masorciereviolette

[masorciereviolette]

Learning To Grow, Together.

Minors DNI 18+

Pairing: AU Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Soft Domestic Moments, Fluff, Vulnerable Agatha, Vulnerable Reader, Reassurance, Comfort, Soft Agatha, Cunnlings, Graphic Descriptions Of Sex, Dirty Talk,Body Praise, Time jumps, Happy Endings.

Word count: 11.7k

A/N: The Naming, The first year of life & Rio meeting the baby that was requested :))) it’s currently 2 o’clock in the morning, so please forgive any spelling mistakes!!!

Summary: After a difficult birth, Agatha brings Nicholas to the hospital the following morning to meet his baby sister for the first time. The following year unfolds in a beautiful blur of chaotic and heart stopping milestones.

Previous Part In The Series

Taglist: @ambessas-doll @milflovers4 @graceful-witch07

The sunlight poured through the hospital window in soft, pale streaks, casting long golden lines across the room. Everything felt slower that morning—gentler. Like time had decided to take a breath and let you exist within it, just for a little while.

You sat propped up in the hospital bed, a warm blanket tucked around your legs, your daughter nestled on your chest. Her skin was pink and new, her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of your gown, one impossibly small hand twitching now and then as she dreamed.

Her breathing was light and steady, her little lips parted, her face scrunched in that sweet, sleepy newborn way that already had you and Agatha completely undone.

You couldn’t stop staring at her. Every blink felt like a moment you’d miss something—like she might change again if you looked away too long.

The door creaked open gently. You turned your head just as you heard the faint echo of voices in the hallway—one small, eager, and just slightly unsure.

“Are we really going to see her now?” It was Nicholas. His voice bounced with excitement but had that edge of nerves he always got when he felt something was big—like the first day of school or meeting someone important.

Agatha’s voice followed, calm and low and unmistakably hers. “We are. But remember what I said—she’s very small. And momma had a very long night. So we’re going to be gentle, okay?”

“Got it. Gentle. I’m the gentlest.” You stifled a laugh, your free hand covering your mouth as you felt your daughter stir slightly at the sound. Her tiny mouth puckered before she relaxed again.

The door opened fully now, and Agatha stepped through first, a soft smile tugging at her lips, one hand resting on Nicholas’s shoulder as he peeked around her. He stopped in the doorway like he’d run into a wall of wonder. His hands clutched a slightly crumpled bouquet of purple and white flowers wrapped in dark blue tissue paper, and he looked from you… to the baby on your chest… and back again.

His eyes were wide. His mouth parted “That’s her?” he whispered after a moment, like he wasn’t sure the words would work if he said them too loudly.

You nodded, your throat tightening. “That’s her.”

Agatha gently nudged him forward with a hand on his back. “Go on, sweetheart.” Nicholas took a few small, cautious steps forward. You could see the hesitation in his eyes, the way his fingers tightened on the flowers, like he didn’t trust himself to move too quickly or too close.

When he reached the side of the bed, he looked at the baby again—then up at you. “She’s so small,” he whispered. “Like… smaller than my backpack.”

You smiled softly, brushing your daughter’s cheek with the back of your hand. “She’s smaller than a lot of things.”

“Smaller than my cereal bowl,” he added, his voice full of awe. “Way smaller than the cat.”

“She also doesn’t bite,” Agatha murmured, stepping to your other side with a quiet grin.

“Can I…?” Nicholas paused, glancing between you both. “Can I hold her?”

You exchanged a glance with Agatha. Her eyes were already damp, the corners crinkling with emotion. “I think we can manage that,” she said gently, stepping around to grab the pillow from behind your back.

She helped settle Nicholas in the chair beside the bed, stacking pillow in his lap and guiding him gently through the moment almost like she was teaching him something magical. She knelt beside him, steadying the bundle as she eased the baby into his arms.

The moment your daughter touched his chest, Nicholas’s entire body stilled. His hands, which always fidgeted, went still. His shoulders dropped. His breath slowed. And his face…His face changed.

He looked down at her with something ancient in his expression—like he had been waiting his whole life to meet her and hadn’t even realized it until now.

“Hi,” he whispered, his voice shaking just slightly. “I’m your big brother.” You reached for Agatha’s hand then. She was already offering it, already squeezing yours tight when you curled your fingers into hers.

You turned your head to look at her. She was crying. Soft, silent tears trailing down her cheeks, her other hand pressed against her mouth as she looked at the two of them. At your two children. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“She’s so small,” you whispered back.

“She’s ours.”

You couldn’t speak after that. Couldn’t say what it meant to watch him hold her, or what it felt like to see them both through Agatha’s eyes. Nicholas leaned down slowly, carefully whispering to the baby as if what he was about to reveal was top secret “I’m gonna protect you from everything,” he murmured. “Even bees. I hate bees. But I’ll still fight them for you.”

You let out a teary laugh, and Agatha laughed with you, wiping under her eyes quickly as she crouched beside his chair again.

“You want to sing to her?” she asked softly. “Like we used to?”

Nicholas nodded, still transfixed by the baby’s face. “Will she like it?”

“She already loves you,” she said. And with that, Nicholas began to hum. Quietly. Off-key and perfect. It was apparently the same lullaby Agatha used to sing to him during thunderstorms and fevers, the same one you’d curiously caught him humming to your belly months ago and inquired about later that evening.

Agatha rested her head on your shoulder. You felt her exhale—deep and full and reverent. And in that moment, you knew she wasn’t just your daughter. She wasn’t just your miracle. She was his, too. Already loved. Already safe. Already home. The room was still, like the air itself didn’t want to interrupt the moment.

Nicholas continued humming in his soft little voice, swaying just slightly in the chair with the kind of careful reverence only a child who truly understood the importance of what he was holding could have. His arms were a little tense, his chin tucked to his chest as he watched his baby sister sleep in his lap. He looked proud. And completely enchanted.

You were still holding Agatha’s hand, your thumb brushing over her knuckles as you leaned into her side. You didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

You didn’t have to.

The only sound was the rhythmic beeping of your monitors and the baby’s quiet little snuffles—until suddenly, her face scrunched. Just slightly. Barely even noticeable at first. But then a soft sound escaped her lips.

A tiny fuss. A quiet whimper. That delicate, early newborn noise that told you something wasn’t wrong—but something had shifted.

Nicholas looked up quickly, panicked. “Did I do something?”

“No, no, honey,” you said gently, already reaching trying to adjust the swaddle. “She’s just waking up.” But Agatha was already moving.

She rose smoothly from where she knelt, crossing to Nicholas with practiced hands. “I’ve got her,” she said softly, brushing a hand over Nick’s shoulder as she scooped the baby effortlessly from his lap.

Your daughter fussed again but the second she was in Agatha’s arms, the sound ceased. Her tiny head turned instinctively toward Agatha’s chest, her cheek pressing close to the soft fabric of her sweater. She let out a sigh. Like relief. Your heart cracked wide open. You watched as Agatha shifted her weight to bounce gently—barely more than a motion—but it was enough. Your daughter’s little body relaxed fully, her arms uncoiling slightly, her mouth closing.

She settled.

Just like that.

Your hand flew to your mouth, tears stinging again—these softer, warmer. Overwhelmed not by fear this time, but love. A love that stretched so far it hurt. Agatha glanced over at you, catching the look on your face. “What?” she asked gently, a smile tugging at her lips.

You shook your head, trying to hold your voice steady. “She knows you.” Agatha looked down at the baby, brushing one finger gently along her cheek. Nicholas leaned forward, watching them both with that same fascinated expression he always got when Agatha did absolutely anything.

“She really stopped crying,” he said in wonder. “Like, instantly.”

Agatha grinned at him. “Well, I am very charming.”

You snorted, wiping your eyes. “Modest, too.”

Nicholas suddenly tilted his head and asked, “So what’s her name?” The question hung in the air. Agatha looked up from the baby and met your eyes and you both went still. You opened your mouth… and then paused.

Because the truth was, you hadn’t picked one yet. Not really. Not fully. You’d had ideas, of course—soft little nicknames, things you called her when she kicked you too hard or shifted in the middle of the night. “Bean.” “Little Star.” “Bug.” Agatha had gone through a phase of calling her “Squish” which had made you laugh every single time. But a name? A name meant permanence, a name was the beginning of her story.

You looked over at Agatha slowly, half-laughing. “We never actually… decided, did we?” She blinked, then let out a low, embarrassed chuckle. “We really didn’t.”

Nicholas gasped. “You mean she doesn’t have one?!”

Agatha tilted her head. “She technically has multiple.”

“Not real ones!” he argued, holding up a finger. “You can’t just write ‘bean’ on her birth certificate!”

“She could be the first,” Agatha muttered under her breath, and you nearly choked on your laugh.

“Okay,” you said, placing your hand over your heart like you were swearing an oath. “We are going to name her. Today.”

Nicholas perked up. “Can I help?”

Agatha gave him a look. “Only if the name is not cartoon or dinosaur-related.”

“No promises.” You smiled as you watched them bicker affectionately while your daughter snuggled deeper into Agatha’s arms, unaware of how completely she had already changed your world. You knew no matter what name you chose—she would grow up wrapped in the kind of love most people spent lifetimes searching for.

Nicholas was the first to leap into action. “I have so many ideas,” he said, already reaching for the notepad in his backpack like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Okay—what about Starflower?”

Agatha arched a brow. “Is that a name or a moon goddess?”

“Yes,” he answered quite seriously.

You smiled, reaching out to adjust your daughter’s blanket. “Maybe something a little more… grounded?”

He frowned at his notepad. “Okay, okay. What about Willow? Or Lark? Or Indigo! Indigo’s cool. You could call her Indy, like a spy.”

“I think we’re leaning less spy thriller, more ‘fits on a birth certificate,’ baby,” you said gently.

Agatha nodded, pacing slowly with the baby still curled against her chest. “And I’m vetoing anything color-based unless we want to be known as that family.”

Nicholas sighed dramatically. “Fine. What’s your idea then?”

Agatha pursed her lips. “Lillian?”

“Too fancy,” you said immediately. “Sounds like she’s going to grow up judging wine pairings.”

“She might.”

“She’s drooling on your collar, Aggie. Let’s take it one milestone at a time.”

Nicholas giggled as Agatha rolled her eyes and turned to you. “Okay, then what about Eloise?”

“Too prim.”

“Clementine?”

“Too citrus.”

“Rowan?”

“Too Annoying.”

Nicholas made a face. “That sounds like the name of a kid who eats paste on purpose.” Agatha smothered a laugh.

You sighed and leaned back into your pillow, watching your daughter’s tiny chest rise and fall against Agatha’s shoulder. “I want something strong. Not overused. Something… old, maybe. Elegant, but not stiff.”

Agatha nodded thoughtfully, her gaze distant as her fingers walked a quiet rhythm across the baby’s tiny back. It was a slow, protective gesture—tender and full of reverence. “Something with softness and steel,” she murmured, almost more to herself than to you. “Something that bends, but doesn’t break.”

“I like that,” you whispered, feeling the weight of the moment settle over your shoulders like a warm blanket. The hush in the room was sacred, a silence shared between the four of you—Agatha, Nicholas, the baby, and you—bound by something deeper than blood.

You stared at your daughter, utterly taken. And then, as if pulled from some secret corner of your heart, you spoke again. “What about Maeve?” You said it softly, carefully, like the name was fragile and precious and needed to be tested against the air. “It’s Irish—it means ‘she who intoxicates.’ But in Latin…” You smiled faintly. “It can also mean ‘purple flower.’”

Agatha stopped pacing. The air shifted. Nicholas’s head tilted. “She who… what now?”

Agatha turned slowly, brow lifting, a familiar smirk blooming at the corner of her mouth. “Intoxicating,” she repeated, her voice like velvet. “Irresistible. Powerful.”

“It’s mythic,” you added. “Royal. She was a warrior queen who ruled with strength and grace.”

Your eyes never left your daughter’s face. Her soft lashes fluttered in sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling against Agatha’s. “And the flower part,” you said gently, “it make me think of you.” Agatha blinked.

“A purple bloom. Vivid. Striking. A little wild. Something that grows where most things wouldn’t dare.” You smiled at her, heart aching with love. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence. It’s like she came into the world already carrying a piece of you.”

Agatha looked down at the baby again, her features shifting—something between wonder and fear and awe. Her fingers moved to sweep a soft curl away from the baby’s temple. “Maeve,” she whispered, tasting the name like it was made of magic. Like it had always been waiting for this moment.

And then, right on cue, Maeve shifted ever so slightly, sighing into her mother’s chest with a soft, contented nuzzle. Like yes. That was her name. Agatha smiled, her lips parted just slightly. “Maeve,” she said again, stronger this time, letting it roll from her almost as if she was casting a spell. “It suits her.”

Nicholas grinned from his perch at the edge of the bed. “Maeve’s cool. Can I still call her Squish, though?”

Agatha shot him a teasing glare. “Only until she’s old enough to fight you on it.”

“Deal,” he said proudly. You let the moment unfurl around you, something sacred blooming in your chest. Everything felt full—your hands, your heart, the air itself.

“Maeve,” you whispered again. And then, so softly it nearly caught in your throat “Maeve Nikalette.”

Agatha’s gaze snapped to yours, her expression melting into something raw and open. “After Nicholas?”

You nodded, emotion thick in your chest. “I want her to carry a piece of him too. Just like he’s already carrying a piece of her.”

Agatha’s lips parted, her breath trembling. Her eyes glossed over, but she didn’t look away from you. “That’s perfect,” she breathed.

Nicholas was glowing, practically vibrating with joy. “Wait, I’m part of her name? That’s so cool.”

You reached over, ruffling his hair with a soft laugh. “Of course you are. You’re her big brother. She’s lucky to have you.”

“She’s the lucky one,” he said with quiet pride. “She gets all of us.”

You glanced at Agatha again. “Harkness,” you said firmly, reaching for her hand. “She belongs to you, too.”

Agatha’s fingers slid into yours and squeezed. “Maeve Nikalette Harkness,” she murmured, her voice low, reverent. And when the baby stirred again—her tiny fist curling, her lips parting in a drowsy sigh, as if the sound of her name had anchored her to the world—You knew you’d gotten it right.

Nicholas leaned over the bed, eyes warm and bright. “Welcome to the family Maeve,” he whispered with all the gravity of a king knighting his bravest subject. Agatha looked at you—really looked at you and you saw it in her eyes. She was thinking the same thing you were.

So do I.

Forever.

It was a quiet Saturday morning, almost a full month after you’d been discharged from the hospital. Rain tapped gently against the windows, the clouds outside casting the house in a warm, silvery kind of dimness that made the living room feel like a tucked-away secret from the rest of the world.

Maeve was nestled between you and Agatha on the couch, bundled in a soft yellow onesie that still felt impossibly big on her tiny frame. Her eyelids fluttered open and shut in that sleepy, milk-drunk daze, her little hands curled near her chin like she was already dreaming of something sweeter than you could imagine.

Nicholas sat cross-legged on the rug in front of her, holding a picture book open in his lap—his voice rising and falling with careful effort as he read aloud about a raccoon who thought the moon was a cookie. He added different voices for each page, even making little “oooh” sounds for the moon. He was trying so hard to entertain her, and it was impossibly endearing.

Then it happened. Mid-sentence, as Nicholas flipped to the next page and said, “And the raccoon reached up with his paws and—” Maeve let out the tiniest coo and smiled. Not gas. Not twitching. A smile. Wide and gummy, eyes squinting just the tiniest bit. It was fleeting, clumsy, completely uncoordinated—and absolutely real.

Nicholas gasped so loudly he startled her. “Did you see that?! She likes my voice!”

You felt your breath catch. She’d smiled before, in her sleep. Maybe. But this was different. This was intentional. This was hers. “She did,” Agatha said softly, already reaching over to tuck a blanket higher over Maeve’s belly. “That was her very first smile.”

You looked across the couch at her, tears instantly stinging your eyes. Maeve was curled right between you both, her head gently turned toward Agatha, one of her little fingers caught in the hem of Agatha’s shirt.

And before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out—quiet, reverent “She’s really ours.” Agatha turned toward you, her eyes shining.

She whispered it back like a promise. “She’s really ours.” And for a second, that was everything. But then, that familiar ache began to creep in. You tried to ignore it like always, blinking down at Maeve as her eyelids fluttered again, a soft hiccup shaking her chest.

But Agatha noticed, she always did.

Her hand brushed yours gently where they met over the baby’s tiny legs. “Hey,” she said, her voice low and knowing. “Where’d you just go?”

You gave her a soft smile. “Nowhere.”

She cocked her head. “Liar.”

You looked back down at Maeve, whose mouth was now forming that pouty little “o” shape you’d come to recognize right before a nap—or a cry. “It’s just…”

You sighed. Agatha didn’t push. So you took a breath and admitted, “You’re just… so good at this.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“All of it.” Your voice wavered, the admission heavier than it should’ve been. “The swaddling, the soothing, the feeding schedule, reading her cries. It’s like you always know what she needs before she even makes a sound.”

Agatha looked at you like she hadn’t even considered that. “I’ve just done it before,” she said gently.

You shook your head. “But even then… You’re calm. You always know what to say to her. You handle her like she’s made of light, and I…” You trailed off, voice cracking. “Sometimes I feel like I’m going to break her.” Agatha’s expression softened into something heartbreakingly tender.

She slid closer, wrapping her arm behind you so she could rest her hand on your waist. “Hey. Look at me.” You hesitated, but did.

Her voice was warm, full of something so honest it cracked the shell of your worry. “The only reason I seem calm is because I had to learn how to do this before, and under much more stressful circumstances. When I had Nicholas the fear and instincts that came clawing out of nowhere honestly stunned me.”

She let out a breath, glancing down at Maeve, who was now sighing softly in sleep, her little body sinking deeper into the nest of blankets.

“This is new for me too,” Agatha continued. “Because back then, I didn’t think I’d ever have another child. Hell, I didn’t think I’d ever want to. And now… I have you. I have her. I have him.” She tilted her head toward Nicholas, who was now reading quietly to himself, still watching Maeve with cautious pride. “And none of it feels like I expected.”

You leaned into her touch, your shoulders sinking just slightly. “You really didn’t think you’d do this again?”

She shook her head. “Not in a million years. Not with someone I love this much.” You looked at her then, really looked and of course she was already watching you. Her gaze didn’t waver. It never had. “You’re doing better than you think,” she whispered. “You’re not going to break her. You’re not even close.”

“I just… don’t want to fail her,” you murmured. Agatha leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You won’t. Because you love her. And you try. That’s all she needs.” You turned your head into her shoulder, eyes still wet, your heart swelling so fast it almost hurt.

Maeve let out a little squeak in her sleep. Both your heads snapped down at once—then met each other’s gaze again with small, knowing smiles. “She sounds like a duck,” you whispered.

“She sounds perfect,” Agatha corrected with a soft laugh. And for the rest of that rainy morning, you sat pressed together on the couch, your baby sleeping soundly against the warmth of your bodies, Nicholas occasionally glancing up to point out which animal in his book Maeve would probably grow up to be. ‘Not a duck. Something cooler. Like an eagle. But, like, a cute one.’

You didn’t feel like you had it all figured out. But you didn’t need to. Because you had each other. And she has the both of you. And for now that was everything. By Five months , Maeve had officially entered her feral potato era, as Agatha lovingly called it—equal parts squish and chaos.

She’d been teetering on the edge of mobility for a few weeks, her legs kicking wildly every time she was placed on her back, frustration brewing in her little grunts and squeals. But it finally happened one sunny morning when the windows were open and the scent of toast drifted in from the kitchen.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sipping lukewarm coffee, watching her play on her blanket—chubby legs kicking, fingers flailing at the little stuffed fox Nicholas had picked out for her. Agatha was beside you, chatting on the phone with a coworker about court dates and filing schedules when Maeve’s legs tucked up under her… and she rolled forward.

All the way.

Like it was nothing.

And then laughed. Loudly. Brightly. Right before face-planting into Agatha’s lap and drooling directly onto her blouse. Agatha blinked, phone still in hand, and stared down at the wet spot spreading across her shirt.

“She’s mobile,” she said flatly into the phone. “I have to go. She’s learning. We’re doomed.” You burst out laughing, nearly spilling your coffee as Maeve let out another delighted squeal and patted Agatha’s knee like she’d done something brilliant.

Nicholas came flying in from the hallway, eyes wide. “What did she do?! Did I miss it?!”

“She rolled into me,” Agatha deadpanned. “Like a sentient cannonball.” Maeve laughed again, proud and shameless.

Later that afternoon, the apartment smelled like maple syrup and baby lotion. You stood in the kitchen, balancing Maeve on your hip as she gnawed relentlessly on a silicone teether that had lost its shape hours ago but remained her greatest enemy. The griddle sizzled with pancakes as you absentmindedly bounced her, and from behind, you heard the familiar tap of socked feet.

Agatha leaned against the doorway, coffee in one hand, the other twirling idly with the strings of her robe. Her hair was messy, her blouse dotted with faint drool stains, but her expression was amused—eyes fixed on you and the baby like she was watching her favorite show.

“You two are dangerously cute,” she said casually, sipping her coffee. “I’m beginning to feel like the third wheel in my own home.”

“She’s the one clinging to me like a koala,” you replied, adjusting Maeve’s grip as she squawked and kicked out one leg dramatically.

Agatha stepped closer, her voice shifting to that exaggerated, mock-soothing tone she only used to get a rise out of the baby. “Oh, what’s the matter, you little tyrant? World not bending to your will today?” Maeve let out a shrill giggle, drool dribbling down her chin.

Agatha gasped. “She thinks I’m funny. Did you hear that? I’ve been validated.”

You laughed, flipping a pancake. “You say that like you weren’t already the most dramatic person in the room.”

“I’m not dramatic. I’m expressive. There’s a difference.” Maeve squealed again, kicking hard enough that her sock fell off. Agatha set down her coffee and walked over, crouching beside the of the two of you with exaggerated care.

“Alright, Squish,” she murmured, her tone lowering into something far softer than her sarcasm usually allowed. “Let’s get you patched up before your poor foot freezes off in this frigid domestic tundra.”

She kissed the bottom of Maeve’s bare foot before pulling her sock back on with gentle hands and standing. Your daughter—your chaos-bringing, sock-losing, teething little storm—calmed. Just like that. Her eyes locked onto Agatha’s face like she knew. Trusted her. Her mouth relaxed, her fingers slipping from your shoulder as she leaned forward into Agatha’s chest, resting her forehead there with a small sigh.

Agatha blinked, catching her weight and bring Maeve into her arms. Then glanced up at you. And for a beat—just a breath her usual wit melted away. “She… always does that with you,” you said softly.

Agatha smiled, slow and stunned, brushing her fingers through Maeve’s soft curls “She knows I’d burn the world down for her,” she murmured. “Just like I would for you.” Your heart clenched.

Before you could speak, Agatha looked up with that familiar sparkle in her eye, lips twitching into a smirk. “But sure, go ahead and keep cooking pancakes. I’ll just be over here forming soul bonds with the baby.”

You grinned through the warmth in your chest. “Oh, absolutely my dear. Enjoy your little coven of two over there.” You hummed teasingly. Maeve babbled in response, simply reaching for Agatha’s necklace and tugging lightly.

“Careful,” Agatha whispered, adjusting Maeve fully into her arms and cradling her with practiced ease. “That was a gift. You break it, and you’re buying mom a new one.”

You watched them from the stove—Agatha swaying gently, Maeve’s head tucked against her shoulder, eyes already drooping again. And in that moment—Agatha’s voice humming softly, her chin resting atop your daughter’s head, her sarcasm tucked away like a blanket around something delicate—you realized something else.For all her sharpness, her wit, her self-assured control—Agatha was smitten. And she didn’t even try to hide it.

That night, Nicholas went to bed after giving Maeve three forehead kisses and insisting on leaving his nightlight on “for her, just in case she needed to fight off dream monsters.” He peeked back around the doorway one last time before disappearing, whispering, “Goodnight Squish”

You and Agatha ended up on the couch hours later, long after the house had settled into its usual late-night hum. Maeve was nestled between you, her tiny body sprawled across both your laps, arms up, one leg curled, the other kicked straight like she was mid-stretch. Her belly rose and fell with each breath, her lips parted in the softest sighs.

Agatha ran her fingers down Maeve’s back in slow, soothing circles, her other hand resting atop yours. “She sleeps like she knows she’s safe,” she whispered.

You looked at her. “She is safe.” Agatha glanced at you then. And the look that passed between you—quiet, wordless—said everything.

“I watch you with her,” she murmured after a moment, “and I fall in love with you all over again.”

You blinked, the words catching you off guard. “Me?”

Agatha nodded, her eyes dropping back to Maeve’s peaceful face. “You hum to her when you think no one’s listening. You mouth the words when Nicholas reads to her so she can follow along. You hold her like she’s still apart of you—which she is. But it still amazes me.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I feel that way when I watch you.”

She smiled. “We’re ridiculous.”

You leaned your head against her shoulder. “We’re lucky.” And in that quiet, sleepy moment, with your daughter snoring softly between you and Agatha’s fingers still brushing yours. You were so extremely thankful.

Six months had passed and still, you couldn’t stop looking at her. At both of them. Like the miracle never stopped being one. Maeve decided to pull herself up for the first time in the middle of breakfast—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You were sitting at the table, one hand wrapped around your coffee, the other lazily picking pieces of toast onto a plate. Maeve was on the floor at your feet, chewing on a soft fabric book that had become her favorite teething toy. Nicholas was chattering about dinosaurs again, gesturing wildly with a spoon full of oatmeal.

Agatha was standing at the kitchen counter, halfway through buttering toast when she froze mid-motion, her eyes narrowing. “Is she—?”

You looked down. Maeve’s tiny hands were gripping the leg of the table, her knees tucked under her, her little forehead crinkled in determination. And then—slowly, wobbly, triumphant—she stood. Straight up, legs shaking like jello, the biggest drool-dripping smile on her face.

Nicholas screamed like someone had scored the game-winning goal at the World Cup. “SHE’S STANDING! SHE’S DOING IT—SHE’S—” His clap was so loud that Maeve flinched, lost her balance, and landed right on her butt with a startled plop.

There was a beat of silence. Then Maeve blinked… and started laughing. Nicholas dropped to his knees. “I’m so sorry bean, I didn’t mean to scare you! But you did it! You stood up! You were, like, vertical!”

You dropped down scooping her up before she could wobble again, hugging her to your chest as she squealed and flailed her legs proudly. Agatha crossed the room, crouched in front of the two of you with a smirk, brushing a crumb from Maeve’s chin. “She’s mobile. She’s smug. We’re screwed.”

You laughed, kissing the top of Maeve’s head. “She’s so smug.”

Agatha reached out and gently tapped Maeve’s nose. “She gets it from me.” For the next three hours, you and Agatha took turns trying to get her to do it again.

“Okay my love,” you coaxed gently, holding your phone up to record. “Let’s show Mama how brave you are.” Maeve smiled sweetly.

Then sat there like a rock. Agatha tried next. “Come on, lovebug. I’ll let you chew on my necklace for a full minute. No judgment.”

Maeve gave her a look. The kind that said you wish—then let out a single, dramatic yawn and rolled onto her back like she had never stood a day in her life. “Is she gaslighting us?” Agatha muttered, arms crossed.

“She’s literally six months old,” you replied, laughing.

“And she already plays us like a fiddle.” Agatha huffed stubbornly.

By seven months, her personality had bloomed like wildflowers in spring. She babbled constantly now—nonsense syllables that filled the air like background music. Mamama. Gahhh. Bababa. Nanana. She strung them together with deliberate intent, even if they didn’t quite make sense yet.

But she had looks. She had a look for everything now—each one specific, like a custom expression just for the three of you. When she was hungry, she furrowed her brows and opened her mouth like a fledgling bird—glaring if you took too long. When she wanted Agatha, she did a full-body reach toward her, arms out, legs kicking, face scrunched like why are you making me wait, I want that one. And when she wanted you—her whole face lit up. It was pure sunshine. Pure you.

Agatha caught it once on a quiet Tuesday morning. You had Maeve on your hip, bouncing gently as you prepped a bottle. She was babbling up at you, her tiny fingers clinging to the collar of your sweatshirt, eyes wide with absolute focus.

Agatha, sitting at the kitchen counter mid-email, stopped suddenly. Her fingers froze over the keys. She stared at Maeve. Then at you. “She made that sound just for you,” she whispered, almost stunned.

You turned, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“She says a dozen things every hour,” Agatha said softly, eyes misty. “But that sound—the little one she just made? That was different. That was yours.” You glanced down at your daughter, who was now gnawing on her fist, still watching you with laser focus.

And you knew.

You felt it.

“I think she made all of this for us,” you whispered. Agatha’s gaze flicked up to yours, and something passed between you—warm and heavy and full.

She set her laptop aside, rose from her stool, and crossed the kitchen to press a soft kiss to your temple, her hand resting briefly over Maeve’s back. You didn’t need to say more.

At eight months, Maeve started to decided bedtime was optional. She would fight sleep with the sheer willpower of a tiny, overstimulated warrior—rubbing her eyes angrily, flailing in your arms like a diva on her final tour.

Agatha tried to reason with her once “Darling,” she said firmly, holding her close in the rocking chair. “You’ve had three bottles, six songs, and you’re not missing anything. Trust me, your mother and I are just going to fold laundry and argue about pizza toppings.”

Maeve replied by sticking her tongue out and smacking Agatha in the chest. “She’s her own woman,” you said from the doorway, trying not to laugh.

“She’s a terror gremlin,” Agatha muttered. But she was smiling—because when Maeve finally did collapse, cheek to Agatha’s shoulder, tiny fists curled against her chest Agatha’s whole world stilled. You watched from the hallway, your arms crossed over your chest, your heart aching with love. You’d never seen her look so soft.

By nine months, Maeve had mastered crawling. At full speed. She chased after Nicholas’s shoelaces with glee. She learned how to open the bottom kitchen drawer (which she only ever used to store her favorite spoons). She crawled right into the cat tree one afternoon and refused to come out.

“Should we be worried?” you asked.

“No,” Agatha said, sipping her tea. “She’s claiming territory.”

“She gets that from you.”

Agatha smirked. “You’re not wrong.” She wasn’t speaking actual words yet—but she was saying everything. You knew her sounds now. You knew her sighs. You knew the difference between I’m tired, I’m bored, and someone took my foxy and I demand justice.

Nicholas translated most of them like an enthusiastic interpreter. “That means she wants the purple spoon, not the yellow one. Duh.” You and Agatha didn’t correct him. Because the truth was—you were all learning her language.

And Maeve? She was becoming herself, one day at a time. And you were falling in love with her more every single one.

It was a rainy Sunday morning—the kind where the world outside the windows blurred into gray and the sound of water tapping against the glass felt like a lullaby. The house was warm and lazy, filled with the scent of coffee, cinnamon, and something sweet Agatha had half-heartedly attempted to bake before getting distracted by Maeve’s relentless need to rearrange the Tupperware cabinet.

You were all in the living room, the floor scattered with soft toys and mismatched socks, a few blankets half-folded and Nicholas’s stuffed sloth propped like a cheerleader on the couch. Maeve had been circling the coffee table for weeks now, pulling herself up with that determined little grunt, her legs wobbly but her eyes fierce.

And then—suddenly—she let go. Nicholas noticed it first. He was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, the sloth held out in both hands like an offering, his voice soft but bubbling with excitement. “Come on, baby bean. You got this. Just a few steps.”

Maeve stood there for a moment, blinking, like the ground beneath her was new. Her little fists were balled at her sides, her tongue poking between her lips in concentration.

One foot forward.

Then another.

Then one more.

Three steps.

And then—

Straight into your arms.

You dropped to your knees so fast the carpet burned, catching her just as she squealed, burying her face into your shoulder like she knew she’d just done something monumental.

Your hands trembled as you held her tight, tears springing to your eyes before you even realized you were crying. “Maeve,” you breathed, “You did it, baby—you walked.”

She pulled back and grabbed your cheeks in both of her tiny, sticky hands, giggling like she’d just performed on stage and now expected applause. You laughed through your tears, heart pounding, cheeks aching from smiling.

Behind you, there was a loud clatter—Agatha’s coffee mug hit the floor, miraculously bouncing off the rug without shattering. She stood frozen, one hand still outstretched, her mouth parted in stunned silence. Nicholas turned to her, eyes wide. “She walked, Mom! She walked all the way to—”

Agatha dropped to the floor beside you before he could finish, reaching for Maeve with shaking hands. “You little traitor,” she whispered with a teary grin. “You waited until I was holding a mug?”

Maeve babbled proudly in response, reaching for Agatha’s hair like she was demanding immediate praise and cuddles.

And Agatha gave both. She scooped Maeve into her lap, kissed her over and over, laughing through her tears. “You absolute wonder of a girl. You couldn’t have warned us first?”

Nicholas flopped dramatically onto the rug beside her, arms thrown in the air. “I told you! She was ready! I’ve been training her!”

Agatha leaned down to kiss his forehead. “You’re the best coach she could’ve asked for.”

All four of you ended up on the floor—Maeve squirming proudly between you and Agatha, Nicholas curled lazily against your side, a blanket draped haphazardly across your laps.

The storm outside was gentle now, the rain tapping softly against the windows like a lullaby. Maeve babbled in between giggles, her tiny hands bouncing from your chest to Agatha’s arm as if she couldn’t decide who to cling to more. Like she needed both of you. Like the only way to feel grounded in the world was to have one hand on each of you—her home base.

No one moved for a while. The world felt perfectly still. Safe. You watched her, this curious, bright, fearless little girl you somehow had the honor of calling yours. And all you could think was—That’s my daughter. Your miracle. Your world. You were going to miss this—this version of her, so new and soft and wonder-filled. You already missed it, and it hadn’t even ended yet.

You felt Agatha shift beside you. Her hand brushed the base of your spine before settling there gently, her touch steady. Warm. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. But when you turned your head to glance at her, you found her already watching you. Of course she was.

It was the same look she had given you in the hospital the night Maeve was born—equal parts awe and love and disbelief. The same look she gave you every time she was overwhelmed by the staggering truth of this life. This life. Not one conjured from guilt or grief, not some imagined version of what could’ve been. This one. Yours. Together.

And when your eyes brimmed with tears and your smile turned soft and a little shaky, she leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. Her voice dropped into the hush of the moment, quiet and reverent. “You’re everything.”

Two weeks later, you were still trying. You and Agatha had both been shamelessly bribing Maeve to say one of your names. Mama, Mommy, Mimi, Baba, Ma, Agatha—even had been jokingly thrown into the mix. Maeve, of course, found it endlessly hilarious.

She babbled constantly. Joyfully. Sometimes even with a rhythm that almost sounded like a word. She’d squeal at Nicholas, laugh when you or Agatha sang her name, and erupt into delighted shrieks every time you overreacted to her nonsense sounds like she’d just recited a Shakespearean monologue.

But no matter how hard you both tried, nothing stuck. “She’s doing it on purpose,” Agatha grumbled one morning, holding her upside down by the ankles while Maeve giggled uncontrollably. “This is psychological warfare.”

You’d laughed and shrugged. “She’s smart. She knows we’re desperate. Desperate and weak.” But that Sunday… everything changed. You’d only stepped out for twenty minutes.

Nicholas was curled up on the couch with a comic, Agatha was folding laundry by the playpen, and Maeve had been busy running her usual laps across the living room, her feet a blur of squeaky socks and chaotic energy. And then—Agatha heard the fall. It wasn’t loud, but it was fast. That unmistakable thump followed by silence. And silence, when it came to Maeve, was never a good thing.

Agatha spun around. Maeve was on her hands and knees, stunned. Her lip trembled. One shoe had flown off mid-run, and her elbow was scraped just enough to turn her face red. Her breath hitched as her little body began to shake—And then the cry came.

Loud. Heartbroken. Not from pain, not really.But from confusion. From panic. From need. She turned her head sharply and locked eyes with Agatha, her chest heaving. And then, clear as glass—“Mamaaaa!”

Agatha froze, everything in her went still. Her heart stopped. Her breath caught. She dropped the towel in her hands, her legs suddenly jelly beneath her. Because she had never said it before. Not once.

Not a single real word. And now, out of the blue—now, when she was hurt and scared and looking for someone to make it better—

She’d called for her. “Mamaaa,” Maeve wailed again, sobbing now as she tried to crawl toward her. Agatha surged forward, scooping her up so quickly her own breath hitched with the motion. “I’m here, baby—I’m right here,” she whispered, clutching her close, Maeve’s face tucked into the crook of her neck, tears soaking through the collar of her shirt.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay, Mama’s got you.” She said the word like she couldn’t believe it had been meant for her. Like saying it again would prove she hadn’t imagined it.

Nicholas looked up from the couch, wide-eyed. “Did she just—?”

“She did,” Agatha breathed, voice cracking. “She said Mama.”

“She picked you first?” he teased gently, then grinned. “Nice.” Agatha didn’t laugh. She was too busy burying her face in Maeve’s hair, too overcome to speak.

By the time you got back—plastic bag of diapers slung on your wrist you found them on the couch, Maeve curled against Agatha’s chest, her sniffling quiet now, thumb in her mouth. Nicholas met you at the door with a wide, almost reverent grin.

“She said it,” he whispered. “She said Mama.”

You froze mid-step. “What?” You turned toward Agatha, who was staring down at Maeve with the kind of look people usually reserve for miracles.

Her eyes were wet. Her hand cradled the back of Maeve’s head, holding her like the most precious thing in the world. “She said it,” Agatha repeated, her voice low and reverent. “She called for me.” And the way she said it the way she looked at you—shattered something soft and ancient in your chest. You crossed the room, sliding onto the couch beside her, wrapping your arms around both of them.

“She picked the perfect first word,” you whispered, kissing Maeve’s temple, then Agatha’s shoulder.

Agatha smiled, still stunned. “I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.” Maeve stirred sleepily, half-waking at your voice. Her thumb slipped from her mouth, and in the tiniest, groggiest whisper, she murmured it again:

“Mama…” And Agatha’s hand flew to her mouth.

You whispered softly leaning closer, like it was gospel “She really meant it.” And when Agatha looked over at you again—eyes shining, heart laid bare you could see it there

This. This is what she was born for.

The house was quiet in a way it rarely ever was these days. Nicholas was spending the week at Rio’s, and Maeve had gone down almost too easily—tucked into her crib with one last sleepy sigh, her chubby hand still clinging to the ear of her stuffed fox as she drifted off. That had been over an hour ago, and the baby monitor on the nightstand sat in calm, glowing silence.

Now, you stood alone in the bedroom wearing only an open robe and a pair of sheer underwear, your eyes fixed on your reflection in the full-length mirror beside the dresser. The soft amber light from the bedside lamp cast warm shadows over your bare skin. You had your arms crossed beneath your chest, fingers tracing the lines, your brows drawn together.

You’d lost the baby weight. That wasn’t the issue. Not really. But the stretch marks remained. Jaggy silvered streaks stretched across your hips, faded but still visible, cutting through the softness of your lower belly like quiet reminders. A body changed by something extraordinary. And yet, you couldn’t help the way your gaze lingered on them.

You traced them absently with your fingers. Even now—even after everything, you felt… small beneath the weight of your own scrutiny. You knew what they represented. Knew the miracle your body had made. But that didn’t silence the inner voice that asked—Would she still want you the same way?

A soft creak of the floor behind you made your head snap up. Agatha stood in the doorway, her hair pinned up loosely, a book still in her hand, pajama pants tied low on her hips. She hadn’t said a word. She didn’t have to.

You met her eyes in the mirror. She took one look at your expression and crossed the room in quiet steps, placing the book gently on the nightstand before stopping just behind you. Her hands slid slowly around your waist, resting at the curve of your hips as she leaned in.

Her voice was low, velvet-warm. “Bunny… what are you thinking about?” You hesitated.

Then you looked down at yourself again. “Nothing.”

Her eyes found yours in the mirror. “Wanna try again?”

Your throat tightened. “They’re still there.”

Agatha said nothing at first, but her hands didn’t move. She stepped closer, her body flush against your back now, and pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. “The stretch marks?” she asked gently.

You nodded. “I lost the weight,” you whispered. “I’ve been careful, eating better, working out when I can. But these—” You gestured at the marks, jaw clenched. “They’re still here. They’re not going anywhere.”

Agatha was quiet. Thoughtful. Then, her hand slid up, resting just above your navel. Her thumb brushed one of the silver lines. “They shouldn’t.”

You blinked. “What?”

“They shouldn’t go anywhere,” she said simply, her voice like dusk. “You carried our daughter. These?” She leaned forward, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “These are the places that held her first.”

You closed your eyes. “I see them,” she continued, her voice softer now. “And I remember what it felt like to fall asleep beside you with my hand on your belly—feeling her kick, listening to you breathe. I remember watching you hold her for the first time, your body shaking from what it just did, and thinking, I will never stop being in awe of her.”

Your breath hitched. Agatha turned you gently by the hips until you faced her, your reflection forgotten.

She reached up, brushing her fingers beneath your chin. “You look at these like they’re something to hide. But they’re not flaws. They’re her story. Our story.”

You shook your head, voice cracking. “But I don’t feel beautiful.”

Agatha stepped closer until there was nothing between you. “That’s okay,” she murmured. “Because I feel it for you. Every day.”

Your eyes stung as she leaned in and kissed you—slow, sure, reverent. The kind of kiss that said I see all of you. The kind that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to be whole to be loved completely. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours. “Let me show you?” she whispered.

Nodding softly you pressed your forehead harder against her own. Agatha smiled softly, her eyes gleaming with tenderness as she took your hands in hers. “Come with me, darling.” She led you towards the bed, her steps slow and purposeful, as if savoring each moment. She led you to sit down before kneeling in front of you, she looked up at you through her lashes. “Lie down for me, sweetheart.”

As you settled back onto the bed, Agatha began to run her fingers along your arm, her touch feather-light and worshipful. “I want to map every inch of you baby.” she breathed. “I want to kiss each scar, each freckle, every part of you that tells the story of who you are.”

She started at your shoulder, placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on the smooth skin. Her lips lingered, as if breathing in your scent. “You smell like home” she whispered against your flesh. “Like everything I've ever wanted.”

Agatha's fingers traced the curve of your collarbone as she made her way down your body, dotting it with adoring kisses. ”You're exquisite bunny.” she murmured. “A temple, a masterpiece.” Her hands splayed across your stomach as she peppered your skin with worshipful kisses.

She paused at the band of your panties, glancing up at you with a wicked little smile. “May I?” she asked softly, her fingers toying with the waistband. “I want to taste all of you, sweetheart.” She punctuated her words with the lightest brush of her thumb against your clothed sex. You whimpered, hips canting off the bed to chase the friction.

Agatha hooked her fingers into the fabric and slowly lowered your panties, her eyes never leaving yours as she tossed them aside. “Gorgeous” she breathed as she took in the sight of you bare before her. “Utterly breathtaking.” She leaned in, inhaling your scent and shuddering in yearning.

Her tongue darted out, teasing your slick folds in a slow, torturous stripe. “I could worship this pretty pussy for hours” she murmured, her breath hot against your skin.

Agatha sealed her lips around your clit and suckled softly, her tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. “You taste like Heaven,” she purred, releasing you briefly before diving back in to lap at you greedily.

She dipped two fingers into your dripping entrance, pumping them slowly as she sucked your clit. “Your body knows it belongs to me, sweetheart.” she breathed against you. “It's crying out for my touch, aching for my love.”

Agatha's fingers curled inside you, stroking that perfect spot as she flicked her tongue rapidly against your clit. “That's it, baby” she cooed. “Ride my fingers. Take your pleasure from me. You deserve to feel good”

She brought her other hand up to cup your breast, kneading the soft flesh and rolling your nipple between her fingers. “I want to watch you fall apart, sweetheart. You're so beautiful when you let yourself go...” Agatha sucked your clit harder, her fingers pumping deliberately, determined to drive you to the edge of euphoria.

You rolled your hips desperately against her mouth, legs falling open wider as a desperate moan falls from your lips. Agatha purred appreciatively as your thighs fell open, baring yourself completely to her hungry gaze. “That's my good girl” she murmured against your slick folds. “Don't be shy, sweetheart.” Agatha sealed her lips around your clit and suckled harder, her tongue flicking against the sensitive bud as two fingers thrust deeper into your dripping channel.

She pumped her fingers at a languid but purposeful pace, curling and stroking that special spot inside you that made your toes curl. “ I can feel how much you need this bunny” she purred, her breath hot and heavy against your aching sex. “Your body is screaming for release, begging to be filled and stretched by my touch.”

Agatha added a third finger, driving them in hard and deep as she sucked your clit with single-minded intensity. You could feel your walls starting to flutter around the invading digits, a sure sign of your impending climax “fuck baby-“ you whimpered softly, one hand shooting down to lace through her hair. You shamelessly rocked your hips harder against her tongue as a string of broken moans fell from your lips.

“Yes, just like that my love” she groaned into your sex, her voice a low, sultry rasp. “Let go for me. I want to taste your pleasure, to swallow every last drop—“ She increased the pressure of her sucking, plunging her fingers in and out of your clenching heat at a now furious pace.

You could feel your belly starting to tighten, your body coiling like a spring ready to snap. “I've got you, baby,” she breathed. Agatha pulled her fingers out abruptly, she stroked the base of your clit with her thumb. At the same time, she snaked her tongue deep into your channel, tracing your walls teasingly before fucking your pussy with its slick, muscular length. “Give it to me bunny”, she pleaded urgently.

The combination of her thumb stroking your clit and her tongue plunging into your core pushed you ruthlessly over the edge. You back arched off the bed as your climax crashed over you in wave after wave, your hand tightening in her hair as your core started rippling and clenching around Agatha's invading tongue.

She drank down your release greedily, swallowing every gush of your sweetness as she maintained the relentless pace of her sucking. Agatha's hands never left your body, cradling and caressing you through each aftershock, helping to ground you as you drifted back down to earth.

Finally, after long, blissful moments, she released your tender flesh and looked up at you with a satisfied smirk. “There now,” she murmured. “Doesn't that feel better?” She hummed.

Agatha’s touch was the first thing you registered again—warm and steady, a quiet anchor as your body slowly came down from the storm it had just weathered. Her fingers slipped through your damp hair, pushing it gently back from your brow. Her hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from something deeper—reverence, perhaps. Awe. You weren’t sure, but you felt it like a thread weaving between you.

She leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to your cheek, her lips warm against your flushed skin. The breath she exhaled afterward was shaky, like she was grounding herself in the feel of you—real and safe and hers.

“You’re exquisite, darling,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Utterly breathtaking.”

The words settled over you like silk, wrapping around your tired body, your aching limbs. There was no vanity in her tone—no exaggeration, no dramatics. Just raw, open truth. She said it like it was fact, like she’d never seen anything or anyone more beautiful in her life than you in that moment.

Then she gathered you into her arms with such gentleness it nearly broke you. She held you close, your cheek resting against her collarbone, her palm splayed across the center of your back like she was still memorizing every curve, every sigh. Even after all this time. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your ear became the only sound that mattered.

You felt her breath against your temple as she tucked you closer, as if she could protect you from even your own exhaustion. And still, she didn’t rush you. She waited, holding you through the quiet shudders, the final tremors that left your body like echoes from something far greater than words.

“Sleep now, sweetheart,” she murmured finally, her voice low and commanding but still impossibly soft—like a spell spun from silk and certainty. And with her wrapped around you, her scent, her warmth, her everything pressed into you like home, you believed her.

The knock was sharp—three solid hits against the front door. Too firm. Too early.

Agatha stirred with a soft frown, blinking against the soft, gray light filtering through the curtains. The room was still, the sheets warm. She shifted slightly and glanced down.

You hadn’t moved. Still curled against her side, your cheek resting against her shoulder, one arm tucked around her middle like you were afraid she might drift away if you let go. The sight made her smile, even as another knock echoed down the hall.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You stay,” she whispered.

Careful not to wake you, Agatha slid out of bed, tugging on the soft robe hanging over the chair. Her feet padded across the hardwood, the faint chill of the morning air biting at her ankles. As she passed Maeve’s room, she heard a familiar rustle—tiny thumps and frustrated squeaks. Agatha poked her head in.

Maeve was very much awake, clawing at the bars of her crib like a baby prisoner planning her grand escape. Her soft curls were a static mess, her onesie askew from a night of hard sleeping.

“Oh, bug,” Agatha sighed, pushing the door open. “Already plotting a revolution, are we?” Maeve let out a squeaky wail of triumph as soon as she spotted her, little arms flailing.

Agatha didn’t hesitate. She scooped her up and pressed a kiss to her temple, instantly soothing the half-formed fuss into sleepy babbles. “Let’s go see who’s stupid enough to knock this early, shall we?”

Maeve nuzzled into her chest, one hand clinging to the collar of her robe. Agatha carried her down the hall, hips shifting to balance the baby instinctively as the knocking came again—more impatient this time. She frowned.

“I swear, if it’s a neighbor asking about the parking permit again, I might—” She opened the door mid-sentence and froze.

Rio.

Standing on the front step, a sleek coat pulled around her and an expensive scarf slung across her neck like armor. She looked tired—drawn, even—but her eyes were sharp as ever. Before she could speak, her gaze dropped—and stopped.

On Maeve.

On Agatha.

On the way Agatha cradled her daughter with such ease, Maeve’s head resting beneath her jaw like it was the safest place in the world. Rio’s mouth opened. Then shut.

The stillness was instant. Heavy. Agatha narrowed her eyes slightly. “You’re early.”

Rio blinked, as if remembering herself. “I—had a last-minute meeting. International call. I need to be in the city by noon. Thought it better to bring Nicholas back now than leave him with someone else.”

Her voice was neutral. Measured. Maeve let out a soft coo and curled closer into Agatha’s chest. Rio’s expression flickered—just for a second. A flash of something unreadable. Not jealousy, not exactly. Not anger either. Just… quiet.

“Thanks for the courtesy call,” Agatha said, dry. Rio didn’t respond. The moment was broken by a thud of a duffel bag hitting the ground and the blur of motion as Nicholas darted inside, completely unaware of the tension.

“I’m home!” he announced, clearly thrilled. “I’m gonna go put my stuff away—hi, Squish!” He waved to Maeve, who kicked in excitement. “Okay, bye, I’m starving!” He disappeared down the hallway, his backpack bumping the wall behind him.

Agatha stepped back, just slightly, the door still open. Rio still hadn’t moved. Still staring. And that’s when your voice called softly from down the hall:

“Aggie…?”

Your footsteps followed. Muffled. Sleepy. Familiar. “Why’d you leave me?” you groaned, stretching as you appeared in the hallway. You were now in one of Agatha’s old oversized university shirts, hair a tangled mess, one hand rubbing at your eye excessively. “The bed got cold without—”

Then you saw her and stopped. Your expression shifted instantly—sleep dropping away like a mask. Your gaze moved from Rio to Agatha, who adjusted Maeve gently in her arms, then back to Rio again. “Didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

Rio cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And yet…”

Agatha, sensing the gathering storm, murmured, “It’s fine. She had to drop Nicholas off early. That’s all.”

You nodded, lips twitching into a tight smile. “Of course.” There was a pause. Long enough to sting. Maeve fussed softly again, and Agatha rocked her instinctively, whispering sweet nonsense against her curls. The kind of softness she reserved only for her children.

And Rio watched. Her eyes kept drifting back again and again—to Agatha. To the way she moved with Maeve like she’d always known how. To the way Maeve reached back for her robe with tiny fingers like it was home.

Rio’s voice, when it came again, was softer. Not snide. Not pointed. Just… hollow. “She’s gotten so big.”

Agatha didn’t look at her. “She has.”

“Looks like you’ve got everything under control.” A flicker passed through Agatha’s expression. She turned her head, finally meeting Rio’s gaze—flat, unreadable.

“I do.” Another beat. Then Rio glanced back at you—eyes scanning your face, your shirt, your bare legs, your tired but protective posture.

She nodded.

And smiled.

But it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well,” she said quietly, stepping back. “I’ll… see you next week.”

You nodded, eyes never leaving her. “Next week.” Agatha shifted Maeve in her arms again, and without another word, gently pushed the door closed. It clicked shut with finality.

Agatha looked at you. “She didn’t even look like herself,” you murmured.

“She looked like someone watching the life they chose to let go of,” Agatha said, voice even. “And is just now realizing that it’s already moved on.”

You stepped closer and pressed a kiss to Agatha’s temple, lingering a moment longer than usual. “Well, I would hope so…” you murmured against her skin, your teasing tone soft, almost reverent.

Agatha’s lips curved with that familiar, quiet affection that never had to try too hard. “Come back to bed,” she whispered.

You leaned in, wrapping your arm around her waist, her robe soft beneath your palm, Maeve’s little body nestled between you both. “Only if you bring her.”

She smirked, more exhale than expression. “Deal.”

You walked slowly together down the hallway, Maeve making tiny cooing sounds that didn’t quite form into words but still filled the space with the sweet hum of home. Agatha’s hand rested over yours on her waist as you walked, and you pressed a light kiss to her shoulder, just because you could.

By the time you reached the bedroom, the quiet had taken on that special kind of hush that only belonged to mornings like this—heavy rain still tapping at the windows, the echo of distant tires swishing through wet streets, the smell of yesterday’s lavender still clinging to the pillows.

Agatha placed Maeve gently in the middle of the bed and crawled in beside her, immediately stretching out on her side, propping herself up on one elbow. You followed, curling close, your head brushing hers as Maeve squealed and flailed her arms between you.

“She’s so restless in the morning,” you said with a smile, brushing Maeve’s curls away from her eyes.

“She gets that from you,” Agatha replied with a knowing look. Before you could respond, you heard a soft thud and the sound of small, socked feet down the hallway.

Nicholas. He appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, dressed in yesterday’s hoodie, his hair sticking up in every direction. “Okay, now I’m officially home,” he declared, crossing his arms. “Because I’ve found my people.”

You grinned and reached out one arm. “C’mere, knight of the realm.”

He bounded onto the bed without hesitation, throwing himself dramatically across the blankets. “Ugh, Mom made me eat weird oatmeal yesterday. It had nuts and bananas in it. Like chunks of them. I was betrayed.”

Agatha snorted as she reached across you to ruffle his hair. “You poor thing. You’re clearly traumatized.”

“I’m gonna need at least two pancakes to emotionally recover.” Nicholas then leaned over to kiss Maeve’s cheek. She squeaked and kicked her foot against his stomach, earning a laugh.

Agatha leaned back against the pillows, letting her hand rest on your thigh as you curled up together. Maeve ended up sprawled across both your torsos, babbling contentedly like she was giving a morning briefing. Nicholas tugged a pillow behind his head and yawned, melting into the bedding with the boneless grace of a boy who hadn’t quite decided if he was awake or not.

Agatha lifted the remote from the nightstand and pointed it at the TV mounted on the wall. “Cartoons or movie ?”

“Movie,” Nicholas and you said in unison.

Agatha smirked. “My people.” A moment later, the opening credits of an old animated movie filled the screen, the soft flicker of color painting your walls in shades of golden light. The room filled with gentle sounds—dialogue, rain, Maeve’s happy squeals as she reached for the remote in Agatha’s hand.

You watched her, watched them all. Your daughter nestled in her mother’s arms, a thumb in her mouth, her eyes fluttering already.

Nicholas curled against your side, his hand draped protectively over her ankle. Agatha leaning into you like this—this—was the safest place in the world.

And it was.

Everything felt still. Whole. The outside world—its noise, its mistakes, its lingering ghosts—was on the other side of a closed door. And in here?

You were just a family. Made not of perfect people—but of love that had survived. And you would keep surviving. One rainy morning at a time.

[masorciereviolette]

Oh Captain, My Captain

Pairing: Olivia Benson x Reader

Warnings: Arguments, Sad Themes, Typical SVU Case Drama & Angst, Vaguely Described Crimes, Puke Warning, Unexpected Emotional Connections, Mentions of injuries, Soft Enemies To Lovers, Kissing.

Word count: 13.6k

A/N: I truly hope y’all like this, lmk ur thoughts :)))

Summary: An old friend of Carisi’s is temporarily assigned to the Special Victims Unit when he and the District Attorney are required Upstate. What begins as professional tension quickly spirals into something deeper, more dangerous—and far more personal. As high-stakes cases push them to confront old ghosts and buried truths, walls begin to crumble. Between quiet lunches, stolen glances, and one confession that changes everything, neither of you can deny what’s been building. But in a world where justice comes first, can you afford to fall?

Taglist: @wuhluhwuh03

Link To Masterlist

The knock on Olivia’s office door is brisk—precise, like everything else about her week so far. She doesn’t even glance up at first, eyes still fixed on the open file in her lap, already anticipating who it is.

Sure enough, the door swings open a beat later, and there’s Carisi, strolling in like a man with one foot out the door. His suit jacket is slung over one shoulder, and he’s got a travel folder tucked under his arm, half-unzipped and bristling with printouts. There’s a subtle bounce in his step, the kind of lightness that only comes with temporary escape.

She finally looks up, brow arching. “You’re really leaving me with the circus, huh?”

Carisi’s mouth twists into a grin as he shuts the door behind him. “Only for a week. Two at most. But hey—silver lining, I’m not leaving you empty-handed.”

Olivia leans back in her chair, crossing her arms with the kind of suspicion she usually reserves for suspects caught in a lie. “Oh yeah? Who’d you rope into babysitting the courtroom while you’re off in Albany dodging press and pretending not to hate it?”

That smug grin widens. It’s the kind of grin she’s known long enough to recognize as trouble wrapped in charm. “You remember my friend from Brooklyn—”

“No.”

Carisi raises both brows, undeterred. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I don’t need to,” she fires back.

He laughs, clearly amused, and holds up a hand like a peace offering. “She agreed to cover SVU while I’m gone. Full authority. Total discretion. Already been briefed on everything too and before you ask—yes, she already started reviewing the backlog.”

Olivia’s eyes narrow. “Carisi. Your friend from Brooklyn? The same one apparently who told Fin she had—and I quote—‘better things to do than wait for decent police work’?”

“In her defense,” he says, dragging out the words like he’s bracing for impact, “that was during that mess with the triple homicide, the falsified warrants, and that precinct that practically wrote its own internal affairs reports.”

“I remember,” she says, dryly. “And I also remember wanting to throw a chair after that court hearing.”

“Which you didn’t,” he points out, holding up a finger. “Because deep down, even you knew she wasn’t wrong.”

Olivia lets out a sharp breath, pushing the file off her lap and setting it on the desk. “That doesn’t mean I want her anywhere near my department. I need someone who cares about the people we’re fighting for. Not just their conviction stats.”

Carisi sobers slightly, but there’s still something amused in his eyes—like he’s watching a movie he’s already seen once and is excited to see her reaction the second time. “She cares, Liv. Just… not in the way you’re used to. Not warm, and she’s definitely not fuzzy. But she fights hard. And if a case is worth it—bleed for it.”

She studies him, her expression unreadable. Years of dealing with unpredictable cops, distraught victims, and courtroom disasters have made her hard to rattle—but Carisi’s evasiveness is starting to itch at her.

“So,” she says slowly, “what am I in for?”

He hesitates. It’s not long, but it’s long enough. Then, with a crooked smile that lands somewhere between fond and vaguely apologetic, he says, “Let’s just say… you two are either gonna cling or clash, that I’m not really sure yet.”

Olivia doesn’t return the smile. “That’s not comforting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” Carisi replies, striding forward to drop the travel folder on her desk. “It’s honest. Shes brilliant, Liv. Scary brilliant. Razor-sharp instincts, zero tolerance for bullshit, and doesn’t back down—ever.”

She flips the folder open, eyes scanning the first few pages. Case assignments, brief notes, a printed itinerary from the DA’s office. Nothing about the ADA themselves. No photo. No profile. That alone makes her more wary. “I’ve worked with ADAs like that before,” she says, still reading. “It never ends well.”

Carisi’s smirk deepens, like he’s holding a secret she’s not ready to hear. “She’s not like the others.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes lift sharply. “And that’s supposed to reassure me?”

He shrugs, letting the silence hang just long enough for it to border on smug. “Just give her a few days. You might surprise yourself.”

He starts to turn away, then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder with a knowing glint in his eye. “Oh—and try not to take it personally liv, she just takes a moment.”

Olivia frowns. “What?”

His grin is all teeth now, bright and obnoxious. “You’ll see.” And with that, he’s gone, whistling under his breath as he strolls back down the hall. Olivia stares at the now-closed door for a long beat, then down at the folder in her hands.

You’ll see.

Great.

The first spark happens on a Wednesday. Clouds hang low over Manhattan, the kind of gray that seeps into everything—moods, clothes, patience. It’s already been a rough morning. Two callouts, one victim interview that ended in tears and a vomit-smeared hallway, and now this—another delicate case strung together with barely enough evidence to keep it from unraveling in her hands.

The victim, a nineteen-year-old college freshman, came in the night before, shaking so hard Olivia had to physically steady her hand just to hold the pen. The timeline was thin. The physical evidence, thinner. But Olivia believed her. She saw the signs, heard the tremble in her voice that couldn’t be faked. Still, belief wasn’t admissible in court.

Then a break—small, but promising. One of Olivia’s detectives caught it on security footage from a deli across the street. The suspect entering at a time that didn’t match his alibi. If they could just cross-reference that with the MTA logs or ping tower data, maybe they could wedge the window of doubt wide enough to break it open.

She flagged it herself. Typed it out. Highlighted it. Attached the timestamped footage and handed it off. “Go straight to the temp ADA,” she told him, tapping the top of the file with two fingers. “If they’ve got half a brain, they’ll know this is the slip up we needed.”

That was late morning. By early afternoon, her detective is back. Standing in the doorway of her office, no file in hand. Just a dull look of exasperation and something clenched in his right hand. He doesn’t speak right away, and Olivia knows—knows—this isn’t good.

“Don’t tell me she passed on it,” she says, already on edge.

He hesitates, then steps forward, extending a small square of neon yellow. A sticky note. That’s it. Olivia takes it, frowning, and reads. “Find more solid information. Don’t waste my docket.”

The handwriting is neat. Clean. Effortless. No signature. No stamp. Just sharp-edged confidence bleeding off the page in ink. She looks up, voice low but tight. “This is it?”

He shrugs helplessly. “Said if we had something real, to try again tomorrow. Maybe.” The maybe lands like a slap. Olivia doesn’t say anything at first. Just pushes her chair back so hard it screeches against the floor. No pause. Just fire.

She storms past the bullpen, boots striking tile like warning shots. Someone calls her name—maybe Fin, maybe Amanda—but she doesn’t slow. Her eyes are already locked on the front doors like crosshairs. Her jaw is tight enough to ache. Her hands are balled into fists. By the time she’s outside, the winter air barely registers. The wind tears at her sleeves, but she’s too furious to feel cold.

Don’t waste my docket.

She runs the words over in her head, over and over again, like a mantra she wants to throttle someone with. It wasn’t the dismissal that got her, It was the arrogance.

The assumption that her team hadn’t already combed every inch of that case, hadn’t fought tooth and nail just to bring something forward. The idea that someone sitting comfortably behind a desk could brush it off with a one-liner and an anonymous note like they were swatting away an annoying email.

She didn’t give a damn how brilliant this ADA was supposed to be. If they thought they could steamroll SVU and treat the unit like a line on a checklist, they had another thing coming. Thirty minutes later, she’s pushing through the glass doors of the District Attorney’s office, straight past the front desk without a word. She knows where the office is.

Carisi had pointed it out just days ago when he tried to introduced her to “her new partner in justice,” said with that smug little smirk like he knew exactly how combustible this pairing was going to be. You weren’t there of course, “ran out for supplies”.

The receptionist behind the desk starts to stand. “Ma’am—Captain—do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Olivia says flatly, already walking. Her boots echo down the marble hallway, a measured storm heading for one very particular office door. She doesn’t knock, she doesn’t need to because this wasn’t a meeting. This was a reckoning.

You hear the footsteps before you see her. Not the polite, half-hearted shuffle of a courier or the tentative knock of a detective worried about pissing off the new ADA. No—these are deliberate. Sharp. The kind of footsteps that have backed down perps in interrogation rooms and chased down predators in alleys slick with rain and blood.

You don’t bother looking up from the file you’re annotating. The pen in your hand doesn’t even pause as the door swings open—no knock, no courtesy, just authority wrapped in fury.

Olivia Benson. Well. That didn’t take long. You glance up slowly, deliberately, like someone turning the page on a mildly interesting novel. Her expression could cut glass. “Captain Benson,” you greet, voice low and dry. “What an unexpected surprise.”

She doesn’t return the pleasantry. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. “You sent my detective back with a sticky note.”

You lean back in your chair, resting your chin in your hand, elbow balanced on the armrest like a queen on her throne. “If I’d had more time, I might’ve included a gold star and a participation ribbon.”

Her jaw tightens. “That evidence could’ve strengthened the timeline. Could’ve been what we needed to move this case forward.”

You cut her off with a raised brow and a flick of your pen. “It Could’ve also collapsed like a paper bridge in a thunderstorms wrath. Secondhand timestamps. Incomplete footage. Zero cell data. I don’t take maybes and turn them into miracles, Captain. That’s your job. Mine is to win.”

She takes a step forward. Not threatening, but definitely not friendly. “Your job is to seek justice. For victims. For the Nineteen-year-old girl who came to us in pieces and trusted that we’d fight for her.”

Your spine straightens, shoulders rolling back. Your eyes sharpen as they lock with hers. “And you think I’m doing her a favor by pushing through evidence that wouldn’t survive ten seconds against a defense attorney with a pulse?” you ask coolly. “You think that’s justice? Because what I think is that weak cases don’t end in guilty verdicts—they end in hung juries, retrials, or worse. They end with monsters walking out of court with a smirk and a lawsuit.”

“You could’ve talked to me,” she snaps. “Explained it. Instead, you embarrassed one of my best detectives.”

You shrug, unapologetic. “If your detective can’t handle the reality of rejection, they’re in the wrong line of work. I’m not here to massage egos. I’m here to prosecute.”

Olivia’s eyes flash. “You think this is about ego?”

“I think this is about you not being used to hearing the word no,” you say, voice steel-edged. “I’m not one of your detectives. I do not report to you. And I don’t rubber-stamp evidence that won’t hold. So if you want a prosecutor who’s going to bend every time you stomp in here breathing fire, call the DA and ask for someone softer.”

Her nostrils flare. You expect her to yell. You kind of want her to—it’d be easier than the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s trying to peel back every layer and figure out what broke you to make you this way.

“You really don’t get it,” she says, quieter now, but somehow twice as cutting. “This isn’t some desk job where you get to sit in judgment and pretend that your detachment makes you better. These victims… they’re not case numbers. They’re not hypothetical arguments in a courtroom. They’re real. And they deserve someone who gives a damn.”

Something flinches in your chest—fast and buried. You don’t let it show. Instead, you sigh, smooth out your expression, and rise slowly from your chair.

“I do give a damn,” you say, voice lower now. “I give enough of a damn to make sure their stories are airtight before I put them in front of twelve strangers to have the worst experience of their lives dissected and judged like front page news. Because if I screw that up, they don’t just lose the case. They lose their faith. In all of us. ”

She blinks once, but doesn’t back down. “You don’t even know her name, do you?”

There’s no accusation in it—just disappointment. That stings more than it should. “She matters,” Olivia continues. “Even if you don’t think so yet.” You let the silence stretch, neither of you blinking. The tension between you hums with something hotter than just frustration. She’s not wrong—and you hate that.

Finally, you exhale and glance toward the case files stacked on your desk. “I’ll review the timeline again. If there’s something there, I’ll reconsider. But don’t send someone to me without prepping them properly next time. I don’t coddle. Ever.”

Olivia tilts her head slightly, a bitter smile tugging at her mouth. “Yeah. I got that.”

She turns toward the door without another word, and for a second, you think she might leave it at that. But her hand pauses on the knob. “You know,” she says without turning, “Carisi said you were sharp. Implied you’d challenge me.” She looks back over her shoulder, just enough to meet your gaze.

“He forgot to mention the part where you’d make me want to throw a chair through your window.”

You smirk. “He probably didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” She shakes her head once, scoffs under her breath, and walks out—no slamming, no theatrics. Just the calm, deadly quiet of a woman who’s not done with you yet.

You wait until her footsteps fade down the hallway before finally sitting down again. The silence that follows is heavy, coiled.

You stare down at the returned note still on your desk. For the first time since you wrote it, it looks… flippant.

You hate that, And you hate that she’s still in your head. “For their sake…” You rub a hand over your face, muttering under your breath.

“Goddamn Carisi, I’m gonna kill your ass—”

—————————————————

You’ve been assigned to SVU for less than a Ninety Six hours and already it feels like every day is a full-blown psychological endurance test. You’re dodging homicide cases like landmines, talking judges off metaphorical ledges, and battling Captain Olivia Benson like it’s a full-contact sport with no rulebook and no timeouts.

You’re barely two sips into your coffee when the phone buzzes on your desk. You stare at it for a beat like it insulted your mother, then clicked the screen

Detective Tutuola: We’ve got a problem.

You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. It’s not even eight, then another buzz.

Detective Tutuola: Liv wants you down here. Now.”

When you step off the elevator at the precinct, you spot Olivia immediately—postured like a general at war. She’s planted firmly in front of the board, arms crossed, eyes locked on the photo of a bruised girl, she was young…...She doesn’t glance your way when you walk in, which somehow makes the tension worse.

“Captain,” you say, dry and clipped, as you approach.

“You’re late,” she says flatly, still not looking at you.

“I’m exactly on time,” you reply, brushing past a desk. “You just have an early martyr complex.” It slips out too fast, too instinctively—but she hears it. Her head tilts slowly in your direction, and when she finally looks at you, her glare could stop traffic.

“This is Sarah,” she says instead of arguing. Her voice is lower now. Sharper. “Eleven. Picked up outside her school by an older male. Assaulted for over twelve hours. Escaped just before dawn.”

That shuts you up. You glance at the photo, the sharp bloom of bruises beneath the girl’s eye. Your throat tightens despite yourself. “She’s safe now?” you ask, voice quieter.

“In the hospital. Broken wrists. Two cracked ribs. She’s got a trauma counselor in the room, but—” Olivia finally meets your gaze, and you see it. The weight. “She won’t understand what happened to her for years.”

You nod slowly, swallowing whatever sarcastic retort was forming. She hands you the case file—no ceremony, no preamble. You flip it open and scan quickly. Surveillance footage. Statement. Sketchy ID. One potential name, misspelled twice.

“This won’t get us a warrant…” you say without looking up. “It’s not enough just yet.”

Olivia takes a step toward you, posture rigid. “We don’t have time. If he disappears—”

“Then bring me something with teeth. A witness. A neighbor. Anything that doesn’t fall apart under scrutiny.” You close the folder. “I’m not getting a warrant thrown out on a bad Fourth Amendment argument. We lose it now, we lose it forever.”

She glares at you like she might actually throw the folder back in your face. “God, you’re infuriating.”

You raise your brow. “Don’t flatter me.”

