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avocado-writing · 9 months ago

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pairing: logan howlett x afab!reader. 18+, minors dni. angst; smut (p in v unprotected sex; handjob - logan receiving; oral - reader & logan receiving). canonically bisexual reader. mentions of pregnancy attempts. dp+w movie spoilers.

synopsis: in the Void, after leaving the other dead in your own timelines, you and Logan are reunited.

words: 8.5k.

notes: this was inspired by not your man by @studioghibelli and the worst logan by @coweye! please go and read both these fics and show their authors some love, they are both incredibly talented writers who deserve it! dividers by @saradika-graphics 💕

The past couple of days have been a lot.

To be honest, anything that isn’t sitting at a bar drinking the place dry is a lot to Logan nowadays. He’s used to low lights, rumbling conversation around him, the fuzzier end of consciousness. Even now he aches for a drink, knowing he’ll have to wake up sober next to the asshole in red he spent the night putting down in that fucking minivan.

He hopes, at least, he has been met with all the surprises that this place can afford him.

Ah. But that’d be too fucking easy, right?

That Cajun bastard’s liquor sits comfortably in the cradle of his palm and he chases away lucidity one swig at a time. Tries to block out the half-baked plan Wade is concocting with the other poor bastards who have been stuck here, even if it’s all probably pointless. He only chimes in to laugh at their hope.

Then Elektra turns, withering pity in her eyes, and seems to properly assess him for the first time.

“They’re gonna be so disappointed when they see you.”

“Who?” he snorts, past the point of caring that he’d disappoint anyone. It’s then that Elektra hits him like a fucking freight train with just one word spilling from her lips: your name.

Logan feels a flood of memories come back to him. Ones he’s spent too long trying to drink away. The early morning when you’d hide under the blankets together, your hand cradling his face and letting the whole world consist of just the two of you. The stolen kisses in quiet corridors so the students at the mansion wouldn’t catch you and start silly little rumours.

Him holding your lifeless body in his arms surrounded by the rubble of what used to be your bedroom, your powers unable to save you.

He doesn’t have anything to say, merely spitting vitriol to anyone who tries to speak to him, even that damn kid who still prefers the other dead Logan to him. Why wouldn’t she? He’s a fucking mess, worth less than nothing, and that Logan was a hero.

He retreats in the evening to lick his wounds or, hopefully, drown them. People keep trying to fucking talk to him and he does not want it. Yet they’re fucking relentless, like the Void is perfect at creating gut punch after gut punch for him. Laura walks away into the darkness after successfully making him feel like shit - not that it’s difficult these days - and when he hears more footsteps he assumes it’s Wade coming to harass him about tomorrow.

“Oh, will you fuck off - ?” he snarls, but the sight of you there, half lit by a dying fire with orange dancing on your skin, oh, it just kills any venom he can muster dead in his throat.

Logan is looking at a ghost and he has never been less prepared for anything in his long, long life.

Your mouth has fallen open into a soft “o” as you look at him, brows knitted together as you take in every imperfect aspect of his being.

“Lo?” you whisper. Your voice hasn’t changed.

“Logan,” he replies, gruff, unsure if he’s confirming or correcting. But fuck does it sound good to hear his name out of your mouth again, even if it’s just a syllable.

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear and take a seat on one of the logs which has been pulled up as a makeshift bench. He tries not to watch the way the fire lights up your eyes. There’s an agonisingly long pause before you finally attempt conversation.

“Long time no see, huh?” you ask with a weak grin. Fuck. It’s like a dagger. Your humour was always something which endeared you to him. Unlike Wade you never took it too far, cultivating your sincerity with your silliness in order to grow yourself into peoples’ hearts.

His heart especially, and now it aches.

He grunts, because he can’t bring himself to actually say anything. Can barely look at you. You keep talking, either not noticing or barrelling on regardless.

“You know, when the gang said that you were here… I didn’t believe it. Thought there was no way a fucking Wolverine would fall into this place.”

“Let me guess,” he sneers, taking another long drag of bourbon, “I’m not what you expected.”

You laugh, an easy little thing, and part of him hates you for it. For reminding him of how it sounds.

“I mean, you’re not. But not because of what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” It comes out as a snap, lip curling back over his teeth in disgust. You do not look bothered in the least, just crossing one leg over the other and leaning back.

“Because I know you, Logan. Knew my Logan too. Bet you’re spiralling, making yourself out to be some kinda disappointment. Well you’re not. You could never be.”

He desperately wants to argue but he simply doesn’t have the gumption. Besides, it’s nice to hear someone say something kind about him after all these years.

“So,” you say after another one of those painful pauses, “considering every time you look my way you wince, you have a me in your timeline?”

He laughs without any humour in it, stares into the flames for so long they start to hurt his eyes.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Ahh. ‘Did’. I died, then?”

You say it so flippantly, he can’t fucking stand it.

“Mmm.”

