#agatha all along

[lucyllawless]

AGATHARIO AU: Not only is Nicky Rio's little clone, but he's also her little sidekick. Agatha couldn't wish for anything more.

[oldstuffilikealotandstuff]

When men are anonymously commenting on a woman's appearance online:

[anodeorain]

Agatha Harkness 🛐🛐 AWOOGA

[d-z20]

Where Our Hands Linger (implied smut)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: You trust your girlfriends. You love them. But self-doubt is a cruel thing, and tonight, it’s louder than their gentle reassurances. Lucky for you, Agatha and Rio have never been the kind to let doubts linger for long.

-OR-

You think you’re not hot enough for Agatha and Rio. Agatha and Rio think that’s the dumbest thing they’ve ever heard. So, naturally, they spend the night proving you wrong—with their hands, their mouths, and an ungodly amount of praise.

Warnings: non-detailed smut, Rio tops, you bottom, and Agatha holds you, threesome, implied fingering and oral sex/cunnilingus, body insecurity (non-specific), fluff, comfort

Words: 2.1k

A/N: Chucks this at you all and runs away Requested fic :P

Masterlist

The candlelight flickered lazily, casting golden ripples across the room as you sat between them���Agatha at your back, Rio lounging in front of you, legs draped over yours in a lazy, comfortable sprawl. The weight of their presence was grounding, but tonight, your mind was loud, filling your chest with a dull, aching self-consciousness that you couldn't quite shake.

You had been quiet all evening, lost in your own thoughts, tugging at the fabric of your shirt, shifting under their eyes whenever they lingered too long. It wasn't that you didn't trust them—you did, deeply. But trust didn't silence the nagging voice in your head, the one that whispered cruel things about your body, about why they would ever want you when they were both so… so them.

Agatha, with her wicked, knowing smirk and voice like velvet-dipped honey, her hands always teasing but never unkind. And Rio, all sharp smiles and quiet intensity, the kind of woman who could make the air shift when she walked into a room.

And then there was you.

"You're thinking too much again, sweetheart," Agatha spoke against your temple before kissing there, her voice low and knowing. Then she nuzzled into your hair with a content sigh, as if just having you this close was enough to bring her peace. "You always do this," she murmured playfully, her fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles on your hip. "Getting lost in that pretty little head of yours instead of letting us love you."

Rio hummed, her fingers toying with yours before slipping them between her own, squeezing gently. "Maybe we should keep you right here, between us, forever," she teased, voice light but full of something deeper.

Agatha’s arms wrapped around your waist, her fingers playing idly with the hem of your shirt, but she didn’t push. She never did. "What’s going on up there, hmm?"

You hesitated, eyes flicking to Rio, who was watching you with that soft, lidded gaze of hers, thumb brushing over your knuckles. The way they looked at you—it was never cruel, nor mocking. Only ever full of warmth. But still, you felt yourself shrink at their attention.

"I just…" You exhaled, shoulders curling inward. "I don’t get it."

"Don’t get what, cariño?" Rio’s voice was smooth.

"Why you…why you want me," you admitted, barely above a whisper. "You both look like that and I’m just me. You could have anyone you want and yet it’s me who’s sat here. I don’t—" Your throat tightened. "I just don’t see what you see."

For a moment, there was only quiet. Then, warmth—Agatha's lips pressing against the shell of your ear, Rio’s shifting closer, her fingers sliding up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward hers.

"You really think we’d let just anyone have us?" Agatha hummed, her voice curling around you like silk. "Mmm, no, sweetheart. We’re very particular," she continued, tilting her head so her nose brushed against your jaw. "And you? You’re our favourite. Our best girl."

Rio chuckled, brushing a thumb across your cheek. "Our only girl."

You swallowed, your heart thudding as they looked at you like you were something precious, something worth worshipping.

Agatha’s hands, always so confident, slid lower, stroking your sides through the fabric. "You think we love you despite this?" she murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your shoulder. "No, no, darling. We love you because of this. Every inch of you."

Rio hummed in agreement, her lips finding your wrist, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses there, her fingers mapping out every dip and curve. “Every part of you,” she whispered against your pulse, “is ours to love.”

Agatha’s grip on you tightened slightly, and she pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your neck. “And we do love you, sweetheart, so much." 

The words sank into your skin like honey, and then your breath hitched as Agatha then tugged you back against her, her hands splaying over your stomach, her voice a decadent whisper against your ear.

"We’ll only go as far as you want," she promised, nipping lightly at your earlobe, sending shivers through you. She smirked against your skin. "Oh? Sensitive there, are we?"

You barely had time to react before she lightly dug her fingers into your side, making you jolt.

"Agatha!" you yelped, trying to squirm away.

Rio chuckled, clearly amused. "Oh, this is good information."

"No, no, no—" you started, but it was too late—Rio added her own teasing touches, sending you into a fit of laughter as you weakly tried to escape.

"Mercy! Mercy!" you gasped between giggles.

Agatha finally relented, laughing as she kissed your temple. "Alright, alright. But now we know your weakness, sweetheart."

"I hate you both," you grumbled, but the warmth in your voice betrayed you.

Agatha chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of your head as your laughter faded into breathless little huffs. "See? That’s the sound we love."

Rio grinned devilishly, but her teasing expression softened as she cupped your cheek, brushing her thumb along your skin. "You look so beautiful when you’re happy." Her voice was quieter now, more certain.

Your breath hitched at the sincerity in her gaze, the way her touch lingered—gentle and reverent. The warmth in your chest spread, curling around the last of your doubts.

And then slowly, so slowly, Rio’s lips trailed down your arm, her dark eyes full of something deep and consuming. "Let us love you the way you deserve," she breathed, her fingers slipping under the bottom of your shirt.

You shivered, exhaling shakily, a slow warmth blooming in your chest. You weren’t sure you would ever see what they did. But you could feel it. In the way they touched you, in the way they looked at you, and in the way they spoke to you—all like you were something to be cherished.

The air between you was thick with warmth, charged with something more than desire—something softer, something that made your breath catch and your chest ache. Agatha���s hands never left you, slow and deliberate as they traced over the fabric of your shirt, each pass of her fingers like a silent promise: You are safe. You are adored.

Rio’s lips had found the curve of your shoulder, her breath featherlight as she whispered against your skin. "Let us take care of you, cariño." The heat of her palm pressing against your bare stomach. "Let us show you how beautiful you are."

Your instincts told you to shy away, to cover yourself, to hide—but their touch, their words, they anchored you. You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as Agatha gently pulled you to lie back all the way against her, her warmth seeping into you.

"I—" Your voice was barely a whisper, uncertainty still curling in your chest like a stubborn vine.

"Shhh, sweetheart." Agatha pressed a kiss behind your ear, her voice like silk and smoke. "You don’t have to do anything. Just let us worship you."

Her fingers slid down, slow, teasing, coaxing. Rio's lips followed, kissing a path from your shoulder to your collarbone, pausing only to glance up at you, checking, always checking.

"You still with us?" she asked, her voice smooth as honey.

You nodded, breathless.

Rio smiled, a slow, knowing thing, before dipping her head lower, her mouth ghosting over the sensitive skin just above your sternum. A whimper slipped from your lips before you could catch it, and Agatha chuckled softly behind you.

"That’s our beautiful girl," she murmured, her hands spreading over your stomach, her fingers kneading into the flesh there, not shying away from any part of you. She wanted you to feel her touch, to know that every part of you deserved reverence. "So, so gorgeous."

You wanted to argue, to protest, to list every reason why that couldn’t be true—but how could you, when they were both here, touching you like you were something sacred?

Agatha’s lips found the pulse at your neck, her tongue flicking over sensitive skin until you gasped. At the same time, Rio’s hands found your thighs, feeling the skin there with slow, purposeful strokes. "We’ll only go as far as you want," she reminded you, her voice softer now, her dark eyes searching yours.

"Promise?" you whispered.

"Cross my heart," Rio murmured, her fingers brushing the hem of your shirt but not lifting it yet. "But I do want to see you. Let me?"

You hesitated for a second, but Agatha’s arms tightened around you, her lips pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the top of your shoulder. "No rush, sweetheart," she soothed. "We could stay like this all night if that’s what you want."

The warmth in their voices, the sheer patience in their touch, melted something inside you. Slowly, you nodded.

Rio smiled, but she didn’t rush. Instead, she guided your hands to the fabric of your own shirt, letting you lift it at your own pace. Her fingers barely skimmed your skin, just offering warmth, not pressure.

The fabric fell away, and for a heartbeat, you felt exposed. Vulnerable. The old insecurities rose, clawing at your ribs—until Agatha’s hands smoothed over your sides, and Rio leaned back to admire you, her gaze molten, full of something so adoring it nearly broke you.

"Look at you," she breathed, her fingertips tracing over the swell of your breasts, not groping—just feeling, as if memorising you. "So damn perfect."

"Divine," Agatha agreed, her teeth grazing your earlobe. "And ours."

