#rio vidal | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

claramelooo · 2 days ago

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WOVEN FATES (16/???)

I bet you're so anxious, right? Haha we will have more revelations uhhh.

A beloved nonny asked me so politely to back with the warnings before each chapters and I'll do it for sure 💕

Warnings: manipulation, cnc, humiliation and depravation, angst and kidnap (you don't read it wrong) proceed with caution.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Distorted feelings take hold of you as you delve deeper into the mire you've been thrust into.

Selfishness

The sweet scent of Agatha—the one that used to wrap around your senses like a safe embrace—now burned in your nostrils, nauseating.

Your feet were steady on the floor, yet it felt like you were falling.

The grip around your throat wasn’t tight enough to hurt—not yet. But it was a warning. A reminder of who was in control.

Agatha’s gaze held you like an invisible spell—intense, commanding. You recognized that gleam in her eyes. You knew what came after it.

Behind you, Rio slid her cold fingers along your damp nape, a wicked contrast to the heat rising in waves through your body, fueled by adrenaline. She leaned in, so close that you could feel the ghost of her breath against your skin.

“Tell me, honey,” Agatha whispered, her lips nearly brushing yours, a phantom touch lingering between a promise and a threat. “What did Alice say?”

The question coiled around your throat as tightly as her fingers.

Your mind spun.

What to say? How to escape? How to make them believe you were still theirs?

Your throat locked up. Air felt scarce—not because of the grip, but because of their suffocating presence. Rio was behind you now, her cold fingers gliding down your neck, playing with the damp strands of your hair.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, breathless.

“You really think you can hide something from us?” Rio murmured, her voice sweet, dangerous. Her hand trailed down your shoulder, slow, deliberate.

You swallowed hard. Your muscles were tense, your mind a chaotic blur.

“N-nothing. She didn’t say anything.”

Agatha laughed. A low, disbelieving sound. “Oh, really?”

Her fingers traveled up to your face, gripping your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

“You’re not very good at this, sweetheart.” She tilted her head. “You’re so transparent, so easy to read... That’s why we chose you.”

The word felt wrong in her mouth. Like honey-coated poison. Tears welled up in your eyes, your lips trembling, the knot in your throat scratching as you swallowed it down.

“She poisoned your mind, didn’t she?” Agatha leaned in even closer, her dark eyes devouring you. “That little nobody put foolish ideas into your dumb little head.”

Outch.

The insult struck your heart, your ego crushed beneath her words, your brain melting under the weight of them.

“You thought you could trust her more than us?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, confusion spiraling in your mind, driving you insane. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. But you couldn’t. The walls felt like they were closing in around you.

“M-mama…” Your voice came out weak, pleading, powerless.

Rio cradled your face in both hands, her eyes an endless, unreadable ocean. “We won’t ask again, sweetheart…”

The grip on your throat tightened. You gasped, feeling the pulse of your blood beneath Agatha’s fingers, her floral perfume invading your senses, making everything even more suffocating.

“She…” You could barely form words, your breath shallow and erratic. “She said you’re… witches.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then, Agatha laughed. Low, husky, laced with mockery.

“Witches,” she echoed, as if savoring the word. Her thumb traced lazily along your throat, feeling the faint spasms of your struggle to breathe.

Rio exhaled a quiet chuckle, but her expression shifted… Something dark and stormy flickered in her eyes before she yanked at the chain of your collar, forcing you down onto your knees against the plush carpet.

“And you believed her, didn’t you, pet? Every single word she fed you.” Agatha whispered, crouching down to meet your gaze. “I wonder… are you really that innocent, or just stupid?”

Heat rushed to your face. The way she said it made your stomach twist. She knew exactly where to strike. She knew how to dig into your pride, how to make you feel ridiculous.

Rio knelt beside you, her fingers gliding dangerously through your hair. The touch was too gentle to be affectionate—but there was something else hidden in it.

Something sharp. Something that kept you frozen.

“Go on, pet,” Rio murmured, her voice low, controlled, but vibrating with something just beneath the surface. “What else did that little whore say about us?”

You licked your lips, your heartbeat hammering in your chest.

“She said… you only want to use me.” Your voice trembled into a whisper. “That I’m just a source…”

The air in the room shifted.

Subtle. But undeniable.

Rio’s breath paused for a second. Her fingers curled tighter in your hair, almost pulling, almost digging her nails into your scalp.

Agatha’s grip loosened slightly—not out of kindness, but like a predator stepping back to get a better look at its prey.

The silence was different this time. Heavier.

Agatha’s eyes glinted with something unreadable, as if she was carefully considering her next move. As if she was deciding how much fun she wanted to have before breaking you apart.

She tilted her head, lips curving into a slow, cruel smile, studying your expression like a cat toying with a wounded bird. The pressure on your throat wasn’t as tight anymore, but the threat still lingered—thick, charged, like electricity before a storm.

“A source…” Agatha murmured, as if tasting the weight of the word. Her thumb traced the line of your jaw, a touch almost tender—almost deceptive. “How curious.”

Rio didn’t speak. Her fingers were still tangled in your hair, but the way she held you now felt different. More rigid. As if she were holding something back. As if something inside her had stirred.

Your throat went dry.

“That’s what she told you?” Agatha continued, her voice too soft to be soothing. “That we only want to use you?”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Your entire body was stiff, every muscle tensed, instinct screaming that one wrong move could send you plummeting.

Agatha sighed, and then her fingers tightened in your hair. A sharp, sudden yank—pain flaring through your scalp as your head was pulled back, your throat laid bare. You gasped, wide eyes meeting hers, but there was no mercy there.