“Makes sense. Don’t think I’d leave you in any timeline, so the only way I could see us ending would be if I wasn’t there any more.” You sigh, stretching your legs out to warm them. “Can I ask how it happened? Call it morbid curiosity.”

He absolutely does not want to talk about this. But, also… it’s you. Maybe not the you that was his, exactly, but it is you. Perhaps you deserve to know. He tries to stay dispassionate, as if he is a doctor quietly recounting the facts of death to a family member.

��Mansion was attacked. Everyone died, including you. I wasn’t there. We’d had a fight, I went out drinking. When I got back you were gone.” He flexes his fist around the neck of the bottle, trying to avoid shattering it, but desperately needing to hold onto something.

“Oh.” The fire crackles loudly. “What did we fight about?”

This will kill him. He will die in this Void.

“You wanted to do another round of IVF. I didn’t want to be disappointed again.”

The words settle like a cloud of choking ash over the two of you. He takes a long drink. What a fucking failure he is, couldn’t even knock you up properly.

“Fuck, Logan. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“Does it help if I tell you I probably wasn’t that mad? I’ve never been really angry with you, you know. My Logan… we used to bicker a lot, we both had short fuses, but it never meant anything in the long run.”

He doesn’t know if it does help or not. Is it better to know that you died hating him, making it easier? Or that you were snuffed out while loving him the whole time?

“Your turn,” he says, because he can’t bear to continue this particular line of conversation, but for some reason he wants to keep talking to you. Your voice is a comfort he thought he’d long since lost.

“You wanna see a picture?” you ask, a grin pulling at the sides of your mouth. No, he doesn’t, but when you reach into your jacket to grab the photograph, he finds himself holding his hand out to take it. You slowly float it over, telekinesis absolutely unnecessary - but you always did use it to make the little things easier.

It’s old. Frayed and disintegrating at the edges, a thing which has been held and looked at over and over again. Faded slightly despite the fact that you clearly try to take good care of it.

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening. You chuckle.

“I know.”

Because, despite the lack of facial hair and addition of a decent rack, the woman with her arm around you in the photo is him.

The Logan in the picture is about as butch as they come, decked out in a Wolverine’s trademark flannel and leather. One of her arms is wrapped around you to keep you close against her, the other playfully flipping the camera off with a middle claw, and she’s laughing with a joy he hasn’t seen on his own face for years. You’re pressing a kiss into her cheek and hanging onto one of her thick biceps. The two of you exude happiness.

“She was the best thing that ever happened to me. She could be a mean cunt sometimes, smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, but fuck we were the centres of each other’s world.” You let out a long sigh and hold your hand out - Logan goes to give you the photo but instead you gesture for the bourbon. He passes it and you and you drink deeply, gratefully. “I’d been in a string of bad relationships. Guys who took me for granted, women who were toxic but I didn’t realise until I was in too deep. Then she came along and well… she was a fucking angel in plaid.”

Logan’s thumb absentmindedly strokes the photo. He’s pretty sure there’s a near-identical one back in his timeline.

“Our mansion was attacked too. She died getting the kids out.”

Fuck. Fuck. No, he can’t do this. He can’t face the way he should have died. He really is the fucking worst Wolverine. He snatches the bottle back from you, you give no resistance, and he polishes it off. The photo flutters to the ground.

“I think it’s time you fucked off,” he growls out. You roll your eyes, fucking roll your eyes at him, something his version of you did on pretty much a daily basis, and the knife in his heart twists further.

“Well, Logan, I’m not gonna do that. Because this conversation is the most whole I’ve felt in a long time, and I’m pretty sure you feel the same way.”

He doesn’t. He does. He wants you to disappear forever. He wants to hold you close and kiss you, beg you never to leave again. He hates you. He loves you so, so much.

He’s such a ruined man that it is laughable.

“So what, I come along and just replace your little girlfriend? First Wolverine that you manage to get your hands on; is that what you’re hoping for?”

You bark out a laugh. It echoes around the trees. There are tears in your eyes when he turns to look.

“Girlfriend? Logan, you were my fucking wife!”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that the laughter engulfs you, peals of giggles that double you over. You hold your head in your hands and it soon turns to bitter sobs. He wants to reach out and hold you, apologise for ever making you sad. He tries to get any lingering drops from the bourbon instead.

“We got married at the mansion. Charles officiated. The kids made us cards. We didn’t get a honeymoon because we didn’t have the fucking time. We had five years. Five really happy years and you know what? We wanted a baby too. We were getting a donor lined up! And then when the attack happened you were the one getting all the kids out I begged you to come with us but you were too fucking good, you had to stay behind and make sure nobody followed us. And it cost you your fucking life. They ripped you apart Logan. I know because all I found of you was your head and your wedding ring. I didn’t even get time to mourn because I had a dozen children to fucking take care of! And I did because I knew that’s what you’d want me to do. It’s what you died for. So I lived in the fucking woods with all of them for years, and they were my family, and I made sure they were as safe and happy as I could make them. And you know what happened then? When they were all grown? A fucking TVA agent appears out of nowhere and tells me, ‘oops! Sorry! Your Logan wasn’t supposed to die, it was meant to be you!’ So they fucking throw me in this hellhole to rot away into nothing and I’m sorry, Logan, I’m sorry that when I heard you were here I got my fucking hopes up that you might be happy to see me, because if there was one person who understood all of the shit I’m going through then it might be you.” You throw your head back up to stare him dead in the eyes. “And it’s pathetic because you know what? Even after all this? I’m still not angry with you. I’m still happy you’re here. Because seeing you makes me feel better, despite everything.”

