flannels. Maybe it’s both, combined with the reminder that this woman is yours. 

You love her so much it threatens to stop your heart and you need to fuck her about it. 

“Please.” 

Agnes snaps back into movement. Her hand grips your chin, firm, “I gave you an order. Stand up.” 

It’s mean and unfair and so fucking hot. You whine, but you do as she says—though not before pressing a kiss to the front of her pants, longing for the prize past the layer of fabric. 

“What did I ask you to do?” Agnes says when you’re stable on your feet. 

“Help you with the tie.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” 

Your hands find the fabric and go about the motions, though you have to slow down when your hands stutter. Even if she rarely wears them, you’re glad you memorized how to fix a tie, or this would be a significant loss to her ensemble. 

God you want her so bad. 

“Could we… just something quick?” You ask. 

“Oh no, honey, you’ve been on my ass about this dinner for weeks.” Agnes laughs, something cruel, “I’m not living in suspense any longer. You can handle an hour.” 

For an agonizing moment, you consider breaking—telling her that you’re about to be stuck in a stuffy government building with sub-par food, so she’ll refuse to go and punish you for trying to trick her—but then you remember the nights she ate Planter’s peanuts straight from the canister and got two hours of sleep, all so she wouldn’t leave the case for too long. 

“Okay.” 

Her smile softens, “Good girl. You’ll meet me downstairs when you’re ready?” 

“I shouldn’t be long.” 

She nods. Agnes presses a kiss to your forehead and squeezes you in a sweet gesture, before heading for the bedroom door. You listen to her go, unable to look—if you do, you might be tempted to use the rest of your time getting ready with your favorite vibrator. 

Half-way down the stairs, she calls, “Do we still have ibuprofen? My head is killing me.” 

“In the medicine cabinet. Bottom shelf.” 

She grunts an acknowledgement and you laugh. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you take a few deep breaths; it’s only a few hours—you can handle it. 

---

The second you pull up to the State House, Agnes stiffens. Her leg that’s been bouncing with agitation the past half-hour stills. 

“What the hell are we doing here?” 

“You’re the detective, you tell me.” 

Agnes glares, “Turn around.” 

“No.” 

Some defiance is commonplace in your relationship; it’s hard to earn a punishment if you don’t act up a little bit, after all—but the note in your voice now is firm, the kind you’d employ in the middle of a fight. Agnes regards you with steely eyes. 

“Excuse me?” She asks, slow. 

Her voice is tight, her jaw too. Slowly, you watch her hands tense over the armrests, as if she’s trying to measure her patience. A small murmur of fear prods you. 

This isn’t Agnes putting on a stern act to remind you of your place. This isn’t even a mild bit of annoyance you can tread lightly around. This is the type of anger that builds over time—and making her walk through those doors might drive it to bubble over. 

Chief Proctor’s words echo in your mind, “Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.” 

You’ve driven the hour and a half here and she’s going to be pissed regardless. In for a penny… 

“I didn’t stutter.” You raise a brow, making direct eye contact, “I’ve driven us all the way here and I told the Chief we were coming. So we’re going to go inside, sit through this dinner, and play nice. Am I understood?” 

For a split second, you see her eyes widen. Then her face flushes a deeper red and her hand tightens on the armrest again. You are so dead. 

Her voice is surprisingly entreating, “Baby—” 

“Am I understood, Agnes?” 

A long, long moment of silence. 

“Fine.” 

You smile, triumphant. Leaning over the middle console and giving her ample time to reject your nearness, smugness burrows into your mood when she leans in closer; and you press a sweet kiss to her lips. 

Whispering against them when you pull back, “That’s my good boy.” 

Her broken groan makes you feel alive. 

---

As far as State banquets go, you’ve been through worse. They must’ve upped the budget in the years since the two of you stopped attending—the food isn’t half-bad and there’s an open bar; which is exactly where you’re waiting to get Agnes a drink when a warm presence slides up beside you. 

“I’m surprised you got her to come.” An amused voice comments. 

Agent Vidal is a vision in deep green. Her dark hair lays in soft waves over her shoulders, offset by gold earrings that catch the light when she shifts. A small smirk plays at the edges of her mouth. 

“She didn’t know until we pulled up outside.” You admit. 

That startles a laugh out of the woman. It’s a bit maniacal, but you like it—it suits her. 

“No wonder she looks so pissed,” A glass of champagne is passed over the bar and she takes it with a nod, “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t I know it.” 

Silence lapses between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable as you’d expect. The bartender is dipping around and under the makeshift bar; you perk up, recognizing the ingredients for the drink you ordered Agnes. 

You glance over at Agnes and find her distracted; a couple of detectives have wandered over to your table. Her face is still flushed though she doesn’t seem as upset. Frowning, you wonder if maybe she’s coming down with something. 

The bartender passes you Agnes’ drink and you smile. Vidal hasn’t left your side. She looks you up and down with those rich brown eyes of hers. 

“I never had a chance to thank you for my Christmas gift.” A sultry grin replaces her smirk, and it’s your turn to flush, catching onto her meaning, “Though I’m disappointed it wasn’t delivered in person.” 

Your throat feels dry. Staring at the drink in hand, you consider whether a sip will help. 

“It was a spur of the moment thing.” 

“I guessed as much. Still, I was impressed.” 

“Thank you.” You smile, not sure if it’s the proper response. 

“Should you two ever find yourselves in my city and willing, don’t hesitate to call me up, sweetheart.” 

Vidal doesn’t give you time to respond before vanishing into the crowd. Good—you’re not entirely sure what you would’ve said. But it does a good job of reigniting your desire from earlier in the evening. 

There are people rushing around near the podium, which means you don’t have enough time to drag Agnes into the bathroom for a little relief. You settle for taking your seat next to her and lacing your fingers together. Though you blink at the heat coming from her. 

It isn’t until the other detectives take their leave that you murmur, “Do we need to go?” 

To hell with the award or recognition or whatever it is. Agnes’ health takes priority over everything. 

“I’m fine,” she says, gruff, “let’s just get through this and go home.” 

“My love—” 

“Leave it.” 

Every part of you screams to do the opposite, but you sigh and settle into your chair. You pull Agnes’ hand to your lips and kiss the back of it. Her eyes soften and that’s enough for you. 

You hold onto that soft look in her face as people step up to the podium and drone on about numbers and figures; nothing the actual workers in the room care about, but necessary to show the government officials in attendance that the state forces are still worth funding. As if they need even half of what the budgets are. To keep yourself from going crazy, you steal a few sips of Agnes’ drink. 

About an hour has gone by when Vidal steps up to the podium, unfolding a pair of glasses. You realize her purpose here seconds before understanding dawns on Anges—who turns with an inscrutable look. 

Pressing another kiss to the back of her hand, you smile. 

What Vidal says goes in one ear and out the other, try as you might to pay attention; but you’re too caught up in watching the emotions pass over Agnes’ face—surprise, hesitant softness, feigned indifference. She deserves every kind word being leveled her way, deserves to have everyone in this room know the hours she put in, deserves to be appreciated. 

When the clapping starts and all eyes turn to her, her flush deepens, and she looks unsure. Her eyes meet your own as she searches for comfort. 

You lean in and kiss her cheek, whispering in her ear, “I’m so proud of you.” 

And the look she gives you—fond, watery eyes and a hesitant smile—makes the entire evening worth it. 

---

When the speeches wind down, the two of you are swarmed by state officials and officers alike who want to give Agnes a kind word. She’s a bit tense through every interaction, but takes it in stride. Some well wishes are no trouble. 

It’s when the people you know come over that you can feel the trouble start. You hide your grin when they start trading jokes, Agnes scoffing, back in her element. 

Her glass sits empty on the table and you snatch it up discreetly. 

You manage to catch the bartender before he cleans up for the night. And though you can tell he’s not thrilled to do more work, he makes the drink—you slip him a twenty and his mood perks up. 

In the few minutes you were gone the table was completely occupied by your friends; Chief Proctor and his wife Sarah, John, a few of the other Westview detectives and some from Eastview, even Vidal. Every seat at the table is filled. You grin as their laughter echoes in the room, drawing eyes from other lingering groups. 

Vidal has stolen your seat. She leans back in it with the same air of poise she possesses in everything. Not for the first time, you completely understand what drew Agnes to her. 

While Chief Proctor captures the table's attention with a story, you offer Agnes her drink, and slip into her lap, unbothered. You can’t help the little squeak you let out. And though your wife manages to tamp down on any noises, her hand is digging into your hip, blunt nails threatening to draw blood. 

Agnes is painfully hard beneath you. 

Her behavior starts to make sense; the flushed face, how stilted her movements have been, her agitation. You blink. Agnes has been off since the drive here.

Without thinking, you adjust to get comfortable, and her grip tightens. 

Hissing so only the two of you can hear, “Don’t fucking move.” 

You’re impressed, past all the worry—she hasn’t been like this since Christmas Eve, and even then you think this might be worse. And you’ve put her in a precarious situation without meaning to. 

You’re deeply reminded of the moment in her office; how little it had taken to drive her over the edge. It’d been fun, though unintentional. But there’s an audience now.

Her breath is ragged. When you chance a look, her mouth is pinched, but her eyes are blown out. One shift—either in you standing up or moving on accident—and she’s going to put on the show of a lifetime. And no one seems in a hurry to leave. 

An idea hits you. 

“Where is your phone?” You whisper. 

Agnes slides it off the tabletop and into your hands without a word. She’s trying to measure her breathing—in 5, out 5. But the throbbing under you only seems to get stronger. 

You find the number without much fuss. 

You: Be discreet, but I need your help. 

If you weren’t moments from disaster, you’d be impressed; the recipient doesn’t so much as glance your way. They respond without even a blink out of place. 

Vidal: Go on. 

You: I need you to find a way to get everyone to leave. 

Vidal pauses after reading the message. She turns her attention back to the group while your heart beats in your ears. Then, you see her regard the two of you from her periphery. The corner of her mouth twitches. 

Vidal: What’s in it for me? 

You: Are you serious?

Vidal: As a heart-attack. 

Vidal: Tick-tock. It doesn’t look like she can hold out much longer. 

You resist the urge to sigh, worried it’ll jostle too much. 

You: Your offer becomes a promise. If we’re in your area, we’ll call. 

Vidal: You’ve got a deal, sweetheart. 

It doesn’t happen all at once. Rather, Vidal employs a slow form of manipulation on the group that leaves you breathless; she starts a small story you don’t really hear, drawing everyone in, only to end it with an exaggerated yawn. 

A yawn that passes through every other person at the table. 

God she’s good. 

Putting on an apologetic smile, she stands, “It’s been a long night—I know you all have a long drive home. Congratulations again, Agnes.” 

She throws a smile your way, eyes twinkling. Everyone else at the table stands as if on cue, offering their own apologetic goodbyes; leaving you to wonder if Vidal is some kind of witch. 

Only when everyone has departed do you turn to Agnes. Her face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

“If I move, are you going to…” You ask, soft. 

A hesitant nod. 

“What can I do?” 

Her voice is gravelly, “Just—give me a minute. Don’t talk.” 

You raise a brow at the second command, but don’t open your mouth to question her. She relaxes beneath you by just a hair. Each breath is slow, measured. 

Some of the organizers have begun to clean up around the edges of the room. They avoid interacting directly with any of the lingering guests, but their pointed looks aren’t subtle. 

A few groups take the hint and begin to head toward the front. It’s around this time that Agnes taps a finger against your hip. 

“Get up, carefully.” 

A despicable part of you considers doing the exact opposite. The room is mostly empty and she’s capable of being quiet when she tries; if you were to grind down hard and fast, she couldn’t do anything but accept the inevitable—the humiliating inevitable. 

But you shove that down and stand, using the arms of the chair to lift yourself so there’s as little friction as possible. 

Agnes huffs out a breath. 

“Are you okay to walk to the car?” You murmur. 

“I’m not going to lose it from walking,” she scoffs, “give me a little credit.” 

“You’re being very mean to the woman who could’ve utterly humiliated you a minute ago.” 

“The same woman who gets off on that?” 

You don’t deign to respond to that comment. Rather, you hold your hand out, wiggling your fingers expectantly. Agnes’ fond smile warms you as her hand slots into place in yours. 

