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theballadofharkness · 4 months ago

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Agatha Harkness VS Salem: The Kittening, Karma’s a Witch

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem! reader

Summary: When you brings home a stray kitten Agatha can’t say no to those big pleading eyes and putting lips. What she doesn’t know is that she has met her new mortal enemy, transforming her house in a battleground in which she is fighting for your attention. But now, the tables have turned and it is time for you to feel the stab of jealousy.

Word Count: 7.6K

Warnings: smut warning! Not very explicit but enough to warrant a warning, part 4 will be more explicit however xo

A/N: Apologies for the late update my loves, work has been a lot but I’ve been able to write lots of things I’m excited to publish coming soon🪻💜

The house was quiet when you stepped inside. Warm, golden sunlight spilled through the windows, painting long afternoon shadows across the floorboards. The air smelled faintly of chamomile, old paper, and something sweet, maybe the last of the honey cake you’d left cooling on the counter that morning. The silence was peaceful, not empty. The kind of stillness that whispered something good was happening.

You toed off your boots and walked further into the house, your arms full of fresh sage bundles from the herb shop, and something already bubbling with excitement in your chest. You’d only been out a few hours running errands, a quiet walk through the market, a brief stop to pick up more beeswax candles. But you’d been thinking of them the whole time.

Agatha and Salem.

The unlikeliest duo. The witch and the gremlin. Oil and water. Fire and… small, attention seeking furball.

You rounded the corner into the living room, adjusting your bundles of herbs and stopped cold. There she was. There they were.

Agatha lounged across the velvet sofa like a queen of chaos at rest. Her hair was down, curling soft over her shoulders. Her robe was half-open, revealing long legs stretched across the cushions and one arm draped lazily over the backrest. Her other hand was… occupied.

Gently. Absentmindedly. Affectionately stroking the soft black fluff curled up on her stomach. Salem. He was purring, deep and content and impossibly smug.

A half-finished cup of tea rested on the side table. The television played some old black-and-white film, the dialogue low and hazy, but Agatha wasn’t really watching. She was just… petting him. Gazing down at him with the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

“Look at my two babies,” you say dreamily, setting your cup down and slipping into the room. “I never thought this day would come.”

Agatha lifts her gaze with that slow, amused smirk. “Mhm. It’s disgusting, isn’t it?”

But the way she scratches just under Salem’s chin like she’s been doing it her whole life? The way he stretches out, blissed beyond measure in her lap?

Yeah. She’s in deep.

You stepped closer, a bright grin already spreading across your face. “You’re cuddling.”

“I am not,” she said, perfectly deadpan.

“You are!”

“I am not, darling.”

You practically floated across the room, dropping the sage onto the chair as you came to kneel by the sofa. You looked up at her, positively glowing, your fingers clasped under your chin.

“He’s sleeping on you,” you breathed. “That’s not tolerating. That’s bonding.”

Agatha gave a low, dismissive scoff and returned her attention to the TV though, her hand never stopped stroking between Salem’s tiny ears. “He got tired of attacking the curtains and climbed on top of me. I was merely… trapped.”

You bit your lip to keep from squealing. “Trapped,” you repeated. “By a kitten.”

“He has claws.”

“So do you,” you giggled.

She looked at you from the corner of her eye, lips twitching. “He’s manipulative.”

“He’s a cat.”

“He bit me.”

You reached up to stroke her calf and tilted your head. “You let him stay.”

She sniffed, lifting her chin. “I didn’t want to disrupt his nap. He’s annoying when he’s cranky.”

You blinked slowly. “Agatha.”

“What.”

“You loooove him.”

“I tolerate him.”

You climbed onto the edge of the sofa, sitting beside her folded legs, close enough to see the way her fingertips slowed when they passed over the soft curve of Salem’s back. Close enough to hear the softness in her voice, even when she tried to sound exasperated.

“No,” you said sweetly, leaning in close. “You love him.”

Agatha gave you a look. The kind she usually reserved for low-level demons and burnt pastries. “I do not.”

You booped her nose with your fingertip.

“You do.”

She caught your wrist lazily, holding it there as she raised an eyebrow at you. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You beamed. “I know. And now you love him, too.”

Salem stretched in her lap like a smug little prince, tail flicking as if to emphasize the point. Agatha narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re a tiny warlock in disguise. I can feel it.”

Salem yawned.

Agatha sighed.

You curled up beside her, your head resting on her shoulder, gaze dropping to her hand as it resumed its gentle rhythm along the kitten’s back.

“Look at my little family,” you whispered, utterly content. “My wife. My son.”

“I’m going to hex your tea,” Agatha muttered.

But she didn’t stop petting him.

Not for a second.

The kettle whistled low and steady, steam curling into the sunlit kitchen like a blessing. You reached for the handle with careful fingers, your other hand already holding your favorite chipped mug, the one Agatha pretended to hate but never threw away. You’d lined up fresh herbs from your morning foraging, the scent of wild mint and chamomile mingling in the air, grounding, familiar.

You were barefoot on the warm floorboards, the hem of Agatha’s shirt brushing just above your thighs. It hung low, wide at the neck, sleeves rolled sloppily up your arms. One of the buttons was missing. You liked it that way. It felt lived in, hers and now yours.

The morning light made you glow, all soft skin and mussed hair, eyes heavy from sleep, mouth still kiss-bruised from last night. Your hips swayed faintly as you stirred honey into the tea, moving to some quiet rhythm in your head. The music of a slow, safe morning.

You were waiting.

Any second now and you’d feel her behind you.

Agatha always came into the kitchen like a spell: silent, magnetic, unavoidable. She’d slip her arms around your waist, press her face into your hair, hum against your neck. Sometimes she’d call you her darling, sometimes her little witch, sometimes when her voice was warm and low and still thick with sleep she’d just murmur, “There’s my baby.”

You knew it was coming. As soon as you felt her enter the room the air shifted. You straightened a little, smiling to yourself as you finished stirring your tea, spine already arching the tiniest bit, just enough to make it easier for her to wrap around you. You bit your lip. Waited.

Then you heard it, “there’s my baby.”

A whisper. A purr. That voice.

Your cheeks flushed instantly. You smiled, dreamy and shy, your breath catching. Your eyes fluttered closed, anticipation rushing through you like a little wave. And then…

Nothing.

No arms.

No warmth.

No kiss to the back of your neck.

You blinked, turning slightly in confusion. And then you saw her. Not behind you, but across the room, holding Salem. Cradling him against her chest, one hand under his little bottom, the other stroking along his tiny head. He was purring like a chainsaw, all smug and settled. Agatha was smiling down at him like he was the moon and stars wrapped in fur.

You stared.

Agatha didn’t even look up. “You’re up early, little monster,” she murmured, brushing her nose against Salem’s head. “Did you come looking for your mama?”

Salem sneezed.

Agatha laughed.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Your heart stuttered a little in your chest.

She hadn’t even seen you.

You stood there in her shirt, bare-legged, sleepy and soft and so ready to melt into her touch, and she was across the kitchen, nuzzling the cat.

You cleared your throat lightly. “Good morning,” you offered, voice gentler than you meant.

Agatha looked up absently. “Mmm, morning,” she said, distracted. “He was at the foot of the bed when I woke up. I think he missed me.”

You wrapped your fingers tighter around the mug, forcing a smile. “Yeah. He… does that.”

You turned back to the counter and took a sip of your tea, letting the steam hide your expression. You kept your back to her. You weren’t even sure why. Maybe because you didn’t want her to see the flicker of hurt you couldn’t quite blink away.

She used to say you were the one who looked the most beautiful thing in the morning. She used to whisper, ‘There’s my baby’ and mean you. You stirred your tea again, even though it didn’t need it. Behind you, she was still cooing.

You tuned her out. Tried to, anyway. Tried not to think about the way your skin suddenly felt cooler without her touch. The way your thighs shifted uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious. The way you felt like you’d just stepped outside of your own moment.

You didn’t say anything else that morning.

You finished your tea. Watered the kitchen plants. Cleaned up the tea leaves that always stuck to the counter. Agatha eventually let Salem down and wandered off to check her spellwork room, humming to herself.

She kissed your cheek absently as she passed.

You leaned into it without thinking, but the moment had already passed. And something in your chest felt… quieter.

Not hurt. Not yet.

Just a little hollow.

A little missed.

The living room glowed with late afternoon light, warm and drowsy, the kind that made everything feel a little slower, a little softer. The fire in the hearth crackled gently. The house was quiet. Peaceful.

You padded in from the hallway, still in that same oversized shirt of Agatha’s, the sleeves too long, hem brushing the backs of your thighs, your hair loose and your cheeks pink from your post-nap haze. You were the picture of sleepy domestic bliss, glowing like something out of a dream.

And you were so ready to curl up with your wife. All day, you’d been craving it. The press of her side. The smell of her perfume. The soft scrape of her fingers absentmindedly petting your hair while she read, the occasional kiss to your temple without even looking up from her book. You’d imagined it as you drifted off earlier, your head on her lap, her voice murmuring whatever she was reading, her hand on your back.

You turned the corner, smiling already, then stopped, your smile faltering.

Agatha was stretched out along the velvet sofa, one leg tucked under her, robe loose around her shoulders. A book hovered in front of her, turning its own pages with a flick of silent spellwork. Her eyes were scanning lazily over the text, sharp and serene. Then there was Salem, sprawled across her lap like he paid rent.

Flat on his back, little paws twitching, tail flicking contentedly, his head tucked right under her hand. And her hand, the hand that should’ve been stroking your hair, was rhythmically grazing down his fuzzy little belly as she read.

You blinked, tilting your head with a soft frown like a confused puppy. You were quiet at first. Just watching. And then, before you even realized it, your lips pushed into the softest pout.

You hovered at the edge of the room, hands tucked into the sleeves of your shirt, voice small. “I was gonna sit with you…”

Agatha didn’t even look up from her book. “There’s another chair.”

You blinked. “But… I always sit with you.”

She turned the page.

Salem snored. Snored like he wasn’t the root of all your current problems. You stared at them, heart dropping a little, and took a tentative step forward. “He’s in my spot.”

Agatha’s lips twitched, but she kept her face perfectly neutral. “He was here first, darling.”

You pouted harder.

She finally looked over at you, and the moment she saw your face, your big glossy eyes and that little furrow in your brow, she nearly burst into flames.

Because oh.

Oh, the payoff.

This was what she’d looked like, wasn’t it? All those weeks ago when you used to cradle that kitten to your chest like he was made of stars and forget your wife even existed? When she watched you kiss his tiny ears and murmur sweet nothings while she sat there, ignored, seething in silence?

This was karma.

You didn’t even mean to make a scene.

But the moment Salem blinked up at you from Agatha’s lap, his smug little fuzzy body all curled up where you were supposed to be, something in you snapped.

It was soft. Quiet. But unmistakable.

The need. The ache. The burn to be there instead.

You scooped him off her lap with a quiet “excuse me,” as if you weren’t throwing a fit, and deposited him on the rug like a polite exorcism. He made a mildly offended chirp as he landed, but you ignored it.

You were already climbing onto the sofa.

Onto her. Into your rightful place.

Agatha raised an eyebrow, delight curling at the corners of her mouth as you climbed into her lap. Not sat beside her, not nestled gently. You straddled her, your thighs sliding over hers, that big shirt slipping up high enough to make her very aware you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

She set her book down, slowly. “Well, hello.”

You didn’t answer, you just kissed her. Hot. Messy. Hungry.

Your mouth found hers like you were making up for every second you’d been replaced- every coo, every scratch behind Salem’s ears, every time she’d kissed his head instead of yours.

Your hands slipped into her hair, nails grazing her scalp, and your hips rocked, against her thigh.

Agatha stifled a groan.

You were supposed to be the sweet one. The floaty, dreamy, gentle little thing who whispered love spells into tea and painted sigils in flower petals. But this? This was feral. And all for her.

She kissed you back once, slow and filthy, before pulling back just enough to look at you.

“Jealous much?” she asked, voice smug, eyes shining.

You scowled, flushed and breathless. “He was in my spot.”

“I told you he was comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable,” you huffed, shifting your hips again, deliberately. Her thigh slid between your legs, and your breath hitched.

Agatha’s fingers curled around your hips. “Oh, honey,” she said, low and dark and thrilled. “You’re more than comfortable.”

You didn’t answer. You just dragged your mouth down her jaw, to her throat, kissing and sucking like you were trying to leave proof of your possession. Her skin flushed pink. Her pulse jumped.

Your thighs trembled as you rocked, slow and needy, against the muscle of her leg. That thin, teasing friction.

Agatha couldn’t stop the smirk blooming on her face. This is gold, she thought.

Actual gold.

Because here you were, her pouty, jealous little wife, writhing in her lap, desperate to remind her who she belonged to. Her voice was whiny, your movements clumsy with need, and Agatha had never been more delighted in her life.

She leaned back against the sofa, completely relaxed, letting you take what you needed.

“You gonna make yourself come like this?” she asked, cocking her head as you whimpered into her throat. “Grinding on Mommy’s thigh like a needy little thing?”

Your eyes fluttered open, wide and dazed and so close to snapping.

“Thought so,” she murmured.

And then, without warning… Mrrrow.

You both looked down.

Salem, now sprawled on the rug, was pawing at Agatha’s robe, trying to climb up again.

Agatha blinked. Then looked up at you, mischief sparking. “Oh dear,” she drawled. “I think someone wants his spot back.”

You froze.

Still in her lap. Still flushed. Still soaking wet against her leg. And Agatha was grinning.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t you dare pick him up.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

But in her head? She was already plotting. Already thinking how the tables have turned, she thought smugly, petting her jealous little wife while the kitten sulked on the floor. She’d give it a few more days. Just enough to really push your buttons.

Then maybe… just maybe… she’d let you have your lap privileges back.

Maybe.

She pressed a kiss to your temple and let her hands wander low on your back.

“I have to say,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear, “jealousy looks very good on you.”

You were stirring the roasted root vegetables when the clock struck seven.

Not that you were counting.

But it had been hours since you last saw Agatha. You’d washed the sheets, hung the laundry, wiped down the altar, organized the herbs, dusted the ceiling corners (the absolute worst), and made dinner from scratch.

All in one of her old shirts. No pants. Hair up in a scarf. Dreamy and flushed from the days chores, humming softly to yourself. You even left her a note on the kitchen chalkboard:

“Dinner at 6:30. Hope your spellwork goes well, baby!”

Nothing.

Now it was seven, and the food was getting cold, and the only sound in the house was the faint echo of Salem purring somewhere in the walls, like the little shadow he was. You set the wooden spoon down, wiped your hands on your apron, and called softly down the hallway:

“Agatha? Dinner!”

No reply.

You raised your voice a little. “Aggie!”

Still nothing.

You sighed, a tiny line forming between your brows. You could feel the faint thrum of magic coming from the basement. Of course. That’s where she was.

You trudged down the spiral stairs, bare feet cool against the stone, your mood dropping with every step. The warm light of the kitchen faded behind you, replaced by flickering candlelight and the earthy scent of sage and wax and chalk.

“Agatha,” you tried again as you reached the bottom. “Dinner is-”

You stopped, blinking rapidly, your mouth dropping open in horror. Because there she was, sitting at her coven table, surrounded by open spell books and incense smoke, head bent in deep concentration over…

A cat collar.

Not just any collar. Velvet. Black, of course. Embroidered with protective runes in silver thread, a small crescent moon charm floating gently above it as she murmured under her breath. Gemstones, real ones, set into the band. Onyx. Amethyst. A tiny protection crystal that looked freshly cut.

Salem sat smugly on the table beside her, tail wrapped neatly around his paws like he knew what was happening.

You stood in stunned silence for a moment before saying flatly, “are you serious?”

Agatha didn’t even look up. “Hm?”

“Are you serious?”

Her fingers traced another rune. “You’ll have to be more specific, darling.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re telling me I’ve spent the entire day cleaning the house alone, our house, doing your laundry, folding your silk robes, making your favorite dinner, and the reason you didn’t answer me for three hours is because you’re… bedazzling a protection collar for the cat?”

Agatha finally glanced up.

And she smiled. Slow. Wicked. Satisfied.

You blinked. “I- wha- You never even enchanted my wedding ring.”

She paused. “If you wanted me to enchant your jewelry, love,” she purred, “you only had to ask.”

You stared at her. “You never enchanted my wedding ring, Agatha. But the cat gets an enchanted collar.”

She looked very pleased with herself now. “Well. You are more powerful than the average kitten.”

You gaped. Like actually gaped. You could feel your mouth opening and closing like a fish and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Agatha leaned her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, gaze dragging down the length of you in her old shirt and apron, flushed and barefoot from doing all the domestic chores while she magicked her tiny hellbeast a couture-level collar.

“Oh, honey,” she said sweetly. “You’re not jealous of a cat, are you?”

You crossed your arms. “I’m not.”

She raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No!”

She tapped a finger to her lip. “Because it feels like you are.”

“I’m not!” you squeaked, trying not to blush as your foot nudged a stray gemstone across the floor. “It’s just- it’s dinner! And I thought you’d want to, y’know, eat it. With your wife.”

Agatha clicked her tongue. “I will. Once I finish this.”

You sniffed. Tried not to pout. Failed.

“You could have at least helped me fold the sheets,” you mumbled, hugging your arms tighter around your chest. “Or set the table. Or come check on me. I- ”

You bit your lip, stopping yourself before you sounded too hysterical.

Agatha saw it.

Saw the way your voice cracked just a little. Saw the way you stood there, glowing with magic and effort and sweat and devotion, trying so hard not to look like a kicked puppy.

And oh, she thrived.

She stood slowly, crossing the room in that silk-robe-and-witchcraft way that made her look like temptation wrapped in smoke. She stopped just in front of you, close enough to touch.

“You’re adorable when you’re sulking,” she said, voice low.

“I’m not sulking.”

“You are. You’re pouting. Look at that little face.”

You tried to look away.

She caught your chin and turned you back to her with one finger, smiling like the devil.

“I could enchant your ring, you know,” she murmured, thumb brushing the bare gold band. “Warding, protection, a little glamour charm…”

You swallowed.

“Then why haven’t you?”

Agatha tilted her head, grinning. “Because you weren’t jealous enough yet.”

You stared.

She winked.

And that was when you realized that she wanted this. She was doing this on purpose. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “You’re tormenting me.”

She leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “Karma’s a witch, baby.”

You woke to the sound of a soft, steady purr and the weight of absence.

At first, you weren’t sure what felt off. The bed was warm. The morning light poured in through the gauzy curtains like syrup. Your body still buzzed faintly from dreams you couldn’t quite remember. And yet…

You turned your head.

And saw it.

Agatha, beautiful and radiant even in her sleep, lay curled on her side. Her hair fell in a loose wave across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, lips parted in that soft, unconscious pout she never let you tease her for. She looked peaceful. She looked perfect.

But you weren’t what she was holding.

It was Salem.

The little void beast had wedged himself between her breasts like a smug satin pillow, his paws tucked up near her collarbone, his purring deafening in the quiet room. Agatha’s arm was slung protectively around him, her fingers curled lightly against his side. You blinked. Your chest went tight. It wasn’t fair, you told yourself. It was just a cat. He was warm. He was cuddly. He didn’t mean anything by it. And Agatha, she was yours. You knew that.

But something about the picture in front of you- your wife, your bed, your place taken, cut you more than you wanted to admit. And the worst part? She looked so content.

