#pale pity

[notzawzark]

THATS IT.

somtimes a man NEEDS To be the one that takes the first step. this is me extending my motherfucking olivve branchj out to yyou :O)

its ok that you said WRONG AND FALSE AND EVIL things, our awesome freaking moriailiegnce comes first bro.

[cold-violet]

Pretty girls cry

[xagave]

I see ur notes trust me I didn't forget ashen it's one of the reasons I love my ot3 so much :0 I think it's a really unappreciated quad that people would have a lot of fun with if they played with it but I was trying to pick a fave and I've been torn between black and pale for a while 😩

[sporesgalaxy]

my mom decided interview with the vampire would be a fun halloween movie and I gotta say. Im really glad that what we do in the shadows exists or Id be a lot angrier about this being so dull

[hypodermicfroggy]

I wished for a Bioshock movie for Y E A R S

but now that we're finally getting one I don't want it

I do not have faith this is going to be a good adaption, I'm sorry, maybe 10 years ago this could have been a great passion project (especially if Gore Verbinski had been involved like originally planned) but I just know it's going to be an over-actioned, improperly funded (since it's a Netflix production they're absolutely going to either dump too much or not enough money in it then write it off as a failure if it doesn't 'perform' well enough), CGI-laden slop fest that doesn't even acknowledge or properly handle half the themes present in the series.

[dreamofmourning]

[beneaththeshadows]

Rhaena Targaryen and Morning

Rhaena and Morning to go with that Baela and Moondancer I did previously, and let me tell you, I hate the way I colored it, but ok

(the image quality is trash, I know)

[aureentuluva70]

Something I find fascinating about Melkor's character as a villain and how he fits as the satan-figure of the Tolkienverse is that he's ridiculously powerful and strong, he's brought kingdoms to their knees and marred the earth and yet...he's totally pathetic.

This guy is second in power only to God Himself and yet he's a complete coward and a loser. It's almost laughable, the sheer levels of pure lameness Melkor is able to reach. This is the dude who once went to the ocean just to scream curses at it in one draft; who was practically peeing his pants at the thought of having to fight Fingolfin; who put the largest bounties on the heads of thieves despite Melkor being a thief himself, with the evidence of it burned into his very flesh. He wanted to rule the world but then the moment he realized it could never be his and only his in its entirety, instead of admitting defeat he decided that throwing an eternally long temper tantrum about it all the while destroying everything and everyone around him was a much better idea.

And its so, so different compared to other fictional depictions of demonic/satan-esque characters I often see in the media, where they make him into this cool, attractive noble suave guy. It's honestly kind of refreshing, finding a fictional depiction of a Satanic figure who is none of those things whatsoever.

Can I see Melkor as an attractive, charming guy at the beginning? Sure. But at the end of the war of wrath, when he has wasted so much of his power and fallen so incredibly low? When he's in constant pain all the time? When he's just so incredibly awful that even his most devoted servant comes to hate his guts? No way.

Especially when Evil in the Tolkienverse is often associated with physical and mental deterioration(think Gollum), Melkor was bound to be a complete and utter wreck, a sad pitiful shell of the once great ainu he used to be, by the end of it all. Because that's what evil does to a person. It destroys them from the inside out until there's practically nothing left.

[liketolaugh-writes]

I've been playing with a no-one-knows AU where Danny has been married to Jason for years but hasn't told him his secret. Jason knows that Danny isn't human, but hasn't pressed because Danny is so terrified when he approaches the topic. The Batfamily do not know.

Presently, the GIW are in Gotham and closing in, and the Box Ghost has come to Danny seeking help.

----

“You’re a ghost,” Jason said gently, pulling one of Danny’s hands away from his face to wrap it in his own. Danny let him. “Aren’t you?”

Danny’s breath hitched again.

Surprisingly, the Box Ghost looked almost as horrified as Danny.

“What? NO! I, the BOX GHOST, would not out Danny Fenton to his human family! For he is as human as I once was!” He flailed his arms in blatant panic. “There is nothing to reveal, for Danny Fenton is most certainly NOT a ghost!”

“What’s wrong with Danny being a ghost?” Box Lunch wanted to know, tilting her head up to peer up at her father in confusion. “Is it a secret?”

“BOX LUNCH!” the Box Ghost wailed, every inch a mortified parent.

“Yes, it was, or your father would not be so blatantly lying about it,” Damian told her, taking pity on the child ghost.

“Oh!” Box Lunch nodded seriously. “Danny isn’t a ghost!”

Danny let out a slightly hysterical laugh, and then started to cry, gasping quietly with tears pouring down his face, hunched down to hide from them. He didn’t pull his hand out of Jason’s.

“It is no longer a secret here, as it has become apparent,” Damian elaborated.

Box Lunch scrunched up her nose. “Oh.”

“Ghosts are not bad,” Cass said softly, “if ghosts are Danny.”

“Danny.” Jason scooted closer and pulled Danny against him, and Danny let him, pressing into him without unwinding at all. “Danny, I already knew. I’ve known for years.” Danny tilted his head up to give him an incredulous look, and Jason grinned at him. “You’re not good at hiding it, stardust. Your freckles glow when you’re excited and your eyes flash green when you’re frustrated. You walk through closed doors when you’re sleepy and things fall through your hands when people startle you. I’ve known you aren’t human since we moved in together.”

“…Oh,” Danny murmured, guilt and relief and wonder swirling together in his still-wet eyes.

“Phantom!” the Box Ghost scolded. Jason took note of the sudden change in address. “You are the worst secret keeper ever!”

“Shut up, Boxy,” Danny snapped. He pulled away from Jason and wiped his eyes, sniffling. Their hands stayed locked together. “We, we need to hide you and bitty-bite b-before we talk about this any more. I wasn’t joking about the Guys in White.”

The Box Ghost flapped his arms dismissively. “They will not find us! They are looking for YOU, and their instruments will not be prepared for such subtle spirits as Box Lunch and I!”

“They are looking for me while I am hiding,” Danny said, soft but barbed. He wiped his face again and turned around to better face the other ghost, glaring sharply. “Something I am well known to be very good at. Far better at than you.”

