Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If someone had told Agatha Harkness six years ago that there would come a day when she would care about the environment and space around her, she would have stared at them as if they’d grown three heads, rolled her eyes, and shouldered past without slowing her stride. Interruptions were an offense. Sentiment was worse. But that was six years ago. Today, Agatha might still roll her eyes if you got in her way, but she would likely stop short of getting physical. Not because she’d softened—absolutely not—but because she’d found a better outlet for the violent currents that lived under her skin. A way to sand down her sharp edges without dulling them. Something… more pleasurable, too. She still couldn't comprehend how she'd gotten so lucky, let alone be allowed to have this. How the universe had looked at her, weighed her sins, and decided to be generous anyway. At first, and for the longest time, Agatha kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, picturing all imaginable scenarios for Rio to turn out dishonest, not loyal, and simply a shitty person. But days bled into weeks, weeks bled into months, and months into years, and Rio was only getting more attached to her, more attuned, more bonded.

Agatha has never identified as someone who needed soft currents in a relationship. She was decisive and independent, she knew what she wanted, and how to get it. And she always got that. Agatha had perfected the art of escalation—pushing things to their apex so smoothly that her partners often didn’t realize how little they’d received in return. And if they did, notice Agatha was only happy to give them a choice: either you accept your role as a provider, a source, a pleasure juice-box, someone who submits to her desires, or leave. Most left. All but Wanda. Agatha was still uncertain what and where—in the grand scheme of things in the vast cosmic grid—exactly had gone wrong, because Wanda Maximoff managed to fracture her inner structure, the carefully established order within her microcosm. And somehow, impossibly, Agatha bent to her will.

Thinking about it now was giving Agatha shivers. She cringed, analyzing how blind she was, how stupid. It was as if Wanda put some kind of wicked spell on her, turning her into someone whom she would usually hunt herself. Like karma wrapped in a hex. It looked bizarre now. Agatha was thanking whatever deities had ripped that thick blindfold from her eyes. She didn't even want to imagine how life could've unfolded if she had stayed. And, truly, she couldn't imagine reflecting on that period of her life now by herself—she would never admit it aloud, but Agatha was only able to go back down that memory lane because she felt safe within Rio's orbit. Because she knew that Rio would never let her stumble and get sucked back in by that hex. No matter how thick that quicksand was, Agatha knew Rio was standing on the bank, waiting—that thought alone was keeping her afloat. Agatha would always, always return to them.

When people tell others the stories about how they met their soulmate, it is usually joyful and fond—the warm memories brought back from the layers of personal lore. Agatha's lore wasn't joyful. No part of it sparked anything fond until a certain point on the grid, responsible for life—until Rio. Still, the story of how she'd met her mate was rather embarrassing, even if it indeed was the catalyst that triggered a brighter era of her life. Those were not necessarily exclusive.

It felt like it was 110 degrees. What is it in Celsius, Agatha? Wanda’s voice echoed in her mind. Ugh. Agatha wondered not for the first time if the ghost of her presence would ever leave her alone. She hoped that running away on this small island would help her leave the past behind. Because what said let's start anew better than drawing your sorrow in rum topped with all imaginable illegal substances in the middle of nowhere?

Agatha was not an alcoholic or a junkie, for that matter. But standing here, at her personal rock bottom—accepting with terror that the past ten years of her life were someone else's game—she didn't see another way to reboot her mind. She needed to disconnect. She needed to stop existing for a moment. Leave the physical prison of her body, and take a breath of fresh air through intoxicated lungs. She honestly had no idea what she was doing. She just knew she needed to leave as far away as her passport would legally allow her. So, that's how she found herself sitting on the shore of a remote island somewhere between South Florida, Cuba, and Bermuda, hoping that the Bermuda Triangle would show mercy and claim her whole with no trace back.

It felt like 110 degrees, and Agatha's skin was melting under the radioactive sun. She was sitting on the coast, in the shade of a tall palm tree, but it didn't help, as it seemed like the air itself burned everything in its vicinity. It grazed her lungs with sharp edges of its heat and set aflame the inside of her essence. Agatha hated it. But a joint in her hand was soothing at least some of her agony, and for that she was grateful for as long as she could comprehend her current reality, which she hoped wouldn't be for much longer. She reached for a drink, long gone hot, resting by her side on a rock that served as a makeshift coffee table, and drained it all in one go. At this point, Agatha was not able to say what she was even drinking—just a liquid erasing agent. No attachment to memory—temporary, no pain. She wished she could make it permanent. But for the lack of better options—any options—that would have to do.

She took the last hungry drag of the remains of the joint, holding the smoke inside for as long as her lungs allowed her, and threw the roach somewhere with no sense of direction. When she finally exhaled, the world softened, and she felt a pleasant wave of euphoria start to spread through her system in gentle waves.

“Could you please pick that up?” A distant voice cut through Agatha’s therapeutic session.

Who the fuck—

Her head snapped up, trying to blindly reach for the source of the noise. She blinked the sun out of her sight and lazily turned. She probably looked nonchalant and carefree, but the truth was that Agatha was so unbelievably high she wasn’t even sure that was really happening. Has someone actually called her out? Or was it that the ghost of her mother—she was sure was locked in the chest with thirteen metal chains around—had somehow resurfaced, making her betrayed by her own subconscious.

But, no. Someone had actually called her out, and now they were standing a few inches away, their hands carefree tucked in the front pockets of their thin, cotton joggers. See, now, that person looked nonchalant. Agatha’s eyes slowly dragged up and down their form: a deep-cut tank top hung loosely from their well-defined shoulders, accenting the trapezius and pectoral muscles. Their hair was short, barely covering the back of their neck, and artistically messy, falling behind their ears in a somewhat overgrown mullet style. There were a pair of green mirror-glass aviators covering their eyes, and Agatha ached to take them off so she could see what color those eyes were.

“Pick that up, please,” they said again, and Agatha saw the gap between their front teeth.

It was annoyingly charming. And it felt as if the person knew the effect they were having, because the next thing Agatha knew, they smiled sweetly at her. Ugh. Agatha hated people like that. Pro-nature activists or whatever bullshit they were preaching. They all were going to die in this dump anyway, so why bother?
But whoever that was, they were also kind of hot. Although it could just be Agatha being high. Weed had historically made her horny. The person was not even her type. Although she wasn’t blind and could appreciate a nice pair of biceps.

“What are you, a cop?” she snarled back. The audacity. Seriously. How dare they? She was trying to drown the mockery that was her life, and they just appeared like some kind of a Greek god, with their stupid, handsome face, and ridiculous muscles, and moral compass. Ugh.

“I’m off the clock,” the person said quietly. Their tone didn’t condone the energy of an argument or displeasure; they didn’t even react to Agatha’s sharp timbre. “I’m just asking you as a fellow tired guy. Please don’t trash my home?”

And at that, they reached for their shades and took them off. Brown. The answer to Agatha’s question was – brown. Their eyes were kind and a little concerned, as if they were trying to read Agatha’s distress from a distance and actually succeeding in it. Agatha swallowed a lump in her throat, which suddenly went very, very dry. She tried to come up with any smart retort, but her brain was too intoxicated to condone any coherent thought that would be worthy of a verbal weapon.

She narrowed her eyes, giving the cop a final glance, stood up, and dragged her body a couple of inches, bending over and picking up the roach. “Happy?” she said, holding it between them as a trophy.

Her world stopped spinning when she felt warm, careful fingers graze hers. “Yes. Thank you.” The cop's voice was barely audible, almost shy—soft. They took the roach from her fingers, gave her a long, deep look into her eyes, and, without saying anything else, turned.

Agatha watched them disappear into the distance, completely stunned, rooted in place. What the fuck was that? She was struggling with analyzing anything at that moment, but she knew one thing—this, whatever this was, made her feel something. Probably for the first time since Wanda left, Agatha felt a very faint flutter of hope somewhere in the depths of her essence.

Her mind kept drifting back to the encounter, to those eyes. As Agatha had stated previously, the cop was not even her type, but—

It wasn't about the appearance. There was something about this person, some kind of flow within them that was tickling Agatha's nerve endings. It felt as if her own soul was reaching out for them for some particular reason Agatha was not able to comprehend. She just knew—on a blueprint level—that she wanted to find herself in their orbit once again. She needed to verify something because she thought she felt something, and it honestly made little sense. She could've sworn she felt safe when they were this close, and she wanted to see whether it was just her overstimulated, drugged brain playing tricks on her, or if that was something reminiscent of a miracle. It was likely the first one, but Agatha wanted to check. What was there to lose, anyway? Her life had already come to shit.

You know what they say, nobody cares what you want. That was probably one of the most accurate truths of all time. The divine cosmic mockery—to let a faint ray of light into the dark room, only to never let you find the source. No matter how focused Agatha stayed, searching the streets with her eyes, she didn't see the cop again. Truly a joke. This town had a population of what, ten thousand people? With only one police station. How was it possible to never run into someone whose job was literally to serve the public again? Agatha gave up in two days, focusing on filling her system with the maximum alcohol reserve instead.

Her head was pounding when she stirred into consciousness the next time. She tried opening her eyes, but her eyelids were heavy and unwilling to bend to her will. Her limbs felt like they were pumped with liquid alloy, and her lungs hurt with every even tiny inhale of air. Agatha had her fair share of occasional hangovers over the course of her life, but this one was the worst one yet. She grumbled under her breath, trying to make her body respond to the outgoing signals. Her mind was slowly awakening, sensors activating, and she suddenly became very aware that there was a pleasant smell drifting into her space from somewhere nearby.

It smelled like home-cooked breakfast: eggs and bacon, pancakes, and definitely coffee. But it also smelled like home. Agatha wasn't sure she could explain it in simple words—it smelled like she was in a loving relationship where her partner was cooking breakfast for both of them, waiting for her to reemerge from their bedroom and greet her with a gentle kiss and a smile. She had clearly overdone the drugs this time, and her mind was fucking with her.

She finally, finally managed to blink her eyes open. She was severely disoriented, not recognizing any of her surroundings. She blinked several more times, hoping it would change the picture before her. It didn't. Agatha had absolutely no idea where she was. She felt her heart start racing. She violently shoved the blanket she was under to a side, and took her form in—she was fully clothed in everything she had worn the night before. She exhaled with relief.

Although that was undoubtedly a good turn of events, the question remained. Where the fuck was she? Agatha shifted on the bed, rising into a half-sitting position, and slowly took in the surrounding details. She was in a small room—not too small to feel claustrophobic, but not large enough to hold more than two people. There was a dark purple, almost black, wallpaper adorned with flowers and vines. A large window with thin, flying, dark green drapes, and minimal furniture set: a queen-size bed with two nightstands on each side, a dresser, a coffee table, and a loveseat. The room lacked any personal touch, so it was obvious I was a guest room. It still felt nice and inviting.

Agatha sighed, wincing at her headache, and swung her legs off the bed. Her shoes were neatly placed right beside the frame. Her eyes caught the crowding on the nightstand, and when she looked closely, she almost yelped in victory—a bottle of water and some Ibuprofen. After washing down two pills, it was time to investigate further. Agatha tried to remember any events of last night, but her mind couldn’t go past the bar. She remembered being there. It was so hot that she didn’t even want to drink anything, but her soul began hurting again, and it didn’t help that she felt frustrated at not being able to “run into” the cop again.

Had some idiot male tried buying her a drink? She remembered being furious. She was unsure what had happened, but there was definitely some kind of chaos. Agatha could feel the faint aftershocks of those waves within her system—the thrill of ragebaiting someone and getting a reaction.

Suddenly, her mind came to a halt as if stumbling upon something. Arms. She remembered strong arms around herself, unyielding and certain. A warm body pressed close, solid beneath her hands. She remembered the way her fingers had curled instinctively into fabric and muscle, grounding herself there. Scent followed sensation—something bitter and sweet, dark and fresh—like a meadow at dawn after a night-long rain, when the earth still breathed, and the sun had not yet burned the quiet away. Safety. And then, as abruptly as it had arrived, the memory faded into darkness again.

Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose as she slid her feet into the sneakers. Well then, wherever she was, it was time to face the music. She couldn’t just stay locked in here indefinitely. And she also was starving, and whoever was there on the other side of that door was cooking something mouthwatering. Agatha had a pretty good suspicion of who she would find outside the bedroom, and she couldn't decide whether she was anticipating it or dreading confirming.

She quietly opened the door and followed the scent. The energy of the house greeted her before anyone else could. It felt spacious and cozy—not that kind of performative comfort with stupid throw pillows and cute clutter, but genuine softness without trying too hard. It wasn't that Agatha was snooping around noisily, but just the overall vibe of the place felt pleasant; it brushed against her skin, warm and settled, like a gentle touch of a lover. There was another bedroom, clearly the master, right next to hers, and a small hall that led to an open area which served as a living room. She tiptoed across the space, as if not wanting to disturb it, catching small details here and there: a wall crowded with black-and-white photographs—candid rather than curated, moments caught mid-laugh, mid-motion, mid-life. A green corner so dense with plants it bordered on excessive, leaves overlapping leaves, pots stacked and hung, and coaxed into thriving. Agatha wondered, not unkindly, how long it took to water them all. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase bowed slightly under its own weight, spines worn, dog-eared, loved. A vinyl player sat beside it, purposeful, not decorative. Whoever lived here had taste in life. Agatha found herself endorsing it.

When she finally got to the doorway of the kitchen, she stopped. Her suspicion had been correct. The cop stood by the stove, one hand steadying a pan, the other stirring something slowly, unhurriedly. Agatha's breath caught in her throat as her eyes roamed over their form: They were barefoot, weight settled comfortably on the balls of their feet. A pair of medium-length denim shorts rode low on their hips, the waistband of boxers peeking out—unselfconscious, comfortable. The fabric hugged their ass in a way that felt rude to notice and impossible not to. A hand towel was slung over one shoulder, falling across sun-kissed skin patterned with winding vine tattoos. Their back was wide and muscles well-defined; it wasn't too massive, like a steroid-use kind of massive, but it was still very impressive. Lean muscle shifted subtly with every movement, distracting in its quiet strength. Their shoulders looked fuller without the tank’s straps cutting across them, and their hair was damp and messy as if they had just taken a shower.

Agatha didn't know how long she was glued to the doorframe, shamelessly ogling them, until the soft, low voice broke her out of her trance.

“Are you going to just stay there and keep staring or come in, take a seat, and have some breakfast?” the cop asked without turning to face her. Their tone was gentle, and Agatha hated how it felt like a light hug.

“Cops can not just take people home like this,” she said dryly, stepping over the threshold of the kitchen anyway. Whatever. Agatha was tired, super hangover, and hungry. If the cop wanted to harm her, they would have done so already, as there were plenty of opportunities. So, she reasoned, why the fuck not—how could this possibly get any worse? “I’m pretty sure this is considered kidnapping,” she added, deadpan. There was no hint of teasing in her tone. She really meant it. Because how dare they? Agatha did not consent to whatever this was.

“I was off the clock," they, once again, didn't bite the ragebait, replying in a calm manner, and Agatha wondered if they were just naturally that patient or it took effort and training to achieve such a level of being put together. "And you were clinging to me." Agatha couldn't see with them turned away from her, but she heard them smile.

“Beg your pardon?" she argued in a somewhat warning tone, finally reaching the table. "I don’t get clingy," she nearly hissed, dropping her ass on the chair with an annoyed huff.

The cop turned off the stove and finally faced Agatha. Her eyes betrayed her immediately, shooting downward, and gluing to their chest. The barely visible top-surgery scars were elegantly woven into a vine design, making them seem part of the composition. The black-and-green pattern ran over their chest and ribcage, curling down the lines of their abdomen before disappearing beneath the waistband of their shorts. The design didn’t hide their body so much as guide the eye across it, inviting attention while pretending not to. And Agatha could not look away. She knew she was staring. There was something disarming about the way they stood there—unguarded, comfortable, utterly unaware of the effect they were having, or perhaps devastatingly aware and simply unbothered by it. Agatha’s thoughts scattered uselessly. Why were they walking half-naked like this anyway?

Several heartbeats passed. Too many.

When it became obvious that Agatha was still silently unspooling every detail of their body, the cop cleared their throat quietly, folded their arms across their chest, and looked at her—amused and so fond. They tilted their head to the side, studying her like she was a curious, harmless thing, and murmured, “You were incoherent and couldn’t provide me with any information that I could use. I needed to get you somewhere safe." They gestured in the air around them. "This was the only place I could think of.”

Agatha watched them scan her face for another moment before they pushed their body off the stove and crossed the distance between them in a couple of steps. They were standing next to the table now, and this close, Agatha could smell their body wash or body spray. She wasn't sure exactly what it was, but it smelled nice—like some tropical fruit with a hint of hibiscus, and a note of something spicy. And after a couple of inhales, she recognized the deep foresty undercurrent from last night. Now, she wondered whether it was even the scent at all, or rather their energy field.

The cop offered their hand with no hesitation. "Rio Vidal. Local Chief of Police and nature enthusiast."

"My, my…" Agatha mocked, "A sheriff? I'm such a lucky gal."

The cop—Rio—frowned slightly. Still, they didn't seem offended in the slightest. "This… isn't the same thing," they softly corrected, shaking their head barely visible. They looked between Agatha and their open palm for another moment, and when Agatha still hadn't moved a muscle, they dropped their hand in defense. A quiet sigh escaped their mouth.

"I didn't know what your preference was," they said in the same annoying, gentle tone, moving away from the table and to the prep table next to the stove. "So I made both." Agatha watched them plate something steamy and had to swallow the growl in her stomach. Whatever. If it tasted half as good as it smelled, she supposed she could accept such an intrusion in her life. "Eggs and bacon or pancakes?" Rio asked, turning to face her at last, holding a plate in each hand.

Agatha's heart did one of those stupid flips. A home-cooked meal has always warmed her soul. She couldn't cook for shit—had no patience for it—so whenever she met a woman who could, it was a free-pass crush. Agatha supposed Wanda had warmed her way into her heart with cooking. Not because she was extraordinary at it—she wasn’t some Michelin chef—but because she enjoyed it. Because she liked feeding people, liked watching them eat. She liked shaping herself into something warm and necessary. Wanda cooked the way some people cast spells: subtle, repetitive, persuasive. She made it feel like devotion. Like family. Like a future that wanted Agatha in it. And Agatha was such an idiot to fall for that manipulation. She felt like she had been outplayed at her own game—it felt dumb, it stung, it was embarrassing. But what's done was done, and now there was someone else standing before her, offering a warm meal and gentle care. Yet, this time, something felt different.

She looked at Rio with focused precision, trying to decode any sign of disingenuity. She found none—their face was open, inviting, and they looked at her with so much affection that for a brief moment Agatha forgot they were strangers. She couldn't quite grasp why they were looking at her that way, but it seemed like they were not going to stop, so Agatha reasoned there was no harm in indulging just a little. And if it were pathetic that she was letting a stranger temporarily take care of her, it was nobody's business but her own. Nobody needed to know what was unfolding at the edges of her mind. Nobody needed to know that she wanted to scream at how starved she was for a gentle, genuine touch that didn't lead to fulfilling a secret agenda—that was historically her move. It was just intoxication, she reassured herself. Too much drugs in the span of a few days. System overload.

"Do I need to choose one?" she asked, trying to sound playful, trying to erase the hostile attitude she'd had before. She could get back to normal after today, but for now, she would take what had been willingly given to her. She was merely answering. This has already been generously offered, and it would've been a waste to turn her back now.

A pleased smile spread across Rio's stupidly handsome face. "I like a woman with a healthy appetite," they teased back softly. And, okay, fuck. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea, after all.

“I waste a lot of energy on overthinking, I’ve been told.” Agatha tried to steer into a more neutral territory. Not because she wasn't interested, but because she didn't exactly expect that, and was unsure what to do with it now. Too much was happening at the same time, and she felt how her already fried brain was boiling up.

But Rio only kept smiling. “You don’t say.” Their eyes sparkled as they placed the plates in front of Agatha.

Was it flirting? Agatha has been locked away from the outside world in that joke of a relationship for so long that she couldn't even remember what flirting is supposed to sound like. Rio was not even the type Agatha would usually go for. But something about how they said that, that subtle energy spark that shot through Agatha's body—it was resurrecting a long amyotrophic sensation. The thrill of anticipation.

“Overthinking things is better than not being able to comprehend them at all.” Was all Rio said. No judgment or arguing – just a quiet fact.

It was so ridiculous. It was making Agatha feel ridiculous. Somehow, this stranger, with whom she exchanged only a couple of lines, seemed to understand her better than a ten-year-long partner. Agatha was not a psychic, but she was almost sure that someone like Rio would've never left her heartbroken over any obstacle in life. Rio was someone one could rely on.

Rio poured coffee into a mug and hesitated for a heartbeat. "Black?" they asked tentatively.

Agatha nearly dropped her fork. "How do you know?"

"They teach us to read people's minds at the cop school," Rio deadpanned.

Agatha blinked. Their face was so honest she couldn't tell whether they were joking or not. "Really?" she asked on an inhale, sounding like a smitten idiot. She cringed internally right away.

Yet it seemed Rio liked it, because it made them smile again. "Sure," they said, softer now.

Agatha sighed, probably with longing. She didn't know what life was anymore. She came here, thinking she knew herself and what she wanted, trying to run away from pain and regain herself… or kill herself—either way would've honestly worked for her at that moment. Yet, it was starting to become suspiciously apparent that she didn't know herself quite as well as she thought she did. You know what they say, we don't meet anyone on our path by sheer accident. So, maybe she met Rio for a reason? Perhaps Rio could be a catalyst to something that had been missing in her life—an ability to stop for a moment, look inward, and actually see herself with no masks or roles. Just see her for what she was for once in her life. Would she like that person? What if Rio were there to help her? Because Agatha was looking at them now, and she couldn't stop herself from feeling. They made her feel something. That has never happened like this before. She wasn't intrigued, of course. This was simply an inconvenience—she felt something, and it felt annoying because it didn't belong in her carefully organized world. So perhaps if she faced it and let it in, it would dissolve; otherwise, it felt suspiciously like hope, and she didn't know what to do with that.

"Black is perfect," she murmured, and Rio didn't waste any more time, sliding the mug next to her plate and taking a seat in the chair on the opposite side across from Agatha.

She looked at Rio forking a massive piece of their pancake stack with excited eyes, and wondered what it would feel like to just… let go? There was no way on Earth that someone who beamed at her with their face stuffed with pancakes and syrup dripping from the corner of their mouth could be an evil, plotting mastermind. Agatha wanted to reach out and wipe that syrup off their face. Preferably with her mouth. She took a deep breath instead. Wherever those thoughts were coming from, she needed to take them back along with all those feelings. So if the only way to get rid of that was to let that in, so be it. You know what the physicists say: when something is observed, the wavefunction collapses. Agatha needed that collapse to erase that dangerous state of multiple possibilities.

"It's Agatha," she said, her tone almost admitting defeat, but it was too gentle for that.

Rio's eyes snapped and glued to her face. They were still chewing through a rather voluminous mouthful, and Agatha had to suppress a chuckle at the image of Rio physically trying to chew and swallow faster so they could ask a follow-up question before Agatha changed her mind. She decided to show them some mercy, since they were so good to her.

"My name is Agatha." Her tone was measured.

She tried to sound kind. Well, as kind as she could muster. Because Agatha Harkness was many things, but unfair wasn't one of them. Despite the popular opinion, she could acknowledge when she was unfair. They had started on the wrong foot, and honestly, maybe there was no reason for her to treat Rio in her usual bitchy way. Rio had rescued her, or whatever had happened there. Agatha was still very unsure, but what she was sure of was that Rio had prevented something unpleasant from happening to her, and she should've been grateful they were there then. Besides, Rio felt good in her orbit—Agatha caught herself thinking that their presence was calming the agony within her current, which was strange…but very pleasant. So, she decided not to question it for now, making herself feel even more conflicted. They could go back to how things were before that, after breakfast, or anytime, really.

Rio finally swallowed their mouthful and beamed at Agatha as if she had given them the greatest gift rather than simply said her name. They reminded her of a puppy who would get excited over any kind of attention. Surprisingly, it didn't annoy her. On the contrary, it felt somewhat nice to have such an effect on someone. Agatha had historically fed on other's energy directed to her. Usually, it meant she thrived on reactions she would get with her rage-baiting, but she had never really considered the other way. Hell, she didn't even know there was another way. But this—Rio—felt like suddenly she discovered there was another deep layer to life, which felt just as pleasant. It was a different kind of 'pleasant', but it didn't change the fact that it was.

"Hi," Rio said excitedly.

Agatha rolled her eyes. How could anyone be such a carefree dork with someone whom they literally just met, and who was initially mean to them? She wondered whether it was a personality trait or whether they put in the effort specifically for Agatha. Which would be stupid since they've just met, right?

"Your teeth are full of food," Agatha commented dryly.

It didn't stop Rio from smiling. "I know."

They stayed like that for a little while, just quietly chewing and stealing glances at each other. It felt nice in a way Agatha didn't think she would ever want—it felt domestic. It should have concerned her, but instead she calmed her mind with I'm just tired and over intoxicated lie again. Tomorrow will be a new day.

"It's actually very good," she admitted quietly. She meant it, too. The food was simple, yet it tasted unreasonably good.

Rio's eyes sparkled, but their tone stayed composed. "You sound surprised."

"I don't know," Agatha hummed. "I suppose I didn't expect a cop jock to be a chef." Her tone came out a bit harsher than she'd intended—a habit at this point. Yet, it didn't seem to have any effect on Rio, as their facial expression never changed, and a ghost of a smile still lingered on their lips.

"When you're a frequent gym goer, you must know our way around the kitchen," they said, shrugging a little. "Kinda goes together. Otherwise, you will never make progress."

Made sense, in a sense. Agatha had heard the phrase abs are made in the kitchen before, though she never really stopped to think about it, since the concept of the gym as a whole wasn't something she was interested in. But sitting here now, it suddenly occurred to her that she wouldn't mind listening to Rio explaining the details to her. That was… new. Agatha wasn't in the habit of being interested in someone else's life beyond what was socially necessary.

"Well. Regardless. It tastes good," she said, trying not sound like it was a big deal because it would've been devastatingly embarrassing.