You laid there a moment longer, stomach twisting, before quietly slipping out of bed. You didn’t want to disturb her. You didn’t want her to see your face.

You made breakfast the way you always did. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, tied back with one of Agatha’s silk ribbons. You wore her sweater, sleeves falling over your hands, bare legs just peeking out beneath the hem. You looked soft. Dreamy. The kind of girl a wife should wrap her arms around and kiss immediately.

But she didn’t come down right away.

And when she did?

She brought the cat.

Salem rode on her shoulder like a little prince, tail flicking as she walked into the kitchen with a smirk on her lips.

You were already plating up eggs and herbs, pouring tea into her favorite mug. “Morning,” you said, voice gentle.

Agatha grinned. “Mmm. It is now.”

You blushed automatically. She always had that effect.

You turned back to your herbs, distracted by the flicker of pride when she stepped behind you and wrapped her arms loosely around your waist.

And for just a second everything felt okay. That was until she leaned in, lips brushing your ear, and said, “Salem kept me warm all night.”

Your stomach dropped. You forced a smile. “Oh?”

Agatha hummed, hands ghosting beneath your sweater, warm against your waist. “He’s so soft. And clingy. Just like someone else I know.”

You tried to laugh. Operative word: Tried. But it didn’t reach your eyes. Her hands slid lower, her mouth moving to your neck, kissing lightly. “I was thinking…” she murmured against your skin. “Maybe we don’t leave the bedroom today.”

You stiffened.

Her hips pressed against your backside, slow and deliberate. “Just you. Me. My fingers. That pretty little moan you make when I bite your thighs.”

Your knees nearly buckled. But you didn’t let her see it. Instead, you turned in her arms, blinking up at her with wide, innocent eyes as your mind began to scheme. “I’ve got plans.”

Agatha stilled. “You… what?”

You smiled sweetly. Tilted your head. “I’m meeting Jen.”

She blinked. “Jennifer?”

You nodded. “Mhm. Just some girly stuff. Little catch-up. Maybe some shopping.”

Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “Since when do you make plans without telling me?”

You giggled, light and fluttery, and kissed the tip of her nose. “Since today.”

Then you slipped from her arms, humming softly, walking out of the kitchen with a gentle sway of your hips.

She stared after you, stunned.

And you? You grabbed your phone the second you rounded the corner, typing fast.

Text to: Jennifer Kale

Three dots appeared instantly.

<Jennifer Kale: sure babe. say less. coffee shop in the square? 30 mins?

You smiled down at your screen. Soft. Serene. And absolutely scheming.

The bell above the café door jingled softly as you stepped inside, a swirl of warm air and cinnamon greeting you like a hug.

The place was cozy and bright, full of velvet chairs, mismatched tables, and the rich smell of espresso and clove. A jazz record played quietly in the corner, and sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor in patterns of green and blue.

Jennifer Kale was already there.

She was slouched in the corner booth like a rockstar who’d just hexed someone’s boyfriend, sunglasses perched on top of her head, silver rings stacked on every finger. A half-drunk matcha latte sat in front of her. She was scrolling her phone like she owned the place.

She looked up when she saw you and her expression immediately softened. “Oh, babe.”

You smiled weakly and shuffled over, sweater sleeves too long, cheeks pink from the wind. You slid into the seat across from her and wrapped your hands around your tea like it could hold you together.

Jen gave you exactly three seconds of silence before going, “Okay. Spill. What did she do?”

You sighed. “It’s so stupid. I know it’s stupid.”

“Nope. We don’t do that here. This is a safe space for petty gay pain.”

You hesitated, biting your lip.

Then: “She’s in love with the cat.”

Jen blinked.

You took a shaky breath. “Okay, not in love, but like. Obsessed. And smug about it. And she knows I’m jealous, and she’s doing it on purpose now. She enchanted him a custom collar and ignored me all day and then had the nerve to say he kept her warm all night.”

Jen blinked again. “Are you telling me she replaced you with a kitten in bed?”

“Yes!”

Jen leaned back. “That’s actually so messed up I’m kind of impressed.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I know it sounds insane, but it’s been weeks. She pets him constantly. She baby-talks him. She used to do that to me. And I just… I miss her.”

Jen lowered her sunglasses. “You mean you miss her touching you like you’re the only one in the world?”

You looked up, eyes round. “Yes.”

Jen leaned forward, grinning now. “Oh honey. You’ve come to the right person.”

You blinked. “I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’ve never schemed against her before. She’s the one who schemes. I’m the one who makes her tea and blushes when she calls me pretty.”

Jen smirked. “Not today, you’re not.”

You blinked.

She leaned in like she was letting you in on a sacred secret. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna buy you the hottest, most expensive lingerie in this entire godforsaken realm.”

Your eyes widened. “What? Why?”

“Because,” she said, slow and smug, “you’re gonna seduce her. Properly.”

You blushed so hard you nearly fainted. “But- but she touches me all the time? Like… nearly every day?”

Jen froze. “Oh, damn. Okay, girl.”

You looked away, flustered. “That’s not the problem.”

“No, babe. I get it. This isn’t about sex. This is about power. You’re gonna walk into that bedroom in lace and silk and ruin her.”

You blinked. “Ruin her?”

“Emotionally. Spiritually. Mentally. She will not remember her own name, let alone the cat.”

You clutched your tea like a lifeline. “But what if she just… keeps playing the game? What if this doesn’t work?”

Jen smirked, full sorceress mode now. “Oh, honey. The right lingerie will make her forget that cat ever existed.”

You stared at her, quiet.

Then whispered:

“…What kind of lingerie are we talking?”

Jen slammed her latte down and stood, already pulling you to your feet.

“French.”

The little bell above the boutique door jingled as you walked in, and already, you wanted to bolt.

It was too much.

All low lighting and sultry music, velvet curtains and glass shelves lined with lingerie that looked like it had been spun from moonlight and temptation. Lace in every shade. Silk that caught the light like water. Mannequins dressed in things you weren’t sure even counted as clothing.

You hesitated by the door, clutching the sleeves of your sweater in your fists.

Jen turned back and looked at you, grinning. “You coming in, or are you gonna combust from modesty?”

You gave her a withering little smile, cheeks pink. “I’ve just never been in a place like this.”

“Mm. Baby’s first lingerie mission.” Jen looped her arm through yours, pulling you gently deeper into the shop. “You’re gonna love it. Promise.”

You weren’t so sure.

Everything was so delicate. So bold. You passed a rack of thigh harnesses and nearly squeaked out loud.

“I don’t think I’m made for this,” you whispered.

Jen glanced at you sideways. “You literally do sex magic and make love potions in your sleep.”

“That’s different! That’s sweet! That’s spiritual!”

Jen plucked a corset from a rack and wiggled it in your face. “And this is retribution.”

You stared at the corset like it might bite you.

Jen rolled her eyes fondly and tossed it over her arm with a growing pile of silks. “Let’s find something softer. Something that’ll break her heart before it ruins her life.”

You trailed after her through the store, past racks of lace and satin and embroidered spellwork, overwhelmed and blinking.

Every time she held something up, you gave the same unsure response.

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Too sheer?”

“I don’t… even know how that goes on.”

“Okay, that one’s… just string.”

Jen didn’t slow down.

She moved with intention, pulling set after set from their hangers. Champagne silk. Emerald mesh. Creamy lace embroidered with tiny stars. She handed them off to you one by one, loading your arms like she was dressing a goddess for battle.

You kept glancing down at the pieces in your hands like they’d disappear if you looked too long.

“You sure this isn’t overkill?” you murmured as you followed her to the dressing rooms.

Jen paused. “Do you want her to keep spending all her time using the laser pointer to play with the cat, all the while ignoring your breasts?”

You winced.

Fair.

She shoved you into the dressing room with a wink. “Go. Pick your poison.”

You closed the curtain behind you, hands shaking slightly.

It was quiet in the little space with just the noise of your breath, the thrum of your pulse, and the soft rustle of silk being heard as you slowly undressed. You slipped the first set on, the champagne-colored one Jen had picked, and stared at yourself in the mirror.

It barely covered you. Sheer cups. Petal-soft lace. Straps that curved along your hips and dipped low across your chest. You looked like a dream. A nymph. A creature made for ruin.

But you didn’t feel like one.

You fidgeted.

Adjusted the straps. Smoothed the lace.

Something inside you wavered. What if this doesn’t work? What if Agatha just laughs? Or smirks, all smug, and kisses your forehead like you’re trying too hard?

You stared at your reflection, small and flushed and fragile. Your throat tightened. “Jen?” you called softly.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

There was a pause. Then, calm as anything, “You need fuel?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Fuel. Motivation. That edge.”

Before you could answer, Jen’s hand slid through the curtain holding your phone. “Look,” she said.

You hesitated before you took it. And your breath caught as you saw the most recent text from Agatha.

<Agatha💜: look who’s keeping me warm again today>

She had attached a picture of Salem curled against her chest. Her fingers stroking his tiny head.

<Agatha💜: he’s so clingy. reminds me of someone>

There was a video attached this time, Salem licking her jaw, purring, as Agatha laughed.

Your eyes widened as she sent yet another picture, intended to cause maximum damage to your already bruised ego. Agatha, tousled and flushed from sleep, lips slightly parted, wrapped in a silk robe, with Salem pressed against her chest like he belonged there.

<Agatha💜: i love having all this time alone with this handsome boy>

Your stomach twisted as something in your chest snapped. You looked up at yourself in the mirror again. And suddenly you didn’t see someone soft. Or unsure. Or trying too hard. You saw her wife. The one Agatha belongs to.

Your chin lifted, your hands stopped fidgeting as you turned back the curtain.

Jen looked up from her seat and grinned. “There she is,” she said, smug.

You stepped out, all flushed and lace and vengeance. “Let’s do this.”

By the time you got home, the sun had slipped below the horizon and the sky had melted into a deep plum. The house glowed from within, candlelight flickering against the windows, shadows dancing along the walls.

You stepped inside, calm and composed, the paper boutique bag tucked under your arm like it wasn’t full of sin and lace.

Agatha didn’t look up.

She was sprawled on the velvet sofa, a wine glass balanced loosely in her hand, Salem curled across her thighs like a furry little king. One of her hands was stroking lazily along his back, her fingers dancing in long, luxurious lines through his fur. Her silk robe had fallen open just enough to suggest deliberate temptation.

He was purring like thunder.

“Oh, there she is,” Agatha drawled, still not looking at you. “The little runaway witch.”

You hung up your coat carefully, placing the bag beneath the entryway bench with quiet precision. “Hi.”

Agatha finally looked over. Her eyes were sharp. Glinting. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be out this late.”

You shrugged. “Had some errands.”

“Mm. With Jennifer, I assume?”

You smiled faintly. “She wanted to check in on her store.”

Agatha sipped her wine. “Did she tell you to come home and behave yourself? Because I’ve already claimed Salem for the night. No room in my lap for clingy little witches.”

You gave her the softest smile and said nothing.

It was infuriating. Agatha narrowed her eyes slightly, tilting her head. “You’re quiet.”

“Just tired,” you said, drifting into the kitchen to start the kettle. “Long day.”

“Didn’t look like a long day in those photos Jen posted online.”

You froze, just for a heartbeat. So she’d been watching.

You turned slowly and met her eyes across the room. “Stalking me?”

She smirked. “Monitoring. For signs of mischief.”

You smiled sweetly. “You don’t have to worry.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.” Agatha set her wine glass down and shifted on the sofa, pressing her cheek to Salem’s tiny head, her hand sliding along his spine. “I know where you’ll end up. Right here. Begging for attention. Like always.”

You gave a soft laugh, walking to the kitchen to make a calming cup of tea before you were going to enact phase 1: the seduction. The kettle whistled. You poured the tea, unbothered.

“I made lavender chamomile,” you said, voice light. “Want a cup?”

She watched you closely. “Sure. Bring it here.”

You walked over and set the cup on the side table beside her.

She didn’t thank you. Instead, she took a slow sip, eyes never leaving yours.

Salem stretched on her lap, letting out a dramatic little sigh.

Agatha cooed. “Poor baby’s so exhausted from a long day of being adored. Isn’t that right, my sweet little prince?”

You sat down in the armchair across from her and took a slow sip of your own tea, not blinking.

She kept stroking Salem.

You didn’t flinch. Not when she kissed his little head. Not when she murmured, “Such a good boy.” Not even when she flicked her eyes toward you and said, “You used to be this good. What happened?”

You set your mug down, crossing one leg over the other and smiled. “I guess I grew up.”

Agatha’s eyes sparked dangerously.

But you didn’t say anything else. You sat there calmly, sipping your tea, letting the silence stretch between you like silk being pulled taut.

She shifted again. “You’re not going to come sit with me?”

“Not right now.”

“Not feeling needy anymore?”

You shook your head. “I’m good.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re very smug for someone being replaced by a now reformed demon cat.”

You tilted your head. “He’s cute.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

You shrugged. “He’s very charming.”

Agatha’s lips twitched. She didn’t say anything else. Just sipped her tea.

The fire crackled between you.

Dinner was quiet.

You let her talk. About old spells. About chaos magic theory. About a potion one of the newer coven witches had messed up that morning. She was brilliant, glowing with cleverness, gesturing with her wine glass, her voice smooth and practiced.

You let her charm the air.

And you gave her nothing. Not your usual sparkles of laughter. Not the flustered cheeks she’d come to expect. You listened. Nodded. Smiled.

But you didn’t bite. Not once. Not when Salem hopped into her lap mid-meal and she groaned, “He just loves me more,” you only nodded and said, “Maybe.”

Not when she stretched and said, “I might just sleep with him wrapped around my chest again,” you simply said, “As long as he doesn’t snore.”

Agatha’s smile twitched as she waited for the jealousy. For the pout. But you had replaced it with patience. Because tonight was already yours.

When she went upstairs, you followed a few minutes later, your bag tucked beneath your arm.

Agatha was already in bed when you walked in. Her robe had slipped lower. Her thigh was bare. The sheets a mess around her legs.

She glanced up. “There’s my girl. Finally done sulking?”

You smiled. “Just going to shower.”

“Don’t be long,” she murmured. “I’ve got some ideas for how to… ease your wounded ego.”

You said nothing, just took the bag and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Agatha smirked to herself, stretching like a cat across the bed. She thought she’d won. But she didn’t know that she was just about to lose.

You stood in front of the mirror one last time.

Your breath was slow. Steady.

The wine-red silk clung to every curve of your body like it had been made for you in another life. The lace, delicate and whisper-thin, draped your skin perfectly. The garter belt hugged your hips like the hands you wanted on you. The perfume at your throat made you dizzy with power.You looked like something to kneel for. And tonight, she would.

You opened the bathroom door slowly, deliberately, letting the candlelight from the bedroom cast a golden glow across your skin.

You thought you were prepared for anything. For the gasp. The hunger. The scramble to devour you right there at the threshold.

What you weren’t prepared for was: “Yes, that’s it, my clever little man, get it, get the ribbon for mama-”

You froze.

There she was, on her knees on the rug, her silk robe slipping from one shoulder, hair tumbling around her like some kind of ancient goddess…

Playing with Salem.

That fucking cat.

You blinked and waited, surely she would glance up soon. She didn’t.

She laughed softly as Salem pawed at the belt of her robe. “Ohhh, look at you. You’re so smart. You’re the smartest little man I’ve ever seen! Yes, you are, yes, you-”

You coughed loudly.

Nothing.

You stepped forward. The sound of your heel clicked on the wood floor.

Still nothing.

Agatha didn’t even flinch.

Your heart pounded. Your hands curled into fists at your sides. You were standing in the most stunning, expensive, planned-with-a-friend-for-six-hours lingerie of your life- and she hadn’t even looked up.

You waited three more seconds before yelling, “AGATHA.”

She jerked upright like she’d been hit with a bolt of lightning. Salem meowed in protest, hopping back from the sudden movement.

Her head snapped up.

Her jaw dropped.

And for the first time in her very long life, Agatha Harkness was rendered completely speechless.

Her eyes trailed slowly, painfully, down your body.

From your flushed cheeks, to your soft, bare shoulders, down your chest, where the silk clung like a second skin, to the curve of your waist, the garters on your thighs, the way the stockings shimmered in the firelight.

Her lips parted. “Fuck.”

You stared at her. Unmoving.

Agatha blinked. Tried to recover. “Baby- ”

“Oh,” you said, voice shaking with rage, “don’t you ‘baby’ me.”

She froze.

You stepped forward slowly, heels clicking like a spell being cast. “I’ve been putting up with your little games for days. You’ve been teasing me, taunting me, rubbing that smug little cat in my face like I’m some clingy little afterthought who should be grateful to sleep at the edge of the bed.”

Agatha’s mouth opened. “You know I was just- ”

You raised a hand. “Don’t.”

And she stopped.

You kept walking until you stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, the silk creasing against your skin. “I put on this for you. I let you play your little jealousy game all day. I didn’t bite. I didn’t react. I let you believe you were winning. Because I thought, tonight, you’d finally remember who I am to you.”

Agatha’s throat worked. “You’re everything-”

“And yet,” you cut in, voice low and furious, “I walked out of that bathroom looking like this, and you didn’t even fucking notice I was in the room.”

She flinched.

“I was standing right there,” you said, gesturing to the doorway. “In this, this stupidly fucking expensive set I agonized over for hours, this whole plan I crafted with Jen to make you notice me again, and you were too busy flirting with the fucking cat.”

Salem let out a tiny, uncertain chirp.

You shot him a glare. “Not now.”

Agatha stood slowly. “Darling…”

“No,” you snapped. “Don’t even try. You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to see me like this.”

She crossed to you, hands open like she wanted to kneel. “You’re right. I fucked up. Let me make it right.”

“Oh, now you’re interested?”

“You look… ” her voice dropped, reverent and desperate, “divine. I want to worship you.”

You laughed coldly. “Go play with your cat, Agatha. Because you’re sure as hell not playing with me.”

Her face cracked. It was subtle. The tiniest twitch at the edge of her mouth. A flicker of panic behind her lashes. Her hands trembled just slightly. “You don’t mean that,” she whispered.

You turned to the door. “Watch me.”

Agatha surged forward, just one step but the second she did you spun round rapidly. “Don’t.”

Your voice cut through the room like a blade. “You’ve made your choice every night this week. And tonight? You proved I don’t even register when that cat’s in the room.”

“Baby…”

“No.” You wrapped your robe tightly around you. “I’m not going to beg for your attention. I’m not going to stand here in fucking couture lingerie while you grovel. I’m going to bed.”

She looked wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes wide. Breathing shallow.

“Wait, wait- please,” she said, voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t see you- ”

“No,” you said, and opened the door. “You didn’t.”

You walked out and slammed it shut behind you.

For a second, there was silence.

Then, from behind the door:

“Fuck.”

Pause.

“Salem, I need a minute.”

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x reader #kathryn hahn x reader #kathryn hahn #agatha coven of chaos #agatha x you

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gazstations · 4 months ago

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Come Home, My Darling

PROLOGUE

ᯓᡣ𐭩 CHAPTER SUMMARY

John Price learns what it means to not have all the cards in his hands. He's at his breaking point when he learns information that ruins his day even more.

♡ Chapter Warnings: Descriptions of a corpse???