“And you believed her?”

You had no time to answer.

Suddenly, a rough shove sent you stumbling back, your knees nearly giving out. Your heart pounded, panic tangling with something deeper, something heavier, something you didn’t want to name.

“Hm?”

Agatha’s heel pressed against your chest, digging between your ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. Your body jerked under the weight, a strangled sound escaping your lips as your chest burned from the lack of oxygen.

And then came the fear.

It slithered inside you like a wild thing, whispering that this was a hunt.

That you were nothing but prey.

A prey running through a forest was alive all around you, shadows shifting between the trees, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Wolves.

Encircling, guiding your steps to where they wanted you to go—because they knew this terrain better than anyone.

Then, at some point, you stopped running.

The woods fell behind. Ahead of you, an endless cliff.

The wolves drew closer, pressing your body to the edge of the abyss. Jump, or be devoured.

Fear pulsed in the pit of your stomach, burning like embers.

But it didn’t come alone.

Something else slithered alongside it, seeping into your muscles, your flesh, coiling deep between your thighs.

Adrenaline became something else. Something utterly twisted and dark.

You didn’t know if you wanted to run or sink further into it.

“Yes! I believed it!”

The confession slipped out in a sob, your fingers instinctively grasping at Agatha’s ankle—not to push her away, but silently begging for relief.

Agatha tilted her head to the side, as if watching a small, struggling creature. Her smile was cold, cutting.

Rio let out a low chuckle—but she didn’t seem truly amused. Her eyes remained fixed on you, analyzing every detail of your reaction.

You blinked, trying to clear your thoughts, but it was like trying to escape one nightmare only to fall straight into another.

This was definitely not normal.

The way your skin responded to their touch, the way your mind wavered between fight and surrender—it wasn’t normal. You knew that. But you also knew that normal had ceased to exist for you a long time ago.

How the hell had you not realized it before?

“Then tell me, pet,” her voice was a silky whisper, yet laced with something sharp. “If you think we’re so bad… why are you still here?”

The chain of your collar stretched in a slow tug, forcing you to lean forward, submission growing more and more evident.

Your heart pounded.

“I…” Your voice came out weak, almost unrecognizable to yourself.

Agatha smiled.

“That’s it,” she encouraged, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Speak, my dear.”

But you couldn’t. Because confusion burned inside you, a knot of fear and excitement tightening around your throat just as much as the chain.

“Because you are my mommies who have always protected me.” Your voice was small, hoarse with the struggle for air.

Shit.

That wasn’t what you had planned to say.

The words that left your mouth—you didn’t know if they were truly yours or some fucking of twisted spell they had placed on you, trapping you once more in a golden cage you weren’t sure you wanted to leave.

Agatha takes her foot off your chest, satisfied.

Rio caressed your cheek with the back of her fingers, the touch almost too gentle given how the tension in the room wavered.

Her fingers trailed down your neck, pressing against the skin still marked by the previous grip.

“Protection doesn’t come without discipline, pet,” Rio murmured, the collar’s chain still firm in her grasp.

You swallowed hard, knowing this wasn’t over.

“On your knees,” Agatha commanded—no rush, no raised voice. She didn’t need to.

Rio released the chain, but there was no relief—because the moment you hesitated, even for a second, Agatha’s gaze darkened.

“Now.”

Your body moved before your mind could process it. You get up from the carpet, placing yourself in a kneeling position.

Agatha stepped back slightly, and for a moment, you thought the weight of the situation might ease.

But then she extended a hand to Rio, who removed your choker without asking for permission.

Without it, you felt bare.

Empty.

Agatha brought out the bigger collar—the leather one with a leash. If you had a tail, it would be wagging wildly.

You knew what that collar meant, and you hated yourself for it.

For despite everything, still wanting it.

Still needing it.

The woman wrapped the leather leash around her fingers, testing its resistance before pulling it back slowly, forcing your chin up.

“Look at me,” she demanded.

You obeyed, wide eyes locked onto hers.

“Do you want this?” The question was ridiculous, you knew. Agatha seemed to know it too.

You tried.

Tried to find something within yourself that was only yours—something untouched by them, something that wasn’t a reflection of what they expected you to be.

Somewhere you could see your own reflection, not the perfect doll they had chosen to weave and use for their own gain.

But where was it?

What was left of you before Agatha and Rio? Before the touches that shaped your skin, before the words that slipped into your mind like promises too sweet to refuse? Before you learned to see your own will as something small, insignificant, compared to what they demanded of you?

It was hard to say.

Because, without the choker, you felt exposed. As if something essential had been torn away. The absence of the accessory weighed more than its presence ever should have.

It didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t right.

And yet, when Agatha fastened the new collar around your neck, something in you settled.

The leather was thicker, heavier. Made to hold you better. To keep you contained and obedient.

You should hate this.

You should...

But then, she asked again:

“Do you want this?”

Her voice was pure silk, but her gaze was iron.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Your stomach twisted.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

You should hate this.

Feel disgusted and repulsed.

But you were on your knees, surrendered to something you shouldn’t feel guilty for. And yet, you did.

This was a game.

A game where they knew all the rules.

A game where, every time you tried to resist, they pulled you back so hard that even the mere act of fighting seemed ridiculous.

As if trying to escape was just a performance you staged for yourself—to pretend you still had a choice.

The truth burned on your tongue, but you refused to let it out. Because admitting you wanted it was admitting you needed it.

And admitting you needed it was admitting that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t know who you were without it anymore.

And if you were nothing without it?

The thought sickened you.

And thrilled you.

And consumed you.