The last word sent a delicious shiver down your spine, pooling low in your stomach, replacing doubt with something new—need.

"It’s okay, sweetheart," Agatha purred, her fingers tracing lower, teasing over the waistband of your shorts. "We’ll take care of you."

And oh, did they.

Their hands and mouths moved in tandem—Agatha’s grip firm and knowing as she held you against her, whispering praises into your ear, Rio’s lips and fingers working their own brand of magic, drawing out every shiver, every gasp, every plea.

You felt it, that slow, curling build of pleasure overtaking you, drowning out everything else—every insecurity, every self-doubt. There was only this—only them, only the way they made you feel like you were something precious, something worthy of adoration.

It wasn’t just pleasure; it was reverence. It was love.

And when you finally tipped over the edge into your orgasm, Rio’s name tangled with Agatha’s on your lips, their hands holding you steady as you trembled, gasping, falling apart beneath their touch.

They didn’t let you go, not for a second.

Agatha held you through it, muttering soft praises into your hair, while Rio kissed every inch of bare skin she could reach, tracing idle patterns over your thighs, grounding you.

"You still with us, darling?" Agatha susurrated, tilting your face toward hers.

You nodded weakly, still floating, your body warm and boneless. "Yeah…"

Rio chuckled, brushing your hair back with surprising tenderness. "That’s our girl."

They eased you back into bed, draping a blanket over your cooling skin. Agatha pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead while Rio curled up beside you, a protective arm wrapping around your waist.

"Still think we don’t want you?" Agatha asked, voice teasing but gentle.

She shook her head, as if scandalised. "You know what? From now on, I’m making it my personal mission to tell you every single ridiculous thing I love about you, every day."

Rio chuckled. "Here we go."

"First of all," Agatha continued dramatically, gesturing like she was making an important speech, "your smile? It could start wars. Your laugh? Cures diseases. The way you cuddle into me when you're sleepy? Unfairly adorable. Your—"

"Agatha," you groaned, covering your face, your cheeks burning.

"No, no, I’m on a roll here!" she insisted, prying your hands away with a smirk. "Your eyes? Literal galaxies. Your—"

Rio smirked, interrupting. "Oh, now you’ve done it. She’s going to monologue for hours."

"Okay, okay," you sighed, your body sinking into the comfort of their embrace. "Maybe I believe you a little more now…"

Rio chuckled, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. "Good. Because we’re going to spend every day proving it to you."

Agatha hummed, tucking the blankets more securely around you before trailing her fingers lazily over your ribs, up and down in soft, absentminded patterns. "And tomorrow morning?" she added. "I’m making breakfast. Heart-shaped pancakes, just to be extra obnoxious about how much we love you."

"You’re impossible," you grumbled, smiling despite yourself.

"You love it," Agatha countered, grinning against your shoulder.

And as Rio pressed one last, lingering kiss to your knuckles, fingers tangled with yours, you finally let it happen; you let yourself feel loved.

Entirely and completely loved.

-----

Currently this is a tumblr special because I can't be asked to post to AO3 rn, so enjoy it :D

also I had NO clue what to use as the image for this I was like "uhhhhhhhhh how to convey this but I need kathryn/aubrey to feature maybe" so we ended up with that gif

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[kathrynsbride]

MOTHER!!!!!!!

[thezenanna]

I made loving you a blood sport.

put your fangs in me by villhag

full timelapses & coloring setup ✨

[cattles-bians]

two of them

[harkharknessness]

lucid

summary: In which you keep a journal for writing down all kinds of dreams—including the dirty ones starring a particular blue-eyed professor. What happens when it goes missing?

relationship: Agatha/afab Reader

notes: mention of semi-public sex, smoking, mention of oral sex (R receiving), anxious spiral (R receiving lol), no pronouns used but afab Reader, there's a first-person journal entry but the action of the story is 2nd person POV

word count: 3.7k (ao3)

November 12 It started at a bar. 

The place was like a mix of The Hex and Señor S’s, but with the kind of finishing touches that made everything feel dreamy and just a little uncanny.

Wanda was there with me, for a while anyway. It didn’t seem like we’d been there very long before Viz turned up, and then they disappeared. Hardly anyone else was around, so I started walking home.

I had only walked a block away when she pulled up next to me and rolled the window down. “You look like you need a ride.”

I gave her a grin and a shrug. “I’m fine.”

She tilted her head, looked me up and down, and it was like I could feel her gaze on my skin. “You shouldn’t be out alone like this.”

“I’m not that drunk.” And I hadn’t felt like it. Not until that moment.

Her quick laugh told me she didn’t believe me. She reached over then to pop the passenger side door. “Get in.” 

So I did.

I barely heard anything she said during the drive. All I could see were her hands—the veins and the rings and the forearms that were exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of her blazer. And then there was her tongue pressing against her cheek. The smell of her perfume. Just her being there. Dizzying.

She somehow knew which building to go to, even though I hadn’t said a single intelligible sentence.

When she parked in the spot furthest from the door, I turned to her. “Well..." I wanted to stall, to find a way to stay, but wasn't sure how. “Thanks, I guess.” 

The corners of her mouth just barely curved upward, as if smiling were just another obligation. I got out of the car without another glance. I knew if I looked back—if I saw her start driving away—I’d have to follow.

I was a few steps from the car when I heard her door close behind me. I couldn’t help but turn back.

“Are you coming in?” 

She laughed again but said nothing, then lit a cigarette and leaned against the hood of the car.

I stood for a minute, half considering, half just stuck, before I walked back to lean beside her. 

It started small—arms brushing, fingers twitching toward each other. When I wrapped her hand in both of mine and kissed the back of her palm, then her knuckles, she barely moved, still staring off into the tree line. It was only when I swirled my tongue around the tip of her thumb that she turned her head, just enough to watch out of the corner of her eye. She still had the cigarette in her other hand, raising it up for a drag now and then, seemingly unfazed. 

It was hours (or maybe just a few seconds) later when she finished her cigarette. She stomped it into the asphalt with her loafer, and then—without warning—pinned me to the hood of the car.

I was suddenly, unmistakably, sober. 

She was so close, but she wasn’t moving closer; she was just standing there, lips fractions of an inch away, so I closed the rest of the distance myself. It felt like forever that we kissed, the lingering scent of tobacco coming back into focus every time we broke for air, tangled with the dark notes of her perfume.

She pulled away, fingers brushing my jaw, almost gentle, and that felt like the end. Like she was going to get back into her car and leave without another word. I needed to find something to keep her there, to keep her with me.

But then she locked eyes with me, asking a question that I somehow knew how to answer without words. I watched her sink down to her knees in front of me on the pavement, then felt her fingertips, warm against my stomach as she unbuttoned my jeans and tugged them down, then off. My legs started shaking, but it wasn't clear whether it was due to the cool air or anticipation or both.

She ran a hand along my calf, then up my thigh until she could surely feel the molten heat between them. She wore a smirk the whole time, knowing it was all for her. 

When she finally hitched my leg over her shoulder and started to dip her tongue inside… 

I woke up. Of course. And late, too.

So now I’m just sitting here in class, trying to act normal—like I didn’t just write about my professor getting me off in my dreams. 

If she looks at me today, I’ll probably combust.

———————————

You finished scribbling the last words of the entry and then closed your notebook. 

It was nothing special at first glance—just a spiral-bound book that you’d bought for a science lab a while back, which you’d ended up dropping. So it sat in your closet, holding just a few pages’ worth of lab notes, until the day you decided you were going to keep a dream journal. 

You thought it was clever, really. It just looked like a class notebook. Someone would have to get a few pages deep before they found anything even mildly interesting.

By now, it was nearly full, a couple semesters’ worth of your nighttime imaginings scrawled between college-ruled lines. You could tell which entries you’d written after waking up in the middle of the night—shorter, sloppier, ending abruptly when you couldn’t fight the pull of sleep any longer—and which ones you’d taken more time to flesh out in the early morning sunlight. 

It had started as a silly exercise inspired by one of your gen ed psych courses—what could you really learn about yourself from the imagery in your dreams? At this point, though, it was more of a habit than an exercise in personality analysis. 

Besides, you weren’t sure you really wanted to analyze the way the contents of your dreams had… shifted over time. 

You went from building fantasy lands to scenes that were much more explicit. Sometimes they felt real—real enough that you’d wake up sweaty and heaving and desperate for a touch you’d never felt. And sometimes, they felt real enough that you’d wake up reaching for someone who had never been there.

It wasn’t hard to pinpoint when it all started: at the beginning of the current semester, when you ended up in Dr. Agatha Harkness’s class. The same class you were sitting in at that very moment.

At the front of the room, Professor Harkness was going over the answers to the last quiz, a quiz that you’d aced (or as close to it as one could in a Harkness course). Other students were scratching notes into their own notebooks, except for the guy who was watching a soccer game on his laptop a few seats over and up from you, the sound just a little too loud and spilling from his earbuds. The heater hummed steadily overhead, bringing the room up to “uncomfortably warm” status, but it was better than the alternative.

