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riamaple · 14 hours ago

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Life on Your Line (Ch. 9)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Summary: Cursed to sacrifice your life to save another, you were never able to connect with others, always meant to drift before you could belong. Death was all you knew. Then, one day in Brooklyn, you saved a young man, and for some reason, you kept seeing him again. And again. And again. No matter where you went, across decades, you always found your way back to him.

He was forced to live to destroy, you were forced to die to save—bound together in ways neither of you could understand.

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending). Death and Dying. Self-Sacrifice (Immortality / Resurrection). Canon-Typical Violence / Description of Wounds. Suicidal Thoughts. Implications and References to Child Death, Suicide, Self-Destructive Behavior / Self-Harm.

< PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Word Count: 8.1k (Whew. I thought about splitting this chapter, but nah)

CHAPTER 9: March 2014 - April 2014

April 5, 2014. 12:20 AM

I saved James for the 9th time on March 5, and I got to say goodbye.

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“…the 8th Annual Popcorn Festival brought about a thousand visitors from around the state. You could say that the smell of butter is quite…”

Boxes of clothes and dinnerware surrounded you as you sat on the couch. Your laptop balanced on your thighs while you did some last-minute edits on an article about a local sports event. You typed away as the news played in the background—a white noise you’d grown used to. The television was something you always left on as it made your home feel less empty; it made it easier to pretend you weren't so alone.

Sighing, you scratched out a comment in the margin before sipping your lukewarm coffee. You glanced out the window, taking in the beautiful day and wishing you were outside on a walk. But you groaned and looked back at the boxes; you quickly edited the last mistake and shut your laptop, closing your eyes before securing the next place to go to.

“…breaking news out of Washington D.C…”

You glanced at the television, noticing the sharpness in the news anchor’s voice.

“The three S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarriers that had descended into the sky are now shooting at each other just above the Potomac River…”

Your laptop fell to the carpeted floor as you lunged for the remote, quickly increasing the volume. The screen changed, and you gasped at the new footage of the destruction in the air. Two helicarriers were close to landing on the ground while the third struggled to stay in the air.

“We are receiving reports from government officials that S.H.I.E.L.D. has been compromised by HYDRA—”

Everything inside of you went cold.

You slowly stood up and inched toward the television, watching the two helicarriers finally explode into the ground, sending debris and fire in every direction. Your hands rolled into fists.

HYDRA. You hadn’t heard that name aloud in decades. They had been a menace back in the war, sprinkling blood and chaos everywhere they went, slicing through neighborhoods like they were nothing. Followers of HYDRA enjoyed hurting those who never deserved it, making an art out of torture and death, whereas you saw it as a mess.

You thought HYDRA was destroyed—it should’ve been gone—and yet, you watched as destruction unleashed itself in the sky. Rushing away from the television, you looked out of your window, seeing the aircraft in the distance. Your fists tightened as you stepped away, telling yourself that today was definitely not the day to go out and—

“Captain America is reported to be on the remaining helicarrier, fighting HYDRA operatives and—”

You gasped, stumbling back into your coffee table and collapsing to the floor. Coffee spilled all over your carpet, but you couldn’t focus on that. Your eyes were stuck on the screen, the footage blurring as the cameraman ran away from the explosions with others.

Your heart burned in a way that had never done so before.

HYDRA supposedly died during the war, but was now revealed to be alive.

James supposedly died during the war, but had come back as a killer.

James—

You didn’t bother to clean up the coffee, or change out of your sweatpants, or grab more than your wallet, phone, and keys. You locked the door behind you, shaking as you sprinted to your car.

You didn’t know if James would be there, but you knew you had to try and find the only person who ever made you feel alive.

<><><>

Your tires screeched as you slammed on your brakes, and you poked your head out of the window. Ahead of you was a large crowd, some running away from the paths to the Potomac River while others tried to push past the police and barricades to go towards it. You jumped out of your car and shoved past the panicked civilians and news reporters, running towards the wall of people when a loud explosion halted everyone’s movements.

Everyone looked up—some screamed, some cried, and you stared in silence as the last helicarrier collided into the Triskelion. It tore through the structure, causing shattered glass to rain down, and fire and smoke burst upward like a volcano. The air reeked of gas and ash, and the sky darkened. People ran away from the destruction in the distance, but you stood still, stunned by the sight.

“No… Fuck,” you muttered as your feet began to move. “No!”

You bolted to the barricades where families called out names of their loved ones, and journalists shoved cameras toward the officers who prevented anyone from going past them.

“I need to get through!” you yelled as you approached them.

But a cop stepped in your way. “Ma’am, please stay back.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m looking for someone.”

“You and half the city. Stay back!”

You shook your head, trying to move past him. “Please! I need to—”

The officer pushed you back. “I said stay back!”

You threw him a glare before storming off, rushing past the crowd to find an opening of some kind. But all you saw were officers and civilians arguing, many desperate to find their loved ones amongst the festival chaos. The words caught in your throat—there was no way they’d let you in.

Stepping back, you scanned the area, searching for a sign. There was always a sign, right? Something that led you straight to James. But you only saw those after feeling the pull on your heart—when you were destined to die in a few moments.

You clutched at your chest, your lips trembling as you continued to look. “Come on. Come on…” you whispered. “Please… Please tell me where. Where is he? Where—”

You paused.

To the far left of the crowd, past the makeshift barricades and abandoned vehicles, there was a pathway leading into the woods, untouched by any form of chaos.

No officers. No civilians. Just a path.

You ran before anyone could see your lingering stance and quickly ducked into the bushes and twigs. The path was muddy and the branches whipped past your arms, but you didn’t care. You just had to find James.

Because even if nothing pulled at your heart today, there was still so much more to him that needed to be saved.

You pushed through the dense foliage, your eyes sharp as you tried to spot any unusual movement. The faint sounds of helicopters and explosions still filled your ears, joined by the crunching of sticks and gravel underneath your feet. Then, a sound broke the rhythm of your movements—men whispering and shuffling through the underbrush.

You slid to a halt, bracing yourself on a tree as you cursed under your breath. Of course, there would be police around here, keeping track of random things amidst the chaos. You quickly turned, ready to run the other way, when suddenly a man in all black stumbled out of the bushes with a groan.

You froze, meeting the gaze of the man, strapped with a bullet vest and an assault rifle. He stared at you, matching your level of surprise while a couple of more men joined him.

One of the men hissed, “We just need to find the Asset and he can take us to…”

They all stopped at the sight of you, caught in broad daylight as traitors to the nation. Your heart dropped. These men weren’t officers. They weren’t good. They were—

The panic shot through you like a bullet, and you were already running before your brain could process your reaction.

“Stop her!”

Branches tore at your skin and leaves decorated your clothes and hair as you shoved the foliage out of the way. The sound of multiple footsteps grew closer, but you didn’t dare to look behind you. You pushed yourself, your feet pounding on the ground and your breath hitching.

You couldn’t die. Not now—not until you found James and—

Searing pain sliced through your arm as a gunshot echoed. Your knees buckled as you shrieked, rolling onto the sticks and gravel. A strangled cry escaped your throat as you frantically clutched your upper arm, where a bullet had grazed your skin. It wasn't a deep wound, but it still seeped in blood. You tried to push yourself up, but your hand slipped on the dirt as pain shot up your arm again. You flipped onto your back, trembling with tears in your eyes as the men surrounded you.

One of them cursed before turning to another. “You idiot! You might've alerted the police!”

“She was going to get away!” The man snapped back, swinging his gun onto his back and pulling out a knife.

You yelped, raising your hands. “I don’t know what’s happening,” you gasped, your voice quivering. “I didn’t see anything, I swear. I—”

The man didn’t flinch. He only looked down at you, expression hardening.

“No witnesses,” he said, voice low and chilling.

Your heart raced, your body desperate to scramble away, but the men were all around you. You hissed when another wave of pain ripped through your arm, forcing you to grip the wound while the man approached you.

Death was never your friend, but also never your enemy. It was just an entity that you offered your hand to—to whisk you away for a few weeks while someone else continued with their life. It always just lingered by your side, and you let it stay and take you whenever it wanted.

You were fine with it…until now. No, you couldn't die until you found James or knew he was okay. You had to know.

“Please don't,” you whispered to the man, who stood over you. “Please…”

But the man only grumbled, and your heart dropped knowing he wasn’t going to change his mind. You sighed, closing your eyes as he raised his knife over you.

It wasn't your first time dying without saving someone, but it didn't make it hurt less.

You waited for the knife, but a gunshot echoed instead.

Your eyes shot open as the man collapsed next to you, his eyes wide as blood streamed from a hole in his forehead. You scrambled away, looking at the other men who were all startled by a sudden presence. When you followed their gaze, your heart soared as another gunshot rang, making another man fall to the ground.

“Soldier!” One of them shouted, raising his weapon. “What are you—”

He choked on his words when a fist slammed into his skull, sending him to the floor while two more men got shot in the head. Your heart pounded as the remaining men scrambled, trying to pull on their puppet’s strings, but none of them realized that you were the blade that sliced through them.

James’s movements were graceful as always, with no mercy on his face as he attacked each man.

A gunshot to the forehead.

A knife in the chest.

A snapped neck.

All for you.

Eventually, everyone was quiet except for James.

Ragged breaths left his throat as he dropped his arms, his right limb hanging awkwardly as his shoulder throbbed. He scanned the area briefly, checking for any sign of life, until his gaze landed on you.

There was no pause. No moment where James looked at you blankly. No second for his face to flicker—to show that he recognized you.

Because he already had his hand raised out for you. “Rose…”

You briefly froze when he stumbled towards you, his feet unstable. He swayed, but you quickly scrambled towards him as he fell onto his knees, and you wrapped your arms around him.

You weren’t expecting him to wrap his arms around you as well.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply as you held him closer, your eyes still wide from his reaction. It was as if all of the years between you and him had never vanished this time—locked in place and granted a visit when you both needed them. The man who brutally murdered all of the HYDRA agents was gone.

It was James Barnes who softly breathed in your arms.

You slowly pulled away, and you both found each other’s eyes.

Oh, those frost-blue eyes were always your favorite, weren’t they?

You took in his face, examining the minor cuts and blood smears, and breaking over the exhaustion underneath his eyelids. The scars on his temples were back again—fresh as if he had been wiped only a day ago. And yet, he looked at you as the one memory that survived.

Before you could speak, James suddenly moved away, crawling towards one of the dead bodies and ripping off their sleeve. You blinked as he returned to you, carefully wrapping the cloth around your gash. You winced when he tightened the knot, but then looked at him again as he kept his attention on your arm, almost as if you were made of porcelain.

Slowly, you reached for his hand, catching his gaze. “Do you remember me?” you whispered, still shocked by his gentle movements.

He stared at you, his presence quiet—not in the usual way of being stealthy to attack someone, but as if he valued every second he got to simply look at you. His gaze sent a wave of ache through your chest, and he gently brushed his fingers against your wrist, making sure you were real.

His voice was quiet—hoarse—but so certain. “I can’t forget you.”

Something skipped in your heart.

As his words sank into the deepest parts of you, you instinctively cradled his cheek, rough with stubble and sprinkled with pain. James stared back at you, his gaze heavy as he remembered the last time he saw you—when you sprinted away with a bomb against your chest.

But there you were now, breathing in front of him.

James shut his eyes, gently leaning into your touch as he grabbed your wrist, his warmth making you shiver. The feelings you’d denied—the ones you’d fought against for so long—filled in the cracks of your damaged heart. After getting your heart tugged at over, and over, and over again, it seemed that only James could mend it back together.

You quietly exhaled, your gaze drifting around as you finally took in how battered he looked. You grimaced and squeezed his arm with your other hand. “James… What happened to you?”

“Fought Steve.” His voice was so quiet.