Right then, Fin appears behind you, clearly sensing the storm about to make landfall. “We found a cabbie. Said he might’ve picked them up yesterday afternoon. He’s coming in now.”

You glance at Olivia again. She’s still staring at you—half murder, half something else. Like she’s trying to solve you and not liking what she’s finding. You exhale through your nose. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

Her brows lift slightly. “What, no note this time?”

You sigh, flicking the edge of the file with your finger. “Not yet.”

The interrogation room is colder than usual, humming with that sterile quiet that makes everything feel louder. The cabbie sits across from you, thin and wiry, fingers twitching against the table as he speaks.

“I didn’t know anything was wrong,” he insists. “She didn’t say anything. Just sat there.”

“You picked them up where?” you ask, pen poised.

“Near a school on Henry Street. He waved me down. Said they were late for an appointment.”

“She say anything at all?” Olivia asks from beside you, her tone gentler but unrelenting.

The man shakes his head. “No. Just quiet. Real quiet.” He rubs the back of his neck, like the memory is suddenly sitting wrong. “I thought… I thought they were father and daughter. Didn’t think twice.”

You nod. “Where’d you drop them?”

“Bushwick. Near Troutman. Apartment complex.” Beside you, Olivia stiffens. You don’t realize how close she’s sitting until your elbow bumps hers when you adjust your chair.

It’s not intentional, You glance over. She’s scribbling notes, eyes locked on the cabbie’s every movement. Her fingers are tight around the pen, her jaw clenched like she’s holding her breath.

The cabbie’s dismissed a few minutes later, leaving the two of you in the silence of the room. You glance at her again, studying her from the side—the way her shoulders curve in just slightly when no one’s looking. Like she’s been holding the weight of this case since the second it hit her desk. Maybe longer.

“Hey,” you say quietly. She doesn’t look up.

“That was something. The cabbie.”

She exhales slowly, voice low. “It’s still not enough.”

You nod, not disagreeing. “But it’s a start. And we both know that’s more than we had this morning.”She finally glances at you. Not with anger. Not with challenge. Something softer. Tired, maybe. Or just real.

“You always like being this difficult?” she asks after a beat, lips twitching at the corners.

“I’m consistent,” you say. “And it keeps the day interesting.”

She lets out a quiet chuckle—short, dry, but undeniably real. “Charming.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” you reply, meeting her gaze. The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time. It lingers between you—not awkward, not angry. Just… charged. Like whatever this is, whatever it’s becoming, is starting to shift. Something under the surface giving way.

Later, when the sun’s dipped low and the precinct is humming with the usual late-night chaos, you’re not in your office. You’re still downtown tucked away in an interview room, arguing your case to a bleary-eyed judge over video call. The statement from the cabbie isn’t enough on its own—not by protocol. But context, urgency, the right pressure in the right places? You’ve always known how to press just hard enough.

You lay it out clean. You take the pieces Olivia Benson brought to your desk and you frame them like a prosecutor should. Then you go a step further. You make it matter. And maybe—just maybe—that’s what tips it.

The judge signs off. Unexpected. But not undeserved. By the time the suspect’s in custody, cuffed and sullen in the back of a squad car, the bullpen is in motion. The air crackles with that brief, fleeting electricity that comes with a win—especially the kind that nearly slipped through your fingers. You’re walking through, ready to call it a night, when you catch her watching you. Not openly, not obviously. But she’s there. One elbow on her desk, eyes steady. She knows.

She knows you pulled strings to get the warrant approved. Knows you made her case a priority when you didn’t have to. And it’s no longer a gaze of disdain. But not admiration, either.

It’s… something in between. Something curious. Measuring. Like she’s trying to reconcile the version of you she assumed with the one she’s now staring at. Like she’s not sure what to make of you—but she’s starting to want to try. And maybe—just maybe—you’re not so sure yourself.

—————————————————————

The precinct hums weirdly different at night. The phones are quieter, the desks half-empty, the buzz of fluorescent lights louder than usual.

You’re in the conference room reviewing trial prep for Sarah’s case when Olivia walks in without warning. No knock. Just her usual presence—heavy with exhaustion and expectation.

She tosses a file onto the table. “You missed this,” she says sharply.

You glance at it. “No, I in fact didn’t.”

Her arms fold. “Then why wasn’t it in the supplemental report you sent to my squad?”

“Because it’s redundant,” you reply, not even looking up. “The interview is inconsistent, and you already have stronger corroboration from the cabbie, this wouldn’t help.”

“Doesn’t matter. You don’t get to decide what’s relevant to my detectives.”

You set your pen down carefully. “No, Captain. I get to decide what makes it into my trial strategy. That’s why I’m here.”

Olivia’s eyes flash. “You still think this is just strategy? That what we do here is some chess game to feed your ego in court?”

You stand, hands braced against the table now. “And you think this whole unit runs on moral righteousness and intuition. I don’t care what fairy tale you’re selling, Benson. I work with facts. Evidence. What holds up in front of a jury.”

She’s already across the room before you realize it, eyes locked on yours. “You think I haven’t stood in front of a jury?” she hisses. “You think I don’t know how fragile it all is? I’ve seen predators walk out because some ADA decided not to trust the victim’s word over the paperwork.”

You grit your teeth. “And I’ve seen guilty men go free because a cop couldn’t keep their emotions out of the investigation.” That one lands hard. Her jaw clenches, and for the first time, you see it—a flicker of something deeper. Not just frustration. Not even rage.

You try to pull back, but she beats you to it. “My emotions?” she repeats, low and cold. “You think I’m too emotional for this job? Is that what you’ve been thinking this whole time?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to,” she snaps. “You’ve made it crystal clear. From the moment you walked in here with your deadpan sarcasm and your detached attitude.”

You open your mouth, but she’s not finished.“You think I’m weak because I give a damn. Because I care what happens after the trial’s over. Because I sit with these girls and hear them sob about how they can’t sleep without nightmares and pray that the system doesn’t fail them again.”

Her voice cracks—just barely—and that stops everything. The whole room stills. Her fists are trembling now, not from anger, but from restraint. You take a breath. “I don’t think you’re weak, Olivia.” She blinks. “I think you’re not what I expected—.” That lands even harder.

Your voice lowers. “Because I’ve spent my entire career not letting things get personal. I go home at night and I don’t carry it with me. That’s how I survive. And you—you walk in here like every case is life or death. Like it’ll kill you if you don’t make it right.”

You swallow. “I don’t know how to be like that. I don’t know how you do.” She looks at you for a long time.

The room hums with the tension between you—rage, yes. But something else now. Something raw. Human. Finally, she speaks, quieter than before. “I don’t get to turn it off. I’ve tried.” A long silence.

You nod slowly. “That must be exhausting.” There’s something in her eyes then—recognition. Not agreement, not yet. But the barest crack in the wall she’s kept up around you.

“It is,” she admits. “But I don’t know who I’d be if I stopped.”

You hold her gaze. “Probably still terrifying.”

A short, humorless laugh escapes her. “You’re such an ass.”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “But I’m not your enemy, Benson.” She nods. Once. Barely. Then turns to leave.

The days that follow are… different. The cases are still the same—grisly, complicated, too often thankless. The long hours don’t relent, and the emotional weight doesn’t let up. Trauma hangs in the air like humidity, thick and oppressive, seeping into everything. But Olivia stops looking at you like you’re a brick wall she’s determined to knock down.

Now, it’s something else. Now, it’s like she’s circling—measuring—trying to figure out what’s beneath the surface and, more importantly, why it bothers her that she doesn’t already know. Like not being able to read you is a flaw in her otherwise flawless instincts.

You don’t make it easy. You’re still guarded, still clipped in your language and unapologetic in your choices. But there’s a shift. A ripple.

It happens during an afternoon that blends into every other—gray sky, lukewarm coffee, the scent of printer toner and stress. There’s too much paperwork and not enough manpower. Olivia’s been in and out of her office all day, splitting her time between chasing down a witness and fielding press inquiries.

There’s the a kid. She’s sitting at the far end of the bullpen, legs dangling, wrapped in a coat two sizes too small. Her shoes are scuffed and her socks don’t match—one purple with stars, the other plain white and bunched at the ankle. She looks barely ten. All knees and elbows, sleeves frayed from nervous fingers. She clutches a half-empty juice box like it’s the only thing anchoring her.

She’s waiting for her mother, who’s still with Amanda, finishing up the stack of forms required to even begin a case. You pass by once—glance. Pass again. Then something tugs at you. You double back. No drama. No big declarations. You crouch beside her, your coat creasing at the knees, and hold out a bag of m & m’s you’d stashed in your jacket earlier. “You look like you could use something sweeter.”

She eyes you with wide, uncertain eyes—silent. You don’t push. Just hold the bag out patiently. After a beat, she reaches out and takes it. Not with trust, but with the quiet, learned caution of someone who’s had to grow up faster than she should.

You don’t say anything else. Just sit beside her, careful not to crowd. From your pocket, you pull a pen and start drawing something on your palm—deliberate strokes. After a few seconds, you tilt your hand toward her, revealing a lopsided cartoon ghost with big eyes and a surprised mouth.

She leans over slightly, curiosity edging past fear. You wiggle your fingers. The ghost “waves.” It’s barely there, but it’s real—a tug at the corners of her mouth. A tiny, tired smile. The kind you don’t chase. The kind that just… happens, if you’re lucky.

You pat her knee gently and stand, already halfway back to your sanctioned desk before she even considers opening the bag. You don’t notice Olivia watching. But she saw everything.

She’d stepped out of the break room mid-conversation with Fin, coffee in hand, expression unreadable. She spotted you crouching beside the girl, and her voice had trailed off. Fin kept talking, but Olivia didn’t respond. Just stood there in the doorway, eyes fixed on the quiet, unspoken moment between you and the child.

She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t approach. Just watches. Thoughtfully. Like maybe—for the first time—she sees something she truly wasn’t expecting. Later, hours after the girl and her mother have gone and the bullpen has emptied into tired footsteps and quiet key taps, she brings it up. No lead-in. No preamble. “You’re good with kids.”

You don’t look up from your laptop screen. “I’m good with people who’ve survived the worst day of their lives. Whether they’re ten or forty-five doesn’t matter.”

There’s a pause. You feel her watching again—measuring like she always does, but softer this time. “That’s not in the manual,” she says quietly.

You glance at her now, finally. “Neither is how to deal with you, Benson. And yet here we are.”

She almost smiles. Almost. But doesn’t. Still, something in her expression changes—just slightly. The way she looks at you holds… interest. Curiosity. Respect, maybe. But mostly, it lingers. Like the moment stuck to her ribs a little more than she expected it to. And when she finally walks away, the space she leaves behind doesn’t feel the same. Not colder. Not distant. Just… different. And you’re not entirely sure that’s a bad thing.

It happens again two days later. The precinct at night is a strange limbo. Half the squad’s gone, the rest typing quietly or nursing lukewarm coffee. You’re behind the desk again half-buried in files for the upcoming trial, why you honestly couldn’t answer. You technically had an office available to use….Olivia’s been circling you all day—not physically, but in the way she glances over when she thinks you’re not looking.

The tension between you has cooled to something simmering. No longer combative. Just uncertain. Then the call comes through. A clerk buzzes the desks direct line. “ Counselor, there’s someone downstairs asking for you. Said it was urgent. They wouldn’t give a name.”

You frown. “Send them up.” You don’t think much of it—probably a detective dropping off paperwork, maybe a defense attorney trying to get cute by tracking you down here. But when the elevator dings and the doors slide open, the blood drains from your face.

Because standing there, in his dress blues, is your father. Retired NYPD. Former commanding officer in Queens. And the reason you left your last post in Brooklyn in the first place. The same man who made it clear that you were never the kind of daughter he wanted.

He looks the same—rigid posture, gritted jaw, shoes so polished you could see your own reflection in them if you weren’t already focused on keeping yourself from reacting. He doesn’t wait for an invitation. “Still chasing headlines, huh?” he says as he walks in. “Thought you’d have burned out by now.”

You don’t answer. You just shut the file slowly and stand. “What do you want?”

“I came to say congratulations,” he says mockingly. “Your brother mentioned you got assigned to SVU. Thought I’d see if the stories were true.”

“They are,” comes Olivia’s voice from across the room. You hadn’t realized she was watching from the hallway.

Your father turns to her with a tight-lipped smirk. “Captain Benson. I’ve heard about you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” she says coolly. The air between them sours quickly.

“She’s one of the best we’ve got,” Olivia adds, nodding toward you. “Hard to rattle. Harder to beat in court. That’s why she’s here.”

He chuckles, low and bitter. “Yeah, well. Toughness isn’t the same thing as loyalty.”

Your jaw clenches. “Is this necessary right now.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen enough.” He looks at Olivia again. “Good luck keeping this one in line. She always had a habit of mistaking disobedience for independence.” He walks out before you can respond. The elevator swallows him whole, just like it did the last time he walked out of your life.

You turn back to your desk, trying to focus on the file in front of you. But your hands are trembling. You hadn’t expected him. Not here. Not now. And definitely not her witnessing it. You don’t realize Olivia’s still standing in the doorway until she speaks again—quietly. “I didn’t know.”

You shake your head. “No one does. Carisi’s the only one who ever met him. Once. It didn’t go over very well.”

“What happened?” she asks, softer now.

You shrug, staring down at the file like it can save you. “He didn’t like the way I used my voice. Or my brain. He wanted a daughter who smiled and nodded. Not one who cross-examined him at thirteen. Carisi didn’t help”

Olivia steps closer. Carefully. Like she’s not sure how close is too close yet. “You don’t seem like a person to just bury things,” she says.

You laugh once, bitter. “It’s the only way I made it through. Law school. My childhood. Him.” She doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then—like she was connecting pieces of a puzzle splayed in front of her “That case with the girl in the cab. You didn’t push back because you didn’t care.” You glance at her.

“You pushed back because if the case cracked under pressure, you’d carry that failure,” she says. “Just like you’ve carried everything else.” You hate that she sees it. Hate it even more that it’s accurate.

You chuckled bitterly “I’ve never had the luxury of failure.”

Her eyes soften just a fraction. “Me neither.”

For a long moment, you both just stand there. No war between you. No battleground. Just two people who’ve built their lives around control, finally seeing the fractures in each other. And Olivia? She doesn’t look at you with interest anymore. She looks like she understands. Like maybe—just maybe—she wishes she’d understood sooner.

——————————————————

It’s been five days since your father showed up, you stopped working out of the precinct due to absolute embarrassment over what transpired, and Olivia hasn’t brought it up once. But she’s also stopped sending her detectives to drop off paperwork. At first, you figured it was coincidence—just an efficient captain handling her own files. But then it kept happening. A delivery here, an update there. Sometimes just a copy of a transcript she could’ve easily emailed.

Now, it’s become something of a pattern. She shows up in your office unannounced just after five, holding a small folder and a paper coffee cup. You raise an eyebrow. “Delivering messages personally again?”

She smirks faintly. “My squad’s busy.”

“They’re always busy.”

“And I like the walk,” she says simply, stepping inside.

You watch her a beat too long. “You know there’s a whole department of runners for this.”

“I know.” She sets the folder on your desk, takes the seat across from you. “Besides, it gives me a chance to check in. See if you’ve set any more precinct records for most interdepartmental complaints in a single week.”

You snort. “That was one time, and he called the victim ‘sweetheart.’ I regret absolutely nothing.” Olivia actually smiles. Not just the polite press of lips she usually offers in court—but something real. Quiet. Like maybe she’s stopped expecting you to explode every time she enters a room.

You reach for the folder. “This the latest from the Victim Support counselor?”

She nods. “She flagged something about the younger sister being afraid to sleep. Possible secondary trauma.”

You flip through the report. “I’ll reach out. Maybe get her a direct line to our social worker in the ADA’s office. Someone not wearing a badge.”

Olivia nods, then hesitates. You glance up. “What?”

“Carisi called this morning,” she says slowly. “Said the DA’s office is extending your placement with us.”

You blink. “He didn’t tell you?”

She shakes her head. “No. Apparently it’s due to ‘unforeseen administrative complications.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

You sigh and sit back in your chair. “He mentioned something about Albany stonewalling a few policy changes. Didn’t give me much else, and I didn’t push.”

“Huh.” You both go quiet. It’s not awkward—just still. A shared pause neither of you feels the need to rush through. You sip from your now-cold coffee and glance at her over the rim. “If you’re looking to get rid of me, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she replies, but there’s no heat behind it. Only the faintest trace of something else. Interest. She leans forward after a beat. “I looked into your father.” That catches you off guard.

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t snooping,” she adds quickly. “I just… I recognized the name. Went through a few archived cases. His record’s spotless. Commendations. Arrests. Seems like he was—”

“An excellent cop,” you finish for her, a humorless smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah. That wasn’t the problem.” Olivia stays quiet. Waiting.

You exhale slowly. Fold your hands. “My mother was killed in a carjacking when I was seven. Random. Wrong place, wrong time.” Olivia doesn’t speak. Her eyes are locked on yours—calm, open.

You continue, your voice tight but steady. “My father was already losing himself to the job, even before that. After she died… he just disappeared. Not physically. Just—emotionally. Completely. He went from being cold to nonexistent.” You look away for a second, then back at her.

“He kept the house, but we were on our own. Cooked my own meals, applied to college by myself, signed my own permission slips until I graduated. He made sure the lights stayed on, but that’s it.”

Another beat. “I think part of him died with her. The rest turned into a badge and a bottle.” Olivia’s expression doesn’t shift much, but her hands tighten where they rest on her knees.

“He ever hurt you?” she asks quietly.

You shake your head. “Not in a way that leaves marks.” That hangs there between you. Heavy. “You remind me of him, you know,” you say, more gently than expected. “Or at least the cop he used to be. Always watching. Always carrying it. Always trying to outwork the damage.”

Olivia looks at you for a long moment. Something in her chest rises and falls more deeply than before. “I’m sorry,” she says.

You shrug. “Don’t be. It made me who I am.”

She tilts her head. “Which part?”

You meet her eyes. “The part that doesn’t flinch anymore.” Another pause.

“I don’t believe that,” she says softly. “I think you flinch all the time. You just don’t let anyone see it.” You don’t answer, because she’s right. She stands slowly, smoothing out her jacket. But she doesn’t move to leave just yet.

“You know,” she says, voice quieter now, “you don’t have to keep proving how untouchable you are. Not to me.” You look up at her, and for once, let her see something unguarded in your expression.

“I don’t know how to be anything else.” Olivia’s gaze lingers for a beat—warm, but weighted.

“I think you do,” she replies. “You just forgot.” She walks out a moment later, and this time… you wish she hadn’t.

The call comes in just after 6 a.m. By the time you get to the precinct, Olivia is already there—shoulders tense, jaw locked, eyes trained on the briefing room like the whole building might collapse if she looks away.

She doesn’t greet you. Just gestures you in with a tilt of her head. Inside, Fin and Amanda are seated at the table. A uniformed officer stands by the whiteboard, flipping through a few handwritten notes. The case file is thick. “Walk me through it,” you say, sliding into the chair across from Olivia.

Fin starts. “Fourteen-year-old girl, Jessa Monroe, found at the bottom of a tenement stairwell in the Lower East Side. Multiple fractures, two black eyes, defensive wounds. She’s alive, but barely. She was conscious for a minute when the first unit arrived—said, ‘He pushed me.’ Then passed out.”

“She’s in a coma now,” Olivia adds. “No sign of forced entry, no surveillance footage from inside the building.”

“She live there?” you ask.

Amanda nods. “Third floor. With her stepfather and younger half-brother.”

Your fingers drum against the table. “Biological mother?”

“Deceased,” Fin says. “Died of an overdose when Jessa was ten. Stepdad’s had legal custody since.”

“And where was he when this happened?”

Olivia’s voice is flat. “He says he was out picking up groceries. Left the kids alone for half an hour.”

Your eyes lift. “And do we believe that?”

“I believe she said ‘He pushed me’ for a reason.” You exhale through your nose. Something sharp coils in your chest. You glance at the folder in front of you, then back at Olivia.

“How much history do we have on him?”

Amanda flips a page. “Minor priors. DUI, resisting once about ten years ago. Nothing recent. CPS has visited the home twice in the last year, but no official action taken.”

“And the little brother?”

“Eight,” Olivia says. “He was there. Says he didn’t see anything. Just heard yelling, then a thud.” You feel your gut tighten. You’ve seen this case before. Not this exact one, but versions of it.

Girls shoved down stairs, pushed over balconies, into silence. Evidence that only suggests guilt but never lands hard enough to make a jury care. These are the cases that haunt you, the ones that test the line between justice and law.

Olivia catches your expression. “You okay?”

You nod once. “I just hate this case already.”

By mid-afternoon, you’re back in the interrogation room, watching through the two-way mirror as Olivia questions the stepfather. He’s calm. Too calm. Hands folded. Voice smooth. Keeps using Jessa’s name like it’s currency. “I would never hurt her,” he says, over and over. “She’s my daughter.”

“She’s your stepdaughter,” Olivia corrects. “And she was terrified of you.”

He flinches—but just barely. “Kids exaggerate,” he says. “She’s emotional. Always has been.”

You feel your hands curl into fists at your sides. Outside the glass you stood observing, Olivia glances over her shoulder at you—like she feels it too. The wrongness. Afterward, she finds you back in your office. “We don’t have enough,” she says.

“I know.”

“I hate this part.”

You nod. “Me too.” There’s silence for a beat. Then she asks it, voice quieter now

“You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

You glance at her. Then away. “Yeah. I prosecuted a similar case three years ago. Same setup. Step-parent. Girl was eleven. Nobody believed her. Not until it was too late.”

“What happened?”

You exhale. “She was found in a crawl space under the floorboards.” Olivia flinches.

“She lasted four days,” you add. “They’d called it a runaway. By the time they looked deeper, she was gone.” Olivia doesn’t say anything.

Eventually, you speak again—this time softer, not to fill the silence, but because it hurts to leave it there. “You think being in this job makes you numb. But it doesn’t. It just makes you quiet about what it breaks.”

She steps forward slowly, arms still folded. “I don’t think you’re numb.”

You look at her. “I think you’ve just had to pretend longer than most of us.” You want to scoff, say something sharp—something to build the wall back up. But instead, you say nothing.

Because she’s right again, and you’re tired of pretending she’s not. That night, as you walk out of the building together, neither of you says a word. But Olivia keeps glancing at you. Not like she’s watching your steps. Like she’s watching your cracks. And you? You don’t hate it as much as you should.

You wake up before your alarm—again. It’s becoming a pattern. The apartment is still dim, touched only by the early gray light leaking through your curtains. The air is cold against your skin as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, elbows on your knees, trying to gather the pieces of yourself that never quite rest.

You shower. Dress in practiced movements. Coffee brews while you review emails on your phone, already anticipating the day ahead. There’s always a backlog, always another victim waiting, always a clock ticking somewhere in the background.

You make it into the office earlier than usual—earlier than most. The halls are still quiet, only a few staff members and a bleary-eyed intern at their desks. You nod at the desk attendant without stopping, coffee in hand and a folder tucked under your arm. Your office is just how you left it, papers stacked neatly, whiteboard half-filled with notes, and the scent of aging case files lingering like dust in the corners.

You take a seat, the leather chair groaning beneath you as you power on your screen. The hours before lunch pass in a blur of red pen, witness statements, and strategic annotations. You’re halfway through a supplemental witness list for a different case—something low-priority but still heavy when there’s a knock on your door.

Except Olivia doesn’t wait for you to answer. She walks in like she belongs there, which—by now—she does. There’s a rhythm between the two of you now, a quiet understanding built on friction and fragments of trust. She doesn’t waste time.

“He’s talking,” she says.

Your posture straightens. “The kid?”

She nods. “Fin’s with him now. Amanda says he’s scared, but he asked if we could get the bad man out of the house.”

Your chest tightens—not professionally, not clinically, but in that place you try to keep separate. The one that knots itself every time a child���s voice has to carry more weight than it should. “We’re recording?” you ask.

“Every word.”

You’re already moving. By the time you reach the observation room, there’s a hum in the air—activity without chaos. Olivia walks beside you, silent but present. She doesn’t need to say anything. The fact that she came to you first says enough.

Through the glass, you see him—Nico. He’s sitting in the interview chair, legs too short to reach the floor, so they swing in slow, nervous arcs. One hand is curled tightly around a stuffed rabbit that looks like it’s seen better days—ears worn, stitching loose at the neck. His other hand rests uncertainly on the table in front of him.

Fin sits across from him, calm and steady, hands folded on the table. No pressure. No raised voice. Just patience. Nico’s voice is barely audible through the speaker, soft and brittle as he talks about the man in the house. The way he yells. The way he touches things he shouldn’t. The way Nico learned to make himself small. Unnoticeable.

He keeps glancing at the mirror. He doesn’t know it’s glass. Doesn’t know you’re there, or maybe he does in the way kids sometimes just know. You don’t speak. You don’t move. Just watch.

Olivia watches, too, arms crossed over her chest, jaw tight but unreadable. She doesn’t blink much. You wonder if she’s holding her breath, the same way you are.

“He asked Amanda if he’d get in trouble for telling,” Olivia says quietly beside you. “She told him the bravest thing a person can do is say the truth out loud.”

You nod once, eyes still on the boy. “She’s right.” You don’t say the rest, that sometimes telling the truth doesn’t feel brave. Sometimes it feels like reopening a wound with your bare hands and waiting to see if anyone will stop the bleeding.

Nico keeps talking. “He was yelling,” Nico says. “I heard him tell her she was bad. That she was making him mad again. She cried. I told her not to yell back, but she did.”

Fin’s voice is low, patient. “Then what happened, buddy?”

There’s a long pause. Nico hugs the rabbit tighter. “Daddy pushed her.” The words hang in the air like a slow-motion punch.

“I heard her scream,” he says, quieter now. “Then nothing.” You close your eyes. Olivia’s standing right next to you, arms folded, jaw tight—but her eyes shine with something deeper. Grief. Rage. Resignation.

You don’t say a word. The warrant for the stepfather’s arrest is signed within the hour. The squad moves quickly—Fin and Amanda lead the charge, and Olivia oversees every inch of it. You’re back at your desk, prepping charges and anticipating the usual tricks defense will try.

But your mind is somewhere else. It’s on Nico. On Jessa. On a justice system that only listens when the scars are loud enough. By 6 p.m., the squad is back. The stepfather’s in holding, expression blank and unbothered. He doesn’t ask for a lawyer right away. He just stares at the table, like none of this is real.

You don’t want to be in the room with him. So you go to Olivia’s office instead. She’s seated at her desk, but not working. Just staring at a file that hasn’t been opened. When you knock, she doesn’t flinch—she just waves you in without a word.

You close the door behind you. “You okay?”

“No.”

You nod. “Same.” Silence.

Then—“He confessed. After we showed him the boy’s statement.”

You sink into the chair across from her. “What’d he say?”

“That she was ‘too much.’ That she kept challenging him. That she didn’t know how to be grateful.”

You swallow hard. “Like it was her fault.”

She nods. “Like it always is.”

Your fingers tap the edge of her desk, restlessly. “There’s no making this one okay.”

“No,” she says. “But at least she gets to wake up one day knowing he’s gone.”

You exhale. “If she wakes up.” That silence hurts worse than anything else. You glance at her. “You ever think you picked the wrong path?”

Olivia’s eyebrows lift, faintly. “This job. These cases. The uphill climb every damn day. Some days it feels like we’re just patching holes in a sinking ship.”

She studies you for a moment. Then she says, almost too softly: “Yeah. I think about it a lot.” Your throat tightens. You don’t expect the next thing you say, but it slips out anyway.

“My mom was kind. Strong. And the only reason I survived childhood with him.”

Olivia watches you closely. “She died because someone wanted her car and didn’t want witnesses,” you say. “And my father used that as an excuse to shut down. To be a shell of a man who couldn’t even look at me without seeing her.” You take a breath.

“I got into this work because I wanted to make sure somebody was still fighting for people like her. But lately… I don’t know.”

“You feel like you’re losing ground,” she finishes. You nod. There’s a pause before Olivia speaks again, and when she does, her voice is different—softer, but unwavering.

“You’re not.” You meet her gaze.

“You didn’t save Jessa before he pushed her,” she says, “but you’re going to make sure he never does it to another girl again. That’s something.”

“Is it enough?”

“No,” she admits. “But it’s what we’ve got.” Another long pause. “You don’t have to carry it all yourself, you know,” she adds.

You look at her. Really look. “Neither do you.” For a second, the air between you shifts. All the sarcasm, the tension, the snide remarks and pride and cynicism—it’s still there. But quieter now. Muted by something heavier.

Respect.

Grief.

Need.

Olivia clears her throat and sits up straighter. “I’ve got one more statement to review tonight. Want to stick around?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You asking for company?”

“I’m asking if you’re done pretending this doesn’t affect you.” You pause. Then rise to your feet.

“I’ll stay,” you say. And you do.

——————————————————

It starts the same way it did with you. The first time, you bring the case file over yourself because your assistant’s out sick and you don’t trust the new temp not to drop it off with the wrong squad. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. You walk the file down the hall, knock on Olivia’s office door, and hand it over.

She lifts a brow. “You lost your sarcasm too or just your assistant?”

You smirk. “I figured if you can do it, so can I.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Careful counselor. You’re starting to blend in.” You leave before the warmth in your chest can do anything foolish. The next week, you do it again. No reason. Just… do.

By the third week, it’s a rhythm. You swing by with updates. Sometimes you don’t even knock anymore. Just walk in, drop the folder, exchange a look. Maybe a joke. Maybe not. Sometimes she’s already waiting with a folder of her own, like she anticipated you.

Neither of you comments on it. You just keep showing up. Until one afternoon, when you walk in and she’s sitting at her desk with two paper bags and a water bottle balanced precariously on top of her paperwork.

She doesn’t look up when she says, “If you’re going to keep bringing me files, the least you can do is stay for lunch.”

You blink. “I—what?”

She finally looks at you, calm as ever. “Salad or sandwich?”

You hesitate, then close the door behind you. “Sandwich.”

She pushes a bag across the desk without missing a beat. “Didn’t take you for a hand held food kind of person.”

“You took a guess on my eating habits?”

She shrugs. You pull out the sandwich. It’s exactly what you would’ve ordered. Neither of you says a word for a while. You just eat in comfortable silence, papers spread between you, the city moving on without either of you noticing. It becomes another thing. Not every day. But most.

Lunch together. Sometimes at her desk, sometimes at yours. Sometimes in the back booth of a quiet café a few blocks away where no one asks for autographs or testimony. It’s not flirtation. Not really. It’s something quieter. Slower. Heavier. A trust that’s grown legs and started walking on its own.

Fin notices first. You’re standing at Olivia’s desk with a coffee in one hand and a case folder in the other when he strolls by, sipping from his own cup like he’s minding his business. He gives Olivia a look—pointed, amused.

“What?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Just nice seeing you smile again. Usually it takes a perp in cuffs or a finished trial to do that.”

Olivia glares at him. “It’s lunch.”

“Mm-hm.” He walks away without saying more, but you don’t miss the grin he hides behind his cup.

Olivia huffs. “Ignore him.” You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. Your smirk says enough. Later that week, you’re sitting across from her again, both of you working through a joint case file, when she looks up—softly, almost like she’s thinking out loud.

“You’re different now.”

You glance at her. “Than when I got here?”

She nods. You take a beat before answering. “You are too.”

She watches you. “Not sure I’ve changed much.”

“You’ve let me in ” you say simply. That silence again—thick but not heavy.

Then Olivia exhales a laugh under her breath. “People like us don’t just let someone in. We wear each other down.”

You tilt your head. “You think that’s what this is? Wearing down?” Her eyes flick to yours.

“No,” she says. “Id hope it’s something else.” You don’t press her. But when your fingers brush as you both reach for the same folder, neither of you pulls away.

The day starts quiet, too quiet. You’ve been working the serial assault case with Olivia for the past week—long enough for it to start clawing under your skin. A man targeting women walking alone at night, sticking to a tight ten-block radius.

Always the same profile, women late twenties to early forties, just a few blocks from home. He’s methodical. Smart. He leaves no prints, no DNA. Just trauma and the echo of fear. So far, he’s a ghost.

But this morning, there’s movement. A woman calls in—a potential witness. Claims she saw someone tailing a woman on her street two nights ago, hiding in the shadows.

She hadn’t come forward before. Said she was too scared. Thought maybe she’d imagined it. But after seeing a story in the local paper—an article naming the string of attacks—she couldn’t stay quiet anymore. She lives within the ten-block radius.

When Olivia asks you to come with her, she doesn’t explain why. You’re not technically needed—this isn’t an interview or an interrogation. It’s groundwork. The kind of thing a detective handles without involving the ADA.

But you don’t question it. You just grab your coat and follow her to the car. The drive is quiet. She’s focused, but not cold. You can tell she’s been here before—in the lull before the break, the quiet before the chaos. She keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, scanning her surroundings like she’s not just driving, but watching.

You don’t ask why. Not yet. The woman lives on the fourth floor of an old walk-up. The apartment smells like smoke and old carpet, and the radiator ticks with every breath of heat it tries to push through. She’s nervous, pale, and clearly still shaken.

Olivia talks to her gently—doesn’t crowd her, doesn’t push. She coaxes the details out slowly. The woman recalls seeing a man loitering in the alley across from her building, watching a neighbor walk by.

She says he didn’t move. Didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t scroll on his phone like someone passing time. Just stood there. Still. Intent. He was wearing a hat. A dark jacket. Gloves. She didn’t see his face, but something about the way he stood gave her chills.

You take notes quietly, watching from the side of the room. Olivia kneels down beside the witness as she speaks, level with her on the old couch. Her voice softens, her presence steady. And once again, you feel that tug in your chest—that strange, quiet awe at how she becomes something else in these moments. Something unshakable.

You’re halfway down the steps after the interview when Olivia suddenly freezes mid-stride. Her hand shoots out, stopping you before your next step. “What?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer—just shifts her gaze across the street. You follow her line of sight. There’s a man standing on the corner, one hand braced on the brick wall of a laundromat. He’s not doing anything. Not smoking. Not texting. Just… standing there.

Watching the building and now watching you. His eyes meet yours—and he turns sharply, walking away with purpose. Olivia’s voice drops to a whisper, all steel. “I think that’s him.”

“Wait, what?” You blink, heart rate kicking up.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Come on.” You’re barely back in the car before Olivia throws it into gear, pulling out just as the man rounds the corner.

She’s driving fast, but not reckless—just with the precision of someone who’s done this too many times. “Why the hell would he be here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.

“Because she wasn’t the only one who read the article,” Olivia says, jaw clenched. “If he saw his pattern exposed, he might’ve come to see who talked.” The thought makes your stomach turn.

“He was watching the building,” she adds. “Waiting to see who came out.”

You glance behind you, adrenaline spiking. “So he was tracking us?”

“He was tracking her,” she corrects. “You and me being there just pushed the clock.”

He turns down an alley off 12th, disappearing between two buildings. Olivia slams the SUV into park without a word. “I’m going after him.”

“I’m coming with you—”

“No.” She’s already half out the door. “If he sees you, he’ll bolt.”

“Liv—”

“Just give me two minutes.” And then she’s gone. You sit in the car, heart pounding, hands clenched. You hate this. Hate the waiting. Hate the knowledge that she’s chasing someone dangerous while you’re stuck here, sidelined.

Every instinct in you wants to follow, call fin, do something. But she asked for two minutes. So you give her that. Three minutes pass. Then four. The longest seven minutes of your life tick by before she bursts back into view, breathless, fury burning in her eyes.

Blood on her knuckles.

Scrape on her temple.

“He ran,” she pants, slamming the door shut. “I clipped him—cornered him against the wall. He fought dirty. Scaled a fire escape before I could cuff him. Patrol’s sweeping the block.”

You stare at her, chest tight. “You went after him alone.”

“I told you to stay in the car.”

“I’m not one of your rookies.”

“No,” she snaps, whirling on you. “You’re the ADA who didn’t see the guy watching you from thirty feet away.” Silence. You feel the weight of it settle like lead in your chest.

Her hands are shaking now. Not from the fight. Not from the adrenaline. “You think he was really there for the witness?” you ask softly.

“I think he wanted to see who was working the case,” she says, quieter now. “And I think if he got a clean look at you, walking alone out of that building… we’d be handling this from a whole different angle.”

You sit back in your seat. The cold from the leather seeps through your coat. “Why didn’t you tell me that was a risk?” you ask, voice low.

“Because I didn’t want to scare you.”

You glance over at her. “You think I scare easy?”

“No.” She breathes out, softer this time. “I think I care too damn much.” That undoes something in you. For a second, neither of you speak.

She leans back, rubbing her scraped knuckles with the edge of her coat sleeve, then mutters, “You don’t make it easy.”

You huff out a quiet breath. “Neither do you.”

“I meant what I said.” Her voice steadies. “I don’t know how to not care about you.” You look at her fully now, heart hammering in your chest. No games. No posturing. Just her—raw and real in the driver’s seat beside you.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you say finally, voice barely audible. She turns, eyes locking with yours. And this time, there’s nothing in the way. Not sarcasm. Not fear. Not pride, just you and her. In this car. In this truth.

Her voice drops, barely a whisper. “Good.” And for the first time all day, the silence between you feels like something you can breathe in, like it’s finally safe to hope.

The next morning, the precinct feels different. It’s subtle—like someone shifted everything half an inch to the left. No one else notices, of course. Not Fin. Not Amanda. Not the kid behind the desk trying to staple six pages in reverse order. But you do.

And so does Olivia. She doesn’t look at you when you walk in. Not immediately. Just keeps her eyes on the case board, one hand perched on her hip, a mug of coffee in the other like it’s the only thing grounding her.

“Morning,” you offer, voice calm. Controlled.

She looks up slowly. Nods. “Morning.”

No smirk. No glare. Just that look. The one you’ve been trading back and forth for weeks now—only now it’s heavier. Realer. You both let something out of the cage last night, and neither of you knows how to shove it back in.

You drop a file on her desk, fingertips brushing the edge like it might burn. “Here’s the DA’s final charge recommendations for the stalker. He signed off on attempted murder and felony assault. Jury’s going to want blood.”

“They’ll get it,” Olivia replies. And for a moment, that’s all you say.

Until Fin walks by, throws a quick glance between the two of you, and mutters under his breath, “You two finally figure it out yet, or should we all start a betting pool?”

You shoot him a warning look. Olivia glares harder. He just smirks and keeps walking. By lunchtime, you’re back in your office, pretending the same sandwich you’ve eaten for three days in a row still has taste. There’s a knock on the door—gentle, careful.

You know it’s her. She steps inside, coffee in hand, hesitating for once. “Do you have five minutes?”

You gesture to the chair across from you. “For you? Always.” That lands with a soft thud between you. Olivia closes the door.

“You okay?” you ask, and this time it’s different. You mean it differently.

She nods. “Are you?”

You hesitate. Then: “No. Not really.”

Her brows knit slightly. “Because of yesterday?” You nod.

“Because you were in danger?”

You shake your head. “Because you told me you care.” She goes still.

“And because I wasn’t surprised,” you add. “Because I already knew. I just didn’t want to admit what it meant.”

Olivia sinks into the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “This job doesn’t make room for… whatever this is.”

You study her. “And yet you keep bringing me lunch.” She almost smiles.

You lean back, letting out a breath. “I don’t know what to do with it either. But I know it’s not nothing.”

“I don’t want to pretend it is,” she admits. “But I don’t want it to ruin everything, either.”

“It won’t,” you say, quieter now. “Unless we lie about it.” The silence stretches again—but it feels different this time. Less like avoidance. More like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down, knowing the other person is right beside you.

“You said it,” you murmur. “I felt it. And now nothing feels the same.”

Olivia meets your gaze. “What if that’s okay?” You stare at her. She stares back. And for once, neither of you looks away.

You both decide to not eat lunch separately, you don’t talk about the case. You don’t talk about Carisi, or the DA, or the man still sitting in a holding cell waiting for trial. You just sit across from Olivia, in the same booth you’ve randomly found comfort in for weeks now. Two meals. Two drinks. One table with something unspoken finally breathing between you. You’re not exactly sure what to call it just yet.

It’s another late evening, The kind of late where the city hums quieter and the precinct feels like a skeleton of itself—bare-bones and echoing. Olivia’s still in her office when you drop off the finalized court schedule. She doesn’t hear you approach, too focused on the open file in front of her.

You knock gently on the frame. Her head lifts. “Hey.”

You step inside. “Do you ever go home?”

She shrugs. “Do you?”

You offer a small smile. “Touché.”

You place the folder on her desk, but you don’t back away. She doesn’t tell you to. There’s nothing formal about the way you’re standing there, just… present. She leans back in her chair and exhales, scrubbing a hand through her hair.

“I should get some sleep,” she mutters, not moving an inch.

“Yeah. Me too.” But neither of you makes a move. The quiet between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s waiting.

Eventually, she nods toward the empty chair across from her. “Sit.”

You do. For a moment, you don’t say anything. Just study her in the dim office light—tired eyes, sleeves rolled up, a pen tucked behind one ear like she forgot it was there. “You’re still carrying yesterday,” you say softly.

“So are you.”

You nod. “I don’t think I know how not to.”

Olivia leans forward, her elbows on her knees, hands clasped. “I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if he had turned around. If he’d seen you.”

You pause. “But he didn’t.”

“I know.” Her voice is low, threaded with something heavier. “But it’s like… that moment doesn’t leave me. I keep picturing it.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you stand. Walk around the desk. Stop just beside her. She looks up.

You say nothing.

Neither does she.

But her eyes soften—unspoken and knowing—and it pulls something out of you that you didn’t realize was already halfway there. You lean down slowly. Not cautiously, not calculated. Just drawn. And when your lips meet hers, it’s quiet. No crash. No dramatic pause.

Just contact. Warm and natural and so obviously overdue that it feels like exhaling after holding your breath for months. She doesn’t pull away. You do—just barely, after a few seconds—eyes wide, stunned at yourself.

“I—” you start, already regretting the impulse. “I’m sorry, I—”

She doesn’t let go, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t give you the space to backpedal. She just rises out of her chair, closing the small gap, and kisses you again—deeper this time, like it’s not a surprise at all. Like she’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

There’s no apology in it, only intention. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests gently against yours. Neither of you speaks for a long time.

Then, Olivia whispers “I’m not sorry.” You breathe out, barely a sound.

“Me neither.” And just like that… it’s real.

Not a maybe. Not a hypothetical. But you and her. Here. Now.

Finally.

——————————————————————

It’s been two weeks and not much has changed. Another file. Another sandwich. Another unspoken excuse to see her. Now that you’ve stopped pretending it’s just about work. The paperwork still gets delivered. The case briefs still get signed. But the pauses are longer now. The glances heavier. And the way Olivia watches you when you walk into her office?

Yeah. It’s not professional anymore. Today, it’s you bringing her lunch. A real one. Not something from the vending machine. You even remembered how she takes her iced tea—light lemon, barely any sugar. She raises an eyebrow when you set it on her desk.

“You’re making the rest of the department look bad.”

You shrug. “Good. Let them rise to the occasion.”

She smirks. “Smug looks good on you.”

You sit in the chair across from her while she unwraps the sandwich. For a few minutes, it’s just quiet eating and casual conversation—banter, clipped sarcasm, and the kind of comfort that sneaks up on people who’ve stopped trying to fight it.

You’re halfway to standing when you say, “Alright. I’ve got a motion hearing to prep. I’ll stop by after court—” But before you can take a step toward the door, Olivia reaches out and gently grabs your wrist. You pause, she doesn’t say anything. Just stands, closes the space between you, and kisses you.

It’s soft. Intentional. No hesitation. You kiss her back—instinctively, completely and forget for one stupid, perfect moment that the world exists outside this office. The door, apparently, does not. Because it opens without warning. “Liv, you got a sec—?”

Carisi’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. You and Olivia freeze. Still close. Still caught. Still visibly not doing anything that two coworkers should be doing in the middle of a precinct. He stops just inside the door, staring with raised brows and a look that says so many things, none of which you are emotionally prepared to address right now. He blinks. Then grins. “Well, well.”

You rub the back of your neck, suddenly aware of how warm your face feels. “You’re back—”

“Flight landed an hour ago,” he says casually. “Thought I’d stop by and see how my favorite ADA’s been holding up, you weren’t at the office…..”

“I’ve been—fine.”

“Clearly,” he deadpans, eyes flicking between you and Olivia with far too much delight.

Olivia, however, does not flinch. She simply picks up her sandwich again like she wasn’t just kissing you five seconds ago. “You’re late,” she tells Carisi flatly.

“I wasn’t expected,” he fires back, smug as ever.

“Exactly,” she mutters, taking a bite.

You stare at the ceiling. “I hate both of you.”

“You say that,” Carisi says, gesturing to the sandwich bag in your hand, “but I see you brought her lunch. That’s not hate, my friend. That’s peak domestic behavior.”

Olivia smirks. “I’m a catch.”

Carisi nods. “No arguments there.” You’re halfway to walking out in embarrassment when Olivia’s voice stops you again. “Hey.”

You turn back. She doesn’t say anything—just gives you a look. One that says don’t overthink it. One that says I’ll see you later.

And you nod.

The rest of the day is a blur of court filings, backlogged paperwork, and mild emotional whiplash from Carisi’s smirk permanently burned into your memory. You think you’ve avoided the worst of it—until he corners you outside the courthouse, leaning casually against the railing like he’s been waiting just long enough to be annoying.

“Nice form,” he says.

You don’t break stride. “Go away.”

He falls into step beside you. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen worse kiss interruptions. You could’ve been caught by a uniform. Or Fin. Hell, even Rollins. Olivia probably would’ve had to file a report.”

“You want a report?” you mutter. “Fine. It was a kiss. It happened. Now it’s un-happening because you walked in like a sitcom uncle.”

Carisi just laughs. “Look, I’m not mad. I’m impressed. You and Liv? That’s like two tectonic plates finally giving in.”

You pause on the courthouse steps, turning toward him. “Don’t get used to it. It’s not a thing.”

He gives you a look. “Sure it’s not.”

“It’s not,” you insist, then immediately cringe. “Okay, maybe it’s a thing. But it’s new. And delicate. And none of your damn business bone head.”

He raises both hands. “Fine, fine. No questions. No commentary.” You start to walk away.

“Just one thing,” Carisi calls after you, his voice carrying that familiar, maddening note of knowing something you don’t. You stop but don’t turn around. Not yet.

“She’s not as guarded as she used to be, you know,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a grenade he’s just casually lobbed into your chest. “When she looks at you.”

You blink, eyes narrowing slightly even though he can’t see your face. You stand there a second longer, heart stuttering in a way that makes you feel both exposed and infuriatingly human. Then you walk away before you can give that comment the weight you know it deserves.

That evening, you linger longer at your desk than usual. The office is quiet now—too quiet for Manhattan, too quiet for your own good. There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the edge of a file you’re not really reading. A coffee gone cold. Your laptop glows idly in front of you, cursor blinking like it’s waiting for you to type something profound.

You don’t expect her to show up. Olivia’s had a long week. You both have. And part of you figures she’d want distance after earlier—after the tense back-and-forths, after the unspoken moments that hovered just a little too long. You’ve seen it before. She shuts down, folds inward. And you don’t chase.

But then… there’s a soft knock on your already open door. Not commanding. Not sharp. Tentative. You look up. She’s standing there. Same jacket. Same tired eyes. But her posture—there’s something about it that’s less braced. Less armored. Like she came here before she could overthink it. “You got a minute?” she asks.

You nod, barely trusting your voice. She steps inside, closes the door behind her with a soft click. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands there, hands in the pockets of her coat, watching you with the caution of someone who’s walked into too many rooms and left them with more regret than answers. “I’m not entirely good at this,” she says finally, voice low and raw.

You lean back in your chair, brow ticking up. “Which part?”

She shrugs, but it’s tight—like it takes effort just to move her shoulders. “Any of it. The… feelings. The talking. The letting someone close without thinking three steps ahead.”

You close your laptop slowly. “You think I am?”

A half-sigh leaves her, half-laugh. “You’re better at hiding it.”

You tilt your head. “I’m a prosecutor, Olivia. It’s literally my job to lie with confidence.” That earns you a small smile, brief but real. She doesn’t look away.

“You regretting this decision?” you ask gently.

“No,” she says, too fast. Too certain. “Not even for a second.” You stand, slowly. Not to intimidate, not to posture—just to meet her at eye level. To close the distance without words.

Your steps are careful, deliberate. Her eyes follow you the entire way. “Then what exactly are we doing?” you ask. She takes a breath like she’s about to answer—but then stops, and her gaze drops for a second, like she’s sifting through a dozen possible truths.

When her eyes return to yours, they’re clearer. Warmer. “I think…” she starts, then swallows. “I think we’re finally not running from it.”

You smile faintly, lips quirking. “That sounds dangerously healthy for us.” She steps a little closer this time. Not much. Just enough that the air feels different.

“You think it’s too soon?” she asks. You consider it—not in the performative way, not to build tension. You really think about it. About every moment that’s led to now. Every clash, every stolen glance, every time you caught yourself memorizing the way she laughs when she doesn’t mean to.

“No,” you say. “I think it’s exactly when it was always going to happen.” There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels full. Heavy in the best way.

Then, softer—almost shyly, but not weak—she says it “I kinda missed you today.” And just like that, something breaks open in your chest. You reach out without thinking, hand brushing against her wrist. It’s a light touch, tentative at first—testing. But when she doesn’t pull away, you let your fingers curl gently around her skin.

The warmth of her under your touch is more grounding than you expect. She leans in, not rushed, not hesitant—just steady. Certain. This time, you’re not caught off guard. You meet her halfway, and when your lips touch, it’s quiet. It’s not fireworks. It’s not cinematic.

It’s better.

It’s real.

She exhales into the kiss like she’s been holding her breath all week. And maybe you have too.

[masorciereviolette]

Masterlist

Minors DNI 18+ Only

This will be a collection of everything I have currently written posted, plus a few characters works that I intend to post in the near future :))))

AO3 Link

Agatha Harkness x Reader

You Can Find Me In The Space Between Series

- 1 - 2 (MDNI 18+) - 3 (MDNI 18+)

- 4 -5 (MDNI 18+)

Agatha x Rio x Reader

The Weight Of Grief Masterlist (Minors DNI 18+)

They’re Not Just Your, “Average Colleagues”……

Regina Mills x Reader

In A Fairytale World, We’re okay.

Olivia Benson x Reader

Oh Captain, My Captain.

Caught Sleeping With The “Enemy”

Emily Prentiss x Reader

Running From The Inevitable

Casey Novak x Reader

Hurtful Memories & Splintered Minds

[masorciereviolette]

A Whole New Meaning To Love, No. Life. 4

Pairing: AU Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Soft Domestic Moments, Fluff, Vulnerable Agatha, Vulnerable Reader, Reassurance, Angst, Comfort, Soft Agatha, Protective Agatha, Pregnancy Difficulties, Happy Endings.

Word count: 11.9k

A/N: Only like two people asked for this. But sue me, I got the idea of a baby in my head after publishing the previous parts and ran with it. I LOVE pregnancy fluff and there is not enough of it out there involving this wonderful witch imo. Please forgive any typos it’s currently 4 AM and I’m exhausted.BUT I hope you enjoy :)))

Summary: Life after the wedding and all the magical // unexpected threatening factors that impend your new and exciting future together.

Next Part In The Series

Taglist: @ambessas-doll @milflovers4 @graceful-witch07

The four-bedroom townhouse in Manhattan had been a dream neither of you were ever brave enough to put into words—at least, not in the early years.

For the longest time, it had seemed like too much to hope for yourself, stability, space, a home. But somehow, through love, perseverance, and more than one lengthy spreadsheet, you got there.

After dozens of tours, endless back-and-forth emails with your increasingly exasperated realtor, and no less than three debates over whether open-concept kitchens were truly worth the hype (they weren’t, Agatha had insisted, because there was nowhere to hide the mess when company came over), you finally found your home.

A classic brownstone tucked just off a quiet street in the West Village. White brick with black detailing, a soft stoop, creaky hardwood that groaned like it had stories to tell. The kind of place that felt like it had been waiting for you both.

Big enough for Nicholas to have his own room and still leave space for guests, for holidays, for game nights and movie marathons and—if the universe was kind—a new addition to your family. You moved in six months after the wedding.

Not because the timing was perfect, or because everything was in order just yet—but because one Saturday morning, Agatha stepped barefoot onto a pile of Nicholas’s plastic action figures in the middle of your too-small living room and let out a string of curses so loud, the upstairs neighbor texted to make sure everything was okay.

You found her five minutes later, standing in the kitchen with a mug of tea and a stormy expression. “We’re moving,” she said flatly. “I don’t care how much it costs.” And you had.

A year and a half later, the house had settled around you like a second skin. Your wedding photos hung above the fireplace, Nicholas’s drawings were proudly pinned to the fridge with novelty magnets. The guest room had been converted into a library, at least for now. But there was still one door that remained closed more often than not—a soft blue room at the end of the hall.

The conversation of children had come up again slowly. Gently. Like a prayer murmured into the space between two bodies tangled together under warm blankets, late at night when the city outside had finally gone quiet.

Agatha had spoken first, her voice barely above a whisper. “Carrying Nicholas… it nearly broke me.”

You’d turned to face her, brushing a piece of hair from her cheek. “I know.”

“No, I mean—physically, mentally. It took everything. I didn’t want to tell you back then because you looked at me like I could do anything, and I didn’t want to ruin that.”

Your heart had clenched, achingly tender. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

Agatha’s eyes had softened, but there was a hesitation in them something unspoken, something heavy. So when the time came to talk seriously, really talk—you had cupped her face in your hands and said, with no doubt, “Then let me do this. Let me carry this time.”

She laughed. At first. That low, rich scoff that always preceded an argument. “You? You hate needles. You once passed out watching Nicholas get his flu shot.”

You grinned at her. “Then it’s time I got tougher.” She fought you. Of course she did. Brought out the facts, the risks, the stress.

But your stubbornness—when it came to your family was unmatched. And eventually, her resistance melted. Not because you wore her down, but because she saw how serious you were. How deeply you wanted to give her this.

And so, you tried. Month after month, procedure after procedure. Doctor’s appointments with hopeful smiles, quiet promises, and fingers clenched tightly together. You read every article, tracked every symptom, bought every vitamin.

Each time, you let yourself believe.Each time, you watched hope wilt like flowers in winter. And now… once again…The test sat on the counter like a cruel joke. You stared at the tiny screen, the single line mocking you in silence. Negative.

You blinked once. Twice. Held your breath. Checked the instructions again, as if this time they’d changed. As if the cruel science of it all might bend, just this once, for you. It didn’t. The plastic test clattered loudly against the tiled wall, landing in the wastebasket below. You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, your breath catching in your throat.

“I’m fine, it’s fine” you whispered to the empty room, a lie so fragile it shattered the moment it left your lips. You slid to the floor, your back against the tub, and let the grief break you open.

The sob came out raw and unfiltered, muffled only by your arm. You curled inward, trying to bury the sound, to hold yourself together. But it was too late. The bathroom door creaked open. “Hey, bunny, I heard—” Agatha’s voice cut off. A beat of silence. Then the soft patter of her bare feet on the tile.

“Hey, hey… no,” she murmured, voice low and immediate, like a balm. “No, baby, come here—come here…”

She dropped beside you, not caring about the cold floor or the way your body was trembling. Her arms wrapped around you instantly, protectively, like she could absorb your pain into herself.

You collapsed against her, hands gripping the fabric of her t-shirt, breath stuttering. “I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I’m sorry—I just wanted to give you this—I wanted—”

“Shh,” she whispered, kissing your temple. “Don’t. Don’t say that.”

“I wanted to give you another baby. I wanted to make this work—”

“You’ve already given me everything,” she whispered, pulling you tighter. “You gave me a loving home, You gave me you.”

You clung to her like a lifeline, like letting go would mean crumbling to dust. “You’re perfect,” she whispered into your hair. “You’re more than enough. You always have been.” The words cut through the fog of pain—soft, devastating, and impossible to believe.

Your shoulders shook as you wept against her, the pressure of months breaking open all at once. She rocked you gently, murmuring things too quiet to catch—reassurances, affirmations, love.

But guilt crawled up your throat like smoke, bitter and cloying.Because she didn’t know the rest. She didn’t know that deep down, you weren’t just grieving—you were ashamed. Of your body. Of your choices. Of how recklessly you’d moved through life for so long without ever considering the cost.

Before Agatha, before Nicholas, before the idea of family ever seemed like more than a distant fantasy, your life had been simpler. Not easier—but simpler.

Your job as a detective had kept you grounded, kept you sharp, but it had also worn you down in ways you never acknowledged. You threw yourself into dangerous situations, charged into chaos, took beatings and bruises and broken bones and never once cared about the long-term toll.

Why would you have? No one was counting on you. No one was waiting at home. You were alone, and you liked it that way. But then Agatha happened. And suddenly… everything mattered.

Every reckless decision you’d ever made. Every injury you didn’t treat properly. Every corner you cut, every morning you skipped breakfast to chase down leads. Every stupid move that left you breathless and bleeding in an alley or a stairwell.

You never thought it would catch up to you. You didn’t think you’d have to be careful. You didn’t think anyone would ever want to build a future with you—so why be cautious with a future you didn’t think you had? But now…

Now there was Agatha. Now there was Nicholas. Now there was a nursery at the end of the hall that sat empty, waiting. And your body, once so dependable, had finally turned against you.

“If more kids aren’t in the cards for us,” Agatha murmured, her voice steady but tinged with ache, “then so be it. I’m not watching you go through this again baby. I’m not letting this destroy you.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. The grief was too loud. The shame too sharp. But she held you anyway, without conditions. Without timelines or expectations. Just arms around your back and her forehead pressed against yours, grounding you.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Not because of what you give me. Not because of what we might make. I love you because you’re you.”

A sob caught in your throat. You wanted to believe her. You did. But it felt like you’d failed. Like you had let her down. You didn’t speak. You just let yourself break in her arms. And she stayed. Until the sobs slowed. Until your breath steadied. Until the silence between you felt less like absence and more like comfort.

Until the guilt started to whisper again. “I just…” You drew in a ragged breath. “I wanted this so badly.”

Agatha pulled back slightly, her thumb brushing along your cheekbone, damp with tears. Her eyes were glassy, but there was nothing but love in them. “I know, my love. I know.”

“I wasn’t careful,” you said, the confession spilling out before you could stop it. “All those years—I didn’t take care of myself. Not really. I didn’t think I needed to. I never thought…” You looked away. “I never thought anyone would need me. Not like this.”

Her hand slid to your jaw, coaxing your gaze back. “Don’t do that,” she said gently. “Don’t blame yourself for surviving. You did what you had to do back then.”

“But what if I ruined our chances? What if I broke something in myself that can’t be fixed?”

“Then we’ll face it together,” she said, voice steady. “Whatever this is, whatever it becomes—we face it. Together.”

Your lip trembled. “I didn’t know how to be soft with myself until you,” you whispered.

Agatha gave a weak, broken smile, leaning forward to press her lips to your forehead. “And now you don’t have to do it alone.”

Somehow, even in your heartbreak, even in your guilt and shame and ache, you knew she meant it. You weren’t alone in this. Not now. Not ever.

——————————————-

It had been three weeks since you’d taken a pregnancy test. Three weeks since you sat on the cold bathroom floor and let Agatha hold you while you fell apart. You were feeling better. Not perfect. Not healed. But steadier, like you’d found a fragile thread of yourself again and were doing your best to hold onto it.

You were working, sleeping, eating when you remembered to. You still paused outside the nursery door sometimes, hand hovering over the knob, but you didn’t go in. Not yet. You tried not to think about it. You tried harder not to hope. Because hope was dangerous. Hope made the fall harder.

So you buried it, stuffed it down, told yourself maybe this just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe your body wasn’t made for this. Maybe it was a kindness from the universe, a sign to focus on what you already had. Agatha had texted earlier, her message peppered with apologies and sarcasm “Stuck at the office. Client thinks “due diligence” is a new series…. Might kill someone. Don’t wait up. I love you.

You had replied with a simple, Be safe. Love you too. You hadn’t meant for it to sound as hollow as it did, but the day had worn you thin. So when your front door swung open half an hour later and Alice waltzed in like she owned the place, you didn’t argue. You barely lifted your head.

“Hey,” she greeted, holding up a brown paper bag like a peace offering. “Don’t even try to stop me. I’m here on a mission.”

You blinked. “Mission?”

“Operation: Feed My Depressed Friend Something Other Than Sugar and Regret.” She set the bag down and started unpacking groceries without waiting for permission. “Jen’s working late. I had a choice between reorganizing my spice rack or crashing your evening. This won.”

You leaned on the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed loosely. “You know cereal is a perfectly respectable dinner.”

Alice glanced over her shoulder with a look. “So is a bowl a chips, but that doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”

You huffed a tired laugh, shuffling over to the stool by the counter and sitting heavily. “Fine. But I’m not helping.”

“You never do.” She cooked like she lived—decisive, fast, slightly chaotic. She opened cabinets like they were her own, humming under her breath, throwing ingredients together with reckless confidence. And despite yourself, it was comforting. Watching someone move around your kitchen like it wasn’t a fragile thing. Like you weren’t a fragile thing. But about twenty minutes in, something shifted. The smell hit you.

At first, it was just strong—savory and sharp. Garlic, you thought, or onion, or maybe shrimp. Something heavy. Something oily. Then it turned. Your stomach twisted so violently, you had to grip the edge of the counter. You swallowed, hard, praying it would pass. It didn’t. A second wave hit—hot, sour, overwhelming. “I—”

You shot off the stool and bolted to the bathroom, the nausea dragging you down fast. The tile was cold beneath your knees as you collapsed beside the toilet. Moments later, you felt her presence behind you. Soft footsteps. The rustle of fabric. Then her fingers were in your hair, sweeping it back gently like it was second nature. “You good?” she asked, not teasing, just quiet and steady.

You groaned, your forehead resting on your arm as you tried to breathe. “I think your cooking tried to kill me.”

She snorted, brushing your hair back again. “Or—and I’m just spitballing here—you might be pregnant.” Your heart froze mid-beat.

You turned your head slightly, eyes narrowed. “Alice, don’t mess with me right now.”

Her teasing dropped. She met your gaze, all seriousness. “I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t trying to, but… you’ve been tired. You’ve been quiet. You bailed on brunch last week and didn’t even fake a good excuse.”

“I was working—”

“You weren’t. Jen saw you at the market, looking like you’d just fought off a ghost.” She tilted her head. “And now you’re puking over sautéed onions?”

You sat up too fast, the nausea threatening to rise again. Your chest felt tight. Your throat dry. “Alice,” you said, voice shaking.

She stood up slowly, her eyes scanning your face. “Where do you keep the tests?”

“I…” You swallowed. “I don’t know if I have any left.”

“Then we’re gonna tear this place apart until we find out.”

You pressed your hand to your mouth, eyes stinging. “I can’t—if it’s another no—”

She dropped to a crouch in front of you, her hands resting lightly on your knees. “Hey. I get it. I do. But if there’s even the smallest chance…”

You stared at her, silent. Hope was dangerous, But so was not knowing. Finally, you nodded, just once. Alice squeezed your knee, stood, and disappeared into the hallway. And your heart—despite everything—began to race.

An hour later, three tests lined the bathroom counter—each one blinking back at you like some surreal dream you hadn’t dared let yourself imagine again. Positive. All three. You couldn’t breathe.

You stood frozen in the center of the bathroom, knees locked, chest tight, eyes wide and stinging. Your hands were trembling as you gripped the edge of the counter, as if letting go would send you tumbling into another reality.

One where it wasn’t true. One where you were still waiting. But you weren’t. Because the lines were there. Bold. Unmistakable. All three of them. Pregnant. Your hand flew to your mouth as the first sob broke loose, shattering whatever fragile composure you’d managed to hold together.

Tears spilled fast, blurring your vision, your chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. It was like your body didn’t know how to process this kind of release—this sudden, overwhelming bloom of joy where only grief had lived before. You didn’t realize you were on the floor until you felt the tile against your thighs. Didn’t realize you were crying aloud until you felt arms wrap around you, warm and steady.

Alice stood beside you, pulling you into a tight hug like she had a thousand times before—but never like this. “I knew it,” she whispered into your hair, her voice breaking with emotion. “I fucking knew it.”

You clung to her, shaking, letting the weight of everything pour out of you in breathless, choking sobs. “I—I can’t believe it,” you whispered, voice fractured, cracked open with awe. “I didn’t think—after everything—”

“I know.” She pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing tears from your cheeks with her thumbs. “You didn’t want to hope.”

You nodded, a fresh wave of emotion crashing through you. “I was so sure I couldn’t. That I’d ruined my chances. That I wasn’t—”

Alice’s hand closed gently around yours. “Stop. Don’t do that to yourself. Not today. Not when you just got your miracle.”

Your fingers curled around hers, gripping tightly. “I have to tell her.”

Alice gave a tearful smile. “Yeah. You really do.”

You turned to look at the tests again, still barely able to believe it. Still terrified you’d blink and the lines would suddenly disappear. But they didn’t. And your heart—wounded, guarded, healing—finally, finally let itself feel the joy.

Your fingers were shaking as you pulled out your phone, the tremble so bad you almost dropped it twice before unlocking the screen. You opened your messaging app, the familiar thread with Agatha already at the top, heart hammering so hard it felt like it echoed in your throat.

You snapped a photo with trembling hands—three positive pregnancy tests lined up side by side on the bathroom counter, your own hand barely visible in the frame, clutching the edge like a lifeline. The lighting was harsh, the image slightly crooked. It didn’t matter.

It was real. You stared at the screen, breathing hard, thumb hovering for a long moment over the send button. Then, finally—you pressed it.

You: “Aggie…”

Just one word. Not a question. Not a declaration. Just her name. Everything else was folded inside it. You stared at the screen, waiting.

Three minutes passed. The word “Read” appeared beneath your message. But there was no reply. Your stomach flipped. Alice, now perched on the edge of the tub behind you, leaned in slightly. “Maybe she’s in a meeting?” she offered, gentle, like she could feel the tension curling tighter inside you.

You nodded slowly, but your pulse didn’t settle. “Yeah… yeah, maybe.”

But your mind wouldn’t stop racing—Why isn’t she saying anything? Did I scare her? Is she okay? You didn’t even realize how tightly you were clutching your phone until Alice gently pried it from your fingers.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get out of this bathroom. I’ll help you clean up and make you tea. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

You let her guide you. You needed her grounding presence right now, her calm hands and no-nonsense tone. She helped you wipe down the bathroom counter, her movements efficient but gentle. Once everything was cleaned and the tests safely tucked into your robe pocket like proof you weren’t dreaming, she led you to the living room.

You collapsed into the cushions, barely noticing the blanket she wrapped around you until the warmth began to sink into your skin. Alice disappeared into the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder, “Where the hell do you keep the tea in this place?”

You let out a shaky, half-laugh. “Second cabinet on the left. Next to the mugs.” There was something weirdly soothing about her rummaging through your cabinets like she lived here. You were just about to stand and help when the front door slammed open.

You startled, heart leaping into your throat, and turned just in time to see Agatha burst through the doorway, breathless, frantic, her heels still on and her blazer flying behind her like a cape. She was flushed, her eyes wide and wild as they scanned the room. When she saw you. Time seemed to slow for one fragile moment, Then she ran.

“Aggie—?” was all you managed before she crossed the room in what felt like a single heartbeat. She didn’t stop. She didn’t hesitate. She swept you into her arms and lifted you off the ground, spinning you in a full circle, laughing and crying all at once as your arms flew around her neck, clinging tight. Her breath was uneven, her chest heaving against yours.

“I’m pregnant,” you choked, the words cracking like lightning through your throat. “Aggie baby—I’m—”

“I know,” she gasped, voice breaking. “I saw—I saw it. I couldn’t—I had to get to you—”

She didn’t let you finish. Her lips found your temple first, then your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth—frantic, desperate, reverent kisses like she didn’t know which part of you to love first. Her hands trembled where they clutched your waist, her entire body wrapped around you like she couldn’t bear the idea of letting go.

You buried your face in her shoulder, the scent of her perfume grounding you, familiar and safe. You could feel her heartbeat thundering in her chest as if it was echoing your own. “You’re really here,” you whispered. “You came home.”

“Of course I came,” she said fiercely, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. Her own were glassy, damp. “You think I was going to let something like traffic laws stop me? I abandoned everything and ran down the plaza in heels. I think I might’ve elbowed a few assistants on the way out.”

You laughed wetly, your arms still locked around her. “You really elbowed someone?”

“He was in my way.”

“God, I love you.”

“Good. Because I’m not leaving.” Agatha slid back to the couch with you still half in her lap, cradling you against her like she was afraid you’d disappear. Her palm slid gently over your stomach, reverent and trembling.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered, voice thick. “I didn’t want to get my hopes up. After the last time—I didn’t know if we could go through that again.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Neither did I.” She kissed you again, slower this time, her lips brushing yours like a vow. “But you… you did this. You incredible, impossible woman. You did it.”

“I didn’t do it alone.” Her hand stayed pressed to your belly, barely daring to move. You closed your eyes and leaned into her.

And for the first time in months—maybe longer—you felt weightless. Because she was holding you like the world could fall apart around you and you’d still be safe. Because this time, your joy didn’t have to be whispered. Because this time, you weren’t broken. You were finally beginning.

Agatha hadn’t let go of you—not really. Even now, as you leaned into her, wrapped in her warmth, her arms were still tight around you. Like she didn’t quite trust the moment to last unless she held it together herself.

Your breath hitched again, but this time it wasn’t from pain. It was from the weight of happiness pressing against your ribs, so full it hurt a little.

“I still can’t believe it,” you whispered, forehead pressed to hers. “I thought… I thought maybe it wasn’t in the cards for us.”

Agatha gave a soft, disbelieving laugh, brushing her thumb beneath your eye where a tear had already started to fall. “I thought that too. But you—God, you never stop surprising me.” Her voice was hoarse with emotion, every word soaked in awe.

“I didn’t want to get my hopes up again,” you admitted, your voice smaller now. “It just hurt too much, Aggie. I thought my body had failed us. That I failed us.” Her hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, thumb stroking softly along your cheekbone.

“Don’t you ever say that again,” she whispered fiercely. “You never failed anything. Do you hear me? You’ve carried this dream inside you every day, even when it hurt. Even when it broke you. And now—” her palm drifted back to rest gently over your stomach, “now, you’re carrying something else.”

You closed your eyes, more tears falling as your hands tangled into the lapels of her blazer. “I’m scared.”

She nodded, resting her forehead to yours. “Me too. But we’re gonna do this. Together.”

Just then, the faint sound of the front door shutting quietly echoed from the hallway.

You both turned slightly at the noise, and before you could even blink, your phone buzzed in your lap. Agatha shifted just enough for you to read the screen.

Alice: You’ve got this. I’ll let you have this moment. Call me if you need anything. Love you.