"Thanks!" Rio beamed, absolutely unaware of the inner battle Agatha was fighting. "My Abuelita's special recipe," they declared proudly, forking another piece of pancake.

How many eye rolls did it take to have your eyes permanently stuck in your eye sockets? Rio's cheerfulness was so annoying that Agatha wanted to jump out of the window. Yet, at the same time, she wanted it to embrace every fiber of her soul, but that, of course, was just a side effect of being intoxicated. Of course, Agatha wouldn't want anything like that once she were sober enough. That would've been utter nonsense.

"Let me guess," she said, "with a secret ingredient that is love."

A wide grin spread across Rio's face. "Oh!" they exclaimed. "You know this one?"

Ugh. Help her, god. Agatha had to roll her eyes again, unable to find a snarky, smart retort in time. Rio looked very pleased and took another huge bite.

Agatha didn't remember when she'd last felt so full. Not in a sense of being full of food, though. That was the case, too, but at that moment, she was thinking of essentially being content. The feeling of being taken care of spread through her system in pleasant, gentle waves, filling every nook and cranny of her exhaustion and elevating her spirit, dragging it out from the depths of agonizing grief. The food was amazing, but even more amazing was the person who made it. Rio was telling her stupid, irrelevant anecdotes throughout breakfast, and their sweet tone covered Agatha's pancakes with a honey-caramel dressing, making them not only taste delicious but also offer the inner warmth of thorough attention. To say Agatha loved attention would've been an understatement. Agatha needed attention to thrive.

They say succubuses were mythical beings. Lie. An elegant lie, disguised as folklore. Our ancestors' oral tradition carried their history, the things and events they had seen—all eyewitness testimony. Back then, they had no reason to lie or make up fairy tales—their sole focus was passing knowledge from generation to generation. Everything the folklore described had once existed, Agatha was convinced, as she was a living example of one of those "mythical" creatures found in various Mesopotamian legends. It wasn't literal, of course, just like the concept of a vampire had never been intended to be literal. It was rather a poetic interpretation of the process of energy draining. Something people would understand to be careful around. Yet as generations passed and the stories' context was lost to the current, there came a day when people no longer understood the true meaning or morals of ancient legends. And in Agatha's case, it was very fortunate, as she could drain blissfully unaware people who willingly walked straight into her waiting arms.

This—whatever this was—didn't feel like "stolen" energy, however. This felt like a different kind of being content. A different kind of attention. Now, Agatha didn't need to rage-bait or manipulate. On the contrary, the attention she was getting now had been willingly offered to her. Not given – offered. And it felt genuine. It felt as if Rio knew exactly what Agatha was and what she needed, and they just happened to have enough of it to share.

She quietly watched as Rio took her empty plate and moved to the sink, washing it right away. No I cooked, so the least you could do is do the dishes bullshit, only a kind smile. Agatha wasn't really sure what to do with all that—it wasn't a well-explored terrain for her. At some point, her brain surrendered to the reality and stopped trying to convince her that the feelings she was experiencing were the byproduct of her life choices for the past week, and she was so utterly exhausted that she simply accepted it. Accepted this reality where a kind, honest person wanted to share their gentle affection with her. She wrapped her hands around the coffee mug, watching Rio settle at their seat again, and sipping on their own coffee, looking at her as if she were the best choice of a sweet treat that was supposed to be offered on the side of the beverage. It felt a little overwhelming. It was also not dissolving. When was it supposed to dissolve once let in?

“I know what you might think," Agatha finally disturbed the quiet bubble that formed around them. "A rich, white brat came here to shit on the soil of your home.” She sighed into her mug. It wasn't that Agatha didn't know how to apologize; she just rarely saw the necessity. And maybe she wasn't very good at it, but she would've never admitted that, of course.

Rio made another sip and put the mug aside with a soft clack of ceramic on the table. “This isn’t what I think," they said in a tone that didn't propose any argument, but a soft contrary fact. "I think – what could’ve possibly happened to this clearly deeply intelligent and multilayered woman to make her feel that this path was the only way to escape her current reality.”

Agatha blinked. The intensity of Rio's gaze was electric. It felt as if the shock waves were running along the current of her bloodstream, making the surface of her skin tingle and the fine hairs at the back of her neck rise. They just kept calmly looking at her, never breaking eye contact. It wasn't possessive or suffocating like Agatha's usual gazes—the ones she wielded as weapons. Its purpose wasn't to establish dominance. It was just a gentle touch, without physical contact, and Agatha caught herself thinking she was reaching out, welcoming it. Now, that was dangerous, and she needed to steer sideways just a little, just to ease that intensity enough she could breathe.

"On a scale from one to I-will-want-to-kill-myself-after-hearing-this, how embarrassing was I last night?" she asked, trying to dye the timbre of her voice with humor.

Rio's eyes moved, cataloguing every flinch of her facial muscles, making Agatha almost sure they could read straight through her. Regardless, Rio played along. "You were alright," they smiled. "Just sad."

"Sad?" Agatha frowned. That was quite a peculiar way to describe someone who was poisoning themselves with booze at a reckless abandon rate. It wasn't not-true, but—

“You tried to kill a man," Rio's amused tone interrupted her train of thought.

“I’ve been told I can be dramatic," she said, nearly dismissively. Rio didn't strike her as someone who would use general descriptions to politely avoid a conversation, so, to tell the truth, she was a bit disappointed.

But Rio chuckled as if they didn't just tell her to fuck off in a nice way, “No, Agatha," they murmured. "You literally tried to murder a man. You broke the pint glass over the bar top and held it to his throat.”

Oh.

“That honestly sounds like something I would do.” Agatha felt relieved because she really didn't want Rio to turn out like everyone else. She wasn't as much relieved to hear that she would've probably woken up in jail had it not been for Rio, but definitely glad it was Rio—
She was losing her train of thought again. Maybe Lilia was right, and she did, in fact, have ADHD, but she would've never admitted that, of course.

“Oh?" Rio's eyes were sparkling now as if the events of last night not only didn't bother them, but made them feel amused. "So, you are one of those crazy chicks with a gun type?”

Agatha couldn’t help it—an uncontrollable laugh broke free from within her, startling her a little. How long had it been since she laughed over anything? And so freely? Rio genuinely didn’t look concerned with her violent, aggressive tendencies—the same ones Wanda had always tried to “fix” in her. No, Rio looked at her with so much adoration that Agatha felt like she was the center of their universe at that moment.

She swallowed, licking her suddenly dry lips. “You are too kind.”

She reached for her mug only to find it empty. Rio, without missing a beat, rose from their chair, gently disengaging it from Agatha's grip, and turned toward the prep area. They grabbed a water bottle from a small countertop cooler and slid it next to Agatha, as if they'd shared the same morning routine countless times.

“There is no reason to be anything but kind when you don’t think about the money or impressing anyone," Rio finally replied, leaning on their chair with another water bottle for themselves.

“You don’t think about money at all?” Because such a notion was a hard one for Agatha to comprehend. Not because she was thinking about the money all the time, but because everyone else was.

Rio took a sip and shrugged. “It’s a small island. All locals live by the philosophy of one human family and help one another however they can. The money I make at my job is enough to cover all my essential needs, and the rest we just barter."

Okay, well. Agatha supposed that made sense. She had never lived in a small community, but Lilia was from one of those small towns, so she wasn't entirely unaware of how they operated—as if they were all family. It was dumb because Lilia tried to incorporate it into their relationship, and Agatha's system categorically refused to yield. Yet, now, it felt different somehow. Despite being the same candy, just wrapped in different foil.

“What about travel?” she narrowed her eyes, inspecting Rio, trying to find a crack. There were no cracks. They were genuinely an honest, kind person, or so it seemed.

That made them smile once again. They smiled a lot. It was very annoying. “I can access the emotions those experiences are usually used for by meditation and concentrating my mind during hardship."

Good lord, they were so weird. Agatha loved it. Simply because that implied that she wasn't the only weird one in the room anymore.

She didn't drink that night, nor did she go out looking for trouble. Instead, she found herself on the doorstep of Rio's house once again that day. Consciously this time. She didn't have a plan. She didn't have a thank-you gift. She had no idea what she was doing at all. All she knew was that she couldn't stop thinking about the cop all day—about their bright smile and gentle touch, about the care she felt just by being around them, and about a horrifying fact that this wasn't dissolving as she had initially predicted, and, what's even worse, that she didn't want that feeling to stop. But before she could knock, a wave of second thoughts swallowed her whole, and she was suddenly very aware of how stupid such an encounter was going to look. But because the universe was clearly performing the great cosmic mockery on her ass, as soon as she turned on her heel to leave, the front door swung open.

"Agatha?"

She heard a slightly confused voice behind her back, and had to squeeze her eyes shut as if it would've helped her to disappear on the spot. She mentally counted four Mississippi, yet the presence behind her remained. Rio didn't say anything else, waiting for her to come through. She swallowed. Okay, well—

She opened her eyes and turned slowly, looking at Rio a bit sheepishly. But as soon as their eyes met, Rio's face lit up, and their signature wide smile spread across their face. It washed over Agatha like a wave of fresh air in a week-old, stuffed room. She wanted to crack open her chest, expose her lungs, and gulp every drop of that pure oxygen until nothing remained untouched. She wanted to jump out of her body, shed her skin, and let Rio embrace the raw blueprint of her configurations.

"Hey," she said instead.

"Hey!" Rio immediately chirped back.

They were so annoying. Agatha was annoyed. By them. By herself. By whatever this was. She sighed. "I don't know what I'm doing here."

She didn't know what she expected, but Rio only took a step aside, opening the door wider for her to enter, and quietly murmuring, "Okay."

They talked almost all night. Rio admitted to feeling drawn to her, too. But they could only offer to be her friend. Not because they didn't find Agatha appealing. On the contrary, according to Rio, Agatha was driving them mad. But Agatha was also a tourist, and no matter how strong that strange bond between them was, she would eventually have to leave home. Rio had had the previous heartbreaking experiences with similar scenarios, and they said their heart wouldn't have been able to suffer the same outcome again—wouldn't have survived this time.

Agatha understood. She understood a series of concerning things at that moment: one, whatever that was was not going to dissolve once observed; two, she was feeling hopeful because her essence could read the code of Rio's essence, run the math, and conclude that they were a match; three, she maybe wanted that match, despite vowing to herself not to get involved in a serious relationship ever again—casual hook-ups only. Yet, no matter how she seemed to be attracted to Rio, she knew that she wouldn't have liked that, either, when they eventually had to part. It was tragic, really. A cosmic tragedy—to finally find someone with whom your soul wanted to fuse in a dance of eternity, only to find out that you are geographically incompatible. Although it was perhaps for the better.

Rio held her that night while they spoke in barely audible murmurs, words dissolving almost as soon as they were formed. Agatha didn’t listen so much as she felt them—the low vibrations of Rio’s voice traveling through their chest, steady and grounding, right into her bones. Her head was tucked beneath their chin, pressed into the solid warmth of their body, held in a way that asked for nothing and promised nothing except presence. And in that fragile pocket of quiet, something in Agatha loosened. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t hope that maybe she could make it. In retrospect, Agatha realized she’d been carrying that night with her ever since. Drawing on it in moments when the world demanded too much, when walking forward without some kind of stimulus felt impossible. She would reach inward and find it waiting—the memory of being held without condition, the steady proof that she had survived once, and therefore, could survive again.

Despite being cursed by the narrative, they made it work as much as possible without hurting either. Or, according to Lilia, they were torturing themselves. Perhaps it was a little bit of both. Agatha returned home but realized shortly after that a part of her had missed Rio. She texted them, they texted back, and soon they started talking every day. Several video calls: always a morning and a bedtime one, and sometimes an afternoon one if their lunchtimes aligned. They messaged throughout the day, and it felt like Rio was always there with Agatha; they remained in the background of her life twenty-four-seven. She could've sworn she felt their presence even when she slept. Lilia called it a long-distance relationship without the relationship part. It was ridiculous. But it helped Agatha to keep going. And so, their not-relationship stayed. And naturally, progressed.

It was a one-year anniversary of their meeting when it had occurred to Agatha, like an epiphany, that there was literally no real reason to why the two of them had to deprive each other of… each other. Yes, they lived in different states—each had an established life at home. Yes, they couldn't just scratch everything in one swift motion and leave their previously built life behind. Only Agatha could. It struck her one night out of nowhere. She just finished speaking with Rio, already in bed, wishing—not for the first time—they could be there with her, holding her through the night, when she stopped in her breathing and thought – they could. Rio had a life on the island that Agatha would've never asked them to abandon, even if they were willing to consider it. Not because Agatha was such a godsend or cared deeply about anyone's life, but simply because Rio fit there. Agatha, on the other hand, did not feel as if she fit anywhere—no matter where she went, she left destruction in her wake. She wasn't saying it in the context of self-pity. It was just a fact—she came, sucked the life out of everything around her, thrived on that high for some time, and eventually was ready to move on to a new object of her interest. So, in reality, nothing was holding her back. Nothing was definitely holding her in Jersey anymore.

Her son had never been born, and her partner, who swore to be by her side for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, had not been able to handle the worse, the sickness, and death, and did them part on their own. So, maybe nothing had ever even held her there, because clearly what had happened with Wanda was one big, long mistake. But she lived. And she could leave. She could start anew alongside someone she trusted, someone with enough energy to feed her needs for the long run. The only question here was whether Rio wanted that, too. And something was telling Agatha that they did.

They didn’t start dating right away, with Rio having been traumatized by the previous experiences when they fell for a tourist just to get left behind after the novelty and exotics for them wore off. In fact, they didn’t date at all. They simply started living together. One day, Agatha just packed her entire house and made arrangements with Lilia. In the event of a positive outcome, she was instructed to ship her belongings to Rio's, and Agatha would begin listing the property remotely, with Lilia in charge of open-house showings and in-person meetings with the realtor. So, that day, Agatha just came over with one simple bag of clothes, and her heart in her sleeve. Even when she appeared on their doorstep, trying to declare her feelings in the best way she could without actually talking about feelings, even then, when Rio knew she was there to stay, it took them some time to get used to the idea. And Agatha was ready to give them something resembling the patience they had shown her all that time. She wasn't ready to wait as long as it took, but she was ready to wait a little while for Rio to adjust, while she plotted her next moves, since she had come, uncharacteristically, with no plan under her belt. It helped that they were in the same orbit now. It helped that they could see each other, touch, and just be. So, they didn't start dating in a traditional way.

They had talked about it—the hypothetical scenarios where they lived on the same soil, shared the same air, and stared at the same ceiling, recovering after a mind-blowing orgasm. So, Agatha knew Rio wanted her, but it was one thing to just talk about it, reasoning that it wasn't something foreseeable, and a completely different thing to face it. Her patience lasted exactly two days. Frankly, Agatha was impressed with herself. Two full days without spiraling into intrusive thoughts about Rio’s hands on her body. It was mainly due to the fact that Agatha hated moving and changing her surroundings—changing her precise order of things. It had always been stressful for her, so it wasn't surprising that her usual greedy appetite took a backseat while they both were adjusting to their new reality in which they got to be together.

Their first night after Agatha's unceremonious move-in act was overwhelming with a lot of talking, some happy tears, and the promise of the future. Technically, it wasn't the first time they ended up sleeping in each other's arms, but it was the first time they knew they would have another night after that. And then another. They didn't get to have a classic honeymoon phase because, since none of that had been planned, Rio needed to report to work at six in the morning the next day, so they didn't get a proper morning after that life-shattering event. Agatha was still half-asleep, taking her time to recover after such an emotional whiplash, and she was only vaguely aware of the kisses Rio showered her with before they needed to slip out of bed and start their day.

They didn’t fuck the following night either. Simply because of the mundane routine of getting Agatha settled in. Rio made her a copy of the house keys. Cleared space in the garage for her car. Rearranged shelves, shifted drawers, and began the quiet process of turning a one-person system into something shared. While all those steps were easy, the preparation took a great deal of energy, and by the time they went to bed, they were physically exhausted. Agatha was just happy to tuck her nose into that deep foresty blanket of a scent that had been haunting her ever since they met, and pass out from the pleasure of being held in strong arms, and the tingling sensation of gentle kisses on the crown of her head, temples, and wherever Rio could reach without pulling their neck muscles.

“I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that you live here now,” Rio said the next evening over a quiet dinner, staring at her like she might dissolve if they blinked. “With me,” they added, softer.

Agatha just hummed in acknowledgement. There was not much that she could say to that, really. They had already discussed her move on the first night. She tried to pour out as much feelings into that discussion as she could physically muster without short-circuiting. She’d done her part, and she thought she performed admirably. Agatha Harkness did not make a habit of offering her inner landscape to anyone, let alone participating in a dynamic built on feelings, so that was as good as Rio would get. In retrospect, Agatha should've known that Rio Vidal had a superpower when it came to drawing the unexpected from Agatha's essence.

“Are you really staying?” Rio asked her with so much hope and adoration in their tone that Agatha didn't know what to do with.

So she did what she had always done best. She deflected. “What, do you want me to put this location in my bio on socials?" she drawled. "My profiles already look ridiculous enough after my teen assistant added my pronouns there.”

Rio shook their head, rolling their eyes just slightly. “Pronouns are not ridiculous, Agatha," they gently replied.

“For you, maybe. Me?" Agatha gestured dramatically. "I prefer people to address me as a threat.”

Rio snorted.

“I don’t know what you're laughing about," she griped. "You'd better watch out for your town, Sheriff.” She poked Rio in the chest with her index finger.

Rio's smile didn't leave for a second, as if they were not intimidated in the slightest. “Again. Not the same thing," they said fondly. They were so annoying. There was literally nothing amusing in any of that. Why were they acting like there was?

“Semantics," Agatha cut sharply.

“Okay, Agatha," Rio said, their tone folding into the energy of the surrender. "I shall take your threat seriously then.”

It was Agatha's turn to smile then. She liked it when people obeyed her. “I’m glad we are building this relationship on the mutual agreement,” she nodded approvingly. "Agreement that I am always right.”

Rio laughed at last. “God, I love you.”

Agatha abruptly averted attention from her food. She knew Rio loved her—it had always been implied, but they hadn’t gotten a chance to speak out loud about it yet. She felt her patience pop, like a soap bubble. Whatever that traumatic past was, she hoped she had what it took to recalibrate Rio's frequency.

She stood from the table without a word. Rio barely had time to register it before Agatha’s hand latched onto their forearm and pulled. They let her move them, rising easily and following her down the hall without resistance, without question. It was a delightful evening—the sun just set, and a young dusk washed over the streets. Rio's house—their house—was in a residential area far from the main streets of downtown, and close to the beach, so it was quiet outside, aside from the occasional, tiny cricket noises, and waves somewhere in the distance. The only sounds inside the house were their footsteps and their breathing.

Agatha kicked the bedroom door open, crossing the threshold in one swift stride, dragging Rio along. They followed quietly, compliant, eyes tracking her as if she were gravity, without commenting on the sudden shift in dynamics. Like a good puppy. Agatha had to take a deep breath and swallow in an attempt to ease her suddenly dry throat. Rio's submission was affecting her. She felt the familiar tingling on the inside of her gut and solar plexus—the rush of endorphins she could only get from power.

She pressed Rio into the nearest wall, aligning their bodies, leaned in, and sucked on their neck—no teasing, no build up, no preamble, only a certain claiming mark. Agatha felt hot palms on her back and a broken moan that escaped the depths of their throat, vibrating into her lips.

"Risking to lose the high of spontaneity," Agatha whispered against slick with her saliva skin, "here's what's going to happen."

She shifted so they could be face-to-face, and lifted her hand, closing her fingers around Rio's neck in a relaxed grip that didn't suggest causing pain, but served more as a reminder of who was in control—though Rio didn't really need it. Their eyes were getting darker with every passing second, yet they stayed perfectly still under Agatha's touch.

"You are going to brush and thoroughly floss your teeth because I don't want pieces of food ending up in my cunt and giving me a UTI," Agatha murmured very close to their lips—close enough to kiss, but holding them still, pressing their head to the wall, and not letting the distance close. "And then you are going to scrub your fingers, while I make myself comfortable. And only when you’re sure you’re in a proper condition to serve the public, you’re allowed to join me." Her thumb traced lazily along their jaw, as the corner of her mouth curved. "Is this clear?"

Rio nodded enthusiastically; their energy was basically jumping out of their skin, eager to comply.

Agatha tightened her grip on their throat. "I can't hear you."

Rio gulped, and Agatha sensed a slight twitch in their throat muscles under her palm. "Yes, ma'am," they rasped.

It was Agatha's turn to swallow because, god damn, they had never discussed any of that. And yet Rio stepped into it so naturally that it almost felt rehearsed. This improvisation—this instinctive alignment—suggested they were far more compatible than Agatha had ever allowed herself to hope.

Agatha didn't normally discuss such things with any of her partners. She acted on her desires, and if things weren't working for someone else, they were dismissed. Agatha didn't like wasting time, especially on something as sentimental as discussing bedroom preferences. She had preferences, but you were supposed to be along for the ride, and if not, you were not riding. Efficiency over negotiation. So, that entire bond thing with Rio was confusing because Agatha had never felt anything of such magnitude toward another living being, and she was a bit out of her element there, and she hated that she couldn’t read the terrain as easily as she usually did. She could only hope Rio would negotiate them both if something went off track because, unfortunately for Agatha, she was in for a long ride. Which, inevitably, meant conversations. About feelings. About preferences. About things she normally bulldozed past. But right then, she didn't want to think about that—that was he future Agatha headache. The present Agatha needed to strip and prepare to feel good.

She briefly considered slipping into her silk robe, but dismissed the idea almost instantly. It would end up on the floor within minutes anyway. No reason to perform modesty when the audience already knew the script. She leaned back against the headboard lazily and let her fingers trail from her collarbones down to the waistband of her panties. Goosebumps rose obediently in their wake. Electricity rushed through her bloodstream, bright and eager.

She fought the urge to move her hand lower and touch herself. It hadn’t been too long since she had sex with someone, but that was definitely the first time she was about to be intimate with somebody she loved. She tried to pinpoint a time in her life when she was in love, but realized she couldn’t. She had a fair share of crushes, had been attracted to multiple people sometimes even at the same time, had been exploding from lust, but love... That was a foreign language to her. She came very close once, not in a sense of romantic love, but love nonetheless. The love she felt for her son was like nothing she had ever experienced. She grew to love him deeply while carrying him inside her body, but the universe decided they could never meet, and took him before she could hold him, before she could even see his face. For a long time, Agatha believed whatever spark of softness she possessed had been buried with him. That something essential had left her body that day and never returned. But lying on their bed now, she felt something bloom within her, and it simultaneously terrified and thrilled her.

Just a year ago, she had been convinced by life, by social standards, by common misconceptions that there was nothing to look forward to after forty, especially not after a tragedy that left such deep scarring on the tissue of one's soul. Yet, Agatha was overwhelmed with the spectrum of various sensations and emotions she was basking in now—all at forty-three. And for the first time in a long time, she was looking forward to what life might have prepared for her.

Finally, she felt a gaze on herself. She had been so deep inside her own head that she hadn’t heard the water stop running. Hadn’t caught the quiet click of the bathroom door. She had no idea how long Rio had been standing there in the doorway.

Agatha watched Rio take her in with a hungry gaze. She hadn't had lingerie on since that was rather unplanned, but her underwear was still a nice pair of dark purple panties and a matching bra. Rio was completely rooted in place, scanning every particle of her essence, and setting her skin aflame.

Agatha dragged her fingers up her own torso, teasingly, and cupped her left breast. Rio's eyes went wide. “Are you going to just stay there and keep staring?” she drawled, parroting their own words from a year ago when they first met, and that steered them into action.

Rio got to bed at the speed of light. It was as if they were by the door one second, and before Agatha could even blink, they were kneeling on the mattress right beside her, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, and cupping her jaw. Their eyes were wide and a little wild, and it sent a thrill down Agatha's spine. She had always enjoyed sex, but one of the things she thought had been overlooked by a lot of people was that feeling right before sex—the sensation of being wanted, devoted, the anticipation of what was about to come. That thing alone was filling Agatha with a substance science had no name for yet. It was likely highly radioactive, poisonous, and dangerous. And it was spreading through her veins, making her feel absolutely feral, and shredding her patience, reducing it to negative two.

Rio was staring into her eyes, visibly vibrating as if they were dying to devour her, but waited for the explicit permission. Agatha reached out, intending to grab the collar of their shirt and yank them closer. But when her fingers brushed their collarbones, there was no fabric. Only warm, bare skin.

"Who said you were allowed to strip, pray tell?" she asked, raising her eyebrow. Her sharp fingernails started tapping a random rhythm over the bone, and she could sense Rio's heartbeat accelerate.

Rio's own eyebrows shot upward in a comically guilty expression. "I—" they licked their lips and bit into the bottom one.

Agatha tilted her head in amusement. Rio blinked at her, looking sheepish as if being caught doing something they shouldn't have. They hadn't said anything else, and Agatha felt a fresh bolt of arousal wash over her at the acknowledgment of how obedient they had already been. She felt the sharp thrill tickling her nerve endings as the thought of all the different scenarios they could and hopefully would explore in the future.

With nothing at her disposal to grab onto, she closed her hand around Rio's throat again and pulled. "If you wanted me to punish you, all you needed to do was ask, baby," she whispered, low and wicked, before crashing their lips together.

The first orgasm hit Agatha like a tsunami—violent, disorienting, merciless. It tore through her without pattern or warning, ripping the air from her lungs. She spasmed so hard, Rio couldn’t move their fingers for several beats. Their hot breath caressed her neck as they nuzzled its length, placing tender kisses on the buzzing with pleasure skin.

“I’ve got you, amor,” they whispered, “you’ve done so wonderful for me.”

Their voice wrapped around her like velvet. Like a weighted blanket pressed to trembling limbs. Agatha felt their thumb gently stroke her pubic bone. It wasn’t meant to tease or arouse, but ease down. Rio never stopped kissing her—any spot of her body they could reach from that position—and whispered sweet nothings, how amazing she felt, how pretty she looked, how happy she was making Rio. Agatha absorbed the attention like cracked earth swallowing rain.