In other words, there was just enough background activity and just little enough actual information flowing that you didn’t feel too guilty about how you’d spent the first few minutes of class. Since you had woken up late, you didn’t have time to write in your dorm, but if you waited until after class, you’d have forgotten most of what you’d dreamed. So you brought the journal with you, trying to forget how close she was as you recalled the events of the evening.

“All right, that’s enough of that. If you have any questions about your grade, see me after class,” Professor Harkness said, shuffling papers around on the podium without looking up. “As for today, we’re going to be talking about—”

You hurried to swap out your journal for your actual class notes, flipping to the first clean page and clicking your pen into position, ready for the first slide.

The discarded notebook lay half-in and half-out of your tote bag in the empty seat next to you. 

You didn’t notice as, over the next fifty minutes, it inched toward the edge of the half-folded seat until it finally slipped through the crack and landed silently on the floor below.

When class was dismissed, you slipped your things into your bag and stood from your chair, the seat grazing your legs as it sprang back into position. As you walked out of the lecture hall, you were careful to avoid Professor Harkness’s gaze. You may have sat through that whole lecture with perfect focus, but that didn’t mean you’d forgotten what you were writing about at the beginning of the hour.

You went about the rest of the day like any other—you attended your second class, grabbed lunch with Wanda and made plans for that night (Thursdays were basically Fridays thanks to some creative scheduling), and then went to the library to get a head start on next week’s readings. 

By the time 7:00 rolled around, you were back in your dorm getting ready to go out. Your outfit was strangely similar to what you’d worn in your latest dream… 

You shook off the thought, and left to go meet Wanda at the campus gates.

———————————

You barely remembered crashing into your bed several hours later when you woke up the next morning, brought back to consciousness by the bright light filtering in through the windows. 

That was the only nice thing about the morning—the sunlight—and even it wasn’t so great. Everything else felt awful: your head was pounding, your stomach was ready to rebel at the slightest wrong move, and your mouth was so dry that you were mildly convinced that you could swallow sandpaper and not even notice a difference.

Unsurprisingly, you only had the fuzziest recollection of whatever it was you dreamed about last night. You knew you’d had one, but it was hard to picture the specifics. 

After some negotiating with your protesting body, you decided to write about the dream anyway; maybe more details would come as you went. Or maybe they wouldn’t, and you’d just have some hungover ramblings to look back on someday. It wouldn’t be the first time.

You reached behind you to your desk, where you usually had your journal set for easy access, but your heart rate sped up a bit when your fingers brushed only against the wood of the desktop.

You checked in the space between the desk and the bed; you dumped out your tote bag; you searched through the contents of the bookshelf, your clothes hamper, your closet, hoping maybe, in your alcohol-induced haze, you’d put it somewhere unexpected. You looked everywhere. But it wasn’t there.

That’s when the panic truly settled in. If that journal wasn’t in your room, that meant it was out there somewhere, just waiting for someone to pick it up and read some of your filthiest thoughts.

You threw on the nearest clothes you could find—jeans and a sweatshirt—and left the dorm in a hurry, intent to trace your path all over campus yesterday, starting in the lecture hall.

A few hours later, you’d searched your classrooms, the dining hall, and your favorite floor of the library from top to bottom. You’d checked the lost and found in every building you entered yesterday, and in some that you didn’t. You’d even called Wanda to see if maybe she’d somehow picked up the notebook at lunch yesterday. She hadn’t.

You considered heading back over to the bar, the anxiety and paranoia holding strong, but you knew you hadn’t taken anything larger than your phone out last night. You’d be an even bigger fool than you already felt to have taken that notebook somewhere you intended to get drunk off your ass.

So instead, you went back to your room, fell backwards onto the bed, and stared blankly at the ceiling. 

The journal was gone. 

Best case scenario: a facilities worker had picked it up and just hadn’t taken it to the lost and found yet. 

Worst case scenario: someone you never even met was scanning the whole thing, ready to post it online and force you into your own version of the witness protection program.

And all you could do was wait to see if it would turn up, one way or another.

———————————

The weekend passed, and the notebook hadn’t turned up.

Despite your resignation to just wait and see if the journal would turn up after Friday’s search, you spent hours retracing your steps across campus on both Saturday and Sunday, searching classrooms and revisiting the lost and founds. Maybe you’d missed it, or maybe someone had turned it in since you last checked—but you’d never had that kind of luck.

You could at least console yourself with the fact that no one was using it for blackmail or public humiliation… at least, not yet.

By the time you settled into your senior seminar on Monday afternoon, you’d truly given up hope of finding it untouched, unread. Now it felt like the best you could hope for was that it just vanished and you’d never see or hear about it again. 

You couldn’t help but feel on edge, though, bracing for the worst. Paying attention to anything else felt impossible—not the lecture you’d sat through earlier that morning, not Wanda’s stories from her weekend escapades with Viz, and certainly not your classmates’ half-baked thesis ideas. 

Your mind was with that book, wherever it was.

You hadn’t started a new one yet. Not because you were expecting the other one back, and not because you were hesitant to put your dreams on paper again (though you were). 

You just hadn’t been dreaming. 

No vivid memories or even hazy fragments greeted you when you woke from tossing and turning all night long. There was just exhaustion and a fresh wave of anxiety.

On Tuesday morning, you were back in Professor Harkness’s class, sitting in your usual seat. 

Your notes were open, your pen was in hand, but you weren’t really taking anything in. You were only catching every other sentence, and, when you looked up at the screen, you’d make it to the end of each bulleted point only to realize you hadn’t understood any of what you’d read.

By the time Professor Harkness dismissed the class, you hadn’t even written out half a page, and that was going to hurt later. Maybe you could get someone to let you borrow their notes before the next exam.

You gathered your things, preparing to head off to your next class, when you heard Professor Harkness call out your name. 

Your stomach twisted.

“Yes?” you said, looking up at the podium, trying to look like you weren’t suddenly a little bit terrified.

Her icy blue eyes locked onto yours. “Stay after.”

You nodded but quickly looked away to shove the last of your things into your bag.

This had to be a coincidence. She probably just wanted to hand back the draft of the paper you’d dropped off at office hours last week or something. There was no reason for your throat to be so tight or for the cold sweat that had broken out on the back of your neck.

You stood and walked toward the front of the room, fidgeting absentmindedly with the straps of your tote bag all the way. 

Professor Harkness waited until the last student left the room before stepping toward you from her spot at the podium. She wasn’t so close that it was unprofessional, but close enough that you could still smell her perfume.

You cleared your throat, an attempt to distract yourself more than anything. “Is there something you needed, Professor?”

She gave you a quick, assessing look. “You seemed a little preoccupied today.” Her voice was even—not concerned, but not disinterested. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly—too quickly—forcing on a shaky smile. “It’s just that time of the semester.”

“Of course,” she said. She didn’t sound convinced. 

For a moment she just looked at you, as if pretending to consider her next move. Then she pulled out the stack of papers that had been tucked under her arm. 

On top: an all-too-familiar navy blue notebook.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Shit.

She picked it up, turning it over once to look at the back cover, before holding it out in the space between you. “I believe this belongs to you.” 

You swallowed, but it did nothing to clear the lump in your throat. When you tried to speak a broken “Where—?” was all you could get out.

“I walk around the room after each class. Make sure no one left anything behind.” She shrugged, casual, unbothered. “Once in a while, I find something interesting.”

You blinked once. Twice.

In all of your worst-case scenarios, you’d never once considered that she might be the one to find it.

In another universe, you could maybe have played this cool. Shrugged it off, collected the journal and went on your way, assuming she’d just glanced inside for a name.

But in this universe, your face was hot, and the tips of your ears were burning under the heat of her gaze. You may as well have had GUILTY written across your forehead. If she hadn’t read it, you were revealing something just by standing there looking the way you did. And if she had read it? If she knew exactly what you’d written in those pages?

Her expression was perfectly neutral; you couldn’t tell what she’d seen, if anything at all, and that was almost worse than knowing. Knowing would mean resolution. Knowing would mean knowing what you needed to do next.

Not knowing, though, meant you were still scrambling for solutions to every possible scenario. Including the very worst.

Oh, God. 

You were going to have to rip that book to shreds. Burn it. Bury the ashes. And after that, you were going to have to drop her class. You were going to take your first “W” on your transcript because you couldn’t keep your wet dreams to yourself. And… could she report you for this? Could you be expelled?

You’d been silent for at least a full minute, maybe longer, and you’d made no move to actually take the journal from her outstretched hand. She waved it a bit, trying to catch your attention, a barely-there smirk and an expectantly raised eyebrow on her face.

“Sorry,” you muttered, hardly loud enough for yourself to hear. You took the notebook and blindly stuffed it into your bag, like if you didn't look at it, it would just disappear (and with any luck, take you with it).

“You should be more careful,” she said, nodding toward your bag. "Anyone could have found that.”

