#when witching goes wrong
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When Witching Goes Wrong: Basics
Not all spells that go wrong are “backfires.” A backfire occurs when a spell’s result is antithetical to the result you wanted to cause — it causes a negative outcome, often coming back onto you as the caster, but sometimes creating the opposite effect as was desired on the target. For example, casting a money attraction spell and losing a wallet full of cash as a result would be considered a backfire. A spell that fizzles, does nothing, or produces an unexpected (but not negative) side-effect wouldn’t be a backfire (in my opinion, that is).
Most spells that go wrong aren’t backfires. In general, you’re likelier to have a spell that acts unexpectedly or that simply fizzles than one that blows up in your face somehow. You shouldn’t be anxious about a backfire. But, as someone with lots of experience in the realm of worrying about worst-case scenarios, I understand the impulse.
The solution is to understand what can go wrong, how to prevent it, and what to do in the event of an actual worst-case scenario. My goal with this post (and with this WWGW series) is to help you feel less anxious about spells going wrong and more prepared to deal with whatever comes your way.
So, let’s start from the beginning.
Outcome Projection
Risk assessment, mitigation, and management. Fellow corporate drones (former or current) will know exactly what I’m talking about here. The idea is to predict possible ways that things can go wrong and either prevent them entirely or put strategies in place to deal with them ahead of time. It’s damage control before the damage occurs.
Now, the key here is to not go overboard. Fellow chronic worriers will know the horrible allure of going down every possible path of anxiety, only to find ourselves paralyzed entirely by the fear that something will go wrong. Remember that most spells do not backfire. In most cases, the worst thing (and most common negative outcome, in my experience) that can happen is that nothing happens. The next most common is unexpected side effects, but those are usually easily dealt with.
The goal is to ensure the success of the spell. For example, when you’re looking for a new place to live, you don’t want to just look for the number of bedrooms and the finishes in the kitchen. You want to account for the appliances, the heating/cooling systems, the quality of the flooring, signs of water damage, signs of mold… all sorts of things.
A similar concept applies to accounting for backfires/failures in spellwork. You want to close loopholes and think about the outcomes you specifically don’t want — and then incorporate ways to prevent those things from happening.
The Ways Spells Can Go Wrong
The spell fully backfires. By “fully backfires,” I mean that it completely fails and creates the exact opposite outcome to what you were going for. Using a love spell as an example, this could include the target leaving your life, forming negative opinions of you, or becomes interested in someone else (particularly if you were trying to pull attention from that someone else onto yourself).
The spell is bounced back to you. This is more unusual than you think! I often see the warning about spells being redirected back at the caster in arguments against hexing and cursing others. I’ve had exactly one spell reversed back at me, and it was because the target was 1. A witch, and 2. Expecting it.
The spell’s primary result is unexpected. Not necessarily bad, just not what you meant to do. For example, casting a spell to get a promotion at work and discovering that your close friend is getting a promotion instead.
The spell has unexpected side effects. Like casting a spell for good luck on yourself and having everyone around you experience good luck, too. Or casting a spell that successfully improves your workplace’s vibe, only to find out that the mean coworker nobody likes finally got fired, and that’s why everyone is more relaxed and cheerful. Or, more negatively, you do get that promotion you cast for, but now you’re saddled with more work than you can handle, because your bosses think you’re highly capable of it all!
The spell does absolutely nothing. Perhaps one of the more common ways a spell can go wrong, this is exactly what it says on the tin. You put the energy in, you did all the steps, but the spell just… doesn’t go anywhere. In other words, it fizzles and simply doesn’t work at all.
As with most topics in witchcraft, there’s an infinite amount of nuance to apply here. There are more ways spells can go wrong, and not all of these things would necessarily be considered “going wrong.”
It may be worth deducing why the spell went wrong. Was it the materials? The petition or incantation? A lack of energy, or maybe an overabundance? Spirit influence? Protections surrounding the target? Knowing what exactly went wrong can help you prevent the same issues in the future, but it can also help you to better fix the spell in the moment.
Preventatives
The particulars are going to depend heavily on your personal practice, the type of spell you’re doing, and how detailed you want to get. These suggestions are based on things I personally take into account when I’m trying to close loopholes and prevent unwanted outcomes.
Be specific in your wording. Especially if your spell has any kind of spoken or written component, be as specific as you can. “Draw money to me” is a general sentiment that could absolutely work, but what money is it bringing in? A bonus at work? A dollar on the street? A gift from grandma? Inheritance? It could be anything at that point. “Draw good, repeat customers to my small business to help me reach my profit goal of $10,000 before the end of the year” is specific, focused, and measurable. There isn’t much room for surprise side effects.
Choose ingredients carefully. Work with ingredients whose purposes you know. In my spell recipes, I list every ingredient’s correspondence, because in my practice, those things matter. Ensure that the “active ingredients” in your spell align with your goal properly. Rogue elements create rogue effects!
Include failsafe measures. As in, create ways you can cancel the spell at any point. This can have the side effect of making your spells easier to undo, particularly if your target is also a witch who understands how you construct your spells. If doing this, it’s best to create a method that is obscured and unique to you.
Add ingredients or instructions specifically to avoid particular side effects or outcomes. Find a component or two that can protect your working from unwanted effects, backfires, and interference. Include instructions for the spell for things it shouldn’t do. For example, trying to create issues for one particular person at work shouldn’t harm their innocent teammates.
Undo It
The first step to consider is undoing the spell. Not all paradigms allow for this, so it may not be possible for you. For me, it depends on the particular spell and how much change it’s created. The bigger the impact, the less likely a simple undo will work.
Still, it’s worth a try. Undoing a spell might take a few forms, depending on how you originally cast it:
Take the spell apart. Disassemble the spell into its components and cleanse them of the spell’s energy.
Destroy the vessel and components. Burning, tearing, burying, flushing, throwing away, and so forth. Be careful to not bury things that could harm the earth, animals, or people — including glass, salt, and plastics. Compost and recycle when you can.
Dismiss spirits working within the spell. End the contract around the spell’s working and request that the spirits stop powering it. You could also request their assistance in undoing the spell. You may have to make offerings either way, depending on the terms of your agreement.
Perform the spell in reverse. This includes speaking incantations backwards, performing all actions backwards, taking components apart, re-cleansing, and putting things away where you originally got them from.
Draw the spell’s energy/effects out of the target’s body and/or the affected area. Using energy work, absorb the spell’s energy into a vessel. Capture it and either allow it to dissipate or bottle it up to keep it in check. I don’t recommend absorbing the energy into yourself, as that may draw the spell’s unwanted effects to you (or make them worse).
I typically employ a combination of strategies to undo a spell, if it’s possible in the first place. If it’s a simple spell, performing it in reverse is the easiest method. I’ll then cleanse, destroy, and dispose of the materials.
But when it isn’t possible to simply undo the spell…
Cast Another Spell
…The answer might be to cast another one. In my mind, there are several ways to do this.
The first is to cast a spell to negate the original’s effects completely. I would approach this method the same way as any other spell. Focus on the effects you’re looking to negate, and cast accordingly. A banishing spell would work well for this to shoo away the spell’s energy, but a cleansing spell to clear the target would also work. Or, you can get more specific. For example, if a spell has generated a string of unlucky events, you could cast a spell for good luck in order to nullify the bad luck of the first spell. The goal would be to cancel out the original spell’s effects in some way.
The second way is to cast a spell to adjust the original’s outcome. There are a lot of ways to do this. You could directly modify the original spell by adding or removing ingredients that might’ve caused the negative outcome, redo written or spoken incantations/petitions, or cast a “companion spell” to redirect the original’s energy to a more favorable end. For example, in a money spell that’s giving everyone else good fortune, you could place a magnet with your personal information on it atop the spell vessel to draw money to you rather than the people around you. The idea here is not to end the original spell, but to realign it to your particular needs.
Another way is to cast a spell specifically to control side effects. Sometimes, a spell can’t be undone, and you can’t easily modify the main outcomes (particularly true if the negative events caused by the spell happen quickly or outside your control). Or maybe the bulk of the spell worked properly, but there’s one or two minor negative side effects you don’t want to continue. The method for this would be similar to adjusting the original spell’s outcome, but on a smaller scale and in a less direct fashion. For example, your job spell got you that promotion, hooray! But now you’re stressed out by training someone to take your place, and you’re learning your new position. You can cast a spell to reduce stress or prevent people from piling additional work on you while you adjust, controlling the side effects of the promotion.
A way I use for high-stakes spells is to cast wards or other protections before casting the main spell to prevent backfire or unwanted effects ahead of time. I often do this for spells surrounding situations that are delicate or that need extra care. In my case, it’s a general, long-term ward against bad luck on a wider scale, and it catches negative spell side effects as part of its job. You can set up temporary wards if you prefer, or make them for very specific purposes. Whatever works for you.
Cast the same spell again. This isn’t my usual go-to, unless I’m trying a new spell method or ingredient I’m unfamiliar with. I’ll usually recommend trying the same spell again when the first casting does absolutely nothing, since multiple castings can make a spell stronger and more effective. However, if a spell backfires or otherwise causes undesirable effects, I wouldn’t really recommend it, as the negative effects can compound, too, if it misfires again.
Ask for Help
If the problems caused by your spell are too big for you to handle on your own, it’s okay to reach out for help! Whether you’re looking for suggestions and advice or hands-on assistance, knowing when and how to ask for help is a critical skill.
Ask the witchcraft community (or your witchy friends) questions. Join a Discord, forum, Tumblr community, or other witchy space. Make a post to explain your situation and request suggestions, advice, and ideas to deal with the situation at large. Not all suggestions will be entirely helpful, but you’ll at least get some new perspectives to shed light on your situation. If people you know directly (in real life or online) practice witchcraft, see what they think.
Chat with spirits. Especially if you already work with spirits or if spirits helped you to cast/power the original spell, this can be a solid way to come up with a solution that will work. Use your preferred method of communication to discuss the situation. If possible, see if they’ll help you either undo or mitigate the spell’s unwanted results.
Ask non-witchy friends for advice. Their advice will probably be mundane, but sometimes, those are the best solutions. Outside perspectives are useful to recontextualize problems and come up with solutions you wouldn’t have otherwise considered.
Find books, videos, tutorials, blog posts, and other resources on the subject. When all else fails, or when you’re a little shy about asking for help directly, there are still resources out there to help you solve your dilemmas. Just remember to vet your sources before naively following instructions given to you.
Deal with Consequences Mundanely
Sometimes, there’s just nothing for it. Whether you don’t have time and energy or you’ve already tried more magic and had it fail, there are times when you have to turn to the mundane. Depending on the severity of the situation you’re in, solutions will vary in their successfulness. And honestly, that’s just how it is sometimes. Sometimes, things don’t wrap up nicely and easily and neatly.
With that said, here are a handful of mundane responses and solutions I’ve turned to after spells went wrong (and couldn’t be otherwise fixed):
Come clean and apologize. Particularly applicable when you’re doing a spell on or for another person, sometimes, there’s just nothing else to do but admit you fucked up. If the person impacted by the spell’s effects, directly or indirectly, isn’t a magical practitioner themselves, you could simply apologize for meddling in the situation. On the other hand, if you’ve harmed or offended a spirit with your spellwork, you might make an offering to apologize for the trouble you’ve caused.
Come up with mundane strategies for damage control. Depending on how severe the spell’s negative effects are, the level of effort for this is going to obviously vary. It could be anything from redoing your household budget to breaking out the toolbox for repairs to building an actual fence to making dinner. Your solution is going to depend on your problem. Think strategically.
Seek out new, improved coping mechanisms. Whether you’re looking to resolve feelings that are caused by the spell’s backfire or ones that made you cast in the first place, sometimes, a bit of self-care is the best solution. Consider why you cast the spell in the first place — lack of control, poor self-worth, low confidence? Or was it just because you felt it could help you with a little boost to the work you were already doing? It’s worth thinking about. What mundane safety nets do you have in place?
Let it go. Perhaps the most difficult option: Just letting the bad result be. Moving on from it. Taking the lumps and the lesson, and walking away. Giving up is a skill. It’s not a moral failing to let things go. If fighting will only make things worse, or if you’re tired of trying to fix it, it’s okay to just… let it be a failure.
Conclusions
Again, this is far from comprehensive. The suggestions here are basic ideas to help inspire you to form your own opinions and solutions. It’s smart to consider these things in advance! As my mother always says, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
I have plans to expand the idea of “When Witching Goes Wrong” into a wider series of posts, each focusing on a very specific problem, spell type, or solution (like a post just about ways to undo a spell, for example). Those are likely to include true stories about things I’ve personally fucked up… which are always the best witchy stories, in my opinion. Lol.
If you're interested in more WWGW entries, check out the masterpost.
Anyhow! If you got something out of this post or my other work, consider tossing a couple dollars in my tip jar. Support goes toward bills and keeping our household fed and healthy, so it’s very much appreciated. Supporters got to see this post a full week early!
If there’s a particular subject you want to see covered, feel free to send me an ask or leave a comment on this post (or any of the posts in the series!). As long as it’s something I actually have experience with, I’m happy to cover just about anything.
#aese speaks#witchcraft#witchcraft 101#beginner witch#witchblr#witch community#spellwork#spell backfire#witchcraft advice#spells#wwgw#when witching goes wrong#witchcraft basics
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Idgaf. I shoot for fiyeraba, I shoot for nessa, and I’m taking glinda away from y’all until you can understand how complexity doesn’t absolve you of your flaws and I’m taking gelphie away from y’all until you can learn to not just center glinda and reduce elphabas entire character to being her gf and you don’t get glinda or gelphie back until you read the books because they’re not JUST weird freaky traumatizing sex stuff (although that is also included) they’re also some of the most nuanced political commentary and earliest examples of explicit queer rep written by an openly gay man in the 90s and early 2000s (and still ongoing!)
#wicked#my hot takes#the wicked book has flaws don’t get me wrong#ultimately I do prefer the musical#but also. the book is radical in many ways the musical toned down#wicked: the life and times of the wicked witch of the west#also the same that goes for glinda goes for nessa but I see all this love for glinda and hate for nessa when#yeah nessa was standing to the side but only one person was actively bullying elphaba
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Chucky show did to Tiffany what modern retellings did to Circe.
#like when you read someone saying odysseus is an asshole and you are expecting them to mention the horrible war crimes#but the sentence ends with “ for what he did to circe”#dude was the direct cause of the death of an infant but i guess making the witch sad is his worst crime wooow#same goes here with the “ chucky is bad.... because he wronged tiffany” people#or like with this idea that circe turned the crew of odysseus into pigs cause they tried to attack her instead for simple funsies#we are supposed to think tiff used nica as transitional object cause she felt lonely and chucky is mean to her but not for funsies#they are girlbosses but also victims and the world allways works against them#their crimes are always someone else's fault
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Fear street - 1942
i have fear street brainrot now that its getting back into the spoopy months so here have this from my brain-Fear street au/dumb idea of mine of Tom Riddle being put in situations.
#yeah i just like putting him in situations on c.ai#and this has been coming to mind recently#idk just a hogwarts funded summer trip for the upcoming 6th years and it goes horribly wrong#(and maybe its an x reader where Tom falls for the cynical muggleborn from Shady side-whose family had 'escaped' shady side when they#found out she was a witch and moved out to the uk to keep her safe and shes super desensitised to the cycle and doesnt give a fuck anymore#and that intriges Tom)#tom riddle x reader#tom riddle imagine#tom riddle#fear street au#anyways welcome to my brain~
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I love days like today. It’s been almost a year since I visited here last, and a lovely young lady came up to me thanking me. I hardly recognized her! I gave her a transition potion last year and she looks so happy and radiant now. We’re going to meet at the tavern tonight so I can meet her wife!
This is why I do this, the long roads, the hazards. To see someone so happy, that’s worth more to me than any money.
#wizard posting#wizardposting#unreality#no my transition potions aren’t instant#and you need to wear an amulet to keep the change going#but it’s safer and more stable#anyone selling an instant change potion is valid#but there are risks#and I move around too much to help if something goes wrong#i usually send a message to the local witch#when I’m doing a big spell/potion like this#the local one is nice#he’s cute too#unrelated
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What to do if you have not shifted for +++years
(Most of my anons were along the lines of this same issue, I want to make a common post for them. I won't be telling you "you're already there" or "persist" I'm going to have a heart to heart conversation with your mental health in mind, this will be a long post)
First and foremost I have to say, this post is very heavily opinion-based. Alright, I'll divide it into topics, and two categories: before shifting and during shifting.
Before Shifting.
Determining the laws of your reality.
This is where you've got to do most of the work. (Don't worry, it won't be 7 hour subliminal listening sessions) now let's present a very important note: I don't know who you are. But most importantly I don't know what you believe in. Shifting isn't a known set of rules, Shifting doesn't have a single method, it does not have a wikihow page. Everything that exist is because of you. Therefore there are differences in my reality and yours. What you believe in is acting out in reality. LITERALLY.
So first you need to ask yourself some questions, with full honesty, oh and don't apply the thoughts you have by certain reprogramming affirmations, don't force yourself just because you have to persist.
"What am I?" What do you believe you are? Currently, are you a soul, a human? Or you something greater, seek within yourself to answer what you believe.
"What is reality?" How is everything working around you? Why are you here.
"Who is in control?" Who makes you shift. Who or what makes everything happen.
"How to shift?" Self explanatory. If you write with utmost truth on what you think shifting is like and when and how it happens; you'll basically have the code of how reality works for you.
Relax.
After you've gathered your research sheets. Take a breath, since you've got all the answers you need. Now, close your eyes, whenever you like. Imagine a serene atmosphere, for example, sharp sunlight falling on your skin, warming you up, or the rain droplets drowning your senses, as you run across a forest. Tell yourself, "this is what shifting is" , and "I've shifted." That's all it is. You feel some you get some.
Some important realizations,
• Time is not linear.
• Failure is a perception.
• You're not beneath anyone.
• You don't need to prove yourself to anyone.
• you'll survive, you'll be alright.
Don't. Kidnap. Yourself.
The title sounds weird, but it is regarding heavily applying the principle of assuming until you have it, to EVERYTHING. Idc if people come after me. I don't want anyone to suffer by stamping their foreheads with "persist!" Even if it works. I love loa, until it crosses over into toxic positively. Don't just put yourself in a coffin; don't become a prisoner to your thoughts! Don't make it feel like there's an angry witch in your mind, who will scream at you if something goes wrong, the problem is! Something might go wrong and you'd end up highlighting the idea that you are being forced to assume against something. Don't feel forced. Simple. (You can still use loa, if you like)
Declutter your mind.
I said it before. and @ilovecatfr explained this here, there's so much in your mind. I can tell. Each and everyone has their own unique spin on shifting. That's great and they put out advice to help people, similarly you... also have it within you. Afterall, these bloggers, big well written and decorated posts are the projection of your assumptions. I'd like to say, majority of the bloggers are kindhearted with the aim to help others. Although for some, you being desperate in their asks is an ego boost, nothing is wrong with feeling good about yourself for your knowledge, but you the person at the other end of this screen, are not a pawn, not just another anon, alright? you know how to shift, look back at what your answers were to the questions.
Control your emotions towards this reality.
I've always wanted to discuss this. Emotions are the puppeteers of this show. They're a grounding mechanism of any reality. If you feel something deeply, you're angry at circumstances you form an attachment to this reality, it keeps you here. Think about what happens to a person when they get disassociation. Similarly belief + emotional investment = reality. Its a code. I can confidently say anyone who has not shifted (... not targeting anyone, genuinely trying my best to help; ty ty back to the text) is because they're giving too much emotional importance to this reality. This can be in the form of stressing that you have not shifted, being worried that you're not in your dr, putting much focus on the "What ifs" of if you wake back in this reality.
But we can't just go BLANK. we're still humans who feel deeply (for now huehue) so what's the solution to this non-issue? Direct these feelings towards your destination, your intended reality! This would mean feeling like your dr self, if you're experiencing negative emotions you can last second convert them to any scenario related to your dr, emotional investment there pays well, here? It just wastes time.
Don't let feelings get the best of you and keep you here; you're their creator after all.
(Optional) Create a homey dr.
This comes from personal experiences. If I don't mention this I won't be completely open with each one of you. I shifted through intense love and reverence for my home. I knew that each and every second spent in this reality led up to me shifting to my home.
So for ease later on when you can't decide between drs, it'll be comforting to have a reality you can call home and choose over and over again.
Rewire.
This is where you come back to what you answered to the questions. Do you like your response? A human is living in a reality, and your answers are the universal law there. Will they have an easy time with shifting? If you think so, then choose to not do any "rewiring" and act upon the answers you wrote, shifting in accordance to them as they have become the pillars of your reality. If you think the person's reality's laws regarding shifting are complicated, then you can choose to rewire them. This can be a simple manifestation. As it has no basis in the 3D yet, you will manifest it within seconds. You can either write it down, listen to a subliminal, or simply think of the new beliefs in your head (eg "I shift in seconds") and let go. Stop.
(Severely optional) strive for spiritual awakenings
*shrugs* I thought I should mention based on personal experience.
During shifting.
Confuse your logical brain
You don't have to give it validation. Instead, just make it unable to predict the next move of it creator. Its built to look at everything with skepticism.. but it has nothing when you don't give it the chance. For example, the anti method by @hrrtshape is the best example. I like that you can do this, pre-method like a little warm up. (You can also manifest to not think logically)
Know your game
To act like you're in a battle field is not the way to shift. You don't have to give the actual practice of shifting much or any importance. You know how to shift, then why is there a need to have plan B's and checking your own environment? You are the commander in front, you're the one switching the reality, your reality is not the one switching.
Senses shift last
Explained by @stilljuststardust here.
Be blind and deaf to each and everything other than your intended reality
...and be so obsessed with your intended reality. Live out entire days, you're there, no, time is not passing by, the previous reality has disappeared by your hyperfixation on your intended reality. Ever done that exercise where you stare at a dot for so long, everything around it disappears? Well then, EXACTLY. Make it dissapear. Make it dissappear by not giving it any more of your energy. ....how I shifted. This is based upon being your dr self, that's snatches away the spotlight from this current reality.
Keep yourself comfortable
All of you are experienced enough to know, you don't need to lay in the starfish position. But remove the unnecessary thought that if you dare move your finger you might mess up the whole attempt (This is a subconsciousness belief) here's how to not worry about your 3D: again, senses shift last, Your current reality = intended reality.
It is about breaking free from human functions
Your software is set to being an earthly human. This is why acting like your current reality (the noises from the environment, physical annoyances) are from your intended reality, helps. This allows you to trick your human brain and move forward. The more you try to make sense of shifting, the more less it'll make sense. You don't have to know everything about shifting. The point is to be awfully natural about it. Just like how you wake up in this current reality without any requirement. You don't overthink it, then why overthink shifting.
Hope I cleared everything, I spent 5 hours on this post. If anything is not clear, please send in an ask, I am 100% avaliable to answer anything amiss.
Now let's see how much time I take to actually make this post aesthetically pleasing, so people don't have to bleach their eyes or ruin their blogs with this.
Dedicated to @lilyblairkinda who gave me this idea, once.
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When Witching Goes Wrong: Basics (Early Access)
Not all spells that go wrong are “backfires.” A backfire occurs when a spell’s result is antithetical to the result you wanted to cause — it causes a negative outcome, often coming back onto you as the caster, but sometimes creating the opposite effect as was desired on the target. For example, casting a money attraction spell and losing a wallet full of cash as a result would be considered a backfire. A spell that fizzles, does nothing, or produces an unexpected (but not negative) side-effect wouldn’t be a backfire (in my opinion, that is).
Most spells that go wrong aren’t backfires. In general, you’re likelier to have a spell that acts unexpectedly or that simply fizzles than one that blows up in your face somehow. You shouldn’t be anxious about a backfire. But, as someone with lots of experience in the realm of worrying about worst-case scenarios, I understand the impulse.
The solution is to understand what can go wrong, how to prevent it, and what to do in the event of an actual worst-case scenario. My goal with this post (and with this WWGW series) is to help you feel less anxious about spells going wrong and more prepared to deal with whatever comes your way.
So, let’s start from the beginning.
The first WWGW post is live over on Ko-Fi, currently in early access for supporters of all sorts (shop purchases, commissions, tips, AND members)!
#aese speaks#witchcraft#witchcraft 101#beginner witch#witchblr#witch community#spellwork#spell backfire#witchcraft advice#spells#wwgw#when witching goes wrong#witchcraft basics
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I Love The Girl With Magic Ways
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Witch!Reader
Summary:
He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching. “You dream of me,” he says, not asking. You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.” He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do—when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.” You don’t respond. Can’t. Because he’s not wrong. Or When training with Bob goes awry, you come face-to-face with The Void, and he's interested in you; he wants to know what makes you tick.
WC: 2.5k
A/N: Title from Magic Ways by Tatsuro Yamashita (such a good song). I'll probably write a part 2 to this, methinks (linked below). Here's the link to the request here. Enjoy!
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3
⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ✴︎˚。⋆ ✴︎˚。⋆
He’d broken the mirrors and the containment shields in the training facility and accidentally thrown you into a wall with his mind.
Training with Bob wasn’t going well.
It was frustrating, more for him than you, but still difficult. When you had tried to help him focus, to channel his power, you’d taken a gentle approach, even though gentleness didn’t come naturally to you all the time.
“I swear, I didn’t mean to.”
“I know…," you groan, brushing dust off your sleeve as you push yourself up.
You make your way back over to him. He’s sitting on the floor, hands in his lap, and anxiety is coming off him in waves.
“It’s okay,” you say softly, sitting beside him. “You’ll get it.”
You don’t know if the look on your face is reassuring or just tired, but judging by the way he won’t meet your eyes, it probably isn’t convincing. He doesn’t seem any more confident.
You sit next to him, trying to think of how to teach him control in a way he’ll actually absorb. You sigh, watching him.
“When I harness my magic, it’s like… holding energy, shifting it from one place to another, like water between cupped hands. Maybe if I show you how I do it, you can follow. How’s that sound?” You sigh, not meaning to sound tired, but you swear you still have a crick in the neck from hitting the wall.
“I’ll give it a shot.”
You nod, the light glowing in your hands, flickering softly like a heartbeat. Bob finds it beautiful, the way you shape it and mould it with such ease. He doesn’t fully understand it himself, not yet, but there’s awe in his eyes.
“Your turn,” you say gently, passing the moment to him.
He tries. Nothing happens at first, just stillness, but then there’s a faint buzzing in the air, a low hum that tickles the edges of your senses. He can feel it. So can you. His eyes glow as he concentrates.
He’s getting there, but—
“Just a little more…”
Your hand hovers next to his, almost touching, and suddenly, there’s a jolt, like a circuit overloading. Lights flicker, then short out, sparks raining from a fixture above. Half the room is thrown into darkness, the other half stuttering with flickering light.
Bob exhales sharply, his face contorting in frustration. “I messed up again,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. It had been at least the tenth mistake in the last thirty minutes, and it was starting to wear him down.
“Control can be hard to learn, but it doesn’t mean it’s impossible…,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, calm, and reassuring.
“I’m hopeless…” Bob murmurs, the words heavy with self-doubt. His chuckle is bitter, empty, and the silence that follows feels louder than any explosion. His eyebrows knit together, and he looks away, shoulders slumping under the weight of his frustration.
You step closer, the glow still dancing faintly in your palms.
“You’re not hopeless. You’re learning. And that’s never a straight line.”
You feel a chill slide down your spine as something shifts, and darkness begins to creep in, curling at the edges of the room like smoke spilling through cracks.
“Bob?” You call again, more urgent now.
The room is fading into a thick, velvet black, seeping into every crevice, swallowing light and colour like a slow tide.
“Bob? Talk to me,” you say, your voice cutting through the dark, a single thread trying to reach him before the void does. It’s too late, though.
He keeps his head down. It’s clear the words aren’t even getting to him anymore. The darkness overtakes him, swallowing him whole. What emerges is a shadowy figure only being illuminated by the faint flickering light of the broken overheads.
You step toward him, slow and cautious, before you meet his gaze.
His golden eyes glint back at you through the dark, sharp and gleaming with something unreadable. A sinister smile works its way onto his face, deliberate, unsettling in its calmness.
“I’m curious about you,” The Void murmurs, voice low and unnervingly calm. “I want to know what you can do.”
“And I want to talk to Bob,” you retort, eyes narrowing.
“You are talking to Bob,” it replies, with a slight twist of amusement, mocking, almost cruel. “...a part of him, at least.”
You smirk, sharp and laced with sarcasm. “Charming.”
He steps closer and invades your space like a cold draft slithering under a door. The air tightens, heavy and bitter. You can feel his presence: not just beside you, but around you, coiling like smoke, probing.
Still, you hold your ground, looking straight into his eyes. You don’t flinch. “How interesting,” he muses, tilting his head. His darkness moves again, tendrils slipping toward you, tasting the air around your magic, your thoughts, your fear.
But they meet resistance. Your magic flares, and the darkness recoils, hissing as it brushes against your glow.
You remain standing, untouched.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you say, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “And Bob isn’t yours to keep.”
He studies you before letting out a low, curious laugh. “No,” he says finally. “Maybe not.”