You let out a soft, shaky laugh, thumbs barely brushing the screen before you could even reply— Agatha plucked the phone from your hand and tossed it gently onto the far side of the couch, far enough that you couldn’t reach it without effort. Her eyes glittered mischievously through the remnants of her tears.

“She’s right,” she murmured. “This moment is ours.” You blinked, mouth parting to say something, but the words were lost the second Agatha leaned in. Her lips found yours again—slower this time, deeper. No rush. No fear. Just heat and reverence, the kind of kiss that tasted like tears and promises and something sacred that had finally been returned to you both.

You melted into it, your arms wrapping around her neck as she pulled you closer, tighter, like she wanted to disappear into you. Your chest ached from the joy. From the wonder of it all. “I love you,” you whispered between kisses, barely able to breathe.

Agatha rested her hands on either side of your face, framing you like you were the most precious thing she’d ever seen. “I’ve never loved anyone like this,” she said, voice thick. “And I’ve never wanted anything more than this family we’re building.”

You were trembling again—but this time, it was with joy. You laid your hand over hers, both resting gently over the life now growing inside you.

It was a quiet Sunday evening when you told Nicky. The house was dim, the sky outside tinted lavender and soft grey. The kind of night that smelled like clean laundry and home. Nicholas had just been dropped off by Rio a few hours earlier—his backpack dumped by the front door, his shoes somehow already kicked under the couch.

He’d come back happy, chatty, full of stories about art museums and overly sweet hot chocolate, but as the evening wore on, his energy had mellowed. Now he was curled between you and Agatha on the couch, bundled up in his favorite blanket with his legs slung across both your laps, his head resting against your shoulder.

He was nursing the last of his chocolate milk, the glass precariously balanced on his chest as he stared up at the TV, completely absorbed in the cartoon flashing across the screen. You could feel his slow, sleepy breathing against your side. Agatha reached for your hand without saying anything, her fingers lacing tightly through yours. You both had been exchanging silent glances all evening—waiting for the right time, the right mood, trying not to overthink it and failing spectacularly.

You gave her a subtle nod. She leaned forward and gently took the remote, pausing the episode mid-scene. Nicholas blinked as the screen froze, a dramatic gasp still framed across the cartoon’s face.

“Hey!” he said, sitting up slightly. “That was the best part!”

“I know, baby,” Agatha said softly, brushing a few curls from his forehead. “But we have something really special to tell you.”

He narrowed his eyes at both of you suspiciously, like he was already preparing for the worst. “Is this about school? ‘Cause I already finished my spelling homework. Ask me anything.”

You tried not to smile. “It’s not about school.”

His eyes brightened. “Are we getting a dog? Please say we’re getting a dog. I already picked names—Captain Waffles if it’s a boy, Moonbeam if it’s a girl.”

You let out a quiet laugh, unable to help it. “Not a dog.”

He tilted his head, clearly intrigued. “Another cat?”

“Not a cat either,” you said gently.

Agatha leaned in a little closer then, her hand still wrapped in yours as she rested her other palm against Nicholas’s knee. Her voice was calm and warm and just a little shaky. “How would you feel about being a big brother?”

Nicholas froze. His whole face went blank for a second, like his brain had to buffer. Then he blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly, his mouth dropped open in a perfect circle. “Wait. Wait—YOU’RE HAVING A BABY?!”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah, sweetheart. We are.”

There was a beat of stunned silence—then he launched forward like he’d been lit up from the inside, arms flying around your neck, almost knocking the glass of chocolate milk off his lap in the process.

“THIS IS SO COOL!” he shouted, voice muffled in your shoulder. “I’m gonna teach them everything I know. And I’ll share my snacks! Okay, some of my snacks. The important ones.”

You laughed through the sudden sting of tears, holding him close and breathing in the warmth of his little body. “That’s very generous of you.” Agatha was already swiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, her other arm wrapped around both of you.

“I’ll be the best big brother ever,” Nicholas declared as he pulled back, eyes shining. “I’ll help you with diapers and lullabies and—and I’ll make sure they don’t eat glue like Jordan did in kindergarten.”

“Thank you,” you said with a watery laugh. “That’s very noble of you.”

He nodded solemnly, puffing out his chest. “It’s a big job. But I’m ready.” And from that moment on—he was.

Whether it was reading picture books to your belly, helping Agatha fluff the pillows behind your back, or telling everyone from the mailman to the barista at your favorite café that his sibling was coming soon—Nicholas made good on that promise. Because the second he heard he was going to be a big brother… He never looked back.

———————————————-

The first three months passed in soft, golden moments and hushed laughter. Time slowed—not in the dragging, painful way it had when you were trying but in a way that made everything feel precious. You and Agatha held onto each moment like it might disappear if you blinked too long.

Every morning, you woke up to her fingertips brushing featherlight patterns along your stomach, even though the bump wasn’t there yet. She’d talk to it—low, affectionate murmurs half-muffled against your skin.

“Good morning, little bean,” she’d whisper, lips brushing over your belly like a kiss. “Your mama kept me up snoring again, but we’ll forgive her, won’t we?”

You’d groan, pulling a pillow over your head. “I wasn’t snoring. I was breathing enthusiastically.”

“Uh-huh. Enthusiastically enough to scare the cat off the bed.”

“Don’t make fun of the pregnant woman.”That always got her.

Her teasing would dissolve into kisses, into arms wrapped around you from behind as you lay in bed a little longer, safe and warm beneath the comforter with her heartbeat pressed against your back. You’d never known mornings like this—unrushed, gentle, full of meaning even in silence. The tenderness she showed you only deepened with each passing week.

She’d guide you gently by the small of your back when you walked into rooms, her palm a steadying presence even when you didn’t need it. Grocery trips became an event, you’d barely make it past the produce section before she was reading every label, side-eyeing anything with an ingredient list longer than a sentence.

And the food cravings—oh, the cravings. You wanted weird things. Ice cream on toast. Grapes in soup. Cheese on apples on top of more cheese. Agatha never blinked.

One night, around 1:30 a.m., you nudged her awake with a soft whisper: “Aggie?”

She groaned, half-asleep. “If this is about the peanut butter pickles again—”

“It’s not.”

“…what is it then?”

“…I kind of want waffles.”

“Now?”

“With cinnamon. And powdered sugar. And maybe honey.”

She groaned into the pillow for a long, theatrical moment… then rolled out of bed without another word and shuffled into the kitchen. You followed her not five minutes later and found her grumpily mixing batter in your robe, her hair tied up in a lopsided bun, humming softly as the waffle iron preheated.

You walked up behind her and wrapped your arms around her waist, pressing your cheek between her shoulder blades. “You don’t have to do this every time, you know.”

She turned in your arms and kissed your forehead. “I want to.”

“Even if I ask for mango salsa on vanilla ice cream again?”

Her expression was tired—but glowing. “Even then. Especially then.” She let you sit on the counter while she cooked, grumbling the whole time—but her hand kept drifting over to touch your knee, your hip, the bare skin of your thigh like she needed the contact. Like she still couldn’t believe this was real.

The quiet moments were the ones that hit you hardest. Like when she came home from work one day to find you curled up on the couch with a blanket, dozing off with your hand over your belly. She didn’t say anything at first—just stood in the doorway, watching you.

When you opened your eyes and saw her there, you smiled sleepily. “You’re home.”

Her coat and bag were still on. She crossed the room in seconds, kneeling in front of you with eyes glassy and full of something so overwhelming, it made your throat ache.

“—and you’re everything,” she whispered. You didn’t know what to say. So you kissed her. And let her stay there, arms wrapped around your legs, face pressed to the place where your child was growing.

Then there were the days your emotions ran wild—when the hormones hit like waves and you cried because a commercial featured an abused dog, or because someone in a movie simply said “I’m proud of you” and you suddenly remembered your own childhood in a way you didn’t want to unpack.

And Agatha never made you feel silly. Not once. She’d hold you through the tears, even when you couldn’t explain them. One night, you sobbed into her chest for fifteen straight minutes because your favorite sweater didn’t fit the same anymore. She didn’t tell you to calm down. She just pulled off her own oversized university crew and wrapped it around you, tucking your head beneath her chin.

“We will buy you more,” she whispered, rocking you. “I’ll max the card out if it means you smile again pretty girl-” You couldn’t stop a laugh through the tears.

You had no idea what the months ahead would bring—how hard it might get, what it would take from you—but you did know this: You had her. And for the first time in your life, that was enough. More than enough, It was everything.

The second trimester settled in like spring after a long winter—quietly at first, then all at once. Your nausea faded, finally giving you back your mornings. The heaviness in your chest began to ease, replaced by something unfamiliar but welcome: excitement.

Real excitement. The kind you could say out loud without immediately bracing for heartbreak. And Agatha? She became completely, utterly, unapologetically obsessed with you.

It wasn’t new—not really. She’d always looked at you like you hung the stars, touched you like she was learning a sacred language. But now it was constant. Fierce. Unrelenting. She hovered—but with love. Always with love.

You couldn’t so much as shift on the couch without her eyes snapping to you like a hawk. She’d appear at your side with a pillow for your back, a glass of water, her palm on your bump like she was checking for tremors.

“I’m fine,” you’d say, trying not to laugh.

“You say that,” she muttered, tucking a blanket around your legs like a nursemaid from a Victorian novel, “but yesterday you almost fainted trying to open the top kitchen cabinet.”

“It was juice, Agatha.”

“And it’s juice you could’ve asked me to get. But no, you had to channel your inner mountain goat and climb the counter like a heathen.”

You would stare at her, amused. “You watched all that happen?”

“I was hiding around the corner to see if you’d call for help. Your stubborn ass didn’t. You climbed the cabinets, and I aged ten years in thirty seconds.”

And yet—despite her fretting—you’d catch her smiling every time you laughed. Softly. Like she didn’t think you’d notice. She talked to your bump constantly. She gave it a different name every day: Bean. Button. Firecracker. Her favorite, bizarrely, was “Sprout.”

One morning, halfway into your 16th week, you were standing at the bathroom mirror, brushing your teeth in one of her oversized t-shirts when she walked in and froze behind you. You caught her staring in the mirror. “What?” you mumbled around the toothbrush.

Agatha stepped up behind you slowly, like approaching something holy. Her hands slid over your hips, around your waist, then to the gentle curve just beginning to show.

“It’s real,” she whispered.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yes it is.”

Her lips found your shoulder, soft and reverent. Then your neck. Your jaw. She kissed your cheeks one at a time like a prayer. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone more beautiful than you,” she said quietly.

You blinked hard, your heart thudding against your ribs. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m so in love.” And you were too. God, you were too. By week 18, Agatha had built what she called your “nest.”The couch became a fortress of plush blankets, a pregnancy pillow the size of a small continent, your favorite books stacked within reach, and a tray that always had snacks—even when you swore you weren’t hungry.

You’d catch her rearranging the blankets when she thought you were asleep. Folding them just so. Tucking the corners beneath you. Pulling the sleeves of your hoodie down to cover your wrists like you might catch cold from the ceiling fan.

“You do know I’m not made of glass, right?” you asked one night, peeking one eye open.

Her head snapped up from where she was fluffing your pillow. “Sleep.”

You laughed, reaching for her hand. “Come curl up with me.” And she did. Every time.

She’d wrap herself around you from behind, fingers splayed protectively over your bump, lips brushing your ear. “You’re everything to me,” she’d murmur into your hair. “You and this little life we made.”

At your 20-week scan, she cried. Not full sobs—but her hand clutched yours tight as the grainy image came into view, and when the fluttering sound of the heartbeat filled the room, her shoulders shook.

“That’s ours,” she breathed, tears streaking her cheeks. “That’s ours.” You turned to her, just as overwhelmed, and kissed her with everything you had. By month five, your bump had fully popped, and Agatha treated it like a sentient being.

She rubbed lotion on your skin every night—warm lotion, because “cold hands are barbaric”—and muttered softly about stretch mark prevention, though you both knew it was just an excuse to touch you.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” she whispered once, as her fingers moved across your stomach.

You looked down at her, teary, overwhelmed by how gentle she always was. “It’s never too much.”

She pressed a kiss just beneath your belly button. “I just want to make sure you know—every inch of you is sacred to me.”

You blinked hard, breath catching. She meant it. Every new curve, every change, every mark your body made in response to this miracle growing inside you—she worshipped it. She worshipped you. Sometimes she’d watch you from across the room, eyes distant but full of fire. “You okay?” you’d ask, brows furrowed.

“I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“How the hell I got lucky enough to end up here. With you. With this.” You’d cross the room to kiss her then, slow and sure, your hands sliding over the fabric of her blouse to find her heartbeat.

“You deserve this,” you whispered. “We both do.” And she’d nod, silent tears catching in her lashes as she pulled you into her arms again like she never planned to let go.

It wasn’t always easy. There were days your whole body ached—hips sore, back screaming, feet swollen like they belonged to someone else. Days when hormones got the better of you and you cried at cereal commercials or because you couldn’t get comfortable no matter how many pillows surrounded you.

Nights when sleep felt like a stranger and you lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the kicks and shifting positions for the hundredth time. But through it all—Agatha was there.

Every craving, no matter how ridiculous. Every doctor’s appointment, even the early ones where there wasn’t much to see yet. Every whispered fear in the dark that you tried to push down but couldn’t quite bury.

She was there. She never made you feel like too much. She didn’t flinch when you snapped at her, or cried into her shirt, or confessed how scared you were some nights that your body wouldn’t be enough.

Instead, she held you tighter. She kissed the top of your head and whispered, “You’re doing perfect, bunny. You’re perfect.”

And with every passing week—every flutter of movement in your belly, every shared glance between you and Agatha, every time she laid her head against your stomach just to listen—you saw it more clearly: You were becoming a mother.

And neither of you could wait to meet the little piece of both your hearts already rewriting everything you thought you knew about joy.

One quiet afternoon, after a long day of rest and laundry, you were sitting on the edge of the bed folding a tiny mountain of onesies when Nicholas padded softly into the room. His waves were still damp from his shower, and he was carrying a book almost as big as his torso.

You raised a brow, eyeing him as he climbed up beside you. “What’s that?”

“The dinosaur encyclopedia,” he said proudly, holding it up like a sacred text. “I figured the baby should know the cool ones first.”

You smiled, amusement bubbling up in your chest. “You want to read to the baby?”

Nicholas nodded, all seriousness. “Of course. They gotta start early, right?”

Then, without waiting for permission, he crawled over, gently tugged up the hem of your shirt, and rested his head against your bump like it was the most natural thing in the world. His small hands cradled the sides of your belly as he settled in.

“Hey,” he whispered softly. “This is Nicky. You’re not born yet, but don’t worry—I’m gonna tell you all the good stuff.” And he did.

For the next twenty minutes, he read aloud in that sweet, deliberate way kids do when they’re trying their hardest to sound older than they are. He paused to explain which dinosaurs were too scary, which ones were his favorites, and which ones he’d personally ride into battle if it ever came up.

Every so often, he’d pause and glance up at you, checking to see if you were still listening. You were. You hadn’t stopped smiling the entire time.

Because in that moment—watching your son speak to the sibling he hadn’t even met yet, wrapped in the blanket of his own pure love—you realized something This baby wasn’t just going to have you.

They were going to have him.

And that was more than enough.

——————————————

The third trimester arrived not with joy—but with a slow, creeping discomfort that settled into your bones like a warning. You tried to pretend it was nothing. Brushed it off with tired smiles and half-hearted jokes. Because things had been so good. So impossibly, wonderfully good.

And you didn’t want to break that spell—not now, not when Agatha looked at you like you were still the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, even with swollen ankles and a waddling gait and a body that no longer felt like your own.

“You’re glowing,” she said every time you stepped out of the shower, her voice thick with something close to reverence as she rubbed oil into the stretch of your belly.

You’d scoff, pressing a hand to your lower back. “I’m sweating, Agatha. That’s not the same thing.”

But she’d kiss your hip and whisper, “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

She never missed a moment. Not when you needed her to zip your boots, not when you craved mango at 2 a.m., not even when you cried because you dropped your sandwich and couldn’t reach the floor to clean it.

She caught you once—standing in the kitchen, shoulders shaking as you stared at a broken egg on the floor. “I just wanted breakfast,” you’d said, your voice cracking.

Agatha had dropped her keys, swept you into her arms despite your protests, and whispered against your temple. You clung to her, sobbing into her blouse, and knew—no matter how messy this got—she was in it with you.

But then signs started coming. Subtle at first. Tightness in your stomach that didn’t quite feel like the harmless Braxton Hicks the books described.

A heaviness in your pelvis that made walking short distances exhausting. Your back hurt. Your hips hurt. Some nights you couldn’t sleep from the pain. And through it all, you smiled. Because if you didn’t—Agatha would know. And she’d worry. You couldn’t bear the look on her face if she thought something might be wrong. So you powered through. And when Agatha asked if you were okay, you kissed her and said, “Just tired.”

She didn’t believe you—not really. But she let you have your lie. Until she couldn’t anymore. It happened late one Friday night.

The house was quiet, Nicky was spending the week with Rio. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Agatha was in the kitchen, making tea, humming something old and soft under her breath.

You were on the couch, curled on your side, one hand on your belly, the other gripping the blanket. The pain had started an hour earlier—sharp, low, coiling beneath your ribs like something wrong.

You tried to breathe through it. Tried to drink water, shift positions, change the pillows. But nothing helped. And when it hit again, this time stronger—blinding—you bit down on your lip so hard you tasted copper.

Agatha walked back into the room with two mugs and stopped mid-step. You were gripping your side, knuckles white, face pale and pinched. Her voice dropped instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you gasped, trying to sit up, blinking fast. “Just—just a small cramp.”

Agatha set the mugs down without looking. “That wasn’t a cramp.”

“I’ve been feeling them for a few weeks, it’s not—”

“That wasn’t a cramp.” Her voice rose slightly, not angry—scared.

You looked up at her, trying to nervously laugh it off, but she was already kneeling in front of you, her hands on your thighs, eyes scanning your face like she could see straight through the lie. “Is it still happening?” she whispered.

You hesitated and that was enough. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“No—Aggie, I’m okay—”

“Get in the car.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Please baby. I can’t—I need to know you’re both okay. I need that right now, do you understand me?”

You looked into her eyes then—really looked. And saw the tears now sitting at the edges. Saw the fear. The helpless, trembling fear of someone who’d already lost once and couldn’t survive losing again.

You nodded slowly in understanding. “Okay.” Her relief was so intense she sagged forward, forehead pressing to your knee for a moment, her arms wrapping briefly around your legs like she just needed to hold something.

She helped you into the car with shaking hands and didn’t speak the whole drive, except to whisper, “Breathe. I’m right here. Just breathe.” Her hand never left yours. And for the first time in weeks—you let yourself fully lean on her again. Because whatever came next, whatever they told you at that hospital— You knew you wouldn’t face it alone.

The hospital lights were too damn bright, everything smelled like disinfectant and sterile nerves, and Agatha hadn’t let go of your hand once since you checked in. Her grip was tight—too tight—but you didn’t say anything. You didn’t want her to stop.

A nurse had already checked your vitals, done a fetal heart monitor, and gotten you settled into a private room. You were reclined on the hospital bed, the monitors clicking steadily behind you, one hand resting over your bump, the other still wrapped in hers.

Agatha stood beside the bed like a statue, eyes fixed on the screen like she could will the numbers to stay steady. Her free hand kept flexing into a fist, then releasing, over and over again.

You could feel her vibrating with fear. She hadn’t spoken in ten minutes—not really. Just soft, breathless questions to the nurse that came out like prayers. Just touches to your wrist, your arm, your belly, checking again and again to make sure you were still here.

“Agatha,” you whispered, trying to draw her eyes away from the machines. “Babe. Look at me.”

She didn’t move. You squeezed her hand. “Hey.” Her head snapped toward you, her eyes wide and glassy. “Is it getting worse? You look pale. Should I call someone? You’re still in pain, aren’t you? We should’ve come sooner, I knew something was wrong, I should’ve forced you—”

“Stop,” you interrupted softly, even as another cramp rolled low through your abdomen. You forced a smile, blinking through the discomfort. “Look at me. Really.”

She did. Hesitantly. As if seeing you like this might make it worse. “I’m okay. I promise. We’re okay.”

“You don’t know that,” she whispered, the tears slipping free now. “I’ve know—God, I’ve seen what it looks like to lose something before you ever get the chance to hold it. I can’t—I can’t do that again. Not with you. Not to you.”

Your heart cracked, even as your body protested any movement. You used what little strength you had to shift your hand toward her cheek, brushing her damp skin with your thumb.

“We’re not losing anything, not me or this baby-” you said, voice trembling but steady. “You hear me? This isn’t that. We’re not broken. We’re just… scared.”

Agatha covered your hand with hers and kissed your palm, hard and desperate. “You’ve been in pain for weeks, and I let you lie to me. I wanted to believe you. I didn’t push because I thought—” she choked, pulling in a ragged breath. “I thought you’d resent me for hovering. And now—now we’re here.”

You shook your head. “I didn’t tell you because I knew how much it would scare you. Because it scared me too.” Before she could answer properly, the door opened, and a woman in scrubs stepped inside, clipboard in hand and an easy calm in her smile.

“Hi,” she greeted kindly, her tone soft, practiced. “I’m Dr. Rivas. I’ve been reviewing your chart and the monitor readings. How are we feeling?”

Agatha looked ready to break into a hundred questions at once, but you answered first, still gripping her hand. “Uncomfortable. Scared. But breathing.”

Dr. Rivas nodded understandingly. “Well, the good news is—your baby’s heartbeat is strong. They’re active. No signs of distress on their end, which is what we always check for first.” Agatha let out a gasp—half sob, half breath—and squeezed your hand so tightly you winced.

The doctor stepped closer, her tone reassuring. “From what I’m seeing, the pain you’re experiencing isn’t labor—it’s stress. Physically, emotionally. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, and your body’s responding by tightening and cramping in ways it shouldn’t just yet.”

“So…?” you asked quietly.

“You’re okay,” she said, smiling gently. “But you do need rest. Real rest. No more playing superhero around the house. No climbing, no heavy lifting, and no staying up until 3 a.m. reading baby blogs.”

You couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped. “She does hate when I do that.”

“I knew it,” Agatha muttered, wiping her eyes and sniffing hard.

Dr. Rivas smiled. “That said, we’re going to keep you overnight for observation. At least 24 hours. I want to monitor you, give you IV fluids, and see how your body responds to a little enforced stillness.”

You nodded, the relief hitting hard and sudden, like a wave cresting inside your chest. Agatha cleared her throat, still visibly shaken. “And the baby? They’re really okay?”

Dr. Rivas softened even more. “Really. But if you hadn’t come in tonight, it could’ve been different. So you absolutely did the right thing.”

Agatha let out another shaky breath and sat down heavily in the chair beside you, her hands still clutching yours like she couldn’t stand to let go. Dr. Rivas turned to leave. “Someone will be in shortly to check on you again. In the meantime, rest. And keep each other calm, okay?”

The second the door closed, silence settled again. But it was gentler this time. You turned your head toward Agatha, giving her a weak smile. “Told you we were okay.”

She let out a wet laugh, leaning forward to press her forehead against your shoulder. “You’re never allowed to dismiss pain again. I don’t care if you stub your toe, you tell me and for the love of god stop climbing the damn counters I just know—-”

“Deal,” you murmured cutting her off, brushing your fingers through her hair. “Only if you promise to breathe now.”

“Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.” You both laughed then—real laughter, warm and tired and stitched with love.

And as the monitors beeped softly behind you and the rain still whispered against the windows, Agatha kissed your shoulder, then your cheek, then your belly. “I love you,” she whispered. “Both of you. More than I ever thought possible.”

You closed your eyes, her touch grounding you.And for the first time that night, the fear began to loosen its grip.

The hospital discharged you the next afternoon with strict instructions: rest as much as possible, stay hydrated, listen to your body, and—above all—let your partner take care of the rest.

Agatha took that last part very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that you barely made it through the front door before she was ordering you to the couch like a general assigning a top-level mission.

“You sit. I’ll unpack. You want tea? No, don’t answer that, I’ll get it anyway. Blanket? Wait, no, you get warm too fast—I’ll grab the soft one. Stay still. I mean it.”

You’d barely had time to blink before your feet were propped up, a pillow slid under your lower back, and a bottle of water materialized on the coffee table—already uncapped, of course.

The days that followed were filled with the same level of dedication. Devotion, really. And just a bit of overzealousness. You couldn’t sneeze, sigh, or so much as shift on the couch without Agatha appearing in the doorway like a SWAT team operative mid-breach.

“Was that a sharp exhale or an actual contraction?” she asked one morning, eyes narrowing suspiciously as you blinked blearily into your cereal bowl.

You rubbed your temple. “Aggie. I sneezed.”

“Are you sure? It had a rhythm to it. Like a patterned release of breath.”

You gave her a look. Deadpan. “Do you want me to start documenting my breathing patterns in a spreadsheet?”

“…Don’t joke about that unless you’re prepared for me to make one.”And she would have, too. Color-coded, cross-referenced with a contraction app, and synced to both your phones.

As much as you teased her, it wasn’t lost on you how scared she’d been that night in the hospital. How deeply it rattled her to come so close to losing control in a moment that mattered most. Her hovering came from love—a love that had nearly been stripped away too soon. So, you let her hover.

You let her tuck extra blankets around you when she thought you were sleeping. Let her reroute her entire work schedule so she could check on you every hour. Let her wash your hair in the tub when your back hurt too much to stand in the shower, even though she got soap in your eyes and panicked like she’d blinded you for life.

But it wasn’t just Agatha who stepped up. Nicholas had been watching. Quietly, carefully, the way only kids do when they’re soaking in every small detail.

And one night, about a week after the hospital visit, Agatha found him in the kitchen—barefoot, hair messy from bath time, balancing a small plate in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“What are you doing my little love?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

Nicholas shrugged like it was no big deal. “Momma said she was craving bananas. And she’s not supposed to get up too fast anymore, remember? So I’m bringing her one.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, taking him in—this tiny, thoughtful boy who suddenly seemed so much older than his years.

You walked in just in time to catch the tail end of it, and your heart melted on the spot.

“Nicky…” you said, misty-eyed, hands pressing to your chest. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He gave you the same little shrug, his nose wrinkling like he was embarrassed by the attention. “Yeah, I did,” he replied easily. Then, with the utmost seriousness, he handed you the plate and used his free hand to tug the blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over your shoulders.

“You’re carrying the baby,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m carrying snacks. It’s called teamwork.”

Agatha let out a soft, teary laugh and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “Where did we find this kid?”

Nicholas grinned up at her. “You made me, remember?”

And in that moment, as you bit back tears and pulled him gently to your side, you realized that somehow—between the chaos and the pain and the uncertainty—you and Agatha had already given your unborn child the most important gift you could

Family.

The kind that shows up.

The kind that notices.

The kind that brings bananas without being asked. And honestly? You couldn’t have dreamed up anything better.

But still since that night at the hospital, Agatha had continued to hover like a storm cloud—not one filled with thunder and lightning. Her love had always been intense, consuming, constant—but now it was wrapped in a layer of fear that made her eyes linger too long and her touches tremble just a little.

You’d feel it most in the quiet moments. Like when you were curled up together on the couch, her hand resting over your now-very-prominent bump, and you’d wince—just slightly—as the baby shifted into your ribs. Immediately, she’d bolt upright. “What was that?”

You tried to smother a grin. “They’re just moving, baby.”

“But painfully? Did your face do a thing? I swear it did a thing.”

You grabbed her hand and tugged her back down. “You do a thing every time I breathe funny.”

“I will do a thing if you keep hiding pain from me,” she muttered, sliding her hand up under your shirt and resting her palm protectively over your skin. “You scared the hell out of me, and I’m still recovering.”

“Me too.” That shut her up.

She curled into you then, chin resting on your shoulder. She was quiet for a long moment before whispering, “Promise you’ll tell me if something feels off again.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I promise.” And you kept that promise, even when the third-trimester discomforts ramped up to a level that made you cry quietly in the bathroom at 3 a.m. more than once. Still, Agatha was… everywhere.

She timed your water intake. Adjusted your body pillow in your sleep. Bought three different types of prenatal vitamins because “we’re not trusting just one brand at this stage.”

She even changed her courtroom schedule to work remotely the last few weeks before your due date—“If I so much as miss a single contraction because some white-collar fraud thinks he’s above the law, I will be the defendant next.” You loved her. Fiercely. But by week thirty-nine, you were ready. So, so ready.

The nursery had been finished for weeks. Soft blue walls. Floating bookshelves lined with your favorite childhood stories. The crib tucked beneath a mural, bathed in natural light. Agatha had spent three days arguing about the placement of a rocking chair, until you finally flopped into it with a groan and said, “It doesn’t matter where the chair is. I will fall asleep in it, regardless.”

Agatha stared at you like you’d just unlocked the secrets of the universe. “Oh. That’s a good point.”

You were still laughing when she knelt between your legs and kissed your belly like it was the most important ritual she’d ever performed. The night before it happened, before your whole world would change forever—you couldn’t sleep.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, your hand drifting over your bump in slow, absent circles. The baby kicked low, steady but strong, as if sensing what was coming. Agatha stirred beside you, her sleep always light these days, always one eye open for you. Her voice was thick with sleep. “You okay?”

You hesitated. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

In a second, she was sitting up, brushing her hand over your forehead like she was checking for a fever. “Thinking about what? Are you cramping? Is it a tightness thing or a pulling thing?”

You caught her hand, laughing softly. “Thinking, Aggie. Not contracting.” She didn’t smile right away.

She studied your face in the dark, one hand still hovering like she couldn’t decide whether to hold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered. “Not really.”

You turned toward her, propping yourself up slightly. “You’re already doing it.”

“But what if something goes wrong?” she murmured. “What if I lose you? What if we get so there and—”

“Stop.” Your voice was soft, but it silenced the spiral instantly. You cupped her cheek, leaning in until your forehead touched hers. “You’re not losing me. You’re meeting them. Maybe even sooner than you think.”

Agatha closed her eyes, breathing you in, grounding herself. “I’m fucking terrified,” she admitted.

You smiled. “So am I. But also? I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

She let out a soft, shuddering laugh, her hands coming to rest on your bump like she was anchoring herself there. “Okay. Then we do this.”

You opened your mouth to respond—but then felt it. A sudden warmth. Your eyes widened. You inhaled sharply. Agatha felt you stiffen. “What—what is it? What’s wrong?”

You blinked, slowly looking down. “I… think my water just broke.”

She froze. Then blinked. Then panicked.

“Wait—now? Are you sure? Is it a slow leak or, like, a full—”

You shifted slightly, feeling the unmistakable dampness beneath you. “Aggie.”

She shot out of bed like she’d been launched, nearly tripping over her robe on the floor as she flailed for her phone. “Okay, okay, we’re fine—hospital bag, car keys, phone charger—where did I put my phone? Do we need the playlist? Do you want music? What if there’s traffic?”

You just started laughing, despite the pressure in your back, despite the reality crashing down like a wave. “Agatha Harkness!” You snapped trying to get her to focusing.

She spun toward you, wild-eyed, hair a mess, breathing like she was about to give her version of birth. You reached for her hand. “Breathe. With me.”

She knelt beside the bed, gripping your hand like a lifeline, heart pounding hard enough to feel through her skin. You locked eyes, your breath shaky now too—but full of something else. Wonder. Adrenaline. Joy. “It’s time,” you whispered.

Agatha stared at you, blinking hard—and then she smiled. Terrified. Awed. In love.“Okay,” she said, her voice breaking. “Let’s meet our baby.”

The drive to the hospital was a blur of headlights, shallow breaths, and Agatha muttering “we’re fine” under her breath like a mantra that might hold the universe together.

She didn’t let go of your hand once, not even to park. The car was left crooked at the emergency entrance, keys still in the ignition, hazard lights blinking wildly—because when it came down to it, nothing else mattered. Just you. Just you and the small, sacred life trying to make their way into the world.

The first few hours passed in a whirlwind. Paperwork. Monitors. Contractions growing stronger, closer together. Agatha by your side the entire time, holding your hand, pressing kisses to your forehead, whispering encouragements between surges of panic and awe.

“You’re doing so good bunny,” she whispered, brushing damp hair back from your forehead. “So, so good. I’m right here. I’m not leaving. Never leaving.”

You nodded through gritted teeth, clutching her hand so tightly your knuckles turned white. “I know. I know.” But things changed around hour seven.

Your contractions weren’t doing what they needed to. Your body was exhausted. The baby’s heart rate dipped. Nurses started moving faster, voices lower, tones sharper.

Agatha noticed immediately. “What’s happening?” she asked, her voice tight, carefully controlled.

The nurse gave her a soft, practiced smile. “Just a bit of stress on the baby. Nothing to worry about yet, but we’re keeping an eye on it.” That word—yet—shattered her.

She didn’t let go of you—not for a second.

Her hand stayed wrapped around yours, fingers threaded tightly, her grip firm even though you knew her hands were shaking. Her voice was soft in your ear, a steady whisper of love and encouragement, trying to anchor you to something real as the pain built and broke like waves inside your body.

But even as she held you together, her eyes were everywhere—tracking the machines, reading the numbers on the monitor, following every flicker of movement in the room.

And every time something changed—a spike in your heart rate, a fluctuation in the baby’s vitals, you could feel the panic rise beneath her skin like a current.

Then everything started to shift. Your temperature crept up, your pressure spiked, and then, the baby’s heart rate dropped. The monitor let out a long, shrill beep that sent the room into instant motion.

Doctors and nurses moved fast, speaking in low, clipped voices. A second monitor was wheeled in. Gloves snapped on. IV lines were checked and re-checked. You barely registered it. The pain was blinding. White-hot. Crippling. You could barely lift your head, your body slick with sweat, your chest heaving like you were drowning in the very air you needed to survive.

And through it all, Agatha snapped. “What’s happening?” she demanded louder this time. “What is going on? Why are you all moving like this is normal? This isn’t normal—”

A nurse moved toward her with practiced calm. “Ma’am, we need you to remain calm unless—”

“I am calm!” she bit out. “But she’s not. She’s in pain, and she’s scared, and you’re not telling us a damn thing”

“Ma’am, please—if you would step out just for—”

“I’m her wife,” Agatha said, voice rising, firm and sharp as steel. “I’m legally listed as her emergency contact, I am the other parent of this child, and unless you want to explain to hospital administration why you removed a legal guardian from the delivery room, I am staying right here.”

The nurse opened her mouth again—but the doctor finally looked up. “She stays,” he said shortly. “We don’t have time to argue. Let her stay—just stay out of the sterile zone.”

Agatha exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and immediately dropped back down to your side. She cupped your cheek in both hands, brushing your hair back from your drenched forehead, eyes scanning your face like it was the only thing anchoring her to the Earth.

“I’m here,” she whispered fiercely. “I’m not going anywhere. You hear me bunny? You are not alone.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Your whole body was locked in tension, pain shooting down your spine, your thighs, radiating through your chest. It felt like your body was splitting apart from the inside. Your mouth opened, but no words came. Just a sob. A breathless, aching sob.

Agatha’s voice broke with it. “You’re doing so good. You’re doing so good, baby—I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The doctor’s voice rose again. “We’re there. We need her to push—now.”

You shook your head weakly, tears streaking your face. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Agatha whispered, pressing her forehead to yours. “Yes, you can. You are the strongest person I’ve ever known. You’re right there, my love. Just a little more. You can do this. For Us.”

“Please,” you whispered. “Don’t let go.”

“I would never.” Your fingers curled tighter into hers, nails digging into her skin as you bore down with everything you had left. The pain screamed through you, unrelenting, your body trembling with the strain. The room spun. The air thinned. But Agatha’s voice was right there in your ear, steady and sure

“One more, sweetheart. One more push. You’ve got this. You’re almost there.” You screamed. You pushed. You let your body break itself open in the most sacred way it could.

And then—a shrill cry. That first, piercing, beautiful wail filled the room. You slumped back against the pillows, sobbing, tears spilling faster than your lungs could recover. Every part of you shook. You were soaked in sweat. But your ears focused on one sound only.

The doctor held up a small, wriggling body—alive and absolutely furious—and Agatha let out a noise that barely sounded human. A gasp that broke into a sob that collapsed into a laugh.

“She’s okay,” the doctor said gently. “She’s breathing. Strong lungs. She’s just fine.” And then—she was in your arms. Your daughter. So tiny. So warm. Her little fists clenched, her lips wobbling, her skin flushed with newness. She rooted instinctively against your chest, her cry softening into snuffles.

You couldn’t stop crying. “She’s here,” you whispered, voice raw and broken and whole all at once. Agatha was still frozen beside you, eyes locked on the baby like she couldn’t believe she was real. Like her heart couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing.

“Hey,” you whispered hoarsely, patting the mattress beside you tilting your head to her. “Come meet your daughter.”

Agatha slid onto the bed, slowly, reverently. Her hands hovered just above the tiny curve of the baby’s back. “Is she—can I—?”

You nodded, your heart swelling. “Of course.”

Agatha reached out and let her fingertips gently graze over the soft blanket swaddled around your daughter’s small frame. The second she made contact, her breath caught—and she broke. Full-body sobs. Silent. Shaking. Raw.

You reached out and cradled the back of her neck, pulling her close until her forehead pressed to yours. Your daughter shifted between you both, her tiny noises the only sound in the room as you and Agatha fell apart together, not from fear, but from the overwhelming relief that this moment had come. That the worst had passed.

“She’s here,” you choked. “We made it.”Agatha pressed kiss after kiss to your temple, your cheek, your lips, your shoulder—then finally, to the dark curls atop your daughter’s head.

“She’s perfect,” she whispered through her tears. “Just like you. My incredibly strong girl.”

And as she wrapped her arms around you both, her body trembling with love, your daughter nestled into your chest and let out a soft, content sigh. In that moment, you finally understood.

Every fear, every contraction. Every push. Every ache you carried in silence. It was worth it, Because now she was here, and so were you. And so was Agatha, finally together.

[masorciereviolette]

You Can Find Me In The Space Between—Where Two Worlds Come To Meet—I’ll Never Be Out Of Reach 3

Minors DNI 18+ Only

Pairing: AU Agatha Harkness x Reader, Past Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

Warnings: Pure Fluff, Defeated Rio, Wholesome Moments, Explict, Graphic Descriptions of Sexual Content, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Possessive Behavior, Dom/ Sub Behavior, Mommy kink, Agatha is a warning on her own stg, Praise Kink, Strap, Slight Overstimulation, Rough sex. This is literally just 4k of straight FLITH at the end ngl man ✋🏽😭

Word count: 6.3k

A/N: Y'all are amazing and I’m so sorry I had to post this separately cause I hit the character block so here’s the reception & the wedding night :))) I’m sorry for any typos I stayed up till 4 am finishing because I couldn’t stop stg—

Taglist: @ambessas-doll @milflovers4 @graceful-witch07

Next Part In The Series

The ceremony had been intimate and tearful, but the reception was something else entirely—warm, joyful, a little chaotic in the best way, and filled with the kind of love that made your chest ache like it might crack open just to let all the feeling out.

The venue had been transformed into a soft-lit dream. Twinkling fairy lights were strung along the beams , candles flickered from every table, casting golden halos that danced across champagne glasses and flushed cheeks.

You and Agatha barely made it through the double doors of the reception space before being swarmed. Hugs came in all directions, congratulations tumbling over one another, and someone’s lipstick smudging your cheek while another guest handed you a flute of champagne you didn’t remember asking for.

Agatha just laughed, gracious but slightly wicked. You didn’t miss the small smirk that played on her lips as she whispered something scandalous into your ear, barely loud enough for you to hear but enough to make your breath catch and your cheeks flush.

Alice was already halfway through a bottle of wine by then gleefully weaving through the crowd and announcing to anyone who’d listen that she’d called this wedding a year ago—“A year ago!” she insisted, holding up one finger like a professor lecturing a distracted class.

Jen followed after her with a wine glass of her own and an apologetic smile, mouthing “Sorry” behind her partner’s back every time Alice started a new version of the same story with increasingly dramatic flair. You could only laugh, touched by the chaos, warmed by the presence of people who had rooted for you both from the very beginning, even if neither of you did.

But through it all—through the noise, the dancing, the heartfelt speeches and laughter so bright it made your ribs hurt, you and Agatha never separated. Not once.

Her hand found yours at every moment, fingers brushing, pinkies linked beneath the table, palms pressed together during the toasts. Even when you were drawn into separate conversations, she was there—her gaze steady across the room, always returning to you, as if tethered by something invisible and unshakable.

At one point, you found yourself in a quiet corner with a glass of something sweet and fizzy, and she found you like she always did. No fanfare. No words. Just her sliding in beside you, taking your free hand and lifting it to her lips as if the whole world didn’t matter—like everything that came before this moment had only been a prelude.

The DJ cleared his throat, tapping the mic once. Then your name rang out across the glowing reception hall, and the low hum of chatter quieted as the lights dimmed, casting everything in a golden wash.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, his voice smooth and ceremonial, “may I present—for the very first time. Our newlyweds for their first dance.”

A wave of applause rolled over the room, and you turned instinctively toward Agatha, already having your hand in hers. Her fingers laced through yours with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times before and would do it a thousand more.

She looked impossibly breathtaking in the warm light—her dark hair pinned back in elegant waves, the lace of her tux catching just enough shimmer to make her look almost unreal. But it was her eyes that made you breathless—soft, reverent, like she was seeing something sacred.

“I warned you I can’t properly dance” you murmured nervously as she began to lead you toward the center of the floor.

Agatha’s mouth curved into that sly, practiced smirk she always wore when she knew exactly what she was doing. “Good thing you married someone who can,” she whispered back, pulling you gently into place.

The music began—low and lilting, the kind of song that wrapped around you like silk. A soft piano, a cello humming underneath, and a swell of strings that carried just enough emotion to make your heart flutter.

Your hand found her shoulder. Her hand slid confidently to your waist, fingers curling just firmly enough to ground you. And then the world dimmed around the edges. It was just you and her.

Agatha moved like water—fluid, intentional as she guided you into each step with a grace that made it feel like you’d been dancing together for years. You tried not to overthink it, tried to remember where your feet were supposed to go, but then she spun you with a subtle flick of her wrist, catching you on the other side with a low chuckle.

“Relax,” she said softly, her voice like warm wine. “You’re doing beautifully.”

You let out a breath and met her gaze—and everything else faded. The guests, the lights, even the music, for a moment. It was just her eyes, steady and sure, holding yours like a promise she meant to keep.

You stepped on her foot once, and she laughed—genuinely, not mockingly, the sound of it melting the heat of embarrassment from your cheeks. “Still beautiful,” she said, and twirled you again. She twirled you often, actually, like she couldn’t resist the sight of you spinning just for her. The room blurred each time, your heart tripping over itself in time with the beat.

And still, she never let you go. “Tell me something,” you said under your breath, as she pulled you in again, her hand brushing the small of your back.

“Anything,” she murmured.

“Did you ever think we’d honestly get here? To this moment?”

Agatha’s smile softened, losing its sharpness. Her brow furrowed, just slightly, like the question was too big to answer all at once. Her hand moved up to cradle your jaw as they swayed, and for a second, she looked at you like she was searching for the right words and finding nothing quite enough.

“I hoped…” she said finally. “But I didn’t dare believe it. Not until I saw you walking toward me today.”

Your breath caught, and your steps faltered for just a second—but she steadied you, holding you like she always had. Like she always would. And then the music shifted. The swell came, one last rise in the melody, one final crescendo. Agatha’s hand pressed gently at your back as she guided you into one last spin, more fluid than the rest, and then—a dip.

She leaned you back in a graceful arc, one arm around your waist, the other still clasping your hand in hers as you tilted into her. The crowd let out a collective sigh, a few gasps of awe, someone clapping early, but you barely noticed.

Because her eyes never left yours.

Because your heart was in your throat.

Because Agatha Harkness was holding you like you were her greatest triumph. She pulled you upright slowly, savoring the moment, then leaned in until her forehead touched yours. The applause grew louder, warm and full, echoing across the walls—yet it sounded far away.

Her lips brushed your ear, her breath soft and trembling just slightly. “I’ve never been this happy,” she whispered, barely audible over the sound of your heartbeat. You closed your eyes. Let it settle in your chest. Let it tether itself to every part of you.

The rest of the night blurred into something golden and untouchable—laughter rippling like wind, soft music floating above clinking glasses, plates passed around like offerings, and too many toasts to count. Every time someone raised their glass, it was followed by cheers, applause, or someone shouting your names from across the room with barely-contained joy.

You and Agatha still never strayed too far from each other. She always found your hand, your shoulder, the small of your back. You fed each other bites of everything—her slicing into the grilled vegetables with precision and sliding a piece onto your plate, you returning the favor with a forkful of pasta. A kiss followed here, a touch there, her thumb brushing crumbs from the corner of your mouth. The two of you orbiting one another in a way that didn’t just feel romantic but it felt inevitable.

At one point, you found yourselves tucked into your seats as another toast wrapped up, champagne glasses still half full, the flicker of candlelight casting soft shadows across Agatha’s cheekbone. Alice leaned across the table, her elbow knocking over a napkin holder, and squinted at you both like you were breaking some unspoken rule.

“Do you two ever separate?” she asked, incredulous.

Agatha didn’t even look at her. “Nope” she said, smoothly, as she reached over, grabbed your hand, and tugged it firmly into her lap. “Why would we?”

Alice groaned, dramatically leaning back in her chair and draping a hand over her eyes. “Disgusting. You’re like—an extremely affectionate parasite.”

Jen grinned, sipping her wine without missing a beat. “It romantic. Don’t let her get to you.”

You laughed, head tilting as you leaned against Agatha’s shoulder, letting your voice drop into something quieter, more intimate. “Let them be jealous. They don’t get to go home with you.”

Agatha hummed, her smile low and secret as she brushed her lips against your temple. “Their loss.”

Later in the night, when the party had thinned slightly and the music slowed to something dreamy and faraway, you found yourself nestled in Agatha’s lap at one of the candlelit tables.

Her arms wrapped lazily around your waist, her chin resting on your shoulder, the two of you rocking slightly in time with the music despite not being on the dance floor.

You leaned into her without a second thought, your cheek brushing against hers. The atmosphere buzzed gently around you. Clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, the occasional cheer—but here, in her arms, everything quieted.

She fed you slow, deliberate bites of cake from her fork, pausing between each one to savor the look on your face. The frosting lingered sweetly on your lips until her thumb brushed it away.

“You didn’t even like this flavor during the tasting,” she murmured, her tone suspicious, her brow lifting just enough to tease.

You smiled and played coy, glancing at her from beneath your lashes. “Well…I changed my mind.”

Agatha made a disbelieving noise under her breath, but her smile gave her away. Her hand slid up your back, fingertips tracing up your spine. Then, her eyes shifted. The warmth in her body cooled by something else—something heavier. You turned to follow her gaze, Nicholas.

Spinning clumsily on the dance floor, his tie crooked and his little tux jacket tossed carelessly over a chair somewhere. His cheeks were flushed, hair messy, limbs moving with the kind of unfiltered joy only children could summon. And dancing with him—was Rio.

She had discarded her heels and was holding Nicholas’ hands as he twirled in small circles, giggling too loud for the music. Her smile was soft. Measured. Not her usual sly smirk or condescending tilt of the head. This one… was careful. Real. And it didn’t seem performative, not like before.

She wasn’t trying to pull focus. Wasn’t commanding the room. In fact, she had been almost invisible all evening—quiet, distant, like someone who knew they had already missed their moment. “She showed up late,” you murmured, your voice threading low and careful between you. “I don’t think she was at the ceremony.”

Agatha’s jaw ticked. You felt it against your back—the way her arms stiffened slightly around you, then slowly relaxed again. Always composed, always trying to stay above it. But the tension didn’t lie.

You reached for her hand where it rested on your waist, brushing your thumb over her knuckles, grounding her. “It doesn’t matter,” you whispered, tilting your head so your lips grazed just beneath her ear. “She missed the best part.”

Agatha let out a breath—a small, amused huff that sounded more like a release of pressure than anything else. “Damn right she did,” she murmured, pulling you closer. “You were radiant.”

“You cried,” you teased gently.

She scoffed. “I got something in my eye.”

“Uh-huh.” You mocked smiling, your heart full in a way that felt unreal—like it was too much to fit in your chest all at once. And as you sat there in her lap, the two of you watching your son dance under the soft glow of fairy lights and candlelight, everything felt perfect.

Nicholas came tearing across the dance floor moments later like a whirlwind of joy, his little shoes half off, one sock slouching around his ankle, the other completely missing. His face was flushed with excitement, cheeks glowing pink under the lights, and his hair stuck out in every direction like he’d been rolling through a field instead of dancing.

“Can we dance now?” he asked breathlessly, eyes wide, practically vibrating with hope. “All of us? Together?” You turned instinctively to Agatha, whose brows lifted with amusement and affection all at once. She tilted her head toward you, smirking just a little.

“You up for one more?” she asked, though her hand was already reaching for yours.

You grinned, feeling your heart pull warm and sure in your chest. “Always.”

Nicholas didn’t wait for permission. He squeezed between the two of you with all the subtlety of a six-year-old high on sugar and adrenaline. He grabbed each of your hands—yours in his right, Agatha’s in his left—and beamed up at you like this was the best idea he’d ever had before dragging you both out to the floor.

The music swelled again, soft and playful, and under the glow of twinkling lights and the low hum of laughter around you, the three of you danced. If it could be called that.

Nicholas led the way with chaotic abandon, swinging your hands and dragging you into uncompleted spins. Agatha laughed aloud when he nearly pulled you both off balance, but she didn’t let go. Instead, she followed his rhythm—such as it was, with surprising grace, matching his energy beat for beat even as she shot you an amused look over the top of his head.

“Is this a dance or a battle?” she teased, breathless from laughter as Nicholas spun in a circle so quickly he nearly toppled.

“A battle,” you laughed back. “And he’s definitely winning.”

Nicholas only giggled harder, letting out a triumphant yell as he twirled between you, his little hands tight in yours. For a moment, it was all momentum and music and joy so loud it made your chest ache. The world had narrowed again—not into silence this time, but into something louder, fuller. Into this little mess of limbs and laughter and light.

It was messy, It was loud. It was barefoot and chaotic and completely off-beat, And it was perfect. You caught Agatha’s gaze over Nicholas’ head again—and the look she gave you… it rooted you in place even as you moved. Something about the way she was watching you, her lips parted, eyes soft and brimming with emotion.

Something unspoken passed between you—something ancient and deep, like you’d both been waiting your whole lives for this exact moment without knowing it. She mouthed, Thank you. You didn’t ask for what. You already knew.

By the end of the night, most of the guests had either trickled out into the quiet evening or collapsed into chairs scattered around the reception space, their shoes kicked off and bow ties loosened, laughing over melting desserts and sipping the last of their drinks. The music had slowed to a soft instrumental hum, more background than centerpiece now, just enough to keep the magic lingering in the air.

You were curled up in Agatha’s lap again, your heels long since abandoned somewhere under a table, your legs draped across hers, your head resting against her chest. Her arms were warm and heavy around you, one hand gently rubbing slow circles against your outer thigh, the other lazily brushing through your hair, slowly removing pins. Her heart beat steadily beneath your cheek, and you could’ve stayed there forever—wrapped in candlelight, in the remnants of laughter, in her.

Then after tossing the final hair pin onto the table, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, her lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “We’re leaving,” she murmured against your skin.

You blinked, slowly turning your face toward her. “Now?”

Agatha didn’t answer with words. Instead, she slipped you off hep lap and stood—graceful and unhurried, yet somehow full of purpose. She pulled you easily along with her, hand sliding into yours before you could form a coherent protest. You stumbled a step, disoriented but amused. She gave you that look.

The one that had undone you more times than you could count. Mischief softened by affection. Patience thinned by want. Her brow raised, a single dark arch daring you to challenge her. You didn’t.

You sighed, smiling despite yourself. “Okay, fine. But I didn’t get my third slice of cake.”

“You’ll survive,” she said, already guiding you through the dwindling crowd, nodding politely at the few people who still lingered with sleepy grins.

The night air kissed your skin the moment the doors opened, cool and clean after the warmth of the venue. A black car waited at the curb, engine low and purring, headlights slicing gently through the dark. Agatha made a beeline for it, your hand still tightly in hers.

“Slow down,” you laughed as you stumbled slightly, the cobblestones beneath your bare feet catching you off guard. “My feet are threatening a mutiny.”

She glanced over her shoulder at you, her expression wicked and impossibly fond all at once.

“I’ve waited long enough,” she said, voice low, amused… and something else entirely. Something warm and possessive that curled along your spine like smoke. You raised a brow, teasing. “For the car?”

Agatha smirked, pausing just long enough to tug you closer by the hand still caught in hers. When you stumbled forward, she leaned in, her mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “No,” she whispered. “For tonight. For you. For all of it.” You shivered, pulse skipping in your throat.

And then she was walking again—faster now, like the only thing on her mind was getting you away from the noise and the lights and into the quiet of the night. Her grip never faltered. Her stride never hesitated.

“All I want right now,” she said, tugging the car door open with one hand, “is to get you back to our hotel suite.” You didn’t argue with her, not this time.

By the time you arrive at the hotel suite things are moving in a blur. Agatha kicked the door shut behind you, pinning you against the cool wood. Her mouth found yours before you could blink—fierce and hungry and somehow still soft against your lips.

A hand slid into your hair, gripping gently, angling your head to deepen the kiss. The other hand, the one that had been skimming up your leg, settled high on your waist and pulled you flush against her.

Your body molded to hers like it was made to fit there—like she was pouring herself into the hollows of you until you were filled up with her. She broke away just as suddenly, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild.

She wanted you naked. She wanted to mark you, claim you, make you a map of her desire etched into the skin. But she also wanted to take her time, to savor every inch of you like a drink she meant to linger over. Like that first sip of something strong and perfect, hot and burning as it slid down her throat, igniting a slow heat in her belly.

Her hands roamed your back, slipping between the fabric separating your body from hers until she found the zipper—she tugged it down. Until the dress fell away to pool at your feet. Looking her fill, eyes drifting over your face and lingering on the swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist and hips, the line of your thighs. Like a glutton feasting her eyes on everything on her plate before she dug in, before she tasted.

She started with your mouth again—wasting no time, wasting no more kisses. Wasting no more distance between you. her hands mapped a path down your neck and chest, skimming just shy of where you most wanted to be touched.

Over the sensitive skin of your ribs, and the mound of your breasts, palming you through the lace of your bra. Her fingers deftly unhooked the clasp, freeing you to the cool air of the room.

She dipped her head, taking one nipple into her mouth and laving it with her tongue. Teeth scraped and lips sealed around the tight bud, sucking hard enough to make you gasp. Make you arch. Make you beg.

Your hands laced themselves into her soft locks as a string of broken whimpers fell from your lips Agatha made quick work of the rest of your undergarments, nearly tearing them in her haste to divest you of the flimsy fabric. You were left bare, exposed, like a feast before her hungry gaze.

Her hands gripped your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing as she pulled you tighter against her. You could feel the heat of her body seeping into your own. Agatha spins you both around, walking you backwards until you both unceremoniously tumbled back onto the bed.

She leaned down, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, across your collarbone, between the valley of your breasts. Her fingers drifted lower, skimming over your stomach, pausing at the dip of your hipbones before sliding between your thighs.

She made quick work of your desperate need, her fingers stroking and circling and plunging deep into your heat. Gasps and moans spilled from your lips, your grip on her hair tightening as the tension built in your core.

Pleasure crested over you in waves, your body thrashing beneath her ministrations. She caught your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as she brought you to the pinnacle of ecstasy.

With a final, sharp thrust of her fingers, she sent you hurtling over the edge. Your body went rigid, spine arched, as a filthy moan tore from your throat. She worked you through it, extending your pleasure with skillful touches and tender kisses until you collapsed against the sheets, splayed out and limp.

But she wasn't done with you—not yet. Would never be done with you. She slid higher, settling her hips between your thighs. Dipping her head, capturing your mouth in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. Her tongue exploring the cavern of your mouth, stroking along yours, teasing you.

You groaned into the kiss arms slipping up around her back, after a few moments you pulled away brushing your nose against her own almost desperately “I need more-“

A wicked grin spread across Agatha's face, a glint of mischief sparking in her eyes. She tapped your leg before sliding off the mattress, walking quickly over to the open suitcase sitting idly on the table, reaching inside, she pulled her strap from the inner pocket.

"Always prepared," she purred, voice low and dripping with lust. With deft movements, she disrobed fully - blazer shrugged off and tossed aside, lace bralette unbuttoned and peeled away. Once the toy was settled around her hips, the base fitting snugly in the curve of her waist. She walked back over, crawling up the mattress, slotting herself right back between your spread legs.

She leaned back over you, one elbow braced near your head, the other hand drifting over the shape of your curves. Manicured fingers slid over the swell of your breasts, circling your nipples until they pebbled under her touch.

"Do you want me to fuck you now baby?" she asked, voice a dark rumble. She rolled her hips, the length of her nestled in the heat between your thighs, rubbing achingly slow against your swollen flesh. She gently rocked her hips against yours, the toy rubbing against your clit with slow delicious strokes. You whimpered, hips canting off the bed to chase the friction.

"Yes," you gasped, desperate already. Ravenous for it "fuck please—" you whimpered, she sat back to drink in the sight of you displayed before her.

With a sudden, sharp movement, Agatha flipped you over to your stomach. A hand pressed against the small of your back, fingers splayed across your hip bones, pinning you to the mattress. The other hand gripped your ass, kneading and squeezing the soft globe as she spread your thighs farther apart, pulling your hips closer to her own.

You felt the head of the toy catch against your entrance, just the crown breaching your opening. The anticipation was delicious torture and she knew it. "Brace yourself baby " Agatha warned with a dark, lascivious smile. "This is going to be hard and fast and just the way mommy knows you need it."

Your fingers curled into the sheets as a guttural moan claws its way from your throat “fuck mommy please-“ you begged wiggling your ass slightly in anticipation

Agatha wasted no time, slamming her hips forward to bury herself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You cried out, back arching as you were split open on the thick length of her. She set a relentless pace, hips pounding against your ass as she took you with deep, powerful strokes.

One hand gripped your hip, fingers sinking into the flesh hard enough to leave marks, while the other slid around to your front. Fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive nub in time with the piston-like thrusts of her hips.

"Fuck, your cunt feels incredible," Agatha growled, voice ragged with lust. "So tight and hot and perfect. It's like your pussy was made just for mommy’s cock."

She leaned down, biting at your shoulder, sucking and nipping at the skin until she'd no doubt left a vivid purple crescent. Her hips never faltered, never slowed, driving into you with a force that shook the bed.

"Harder—" you gasped out, pushing your hips back to meet her thrusts. "Ah! Fuck, yes— " you hissed out

A dark chuckle rumbled from Agatha's chest, echoing against your skin. "As you wish" she purred wickedly. The hand on your hip tightened, gripping you hard enough to bruise as she upped the ferocity of her thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by your wanton cries and her low, guttural moans of pleasure.

Agatha pistoned her hips, the possessive force of her rocking your entire body with each impact. The sensation of being so utterly filled, stretched to the limit around her cock, pressing against your deepest places, had you seeing stars. Each drag of the toy against your inner walls ignited sparks behind your eyelids, your vision hazing over with building pleasure.

"Fuck—" you screamed, fingers clawing at the sheets as Agatha's pace turned brutal. "Don't stop, please don't stop!"

She relentlessly pounded into your dripping sex as her fingers circled your swollen clit at a feverish speed. The dual stimulation had your thighs quaking, your core clenching desperately around the invading length impossibly deep inside you.

"I'm...I'm going to..." you choked out between gasping breaths and escalating moans, feeling your climax barreling towards you like a freight train.

"Then come baby, you don’t need my permission tonight" Agatha crooned, her voice a dark snarl of lust. "Come all over me, like a good girl…" With that, she sank her teeth into your shoulder again, biting down just hard enough to topple you over the edge into a mind-blowing, body-wracking orgasm. You screamed your pleasure as ecstasy crashed through you, wave after wave of euphoria gushing out from where you were joined.

Agatha gentled her thrusts but kept them deliberate, grinding into you as you shuddered and clenched through the aftershocks. She peppered your sweat-slicked back with tender kisses, murmuring low words of praise and adoration into your bared shoulder blades.

"Such a good girl," she crooned, voice a reverent rumble. "Taking mommy's cock so beautifully."

Her fingers glided over your hip, your waist, up the center of your spine before tangled in your damp hair. She curled her hand into the locks and tugged lightly, urging your head back to bare the slender column of your throat.

Agatha licked a slow stripe up your neck, tasting the salt of your skin. Drawing a shuddery gasp from your lips. Her hips continued their lazy, rolling thrusts, the silken drag against your sensitive flesh restoring the embers of your desire.

"That's it, baby," she praised, nibbling at the hinge of your jaw. "It feels so good to be full of me, doesn't it? To have me stretching your sweet little cunt so perfectly?"

Her hand drifted around your waist to your belly, splaying possessively over the subtle swell. She pressed against it, forcing herself deeper into your abused channel. The crown kissed your cervix, the bulbous head rubbing insistently against the opening to your womb.

Agatha's touch crept lower, skimming through the neat curls at the juncture of your thighs and sliding teasingly around your mound before delving back between swollen folds slick with your earlier release. Two fingers pushed into your entrance alongside the thickness of the toy still nestled deep inside you, pumping slowly in tandem with her deliberate thrusts.

"There's no part of you that isn't mine," Agatha growled lowly in your ear, nipping sharply at your earlobe. "No inch of skin or secret spot that doesn't belong to me now."

She punctuated her dark declaration with a flex of her fingers, curling them into your sodden heat and pressing firmly against a spot that made your belly clench and legs tremble.

"This is where you belong," she continued, voice grasping with lust and something deeper, more primal. "In my bed, split open on my cock, mommy’s pretty little fuck toy."

Suddenly, Agatha grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head, the action making your breasts sway enticingly. With her chest pressed firmly to your back, she bucked into you with short, rough jolts of her hips.

You could already feel another climax building, slow and intense. Your head dropped down pressing into the mattress, incoherent babbles slipping from your lips “m-mommy, it’s coming- I can’t hold it-“

"Don't hold back," Agatha commanded, voice tight with her own approaching pinnacle. "Let it happen, baby. Let mommy feel you come undone."

Her hips rolled harder, the toy spearing you open with greater force as she chased your pleasure. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your union - skin slapping against skin, the slick squelch of the strap pumping into your dripping sex, and your escalating cries of ecstasy as your climax overwhelmed you.

Her fingers at some point snuck back down, rubbing your clit in tight, sharp circles, her hips slamming into you with brutal force. The thick head of the strap kissed your cervix one more time before your whole body jerked and shuddered beneath Agatha's relentless onslaught. Pleasure, white hot and all-consuming, exploded through every nerve ending, wracking your body with tremors as you writhed beneath her.

"That's it, sweetheart " Agatha hummed, her touch unrelenting, forcing you through each throbbing wave of your climax. "Squeeze mommy's cock…" The filthy words continue to spill from her lips.

Your body felt weightless and utterly spent but you still had one thing at the forefront of your mind. After you’ve collected yourself as best you can you turned your head to the side, watching her pull the toy out slowly you couldn’t help but wince “help me flip back-“

She carefully pulled out of your tender flesh, letting you feel every inch of the toy dragging along your sensitive walls. Once she was free "I got you baby " Agatha murmured, gently turning you over onto your back. She tucked your hair away from your face, fingertips trailing soft lines over your blushing cheeks and kiss-swollen lips.

Rolling onto her knees, Agatha unfastened the toy, tossing it away before she dipped her hand between her own thighs, fingers delving into her wetness, intent on finishing herself off quickly. You lazily sat up, grabbing her wrist to stopped the movement, pulling her closer. You leaned back down, leading her by the hand to crawl up your body. Gently guiding one of her thighs across your face, settling her squarely over your mouth.

Agatha shuddered as your warm breath ghosted over her most sensitive flesh. Trembling fingers tangled into your hair as you guided her hips lower, encouraging her to sink down until your lips met slick skin.

"Fuck, baby," Agatha gasped, back arching as your tongue parted her folds. "Your mouth feels fucking incredible—"

Tasting her own essence on your lips ignited a fresh surge of lust inside of you, you pulled her down completely pressing your face into her. Agatha rolled her hips, rubbing herself against your face, smearing your cheeks and chin with her arousal. The sweet scent of her desire filled your nostrils as you licked and suckled, spurring her to grind against you with increasing fervor.

"That's it sweetheart" she praised breathlessly. Her grip tightened in your hair as her pleasure mounted, every drag of your tongue stoking the flames climbing higher inside her with each passing second.

You groaned into her core, feeling Agatha's walls start to flutter around the probing intrusion of your tongue delving deeper inside her. Your lips and chin glistened with her slick arousal, and the evidence of your thorough debauchery made Agatha groan, a fresh surge of lust shooting through her body.

Agatha rocked her hips urgently against your face, painting your features with her release as she chased her pleasure with abandon. The slick sounds of your coupling filled the room once more - the filthy suckling noises of your mouth working feverishly against Agatha's most intimate place. “Fuck baby, mommy��s gonna cum all over your sweet little face-“ Her hips undulated with each crashing wave of sensation radiating out from where you were pressed so intimately together.

"Fuck-" Agatha gasped sharply, trying to catch her breath after coming so hard. She reached down to gently pull you away before gently moving off your body and helping you move to lay properly beside her

She gathered you into her arms, wrapping you tightly against the warm, silken skin of her body. The embrace was protective, unyielding, yet achingly gentle—as though she was afraid you might vanish if she held you too loosely.

Agatha’s hands drifted across your back, down your spine, and over your hips with a tender possessiveness, her touch reverent. Each brush of her fingertips mapped the familiar terrain of your body, stroking every curve and hollow as though she was committing it to memory for the thousandth time and yet with the same awe as if it were the first.

“My perfect girl,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and thick with emotion as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The pads of her fingers lingered just a moment longer on your cheek, her thumb tracing the slope of your jaw before her hand curled gently around the back of your neck.

You leaned into her touch instinctively, eyes fluttering shut as you soaked in the quiet tenderness of the moment. The safety of her embrace, the steady beat of her heart against your chest—it all wrapped around you like a lullaby.

You nuzzled deeper into the crook of her neck, pressing your face to the warm skin there and inhaling deeply. She smelled like lavender, smoke, and something softer beneath it all—something indescribably hers.

“Sleep now baby” Agatha rumbled softly, her lips brushing your temple as she spoke. Her voice was warm and steady, a balm to every frayed edge of your soul.

She began to rub your back in slow, soothing circles, each pass of her palm easing the tension from your muscles, lulling you further into comfort. With your body molded to hers and the soft rhythm of her breathing surrounding you, you felt your grip on consciousness begin to slip, surrendering to the quiet.

[masorciereviolette]

You Can Find Me In The Space Between—Where Two Worlds Come To Meet 2

Minors DNI 18+ Only

Pairing: AU Agatha Harkness x Reader, Past Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

Warnings: Explict, Graphic Descriptions of Sexual Content, Graphic Cunnilingus, Teasing, Possessive Behavior, Dom/Sub Behavior, Mommy kink, Agatha is a warning on her own stg, Praise Kink, Soft Domestic Themes, Fluff, Soft Agatha, Happy Endings. Time jumps.

Summary: Agatha Harkness is no stranger to control, but love? Love has always been unpredictable and manipulative. And now, after years of certainty, after the heartbreak of a failed previous marriage. She’s ready to do something she never thought she would—get married. Again. Excited even. As your wedding approaches, love and tension collide. Between stolen moments of tenderness, lingering glances, and wedding planning disasters, one truth remains. Agatha had chosen you. But when she asks you a simple few, innocent questions, that would definitely everything will you truly be ready for the future she’s already imagined?

Word count: 22.3k

A/N: Y’all have no idea how much I appreciate the luv fr🥹 here’s part two i truly hope you enjoy it. I would say that I didn’t start this about 16 hours after publishing the first part, but that would be a lie. I just love this comfort aspect, especially writing it for Agatha. Sorry if the smut is shit, i promise I’m trying my absolute best. I’m more of an emotional writer than I am physical. I’m obsessed with this it was was a fun project to focus on :)))) I hit a character block on this post so here’s The link for part three Including the Reception / Wedding Night

Taglist: @ambessas-doll @milflovers4 @graceful-witch07

The night air was crisp as you stepped out of the restaurant, the glow of city lights reflecting off the pavement as Nicholas bounded ahead, still buzzing from the excitement of the evening.

Agatha’s hand found the small of your back, her touch warm even through the fabric of your jacket. It was a simple gesture, one that had become second nature to her—but tonight, it sent a different kind of thrill through you. Because tonight, she wasn’t just your Agatha.

She was your fiancée.

The word still felt so surreal, hanging in the air between the two of you even as you made your way to the car. Reality was slowly setting in, but it still felt like a dream, like something fragile and precious that could slip through your fingers if you weren’t careful.

Speaking of fingers, you just couldn’t stop staring at the ring. It was elegant, understated but undeniably beautiful, the weight of it both foreign and familiar at the same time. Like it had always belonged there, waiting for this moment.

Agatha, ever perceptive, caught you looking just as she reached for the the backseat door. She paused, arching an amused brow before smirking in that infuriatingly charming way of hers. “Still checking to make sure it’s real?” she teased, gesturing for Nicky to crawl in.

You huffed opening your door, slipping into the passenger seat. “You did blindside me with it.”

Agatha chuckled making sure he was secured in to the seat before shutting the door. Walking around the car, she got into the driver’s seat, her smirk deepening. “Good. That was the plan.”

From the backseat, Nicholas let out a long, exaggerated yawn, rubbing at his eyes as he slumped against the window. The sugar rush from dessert was finally wearing off. “Are you guys gonna have a big wedding?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

You turned slightly to face him, biting back a smile. “What do you think?”

His grin was lazy but triumphant. “It should be huge. With cake. And dancing.”

Agatha hummed in mock consideration, casting you a sidelong glance. “Hear that? We’re apparently throwing a gala.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I don’t think we need all that, Nicky. Something a little more intimate might be nice.”

Nicholas frowned, looking genuinely perturbed by the thought. “So… no castles?” Agatha snorted, and you shot her a look, though the amusement in her eyes made it hard to hold back your own laughter.

“We’ll see, my little prince ” you said reaching back to ruffle his hair. He let out a small, sleepy huff before settling back into his seat, the weight of the evening finally pulling him toward sleep. For a while, silence settled between you and Agatha, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The hum of the car engine, the soft rhythm of Nicholas’ breathing, the distant noise of the city outside—it was all familiar, a quiet sort of peace wrapping around the moment.

Then, casually, as if it were an afterthought, Agatha mused, “So… what do you think? Beach wedding? Something in the mountains? A courthouse elopement followed by whiskey shots?”

You smiled softly, turning your head to study her. “You’re genuinely excited about this.”

Agatha scoffed. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You raised a brow. “I don’t know. I just figured since you’ve done all this before, you’d be……..less interested in all the planning it requires.”