You couldn’t trust yourself to form actual words, so you answered with what might generously be called a hum of agreement. But it was really just a whimper.

“Well,” she said with a soft chuckle when it became painfully obvious that you weren’t going to say anything more. “I’ll see you on Thursday, then.”

Your eyes snapped up, meeting hers for the first time since before she confirmed your worst nightmare had come to life. “For what?”

She raised both of her eyebrows, like it was obvious. “My class.”

“Oh,” you said, but the words did nothing to slow your racing pulse. “Right.”

She looked at you for one last, long moment, eyes alight with something—amusement maybe—before speaking again. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said as she stepped around you. 

You turned to look over your shoulder as she began walking up and down the rows of seats, as if proving a point. 

“If I find anything else of yours,” she was walking away from you as she said it, but her voice was still clear as could be. “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Heat climbed back up and settled in your cheeks. You had to get out of there.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, almost positive she didn’t hear it, before making a beeline for the exit. Once you were safely in the hallway, the door swung shut behind you, sealing away the sound of heels clicking against the hardwood floor.

You had another class starting in ten minutes, but you weren’t even thinking about going anymore. Your feet were already steering you back to the dorm as your thoughts raced.

Maybe it wasn’t as bad as you thought. Had you actually used her name anywhere? Certainly not in anything recent. These days, “she” could only mean one person. And besides, maybe your descriptions were generic enough that it could’ve been another professor. There had to be at least a dozen other middle-aged female professors with dark hair and blue eyes on campus. But you hadn’t been in any of those other professors’ classes last Thursday, the day you had explicitly written that you were in class while making the entry.

You had been in hers.

When you got back to your room, you reached into your bag and pulled out the notebook before letting the tote and the rest of its contents fall to the tile with a thud.

You just stared at the thing for a moment. Did you really want to know if you’d written anything inside that would’ve given you away? Or maybe it was better to leave it unopened—at least you had it back, and there was no more damage it could do. What did it matter what was inside?

No. You had to know. If you were ever going to be able to look Agatha Harkness in the eye again… you had to.

Bracing yourself, you opened the spiral-bound notebook to a random page.

The first thing you saw wasn’t your own writing. 

It wasn’t even the doodles you sometimes made at the tops of the pages. 

It was the red ink that was filling the margins, underlining phrases, and bracketing off whole paragraphs of text.

Your stomach flipped.

She graded your dreams?

[d-z20]

Where There's Anger, There's Still Love (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: Agathario+U 4eva... or maybe not. After Nicky was born, Agatha tried to outrun fate. When he died, she hid behind the Darkhold. It's been centuries, but finally you and Rio can sense her presence again and decide to go and confront the witch... and your lingering feelings for eachother

-OR-

You've missed her, Rio's missed her, and she's missed you both. What better way to welcome her back then with your fingers and mouths?

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, canon divergence, reader is a healer/white witch but it's not a major plot point, smut, top Rio, top reader, bottom Agatha, threesome, fingering, oral sex/cunnilingus, minor angst/hurt, comfort, maybe more idk I'm tired and can't think properly

Words: 3.5k

A/N: Two fics in two days? who am I?!?! Requested fic

Masterlist

The memories of your past come in honeyed fragments, softened by time but no less potent. Agatha’s sharp and wicked laughter, how it used to spill over Rio’s amused huffs, and curled around you like the low flicker of a candle’s flame. The three of you built something rare. A love that glowed from the inside out, that didn’t just exist but thrived. It was weighty, permanent—at least, you thought it was. A promise spoken between lips that knew the taste of each other’s magic. Sealed in touches that lingered long after the heat had faded.

You remember nights in their arms, bodies tangled beneath moonlight that filtered through worn curtains. Rio’s calloused fingers trailing idly over your stomach, Agatha’s lips pressing against the pulse at your throat, soft and absent-mindedly, as if she were memorising the rhythm of your life. You were the warmth between them, the gentle touch to their sharp edges. Where Agatha was wit and deception, and Rio was raw and unrelenting power, you were something softer, something whole. A balance. A balm.

But then came Nicholas. A love-born tragedy.

You remember the night he was born—the way Agatha screamed, not from the pain of labour but from the knowledge of what awaited him. You remember Rio, standing by the river, flower in hand, shadows pooling at her feet.

“He was never meant for this world,” Rio had said, voice low, heavy. Certain. “His soul is not his to keep.”

Agatha had turned to you then, eyes wet and frantic. “You can fix him. Please. You can heal him.” Her fingers had clutched your wrists, her magic sparking against your skin. Desperation made a ruin of her.

You knew the truth even then. There was no healing what was never meant to be whole. But you had nodded, because how could you not? How could you bear to be the one who let hope die in her hands?

Rio had sighed, something deep and aching. “I can give him time. That is all.”

It was not enough. But Agatha took it anyway.

And so she ran. She ran from Rio, from you, from inevitability itself, as if distance alone could rewrite fate. And for six years, it almost seemed like it worked.

Nicholas laughed and played and lived. He was warm in her arms, bright in her eyes, whole in a way no borrowed thing should ever be. You visited when you could, but Agatha kept you at arm’s length, afraid of what you represented. Afraid of the truth you carried in your silence.

You had told her once: You cannot save him from his fate. You can only love him through it. But Agatha had never been one to accept inevitability.

And then, one night, he closed his eyes, never to open them again.

He had fallen asleep curled against Agatha’s side, his small fingers still tangled in the fabric of her shirt. When she woke, he was cold. Gone.

You weren’t there when it happened. But you arrived to the sound of Agatha’s grief tearing through the forest, through you, through the very bones of the world. She was still holding him, her body curled around his, whispering prayers into his cold skin. Rio stood at their feet, quiet, unmoving. It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t indifference. It was duty, old as time itself.

"You took him," Agatha choked, her voice hoarse from all the crying.

"You knew I would," Rio said.

You reached for Agatha, hands trembling, but she did not see you. Did not feel you. There was only pain. You saw it in the way her shoulders curled inward, in the way her fingers clutched at Nicky’s lifeless form, as if keeping him close could bring him back again.

"You let this happen," she spat. And you knew she wasn’t speaking to Rio alone.

His death left an open wound, and Agatha—Agatha turned her grief into something serrated, something that cut as deep as the loss itself. She did not cry in your arms. She did not seek comfort in the home the three of you had built. Instead, she wielded her sorrow like a weapon and turned it against the only two people who still held onto her.

She couldn't bear to look at either of you—not when every glance felt like a reminder of the choice she had been forced to make, of the son she couldn’t save. In her eyes, Rio had taken him, and you had let it happen.

So, she left again. Hiding behind the Darkhold, where neither you nor Rio could reach her.

You searched at first. You wrote letters and traced spells into candle wax, hoping she’d feel you reaching for her. You went to places you knew she’d been, places where she had used her power, places where the walls still hummed with her presence. You stood outside doors that would never open and called her name into the kind of silence that bruised.

Again, and again, and again.

But she never answered.

Without Agatha, you and Rio had only each other to hold onto. And by the Divine Mother, how you held on. In the beginning, it was desperate; grief spilling from both of you in sharp edges, in hands that clutched too tightly, in breaths that stuttered against each other’s skin. It was unbearable alone, the weight of her absence pressing like stone against your ribs. But together? Together, it became something almost survivable.

Rio burnt with it. She drank her sorrow like poison; let it settle in her marrow; let it shape the way she carried herself—spine stiff, shoulders squared, jaw clenched so tightly you swore you could hear her teeth creak. But when she touched you, she softened. And you let her. You let her bury her face against your chest when the nights stretched too long. You let her kiss you slowly; let her hands map the familiar lines of your body as if she were afraid that they too would disappear. You let her love you in the only way she knew how.

She still loved Agatha. You still loved Agatha. But Rio also loves you, and you love her back. So, you built something steady. Something good.

It wasn’t the same; it could never be the same, but it was real. It was healing spells traced onto her back while she read; her body was never hurt but you hoped (in vain) that it could ease the pain in her heart. It was her hands in your hair, the rough pad of her thumb sweeping against your temple. It was always leaving a place at the table for Agatha.

Some nights, you dreamt of her. You’d wake with the ghost of her scent lingering in the air—woody and slightly florally, but with something dark and electric curling at the edges too. It feels like she’s still there, just beyond your reach.

Some nights, Rio whispered in the dark, “Do you think she’ll ever come back to us?”

And you never had an answer. You don’t know if Agatha is someone you’re meant to find again or if she has gone too far from you both to ever be whole in your hands. You only know that Rio still reaches for her in sleep, just as you do. That there is a space between you both that no amount of love, no amount of time, has ever truly filled.

So instead of answering, you’d press a kiss to Rio’s bare shoulder. You’d listen to her breathe. You’d hold her the way you wish you could hold Agatha.