“Could I keep you instead?” The Void asks, voice low, almost amused, but there’s something sincere beneath it. He reaches out to touch your face, fingers grazing the space between you.
But you grab his hand before he can. You laugh softly, a little disbelieving.
"I think I suit you quite nicely," he murmurs, undeterred.
"I can see what they can't," he continues, his eyes narrowing, glinting with something ancient and knowing. "The anger, power right at your fingertips and yet you try to play the hero. Why?"
“I’m not playing at anything,” you say firmly, voice steady, eyes locked on his.
He leans in, the shadows around him thickening, curling like tendrils reaching out. They’re dark, hungry, trying to pull you closer, to draw you into their world.
But you fight back. Not with every ounce of will you have, pushing against the invisible pull, anchoring yourself.
“I beg to differ,” he murmurs, his breath grazing your skin like a whisper, cold and intoxicating. “Such wasted potential. All for the notion of being good when you could be so much more.”
You reach out, your hand hovering near his temple. Your fingers glow, light pulsing softly, alive. He watches, unblinking, as your magic stirs in the air like smoke catching fire. It’s ethereal, coiling, licking at him, and it has him curious.
You're trying to see into his mind, but—
“I think the real question is…” he interrupts knowingly, tilting his head, “…are we inside your mind or mine?”
The words twist around you like a spell, and suddenly, the weight shifts. The darkness starts to peel away from your limbs, sloughing off like ash in the wind. You blink, feeling the ground under you change, reality sliding sideways.
The Void just smiles.
“I’ll see you soon.”
⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ✴︎˚。⋆ ✴︎˚。⋆
You’re still thinking about it… about him.
Every time you’re training with Bob, he’s there, at the edge of your thoughts. You’re not in fear. You’re not scared of the Void, not really. It’s more like a wariness, a flicker of unease that one wrong move, one flare of power, might open the door again. Might bring him back.
It was wrong. And confusing. But a small part of you wanted to see him again.
Your mind drifts when you’re not paying attention. Whether it’s during missions, training, or even in bed. He’s in your dreams when you fall asleep, and sometimes, you wake up imagining the ghost of his voice in your ear.
The Void hadn’t tried to hurt you. No, he watched you, studied you. And in some twisted way, he seemed to want you. Not to harm, not to destroy… but to possess, to understand. You just wanted to know why. What did he see in you? What was it about you that drew something like him in?
One night, you’re in bed, the day heavy on your bones, the world finally going quiet around you. You’re slipping closer and closer to sleep…
But you sense it, that shift in the air, a pulse of dark presence curling at the edges of your senses. You feel him before you even open your eyes.
“This is bordering on obsession,” you sigh, eyes still closed.
You hear him laugh, low and amused. The sound crawls down your spine, equal parts unsettling and intimate.
“Not bordering. It is obsession,” he replies, and you can hear the smile in his voice, like he’s proud of it.
Reluctantly, you open your eyes.
He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching.
“You dream of me,” he says, not asking.
You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.”
He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do, when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.”
You don’t respond. Can’t.
Because he’s not wrong.
“You’re speechless,” he teases, voice like velvet laced with static. He sits on the edge of your bed, casual, as if he belongs there.
You shift away instinctively, creating space, as if a few more inches could keep him from seeing straight through you.
“Biding my time. There’s a difference,” you reply, keeping your voice even, though your pulse betrays you.
The Void watches you closely, amused by your defiance. Or maybe by the fact that even now, you're still trying to guard yourself. Still playing the game.
His eyes flicker, a faint glow blooming within them like embers. “You may say you don’t want me here, but you keep opening doors.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” you bite back, sharper than intended. He smiles, but there’s something beneath it, something hungry. “That’s the best part.”
His hand twitches slightly, not reaching for you, but close. Waiting.
“You’re more than you think. More than they let you be, more than you let yourself be.”
The air thickens again, and you’re feeling him again, his presence threads through the room like smoke.
“What do you want from me?” You ask, tired of circles.
Suddenly, he sounds less teasing, more honest.
“To see you become more than this,” He leans closer as if observing you, “You’re no hero. You’re something else entirely.”
He almost sounds in awe of you.
You want to lie. You want to turn away, pretend you don’t feel it, the weight of his words, the strange reverence in his voice.
But in some weird, completely twisted way…you felt seen.
“Show me what you can do,” he says softly, like a challenge… or a plea.
Against your better judgment, your hands move. Fingers lift with purpose, glowing as your magic rises like a tide. Not to attack. Just to beckon. To draw him in that fraction closer.
And he comes.
He leans in, unflinching, until his lips hover just a breath away from yours. The air between you hums with tension, your power brushing over him.
He doesn’t flinch. He invites it.
He looks at you, eyes gleaming. They weren’t cold, but burning. Goading.
“Do it,” he whispers. “Manipulate me. I want to see you try.”
Your magic coils, crackling faintly between you both, held barely in check. It licks at his skin like fire starved of air. You could push. You could twist something in him, see what bends and what breaks.
That thought strikes sharp and fast, and then you remember.
Bob. Somewhere beyond this darkness, behind the weight of The Void’s presence, he’s there. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t risk hurting him.
You lower your hands slowly, magic fading from your fingertips. The crackle in the air dies with it, and you feel the release.
The Void sighs dramatically. “What? You don’t want to hurt me? I’m disappointed.”
You vanish from in front of him, slipping through space in a blink, reappearing beside him, your lips by his ear, breath warm and taunting.
“I live to disappoint,” you murmur with biting sarcasm.
He chuckles, low and amused, the sound vibrating in your chest more than your ears.
“So you’re playing with me then?” he asks, a smile curling through his voice, teasing and predatory.
You teleport again, this time behind him, close enough to feel his back press against your body like the edge of a knife.
“Something like that,” You say, voice calm, almost bored.
This little verbal spar you had with him was… addictive. A dangerous dance on a wire stretched taut between temptation and control.
But then he shifts, turning around to face you.
His expression darkens, not angry or violent, but filled with intent. He turns, slowly, deliberately, and starts walking you back with that same quiet pressure in the air that makes your skin prickle.
You don’t step away. You should, but you don’t.
Then, his hand reaches out, and in a second, you’re pinned against the wall. The cold wall meets your spine, and again, before you can blink, he lifts you effortlessly with his mind, sliding you up until your feet leave the ground. His body never touches yours, but his presence crashes over you like a wave.
“I don’t want to play games,” he says, voice low and electric. You meet his eyes, your own burning with something halfway between challenge and adrenaline.
“But this one is so much fun,” you quip back, your tone reckless, like flicking sparks into a powder keg.
His jaw clenches, just slightly. Not in rage. In restraint.
“I came to see you,” he says, eyes scanning your face like a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. “But all you do is run and hide behind your clever little words.”
“Maybe you need to chase me,” you reply, breath shallow but steady. The Void pauses, his voice surprisingly soft when he answers, “And how long would you make me chase you?”
You meet his gaze, your heart skipping.
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you disappear from his hold, reappearing right in front of him, so close you can see the sweep of his eyelashes. You lean in just a little more, the space between you charged.
“Until I think you’ve had enough.”
His eyes widen a little, but he stifles it.
“Until I’ve had enough…” he repeats to himself, quietly, like he’s tasting the words. He searches your eyes, there’s something in you, something he needs. Finally, a slow, dark smirk spreads across his lips.
“We’ll see.”
The energy between you crackles, thick and electric. You both want this; he wants to pull you into the darkness, to make you lose yourself. Sure, you wanted to play with him, but you could kiss him and still keep him at bay.
But just as your eyes flutter shut and you feel the weight of his presence drawing near, then suddenly there’s only air.
You open your eyes, breath catching. You turn and he’s standing by your door, smiling at you again.
“I’ll see you soon.”
With that, he fades away, leaving you standing alone, still in your mind.
Masterlist
#bob reynolds x reader#the void x reader#bob reynolds fanfic#thunderbolts fanfic#the void#x reader#witch!reader#bob thunderbolts x reader#thunderbolts*#thunderbolts x reader#thunderbolts#bob thunderbolts#robert reynolds#bob reynolds#mcu fanfiction#marvel fic#marvel fanfic#robert reynolds x reader
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feeling witchy | jungwon



summary: when you performed the spell to get your familiar, you expected anything but the hybrid you got. now here you are, in college making frowned upon potions with your hybrid familiar. what could go wrong? maybe the fact that you're completely head over heels for your familiar...
pairing: blackcatfamiliar!jungwon x witch!reader
warning: friends to lovers | fluff | angst | smut (dom!jungwon, oral (both receiving), face fxcking, spanking, unprotected sex, lots of dirty talk, spanking, hair pulling) | jungwon calls reader kitten a lot | alcohol consumption (nothing excessive)
word count: 10.2k
taglist: @graythecoffeebean @forwinterstars @k1ttyjwon
"where is it?"
you take a step back, looking over all of the jars until you found the one you were looking for. once you found it, you grabbed it before reading over the label to make sure its the right one. the last thing you needed was to put the wrong ingredient in your potion and mess everything up- especially when you needed the money.
it was perhaps a little frowned upon what you did- selling you potions while you were still in school. it wasn't against any rules to do it, so they really couldn't say anything. but a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do to survive. you weren't making nearly as much as you would when you graduated, but it was plenty enough for you and your familiar to get by.
"you finding everything okay, gorgeous?"
your gaze snaps up from the jar, eying the sketchy shop owner who was staring at you from down the aisle. his name was kevin, and if it weren't for the magic ban surrounding the building, he would be completely harmless. at least, you weren't completely weaponless.
you open your mouth to answer, but snap it shut when a black tail wraps around your waist. you look up to see your familiar jungwon staring at kevin with a sharp glare. his eyes turn feline before he lets out a loud hiss. it successfully scares away kevin who tells you he'll be at the register when you're ready.
jungwon's eyes return to normal before his dark gaze meets yours. "why can't we find another ingredient shop again?"
"because the closest one besides this one is an hour away." you respond, putting the jar in the basket he was holding. "besides, you know he's all talk."
"don't ever come here without me."
you roll your eyes, already quite familiar with his commands. you bite back your retort about how your technically the one in charge, and he should be listening to you. but you know that argument never goes anywhere, so you just find it easier to agree with your familiar.
it was very rare for familiars to be hybrids. none of the people at your school had one, and none of your teachers believed you when you said your familiar was a hybrid. it wasn't until he showed up one day with a shit eating grin and proving all of them wrong that they believed you.
you didn't care if they believed you or not, but you also don't blame them for not believing you. you didn't even believe it yourself at first. all you knew was that you were supposed to perform the spell that gives you your familiar on your 16th birthday. you followed everything perfectly- having studied the spell for months. but instead of getting an animal like everyone else, you got a sassy 5'9" black cat hybrid with ears that almost blended in with his black hair.
you didn't mind though. it was nice going through life with an actual person instead of an animal. especially since your parents all but abandoned you as soon as you turned 18. jungwon was there, helping you pick up all of your broken pieces and then some. he was a good familiar and a good friend. a friend that loved to blur the lines of friendship and make you confused about your feelings for him, but a friend nonetheless.
"yes sir." you half heartedly agree with him before moving to grab your last ingredient. you didn't make it very far because of his tail that was still wrapped around you, forcing you to look back at him. he raises his eyebrows as he stares down at you.
"i mean it kitten."
"i know you do, wonnie." you respond to him, rolling your eyes at the ironic nickname. he still looked like he didn't believe you, so you held up your hand to link up with his pinky. "i promise i will not come into this store alone."
he huffed, finally believing you and interlocking your fingers. "good girl." he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple before pulling away. "now where's the last ingredient, so we can get out of here."
you duck your head, feeling your face flush as you turn away from him. he follows you, keeping your tail around your wrist like he normally did. he's always been like this- touchy with you. you used to could be able to brush it off, but it started getting harder and harder to do. you didn't understand it, so you brought it up with your close friend and classmate, sunoo.
"oh, that's easy." he answered you instantly. "you like him."
you roll your eyes at his answer. "of course i like him. he's my familiar."
"no, you idiot. i mean you like him more than that."
you originally refused the answer that sunoo gave you. it wasn't until you thought about it that you finally agreed with him. he gloated, but it didn't last long with you said you weren't going to do anything about it. you couldn't be with him.
he was your familiar. you two were bound for life. what if you two got together and broke up? that would make things unnecessarily awkward. that's if he returned those feelings- which you didn't think he did. you would rather just suck it up and ignore them. sunoo didn't agree with any of what you said, and to this day is still trying to convince you to try.
jungwon let out a satisfied sigh once you gave him your last ingredient. he then held out his hand making you roll your eyes. his tail lets go of you when you start digging in your bag before pulling out your wallet. you hand it to him before following him to the register. his broad shoulders block you completely as he checks out. you notice jungwon give kevin one last glare before he leads you out of the store.
"i would still prefer it if we found another shop." jungwon mumbled as the two of you walked down the street where your car was parked.
"i know." you tell him, reaching out and grabbing his hand before stopping him. he looks down at you with a curious gaze. "next time, we will go to a different one. deal?"
the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled brightly down at you, happy he's getting his way. "deal."
the next time you had to go to that dreaded shop was two weeks after yours and jungwon's initial deal. you know he was going to kill you for not bringing him. you weren't technically breaking your promise because you only promised that you weren't going alone, and you weren't. you were bringing sunoo who you've told about the whole situation.
"i feel like this is going to end bad." he retorted as the two of you got out of the car. you shrugged your shoulders before starting to walk down the street.
"probably, but i need these ingredients today." you had someone offer you double your original price if you could get this potion to them tomorrow, and you would be stupid if you didn't accept that. only issue is that jungwon wasn't around to accompany you.
"and why can't jungwon come?"
"i already told you. an arcade opened up downtown. him and jake have been waiting months for it to open. i don't want to ruin that for him."
jake was a fellow golden retriever hybrid that belonged to a mutual friend of your, heeseung. the two of them have been close since you two introduced them a little over a year ago.
"you know he wouldn't mind rescheduling." he told you as he held the door open for you.
"i know that." you sighed, walking into the store. you look around, not seeing kevin just yet. "but i feel like he deserves this. he shouldn't have to suffer because one asshole can't take a hint."
sunoo looked around before looking back at you. "you know this is the only place around here that inhibits our powers? maybe you should listen to jungwon and go to the one i go to. i know the owner, jay. he's pretty cool."
"jungwon and i were talking about it, but i don't have time to drive that far for this order." you tell him as the two of you start grabbing the jars you need. you were thankful he knew exactly what you needed for this potion, so the two of you could hurry and get out of there.
"i still don't know if you're going to have enough time." sunoo told you as you continued to scour the store. "why did you accept the offer anyway?"
you sighed before looking to sunoo. "i need the money. you know jungwon's birthday is comming up. i want to get him something special."
"what are you going to get him?"
"he's been wanting a gaming set up, so he can play with jake and heeseung online instead of having me drive him over there. i didn't realize how expensive it was before coming up with the idea." you explain. when you didn't get a response from sunoo, you look over to see him smirking at him.
"you gonna tell him you're in love with him while you're at it?" you open your mouth to respond to him, but someone interrupted you before you could say anything.
"hey gorgeous. how are you doing today?"
you meet sunoo's gaze for a moment before turning around and seeing kevin standing behind the counter. "doing good. how about you?"
"better since you're here." you roll your eyes at his answer before going back to looking through the store.
"oh my god." sunoo whispered, walking up next to you. "you didn't say he was that creepy."
"yes i did." you laugh at him.
"he's glaring daggers at me." sunoo whined. "we need to hurry."
you nod your head, grabbing the last thing you need. "okay. we can go."
you and sunoo walk over to the counter where kevin was. you handed him the basket, and he started ringing everything up. you were always behind jungwon for this part, so it felt weird watching him- especially when he couldn't even take his eyes off of you for more than two seconds.
"who's your friend?" the two of you look over at kevin when he motions to sunoo. you look over to sunoo with an apologetic expression- which he brushes off before smiling at him.
"i'm sunoo. yn's boyfriend." you eyes widened at his answer for a second before you recover. kevin pauses ringing you up as he looks at you.
"what happened to the cat?"
you finally meet his eyes- this time with a glare. "his name is jungwon, and he is none of you business."
kevin got the message, continuing to ring you up. you feel sunoo grab your hand, squeezing reassuringly which you return. once kevin had everything checked out, he handed you back your basket while he printed out the receipt. once it was printed, he held it up to you with what you thought was a disgusted look.
"so you're little cat doesn't mind you whoring yourself around?" you hear sunoo let out a gasp as you gawk at him. it took you a few seconds to respond to his insult, but once you did, you let out a scoff.
"so because i'm not interested you, i'm a whore?" you question, snatching the receipt out of his hand. "if that's the case, sunoo i guess you're dating a whore."
you quickly turn, not allowing him to respond before you storm out of the store. you hear sunoo running to catch up with you as you make your way back to your car.
"are you okay?" sunoo asked.
"peachy." you answer as the two of you got inside of the car. once you start the car, you let out a groan of frustration as you lay your head on the steering wheel. "we should've went to the other place."
"you're telling jungwon about that right?"
"no." you hear sunoo groan at your answer. "you know exactly what he's going to do, and i don't have bail money."
"you need to tell him. he has no right to say those things to you." you look over at sunoo, knowing that he's right, but not having any clue on how to tell him. you knew he was going to be mad at you, and you hated when he was.
"i know." you sigh, running your hand over your face. "i will. just let me finish this order, and i will tell him."
"okay."
the next day, you had somehow successfully managed to complete the order when it was needed. you don't know how you did it. you had to stay up all night to complete it. thankfully jungwon decided to stay over at heeseung's, so he didn't wonder why you were staying up so late.
you still didn't know how you were going to tell him about yesterday. you thought of every possible way to tell him while you worked on the potion, but none of them seemed good enough. maybe it was just the lack of sleep keeping you from thinking properly.
you had just fallen asleep on the couch when the front door slammed shut. you nearly jump out of your skin at the sound, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you saw jungwon storm into the living room. in your half asleep state, you couldn't see the angry expression on his face as you greet him.
"hey wonnie. how was-"
"don't hey wonnie me." he interrupted, confusing you. "why did i just get a call from sunoo telling me the two of you went to kevin's shop yesterday?"
that question woke you up real quick. "look, i was going to tell you, but i fell asleep."
"you shouldn't have to tell me anything. you shouldn't have gone at all. you promised me you would go in there without me." you shrink under jungwon's glare.
"i said i wouldn't go alone, and i didn't."
"you know damn well that's not what i meant." you jump as jungwon glares at you. "what if he tried something? you and sunoo are practically useless without your magic."
your face falls as his words hit you. "jungwon-"
"do you have any idea how irresponsible and dangerous that was?" jungwon questioned. "what was so important that you just had to go back there?"
at least sunoo didn't give that away. not like it mattered. you couldn't bring yourself to even look at him- too ashamed at yourself. your answer wouldn't matter anyway. jungwon just made that clear that he didn't feel the same about you.
you hear jungwon scoff in anger. "of course you don't have an answer. i'm going to stay with jake and hee until you can answer me."
you wait until you hear the front door slam shut before the tears start to fall. you didn't know how you were going to get him to forgive you for this.
you spent the next two days in bed, completely distraught of yours and jungwon's argument. you understood what you did was against what he wanted, so his anger was warranted. but his words weren't- which really hurt you. you tried to call him a couple of times but he didn't answer.
at first you thought it was because he was trying to calm down, but then the doubts started creeping in. maybe he finally got tired of you like your parents. maybe he realized you needed him way more than he needed you- not like he needed you in the first place.
all of these thoughts kept haunting you, even when you were in class. you ended up skipping your last period- choosing to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to catch up from you spacing out during classes.
you were in the middle of reading when someone pulled out the chair in front of you. you looked up, seeing a guilty sunoo sit down in front of you. you look at him for a moment before going back to your work. you know you shouldn't be mad at him. it was your fault, but you wanted to be the one to tell jungwon. you didn't know if it would have made a difference though, but at this point it didn't matter. it already happened, and there wasn't anything you could do to change it.
you look back up when sunoo slides something towards you. you eye the drink he got you, which was your favorite, before looking back at him. "yn, i'm sorry. when i brought that up, i thought you had already told him. i wouldn't have said anything if i knew."
"i know you wouldn't." you tell him, grabbing the drink before taking a sip. "i have no one to blame but myself."
"how did he react? he sounded upset over the phone." you looked away from him at his question, shrugging your shoulders.
"about as bad as you'd expect." you answer, trying not to think of the argument because you knew you would cry again if you did. "he yelled at me before leaving. i haven't seen him since."
sunoo's eyes widened. "he left?"
"he asked me what was so important that i went there for. when i wouldn't tell him, he said he was staying with jake and heeseung until i gave him an answer." you explain, blinking back tears. "i messed up, sunoo. he won't answer any calls or texts from me. i had to call heeseung and make sure he was okay."
"now i feel even worse." sunoo started to tell you but you cut him off.
"don't. it was my fault."
"i still feel bad. i don't even see how you're functioning right now?" sunoo told you. "i feel like i can't be away from daisy for more than a few hours before i start to feel bad."
you let out a sigh as you rest your head on the table. "i feel like shit."
everyone knew the rules of witches. they weren't supposed to be away from their familiars once they got one. the longer the two were apart, the worst the witch felt. you were being scarce with your answer to sunoo. it felt like a piece of you was missing. you were doing everything in your power to not go marching over to heeseung's and seeing him. the only reason you weren't was you were still upset with him.
"you need to go and see him." you look up at sunoo. "i'll come with you after school." you shake your head, mumbling about how you didn't want to see him. "yn, you know it's only going to get worse."
"you didn't hear what he said, sunoo. i know he only said them out of anger, but they still hurt. the last thing i want to do right now is see him."
"what are you going to do?"
"i don't know, but i'll figure something out." you brush it off, wanting to pull away from the subject. "but for now, help me catch up with what i missed."
sunoo looked at you for a moment before nodding his head. "okay."
the two of you studied for a few hours before the two of you went your separate ways. you rubbed at your tired eyes as you unlocked the door to your apartment. you really didn't want to come here since jungwon wasn't here, but you didn't really have any other options.
you close the door, sliding off your shoes when you noticed something. jungown's shoes were in his usual spot. it was then that you could feel his presence. he was here. that made you more nervous than you thought it would. you didn't want him yelling at you again.
you throw your bag on the ground before walking out of the entry way and sure enough, jungwon was there, sitting on the couch while scrolling on his phone. you saw his ear twitch at the sound of your footsteps before he looked up at you. you nearly flinch at his gaze as he stared at you, not making any notion of being the first to talk.
you decided to speak up first. "are you back?"
jungwon shifted, putting his phone in his pocket before patting the spot right next to him. you shift your weight before walking over to him and sitting next to him. you kept your distance though, not knowing if he wanted you close to him.
"you really hurt me, yn." you find your eyes watering as you listen to him. "i asked you not to do something, and you agreed not to just to turn around and do it."
your eyes trail down to your lap where your fingers were playing with your jewelry- a habit you did when you were nervous. "i'm really sorry. i never wanted to hurt you. i thought of sunoo came with me, it would've been okay."
"why didn't you just come to me?" you feel his eyes on you after he asks the question, but you didn't make any move to look at him.
"you had plans with jake and i-" you try to explain, but jungwon stops you.
"that's not an excuse."
"it is for me." you finally look up and meet his gaze. you could tell he was trying hard not to get angry, so you tried to pick your words carefully. "you had been looking forward to those plans for weeks. you had already done so much for me, and i just wanted you to be able to go out and have fun."
"i would've rescheduled." he told you. "you know i would have. we could've went to the other one, and none of this would have happened."
"i know you would've, but i didn't want you to." you pull away from his gaze, not wanting to look at him for your next admission. it was better for him to know everything, even if it upset him even more. "i also didn't have time to go to the other one."
"what do you mean?"
"i took an express order." you told him. the two of you talked about it a couple of times, and you both agreed that you wouldn't do it unless you thought it necessary. "they wanted it by the next morning, so i didn't have time to drive all the way there and back."
you hear jungwon let out a sigh, and you already had a feeling you knew what his next question would be. "are you going to tell me what was so important that you did all of this for?"
"i'm honestly shocked you haven't figured it out yet." you admit as you look over at him again. you watched his eyebrows furrow in confusion. you normally rub your thumb along the crinkle of his forehead when he does that, but you interlocked your fingers to prevent yourself from doing so. "what's coming up next week, wonnie?"
it takes him a second, but he finally figures it out. "kitten, i told you i didn't want anything for my birthday. you already spent enough with heeseung for the party next week."
"do you really think i'm not going to get the most important person to me a gift for their 21st birthday?" you question. "who do you think i am?"
"you're making it really hard to be upset with you." jungwon told you. he was still trying to keep his composure, but all it took was one smile from you for him to loose it. you let out a sigh of relief as the rest of his anger slid away when he laughed. "why didn't you just say that two days ago?"
"you kind of didn't give me a chance." you answer him. your happy mood darkened when you remembered the argument, and what he said to you. you blink away your tears before shifting farther away from him than you were- an act that didn't go unnoticed.
jungwon moved over, grabbing your waist before pulling you to him. you straddled his legs as he pulled you to his chest. you wrapped your arms around his neck, and jungwon swore he felt his heart break when you started crying. "i'm so sorry for what i said, kitten."
"i didn't mean any of it." he continued, rubbing his hand down your back to try to comfort you. "you're not useless or irresponsible. you are the complete opposite. i wouldn't be able to function without you by my side."
"i thought you were going to leave me." jungwon's arms tightened around you at the confession.
"never." he pulled you away from him. he looked at you softly while brushing away your tears before cupping your cheeks and making you look at him. "you're stuck with me for the rest of your life."
"you promise?"
jungwon nodded, kissing your temple before pulling you back into his arms. "i promise."
after you and jungwon made up, things between the two of you almost went back to the way they were before. key word being almost. you couldn't understand what was different, but there was something different about the two of you that you couldn't put your finger on.
you tried to explain it to sunoo, but for once, he didn't have an answer either- just as stumped as you were. you choose to just brush it off since it wasn't causing any harm. you didn't have any choice since today was jungwon's party.
jake has kept jungwon busy all day while you, heeseung, and sunoo help set up everything. it took most of the day for you three to set everything up, and you were pretty sure your hands were going to be sore tomorrow from tying so many balloons. but it was worth it. heeseung's place looked great.
people had already started to show up when you and sunoo were finishing up setting up the food. heeseung turned on the music and dimmed the lights while you did one last look around to make sure everything was perfect.
you pulled out your phone to text jungwon to see when he would be here when something wrapped around your waist. you glance down, seeing the black tail that you know belonged to your familiar before turning around. he laughs, catching you when you jump into his arms.
"happy birthday, wonnie."
"thank you kitten." he kissed your cheek as he set you down. "this place looks great. you and heeseung did a good job."
"i helped too!" you turn when you hear sunoo's voice.
you pulled away from jungwon, so he could greet sunoo. the three of you stand there for a minute, talking about setting up when some other friends of his came to greet jungwon. you and sunoo shared a look before you both moved away, so he could hang out with his friends, though you stopped when jungwon's tail wrapped around your wrist.
"where are you going?"
"i'm going to get a drink." you answer. "i'll catch up with you. go have fun with your friends."
though you kind of regret that now. the party's been in swing for a few hours, and you all have just sang happy birthday to him. people, including you, were starting to get tipsy from alcohol. you were still fully aware what was going on, but you could feel the effects of the alcohol despite this only being your third drink. you blame yourself for allowing heeseung to mix the drinks.
you were talking with two witches from your class, glancing back occasionally to check on jungwon. he was sitting on the couch on the other side of the room from you. you haven't been able to talk to him since earlier, and it seemed like every time you tried, he would get swamped with friends.
this time when you glanced back, you noticed that there was a new girl sitting next to him- another cat hybrid. you didn't recognize her as you looked her over. her brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her dress was very short. you shrugged her off at first, thinking she was just a friend. but then she placed her hand on his thigh with a flirty smile, and jungwon didn't push her away. you felt your heart sink when he smiled back at her.
you look away from them, staring down at your drink while you tried to hide your jealousy. of course he wouldn't want a witch. why would he when he could have a pretty hybrid like the one right next to him? you felt yourself become sick at the thought of him being someone else's. you turn back around to look again when someone wrapped their arm around your shoulder.
"what's cooking, good looking?" you smile before looking up and meeting the eyes of jake.
"hey jake." you greet, turning to him fully. "you having fun?"
he pulled you closer to him, leaning down so you could hear him. "you and hee really know how to throw a party. you need to do mine next."
"of course." you agree. "you could do it early on halloween and have everyone dress up."
jake gasped, clearly loving the idea. "you're a genius babe! you should dress up as tinker bell and i'll be peter pan."
"jungwon could be your wendy." you joked, laughing when jake doubled over in laughter. clearly, he had a little too much to drink. once he recovered, he pulled you back underneath his arm, which wasn't anything new. everyone knew jake was touchy. "speaking of jungwon. who's that girl next to him?"
jake turned and looked, letting out a scoff before turning back to you. "that's sarah. she's been trying to get with jungwon for i don't know how long."