Agatha’s gaze never left yours. As if she already knew the answer before you even found it within yourself. As if she was simply waiting for you to accept it.

Because deep down, they had already won.

The leather brushed against your skin, tight enough to remind you it was there.

Rio’s cold fingers slid over your nape, moving slowly up to your jaw, tilting your face as if you were something precious.

As if you belonged to them.

And maybe you did.

Your heart pounded.

Breath short.

The knot in your chest tightened.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run.

But more than anything, you wanted to kneel and never have to think about it again.

The words escaped. Low. Weak. Almost unrecognizable.

“Yes.”

Agatha smiled.

Slow. Triumphant.

Rio sighed, as if she had just heard something inevitable.

“That's a good girl,” she murmured, and the shiver that ran down your spine was uncontrollable.

And there, in that moment, in that silence laden with everything you could no longer deny.

You knew.

You knew that, no matter how much you tried to deceive yourself, no matter how much you fought against it.

You needed this.

"You disrespected us today," Agatha continued, her fingers sliding to the base of the chain, toying with the cold metal. "You let a stranger plant doubts in your little idiot head. Doubts about us."

Rio knelt beside you, her hand resting on your thigh in a way that should have been comforting, but only made your body vibrate with anxiety.

"And that," Rio added, her voice low, "can’t happen again, can it, pet?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but before you could make a sound, Agatha pulled the chain back in a precise, short motion—a sudden reminder of who was in control.

You gasped, your eyes welling with tears.

"It can't," you whispered, your desperate eyes seeking them, seeking their approval. You were already feeling enchanted by their aura.

You saw Rio step closer, standing in front of you while your knees burned, aching from the position.

“That missed you, little thing,” she said, looking down at you.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. But instinctively, your gaze dropped. Her perfect feet.

The scar.

The tattoo.

The damn tattoo.

Faded black roses. Wilted.

They looked… dead.

Your mouth watered at the sight of them in this state. As if, suddenly, your life's mission was to keep them alive and well, blooming as they should.

To keep them alive.

To make them flourish.

"Come on—" She moved her foot, and you followed it with your eyes. "Pet."

That was enough.

Your tongue attacked the woman’s foot, tracing the weak lines, and it was incredible how you could feel it pulse beneath your tongue.

Your tongue glided over her foot without hesitation, following the faded contours of the roses. You felt something pulse under your tongue.

Something alive.

Rio threw her head back, lips parting in a drawn-out sigh.

You were lost in her.

The texture of her skin beneath your tongue, the way Rio’s muscles tensed and relaxed with every glide. The taste, the heat, the weight of her against your absurd devotion.

Rio leaned on Agatha, her delicate fingers digging into the other woman’s forearm as her breath came out in a satisfied sigh.

And then it happened.

The tattoo vibrated.

A shiver ran down your spine, a hot, wet shock between your legs. You felt it. You felt when the roses filled with color again, when the lines became strong, alive, blooming beneath your tongue.

It was insane.

It was magic.

It was them.

And it was you.

Agatha watched everything with sharp eyes, a satisfied smile curling at the corner of her lips. She knew what was happening. She always knew.

Rio sighed, fingers playing with your hair.

"Just like that. Good girl," she murmured, her voice low and indulgent.

And that was enough.

Your chest swelled with warm pleasure, a contentment so deep it was almost ridiculous. You should feel ashamed. Humiliated. Outraged for having been molded to this point.

But you didn’t even get a chance to breathe. Steps behind you, and then—your vision was taken from you.

The black satin blindfold heightened every sound: Agatha’s lazy steps on the wooden floor, the rustle of Rio’s silk nightgown as she knelt, the involuntary whimper that escaped your throat when the leash on your collar was pulled.

"Foolish girl," Agatha whispered, the surface of the riding crop sliding along your collarbone. "Did you really think you could keep secrets from us?"

The first strike came without warning—a sharp snap against your thighs that made your back arch, fingers clenching against the velvet cuffs.

"Fuck!" you cried out before the pain even faded, the protocol ingrained in your body. “I’m sorry.”

Rio laughed, low and husky, her hands firm on your hips. "So quick to humiliate yourself today. Do you really think forgiveness will come that fast?"

You felt something hard and pointed brush against your entrance.

Agatha leaned in, her cold lips ghosting over your ear as the crop teased your stomach. "Repeat after me: Thank you for correcting me, mommies."

"Th-thank you for—" The second strike cut off your words, this time across your back, leaving a trail of fire.

"Louder," Rio commanded, pushing her fingers into your flesh.

Your eyes rolled back as her long fingers hit the softest, most vulnerable spot inside you.

God… You were so fucked.

"THANK YOU FOR CORRECTING ME, MOMMIES!" Your voice rang out, soaked and desperate, mingling with the creak of the chains.

Agatha licked the sweat pooling between your breasts. "Good girl." The reward was brief—the crop hooked under your right thigh, pulling it open. "Now… let’s deal with that traitorous tongue."

Rio didn’t wait. She thrust the strap-on into you in one movement, the cold rubber stretching your already sensitive entrance. You screamed, but the sound was swallowed by Agatha’s ravenous kiss—teeth, tongue, possession.

"Count," she ordered between bites, the crop dancing over your clit. "How many times did you think about her when you should’ve been thinking about us?"

"N-never, I swear—" The lie crumbled as Rio quickened her pace, each thrust hitting the spot that made your vision blur.

Fuck.

How could you make them understand that Alice meant nothing?