—

The moment Wanda takes the Darkhold from Agatha, and she is left powerless, Rio gasps—a sharp, guttural sound that cracks through the quiet. Her entire body seizes, every muscle locking tight, her fingers digging into the bed like she’s trying to ground herself against something unseen. The air around you constricts and hums with the sudden shift in power, with the absence of something that had tethered itself to Agatha for too long.

"I can feel her."

Rio's voice is raw, almost broken, and your heart stutters; it misses a beat.

It’s been so long, and yet you can feel her too.

Knowing strikes like lightning. Magic thrums in your veins, pulling you toward her. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing.

Rio is already halfway out of bed, her breath uneven, her hands trembling. You reach for her, pressing your palm against the back of her neck to ground her, letting your own magic weave into the space between you. She leans into it for only a second before pulling away, eyes full of something you haven’t seen in years: hope.

“She’s in Westview,” Rio says, shoving herself into the nearest pair of jeans, urgency vibrating off her skin. “I can—fuck—I can feel everything. She’s—” Her voice breaks, and she presses her hand to her chest like she’s trying to hold something in.

You’ve spent so long mourning her, searching for her in dreams and half-formed spells that never led anywhere. Now, she’s real again. Somewhere out there, stripped of the magic that kept her hidden, and you can feel her hurting.

You don’t waste another second. You reach for your boots, for the coat draped over the chair. Magic crackles between your fingertips, thrumming beneath your skin, desperate to find her.

Rio catches your gaze. "We bring her home."

There is no other option.

You nod once. Then, together, you go.

—

Westview is a graveyard of illusions. The remnants of Wanda’s hex still cling to the air, thick and suffocating, like ghosts that refuse to leave. You wade through the wreckage, through the weight of what was left behind, and find her standing amidst it all.

Agatha Harkness—stripped of power, stripped of the Darkhold’s suffocating grasp, stripped of everything but herself.

She is small in the vast emptiness. Smaller than you remember. Just a woman now, no shadows curling at her fingertips, no smirk sharpened into a blade. Just hollowed-out ribs and weary eyes and a body that looks like it might buckle under the weight of its own ruin.

Rio stops dead beside you, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Her magic pulses beneath her skin, hungry and desperate; years of grief and longing compacted into something volatile, something barely restrained. You feel it too. The way the space between you all vibrates with too much emotion, too much history.

Agatha lifts her head, eyes locking onto yours.

And the years fall away. Just for a second. Just long enough for something inside you to splinter wide open.

Her shoulders pull back, her chin tilts up—an old mask fitting over something brittle, something on the verge of collapse. “Come to gloat?” she asks, her voice carrying the remnants of the woman she used to be. Clipped, cutting. But it wavers at the edges. “Or did you just miss the sound of my voice?”

Something inside you snaps.

“You left us,” you say, voice stripped bare.

Agatha exhales sharply through her nose, something flickering behind her eyes—guilt, pain, regret—but she doesn’t let it settle. “I had nothing left.”

Rio scoffs, stepping forward, eyes burning. “So we were nothing?”

Agatha flinches, but the bitterness that twists her mouth is sharp. Defensive. “I thought you’d finally learnt to let go.”

The air between you thrums with all the things unsaid. You step forward, magic sparking at your fingertips, not as a weapon but as a manifestation of everything boiling beneath your skin—grief, fury, longing, betrayal. It crackles, raw and unchecked.

Rio doesn’t hold back. “You think you’re that easy to forget?”

She’s trying to sound angry, but the hurt is there, barely concealed. It seeps into the edges of her voice. Agatha hears it—sees it—and the mask finally falters. Her breath stutters, and she shakes her head, something dark passing over her expression.

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. “None of it mattered.”

The words are meant to push you away, to wound. And they do. But more than anything, they make something deep inside you twist, furious and aching.

“You don’t get to say that.” Your voice is sharp, edged with something dangerous. “You don’t get to fucking say that after all these years—after leaving us to grieve you like you were dead. You weren’t the only one mourning Nicky.”

Agatha recoils like you’ve struck her. Her mouth opens, then closes, something frenzied building behind her ribs. “Do you think I don’t regret it?” she spits, and her voice cracks. “Do you think I don’t know what I did?”

Her breathing is ragged, hands curled into fists at her sides. She’s trembling, coming apart right in front of you, and there’s no stopping it now. The weight of it all—of Nicholas, of the choices she made, of the years spent running—it all comes crashing down, shattering what little composure she has left.

Then—then she breaks.

Agatha staggers, the weight of everything finally too much, and the second you touch her, it’s over.

She crumbles into you, into Rio, into the only arms that have ever truly held her without expectation, without demands.

Your own hands shake as you wrap them around her. You don’t know if you can still be the warmth between them, if you even should be, but Agatha shudders against you, and Rio lets out something between a choked cry and a curse, and you realise—you never stopped loving each other.

Rio presses a shaking hand to the back of Agatha’s head, pulling her in tight. “You’re such a fucking idiot,” she breathes, voice wrecked, and Agatha lets out a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

You don’t speak. You just hold her. Hold her as she clings to you, fingers twisting in your coat like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

—

You take her home. To the place she’s belonged all along.

The world outside is still broken, Agatha is still powerless, but in this small, sacred space, it’s just the three of you, tangled in grief and longing and something dangerously close to hope.

The air shifts. The fury, the jagged edges, begin to ebb away, leaving something else in its wake. Something raw. Something desperate.

Agatha reaches for you first. She kisses you like she’s drowning, like she’s trying to tether herself to something real. It’s clumsy at first, all shaky inhales and stuttered gasps, but then Rio is there—heat at your back, lips tracing a burning path along Agatha’s jaw. A sharp inhale. A low, wrecked sound that is half relief, half ruin.

It starts slow. It has to. Agatha’s fingers ghost over your skin, tentative and unsure. Rio watches, waiting, breath uneven, eyes dark. There is hesitation, the weight of too much time lost, too much pain endured.

But then Agatha gives in. She leans in, she takes, she surrenders.

When her lips crash into yours, there is no hesitation left. Only hunger. Only the desperate, unrelenting need to consume and be consumed. Hands explore, teeth catch, and nails dig into flesh like an anchor. Agatha gasps against your mouth, and then Rio is kissing her too, swallowing the sounds whole.

It’s messy. It’s frantic. It’s years of longing, grief, and anger, worked out in the way you pull at each other’s clothes, in the way Agatha’s nails dig into your back, in the way Rio’s hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise.

Agatha moans as you grind against her thigh, the fabric of your underwear soaked through, the friction delicious. Her hands tighten on your hips, guiding you, and Rio groans against the crook of your neck, voice wrecked. “I’ve missed this.”

It’s not enough. It will never be enough. Not after years of distance, of pain, of words left unsaid. You need more. Agatha needs more.

With a sharp inhale, she tugs at you, her teeth scraping against your jaw before she shifts, pushing you back onto the bed. Rio is already moving with her, already reading the intent in her darkened eyes.

“Lie back,” Agatha breathes, her voice rough, ruined. “Both of you.”

She settles herself between you and Rio, exhaling shakily as she leans in, her lips dragging over the soft skin of your stomach before her hands trace lower, her fingers hooking into your waistband and pulling your underwear down with aching slowness. Rio mirrors her, her hands firm as she helps rid Agatha of the last of her clothing, leaving her bare and exposed beneath your combined touch.

There is no hesitation, no shyness left between the three of you. You and Rio move in tandem, pressing her back against the bed, parting her thighs between you. Agatha gasps as you press a lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh, Rio doing the same on the other side, your lips trailing over her skin, relearning her like a prayer.

“You still sound so fucking pretty when you moan,” Rio groans in pleasure against her skin, her voice thick with hunger.

Agatha shudders, her fingers threading through your hair, guiding, urging. You and Rio share a look before you both move, mouths pressing where she needs you most. The first brush of your tongue against her has her keening, her fingers tightening in your hair, her body arching off the bed.

It’s frantic at first, desperate, but then it slows and turns into something reverent. She trembles beneath you both, gasping, moaning, a broken sound spilling from her lips as years of tension unravel in the heat of your mouths, in the press of your hands.

Her taste is intoxicating, and every sound she makes fuels the fire burning between your legs. You and Rio move in sync, devouring her like she’s the only thing that exists, like you’ll never get enough. Agatha writhes, her thighs trembling, her hands gripping at the sheets before latching onto you both like she needs to hold onto something real.

You and Rio fall into an unspoken rhythm, alternating between mouths and fingers, neither of you willing to give her even a second to breathe. When Rio presses her fingers inside Agatha, curling just right, you take the opportunity to latch onto her clit, sucking hard enough to make her cry out. A sharp gasp, a curse, and then she’s tugging at your hair, her hips bucking between the two of you.

Then you switch. Your fingers replace Rio’s, stretching her open, working her deeper, while Rio’s mouth descends, tongue flicking and teasing until Agatha is keening, shaking beneath you. There’s a challenge in the way you work together, a growing desperation, a hunger to push her further, to see who can be the one that tips her over the edge.