"he's never mentioned her to me." you hum, taking a sip of your drink and nearly spitting it out when jake gets close to your face again.
"probably because he hates her."
it was your turn to let out a scoff. you turned to see if they were still in the same position as before, and they were. "where do you see that? the two are currently cuddled up on the couch together."
"are you jealous?" you roll your eyes at his question. thankfully the lights were dim enough to hide your blush.
"no. they're just painting a different picture than what you're saying."
"don't worry, babe. you're secret's safe with me." jake smiles at you when you shove him. "not like it's much of a secret anyway. you two are so obvious about it."
"shut up." you glare. you didn't miss the fact that he said the two of you instead of just you. you just didn't want to believe him. especially not with the scene that was playing out behind you.
"wanna make him jealous?" he asks, confusing you.
"how would we do that?"
"do you trust me?" you shrug at his question.
"i probably shouldn't."
you look away for a moment, greeting a friend as they passed by you two. as soon as you turn your attention back to jake, you jump in shock when his lips meet yours. you don't even kiss him back. you just stand there when he's ripped away from you. your view of jake is blocked by jungwon.
"what the fuck jake?"
"come on man." you hear jake's whine. "we were having fun. weren't we yn?"
jungwon turned around, looking down at still very confused you. you could see his eyes flickering between his normal ones and his cat like ones- a clear sign he was mad. his hand suddenly grabbed your wrist before pulling you away.
"jungwon? what are you doing?" you question as he pulls you towards the stairs. apparently, you weren't going fast enough because jungwon turned to you again. you let out a yell when he threw you over his shoulder before making his way upstairs. "jungwon, what the hell? put me down!"
he ignored you and kept walking until he reached the guest bedroom where he stays when he's here. you let out another yell when he throws you onto the bed. you bounce at the movement before you hear the door slam shut. you look over at jungwon like he had lost his mind.
"what the hell is wrong with you?"
"i should be asking you that." jungwon retorted. "why the hell were you kissing jake?"
you let out a groan before standing up. "i didn't do anything. blame your best friend."
he didn't respond to you causing you to look over at him. he still had a glare on his face as he stalked towards you like you were pray. you didn't move out of your spot as when he stopped in front of you. "you shouldn't have kissed him. you aren't his."
what the hell was that supposed to mean? you weren't jakes? did that mean you were his? you couldn't tell how he meant it. as a friend? more than a friend? you didn't think a friend would get mad at you for kissing some one. was jake right when he said jungwon liked you back?
"i didn't kiss jake." you told him when you recovered from his words. "he asked me if i trusted him. i stupidly said yes, and he kissed me. i didn't kiss him back, and i didn't even have a chance to push him away before you showed up." jungwon looks at you for a moment. once he could tell you were telling the truth, he moved away before trying to leave the room. "where are you going?"
"to kill jake." you flicked your wrist when jungwon opened the door causing the door to slam shut. you didn't only shock jungwon, but also yourself with that move. you never used magic on jungwon. he tried to open the door, but he knew it wouldn't budge until you opened it yourself. he turned to you with a look you haven't seen from him before. "open the door yn."
"no." you stand your ground. "you can't just throw me over your shoulder, tell me i'm not jakes, and then leave. what are you even going to do when you go back out there? yell at jake before going back to sarah?"
you let the words flow out of your mouth without even thinking about them. you weren't sure where this confidence was coming from. "maybe i should go back out there too. i could find jake, and we can finish what we started."
a low growl comes out of his mouth when he storms back to you. this time when he reaches you, his hand wraps around your hair, pulling your head back to look up at him. his eyes feline as he bent down to your level. "you are mine. do you understand me? mine."
"then prove it."
his hand tightens around your hair at your words before his lips slam into yours. the hand that isn't tangled in your hair grips your waist and pulls you closer to him. your hands move to grip his shirt as you kiss him back. his tongue slides past your lips before tangling with yours, causing a soft moan to escape. his grip on your waist tightens around your waist before he pulls away from you.
when he pulled back, he rested his head on yours. his eyes weren't feline anymore. the reality of what just happened hit you. your familiar kissed you. you kissed him back. and now that you have, you never wanted him to stop. his hand fell from your hair before brushing against your cheek.
"kitten." his lips brushed against yours as he spoke. "if you don't want this, you need to tell me to stop, and we'll forget this ever happened."
he was giving you the chance to back away. you stuttered for a moment, thinking that maybe he wanted to stop. but then you felt his erection pressing against your stomach. he wanted this just as much as you.
instead of responding to him, you leaned up, capturing his lips once again. jungwon got the message, kissing you back while his hands explored every inch of you. his hands slid under your shirt, slowly trailing up while his lips left yours before moving to your neck.
you let out a gasp when his hands cupped your breasts as he left a dark bruise on your neck. you gripped his shoulders to keep steady when he pulled his face away from your neck. he kissed you one last time before pulling away.
"are you sure you want this, yn?"
"i do." you instantly answered him, a desperate plea in your tone. "please, wonnie."
whatever hesitation jungwon had disappeared the moment you begged for him. you could see the shift in him, and it turned you on even more. "then get on your knees, kitten."
you did as he said, sitting on your knees before looking up at him. he let out a groan before his hand brushed your cheek. "always my perfect girl. listening to everything i say. isn't that right?" you nod your head at his question. "here's what gonna happen kitten. you're going to be a good girl and suck my cock before i have fun with that pretty pussy okay?"
you let out a whine at his words, not used to your familiar talking to you so crude. he could tell you loved it though by the subtle shift in your thighs. once you nodded your head, you watched as his hands went to his jeans. he unbuttons his jeans before sliding them and his boxers down his hips. you eyes widen as his dick springs out, but you didn't make any move towards him. not until he motioned you forward did you move.
one had rested on his thigh while the other one wrapped around his length. you pump his length a few times, earning a groan from jungwon before you leaned forward. you licked the underside of his length before placing his head in your mouth and sucking. you watched as jungwon threw his head back as you started to bob your head, using your hand for what you couldn't fit in your mouth.
"my sweet kitten- fuck." you nearly gagged when he thrusted into your mouth. his hand moved around to grip your hair again as he continued to move his hips. you kept your hands on his hips for stability. "are you going to let me cum in this pretty mouth, kitten?"
you moan at his words, feeling your eyes start to water. you could tell he was getting close from the sounds he was making. after a few more thrusts, you felt his release hit the back of your throat, making you gag. when he pulled away from you, you let out cough after you swallowed. you were catching you breath when you saw him bend down.
"open." you do as he says, opening your mouth to show him. "good girl."
your arms wrap around his neck as his lips press against yours. you try to get up, but you feel yourself being lifted by jungwon before you could. your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you over to bed. you felt your back hit the bed as jungwon laid you down. his teeth bite your bottom lip before he pulls away.
his hands grip the bottom of your shirt, and you sit up enough for him to pull it over your head. his lips attach to your neck, biting and marking every place his lips touch. you arch into his touch when his hands squeeze your breasts.
"so responsive, kitten."
his hands squeeze your breast again before he moves to unhook your bra. he slides it down your arms, throwing it before moving down your body. you let out a moan when his lips attach to your nipple, sucking harshly.
"fuck, wonnie."
he smirks against your breast, clearly loving the sounds that are coming out of you. he continues to bite and suck, leaving bruises all over your chest and stomach. he stops at the hem of your jeans and chuckles when you shift your hips.
"does my girl need some relief?"
"yes." you answer, jumping when he bits your thigh. "please wonnie."
he kneels down between your legs, quickly unbuttoning your pants before pulling them down your legs. his lips ghost up your thigh as he makes his way to your heat. "god, kitten. you're never wearing clothes around me again."
jungwon lifts your legs, placing them over his shoulder as he lines his face with your heat. he tests the waters, sticking his tongue out, tasting you and groaning as he does so. after a small whine from you, he finally gives you the relief you want. his tongue darts out again, easily finding your clit. you back arches when he flicks it before attaching his lips to it.
"fuck." you roll your hips against his face. the action causes a groan to come out of jungwon.
"i can't believe i waited so long to do this." he mumbles against you. "you taste so good, kitten."
he trails his fingers around your entrance before slowly pushing his index finger in. you squeeze around his finger as you adjust to him. your hands grip the sheets, a moan coming out of your mouth when he curls his finger.
"wonnie." you cry out when he eases a second finger inside of you. his speed increased while his tongue continued to move in patterns on your clit. you were a moaning mess beneath him, gripping his hair in your hand while he brought you closer to your climax. "wonnie, i- fuck."
you couldn't even fully warn him before you climaxed. jungwon tightened his grip on your waist, continuing his movements and not showing any signs of slowing down. you felt overly sensitive as you came down from your high, trying to pull away from jungwon. he open his eyes before looking up at you.
"you can handle one more, right kitten?" you found yourself nodding at his question before you could even think. "one more before i fill you with my cock."
you whine at his words. you feel jungwon smirk against you before his lips reattaches to your clit. you moan out his name again, completely losing yourself in his touch. it didn't take long at all for your second climax to build back up.
"wonnie, i'm-"
"i know, kitten." you hear him say. "you're going to be my perfect girl and cum all over my fingers again, aren't you?"
"yes." you moan out.
all it took was one more curl of jungwon's fingers before you climaxed again. he helped you through your high before pulling away from you. his lips ghost up your body before pressing against you lips. his tongue pushes through your lips, brushing against yours. he pulled away, giving you one last kiss before leaning up.
"roll over kitten." you do as he says and rolling over onto your stomach. jungwon grabs your waist, pulling you to where you were on your knees. you look over your shoulder when you hear rustling. he discarded the rest of his clothes before looking at you. his hands run over your ass before kneading the flesh. "who does this ass belong to yn? does it belong to jake?"
you jump slightly when his hand lands on your cheek. "no."
"then who does it belong to?"
"you." he slaps your ass again at your answer.
"i didn't quite catch that kitten."
"you, wonnie." you whine. he groans in satisfaction, running his hands over the spot he spanked.
"that's right. so what aren't we going to let jake do again?"
"kiss me." you answer, jumping when he spanked you. you look in confusion to see him clearly waiting for the right answer. "touch me?" he spanked you again. you let out a whine of frustration as he slid his dick through your folds. "anything because he's not you?"
"good girl." you let out a loud moan when jungwon entered you in one smooth thrust. he stills, allowing you a moment to adjust. he leans forward, pressing kisses along your spine. "do you feel how well your pussy takes me kitten? like she knew she was mine this whole time."
you whimper at his words, silently begging him to move. you shift your hips as you try to get him to move. he gets the message, tightly gripping your waist before he pulls almost completely out of you. he slams back into you full force, a choked moan coming out of you at his speed. if he didn't have such a good grip on you, you don't think you would be able to hold yourself up- even if you were pretty sure there were going to be bruises tomorrow.
"fuck wonnie."
"does that feel good?"
"s-so good."
the only thing that could be heard was the slapping of skin, along with the two of your moans. you didn't think he could possible go any faster, but he did the closer he got to his climax. he let out a groan when you squeezed him. "fuck, kitten. i'm not- fuck."
his hand left your hip when you squeezed him again. you gasp as his hand finds your clit, rubbing harshly and bringing you close to your climax. "wonnie. please."
"come on, kitten." jungwon leaned forward again, kissing your shoulder. "let me feel you cum all over me."
you felt tears prick your eyes as you climax for the third time- his name falling from your lips. he groans when you squeeze him, bringing him to his own climax. you feel him fill you before he pulls out of you. he catches you when your legs finally give out on you, helping you lay down.
"you did so good, kitten." he whispers as he presses light kisses to your face, ending on your lips. "i didn't hurt you, did i?"
you shook your head, a small smile gracing your lips as you looked at him. "no, wonnie. you didn't hurt me."
a yawn came out of your mouth, the exhaustion of your guys activities finally hitting you. jungwon leaned down, kissing your forehead.
"rest kitten. i'll take care of you."
you let out a soft groan, wiping the sleep from your eyes before blinking them open. you freeze, not recognizing the room you were in until it hit you. you were in jungwon's room. a room that you don't normally come in unless necessary because he's very particular about scents. but here you were, in his bed. you look down to also see that you were in one of his shirts.
you remember faintly what happened after jungwon gave you the best night of your life. he helped clean you up before redressing you. he wanted to leave heeseung's, but you couldn't remember why. you do remember him hissing at jake when he stepped to close to you as he was carrying you to the car. you fell asleep in the car, and don't remember anything after that.
you shift slightly, feeling an arm tighten around your waist. you turn your head to see jungwon tucked into your back. his breathing shallow as he sleeps next to you. he frowned when you shifted again, and in his sleep, his tail moved to slide around your bare thigh.
maybe in jake's drunken stupor he was right. maybe jungwon did feel the same. you really hoped so at least, and it wasn't just sex. if it was just sex to him, he wouldn't have taken care of you while you were asleep. he wouldn't have changed you into his clothes before putting you in his bed. he wouldn't be wrapped around you like he didn't want you to leave if it was just sex. you really hoped so because you wouldn't survive it was just sex.
before you could go down that road, your bladder stopped you. you really had to use the bathroom. you struggled, gently unwrapping his tail before his arm. you shifted closer to the edge of the bed before sitting up. right as you sat up, jungwon's arm wrapped around you again, pulling you to him. you land back on the bed with a yelp before looking up at jungwon who was hovering over you.
"where are you going kitten?"
you swallow when his nose brushes yours. "i- um. bathroom."
"you sure about that?" he teased, noticing your stuttering. you flush before nodding your head. he moved off of you to lay next to you. "use mine."
you look over at him in shock, but didn't ask him why as you got back up. the only time you were ever in his bathroom was before you moved in here. you turn on the light, shutting the door before doing your business. you looked in the mirror after you were done, expecting that you would look a mess since you didn't take your make up off last night. your hair was slightly messed up from sleeping, but there wasn't any makeup on your face. did jungwon take off your makeup?
you leave the bathroom, more confused than when you came in there. you see him laying in bed, back facing you. you thought he fell asleep again, but he shifted when you heard you walk back in the room. he lifted his arm, silently calling you back to him.
"did you take off my makeup?" you ask as you shuffle back towards him.
"yes. you hate sleeping in your makeup." he shrugged like it was nothing. you felt your heart flip at his words. he really did take care of you while you were asleep.
as soon as your thighs brushed the bed, jungwon lifted up the blankets for you. you hesitantly slid back in and pulled the covers over you before laying on your back, looking at the ceiling. you hear him chuckle causing you to look over at him. he was resting on his arm, looking down at you with an amused look.
"what's wrong kitten?" he questions. "you look nervous. you weren't nervous last night."
you roll your eyes at his innuendo. "i'm not nervous."
"then what are you?"
"confused." you answer hesitantly. he watches you as you look away from him. "you told me a hundred times never to come in your room, but here i am. in your room. in your bed. after using your bathroom."
jungwon shifts closer to you, moving his hand to play with yours. "ask me why i asked you to not come in here."
"why?" you ask after a moment.
"i couldn't deal with your scent in here." he answered. you furrowed your brows in confusion, sort of hurt from that sentence. "i'm already tortured by your sweet scent everywhere else in this apartment. i needed somewhere safe, or i was going to do something crazy."
"crazy like?"
"last night." he looked up at you when you snatched your hand away from him. you looked away, but not quick enough for him to see you blink back tears.
you move away from him, trying to get out of the bed. "i knew it just sex for you."
"hey." he grabbed your waist, stopping you again from getting up. you struggled, trying to pry his arm off of you, but it was useless. he pulled you back to him. "it was not just sex for me."
"you just said it was crazy." you sniffle, still not looking at him.
"i meant the part where i threw you over my shoulder in the middle of the party." he clarified. "not the part where we had sex."
"so you don't regret it?" you ask, finally looking over at him. he removed his hand from your waist, cupping your cheeks and wiping a few stray tears.
"no." he answered. "i wish our first time wouldn't have been in the middle of a party, but i don't regret it. nor would i change a thing. i meant everything that happened last night."
you nod your head, believing him. he smiled at you before leaning down and catching your lips with his. unlike last night, the kiss was soft and unrushed. you lift up your hand, brushing it along his fluffy cat ear. he pulls you closer to him before settling in between your legs. his tongue tangles with yours as his hands explored your body.
"you belong to me." jungwon whispers against your lips as he pulls away. his fingers grip your thigh, running over an old scar. "all your scars? mine." you jump, a gasp coming out of your mouth when he cups your heat. "this pussy? mine." his hand then trailed up before tapping your chest. "this heart? mine. just like mine belongs to you."
your eyes widen at his confession. "wonnie-"
"i knew i was yours the moment we met." he told you, brushing your hair behind your ear. "i'll never forget it. the way you looked at me with those wide eyes. i knew i was a goner. i knew that i would do anything you asked me to just so i could stay by your side."
your at a loss for words. not like he gives you a chance anyway because he kisses you again. you pull him closer, melting in his embrace. his lips pulled away when you needed oxygen. he kissed the corner of your mouth before trailing down your jaw.
"the first thing i felt when i conjured you was fear." you mumble, smiling when he chuckles against your neck. "it wasn't because i was scared of you. i was scared of how you made me feel. what 16 year old girl falls in love with her hybrid familiar?"
you feel his lips stop kissing your neck when his words hit him. he pulls back, looking down at you. "please tell me you meant to say that."
"say what, wonnie?" you ask, a teasing hint to your voice. a whine slips past his lips at the teasing. "i wouldn't have said it if i didn't mean it."
"say it again. please."
"i love you, jungwon." as soon as the words leave your mouth, his lips pressed to yours. his hands cup your cheeks as he tried to get closer to you. his lips stayed against yours until your lungs felt like they were going to explode.
"i love you, yn." he told you as he pulled away. you let out a relieved breath that he felt the same. "i love you so much, kitten. seeing you with jake last night nearly killed me."
"so did me seeing you with sarah." you told him. you watched as his features turned to confusion.
"who's sarah?"
"the bitch you were with last night." you answered. "she was all over you."
you watch as jungwon smiled at you. you then realized the mistake of your words. "jealous, kitten?"
"i hate you." you grumble, upset you fell into his trap.
"no you don't." he smiled before kissing you. "you love me."
"i change my mind." you laugh as he gasps at you.
"take it back." you shake your head. you scream when his hands attack your sides. you try to move away from him, but his legs were trapping you.
"stop!"
"tell me you love me."
"i love you." his hands froze when the words left your lips. you gasp for air as he smiles down at you.
"sarah means nothing to me. in fact, i can't stand her." jungwon told you. "jake told me to let her flirt with me to see if you would get jealous, so i did. hated every second of it. then to top it off, when i looked at you, jake was kissing you."
"he asked me if i wanted to make you jealous." you tell him. "that's why he asked me to trust him. i really didn't think he would kiss me."
"idiot." jungwon grumbled. you laugh at his pout, reaching up and kissing his pouting lips. he responded instantly, slightly groaning against your lips.
jungwon's hands traveled down your sides before slipping under your shirt. you sigh into the kiss as his hands explore your stomach before traveling to your chest. he squeezes your chest causing a moan to slip past your lips. you lift your hips, brushing your core against his already hard erection.
"you're not too sore, are you?" jungwon asked as he pulled away.
"no." you answered with a shake of your head. "please. i need you."
"fuck kitten." he groans before kissing you. his hands play with your nipples until you're moaning into his mouth. his lips leave yours before pulling up your shirt and attaching his lips to your breasts.
"wonnie." you moan at the contact.
his hand squeezes your other breast while his other travels to your underwear. he runs his finger along the top of your underwear, smirking when you moan at the contact. "you're already soaked, kitten."
"please wonnie."
he pushes your underwear to the side, playing with your clit with his thumb while his index finger teases your entrance. you moan at the stretch when his finger pushes inside of you. he takes his time, allowing you to adjust before adding a second finger. you arch your chest into his mouth when he curls his fingers.
he speeds up, loving the moans that are coming out of your mouth for him. he looks up, seeing your eyes sealed shut as you lose yourself to the pleasure. he lifts away from your breast before moving back up your body. his lips press against yours, swallowing all of your sounds.
"god, you sound so pretty, kitten. i love how responsive you are for me." he praises. you squeeze around his fingers at the compliment. "does my girl like being praised?"
"wonnie." you whine. "i- i'm close."
"i know, sweet girl." he curls his fingers again and again until you saw stars. you gripped onto his bare shoulder as he brought you to your climax. he kissed all over your face as you recovered. "you look so beautiful when you cum, kitten."
you blush, shyly pushing him away. he laughs at your embarrassment of his words. he eases his fingers out of you causing you to moan at the loss. you watch him as he moves his hand to his mouth, sucking on his fingers that were just inside of you. he groans at the taste of you before pulling his fingers out of his mouth and replacing it with yours.
you kiss him back while your hands slip into his sweats. he jerks into your hand, moaning into your mouth when your hand wraps around him. you stroke him gently, feeling him relax at the feeling. soon, he pulls your hand away before stripping you out of your underwear. he slips his sweats down enough to get his dick out before looking at you.
"are you sure you're not too sore?"
you shake your head. "i'm not. please fuck me."
he wraps his hand around his dick, running it through your folds and getting a moan out of you before he slid the tip in. unlike last night, he doesn't push fully in. he moves inch by inch, making sure you're okay before he continues. he groans, pressing his forehead to yours once he's flush against your hips.
"you feel so good kitten." he kisses you.
"fuck, wonnie." you beg, shifting your hips. "please move."
he does as you ask, thrusting slowly at first before he speeds up. you claw down his back as he speeds up even more. "fuck, w-wonnie. i love you."
"i love you kitten. so much." he responds, loosing himself in pleasure like you were. he moved your thighs to wrap around him, allowing him to go in deeper. you moan at the feeling of him. "i can feel you squeezing around me kitten. are you close?"
you nod your head. "y-yes. i'm close."
at your answer, he speeds up, chasing his high with you. his hand starts rubbing your clit, and you cry out as he brings you to your climax. he lets out a curse before spilling into you right after. he all but collapses on top of you as you both try to catch your breath.
once he recovers, he kisses you while praising you. "you always do so good for me kitten. i'm never going to get tired of you."
"you promise?"
"i promise." you kiss him again at his promise. he kisses you back before slipping out of you. you groan into his mouth as he pulls away. "i'll be right back."
he gets off of you, fixing his sweats before disappearing into the bathroom. after a minute, he returns with a warm rag, cleaning you up before tucking you back in bed. he slides in beside you. you lift up your arm when he cuddles into you, resting his head on your chest as his legs tangle with yours. you stroke his hair. he relaxes into you, as you do him, but there was something missing.
"do the thing." you speak up.
"yn-" jungwon groans, but you stop him.
"if you love me, you'll do it." you hear jungwon let out a sigh of defeat. you smile when you hear the soft purring coming from him. you kiss his head. "i love you wonnie."
"i love you too, kitten."
#enhypen scenarios#enhypen#enhypen imagines#enhypen x reader#kpop reactions#kpop scenarios#kpop imagines#kpop smau#enhypen jungwon#yang jungwon#jungwon enhypen#jungwon reactions#jungwon imagines#jungwon scenarios#jungwon#enhypen reactions#enhypen smut#enhypen hard hours#enha x reader#kpop#kpop smut#enha smut#enhypen hard thoughts
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18+ Minors dni Enemies to lovers with some massage therapist Bucky. Breeding kinnk, aftercare, Bucky is a secret softie, all that.
Imagine Rival Biker Bucky x f reader. A smutty, slutty little concept while I add the finishing touches to another fic, just getting this out of my system first. I just love the idea of a sexy, bad boy Bucky getting his hands on the one girl who won't give him a second glance because she's too good for him and they're from opposite worlds. Since childhood. Now he's a biker. Covered in black ink. He works in an auto shop. Owns the bar that brings in chaos. He's smoke, whiskey and leather.
She, however, is soft, pretty, smart and does not have the time to entertain someone like him. She has her degree. Working on a second. She has a career. She does not associate with the likes of him, not as the police chiefs daughter. She'll be damned if she has to even breathe the same air, especially when his gang is the cause for half the problems in the town that her father has been trying to get rid of.
Now, imagine that hours of working on her notes and papers leave her with unbearable knots and kninks in her back. She doesn't want to take a break but the pain only gets worse as the week goes by. It doesn't take long for her to shoot her regular massage therapist a message to book the very first available appointment.
-
You unclasped your bra, folding and setting it off to the side while waiting for Wanda in the warmly lit room. You could have sworn she was a witch with the way she made pain disappear; she’d also become a good friend after your many visits.
The knock at the door interrupted you as you slid your shorts off, leaving you in your panties, not rushing to jump onto the table considering it was just Wanda anyway.
“Come in!” You smiled, making your way to the massage bed as the door clicked open- “Oh my God!!” You nearly shrieked seeing Bucky walk in, a shit eating from spreading across his face as you scrambled to grab the tiny towel to cover yourself though it was a futile attempt. “What the hell are you doing here?!”
"You have an appointment, don't you?" He quirked an eyebrow as if it was clear as day why he was there.
"Yeah, with Wanda, why are you here, did you get lost on the way to jail?" Your face scrunched in a mix of confusion and disgust ignoring the roll of his eyes while you snatched your shirt to better cover up.
"Well Wanda couldn't make it in but she sent me" He said with a shrug, sighing when he saw your less than impressed face, "Don't flatter yourself, I'm just training under her as part of my physiotherapy internship"
"I'm sorry, you're trying to tell me you of all people are learning how to give massages? Please"
"Physiotherapy" Bucky corrected, "You're not the only one who has a degree, princess" Bucky watched as you groaned realizing you hadn't put your bra on, opting to stuff it in your bag instead of putting it back on in front of him.
"You are NOT laying a finger on me-ow!" You hissed, feeling the knot in your back tug at the rest of your muscles.
"You're not gonna be able to do a whole lot with that much pain" Bucky smirked, only half joking. He wasn't wrong. The pain was worse than before and you needed this an you really didn't have the time to reschedule.
"Fine" You mumbled, turning away from him so you could take your shirt off again, glaring at him when you noticed he hadn't turned away. "Could you at least give me some privacy instead of lurking in the corner like a pervert"
"Whatever you want, princess" He bit his lip as he faced the wall, hearing your feet pad across the tile to lay down on the massage table.
"Alright" You huffed after covering your lower body with the towel, now laying face down, immediately second guessing yourself as he walked over.
"Let me know if anything's uncomfortable or if you want me to stop" His voice was no longer snarky; in fact he sounded professional. "Where do you feel the most tension?"
"Um-shoulders and-lower back" You mumbled out the last bit, he was going to massage you there anyway so there so no pointed hiding it. You tensed at the feeling of his oiled fingers starting to work at your muscles, he had no right to be that good. At all.
“Shit” you hissed trying to keep your voice down, ignoring the clench of your stomach feeling his rough fingers press down on the areas that were tight. Little did you know Bucky was struggling far more than you were.
It went against every bit of professionalism he had. Every moan you tried to silence went right to his cock, his hands making their way lower before trailing up again. Fuck, you sounded so pretty...
"Better stop making those sounds"
"Or what" You challenged back before you could even stop yourself.
"Princess..."
"Your attitude is what needs fixing" Bucky growled, professionalism be damned, "fuck this"
-
You have no idea how you ended up here. It didn't matter though, not when there wasn't a single cohesive thought in your brain as you wailed letting Bucky absolutely rail you. Your back didn't feel an ounce of pain as he took you on all fours, pulling your hips to slam back against him, gripping your ass with enough strength to leave you sore.
"Feel better now huh baby, not trying to stay quiet anymore, are ya" He let out a low chuckle which melted into a groan feeling you tighten on his dick, "Such a good little princess like you letting me put my dick in you, dirty girl"
You hate to admit it but the clench of your cunt betrays how much you love this. It was so wrong. You had no business fucking someone like him and yet where you were letting his precum paint all over the inside of your walls.
"What would your daddy say princess, if he knew where you were right now, what you were doin'? Thinking you're studying when you're actually all pretty and naked, letting me rub that gorgeous body up and down, bet you'd let me put my cum in you too, huh? Bet your dad would love that, his perfect little girl all knocked up with some bikers baby"
You could have said no, stayed silence, just about anything but nope. You screamed feeling his fingers reach around the massage your clit, your orgasm wasting no time hurling towards you.
"Ja-Ja-JAMESSS"
"MMMPHH I love the sound of that baby, could get used to hearing you sayin' my name, say it again princess, say my name with my cock in you, c'mon, that's it"
"Fuck-James-I-James" You were a mess and loving every bit of it, tears starting to flow down your cheeks, all the pent up stress you were feeling finally releasing. You felt your throat tighten, a sob escaping your lips as you let go, your arousal making a creamy mess on the dark curly hair on the base of his cock.
"God, you're milkin me, you want my cum that bad huh baby, want a little biker baby in that tummy of yours, I'll give it to you, give you so much I might even put twins in there-FUCKK"
-
"Shhhh" Bucky cooed, wrapping you up in a fluffy towel while cuddling up your limp body, wiping away any remnants of tears while you stayed floating in a subby, post sex haze. "I got you, you did so good princess" You only manage to let out a weak whimper, giving into his warm, thick arms that rock you.
"You alright angel?"