The Box Ghost went so pale he was almost translucent.

“You don’t look like a ghost at all,” Tim said, studying Danny. “Your skin is pink, you don’t glow… most of the time, no pointed ears or fangs. Your eyes are normal.” His eyes narrowed. “Is this… not your natural appearance?”

Danny flinched. “I… I…” He swallowed, staring at nothing, and then forced his attention back onto the Box Ghost. “Your base signatures are pretty low. If you stop using your powers and suppress your auras as much as you can, you can probably bring them low enough to hide.”

No answers would be forthcoming for now, Jason understood. He signaled sharply to Bruce and Tim, the most likely to try to interrupt. Wait. Time-sensitive, finish operation before proceeding.

Bruce didn’t look pleased, but he nodded sharply. Tim just watched, thoughtful eyes fixed on Danny. Damian was scowling, Dick frowning faintly, but Cass’ curiosity looked borderline idle. Jason watched Danny interact with the other ghost with a healthy blend of interest and concern, and tried not to wonder if Tim was right.

“Box Lunch, do you know how to land?” Danny asked. It seemed like a silly question until Box Lunch wrinkled her nose and cocked her head.

“Land?” she asked, audibly uncertain. For that matter, her father looked vaguely baffled too. “Like… with my feet? On the floor?”

Danny managed a smile and nodded. Box Lunch eyed the floor, then drifted down to hover at floor level. “Like this?”

“Not exactly,” Danny said, sounding more fond than anything. He slid off the bar stool and knelt down in front of Box Lunch. Jason couldn’t look away; he’d been deprived of any open knowledge of Danny’s nonhuman side for so long that his curiosity was damn near insatiable now. And Danny teaching a kid of his species? That was doing things to Jason. Good things. “Close your eyes.” Box Lunch did. “Feel the energy in the air. Do you feel gravity? Do you sense how it pulls things down?” She nodded uncertainly. “Hold onto that feeling. Let it hold onto you. Do you feel it?” Nod. “Good. Now- let go of the sky.”

The instructions didn’t make a lick of sense to Jason, but Box Lunch dropped right out of the air and landed on her feet. Her eyes flew open, and she pinwheeled dramatically until Danny caught her.

“Ahh!” she squealed, looking dismayed. “I’m heavy!”

Danny chuckled. “No, bitty-bite, you’re still light as a feather.” He picked Box Lunch up and held her out in front of him, smiling. She squealed again, kicking her feet, her eyes bright with delight. “Good job. Do you think you can hold that?”

“Um, sure,” she mumbled, not looking at all sure.

The Box Ghost landed on the floor with a grunt - Jason suspected that he’d been listening to Danny’s instructions too. He held out his arms for Box Lunch, and Danny handed her over willingly.

“Now what?” the Box Ghost asked tentatively, staring at the floor like it would eat him. Yeah, Jason could definitely believe that he’d never landed before either.

“Now, you listen to me,” Danny said seriously. He reached out and grabbed Box Ghost’s arm, demanding his attention, and forced eye contact. From the Box Ghost’s wide eyes, this behavior was as new to him as it was to Jason. But then Danny continued, speaking as firmly as if he were willing his words into existence. “You are not a ghost. You are not a ghost.” Understanding flickered across the Box Ghost’s face, and he screwed his eyes shut. His glow started to dim. “You are solid. You are heavy. You are warm. You are made of flesh, blood, and bone. You are not a ghost. You are not a ghost. You are human.”

The Box Ghost’s glow receded and disappeared. Except for his blue skin, he almost looked human now. He opened his eyes uncertainly, and Danny gave him a weary smile and a nod, letting go of his arm and leaning back.

“But what about Box Lunch?” the Box Ghost asked anxiously, looking down at Box Lunch. She’d squeezed her eyes shut to try and follow Danny’s instructions, but didn’t seem to be meeting with the same success.

Danny sighed. “I’m not sure how to explain it to her,” he admitted, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair as he looked at the little girl with worry. She opened her eyes and gave him an anxious look, and Danny gave her a small smile. “It’s not your fault, bitty-bite. It’s just… you’ve always been a ghost, so you don’t have your dad’s memories of what it felt like to be human.”

Box Lunch stomped her feet. “I can pretend!”

“Then pretend,” Danny said seriously. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just do your best.”

“Wehh!” Box Lunch flailed her arms, brow furrowed in concentration. “I am human! My body is super solid and I crash into things a lot! And I run around on the ground and eat human food! Fear me!”

It was so cute that Jason muffled a laugh, and he wasn’t the only one. Box Lunch ran a circle around the floor, then crashed into a wall on purpose and bounced off, giggling. Even Bruce’s hard expression softened into a fond look.

“That should keep you off the sensors,” Danny said to the Box Ghost, voice low. Something about his eyes looked exhausted. “Just make sure Box Lunch maintains it. Maybe keep playing human with her.”

The Box Ghost nodded uncertainly. “Thank you, Phantom,” he said quietly. “I know that we can count on you.”

[sugoroo]

warnings. fem!reader, oral (f receiving), face-sitting, ruined orgasm, satoru gojo is his own warning, 18+ minors dni.

thinking about absolutely insufferable boyfriend satoru gojo who always ruins your incoming orgasms by saying the corniest, most unserious things during sex.

picture him splayed across the bed, messy white locks stuck to his forehead with sweat and uncovered cerulean eyes clouded over with lust as you slowly lower yourself onto his awaiting mouth.

"mhm, that's it, baby," he's cooing, pale hands snaking around your thighs to help you stay upright as he impatiently pulls your pliant body down quicker onto his face. "sit riiight here."

and you're letting off a surprised squeak when he barely gives you a single moment to adjust to the new position before his full, grinning lips are planting a wet, obnoxious kiss right against your sappy folds.