The night air seems to help as you cross the parking lot. Agnes’ breathing loses its ragged edge, her gait a bit smoother. There’s only the sound of your intermingled breaths and the jingle of her keys; the reminder of earlier making you throb. 

Releasing her hand, you reach the passenger door before she can and pull it open, “Your carriage awaits.” 

Agnes scoffs. 

“Thanks.” She kisses your cheek before sliding into the car. 

You rush around to the driver’s side and don’t even turn the car on before leaning over, scrambling with her suit jacket to reach the belt buckle on her pants. Agnes straightens in her seat. When you brush her cock in your search, she twitches, swearing under her breath. A strong hand grabs your wrists. 

Blinking, you take her in with a look of disbelief. 

“Are you trying to torture yourself? Because that’s my job.” 

“You’re just—You’re going a bit fast.” 

“I’d say this is overdue in your current state.” 

“Drive and we can handle this at the house, yeah? Not in the car like a couple of horny teenagers.” 

You laugh, disbelief coloring the sound. 

“I think being hard this long has stopped the blood flow to your brain.” You deadpan, “Just let me suck you off and we can go home.” 

Agnes' eyes widen just a fraction. Inches from your hands, her hips twitch, as if unable to hold her movements back. But her grip on your wrists only gets tighter. 

“Let’s wait.” 

“We’ve both been thinking about your cock in my mouth since before we left.” 

“Baby—” 

“Do you not want my mouth? Because I’m more than ready to take you if we want to climb in the backseat and—” 

In your haste to fulfill your mutual desires, you missed the signs staring you right in the face. Or maybe you wanted to miss them. 

Agnes’ head hits the headrest with a thud that goes unheard beneath the volume of her moan. Every muscle in her form tenses, with the exception of her hips—which are rutting forward in search of anything to deepen the pleasure. 

Where you expect the hand on your wrist to slacken, it grows tighter. And as if on instinct, said hand falls to her length, effectively using yours to stroke herself through the rest of her orgasm. It’s messy, and her desire is seeping through her pants, but you can’t look away—not as her hips hump forward, almost in a frenzy, and as her mouth parts to let escape her groans. 

In time, her hips still. Silence reigns over the space. 

Your hand rests over her suit pants, where you can feel her cock continue to give weak little throbs. Her eyes have fallen closed. 

“Did I just get you off with my… voice?” You whisper. 

A breathless laugh, “You sound surprised.” 

“I’ve never heard of that happening before.” 

Her eyes open, then. It’s too dark to see the look in them, but what little light exists makes them sparkle. Your heart squeezes. 

How the hell did you get so lucky? 

Then she opens her mouth and says, ever so soft, “There’s no part of you that doesn’t drive me crazy.” 

You blink. Heat flares in your face and you look away, suddenly shy. But her finger beneath your chin brings your gaze right back up. 

“Agnes…” 

“Where’s all that boldness now?” 

Your blush deepens, “You liked it.” 

“Yeah, I guess I did.” She sounds slightly puzzled by the information, “You surprise me. Not many can.” 

There’s a lingering exhaustion in both of you that prompts you to start driving, eager to get home. Agnes sets one hand in the center console, palm up; and you place your own into hers. 

“Is that why you married me? Cause it gives you plenty of time to figure out my mind?” You tease once you’re safely on the highway. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, baby—your mouth was a contributing factor too.” 

You giggle. Your face flushes, again, despite the circumstances; Agnes has seen you in more situations of embarrassment and desire than anyone could hope to, and yet you still blush at her dirty jokes. 

In your periphery, the lights over the highway catch her smirk. 

“The same mouth I oh-so-generously offered, and you denied?” You ask with mock-hurt. 

“‘Oh-so-generously’ my ass. Don’t pretend that was a selfless act.” 

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” You pout, “You couldn’t keep yourself together long enough to get out of your pants.” 

Her hand tightens in yours. She jolts in her seat, as if flinching from the remark, and you glance over—but her face is impassive. 

You shake off the moment and settle into the rhythm of driving. Singing along to the music, there’s a calm over you as you traverse the open road, enjoying the lack of other drivers at this time of night. Agnes settles back into her seat, singing under her breath to the songs she knows—early 2000s rock, mostly. 

Halfway through the drive the song changes and you perk up. It’s modern with a heavy beat, the singer going back and forth between high notes and breathless singing, and you match it with a passion, not thinking too much about it. 

Agnes watches every movement. 

And when the song ends and you lean into the seat again, you hear a soft ‘fuck’ from her. You look over, brow raised. 

“Baby?” 

“Focus on the road.” She snaps. 

She avoids your eyes as you squint. The muscles in her neck are taut, a few straining, kinda like when—

Oh. Oh. 

“Agnes, are you hard again?”

“I’m fine.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Agnes huffs out a breath. Two fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, “I don’t—This isn’t normal.” 

“You’re just having an up-day in the hormone department. It’s not a bad thing.” 

“This isn’t… It’s like I’m in my twenties again, getting turned on at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t mind if not for this fucking headache.” 

The information swirls around in your brain for a moment before striking like a snake. No fucking way. She couldn’t have been that careless, right? 

“Baby, what color were the pills you took?” 

She pauses, “What?” 

“The pills. For your headache. What color were they?” 

Agnes throws her hands up, looking baffled by the turn in conversation, “Blue, I think. What does it matter?” 

You laugh. You laugh so hard tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes—and you almost miss taking the first exit you find, looking for a dark, empty lot. 

“Ibuprofen is pink.” You finally force out. 

Her brows furrow. Then, like a switch flipped, it registers. Pink crawls up her neck. Veined hands tense on the armrests. 

A song comes on that is upbeat, a little cheery. Agnes slams the off button. 

“Why the fuck were those in the same place?” 

“It is the medicine cabinet. That’s where medicine goes.” 

You find a dark, empty lot and pull in. Agnes doesn’t seem to notice as she watches you. 

“That’s—You—Why were they on the same shelf?!” 

Your wife. Your beautiful, brilliant, decorated detective of a wife—who somehow managed to miss the bold label on the pill bottle. Another round of laughter bubbles up. 

“You’re an idiot,” you say, voice fond as you throw the car in park, “and I’m going to fuck you so hard.” 

Her mouth snaps shut. Something inside you purrs. 

You continue, “Get in the backseat, Agnes.” 

There’s a moment where she bristles. She leans toward the middle console, lip curling. But then—she winces. The car is turned off, then, with a deafening finality. 

It is only you and your wife and the wind outside. 

Leaning closer, your hand finds the length of her with ease. You trace a finger along all her straining inches. Dark, wanting eyes don’t blink as they take in the sight of you. Agnes is exquisite, cast in shadow and moonlight through the windshield. 

“I won’t ask again.” 

“And if I don’t?” She murmurs. 

“You’ll spend a lot of quality time with your hand.” 

Leaves rustle like insect wings. Trees above sway, dipping into the light kissing Agnes’ strong jaw. 

Her seatbelt unclicks. 

You smile. Agnes rolls her eyes. 

“This is your fault. It’s only right you fix it.” She grouses. 

Neither of you pay much attention to your surroundings as you clamber into the backseat. You’re parked in the middle of a town you don’t know, where any patrol officer could see you, but you don’t care—Agnes would talk her way out of it.

No, all you care about at this moment is having her inside you. 

You straddle her thighs as she furiously works the buckle of her belt. In her eagerness, her hands are fumbling, and you take over with a laugh. Strong hands settle on your hips. The hold pulls you forward a fraction, just enough to press her cock against your core. 

“Ass.” There is no way that action wasn’t intentional, “Condom or no condom?” 

“Need to feel you.” 

Her honesty is rewarded with a kiss. Managing to unclasp her belt, you waste no time in slipping a hand inside to free her. A stuttered gasp is your reward. 

Agnes is heavy in your palm. She’s throbbing, veins prominent along her length, absolutely flushed. You run your thumb over the tip to collect the fluid there and spread it down her slowly. It won’t be enough, though—so you reach between your legs for some more. 

When you spread the wetness down her and give an experimental pump, her hips jump. Agnes’ head falls against the headrest with a low moan. 

In shades of grey shadow she is a vision; limbs sprawled across the backseat, hair wild around her head. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Eyes squeezed shut, her mouth parting when you squeeze. Ecstasy softens her hard angles when you stroke reverently. 

Tears bead at the corners of your eyes. You blink them away. 

“My sweet, stupid baby.” Tittering, you tighten your grip, “Too silly to read the label on the bottles. Or are you so desperate for this pussy that you took them anyway?” 

You push your panties aside and rub yourself against her. Agnes grunts, pushing up for more. The tip of her cock hits your clit and stars erupt behind your eyes. 

“‘Was an accident.” Agnes defends. 

The defense feels pretty weak when she’s humping her cock against you like she’s never cum before, but you’re not much better. You’ve been wet and wanting since sitting in her lap. And even if you’re playing tough, all you want is to sink down on her length and ride her until you know nothing more than how she stretches your cunt. 

You clench at the mere thought of her. Of how perfect it feels to be so connected—and how warm you feel when she spills herself inside you, clutching any bit of you she can get her hands on. Fuck, you need her so bad. 

But—a little part of you whispers—don’t you want to play?

“I’m sure. Just a dumb little mistake.” 

“Mhm.” 

Seemingly unsatisfied with sitting back, Agnes sits up to mouth at your breasts over your clothing. It makes you bear down where you grind against her. The vibrations from her moan and the muted scrape of her teeth over your nipple makes the emptiness unbearable.

You reach between the two of you and—tentatively—slap her cock. Her startled whimper drives you wild. 

You’re reminded of your idea from a few days ago; of putting a pretty collar around her neck and treating her like a dog. It’d take some convincing, but she’d like it—letting you take control, the denial of begging, the heated destruction of her pride as she humps your flesh like she can’t help herself. 

Another blow to her length. 

Toes curling at the sound of her pretty little cry, you can’t stand the separation any longer. You need her deep inside you. If you don’t get it, it’ll kill you. 

“It’s so generous of me to fix your mistake for you, isn’t it?” You ask, “What do you say?” 

Whining, pathetic little breaths, “Thank you.”

“You want this pussy, baby boy?” 

“Yes, yes. Fuck.”

A thought bubbles up inside you—that wayward desire from the day she spent at home once more rearing its head, urging you to give it life. You’ve thought about it at length only in private moments. The want makes you hurt. 

But will it be too much? Will this be where Agnes draws the line? 

Fuck it. 

Trying to sound as sure as possible, “Tell Mommy how bad you want it.” 

The second you give it life, you’re terrified of seeing it die. You hadn’t been honest with yourself about just how bad you wanted it—too scared that it was wrong, or shameful. Calling Agnes Daddy has always been natural; but is calling you Mommy… wrong? 

You hold your breath as Agnes gasps. Tears threaten your composure. As you stare up at the ceiling of the car, you try to rid yourself of them. 

She’s going to laugh. Shame bubbles up. You should’ve kept it to yourself. 

Agnes’ nails dig into your flesh as she whines into your neck, “Mommy—please, please let me—let me have you, cum in you—I’ll be your good boy—please.” 

The tears fall, but they’re not sad—they’re euphoric. 

Not bothering to hide them as you line her up and sink down, adjusting to the stretch, you hope she knows how happy she makes you; how safe you feel in her arms, admitting the lurid desires in your mind and just being. With every inch of her cock you hope she understands that she is your everything. 

Her hands shake when she bottoms out. You can feel how desperate she is to just take it, but she waits. For you. 

Kissing her cheeks, lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead; you can’t get enough of her handsome face, “Take what you need, baby.”

The dam holding back her need breaks. Hips snap up hard and you would gasp—if you could draw enough breath between thrusts. Shivers descend through your body as she chases her peak, brushing that perfect spot inside you with every movement. 

This would normally be where Agnes taunts you, prying admissions between thrusts and holding back to make you talk; but both of you are too far gone to prolong what you want. 

Little uh uh uh moans dissolve into something more primal, grunting and growling into the flesh of your neck. It makes you clench hard around her. 

“Fuck.” 

You couldn’t have said it better yourself. 

“You like that?” 

Agnes nods against your neck. She’s panting, and the sound feels deafening in the silence of the backseat. At the speed she’s pistoning her cock inside you, she’s going to be sore tomorrow.