"Mph" you mumble against his chest and he reaches over for a glass of water that's nearby, bringing it up for you to take a sip. You're surprised at how sweet he's being, drinking up before snuggling into him again. Damn him for being so warm and comfy.
"Y'know, there might be a little Bucky in there" He whispers with a playful smirk in his voice, fingers tickling your lower belly, chuckling when you narrow your eyes at him.
"You wish" You sass back, ignoring the butterflies you feel.
"I do" He admits, biting his lip, his previous cocky demeanor replaced with a shy one, though he tries to mask it. Poorly. His cheeks are pinker than the time you threw paint on him for pulling your pigtails. When you were both 4. "I'd want Bucky jr. to have your brains though"
Imagine that incident sets off a very interesting chain of events. A confession of feelings. You both couldn't be happier, meanwhile your father is grumbling about how he knew this fuckin' day would come, God damn it.
"I never liked that boy" He struggles to keep a scowl on his face watching you giggle like you were 4 again, running to the door as soon as you hear the rumble of his bike.
"Shut up, you love him" Your mom chides, watching Bucky swoop you up for a loving kiss, heading you a bouquet of yellow flowers as he always does.
-
"I still don't like 'em" Your dad says while you roll your eyes, your arm linked with his as he walks you down the aisle.
"Is that why all the files you had to build a case against him all suddenly went missing?" You tease and your dad shugs.
"Wasn't me"
-
just an idea.
#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky x y/n#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x f!reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes x freader#bucky barnes x fanfic#bucky barnes x fluff#bucky x smut#bucky x you#bucky x female reader#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes fan fic#bucky barnes fan fiction#james bucky barnes#james buchanan barnes#james bucky buchanan barnes#enemies to lovers#enemies to lovers bucky barnes#bucky barnes enemies to lovers#bucky barnes imagine#biker bucky x you#biker bucky au#marvel biker au#biker bucky
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I don’t think we talk enough about Yuus who actually have lives back in their world, and are genuinely freaking out about being stuck at NRC. Just imagine them lore bombing the cast because no one ever asks about their homelife. So it’s just random moments of yearning for home until evidently Crowley gets off his rocker and does his job.
————
*having tea at heartslabyul before everyone goes on break*
Yuu: “I miss my mom. This is holiday season back where I’m from…man, this sucks” *sulks and eats tart*
Deuce: You have parents?
Cater: You miss your family???
Riddle: Must be nice.
————
Yuu: *sigh*
Grim: ….
Yuu: *siiiiigh*
Grim: ……….
Yuu: *SIIIIIIIIGH*
Grim: MRAH ALRIGHT ALREADY. WHAT DO YA WANT?
Yuu: I miss my husband. I wonder what he’s doing right now. All I have of him here is my wedding band….I just want to see him.
*proceeds to admire a wedding band they had hidden under their uniform gloves*
Ace+Deuce: YOU’RE MARRIED???? HOW OLD ARE YOU???
Grim: Aye lets pawn that for dorm funds
————
*at monstro lounge. jade’a trying to shove mushrooms down floyd’s gullet. The latter is fighting for his life*
Yuu: Slug em in the nads Floyd! Lesson one in human anatomy! Make em’ sing!
Azul: *appalled* can you not encourage them??? Aren’t you supposed to mediate disagreements?
Yuu: nah. You don’t get between siblings. That’s their beef. GET EM JADE, MAKE EM EAT HIS WEIGHT!
Azul: I take it you have siblings? - urk. Thank the sea witch I am an only child.
Yuu: *cheers when jade claims victory - at the expense of a now broken table* Be grateful it’s just the two. I have three and we once made a game out of sledding on concrete. News flash - the er visit cost quadruple that table
Azul: *proceeds to make medical investment plans*
———
Yuu: *crying*
Leona: The hell’s wrong with them now? *eyes ruggie*
Ruggie: *puts hands up* I didn’ do anything! I just swiped one of their cookies! I swear!
Yuu: *crying harder* It’s an oatmeal creme pie dammit! Y’all don’t know little debbie and it shows!
Leona: ….do i want to know?
Ruggie: *hands back the half eaten creme pie. Lowkey freaking out because Leona looks ready to whack him upside with a spelldrive disc* Here! Y’see? There’s still some…c’mon prefect. Ya can stop crying now. I’ll get Trey to make ya another. Just take a breath.
Yuu: *sobs while eating. Doesn’t know whether to be upset because the creme pie is gone, or because trey’s tastes better than little debbie. So it’s still not the same* I hate you all.
#twisted wonderland#twst#twst x reader#twst imagines#twst scenarios#leona kingscholar#twst ace trappola#twst cater diamond#twst riddle rosehearts#idk atp#i like to think about yuus that arent the basic teen#like imagine just pulling a mother of three into twst and she’s flipping out because crowley just indirectly orphaned her three kids#for the forseeable future#or a grandma/grandpa#imagine an elder trying to hop out of the coffin#also like imagine people from other fandom universes getting pulled#ahhh the potential
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MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE— ex boyfriend! gojo satoru

SUM. alone in a hotel room with your ex boyfriend after he pulled a risky stunt. what could go wrong?
CONTAINS. 18+ content, MDNI. non canon compliant/au. no plot just porn. x fem reader. 3k words. gojo’s lowk an idiot. ex sex. unprotected p in v. cunnilingus and fingering. creampie. some hints of body worship. nipple play. panty sniffing + panty taking. missionary. hair pulling (m receiving). belly bulge. some aftercare. unresolved feelings. reader probs folded too fast idk.
A/N. if you recognize this smut scene, no you don’t 🫡 #reuse reduce recycle
you knew this mission was bound for failure the moment principal yaga opened his mouth to announce that you and gojo were working together. no exceptions.
why he needed help in the first place was beyond you.
he was loud, arrogant, cocky, but he knew how to handle himself well (you would rather die than admit it, though).
and he also happened to conveniently be your ex boyfriend.
your ex boyfriend who you haven’t spoken to since your breakup—despite his various attempts to reach out to you: from extravagant bouquets waiting for you on your doorstep to cashapp requests in the thousands asking for you to unblock him. (which you accepted but never unblocked).
tensions had been running high since the moment the two of you stepped foot into your hotel. arguments left unsaid, lingering looks that the two of you ignored far too well. all until today, of course. when the idiot made the mistake of getting too close and letting his guard down, just for the sake of showing off to the first years.
“do you just get off on going against instructions? you could’ve gotten hurt.” you’d been nagging in his ear for the entirety of the way back, though he wasn’t complaining. after a couple months of silence, this was practically music.
“you still care about me, sweets? i’m flattered.” gojo could practically see the smoke coming out of your ears with that response.
"well, yes. but that’s not the point. you just can't do anything by the rules, can you? i swear, it's like it goes in one ear and ou-" your complaints were quickly shut down, his lips pressing against your own before you could even muster what was happening.
every single atom in your body was screaming to push him away, not to do this. again. but instead of doing just that, your fingers dug into his shirt and pulled him all that much closer.
kissing him felt all too familiar—a practiced dance you hadn’t quite managed to forget all the moves to. “be mad at me later, just.. let me have this please,” he pleaded, pressing his forehead against your own.
and you were certain that the man had done witchcraft, gotten some spell from a witch on etsy that’d been activated with the kiss, because somehow, someway, you found yourself nodding.
satoru hooked his fingers underneath your thighs, squeezing the supple flesh once while he made his way over to the bed. “mmph, fuck, i missed you baby,” he let out a quiet moan against your lips.
“shut it,” was your response, nibbling down on his bottom lip. your nails raked through his hair, tugging at the strands when you pulled him closer.
“yes ma’am,” satoru breathed out, walking over to the california king bed in the middle of the room before gently placing you down. you practically melted into the expensive silk sheets. (courtesy of gojo having millions upon millions to blow)
every second was savored—not willing himself to stay away from you for too long. he was hovering above you in a matter of seconds, holding your chin in between your fingers, “can i?”
once again, every thought in your mind was telling you to push him away. to remember how little he made you feel. “yes,” your mouth had a mind of its own, answering him before you thought better of it.
satoru let out a sigh, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “are you sure? i want you to want me. to want this as much as i do.”
you shook your head, reaching up and pressing your palm against his cheek. he was like a pathetic puppy, rubbing against your touch. “i do want it, toru. i want you.”
his touch was careful, almost like unraveling an expensive gift he didn’t quite want to ruin the wrapping of. a strangled breath left him upon seeing your lingerie, cerulean and lace framing your body in the best damn present he’d opened.
a cerulean blue that was too similar to his eye color—too much for him to deem as a coincidence.
looking over at you in disbelief, he asked, “when’d you make the switch to agent provocateur?”
you raised a brow at how quickly he recognized the material—deciding to leave it be though, “ever since i had seven grand to blow from a veryyy generous donor last week.”
satoru let out a quiet scoff, tracing the outline of the lace on your bra with the tip of his finger. his thumb barely circled against your clothed nipple, a featherlight touch, “and just who were you planning on showing this pretty set to?”
“wouldn’t you like to know weather boy?” a scoff of your own left your lips, rolling your eyes. but he was already in his own little world by now.
satoru had been deprived of the taste of you for months now—the very feeling of your skin underneath his fingertips nearly having him break out in a moan.
every nerve in his brain seemed to go haywire when he pressed his lips against your neck, the lingering scent of your perfume intoxicating whatever brain cells remained in that big noggin.
"did you just moan?" you raised your head as you looked down at him. never mind, not almost.
“you taste and smell good, what did you expect?” he licked a stripe down your neck, reaching your collarbone. gojo gently pulled the skin in between his teeth, sucking at the flesh. determined to leave a mark—even if you’d just have him for today.
each kiss trailed lower and lower down until he got to your shoulder, unable to resist the urge of snapping your bra strap. before you had the chance to glare at him, he reached for your back—unclasping the hooks and tossing your $300 bra to the floor.
you nearly winced.
“there’s my girls.” satoru took one of your breasts in his mouth, swirling his tongue around your nipple, “my favorite girls. missed them too, missed everything about you, baby.”
one of his large hands engulfed your other breast, rolling his thumb against your areola while he mindlessly sucked on the one in his mouth. “there you go. arch your back for me, sweetheart.” a groan left his lips, slipping his knee in between your legs to keep them open.
satoru alternated between each breast, giving each equal attention. leaving your nipples hard and covered in his spit. “so pretty,” he whispered in awe, giving each a farewell kiss.
he made his way down to your navel, pressing chaste kisses to whatever skin he had access to. kissing everywhere but where you needed him most—where he was rubbing his knee against.
you almost expected him to pounce up at the first opportunity, but instead, he settled by the foot of the bed. his touch featherlight as he dragged his fingers from your ankle to your calf, eliciting goosebumps down your spine in his wake.
“i’m sorry,” satoru started off, pressing his lips against your right calf before moving on to the left. “never wanted to make you break up with me,” he continued, kissing his way up your leg.
not a single inch of your body went untouched by his lips before he moved up, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties. you raised your hips, letting him slide them down your legs.
he looked up at you with puppy eyes, holding the slick-covered panties in his hand. a silent request.
your eyes narrowed, “no. you’re not keeping those.”
satoru let out a whine, bringing your panties up to his nose. taking an audible whiff and closing his eyes, practically relishing in the lace. “oh come on, i’m the one who got you these, technically.”
“generous donor, since we’re getting technical,” you shrugged, “put the merchandise down on the floor.”
“i’ll get you ten more. twenty, if that’s what you want. just let me keep these,” he spoke quickly, watching the way your eyes practically turned into money signs. “and maybe if you just show them off to me.”
he’d already spent over seven grand, what was a couple more thousand?
you looked at the pair in his hand, before shrugging, “i’ll be generous and only ask for fifteen.”
satoru quickly pocketed your panties, kissing up your thigh. “the most generous,” he mused, nibbling on your inner thigh. his hands spread your legs out, presenting to him like one of the finest meals.
and he was more than ready to feast.
he leaned forward, swiping his tongue in between your folds. your fingers ran through his hair again, gripping his hair tightly. or at least.. you thought your grip was tight. it was hard to tell when satoru moaned regardless, sucking on your folds.
“so good, so good, use me, i’m all yours, always been,” just one taste of you again was enough to have him pussy drunk, babbling against your cunt. you pushed his head further into your cunt, swiveling your hips against his eager tongue, “yeah, yeah, just like that, don’t stop.”
you looked over to see satoru laying down on his stomach, completely at bliss slurping and sucking at your cunt with his feet swinging back and forth. if his mouth and hands weren’t busy, you had no doubt that he’d be twirling his hair and giggling.
“come onnn, let me know how i’m good i’m making you feel,” he pouted as he looked up at you with half-lidded eyes, his lips glossed over with your slick.
"fuck you," you bit down on your lip, gritting the words out in an attempt to keep any moans at bay.
"aht, aht, that's my job, cutie. and first, you gotta tell me what you want," satoru gave your thigh a loud smooch, his fingertips tracing your folds and barely dipping inside of your dripping cunt before he’d pull away. only to repeat it again.
in a moment of weakness, you found yourself relenting, “your fingers, toru. please,” it came out low, barely enough for his ears to register. and almost like clockwork, he took that opportunity to tease you further.
“what was that, baby? couldn’t really hear you,” he retorted, clicking his tongue. when you went to open your mouth, he pushed his fingers inside of your cunt. the loud squelch cutting you off completely.
“your. fingers,” you gritted out, your request coming out louder, “please.” only the bastard would make you beg after apologizing to you.
he pushed his fingers inside of you yet again, bringing them to his lips and swirling his tongue around them, “please what?” another tease.
“please, toru. i want your fingers,” a whine was evident in your voice.
“there we go, baby. that wasn’t so hard, hm?” his fingers thrusted inside of you once more, curling in a come hither motion.
satoru closed his lips around your puffy clit, sucking on it before swirling his tongue. he started with drawing small circles on your nub, before your brows furrowed.
he was using your damn clit as a writing board.
the tip of his tongue carefully spelled each letter,
‘I. LOVE. YOU.’
“seriously?” it came out shakier than you would’ve liked, little gasps and unsteady breaths leaving your lips.
“mhm,” he didn’t bother on elaborating further, covering your clit in his spit as he sucked. the curl of his fingers hit that spot inside of you with each thrust, his fingers thrusting deeper than even some of your toys.
“ah ah, fuck!” you let out a moan, hips bucking into his face to meet his tongue frantically. “don’t stop, don’t stop, just like that!” each swipe and thrust brought you closer and closer, your back nearly off the mattress.
satoru simply shook his head, swiping his tongue back and forth. the idea was simply absurd—that he was even capable of thinking to stop. “not gonna stop, baby. just wanna keep tasting you,” he responded, swinging his feet back and forth again in sync with his thrusts.
you weren’t sure if you hated him or you wanted to fuck him even more. maybe a little of both.
that familiar coil tightened in your lower stomach, your nails practically digging into his scalp in response. “ah fuck, yeah, dig them in there, i can take it, i can take it,” satoru was reduced to a babbling mess yet again, each whine vibrating against your clit.
“i’m close, i’m close, gonna cum,” your moans had him pushing his hips into the mattress, seeking anything to relief his aching cock. but—this wasn’t about him. it was about you first. “come for me, baby, take what you need.”
the coil inside of you snapped, your orgasm hitting you at once. your hips stilled, your release coating his fingers and spilling out onto the bedsheets underneath. he sucked his fingers, cleaning up every. single. last. dribble.
gojo wasted no time in unzipping his pants, sliding them down along with his boxers. freed from its confines, his cock sprung up against his stomach. pink tip twitching and all—dripping drop after drop of precum.
wrapping a hand around the base, he swiped the tip against your folds. much like he’d be swiping his card later. up and down, letting your slick coat the head before he slowly pushed it inside. pushing against that initial resistance.
“biggg stretch, there we go,” a hiss escaped from his lips, feeling your walls squeeze against him tightly. he had to close his eyes, refusing to look down at you. he knew that if he did, that would be all it would take for him to bust.
satoru placed your legs on his shoulders, slowly starting to move his hips forward. pushing inch by inch inside with each thrust, up until he could see his tip bulging in your lower tummy.
“toru?” your voice broke him out of the trance, hazy blues meeting your own glazed over expression.
“yes, baby?”
“you think maybe, just maybe, you could go a little faster?”
satoru broke out into a cheshire like grin, making you instantly regret your ask, “anything for you, my princess.”
*PLAP* *PLAP* *PLAP*
the sound of your skin slapping against his own, the sound of your moans and his shaky breaths filled the room, mixing in with the heavy stench of sex. satoru’s grip on your thighs tightened, his fingers digging into you while he used your cunt how he pleased.
“that fast enough for you, baby?” satoru taunted, a smirk on his face. the sight in front of him was nothing short of perfect—from the way your jaw fell taut, drool leaking out from the corner of your lips with each punishing thrust. all the way down to the way your tits bounced, each bounce nearly putting him in a hypnosis.
“yes yes, fuck!” your hands dug into the bedsheets underneath as a lifeline, something to cling onto. you could even feel the slight curve to the left, each vein grazing your walls.
“y-yeah? finally good enough for you?” you could only nod in response, his cock drilling out every thought. your walls squeezed around him, toes curling against his back. you didn’t have to give him any warning this time—he simply knew.
“so good, so good,” you babbled like a broken record, his dick hitting your g-spot with such ease it had you wondering why you’d ever broken up with him in the first place.
“suck for me,” satoru prodded his thumb against your bottom lip. you instinctively parted your lips, swirling your tongue around it and sucking on it. all while keeping your eyes on him. he could’ve sworn you were trying to kill him now.
you released with a pop, his thumb glistening with your saliva. “ah fuck! keep going, keep going!” satoru rubbed quick circles against your clit, his own thrusts starting to grow sloppier and sloppier. heavy balls smacked against your ass with each push of his hips, one of his feet propped up against the mattress for an angle that had your eyes rolling back.
“t-toru! make me cum, please, please!” you whined, nails scraping against the cotton bedsheets. your walls clenched against him tightly, milking his cock, before your orgasm washed over you like a wave.
your release coated his shaft, your cunt squelching as he fucked you towards his own orgasm. he was close, so so close, but the man needed one more push. “tell me you love me, please,” his voice came out ragged, “i need you to tell me.”
“i love you, toru,” his name had never sounded so good, so sweet before. the quiet whisper of your admission was all it took to push him from the edge. a low groan left his lips, spurt after spurt of cum dripping inside of you. painting your walls white, pooling where he and you were still connected.
satoru pulled out carefully, the mixture of fluids dripping from his softening shaft onto the silk bedsheets underneath. “stay here, i’ll be right back with something to clean you off.”
he came back into the room with a wet hand towel from the guest bathroom, gently cleaning in between your legs. wiping away at the cum dripping down your legs, staining your thighs. “there we go, how are you feeling? you need water?” satoru tossed the towel to the side, pulling his pants back up.
“i’m good. but we should probably talk about this,” you gestured in between the two of you, “we both said.. a lot. and i do love you, toru. but just because we had sex doesn’t mean everything’s fixed between us.”
“i know,” gojo replied almost instantly, like he’d been equally dreading and looking forward to this conversation. “trust me, i know. i want to work things out with you. if you’ll let me.”
but for now, in the comfort of the hotel room, you allowed him to hold and snuggle against you like a human blanket. letting yourself momentarily enjoy the moment of peace before you reminded yourself that you were still exes.
yaga didn’t bother asking why the two of you showed up later than expected or why you two were less tense the next day.
#【⏻】 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐗: gojo satoru#gojo x reader#gojo x female reader#satoru gojo x reader smut#gojo smut#gojo satoru smut#gojo satoru x female reader#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru#satoru gojo#satoru gojo x you#satoru gojo smut#satoru gojo x reader#gojo x reader smut#gojo x you#jjk x reader#jjk scenarios#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut
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Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader x Rio Vidal: The Prize
Summary: Agatha has been fighting to reclaim her prize from Rio for a long time.
AO3
Included: dark themes, lesbian drama & yearning, near-death experiences, smut; biting, orgasm denial, praise kink, degradation, s&m, blood, fingering, cunnilingus, use of pet names, begging
Words: 9.7k
Tag List: @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @escapetodreamworld @white--lillies @imtrashinflames
1750
Glowing hands press over the seeping wound, magic swirling around them, diving inside. There’s no satisfaction of watching the flesh knit itself back together. Instead, your magic drifts right back out like smoke.
Oh Goddess.
“Do take your time.” Agatha snaps, voice strained, “I have absolutely no plans.”
Five types of poison are immune to tangible magic. You know antidotes for three. Staring hard at the wound, you look for the blackened edges consistent with Nightrot, finding the flesh as red and irritated as to be expected. Is it swelling or screaming that goes with Alewife’s Revenge? A glance up at her face finds it normal. Her lips are pursed.
Your hands shake, one hovering over the open wound in her middle, the other clutching your head. Remembering has never mattered more so why is your mind empty? Pieces of information slip through your fingers like sand. Dozens of cadavers, hundreds of hours of study; useless.
Unable to rely on your memory, you scramble across the floor for the dagger that’d flown from the wall. The little light coming from the boarded windows prompts the metal to glint. The edge of the blade is sticky with blood, beneath it a metallic sheen that can only be a witches poison. You hold it up to the slant of light to see the color.
“Are you out of your mind? Heal me!”
You drop the dagger the second the poison glints purple. You slap your hand over your mouth, panic beginning to course through your veins; the body’s own special brand of poison.
How are you going to tell her?
“I’m trying!” You snap, voice breaking.
It’s a cruel joke that the poison should be so well matched to the witch bearing its effects. You stare at the edge as it rocks from being dropped, your stomach turning when the color doesn’t change. If only you could be wrong this once.
Were you a lesser witch, you’d curl in a little ball and quail under the weight of your failures. The idea is seductive. Yet, you turn to Agatha where she lies, pale and sweating on the floorboards. The pallor of her skin makes you whimper.
“Agatha,” You start, your voice holding just enough, “it’s Saura’s Dread.”
Things click into place behind her eyes despite the glazed-over look to them. She fights to find a way out of this, but you know well that the reality cannot be avoided.
“Give it to me. You’re wrong.”
“I know poisons better than most.” You hand the dagger over anyway.
“That’s not saying much.”
The comment stings, but you let it slide off you. You cannot give into petty squabbles now. With so little time to find a solution, you have to focus.
She stares hard at the blade as if willing it to change.
“Brew the antidote.”
“I can’t.” You whisper.
There’s a flicker of something in her gaze that looks suspiciously like rage. Your own internal fire leaps to meet it; of all the emotions to look upon you with—rage? As if this is your fault? You’re not the one that dragged her into this old cabin, intent on sifting through the contents.
It’s not your fault. You know that as the truth. Yet, shame floods you.
“You’re a healer.” Agatha spits, “What good are you if you don’t know the antidote?”
“Someone didn’t let me stay with my coven long enough to learn it!”
“The next time someone tries to keep you from me, I’ll let them.”
The fire in your chest ebbs. An old argument at an inconvenient time. There will be no rough makeup sex following this argument, no unspoken apologies in Agatha’s kisses. All the time, all the bodies; they cannot be for nothing. They mean too much.
Fleetingly, you feel pity for your old coven. In their minds they had attempted to do the right thing. Keeping you from Agatha must have seemed reasonable. But you remember how many bodies they made, how pleased it made Her.
Saura’s Dread takes its victim within six hours. This, you know confidently. The demise is slow and painful, a poison intended for torture. You can’t stand to see Agatha in this kind of pain. You’re not ready for her to be just another body.
“I’m calling Her.” You say.
“No.” Agatha counters, “She’ll never let me live it down.”
“You won’t live down anything if you’re dead, Agatha.”
“I won’t die.”
She’s an idiot.
Magic flowing into your fingertips, you trace familiar symbols on the floor. They glow bright and then dim as they wait. Around your neck sits an old, jagged bone, tied by a thread; you use the end of said bone to split your palm and drip blood over the symbols.
Agatha’s mouth is moving, but you don’t listen. You mutter the incantation in latin under your breath. The words—old and comforting—curl your tongue in ways that you’ve only known between two pairs of legs. You end the incantation with the key that gets you around the waiting list; Her name, Her true name.
There’s a blinding flash of light and a puff of fog, but the symbols contain it. You catch the glint of white teeth.
“You rang?”
Rio smiles, clad in darkness and bone and that same beauty that always stops you in your tracks. Upon seeing her, you breathe easier.
“We need your help.”
“You wouldn’t have called so formally if it was quality time you wanted.” Amusement dances in her eyes.
She eyes the symbols on the floor. They no longer glow, but still they contain her. She scuffs a foot along them.
You smudge the symbols and the containment drops. Stepping over the magic as it sinks down into the earth, she catches you by the waist and devours you; lips and teeth and tongue dominating your own, leaving you helpless to do anything but give in. And you’re all too willing to do so.
When she pulls back, you’re breathless. Somewhere in the fray your lip has begun to bleed. Rio soothes her tongue over the wound and you feel it close.
“Hand.”
You offer the demanded appendage, palm up. She places a kiss in the center and licks the blood from her lips.
Rio turns her head to where Agatha has dragged herself to sit against the wall. The rise and fall of her chest is slow, but there. She glares at the two of you. You flush while Rio grins.
“Hi, sweetheart. You look like shit.” Rio says, delighted.
“A side effect.” Agatha grits out, “The same can’t be said for you.”
Rio tilts her head back and laughs. It’s deep and rich and fills you with thoughts that are not appropriate for this situation. The hand on your waist squeezes as if she knows. Then, she releases you.
She crosses to crouch before Agatha, devious smile shifting to something softer. One of her hands works through a lock of Agatha’s hair, brushing it out of her face.
“What did you get yourself into?”
Agatha’s eyes drop to Rio’s lips, but she stays silent.
“Saura’s Dread.” You choke out, shame winding itself tight inside you, “I don’t—I can’t brew the antidote.”
You should have done more to push off Agatha’s agenda; just so you would have finished your research. A few extra days wouldn’t have hurt. They would’ve infuriated Agatha—and Rio by extension—but then you would know the solution instead of watching her slowly wither away.
Rio doesn’t look away from Agatha, but you know the soothing tone is for you, “It’s okay.”
Something passes between the two that you miss. One moment, Rio holds Agatha’s face in her hand, while Agatha—hesitantly—leans into the contact. The next Rio is standing between the two of you, toying with her knife, all business.
You feel a chill pass through you at the unfamiliar territory; staring into Rio’s eyes and finding the affection buried away. It stings more than knowing how you’ve failed.
“You’re asking me for life in a bottle.” Rio says, grinning, “What do I get in return?”
Short of knowing that Rio would fix it should you ask, you find yourself shamefully bereft of anything with value. You search the space for anything to bargain with. Agatha’s eyes should be looking at you with knowing, but her gaze doesn’t leave Rio.
When Agatha tilts her head and grins, turning on the bedroom eyes, you pause.
“What you’ve wanted for years.” Agatha says, “Brew me a little potion and you can have her all to yourself.”
Rio’s brows shoot sky high. You tilt your head, then freeze. It’s you. Agatha’s bargaining you.
There should be a sweetness in knowing you’re the only thing of value she has to offer, yet the taste is sour on your tongue. The words feel like a punishment, a reprimand—and not the kind you’ve begged at her feet for. That awful part of you would rather Agatha die than ever willingly give you up and Rio eyes you as if she knows it. Does it please her to know how they’ve twisted you?
One mistake, you think bitterly, and Agatha throws in the towel. Despite all the near-death experiences you’ve endured at her side. Despite the years you’ve spent together. You never expected a punishment of this proportion.
You bite your tongue. At your sides, your fists clench and unclench. They glow with the anger you can’t keep hidden.
Pride rears its unhelpful head and you speak before you can stop to think, “My life for Agatha’s.”
Rio’s full attention is on you, then. Her eyes are bright.
You speak directly to her, “I’m bound to you and The Road until such time as Agatha traverses it to collect me.”
Had you not been so focused on Rio, you would have noticed Agatha flinch at your suggestion. Her wide, glassy eyes stare at you. You do not give her the satisfaction of your attention. If she is going to be cruel, so can you.
Your terms are a challenge; and Agatha doesn’t turn down a challenge.
Her devious, wicked mask clicks back into place. Rio’s expression is pensive. Despite the poison working through her system, Agatha almost looks as powerful as her best day.
“You’d let me steal her away, O Death?” Agatha teases.
The comment is salt in your open wound. You glare, wishing more than anything that you could wrap your hands around her pretty neck and squeeze. You want her not only to beg—but to apologize.
But Rio’s eyes haven’t left you for a second.
“Alright, sweetheart.” Rio says, “Your life, bound to mine, until Agatha comes to get you.”
In it you understand the desire you both share; to have Agatha, one way or another. You wonder if the desire for possession is your own or something you’ve learned from her.
From her pocket comes a small glass vial. She tosses it to Agatha, who only barely catches it. She cradles it like something precious.
“Drink up.” Rio orders.
Then Rio is there, arm around your waist, holding all your pieces together. You lean into her comfort as color returns to Agatha’s cheeks.
“Te veo.”
--
1754
“She waits for you.”