After several moments of basking in Rio’s tenderness, she felt her vaginal muscles start to unclench around them, freeing their fingers. But just as she thought they’d pull out, and began preparing her body for the loss, Rio curled their fingers, pressing onto her G-spot just at the right angle, in time with their thumb circling her clit, and a new wave of pleasure swallowed Agatha. A growl ripped from her throat, low and animalistic, reverberating through the quiet bedroom.

Agatha knew she had won a fucking lottery the second Rio’s fingers entered her. They fit perfectly inside, were long but not too thick, and the pads slightly calloused, adding a sinful friction that made every thrust drag in the most delicious way. Rio also knew how to use them. It felt as if they had somehow obtained the blueprint to Agatha’s body and were already aware of all her sensitive spots in advance. They were rough when she needed a grounding force. Confident with their pressure. Then impossibly gentle once she tipped over the edge. They adjusted without instruction. Slowed when she tensed. Pressed harder when she arched. Changed rhythm when her breath stuttered. And as Agatha was rapidly approaching her second orgasm—still shaking from the first—she declared, internally and with absolute authority, that Rio Vidal was the best lay she’d ever had. Hands down. Agatha was not the one to give that title easily—one had to earn it. And Rio totally did.

Wanda had never been particularly good with her fingers or straps, for that matter. She’d always defended her lack of skill with Agatha’s sensitivity, claiming it was impossible to locate her clit, and find the right pressure for vaginal stimulation. She always joked that Agatha was insatiable and, therefore, was impossible to satisfy. Yet Rio seemed to be navigating her like calm waters. No hesitation. No confusion. A double orgasm, Agatha noted, chuckling wickedly. And the second one arrived hot on the heels of the first because Rio guided her there with frightening precision.

Agatha forced herself to refocus on sensation instead of drifting toward old comparisons. This was not the time to drag ghosts into the room. She hoped that with time, Rio would weed out any of them from her memory and rightfully claim all the possible nooks within her mind.

Rio pressed against her front wall and made a tiny circle with her thumb, mirroring the internal motion, and Agatha… nearly blacked out. The fuck was that? She made it to forty-three years without having the slightest clue she had an erogenous zone in that spot.

Her back arched violently, and she fisted a handful of Rio's hair. "Do that again," she nearly screamed, her tone was demanding, urgent, and sharp.

Rio nibbled at the thin skin of her neck lightly, soothing it with their lip in not quite a kiss soft press—a contradicting gentleness to what their fingers were pulling out of Agatha.

"This?" they asked breathlessly, repeating the motion.

Agatha had never been the one to climax fast. She liked to drag it out, slurp every quark of pleasure, and savor it. Whatever the fuck that spot was, and the fact that Rio had found it so effortlessly, sent her crashing into another powerful orgasm. She moaned loudly, thrashing her head from side to side, and felt gushing on their fingers.

Rio slowed down a little bit, but didn't stop moving otherwise, lightly caressing her overstimulated flesh, and peppering her face, neck, and collarbones with sweet kisses. Agatha just had two toe-curling orgasms back to back, so it took her by surprise that the obscene sounds their collision was making were setting her blood to boil as if she had already fully recovered.

As if sensing that she was ready to go again, Rio shifted, leaning back a little, and made eye contact. Their pupils were blown wide and covered the entire eye; Agatha was sure hers were no better. Their lips were swollen from all the kisses they'd covered her with, and biting. And their gaze was so hungry that when their eyes met, Agatha felt herself contracting, grabbing the length of their fingers into a tight hold. That made Rio moan, and they twitched, swapping Agatha with yet another wave of arousal.

"How are you feeling?" Rio asked. Their voice was hoarse, and they sounded like they'd just run a marathon.

How did Agatha feel? Fucking ecstatic. She also felt like a total idiot because they could've been doing this for a year now, if they hadn't decided to play a 'we can't be together' bullshit game first. But saying those things aloud would've been a gross oversharing of feelings. So, instead, she said, "Good. Don't stop."

Rio grinned, "Wouldn't dream of it."

They were perfectly compatible, Agatha thought later that night, or rather early morning, finally recovering from the orgasm train that Rio so masterfully gifted her. She had lost count somewhere around orgasm number four, and Rio's tongue vibrating deep in her core. Now, hours later, her entire body was buzzing with euphoria, and her muscles were turning to jelly. Agatha couldn't remember the last time she'd been fucked so thoroughly, and could only hope that it wasn't just a fluke—an adrenaline outburst at the prospect of pleasuring her for the very first time, and Rio Vidal was actually like that. That was the last semi-coherent thought she had before passing out on their chest.

Living with Rio was everything Agatha had imagined living with Rio would be like. Everything she'd never known she wanted in life—a supporting partner who understood her even without talking, especially without talking, especially when she was being difficult, who took care of her, but let her always stay in control—Rio was ticking all the boxes. They went to sleep, tangled together, inseparable all night long. They woke up together—Rio would always let Agatha sleep a little more after showering her with kisses while they prepared breakfast. They ate, and sometimes Agatha would totally distract Rio from getting ready for the day if their shift didn't start until later in the morning. They've made the mistake of letting themselves get lost in each other, making Rio late for work a couple of times, and they've learned their lesson.

Agatha didn't need to work, per se—she was more than comfortable with her passive income from her company running autonomously, so instead, she reasoned she would help Rio around the house. She was not opting for a position of someone's housewife, mind you—she still monitored her stocks and helped Lilia and several other accounts. So, technically speaking, she was still working, but remotely, and off the scheduled normalized workday. Still, Rio was doing everything, and since Agatha was determined to eventually bind their souls, it was only fair that she took some slack and helped carry the load of mundane, material-world chores.

According to Rio, there was no problem, and they could do anything on their own—had been doing their entire life. But according to Rio, nothing ever was a problem. That was just who Rio was—they helped everyone and anyone, taking care, not expecting anything in return. Agatha supposed it was a habit for them. She had never been with a butch before; hell, she didn't even know what a butch was before she met Rio, but the puzzle pieces were slowly slotting together as time passed, and Agatha could see that being that way was simply in Rio's nature. Still, they were building this life together, and she wanted to help because she was aiming for equality in this relationship.

Slowly, Rio taught her to cook. She still had no patience for complex meals, but she could feed them now in case something happened and Rio couldn't cook. Agatha hoped nothing of that nature would ever happen, though, but the fact remained—she was capable of feeding herself and her partner now. If it wasn't way too hot, Agatha would even help in the garden; other times, she would take over the chores inside—ordinary, boring things like laundry, or dishes, or dusting. Days bleed into weeks, and looking back, Agatha could proudly say that they were building a decent life together. Yet one major thing remained untouched.

No matter how filthy their intimate moment grew, no matter how many times and how hard Rio was making her come, they had always stopped before her hands could dive into their boxers. The major thing that remained untouched was Rio.

Agatha could've gone full dramatic diva with hurt feelings, saying how it was driving her insane, but that would've been more performative than genuine. Not because she didn't care. She did. But she was also getting so many orgasms that it felt almost strategic. As if Rio was deliberately wringing her out—leaving her blissfully satisfied, boneless, and completely drained so she’d have no energy left to redirect the attention. Agatha wasn't sure whether there was a particular reason for that, or if it was a coincidence, or if Rio was waiting for something. And if they were… for what? They were both in their forties. It was objectively absurd to hesitate at this stage. They've already lived together, they've declared their love for each other, and they both knew this relationship would be their happily ever after. Still, Rio would freeze whenever Agatha's hands tried to slip beneath the waistband of their boxers, so what other choice did she have but to retreat, kissing them softly instead.

She still wasn't sure whether it was because there was some kind of traumatic past—she sincerely hoped there wasn't. Thanks to Teen and his relentless attempts to modernize Agatha’s vocabulary, she was familiar with the term stone, and the more she observed Rio’s patterns, the more they resembled the descriptions. Alternatively, Rio could've been an asexual—she prayed they weren't. She would, of course, have learned how to navigate that, adapted, and loved them accordingly, but she secretly wished that they would let her fuck them soon and frequently because while Agatha's pleasure was the number one priority for her in any relationship she'd ever had, she, unfortunately, loved this his one. Ugh. Love was making things more complicated than they should've been. Because love made Agatha consider someone else's feelings—Rio’s feelings. She didn't even do her own feelings! But love was peculiar, and so Agatha waited for Rio to be ready to start talking about whatever it was that was making them hesitate.

Chapter Text

They had been together for a little over a month when Agatha finally secured a solid deal on the house. They stood at a pivotal moment—because after she sold the house, there was no turning back—and while she was confident in Rio and their bond, she still wanted to claim that final seal. She's been patient enough—not pushing this entire time. At this point, Agatha thought Rio might have been just overthinking everything. So, she would have to be the one to bring that up. And even if it meant discussing feelings, fine. She could do the feelings part if it granted her the breakthrough. Because they couldn't keep going without being intimate in every aspect of their relationship. Yes, Rio was making her feel safe and content with the way they had been taking care of her. Yes, Rio was attentive to her needs and had been giving her the most incredible orgasms, which left her pleasantly buzzing for hours afterward. Yes, Rio was amazing in terms of emotional availability, and their emotional intimacy was something Agatha had never thought she would be capable of cultivating in this lifetime. Yet Rio made it so easy and natural that she didn't even notice how she fell into that rhythm.

They talked a lot before they started living together—that was the backbone of their relationship. Yet now that they were in close physical proximity all the time, Agatha noticed they didn't always need the verbal means to communicate. At some point, she wasn't even sure when, they started sensing each other on some deep, molecular level. Their communication started to rely more on that invisible thing between them, that energy or whatever it was. They communicated through their eyes, touches, the rhythm of their breaths, the timing of their blinks, and the beating of their hearts, which synchronized two melodies into one shared current. Agatha wasn't sure how it worked exactly, but she just knew she felt what Rio needed at any given moment, and so did Rio when it came to Agatha's desires. It didn't apply just to sexual needs; it traced everything they were doing daily—Rio knew when she needed more salt with her meal, they knew when she required a bath, and when just a shower would do, which blend of coffee she wanted on a particular day, and how she wanted to spend their evening. But, of course, it was the most prominent in the bedroom. Agatha could swear that sometimes, Rio could sense she wanted something even before she felt that herself. And even though Agatha herself didn't do well with feelings, she came to learn that she sensed Rio quite accurately, too. Maybe not to such an extent as being able to tell which kind of eggs they were in the mood for, but still pretty on point. So, she knew Rio wanted her—could feel it in her bones.

Over the weeks, their physical intimacy deepened. Agatha couldn't complain about Rio's ability to sate her in the bedroom. Surprisingly, that kind dork knew how to play her body as if it were a perfectly tuned instrument in the hands of a visionary. When Agatha allowed her mind to drift, she found it bizarre that they had only started fucking a month ago—Rio had been attuned with her body so well, it felt as if they had been together for years, if not decades. And for the first time in her life, Agatha Harkness was sexually satisfied. Somewhat. She always wanted more by default—that was her nature. But Rio had been nourishing her with just enough to last until her next fix.

Naturally, the deeper their connection grew, the easier it was for Agatha to open up. She still couldn't sincerely talk about her feelings, but she began taking steps in that direction. For instance, she could now register that she could've said something at a particular moment. She still hadn't said anything nine times out of ten, but there was that one time when she did, and that counted for something. She tried. One feeling at a time. Rio was incredibly patient, providing her with the certainty of safety and security. So, of course, Agatha wanted to be the safe orbit for Rio in return. Not because someone had been keeping track of the score, but simply because it felt right.

In the grand scheme of things, Agatha didn't mind being a pillow princess—thanks to Teen and his extended vocabulary tutorials. She didn't necessarily mind using Rio—normally, she would take any pleasure that was given to her. In case with Rio, however, she wanted to share this experience. Historically, Agatha treated the act of returning the attention precisely as the act of returning the attention. It was fair—she had been given pleasure, and she found it perfectly logical to give some pleasure in return. Sex had always been like a business transaction to her. Yet now, with Rio enveloping her in that mind-blowing, soul-shattering, transcendental experience, she caught herself thinking that she felt as if she wanted to give just as much. Ugh. Agatha was really not the biggest fan of that love thing. It was making things she knew she'd known how to navigate harder than they should've been. Why should she care about Rio's feelings? Why was it so damn important for her all of a sudden to make sure they felt safe with her to give her pleasure? It was driving her crazy the more she thought about it, and the more they refused to give her full access to their body.

She felt it immediately, when the time had come—when Rio had finally grown ready—they both felt that. They just needed a little push because it seemed they ran themselves into a corner inside their own mind, and Agatha needed to pull them out just like they had been pulling her out of her dark moments this whole time. Because apparently, love also taught equality and companionship that suddenly seemed so damn easy. Agatha wondered if that had always been that easy, and she was just with the wrong partners to recognize it. Or whether she was the wrong partner for others all along.

Regardless, she approached the matter at hand in her classical manner—with the multi-step plan. Step one: a nice dinner. Despite knowing her way around the kitchen now, Agatha rarely cooked complete meals. She could help Rio here and there, but it was still primarily Rio's responsibility to feed them. So, when Rio returned home that night to a fully cooked, three-course meal, they got a little suspicious. They got very suspicious.

"What's going on?" They narrowed their eyes, scanning Agatha's face, as they entered the kitchen.

Agatha fluttered her eyelashes, smiling mischievously. "Can I treat my partner to dinner?" She pouted slightly, walking into their waiting arms, and glided her palms over their shoulders and up their neck, burying her fingers in their gel-slick hair, fusing it out of its caged style.

"Of course, you can," Rio murmured, leaning in. "But what is it that you want?" they whispered over her lips.

"Why, a woman cannot do a good deed now?"Agatha asked with a mock offense.

Step two: get Rio to talk. It didn't really matter what they were talking about as long as they were talking. Agatha could steer it in the direction she needed from any point of conversation.

Rio rolled their eyes affectionately and closed the distance, pecking Agatha's lips so softly she wanted to physically hurt them because what was that tenderness? She needed a spark to fuel her breakthrough.

"A woman can," Rio murmured, leaning back. "But you are a manipulative, highly sophisticated mastermind." Agatha felt their palms glide down her spine, lightly grabbing her ass, and the action nearly made her purr. "You don't do good deeds just because. You always have an agenda behind it," Rio continued, hands full of Agatha's ass now, gripping and pressing, and making their bodies merge. It felt too good. "And right now you want something. What is it?"

They held her so close, breath ghosting over her hungry lips, that for a second, Agatha forgot about her plan and just wanted to dissolve in the attention. She felt Rio's grip tighten, and a bolt of arousal brought her back to the matter at hand. Talk. She needed to make Rio talk about this. About sex. She pressed their mouths together, softly nibbling at Rio's bottom lip until they parted them, giving Agatha access. She licked into their warmth possessively, grabbing a handful of their hair, and heard them half-whine, half-moan.

They kissed for a few beats. There was nothing soft or gentle about it. Their energy was edging them both up, electrifying their nerve endings. Agatha was the one to break the kiss, tugging Rio's lip with her teeth. And when Rio finally did whine, she smirked.

"I just want to have a pleasant night with you, baby," she purred. "Indulge me?"

Rio nodded like a dumbstruck puppy. "Anything you want," they rasped, moving their hands from their ass and back up the length of her back. Agatha felt gentle fingers start playing with her hair at the base of her neck, and leaned into the touch. "Anything. Always," Rio whispered, pressing their foreheads together in the physical seal of approval.

It had never ceased to amuse Agatha how they could just go from horny to tender in a span of a moment. She supposed that was one of the perks of being with someone your age and being on the same page. She stepped out of Rio's embrace and grabbed their hand, tugging them toward the table.

"This feels nice," Rio said with a soft, satisfied sigh once they were comfortably seated, had finished their meal, and had been served a dessert kiss. "I could get used to this."

"Well," Agatha murmured. "What if you actually would?"

Rio's eye widened just slightly—anyone else would've missed it, but Agatha knew their facial expressions too well by now. "What do you mean?" They asked tentatively.

"I have a deal on the house," she replied quietly, as if not wanting to disturb the energy field of suspense.

Agatha watched in real time as Rio's expressions changed through a full palette in less than thirty seconds: surprise, excitement, a frown, sadness, confusion, calculation, and something that resembled defeat. Agatha felt her heart drop, but before she could open her mouth and say something stupid like she thought they wanted the same thing, Rio spoke.

"I wanted to propose to you—"

"You what?!" Agatha didn't mean to raise her voice or interpret, but what the fuck? They haven't discussed that even in theory. Yes, they were both past the typical marriage age, with Agatha being forty-three and Rio only two years behind. Yes, they both knew they were headed in that direction, but they had only begun fucking a month ago, for god's sake. It wasn't that Agatha didn't want to tie the knot with Rio; she just didn't expect such a pivot in their dynamic so quickly, with no prior warning.

Rio reached out across the table and took her hand. "I wanted to propose to you before you sell the house," they said softly as if they didn't just shift Agatha's entire equilibrium with one line. "Wanted us to do everything by the book, since we've already messed up the order quite significantly," they chuckled softly, absentmindedly playing with her fingers.

Why were they still sad then? Agatha was so confused. "I don't want any books," she tried to reassure them. "I just want you, baby."

"You do?" Rio's eyes sparkled, hope filling every cavity of their aura and their shared egregore.

"I abandoned my life to come live with you here, you idiot," Agatha puffed. Her fingers were playfully fighting for dominance with Rio's, but she was subtly giving them a chance to win. They could have this one, because it was very unlikely Agatha would let them win at anything bigger in life from now on, but here, now—in the quiet warmth of this soft moment—Rio could have a win.

"Yeah, but was it because you like me, or because you like like me?" They grinned.

"I'm going to fucking murder you," Agatha mused under her breath, standing up and pulling Rio with her. "Where is my pint glass?"

Rio laughed, and any trace of sadness dissolved in those ultra-waves, embracing them both in something warm and bright instead—a promise of tomorrow. "Well. You should marry me first, so you could inherit this house and break it even,"

Agatha tilted her head to the side. She felt playful, amused, happy, and suddenly very young. "Ask me," she said quietly, all silly vibes now vanished from her tone. She pressed her palms to Rio’s chest, giving a hint of a push.

Rio gulped. Their eyes were wide, but so, so bright. “I don’t even have the ring,” they said sheepishly, obeying Agatha’s commanding gravity and letting her start walking them backward.

“I don’t want a ring,” Agatha cut in, making a few more steps until Rio’s back hit the nearest wall.

“But the ring exists!” they argued softly. “The jeweler is putting the final touches on it.”

Oh.

Agatha wondered how long Rio had been thinking about that. Had they known they wanted to marry her when she moved in? Had it been before that? It was making Agatha feel special—knowing that Rio made arrangements, took action, prepared for the proposal. It felt nice not just to be wanted, but to be wanted. Rio was staring at her with those huge brown eyes full of awe, tears, and love, and Agatha felt butterflies start filling her stomach. Ugh. Love. Love was making her feel carefree and stupid. It was very annoying. Pleasant, but annoying nonetheless.

“Okay, then. I want the ring,” she smiled, sliding her hands down Rio’s torso, and possessively gripping their hipbones. “But we can do the ring later.” She felt Rio’s heart picking up speed even with her palms redirected.

They licked their lips and looked into her eyes nervously, just a second before Agatha’s thumbs began rubbing a soothing, circular rhythm over the waistband of their pants. There wasn’t anything sexual about the motion—Agatha meant to calm instead. She didn’t break eye contact for a second, matching her breathing to Rio’s, and trying to radiate pleasant pheromones. Some of that seemed to be working because Rio began easing down from whatever inner turmoil they’ve gotten into.

At last, a faint smile tugged at their lips, and they moved their arms to drape them over Agatha’s shoulders. “Marry me?” they asked softly. Their tone was bright and easy; it felt delightful, dyed in hopeful hues, as if they had already painted their lives together and loved the picture to the moon and back.

Agatha had never been married—she and Wanda had never made it official, which she was tremendously happy about now—so she had no experience with proposals. Something was telling her that she would've absolutely hated the traditional stand-on-one-knee way, and Rio, of course, sensed it. Because that was what Rio did—they read her like their favorite book, the plot of which they've already learned by heart, yet kept basking them both in undivided attention.

That was it—the end of an old era and the beginning of a new one. When Agatha had thought about significant events in life before, it always overwhelmed her a little because she liked her carefully orchestrated order, maybe a bit too much. And when she was thinking about marriage as a concept before, she could never grasp what moved people to share their life and everything they had in it with another living being. Standing there with Rio's pulse drum, a steady rhythm under her fingertips, felt so much different from that, however. With Rio, it didn't feel like cutting something off and being forced to share, but the opposite—it felt like adding to what she already had. Rio empowered her instead of draining. Rio made her more. And Agatha had always wanted more. More of anything. More of everything. More of this, too. More.

“Do you think you can handle me till death do us part?” she smirked, pressing Rio even more into the wall.

They didn't hesitate even for a second. “I can handle you.”

And Agatha had to admit that their confidence was hot. Still… “What if I have been holding back and am actually much more violent and possessive?” she asked. Because that was true to some extent: while she wasn't hiding herself around Rio, knowing they would accept her for what she was, Agatha still held back whenever it came to sex. This terrain was still new to them, and she wanted to ease Rio naturally into the currents of her inner tsunami.

So far, she'd been quite pleased with how they responded, and it seemed Rio didn't need to be treated with ease at all, for the next thing Agatha heard was, “God, I hope you are." Rio's tone was a bit breathless and dreamy, and Agatha's brain short-circuited. What?! "I hope you are, and you will claim every single molecule of my essence.” Rio’s fingers were now combing through her hair, lightly scratching the scalp. Their eyes were becoming darker with every word, and Agatha could not believe she had overlooked that Rio Vidal, the tough cop, the provider of stability and security, was, in reality, a pathetic, whiny mess. It set her in the inferno, skyrocketing her arousal from regular, in its passive form around Rio, three to twelve in the blink of an eye.

Step three: steer the conversation into a rather dangerous territory and proceed with seducing. And at this point, this one was playing itself out without Agatha even needing to press any buttons. That's how she knew it was the right time. They both knew it by now, and she could clearly see it in Rio's dark eyes—it was beaming in her direction as a beacon in the darkness of the stormy sea.

Agatha's fingers twitched as she moved them upward from Rio's hip bones to the waistband. She grabbed the tucked-in shirt fabric and made eye contact. Rio was breathing hard, their own fingers flexed in Agatha's hair, sending an electric shock down her spine. She tugged at the shirt lightly to test it. Rio's breath hitched, and their throat bobbed with a rather hard swallow, but they didn't say anything or stop Agatha. They haven’t discussed any safe words or nonverbal signals yet, but given the depth of their bond, Agatha knew Rio would find a way to tell her if they weren't comfortable moving forward, just as they had before. And so she went ahead and freed the bottom front of the shirt from under the belt of their work pants.

"So, tell me, Sheriff," Agatha murmured, leaning in and breathing over Rio's already parted, waiting lips. "Are you willing to become my little bitch if I marry you?" Her fingers hovered over the button row in the middle of the shirt, teasing the very bottom one.

"I already am," Rio whispered, and Agatha physically felt a fresh wave of arousal wash over her.

This was different. They had never talked like that in depth before. Some minor things slipped here and there, especially during the heated moments, but they haven't really had a sit-down-and-address-the-whole-thing discussion yet. In the background of her mind, Agatha had always run through different scenarios for how to introduce that side of her to Rio and how they would react. She had not anticipated Rio to be the one to bring it up first, and not just in an acknowledgment, but as something they were thrilled over, just like she was. She truly couldn't believe that the universe or whatever deities were out there had let her have this—someone who not only understood her fully and was the perfect match for her in everyday aspects, but someone who seemed to be in perfect sync with her sexual fantasies and needs.

Step four: act. The act itself wasn’t new to them—they’ve been progressing on the journey of their physical intimacy. Weeks passed, and they grew more and more comfortable around each other. There was less and less stiffness. Well, Rio was getting less stiff; Agatha had never had any issues with sex in any kind of scenario, but apparently, love was making one empathetic, and so she noticed that Rio's stiffness was reflecting in her in a way. But time passed, and they were learning all the spots on each other's bodies that felt good, which ones were electrifying and caused moans, and which should be avoided—thankfully, there weren't many of those. Agatha herself was pretty open-minded when it came to sex; she was willing to try anything if she and her partner were compatible enough. This one was a bit over just enough, and every time Agatha thought about it, she felt a smile forming at her lips. She wasn’t sure she believed in the concept of soulmates, but Rio was definitely making her want to open her mind to this postulate, too. So, yes, Agatha was down to anything Rio wanted to do, but she also hoped they would let her do what she really wanted to do—the specific ways of getting pleasure she needed to thrive.

Standing there now, with Rio declaring they wanted to be consumed by her, Agatha felt overstimulated by the anticipation of those desires being met with open arms and an excited soul. She couldn't wait any longer—enough was enough. She made a step back from Rio, letting their arms fall off her shoulders and by their sides. Rio didn't have time to frown as Agatha grabbed their hand and tugged them along as she marched toward the bedroom.

Rio's house was a one-story, compact, two-bedroom cottage with a large backyard and a garden. They didn't have a pool, explaining that they preferred their soil to be used for something that could be beneficial. And the garden was beneficial not only for Rio. They traded their vegetables and crops with locals for other farming products. Agatha liked to tease them, saying they lived a Stardew Valley life, but she secretly enjoyed it, too. It was easy and well-paced. Nice. Wholesome. And that energy was seeping into everything they did. Even now that Agatha was extremely horny, she could still feel those pleasant waves of tenderness radiating not only from Rio, but herself. She never showed how soft it sometimes made her feel, although she was almost certain Rio knew. Because Rio knew her like the back of their own hand.

When Rio's back hit the kicked-shut door, Agatha didn't waste another second and attacked their lips with a hot, nearly desperate kiss. As her tongue was sliding over the roof of Rio's mouth, she felt a pair of hot palms circle her waist, gliding over her lower back, and pressing. She collided with Rio's body happily—that was the only place in the whole universe she wanted to be at the moment.