"Tsk, tsk." Agatha yanked your hair until your vertebrae protested. "Little lies make the Devil giggle, little one." The crop lashed against your thighs in a waltz rhythm—one for guilt, two for betrayal, three for being such a perfect little slut for them.

"Please!" You no longer knew if you were begging for mercy or for more.

The black rubber invaded you with machine-like precision—unyielding, relentless. Your teeth clenched on nothing, but Agatha captured your chin, forcing your lips to mold around her clit like a sacred relic.

"More," Rio hissed, fingers branding your hips in wine-colored bruises.

You obeyed. Agatha was salty and hot, her juices dripping onto the fabric until they reached your lips. She gripped your nape, guiding your tongue to her swollen clit with a surgeon’s precision.

"There," she purrs, fingers tangling in your hair like a crown of thorns. "Take Mommy."

Agatha’s riding crop finds its mark—your clit—just as Rio thrusts deeper inside you. Pain and pleasure fuse into cruel alchemy. You moan against Agatha, the vibration wrenching a ragged gasp from her.

"So easy," Rio laughs, leaning down to spit on your marked-up back. "Three strokes in and you’re already gaping like a bitch in heat."

Agatha yanks your head back by the blindfold, exposing your trembling throat. "Confess," she orders, the leather of the crop resting against your jugular. "How many nights did you finger this dirty little cunt thinking of her?"

"N-never! I only—"

The strap drives home. Your scream drowns in Rio’s roar: "LIAR!"

Agatha slides off the bed, dragging you up by the hair until you’re forced to face her vanity mirror.

"Look," she commands, wrenching your chin into place.

Your reflection is a grotesque masterpiece—lips swollen from desperate clit-sucking, ass striped red, eyes puffy with shame and ecstasy. "This is what you are. Our desperate little whore."

Rio moves behind you, cold chain links clicking as she curls her fingers further into the leash, pulling against it.

"Repeat," she growls, tightening the leather and snapping her hips forward. "I only live to serve my Mommies."

The words spill out of you, effortless, uncontrollable:

"O-only... live... to—" The first tremors of orgasm hit, forcing Rio to still. "Serve my Mommies."

Agatha kneels, catching your collapse in arms that somehow soothe even as they cage you. "Shhh, our dumb little girl," she murmurs, tongue swiping your tears. "We’ll fix you. Every night. Until there’s nothing left that isn’t ours."

Agatha mounts you again, her tongue ready to receive you in the best way.

Rio resumes pounding into you. "Don’t you dare come yet, slut!" Her fingers pinch your clit, wrenching a scream from you. "We’ve got all night."

Agatha’s thighs clamp around your head, deliberately smothering you, dragging her slick folds over your face.

Marking you.

Owning you.

"That’s it, pet."

She grinds down, turning your mouth into her personal toy. You choke, lips sealing instinctively around her swollen clit, licking in frantic, messy strokes as Rio hammers into you from behind.

"No." Rio grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze back to the mirror. "See what a desperate mess you are? Even after knowing we’re just using you. You love this, don’t you?"

Fuck.

Fat tears roll as you gag on Agatha’s pussy.

You don’t love this.

…Do you?

Rio’s strap rams your G-spot with surgical precision. You shriek, but the sound muffles against Agatha’s wet flesh.

"Wanna come, don’t you?" Rio hisses, twisting your nipple until you arch. "Say it. Say you’re our personal fucktoy."

Fuck.

No!

Your body betrays you, legs shaking violently beneath them.

"I—I’m—" The orgasm builds, but Rio stops abruptly, leaving you dangling on the edge.

Agatha releases your face just long enough to study you—cheeks flushed, mouth drooling, utterly wrecked.

"Open, little one." The command is soft, but you obey instantly, tongue lolling out like a dumb, eager pet.

You’re a fucking mess.

"Look at you…" Agatha sounds almost awed—before spitting directly into your open mouth. "Your whole existence is just a hole for us to use. Isn’t it?"

No!

But your body nods wildly, delirious, as Rio’s fingers circle your throbbing clit. "Yes! I am! I’m just that! Please—!"

"And you don’t even care, do you?" Rio punctuates each word with a brutal thrust. "About any of it."

You know exactly what she means. God. You couldn’t give less of a shit right now.

Fuck your freedom.

Fuck your pride.

You just want—

"Fuck! No! I don’t care if you’re witches or whatever the fuck! Please, Mommies!" You devour Agatha’s pussy like a starved animal.

"Oh. Fuck! Mommy’s coming, honey." Agatha grinds harder, a long, loud moan tearing from her throat.

"Christ. You’re so fucking perfect! Our perfect little hole!" Rio’s hips slam into you, frantic, desperate for her own release.

You hear wet sounds above you—them kissing, filthy and deep—and fuck, you don’t know how long you’ve been trapped here. You’re insane. So insane you might’ve hallucinated their whispered chant:

Quod semel cepimus

Numquam reddetur.

Your mind whites out. Legs twitch uncontrollably.

"Come." Rio orders just as Agatha lifts her hips, letting you gasp for air.

You explode, gushing onto the floor, splattering both women. Your body convulses like a puppet with cut strings.

You tremble.

Muscles scream. Knees ache. Nothing matters but her taste on your tongue, the phantom throb of Rio’s tattoo against your lips.

Rio stares down at you, eyes gleaming with something unreadable—lust, ownership, something darker.

"You’re pathetic." Her voice is rough, savoring each syllable. But there’s pride there. Sick, satisfied pride, curling in your chest like a well-cast spell.

Her fingers slide along your jaw, prying your lips apart. Two fingers, slick with you, push into your mouth without warning.

"But ours," she murmurs, indulgent, cruel. "Only ours."