Agatha whips around, purple crackling at her fingertips. At the edge of the clearing, Rio leans her weight against a gnarled tree, eyeing the withered husks of once-witches in the grass with interest. She looks almost predatory.
“Does she?”
Rio nods, eyes shifting to Agatha, “Like a puppy. It’s almost pathetic.”
It is pathetic, is what she should say. Time and affection have curbed her tongue on this small thing at least. On you. Agatha’s smile is knowing.
Rio has pulled her punches toward you since the beginning. Agatha’s never minded. It’s almost sweet watching the oldest force in the multiverse tiptoe around a witch barely into her second century. Is it that craving for ancient knowledge in your veins that renders Rio down, or is it simply your pretty face?
Does it matter?
“I don’t have what I need yet.” Agatha rolls her eyes, “Witches these days don’t have the power they used to.”
“Or maybe you’re leveling the population before they have time to strengthen.” Rio raises a brow.
Agatha thinks, deliberately dramatic, then shrugs, “No, that’s not it.”
With a shake of her head, Rio steps out from the treeline, and closes the distance across the clearing. Agatha watches every step with dark eyes. The stench of death and magic sends a chill down Rio’s spine; there’s nothing more delicious than a life snuffed out.
The wind slows in the trees as if sensing her. Birds silence their sweet tunes. There is frantic rustling in the trees somewhere as creatures do all they can to get away.
Yet Agatha stands, waiting, and allows Death to pull her into her embrace.
One of Rio’s great loves is watching skin split so she can lap up the blood at her own pace. Yet, when her hands settle on Agatha’s hips, they’re gentle. She doesn’t open wounds with her teeth. Rather, she moves her lips over Agatha’s until she can’t breathe. Agatha is wary when she pulls back.
Rio shrugs, “A message from her.”
“I see. Forgiven me, has she?” A slow, taunting grin, “Anything from you?”
“Have you earned it?”
“These bodies didn’t make themselves.”
A tilt of her head, as if considering, “Maybe you’ve earned something small, then.”
And they meet in a clash of lips and teeth. Rio’s hands are everywhere, leaving behind deep claw marks that make Agatha moan into her mouth. Agatha’s own nails pierce through cloth and skin at her hips but draw no blood. She tries to push Rio backward toward one of the trees, she just needs a little leverage and Rio’s thigh to—
Rio pulls back. She grins something wicked at the flash of Agatha’s purple.
“Something small.”
Agatha makes a face, batting her lashes. Rio doesn’t give in.
“You’re awful.”
“You love it.” Rio says, then her face takes on something more serious, “Don’t keep her waiting, Agatha.”
Then she’s gone as if she was never there; the only evidence being the bleeding marks on her skin. Agatha stares at where she stood for a long time before moving on.
--
1801
The Road changes, you’ve seen, as the covens come along. Small cottages, ancient ruins—the most interesting was an old system of catacombs, though it lacked the remains you’d been intent on studying.
Your favorite, though, is the bower, absent of any illusions or spells.
Beneath a canopy of purple leaves upon a seat of grass, you watch the events unfold from afar. An old curved trunk sits at your back keeping you upright. The animals—lost familiars, mostly—wander up to you here, nibbling at fallen leaves and taking up residence in your lap.
From outside it could be mistaken for a simple tree. Yet, beneath it, the world is at your fingertips. The position of your place presents the underside of millions of glowing leaves to your view; lives, Rio said, witch and non-witch alike.
You find the one you love best among the foliage. You trace your finger down the purple veins, hoping she feels you, thinks of you, misses you. The veins seem to glow a little brighter at your touch.
Rio doesn’t enjoy you toying with them; worried a wrong move on your part will take a life too soon, upsetting the greater balance she’s beholden to. But she taught you how to handle Agatha’s. Trace, never prod. Caress, but never pluck.
A black cat settles in your lap and you sit straighter.
Soothing a hand down her back, she purrs. Her little body presses against your stomach and basks in your warmth.
“You really are too predictable.” Rio says.
She stands a few feet away, clad in dirt and muck, yet still beautiful. Always beautiful.
“I like it here. It’s comforting.”
“You like being close to Agatha.” She corrects.
The leaf in question glows brighter as if sensing the mention. You trace a finger along the edge, willing all your love into it.
“This is all I have of her.” You admit.
Something like softness creeps into Rio’s face. As soon as it appears, it recedes. She joins you under the canopy. The cat in your lap startles and leaps from your lap, darting back into the underbrush.
You had never thought to secure some token of Agatha’s, then. Now, with nothing of her’s to hold close, you settle for her life-line, begging it to tell you her whereabouts and if she’s safe; it is always silent. Rio is, too. She doesn’t mention much when you ask, though you know she knows the actions of every life tied to her.
The Road is a wonderful home. Rio is an attentive partner. But you ache, still, for the other set of hands you knew; those who were predictable in their firmness, balancing the sudden changes of Rio’s own.
“You’re crying.” Rio says.
Her face is dark, but fury lingers around the edges. Something like worry flutters in and out of her eyes. You have nothing to say, so you only nod.
Then you’re in her lap. Rio’s bunching up your dress to your waist, canines embedded in your neck. Her nails dig into your hips and the blood warms you. You whimper.
Lips kiss down your neck while a hand hovers between your legs. You bear down, desperate for any friction to dull the ache. And she gives it to you. Her hand is exactly where you want it, fingers rubbing and pressing, and you grind your hips hard, harder until you’re right there.
And then her hand is gone.
You whine. Your hips move of their own volition, searching for that pressure to send you right over the edge. Rio’s lips catch your own in a bruising kiss and you whimper into her mouth.
Needy, desperate, you can almost hear her say.
But when she pulls away and digs her nails in harder, she whispers, “Cry for me, sweetheart.”
She alternates between giving you what you crave and rescinding it for hours. You whimper, moan, and beg. She laughs and repeats herself—cry for me. You lose count of how many almost-orgasms tighten your body just to go unfulfilled. You do cry. You sob and she’s there, tongue licking up your tears and knuckle deep inside you, thumbing over your clit until you have what you want.
You’re not sure how long you lay there, after, crying against her.
--
1833
Rio’s arm is warm where you’re wrapped around it. She leads you through the winding stone streets, around grand buildings with stained-glass windows. Some of the scenes depicted in the glass are beautiful, simple; but the majority are Catholic in nature, dripping with sadness and guilt. You shake your head.
Passersby nod or tilt their hats, but don’t seem to see you. Their eyes go especially glassy when they look at Rio.
Whereas you’re clad in a dress of rich layered fabric, Rio has opted for more masculine attire. The low heels of her dress shoes click upon the stone. The unwrinkled fabric of her suit smells of smoke.
Your heels don’t quite agree with the stone. After the fifth time of a near-twisted ankle, you huff, “Could I not have worn flat shoes?”
“The heels compliment your legs.”
“You can’t even see them.”
“Yet.” She winks.
You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat suffusing your cheeks. Another nod to a passing couple and Rio makes a sharp turn. You’re led into a damp, dim alleyway.
The ground is made from rough slabs of uneven stone. You curse when your heel slips and only Rio’s strength keeps you standing. Water slides down the walls on either side, thick moss growing in the cracks. You reach out to feel it only for your hand to come away red.
If not for Rio pulling you along, you’d have screamed. Blood cascades down the walls. From it grow dark, twisted plants you’ve studied beside The Road. Beneath the plants and out of them come bones; most have yellowed with age, but there is the occasional bright-white specimen.
Surprise aside, you lean toward the bones with interest. Still, Rio presses on.
The alleyway is growing slimmer by the second. Should it continue to do so, you’ll be forced to walk behind Rio, and the thought makes you tense.
Rio squeezes your hand, “Relax, sweetheart.”
“I’d relax more if I knew what we were doing here.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Before you’re forced to walk single-file, you come to the end. Rio traces a counter-sigil upon the stone. With a shudder, a door is revealed. Above the silver knocker, embedded in the door, sits an unblinking eyeball. The blue pierces you.
Rio pulls and slams the knocker. The eyeball falls from the door and hits the ground with a sickening pop. You nearly shriek while Rio makes noises of delight.
“Ooh,” She chuckles, “we’re not the first to arrive.”
You try not to think about what the eye must look like now, “Can I go home?”
“Why so squeamish all of a sudden? You handle the cadavers I bring you just fine.”
“That’s different. That’s research.”
“Who says this isn’t, sweetheart?”
The door opens soundlessly. Inside, the scene is much the same; another dark, slim space, though notably absent of plants and body parts. The owner of this place must be allergic to candles, the lighting situation is just pathetic.
Rio waits. When you make no move to walk inside, she sighs, nudging you with a hand on your lower back, “Ladies first.”
You’re not sure if being first or last is the worst. If anything is to jump from the walls now, you’ll take the brunt of it; you’re reminded of that day with Agatha all those years ago. Rio’s warmth at your back offers the strength you need to continue. Though, you do cling to her hand the whole way.
The hallway empties into a full room. Dark shelves match the height of the walls, on them jars full of ingredients. There are tables boasting dozens of drawers, though none sit open. Glasses and tools and cauldrons line the tabletops. In the center of it all are two figures; well, one figure and one corpse.
You can’t catch your breath. She’s as beautiful as the day you lost her.
“Agatha.” You whisper.
Agatha turns and smirks. She doesn’t look nearly as surprised to see you as you do her. Upon seeing you, her expression softens, eyes full of affection and longing. It hardens a bit when she glances behind you.
“You ruined the surprise.” Rio says, arms crossed, though one motions to the corpse, “We needed her.”
“What could you possibly need with a poison witch?”
“Our darling healer wanted to study with her.”
Something like regret turns Agatha’s face when she regards you. With a wave, she produces a thick book full of yellowing pages. You tilt your head when she offers it to you.
“Her life’s work. I’m sure there’s more here somewhere.” Agatha shrugs.
You take it and hold it to your chest reverently. All this time you thought Rio was putting you off about finding a competent poison witch and yet here you are, standing in her apothecary. She lies dead on the floor but you couldn’t care less when the real gift stands before you.
You long for her. You ache to feel the gentle caress of her hands on your face, the threat of her nails on your scalp.
A look at Rio tells you she isn’t entirely pleased with the turn of events. Yet when she sees your excitement some of her ire dissipates. The yearning in your eyes must be plain, since she gives you a single nod.
Book of poisons tossed onto the tabletop, you throw yourself into Agatha’s arms. She’s as steady as you remember. Her hand grips your chin and forces your lips to hers. Her hands are predictably firm wherever they land. She grips you as if afraid you’ll slip away. But her kiss, oh gods her kiss; soft lips and taunting, sharp tongue. The length of her body pressed against your own and so warm.
There are hands in your hair and this is all you’ve wanted—all you’ve craved for years. Why, then, do you feel the urge to cry? To rip the heart from your chest and banish it to where it won’t hurt?
Agatha is warm and steady. You bury your face in her neck and her in yours. Your hands shake with the force of clinging to her.
The feeling is bliss. Yet, it isn’t complete.
You glance over Agatha’s shoulder to Rio. She stands in the doorway, watching the scene with dark-eyed interest; but there’s a weariness in the set of her shoulders.
“Beloved.” You call, holding one of your hands out to her.
Rio raises a brow. Her eyes don’t stray from your outstretched hand.
“This is your gift, sweetheart.”
“And it’s incomplete without you.”
Her eyes stray to Agatha, who has taken to watching her, too. This time, Agatha’s eyes don’t harden. They maintain that soft look you melt for.
Agatha extends her own hand alongside yours.
“Come on.” Agatha urges, soft.
You watch the resolve break moments before she wedges her way into your embrace. Her fingers lace through yours, but her face is pressed into Agatha’s neck. She pushes and nuzzles like she wants to become part of her. It reminds you of the cat that visits the bower—Ebony—but you don’t dare say so.
Agatha’s hands leave you to caress Rio’s face. A thumb rubs along her cheekbone. You press yourself against Rio’s back, unable to glimpse her face but sure of the longing in her expression.
In a perfect world, there would be no separation between the three of you. No clothes, no emotional barriers, not even flesh to keep your hearts from mingling into one. You settle for Rio’s hand in your own and Agatha’s blue eyes locked on you.
You lean over Rio’s shoulder and kiss Agatha, your free hand fumbling with getting into the former’s pants. She chuckles darkly in your ear. It ignites a spark in your chest; a dangerous longing for this to remain, to be always. You try to push it away and focus on how Rio moans in your ear instead.
--
1869
“Will you walk with me?”
Rio nods, smiles grandly, “Of course.”
You laugh. She holds out her arm, ever the picture of a gentleman, but you lace your fingers through hers instead.
As a rare treat, you lead. You pull her along the road. The leaves change beneath your feet, from silver and black to the hues of autumn and then to pure green. The Road opens its arms into a clearing bathed in the color. Only the stone building in the center stands apart.
Upon your approach, flowers grow in the flattened grass where you step; honeysuckle and heliotrope, baby’s breath and red chrysanthemum. Rio glances over her shoulder as the blooms spring forth.
Ivy grows up the walls of the building. You brush a gentle hand over the leaves.
Crumbling, worn headstones en masse wait behind the building.
Rio tilts her head, “What is this?”
The door is unlocked. You knew it would be. The Road cannot keep you from this place.
Inside is warm and hazy. Papers with elegant scrawl cover every surface, books half-open litter any free spaces. Shelves line the walls, jars bearing various specimens. Plush couches overflow with deep, red cushions, begging you to sit and stay. A fire cracks in the fireplace.
Rio turns this way and that. She wanders around the room, flipping through books. A fingernail taps against a jar full of eyes. An errant paper is plucked from where it sits haphazardly atop the mantle. She stops.
You know the paper the second she comes into contact with it; can remember the way you wax poetic about how beautiful she is, how safe you feel in her arms. She picks another, then another, so on, and you know every word the second she touches them; the way she unwinds in Agatha’s arms, her face twisted in perfect fury, the lightless turn of her eyes when she teeters on the edge of wickedness.
She looks at you, vulnerable and unsure, “What is this?”
“My heart.”
“That… then why is all of this here?”
Her hand shakes the papers for emphasis. You resist the urge to laugh, lest she think you’re making light of her. Death can be cruel, but you try not to be.
You step close. Gently, the papers are extracted and returned to their places. Rio stares and hardly breathes as you take your face in her hands.
“You pulled away after that night.” You whisper, finger tracing her cupids-bow, “Do you think I touch you only because it is convenient?”
Rio’s lip curls. Fists bunch at her side, crackling with green light. You feel the rumble of her anger working through her chest. She tries to pull from your hold, but you don’t let her.
“Do you think I kiss you and pretend it’s her?”
Rio snarls, “I will kill you if you don’t stop talking.”
You smile. The threat is a real one, but you don’t fear it; the outcome is remaining by her side. With one hand you reach and pull one of her fists between you. You unravel it, trying not to flinch against the bursts of power over her skin. You press the palm of her hand over where your heart resides inside your chest.
The snarl fades just so. Fury still lingers in her eyes. You press your hand over hers and will her to see, to know.
“Look at the walls.” You order.
Upon the walls, plain and dark, shimmering scrawl appears. Agatha Harkness, it reads in shaky lettering; like a name carved into a tree. One signature turns into ten and ten into countless. Purple and shimmering is Agatha’s brand upon you. Rio yanks and reaches for the dagger she keeps handy.
Rio’s true name appears in shimmering green letters, then. Same as Agatha’s, there are countless signatures. They conjoin and overlap until the walls of your heart look like nothing more than a child’s colorful scribbles.
She stares at the walls in disbelief. The knife in her hand clatters to the ground.
“I’ve carved your names upon my heart so I’ll never forget who it belongs to.” You whisper.
“Sweetheart…”
You bend and collect her blade, pressing it into her hand, “Now do it yourself.”
Her hand wraps around the handle reflexively. Rio’s hand doesn’t leave the spot over your heart, feeling the steady, truthful beat.
“It’ll hurt you.” Rio says. She doesn’t bother hiding the desire in her voice.
You urge, “Make me hurt.”
Each artful stroke of her blade is slow. You whimper, but grip her wrist and push the blade deeper into your flesh. She scoffs when tears flood your eyes. The tears run down your cheeks while you smile, filled with bliss and ache in equal measure.
It’s a gift to love so deeply it wounds you. You never want her to stop; who, aside from your shared scar, holds such power? Who else in the world could touch your heart truly enough to carve into it?
There’s delight in her every movement. She consumes the pain of millions and yet, none of it is of her own making. She can only relish in what others have done; torture for a being who remains eternally intimate with the greatest methods of drawing out agony. Death has no free will but that you offer her—and she takes what none else would give, ravenously.
Is it enough?
Not forever, something tells you, you think it might be her, but for now.
--
1925
“You called?” Rio asks.
“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re avoiding me.”
Agatha leans against the wall beside a small window. The pane has been slid upward, letting in the sounds of the city below, releasing the smoke of Agatha’s cigarette into the air outside.
The cigarette is clutched in gloved hands. Her expression is amused as she draws in and releases the smoke, watching it form the shapes she wills. Though it has no effect on such a witch, Rio admires the object’s capability of bringing Agatha infinitesimally closer to her.
“We’ve been busy.”
“Busy or not, I’d say twelve bodies earns me a visit. And with the bulk of good booze I just removed from the market, I’d say I’ve earned a little more.”
An obvious lure with paltry bait, still Rio bites, “What do you have in mind?”
“Let me see her.”
She should. You’ve come to accept Agatha’s absence in your life, but she sees how much time you spend in the bower, and how you flinch when her name comes up. Rio hadn’t expected the frequency of Agatha’s name on the lips of covens walking the road to be so overwhelming, but it always drives you right into her arms; that she will relish.
But Death is not giving. She takes. Taking is, in fact, her favorite hobby. Twelve bodies is not enough to make up for the haunted look in your eyes. She wants more—will have it. Agatha has to earn you.
“I’ll need a little more from you.” Rio drawls.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill that many witches here with the nightlife?” Agatha throws her hands up. Ash flies from the forgotten cigarette.
The sounds of Chicago seem to grow louder, as if to aid her point. Rio grins. She crosses the small space and takes the cigarette, snuffing it out on the back of Agatha’s hand. The action prompts a quiet moan.
“It shouldn’t be a problem. What I want, you have an abundance of.” Rio’s smile widens as she manipulates Agatha’s hand, removing the glove, pushing and prodding until purple flashes along the flesh.
A cooling breeze sneaks in the window and rustles the fringe along Agatha’s dress. It’s a beautiful thing, short and decadent. Rio knows you’ve enjoyed the few sightings of the period fashion you’ve glimpsed, but like her, you’d enjoy this specific dress in a pile on the floor.
Agatha’s eyes stare at where Rio’s flesh meets her own. Her eyes are contemplative, calculating. She hesitates. And that is her fatal mistake.
Rio throws her across the room with a shove. Agatha’s side hits one of the walls and she falls, face-first, onto the mattress she’s been sleeping on. The springs shriek at the sudden weight. Agatha snarls, throwing out a blast of purple that slams into Rio’s chest. Rio moans something filthy.
There’s a brief struggle where Rio does her best to keep Agatha pinned; to the bed, to the wall, wherever there’s a surface. Yet Agatha is slippery. Her magic whisks her right out of the hold Rio puts her in and wherever Agatha wills it; which currently, is behind the other witch so Agatha can kick the back of her knees. Rio kneels not of her own volition.
She braces to stand, only to find the blade of her own dagger at her throat.
Rio’s gaze has lost any warmth. Her affection is buried deep, beneath layers and layers of earth she craves to bury Agatha in right this second, “You’re breaking her heart.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, you like seeing her cry.”
“When I’m the one responsible.”
Agatha rolls her eyes. She maintains a carefully ambivalent expression. Rio knows better; knows, under all that forced emotion, that Agatha’s heart is waging against her head, warring over her selfish desire to keep every bit of power.
Then, something shifts. Rio feels it. Agatha has made her choice and it isn’t you. And it ignites a rage in her chest unlike anything she’s felt in centuries.
She snatches the dagger back from Agatha’s grasp and only just barely resists the urge to bury it in her chest. If she has to drag Agatha back to you kicking and screaming, she will. You would like that, wouldn’t you?
“I’ll kill you.” Rio vows, and means it. Agatha can’t run away from the two of you if her soul is Rio’s to keep.
Agatha’s eyes flash with fear. Then, she grins around it, “If you can catch me.”
Latin words roll off Agatha’s tongue faster than Rio can comprehend. She recognizes the words and what they mean, where they’ve come from. Rio reaches out with her magic for the Darkhold too late; it, and Agatha, have completely vanished from her awareness.
When she returns to The Road and finds you pacing before the bower, she stops short.
“Did you—is she dead?” You ask, worrying your lip. Though your eyes dart every which way, looking for whatever manifestation of Agatha you believe she’s brought you.
“Sweetheart…”
--
1937
“Do you think if I cut you open you would heal too fast for me to do any research?”
Rio tilts her head, considering. She’s sprawled out on the plush couch inside the physical manifestation of your heart, toying with her knife, having a staring contest with the unblinking jar of eyes while you jot down thoughts into notebook number… well, she’s lost count.
“Probably.” She answers, “I’m also not sure I have organs.”
You pause, “How is that even possible?”
“Magic, sweetheart.”
Leaning back, your mind begins to race; given how old she is, it would only make sense that the organs the body came with are gone, rotted away—but would the flesh not go with it? You massage your temples. Life magic is no easier to understand than Death magic.
There’s only one way to test your hypothesis. You stand from your place at the table and cross to her, straddling her hips where she lay on the couch.
“I want to see.” You say, holding out a hand.
Rio hands over her dagger and sinks further into the couch, as if that is possible. She grins up at you with no shortage of delight. You do your best to tamp down on your own grin.
The flesh beneath your hands is warm and smells of damp earth where you peel away her shirt. Her eyes darken with every inch of flesh revealed to you. Firm and unafraid, you press the tip of the dagger down against her sternum. The action earns you an exaggerated moan.
You rip the dagger away, glaring, “Behave.”
“Or what?” Rio taunts, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek.
“Or I stop letting you watch my dissections.”
She tenses, “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I, beloved?”
“Get on with it.”
You lean down and steal a quick kiss. It melts away the darling little pout on her lips.
When you press the dagger back down, the flesh bends, but doesn’t open. You tilt your head and press harder. Rio watches, unphased. There is absolutely no give to her flesh. It gets to a point where you’re pressing your entire body weight behind the dagger, but Rio only laughs, squirming as if the action tickles.
You whine and sigh. The dagger is dropped unceremoniously onto her chest while you lean an elbow against the back of the couch, sinking somewhat into the cushion.
“If you want live specimens, we can collect some.” She soothes.
The idea isn’t intolerable, but you shake your head.
“They scream too much.”
“Anesthetic exists, sweetheart.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
You look away, tracing the walls and their offerings with your eyes. Upon them hang paintings of your own making; scenes of life, death, love, fear—mostly fear.
The human condition fascinates you, always has. Of the emotions to study, fear is the hardest; it is always fleeting in your wake; your face is too kind, too trustworthy, wiping away any sense of the unease you seek to study. You stare at your paintings and feel only distaste, knowing they’re not quite right.
You can’t claim to have always had such taste. No, a cultivation for the finer flavors of life and death takes time. You can pinpoint where the itch started, however; that day in your childhood village when a dying soul reached out to you—scarcely were you a day older than four—and found no assistance.
How beautiful it was; grisly, messy, but beautiful. You did not flinch away. Rather, you found yourself drawn in, eager to see more. And being of a coven of healers, your desire was fulfilled. Death was yours before you knew her name.
Looking down at her, she stares back, unashamed to be caught. The heart in your chest—which has felt so stagnant in recent years—warms toward something almost pure.
Rio will one day claim your soul. This, you know, and accept; your soul belonged to her the second you watched that woman die. You fear the when. What becomes of you when she claims your soul? What if you have yet to conduct all the research you desire? There is so much still to learn and you know she’ll abandon it for the chance to keep you.
You love her, but you’ll never forgive her the knowledge you’ll one day lose. The warmth in your chest doesn’t ebb.
Her top is still splayed open from your attempt at dissection. A healthy amount of flesh is bared to your eyes. You trace one finger from her neck to the center of her chest and tap, just above where a heart should be.
“When you come for me,” You say, “I want to hold your heart in my hand.”
“You already do.” She utters.
“Will you let me study it, then, when I’m but a soul?”
“You can study whatever you wish as long as it leads to me.”
--
1989
Agatha dwells on mistakes, often. She just doesn’t allow them to distract from her purpose. She is ruthless, to her very core.
She spends an embarrassing amount of time trying to open the damned door to The Road. One coven after another, all failures. There is an obscene beauty in claiming a reward for what would otherwise be failure on her part.
Time passes, enemies made, promises broken. She shrugs them all off. Yet she can’t shake the feeling of your hands in her hair, on her face. The lingering whisper of your kisses haunts her. The Darkhold whispers to her, oftentimes in language she shouldn’t comprehend, and it offers her the solution, should she just be patient;
The Scarlet Witch
--
2026
The power that floats before you is biting and all too familiar.
It fights against your hold, twisting and writhing like a wild animal, desperate to return to its mistress. But you’re stronger for now. The Scarlet Witch threw this power into the ether in her attempt at playing Death, and now it is yours to hold until Agatha comes for it.
Anger rubs against the heart in your chest like a cat. You lean into it, feeling your own power respond to subdue that which isn’t yours.
Rio watches beside you. She runs her fingers through the purple electricity contained in your palms, laughing when it fights her. Lips press against your temple.
“Not long now.” She assures you.
You feel longing and fury in equal measure.
“I want her soul, Rio.” You whisper.
A small chuckle, low beside your ear. It sends shivers down your spine. Her hand grasps your chin and turns you to face her, her lips meeting your own. The kiss is soft. You melt into it.
She pulls back, tone careful, “You didn’t walk The Road, sweetheart.”
You have not earned what The Road promises to grant.
--
2026
Agatha doesn’t expect the end of The Road to look like Agnes’ Westview home, nor does she expect to see Rio perched on the roof, leaning back, as if waiting. But every step closer to the front yard makes her more furious.
She is owed her prize.
Upon her first step in Agnes’ yard, the front door opens, and she is blasted with something so strong that it knocks her back to The Road, on her back. She groans. Yet, she feels more alive than she has in centuries. Her body shudders with its missing piece; her power curling up in her veins, pleased to be home.
She sits up, wincing at the ache in her bones that continues despite the gift she’s received. Leaves stick to the back of her arms, little pieces having crunched beneath her weight and adhered to her skin. She does her best to brush them away while getting to her feet.
Rio remains on the roof, grinning.
There, on the porch of Agnes’ house, is you. All the glory of you.
Agatha’s heart leaps in her chest despite the scowl on your face. To her, you haven’t aged a day; still the young, fresh-faced witch following at her heels, dizzy on knowledge and the thrumming power inside. Time has not erased the love she has—so great it threatens to bring her to her knees.
“Dearest…” Agatha murmurs, taking a half-step forward.
“You have your prize.” You sneer.
Your heart aches, begging you to go to her; hasn’t it been centuries? But your pride holds you back. She left you here while she gallivanted around the world getting what she wanted.
There’s a brief flash of hurt on Agatha’s face, before it morphs into a wicked grin. Her posture changes, too, to something more proud, as she slinks across the yard toward the porch. You resist the urge to take a step back.
“No, I don’t.” She drawls, “Are you going to be a good pet and come home willingly, or do I have to put you on a leash?”
Something inside you burns for her. You ache for her touch, for her to force you to do what she wants. It creeps through the cracks of your pride and turns it into something else. You stick out your chin. Agatha snickers.
Magic pulses in your palms, pulling various items from around you to throw—not fast enough. Agatha has you kneeling with your hands bound in a blink.
“That’s not very nice, dear. And after all I’ve done to get here.”
You regain some of your fight, snarling, “You left me here.”
Agatha hums.
“Into the deal you stumbled your way into. I’m not the one who tied herself to The Road in a fit of pride.”
“You were leaving me regardless. If I was going to be handed off, I was going to do it on my own terms.”
“Did I specify a length of time in my proposal? Was there any explicit mention of how long She could have you before I came back?” Agatha asks, mean-spirited joy in her eyes upon watching the realization dawn in your own. All that time you spent agonizing… when you had shackled yourself, “Years lost because you wanted to be a self-righteous brat.”
There’s a lilt to her voice that clues you in to everything you’d once seen instinctually; Agatha has been in just as much anguish as you have, left to walk the world alone. You see the pain in her eyes. Just like then, you try to get to her now, eager to fix it, to wipe it away.
The binding around your arms keeps you stationary. You whine and pull against it.
“Agatha,” You whine, “I’m sorry.”
“You will be.” She says. Then she turns to your left, finger poised and accusing, “And you—you kept her away from me.”
Rio shrugs, smiling, “I couldn’t just make it easy on you.”
Agatha waves a hand and Rio is kneeling on the porch at your side, similarly bound. Yet where you look pained, she is delighted.
“I’m sorry.” You repeat, “I didn’t mean to be bad.”
“That doesn’t change that you were.”
A cloud of purple smoke announces your arrival to the inner bedroom of Agnes’ house. It doesn’t look like what you’ve seen from Rio, though. Where Agnes had been bland and cookie-cutter, this is rich fabrics and deep wood. It is Agatha through and through.