"toru!" you giggle involuntarily, hips wriggling against his face as he continues placing such shameless, sloppy pecks against your sensitive skin — he's acting like a horny teenager making out with a girl for the first time, except in this case the girl is your pussy.

satoru's stupidly dopey smile never fades as he takes in your reactions to his ministrations, each whine and cute laugh just encouraging him to act even more ridiculous.

so he's flicking out his freakishly long tongue, gifting you with little kitten licks that are just barely enough to make your insides tingle but not enough to give you any real sense of pleasure.

and you rock against his face in search of the friction he knows you so desperately need, brows pinched in frustration and lower lip pushed out into an unconscious pout.

"aww, is this not enough for my pretty girl?" satoru chuckles, feigning obliviousness as he watches you restlessly grind into him — he just can't help that he loves seeing you like this, all needy and annoyed with his teasing.

"y-you know it's not," you grumble out, aiming what you hope is perceived as a scolding glare down at him as your fruitless wriggling slowly comes to a halt. "come on... please, toru?"

"now there's the magic word i was waiting for!" he cheers overdramatically, like a proud parent complimenting their child for finally using their manners like they were taught.

you roll your eyes in exasperation, but the action quickly morphs into one of them rolling backwards in pleasure when satoru finally drags his tongue properly through your sticky folds.

and you're rambling out various breathless 'thank you's, pent-up body relaxing onto his mouth as he begins to eat you out like he would've been doing from the beginning if he didn't enjoy making you work for it so much.

he's so unbelievably good at it too, wet lips peppering loving kisses against your cunt before he delves that lengthy tongue inside of your fluttering hole, effortlessly reaching your sweet spot without even having to try.

and you both know it's not long before you're going to fall apart, the thrust of the wet muscle in and out of you and the frequent pauses he takes to suck your puffy clit into his hot mouth just too delicious.

but just when you begin to feel that familiar feeling rising in the depths of your stomach, the metaphorical string of pleasure coiled tight and ready to snap at any moment, satoru just has to spoil it.

"yeahh, can tell you're close, baby." he groans into your pussy, the rumbling vibrations only adding to the colourful sensations coursing through your veins. "gonna cum for me?"

and you're nodding furiously, not even bothering to attempt to speak because there's no doubt in your mind that the words would end up sounding completely incomprehensible.

"mhm? gonna cum all over the strongest's face?" satoru adds in an exaggeratedly loud and sarcastic moan, the ridiculously corny words somehow managing to break through the fragile glass of your incoming orgasm, shattering it into a million pitiful pieces right before your eyes.

"g-god. why are you like this, gojo?" you groan in frustration, the haze of pleasure slowly but surely evaporating from your mind and leaving only a pathetic feeling of emptiness lingering in its place.

satoru just smirks smugly, shrugging as if he doesn't have a single care in the world and flicking his tongue back out to clear your glistening juices away from his lips. "like what?"

scowling in annoyance, you waste no time in swatting his hands away from your thighs and lifting your shaky hips away from his soaked face, rolling off of him and searching around the bedcovers for your panties.

"w-wait, baby, where are you going?" he mutters hurriedly, his entire face draining of all its colour as he watches you preparing to leave — it would almost be laughable how quickly he can go from teasing to pathetic in mere moments if you weren't so pissed off with him right now.

"to find someone who doesn't say shit like that when i'm about to cum." you state simply, tugging your underwear back up your legs before making a show of heading towards the bedroom door.

satoru is scrambling off of the mattress in seconds, almost tripping over himself in his determination to stop you in your tracks. "no, don't go, pretty girl! i was just joking around— h-hey... i'll make you cum as many times as you want if you stay, promise!"

...and that's the story of how you finally made your insufferable boyfriend satoru gojo learn his lesson.

© 2024 SUGOROO. please don't copy or translate any of my works without my explicit permission. all rights are reserved to me.

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

[cold-violet]

My mom told me I should smile more and make myself more likeable. She thinks I'm in one of my depressing moods again. I didn't say anything to her at all.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

what are some ways to describe people other than eye and hair color

I am assuming you are looking for physical descriptors. Here are some examples. I may just make a different post on psychological descriptors.

Arms: Long, Muscular, Pudgy, Short, Skinny, Thin

Back: Bent, Hunched, Ramrod Straight, Rounded

Build: Anorexic, Athletic, Beefy, Brawny, Burly, Chubby, Coltish, Compact, Fat, Gangly, Gaunt, Gawky, Haggard, Heavy-set, Herculean, Husky, Lanky, Lithe, Muscular, Obese, Overweight, Petite, Rangy, Reed-like, Scrawny, Skinny, Slender, Slight, Solid, Spindly, Statuesque, Stocky, Strapping, Sylphlike, Taut, Thickset, Thin, Trim, Underweight, Voluptuous, Well-built, Willowy, Withered

Cheeks: Blushing, Bold, Curved, Dimpled, Bold, Curved, Dimpled, Disturbed, Glorious, Glowing, Hairless, High (cheekbones), Hollow, Honey, Livid, Pale, Pallid, Pink, Plump, Puffy, Radiant, Reddened, Rosy, Rounded, Ruddy, Shining, Smooth, Soft, Sun-burnt, Sun-bronzed, Sunken, Sun-tanned, Tanned, Tearful, White

Chin: Angular, Bony, Bumpy, Chiseled, Defined, Doughy, Firm, Protruding, Round, Smooth, Soft, Square, Strong

Ears: Jug-like, Large, Protruding, Tiny

Eyebrows: Arching, Bushy, Emphasized, Near, Spaced, Thick, Thin

Eyelashes: Artificial, Beaded, Beautiful, Blinking, Dark, Dark-fringed, Dense, Dusky, Heavily-fringed, Long, Mascaraed, Sandy, Sooty, Sopping, Tear-drenched, Thick, Uplifted

Eyes: Almond-shaped, Bright, Bulging, Expressive, Frightened, Gentle, Languishing, Little, Luminous, Made-up, Round, Shining, Shortsighted, Smart, Stunned, Thin, Wide, Woeful

Face: Baby, Blood-stained, Bold, Chiseled, Contorted, Dead, Expressionless, Fair, Familiar, Fierce, Flat, Frightened, Furrowed, Honest, Indifferent, Little, Pale, Poker, Pretty, Radiant, Rough, Ruddy, Sallow, Square, Stained, Swollen, Trim, Weather-beaten, Wry