For a moment, she was quiet, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. Then, in a voice softer than you expected, she said, “I didn’t love her like I love you—” Your breath caught.

Agatha glanced at you briefly, her expression unreadable, but there was something vulnerable in the way she looked at you something raw and unguarded. “It wasn’t like the last time” she admitted. “I definitely didn’t feel like this the last time.”

Something in your chest tightened, emotion catching in your throat. You had never asked for much information about her marriage with Rio, you never wanted to pry. You only knew it hadn’t lasted, knew it hadn’t ended in heavy heartbreak so much as quiet indifference. But you had never thought to ask what she had felt—what she hadn’t felt.

“Agatha…”

She shook her head, a small, knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “What? Surprised I’m the one getting all sentimental about it?”

A laugh tumbled past your lips, soft and disbelieving. “A little.”

“Good,” she murmured, her voice teasing but warm. “Keeps things interesting.”

Without thinking, you reached for her hand, your fingers curling easily around hers. She squeezed back almost immediately, her thumb brushing over your knuckles, lingering where the ring rested. For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just sat there, hands entwined, the weight of everything unsaid filling the space between you.

Then, quietly, you murmured, “Whatever we do, as long as it’s with you… I don’t care how big or small it is.”

Agatha smirked. “Then you better hope Nicky doesn’t take over the planning.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and in the backseat, Nicholas let out a soft mumble in his sleep, something about castles and chocolate cake. Agatha drove on, her fingers still loosely tangled with yours, you let yourself breathe—let yourself believe that this moment, this future, was finally yours to have.

By the time you arrived home, Nicholas was completely passed out. You turned in your seat, taking in his peaceful expression, his small hands curled into loose fists. “He didn’t even make it through the car ride,” you murmured.

Agatha let out a quiet chuckle. “It was a big night for the kid.”

Sighing you pushed the passenger door open slipping down from the seat, shutting the door softly you popped open the back seat. Crawling inside you reached for the seatbelt, carefully unbuckling Nicholas before glancing at Agatha. “Help me get him inside?”

She tilted her head, lips twitching. “Oh, now you need my help?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start—”

She chuckled but moved around the vehicle swiftly, opening the door, reaching to support Nicholas’ back as you lifted him into your arms. The second he was against your chest, he let out a sleepy sigh nuzzling closer, completely unaware of the effort it took not to melt right then and there.

Agatha led the way into the apartment, unlocking the door as you carried Nicholas inside. She didn’t say a word, didn’t interfere—just watched as you moved through the familiar motions of tucking him in. You carefully laid him down, smoothing a hand over his mess of waves before pulling the blanket up to his chin.

As you stood, stretching out the tension in your back, you turned to Agatha with a teasing smirk. “You could have helped me you know.”

Agatha didn’t respond, she was simply staring again. But before you could make a sarcastic comment about it, she held out her hands to you, silently pulling you toward her. Then, without a word, she guided you out of Nicholas’ room, quietly shutting the door behind her. And before you could ask what was going on, she backed you against the wall.

Her hands cupped your face, her thumbs brushing against your cheeks before her lips met yours in a kiss that was softer than you expected—softer than her usual teasing smirks, softer than the playful remarks she used to deflect how deeply she felt things.

when she pulled away, her forehead resting against yours, she whispered “You have no idea how much I love you.” words whispered so tenderly against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You could feel the sincerity radiating from her, her love for you as all-consuming as the day you both first confessed your feelings. Your fingers curled into the fabric of her jacket, anchoring yourself to her, to this moment.

You brushed your nose against hers, breathing in the comforting scent that was uniquely hers. A small smile tugging at corners of your mouth as you teasingly replied, "I think I have a pretty good idea, considering you've been staring at me like I'm something to be devoured all evening—" You hummed playfully, unable to resist indulging in a little playful ribbing even as my heart felt full to bursting with love and affection.

Agatha rolled her eyes, but the grin spreading across her face was undeniably warm and loving. She leaned in closer, her breath ghosting over the shell of your ear as she murmured, "Well lucky for you, I was just fed you a delicious dinner. But there's always room for dessert..."

Her voice took on that low, sultry tone that never failed to make your mind blank. Agatha's hand slid down from your face, her fingers trailing teasingly over your exposed collarbone before coming to rest just above the neckline of your dress. She tapped her fingers against your chest, her eyes sparkling with mischief and temptation.

You couldn't help but chuckle softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was a hopelessly romantic one, a moment of tender affection amidst the playful flirtation. As you gazed into her eyes, you knew that whatever challenges life might throw our way, you would always have her—as a partner, a lover, a best friend.

With a playful smirk, you leaned in and whispered softly eyes growing darker “bedroom—now”

Agatha grinned wickedly, taking your hand and practically dragging you down the hallway towards your shared bedroom. As she pushed open the door, she spun you around so your back was facing the bed , her sharp blue eyes gleaming with mischief and desire. "I thought you'd never ask," she purred, backing you up till you tumbled back onto the plush mattress.

Agatha leaned in closer, her hair falling like a dark curtain around you as she whispered softly

"I want you baby, I want to feel every inch of your skin against mine, to hear you moan my name as I make you come undone."

Her voice was low and urgent, dripping with sensual promise as she put one knee on the bed slowly crawling to position herself above you, placing her hands beside your head for support. "I want to devour you, worship you, love every part of you until you can't remember anything but the feeling of my hands on your body and my heart beating against yours." She whispered softly.

She captured your mouth in a searing kiss, pouring all her passion and desire into the press of her lips against yours. One hand slipping around your waist, fingers made quick work of the zipper on the back of your dress, pulling it down to peel it off your shoulders and down your body until it pooled around your waist.

Agatha broke the kiss just long enough to tug it down your body, moving off of you momentarily to shimmy it down your legs, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

Sitting back on her heels, she took a moment to admire the expanse of bare skin she'd revealed, her gaze hot and appreciative as it roamed over your breasts and the delicate lines of your body. You sat up, reaching out to tug on the edge of her blazer stubbornly with a a whine. A teasing smirk plays on her lips as she began to strip off her jacket, keeping eye contact with you, she slowly peeled off each layer of clothing tossing every piece aside in a dramatic fashion.

Once completely bared she crawled closer, slotting into the space between your spread legs, resting each of your thighs around her hips. She pushed you back onto the mattress with a soft thud, hovering just above you "Darling... You're so beautiful. I could spend a lifetime exploring every curve and hollow of your body, and never tire of it."

With a soft tug she unclasped the front of your bra, allowing the garment to fall open and expose the swells of your breasts to her hungry gaze. Cupping the soft weight of you in her palm, she slowly massaged your hardened nipple with her thumb. Leaning down she latched onto a sensitive patch of skin just above your breast, suckling hard enough to leave a vivid purple mark, marking her territory.

Groaning softly she trailed the her mouth across the soft skin of your chest, traveling along the delicate curve of your breast before taking a nipple into her mouth, rolling it around her tongue before sucking roughly.

“Fuck baby-“ You whimpered watching her relentless assault on your body with hooded eyes, you could feel yourself growing uncomfortably wet as your hips rolled up searching for any type of relief. Your hands slipped up her back to tangle in her hair, tugging softly.

Agatha moans around your nipple before releasing it with a pop "That's exactly what I intend to do" she breathed against your skin, nipping teasingly once more before soothing the sting with the flat of her tongue.

Both of her hands squeezed your sides softly before sliding lower, nails trailing down your belly, spanning the dips in your waist. One hand trailed teasingly just below your navel leaving lines of fire in their wake, While the other drifted up the toned length of your thigh, skimming over the sensitive skin of before gliding over the soaked cloth of your panties.

Agatha slid a hand around the back of your bottom, cupping the round globe of your ass and kneading it greedily. "Mommy is gonna make you feel so good baby," she whispered, squeezing the plump flesh harder. "absolutely ruin you for anyone else." Agatha leaned closer, slanting her lips demandingly over yours and plundering your mouth with a hunger that stole your breath away.

"Delectable" she murmured, nipping at your bottom lip sharply before hooking her fingers into the waistband of your underwear and dragging them riotously down your long legs. In a matter of moments, she had you exposed and aching, your body on full display for her to admire and claim as her own.

Agatha drank in every dip and curve hungrily. Guiding your leg over her shoulder, she slotted herself back between your thighs trailing her nose across your exposed sex inhaling your scent. You gasped softly at the intimate contact, your hips subtly tilting up seeking more.

"You have such a beautiful body baby" she praised sultrily as she slipped her hands underneath you, squeezing the globes of your bare ass before pulling you closer to her waiting mouth. "I'm going to take my time with you tonight. peeling away layer by tantalizing layer until there's nothing left but a mewling, desperate little creature, craving only my touch." She mumbled lowly.

Agatha dipped her head downwards and dragged the flat of her tongue teasingly along your slit, flicking deftly between puffy folds. "You taste fucking divide love-“ she groaned into your slick flesh, rutting her tongue against your clit as two fingers slipped up under her mouth circling your entrance with slow deliberate strokes, revealing it the way your whimpering has ceased—replaced by soft filthy moans.

After a few teasing dips, she slipped a single fingers inside your fluttering depths. "Fuck, you're still so tight. I can feel you squeezing around me already" she groaned, pumping steadily into your greedily clenching hole. "Such pretty little sounds you’re making for me bunny"

Your hips rolled against her face chasing the pleasurable assault as you watched her, eyes blown panting softly “Dear god—“ you chocked out unable to complete your sentence “fuck mommy please—wanna cum.” you whined, hands fisting into the comforter underneath you.

Emboldened by your desperate moans and the way your hips rolled so wantonly against her face, agatha doubled her efforts. She licked and suckles hungrily at your aching clit, flicking the sensitive bud with the tip of her tongue before drawing it back between her lips and suckling hard, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting up your spine. At this point you were surprised you haven’t tasted blood with how hard you’re biting your lip.

"That's it baby, let me hear you moan for Mommy" she purred sultrily against your dripping sex, two fingers now pumping rapidly in and out of your fluttering hole. "I want to hear every filthy little sound spilling from those sweet lips pretty girl."

Agatha's skillful fingers curled just right, stroking over that special spot deep inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids. "Cum for me my love" she commanded, her voice a guttural growl. At the same time, Agatha sank her teeth into the tender flesh of your inner thigh, marking you as her own personal possession.

She sucked a vivid purple bruise into your skin that would no doubt last for days. The combined sensations proved too much, and with a choked cry of pure ecstasy, your body went rigid before shaking apart in her arms. Your slick inner walls clamped down rhythmically around her pumping fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

Agatha growled in satisfaction against your spasming sex, not letting up her assault for a single moment. She continued to suckle and thrust, prolonging your climax, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your shaking form.

"That's my good girl," she praised wickedly as she worked you through your intense climax, lapping up the sweet essence of your arousal like it was the finest ambrosia. "So responsive and eager to cum on my fingers like the little slut you are, Mommy’s perfect little slut."

As your climax began to subside, Agatha slowly withdrew her fingers, bringing them up to her mouth, sucking the evidence of your ecstasy from them. "Delicious, and all mine." she purred, her voice low and rough. She crawled up your body, capturing your mouth in a passionate kiss, you could taste yourself on her lips and tongue causing a soft whimper to slip out.

Agatha smirked against you, feeling your body tremble and quake from the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. She didn't release you from the kiss, her tongue lazily exploring your mouth, sharing your intimate essence and leaving you breathless.

After a few moments she pulled back softly, eyes glinting as she gazed down at your disheveled form. Strands of your hair clung to your sweat-dampened forehead and your chest heaved with each ragged breath.

You lifted a trembling hand to her face, your fingers trailing down her cheek in a slow, intimate caress. Agatha studied you for a long moment, her gaze soft and loving before leaning back in to capture your mouth in a slow, deeper kiss this time. One that tasted of a promise kept…and a thousand more yet to come.

—————————

Monday morning came too soon much to your dissatisfaction, dragging only the remnants of yesterday’s celebrations along with it. Your body ached in a deeply satisfying way, the warmth of the sheets wrapped around you like a lingering embrace, making it damn near impossible to move.

Blinking against the slow haze of morning, you shifted. The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air, coaxing you from the cocoon of comfort, but it was the small note resting on her pillow that caught your attention. You reached for it, the paper crisp between your fingers, her handwriting as familiar and elegant as ever.

Good morning my love.

Didn’t want to wake you, looked too peaceful. Drink your coffee. I know you’ll forget and leave without it.

—A

A quiet laugh escaped you, shaking your head as you folded the note with care. Damn her. Pushing yourself upright, you felt the ache in your muscles protest, a dull reminder of the night before—the stolen kisses, the way she had held you so tightly as if afraid you’d slip away. Your fingers brushed over the warm porcelain of the mug waiting on the nightstand, the rich aroma curling into your senses.

You lifted it, taking that first sip—still warm and made just the way you liked it. That’s when it settled in. This was your first morning as her fiancée. The thought curled through you, slow and sweet. Agatha Harkness was going to be your wife, And nothing could ruin that.

The morning had settled into a comfortable rhythm—one you knew well, yet never quite tired of. Nicholas, still groggy from sleep, had curled into you when you first tried to wake him, mumbling something incoherent about five more minutes.

His little arms had wrapped around your neck, warm and stubborn, and it had taken a series of gentle shakes and whispered promises of pancakes—then a stern reminder about being late for school—to finally coax him from the sheets.

You helped him get dressed, fixing the buttons on his tiny shirt as he stood on his tiptoes in front of the mirror, blinking sleepily at his reflection. “Do I have to go to school today?” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Unfortunately for you, yes,” you teased, smoothing down the ruffled curls on his head. “You’ve got a whole future to build, my little prince. Can’t do that if you keep skipping out on your royal studies.”

He sighed dramatically, hands flopping to his sides. “Being a prince sounds exhausting.”

“You have no idea” you said with a smirk, patting his head before leading him to the kitchen for breakfast.

Morning routines went as it usually did—half-eaten toast, a last-minute scramble to find his missing shoe (which as always, was somehow under the couch), and the hurried rush out the door.

As you drove, he kept up a steady stream of chatter from the back seat, telling you all about his latest classroom drama and how his friend Liam was totally wrong about dinosaurs being fake. At the school drop-off, he hesitated for just a moment before stepping out, then turned to you with a sheepish look. “Can I get one more hug?”

You grinned, leaning over to pull him into a tight squeeze. “Of course, baby boy.”

He clung to you for a second longer than usual before hopping out. “Love you!”

“Love you most!” you called after him, watching as he disappeared into the schoolyard. With that done, you finally made your way to the precinct, already bracing yourself for the typical Monday chaos. And oh, did it deliver.

By midday, you had already dealt with an idiot of a suspect who thought lying about his alibi would somehow work when his face was on a traffic camera. Then, a case report mysteriously disappeared off your desk, only for you to find it later in the break room—under an officer’s half-eaten bagel.

Fucking mondays. Your patience was wearing thin, your head beginning to ache from the sheer incompetence surrounding you. The precinct buzzed with its usual energy—phones ringing, officers chatting, the occasional outburst from the interrogation rooms. Papers piled on your desk, cases waiting for your attention, but for a brief moment, you let yourself close your eyes and sigh, wondering if this was the day you’d finally snap and walk out for good. Then your phone buzzed, and you needed a damn break.

Agatha: Busy Lieutenant?

A smirk curled at the corner of your lips as you leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your temples before typing out a reply.

You: Not Lieutenant yet & Drowning in stupidity. Why?

Agatha: Soon you will be my love and nothing. Just checking in on my girl. My incredibly smart, ridiculously attractive, soon-to-be spouse.

You: You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?

Agatha: Oh, immensely.

You shook your head, a quiet chuckle escaping before you returned to the stack of files in front of you. Over the next few hours, Agatha sent more messages—some teasing, some sweet, all just enough to keep you sane while dealing with the idiocy of the day.

Agatha: How’s your case going?

You: Like herding toddlers with law degrees & guns.

Agatha: That bad, huh?

You: I found a missing case report under someone’s breakfast Aggie.

Agatha: You’re joking.

You: I wish.

By the time your shift had finally ended, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. You stretched, groaning slightly as your muscles protested. Your phone buzzed again, pulling you from the haze of fatigue.

You: I need a drink. And a nap. And maybe a new job. It’s it possible to accomplish all three at once?

Agatha: Tough day?

You: Morons baby. Just… absolute morons.

Agatha: Come home. I’ll make it better.

Your shoulders sagged, tension easing just at the thought of seeing her.

You: On my way. You?

Agatha: Picking up Nicky now. I’ll grab dinner and meet you at home.

That was all you needed to hear. You grabbed your keys and headed out, eager to get home—to her, to Nicholas, to the quiet warmth of your little world. As you pulled onto your street, you saw it. Rio’s car, Parked along the curb like she had all the time in the world. Your shoulders tensed, grip tightening on the wheel, Of course.

You turned off the engine and lingered in the driver’s seat for a moment, gathering yourself. The sight of Rio’s car parked so neatly along the curb, as if she belonged here—as if she still had any claim to this space, to this life, set your teeth on edge. But you schooled your expression before stepping out, meeting her with the same detached neutrality she had mastered over the years.

Rio had always been good at reading people, but you had learned how to be unreadable.

She leaned lazily against the side of her car, arms crossed, her ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Her dark eyes flicked over you, assessing, always assessing.

“Detective” she greeted smoothly, tilting her head as if this was nothing more than a casual run-in. You exhaled through your nose, already bracing yourself. “Rio.”

She took a step closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator making sure its prey wasn’t going to bolt. “Relax,” she drawled, her voice light but taunting. “I’m not here disturb you for long.”

Your brow lifted. “Good to know.”

Rio chuckled the sound low and amused. “Art exhibition ended earlier than expected” she said, her gaze flicking past you, toward the apartment. “Thought I’d stop by, say hi to my son.” A pause. Then, with that same razor sharp, condescending edge— “During daylight hours this time if you please.”

Your jaw clenched, There it was. She always knew exactly where to sink the knife. But unlike last time, You didn’t react. Because this time, you had something she didn’t. Your fingers brushed over the ring on your finger—just for a moment, just enough to ground yourself in the truth of it. Agatha had chosen you, and Rio didn’t even know.

Her gaze lingered on you, sharp and calculating, like she could sense something was off. Like she knew there was something you weren’t saying. But you didn’t give her anything.

Because despite every urge to throw it in her face, to watch her smug mask crack, you held your tongue. Partly because you were enjoying knowing something she didn’t. And partly because, deep down…You weren’t sure how she would react.

So instead, you played it cool. You exhaled, tilting your head toward the door. “Come inside,” you said voice casual, measured. “He’ll be home soon.”

Rio studied you for another second before nodding, a slow, knowing smile creeping onto her lips. Like she had already decided that whatever you were keeping from her—She’d figure it out.

The silence between you and Rio was thick as you stepped inside, the tension settling into the walls like it belonged there. It was the kind of quiet that wasn’t comfortable, wasn’t neutral—it was weighted, heavy with unspoken words and an ever-present edge that neither of you acknowledged outright.

Rio took her time, letting her gaze sweep over the apartment as if she hadn’t been here before—despite having walked these floors more times than either of you cared to count. “ I like what you’ve done to the place” she mused, hands tucked casually into her pockets. You didn’t bother responding.

Instead, you walked into the kitchen, reaching for a glass and filling it with water, using the mundane action as an excuse to avoid the way she was watching you. You could feel it—her eyes tracking your every move, as if waiting for something to slip, for some crack to show in whatever composure you had wrapped yourself in. Like she could sense something was different.

Then—The front door opened, you turned just in time to see Agatha step inside, a bag of takeout in one hand the other resting gently on Nicholas’s shoulder as he bounced beside her. The second her gaze landed on Rio, she froze. It was subtle just the briefest hesitation but you caught it.

Her sharp eyes flickered toward you immediately, picking up on the tension before a single word had been exchanged. And in that moment—Rio smirked. That same slow, knowing smirk that had always driven Agatha to the brink of exasperation for years. Like she was enjoying something no one else was in on. Agatha’s jaw tensed, fingers tightening around the plastic bag, but before she could say a word A delighted shriek cut through the room.

“Mama!” Nicholas lit up, his face breaking into pure, uninhibited joy as he tore away from Agatha’s side and ran straight to Rio, throwing himself into her arms. Rio’s entire demeanor softened as she caught him effortlessly, spinning him once before holding him close. “There’s my heart and soul” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Agatha didn’t move, Didn’t speak, But you felt it. The air had changed. The warmth Nicholas carried into the room collided with the storm building between Agatha and Rio, an unspoken battle happening in the way Agatha stood stiff and unyielding while Rio smiled like she owned the moment.

Nicholas, ever oblivious pulled back just enough to beam up at Rio. “You’re here!”

“Of course I am” Rio hummed, brushing his hair back with practiced ease. “What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t make time for my favorite person?”

Agatha’s lips parted slightly, a breath caught between anger and restraint. Your fingers curled around your glass as you waited for the inevitable. Nicholas barely noticed the weight in the room. He wiggled in Rio’s hold, his little hands excitedly tugging at her sleeve. “Guess what?”

Rio hummed, amused. “What, cariño?”

Nicholas turned, already looking at Agatha. “Tell her, Mom!” Agatha’s expression flickered, something unreadable passing through her gaze.

Rio arched a brow, her grip on Nicholas adjusting as she turned her attention toward Agatha, expectant. “Tell me what?” Rio asked, her voice smooth—too smooth.

Agatha’s throat bobbed, her grip tightening around the takeout bag for just a second before she exhaled slowly, forcing a smile that almost looked real. “There’s been some developments—” she said, voice light but laced with something unmistakable.

Nicholas, too caught up in his own excitement, missed the shift. He wriggled free from Rio’s arms and bounded toward you, reaching for your hand. You glanced at Agatha—at the way she was watching Rio with an expression that was far too neutral to be genuine—before forcing your own easy smile.

“Nicky” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Why don’t you tell her?” Rio’s gaze flicked between the two of you, the curiosity now evident in her dark eyes.

Nicholas practically vibrated with excitement, his small hands gripping yours as he took a deep breath—And then, with a grin so wide it could have lit up the entire damn room, he blurted out “They’re getting married!”

Silence.

A beat too long, a moment too sharp. Rio’s smirk didn’t fade, but something in her eyes shifted. The amusement darkened, a flicker of something else curling at the edges of her composed mask. Agatha, still standing by the door though now inside, tilted her head ever so slightly. Not quite smug, but certainly not displeased. And you? You just watched.

Because this was about to get interesting. The silence stretched, thick and charged. The weight of Nicholas’ innocent declaration settled between the three of you like a carefully set trap, waiting for someone to step wrong.

For the briefest moment, Rio didn’t move. Didn’t react. But you saw it—the flicker of hate in her dark eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw. She masked it well, but you knew better. “Oh?” she finally said, her voice smooth, deliberate.

Nicholas, still grinning, nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! They’re getting married! I get to be in the wedding and everything!”

Rio let out a quiet chuckle, shifting her weight as she took in the scene before her. You, standing beside Nicholas, hand still loosely curled around his. Agatha, still near the door, eyes sharp, waiting.

She exhaled, shaking her head as if in amusement. “Well, well,” she mused, tilting her head slightly. “Congratulations, Detective.”There was something about the way she said it. A slow, measured drawl. Not mocking exactly, but not entirely sincere either.

Agatha’s lips curved into something just shy of a smirk. “That’s all you have to say?”

Rio’s gaze flicked to her, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Would you prefer I fall to my knees and weep?”

Nicholas, still buzzing with excitement, either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the tension rippling through the room. He tugged at your hand, eyes wide. “Do we get cake now?”

That broke the moment just enough for you to let out a breath of quiet amusement, ruffling his hair. “Not yet love. But soon.”

Rio exhaled through her nose, shaking her head with a quiet hum before stepping toward Nicholas, crouching down to his level. “Guess that means I need to get you a fancy suit, huh?”

Nicholas beamed. “Can it have dragons on it?”

Rio hummed thoughtfully, reaching out to tweak his nose. “Only if your mom doesn’t kill me for it.”

Nicholas glanced up at Agatha, as if genuinely considering the odds. Agatha rolled her eyes but smirked slightly. “No dragons,” she said, setting the takeout bag on the kitchen table.

Nicholas groaned dramatically. “Ugh, fine.”

Rio rose to her full height, adjusting the sleeves of her coat, her sharp gaze settling on you again. The warmth she had for Nicholas cooled just slightly, replaced with something unreadable.

“So,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back. “Married.” She repeated it as if tasting the word, letting it roll off her tongue like something foreign, something she hadn’t expected to come from your lips.

Your fingers brushed over the ring on your hand, an unconscious movement, as if reminding yourself this was real—solid, yours. “That’s right,” you said simply, the weight of the band grounding you.

Rio studied you, a slow, calculating assessment that felt both familiar and distant all at once. Then she let out a soft hum, shaking her head slightly. “You work fast.”

Agatha scoffed before you could speak, arms crossing as she tilted her chin. “Oh, spare me,” she said dryly, a trace of amusement curling the edges of her words. “I don’t have the patience for your hypocrisy—” she grumbled, eyes narrowing just slightly.

Nicholas blinked between them, frowning in innocent confusion. You could see the gears turning in his little head, trying to piece together the layers of history behind their clipped words. His fingers tightened around yours briefly before he turned his attention back to Rio.

“So that means you’re coming to the party too, right?” he asked, looking up at her, his head tilting in that way he always did when he was hopeful.

You saw the way Rio’s jaw tightened just slightly, the way her fingers flexed at her sides before she smoothed it all over again, adjusting her stance. She exhaled quietly, then fixed Nicholas with a softer look, as if pushing everything else aside. “I don’t know, cariño,” she murmured. “That’s up to them.”

Nicholas, undeterred, turned to you, blinking expectantly. “Can she come?” And just like that, all eyes were on you. Agatha’s. Rio’s. Nicholas’, waiting so earnestly for an answer you weren’t sure how to give. You hesitated, carefully schooling your expression, weighing the words that lingered unspoken in the air.

The room was thick with expectation. Nicholas, with his wide, hopeful gaze, was the only one truly unaware of the unspoken battle playing out between the adults. The tension was so subtle yet so heavy, a current beneath the surface that threatened to break through if handled carelessly.

You could feel Agatha watching you sympathetically, her presence warm and steady as she migrated closer to your side. Not pressing, not interfering—just there, her magic humming in the air like a flickering flame. Controlled, but waiting, always waiting.

Rio, well—her mask was impeccable, but you had spent enough time in her presence to know better. Beneath that carefully crafted indifference, she was bracing herself. And for a fleeting second, you considered making her sweat a little longer, drawing out the moment just to watch her falter. But then, Nicholas squeezed your hand again, his excitement radiating off of him in waves, and it was enough to pull you back to what really mattered.

So you exhaled, letting the tension roll from your shoulders as you gave him a small, reassuring smile.

“Of course she’s invited,” you said smoothly, letting the words flow like they’d never been in question. “How could she not be? It’s going to be one of the biggest days in our new family’s life.” You let the phrase settle, deliberate, pointed.

Rio’s smirk remained, but her eyes sharpened, the flicker of something else there for just a second. A shift, subtle but unmistakable, something neither of you acknowledged. Nicholas, oblivious, beamed a smile in Rio’s direction . “Yes! Mama, that means you have to get fancy too!”

Rio chuckled, reaching out to ruffle his curls. “I suppose I do,” she mused, her gaze flicking back to you with something unreadable.

Agatha hummed under her breath, stepping even closer, her fingers ghosting over the small of your back in silent approval. Her touch was light, a barely-there reassurance, but the warmth of it spread through you instantly. You didn’t look at her, you didn’t need to. Because this? This was your victory.

As Rio returned her attention to Nicholas, Agatha leaned in, her breath brushing against your temple. Without hesitation, she pressed a slow, lingering kiss just below your ear, a silent thank you wrapped in something deeper. Acceptance. Gratitude. A promise.

You turned slightly toward her, feeling her hand settle more firmly against your back, fingers curling ever so slightly against your blouse. When you glanced up, she met your gaze with something softer, something unspoken but understood.

Rio’s laughter softened as Nicholas leaned into her touch, beaming up at her with the same joy he always had when she was around. It was a rare thing, how easily he could exist between all three of you, blissfully unaware of the weight of history pressing down on the adults in the room. But that was the thing about Nicholas—his love was pure, unconditional, untouched by the complications that had tangled the rest of you together for years.

So when Rio straightened, smoothing out her coat with a final, decisive motion, his happiness faltered just slightly. She turned to you, then to Agatha, offering a smile so polite it bordered on distant. “Well, I should get going,” she said lightly, her tone casual, practiced. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Nicholas’ face immediately dropped. “What? No, Mama, you have to stay!” His little hands clutched at her sleeve, desperation creeping into his voice. “Please? Just for dinner? We’re all gonna eat together, and—and you can help us plan!”

Rio’s expression didn’t falter, but something in her posture shifted—something just barely there, something only noticeable if you were really looking. You were.

She exhaled softly, lowering herself to Nicholas’ level, her fingers brushing his cheek with the kind of tenderness that didn’t match the coolness in her voice. “Cariño,” she murmured, “I can’t, not tonight.”

Nicholas frowned, shaking his head. “But why? You always say we don’t spend enough time together, and now you’re leaving?” His lip trembled slightly, and Agatha’s fingers tensed against your lower back, as if resisting the urge to step in.

Rio, for all her armor, hesitated. You watched as she searched for the right words, something gentle enough to soften the blow but firm enough to make it clear that this was a line she wasn’t going to cross tonight.

“I have work tomorrow” she said finally, brushing a stray wave from his forehead. “And you’re going to have a wonderful night with your mom and—” Her eyes flickered upward, just briefly, settling on you before she corrected herself. “With your family.”

Nicholas was quiet for a long moment, his tiny hands still curled around the sleeve of her coat like if he just held on tightly enough, she wouldn’t go. But then, he huffed, shoulders slumping as he let her go with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine,” he mumbled. “But you better make it up to me this weekend.”

Rio’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a real smile she had given since Nicholas brought up your engagement. “Deal,” she murmured.

Nicholas didn’t look entirely satisfied, but he nodded, giving her one final hug before stepping back. Agatha took that as her cue, slipping a hand from your back to gently rest on his shoulder, rubbing small circles there in quiet reassurance.

Rio’s gaze flickered toward Agatha then, something unreadable passing between them before she shifted her attention to you. “Congratulations.”

You nodded, not knowing exactly how to respond. And just like that, she was gone, slipping through the front door with the same quiet ease she always had, leaving behind nothing but a lingering silence. Nicholas stared at the closed door for a long second, his brows furrowing. Then, without turning around, he muttered, “She could’ve stayed….”

You and Agatha exchanged a glance, the weight of his disappointment settling between you. Agatha sighed softly before crouching down beside him, her usual sharp edges softening. “I know, baby,” she murmured, rubbing his back. “But you know how busy she is.”

Nicholas huffed again, still pouting. “She always leaves.”

Agatha’s expression flickered with something you couldn’t quite place, but before she could say anything, you knelt beside them, squeezing Nicholas’ shoulder. “Hey,” you said gently. “I know you wanted her to stay, but it doesn’t mean she can’t come another night.”

Nicholas didn’t look entirely convinced, but after a moment, he exhaled, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

Agatha leaned in, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Tell you what, little prince,” she said, a conspiratorial lilt slipping into her voice. “How about we make tonight extra special? We’ll have dinner and after, you can help pick out the most beautiful decorations for our reception?”

Nicholas squinted up at her. “Even if it’s super fancy?”

Agatha grinned. “Especially if it’s super fancy.”

That earned a small, reluctant giggle from him, his pout easing just slightly. You smiled, squeezing his shoulder. “And, I’m sure i could convince mom to let us have some of her chocolate Ice Cream for dessert.”

Nicholas lit up at that, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, that’s a great idea!”

Agatha smirked, winking at you before ruffling his hair. “That’s what we’re here for.”

As Nicholas finally grinned, you caught Agatha’s gaze over his head, the warmth there unmistakable. A quiet understanding passed between you, a shared relief that even in the mess of all this—Rio, the past, the unspoken tensions he was too young to grasp, you could at least give Nicholas this.

The apartment was quiet now. Nicholas had passed out completely the second you and Agatha got him into bed, barely stirring as you tucked the blankets around him. You had pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, smoothing his hair while Agatha lingered in the doorway—watching, silent.

And now, with him asleep, it was just you and her. Back in the living room, you moved around each other naturally, gathering takeout containers, wiping down the table, going through the small, familiar motions of a shared life.

But the air between you was still weighted—lingering with the tension Rio had left behind. Agatha finally broke the silence.

“So,” she murmured, stacking empty containers. “That was about as pleasant as a root canal.” You let out a dry huff.

She glanced at you, eyes flickering in the dim kitchen light. “Did she say anything to you before I got home?”

You exhaled, tossing a napkin into the trash. “Not much, just her usual smug commentary.”

Agatha arched a brow. “And you didn’t hit her? I’m impressed.”

You smirked. “I thought about it.”

Agatha chuckled under her breath, but the amusement didn’t fully reach her eyes. “She’s pushing,” she murmured, more to herself than to you. “I don’t know what she’s trying to do, but she’s doing it on purpose.”

“Of course she is.” You crossed your arms. “She’s still trying to figure out where she fits now.”

Agatha’s jaw tensed slightly. “She doesn’t fit anywhere.” You didn’t respond right away. Because as much as you wanted to agree, the truth was… Rio wasn’t just some ex Agatha could forget about. She was Nicholas’ mother. She would always be around.

Agatha must have seen the thought cross your face, because she sighed, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “I know,” she muttered, like she was forcing herself to accept the reality of it. “I just don’t like it.”

You smirked slightly. “Yeah. I got that.”

She shot you a mild glare, but you could tell her frustration wasn’t aimed at you.

You exhaled, stepping closer “Listen, whatever she’s trying to do, ultimately she’s failing.” You reached out, fingers wrapping her wrist slowly pulling her closer. “She doesn’t get to decide anything, not with us. Not anymore.” you muttered softly, wrapping both arms around her waist.

Agatha sighed softly, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she allowed herself to sink into your embrace. For a moment, she just breathed you in, the tension in her frame unwinding, if only by degrees. One of her hands came up, sliding against your back in a slow, absent-minded motion.

“She’s always been good at getting under my skin,” she murmured, the warmth of her breath brushing against your temple. “And yours.”

You scoffed lightly, resting your head on her shoulder “Yeah, well. I’d like to think I’m better at ignoring her now.” You stubbornly muttered, leaning in to press a soft distracting kiss to her neck.

Agatha let out a quiet chuckle. “We both know that’s a lie.”

You smirked against her skin, pulling her just a little tighter. “Okay, maybe. But I’m getting better at not letting her win.”

At that, Agatha pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands shifting to rest at your waist. The dim kitchen light cast a golden hue over her features, softening the sharp edges of her expression. There was something unreadable in her gaze, something hovering between admiration and exhaustion.

“You always were the stubborn one” she murmured, brushing her thumb absently against your hip.

You arched a brow. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”

Agatha smirked, but it was fleeting. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, considering. “I mean it ” she said after a pause. “You always knew how to hold your ground.”

You sighed, pressing your forehead against hers. “I just wish this entire thing didn’t affect Nicky as much as it does,” you admitted your voice quieter now.

Agatha’s fingers twitched at your waist. “Me too.” It was the most vulnerable she had sounded all night. No sarcasm. No deflection. Just quiet, unfiltered truth.

The two of you stood there for a moment, wrapped up in each other, finding solace in the silence. The weight of the evening was still there, lingering at the edges, but it felt manageable now. Bearable. Eventually, Agatha gave a soft sigh, her nose nudging against yours in a brief, affectionate touch before she pulled back, fingers loosely gripping your wrist.

“Come on,” she murmured, gently tugging you toward the hall. “Let’s go to bed.”

You let her lead you, following the familiar path toward your shared bedroom. The weight of the night still clung to you both, but it was softer now, dulled by the quiet comfort of being here, together.

As you stepped inside, Agatha turned toward you again, her fingers trailing down your arm before catching your hand. “No ex-wife talk in the bedroom,” she teased, though her voice was softer, the exhaustion seeping in.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.”

Agatha smirked, but instead of answering, she simply guided you toward the bed, pulling you into her arms as the two of you settled beneath the covers, wrapped around you, warm and unwavering, and just like that—everything else disappeared.

“Sleep darling,” she murmured against your hair. “We have a wedding to plan.”

Your lips curled slightly. “God help us ” you muttered. Agatha let out a quiet, borderline wicked laugh. And just like that, you both drifted off together. As her warmth surrounded you, the tension of the night finally began to fade.

————————————————

Over the next few months, if anyone had stopped you on the street a year prior and told you that Agatha Harkness, your argumentative, opinionated, stubborn Agatha—would be genuinely excited about wedding planning, you would have laughed in their face.

But now? Now, you were watching it unfold in real time, and it was one of the most endearing, baffling, and outright entertaining things you had ever witnessed.

The cake tastings—Never in your life had you seen Agatha take something as seriously as she took judging cake flavors. The woman was methodical, meticulously ranking each sample on a ridiculous scoring system she had conjured from thin air.

“This one lacks depth,” she said, frowning over a slice of red velvet, scribbling something in her notebook. “It’s trying too hard.”

Agatha’s critical stare could have burned through the half-eaten cake in front of her. You watched in mild amusement as she shook her head in distaste.

“It’s cake, Agatha. Not a struggling artist,” you deadpanned.

“It’s mediocre cake,” she corrected, pushing the plate aside like it had personally offended her. “And mediocrity has no place at our wedding.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as she moved on to the next plate, slicing off a perfectly even bite of the whiskey caramel-flavored cake. She took a slow, contemplative taste. And then another. “Are you—”

“Shh.” She held up a hand, eyes fluttering shut as if she were having a sinful experience. She chewed with a reverence you had never once seen her display for anything that wasn’t power or a well-aged bottle of wine. After a long, dramatic exhale, she set her fork down with careful precision.

“This,” she announced with utter certainty. “This is the love of my life.”

You blinked tilting your head. “That’s me.”

She smirked, lifting her fork again. “I can love more than one thing.” And then, in an act of absolute betrayal, she took another several bites.

Your arms crossed, watching as she all but swooned over a damn cake. “Well why don’t go on and marry the damn cake then, since you love it so much.”

Without missing a beat, Agatha cut off a piece and held it up to you with a knowing smirk. “Jealousy is not a good look on you darling. Here, stop pouting and have a bite.”

You leaned back in mock offense. “I wouldn’t want to be a homewrecker—”

She rolled her eyes, undeterred. “Come on bunny, just try it.”

“I refuse to come between you and your one true love.” You stubbornly insisted

Agatha sighed dramatically, shaking her head as if deeply disappointed in you. “You are so difficult.”

“And yet, it’s me that you’re marrying” you mused.

She paused, eyes dancing with amusement as she set her fork down and leaned in close, voice a low purr. “And that’s because you my love, taste so much better.”

You barely had time to react before she kissed you—slow, sweet, and laced with the lingering taste of whiskey caramel.

“…Fine,” you muttered when she pulled back, grabbing the fork from the table and taking a bite. You chewed slowly, pretending it wasn’t that good just to spite her, but the victorious glint in Agatha’s eyes told you she saw right through the act.

If you thought cake tastings had been entertaining, venue hunting was an odyssey—one you had vastly underestimated.

The first few locations had fallen into two distinct categories This first being “This place is cursed. I can feel it.” (It wasn’t.) the latter was a simple “Absolutely not.” (She just didn’t like the colors, you thought the last one you had visited was perfect, but apparently green is a hard no? The color was “Offensive”? )

It was a process you had approached with mild optimism, but that had quickly dwindled under Agatha’s absurdly high standards—and even more absurd reasoning.

One venue, a stunning historic estate, had seemed promising. Towering archways, pristine gardens, and a reception hall that oozed elegance—it had everything. You had barely stepped inside when Agatha took three slow steps forward, inhaled sharply, and immediately pivoted back toward the door. “No.”

You frowned, hands on your hips. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean if we get married here, we will be haunted until the end of time.” She said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were an obvious and widely accepted truth.

You scoffed. “Oh, come on. Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s cursed.” Wordlessly, Agatha lifted a hand and pointed upward. You followed her gaze just in time to see the grand chandelier overhead sway—ever so slightly, despite there being no open windows or any discernible draft.

Your stomach dropped. “Okay. Point taken.”That was how most of the day had gone. You’d find a venue with promise, and Agatha would immediately disqualify it—sometimes with supernatural paranoia, sometimes with a vague, unimpressed shake of her head.

“The wallpaper is too floral.”

“The lighting is bad.”

“The energy here is atrocious.”

“The birds in the courtyard were staring at me.”

By the time you reached the tenth venue, your patience was hanging by a thread. “I swear to God,” you muttered as you pulled into yet another parking lot, “if you reject this one because a pigeon looks at you funny, we’re going to elope.”

Agatha smirked, unbothered. “Dramatic.”

“You would know.” You hummed out, She dare didn’t argue.

The venue was a beautiful, open-air space nestled in the city—a balance of modern simplicity and timeless charm. The soft string lights overhead, the clean-cut architecture, and the warm, inviting energy made something settle in your chest.

Agatha walked the perimeter slowly, hands in her coat pockets, silent and thoughtful. You tried to read her expression, but she was unreadable, carefully inspecting the space as if waiting for something to feel off.

For a moment, you worried she was going to find some unseen flaw—some imperceptible reason to reject it like all the others. Then, just as you braced yourself for her inevitable disapproval, she turned to you.

Her expression softened, something warm flickering behind her eyes, and she gave a small nod. “This is it,” she said simply.

You exhaled, tension melting from your shoulders. And when she looked at you like that, you knew it was perfect. Nicholas had declared himself an integral part of the wedding planning process.

Which mostly meant he sat in on meetings, swinging his legs under the table, and provided wildly unpredictable suggestions that ranged from

Reasonable: “There should be a lot of lights!”

Questionable: “What if we had a cake that was also a piñata?”

Outright absurd: “Can I be the king instead of the ring bearer?” You and Agatha had exchanged a look at that last one.

“A king?” you repeated, half expecting him to take it back.

Nicholas nodded, completely serious. “Kings are cooler than ring bearers.”

Agatha hummed, feigning deep thought. “You know, he’s not wrong.”

You shot her a flat look. “Do not encourage him.”

She smirked but turned back to Nicholas, nudging his shoulder. “But if you’re the king, then who’s going to carry the rings?”

Nicholas considered this with a level of intensity you hadn’t seen since he was trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle. Then, after a long pause, his eyes lit up. “Mama!”

Your head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

Agatha snorted, failing to contain her laughter as she reached over and ruffled his hair. “Nice try, baby dragon.”

Nicholas pouted, clearly hoping at least one of you would entertain the idea. When you both stood firm, he sighed dramatically and slumped back against his chair. “Fine. I’ll be the ring bearer.”

“Oh, thank you Your Majesty,” you teased. Despite the utterly unhinged suggestions, watching Nicholas so genuinely excited—so invested in your wedding made something settle deep in your chest.

It was real. Unequivocally and unmistakably was real. And every time Agatha looked at you, really looked at you—you could feel it. This was everything.

———————————————————

The absence of Nicholas in the apartment was a void neither of you could ignore. It wasn’t that you and Agatha didn’t enjoy your time alone—quite the opposite.

The peace and quiet were a luxury in their own right, allowing for lazy mornings tangled in the sheets and slow evenings filled with murmured conversations and lingering touches.

But with Nicholas spending his scheduled week at Rio’s, the usual background noise of his constant chatter, the rhythmic pitter-patter of his little feet running down the hall, and even the occasional surprise of stepping on a forgotten toy was all glaringly absent, And you both felt it tremendously.

That didn’t mean you weren’t keeping busy. The wedding was only three days away now, and there was no room for error—not that Agatha would ever allow such a thing.

Seated at the kitchen table, you flipped through the well-worn pages of your wedding planning notebook while Agatha leaned back in her chair, wine glass in hand, her sharp eyes scanning over the latest list you had meticulously combed through for what felt like the hundredth time.

“The florist is confirmed,” you murmured, tapping your pen against the paper.

Agatha hummed in acknowledgment, taking a slow sip of her wine. “As long as they don’t bring anything orange.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “We’ve been over this. They’re bringing shades of ivory, purple, and deep sapphire blue. No orange.”

“Good,” she said simply, as if that settled it.

You skimmed the next item. “Catering is all set. Guest list is finalized. Venue is ready.” A pause “Cake is—”

Agatha immediately perked up. “Cake is everything.”

You chuckled, lifting your gaze. “Yes, dear.”

She smirked, pleased. “Glad we agree.”

For the next twenty minutes, the two of you moved through the rest of the list, ensuring every last detail was accounted for. It wasn’t until you reached the end, the final box checked, that the reality of it hit both of you at the same time.

There was absolutely nothing left to do. Everything was ready. Three days. In three days, you would be marrying Agatha Harkness.

You let out a slow breath, closing the notebook and leaning back in your chair. Across from you, Agatha swirled the wine in her glass, watching the deep red liquid shift as if gathering her thoughts.

After a moment, she spoke, her voice softer than before. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced at her, intrigued by the change in her tone. “Of course.”

She hesitated—a rare thing for Agatha before exhaling through her nose. “Don’t you think place is too damn small?”

You blinked. “…What?”

She gestured loosely around the apartment, her fingers twirling as if to encompass every inch of it. “We’ve been tripping over each other in this space for almost two years. And Nicholas—he’s getting bigger. His ever expanding collection of trinkets is starting to take over every inch of available space.”

She shifted her gaze to you, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing her expression. “I think we should look into getting a house. After the wedding.”

You choked on your wine. Agatha smirked instantly, amused as you coughed into your sleeve, struggling to recover. “Are you seriously that surprised?”

“You could’ve eased into it a little” you sputtered, setting your glass down. “I just—I didn’t think we were going there just yet.”

Agatha tilted her head, studying you. “And why not?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, your thoughts scrambling. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we’d settle a little into married life before—before adding something else exponentially huge to it.”

She shrugged, swirling her wine again, her tone deliberately light. “I want a big kitchen. A backyard.” A pause then, “And an entire room dedicated to containing Nicholas’ chaos.” Her lips twitched as she set her glass down, her fingers absently trailing along the rim. “I want that with you.”

Something in your chest tightened, warm and familiar. Agatha was not the type to daydream about futures—she built them, carved them out with careful intent. And she wasn’t just throwing this out there for fun; she had already decided.

You exhaled softly, shaking your head. “The idea of being a home owner doesn’t scare you a little?”

“Why would it?” Her smirk softened, eyes steady on yours. “Does it scare you?”

You met her gaze, searching, and found nothing but certainty staring back at you. No hesitation, no doubt—just Agatha, utterly sure of what she wanted. You.

She wasn’t just excited about the wedding, wasn’t just caught up in the moment—she was excited about you. About planning a future, about every messy, wonderful thing that came with it.

“No, if you’re with me—” you murmured. “Of course it doesn’t.”

A slow exhale left her, something easing in her shoulders. She nodded once. “Good.”

You smirked slightly, setting your wine glass down. “Can we at least survive the wedding first, maybe financially recover a bit?”

Agatha huffed dramatically, tossing her head back. “Fine. But only because I’m finally marrying you in three days.”

You rolled your eyes. “Why, how generous of you.”

She grinned, tilting her glass toward you in mock cheers. “I try.”

A comfortable silence settled between you as you watched her, the weight of everything sinking in. This was happening. Not just the wedding, not just the vows, but everything after.

A lifetime of sarcastic remarks over dinner, of Agatha stealing the food from your plate, of Nicholas’ laughter echoing through a house you hadn’t even found yet. And for the first time in your life, you weren’t just ready for the future—you were unbelievably excited for it.

The shift was subtle, but undeniable. The conversation had drifted into softer territory, the energy between you settling into something tender, something unspoken but deeply felt. Neither of you moved to clear the table, content to sit a little longer than necessary, nursing the last sips of wine and reminiscing about the past few years.

The laughter had faded into a comfortable silence, the kind that needed no words. You traced idle patterns along the wooden surface of the table, your engagement ring catching the dim light. Agatha, across from you, swirled the little remnants of her wine in slow, contemplative circles, her gaze unfocused, lost somewhere between the past and an unspoken thought.

Then, so softly you almost didn’t catch it, she murmured— “I miss him when he’s gone.”

Your chest tightened instantly. You didn’t need to ask who she meant. You nodded, voice equally quiet. “Yeah. Me too.”

Agatha exhaled slowly, her fingers stilling on the glass. “It’s too quiet without him.”

You hummed in agreement, the weight of Nicholas’ absence pressing in heavier than before. The apartment, so full of warmth and movement when he was home, felt hollow in his absence.

There were no sudden outbursts of laughter from the other room, no little footsteps padding across the floor, no excited rambling about dinosaurs or wizards or whatever had captured his ever-curious mind that day.

She was about to speak, then—Agatha hesitated. It was a small thing. A tiny flicker of something unreadable in her expression, a hesitation in the way her fingers tensed slightly against the stem of her glass. You caught it immediately. Your eyes flicked to her, waiting.

After a pause, her voice softened to something nearly fragile. “Have you ever thought about having any kids?”

You froze. Not out of fear—but pure shock. It was like your brain couldn’t process the question fast enough. Like it jammed, trying to find a place for those words in a reality where they had never felt possible.

Agatha was watching you closely now, her gaze steady but layered with something uncertain.

You opened your mouth—then closed it. Then opened it again. “…I—what?”

Agatha smirked, but it wasn’t her usual brand of sharp amusement. No, there was something nervous about it, like she wasn’t sure whether she should play it off or wait for an answer. “You heard me,” she said, her voice carrying a rare, careful softness.

You swallowed, gripping the stem of your glass a little tighter. “Are… you asking if I’ve ever thought about it?”

Agatha leaned back slightly, tilting her head as she studied you. “Have you?” You genuinely didn’t know what to say.

You’d spent almost the last two years building a life with Agatha and Nicholas, crafting something so much bigger than you’d ever originally envisioned for yourself. But… had you ever considered there being more?

The thought had never seemed realistic before. But now? Now, sitting across from Agatha—engaged, discussing houses, discussing futures, with the weight of her question pressing into your ribcage—it felt suddenly like a very, very real one.

Something in your chest tightened, something overwhelming and unfamiliar. But beneath the shock, beneath the sheer disbelief that this conversation was even happening, something else curled at the edges of your mind—something you didn’t want to look too closely at.

A deeply buried fear.

Because what if you weren’t enough? Nicky was already so much more than you ever could have imagined—so much light, so much joy, so much love. And every day, you worried that you weren’t doing enough, that you weren’t being enough. That he deserved more than you knew how to give.

The idea of another child, another innocent soul who would almost completely look to you for guidance, for safety, for love—it made something inside you coil tight with the kind of fear you weren’t ready to name.

You had spent so much of your life surviving. Holding yourself together with fraying edges, stitching your own wounds, learning the hard way that no one was coming to save you. And yet, here you were. With Agatha. With Nicholas. With a life you never thought you’d have, a love that had remade you in ways you never expected.

And still, some part of you whispered, What if it’s not enough? What if you’re not enough? Agatha must have seen the way your mind was spiraling, because she exhaled, shaking her head lightly. “I’m not saying now,” she clarified, her fingers tapping absently against the table. “I just—”

She paused, her lips pressing together for a moment before she sighed, as if trying to untangle the thoughts in her own head. “I never really thought about more before, either. But lately…” She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. But you heard everything in the silence.

You stared at her, your pulse roaring in your ears. “You’d want that?” you asked quietly, like you weren’t sure you were ready for the answer.

Agatha didn’t respond right away. She looked at you for a long moment, something raw and vulnerable flickering behind those sharp, knowing eyes—the same ones that had once looked at the world with skepticism, that had once held only self-preservation and survival.

But now? Now, they held something else. Something hopeful, Then she nodded.

You sucked in a breath, and it hit you—hard. She meant it. This wasn’t just a fleeting thought, some idle musing thrown into the night without weight. It was something real. Something Agatha had let settle deep in her mind, rolling over the idea until it had taken root in a way she couldn’t ignore.

Your throat tightened, a familiar and unpleasant pressure building behind your eyes. You tried to swallow it down, tried to keep your emotions in check, but Agatha saw it before you could even attempt to hide it.

Her smirk softened at the edges, her amusement dipping into something gentler. “You’re going to cry, aren’t you?”

You let out a watery laugh, tilting your head back as you blinked rapidly. “I hate you.”

Agatha chuckled, reaching across the table without hesitation. She took your hand, her thumb stroking over your knuckles. “No, you don’t.”

You sniffed, squeezing your eyes shut for a second before meeting her gaze again. “I just never thought—” You cut yourself off, voice catching on something too big, too overwhelming to put into words.

Agatha’s expression softened completely now, her teasing dropping away. “I know,” she murmured. And she did. She knew. She knew what it meant for you to even be here, to have this—to be sitting in a warm apartment, engaged to the woman you loved, talking about futures that once felt impossible.

You exhaled shakily, tightening your grip on her hand. “Tell me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Agatha tilted her head. “Tell you what?”

You swallowed, your thumb brushing absentmindedly over her fingers, grounding yourself in her touch. “What changed?” You hesitated, then added, “Why now?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then, she exhaled, glancing down at your intertwined hands like she was gathering her thoughts.

“I think it was… everything,” she admitted, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Nicholas. You. This life we’ve built.” She glanced up at you, something unreadable flickering in her expression.

“For so long, I never let myself think about a new future. It was always about surviving, about making it through the next day, the next battle, the next moment.” Her grip tightened slightly. “But then you happened. And suddenly, it wasn’t just about making it through another day—it was about what came after.”

Your breath hitched.

Agatha held your gaze, her voice steady but laced with something achingly sincere. “You gave me something I never thought I’d truly have. A healthy home. A loving family.” Her lips twitched, her tone dipping into something almost self-conscious. “And maybe… maybe part of me wants to keep building that.”

You swallowed hard, your vision blurring slightly. There were no words big enough to describe what you felt in that moment. No language that could do justice to the depth, the sheer enormity of your love for this woman. It was too much and somehow not enough, all at once. So you didn’t try to speak.

Instead, you moved—quick, instinctive, unstoppable. The chair scraped against the floor as you pushed away from it, stepping into her space without hesitation. Agatha barely had a second to react before you all but collapsed into her lap, arms winding tightly around her shoulders, pressing yourself as close as you could.

Her breath hitched at the suddenness of it, a startled chuckle escaping her lips. “Well, hello to you too.” But she didn’t hesitate. She never did.

Almost instantly, her arms wrapped around your waist, firm and steady, holding you like she always would—like she had never once entertained the idea of letting go. She melted into you as easily as you melted into her, as if this moment had been waiting to happen all along.

You buried your face into the curve of her neck, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to breathe her in, feel her warmth, memorize this moment before your emotions overwhelmed you completely.

“God,” you mumbled against her skin, voice thick with something you couldn’t even name. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Agatha smirked, tilting her head just enough to press a slow, teasing kiss to your temple. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a yes.”

You exhaled sharply, your chest rising and falling against hers. Agatha’s fingers traced slow, featherlight patterns against your spine, her touch grounding you, tethering you. You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her gaze.

“We’re getting through the wedding first,” you muttered, though your voice lacked any real bite.

Agatha smirked again, but there was something softer behind it this time—something quieter, deeper. There was no teasing in her gaze, no playful smugness. Only certainty. Only you.

“And then?” she asked, voice barely above a murmur.

You swallowed, searching her face—the love, the certainty, the quiet, hesitant hope. A slow, almost shy smile curled at the corners of your lips. “Then we’ll see.”

Something flickered across her face at that warm, knowing, something unreadable but achingly familiar. She studied you for a long moment, as if committing this moment to memory your soft smile, the emotion brimming behind your eyes, the way your fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve as if you needed something to hold onto, something solid, something real.

And then, she kissed you. Not in the playful, teasing way she usually did. Not with sharp wit or smug amusement. No, this was something else entirely. Something deeper, something raw.

She kissed you like she was trying to say something without words, like she was trying to tell you everything she wasn’t sure how to voice. Her hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs skimming your cheekbones, firm yet impossibly gentle. There was no urgency, no rush—only intention. Only this.

Like she was grounding herself in you.

Like she was trying to tell you—I mean this.

Every word. Every thought. Every part of this future I want with you. And God, you felt it.

A quiet, broken sound escaped you as you melted into her, your fingers slipping into her hair, your grip tightening like she might disappear if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

But she didn’t go anywhere. She kissed you slow, deep, thorough—like she had all the time in the world. By the time she pulled back, your foreheads were pressed together, your breaths mingling in the quiet space between you.

Agatha smiled—soft, genuine, utterly open in a way that made your heart ache. She exhaled a quiet chuckle, thumb brushing over your jaw. “Then we’ll see,” she murmured, echoing your words back to you like a promise.

And in that moment, you knew—no matter what came next, no matter what the future held there would never be a world in which you didn’t want this. Didn’t want her.

—————————————————————-

It was Friday, early afternoon. You were leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching her as Agatha moved through the apartment like she owned not just the space, but the air in it.

She always had that quiet power—something magnetic and infuriating in equal measure. She’d just woken up, her robe hanging crookedly off one shoulder, one of the ties barely knotted, hair mussed from the lazy morning you’d spent tangled together. But even half-dressed and sleep-warmed, she was elegance incarnate.

There was a grace to her chaos. She made the simple act of pouring coffee look like poetry—like it was choreographed in advance just for you. She wasn’t trying to be beautiful. She simply was.

You sighed, a little heavier than intended, arms folding tighter around yourself.

“Don’t do that face,” Agatha said without even turning around, her voice casual but knowing. Always knowing.

You blinked. “What face?”

She pivoted, one hand still on the coffee pot, the other planting firmly on her hip as she arched a brow. “That one. The broody, pouty, ‘why are we separating before the wedding when it’s a dumb tradition’ face.”

A smirk crept up your lips, uninvited. “Because it is a dumb tradition.”

She took a deliberately long sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving yours. “You know what else is dumb?” she asked, pausing for dramatic effect. “Getting married without giving the universe a little room to breathe.”

You snorted. “You didn’t do the separate-night thing the first time.”

She gave you a dry, pointed look. “And look how that turned out.”

You winced slightly, already crossing the room, letting your hand brush along the edge of the kitchen island as you made your way toward her. “Low blow.”

“Accurate, though,” she said, setting her coffee down and shifting so you were directly in her sights.

Your arms dropped from your chest, your expression softening. “Still dumb.”

“Maybe,” she allowed. “But I’m not superstitious—I’m careful. Not with everything, just the things that matter.” Her voice dropped slightly. “And you matter.”

That made your heart flutter against your ribs like it hadn’t gotten the memo that you were trying to stay strong. You hated how easily she could do that—how one line, spoken low and sincere, could unravel all your perfectly constructed defenses.

Agatha reached out, catching your wrist lightly with her fingers, her thumb drawing soft circles over your pulse point. “I’m not doing this for tradition,” she said, her voice quiet now. “I just want us to be able to step into tomorrow like it’s something new. Something sacred.”

You studied her face for a moment—her eyes, still fogged with sleep but layered with that sharp clarity that always came when she meant what she said. She wasn’t trying to win an argument. She was giving you the truth, and it settled between you like a secret meant only for two.

“You just want an excuse to be dramatic tomorrow,” you murmured, trying to break the tension before it swallowed you whole.

Agatha’s lips curled. “Is it working?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let your gaze linger on the slope of her neck, the slightly rumpled collar of her robe, the way her fingers had slipped from your wrist to lace with yours.

“Maybe,” you said, but it came out breathless.

She leaned in then, slow and unhurried, her mouth brushing the corner of yours. Not a kiss—not yet—just the suggestion of one. A promise.

“I always get what I want eventually,” she whispered against your skin.

You laughed softly, but it came out shaky. She hadn’t kissed you yet, not really, but it already felt like she had you pinned in place. You pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. “You’re playing dirty.”

She grinned, wicked and warm. “Am I?”

And then she kissed you. A real kiss this time—soft and coaxing, lips parted just enough to leave room for you to respond. It wasn’t greedy. It wasn’t rushed. It was exactly the kind of kiss you never wanted to end. Her hands came up to cradle your jaw, fingers slipping into your hair. You made a soft sound against her mouth, betraying yourself completely.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her forehead resting against yours. “Let me have this. Just this one night. I want the next time I see you to be at the end of that aisle.”

You swallowed, trying to summon a reply, but her mouth was on yours again before you could. Slower this time. Deeper. The kind of kiss that said she’d wait forever if you asked her to—but she was really, really hoping you wouldn’t.

You broke away, breathless, eyes fluttering open. “Fine,” you whispered, your voice unsteady. “We’ll do the stupid tradition.”

Agatha’s face lit up with the smug satisfaction of a woman who had just won—gracefully, of course. “I knew you’d come around,” she purred.

You jabbed a finger gently against her chest. “Only because you asked.”

She pretended to wince, stepping back like you’d wounded her. “Please. Don’t act like my kisses didn’t help.”

You rolled your eyes, barely fighting the grin pulling at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m persuasive,” she corrected, then tugged you back into her arms and kissed you once more for good measure—this time quick and teasing. “And you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Liar.”

You didn’t deny it. You just let yourself rest against her, arms wrapped loosely around her waist, breathing in the smell of her skin and coffee and home. There were only two days left. And if this was the last morning you’d wake up in her arms until the wedding… well, you were going to make the most of it.

“Come back to bed,” she murmured, nuzzling your temple. “Let me convince you a little more.”

You groaned. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” she whispered, dragging her lips across your jaw, “you’re still here.” You were. God help you, you were. And you never wanted to be anywhere else.

The rest of the day was yours. No last-minute errands. No frantic scouring of checklists. No buzzing phones or urgent texts from family members trying to squeeze in one more opinion or vendors double-checking arrangements you’d already confirmed twice.

Agatha had turned your phones off before noon with a look that dared you to object. And you hadn’t. Because this—this bubble of stolen time—was sacred.

She moved around the kitchen like it was a stage, half-cooking, half-performing, fully herself. An old jazz record spun lazily on the turntable in the corner, the crooning vocals wrapping the room in a slow, golden haze.

You weren’t helping, not really. You were swaying in time with the music, barefoot on the tile, letting the rhythm carry you in lazy circles. Every so often, she’d glance over with that soft smile—the one that always made your knees feel a little stupid.

“Should I be concerned that you’re dancing instead of chopping the garlic like I asked?” she called over her shoulder, tone warm with mock-annoyance.

You spun toward her with a laugh. “I’m providing morale support.”

Agatha rolled her eyes. “Oh, well then, carry on. God forbid we interrupt morale.”

You took another slow spin, arms loose, hips swaying. “You know, if you were really committed to this domestic goddess act, you’d dance with me.”

Agatha scoffed softly and set her knife down with a quiet clink. You were mid-twirl, already grinning, when she caught your wrist, spun you effortlessly into her arms, and pulled you flush against her.

You landed against her chest with a laugh. “Is this you giving in?”

Her lips brushed your temple as she whispered, “No. This is me making sure you don’t spin yourself into a wall and break something valuable. Like your face.”

You laughed—loud and unfiltered—and she looked far too pleased with herself.

Then her mouth moved to your cheek—just a gentle kiss at first, sweet and harmless—but she didn’t pull away. She lingered. Then kissed you again, just to the corner of your lips. Then again, slower this time, more sure of herself. And before you could make another snide remark, she tilted your chin and kissed you properly—soft, slow, and deeply distracting.

You melted into her. One hand found its way into her hair. She hummed softly against your lips, like she could taste your smile.

Neither of you noticed the smell right away.

It wasn’t until the faintest tendril of smoke curled upward from the stove that you broke away, blinking. You turned your head just enough to sniff. “Agatha…”

She exhaled, still too close, her hands lazily resting on your waist. “Hmm?”

“The sauce,” you said, trying not to laugh. “You let it burn.”

Agatha blinked like she was coming out of a trance, then sniffed once—twice—and winced. “Ah. Damn. That one’s on you.”

You raised a brow. “Me? You were the one who pulled me in like I was dessert.”

“And you,” she countered, already grinning as she reached behind you to shut off the burner, “let it happen. Honestly, the real blame is shared.”

You stepped back, crossing your arms with playful judgment. “You let dinner burn because you wanted to make out?”

“I let dinner burn because I was distracted,” she said matter-of-factly, looping her arms back around your waist. “And really, between the sauce and your mouth? The sauce never stood a chance.”

You laughed, shaking your head as she buried her face in your neck, pressing another kiss just beneath your jaw. “You’re impossible.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed. “But you love me anyway.”

You sighed dramatically, tangling your fingers in her hair. “Unfortunately.”

She looked up, eyes glinting with something impossibly fond. “Fortunately.”

Then she kissed you again—deeper this time and neither of you made any move toward salvaging dinner.

Later, after eating what was still edible and two shared glasses of wine, the music had gone silent, replaced by the gentle hum of the TV. You were curled up together on the couch, Agatha’s arm draped across your shoulders; her hand lazily combed through your hair as if the action grounded her as much as it soothed you.

Old sitcom reruns played—shows you’d both seen a hundred times, jokes so familiar they’d become inside jokes of their own. But somehow, they were funnier tonight. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the way laughter sounded so different when it came from her, and even more so when you caused it.

“God, this is so dumb,” you said, wiping a tear from your cheek as Agatha chuckled beside you.

She gasped between chuckles. “Dumb is half the charm. Don’t you dare disrespect the art form that is poorly timed laugh tracks.”

“I’ll allow it,” you said, nestling deeper into her side. Her body shifted, adjusting so you could rest your head fully on her chest. You could feel her heartbeat beneath your ear, slow and steady, a metronome of comfort.

“Are you nervous?” she asked after a moment, her voice quieter now, almost tentative.

You blinked slowly, unsure if you were already half-asleep or just drunk on her presence. “About what?”

“Tomorrow. Us.” Her hand moved gently through your hair. “Forever.”

You thought about lying. About brushing it off with a joke or teasing her for even asking. But you didn’t want to.

“Not nervous,” you murmured. “Just… full. Like if I feel anything else, I’ll explode.”

Agatha went quiet, her fingers pausing in your hair. “That’s… oddly poetic.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Are you gonna cry?”

“No,” she said immediately. Then, quieter, “Maybe.” You tilted your head, catching the shimmer in her eyes in the glow of the TV. “You’re a disaster.”

“And you’re still marrying me anyway,” she said with a weak smile. You leaned up just enough to kiss her chin, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth. “That’s because I’m just as much of a disaster.”

“Perfect,” she whispered, pulling you closer, her voice thick. “We’ll be disasters together.” She shifted slightly, one leg sliding between yours, anchoring you. Her arm curled tighter around your back, and you let yourself melt into her. The world had gone soft. Safe. Quiet.

She kissed your hairline, breath brushing your skin. “I love you.” You weren’t sure if you whispered it back or just thought it—but it was there, somewhere in the silence between heartbeats, and then the world faded.

Wrapped in her warmth, her scent, the slow, steady rhythm of her chest beneath you—there was nothing else. Just her.

———————————————————-

Early Morning at some point in the early hours, Agatha must have moved you. The last thing you remembered was falling asleep curled against her on the couch, tangled up in laughter and the lingering scent of burnt sauce.

But now, you were in bed—beneath warm sheets, limbs tucked close, her body pressed firmly against yours. Her arm was slung over your waist like a tether, her breath brushing the back of your neck in soft, sleepy waves.

She must’ve carried or coaxed you here, half-asleep herself, too unwilling to let you go far even in unconsciousness. The thought alone made something tender and fragile crack open inside your chest.

Sunlight slipped through the curtains in lazy golden streaks, warm and annoyingly bright against your closed eyelids. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Once. Twice.

You shifted with a groggy hum, but the weight across your waist tightened. Agatha’s arm curled around you, pulling you closer like an anchor, heavy and possessive even in sleep. She didn’t want you to move.

“Don’t,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep, her face buried against your shoulder. “Tell them it’s illegal to be awake right now.”

You smiled softly, blinking crusted sleep from your eyes as you reached blindly for your phone.

Alice: ETA? Jen made mimosas and she’s threatening to drink them all if you’re late.

Alice: Also she ordered mini croissants and said she’s not going to wait for you.

You groaned and flopped back against the mattress, arm thrown over your face. “She’s serious,” you muttered.

Agatha only grunted in protest, her nose pressing deeper into the crook of your neck. “Traitors. All of you.”

You laughed, the sound quiet and fond, your fingers drifting into her hair. “If Jen drinks all the champagne before I get there, I will consider it a crime of war.”

She made a faint sound of disapproval but didn’t budge, her hand now sliding up beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers curling against your stomach like she could keep you there by sheer will.

You glanced at the screen again, then sighed, thumbing a reply.

You: Tell her I’m on my way. Give me fifteen minutes.

Agatha didn’t let go until you actually started to move. And even then, she made it difficult—grumbling, pulling at the hem of your shirt, trying to coax you back beneath the covers with sleepy mutterings of “five more minutes”

Your overnight bag was already packed. Agatha had made sure of that last night, fussing at you with faux sternness and soft kisses in between, threatening to sneak things into it if you weren’t careful—“Just imagine me tossing in lingerie and a dozen of your ugliest socks. It’ll be chaos.”

You’d laughed then, but now it wasn’t funny. Not when your chest already ached from having to walk away, even for just one night. You adjusted the strap on your shoulder, turning toward the bed—and froze.

Agatha was awake now.

Truly awake.

She was lying on her side, the sheet slipping down her bare shoulder, hair an unruly mess, eyes locked on you with that unreadable expression she wore when she was feeling too much and didn’t know where to put it.

You swallowed, voice lighter than you felt. “It’s just one night. You act like I’m heading off to war.” She didn’t smile.

Agatha narrowed her eyes, the smallest pout forming on her lips. “You are leaving me to sleep alone. So yes. This is war.”

You huffed a laugh and crossed the room, barefoot and reluctant. “You’ll survive.”

She blinked at you slowly, her voice quiet. “Will I, though?”

Your teasing faltered. You crouched down beside the bed, brushing her hair back from her face. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“Yes,” she said plainly, “because you’re abandoning me for champagne, croissants, and emotionally reckless girl talk.”

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re the one who insisted we follow this ridiculous tradition—”

“I know,” she interrupted, her voice softer now, smaller. “I know I did.”

There was a pause. And then, just like that, her guard slipped. She wasn’t teasing anymore. “Don’t be late tomorrow,” she whispered.

Your breath caught, your throat tightening unexpectedly. You hadn’t realized how real it would feel, standing there with a bag in your hand and the rest of the day stretched out in front of you—without her in it.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said softly, reaching out to cup her cheek. Her skin was warm, sleep-soft. She leaned into your palm like it anchored her. Like she needed it. Like maybe you did, too.

“You ready?” you asked, though the words came out more fragile than you meant.

Agatha nodded, barely. “I’ve been ready since the second I asked.”

You smiled through the ache in your chest and leaned in. The kiss you gave her wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t goodbye. It wasn’t dramatic or all-consuming. It was grounding, A tether.