You and Rio kneel side-by-side at the foot of the bed, where Agatha perches. Her beautiful blue eyes don’t miss the slightest movement you make. She’s clad in a dark robe with snakes and flowers that has Rio leaning forward in interest.
Agatha’s eyes lock on you, “You’re going to apologize. Properly.”
“I’m sorry—”
“With your tongue.”
Leaning back on her forearms, Agatha spreads her legs, and you feel the desire in your body rush through you. It’s so strong you feel your head begin to pound. She’s pink and dripping and all you want is to do a good job for her.
Yet, ever the brat, you lean forward and start with kissing her inner thighs. With every press of your lips to the delicate flesh you murmur an apology. She sighs.
A hand weaves into your hair and yanks you back. Her eyes are dark. Her face is set in a punishing expression but you see the yearning in her that matches your own. She yanks again, lighter, and you moan.
“What did I say?” She asks, before directing you where she wants you.
Witches don’t subscribe to the idea of what a human would call heaven, but upon tasting her, you think you could get behind it. She’s warm and sweet. You flatten your tongue and drag it along her slit just to collect a better taste of her. Agatha’s hand presses you in harder as she moans.
Without the use of your fingers, you have to use your tongue well. You stiffen it as much as you’re able when you delve inside her and hope it is even slightly close enough to satisfy. The pathetic sounds reaching your ears—breathy moans, sweet whimpers—tell you that you’re doing fine.
“Good girl.” Agatha breathes out.
You clench around nothing. You’re sure that you’ve ruined your undergarments thoroughly from how wet you are.
Eager for more praise, you direct your attention to that small, fleshy bundle of nerves begging for your attention. You swirl your tongue around her clit and her hips stutter, before they grind against your face with a renewed sense of purpose. You smile.
“Yes—there, more—” Agatha stutters.
You were born to do as she commands. All you want is to make her happy. Following her directions is as easy as breathing.
The tip of your tongue alternates between circling her clit and flicking it. Every flick earns you a high-pitched oh! and a firm grinding of her hips. Her thighs are tightening around your head, but she’s putting up a good fight. Her legs quiver.
“There—there—I’m going to—” Is all the warning you’re given before Agatha shrieks and comes while rutting against your mouth. You lap up every drop of her wetness you can get with glee. You did this, you brought her this pleasure; the knowledge sends a happy jolt through you.
Agatha’s grip on your hair releases and you lean back, taking in big lungfuls of air. She stares down at you with a thoroughly fucked-out expression that makes you preen.
Then she leans over and pulls your lips to hers. She moans against the taste of herself on your lips, tongue collecting the flavor from your lips. You throw every ounce of love you possess into the kiss—willing her to understand the longing you felt, the thousands of hours you spent watching her lifeline just to make sure she was safe.
“Good girl.” Agatha murmurs, pressing little kisses all over your face, “My good girl.”
“All yours.” You agree.
She laughs, low and smooth, “That’s not quite the truth, is it?”
The two of you turn to regard Rio in unison. She remains in the position Agatha left her in, kneeling and bound. You admire her restraint at not breaking the bindings. Though you guess Agatha wouldn’t take kindly to that.
Rio’s eyes are black with desire. They dart between the two of you. She takes in the wetness on your face, licking her lips. You can feel her eagerness for a taste.
She’s writhing a bit in her restraints, pressing her thighs together and wiggling, looking for any source of friction she can find. Agatha tuts and she stops. If it were up to you, your face would be between her thighs, ears enjoying every sound she makes. But it isn’t up to you.
Agatha scoots back up the bed until she’s sitting against the headboard. That’s when you feel the restraints on you fall away. She beckons the two of you with a finger and you both follow the command, eager.
“Come here.” Agatha urges you specifically, patting her bare thigh.
You obey and straddle the appendage, shuddering against the feeling against your throbbing clit. There’s a split second where you think of just grinding down and taking what you want. But you don’t—you have to be good.
Words pass between Agatha and Rio during your silent struggle. When you look, she’s lying along the length of the bed, legs bunched up and spread wide next to you.
“What am I going to do with you both?” Agatha muses.
“Fuck us?” Rio drawls.
“You, my good girl,” Agatha says, ignoring Rio as she soothes a hand through your hair, “are going to use me until you come. And my bad girl isn’t going to come until I tell her she can.”
You shudder, whimpering, while Rio whines next to you. Agatha kisses your forehead while dealing a slap to Rio that makes her groan.
A hand settles onto your hip and begins to guide you through the motions of grinding against her. The friction is difficult to attain with how wet you are, but you do what you can, crying out everytime the pressure is just enough to make your toes curl. It won’t take long for you to finish.
Your face is buried in Agatha’s neck, where you press loving little kisses to the flesh. As a result you cannot see Rio. But you hear her; every movement of Agatha’s deft fingers through her wetness, every growl and keen of desire, every slap of Agatha’s hand when she gets a bit too eager. She won’t last long either, from what you can tell.
The image of Rio and Agatha in your mind is enough to push you toward that delightful little taste of death. Your hands tighten over Agatha’s shoulders.
“Agatha, can I—please?” You plead.
“So obedient, asking for permission even when you don’t need to.” Agatha praises, “Go on, darling.”
With her hand guiding you and her voice in your ear, you come so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You’re not sure what sound leaves your lips, only that your throat aches afterward.
You tune back in to hear a brutal slap of flesh on flesh. Rio snarls.
“Beg.” Agatha’s voice commands in your ear, though you know it isn’t for you.
Rio stays stubbornly silent.
The sounds of Agatha toying with her come to an abrupt halt. You don’t have the strength to lift your face from your refuge, but you can imagine that stubborn, yet pleading look in Rio’s face; wanting so deeply but not willing to give up what is required.
“If you don’t want to behave, she can have your pleasure instead.”
“No! I’ll—” You hear Rio grit her teeth, “Please, Agatha. Please let me come.”
Agatha laughs.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She coos.
Seconds—or maybe minutes—before Rio wails. There’s something primordial and animalistic wrapped inside it, almost like a growl. It makes you shudder. Then all that's left in the room is the sound of breathing.
You spent so long aching for something just like this. It’s beautiful, though you know it can’t stay; all three of you are far too ambitious to live a domestic existence, but it’s nice for now. You missed them. The heart in your chest feels complete again, filling to the brim with affection.
Tears seep from your eyes and you pull back before Agatha can question it, though you do feel her stiffen. You press kisses to her neck, her sternum, the inside of her wrist; then you grab Rio’s hand and press kisses to every pad of her fingers.
With every kiss, you murmur I love you.
--
2027
“If you don’t sedate him at least a little bit, his heart is going to give out.”
Rio’s sudden voice next to you isn’t surprising. You’ve grown used to her coming and going—Death waits for no one, after all. Her lips press to your cheek and you accept the affection.
“She did sedate him. Three times.” Agatha’s voice calls from the next room.
“Oh, I see.”
Rio leans over to examine the man on your table with no shortage of interest. He stares back, eyes impossibly wide. His heart rate picks up.
“What is he?” She asks.
“Not sure. Rapid regeneration, odd capabilities. Mutant, maybe?”
“He’s certainly not a witch.” Agatha’s leaning against the doorway now, arms folded over her chest, “Though it is taking a fair amount of magic to keep him subdued.”
“He’s no match for you, naturally.” You compliment.
Both Agatha and Rio grin at that. The former comes up behind you, hands settling on your hips. Her lips press against your neck. Then, she leans over and steals a kiss from Rio, who is all too eager to meet her halfway.
You smile. The heart in your chest threatens to burst—not unlike the specimen in front of you.
“Well, aren’t you sweet today.” Agatha comments.
“Aiming for a reward?” Rio asks.
Rio kisses her way up the flash of skin available to her eyes, making you sigh, leaning back into Agatha’s hands. Then Agatha’s lips fasten to the other side of your neck. Your head falls back and you laugh. Then you moan.
The experiment on your table is forgotten as you’re dragged into the next room and bent into all sorts of shapes you couldn’t even imagine on your own. Oh, well; if he dies before the six hour mark, you can always just find another one. The same cannot be said of the witches bracketing you. And oh, how beautiful that is.
#agatha harkness x reader#rio vidal x reader#agathario#agathario x reader#agatha all along#agatha harkness#rio vidal#agatha harkness x reader x rio vidal#agatha all along x reader#agatha all along fanfiction#wlw#wlw fanfiction#oct2024#multimilfswritings
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Birthday Girl
On your 21st birthday, your friends drag you to a bar to get wasted when you decide it's a good idea to drunk-call Professor Agatha Harkness.
Word count: 3400+
Warnings: smut, fingering, oral, intoxication, mentions of underage drinking, teacher x student (legal)
“One, two, three!” Wanda chants and you and your friends tap your shot glasses on the bar counter and quickly down them.
You gasp at the burn and they laugh at you. It’s your 21st birthday and your best friends Wanda, Rio, and Natasha had dragged you out to the closest bar to get you wasted. They had all already turned 21 the year before; you were the baby in the group.
“Fuck, that’s disgusting,” you groan.
“Another round, please!” Rio motions to the bartender. He sets down four more tequila shots and one is shoved into your hand.
“Think you can get to 21?” Wanda jokes and the thought of 20 more shots makes you want to gag.
“I might puke after this one,” you say and your friends laugh. You were never a partier in high school or college, always preferring to curl up on the couch and watch a movie. You’d only had some sips of alcohol a few times, but you had never been drunk.
“You deserve this!” Nat shouts in your ear. “Harkness has been working you to the bone!”
You shrug and wave your hand dismissively, suddenly uncomfortable. Agatha Harkness is your History of Witchcraft professor at Westview University. She’s known around campus for being cold to everyone and rarely giving out A’s. She expected nothing short of excellence and would not put up with excuses. Everyone was terrified of her.
Everyone except for you.
Something about the older woman captivated you. You were obsessed with meeting her standards, dreaming of the day she would look at you with pride. You poured over your books for her class, rereading every sentence you wrote thrice, just to try to impress her. It had taken your friends days of begging to convince you to come celebrate your birthday with them because you had a paper for Agatha’s class due in a week and you were already worried about it.
“I don’t know how you’re surviving,” Wanda says. “I had her last semester and got a C in the class. Third highest grade. She’s the worst.”
“She’s not that bad,” you defend, not quite sure why. Something about Agatha getting so much hate for pushing her students rubs you the wrong way.
“Yeah she is,” Rio joins in. “I heard that she’s a real witch.”
You roll your eyes. “Can we please stop talking about her? I thought you guys brought me here to get away from school.” You take the shot that’s still in your hand and it goes down smoother this time.
“Yes, there we go!” Rio whoops.
Two more shots later and your head has gone completely fuzzy. You feel as if you are floating on air and everything around you is happening in slow motion. You get off your stool and immediately stumble, Wanda catching you with her arms.
“I think I’m a little drunk,” you tell her. She laughs like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.
“No shit, y/n, you don’t have to yell!”
You didn’t even realize you had. “We should probably go back to the dorms!” You look around to see Nat chatting with some girl and Rio throwing darts at the board in the corner.
“Not yet,” Wanda says, picking up her rum and coke. You’re not sure how she’s still drinking after she also did four tequila shots. “I’ll get you some water.” She signals to the bartender and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing your vision to go back to normal.
When you open them, you see dark hair in the corner. Is that–? You shift so you can get a better look and feel sorely disappointed when you realize the person is not Agatha. Why are you disappointed? The thought echoes in your head for a second, and then is replaced by a sudden urge to see your professor.
“Drink this,” Wanda orders, pressing a glass of ice water into your hand, but you’re too busy scrolling through your phone. You know she put her number on the syllabus somewhere and you are too far gone to think that this might be a bad idea.
You feel a thrill run through you when you find it. You read the number over and over, like you’re afraid it’s going to change somehow.
“I’ll be back,” you slur to Wanda and then step out the side door into the alley. You type the number into your phone and your finger hesitates over the call button. You know you shouldn’t. But fuck it. You press the button and lift the phone to your ear.
It rings. And then rings again. You’re about to hang up to spare yourself the rejection when the call connects.
“Hello?” It’s actually her.
Your breath catches in your throat and you stand up straighter. “Professor Harkness?”
“Y/n? Is that you?”
“Yeah.” Shit, this was a bad idea. Even with your head still swimming, you know that. You can’t just hang up though.
“Why are you calling me at 10:30 on a Saturday night?”
“Um,” you say, trying to think of something. You’re definitely going to have to drop her class after this. You’ll never be able to face her ever again. “It’s my birthday?” You offer lamely.
Agatha scoffs. “Happy birthday. Can I help you with something?”
“Oh, no, Professor, I just wanted – we’re at a bar – I thought you were – and just wanted to say hi,” you ramble, knowing you’re not making any sense, and you can almost hear her smirk through the phone.
“Y/n, are you drunk right now?” Her voice perks up and it sounds like she’s finally interested.
“No!” you protest. “Well, maybe a little. But I’m 21 now!”
“What bar are you at?”
“Jimmy’s.” It’s a local dive bar that is a popular place for Westview students to hang out at.
“I’ll be there in ten. Wait out front.” There’s a click and then she’s gone. You stare at your phone, dumbfounded. Is Agatha coming to pick you up? Why?
You walk back into the bar and order a Dirty Shirley. The call had sobered you up a bit and if you had already drunk-called your professor, why not get even more hammered. Wanda comes back over to you and giggles when she sees the new drink in your hand.
“Alright, time to party!” she exclaims. You pick up on the fact that she’s a little drunk as well. You stand up, vision blurring for a second.
“I actually called an uber,” you lie, even through your hazy mind knowing that your professor coming to pick you up might sound strange to them.
Wanda pouts and then throws her arms around you. “Happy birthday,” she says into your ear and your arms tighten around her.
“Thank you,” you breathe back. You’re close with Rio and Nat as well, but they don’t have the same bond you and Wanda do. You pull back and then go say goodbye to your other friends.
The wind outside does very little to sober you up and you shiver from the coldness. You’re wearing a purple crop-top and a black mini-skirt, something Nat had found buried deep in your closet. You watch the time on your phone, heartbeat picking up as it gets closer to ten minutes since Agatha had hung up on you.
And then right on the dot, a slick black Range Rover pulls into the parking lot, and you immediately know it’s her. The car stops right in front of you, the passenger window rolling down, and your breath catches.
It’s Professor Harkness, clad in a maroon suit, wavy hair falling over her shoulders.
“Do you need me to open the door for you, too, princess?” Agatha says, sarcasm dripping over the words, when you haven’t moved. You shake your head, partly to answer and partly to clear the fog. You settle into the seat, not missing the way Agatha’s eyes rake over your skimpily clothed body.
“You didn’t have to come get me,” you mutter, putting real effort into not slurring your words.
She glances at you and sees you struggling with your seatbelt. She reaches over and you freeze at her close proximity. Her breath is hot against your cheek and her fingers brush your stomach as she takes the seat belt from your hand and buckles it for you. “Thought I would spare the other people you drunk-called,” she says.
Embarrassment runs through you. “You were the only one,” you say meekly, picking at a scab on your hand. You dare to peek at her, only to find her smirking, one eyebrow quirked.
“Oh?”
“I shouldn’t have called.” This time, it’s harder to keep your words from running together. “We were talking about you and then I thought I saw you and I just wanted to see you.” You need to stop talking, now.
Agatha hums. “Did you, now?” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ears as she shifts the car into drive and you watch her fingers.
“You’re really hot,” you blurt out and then clamp a hand over your mouth. Fuck.
Instead of pulling over and making you get out, like you thought she would, Agatha simply reaches over and pats your leg. “And you’re really drunk, sweetheart.”
The pet name makes you swoon inwardly. “Not that drunk,” you say unconvincingly. “I only had one…two…” You trail off, attempting to count the number of drinks on your fingers. Agatha stifles a chuckle.
“Is this your first time drinking?” She asks, amused.
“No, but it is my first time drinking this much,” you admit. “My friends dragged me out since it’s my birthday. I was going to work on the essay for your class.”
“You were going to spend your 21st birthday doing school work?”
“Your essay’s due in a week. I wanted to make sure I-it was good enough for you.”
She notices your slip of tongue and her smirk sends heat down low in your stomach. “You’re always good for me. Your essays are some of the best I’ve ever read.”
Your heart skips a beat and your face flushes. “I have a B in your class.”
“You have an 88 in my class. That’s the highest I’ve had in years. Can’t make it too easy,” she says with a wink.
“You could make it just a little easier,” you grumble, the alcohol clearly getting rid of any inhibitions.
“You keep doing what you’re doing, sweetheart, and it’ll go up, I promise. I’m very impressed with the work you’ve been turning in.”
A hot flash runs through you. “Just wanna be your good girl.” And if it wasn’t clear how you feel about her now, it sure is. But she doesn’t look disgusted or creeped out, only intrigued.
She finally stops the car and you peer out the window, expecting to see your dorm. You haven’t been paying attention to where she’s been driving at all, and you’re quite surprised to see you’ve arrived at a two-story house in a cute, suburban neighborhood.
“This isn’t where I live,” you say dumbly.
“No, it’s not,” she agrees, getting out of the car and walking over to help you. You stumble up the steps to the front door, Agatha’s tight grip on your shoulder keeping you upright. You can feel her fingers playing with the ends of your hair.
She unlocks the front door just as a wave of nausea hits you. “Oh, god,” you say weakly, holding a hand in front of your mouth. Agatha doesn’t even seem phased; she leads you to a bathroom in the hall and leaves, only to re-enter with a glass of water moments later. You gulp it down and feel better.
“You okay?” she asks softly, stroking your cheek, eyes tracing up and down your face. You’ve never seen this side of her and you really like it.
“I think so. Thank you again,” you murmur and you realize that you’ve been staring at her mouth.
“Anything for my favorite student.”
And then, because you’re apparently determined to fuck everything up even more, you lean in and press your lips to hers. Agatha stands still for a second before you pull back, horrified with yourself.
“Professor, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to–”
She draws you back in for a longer kiss this time, tongue licking into your mouth. You let out a long moan and she breaks away.
“You’re drunk,” she tells you again.
You clasp the lapels of her blazer. “I know. But I want you.”
She softly pries your fingers off her suit and smiles. “You need to sleep. And then we can talk about this in the morning.”
You pout and she runs her thumb over your bottom lip, slightly pulling it down. You suck her finger into your mouth, delighting in the way her eyes darken. She steps back.
“Let’s go. You can sleep in the guest room. I’ll find you some pajamas and toiletries.” Her hand on the small of your back guides you up the stairs and to the room on the right. The guest room is simple but cozy and you immediately go to the bed and flop onto it. “Don’t fall asleep yet,” Agatha warns and then leaves the room.
She comes back in a few minutes, an old shirt and sweatpants in one hand and a toothbrush and toothpaste in the other. She pats your legs in an effort to get you up but you can barely move, suddenly weighed down by all the drinks.
“Come on, hon,” Agatha says and helps you stand up. You don’t move as she works to take your shirt and skirt off, your cheeks and upper chest flushing red. You try to cover yourself and she smirks.
“M’sorry,” you mumble.
“Don’t be. I’m enjoying the view.” You stare at her longingly, silently begging her to fuck you right there and then, but she helps you step into the sweatpants and pull the shirt over your head. She watches you brush your teeth and moves the covers so you can get into bed. “Do you need anything else?”
Your hand grabs hers. “Just you,” you try again hopefully, but she chuckles and wrenches free of your grip.
“Good night, birthday girl,” she whispers and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. And then she turns off the lights and leaves the room.
You fall asleep immediately.
***
Sunlight streams through the blinds, waking you up. It takes you a minute to get your bearings and then the events of last night come back to you.
The bar. Four shots of tequila and half a Dirty Shirley. Calling Agatha and her coming to pick you up and taking you to her house. Kissing her in the downstairs bathroom. Shit.
You groan, head pounding. You see a container of Advil and a glass of water on the nightstand beside you. You take two Advil and drain the glass, heart warming at the thought of Agatha taking such good care of you.
And then you remember that your relationship with her will forever be complicated by your actions.
You solemnly brush your teeth and pull back on the clothes you wore to the bar last night, neatly folding Agatha’s pajamas and placing them on the bed. You hope she hasn’t woken up yet so you can sneak out without her having to tell you how inappropriate you behaved last night.
No such luck. The second you get downstairs, Agatha perks up from where she’s typing on her laptop on the couch.
“Good morning, darling,” she purrs, shutting her computer. You gulp, taking her outfit in. She’s wearing a robe that ends mid-thigh and the neckline drops low.
“Hey,” you say casually, trying to hide how much you’re internally freaking out.
“Do you want something for breakfast? I can cook you something.” She stands up and walks to the kitchen and you follow like a lost puppy. You involuntarily lick your lips at the way her hips are swaying.
“What are my options?” Your voice is raspy, still feeling hungover. She glances back at you and her eyes dart up and down your body.
“I can make eggs. Bacon. I think I have pancake mix in the pantry. What would you like?”
You’re a little confused that she hasn’t scolded you yet. And then you remember something else. She kissed you.
You swallow hard. Whatever else you may have done last night that you can’t remember, she doesn’t hate you for it. She might even want you back.
“Are you on the menu?” It comes out before you can even realize what you’re saying.
Agatha freezes and turns around. You shift your weight nervously, but then you see her pupils blown out. Her eyes are so dark you can barely see any blue. “What?” She asks carefully.
“You kissed me last night,” you say, a little breathless. You have absolutely no idea where this confidence is coming from. “You wouldn’t do anything else cause I was drunk. But I’m not drunk now.”
She steps toward you and roughly grasps your hair. She tilts your head back, exposing your neck just a tad. “No, you’re not.” She regards you for a second. “You know you’re not going to get extra credit for trying to sleep with your professor.”
You laugh. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”
She smirks. “Good.” And then she licks a hot stripe up your neck and bites down, sucking a mark on your skin. You gasp loudly and tangle your hands into her hair.
“Professor,” you moan and you drag her into a filthy kiss. She backs you up until your thighs hit the table so she lifts you up onto it. Your legs wrap around her to pull her closer. Agatha pushes up your crop-top and kneads your breast, thumb stroking your nipple, never once breaking your kiss.
Her hand creeps under your skirt and cups your mound over your underwear. Your hips jump on their own at the stimulation.
“Please,” you beg. Her lips curl into a smile.
“What do you want?” Her fingers have pushed your underwear to the side and have started lazily stroking through your folds, spreading your wetness.
“You,” is all you can say before she sinks a finger into your hole.
“Like this?” She asks innocently, thrusting hard.
“Yes,” you pant, quickly untying her robe so you can touch her. She’s completely naked underneath and you lean down so you can take a nipple into your mouth.
“That’s perfect, baby,” she sighs, setting a relentless pace with her fingers after she slips another one in you. “Is this what you hoped would happen when you called me last night?”
“I’ve been hoping for this since the first day of the semester,” you answer, and she falters for a second, thrown off by your honesty.
She pulls out of you and panic runs through you, terrified that you said the wrong thing. But she just pushes you down so your back is resting on the table and she pulls out one of the chairs from the table.
“What are you–” Before you can finish your sentence, she leans forward and sucks your clit into her mouth. Your back arches off the table, hands rushing down to hold her in place. “Fuck, Professor!”
She devours your pussy like she’s a starving woman, pulling all sorts of loud noises from you.
“Oh my god, I’m gonna cum,” you chant, hips grinding on her face, trying to get the last bit of stimulation you need to send you over the edge. She knows what you need and presses her fingers inside you, curling them just right and gives your clit a hard last lick. You cum harder than you ever have before, her name on your lips like a prayer. She helps you ride through the aftershocks and then trails kisses up your body until she can kiss your mouth.
“How was that?” she asks after you pull away to catch your breath.
“That was probably the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten,” you say, which cracks both of you up. “But I’m not finished.”
Her eyebrow quirks up and she smirks. “Oh?” You stand up, putting your hands on her hips and flipping her around so she’s leaning against the table.
You sink to your knees in front of you, not even bothering with a chair. You slowly push her robe up so it bunches at her waist. “Can I return the favor?”
A glint appears in her eye and she fists one of her hands in your hair preemptively. “I’d like nothing more.”
#agatha smut#agatha harkness x reader#agatha harkness x fem!reader#agatha harkness x you#agatha x reader#agatha harkness smut#kathryn hahn x reader#agatha x you#agatha all along#covsfics
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the witchy type
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ thunderbolts x fem!reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ in a world frayed by shadows and war, each Thunderbolt finds an anchor in a witch whose magic threads through their wounds, memories, and buried humanity. love blooms quietly—in blood-soaked silence, stolen rooftop sunsets, and the spaces between survival and surrender.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words
John walker found himself with a Hex-Witch (combat-based, sigil-driven magic; rooted in practical mysticism and battlefield protection)...
At first, John doesn’t trust you. Not because of the “witch” thing—he's seen weirder—but because you're not predictable. You fight with whispers and flicks of your fingers instead of fists, and that unnerves him.
You, in turn, don’t like his aggression. His All-American soldier act rubs you the wrong way—too much ego, not enough awareness of what lies beyond the veil.
But he learns fast. Starts watching the way you carve symbols into the air mid-battle. Notices how you keep him alive without him realizing it—redirecting bullets, hexing weapons to jam.
He's not used to someone fighting with him like that—quiet, efficient, terrifying in ways he can’t define.
Over time, he becomes protective of you in a very "I don’t believe in magic but don’t touch her or I’ll break your jaw" way. You make him a sigil to etch into his armor. He acts like it's dumb. But he wears it.
You hex his nightmares once. Just once. He doesn’t ask again—but he sleeps easier near you.
There’s tension between you two, like gunpowder and lit candles. Controlled... until it isn’t.
John isn’t used to falling for someone like you. You’re unpredictable, untouchable in ways that unsettle his soldier brain—but God, does it keep him up at night.
The first time he realizes he has feelings for you is after a mission. You get hurt—not bad, just bloodied—and instead of patching yourself up, you use the last of your energy to cast a protective sigil over him. He’s stunned. Angry. Confused. In love.
He pretends to hate when you tease him with “witchy” stuff—blowing out candles from across the room, making his gun jam when he mouths off—but deep down? He gets a little soft about it. Thinks it's cute. Will never admit that.
He brings you practical things as gifts: a new combat knife, a fireproof journal for spellcraft, a custom patch to sew onto your gear with a barely-visible warding symbol. He acts like it’s “just tactical,” but the way he watches you smile after? Yeah.
You enchant his dog tags with a small hex of protection. He says it’s pointless. But he never takes them off again.
He’s touch-starved, but doesn’t initiate often. The first time you reach out and thread your fingers through his gloved ones, his entire body goes still. Then soft. Like he forgot what it felt like to be held without being used.
When he kisses you for the first time, it’s after a brutal mission. You’re both scraped up, bloody, alive. He cups your jaw like you’re breakable, like your magic doesn’t terrify him half as much as how badly x~~~he wants to be yours.
He calls you “witch” like it’s a love language—gruff, protective, a little mocking. You hex his coffee in return so it’s always exactly the temperature he likes. Balance.
When he sleeps next to you, your magic quiets. And he does too. For once.
🥀 damn soldier
The night hangs heavy, thick with fog that clings like a damp cloak, and the air tastes of burnt ozone and scorched metal—a bitter reminder of battles fought just beyond sight. Beneath your fingers, the rough concrete is cold and unforgiving, gritty with dust and flecks of ash you smear into a crude, jagged symbol. Your hands tremble slightly, stained with iron and the raw pulse of magic that hums beneath your skin.
John’s pacing nearby is a stark contrast to your stillness—boots scraping softly against cracked stone, breath shallow, the faint metallic clink of his dog tags whispering in the silence. His voice cuts sharp through the quiet, snapping like a whip. “You done whisperin’ to the dirt yet?”
You don’t meet his gaze. Instead, your eyes stay fixed on the symbol as your lips part in a slow, almost reverent murmur. “Almost. Unless you want to walk into an ambush and leave your bones scattered across the alley.”
He stops, jaw tight enough to see the strain beneath the skin. “I’m not afraid of a couple of mercs.”
“It’s not mercs,” you say, voice dropping, rough and low, the words coated with something older than him—an ancient warning. “It’s what’s riding inside them.”
The space between you shifts. The silence thickens, buzzing with an unspoken weight.
The final stroke of ash is barely a whisper as you finish the symbol, your incantation slipping from your tongue in a language older than any flag John’s ever fought under. For a heartbeat, the symbol burns a searing white-hot glow, then fades into nothingness.
John’s gaze stays locked on you as you rise, fingers brushing ash from your palms like shedding a second skin. “So what now?” His voice is rough, but there’s a hint of awe threading through. “You summon lightning? Melt their faces?”
“No.” Your smirk curves soft and dangerous. “Now, we walk in... and nothing will touch you.”
He finally meets your eyes—really meets them. The storm behind your gaze is fierce, but there’s something else there, something that threads through the tension and settles deep in his chest. “Why me?”
You step closer, the fog curling around your ankles like it knows to give you space. Your voice is softer now, but sharp with truth. “Because you keep stepping in front of me.”