You paused, looking back at him with a twist in your stomach. “Captain America?”

He nodded, his eyes aiming downward. “I failed my mission.”

“Oh, James… No. No, no, no…” you softly said, shaking your head. “You don’t need to go on those missions anymore, James… No more. It’s over now.”

He didn’t respond, keeping his gaze away from you. But you brought your other hand to his cheek, cupping his face and leading him to meet your eyes again.

He froze.

Since the day you two met in Brooklyn, you had saved him from the deadliest of attacks—explosions, stab wounds, gunshots, poison. For nearly eighty years, it had always been about survival and sorrow. But now, in this quiet moment...he saw something he had never seen before.

You smiled, wiping away the blood that escaped the cut just above his cheek. “You’re free. James, you’re free,” you quietly said.

It was his turn for words to sink into his heart—his cold, yet burning heart. His lips suddenly trembled as his eyes went wide, slightly darting around as his fractured mind tried to process what you said. You only cupped his face, still being gentle but firm.

Though it sounded strained, you gave him a laugh for the first time. “James…you’re free.”

The sound of your laughter made his heart beat faster.

And your smile?

Wow. It was beautiful.

Without thinking, James raised his hand towards the lower part of your cheek, his thumb near the corner of your lip as if he were protecting your smile. When his fingers brushed your skin, your breath hitched, but not because you were afraid—no, you weren't afraid of James. Deep down, you always knew he had this affectionate side; despite being trained to kill, he was always someone who could touch without taking.

And it took someone like you for that side to come out.

You leaned into the touch, your heart leaping in a manner you were still hesitant to name. There were these three words that you both wanted to say, but for now, the silence felt right—to be able to gaze into each other’s eyes was enough. James softly exhaled before leaning forward, resting his forehead on yours.

And you let him. After losing so much to allow others to gain happiness, you allowed yourself to have this one thing.

You allowed yourself to have James.

You leaned too, closing your eyes as you both appreciated each other’s warmth. After a moment, the nearby sirens began to grow louder. You slowly pulled away, looking up at the sky to see helicopters flying around. Your palms slipped away from James’s face but quickly found themselves in his hands. He watched you as you squeezed his hands.

“We have to go,” you said, your voice soft yet hurried.

James blinked, his eyebrows furrowing. “…We?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, nodding your head. “We. Let’s go.” You let out another laugh. “Let’s go, James.”

Without waiting for a response, you grabbed his metal hand and pulled him up alongside you. You didn’t see the faint smile that James had at your words when you began to run. You both weaved through bushes and branches as you guided him back to where you came from.

But you quickly faltered when you heard people, more than before. James then squeezed your hand and gestured to the side, and you two ran off once again. You were unsure if the police knew who James was—if they knew he was a threat—but you couldn’t risk it. You still carried the weight of almost losing him once, and you wouldn’t let it happen again.

As you both pushed through the foliage, buildings began to appear in your view. When you reached the street, you carefully looked around to spot any bystanders before pulling him in between the buildings. The sounds of people began to grow louder as you navigated the alleyways, cautious of running into anyone.

James didn’t let go of your hand once.

“My car is nearby,” you said, rounding the corner of another building. “I can go and come get you and—”

You froze when a young cop suddenly walked into view, his hand trained on his gun and the other on his radio. He caught sight of you two before you could drag James back, and you instinctively stood in front of him.

James still didn’t let go of your hand.

“S-Stop right there!” the cop shouted with his gun raised at you, and it hit you that the cop was new—just a nervous, young man donning a slightly wrinkled uniform, fresh on the job and finally on a call without his training officer.

You gulped, not daring to take a step as the cop’s eyes flickered between you and James. The glint of silver sent tremors through the man’s body, and he clicked his radio on.

“The Winter Soldier is here—he matches Agent Romanoff’s description.”

You widened your eyes, trying to take a step forward. “No—”

But James pulled you back close to him, making sure you weren't too far away. Your breath hitched as the cop lowered his radio, staring at you two with his gun still raised. You squeezed James’s hand, unable to look back to see his expression as you kept your gaze on the cop.

You lightly shook your head. “Sir…”

“Ma’am, step away from him.” He placed both hands on his weapon, though you could see him slightly tremble.

“No, he’s not dangerous,” you tried to argue. “He’s not going to hurt anyone, I swear—”

“I need you to step away from him,” he firmly said.

“No, I can’t. Please, listen to me. He’s not dangerous.”

The cop shook his head, his voice quivering. “I’m just doing my job, ma’am. Step away.”

“I can’t—”

“Step away!”

You flinched, James’s grip tightening around your hand. Taking a deep breath, you acknowledged your beating heart. You always waited for the curse to notify you of your upcoming death, but right now, you didn't need it to. You already knew. You were already saying yes.

This moment just felt like a goodbye.

You took a slow, grounding breath and looked at the officer, hoping that things could maybe change despite your intuitions. “You don’t have to do this,” you gently said, slowly taking a step back. “Please. Let us go.”

The cop’s expression turned conflicted, but only for a brief moment. “Ma’am, step away from the soldier.”

You took another step back but paused.

James had let go of your hand.

The cop took a step forward, ignoring the incoming calls on his radio as he stayed trained on you. “I’m warning you! Stay still!”

Looking up, you turned your attention back to the cop, your eyes now shimmering with threatening tears. “I can’t.”

You welcomed the tug on your heart as you quickly turned, trying to grab James to run away with him when a gunshot rang out. The sound was much louder than you expected, ringing in your ears as your knees gave out. You fell into James’s chest as he had already wrapped his metal arm around you—his hand on your head—and you waited to bleed out and vanish once again. Except…you opened your eyes with terror because…

Nothing tugged at your heart.

Slowly, you turned your head around and found the cop on the ground, quiet and still as blood ran from his forehead. You choked on your breath—an innocent man who was just doing his job was now dead. Before you could lose yourself in the brutal sight, James guided your face back to him. Your eyes instantly widened at his gun raised, and you looked up at him.

James stared down at you with a softened gaze, letting out a quiet breath, relieved you were okay, and lowered his gun. His metal arm continued to firmly lock you in place, and when you tried to look back at the cop again, he gently cradled your face with his metal hand.

“Don’t,” he whispered, making you look at him again.

Then you smelled it. Something burnt and sharp attacked your nose, and you grimaced away from his hand. You glanced at it and faltered when you noticed the circular, burnt hole on the back of his glove. You immediately grabbed his palm, examining the hole as it clicked that his hand had been on your head when the cop shot at you.

You didn’t feel the tug on your heart because it wasn’t time to die yet.

And you still hoped that you wouldn’t today.

The hole caused a tear so wide that the glove was barely intact, encouraging you to just rip it off. The crackle of the cop’s radio grew more urgent, and you squeezed your eyes shut, silently apologizing to the young man who didn’t have to lose his life.

You then reached for James’s arm, blinking the unshed tears away before looking at him again. “Let’s go.”

He nodded, grabbing your hand before you two ran through the alleyways once again. The streets around you were still loud with chaos, sirens screaming and people shouting, and the noise was only getting worse as you neared your car. When you turned around the corner, you managed to jump back quickly enough to avoid getting spotted by a man who was gathering his family out of the back door of his store. You peeked at them running away, leaving the door ajar. Immediately, you pulled James with you towards the store.

You yanked James into the building, slamming the exit shut before locking it. A heavy breath escaped your lips as you marched further into the small clothing store, the lights off and the neon-open sign no longer shining. Racks of discounted clothes made the store cramped, while the crinkled, loose receipts and plastic lighter on the countertop somehow made the place look a bit more lively.

Quickly, you weaved through the aisles to the front of the store until your heart clenched at the sight outside. The streets were in absolute shambles; there were swarms of police officers—some helping people and some looking for James—pushing past panicking citizens and festival attendees. Everyone was navigating their way through abandoned cars that clogged the streets, and you cursed under your breath, realizing that your car must also be trapped.

You backed away from the windows, biting your lips as you tried to think of a solution. You turned around, walking past James, who watched you with such sternness as you glanced at the clothes.

Maybe you both could hide in the store until fewer people were around. Maybe you could throw civilian clothes on him and sneak him away. Or, maybe you could—

Something tugged at your heart.

Chills shot up your body as your eyes immediately began to well with tears.

Of course.

Of course, you couldn’t have this.

Shame on you for believing you could live for once.

Your breath shuddered, and you looked to your side to see what the world had planned for your next sacrifice—

Something tugged at your arms.

You flinched as you looked up at James, feeling the desperation in his grasp while he stared at you with absolute horror. “Don’t.”

You froze. After seeing that look on your face so many times, James could no longer stand still when he knew you were about to die.

You shook your head. “James—”

“Don’t leave me,” he quickly said, gripping your arms tighter. “Don’t.”

“I…”

The words in your throat trailed off when you gazed past him, spotting through the windows an abandoned truck among the vehicles. The back of the truck was slightly opened, just enough for a person to squeeze in, and the side was painted with lighthearted imagery—of children and their parents smiling at the sky, decorated with the colorful rays of fireworks.

Fireworks.

You glanced at the countertop, where the lighter was calling for you.

James squeezed your arms, bringing your attention back to him. But when he saw your eyes, his breath hitched. You had already made your choice.

You gently pulled away, your eyes dark with acceptance as you whispered, “You need a distraction.”

You turned to the countertop, stepping towards it when James suddenly lunged, snatching the lighter with his metal hand. You gaped at his speed, and within a second, the two of you stared at each other. When you glanced at the lighter, you exhaled, your eyebrows loosening as you looked at him without an ounce of panic.

“James,” you held your hand out, palm facing towards the ceiling, “give it to me.”

“No,” he hissed, his eyes already starting to water—his humanity completely breaking out. “No, I won’t. I—”

When he went to squeeze the lighter into pieces, you quickly shook your head. “Don’t,” you softly begged, tears blurring your vision before his tears even fully fell. “Please…give it to me.”

“No.”

“James—”

“You said we.” He choked on his breath, his lips trembling with distress. “You said—”

“I know,” you interrupted, your voice cracking as tears finally ran down your face. “I know what I said, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You took a sharp breath while your shoulders bobbed, unable to ignore the pain within your chest. “I’m so sorry, but I need you to give me the lighter.”

James bit his lip as a teardrop rolled down his cheek. “Rose, please…”

“James, listen to me.” You quickly walked up to him, and he raised his hand higher, believing you were trying to take the lighter from him. But instead, you grabbed his shoulders and forced out a smile. “I’ll distract them, okay? I’ll distract them and you’ll run.”

“No—”

“You’ll run,” you repeated, your smile becoming bigger with both hope and despair. “You’re gonna get out of here, and—and you’re gonna live.”

James faltered, clenching his jaw hard to prevent any more tears from escaping his eyes. “Don’t leave me,” he croaked.

Your hands were trembling. God, they were trembling so much, but you still cradled his face as more tears streamed down your cheeks. “I have to. I have to protect you.”

He gripped your arm with his free hand. “Rose—”

“You need to get out of here before they find you, okay?” You smiled, swiping away his damp hair from his frost-blue eyes. “I’ll distract them. I’ll get them off your back, and you just run. You run as far away as you can.”

James’s face twisted as if a part of him was being torn apart. He dealt with pain before—accepted it, even. Bullet wounds, knife scars, broken bones, electricity burning into his skull—he had endured them all. But nothing had ever hurt like this.

Without realizing it, he lowered his metal hand, though his grip around the lighter was still firm. Then he whispered, his voice laced with desperation, “Come with me.”

You wanted to. You dreamed of running away and building a life with him as normal as it could be. And it was astonishing that after everything—after showing James just how broken you were and how often you could get broken—he still wanted you.

You wanted him too, but the world was never fair to you.

“I can’t,” you rasped, your voice barely holding together.

“Why?”