Your mind spins. You should hate this. Should burn with shame at how easily you break for them. But something stronger than disgust wins.

Need.

The animal, visceral need to belong.

"Understood?"

The question is quiet. Heavy.

You nod. Not because you want to, but because your human shell is too fragile to refuse.

"Yes, Mama." Your voice is a broken whisper.

Then—darkness.

You don’t choose sleep. Your body gives out, exhausted, consumed. Their commands still echo in your skull, tangled with magic and pleasure and worship.

You don’t know if it’s love, spells, or pure conditioning.

But one truth remains:

You need them.

[...]

Your awakening was painful.

Your eyes burned under the sharp rays of light. Your body was exhausted, your mind clouded, as if still trapped in the echoes of the previous night.

Every muscle ached, but you couldn't tell whether it was from physical fatigue or the confusion pulsing inside you.

The silence was thick when you walked into the kitchen.

They were there.

Rio stirred a cup of tea absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on the steaming liquid, while Agatha, leaning against the counter, ran her fingers over her own wrist, as if feeling something beneath her skin.

Neither of them spoke when you sat down. Neither of them looked at you right away.

But your food was already served.

The fruit, cut into small, easy-to-eat pieces. The pancakes, soft and golden, drizzled with syrup. You blinked, taking a second to notice the childish drawing on their surface—a sad face.

Without meaning to, you let out a small laugh.

Rio lifted her gaze. A faint smile threatened to appear at the corner of her lips, but she suppressed it too quickly for you to be sure you had seen it. Agatha, on the other hand, simply tilted her head, watching you as if analyzing something under a microscope.

“Eat,” was all she said.

And you obeyed.

The syrup was too sweet on your tongue, an odd contrast to the tension in the air. As you chewed, your eyes wandered around the room.

That’s when you saw it.

Your clothes, folded to perfection over the couch in the living room. Pressed, neatly arranged, carefully set aside for you to wear. The kind of gesture you should be used to—but one that made your heart slam against your ribs.

If you were nothing more than a meal to them...

Then why all this care?

The question wrapped itself around your mind like a thorn. You knew the logical answer. Manipulation, control, a trap disguised as kindness.

But your chest burned with a truth far more complicated, one you didn’t want to name.

Because part of you liked it.

Liked being taken care of.

Liked the unsettling sense of belonging that came with it.

You lowered your gaze to the pancakes, as if they held the answers. The sad face was still there, staring back at you.

Silence stretched for a few more seconds, until Rio stood up and walked to the sink. She passed behind you, and suddenly, her hand closed around the back of your neck.

A brief squeeze. A touch that was almost casual.

Almost.

Her fingers slid down your nape, light enough to make your skin prickle, firm enough not to be ignored. The gesture carried a strange weight—something between danger and tenderness, something that felt as much like a promise as it did a warning.

You couldn’t tell which scared you more.

A warm touch at the top of your head, gentle but heavy with a meaning that slipped through your fingers like sand.

Her scent followed, and before you could stop yourself, you breathed it in. Earthy, damp, like soil after rain, like something ancient and deeply rooted.

Comforting.

You didn’t want to leave.

"Eat, sweetheart," the whisper came so close it brushed your skin, warm and unsteady. "Aggie wants to leave early."

The words said little. The voice said everything.

You lifted your gaze.

And met hers.

So brown. So deep. Now that you knew Rio wasn’t human—and maybe she never had been. But now, looking into her eyes, something stirred inside you.

There was something there.

They shimmered in a way that felt wrong, moisture gathering at the edges, barely perceptible. A treacherous fragility for someone like her.

As if she were offering you a wordless secret, a part of herself that should never be revealed.

But what?

You swallowed hard, nodding, unsure of what to say.

And breakfast went on.

[...]

The car glided smoothly through the still-sleeping streets of the city. The overcast sky painted everything in shades of gray, as if the day itself hesitated to fully arrive.

Agatha drove unhurriedly.

Unhurriedly, but also without a single word.

Silence wasn’t unusual between you—but today, it felt... heavier.

The low hum of the engine and the distant sound of tires against the asphalt were the only things filling the space between you.

The radio was off, and Agatha made no effort to break the silence—not with idle remarks, nor with one of those sharp observations that always caught you off guard.

She just drove.

And thought.

Her gaze was fixed on the road, but there was something in the way her fingers tensed around the steering wheel, in the deeper-than-usual crease between her brows.

What was she worried about?

You found yourself watching her reflection in the window—the locked jaw, the careful rise and fall of her chest, as if she were controlling each breath.

Agatha rarely let anything show.

But now…

There was something there.

And you decided to test it.

“Why do you want to get there early today?” Your voice was measured, casual enough not to seem intrusive.

You didn’t look at her, keeping your eyes on the scenery passing by the window, as if the answer wasn’t burning beneath your skin.

An invisible knot tightened in the air, thick as the charged stillness before a storm.

Maybe you shouldn’t have broken that silence. Not while Agatha hadn’t yet decided whether she wanted to share it with you.

The car kept moving, tires gliding over the asphalt in steady rhythm. The moment stretched.

And then—

“I need to talk to Wanda.”

Sharp. Unyielding.

The kind of response that cut off any possibility of further questions.

There wasn’t even a glance exchanged.

You simply leaned back against the seat, letting out a slow breath.

But something inside you stirred.

Why?

Why Wanda?

Why now?

You didn’t ask.

But you kept wondering.

The studio felt like a minefield.

Costume designers rushed past, technicians spoke in hushed tones, and the assistant directors seemed to shrink every time Agatha walked by.