It’s a long-ass rant, and your words hang in the air after you’re done. He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? He opens his mouth to apologise but the words just won’t come out. Because, yeah, if he really dissects himself and looks at the parts laid bare, he’s glad you’re here too.

He reaches down to rescue the photo before an ember lands on it, gingerly extending into you. When you take it back his fingers brush yours. He wishes he wasn’t wearing gloves.

“Who was the donor?” he asks eventually. That does a lot to alleviate the mood, and you smile through tear-streaked cheeks.

“You might not like the answer.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t tell me it was Scott.”

“The two of you got on okay! Butted heads a lot but he was always a good friend to us. Plus it was cheaper than going through an agency.”

He growls to himself and it makes you laugh, but properly this time. Things have started to soften and it’s… nice. To be like this with you again. You pause for a moment, stuck on whether to ask a question; hesitate over whether it’s a good idea, then barrel on regardless.

“Can I ask a weird question?”

“You’re dangerously close to sounding like Wade,” he replies. You groan at that idea.

“Ugh. Fucking Deadpools, man. We get one come along every now and then and trash the place before fucking off again. Apparently there’s like, a tribe of them out there somewhere.” You give a full-body shudder. “Imagine. No, it’s nothing like that, I guess. Can you… can you take off your glove? Left one.”

He has a horrible feeling about this but when you ask so nicely, that air of vulnerability around you, well it just seeps into his fractures and breaks him open. It takes a moment but he does, flexing his bare hand in the cool air.

You reach around your neck and pull at a thin chain he’d barely noticed. The ring at the end slides up from where it’s been resting on your sternum under your shirt, glinting as you remove it.

“Give me your hand.”

This is a bad idea.

He does anyway.

You slip the ring on his fourth finger, softly twisting it to fit over his knuckle as you go. It is the perfect size.

“Will you look at that,” you mumble, not releasing your grip on him. “She… you always told me your hands were kinda big because of the claws. Like I cared. One of my favourite parts about you.”

Your fingers trace along his, finding the spaces between them and gently slotting your hands together. Logan isn’t sure if he’s the one who closes the grasp or if it’s you, but a beat passes and suddenly you’re holding hands.

He’s not done this with you for so fucking long. An age of aching which is relieved at the feeling of your palm up against his.

“So now what?” he eventually has to ask. You smile.

“Well, I mean, your Deadpool is probably gonna get us all killed tomorrow…”

“Ugh. Don’t call him ‘my Deadpool’.”

“… so I’d quite like to just spend tonight holding your hand, if that’s okay. Seems like a pretty nice final night to me.”

When you hit him with those soft eyes, what other fucking choice does he have?

You don’t speak much for the rest of the night. Eventually the fire dies out. Laura comes to seek you out the next morning, and is surprised to find you lying side by side with this other Logan, the most deeply asleep she’s ever seen you, fingers laced together so tightly with his it looks like it might hurt.

He comes to the fight, of course; dredging up what little courage he has left in him in order to prove he’s not totally pathetic. You catch his eye and smile so wide that he feels likes he’s done at least one good fucking thing in his life. He hears the sound of you ripping into people with an enthusiasm he hasn’t witnessed for years. The last glimpse of you he gets before he jumps through the portal is you using your telekinesis to tear a man’s head off and he does not want to examine himself too closely when it sends a jolt of arousal down his spine.

They leave you all there to face the end, but everyone knew that’s what you were all getting into. There has been a net gain and loss of nil. He never had you again. Not really. Not for anything longer than a night, and maybe that will be enough.

Yes. That’s enough. It has to be.

When he tells Wade he’ll go into that room, when he volunteers to die, he does it with the knowledge he’ll be doing something good, finally. Something you’d be proud of him for doing. And with you waiting for him on the other end of oblivion it really doesn’t seem too bad a fate.

But then Wade does what he always does and fucks up his perfectly meticulous plan, and they both make it through, so he has to keep going.

When Wade asks the TVA agent to help the group of you they left behind, Logan is sure to add on that people should get the opportunity to go back to their timelines - surely it’s what you’d want (this oddly selfless request has Wade raising an eyebrow which he ignores). After all, why wouldn’t you want to go back? It’s where you belong. Where you’ll be happiest. Putting things nice and neatly back into their place after this whole fucked-up venture.

He doesn’t have you, but he’s still alive and wants to be, and that’s something. A lot more than he’s had for a long time now to be honest.