Feet: Athlete's, Big, Flat, Pigeon-toed, Small, Sore, Stinky, Stubby, Swollen

Fingers: Gnarled, Long, Short, Stubby

Finger Nails: Bitten, Broken, Claw-like, Dirty, Hooked, Long, Painted, Sharp, Talon-like

Hair: Afro, Bald, Beehive, Braided, Bristles, Bun, Chignon, Coiffure, Combed, Corkscrew, Corn rows, Cowlicked, Crew cut, Curly, Disarrayed, Disheveled, Dreadlocks, Dry, Flattop, Flecked, French braid, French twist, Fringe, Greasy, Grizzled, Knotted, Layered, Locks, Matted, Messed up, Mohawk, Mussy, Muttonchops, Neat, Oily, Page boy, Perm, Pigtails, Plait, Pompadour, Ponytail, Ragged, Receding, Ringlets, Ruffled, Shaggy, Shorn, Shoulder-length, Skinhead, Spiky, Split-ended, Straight, Tangled, Thick, Thinning, Tidy, Topknot, Tousled, Twisted, Uncombed, Unshorn, Untidy, Wavy, Wiry, Wisps

Hand: Big, Elegant, Small

Height: Big, Knee-high, Medium, Short, Shoulder-high, Sky-high, Small, Tall, Towering, Waist-high

Legs: Amputated, Bandy, Bony, Bowed, Brawny, Bulging, Fluted, Gartered, Gouty, Graceful, Hacked, Hairy, Jagged, Knotted, Leaden, Long, Lower, Muscular, Pitiful, Rickety, Shapely, Shivering, Short, Sinewy, Slender, Slim, Spindle, Stockinged, Sturdy, Thin, Thread-like, Tinder, Tiny, Toothsome, Tree trunks

Lips: Blue, Cracked, Cupid's Bow, Downturned, Dry, Fat, Full, Grim, Large, Luscious, Parched, Parted, Red, Ruby, Small, Smiling, Thin, Wet

Mouth: Arch, Ascetic, Baby, Cavernous, Churning, Compressed, Cooing, Coral, Cracked, Cruel, Delicate, Dumpled, Distended, Dry, Fine, Firm, Frothy, Full, Funnel-shaped, Gaping, Grim, Handsome, Hungry, Insistent, Irritable, Large, Luscious, Munching, Musty, Perilous, Puckered, Querulous, Relaxed, Resolute, Sardonic, Sensuous, Serious, Slobbering, Small, Sulky, Sweet, Tender, Thin, Wide, Winsome, Wrinkled, Yawning

Neck: Bullnecked, Elegant, Long, Short, Swan-like, Thick

Palm: Broad, Oval, Rectangular, Square

Skin: Acned, Alabaster, Albino, Apricot, Black, Blemished, Blistered, Blooming, Blotchy, Blushing, Bronzed, Cadaverous, Calloused, Caramel, Clear, Craggy, Cream, Ebony, Fair, Flush, Freckled, Glowing, Greasy, Ivory, Jaundiced, Leathery, Lily-white, Lined, Milky, Mottled, Nut-brown, Olive, Pale, Pallid, Pasty, Peeling, Pimpled, Pink, Pitted, Pockmarked, Red, Rosy, Rough, Ruddy, Russet, Sallow, Scabby, Scarred, Smooth, Splotchy, Spotty, Sun-burnt, Tan, Wan, Waxen, White, Wrinkled, Yellow

Stomach: Bulging, Distended, Empty, Firm, Flabby, Flat, Heroic, Hollow, Lean, Paunchy, Protruding, Unbounded

Teeth: Artificial, Black, Blunted, Buck, Canine, Chattering, Clenched, Clinched, Compressed, Crooked, Dagger-like, Dazzling, Decayed, Deciduous, Extracted, False teeth, Feeble, Ferocious, Filed, Flashing, Fluoridated, Foam-laced, Fractured, Gap-toothed, Gleaming, Glistening, Glittering, Gnashing, Goofy, Grinding, Hooked, Horrid, Ivory, Jagged, Lacquered, Large, Milky, Mottled, Neglected, Pearly, Perfect, Pretty, Protruding, Razor-like, Sharp, Shining, Short, Small, Snowy, Sore, Spaced, Straight, Sweet tooth, Tender, Tiny, Toothless, Toothy, Ugly, Unrelenting, White, Wisdom, Wolfish, Yellow

Hope this helps! If it does, do tag me or send me a link to your writing. I'd love to read your work.

More: On Character Development

[criminalamnesia]

that 141 x reader you just did was so good! i need to know what happens next. like after reader is better, do they stay in the military? stay in 141? or do they take a discharge? I’m not the original ask but it was just so good.

love your writing btw!

thank you! here’s part two :)

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

you were beginning to hate the infirmary.

the white walls. the moans of pain. the smell of bleach and blood.

the reminder of why you were here. of who put you here.

your friends. your family. your team. john. johnny. kyle. simon.

you’d told the doctor to not let your teammates in, and she had tried, but there was only so much she could do. she couldn’t monitor the door all the time, and so a week after waking up from your coma, john price is sitting at your beside once again.

his hands are clasped together, knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. he’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the bed, hands under his chin. his position conveys his regret and worry. he looks like he should be in church, knelt between the pews and spewing silent prayers to a god that isn’t listening.

you haven’t spoken to him since he sat down ten minutes ago. the second you saw him step inside the infirmary, you knew he was there for you. there to try and speak to you, to apologize.

fuck him and his apologies.

you turned your head to the side, eyes staring at the white curtain separating your bed from the next. you studied the stitching while you listened to him breathe next to you. he hadn’t spoken either— just sat down and watched you.

it made your skin crawl, how he thought this was okay. how he thought this would be the way to get back into your good graces.

he clears his throat then, a sound you’ve heard a million times before. it makes you want to gag now.

“love,” his voice is soft, caring. you want to hit him in the jaw.