“You know why. We’ve done this before. We—” You swallowed back the weight lurking in your chest. “We both know what happens if we try to stop this. So, please...”

Then you pulled away from him, quickly moving through the racks and yanking off clothes as you knew you were running out of time. A dark, worn-out jacket and a baseball cap to match it made their way into your grasp, later joined by a pair of gloves. James watched you gather these clothes, just big enough to fit him, and he didn’t move until you returned to him. You smiled through the tears, trying to look strong for him as you set down the hat and gloves on the countertop.

“Here…” You swiftly, yet also so lovingly, threw the jacket around him.

James should’ve resisted—he should’ve pushed the jacket away—but instead, he shut his eyes. His tears finally spilled down freely while he let you pull the sleeves over his arms, then tucked his head for you to adjust the cap. He should’ve fought, but he also knew you were right. He couldn’t stop you from dying.

But when you tried to put gloves on him, he still didn’t let go of the lighter.

Because, yes, he knew he couldn’t stop you from dying, but why would anyone be willing to let it happen?

James kept his gaze on the floor, unable to look at you as you held onto his metal hand, gently trying to pry his fingers off. When they wouldn’t budge, you choked on your breath again. Much to his dismay, you tilted your head downwards so he had to look at your face. Your smile was back, decorated with tears and so much warmth. James straightened up again as you squeezed his hand.

“It’s okay,” you softly said with a tremor in your voice, but he turned his head again with his eyes closed. He couldn’t accept this. He just couldn’t.

The hopelessness in James reminded you of yourself—of all those years waiting for a sense of relief, whether it’d stem from truly living or truly dying. You hate feeling hopeless, so you did your best to never have hope in the first place.

But now? You couldn’t help it. Seeing that James was so close to being free, you had to hold onto some because having hope for life was the only way for him to live again. So you broke into another rhythm of sobs, smiling as you guided his head back so he could gaze at you again.

His frost-blue eyes went wide, full of disbelief as you reached behind your neck and pulled the chain free. You had only ever taken off your necklace when necessary—to preserve its quality, not for anyone but yourself. It had some discoloration, and the chain should be replaced again, but it still held the same love your brother had for you when he surprised you with the locket more than a hundred years ago, when you were drowning in grief.

There was never a reason to let go of it, but now you stood with the locket dangling over James’s metal hand.

“Here,” you broke into another smile, “take it. Keep it safe for me.”

He hesitated.

There had been moments in which James wanted to take your locket—to have something to remember you by when he went back to prison. But as a soon-to-be free man, he didn’t need it. He didn’t want the locket—he wanted you. You were all he ever wanted, but he also couldn’t reject anything you offered.

You'd given up so much for him, so the least he could do was to accept it, right?

Slowly, James loosened his grip, revealing the lighter, and you took it. You shoved it into your pocket while placing the necklace in his palm.

When you let go of the locket, your heart ached with both sorrow and joy. Then, when you looked at his face, your heart only ached more because he stared at the locket like it was the most fragile thing in the world. Somehow, despite the loss you felt, a wet laugh escaped your throat. Before he could say anything, you reached for the necklace again and leaned closer.

James didn’t dare to move a muscle as you fastened the chain around his neck, feeling your fingers trail on his skin—terrified that this could be his last chance to feel you this close. When the chain was fastened, you cradled the locket, opening it and reading the name that, as always, stayed so dear to your heart. With a broken smile, you let the locket fall out of your hand, watching it rest near James’s heart.

It could stay dear to his now.

Maybe it already was.

You then grabbed the pair of gloves, quickly slipping one onto his metal hand. Then you reached for his right hand—

He grabbed your wrist.

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes again as he moved his hand to your cheek, cupping it—wanting to feel the warmth of your skin before the glove went on. Gloom overtook his expression as he memorized every detail of your face, and your breath hitched. More tears began to fill your eyes, and without thinking, you yanked him into a hug.

A simple hug. Who knew it was so difficult to get one?

Time was running out, but you both counted every second in each other’s embrace. For once, you both didn’t hold each other because one of you was dying—because one of you had blood running down your body, needing comfort as you tried to breathe through the pain.

No. You just hugged each other.

You rested your chin on his shoulder. “Everything will be okay,” you quietly said, and James could hear your smile.

He only held you tighter, desperately wanting to hold on forever, but he learned a long time ago that forever wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be normal. After all, he lived for what felt like forever, and it had just been full of pain, suffering, and violence.

The only thing that ever kept him human was currently in his arms.

It was a big ask—to leave you to die once again. Every time, James wanted to fight to save you, but he knew this was what you wanted—that this was what it had to be.

Yes, it was a big ask, but there was nothing in the world that he wouldn’t do for you.

So, he slowly pulled away, looking into your eyes once again. His frost-blue eyes were always your favorite, but your eyes were also his; a grounding presence that made him feel so alive after decades of being lifeless. He wanted to stare into your eyes forever, but again, forever couldn’t happen.

You cradled his face one last time, and you smiled so wide that maybe it hurt a little bit more than everything you felt inside your chest, your stomach, and your heart.

“I’ll be okay,” you softly reassured him, but even you didn’t know if that was going to be the truth.

Finally, you took his right hand and put the glove on it. You took one last look at the locket on his chest before zipping up his jacket, hiding his dark uniform and the soldier he was trained to be. Your hand lingered on his chest, right over his heart, then you stepped away.

With a deep breath, you slowly walked to the front and paused when you watched the unraveling chaos in the streets once again. James kept his eyes on you, and then he followed your gaze. His stomach twisted when he spotted the truck, now realizing why you’d needed the lighter all along.

Every part of him wanted to grab you again, telling you not to go into the truck—that you didn’t have to set off the fireworks. You could run away with him right now, but he knew that the world wouldn’t allow it. You turned around again and you faced him, and acceptance with all he saw in your eyes,

You smiled again. He didn’t realize how much he loved seeing it, and he hoped he could see it again in the future.

“I’ll see you around, James,” you said with a tearful grin.

When you went to turn around again, James's murmur stopped you in your tracks. You looked back at him, confused, until he repeated himself.

“Bucky…” He bit his lips, nervous to even say that name. “I think I’m Bucky.”

You gazed at him with astonishment, and you let out a laugh—it sounded strangled, choked by the sheer swell of emotion inside you.

“Yeah, you are,” you said, wiping away the tears even though you knew more would come. “Go and find out who Bucky is, okay? Go…live.”

He stared at you, hands curling into fists, and let out a strained breath. “Will I see you again?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you took a moment to fully look at him one last time, then you slowly nodded.

“Only when you need me,” you replied with a curl to your lips.

Then you turned around, unable to linger any longer. You stepped in front of the door, deeply exhaling as you felt James’s gaze on your back. Finally, when you stepped out of the front door, James stepped out of the back door, and the two of you went your separate ways despite wanting to hold each other again.

The streets were still in chaos, but none of that bothered you. Silently, you walked towards the truck, not paying attention to any of the people running past you. Civilians and officers paid no attention to you, and you wondered if this was the world’s doing—letting you walk towards your death.

It was fine. It was all to save James.

No one stopped you from climbing into the truck, and when you stood up straight, you couldn't help but sigh. Boxes and fireworks filled your view, all cramped inside the warm vehicle, ready to bring joy to others.

But that was their purpose at this moment.

You climbed towards the middle, ripped open a box, and gathered numerous fuses into your palm before pulling out the lighter. For a moment, you heard nothing. Your mind tuned out the shouting outside—it was just you and the fireworks.

A bitter laugh escaped your throat. “You love to fucking blow me up, don’t you?” you said, shaking your head at the fuses in your hand. Then you sadly smiled, letting out a soft breath. “Whatever. Just make sure he gets away. That's all I ask.”

You lit the fuses and let go, watching multiple trails of fire make their way toward the gunpowder cases.

“Let him escape,” you quietly begged, and you closed your eyes.

Through your eyelids, you could still see the bright colors, but the beauty only lasted for a second before you felt heat sear your skin and hair. You collapsed, letting the fireworks engulf you as they had no room to spread out.

The heat became overwhelming quickly, and you didn’t know if you were still breathing when the truck exploded.

Maybe some of the other cars also exploded. Maybe some people got hurt.

At this point, you couldn’t give a shit.

You only cared that James made it out.

<><><>

April 5, 2014. 12:20 AM

I saved James for the 9th time on March 5, and I got to say goodbye.

I think you like to see me die in an explosion because that’s the third time it’s happened with James — I don't know how many total in general. For a moment, I really thought you were going to let me go with him. Let me take him home where we can have something together. But no, you just had to make sure I didn’t get that.

When I saw James, he was already himself. He didn’t just exist behind his eyes — I saw him in his face, in his body. He wasn’t whole — he’s still made up of different pieces, but he was still there. And unlike last time, he called me Rose without an ounce of hesitation. He reached for me too — hugged me for the first time without death coming for us at that moment.

Maybe fighting Steve unlocked the part of his mind that was locked up by HYDRA. Whatever it was, he actually remembered me. Not recognized — he remembered.

I didn’t even know if he was going to be out there when I saw what was happening on the news. I had my suspicions, but nothing was certain, so I was so fucking happy when he found me.

When he did, he protected me — killed every one of those men before they had a chance to hurt me again. He looked so guilty when he saw my wound. I was always the one to save him, but I felt then that he was trying to save me too.

I thought we could go home together. Can you imagine that? The Winter Soldier in my living room, sitting on my couch and watching TV, maybe drinking a cup of tea. What an image. I'd love to see that.

But of course, you had to send me away.

He didn't want me to leave. He held onto me like a lost puppy, but I couldn’t stay. I could never stay, so I told him to run and find out more about himself. He touched my arm, my hand, and my face like it was the last time he could.

He really didn't want me to die, so I did the unthinkable — I gave him my locket. I never thought I'd meet someone worthy enough to carry my locket until now. James can protect Rose whenever he goes now, hopefully thinking of me when times get hard.

And then he called himself Bucky. He remembered his nickname. It’s cute. Really cute.

I checked the news when I woke up, even though my body burned like hell — it felt like I got sunburned 20 times. They didn’t find James.

Thank fuck.

The truck caused quite the explosion — there’s a reason why you don’t light up fireworks in a small space. A few people got hurt, but no one died. Except me, but no one ever knows that.

There's not a single trace of James — the police tried to find him, but without the proper resources or SHIELD, there’s no way to find him for now. Good. He deserves to live a little.

I wish for James Bucky James to have a good life.

You know, I never had a reason to thank you. You fucked up my life a lot — stopped me from being with my friends and family and James — so really, you don't deserve my appreciation at all. But thank you for letting me save him. I know it's mainly me who has to do it, but I can't help but think you led me to him this time. Gave me a little bit of time with him before I had to go.

He’s free now. He's free.

I know we were running out of time again, but for once we had enough time to say goodbye. Maybe next time, we’ll have some time to say hello too.

I’ll see him again. I’ll give him another hug and a smile and maybe that time, we don’t have to rush at all. We can just hold each other because we can.

I'd love to do that. He gives really good hugs.

You closed the journal and set it aside. With a soft breath, you pulled your covers up and got comfortable. You closed your eyes, letting yourself go to sleep.

<><><>

April 5, 2014. 6:05 AM

I couldn’t fall asleep, so here I am again.

A lot happened on March 5, but it's not all the action that's keeping me awake.

I keep on thinking about the way he held onto me. Like I said, he gives really good hugs, although I doubt he's given a lot of them as the Winter Soldier. But that's just proof that James was always there.

There are these feelings that I always tried to push away whenever I see him or even think about him, but when he held me that day — cradled my face and put his forehead on mine as he cried for me again, I couldn’t stop those feelings. I didn't want to if anything.

I’ve been alive for over 100 years, and over time I just learned that it was easier to live when I didn’t have anyone to care about. The more I care, the more it hurts when I lose someone. So I tried to lose connections — to be alone as much as I could.