His life becomes this strange little thing that’s wrapped up with Wade’s. He sleeps on his pull-out sofa until he has somewhere proper to put down his roots. Tries to lay off the booze as much as he can even if each day is a fucking struggle. Makes steps towards finding a proper place for himself; even gets a job on the door at the bar across the street. It’s okay. One step at a time. He can put himself back together like that.

Imagine his surprise, then, when a week later there’s a knock at the door.

He assumes it’s Al who’s forgotten her keys, or is too drunk to fish them out of her purse after bingo, so opens it without really thinking.

The second time you’ve nearly stopped his heart in seven days.

“Hey,” you say.

“Oh,” is what he can manage. You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. Your go-to.

“Yeah. Sorry. I uh, followed you back, I suppose. The TVA were gonna send me home but I asked where you were and when the answer was ‘here’, well… didn’t make sense for me to be any place else.”

He blinks at you. After a beat of silence he can tell you hate, no doubt wondering if your choice was the wrong one, he lifts his hand to cup your face. You stiffen for a second and then nestle into his palm.

“You’re real,” he states. You press your hand to his.

“I am.”

He pulls you into his chest and you are more than willing to come. He feels the way you bury yourself into him, nose first, remembering what he smells like. Your arms wrap around him so tight it’s like you’re scared he will disappear when it should be the other way round: if anyone is dreaming it’s him. You bothered coming here for him. You uprooted your whole life for it.

He could hold you forever but the neighbours are nosy and the apartment is a mess. He presses his mouth close to your ear.

“Wanna get a coffee?”

You pull back to meet his gaze.

“I’d love that.” Your eyes drop and you pull a face. “Oh, uhh, you might wanna get changed first, though.”

He looks down and realises what shirt he’s wearing before letting out a groan, which gets you chuckling.

“Wilson’s letting me borrow his shirts until my first paycheck comes in. Just to slum around the apartment.”

“Oh, so you’re not ‘employee of the month at the dick sucking factory’?” You ask, reading the slogan on his tee.

“No. Looks like Wilson won out over me.”

The fact he’s made a joke hangs in the air for a moment and you burst into laughter, real actual laughter, and it’s the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever heard.

He grabs the only plain shirt Wade has left out, slices off the sleeves just because, and grabs twenty dollars from his roommate’s wallet. Soon enough you’re sitting in the little café near his building. The sky is grey and overcast, just threatening to rain but not quite bothering, and the two of you are tucked away in a corner table while Taylor Swift plays over the sound system.

Logan does not like that he knows it’s Taylor Swift. This is what living with Wade has done to him.

You watch him with affectionate eyes across the table, making sure nobody is paying close attention before using your telekinesis to stir the little metal spoon around in your latte. You nod at his mug.

“You take coffee the same way as she did. Boring and black.”

Logan’s nostrils flare a little in a laugh.

“Yeah, and you take yours the same way too. So fucking dense with syrup that it’s not coffee at all.”

“Oh you were always such a coffee snob! ‘Babe you gotta try it plain first so you can appreciate the aroma’,” you say, putting on a gruff affectation as a parody of his voice.

“You do need to try it plain f—”

He’s interrupted when a sugar lump floats into the air from the pot in the middle of the table and launches itself at him, bouncing off of his pectoral. He cocks an eyebrow.

“Real mature, bub.”

“Grouch.”

“Contrarian.”

“I’m not a—” you pause, realising there’s no way to win against that accusation, and grin at him instead.

“Where are you staying?” he asks after a long drink. It’s not booze. He kinda wishes it was booze. But also, he knows it’s best not to go down that path again, for everyone’s sake.

“The mansion. Turns out I died in this timeline too, so you and I are two for two here” - there’s a hint of a smile at your own macabre observation - “but they were using my room for storage so they just let me have it back.” You grimace a little. “It’s been weird. It’s my space but it’s not, y’know?”

“I get that.”

He probably gets it better than anybody. Nice to have someone to share this strange, singular feeling with.

“You should come around. Laura’s there too, I know she’d be glad to see you too.”

“She settling in okay?”

“Yeah. It’ll take a while, but everyone has been really understanding and kind. I think she’ll thrive here.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

You give him a smile that lets him know you believe it. Your eyes cast over him, taking in this new, slightly more settled Logan, falling still when you see what’s pressed against his fourth knuckle.

“You’re still wearing the ring.”

“Oh,” he replies, surprised. Flexes his fingers as he looks at it. It’s been so comfortable there, so utterly unobtrusive and right, he hasn’t even noticed. “You want it back?”

A beat passes as you consider the question. Coffee is sipped. Another sugar added and stirred, perhaps just for show.

“I don’t know,” you settle on. “I kinda like seeing you wear it but… if you were gonna have my ring, I’d want it to be one that was meant for you.”

He lets that idea settle between the two of you. Suddenly, slowly, you’re reaching forward, laying your smaller hand over his thick, rough one.