His breath catches—a slow exhale, low and ragged, like he’s been holding it far too long. The rough edges of his voice turn almost tender. “Damn witch.”
You reach out, fingertips ghosting over the curve of his jaw—warm against the cold bite of the night. Your smirk deepens into something softer, a promise buried beneath teasing words. “Damn soldier.”
And for a moment, the fog parts just enough for two impossible people to stand on the same side—waiting to fight, to fall, to maybe… stay.
Yelena Belova finds solace in a Spirit Medium…
Yelena doesn’t flinch when she finds out what you can do. She’s seen too much to fear the dead. But she does flinch when she sees how it’s eating you alive.
You’re not flashy with your power. You listen to voices no one else hears. You light candles that burn cold. You disappear sometimes—drawn into the veil between life and death. She pretends it doesn’t scare her.
She watches you, silently. The way you close your eyes when you feel the grief around you. The way you speak gently to empty air. The way your hands shake after summoning something that didn’t want to be remembered.
You tell her the dead don’t lie. That they’re more honest than the living. She says, “Then I’m surprised you still talk to me.”
She brings you food when you’re drained. Tells you dumb jokes when your eyes go distant. She doesn’t say she cares—but she never lets you drift too far.
One night, you channel someone she lost. You don’t mean to. She doesn’t ask you to. But when it happens, she doesn’t walk away. She just... listens. Tears running down her cheeks silently. You never speak of it again.
She doesn’t believe in soulmates. But she ties a thin red thread around your wrist—“for protection,” she says. You feel the way it hums with her energy. You never take it off.
🥀 too much
The motel room is dim, shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink, lit only by the soft, uneven flicker of a single candle perched on the battered nightstand. The wax drips slowly, a quiet rhythm against the stillness. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in the worn, threadbare sheets—cool against your skin, rough with age—eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the peeling wallpaper and cracked ceiling, lost in the flickering light.
The scent of stale cigarettes and old coffee lingers faintly, mingling with the faint, earthy smell of sage burning somewhere deeper in the room—your attempt to cleanse the heaviness that clings to your bones.
Yelena leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the thin strip of hallway light. The leather of her jacket creaks softly with the subtle movement. “You’re listening again,” she says, voice low but steady.
You nod once, not trusting your voice.
“Anyone I know?”
You pause, swallowing the heaviness lodged in your throat. “No. A boy. Eight years old. Doesn’t understand he’s dead.”
Her expression tightens, jaw clenched, but you hear the slight hitch in her breath. “Can you help him?”
“I already did,” you murmur, voice barely above the candle’s sputter. “Just... had to let him tell his story.”
Without waiting for an invitation, she moves across the room, settling beside you on the bed with a quiet sigh. Her warmth presses against your side—steady, real. A balm to the cold edges inside.
“You take on too much,” she says, the words gentle but carrying weight.
“So do you,” you reply, eyes still tracing the dance of shadows on the wall.
A silence falls, thick and heavy, until she breaks it with a soft, tentative question. “What do they say about me? The dead?”
You glance at her, surprise flickering in your chest. “They say... you carry your ghosts well.”
She scoffs, the sound rough but almost tender. “Figures. Even in death, people lie.”
Your fingers reach out instinctively, brushing against hers—the rough calluses of a fighter meeting the softness of vulnerability. “Not to me.”
Yelena exhales—a breath caught between relief and something deeper, shaky but sure. Slowly, deliberately, she laces her fingers through yours, the touch grounding and electric all at once.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, eyes cast downward, voice steady. “So if you start slipping into some spooky dead zone, drag me with you. Deal?”
A smile tugs at your lips—soft, genuine. “Deal.”
The candle flickers one last time before settling into a steady glow. Outside, the veil between worlds seems to thin just enough to let the silence breathe. For now.
Bob Reynolds finds himself more than in love with a Threading Witch…
When Bob meets you, he doesn’t understand why the voices in his head go quiet around you. He’s used to fear, to internal war, to the Void clawing at his insides—but you’re like static turned into white noise. Not peace. Just... stillness.
You don’t look at him like the world does. You don’t fear him, even when you should. Especially when his eyes flash gold or his hands shake and he whispers, “I don’t want to break again.”
You tell him you’ve seen worse things than gods. That you’ve rewritten fate in blood. That theuniverse has cracks—and you live inside one.
Bob watches you work a probability hex once—make a bullet curve mid-air, miss him by a centimeter, and ricochet into someone’s gun. He doesn’t breathe for ten full seconds. “That’s not possible,” he says. You smile. “Exactly.”
You know how fragile he is under all that strength. You become his grounding tether. The anchor point in the chaos. The one constant that refuses to break—even when he does.
He once asks you what you see when you look at him. You answer without blinking: “Potential. To save everything. Or destroy it.”
And then, softer: “But I think you’ll choose right. Because you already did when you didn’t kill me.”
He tells you later, “You’re the only variable I can’t predict.” You kiss him like a question. He answers with a storm.
Bob’s a guy who’s seen hell and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty—emotionally or physically. He’s tough, abrasive, and quick to shoot down softness, but with you, that rough exterior cracks in unexpected moments.
Your threading magic feels foreign to him at first—too delicate, too precise—but he respects it because he can see how it calms you, how it can patch things even when bullets can’t.
When he’s frustrated or angry, you don’t push. Instead, you quietly thread a thin, warm line around his wrist or heart—something only he can feel. It’s subtle, but enough to ground him.
Bob rarely opens up about his past or his pain. But one night, when he’s too wound tight to sleep, you thread his fingers in yours and whisper a charm to untangle the knots inside him. His grip tightens, but he doesn’t pull away.
He’s awkward with affection at first—gruff “here, hold this” moments that slowly evolve into lingering touches and quiet, steady presence.
When you tease him about his bad luck or reckless attitude, he smirks and fires back with a joke—trying to keep things light, but there’s an honest warmth in his eyes.
Bob’s fiercely protective, not just of you but of your magic. If anyone tries to disrespect what you do, he’s ready to fight—no questions asked.
He’s not one for grand declarations, but he shows his feelings by small, consistent actions: offering you the last cookie, silently carrying your bag, or catching your hand when you stumble.
🥀 a star called the sun
The sky above is too bright. Not metaphorically—literally. The sun’s harsh light bends lazily around Bob in swirling spirals, like the universe itself can’t decide which angle to hit him from. The air hums with warmth and a faint electric charge, the kind that makes your skin tingle just being near him.
You sit cross-legged on the weathered rooftop next to him, the rough concrete pressing cool against your palms. The sweet, tangy scent of pomegranate juices drips from your fingers as you casually pop a seed between your teeth, the crunch sharp and satisfying.
“People don’t usually sit next to me when I’m glowing,” Bob says, voice low and gravelly, eyes fixed on the city sprawled below, avoiding your gaze.
“Most people don’t see what I see,” you reply softly, watching the way the sunlight catches in his unruly hair, setting golden edges ablaze.
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, skeptical but curious. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
You chew slowly, savoring the burst of tartness. “You’re like a prism. All that power, refracting off a million cracks. It’s not broken. Just... scattered.”
Bob exhales sharply, a short laugh like a gust of wind. “Romantic way to say I’m barely held together.”
You reach out without hesitation, plucking a thread of shimmering magic from the charged air between you—fine, silver, and invisible to anyone else but you. It twists and coils in your fingers like liquid light, a fragile filament of ‘what if’.
“You’re held together,” you murmur, your voice almost a caress as you thread the glowing strand around his wrist like a delicate bracelet. “And now... slightly luckier.”
He stares down at the subtle shimmer wrapped around his skin, a flicker of wonder crossing his face. “What did you just do?”
You grin, eyes bright with mischief and warmth. “Nothing dangerous. Just made sure your shoelace won’t ever untie itself again. Oh, and your next coffee will probably be free.”
Bob blinks, surprised, then lets out an actual laugh—short, sharp, and genuine, like the sound surprises even him. “You’re a menace.”
“Chaos is a lifestyle,” you shrug, leaning back on your hands, feeling the sun’s heat seep into your bones.
He watches you for a long moment, this impossible person who bends reality with just her presence and doesn’t run away from the chaos he carries. Something softens behind his guarded eyes.
“I like you,” he says quietly, voice rough but sincere.
You smile, a secret shared between just the two of you. “I know.”
With a playful flick, you toss him the other half of the pomegranate. He catches it instinctively, golden eyes wide in the fading light.
The sky begins to settle.
And somehow, today, the world doesn’t end.
Ava Starr is more than happy to accept a Temporal Rift Witch into her space…
Ava is startled by you. Not because of your magic, but because you’re never entirely present—or always toopresent. You’ll speak to something two seconds ahead, react before things happen. She doesn’t trust it at first.
You never try to fix her phasing. You don’t offer pity or solutions. Instead, you exist beside her, synced in a way that makes space for her disjointed reality.
The first time she phases and you don’t flinch—just calmly wait—it rattles her. You blink in time with her rhythm. Like you can hear the tick of the clock she’s stuck between.
You call her “constant,” and she nearly snaps at you. “I’m anything but.” But you smile, patient. “You’re still here. That’s constant enough.”
You’re quiet with her. Not silent—but slow. Gentle. She’s used to being weaponized, watched. With you, she’s just Ava. And that’s terrifying. And addictive.
You anchor her. Not physically—but energetically. With whispered words tied to the rhythm of her molecules, and fingers brushing just close enough to remind her she exists.
Eventually, you teach her a trick—a breath pattern, a focus phrase—that lets her phase intentionally for a few seconds longer. She doesn’t thank you out loud. But she sits closer after that. Just a little.
🥀for her
Ava’s half-phased through a wall when you find her—her shoulder trapped in the crumbling brick, fragments of dust and mortar drifting down like slow-falling ash. Her eyes are squeezed shut tight, lips pressed thin, breath shallow and uneven like the fragile flutter of a dying bird.
You don’t panic.
You kneel across from her, the rough concrete cold beneath your knees, your voice steady and low, a soft anchor in the chaos. “You’re not stuck. You’re drifting.”
She grits her teeth, the tension pulling at the lines of her face. “Can’t pull back. It’s—loud. Everything’s too loud.”
Your fingers move gently through the air, weaving invisible threads of magic—silken strands of moment-to-moment, delicate as spider silk but strong enough to hold a fractured soul. You hum a slow, steady rhythm, a lullaby of time itself. “Then listen to me instead.”
She doesn’t respond at first—but you watch her chest rise and fall, slow and steady, matching the cadence of your hum.
“You’re here,” you say softly. “Now. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Just now.”
Her jaw tightens. “I don’t know what that means anymore.”
You smile—soft, bittersweet—like a quiet promise in the dark. “That’s okay. I���m keeping time for both of us.”
Your hand inches forward, trembling slightly with hope and intention. Even though she’s barely real in this moment—half a ghost caught between here and elsewhere—she feels the warmth radiating from your skin, the steady pulse of your heart pressed into your touch.
Ava exhales, a breath that seems to carry all her fear and exhaustion. The phasing shudders, flickers like a weak flame caught in the wind—then stops.
She collapses forward, weight finally giving way as she falls into your arms, solid and trembling. Real. Tangible.
You hold her—not tightly, just enough to remind her she’s not alone.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracked and raw.
“For what?” you ask, voice gentle like a caress.
“For not knowing how to stay.”
You press your cheek softly against her temple, feeling the rapid pulse of her heartbeat slow beneath your touch. “You’re learning. And I have all the time in the world to wait.”
She closes her eyes, sinking into the warmth of your presence. For the first time in years, she believes it.
Bucky Barnes and his Bloodhound Witch…
Bucky doesn’t ask what kind of witch you are. He doesn’t have to. The first time you say his true name—all of it—he feels it. In his bones. Like something old inside him recognizes you.
You don’t touch his metal arm without permission. And when you finally do, it’s not in fear or reverence. It’s to draw a sigil against the cool surface, something simple. Protective. A tether. He asks what it means. You say, “It means you come back.”
He watches you prepare rituals like it’s an artform—mixing herbs with blood, knotting thread, burning names into wax. He doesn’t understand all of it. But he respects it. Deeply.
You both carry guilt like armor. But you treat his gently, never demanding he "let it go." You say, “It’s part of your blood now. But it doesn’t have to rule it.”
The first time he bleeds in front of you, you catch it in your palm and don’t flinch. You whisper a binding—not to hold him, but to protect what’s already his.
He never says “I love you.” Not directly. But he gives you his dog tags. Lets you etch an old protection rune on the inside of his vibranium wristplate. Learns to breathe through your grounding spells when his nightmares get sharp.
And when he finally lets you write his name—James—into a charm of blood and silver, he does it with a nod. Silent permission. Trust deeper than words.
Bucky’s instinct is to protect and to run from pain, but your magic reveals things even he can’t hide—from the blood on his hands to the scars in his soul. He’s wary at first, but slowly he learns to trust your insight.
When he’s haunted by nightmares or memories he can’t shake, you softly trace a circle on his wrist with your fingers, weaving a quiet bloodhound spell to keep the darkness at bay.
His metal arm and your magic feel like two halves of a whole—steel and spirit—combining strength and intuition. When you entwine your fingers, the threads of your magic pulse along his metal like a heartbeat.
Bucky is rough with affection—gruff touches, a hand lingering too long on your back, a quiet hand squeeze when words fail. Your magic threads through those moments, making them more tender, more profound.
You’re the one who finds him when he disappears, tracking his trail through blood scents and spectral whispers. When you pull him back, it’s not just your magic—it’s your quiet, unwavering presence that grounds him.
He’s protective, but he lets his guard down enough to let you “read” him, sharing pieces of his past he’s never told anyone else. Your magic weaves those fragments together, creating a tapestry of healing.
Late nights, he holds you close, your fingers lightly resting over his chest where the metal meets flesh. Your bloodhound magic hums softly, syncing your rhythms, sharing a calm only you two understand.
Sometimes, when the weight of the world gets heavy, you let him lean on you. Not just physically—emotionally, magically. He feels your magic tracing protective sigils along his spine, a shield woven from trust and love.
Bucky may never say it outright, but in the quiet moments when your magic brushes against his skin, when your eyes meet, he’s saying the words his lips won’t: You’re my home.
🥀remember me, remember you
Bucky sits on the edge of your work table, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearm, the metal gleaming softly in the flickering candlelight. Shadows dance across the room, warm and intimate, wrapping around you both like a secret kept from the world. The faint scent of ink and iron hangs in the air, mingling with something more subtle—your own magic, electric and alive beneath your skin.
You stand before him, holding a shallow bowl filled with a thick mixture of ink and blood—a potent blend that carries both vulnerability and power—in one hand. In the other, a slender silver thread catches the candle’s glow, shimmering like liquid starlight.
“You don’t have to do this,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, but steady.
He meets your gaze without hesitation—those haunted, storm-grey eyes steady and unflinching. “I want to,” he says simply.
You swallow, the weight of the moment settling between you. “Once your name is bound,” you warn softly, “it’s not just protection. It’s memory. It’s weight. A tether to who you were—and who you are.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I’ve carried worse.”
Carefully, reverently, you take the silver thread and dip it into the dark, viscous mixture. The ink coats the metal like a shadow, and you begin weaving, fingers nimble and sure. Each loop and knot hums beneath your touch, weaving layers of magic into the charm. Your lips part slightly as you speak, voice low and melodic—the cadence of your spell coaxing power into the delicate weave.
“James Buchanan Barnes,” you murmur, each syllable rolling off your tongue like silk woven with sorrow, binding his full name into the spell.
The charm vibrates softly, a heartbeat in your hands, pulsing with quiet strength.
Slowly, you lift it and tie the finished charm around his wrist, just beneath the edge of his metal arm. The cool silver contrasts against the warmth of his skin, the thread shimmering faintly as it settles into place.
He watches your hands—steady, reverent, tender—like you’re handling something sacred.
“What does it do?” he asks, voice rough but curious.
“It remembers who you are,” you say softly, looking up to meet his gaze again. “When you forget. When others try to rewrite you.” Your fingers linger for a moment, brushing his skin gently. “It brings you back.”
Bucky’s eyes soften, and for a long beat, he says nothing. Then, slowly, deliberately, he covers your hand with his—flesh over flesh, rough against delicate—holding on as if afraid to let go.
“Thank you,” he breathes, the words rough and heavy with meaning, like it hurts to say, but it means everything.
A warmth blooms in your chest, and you smile—small, sure, full of quiet promise.
“Always.”
The candlelight flickers once more, casting long shadows around you, but for this moment, in this room filled with whispered magic and unspoken trust, everything else falls away.
#john walker fanfic#john walker positive post#john walker x reader#john walker imagine#john walker#us agent x reader#us agent fanfic#bob reynolds x reader#bob x reader#bob thunderbolts#bob reynolds#robert reynolds imagine#robert reynolds x reader#robert reynolds#yelena belova x reader#yelena imagine#yelena x reader#bob thunderbolts imagine#bob thunderbolts x reader#ava starr x reader#ava starr imagine#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes x reader#james barnes x y/n#james barnes x reader#james barnes x you#james bucky barnes
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Going to the Globes
She’s with with the Director Masterlist
Pairing: Maya Mason x FemDirector!reader
Summary: When the Golden Globe nominations come in, your horror film doesn’t just make the list, it dominates it. Best Picture. Best Script. Best Director. Maya, your girlfriend-slash-marketing queen, is the first person to know. She’s never been invited to the Globes before, but when you tell her she’s your plus one, it changes everything.
Word Count: 8K
Warnings: Explicit smut so as always MDNI
A/N: Part 1 of my Golden Globes fic is here!! X it can be read as a stand alone but be aware the actual ceremony and after party will be the follow up! Xx



You’re still in bed when the phone rings.
Silk sheets twisted around your legs. The black-out curtains are drawn, keeping the room dim even though it’s nearly ten. You haven’t checked your phone, haven’t turned on the TV. You’re floating in that warm, suspended space between sleep and thought, your body still loose and boneless from last night, Maya’s hands, Maya’s mouth, Maya whispering something about “kissing her lucky charm” before slipping out the door in a bomber jacket and Balenciaga slides.
The phone buzzes again.
You reach out blindly across the nightstand, knocking over a heavy book and a glass of water in the process. Your fingers finally close around your phone.
<Maya Mason: Incoming Call…>
You answer with a sleepy mumble. “Baby?”
There’s a pause, like she’s trying to find breath, but then she’s there, crackling and frantic and utterly not composed.
“Can you come to the office?”
You blink, pushing yourself upright with a groan. Your hair’s a mess. You’re in one of her old oversized tees with the neckline ripped. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“No — I mean yes — fuck, yes, I’m fine, it’s just — can you just come to Continental?” She sounds like she’s pacing. Like she’s mid-coffee, mid-freakout, mid-something.
Your heart kicks. “Maya? What happened?”
You hear her sigh and then go softer, “please? For me?”
You swing your legs out of bed, all sleep forgotten. “Okay. Baby… okay. I’m coming.”
There’s a breath on the other end of the line, like she’s relieved just hearing your voice. “Just get here. As fast as you can.”
~
Matt’s mid-rant, his arms flailing, a mouth full of almond croissant, saying something about needing “more relatability” on the Kool-Aid movie, when the door flies open.
Maya doesn’t knock.
Matt jolts upright behind his desk, knocking over an iced coffee and a stack of scripts. “Jesus Christ! Maya?”
“WE’RE GOING TO THE GLOBES FUCKERS.”
He blinks. “What?”
Maya Mason, the designer whirlwind that she is, is already halfway into the room, breathless, glowing, hair wild from her frantic walk-run across the floor. Her phone’s still in her hand like she sprinted straight from the call.
She repeats herself, slower. “We’re going to the Golden Globes.”
Matt straightens. “Wait… what?”
She grins, all teeth, eyes sparkling like a woman who’s just pulled off the marketing coup of the decade.
“Don’t play with me right now, Maya.”
“It’s confirmed.” Maya presses both palms down on his desk, practically vibrating. “The Witch. Her film. My girl’s film. It’s nominated. For multiple categories. And she…” Maya chokes, then laughs, then says it again like she can’t quite believe it herself, “she’s nominated for Best Director.”
Matt goes silent.
Maya counts them off, fingers shaking with adrenaline. “Best Director. Best Picture. Best Score. Best Script. Best Actress for Tilda.”
A beat.
Matt screams. “I FUCKING KNEW IT!”
He’s out of his chair, knocking into his standing desk controls, sending it up at a weird angle. “This is it. This is our moment. This is my Rosemary’s Baby, you marketing GENIUS! This is our fucking moon landing!”
Maya snorts. “She’s going to hate you for saying that.”
“I don’t care.” He’s already pacing. “We need to do a full rollout. Press, social, that Variety piece she agreed to — fuck, fuck, we’re going to have a table, right? Like an actual table?”
Maya just laughs. She’s flushed. Breathless. Beaming. “She’s gonna be a wreck. She hasn’t even checked her phone yet.”
“She has to win something right?! All those nominations! Fuck horror films never fucking get this level of respect!” Matt was practically vibrating on the spot.
“And she’s the youngest woman ever nominated in both categories.” Maya adds smugly.
Matt grabs his phone, starts firing off voice memos. “Petra. Confirm a table. I want to be in the front. Score guy, Tilda, Patty, me, see who else from the main cast and production can be seated.”
Maya says nothing. She’s still standing by the door. Her hand is clenched around the phone.
Matt looks up, grinning. “You look like you just won something too.”
She shrugs. “It’s her win. And it’s a Continental win.”
“You should be there. Without you, we wouldn’t have this win Maya” Matt softened for a second to give credit where credit is due.
She smiles again, tighter this time. Familiar. A little sad. “No one invites marketing to the Globes, Matt.”
And before he can say anything else, she turns and walks out, already dialing.
~
The champagne’s already flowing.
Matt’s got a flute in each hand. Patty’s sitting on the edge of his desk, kicking her feet in sparkly mules and laughing about something Quinn just said. Sal’s slumped in the armchair, half-celebrating, half-scowling because it wasn’t his project that got five nominations and made the industry wet itself.
The door swings open hard.
Maya strides back in, sleek and flushed and thrumming. She doesn’t wait. She snatches a glass off the tray, tips her head back, downs it in one long pull.
Everyone stares.
“Jesus,” Quinn mutters, impressed.
“She’s gonna be here in fifteen,” Maya announces, setting the empty glass down with a little clink. “I’m telling her then.”
Matt spins. “Wait she still doesn’t know?!”
“Nope.”
Patty blinks. “How?”
Maya shrugs. “She doesn’t do the internet.”
“Seriously?”
“She’s like a cryptid. A sexy, blood-soaked cryptid who only comes out to direct a movie and then disappears back into the mist with a scarf over her face.”
“She’s literally nominated for five awards how the fuck does she still not know?!” Sal laughs.
“I know,” Maya says, eyes shining. “And she probably hasn’t even opened her texts yet. She still has a flip phone somewhere in our underwear drawer. She’s gonna walk in here wearing my t-shirt and Prada sunglasses and act like nothing happened.”
Quinn shakes her head in awe. “She’s a fucking icon.”
“She’s my icon,” Maya says, softer now. “And I get to tell her she just changed her life.”
The room quiets a little.
Even Sal manages a slow clap.
Matt raises his glass. “To the freak in the shadows.”
“To the witch with the camera,” Patty adds.
“To her,” Maya says.
They all clink glasses just as the elevator dings down the hall.
The elevator doors part with a hiss.
You step out like a specter: long coat over sleep-rumpled silk, dark sunglasses, hair long and unbrushed. One hand clutches a tray, iced coffee with too many pumps of vanilla, a warmed muffin tucked into a napkin. The other holds your phone, screen cracked, texts unopened.
You’re not online. You’re not part of the buzz. All you know is Maya sounded off, her voice too high, too breathless, asking you to come in “please, just for me.” So you came. Muffin and caffeine in hand. Worry coiled tight in your ribs.
The office hallway is loud.
You hear the champagne laughter before you even round the corner. A glass shatters. Someone yells. Patty shrieks something about her couture.
You pause, shifting the tray in your hands. “Oh no,” you mutter under your breath. “They’re drunk.”
You nudge the door open with your shoulder.
She turns the second she hears the door click. Maya’s eyes flick to your hands, and something breaks in her.
You don’t even get a word out before she’s striding over.
“It sounded serious so I got the coffee you like,” you say, holding it up stupidly. “And the muffin with the—”
She grabs your face with both hands and kisses you. Hard. Right there, in front of everyone. It’s not a show. It’s not for the room. It’s relief. Euphoria. Pride. Love.
You drop the tray.
The coffee hits the floor.
Nobody cares.
When she finally pulls back, her hands still cradling your jaw, you blink up at her.
“What… was that for?”
Maya’s eyes are glassy. Her voice is soft. “You’re nominated.”
You blink again. “For…?”
She laughs and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your mouth again. “Golden Globes baby. Best Director. Best Script. Best Picture. Tilda got Actress. Score too. Five nominations.”
The world tilts.
You sway slightly, and Maya’s arms are already there. Holding you steady. “Oh,” you whisper.
Behind her, Sal screams, “YOU’RE A FUCKING LEGEND.”
You don’t hear it.
You’re just staring at Maya, lips parted, stunned and still. “Why didn’t you tell me when you called?” you whisper.
“I wanted to do it in person,” she says. “I wanted to see your face.”
You blink once. Twice. Then bury your face in her neck. “Oh my god.”
“I know, baby,” she murmurs, holding you close. “I know.”
You’re still next to Maya. One arm looped around her waist. Your body is humming. Your spilled coffee is forgotten on the floor.
Matt’s in full award show mode. He’s pacing, phone in hand, rattling off strategy like a man possessed.
“Okay. Carpet first. You’ll talk to Vanity Fair mic, E! livestream, the usual outlets with Tilda and Dafoe. You’re gonna be the director they will want to talk to!”
You nod vaguely, still trying to process.
“Then there’s the luncheon thing, you’re gonna hate the luncheon but the food is surprisingly good,” Patty interjects, “and then the red carpet, obviously, then we end up at the table right up front. You, me, Patty, the score guy, Tilda, some of the cast and crew…”
You blink. “Where’s Maya?”
Matt looks up. “What?”
“For the Globes,” you say. “Where’s she sitting?”
There’s a pause.
Matt chuckles awkwardly. “Oh… marketing doesn’t usually go to awards stuff.”
“It’s a very exclusive event,” Patty adds. “It’s producers, talent, and studio heads like Matty. Not marketing.”
You turn your head slowly. Look at Maya.
She’s frozen. Just for a second. Then she laughs. That classic Maya Mason laugh, tight, breathy, self-deprecating. “Yeah, no, I’m not going. I mean, I never go. I’ll be running point from here. Social, press strategy, everything the next morning—”
“No.” Your voice is quiet but sharp.
Matt freezes. “Uh. No to what?”
You look at him like it’s obvious. “Maya has to be with me for all of it. My girlfriend goes or I don’t. It’s that simple.”
There’s a pause.
Matt blinks. “You mean, like… on the carpet?”
You just stare. “Yes,” you say. “On the carpet. At the table. At the fucking afterparty. Maya’s with me.”
Everyone turns to look at Maya.
And Maya? She lights the fuck up.She stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted. The kind of expression Maya Mason never wears. Not in meetings. Not in negotiations. Not even when she’s talking someone into a seven-figure deal with nothing but a smile and a slideshow.
She looks like someone just cracked open her ribs and kissed her heart.
“Wait, wait, wait… are you for real?” she says, eyes wide. “You want me, like ‘with you’, with you? Like, holding your hand on the carpet, getting glammed, ‘who are you wearing?’ energy, next to you at the table kind of with you?”
You nod once.
She gasps like someone just offered her equity in Valentino.
“Oh my god,” she says. “I’m going to the fucking Golden Globes.”
Matt stares. “Okay well I guess we need another seat.”
“She’s sitting next to me,” you say. “Center.”
Sal whistles. “Fuck. Okay.”
And Maya, still blinking, still breathless, leans in and kisses you, messy and fast and grateful, like she’s trying not to cry but maybe doesn’t care if she does.
She turns to you, a little out of breath.
“I get to stand next to you. While you win. I’m gonna be the first person to touch you when you come off that stage. That’s so… I mean that’s so fucking hot.”
You blink, then smile.
She smiles too.
You reach out, hook a finger through her belt loop, and pull her back toward you.
“I want you there,” you say. “You’re the other half of my soul.”
Maya exhales, soft and wrecked. “Damn right I am.”
The next hour passes like a blur. You’re curled on the couch next to Maya, your legs over hers, stealing lazy kisses while she tries to act composed. Matt begins pacing as the calls start rolling in, congratulating him on the nominations, questions about Oscar buzz, various brands reaching out for sponsorships, representatives of the Award Show itself talking logistics. Sal’s taken to sulking upon learning he’d have to fork out $30K for a seat at the back of the room. Patty is regaling tales of her first Globes night to Quinn.
Then Tyler walks in, holding his iPad like it’s a message from God.
“Okay,” he says, breathless. “Maison Margiela, Alexander McQueen, Prada, and Gucci have all reached out. They want to dress the whole ‘The Witch’ team.”
There’s a pause. The room buzzes.
You glance up from your spot curled on the couch, still half-tucked into Maya’s side. Voice low, calm.