Her thighs are trembling, always so sensitive, and you take the opportunity to bite down, sinking your teeth into the soft skin, sucking until a bruise blooms there. Agatha jerks, a sharp, choked-off moan ripping from her throat. Rio sees what you’ve done and smirks, following suit, her own mouth marking the other thigh. Agatha is covered in you both, claimed by you both.

“Fuck—” she gasps, her breath stuttering, her body tightening beneath you. “Don’t stop—”

Not like you’d even dare to.

You and Rio press deeper, harder, pulling more desperate sounds from her lips, from deep in her chest. The air is thick with heat, with the wet, obscene sounds of pleasure, with the gasping, panting breaths that fill the room.

Agatha cums hard beneath you both, her release shuddering through her in waves. She cries out, her back arching, her fingers clutching tight, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You don’t stop until she’s trembling, until she’s begging, until there’s nothing left but her ragged breaths and the aftershocks of pleasure rolling through her.

Afterward, no one lets go. You stay tangled, skin sticky, bodies pressed too close. Agatha’s head rests against your shoulder, Rio’s arms draped lazily around both of you.

No one speaks; the weight of what happened still lingers like a storm waiting to break, but it’s not as sharp anymore. It’s quieter now, more distant. Love doesn’t erase pain, but in this space, it has softened it.

In the stillness that follows, bodies entwined and breathless, there is something new. Something fragile yet impossibly strong.

Rio shifts slightly, the weight of her words gentle but certain. "You’re not leaving again," she says, as if the promise itself could break the last of the silence between you.

“No," Agatha breathes against your chest, her lips warm, her voice cracked but steady. "Not this time."

The world outside can wait. The past is a shadow, but here, in the quiet aftermath, there’s only the present—only the three of you, bound by everything that’s been and everything that will be.

-----

Slowly but surely i'm getting back into the swing of writing the smut for y'all. Got to get my practice in so I ca update Neighbourly Care some time soon oops

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (14/???)

Well, this chapter is short but it's definitely something...

Enjoy it <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Staying away from your mommies makes you discover new things.

Fonte

The aroma of fresh coffee and a faint sweet note lingered in the air, slowly pulling you out of sleep.

Still nestled in the soft sheets of the king-size bed, you stretched lazily, feeling your muscles protest against the abrupt movement.

The lingering warmth of the previous night still clung to your skin—remembering Agatha’s vulnerability, the way she let you hold her, let you see her. The heated kisses with a salty taste of tears. The glorious orgasms you had given her.

All of it was enough to make you stay in bed—in your little love nest—but the promise of caffeine was enough to gather your strength and abandon the sheets.

The mansion was quiet, except for a voice in the background—one that certainly wasn’t Agatha’s. Curious, you followed the hallway to the kitchen, where you found your Mommy sitting at the table, wrapped in a dark silk robe, her brown hair loose and unruly.

There was a duality in Agatha that you found intriguing. The subversive and intimidating appearance combined with her sarcastic and highly stern, controlling demeanor made her so… Agatha.

A full-fledged character, you thought.

In front of her, the phone screen glowed, revealing the image of Rio, who was speaking animatedly, gesturing with exaggerated movements.

“... and then, a journalist had the audacity to tell me that my series of paintings on the void of human existence was ‘too nihilistic.’ As if that were an insult,” Rio commented, rolling her eyes dramatically.

Agatha took a sip of coffee, exhaling a bored sigh. “Well, you could have thrown paint at him and claimed it was a social art experiment. I would’ve supported it.”

She hadn’t yet noticed your presence, and you pondered whether to serve yourself a cup or simply steal a sip from Agatha’s coffee. But before you could decide, Rio spotted you behind the screen and broke into a wide smile.

“Well, look who’s here... Sweetie, Mama misses you so much!!” the artist exclaimed, her accent thick and melodic.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Agatha sighed heavily, as if merely existing in the morning was already a cruel punishment.

“In the morning, Vidal? Seriously?”

Rio ignored the grumpiness with the ease of someone who was already used to it and waved insistently. “Yes. Now come here, dear, let Mama get a better look at you!”

Still drowsy, you ran a hand through your disheveled hair, trying to give it some semblance of acceptable shape, and approached, peeking over Agatha’s shoulder.

“Hi, Mama,” you murmured, your voice husky from sleep.

“You look... well-rested,” Rio commented, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

Agatha narrowed her eyes at the screen, suspicious. “Was that a euphemism?”

Rio laughed, shrugging. “If it was, I won’t admit it.”

As Agatha muttered something inaudible, you took advantage of the distraction to steal a toast from her plate.

Without even looking, Agatha stretched her hand in the air, as if predicting the move. “Drop it.”

“Too late,” you replied, chewing slowly just to provoke her.

Agatha huffed, but a nearly imperceptible smile threatened to appear at the corner of her lips.

Rio watched the scene with evident delight.

“You two are becoming one person,” she teased. “My God, my poor girl is already picking up your manners, Agatha.”

Agatha let out a dramatic sigh before taking another sip of coffee. “Wrong. She’s picking up yours, Vidal.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Stealing food from other people’s plates? Sassy remarks before breakfast? And that... disheveled hair that looks like conceptual art? You’re becoming a little Rio.”

Rio gasped theatrically. “Wrong. The disheveled hair is yours, M’lady.” She pointed to the woman beside her, whose frizzy, untamed hair bore witness to the truth of the accusation.

“Fuck you, Vidal.” Agatha flipped off her wife, who merely laughed.

Sexy and grumpy, you thought.

Rio placed a hand on her chest, feigning emotion. “Oh, Agatha, what a beautiful thing to say in the morning! I knew that deep down, you loved me.”

“If by ‘love’ you mean ‘tolerate until it explodes and makes me want to set the White House on fire,’ then yes,” Agatha retorted, unimpressed.

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could argue, you realized you were holding her coffee mug—or rather, your coffee mug now—exactly the way Rio held her paintbrushes, with an air of nonchalance, as if the object had always belonged to you.

And then it hit you.

“Oh my God,” you murmured, horrified. “I’m becoming Mama.”

Rio burst into laughter. “You finally realized! Come, darling! Leave your grumpy Mommy there in Los Angeles! Let’s open a studio in Paris! You can be my assistant and steal other people’s coffee as much as you want. No limits for my little princess.”

“She already does that,” Agatha intervened, taking the mug from your hands with a stern look. “Except, instead of art, she only produces chaos.”

You gave a satisfied smirk. “Chaos is a form of art too.”

Rio snapped her fingers, proud. “My brilliant student!”

Agatha ran a hand down her face, sighing. “God. Give me patience.”

But even while grumbling, she put together a sandwich and placed it on your plate without even looking.

You smiled.

The day would be long, but you were starting to feel your energy bloom. Everything was really easier with them.

A few minutes later, after Agatha forced you to wear a purple sweater—because she loved seeing you in purple and was sure it would rain—you were inside the Audi, heading off.

The car’s engine hummed softly, filling the comfortable silence between you. The radio played a discreet instrumental melody, while Agatha kept her eyes on the road, one firm hand on the wheel and the other holding a thermal coffee cup.

You looked at your phone screen, rereading the scene you had written for Wanda.

“So,” you began, shifting in your seat. “I’m rereading Wanda’s scene and... I think I managed to capture the way she embraces magic after the twins’ death. It’s a chaotic acceptance, but also an inevitable one. Do you think it works?”

Agatha looked at you for a moment before turning back to the road, seeming in no rush to answer.

“It works,” she finally said, without taking her eyes off the street. “Because it’s true. Her magic was never a curse, but a calling. Grief only opened the doors she kept trying to shut.”

You smiled, satisfied. “I like that. How she realizes she was never a monster. She was just trying to be something she never was—human, ordinary.”

“Exactly,” Agatha nodded, her lips curling into an almost imperceptible, chaste smile. “Pain can be a catalyst or an anchor. She always had too much power to be anchored by anything other than herself.”

You were silent for a moment, mulling over the words. You liked discussing your scenes with Agatha. Even when she was critical, she always saw things you didn’t.

Locking your phone screen, you stared out the window. You could already feel your heart ache and your body weaken. It was strange how painful it was to be away from them. Your dependence was killing you.

After a few minutes, you cleared your throat. “Hm... Mommy?”

She arched an eyebrow, not taking her eyes off the road.

“Can I go out with Alice after class today?”

The car turned a corner. Three blocks. The damned three blocks before the university.

Whenever the engine stopped there, the reminder that you would never be anything more than a secret to them kept looping in your mind. You couldn't help but be bothered by it, and now more than ever, you wanted to get away from that place and everything it represented.

You noticed the way Agatha's jaw tightened. She didn’t respond immediately. She just pulled the handbrake, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel in a calculated rhythm.

Silence dragged on. You waited.

She took a deep breath, as if evaluating all possibilities, considering every little detail before making a decision.

"Fine," she finally said. "But be home by 9 PM. We’ll call your Mama."

Your eyes widened, and you smiled. "Really? We can call Mama?"