“Logan. I want to be with you. In every way you’ll have me, all of it. I don’t know if it was fate or god or plain luck that threw us back together but I’m certain I don’t wanna waste this opportunity. I’d love you in every lifetime, in every timeline. I can’t be without you ever again, I think it would just kill me - and if I know you, you feel the same.”

He doesn’t even bother arguing because he does. When you turned up on his doorstep a scant couple of hours ago a part of his soul had been healed; your existence like kintsugi to piece him back together. A man made of adamantium and gold.

“I’d like that,” he manages.

“Yeah?” Your eyes glimmer with a hope which he’s not been privy to for a long time now.

“Yeah.”

“Well, okay then,” you say with a smile, and drink your coffee.

The two of you do not take it slow. How does one take it slow when your soulmate comes back into your life? You are not exactly the same person he once knew, but you understand each other in every way which matters. Your souls fit together like puzzle pieces. The two of you are whole again.

Then again, perhaps he doesn’t need the version of you he used to have. Maybe, now, he needs this you - rougher around the edges, a little older and more wary, a fit which is better for him. Someone who can put up with his bullshit as Al once bluntly put it.

You barely spend a night apart. You stay over with him on Wade’s pullout (inciting an input of, “something the two of you had better do, we can’t afford a kid on my income—!” before Logan had hurled a water bottle at him) meeting up with him after his shift is done in the small hours, getting something to eat at one of the greasy spoons which remain open. He devours full plates of fatty food; you stick to slices of pie which you feed him bites of from your fork. When you get back to the apartment you cuddle up on the uncomfortable mattress which folds from the sofa and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

He sleeps pretty well nowadays.

The two of you only realise you haven’t kissed yet when you do it for the first time. You’re making a coffee run, tugging on his jacket because you like the smell of cigar smoke and it’s thicker than yours. A little act of intimacy which has become commonplace.

“Same as usual?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Boring,” you make an exaggeration of a sigh, before leaning over the back of the sofa to press your lips to his. He automatically leans into it, tilting his head up so that he can meet you; it’s a chaste little thing, a peck between two people who will only be parted for a moment, but you pull back in surprise when you realise what’s just happened.

“Oh!” you say with delight, eyes sparkling.

Your hand slips around his neck to cradle him, fingers playing with the hair at his nape. You gently pull him back for another. Longer this time. Lips slip together, moving carefully in something a little deeper. When you break for a moment it’s Logan who pulls you back. This third kiss is on the brink of hungry. He slides his tongue to swipe against your mouth and you let out a happy little hum at the intrusion.

His arm curls around your back. With a little tug he pulls you over the back of the sofa and into his lap, making you yelp with glee. His mouth returns to yours, crushing, greedy for any little noises you’re able to make. You relax into it and are happy to take whatever he gives you.

Wade finds you making out on the couch like a pair of teenagers, coffee forgotten. He does not let Logan live it down for a week.

The apartment is fine, but not a long term solution. Wade and Al are constant presences that stops the two of you being fully at ease together. Logan knows that invitation to go to the mansion is always there, but it’s a while before he takes it - he really isn’t sure what he’ll feel, being back at a place he last saw burned to the ground because of his pigheadedness. Might just break him all over again.

But ah, when you nock your fingers in the spaces between his, he can face anything.

One night, exhausted and full of diner food, he agrees to go back to yours - the two of you have had a late night coffee meaning you’re still a tiny bit buzzed, a little too much to fall asleep on the pullout. Instead you get a taxi to yours, near enough, tipping the driver well when he drops you in the middle of a random street and choosing to walk the last minutes hand-in-hand.

The mansion is quiet. Everyone is mostly asleep. And Logan does feel strange being back here, but it isn’t a bad strange. Just another aspect of this new life he has to compartmentalise.

You drag him through low-lit halls, confident in the steps which will lead you back to your room; he recalls a similar journey from his own timeline in the night you first hooked up, smuggling him to your bed down the corridors all wandering hands and breathless kisses and giddy giggles; but there’s no part about you that wants to hide this.

You’d show your Logan off to the world.

You’ve tried to make the room your own, he can tell. It’s pretty big and spacious. Good view. Has an ensuite which he plans on monopolising. He shucks off his clothes and sleeps in just his boxers, arms holding you to him so he can feel every part of your body against his. His chest hair bristles between your shoulder blades and you hum contentedly.

He agrees to come to breakfast the next morning and, to their credit, people are good at not staring. The members of the team he recognises from his past keep their distance unless he seeks to close it. Hank gives him a smile.

“Good to see you, Logan.��

“Mmm,” he manages. Laura comes down to grab something to eat and lights up when she sees him. She gives him a hug which skews on the side of awkward but he’s grateful to receive it, and he can see how pleased you are watching this development.

He comes around more and more often.