You reach down and toy with your clit, fingers slipping over the little bundle of nerves. Every thrust of Agnes’ cock drags more wetness from you. It fills your ears just as your wife’s noises do. You whine, struggling to get friction where you need it most. 

Long fingers brush your own away. They slip against the same spot but with better coverage. Then, she does it again. 

“Right there, right there.”

Her fingers never leave your clit. Even as you lift yourself up and slam back down, taking every inch of her with growing fervor. Even as her thrusts falter in their speed at how you clench. Agnes is dedicated, even when staring down her own ecstasy. 

She gives so much—and to no one more than you. 

A home. A love. Comfort from the hard edges of the world and a soft place to expose the truths of yourself. Agnes gives all of these things without hesitation, without asking for much in return. It’s her turn to take. 

You tamp down on the whine as you secure both of her wrists and hold them away from you. Her eyes—which had slipped closed in the heat of the moment—snap open. 

“What are you—” 

The question cuts off when you take the entire length of her once again. It becomes a pained-sounding groan, but her eyes don’t close. You clench and try not to come at the sight of her staring like you hung the moon. 

Agnes fights your hold admirably. Her hands ache to settle on some part of you, to make you feel good because that’s what she does. But you can’t let her—not right now. This has to be all about her. 

“The first time I saw you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. All I could think about was how I’d do anything to have you.” You pant, “And now look at you. You’re all mine.” 

Her agreement comes quicker than you anticipate, “All yours.” 

“All yours who?” 

“All yours, Mommy.” 

“That’s right. And you want to be Mommy’s good boy, don’t you?” 

A particularly violent throb inside you. 

The answering nod is a touch frantic, “Yes—yes.” 

“Then I’m going to give you instructions, and I expect you to follow them to the letter. Because you’re so good for me.”

No verbal response. Rather, Agnes' head falls to your chest, groaning into the fabric still separating the two of you. You continue to ride her even as her throbbing grows more insistent. You need to stop, to slow down, but the idea of stopping her pleasure for even a second hurts you. 

Continuing while you still can, “You’re going to use me like I’m a toy that only exists to please you. Can you do that, baby?” 

“Fuck, yes.” 

It’s a miracle she’s held herself back this long; given how tormented she’s been all evening. But she won’t be tormented any longer. No—she is driving herself into you at a punishing clip, so deep it hurts in just the way you crave. 

She’s snarling in your ear like an animal, and your eyes roll back in your head. This won’t take long if she’s descended to this level of pleasure. 

A few moments pass in which she says nothing. There’s the smacking of joining flesh and her ragged breath. Her hips begin to falter in rhythm as she fights your hold on her wrists.

“‘Wanna fuck a baby into you,” she pants, “make it stick this time.”

Your toes curl at the thought, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Wanna make you a Mama again.” 

Grabbing her by the hair and dragging her into a kiss, your hips frantic, Agnes shudders. She’s almost there. You are too. 

“Fill me,” you breathe against her lips, “I want it all. Want the world to see that you own me. Want you to make a baby in me.” 

Agnes freezes and snarls in your ear, “Fucking take it.” 

She spills herself inside you in forceful spurts. And you shudder, your walls squeezing as you come, milking her for all you’re worth. 

As you feel your orgasm fade, you wait, sitting still as Agnes’ continues. You’re so warm that you can’t tell if she’s still shooting, but you can feel the weakening throbs. With the extra assistance still in her system you gather it may be a minute. But you don’t mind. 

“You’re so perfect.” You murmur against her skin, “So beautiful.” 

Agnes only grunts in acknowledgment. 

You press little kisses wherever you can reach, but don’t say much else, letting her come down from the high. Her breathing slows, heartbeat no longer fluttering. 

One hand begins to rub circles on your back. 

“Thank you.” She whispers. 

Chuckling, “It was my pleasure. Literally.” 

“Not for that.” 

You soften. Brushing a few sweat-soaked pieces of hair from her face, you take in every inch of her; reveling in the feeling of skin on skin. 

“I’ve got you, baby. Always.” 

Agnes joins the two of you in a slow kiss. You sigh, utterly content, even if the two of you are tangled in the backseat of the car—because you have her, the woman others could only dream of. 

You shift to get closer and Agnes releases a pained noise; you had forgotten she was still inside you. 

“Is it safe to go home, or will we have to make another stop?” You ask. 

“I think I’ve hit my quota for the night.” 

“Aw.”

She chuckles, “Greedy.” 

“Guilty.” You grin, “Take me away, detective.” 

She does. She finishes the drive home with a hand on your thigh, smirking everytime you fidget; more of her leaking out of you each minute. The jerk. 

Somewhere along the way you fall asleep. And when she glances over every now and again to check up, she can’t help but grin. 

Making sure you’re alone on the road, you push it to 57 just for kicks. Even as the dark scenes on either side pass in a blur, the road ahead is clear. The moon hangs low and bright above, reflecting off the filled-in parts of the pavement. 

The song changes and you sigh again upon hearing the familiar tune. It only reminds you of your wife; who should be home and in bed with you, but ended up on night-shift instead after hassling a suspect a bit too hard, canceling your planned evening. 

Which leads you to driving the backroads between Westview and Eastview, hoping the journey will tire you out enough that you can sleep. Instead it lands you in the position of blowing past a hidden cop. 

Just your luck. 

You groan as you turn the music down and pull off the road into a flat area of grass. With the lights, you can’t tell if it's a Westview or Eastview officer at first. You have pretty good chances of getting off with a warning if it's one of Agnes’ coworkers. 

But it’s not one of the regular officers. It’s the Chief’s car. You hit your head against the steering wheel. He’s been riding Agnes’ ass for months and will likely give you a hefty ticket just to spite her. 

While you’re hitting your head against the wheel, there’s a knock on your window. You roll it down without looking, “Look, Chief, I know the deal. You can just write me a ticket and I’ll pay it tomorrow.” 

“Oh, will you now?” 

You pause. 

Looking up in disbelief, “Agnes?” 

“That’s Detective O’Connor to you.” Her face doesn’t change from the stern facade, “You were driving pretty recklessly back there. Have you been drinking tonight, ma’am?” 

Subtly as you can manage, you check your side mirror to see if anyone else sits in the police cruiser. It wouldn’t be unlike the Chief to put Agnes through some insane test. No shadows lurk in the other car. 

You drag your eyes back to Agnes. She’s waiting, still just as stoic, but you see the mischief in her eyes. Well, if she wants to play, why not up the stakes?

Tilting your head and smiling, “Of course not, detective. I’ve been a good girl.” 

A split-second pause tells you she wasn’t expecting that. She licks her lips before the act slips back into place. She scoffs. 

“That’s what they all say. Wait here.” Her hand pats the open window before she’s heading back toward the cruiser. 

You watch her walk away in the side mirror with a grin. Her confident gait stirs something in you, always has. 

For a split second you consider throwing the car in drive and peeling out of here. You’re curious to see what Agnes would do. You hope she’d chase you all the way home; that way when you get there you could finally have a taste of what tonight was meant to be. 

You want Agnes painfully. Between work deadlines on your end and long hours on hers, you’ve been too tired to do more than cuddle, or some heavy kissing on a better day. You miss the connection that comes from baring yourselves to one another. And the orgasms, too, of course. 

Agnes is back at your window, breathalyzer in hand. You make a split second decision. 

“Please, detective, I can’t afford another ticket, and my wife will be so mad.” You plead, using that innocent, wide-eyed expression you know turns her on, “Is there anything I can do to… pay it off, per se?” 

To her credit, she doesn’t crack this time, “Are you soliciting an officer of the law, ma’am?” 

“No, of course not! Unless that’s what you want.” 

“Step out of the car.” 

The commanding note in her voice goes straight between your thighs. You open the door and step out, watching her brows raise at only the long nightgown you’re wearing. There’s a chill in the air that makes you shiver. Her eyes are drawn to your chest before she shakes away whatever is going through her mind. 

While you’re enjoying the game, you do hope she’ll let you get back in the car soon. The cold is unmanageable without more substantial clothing. 

Agnes holds up the breathalyzer, “Open your mouth.” 

You do so without thinking. A blush races up your face. Agnes can’t help but smirk. 

It’s not the breathalyzer that finds itself between your lips, but two fingers that settle on your tongue and press. You jolt at the pressure. Tears come to your eyes as you gag, but the weight of her fingers doesn’t ebb. You fight against your gag reflex to curl your tongue around the digits. 

Closing your lips around them, you swirl your tongue like one would around a piece of candy. Even through blurred vision you can see how Agnes’ eyes darken. She leans forward, staring at your lips. 

Her fingers move deeper, pressing harder, fucking your throat. You swallow around them. 

You find your mouth and throat empty as Agnes pulls out. Her hand grabs your face before you can close your mouth and holds it open, fingers wet against your cheek. She grins meanly. 

“Stick out your tongue.” 

The second you do, Agnes spits in your mouth. You whimper. It’s humiliating and you feel yourself clench around nothing. You leave your tongue in the position she demanded, obedient as ever. 

Agnes laughs, “Swallow.” 

Humiliation, in combination with your startling need for her touch, forces the tears to spill over and down your cheeks. The sight of them seems to please her. She’s always loved seeing you thoroughly debased; loves knowing only she can break you down like this. 

Partners in the past did try. Yet they would hesitate, hold back, believing they knew the limits of your desire instead of trusting you. A few would panic when they saw tears in your eyes and pull out of the scene completely. You often found yourself pretending; toning down your desires to ‘acceptable’ levels and leaving yourself unsatisfied to avoid that worried look in your partner’s eyes. 

But you’ve never had to pretend with Agnes. From that first time, she went as far as she wanted, knowing that you were an adult capable of safe-wording if it was too much; it wasn’t. You had been dripping and needy the entire time. You had cried while she sat back and watched you polish her boots with your tongue, and had nearly come undone from the act alone. It was everything you craved—Agnes was everything you craved; trusting, dominating, cruel when it suited, and the most loving partner you’ve ever known. 

You had vowed then and there that you weren’t letting her get away. And how lucky for you that she put a ring on your finger; the ring that is so much more than a symbol of love; but a brand, too, just as you desire. 

“I wonder what your wife would think of you offering yourself up to me,” Agnes muses, “but you’re so eager for it, I can’t help but wonder if she’s not satisfying you properly.” 

“Only you can satisfy me, detective.” You flutter your lashes. 

That draws a real laugh from her. Something inside you preens. You lean forward into Agnes’ space, angling your head for a kiss, but she pulls back. 

“Be that as it may, soliciting an officer is a crime, as is reckless driving.” Her hands reach for her belt, where her handcuffs rest in one of the holsters, “I’m going to have to take you in.” 

Though the idea of being cuffed and fucked however she pleases excites you, you’re not entirely pleased with how your original plan was ruined. Agnes knew where the line was during interrogations and she crossed it. Knowingly. It’s safe to say you’re a little pissed she acted out. 

A mean-spirited voice in your head considers pushing Agnes away entirely, leaving her wet and turned on for the rest of the night shift while you go home and find solace in your favorite toy. The rational part of you knows that no toy can replace your wife, and it’s her you want. You’re just not going to make it easy for her. 

You fall to your knees before she can work the cuffs off her belt. She jolts at the unexpected change. You slam against the ground pretty hard and wince, but don’t dare stop. 

Your hands find her belt buckle. Deftly, you start to undo it, “Please, I can make you feel good. I’ll do anything.” 

Agnes raises her brows. She doesn’t stop you from undoing her belt or slowly lowering the zipper of her pants. There’s a tenseness in her jaw as she thinks over the request. Intent on sealing the deal, you move your hands from the front of her pants; instead leaning forward to place a kiss where they’d just been. 

Looking up through your lashes, you beg, “Please.” 

“Well, since you’re so eager for it.” 

Ignoring the screaming in your knees, you shoot to your feet, capturing Agnes’ lips in a hard kiss. You attack with lips and teeth and tongue. At the same time, you slip your hand inside her pants and past the waistband of her panties. 

She groans against your lips when your fingers play in her wetness. Your fingers ghost over her clit and you grin into the kiss. Two hands settle on your hips and shove, your back hitting the side of your car; it hurts for a moment before you’re once again lost in the feel of your wife, how she’s using her position to grind against your hand, the obscene noises leaving her throat.

Your clit throbs with every roll of her hips. It’s intoxicating that she’s just taking what she wants, using you as a toy to achieve her own pleasure. But the desire between your own legs reminds you of the end goal. 