Normally, Agatha would've already had her thigh between her prey's open legs by now, but this was Rio, and Agatha might not have been a psychic, but she just knew that was something she shouldn't do. Instead, she maneuvered her arms, snaking her hands between their warm bodies, and resumed her task of unbuttoning Rio's shirt. They'd done that before. Rio didn't seem to have a problem with being stripped up to their boxers; that's the boxers part that was the block. So, Agatha didn't expect them to stop her just yet, as her fingers kept a steady rhythm, and their kisses were getting more sloppy. Rio's own hands only pressed her body into theirs harder—as much as the current position could allow.

Agatha felt a shiver run down her spine. That was it. That was finally happening. She deserved a fucking award for how patiently she'd been waiting! The final button was finally conquered, and Agatha's palms magnetized to Rio's bare chest. At the first contact, their skin immediately broke into goosebumps, and they let out a small moan when Agatha's fingers grazed their already stiff nipples. Rio's nipples were extremely sensitive, and had always been that way even before the surgery. It usually took a few minutes of intense kissing and just a light brush of fingertips for them to get fully erect, and Agatha couldn't help but wonder if Rio was as sensitive in other places, too. She hoped she would find out very, very soon.

Agatha took the little noises Rio was making as the green light and moved to the side to start a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down the long line of their throat. Her eyes stayed closed, savoring the sensation—the faint salty taste of skin, the way Rio’s breath stuttered under her touch—but she felt it immediately when they arched, a subtle, instinctive offering of more. It sent something feral and triumphant through her. Her entire being seemed to crest on a single thought—finally—the word ringing so loudly inside her it almost felt obscene. It should've felt wrong since Agatha's top priority had always been her own pleasure. She would return it, of course—she wasn't a total cunt—but she needed to come at least three times first. Alternatively, get it out of her way first thing, so she can command her partner to focus on her with no distractions. What was happening to her now shocked her to her core, but it felt incredibly nice to want someone so all-consumingly for a change, so she let it stay and envelop her. Somehow, it was accelerating her own pleasure—she could feel how wanting to make Rio feel good echoed within her being, doubling the sensations. Was that how true intimacy was supposed to feel like – this greedy, dizzying need to give not as a prelude to her own satisfaction, but as an act of giving itself? And was that what Rio was feeling toward her all the time?

She kissed her way down to their collarbones, teeth grazing just enough to tease, to promise. She felt the moan more than she heard it—a shiver through skin and bone—and it went straight to her spine. It was intoxicating. Agatha wanted more. More reactions, more sounds, more proof of what she was doing to them. More.

She let her mouth drift lower, unhurried, cruelly attentive, until her lips brushed over a screaming for attention nipple. The angle forced her to bend awkwardly, neck tilted, posture imperfect—but Rio’s response made it worthwhile. Agatha would happily suffer a stiff neck in the morning if it meant this: the soft, helpless whimpers, the way Rio’s fingers dug into her back like they needed anchoring. She licked a broad, deliberate stripe over sensitive flesh before drawing it into her mouth, sucking just hard enough to make them gasp. One of Rio’s hands flew into her hair immediately. Agatha smirked around them, pleased—there it is. She shifted one hand to pinch the other nipple between her fingers, slow and merciless. Rio whined. Their hips jerked on instinct, and the movement snapped Agatha’s attention sharply downward. She stilled for half a heartbeat, suddenly, vividly aware of just how close she was—of heat, of tension, of how little distance remained between wanting and taking, between trembling and claiming. The knowledge curled hot and possessive in her gut, and her smile deepened, satisfied and dangerous.

Her head was pounding with anticipation, every nerve in her body lit and singing. Agatha released the nipple from the wet, possessive hold of her mouth and scattered a few lingering kisses down the center of Rio’s chest, following the slow rise and fall of their breath to the dip of their sternum, then lower—down to the tense knot of their solar plexus. The descent forced her to abandon the precarious angle she’d been holding. Rather than fight it, she let herself sink gracefully to her knees, hands firm on Rio’s hips to steady herself. Their eyes flew open. They looked down at her like a startled animal, lips parted, breath caught halfway between surprise and want. Agatha looked back up through her lashes, mouth curled in a knowing smirk as she slid her hands around to the front of their pants. The reaction was immediate. Rio swallowed hard, breath hitching at the exact same moment, the synchronicity knocking them off balance so badly they choked on air. Pathetic. The sight of them like this—undone already, trembling, wrecked by nothing more than proximity—sent an electric rush straight through Agatha. She could feel herself slick with want, aching, furious with desire, and she hadn’t even done anything yet. It was exquisite. She wanted more. But just as her fingers found the button at the fly, teasing the line of it, Rio's own, trembling hands covered hers.

"Ag—" they coughed, still not fully recovered from choking. "Agatha," they rasped.

Agatha exhaled silently, equal parts annoyed and feral. They had been so close. Close enough, she could almost taste victory, sharp and sweet on her tongue. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t push forward either. She simply stayed there, hands captured beneath Rio’s, eyes dark and waiting—letting them feel exactly what they’d just stopped, and exactly how much it cost her.

After a few beats, Agatha shifted her hands slightly in a silent nudge to move Rio's off of hers. They didn't fight it, and their arms fell to their sides once again that night. Agatha moved her hot palms to their hips, holding securely.

“Baby, enough,” she murmured, her voice gentler than her grip as her thumbs began slow, unpatterned circles. Soothing. Possessive. “Whatever this is that makes you hold back,” she continued quietly, fingers drumming in time with the pulse beneath their skin, “it’s not half as frightening as you’ve convinced yourself it is.” She paused to take a few breaths, to let Rio absorb her words. “I love you, and I want to be with you in every way,” she kept whispering, “let go and let me take care of it.” She leaned in and nuzzled at their happy trail. "Let me take care of you." The kiss that followed was the softest she had ever given to anyone in this lifetime.

Agatha didn’t know precisely what she was promising—comfort, patience, safety, all of it, things she had never been taught how to give but suddenly wanted to learn—but it didn’t matter. She meant that—whatever it was, they could deal with it because apparently, love was making anything possible, and she was eager to help her partner overcome whatever insecurity or trauma they were going through at that moment. It wasn't about the dynamics: at that moment, it didn't matter who was, what kids called it, the top and who – the bottom, it didn't matter that usually it was Rio's "job" to take care of Agatha, and it didn't matter that Agatha was a bratty, greedy for pleasure egoist who had spent her entire life taking first and thinking later. At that moment, the only thing that mattered was their egregore, which they had been forming that entire time. It contained every single string of their essence, every molecule of their love, every like and dislike, every word that had accelerated the heartbeat, and every stupid thing that turned out to be hurtful. Every silence. Every forgiveness. Every moment they chose each other again without saying the words. It was the home for everything that their relationship was. It was the astral mirror of their forming little family, fragile and powerful in equal measure, something that existed because they existed together. So, of course—despite the sharp edges of her character, despite every instinct that had ever told her to protect herself first and do something for someone never—Agatha wanted that bubble to feel safe for both of them.

Rio shifted. Agatha felt the weight of their gaze before she opened her eyes, and when she did, she found them staring down at her with something fragile and bright. Their brown eyes caught the light, honey-gold and shining.

“You love me?” Rio rasped, disbelief threaded through the wonder.

If her hands hadn’t been occupied comforting them, Agatha would have pinched the bridge of her nose. Instead, she rolled her eyes. “Rio, again,” she said flatly, “I abandoned my entire life to come live with you here,” punctuating every word like it should have settled the matter.

“I know, but—” They licked their lips, that nervous little habit she’d clocked ages ago and secretly intended to recalibrate. “That’s the first time you’ve said it.” Their voice dipped, tentative, like they were afraid to draw her attention to it in case she decided to retract it.

Agatha clicked her tongue. “Well,” she said sharply, “you’d better enjoy it then. I’m not making a habit of repeating myself.” She lifted one eyebrow, making Rio chuckle half-nervously and half in relief. "I love you," she said again, and had to admit it felt good to say it and actually mean it. "I want you, baby," she carried on, starting a new trail of kisses down Rio's torso. "You're going to let me in eventually," she whispered into their navel before swirling her tongue inside, and making Rio yelp in surprise. Agatha smiled. "Might as well start now, so we can work our way to getting you comfortable."

It was only a little bit offensive to Agatha that Rio still didn't feel entirely comfortable around her. She knew they loved her and trusted her, and that it wasn't their fault that they sometimes felt a bit off—just the way they were built. So, Agatha understood and tried not to take that personally, and most of the time she could accept it without complaint. But right then—on her knees, wanting, offering everything she had—it stung just a little. Yet, she swallowed it down, because love, apparently, meant making room for reflecting and recalibrating.

Rio stared at her like they were trying to solve an impossible equation—something so complex even a roomful of professors would have given up. They blinked rapidly, worrying their bottom lip between their teeth, that familiar tell that meant they were thinking hard, turning something over from every possible angle. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they wrapped their hands around Agatha's wrists, thumbing her pulse points as if to infuse with her, to feel as close to her as possible. Agatha waited. She seriously deserved a fucking award because it was unheard of that Agatha Harkness waited for something that long and that patiently. She was not a patient woman in the slightest. The feral cat inside of her was clawing at her ribs, shredding the restraint into ribbons, and it was harder and harder to keep her contained, but she held still, jaw tight, breath controlled.

“There are things about my physiology that you must know before you consume me intimately," Rio said at last. Their voice was quiet but steady—far more composed than the restless energy in their hands suggested.

“Things?" Agatha frowned. The fuck were they talking about? It was as if she hadn't lived with them for the past month. "What things, Rio?" she asked dryly. "Are you trying to tell me about your dick? Because this," she waved around them vaguely, "is absolute bullshit. I am very horny, and this is a very frustrating conversation.”

“Wait. You know?!” Rio's eyes widened, and it was almost comical. Agatha would've laughed had she not tried to appear somewhat irritated—just enough for it to feel intimidating and convey the point that she was rapidly losing her patience.

She growled and dropped her head, making her forehead connect with the bare skin of Rio's abdomen. “Baby,” she muttered, not bothering to look up, “nobody wears compression boxers to bed.” As if to underline the point, she slid her fingers into the waistband of Rio’s pants, brushing their underwear. Rio’s breath hitched immediately. “Also, I don't think it is good for you in the long run. You should switch to cotton because I'm starting to worry you'd damage something."

Rio swallowed a whine. "I don't want you to worry," they whispered.

When Agatha finally lifted her head, she found Rio’s eyes gone glassy. She slid her hands deeper, palms firm as they settled on Rio’s ass, grounding herself in the solidity of them. “I wouldn’t have to,” she said calmly, carefully, “if you’d stop being so fucking difficult when there is literally no reason to be.”

“Are you okay with it?” Rio asked shyly.

Agatha closed her eyes. Just for a second. She needed to breathe. Rio was getting on her nerves, but this was not the moment to snap. One wrong move and whatever fragile trust they were offering would shatter. She tightened her grip, grounding herself, and took a few measured breaths.

"What do you mean?" she asked as gently as she could muster.

“Well. Historically…” Rio trailed off.

Agatha’s eyebrow lifted, sharp and warning. Rio caught it instantly, swallowed, and tried again. “In my experience,” they said quietly, “not many lesbians are looking for this in a sexual relationship.” A beat. “I had a bad experience.”

There it was. The root of that hesitation. The real weight they’d been carrying. Agatha was running a few lines over her tongue, tasting which one would be more proper, but before she could reply to anything, Rio spoke again.

"My goal had never been to transition," they began, their hands sliding under Agatha’s arms as they gently pulled.

Fine. Agatha let herself be coaxed upright—for now. Once they were eye-level again, Rio brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and smiled. Their palm lingered, warm and familiar, cupping Agatha’s jaw.

"Initially, I started injecting just a little bit of testosterone to help build muscle. I was clinically underweight in my twenties, and my physician actually prescribed me the minimal dose along with human growth hormone therapy." Rio paused to let her inhale the information. Somehow, this story had never surfaced before—even though Rio was usually so open, generous with the details of their life.

"It worked wonders," they continued after a few beats. "I started gaining weight, and after only three months, I had excellent results. I no longer looked like I was twelve, and I felt incredible." They licked their lips, searching for something in Agatha's gaze—judgment or reassurance?

She wasn't sure what Rio needed, so she opted for physical touch, which had always helped them calm down before. She regained her grip on their ass, over the pants now, but no less possessive, and squeezed encouragingly. Rio smiled.

"When I say it felt incredible, I mean it felt incredible, Agatha," they nearly whispered, tone conspiratorial. "I felt like I was elevated, like I could do anything. I had so much energy and drive to move, to create, to touch, to live with the capital L." They blinked, moving their arms, resting them on top of Agatha's shoulders while their hands gravitated to her hair again. "The cycle was supposed to last three months, but I…" they hesitated just for a split second. "I just never stopped. It felt like I was in a state of hibernation my entire life, and was finally, finally awakening, and I didn't want to go back. Couldn't."

That made perfect sense for Agatha. Her desire for pleasure and power worked in a similar way. Once she tasted it, she knew she would never want or could stop. She nodded slightly, hoping it would be enough for Rio to understand she could relate. Their smile widened. That thing between them—the way they could communicate without speaking—was astonishing. Agatha didn't understand how it worked, but she was so grateful for it because it helped their relationship tremendously, especially since she was on the other side. She had always struggled to express her feelings, and despite trying now, she still couldn't talk about many things most of the time, so this nonverbal way of bonding was truly a godsend.

"So, naturally, I needed to increase the dose because my tolerance was building up," Rio continued, and it was becoming apparent that this was going to take a minute.

Rio had always been the emotionally available one in their relationship. They talked a lot and about everything, especially about their feelings and past, painting the picture for Agatha broader and broader. Agatha was grateful. Most of the time. Right now, she was only somewhat grateful because, yes, she did want to learn about that time in Rio's life, but she also was very horny, and they kept cockblocking her. She took a step back, hooked her fingers in the loops of Rio's pants, and tugged them toward the bed. They followed willingly.

"It was helping me in daily life so much," Rio kept talking, even when being unceremoniously maneuvered on top of the bed. "It was making me more confident, and I actually think it played a huge role in my career—I can't imagine achieving everything I've had as my old self." By now, Agatha had them seated at the head of the bed, leaning on the headboard. "It is unlocking my full potential, freeing my true self from the restraints of my physical body," Rio said gently, looking at Agatha so openly, searching for understanding in her eyes.

Agatha understood. She understood that very well. Power made her feel this way. "It doesn't make you that person," she replied just as gently, swinging her leg and straddling Rio's thighs in a swift, elegant motion. Their hands immediately connected with her own thighs. "You have always been that person."

“Yes,” Rio agreed, “but it helps me surface without being afraid of rejection.” Their fingers traced slow, absent patterns along her thighs, heat bleeding through fabric. “It empowers me.”

Agatha's hands were moving on their own accord; she was only vaguely aware of what they were doing, completely absorbed by Rio's raw gaze and brutal honesty. Her fingers lightly trailed over the scars on their chest, tapping the skin every other beat. Agatha noticed that shortly after their relationship progressed to physical touch—whenever Rio got anxious about something, tapping their skin with fingertips helped them ground. They’d explained it once—how they could sense tiny bursts of energy transmitted through the pads of the fingers, how directing that touch to certain points on their own body created a kind of collision. Focusing on it helped them step out of spirals, recalibrate, and tune themselves back into the present.

Rio let out a slow, satisfied exhale and leaned their head back against the headboard, eyes lifting to Agatha’s face. They smiled softly. Agatha returned it without thinking. "I hadn’t thought about top surgery for the longest time," they said, like they were answering a question Agatha hadn’t voiced. Sometimes she genuinely wondered if they could read her mind. "As I was evolving, I started noticing that my breasts didn't really make that much sense anymore. My body began forming into something that reflected the state of my mind and the way I viewed myself inside my head, and having breasts just looked," they paused to think for a moment, slightly frowning, and at that moment, Agatha realized that it was probably the first time they tried to explain it aloud, to anyone. "Not comical, per se," Rio continued after a few beats, "but just out of place. It helped that my insurance covered it almost fully, so I reasoned, why not." They blinked several times, tilting their head slightly to the side as if trying to hear what Agatha thought. "Does that make sense?" they asked quietly.

Agatha nodded. "It does." Her thumbs traced the length of each scar in a gentle caress. "I like how you look… a lot," she said earnestly. It was true. Agatha had never imagined herself drawn to anyone on the masculine spectrum, and even now she couldn’t quite articulate what about Rio held her so completely. Perhaps it was just Rio themselves, and not the way they looked at all.

"Really?" they beamed, squeezing her thighs instinctively.

Agatha chuckled. Puppy. "Yes," she said affectionately. "Very hot."

Rio's chest rolled with something like pride, their smile deepening until it reached their eyes. “It wasn’t until about a year on a higher dose that I noticed bottom growth,” they said, carefully watching Agatha's facial expressions. “It usually happens sooner, but like I said—my early doses weren’t enough to cause that kind of hormonal shift which would've reflected on the physical plane."

Agatha listened without interrupting, her fingers never stopping their soft, grounding taps. She was acutely aware of her own body now—of how badly she wanted to move, to roll her hips, to feel Rio properly. And talking about it only sharpened the desire. Agatha noticed it shortly after they started incorporating more explicit physical touch into their relationship. Rio thought they were so subtle with their compression underwear and their general attempt to distance the lower parts of their bodies, but Agatha had always sensed it on some energy level.

One day, they were lounging on the sofa, watching a movie; Agatha's back was pressed against Rio's front, as they spooned her, trailing light kisses along the elegant line of her neck. They hit a particularly sensitive spot, and Agatha's hips bucked into them without warning, and that was the first time she had actually felt it. She had never had any experience with being intimate with someone with a cock or who was packing, but it was very hard to misinterpret that for anything else. Agatha knew exactly what she had felt.

That day, she honed her focus and began to notice little details—the way Rio walked, sat, and positioned themselves, especially whenever they were in close proximity. The way they always, always wore compression, and the fact that they always gently but firmly stopped her hands when they drifted too low. Agatha didn’t push. She waited. She knew that eventually Rio would have to tell her, and she was giving them a safe orbit to prepare at their comfortable pace. She reasoned it was somewhat a serious, heavy subject for them, and she, as usual, turned out to be right. Rio just needed time. And Agatha, against all odds, had learned how to give it.

“So like I said,” Rio sighed softly, “transitioning has never been my goal. Still isn’t.” Their fingers began tapping their own quiet rhythm against Agatha’s skin. “But clitoral hypertrophy is a natural outcome when your system gets that much testosterone every day.” They hesitated, then added, almost apologetically, “It isn’t really my fault. I didn’t choose it. It’s just… nature.”

Agatha’s attention snapped fully to their face. Rio’s eyes had dulled, their mouth caught in that nervous cycle of licking and biting their bottom lip. Without thinking, Agatha’s hand rose. She slipped her thumb beneath the soft flesh and applied gentle pressure, freeing it from their teeth.

“What are you talking about, baby?” she asked gently. “How could that possibly be a fault?” She cupped Rio’s jaw with her other hand, firm and anchoring, keeping their face tilted toward hers, and not letting them avert their eyes. “This is just who you are. It doesn’t come with a moral value. There’s no good or bad attached.”

"Well, yes," Rio murmured. "But—" they halted, visibly trying to draw their lip between the teeth again, but Agatha's thumb that held it at a safe distance was preventing it.

"But?" She prompted, one brow lifting.

Rio drew in a steadying breath and closed their eyes. Agatha waited, her thumb shifting into a slow, soothing stroke. When Rio opened their eyes again, the exhale that followed sounded like surrender. "But I'm bigger than average by the bottom growth standards."

They looked genuinely anxious. Agatha found it… endearing. The idea that Rio thought having a big dick was a problem was almost amusing, but she kept her expression neutral and suppressed her fond smile. When she’d first connected the dots weeks ago, she, of course, had done her research to make sure she knew what to expect, at least in theory. So, Agatha was aware to some extent of what the typical T-dick size was supposed to be. And now she was quite intrigued.

She leaned in, nuzzling Rio’s cheek, pressing a soft kiss there. “That so?” she murmured, her mouth trailing along their jaw and down the line of their neck.

Rio’s breath hitched. Their fingers twitched where they rested on Agatha’s thighs. “Yeah,” they whispered, as if saying it more quietly might soften the memory. “Two women I tried to build something with couldn’t accept me like that,” they paused, another defeated sigh left their chest. "That, to put it lightly."

Agatha didn’t ask for details. She didn’t need them. Whatever had been said, whatever had been done, it had left a mark—and she knew exactly what to do with marks like that. She knew nothing would've changed that experience or its bitter aftertaste, but she also knew it could be rewritten into something positive. And Agatha silently vowed to do exactly that. Because Rio was incredible, the kindest human she had ever met, and the mere idea that someone could treat them unfairly was setting Agatha's blood to boil.

She kissed her way down Rio's collarbones once again, and this time she was determined to fulfill her agenda. "Those bitches have no power over you," she said rather sharply before latching her teeth into the bone. Rio gasped, and their hands flew from Agatha's thighs to her shoulders, blunt nails pressing crescents into freckled skin.

Agatha still held back and didn't roll her hips as she wanted. Her pleasure was always the top priority; there was no question about it—non-negotiable. Now, however, her usual fantasies were pushed to the back of her mind, as the moment at hand required something else. Now, she needed to ease Rio into these new dynamics. Call that an investment. Agatha Harkness had a business side to her character and could navigate the stock market just as gracefully as she navigated any other frequency. She understood investments. She knew how to nurture what mattered, how to build value patiently before collecting returns. And Rio’s comfort—Rio’s certainty that they were desired—was one she intended to cultivate thoroughly. Because making Rio feel wanted would only deepen her own pleasure in the end. And Agatha always thought long-term.

She dismantled Rio’s lap in one decisive motion and shifted lower, hands immediately reclaiming the fly of their pants. Rio went very still, watching her with wide eyes. Now that she was out of their reach, their hands hovered uselessly for a second before gripping the duvet instead, knuckles whitening. They were cute.

Agatha smirked and popped the button open. Next came the zipper. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of Rio’s pants, catching the boxers with them, and paused—eyes flicking up, sharp and assessing. She was going to power through, but she still needed Rio's consent. Rio was blinking at her like their brain had short-circuited entirely, and something clicked into place for Agatha then. Maybe they genuinely didn’t know what came next. She knew about the unserious dating when they were younger, the half-formed attempts at relationships, but she suddenly realized she had no real sense of how experienced Rio actually was, how many people they actually let touch them like that.

She narrowed her eyes at them. "Do you want to use the traffic light system?" she asked softly. "Green for go, yellow for slow down, and red – we stop immediately?" She pressed a light kiss to Rio's abdomen while waiting for them to process the question.

"Yeah," Rio nodded.

They already sounded breathless, and Agatha hoped their gym endurance and stamina would carry over into the bedroom. She already knew Rio could last when the task was worship, when their entire focus narrowed to the singular devotion of making her come apart piece by piece. She had experienced that firsthand—the patience, the discipline, the frightening generosity of it. But it was one thing to be the center of someone’s attention, and an entirely different thing to be the one unraveled under their hands, to discover whether that same strength held when pleasure stopped being something they gave and became something they endured.

In Agatha’s experience, she preferred to have a round with her partner before they started dismantling her with intention. It was a strategy as much as a desire. She knew herself too well—knew that after two orgasms, her mind dissolved into a single, blinding directive: more. After that point, reciprocity became theoretical at best. Her body turned greedy. Single-minded. Useless for anything except chasing the next crest of sensation. It wasn’t selfishness—it was chemistry. A particular law of her microcosm.

And she had already been carrying that hunger all evening, she hoped that Rio would be able to keep going after she had her way with them, because while she enjoyed reducing them to a babbling mess with just a few touches, she needed them to be able to put up with her and fuck properly. Agatha was insatiable. She had built her entire adult life around that fact, selecting partners the way one selected equipment—carefully, pragmatically, ensuring compatibility with the scale of her appetite. It had never been romantic—it had been efficient. This time, however, she had made the catastrophic miscalculation of falling in love, which meant she would stay with Rio regardless. And that realization, inconvenient and irreversible, made her stomach tighten with something dangerously close to vulnerability. Because for the first time, it wasn’t just about whether they could satisfy her. It was about whether she could adapt. Whether she could relearn the careful architecture of her pleasure and her preferred order of its distribution.

She kissed their stomach again, lower this time, just beside the waistband. Her hands still didn’t move. Her gaze stayed locked on Rio’s face, fierce and unyielding. She was losing her patience, and they'd better unfreeze if they valued their life.

Rio must have felt that, because of course they did. "Green," they whispered.

"I can't hear you," Agatha cut in sharply. Her voice left no room for ambiguity. This wasn’t cruelty—it was a demand for presence. That cute bundle of anxiety had to pull their shit together and do it fast.

They gulped, licked their lips, and met her eyes head-on. “Green,” they said again, clear and steady.

"Good boy," Agatha murmured, satisfied, and the sound that left Rio's throat was purely obscene. It hit her like a live wire, sharp and immediate, lighting every nerve. She’d assumed they’d like it. Hearing it confirmed, raw and unguarded, was something else entirely.

She licked her lips in anticipation and slowly dragged the pants down Rio's thighs, watching their skin break in goosebumps. Agatha didn't look right away, instead she focused on the task of undressing Rio completely. Once their pants and boxers were thrown aside, Agatha placed a series of delicate kisses on their calf, their kneecap, and the inside of their thigh—slow, almost vicious in her restraint. She was sure Rio wasn't even breathing. But Agatha had been reasonably gentle and patient enough, and it was time for Rio to man up and face the music, as she was not going to go easy from now on.

Agatha palmed their thick quadriceps and glided her hands up until they met the juncture of the thigh and pubic bone. She moved along and was finally hovering over Rio's throbbing length. She had to swallow a moan—Rio was big. Their T-dick was well defined, perfectly curved, and swollen, begging for attention. It didn't look like a prolonged clitoris she'd seen on the outskirts of the Internet. Somehow, it actually looked almost like a cock—not too large by the classic penis standards, but it was a cock, alright. They were mouthwatering, and Agatha had to swallow again to keep from drooling. That genuinely surprised her, as until that moment, she had no idea she would be into something like that.

"Well, hello there, handsome," she purred, staying close without closing the distance, letting anticipation do the damage. She felt Rio shudder and squeezed their flesh in a grounding gesture. "What are you like four inches?" she asked, breathing over them.