Less time spent at the apartment with Wade - who constantly complains about the fact and Logan cannot tell if he’s sincere or not - more living in the pocket of you. He helps you sort out the furniture in the room so that there’s more space; you’re moving a chest of drawers to another corner together when a photo falls out from behind them. Trapped against the wall for years. Long forgotten.

“Oh,” you say, lifting it up and bringing it to your hand with a wave. Your face twists into something strange and bittersweet, a mask Logan isn’t quite sure how to comprehend, but he quickly understands why when he joins you.

It’s a picture of the two of you.

Not exactly the two of you, of course; the ones of you who lived in this timeline. Logan is posing on the back of his Harley, you’re propped up on the seat next to him with your head thrown back in laughter. The two of you look… young. This must have been taken when you first started going out.

Your thumb caresses the photo in a movement he’s familiar with.

“Huh. Looks like we were together here, too. Who’da thunk it,” you mutter.

He slips an arm around you then because he’s feeling oddly sentimental. It’s reassuring. No matter what timeline it is, there’s a you who loves him and a him who loves you. A simple and irrefutable truth, like the fact that the sun rises every day or the moon moves the tides.

“Apparently Magneto got me in the late noughties. Feels like a bit of a pathetic way to go, but diverging timelines, I guess.”

Logan knows that in this timeline, he stuck around for a while after. Poor bastard, he thinks. Having to live those years without you. That’s a misery he understands all too fucking well.

But not any more.

You leave the photo on your dresser, loathe to throw it away, and continue moving furniture to make room for the TV you just bought. Logan hates sharing the one in the living room, especially when the hockey’s on.

Eventually Logan is spending so much time with you he’s barely living at Wade’s any more. You’ve suggested they’d be happy to have him back in the mansion for a “teaching job” like you have, though he knows there’s never much teaching involved, more helping kids learn to defend themselves without too much collateral damage. Still it’s a fair chunk of change better than his current miserable doorman’s salary and it means he’d be living at more sociable hours.

Plus he’d get to move in with you, an idea you’re both secretly happy about.

So he hands in his notice at the bar and packs the scant few belongings he has at Wilson’s into a cardboard box from Bad Dragon, which is strangely the only one Wade could find him (“god Peanut that’s so weird, oh well!”). Looks around the apartment he’s called home for some time, feels not entirely pleased to be leaving it.

“And remember sweetie, if it all goes incredibly wrong and you realise the place you’ve belonged the whole time is on my undoubtedly piss-soaked pull out sofa bed, Al and I will be happy to have you back with minimal taunting.”

Logan fixes him with a look.

“Wilson?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” The word is odd coming from his mouth but not insincere. Wade goes to say something that’s no doubt stupid and inappropriate, however he softens at the last moment.

“Any time. Go get ‘em, tiger, I’m rooting for you.”

You’ve moved your stuff so he can have a side of the closet, and drawers in the dresser, and he resumes his life with you.

It takes only a couple of days for him to settle and realise how much he prefers this. Living with you properly. How, really, he couldn’t stand to be apart from you. How he wants to be there for every second, hear every laugh which drips from you, comfort you whenever something threatens to ruin your happiness.

He falls asleep with you wrapped in his arms every night. Wakes up with you there. Pretty fucking perfect if you ask him.

There’s nothing special about the morning when you first make love except for the fact it’s the morning when you first make love. It’s a border the two of you haven’t quite crossed yet. Almost as if you’re both afraid to make the commitment, like it may break you apart; there’s perhaps an underlying fear that you’re being unfaithful to your partners from your own timelines. That being together like that dishonours their memory.

It’s a salve, then, that the longer you’ve been together the more you realise that you don’t love each other as a stand-in for the ones who died, but entirely on each other’s own merits. He doesn’t look at you and see the body he held in the manor. He sees someone who he’d protect, give his life to, become a dog for because he’s utterly in love with this you, the one who was so happy to find him in the Void, the one who patched him back together when he was at his most broken.

There’s nothing to second guess in this relationship. It is the most solid foundation he’s ever had, and from the way you look at him every morning as if he’s hung the stars, you feel the same.

That morning he’s holding you particularly tight. It’s a Sunday, the quietest day at the mansion, and the two of you are in bed later than you’d usually be. You’re both awake because you’re pressing more and more into each other’s bodies, nestling together like nesting dolls. His arm slung around your waist, hips against the swell of your ass.

You shift slightly and he feels his cock harden in interest. Why wouldn’t it? Most beautiful person in the whole world right here in his bed. He might be old but he’s not a fool.

He’s aware your hips are moving again, pressing yourself into him harder. He lets out a quiet, gruff laugh.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Mmm, maybe I am, Howlett. What are you gonna do about it?”

You squeak with laughter as he surges upwards, pinning your hands to the mattress either side of your head so that he can look down at you. Such a pretty picture beneath him. Hair all fanned out, eyes sleepy and sexy, ready to take in the syrupy-slow pace of the morning.