Agnes’ hips pick up speed, her usual low groans evolving into panting, high-pitched whimpers. She’s so close. You consider letting her have what she wants. 

Moments before she can fall over the edge you pull your hand from her pants. Hands settling on her chest, you shove her back. She jolts and stumbles. Her fucked-out expression from seconds earlier shifts to confusion, then anger. 

“What the fuck?” Agnes snarls. 

“You’ve been bad, detective.” Still leaning against the car, you cross your arms over your chest, “Or should I say Daddy.” 

Agnes stands straighter. There’s steel in her spine now, jaw taught as darkness comes over her expression. Amusement alights inside your chest. 

Her hands begin to unravel the belt from the loops of her pants, “I’m going to paint your backside blue.” 

“I don’t think so.” Your voice is hard. “You see, I had a lovely evening planned for us. Dinner, a movie, clean sheets for us to spend all night ruining. And we didn’t get to enjoy any of it because someone couldn’t control her temper. So you, daddy, are going to fuck me until I decide I’m ready to forgive you.” 

“It’s cute that you think you’re in control, baby.” 

Agnes steps into your space, belt in her hands. You stop her with a hand on her chest before she can get close enough to do anything. 

“I am in control.” 

“Those with the upper hand don’t usually have to state the fact.” 

You tilt your head, “If you don’t give me what I want, you’re not going to touch me for weeks. I’ll fuck myself and all you’ll be able to do is watch. And I’ll stuff all the pairs of panties I ruin into your bag, your pockets… everywhere you go, you’ll be reminded of just what you’re missing.” 

The smug expression slowly slips from her face. She tries to push forward again, but you’re unyielding; clenching your fist in the fabric of her shirt until she feels the subtle bite of your nails. There’s fury and a small trace of fear in her eyes. 

It’s rare that you have the upper hand. Usually Agnes is twelve steps ahead of everyone—you included. But this time she miscalculated, and she’s going to pay for it. 

“Your choice, daddy.”

She scoffs. Shaking her head, a few pieces of her hair free themselves from her low ponytail. They lay in and over her face before she blows them out of the way carelessly. She hasn’t been taking care of it, you can tell; and briefly, you consider if you can get away with commandeering her into taking better care of herself. 

You likely shouldn’t push your luck. Agnes is going to punish you enough for this stunt, you’re sure. 

The belt is tossed onto the ground a few feet away in a silent show of surrender. Her eyes are dark, churning with a mixture of fury and arousal. A brief moment passes where you wonder if you’re taking this a bit too far, but you shove it down; Agnes is an adult just as you are and will tell you if you cross any hard lines. 

“Is the heat on in the cruiser?” You ask. 

She pauses, taken-aback, “Yeah, of course.” 

“Good. You’re going to fuck me in it later. But first—” 

You open the back door of your own car as wide as it can go, just so you can perch on the seat with your feet still outside. With a smile, you open your legs wide. You hadn’t considered this outcome when you left the house for your drive, so your panties are relatively plain, but it doesn’t matter since they’re soaked through. 

Agnes takes a step forward and you hold up a finger. She pauses. You point at the ground. 

Her face goes red, “Not fucking likely.” 

And then she’s on you. She’s holding herself up with one hand on the seat, the other dragging your face to hers. Her body rests perfectly between your legs. With a low moan, you roll your hips against her front. 

Her grip on your face is painful. Thank god her nails are clipped short. 

Agnes pulls away from your mouth to bite and suck at your throat. You throw your head back, still grinding up against her, moaning with abandon. The friction is nice but it isn’t what you wanted. 

“I want you to eat me out.” You force out. 

“I don’t care what you want.” Agnes growls. 

“Oh? Well, I guess I should be prepared to handle my own orgasms for a while, then.” 

As you say that, you stop grinding, and lay fully against the seat, one of your arms snaking its way down your front and between your thighs. You’ve only circled a finger around your clit twice before her hand catches your wrist in a punishing grip. 

“Try it and I’ll tie you to the bed everyday when I go to work.” 

“I made my terms abundantly clear.” 

“You know what you forgot though, brat?” Agnes taunts, lips right next to your ear, “You’re too greedy to settle for your hand or your little toys. It’s only a matter of time before you get bored and come crawling back to me.” 

“Maybe I’ll just crawl to someone else. Agent Vidal has been hanging around.” 

A hand closes around your throat and you whine. She squeezes, your vision going fuzzy around the edges. You roll your hips. 

“I’ll lock you in the house if you even think about it.” Her voice is hard, promising, “You’re mine, baby.” 

“Prove it.” 

That’s the wrong thing to say. 

Agnes pulls back completely. Her hands leave you, the pressure of her body is gone. You look up and she’s standing just far enough away that you can’t touch her. You growl. 

The look on her face is one you’ve seen a dozen times; the very same one she wears when you’re about to endure something you don’t like. But you vow not to let her have the upper hand. Not this time. This time, you’re going to make her bend. 

“I’ll see you in the morning.” She says. 

The words are like a bucket of cold water over your head. You don’t spend long dwelling on the threat, there’s no time. 

Agnes is halfway back to the police cruiser when you worm your hand into your panties and bury two fingers inside without preamble. Despite being the source of your own pleasure, you jolt, back bowing off the seat. The moan that leaves your lips is exaggerated; pornographic. 

“Oh, yes!” 

You hear her footsteps come to a stop. You don’t dare open your eyes, not yet. The pleasure you’re experiencing is real, even if it is half of what it could be with Agnes’ help, but you have to keep up the act—have to make her jealous of your own fingers. 

Though she hates to admit it, Agnes is jealous in all aspects of life. There’s a bit of healthy competitiveness worked in there that you can admire. Yet some days… some days she comes home fighting mad, hair a mess and muscles clenched tight as she recounts the events that made her that way. And lately they’ve all had the same person involved—

Agent Rio Vidal. 

A loaner agent from the FBI, here to figure out some of the more poignant details of a murder on the Westview-Eastview county line. She’s confident and cutting and painfully attractive. Somehow, she knows how to push every single one of Agnes’ buttons, in work and play. 

You’ve only met her twice and each time Agnes was an animal afterward. The appreciative glances and suggestive words made you blush—and though you won’t admit it, turned you on a good bit—while Agnes could barely hold herself back from attacking the woman. So possessive. So jealous. 

You can use that. 

The door on the other car hasn’t opened and you know she’s watching with rapt attention. You put on a good show, rolling your hips into your one hand while pinching at your chest with the other. You could get off on her watching. 

Another exaggerated, high-pitched moan, “Oh, Agent Vidal!” 

Though the woman is attractive, you can’t imagine anyone but your wife. Agnes doesn’t need to know that. 

Strong hands grab your calves and pull you half-way out of the car. You squeak, eyes snapping open. Agnes looms above you and oh fuck you’re in trouble. 

“You little bitch.” She snarls, hand coming to wrap around your throat.

You try to moan but she doesn’t give you that much air. Another deft hand rips your own from your panties, even going so far as to rip the fabric off completely. There’s the ghost of her fingers above your center. You roll your hips. 

The sensation of loss and blurry edges is usually a huge turn-on; maybe it’s the intense change from oxygen to no oxygen, but you’re struggling more than normal. You tap her wrist three times. 

Agnes pulls away completely. Her hand is off your neck, the other gone from between your thighs. You take in large lungfuls of air and feel your heart-rate slow just a little. A little whine works its way from your throat, though it’s mainly a result of the throbbing between your legs that’s still driving you crazy. 

Your wife’s hands hover over you, eyes concerned, “Honey?” 

“I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.” You assure, sitting up and kissing one of her palms, “The quick change just… startled me. I’m okay.” 

“Should I… Do you need me to take you home?” 

“Oh no, Agnes O’Connor, you’re going to finish what you started.” Spreading your legs offers an obscene picture of just how soaked you are, made even more tantalizing by the ripped panties clinging to your thigh, “Unless you want me to find someone else who can finish the job.” 

It’s like flipping a switch. 

Overwhelming is a word that could be used to describe Agnes in bed—smothering, even. She has a way of overtaking every single one of your senses at once. Your skin is on fire with her touch, with the faint strands of hair tickling your face. The scent of burnt break-room coffee clings to her jacket. You even taste it when her tongue invades your mouth, moaning obscenely against your lips. 

You like being smothered, though. You crave it; aching for anything that will let you turn your mind off and just feel. 

Agnes pulls back. Her breath is hot against your lips, “You’re such a brat.” 

“Only for you, daddy.” You murmur. 

A shudder passes through her at the name. Her grip tightens on you, near bruising. You moan. 

“Where do you want me?” 

“With your mouth between my legs.” 

“Fingers?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Agnes chuckles, “So you do remember your manners. Interesting.” 

You roll your eyes. To your luck, Agnes doesn’t see—if she had, you would have been punished accordingly. Though you realize things are a bit off-balance with your threat hanging in the air; any other time, Agnes would have you bent anyway she pleased, taking all she wanted until you couldn’t handle any more. 

Being in control is… odd. Not unwanted, but odd. You have to be more aware of yourself, confident in every command that leaves your lips. You’re glad that this is Agnes’ preferred role even if you’re enjoying the change. 

Lips kiss the inside of your thighs and you shudder. When she sinks her teeth in, you squeal, jolting at the change. Your hand falls to the top of her head. 

“Not what I meant!” 

“Oh, then what did you mean?” She taunts. 

“If you don’t make me come right now so help me—” 

The heat of her mouth on you is enough to shut you up. Her tongue drags up your slit with agonizing slowness. She teases at your clit for only a moment before repeating the slow drag, making you whine, pressing her head closer. 

You feel the rumble of her laughter and god help you the vibrations feel amazing. Yet when you try to move your hips for more, her hands keep them pressed firmly to the leather seat. 

Another threat sits on your lips that never comes to pass. With the last slow lick, she fastens her lips around your clit and sucks, hard. It’s painful and wonderful and your back bows off the seat, hands scrambling for anything to clench into. The weeks have been long and you know you’re not going to last. 

“I’m going to come.” You force out. 

She laughs again. That, in combination with her attention focused solely on your clit, sends you straight over the edge. You feel wild, unhinged as your hips move without any guidance from your mind, chasing the waves of pleasure that make your every muscle go taut. 

But when the pleasure subsides, Agnes doesn’t stop. She pushes two fingers inside and curls them in that way you like so much. You clench around them, though you ache, not ready for more so soon. 

“I can’t—Please, I can’t.” You beg. 

“One more, baby. You can give me that, can’t you?” 

“I can’t.” 

“You can.” 

And you do. Her fingers know every inch of you well, her mind cataloging every spot that makes you whine, every move she performs that sends you over the edge. She calls on that knowledge as the pads of her fingers rub against that spot inside you with abandon until you can’t breathe, shrieking and moaning loud enough that you worry someone will hear you miles away. 

The pleasure tenses your body so tight that you worry the muscles will never relax again. It hurts in that delicious way only Agnes can bring out. 

When you do relax, she’s licking gently at you, collecting the flavor on her tongue and savoring it like a fine wine. You twitch. The hand you have in her hair pushes as you attempt to slide further onto the seat, away from her mouth. 

“No more,” you beg, “please.” 

“Am I forgiven?” 

You laugh, breathless, “Not quite.” 

You tug her up wordlessly until the weight of her is draped over you. It’s nice, comforting to feel her close. Her warmth helps fight against the cold biting at your lower half. Sighing, you bury your face in her neck, your hand coming up to lazily play with her hair. 

Agnes accepts the touch. She traces little patterns on your hip over the nightgown, soft and quiet. You can still see the red and blue lights from your hiding place in her neck. 

“Why do you have the Chief’s car?” You ask. 

She scoffs, “Mine broke down three hours into the shift. Had to call the Chief and walk all the way to his house to get the cruiser.” 

“What? Agnes, why didn’t you call me?” 

“I wanted you to enjoy your night in, honey.” 

You think about arguing, but you recognize the exhaustion in her voice, and decide not to push it—for now. It’s an argument you can save for later. 

“So what was it, the battery? I thought we just replaced it.” 

“I think the old girl might just be done for. We’ve had her for a while.” Agnes shrugs. 

“But that’s… we brought Nicky home in that car.” You whisper, chest aching. 