But, James… James is different. There’s no one like him — quite literally because I don’t know anyone else who has lived alongside me, never growing old and forced to be a ghost. And despite trying so hard not to, I grew to care about him.

And then that care became something more. Something scarier, but also so...relieving and...

Exciting.

I never wanted to say it aloud, or write it down, or even think about it, even though I felt this way for decades. It's too scary to admit the truth. But after spending over 100 years pretending to be someone else — unable to be honest and connect with people — I just can’t bring myself to lie about this anymore.

I’m in

I’m

I’m in

I’m in love.

You paused.

Then something strange happened. Your shoulders shook—not with fear, but with something so unexpected that it startled you.

You laughed, which wasn't new.

But at that moment, you laughed from being in love.

You were in love.

At first, you were quiet, but as more laughter escaped your throat, you became louder. Your laughs bubbled and filled your heart with a particular kind of warmth that you hadn’t felt in over a century. Your eyes released all the tears you were holding back, but you didn’t mind at all. They weren't made from sorrow, and you tilted your head back to let them fall.

You didn't remember the last time you felt like this, and yet you felt right at home as you wrote down those three words again.

I’m in love.

You laughed harder and your hand trembled, but you continued to write.

I’m in love.

I'm in love.

I’m in love wi

You pressed your journal against your chest, refusing to wipe your tears away as they were signs of your release. Then, with the widest smile you ever had, you opened the journal again, and finally allowed yourself to write down the full truth.

I’m in love with James Bucky Barnes.

I love James Bucky Barnes.

James, I love you.

NEXT CHAPTER >

AN: I decided to make a banner for this story and put it on every chapter just so that it's easier to spot :)

General Taglist! @a-century-of-sass @clemicious @fallenxjas @paryl @frog-fans-unite @sebastians-love @buckvoidsyy @recorddust @nj01 @avengersgirllorianna @western-nightss @chonkybonky @weasleyswheezeys

Thanks for reading :)

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel #winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x y/n #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #ca:tfa #ca:tws #ca:cw #tfatws

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salmonballsss · 2 days ago

Text

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 11)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word Count: 12k

Warnings: Blood, Drinking.

You pushed yourself off the couch and followed after her, finding Agatha already halfway through pulling things out for dinner. A loaf of bread thudded onto the counter, a block of cheese, a can of tomato soup spinning once before she caught it lazily with one hand.

You hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a second. Watching her. It wasn’t fair, the way she made even rummaging through a pantry look good. “What?” she said without looking up. “Afraid you’ll catch something if you step into the kitchen?"

You scoffed and crossed your arms. "Just wondering when you became so domestic. Should I be expecting a pie next?"

Agatha finally glanced over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You’re lucky you’re injured," she said dryly, "or I’d make you churn the butter by hand."

You snorted and stepped into the kitchen fully, leaning your hip against the counter. "Churn the butter? What are you, ninety?"

Agatha gave a small, mock gasp and clutched the can of soup to her chest dramatically. "You wound me," she said, flashing you a look over the rim of her glasses. The worst part was—she almost pulled it off. She almost made you feel bad.

Almost.

You tilted your head, giving her your best unimpressed stare. "Oh, please. You’re fine. Besides..." you added, grinning a little, "if you can survive my ‘stupid old ghost towns and witch obsession,’ I think you can survive a little sass."

Agatha quirked an eyebrow at you, setting the can down with a soft thunk . "You know," she said, voice lilting just enough to be dangerous, "you were smiling pretty hard when you were talking to Billy."

You froze for half a second. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

"And yet," Agatha continued, casually pulling a knife from the drawer and starting to slice the bread, "you never smile like that for me."

You blinked. Actually blinked. Did she just—? "You’re pouting," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Agatha’s slicing slowed for a fraction of a second. She glanced sideways at you, her mouth pressed into a line that might, maybe, almost have been a tiny little pout.

"I am not pouting," she said flatly.

You grinned, chest warming in a way that had nothing to do with the fact the stove was now on. "You totally are. Don’t worry. It's cute."

Agatha scoffed, tossing a slice of bread onto the pan with a little more force than necessary. "Cute," she muttered. "If I’d known surviving a hellbeast just meant getting mocked in my own house, I would’ve left you to bleed out."

You just shrugged, the sass coming easier now than it ever had before. "Well," you said, lifting a brow, "maybe if you were actually funny, I’d smile more."

Agatha set the knife down slowly, then turned to face you fully, leaning back against the counter with her arms folded. She gave you a long, slow once over—head to toe—like she was deciding exactly how much she was going to make you pay for that.

You stared right back, refusing to be the first one to break.

For a second, you were sure she was about to launch some scathing, perfectly delivered comeback that would make you regret ever opening your mouth.

Instead Her lips twitched. And she smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a grin.

A smile.

Soft. Real.

And way, way worse. Your stomach flipped traitorously. "You’re getting cocky," Agatha said, pushing herself off the counter and turning back to the stove.

You shrugged again, heart hammering a little too hard. "Someone’s gotta keep you humble."

Agatha chuckled low under her breath, flipping the sandwich expertly in the pan. "Careful, sweetheart," she said. "You keep talking like that, I might actually start to like you."

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was a strangled sort of ha, which only made her laugh harder.

You turned your attention to the soup simmering quietly on the stove, trying very hard not to combust on the spot.

Maybe you were injured. Maybe you had black veins crawling across your side. Maybe you were stuck in a house with a woman who made your stomach do backflips with a single look.

But at least, for tonight, it felt like you might survive it. Maybe. If you were lucky.

You tried to ignore the fluttering in your chest, instead focusing on the pot of soup that had been bubbling away for far too long. You couldn’t let her get under your skin—not now, not when she was standing there looking like she was plotting some devilish move, a smirk playing on her lips as she turned the sandwich once more.

"What's the matter?" Agatha’s voice cut through the air again, a teasing lilt that made you tense up. "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just enjoying the view?" She gave you a sidelong glance, her eyes twinkling with the mischievous glint that had become all too familiar.

You couldn’t help it—you smirked, folding your arms across your chest as you leaned against the counter. "You really think you’re that charming, huh?"

Agatha’s eyebrow arched in an exaggerated fashion, her gaze sweeping over you. "I don't think it, darling. I know it."

You rolled your eyes, playing it off like it didn’t affect you. "Please. The last time I checked, you were just making sandwiches."

“Making sandwiches?” Agatha's voice went all offended as she flipped the sandwich once again, the crispy edges beginning to darken to perfection. "Excuse me, but I do believe this is more than a sandwich. This is a masterpiece."

You raised an eyebrow. "A masterpiece? It’s bread and some cheese."

She smirked, spinning around to face you fully now, her hands resting on the edge of the counter. "Don’t knock my culinary skills."

"Oh, I’m sure it’s delicious, " you teased, the corner of your lips twitching upward. "But are you sure you’re the one who’s cooking it? I’m starting to think you summoned a demon for this meal. Maybe that’s why it’s so… perfect ."

Agatha’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the smile never left her face. "You really are something else, aren’t you?" Her voice was low now, like she was both amused and intrigued. "Maybe you should be careful. I don’t like it when people test my patience."

You leaned in, lowering your voice to match hers, though there was a playful spark in your eye. "What are you going to do? Cast a spell on me?"

"Is that a challenge?" Agatha's lips curled in that dangerous little smirk, the one that made your stomach flip every time she did it.

You held her gaze for a beat longer than you intended, the words on your tongue slipping out before you could stop them. "Maybe I’d like to see what kind of spell you’d cast."

Her eyes darkened, just the slightest flicker of something dangerous dancing behind them. For a second, the tension between the two of you thickened, as if the air was electric with unsaid words. But then, in a blink, it was gone. Agatha broke the stare with a chuckle, turning back to the stove.

"Perhaps another time," she said, not missing a beat. "Now, go sit down. You’re distracting me."

You fought the urge to grin like an idiot, instead choosing to play it cool, even if every nerve in your body was buzzing. "Fine," you muttered, crossing the kitchen to the dining room table. It was hard to ignore how her gaze followed you for a fraction of a second, but you did your best.

You took a seat, eyes flicking between Agatha and the food, your thoughts still swirling with that last moment of tension.

Agatha joined you moments later, placing the perfectly grilled sandwiches on the table along with a steaming bowl of soup. The scent hit your senses like a wall—earthy, warm, and, for some reason, comforting. She sat across from you with a satisfied look on her face as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Go ahead," she said, her tone nonchalant. "You were so eager to test my culinary prowess. It’s only fair you get to taste it first."

You didn’t need to be told twice. The smell was too enticing, and your stomach growled as you picked up your sandwich, taking a cautious bite.

The crunch was perfect. The cheese—melty and sharp. The bread—golden and crispy. You could feel your eyes close in pleasure at the first taste, and you couldn’t stop the hum of approval that slipped from your lips.

"Okay," you admitted, grinning despite yourself. "I’ll give it to you. This is actually really good."

Agatha leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, her smug expression returning. "I told you." Her gaze dropped to your half finished sandwich as you continued eating, and her voice dropped, becoming teasing once more. "Now, do I have to convince you to keep complimenting me, or is that the last one you’re getting for tonight?"

You swallowed your bite, raising your eyebrows. "I’m not that easy."

"Oh, I know," she replied with a wink, her tone low and knowing. "That’s what makes it all the more fun."

The banter between you both continued, light and easy, as the meal stretched on. Agatha had a way of drawing you in, her dry wit and sharp tongue making it hard to tell where playful teasing ended and something deeper, more dangerous, began. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward; it was charged, like the kind of tension you could cut with a knife if you wanted to. But neither of you said anything more about it. Instead, the evening drifted on, filled with laughter and that soft, familiar spark of something unspoken.

And for once, it felt normal. A brief escape from the whirlwind of supernatural chaos that seemed to always follow you around lately. Just two people—sharing a meal, teasing each other over sandwiches and soup, sitting side by side in a comfortable rhythm that made you forget about everything else.

Well, almost everything. The back of your mind still couldn't shake the feeling that you were being played, that something was happening beneath the surface that you couldn't fully understand. And yet, despite it all, you couldn't stop the small part of you that wanted to stay.

That wanted to see just how far Agatha would take this.

"Don’t look at me like that," Agatha said suddenly, her voice soft but sharp all the same, pulling you out of your thoughts. "You’re looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out."

You blinked, feigning innocence. "I’m not looking at you like anything."

Her gaze didn’t falter. "Oh, but you are. Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll figure me out in time."

There it was again—the mystery, the teasing, the promise of something more.

And just like that, the playful bickering resumed, with Agatha throwing another small comment in your direction, and you tossing it right back.

The evening would end. But for now, this moment—this quiet, complicated, messy, delicious moment—was enough to let you forget that you were tangled in a web you couldn’t yet see the edges of.

---

Dinner had passed in a blur of soft clinking, low murmured insults, and the occasional dramatic sigh from you whenever Agatha corrected how you cut your grilled cheese. It had been easy. Too easy. Almost normal. Agatha had smirked through half the meal, rolled her eyes at you the other half. You’d bickered lightly. She’d teased you about your terrible posture at the table. You’d called her a tyrant for insisting you eat the crusts.

And somehow… the world outside didn’t seem to matter for a little while.

But that was hours ago.

The clock on the guest room nightstand blinked 12:13 AM in soft, unbothered red light. You rolled over under the covers, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come. Your side ached dully, but it wasn’t just that.

It was the feeling. The buzzing. The wrongness under your skin. Something was off, you could feel it like an electric charge crawling up your spine. The air in the room seemed too thick, as if it were pressing in on you from all sides. The quiet, which you once found comforting, now felt suffocating. There was a tightness in your chest, and the shadows in the room seemed darker, denser, almost as if they were breathing.