◇ Notes: It’s here, guys!! I had so much support for this idea, so I'm excited to bring this to you. I hope you guys enjoy 💜

○●○ SERIES MASTERLIST ♡ NEXT

NAVIGATION MASTERLIST

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE RARELY GOT THROWN OFF KILTER. He had varying moments of befuddlement, but he always figured out the best play in the end. Well, the best play for him. Some would say his tactics were rather morally questionable. He just got the job done. If he had to make a bit of a mess, so be it.

The John Price on field was far separate to the John Price off the field. The two met, shook hands, but had a mutual understanding that there were lines that didn't get crossed. Maybe the two would have a drink or two, but at the end of the night, their lives were never meant to intertwine.

The captain was a cold-blooded killer. The crimson red stained his hands until it became a part of his veiny flesh. Just as the heart that beat inside his chest, his victims were tied taunt around his ribcage. It was a necessary evil to cleanse the world. Some feats took sacrifices most civilians wouldn't understand.

John Price was different, though. He was smooth. He carried himself with content that would make those who knew his other half stumble. He was a protector, though not with the steel cold grip of any tactical rifle or melee weapon - though he could introduce that easily if it came down to it. That protector side came from softened gazes and gentle pressing on the spines of those he loved.

John Price off the field was a father, a husband. The world dimmed down to his created family. He wasn't the most important puzzle piece then. His wife and two kids were the earth he revolved around. He was meant to light their way, not smother nor control. He took a backseat in a way that made him truly content.

Before July of 2020, that had been his life. He deposited his baggage at the door and became the man his family needed him to be. He was present, he dropped the cigars to once a day, he rarely had a glass as his bedtime snack, and he never spoke about the demons that went bump in the night.

Then that July, the lines of hell and heaven merged, making him take action he never thought he would have to take.

Witness protection was very rarely a medium that affected him. He had known of plenty of assests that were silently placed within a version of protection, but never had he been personally involved. When the lines crossed and someone threatened his sanctuary, he was quick to jump.

He would've been ruined had there been a different outcome. His heart would've grown a bit more frigid had he lost the ability to hold his babies or kiss the sweet imperfections on his wife's beating body. He thought endlessly what would've happened had Kate Laswell not intercepted vital intel.

It was one of the many times he found himself grateful for the American. She knew how to do her job, proving that he could entrust her with three of the most important people in his life. She wasn't the godmother of his eldest son for nothing.

Someone was out for blood. Someone was itching to mutilate his family to get to him. That shit did not fly with him. Yet, it terrified him all the same. It took a lot of willpower to make the experienced soldier lose his wit, and a shadow in the dark had stabbed their grimy fingers into flesh, hoping to spark bleeding. They bit into food that wasn't theirs, sat at a table not meant for them.

It made John Price see red.

Someone was the reason why he couldn't show his son the art of fishing. Someone was the reason his daughter couldn't make an art piece of his face in glitter - weeks later, he was still shedding iridescent color. Someone was the reason he couldn't slide beneath the warm, plush sheets of his bed and carve himself into the fleshy grooves of his wife.

No, because witness protection meant that his family was hidden even from him. Anyone who could have sacred information beat out of them was kept out of the loop. That meant there were only truly a couple of people who knew where his blessed family lingered.

It was a smart yet stupid plan.

With bitter resentment, he would and could not be the first man on scene should something happen. There was a heaping load of information he was not privy to. He would have to jump through hurdle after hurdle just to get one sliver of detail. It killed him faster than any bullet. Festered into malice and despondence.

You couldn’t clip the wings of a man that thrived off of agency.

For a long time, life was quiet on that end of his life. He assumed-and hoped-you and the kids were making the most of your guarded lifestyle. He had to go dark to protect his little bubble. He never breathed word of it to his team, yet in the confines of his sparse quarters on base, he yearned for sustenance.

He longed to be home in the small cottage he bought when he knew he was ready to settle down. It hadn’t been a true home, though, until you worked your magic. There were throw blankets hanging off the back of the couch in case you got cold, pictures hung along every square inch, the colors all matched, and the whole house was warm and inviting. Now, it had kids’ toys to give proof of existence to the two little ones that blessed the both of you.

But no one had been home for months. For all John knew, squatters had ransaked the place and called sweet dibs. At least he had been smart enough to stash important documents away from his family and house. Anyone with the intent to find would see the bedroom safe empty. John's gun and ammo had been with him when he was off the premises.

There was also the deeply rooted anxiety that one day, when his precious little ones played where they shouldn't. He couldn't fathom one of them wielding a pistol and firing It lethally. The less he brought home as the captain, the better.

But one day, he'd have no choice.

♡◇♡

The room was hot, thin blanket on the shitty bed was thrown askew. John lay on his aching back, mouth parted as snores filled the room. It wasn't a satisfying sleep, but the fact he had been allowed to even close his eyes was a gift.

Task Force 141 had just returned from running an operation for the last 3 weeks. There were purple bruises lining his obliques where he and Gaz took a fall off of a balcony. The rest of his body was marred by small cuts, especially on his thigh, where glass had embedded through his attire. He had iced his lower back before laying down, though the decade old flare-up crept up his spine.

An old dog still trying to pass off as young.

His restless sleep was broken by the chattering of his phone. He snorted slightly as he came to, hand blindly prowling along his nightstand until he found the noise maker.

“Price…” he answered, not even bothering to look at the caller ID.

“John, you available?”

John breathed out through his nose, “Always, Kate.”

While John appreciated Kate as who she was, he didn't always like her presence and what it meant. She was the one with the plans and intel. Having information meant it was usually wheels up in one way or another.

John Price could never catch a fucking break.

“I’m listening.” he uttered as he sat up in bed.

He ran a hand over his face, blinking back the vestiges of his poor slumber. He pulled his phone away for just a moment to look at the time. Way too fucking early. His bones creaked and protested as he was forced into wakefulness yet again. Tongue dry, breath hot, body clammy - John quite honestly felt like hell.

Your hands would usually prod at him when he was like this at home. Your form would slither around him like a boa constrictor as your eyes blinked to find him in the darkness. Wandering hands composed him enough to squeeze you back.

Within minutes, you were clambering out of the bed and going downstairs to make some tea. You cared without wasting the time to ask what he wanted.

He missed that.

“Not on the phone,” Kate’s voice brought him back. “I want to meet with you.”

“Don't reckon you're in the neighborhood, eh?” John remarked, a sigh leaving his lips.

“Have a debriefing room for us. Need you to come now.”

Questions festered in his barely operating mind. Of course she was here. Meant whatever she had to say was pretty fucking important. If he was less of a person, he'd tell her to piss off and reconvene when it was socially acceptable. But Kate was his friend and he knew she was just doing her job, just as he always did.

“Bloody hell, Kate,” He pushed himself to rise. Yeah, his ribs definitely took a good hit. “Alright. Am I bringing the lads?”

“No. Just you and I,” she said.

John raised an eyebrow despite her not being able to see him. He wanted to make some remark, but nothing came to mind. He was definitely crabby. Started when he realized he ran out of whiskey. For the first time in a long time, he went to bed straight away. Even as his mind was still running rampant inside his skull.

“We can work the team into the equation later,” Kate added. “I want this under the table for now.’

“How encouraging,” John muttered as he threw on a t-shirt. “What's the reason?”

“Because I have bad news, John.”

♡◇♡

The room was tense, thick with John's anticipation and Kate's knowledge. John was leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed as he analyzed Kate. She had files in her hand and was sorting them while he waited. That was never a good sign. She had definitely stirred up some of the finer shit just for him.

Kate dropped an open file onto the conference table between them. John's eyes flickered down to scan the contents. His face remained unchanged as he took in the crime scene photos. Nothing too extreme from what he had experienced before, but gnarly all the same.

The man was past the initial death, that much he knew. His body was discolored with purple and greenish hues. It looked like maybe he had been wailed on for hours, but maybe that was just the stage of decomposition the pictures were taken in.

His neck was wide open. Nasty throat cut. Bastard didn't go down peacefully. That was for sure. A close-up picture showed the maggots and ants that had already clustered, eating away what they could. The wound was a festering gash, the neck almost completely cut straight through.

“What am I looking at?” Price deadpanned. He was unamused. Don't be a bloody prick, John. But he was already one step before the fall into complete insanity and so his weak fuze was barely hanging on.

“Henry Ortega,” Kate spoke.

“Poor bloke,” John muttered non committedly.

“This is serious, John,” Kate chastised. She gave him a disapproving stare, the lines of her forehead drawn tight. She was evidently at her wits end, just like they all were. He wasn't special in his weary state.

John sighed. “Right, sorry.”

Kate was one of the only people he let knock him down a peg. He respected her far more than he respected a lot of people. She was smart and poised, a good ally to have.

“Henry was in charge of keeping your family safe,” Kate finally said what had been grinding in the back of her head for hours. She knew it would not go over well. She dreaded it, but she had to be the one to face it.

John's face paled, his mouth forming a thin line. His sleep deprived brain stirred with adrenaline. It ignited every nerve in his body, his posture going rigid. “Say again…” he ordered sternly.

“John…” Kate admittedly didn’t know how to explain this.

“My family, Kate…” John couldn’t finish. He pinched the bridge of his nose and started to pace and shift.

This was an absolute nightmare. His family was compromised. Someone had slipped their way between the cracks of the foundation. It shouldn't have happened. Someone got sloppy, and consequences shone bright.

He was a simple father and husband who feared now. He was the protector. He promised his little girl that everything would be okay. He lied in a lot of ways, he had conned. He always vowed never to let that poison taint the one good thing he had in life. Now, his hands were crimson red, and his heart felt tight.

“This is beyond what we wanted,” Kate tried to reign John back in. She needed his head clear. “We’re talking about a mole. Someone is in the system. This could be catastrophic for multiple factions of our security.”

“Mole…” John said under his breath like that one word was arsenic. He glanced up, fixing Kate with a murderous glint. He scowled, “I'll wring their fucking necks.”

“Keep your head on,” Kate said. “If this is going to be too personal for you…”

John towered over her, glaring down at her. His anger was wafting off of him in smokey fumes now. Kate kept his gaze, not faltering in the slightest. She had the benefit of knowing he wouldn’t hurt her. That is why she planned this so it was just them.

“I'm fine, Kate,” John stated.

"Are you?" Kate questioned.

Get your head together, John. He took a few deep breaths. He had to do this right. The time for ripping heads off and falling apart was for later. He was a captain first in this situation. Couldn't be a father out on the field. Not if he wanted to risk being pulled from whatever op they decided to run.

“Right. So, where's my family?” His throat felt like it was filled with acid when he spoke. His composure was crippled. The man was wounded. In an attempt to protect everything sacred to him, he had unknowingly and potentially signed their death warrant.

If that was the case, he'd be on Death's front porch bargaining in ways he shouldn't. He'd pry open his own ribcage and present the pumping mass of his heart to whatever entity was cruel enough to tease him with possibility. He'd pledge his need to be a sacrifical lamb if it meant his children got to grow up and live fulfilling lives.

When Kate opened her mouth, John learned he didn't quite enjoy the answer.

“Gone. We don't know where.”

#call of duty #call of duty x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #kate laswell #john price #captain price #captain john price

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

#aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen

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homiesexuallaj · 10 months ago

Note

Hey could you please write something where Eric Draven(2024) is best friends with the reader and gets hurt while trying to confront the people who killed Shelley. His healing stops so he goes to his best friend for help and starts crying about everything...

A hurt/comfort basically. Please keep it PLATONIC. Thank you 💜

Pairing: Eric Draven x reader

Genre/Warnings: reader is best friends with Eric, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, stab/knife wounds, bullet holes, needles, stitching of wounds, pain mention, Eric whimpers, Eric gets a little sad and guilty about Shelly, kinda proofread

--- --- ---

It's about half past 3am when a heavy, slightly frantic knocking was heard from the front door of your apartment. You got up, feeling lethargic and off-balance. You yanked an oversized t-shirt from your laundry pile and shucked it over your sleep tank top as you made your way to the doorway. As you approached your front door you had an urge to check out the peephole but decided to open the door without caution.

"Oh thank god," A voice wheezed out.

Heavy boots fell forward and knocked into you, smearing something wet against your arm as they grabbed it.

The first emotion that popped up was disgust and then horror as you backed away and looked at the figure that had stumbled their way into your apartment.

It was Eric Draven. A long-time friend of yours. He was hunched over and bloody. A long, black trenchcoat hung from Eric's shoulders and he lacked a shirt, showing stab wounds and bullet holes, those of which you didn't know whether or not lack bullets. Wounds tore through his tattoos and you couldn't help what Eric was up to since he'd been in rehab, as your two's connection had faltered slightly over the years.

"Eric!" You gasped. "What the hell?!"

In a flurry of movements, you slammed your front door closed and locked both your doorlock and the deadbolt. You moved under Eric's arm and practically dragged his heavy body to your bathroom, leaving bloody footprints behind. It was hard, due to Eric's taller stature and the fact he was barely holding himself up. Soon enough, you plopped the tall man on your toilet seat and leaned down to dig through your lower sink cabinet for your first aid kit. Upon standing back up and facing your friend you could see that he had shed his trenchcoat and was clenching at his side, blood pouring from between his fingers.

From the cabinet behind you and diagonally across from Eric, you grabbed a wash cloth. You wet it and got to work wiping down the injured man, he tensed and whimpered as the rough cloth touched the edges of wounds.

"Eric, what the hell?" You scolded out of mostly concern. "You go to rehab to get better and then you show up at my door all bloody and shit. Like, what happened?!"

" 'm sorry," Eric gave a small cry as you wiped blood away from a particularly large stab wound. "I just. I met a girl and we got out."

"And then what? Decided to go and get yourself killed??" You asked, looking up at Eric.

He avoided eye contact.

"I loved her," Eric mumbled somberly. "And she's dead now."

You raised your eyebrows, urging him to further explain.

"She's dead. It's my fault. I couldn't protect her," Eric seemed to be avoiding giving you details. "I went after the people that killed her and now.."

Eric trailed off and you sighed.

You couldn't believe Eric escaped from rehab and blamed himself for the death of a girl he barely knew. Obviously, the girl was apart of something if someone came after her after they found out she escaped from rehab. You couldn't believe Eric got himself into the middle of that. You were disappointed in him, but happy that he found someone to passionately love, even if that love ended in turmoil.

You threw the cloth into your sink and fished out another from your cabinet. You soaked the new washrag in rubbing alcohol. You dug through your first aid kit for a stitching needle. Once found, you got your stitching thread through the eye and situated. You wiped down the needle with the alcohol-soaked rag.

You looked up at Eric again, "Do you know if you still have bullets in the holes?"

Eric shook his head, "No. They fell out."

"Fell out?" You asked, bewildered.

Eric nodded, wincing at the movement.

You couldn't wrap your head around the possibility of bullets just falling out of wounds. You shook your head, willing away confused and distracted thoughts.

"I have to stitch you up now," You warned your friend.

Eric nodded and gripped onto his pant leg to prepare for the pain.

With slow, precise movements, you dug the surgical needle into Eric's skin. Eric whimpered as you sewed up the knife wound at his side. You decided to start with the worst first and slowly made your way around Eric's abdomen. The bathroom was silent beside Eric's pained whimpers and cries. You felt sorry for him but stitching up your friend was necessary or else he'd bleed out on the tile floor.

Before long you were done. Eric looked pained, pale, and sweaty. He heaved out a breath, releasing his iron grip on his black jeans.

You cleaned up silently. You wrapped up the needle you used and filling the bathroom sink with steaming hot water to soak the ruined washrags in. You stood and fiddled your fingers in front of Eric, thinking of things to say.

"I can..," You trailed off before speaking again. "I can soak your jacket in the tub, if you'd like."

Eric hesitated.

"I'll have it clean by late morning tomorrow," You promised.

"Okay," Eric accepted.

You turned your tub's water, testing it until it matched your body temperature. You plugged the drain and watched the tub fill. You waited until the water was about halfway up the side before submerging the bloody trenchcoat into the water. You let the water fill up a bit more before cutting the water off. You pressed the jacket down more, making sure every part was under the water.

"Thank you," Eric said, watching you as you walked around him and dried your hands on a hand rag, leaving behind a light red stain.

"You're welcome," You replied. "Now, let's get you to bed."

You helped Eric up, urging him to be slow. You helped him hobble to your bed. You helped him lay down, propping up a pillow behind his head and covering him with your blankets. You turned to leave but a hand grabbed your own.

"Are you going to stay with me?" Eric asked, his eyes watery.

"Yes," You nodded. "I'll stay with you. But I'll be right back. I'm getting you something to drink."

Eric nodded and let your hand go.

After a few heartbeats, you came back into your bedroom with a blue raspberry pedialyte with a bendy straw in it. You held it up to Eric's mouth urging him to drink before putting it down on the nightstand. You turned off the lamp on the nightstand, the only light in the room. You crawled up the bed to occupy the other side against your bedroom wall.

Just as you got comfortable, you felt a hand grab your own. It was cold.

"Thank you," Eric mumbled, already sounding half asleep.

"Goodnight Eric," You replied, urging him to sleep.

Eric was silent for a moment, "Goodnight."

--- --- ---

A/N: Requests for Mr. Draven are still open! If you have any ideas that you'd like for me to write then go ahead and drop them in my askboz!!

#the crow #the crow 2024 #eric draven #bill skarsgård #the crow x reader #the crow imagines #eric draven x reader #eric draven imagines #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgård imagines

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optiwashere · 2 months ago

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Rate Your OC: Asheera

I was tagged by @askweisswolf and I've finally had the time to sit down and do this 💜

author's note: I'm trying to envision this from a mix of my POV and Asheera's POV, with a bit of Shadowheart's POV thrown in for good measure.

Compassion: Yes/10. This is, like, one of her most prominent core traits. As a person first and foremost, not even just as a paladin whose oath is redemption. The depth of her compassion is often to her own detriment as well as the ones she loves. She's always going to extend a hand, even for those who stand up to stab her in the back.

Bitterness: 5/10. She has a deep-seated resentment for how she was treated when she was younger. It's still there and it comes out when she talks about some aspects of her youth, but she's managed to temper it. A bit.

Happiness: 6/10. Those who laugh the loudest are sometimes the closest to the darkness within themselves. She puts on a good show and it's often good enough to fool most people. Even herself, at least for a while. This could probably drift down to a 4 tbh.

Chivalry: 8/10. If we define chivalry as its literary/romantic form of almost otherworldly honor and devotion, she has that in spades. Piety is not nearly as high for her, though she does treat Gond with the respect she believes he is owed, so I'm not giving it a 10.

Pride: 6/10. This one's difficult for her. She's not prideful as a warrior or anything, but when it comes to working with her hands (be it as a smith, in woodworking, or other salacious pursuits) it's a different story. So, yes and no. 6 is the perfect spot for her.

Honesty: 7/10. Now, you see a relatively high score here and you think that's a good thing. Well, honesty is not always the best policy. Asheera learns to temper this over the course of her life for work and for pleasure, but she still believes in truth as a noble goal.

Bravery: 8/10. Looking from the outside in, this might be higher. But in her own head, it's probably somewhere around a 4 or 5. So, let's split the difference.

Recklessness: 7/10. She's generally level-headed and capable of keeping things in control, but there are times when this explodes to a 10. Generally involves the people she loves or people she thinks can't defend themselves. Another score we're kinda averaging out between extremes.

Ambition: 2/10. Her ambitions are to retire with Shadowheart. That's lovely and wonderful, but it's not incredibly ambitious in Faerûn. Ranked it at a 2 just because retiring as an adventurer is not the norm, in my mind.