Another piece of your life—connected to your baby—that you won’t get to keep. Agnes tenses, her breathing growing ragged, and you feel terrible; she’s likely already thought about this the whole shift, spent all these hours remembering it alone. That’s why she didn’t call you—she didn’t want to drag you bag into the deep end of the pain, too. 

You press a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. No wonder she took the first opportunity to play with you, she needed the distraction. 

“I’m sorry, my love.” You murmur.

“Not your fault, honey. These things happen.” 

She sounds less and less like herself with every moment. You don’t want to shove the grief aside—the grief counselor said that only made things worse—but this isn’t how you want to handle it; Agnes draped over your freshly-debauched form in the backseat of your car. 

This is a conversation, a breakdown for home, where the two of you can take all the time you need to soak in the new loss. You need to distract her away from this. 

“Will the force offer you one of their vehicles?” 

“Yeah. They should.” 

“Where did you break down?” 

“By the bridge on Old Forest.” 

Perfect. 

“Let’s give her a proper sendoff, then.” 

Agnes pauses. The look she gives you is questioning, as if not quite believing your suggestion, but she knows better—knows you’re serious about this. 

“Alright.” 

Which is how you find yourself halfway across town, on a back road with no streetlights, pulling off perilously close to a ditch. Agnes' car is unmistakable even in the dark—from the extra mirror on the hood reflecting the moonlight to the dent in the back bumper she never got fixed. You feel suddenly overwhelmed as you trace your fingers over the body. 

So many memories, good and bad. Your late-night trysts in the back seat. Bringing Nicky home. The back seat full of his stinky sports gear. Agnes’ old case files winding up on the floor. 

Agnes comes up and drapes her jacket over your shoulders. The warmth of her body has seeped into the cloth, now blocking out the chill in the air, “This might not be the best idea.” 

You raise a brow, “Cold feet, detective?” 

“Mine are nice and warm. Yours, however...” 

She looks up and down your scantily-clad form with a worried furrow of her brow. It’s sweet, but not needed. 

“I don’t think our plans will keep me anything but warm.” You smile, leaning back against the car while pulling Agnes close, until every inch of her is pressed against your front. Her hands settle on your hips as she kisses you with a softness belaying the vulnerability she still feels, “Unlock the car.” 

“Honey—” 

“Agnes, would you rather I went home?” You murmur. 

“Of course not.” 

“Then what do you want?”

“Beats me.”

“You know what I want?” 

Using your leverage against the vehicle, you draw one of your feet up the inside of Agnes’ leg, careful to press every part of yourself against her. Her warmth radiates through her flannel and jeans and you smile. 

She raises a brow, “I’m sure I can guess.” 

“I want you to bend me over in the backseat of this car like you did that first time. You remember, don’t you? How pissed you were that I’d been teasing you for five dates.” You laugh at the memory, “You couldn’t even make it out of the restaurant parking lot.” 

“You were so loud we almost got caught.” She recalls, voice low, gravelly. 

“There’s no one around to catch us now.” 

Agnes wraps one of her arms around your waist and uses it to tug you sideways, making quick work of unlocking the car. With the hand not on your waist, she opens the back door, and eases her jacket from your shoulders. She lays it out on the cold seats with the warm side up. 

Not for the first time, you’re moved by her consideration of your comfort. It would be so easy for a partner to disregard the little things if it meant getting to the end goal faster; but not Agnes. You reward her with a long, slow kiss. 

When she pulls away, there’s a fond little smile on her lips. She pats your hip, “On your hands and knees.” 

You obey without question. Crawling onto the backseat, you’re reminded of just how confined the space of a car is. You have to keep your head bowed so as not to hit your head on the roof. It’ll be worth your while, but you know the two of you will be feeling the adverse effects of this choice for days. 

Agnes follows and shuts the door behind her. She works her way into the backseat until not a bit of space exists between the two of you. Every inch of her front is pressed against you, draped over you like a warm blanket. You push your backside back into her crotch, teasing. 

“I should’ve sent you home to get your purple.” You say. 

“Be good and you can have my cock later.” 

Warm fingertips trail up the back of your thigh until they snake under the hem of your nightgown. The soothing heat of her touch is lovely compared to the bite of the cold air. You lean into it. 

“Yes, daddy.” You sigh. 

Her body pulls away from yours and you turn, confused. A sharp slap to your backside makes your breath stutter, your core clenching around nothing. Your toes curl. 

“Interesting that you want to be good now, when you’ve been testing me all night.” 

“What can I say? I’m motivated by rewards.” 

You’re satisfied that Agnes seems to be in the moment, rather than locked up in the memories in her head. Intent on keeping it that way, you lean back into her, arching so you can match her entirely. Her muscles go taut and relax and being able to feel it makes you ravenous. 

Two fingers push your ripped panties aside and begin to drag up your slit, teasing. It should be noted that you are trying to be good for her, offering the control she takes to so well. You like to think she can tell, too. 

When she slips her fingers inside you without torturing you further, you’re sure she knows. 

You push back, desperate. You want more of her and bad. It’s as if the orgasms she gave you less than an hour ago never happened. Every muscle in your body quakes with the knowledge of what only Agnes can give you. And you want it so deeply that it threatens to bring tears to your eyes. 

“Please.” You beg without prompting, “Please, more.” 

A split-second hesitation belays her surprise, but she does slip another finger inside, stretching you even wider. You can’t stop how you move, nor the noises that come out of your mouth. You feel cursed with hunger only she can sate. 

It’s this car, this backseat, and the memories here that are driving you so mad. It’s the life attached to it that you never thought you would get; a family, a future, a wife who loves you despite all the ugly parts others had run from. It’s the years you haven’t had to live out alone, the pain you’ve shared. It’s the fact that this act was once a beginning and now it’s an end. 

Her lips press against the back of your neck, impossibly gentle, so unlike the role she’s meant to be playing. Something inside you breaks. 

“Agnes—“ You choke out. 

“It’s okay, honey.” 

You let go. 

You let go from holding yourself back—fucking yourself on her fingers until you shriek with pleasure. You let go of the ball of emotions in your chest, of hunger and pleasure and guilt. You let go of the pain and let tears spill over onto your cheeks. 

It’s not the best orgasm you’ve ever had, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s a goodbye to this piece of your life. It’s an end. And it hurts just the same as it feels good to embrace the potential of something new. 

Agnes holds you, steady as ever. You feel the dampness of her own tears on your neck. 

You turn and lay on your back, welcoming the weight of her. You use your thumbs to wipe away the tears coming from her beautiful blue eyes. 

“Am I forgiven, or do we have to go another round?” She asks.

You grin, not taking your hands from her face, “You’re forgiven, my love.” 

“Thank god.” 

Agnes drops her head until it rests on your chest. You laugh, extracting the hair tie so you can run your fingers through the length of it. Her arms wrap around you as much as they can. 

She presses a kiss to your chest, over where your heart is. You gently work through a knot in between your fingers. The windows are clouded with perspiration. Beads of water reflect what little moonlight peeks through the trees. Moonlight or no, you know every dip and curve of your wife’s form, and could identify every part of her without sight. 

The stale coffee smell has worn off, replaced by the faint undertones of the cologne she wears each morning. It’s deep and musky and comforting. 

Maybe it’s the weight of her head on your chest in combination with the memories that makes you speak, “Have you ever thought about us trying again?” 

She tilts her head so she can look up into your eyes without lifting from her resting place. Her brows are furrowed.

“Trying again?”  

The weight of her beautiful eyes on you almost makes you change the subject. These conversations are so much easier without that layer of intimacy. But you’ve started something and you’ll be damned if you don’t finish it. 

“To be parents.” You whisper. 

“I’m a little past due on that, baby.” Her smile is self-deprecating. 

“I’m not.” 

“You never wanted to carry. I remember that much.” 

“That was then.” You continue smoothing through her hair, “Now… If you want to try again, I’ll do it. I want to do it.” 

You can’t decipher the look in her eyes. She doesn’t pull away, but she’s tense. 

“We don’t need to decide right now. We have time.” 

She nods, “Alright.” 

“You’ll still be daddy, even if you aren’t my baby-daddy.” 

“That was terrible.” 

It doesn’t stop her from grinning, nor does it stop you from laughing. Something in the tension eases. You can’t lean down and kiss her like this, so you press a kiss to the pads of your fingers, and press them to her lips. She nips at them playfully. 

The quiet is nice, but you can feel the cold settling into your bones. You need to be back in a heated car before you get sick. 

“When is your shift over?” 

“In a few hours.” 

You nod, figuring out what time she’ll come home and how it fits into your schedule, “I have nothing after work if you want me to make good on those orgasms I owe you.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

It takes some time, but you and Agnes manage to untangle yourselves and worm your way out of the back seat. She sits, keeping you wrapped in her coat, until the inside of your own car is nice and warm. That earns her a few lingering kisses. 

It strikes her as odd that Rio should see whatever she does. This thought occurs to her mid-ballad, fire licking at the back of her neck. When she looks, though, the figure does not vanish, but neither is it a horror to behold.

You are as beautiful as she remembers. The memory, coupled with your eyes on her, nearly trips her up. But Lilia holds strong through the rest of Lorna’s ballad—even as the burns on her shoulders ache, even as your eyes dart away and meet the curious gaze belonging to Rio, even, even as you watch her with that unerring devotion she had once craved.

When Alice tilts her head back, singing with the full force of her soul, Lilia’s eyes leave you. She watches the curse burn to ash above Alice.

You’re gone when Lilia glances back.

---

Sharon, human she may have been, was right about one thing—no witch can be expected to traverse the road without rest. So, the coven opts to take turns keeping watch around the little fire they’ve built.

Lilia volunteers for the first watch, restless, feeling the weight of eyes on her still. She should’ve known you wouldn’t stay away long.

Your entrance comes when the rest of the coven has fallen asleep; Jen and Alice on one side of the fire, propped up against the rock they sat upon, Agatha furthest from the fire, back to it, while Rio—if that is her true name—sleeps near enough to lay a hand on her waist. Teen, she assumes, remains in the makeshift bed they made for him.

She sees your shadow at the edge of the clearing, hesitant. Looking over her coven one last time, she stands, and walks to where you wait outside the light.

“What do you want?”

You reach out, a hand on either side of Lilia’s face. She doesn’t shake you off. Yet.

“You’re as beautiful as the day I left.” You murmur.

Lilia’s lip curls, “Are your brutal truths meant to be endearing?”

“No. They’re meant to be nothing more than what they are.”

Against all odds, Lilia has yet to throw off your hold. You run your thumb gently over the curve of her jaw. Everything in you wants to kiss her—has dreamt of it for over a century—but you know it won’t be welcome.

Her curls are frayed and wild around her face in an endearing picture. Mess suits her just as well as refinement; though that could be your bias talking.

“Why are you here?” Lilia asks.

“Because you’re here.” And because your job brought you here, but that’s less romantic.

She seems to sense the omission. Any warmth drains from her expression, her hands removing yours from her person. You miss the closeness immediately.

“A truth and a lie. Which will come next?”

“It wasn’t a lie. I could’ve been anywhere.”

“Then go there. But leave the coven out of this.”

“I have no choice, Lilia.”

Lilia scoffs, “You had a choice when you vanished for a century!”

You close your eyes against the reminder. Hurt flares through you. The ache from years of longing, feeling that veil between you exist so thin, yet being unable to reach through. You hadn’t even been allowed a glimpse.

It was torment. A century should have been easy, but a life without Lilia felt like clawing your way through. If you tell her, will she believe you?

“Please.” You whisper. You’re not sure what you’re asking for.

“Goodnight.”

You hear her walk away, can’t stop yourself from blurting, despite the consequences, “Please, don’t put yourself in harm's way.”

Her jaw is tight, eyes wary. She looks you over as if something about you will give away what you know.

She crosses her arms over her chest. You recognize it as both a way to keep you out and support herself. You ache to be let back in.

“This whole Road is a death wish.”

“Don’t put yourself in more danger than normal.” You say, then, smaller, “I can’t protect you.”

“Are you asking for my sake or your own?”

“Whichever you’ll listen to.”

“Why ask at all?”

You step forward, hands outstretched to take hers, but you stop short, “Because I love you, Lilia.”

The admission makes her flinch. Her eyes water and she swallows hard. For a fleeting moment you see the startling vulnerability behind her eyes—the loneliness you should have quelled—before she locks it away.