You closed your eyes tighter, forcing your breathing to even out. Maybe it was just nerves. Maybe it was the strain of the last few days catching up to you. But that was when you heard it.

A tap.

Sharp. Deliberate. A sound that sliced through the suffocating quiet.

You froze, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. You listened, straining to hear anything else, but there was nothing.

Another tap.

The sound was louder now. Thicker. It almost felt like it was coming from inside the walls.

And then, there was a third tap. No, a scrape .

Your breath caught in your throat. No. No, no—you were imagining it. You were overtired. Stressed. It was nothing. You pressed your palm flat against your chest, trying to calm your racing heartbeat.

But then— A whisper. Not outside. Inside.

It was low, crawling under the door, slipping around the edges of the walls like some dark fog. A coldness swept over you, the kind of cold that felt like it was burrowing deep into your bones.

Your heart pounded in your chest. The feeling of being watched. The sensation of eyes on you, unseen.

You bolted upright, gasping for air, the breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The tapping grew louder, faster. Scraping now. Something— dragging —across the glass. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t an animal. It was something else. Something deliberate.

You twisted in bed, eyes wide, scanning the window in the dark. And then your blood ran cold.

The vines were There. Thick, dark tendrils slowly crawled up the outside of the house, their shapes twisted and unnatural against the pale moonlight. They were visible, creeping up the sides of the house with a sinister deliberation, like they were searching for something—or someone.

No. Not the vines. Not now.

You clutched your side, feeling the black veins pulse beneath your skin, each beat like an echo of something darker, older. A tremor ran through you. The ache was getting worse, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts, but it was the vines—the whisper—that tore your focus away.

They twitched, sliding closer to the window. You could almost hear them, feel their scraping against the glass, inching toward you with a low, unnatural hiss.

Get out of here, you thought, but you couldn’t move.

Fuck this.

You couldn’t stay in this room. Not with those things outside, not with that whisper slithering around the walls.

You forced yourself to stand, your side burning with each movement. You stumbled, unsteady on your feet, and ripped open the door, slamming it behind you with more force than you intended. The hallway stretched out before you, dark and quiet as always.

You half ran, half limped across the creaky floorboards, desperate to find something, someone . You reached Agatha’s door, a wave of dread crashing over you. Your knuckles trembled as you raised your hand to knock. But then you paused.

The door was slightly ajar.

A cold shiver ran up your spine.

You nudged it open with your fingertips, stepping into the room slowly, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling.

Empty.

The bed was neatly made, untouched since the afternoon. No sign of her. No sign of anything. Just the emptiness of the room, the oppressive quiet.

Panic clenched around your chest, a tightness that made it hard to breathe. Your eyes darted around the room, searching for any hint of Agatha, anything that could explain this. But there was nothing.

And then, from somewhere deeper in the house, you heard it. The scraping sound again. Faint but distinct. Coming from the guest room. The vines.

The whispering.

Something was in the house. You could feel it, the malevolent presence of it. Your heart hammered against your ribs as your breathing quickened.

You spun around, your feet carrying you down the hall with a frantic desperation, each step echoing too loudly in the silence. Your thoughts spun in a panic as you reached the guest room door again. The whisper was louder now, rising from behind the door. It sounded like a voice— no, multiple voices , murmuring in a language you couldn’t understand.

You slowly, carefully, pushed the door open, every muscle in your body screaming at you to turn back. But you couldn’t. Not now. Not with that scraping sound dragging against your nerves.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the sliver of moon outside. And that’s when you saw it.

The vines, slick and black, crawled with deliberate malice across the walls. They twisted like living things, slow but certain in their approach, wrapping themselves around the furniture, the bedposts, the corners of the room. They weren’t just creeping —they were searching . As if they were alive and they knew exactly what they were looking for.

And the blood.

It wasn’t just leaking anymore. It was pouring .

The slow, rhythmic drip-drip-drip from the ceiling had become a cacophony, the drops thick and slow like a countdown to something awful. The blood pooled beneath you, dark and viscous, swallowing the floor, turning the wood into something unrecognizable.

You could feel it now. The air was alive with tension . You could feel something creeping up your spine, a presence—no, a force —gathering in the room. You weren’t alone. You never had been.

The whispers had stopped for a moment, but their presence lingered like a terrible weight in the room. You could hear them even though they were silent now. You could feel them. A soft brush against your mind, slithering, twisting into your thoughts, pulling at the edges of your sanity.

Come closer…

The voice called your name, but it wasn’t just one voice anymore. It was hundreds—thousands—murmuring, a choir of darkness whispering through your skin. Their breath was like ice against your ear. You could feel them— feel them —everywhere, crawling up the walls, pressing in on you.

It wasn’t just the vines. It was something in the house. Something inside you. The house knew you. And it was calling you.

A sudden, sharp screeching sound made you flinch—like the sound of nails dragged across glass, jagged and grating. You twisted around, your heart leaping into your throat.

Outside, through the window, you saw it.

A figure.

A shadow, barely visible at the edge of your vision, but it was there . You could see the outline—tall, thin, blacker than the night, standing motionless, staring through the glass at you. You couldn’t make out any details, but you felt its gaze. Like it was watching you.

It was a figure you knew, but it couldn’t be. It was just a shadow, a flickering silhouette against the dark wilderness outside. It wasn’t human.

It wasn’t human.

The wilderness beyond the window seemed to come alive, pulsing with a life of its own, reaching toward the house. The trees in the distance moved , their twisted limbs stretching, almost pointing , as if the earth itself was calling to the figure. The trees whispered with voices—low, guttural murmurs—and the wind carried their words like a song sung backward.

Your breath caught in your throat. The forest —it wasn’t just the house. It was the land. It was all part of it. The figure outside wasn’t just some person. It was a part of this place, something ancient, something that had always been here.

The trees groaned under the weight of something far darker than any storm. The shadows in the woods flickered and swayed like they were alive, their movements too quick, too unnatural. The whispering grew louder, more insistent.

Come closer…

You couldn’t take it anymore. The blood on the floor, the vines wrapping tighter, the black figure outside. Your heart raced, pounding so hard in your chest you thought it would crack your ribs. You turned toward the door, hands trembling as you reached for the handle, but the vines moved faster now— too fast —wrapping around the doorframe, pulling it shut with a force you couldn’t hope to fight.

The door slammed shut in your face, sending a shock through your body that rattled your bones.

No.

No!

Your heart pounded, panic surging through you. You pushed at the door, your hands slick with cold sweat, but it wouldn’t budge. The vines hissed, their tendrils slithering across the wood like snakes, twisting and gnashing. And then, from behind you, the blood— it was moving —as though the room was alive. The dark liquid seemed to swirl, pulling toward the center, forming shapes. Distorted, twitching shapes.

And then, just as you thought you might drown in it, the shape of a hand emerged from the blood. Thin, skeletal fingers reaching toward you.

The whispering came again, and this time it wasn’t soft.

It was loud , suffocating, tearing through your mind. They were everywhere now , inside you, filling your ears, crawling through your skin, making you feel them in your very bones.

Come closer. Join us.

The shadows outside the window grew darker, their shapes stretching toward you, thick and hungry, clawing at the glass, trying to get inside. The figure in the wilderness moved, a sharp motion like a predator.

It’s waiting for you.

It wasn’t just a voice now. The earth was speaking, too. The trees outside, the floor beneath your feet—they were all alive , murmuring in a language you didn’t understand, pulling at the threads of your sanity, urging you to listen.

The blood was growing, spilling over the sides of the bed now, rushing across the floor in a thick, pulsing wave. You stumbled backward, slipping on the slick surface, barely catching yourself before you hit the wall. The whispers pressed in on you, suffocating, and the darkness in the room deepened.

A scream built in your throat, but it wouldn’t come. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Your eyes were wide, locked on the bloody shape moving toward you on the floor.

And then—the door behind you creaked. Slowly, agonizingly slow, as though it had been waiting for you to turn.

No… Your brain screamed at you to move, to run, but you couldn’t.

It was already too late.

The shadow outside the window— it moved toward you .

You felt a sudden chill, the kind that went all the way down to your soul. The thing outside wasn’t waiting anymore. It was coming. It was going to get you .

They had you.

The blood seemed to pulse, the shadows seemed to twist with a life of their own, and every inch of you screamed to flee. Agatha . You had to get to her. She was the only thing between you and this madness, the only thing that might save you from whatever was happening in this house.

Your legs trembled, barely able to support you, but you didn’t care. You slammed your hands against the door, pushing against the vines that had wrapped around it, pulling them back with more force than you thought you could muster. They hissed and screeched like living things, fighting against your grip. Your fingers burned with cold, the feeling of them crawling under your skin, but you didn’t stop. You yanked, pulled, slammed the door until the vines snapped under your strength.

You burst into the hallway, gasping for air, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears as you staggered down the hall. The walls felt like they were closing in, the floor beneath your feet like it was shifting, trying to pull you into the darkness below. The temperature in the house had dropped, an icy chill seeping into your bones. You could almost feel the breath of something cold on the back of your neck, but you didn’t dare look behind you.

You couldn’t.

Agatha’s voice echoed in your mind. Get to Agatha . It was the only thing that mattered now.

The stairs were a blur beneath you as you stumbled and sprinted down them, barely avoiding tripping over the wooden steps. Every corner of the house seemed to be alive now, groaning, whispering—like the house itself was waiting, watching, hunting you.

You hit the bottom of the stairs, breathing in sharp gasps, your eyes darting around the darkened living room. The fire that had been burning earlier was now reduced to dying embers, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally. Every shadow seemed to stretch too long. Every corner of the house seemed darker than it should be. You rounded the corner into the living room— And stumbled to a halt.

There, sprawled casually across the green couch, laptop balanced on her knees, was Agatha. She had one hand curled lazily around a glass of wine, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose as she scrolled through something on the screen. She looked up at you slowly. Raised an eyebrow.

"Midnight jog?" she asked dryly.

You stood there, panting, trembling, still half expecting something monstrous to come tearing through the windows after you. Agatha clicked her laptop shut and set it aside, studying you more closely now.

Your shaking hands. Your wild eyes. Your heaving chest.

Her amusement slipped a little. Not gone. But... muted. "Hey," she said, voice softer now. She set the wine glass down carefully on the coffee table. "Come here."

You hesitated.

Another whisper curled through your mind. Something tugging at your ribs, pulling wrong. You stumbled forward anyway, unable to stop yourself.

Agatha caught your wrist gently when you got close enough, tugging you down onto the couch beside her. You collapsed more than sat. "Talk," she ordered.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came out except a broken breath. Agatha shifted closer, her hands surprisingly warm against your wrist and the small of your back, grounding you.

You clenched your fists. "The window," you rasped finally. "There was... tapping. And vines. And whispers."

Agatha’s face darkened immediately. She didn’t scoff this time. Didn’t mock. "Where?" she asked, already standing. You pointed vaguely upstairs, the muscles in your arm trembling.

"Guest room window," you whispered.

Agatha didn’t hesitate. She moved across the room in two strides, grabbed something off the mantle—something small and silver—and tucked it into her sleeve.

You didn’t ask. You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

"Stay here," she said, her voice edged with something unfamiliar. Not anger. Not fear.

Resolve.

You stayed rooted to the couch as she disappeared up the stairs, your heart pounding painfully. You heard her footsteps. The creak of the guest room door. Silence.

And then—

A low, thudding noise against the walls. Something heavy dragging. You flinched back instinctively, curling tighter into yourself. Another thud.

Then a hiss—like steam escaping, only wetter. Thicker.

Agatha's voice, low and sharp, barking something you couldn't understand. The air vibrated. The floor under your feet hummed. You squeezed your eyes shut.

The memory of the vines snaking up the window, the feeling of the black veins in your side pulsing, the voice whispering your name in a dozen wrong languages at once—

It all slammed into you. You pressed your hands over your ears, trying to block it out.