She was in a bad mood.

Not the explosive kind, with yelling or slamming doors—no. The worst kind. The silent, razor-sharp kind, like a blade being twirled between fingers.

And everyone knew that when Agatha Harkness was like this, mistakes were not an option.

You watched from the corner, holding your breath every time someone missed a mark or took a second too long to adjust the lighting. Her energy dominated the set—suffocating, unpredictable.

“This is garbage.”

Her voice sliced through the air like a scalpel, making the director of photography flinch. She hadn’t raised her tone, but it was enough to make everyone freeze.

The monitor displayed the last take. Agatha skimmed the scene and let out a low, dangerous laugh.

“You expect me to believe this is cinema?”

Silence.

The producers exchanged glances, dreading the moment her merciless gaze would land on them.

She stepped forward, snatched the assistant director’s clipboard, and held it up, flipping through the notes with open disdain.

“A masterpiece,” she murmured, each syllable dripping with irony. “Truly worthy of the big screen. Maybe even an award.” She turned her eyes to the director. “What’s the new category again? Oh. Best pathetic attempt at capturing the human experience?”

The director opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“No, no,” Agatha continued, turning back to the screen. “Maybe ‘Best Waste of Time and Money.’ What do you think, honey?”

She turned… to you.

You froze.

Her gaze found yours the moment the words left her lips, and you knew there was no way out.

“Do you think I’m overreacting?” she teased, tilting her head. “Tell me—what did you see in that scene?”

Your mouth went dry. Everyone was staring.

You swallowed hard, trying to choose your words.

“Uh… I think it could have more… intensity. The lighting could be a bit darker because—”

Agatha blinked, a lopsided smirk playing on her lips.

“Intensity,” she repeated. “Intensity, of course. But tell me, darling, how do you add intensity to a corpse?”

She turned to the actors on set, who barely dared to breathe.

“Because that’s what I see here,” she went on, her eyes sharp as blades. “Walking corpses. No one believes what they’re doing. And if you don’t believe it, how do you expect the audience to?”

She strolled slowly toward one of the supporting actresses—one of Wanda’s coven witches. She was young but already had a name in Hollywood. And she had never. Never worked with Agatha before. The poor woman? She was already pale.

“I should be feeling something,” Agatha murmured, gaze challenging. “I should be shivering, devastated. But instead, all I can think is…” She paused, pretending to reflect. “I wonder if the coffee’s ready in my dressing room.”

The actress lowered her eyes, mortified.

The silence grew even heavier.

You felt trapped in her line of sight.

As if, at any moment, she might decide the next unforgivable failure would come from you.

Agatha sighed and dropped the clipboard onto the table with a dry thud.

“Reshoot,” she ordered, impatient. “And this time, try to make me feel… anything.”

She turned to leave—but stopped beside you.

Leaning in slightly, just enough for her voice to be a warm whisper against your skin.

“And you,” she drawled, “stop hiding from me.”

She pulled away before you could respond—but left something burning inside you.

"Witch!"

The word sliced through the air like a rusted blade, heavy with hatred and fear.

"Burn her!"

The chorus swelled, deafening, as the villagers raised their torches. Flames danced like hungry serpents, reflected in wide, frenzied eyes, alight with fury and terror. A swarm of shadows thrashed beneath the fire’s flickering glow.

And at the center of it all—

Wanda.

Alone. Her dress tattered, hair wild, skin smeared with ash and dirt. Her gaze fixed ahead, not truly seeing.

Was it fear?

Or something much deeper, something far more dangerous?

Her fingers trembled, hesitant, as if every part of her resisted the inevitability of the moment.

But something was growing there.

Something no one else could see.

The air pulsed around her, as if the earth itself was holding its breath.

She raised her hand.

The villagers screamed.

"Witch!"

A piece of wood was hurled. It struck her leg, and Wanda staggered, gasping, shoulders locked with tension.

You held your breath.

Was it just acting?

Or was it truly happening?

The wind shifted. The torches’ flames wavered, flickering uncertainly. Ash and dust swirled around the village like a storm on the verge of eruption.

Wanda closed her eyes.

The director made a hurried gesture, expecting her to resume.

But she didn’t move.

Above the set, the rigging that held her in place seemed unsteady, groaning against the metal framework. But… what if she didn’t need them?

You could feel Agatha watching.

Her presence burned—piercing, calculating.

Measuring every reaction. Measuring Wanda.

Because Agatha already knew.

Wanda’s eyes snapped open.

And you knew this wasn’t just acting.

The village's screams grew louder, angrier. A man, his face twisted with rage, lifted a torch.

"Burn her alive!"

The air around her twisted, as if reality itself was fracturing. A single second of absolute silence fell over everything.

Chaos.

Wanda.

Bodies were flung back like ragdolls. Bones cracked—a dry, sickening sound swallowed by horrified cries.

Fire spread as if it had a will of its own, climbing walls, devouring thatched rooftops, swallowing the villagers’ screams before they could escape.

Wanda floated in midair. Scarlet energy pulsed around her, forcing everyone to bow before her. The glow of her power was so intense that you squinted, struggling to tell if it was special effects… or real.

Her eyes burned, crimson darkness expanding around her like a bloody eclipse. Her hair lifted, caught in an unseen storm.

What had once been fear had transformed into something else.

Acceptance.

"On your knees." Wanda’s voice reverberated through the air, thick with power, with something primal. "Before your goddess."

She lifted her hands to the sky, and a scarlet bolt tore through the heavens.

The blue was swallowed by red. The world burned at her command.

The villagers screamed. Ran. Fell to their knees, pleading for mercy.