Loyalty: 10/10. Until death, and then again. Over and over until there's nothing left of her.

Love: 9/10. Love makes her make stupid mistakes that could have potentially cost her everything, but it's also something she chases.

Sense of Family: 6/10. Strong family ties, but she's been trying to push out on her own for most of her life. She loves her parents, and they love her, but she can't be tied to them in the way that they would want.

Attractiveness: 10/10. What the hell else was I going to put here?

Agility: 4/10. She's good with her hands and she needs a certain level of coordination to be good with weapons, but she's not, like, fantasy D&D rogue agile. This one is so broad that I'm doing a lot of mental averages again. Let's just put it here and be done with it because there's so many ways you could separate out "agility" into other categories. I don't want to be doing this all day lmao.

Sex Drive: 10/10. Again, I feel like this one speaks for itself. She fucks.

Tagging @arach-tinilith @tief4tief @tacticalgrandma @bonechillen @shadowhaert and anyone else that wants to do this but wasn't tagged :)

#bg3 #bg3 tav #oc: asheera #it's so hard to rate these myself #especially for her in particular

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he-is-lightning-in-a-bottle · 1 month ago

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Tag Game: Scenes I will never forget

Rules: Share 5-10 scenes you can't forget. Not your favourites, the ones that got stuck in your brain for any reason.

Tagged by @my-rose-tinted-glasses - thank you!💜

So when I first saw this game, I thought of all those scenes that are like a punch to the gut --

Like when Gi Tae asked Lee Wan "Have you been well? Without me?" in Our Dating Sim. Or Joke answering "Does it hurt?" with, "Not as much as what you did to us," in Jack and Joker.

But then I thought I should define it as the most rewatched scenes of all my shows. The scenes that crawled inside of my chest and never left again. The scenes that I find myself waiting with bated breath for friends or family to see for the first time so I can watch their brains get rewired in real time. The scenes that are absolutely iconic and unforgettable, that I sometimes rewatch all on their own just to live in the feeling that they gave me.

In no particular order:

Goblin

The end of episode 2 and beginning of episode 3 is THE HOOK y'all. If anyone watches the first couple of episodes and feels ambiguous about the drama, they see this scene and inevitably think, "holy shit." It's epic. It's legendary. It's grabbing you by the throat. (Bonus: it knows it's epic because it's later parodied by the show itself in episode 10!)

Hannibal

To be fair, this entire show is just one epic, unforgettable scene after another. The dialog is so on point and the acting so stellar and the cinematography so stunning! Nevertheless, this scene is THE SCENE for me. This very brilliant Italian police inspector is just acting with so much confidence that Will is on the side of the angels, and this is the moment the penny drops. Will suddenly appears to be... dangerous.

Another Miss Oh

The moment these two snap and go from a knock down drag out physical altercation with bloodied lips into the world's best kdrama first kiss... Well. I feel things. I need to call the fire department because my screen is nothing but flames.

Vincenzo

In his very first scene, our resident pyromaniac cutie tossed his lighter behind him and casually drove away through burning Italian vineyards as if it was another Tuesday (as any true anti hero would). It sets the stage for the whole series. This man means business, and he's not here to play nice or be redeemed. When he gets his revenge, people die.

The Worst of Evil

Look, everyone knows in this house we're suckers for pathetic men covered in blood, but this is... gah. Our baby fought his way through a sea of heavily armed gangsters until his cream colored suit was drenched in blood and all he could smell was blood and there was blood on his literal eyeballs and when asked why -- he. HE. Looked STRAIGHT INTO THE EYES of the man he's clearly come to love with the unbearable weight of all his guilt and the unspeakable enormity of his feelings and says this. While his wife is standing right there. An insane scene for insane people!!! A scene that makes you pause the show and go lie down in a dark bedroom while you hug your pillows for two hours before you can hit play again.

The Glory

There are many ways to say "I love you," but this one beats them all for living in my head rent free. He sees her scars and knows what they mean and is possessed by the unshakable devotion of a man who has finally found religion and immediately says HE'LL DO IT. HE'LL BE HER EXECUTIONER. TELL HIM. OUT OF ALL OF THEM, WHO DOES SHE WANT HIM TO KILL FIRST? Be still my heart! My insane boy who is haunted by his own desire to intimately stab and kill the man who killed his father WANTS TO BE USED BY HER. Is there any scene more wildin' than this one?

No pressure tags to @twig-tea @spicyvampire @bengiyo @lurkingshan @theside-b

@wei-ying-kexing-apologist @pharawee

@absolutebl @telomeke @thisautistic @aousboom @avorbl and anyone else who wants to play.

#tag game

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magic-shop-stories · 5 months ago

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Girl I am still not over your Yoongs Dad Ff. I need Jimin as a dad to wreck me! Please!!! His daughter or son has constant nightmares and refuses to sleep alone. Jimin, being the ultimate softie, stays up all night inventing silly things to help with the nightmares, but when his child finally confesses why she/he is scared (a bully at school), Jimin shares his own childhood fears and teaches to stand up (love yourself etc.)

PS: Can you imagine his child is having an obsession with space?

💌 Reply:

WHERE DO YA'LL GET THOSE AMAZING IDEAS? I LOVE IT SO SO MUCH, (and I obviously didn't spent half the night looking up space stuff *cough).

I hope this is what you wanted 💜💫 And Thank you, THANK YOU SO MUCH

REQUEST NAME:

A Constellation of Light

↳ Jimin x Child!Haneun (Parent/Child); Angst with Comfort, Fluff, Protective Dad

Rating: G (General Audience)

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Family, Slice of Life BTS AU, Parent, Angst with Feelings

Warning: mentions of bullying and childhood night terrors (no graphic descriptions)

Pairing: None (Parent-Child Relationship)

Featuring: Dad!Jimin, Haneun (Jimin’s child), themes of self-acceptance, overcoming fear

Scene 1: The Nightmares

The house was quiet at 2:03 AM, save for the refrigerator’s rhythmic hum and the creak of floorboards groaning under the weight of Jimin’s restless pacing. He sat cross-legged on the living room rug now, fingers stained with fabric glue, surrounded by scraps of silver felt and a battalion of half-finished plush planets. Saturn’s rings lay lopsided on his lap, but his focus was on the smallest one—a tiny Pluto, its heart-shaped surface stitched with clumsy care. Small but mighty he thought, thumb brushing the dwarf planet’s embroidered craters. Just like someone I know.

Haneun’s whimpers still clawed at his ears. Earlier, they’d thrashed so violently that their glow-in-the-dark constellation blanket had pooled on the floor like a fallen galaxy. “Appa, don’t leave! The shadows—they’re gonna eat me again!” Their six-year-old voice had been raw, small fists tangled in his shirt as if he were the only gravity holding them to Earth. Jimin had rocked them until their sobs dissolved into hiccups, murmuring into their sweat-damp hair: "Shhh, Mochi-Star. Appa’s here. The shadows can’t reach you here.” But the guilt lingered like a bruise.

He’d missed the signs. The way Haneun had started tracing their cereal into star shapes at breakfast, whispering “black hole” under their breath. The crayon drawings left crumpled in their backpack—scribbled voids with jagged teeth, a stick-figure astronaut crying in the corner.

Jimin stabbed the needle into Pluto, his throat tight. What kind of father doesn’t notice their child is drowning in the dark?

---

Flashback: Two Weeks Earlier

The first nightmare had been a whisper.

Jimin had been editing choreography videos at the kitchen table, headphones on when a muffled thud pierced the quiet. He’d found Haneun on the floor beside their bed, knees scraped raw from colliding with the bedframe, their NASA rocket nightlight casting long shadows that made their wide eyes gleam like scared moons.

“Appa… there was a monster,” they’d hiccuped, fingers clutching the torn hem of their Apollo 11 pyjama top. Jimin’s stomach dropped at the tremble in their voice—a sound too fragile for a child who’d once declared they’d “punch a meteor” to protect their Bangtan uncles.

“Shh, let’s fix those knees first,” he’d said, carrying them to the bathroom. The antiseptic stung, and Haneun yelped, kicking their legs. “I know, baby, I know. Almost done.” He’d blown softly on the wound, the way his own mother had when he’d skinned his knees practising pirouettes.

“The monster… it had teeth like stage lights,” Haneun whispered, staring at their reflection in the medicine cabinet. “And it said… said I’d never fly away. That I’m too little.”

Jimin’s hands stilled. He’d knelt before them, cupping their tear-streaked face. “Listen to me,” he said, tapping their nose. “Know what Pluto told me once? 'Being small means you’re sneaky enough to slip past the scary stuff.’” He’d gestured to the Pluto plushie slumped on the sink—a gift for Haneun’s 5th birthday, its threadbare fabric proof of how often they dragged it to preschool. “And Mochi-Stars?” He’d pressed a kiss to their forehead. “They’re made of stardust. Monsters can’t eat stardust. It’s too sparkly.”

Haneun giggled, but their smile didn’t reach their eyes.

---

However, the nightmares metastasized.

Haneun began waking up screaming, “black holes!” shrieks shredding the night. Twice, they’d wet the bed, trembling as Jimin stripped the soiled sheets. “I’m s-sorry,” they’d sobbed, hiding their face in the Pluto plush. “The dark… it sucked me in.”

Jimin stopped sleeping. He’d camp outside their door, phone flashlight scanning for shadows, until Haneun started refusing to change out of their astronaut pyjamas. “If I take them off, the spaceship won’t find me,” they argued, knees pulled to their chest during a 3 AM standoff. Their hair stuck up in sleep-mussed tufts, eyes red-rimmed and defiant.

“Baby, you’ll get a rash,” Jimin pleaded, holding out fresh clothes.

“NO!” Haneun kicked the laundry basket, sending socks flying. “The monsters win if I sleep! They said—they said—” Their voice cracked. “They said even Daddy can’t save me!”

Jimin’s breath caught. He’d gathered them up, ignoring the flailing limbs, and carried them to the living room. They’d watched the sunrise together, Haneun’s tears drying salt stains on his shirt, while he silently vowed to build them a fortress of light.

Scene 2: A Fight Against Shadows

By the fifth night, Jimin declared war—not with anger, but with glitter.

He’d spent hours hunched over his laptop, researching constellations until his vision blurred. Orion the Hunter—a warrior. Ursa Major—a guide. Cygnus the Swan—a symbol of transformation. He’d chosen them deliberately, arranging the glow-in-the-dark stars into a celestial army above Haneun’s bed. But it was the addition of Canis Minor, the “Little Dog,” that made his throat tighten. He’d painted its faintest star, Procyon, gold. Loyalty, he thought. A protector for my cub.

“Ready, Mochi-Star?” Jimin hoisted six-year-old Haneun onto his shoulders, their astronaut-patterned socks digging into his collarbone. They gasped as he flicked off the lights, revealing the constellations blazing above them.

“Whoa… It’s like we’re inside the spaceship!” Haneun whispered, their small finger tracing Orion’s belt. The stickers shimmered like distant suns, casting soft cerulean patterns on their Pluto nightlight.

“These stars are your shield,” Jimin said, bouncing them gently. “See Orion’s bow? He’s already shooting the monsters. And Cygnus—” He pointed to the swan’s wingspan. “She’ll carry you out of bad dreams.”

Haneun’s grip tightened on his hair. “But… what if the stars are scared too?”

Jimin’s chest ached. He lowered them to the floor, kneeling so their eyes met. “Even stars get scared. Know what they do?” He reached into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out a chipped spray bottle filled with water, lavender oil, and silver glitter. The lavender was from his mother’s garden in Busan— her remedy for his childhood night terrors. He’d added the glitter himself.

“They shine,” he said, pressing the bottle into Haneun’s hands. The label read GALAXY GUARDIAN REPELLENT in his messy Hangul. “And sometimes… they fight back.”

Haneun’s eyes widened as Jimin aimed the spray at the closet door. “Behold, evil space sludge!” he barked in his best superhero voice, dousing the shadows. “Psh! Taste the sparkles, losers!”

Glitter rained down, catching the starlight. Haneun’s laughter bubbled up, bright and clear—a sound Jimin hadn’t heard in weeks. They scrambled to their feet, spraying wildly. “Die, monster! Pshh-pah-pow!”

But bedtime unraveled the magic.

Haneun froze at the door, their NASA blanket clutched to their chest. The new Jellycat Sun plushie—softer than a cloud, bought after hours of frantic online searching—lay abandoned on the floor.

“Appa… stay,” they pleaded, lower lip wobbling. “The stars… they’re too far away.”

Jimin’s resolve crumbled. He’d sworn he’d teach them to sleep alone again, but the raw fear in their voice undid him. “Shove over, satellite,” he whispered, squeezing into the narrow bed. Haneun immediately burrowed into his side, their cold toes pressing against his ribs.

He hummed Mikrokosmos, voice rasping as he traced the lyrics onto their back. Haneun’s breathing slowed, but Jimin kept singing long after they drifted off, his fingers tangled in their hair.

Scene 3: The Breaking Point

It unraveled on a Tuesday—the kind of afternoon where the sky hung low and gray, threatening rain but never shedding tears. Jimin arrived at the school gates, humming Moonchild under his breath, only to freeze at the sight of Haneun.

They sat alone on the playground’s rocket-shaped slide, knees drawn to their chest, their favorite NASA backpack slumped beside them like a deflated spacesuit. The backpack’s fabric was torn at the strap, its embroidered Pluto patch hanging by a thread. Jimin’s stomach dropped. Haneun had sewn that patch themselves after their first planetarium trip, declaring Pluto “the bravest planet because it dances alone.”

“Hey, Mochi-Star,” Jimin called softly, crouching in front of them. Haneun’s astronaut pyjamas peeked out beneath their jeans—they’d worn them to school again—and their hands clutched something small and fuzzy. The Pluto plushie, Jimin realized. Its left ear was nearly torn off.

“Appa…” Haneun’s voice was a cracked whisper. They thrust a crumpled drawing into his hands: a stick-figure child floating in space, surrounded by scribbled black holes. Scrawled in red crayon across the top were the words “TOO SMALL TO FLY.”

Jimin’s pulse roared. He could smell the sharp tang of antiseptic from Haneun’s scraped knees, and see the faint tremor in their shoulders. “Who did this?” he asked, careful to keep his voice steady.

Haneun’s face crumpled. “J-Junseo,” they hiccuped, burying their face in the plushie. “H-he said… said astronauts aren’t real heroes. That Appa’s just a dancer who… who jumps around like a girl.”

The words struck like a live wire. Suddenly, Jimin was 15 again, pinned against a dance studio mirror as his classmates mocked his “soft” hips and “baby face.” “Pabo,” they’d sneered when he stumbled. “You’ll never make it.” He’d locked himself in a bathroom stall that night, chewing his sleeve to muffle sobs that shook his entire body.

Not my baby. Not this pain.

Jimin gathered Haneun into his arms, their tears seeping through his shirt. He rocked them slowly, counting the rhythm in his head—1, 2, 3, 4, the way he’d counted beats to survive panic attacks before and long after debut. “Listen to me,” he murmured, tilting their chin up. “When I was younger, people said my body was… wrong for dancing. Too small. Too… gentle.”

Haneun blinked, eyes glistening. “But you’re famous now.”

“Because I kept dancing.” He pressed their palm to his chest, letting them feel his heartbeat. “Know what else is small? Pluto. And yet—” He pointed to the planet’s embroidered heart on their backpack. “It’s got its moons. It's very own orbit. Just like you.”

Haneun sniffled, fiddling with the plushie’s torn ear. “But Junseo said… said believing in space is stupid.”

Jimin’s jaw tightened. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the Galaxy Guardian spray—now a permanent fixture on his keychain. “Spray him.”

Haneun gasped. “Appa! I can’t—”

“Not at him. For you.” He uncapped the bottle, spritzing a glittering arc above their heads. “Monsters hate sparkles. So do bullies.”

A tiny giggle escaped Haneun. Jimin seized the moment, sliding off his silver bracelet—a gift engraved with SHINE in constellations. He clasped it around their wrist. “This is made of meteorite. Forged in fire, just like my Mochi-Star.”

Scene 4: The Constellation of Courage

The next morning, Jimin transformed the hallway mirror into a battlefield.

“Okay, Mochi-Star,” he said, kneeling behind Haneun as they glared at their reflection. The repaired Pluto patch on their backpack gleamed with gold thread, and Jimin’s meteorite bracelet hung loose on their tiny wrist. “Show me your satellite stance.”

Haneun squared their shoulders, fists raised like the cartoon astronauts on their socks. “So what if I’m small?!” they shouted, voice bouncing off the walls. “Satellites are small too, and they… they orbit planets!”

Jimin whooped, spinning them around. “Louder! Make the black holes tremble!”

“THEY ORBIT PLANETS!” Haneun screamed, dissolving into giggles as Jimin tossed them onto the couch. He’d spent hours curating a playlist of Bangtan blooper reels of Jungkook slipping on confetti, Yoongi faceplanting during a mic check, and himself tripping mid-air during Butterfly rehearsals.

“See this?” Jimin paused the video, pointing to his 19-year-old self sprawled on the practice room floor. “I cried for an hour after this. Thought I’d never dance again.”

Haneun leaned closer, their nose nearly touching the screen. “But… you got up.”

“We always get up.” He tapped their bracelet, the engraved SHINE catching the light.

That night, the nightmare came again—but this time, Haneun was ready.

The dream began as it always did: suffocating darkness, the air thick and cold like the vacuum of space. Shadowy tendrils slithered from the corners, forming a grinning mouth with jagged, neon teeth—Junseo’s voice echoed from its throat. “Stupid little satellite. Who’d waste fuel to rescue you?”

Haneun froze in their dream, their NASA pyjamas glowing faintly as the black hole yawned wider. But then—a warmth pulsed at their wrist. The meteorite bracelet burned like a tiny sun, illuminating the Galaxy Repellent clutched in their hand.

“NO!” Haneun screamed, spraying glitter straight into the void. “MY APPAS’S A HERO! AND I—I’M A PLUTO GUARDIAN!”

The shadows recoiled, hissing as lavender and glitter fused into stardust. The nightmare splintered, reforming into a new scene: Haneun stood atop Pluto’s heart-shaped glacier, surrounded by Jimin’s glow-in-the-dark constellations. Orion’s arrow pierced the darkness, Cygnus’ wings fanned out behind them, and Procyon—the loyal “Little Dog” star—barked triumphantly at their feet.

“You’re… beautiful,” the black hole stammered, its voice shrinking into a squeak.

Haneun grinned, dousing it one last time. “*And you’re extinct.”

---

Jimin later woke to the sound of laughter.

He’d fallen asleep in the hallway—again—his back against Haneun’s door. But the giggles weren’t from a nightmare. Peeking inside, he found Haneun sprawled on their galaxy-print rug, crayoning furiously.

“Look, Appa!” They waved a paper titled PLUTO’S BRAVEST SATELLITE—a detailed self-portrait in a spacesuit, surrounded by glitter-glue stars. The shadow monsters were now tiny, comical blobs fleeing from a spray bottle.

Jimin’s eyes stung. “Is that… me?” He pointed to a stick figure in dance gear, mid-air beside Cygnus.

“Yep! That’s Appa doing a moonwalk on the swan!” Haneun declared as if this were an astrophysical fact.

He pulled them into a hug, breathing in the lavender-glitter scent clinging to their hair. They’d used the spray without him.