You didn't know how long you stayed there. Minutes? Hours? The clock on the wall ticked steadily, oblivious to your spiraling panic.

When you finally heard footsteps coming back down the stairs, you nearly cried in relief. Agatha appeared, looking slightly... rumpled.

Her sleeves were rolled up now. Her hair was a little messier. And there was a faint streak of something—dust? ash?—on her forearm. She crossed the room and crouched in front of you. "You okay?" she asked, and for once, there was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just concern.

You nodded shakily, though you didn’t feel okay at all. Agatha studied you for a moment longer, then sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face. "It wasn’t real," she said finally. "The vines. The whispers. Whatever you saw."

You blinked at her, confused. "What?"

Agatha tapped your side lightly—right over where the black veins were etched under your skin. "It’s your wound," she said. "It’s... leaking. For lack of a better word." You stared at her blankly. Agatha pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly trying to choose her words carefully.

"The creature you summoned," she said slowly, "its mark is still inside you. It left of piece of itself in you… and the piece that's left is feeding you fear. Making you see things."

Your stomach twisted painfully. "So... I'm going crazy?"

Agatha gave a small, tired laugh. "No, sweetheart," she said. "You’re just... haunted."

Haunted.

Like that was somehow supposed to be better. You let your head drop into your hands, breathing hard.

Agatha sat beside you again, close enough that her thigh brushed yours, her body warm and steady against your side. "You’re not alone," she said quietly. You didn’t know if she meant here, in the house—or in the fight still ahead. Maybe both.

You let yourself lean into her just a little. Just enough to feel the solidness of her against you. For tonight, at least, you could pretend that was enough. You stayed curled against the arm of the couch for a while, breathing slowly, letting the tremor in your chest settle.

Agatha didn’t hover, which somehow made it easier. She stayed seated at the other end, her wine glass dangling between two fingers, half-watching you, half-watching the windows. The storm outside—or whatever you wanted to call it—had calmed. No vines. No tapping. Just a chilly, restless night.

After a minute, you pushed yourself upright, heart still pounding but not wild anymore, and crossed to the nearest window. You stood there for a second, arms crossed, staring out into the garden.

Nothing but darkness and the faint outline of trees. "You expecting to see something?" Agatha’s voice was dry behind you, but there was a warmth to it too. Something lighter.

You shrugged. "Just making sure the house isn’t about to get... eaten, or something." You heard the faint clink of glass as she tipped her wine to her lips again. "You’re very dramatic, you know that?"

You huffed a little, giving the garden one last suspicious glance before turning back to her. "Forgive me for not being totally chill after hallucinating demon vines."

Agatha made a tsk sound under her breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. You flopped back onto the couch, breathing out hard. She sipped from her glass again, lazy, slow, like she had all the time in the world.

You watched her for a moment. Then—without thinking—you blurted "Can I have some?"

Agatha arched a brow, swirling the wine in her glass. "I don’t think mixing whatever black plague you’ve got with alcohol is a doctor approved plan," she said dryly.

You rolled your eyes. "I’m fine. It's one glass."

She kept swirling the wine. The corners of her mouth curved upward. "And," she added, "are you even old enough, pet?"

You sputtered, sitting up straighter. "I’m twenty four!" Agatha laughed— actually laughed—a low, throaty sound that warmed your skin faster than the fire in the hearth.

"Alright, alright," she said, pushing herself off the couch. She moved a little slower than usual, which was the first real sign that the wine was hitting her harder than she was letting on.

You watched her go to the kitchen, grab another glass—something smaller, less fancy—and pour you a careful half glass of wine. She brought it back and handed it to you with a little flourish.

"There. One scandalous drink," she said. "Try not to die on my couch." You stuck your tongue out at her and took a sip. It was better than you expected—warm and rich, the taste blooming across your tongue. Agatha reclaimed her spot next to you, sitting sideways on the couch, one leg bent up, glass cradled loosely in her hand.

The room felt softer now. Dimmer. Like the night had shrunk down to just the two of you. You took another sip, feeling the tension in your chest ease a little more.

"So," you said, trying for casual and probably failing miserably, "what do you do all day? Besides feed injured historians and critique their posture?"

Agatha tilted her head, considering. "Would you believe me if I said gardening?"

You blinked. "...Honestly? No."

Agatha laughed again, leaning her head against the back of the couch. "Smart girl," she murmured. "Gardening’s more of a side hobby."

You sipped your wine, emboldened by the warmth spreading through your veins. "Okay, then. What’s your main hobby? Mysterious woman of Hollow Wood?"

Agatha smiled slowly, lazily, like she was weighing how much she wanted to say. "I collect things," she said finally. You raised an eyebrow. "Books?" you guessed, thinking of the study.

She nodded, taking another long drink. "And artifacts," she added. "Oddities. Stories people forget about."

You tilted your head. "That’s... actually kind of cool."

Agatha chuckled under her breath, looking at you over the rim of her glass. "I thought you’d approve. Little miss history major." You blushed, fiddling with the stem of your glass.

"I’m writing about the witch trials," you muttered, like she didn’t already know. Agatha’s eyes gleamed in the low light. "I know." You grumbled. Of course she knew she just help you with it earlier today! You about faceplamed but you fear that would've just been worse.

There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, you just watched each other. Then you cleared your throat, desperate for something— anything —to break the tension curling between you.

"Alright," you said, sitting up a little straighter. "What else do you do? Any hobbies that don’t make you sound like a haunted museum curator?"

Agatha grinned, lazy and slow. "I can cook."

You gave her a look. "Grilled cheese doesn’t count."

"It does if you make it right," she shot back, mock offended. You laughed into your glass, warmth blooming in your chest. God, this was... nice. Weird. But nice.

"You’re not what I expected," you said before you could stop yourself. Agatha tilted her head. "Oh? And what exactly were you expecting?"

You shrugged, cheeks burning. "I don’t know… some recluse scary writer, I guess."

Agatha smiled, slow and sharp. "You think I’m not scary?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Took another drink. She laughed, low and smug, and set her glass down on the coffee table. You stared at her for a second, the words slipping out before you could catch them. "I think you’re... complicated."

Agatha’s smile faltered for just a second. Not gone. Just... softer. She leaned back, studying you like you were a puzzle she hadn’t decided whether to solve or leave broken. "You’re not wrong," she said finally, voice quieter now.

You sipped your wine, heart pounding a little harder than before. "You’re complicated too," Agatha added after a beat, and somehow it sounded like a compliment.

You smiled, tucking your knees up against your chest. Another minute of silence stretched between you—comfortable now, somehow. The wine was buzzing pleasantly under your skin, loosening the stiffness from your muscles, from your tongue.

You fiddled with the rim of your glass, feeling the warmth spread lower, sinking into your chest, your thighs. The edges of the room went soft and golden, like a painting you couldn't quite look at directly.

"You’re staring," Agatha said lazily.

You blinked, realizing you were, in fact, staring at her—at the slope of her neck, the careless way her sweater slipped off one shoulder, the slow, languid twirl of wine in her glass.

You coughed into your hand, mortified.

"I think you’re a bit drunk, Ms. Harkness," you muttered, trying to sound braver than you felt.

Agatha tilted her head, a wicked glint in her eye.

"Don't call me that," she said, voice dropping into something low and dangerous.

Your breath caught.

"It makes me feel old," she added, sipping her wine like she wasn’t slowly skinning you alive with her words. You tucked your knees closer, trying to hide the way your thighs pressed together, the way a sudden throb deep in your core made your breath stutter. There it was again—that pull. The heat. The ache.

You looked at her through your lashes, your voice a little smaller now.

"...Should I call you Agatha, then?" You joke softly.

The way she smiled made your skin prickle. "Agatha's fine," she said, swirling her wine lazily. "Unless you want to call me something else." You choked on your drink, coughing violently into your sleeve. Agatha just laughed, the sound low and teasing. God, she was dangerous. Absolutely, mind numbingly dangerous.

"You’re evil," you said hoarsely, setting your glass down before you could embarrass yourself further.

She just smiled wider, looking so goddamn smug. "You’re not the first to accuse me of that," she said, voice syrupy.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, groaning dramatically. "I’m too drunk for this."

"You’re barely tipsy," Agatha teased. She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, glass dangling from her fingers.

Her eyes found yours again. Caught. Held. "You’re cute when you’re flustered," she said, almost conversationally, like it was just a fact. Heat flooded your face—and lower. Your cunt clenched again, desperate and aching, as if your body wanted to betray you completely.

You hated it.

You loved it.

You looked away, trying to pretend you weren’t seconds from losing your mind. "You’re mean," you muttered.

"I’m honest," Agatha corrected, sitting back against the couch, looking terribly pleased with herself. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady your racing heart.

"Seriously though," you said after a moment, voice still a little shaky. "How old are you?"

Agatha tilted her head again, considering you like she might eat you whole. "Older than you’d think," she said finally, voice smooth as silk.

You narrowed your eyes, pushing back, emboldened by the wine. "That’s not an answer."

Agatha’s smile grew wider, almost fond. Almost dangerous.

"It’s the only answer you’re getting," she said, taking a slow sip from her glass, eyes never leaving yours.

You stared at her.

You weren't imagining it.The way she spoke. The way she moved. The way she always seemed slightly out of time, like she belonged to another era entirely.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of the wet heat pooling in your underwear. Agatha’s gaze flickered down—barely noticeable—then back up. You swallowed hard. The tension crackled between you, thin and sharp and so damn close to snapping.

"You’re not... like, a hundred, are you?" you asked, voice lighter than you felt.

Agatha laughed, low and dark. "Would it bother you if I was?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, eyes gleaming.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You had no idea what to say. She laughed again, softer this time, and reached for the bottle, topping off both your glasses without asking. You took yours with shaking fingers. Agatha clinked her glass lightly against yours, the touch lingering for half a second too long.

"To curiosity," she said, voice dipped in velvet.

You swallowed and echoed her.

"To curiosity."

You both drank. The air between you buzzing now— live wire tight. Agatha leaned back again, stretching like a cat, sweater riding up just enough to flash a strip of bare stomach.

You swallowed so hard it hurt.

"So," Agatha said, studying you with that lazy, predatory amusement. "You’re staying for three more days, hm?"

You nodded, trying not to look directly at the bare skin she wasn't even trying to hide. "That was the plan."

Agatha hummed, tapping her glass against her knee. "Shame," she said, almost idly. "You’re just starting to get interesting."

You blinked, your brain short-circuiting.

"I've been interesting," you said, too quickly, too defensively.

Agatha laughed, eyes sparkling. "Mm. Debatable," she said, but there was no bite in it.

Only... fondness.

You stared at her, your chest tightening, your thighs clenching together again. Your whole body screamed for her—wanted her—so badly it hurt.And Agatha...

She knew.

She had to know. She watched you like she could read every secret, every pulse under your skin. Her smile softened a fraction, and for a second, you saw it. The loneliness. The weight she carried beneath all the smirks and sarcasm. You wanted to touch her. You ached to.

But you stayed where you were, hands clutched around your wine glass like a lifeline. Agatha shifted forward, setting her empty glass down. She was closer now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin you.

She held your gaze, steady and unblinking, the firelight dancing in her dark hair. And when she spoke, it was barely a whisper "Careful, little historian."

You shivered, the words skating down your spine.

"You keep looking at me like that," Agatha murmured, her voice rich and low, "and I might get ideas." You opened your mouth—to say what, you didn’t know. But nothing came out.

Nothing but the rapid, shallow sound of your breathing. You were one wrong move away from falling headfirst into something you couldn't undo. And god help you— You wanted to. You swallowed hard, the heat in your body climbing higher, pooling low in your belly.