"Yeah," they rasped, their voice nearly breaking. They were shaking now, muscles taut with effort as they tried to keep their anxiety in check. Words spilled from them, nervous and breathless, "Just a couple of millimeters over." Agatha could feel their nerves suffocating them, but before she could do anything about helping them relax, Rio began rambling quietly. "Won the genetic lottery is what people usually say about someone like me. My muscles are also very well-defined, and it doesn't take me long to gain mass. And you know how I heal super fast." Agatha listened, fond and hungry, letting them talk themselves in circles. They were adorable. "Don't even need the bottom surgery," they said, gripping the duvet so hard that Agatha was sure they'd rip the fabric. "I thought about it, not like because I wanted to transition all the way—I told you I didn't—but just hypothetically. But as I kept injecting, I just realized that nature is doing its job just fine without medical help."

Agatha waited a few beats until their breathing stuttered into silence. "You done now?" she asked dryly. Her grip tightened. She leaned in, close enough that Rio could feel her breath, close enough to steal their composure entirely. "C'mere, big boy," she whispered right over their throbbing bundle of nerves, deliberately lingering.

She couldn't see, but just knew how Rio’s eyes went wide, wide. “Agatha?” they gasped, nearly choking on air, and their hands circled her wrists—not stopping, just gripping her for dear life.

Agatha had to swallow again. The anticipation was maddening. “What is your color, baby?”

“Green, but—” they hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Agatha didn’t hesitate. “I’m sorry those bitches before me didn’t know what to do with you,” she said, voice low and absolute. “That’s not your burden.” Then she closed the space.

Rio's hips jumped, and they moaned brokenly. Agatha smirked, freeing one of her hands and pressing on Rio's abdomen to steady their convulsions.

That was six years ago, but Agatha could remember every single detail as if it had happened yesterday—as if time had preserved that night, warm and breathing, somewhere within her. She could still smell Rio, that deep, green, forest scent that lived at the back of her throat long after they parted. She could still hear their desperate noises—the way their voice had broken open on her name, the way restraint had abandoned them piece by fragile piece. She could still taste their trembling, the salt of their skin, the barely controlled shudders that had passed through them like aftershocks. And even now, years later, the memory made her shiver—not from nostalgia alone, but from the echo of what it had done to her.

That unfiltered power spreading under her skin at the thought that she was making this tough, steady human fall apart at the seams. Her touch was reducing them to a sobbing mess. Her voice was cracking them in half long before her lips and tongue could. It was far more intoxicating than Agatha had anticipated. She had pleasured her partners before, of course. She had made women moan, made them beg, made them praise her with shaking voices and desperate hands. She had always been good at it—exceptionally clinical, even. But never had she loved any of them the way she loved Rio. Never had her own heart been entangled in the exchange, vulnerable and exposed alongside her body. And that had made all the difference.

She had never in her life experienced that kind of pleasure. The sensation of such power had flooded her so completely, so violently, that she hadn’t been able to contain it. It had built inside her like a storm with nowhere to go, pressure mounting behind her ribs, between her hips, until instinct took over. She had slipped her hand into her own panties almost without thinking, chasing balance, needing to ground herself while sharing every ounce of that sparkling, unbearable electromagnetic field with Rio. It had felt like they were connected by something invisible but undeniable, a current flowing freely between them, feeding them both. And since they had been so in sync, it didn't take Rio too long, even being lost in their own pleasure, to notice Agatha's movements. Their hand had replaced hers roughly, possessively, as if the idea of Agatha touching herself alone was unacceptable. As if her pleasure belonged to them. As if it were theirs to tend to, theirs to wield.

That night, they gained a few new experiences and changed something fundamental in both of them. Something that could not be undone, could not be separated back into the people they had been before. A new language had been written into their bones, spoken fluently from that moment forward. And Agatha wouldn't have shared it with anyone in the world. It also turned out that she had had nothing to worry about, and Rio's stamina and endurance were in perfect check, along with being an exceptional multitasker. They had, indeed, won that genetic lottery. They hadn’t even needed much time for recovery before beginning their hero’s quest—pulling one orgasm after another from Agatha with relentless patience and greedy affection, as if they were determined to map every inch of her, to prove, again and again, that they could and would do anything she needed shortly after their own climax simply because she was the sole focus of their microcosm.

Agatha remembered that night for so many different reasons. One of them was, of course, agreeing to be Rio's forever.

They had fucked for hours that night. Ever heard of a lesbian twenty-four-hour sex marathon? That was essentially what they had ended up having. Again and again, those marathons had become their favorite pastime, especially on weekends when they could plan it properly, stock the bedside with water, snacks, and everything they might need to survive the delirium. The world beyond the bed ceased to exist; time itself bent to the rhythm of their bodies, each gasp, each moan, each shuddering bite of skin. Post-coital bliss wrapped around them like a warm, sticky cloud. Rio shifted slightly, and that subtle movement drew Agatha back to the present, to the now, to the exquisite intimacy of their shared body heat.

“So… dare I assume this is a yes?” Rio’s voice was quiet, hushed in a way that made her ears ache from wanting to hear it better. Quiet enough that she might have missed it entirely if her head hadn’t been pillowed against their chest, attuned to the rise and fall of their breathing.

“A yes?” she asked, frowning, still halfway adrift in the fog of orgasmic aftermath. Her post-orgasm brain was notoriously unreliable for anything requiring conscious thought, especially since they've been at it for hours nonstop. She pressed a hot, lingering kiss into the center of Rio’s chest, letting her lips drift upward—a touch at the base of their throat, the curve of their collarbone. She felt their pulse quicken, felt it in the tips of her fingers brushing over skin, in the subtle shiver that ran along their spine, and smirked before finally lifting her head to meet their gaze.

Rio looked at her with a quiet intensity so full of adoration it felt like a caress. They reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, fingertips lingering just a moment longer than necessary, painting the air between them with unspoken affection. “Will you marry me?” they whispered, their voice soft, careful, almost sacred.

Oh.

Agatha’s lips parted slightly, and she slowly licked them, tasting the lingering heat of their bond, the soothing waves of their safe bubble, and the weight of that question. Her smirk softened, stretching into something genuine. Rio waited, patient, brushing her hair in a rhythm that was grounding and intoxicating. She shifted, propping herself up on an elbow so she could look directly into their eyes—to meet the gaze of the human who had, without ceremony, rewritten her entire universe.

“It was always going to be a yes,” she said, voice steady and earnest. Before Rio, Agatha had never learned the art of feeling fully, of letting someone touch the threads of her heart and stir them without her even realizing it. This incredible, infuriating, annoying human had taught her how to notice, how to savor, how to let her own walls soften without fear. “Yes,” she whispered again, pressing her lips to theirs, sealing the promise with a gentle, deliberate kiss that lingered long enough to make the world outside dissolve completely.

And now they were married. Agatha had never been this happy—never imagined it possible. She had survived loss, she had survived disappointment, she had survived the dry, merciless passage of life that had convinced her miracles were for other people. And then she met this dork, and everything shifted. The universe had given her a second chance, a gift she felt unworthy of and yet craved desperately. And she didn’t question it, didn’t overthink it. She simply held Rio close, let the warmth of their chest and the pulse of their heartbeat remind her that sometimes, against all odds, you got exactly what you needed.

Chapter Text

They say perfect love can only exist in fairytales. Rio wasn’t as perfect as Agatha had imagined when they first got together. But nobody was. She knew for a fact that she herself was a handful. And yet, somehow, they made it work, building a fairytale of their own design. Sometimes it got odd, sometimes messy, sometimes impossibly difficult, but they navigated the rough waters together, hand in hand. Surprisingly, they didn’t fight much. Not that Agatha hadn’t tried—she provoked, teased, baited Rio endlessly, but six years in, and they still only smiled at her, kissed her, agreed to her ridiculous whims. And perhaps it was because of that steady, unshakable calm she found in them that Agatha felt compelled, sometimes, to spark the chaos herself.

Rio had never given her any reason to doubt their loyalty, their dedication, the depth of their bond. In that sense, they were flawless. So what happened, Agatha realized, was entirely her deliberate sabotage. Not because she was unhappy, but because she was, and in retrospect, she viewed that as her old self still needed to claw at the edges of this new life, to test its limits, to prove that happiness wasn’t a trap. Their love proved to be strong once again, holding through the intrusion. But Agatha hadn't known about all that back then.

Back on that day, she had watched—like a predator in ambush—Jennifer Kale’s cuntish hand linger far too long on Rio’s bicep. Jen was objectively a cunt, and usually, Agatha didn’t mind. But in that moment? She wanted to tear her head off her shoulders with her bare teeth.

“What is it?” Rio asked her, in a quiet but sure tone. They had just finished dinner, and Rio leaned in to kiss her, but Agatha, with a performative turn of her head, denied them.

She didn't reply right away, but Rio didn't push. They moved their plate aside and waited. “I’m pissed,” she finally admitted, grit in her tone. Still, when Rio reached across the table and brushed her fingers with theirs, she didn’t jerk her hand free, letting the soft touch give her some comfort.

“I can see that,” they said affectionately, as if they were not about to have a fight in less than a minute, as though the coming argument had already been disarmed. “What is it?”

Agatha exhaled through her nose, a mix of irritation and reluctant amusement. “It’s stupid,” she waved it off, though the word didn’t carry nearly enough weight for the storm she was feeling.

“Okay,” Rio said, calm as the surface of a lake, subtle smile playing at their lips. “Then we’ll find a stupid solution.”

Agatha sighed. Six years, and she still was getting used to the fact that Rio Vidal saw nothing as a problem. Or rather, they didn't treat it as a problem. They simply saw whatever was happening as a natural part of life that needed proper attention and tried their best to address it. And the most annoying part was that they were trying to teach Agatha not to react to things from that issue-dipped perspective on the front lines.

Agatha stood from the table, grabbing their empty plates. She needed to occupy herself with something. “I didn’t like the way Jen touched you," she said, turning on the water and letting it run over the ceramic, letting the rhythm soothe her.

Rio moved with her, as they always did, drawn into her orbit like a magnet, leaning on the prep table beside the sink, eyes following her precise, almost ritualistic movements. “Okay,” they said simply, a nod that somehow carried no judgment.

Agatha dried her hands and tossed the towel toward Rio, narrowing her eyes. “What, no she’s my best friend’s wife bullshit?”

Rio blinked, but as usual didn’t bite. “You already know that, and it still made you feel like shit,” they said calmly. “I doubt my saying this changes anything.”

Rio never tried to minimize her feelings, no matter how irrational they might have seemed. At first, it had been difficult for Agatha to adjust—she had been trained, hardened, and honed on conflict, on the expectation that rage sparked attention, that her issues were currency for control. Wanda had always done that, and most people had since Agatha learned to wield her temper as a weapon. Yet, Rio just talked to her as if nothing catastrophic had ever happened. For them, her feelings were valid, important, worthy of consideration, and always met with a desire to resolve whatever it was before Agatha could spiral.

“Do you want me to tell her not to touch me at all?” Rio's voice was gentle, and Agatha felt that familiar tug, the almost magnetic pull to step into their space and reach for them. Touch would soothe her irritation, calm her racing thoughts, but she resisted, stubbornly, wanting to keep the edge.

“That would’ve been ridiculous, wouldn’t it?" she said dryly. "What if I didn’t want anyone to merely breathe in your orbit. You can't just exclude all people from your proximity and build a fence around it."

“You know I would’ve never done this to you, right?" Rio's tone became very serious. "You are my sole focus, my constant, my guiding star," they murmured.

“You are such a sap.” Agatha rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth threatened a smile she refused to admit.

Rio grinned. “I just love you. Sue me. I could never even begin to entertain the idea of looking in someone else's direction as long as you allow me to stay by your side.”

“I know that, baby," Agatha sighed, her composure dissolving into the thin air under the caress of the vibrations of Rio's voice. "But I promised you I’d try to work on expressing my feelings." She gestured around them as if the space had all the explanation, as if it could reason for her. She dropped her arms. "And this is what I feel. I feel very jealous.” It came out more pathetic than she thought, or maybe it was just Agatha's perception. Ugh. Feelings were so absurd.

"Come here," Rio said softly.

They didn't sound like someone who thought anything Agatha had said was stupid. In fact, their face was lit and open, their eyes bright and gentle, and an affectionate smile plastered on their lips. Rio had always looked at Agatha as if she were a natural wonder, and she could never understand how they—such opposites—even came together. It was as if the universe had picked them for each other to complement the deep holes they both carried within themselves. Agatha didn't do feelings, but with Rio, she knew she was safe to try. Rio was making her want to try. Just like now. At last, Agatha stepped into their personal space and reached out, placing her hand in their waiting palm. Rio didn't waste any more seconds, pulling her gently into their body and wrapping their arms around her middle protectively.

"I'm sorry I made you feel this way," they whispered into her hair, placing a tender kiss on the crown of her head right after. "Is there something I can do to help you deal with this feeling?" They asked quietly. "Anything at all, sweetheart."

Agatha sighed again, this time with relief rather than frustration. It was nice—being able to communicate this openly felt nice. When she was still making the first steps toward opening up, Rio had assured her that being emotionally vulnerable was not equal to submitting or being weak. Agatha had been skeptical, but every day Rio proved to her that she still held all the control, even when she let them see her soft side. It felt nice. Freeing. Still very strange and unusual, but not unpleasant.

“I need to feel that you belong to me," she said, snaking her arms over their shoulders and resting her cheek against them.

She felt Rio tighten their grip on her midriff. “I do belong to you," they whispered into her hair. Agatha felt the warmth of their breath wash over her scalp.

“I know," she breathed over the line of their neck before placing a gentle kiss on it. "But I need to feel it.”

Rio chuckled. “You’ve been thinking about it.” Agatha rolled her eyes—it was infuriating how they seemed to always be able to read her as if her carefully constructed walls were made of parchment paper—but Rio only hugged her closer. “Tell me what’s on your mind," they murmured with so much affection that Agatha was fighting her system not to start melting on the spot. That would've been embracing.

“We don’t have to do this, okay?” She leaned back slightly so that she could look them in the eye. “I have been thinking about it, yes. But it’s just an offer, which you can decline. I promise you I won’t get upset.”

“But, baby," they mock-whined, "I fell in love with you upset.”

Rio's grin was intoxicating and totally contagious because Agatha felt an answering smile tug at her own lips. That made her laugh softly. Rio had always been able to ease any tension between them.

“Tell me,” they said gently, that annoying smile never leaving their lips.

People who had known her before this period of her life would’ve never recognized her, mistaking her emotional growth as going soft, as folding—making it all about her partner, pushing aside her desires, her pleasure, herself. And while it might have looked so from a distance, Agatha didn't feel as though she'd been belittling herself. On the contrary, thinking about someone else gave her a new angle on herself. It didn’t feel like a disappearance. It felt like expansion. She had never understood the pleasure of giving before—not just in a sexual context, but as a general concept. Her egocentric mind didn't struggle to wrap around it; it simply ignored that energy field altogether. It had never felt designed to fit her, or fit into her world.

Loving Rio had opened her eyes to many things, and there were times when it made Agatha uncomfortable—because breaking the boundaries of her comfort zone was not a comfortable experience. Yet most of the time, it led to surprisingly thrilling new discoveries that tickled her nerves and filled her with anticipation at the prospect of applying those new approaches to the previously mundane routines.

Okay, so maybe Agatha had thought about it… a lot. She knew Rio would likely not derive much pleasure from it, from a physiological perspective. On the contrary, it would likely be a bit painful for them, at least at the beginning, and that's what made Agatha’s blood tickle her vessels—the prospect of inflicting physical pain. She had always had some minor sadistic tendencies, but she viewed them as something negative, shameful, evil. Something that she needed to deal with, overcome, cure. Those were not her thoughts, but the mainstream notion her mind had absorbed through exposure to social dynamics. But Rio—an obedient, whiny puppy, who had been starved for any attention Agatha would grace them with—had never seen that side of her as something wicked, something that concerned or warned. For Rio, mean, violent Agatha was one of the most arousing things in the whole world.

And Agatha needed to feel that abandoned devotion. She needed it the way lungs needed oxygen after being held underwater too long. It wasn’t enough to know it existed. She needed to feel it pressing into her soul, needed to see it fracture Rio’s composure, needed to hear it in the way their whines would escape their throat when she touched them. She hadn’t been the jealous type, or at least she had never thought she had been, because jealousy required emotional investment, and emotional investment required care. And she had never cared enough—not about those women, not about their needs, not about their promises, not about their leaving. People had always been temporary fixtures in her orbit. Replaceable. Interchangeable.

But Rio was giving her so much. So much energy. So much attention. So much love that it sometimes made her feel overexposed, like standing too close to the sun. It soaked into her bones, into the bone marrow, into places she hadn’t known were hollow until Rio filled them. And Agatha didn’t want to share any quark of it with anyone else. She didn’t want diluted devotion. She didn’t want divided attention. She did not want to share them. They were so much more than just her personal juice box, though god knew she drank from them greedily, without restraint, without apology. They were the axis her world had tilted on. And she was greedy. She could objectively admit that. Greedy, and she realized soon enough – possessive. She needed to feel as if she'd owned them. She needed something irreversible. Something that would exist only between them. Something that would carve her name into the fabric of their nervous system, imprint onto their soul—the energy branding. And the best way to do that would be something they had never done with anyone before. A strategic crack in the comfort zone. A deliberate push of the boundary.

Rio did not do penetration of any kind—that was one of their major boundaries. It made complete sense, and Agatha never questioned that. It had been delivered not as an apology, but as a fact, and Agatha had respected it as such. In all fairness, they never needed it to enjoy each other. In the six years they had been together, they had discovered entire constellations of pleasure without ever crossing that particular line. They had learned each other slowly at first, mapping reactions, cataloging sounds, memorizing the subtle shifts in breathing that signaled need, or hesitation, or surrender. Some of the things they did were wicked, sharp-edged, hungry. Others were so tender and vanilla they bordered on sacred. Agatha enjoyed both equally.

Rio had always felt which kind she needed most, depending on her mood, depending on the weight she carried, depending on whether she needed to be unraveled or held together, and they could switch without friction, without awkwardness—the transition seamless, like water changing temperature around her skin. Agatha loved that trait in them the most—the way they seemed to be so in tune with her every second, that it had never taken them longer than two heartbeats to read her inner current. Sometimes she wondered if they could actually read her thoughts before she fully formed them.

She loved that Rio was flexible and accommodating. They could start with Agatha choking them, forcing them to their knees, watching the way their pupils would blow wide with that familiar, intoxicating mixture of trust and need. She could suffocate them with her cunt, fingers buried in their hair, pulling so hard their scalp must have burned, hot tears slipping free and streaking down their cheeks, and Rio would take it, would give themselves to it, trembling, gasping—hers in a way that made Agatha’s head spin.

And then, in the next round, everything could soften. Rio would be throbbing inside her, barely moving, as if afraid to break the fragile quiet that had settled between them. Their lips would ghost along her neck and face, pressing kisses that were almost shy, almost reverent, whispering sweet nothings that made her feel unbearably seen. Their hands would hold her and gently guide her as she would fall apart, like she was something precious.

Agatha would suck their combined juices off them afterward, unwilling to waste even that, tasting the proof of what they had done to each other. She would keep them inside her mouth, cockwarming for the longest time, her fingers tracing idle patterns along their thighs, massaging slow circles into muscle gone weak and pliant under her touch, only to slap them the next moment, making them beg to touch her, and watching them break again and again. It had been intoxicating, and Rio had been up to any challenge she would throw their way.

Now, she needed something of even more altitude. They said hunger could never be fully satisfied—that feeding it only taught it how to ask for more. Agatha felt that truth living inside her like a second pulse. She needed more.

For some peculiar reason, that accident with Jen had triggered something within her. Objectively speaking, there had been nothing to get hurt over. Nothing had happened. Nothing could have ever happened. Rio had been theirs in every way that mattered long before that moment and would remain so long after. Yet, Agatha had felt hurt. The feeling had slipped under her skin before she could stop it, sharp and irrational and embarrassingly real. She couldn’t explain why. She suspected there was some deep psychological root buried beneath years of deflection, and the trauma of loss and abandonment, and the quiet terror of having something worth losing again—but it wasn’t the time to excavate it. That kind of digging required steady hands, and hers were shaking—she needed to heal the wound first.

Rio was holding her gently, their gaze open and trusting, waiting for her to elaborate. Waiting for her. They always waited for her. And Agatha felt a lump of something unfamiliar form low in her throat. She wasn't scared Rio would deny her or get offended. No, that was something that had never existed in their dynamic. In fact, Agatha couldn't say she was even scared; it was something of a different nature. Anticipation of something mentally dangerous. Something that only the creator-gods could touch. She was about to ask Rio to let her play with their psyche, and that was what made her shiver at the magnitude of its importance.

"I want to fuck you," Agatha said quietly, the words left her mouth softer than she expected, almost fragile. Her fingers slid to the back of Rio’s neck, threading into the short hair there, combing slowly, soothing herself as much as them. She felt the warmth of their skin, the steady life beneath it.

They chuckled softly. "You already do this every day, amor." Their own fingers began tapping an absent rhythm against the small of her back.

"No, I mean…" She licked her lips, buying herself another second. The words felt heavier now that they were real, now that they had shape. She forced herself to hold their gaze. "I want to peg you."

Rio’s eyes went wide. Wide enough that Agatha could see the exact instant the meaning landed. Wide enough that she could watch the ripple of surprise move through them as a stone dropped into still water. And Agatha held her breath, suspended in the fragile limbo between wanting and having, between asking and knowing the answer.

Rio bit their lip. "Agatha, I—"

Their gaze began to lose its sharpness, drifting somewhere inward, somewhere far from the quiet space of the kitchen and the warmth of their shared orbit. Agatha felt it immediately—that subtle retreat, that flicker of distance—and something in her refused to allow it. Her hand slid into their hair and tightened, fingers curling at the base of their skull, and she pulled, yanking their attention back. Rio blinked, and their eyes locked onto hers with sudden, startling clarity. Precise. Intent. Feral.

Agatha knew what she was asking of them. This wasn’t a casual cruelty. This wasn’t one of their rehearsed games, where they both knew the shape of the fall and the safety of the landing. This was different. This was a threshold Rio had never crossed, a door they had kept closed even from themselves. And Agatha, trembling with dangerous emotions, stood there, asking for the key. She was almost certain this would be the first and only thing Rio couldn’t do for her—with her.

Rio chewed on their bottom lip, not saying a word, but Agatha could see the gears turn behind their eyes. She softened her grip, her fingers slipping into something gentler, combing slowly through their hair. Waiting. Letting them feel her there. Letting them choose. She watched the rise and fall of their chest. Watched them breathe through their nose, steadying themselves, trying to quiet the betraying speed of their pulse. They looked a little frightened, but otherwise open and trusting.

"I will need a safeword," they finally said, their voice was low. Fragile in its quiet. Barely more than breath. "And a set of non-verbal signs."

Agatha felt a violent wave of arousal pierce her and split her essence in two. Her own pulse began pounding in her ears, and she felt a familiar rush of power infuse her bloodstream, spreading all over her vessels, and vibrating at the tips of her fingers. She maintained their eye contact, and it made her soul scream, as if Rio's own soul had begun a fusing transaction with hers, using eyes as the main channel for docking.

They hadn't jumped into fulfilling that new promise right away. It lingered between them instead—held carefully. Like something fragile and volatile at the same time, something that could either deepen their bond or fracture something unnamed if handled without the proper care.

Step one had been the safewords. They had been successfully implementing the traffic light system ever since they’d first become intimate, back when everything between them had still been new and terrifying and sacred. It had slipped into their dynamic, so naturally it almost stopped feeling like a system at all—more like a second language they both spoke without thinking. And it had worked. Perfectly. In all six years of being together, neither ever called red. A few yellows, yes—soft interruptions born from ridiculous, achingly human limitations. Overstimulation. Muscle fatigue or cramps. The occasional moment where the body simply couldn’t keep up with the appetite of the creature hosted within it. But never anything deeper than that. Never anything born from fear. Never anything emotional enough to fracture the trust they’d built so painstakingly, layer by layer.

Agatha chose azaleas for their safe word for stopping. She didn’t pick it randomly. She picked it because she could already picture Rio’s face when they heard it. And she was right, as usual. Rio’s eyes had lit up instantly, warmth blooming across their features in that soft, open way that always made Agatha feel like she’d done something extraordinary without even trying. Azaleas were stubborn flowers. Bright. Resilient. Capable of blooming in impossible conditions. Of course, Rio loved it. Although they would love anything she chose.

Next came the non-verbal signals. Those were new. They had never needed any before. Their bond had been quite strong, and Agatha was proud to say that most of the time they sensed each other pretty accurately. Even she, who had spent most of her life treating feelings like an inconvenient foreign language, had learned to read Rio fluently. She could always tell when they needed her to slow down or ease up on them. And Rio had always known her, too. Sometimes, even before she had known herself. They rarely asked each other to stop; the only times they did was when they were absolutely drained, and their bodies physically refused to go on. Never because the trust wasn’t there.

They split the responsibility: Agatha picked a signal for keep going—a drag of a nail along any accessible surface of the body. Just a light scratch. Rio had closed their eyes when she demonstrated it, their breath catching almost imperceptibly, as if even the idea of that signal alone sent something electric through them. And then, Rio came up with the signal for stop—a fist pressed to the chest if they were face-to-face, or against the back if it were reversed. Agatha had watched them demonstrate it, and could have sworn she felt the weight of their hand settle against their sternum, right over the heart. Simple. Efficient. Safe.

Step two had been the strap. They needed to pick a brand-new one, since the ones they already owned belonged to a different version of their intimacy—one built around Agatha’s body, her appetite, her limits. Those were too big for that particular affair. They had been practicing anal sex plenty over the years—Agatha had always been a devoted admirer of excess, of fullness, of the layered overwhelm of sensation stacking on sensation until her mind went quiet and blank. Double penetration had been one of her favorite indulgences, something that made her feel incandescent from the inside out. Luckily, with Rio as her partner, she didn't require an anal strap at all, since said partner had been perfectly equipped. Rio's T-dick was the perfect size for anal play, so it had always been a pleasurable experience for both of them. With Rio on the receiving end, however, they needed to expand their toy drawer.