Scene 5: Planetarium Promises

The planetarium hummed like the inside of a starship, its domed ceiling swirling with supernovas and nebulas in hues of violet and gold. Jimin leaned back in his seat, the leather creaking softly, as Haneun’s sneakers kicked excitedly against the footrest. They’d insisted on wearing their astronaut pyjamas beneath a jacket studded with glow-in-the-dark stars—“for cosmic camouflage!”—and the scent of lavender still clung to their collar from a pre-trip spritz of Galaxy Repellent.

“Appa, look!” Haneun whispered, loud enough that the elderly couple two rows ahead turned to smile. They pointed to a cluster of stars morphing into the Canis Minor constellation. “That’s us! See? Procyon’s the brightest—that’s you!”

Jimin’s throat tightened. The projector’s light caught the meteorite bracelet on Haneun’s wrist, its engraved SHINE glinting like a tiny supernova. “And that little star next to it?” He tapped their nose, now dusted with freckles from weeks of defiantly playing outdoors. “That’s my Mochi-Star. Bravest satellite in the galaxy.”

Haneun giggled, snuggling into his side. Their warmth was familiar, a contrast to the planetarium’s cool air. For a moment, Jimin was back in their home, rocking a sobbing child under glow-in-the-dark stars. Now, those stars adorned Haneun’s jacket, sewn on with lopsided stitches they’d insisted on doing themselves.

The narrator’s voice boomed overhead, describing Pluto’s heart-shaped plains. Haneun sat bolt upright. “Appa, they’re talking about my planet!” They dug into their backpack, pulling out a crumpled drawing—Pluto’s Bravest Satellite, now laminated and dotted with glitter. “See? I told the teacher Pluto’s not sad it’s small. It’s… it’s special.”

Jimin’s eyes burned. He’d spent years crafting lyrics about love and pain, but nothing compared to the poetry of his child’s resilience. “Just like you,” he murmured, tucking the drawing back into their bag. His fingers brushed the repaired strap of their NASA backpack, the gold-threaded Pluto patch gleaming. Scars make the stars brighter, he’d told them during the repair. Now, Haneun wore those words like armour.

As the show ended, Haneun yawned, their head drooping onto his shoulder. Outside, dusk had painted the sky in cotton-candy pink. Jimin carried them to the car, their breath soft against his neck.

“Appa?” Haneun mumbled, half-asleep.

“Yeah, baby?”

“…Thanks for being my shield.”

The words unravelled him. He remembered nights spent Googling childhood night terrors, frantic calls to child therapists, and the way Haneun’s screams had carved grooves into his heart. Now, those grooves bloomed with galaxies.

“Always,” he whispered, buckling them into the car seat. Their eyelids fluttered, the glow-in-the-dark stars on their sleeve faintly luminous in the dark.

On the way Jimim thought - you don’t need me to be your shield anymore - watching Haneun’s chest rise and fall in sleep. You’ve built your constellations. His phone buzzed—a reminder for tomorrow’s parent-teacher conference. He smiled. Junseo’s mom had finally agreed to a mediation session, and Haneun had requested to bring the Galaxy Repellent. “For diplomatic reasons,” they’d said, mimicking a phrase Yoongi taught them.

As he drove home, the radio played Mikrokosmos on low. Haneun stirred, their voice drowsy with dreams of stardust. “Appa… next time, let’s go to real space.”

Jimin glanced at the rearview mirror, catching their reflection bathed in passing streetlights. “Deal. But only if you teach me how to moonwalk on Cygnus.”

Haneun’s laughter filled the car, bright and boundless, a sound no shadow could ever swallow.

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writer-in-theory · 1 year ago

Text

you're gonna go far, love — spencer reid.

“I’ve been ready for you to come home for so long that I didn’t think to ask you where you’d gone.” —Noah Kahan (Orange Juice)

Summary: After Spencer relapses, he takes the first flight out of Virginia with no plan other than to get a fresh start. Or, my take on where he was for Evolution. Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn!Reader (not the focus, but it's there) Category: Hurt/Comfort WC: 2k Content Warnings: Discussions of relapse, Mentions of alcohol, Slight spoiler for the ending of Evolution S1 (despite the fact I still haven't finished it myself) Notes: This is for the New Beginnings challenge hosted by @imagining-in-the-margins and based on a prompt from @foxy-eva , so thank you so much to you lovely people. This fic comes 2 years after my last CM fic, and a few months since I've written anything at all, so thank you for the inspiration 💜

Spencer booked the first flight out of Virginia five days after it happened.

The person at the counter may have said the destination, but it floated straight past his ears and was carried far away. Within hours, everything he’d spent the past two decades building was left thirty thousand feet below him.

Emily would be hurt. Everyone would be, as each of them heard the news as they one-by-one came into the office tomorrow. But it would be Emily, who was the first to notice the cracks in his once carefully crafted facade all those years ago, who would feel the most betrayed by his sudden escape.

You should’ve at least said goodbye.

It was what Spencer had been most upset by when Emily had faked her death. After everything they’d been through together, after all of the joy they brought into each others’ incredibly stressful lives, all Spencer had needed was the chance to say goodbye and know that she was out there, somewhere, happy.

Hopefully, she’d understand why he had to leave now, though.

Everyone in the BAU had figured out by now that the Spencer Reid who walked out of prison was not the same as the one who’d first stepped into it. Some piece of him—and even now, he wasn’t sure how large that piece was—had been laid bare and morphed beyond even his own recognition. The loss of that part of him ached in the way that losing a loved one did, that sharp stabbing sort of ache that would appear so suddenly that he didn’t know how to handle it.

There was no way to explain it to the rest of the team, though, no matter how supportive they tried to be. The fact was that none of them had ever nor would ever go through what he exactly had, and for not the first time in his life, Spencer began to feel like a rip current was sweeping him away from the steadiness of shore.

It wasn’t until he was far enough away from shore that he couldn’t see the relief of the sands that his mind recalled that he’d been prescribed painkillers several months prior.

It wasn’t the same as what Tobias Hankel had given him so many years ago, nor was it the alternatives he’d managed to find in the months after, but it was devastatingly similar enough that he’d tried to convince the emergency room doctor not to order it in the first place. ‘Pick it up anyway, just in case. No one can recover from a gunshot wound without pain relief.’

He’d almost flushed the amber bottle’s contents the day he’d gotten them, but the bone-deep feeling that had eased with time but never truly gone away kept him from fully eliminating that option from his life. Why should one thing that had happened to him years ago deny him proper pain relief now, should he need it? So they’d sat untouched, locked away in his gun safe for months.

Until five days ago.

After well over a decade in recovery, Spencer knew this was always a possibility. He’d seen friends go through the same thing and had been there to support them in whatever ways he could because no matter how many times it happened the initial feelings of shock, shame, and overbearing grief could be just as overwhelming as the first.

A day after, when he’d woken up and realized just what had occurred, Spencer had walked himself to the nearest NA meeting. Like he was on auto-pilot, he moved through every piece of advice he had gathered through the years—the stories of success and the stories of forced learning serving as guides to him. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had relapsed (a word that still struck fear in him to even think about), nor would it likely be the last time he was forced to confront this part of his past.

Still, this was the first time Spencer walked out of the building, packed a bag, and made a silent escape from the city he called home. There was something different about this time, though he had no idea where to even begin considering the specifics of why.

He ended up in Cincinnati, Ohio.

In all the years he’d been with the BAU, they’d never once been called there. It was like every other city Spencer had been in in many ways—the buildings towering above him as he walked, the river that bordered the city mirroring the home he’d just left, even down to the FBI headquarters that was quiet now in the middle of the night. Still, he couldn’t help but feel as though it were completely separate from everything he’d known before, because the melancholy Spencer had been sitting in for the last five days had suddenly turned comforting amongst the atmosphere of the city.

He ended up in a bar, of all places. It was the kind that only served nonalcoholic drinks, the kind of place where people like him could sit without feeling outside of the norm. Music was playing softly in the background, and though it was busy there was only a gentle rumble of conversation in the room.

“You’re staring at that glass like it’ll kill you. It’s safe, Scout’s honor.” The teasing voice surprised Spencer out of the careful contemplation he’d fallen into. It came from the bartender, who was busying themselves with wiping down a few glasses, stood just on the other side of the bar in front of him.

“You know, that only works if you were actually a scout,” Spencer returned, though raised the glass to his lips after. It was sweet—a little too sweet by his standards, though it was a comfort now after the week he’d had.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” the bartender said back. They looked comfortable here, like this sober bar were an extension of their own home. At one time, the BAU office had been the same for him. “You look like you could use a friendly face, and that just happens to be my favorite part of the job.”

“Part of the job…?”

“Oh you know, bartenders are the therapists for the lonely, or something like that.” They were comfortable, and more open to an effective stranger than Spencer ever thought possible. It was refreshing in a way, to be able to talk with them without having to worry about what case information he could get out of them. It wasn’t often, anymore, that he could relax and talk to someone just to talk to them. “What brings you to the Queen City?”

“I moved here,” Spencer answered automatically, looking down sheepishly at his glass before adding, “today, actually.”

“Oh, congrats then. New job?”

“More like a new start.”

It was quiet for only a moment before the bartender asked in a softer voice, “How long had it been?”

Spencer almost asked them what they meant, until he met their gaze. They had their full attention on him now, glasses left abandoned on the inner part of the bar. They’d been kind from the start, but the look they gave him now was the sort of pure understanding that made Spencer realize all at once what they were referring to.

“How did you know?”

The bartender sighed, though there was no sadness to it at all. They pulled something from their pocket, sliding it gently across the bar so Spencer could see. A metallic chip was place between them, silver on the outside and filled in with a green-blue color and a “V” engraved in the middle of it. It was different from the ones he’d used, but he recognized the meaning of it all the same.

“I opened this place because the day I relapsed, five years ago now, I’d had nowhere to go after. There wasn’t anywhere people like us could go and relax without having to answer the tough questions, like why I drank orange juice instead of ‘what all the other adults were drinking’. It seemed silly at the time, but I think I was just looking for somewhere I could feel normal.”

“My family were the ones who helped me get sober, and sometimes they still forget and will ask me why I’m not drinking.” Spencer returned the sentiment with a light laugh. He loved everyone in the BAU, and even though it had only been a few days he already missed them terribly, but it was nice to have someone there who understood what he was feeling, what he was going through now.

“Exactly!” The bartender said, following Spencer’s lead and letting out a laugh of their own. “Though I can’t say I ever moved to a new city because of it.”

“It was the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done,” Spencer admitted. “I…really needed a fresh start. I needed somewhere noone knew who I was, somewhere I could get a completely different job and…I don’t know, figure out who I am.”

The bartender nodded. “Sounds about right. This family you left behind, are you gonna go back to them?”

“Eventually. We’ve worked together for so many years. I spent more time with them than I’ve actually ever spent alone, and I think I just need…”

“Something new,” the bartender finished, “I’m starting to catch on. What d’you think you’ll do?”

“I’ve always loved teaching. Maybe that?”

“You know, I have some friends who work at UC. Depending on what you wanted to teach, I could see if they could get you an interview.”

“Just like that?” Spencer asked, wondering only briefly if there was going to be a catch somewhere down the line.

The bartender shrugged. “Why not? I never up and moved cities, but I’m no stranger to new beginnings.”

“I wouldn’t recommend moving cities without thinking it through,” Spencer laughed then. “I have no plan for what comes next.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay, at least?”

Spencer only winced, which he was sure was answer enough for them. He was expecting some kind of sympathetic response, but he never expected the bartender to shrug again and say, “Well, how about I be a little impulsive too. I’ve been looking for a new roommate, why don’t you stay tonight and see how it goes?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure. You seem decent enough not to be some secret axe-murderer or something.”

Oh, the irony.

Spencer didn’t really know this person except for the limited conversation they’d had so far. It would’ve been safer, and probably smarter, for him to just find a hotel room for the night and come up with a plan later. But something was telling him that he should agree, that there was something more to this person that he wanted to get to know.

So not for the first time that day, Spencer trusted his gut and nodded. “Okay, let’s try it.”

It wasn’t a fix for everything. The changes would come slowly, so slowly that sometimes Spencer himself wouldn’t even notice them happening. It would take time to get to a place where Spencer felt okay again, and a large help in that ended up being his new roommate who seemed to just get him in more ways than one. As time went by, Cincinnati truly began to feel like home.

And two years after he’d left, when Spencer turned on the news and saw the BAU standing before a large crowd as they announced they’d finally caught the serial killer behind the shipping container murders, he finally felt the string tugging him back in the direction of Quantico.

His home was there in Cincinnati, with the person who’d become a friend and even more in the last two years and the professor job that he came to love, but Spencer knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that it was time to see his family again, too.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfic #hurt/comfort #angst

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cigarettewritings · 5 months ago

Note

If you are taking writing requests anything Fluffy with Leather from Slashfic. I’m a sucker for that man and he needs so much love and comfort.

Thank you for your consideration! Have a wonderful day! 💜

Slashfic req, leather fluff

You’re the first person who’s ever asked me for a fic, so thank you!! I’ve never tired writing fluff before, but I hope you enjoy this little short story I put together. <3

The door from the camps tool shed creaked as you pushed it. The sun had long been put to rest, along side your fellow camp counselors. Despite wanting to join them, your body betrayed you by keeping your mind running and your eyes open. Lack of sleep aside, you moved to navigate the dark room, stepping across deflated balls and various items that were clearly used for activities by former counselors. You wondered if something could be of entertainment to pass the grueling hours you spent sitting and waiting at the camp for something to happen.

Bending down you squinted your eyes, moving your hand cautiously through the seemingly endless piles of junk until finally, you felt a prick, letting out a small “ouch,” and retreating back to a standing position you held your finger. The wound was nothing more than a small bead of red that only grew when you pushed the area around it, but any concern for it quickly dwindled when you heard a huff from behind you.

Turning around you failed to see anything, this was most likely due to the person who stood before you. Like a halo on an angel, leather stood with the light of the moon cascading around his broad shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” He asked in a silent, gentle voice. Unsure of what to say you held your finger up for him to inspect. As he took it held your digit between his own he moved it to be revealed by the soft glow of the night. “I’m alright.” Your voice was soft as he moved him hand from holding yours to wrapping around your waist. Without words he sat you both down, with you taking position in his lap facing the way you had came.

It was then you noticed his chainsaw played beside you both, discarded. “Were you worried?” The question fell from your lips before you had time to think it.

“I always am.” His voice, still light, was gruff compared to your own. It was comforting in the same way a deer may be comforted by the woods that surrounds it.

“It’s just a prick, I’ll be more careful.” Your attempts to comfort him came at the price of your minor injury giving way to attention as you temporarily focus on its ache.

“A prick today, a gash tomorrow, a stab wound next week.” He holds you closer as he mumbled these words to himself. One hand comes to once again cradle your own.

Gingerly you ask, “Was this an excuse to see me?”

The response you get is content and pleasing to hear, “If it were, would you deny me the privilege?”

“You know I wouldn’t.” With those final words uttered from your lips, your eyelids begin dropping. His warm body brings to you a feeling of peace, calming your mind as his broad frame wraps around you in safety. As you drift off into the land of slumber, you hear a faint voice.

“I know.”

#slash fic #slashfic dorian #leather #fluff #request

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rcmclachlan · 4 months ago

Note

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

Thank you 💜 I've been actively writing in fandom since 2004, so let's keep things to the last 15 years, yeah?

R.C.'s Self-Rec List

Histocompatibility (9-1-1, BuckTommy, 4x05 divergent)

A handsome stranger keeps Buck from going off the deep end on the day he discovers he was a failed homegrown defense system.

Buck gasps a laugh that would probably be at home in the mouth of someone who's been stabbed, and he starts to thank this complete and utter stranger for telling him exactly what he needed to hear, but instead what comes out is... everything. The whole sordid tale falls out of him like an unraveling firehose, pulling longer and longer the more he talks, stretching from the day he first crashed his bike—"But it wasn't my bike, it was his."—to sitting in Maddie's living room mere hours ago and finally learning the truth he'd suspected all along: something had been wrong his whole life and that something was him.

A Twist of the Knife (MDZS, unrequited Nie Mingjue/Lan Xichen, post-canon)

Nie Huaisang discovers a trove of letters his brother never sent.

Part of him wants to carefully rebind Mingjue's exposed, bruised heart and wrap it in calfskin paper, shut it away in the ugly box, and slide it back where he found it. There was a reason his brother never sent those letters, and it feels like disrespect of the worst kind to expose them to a world that allowed a man like Mingjue to die. Another part wants to hone it to an edge and slide it right under Lan Xichen's ribs, push it up until his bleeding heart runs dry around it. He wants to walk through the quiet halls of the Cloud Recesses where he made friends and learned how wonderful and devastating it is to love someone who didn’t even see him, and watch the guttering flame in Lan Xichen's kind eyes blow out when he reads each letter. Huaisang wants to sip that antiseptic Gusu jasmine blend while the fatigued steel of the man he made a weapon shatters under the weight of this revelation. He wants to see Lan Xichen crumble.

Oneiroi (Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, Season 5 divergent)

There is not a dream that Castiel does not know, except this one.

The children pay him no heed, too engrossed in their games of play. Even the globules of light ignore him and instead flock to the grand yet wilted elm tree that stands rather sadly in the center of the park. It is dark. It is night. The world is alight with pulsating whispers and gossamer. There is something odd about all of this. One little angel all dressed in blue Trying to figure out where his human went to But the ground rose up, from which two were born One was made of ivory, the other made of —

like old swords still are trusted best (MCU/DBZ crossover, one-sided SteveTony)

Tony doesn't build the Mark 50 alone.

He blinks, and the heavy shroud over his mind slips off, throwing everything into clear focus. Bulma peers at him, brow knitted with concern, and he wouldn't put it past her to pull the gun back out. But instead of a glock, she presses a palm over where the reactor once sat, like Pep used to do, and slides her hand up to his shoulder. It only takes a twitch to be able to feel the warm weight of it through the armor. "I keep waiting for… I don't know. Something. Making miracles used to feel a lot different before—" Before Nick Fury's bright idea collapsed like Tony's chest cavity in Siberia. "Do you want me to… call someone?" "Fuck no," Tony says with a snort, except it sounds like yes.

Resonant Frequency (Beyond Evil, Han Ju-won/Lee Dong-sik, post-canon)

Lee Dong-sik is an astonishingly good detective. Correction: was. Ju-won wrestles with the reminder.

Three years ago, Ju-won stood in a torrential downpour and looked at this man, who slipped his shoes off and gave them to a stranger in an act of compassion so humbling that Ju-won still thinks about it at least twice a day. He hasn't averted his eyes since. That was probably it. The moment Lee Dong-sik held an umbrella over that lost soul and smiled—that's when he shattered like glass under Ju-won's skin. In the early days, he couldn't understand why Dong-sik seemed to rub him raw from the inside, every movement like agony whenever their eyes met, but now those crystalline shards have buried themselves into his very foundation like mica in concrete, unexpectedly catching sunlight whenever he takes a step.

No pressure tags: @screamlet, @leashybebes, @dadvans, @alchemistc, @firehose118, @beanarie, @liminalmemories21, @setmeatopthepyre

#self recs tag game #bucktommy #destiel #jwds #stevetony #xielan

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absolutebl · 1 year ago

Note

Hi ABL! I was wondering if you have recs for bl couples where a younger seme/top aggressively pursues an older, initially-unwilling uke/bottom?