But Wanda didn’t blink.

Hell had been born from her hands.

The scent of charred flesh and smoke thickened the air, suffocating.

And then, silence.

Only the crackling of flames remained.

And Agatha’s gaze, sharp, piercing.

She clapped. Slowly.

"Cut."

Her voice dripped like poisoned silk.

"Wanda Maximoff," she tilted her head, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. "You do know how to put on a show, don’t you, dear?"

Everyone on set seemed frozen.

Except Wanda.

And Agatha.

They stared at each other.

And you realized, a chill running down your spine, that maybe this scene was far more than just a performance.

"Good work, everyone!" Agatha called out, signaling that they were done.

You watched as your colleagues rushed to leave—escaping the oppressive atmosphere, the suffocating aura—and you followed, stealing a glance toward the center of the set—where Wanda and Agatha spoke in hushed tones.

But there was something there.

Something you didn’t want to stay long enough to find out.

Lunch weighed heavily in your stomach, and the heat of the set only made everything more exhausting. You needed a break. A brief moment away from the lights, the cameras, the strange energy that still lingered in the air after the main scene with Wanda.

With a sigh, you stepped out of the studio. You needed air, to feel the afternoon sun on your face and the crisp breeze of late autumn.

Your footsteps echoed against the ground. The noise around you began to fade as you walked away—the murmurs of the crew adjusting cameras, the clinking of equipment being carried.

But the silence that settled around you wasn’t a relief.

It was oppressive.

Your body still carried the aches and marks from yesterday.

You swallowed hard, the memory burning in your mind like a brand. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was the unspoken warning.

Agatha’s gaze, sharp as a razor. Rio’s lazy smile, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking before you even tried to hide it.

You had made a mistake.

Doubting them.

Speaking too much.

Trusting too much.

Now, you knew better.

They were witches. Or at least… something close to it. You didn’t want to think about it any further.

You didn’t want to face the questions gnawing at your mind since it all began. You were part of something, yes.

But what, exactly?

And more importantly… could you get out of it?

Did you want to?

The wind blew, carrying a distant scent of red smoke and something sweet, almost sickening. Your heart pounded inside your chest. You clenched your fists, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.

It was just paranoia, right?

Right?

Then—

Something covered your mouth.

Warm, firm hands.

The scream died in your throat as your eyes were covered. Everything turned to darkness. Your body thrashed instinctively, but it was useless. The grip was unyielding.

And then, red threads emerged in the dark.

Red like blood. Like fire. Like witchcraft.

They danced in your vision, glowing and twisting like living serpents. You tried to scream, but no sound came out. Panic clawed up your throat, your heart hammering in a wild rhythm.

Until the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You felt the world distort around you, a strange numbness pulling your consciousness away. As if you were being ripped out of reality.

Your body grew weightless.

Your mind, hazy.

And before you could understand what was happening—

Everything went black.

The numbness still weighed on your body when your eyes opened.

The first thing you saw was Wanda.

Seated in front of you, legs crossed, an expression of boredom fixed on you.

Confusion took hold before fear even had a chance. You tried to move, to open your eyes fully and figure out where you were.

Your heart pounded.

The room still had the same baby pink paint and the uncomfortable spring mattress of your old bed. It smelled of mold, as if the space had been locked away for a long time.

No. No. No.

This couldn’t be happening.

You were in your old bedroom. In WestView.

Panic twisted into anger.

“What.The.Fuck.Is.This?” you snarled, pushing yourself up, rage flashing in your teeth.

Wanda smirked, watching your despair the way someone watches an animal caught in a trap.

“The little wild puppy is awake, I see…”

Her voice carried something almost amused, but her green eyes—her green eyes were cold, void.

You tried to stand, but your muscles were still weak. The numbness still clung to you like invisible chains, dragging you down.

Your room.

Your goddamn room.

The same suffocating space where you grew up, where you spent sleepless nights dreaming of escaping this town, of never coming back.

And yet—here you were.

“How…?” Your voice faltered. You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “How did I get here?” Your hands ran through your hair, trying to fix your appearance—your ego, in front of Wanda. “We’re thousands of miles away from Los Angeles.”

She sighed dramatically, rising from the chair and pacing the room with her hands behind her back, like she was analyzing the tacky decor she never liked.

“I think the real question is why you’re here.” She turned, crossing her arms. “And I could answer that, but… You already know the answer, don’t you?”

Your stomach turned.

Yes. You knew.

“I know everything.” Your voice came out firm, cutting. “My friends told me.”

Wanda arched a brow, a lazy smirk curling at her lips.

“Of course they did.” She tilted her head, watching your reaction. “Who do you think told them?”

The shock hit like a punch to the gut.

What?

I couldn't help it, yes, I let it get in

The helpless optimism of spring

Worn out and tired, and my heart near retired

And the world bent double from weeping

And yet, the birds begin to sing

She laughed, low, a sound dripping with pure disdain.

“Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you actually think little kids like you could uncover something we’ve kept hidden for centuries.”

The word cut deep.

Centuries.

That was it.

They weren’t just older. They were ancient. Too old for you to even begin to comprehend.

Your body thrummed at the realization, though you knew it shouldn’t.

Daffodil

You cleared your throat, trying to focus on the possible danger you were in.

“This—”

“Did you drink that?” Wanda interrupted abruptly.

What?

Drink?

You blinked, your mind still catching up.

Oh. Right. The dark liquid in the old, elegant flask.

“No,” you admitted, your voice weaker than you would’ve liked. “I… I was scared.”

Her change was instant. The smirk vanished. Her face hardened.