His lips press into yours softly but firm. You hum into the kiss, slipping your wrists from his grasp so that you can wrap your arms around his broad neck and tug him closer. Your legs slowly match pace, looping at his waist. His cock is free to press against your clothed core now and he doesn’t waste a second of the opportunity; he grinds down, never letting it distract from the kiss for a second, even smiling into it when he can feel the blunt head of his dick catch your clit. You gasp.

“Logan…”

Oh yes, that’s it. That’s the voice. He could listen to you say his name a million times and it would still be the sweetest sound in the whole fucking universe.

He kisses you again and again, getting more fierce now. Tongues slide together and you moan into his mouth. Teeth clack with the force of it. He wants every sense to be drowned in you. Your smell, your taste, your touch. You’re holding him so tightly it’s like you’re worried you’ll just float away from the bliss of it all.

He’d never let that happen. He’ll keep you right here in this bed, forever, if you’d let him.

With a display of telekinesis he’s not expecting, Logan finds himself on his back. You stare down at him with wide, hungry eyes, and he’s never been more turned on in his entire life.

“Can I suck your cock?” you ask breathlessly, and he finds himself huffing out a laugh because fuck, as if you’d ever have to ask. You take his meaning and giggle before you start to make your way down the plain of his chest. A kiss dropped on the top of his pectoral, followed by you moving that sweet mouth around one of his nipples to play with it. Logan huffs and arches into your touch like a schoolgirl. You use your teeth to continue the trail, tracing around his abs - which have become less pronounced ever since he started eating right, and you’ve often expressed your pleasure at this fact - mouthing at where his muscles shape his Apollo’s belt.

Your hand goes to palm his cock through his boxers and he has to make a concentrated effort not to come. It’s been a while since he was touched properly like this, and though he used to be able to go all night when he was a younger man, he truly doesn’t know if he has it in him today.

You seem delighted by this development though. Holding his gaze you slowly drag his waistband down to his thighs, watching in delight as his cock bobs up, half-hard. You take him in hand and pump him lazily, languidly, enjoying every stroke which makes him firmer. You prop yourself up on your free arm, elbow on the mattress and palm cradling your jaw, eyes on him like he’s the show of the century.

“Handsome, handsome, handsome man,” you sigh, dreamily.

“Old man,” he chuckles.

“Not mutually exclusive.”

He has to concede that with the way you’re looking at him like you might eat him alive.

When he feels your mouth around his cock his brain almost short-circuits. It’s warm and wet and willing, your tongue gliding along the thick vein you find there before caressing his head. Logan grunts, fisting the blankets, and a familiar snik has you looking up. You grin around his shaft when you see his claws have popped out from the intensity of his gripping hands.

Pleased, you continue with your work. You bob up and down as the fire builds in his belly, a low heat which is soon bubbling over when he feels you press the tip of your tongue into his slit, humming with pleasure as the taste of his pre floods you. Logan is aware he’s beginning to tighten in a way which suggests that if you don’t stop now things will be over entirely too soon.

Claws retracting, his hand comes to grab your hair. His cock is enveloped in the sweet velvet of your throat, in fact he can feel himself brush against your uvula, and when you look up at him like that he almost gives up completely. He powers through though, carefully guiding you up and off. You wipe your spit-soaked mouth with the back of your hand.

“Oh… was it not…?” you don’t voice the word ‘good’ but it hangs there anyway. Logan rumbles with a laugh.

“Fuck, it was the best thing I’ve felt in years. Wanna fuck you properly, though. Come up here and sit on my face, baby. Need to taste you.”

Your eyes go wide. Like he’s come up with the idea of the century.

“Fuck. Yeah, okay.”

There is nothing elegant about the way you pull yourself up the length of his body, but it is filled with a primal need which is far more sexy. You pause at his abdomen in order to rub your soaked cunt across his abs a couple of times. Fucking the muscles there. You throw your head back in gratification and continue up along his chest before a strong thigh is planted either side of his face.

Looking up at you from his back is his favourite view. Logan wastes no time in clamping an arm around either one of your legs and pulling you cunt-first onto his tongue, you gasp and writhe in delight.

“Oh fuck, Logan!” you hiss. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the voice he wants to hear. All strung out with sex and pleasure because of him. He fucking buries himself in you. Kisses your pussy sloppily, changing his attention from between your clit and your folds, no rhythm to his need. When your fingers scratch his scalp in your need to grab a fistful of hair he thinks he might be in heaven. His hips buck into the air, imagining the action of taking you before he’s even properly started. You start to fuck yourself on his face. Hips grinding down onto his beard, groaning at the stubble there which prickles and pleases.

“I’m gonna--”

“Fuckin’ do it,” he mumbles from between your legs. You cum in his hot, wanting mouth; all the furniture in the room rattles as you let out a little involuntary telekinetic jolt.

You are not done. This was the appetiser. Eyes still ravenous you peel your pussy off of his face, sweeping down to kiss him so you can taste yourself there. Moaning in delight at the musk.

“Wanna ride you…”

“Anything,” he breathes because, yeah. He will do anything you ask, anything you want. He’s a loyal hound at your heel.