“can we talk? please?”

you don’t turn over, don’t even spare him a glance. you keep your gaze trained on the curtain. the only giveaway that he has your attention is the fists you clench at your sides.

he takes the silence as an invitation, that bastard.

“what happened—” he begins, then grunts. stops. takes a second, then begins again.

“what we did,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “it wasn’t right. the intel was from a trusted source. we—” he sighs then, and you can tell he’s rubbing his temple. he did that when he was stressed. when he was anxious.

“we were wrong to believe them over you, love. and im— im sorry.”

silence ensues. you don’t give him any indication that you’ve heard what he said. he sighs again, inhaling deeply.

“you’re still part of this team. johnny and gaz, they’ve been sitting outside this damn room like sentries. can barely pry ‘em away for drills.” he chuckles then, but it’s sad. pitiful. mournful.

“there’s nothing we can do to make this right,” he tells you. you’re still mulling over what he said about johnny and gaz. still hung up on the fact that he didn’t mention simon at all.

simon, who did the most damage to you, both psychologically and physically. simon, who shared your bed. simon.

simon, who is too much of a coward to face you for his crimes.

“but we want to try,” price is speaking again. “if you’ll let us.”

he stops talking. waits a beat, then two. then, you hear his chair scrape. he’s getting up, and that’s when you turn your head to face him.

he looks bad. bags under the eyes, skin pale, beard overgrown. you think he deserves this. deserves worse than this. his eyes meet yours, and they widen the tiniest bit at the attention you’re showing him.

your voice is full of venom as you speak.

“nothing,” you seethe, angry tears blurring your vision. “will ever undo what you did to me. what he did to me.”

price knows you’re talking about simon. the whole team knew you were a thing. hell, when they’d strapped you to that chair and debated who would ‘interrogate’ you, they hadn’t even thought to include simon. why would he want to torture the person he loved?

to their surprise, he had volunteered to take point.

“when i get out of this bed,” you continue. “im gone. and i never, never, want to see any of you again, or else im putting a fucking bullet between your eyes.”

the captain doesn’t speak. you can see the remorse on his face. you couldn’t care less about his feelings.

he gives a short nod, and without another word, he turns and leaves the room.

after john’s visit, no one else tries to visit you. you no longer catch glimpses of kyle or johnny outside the infirmary door. you’re glad they’re starting to get the hint.

but you’re still getting flowers. you don’t know where they’re coming from. sometimes they’re dropped off by a nurse, other times they appear in the morning after a restless sleep. there’s never a note. never anything to suggest who would be leaving them.

you know it’s one of the 141, but you don’t know exactly who. you feel certain it’s not simon.

but, unbeknownst to you, it is him. he knows you don’t want to see him— to see any of them. price had told them all about what you’d said to him during your talk.

price had also told them that he’d already started preparing your transfer papers. that had caused an uproar from soap, who’d quickly been quieted by a saddened price.

simon had expected it. expected worse, actually. he knew that if the roles had been reversed, he wouldn’t have been as merciful as you. it made him hate what they’d done to you so much more.

there had been the tiniest doubt in his mind when all the evidence pointed to you. he hadn’t believed it at first— and then things became damning. everything pointed to you. trusted sources were pointing their fingers at you, and everyone listened. he had listened.

he had volunteered to torture you because he’d been angry. rage he hadn’t felt in years bubbled to the surface of his skin, and he wanted to tear you limb from limb. how dare you come into their lives— his life— and betray them so substantially?

simon didn’t trust easily. he was battered and broken and scarred. shattered and malformed pieces hastily glued back together. he let the team in. let you in. let you see his face. let you into his bed. let you into his fucking heart.

and you turned around and drove a dagger into him. or so he thought.

he thought his anger and actions had been justified. thought he was doing the world a favor by butchering you. but he was wrong. the team was wrong.

he finds himself regretting how he hadn’t listened to your pleas, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

he knows the chances of you forgiving him, of letting him back into your life, are slim to none. but how could he not at least try?

you’d know each other for years. been together for years. all of it thrown away because he still knew the hurt of betrayal all too well. because it was too easy to fall back into the mindset that it was him against everyone. that the only person he knew, the only one he could rely on, was himself.

so he left flowers. your favorite ones. and he did so without making you face him, without apologizing or groveling. it was the least he owed you.

a month after your coma, you were finally allowed out of the infirmary. you were still healing, skin still tender and bruised. pink, jagged scars lining your skin; eternal reminders of the pain you’d been subjected to.

you’d been given a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, which you’d pulled on with much fuss. every time you struggled or stumbled, you found yourself getting angry. angry at the men who did this to you.

the anger was going to eat you alive, at least that’s what the psychologist that had been dropping by to see you had said. she’d told you you need to let it go, and you’d laughed in her face.

how do you let something like this go?

you didn’t know. you didn’t think you were strong enough to do that. not a good enough person to forgive the men that had carved into you.

once you had dressed, you shuffled out into the hallway. you’d profusely denied an escort, and the doctor had reluctantly acquiesced. she’d let you go, with just the promise that you’d keep your iv hooked in.

so here you were, trudging down the halls of the base, iv pole rattling along behind you.

you could feel eyes on you, but no one dared to get too close. you were glad. you didn’t want more empty apologies and sympathetic words.

you still remembered the way to price’s office like the back of your hand. you doubted you’d ever forget it.

time and time again you’d found yourself here. sometimes, getting reprimanded. others, congratulated. a few times you’d shown up in tears, and price had let you in without a word.

now you were standing outside his door, trying to contain the rage in your veins.

you raised a hand. knocked once, firm and loud.

“come in!” price called from inside.

you were already twisting the door knob, pushing into the room.

your eyes found price first. he was leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. his hat was absent from his head, instead resting beside him on the desk.

and then you noticed simon.

he was wearing all black. his hands were covered, bones decorating the black gloves. gloves you’d seen many times before. gloves that had been pressed to gunshots, trying to stop the bleeding.

the lower half of his face was covered, allowing you to see from his eyes up. his sandy blonde hair was ruffled.

you quickly turned your attention back to price.