“Maya likes dressing up,” you say softly. “She can choose. As long as they agree to dress her too.”
The room freezes.
Maya turns to you slowly.
“Wait. what?”
You blink at her. “You’re coming. With me. So they have to dress you too. If they want me.”
Maya stares at you like you just rewrote the laws of reality. “… I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say?”
Quinn mutters, “Oh fuck, she’s gonna lose it.”
You meet her eyes, deadpan. “Well if they want me, then they have to dress you too.”
Her mouth drops open. “ON GOD?!”
Patty snorts.
Sal chuckles, “Here we go.”
But Maya is gone. She’s up. She’s pacing. She’s vibrating.
“Shut the fuck up,” Maya snaps, eyes still on you. “Are you being serious right now? Are you… you’re telling me that I get to pick any of those designers I spend half my paycheck on, walk the carpet in full glam, next to you, and actually get photographed and credited and tagged and asked who I’m wearing?!”
You nod, amused. “Well yes, that’s the plan.”
“On fucking GOD?!”
She screams. She stands. She immediately circles the room like she’s trying to walk it off but can’t. “Shut UP. Shut the fuck UP. I’m gonna be hot at the Globes?! Me?! In Margiela?? With the winning director of the night?! I’m gonna be someone’s Pinterest board. I’m gonna be on every gay moodboard in the country—” she began to waffle on in pure unfiltered joy.
You smile softly, eyes lowered. “Honey, I haven’t won. I’m nominated, there’s a difference”
Matt watches her spin out and says, “She’s not gonna make it to the carpet.”
Maya turns back to you, breathless. “Are you really serious?”
You nod, smiling at her unbridled joy. “Deadly.”
Maya melts. Fully drops her phone, rushes across the room, and kisses your face, your cheeks, temple, and all the way up your jawline in a blur. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she mutters into your hair. “And I work in marketing.”
You blush, becoming shy. “Love you.”
“I’m gonna fuck you in a McQueen bustier,” she announces.
Quinn cackles.
Patty groans. “Jesus Christ, Maya…”
“No. You don’t get it. You don’t get it. I feel like I’m being proposed to. I’m gonna cry and then ride your face in couture.”
You raise your brows, soft and steady. “So… can we go back home?”
Maya grabs your wrist like she’s about to drag you into a supply closet. “I need you. Now. Or I’m going to black out.”
You can’t help but laugh, letting her pull you toward the door.
Matt yells, “Maya, think of HR … Maya? MAYA!”
~
The door of Maya’s office slams shut behind you.
You barely have time to register the sound before Maya’s mouth is on yours—hot, open, starving. She’s kissing you like her hands are on fire, like she’s waited her whole life for this moment and just realized it’s real.
You stumble backwards with her, tangled in her grip, until your back hits the sleek marble of her desk. Papers scatter. Her laptop slides. You don’t care. Neither does she.
“Baby,” she gasps between kisses. “You just, fuck, you broke me.”
You smile against her lips, smug and breathless. “You like designer dresses that much?”
She moans and kisses you harder.
“You’re going to the Golden fucking Globes,” she pants, hands sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist like she wants to crawl inside you.
“We” you corrected breathlessly, “we are going to the Golden Globes”
“And you just told four fashion houses to fight for the right to put me in a free fucking gown?! Are you, god, are you trying to kill me?”
You murmur cheekily, “Maybe.”
She groans, attaching her mouth to your throat. “I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life.”
You arch into her, neck tilted, letting her press you flat against the desk.
“You’re gonna win,” she whispers, voice shaking with pride. “You’re gonna win Best Director and look like a fuckin spooky goddess or something doing it. And I get to be there. Next to you. In fucking Prada.”
She kisses you again, messy, desperate, and worshipful, like she’s trying to eat the words off your lips. “I swear to god,” she breathes, “you say one more thing nice to me and I’m gonna—”
You cut her off with a whisper: “You deserve all of it.”
She whimpers. Actually whimpers.
“Okay,” she says, hitching your skirt up to your hips, “I need you now. I’m about to climax just thinking about a Maison Margiela custom glove moment. I’m going to come just from being tagged in a Getty caption next to you.”
You laugh into her mouth. “Maya—”
“No. Shut up. My girlfriend’s a genius auteur witch who gets nominated for Globes and tells Gucci to dress me like I’m a fashion icon. I’m fucking feral, do you understand?”
You nod.
And then you gasp as she drops to her knees.
Your breath catches, your hands automatically go to her shoulders, fingers curling in the soft stretch of her tee. “Maya…”
“No. No talking.” Her voice is low. Dangerous. Reverent.
She looks up at you like you’re sacred. Like you’re art. And you are, pressed against her desk, blouse open, breath coming shallow, eyes glassy and dark.
“You think I’m gonna let you walk in here,” she growls, “casually say ‘Maya can pick the designer,’ like that’s nothing, and not ruin you?”
You tremble. Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and possessive.
“Maya, please…”
“Say it again.”
You blink, breathless. “Say what?”
“What you said that made me drop to my fucking knees.”
You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve all of it.”
She groans, like the words physically affect her. “Oh my god,” she mutters, pushing your skirt up, “I’m gonna be good to you for weeks.”
And then her mouth is on you.
You cry out, a sharp, broken thing, and clutch the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
She eats your pussy like she’s starved. Like you’re a goddess that demands worship through orgasms alone. Like you belong to her.
Her tongue is fast, her grip unrelenting. She moans into you, arms wrapped around your thighs, hands sliding under your ass to pull you closer. She’s possessed, like your pleasure is the only thing anchoring her to this plane of existence.
You whimper. Your knees buckle. “Maya… baby, please, please—kiss me?”
She pulls back, lips slick, panting. “You want kisses, baby?”
You nod frantically, eyes wet. “Please. Need you.”
“Oh my fucking god.” She’s up, grabbing your face, devouring your mouth like she’s claiming it. “You sound so pretty when you beg.”
You’re gasping into her kiss, your fingers gripping the hem of her pants, trying to pull her closer, anything, everything.
She kisses you harder. Slower. Deeper.
“I love you,” she breathes into your mouth.
You whimper again. “I love you. I love you Maya…”
She presses you back against the desk again, her hand sliding between your thighs, fingers slick and steady.
“That’s it,” she whispers. “Be good for me. My girl. My babygirl. Gonna come for me?”
You nod, desperate.
And when it hits, when your body breaks open under her touch, she kisses you through it, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your neck, like she’s tasting every part of you, like you just made her immortal.
You slump against her, dazed. Shaking.
She holds you there, her fingers stroking gently over your thighs, her mouth pressed to your hair.
“You just gave me the best gift of my entire life,” she murmurs.
You blink up at her, eyes full of tears. “What, the Globes?”
“No,” she whispers, eyes full of something dangerous and devoted. “You want to tell the world you’re mine.”
~
You wake up sick. It’s not the flu. Not food poisoning. Not anything you can name. Just that slow, steady churn in your stomach. Dread curling under your ribs. Your body feels tight and hollow all at once.
It’s still dark outside.
And you’re still wrapped in Maya.
She’s asleep, limbs tangled in yours, bare skin pressed to bare skin. One arm flung over your waist. Her hand resting just beneath your breast. Her face tucked into your neck like she doesn’t want to miss even a breath of you.
You should feel safe.
But your throat is tight, your skin itches with nerves.
You can’t stop thinking that today is the Golden Globes. Today you’re going to walk a red carpet. Today you might win. Today you’ll be paraded out like a show pony. Fully. Publicly.
And all you want is to disappear.
You bury your face deeper into Maya’s neck, your breath shaking. You try to be still. Try not to wake her. But your hands shake where they grip her waist. You feel like a ghost in your own body.
You whisper, “I don’t want to go.”
She stirs. Not fully awake, just half-dreaming, but her grip tightens around you.
“You cold?” she mumbles, voice wrecked with sleep.
You shake your head.
But you don’t speak again. You just bury closer. Tangle your legs around hers. Press your face into the curve of her shoulder and try not to cry.
You need her. Today. Now. More than ever.
Because if she lets go, even for a second, you’re afraid you might float away.
Maya stirs again.
A soft grunt in the back of her throat as she shifts, adjusting to your closeness. Her nose brushes your hairline. She mumbles something incoherent, fingers flexing over your waist.
Then she stills.
She feels it.
The tension. The way your breath is caught in your throat. The way your body’s curled into hers like a girl trying to disappear. Her brows twitch. One eye opens.
“Hey,” she whispers, voice scratchy and deep, barely awake. “What’s goin’ on, baby?”
You shake your head into her chest, arms clutching her tighter. You don’t answer.
She blinks herself more awake. “Are you—?” She pauses. Then, gentler. “You feel sick?”
A nod. Small. Barely there.
Maya lets out a soft exhale. Both arms curl around you, wrapping you up like you’re something precious. Her lips find your hair. She kisses your temple. Your cheekbone. The top of your ear.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
You press your face into her skin. You can’t stop shaking. It’s not cold. It’s just everything.
“I don’t wanna go,” you murmur, voice trembling. “I don’t wanna be looked at. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”
Her mouth finds your jaw, slow and steady. “You don’t have to do anything yet,” she says. “You’re not on a carpet. You’re here. With me. You’re just a sleepy little cryptid in my bed and I’m gonna hold you till you remember how fucking brilliant you are.”
You make a broken little sound.
Maya kisses it away.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” she whispers. “You made something huge. You told the world who you are. And now they’re celebrating you for it. That’s terrifying. But I’m here. You’re not alone.”
Her hand drifts down your back, drawing soft circles into your spine.
“You’re my genius. My scary, spooky little auteur,” she murmurs. “I’m gonna zip you into that dress and stand next to you all night and remind them all who they’re dealing with. But right now? I’m just gonna keep kissing you until you fall back asleep or start complaining about how I can’t wear latex on the carpet.”
You let out a soft laugh. A real one. “It just feels too impractical for an event where we’re will be predominantly sat” you explained softly
Her smile presses into your skin.
“That’s it,” she says. “There’s my baby.”
You don’t say anything.
You just cling tighter.
And let her hold you until the world feels a little less loud.
The sunlight is creeping in now.
It catches in the fine strands of Maya’s hair, paints gold across her cheekbone, her collarbone, the curve of her bare shoulder where the blanket’s slipped.
She’s propped up on one elbow, trying to be gentle about it. Trying not to pull away too fast. “Baby,” she whispers, brushing your hair back. “We have to start getting ready.”
You shake your head, face buried in her neck. “No.”
“They’re gonna be here in, like, twenty minutes.”
“No.”
She laughs softly. “Glam team’s gonna break the door down and find us naked and fused together like a two-headed banshee.”
“Good.”
Maya strokes your back, slow and soothing. “Come on. You’ve got a dress that could raise the dead. You’ve got Tilda waiting to take shots with you. You’ve got a nomination for Best Fucking Director.”
You cling tighter, “don’t remind me”
She kisses your temple. “You can do this.”
You just kiss her neck.
Then her shoulder.
Then her mouth.
Soft, needy, warm. Not trying to start anything. Just needing to feel her. Just needing to stay close.
“I can’t breathe when you’re not here,” you whisper. “I know that’s pathetic.”
Maya’s hand finds your jaw. Tilts your face up.
“Not pathetic,” she says. “Human.”
You blink at her, eyes glossy. “Can we just… stay like this?”
She smiles. “We can stay like this for exactly seven more minutes. Then you have to let me put fancy shit on your face and help you into a dress that’s going to make people cry.”
You press your forehead to hers. “Promise you won’t leave me tonight?”
She pulls you closer. “Baby, I’m gonna be on you like a second skin. I am not letting go. I’ll hold your hand on the carpet. I’ll kiss your shoulder if you get nervous. And if anyone even thinks about asking who I am, I’ll say, ‘I’m the bitch she wakes up next to.’”
You let out a broken little laugh. “That’s romantic.”
“I thought so.”
You kiss her again.
And again.
And again.
Until your fingers stop shaking and your heart starts to believe her.
You keep kissing her. Lazy, insistent, endless.
Maya’s half-laughing now, propped up on her elbow as you shift to press your mouth to her collarbone, then her sternum, then her jaw. Each kiss is soft and clinging, more plea than seduction. Your fingers trace her ribs like she’s something fragile. Like she’s your last warm thing.
“Baby…” she breathes, somewhere between a moan and a warning. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m gonna cancel the Globes.”
You smile into her skin. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
“Oh my god.” She falls back onto the pillows with a groan. “You’re such a menace.”
You crawl after her, half-draped across her chest, eyes shut, lips brushing her throat. “I just want to stay here. With you. That’s all I want.”
Maya sighs, curling an arm around your waist. “You say that like it’s unreasonable. You say that like I’m not also living for this.” She turns her head, kisses your temple. “But we do need to go. Eventually. Like, very soon. Very awards-season soon.”
“No,” you growled against her throat.
“I love you, but you’re literally the reason they make schedules. The glam team is gonna riot.”
“They can wait.”
Maya laughs. Full-bodied. Real. Her hand rubs your back, fingers lazy. “They’re probably outside trying to break into the house.”
“I have protection spells around the property, I’m not worried” you shrug and kiss her again. And again. Your leg hooks over hers, your nose presses into her neck, and your whole body sighs like it’s finally safe.
“I don’t want to be anyone else’s today,” you whisper. “I just want to be yours.”
Maya’s hand pauses on your back.
Then she flips the blanket higher over both of you, tucking you in like something sacred. She kisses your hairline, long and lingering.
“You’re always mine,” she murmurs. “Whether you’re in a gown or in this bed. Whether you win or not. You’re mine.”
You nod, not trusting your voice.
“I’ll be right next to you the whole time,” she adds. “Cameras or not. You just keep looking at me. I’ll do the rest.”
You finally lift your eyes to hers. “Swear?”
“On Margiela. On the Prada. On fuckin Valentino. On your haunted little heart.”
You lean in and kiss her again, longer this time. Less desperation. More knowing.
You’re going to go.
Eventually.
Maya doesn’t force you. She just starts moving slowly, like she’s done it a hundred times before. You feel her shift beside you, warmth leaving your chest as she rises, but her hands stay on you. One trailing along your hip. The other brushing back your hair.
“Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Let me get you ready.”
You make a soft noise. Protest. Not quite no, but not yes either.
She leans down and kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the spot just behind your ear. “You don’t have to do anything,” she whispers. “I’ll do it all. Just come sit up for me.”
You blink slowly. Your chest feels full. Heavy. But you nod.
She coaxes you upright with warm hands, murmuring gentle things into your skin as she helps you swing your legs over the side of the bed. The sheet drops away, and the room is cool, but she’s already reaching for the robe draped over the armchair, wrapping it around your shoulders like it’s armor.
“There she is,” Maya says softly. “My scary little director. Sweetest thing in the world after noon.”
You don’t answer, you just look up at her from where you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. Eyes glossy. Lip trembling.
Her teasing dies the second she sees your face. “Oh,” she breathes. “Baby.”
You try to look away, but she’s already kneeling in front of you, hands on your knees.
“I’m okay,” you lie.
She reaches up, brushes a thumb under your eye. “You don’t have to be.”
Your throat tightens. You stare at her, really stare? and it hits you all over again. How she’s always there. How she never makes you feel too much. How she shows up, always, without asking for anything back. And now she’s kneeling in front of you in a silk robe and nothing else, kissing your knees like you’re a holy thing.
“I’m gonna take care of you today,” she promises. “You don’t even have to think. You just let them glam you up, let them put you in that gown, and you keep holding my hand.”
You nod. Barely.
She kisses your knees again. Stands. “Let me do your hair.”
She leads you gently to the vanity, settles you in her lap like you weigh nothing, and starts brushing long, careful strokes down your back, her lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds, just to remind you she’s still there.
“You’re gonna ruin them,” she whispers. “You’re gonna walk in and every exec who passed on you is gonna spontaneously combust. It’s gonna be so hot.”
You let out a broken laugh. She smiles into your neck.
You hear them before you see them.
Laughter. Heels. The rustle of garment bags. Someone’s yelling about steaming silk like the world is ending.
Maya kisses your cheek, still in her robe, her hair pinned up with golden clips. “They’re here.”
You nod, still sitting quietly at the vanity. The robe clutched tight around you like it’s armor. You’re doing better, your hands have mostly stopped shaking, but you still flinch a little when the door opens.
Tyler walks in first. “Okayyyy ladies,” he calls, grinning like he lives here. “Let’s get glam, baby.”
He’s in a blazer over a vintage silk shirt, juggling two iced coffees and an iPad. He hands one to Maya, kisses the top of your head without asking, and offers the other to you.
“Oat milk, two brown sugars,” he says. “I doubled checked with Maya yesterday that this was your order”
You take it. “Thank you, Tyler.”
“No problem, queen of horror.” He leans in, voice soft, conspiratorial. “You doing okay?”
You nod, small.
He squeezes your shoulder. “Cool. We’ll keep it chill.”
And he does.
Even as the glam team floods in, stylists, dressers, a makeup artist with fangs on her necklace, Tyler runs interference like a champ. You sit still, sipping your coffee, letting them work around you. He distracts the loud ones. Gently redirects energy away from you when he sees your hands start to twitch.
But Maya?
Maya is in her element.
She’s standing by the mirror in nothing but her robe, bare leg peeking out, sipping coffee and scrolling through her phone like she’s the main event. Every few seconds she flings off a line like—
“Wait, if I wear the gloves, do I need earrings or is that redundant couture?”
or
“Is it bad if I bring a purse just for lip gloss and a single Xanax? I want to look like I don’t need it but still have it.”
You catch yourself watching her in the mirror.
Lit up. Confident. Buzzing.
And somewhere deep in your ribs, something unclenches. You’re still nervous. But she’s here. She’s glowing. She’s yours. And she’s making sure the world sees it.
Every time she catches your eye, she winks. “Looking good, babygirl,” she purrs. “They’re not ready for us.”
You’re back on the couch, fresh-faced and wrapped in a robe, while the stylists float around you like shadows. You’re not the focus right now.
Maya is.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
She’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, robe half-open, skin glowing under soft ring lights. Her hair is already pinned in place, voluminous, glossy, old Hollywood waves with a modern, streetwear slick edge. Her skin is golden. Lips subtly and strategically glossed.
“Okay, I need the cuff on the left arm, stacked rings on the right,” she says, gesturing toward the tray of jewelry like she’s conducting an orchestra. “No necklace. This neckline’s doing the work.”
Tyler hands her a tray. “Margiela said the gloves are optional but—”
“Gloves are non-negotiable,” Maya cuts in.
You smile behind your coffee cup.
A stylist holds up two clutches.
Maya points. “The smaller one. I don’t need a purse, I need a statement. I’ll shove my ID and a breath mint in my bra like a professional.”
She turns suddenly, locking eyes with you. “Baby, are you watching this? I’m literally manifesting myself into becoming a fashion icon.”
You nod, soft. “You’re doing amazing honey.”
Her grin is crooked, cocky, a little breathless. “I feel like I’m finally able to realise my true potential.”
She steps into the dress, stylists zipping it up in the back. Maya smooths the fabric over her hips, breath hitching. “Okay. Okay. Oh my god, this is dangerous. I’m gonna get arrested. This is red carpet porn.”
Tyler chimes in, totally deadpan. “Your ass should have its own IG.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Finally, someone respects my craft.”
She turns again, checks her profile, lifts one brow.
“You think it’s too much?” she asks you, suddenly quiet. “I mean, I don’t want to outshine you or—”
“No,” you say, and your voice is clear now. “It’s perfect. You look like everything I’ve ever wanted.”
Maya stops.
Softens.
Then gives you that smile. The one that means she’s about to either cry or climb into your lap.
But instead, she straightens her gloves. “Okay. I’m ready to make the Globes my bitch.”
Now it’s your turn.
The team moves around you with quiet precision, zippers whispering, brushes sweeping, powder settling like dust on old bone. You sit still. You let them paint you pale, line your eyes dark, twist your hair into something loose and long and dreamlike.
No sharp angles. No harsh lines.
You are not Maya Mason. You are something softer. Stranger. The goal is not to look hot but older than time.
Your gown is dark, sleek in some places, sheer in others, as if the fabric had been conjured rather than sewn. There’s something witchy in the cut, the drape, the way the hem moves like fog over the floor. You look like someone who should arrive at the Globes in a hearse pulled by a murder of crows.
And Maya?
Maya’s staring. From her spot on the bench, already fully dressed, gloves on, lip gloss perfect, she watches you like she’s being haunted.
“Holy shit,” she says, under her breath.
You glance up at her. Your makeup artist gently adjusts your chin. “Too much?” you murmur, self-conscious.
Maya laughs like you’ve just asked if the sun’s too bright. “You look like a bride of Dracula.”
You tilt your head. “Is that a compliment?”
Maya stands. Walks over slowly. “Baby,” she says, low and reverent, “you look like the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. You look like you’re gonna win Best Director and then ascend into mist.”
You smile, small and shy.
She steps behind you, hands careful on your waist. Her fingers skim the edge of the fabric, her chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “Let them talk,” she whispers. “Let them stare. You’re gonna take their breath away.”
She kisses the space just beneath your ear. “You don’t even have to say a word. They’ll still know who you are.”
You reach up, place your hand over hers. And for a second, the glam team disappears. The camera flashes, the nerves, the noise, it all fades.
It’s just you, her, and the quiet, staggering love between you.
The room is buzzing.Hair is done. Gowns are zipped. A shoe emergency has been narrowly avoided. Tyler is packing backup earrings into a clutch like he’s handling explosives.
And Maya, your goddess, menace, and marketing warlord, is perfection.
She stands by the mirror, hands on her hips, giving angles to no one in particular. Her dress fits like it was born for her. Her gloves are on. Her lip gloss is dangerous. She is peak Mason.
And you? You’re watching her like she’s prey.
“Maya,” you murmur.
She turns, distracted. “Yeah, baby?”
You reach out and tug her hand, just slightly. Just enough. She comes closer without thinking. She always does.
You wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her gently toward you. Your voice is a whisper. “I wanna make out.”
Maya raises an eyebrow. “Now?”
You nod. “Right now.”
She glances over her shoulder, Tyler’s muttering something about boob tape to a stylist. The rest of the team is sorting lashes and lint rollers.
Maya leans in, lips already parted, ready to give it to you when one of the stylists shrieks.
“No no no no NO—” she protests, diving forward with a powder brush. “LIP GLOSS!”
Maya pulls back fast, blinking. “Oh shit.”
“I just finished her mouth,” the artist wails. “She’s flawless. She has a perfect lip. You’ll ruin it!”
Maya stares at you. Then at the mirror. Then sighs. “Okay yeah no I do look hot as fuck right now. Baby we have to wait”
But you’re already grabbing at her waist again, pouting. “Just one kiss,” you whisper. “I’ll be good.”
She groans. “Fuck. Don’t do that face.” She leans in an inch. “You’re gonna make me throw this whole look away just to crawl on top of you in custom couture.”
Tyler yells from across the room, “IF YOU MESS UP YOUR FACES I WILL TELL VOGUE YOU USED DRUGSTORE CONCEALER.”
Maya barks out a laugh. “Okay, okay! Baby, you get one kiss. A chaste kiss. Like we’re in a fuckin Austen novel.”
You nod sweetly.
Then pull her down and absolutely ruin her. You kiss her hard, hot, a little greedy. One hand in her hair. Her lip gloss smudges immediately and she lets out a whimper into your mouth.
You pull back, breathless. Smiling.
Maya looks wrecked and radiant. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “You’re a menace. And I’m obsessed with you.”
Tyler walks by, muttering, “I swear to god, next time I’m bringing a squirt bottle.”
~
You’re in the backseat of a luxury black SUV.
There’s soft music playing. Everything smells like leather and floral setting spray. Maya’s phone is buzzing with texts from Tyler, updates from PR, a Vogue intern begging for a quote.
You don’t care about any of it.
Because Maya’s sitting next to you in full couture. Hair glossy, lip gloss reapplied to perfection, gloves smoothed up to her elbows. She’s crossed her legs, her slit high and skin golden, and her head is tilted ever so slightly, scanning her texts like she doesn’t know what she’s doing to you.
You squirm in your seat. Not dramatically. Just… a shift. A subtle exhale. A whine caught in your throat.
Maya glances over. “Baby...”
“I can’t wait.”
She raises a brow. “Can’t wait for what?”
You look at her, actually look at her, and you’re down so bad. The gloves. The gown. The smug little smirk she doesn’t even know she’s wearing. You’re not okay.
“I need you.”
Maya blinks. “Oh no.”
You shift again, pressing your thighs together. Your hand lands gently on her knee. She looks down at it like it’s a threat.
“Baby,” she says, voice hushed but sharp, “I am in custom Margiela. You can’t just squirm at me in archival silk.”
You lean closer. Breathe her in. “You look so good. It’s making me crazy.”
She clenches her jaw. “Fuck.”
You nuzzle into her shoulder. “Want you so bad.”
She laughs, nervous, aroused and a little desperate. “I cannot finger you in a moving vehicle on the way to the Golden Globes, babe.”
You pout. Whisper against her neck. “Don’t need that. Just your mouth. One kiss.”
“No, because you say ‘one’ and then suddenly we’re dry humping in designer dresses. You’re literally twitching. You’re like a Victorian ghost who caught a glimpse of bare ankle.”
You groan softly, dragging your fingers up her thigh. “You smell like a hot rich woman who I want to ruin me in a guest bathroom.”
“I am that,” she mutters. “But not in this dress.”
You shift again. She lets out a strangled sound and grabs your wrist.
“No. No no no. You need to calm down. This outfit is structured. There is boning. If you wrinkle me before Getty Images even sees me, I swear to god—”
You press your face into her shoulder, laughing softly, desperate. “But you’re so pretty.”
She leans over, kisses your temple, quick, firm, and breathy. “Five minutes, babygirl,” she says. “Hold it together. When we get through the carpet, I’ll find us a bathroom and ruin your mascara.”
You exhale. Shiver. “Okay,” you whisper.
She pulls your hand into hers, holds it tight on her thigh.
“Deep breaths,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna kill them all. And then you can climb me like a tree.”
The SUV door opens and the sound hits you like a wave of cameras flashing, fans screaming, press shouting names through a blur of lights and microphones.
For a second, you freeze.
And then Maya squeezes your hand. “Hey.” Her voice is low, just for you. “Breathe. You’re here. You’re doing it.”
She’s glowing. Glossed and gilded and impossibly beautiful, like she was made for this night. Her gown shimmers under the lights. Her gloved hand is still wrapped around yours.
You nod. Inhale. And step out of the car. The moment your foot hits the carpet, the shouting begins.
“Over here!”
“Turn this way!”
“Look here!”
You blink under the flashes, but Maya’s there. One step behind you, one arm slipping gently around your waist. “They’re not ready,” she murmurs. “You look like a goddess.”
You let her guide you down the carpet.
She doesn’t try to outshine you. She doesn’t pose too hard or talk over you. She just stays. Steady. Warm. A presence at your side.
Someone asks what you’re wearing. You falter.
“She’s in archival McQueen,” Maya answers smoothly, eyes never leaving you. “And I’m in Margiela. Custom. Obviously.”
The reporter stammers. Laughs. “You look incredible.”
Maya kisses your cheek right in front of the flash. “She is incredible.”
You nearly melt on the spot.
The cameras catch it. Of course they do.
The witch. The marketer. The moment.
You lean in and whisper, “I love you.”
And she says, with no hesitation, with the lights burning down, “I know. Now let’s go burn this shit down.”
You’re halfway down the carpet and the world has noticed.
Not just you, you two. The flashes intensify. Reporters are turning to each other mid-interview. Paparazzi are whispering to assistants. Publicists are scrambling to Google you again, properly this time.
“Who is that?”
“Oh my god, that’s the director of The Witch. And that’s… wait, is that her girlfriend?”
“Are we looking at the lesbian power couple of awards season?”
Maya’s smiling so wide you think her cheekbones might crack. “Oh my god,” she whispers in your ear, “I just heard someone say ‘Sapphic Succession energy.’ Baby we’re going viral.”
You nod once, eyes slightly glazed. “Can’t feel my feet.”
She presses a kiss to your temple. “Slay through it.”
Another reporter approaches. “Can we get a quick quote for Variety?”
You’re about to panic but Maya jumps in, already glowing. “We’re just honored to be here,” she says smoothly. “It’s been such an incredible year for horror, and I’m just thrilled I get to stand next to a genius who’s changing the genre and looks this hot in black lace.”
You blink. “I just want to go inside for the bread.”
The reporter laughs, not realizing you’re dead serious.
Maya’s still riding the high. “We’re doing afterparty rounds. I want to be on at least three lesbian moodboards before midnight.”
“I want mashed potatoes,” you murmur.
She grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles dramatically. “You’ll get potatoes. You’ll get everything. But we have to serve first.”
“Have we not served enough?”
“Not until someone live-tweets your cheekbones and tags it #SapphicSeduction.”
A flash goes off. Someone calls your name.
You try to smile. You think it looks like pain.
Maya leans in. “You are so close to a bread roll.”
You exhale shakily. “Promise?”
She presses her gloved hand to your heart. “On couture.”
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