This time, Agatha shot you a sideways glance, her expression unreadable.

"Yes. She was a nervous wreck over the exhibition," you grinned, imagining Rio terrorizing the staff in her broken French, "... and I know you miss her," she murmured, turning her attention back to the road.

Your chest warmed. Rio was in Paris, busy, but you missed her—missed the way she spoke, her little jokes, and the way she could make you stop overthinking.

You couldn’t hold back your smile. The excitement was so overwhelming that, before you even thought about it, you leaned in and cupped Agatha’s face in your hands, pulling her into a firm kiss.

She froze the moment your lips touched hers, a reaction almost comical considering how relentless Agatha was in practically every situation.

But at that moment?

You completely unraveled her.

Her lips were warm, still carrying the bitter taste of coffee, and her initial shock quickly melted into an involuntary surrender.

You felt the exact moment her body’s rigidity gave way—a breath against your mouth, a hesitant movement of her hands, as if she were fighting the urge to grab your waist and pull you back in.

But you were faster. You pulled away before she could fully recover, before she could turn the tables and remind you who was really in control here.

Agatha blinked, her eyes slightly widened, as if she needed a second to process what had just happened. You took advantage of that rare moment of vulnerability and flashed a mischievous smile.

"See you later, Mommy." Your voice was slow, almost teasing, and you slipped out of the car before she could say anything.

But as you shut the door, you managed to catch the muffled sound of a frustrated sigh and the impatient tapping of nails against the steering wheel.

Satisfied, you walked toward the entrance of the university, feeling her gaze burning into your back.

The campus was bustling with students moving in all directions—laughing, talking, complaining about classes. You scanned the groups and smiled when you spotted Alice’s.

She was sitting on the edge of one of the stone benches, laughing at something a friend had said. The morning sun hit her dark hair, creating a golden halo around her head.

"Alice!" you called out with a wide grin.

She looked up at the sound of her name, and a genuine smile spread across her lips. "Hey, look who decided to show up!"

As you reached her side, you noticed three other people there—two girls and a guy, all watching you with a certain interest. There was something peculiar about their presence, something hard to define.

"Oh, let me introduce you," Alice said, sliding off the bench with the effortless grace of someone who always fit in wherever they went. "This here is Billy, that's Jennifer, and this is Yelena."

Billy was tall and lanky, with intense eyes and an easy smile, his hair messy as if he didn’t care much about it. Jennifer had an intimidating beauty, sharp eyes, and a calculated posture, while Yelena… well, she just tilted her head, observing you with a look that made something twist inside you.

"Nice to meet you all," you said, shaking each of their hands. Their grips were firm, but Billy let his fingers slide against your palm, sending a shiver up your spine.

Weird.

"So, are you feeling better today?" Alice asked, leaning casually against the bench.

"Oh. Yeah. Much better." You adjusted your backpack strap, looking at your shoes, trying to sound nonchalant. "... You know... Just wanted to let you know I’m free after class."

Billy grinned, his eyes lighting up with something you couldn’t quite read. "That’s amazing. We were just deciding whether to hang out at my place. I guess you made the decision for us, darling." He winked at you, making your cheeks flush.

Jennifer shot him a sidelong glance, a small smirk curving her lips.

"Definitely," Yelena murmured, crossing her arms.

You blinked, feeling something odd in the way they looked at you—like they were waiting for something. But Alice laughed, slipping an arm around your waist for a brief second, and any unease disappeared.

"It’ll be fun," she assured you, and you didn’t doubt that.

When the bell rang, you said goodbye and hurried off.

What the hell was that?

They had a different aura—heavy, suffocating. And you felt like you were committing some kind of sin just by talking to them.

Why?

The classroom seemed to spin around an invisible axis as you tried to ignore the nagging feeling in your chest. The sound of pens scratching against paper, the hushed whispers of students, the ticking clock—all of it felt distant, like it was happening in another reality.

You should have been focused on your test, but your mind refused to cooperate. The sharp pencil twirled between your fingers, pressing against the paper without actually writing anything.

What was this?

This unsettling, suffocating feeling of absence, of something missing?

You tried to find a rational explanation.

Maybe it was Wanda, with her green eyes that always seemed to see beyond, searching for something inside you that even you didn’t understand.

Or maybe it was Alice and her new friends, watching you with that strange, overly curious look.

They all left a burning sensation in your chest, like acid reflux.

But you knew these thoughts were shallow, that they didn’t dig deep enough to explain the tightness in your chest.

Because the truth was, this feeling came from them.

From the silent house without the sound of clinking teacups, without Agatha’s low murmurs in the morning as she cut your fruit into cute shapes.

Without Rio’s playful taps on your butt, her voice calling you "darling" as she whispered lullabies in a language you didn’t know.

You missed them with hunger, like a weight in your stomach that wouldn’t go away.

And it didn’t even make sense. You’d see them in just a few hours, you’d go back home, and everything would be there.

But the cold in your bones didn’t believe that.

It was irrational, but your body refused to accept logic. The hand holding your pencil was trembling. Your chest rose and fell in an erratic rhythm.

This wasn’t normal.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to calm yourself. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Or maybe… maybe it was something deeper, something you didn’t understand.

The nausea hit like a violent wave, without warning. Your stomach churned, and before you could think, you pushed your chair back, nearly tripping as you rushed out of the classroom. A few students glanced up at your sudden movement, but you didn’t care.

Your steps were quick and clumsy down the empty hallway, the sound of your own feet echoing on the cold tiles.

The air seemed stuck in your throat, the tightness in your chest suffocating, as if something inside you was shattering.

The bathroom was empty when you entered abruptly, causing an echo. You rushed into the nearest stall, collapsing to your knees in front of the toilet, your fingers digging into the cold porcelain as whatever this thing inside you was refused to stay contained.

Your whole body trembled.

You took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. A raw, painful retch made your back arch, and then—you vomited.

Your mind was.

The lack of them tore you apart.

This wasn’t normal.

It couldn’t be normal.

You squeezed your eyes shut, the bitter taste in your mouth, trying to make sense of what you were feeling. It made no sense—this desperate need, this pain that shouldn’t be there.

You would be home in a few hours. You would see Agatha. You would hear Rio’s voice. But your body didn’t believe that. Your body reacted as if you were being ripped away from them.

And why?

Why?

You got up on unsteady legs, walking to the sink to rinse your mouth. The reflection in the mirror showed your wide eyes, pale skin, a cold sweat on your forehead. You took a deep breath, trying to center yourself, trying to pretend you were fine.

But then—

A voice.

A voice that made you freeze in place.

"This can’t go on like this!"

Your heart almost stopped.

You knew that voice.

Agatha.

Your chest rose and fell erratically as your eyes darted to the door. Agatha was there. In the hallway.

With Professor Calderu?

Every part of your instincts screamed. This wasn’t normal. You had never seen Agatha here, except for the time of the lecture. Not this close to Lilia. This didn’t make sense.

But you were already standing, already taking a hesitant step out of the bathroom, your heart pounding in your throat.

They were there, standing in a more secluded corner of the hallway. Agatha had her arms crossed, a serious expression on her face, while Calderu spoke in a low voice.

You knew you shouldn’t listen.

You knew you should just move on, pretend you saw nothing.

But your instincts gave you no choice.

Your feet moved on their own.

You followed them.

Your heart was beating so hard you could almost hear it in the silence of that place.

They walked toward a corner beyond the campus, entering a hidden room that looked like something out of a medieval castle—damp stone walls, dim yellowish lighting casting distorted shadows.

You held your breath and crouched down, crawling to a small opening near the floor. Your eyes found the feet of the two women inside.

And there they were.

Agatha’s Versace heels, elegant and dangerous, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

She was furious.

"This needs to stop." Agatha’s voice cut through the air like a whip, low but laden with threat. "She’s after her like a damn wolf. Watching. Analyzing." The pause was laced with venom. "Wanting."

A shiver ran down your spine.

Were they talking about you?

Your body tensed, your knees pressing into the cold stone floor. You didn’t know what was worse: the way Agatha spoke or the fact that Calderu didn’t seem surprised.

"Lilia, I’m warning you. If this continues, I will—"

"Agatha."

Calderu’s voice was a murmur, but there was a sharp firmness in it.

"You need to calm down."

Agatha laughed. Not a real laugh, but something cold and cynical. "Calm down?" The red-soled heels stopped abruptly. "You know what will happen if she finds out. If Wanda touches her. If she decides she wants—"

"If you keep this up, you’re the one who’s going to ruin everything."

Silence.

You bit your lip, feeling your breath quicken.

What the fuck is this?

Then, Agatha exploded.

"She’s mine!"

The sound of an impact made you flinch. Something had been hit—a table, maybe. Your heart leapt so violently that your stomach twisted.

Calderu sighed. "Agatha…"

"If Wanda wants a source," Agatha spat the word like an insult, "she better find another one. I’ve been patient enough!"

Source?

What?

Your mind reeled, trying to make sense of the conversation.

