#simping for

🌶 hot ones

🍸 day drinking with Seth Meyers

🤌 hosting SNL

I have made a donation to the Genshin impact meme files before I actually get busy with my account 😌✨

(I just have a lot of feelings okay. My first attempt at fanfiction so be kind. The inner turmoil of a witch in love with Death)

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The flight feels like liberation after three years nailed to the ground. 

Agatha does not share Lilia’s abhorrence for hexenbesen; her pragmatism outweighs any lingering disdain toward the old halloween aisle clichés. If her life has proven anything, it’s that no tool, however co-opted by humanity, can not serve as a means to an end. 

The same is true of people. Although Agatha has no particular affection for the living, they too are necessary cogs in the machines of life. Take, for example, the collection of bedraggled hags with whom she now walks the road. They are witchfolk’s discarded detritus: a kooky beldam, a new age mystic, mommy issues incarnate. Powerless, saurian insects of witches. 

Agatha, too. Though she will never admit it. 

She straddles the misshapen limb, body lunged forward to gather speed. The squalls and hollers of her moth-eaten syndicate settle in the base of her skull, distorted by the rush of eventide air that presses like daggers into her ears. It is a booming quiet that slips away as she raises above the velarium of forest and into the carmine glow of a Herculean blood moon. 

When she is sure she has saved herself, Agatha looks back to the bohemian trail of bodies that emerge from the murky depths. Even Teen has managed to keep up - unsteady but feigning confidence in his first flight among the damned. Agatha purses her lips at the sight of Lilia, at one with the broom she rejected moments before. Alice and Jen fly side-by-side like school girls. 

Beside her, Rio arches her back and closes her eyes against the red-wine moonlight which spills across her olive skin like blood. The horror of her beauty, a savage history painted across her eyelids and lips. Every moment across the centuries that they had together stolen life and bathed naked in the ichor. 

Agatha does not look away. She drinks her in, inch by inch: the gentle curve of her jawline, the way her cupid’s bow traces the journey from supple upturned nose to softly parted lips. Her hair, raven dark, disappears against the midnight milieu save the whisps that flutter against the wind and rest upon her face. 

That face. That haunting, malevolent, beautiful face. 

Agatha’s heart speaks independently inside the mold-ridden confines of her mind. To die, here and now, alongside that face would be no death at all.