“You can’t love.” Lilia sneers, “It would tip the scales too much.”

“That’s not true.” You defend.

“Oh? Then who, in this wretched universe, have you decided to hate?”

You bite your tongue. Lilia takes your silence for its own—incorrect—answer. Bitterness creeps into her smile.

“Goodnight.”

---

“Here to watch the big show?” Rio asks, lagging behind while the others move forward.

“Just doing my job.”

“Really? I’d say things were pretty square when you showed up.”

You eye her, despising her knowing smile, “Why are you here?”

“My job.”

“Hm. And how many bodies have you collected, again?”

Her smile is wide, but her eyes are cold. She’s always despised that the two of you are equals; that she can’t add you to her menagerie of bodies. Just the same, you’ve despised that you can’t write her name down.

Agatha looks back and tilts her head. You know she can’t see you. Like nothing has happened, Rio turns that grin on Agatha, skipping back to her side.

You catch Lilia’s eyes on you and ignore the question in them.

---

Lilia watches. She follows you in her periphery, makes note of where you are at all times. Her eyes always dart to your hands. Every time she finds them empty, she relaxes.

She’s taken watch, again. You read the weariness in her posture.

Against your better judgment, you lay your hands on her shoulders. She doesn’t shrug them off.

“You need rest as much as they do, beloved.” You murmur.

She stiffens at the old endearment, “We’re splitting the time. I’ll manage.”

You run a hand through her hair. The curls are still loose, wild. You untangle a few of them. Squeezing her shoulder, you place a kiss to the top of her head, savoring the closeness.

For a moment, your hand quivers. You still it. Your punishment was endured with grace, you must endure the distance with the same.

“Sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

Lilia scoffs, “Right.”

The weight of her mistrust is like a knife in your chest. You do not endure the pain with grace; you flinch, tears springing unbidden to your eyes. Lilia’s eyes close in regret.

You wonder if your presence is more of a burden than blessing. Had you mistaken her intent all those years ago? Love is not an emotion that’d come to you naturally. Perhaps, in your learning, you misunderstood, and Lilia’s kind heart wouldn’t allow her to break your illusion.

She had loved you once, hadn’t she? You could swear she had.

“You have to know I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Unless the greater universe calls for it.”

Her tone is honest, but sadness lingers within it. All you want is to see her face.

“If I thought it would do you any favors, I’d throw it all away.” You admit in a whisper.

Lilia turns, then. Her brows are furrowed as her eyes search your own, frantic, swimming with fear. In another time and place, you’d follow the statement with a smirk; but you cannot bring yourself to summon the facade now, not with her.

It isn’t a lie—your admission. If not for the overturning of the world without you, you’d forsake the job on your shoulders. You’d unmake yourself in a moment for her. For the younger witch who sang freely and lamented her gifts. For the wizened witch who eyes you with trepidation, mind rife with your betrayals and shortcomings.

“Where are your lies?” She asks.

“I tell them to myself, so you can have all my truths.”

Lilia smiles then, but it’s bittersweet. A warm hand settles on your cheek. You can’t help it—grace be damned—when you press yourself into the contact. They’re still there—the callouses you remember, rough against your flesh. She still smells of smoke.

There’s a rustling of fabric across the space. Alice shifts, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes. Lilia’s touch is gone from you. You settle next to her as she rests, not brave enough to lay another hand upon her.

---

You watch the knife fall as if time has slowed; absently, you think it might be, Time always did love her cruel jokes. It falls with Teen in the direct path. You feel the pen heavy in your hand, the paper near-weightless and yet the heaviest thing you’ve come to bear.

But then Lilia moves. The one moment you need time to slow for you, it’s returned to normal. Lilia shoves Teen out of the way and takes his place in the dagger’s path.

You fall to your knees, “No!”

Throwing your arms out, you aim a burst of magic for the dagger. Consequences be damned. Alice is faster, though, and moves Lilia from the dagger’s path before your magic can make contact.

Rio’s eyes are heavy on you. She can’t do anything—you didn’t technically break any rules, but the intent is damning enough.

“Now this is going to be fun.” Rio purrs.

You stare at the pen and blank paper you dropped in your haste to save Lilia. Your purpose. How close you’d come to unmaking yourself and yet… yet, a part of you is ambivalent to this. The larger part is freaking out, though.

Everyone’s eyes are on you. You flinch. They shouldn’t be able to see you.

Checking your mental list of active charms, you realize you’ve made an error; in your grief-induced act of heroism, you dropped every single charm on your person and directed the energy toward Lilia. The cat’s out of the bag, it would seem.

Lilia is the first to recover, moving out of Alice’s protective hold, “Do you ever think?”

You bristle, yet to stand from your kneeling position. It gives her an advantage over you this once.

“Well and often.” You defend.

“Well?” She questions, beautiful in her terror and rage, “You call that thinking well? You could’ve been killed!”

“You were in danger, Lilia.”

“And you’re not allowed to interfere.”

Ignoring all the eyes on the two of you, Lilia turns and storms through the exit that opened. You watch the road-conjured costume melt back into her normal visage as she gets further away.

It’s then that you recognize the silence.

All of them are staring at you save for Agatha, who eyes Rio with a mixture of trepidation and understanding. You stand as gracefully as you can manage. Smoothing down your clothes, you try to smile, but the action feels slippery on your features. How long has it been?

“What is it with you witches and beautiful mysteries?” Jen asks, “And where can I get one?”

You flush and fidget. The weight of their attention is so much less pleasant than your beloved’s.

Alice tilts her head, “Who are you?”

Holding out your hand, you speak your name. Rio laughs. You blush, remembering that mortal creatures don’t comprehend the original language, not like the two of you. Lilia once said it sounded like botched latin. The coven exchanges various looks of confusion.

“Lilia just calls me—”

“A pain.” Lilia’s voice cuts in, “A very severe, persistent pain. Are you all coming?”

You’re the first to follow, which prompts no shortage of grumbling. You find yourself grinning.

---

“Well, at least we have extra help on The Road.” Jen shrugs, later.

“She can’t help.” Lilia and Rio say in unison.

The two share a look. You can read the distaste in Lilia’s eyes. She doesn’t seem to think much of Rio, not that you do either—and you actually know her.

“Seemed pretty eager to help you, Lilia.”

“A foolish, misguided mistake on her part.”

You flinch at the statement, staring down at your hands. With the charms gone, you witness their true appearance; one completely dark, as if left to char in ember, the other so pale-white it is near translucent.

The beauty of a mortal body with a mortal heart is a range of emotion you’d have never felt before. Though lately, the gift feels more like a burden. Pain is your ever-present companion these days. Even when you look at your beloved, the love that overtakes you is laced with poison; with the reminder of what you had to do.

You can’t bring yourself to wish away the heart in your chest. But you do wish Lilia would be a bit more gentle with it. You’re hardly in the position to make requests, though.

“I can assist in small ways. Taking a watch at night, tending the fire.”

“No.” Lilia shuts you down. You freeze, “You are to do nothing but observe. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, beloved.”

You ignore the look between Alice and Jen.

---

The end of The Road is so near you can practically taste it. It tastes of rot and chaos, but you put that down as a symptom of your disposition. You watch Lilia and the rest of the coven relax, inhaling deeply.

A smile teases at Lilia’s lips.

“What do you smell?” You whisper.

The smile doesn’t vanish as you expect. Rather, it extends to her eyes as she regards you.

“Your perfume.”

You melt. Knees like jelly, you take her hand in your own, and press a kiss to the back of it, ignoring the eyes on the two of you. The Witches Road will give you what you most desire at the end. And before the last trial, it gives the traveler a taste of what their prize is. She can’t reach the end without knowing the truth.

“This body wasn’t mine, did you know that?” You ask. Her expression shifts as she grows a bit more tense in your hold. You hold tighter, “The witch before me had a little over a century left in her when I came. As payment, I had to serve out the rest of her years without the one thing that made it feel like living.”

The words are tumbling from you faster than you can comprehend them. You watch her face, hoping that what you’re stringing together makes enough sense for her to see. Even if it takes some other force whispering the facts into her ear for her to understand, you’ll just be happy that she knows.

Lilia’s the brightest witch you’ve ever known. She’ll figure out what you’re saying, but you just can’t stop; you need to say the words you’ve been dying to say for all these years.

“I never wanted to leave you, beloved.”

There’s no privacy on this cursed road, but you don’t care. If she asked it of you, you’d tell every soul you met how you love her. Lilia Calderu owns your heart, but even more than that, she owns your soul, and you have no desire to take it from her hands—even if she decides to rip it to pieces as repayment.

Let the coven know how you lived a century-long prison sentence to be with her. Let Rio and the greater powers know. You have no shame.

Lilia sneers, “You foolish woman.”

Her hands fist in the front of your shirt and pull your lips to hers. It’s messy; a clash of teeth and lips and noses, a poor imitation of the world-tipping kisses the two of you have found in one another. You’re both horribly out of practice. Never let it be said, however, that passion does not make up for tact. The near-quivering of Lilia’s grip and the force of intent behind her kiss makes up for any clumsiness.

The time on The Road has left her lips chapped, bitter with the remnants of lipstick, and never before have you known something so utterly perfect. You wrap your arms around her waist and pull her close enough that not a breath can exist between you. She sighs against your lips.

A curse of a mortal body is the functions that a higher being like yourself wouldn’t deem necessary; in this case, the need your lungs have for oxygen. Your heart is beating out of your chest and not from desire.

You pull back, panting, forehead resting against Lilia’s.

Breath successfully acquired, you tilt your head and press your lips to Lilia’s cheek, her temple, her forehead—anywhere you can reach, murmuring, reverent, “Lilia. My Lilia.”

“Darling.” She whispers with every kiss, voice hushed with devotion.

A lifetime apart seen to its end. Your fingers still itch with the pent up desire to hold her despite doing so. You were shameless before, but now… Gods help her.

Rio watches the entire display with shameless interest. Her eyebrows are high, a small, curious smile on her lips. Teen had been the first to turn away and busy himself with watching The Road. Somewhere mid-kiss, the remaining three found something more pressing to devote their attention to.

The lack of seeing, however, does not stop Jen from sighing, “When will it be my turn?”

Alice laughs at her side.

---

“Did you know all along?”

Lilia looks up at Agatha’s hushed question. She takes in the messy, haggard, but satisfied look of her fellow witch. She also catches the look Agatha throws your way. You sit across the clearing, Teen at your side, listening with rapt attention as you explain something about the moon.

“I had a suspicion when you mentioned my fortune.” Lilia admits.

A suspicion. A burgeoning hope she hadn’t let herself acknowledge.

“Oh?”

“What is fortune if not a lack of balance?” She shrugs, unable to look away from you, “To change it meant the end of my pain.”

“Enter, your solution.”

“Solution and problem.”

The two share a wry laugh. Lilia’s careful not to ask any pointed questions about Rio, though curiosity does eat away at her. Is anyone better suited to appreciate her experience?

Rio, while polarizing, is beautiful—and seems to have attached herself to Agatha in a way best suited to the witch. There is a beauty in it. Though she admits she’ll always prefer your well-meaning brutality over that which Agatha receives. To each their own.

“The Road seems to play favorites, giving you your prize early.” Agatha muses.

“Having her isn’t the prize,” Lilia corrects, “keeping her is.”

Agatha hums, eyes contemplative.

You’re aware of the eyes on you from across the clearing, but pay it little attention, instead devoting yourself fully to the question Teen has asked you. Gesturing with your hands, you weave similarities between the First Coven and their own. He watches you with a starstruck expression.

Something in your conversation prompts him to tilt his head. He fiddles with the little spellbook attached to his hip. Your musings come to a natural close and he speaks up.

“Can I ask—why Lilia? I mean, she’s great, but I guess I don’t understand.” Teen changes the subject.

You smile.

“Do you know the average person’s response to upsetting the state of the world?” You ask. Teen thinks, then shakes his head, “There isn’t one. It doesn’t matter what they’ve undone in the grand scheme, they’re painfully ignorant of what they’ve done. And what’s worse, most don’t care.”

It’s an old grievance you have with the greater universe. You recognize the necessity of it, but will never deny how it grates on you.