She kissed you back like she was giving you something to carry with you—a piece of her to keep safe until tomorrow.

When you pulled away, her eyes were glassy but full of warmth, and her voice trembled just enough to crack your heart wide open.

“I’ll see you at the altar,” she whispered. “My love.” You lingered for a moment longer. One more touch. One more kiss. One more breath with her in it.

And then you stood, with each step out of the room, you realized something that settled like truth in your chest. You had built a life around this woman. Not just a future, not just a home. But a rhythm. A heart. A way of being. And walking away—even for one night—felt like stepping outside of your own skin. Still, you kept walking. Because tomorrow, she’d be waiting.And you’d run straight into forever.

Alice’s apartment smelled like citrus and fresh linen—with just a trace of mimosa and the buttery warmth of something toasted.

You’d only just left your apartment twenty minutes ago, your pillow still warm, Agatha’s imprint barely faded from the mattress. Her kiss still lingered on your cheek. You hadn’t realized how fast the air would feel different without her beside you.

You barely had time to knock before the door flew open. “There she is,” Alice said with a grin, her sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder “The bride-to-be. On time for once. Did you get possessed or is this personal growth?”

You gave her a tired half-smile, shifting your overnight bag higher on your shoulder. “More like the fear of Jen drinking everything.”

“She almost did,” Alice muttered, stepping aside to let you in. “But I guilted her into saving you at least one.”

“Barely,” came Jen’s voice from the living room. She was curled in the corner of the couch, blanket wrapped tightly around her like a cocoon, already sipping from her second glass. She somehow managed to look both effortless and fully alert. “Only because I like you,” she added with a smirk.

You snorted, toeing off your shoes and setting your bag near the door. “That means a lot coming from you.”

Alice gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. “I made breakfast. And by made, I mean I burned a waffle, gave up, and made pancakes instead.”

“Bold of you to try waffles first,” you muttered.

“I live on the edge.”

You padded across the soft rug, grabbing the throw blanket draped over the back of the chair before sinking onto the floor. Cross-legged, wrapped in eucalyptus-scented warmth, you settled yourself into the rhythm of their apartment—the hum of the heater, the clink of dishes in the kitchen, the faint fizz of champagne in orange juice.

It was all so normal—and yet, every second ticked louder in your chest. Tomorrow you were getting married. To the woman who walked into your life like a storm and stayed like sunlight. The one who knew every sharp edge you tried to hide and loved you not in spite of them, but because of them.

The one who laughed with you at three a.m., who brushed hair from your face when you were half-asleep and always kissed your scars like they were stories worth hearing, the one who called you home.

You hadn’t realized how much your chest ached until you sat still long enough to feel it. Alice appeared a few minutes later with a plate balanced in one hand and a fork in the other. She handed you a fluffy stack of pancakes, already drizzled with maple syrup and dusted with powdered sugar like she actually had tried.

“You know,” she said between bites of her own, “I always thought your wedding would be some kind of whirlwind mess. Like you’d fall in love with a complete emotional disaster who’d ghost you the morning after.”

You blinked at her. “Um… thanks?”

Jen snorted from the couch. “What she means is—she’s shocked you ended up with someone like Agatha.”

Alice shrugged. “I kind of am. She’s, like… terrifyingly competent. And mean which is weirdly hot.”

“Please don’t describe my fiancée like that,” you muttered, dragging the blanket over your face.

“She’s so into you,” Alice said more seriously. “Like, I’ve never seen anyone look at you like that before.”

Jen nodded, softer now. “The way she talks about you? It’s like she still can’t believe you’re real.”

You swallowed around the sudden knot in your throat, nodding once. “I know. I feel it.”

And you did, but that’s what made it scary, too. The pressure. The weight. The realness of it all. And before you could stop yourself, the words came tumbling out.

“She wants another baby.”

The air in the room shifted. Not heavy. Just… attentive. Alice blinked from where she sat on the floor, legs stretched out, one arm slung over her knee. “Wait—what?”

Jen paused mid-sip, eyebrows raised. “Agatha told you that?”

You nodded, staring into your tea. “Yeah. A last night.” They waited, giving you space to keep going. “We were sitting at the kitchen table. Just… talking. Laughing about something Nicholas said earlier that day, talked about maybe looking into houses….. It was late, and we were both kind of tired, but she looked up at me like she’d been carrying this thing in her chest forever, and she just said it.”

Alice shifted slightly, gentler now. “What did she say verbatim?”

You exhaled. “That she wants another baby. That she’s been thinking about it for a while.”

“And what did you say?” Jen asked, her tone calm, careful.

You met their eyes. “I said yes.” Alice’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t even think,” you continued, voice quieter now. “I just… said yes. It felt so natural in the moment. Like I couldn’t imagine saying anything else.”

“But now?” Jen asked softly.

You swallowed. “Now I’m fucking terrified.”There was a beat of silence before Alice moved closer and sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

Jen leaned forward on the couch, her voice steady. “Terrified how?”

You looked down at your hands, fingers tightening around the mug. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I fail? I mean—I love Nicholas. I’ve already been raising him to some degree. That part doesn’t scare me. But the idea of doing it from scratch? Of holding this whole new life in my hands and not knowing if I’ll do it right?”

You shook your head, heart pounding harder now. “I didn’t grow up with a healthy example of anything. I don’t even know what a normal family is supposed to feel like. And I know Agatha wouldn’t push me—she wouldn’t ask for anything I couldn’t give. But I already said yes. And now all I can think about is what if I screw it up for her?”

Alice didn’t try to reassure you right away. She just sat with you, grounding you with her presence. Then finally, she said, “You said yes because it felt right. Not because it was easy. That matters.”

Jen nodded. “You’re scared because you care. That’s what being a parent is. Not knowing everything, but choosing to show up anyway.”

“You don’t need to be perfect,” Alice added, resting a hand over yours. “You just need to be who you already are. The person Nicholas runs to when he scrapes his knee. The person Agatha wants beside her through everything. That’s enough.” You blinked hard, the sting behind your eyes rising too quickly to stop.

“You’re already doing it,” Jen said softly. “You said yes. Now you just have to keep saying yes. One day at a time.”

You let out a shaky breath and nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared.”

“But you’re still here,” Alice said. “That’s brave.” You smiled, tearful and warm, and finally leaned into her side. And somehow, the fear didn’t feel so big anymore. The rest of the morning and the afternoon passed in a blur, filled with fond remembrance, wine and never ending questions about what you had in store for the future.

Later that night, after brushing your teeth and washing your face in the tiny guest bathroom—you changed into your softest pajamas. The ones Agatha liked to tease you about for being threadbare, but always reached for when she wanted to curl into you on slow Sunday mornings.

You padded quietly into the guest room, still warm from earlier sunlight, now bathed in the hush of night. The bed was small but cozy, the comforter a little too thick for how warm it was, but it smelled like lavender and laundry detergent and safety. You crawled beneath it, curling onto your side with a quiet sigh.

A knock tapped gently at the doorframe. Alice poked her head in, her hair pulled into a sleepy bun, face soft without makeup. “Need anything?”

You looked up, startled by how much that simple question wrapped around your heart. “No,” you said, voice low but sure. “I’m good. Thank you.”

She lingered a moment longer, then smiled. “You’re gonna be okay, you know. Not just tomorrow. After that, too.” You swallowed, nodding.

Jen appeared behind her, arms folded loosely, her chin resting against Alice’s shoulder. “We love you,” she said simply. “And Agatha? She’s lucky as hell.”

Your chest tightened. The tears rose again—but this time, they didn’t come from fear. This time, they were soft. Earned. Made of gratitude and something deeper you couldn’t quite name. “Love you guys, too,” you whispered, your voice thick.

Alice reached out and squeezed your hand before stepping back. “Goodnight.”

Jen grinned. “Try not to stress over everything all at once.” They left the door cracked, just enough for a warm sliver of hallway light to stretch across the wooden floor.

You lay there for a long moment, your back sinking into the mattress, breath slowing as the quiet wrapped itself around you. Somewhere in the living room, Jen laughed at something soft and half-muttered—low, tired, content. You could hear Alice’s voice follow, affectionate and teasing. That sound, that slice of normal life, settled in your chest like a lullaby.

For the first time in days, you felt calm. Not because the fear had vanished—but because you no longer felt like you were carrying it alone. You reached beneath your pillow, fingers brushing something crisp and folded.

The note. Agatha had slipped it into your bag sometime before you left. You hadn’t seen her do it, but of course she had. Of course she’d known there would be a moment tonight when your nerves would come back and your courage would waver.

She was always thinking ahead like that—protecting you in the quietest ways. You turned it over in your hand, but didn’t open it. You didn’t need to, you already knew what it said.

She loved you.

She chose you.

Not for show. Not for a moment. But with her whole, complicated, battle-worn heart. The same heart that had broken and mended alongside yours more than once. The one that still beat steady for you across the city, waiting for tomorrow.

You smiled, small but full. Tomorrow, you’d say yes in front of everyone. You’d stand in front of the woman who made you feel seen in a way no one else ever had, and you’d promise her the rest of your life.

But tonight—wrapped in quiet, in comfort, in the soft certainty of being understood—you already had. Sleep didn’t creep in like it usually did. It welcomed you.

And somewhere across the city, in a different bed, she was waiting for you, too—counting the hours with just as much longing, just as much love.

————————————————————

A soft knock tapped against the bedroom door, pulling you from sleep. You groaned into the pillow, voice still thick with dreams. “Jen, if you’re about to drag me into sunrise yoga, I’m not above faking an injury—”

The door creaked open. But it wasn’t Alice, It was Nicholas. Fully dressed in a crisp little shirt and slacks, his tie only slightly crooked, hair neatly combed—though already starting to rebel. He held a bouquet of flowers nearly half his size in one arm, a warm coffee cup gripped carefully in the other, a folded envelope sticking out of his pocket.

He grinned like he was carrying top-secret information. Like this moment was important. He darted into the room before you could say anything and climbed onto the bed, bouncing slightly as he settled beside you. “Wake up!” he whispered loudly. “I have very important instructions!”

You sat up slowly, still groggy, your heart thudding with surprise and something softer as you took in the sight of him. “What are you doing here baby?”

He carefully handed you the coffee first, then the bouquet, which was made up of all your favorite blooms—of course it was. “Mom said I had to bring you these.”

You smiled, touched beyond words. “She sent you?”

He nodded seriously. “She said you weren’t allowed to see her, but I was definitely allowed to see you.”

Your brows furrowed, lips twitching. “Wait—what do you mean?”

He sat up straighter, puffing up his tiny chest like a messenger with a royal decree. “Because it’s the rule! You’re not supposed to see each other before the wedding. So Mom said she couldn’t break tradition—”

Nicholas fished the envelope from his pocket, carefully smoothed it, and handed it to you with both hands. “She wrote you something. She made me promise I wouldn’t squish it.”

You took the letter slowly, touched the edge with reverence, Your fingers trembled as you unfolded the note.

“My love,

I’m writing this instead of knocking on your door. Which, as you know, goes against every instinct I have. But I wanted to keep one promise. One tradition. One moment untouched. Still, I couldn’t stand the thought of you waking up without something to hold on to. So I’m sending you the most important part of me. The piece that lives and breathes and sometimes steals my snacks. I knew you’d need him this morning. And honestly? I think he might needed you too. There’s a thousand things I could say right now. A thousand ways I want to tell you that I’m ready. That I love you. That I can’t wait to call you mine. But I’ll save those words for when you’re walking toward me. Until then… let him hold a little space for me. All my love, always “

—A.

You blinked rapidly, pressing your lips together to keep the sob in your throat from escaping. The edges of the paper blurred as your eyes filled. Nicholas had already crawled into your lap, his tiny arms wrapped around your middle, his cheek pressed against your chest. “I missed you” he whispered.

You kissed the top of his head, holding him tightly. “I missed you too my little prince.”For a moment, the world was still. Just the two of you in that quiet room, the soft rustling of blankets, the faint scent of citrus and mimosa from the hallway. The weight of the letter in your hand. The warmth of him in your arms. You looked down at the flowers, the coffee, The note. The love behind it all.

Agatha wasn’t here. But somehow… she was still everywhere. You closed your eyes and whispered into Nicholas’s hair, “She always knows just what we need, doesn’t she.” He nodded. You held him closer, rested your cheek against his head, and let yourself feel every piece of the moment—soft, aching, real.

Outside the door, voices passed—Alice, laughing. Jen, probably making another coffee. The apartment was beginning to stir, the day beginning to bloom.

Alice and Jen found you nearly an hour later, sunlight spilling in soft and golden across the bedroom floor. You were sitting at the vanity, your robe loosely tied at the waist, Nicholas nestled comfortably in your lap. Both of you were facing the mirror, focused and quiet—each holding a brush, carefully working through your hair in unison.

His small hands moved with exaggerated care, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he tried to mimic your motions. He held a paddle brush upside down, but his effort was nothing short of sincere. Alice peeked her head in first, then paused in the doorway, grinning. “You’re letting him help?”

You caught her reflection in the mirror and smiled, brushing another section of hair before answering. “He insisted.”

Nicholas didn’t even look up—too engrossed in his task. “I’m making her pretty,” he said matter-of-factly.

Jen stepped into the room behind Alice, carrying a tray with a fresh glass of water and a plate of sliced fruit. She set it down gently on the vanity, her voice filled with quiet joy. “You nervous?” You met her eyes in the mirror. The truth was already written in your expression.

“Bad nervous?” Alice asked, moving closer and kneeling beside the chair to start laying out makeup brushes and hairpins across the surface.

You shook your head slowly, adjusting Nicholas in your lap as he leaned back against your chest, content now to simply hold the brush in his hands. “No,” you said softly. “I just… I really want to see her again.”

Jen’s smile softened. “That makes sense.”

Nicholas tilted his head back, looking up at you with big, curious eyes. “You miss her?”

You nodded, resting your chin on top of his head. “Yeah, baby. I do.”

He was quiet for a beat, like he was thinking something through very seriously. Then he whispered, “I do too.”

You closed your eyes for a second, breathing in the moment. The brush in your hand stilled. You kissed the top of his head gently and pulled him closer. “She’s gonna cry,” Nicholas said confidently.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, brushing your fingers through his soft locks.

“Yep.” He turned in your lap so he could look up at you properly. “When she sees you in your dress, she’s gonna cry a lot.”

Alice snorted, already pulling out tissues. “She might not be the only one.”

Jen leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you both with something that looked a lot like awe. “You look so calm right now. It’s like… you already know how this ends.”

You glanced down at Nicholas, who had returned to brushing the ends of your hair, his expression as serious as a six year old could manage. “I think I do,” you whispered. “We’re already a family. Tomorrow just makes it official.”

Nicholas beamed. “It’s like… the last piece of the puzzle!”

“Exactly,” you said, running your fingers along his back.

Alice looked between the two of you, blinking a little faster than usual. “Okay, I was not ready for this level of emotion before eyeliner.”

You laughed, but the tears in your eyes shimmered just the same. “I love you,” you murmured into Nicholas’s hair.

He twisted slightly to look at you. “I love you more.”

“Impossible” you said, wrapping your arms tight around him.

Alice clapped her hands once to break the mood before she got too choked up. “Alright, my adorable wrecks. Let’s get you both cleaned up so we can start glam hour.”

Nicholas wiggled in your lap. “Do I get glam too?”

Alice grinned. “You’re already working it, little man. But I think we can manage a bit of sparkle spray.” Nicholas’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas.

You smiled and whispered into his ear, “Go easy on her. I still need my face done.”

He giggled and climbed down from your lap, handing you back your brush. You turned back to the mirror, heart full to the brim. And just beneath the nerves, just under the weight of the day, you felt it, the steady, sure knowledge that everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

Alice dabbed the corners of your eyes with a tissue, giving you a pointed look. “Okay. No more crying. We’re entering the crunch time now. You cry again and I’m breaking out the waterproof foundation and the emergency fan.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, sniffling slightly as Jen handed you the glass of water she’d brought in earlier.

“You say that, but you’re glowing like a Hallmark heroine—” Jen teased, gently starting to section your hair.

You laughed—really laughed for the first time that morning. Nicholas giggled from where he sat on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs and munching on a piece of strawberry from the fruit plate.

“Do I get to tell mom she looks beautiful when we get there?” he asked suddenly, eyes wide with excitement.

Alice smiled. “Absolutely. That’s practically your job today.” He puffed up proudly, clearly taking the role very seriously.

It didn’t take long for the soft chaos of hair and makeup to take over the room. Jen worked with smooth, practiced hands while Alice narrated the process like she was officiating a royal coronation. Nicholas provided occasional humming and commentary, offering sage wisdom like “that color is sparkly” and “don’t poke her eye.”

When everything was done, you stared at your reflection for a long moment. It was still you, but softened. Lit from within. Ready.“You look like the ending of a movie,” Alice said from behind you, her voice quieter now.

You turned to her, heart full. “Let’s go make a real one.”

The car ride to the venue was filled with nervous excitement. Jen drove through the busy city streets, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel as Alice double-checked everything on her phone, one AirPod in, fielding texts from people already arriving.

Outside the window, the world was alive—honking cabs, street vendors setting up on corners, late-morning commuters weaving between buildings. But inside the car, it was its own kind of quiet. Like the city couldn’t quite reach you today.

You sat in the back with Nicholas, his small hand curled around yours as he stared out the window, his breath fogging the glass.

“Do you really think she’ll cry?” he asked again, eyes flicking up to yours.

You smiled. “Id hope so, it’s only fair”

“She will,” he said confidently. “Mom cries when she’s really happy.”

Jen glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “You doing okay back there?”

You nodded, trying not to get choked up again. “Just breathing.”

“You don’t have to be calm,” Alice chimed in. “You just have to be in it.”

The venue appeared as they turned down a quieter side street “We’re early,” Alice said, checking the time. “Perfect. You’ll have the suite to yourself.”

The staff met you at the curb, ushering you through a side entrance away from the gathering guests. The bridal suite was on the second floor, overlooking the city below. An open, loft-style room with exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows, a long mirror, and a velvet settee tucked into a corner beside a garment rack.

It felt like a secret tucked into the noise of the world. As soon as you stepped inside, the air changed. Everything felt real now.

Jen carried your dress over her arm and hung it on the wardrobe rack. Alice set your shoes beneath it, fluffing the hem as if the dress were already standing on its own, waiting.

Nicholas stood in the middle of the room, spinning slowly in place, eyes wide. “This place is so cool.”

You crouched to his level, brushing his hair back. “You ready for today?”

He nodded eagerly. “Are you?”

“Most definitely.”

He grinned. “You’re gonna look awesome.”

Alice smiled. “We’ll give you a minute before we help you into the dress. Just take it in.”They slipped out, leaving the room quiet.

Nicholas stayed. He climbed up onto the settee and pulled his knees up to his chest, watching the sunlight move across the floor.

You stood by the windows, looking out at the city. Cars. People. Horns. Lives in motion. And yet here you were—above it all, suspended in the quiet before a vow.

Nicholas’s voice broke through the silence. “Do you feel different?” You turned toward him, smiling softly. “A little.”

“How?” You walked over and sat beside him, smoothing your hands over your robe. “I feel like… everything I’ve ever wanted is finally happening.”

He leaned his head against your arm. “Mom said that too. She said today’s the best thing she ever did.”

Your throat closed up, and you nodded slowly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “It is for me too.” You looked across the room at your dress, waiting quietly on its hanger. The sunlight caught the fabric just right, making it shimmer like a secret only the two of you shared, It was finally time.

You were standing just out of sight, tucked behind a heavy cream curtain at the back of the ceremony space, your bouquet clutched in trembling fingers that refused to still. The flowers deep purples and soft whites, picked to match the season and her favorite colors—pressed lightly against your chest like a shield. It didn’t help much.

From beyond the curtain came the low hum of voices. Warm, familiar. Steady. You could tell the room was full—your friends, your family, your colleagues from the precinct. People who had seen you through some of your hardest chapters. People who had come not just out of obligation, but love. People who believed in this moment—believed in you. Believed in her.

Okay. One more breath, then another.

You’ve got this.

Your spine straightened instinctively, a muscle memory from years of walking into interrogation rooms and courtrooms alike. Only this time, you weren’t walking toward a perp or a case. You were walking toward a future you never thought you’d get.

You glanced down at the ring on your left hand. The one Agatha had slipped onto your finger that night on the rooftop, under a blanket of city lights and stars you swore hadn’t shone that bright in years.

The sapphire glinted softly, nestled between two tiny diamonds. It had been Nicholas’ idea, she’d told you later. “Like your eyes,” he’d said. “So she can always see them.”

A soft smile tugged at your lips despite the nerves, You were marrying her today.

The woman who’d challenged you, terrified you, softened you, and loved you in ways that undid you completely. The woman whose name once struck fear across the courtroom now brought warmth to your chest when you heard it whispered in the morning.

The woman who drove you insane and made you feel more whole than anyone else ever had. You never thought you’d be lucky enough to find her—let alone deserve her.

The music began. Soft strings. The opening notes of your chosen song floated gently through the speakers and wrapped around your heartbeat like a promise.

Someone behind you, probably the coordinator, tapped your shoulder gently. It was time. You swallowed hard, the weight of the moment catching in your throat.

Here we go.

The curtain drew back.

And the world shifted.

Gasps, quiet exclamations, a few audible sniffles filled the room—but none of them reached you. Not really. Because all you saw was her.

Agatha stood at the far end of the aisle, surrounded by candlelight and soft blooms, waiting for you in a tailored white lace tuxedo that hugged her figure in all the right places. Feminine. Elegant. Unapologetically her, she wasn’t smiling. Not yet.

Her eyes—those impossible eyes, the ones that had once looked at you with suspicion, then mischief, then longing. Were wide and glassy with unshed tears. Her chest rose and fell like she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

She looked like someone seeing the sunrise for the very first time. And suddenly, the aisle didn’t feel like a mile long anymore.

You took your first step forward, then another. Your bouquet trembled just slightly, your throat threatening to close with every step. But your legs didn’t falter. Your eyes stayed locked on hers. And slowly, the world around you sharpened.

Alice, already wiping her eyes with a crumpled tissue. Jen, grinning so wide it looked like her cheeks hurt, snapping pictures with her phone. Your Sargent, tough, no-nonsense, once said love made people sloppy—nodding proudly from the end of the row, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

You could feel the emotion in the air. Thick. Tangible. Like walking through a memory already laced in gold. This wasn’t a daydream or a hypothetical or a second-chance fantasy. This was your life now.

And Agatha…Agatha was crying openly by the time you reached her. One single tear broke free, trailing down her cheek like she hadn’t even noticed it fall. You reached for her hand without thinking, and she met you halfway.

Your fingers curled around hers like they always had—as if the universe had carved that space for you and no one else. You opened your mouth to say something. Anything. But all that came out was a quiet, teary laugh. Because you were crying, too.

And still—through the blur, through the ache, through the overwhelming beauty of it all—you managed to whisper what mattered most. “Told you I’d make it—“

Agatha’s grip tightened. Her breath caught. And for the first time since you stepped into view…She smiled like she always had. The officiant’s voice was calm, grounding, like a lighthouse in the fog of everything you were feeling.

You stood together at the front of the room, the warmth of her so close you could feel it through the air alone. You tried to focus on the words, on the ceremony on the structure of it all—but your attention kept drifting to Agatha.

To the way her hands were clenched tightly in front of her, like if she didn’t hold them together, they might reach for you on instinct. To the way her mouth parted ever so slightly when your eyes met, like she was relearning how to breathe. To the way her lashes were already damp with tears, catching the light in a way that made her look ethereal.

The officiant spoke of love as a choice. Not just a feeling that swelled in the presence of romance or warmth but a decision made each day, through every storm, every silence, every scar.

They talked of trust, of time. Of building something lasting. You wanted to hold onto every word, but you were too busy memorizing her face. And then—it was time.

Vows.

There was no paper. No rehearsed words.

Neither of you believed in scripting the most important promises of your lives. You stepped forward, heart thrumming like a war drum, and when you looked into her eyes, your voice shook—but you didn’t care.

“I didn’t know I could have something like this. Like you,” you began, every word feeling like it was stitched straight from your chest. “I didn’t think I deserved it. And then… you looked at me like I was the whole damn world. Like somehow, despite all the wreckage, I was still worthy of being loved.”

Agatha’s breath hitched. Her bottom lip trembled, and a tear slid down her cheek, slow, quiet, like it had always belonged there. “And for the first time,” you continued, voice steadying as you leaned into the moment, “I believed I could be that person. The one you saw I wanted to be. I still want to be.”

You took a breath, your fingers instinctively twitching, aching to hold her hand, but you let the air hold your promise instead. “I love you more than I know how to say. And somehow, that’s okay because you’ve never asked me for the perfect words. You’ve only ever asked for the truth. So here it is.” You paused, your voice softening.

“I choose you. Not just today. Not just when things are easy or beautiful. I choose you on the hard days. On the tired days. On the days we fight, and the days we fall into bed too exhausted to speak. I choose you when we’re old and gray. I choose you when we’re scared and still figuring it out.” Your throat tightened, but you didn’t look away.

“I choose you. Over and over and over again. Without hesitation. Without doubt. I’m yours.” When you finished, the room was silent. You glanced to the side just in time to see Alice burying her face in Jen’s shoulder, and even your lieutenant discreetly wiping beneath one eye.

But Agatha, she didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, closing the small space between you before the officiant could invite her to speak. Her hands lifted gently—no rush and framed your face. Her thumbs brushed your cheeks, reverent, as if you were the only thing tethering her to earth. Her eyes searched yours. And then softly, steadily, she began.

“You are the calm in the chaos,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You are the sharp edge I lean on when I forget how to stand. You saw every dark part of me and didn’t run. You stayed. Even when I gave you every reason not to.” You felt her touch tremble slightly, her fingers curling tighter around your jaw like she needed the anchor.

“You’ve taught me what it means to feel safe. To feel known. To feel whole. I used to think love was a transaction. A bargain. But with you…” She laughed, wet and breathless. “With you, it’s grace. It’s the softest place I’ve ever landed.” You blinked rapidly, already crying again.

“I didn’t believe in forever until you,” she continued, eyes locked with yours. “But I do now. And I know I don’t always make things easy. I know I’m stubborn, and sharp, and sometimes scared of the good things. But I promise you this—” She pressed her forehead to yours, quiet but unshaken.

“I will spend every single day earning the way you love me. I will fight for this. For us. I will choose you, no matter what. In every version of this life, I am yours.”

You let out a sound between a sob and a laugh, pressing your forehead harder into hers as tears slipped down your cheeks freely now. And Agatha—brilliant, impossible Agatha just held you there. In front of everyone. Without shame. Without apology.

The officiant didn’t interrupt.

No one moved.

Because everyone in the room knew what they were witnessing wasn’t just vows. It wasn’t just love. It was the kind of devotion that rewrote endings. That made forever feel possible.

The officiant smiled softly, his voice momentarily lost beneath the roar of emotion pulsing between you and Agatha. Then he cleared his throat—gentle, respectfully, to catch your attention, nodding discreetly toward the aisle. You blinked back tears and turned just in time to see him. Nicholas.

Walking slowly, carefully, with a determined kind of focus that only a six-year-old could manage when on a mission that really mattered. His small shoes clicking faintly against the floor as he walked—his steps light, but his pride immense.

He clutched a small velvet pillow in both hands, his smile stretching so wide you were certain his cheeks would hurt later. His eyes sparkled with excitement, chest puffed out like he was the most important person in the entire ceremony. And honestly? He was.

When he finally reached you and Agatha, he stopped just short of bumping into your legs and looked up at you both like he was handing over the crown jewels. “Here you go!” he whispered, a little too loud, his voice filled with giddy urgency. “Don’t drop them!”

You let out a teary laugh, pressing your lips together to keep it in as Agatha crouched down to his level. She cupped his cheek and kissed him softly, her voice low and warm. “Thank you, baby.”

He beamed at the praise and turned quickly, scurrying back to the front row, where Alice and Jen reached out to squeeze his shoulders and whisper something that made him puff up even more. He sat between them, practically bouncing with glee, like he’d just secured the future of the entire planet with that one moment.

You turned back to Agatha. And as you took the rings from the velvet cushion, your fingers brushed the band meant to replace your own.

That’s when you saw it. It was subtle—delicate—but undeniably intentional. Two stones gleamed softly beneath the light. One shimmered a pale, stormy blue—the exact hue of Agatha’s eyes when she was just about to cry, or when she looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

The other stone—a soft, unmistakable green. Nicholas’ green. The same one that lit up every time he laughed or told you he loved you without needing a reason. Your breath hitched.

Agatha didn’t say anything at first. She simply smiled—gentle and open and a little shaky. Her own eyes were still glassy, rimmed with unshed tears that clung to her lashes like the final fragments of every storm she’d ever survived.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. So instead, with your fingers trembling and your heart in your throat, you let her slide the ring onto your finger slowly, reverently—as if placing something sacred exactly where it belonged.

You took her hand in return, lifting her ring and guiding it into place with the same level of care. There was no rush. No hurry. Just a silent, soul-deep promise, You. Always you.

The officiant’s voice rose one final time, though it felt like the rest of the world had melted away. “I now pronounce you married. You may kiss your bride.”

You didn’t hesitate, not for a second. You surged forward, both hands lifting to cradle her face. She gasped, surprised only by the force of the emotion, not the action itself but because she knew it was coming. She felt it in your hands. In the way you touched her like something precious. Permanent.

And then you kissed her, not a soft brush of lips. Not a polite ceremony kiss. But a kiss that trembled with the weight of every moment that had led you here. A kiss that tasted of vows and salt and every quiet morning you’d ever get to wake up beside her. A kiss that curled through your spine and held you together with the strength of someone who had survived hell and finally made it to heaven.

Her hands gripped your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your suit like she needed something to hold onto. The room erupted around you—cheers, applause, whoops of joy—but none of it touched you.

Because in that moment, there was only her.

Her lips.

Her breath.

Her hands and the warmth of her body pulling you closer. And when you finally, slowly broke the kiss, your foreheads touched—your eyes still closed, your hands still locked around her cheeks. Her voice was barely a breath.

“You’re all mine now.” You opened your eyes, smiled softly.

“I always was.” The guests rose to their feet behind you, a sea of beaming smiles and blurred lights. But all you could see was her. And in that moment—wrapped in her arms, your ring still warm on your finger, her breath still mingling with yours, Everything clicked into place.

[masorciereviolette]

You Can Find Me In The Space Between 1

Pairing: AU Agatha Harkness x Reader, Past Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

Warnings: Soft Domestic Themes, Fluff, Vulnerable Reader, Reassurance, Slight Angst, Comfort, Soft Agatha, Jealous Rio, Possessive Agatha, Defensive Agatha, Happy Endings.

Word count: 15.8k

Summary: Agatha Harkness has finally found happiness again. As a powerhouse district attorney in New York City, she's built a life she's incredibly proud of-with a woman she loves deeply. You, a sharp and intuitive NYPD detective, have become her home, her solace. But loving Agatha means accepting that parts of her past will always linger, and one part in particular comes with piercing dark eyes and a smirk that still holds too much power.

Rio Vidal-high-end art dealer, Agatha's ex-wife, and the mother of their six-year-old son, Nicholas. Rio's presence is constant & unavoidable. She and Agatha share a child, a history, a familiarity that you can never touch. And as you watched the perfect little family interact-Agatha brushing a wave from Nicholas' forehead, Rio laughing at an inside joke from years before-doubt begins to takes root. No matter how much you love her, will you ever truly belong?

A/N: Ngl rio is kinda a raging bitch in this one so i honestly understand if it’s not your cup of tea. Everyone’s got reading preferences. These are just ONE of mine—✋🏽😭 Ts is unreasonably long, so it stretches over several days. My apologies I fr got carried away. I’ll warn you now there is a some light pov switching but not too bad. (More note at the end to avoid spoilers) The Next Part Here

Taglist: @ambessas-doll @milflovers4 @graceful-witch07

There were rare moments in life when everything felt still—when the weight of the world, the noise of the city, and the unrelenting press of time all seemed to pause.This much to your appreciation, was one of them.

The world outside continued its relentless churn—sirens echoing in the distance, the muffled thrum of life pressing against the city walls—but in here, in the quiet hum of your shared space, time stretched into something languid and unhurried.

You’re currently stretched out on the couch resting your head against Agatha’s chest, your legs tangled together under the blanket. The TV flickered in the dimly lit apartment, but neither of you were truly paying attention to the out dated comedy drama playing on the screen.

Agatha’s fingers danced absently along the length of your arm, drawing lazy circles that sent tendrils of warmth skittering beneath your skin. Her other hand rested low on your hip, fingers curled just enough to remind you she was there. The slow, even rhythm of her breathing against the crown of your head was as familiar as the city skyline beyond the window, a steady presence in a life that had once felt anything but.

“You falling asleep on me?” you murmured, your lips curving as you felt her chin still on top of your head.

A soft, almost reluctant hum came from her chest. “Mmhmm. But in my defense, I’ve had a long day and a bottle of wine.”

“You’ve had two glasses” you corrected pulling back to tilt your head up slightly. Catching the ghost of a smirk playing at her lips.

Agatha arched a lazy brow, her fingers pausing against your arm to give a light pinch. “Are you calling me a lightweight?” There was mock offense in her voice, but the way her lips brushed softly against your hairline betrayed the teasing lilt beneath it.

You chuckled, shifting just enough to tighten your hold around her. “Oh counselor, I would never.” You teased softly. The truth was, Agatha Harkness was not a lightweight in any sense of the word. She moved through life with an unshakable confidence, commanding it and any courtroom unlucky enough with the same precision she used to navigate the tangled mess of your heart.

There was a sharpness to her, an edge honed by years of experience, yet here—away from the ruthless battles of the legal world, away from the weight of expectation—she was softer. Still sharp, still quick-witted, but warm in a way that felt like something only you were allowed to see.

A rare, well-kept secret.

She exhaled against you, her fingers brushing your shoulder as she pressed another soft, absentminded kiss to your head. “Y’know” she mused, voice thick with teasing. “The more I think about it, I’m pretty sure you were the one who fell for me first….”

You scoffed, twisting slightly to look up at her. The amusement in her eyes was unmistakable, dancing like the flicker of the TV’s light. “Oh, please. You were looking at me like I was the answer to a question you didn’t even know you were asking—”

Agatha smirked, tilting her head. “Detective, if I recall correctly, you were standing over a mutilated body when we first met.”

You grinned, settling back against her chest. “Precisely.” She let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “I did think you were quite the pain in the ass.”

“Incorrect, you were the one getting in my way,” you shot back, your fingers tracing over her arm in slow, deliberate strokes. “Always looming, always arguing with me in those ridiculously— distracting high heels.”

Agatha chuckled softly. “I was just doing my job.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?” You arched a brow, shifting to the side slightly, wedging your body between her own and the cushions, allowing you to face her now more comfortably. You kept your leg slotted between her own, enjoying the close contact. “It honestly felt like you were trying to bully me into letting you do whatever you wanted.”

Her fingers tightened around your hip, a pleased, knowing smile curling her lips. “And yet, here you are, tangled up with me on my couch.” She tilted her head down, brushing a slow, lazy kiss against your jaw. “Guess my tactics worked.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. “You’re so insufferable.” you muttered softly.

“And you’re so in love with me” she countered, her voice impossibly smooth as she dragged the words over your skin. Your breath hitched slightly—not much, but just enough for her to catch. Agatha, ever observant, pulled back just enough to study your face, her smirk softening into something more genuine, something that made your heart ache in the best way.

“Seriously,” she murmured, her thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone, slow and unhurried. “I think about it sometimes—how we got here. You and me.”

You swallowed, bringing you hand up, fingers threading through her own. “You mean how we went from arguing over an active crime scene to you hijacking all the blankets every night?”

“Exactly.” Her lips quirked at the corner. “I like this ending much better.”

You exhaled, letting your forehead press up against hers. “Me too.” Her grip on you tightened momentarily, as if she could press the moment further into permanence. There was something in her touch that felt like gratitude, like a quiet acknowledgment of the long road that had led you here. You settled back into her chest, nuzzling your cheek into her sweater.

The case on which you both had first met was high profile—a gruesome homicide that sent shockwaves through the city. You had been the lead detective assigned to the case, and Agatha had been the assigned ADA. Your first encounter had been a clash of sharp minds and sharper tongues. Your captain damn near had to separate the both of you within the first fifteen minutes, neither party would stop bickering like petulant children.

She had accused you of overstepping; you had accused her of being a bureaucratic nightmare, too clinical in a case that demanded something more human. She had scoffed at your bleeding heart sentimentality, you had bristled at her bold arrogance.

But somewhere between the heated debates and the begrudging late-night case reviews, something had shifted. Somewhere in the wreckage of your stubbornness and hers, the lines had blurred. And now, here you were. Curled up against her, wrapped in the warmth of something that had once felt absolutely impossible. The weight of the day melted away beneath her touch, the steady rise and fall of her breath settling against you like a quiet reassurance.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your the top of your hair. “That usually means you’re thinking too much.”

You huffed out a laugh, giving her waist a squeeze. “Just appreciating the moment.”

Agatha hummed, content. “Well, for the record, I like this moment too.” Her voice was softer now, laced with something private, something only for you. Her hand slipped up underneath the back of your shirt, fingertips skating slowly along your spine, drawing lazy patterns that sent a shiver up your back. The way she touched you wasn’t idle—it never was. It was intentional, a reassurance wrapped in the weight of her presence.

You smiled against her touch, allowing yourself to sink further into her warmth, into the rare stillness of this place, of this moment. Outside, the city continued its ceaseless march, cars moving in a constant rhythm, lights flashing, voices blending into an indistinct hum. But inside, in the quiet bubble of your apartment, wrapped in her arms, the world felt smaller, Softer.

It was then that the phone rang. Agatha groaned, an exaggerated, disgruntled sound, letting her head drop back against the couch with theatrical flair. “No. No, I refuse.”

You smirked, shifting slightly off of her to grab both of your cell phones from the coffee table, your fingers brushing against hers as you passed over her device. “It’s not me love.”

Her shoulders, once lax and at ease, stiffened the second she glanced at her screen. The shift was instantaneous, the moment shattered before it could fully settle. The small smile that had been on her lips moments ago disappeared, and in its place, the familiar lines of tension pulled at her features. You didn’t have to ask—you already knew who it was.

You hesitated, already starting to move off of her, intending to give her privacy. But before you could completely move away, an arm slipped around your waist tightening its hold, keeping you anchored down, a silent refusal.

Agatha exhaled sharply, closing her eyes for a fraction of a second before swiping her thumb across the screen. “Rio” she said, her voice carrying that sharp edge it always did when she spoke to her ex-wife. A pause. You couldn’t make out the words on the other end, but the tone was enough—low, measured, insistent. Agatha’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the smooth expanse of her skin.

“Are you serious?” she hissed, her grip tightening on the phone. “First It’s my weekend, Second we got him settled less than half an hour ago. I agreed to—”Another pause. The muffled response was firm, unwavering. You could practically hear the smirk in Rio’s voice without having to make out the words.

Agatha rolled her eyes, dropping her head back dramatically against the arm of the couch. The exhaustion, the weight she carried so carefully beneath layers of dry wit and stubborn resilience, slipped through the cracks. You saw it, the way her posture stiffened, the way her fingers curled tighter around the device “Fine,” she bit out. “Give us fifteen minutes.”

She hung up with a sharp press of her thumb, the silence between you stretching taut as she tossed the phone aside, flexing her fingers as though shaking off the remnants of the conversation.

You knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth. “Let me guess,” you murmured, keeping your tone carefully even. “Rio needs something.” She didn’t answer immediately, but her silence was all the confirmation you needed.

You swallowed, shifting slightly, the familiar, unwelcome knot beginning to form in your stomach. You hated feeling this way, it felt juvenile. The way it always seemed to happen like this—your peace interrupted, stolen by the one person who seemed to know exactly how to wedge herself between you and Agatha, sometimes you swore she was doing this on purpose….“What is it?”

Agatha flexed her hand against your hip, fingers pressing absently into your skin as though grounding herself. “She’s leaving for an auction down state early tomorrow morning and will be gone for the week. She wants to stop by and say goodbye to Nicholas before she goes.”

The weight in your chest pressed heavier, sinking deep. You had always known that being with Agatha meant accepting that part of her life, that Rio would always be there, woven into the very fabric of it. You had told yourself over and over again that it didn’t bother you, that it didn’t matter. But knowing it and feeling it were two very different things. Your grip on the blanket tightened slightly. “Its kind of late, you’re just going to let her—”

“She’s his mother.” Agatha cut in, voice tight.

The finality in her tone made you flinch, and you hated yourself for it. Of course she was. You had no claim there, not really. For all that you and Agatha had built together, for all the love that existed between you, Nicholas was theirs. A bond you couldn’t touch. And Rio? She was a reminder that no matter how much you loved Agatha, no matter how much she loved you, there would always be a space between you. One you weren’t sure you could ever properly fill.

Agatha must have noticed the way your expression shifted, the way your fingers curled just slightly tighter into the fabric of the thick blanket, because her body softened beneath you. She reached for your hand, prying it free with gentle insistence before threading her fingers through yours.

“Hey,” she murmured, coaxing your gaze back to her. “I know what you’re thinking, and you need to stop.”

You tried to force a smile. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.” Her lips quirked, though there was something sad in it. “Liar.”

You swallowed hard, looking away. “I just… sometimes I don’t know if I’ll ever fit.” The words felt fragile, vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to. You didn’t like it.

Agatha sighed then, shifting your body so that she could cup your face between her hands. Her thumbs brushed absently along your cheekbones, her touch grounding. “You do” she said softly, pressing her forehead to yours. “You do, sweetheart. I promise you do.”

You exhaled slowly, closing your eyes for a moment, letting yourself lean into her warmth. Agatha wasn’t one for soft reassurances, not in words, but in this—her touch, her presence, the way she held you like you were something precious—you knew she meant it.

“I don’t want to be the outsider in my own life” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to wonder if I’ll ever truly belong here… or if you’ll ever truly belong to me—”

Agatha tilted her head, her lips ghosting the corner of your mouth. “You’re not an outsider. You never have been.”

You huffed, skeptical. “She—”

“Is just Rio,” Agatha interrupted, her tone firm but without malice. “And Nicholas—he’s ours. All of ours, do you hear me?” She pulled back enough to look you in the eye, her expression steady, unwavering. “You are not temporary. You are not some place filler. I chose you, and I will keep choosing you.” Your throat tightened, your mind grasping onto her words like a lifeline.

Agatha’s voice softened then, a rare kind of tenderness threading through it. “I know it’s not easy. I know she gets under your skin, makes you doubt. And I know I don’t always say things the way I should. But listen to me—this?” She gestured between the two of you, her hands moving from your face to rest over your heart. “This is real. You and me, we built something, something no one else can touch. Not her, not the past. You are mine, just as much as I am yours. I need you to believe that.”

Something inside you cracked at her words, the weight of your insecurities momentarily lifting under the certainty in her voice. She never just said things to make you feel better—Agatha Harkness was many things, but sentimental for sentimentality’s sake wasn’t one of them. If she said it, she meant it. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater as you whispered “Then make me believe it.”

Her breath hitched, her hand tightening ever so slightly on your face. And then, slowly, deliberately, she leaned in, pressing her lips firmly to your own. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was warm, lingering, filled with unspoken things neither of you had found the words for. She kissed you like she was sealing a promise, like she was anchoring you to this moment, to her.

When she finally pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours again, her voice quiet but certain. “You fit, my love,” she murmured. “You always have, And you always will.”

Her hands slipped down your arms, squeezing gently as she added, “So I’ll say it as many times as it takes. Every day, if I have to. I’ll carve it into the damn sky if that’s what you need.” Her lips brushed your temple, lingering. “You are not replaceable. You are not something I could ever grow tired of. You belong here—with me, with him, with us.”

A lump formed in your throat, your chest aching in the best and worst way. Agatha had never been one for grand declarations, but this—this was a promise written in her every touch, her every breath. Your fingers tightened in the fabric of her sweater, as if holding onto her securely could somehow make the feeling last longer. The warmth of her breath ghosted against your skin, the scent of her—something dark, something familiar—grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I hate that you know exactly what to say” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady.

Agatha huffed a small laugh, her fingers tracing a slow path down your arms before settling at your waist. “I don’t always,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “But when it comes to you, I really try.”

Your chest ached at that, the weight of her words curling around your ribs, making it hard to breathe. She wasn’t perfect—God, she wasn’t perfect, but neither were you. And maybe, maybe that was okay.

Your fingers released their hold trailing up, tracing the line of her jaw, your thumb brushing over the curve of her bottom lip. She was watching you—watching the way your breath hitched, the way your pulse betrayed you beneath her touch. Agatha’s hands tightened on your waist, drawing you closer until there was little space left between you. “You don’t have to try so hard…just stay” you had whispered

Something flickered in her eyes then, something deep and unreadable. And yet, there was no hesitation when she replied, “I’m right here.”When she looked at you like this—like you were something sacred, something only she had the right to hold—the rest of the world blurred into irrelevance. Her lips found yours again, but this time, there was something different in it.

Something sharper, something that tasted like possession. She kissed you like she needed to remind you, like she needed to make sure you felt every word she had just said. You were hers. Just as much as she was yours.

Your hands slid back, fingers wrapping around the back of her neck as she deepened the kiss, her tongue slipping past your lips caressing your own languidly. Her hands roamed—up your back, down your sides, fingers pressing in like she needed to feel every inch of you, needed to make sure you understood. This was real.

Slipping one hand up your back, her fingers tangling in your hair, body pressing firmly against your own. A whine escaped your throat, something soft, something surrendering, and Agatha swallowed it greedily.

As Agatha’s lips moved against yours with a slow, possessive hunger, her grip tightening to keep you close. The weight of you settled against her, legs tangled and bodies pressed together so there was no space left between you, only warmth and the rapid beat of your hearts. And then like clockwork—Theres a rapid knock at the door.

Agatha froze beneath you, her fingers still buried in your hair, her breath coming just a little heavier than before. Another knock followed, more insistent this time, breaking through the haze of the moment like a cruel interruption. You groaned against her lips, your forehead dropping to her shoulder in exasperation. “Of fucking course.”

Agatha’s grip on you didn’t loosen. “I might actually set something on fire.” she muttered, voice low and full of irritation

You huffed out a quiet laugh, nuzzling against her neck for just a moment longer before reluctantly pulling back enough to meet her gaze. “Tempting, but I think Nicky would be very disappointed if you burned our home down.”

Agatha exhaled sharply through her nose, her hand moving lower down to your hip, fingers flexing like she wasn’t quite ready to let go. “He’d get over it.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against hers before pressing the softest kiss to her jaw. “Agatha” you drawled.

She tilted her head back with a huff , clearly not pleased about any of this. “What.”

“We can finish this later.” Your voice was a quiet promise, your hand slipping down to rest over hers. “I swear it.”

She studied you, her sharp blue eyes searching yours like she needed to be certain you weren’t just saying it to placate her. After a long moment, she let out a dramatic sigh, fully dropping her hands back against the cushions stubbornly. “You better mean that.”

You smirked. Leaning in to nip lightly at her bottom lip before finally sitting up, resting a hand on top of the back of the couch, still straddling her thigh. “Oh I mean it.” You purred, adding a teasingly roll of your hips hoping to incentivize her, which really on your part was dumb a mistake.

Her hands immediately snapped back into position, tightened on your hips as she raised her leg quickly, pressing it firmly between your own. Slowly she grinds you down against her flexed muscle, a firm but deliberate motion, guiding your hips.

Your breath hitched softly as your hands scrambled to her shoulders, fingers digging in roughly to ground yourself. The friction between her thigh and your leggings rubbing achingly slow across your already sensitive core was providing was absolutely delicious feeling. You could slowly feel your resolve slipping, maybe you could pretend you both fell asleep and she would just disappear.

Agatha smirked at you triumphantly voice dropping to a seductive purr “We could always just-“ she began to whisper when another knock, sharper and louder this time rang through the apartment cutting her off mid sentence. Agatha groaned ceasing her guided movements of your hips, throwing a glare towards the door.

You sighed, with a quick kiss to her cheek you pushed yourself off of her with no small amount of reluctance, shifting to sit on the cushion beside her “Let’s just be civil, this shouldn’t be long” You muttered softly.

Agatha sighed beside you, rubbing a hand over her face before sitting up. “No promises. Another knock on the door came louder than necessary. You had expected Rio to show up with the effortless ease of someone who belonged, but there was something almost pointed in the way she knocked—as if she was already staking her claim before even stepping inside.

You straightened up properly, smoothing down the wrinkles in your shirt. Agatha huffed pushing herself up from the couch before dragging her feet to the door. It swung open, revealing Rio Vidal in all her effortlessly put-together glory.

Dressed in a tailored black coat and knee-high boots. Her dark shoulder length hair was swept back, accentuating sharp cheekbones and the ever-present smirk tugging at her lips. “Well,” she drawled, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Don’t you two just look cozy.” Your spine stiffened.

Agatha didn’t waver. “Was this necessary, Rio?”

Rio hummed, casually undoing the buttons of her coat as she surveyed the space with an air of practiced indifference. “Saying goodnight to my son? Which, by the way, I did text about. Yes. So please, let’s not act surprised.”

Agatha’s lips pressed together. “He’s asleep by now.”

“And whose fault is that?” Rio countered smoothly, dark eyes flickering past Agatha—toward you. “You could have let me come earlier, but I understand. Timing is everything.”

Her gaze swept over you with the kind of casual assessment that wasn’t outright dismissive but carried just enough weight to make itself known. A subtle pressure applied without force—enough to see if you’d flinch. You didn’t. Agatha, however, stepped in before anything could settle. “You don’t get to do this and then act like the wronged party.”

Rio’s lips twitched, almost amused, before she tilted her head slightly. “I didn’t say I was wronged. Just that I could’ve come earlier, before it was so crowded. Maybe I should have insisted.”

Agatha scoffed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. “Oh, please.”

Rio’s smirk widened as she unbuttoned her coat further, as if making herself comfortable, even in the face of Agatha’s barely concealed anger. “Well, I do try to be polite when it suits me.” Her gaze flickered toward you again, as if the statement was meant for you as much as it was for Agatha.

Agatha’s jaw tightened. “And yet, here you are, proving otherwise.”

Rio exhaled a soft, knowing chuckle, unbothered by the venom in Agatha’s voice. “Oh, Aggie always so dramatic.” She finally turned her full attention back to Agatha, tilting her head in faux consideration.

“You can drop the act, you know. I’m not here to steal your time. I just wanted to check on Nicky.” There was something deliberate in the way she spoke, like every word was placed exactly where it needed to be, not a single one wasted.

Agatha let out a slow, measured breath. “You’re going to say goodnight to Nicholas, and then you’re going to leave. If you’re looking to stir something up, do it somewhere else.”

Rio sighed, shaking her head as if Agatha were being unreasonable. “You always think the worst of me.”

Agatha’s arms crossed. “Because I unfortunately know you.”

There was a pause before Rio’s gaze flickered back to you, her expression unreadable. “I imagine that must take patience.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”

Rio offered a small, easy smile. “Just that she’s always been… particular. About everything.” She gestured loosely toward Agatha. “That kind of intensity can be overwhelming in the long run, if you’re not used to it.” There was nothing outwardly cruel about the words, nothing sharp or direct. But they lingered just long enough for you to feel them.

Agatha exhaled through her nose, irritation creeping into her expression. “That’s enough.”

Rio lifted her hands in mock surrender, all charm and ease. “No offense meant. Just an observation.” The smirk didn’t fade, but there was something satisfied in the way her eyes flickered over Agatha’s stance, like she had gotten exactly what she wanted. A reaction. A tell.

Agatha shifted, stepping in front of you slightly—not quite blocking, but just enough that the intent was clear. The movement was subtle, instinctual, protective. “I’m not repeating myself,” Agatha said, her voice steady, low. “Go.”

Rio exhaled through her nose, shaking her head in a way that almost looked amused. “You really are no fun anymore.” Agatha’s expression didn’t change. A beat of silence. A stare-down.

Something passed between them, something quiet and unspoken, built on history, on a language neither of them had to speak aloud. You hated it. Then finally, Rio let out a small, almost wistful sigh before tilting her head toward the hallway. “Fine. I’ll be quick.” She peeled her coat off her shoulders, tossing it onto the chair before disappeared down the hall, leaving you and Agatha alone in the tension-choked living room.

Silence. The kind that lingers too long, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on your ribs. You exhaled slowly, trying to will the tightness in your chest away, but it clung to you. Agatha was already looking at you, Her face softened. “You okay?”

You forced a bitter smirk, leaning back against the couch. “Oh, sure. Love feeling like an afterthought in my own home.”

Agatha sighed and closed the distance between you. She sat beside you, reaching for your hand—but you hesitated. Just a second too long. Her fingers hovered, then curled into her palm before she let them rest on her lap instead. Her lips pressed together. “Don’t do that.”

You swallowed. “Do what?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Push me away.”

You almost laughed, Almost. Because it wasn’t her you were pushing away. It was the gnawing, relentless feeling in your gut—the whisper of doubt that refused to be silenced. The part of you that constantly screamed you don’t belong here, a voice that conveniently sounded like rio….But she wouldn’t understand that. Not fully. You sighed and shook your head. “I just—” You stopped, words catching in your throat. Agatha waited. She was always good at waiting for you. Finally, you whispered dejectedly “She fits Agatha.”

Agatha let out a breath, her expression shifting—not frustration, not anger, just something softer. Something sad. She reached for you again, slower this time, like she was giving you a choice. When you didn’t pull away, her fingers found yours, squeezing lightly. “You honestly think love is about fitting perfectly into each other’s lives?” Her voice was quiet, steady. “You think that’s what that was?”

You hesitated. “I—”

She shook her head softly cutting you off. “No. It’s about choosing. Every day. Through the easy parts and the hard ones. Through the doubts and the arguments.”

Your throat tightened. “I know. But what if—”

She didn’t let you finish. Agatha shifted closer, her free hand moving to cup your cheek, her touch grounding. “No. Not ‘what if.’ Not with us.”

Your breath caught. “But she—”

“Is not you.” Her voice was firm. “I need you to hear me when I say this. She could be a thousand unsavory things, but she’s not you. And I—” She swallowed, voice dipping into something quieter, almost vulnerable. “I don’t want a version of this that doesn’t have you in it.”

You blinked, startled by the intensity of her words. Her fingers brushed against your jaw, thumb tracing soft, slow circles. “I love you” A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. “And frankly, you piss me off sometimes. But I still love you.”

That startled a weak chuckle from you, and she took the opportunity—leaning in, her nose brushing yours before her lips met yours in a kiss. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was soft. Intentional. A reassurance pressed into you, meant to settle the storm in your chest. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours. “I really need you to believe me.”

Your fingers curled around hers, holding tight.

“I’m trying, I promise.” She was watching you so intently, eyes searching yours, waiting for you to believe her words. To believe that her love was enough. But before either of you could break the quiet, Rio’s voice cut through the air.

“Well,” she mused, her tone smooth as ever. “Wasn’t that sweet.” You tensed as Rio strolled back into the living room, moving like she owned the place, like she had the right to comment on whatever she’d just walked in on. Her gaze flicked lazily between you and Agatha, lips curling at the corners, like she’d found something amusing.

Agatha, to her credit, didn’t so much as flinch. “Is he back asleep?”

“Of course,” Rio said, slipping her coat back on. “Not that I expected anything less. He’s always an angel with me.”

Agatha’s brow twitched, but she let it go. “Then you can leave now.”

Rio’s smirk deepened. “Why must you always be so eager to kick me out?” The air between them was sharp, carrying an old familiar ease that came from years of knowing someone too well. It made your stomach turn. Rio’s presence had a way of settling over the room like smoke, curling into spaces it didn’t belong, clinging to the air. Maybe that was what Rio found so amusing—the fact that you were standing here, trying to carve a place for yourself in a life that had already been lived, lived in by her.

Her gaze slid to you, sharp and assessing, flickering over you like she was trying to place you in the picture she had of Agatha’s life. Her smirk widened though it seemed angrily “So, how long have you two been—playing house?”

You clenched your jaw, pulse kicking up. “Not that it’s any of your business, but long enough.”

Rio’s brows lifted, feigning innocence. “Oh? Long enough for what?”

“Long enough to know I’m not going anywhere” you said evenly, holding her gaze. For the briefest second, something passed through Rio’s expression—something quick and sharp, like a crack in an otherwise flawless mask. But then, just as easily, it was gone. She chuckled, shaking her head. “Alright, Detective. I’ll give you that one.”

You didn’t know what irritated you more—the way she said it, like this was a game, or the fact that Agatha obviously hadn’t told her you were officially living here yet, Had she deemed it not worth mentioning? Despite everything, Rio assumed you were still just a visitor in the space, And that realization settles in your chest like lead.

Agatha shifted closer to you, her fingers curling tightly into yours—not for show, not to prove anything to Rio, but because she wanted to. For you. Rio’s gaze flickered downward, noticing the gesture. “You really do like making things permanent, don’t you Aggie?”

Agatha’s grip tightened sharply around your hand. “Don’t push it.”

Rio raised her hands in mock surrender, but her smirk remained. “Relax. I’m just making conversation.” She adjusted her coat, taking a step back toward the door. “But since you both seem to be getting so comfortable, I suppose I should get going.”

Rio’s smirk lingered as she turned sauntering away, reaching for the door handle. Just as she was halfway out, she turned over her shoulder. “By the way” she mused, eyes flickering toward Agatha, “Nicholas asked about our wedding today. Thought you might want to know.”

Agatha barely reacted. If anything, there was the faintest arch of her brow, as if the comment was dull, hardly worth addressing. “And?”

That single word was sharp. Indifferent. Rio’s smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second. “Just thought it was interesting” she said, tone still light but missing its usual bite.

You leaned into Agatha slightly, letting the warmth of her presence settle against yours. “Kids are curious” you said easily, flashing Rio a small smile. “But I wouldn’t overthink it too much.”

Rio’s jaw tightened just barely, but she smoothed it over so quickly that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did, Agatha did, And that made victory so much sweeter. Rio adjusted her coat, giving you both one last unreadable look before exhaling. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to whatever this is.”

Agatha’s lips curled, just slightly. “Yes. You should.” Rio didn’t rise to it. Didn’t let anything crack. But as she stepped outside and shut the door behind her, there was no doubt—it had gotten under her skin. And that? That felt really damn good.

As the door shut with a satisfying finality, you exhaled, letting your head fall back against the couch. Agatha’s presence beside you was a solid warmth, something steady after the whirlwind that was Rio Vidal. Agatha stretched her arms over her head with a dramatic sigh before settling back into the couch, tilting her head to regard you with a lazy smirk. “Well, that was exhausting,” she drawled, shifting so she could lay back against the cushions, making herself comfortable. “You should come over here and comfort me.”

You scoffed, pushing yourself up to sit straighter. “Excuse me?”

She hummed, opening her arms invitingly. “Come on, darling. It’s been a long night. Let’s not pretend we don’t both want to curl up and pretend we don’t exist for a while.”

You eyed her, unimpressed. “You’re awfully demanding for someone who just had their ass verbally handed to them.”

Agatha rolled her eyes. “That was not an ass-handing. That was a minor inconvenience.” She reached for you then, tugging at the sleeve of your shirt with a small pout. “Come on. Just lay down.”

You didn’t budge. “Why didn’t you tell Rio that I was living here now?” Agatha stilled, fingers curling slightly where they still rested against your sleeve. You watched as her eyes flickered away for a moment, her lips pressing together in something unreadable before she sighed, pulling her hand back.

She let out an exaggerated sigh, tipping her head back against the cushions before glancing at you with a look that was equal parts tired and exasperated. “Because I didn’t feel like dealing with her shit” she said flatly. “You’ve seen her—she’d either turn it into a melodramatic soap opera or make some passive-aggressive dig about how tragic it is that we ended up here. Frankly, I wasn’t in the mood for either.”

You gave her a long, unimpressed stare. “So you just… didn’t tell her?”

She scoffed. “What, was I supposed to send out a formal announcement? ‘Dear Ex-Wife just a heads-up, y/n is residing here for the foreseeable future. So please, feel free to drop by and ruin my day at your earliest convenience’?” She waved a hand, sarcasm dripping from her words. “No, thank you.”

You folded your arms, still watching her, waiting for more. And Agatha—Agatha always noticed when you were waiting. She exhaled, letting her head roll back to the side to look at you, something in her gaze a little less flippant now. “Look,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face, “I didn’t want her showing up here, sniffing around, trying to get a read on things. On me, on us…on you.” She paused, her voice dropping just slightly. “She’s already got enough power in my life. I wasn’t about to hand her more.”

That landed. You didn’t say anything right away, just watching the way she now stared at some indiscernible spot on the ceiling like she was regretting saying anything at all. It was rare that Agatha admitted when something unsettled her—when someone unsettled her. You let out a slow breath. “Fair enough,” you murmured.

Agatha perked up immediately, reaching toward you with a triumphant grin as she opened her arms once more. “Excellent. Now, are you going to stop being stubborn and come here, or do I have to start fake-sobbing about how heartless you are?”

You scoffed but didn’t fight her this time as you shifted down, letting her pull you down into her arms. “You are exhausting.”

She hummed, her fingers lightly tracing along your arm as she smirked against your hair. “And yet, you’re still here.” She hummed pressing a soft kiss to your temple as you settled against her.

——————————

The first thing you registered was warmth. Not just the kind from the thick blanket draped over you, but the kind that seeped into your skin—the steady, familiar heat of Agatha pressed against you. Your eyes fluttered open, the dim glow of morning light filtering through the living room curtains. It took a second to orient yourself, to push through the grogginess clinging to your mind.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep out here. The last thing you remembered was curling up with Agatha on the couch, her arms wrapped around you as some old sitcom was playing on the TV. You must have drifted off somewhere between her teasing commentary and the soothing cadence of her voice.

Now, she was still asleep behind you, her breath warm against the back of your neck, her arm draped over your waist as if even in sleep, she refused to let go. The apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of steady breathing, the gentle rise and fall of Agatha’s chest against your back. Your legs were tangled together beneath the blanket, the soft scent of her lingering in the space between you.

You were warm. Safe. Home. For a moment, you let yourself sink into it. And then—Tiny hands gripped your shoulders, shaking you with all the strength of a six-year-old on a mission. “Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

You let out a groggy hum, barely opening your eyes before being met with a pair of bright, mischievous ones staring back at you. Nicholas. You blinked at him, voice still thick with sleep. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Pancakes,” he declared confidently. “I want pancakes.” You chuckled, rubbing your eyes. “What, no ‘good morning’ first?”

Nicholas sighed dramatically. “Good morning, my favorite person in the world,” he amended, flashing you a cheeky smile. “Now please make me pancakes.”

You feigned consideration, glancing over your shoulder toward Agatha. She was still asleep, her face relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. Carefully and with much skill, you slipped from her grasp without waking her—one you had perfected over the months of sleeping beside a woman who endearingly clung to you like a damn octopus in her sleep.

“Alright, my little prince,” you whispered conspiratorially, ruffling Nicholas’s hair. “Let’s go make some pancakes.” His face lit up, and in that moment, you felt nothing but pure love.

Once In the kitchen, You lifted Nicholas placing him on the counter beside you, little feet swinging as he stirred the batter with exaggerated focus. You kept a steadying hand on the bowl, watching as his tiny hands worked the oversized spoon. “You’re getting better at this,” you mused, nudging him lightly.

“I am,” he agreed, brows furrowed in concentration. “I think I’m like a chef now.”

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely. A pancake master, even.” Nicholas beamed, clearly pleased with himself, before turning his attention back to the batter. The two of you worked in perfect rhythm—you pouring, him stirring, you flipping, him counting down the seconds until the pancakes were golden brown.

And in the midst of it all, you felt a pair of eyes on you. You glanced over your shoulder. Agatha stood in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame as she watched the two of you. Something in her gaze made your stomach flip—something soft, something unreadable. But before you could ask, before you could decipher what was behind those alluring blue eyes, she blinked, shaking off whatever thought had rooted her in place. Her lips curled into a smirk. “You’ve traded my expertise for my own sons, I see.”

Nicholas grinned. “Yup!”

You laughed, flipping another pancake onto the growing stack. “To be fair, he’s a better sous chef than you.”

Agatha scoffed, pushing off the doorframe and making her way toward you. “Excuse me? I am exceptional at breakfast-related endeavors.”

Nicholas giggled. “No mom, you’re really not.”

“Utter betrayal—” Agatha muttered, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest.

You smirked, handing her a plate. “You gonna eat, or are you just here to make unnecessary commentary?” Agatha took the plate but didn’t immediately move to grab a pancake. Instead, she hesitated—just for a moment before her gaze settled on you again. That same look. That same unreadable expression. You tilted your head quizzically. “What?”

Agatha blinked, as if snapping out of it. “Nothing,” she said smoothly, rolling her shoulders back. “Just thinking.”

You didn’t push, But you noticed. As the day stretched on, the three of you moved through it in an easy rhythm. Nicholas, ever the ball of boundless energy, insisted on playing outside after breakfast, and you indulged him, bundling him up in his coat before stepping out into the crisp air.

Agatha lingered just inside the window, sipping her coffee as she watched you chase Nicholas across the small playground. He shrieked with laughter when you finally caught him, scooping him up and spinning him around in the air before depositing him back onto the ground. He stumbled, dizzy but delighted, and immediately started plotting his next escape.

You turned your head up just in time to catch Agatha watching again. It had become a pattern throughout the morning so far—the glances, the long stares, the way she’d snap out of it whenever you caught her. You wanted to push, to ask, but every time you did, she would smirk, shrug or simply say nothing. This time a small smile before retreating from the windowsill, and away from view.

Lunch was a casual affair—grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, something simple that Nicholas could still help with. He sat on the counter again, happily buttering the bread (with far too much enthusiasm), while you grilled the sandwiches on the stove. Agatha leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, observing.

You sighed, looking at her over your shoulder. “Are you going to help or just stand there and make me nervous?”

Agatha smirked. “Oh, I don’t need to help. You’re doing such a wonderful job.”

Nicholas nodded sagely. “The best grilled cheese maker.”

You hummed, flipping a sandwich. “At least someone here appreciates my talents.”

Agatha chuckled but didn’t stop watching. That same thoughtful look flickered across her face again, but just as quickly, she masked it. You let it slide, For now.

The day carried on, filled with small, quiet moments of domesticity. Nicholas played, you and Agatha cleaned up, and the three of you spent the afternoon sprawled on the couch watching some animated movie that Nicholas insisted was the best thing ever.

At some point before the film even ended, Nicholas had curled up against Agatha, drifting into a light nap. You stole glances at them as Agatha absentmindedly smoothed a hand over his wild waves, fingers light and gentle. The sight did something strange to your chest, but you pushed it down, unwilling to linger on the feeling. Instead, you stood, stretching. “Dinner?”

Agatha arched a brow, her hand still resting against Nicholas’ hair. “Feeling ambitious?”

“Always.”

She smirked softly shifting Nicholas to rest on the cushions, before following you into the kitchen. Nicholas eventually wandered in a few minutes later, groggy but eager to help. You tasked him with something simple—ripping basil leaves while you and Agatha worked side by side, chopping vegetables, simmering sauces, moving in and out of each other’s space without effort. It was easy. Too easy.

Every time you glanced up, she was looking again. Every time you brushed past her, you swore you felt her hesitate, just for a second, before stepping aside. By the time dinner was ready, your patience was running thin.

The three of you sat at the table, plates full, wine poured for the adults, and conversation flowing naturally. Nicholas was happily chatting about some grand adventure he had concocted in his head, going on about dragons and wizards and heroes, and you were content to listen, nodding along as you ate.

But no matter how hard you attempted, your mind couldn’t completely focus on the wild story, It was on Agatha. She wasn’t eating so much as picking at her food, twirling her fork between her fingers. Every so often, her gaze would drift to you, linger, then shift away. Finally, you set your fork down with a sigh. “Alright. What is it?” Agatha blinked, looking up. You leveled her with a stare. “You’ve been watching me all day and now you’re being all weird”

She smirked, tilting her head. “Have I?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned.

Nicholas glanced between the two of you momentarily, clearly sensing something but too preoccupied with his meal to show much interest. Agatha hummed, taking a slow sip of her wine before setting the glass down. And then, with that infuriating smirk still in place, she simply said, “Nothing.”

You exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to throw your napkin at her. “Liar.”

She chuckled, but didn’t elaborate. Didn’t say a word. Just watched you over the rim of her glass, eyes twinkling with something secret, something unreadable.

After dinner, the three of you moved through the familiar routine of cleaning up, each settling into their unspoken roles—Nicholas setting his plate in the sink, you washing, and Agatha drying. The house was warm with the lingering smell of dinner, and the steady rhythm of it all felt… natural. Comfortable. Something that had been done a thousand times before.

Once the kitchen was tidy, Nicholas tugged at your sleeve, looking up at you with sleepy eyes. “Bedtime?” he mumbled around a yawn.

You smiled, brushing his curls back. “Unfortunately it is my dear, Let’s go get you tucked in.” Agatha followed as you led him to his room, the three of you moving in quiet synchrony. Nicholas climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin as you and Agatha settled on either side of him.

“Story?” he asked, blinking up at you both.

Agatha smirked. “Didn’t you just tell us an entire saga over dinner?”

Nicholas pouted. “That was different.”

You chuckled, smoothing a hand over his forehead. “Alright, alright. A short one.”Nicholas snuggled deeper into the blankets, content. You glanced at Agatha, arching a brow. “You wanna do the honors?”

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then, with a small sigh, she shifted, leaning closer to Nicholas. “Once upon a time,” she began, voice softer than usual, “there was a little prince who thought he was a dragon.”

Nicholas giggled, immediately enraptured.

“And this little prince who was definitely a dragon—was the fiercest, bravest creature in all the land,” Agatha continued, her voice dipping into something almost melodic. “He had fire in his heart and magic in his veins, and no one could stop him.” You listened, watching her as she spun the story, watching the way Nicholas hung onto every word. And maybe, just maybe, you hung onto them too.

By the time she finished, Nicholas’ eyes had begun to droop, his little hand curled into the blanket. You reached out, brushing his hair back once more. “Goodnight, my little prince.”

“G’night,” he murmured sleepily, already half gone. Agatha leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead, something soft, something natural. “Sleep well, baby dragon.” He hummed in response, already lost to sleep.

As you quietly shut Nicholas’ bedroom door, the warmth of the moment still lingered between you and Agatha. For a long second, neither of you spoke, standing side by side in the dim hallway, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing through the door.

Then Agatha let out a quiet exhale, the kind that carried more weight than it should, and you turned to look at her. “You okay?” you asked, voice hushed, not wanting to disturb the stillness of the apartment.

She tilted her head, gaze flicking to the door before settling on you. “He really is something, isn’t he?” You softened. “Yeah. He is.”