You couldn’t look away from her. You didn’t want to. You gripped your wine glass tighter, heart pounding against your ribs, and before you could chicken out, before you could think better of it, you heard yourself say— "Maybe I like some of your ideas." Your voice was soft, a little shaky, but you didn’t take it back.

Agatha’s eyes darkened immediately. That slow, almost lazy amusement on her face tightened into something sharper. Hungrier.

You watched her carefully set her glass down on the coffee table. Deliberate. Smooth. You could barely breathe. For a long second, neither of you moved. You just watched each other. The fire crackled in the hearth. The air between you throbbed, heavy, electric.

Then—

Slowly, carefully, Agatha shifted closer. The couch dipped under her weight. Your thighs brushed. You sucked in a shaky breath, feeling the heat of her even through your clothes. Agatha’s hand came up, fingers ghosting lightly along the side of your face—so soft it made you tremble. She paused there.

Waiting.

Giving you the chance to pull away. To change your mind.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You tilted your face up to her, just slightly—enough. That was all she needed.

Her mouth met yours.

Soft at first. Testing. Tasting. Her lips were warm, plush, and you could taste the wine on her tongue—sweet and sharp and intoxicating. You whimpered into her mouth, and that was it.

The dam broke.

Agatha’s hand slid into your hair, tugging you closer, deepening the kiss. You gasped against her lips, and she swallowed it down, kissed you harder—hungrier—like she was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy her.

You clutched at her sweater, desperate, needy, pulling her against you. You could feel her smile against your mouth, wicked and greedy, and god—you wanted more. You needed more.

The heat between your legs throbbed violently, your cunt clenching with every messy brush of her tongue against yours. You moaned into her mouth, your thighs pressing together helplessly.

Agatha groaned low in her throat, like the sound of you was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Her hands slid lower, gripping your hips, tugging you closer until you were half in her lap. You gasped again, dizzy, drunk on her, drunk on the wine, drunk on the way she kissed you like she owned you—like you’d belonged to her long before this moment.

Her mouth slanted over yours again and again, deeper each time, her teeth nipping lightly at your bottom lip, making you whine. You arched into her without thinking, hands sliding up her chest, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of her sweater.

You could feel her heartbeat hammering just as fast as yours. Could feel her body tense and trembling under your hands.

She wanted you. You could feel it.

And god—

You wanted her, too.

You kissed her harder, mouth opening wider, letting her in, letting her have you, your hands clawing at her, trying to pull her closer, closer, closer. Agatha’s hands roamed your body—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass—until you were shivering under her touch, helpless, completely undone. When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, her forehead rested against yours.

Her breath was ragged.

Her lips were swollen and red.

Her hand was still tangled in your hair. You stayed there for a long second, breathing each other in. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The world had shrunk down to just this.

Just her.

Just you.

And the taste of wine still lingering between your teeth. You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was her.

But one second you were catching your breath— and the next you were crashing back together, mouths colliding, teeth knocking clumsily. A desperate, needy kind of kiss.

Messy.

Hot.

Your fingers found the hem of her sweater, curling into it, dragging her closer until your chest pressed against hers, until you could feel every frantic beat of her heart against your ribs. Agatha groaned into your mouth, her hands slipping under your thighs, pulling you fully into her lap without a hint of effort. You gasped at the sudden closeness, at the way your body molded against hers, perfectly, like you'd been made to fit.

Her hands ran up your sides, slow at first, almost taunting, and you whimpered into her mouth, your hips shifting helplessly against her. You couldn’t help it. You needed more. Your hands slid up—over her ribs, across her shoulders—until they tangled into her dark, messy hair, tugging gently, and she moaned low into your mouth, deep and rough and absolutely devastating.

You felt it all the way to your toes. You kissed her harder, letting your wine fogged bravery push you further. You tore your mouth from hers and kissed along her jaw, trailing sloppy, open mouthed kisses down the elegant line of her neck.

Agatha’s breath hitched— and then, to your utter, drunk delight—

A sound slipped out of her. Small. Ragged.

Choked.

Barely there.

But enough.

Enough to make your core clench painfully, enough to make heat flood between your thighs until you were practically trembling in her lap. You kissed her neck again— harder this time—sucking lightly just under her jaw. Agatha’s hands tightened on your hips, dragging you even closer, grinding you down against the firm, strong line of her thigh.

You moaned helplessly, gasping against her skin, desperate to get closer, to be closer, to disappear into her entirely. "Fuck," you breathed against her throat.

Agatha laughed low and breathless, one hand sliding up your back, fingers digging into the curve of your spine. "You're trouble," she murmured, voice wrecked and thick with wine and heat.

You kissed along her throat again, more shameless now, your body rocking against hers without even thinking. "You're worse," you muttered back, dragging your teeth lightly over her pulse point.

Agatha’s hand slid up into your hair, tugging your head back just slightly, just enough to make your lips part with a soft gasp. Her eyes locked onto yours—dark, glazed, starving. "You have no idea," she whispered.

And then she was kissing you again— harder, deeper, teeth scraping against your bottom lip, her tongue pushing into your mouth like she needed to own every inch of you.

You melted against her, your whole body on fire, your thighs shaking with need. You could feel the dampness soaking through your underwear, could feel your cunt throbbing for her, desperate and aching.

Her hands roamed everywhere now—your back, your hips, the underside of your thighs—pressing you down harder against her lap, grinding you against her until you were whimpering into her mouth, clutching at her like you’d fall apart if you let go.

You didn’t know where you ended and she began. Didn’t care. You only wanted more. More of her mouth. More of her hands. More of her. Always more. And when you pulled back just enough to breathe, panting against her lips, her forehead resting against yours, her hands still locked around your waist— Agatha smiled. A slow, wicked, possessive kind of smile. And you realized with a shiver—

You were already hers.

You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

your nails dug into her shoulders, dragging her closer, desperate to keep your mouth on hers, to keep feeling her—tasting her. You were dizzy with it, drunk on her— on the wine— on the heat and hunger simmering between you.

But then— Something shifted. It was like falling through ice.

Your body jerked against hers— and then you were elsewhere.

FLASH.

The forest.

But not just any forest.

This one knew you.

The trees stretched up like twisted hands clawing the sky, gnarled and black, draped in heavy curtains of moss.

The air was thick with smoke.

The mist clung to your skin like a second layer.

Antlers gleamed through the fog— towering, grotesque shapes worn by figures in dark robes.

Their faces hidden behind bone masks.

Their chants low, guttural, old.

"Venite ad nos..."

The words rippled through the trees, vibrating the ground beneath your bare feet.

You stood barefoot in a circle scorched into the earth.

Symbols carved deep, pulsing with faint purple light.

You could feel the magic in your bones.

It throbbed under your skin, ancient and aching.

Latin spilled from your mouth without thinking— words you didn’t understand but spoke as if you'd known them forever.

"Dominus noctis, audi me."

The robed figures bowed lower, their antlers dipping toward the earth.

And across the clearing—

Agatha.

Not dressed like now.

She wore no modern clothes.

Just a long black cloak thrown over simple linens, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders.

And her eyes— God, her eyes—

Violet.

Unholy.

Beautiful.

They locked onto yours, and something inside you remembered.

You loved her.

You belonged to her.

In that life.

In this one.

Forever.

She stepped forward, the mist parting around her like it feared to touch her. She reached for you— and you met her halfway, falling into her arms without hesitation. The chanting rose louder, frenzied now, a fever pitch that rattled your teeth.

Above you, something vast and ancient stirred in the darkness—something watching.

Agatha pressed her forehead to yours. "You were always meant for more," she whispered, voice breaking like she was trying to save you— or maybe damn you.

The world burned purple around you.

FLASH.

Back to the present— but you weren’t fully back yet.

Your fingers were still clutching Agatha’s sweater, your lips still pressed to hers— but your body seized, convulsing once, twice.

Pain ripped through your skull. And then— you felt it—

Warm and wet against your upper lip. Agatha pulled back instantly, hands clamping your wrists, forcing you still. "Hey," she rasped, voice rough and terrified for once. "Hey, look at me—"

You blinked, disoriented. Your vision swam— the firelight spun around the room in dizzy gold streaks.

Agatha’s hand cupped your jaw, firm but trembling. Your breath hitched when you saw her thumb brush your upper lip— coming away slick with thick, black blood.

The same tar dark gunk you'd thrown up days ago. "No, no—" you whimpered, trying to pull back, heart hammering wildly in your ribs, but Agatha held you steady.

"Shh," she whispered, voice low and almost fierce. "You're alright. Just breathe. You're alright." You gasped against her palm, your chest heaving, your mind still reeling from the vision. The black blood dripped slow and viscous down your chin, staining your shirt, smearing her hand.

Agatha's eyes were huge, dark pools, scanning your face like she could will you back into your body. You tried to say something—tried to apologize, to explain— but all that came out was a broken, shuddering sob. Your nails were still dug into her shoulders—hard enough to bruise—but she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t even flinch. She just gathered you against her, pressing your forehead to hers, breathing with you.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

"You’re alright," she murmured again. "I've got you. I've got you." You clutched at her sweater, gasping, trembling, the black blood still weeping from your nose. And behind your eyes— Still there, burning — the image of the woods. The antlers. The chanting. Agatha’s violet eyes across the mist.

The raw, undeniable certainty— You hadn’t just studied witches.

You had been one.

You had loved her once. And somehow, impossibly— some part of you still did. You shuddered violently, your face pressing harder into Agatha’s neck. She rocked you gently, one hand cradling the back of your head. Neither of you spoke.

Not yet.

The only sound was your ragged breathing— the faint crackle of the fire behind you— and the slow, steady thud of Agatha’s heart against your chest.

Holding you here. Holding you together. For now.

You were trembling in her arms. Still tasting blood. Still feeling the ghost of the woods pressing into your skin. Still dizzy with the memory of a life you couldn't possibly have lived. Agatha held you tighter, the rough knit of her sweater scratching your cheek.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just breathing. Just surviving.

But the longer you sat there, the hotter it burned. Confusion. Fear.

The ache.

You jerked back finally, tearing yourself out of her hold. Agatha let you go instantly, her hands falling away like you’d burned her. You stumbled a step back, wiping at your mouth, at the black sludge still oozing sluggishly down your chin. "What the hell is happening to me?" you whispered.

Agatha didn’t answer. Her hands clenched at her sides. You shook your head, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. Your throat clogged with grief. With fear you couldn’t name.

You pointed a shaky finger at her, voice cracking. "Is this you?" you demanded. "Are you—" Your breath hitched. "Are you doing this to me?"

Agatha flinched. Actually flinched. And something in your chest twisted at the sight. She looked— not angry. Not defensive.

Just... stricken.

"I’m not—" she started, voice rough, but she stopped herself. You laughed, a broken, bitter sound. The wine still buzzed under your skin, making everything feel too close, too bright, too raw .

"I don't know anything anymore," you said, voice shaking. "I don’t know what's real. I don’t know who the hell I am. I see things—feel things—every time I get near you. And now I'm puking up black tar and speaking Latin and—" Your breath stuttered. "—and I don't even know if I'm losing my mind or if you’ve been lying to me this whole time."

Agatha was silent. Watching you. Still. Too still.

It made you want to scream.

"Say something!" you snapped, voice breaking completely now. Agatha’s mouth twitched like she was about to— but then she just shook her head.

Like it wasn’t that simple. Like no answer she could give would fix what was breaking open between you. "You're not crazy," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "And I'm not hurting you."

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. Tears stung the corners of your eyes—hot and fast and unwanted. "But you're not telling me everything either," you said, voice trembling. "You know something. You know why this is happening to me."

Agatha's jaw worked—tightening, relaxing, tightening again. She looked away first. Looked at the fire instead of you. "I know enough," she said quietly. "To be scared for you."

The words gut punched you harder than anything else she could have said. You wiped your mouth again with the back of your hand, feeling the sting of embarrassment, anger, grief swirl under your skin.