“love, what are you doin’ here? you should be in bed—” he began, but you waved a hand as you stepped further into the room. you pulled your iv pole in behind you, then kicked the door shut.

“don’t talk, just listen. i still mean what i said when you came to visit. the only reason im here right now is because you haven’t put in for my fucking transfer.” you hissed.

the captain’s eyes widened, his face taking on a sheepish expression at the revelation that he’d been caught. simon stood quietly beside him, eyes trained on you. you ignored him.

“love, i didn’t want to do anything before you were ready—” he began. you cut him off.

“bullshit! you didn’t want to do anything because you don’t want me to leave. you want me to forgive you, right? hear you all out? come back and be a happy little family again?”

the room fell eerily silent as you stared at the captain. your heart was roaring in your ears.

“put in the fucking transfer, john.” you finished.

he reluctantly nodded. he inhaled, his eyes glancing at his lieutenant briefly, before he spoke again.

“of course, love. ‘m sorry.”

you didn’t say anything else. you turned to go, your back to the men, when simon’s voice cut through the air.

“you should be respectful to your captain, sergeant.”

you froze as you took in his words. was he fucking serious?

you didn’t turn around. you trained your eyes on the door as you spoke words through gritted teeth.

“you should watch your tongue, lieutenant, before I fucking cut it off.”

with that, you pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, slamming it loudly behind you.

author’s note:

apologies for the wait! I hope everyone enjoyed! (this is being posted before proofreading, so I hope it’s okay— I’ll read through it later, it’s just late and im tired lol)

[multimilfs]

Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader x Rio Vidal: The Prize

Summary: Agatha has been fighting to reclaim her prize from Rio for a long time.

AO3

Included: dark themes, lesbian drama & yearning, near-death experiences, smut; biting, orgasm denial, praise kink, degradation, s&m, blood, fingering, cunnilingus, use of pet names, begging

Words: 9.7k

Tag List: @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @escapetodreamworld @white--lillies @imtrashinflames

1750

Glowing hands press over the seeping wound, magic swirling around them, diving inside. There’s no satisfaction of watching the flesh knit itself back together. Instead, your magic drifts right back out like smoke. 

Oh Goddess. 

“Do take your time.” Agatha snaps, voice strained, “I have absolutely no plans.” 

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

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

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

“Are you out of your mind? Heal me!” 

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

How are you going to tell her?

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

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

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

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

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

“Give it to me. You’re wrong.” 

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

“That’s not saying much.” 

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

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

“Brew the antidote.” 

“I can’t.” You whisper. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m calling Her.” You say. 

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

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

“I won’t die.” 

She’s an idiot. 

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

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

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

“You rang?” 

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

“We need your help.” 

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

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

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

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

“Hand.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you get yourself into?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Drink up.” Rio orders. 

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

“Te veo.” 

--

1754

“She waits for you.”

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

“Does she?” 

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

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

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

Does it matter? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rio shrugs, “A message from her.” 

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

“Have you earned it?” 

“These bodies didn’t make themselves.”

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

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

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

“Something small.”

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

“You’re awful.”

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

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

--

1801

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really are too predictable.” Rio says.

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

“I like it here. It’s comforting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re crying.” Rio says.

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

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

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

And then her hand is gone.

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

Needy, desperate, you can almost hear her say.

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

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

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

--

1833

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

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

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

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

“The heels compliment your legs.”

“You can’t even see them.”

“Yet.” She winks.

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

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

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

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

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

Rio squeezes your hand, “Relax, sweetheart.”

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

“Where’s the fun in that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s different. That’s research.”

“Who says this isn’t, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Agatha.” You whisper.

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

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

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

“Our darling healer wanted to study with her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is your gift, sweetheart.”

“And it’s incomplete without you.”

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

Agatha extends her own hand alongside yours.

“Come on.” Agatha urges, soft.

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

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

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

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

--

1869

“Will you walk with me?”

Rio nods, smiles grandly, “Of course.”

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

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

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

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

Crumbling, worn headstones en masse wait behind the building. 

Rio tilts her head, “What is this?”

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

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

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

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

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

“My heart.”

“That… then why is all of this here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at the walls.” You order.

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

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

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

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

“Sweetheart…”

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

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

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

You urge, “Make me hurt.”

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

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

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

Is it enough?

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

--

1925 

“You called?” Rio asks. 

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

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

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

“We’ve been busy.” 

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

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

“Let me see her.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When I’m the one responsible.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweetheart…” 

--

1937

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

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

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

You pause, “How is that even possible?” 

“Magic, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or I stop letting you watch my dissections.” 

She tenses, “You wouldn’t.” 

“Wouldn’t I, beloved?” 

“Get on with it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“They scream too much.” 

“Anesthetic exists, sweetheart.” 

“I suppose that’s true.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You already do.” She utters. 

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

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

--

1989

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

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

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

The Scarlet Witch

--

2026

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

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

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

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

“Not long now.” She assures you. 

You feel longing and fury in equal measure. 

“I want her soul, Rio.” You whisper. 

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

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

You have not earned what The Road promises to grant. 

--

2026

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

She is owed her prize. 

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

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

Rio remains on the roof, grinning. 

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

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

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

“You have your prize.” You sneer. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha hums. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Agatha,” You whine, “I’m sorry.” 

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

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

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

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

“That doesn’t change that you were.” 

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

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

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

“I’m sorry—” 

“With your tongue.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl.” Agatha breathes out. 

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

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

“Yes—there, more—” Agatha stutters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All yours.” You agree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck us?” Rio drawls. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Agatha, can I—please?” You plead. 

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

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

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

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

Rio stays stubbornly silent. 

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

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

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

Agatha laughs. 

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

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

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

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

With every kiss, you murmur I love you. 

--

2027 

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

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

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

“Oh, I see.” 

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

“What is he?” She asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aiming for a reward?” Rio asks. 

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

The experiment on your table is forgotten as you’re dragged into the next room and bent into all sorts of shapes you couldn’t even imagine on your own. Oh, well; if he dies before the six hour mark, you can always just find another one. The same cannot be said of the witches bracketing you. And oh, how beautiful that is. 