Picking new toys had always been fun. Picking new toys with Rio turned out to be something else entirely. Agatha would remember it forever—the way Rio’s fingers had tightened around her hand as soon as they stepped into the store. The way their palm grew warm and faintly damp against hers. The way their shoulders, usually so broad and steady, had drawn inward just slightly as they stood in front of the glass display, blushing. They looked so shy that it was absolutely adorable. The tough guy who bench pressed twelve thousand pounds—Agatha had no idea what a bench press was, and how those pounds were tracked… don't give her that look—and who was catching bastards for a living was getting clingy and embarrassed to look at a variety of ass dildos in public. Agatha had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She loved that dork so much.

They settled on a purple five-incher. It was modest. Manageable. Non-threatening. Still, Rio looked absolutely terrified. Their fingers hovered over the box when the clerk handed it to them, as if unsure whether to hold it or hand it off immediately. Their throat bobbed when they swallowed, their composure visibly thinning under the weight of the decision. And Agatha felt something dark and warm unfurl low in her stomach. It wasn't cruelty, but rather something that thrived on being trusted with someone else’s vulnerability.

"Sphincter is a muscle, baby," she chuckled affectionately once they were finally setting up a few days later. "Trust your lucky genetics."

Rio sat on the edge of the bed, the strap in their hands. They held it carefully, as if weighing it, assessing it with their eyes. “There is no way this thing will fit in me,” they murmured, their voice quieter than usual as their finger traced along its length.

Agatha watched them for a moment before moving closer. She stepped into their space, the familiar gravity between them pulling her in without resistance, and lowered herself onto the bed beside them. Close enough that their thighs touched. Close enough that she could feel the tension in their body. She took the strap gently from their hands. She tilted their chin upward with it, the silicone pressing lightly against the underside of their jaw, guiding their gaze back to hers.

“Don’t worry, mi corazón,” she murmured, her voice was teasing, yet threaded with that dangerous warmth she only ever used on them. “Hazlo entrar.”

Rio gulped. Their eyes immediately went dark. It had always affected them greatly whenever Agatha spoke Spanish, and perhaps Agatha used it to her advantage. Because she knew that beneath the nerves, beneath the fear, beneath the trembling uncertainty, Rio wanted this. And the fact that they wanted it to please her made Agatha feel like the center of the universe.

They both had already showered and made all necessary preparations. Agatha felt the thrill spreading through every cell of her body, alive and electric. It tingled and tickled along her nerve endings like tiny, divine electroshocks, as if something ancient and greedy inside her was stretching awake after a long sleep. She had to remind herself to breathe deeply to stay cool and avoid hyperventilating.

She was used to bottoming—thank you, Teen, and the extended, modern vocabulary tutorials—she preferred it, too. There was a particular kind of power in commanding from beneath, in dictating the terms of her own pleasure while someone else did the work of worshiping her body. She liked to watch them unravel while she remained composed, sharp, untouchable. Untouchable, even while being touched. She had rarely taken up the active role simply because she had never needed too much. Yet there were times when the situation called for it, and Agatha was only happy to follow the flow. It hadn't happened much with others, as she had always been content with her arrangements and never wanted to introduce anything new, for concerns of destabilizing the delicate hierarchy she had so carefully constructed. But with this one… Ugh. Stupid love was making her consider stupid things. Like trying different dynamics. Like learning new languages for pleasure. She liked it secretly, of course. She liked the way it made her feel dangerous and young and terrifyingly alive. But Rio didn't need to know that. Although they likely had known about it long before she had surrendered to their egregore, and finally dared to analyze her own feelings.

She leaned in and placed a delicate kiss on Rio's slightly parted lips. "Go ahead, lie down," she ordered softly for now.

Rio swallowed nervously and nodded. They kicked off their slippers and crawled to the head of the bed, while Agatha made a beeline for the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. The strap was already clean, but she washed it again anyway, her fingers slow and thorough, more ritual than necessity.

Her reflection watched her from the mirror—eyes darker than usual, pupils blown wide with hunger she was struggling to contain. She let her hand drift down her body, hooking her fingers under the waistband of her panties, and pulling them down her legs. She took her time massaging her clit, making herself wetter. They had picked a strapless double-sided dildo that went into the wearer with a shorter end. Agatha had already been pretty wet from anticipation alone, but extra lubrication never hurt anyone. Her breath hitched as her fingers moved, as sensation coiled tight and bright in her core. For a moment, she imagined doing this in front of Rio. Imagined letting them watch. Imagined the feral, helpless look on their face… At the last minute, she abandoned the idea. No. She wanted to make a dramatic entrance instead, wanted to see Rio’s face when they realized exactly what she was about to do to them.

She looked in the mirror once she was done and smirked. The silicone matched the color of her bra perfectly, as if it had always belonged there. It looked vicious. Indecent. Powerful. It looked like hers. The end of the dildo pressed against her front wall in the most delicious way, and when she took the first step, she gasped as the sensation hit her like lightning. Her hand flew to the counter to steady herself.

Oh.

Oh, she would need to be careful. She stared at herself a moment longer, breathing slowly, steadying the tremor in her knees, forcing her composure back into place, piece by fragile piece. She refused to walk back into that bedroom like some horny, overwhelmed teenager who couldn’t control herself. Agatha Harkness did not lose control. Not ever. Not now. Not even for Rio.

Nodding to herself, she left the bathroom in a slow, predatory manner. Rio didn’t need to know that she moved like that, not for theatrics, but because she was trying not to trigger a premature ejaculation. Every step sent a pulse through her core, the silicone shifting inside her with just enough friction to make her breath hitch if she wasn’t careful. It was almost humiliating how sensitive she already was, how her body betrayed her composure so eagerly. It was ironic, Agatha thought bitterly, how she had spent days worrying Rio wouldn’t last their first time, and now she could barely hold her own shit together. The universe did have a sense of humor. Cruel. Precise. Personal. The great cosmic mockery.

When she entered the bedroom, she felt it immediately—Rio’s gaze on her body. It was physical. Tangible. They sat at the headboard in only their boxers, shoulders slightly tense, posture too straight, as if they didn’t know what to do with their own limbs. Wide-eyed, still, almost frozen. Agatha could sense their nerves even from a distance: the subtle tightness in their chest, the careful way they breathed, as if they were afraid to inhale too much of Agatha. Yet their eyes were hungry, dark, devouring. They took every inch of her in with an intensity that made her skin break into goosebumps.

She moved toward the bed and placed one knee on top of the mattress, the motion slow and purposeful, angling her hips just enough to accent the strap and the way it was attached to her core. Nothing Agatha Harkness did was unintentional—every move had always been thought through in advance. She had already calculated the best angle for displaying the strap in her mind long before she ever left the bathroom, and now she was simply putting her theoretical measures into practice. Rio’s eyes dropped immediately, as if pulled by gravity, and zeroed in on the silicone. They gulped. Their lips parted slightly. Their tongue darted out to wet them in a nervous, unconscious motion that sent a vicious spark of satisfaction through Agatha’s chest.

"Like what you see, handsome?" Agatha purred. She moved her hand and ran her fingers along the strap, mindful of the pressure.

They squirmed in their spot, their thighs pressing together for a brief moment before relaxing again, but they didn’t move otherwise. Their gaze was glued to Agatha’s crotch with a helplessness that made something dark and pleased bloom inside her ribcage.

Agatha narrowed her eyes. "Rio?" she tried getting their attention, her tone sharp and demanding.

Their eyes immediately shoot upward. Pavlovian response. They licked their lips again, their voice rough when they spoke. "Green," they rasped. "I'm green."

Agatha smirked, slow and satisfied, and moved fully onto the bed, crawling toward them with the same measured confidence, every shift of her body sending another wave of sensation through her already aching core. Once she was within reach, she glided her hands up Rio’s thighs, feeling the strength beneath her palms, the warmth of their skin, the faint tremor they couldn’t completely hide. She pressed one of her palms to the bulge in their boxers. She felt them twitch, and it sent a violent bolt of arousal through her. It was so intense it almost stole the air from her lungs. For one dangerous, traitorous second, she thought about abandoning the entire plan. Taking the strap out. Wrapping her fingers around them instead. Lowering herself onto their length and riding them until neither could think, until the world dissolved into nothing but friction and heat and the sound of their bodies colliding, until they both got overstimulated to the point it hurt.

Rio's ragged breathing interrupted her half-formed fantasy, and she slowly raised her eyes. They looked back with so much emotion that Agatha felt physically swept away, as if the force of it had weight, had current, had hands pressing against her sternum and pushing. This close, with her hands on their body, she could feel them tremble—not just the surface shiver of nerves, but something deeper, something structural. Agatha abandoned the warmth in her palms and moved up their body until they were face-to-face, adjusting her own breath to match theirs without conscious thought, like two tides forced into the same gravitational pull.

Before Rio, Agatha rarely showed her soft side to her partners. Not during sex, not ever. It did exist, she wasn’t delusional, but she preferred to keep it hidden even from herself, buried under layers of performance and sharp teeth, something fragile locked in a vault she pretended did not exist. Softness had always felt like exposure. Like standing unarmed in the middle of a battlefield. Like inviting the knife and then being surprised when it stabbed. It was safer to be the blade. But Rio had a way of walking into the eye of her inner chaos and settling into the wreckage as if it were a garden, as if it were somewhere worth staying, and over time, Agatha had begun, against all instinct, to leave the gate unlocked.

She cupped Rio’s jaw, smiling at them, and they immediately leaned into the touch with a quiet, instinctive surrender that made something in her chest twist painfully tight. Her thumb traced their skin lightly, soothingly. “Hey, Sheriff,” she said gently, and felt a puff of hot air as Rio exhaled. “Nervous?” she asked them.

Rio nodded. “Yeah,” they murmured. “A bit.”

It wasn’t “a bit”, and Agatha could tell by their demeanor, their body language, their breathing pattern, their energy. Rio was terrified but put on a brave face. For her. She could see it in the way their pupils were blown wide, in the careful control of their limbs, in the way they held themselves like someone standing at the edge of a cliff. And at that moment of empathy, it struck Agatha like an epiphany—she needed to ease them up a little, so they didn’t explode from anxiety before they’d even started. And she also needed to come before they started because that building up arousal from the strap inside of her, and the mere idea of what Rio was allowing her to do, was starting to cloud her mind, filling her veins with heat, with pressure, with the dangerous, intoxicating urge to take, to claim, to consume. So, two birds with one stone.

In a swift motion, which was only half-elegant because of the unfamiliar extension of herself, Agatha switched their positions and was the one lying on the bed now. She maneuvered Rio so they were comfortably draped over her body, and held them close, gripping their ass, feeling the firm muscle there tense under her hands, alive and responsive and hers to touch. Their weight settled over her, familiar and grounding.

“How about some familiar dynamics to start?” The strap was sandwiched between their bodies and pressed deliriously to that spot behind her front wall, sending small, treacherous sparks up her spine with every subtle shift. Agatha kept her breathing even, forcing calm into her lungs, not to jolt too much, not to lose herself too soon. “Be a good boy, and make me come,” she murmured, her voice low and honeyed and threaded with command and invitation.

Rio licked their lips. They were holding most of their weight on their forearms now, careful, controlled, but they moved one hand and brushed Agatha’s hair, their fingers gentler than anything else in the world, like she was something precious, something fragile. “Do you want my mouth?” they asked in a low voice, and even through the nerves, there was devotion there, steady and endless. Agatha nodded, dragging a nail down the length of their spine, feeling them shudder under her touch. “Well,” they chuckled lightly, their breath warm against her skin, “that won’t exactly be that familiar.”

When Agatha didn’t reply, only raising an eyebrow in silent question, they explained, their voice tinged with nervous humor, with vulnerability. “You know, I’ve never had a strap in my mouth before.”

“But you’ve had me in your mouth before,” Agatha smiled, and poked their nose with the pad of her index finger, the gesture unbearably soft, unbearably intimate. Rio laughed softly, and it sent butterflies into her stomach. “It’s still me, baby,” she murmured, her voice dropping, and her hand sliding into their hair.

Rio looked at her for several more beats, just quietly playing with her hair and scanning her soul through the depths of her eyes, and Agatha could feel the weight of that attention like hands on her skin. It was unbearable sometimes, the way Rio saw her—not the performance, not the sharp edges she showed the rest of the world, but her, the parts she didn’t even like to acknowledge existed—and it seemed to be so effortless for them. At last, they leaned down and kissed her on the lips. It was gentle, but not soft in any way. There was heat behind it from the first contact, restrained and quavering, ready to burst, like a match held to gasoline but not yet dropped. Agatha tightened her grip in their hair, fingers curling possessively at the base of their skull, and Rio moaned into her mouth, the sound low and helpless. And when she slid her tongue over the roof of their mouth, slow, purposeful, and claiming, their body twitched uncontrollably, making their stomach glide over the length of the strap. A lightning strike tore through Agatha, violent and merciless, and her back arched off the bed, elevating them both a few inches into the air, her breath snapping in half. Her nervous system flooded with sensation, which, by itself, wasn't new; what caused it was, and together with the mental image of what they looked like from the side, was doing it for Agatha.

Rio looked at her again, their eyes wide and hungry, pupils blown. Their hand left her hair and moved downward and between their bodies. Agatha had never worn a strap-on before, so the experience had already been a bit overwhelming to begin with, the constant pressure inside her, the way every tiny movement sent sparks crawling up her spine. But when a warm hand—she couldn't physically feel its warmth, of course, but knowing how warm those hands were getting during their intimate moments, her brain was completing the picture on its own—closed around the length of the silicone cock, and made a probing stroke, halting at the base, and pressing the short end against Agatha's sensitive spot, her body seized, and she moaned so loudly it bordered on a scream, her nails digging into Rio's scalp.

It seemed to have returned Rio some of their usual confidence. Their mouth curled into a smirk, crooked and dangerous and so familiar it made Agatha’s stomach flip, and they leaned down to playfully bite into her neck, their teeth scraping her pulse. Agatha felt herself clench hard, and her hips bucked, making Rio's hand move. They followed the lead, and began a slow rhythm. It wasn't anything graceful or majorly efficient since the length was not lubricated, but it still provided enough friction to be pleasurable—not enough to send Agatha over the edge, but enough to tease, to make her toes curl, her breath stutter, and her mind blur at the edges.

She tightened her grip in Rio's hair once more, pulling them harshly and yanking their mouth off her skin. “I said,” she hissed, her voice low and sharp and shaking with need, “make me come with your mouth.” She pushed at their head suggestively yet firmly, and Rio instantly obeyed, their body yielding to her will without hesitation, letting her guide them down, until they were face-to…cock. Their breath was hot and uneven against her crotch, as their eyes flicked up to hers with naked devotion and something darker, something that made Agatha’s entire body burn.

They placed a searing kiss on Agatha’s mons, the heat of it soaking through her skin and straight into her bloodstream, and took the length of the strap in their hand close to the base, their fingers gentle in a way that made her stomach tighten. They never broke eye contact for a second—they looked up at her like this was a vow. The touch alone sent a shiver rippling over the lower half of Agatha’s body, a slow, crawling tremor that made her toes curl, and her hips threaten to move on their own. She combed through Rio’s hair, scratching their scalp with her nails, both reward and demand, and raised her eyebrow impatiently, letting them see the hunger she never saw a reason to hide. The first second of collision between the soft mouth and hard silicone was tentative, almost shy—Rio’s lips slightly parted as they merely brushed them over the tip. They hovered there for another beat that felt like an eternity, breath fanning over it, their chest rising and falling as they gathered themselves, and then they took a deep, steadying breath and took it into their mouth fully. Agatha’s breath caught in her throat at the sight. The visual alone was enough to make her dizzy. The length of the cock was slowly disappearing between Rio’s lips, inch by inch, their mouth stretching around it, their muscles working to accept something that did not belong there—had never belonged there—and once they reached the middle, their hand tightened at the base. The pressure transferred instantly. It pressed the shorter end deeper into her, right against that sensitive place that already pulsed and ached, and the movement grazed her clit in passing. Agatha bit her lip hard, inhaling sharply through her teeth, her fingers flexing in Rio’s hair.

Then, without any further preamble, Rio slid forward to a halt, sealing their mouth at the base. The sudden shift made Agatha’s brain stutter. She could calculate it without feeling it, could see the silicone vanish completely past their lips, could see their jaw tighten. The shortened end twitched inside of her in response to the pressure, a faint, maddening push that told her the tip had hit Rio's pharynx. She wished, with a sudden, violent desperation, that she could feel it directly, wished she could experience the exact sensation Rio was giving her, but instead she had to settle for the echo, the phantom, the visual of Rio’s throat moving in a hard swallow. They loosened their lips slowly, retreating with agonizing care, releasing the length until only the tip remained inside their mouth, their breath warm and damp against it. Their hand returned, but instead of wrapping around the base of the silicone again, they moved lower, their fingers slipping between Agatha’s parted thighs. She gasped quietly when she felt them there, the familiar intrusion of their touch in a place already slick and open. Two fingers maneuvered carefully through the connection point, through the place where silicone met flesh, gathering as much wetness as they could. The motion made the shorter end wiggle inside of her in small, helpless pulses, each one sending another involuntary shiver up her spine. She tried to breathe evenly, tried to stay composed, but her body was betraying her; every nerve ending lit up, bursting into a thousand tiny supernovas.

Once Rio seemed satisfied with their awkward lubrication method, their fingers pressed more deliberately between her flesh and the bumper, spreading the wetness, and at the same time, they pushed forward again, swallowing more of her length. Their fingers shifted, and at last her clit was caught between their pads and the firm base of the toy. The contact was direct and intentional—all energy in the room focused around that point of contact. A bolt of electricity tore through Agatha so violently it stole the air from her lungs. She couldn’t control the moan that escaped her, low and loud and broken, dragged out of her from somewhere deep and helpless. Her head fell back against the mattress, exposing her throat, her back arching as her hips jerked upward into their hand and mouth. Her fingers flexed in Rio’s hair, gripping so hard she knew it had to hurt, Rio whined, but pressed closer, held her tighter, their eyes still on her.

The friction felt too good—Rio positioned their fingers at the exact spots that were making Agatha lose her mind. Paired with the shorter end hitting her G-spot at every pass of their mouth, paired with her prior state of arousal, paired with the utterly consuming visual of Rio’s lips stretched around the length, hollowing their cheeks as they took her in again and again, she was approaching the edge at a rapid, terrifying pace. She felt the coil start tightening within her, slow at first, then faster, enveloping her core with burning, liquid heat and closing around it until there was no space left for her to exist inside her own body, until there was no possible end but rupture, but still she held on by the last trembling thread of reserve, greedy for more. Her hips jerked at another subtle swap of Rio’s fingers—the angle changing just enough to strike somewhere devastatingly right—slamming hard into their mouth and making them gag, caught off guard by the sudden violence of her need. Agatha gasped—the energy behind that simple act was drugging her mind: to cause someone physical discomfort, to cause someone pain while they worship her, it was intoxicating, it was making her feel as if she were wielding the power only gods could possess. She tightened her grip on their hair even more and moved her hips again. Even though she was nearly lost in pleasure, she was still watching Rio closely—half-waiting for their stopping signal. It didn’t come. Rio’s eyes began to water; they were struggling to breathe through their nose since it kept hitting Agatha’s crotch, and she kept pressing them into it, but they didn’t signal. And they didn’t stop, obediently working her toward climax, never losing the pace, offering themselves up to her completely.

Oh, how Agatha wished she could feel the warmth of their mouth, the connection of their bodies through the sealing suction, and an occasional, sobering, sharp drag of teeth. A single tear escaped Rio’s eye, spilling over and sliding down the curve of their cheek, catching briefly at their lips before disappearing somewhere below, mixing with their saliva along the silicone length. Agatha watched it, completely mesmerized. Another tear was about to follow, and Agatha wanted to reach out, catch it with her fingers, and taste Rio's devotion. Rio’s fingers pressed against her clit at exactly the right angle, with exactly the right amount of pressure, as if they could feel the shape of her breaking point beneath their touch, while their other hand slid beneath her body, their fingers seeking and finding her perineum, pressing there with slow yet firm intent. The double pressure closed around her nervous system like a vice, tuning out everything else, erasing the world beyond the boundaries of their bodies. The building could have burned to the ground. The earth itself could have split open beneath them. It would not have mattered, and she wouldn't have noticed, completely lost in the violent waves of her personal euphoria.

She felt herself spasm so hard it impressed her, her muscles locking down reflexively, trapping the strap inside her in an iron hold. Her nails dug into Rio’s scalp, scratching helplessly as her control shattered, and somewhere far away, distant and distorted, she vaguely heard Rio cry out, the sound warped by the rushing pulse filling her ears. She didn’t hear it so much as felt it, the vibration of Rio’s voice traveling through the connection between them, resonating inside her flesh. The waves of pleasure crashed through her bloodstream in blinding surges, electricity flooding her veins, filling her with so much light she was certain she must be glowing, incandescent from the inside out. Her hips moved without her permission, rutted into Rio’s mouth in helpless, instinctive motions as her body convulsed, shaking and twitching and spilling over and over, unable to stop. Her release stretched on and on, time dissolving, until eventually it began to ebb, the unbearable intensity softening into something warmer, looser, her muscles unclenching in slow increments. She became dimly aware of Rio’s fingers still pressed at her perineum, moving more easily now, slick with her release, guiding her through the aftershocks.

Agatha wasn't sure how long her orgasm lasted, but she was sure it had been one of her top-tier ones. Rio was gently guiding her down from the peak, keeping her in their mouth, their movements softer now, almost tender, as if afraid she might shatter completely if handled too roughly. When Agatha felt like she could finally breathe without moaning, she opened her eyes, not even remembering when she had closed them, and slowly, carefully, stilled her hips. Rio was already looking at her. Their gaze was full of something so open, so consuming, that it stole the air from Agatha’s lungs all over again. Devotion. Adoration. Love, in its most dangerous and irresistible form. It made it feel as though everything else in existence had fallen away, abandoned, forgotten, simply to make space for her—her desires, her pleasure, her power. As if she had become the center of Rio’s universe—the only shining star in their own personal night sky.

Once her movements came to a complete stop, the last aftershocks still flickering faintly beneath her skin, she released her grip on their hair, her fingers uncurling slowly, almost reluctantly, as if part of her still wanted to keep them there, still wanted to keep them exactly where she needed them. She lifted that same hand to her own face, brushing her wild, tangled hair away from her damp skin, strands sticking to her cheeks and lips, a testament to how violently she had thrashed, how thoroughly she had lost herself. Her breathing was still uneven, her chest rising and falling as she admired the view before her—Rio’s lips stretched around the cock, releasing it inch by inch with aching slowness, their mouth clinging to it in soft reluctance, strings of saliva catching the light between them. She was so absorbed in the sight, in the way Rio’s swollen lips parted, in the faint tremble still lingering in their jaw, that she didn’t notice at first. It was only when her own fingers grazed her skin, featherlight and absentminded, that she froze. The touch felt wet. Agatha frowned faintly, her brow knitting in confusion, and pulled her hand away from her face, bringing it into her line of sight. The moment she saw it—saw the dark, gleaming stain coating her fingertips—her heart lurched violently in her chest, a sharp, electric flip that sent a fresh wave of arousal spilling through her veins. Her nails, her fingers, were smeared with blood. Rio’s blood. Apparently, in the merciless haze of her pleasure, she hadn’t measured her strength, hadn’t realized how deeply her nails had carved into their scalp, breaking skin beneath the strands of their hair. The realization settled into her slowly, heavily—and with it came a deep, rolling thunder of thrill that roared through her chest, dark and intoxicating and impossible to ignore.

For several long seconds, she could do nothing but stare at it, transfixed by the vivid contrast of brownish-red against her pale skin, by the definite proof of what she had done, of what Rio had allowed her to do. Her pulse quickened again, her body responding before her mind could intervene. Finally, she lifted her gaze and looked at Rio, who had by that time completely released the length and was now hovering over her. Their eyes were absolutely wild, blown wide and so dark they looked almost entirely black, swallowing the light. Their face was streaked with tears, tracks glistening along flushed skin, and their lips were swollen. Agatha slowly lifted her hand between them, holding her bloodstained fingers in front of Rio’s face, watching with sharp, hungry attention as their eyes locked onto them. She saw the exact moment recognition struck. Their pupils expanded even further. Their breath hitched. Shock flickered across their expression, quickly chased by something more complicated, something deeper. A moment later, their face tightened, their features pinching as their body finally began to register the pain they had ignored until now, the delayed sting of broken skin catching up with them.

Agatha bit her lip, her teeth pressing hard into the soft flesh to contain the wicked smirk already forming, the one clawing its way to the surface. She could feel it anyway, curling inside her chest, hot and pleased and vicious. Slowly, she extended her hand toward them, positioning her bloodied fingers just a breath away from their mouth, close enough that Rio could feel the faint warmth radiating from her skin. They gulped audibly, their throat working as their eyes flicked between her face and her fingers, uncertainty and want warring openly in their expression. Neither of them spoke. Agatha didn’t rush them. She waited. She watched. Predator still and patient, her gaze heavy and expectant, giving them the choice while already knowing the answer. Rio drew in several unsteady breaths, their chest rising against her, before they shifted slightly, and Agatha felt it—the slow drag of their blunt nail against the meat of her thigh, a single, careful scratch that sent a sharp, electric spark racing straight to her core. She released her lip, letting the smirk finally bloom across her face in full, dark satisfaction, and closed the final inch, pressing her stained fingertips to their waiting mouth.

Rio had always been exceptionally good with their mouth. It was one of those quiet, yet hot truths Agatha had learned early and never stopped discovering new layers of. They could make her come again and again using nothing but their tongue and lips, drawing pleasure out of her with what felt less like technique and more like instinct, like they had been built with the sole purpose of worshiping her. When her fingers disappeared into their warmth now, Agatha felt a violent shudder ripple down her spine, every vertebra lighting up in sequence. Rio’s mouth welcomed her without hesitation, their lips sealing around her digits with the same devotion they had given the cock, their tongue sliding between them, curling and cleaning the proof of her claim on them. The gentle suction paired with the slow drag of their tongue sent sparks racing straight to her core, reigniting nerves that had barely stopped screaming. It was a norm in her intimacy with Rio—she had just come minutes ago, had just been reduced to a bursting star, and yet her body was already stirring again, her essence prickling awake as if blasted with a pure wave of energy, as if getting an adrenaline shot straight to the heart. The mere thought of how that same mouth had felt around the silicone was enough to trick her mind into filling in the blanks her body couldn’t feel, providing all the right stimulus, and her hips twitched faintly beneath Rio without warning.