Wanda. Agatha. Rio. Calderu.

You.

What was happening?

You swallowed hard, breathing carefully to avoid making a sound.

You wanted to run. Or go in there, straight to them, and scream for answers. You wanted to disappear, to go back to your old home and not see the sun for a long time.

Snapping you out of your thoughts, your phone vibrated with an iMessage notification, nearly making you jump.

Alice: We’re in the parking lot. Billy’s car is the red one.

Shit.

Right.

You needed to get out of here. You needed to leave.

Your hands trembled as you closed your phone, the glow of the screen feeling too bright for your eyes.

You needed to leave.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, adrenaline burning through your veins as you turned around and ran down the stone hallway. The walls felt narrower, the air denser.

You needed to leave. Now.

Hurried footsteps echoed, your eyes scanning the surroundings, making sure no one saw you. Thick raindrops stained your sweater. And suddenly, you felt the urge to laugh like a lunatic.

It was raining.

And Agatha was never wrong.

The woman was like a damn witch who could predict the future.

You pushed open the exit door and were met with the cold air of the parking lot.

The red car.

There it was, parked under the white glow of the streetlights. Alice was leaning against the door, scrolling through her phone, while Billy and Yelena stood nearby, cigarettes between their lips, their noses inhaling the nicotine. Jennifer sat in the passenger seat, looking at something in the rearview mirror.

Alice looked up and smiled.

But you couldn’t smile back.

Your steps were heavy as you approached. The lump in your throat felt impossible to swallow. Your vision was slightly blurred.

"What happened?" Alice asked as soon as you got close.

"Nothing," your voice came out weaker than it should have.

Billy opened the back door, stomping out his cigarette. "Get in already, it’s fucking freezing out here."

You got in.

The seat was soft. The smell of leather mixed with nicotine filled your lungs. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

But it didn’t help.

Your stomach twisted in involuntary spasms, as if something inside you was writhing the wrong way.

A sickness took over you, burning your skin, trembling and strange. You clenched your hands in your lap, trying to focus on anything other than your body.

Agatha’s Versace heels.

The sharp edge of her voice.

"She’s mine!"

Your insides knotted, nausea surging with force.

No.

No.

No.

You rolled down the window, desperate for air. But the world spun. The cold metal under your fingers wasn’t enough to anchor you. You didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know why your body was reacting like this—

"Hey," Alice called. "Are you okay?"

You didn’t know how to answer. And before you could say anything, the car engine started, wasting no time in pulling away.

Billy’s house was unlike any you had ever entered.

The lighting was dim, coming from yellow-tinted lamps that resembled candles scattered in different corners. Shadows danced across the walls, giving the room an unsettling air.

The furniture was heavy, made of dark wood, arranged in a way that suggested Billy lived alone. No overly personal touches. No family photos.

But what really caught your attention were the images.

Paintings and ancient tapestries covered the walls, all depicting female figures with intense gazes and dark garments. Some held the severed heads of men; others danced in circles, engulfed in flames.

You swallowed hard.

"Shall we begin?" Billy asked, tossing a strange deck of cards onto the table.

The "party" was an afternoon of games.

But the games were anything but conventional.

Alice laughed beside you, shuffling the cards with unnerving agility, as if she had done it all her life. Jennifer lit another candle. Yelena unfolded a carved wooden board.

You sat, watching.

Billy smiled sharply, his fingers gliding over the cards as if they were an extension of himself.

"Let's play Three Truths."

Alice laughed next to you, tapping the table excitedly. "You're gonna love it!"

You weren’t so sure.

Jennifer lit a candle, and the flame flickered, casting eerie shadows across the room. Yelena opened the wooden board, her cold, curious eyes locked onto your reaction.

You shifted uncomfortably on the rug. "What kind of game is this?"

Billy stacked the deck in the center of the table and began to explain:

"Each player gets three cards, face down." He flipped the top card, and a strange symbol shimmered for a second before vanishing.

"One card reveals who you are." He turned another, this time showing an illustration of a woman holding a cracked mirror.

"Another reveals what you desire." The third card displayed a disturbing image of a pair of green eyes, surrounded by a veil of shadows.

Your stomach twisted.

Billy’s smile widened. "And the last one reveals what is hidden inside you."

Your heart pounded in your chest.

"Is this serious?" Your voice came out tenser than you'd intended.

Alice leaned closer, her eyes glinting with something indefinable. "The thing is... the cards tell the truth. Always."

Jennifer chuckled softly. "But they only reveal what’s already inside you, you know?"

Yelena rested her elbows on the table, fingers interlaced in front of her face, never breaking eye contact. "Think you can handle it?"

The words sounded like a challenge.

Your gaze flicked to the deck on the table. Something about it made your skin crawl.

"But it’s just a game, right?"

Billy spun a card between his fingers, his smile enigmatic.

"Depends on what you believe."

Yelena picked up her three cards without hesitation, her fingers gliding over the thick paper edges. Billy smirked, amused, while Alice drummed her fingers on the table.

"Come on, Belova," Jennifer teased, resting her chin in her hands. "Show us what you're made of."

Yelena rolled her eyes but flipped the first card.

The Lady of the Blade.

Billy let out a low whistle. "Well, look at that. Always ready for the attack."

Alice laughed, leaning toward you. "It’s the card of someone who lives to defend themselves."

Yelena raised an eyebrow, scoffing. "Shocking absolutely no one."

You watched in silence, your heart still racing from the rules explanation. So this was how it worked?

She flipped the second card.

The Caged Heart.

This time, Jennifer laughed. "Oof. Emotional blockages?"

Yelena crossed her arms, feigning indifference. "I’m just very selective."

Billy tapped the card with his finger. "Or maybe you're holding onto something even you don’t want to see."

You swallowed hard.

The last card turned.

The Call of the Void.

This time, no one laughed immediately. The illustration on the card depicted a faceless shadow, arms outstretched, beckoning someone into the darkness.

Alice leaned in slightly, her smile fading.

"Interesting."

Jennifer cleared her throat, trying to lighten the mood. "So… you want something you can't have but are afraid to admit it?"

Yelena clicked her tongue, gathering the cards back. "Maybe this fucking game is a massive waste of time."

Billy just smiled. "Or maybe the cards don’t lie."

Silence weighed for a moment.

You swallowed hard, feeling a chill creep up your spine.

Alice shuffled the cards again, her eyes gleaming as she pushed the deck toward you.

"Your turn."

You hesitated. The room hadn’t felt this warm before.

Billy smiled almost gently, but there was something curious in his gaze. "No need to be afraid. The game only shows what’s already inside you."

"Great," you muttered sarcastically. "That makes everything so much better."

Alice laughed, nudging your arm. "Come on, just pick them."

Slowly, you reached out, taking three cards and placing them face down on the table. Your chest tightened. It was just a game. Right?

"Go on, flip them," Jennifer encouraged.

Taking a deep breath, you turned the first one.

The Lost Path.

Alice frowned. Billy let out a low whistle.

"Interesting," he murmured.

"Why?" you asked, a sinking feeling in your stomach.

Yelena clicked her tongue. "Because it means you don’t know where you’re going. But someone does."

A shiver ran up your spine.

You flipped the second card.

The Invisible Chains.

Their reaction was even quieter this time.

Jennifer cleared her throat. "Well… that’s pretty straightforward."

"Is that good or bad?" you asked, but you already knew the answer.

Alice bit her lip, leaning over the table. "It means you're bound to something… or someone."

Your mouth went dry.

They waited.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you turned the last card.

The Hidden Source.

Silence fell.

The crackling of the candles suddenly seemed deafening.

Alice's eyes widened. Billy frowned, looking… impressed? Jennifer held her breath.

Yelena straightened in her chair.

A chill ran through you, your gaze locked on the card’s illustration. A spring of black water gushed from a crack in the ground, shadows spiraling around it, as if ready to consume anyone who got too close.

Billy licked his lips, resting his elbows on the table.

"Well," he said finally. "Looks like we found what we were looking for."

~*~

Okay, okay... Maybe there magic in this universe hahaha. Deal with it.

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights

[ematin]

And it's worth it, it's divine. I have this some of the time. The way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine. Open hand or closed fist would be fine. The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine.

Her fight and fury is fiery Oh, but she loves like sleep to the freezing

[incorrectagathaallalongquotes]

Nicky: I didn’t even realize how sarcastic I was being. It’s starting to become a problem, I think.

Agatha, brushing away a fake tear: They grow up so fast.

[plathologicalliar]

the thought of rio running to agatha as soon as she could sense her and playing along the hex until her wife came around. redirecting agatha's attention back to the "case" when she got confused. laughing at what her wife was saying even though it was probably just nonsense. she's such a lovergirl :(

[legacies-safari]

"the reason why witches are so threatening historically is because they don't need anyone else, they're self sufficient, they don't need men.... and also i think they're threatening because they didn't need men, there babies are born and there's no males mentioned. It's this all women and queer kind of group"