[lowkeyren]

—trick or... tricked?

in which : you save a strikingly handsome vampire, not knowing he would get attached to you in more ways than one.

pairing : aventurine x gn!reader

wc 1.5k, vampire aventurine in celebration of spooky month, lots of flirting (re: dialogue), reader implied to be shorter than him, ofc he bets lol, art by @/shizuart, reblogs r much appreciated!! enjoy <3

for @stellaronhvnters ongoing event; the prompt i ended up w was vampire ^^ @staarri sighs i miss writing for aventurine.

you have no idea why aventurine has taken such a keen interest in you. 

all you did was help a poor vampire in need. you saw him slumped against the cold stone of an alley one night, weakened and vulnerable; his pristine clothes torn and his blond hair dishevelled. 

you stepped closer despite the little voice in your head telling you to mind your own business. vampires weren’t known for displaying vulnerability so openly, yet there he was —barely holding on, his gaze hazy as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

out of some misplaced sense of duty—or perhaps it was pity—you knelt beside him, offering your help. at first, he brushed you off, pride keeping him from accepting anything. but as the blood from his gashes continued to seep through his clothes and his breathing grew more laboured, he had no choice but to relent.

tearing a piece of your sleeve off to use as a bandage, you quickly tended to his wounds. he’s surprisingly compliant, letting you clean the gashes without complaint, except for the occasional groan whenever you applied the antiseptic.

rummaging through your bag, you pulled out a bottle of water and pressed it against his lips, watching as he gulped down the liquid eagerly. his eyes flickered with relief as the cool water met his dry mouth; and you noticed the way his shoulders relaxed, the tension visibly easing from his body. 

after making sure he was somewhat stable, you stood up to leave. though you didn’t expect him to thank you, and you certainly didn’t expect him to latch on to you like this.

you take it back.

maybe you shouldn’t have helped him. who would have known he would become so… attached? 

you have tried everything. changing your routine, leaving town, even staying inside for days at a time, but none of it worked. he lurks in the shadows, leaning against a wall as you pass by, catching your gaze across a crowded room with an infuriating smirk.

you hoped, prayed even, that your indifference would drive him off. that maybe, if you didn’t acknowledge him, he’d lose interest, move on to someone else. 

though you couldn’t be more far from wrong. 

("aventurine, why are you always here?"

his eyes flicks down lazily to meet yours, a hint of surprise in them. slowly, he set his cup down and smiles.

"why sweetheart," his voice is smooth, amused. "i’m just enjoying the view.")

he’s patient, maddeningly so, with a persistence that makes it hard to ignore him.

you catch glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye —a flash of pale skin, a figure too still in the crowd, but every time you turn to face him, he’s gone, only to reappear moments later, closer than before.

how frustrating. 

“i know you’re there, aventurine.”

a moment passes, then he steps into view, a relaxed smile on his lips that stirs something within you. “you’re quite observant tonight,” he replies, a teasing lilt in his voice. “i was beginning to think you preferred to ignore me.”

you cross your arms, “i don’t prefer anything about this situation, you keep showing up uninvited,” you retort, yet your heart betrays you, fluttering at the way he leans closer, the scent of him intoxicating.

“uninvited, sure. but unwanted? i'm not so sure about that." he chuckles softly, his voice like velvet, eyes gleaming as they meet yours. “i think,” a sly grin tugs at his lips, his fangs just barely visible beneath them, “you're more intrigued by me than you’d like to admit.”

the roll of your eyes does little to hide the faint blush creeping up your neck. “yeah yeah whatever,” you mutter, glancing away to regain your composure, but even the sun rising on the horizon seems to pale in comparison to the heat radiating from your cheeks.

“i’ll catch you later tonight, sweetheart.” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the early morning light, “try not to miss me too much while the sun’s still out.”

you quickened your pace, weaving through the streets, desperate to put distance between you and that haunting smirk. but the faster you move, the closer aventurine seems to get, his footsteps silent but ever-present. 

“not now, aventurine,” the words came out sharper than you intended. “i’m running late for my date,” your breath hitching from the strain of trying to outrun him. 

“a date, huh? is that what you call it?” he pushes himself off a nearby post, “and here i'm starting to think you enjoy my company."

"enjoy? not even close." you shoot a glare at him over your shoulder, before quickening your pace again. “why do you even care anyway?”

“because i do,” he replies simply, you can feel his gaze boring into your back. “you helped me when no one else would. it’s only fair i return the favour.”

you stop short, your heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with running late.

“—and you don’t seem to hate the idea of getting involved with someone like me.”

“someone like you?” you echo, incredulity spilling into your tone. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

aventurine shrugs, his presence still lingering close behind you. “vampires don’t exactly have the best track record, you know. most people would steer clear of me.”

you raise an eyebrow, “and yet, here you are, shadowing me like a lost puppy. so, what do you really want?”

he straightens up, the glimmer in his eyes brightening. “i was wondering how long it’d take for you to ask." he saunters closer, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his cold fingers lingering near your cheek. 

“let’s make a deal.”

“a deal?”

"a bet, if you will," he corrects himself, his voice dripping with amusement. "it's simple. if you win, i’ll leave you alone, for good.” his lips quirks upward, before continuing. “but if i win, i get to taste you.”

your heart lurches at the word, dread pooling in your stomach. blood. he wants your blood, right? what else would a vampire want?

you swallow hard, thank aeons he can't see your face right now. “fine. what’s the bet?”

he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “let’s see how well you’ve been paying attention." you barely have time to react before his hands gently close over your eyes from behind, blocking your vision entirely.