Rio was sitting on their shins, straddling one of her thighs, their weight hovering just enough to keep her aware of every point of contact, every line where their bodies met. They looked almost dazed, their lashes low, their lips still wrapped around her fingers as they worked them slowly, as if savoring. When Agatha let out a quiet, helpless moan—one she hadn’t meant to release—Rio’s hips jerked in response, sudden and uncontrolled, and the motion made both of their lengths brush together. The contact was brief, barely there, but it was enough. Rio froze instantly. Their entire body went rigid as they inhaled sharply.

Agatha’s gaze snapped downward, quick and predatory. She took in the sight of the thin fabric still clinging to their hips, the barrier still separating them. Her lip curled faintly. “Why are you still wearing your boxers?” she asked, one eyebrow arching high, her voice laced with open judgment, the kind that made blush crawl up Rio’s collarbones and neck.

To emphasize her displeasure, she snapped the waistband hard against their skin. The elastic cracked loudly in the quiet room. Rio yelped, their mouth falling open in surprise, finally releasing her fingers, which slipped free with a wet sound. Agatha ignored their reaction entirely, bringing her hand back to herself and inspecting her fingers with meticulous attention, turning them slightly in the dim light. They were now perfectly clean. Her lips twitched faintly in satisfaction. Slowly, she dragged those same fingers up along her own body, trailing over the column of her throat, down to her collarbones, tracing their shape before continuing lower, teasing the curve of her chest until her hand settled over her left breast.

“And why,” she added in a low, dangerously smooth tone, “am I still wearing my bra, pray tell?” She squeezed lightly, her fingers pressing into the soft flesh just enough to distort it, and watched Rio’s reaction with open hunger.

They still haven't replied to anything, slightly shaking, but sitting otherwise still, completely transfixed. Agatha felt a new wave of impatience stir beneath her ribs. The aftermath of her first orgasm still lingered, and she didn't feel steady enough to dive back in with abandon, but she was ready to play with Rio—that hunger never really faded, only shifted and took different shapes. She rolled her hips, pressing upward into them. The motion wasn’t enough to create real pressure, wasn’t enough to give her any meaningful sensation from the short end of the strap, but it was enough to send a bolt of electricity through Rio. Their eyes squeezed shut, their lips parting as they choked back a moan, their entire body tightening as if waiting to be struck by lightning.

Agatha’s smirk returned, slow and just a tad cruel. “How about,” she murmured, her voice coated in honey, promise, and a hint of a threat, “you strip us both, and then I’ll let you make yourself come while I recover.” Her fingers drifted downward, finding the waistband of their boxers again, this time slipping beneath the fabric, her fingertips brushing their skin underneath the neatly trimmed hair. She felt them shiver violently under her touch, their breath stuttering. “Because I intend to use you for the next couple of hours,” she purred, each word dragged out, savoring the way it made them tremble, “and if you need to come… now is the best time to take care of that.”

No matter what they did, Rio’s fingers had always been steady. That steadiness had become one of the great constants of Agatha’s existence. Those fingers had guided her through the gates of the most mind-altering pleasures known to mankind, had mapped her body with the devotion of a cartographer charting sacred territory. Even now, as they leaned in, there was no hesitation in them—they reached for the straps of her bra with a gentleness that bordered on ceremonial, their knuckles brushing her shoulders as they slowly slid the lace down her arms. Their lips followed the path they uncovered, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses into her skin, each one lingering, each one deliberate, as if they were trying to memorize her texture. Their hand moved behind her back, fingers working with effortless precision to unhook the clasp in a single smooth motion, never breaking the rhythm of their touch. The lace loosened, slackened, and Rio paused only long enough to pull it away, discarding it somewhere behind them without care, their attention already elsewhere. Their palms returned to her immediately, cupping her breasts, kneading them with a slow pressure that made her breath deepen. And then, as if drawn by magnetic force, their mouth closed over her nipple so suddenly that Agatha didn’t even process it at first, her mind still hazy at the edges, her nerves still humming in the aftermath of her climax. But when Rio’s teeth grazed the sensitive peak, her mind did a flip, suddenly making her aware of the reality.

Aagatha’s nipples were not as responsive as Rio’s, but their attention still felt very good. She was not as much enjoying the sensation as she was how pathetic Rio had always become while sucking on them. It was as if playing with her boobs was igniting them for something greater, something deeper, and more profound. And Agatha liked that—how it felt like Rio was ready to do absolutely anything to be allowed to touch her properly or die trying to deserve that great honor.

She slid her hand into their mane, threading her fingers through the dark strands, and when her nails brushed over the fresh scratches she had left behind, Rio hissed. The sound was sharp, involuntary. Their entire body jolted in her lap. Agatha felt the reaction spark straight between her legs, a sudden, electric pulse of arousal that made her stomach tighten. The evidence of what she had done to them. The knowledge that she had marked them without even realizing it. That she had drawn blood—inflicted pain.

She tightened her grip, curling her fingers into a fist, and yanked their head back, forcing their mouth off her breast. A thin strand of saliva stretched between them before snapping.

“I said,” she repeated, her voice low and immovable, “strip us both.”

That wasn't really crucial since Agatha wasn’t planning to touch them yet, and it wasn’t too relevant to her how Rio would get themselves off, but ordering them around had always filled her with a heady, intoxicating sense of elevation, like ascending some invisible throne that existed only in their realm. Rio also enjoyed being a little bit degraded. They hadn’t gone too far with that one yet, but Agatha began implementing small elements here and there, and so far, Rio had been responding very positively.

Not for the first time, Agatha wondered what the hell she had done to receive such a wonderful gift from that bitch Karma. Never in her life had she thought she’d find anyone who would not merely endure her nature, but would actually crave it. The thought alone made her heat pool low in her abdomen.

Rio gulped and nodded obediently. Shifting in their position, and dismantling Agatha’s lap, their movements were clumsy in their urgency. They did the quickest jumping-out-of-their-boxers performance Agatha has ever seen. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from chuckling at how eager they looked—they were very cute. Instead, she tried to maintain her current persona. Rio’s T-dick stood fully erect and swollen between Rio's thighs, begging for attention.

Agatha wanted it inside of her so badly, but she had to remind herself that this was another occasion. Now was her therapeutic session because her stupid feelings were hurt. Now called for a different kind of dynamics. She looked at Rio, who seemed a bit lost after dismantling their underwear, as if unsure what to do next. They had come a long way in their physical intimacy, had crossed so many invisible thresholds together that sometimes Agatha forgot there had ever been a beginning at all. While Rio was the emotional pillar of their relationship—the steady, grounding force that held space for her chaos without ever trying to tame it—Agatha was the sexual one—the guide, the architect of their physical language. They both lacked experience in each other's areas of expertise, and Agatha had always found it strangely beautiful that they had somehow stumbled into each other’s orbit and fit so perfectly into those empty places, filling the gaps for one another. So, since they had met, Rio had enhanced their sexual culture tremendously. Still, even with all the experience they had been gaining, sometimes—at times just like that—they felt a bit out of their element, especially if they hadn't done a particular kind of dynamics before, if it wasn't practiced.

They had played with Rio's submission a lot, but never had Agatha worn a strap-on, so that was something new for both of them. While Agatha's goal for tonight was focused on receiving, she reasoned that she could give them a little push. A nudge. Just to help them get on the track. She reached out for their hand, unsurely hovering by their own thigh, and took it gently in hers, her fingers closing around theirs with surprising softness.

"C'mere, big boy," she murmured, tagging them toward her body.

Rio followed willingly. Rio had always followed her willingly, regardless of what they were doing. It did something absolutely feral to Agatha's ego to have someone offer themselves so openly, so completely. She could bend anyone to her will in any possible kind of setting—she knew exactly which strings to pull, exactly which weaknesses to exploit—but this was different. This was not manipulation—this was intimacy. This was Rio placing their fragile, fluttering heart into her hands and trusting her not to crush it. The weight of it was intoxicating and terrifying all at once, and Agatha could only hope, in the quiet places she refused to examine too closely, that she was doing a decent job of holding something so precious without breaking it.

She maneuvered Rio until they were straddling her lap—not a typical position for them, but currently the cock between Agatha's thighs was taking Rio's rightful place, and they couldn't nestle there without it being awkward, and not entirely comfortable for either of them. Agatha grabbed their thighs firmly, grounding them, and waited. She had done her part. It was their turn to catch up and act. Her thumbs began to draw slow, absent patterns on their sun-kissed skin, feeling the warmth of them, the faint tremor of anticipation beneath the surface, as the gears in Rio's head turned visibly. Agatha did not feel a desperate need to hurry—her earlier orgasm still lingered in her bloodstream, softening the sharpest edges of her hunger—but impatience was part of her nature, woven into her bones.

"Well?" she asked, lifting her brow, her voice sharp with expectation. "Are you going to take what I'm so generously offering, or have you deluded yourself into thinking that you would be able to last until dawn without coming once?" Her sharp nails dug into the tight muscles, making Rio's breath hitch.

They hadn't always been like that. Sure, such dynamics were Agatha's natural flow, and she preferred it, but there were times—more than she would ever admit aloud—when the mood called for tenderness. Agatha enjoyed their vanilla sessions, too, the quiet ones filled with warmth instead of fire, but it was a secret she guarded fiercely. Rio, of course, most likely knew anyway. They always knew.

They had spoken about it countless times, especially at the beginning of their relationship. Agatha had needed to make sure Rio wasn’t simply agreeing to everything out of devotion, wasn’t molding themselves into whatever shape Agatha wanted just to keep her, just to satisfy her—sexually and emotionally—but genuinely found pleasure in it, too. Typically, Agatha wouldn't have cared—it wasn't a secret that her partners had never had much say in their dynamics, but this time it was different. Ugh. Agatha absolutely hated how cliché that sounded. Didn't change the fact, though—she loved this weirdo, and so she tried to take their mental state into account. Seriously, she deserved a fucking award for being in this relationship.

Agatha bucked her hips as if to emphasize the point, a physical punctuation to the unspoken command humming between them, and the length of her silicone cock bumped into Rio's T-dick with a soft, obscene insistence that made the air between them feel suddenly thinner. Rio gasped, the sound punched out of them before they could stop it, and their eyes flew to Agatha’s face with something wild and searching in their expression. Agatha looked back easily, her own gaze dark and steady and challenging, daring them to keep going. She dragged all of her nails that were pocking their flesh down their thighs, leaving her signature sting temporarily imprinted on their skin. Rio hesitated only for another heartbeat, their breath trembling, their muscles tight beneath her hands, and then they finally moved their pelvis. It was tentative at first, almost shy, just the faintest brush, a testing of boundaries, but even that small friction sent sparks scattering low in Agatha’s abdomen, sharp and electric, making her stomach clench.

She smirked. "That's my good boy," she purred in a low voice, her fingers massaging their skin encouragingly. "Feels good?"

Rio nodded, their throat working as they swallowed, rolling their hips again with a little more confidence this time, chasing the sensation, surrendering to it. "Yeah," they whispered, as their teeth sank into their bottom lip.

They leaned in closer, drawn toward her like gravity, bracing their palm on the mattress beside her shoulder, their arm trembling faintly with the effort of holding themselves up as they pressed their lips to hers. Agatha responded without hesitation, capturing their bottom lip between her teeth, biting just enough to make their mouth fall open for her. Rio obeyed instantly, letting her tongue slide inside, meeting it with their own in a slow, desperate tangle. And then she felt it. Beneath the heat of their lips, and the sound of their breaths, and the press of their bodies, she felt the delicious pressure of the shorter end of the strap inside her, shifting deeper with Rio’s movement. Rio’s whiny moan spilled into her mouth at the same moment, thin and helpless and devastating, and Agatha’s hips jerked instinctively in response, her entire body reacting before her mind could fully catch up, and she felt Rio's knuckles brush her pubic bone.

Agatha had to see. She broke the kiss, Rio's lips chasing the last ghost of hers as she pulled away, her neck craning downward, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. Rio’s free hand—the one not anchoring them upright—was wrapped loosely around both of their lengths, their fingers moving in slow, unpracticed strokes, as if learning the shape of this new configuration. Every time their hand reached the base, they pressed a little harder, a little deeper, and she felt the answering shift inside her—the drag against that sensitive spot that made her stomach drop and her toes curl. The bumper brushed her clit with each pass, sending little aftershocks of sensation radiating outward, and Agatha’s breath stuttered despite herself. It was so Rio—even while taking care of their own needs, they still thought about Agatha's. They always thought about Agatha and what would make her feel good, both intimately and routinely, and she found that trait of theirs among her most favorite. That inner egoist enjoyed being the center of attention, after all.

Judging by the way Rio's thighs clenched around her body, shuddering with tremor, Agatha knew it wouldn't take long for them to come. The tremors weren’t subtle; they rippled through them in waves, making their muscles tighten and release against her in a helpless rhythm that made something hot and possessive coil low in Agatha’s stomach. She could feel the loss of their control in every involuntary twitch, in the way their weight leaned more heavily into her, in the way their breathing had already begun to falter. Agatha loved that moment—the exact moment when Rio’s equilibrium stopped belonging to them and started belonging to her. She blindly reached out to the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of lube she had prepared in advance, her fingers closing around it without needing to look. She had thought ahead. She always thought ahead. While this felt good for her, she reasoned that Rio could use some lubrication to make the experience even more pleasurable. Sure, she exhibited some minor sadistic tendencies, and she could not deny the deep, visceral thrill she drew from Rio’s helplessness around her in general, and from the way their body responded to her, whether they wanted it to or not, but she did have common sense. And while she was mean, she was never careless with them.

When she handed them the bottle, Rio smiled that stupidly annoying grin of theirs—the one that they gave her all these years ago at the beach, the one that Agatha had not been able to extract from the alcoves of her mind ever since. It hit her with the same disarming force it always did, soft and bright and so unbearably sincere that it made her chest tighten before she could stop it. She hated that smile. Hated how unguarded it was. Hated how it slipped past every defense she had ever built. Hated, most of all, how it made her edges softer without her permission, dulled blades she had spent her entire life sharpening. She hated that Rio had that power over her. Hated it—yet, secretly loved it. But she would never say out loud, of course.

When Agatha said they had come a long way, it always meant – both of them. Her logic had always told her that she needed to be more gentle for Rio, more calm to fit that normalized profile of an adequate partner. And at the beginning, she tried. It hadn't been pretending, per se, since she genuinely did have tender feelings toward them. Yet that was also completely the opposite of her nature, and her attempts to transmit softer currents had always felt half-performative. No matter how much she had meant the affection hidden deep, deep within her, it never looked 100% natural on the surface. They had had a lot of discussions regarding that, and it took Agatha some time to believe, but Rio was unearthly patient, and eventually, Agatha accepted the truth that Chief Rio Vidal was, in fact, very into her sadistic and violent tendencies, into her inner chaos, into the real her. If you looked at their sexual dynamics now, after six years of building the trust foundation, you would've never believed they were the same people who initially started that.

But it wasn't just Agatha who had let go; Rio had changed a lot, too. Or rather, evolved into their genuine self. When they began living together, Rio had always been stiff when it came to sex. It had been partially due to being self-conscious and insecure because of their previous emotional trauma, but also simply due to their limited experience. Don't get her wrong, Rio was capable of absolutely ruining Agatha in the bedroom; she had never had any complaints with that. They just weren't sure where to start sometimes and needed a bit of encouragement, which she was more than willing to provide. In six years together, Rio had improved significantly. And one of their most notable change had been self-pleasure.

They had spoken about it. Rio explained that after they began the bottom-growth experience, they quickly realized that the old ways of touching themselves no longer worked. Their body had rewritten its own language, and Rio had been left without a translation. That period of time had been quite overwhelming, not only physically but existentially, the quiet horror of no longer knowing how to reach yourself, how to soothe yourself, how to access something that had once been instinctive. And it didn't help that Rio was all alone—no partner to explore with, no community to reassure them that nothing was wrong, that they were not broken, that they were simply changing. So, somehow, they went through that metamorphosis without ever learning the new ways of self-pleasure, carrying that unanswered need inside themselves like an unanswered question, and eventually it simply drifted to the background of their life, buried under routine and survival. They weren't asexual; it just stopped being that relevant at some point. It became easier not to reach than to reach and fail. Until they met Agatha. And suddenly they gained everything that had been lacking: a family, a partner, and a community—a small one, fragile and strange and imperfect, but one, nonetheless. Someone who saw them. Someone who wanted them.

It pleased Agatha greatly that she was the one who helped them rediscover their body and the pleasure it had craved, that she had been there the first time Rio realized they could feel good again. That she had been the one to show them. There was something deeply intoxicating about that kind of power, about being the doorway through which Rio returned to themselves. And looking at them now, squeezing a generous amount of lube in their palm with excited expression and eagerness radiating off them, their eyes bright and hungry and so devastatingly alive, was stirring that fluttering feeling inside Agatha's chest.

She watched through hooded eyes how they aligned their lengths and wrapped their now-lubed palm around them. It was not so much a wrap but a rather awkwardly angled hold since together they were quite thick. At the first glide of their hand, Rio's back arched, their entire spine bowing like a drawn string, and a low moan left their chest, raw and unfiltered, as they threw their head back in pleasure, throat exposed, vulnerable in a way that made Agatha’s stomach twist. The shorter end shifted inside of her, hitting the sensitive spot just right, a precise, devastating pressure that sent heat blooming outward through her core, and she felt a responding moan nearly escaping her before she swallowed it down, unwilling to give up control so easily.

After catching their breath, Rio began moving. They didn't lean back into Agatha's body this time; instead, they focused on providing them both with sensation, their brow furrowed slightly in concentration. It felt good. Agatha would've closed her eyes and let her orgasm bloom within her, let herself dissolve into the pure physicality of it, but she wanted to watch, and that visual was fast-forwarding her to reaching it much faster. Rio's hips were twitching as they rutted both into their hand and into Agatha, sending her end of the strap in motion with every push, and pushing her toward the edge as well.

It didn't take long for either of them. Agatha snapped two seconds after Rio's body went taut, their entire form locking before shattering, shaking, and jerking while they cried out her name in a pathetic, low whine that sounded torn from somewhere deep inside them. The thought that her presence was a large part of what had pushed them toward the edge did it for Agatha. It flooded her with something fierce and overwhelming, something that erased the boundary between her physical pleasure and something far more profound. She had never experienced orgasms caused by the mental component alone. She used to think those could not have been considered real, but now, falling apart at the sight of her partner breaking, she thought she had never been happier to be proven wrong.

Agatha's hands latched onto Rio's quivering thighs, as if she needed something solid to anchor herself to while the aftershocks continued to ripple through her body. Rio was sure to keep the pressure on the strap, their numb, seemingly overworked hand stubbornly continuing its slow, dragging movements, prolonging the sensation for her long after it had already become too much, long after their own release had faded into a soft, floating haze. Agatha wasn't sure how much time passed, but eventually she had to close her grip on Rio's wrist to stop their movements. She was getting sensitive, and they still had the main act upon them. She opened her eyes and found Rio already staring back at her, heavy-lidded and dazed, but underneath that haze, they were so bright and open. There was so much devotion in that gaze, naked and unapologetic, laid at her feet like an offering.

"Hi, Sheriff," Agatha said quietly. Her voice came out softer than she expected, the aftermath of her second climax sanding down the sharpest edges of her usual bite. The words carried warmth she would never willingly admit to, a fragile, fleeting tenderness that only existed in these suspended moments after breaking apart and before putting herself back together.

Rio grinned and finally allowed themselves to collapse forward, leaning into her body, catching their weight on their palms pressed into the mattress on either side of her shoulders. Their entire frame seemed to melt toward her, drawn in by gravity that had nothing to do with physics and everything to do with metaphysics. They kissed her deeply and hotly, without any restraint. Their lips were swollen and wet, their teeth catching and biting at her lower lip, soothing the sting immediately after with slow swipes of their tongue. They licked the roof of her mouth as if they were mapping it, as if they could never get enough. Their nose brushed along the length of hers in an absent, affectionate nuzzle that made something unfamiliar twist in her chest.

"Hi, mi amor," they purred, happily and contently.

Agatha wrapped her arms around them then, her hands sliding over their back, feeling every line and tremor of muscle, every lingering aftershock. She held them tightly for one suspended second, breathing them in, feeling their heart still racing against her own, and then, in one swift motion, flipped them. Rio let out a small, surprised sound as their back hit the mattress. Their eyes widened, pupils blown wide, their chest rising and falling under Agatha as she hovered above them. This was not their typical position.

Rio looked up at her like she was something divine, like she held the power of the gods, and it went straight to Agatha's chest, fluttering her ego—her inner feral cat clawing at her ribs. This felt good—the claim she felt over Rio's soul. But since Agatha was… Agatha, and she was greedy; she wanted to put a claim on them physically, not just through the means of marriage and bond, but possessively, filthily, and primally. In her opinion, that was a pretty reasonable desire to have. They were soulmates, after all. Agatha was learning to open up emotionally for them, and that alone was already more than she had ever given anyone else. Never in her life would Agatha Harkness have tried so hard for anyone or anything else. That meant something. So, for her, it was justified that she wanted to consume Rio, and not just figuratively.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, hovering over them and tapping at their jaw with the pads of her fingers.

"Good," Rio said earnestly, nodding as if to emphasize that. They searched her eyes, and the second Agatha gave them access, their gaze pierced her soul. "How are you feeling?" they asked, their tone suddenly very serious, very careful, like they were holding something fragile in their hands.

Agatha paused, regarding the question. How was she feeling? Behind being pleasantly buzzed from two orgasms and the thrill of having Rio at her mercy… she looked inward, taking a few steps deeper into her subconsciousness. The hurt she had felt earlier over being jealous was still there. The bigger, gnawing aftertaste lingered in her soul. But that was the sole reason for that "therapeutic session" tonight, wasn't it?

"I need you," she simply replied. Raw and honest.

She watched Rio's eyes widen at the brutal openness, so untypical of Agatha's regular demeanor. They licked their lips and nodded again. Their hands trailed up and down her spine, spreading comforting waves of warmth over her nerves.

"I'm yours, amor," Rio said quietly, their tone soft and trusting. "Take what you need."

Agatha swallowed the building electric sparks, bursting her nerves like hundreds of tiny supernovas. It felt so intoxicating that she tried not to get drunk on it too fast; she wanted to savor it. She took a few deep breaths, collecting herself, and leaned in to start a trail of open-mouthed kisses along the line of Rio's neck. They moaned quietly, contently, and Agatha felt a drag of the nail down her spine. She shivered.

"Turn around for me," she whispered into their ear, nibbling on their earlobe, and immediately soothing it with her tongue. Her tone was soft, but the energy behind it – commanding.

When Rio turned, she reached for one of the pillows and slid it under their low belly so that their dick wasn't crushed by their own weight against the hard surface of their orthopedic mattress. Agatha reasoned it wasn't the most comfortable sensation when aroused. Rio moaned softly at the adjustment, the sound full of quiet appreciation, and rested their head on their crossed arms, surrendering their weight to the bed and to her. Agatha could see the tension gathering in their muscles, the subtle tightening beneath their skin, the way anticipation moved through them like a current. She ran her fingers down their spine and settled her palm on the curve of their ass, looking at the goosebumps following her trail. She shifted closer, lowering herself until her face hovered near their flesh, until she could feel the heat radiating from them. She leaned in and bit them, playful but firm. Rio yelped in surprise, and it pulled a low, satisfied chuckle from Agatha’s throat. Cute.

"I'll go slow, baby," she promised, soothing her bite with a soft press of the lips.

Rio adjusted their weight on the pillow; the action felt like they were presenting their ass to Agatha as a meal on the tray. "I trust you, Agatha," they said, their tone certain.

Well, then.

Trusting someone to do something and being anxious about them doing it were not mutually exclusive. Rio would not have agreed if they were uncomfortable. Rio had never lied to her about their limits. They had built everything they had on honesty so raw it sometimes felt like flayed skin. Still, knowledge did very little to quiet the restless, crawling thing beneath Agatha’s ribs. Because this wasn’t about logic, and not even about feelings. This was about responsibility.

"Show me your safe signal again?" Agatha inquired gently, her hand moving over the curve of their ass in slow, absentminded circles.

Rio's breathing pattern was almost back to normal now, and she watched the steady rise and fall of their shoulder blades. They slowly untangled their arms, moving one behind their back, their fingers curling into a tight fist.

"Good boy," Agatha praised, and felt Rio twitch under her palm. She smiled. Pavlovian. "And your word?"

"Azaleas," Rio breathed.

Okay. Okay.

Without stalling further, Agatha squeezed their flesh encouragingly and reached for the lube bottle. She just wanted it close by for when the time came and didn't want to interrupt her succubus session in progress. She dropped it next to Rio's leg and leaned down again. She set a trail of hot kisses along their sun-kissed skin, kneading the backs of their thighs with warm fingers. Rio stirred, clearly enjoying the attention and the rare gentleness.

By now, her own body had adjusted to the constant fullness inside her, the pressure no longer overwhelming but present, familiar. It reminded her of cockwarming, of that suspended intimacy where sensation became background noise, except the silicone remained inert, unresponsive to her inner muscle clenches. She was still very aware of it, but the movements no longer felt so overwhelming—Agatha could shift without being afraid of tipping herself over the edge too soon. Although it was partially because she had come twice already.

When she and Rio started their intimate relationship, Agatha quickly came to realize that it wasn't always just black and white with them, nothing with them existed in absolutes: sometimes, she preferred to have a few orgasms first before she could even think of returning the favor, but sometimes, she needed to devour Rio before they had a chance to touch her because she felt particularly greedy and knew she wouldn't be able to focus on anything else once Rio started her streak. It was refreshing; it felt as if she had been with a different version of Rio every time, depending on the energy field they had been creating around them. Agatha caught herself daydreaming—too many times than would have been considered just 'often'—that she wouldn't have minded to have both of those Rios worship her at the same time. The thought had always been so arousing, she shamelessly used it for masturbation sessions. Those had been, hands down, her most powerful orgasms she could draw out of herself.