“Lilia… Lilia spent a large part of her life as a harbinger of tragedy. She’d travel through villages and upturn their worlds with a prediction.” You sigh, chest aching with the pain you know she suffered, “But when she did, she always sought to fix it. There were times she leveled the scales so completely that I didn’t have to do a thing. Few had ever considered me in such a way before.”

You look up from your fidgeting hands to Lilia. Her eyes are already on you. The warm, steady weight of her gaze makes you melt.

“And the others, well, none of them were her.”

Teen nods, “That’s sweet. I think.”

You chuckle. In a moment of fondness, you ruffle the curls on his head. He rolls his eyes but allows the contact; how do you tell a force of nature no?

---

You stare back down The Road with the coven. Though the return journey will be without any of the usual hassles, you curse the greater powers for not just providing an exit door. Your feet are killing you.

Lilia looks weary despite having rested. You rub a hand over her back, working out the knots you find with a skilled hand. She sighs.

“Where do we go from here?” She asks.

You raise a brow, “Back to the start of The Road.”

Lilia glares, though it lacks significant heat, “Us, darling.”

Ah.

“Wherever you lead, beloved.”

“That’s a lot of control.”

“Give me a century or so and I’ll start making decisions again.”

Her fingers lace through your own. Lilia stares down the length of The Road she has traversed and conquered, yet the greatest battle lies beyond. The world will never again be the same for her.

You raise her hand to your lips. You press gentle kisses to the knuckles.

“To the return of your glory.” You murmur.

Lilia looks at you for a long moment. Using your hold, she pulls you down, into a short but mind-numbing kiss. You hold tight and sigh, content.

The last rays of rich, sweet sun alight on you, dancing through green leaves to dapple warmth across your front. You breathe in deep. Magic, sharp and alluring, dances in the air, drawing you along the path like a hand on your back. 

Your heart sings as the entrance comes into view—scarcely a crack in the mountainside, nearly lost among flowering vines. Mellow blossoms hang upon the vines in soft pink; and as you slip beneath a section of them into the passage, their sweetness seeps into every pore. 

Plucking one, you tuck it behind your ear for safe keeping. 

Darkness clings to every surface in the cave passage. You follow the path by way of the stone walls, finding the proper turns based on sharpness or shape in the rock beneath your palm, until the distant sound of water reaches your ears. 

A pleased coo sounds from your chest. Wispy lavender seeps from the bundle there. 

"I know," you whisper fondly, "almost there." 

From afar, little waves echo, calling to you like a siren song. They grow quieter the closer you come, until you step over the threshold and find them near-silent, as if holding their breath at your entrance. The moon pool is just as you remember—and even more beautiful than in your dreams; the water glowing as the stars begin to appear above, where the cave roof has weathered away. 

Near the back of the cave is a bench-like ledge carved into the black stone. You unwrap the bundle from your chest and lower it onto the bench with great care. 

You're fiddling with the fabric of your garment when you feel it—eyes.

"Sun scarcely below the horizon and here you are." A voice drawls, "Some might call you eager." 

Delight pulses through your chest. You peer over your shoulder. 

And there she is. 

Her head is barely above the water, which is running down her pale skin in rivulets, wild hair clinging to the bare flesh of her shoulders. The corner of her mouth is pulled up in amusement, revealing a hint of sharp canine. 

You raise a brow, "If I'm eager, what does that make you?" 

Her smirk widens. Dark eyes trail down your form as you finally face her, hesitating notably around your middle. 

"Impatient." 

Something in your chest melts. You draw closer, standing on the rocky edge of the pool, taking her in. Her sharp eyes trail over the space—searching. 

"Would you like to meet your daughter?" You ask, soft. 

That brings those dark eyes back to you; you can see the blue ring around the edge this close, and watch as it grows just a touch larger. Her hands twitch beneath the water. 

"No, I came to admire rock formations." She deadpans, with little conviction.

You roll your eyes and trail back to the stone ledge where your bundle of joy waits, a little fist stuffed in her mouth. She smiles upon seeing you. 

You lift her familiar weight into your arms and she curls into your warmth, utterly, completely sure of her place—so like her Mother in that way. Eager noises leave her as she gets a glimpse of the water. 

Agatha's catching breath is almost lost beneath the sound of the pool. 

A sturdy rock ledge sits just below the surface of the water at an edge, and you carefully step down onto it. Agatha watches from the other end of the space. And when you lower yourself and your daughter to sit within the water, you blink—Agatha appearing before you in a heartbeat. 

"Violet," you murmur, turning her to face the other woman, "say hi to Mama." 

When the water laps at Violet's appendages, little purple scales become visible on her skin, darkness clinging to the very tips of her fingers. She blinks at the new face watching her, unsure for only a moment before she coos.

Black-stained hands come from beneath the water to reach for her. They hesitate. 

"She's yours. Hold her." You assure. 

Lavender mist oozes from Violet's palms. 

"Oh of that I have no doubt," Agatha says, impossibly smug as she pulls Violet near, "only my daughter would cast so early." 

"You don't think I could have contributed to that?" 

"Her gifts are my color, dear." 

You sigh, but drop it. 

Careful hands trace over every inch of your daughter—from her little feet that have grown webbed upon contact with the water, to the nose that matches her Mama's. And like she's pleased by the reverence, she allows the slow discovery. Every inch her Mother's daughter. 

A sharp-nailed finger traces a soft cheek. A real, disbelieving smile pulls at Agatha's lips; so like the day you told her the news. 

The words leave you on instinct, "No spell, no incantation." 

"Made entirely from scratch." 

And when Agatha's eyes meet your own, they're almost entirely blue—the darkness driven back by the emotion in her chest. You smile. Unable to bear the distance any longer, you lean forward and steal a slow kiss, ever mindful of her canines. 

You don't try to place a name to the emotion in her eyes when she gazes at you after, but if you had to it'd be awe. 

Violet splashes, whining. 

"You can let her go, she's a very good swimmer. And we've been practicing with her breathing." 

Her eyes never once leave Violet, but she does let her go. Violet sinks before her little arms and legs kick into gear. She moves slowly but confidently beneath the surface, exploring the rock and coral within her reach. 

Small fish dart from her path. Some of the larger ones move near, drawn in by the purple vines pulsing beneath her skin. 

A finger traces the matching marks where they meander around your middle, coalescing into an abstract design in the center of your stomach. You watch her travel the length, light, claiming, and you remember how they'd glow when you were still carrying Violet—how she'd reach back to her Mama, even then. 

Violet surfaces and travels in circles. When she ventures a bit too close to the cave exit, Agatha clicks low in her throat—warning. Violet's eyes light up in interest and she swims back, bumping Agatha affectionately, hazarding a click of her own. 

That awed look is turned on your daughter. 

"It's rude to speak amongst yourselves when you know I can't understand." Pouting, you give the two your best disappointed look. 

"Poor angel, are you feeling left out?" Agatha coos, falsely saccharine, before looking back to your daughter, "We'll teach you, won't we, darling?" 

Violet clicks in what you guess is agreement. 

Sadness sours the joy in your chest. When you take in their mutual delight, your heart squeezes, and you swallow down the sudden lump in your throat. 

"You say that like we have time," you trace shapes on the back of her hand, "as if we can see one another at any opportunity."

You look up through the hole in the cave roof, taking in the looming Violet Moon above your heads—the one thing that allows you to see your lover, for your baby to see her Mama. Tears burn hot behind your eyes. 

Of course you knew it'd be an issue when you fell pregnant, but you'd been so happy, then, shoving these issues away until you had to deal with them. Now you do, and see no way through; you have no desire to separate Agatha and Violet, but can't bear to live without your daughter, either. 

"How lucky you are that I came prepared." 

Agatha smirks. 

"The last time you said something like that, I ended up carrying your child." 

"You never complained. In fact, there was very loud begging for—" 

"Agatha." 

Her laugh is just shy of a cackle. A braided necklace is lifted from her neck and held out to you. 

The weaving is intricate, strong. The braid has been woven through the hole of a shell, which has been carved with care into the image of three women—the Triple Goddess. You trace a finger over it. 

"I don't understand how this is meant to change things." 

A roll of her eyes, "Put it on, angel." 

When you hesitate, she plucks it from your hands and slips it around your neck. 

The change is… slow. Near unnoticeable.

Rather than push against you, the water seems to glide past you, and you blink as a sharpness comes to your vision. When you move, your legs feel impossibly heavy—and you gasp as a scaled tail where your legs should be. 

Violet swims near, bumping your tail. 

You stare with wide eyes, taking in the change in your appearance and how pleased Agatha looks with herself. 

"But Violet—she has legs." You whisper.

"All children like her begin bipedal." Agatha waves a hand, sounding almost proud. 

Even delighted as you are, you can't stop staring, terrified. You've only ever known a life above the surface—are you capable of adapting? Do you want to? 

Violet whines, picking up on your distress. 

Agatha runs a gentle hand down your tail—and gods it feels amazing—before cradling the baby in an arm, nuzzling their noses as she purrs low in her throat. Violet settles. 

"Agatha, I—" 

"What does that world have that trumps this?" She asks, smooth and coaxing, "That matters more than what we've created?" 

You don't have to stare at Violet to know she matters more than anything in the world; the moment she came into existence, her laugh was your music, her tiny, twitching hands your anchor. There is nothing you won't do for her. 

You know Agatha senses it, and she presses, "If they find out what she is, they'll condemn her, and you. Below the surface she's a miracle." 

But she knows the surface—knows unaltered sun and sand between her toes and flowers. Is it cruel to take her from it while she can still live within it, unknown, or more cruel to deny her a world in which she could fare better?

Pulling the flower from behind your ear, you fiddle with it. 

Beyond love, at its core, Motherhood is sacrifice; you know this. You gave up much when she made her existence known—and you've given up even more since. 

A part of you asks, what is one more thing? 

The other part cries, but it is all we have!

Every part of you aches to snatch Violet and go back to the home you know, but you don't—because the surface isn't all you have; you have Violet. 

Violet, who lived behind your heart, shifting every organ so she could grow. Violet, who brought with her slow, glowing magic that took up residence beneath your skin, forever altering you. And despite how she continues to change you, she is the constant that matters more than anything. 

You set the flower aside. 

Slowly, you slide from the ledge, fully into the water. You sink before instinct kicks in—your tail moving to keep you above. 

Meeting Agatha's eyes, you murmur, "And what of me?" 

A hand comes to rest at the small of your back, pulling you through the water until no space exists between where you meet. Her fingers toy with your scales in a way that feels horribly, blissfully intimate. 

Blue eyes trace over you in long, worshipful glances, like one looks at a piece of art so beautiful they can hardly fathom it. And the hand on your back trails upward until it meets the soft skin of your cheek, light, as if she's afraid of marring you should she press too hard. 

"You are divine." Agatha whispers. 

You smile, and you kiss her—adoring, ravenous—until both of you sink enough to submerge the gills on the back of your neck, so you can continue to kiss. It's not until a small, sleepy hand tangles in your hair that you pull back. 

Violet is curled like an angel in the crook of Agatha's arm—one hand clutching a fistful of your hair, the other clutching a fistful of Agatha's. Her little eyes flutter open every now and again, but it's a losing battle as sleep rapidly overtakes her. 

You press your lips to her cheek. 

"Mama will still be here when you wake." You assure. 

And that is all she needs. 

The two of you watch her, taking in every rise and fall of her chest, and how she curls even closer in sleep. She's perfect. She's yours.

"Look at what we made."

Agatha's breath catches, before she smirks, "More like what I made—your genes didn't even put up a fight."

"Not true," you sputter, "she has my cheekbones!"

"The cheekbones you can barely see beneath the baby fat?"

"They'll become more prominent with age!"

"Believe what you must."

You grumble and throw up your hands. She's right—Violet is the spitting image of her; if not for the fact that you carried her for nine months, you could hardly tell by looks alone that she was yours. 

Damn your lover and her annoyingly powerful genes.

"Fine," you concede, "Violet looks like you, but that just means the next one has to look like me." 

She turns, startled to find herself staring back down The Road. Her feet are bare, the leaves rough against the bottom of them, hair a wild mess of curls. She can smell the mud on herself, but mercifully seems absent from it on her person. 

The familiar weight of her own clothing startles her. She runs a hand down the sleeve of her cardigan, feeling the slight differences in texture between the yarn. Years ago, in a fit of fancy, she’d made it herself; it has been one of her most prized possessions since, and she’s relieved to have it returned. 