She nodded, lips pressed together as if she were holding back something else, something bigger. But then, as if deciding against it, she simply sighed, shaking her head. You nudged her gently with your shoulder. “Come on, let’s get some rest before he wakes us up at an ungodly hour demanding more food again.”

Agatha let out a quiet chuckle but didn’t argue, following you toward the bedroom. The walk was slow, neither of you in any rush, as if stretching out the peace for as long as possible. The soft glow of a lamp in the corner cast long shadows, painting the space in warm, muted tones. The air between you had shifted—not tense, not uncertain, but something else. Something quieter.

When you stepped inside, you made your way to the dresser, to grab something more comfortable to sleep in. Agatha sat on the edge of the bed, rolling her shoulders back, stretching as if trying to shake off an invisible weight. And then, when you turned, you caught her staring. Again. You sighed, exasperated but not annoyed. “Alright. Spill.”

Agatha arched a brow. “Spill what?”

You crossed your arms, leveling her with a look. “You’ve been watching me all day. And before you say ‘nothing’ again, I swear I will throw this pill bottle at you.” She smirked at that, but there was something softer beneath it. She hesitated, and for a moment, you thought she’d deflect again. But then, after a long pause, she exhaled, fingers idly tracing the seam of the blanket.

“I was just thinking,” she admitted. “About today. About how… nice it was.” You arched a brow, waiting for her to elaborate.

She hesitated, her fingers lightly brushing against the bedspread as she searched for the right words. “I just… appreciate it.”

Your expression softened. “Appreciate what?” you asked slowly making your way to the bed, settling down on your side.

She met your gaze, something quiet and contemplative in her eyes. “You,” she admitted. “This.” Your heart thudded a little harder against your ribs. Agatha inhaled slowly, like she was steadying herself. “The way we move together. How easy it is. How we just… work.” She let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh. “Even after all these months, after everything we’ve been through, you still seem to know me better than most people. Better than I know myself sometimes.” You swallowed, something warm settling in your chest.

Agatha shook her head, a small, almost self-deprecating smirk pulling at her lips. “I used to think love was just—” She waved a hand vaguely. “Something complicatedly toxic. Something that came with rules and conditions, something that required you to constantly prove yourself.” She huffed, shaking her head. “But with you… it’s never felt like that.” Your throat tightened, and for a moment, you weren’t sure what to say.

Agatha’s gaze flickered to yours again, something unreadable in those deep blue eyes. “I don’t just love you,” she murmured. “I choose you, Every day. Over and over.” You felt your breath hitch, caught in the weight of those words. She let out a soft exhale, as if she had just realized something herself. “And I want to keep choosing you.”

Your fingers twitched where they rested on the sheets, as if they were resisting the urge to reach for her. Agatha shook her head again, almost in disbelief, her lips curving slightly.

After a few moments in silence she blinked, as if processing what she had just said, then laughed softly, almost to herself. “I mean, I already knew that. But today—today just…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It made me sure.” You stared at her, warmth flooding through you like a slow-moving tide.

Agatha glanced down, as if suddenly aware of how much she had just confessed. Then, with a light scoff, she reclined back against the pillows, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off the weight of her own emotions. “Well,” she drawled, “that’s enough sincerity for one night.”

You let out a breath of laughter, shaking your head. “Yeah, wouldn’t want you to spontaneously combust from all the genuine emotions.”

She hummed. “Exactly.” You rolled your eyes but followed her lead, slipping beneath the covers, the warmth of her presence grounding. The room fell into a comfortable silence, the kind only the two of you could share. And then a hand, Light, Tentative. Brushing against your hip beneath the blanket before slowly pulling you closer, closing what little space remained.

Agatha’s warmth pressed against your back, the steady rise and fall of her breathing a quiet reassurance. She didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. Instead, she slipped an arm around your waist, her fingers curling against your ribs as if afraid you might slip away.

Just as sleep began to pull you under, you felt it. A soft press of lips against the curve of your neck—brief, lingering just long enough to leave a ghost of warmth in its wake. A silent promise. You hummed breath leveling out slowly, letting yourself sink into it, into her. And with that, Agatha sighed against your skin, her body relaxing into yours as sleep finally claimed you both.

——————————

The apartment was still draped in the quiet hush of morning when Agatha woke up. The warmth of your body pressed against hers, your steady breathing the only sound in the room. For a long moment, she simply lay there, absorbing the peace, knowing how fleeting it could be.

She turned her head, eyes tracing the features she had memorized over the time together. The slope of your nose, the way your lips softened in sleep, the way her pillow always managed to keep the faintest trace of your scent. A pang of something deep and certain settled in her chest.

Today was the day. She had been thinking about it for a while, but now, finally, she was ready. And she needed help.

Carefully, she slipped out from under the covers, moving with precision. She brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek, resisting the urge to press a lingering kiss to your forehead before turning away. Silent as a shadow, she pulled on her hoodie and padded barefoot down the hallway, ensuring each step was measured—she couldn’t risk waking you.

Reaching Nicholas’ room, she eased the door open, peeking inside. He was a tiny bundle beneath the blankets, only his wild waves visible, his foot sticking out from under the covers at an odd angle.

Agatha smirked, stepping inside and kneeling beside the bed. With gentle fingers, she smoothed a hand over his back. “Wake up my little dragon.”

Nicholas groaned, shifting but not quite waking. “Nooo, to early” he mumbled into his pillow.

Agatha’s lips twitched. “Come on love bug. We’ve got important business.” That got his attention—barely. One bleary eye peeked open. “Important like waffles?”

She chuckled. “More important than waffles.”

That made him lift his head. “That’s impossible.”

Agatha smirked. “I need your help picking something out. Something very, very special.”

Nicholas blinked, clearly intrigued but still sleep-heavy. He rubbed at his eyes before murmuring, “Like a new toy?”

Agatha huffed a quiet laugh. “No, darling. Something shiny.”

Nicholas sat up a little more at that, the gears in his small brain turning. “Shiny?”

She nodded, tucking a curl behind his ear. “But we have to be very sneaky. No waking her up, okay?”

Nicholas’ eyes widened, as if sensing the gravity of the mission. He nodded solemnly. “Okay.”

“Good boy.” Agatha pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. “Now, get dressed. We’ll talk more in the car.”

Nicholas scrambled out of bed, still half-dazed, but still determined. Agatha handed him his little sneakers and helped him into his coat, making sure to keep quiet as they crept through the apartment. She grabbed her purse, keys, and the market bag she had strategically left by the door the night before—an excuse if she needed one. Slipping on her shoes she softly opened the door, ushering Nicholas out.

Once outside of the building, as they stepped into the crisp morning air Nicholas finally looked up at her, curiosity buzzing behind his sleep-heavy expression. “What are we getting Mom?”

Agatha smiled, slowing her steps as they walked toward the car. “A ring.”

Nicholas blinked. “A ring?”

She chuckled. “Yes bug. A different kind of ring, A very special one.”

Nicholas furrowed his brows, trying to piece it together. Then his face lit up. “Like a wedding ring?”

Agatha’s chest tightened—not with fear, not with doubt, but with the weight of how right it felt. “Exactly like a wedding ring.”

Nicholas gasped, grabbing onto her hand with both of his tiny ones. “You’re gonna marry her?”

Agatha exhaled slowly, crouching down so she was at eye level with him. She smoothed a hand over his wind swept hair, her voice soft but steady. “Yes.”

Nicholas beamed unapologetically. “Forever?”

Agatha’s lips curled upwards. “Forever.”

Nicholas processed this for a moment, then tilted his head. “Does that mean she’s gonna be my extra mom?”

Agatha huffed a laugh. “I’d say she already is by now, don’t you think?”

Nicholas grinned, nodding eagerly. “Yeah.”

Agatha stood, taking his hand in hers as they continued toward the car. “That’s why I need your help. You’re one of the most important people in my life, I need you to help me pick out the perfect one.”

Nicholas puffed up with pride. “Okay! But how do we know which one is the perfect one?”

Agatha smirked, ruffling his hair as she opened the car door. “I think you’ll know it when you see it.”

Nicholas climbed in, still full of thoughts. “Do you think she’ll say yes?”

Agatha faltered only slightly, but her voice was firm when she said, “I think, I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t already know the answer.”

Nicholas nodded seriously, then grinned. “Okay! But then can we get waffles after?”

Agatha laughed as she buckled him in. “Yes, We can get waffles after.” Nicholas cheered, kicking his little feet in excitement. Agatha shook her head fondly as she shut the door and made her way to the driver’s seat. She exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel for a moment before turning the key in the ignition. This was happening. And, for the first time in a long time, Agatha Harkness wasn’t nervous.

Nicholas’ tiny fingers curled around Agatha’s hand as they stepped into the jewelry store. His eyes widened as he took in the shimmering cases, the way the lights reflected off of silver and gold. “Are we buying a super shiny one?” he asked, voice filled with curiosity.

Agatha chuckled. “Something like that.”

She had known for a while that she wanted to marry you. But knowing and acting on it were two very different things. Now, standing here, staring at rows upon rows of rings, the reality of it settled deep in her chest.

She was going to ask you. She was going to ask you to spend forever with her. “That one,” Nicholas suddenly piped up, pointing at a delicate but elegant band with a dark blue gemstone in the center. “Its blue like your eyes mom.”

Agatha smiled, It did. And it utterly was perfect. She exchanged a look with the jeweler before nodding. “We’ll take it.”

Nicholas clapped his hands together excitedly, bouncing slightly on his feet. “Does this really mean we get to keep her forever?”

Agatha exhaled slowly, bending down so she could plant a kiss to the top of his head “That’s the plan my love.” She muttered softly into his crown of her hair.

Nicholas beamed, jumping up to throw his arms around her neck. And in that moment, Agatha knew—Because choosing you had never been a question. It had always been a certainty. Something about her son’s unbridled approval just solidified it that much more.

Now, she just had to figure out how to ask you. And most importantly— “Hey,” she said, pulling back slightly, looking Nicholas right in the eye. “You cannot tell her, okay? It’s a surprise.”

Nicholas’ eyes widened. “A surprise?”

Agatha nodded. “A very big surprise.”

He pressed his lips together, then mimed zipping them shut. “I promise.” Agatha smirked. “Good boy.” She only hoped he could actually keep the secret for the day.

The lack of noise was the first thing you noticed. Additionally the warmth of Agatha’s body beside you gone, no steady rhythm of her breathing against your shoulder—just empty space. The bed felt strangely vast without her, the sheets cool where her body should have been.

Your brows furrowed as you blinked awake, your hand instinctively reaching toward her side of the bed, but all you found was the lingering warmth she’d left behind. Fingers splayed against the fabric, you sighed, letting your head fall back against the pillow for a moment before your gaze shifted. Your eyes caught the small note sitting on her pillow.

Went out to get some essentials. Try not to miss me too much. —A

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you traced over the words with your fingers. Even when she was gone, she had a way of leaving pieces of herself behind, making sure you felt her presence.

You rolled onto your back, stretching lazily before finally swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. The apartment was quiet—eerily so without the usual morning chatter of Nicholas bouncing around, asking a hundred questions a minute, and Agatha halfheartedly scolding him between sips of coffee. You had forgotten what silence felt like.

Might as well make use of it.

Padding toward the bathroom, you stretched again, working out the stiffness in your muscles before stepping inside. You turned on the shower, letting the water warm as you undressed, then stepping in, sighing softly as the heat cascaded over your skin.

For a few minutes, you just stood there, letting the water run down your shoulders, washing away the remnants of sleep. The scent of Agatha’s shampoo lingered in the air—lavender and something darker, richer, unmistakably her. You reached for the bottle, working the lather through your hair, momentarily allowing yourself to be surrounded by the familiar scent.

By the time you stepped out, the quiet still prominent , wrapping around the house like a soft cocoon. You dried off quickly, slipping into a pair of loose sweat pants and an old university shirt before heading toward Nicholas’ room.

The door creaked slightly as you pushed it open, revealing the carefully cultivated chaos of a six-year-old’s world. Toys were scattered across the floor, books half-open on his bed, and a small collection of stuffed animals arranged in what looked like a haphazard battle formation on his dresser. You chuckled, shaking your head as you knelt to begin tidying up.

You stacked the books properly, smoothing out the covers before setting them neatly on the nightstand. The stuffed animals were returned to their rightful place on the bed, though you left Nicholas’ favorite—a small, well-loved dragon—right where it had been, knowing he’d probably search for it the moment he got back.

By the time you were done, the room felt more put together, though still lived-in, still his. You sat back for a moment, glancing around, a familiar warmth settling in your chest. This was home—the scattered pieces of it, the quiet in-between moments, the love woven into even the smallest tasks.

At the time they returned you had already finished cleaning, pulled on one of Agatha’s oversized crew necks, and were halfway through making lunch. The scent of garlic and herbs filled the kitchen, the faint sizzle of a pan the only sound in the apartment. It was then, the front door swung open.

“We’re home!” Nicholas called out, his little voice full of excitement. You turned, wiping your hands on a dish towel, only to find the six-year-old barreling toward you with way too much energy. You barely had time to brace yourself before he flung his arms around your waist, squeezing tight.

“Whoa,” you laughed, running a hand through his curls. “What’s all this for?”

He leaned back just enough to flash you a toothy grin. “Because i missed you!”

Your heart clenched in the best way possible. “You were only gone for few hours my little prince.”

“Very, very long hours” Agatha’s voice cut in smoothly. You looked up, and there she was—standing in the doorway, arms draped in several bags, but it wasn’t the bags that caught your attention. It was the flowers. A arrangement of deep purple petunias and soft cream lilies held delicately in one hand.

“For you, darling” Agatha said, lips curling into that signature smirk of hers. You raised an eyebrow, but there was no stopping the way your stomach flipped. “Flowers? What did you do?”

Agatha let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “Why do I always have to have an ulterior motive?”

“You quite literally always have an ulterior motive” you shot back, taking the bouquet from her hands. She smirked, but there was something soft in the way she watched you, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. You didn’t press. Instead, you turned your attention to Nicholas. “Did you help pick these out?”

He beamed, nodding enthusiastically. “I picked the white ones! Mom said they reminded her of you.” Your chest tightened. You glanced at Agatha, but she was already looking away, busying herself with the items bought, as if she hadn’t just casually melted your heart. Something about her felt… different. Not in a bad way, just different.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. But whatever it was, you knew it had everything to do with the way she had been staring at you yesterday. And the way she was avoiding your gaze now.

Lunch had become one of those easy, familiar parts of your weekends—one that blended seamlessly into the rhythm of life with Agatha and Nicholas. It was never just about eating; it was about being together, about existing in a space where the world didn’t matter for a little while.

The sun streamed lazily through the windows, casting warm, golden light across the table, and the sound of soft laughter filled the air—a melody you had unknowingly started to crave. You had just finished setting your plates on the table when a blur of movement in your peripheral vision barely gave you enough time to brace yourself.

Nicholas came running full speed toward you, little arms outstretched like wings, a determined glint in his eye that told you resistance was futile. With practiced ease like this was something he had been doing for years—he launched himself onto your lap, wiggling into a comfortable position as if he had always belonged there.

You barely had time to react before without so much as a pause for theatrics—he reached for your sandwich, taking an audaciously huge bite, his small fingers clutching the bread like it was the most natural thing in the world. The absolute nerve. You blinked at him, momentarily speechless, before finally managing, “Wow. No hesitation, huh?”

Nicholas beamed at you through a mouthful of food, completely unbothered by the crumbs now decorating his shirt. “You always share with me!” he reasoned, chewing happily, as if that simply explained everything.

You couldn’t even be mad. The sheer confidence was impressive. Across the table, Agatha had been watching the entire ordeal unfold with the kind of amused smirk that made you certain she was enjoying this far too much. With an air of smug satisfaction, she leaned forward, plucking an olive straight from your salad bowl, her fingers quick and deliberate. Your eyes narrowed at her. “Really?”

She met your gaze with an expression so unapologetic it bordered on smug. Popping the olive into her mouth, she shrugged, chewing slowly. “What? He took your sandwich. This only seems fair.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, but there was no real frustration behind it. If anything, this ridiculous, chaotic, borderline lawless dynamic—was something you had grown to love more than you ever expected, You honestly feel a bit foolish for ever questioning its permanence to begin with.

The unspoken ease of it, the natural way the three of you fit together as if this had always been the plan. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t something you ever would have foreseen for yourself, but sitting here, with Nicholas practically fused to your side and Agatha stealing bites of your food like it was her God-given right… It felt right.

Your gaze lingered on her for a moment, studying the way her eyes softened whenever they landed on Nicholas, how she seemed to be etching every second of this into her memory, like she was afraid she might forget it. Then, just as quickly, her gaze flickered to you—lingering, observing like she was committing you to memory, too. Like there was something else she was seeing, something she was holding onto.

It wasn’t the first time you had caught her doing it. Over the past few days, you had noticed it more and more—the way she would watch you in those quiet moments, the way her expression would shift, unreadable yet oddly tender. It sent a strange sort of warmth curling in your chest, a sensation you weren’t entirely sure you knew what to do with. But before you could ask, before you could tease her about it or even attempt to read her mind, the moment shattered.

Her phone buzzed against the table. Agatha’s posture stiffened just slightly, so subtle it was nearly imperceptible. But you saw it. You always did.

She exhaled, reaching for her phone with a practiced nonchalance, but the slight clench of her jaw betrayed her. As her eyes scanned the screen, something unreadable flickered across her face—gone in an instant. And then, before you could even think to ask, she stood.

“Be right back,” she murmured, already halfway to the other room.

Your brows furrowed. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she called over her shoulder, too quickly. “Just work.”

It was a lie. Or maybe not a full lie, but certainly not the whole truth. You knew her well enough to catch the way she moved just a little too fast, the way she disappeared down the hall before you could press further. A deliberate retreat. And maybe—on another day—you would’ve let it go.

But something about the way she had been watching you lately, something about the way she had been… planning something, you could feel it, gnawed at the edges of your mind. So, before you could talk yourself out of it, you gently shifted Nicholas off your lap, murmuring, “I’ll be right back little man.”

You followed Agatha down the hall, careful to step lightly, keeping just enough distance to hear without being seen.

“Please tell me you confirmed it.” Her voice was low, hushed—but urgent. There was a pause, then a quiet sigh of relief. “Good. I was scared they didn’t properly reserve it.”

Reserve what? Your heart stuttered for a moment. Agatha rarely kept secrets from you—not ones that mattered. So what could possibly be important enough for her to be sneaking around about?

Before you could step closer— “Hey!” Nicholas’ voice rang out from the kitchen, loud and indignant. “Come back! We’re supposed to be eating together!”

Your jaw clenched. Damn kid.

Agatha turned just as you did, her eyes locking onto yours instantly, then just barely her lips curled into something amused, something knowing. You sighed, shaking your head. Fine. She wins this round, For now.

Later that afternoon the three of you had settled into the living room. The TV flickered in the background, its hum filling the space, but none of you were really watching. Nicholas was sprawled on the floor, his little legs kicking absently as he guy colored, tongue poking out in concentration. Every now and then, he’d hum a tune under his breath, the sound light and content.

Agatha had disappeared into the bathroom a few minutes ago, leaving her phone behind on the couch beside her. It sat there, face down, quiet and unassuming—until it buzzed. You glanced toward the hallway, listening for the sound of the sink or a door creaking open. Nothing. Your eyes flickered back to the phone.

It was right there.

You weren’t the kind of person to snoop. Normally. But after this morning? After the hushed phone calls, the careful glances, the way Agatha had been slipping off with vague excuses? It wasn’t paranoia—it was curiosity. And maybe a little suspicion. Before you could talk yourself out of it, your fingers brushed over the device, just enough to wake the screen. A text thread appeared.

Unknown Number: Everything is set.

Unknown Number: Sunset.

Your brows furrowed, a flicker of confusion twisting in your chest. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your brain scrambled to put the pieces together, but before you could read any further, before you could even blink, the bathroom door creaked open. In one fluid motion, Agatha snatched the phone out of your hands.

Your head snapped up the second Agatha’s presence shifted. She stood there, phone effortlessly balanced between her fingers, her gaze drilling into you—sharp, assessing, unreadable. A silent standoff. The air between you hummed, stretched thin like a wire ready to snap.

Then, the corner of her mouth twitched, just barely. “Find something interesting?” she murmured, voice smooth, casual. Too casual. Like she was already five steps ahead, enjoying the fact that you had no idea where this was going.

You exhaled slowly, settling back against the couch but refusing to look away. “Wouldn’t know,” you said evenly. “Didn’t get the chance to read much before you nearly shattered the sound barrier snatching it away.”

Her smirk deepened, dark amusement flickering across her face. “Fast fingers, darling. You should know that by now.”

Your eyes narrowed. She was hiding something. That much was obvious. And worse? She was enjoying this. Entirely too much. “Sunset?” you asked, watching her reaction closely.

Agatha didn’t so much as blink. No flicker of hesitation, no crack in her carefully constructed mask. Instead, she moved effortless, fluid—crossing the space between you in a way that always made it hard to breathe. Then, just as you prepared to press further, she leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of your mouth in a slow, lingering kiss.

Warm. Soft. Deliberate. You could feel her smile against your skin, the ghost of amusement curling at the edges. And just like that, she was gone, already drifting toward the kitchen as if the moment between you had never happened. Your stomach twisted, your pulse stumbled. Whatever this was—whatever game she was playing, it was leading to something big obviously.

You narrowed your eyes at her, but before you could press, Nicholas popped up from his spot on the floor, running across the room until he jumped onto the couch cushions, beaming brightly. “Are we still going to dinner tonight?!” he practically shouted, bouncing in his seat.

Agatha shot him a look from over the bar. “Inside voice, Nicky.”

He huffed but immediately turned to you, eyes wide with excitement. “We’re going somewhere super fancy!”

Your brows furrowed in mild confusion. “Fancy?” You turned to Agatha, noting the slight smirk playing at her lips. “Are we?”

Agatha hummed, swirling her tea in her cup. “I thought we could use a night out.”

“A night out,” you echoed, utterly unconvinced. “Since when do you voluntarily spend the evening in public?”

Agatha’s smirk deepened, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Since I decided you deserved to be spoiled.”

Your stomach flipped, heat creeping up your neck at the sudden sincerity in her voice. She was definitely up to something. But before you could get a word in, Nicholas latched onto your arm, tugging eagerly.

“You’re gonna love it” he insisted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I even picked my outfit! Mama says I look very cool.”

“I said you look like a prince” Agatha corrected, resting her elbow on the counter as she studied the two of you with an air of amusement.

Nicholas grinned, utterly pleased with himself. “Same thing.”

You laughed softly, ruffling his hair. “And what exactly am I supposed to wear to this fancy outing?”

Agatha tilted her head, lazily dragging her gaze over you. “Something nice, but not too nice” she mused. “Wouldn’t want you overshadowing me.”

You snorted. “As if that’s possible.” She arched a brow but said nothing, simply watching you over the rim of her cup. That smirk of hers hadn’t wavered.

Nicholas, unaware or simply uninterested in the subtleties of whatever game Agatha was playing, bounced excitedly. “Can I pick out your outfit?!”

You chuckled, nudging him gently. “I’d love your fashion expertise, but I think I can manage.”

Nicholas pouted dramatically but nodded, clearly satisfied just to be involved. “Okay, but can I at least help you pick your shoes?”

Agatha scoffed. “Why stop there? Why don’t you do her hair too?”

Nicholas gasped as if she’d just handed him the world. “Wait can I?!”

You shot Agatha a glare while she merely grinned, thoroughly enjoying herself. “You’re really getting a kick out of this, huh?”

“Immensely,” she drawled, finishing the last sip of her tea before setting the cup down with a soft clink. Then, with an exaggerated shooing motion, she waved you toward the hallway. “Now go, get ready. I would like my girl to be properly polished before we leave.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “And what about you?”

Agatha stretched leisurely before strolling out of the kitchen, toward Nicholas who was already scampering off to pick out whatever accessories he deemed necessary for your ensemble. She shot you a wink over her shoulder. “I’ll be handling my own masterpiece.”

You huffed a laugh, but just as you turned to leave, you felt a gentle tug at your wrist. Before you could react, Agatha had pulled you in, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was soft but teasing—just enough to leave you breathless.

Your pulse jumped, fingers instinctively curling against the fabric of her shirt as she lingered for a second longer than necessary. When she pulled back, her smirk was still in place, but there was something warmer beneath it, something real. “Now, be my good girl and go get ready” she murmured, her voice a quiet rasp against your skin.

You scoffed, shaking your head as you stepped back, ignoring the way your heart hammered against your ribs, cheeks growing warm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it” she quipped, turning on her heel as if nothing had happened.

You watched her go, exhaling a sharp breath before muttering under your breath, “Unfortunately.” And with that, you made your way toward the bedroom, still feeling the ghost of her lips against yours. Whatever Agatha was planning, you had a feeling tonight was going to be anything but ordinary.

After spending far too much time fussing over your shoes, you finally emerged from the bedroom, smoothing down the fabric of your dress as you made your way into the living room. You weren’t sure what reaction to expect, but the moment Nicholas turned and saw you, his face lit up like the Fourth of July.

“Whoa!” he gasped, practically bouncing on his heels. “You look so pretty!” He ran over, grabbing your hand You let out a soft laugh, touched by his enthusiasm.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Ruffling his hair, you glanced up—only to feel your breath hitch the second your eyes landed on Agatha. Standing by the door, arms folded with a knowing smirk, she was clad in a tailored maroon pantsuit that fit her like a dream.

The deep shade contrasted beautifully against her pale skin, and the open collar of her blouse teased just enough to be unfair. You swallowed hard, trying not to make it obvious that you were staring, but the sight of her radiant, confident, utterly stunning—made that simply impossible.

Agatha arched a brow, clearly enjoying your momentary speechlessness. “Cat got your tongue, darling?”

You opened your mouth, but Nicholas beat you to it, tugging your hand excitedly. “Look, I match Mom!”

Shaking yourself out of your daze, you finally noticed the tiny maroon jacket he was wearing, tailored just enough to be adorable but still formal. The resemblance between the two was uncanny, from the way they both stood with a natural air of confidence to the matching smirks on their faces.

“Oh, my god” you muttered, pressing a hand to your heart as you took in the sight of them together. “I’m never recovering from this.”

Nicholas grinned, puffing out his chest proudly. “I look cool, right?”

“You look beyond handsome ” you assured him, bending slightly to straighten the lapels of his jacket. “And incredibly adorable.”

He giggled, clearly pleased, and Agatha hummed in approval. “Not bad for a night out, hm?”

You straightened, crossing your arms as you took her in once more. “You…” You exhaled, shaking your head. “You look incredible.”

Agatha smirked but didn’t deflect like she usually did. Instead, she stepped closer, brushing her fingers along your wrist in an almost absentminded caress. “As do you.” Her voice dipped slightly, sending a shiver down your spine. “I knew that color would suit you.”

Your heart fluttered, but before you could respond, Nicholas grabbed your hand again, practically vibrating with excitement. “Can we go now?! I wanna see the fancy place!”

Agatha chuckled, stepping back. “Yes, yes, let’s not keep the little prince waiting.”

You let out a soft breath, stealing one last glance at Agatha before nodding. Whatever this night held, one thing was for certain—you were utterly, hopelessly doomed. Now, When you had suspected Agatha was up to something, what you hadn’t expected was her to reserve the entire rooftop at the Rooftop Refinery.

The moment you stepped out of the elevator, you were hit with a breathtaking view of the city skyline, bathed in the golden hues of sunset. The entire rooftop had been adorned with elegant, flickering candlelight, the warm glow contrasting beautifully against the deepening twilight. A soft, intimate melody played somewhere in the background, adding to the dreamlike atmosphere.

It was stunning. And way too much effort for a casual night out. Your eyes narrowed as you turned toward Agatha, who stood beside you with her hands in her pockets, watching your reaction with a too-casual expression.

“Okay,” you said, crossing your arms. “What is this?”

Agatha’s lips twitched, a telltale sign that she was holding back a smirk. “Dinner.”

Nicholas, however, had no interest in subtlety. He tugged on your hand, practically bouncing in place. “Do you like it?! Mom said it had to be perfect!”

Your brow arched, gaze flickering between them. “Perfect for what exactly?”

Agatha shot Nicholas a look a sharp, a quieting glance—and the little traitor quickly clamped a hand over his mouth, though his eyes still sparkled with excitement.

Your gaze slid back to Agatha, who shrugged as if the entire setup wasn’t screaming with ulterior motives. Instead of answering, she stepped closer, the scent of her signature dark vanilla and spice perfume wrapping around you as she gently placed a hand on the small of your back. The warmth of her touch was subtle, yet so incredibly grounding, a silent plea for you to just go along with it. “Humor me, please” she murmured, voice dipping into something soft, teasing.

You sighed, exasperated but unable to fight the way your body melted ever so slightly into her touch. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep me around.” Her smirk returned full force, this time dripping with amusement.

Before you could retort, she steered you toward the elegantly set table, her touch lingering a moment too long before she pulled away. Ever the charmer, she pulled out your chair for you, her fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder as you sat before she took her own seat across from you. Despite your lingering suspicions… you let yourself enjoy it.

Conversation flowed as easily as the wine in your glasses. Nicholas, between bites of pasta far too big for his tiny fork, chattered animatedly about everything and nothing, detailing his latest school project, a funny video he saw, and how he was so sure the dog at the park last weekend was actually a shapeshifter in disguise.

Agatha—in an uncharacteristically quiet moment—wasn’t speaking much. She was watching you again.

Not in the usual smug, teasing way—but like she was trying to commit every moment to memory. Like she was drinking in the way you laughed, how your fingers toyed absentmindedly with the stem of your glass, how your eyes softened when Nicholas said something particularly ridiculous.

Like she was terrified she might forget what this felt like. You met her gaze mid-sip, brow furrowing slightly. She didn’t look away. That was the first real sign that something was definitely up. Your foot nudged hers under the table, earning the slightest flinch before she recovered, smirking around the rim of her glass.

“You keep staring at me like that Harkness, and I’m going to start charging.”

A husky chuckle rumbled from her chest as she leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow against the table. “You think very highly of yourself, darling.”

“You don’t exactly do a great job of hiding your obsession,” you teased, sipping from your glass.

Her smirk didn’t falter, but there was something deeper behind her eyes, something… unspoken. Still, even as the evening stretched on, as laughter and conversation filled the air, your instincts kept whispering that Agatha had something up her sleeve.

And judging by the way she was still watching you, fingers absently twisting the ring on her hand—you were about to find out exactly what it was. Dinner came and went, the sky deepening into a velvety shade of indigo as the city lights twinkled like fallen stars beneath you.

The warmth of the evening lingered in the flickering candlelight, the air filled with the quiet hum of music, the soft clink of glasses, and the occasional sound of Nicholas stifling a giggle over whatever mischief was forming in his little mind. It was beautiful.

But the feeling in your gut told you it wasn’t over yet, And you were right. Because just as you were about to stand, Agatha cleared her throat. “Nicky,” she said, voice smooth but with a slight edge of tension, “go grab what I asked you to hide.”

Nicholas gasped—as if he had just remembered—before scurrying off, his little shoes tapping against the polished rooftop floor.

You frowned, brow furrowing. “Where is he—” But before you could finish the sentence, Agatha turned to face you fully, reaching across the table. Her fingers brushed softly over yours, then curled around your hand with surprising gentleness.

And then—finally—you saw it. The nerves, The vulnerability that Agatha Harkness never let anyone see. Your chest tightened at the sight of it. “Agatha…” you murmured, her name barely a breath on your lips.

She exhaled slowly, the pads of her thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles over your knuckles, as if grounding herself in your touch. The candlelight flickered across her face, highlighting the delicate tension in her features—the way her usual confident smirk had been replaced by something softer, raw.

“I’m not an easy person to love,” she admitted, voice quieter than usual, tinged with something so achingly honest it made your throat tighten. “I’m stubborn. I overthink. I push when I shouldn’t, and I—” she paused, her grip tightening slightly around your fingers. “I don’t always say the right things at the right time.” You hated that she felt the need to say that.

Your grip tightened in response, silently urging her to continue. “But you?” She swallowed, her eyes locked onto yours like you were the only thing anchoring her to this moment. “You love me anyway. You love me despite all of it. And I—” she let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head slightly, like she was frustrated with herself. “I don’t always know how to say it. But I need you to know that I do. I love you more than I know what to do with.” Your heart ached in the best possible way.

There was something so fragile and real in the way she said it—like the words had been clawing at her from the inside, desperate to be spoken aloud. And then Nicholas returned, Clutching a small, velvet box in one his tiny hands, a large white lily in the other. Your breath hitched. He beamed, practically vibrating with excitement as he held it out. “Mom! Here! You almost forgot it!”

Agatha huffed a small laugh, the nervous energy breaking for just a second. “I didn’t forget darling.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs as she took the box from him. But she didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t waver. And then—with the smooth confidence only she possessed she slid from her chair, lowering herself onto both knees right in front of you.

Your brain completely short-circuited. Every thought, every suspicion, every fleeting doubt about the extravagance of this evening vanished in an instant.

Agatha Harkness—the Agatha Harkness—was on her knees in front of you, holding a ring, staring up at you like you were the most important thing in the entire universe. She smirked, a hint of her usual mischief glimmering beneath all the tenderness. “You’re gonna need to breathe, darling.”

A watery, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips, your chest rising and falling in a shaky breath as you blinked against the sudden burning in your eyes, she was serious. This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment whim. This was Agatha offering you forever. Your gaze flickered down to the ring—and your breath caught.

The gemstone gleamed in the candlelight, a deep, rich blue with flecks of silver running through it. And for a second, your entire world narrowed to that one, impossibly perfect detail. Because that ring—God, that ring it looked exactly like her eyes.

That same stormy, captivating blue, shifting like the ocean on a restless night. Always deep. Always pulling you in. Just like her. Had she chosen it on purpose? Did she know that whenever you looked at it you’d be reminded of her, of every stolen glance, every teasing smirk, every moment where she had held you together when you didn’t even realize you were breaking?

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached out, touching the delicate band as if trying to convince yourself this was real. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Baby of course, I’ll marry you.”

Agatha exhaled sharply, like she had been holding her breath without realizing it. Her hands steady, careful, reverent—took yours as she slid the ring onto your finger, her thumb brushing against your skin as she did. Then before you could say another word, she pulled you down into a searing kiss.

It was deep, slow and utterly undeniable, filled with everything she couldn’t put into words. Her hands slid to your waist, pulling herself up, closer like she was terrified you might disappear. You could feel her heartbeat—wild and frantic beneath your palms as your fingers curled into the lapels of her coat, she tasted like red wine and eternity.

Nicholas lets out a dramatic gross, but you barely register it over the way your heart thundered in your chest. When you finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, Agatha’s voice dropped into something softer, rougher.

“You’re all mine” she murmured. A statement. A promise. You smiled, still breathless, still trembling with the sheer weight of this moment.

“And you’re mine”you whispered back. Your gaze dropped to the ring once more, the gemstone still glinting under the city lights. This was it.

Her, you, and Nicholas.

A family. Forever.

———————————————————

AN: Ngl i absolutely loved writing this so if anyone would like a part two involving the planning of the wedding // the wedding itself and the wedding night (yes it’ll be 18+) I’ll totally write one!!! Just lmk. I hope you enjoyed & sorry if you disliked it, I really just wanted a comfort // fluff fic for my girl yk.

[masorciereviolette]

T.W.O.G: From Death To Life, A True Anomaly

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha x Reader x Rio

Warnings: Angst, Time Jumps.

Word count: 3.3k

A/N: Here's the final “bonus” chapter, I truly hope you enjoy and I’m sorry in advance for the angst, any publishings from now on will be solely apart of the main story or completely separate pieces of work, because I have a few ideas sparked that range in scenario 👀. The beginning of this chapter is set well after Agatha had already run from the reader taking Nicholas with her, it spans over the years. Said flash back of the night she ran is in CH 1. She’s additionally trying to evade Rio as well, The end of this chapter will be set the night / evening before Rio takes Nicky….That flashback is in CH.4

Summary: Agatha Harkness had spent years hiding in the depths of the forest, shielding her son, Nicholas, from the forces that sought to reclaim him. But secrets never stay buried forever. When Rio Vidal—ancient, unyielding, and all too familiar—finds her once more, she doesn’t come with threats. She comes with the truth. As the past claws its way back into the present, Agatha is forced to face what she ran from: the weight of her choices, the ache of a love she abandoned, and the inevitable reckoning that comes with it.

Link To Series Masterlist

The cabin was small—hidden deep within the forest, far from the world that once knew Agatha Harkness. The life she had carved for herself here was quiet, veiled in secrecy, built for one purpose and one purpose only: to protect Nicholas. And yet, Rio still found her.

She always did.

Agatha’s grip on the wooden counter tightened, her nails pressing into the worn surface as she fought to keep her composure. The weight of Rio’s presence pressed against her spine, a shadow she had spent years trying to outrun.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Agatha bit out, her voice low and sharp.

Rio hummed from where she stood near the hearth, the flickering firelight casting long shadows against her dark robes. Unbothered. Unshaken.

She glanced around the modest home with a faint smirk, but there was something thoughtful in her silver eyes, something that suggested she wasn’t here to toy with Agatha this time.

“Neither should you,” Rio mused. “And yet, here we are.”

Agatha turned, her glare sharp as a blade. “If you’re here to lecture me, don’t waste your breath.”

Rio sighed—a soft, tired thing that made Agatha’s skin crawl. “You can’t keep running from this, Agatha,” she murmured. “From her.”

The words hit like a strike to the ribs, but Agatha didn’t let it show. She folded her arms across her chest, chin lifting defiantly. “Funny, coming from you.”

Rio blinked, tilting her head slightly. “I didn’t run.”

Agatha let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You left us.”

Something flickered in Rio’s expression, something too quick to grasp. Guilt, maybe. Regret. But it was gone just as fast, masked beneath that same unreadable calm.

“I did what I had to do,” Rio said.

“And so did I.” Agatha’s voice was cold, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

A soft patter of footsteps interrupted them.

Agatha stiffened just as Nicholas appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his small frame illuminated by the glow of the fire.

Rio turned, and immediately—her entire demeanor changed. Her deep eyes softened, her posture lost its sharp edges. “Hello, little prince” she murmured.

Nicholas smiled.

Smiled.

Agatha’s stomach twisted violently as she watched her son beam at the woman who had condemned him before he had even drawn his first breath.

“Mama, look!” Nicholas said excitedly, running toward Rio without hesitation. Without fear. “I lost another tooth!”

Rio crouched to his level, brushing dark curls from his face as she examined his missing tooth. She chuckled, tapping his nose with a fond sort of amusement. “Soon you’ll be all gums” she teased.

Nicholas giggled, utterly at ease in Rio’s presence.

And Agatha hated it.

Her jaw locked as she forced herself to stay still, to not rip him away from her right then and there. Because the truth—the real, unforgivable truth—was that Nicholas knew her.

He wasn’t afraid of her. He loved her.

Because Rio had never been absent. Not really. She had been a shadow, lingering at the edges of his life, watching even when Agatha wasn’t looking. And he had let her in.

“You’ve been visiting him,” Agatha realized, voice low and sharp, the rage curling in her chest like a living thing.

Rio didn’t look at her. “He deserves to know me.”

Agatha saw red. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Rio finally stood, her brown eyes locking onto Agatha’s. There was something new in them this time—something dangerous. “Neither do you.”

Agatha stepped forward, closing the space between them. “He is my son.”

Rio’s expression didn’t change, but her voice lowered. “He is more than that.”

The words sent a chill down Agatha’s spine. Because she knew what Rio meant, Nicholas was never just theirs. His life had been borrowed, suspended on a thread that could only hold for so long.

Agatha’s hands shook. “I won’t let you take him.”

Rio sighed, something tired settling into her gaze. “Agatha…” she murmured, quiet and knowing, “one day, it won’t be me you’ll have to fight.”

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat.

Nicholas looked between them, small brows furrowing in confusion. “Mama?”

Agatha forced herself to breathe.

She bent down, shielding him from Rio’s gaze, tucking him against her chest the way she had since the moment she first held him. “It’s alright, darling,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. But her words—her promises—felt like lies.

Rio lingered for a moment longer, then knelt down, her gaze warm but piercing “Nicholas,” she said softly, “do you remember the stories I told you?”

Nicholas perked up, nodding eagerly. “About the witch and the flowers?”

Agatha’s breath hitched.

Rio smiled, small and knowing. “Yes. The one with the flowers.”

Nicholas turned to Agatha, excitement bright in his eyes. “Mama, do you know?”

Agatha knew.

She saw your face every time Nicholas got excited over a new plant, every time his tiny hands carefully traced the petals of a flower with the same awe-struck fascination you had.

She saw your face in the way he furrowed his brows in adorable confusion when learning something new, the way his mind worked through ideas the same way you always had.

Her grip on his shoulders tightened. “Nicholas—”

Rio cut her off. “Do you remember the witch’s name?”

Nicholas hesitated, biting his lip, then brightened “Oh! It’s—”

Agatha spoke over him, her voice a sharp warning. “That’s enough.”

Nicholas blinked up at her, confused. “But—”

“I said enough.”

Silence.

Rio stood slowly, her eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Agatha turned away, swallowing hard.

“She deserves to hate you,” Rio murmured. “But you still deserve to see her.”

Agatha didn’t respond, Because she didn’t know if she could. Rio exhaled softly, then, in a whisper of shadows, she was gone. Leaving nothing but the scent of smoke and the unbearable weight of truth.

A few moons later

Nicholas sat cross-legged on the floor, his little hands carefully arranging his wooden animals in a circle around a small potted plant. His brow was furrowed in deep concentration, lips pursed as if he were working through something much bigger than himself.

Agatha leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him in silence.

She shouldn’t have been listening. She shouldn’t have cared what stories Rio had been telling him. But the moment she had overheard her son muttering to himself, something in her stilled, as if she had been waiting for this moment without realizing it.

And then—the words came.

“Mama’s like a big, fiery dragon you know?” Nicholas whispered to his toys, adjusting a small wooden fox beside the plant. “Super strong. Super fast. Can do all sorts of magic. But sometimes, dragons don’t know how to land, so they need a soft place to go.”

Agatha’s breath hitched.

Nicholas kept talking, his small voice weaving a tale he had clearly heard many times before.

“That’s what the little witch did. She helped the dragon rest when she got too tired. And when the dragon got too grumpy—‘cause dragons get real grumpy, you know—made her laugh again too.” He paused, frowning down at his plant his voice dropping to a whisper. “And she was really good at fixing things…..Even the things the dragon broke by accident.”

Agatha’s stomach twisted.

She could hear Rio’s touch in every word. A child’s version of the truth. Softened. Sweetened. But Agatha understood what it really meant. The little witch—you—hadn’t just helped the dragon.

You had saved her. Again and again.

Nicholas tilted his head, his tiny fingers brushing over the leaves of the potted plant. “The little witch could make anything grow, even if it was really sick. Even if it didn’t wanna grow at first. They just had a way of making things better.”

Agatha’s throat burned.

Her hands tightened into fists.

And then—

The temperature in the room dropped.

The air grew still, the scent of something ancient curling into the space behind her. Agatha didn’t need to turn to know who had arrived.

“You can feel it too, can’t you?” Rio’s voice was soft, but it carried like a whisper across time, pressing into the cracks Agatha refused to acknowledge.

Agatha straightened, forcing the emotion from her face before she turned to face her. “You really do have terrible timing.”

Rio smiled, slow and knowing. “Or perhaps it’s perfect.”

Agatha scoffed. “What do you want?”

Rio’s eyes flickered to Nicholas, still playing, blissfully unaware of the weight pressing into the space between the two women.

“I think you already know.”

Agatha’s jaw locked. “I’m not having this conversation again.”

Rio sighed, stepping forward. “And yet, we always do.”

Agatha turned away, moving toward the kitchen, as if putting distance between them could keep Rio from seeing her unravel. “Say your piece and leave.”

Rio didn’t follow. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she leaned against the doorframe, her expression unreadable. “You should have told him yourself.”

Agatha’s grip on the counter tightened. “Stay out of it.”

Rio hummed, tilting her head slightly. “It’s a little late for that.”

Silence. Then—

“You never say her name.” Agatha froze. Her breath caught, fingers twitching at her sides. Rio’s voice softened, but it was relentless. “Even when he asks, you never say it.”

Agatha forced herself to breathe. “Because it doesn’t matter.”

Rio laughed, low and sharp. “Oh, but it does.”

Agatha turned, her expression twisted with something ugly, furious, wounded. “What do you want from me?!”

Rio didn’t flinch. She just held her gaze, calm and steady, unshaken as always. “Go back,” she murmured.

Agatha’s breath came faster, her pulse roaring in her ears. She should have expected this, should have been prepared for it. But something about the way Rio said it—so certain, so absolute—made it feel like a command written into the very fabric of the world.

Agatha hated it.

Her lips curled, her voice a sharp, bitter thing. “And what would you have me do, Rio? Show up on her doorstep and beg? Have her tell me how much she hates me before slamming the door in my face?”

Rio’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t need to argue. Because they both knew the truth.

Agatha wasn’t afraid of being turned away, She was afraid of what would happen if you let her in. If you still loved her, despite everything.

Agatha let out a slow, shaking breath, dragging a hand through her hair. “I can’t.”

Rio sighed, something like disappointment crossing her features. Then she nodded, as if she had already known the answer. She always did. And yet—she still tried. Rio turned toward the doorway, casting one last glance toward Nicholas.

“He’ll keep asking, you know.”

Agatha swallowed hard.

Rio stepped into the shadows, her presence already fading.

“You won’t be able to ignore him forever.”

And with that—she was gone.

Leaving Agatha alone.

With nothing but her son’s quiet humming and the weight of a name she had spent years trying not to say. If one thing was clear, they had to go. Where, at this point she’s not completely sure, but they can’t stay here.

The forest was quiet.

A rare kind of quiet—not empty, not lonely, but soft. The leaves rustled overhead, the fading light of dusk casting long shadows across the mossy ground. The air smelled of damp earth and wildflowers, the promise of night creeping gently into the spaces between the trees.

Nicholas sat cross-legged in front of Agatha, his small body warm against her knees, his dark curls a tangled mess from an afternoon of running, climbing, and mischief. He hummed to himself as he plucked at the edges of his cloak, waiting.

Because tonight, Agatha would finally answer.

She had known it was coming.

She had seen the question in his eyes for weeks now—the careful way he danced around it, the way he would pause, hesitant, whenever Rio spoke of you in her stories. He had been patient, so much more patient than a child his age should be.

But he deserved something, didn’t he?

Even if it wasn’t everything.

Agatha sighed, running her fingers gently through his curls, carefully untangling each knot with soft, practiced movements. “Your hair is an absolute disaster,” she muttered.

Nicholas giggled. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Another giggle. Then, after a beat— “Tell me about the little witch?”

The words were careful, gentle, as if he thought asking too forcefully might make her retreat again. Agatha’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second.

She exhaled slowly, then resumed her task. “You already know all of the stories...”

Nicholas frowned. “Yeah, but that’s mama’s version. I want yours.”

Agatha hesitated. The truth was a delicate thing. A fragile, untamed creature. She had spent so long keeping it caged, locked away where it couldn’t hurt her.

But Nicholas was waiting. And she couldn’t keep lying. So, finally—finally—she spoke.

“Alright,” she murmured, fingers still threading through his waves.

Nicholas perked up, eager, expectant.

Agatha swallowed hard, keeping her voice even, calm. “The little witch… was different. She was very good at seeing things for what they really were, never forced anything to change, just… helped it grow into what it was meant to be.”

Nicholas listened intently, his small hands fiddling with a leaf he had plucked from the ground.

“She was patient…” Agatha continued, her voice growing quieter. “knew how to fix things that seemed beyond saving. And….loved.” Her fingers stilled against his scalp. “Fiercely.”

Nicholas tilted his head. “Loved who?”

Agatha swallowed, her throat tight “…A dragon,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Nicholas grinned, twisting to look up at her. “Like me?”

A quiet laugh slipped from her lips before she could stop it. “Not quite.”

Nicholas pouted. “Well….I think I’m a baby dragon.”

Agatha smirked, fingers dropping to pinch his side teasingly. “That’s because you are.”

He giggled, turning back around and leaning into her touch.

She should have stopped there.Should have left it at that. But something about the way he trusted her, the way he was so unafraid to ask, made her keep going.

“The little witch loved their baby dragon,” she murmured, smoothing down the stubborn strands of his hair. “More than anything. More than they ever thought they could. They used to sit in the garden with them, showing them all the plants and flowers and all the things that could grow, even when the little dragon couldn’t quite understand just yet”

Nicholas beamed. “Like me?”

Agatha’s breath hitched, She swallowed against the ache in her chest.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Like you.”

Nicholas hummed, kicking his feet slightly, content. Agatha let the moment settle, the weight of it pressing against her ribs.

She had given him so little.

And yet—it was enough for now.

She hoped it would be enough forever.

Even if she knew, deep down—it wouldn’t be.

The night deepened around them, a hush falling over the forest as the last remnants of daylight slipped beyond the horizon. The air cooled, the scent of damp moss and pine settling into their bones. Nicholas curled closer against Agatha’s side, his small hands gripping the fabric of her sleeve as his head found a place against her ribs.

Agatha let out a slow breath, staring up at the canopy of leaves above them. She could still feel the weight of the words she had spoken, the way they had settled in her chest like stones at the bottom of a river—heavy, unmoving.

She had said too much.

She had let her guard slip, let her heart peek through the cracks she had tried so desperately to seal.

And yet, she did not regret it.

Nicholas let out a soft sigh, blinking up at her with drowsy eyes. “Did the little witch and the dragon stay together forever?”

Agatha stilled.

She had not expected the question. She should have, but she hadn’t. Nicholas’ voice was so innocent, so unassuming, but the weight of it knocked the air from her lungs.

She could lie.

She had lied before.

She had rewritten the truth over and over until she had almost convinced herself of it. But here, in the quiet of the forest, with Nicholas tucked against her side, she found that she couldn’t.

“…No,” she murmured finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “They didn’t.”

Nicholas frowned, his small fingers tightening in the fabric of her cloak. “Why not?”

Agatha swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She turned her gaze skyward, as if the answers might be written in the stars.

“The dragon had to go,” she said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. “Not because they wanted to. But because they thought it was the only way to keep their baby dragon safe.”

Nicholas wrinkled his nose. “But why would leaving keep them safe?”

Agatha hesitated. Because I was afraid, because I was weak, because I couldn’t trust her enough to help—

“…Because the dragon was scared,” she admitted, the truth slipping from her lips before she could stop it. “And sometimes, when you’re scared, you make choices that hurt—even if you think you’re doing the right thing.”

Nicholas considered that for a moment, his small face drawn in thought. Then, quietly, he asked, “Does the little witch miss the dragon?”

Agatha’s breath caught. A lump formed in her throat, thick and unyielding. Her fingers curled slightly in Nicholas’ hair, her chest tightening around the weight of everything she had never let herself say.

“…I think so,” she said at last, her voice breaking just slightly. “I think she does.”

Nicholas yawned, his body growing heavier against her. His voice was softer now, sleep tugging at the edges of his words. “And did the dragon miss her too?”

Agatha closed her eyes.

She thought of the quiet nights when she sat alone by the fire, her heart aching with an emptiness that had never left. She thought of all the times she had reached for something—someone—who was no longer there. She thought of the way her soul still longed, still yearned, for a love she had abandoned.

“…Yes,” she whispered, the word barely audible. “Every day.”

Nicholas made a small sound of approval, his breathing evening out as sleep finally pulled him under.Agatha stayed awake long after, staring into the darkness.

She had always thought leaving had been the hardest thing she had ever done. But maybe—just maybe—staying away had been harder.

[masorciereviolette]

T.W.O.G: Written In The Ashes, Bound By The Stars

~Don’t look for me in the stars, my love. Don’t look for me in the skies, If you ever miss me… look for me in the places where time stood still for us~

Pairing: Post Salem Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha x Reader x Rio

Warnings: Soft beginnings, Vulnerable Rio, Reassuring Reader, Small time jump, Angst, Hurt, Anger, Comfort.

Word count: 4.8k

A/N: I’m sorry but the show must go on…… second to last extended chapter. I truly hope you enjoy:(

Summary: The night was supposed to be a reprieve—a quiet escape beneath the stars, just the three of you. But even in the stillness, the weight of unspoken truths lingered. Agatha carried a life between you, something impossible yet real, and for the first time, Rio—always distant, always watching—let slip the fear she had been hiding. The universe was cruel to things that were never meant to be, and despite the love that bound you together, despite the undeniable pull between you, Rio knew the truth before either of you dared to say it—

Link To Series Masterlist

The night air was soft, thick with the scent of blooming wildflowers, the distant hum of crickets filling the silence between breaths.

The three of you lay sprawled across the cool grass beneath an endless stretch of sky, the stars burning low and bright above you.

It had been Agatha’s idea to get away for the night, to leave the weight of the world behind. And for once, you and Rio had agreed without question.

Weeks had passed since the revelation of Agatha’s pregnancy, and the knowledge had settled into something tangible between you all—no longer the initial shock, no longer the feverish whispers of what now? but something real, something undeniable, or so you believed.

There was a child growing inside her, a life created between the three of you, and despite everything—the fears, the uncertainties, the cosmic weight of Rio’s existence, the ghosts of Agatha’s past—it was happening.

Tonight wasn’t about the worries, though. Tonight was about the quiet, about the way the world could still feel untouched when the three of you were alone beneath the stars.

For a long while, none of you spoke, letting the stillness settle like a comforting presence. Agatha lay between you and Rio, her head tilted back, watching the sky, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns over her stomach. You weren’t sure she even realized she was doing it.

After a few minutes of your unwavering gaze Agatha had shifted, rolling onto her side to face you, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“You’re staring.”

You blinked, heat creeping up your neck. “Am not.”

Agatha hummed knowingly, tapping a finger against your chest. “Liar.”

You huffed but didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer, drawn to her like you always were. “You’re just so—” You stopped, shaking your head, suddenly unsure how to put it into words.

Agatha arched a brow. “So…?”

You exhaled, gaze trailing over the soft curve of her face, the way the moonlight cast a silver glow over her sharp cheekbones, the warmth in her dark eyes.

“So important” you murmured.

Agatha stilled.

You felt Rio shift from beside Agatha, her quiet presence grounding, her brown eyes watching with something unreadable. She hadn’t spoken much tonight—had only observed, as she always did, listening more than speaking.

But now, she spoke “You two,” Rio murmured, voice soft but firm, “are bound so tightly to one another that I wonder if you even realize it.”

You and Agatha both turned to her, but Rio was still staring up at the stars, her expression distant.

Agatha scoffed, breaking the moment before it could become too heavy. “Of course we know it.” She nudged you lightly with her knee. “I can barely go five minutes without you fussing over me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe if you weren’t so reckless, I wouldn’t have to.”

Agatha grinned, but there was something softer in it now, something gentler. “You love fussing over me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Rio cut in first.

“It’s true,” she murmured.

You looked to her, raising a brow. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Rio chuckled, shaking her head. “I don’t take sides. I only see what is.”

Agatha smirked. “And what do you see?”

Rio hesitated, her gaze drifting between the two of you.

“I see…” She trailed off, as if trying to find the right words.

For a moment, she looked almost… vulnerable.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“I see two people so deeply entangled in each other that you don’t even realize how much of yourselves you’ve given away,” she said quietly.

“I see devotion that could turn into destruction if you let it. I see…” Her voice dropped lower, almost too quiet to hear. “I see something I was never meant to be part of.”

The words sent a flicker of unease through your chest. “You say that like you’re separate from us” you murmured.

Rio exhaled softly. “Aren’t I?”

Agatha frowned, sitting up now, her expression turning serious. “No,” she said, firm, unyielding. “You’re not.”

Rio let out a slow breath, her tired eyes meeting Agatha’s. “You say that now.”

You sat up too, frowning. “Rio—”

But she shook her head. “You and Agatha—” she said, glancing between you, “you are of each other. There is no line between where one of you ends and the other begins.”

Her gaze softened as she pushed herself to sit up as well, distance growing slightly between you all. “I have never seen anything like it….it’s one of the things I love the most about the both of you”

Agatha swallowed, her posture tense, like she wasn’t sure whether to take it as a compliment or a warning.

You weren’t sure either.

“But what about you?” you asked carefully. “Where do you stand in all of this?”

Rio was silent for a long moment. Then, finally, she smiled—soft, small, almost sad. “I stand in places where I was never meant to linger.”

Agatha scowled. “That’s cryptic even for you.”

Rio chuckled, shaking her head. “I mean it.” She sighed, tilting her head toward the sky again. “I… I was never meant to feel things as deeply as I do now. Not for you. Not for her. And yet…”

She hesitated, just for a second.

And then— “I do.”

The weight of her words settled heavily between you.

Agatha looked away first.

You swallowed, glancing between them both—at the reckless fire you had loved in Agatha, at the steady, dangerous pull you had fallen into with Rio.

You realized—This was more than what you had thought it was. This wasn’t just desire, wasn’t just companionship. It was dependency.

It was something dangerous. And for the first time, you saw the flicker of something like fear in Rio’s expression.

Because she knew it too.

She had never been meant to belong to anyone.

And yet—

She belonged to you both.

And gods, how that terrified her.

The silence stretched between you all, thick with everything that had been said—and everything that hadn’t. It settled like dew in the grass beneath you, cool against your skin, pressing into the spaces between your ribs. Above, the night stretched wide and endless, stars scattered like shattered glass across the dark.

You weren’t sure who you were trying to reassure when you spoke next, voice quiet but certain.

“Come here.”

Rio blinked, eyes catching the faint light, their usual sharpness dulled with something softer. “What?”

You didn’t repeat yourself. Instead, you reached out, fingers brushing against the loose fabric of her robe where it pooled in the grass beside you. A tether. A request. You curled your fingers, a gentle pull, not a demand.

“Just lay back down with us….” you murmured. “Please.”

Rio hesitated. The kind of hesitation that felt like a lifetime stretched between heartbeats.

She was a being of the cosmos, a force beyond comprehension—but here, now, she was just a woman who had lost as much as she had given.

The wind whispered through the trees, cool and fleeting. The sky remained indifferent. And after a long, wavering moment, Rio finally let out a slow breath and let herself fall.

She eased back down onto the grass, you and Agatha following, her body still stiff with restraint, with the unbearable weight of the past pressing into her bones. She didn’t press in close. Not at first.

But she was here. That was something.

Agatha sighed, shifting between you both trying to get comfortable, her head tipping slightly as she stared upward at the sky. “Stars are overrated.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “You only say that because they outshine you.”

Agatha scoffed but didn’t argue, which meant you were right.

You could feel the tension still coiled in Rio’s frame—the way she resisted, even now, even after admitting the truth aloud.

So you did the only thing you could.

You reached out and took her hand.Just a small thing. A small comfort. Rio’s fingers twitched beneath yours, cold despite her power, despite what she was. But she didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

Not from you.

Not from this.

The weight of the night settled around you all, a quiet thing, heavy with memory, grief, and the fragile remnants of something that had once been whole.

Agatha exhaled, shifting slightly closer, her head now resting against Rio’s shoulder, her other hand absently tracing shapes in the grass. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she muttered, “I should make you both grovel for how much I put up with.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, the sound barely carrying in the open air. “You’d miss us too much.”

Agatha snorted. “That’s debatable.”

Rio made a soft sound—something close to a scoff, but… different. Lighter. Warmer. Like she was allowing herself—just for this moment—to be here.

To stay.

Above you, the stars burned on, indifferent witnesses to all you had been and all you could never be again. And as the three of you lay there, wrapped in the fragile warmth of each other, the earth beneath you solid and unchanging, it felt—for just a moment—like this was enough.

The quiet stretched, a living thing between you. The weight of what had been said—and what hadn’t—pressed down like the vast night sky above, limitless and unknowable.

You squeezed Rio’s hand gently, a tether in the dark. “You belong to us,” you murmured softly, shifting closer to rest your chin on agathas shoulder, voice steady despite the emotion clawing at your throat. “Just as much as we belong to you.”

Rio exhaled, something fragile in the way she let her fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours. “I don’t think you understand what you’re saying.”

Agatha’s hand, warm and steady, slid over Rio’s forearm, grounding her. “We do,” she said firmly. “You’re just being difficult.”

Rio huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head, but the sadness hadn’t left her eyes. “I mean it. You two are… bound. You fit together in a way that is written into the fabric of things. But I—” She hesitated, fingers twitching beneath yours. “I am not like you.”

Agatha let out a low scoff. “No shit, sweetheart. You’re insufferably cryptic.”

You could feel Rio’s smirk even in the dim light, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She turned her gaze back to the sky. “You say I belong to you. But do you even know what that means? Do you truly understand what I am?” Her voice was softer now, more distant, something aching just beneath the words. “What it means for our child?”

The words sent a shiver through you, though not out of fear. You’d always known, on some level, that Rio wasn’t just another witch, wasn’t even just an extraordinary being.

There was something deeper, something ancient in her very presence, woven into the spaces between moments, into the quiet hum of existence itself. But she had never explained it. Never truly let you see.

Agatha frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

Rio was silent for a long moment before she sighed, tilting her head toward Agatha. “You’re carrying something impossible,” she said softly. “Something that shouldn’t exist.”

A slow, steady beat of silence. Agatha stiffened between you. “You mean—”

“I mean our child,” Rio murmured, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Do you truly think the universe will allow this to happen without consequence?”

A cold weight settled in your chest.

Agatha’s grip on Rio’s arm tightened, something raw in the way she held on. “You knew,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “You knew this wasn’t—wasn’t just—”

“Of course I knew.” Rio’s voice was quiet, pained. “I have always known.”

Agatha pulled back shifting further into you as if burned, her breath sharp. “And you didn’t think to tell us?”

Rio’s gaze didn’t waver. “Would it have changed anything?”

Agatha opened her mouth—closed it. You could see the war behind her eyes, the sheer weight of realization settling over her like a storm.

You forced yourself to breathe, to push through the swirl of emotions tangling in your chest. “So what does it mean?” you asked quietly. “What does it mean for our child?”

Rio swallowed, her usual unshakable presence suddenly fragile. “It means they are something the world has never seen before. Something the universe may not allow to remain….”

The words sent a sharp pulse of fear through you.

Agatha’s nails dug into the grass. “And when were you going to tell us this? After the baby was born? Or after you—” Her voice broke, frustration and fear warring within her.

Rio closed her eyes briefly, as if bracing herself. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to face it.” She turned her gaze to Agatha, something almost pleading in her expression. “Because I didn’t want to take this from you. From us.”

Agatha let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “You really think keeping it a secret was protecting us?”

Rio flinched. Just barely. But you saw it.

You reached for her hand again, holding tight. “You’re not alone in this,” you murmured. “We’re in this together.”

Rio exhaled sharply. “You say that, but you don’t—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together. “I am not human. I am not like you. I am—” She shook her head, closing her eyes. “And yet, I feel this. I feel everything, and I don’t know if that is a gift or a curse.”

Agatha’s expression softened. “Do you love us,” she asked, the words a quiet certainty.

Rio opened her eyes, and the weight of the universe sat heavy in them. “More than I was ever meant to.”

Silence.

Agatha exhaled slowly. “Then let us love you back.”

Rio let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “You already do.”

You squeezed her hand, your grip steady. “Then let yourself believe it.”

Rio stared at you, something unreadable in her expression. A moment later, she turned her gaze back to the sky, her fingers still curled around yours.

And slowly—hesitantly—she let herself relax.

The silence between you all softened, no longer heavy with unspoken truths but something warmer, something fragile. The weight of the night settled around you, pressing against your skin, filling the spaces between your ribs.

Agatha let out a slow breath “we’ll fight it,” she said, determination threading through her voice. “If the universe wants to take this from us, it’ll have to pry them from my damn hands.”

You nodded, the conviction settling into your chest, into the place where fear had lived only moments before. “We’ll find a way,” you murmured. “We’ll make sure our child is safe.”

Rio didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Agatha turned her head, narrowing her eyes. “Say something.”

Rio blinked, silver eyes unreadable in the dim light. “You think love will be enough?” Her voice was quiet, almost too soft.

Agatha’s jaw tightened. “It has to be.”

Rio stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiled—small, sad, aching. “Then hold onto that” she whispered.

The words settled between you, something fragile and uncertain. But you didn’t hear the truth buried beneath them. You didn’t hear what Rio couldn’t bring herself to say.

That love would not be enough.

That there was no fighting the inevitable.

That no matter how tightly you held on, the universe would always find a way to take back what was never meant to be.

But looking at you and Agatha now—at the fire in Agatha’s eyes, at the unwavering hope in yours—Rio found she could not bring herself to take this moment from you.

She could not compare to the depth of your love, to the sheer force of your belief. So she said nothing.

She only let herself stay, her fingers still curled around yours, her presence still steady between you both.

And for now, that was enough.

Even if she already knew—deep in the marrow of her being—that the universe had already made its choice.

The months that followed were deceptively normal.

Agatha still grumbled in the mornings, wrapped in blankets and groggy with sleep. You still fussed over her, teasing her when she groaned dramatically about the aches and pains of pregnancy.

The world still felt small and safe when the three of you were together, even with the unspoken tension humming beneath the surface.

But Rio had started to slip away.

It wasn’t obvious at first—just little things. She lingered less, her touch not as firm when she reached for your hand, her silver eyes distant when she thought neither of you were watching. She spent more time staring at the sky as if searching for something only she could see.

And then, she started disappearing.

Not just in the way she always had, fading between places, vanishing into the ether only to return with some cryptic comment and an unreadable expression. No, this was different.

This was purposeful.

She left without saying where she was going, stayed away longer than usual, and when she returned, she kept a careful distance—like she was preparing herself for the inevitable goodbye.

And you and Agatha noticed.

You noticed the way she flinched at soft touches, the way she lingered at the edges of rooms instead of settling between you like she always had. The way she avoided talking about the future as if refusing to acknowledge it would make it disappear.

Tonight, you were done ignoring it.

Rio stood near the window, bathed in the silver light of the moon, her back to you and Agatha. She had returned late, later than usual, and you had barely gotten a word out of her before she retreated into silence.

Agatha was the first to break it. “You’re leaving. It wasn’t a question.

Rio didn’t turn. “I have responsibilities.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s bullshit.”

Rio let out a slow breath, fingers tightening against the windowsill. “You both knew I couldn’t stay forever.”

Agatha scoffed. “You say that like you’ve been here for a fleeting moment instead of years now.” She leaned forward, eyes burning. “Like you haven’t made yourself a part of us.”

Rio’s shoulders tensed.

You took a step forward. “You don’t have to go.”

She finally turned, brown eyes cool, controlled. “Yes, I do.”

Something in you snapped.

“For what Rio?” Your voice cut through the room, sharper than you intended, and both women stilled. “For some grand cosmic purpose? For some duty that apparently matters more than us, more than your child?”

Rio’s gaze flickered. “It is not a matter of importance, it’s a matter of what is necessary.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, heat rising in your chest, voice raising. “You’re running.”

Rio flinched.

Agatha’s eyes widened slightly. You weren’t usually the one to explode.

But gods, you had had enough.

“You think if you leave first, it won’t hurt as much?” you snapped, stepping closer. “That we’ll just—what? Move on? Pretend you were never here?”

Rio’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “You will be fine without me.”

“No,” Agatha said, voice dangerously low. “We won’t.”

Rio closed her eyes briefly, inhaling as if steadying herself. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to us,” you demanded. “Tell us why you’re so insistent on leaving when you know damn well you don’t want to.”

Silence.

The room felt thick with it, heavy with unsaid words, with too much history.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—Rio whispered, “Because if I stay, I will only break you.”

Agatha inhaled sharply.

Your hands curled into fists. “That’s not your decision to make.”

Rio’s gaze met yours, something raw in it now, something terrified. “Yes, it is.”

You took another step forward. “No, Rio. It’s ours.”

Rio looked between you and Agatha, the weight of your words pressing against her. For a moment, just a moment, you thought she might finally let herself believe it.

Then, she exhaled, shaking her head. “I have stayed too long already.”

Agatha looked at you, her own frustration burning just beneath the surface. But this time, for once, you weren’t the one mediating. You were the one standing in front of Rio, blocking her path.

Your voice was softer now, but no less fierce. “Stay.”

Rio stared at you, the conflict raging behind her eyes.

And then—She looked away. And just like that, you knew. No matter what you said, no matter how much you fought, she had already made her choice. And it shattered something inside you.

The silence after Rio looked away was suffocating. You felt it clawing at your chest, a slow suffocation of something you weren’t ready to name, weren’t ready to accept.

Agatha’s jaw tightened, hands curling into fists at her sides. “Don’t you dare turn away from us.”

Rio’s breath was shaky, barely perceptible, but you caught it. A betrayal of her carefully crafted mask.

“I have to” she murmured.

“No, you don’t,” you said, voice sharp, but it cracked at the end, betraying the anger laced with hurt. “You’re choosing to. And you fucking know it—”

Rio’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her gaze still locked on the floor, as if looking at either of you would break what little resolve she had left.

Agatha surged forward, stopping just short of grabbing her. “Why?” The question ripped from her throat, raw and desperate. “Why are you doing this?”

Rio exhaled slowly, deliberately, before she finally lifted her head. And when she met your gaze, you saw it. The grief. The love. The unbearable weight of something she could not speak aloud.

“It’s already been set in motion” she said, voice softer than before, but no less final. “I can’t stay to watch it happen.”

A chill curled down your spine.

Agatha shook her head, her breath coming short now, frantic. “You don’t get to walk away because it hurts, Rio. You don’t get to leave us to deal with this alone.”

Rio’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile, but it never reached her eyes. “I haven’t had one moment alone” she whispered. “Not since I met you.”

“Then stay,” you begged, voice barely above a whisper now.

Rio reached out—not quite touching, just the ghost of a movement before her fingers curled into a fist and dropped back to her side. “I would give you forever if it was mine to give.”

You took a shaky step forward, but she lifted a hand, stopping you. Then, finally, she spoke the words you had been dreading.

“No me busques en las estrellas, amor. No me busques en los cielos. Si alguna vez me extrañas… búscame en los lugares donde el tiempo se detuvo para nosotros.”

It hit like a punch to the chest. A sharp, cruel twist of something so heartbreakingly final that for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“No,” Agatha whispered, voice breaking.

Rio’s eyes shone with something dangerous, something she had no right to feel when she was the one leaving. She lifted a hand, brushed her fingers lightly—so lightly—over Agatha’s cheek, then turned to you. For a moment, just a fleeting second, she looked as if she might say something else.

But she didn’t. Instead, she turned. And she was gone.

Not in the usual way—not fading like mist, not stepping between places as she always had. This was different.

This was final. This was goodbye.

The absence she left behind was deafening.

Agatha sucked in a sharp breath, staggering back a step. “No.”

You stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the space she had just occupied, willing her to reappear.

She didn’t.

Your chest ached, lungs burning with the breath you forgot to release.

“She’s gone,” Agatha whispered, voice hollow.

The words echoed in the empty space where Rio had once been.