There was a third, secret version of Rio—the one she had under her lips now. The one who could be both. Agatha had already come, and that scenario suggested she either give back now and wrap it for tonight or keep receiving until she can't go another round, and only then gather her last ounce of strength to touch Rio, which, historically, had never taken too long, since they'd been beyond turned on after hours of devouring Agatha. Tonight, they were working out a different, rare scenario in which Agatha mixed the receiving and giving components. She had already experienced two little deaths and was now going to shudder through another one using Rio's ass, but—

They say cats have nine lives, and Agatha's inner feral cat still had a few more in her. But despite the thrill her inner sadist was experiencing, her softer side wanted Rio to feel good, too. She knew it wouldn't be the case at the beginning of that session, but she could help them steer closer to the end. And that was a choice. She could've easily just gone with fulfilling her desires, but being in Rio's egregore all the time, inconveniently meant she took after them in some way—sometimes it surfaced more, sometimes less, but it was within her now, woven into her instincts.

Agatha shifted so she sat on her knees now—a tactical move to ensure she wouldn't get tired fast long term—and slid her palms up Rio's thighs, resting them on each ass cheek. Their skin was warm, and they shuddered faintly. Agatha kissed their tailbone, letting her lips linger, and flexed her hands. She felt Rio's breath hitch, felt it ripple through their entire body, and she waited for a heartbeat, suspended in the moment, listening with more than her ears. They didn't say anything or signal, staying still for her. Agatha moved her lips lower. She kissed the little dimple Rio had right over the crack of their ass, a detail she had discovered a long time ago, one of the many secret landmarks of Rio’s body that belonged to her alone, and put pressure on her hands, slowly spreading them, exposing them inch by inch, and blowing a warm stream of air into the now exposed area. Rio gasped, the sound sharp and helpless, and Agatha felt it bloom inside her chest like dark, forbidden sunlight.

"Color?" Agatha ordered. She, of course, was still very considerate and watched them carefully for any sign of discomfort, her eyes tracking every twitch, every breath, every microscopic shift of their muscles, but her tone wasn't transmitting any of that at the moment.

They had played with such dynamics a lot. Letting out her mean, violent persona loose in the bedroom had many benefits for Agatha's mental health. It gave her an outlet, a safe space where she did not have to pretend to be tame. It helped her to remain more composed on a daily basis, which essentially led her to accomplish more since she didn't constantly get into arguments and fights with others. It also scratched Rio's itch for submitting, soothed that deep, quiet hunger inside them, reducing the risk of it surfacing where it didn’t belong, protecting their career, their carefully built social image, their dignity in the outside world. Here, with Agatha, they could offer themselves without shame.

Agatha had been violent since she remembered herself; it wasn't something she acquired because of a specific trauma, nor was it a protective mechanism. It was simply her nature, written into her bones long before she ever understood what it meant. Her entire life, her family, friends, and society had been telling her she was a freak, had looked at her like she was something wrong, something defective, something that needed to be fixed or hidden. Eventually, she started believing it. Eventually, she stopped trying to be anything else. And after she had made peace with it, she began using it as a weapon, sharpening herself against the world that rejected her, learning how to survive in places that would never love someone like her. If she was going to be a monster, then she would be a powerful one. Untouchable, unbreakable, and absolutely magnificent.

And then she met this weirdo who looked at her with heart eyes every time she called someone a fucking cunt, starting a rant on how she would physically hurt them if she could because they were boiling her blood with their idiocy. Rio didn't just accept her—they adored her with the complete devotion of a doomed person, who believed their purpose in life was to lay themselves at the feet of their goddess and be destroyed there, worshiping her until they had nothing more to give. And Agatha was that goddess. Six years together, and she had somewhat gotten used to the feeling, but she wouldn't lie: when they first started their relationship, it felt bizarre—she struggled to wrap her mind around the fact that her freak apparently had a matching freak, and they had found each other.

"Green," Rio replied. Their voice was steadier than they looked, but Agatha could hear the effort threaded through it—the careful placement of each syllable.

Agatha felt a slow, predatory grin unfurl across her face, sharp and bright and hungry. She had never eaten anyone’s ass before. The act itself had always existed somewhere distant in her mind, filed away under things she would never give. It was too intimate, too exposing, too meaningful. She had never had anyone in her bed for whom she cared enough to even consider such a thought. She spread Rio a little wider, watching the way their muscles trembled under her hands, and leaned down. Her tongue traced a broad, deliberate stripe from their perineum upward to their anus. Rio gasped immediately, their entire body going rigid, every muscle locking as if struck by lightning. And then Rio melted again, tension draining out of them in a slow surrender. Agatha licked them again. This time, Rio made a quiet sound. Not quite a moan, but something smaller, and similarly pathetic. Something helpless. Something that shot straight into Agatha’s bloodstream and dissolved there like sugar in hot tea.

Her tongue worked a steady rhythm, getting a little deeper with every new swipe, and getting closer to its final destination. She took her time, savoring every reaction, every shiver, every tiny, broken breath Rio gave her. After a few minutes, the tip of her tongue finally met resistance—a tight ring of muscle, tense and guarded. She waited, her tongue resting there, barely pressing, listening with her entire body for any sign of hesitation. Any flinch, any pull. Rio’s body trembled beneath her, their voice dissolving into incoherent murmurs swallowed by the mattress. Not even words—just sensation, just feeling. They sounded overwhelmed, but felt content with the current position they were in. Agatha squeezed their ass cheeks, and that was the last warning they got before the tip of her tongue broke the veil of the unknown.

Rio inhaled sharply, the sound cracking apart on its way out, their hand fisting violently in the sheets. It was a cry of surprise at the unfamiliar intrusion more than anything else, since Agatha didn't even flex her tongue just yet, so it shouldn't have been painful in any way. She spent another few minutes teasing, working out the muscles, and letting Rio get used to the sensation of an unfamiliar presence in their ass.

She felt it happen—the moment Rio stopped resisting, the moment their body stopped bracing and began allowing. She felt their breathing even out, and the grip on the sheets loosen. She carefully removed her tongue then, soothing the area around Rio's anus with hot, slow licks. They mewed softly, the sound fragile and exposed, and the sound went straight to Agatha's solar plexus—that fluttering warmth only love could give you. She kissed their tailbone again and leaned back a little, reaching for the bottle of lube. Her heart began to accelerate, setting her nerves on tiny, sparkling flames and giving her a crackling, fizzing sensation. It felt as if someone cracked her chest open and poured Pop Rocks all over her insides.

She poured a generous amount into the curve of Rio’s ass, spreading them open with her free hand. The moment the cold liquid touched their skin, Rio jolted.

"Cold?" she chuckled affectionately, while busying herself with spreading another generous pour over the index and middle fingers of her left hand.

"Yeah," Rio said, their tone already breathless, "was distracted and didn't see it coming."

"Distracted?" Agatha asked, watching them carefully.

"Or rather too focused?" they corrected, thinking aloud. "Trying to keep my soul and mind in a meditative state, so I don't freak out too much," they said honestly.

Agatha hummed quietly at that. "And how's that going?"

"Not well," Rio said with a weak, breathless laugh.

Agatha briefly thought about asking whether they wanted her to slow down or stop. She didn't want to, but she also reasoned that she could live with that if Rio was too scared. After all, Agatha's hurt feelings had always been more of a drama performance rather than an actual harmful intrusion into her soul. Sure, she felt hurt, but it usually wasn't blown out of proportion and fatal as much as she had portrayed. It was more of her succubus nature—trying to drain all available energy from a situation until not even a drop remained.

Rio halted her train of thought. "Keep going." Their tone was quiet, but certain.

She ran her gaze over their body one more time, scanning for red lights, and when she was sure Rio was stable, she positioned her hand carefully, lining her fingers up with their sphincter. The first press made Rio freeze, their entire body locking under her touch. Agatha made a slow circular motion with the tip of her middle finger along the edges and paused in the center, pressing, but not pushing, inside. A long, breathless ahh broke free from the depths of Rio's chest.

Agatha repeated the motion several more times, waiting for Rio to relax. Or rather, relax as much as they could. When their muscles looked less stiff under their skin, Agatha leaned into their body, supporting herself on one elbow, and nuzzled their neck, breathing them in.

Her lips hovered over their flushed ear as she whispered, her tone a little wicked, threaded with promise and a subtle undertone of danger, "Deep breath, baby."

And then she pressed her middle finger in. It was a tentative intrusion, just the pad, a careful trespass. She felt Rio's inner muscles seize around her immediately, clenching in reflex, in an attempt to defend their territory. A guttural, throaty cry tore itself from their chest, raw and helpless, as their hand flailed blindly across the sheets in search of her. They found her wrist, and clung to her skin with startling force, their fingers curling around her like she was the only solid thing left in the universe

Agatha swirled her finger, slowly working out the tight ring of Rio's opening, loosening the muscle, and easing more of her length in until they could accommodate the first phalanx. She wasn't purposefully rough, but she figured it must have burned, must have stretched them in ways their body wasn’t used to, if their small, broken cries and the tremor and tension in their limbs were any indication. They haven't safeworded, still. So, Agatha kept going.

She had to remind herself to breathe, not to get drunk on this too fast. It felt as if she held Rio's fluttering soul in her hands. Agatha had known the power of a different kind, but this kind… was perhaps one of the most intoxicating. To have a living being at her mercy, trusting her completely to not break their psyche—it spread across her senses in broad, electric waves, lightning up every particle of her being connected to the vast Cosmos, and pulling her essence closer to Rio's with the red thread wrapped around them both. It felt incredible. And Agatha couldn't get enough. She needed more.

When she loosened Rio to fit two phalanges, she paused her descent. Not out of mercy, but out of savoring. Instead of pushing deeper, she began to move within them, circling slowly, stretching them open in broader motions, letting their body learn her shape. Rio grumbled softly, a helpless, wounded sound, their blunt nails digging into Agatha’s freckled skin hard enough to leave crescent moons behind. Their breathing came in ragged pulls, uneven and fragile, but they tried to stay as still as they could.

A few moments later, Agatha brought her index finger up to their opening, simultaneously pulling out her middle finger and pressing it in; the trajectory of her movement suggested that the two fingers met somewhere at the first phalanx. She went slowly, yet her pressure was steady. Agatha had fingered numerous women before she met Rio. She knew the language of their bodies, knew how to coax pleasure from reluctant flesh, knew the precise tilt and curl and rhythm that made people fall apart beneath her hands. She had always taken pride in it, in her skill, in her mastery. This, now, felt nothing like the vaginal fingering experience. This was tighter. Fiercer. The muscle resisted her no matter how careful she was, no matter how slowly she stretched them open. The heat here was different, too. It was hot, not with the slick, molten heat surrounded by velvet, but with a coarse, certain warmth. While the inner space behind the walls of the vagina carried the energy charge of a heartwarming host, inviting you to have a home-cooked meal, the space behind the anal glands was more like a tough inn-keeper, who would, of course, take care of you, but only if that arrangement had been previously agreed on. It felt good. Just very different.

When both of Agatha's fingers finally made their way into Rio's ass up to the second phalanges, they cried out, and clenched her hand so hard Agatha was almost certain they'd safe word. She leaned back from the warmth of their skin—damp now with the mingling condensation of her breath and the salt of their sweat—and regarded them properly, forcing herself to see rather than simply consume. Their eyes were shut tight, lashes clumped together with tears that spilled freely down their cheeks and soaked into the sheets beneath them. Agatha seriously doubted it was that painful; she knew the limits of her own body, her own strength, and she had not crossed into cruelty without consent. The tears spoke of something deeper, something more fragile—of vulnerability, of surrender, of the terrifying act of being opened so completely. Their teeth were clenched, their jaw trembling with the effort of holding themselves together, and they breathed violently through their nose, every other inhale accompanied by a helpless, broken whine that slipped past their defenses no matter how hard they tried to swallow it down.

Agatha felt the thrill pierce her essence and break her in two. It did not arrive gently. It struck her like lightning, splitting her open, filling her veins with something unbelievably addictive. She wanted to drink them in, to swallow every sound they made, to feel those cries reverberate inside her ribcage forever. She wanted those noises injected into her bloodstream, branded into her nervous system until she could never forget what it felt like to be trusted like this. She wanted to rip their restraints into ribbons, wrap them around their neck, and tie. She pumped her fingers hard, pushing them even further.

"Agatha!" Rio screamed, and a fresh stream of tears ran down their cheeks. They pressed their forehead into the mattress, trying to stop sobbing.

Agatha stilled for a moment, giving them an opening to stop her. Her heart was pounding so violently it blurred the edges of her thoughts, her pulse drumming in her ears so loudly she could barely hear anything beyond the roar of her own blood. If it were not for the high-pitched register of Rio's timbre, she wouldn't have heard the intensity of their cry at all, too focused on her own sensations. She gave Rio another couple of moments, and then, finally, she felt their weak attempt at communicating—a tentative drag of their nail along the length of the back of her hand. She smiled proudly. Her brave little guy—never backing away, never giving up.

"Look at you," she teased. "You can't even take my fingers without turning into a whiny mess, how are you going to take my cock?" She pumped her fingers again to highlight her words. Rio half-sobbed, half-moaned. "Pathetic," Agatha dragged out, her tone full of venom and mockery. "Pathetic little bitch." That did it. Rio finally moaned, low and prolonged, and their hips jerked, humping the pillow.

Agatha couldn't take it anymore, either. She needed stimulation. Now. She began withdrawing her fingers; she wasn't necessarily slow, but she wasn't careless. She wiped the lube with the sheet and moved her body until she was right behind Rio, the silicone cock nestled in the cleft of their ass. The sight stole the air from her lungs: Rio's arms were spread over their head, gripping the sheets as if they could hold their composure together, their face was tear-stained, lips bitten and swollen, ass in the air, they were trembling and still quietly sobbing. Agatha had never wanted to ruin anyone as completely as she wanted to ruin them at that moment. Her hips bucked instinctively, sending the length of the cock between Rio's ass cheeks and making the shorter end press against her, and hit her just right. She moaned.

"Will you be a good little bitch and let me use you?" she asked, moving her hips deliberately now, and gripping their thighs hard enough to leave marks she knew would bloom later like bruised flowers.

Rio moaned, bucking back into her without hesitation, offering themselves up willingly, desperately.

"I can't hear you," Agatha growled, and her left hand briefly raised before landing a hard smack on Rio's skin.

"Fuck!" they cried out. "Yes, Agatha!" they whined, nearly hiccuping, "I am your little bitch! Please!"

With slightly trembling hands, Agatha reached for the lube again and coaxed the purple shaft thoroughly, her fingers shaking with the intensity of her need. She was so unbelievably turned on that she could barely breathe properly. She wrapped her hand over the cock and stroked it several times to spread the lube evenly. She tried not to apply too much pressure, but the short end was still subtly moving inside of her, sending chills all over her body. She was so wet that she was worried she wouldn't be able to hold it in. She needed grounding, and she needed it immediately.

She didn't bother to wipe her slick palm this time, grabbing a handful of Rio's ass and unceremoniously spreading their cheeks. She lined up and, without any more vanilla buildup, pressed the tip to their opening. It went in more easily this time, or maybe it was because Agatha no longer had physical sensation that she thought it wasn't as tight as her initial intrusion, or maybe it was simply that her mind had crossed the threshold where hesitation could no longer exist. She was too horny to be clinical about such details.

Consumed by lust, she began easing the length in, but she kept track of Rio's noises and body language even then, clinging to that thin thread of responsibility that tethered her to her humanity. They didn't seem as tense as before and were starting to look like someone who actually enjoyed the process. They were still sobbing quietly, but it felt less like the cries of pain or fear. Agatha moved at a steady pace, and once the front of her hips touched the back of Rio's, she had to pause for just a moment to gather herself—the strap was pressing against her perfectly, and she knew she only needed a few thrusts, with how tuned on she had already been. She wished she could savor it, but hopefully Rio would let her do this again sometime. But if not, this night will become her most frequently used memory for getting herself off.

She slowly pulled out halfway and thrusted back in, sending an electric shock into her core and Rio's hips into the pillow. Someone moaned, likely both of them. She repeated the motion one more time, holding herself by an invisible thread over the edge. Rio shifted beneath her, and she saw their trembling hand crawl toward the pillow. But before Rio could make contact with their overheated skin, Agatha grabbed their wrist and yanked it to the side.

"You are not allowed to touch yourself until you make me come," she ordered, landing another slap on the meat of their thigh.

Rio yelped and started thrusting their hips back into her. "Yes, ma'am," they whined. "Please let me make you come. Please use me for your pleasure."

Agatha's mind was exploding with a thousand tiny fireworks. It was as if they grabbed all the things that had the power to arouse her, and crammed them all in one tight tin—it was not going to hold. She couldn't hold it any longer. She slammed her hips into Rio one more time and molded her front with their back. Her orgasm did not bloom. It detonated. It ripped through her wave after wave after wave, giving her no time to breathe between them. Fast, sharp, and violent—just like her.

Her entire body seized. Her spine arched involuntarily, her head falling back as her mouth opened in a silent cry that only became sound a second later, torn from somewhere deep in her chest. Every muscle locked, then spasmed, then locked again, her hips jerking forward in helpless, desperate thrusts as if chasing something that was already consuming her from within. Just like she had been consuming Rio.

White heat flooded her nerves, pouring through her veins, too bright, too potent. Her thoughts disintegrated instantly, reduced to nothing but sensation—raw and absolute. There was no Agatha Harkness in that moment. No past. No future. Only the unbearable present and the body beneath her that had given this to her. Her fingers dug into Rio’s hips hard enough to bruise, her nails carving peculiar lines into their skin as she held on. Her legs trembled violently, barely able to support her weight, and yet her hips kept moving in shallow, frantic pulses, her body trying to prolong it, trying to keep herself suspended inside that overwhelming brightness.

She felt it everywhere.

She didn't know how much time had passed. She only realized she had closed her eyes when she was forced to open them again. She was almost certain she blacked out because Rio's warm and comforting palm was on her thigh now, kneading the muscles gently, and by the state of its relaxation, it was obvious those ministrations had been happening for several minutes already. Rio was gently moving their hips to prolong her aftershocks. They were still trembling and breathing hard, but they were pushing themselves aside to make sure Agatha rode out every last wave of pleasure fully. It made her heart clench.

She ripped her body off Rio with a sharp inhale, the sudden absence of contact making her feel colder than she should have. Rio whined immediately at the loss, the sound small and wounded. Agatha began slowly pulling out, her movements careful now, almost reluctant. She had to immediately take off the strap because she'd been wearing it for too long, and overstimulation was starting to turn from pleasure into something unbearable, her nerves rubbed raw and exposed. It fell on the floor with a dull, heavy thud, and Agatha paused there on her knees, bent forward slightly, trying to catch her breath. She felt as if she had run two marathons back-to-back without stopping. Her chest ached with every inhale, her lungs burning as they struggled to keep up. Her limbs had turned to jelly, barely able to support her weight, and she knew her muscles would ache for days afterward, each step a reminder of what they had done together.

She pressed her palm against Rio's back, forcing them to lie fully down, and reached for the nightstand, where she had prepared some aftercare items in advance: a bowl of soapy water, a soft rag, disinfecting wipes, and Balmex. She spread them gently and saw some dried blood at the edges of their sphincter. It wasn't much, barely more than a thin crack in the skin, a consequence of the newness of the first intrusion rather than actual damage. She washed the area slowly, her touch uncharacteristically gentle, reverent in a way she would deny if accused. Rio hissed softly at the contact but did not pull away. She dried them thoroughly and applied the lotion with careful fingers, smoothing it over their skin as if she could erase any trace of pain she had caused. She then carefully turned them around so they were on their back. They let her maneuver them however she wished, their limbs loose and heavy, completely surrendered to her care now. They finally made eye contact, and Agatha's heart fluttered. They looked absolutely and completely destroyed.

"Hey, pretty boy," she murmured fondly, the words softer than anything she had spoken all night, and caressed their cheek with her fingers, brushing her thumb over the damp skin.

Their gaze was open and trusting, eyes so bright it illuminated the room. "Hello, m'lady," they grinned. "You were so beautiful," they rasped, their voice hoarse from all the screaming.

Agatha laughed quietly, the sound breathless and disbelieving. "You didn't even see me for most of the session."

"I just know," Rio whined, their voice soft and certain in a way that made her chest ache. Cute.

Agatha leaned in and kissed them gently. Nothing heated, just a soft press of lips against lips. "How are you feeling?" she checked in.

Rio bit their lip, inhaling deeply, their brow furrowing slightly as they searched inside themselves for an honest answer. Agatha was aware that they were still trembling and needed relief, but they never skipped aftercare.

"I feel like I died and got to be born again," they said finally, their tone thoughtful, almost awed. "But good," they immediately added before Agatha could start questioning their quiet philosophy.

That was enough for her at that point. Something dark and greedy stretched awake inside her again, and she swung her leg over their hips, reaching down with her left hand.

"Well, then, Sheriff," she smirked, her voice returning to something sharper, something dangerous, "hold onto that headboard, as I am going to ride you until we both pass out."

── .✦⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

It was hours later when they got to talk again, not dirty bedroom dialogues, not the breathless, fractured murmurs, but the actual conversation. Agatha was on her back, recovering from gods knowing which number of orgasms. Rio’s sweaty body hovered over her, their warmth blanketing her, their presence wrapped around her like a protective bubble, as if they could shield her from the entire universe simply by existing close enough. Agatha could feel it—not just their skin, but their energy, the gentle cocoon they built around them both, sealing them inside a moment that belonged to no one else.

"Every day with you feels like a gift," they whispered, ghosting their lips over her cheekbone. "I wake up, look at you, peacefully sleeping on my chest, and think damn." Agatha felt a gentle kiss pressed to her cheek, lingering, followed by another at the corner of her mouth, softer somehow, more vulnerable. Her lips parted instinctively, inviting without thought. “I thought it would fade with time,” Rio continued quietly, their breath warm and unsteady against her face, “but it appears that I only feel stronger for you every day, if it’s even possible.”

They kissed her lips then. Soft at first, just a hug of the bottom one with hers, and then a wet slide of their tongue, a tiny, playful nip, and finally a full contact. Agatha grabbed a fistful of their hair, pressing their face closer as if Rio would've ever wanted to leave. Their kiss deepened, resonating with the pulse in Agatha's clit, and she had to slow down. While she wanted nothing more than to keep going, she needed half an hour or so to recover, and she knew Rio did, too.

They kissed tenderly for a few more beats until finally their motions came to a natural conclusion. Rio rested their forehead against hers, and they stayed there, suspended in the quiet, sharing breath, sharing warmth, sharing whatever invisible thread had always tied them together. Agatha could feel their heartbeat through the thin space between them, steady and grounding, and she let herself match it without thinking. Rio’s hand rose to her face, cupping her jaw with infinite care, their thumb tracing slow, absent patterns over her freckled skin, not aiming for anything, just touching because they could. Then they leaned down and pressed a small kiss to the tip of her nose.

“I’m going to mix some electrolytes for us,” Rio said softly. “I’ll be back in a moment.” They didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, they wrapped their arms around her, gathering her close, applying just enough pressure as if to remind her that she was safe and taken care of. “Rest, my love,” they murmured, carefully maneuvering her deeper into the pillow, making sure her neck was supported, that she was comfortable.

Agatha let them fuss. She let them wrap the blanket around her limp body, tucking it around her sides, brushing the damp strands of hair from her forehead with infinite patience. She wanted to chase after them, but as if sensing her needs—because, of course, Rio could—they leaned in and gave her a couple of sweet kisses. Wet and deep, but not too heated.

"Do you want a yogurt or a protein bar for a snack?" they asked her, swinging their legs off the bed and moving toward the door without bothering to dress.

Agatha was so deeply, luxuriously spent that even the thought of chewing felt exhausting, but they both needed an emergency recovery protein restock after what they just did.

“Yogurt,” she murmured into the blanket, her voice muffled, her nose scrunching faintly as a thin ray of sunlight slipped through the curtains and landed across her face.

"'Kay!" Rio chirped. "Be back in a jiff!"

They were about to open the door, their hand already hovering on the doorknob, when Agatha resurfaced from her blanket cocoon. "There is that dried mushroom snack in the pantry," she said quietly, knowing that Rio was so attuned to her energy all the time that they would hear her even if she whispered. "You were out, I bought you some last night."

Rio's entire face lit up, and they looked at her as if she handed them the Moon and not simply restocked their stupid, gross-looking, questionable snack. "You got me mushroom crisps?" Their tone was a little high-pitched, but so, so bright.

"No big deal," she waved them off weakly. "You do things for me all the time."

Rio's inner light was brighter than the rising sun, and it suddenly hit Agatha that they had been tangled together all night, that the darkness had come and gone without either of them noticing, and now morning had arrived. Thankfully, it was Rio's day off, so they could spend the rest of it in bed, recovering and basking in each other's warmth.

"If we weren't already married, I would've asked you to marry me now!" Rio declared, clutching their chest dramatically.

"Over the mushrooms?" Agatha asked dryly, her tone absolutely unimpressed.

"I just love you so much," they shrugged. "You are the sole reason I wake up and want to start the day every day. Mushrooms are just a bonus!" They were grinning like an idiot. Such a sap.

Agatha rolled her eyes and began burying her head under the blanket. "I want my yogurt in four minutes," she ordered, her tone slightly muffled by the soft fabric.

Rio laughed softly, warm and fond, and then the door creaked open and closed. Agatha sighed contently. She loved what her life had become, and it made her appreciate all the crap that she had to go through because if not for that, her path would never have ended here, in a loving home with someone who saw her and chose to be with her. Agatha had never cared about the environment and space around her, but in the past six years, she had learned that nothing happened without a reason, and maybe when one treated the space—their microcosm within the vast macrocosm—right, it answered. As the gods answered prayers and sometimes bore gifts. She let a fond smile touch her lips and closed her eyes, enjoying the warm sensation spreading not just over her bare skin but also her soul.