“tell me,” his voice a low whisper, “what colour are my eyes right now?”

your pulse quickens. well, they’re usually—

“magenta and cyan,” you mutter instinctively, the words slipping out before you can even think. aventurine chuckles softly, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear as he speaks. “wrong answer, sweetheart."

his fingers remain gently over your eyes, his cold touch pushing your already racing heart into overdrive. "then, what’s the right answer?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

“they’re red tonight,” he replies. you perk up “how am i supposed to know that! you can’t just change the colours on a whim…”

“ah ah, you lost the bet.”

taste… your throat tightens at the thought, your mind went straight to the worst-case scenario —a sharp bite that would sap your strength and leave you utterly drained. 

his body presses against your back as he tilts your chin up gently, and you meet his gaze. yes, they’re definitely red tonight —a striking shade of crimson, blood red. he looks down at you, a devilish grin spreading across his face, a smile so dangerously alluring, so handsomely wicked.

“ugh…” you shifted uneasily, though you tried to play it off as indifference. "just make it quick and painless." you turn your head slightly to the side, exposing your neck.

aventurine blinks, taken aback for a moment. "oh?" he drawls, his voice dripping with mischief. "no, no, sweetheart. i don’t want your blood."

confusion flickers across your face as you stare up at him.

"i want a kiss.”

aventurine leans against the doorway, an amused smile dancing on his lips. “looks like someone forgot about their date,” he teases, his eyes glinting with that familiar blend of magenta and cyan —such beautiful eyes with vivid hues of twilight, too mesmerising for a beguiling being. 

“never had one in the first place,” you murmur, your words holding a hint of resignation.

he tilts his head as the corners of his lips curl up. “really? then… can i be your date instead?”

you blink, caught off guard; your heart stumbles in your chest, and for a moment, you’re lost for words. you look up, meeting his gaze. there’s something different, something softer about the way he looks at you.

“a little late to be asking, don’t you think?” you manage, your voice quieter than before, the space between you feels a lot smaller than it did just moments ago.

“better late than never,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “besides,” he continues, his thumb brushing gently against your hand, “who’s to say a night with a vampire wouldn’t be better?”

you laugh lightly, “you’re too confident for your own good.” even as the words leave your mouth, there’s no real bite behind them.

he leans in, his voice barely above a whisper, his breath soft against your ear. “and yet you haven’t said no.”

MASTERLIST.

[screampied]

“. . do you . . know what happens after death, sweetheart?”

the words that slipped out of nanami’s lips struck you right in the very depths of your heart.

it stung—a sharp prod that made the very crevices of your mouth twitch. his hands, his once warm and loving hands started to grow abnormally cold. frigid to where you even started to adapt to his chilled temperature.

“no why….” you started, feeling your throat tighten. “why are you asking me that, kento?” you sniffle, tightly interlocking your fingers with his.

he stares at you with a warm smile spreading across his lips.

regardless of his current position, peacefully resting his back against the ground—his inevitable fate had finally caught up to him.

nanami’s breathing patterns changed significantly. everything was so loud, all he could make out through his peripherals was splotches of blur and your pretty worried face. “. . because,” he continues, and his speech was so slow. you could tell he was trying to get every word out, every syllable, every vowel. just for you and only you. “i’m about to find out, my love . .”

your irises focused on him. nothing else, no one else—just him.

you’ve never seen him like this. so pale, so weak, so . . . scared.

his pure emotion, it showed in his eyes. his perfect brown eyes that you never failed to get lost in. for the first time in what was probably forever, nanami felt…scared. he tried his best to conceal it in front of you though. but even his best wasn’t enough, because you probably knew him better than you knew yourself.

“don’t say things like that, kento,” you mutter, already feeling that annoying plump knot rise up in your throat. your breath was shaky, tremble after tremble. “you’re fine. you can get up. we can get up.”

he knew when you said we, you implied that you’d both be walking away together — hand in hand, like in those stupid cheesy movies you’d watch with him every sunday after he gets off work. but alas, reality was quite harsh to face. an even more incredible tough pill to swallow. nanami knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

it was irksome, you had to squeeze your eyes shut to prevent a single tear to roll down your cheek.

nanami’s eyelids were hanging on by a thread, just barely open. he was trying—trying so hard to hang on, a small pout curls against his lips before he huffs out a single breath.

“ah . . forgive me, you’re right,” he says, his thumb swiftly stroking the front of your hand. a single tear escapes past your lower damp eyelid. even his voice sounded different. a voice you grew to love, so sweet and protective. it now sounded incredibly tired. you could hear a slight wheeze between breaths of his. “hey, don’t cry. don’t do that, look at me.”

his voice was so soft, you sniffled—despising the irritating tears that started to run down both sides of your temples. if it was anything nanami couldn’t stand, it was that he couldn’t stand to see the love of his life shed such sweet pitiful tears for him.

you looked at him, watching his eyelids struggle to stay open for you. everything ached, his body didn’t even feel like his own anymore. it was an indescribable feeling from when he got struck, laying against the slick cold floor of the shibuya train station.

“. . d-don’t leave me,” was all you managed to say, your lips was trembling, your heart pounded and you didn’t wanna say goodbye just yet. “kento, i need you.”

“hm? what are you mumblin’ about, sweetheart? ‘m right here.” his voice, it sounded happier.

you furrowed your eyebrows, now finding yourself buried into nanami’s bare chest, damp chin pressing against his pecs and all.

you were here safe and sound, snuggled up all against him, as you should be. it took you a long while to calm down, he’s staring at you with a soft loving gaze—a brief look of concern before you mumble out a, “..kento? are you okay?”

“why wouldn’t i be, baby?” nanami hums, a soft thumb stroking your back. with a relaxed breath, he leans in to plant a gentle kiss near the very tip of your forehead. his touch was forevermore soothing, a touch you never wanted to forget.

you let off a jittery sigh of relief, finally coming to the conclusion that it was another one of your horrid nightmares. you had nothing to worry about.

he was fine.

you were fine,

everything was fine.

. . is what you kept telling yourself.

nanami never told you those words, he didn’t kiss the tip of your forehead or stroke your back lovingly whilst staring into your eyes. the only true unbearable truth was that nanami was gone.

he was gone, and his last words weren’t even “i love you,” or “i’m sorry.” on his fatal dying breaths, nanami’s last words to you while squeezing your hand, sliding a ring into your palm, he rasps out a breathy, “will . . you marry me?”

but before you could tell him yes, he was already gone.