And for the first time in your life—You had no idea if she was ever coming back. The silence left in Rio’s wake was unbearable.

Agatha was still staring at the space she had disappeared from, her hands trembling at her sides, her breath uneven. She looked so unlike herself—so lost.

And you—

You couldn’t let yourself break.

Not now.

So you swallowed the raw ache burning in your chest, buried the sharp, searing grief beneath the instinct to protect, to comfort. You turned to Agatha, stepping forward, reaching for her.

“She’s gone” she whispered again, her voice hollow.

You cupped her face, gently forcing her to look at you. “I know.”

Her blue eyes burned, but she didn’t pull away.

You ran your thumbs over the sharp lines of her cheekbones, grounding both of you in the only thing you had left—each other. “We’ll be okay,” you murmured.

Agatha let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “That’s the worst lie you’ve ever told.”

You huffed softly, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “Maybe.”

Agatha studied you then, eyes sharp despite the unshed tears gathering at her lashes. You should have known you wouldn’t be able to hide it from her.

Her hands covered yours where they rested on her cheeks, her grip firm. “You don’t have to do that….”

You blinked. “Do what?”

Agatha tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Pretend this doesn’t hurt you.”

Something in your chest twisted violently. You started to shake your head trying to step back, but Agatha’s grip tightened. “Don’t,” she murmured.

And just like that—Something cracked.

It started slow, a tremor in your hands, a stuttered breath you tried to hold back. Then Agatha’s fingers slid down, pressing over your pulse, grounding you, her touch as steady as it had always been, The first tear slipped free. Agatha exhaled softly, her thumb catching it before it could fall any further. “There you are,” she whispered.

And gods—You broke.

The sob tore through you before you could stop it, ragged and awful. The grief you had shoved down clawed its way out, relentless and unforgiving. Agatha caught you before you could fall.

She pulled you against her, arms curling around you, her warmth sinking into your skin. You gripped her tightly, fists twisting into the fabric of her clothing, clinging to her like she was the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely.

“She left,” you choked out. “She just—she just left.”

Agatha pressed her lips to the top of your head, her own breath uneven. “I know.”

You shuddered in her arms, the weight of it all slamming into you at once—the emptiness, the loss, the unbearable knowledge that Rio had made her choice and you couldn’t change it.

It wasn’t fair.

None of this was fucking fair.

Agatha’s fingers threaded through your hair, soothing, steady. “We’ll figure this out,” she murmured, voice softer now, her own grief laced beneath the words. “We always do.”

You knew she was just saying it to keep you from drowning in this, knew she didn’t believe it any more than you did. But gods, you needed to hear it. You buried your face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in.

After a long moment, Agatha whispered, “I don’t know how to do this without her.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Neither do I.”

The silence stretched between you again, thick with loss, with grief too big to contain.

And yet—

Even in the absence of Rio, even in the aftermath of everything she had left behind—

You had each other.

It wasn’t enough.

But it was something.

And right now, it was the only thing keeping you both from falling apart completely.

[masorciereviolette]

T.W.O.G: Made From Scratch & Truly Beautiful. A Witches Reckoning

Pairing: Post Salem Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha xReader x Rio

Warnings: Soft Beginnings,Past Events, Early Pregnancy Agatha, Fluff, Vulnerable Agatha, Explicit, Graphic Descriptions of Sexual Content, Graphic Cunnilingus, Teasing, Jealous Rio, Sub Agatha, Possessive Behavior, Praise kink.

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: Deep in the heart of a lush, secluded forest, three lovers have built a home away from prying eyes. For Agatha, Rio, and their partner, a life of secrecy is the only way to stay safe. But when Agatha, sharp-tongued, restless, and utterly unshakable—begins to falter, exhaustion weighing her down like never before, the discovery that follows changes everything.

A/N: Here's the next extended chapter, I truly hope you enjoy. This is really just going into further details of the night they found out Agatha was carrying Nicky. I quite literally could NOT get this specific scenario out of my mind. NOW please keep in mind they all love each other yes BUT the reader is fucking infatuated with Agatha, even if she never verbally admits so it like an unspoken bond. I tried to make that apparent in the extended chapters before this. I spliced a section into chapter 7 of the main story, so the beginning may feel familiar. I will also apologize now for any spelling mistake mistakes. I’m not the brightest and when I get excited, I type way too fast✋🏽😭 This can also be considered as an apology for all of the hurt I’m putting y’all through with these chapters man. 💀

MINORS DNI 18+ONLY

Link To Series Masterlist

The three of you had been tucked away in your small cottage deep within the lush forest, hiding from prying eyes and anyone foolish enough to try and find you. It wasn’t often that both of your partners stayed in one place long enough to feel settled, but here, now, it felt like home.

You had been the first to notice something was off.

Agatha had been restless all day, short-tempered and agitated. At first, you thought it was just her natural impatience, the way she could never sit still for too long.

But then came the exhaustion, the way she leaned against the kitchen table with a hand pressed to her forehead, her breathing uneven.

“You look like hell,” Rio had commented, casually peeling an apple with a small dagger. “Which is saying something, considering you normally look halfway to damnation anyway.”

“Shut up,” Agatha had muttered, rubbing at her temples.

You had exchanged a glance with Rio. It wasn’t often that Agatha let herself be seen like this—vulnerable, worn thin around the edges.

“Agatha,” you had said carefully, stepping closer. “Are you feeling alright?”

She had waved you off. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You don’t get tired,” Rio had pointed out, flicking the apple peel onto the table.

Agatha had given her a sharp glare. “Well, I do now, apparently—”

Rio had raised an eyebrow, something unreadable passing through her expression. Then, without warning, she had leaned forward in her seat, pressing a hand to Agatha’s stomach.

Agatha had recoiled instantly, swatting Rio’s hand away defensively. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

But Rio hadn’t responded—not at first. She had gone completely still, eyes dark with something knowing. And then she had smiled.

Not her usual smirk, not the sharp-edged amusement she wielded so easily, but something softer.

“Oh, my little witch….,” Rio had murmured, tilting her head gazing at Agatha’s stomach almost inquisitively. “You’re not sick. You’re pregnant.”

You had felt the words settle in the room like a spell, heavy with something unspoken.

Agatha had blinked. Once. Twice. And then—

“No, I’m not.”

Rio had chuckled, leaning back against the chair. “You are.”

“I would know if I were” Agatha had snapped, crossing her arms.

“Apparently not” Rio had hummed, looking deeply, deeply amused.

You had barely breathed, your own heart pounding too loudly in your ears. “Agatha,” you had said quietly, reaching for her hand. “What if she’s right?”

Agatha had opened her mouth, her expression a war between defiance and uncertainty, but then—she had hesitated. Her fingers had twitched in yours, grip tightening.

“That’s not—” She had cut herself off, swallowing hard. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, it is….” Rio had said smoothly, twirling the dagger between her fingers. “It happens when people like us, do all those filthy little things we’ve been doing, love.”

You had shot her a glare, but the teasing had been gentle.

“Agatha,” you had whispered again, giving her hand another squeeze. “You can check for yourself.”

Agatha had stiffened, and you could see the fear creeping in—the fear of believing, of hoping. But then, after a long moment, she had closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her stomach, calling upon her magic.

The room had gone utterly still.

And then—

A sharp inhale. A barely-there gasp.

When Agatha’s eyes had opened again, they were wide with something fragile, something wondrous.

“I—” she had started, but her voice had caught.

Rio had grinned. “Told you.”

Agatha had ignored her, turning to you instead. There had been something unreadable in her expression, something trembling at the edges.

“I don’t—” she had swallowed thickly, barely able to say the words. “I don’t know what to do.”

You had exhaled a shaky, breathless laugh escaping you. You brought your hand up to softly cup her jaw, tenderly caressing her cheek with the pad of your thumb “Then we figure it out.”

“Together…” Rio had added, her voice quieter than before.

You could see the shock and disbelief slowly morphing into a glimmer of awe and wonder in Agatha's eyes as the realization sank in.

Her hand remained pressed against her stomach, cradling the new life growing inside her. You watched as she took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to process this monumental news.

Rio smirked, clearly reveling in the rare moment of seeing Agatha at a loss for words. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a purr. "Well, this is a first. The great Agatha Harkness, brought to her knees by the unexpected fruit of our lustful labors."

Agatha shot her a glare, but there was no real malice behind it. "I am not—" she started, but Rio cut her off with a soft tut.

"Shh, don't try to deny it, darling. Your body doesn't lie." Rio reached out, resting her hand over Agatha's on her stomach once more, her thumb stroking gently. "We've been so careless, so utterly consumed by our desires that we forgot to consider the consequences. And now, look at you—carrying the proof of our love, growing right here."

Agatha's breath hitched, and she nuzzled into your palm almost unconsciously, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When she opened them again, you could see the fear and uncertainty still lurking there, but there was a spark of something else too—a fledgling excitement, a tentative joy.

You pressed a soft kiss to Agatha’s lips, relishing the feel of her warm flesh beneath your own.

The idea that the three of you had created a new life together sent a thrill of desire coursing through you, even as your mind raced with the implications of this revelation."We'll face this together," you murmured, pressing soft kisses along Agatha's jaw and down the column of her throat.

Your arm slowly slipped around her waist, hand gently rubbing circles on her lower back.

Agatha shivered under your touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips as you pulled her closer. "Together," she echoed softly, leaning into your caress.

Rio watched the exchange with a knowing smirk, her eyes glinting with wicked amusement. "Well, since we're all in this together, I propose we celebrate the occasion properly, don't you think?" she quipped, her voice dripping with innuendo.

Ignoring Rio's lewd suggestion for the moment, Agatha met your gaze again, her expression softening as she looked into your eyes. In that moment, the fear and uncertainty seemed to melt away, replaced by a profound tenderness and affection.

"I don't know what I would do without you—" she breathed, her voice raw with emotion. "Both of you. I can't believe this is happening, but...I'm glad. I'm glad it's with you."

You smiled softly, your heart swelling with love and devotion. "And I’ll be with you, every step of the way. No matter what."

With that promise hanging in the air, you leaned in to capture Agatha's lips in a deep, searing kiss, pouring all your love and reassurance into the embrace. Rio watched, a smirk playing on her lips, eagerly awaiting her own turn to worship the soon-to-be mother.

The cabin seemed to hum with the weight of the moment, the start of a new chapter in all your lives. Agatha melted into the kiss, her lips moving against yours with a desperate hunger, a need for comfort and reassurance.

Her arms wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against her, deepening the kiss with a soft moan. When you finally broke apart, her eyes were shining with unshed tears, a mix of joy and trepidation swirling in their crystal depths.

Rio cleared her throat, drawing your attention. "As much as I love watching you two make googly eyes at each other, I do believe I deserve some affection too." She stood grasping your chin gently but firmly, turning your face towards hers. Her thumb brushed across your bottom lip, a teasing caress. "Don't you think it's only fair, my darling?"

Before you could respond, Rio captured your lips in a searing kiss of her own, her tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you thoroughly. It was a kiss filled with passion and promise, a silent vow of support and devotion. When she pulled back, you were both left breathless.

Agatha watched the exchange with a heated gaze, her own desire for you both burning hot and bright. She traced the curves of your body, mapping out your form as if committing every contour to memory. "We're going to be parents…" she murmured, a note of disbelief still coloring her voice. "The three of us. A family."

"We are," you confirmed softly, leaning into her touch, your own hands roaming over her body, slipping up her spine and back around to the front of her waist.

Your hands idly traced the front of her dress, taking the string between your fingers, you pulled the small braided cord, releasing the tension of her corset.

Slipping your hand underneath, you could feel the heat of her stomach through her slip. You shut your eyes momentarily reaching out and you could feel it….the warmth of the new life growing within her, and it ignited a fierce, protective instinct in you.

Rio smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief as she watched your hands explore Agatha's stomach. "A very...intimately connected family," she purred "So, may we head to bed so we can properly celebrate? Or would you both rather stay here and continue to give me a show first?"

You could feel your body responding to Rio's suggestion, a pulse of arousal running through you at the thought of taking Agatha right here, with Rio watching, her eyes hungry and wanting. But you knew you needed to be gentle, needed to take care with your lover, your partner, your soon-to-be mother.

With a soft smile, you took a step back taking Agatha's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Bed" you murmured, already leading her towards the back of the cottage.

Rio followed close behind, her eyes glinting with anticipation. "As you wish," she said, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

Hand in hand, you stepped into the small room, Rio followed close behind. The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear—no matter what, you would face it as a family.

You could feel the heat of Agatha's gaze on you as you led her towards the bed, her eyes filled with a mix of love, desire, and a hint of nervousness.

Rio followed close behind, her own eyes dark with anticipation and a hunger that never seemed to be fully sated. As you reached the end of the bed, you turned to face Agatha, your hands coming up to cup her face, your thumbs brushing gently across her cheeks.

"It's going to be alright," you murmured, your voice soft and soothing. "We're going to take care of you, and of our little one. Together."

Agatha leaned into your touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she took a deep, shuddering breath. When she opened them again, there was a newfound sense of peace and resolve in their depths. "Together" she echoed, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Rio watched the exchange with a soft smirk "Together, and with love" she purred, stepping closer up behind you, her hands coming to rest on your hips, squeezing gently. "And maybe a little bit of lust thrown in for good measure."

You couldn't help but chuckle, even as a shiver ran down your spine at Rio's touch. You knew exactly what she meant, and the idea sent a fresh wave of desire coursing through you. But you also knew that you needed to be gentle, needed to take care with Agatha, to ensure that every touch, every caress, was filled with love and tenderness.

With that in mind, you leaned in, capturing Agatha's lips in a slow, sensual kiss, pouring all your love and devotion into the embrace. Your hands slid down from her face, trailing over the curves of her neck, her shoulders, coming to rest on the small of her back as you pulled her flush against you.

Agatha melted into the kiss, her own arms wrapping around you, holding you close, her body molding perfectly to yours. As you kissed, you felt Rio's hands start to roam over your body, her fingers untying your dress, softly stroking the skin beneath your slip, nails scraping teasingly.

Her touch was electric, sending sparks of pleasure racing through you, even as you focused on the soft, sensual kiss with Agatha.

Eventually, you broke apart, both of you breathing a little heavier, your cheeks flushed and your eyes bright with desire. Agatha licked her lips, her gaze flickering between you and Rio, a hunger in their depths that matched your own.

"What do you say we get rid of this pesky clothing and celebrate properly, hmm?" Rio murmured, her voice low and sultry. "I want to worship every inch of you, my love. Want to show you just how much you mean to us."

You nodded in agreement with her, already pulling at the front of your dress, once your arms were freed you tossed it aside. Peeling away the slip beneath, ready to discard it and any other barriers between you and your lovers.

Agatha did the same, shedding her clothing off and down her legs, revealing the smooth expanse of her pale skin, the gentle swell of her breasts. You could see the slightest curve of her stomach, barely even noticeable. The faintest hint of the new life growing within her.

Rio let out a low groan of appreciation as she drank in the sight of Agatha's body, moving closer, her eyes roaming greedily over every inch of exposed skin. "Exquisite," she breathed closing the small distance once more, reaching out to run a finger along the underside of Agatha's breast, tracing the delicate curve. "Simply exquisite."

You stepped up to the pair, eyes drawn to Agatha’s reactions at Rios teasing touches. You softly took Rios chin between your finger tips, turning her to look at you “dress off-“ you murmured stroking her bottom lip with your thumb

Rio's eyes flicked up to meet yours, a wicked glint in their brown depths as you took hold of her chin, turning her to face you. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, growing wider as your thumb brushed across her bottom lip, a teasing caress.

She leaned into your touch, her tongue darting out to flick against the pad of your thumb, a silent promise of the pleasures to come.

"As you wish, witchling" Rio purred, her voice a low, seductive rasp. She took a step back, giving you a show of slowly unlacing her corset, once off she let it fall off her shoulders along with her skirt and slip, pooling on the floor at her feet. Leaving her in nothing but a predatory smirk.

Throughout it all, Agatha watched with hooded eyes, her gaze heavy with desire as she took in the sight of Rio before her. You could see the way her chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, the way her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, a testament to the effect your presence, your touches, were having on her.

Agatha couldn't tear her gaze away as Rio finished disrobing. Her eyes roamed over every dip and swell, committing it to memory. Beside her, you could feel the heat radiating off Agatha's nude form, the air between you growing thick with tension.

Rio took a step closer, now standing before you both without a stitch of clothing. She reached out, trailing a finger along agathas jawline, down the side of her neck, over the swell of her collarbone.

"Isn't she beautiful, my love?" Rio murmured eyes flickering to you, her voice dripping with admiration and something far more primal. "Like a goddess come to life."

You licked your lips, eyes flashing with hunger. "Stunning," you agreed, your gaze still fixed on Agathas naked form.

Rio turned her attention back to Agatha, a wicked glint in her eye as she brought her hand up, guiding it to the small of agathas back, pulling her naked body flush against her own.

Moving to action you slid your hands over and around Agatha’s sides, mapping the curves of her waist and hips. Stepping around her, you secured your hand tightly around her hips, pressing your chest against her back.

The sensation of skin on skin sent a bolt of electricity through you. “I want to explore every inch of you" you murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her neck, just below her ear. "To taste you, savor you, until I know your body better than my own."

You could feel every curve and contour of Agatha's body, your hands roaming greedily over her bare skin. Her flesh was soft yet firm, yielding beneath your touch yet somehow still holding a strength that belied the power she wielded.

Agatha let out a shuddering sigh, arching into your caress as your fingers danced along her waist, her hips. Goosebumps prickled her skin as your chest pressed against her back, the warmth of your body seeming to seep into her very core.

Rio watched the two of you with heavy-lidded eyes, her own hands never still as they explored the expanse of Agatha's front.

She cupped the swell of Agatha's breasts, thumbs brushing over hardened nipples, eliciting a gasp from your lover's lips. "I can feel how much you need this," Rio murmured, voice a low rasp in the charged air of the bedroom. "How much you need to be touched, to be cared for, to be loved by us."

Agatha could only whimper in response, her head falling back against your shoulder as Rio's fingers continued their sensual assault on her sensitive flesh.

You felt a thrill of possessive pride, knowing that you and Rio were the cause of such wanton desperation in the powerful witch. Your hands slid downward, gripping the flare of Agatha's hips, holding her steady as Rio's fingers found the slick heat of her core.

"Look at you, so wet and ready for us already," Rio purred, slipping a finger between Agatha's folds, stroking the sensitive flesh. Agatha let out a choked moan, hips bucking into Rio's touch, seeking more of that delicious friction.

You could fucking smell her arousal in the air, groaning softly into her neck, you bit the soft skin teasingly before sucking the abused flesh between your lips.

You couldn’t wait till the addicting substance is coating not only your fingers but tongue as well. You gripped her hips tighter, holding her in place as you slowly pulled her back. Walking backwards you settled yourself on the foot on the bed, Pulling her down to sit directly on your lap. Legs spread, draping her thighs over your own in an presenting manner.

Rio was quick to adapt, stalking forward to follow you both. She dropped to her knees, crawling closer, closing the remaining distance between her and her prize. Groaning deeply at the sight in front of her she slid her palms up onto the top of agathas thighs, squeezing the warm flesh roughly.

Rio smirked up at you, her eyes glinting with wickedly as if she knew exactly where your desires lay. She brought her mouth down to Agatha’s dripping sex licking a single stripe up her slit, making sure to apply enough pressure so her tongue is nestled deliciously between agathas soaked folds.

Pulling away she makes a show of licking her lips clean before making eye contact with you once more "Delicious," she murmured, voice dripping with salacious intent. "Then again, everything about her is, isn't it my love?"

With that, she continued her sensual assault on your lover's body. You leaned in, pressing your lips to the back to side the of Agathas neck, teeth grazing over her racing pulse.

Rio licked and suckles hungrily at Agathas clit, flicking the sensitive bud with the tip of her tongue before drawing it back between her lips and suckling hard.

“Fuck, you taste divine-“ Rio growled against her sex, the vibrations of her voice only intensifying the sensation causing Agatha to thrash, you tightened your hold on her hips keeping her still.

Rio punctuated her words by thrusting her tongue deep inside of Agathas entrance, fucking into her with long, slow, deliberate strokes. Her fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, spreading her even wider, holding her legs open for her relentless assault

You nibbled roughly and sucked at Agathas neck,determined to leave marks, to brand her. “Look at you my love—“ you whispered softly against her skin. “I love seeing you like this, spread open, moaning like a desperate whore.” You hummed against her skin, bringing on hand up from her hip to softly caress her stomach “My beautiful girl, you are doing so well…”

Rio then attacked her clit with renewed fervor, the obscene sounds of her arousal filling the room. Sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves harshly as she plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into her weeping channel. She pumped them in and out, curling them to hit that specific spot deep inside that made the great Agatha Harkness quiver and scream.

Rio's mouth continued its relentless assault, stroking and circling Agatha's clit, fingers thrusting into her weeping core, at first languidly then with fever. Agatha was lost in a haze of sensation, lost in the dual stimulation of your touch and filthy words plus Rio's talented mouth and skilled fingers.

Her body was trembling, muscles pulled taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. You could feel her racing heart, could feel the way she struggled to draw breath into her lungs. She was so close, teetering right on the edge of ecstasy.

"That's it, my love" You breathed against her neck, trailing a line of kisses up to her ear. "Let go, my goddess. “ You whispered softly nipping her earlobe “Come for us, you deserve it all"

And with that, Agatha let out a silent scream, her body convulsing almost violently in your arms as one of her hands shot forward lacing into the back of rios hair tugging roughly, the other slipped on top of your own resting on her stomach. Curling her fingers inward to interlock with yours as her orgasm crashed over her, wave after wave of pure bliss radiating out from her.

You held Agatha securely against your body, your arm wrapped protectively around her trembling form as she rode out the intense waves of her climax. Your unoccupied hand stroking up and down her thigh, soothing her quivering limbs as you murmured soft words of love and admiration into her ear.

"That's it, my darling," you cooed, your voice low and soothing. "You're doing so well, my beautiful girl. You feel incredible my love—"

Rio slowed her movements, gentling the strokes of her tongue to match the tender tone of your words. She released Agatha's clit with a final, gentle suckle before placing a soft kiss right at her center.

Looking up at you both with a satisfied grin, pulling for fingers softly form agathas fluttering entrance, Rio brought them up to her mouth. Sucking them between her lips, she hummed before slowly pulling them out. She licked her lips, savoring the taste of their lover's pleasure.

"Look at her my witchling…" Rio purred, eyes glinting with pride and possessive desire. "Our goddess, lost in ecstasy, undone by our touch. What a stunning sight."

You smiled softly, knowing exactly what she meant. To see such a powerful, strong woman come apart in your arms, to know that you and Rio were the cause of such intense pleasure, was an addictive feeling indeed.

You pressed a tender kiss to Agatha's temple as she slowly drifted down from her high, her breath coming in soft, shuddering gasps. Your hand continued its soothing caress, trailing up her side, over the soft curve of her stomach, slightly below where your intertwined hands lay, rubbing tenderly.

"How do you feel, my love?" you asked softly, tilting her chin up to meet your gaze. "Are you alright?"

Agatha's eyes fluttered open, blue depths still hazy with the remnants of her climax. She let out a weak, breathless chuckle at your question, a fierce grin spreading across her face.

"I feel..." she started, pausing to take another shuddering breath. "I feel wonderful. Amazing. Like I could take on the world and conquer it, as long as I have you both by my side."

Her gaze flicked from you to Rio, a fierce love and affection shining in her eyes. "That was...incredible. Thank you, my loves."

You smiled softly, leaning in to capture her lips in a slow, tender kiss. You poured all your love, all your devotion, into the embrace, wanting her to feel the depth of your emotions.

Rio matched the sentiment, pressing a kiss to the inside of Agatha's thigh, her hands never ceasing their gentle caress of your lover's body. "Anything for you, my goddess" she murmured, voice low and full of promise.

The moment stretched on, time seeming to slow as the three of you remained entwined, a tangle of limbs and warmth on the edge of exhaustion and satisfaction. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the walls, casting soft shadows over your bodies as you basked in the aftermath of your shared passion.

There was something sacred in this—this intimacy, this quiet, unspoken understanding that bound you all together. The world beyond this room, with all its uncertainties and demands, felt distant, irrelevant in the face of the love that pulsed between you.

You reached for Agatha’s other hand, your fingers tracing over her knuckles with reverence before bringing it to your lips. You pressed a lingering kiss to her palm, feeling the way her breath hitched ever so slightly at the gesture.

“Rest now, my love,” you murmured, your voice low and tender against her skin.

You shifted with practiced ease, adjusting her spent form and pulling her up fully onto the bed into you arms. Every motion was deliberate, a silent vow of care and devotion.

From the floor, Rio stirred, the rustle of blankets a whisper in the quiet room as she moved. Her movements were unhurried as she rounded the bed, slipping up on beside you with the effortless grace she always carried. She slid closer, her body molding against yours as she draped an arm over your waist. Her fingers, ever restless, traced slow, idle patterns along your skin, a soothing caress that sent shivers of contentment through you.

“We’ll be right here,” you continued, your voice barely above a breath, infused with a promise that was as unwavering as the love you held for them both. “Keeping you safe and loved, always.”

Rio hummed in agreement, her lips brushing against your shoulder as she nestled against your back, her warmth a familiar comfort. “Together,” she affirmed, the word rich with certainty, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

And with that vow hanging between you, unbreakable, the three of you settled in, bodies pressing close, heartbeats steady and in sync. You felt the rise and fall of Agatha’s breathing against your chest, the rhythmic stroke of Rio’s fingers against your skin, the unshakable presence of the two people who undoubtedly made your world whole….

[masorciereviolette]

The Weight Of Grief 7 / ?

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha x Reader x Rio

Warnings: Hurt, Conflicting & Heavy Emotional themes, Flashbacks into the past, Comfort, Fluff, Domestic themes, Scared Agatha.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: Here's the next chapter, I truly hope you enjoy it because the little moments between the ladies are my most favorite things to write like ever. I have a few more intimate “memories” I think I’ll just reform the make into the last two extended chapters.

Taglist: @milflovers4 @brekker157 @loveshineslikethesky

Link To Series MasterList

The house felt empty in the wake of Rio’s departure.

Not in the physical sense—the walls still stood, the embers now extinguished released small curls of smoke into the air, the space between you and Agatha remained just as vast as it had been before.

But something had shifted.

The air was thick, heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. You could still feel the lingering cold from Rio’s presence, the way it clung to your skin like an afterthought.

It had settled into the cracks of the room, into the hollows of your bones, a ghostly imprint of something that had come and gone but left devastation in its wake.

Agatha hadn’t moved since Rio left.

She stood there, staring at the spot where Rio had last stood, her breathing uneven, her jaw locked so tightly you thought it might shatter under the pressure.

You had seen Agatha angry before. You had seen her furious, seen her wield her rage like a weapon, sharp and calculated, seen her cut through enemies with nothing but the sheer force of her will.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t fire waiting to be unleashed.

This was hatred, pure and cold and unforgiving, seeping into her veins like poison. She hated Rio.

Would never forgive her. And yet—

You swallowed hard, your own emotions tangled in a way you couldn’t quite untangle.

Because you should feel the same.

Rio had taken Nicholas. She had stolen something from you that could never be replaced, had plucked him from your lives like he was nothing more than a thread in the grand tapestry of the universe. And yet…

It wasn’t that simple and honestly It had never been that simple. Agatha’s fists clenched at her sides, her body trembling. Then, finally—finally—she spoke.

“I’m going to kill her.”You flinched.

Her voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t even particularly sharp. But it was absolute, A promise carved from something far deeper than anger.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay steady. “Agatha—”

“She took him from me…” Agatha cut in, her voice sharp as glass, slicing through the air between you. “She ripped him away and let me—”

She stopped, breath hitching.

Her shoulders rose and fell unevenly, her entire frame wracked with the effort of holding herself together, and when she turned to face you, her eyes were wild.

Grief. Rage. Fury. Pain.

All tangled together into something desperate.

“She let me wake up next to his lifeless body,” Agatha whispered, each word trembling under the weight of memory. “And now she stands here—here—like she has the right to speak to me?”

You didn’t say anything.

Because what could you say?

She was right.

She had every reason to hate Rio.

Every reason to want to rip her apart piece by piece.

But you also knew something else—something Agatha wouldn’t admit, maybe even to herself.

Rio hadn’t come here to gloat.

She hadn’t come here to mock.

She had come here because, deep down, she missed him too. She had loved him too. And that truth sat in your chest like a stone, heavy and unmoving.

Agatha turned away from you, running a shaky hand through her hair, her breath still uneven. “I don’t know why she’s here, but it’s not for us. It’s never for us.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Agatha…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her voice was sharp, cutting off whatever you were about to say.

She didn’t want to talk.

Didn’t want to feel.

Didn’t want to acknowledge the pieces of herself that were still breaking apart.

You hesitated, then exhaled softly. “Okay.”

A beat of silence.

Then—something flickered across Agatha’s expression, something exhausted, something lost, something so utterly fragile that it made your chest ache.

She sat down heavily onto the couch, rubbing a hand over her face, her fingers pressing hard against her temple like she could push the emotions away.

And without thinking, you moved to sit beside her.

You weren’t touching, but the space between you felt smaller now, the weight of everything pressing you together in a way words never could.

Your hand hesitated for only a second before you reached for hers, fingers intertwining without resistance.

Her grip was tight.

Not desperate, not pleading.

Just there.

A tether in the storm.

Agatha didn’t pull away.

That, more than anything, made something in your chest tighten.

Her fingers curled around yours, slow, uncertain, but firm. Like she wasn’t sure she deserved to hold on but couldn’t quite bring herself to let go. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You just sat there, hands intertwined, breath shallow, the weight of the your past pressing down on you both.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it—Agatha exhaled, her grip tightening just slightly, just enough for you to feel it.

“I hate her,” she whispered, but this time, it wasn’t a violent promise.

It wasn’t rage set to consume everything in its path. It was something broken, something raw.

Something that sounded like I hate that I can’t stop feeling this way. I hate that she was here. I hate that this hurts.

You swallowed hard. “I know.”

A shaky breath. A blink too slow. A tremor running through her fingers.

“I loved him.” The words cracked apart, splintering against the silence. She shook her head, staring at nothing, at everything. “I loved him so much, and I—”

She stopped, inhaled sharply, clenched her jaw so tight it should’ve hurt.

And then, in a breath that barely carried sound—

“I don’t know how to stop.”

Your heart ached, it was now painfully obvious that your conniving witch had been struggling with this more than she’s let on. Only problem is, you didn’t either.

So you didn’t let go.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t try to offer her empty words or useless comforts, you just held on.

——————————————————————

The first time you met Rio, you had been wary of her.

She had been intrigued by Agatha—the way she left power in her wake, the way she devoured magic like it was meant for her. But she had also been intrigued by you.

And that?

That had been dangerous.

Rio had watched you both like a puzzle she was dying to solve. She had seen something in you, something that even you hadn’t fully been aware of.

At first, you thought it was just fascination. Curiosity. But it was so much more than that. She wanted you.

Not just in the way she had wanted Agatha, but differently—and you both completely.

She had seen the way you could slow Agatha down, the way your magic could temper her hunger, the way you could anchor her when no one else could. And Rio had wanted that for herself.

She had wanted you both.

And for a time, you had wanted her too.

The three of you had been something reckless and indulgent, something devastating and perfect.

Agatha had been the fire, the hunger that burned through everything in its path. Rio had been the darkness, quiet and unshakable, a force that could not be moved.

And you?

You had been the one thing that held them together.

It had been intoxicating.

It had been everything.

You remembered the nights best.

The ones where the world felt too vast, too unwritten, and the three of you—Agatha, Rio, and yourself—existed in the spaces between fate.

A few particular nights had settled into your bones, the few you still clung to like the last breath of something beautiful.

It had been late, the air thick with summer’s warmth, the stars stretching endless above you. Agatha had been sprawled across your lap, grumbling about Rio’s insistence on watching the stars instead of doing something more entertaining.

“Oh yes, staring at the sky is a brilliant use of our time,” Agatha had snarked, shifting restlessly as your fingers carded through her hair.

“It is as if you know how to listen,” Rio had murmured from where she lay beside you both, arms folded beneath her head, gaze tilted toward the cosmos.

You had smirked, indulging Rio in her musings. “And what, exactly, do the stars have to say tonight?”

Rio had turned her head then, meeting your eyes with something heavy and unreadable. “That nothing lasts forever. That mortals and witches alike are foolish to believe in permanence.”

Agatha had scoffed, unimpressed. “Typical. You find the most dismal conclusions in everything, don’t you?”

Rio had merely smirked, rolling onto her side, the shadows beneath her eyes softening. “I find truth, darling. Whether you like it or not.”

The moment had lingered, a delicate thing caught between words unspoken.

You had reached for Rio’s hand without thinking, fingers brushing, tangling, an instinct as natural as breathing. She had squeezed back, her touch cool against the heat of your own.

“Then let’s be foolish for a while longer,” you had whispered, because at that moment, you wanted to defy the stars, the warnings, the inevitable.

And Rio—powerful, knowing Rio—had let you.

Because in the end, despite all her wisdom, she had wanted to believe in something, too.

Another night, Agatha had been restless. You could always tell when something unsettled her—she prowled, pacing like a caged thing, magic curling at the edges of her fingers.

“Agatha,” you had murmured from where you sat at the small wooden table in your hideaway, a flickering candle casting the room in gold. “Come sit.”

“Can’t,” she had muttered, running a hand through her hair. “Feels like my skin is too tight.”

Rio, lounging in the chair across from you, had merely watched her with an amused tilt of her head. “That’s because you’re a stubborn little thing who refuses to be still.”

“Says the one who has literally never sat still in her life,” Agatha had snapped back, but the bite in her words lacked venom.

You had shared a look with Rio, something silent passing between you before she stood, crossing the room in a few measured steps. Before Agatha could protest, Rio had slipped behind her, hands resting on Agatha’s shoulders, fingers pressing firm into the tense muscles there.

Agatha had stiffened at first, but Rio had merely hummed, kneading at the tension, her voice dipping lower. “You can’t always fight the restlessness, darling. Sometimes you just have to let it burn itself out.”

Agatha had exhaled sharply, and you had watched as the tension in her frame melted by degrees. You had smiled, pushing your chair back and standing to join them.

“I think you like this too much,” Agatha had accused, though she leaned into the touch.

“Of course I do,” Rio had smirked, “You’re insufferable when you don’t let yourself relax.”

You had chuckled, sliding your arms around Agatha’s waist from the front, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Just let us take care of you for once.”

Agatha had huffed, but there had been something fragile in the way she let herself be held between you and Rio, something unspoken in the way her fingers had curled into the fabric of your corset.

Rio had turned her head slowly, kissing her then soft and knowing, like she had all the time in the world. And for a moment, it had felt like she did.

It had been an ordinary evening when Agatha found out.

The three of you had been tucked away in your small cottage deep within the lush forest, hiding from prying eyes and anyone foolish enough to try and find you. It wasn’t often that your partners both stayed in one place long enough to feel settled, but here, now, it felt like home.

You had been the first to notice something was off.

Agatha had been restless all day, short-tempered and agitated. At first, you thought it was just her natural impatience, the way she could never sit still for too long.

But then came the exhaustion, the way she leaned against the kitchen table with a hand pressed to her forehead, her breathing uneven.

“You look like hell,” Rio had commented, casually peeling an apple with a small dagger. “Which is saying something, considering you normally look halfway to damnation anyway.”

“Shut up,” Agatha had muttered, rubbing at her temples.

You had exchanged a glance with Rio. It wasn’t often that Agatha let herself be seen like this—vulnerable, worn thin around the edges.

“Agatha,” you had said carefully, stepping closer. “Are you feeling alright?”

She had waved you off. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You don’t get tired,” Rio had pointed out, flicking the apple peel onto the table.

Agatha had given her a sharp glare. “Well, I do now, apparently.”

Rio had raised an eyebrow, something unreadable passing through her expression. Then, without warning, she had leaned forward, pressing a hand to Agatha’s stomach.

Agatha had recoiled instantly, swatting Rio’s hand away. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

But Rio hadn’t responded—not at first. She had gone completely still, eyes dark with something knowing. And then she had smiled.

Not her usual smirk, not the sharp-edged amusement she wielded so easily, but something softer.

Something real.

“Oh, my darling,” Rio had murmured, tilting her head gazing at Agatha’s stomach almost inquisitively. “You’re not sick. You’re pregnant.”

Silence.

You had felt the words settle in the room like a spell, heavy with something unspoken.

Agatha had blinked. Once. Twice. And then—

“No, I’m not.”

Rio had chuckled, leaning back against the chair. “You are.”

“I would know if I were,” Agatha had snapped, crossing her arms.

“Apparently not,” Rio had hummed, looking deeply, deeply amused.

You had barely breathed, your own heart pounding too loudly in your ears.

“Agatha,” you had said quietly, reaching for her hand. “What if she’s right?”

Agatha had opened her mouth, her expression a war between defiance and uncertainty, but then—she had hesitated. Her fingers had twitched in yours, grip tightening.

“That’s not—” She had cut herself off, swallowing hard. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, it is….” Rio had said smoothly, twirling the dagger between her fingers. “It happens when people do all those filthy little things we’ve been doing, love.”

You had elbowed her, but the teasing had been gentle.

“Agatha,” you had whispered again, giving her hand another squeeze. “You can check for yourself.”

Agatha had stiffened, and you could see the fear creeping in—the fear of believing, of hoping. But then, after a long moment, she had closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her stomach, calling upon her magic.

The room had gone utterly still.

And then—A sharp inhale. A barely-there gasp.

When Agatha’s eyes had opened again, they were wide with something fragile, something wondrous.

“I—” she had started, but her voice had caught.

Rio had grinned. “Told you.”

Agatha had ignored her, turning to you instead. There had been something unreadable in her expression, something trembling at the edges.

“I don’t—” she had swallowed thickly, barely able to say the words. “I don’t know what to do.”

You had exhaled a shaky, breathless laugh escaping you. You brought your hand up to softy cup her jaw, tenderly caressing her cheek with the pad of your thumb “Then we figure it out.”

“Together…” Rio had added, her voice quieter than before.

Agatha had looked between the two of you, her fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve as an anchor, into the edges of something she had never let herself want before.

And then, after a moment—hesitant, uncertain, but real—She had nodded. For a moment, the three of you had been infinite.

But deep down, it was you who was scared. You were too happy...this was too perfect…it couldn’t possibly last.

Rio had never been meant to keep either of you, She had always been something untouchable, something just beyond the reach of the living world. She had always known this wasn’t forever. And when Nicholas was born, she knew what had to come next.

She had tried to deny it, Had tried to pretend. But in the end, she had done what she was always meant to do. She had restored balance. And in doing so—she had not only ruined you, but possibly lost both. Forever.

—————————————————————

The weight of the memories settled heavily in your chest, pressing down like a leaden hand, squeezing the breath from your lungs. The morning air was cold, damp with the remnants of night, and yet the chill felt almost fitting.

The world was waking up, but the grief between you and Agatha remained suspended in time, untouched by the creeping light filtering through the window.

She hadn’t spoken since you both sat down, but words weren’t necessary to feel the storm raging beneath the surface.

It was there in the way her fingers curled just slightly around yours, the way her grip tightened, loosened, then tightened again—like she wasn’t sure if she should hold on or let go.

She hated Rio.

Would always hate her.

But she had loved her once, too.

And so had you.

The thought settled like an ache in your ribs, quiet but insistent, pressing against old wounds that had never quite closed. You exhaled slowly, staring at the floor, at the soft light stretching across the wooden panels. “We were fools, weren’t we?”

Agatha let out a short, humorless laugh, but there was no bite to it. Just weariness. “Beyond foolish.”

Another beat of silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Then—Agatha shifted. Not much. Just enough that the space between you felt a little smaller, the air a little warmer.

The silence between you wasn’t empty—it was filled with the ghosts of what had been, of what could have been. Of love twisted and undone by grief, by loss, by the inevitable pull of forces greater than yourselves.

Agatha’s fingers twitched against yours, like muscle memory, like some part of her still knew how to hold on even when her mind told her to let go.

You could feel the tension coiled beneath her skin, the war waging within her—pride and anger clashing against something softer, something that had never quite died despite everything.

She had always carried herself with such sharpness, with an edge that kept people at bay. Even in the moments when she let you close, there had been an untouchable part of her, something guarded, something wary. But now, she looked… lost.

Not just in thought, but in herself.

Her hand tightened around yours again, just for a second. And then, as if some final wall gave way, she leaned into you. Hesitant at first—like she was afraid you might push her away—but when you didn’t, when you only shifted to brace her weight, she let out a slow, unsteady breath and melted into you.

It was different from the way she used to fold into your arms—different from the nights spent wrapped in each other, tangled in warmth and whispers.

There was no teasing lilt to her voice now, no smug smirk against your shoulder. Just quiet exhaustion. Just a woman who had spent too many years fighting, only to find herself here, in the aftermath, with nowhere left to go.

Her head rested against your shoulder, her body pressing fully into yours, seeking comfort in a way she never would have allowed herself before. Not like this. Not without some kind of pretense.

But now, with her breath uneven against your collarbone, with her fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve as if anchoring herself there, it was clear—she needed this.

And maybe… maybe you did, too.

You lifted your free hand slowly, carefully, as if afraid she might pull away at the last second. When she didn’t, when she only let out another shaky breath, you let your palm settle against her back.

For a moment, she tensed, the last vestiges of her defenses clinging to her muscles. But then she sighed, something deep and tired, and finally—finally—she relaxed completely into you.

It was such a simple thing, the weight of her against you, the slow, almost imperceptible way her body sank as if she had been holding herself together for too long. As if she had forgotten what it felt like to be held at all.

You closed your eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of her—fainter now, dulled by time and distance, but still undeniably her.

The years had stolen so much from you both, carved chasms that neither of you knew how to cross. And yet, in this moment, with the morning light creeping in and the silence stretching between you, the distance didn’t feel quite as vast.

Not forgiveness. Not yet.

But something close.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The world outside stirred with the quiet sounds of morning—birds calling in the distance, the faint rustle of leaves shifting in the wind—but inside, everything was still. Just the quiet weight of Agatha against you, the unsteady rhythm of her breathing, the warmth of her body slowly seeping into yours.

You could feel it, the way exhaustion pulled at her, how the tension that had coiled so tightly in her muscles had begun to ease, but not completely. Even as she softened into your embrace, there was still resistance—like a tightly wound thread that hadn’t quite unraveled, like she was allowing herself this moment but refusing to fully surrender to it.

A flicker of concern worked its way through your thoughts, and before you could stop yourself, you spoke.

“At some point, I’m going to have to check you over, you know.” Your voice was quiet, careful, but firm. “Make sure you’re not hurt.”

Agatha’s body tensed instantly, and you knew before she even opened her mouth that she was going to argue.

“Oh, please.” Her voice, raw and edged with exhaustion, still carried the sharpness of her usual bravado. “What, do I look like a helpless damsel to you?”

You sighed. “No. You look like someone who’s had their magic stolen, fought brutally in what is now a wrecked living room-“ you said softly turning your head to assess the splintered furniture strewn across the floor “and has been running on fumes ever since.”

She scoffed, shifting against you but not pulling away. “I’ve survived worse.”

“That’s not the point,” you murmured. “You shouldn’t have to.”

She went quiet at that. You weren’t sure if it was because she didn’t have a retort or because she simply didn’t want to acknowledge the truth in your words.

You softened your hold, running a slow, reassuring hand along her back. “Just let me check. Later.”

Agatha let out an exaggerated sigh, like the mere idea of being fussed over was more unbearable than everything she had just endured. “Ugh. Fine. But only so you stop nagging.”

A wry smile ghosted over your lips. “Right. That’s why.” Another beat of silence. Then—

“I’m fine,” she muttered, like she needed to say it aloud to make it true.

Your grip on her tightened slightly. “I just need to make sure she didn’t hurt you. That was a messy fight.”

She huffed against your shoulder, the warmth of her breath brushing your skin. “Oh, please. That was nothing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She threw you into a wall.”

Agatha made an unimpressed noise. “She’s thrown me into worse.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her, and that’s when you noticed it—just a flicker, barely there, but real. The exhaustion carved into the lines of her face, the subtle way she winced when she shifted, the bruises that would probably start to bloom beneath the surface of her skin. She was holding herself together with sheer willpower, masking whatever aches and pains were settling in.

You sighed. “Agatha.”

She rolled her eyes, as if you were being dramatic. “Don’t give me that look.”

“Then please stop acting like you’re still invincible—”

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, though it was weak, barely formed. “But I look so good doing it.”

You shook your head, unable to stop the quiet laugh that slipped out. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are...”

A beat of silence. Then—Agatha’s smirk faded, and she exhaled, slow and measured. When she spoke again, it was softer, almost reluctant.

“I’m really fine,” she said, and this time, there was no bravado, no sarcasm—just quiet exhaustion. “I just… don’t want to think about it right now.”

You studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

She blinked, like she had been expecting you to push back.

“But later,” you added, voice gentle but firm. “No excuses.”

Agatha let out another dramatic sigh, tilting her head against you. “You’re so annoying.”

You smirked. “I learned from the best.”

A huff of laughter, barely there, but real.

And then—Agatha shifted back again, pressing her weight more fully into you, her body settling, her breathing evening out. It was slow, hesitant, but deliberate. Like after all these years, after all the pain, she was finally letting herself rest.

You didn’t push her. You just held her, grounding her the way you always had. Eventually, you felt her fingers tighten around your sleeve, barely a whisper of movement, but enough. Enough to tell you she wasn’t just letting you in—she was holding on.

[masorciereviolette]

T.W.O.G: In The Shadows She Lingers…….

Pairing: Post Salem Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha x Reader x Rio

Warnings: Explict, Graphic Descriptions of Sexual Content, Graphic Cunnilingus, Teasing, Pervy Rio, Agatha revels at the attention tho, Possessive Behavior, Dom/Sub Behavior but it’s really just the reader at the mercy of these two psychopaths, Agatha is a warning on her own stg, Praise if you can call it that- This would be several months after the initial meeting. I’ll be uploading another chapter, showcasing some sweet // vulnerable moments between the three ladies soon!!!

Word count: 3.1k

A/N: Here's the next extended chapter, I hope you enjoy it!! Ts is LITERALLY just straight filth ngl ✋🏽😭

Summary: What starts as another sensual night with Agatha quickly turns into a game of taunting & submission once you realize you have an observer watching in the shadows…..

Link to series masterlist

The warmth of Agatha’s body against yours was dizzying, her mouth hot and insistent trailing soft kisses across your chest, her fingers trailing over your skin with lazy, practiced ease.

The room was dim, lit only by the flickering embers in the hearth of your shared bedroom, the air thick with the scent of magic and something smokier—desire, want, a hunger that neither of you had ever been good at tempering.

Kissing her way up your throat and across your jaw, her teeth grazed your lower lip before she bit down, just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make you feel it.

She laughed into the kiss, low and wicked, her nails scraping down your sides, teasing.

“You’re distracted,” she murmured, breath ghosting against your mouth. “That won’t do.”

You barely had time to react before she was on you again, pressing you back against the bedding, stealing the air from your lungs with the sheer force of her kiss.

Heat pooled low in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter, your fingers tangling in thick waves of her hair, pulling her closer, needing more.

And then—A shift. Something—changed.

You felt it before you saw it, the familiar and unmistakable prickle of awareness along your spine.

The weight of a gaze. Watching. Waiting.

You stiffened—just slightly, just enough that Agatha felt it too.

Her lips stilled against yours, her fingers frozen where they had been tracing delicate, teasing patterns along your naked hip. For a brief second, neither of you moved.

Then—She smiled.

Slow. Deliberate.

Not in amusement.

Not in surprise.

But in delight.

“She’s here, isn’t she?” Agatha murmured, her lips brushing your jaw, her voice smooth, rich with satisfaction.

Your stomach twisted.

Because you knew who she meant.

Rio.

You didn’t need to turn to see her.

Didn’t need to look.

Because you felt her.

Lurking. Waiting.

Enjoying the show.

And instead of pulling away—

Instead of stopping—

You let yourself linger.

Let Agatha’s hands continue their slow, teasing descent down your body.

Let your head tilt just slightly, exposing more of your throat, as if offering yourself up like something meant to be devoured.

If she was watching—if she was truly watching—then you might as well make it worth her while.

Agatha caught on instantly.

Because of course she would’ve.

Her smirk sharpened, dark amusement flickering behind her gaze as she ran her tongue along the seam of your lips before moving lower, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your jaw. Her fingers curled under your chin, tilting your head further, truly putting you on display.

For her.

For Rio.

Your breath hitched.

Agatha hummed in satisfaction. “Now, that’s interesting.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to calm your nerves as you lay tangled with Agatha. The air was thick with tension and anticipation.

Agatha looked like a goddess, blue eyes glinting with mischief as she smiled down at you, a wicked curve that promised all sorts of sinful delights. Her long hair tumbled around her shoulders like a dark waterfall.

She smirked confidently, enjoying the effect she had on you. "You're playing with fire, little witch," Agatha purred grinding her hips down slowly, voice low and intimate despite the presence of the third. "The both of you are testing the limits of my patience."

Agatha's gaze flicked to where Rio lingered in shadows, taking in her predatory stance, the gleam of interest in her eyes. She turned back to you, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a slow, easy smirk playing at her lips.

But her eyes—

Oh, her eyes told a different story.

They flickered between you and Agatha, dark with something unreadable. Something hot.

Something possessive.

Agatha didn’t pull away from you.

Didn’t even flinch.

If anything, she preened.

Her fingers dragged lower, her lips still close to your throat as she exhaled, lips curling into something knowing.

“You don’t have to lurk in the shadows, darling,” she purred, fingers tracing along the bare skin of your collarbone. “We know you like to watch.”

Silence.

And then—

Rio chuckled.

Low. Indulgent.

“Oh, querida,” she murmured, stepping closer, her voice like silk, smooth and deliberate. “I don’t watch-”

She tilted her head, eyes dragging over Agathas exposed form currently slotted between your quivering thighs, slow and lingering, before flickering back.

“I admire…”

Agatha laughed softly, pressing a final kiss to your skin before turning her gaze fully toward Rio, her smirk growing sharper.

“See?” she mused , dragging a single finger down the length of your throat & all the way down your torso, nails scraping light as a feather. “She likes this….”

Your breath hitched, heat curling low in your stomach. Because she wasn’t just talking about Rio anymore. She was talking about you.

Rio hummed, taking another slow step forward closer to the bed, just close enough for the space between you to feel too small.

Close enough that you could feel the weight of her gaze against your skin.

Close enough that you knew, without a doubt, she had felt every moment of what you had just done.

And she liked it.

“This is interesting,” Rio mused, her voice quieter now, heavier. Her gaze flickered over you, considering. Assessing.

“I wonder…” she trailed off, letting the words linger, waiting to see who would bite first.

Agatha did.

Her smirk deepened, her fingers ghosting along the edge of your underwear teasingly.

“Oh, don’t be shy, darling,” she murmured, voice rich with wicked pleasure. “If you have a question—ask it.”

Rio’s lips curled.

Slow. Indulgent.

And something in her eyes—

Something dark.

Something dangerous.

Told you that she would.

The air in the room thickened, a quiet electricity crackling between the three of you, charged and waiting to ignite.

Rio took her time, every step deliberate as she closed the distance. Agatha remained sprawled against you, relaxed and composed, as if she had orchestrated this moment from the start.

Her fingers still traced absentminded patterns along your skin, her touch featherlight, but her attention was fixed on Rio now, a predator meeting another predator’s gaze.

“I wonder,” Rio murmured again, stopping at the edge of the bed. Her fingers grazed the carved wood, a lazy caress that sent a shiver racing down your spine. She let the silence stretch, let the anticipation coil tighter.

And then—

“What will you do,” she mused, her voice rich and slow, “when you realize I don’t like to be taunted?”

The words hit like a spark to kindling.

Agatha didn’t tense, didn’t waver. She only tilted her head, considering, amusement flickering behind her bright eyes. “And here I thought you enjoyed the show,” she purred.

Rio smiled, but it wasn’t kind. It was sharp, knowing. Possessive.

“Oh, I did,” she assured, and you felt the heat of her gaze settle on you once more, lingering like a touch.

“But appreciation,” she leaned forward, close enough that the warmth of her breath ghosted over your skin, “is not the same as permission.”

Your stomach twisted, a delicious kind of anticipation curling in your gut.

Agatha only laughed, utterly unbothered, utterly delighted. “Possessive little thing, aren’t you?” she mused, trailing her fingers lower, her touch just barely brushing over the thin barrier of fabric covering you.

Your breath caught.

Rio’s gaze darkened.

She reached out then, slow, measured, her fingers catching Agatha’s wrist before she could go further. Not rough, not forceful—but firm.

Agatha raised a brow, intrigued.

You felt caught in the space between them, in the unspoken challenge passing through the air.

Rio dragged Agatha’s hand away, but didn’t let go. Instead, she lifted it between them, studying the delicate bones of her wrist, the way her pulse fluttered beneath smooth, unbothered skin. Then, with a dark smile, she turned it over and pressed a kiss to the inside of it.

A taunt. A promise. A warning.

Agatha’s lips parted, her gaze flickering just slightly—surprise, intrigue, approval.

Rio leaned closer, her eyes drinking in every delectable detail of your entwined forms, an appreciative hum escaping her lips.

"Mmm, Agatha," she purred, her voice a caress in the darkened room. "Always so greedy, aren't you? Keeping the best spoils for yourself-"

She kneeled right beside you on the bed now, a figure draped in dark green robes, her hair a wild mane of dark waves. The air around her seemed to shimmer and blur with heat, hinting at the immense power coiled within.

Rio reached out her hand, fingers tipped with wickedly sharp nails, trailing along your hip, over the curve and dips of your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Agatha didn't protest, didn't pull you away. "But I must say, querida, you do look rather...delectable. Spread out like this."

Rio smirked at you, eyes glinting with mischief and hunger. "Doesn't she, Agatha?"

She leaned in closer, her face inches from yours now, you could smell a hint of dark spices and earth clinging to her skin, an intoxicating mix of power and danger. "Such a pretty little plaything you've found. I'm surprised you'd share-"

She dragged a finger down your stomach then, leaving a tingling ache in its path. "But I suppose I can forgive you that transgression...this time." A wicked grin spread across her face. "Perhaps I could be persuade to play with you both?"

And when Rio's attention turns to back you, you feel an electric thrill course through your body as her piercing brown eyes lock with yours, a cruel smile playing at the corners of her full lips. She leans in closer, her voice dropping to a husky purr

"Mmmm, it seems our dear Agatha has been keeping such a pretty secret from me, cariño. No matter, I do so love uncovering the truth, piece by delectable piece." Rio's fingertips trail feather-light down your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Tell me, sweetheart, what is it about you that has our villainous vixen so... enamored? Is it these luscious curves," her hand boldly cups your breast, squeezing, "or perhaps this vivacious spirit, so ripe and full of life?"

Rio chuckled darkly, her fingers tracing maddening patterns on your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

"Oh, I think it's this spirited fight you put up—" Rio purred, her voice a velvet caress even as her words dripped with malice. "Not that it will do you any good in the end, cariño. In fact, it just makes breaking you all the more delicious."

She leans in to breathe in your scent, a dark chuckle rumbling from her chest. "I can practically taste it, mi amor. And I must have more." Rio's lips brush the shell of your ear as she whispers

Her hand slid lower, over your belly and down your thigh currently draped around Agatha’s hip, squeezing and kneading your flesh possessively. Rio's eyes flicked to meet yours, boring into you with a hypnotic intensity.

"I'm going to take my time with you, sweetheart. peeled away layer by tantalizing layer until there's nothing left but a mewling, desperate little creature, craving only my touch."

Rio crawled up on to the bed skillfully slipping behind you. She pulled you backwards to rest between her legs, your back firmly pressed against her chest. A dark queen surveying her prize.

"I wonder just how much of that pretty spirit will remain once we've fucked you stupid, hmm?" Her fingers slipped lower down your hips, squeezing the soft skin with a wry smirk.

Rio skimmed her fingers up your stomach before squeezing your breasts. She palmed the soft mounds roughly, fingers sinking into your plush flesh as she pinched and rolled your nipples between clever digits.

Dipping her head down to the column of your neck, she drew the warm skin of your pulse point into her mouth, suckling greedily as if to mark you, to lay claim to your body as her own.

Agatha watched through hazy eyes, panting harshly as Rio teased you ruthlessly. After a few moments your needy whimpers broke the spell.

She grinned wickedly before crawling closer to you, slowing lifting your ankle up pressing a tender kiss to the warm skin.

Closing the small distance she alternated between soft nips a slow kisses down the inside of your leg, until she reach your inner thigh, choosing then to suck a trail a dark and no doubt lasting, marks to her desired destination.

Guiding your leg over her shoulder, she slotted herself back between your spread thighs Trailing her nose across your cloth-covered sex, she felt the dampness, knowing their touches and words weren't in vain.

You gasped softly at the intimate contact, your hips subtly tilting up seeking more. You watched panting softly, as she settled between your legs. You squirmed beneath her impatiently, one hand fisting in the blanket beside you.

Taking the thin fabric between her fingers and teeth she ripped the offending garment open & off, revealing her sweet prize. The sight of your glistening folds, slick and swollen begging for her touch, made her mouth water.

Agatha smirked up at you devilishly as a small gasp tore from your lips. Swiftly pinning your hips down to the bedding she licked a long, deliberate stripe up your weeping slit, roughly sucking your clit between her lips, rolling her tongue around it slowly, revealing it the way your whimpering has ceased—replaced by high pitched filthy moans.

Rio gripped your breasts harder as Agatha feasted on your needy cunt, kneading the soft flesh roughly. She could feel your nipples hardening into stiff peaks against her palms, could hear the desperate moans spilling from your lips as agatha ate you out with wild abandon

"Fuck, look at her go," Rio purred, rolling and tugging at your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. "She's fucking drooling all over your pussy sweetheart-"

Agatha licked and suckles hungrily at your aching clit, flicking the sensitive bud with the tip of her tongue before drawing it back between her lips and suckling hard, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting up your spine.

“Fuck, you taste divine-“ Agatha growled against your sex, the vibrations of her voice only intensifying the sensation. “I could eat this pretty pussy for hours and never get enough-“

She punctuated her words by thrusting her tongue deep inside your fluttering entrance, fucking into you with long, deliberate strokes. Her fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, spreading you even wider, holding you open for her relentless assault

Rio nibbled and sucked at your neck, determined to leave marks, to brand you as theirs. “Look at you, falling apart so beautifully for us. I love seeing you like this, spread open, completely at our mercy.” She hummed against your skin.

Agatha lapped and suckled at your clit with wild abandon, the obscene sounds of your arousal filling the room. She could feel your walls starting to flutter, your body tensing as she pushed you closer to the edge.

“That's it bunny, Come all over my face like the desperate little whore you are-“

She attacked your clit with renewed fervor, sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves harshly as she plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your weeping channel. She pumped them in and out, curling them to hit that specific spot deep inside that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

Your body convulsed wildly as the intense stimulation became too much to bear, a scream of ecstasy tearing from your throat.

Your inner walls clamped down viciously around Agatha's invading fingers, rippling and gushing as your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave.

Agatha growled in satisfaction against your spasming sex, not letting up her assault for a single moment. She continued to suckle and thrust, prolonging your climax, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your shaking form.

"Fuck yes, scream for us," Rio purred darkly in your ear, feeling your body writhe against hers. "Let anyone listening know just who you belong to”

As your climax began to subside, Agatha slowly withdrew her fingers, bringing them up to her mouth to suck your essence from them. "Delicious," she purred, her voice low and rough with lust.

She crawled up your body, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, forcing you to taste yourself on her lips and tongue.

Agatha smirked against your lips, feeling your body tremble and quake from the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. She didn't release you from the passionate kiss, her tongue plundering your mouth, sharing your intimate essence and leaving you breathless.

Pulling back slightly, Agatha's eyes glinted with wicked promise as she gazed down at your disheveled form. Strands of your hair clung to your sweat-dampened forehead and your chest heaved with each ragged breath. The sight of you, freshly fucked and panting, only spurred on her depraved desires.

"Look at you, coming undone so beautifully for us," Agatha purred, her voice a low, seductive rumble. "This is just the beginning, sweetheart. We're going to make you come over and over again until you forget your own name, until all you can think about is the feeling of our fingers, our tongues, burying inside this desperate cunt."

She trailed a hand down your body, fingers skimming over the soft swells of your breasts, your stomach, before coming to rest at the top of your thigh. Agatha traced small circles around your overly sensitive clit, making you shiver and gasp.

"Rio and I are going to take our time exploring every inch of this gorgeous body, discovering all the secret spots that make you moan and writhe. And once we've learned you completely, we'll use that knowledge to make you scream."

She punctuated her dark promise with a sharp nip to your earlobe, sending a whole new jolt of sensation straight to your core. Looking past you, Agatha gave Rio a wicked grin.

If one thing was abundantly evident, it was that these two women in your bed tonight would ultimately be the death of you, You were absolutely fucked & you honestly couldn’t care less.

[masorciereviolette]

T.W.O.G: An Alluring offer from an unknown visitor

Pairing: Post Salem Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha x Reader x Rio

Warnings: Post Salem Agatha, Agatha knows of rios existence just not of what or who she technically is yet. They’ve had a handful of encounters before, most filled with teasing & manipulative conversation. Rio is absolutely infatuated with Agatha & now by surprise you as well.

Word count: 2.8k

A/N: Here's the next extended chapter, I hope you enjoy it!!

Summary: An unexpected visitor arrives at your cottage— one Agatha seems to be already strangely acquainted with. A mysterious and powerful woman who admires Agatha’s ruthless nature and is intrigued by the Reader’s ability to temper it, sufficiently discouraging her favorite toy from killing.

Their meeting is thick with tension, flirtation, and unspoken promises, as Rio presents an unspoken invitation, an opportunity that neither Agatha nor the Reader can ignore.

The encounter is a game, a test, and an invitation into something far more dangerous than either of them has yet to name. And Agatha, ever the opportunist, is ready to play

Link to series masterlist

You knew Agatha Harkness before she knew herself. Or, at least, before she accepted what she had become.

You weren’t sure when you fell in love with her. Maybe it was when she let you walk away that night, the coven spared—bruised, shaken, but alive.

Maybe it was when you found her later, all smug curiosity and flirtation, as if daring you to challenge her again.

She had come to you in the aftermath of her unmaking, from the ashes of her own covens corpses, power thrumming beneath her skin like a living thing.

She did not flinch whenever she spoke of it. Did not falter when she told you how she had turned against them all, how the magic they had meant to burn her with had crackled in her hands instead, bending at her will.

“I didn’t need them,” she had said simply. “Not anymore.”

And you believed her.

Agatha was many things—clever, selfish, insatiable—but she was not untouchable. Not from you.

You had seen it in the way she looked at you, the way her voice dropped just slightly when she whispered your name, the way her body curled around yours in the deep hours of the night when she thought you were asleep.

she needed you.

And that, more than any power, any spell, any wicked little trick she had ever conjured, was the most dangerous truth of all.

But you were not afraid.

Not of her.

Not of what you had become.

You had known what it meant when you kissed her for the first time, when she kissed you back, when she let you in like no one else before.

You had chosen each other.

And that should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Just another simple evening at home, or at least it was supposed to be- it arrived like a shadow at dusk—silent, seamless, unnoticed until she wanted to be.

You felt it before you saw her. The air shifted, thickening with something unseen but felt & Agatha noticed it, too.

She didn’t look up right away, but you saw the way her fingers twitched against her cup, the way her body tensed just slightly in her seat, a wolf catching the scent of something other.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you finally turned toward the doorway.

But it wasn’t her.

A woman, draped in green, leaning against the threshold of your home like she had always belonged there.

And when she smiled, slow and sharp, you understood.

This was not a mortal woman.

“Well,” she mused, eyes flickering between you and Agatha, “aren’t you two a sight?”

Agatha raised a brow, but did not move from her chair. She simply swirled the dark liquid in her cup and exhaled.

“You’ve got five seconds to explain why you’re here before I turn you into something useful. Like kindling.”

She chuckled. Unbothered.

“Always so dramatic,” she mused, stepping further inside. “And yet, you still don’t even know my name.”

Agatha’s magic curled at her fingertips. “I never cared for your name-”

The woman tsked, shaking her head as if amused by a petulant child.

“You should,” she murmured.

Silence.

She exhaled, slow and measured, like she was savoring the moment.

“Agatha Harkness,” she murmured, testing the name like it was something expensive on her tongue. “A little witch with a big appetite.”

Agatha’s fingers drummed idly against the armrest. “Flattery won’t get you far, darling. Try harder.”

The woman’s lips curled.

“Flattery?” She tilted her head, studying her. “Oh, no, querida. That was admiration.”

And just like that, the energy in the room shifted.

Agatha felt it, you could tell.

Felt the weight of the words, the genuine intrigue woven between them. And that—that—caught her attention more than anything else.

“You’re still watching me-” Agatha guessed, voice smooth but sharp.

“Not just watching,” she corrected. “Appreciating.”

She took a slow step forward.

“You’ve done something rather impressive, Agatha. A woman without a coven—without a guide—and yet, you’ve left a trail of witches in your wake. Some say reckless.” She hummed. “I say remarkable.”

Agatha smirked. “You say a lot of things.”

The woman chuckled, dark and low. “I do. And yet, I’m still here.”

You saw the moment Agatha registered it.

The game.

The shift from hostility to something else.

Something dangerous.

Something fun.

Agatha leaned back in her seat, letting her magic settle, just slightly.

“And what exactly do you want, stranger?”

She smiled. And then— Her gaze flickered to you, seated silently on the floor. And everything changed.

“You” she murmured, then turning her full attention to you now.

You didn’t move. Did not flinch. But you felt her,

Felt the way her eyes dragged over you—not in hunger, not in malice—in interest.

“Now you-” she mused, as if tasting something unexpected. “You are different.”

Your jaw tensed. “And what does that mean?”

The woman smiled.

“It means,” she said, taking a slow step forward, “that you intrigue me.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed over her face.

“Agatha is power,” she continued. “Uncontrolled. Insatiable…..”

Her eyes darkened.

“But you?”

She let the words linger. “You’ve managed to stop her-”

Agatha tensed.

“Not stopped,” she corrected, glancing at her briefly humor lighting up in her eyes. “But… slowed.”

Her gaze returned to you, sharp and curious.

“I had to see for myself,” she murmured. “Had to meet the one who could pull the storm back from its edge.”

Her head tilted slightly, lips curling in amusement.

“You must be something truly special…..”

Silence stretched.

Agatha’s fingers twitched.

But she didn’t speak.

She was watching.

Waiting.

She took another step closer, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you.

“You do know what she is, don’t you?”

Your heartbeat quickened.

“Yes,” you said.

The woman hummed.

“And yet, here you sit.”

Another step, She was close now. Too close.

“You’ve already chosen her,” she murmured. “Haven’t you?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

She saw it.

And she liked it.

Her lips twitched.

“Tell me,” she murmured, leaning down close enough that you could feel the coolness of her breath against your skin.

“What does it feel like?”

You swallowed. “What does what feel like?”

Her smile deepened.

“To have her at your mercy…..”

The air in the room grew thick.

Heavy.

Charged. But then—Agatha spoke breaking the tension between you both.

“Tell me-” she hummed leaning forward in her chair, casual but taut, “are you always this insufferable, or is this just for me?”

The woman’s lips twitched.

“Ah,” she exhaled, finally turning back to her. “There she is.”

She smirked, but her eyes flickered back to you once more.

A flicker of something unspoken.

“You are both quite fascinating” she admitted.

Then—

A pause.

A shift.

Something darker.

“But tell me, little witches…” She took a final step back, just enough to linger.

“Wouldn’t you like to see what else I can offer you?”

The invitation was unspoken.

But felt.

A pull, deep and undeniable. Something vast. Something inevitable. And as her lips curled into something slow and knowing—

The air hung thick between you, charged with something neither wholly hostile nor entirely inviting. A test. A game. A trap, perhaps—but then, wasn’t that the fun of it?

Agatha smirked first.

Her fingers traced the rim of her cup, lazy, unbothered. But you knew her well enough to see it—the flicker of calculation behind her gaze, the way her weight shifted ever so slightly, as if preparing for a strike she had not yet decided to take.

“See, the thing about gifts…” she mused, tilting her head, “is that they rarely come without strings. And I hate feeling tangled.”

Her smirk deepened. “Ah,” she exhaled, amused. “But some strings, my dear witch, are meant to be pulled.”

The air between them crackled.

You could feel it—two forces circling, teasing, threatening to collide.

She let the silence stretch, let the weight of her presence settle against your skin like an unspoken promise. Waiting. Watching.

You exhaled, slow, steady.

“what exactly are you offering?” you asked, your voice measured but not uncertain.

She hummed, pleased by the question.

Her eyes gleamed, sharp and knowing, and for a moment, she simply looked at you, as if weighing something unseen.

Then—

“An experience….” she said.

Agatha stilled.

You felt it more than you saw it—the shift in her posture, the way her fingers, which had been idly tracing the rim of her cup, froze just barely before resuming their movement.

Agatha’s voice was deceptively light. “You do love being vague, don’t you?”

The woman chuckled, stepping away now, her fingers grazing the back of an empty chair as she moved.

“Vagueness,” she murmured, “is a tool. A very effective one, in the right hands.”

She met your gaze once more.

“And I suspect,” she mused, “that yours are just the right hands….”

The woman carefully watched the two of you, amusement playing at the edges of her lips like a secret she was savoring. The tension in the room had shifted—not dissipated, but coiled into something quieter, something patient.

Agatha exhaled slowly, tilting her head. “You do enjoy the mystery, don’t you?”

She smirked. “I find it keeps things interesting.”

“You seem to know our names,” you said cutting in, voice even. “But we don’t know yours.”

Agatha hummed in agreement, though her fingers twitched idly. “A little rude, don’t you think?”

The woman’s gaze flickered between you both, weighing something unseen. And then, finally—She smiled.

Not the sharp, teasing curl of before.

Something different.

Something real.

“Rio,” she said at last, the name rolling off her tongue like it belonged there, like it had always belonged. “That’s what you can call me.”

Agatha raised a brow. “Can?”

Rio’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. “Names have power, darling.” She glanced at you. “And I do like to keep some for myself.”

But the way she said it—the way she let the name settle between you—felt like more than just a word. It felt like an offering. Like a choice.

Like a challenge.

And Agatha—oh, she liked challenges.

Her smirk deepened, eyes flickering over Rio with newfound interest. “Well,” she mused, swirling the last of her drink. “Now it’s getting interesting.”

Rio chuckled, stepping back, just enough to linger in the doorway once more. “Oh, darling,” she murmured, eyes dark with promise.

“It was always interesting.”

You did not speak.

You could feel Agatha watching you, her presence an anchor, a warning, a dare.