I realized this trope was my absolute JAM when I fell hard and fast for Wei Zhiyuan x Wei Qian, Sun Boxiang x Lu Zhigang, and Yongjie x Xingsi. Bonus points for age gap, stepbrothers trope or the older uke being endlessly indulgent?

I mainly watch China and Taiwan bls, so I’ll love anything from there. I’ll take recs from other countries too, they might become my first foray into non-mandarin bls

I know this is a somewhat specific request so thank you sm if you manage to come up with anything! I really appreciate all the work you put into this blog ☺️💜

Oooo MY FAVORITE!!!

Hyung Romances! (wrap-up post)

I call these hyung romances because that's like noona romances but gay.

Specifically you said:

younger seme aggressively pursues an older initially-unwilling uke

I am utter TRASH for this! YES PLEASE!

Minato’s Laundromat

Japan 2022 GaGa

AKA Minato Coin Laundry AKA Wash My Heart! AKA Minato Shouji Koin Randorii AKA Minato Shouji Coin Laundry

Younger seme older uke, very clearly yaoi derived dynamic, 10 year age gap. I love this show so much. This is by far the best long running example that really dwells on this trope, Shin is very much the aggressor also very much still a high school kid. Minato is very much NOT.

Old Fashion Cupcake

Japan 2022 Viki & GaGa

Also from Japan, another 10 year gap, and a flipping genius version. This time both parties are older, so there’s less of a stigma around the age gap, but there is stigma about the one being the other’s boss.

This show had me from the moment they broke the egg yolk with the chopsticks in the opening credits for episode one. It’s about a younger man with a long cherished crush on his boss (ten years older and going through a mid life crisis) who decides to save and seduce said man with pancakes. It’s wholesome, comforting, sexy, and a very necessary narrative about still having hope, interests, and openness to affection at any age. It’s coming of age/queerness packaged in a subtle critique of expectations around masculinity and love and loneliness... and it’s beautiful. Full review.

Lovely Writer

Thailand 2021 YouTube

Sib is quite a bit younger than Gene and defines aggressive pursuer. Gene is out of university and established in his career, Sib is still in college.

Thailand criticizes itself and the BL industry while simultaneously giving us classic seme/uke with great chemistry in a one-two punch of “we love it, but are we supposed to? and must we think this hard, yet enjoy it SO MUCH?” This show won’t appeal or make sense to those who don’t already have at least some Thai BL watching experience. What Lovely Writer does, at heart, is reexamine Thai BL has done to queerness, but in a very gentle way that has more to do with Thai BL growing up than any actual queer authenticity. It’s not parody or pastiche, but it is self reflective and trying to correct for some chronic mistakes. Whether it is ultimately successful in this matter is going to depend on the watcher’s relationship to BL and queer identity. But that’s what makes this show beautiful, interesting, and thought provoking. And I, for one, applaud the effort even if I didn’t personally connect to the characters.

Oxygen

Thailand 2020 YouTube

Thailand’s first real stab at this dynamic as a main couple and it so worked for me. There are many who find this BL too slow and wooden, but I loved it.

I think of this as a paragon of Thailand’s softer BL style, since Oxygen uses every BL trope in the playbook for one of the gentlest lowest angst BLs ever made. This one showcases how far Thailand is moving BL from its yaoi roots, and is a prime example of the sweet “new BL” model for which Thailand is the main advocate (Korea is liking it a lot these days too, tho). My first watch along.

SOTUS

Thailand 2016 YouTube

Guess who started this trope in Thailand? Yeah, sometimes I forget too. But they are not just classic sunshine/tsunder but classic younger/older. Just not by much.

This is the BL that launched a hundred BLs. No literally, it was SOTUS’s international success that pretty much built the Thai BL industry into the juggernaut it is today. People have baggage around SOTUS, I have nostalgia. Trigger warning on bully hazing. Review here.

En of Love: Tossera

Thailand 2020 YouTube

Younger boy wants to court older boy and does and… that’s it. No really that’s the WHOLE STORY. There is actually no angst, drama, or, indeed plot. But are they the softest bois ever to BL as a main couple? Yes they are.

*pulp warning*

Private Lessons

Korea 2020 GaGa

A BL short from Strongberry that I love, it's age gap and teacher/student (catnip por moi). The chemistry is slightly off though, but stil I do love this one for the dynamic. Certainly worth watching especially if this is your trope since it's like 8 minutes long and very stylish.

MingKit MarkKit

2 Moons (VERY side dish) YouTube 2 Moons 2 YouTube (major side dish) Gen Y (leads) Gen Y 2 (sides again in LTR)

Thailand’s premier version of this dynamic I just lumped them all into one category. Only in 2 Moons 2 are they played by different actors, otherwise it is all KimCop, and who can complain about that? If you want to watch specifically for this dynamic than go for Gen Y. Trash watch here.

SIDE DISH CORNER

Not Me (DanYok)

DanYok is an age gap, but it isn’t really the point or the plot of their romantic arc

Don’t Say No (LeonPob)

Leon and Pob qualify. That’s all I have to say about that.

HIStory 3: the BL that shall not be named (BoXiang & ZhiGang)

Also appear in HIStory 4: Close to You

The side characters in H3:MODC (and cameos in H4) BoXiang & ZhiGang have a huge age gap, 12 years, and it is a big deal for their relationship. When they start out BoXiang is a desperate himbo high school kid and ZhiGang is a small business owner. BoXiang’s friends tease him more for his lust over such a much older man than for being gay.

Bonus on this one, there is some very high (and it's Taiwan so) very well done heat. That said, the main couple will, in fact, wreck your psyche for life. Proceed with caution.

THE THAI PULPS

You’re My Sky (SanAei)

Side could (and only good part of this show) SanAei are a classic uni age gap pairing. San is a bit of a spoiled rich kid jock who identifies the older nerd character as HIS and is just like, MINE. That’s MY elder gay.

Brothers (KhunKaow)

This is not a good show, but side couple Khun & Kaow are great in it. Khun is in university and Kaow has a small baking business.

Top Secret Together and Love By Chance both have sub plots of high school boys pursuing college ones, but the one didn’t go anywhere and the other went very very bad, so yeah… no. Although I would personally LOVE to see this done well.

BONUS POINTS ROUND

Stepbrothers trope

HIStory 4: Close to You (sides)

YongJie is quite a bit younger than XingSi, not sure on the specifics but he’s in middle school when XingSi is in high school and still in college when XingSi has his own business.

Addicted has the stepbrothers trope but not the age gap.

Older uke being endlessly indulgent

Future

Thailand 2023 YouTube

Based on a y-novel by Faddest (En of Love) about an engineering student and a dentist (shocker). This is just a soft sweet cotton candy fluff piece about a younger boy who pursues an older boy and then manufactures silly gay drama. Nothing wrong with that. But I don’t think this style of BL really appeals to a very large market share. Will I rewatch it? Sure. Will anyone else? Nope.

If you want your endlessly indulgent older gay, this is the you crack, they made if for you.

*pulp warning*

Manner of Death

Thailand 2021 WeTV

It’s not really relevant to the story, but Tan is younger. Not only that, he’s Bun’s friends younger brother. Bun is very indulgent, but in a grown up way.

I like MoD a lot but I’m conflicted over it being actual BL. It’s a great gay romantic suspense, although the mystery element is its weakness. MaxTul, the Kings of chemistry, are, of course, perfect and perfectly cast, but their romance thread is more a distraction than an addition. Still, I could watch them make-out the phonebook. Watch along here.

Seven Days

Japan 2015 grey

AKA Seven Days: Monday-Thursday AND Seven Days: Friday-Sunday Japan

Seryou kinda counts as the pursuer, but the dynamic is very very weak in this one. Still the way he asks to use Yuzuru’s first name (so CHEEKY) and the way he says “senpai” in SUCH a cute way makes me so happy. And Yuzuru is NOTHING is not indulgent, it kinda defines his character. I mean he just LETS him call him by his FIRST name... right away.

Never doubt my ability to recommend this show. One of the best live action yaois ever made, with perfectly structured angst, fantastic characters and acting, and no problematic tropes (rare in Japanese BL). The leads have excellent chemistry although it’s low heat there’s still some really cute mutual kisses.

Just Taiwan

HIStory 2: Crossing the Line

2018 Viki

Seme uke is VERY weak with this one but the younger character is certainly the pursuer. It’s SO GOOD.

Lin Pei Yu directs this is a sports romance (volleyball) with a good boy/bad boy pairing, and mu favorite of the HIStory franchise. There is no clear seme/uke. Ostensibly it's high school set but Taiwan doesn't care about age appropriate actors. It's a very soft sweet romance with some ridiculously easily overcome conflict. There's great kisses but it's medium heat. The side dishes are the stepbrother trope but they’re very tame, and there’s no other triggers. It's not just my favorite of the franchise, it’s one of my favorite BLs with a perfect happy ending.

Kiseki: Dear to Me

2023 Gaga

The mains are a major age gap, but I always forget because they def don't look it. Also, Taiwan, so very weak seme/uke. Still there is age gap, he's in high school and our gangster is out of college and in the workplace.

The plot is totally ridiculous and slightly unhinged, but that’s normal for Taiwan. It involves all the tropes under a very casual framework of gay mafia gangs + food = love. Absolutely every character is queer. There’s a gum-ball machine of cameos, elder gay rep, great chemistry from all pairs, and a KILLER side couple. As a result Kiseki is a poster child for Taiwanese BL, and I happen to love Taiwanese BL. Bonus? They also managed to END IT WELL, which we cannot expect from Taiwan.

(Triggers for knife play, child abuse, lingering trauma.)

Unknown

2024 YouTube

Unknown is a wonderful BL with a pitch perfect portrayal of long term pining, age gap, and the stepbrothers trope. The acting and chemistry are ON POINT (especially from the leads) which made the resulting characters very believable. When it dwells in intimate family drama, it's stunning. It's slightly less successful when it leaves the home and goes gritty. Still, those are mere quibbles. This is an excellent show, one of Taiwan' s best.

As you see above I mostly had to take you to Japan and Thailand for this one. Considering your preferences try Japan first, it's closer in DNA to Taiwanese stuff, but it won't go as high heat. If you want the heat, you'll need to try the Thai stuff (or the ones from Taiwan you haven't seen). I would start with Lovely Writer.

Okay I think I have given you enough and, unless I miss my guess, I may have tempted you to try some Japanese BL.

Comes to the weirder (and weird hair) side. We have pancakes.

Yeah I think you should watch Old Fashion Cupcake.

EVERYONE SHOULD WATCH OLD FASHION CUPCAKE!!!

(source)

This post dated May 2024, not responsible for hyungs that sling after that date.

#bl with age gap #bl stepbrothers trope #bl younger guy pursues older guy #japanese bl #Minato’s Laundromat #old fashion cupcake #lovely writer #oxygen the series #That Bl #sotus #en of love #private lessons #strongberry #koeran bl #Manner of Death #future the series #seven days #HIStory 2: Crossing the Line #unknown the series

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theballadofharkness · 3 months ago

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Agatha Harkness VS Salem: The Kittening, A Cat-astrophe

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem! Reader

Word Count: 9.3K

Warnings: major smut warning so MDNI xo

A/N: would love to continue this series so any suggestions would be great, my asks are open loves 💜🪻xo

Agatha Harkness had lived a long, long life.

She had fought monsters, burned kingdoms, seduced queens, and crushed men under her heel for fun. But none of it prepared her for the agony of lying in her own bed. Alone. The pillow beside her was cold. The sheets were untouched.

Salem had retreated to his sunbed in the corner, mercifully quiet for once, like even he knew she’d gone too far. Agatha stared up at the ceiling in silence, heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

She wasn’t used to silence in this bed.

Not since you’d moved in.

Usually, the room was full of soft sounds, your voice humming while brushing your teeth, your bare feet padding across the wood; the faint rustle of your robe as you climbed in beside her, curling into her side like you belonged there. Which you did. You always had. And she had fucked it.

Agatha groaned into her pillow.

Because it wasn’t just that she hadn’t seen you. It was that she hadn’t looked. You’d stood there in the doorway wearing the most sinfully beautiful thing she’d ever seen. That silk, the deep red of wine and ruin, had draped your body like it was poured just for you. The lace kissed your thighs, wrapped around your hips, framed your breasts like an altar.

You had looked like a goddess.

Like her goddess.

And she was on the fucking floor playing with a cat.

Her fingers curled around the sheets like she could tear time backwards.

The image of you in that lingerie was carved into her mind. It would haunt her forever. Because it wasn’t just that she hadn’t seen you. It was that she hadn’t looked. You’d stood there in the doorway wearing the most sinfully beautiful thing she’d ever seen. That silk, the deep red of wine and ruin, had draped your body like it was poured just for you. The lace kissed your thighs, wrapped around your hips, framed your breasts like an altar.

You looked like a goddess.

Like her goddess.

And she was on the fucking floor playing with a cat.

Agatha flipped over, burying her face in her hands with a groan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” She was such a fucking idiot.

She rolled onto her side, clutching your pillow, the faintest trace of your perfume still clinging to it and it felt like punishment. Because she remembered everything. She remembered how you used to blush if she began to talk filthy. How you’d stammer the first time she said, “Take your shirt off for me, babygirl.” You’d been shy. Fragile. Sweet. And she had taken her time, coaxed you open like a spell, praised your body like a temple, held your face in her hands and said, “You’re so beautiful when you beg.”

And now?

Now you had walked out of the bathroom like a goddess on a warpath, draped in silk and vengeance. You had dressed up for her. You had tried to seduce her.

And instead of throwing you on the bed and tearing that lingerie off with her teeth, she had let you walk out of the room without a single fucking touch.

Agatha squeezed her eyes shut, fists tightening against the mattress, her thighs clenching with nothing to hold.

God, if she had looked…

Her hands curled into fists against the sheets. She would have walked to you, slow, reverent. Would’ve dropped to her knees and worshipped you. She would’ve kissed every inch of skin exposed by that silk, starting at your ankles, up your thighs, her mouth warm and wet and full of apology.

She would’ve laid you on the bed and taken her time unfastening every ribbon with trembling fingers, whispering praises into the softness of your stomach, your breasts, your throat. She would have touched you so slowly, so thoroughly, until you were shaking beneath her, until all you could say was her name in that wrecked, desperate voice she loved.

Then she’d kneel. Put your legs over her shoulders and devour you. Long, slow licks, hands pinning your thighs wide while you moaned for her. Her name on your tongue like a prayer. She wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t let you up. Would lap at you like it was punishment and you’d take it, writhing, soaked, breathless.

You’d come once, and she wouldn’t stop.

You’d sob her name again, and she’d purr, “That’s right, sweetheart. One more.”

You’d be trembling, leaking onto the sheets, voice shaking, and she’d crawl up your body like a shadow and whisper, “You’re mine.”

But instead?

Instead she’d let a fucking cat distract her.

And now? You were in the guest room. Still wearing that set, probably. Still beautiful. Still furious. And not hers tonight. Her hips shifted under the sheet again, a pang of heat curling low in her stomach.

But she didn’t touch herself. Couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right. Not without you moaning under her. Not without your little gasp when she pressed two fingers inside you and said, “Come for me, pretty thing. That’s it.”

No.

She didn’t get to have that. She didn’t get to pretend. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched, chest tight.

“Fucking idiot,” she whispered to herself.

Because this wasn’t just missing sex. This was missing you. Your soft smile. The way you giggled when she kissed your nose. The way you clung to her in your sleep. The way you looked when you trusted her.

But tonight?

She’d made you feel undesirable. She’d made the only woman who had ever looked at her with pure, reverent love feel like she wasn’t enough. Because she wanted to win a game she should’ve never started.

Agatha covered her face with her hands. Her voice was a muffled growl against the pillow. “Okay. Tomorrow. We fix this.” She took a deep breath. “Big apology. Flowers. Jewelry. A spell circle made of chocolate if I have to.”

Another pause. “And no more smug cat bullshit. Fuck’s sake.”

She stared at the empty side of the bed again. You weren’t there. You should’ve been there. Under her. Around her. “Gods, baby,” she whispered. “I should be fucking you right now.”

She groaned, long and guttural, into her pillow, writhing with nothing to touch. Then sat up, hair a wild mess, robe half off, breasts flushed from heat she couldn’t burn off.

“Right,” she muttered. “Harkness. You blew it. Time to beg like a bitch.”

~ Across the hall ~

You lay curled on your side in the spare room, robe drawn tight over your lingerie, phone clutched in your hands like a lifeline.

Your cheeks were still flushed. Not from arousal anymore but from rage. Your stomach was in knots and she hadn’t even looked up. You had walked out in the most beautiful set of lingerie you’d ever worn in your life, and Agatha hadn’t even fucking glanced.

You stared at your phone, heart thudding, and finally typed a message to Jen:

<Jen: OH HELL NO.>

<Jen: No no no. She did not ignore that lingerie.>

<Jen: You were supposed to destroy her.>

<Jen: Two words.>

<Jen: Sex. Ban.>

You blinked.

<Jen: Don’t let her near you.>

<Jen: None of it. No touching. No kissing. No cuddling. No fingers, no mouth, no fucking forehead kisses.>

<Jen: She wants affection? She can get it from the cat.>

<Jen: GOOD.>

<Jen: She was mean first.>

<Jen: You wore silk for her and she played with the cat instead like you didn’t even exist.>

You buried your face in your pillow and let out a strangled noise. You hated how right she was. The more you thought about it, the more the embarrassment faded and fury took its place.

You had prepared for tonight. You had spent hours shopping, trying, dressing, getting the courage to wear something that made you feel so exposed and powerful. And for once, you wanted to take control. Show her what she meant to you. Make her need you.

But she didn’t even see you.

You exhaled before responding to Jen

<Jen: YESSS.>

<Jen: Be cold. Be hot. Be terrifying.>

<Jen: You’re the one holding the power. Make her beg.>

You laughed, just a little, and rolled onto your back. Your hand ran across the soft silk of your lingerie beneath the robe. Agatha didn’t get to have it tonight. And maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not for days.

She could kiss Salem goodnight.

You?

You were off-limits.

Agatha woke up in a cold sweat.

It was early, far too early for someone like her who considered noon an appropriate hour for spellwork and sin, but her eyes snapped open like a curse had been triggered. Because the bed was still empty. Still cold. And you were still gone.

She sat up fast, the sheet sliding down her chest, hair wild, pillow lines creasing her cheek. She looked at the empty pillow beside her like it had personally offended her.

“Fuck,” she muttered, already scrambling out of bed.

She needed to fix this.

She needed to fix it now.

She wrapped her robe around herself like armor and padded barefoot into the kitchen, heart pounding.

Okay. Okay.

Breakfast. Sweet witches love breakfast. She’d make your favorite. Tea. Toast. That fruit you liked. Maybe eggs. Did she have eggs? Did she remember how to cook eggs?

Her hands flew open the cabinets, muttering to herself like she was reciting a binding spell. “Where’s the honey? Do we own honey? Do witches eat honey?”

She yanked open the fridge and muttered, “Okay. We have… eggs. Probably fine. Bread. Slightly out of date but it’ll toast fine. Strawberries. Yes. She loves strawberries. Good. That’s romantic.”

The teapot screeched a little louder than necessary. Agatha swore and yanked it off the flame, sloshing boiling water onto her hand. “Mother fuck-”

She shook it off, stuck her burned fingers into a glass of cold water, and turned to the spellbook perched open on the counter like a smug witness.

“Shut up,” she muttered. “I know I’m panicking.”