Lilia pauses at the sight of you. You lean against one of the gnarled trees, smiling in that fond way time had robbed her of remembering. There’s a welcoming energy surrounding you that she remembers, though, and finds herself drawn back into your orbit. 

Loved it is, then. 

“How are you here?” Lilia asks, breathless. 

“Where else would I be, my Lilia?” The accent lilts off your tongue just as she recalls, too. 

“You know what I’m asking.” She says, “How are you here—how am I here? I fell.” 

You tilt your head. Though the look you offer is curious, calculating, the warmth doesn’t ebb. It makes her feel lighter than a feather. 

“Death, upright.”

The words make her flinch. She can still feel it; the weight of the deck in her palm, the eyes of her coven on her, the encroaching doom of the swords aiming for all of them. And that final card—the destination—sealing the fate she had known since stepping into the trial. 

Death, upright. 

Your eyes are expectant, waiting. 

It clicks for Lilia, “New beginnings, transformation, and growth.” 

“Death is only a new beginning, and The Road is Death.” 

The Road is Death, yet she has never felt more alive. She feels the reliable weight of her magic still in her veins. Her heart is light at the sight of your smiling face and loving eyes. She itches to take your hand in her own again. 

As if sensing the desire, you extend your hand, palm up. She closes the distance to take it and finds herself pulled into a kiss. It’s sweet and slow, but brimming with centuries of longing. She pulls back and presses a kiss to your palm. 

“My Lilia, how I’ve waited for you.” You whisper, cupping her beautiful face between your hands. She looks back with soft, glassy eyes. “Come, I have so much to show you.” 

--- The Road is much more subtle in death than it was in life; or, at least, it is more casual about the changes it weaves in. The wild forest thins on either side, trees growing more sparse, or pushing back away from The Road as homes pop up alongside it, from victorian-style to mere cottages.

She can witness scenes through the windows, families caught in images of domesticity she doesn’t care for but they must find joy in. Others are outside tending gardens or enjoying the endless existence sprawled before them upon their porch. It’s peaceful, beautiful. 

Lilia is warmed by the fact that almost everyone offers a greeting. She regards you from the corner of her eyes when every soul regards you with recognition.

Before she can question the behavior, the two of you come upon the edges of a city. 

Old, worn stone in gray rises into buildings that blot out the eternal moon. Buildings she finds matches for in the back of her mind. She can hear the water lapping at the shore even from here. Eager in a way she’d forgotten, she pulls you along the streets, ignoring the glances of everyone around, until she finds that old stone staircase. 

Not a rock is out of place, nor has the water weathered anymore of the sand than she remembers. The waves are dark blue—purple, even, where they meet the shore. White moonlight bounces off the crests. 

“Care for a dip, like old times?” You ask. 

When Lilia turns, you look just as you did, then; so young and joyful, elaborate skirts bunched up in your hands. She nods. Stepping down the staircase, she finds she, too, is clad in the skirts she wore, having to hold them lest she trip. 

Lilia is one-hundred-and-two again, not appearing a day older than a mortal twenty-five. Her hair cascades in thick, loose brown curls around her shoulders and down her back. Her skin is smooth and sun-kissed and her eyes twinkle with the remaining joyful youth she possessed then. But when she sheds her dress to bare herself to you, she isn’t shy. 

You sink to your knees as you did then. The moonlight traces every contour of her form that you’re eager to bring your lips to. And you do, mouth winding a path up her leg when a hand in your hair stops you. 

“This isn’t how the memory goes, darling.” Lilia tuts. 

Your eyes are pleading, “A little embellishment couldn’t hurt, could it?”

She shakes her head. Her hand moves from her hair to cup your cheek. 

“I love the scene as it is.” 

“Then that is how it will remain.” You press a kiss into her palm. 

Lilia steps fearlessly into the waves and beckons you. You shed your layers and follow, desperate and eager for her after such a long separation. Somewhere between touches and caresses, your bodies return to their wiser, more lived-in forms; the past remembered and honored, but made anew, as Death tends to do. You kiss Lilia hard. 

--

Varying paths shoot from The Road. Some are made of stone, winding uphill and into towering cities that are archaic in appearance. Others extend until they vanish into treelines. It is none of these that bring Lilia to a stop; the one that does can barely be referred to as a path, but rather a pattern of spots where the grass has been weathered away permanently. 

It is plain. Worn. The patches of exposed dirt reveal divots in the earth that are small enough to resemble thousands of footsteps. She stares along its length in search of answers. She feels herself tempted. 

Lilia looks over her shoulder to you. 

“Wherever you lead, I will follow.” 

“But is it safe?” She presses. 

“There is nothing that can harm you in Death. I swear it.” 

The first step onto the path prompts something to unfurl in Lilia’s chest, like that of a loosening fist. Her feet match the steps of her formers, bending, molding into the divots and taking an infinitesimal piece of the earth with her. 

Each moment moving away from The Road brings change; past the treeline looming ahead, there’s a whisper of music. Muffled voices in the hundreds or thousands rise in harmony. 

Closer, she nearly pauses, the melody hitting her like a train. It only makes sense that The Ballad should have made it into the afterlife. Her hand reaches for your own, gripping tight. Faces pass behind her eyes; Jennifer and Alice and Agatha and Billy. 

Her coven. Oh, how she misses them—loves them, even now that Death has stolen her away. Some things never leave a witch. 

The two of you come to stand in a wide field, an impossibly large stage near the back edge. Lorna Wu is center stage, microphone pulled close by one hand while the other gestures and weaves. She is lost in the music, moving in a whirl of color and flowing fabric; she’s a goddess straight out of the seventies, just as the pictures portrayed. 

Alice’s resemblance is strong when Lorna throws her head back and smiles. Lilia’s not sure she’s ever seen evidence that the woman could smile; but given her goal in life, it’s no surprise that her peace would be found in Death. It comforts her to know Alice is here somewhere basking in the glow of her Mother’s joy. 

Thousands of witches mill around the stage. No two groups look exactly the same—some, she thinks, may even be older than she. Others are young, taken before their power could manifest. Her heart aches, yet there is a levity in knowing they’re all together, free to traverse the existence after life, absent of hurt. 

“Would you like to join them?” You ask. 

Lilia takes in the crowd, a rebuff poised on the end of her tongue. She’s far too old to dance like a girl amongst her sister-witches. Yet, she doesn’t give voice to her denial; because despite her age and her feelings on what would be proper, Lilia wants to be among them. 

“More than anything.” She answers instead. 

Your face spreads into a beautiful smile. Offering your hand to her with a flourish, “Well, then allow me, my lady.” 

The two of you work your way into the center of the crowd. Lilia doesn’t miss how people part for you, every single one offering a nod. But your attention is focused solely on her and it’s heavier than she remembers, with more behind it. 

Lorna has worked away from The Ballad and into Red Haired Woman. Witches on either side move as the music bids them, limbs fluid and wild. The air is thick with smoke and cedar and lavender. She tilts her head back and breathes deep. She can’t claim to know what it is that takes hold of her spirit, but she allows her limbs to move of their own accord, finding your own as the two of you dance with abandon.

--

“Darling?” Lilia murmurs, watching you. 

You’re focused hard on the fruit presented in front of you. Hands hover, unsure, painfully intentional in the piece you want to pick for her. It reminds her of the early days in Romania, years before you—she pushes that thought away. 

The witch that has plucked each piece to sell watches your process. Her lips curl in amusement, leaning against the stall, waiting. There is familiarity in how she regards you and it is this that sets Lilia’s mind running. 

Your hand comes to hover over one of the oranges and you snatch it up as if it would be taken from you. 

“Thank you.” You say to the owner, who only nods. Then you turn on your heel and offer the orange to Lilia, “For you.” 

Lilia takes it with a smile. She walks at your side as the two of you weave through those within the marketplace. You’re careful to keep a steady pace, so Lilia doesn’t get swept away in the crowds. 

Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh of the orange, repeating, “Darling?” 

“Yes, my Lilia?” 

A black cat weaves its way through your legs and nearly trips you up. It runs off, a child no more than seven running after it. 

“Who are you to the dead?” She asks. 

“A guide.” A loose term, really, “I aid the newly dead in letting go of life and embracing the after.” 

Lilia wonders for a moment if that is what you’re doing now, but she knows that isn’t the truth. You waited for her same as she has longed for you. Not one moment spent together has been out of something as simple as duty. 

“They all know you, as if you’ve been around for eternity.” 

“Something like that.” You shrug. 

She eyes you with that look that means she expects an explanation. But the way this place works—the way Death works is difficult. It would take years for even the most enlightened witch to understand it. Well, years being a filler term, anyway. 

You sigh. Words come to mind, only to be banished, labeled unsuitable. Finally, you weave together the concept as best as you can, and open your mouth to speak. 

“Death is eternal—past and present and future. I’ve been here for eternity, same as I’ve been here only a couple of centuries.”

Lilia seems to have no trouble grasping the concept, “Death winds outside of time.” 

You nod. Of course Lilia would understand, with her experience of living outside the linear path; your Lilia, winding out of time, who saw the true sequence of existence in the fact that there is no sequence—things just are. 

“By your logic, all beings are eternally dead.” 

“They are. In a way.” 

Her head tilts, “Yet you said you waited for me. If a being is eternally dead, I would have always been here.” 

“My position grants me… unique insight into the illusory flow of time seen in life. I exist here, where time doesn’t live, while being aware that souls still remain on the linear path. I did wait for you, for so long—because my seeing both existences cemented your path in the linear.” 

Torture of the truest sense; knowing, rationally, that she should be with you in the existence after, only to glimpse into that illusion of life and find her cemented there, far out of your reach. You could have clawed away at the timeline and brought her home to you, but you knew she needed to find what existed there; so she would find what makes Death more than just an end. 

The mere reminder of the torturous existence without her has you stopping in the center of the crowds, uncaring for how they have to weave around you two. You pull her into a loving, intense kiss. She responds in kind. Her hands fist in the fabric of your shirt and pull so not a whisper can exist between the two of you. 

When she pulls back, her lips are swollen, eyes dark, “Where do we go from here?” 

“Wherever home is.” 

“Helpful. Thank you very much, darling.” Lilia deadpans. 

“Home is wherever I have the pleasure of seeing you happy, my Lilia.” You say, endlessly affectionate, your hands on either one of her cheeks, “I’m merely following you to where that may be.” 

“Some guide you are if I’m the one doing the guiding.” 

You laugh. Her eyes sparkle with amusement and mischief. Despite her spoken misgivings, though, she takes to the role well. Lacing her fingers through your own, she begins to pull you back down The Road as it winds. You follow, just as eager as she is to figure out where home is meant to be. 

--

Home isn’t what you expect. 

You anticipated an ancient place—like the homes you shared in Italy and Romania—or at least somewhere more rooted in nature; this is neither. The two-story house is right out of a modern sitcom. It’s somewhat plain, absent of the wizened flair you’ve come to associate with Lilia. 

Lilia, who stands on the porch, hands hovering over the door as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Lilia, who had picked up speed the second she saw the house in the distance. Lilia, who is looking back at you, tears in her beautiful brown eyes. 

A bark of laughter from inside is muffled by the door. You raise your brows. 

Lilia’s smile is incandescent. You’re not sure the door was unlocked, but she turns the handle and it opens all the same, the voices dying down inside. Then you hear the sound of hands clapping together. 

“Finally.” A voice calls, “I was beginning to think you lost your way, Dory.” 

You recognize the voice and hide a laugh behind a cough. Lilia glares, but there is no heat. 

“Agatha, seriously?” Jen sounds utterly exhausted. 

“What? You were all thinking it.” 

“They weren’t, actually.” 

“No one asked you, William.” 

Standing just a step behind Lilia, you watch the interaction with a smile. You understand now. They’re broken and a little peculiar, but they fit in an odd way. 

Agatha’s poring over something at the kitchen table while Jen sits at the other end, mixing furiously. She does look up to offer Lilia a fond smile. Billy rests on the living room floor with Scratchy in his lap while Alice is sprawled on the couch behind him. 

It’s a hodgepodge of personalities that should never work, but they do. Better than anything you’ve seen in a very long time. 

“Darling,” Lilia says, taking your hand, “come meet my coven.”