She growled.

“Those little shits… I told them to make sure you drank every last drop.”

Your body tensed.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

What—

Okay. Alright. So you were being played by everyone?

Is that it?

Your lips trembled.

So… Professor Calderu chose Alice as your partner on purpose? Alice knew? Since when?

Thick tears welled at the corners of your eyes.

“Why are you…” Your voice trembled, weak, choked by the threat of tears. You tried to continue, but your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, refusing to form the words. “Doing this?”

You didn’t want to know.

Didn’t want to hear it.

But Wanda smiled.

“Why do you think?” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting with something unreadable.

Then she laughed.

“Beauty. Fame. Success. Youth.”

Each word fell like a sharp blade.

The air grew heavier.

I'm not bad, I'm not good

I drank every sky that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Your chest tightened, and a part of you begged for her to stop. To make this not be real.

But Wanda sighed, running her fingers through her red hair, impatient.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Her voice dropped, but it wasn’t any less cruel. “We’ve spent centuries trapped in the same damn story. Burned. Hanged. Hunted. Killed.”

Your stomach churned.

“Then Rio told us about the sources. We found out there was a way to break the cycle.” Her eyes flickered for a moment, but the hardness returned almost instantly. “And that’s when we realized the truth. No one would ever do anything for us. If we wanted to survive, if we wanted a chance at something better, we had to fend for ourselves.”

She stepped closer.

“Don’t worry.” Her tone was almost… gentle. “You weren’t the first.”

And then her smile widened, cruel.

“And you won’t be the last.”

Her words struck like a blade, knocking the air from your lungs. The silence that followed was deafening.

Daffodil

A knot formed in your throat, heavy, suffocating.

“You used me.” Your voice was quiet.

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Wanda blinked slowly. And then, she laughed. A sharp sound, like shattering glass.

“Used you?”

She tilted her head, studying you like a predator examining trapped prey.

“Oh, sweet child… I wish I had that privilege.”

Your body went still.

“But Agatha and Rio didn’t let that happen, did they?” Her tone was reflective now, almost distracted.

She started pacing the room, as if organizing her own thoughts.

We practice resurrection every night

Raising the dead under the moonlight

And in the gloaming, I start to cry

You're a perfect pearl hung in the sky

“It was supposed to be like it always was,” she murmured. “Like it has been for centuries.”

Wanda stopped.

Turned to you.

And smiled.

“But instead of enchanting you to drain you like they should have, they made you their little personal plaything.”

The floor disappeared beneath you.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your breath erratic. The horror crawled down your spine like ice.

No.

They weren’t just draining you.

They were shaping you.

Like a gem.

Your obedience. Your submission.

With every touch. Every command. Every look.

The air seemed to vibrate around you, an unbearable mix of fear and something else.

Something darker. Something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

The weight of the lock pendant pressed against your chest, a reminder that you were never really free.

You were never just you.

You were always theirs.

There is no bad, there is no good

I drank all the blood that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Your body was trembling—out of hatred, out of confusion, out of something warm growing inside you, seeping through the cracks Agatha and Rio had carved into your soul.

Because they hadn’t split you apart.

They hadn’t let anyone else touch you.

Not Wanda, not Lilia—your partners for centuries.

And what was supposed to be absolute horror, what should have made your stomach turn and your legs buckle in terror...

Fuck.

It turned you on as a fuck.

Her words, sharp as razors, cut into you, but they also held you in place. As if everything was falling into place in some sick, inevitable way.

Daffodil

Your heart pounded against your chest, each beat sending waves of heat down to your trembling legs.

“Oh.” Wanda narrowed her eyes, leaning in slightly. “So now you understand what is the problem here.”

You wanted to deny it.

Wanted to spit in her face, scream that it was a lie, that this had nothing to do with what you felt. With what you were.

But the heat crawling over your skin, pulsing between your legs, said otherwise.

The possession.

The absolute certainty that Agatha and Rio had claimed you as theirs.

English sun, she has come

To kiss my face and tell me I'm that chosen one

A generation soaked in grief

We're drying out and hanging on by the skin of our teeth

Your chest clenched with a twisted pleasure, and before you could stop it, a crooked smile tugged at your lips.

Small.

Unconscious.

Wrong.

I never thought it would get this far

This somewhat drunken joke

Sometimes, I see so much beauty

I don't think that I can cope

Wanda saw it.

And she smiled too, but hers was different. Colder. Crueler.

“They ruined you, didn’t they?” the redhead murmured, stepping closer.

She raised her hand, the light touch of her finger tracing the padlock pendant resting on your chest.

Heavy. Almost suffocating.

“You smell like them.” Her voice dripped over your skin like venom. “Rotten to me.”

Your body was warm.

Warm with shame. Warm with something you didn’t want to name.

Your fingers dug into the old sheets beneath you, as if that could anchor you to reality.

There is no bad, there is no good

I drank every sky that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Wanda grabbed your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

Her green eyes glowed, intense, unrelenting, burning something inside you that you weren’t sure you wanted to put out.

“And that,” she said, “cannot happen.”

Your body stiffened.

What?

“We need to take it out of you.”

The air grew thick.

Your stomach twisted.

Before you could speak, protest, beg, Wanda was already walking away, heading toward the door with the cruel calmness of someone who had always been in control.

Daffodil

She stopped at the doorway, not looking at you.

“Welcome back to WestView, darling.”

Wanda gave you an unreadable look, too mystical for you to interpret.

“Welcome home.”

Then, the door closed, and you were alone.

~*~

Here are the answers. And I don't know what to do with all this informations...

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