Salem hopped onto the table and gave her a lazy blink.

Agatha glared at him. “Don’t start.”

He meowed.

“You were the problem.”

He meowed again, sassier this time.

She sighed. “Okay, we were the problem.”

She returned to the breakfast, flinging her magic into little tasks, strawberries sliced with a flick of her wrist, toast flipping itself mid-air, eggs scrambling with a shimmering spell that kind of smelled like rosemary instead of sulfur.

She poured your tea herself, carefully, and arranged it all on a tray like she was going into battle. Toast. Eggs. Strawberries in a heart shape. Tea. Little honey pot. Sprig of mint. Cute napkin. Cute knife.

The works.

She stood back and stared at the tray.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “You’re gonna walk in there. She’s still mad. That’s fine. You’ll be charming. You’ll apologize. She’ll get flustered. You’ll kiss her forehead. She’ll melt. Everything will be okay again.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

The house was quiet as she made her way down the hall, tray floating in front of her like a peace offering on silk.

The spare room door was closed.

She paused outside it, heart thudding, and knocked gently with one hand while the tray hovered beside her.

“Baby?”

Silence.

She knocked again. “Darling? I, um… I brought you breakfast.”

Still nothing.

She reached for the handle, whispering, “C’mon, pretty girl…”

And it didn’t turn.

Her brow furrowed. She tried again. Locked.

Agatha blinked. She knocked louder. “Honey?”

Nothing.

She stepped back, stunned. Salem meowed from the hallway, hopping up to sit beside her, looking vaguely smug again.

“She locked the door,” Agatha said aloud, staring at it like it had betrayed her. “She locked me out.”

She looked at Salem, eyes wide. “I don’t get locked out.”

He meowed.

“She locked me out?!”

She stepped forward, knocking again but this time a little faster. “Baby? Sweetheart? It’s me. I brought you food. And an apology. A long one. With, like, big words.”

Still nothing.

“Okay, fine, I’ll go through it with you later,” she said quickly, the panic creeping back in. “But just let me see you, yeah? Please?”

She leaned her forehead against the door, exhaling shakily. “Please, baby. I didn’t sleep. I feel like shit. I just want to see your face.”

A pause.

Still nothing.

And Agatha- powerful, ancient, chaotic Agatha- whispered,“…She’s punishing me.”

She straightened up slowly, eyes wide, as the reality of it hit her.

You weren’t just mad. You weren’t just hurt. But withholding. You hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t hexed her. Hadn’t thrown things. You’d just locked the door. And suddenly? She would’ve preferred the hex.

The knock came again, this time softer. “Baby?”

You didn’t answer.

You stayed curled on your side, robe still drawn tightly over that same stunning lingerie from last night. You hadn’t changed out of it. You didn’t want to. Let it cling to you like a symbol of what she could’ve had.

You heard her exhale against the door. “I made you breakfast. Please let me in. I just… I want to talk.”

Another pause. You stayed silent a moment longer, letting her sit in it. Feel it.

Then, finally with a flick of your wrist the latch unlocked and softly you whispered, “It’s unlocked.”

You heard her inhale. Then the door creaked open.

Agatha stood in the frame like she was crossing a battlefield. Hair a wild mess. Robe slipping off her shoulder. One strap of her silk nightgown twisted and falling. Her eyes were wrecked. Tired. Apologetic. Hopeful. She looked like a woman who’d spent all night fantasizing about crawling back into your arms and knew she didn’t deserve it.

The tray floated ahead of her, toast, eggs, strawberries, tea, and she set it gently on your lap, kneeling beside the bed with her hands folded like she was afraid to touch you. “I… tried,” she said. “No magic. Well, a little magic. The toast kind of caught fire and then I overcompensated and it turned into brioche, but… ” she trailed off.

You didn’t say anything. You picked up a strawberry. Bit into it.

Agatha stared at your mouth like it might forgive her. After a moment, she added, more softly, “And the tea is the one you like. With the little lemon zest spell.”

You nodded.

Another silence.

She sat on the edge of the bed, very carefully, as if she thought the weight might spook you.

You didn’t tell her to leave. That was something.

She watched you eat in silence for a few minutes, eyes flitting over your robe, your bare legs beneath the tray, the lace garter peeking from underneath.

Her breath caught slightly. You knew she was thinking about it. You knew exactly what image haunted her.

Good.

You reached for your tea, and she finally spoke again.

“Baby,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer.

“Really. I know I was wrong. I took it too far. I thought I was being funny, but… I made you feel like I didn’t want you.”

You sipped your tea.

“I always want you,” she added, voice low, rough. “Every second of every day. You know that, right?”

Still, you didn’t say anything.

Agatha hesitated.

Then she leaned in. Kissed your shoulder, bare where your robe had slipped, soft, warm, her lips trembling just slightly. “Mommy’s sorry,” she murmured. “Let me make it up to you, babygirl.”

You closed your eyes and focused on her voice. Her words. It hurt how much you wanted to forgive her.

She kissed along your shoulder, to your neck, slow and reverent.

You stayed still.

Her hand slid to your thigh, just under the edge of the tray, stroking the garter strap. Her mouth pressed under your ear.

“I should’ve dropped to my knees last night,” she whispered. “You looked so beautiful, baby. So proud. You were mine. I should’ve, fuck, I should’ve worshipped you.”

You felt her hand rise to your chest, fingers brushing over the silk, cupping you gently.

“I missed you,” she said, voice thick. “I missed your pretty moans. Your perfect little sounds. Let Mommy hear them tonight, yeah?”

Her thumb brushed your nipple.

You let out the faintest sound.

You felt her smirk.

But then…

“Meow.” Salem’s voice cut through the moment like a dagger.

You froze.

Agatha didn’t move, looking at you like a hunter with prey that might bolt any second.

You opened your eyes.

He meowed again, from the hallway, sharp and casual, like What’s going on in there?

You shoved the tray off your lap, carefully, not angrily, and sat up fast.

Agatha blinked, confused. “Wait, what?”

You stood. Tightened your robe. Fixed your hair.

Her eyes followed you like she couldn’t process what was happening.

You turned toward the door. “I’m going to wash the dishes.”

She blinked again. “You- you what?”

You looked at her, calm and cold. “You heard me.”

“Baby, wait, come back. Please- ” Her hand reached for you. “You want this. I felt you. You’re- ”

“I was letting you touch me,” you said, voice quiet but sharp. “And then I remembered who got more kisses from you this week than I did.”

Agatha paled.

You turned the doorknob.

“Maybe you should spend the day with the cat.”

She gasped. “Baby no-”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why not? Seems like you think he’s better company than your own wife.”

She winced like you’d slapped her.

You walked out. The sound of your footsteps down the hall was the only thing she could hear over her own internal screaming.

Salem meowed again.

She stared at him, stunned.

Then whispered, “…I am in hell.”

Agatha Harkness was unraveling.

And the coven could feel it.

It wasn’t the magic. That was steady if not a little more volatile than usual. No, it was something deeper. Older. Something that made her pacing sharper, her spellwork snappier, her signature elegance fractured at the edges.

She sat on the edge of the velvet chair like it might betray her. Legs crossed too tightly, one hand clawed around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. Her jaw worked soundlessly as she stared across the room at you kneeling sweetly at the center of the circle, arranging herbs into bundles, your hair loose around your shoulders, sweater falling off one side just enough to show the strap of your slip underneath.

You were glowing. Peaceful. Soft-spoken.

And untouchable.

The tension had been building all week. And now, on day five of your soft, sweet, weaponized denial, Agatha was coming undone.

You slept beside her each night in silence, your arm brushing hers, your breath warm on her shoulder. And that was all. No thigh pressed between your legs. No slow kisses beneath the covers.

No gasping “Aggie please?” as she slid her fingers between your thighs.

Just sleep.

And now? Now you were running the weekly coven meeting like the picture of grace, passing Jen a fresh cinnamon stick and offering Lilia her favorite blend of tea.

Agatha didn’t say a word. She couldn’t. She was too busy aching.

Jen watched it happen like she was tracking a storm. She’d been eyeing Agatha for ten minutes now, watching the way her fingers twitched when you brushed past her, the way her lips parted like she might whisper your name, then snapped closed again like she couldn’t afford to let it out.

Billy finally leaned in beside her, whispering, “She’s doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That like haunted, strung-out, ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake’ thing.”

Jen tilted her head. “You mean the ‘she hasn’t come in five days’ thing?”

Billy nearly choked on his tea.

Alice looked over from across the circle, brows lifting. “Wait what?!”

“Don’t look at me,” Billy whispered. “I didn’t know either.”

Lilia raised one hand, not looking up from her crystal. “It’s obvious.”

Alice frowned. “But I thought the Salem jealousy thing was over?”

“Oh, it is,” Jen said, smirking. “This is something new.”

Across the room, Agatha stared at the unlit candles like they’d personally betrayed her. She hadn’t blinked in over a minute.

When you stood and stretched looking soft, warm, and radiant in that knitted sweater and silk beneath Agatha’s eyes flicked to your thighs like a prayer about to be answered.

You smiled and said, “I’m just going to check on Señor Scratchy upstairs, he got into the potting soil again this morning.”

Then you were gone.

And Agatha?

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for an hour.

The moment the door closed, Jen set her teacup down with a soft clink. She leaned forward. “Well.”

Agatha didn’t move, just kept staring at the empty space where you’d been.

Billy raised a hand. “I’m just gonna ask. Is everything… okay?”

Agatha’s lips twitched. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“She really hasn’t touched you in five days, huh?” Jen asked calmly.

Agatha’s eyes snapped to hers. “Excuse me?”

Jen grinned. “Oh honey. I know. I suggested it.”

Alice’s jaw dropped. “Wait what?”

Jen turned to the others, hands spread like a showman revealing the final trick.

“She’s sleeping next to her wife every night. Soft. Sweet. Smelling like sex and herbs and not giving her a single thing.”

Agatha stood up. Too fast. Her chair scraped backward with a screech.

Billy blinked. “Wait, are you actually on a sex ban?”

Lilia didn’t flinch. “Of course she is.”

Alice’s mouth dropped open. “What the hell did you do?”

Jen was practically vibrating with smugness now. “She called the cat her baby. While her actual wife stood there. In lingerie. Trying to seduce her.”

Billy gasped. “She didn’t.”

Agatha threw up her hands. “I didn’t see her!”

Jen snorted. “Oh, you saw the cat just fine.”

Alice winced. “Wow.”

Agatha spun, pacing now. “It was one stupid moment. I was stupid. I should’ve looked up. I should’ve-”

“Dropped to your knees and begged?” Jen offered.

Agatha glared. “Yes.”

Billy laughed nervously. “So wait… she’s not mad?”

“No,” Agatha groaned. “She’s polite. That’s the worst part.”

“She’s punishing you,” Lilia said.

“She’s starving me,” Agatha whispered. “She kissed me on the cheek and said ‘sleep well’ while wearing lace and suspenders. And then she slept.”

Alice looked horrified.

Jen looked delighted. “She’s edging you emotionally,” Jen said, grinning. “It’s brilliant.”

“I’m losing my mind.” Agatha stopped pacing. “Last night I dreamed she touched my thigh and I woke up moaning.”

Billy coughed. “God.”

“I keep following her around like a puppy. She made toast in her nightgown and I nearly passed out.”

“She’s winning,” Jen said. “Let her.”

“I can’t. I’m a shell of a woman.”

They all looked up as the door creaked open again.

You stepped in, smiling, the faint scent of rosewater clinging to your skin. “All fine upstairs,” you said cheerfully. “Should we start again?”

Agatha blinked at you like she was seeing an angel who used to let her eat her out on the sofa.

Jen took a long, slow sip of her tea.

Agatha didn’t say a word. She just sat back down. And tried not to cry.

It was after the coven meeting was coming to a close that Agatha cornered the architect of the personal hell she was living in.

“Tell me what to do.” She looked at the potions witch with a pleading look that screamed desperation. “Tell me what to do and I’ll buy £100 worth of your skincare. And a Jade Egg for old times sake.”

“Wear something sinful.” Jen’s voice was casual, like she was suggesting a new nail color. But the effect on Agatha was instant.

Her brow twitched. “Excuse me?”

Jen rolled her eyes. “You heard me. Lingerie. Lace. Corset. Something that says I’m sorry I called the cat my baby and ignored your tits for 30 minutes.”

Agatha scoffed. “I don’t need… I usually don’t have to try.”

Jen gave her the slowest, most unimpressed head turn in the history of witchcraft. “Wow. Okay. Mrs. Harkness. My apologies.”

Agatha raised a brow. “I’m just saying—when I look at her like I want to eat her, she usually melts.”

Jen threw her hands up. “Then why are we on day five of The Great Wifely Drought, Agatha?”

Agatha exhaled. “Fair.”

“Exactly.” Jen smirked. “So. Go home. Put on something devastating. And for the love of Hecate, mean it. No teasing. No smugness. Just… ruin her. Worship her.” And with that, she turned and left.

Agatha stood there in the hallway, the silence rushing in behind her.

Wear something sinful. She rolled her eyes to herself as if she didn’t have drawers full of sin.

But still… Something flickered in her chest. A memory. A very specific one. The purple set.Dark as plum wine. Lace and satin and thin silk straps, delicate enough to be decadent, structured enough to crush. It was the kind of lingerie made for slow undressing. It cinched her waist, framed her chest like an offering, hugged the swell of her hips with high-cut reverence.

She hadn’t worn it since your wedding night.

Gods her lips parted just remembering it.

You’d been so nervous, soft, radiant, lit up with shy excitement. She’d watched you peel off your dress with shaking fingers, your lashes fluttering as you stepped out of it for her, your voice a breathless whisper when you said, “You’re so beautiful it hurts.”

And then? She had walked out of the bathroom in that set and your jaw had dropped. You’d literally staggered back a step, mouth parting like prayer.

She’d crawled into the bed, slow and deliberate, and asked “Do you want me to ruin my new bride?”

You’d whimpered. “Please.”

She remembered every second. How she’d pinned you down with just her gaze. How her fingers hadn’t stopped shaking as she touched you, slow and worshipful, whispering “Mine” every time you moaned. How she’d eaten you for what felt like hours till her jaw ached, licking through your orgasm and beyond, until you were gasping, limp, crying softly from overstimulation, too wrecked to form words. And when she’d finally pulled you into her arms, kissed your forehead, rocked you through the aftershocks?

You’d whispered the softest little, “Thank you, Aggie.”

She’d never forgotten it. Her knees nearly buckled at the memory.

Okay, Harkness, she thought. It’s time.

She turned on her heel, her robe fluttering behind her like a cape. She had a drawer to dig through.

A wife to win back.

And a legacy to reclaim.

The moment she heard the water running upstairs, Agatha moved like a woman possessed.

You’d giggled softly when she suggested it, “a bath? What’s the occasion?”

And she had smiled, kissed your temple, and whispered, “Just wanted to treat my baby.”

You’d softened instantly, soaking in that rare tenderness, unaware that the moment the door closed behind you, your wife was already halfway down the stairs with a spellbook under her arm and a plan.

Because tonight wasn’t about apology.

It was about devotion.

She flicked her wrist, the bedroom door slamming open with a burst of candle-scented air. She tossed her robe to the floor and yanked open her vanity drawers, hands trembling with urgency as she dug for the set.

That deep plum corset. Black lace. Satin panels. Boning that shaped her waist into a wicked curve and hugged her hips like temptation. She hadn’t worn it since your wedding night. The night she’d reduced you to nothing but tears and grateful moans and soft little “thank you, Mommy” gasps against her throat.

She remembered the way your legs had shaken. How you’d begged for her to stop while your hips kept rocking into her face.

And tonight?

She wanted that again.

No.

She needed it.

She laced herself in tight. So tight her ribs ached. Good. She deserved to suffer for you. Deserved to feel it with every breath.

She lit every candle in the room. Changed the sheets. Burned your favorite incense—clove and amber and something darker underneath. The salt circle she carved at the foot of the bed glowed with purple runes, each one etched with words she couldn’t bring herself to say aloud—forgiveness, devotion, mine.

The bedroom looked like a temple.

No- an altar.

Candles lined every surface, flickering low and golden, casting soft shadows across the black silk sheets. There was incense burning, her rarest blend, the one she saved for Beltane and forgiveness. The room smelled like smoke and clove and something faintly floral, just enough to make your breath catch when you walked in.

At the foot of the bed, a glowing spell circle hummed in soft lavender and wine-colored light, carved into the floor with chalk, salt, and runes of devotion. Not power. Not dominance.

Reverence.

This was no seduction.

It was an offering.

And Agatha? She was standing in the center of it, barefoot, her corset in one hand, her magic swirling around her in low pulses like a storm held back by sheer will. She looked like a fallen goddess on the edge of madness.

Which, of course, she was.

She was trembling but not with nerves. With intention. You were upstairs in the bath. And when you came down? She wanted you to walk into this room and feel how much she meant it.

Not with flowers.

Not with breakfast.

But with her body. Her magic. Her hunger, tempered only by worship.

She ran her fingers over the silk corset, eyes distant. Her skin tingled with memory, the way your eyes had gone glassy on your wedding night, the way you’d clung to her wrists and thanked her through broken sobs.

You’d be in nothing soon. Spread out for her like a sacrament.

But only if she got this exactly right.

She flicked her fingers, adjusting the lighting spell. The shadows shifted. Yes. Softer. She wanted the light to catch the edge of your body when you walked in and glow.

She turned back to her dresser.

And that’s when she heard it.

Clatter.

She froze, slowing turning her head. And there, on the vanity, was Salem.

Paw raised.

Eyes gleaming.

Whiskers twitching with menace. A delicate crystal perfume bottle wobbled at the edge of the dresser.

Agatha’s eye twitched. “Don’t you dare.”

Salem blinked.

Then pushed it off.

Shatter.

Agatha inhaled slowly through her nose. “Salem.”

He meowed.

“You little bastard.”

He knocked off another bottle.

Agatha lunged.

He hissed.

And she hissed back. Fangs bared. Teeth flashing. Shoulders squared like she was about to duel him for the honor of her marriage.

Salem froze. His tail puffed. Then, with a dramatic flick of his ears, he scampered off the dresser and disappeared under the bed.

Agatha straightened, muttering, “Touch anything else and I’ll enchant your fur off.”

She turned back to the mirror, took a deep breath, and ran a hand through her hair.

Her eyes found her reflection. Dark. Focused. Lips blood red. Skin glowing. Chest rising and falling with every breath of anticipation. She was ready for you. And this time?

She wasn’t going to miss a thing.

She adjusted her corset. Smoothed her thighs. Slipped on her heels.

Then?

She dropped to her knees.

At the center of the circle, hands on her thighs, eyes lowered.

A villain in offering.

~ Upstairs ~

You soaked, soft and oblivious, until the water cooled and your skin smelled like rose oil and magic.

When you padded down the stairs in your robe, still towel-drying your hair, you expected something quiet. Maybe wine. A guilty wife holding a glass of pinot and an apology.

You didn’t expect the door to your shared bedroom to be cracked open.

You didn’t expect candlelight. Or the scent of sex-magic and clove curling into the hallway like a hand around your throat.

You stepped inside and froze.

The room was glowing.

Silk sheets. Candles flickering low. Incense wafting through the air like an invocation.

And in the middle of a glowing purple spell circle was Agatha. Kneeling. Back arched. Thighs spread. Corset laced so tight her tits nearly spilled out. Her lips painted, eyes lowered, trembling.