Agatha said nothing. And that silence— that infuriating, suffocating silence— was somehow worse than any lie she could have told.

Your chest heaved. Your side ached with every breath. The black veins pulsed painfully under your skin, screaming that something inside you was wrong, broken, unraveling.

And she was just— standing there. Silent. Stone faced.

Safe.

While you felt like you were falling apart piece by piece. "Of course you won’t say anything," you choked out, taking a staggering step backward. "Because that’s what you do, isn’t it?"

Agatha’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t move. "You lie," you hissed, your voice rising. "You dodge. You deflect. You hide in this stupid house like the world’s already ended!"

"Stop," Agatha said quietly. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

"You act like you’re so above it all—so clever, so fucking untouchable—but you’re just scared," you spat. "Too scared to tell the truth. Too scared to even face it!"

The words were pouring out now, too fast, too raw to stop. "And you know me," you shouted, your voice cracking apart at the edges. "I know you do. Because I’m having these—" You clawed a hand through your hair, trembling so hard you could barely breathe. "These visions ! And you’re in every single one of them!"

Your voice broke on the last word. "You’re always there," you whispered hoarsely. "Staring back at me. Like you remember." Agatha didn’t deny it. She didn’t even flinch. She just stood there, her face carved in stone, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

The fire cracked sharply in the hearth, the only sound between you. "I can’t do this," you muttered, backing up another step toward the hallway. "I can’t stay here."

"You’re not leaving," Agatha said immediately—too fast, too sharp. You barked out a humorless laugh, swallowing down the bitter taste of bile and wine and rage.

"You don’t get to tell me what to do," you snapped, shoving past the couch. Agatha moved to block you without hesitation, her body between you and the door like a wall.

"You don’t understand," she said, voice low, nearly shaking with something you couldn't name. "It’s not safe for you out there."

"I don't care!" you shouted, the words ripping out of you like claws. "I don't care if it's not safe! I can't breathe in here! I can't think—"

"You think the beast is gone?" she cut you off sharply, stepping closer.

You stumbled a step back but kept your chin high, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt.

"You think it isn't waiting for you?" Agatha said, her voice cold and cutting now. "You summoned it. It's tied to you. You walk out that door, it’ll rip you apart before you even make it to the street."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because you didn’t have an answer for that. Your body shook with exhaustion, your side throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but the anger was still burning too bright to stop. "You think I don’t know fear?" you whispered, your voice ragged. "You think you get to be the only one who's scared?"

Agatha said nothing. The silence stretched again, taut as wire. "I trusted you," you said, voice breaking. "I don't even know why. I don’t even know you."

Agatha’s mouth opened. Closed. Like the words were too big, too dangerous, to say aloud. And maybe they were. But you didn’t wait around to hear them. You shoved past her again, your shoulder slamming into hers harder than you meant, sending a sharp ache jolting through your wounded side.

You didn’t care.

You stormed down the hall, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood, the whole house seeming to shrink and twist around you with every step. Behind you— "Don’t," Agatha said, voice low, dangerous.

You ignored her. Reached for the front door. Fumbled with the lock. Your fingers were shaking so hard you could barely turn it.

The door creaked open— And then you were yanked back, spun around so fast the world blurred. Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, the breath punched out of your lungs. Agatha pinned you there, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your wrist so tightly it made your whole arm throb.

You gasped, heart crashing against your ribs, blinking up at her— And froze. Because her face was inches from yours. Her eyes boring into you. And for a second— just a second— you saw it. A flicker. A flash of something not quite blue. Not quite human.

Violet.

Burning.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your pulse hammering wildly. But when you blinked again, it was gone. Trick of the light. Wine. Fear. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. "You can’t leave," Agatha hissed, her voice raw, like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside her. "I won’t let you."

You struggled, half hearrted, more out of instinct than any real intent to fight her off. "Let go," you rasped, chest heaving.

"No," she snarled. The hand by your head slammed flat against the wall, the sound echoing through the foyer like a gunshot.

You flinched. "You don’t understand," Agatha said, low and feral. "You walk out that door, and it’ll tear you apart. I can’t —" Her voice broke. She leaned in closer. So close you could feel the heat rolling off her skin. So close you could taste the wine on her breath.

"I can't lose you again," she whispered. You stared at her, your heart thundering in your ears. Again.

Again?

The word rattled around in your skull like a bullet, leaving everything else in its wake shattered and senseless. You swallowed hard, the fight bleeding out of your limbs, leaving you shaking with something else now. Something hotter.

Something hungrier .

Agatha’s hand loosened on your wrist—but didn’t let go. Her eyes searched your face— wild, desperate, furious. Waiting. Daring.

Your breathing was a mess. So was hers. Your bodies, still pressed too close, radiated heat. The kind that crackled. The kind that burned.

For one terrifying, electric moment— you thought she was going to kiss you again. Right there. Right against the goddamn door.

You wanted her to.

You hated yourself for it.

You loved yourself for it.

Your hand twitched against her chest, caught between shoving her away and pulling her closer.

She saw it. You knew she did. Because her lips parted—just slightly—like she was about to say something. Something that would wreck you. But she didn’t. She just stood there, pinning you to the wall, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping her alive. And you— You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare blink. Didn’t dare do anything except feel your whole body thrum with the knowledge that whatever existed between you was bigger than both of you.

Older. Hungrier. And it wasn’t finished yet. Not even close. You hated her. You hated her for lying. You hated her for knowing things you didn’t. You hated her for looking at you like that— for standing so close—

for daring to care .

Your body was trembling, your side ached, your lip was still wet with the aftermath of that cursed black blood— And you still wanted her. Maybe that was what broke you.

Maybe it was the fear. The confusion. The anger twisting hot and wild through your veins. Or maybe it was just her. Standing there, breathing just as raggedly as you. Not moving.

Waiting.

You surged up before you could think about it—before you could stop yourself—and slammed your mouth onto hers. Agatha jerked back half a step, stunned. Her hand slid from your wrist to your hip, gripping hard. You kissed her like you were drowning. Like you hated her for every secret she kept. Like you wanted to devour her just to finally get to the truth. Agatha made a soft, startled sound against your mouth—half gasp, half growl.

You felt her hesitate. Felt the split second war inside her. Then she snapped. Her hand fisted into your shirt, yanking you closer, and she kissed you back like she could burn the fight out of you. You groaned against her lips—frustrated, furious, needing more—and she swallowed it down like it was something precious.

Your fingers tangled into her hair, tugging hard enough to make her gasp against your teeth. And still— even as her hands slid hungrily down your back, even as her mouth moved over yours like a woman starved— you were muttering against her skin.

"I hate—" You gasped as her teeth grazed your lower lip. "I hate that you never explain anything—"

Another kiss, harder now, bruising.

"I hate that you always just look at me like—like you know —" Her mouth was on your jaw, your throat, her breath hot and desperate. "And you never—" You gasped when her fingers dug into your hips. "Never fucking tell me—"

She growled low in her throat, dragging you flush against her body, and the feel of her—solid, wild, real —made your head spin. Your nails scraped across her shoulders, clutching, grounding yourself against her.

Agatha’s left, veiny hand slid up under your shirt, not quite touching skin yet, but close—so close you could feel the heat of her palm burning through the thin fabric. You shuddered under her touch.

You hated her.

You needed her.

You hated needing her.

You moaned softly, biting down hard on your lip to keep from saying more, but she caught your chin, tilting your face up to hers, forcing you to look at her. Her pupils were blown wide, her cheeks flushed, strands of dark hair falling loose around her face.

"You think you’re the only one who hates it?" she rasped, voice wrecked and low. You stared at her, chest heaving. Her hand trembled slightly against your jaw.

"You think this is easy for me?" she whispered, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, almost tenderly. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe around it. So you kissed her again.

Harder.

Messier.

Drunker on her than you were on the wine. She met you halfway, groaning low in her throat as she pushed you back against the wall, her body caging yours in completely. Detaching Herself from your lips, her head moving down as her mouth was on your throat now, teeth scraping lightly at the sensitive skin there, and you gasped, your hands flying up to clutch at her shoulders again.

You could still taste the wine on her tongue when her mouth claimed yours again. Bitter and sweet and dizzying. You didn’t care. You wanted more. You raked your fingers through her hair, tugging, desperate. Agatha’s hands slid down to your thighs, gripping tight, dragging you up so you could wrap your legs around her waist—and you did, clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in a world made of shifting, lying shadows.

You could feel the vibration of her moan against your chest when you sucked lightly at the corner of her mouth. And she— She kissed you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Like you were a promise she was too broken to keep but couldn’t bear to let go of. And even through the haze of it— even through the anger and the hurt and the raw aching want— you knew:

This wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not until she told you everything. Not until the lies were burned down to ash between you.

But for now— You clung to her. You clawed at her sweater, desperate for more skin, more heat, more proof she was real. Agatha’s mouth never left yours—not for a second—as she fumbled the hem of her sweater, ripping it over her head in one swift, impatient motion.

You pulled from the kiss, your hands flying up to touch her—bare skin, warm and flushed, the faintest marks of age and strength under your fingertips. Your nails scraped across her ribs and she growled , low and dangerous, pinning you harder against the door, grinding into you like she wanted to leave bruises, reminders, warnings.

You kissed her back just as feral, just as desperate. "I hope you choke on all your fucking lies," you gasped against her mouth, the words ripping free before you could think better of it.

Agatha froze. For one heartbeat—one crackling, unbearable heartbeat—her whole body went rigid. And then— You felt her smile against your lips, slow and razor sharp.

"You," she rasped, voice rough with the threat of breaking, "have a smart fucking mouth." You were panting, glaring up at her, your thighs tightening around her waist like you were daring her to do something about it.

"And enough of that—" She ducked lower, her mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, the thudding pulse in your throat, the tender slope of your collarbone, hot breath making you tremble. " For now. " You shuddered when she said it, her voice wrecked with restraint she was seconds from losing.

Her mouth dragged lower, teeth grazing your skin, leaving ghost bites down your neck. Your head hit the door with a soft thud, fingers twisted tight in her hair. You felt her exhale against your collarbone. Felt her lips barely brush the hollow of your throat. And then—hot, guttural, like it cost her something to say "I know you."

Your breath hitched. Her mouth moved lower, dragging down your chest, across your sternum. "Just not this body."

It punched the air from your lungs. A broken noise slipped out of you—somewhere between a sob and a moan—as you clutched her tighter, feeling like you might drown in her, in the wine and the heat and the impossible weight of her words.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because deep down—you knew it was true.

You knew it in your marrow. You knew it from the way your body answered hers like a prayer half remembered. You knew it from the way she kissed you like she was trying to put centuries of grief back inside your mouth. You gasped her name, raw and aching, and Agatha’s hands slid up under your shirt, mapping your ribs, memorizing you like she hadn't done it a hundred times before in other lives, other centuries.

You were dizzy.

Drunk.

Devastated.

And then—

You saw it again Just for a second. Her eyes flashed— violet —deep and blinding like the visions that haunted your sleep. You gasped, clutching at her bare shoulders. Agatha’s hand slid up—fast—catching your face in a rough, almost tender grip.

You barely had time to see her fingers coming—pressing two of them against your temple— Before the world tilted sideways. A shudder racked your body, your limbs going boneless, slumping against the doorframe. The last thing you saw before the darkness dragged you under was Agatha’s face— her flushed cheeks, wild hair, bitten lips— and something like regret burning behind her storm cloud eyes.

"Shh," she whispered, almost broken. "I'll fix it." Then— Nothing.

Black.

Weightless.

Silent.

Like sinking to the bottom of a lake you’d never surface from.

And Agatha’s voice—the memory of it—following you down into the dark.

Authors note- How do you guys like the longer chapters compared to the usual 4-6k?

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