When you take his cock it’s with less teasing this time, more intent. Spreading your legs wide you line him up with your entrance and slowly sink down. He wants to grab. Your flesh, the blankets, anything. Sensing his desperation you hold out your hands when he’s far enough inside you and he meets them in midair, pressing his fingers between yours, knuckles white from the effort.

Hips nestle against his. You begin to move.

“Logan…”

Your name leaves his lips in a similar whisper, dragged out through his throat from his very heart. You look down at him, eyes clear and wide and lucid despite the heady pleasure.

“Logan. I love you. I love you.”

Yes, you love this him. Not as a stand in for the Logan you lost, not as some sort of idol on a pedestal, but because you’ve fallen for him just like he’s fallen for you. He is worth loving. He is. He is worthy of you. It is a realisation which hits him with the force of a bomb. He grips you tighter.

“I love you too,” he confesses. He feels his pulse sync with yours from where he’s sheathed inside you, grips your hands tighter because he knows you can take it; you hold him back just as hard. Your hips rock in a wild rhythm as he brings his own up to meet them. It’s hard to know who’s fucking who, it’s wild and desperate and raw, but you keep chanting those words as a manta.

Logan. I love you. Logan. I love you.

He only lets go of one of your hands when he can feel he’s about to finish, dropping it to your clit in order to press rough circles there. You come messily over his cock and he spills inside you, pumping you full of him. Marking you as his.

You collapse into his arms, sweaty and spent. He holds you with arms like iron. Cock still inside, softening now, but he doesn’t want to to break the contact.

You pull back after a moment of breathing together, propping your elbow on his chest.

“Hey.”

He smiles back, a real smile, something he’s not been truly able to produce for years.

“Hey.”

“I meant it, you know. I love you,” you trace a pattern on his collarbone, silly and intimate.

“I know. So did I.”

“Mmm, okay, good.” You kiss him and hum into it. “We should get up.”

“Probably.”

“But let’s not.”

“Sounds fuckin’ good to me.”

You laugh, and oh you are the sunlight.

The summer heat is cloying but Wade has set up some parasols on the top of his building to hide under, he did not specify where he got them but a few local restaurants seemed to be without on the journey back to the apartment. The group of you are definitely not meant to be up here, but with the weather so hot, nobody cares enough to cause a fuss.

It’s a small gathering. Logan stands at the grill because it’s where he’s most comfortable, supervising the chaos. That awful mutt of Wade’s is looking up at him with expectant eyes and, when he’s sure nobody is watching, he throws her a hamburger which she goes crazy for.

And it’s… nice. He didn’t even complain when Wade put on the 1989 album. A few of his old roommate’s friends, a couple of them now mutual - Piotr is a pretty relaxed guy to be in the mansion with, and the two teens who Wade somehow befriended get along with Laura. You’re talking with Peter who for some reason is always at these gatherings but he’s probably the least offensive person here.

He says something which makes you laugh, and you look over to Logan as you both settle. You gesture at the bottle of soda in your hand, an invitation; he nods.

You stand, rummage in the cooler, and close the gap. He eyes the glass bottle of Dr Pepper with disapproval; you give him a playful shove.

“C’mon, be good. You just got your one month chip. Keep it up, we’re proud of you.”

He grumbles his acceptance and takes it. It is pretty refreshing to be fair. He settled the hand he’s not using on the grill around your waist, pulling you so that you settle nice and snug against his flank. You grin up at him, pleased with the show of affection.

“Hey handsome,” you chuckle.

“Hey gorgeous.”

“You make me the happiest I’ve ever been, you know that?”

Day by day he’s letting himself believe it. That he’s the kind of man who could make someone as amazing as you happy, as over-the-moon with joy as you make him.

Before he can answer Yukio appears by the grill, pointing a Polaroid camera in your faces.

“Smile!” she says, and the two of you do, because she’s a nice kid and you don’t wanna let her down. She snaps a photo and watches it quickly develop, shaking it loudly in the air before admiring her work.

“Awww, cute! I hope me and Ellie are like you guys when we’re your age. Here ya go!”

She passes over the photo before skipping away to find her next victim. Logan has to try and hide a laugh at the indignant splutters that are escaping you.

“Our age…?!” you mutter, but soften when you look down at the picture. It’s nice. The two of you make a good-looking pair that’s for damn sure, he can almost understand Wade’s insistence of “letting him watch one night”. But most importantly, the two of you look… happy. With each other. With this slice of life.

“This is a great one,” you declare.

“Yeah,” he says, but he’s looking at you.

When you get home tonight, late by the time you pull up to the mansion, you’ll toe off your shoes as you walk in through the door like you always do, but this time you’ll pause to put this photo in front of the one you found behind the chest of drawers, and Logan will feel content that he never has to be without you again.

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk

#my writing #james logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #x men x reader #logan howlett imagine #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #mcu imagine #wolverine fanfiction #mcu fandom

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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?