You swallowed hard.

Her voice was soft. “Hi, babygirl.”

“What is this?”

She looked up slowly.

And fuck. Those eyes. All stormclouds and want. Her hands curled in her lap like she was afraid to reach. “This,” she whispered, “is me begging for my wife.”

You said nothing, just stared at your wife in front of you.

She licked her lips. “Can I touch you?”

You tilted your head, your resolve slipping fast. “W-why would I let you do that?”

Agatha exhaled shakily. “Because I need it. Because I’ve spent five days thinking about how I made you feel like you weren’t enough. And you are. You’re everything, baby.”

You stepped closer.

She moaned softly. “Let me touch you,” she begged. “Let me kiss your stomach. Your thighs. Let me eat your sweet little pussy until you’re crying, baby.”

You bit your lip. “You think you deserve that?”

She whimpered. “I think I don’t. But I need it anyway. I know I fucked upI ignored you. I let my stupid pride, my jealousy, come between us. I forgot how lucky I am. How fucking blessed I am to be yours.”

You stepped into the circle. Her breath caught.

“Take off your robe,” she whispered. “Please, I’ve missed you. Missed your skin. Missed your scent. Missed those little sounds you make when I get my tongue just right- ”

You undid the knot slowly. Let the robe fall.

She choked. “Oh fuck,” she breathed. “Look at you. My gorgeous girl. My wife. Fuck, baby come sit on my face, let me earn you.”

You knelt on the bed, slowly, legs spread.

You didn’t speak.

You let her suffer.

Agatha crawled forward like a predator trying to act soft and gentle.

She kissed your knees. Your thighs. And then looked up, her voice raw. “Will you let me eat your cunt, baby? Will you let me make it up to you with my mouth?”

You gave a tiny nod.

She didn’t wait. She slid between your legs and moaned when her tongue met your folds. Licked slow, then flat, then fast…

You cried out. “Oh gods- Agatha!”

She hummed, mouth greedy, hands firm on your thighs as she licked you open. Deep, filthy, endless.

“Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted,” she groaned. “This pussy’s mine, baby. Say it.”

You gasped, hips rocking.

“Say it,” she growled.

“It’s yours, Agatha, I’m yours- ”

She groaned like she’d come just from hearing it.

Her fingers slipped between your folds, spreading you open gently, reverently, like you were a spell she had to read with her mouth. Then her fingers slid in. Two. Perfectly curved. Fucking you slow and deep while her tongue worked your clit like a spell.

You shattered, crying out, hips bucking. Sobbing, legs shaking, voice wrecked. But Agatha didn’t stop. Not even when you tried to pull away. Not even when you begged for mercy.

She held you down with her mouth and praised you between licks. “You’re so good. So beautiful. So fucking perfect, my sweet little wife.”

You whimpered.

Agatha sped up. Not hard. Not brutal. Just intentional. Steady. Relentless.

“I know your body better than anyone,” she growled. “I know what makes you cry, what makes you come, what makes you lose it. And I’m gonna give you all of it.”

Your moans were getting louder.

Your thighs shaking.

You felt the edge rushing up fast.

And Agatha knew.

She could feel your cunt fluttering around her fingers, and she fucking loved it.

“Oh, she’s close,” she crooned. “My baby’s gonna cum. You gonna make a mess for me, sweetheart?”

You nodded, crying out. “Yes, fuck- I’m gonna- ”

“Cum,” she commanded. “Now. Do it for me, baby.”

And you shattered.

Your vision blurred.

Your body seized. You sobbed as you came around her fingers, and she just kept fucking you through it.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl. Fuck, you’re so gorgeous when you cum. Look at that pretty pussy soaking me.”

Your eyes rolled back. And still, her fingers moved. Curling. Pressing. Punishing. You didn’t even feel the second orgasm coming until it exploded. Your hands flew to the sheets, gripping hard as your body arched your hips off the bed, thighs clenched, and Agatha groaned, pushing deeper.

Your whole body locked, and then released with a high-pitched cry as you squirted all over her hand, your thighs trembling violently.

Agatha moaned like she’d come herself. “Fuck yes,” she growled. “There she is. That’s my good girl.”

She licked your slick off her fingers like it was cream.

Then crawled up your body, straddling your waist, breath ragged. “Feeling good baby?” she whispered.

Your body collapsed back against the bed, limp and trembling, chest heaving as tears ran down your cheeks. You blinked at her, dazed and destroyed.

Agatha crawled back up your body, kissed your cheeks, your temples, your mouth.

“You did so good,” she whispered. “So perfect. So fucking beautiful.”

Her hands were gentle now. Stroking. Soothing. Worshipping. She pulled you into her lap, cradled you close, kissed your forehead.

“I love you,” she murmured. “I’m yours. I’ll never forget that again.”

You were still shaking. Still dazed. But you managed to whisper, soft and broken, “Agatha…”

“Yes, baby?”

“I forgive you.”

Agatha buried her face in your neck, her voice breaking. And held you. For a long, long time. When she finally let you come down, she curled up beside you, kissing your hair, whispering promises against your skin. “I’m never choosing anything over you again. Not a spell. Not a cat. Nothing.”

You curled into her, breathless and whispered, “I love you Agatha .”

Her heart broke and mended all in one beat. “Can’t believe I let anything come between us,” she whispered. “You were trying to give yourself to me, and I looked away. Never again, baby. You hear me? You’re never gonna have to beg again.”

You clung to her as she kissed your hair, whispering over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m never choosing anything over you again. You’re everything to me. Everything.”

Her whole body was flush against yours, warm and trembling, her corset pressing into your ribs as she held you. “You’re perfect,” she murmured. “My perfect girl. My angel. You take everything so good. So fucking good for me.”

Her voice was wrecked, lips brushing your ear like prayer. “I love you so much,” she whispered. “I never wanted to make you feel unwanted. I swear to the gods, baby. I’d cut off my own hands before I ever ignore you like that again.”

Your fingers curled weakly into her arm.

And that’s when she broke. The words tumbled out in a shaking whisper, so soft you barely caught them. “Baby…”

You blinked, turning your head just enough to see her face. She was looking down at you, pupils blown, lips swollen and wet. Her hand had finally stilled inside you, but she hadn’t pulled away. She was just… holding you.

Her voice cracked. “Please touch me.”

You blinked again.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know I don’t deserve it. I know I was awful. I know I hurt you. But it’s been so long, baby. It’s been too fucking long…”

Her breath hitched.

“I feel like I’m going insane. I wake up hard and aching and empty. I hear your voice and I want to drop to my knees. You kissed my forehead and I nearly came from it.”

Your lips parted. “Aggie…”

She shook her head, fast.

“I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t. But, please. Please, babygirl. Touch me. Just a little. Let me feel your hands on me. Your mouth. I’ll take anything. Let me come for you.”

Your heart clenched.

Because she meant it.

All of it.

Her hand slipped from between your thighs and she collapsed beside you, panting, blinking fast as if holding back tears.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I missed you so much. And now you’re here and I just… I want you to own me again too. Please.”

You reached for her, you hand cupped her jaw and pulled her into a kiss.

She whimpered into your mouth like it hurt.

“Take off your corset,” you whispered.

She gasped. “Y-Yes. Yes- baby, thank you-”

She sat up fast, hands trembling as she untied the ribbons, breasts spilling free as she peeled it off and tossed it to the floor. Her nipples were already hard, chest rising and falling like she’d just run through a storm.

You pushed her back onto the bed and crawled between her thighs.

She choked on her breath. “Oh fuck- ”

“Shhh,” you murmured, dragging your mouth down her neck. “You’ve waited so long, haven’t you?”

“Yes-yes-” she gasped.

You kissed her lips harder, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her in.

She moaned against your mouth like it had been weeks, like your kiss was the only thing keeping her alive. Her body was tense beneath yours, curved, flushed, mouth slick and red.

She always took control.

Always.

Even when she let you ride her face, she was the one in control.

Her mouth, her rhythm, her rules.

But right now? Right now, she was trembling.

Your lips broke from hers, breath catching as you kissed down her throat, biting lightly at her collarbone. She arched up against you, hips bucking, tits pressed to your chest, hands gripping the sheets like she was drowning.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Oh fuck- baby- ”

You kissed between her breasts, licking softly, letting your fingers trail down her trembling stomach. Her muscles jumped beneath your mouth.

She looked down at you, eyes wild, lips parted. “Please,” she whispered. “Please touch me, need you, baby- fuck, please… ”

Your hands spread her thighs.

Her pussy was soaked. Dripping, twitching and desperate. Your tongue dragged slowly between her folds.

She screamed. “Yes- oh my god-”

You licked her again,slow and flat, and she arched so hard her head slammed back into the pillows.

“Oh my god, baby- don’t stop, don’t fucking stop- ”

You smiled against her. Started eating her in slow, wet circles, your tongue focused on her clit as your fingers slid in, tight, hot, perfect.

She nearly sobbed. “Fuck you’re so good- so fucking good-”

You pumped your fingers slow at first, deep, curling, feeling her walls clench around you. And then? You pulled back your mouth.

She gasped, “N-no, NO-”

You grinned up at her. “You said it’s been too long,” you whispered. “You can wait a little longer.”

“Fuck you,” she growled, her eyes blown, jaw slack, hips bucking.

You licked her slowly, teasing now.Light pressure. Just enough to make her lose it.

“Please,” she panted. “Please, baby, I’ll do anything, I’ll buy you twenty more kittens, just fucking… please let me cum-”

You slid your fingers deeper and sucked her clit into your mouth.

She shattered. Her entire body spasmed, cunt pulsing around your fingers as she screamed, raw and broken and feral.

But you didn’t stop.

You kept fucking her.

Kept licking, moaning into her, praising her between every thrust of your fingers.

She was crying. Full-body sobs, breath stuttering, hands reaching for you as you held her tighter, “you did so good,” you whispered. “Love you so much baby.”

When Agatha finally caught her breath she kissed your forehead. Soft. Reverent. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” you breathed.

She smiled. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

You kissed her. “Shut up, you’re still in thin ice.”

She laughed, wrecked and in love. And when you fell asleep on top of her, still bare and flushed, Agatha held you like she’d never let you go again.

The sun rose slowly.

Gentle rays filtered through the curtains, casting soft amber light across your tangled sheets and the mop of dark curls currently buried in your chest.

Agatha was dead asleep. Or pretending to be.

Her arms were wrapped around you like vines, her leg still thrown possessively over your hips, her breathing deep and even and brushing just below your collarbone. You’d tried to move once, just once, to reach for the blanket that had slipped off the bed.

A mistake.

Agatha had growled, tugged you closer, and whispered, “No leaving. Ever.”

Now you lay there, smiling at the ceiling, running lazy fingers through her hair.

She purred. Actually purred. A low, satisfied sound deep in her chest that made your heart squeeze. After everything, after the fight, the teasing, the begging… she was finally soft again. No walls. No pretense. Just yours.

You pressed a kiss to her hair. She stirred with a sleepy little sound, then slowly tilted her face up toward yours.

“Hi,” she rasped, voice thick and raw.

“Hi,” you whispered back.

Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, lashes dark and fluttering, lips swollen. “What time is it?”

“Too early.”

“Then why are you awake?”

You smiled. “Because someone keeps clinging to me like a possessive octopus.”

Agatha grinned without shame. “You like it.”

“Maybe.”

She kissed your bare shoulder. Then your neck. Then your cheek.

You melted. Again. “Tea,” you murmured, eyelids fluttering. “I want tea.”

She nuzzled your neck. “So go make some.”

You snorted. “You’re literally on top of me.”

Agatha hummed. “Correct.”

“Baby…”

“Don’t care.”

You sighed, lips twitching.

“Ugh. Fine,” she groaned dramatically, lifting her head just enough to wave her fingers flitting through purple smoke toward the door, followed by a distant clatter in the kitchen, then a faint hiss. The unmistakable whistle of a kettle heating itself.

You blinked at her. “You could’ve done that this whole time?”

She smirked, unapologetic. “You think I was about to leave this bed when I have this in my arms?” She pulled you even tighter. “I worked hard to get back in here. I’m not risking it for a mug.”

You laughed, heart full.

Then…. “Mrrrp.”

Both your heads turned. At the foot of the bed, halfway between a loaf and a dramatic sprawl, sat Salem. His tail flicked. His ears perked. His eyes locked on yours.

“Mrrrp.”

Agatha groaned. “Oh, for the love of…”

Salem stood up, trotted down the mattress with all the elegance of a tiny overlord, and plopped himself directly on top of your legs.

Agatha narrowed her eyes. “You just have to be involved, don’t you?”

You cooed softly and reached down to stroke behind his ears. “He missed us.”

“He missed you.”

Salem meowed again and reached a paw toward Agatha’s thigh.

She recoiled. “I gave you a collar with gemstone wards and an enchanted litter box. You’ve had enough.”

You giggled, still petting him.

Agatha shifted her attention back to you, kissing your nose. “He’s never going to let us be alone again, is he?”

“Nope.”

She sighed dramatically, then curled herself around you again, head resting against your chest. “Fine. Let him lay with us. I’m still not letting go.”

From the kitchen, the kettle let out a high, magical chime. You didn’t move. Neither did she.

And Salem? He purred contentedly between you both.

It was the kind of late summer day that made everything feel suspended in time.

The air was warm but not heavy, the breeze just enough to rustle your skirt and carry the scent of kettle corn and brewed iced tea between rows of mismatched vendor tents. The flea market stretched across the grass just outside Westview, a patchwork of awnings, handmade signs, and laughing locals.

You were in a flowy white dress, worn-in sandals, sunglasses pushed into your hair. Agatha was beside you in soft black linen, loose curls spilling from a lazy braid, arms bare, sunglasses low on her nose like she was about to interrogate someone for trespassing on ancient burial grounds.

And she was holding your hand. Which she refused to let go of. Even when she complained. “This can’t possibly be safe,” she muttered, dodging a child holding a corn dog and a slingshot. “Half these charms are totally made up, that one has a binding circle drawn in sharpie. Darling, I could cry-”

You squeezed her fingers. “You are being so dramatic right now.”

“I am being realistic.”

“You are being a big lesbian baby in linen.”

Agatha sniffed. “I am a witch of ancient power.”

“You also almost just bought a cinnamon pretzel. I saw the way you looked at it.”

She looked away. “It looked crunchy.”

You giggled.

She glanced down at you, lips twitching. “You’re lucky you’re adorable.”

“Why do you think I dressed like a fairy from a 90s cartoon?”

She raised your joined hands to her lips and kissed your knuckles. “I would set fire to every stall here if one of them looked at you too long.”

You beamed. “Romantic.”

“Unhinged,” she corrected. “And fully committed.”

You wandered like that for almost an hour, hand in hand, sipping lemonade and iced tea, browsing battered hardcover books, vintage brooches, little bundles of herbs wrapped in ribbon.

At one point, you tried on a silk scarf from a basket of dollar scraps, and Agatha groaned like she was in pain.

“Take it off.”

“But it’s cute!”

“It’s cursed.”

“It’s floral!”

“So is poison hemlock. Take. It. Off.”

You burst out laughing and tossed the scarf back into the bin.

The whole time, she didn’t stop touching you. A hand on your lower back. A thumb stroking your wrist. A kiss to your cheek as you held up a pressed flower frame.

And you were glowing. She could feel it in the way your magic brushed against hers in soft, fluttering pulses. Calm. Safe. Loved.

You turned a corner, grinning, dragging her toward a booth with vintage vinyl records and little sun-catchers shaped like moons.

Agatha adjusted her sunglasses and let herself be pulled along. “You’re very lucky I find you devastating.”

“Mmhm.” You smirked, humming under your breath as you reached for a chipped crystal wine glass.

Every few steps, she brushed her fingers across your wrist or linked your pinkies tighter. Her black linen skirt whispered along the pavement, her silver rings catching the sunlight as she held up old books and muttered at the prices.

“Ten dollars for this? It’s not even bound in human skin,” she said flatly, flipping open a battered occult paperback.

You laughed and leaned into her side. “Your standards are weird.”

“My standards are correct.”

You kissed her cheek. She grinned. All teeth. Looked like trouble. You loved her so much you could’ve burst.

She bought you a little moonstone you’d been eyeing. Whispered a spell into it before she dropped it in your palm. “For clarity. And charm. You know. In case I’m ever too flustered to talk.”

You laughed. “You’re never flustered.”

She raised a brow. “Look in the mirror when you smile, sweetheart. Then we’ll talk.”

Your stomach fluttered.

This was the rhythm now. Cozy, soft. After the Salem chaos, the jealousy, the begging, this was a new groove. Peaceful. Intimate.

The two of you were finally a family. You had your house. Your cat. Your rabbit. Your coven.

Agatha was happy. Smug, even.

And that’s when she heard it.

“Mew”

You stopped.

Agatha noticed the shift in your hand immediately. “No.”

Your head tilted. You scanned the vendors. Tilted your ear.

Waited.

“Mew”

There. Behind the booth with the wind chimes.

Agatha’s voice sharpened like a blade. “No.”

But you were already slipping from her grasp, weaving through the crowd, clutching your lemonade like a woman on a mission.

“Y/N… baby… darling… my wife… ”

“Mew”

You dropped to your knees behind the booth, eyes wide, breath caught. And there, tucked beneath a folding chair, half-hiding behind a crate of dusty mason jars…

A kitten.

Tiny. Dusty. Gray with soft white paws and the biggest blue eyes you’d ever seen.

You gasped like someone had punched you in the chest. “Oh my god.”

The kitten looked at you, blinked slow, and let out another soft, pathetic mewl.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered, already reaching out. “What happened, huh? Are you lost?”

A shadow fell over you.

Agatha.

Standing behind you like the ghost of kitten jealousy’s past.

You looked up at her with eyes as wide as the kitten’s. “Aggie…”

“No.”

“But look at it.”

“I am. I’m looking. And I’m saying no.”

“It’s tiny.”

“It’s a trap.”

“It’s a baby!”

“It’s a curse in a fur coat!”

You scooped the kitten gently into your arms. It immediately nuzzled under your chin and let out the softest, weakest purr you’d ever felt in your life.

Agatha groaned like she’d been stabbed. “Baby. You said… you said only one kitten.”

“I said one Salem. This one’s not even named yet. It doesn’t count.”

“You’re not seriously- you’re not… oh my gods, you’re falling in love with it.”

You stood slowly, cradling the kitten like it was a newborn. You were glowing.

Agatha was crumbling.

You looked at her with wide, earnest eyes. “Can we keep it?”

“Absolutely not.”

The kitten sneezed.

Agatha flinched. “Oh my gods, it’s sick,” she gasped. “It’s got some kind of kitten plague- what if it spreads to Señor Scratchy? What if it gets on the rugs? What if it has some kind of pox-”

You kissed the kitten’s tiny head.

And Agatha groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “No. No, you can’t do this again. I just got you back. I just got our bed back. I made tea with magic to keep snuggling you. I let Salem into my life. That was the deal.”

The kitten meowed again.

You rocked it gently. “But its so tiny, Aggie. It doesn’t even have a name.”

“No! No naming it- naming it gives it power-”

“Agatha.” You looked at her with the full force of your soft, unhinged, green-witch gaze. And whispered, “it doesn’t have anyone…”

Agatha froze. Visibly. And then- “…fuck.”

You smiled.

Agatha stared at the sky like she was begging the ancient ones for patience. “Fine. But you’re the one who has to explain this to Salem.”

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