But she did not demand an answer.

Not yet.

Rio simply smiled, slow and knowing, as if she had already seen every possible outcome and was merely waiting to see which one you would choose.

“As I said,” she murmured, “you intrigue me.”

She let the words linger, let them settle, let them take root. As she reached the threshold, she paused just long enough to glance back, her gaze flickering between you and Agatha one last time.

Then, with a smirk, she spoke—

“Think it over, little witches. I’ll be seeing you soon-”

And with that, rio had gone.

Silence.

Thick. Tense. Unfinished.

Agatha exhaled, slow and measured, before finally shifting her gaze down to you apologetically.

“So,” you mused,voice laced with something unreadable, “are you going to tell me what the hell that was about-”

Agatha let out a slow breath, her fingers drumming against the now empty cup in her lap. She didn’t answer right away—didn’t rush to fill the silence Rio had left in her wake. And that, more than anything, told you everything you needed to know.

She was thinking.

Not scheming, not deflecting—thinking.

That was rare.

That was dangerous.

Finally, she shifted in her seat, tilting her head toward you with an exhale. “That,” she said, drawing out the word, “was an opportunity.”

Your brow furrowed. “An opportunity for what?” You asked pushing yourself up onto your feet.

Agatha’s lips curled, but there was no humor behind it. “That,” she admitted, “also remains to be seen.”

You narrowed your eyes as you sauntered closer to her, gaze calculating “You don’t know what she wants, do you?”

“No,” she said, voice low. “I do….”

That sent a chill down your spine.

You waited.

Agatha leaned forward, setting her cup on the table with deliberate care. Then she met your gaze—steady, assessing, not entirely unkind.

“She’s looking for something-” she murmured. “Or someone.”

Your jaw tightened. “You think it’s you?”

Agatha huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no real amusement in it. “I know that it’s me…..”

Your stomach twisted.

“But,” she continued, fingers idly tracing the grain of the table, “ now she’s curious about you too-”

You felt the weight of that, the truth of it pressing against your ribs like a vice.

Agatha watched you, waiting. “That doesn’t happen often.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

Agatha hummed, considering. “Because,” she murmured, “you did something even I couldn’t do.”

The words were soft, almost idle—but you felt the force behind them, the unspoken weight of what they meant.

She was right.

You had stopped her-

When no one else could. When no one else would.

You had pulled her back from the edge, held her steady when she would have let herself burn.

And Rio had seen it.

Agatha leaned back again, watching you. “She’s not wrong,” she admitted. “You are—different.”

Your breath caught.

“But the question, dearest—” her voice dropped, softer now, laced with something unreadable—“is whether or not you want to be.”

The silence stretched.

Tense. Unfinished. Inevitable.

You had a choice.

And so did she.

But the truth was, neither of you had decided yet.

Not really.

Then—before you could think better of it, before you could slip too far into the weight of her words—Agatha shifted. Smooth, deliberate, like she had all the time in the world.

Her hand found yours, fingers cool against your skin, and with the barest pull, she coaxed you closer.

“Come here,” she said, softer now, quieter—like she was letting you in on something secret.

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want to, but because this—this—felt like something else. Something unspoken.

But Agatha only hummed, amusement threading through the sound as though she could feel your uncertainty, as though she already knew which way you’d fall.

And she wasn’t wrong.

Slowly, you let yourself move. Let yourself step into her space, let her pull you down until the warmth of her was pressed against your side. The next thing you knew, she was guiding you further, one arm draping easily around your waist as she all but tugged you into her lap.

Not forceful, not demanding—just there. Like she belonged, like you did.

You tensed, just for a moment, and then—

Then it was gone.

She adjusted, settling you more comfortably against her, a quiet, pleased hum vibrating beneath your skin as she let her chin rest against the curve of your shoulder.

“There we are,” she murmured.

Your breath stilled in your chest.

This close, you could feel everything—the steady rise and fall of her breath, the slow, lazy drag of her fingers tracing idle patterns at your side, the heat of her seeping through your clothes like something insidious, something inevitable.

“You’re thinking too much again-” she mused, voice just shy of teasing.

You swallowed, fingers twitching against the fabric of her sleeve. “Am I?”

“Mmm.” She nodded against you, her other hand smoothing up the line of your spine, slow and unhurried. “I can feel it.”

You let out a breath that you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” she murmured.

It wasn’t a taunt. It wasn’t a challenge.

Just curiosity.

Just knowing.

You chuckled softly but didn’t answer. Of course you weren’t afraid, just curious. Maybe confused, slightly intrigued but never scared.

Instead, you let your head tip, let yourself lean into her just enough to feel the way she shifted beneath you, the quiet sigh that slipped from her lips when you finally let yourself be here.

She pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your temple, barely more than a breath, barely more than a promise.

A smirk, slow and knowing, tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Well,” she murmured, more to herself than to you “This is going to be fun.”

————————————————————————

[masorciereviolette]

The Weight Of Grief 6 / ?

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha x Reader x Rio

Warnings: Soft Beginnings, Violence, Fighting, Taunting, Angst, Jealousy, Hurt, Conflicting & Heavy Emotional themes.

Word count: 3.3k

A/N: Here’s the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it because I love that I’m finally able to write all three of them together, even if it is just rio starting a bitter fight to gain the readers attention!!!:))) you’ll be getting extended content on all three women meeting each other // nights spent together soon!!

Taglist: @milflovers4 @brekker157 @loveshineslikethesky

Next Part Link to series masterlist

The warmth was the first thing you registered.

A steady heat against your back, the solid weight of another body pressed close, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of breathing.

At some point in the night, the two of you must have shifted, drawn together by instinct, by something neither of you would dare name in the waking world.

What had started as exhaustion—collapsing side by side on Agatha’s worn-out couch—had turned into something closer, something softer.

Limbs tangled in sleep, her arm draped over your waist, her fingers curled loosely against your stomach as though, even in unconsciousness, she had reached for you.

The wool throw blanket that she must’ve draped over you both had slipped down sometime in the night, pooling at your legs. But Agatha’s warmth remained, pressed against you, her breath a slow, steady whisper against the back of your neck.

For a moment, you let yourself forget.

Forget the years that stretched between you, forget the wounds that still festered beneath the surface.

In the hazy stillness of morning, there was only this—only the soft, golden light filtering through the half-drawn curtains, only the way her fingers occasionally twitched against your side, as if grasping for something just out of reach.

She had always run colder than you, but here, wrapped in the lingering warmth of the dying fire and the unconscious way her body had curved to fit against yours, she felt safe.

You sighed, eyes fluttering open to the sight of Agatha’s living room bathed in the muted glow of early morning. The embers in the fireplace had burned low, a faint wisp of smoke curling upward.

Outside, the world was just beginning to stir—the distant chirp of birds, the faint hum of wind against the old windowpanes. The house, however, remained quiet. The kind of quiet that made it easy to pretend nothing outside of these walls existed. That nothing had changed.

But reality was creeping back in.

The weight of what you had learned last night—Agatha’s magic, gone, stolen by Wanda—pressed down on you, suffocating, undeniable.

As if sensing the shift in your thoughts, Agatha stirred behind you. A slow, unconscious inhale, the brush of her nose against your shoulder as she adjusted. Instead of pulling away, her grip instinctively tightened, fingers flexing slightly as if reaffirming that you were still there.

Another breath. The faintest hesitation.

Then, her voice, still thick with sleep.

“You’re awake.”

You turned slightly, just enough to meet her gaze. Her eyes were lidded, hazy with sleep, her expression softer than you had seen in years. The vulnerability in it made your breath catch.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved.

Then, Agatha’s fingers twitched against your hip, and the spell broke.

Yet neither of you pulled away.

Instead, you swallowed turning your gaze back forward, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Didn’t mean to wake you-“

Agatha huffed lightly, her grip on your waist tightening for just a second before she sighed, nuzzling her forehead against the curve of your shoulder.

“You move too much.”

You scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. “Pretty sure you were the one who pulled me in.”

Her fingers flexed against your stomach, but she didn’t argue. Instead, a long silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant crackle of dying embers and the occasional creak of the house settling.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you let go.

It was Agatha who finally spoke again, her voice quieter this time, as if afraid of breaking whatever fragile peace had settled over you.

“Do we have to get up yet?”

You hesitated. You should. You knew that. The world outside these walls hadn’t stopped turning just because the two of you had curled into each other for one fleeting night.

But here, in the golden quiet of morning, with Agatha’s warmth pressed so firmly against you, the thought of moving—of facing everything that waited beyond this moment—felt unbearable.

So instead, you exhaled slowly and let yourself sink back into her, just enough that you felt her breathe in, as if she had been waiting for it.

“No,” you murmured. “Not yet.”

A soft sound, somewhere between relief and something far more dangerous, escaped her. Her fingers, still resting on your stomach, traced a slow, absentminded pattern, and you let her.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer.

Eventually, Agatha shifted, just enough to press her forehead more firmly against your shoulder, her voice drowsy and low.

“You’re warm,” she muttered. “Unfair.”

You smiled, small and fleeting. “You’re the one stealing my heat.”

A lazy chuckle, barely more than a breath. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you close, then.”

It should have been a joke. Maybe it was.

You hummed softly , turning your head back to look her in the eye.

“We should—”

The words barely left your lips before it happened.

The warmth vanished.

The fire flickered out, as if something had stolen the air from the room, leaving only a deep, unnatural chill in its wake.

You felt it immediately—the shift, the presence pressing in from nowhere and everywhere all at once. The kind of cold that didn’t just bite at your skin but settled deep into your bones, into your soul.

The shadows stretched unnaturally, curling along the walls like living things. The air itself grew thick, pressing in on you with a force that felt like a warning.

Agatha felt it too.

And then—

A voice.

Smooth, low, familiar.

“Well, isn’t this sweet?”

Your stomach dropped.

You knew that voice.

Slowly, you turned.

Rio stood in the open doorway, the dim morning light casting long, jagged shadows across her face.

There was something predatory in the way she stepped inside, gaze flicking between you and Agatha with casual arrogance.

She looked exactly the same, untouched by time, by grief, by the weight of what she had done. Tall, poised, as if she had simply stepped out of a dream—or a nightmare.

Her deep brown eyes gleamed as they swept over the two of you. A slow, knowing smirk curled at her lips.

“Reunited at last.”

Agatha shifted beside you, rising from the couch in one fluid motion. There was no hesitation, no fear. If anything, she looked irritated.

The air crackled.

“Get. Out.”

Rio barely blinked. She exhaled softly, almost amused. “Oh, Agatha,” she mused, tilting her head.

“Still so dramatic.”

Her eyes darkened as she took another step closer.

“But I have to say, you’re looking a little…diminished.”

The taunt landed exactly where Rio wanted it to, You saw the way her entire body tensed, her fingers twitching at her sides before curling into fists.

She had no magic to call upon, but the fire in her eyes told you she was far from defenseless. Agatha didn’t bite. Instead, she squared her stance, cracking her neck.

“If you came here to gloat, you can turn around and walk back out,” she said.

Rio scoffed. “Oh, sweetheart. You know me better than that.”

And then—She swung.

Agatha ducked, just in time. The force of the punch sent a rush of air past her ear as she moved, barely missing the impact.

You barely had time to process what was happening before Agatha was retaliating, her fist flying toward Rio’s ribs.

Rio blocked it, twisting her arm to deflect the strike before shoving forward, slamming her shoulder into Agatha’s. The force sent Agatha stumbling back a step, but she caught herself easily, already resetting her stance.

A slow grin spread across Rio’s lips.

“Oh, I was hoping you’d put up a fight.”

She lunged.

The room exploded into motion.

Agatha met her head-on, ducking under the first strike and landing a sharp elbow to Rio’s ribs. Rio grunted but recovered fast, twisting to throw a punch toward Agatha’s jaw.

Agatha barely dodged, the fist grazing past her cheekbone. She used the momentum to pivot, delivering a brutal kick to Rio’s side that sent her staggering.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

This was a fight—not just a scuffle, not just a power struggle. It was vicious. And Agatha?

Even without magic, she was holding her own.

Rio snarled, shaking off the hit before charging again. She feinted left before striking right, but Agatha saw through it, grabbing Rio’s wrist and yanking her forward, using her momentum against her.

The two of them crashed into the coffee table, sending it splintering beneath their weight. They hit the ground hard, grappling, twisting, landing blows with raw, unrestrained force.

Agatha got the upper hand first, pinning Rio’s wrist down, fist raised to strike—

But Rio was faster.

She wrenched her leg up, kneeing Agatha in the stomach and flipping their positions.

Now Agatha was beneath her, Rio’s forearm pressing hard against her throat.

For the first time, you moved.

“Stop!”

Rio ignored you, her face twisted into something between exhilaration and fury.

“This is where you belong, Agatha”

she hissed, pressing down harder.

“On the ground. Powerless.”

Agatha choked—but she wasn’t done.

Her fingers curled, grabbing a fistful of Rio’s shirt, and with a sharp, sudden yank, she headbutted her.

Rio yelped, reeling back, giving Agatha just enough room to throw her off.

The second Rio hit the ground, Agatha was on her feet, wiping the blood from her split lip with the back of her hand.

“You,” Agatha panted, “talk too much.”

Rio let out a breathy laugh, pushing herself upright. She ran her tongue over her teeth, testing for blood, before exhaling sharply.

Then she studied you. Not Agatha. You.

Her eyes dragged over you with something unreadable at first, but then it cracked, just a little, just enough. And beneath it—anger. Something sharp and bitter. Something hurt?

“Look at you.”

Agatha stiffened.

Rio’s voice dropped, quieter, colder.

“A shell of what you were.”

Something in the air shifted.

You could feel it—power coiling, thick and oppressive. Not Agatha’s. Rio’s.

She lifted a hand, fingers twitching lazily—like a cat toying with its prey. The air around Agatha crackled with something unseen, something suffocating.

She stood her ground. But she couldn’t stop what was coming.

Rio flicked their fingers.

And Agatha flew.

She hit the opposite wall hard, a sharp cry tearing from her lips as she crumpled to the floor.

Your breath caught.

“Agatha!”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Scrambling from the couch across the wreckage on the floor. Sliding to your knees beside her, you reached for her arm, ignoring the way she flinched at the contact.

Her breathing was ragged, her body trembling slightly from the impact.

You turned sharply toward Rio. “Stop this.”

She arched a brow. “Why? I’m barely even trying.”

Your hands curled into fists. “She doesn’t have her magic anymore. You know that.”

Rio tilted her head, considering. “And? That’s hardly my fault.”

Your jaw clenched. “She’s already lost enough—”

Something in Rio shattered.

Her jaw tightened, her nostrils flaring, but her smile remained—sharp, forced.

“Oh, I see. Poor, helpless Agatha. She’s lost enough, has she?”

Her voice was light, but there was something raw buried in it, something dark.

“Did she lose enough when she turned her back on you?” Rio continued, taking a slow step forward.

Agatha coughed softly beside you, shifting to push herself upright. “I don’t need you to defend me,” she muttered.

You shot her a look. “Yeah, well. Too late for that.”

Rio’s mouth twisted.

“Right. Of course.” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

“You always do this.”

Your brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“Play mediator.”

Her words dripped venom now, voice rising.

“Pick up her messes. Defend her, no matter what she’s done. And me?”

She let out a humorless laugh.

“What, am I the villain here?”

You hesitated. And that was all it took.

Rio’s expression twisted, something pained flashing across her face before she smothered it.

“I see.”

Her voice was softer now, but no less dangerous.

“This is pathetic.”

She stepped forward, and Agatha instinctively tensed. But you moved first, rising to your feet and blocking her path.

Something flickered in her eyes.

Slowly, her lips curled into a sneer “Oh. This is interesting.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of stepping back.

But beneath that smirk, beneath the biting amusement, you saw it—

Rio wasn’t just angry.

She was hurt.

Rio scoffed, eyes flicking between you and Agatha. Then, after a long pause, she exhaled, shaking her head.

“Fine.”

Rio dropped their hand, the charged energy in the air dissipating as quickly as it had come. Their smirk faltered, just for a moment—just long enough for you to catch it.

She could finish this. You knew she could, But she wouldn’t. Not to you.

The realization settled in your chest like a heartbeat out of rhythm. You met Rio’s gaze, searching for something beneath the sharp amusement, beneath the bite of their power.

You knew that look.

Once, a long time ago, it had been softer.

Agatha coughed again, breaking the silence, and you knelt beside her instinctively. She pushed at your hands weakly, but you didn’t let go, you turned back to Rio.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

Rio scoffed. “Didn’t I?” But there was no real conviction behind it.

Agatha tensed beside you, shifting so she could glare up at her.

“Still playing games, Rio? That’s all this ever was to you, right?”

Something in Rio’s expression flickered again—there and gone in an instant.

But you caught that too.

A crack.

The slightest fracture in her carefully controlled exterior.

“I gave you time,” Rio said quietly. “More than I should have.”

“Time?!” Agatha’s voice rose, her entire body quaking.

“You call that time?”

Rio exhaled softly, almost tiredly. “I warned you, Agatha.”

“You stole my son from me!”

And then—it happened.

For the first time since she had arrived, Rio’s expression faltered.

It was gone in a blink, replaced with that same carefully controlled calm, but you saw it.

You saw how much that sentence hurt her.

But she didn’t let it show.

Instead, she simply sighed, tilting her head slightly.

“Nicholas was never yours to keep-”

Agatha moved before you could stop her, She was on her feet in an instant, her body vibrating with something dangerous, something unhinged.

You caught her by the waist pushing her back before Agatha got herself hurt or worse killed, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Know when enough is enough-”

Both women turned to you.

Rio arched a brow. “Oh?”

Agatha let out a shaky breath, her body still coiled like a wire about to snap.

“You don’t get to come here and act like this wasn’t your fucking fault.”

Rio watched her, unreadable. Then—

A soft chuckle. Cold. Detached.

“You think I don’t miss him?”

The question was so quiet that, for a moment, it almost didn’t register.

But it did.

It did.

Agatha froze.

You froze.

Rio exhaled slowly, something unreadable flickering in her gaze.

“I miss him every day,” she said. “But mourning was never a luxury I was allowed.”

A slow beat of silence.

Then, she straightened. “And neither were you.”

Agatha snapped her head up, but Rio was already turning, already taking a step back toward the open doorway

“This was never about revenge,” she murmured. “I am not your enemy, Agatha.”

Agatha let out a shaky, breathless laugh, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Then what the hell are you?”

Rio stopped in the doorway.

For a moment, she hesitated.

“I suppose that’s up to you. Te veo... pero, ¿me entiendes?”

And with that, she was gone.

The room felt empty without her, as if she had stolen the air from it.

Agatha didn’t move.

You barely breathed.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, wrapping around the both you even in Rio’s absence.

Agatha still hadn’t moved. She was standing there, her body taut with barely restrained emotion, her fists trembling at her sides.

And you—you weren’t sure what to do. What to say. Because everything that had just transpired wasn’t only about them. It wasn’t only about Rio and Agatha, the past that still clawed between them like an open wound.

It was about you, too.

You had been there.

Through the lies. The betrayals. The choices that had led you all here.

Agatha’s voice finally cut through the silence, brittle and raw. “She thinks she’s won.”

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, you weren’t sure if Rio hadn’t won.

Not yet, at least.

Agatha let out a sharp breath, tilting her head back as if staring at the ceiling would keep everything from breaking loose inside of her.

“She always does this. Comes in, wrecks everything, then leaves like none of it fucking matters-”

You hesitated before speaking. “It mattered.”

Agatha turned, eyes sharp as a blade. “Excuse me?”

You exhaled slowly, bracing yourself. “It mattered to her. That’s why she came.”

The words hung between you, charged and dangerous.

A slow, bitter laugh escaped Agatha.

“You actually believe that?”

You didn’t know.

But you had seen it—the moment Rio had faltered, the brief, flickering crack in her armor. And not just today.

You’d seen it before, years ago, in the aftermath of everything that had unraveled between the three of you.

When the weight of choices—all of your choices—had settled like dust after an explosion, too thick to breathe, too heavy to escape.

“She’s still lying,” Agatha continued, shaking her head.“She always lies.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe Rio was still the same as she had always been—calculating, careful, always thinking three moves ahead. But that crack, that moment of hesitation… that meant something.

Didn’t it?

“She didn’t have to come here,” you found yourself saying.“She could’ve stayed gone.”

Agatha scoffed.

“And what, that makes her noble? That makes up for everything?”

“No,” you admitted. “But it means this isn’t finished.”

Agatha turned away again, pacing a few steps before stopping, hands on her hips. Her shoulders heaved with the force of everything she wasn’t saying.

You watched her carefully.

Because you remembered.

You remembered a time when things had been different. When it had been the three of you—before the lines were drawn, before the betrayals, before Nicholas.

You remembered laughter in the quiet hours, secrets whispered in the dark. You remembered trust.

And you remembered the moment it had all shattered.

Agatha exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.

“She thinks she can just say a few cryptic words and walk away like she’s still in control.”

“She’s never not in control,” you murmured.

And that was the problem.

Because no matter what had happened, no matter the time and distance, Rio still held something between the three of you.

A past that was too tangled to sever, a history that couldn’t be unwritten. You could resent her for it, Agatha could hate her for it, but none of you could escape it.

Agatha finally turned back to you, something raw and desperate in her gaze.

“She doesn’t get to decide how this ends.”

“No,” you agreed, voice steady. “But neither do we.”

A beat of silence.

Then Agatha let out a slow, breathless laugh—one that wasn’t really a laugh at all.

“And yet, here we are.”

Here you were. Again. Standing in the wreckage of a war that had never really ended.

Because this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[masorciereviolette]

T.W.O.G: A Clash Of Power, Wit & Curiosity

Pairing: Post Salem Agatha Harkness x Reader

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Taunting, Unexplainable Fascination, The reader is No hero per-se but respects the CRAFT above anything else, Mind Games, They both like it tho lol, Kissing, Mutual Pining, This takes place over a several months.

A/N: This Bonus chapter is gonnna be considered the first. it recounts how the Reader // Agatha met for the first time and what pursued from there, Mutual obsession if you ask me lmaoooooo. This unofficial Pt.1 ends the night before the next extended chapter begins.

It supplies a lot of emotional context, so if you got the time I’d give it a read before jumping straight into Pt.2, The link for it though is just right below here :)))). In additional news Ch.6 of The Weight Of Grief should be posted Sunday afternoon at the latest!!

Pt.2 HERE (MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY)

The Weight Of Grief Masterlist & Extended Chapter List

Summary:

You were never supposed to cross paths with Agatha Harkness. A witch of impossible power, a legend whispered in fear—she survived the Salem trials not by mercy, but by turning the execution on her executioners. Since then, she’s left a trail of stolen magic and unanswered questions.

The first time you met, she was taking magic that didn’t belong to her. You stopped her. You fought her. And instead of destroying you, she smiled. You should have left it alone. But you didn’t.

You chased her across towns, through whispered rumors and fading magic. Yet you weren’t the only one drawn in—she let you find her. Again and again. What started as a battle became a game. What started as a game became something dangerous.

_________________________________________________

The first time you heard her name, it was whispered like a curse.

A woman of impossible power. A survivor of the Salem trials—but not in the way history told it. Agatha Harkness had not been saved by mercy. She had not escaped by chance.

She had turned the execution on her executioners.

The tale spread in fragmented pieces, spoken in hushed, fearful voices. A daughter of Salem’s coven, betrayed by her own sisters.

A mother’s hand raised to strike her down, a circle of witches casting judgment, their magic binding her, suffocating her, meant to end her.

But Agatha Harkness was not meant to be ended.

She had screamed as the magic tore through her, as their combined power tried to break her apart—until she did what no witch was ever meant to do.

She took their magic.

Drank it in like lifeblood, let it fill her veins, let it make her stronger.

When the light faded, when the bodies of her sisters lay lifeless around her, she had stood alone—the executioner of her own kind.

It should have killed her. It should have damned her.

But Agatha had only smiled.

No one knew where she had gone after that. Some said she had vanished into the forests, slipping between the trees like a phantom. Others swore they had seen her walking away from the ruins of Salem with her head held high, untouched by the cold.

The only certainty was this—Agatha Harkness had survived.

The first time you saw her, she was stealing something that didn’t belong to her.

And the first time she saw you? You stopped her.

The forest was thick with magic that night—not the kind that belonged to one witch, but to many. An entire coven had gathered beneath the ancient trees, their magic thrumming in the air like the beat of a distant drum.

They had been casting something sacred, something old, their voices weaving together in perfect harmony as their energy pulsed between them.

And then—she arrived.

Agatha Harkness stepped into their sacred circle as if she had been invited, as if the night belonged to her.

She moved through the coven with the ease of someone who had nothing to fear, her dark cloak trailing behind her like smoke, her eyes sharp and gleaming in the moonlight.

The witches faltered, their ritual stalling as they turned to face her—their mistake.

Because by the time they realized what she was, by the time they had lifted their hands to protect themselves, she had already begun.

The magic ripped from their bodies in twisting threads of light, pulled from their very souls. It screamed as it left them, as if the magic itself did not want to be taken. Their bodies convulsed, their voices breaking from terror as their life’s work—their power—was devoured by the woman standing in their midst.

She barely even looked at them.

She wasn’t feeding on their pain. She wasn’t delighting in their screams. She was simply taking what she wanted, the same way a storm takes the sky.

And that was when you stepped forward.

“That’s enough-”

She turned, slowly, as if savoring the interruption. And when her eyes landed on you, something in them sparked to life.

A challenge.

A game.

And then—she smiled.

It was slow and curling, something rich with amusement.

“Now, what have we here?”

You didn’t bother answering. You simply acted.

A pulse of magic shot toward her—a warning, a demand. The force of it sent leaves swirling into the air, a ripple of power spreading through the clearing. The other witches, now collapsed and drained, barely registered what was happening.

But she did.

She lifted a single hand—and caught your spell mid-air before absorbing it with a sick smile.

For a brief moment, you saw it.

The raw power beneath her skin, the magic that pulsed in her very bones. She wasn’t just another witch. She was something else. Something more.

And yet—she had not been expecting you.

She tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “Well, well. Someone knows how to play.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t play with murders-”

She laughed at that—a genuine, delighted sound.

“Oh, darling,” she purred, “you wound me.”

Then, without another word, she struck.

The first blast of magic came fast and precise, but you were faster. You countered before it reached you, twisting the energy mid-air, sending it spiraling harmlessly into the dirt.

Agatha’s brows lifted. “Oh?”

She flicked her wrist, this time summoning something sharper—a force not meant to simply test, but to win. The trees shuddered as her magic roared through the clearing, violet lightning crackling between the branches, arcing toward you like a snake’s bite.

And still—you held your ground.

You weren’t just defending yourself. You weren’t running.

You were fighting her.

Most witches wouldn’t dare.

Most witches—even powerful ones—would cower beneath Agatha Harkness’ magic, would retreat before her might.

But you weren’t most witches.

You ducked beneath the first strike, deflecting the second with a twist of your hand, bending the energy back toward her. Clever, efficient, ruthless.

And Agatha was grinning.

Not in frustration. Not in anger.

In excitement.

No one challenged her like this.

She sent another strike your way—this time a sharp, whipping line of force, meant to bind your wrists, to trap you.

You dodged, rolling to the side, your own magic flaring to life in response. A counter-spell snapped from your fingers, striking the ground beneath her feet, shaking the very earth.

Agatha stumbled, just for a moment, just long enough for you to step forward, pressing the attack. Your magic surged toward her like a wave, pushing her back against the trunk of an old tree, forcing her to yield—you won.

The clearing went still. The battle had lasted mere moments, but to you, it had stretched into something far longer. You were breathing hard, standing at the ready, prepared for her next strike.

But Agatha?

She was laughing.

A deep, satisfied laugh, like a woman who had just found something unexpectedly delightful.

She exhaled, dramatically brushing a strand of dark hair from her face, studying you.

“Well,” she murmured, stepping forward, slow and deliberate. “That was fun.”

You narrowed your eyes, still on edge. “You were stealing from them-”

She hummed, as if it were a casual observation. “They didn’t deserve it.”

Your jaw tightened. “And you do?”

That smirk returned, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

There was no fear in her. No remorse. Only intrigue.

She stepped closer, her presence curling around you like a whisper of silk.

“You’re different,” she mused, her voice low.

You met her gaze evenly. “And you’re a thief.”

Agatha tilted her head, considering. “Yes, but I’m a very charming one.”

You scoffed, but the fight had left the air, replaced by something else—something simmering, something dangerous.

She looked you over once more, as if memorizing you. And then—she stepped back.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, amusement threading her tone

“I like you.”

You braced yourself, expecting another attack, another trick—but none came.

Instead, with one last smirk, she vanished into the night.

Leaving you standing there, the weight of the fight still buzzing through your skin, knowing one undeniable truth-You hadn’t just stopped Agatha Harkness.

You had captured her interest.

And that?

That was more dangerous than any spell.

You should have left it alone.

The witches she drained had managed to recovered, barely, but they would never be the same. Magic, once taken, never truly returned. You had done what you could, what anyone could, but it wasn’t enough.

And yet—you couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Agatha Harkness.

The name followed you like an old echo, whispered in places she’d been, traced in the wreckage she left behind. You didn’t chase her, not at first.

But you noticed.

Every town that spoke of a woman draped in purple, sharp-witted and untouchable. Every rumor of a witch who could pull the magic straight from your veins and smile while doing it.

But what caught your attention wasn’t the fear.

It was the pattern.

Agatha never stayed in one place long. She drained witches, but only certain ones—powerful, secretive, the kind that hoarded magic for themselves.

The kind you had never trusted.

And that was when you realized—she wasn’t hunting at random.

She was choosing.

And you needed to know why.

So you let the whispers guide you, let your instincts pull you forward. Until, one night, deep in the twisting dark of another forgotten forest, you found her again.

Or rather—she let you find her.

“You’ve been following me.”

The voice came from behind you, smooth as silk, sharp as a dagger.

You turned—slowly, carefully—and there she was.

Agatha Harkness leaned against a tree, arms crossed, amusement playing at the corners of her lips.

Unlike the last time, she wasn’t poised to attack.

She was waiting.

“And here I thought I made an impression on you” she continued, her gaze sweeping over you like she was appraising you.

“Didn’t expect you to come looking for me quite so soon.”

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders, keeping your stance even. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

That made her grin. “Oh? And yet, here you are.”

She wasn’t wrong.

You had gone looking for her.

And that bothered you.

You weren’t used to being the one drawn in. You weren’t used to wanting to understand someone like her.

But Agatha Harkness wasn’t just another witch.

She was a mystery.

And you had always been terrible at leaving mysteries unsolved.

“You don’t drain witches at random,” you said, watching her carefully. “You choose them….”

She lifted a brow, clearly entertained. “And here I thought you’d be scolding me again.”

You ignored the taunt. “Why them?”

Agatha pushed off the tree, stepping toward you, her dark cloak flowing behind her like the night itself.

“You tell me,” she mused. “What do you think?”

You had been considering that question since you last saw her. Since the moment you realized that her targets weren’t exactly innocent.

You crossed your arms. “You only take magic from those who hoard it. Witches who use it for themselves, who grow stronger while the rest of the world suffers.”

Agatha’s smirk didn’t fade, but something flickered in her eyes—a flicker of approval.

“You’re sharper than I thought,” she murmured.

“You’re not a hero,” you said. “But you’re not the villain people think you are, either.”

Agatha chuckled, tilting her head. “Oh, darling,” she purred, stepping closer. “You might be the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

You didn’t move as she reached out, trailing a single finger down the front of your cloak. It wasn’t a spell—it was a test.

A distraction.

And you let her do it.

Because for the first time since meeting her, you wanted to know what she would do next.

“You fascinate me”

she admitted, her voice softer now. “Most people are either too afraid of me or too eager to fight me.”

“And what do you prefer?” you asked.

Agatha smiled, slow and knowing.

“I prefer someone who can keep up.”

The challenge was undeniable.

She was giving you a choice—leave now, and you’d never cross paths again. Stay, and you were walking straight into something you might not escape.

But you wanted to know more.

You wanted to understand her.

So instead of pulling away, instead of backing down, you mirrored her smirk.

“Then I guess we’ll find out,” you murmured.

Agatha’s eyes gleamed.

And just like that—the game had changed.

Agatha Harkness was a storm—wild and unyielding, untamed and deliberate all at once. And yet, for all her cunning, for all her power, she kept letting you find her.

It was never by accident. Never by chance.

She left a trail only you could follow—an unspoken invitation woven into the spaces where magic clung to the air like perfume.

And you followed.

Because she fascinated you.

And that was the danger, wasn’t it?

Not just that you wanted to stop her. But that you wanted to understand her.

You wanted to know what lay beneath the smirks and the effortless power, beneath the way she played with her food but never quite let herself feast.

And somewhere along the way—she started wanting to know you, too.

———————————————————————————-

The moon was heavy in the sky when you found her again, perched on the ledge of an old ruin, looking out at the valley below. Her cloak fluttered behind her, a ripple of amethyst against the silver glow of night.

This time, she didn’t wait for you to speak.

“You should be more careful about chasing me, darling,” she murmured without turning. “People might start to think you have an obsession”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer. “And you should be more careful about leaving a trail.”

She finally turned to face you, a smirk curling at her lips. “Oh, I meant for you to find me.”

Your stomach twisted in something you refused to name.

“That so?”

“Mm.” She tilted her head, studying you, her expression softer than usual—less guarded, less amused. Curious.

She patted the space beside her on the stone ledge. “Come sit.”

You hesitated.

She never asked you to stay. She never invited anything that could be mistaken for comfort.

But you did sit.

Because of course you did.

The night air was cool, the scent of earth and magic clinging to the breeze. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You simply watched the valley below, your shoulders barely brushing.

Then—quietly, unexpectedly—she broke the silence.

“Why do you keep chasing me?”

The question wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t laced with her usual mischief.

It was real.

And for the first time, you didn’t know how to answer.

You could have told her the truth. That you should have stopped a long time ago. That you shouldn’t care what she did, where she went, who she became.

That she was dangerous. Unpredictable. A threat.

But that wasn’t why you were here.

You swallowed, exhaling slowly. “Because you don’t make sense.”

Agatha huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “That’s the best answer you’ve got?”

You turned toward her, frowning. “You could have killed me the first time we fought. You could have left me in the dirt. But you didn’t.”

She said nothing.

You searched her expression, trying to see past the mask.

“Why?” you asked softly.

Agatha sighed, tipping her head back toward the sky.

“Would you believe me if I told you I don’t have an answer?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that’s a lie?”

That earned you a smirk—but this time, it wasn’t meant to deflect.

It was tired.

For the first time, Agatha Harkness looked like someone who was lonely.

Not just alone. Lonely.

You had the urge to reach for her, to touch her in some way that would make it feel less heavy.

But Agatha wasn’t the type to accept things freely. She needed a reason.

So you didn’t reach for her.

You gave her a choice.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you said, voice steady. “But you don’t have to pretend with me either.”

Her breath hitched—so quiet you almost missed it.

And then—slowly, carefully—she turned toward you, her gaze burning into yours.

“And what if I don’t want to pretend?” she murmured.

You held her stare.

“Then don’t.”

The silence stretched between you, the space between breaths feeling like something tangible.

Then, with a quiet sort of inevitability, she leaned in.

Her lips barely brushed yours—a hesitation, a question, an unspoken dare.

And you answered it.

You kissed her first.

Soft, slow, unhurried—like neither of you wanted to break whatever this was. Her breath caught against your lips, her hand coming up to curl gently against your jaw.

And just for a moment, just for this fleeting piece of something fragile, Agatha Harkness let herself be held.

The world could fall apart tomorrow.

But tonight?

Tonight, she was yours.

—————————————————————————

The first time you met, it had been a show of strength. A challenge. A clash of magic and will.

The second time, it had been a game—a slow, deliberate unraveling of intrigue.

The third time, it had been a choice.

And now?

Now, it was something else entirely. Something neither of you had planned for, Something Agatha didn’t know how to handle.

She always seemed to find her way back to you. No matter how far she traveled, no matter what ruins she left in her wake, she returned. And you let her, Because you wanted her to.

You had no illusions about who she was. Agatha was not gentle. She was not kind in the way the world liked to pretend kindness should look. She was sharp edges wrapped in silk, a storm disguised as something elegant.

But she was yours.

At first, it was simple.

It was curiosity, electric and impossible to ignore. A hunger to know one another, to peel back the layers, to see what lay beneath the smirks and taunts.

But somewhere along the way—curiosity became comfort.

And that?

That was far more dangerous.

The fire crackled softly, throwing flickering shadows against the walls of the small cabin you called your home, Agatha had returned once again, though you knew It wasn’t permanent—nothing ever was with her.

Agatha sat across from you, legs curled beneath her, a small cup of cider balanced between her fingers. She was watching you.

Not like she had in the beginning—not like she was trying to figure you out.

No.

This was different.

This was soft.

Unspoken. Unavoidable.

You met her gaze, raising an eyebrow. “You’re staring.”

Her lips curled at the corners. “Am I?”

You tilted your head, studying her, the way the firelight caught the delicate curve of her features, the way she looked almost peaceful.

“You are,” you murmured.

Agatha hummed, sipping her drink as if she hadn’t just been caught feeling something real.

You set your own cup down, shifting closer, letting the space between you shrink—just enough for the warmth of her presence to brush against you.

“You’re thinking about something,” you said.

Agatha chuckled, low and indulgent. “I’m always thinking about something, darling.”

You nudged her foot with yours. “Don’t deflect.”

That made her still—just for a fraction of a second.

And that’s how you knew.

She was afraid.

You reached out, trailing your fingers over the back of her hand—light, barely there, just enough to ground her.

“Tell me,” you murmured.

She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head, but she didn’t pull away.

“You make things complicated,” she finally admitted.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s your specialty, Harkness.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite to it. No mischief.

Only hesitation.

“You’re different,” she murmured, almost as if saying it to herself.

“Different how?”

Agatha sighed, setting her cup aside, looking at you like she wasn’t sure how to say it.

“You weren’t supposed to matter,” she said finally.

The words were sharp, but not cruel.

They were honest.

You swallowed. “And now?”

Her fingers curled slightly beneath yours.

And then—quietly, carefully, like she was admitting something dangerous:

“Now, you do.”

Your heart stuttered.

Because this wasn’t a game anymore. This wasn’t just stolen moments and fleeting warmth.

And Agatha was terrified of it.

You could see it in the way her shoulders tensed, in the way her smirk didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.

Agatha Harkness knew how to take.

But she didn’t know how to receive.

Especially not this.

Especially not you.

You shifted closer, lifting your hand to cup her cheek, feeling the way she leaned into it despite herself.

“Agatha….” you whispered.

She closed her eyes for a moment—just a moment—before opening them again, something unreadable flickering in their depths.

“This is dangerous,” she murmured.

You smiled, brushing your thumb over her cheek.

“And you like that.” You softly replied

Agatha let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “You really are insufferable.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her lips. “And yet, you came back.”

She did.

For all her running, for all her fear—she still returned here.

And that?

That was enough. At least for tonight.

[masorciereviolette]

T.W.O.G: Mourning Temptation & Sweet Surrender

Pairing: Post Salem Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Explict, Graphic Descriptions of Sexual Content, Cunnilingus, Reader had a MAD oral fixation ngl, Teasing, Mutual Pining, Mutual Unspoken Confessions // Acknowledgement, Possessive Behavior, Light Dom/Sub Behavior but it switches between them ngl.

Word count: 3.1k

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY

A/N: I truly hope you enjoyed & if anyone is interested in more “past chapters” posted that relate to the present day story lmk! I apologize if it’s not all that great, I’m still trying to get a hold of writing explicit work without making it sound too Shakespearean- yes I HAVE received the critique before. I grew up on disgustingly cheesy romance novels and dr who, SUE ME✋🏽😭 This is technically a part 2 to a considerably long time stretch well after Agatha had fled Salem, In Part One you simply find out how The Reader & Agatha Met and it goes on from there. Hope you give it a shot! :)))))

The Weight Of Grief Masterlist & Extended Chapter List

Pt.1 Here (How they Met)

Summary:

You awaken to the unexpected warmth of Agatha Harkness still tangled in your arms, after yet another night of keeping her out of trouble. A woman who belongs to the shadows, the cold Salem nights, and the secrets between spells, she is rarely one to linger in one place for long—but here she is, her breath slow and steady against your skin.

What starts as teasing banter quickly spirals into something deeper, a charged game of control and surrender. The morning becomes a battlefield of touch and desire, where power shifts with every kiss, every whispered taunt, every slow, deliberate stroke of fingers against heated skin.

A slow warmth stirred against you, the weight of a body curled into yours, the scent of magic and something unmistakably Agatha lingering in the air.

Your fingers flexed against the soft skin of her bare back as awareness crept in, the quiet glow of morning spilling lazily through the curtains.

She was still here.

Agatha Harkness did not belong to the morning. She was dusk and shadow, midnight temptation wrapped in a purple cloak.

Yet here she was, tangled in your arms, her breath slow and steady against your collarbone. For a woman who usually carried the weight of the world, she looked almost peaceful like this.

Almost.

Her lashes fluttered, a slow drag before hypotonic blue eyes flickered open, already gleaming with mischief.

A smirk tugged at her lips as she shifted slightly, her leg slipping between yours, pressing close enough to make you exhale sharply.

“Well, well,” she purred, voice thick with sleep and something deeper. “Someone couldn’t keep their hands off me last night.”

Her fingers traced idle patterns along your side, her touch featherlight, teasing. But even half-asleep, Agatha knew exactly what she was doing.

“You could’ve left,” you murmured, sliding a hand up the curve of her spine, nails raking just enough to make her shiver. “But you didn’t.”

Her smirk deepened and she shifted, her knee pressing more firmly between your legs, the slow drag of the blanket doing nothing to cool the heat that pulsed between you.

Your breath hitched, and Agatha caught it instantly, her grin sharpening as she rolled her hips—just once, just enough to make you grip her waist in reflex.

“You’re dangerous,” you breathed, half in warning, half in surrender.

Her lips brushed your jaw, her breath hot against your skin.

“Mm, and you like that.”

It wasn’t a question.

Her mouth found the spot just below your ear, teeth grazing, lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses that made warmth pool low in your stomach.

You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening on her hips, but she only hummed in satisfaction, knowing full well what she was doing to you.

“Tell me,” she whispered against your skin, “how exactly did you earn the pleasure of waking up with me?”

You inhaled, trying to focus, but it was impossible with the way her body pressed against yours, the way her fingers dragged lower, teasing, never quite giving you what you wanted.

“You already know-” you murmured, tilting her chin up just enough to meet her gaze.

Her smirk faltered for just a moment, something darker flashing in her eyes before she reclaimed her power.

She straddled you fully now, pressing you deeper into the bed, her fingers slipping beneath the blankets, nails skimming your skin in a slow torturous dance.

“Mm,” she hummed, tilting her head. “I do know….”

Her lips hovered just over yours, not quite kissing, just close enough for you to feel her breath.

“But I do love hearing you say it.”

The anticipation burned hotter than the morning sun spilling through the curtains, her presence pressing in from every direction. You weren’t sure if it was her magic or simply her—but it hardly mattered.

Your patience snapped.

You caught her wrists, rolling her beneath you in a swift motion that had her gasping—only for her surprise to melt into something sultry as she arched beneath you, her smirk returning full force.

“Oh,” she whispered, a challenge laced in every syllable.

“Feeling bold, are we?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you kissed her—hard.

The smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp inhale as your lips crashed against hers, hands sliding up her thighs, fingers gripping roughly, you guided both legs around your waist.

She responded instantly, pressing up into you, parting her lips just enough for you to taste the heat of her sigh. You run you tongue across her bottom lip, nipping softly.

She wasn’t the only one who knew how to tease.

You dragged your mouth lower, across her jaw, down the column of her throat, nipping at the sensitive skin there until she gasped—a real, unguarded sound that made something in you tighten.

“Now,” you murmured against her pulse, feeling it race beneath your lips, “tell me, Agatha—how exactly did you earn the pleasure of waking up in my arms?” You teased back

She let out a slow, breathy laugh, her nails digging into your back as she pulled you flush against her once more.

“Oh, darling,” she purred, voice thick with wicked promise.

“Let me show you.”

Agatha moved like she was casting a spell, weaving touches and whispers into incantations you had no hope of resisting. Her hands mapped the planes of your back, her nails dragging just enough to leave a tingling heat in their wake.

The air around you shimmered, charged with the remnants of magic, or perhaps with the sheer gravitational pull that existed between you.

She rolled her hips again, deliberate this time, drawing a low, desperate sound from your throat. Her smirk returned at that, knowing and wicked, but you refused to let her keep the upper hand. Not this time.

Your fingers traced down her sides, feeling the smooth heat of her skin beneath your palms. She shivered, just slightly, and you filed that knowledge away for later.

Agatha Harkness was a woman who commanded power, who wielded control like a blade. But here, beneath you, tangled in blankets and morning light, there were cracks in her armor—tiny fractures where something softer, more vulnerable, shone through.

And you wanted to see all of it.

Leaning in, you kissed her again, slower this time, drawing it out until she sighed against your lips, her body softening beneath yours. One of her hands slid up, threading into your hair, her grip firm as she tugged just enough to pull a quiet gasp from you.

“Still think I should have left?” she murmured, her voice husky and edged with amusement.

You hummed, dragging your lips down her throat, pressing lingering kisses along her collarbone.

“I think,” you mused between kisses, “that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

Agatha stilled for a fraction of a second. Not enough for most people to notice—but you did. It was a flicker, a whisper of hesitation that she buried almost immediately, tilting her chin up, letting you worship her the way she deserved.

Your hands explored her, tracing the curve of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the warmth of her bare skin. Every time she sighed, every time she melted just a little more, it felt like a victory. A battle won in a war that neither of you truly wanted to end.

She was intoxicating. The way she arched into you, the way her breath hitched when you bit down gently on the sensitive spot just beneath her ear. The way she pulled you closer as if she couldn’t stand the space between you.

“Mm,” she hummed, fingers trailing along your spine.

“You’re playing dangerous games, darling.”

You grinned against her skin, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat

“And what exactly is the danger?”

Agatha’s fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your head up until your eyes met hers. The mischief was still there, but something deeper lurked beneath it—something that sent a shiver down your spine.

“The danger,” she murmured, dragging a thumb along your lower lip, “is that you might actually make me want to stay.”

The confession was light, almost teasing—but you felt the weight of it, the truth hidden beneath the velvet of her voice. For all her power, for all her confidence, Agatha was not a woman who allowed herself to belong to anything or anyone.

And yet… she was still here.

You met her gaze, holding it, letting the moment stretch between you. No spells, no games, no teasing. Just the quiet truth of her body beneath yours, of your hands on her skin, of the way your heart beat in time with hers.

“Then stay” you whispered.

The challenge flickered across her face, the war between temptation and self-preservation. But then you kissed her again, slow and deep and full of unspoken promises, and just for now, just for this moment, Agatha Harkness surrendered.

Trailing your fingers teasingly up her inner thigh, you nipped her bottom lip. Stopping just before reaching where she wanted your touch the most.

Agatha let out a small gasp, her back arching slightly as she felt your fingers dancing ever so teasingly along her inner thigh.

"You're playing with fire here, darling," she hummed, a hint of warning in her already lust-filled voice. "And you just might get burned."

You smirked, trailing your fingers higher, but still stopping just shy of where she desperately wanted to feel your touch, skimming your fingers over the damp fabric. Leaning in, you nipped at her earlobe before whispering

"Isn't that half the fun of it though? Feeling that heat, that intense, blazing desire until it consumes us both and we're left with nothing but ashes?"

You hummed before scraping you nails teasingly against her skin

Agatha inhaled sharply, her thighs trembling slightly at your words, at the promise of more.

"You talk pretty, I'll give you that"

she murmured, reaching up to grip your hair, tugging your mouth back to hers in a hungry, demanding kiss.

She dominated the kiss, her tongue invading your mouth, laying claim to you in a way that made your toes curl. You melted into the kiss, your hands gripping her hips, pulling her impossibly closer.

Agatha's fingers drifted lower, teasing the waistband of your undergarment, her nails dragging against the fabric. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of her hand radiating through the thin material.

"But words are wind, baby. It's actions that matter,"

she whispered against your lips, her voice a low, seductive rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through your core. Her words were a challenge and an invitation, a dare to show her exactly what you were capable of.

She was playing the game now, but the stakes were higher than ever before. It wasn't about teasing flirtations or cliched come-ons. This was raw, carnal lust and unspoken promises of pleasure so intense that it might just ruin you for anyone else

You felt a thrill of exhilaration at her challenge, realizing this was the moment of truth. Surrendering to instinct, you delivered your own brand of action to teach Agatha the depths of your desire for her.

Trailing your fingers across her cloth-covered sex, you felt the dampness, knowing your touches and words weren't in vain. Agatha gasped softly at the intimate contact, her hips subtly tilting up seeking more.

"Actions speak louder than words-"

you murmured, moving your delay no more. In one swift motion, you pushed the fabric to the side, circling her clit teasingly. You ran your fingers down through her soaked folds before plunging two fingers deep into Agatha's slick heat, fucking hell—she was absolutely dripping.

Agatha cried out, her voice conduits of carnal pleasure as her walls clenched around your invading digits. "Fuck!" she gasped, her head falling back against the pillow as she gripped your shoulders.

Emboldened, you began to move your fingers in earnest, stroking that spot deep within her that made her toes curl and her back arch.

Agatha's hips rocked into your hand as you pleasured her, a litany of breathless moans and whimpers leaving her lips.

"Yes— "

she hissed as you curled your fingers at a particularly sensitive point inside her.

"Just like that. Don't you dare fucking stop—"

Grinning wickedly, you complied, your thumb finding her clit once more and rubbing slowly as you thrust your fingers in and out of her fluttering entrance.

Her breath hitched as the stimulation intensified. The wet sounds of your fingers plunging into her sex, her labored breathing and whorish moans filled the room.

"I-I'm..." she gasped as her body stiffened and trembled beneath you.

You knew she was close, so you rubbed harder, faster, determined to make your lover fall apart completely.

"That's it,"

you urged, your voice low and encouraging.

"Let go for me..."

With a strangled cry of your name, Agatha did just that, coming undone as her climax crashed through her. Her sex clenched around your fingers rhythmically, gushing fluids as waves of pleasure washed over her.

You worked her through it, continuing to stroke until the last aftershock subsided. Pulling your fingers free, you slowly brought them to your lips, making a show of cleaning the essence of your lover's climax from your fingers.

"You are divine," you praised wickedly.

Agatha was left panting as she stared at you with glazed eyes, a blissful smile on her kiss-swollen lips.

"And you, my dear are far more dangerous than I first thought."

You leaned in slowly placing a soft kiss to her lips

“I want to taste my prize…..“ you hummed against her teasingly, fingers slipping beneath the ruined fabric clinging to her hips, peeling them slowly down her thighs you mindlessly tossed them aside.

Agatha swallowed hard, her lights eyes darkening with renewed desire at your words. She gripped your face, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched and your noses brushed.

"Then take your prize, darling,"

she breathed out, her voice a husky, lust-filled purr.

"Taste what you've done to me."

With that, Agatha spread her thighs wider, baring herself completely to your hungry gaze. The sight of her glistening folds, still slick and swollen from her recent climax, made your mouth water.

She looked debauched and breathtaking all at once.

You didn't hesitate. You couldn't. The temptation was too great. Agatha watched, panting softly, as you settled between her legs. Her sweet scent filled your nostrils, the aroma of her arousal thick and heady.

You started slow, trailing teasing kisses along her inner thigh, taking your time to appreciate the smoothness of her skin. Agatha squirmed beneath you impatiently, one hand fisting in your hair.

Pleasing her was fast becoming your favorite hobby. You loved seeing her come undone, loved hearing the desperate sounds she made as you slowly pushed her to the brink.

And so you took your time, alternating between soft kisses and gentle nips, until she was writhing against the bed.

When you finally reached her core, Agatha was practically mewling, her hips undulating in a silent plea for more.

You smirked up at her devilishly before you licked a long, slow stripe up her weeping slit, softly sucking her throbbing clit between your lips before releasing it with a pop.

"Ohhh divine mother..."

she groaned, Her voice breaking on a gasp as you took your first real taste of her. The flavor exploded on your tongue. Sweet, tangy, and utterly intoxicating, like the finest ambrosia.

It was just as sinful and addictive as the rest of her, and you knew you would never get enough.

Reveling in the way Agatha shuddered and writhed at the first flick of your tongue against her pussy, you dove in to feast on her, lips and tongue working in tandem to drive her wild.

You plunged your tongue deep into Agatha's hot, clenching center, reveling in the slick heat that embraced and drew you in. Your hands gripped her ass, kneading the firm globes as you ate her out with renowned fever.

Agatha's head tipped back as you pleasured her, a symphony of high-pitched moans and breathless cries filling the room.

Her thighs quivered and clenched around your head as you took your time wringing orgasm, after orgasm from her willing body.

The taste of her arousal flooded your mouth as she came undone against your questing tongue and lips time and again, you savored the gift of her pleasure and intoxication as she surrendered herself completely to your every touch and whim on every level imaginable.

Throughout the sensual onslaught, Agatha's hands gripped your hair, sometimes pushing you closer, often tugging you back as the sensations you stimulated within her became too intense for her.

You held on stubbornly, refusing to ease up on your loving assault of her sweetness, you could taste the ecstasy she achieved and relished oh so much in the tremors and aftershocks of bliss that rocked her trembling body in your arms.

Finally, Agatha slumped back against the bed, boneless and sated. Her chest heaved as she gulped in lungful of air, her eyes glazed and unfocused in the afterglow.

You crawled up her body slowly, kissing every inch of skin as you went, until you were lying next to her once more.

You brushed sweat-damped waves back from her face, cupping her cheek as you met her stunned gaze.

"Such a good girl "

you praised softly, brushing your lips against hers. Agatha could taste herself on them, that telltale flavor of her pleasure lingering and arousing her to no end.

"Coming for me so beautifully. I have a feeling I'll be tasting you a lot more often from now on"

You purred, giving her a wicked grin and a nip at her bottom lip.

Agatha managed a breathless, blissful laugh at your declaration, her eyes sparkling with mischief even as exhaustion and satisfaction clouded them.

"When you put it that way, I look forward to it.."

she murmured, a wicked little smile playing about her kiss-swollen lips.

She lifted a trembling hand to your face, her fingers trailing down your cheek in a intimate caress that made your skin tingle.

Agatha studied you for a long moment, her gaze intense and unreadable, before leaning in to capture your mouth in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of a promise kept... and a thousand more yet to come.

You kissed her back fervently, pouring all of your pent-up passion and desire into the embrace. It was a silent acknowledgment of the shift that had occurred between you both - a metamorphosis from silent admirer to fierce, unabashed lover.

You wanted Agatha with every fiber of your being, and now that you had a taste of paradise, nothing in this world or the next would stop you from devouring the whole damn orchard……..even if it kills you.

*************************************************

[masorciereviolette]

The Weight Of Grief 5 / ?

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha x Reader x Rio

Warnings: Angst, Comfort, Mutual longing

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: Here’s the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it and if you do please like or repost!!! :)))

Taglist: @milflovers4 @brekker157 @loveshineslikethesky

Next Part Link to series masterlist

The moment stretched, fragile and trembling, like glass on the verge of cracking. The fire between you flickering, casting shifting shadows that stretched and shrank across the walls, moving like something alive.

The weight of the silence sat heavy in the space between you, thick with unsaid things, with unspoken grief and unacknowledged wounds. It should have been suffocating. It should have pressed in, made the walls feel too close, the air too thin.

But somehow, it didn’t.

Agatha didn’t move, didn’t press, only let the quiet hum with something that felt like understanding. The weight of everything you carried was still there, still crushing, but somehow—just for this breath—it didn’t feel quite as impossible.

Your fingers curled slightly, a whisper of contact against hers. A choice so small it could’ve gone unnoticed, but she noticed.

You saw it in the way her sharp, guarded gaze softened, in the way she exhaled, slow and steady, like she had been holding her breath too.

She didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t tell you it would get easier. Maybe she knew better than to offer promises that couldn’t be kept. Instead, she let the silence hold its own kind of solace, let it wrap around you both like something sacred, something just for you.

After a moment, she shifted, not pulling away but turning her palm upward, offering more. Offering something steadier. A lifeline, fragile as it was.

You hesitated. The instinct to retreat was still there, sharp-edged and familiar, a reflex you had learned to obey long ago. But there was something else too—something that made you stay.

Your hand found hers, fingers ghosting over calloused skin before settling, tentative but real. And when her grip tightened, just enough to anchor, the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slipped free.

It didn’t fix anything. The grief was still there, the weight of everything you had seen, everything you had lost, still an ache inside your ribs. But in this moment, in this quiet, unspoken understanding, it didn’t feel quite so unbearable.

Agatha gave a small nod, as if to say, There. That’s enough for now. And for the first time in a long time, you almost believed it.

The two of you sat in silence, the fire crackling softly between you.

And then, finally, she sighed. “Did you find it?”

It took you a moment to process what she meant.

Her power.

You had gone searching, diving into the tangled mess that Wanda had left behind, peeling back the layers of magic that had buried Agatha’s strength beneath it.

But what you found—

Agatha narrowed her eyes, sensing your hesitation.

“What?”

You licked your lips, suddenly unsure how to say it. You had thought—hoped—that it was just a spell. A binding. A lock that could be undone.

But Wanda Maximoff hadn’t just buried Agatha’s magic. She had stolen it. The truth burned on your tongue, heavy with the weight of what it meant. The irony.

Agatha must have seen it on your face because her expression darkened.

“What did you find?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s… it’s gone, Agatha.”

Her entire body stilled.

“What?”

You exhaled, hating the way the words felt like a death sentence.

“Your magic. It’s not just blocked—it’s not there.”

Agatha’s lips parted slightly, her breath catching in her throat.

“That’s not possible.”

You shook your head. “Wanda didn’t just suppress your power, Agatha. She took it.”

The color drained from her face. For the first time since she had shown up at your doorstep, the mask shattered.

“No,” she whispered.

You could feel it—the sheer panic radiating off of her in waves, a raw, unfiltered fear that you had never seen from her before.

Agatha Harkness had always been powerful. Always in control.

But now?

Now, she was neither.

You watched as she dropped your hand from her hold, pushing herself up from the floor, pacing, hands shaking at her sides.

“No,” she repeated, more forcefully this time. “You’re wrong. You have to be wrong.”

Your stomach twisted. “Agatha—”

“I would know,” she snapped, voice rising. “I would know if she took it.”

You stood as well, heart pounding. “I don’t think you do.”

Agatha’s breath was coming faster now, her chest rising and falling as if the room had suddenly run out of air.

“This isn’t happening,” she muttered under her breath “This—this isn’t—”

“Agatha.” She flinched.

You haven’t said her name like that in centuries.

Soft. Steady. Like you were grounding her.

Like you used to, before everything fell apart.

Her gaze met yours, wide and shaken. And for the first time, you saw fear in her eyes.

Not the fear of losing. Not the fear of being powerless. But the fear of who she was without it.

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut.

Agatha’s magic wasn’t just her strength.

It was her identity.

Without it, she was… lost.

The anger, the sharp-edged wit, the bravado—none of it had ever been real, had it?

It had been a shield, a carefully constructed wall built around the raw, aching truth of a woman who had never known who she was outside of her power.

And now that it was gone?

There was nothing left but the fragments of her.

Your chest tightened, the weight of it all pressing down on you.

“We’ll fix this,” you murmured.

Agatha let out a choked laugh, shaking her head. “How? How do you fix something that isn’t there?”

You didn’t know.

But you had to try.

Because this wasn’t her.

And no matter what she had done, no matter how much time had passed, you couldn’t watch her fall apart like this.

So you reached for her.

She tensed as your fingers brushed against hers, but she didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know how yet,” you admitted. “But I promise you—we’ll find a way.”

Agatha swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as if trying to push back everything she was feeling.

For a long moment, she didn’t say anything.

Then, finally, her fingers curled around yours.

The fire popped softly between you, a lone sound in the quiet, as if the universe itself had gone still in the wake of what you had just said.

Agatha’s grip on your hand was tight, like she was holding onto the last piece of solid ground beneath her feet. Her breathing was still uneven, her pulse a rapid staccato beneath her skin.

You had seen her angry. You had seen her ruthless. You had even seen her cruel.

But you had never seen her afraid.

Not like this.

She exhaled sharply, yanking her hand away as if burned.

“No,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head.

“No, no, no.”

She turned, pacing again, her movements sharp and angry. Her fingers twitched at her sides, like she was trying to summon something—muscle memory attempting to call magic that wasn’t there.

Nothing happened.

Her breath hitched, and she tried again. Harder. Desperate. You could feel the energy in her, the force of her will, but it had nowhere to go. There was nothing left to reach for.

Agatha Harkness, the woman who had always wielded power as if it were an extension of herself, was empty.

And she knew it.

A harsh, ragged sound tore from her throat—a sound that was too raw, too broken to be anything but grief. It startled you more than her fury ever had.

She turned on you then, eyes wild.

“There’s a way. There’s always a way.” she snapped, as if sheer force of will could undo the truth.

You swallowed hard. “Agatha—”

“I’ll get it back.” The words were a vow, low and trembling. “I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care what I have to do.”

Something cold curled in your stomach. You had seen what she was willing to do for power before. You had seen what she had done to other witches, how far she had been willing to go.

And now she had nothing left to lose.

“Agatha, listen to me.” You stepped closer cautiously. “I know this—this feels impossible, but you can’t—”

Her head snapped up, eyes blazing.

“I can’t what?” she demanded. “I can’t fight? I can’t take it back? I can’t fix what she did to me?”

Her voice cracked on that last word.

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “Not like this.”

Her expression twisted.

“You think I should just accept it? Just live like—” She stopped short, jaw tightening, her throat working around words she couldn’t bring herself to say.

Like a human.

Like someone ordinary.

Like someone powerless.

She exhaled sharply, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “I won’t.”

There was steel in her voice, the remnants of the woman she had always been—sharp-edged, defiant, unwilling to surrender.

But beneath it, there was something else. Something splintered.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself. “Then we’ll find another way.”

Agatha’s gaze flicked to yours, searching, as if trying to gauge whether you meant it. Whether you were offering her false hope, or something real.

You didn’t know what terrified you more—the thought of her giving up, or the thought of what she might become again if she refused to.

“We’ll fix this,” you said again, quieter this time.

“But not out of desperation. Not out of fear, And not by killing innocent witches-”

Agatha’s jaw clenched. Her eyes burned with something unreadable.

And then, finally—slowly—she nodded.

It wasn’t surrender.

It wasn’t acceptance.

But it was something.

Agatha’s nod was small, barely more than the inclination of her chin, but you saw it for what it was, a reluctant concession.

Not surrender—never that—but an agreement to stay in this moment, to hold off whatever storm was brewing inside her for just a little longer.

The fire between you crackled on, throwing shifting shadows against the walls. Outside, the night stretched endless and dark, filled with unanswered questions. But for now, at least, neither of you had to face them alone

She looked away, her gaze fixed on the fire as if the answers she sought might be found in the flickering embers.

The shadows danced across her face, sharpening the angles of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone. But it was the tightness in her expression, the tension in her shoulders, that held your attention.

Agatha Harkness was unraveling.

You could see it in the way her fingers flexed against her knees, curling into fists and then unfurling again like she was trying to grasp something that refused to be held

You had never seen her like this before—not even in the worst of your fights, not even when—. She had always been sharp, composed, a force of nature that refused to break.

But now?

Now, she was a woman standing on the edge of something she didn’t know how to come back from.

And then, slowly, she sank back down onto the floor.

Not with the same rigid stillness as before, not like she was bracing herself against something unbearable. This time, it was different.

She lowered herself carefully, deliberately, like someone trying to come to terms with the fact that running—pacing, lashing out—would not fix what had already been done.

Her hands rested against her knees again, fingers twitching slightly before stilling. She wasn’t looking at you, but you knew she was listening.

You hesitated before speaking, keeping your voice quiet. “What does it feel like?”

Her jaw tensed. You thought she might ignore you, thought she might snap at you for daring to ask something so raw, so vulnerable.

But then—

“Wrong,” she murmured.

The word was so quiet you almost missed it, barely more than an exhale. But it carried the full weight of what she had lost.

Your chest tightened, heavy with the weight of unspoken things, you shifted slightly, moving to sit beside her. You had been standing behind her before—watching, waiting—but now, something in you urged you closer. Not just for her sake, but for yours.

The floor was cold against your legs as you settled beside her, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed. Close enough that she could feel you there, solid and present, without forcing the space between you to close too quickly.

You didn’t want to startle her, didn’t want to make her feel trapped when she was already caught in the tangle of her own mind.

Agatha didn’t acknowledge the movement right away, her gaze still fixed somewhere distant, somewhere beyond what you could see. But her fingers twitched again, a restless motion against her knee, like she was testing the limits of what she could still feel. The absence of power, the ghost of something once intrinsic—something stolen.

Her breathing was steady, but you could hear the careful control in it, the way she was forcing herself not to let too much slip. You wondered if it had always been like this for her. If holding herself together had been a constant battle, even before everything had been taken from her.

Agatha Harkness had been many things—powerful, calculating, relentless—but never helpless. Never this.

She exhaled sharply, her shoulders rising and falling.

“I can still feel it,” she admitted, voice rough. “Like an echo. Like it’s just out of reach.”

Your stomach twisted at the rawness of it. The thought of Agatha—someone who had carried her magic like a second skin—feeling the absence of it like a phantom limb made something deep in your chest ache.

You hesitated before reaching out, fingertips brushing against the back of her hand. She flinched slightly at the touch, the reaction instinctual, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, the tension in her fingers eased, just slightly.

“Then maybe it’s not gone,” you said carefully.

Her head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing.

“You said—”

“I know what I said,” you interrupted gently. “But just because Wanda took it doesn’t mean it’s lost forever.”

Something flickered in her gaze—hope, fear, something in between. But it was gone as quickly as it came, crushed beneath the weight of her suspicion.

“And what if it is?”

Your fingers curled more firmly around hers, a deliberate tether, something solid in the wake of everything unraveling around her.

“Then we’ll find another way.”

Her breath caught in her throat, sharp and sudden. For a moment, she didn’t speak, didn’t even move.

Then, finally, she exhaled, her hand turning beneath yours. Not pulling away. Just shifting. Her fingers brushed against your palm, testing, before settling into the space between yours once again.

She swallowed hard, her throat working around words she wasn’t ready to say.

“You always were too damn stubborn,” she muttered.

A soft huff of breath left you, something close to a laugh.

“Takes one to know one.”

She scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. Just a weary sort of understanding. And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, there was something else in the air between you.

Not grief.

Not anger.

Not even forgiveness.

But something softer.

Something that felt, just for a breath, like the memory of what had once been.

The fire crackled softly, burning low in the hearth, its golden glow flickering against the walls. The night had settled heavily around you, thick and inescapable, but not suffocating—not like before. The weight of everything lingered, pressing down on both of you, but for once, it felt… bearable.

Agatha’s hand was still in yours.

Neither of you had acknowledged it, neither willing to break the fragile thread of connection. Her fingers were warm against yours, loose but steady, like she wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Like maybe, just maybe, she needed the anchor just as much as you did.

“You need sleep,” she murmured, her voice low and rough with exhaustion.

You sighed, tilting your head to look at her.

“So do you.”

Agatha scoffed, rolling her head back slightly against the couch. “Always so damn stubborn.”

You smirked, a small, tired thing.

She exhaled through her nose, something close to amusement but not quite. You could see it now—the exhaustion dragging at her, the slow, deliberate way she blinked, the stiffness in her muscles as if she were still fighting the weight of it.

She wasn’t the only one.

Your back ached from sitting on the hard floor for too long, the discomfort creeping into your bones. The couch was barely inches away, a far softer, warmer alternative, but moving felt like admitting how tired you really were.

Still, when Agatha shifted beside you, her knee brushing against yours, you caught the way her gaze flickered toward the couch, considering.

“You know,” you muttered, tilting your chin toward it.“we’re already halfway there.”

Agatha gave you a long, unimpressed look before exhaling sharply.

“Unbelievable.”

But she didn’t argue.

Instead, she let go of your hand—just for a second—before pressing one palm against the couch cushion, hoisting herself up with a soft, tired grunt.

You watched as she settled, her body sinking into the cushions with a sigh, her posture still stiff, still guarded, but unraveling at the edges. The way she leaned back, the way her head tilted slightly toward the firelight—it was different than before. Not defiance. Not resistance.

Something softer.

Something closer to surrender.

You hesitated for half a second before following, shifting up onto the couch beside her. The cushions dipped under your weight, the space between you briefly too much, but then—almost unconsciously—you moved closer.

Your thigh brushed against hers, warm even through layers of fabric. Your shoulder barely grazed her own before settling.

You stayed still.

Waiting.

Testing.

She didn’t move away.

If anything, she let out a slow, quiet breath, her body tilting slightly toward yours, the tension in her limbs unraveling thread by thread.

She was so exhausted.

And honestly? So were you.

Instead of responding, you shifted carefully, leaning just slightly until your weight rested against her. Your movements were hesitant, uncertain, but you felt the way her breath hitched for a second—felt the way she stiffened, instinctual and sharp-edged.

You stayed there, waiting for her to pull away.

She didn’t.

Instead, she exhaled—slow and deep, like something breaking loose inside her—and relaxed against you.

The weight of her was warm, solid, grounding. Her head barely rested against your shoulder, a light, hesitant pressure that lingered instead of retreating.

Her breath ghosted softly against the side of your neck, slow and steady, and you could feel the moment she let herself be here—truly be in this moment, rather than fight against it.

You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat and did the only thing that made sense.

Carefully, slowly, you lifted your arm and draped it across the back of the couch—a silent invitation.

Agatha hesitated.

Then, finally, finally, she let herself lean in.

Her body shifted just slightly, just enough for her head to press fully against your shoulder, just enough for her weight to settle into you.

The stiffness in her limbs eased, her fingers twitching once against her lap before curling in slightly, like she was resisting the instinct to hold on.

Something in your chest ached.

This wasn’t Agatha Harkness, the sharp-witted, ruthless force of nature. This was Agatha, the woman you had once known—the woman who had always needed this, always wanted this, even if she never said it.

Carefully, without thinking too much about it, you shifted again, turning just enough that you could rest your cheek lightly against the crown of her head.

Her hair was soft against your skin, and you let out a slow, measured breath, your fingers tracing slow, absent circles against her arm.

She didn’t pull away.

She sank into it.

The only sound was the steady rhythm of her breathing, slow and even, matching the rise and fall of your own.

“Five minutes?” you murmured against her hair.

Agatha let out a quiet hum, barely more than an acknowledgment.

“Five minutes,” she echoed.

But there was no fight in it this time.

No resistance.

Just quiet acceptance.

And for the first time in too long, you let your eyes slip shut, knowing—feeling—that she wouldn’t pull away.

Not tonight.